Chapter 89: The Bloodlines

Chapter 89: Chapter 89: The Bloodlines

Whitmore turned his gaze onto Jason, his expression solemn, carrying a weight that made the younger wolf pull back slightly

Whitmore then turned slowly. He looked at Finn and Shawn for a long moment, his face stripped of its usual academic indifference. There was a cold, profound gravity in his expression that made Shawn and Finn straighten up.

"He is someone who should have remained a myth," Whitmore said softly. "Someone your father’s generation convinced themselves was merely a story told to frighten young pups into obeying council law."

"A myth?" Shawn repeated, stepping forward. "He has a university tenure profile. He’s also quite a famous man and he’s listed as Alexander Grant in the human registry. How can he now be a myth?"

"It’s all just a convenience," Whitmore replied. "A facade to hide who and what he truly is. He is someone you should never have laid eyes on, let alone cross," Whitmore said softly, his voice measured.

"I can understand how a personal matter involving a girl could blind you to reason, Jason. But the girl is no longer the main issue here." Whitmore walked over to the tall windows overlooking the city, staring out at the grey skyline as he pieced the puzzle together. "The real question—the dangerous question—is why a Blackthorne would ever concern himself with a girl like her."

Finn frowned, taking a step forward out of the shadow of the doorway. "Blackthorne? I thought you said his name was Alexander Grant. What the hell does Blackthorne have to do with any of this?"

The moment the name Blackthorne echoed through the quiet room, Shawn froze. His eyes widened as a sudden, sharp memory cut through his confusion—a memory of a conversation he had overheard months ago, one he had dismissed at the time as pure ancient folklore.

He remembered sitting in the Gerald’s odfice, listening to the elders speak in hushed, reverent tones.

"Oh, my goddess..." Shawn whispered, his voice barely audible. He turned slowly toward Jason, the color completely draining from his face. "I remember now. I finally remember where I heard that name before."

Jason turned his glare toward Shawn, annoyed by his friend’s sudden pale horror. "What are you talking about, Shawn? What’s so special about a last name?"

"Blackthorne," Shawn murmured, the word tasting strange and heavy on his tongue.

Finn looked at him. "What?"

"Blackthorne," Shawn repeated, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as his posture went rigid. "Last year... during the winter solstice summit. My father met with the Alpha and some of the inner council elders behind closed doors. I was waiting in the ante-room. They were arguing over the ancient charters—the ones written before the territories were divided."

Jason rounded on Shawn, his eyes sharp with frustration. "What are you rambling about, Shawn? Speak clearly."

Shawn let out a breathless, humorless laugh, though the panic in his eyes remained entirely untouched. "Jason, think for a second. What do you actually pay attention to during history lessons of our kind? What do you actually know about our heritage beyond who owns which square mile of forestry? The ancient murals in the main pack council hall—the ones detailing how our kind was brought into existence—do you even remember what they represent?"

Jason opened his mouth to snap a sharp, biting response, but the words died in his throat. He stopped, his brow furrowing as he searched his memory through the dense fog of his wounded pride.

He remembered the dark stone carvings in the hall, the towering figures depicted alongside massive, shadow-draped beasts that dwarfed modern wolves. Slowly, a nauseating realization began to take root, his eyes expanding as the terrifying historical connection finally landed.

"The three brothers..." Jason breathed. The words felt heavy and uncertain, scraping against his throat. "The original line of werewolves."

"Lycans," Whitmore corrected gently, his voice echoing in the quiet space. "Not werewolves, Jason. Never mistake the two. The distinction is not merely one of degree; it is one of kind."

Finn swallowed hard, his knuckles white against his sides. "That’s... those are fables. Allegories created to explain why the Alpha gene exists."

"They are not fables, Mr. Callahan," Whitmore said, turning away from the window to face the three young wolves fully. His hands remained clasped behind his back, his posture commanding, grave, and utterly devoid of his usual academic gentleness.

"Werewolves are a diluted lineage. We are the descendants of those who were changed—those who inherited a fraction of the wild curse through successive generations of blood, breeding, and mortality. We require the full moon to unlock our full potential. We carry human fragilities alongside our heightened strength, bound by the silver in our veins and the vulnerability of our flesh."

Whitmore raised a slender, age-spotted finger, pointing it toward the darkened doorway that led into the corridor.

"A Lycan does not depend on the moon. A Lycan does not share power with a beast within—he is the beast, fully realized, fully conscious, and ancient beyond our comprehension. His true name is Alexander Blackthorne. He is not merely a powerful wolf, Jason. He is one of the original Lycans—a progenitor.

Alexander Blackthorne is one of the original three who walked the earth when mankind was still painting on cave walls. The very blood that runs through your veins, Jason... the blood that gives the Montgomery family the authority to rule as Alphas... flows directly from the root that man carries in his heart."

Jason stared at Whitmore, his mouth slightly open, all color drained from his face. "No. That’s... my family built this territory. My ancestors—"

"Your family, the Montgomery line, traces its werewolf lineage directly back to his blood—to Alexander’s house six hundred years ago," Whitmore interrupted smoothly, his voice cutting through Jason’s denial like a scalpel. "I am frankly surprised you know so little about the roots of your own werewolf lineage."

"We’ve all had our lessons on our lineages," Finn interjected softly, shifting his weight as he cast a brief, sideways glance at Jason. "Just that back then, Jason didn’t find the lessons important enough to pay attention to. He was too busy learning how to run border patrols and chasing girls."

Jason threw a sharp, murderous glare at Finn, his chest heaving, but Finn simply shrugged, leaning back against the nearest shelf without a care, though his pale skin betrayed his attempt at nonchalance.

"Your bloodline is a branch, Jason," Whitmore said, taking two slow, deliberate steps toward the young Alpha heir. He let the silence settle between them, allowing the sheer weight of the revelation to sink into the quiet room. "He is the tree."

Whitmore stopped just a few feet away, his dark eyes locked onto Jason’s shivering frame.

"That suffocating terror you felt earlier today—that absolute paralysis that forced your wolf to bow before your mind could even process the thought—that wasn’t just fear. Your wolf felt his presence today, and it was not responding to an enemy Alpha challenging your boundary. It was responding to its creator. It was recognizing the primordial source of its own existence."

Whitmore leaned in slightly, his tone lowering to a deadly whisper. "That was the ancient, undeniable pull of your creator’s blood demanding absolute submission from its descendant. He is the very source of the werewolf bloodline running through your veins, Jason. And you just swung at him."

The room seemed to grow colder. Shawn slumped back against the wall, staring at his hands as if seeing his own skin for the first time. Finn looked away, unable to process the magnitude of what had just been confirmed.

Jason stood frozen, the silence stretching between them like an unbearable weight. His mind wrestled with the horrifying reality—that the man who had just effortlessly dismantled his pride, the man who was currently standing near Iris, was not a rival to be defeated, but a force of nature that predated their entire civilization.

"If he is what you say he is..." Jason’s voice was barely a raspy whisper. He looked up at Whitmore, his eyes wide, stripped of every ounce of his usual arrogance. "If he is an Original... why is he here? Why now?"

Professor Whitmore slowly closed his eyes and sighed. He opened them and looked at Jason, his expression dark, shadowed by an ancient worry that went far beyond pack politics.

"That, Jason, is the only question that truly matters," Whitmore said quietly. "A creature like Alexander Blackthorne does not abandon his isolation for university titles, human accreditations, or petty territorial land. He has walked this earth for millennia without bothering to interfere in minor pack squabbles."

"Then why is he fighting me for Iris?" Jason asked, a sudden pitch of desperation leaking into his voice as he took a half-step forward. "It makes no sense at all! What could a thousand-year-old monster possibly want from a girl like her?"

Whitmore turned his attention back toward the doorway, his gaze drifting down the long, empty hallway where Iris had fled hours before.

"He is here for the girl," Whitmore murmured, his voice laced with an ominous, unwavering certainty. "And if an Original Lycan has crossed oceans and centuries to find this girl called Iris... then God help us all when we discover what she truly is to him."ℯℯ𝑙.