Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby

The room fell into an eerie silence, as if time itself had paused. The only sound was the distant hum of the wind colliding with trees and mountains, occasionally carrying a ghostly whistle through the cracks of the ancient villa.

The man slowly lifted his eyes from his phone. His glacial blue irises, deep and clear like a mountain lake beneath a cloudless sky, spoke of centuries passed in silence... of a time so old it no longer breathed.

Thɪs chapter is updated by N(o)vᴇl(F)ire.nᴇt

With an elegant motion that surpassed imperial grace, he stood. There was a quiet majesty to him, as if gravity dared not rush his movements. He walked toward the wall, drew aside a heavy curtain, and unlocked a large sapphire-glass window. As the window opened, a gust of cold mountain air poured in, flooding the room with the scent of snow and pine.

The humming wind was no longer distant. It howled now, furious and free, like an ancient spirit awakened from slumber.

The man stood before the open window, his figure towering over seven feet tall. He looked less like a person and more like an ancient god returned to his mountain temple. His long black hair flowed behind him like a banner of midnight, caught in the cold winds. The loose folds of his black silk shirt danced in the air, fluttering violently... but the man remained motionless, unaffected. His pale white face was emotionless, his gaze fixed on the world below.

In the distance, the Greater Caucasus rose in solemn splendour... a range carved by titans, draped in winter’s solemn veil. Snow crowned each jagged peak, their edges brushed faintly in gold and rose by the last sigh of the sun as it retreated beyond the western horizon. The wind whispered through the valleys like a mournful hymn, stirring flurries of snow into gentle spirals that danced with the fading light.

Obsidian shadows deepened in crevices untouched by daylight. The silver-lined ridges shimmered like ancient blades, and the slow, deliberate descent of snowflakes through twilight resembled celestial ash falling from unseen heavens.

Below, dark silhouettes of ancient pine trees slumbered under layers of frost. No sound of life or movement reached this height. Only the eternal hush of wind and ice remained, as though time itself held its breath.

In the final rays of dusk, the crown of the mountains turned crimson... like the blood of ancient battles staining the snow before fading into a dusky hue of ash and violet. Then came the stars, one by one, dotting the sky in silent celebration. The darkness eased, and the mountain range stepped into its truest form... endless, sacred, alive.