Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby novel Chapter 185

Chapter 185: Clan Blanc’s Turning Ritual

The moon stood directly above the estate... full, white, and watchful... suspended like a celestial judge. Midnight had arrived. The air was dense with stillness. It was not windless, but even the breeze moved with reverence.

The Blanc Clan’s estate was no crumbling relic of nobility... it was a living legacy, centuries old yet immaculately preserved. Its grand villas, nestled within the ancient woodlands of the north, bore the weight of bloodlines that had survived kings and empires. The clan head’s villa, the largest and most secluded, stood beyond a vast circular garden. Stone pathways divided rows of meticulously maintained hedges and perennial blooms, shaped by invisible hands into elegant geometry.

Tonight, that cultivated beauty concealed a ritual older than any human text... buried beneath years of deliberate design and generational secrecy. Between beds of foxglove, hellebores, meadowsweet, and white roses, something ancient slumbered. Not even the estate’s gardeners would notice the symmetry beneath the soil ... unless they witnessed it before. The garden, curated through generations, had long been prepared for this sacred occasion. Yet to the untrained eye, it was nothing more than a tranquil display of floral perfection.

A crowd had gathered just beyond the garden’s outer wall... clan members, elders, and descendants, all cloaked in silence. No one dared to speak. The Turning Ritual was rare, sacred... and dangerous. Not all who entered its binding light returned as wolf.

Those chosen from the Blanc Clan to participate in the ritual stood still to a side, each draped in ceremonial black robes, breaths held... as if the very act of exhaling might disturb the delicate balance of the night.

From beneath the villa’s great stone arch, Juliette Blanc emerged. Her figure was ghostlike in the gentle light of the moon. Her ceremonial robe, close-fitted and black, was inscribed with veins of glimmering gold sigils that shimmered subtly with each breath. Behind her walked Laila Monroe.

Laila’s steps were steady, but tension coiled in her form... shoulders held too tight, eyes locked too firmly forward. Her own black robe trailed behind her, its golden runes glowing faintly, like a secret language known only to the old blood. Her face was pale... not from fear, but from solemn resolve. Even so, her breath trembled visibly in the moonlight. She said nothing. None of the witnesses did. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Juliette led her across the garden’s central path and into the very heart of the circular space.

There, at the centre, stood the stone platform... a flawless slab of pale granite, carved from a single block and set within a ring of clipped grass and white blossoms. The stone bore no symbols, no etchings... but every member of the clan knew: this was where the Veil thinned.

Laila stepped forward and lay down without prompting. Still wearing the robe, the golden runes flaring briefly beneath the moonlight before being swallowed by shadow.

With practiced care, Juliette bound her wrists and ankles to the stone using cords of dyed wool... deep red, threaded with black and silver, each braid entwined with a lock of hair from the matriarchal line.

From a leather sheath at her waist, Juliette drew the ritual dagger. The blade, aged and darkened, bore engravings in the Old Tongue... ancient prayers etched along its edge. Without hesitation, she cut cleanly across both of Laila’s palms. Blood welled up... thick, dark, and gleaming... and dripped slowly onto the stone beneath her.

Juliette stepped away, her robes rustling faintly as she crossed the flowered path and joined the silent spectators beyond the garden wall.

Then, as if summoned by the scent of blood, the twenty chosen clan members stepped forward. They had not been selected for status, but for the awakening of an ancestral bloodline... those who bore the rare ability to wield shadow. They moved with quiet discipline, eyes glowing in unnatural hues, and formed a perfect circle around the garden’s edge at even intervals. Each stopped precisely where they had been instructed. All remained in human form, clad in ceremonial robes. One by one, they knelt around the circle, facing the stone platform at its centre.

Then, from the far side of the courtyard, Dominic Blanc stepped into view.

Tall and unbowed by time, the head of the Blanc Clan wore the long, black ceremonial coat of the alpha line. His jet-black hair shimmered beneath the moonlight. He walked slowly toward the circle, every step heavy with purpose. When he reached the garden’s far edge, he stopped, then knelt like the others... becoming the final point of the ring.

No one made a sound.

Only the faint hum of the distant air could be heard.

Dominic raised one hand towards the moon and began to intone, his voice low but commanding, reciting the ancient words in the Old Tongue... words meant to summon the Goddess’s gaze. The language grated against the soul, harsh and metallic, like steel dragged across glass. Every head turned instinctively upward toward the moon.

"Be thaere haligan monan leoman,

Blodes bendas us bindath,

We clypiath that Heaheage Eage.

Tonihte, flaesc bith tobrocen,

Sawol bith todaled.

And an bith edboren."

The moonlight sharpened... growing heavier, denser. The pale glow no longer felt passive; it became a presence.

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