Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby novel Chapter 253

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.

She was tall, lean, and built like a weapon. Every line 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 sword.

At first glance, she might have passed for an extraordinarily disciplined human general or master-at-arms. But to eyes that knew how to look, the illusions unravelled... the timeless sharpness of her face, the impossible precision of her movements, and the crushing weight of centuries lodged in her gaze. She was a storm contained within a human frame.

Arrichion rose in an instant, his back straight as an arrow released from its bow. He saluted with a clenched fist and bowed deeply. "Supreme Grandmaster!"

Eleanor needed no introduction. She knew very well who stood before her. Rising swiftly, she placed her palm over her chest and bowed deeply... the gesture of a werewolf offering the highest reverence to an elder.

Scáthach advanced at the same measured pace, her presence filling the hall like a tide. She climbed the steps of the dais and seated herself upon the throne. The air itself seemed to shift in response, as though the stone walls bent to acknowledge her authority.

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

"Yes, Supreme Grandmaster," Arrichion replied with solemn precision. "This is Eleanor Elizabeth Raynor. A werewolf who bears both the Mind Reaver and the Thunderbolt bloodline."

"Good. Come here, girl."

Eleanor had barely taken a step forward when the ground betrayed her. A plate of ice surged beneath her feet, carrying 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 the shadow of the seat.

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