Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 259: The Tru

Chapter 259: The True Art of Chromomancy

Days slipped past swiftly. Eleanor had only a single week to catch up with all her theoretical classes before the practical training began. After that, she would have to prepare for the journey to Vanaheim, where her awakening awaited.

Yet Eleanor did not fear. She was closing the gap, slowly but surely. She would have been on par with her peers already, had she not insisted on working through every reference book recommended by the professors. In her hunger for knowledge, she pushed both body and mind to the limit, determined to absorb all the academy had to offer in the short time granted to her.

By day, she attended her mandatory courses, each held on alternating days. Ophelia proved an unexpected ally, lending her the meticulous notes Eleanor had missed. It was not in Ophelia’s nature to take notes for herself, let alone for another... but she had done so all the same. Eleanor was quietly grateful.

Rest of the mornings were devoted to study under Professor Jiro or Professor Seren. Fortuitously, Instructor Arrichion, seeing the dark circles deepening under Eleanor’s eyes, granted her a week’s leave from his training. If only he knew how she spent it... not in rest, but in further labour. She studied the academy curriculum through the day, then, after dinner, retreated to her room where she devoured the texts Nora had uncovered from the academy servers. She read almost until dawn, stopping only when exhaustion forced the book from her hands.

Professor Jiro, mercifully, had paused his lessons until Eleanor could catch up. With only two students... Eleanor and Ophelia... he now resumed his classes after the mandatory morning lectures, carrying them through until lunchtime.

Theirs was not a comfortable syllabus. He taught them how to endure when stripped of civilisation, of food, of fire, of tools, of communication. Lessons began with the simplest of tasks... dozens of ways to conjure flame without flint or tinder... and climbed to the intricate, like charting courses by the silent glow of starlight.

no fixed constellations across the realm... no North Star to anchor one’s bearings. Each region carried its own scatter of stars, a chaos of shifting skies that defied the making of a single, unified map. Only three constants existed... the three moons, visible

follow its steady path, though storms and driving rain could hinder even the keenest eyes. By night, however, survival demanded more than instinct. The only way to find one’s path was to know the moons... their phases, their positions

of that realm lived beneath the ground by day, shunning the sunlight. At night, the land crawled with them. To Midgardians, every last one was deadly. The waters were poison, the air itself often treacherous, and the beasts were worse. Even the Tecton... an ant-like super gentle creature that fed only upon the

illustrations of the realm’s fauna. With these he taught them how to recognise each creature, how to avoid them, and, if avoidance failed, which ones could be killed and

their weaknesses, their patterns. It was his nature to go in-depth, often painstakingly so. But thanks to that habit, Eleanor and Ophelia

more fascinating than she could have imagined. She had assumed the academy’s translator nanobots would carry her through any language barrier. Yet Vanaheim was riddled with tongues long fallen silent, fragments of speech and inscription with only a handful of surviving words. The nanobots

could make sense of scattered remarks and half-forgotten records. Every language in Vanaheim, no matter how broken, shared the grammatical skeleton of the ancient rune tongue. Professor Jiro drilled them in its foundations until they could begin to piece together meanings from fragments, to bear sense where others might hear

long buried. For Ophelia, it was something else entirely. Having never been a serious student, she found the process of absorbing so much theory strange, numbing, and exhausting. She yawned through nearly every class, her eyes glassy from the weight of symbols and syntax. And yet, she never stopped paying attention. However tedious the work felt, she knew one truth... knowledge of survival, whether linguistic or otherwise... might be the only thing standing between her and death

***

panels were not a matter of eccentric taste, but deliberate design.

through psychological, biological, even cultural associations. They can sharpen or dull concentration, raise or steady heart rate. They can stimulate or soothe the nervous system. Red

the space in a hushed serenity. Here the air felt calmer, inviting students to breathe, to reflect, to gather themselves.