Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

Chapter 117: The Council Members-1

When Fiona stepped out of her car in front of the King’s Castle, she wore an elegant business suit. Her royal navy

coat, perfectly tailored, was trimmed with silver thread that shimmered when she moved. Beneath it, her style

was effortless: high collars, fitted gloves, and jewelry inherited from her ancestors. A single pearl at her throat. A

siring bearing the Raynor crest. Nothing loud. Everything intentional.

Fiona Elizabeth Raynor, the Ambassador of the Werewolves, head of the Raynor Clan, managed diplomacy with

humans, other supernatural beings, and foreign werewolf territories.

Her hair was pinned with precision, not a strand out of place, though the glint in her steel-blue eyes suggested

she'd been through storms few could survive. She did not smile often, but when she did, it cut sharper than any

fang. She wasn’t beautiful in a fragile way... she was the kind of beautiful that made kings hesitate and assassins

think twice.

Fiona climbed the steps and found two other council members already waiting.

One was Stellan Ragnar Fenroth, the Warlord of the werewolves and leader of the Fenroth Clan. As Supreme

Military Commander of the werewolf forces, he was responsible for war, defense, and strategic mobilization.

Stellan looked like he had been carved from ice and iron. Broad-shouldered and towering, he carried a warrior’'s

frforged by generations of survival and battle. His hair, the color of storm clouds... pale ash threaded with

silver... fell in loose waves to his shoulders. He usually tied it back before entering combat. A short, rough beard

shadowed his jaw, which he thought of as a symbol of his strength.

His glacier-blue eyes were cold and sharp, piercing through lies and diplomatic pretenses. They held the stillness

of winter hunts and the promise of violence just beneath the surface. People said he could look at a man and

imagine a thousand ways to end him.

A wolf pelt was draped across his back... not ornamental, but worn and battle-scarred, a trophy from an

ascended beast he had slain singlehandedly in his youth. His leathers were reinforced with dark steel at the

shoulders and forearms, shaped not for ceremony but for war. Etched runes marked his bracers and collar,

symbols of his lineage.

Beside him stood Yara Arara Neblina, the Watcher of the werewolves and head of the Amazons. She handled

intelligence, surveillance, and rogue tracking.

Yara could move through shadows like a whisper from the forest itself. Her clan’s power was not rooted in

illusions or cloaking magic but rather in extrshort-range speed that let them vanish between blinks. She was

tall and lithe, carrying the grace of a jaguar stalking through dense undergrowth.

Her skin bore the warm, earthy bronze of the Amazon sun, toughened by years in the wild. Her eyes, sharp and

deep amber, glinted like molten gold in the fading light. Nothing escaped them.

Long, dark hair flowed in thick waves down her back, braided with feathers and beads... symbols of her heritage

and vigilance. Her features were strong yet elegant, with high cheekbones and a firm jawline that spoke of

resilience and an unyielding will.

She wore supple leather dyed in greens and browns, blending seamlessly with the jungle. There was a wildness

to her, a connection to the ancient forest she called home, but beneath that lay a razor-sharp mind and a soul

fiercely devoted to her duties. To see her was to know that nothing escaped her watchful gaze.

Just as Fiona was about to greet them, a voice cfrom behind. "Am I too late today?"

Fiona turned to see Dalisay stepping out of her car. She smiled. "No. In fact, you might be early. How have you

been?"

Dalisay returned the smile with charm. "Very good. I've advanced a small realm in ascendance in the meantime."

Fiona raised a curious brow. Of course she had. Now, she stood on the slevel as Fiona despite being

younger.

"Congratulations. Now we can have a proper sparring session sometime," Fiona said warmly.

Dalisay Mayari Cordillera, the Matron of the werewolves and head of the Cordillera Clan from the Philippines,

oversaw bloodlines, mating, marriage, and family lineage within the council.

To the unknowing eye, Dalisay appeared almost too still for a creature of moon and blood. Yet there was

undeniable power in her presence... one that silenced conversations and straightened postures. She wore woven

robes dyed in deep indigo and forest earth, stamped with sigils passed down for generations. A cloak stitched

from ancestral threads whispered in the breeze like the voices of her foremothers.

Her silver-streaked black hair was wrapped into a long braid coiled with talismans of bone and moonstone, each

marking a birth, a union, or a vow within her clan. Her obsidian eyes held the weight of every lineage she had

ever blessed. On her forehead shimmered a crescent-shaped tattoo, said to have appeared the night she was

chosen by the spirits of Echo Vale.

She stepped up the stairs with quiet authority... neither demanding attention nor needing it. The air around her

pulsed with something sacred. To the werewolves, she was the Matron. To her people, she was the keeper of

names, the watcher of wombs and bonds, the living scroll of the bloodline.

Fiona waited for her at the top platform. When Dalisay reached her, they embraced briefly, then turned to greet

the others already gathered.

At that moment, another sleek car pulled up, and Ren stepped out.

Ren Tsuki Kuroda, the Judicator of the werewolves and head of the Kuroda Clan of Japan, enforced pack laws and

resolved internal disputes. He was the chief of law, justice, and internal regulation.

He wore a black overcoat styled like a

royal cape. It fell around him like

shadowed silk, ie in faa fiver

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yet seasoned alphas would've bowed

their heads as he passed. His

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chapter there!

His eyes, the color of tempered steel, scanned the council members before him. As he reached at the top stairs,

he bowed slightly, then clasped his gloved hands together in a greeting unique to his clan.

His gloves were embroidered with

the runes of ten thousand verdicts.

The ring on his finger oncebélbhged

tothe first®Idon-Blessed. He was the

youngest and shortest member of

the council, and always unfailingly

polite. The content is on

novelenglish.net! Read the latest

chapter there!

Just then, another luxurious car arrived. From it stepped Lucien.

Lucien Marceau Valemont, the Treasurer of the werewolves and head of the Valemont Clan, oversaw all taxes,

resources, tributes, and economic systems among the packs.

He dressed as though even his

threads held secrets. His

midnight-black suit wa perfegthin

Elles 0g silver in shaped

like 5 wolf's fang biting into a coin

adorned his chest. His gloves were

soft leather, marked with faint runes.

Even his scent carried weight of crisp

cedarwood with underlying mystery.

His pale amber eyes were steady and amused, like a man who already knew the answer to questions you hadn't

asked.

He ascended the stairs with composed elegance. The others greeted him politely. He was, after all, the most

senior member of the council.