Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 253

Chapter 253: Unlucky Human and Lucky Werewolf

Chapter 253: Unlucky Human and Lucky Werewolf

Eleanor followed Arrichion into the castle. There were no guards to stop their way; no sentries to glance at them. The silence was uncanny, the emptiness oppressive. They eventually reached a vast hall that could only be a throne room... at its far end, a massive stone chair loomed, less a seat of comfort than a seat of judgement. Eleanor moved as if in a dream, her body obeying Arrichion’s lead while her mind reeled. She sank into one of the lesser stone chairs lining the hall, her senses still reeling from the enormity of where she was.

She had joined the School of Mixed Martial Arts with nothing more than a quiet hope of learning a few secrets from the legendary Supreme Grandmaster Scáthach. Never, not even in the wildest flight of her imagination, had she thought she would one day set foot in Dún Scáith itself.

Minutes dragged like hours before a woman in black uniform entered. She saluted Arrichion with her fist to her chest. "General Arrichion," she said crisply, "the Empress asks that you wait a little while. She will join you shortly."

Arrichion rose and returned the salute with flawless precision. "It is well, Vanguard Commander Annabeth," he replied. "We are early. Do not concern yourself... we will wait."

Annabeth bowed and withdrew, leaving them in the cavernous stillness of the hall.

Nearly half an hour passed before the back doors opened and she entered.

A woman of severe and striking beauty strode forward, her presence so commanding that the room itself seemed to contract around her. She carried an aura like a blade forged in the heart of a mountain... immovable, indomitable, honed by battles beyond counting. Her gait was effortless, the perfect midpoint between grace and discipline: not stiff, not relaxed, but taut as a drawn bowstring.

Her hair struck first... a deep, flowing, glossy white, the colour of glistening frost or a distant glacier. Thick and long, it was pulled back into a practical yet intricate braid that trailed between her shoulder blades, though a few loose strands had escaped to frame the sharp angles of her face.

Her features were sharp and elegant, with high cheekbones and a jawline carved in resolve. Her skin was pale, as though she had slumbered for centuries within a glacier, untouched by time or sun. But it was her eyes that broke through Eleanor’s composure... piercing white, like shards of moonstone or frozen starlight, clear and merciless. They held no warmth, only a penetrating intelligence that dissected flesh, bone, and soul alike. When they fell upon Eleanor, she felt less seen than measured, her every strength and weakness catalogued in an instant.

of her body, every motion, spoke of power held in reserve, nothing wasted, nothing ornamental. Her clothing was simple... dark wool and hardened leather, crafted for freedom of movement rather than for the trappings of power. A weathered leather harness crossed her chest, and her hands, though elegant, bore the hardened callouses of endless training, grips that could shatter stone as easily as they held a

eyes that knew how to look, the illusions unravelled... the timeless sharpness of her face, the impossible precision

back straight as an arrow released from its bow. He saluted with a clenched fist and bowed

before her. Rising swiftly, she placed her palm over her

the dais and seated herself upon the throne. The air itself seemed to shift in response,


Arrichion," her voice rang deep and resonant, each word striking the chamber like a tolling bell, "is this

solemn precision. "This is Eleanor Elizabeth Raynor. A werewolf who bears both the Mind Reaver and the Thunderbolt

"Good. Come here, girl."

her smoothly towards the throne. Startled beyond measure, she almost cried out, but at the final moment clamped her jaw and mastered herself. The motion ceased at the base of the dais, leaving her standing in

amber eyes burning like twin brands,

tightened, her mind faltered, but before such a figure

human. I

Clan. But the reality was not that simple. You were already a hybrid before that. I believe an inexperienced Raynor turned you; had it been an elder, they would have immediately sensed your hybrid scent. You are lucky to be alive. Instead of clashing, the two bloodlines merged. That is only possible if you carry within you the echo of an original

again, "Give me a

materialised in the air before her, gleaming cold and sharp. She understood the unspoken command. Taking it gingerly, she pricked her finger. A crimson drop welled up,

one pale finger. The drop lifted from Eleanor’s hand as if seized by an unseen tide, drifting slowly across the

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