Chapter 103: The True Nature Of Lycan Blood

Chapter 103: Chapter 103: The True Nature Of Lycan Blood

Alexander did not move a single muscle. He sat completely motionless upon his throne, his jaw clenching so fiercely that the muscles along his sharp cheekbones flared white against his olive skin. His piercing blue eyes—cold, luminescent, and devoid of warmth—remained locked onto Gerald Montgomery with a lethal, unblinking intensity.

He knew precisely what the Alpha was playing at. Gerald had never been content with merely ruling a regional territory or managing lucrative real estate portfolios in the Pacific Northwest.

To Gerald, being the Alpha of a prominent pack was merely a golden leash—a elevated mantle of subservience to a progenitor. Gerald’s insatiable ambition demanded absolute dominance.

For decades, Alexander’s intelligence network had quietly fed him reports regarding Gerald’s shadowy dealings—whispers of the man fraternizing with rogue European covens, funding forbidden occult excavations in the Black Forest, and funneling tens of millions into clandestine biochemical laboratories.

Gerald was desperately searching for an ancient mechanism to alter his own biology. He wanted to sever the biological chain tying his life and pack to his progenitor, seeking to ascend and become a true Lycan himself.

The man was as arrogance-blinded and short-sighted as his disgraced son.

Gerald held his ground under the crushing weight of Alexander’s stare, his shoulders broad and posture relaxed as he projected an air of reasonable, elder concern toward the listening assembly.

"Think about the logic of it, Lord Alexander," Gerald pressed, his voice smooth and refined, carrying effortlessly across the silent granite tiers. "If Miss Carter were granted the gift of our blood and made supernatural, she would no longer exist as a fragile, mortal target. Her senses would sharpen to detect threats miles away. Her body would heal from fatal wounds in seconds. She would possess the speed, durability, and physical authority required to defend herself against any creature that dared approach her. She would cease to be your Achilles’ heel."

Alexander’s expression shifted into something entirely unreadable, a cold, dangerous tilt anchoring his sharp features. "You seem unusually interested in what happens to my mate, Gerald."

Gerald let out a quiet, practiced laugh, resting one hand casually over his buttoned suit jacket. "Every leader in this Conclave should be deeply invested, my lord. Her existence reverberates through every bloodline connected to yours. For three thousand years, we lived without anxiety because you were fundamentally unkillable. But tonight... you stand before us with a mortal weakness—a human thread that, if severed by our enemies, brings catastrophic ruin to every pack in this room. We have every right to harbor concern."

"None of you have any right to concern yourselves with my mate," Alexander declared, his low baritone cutting through the air like a heavy blade. His brilliant blue eyes swept over the silent rows of Alphas, locking onto each leader in turn.

"She is mine. The burden of her safety rests squarely upon my shoulders, and mine alone. None of the anxiety in this room is genuine—you are not concerned for Iris. You are terrified for your own skins. You and your bloodlines have spent centuries benefiting from my existence. You have lived comfortably beneath the protection of my bloodline, and now that I have something to lose, you suddenly remember that you have a stake in my personal affairs."

His fingers tightened against the leather armrest, the solid frame creaking faintly beneath his sheer physical force. "You don’t. None of you do."

Gerald’s subtle, arrogant smile vanished completely.

"And as I have already stated... I will handle her protection."

Gerald felt the sudden, suffocating drop in atmospheric pressure as Alexander’s Ultimate Alpha aura expanded through the cavernous chamber. The heavy air grew thick, pressing against the lungs of every werewolf present with the weight of a collapsing mountain.

Recognizing that pushing the monarch any further in this moment would cross the threshold into outright treason—inviting consequences that not even his vast wealth could shield him from—Gerald wisely chose to withdraw. He inclined his head toward the dais in a crisp, respectful bow, stepping backward into his row and taking his seat.

A quiet ripple of hushed, uneasy murmurs washed through the assembly once more as the suffocating pressure gradually ebbed.

Thompson Creed drew in a slow, heavy breath at the center of the High Council table. He placed his large, manicured palms flat on the dark wood, leaning forward slightly as he addressed Alexander where he sat.

"Lord Alexander... respectfully... Mr. Montgomery may have crossed into arrogance with his delivery, but his core argument holds validity. If her mortality were altered, it would eliminate the inherent frailty of her human condition. I plead with you to give the proposition proper consideration."

Alexander looked down at the senior councilor, a low, humorless chuckle escaping his chest—a dark, rumbling sound that carried no amusement.

"You all sit there and imagine it is a simple matter of convenience, do you not?" Alexander asked, his voice dripping with ancient, cold irony. "Yes... transforming her into a werewolf would grant her enhanced senses, swift reflexes, and accelerated healing. But let me ask this entire chamber a fundamental question... would turning her truly grant her absolute protection?"

The silence that followed was absolute. No one uttered a sound. Thompson let out a long, quiet exhale, his gaze dropping briefly to the polished table. Every leader present knew the bloody truth.

"If turning a human into a wolf guarantees absolute survival," Alexander continued, his eyes darkening into pools of shadow, "then what became of the Ironwood pack? What became of the dozens of established packs that the Aegis Council slaughtered like animals over the last three centuries?"

A collective, sharp intake of breath echoed through the subterranean room as the dark reminder settled over the Alphas, Betas, and Gammas.

Alexander continued, his voice dropping into an icy register. "They were werewolves as well—led by a powerful, battle-tested Alpha. They possessed enhanced strength. Enhanced senses. Faster healing. They were stronger than humans, faster than humans, and far more difficult to kill."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees as his blue eyes burned into the crowd. "And Aegis still slaughtered them all. So turning her will not make her invincible. It would merely empower her physical frame while painting an even larger target upon her back. Furthermore, the process of turning a human directly using Lycan blood is not a simple bite."

He looked toward the council table. "Turning a human is not as simple as giving them a dose of Lycan blood and waiting for them to wake up. It requires an ancient, delicate balance of primordial magic. You know the legends." He looked around the chamber, at the shadowed faces of everyone present. "But most of you have forgotten the truth."

His gaze settled sharply on Gage Vance. "Do you remember Nelma?"

Gage’s expression changed immediately. The older councilman sat straighter, his hawkish features tightening with sudden, solemn gravity. "Nelma... She was the witch who assisted you and your brothers."

"Among other things." Alexander’s gaze drifted toward the ancient stone vaulting of the chamber, as if peering back through three thousand years of blood and ash. "Three thousand years ago, Nelma possessed something no witch alive today has managed to replicate. She understood the intricate, volatile structure of Lycan blood."

The room remained deathly silent, hanging on the monarch’s every word.

"It was Nelma’s supreme knowledge, combined with the blood of my brothers and me, that allowed the first humans to survive the transformation."

A deep murmur moved through the Conclave like wind through dry leaves. Alexander’s voice remained measured and even.

"Most humans who were exposed to our blood in those early centuries died in agony. Coupled with the plagues that were rampant then, we couldn’t afford more humans dying. The Lycan blood was too pure, too aggressive—their mortal bodies rejected it and tore themselves apart at the cellular level. But Nelma didn’t give up. She spent years weaving spellcraft into blood alchemy until she succeeded and created the binding spell. She created the ritual that allowed the human body to accept the blood without being destroyed by it."

He paused, letting the weight of the history sink in. "That is how the first werewolves were born."

Several council members exchanged subtle, unsettled looks.

"But now, Nelma is dead," Alexander continued flatly. "She has been buried in the dark earth for three thousand years. And while her lineage survived, her descendants have remained hidden in the deep shadows of time."

Alexander leaned back into his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his impeccably tailored three-piece suit clinging smoothly to his powerful, masculine frame.

"Nelma understood the terrifying danger of allowing humans or any supernatural faction to know who she truly was. Her descendants carried that caution forward through generations of war. At some point during the Middle Ages, they abandoned the ancestral family name of Abernathy and disappeared completely into human society." He paused, his tone decisive. "Every record we possess after a certain century simply ends."

The whispers across the Conclave grew louder, sharp and inquisitive.

In his seat, Gerald Montgomery’s jaw tightened as a surge of bitter internal frustration flared within his chest. Alexander had just laid bare the exact, impenetrable wall Gerald had struck during his own private research over the past decade.

Gerald had spent tens of millions attempting to acquire the ancient spell formulas required to force a Lycan-blood evolution, only to discover that ordinary witch magic was far too weak to anchor the primordial purity of a Lycan’s blood...