Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby
Chapter 117: The Council Members-1

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 signet ring 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 frame forged 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 extreme short-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 came from 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 same level 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, trimmed in faint silver that shimmered like a blade’s edge. His coat bore no crest or mark, and yet seasoned alphas would’ve bowed their heads as he passed. His presence spoke of both empire and execution.

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 once belonged to the first Moon-Blessed. He was the youngest and shortest member of the council, and always unfailingly polite.

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 was perfectly tailored, and a silver tie pin shaped like a 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.

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