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.

"Girl," Scáthach said, her amber eyes burning like twin brands, "who are your parents?"

The question struck Eleanor like a spear to the chest. Her throat tightened, her mind faltered, but before such a figure there was no refuge, no room for silence. She forced the words out, her voice steady though her heart twisted.

"My mother was human. I know nothing of my father."

"Interesting," murmured Scáthach, her gaze narrowing. "According to your file, you were turned and awakened by the Raynor Clan. But the reality was not that simple. You were already a hybrid before that. I believe an inexperienced Raynor turned you; had it been an elder, they would have immediately sensed your hybrid scent. You are lucky to be alive. Instead of clashing, the two bloodlines merged. That is only possible if you carry within you the echo of an original bloodline."

Her eyes lingered, calculating. Then she spoke again, "Give me a drop of your blood."

Before Eleanor could move, a slender needle of ice materialised in the air before her, gleaming cold and sharp. She understood the unspoken command. Taking it gingerly, she pricked her finger. A crimson drop welled up, dark and heavy.

Scáthach extended one pale finger. The drop lifted from Eleanor’s hand as if seized by an unseen tide, drifting slowly across the space to rest upon the Supreme Grandmaster’s skin.

She lifted it to her lips, inhaled its scent, then let it touch her tongue. A moment later, she spat it violently aside. The spittle froze mid-air, suspended for a breath, before shattering into a fine dust that scattered like powdered glass.

Then, closing her eyes, Scáthach grew still.

After a few moments, Scáthach opened her eyes. A slow, knowing smile curved her lips.

"Fascinating," she said, her voice carrying the weight of revelation. "You bear the potent royal blood of the werewolves. The blood of Eryx Brontes Lychos, the first King of Werewolves, flows within you. How curious that the Lychos Clan has allowed you to roam freely among humans. That can only mean they are unaware of your existence. But now that your Thunderbolt bloodline has awakened, their knock will soon thunder at your door."

She paused, her eyes gleaming with interest. "You cannot begin to grasp how fortunate you are. One of your parents, most likely your father... is of the Lychos clan, a direct descendant of Eryx himself. Your human mother made you a hybrid, but your human traits dominated. Thus, your Thunderbolt bloodline remained dormant, veiled within fragile flesh. You are alive today only because you were turned by the Raynor Clan, who lack any elemental affinity. Had another clan attempted it... one with elemental blood of their own, you would have died in the transformation. And yet, you not only survived, you awakened the Mind Reaver bloodline... proof of the purity of your ancestral inheritance. How extraordinary."

Seeing Eleanor’s stunned expression, Scáthach leaned forward, her tone softening into something conspiratorial, almost amused. "You still do not understand, do you? If it had been a vampire who turned you, your body would already be dust. Hybrids, when they have existed, were always weak things... forced to wield two elements that warred against each other until both were crippled. But you... you are different. With the non-elemental Mind Reaver to stabilise the Thunderbolt blood, there is no clash. You could become the most powerful lightning-wielder the world has ever known."

Eleanor’s throat had gone dry. Her lips parted but no sound came. She could only stare at the towering figure upon the throne, her thoughts spiralling.

She had always taken pride in the strength of her mind, but mention of her parents unravelled that armour. They had always been her deepest wound. Growing up amidst the treacherous Whitmore family, she had only discovered the truth of her mother years later. Her father, meanwhile, remained a shadow... unknown, untouchable. The knowledge that her mother had died in childbirth had been a scar that never healed.

Now, hearing that she was a hybrid... that her father might have carried the original Lychos bloodline... the puzzle’s final piece slid into place. Her mother had died because her fragile human body was forced to bear something it could not contain. In truth, the greater miracle was that Eleanor had survived at all. By rights, she should have perished in the womb.

A bitter certainty hardened within her... her mother had not known her father’s true nature. It must have been no more than a fleeting encounter, a night lost to passion or folly. The child that resulted had cost her life. Eleanor’s hands clenched at her sides, anger simmering in her chest. He had kept his secret from her mother... hidden his race, hidden the danger. At the very least, he could have taken precautions.

Her lips drew back slightly, and in the sanctuary of her thoughts a low growl coiled. Grrr...