CHAPTER 181: A SUDDEN CHANGE IN LEADERSHIP

A shocking piece of news swept through the werewolf community.

Alistair Gerymoore, head of the Gerymoore Clan, had sent a formal letter to the King of Werewolves, accusing Eleanor Raynor and the Raynor Clan of unjustly disrupting their business interests and political standing within the kingdom. He had even provided several pieces of evidence to support his claim.

Due to the recent holy duel, most werewolves were already aware of the rising hostility between the two clans... many had either witnessed the duel firsthand or heard detailed accounts. They were also familiar with the sudden, dramatic shifts in the kingdom’s political landscape. Now that the Gerymoore Clan had formally lodged a complaint, it was easy for the public to connect the dots between what had once seemed like unrelated events.

Alistair Gerymoore had gone personally to the King, pleading for intervention and fair judgement. He made no effort to conceal his visit to Brontes Island. The transparency of his presence added an air of credibility to his accusations. Rumours spread quickly, and people were stunned by how the Raynor Clan had behaved... quietly dismantling the Gerymoore Clan’s influence across the kingdom while the public’s attention was on the duel.

What shocked them even more was the merciless precision behind it all... especially when a new name emerged at the heart of it: Eleanor Elizabeth Raynor.

Until recently, most of the supernatural community had been only vaguely aware of the Raynor Clan’s young heiress. Fiona Raynor was still the recognised head of the clan, and Eleanor had largely remained a name without weight. But now, with Alistair’s formal accusations aimed not at Fiona, but Eleanor herself, interest in her surged throughout the supernatural world.

People began investigating... and what they found stunned them. Eleanor had risen swiftly in recent years, emerging from relative obscurity to wield significant power and influence.

As that revelation took root, another bombshell exploded from within the Gerymoore family.

Citing Alistair’s impulsive and reckless behaviour, the Elders’ Council of the Gerymoore Clan dismissed him from his position as clan head. In his place, Grand Elder George Gerymoore would act as interim head until a successor could be chosen.

Upon assuming leadership, George personally contacted Fiona Raynor to apologise for Alistair’s actions. He also requested a formal meeting with both Fiona and Eleanor, expressing his intent to visit the Raynor Estate in Manchester. Interestingly, Fiona agreed to the meeting... but made no promise that Eleanor would be present.

The call, made in front of the entire Gerymoore Clan, was inevitably leaked, fuelling even more discussion among the werewolves.

Later that day, George summoned Margot Gerymoore, who had been assigned to gather intelligence on Eleanor Raynor days earlier.

Inside the council chamber, George and several elders listened as Margot presented her findings.

"Are you certain Eleanor collaborated with Werehyenas and Nagas?" one elder asked sharply.

"Yes, Elder," Margot replied. "I have first-hand sources. There is no doubt. She was doing business with the Bultungin Clan in Nigeria and the Nagavanshi Clan in India. Witnesses have seen Werehyenas operating within her Nigerian Special Economic Zone, and Nagas working inside her factories in India."

George leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed. "I don’t understand what this girl is thinking. The Raynor Clan has collaborated with humans before, yes... but never with other supernatural races. It’s common knowledge that the races have always been in silent competition. Why would she trust them? Is she trying to change the course of our history?"

A female elder spoke next. "I think much has changed while we’ve been in seclusion. I have a nagging sense that our clan is falling behind. I’ve known Fiona for a long time... she would never have entertained partnerships with other races. If she’s allowing Eleanor to act so freely, then perhaps she herself has changed over the years."

She paused, then added, "Grand Elder, when you travel to Manchester to meet Fiona, allow me to accompany you. I want to see with my own eyes how she’s changed."

George nodded. "Very well. I’ll leave in two days. Be ready."

Margot then hesitated before speaking again. "There’s another rumour... unsettling, though unconfirmed. Eleanor recently visited Russia. No one knows why, but some claim she returned with a vampire girl who stayed in her villa for several weeks."

George narrowed his eyes. "Do we know who the girl is?"

"I’m not certain," Margot admitted. "But my sources suggest her name is Anastasiya. No one has confirmed her identity, however."

A moment of silence passed before George’s eyes lit up. "Anastasiya Ivanova... the favourite granddaughter of Alexander Ivanov."

One of the elders gasped. "You mean Alexander Ivanov of the Greater Caucasus... the eldest member of the Vampire High Council?"

George nodded slowly. "If she came from Russia, it could very well be her. But I can’t fathom why Alexander Ivanov would allow Anastasiya to stay with Eleanor Raynor. That old monster never lets the girl out of his sight. Now it seems there are many layers to this girl that we don’t yet understand."

He turned to Margot once more. "Continue gathering intelligence on Eleanor. I also want comprehensive updates on the other Raynor Clan members, and anything significant that’s changed within the supernatural races. Don’t worry about the cost... if you need to purchase information, submit it for reimbursement. I’ll approve it."

Margot bowed and exited the chamber.

Once the door had closed, George turned to the remaining elders. "We need to scatter across the clans. Speak to old friends, rekindle old connections... find out what’s happening. I fear that our society is changing, much like it did during the Industrial Revolution. And our clan is already falling behind."

The female elder nodded gravely. "I agree, Grand Elder. Our younger generation has failed to adapt. Now it’s up to us old bones to preserve our standing among the clans."

The others murmured their agreement.

George rose from his chair and said, "Very well. Let’s support the clan one more time... before we retreat into the shadows again."

***

On the storm-wreathed island of Brontes, Menelaus Lychos emerged from the rear gate of the obsidian castle. Behind him, the castle of the Lychos Clan rose like a cathedral of night... its walls, towers, and parapets forged entirely from black volcanic glass, etched by centuries of wind and lightning. Outside the castle, the world was cast in monochrome shades of polished onyx and shadow. As sunlight filtered down through the swirling stormclouds and errant forks of lightning, it caught the edges of the black stone, gilding the entire structure in a radiant halo of molten gold. It did not shimmer; it blazed, like something holy and terrifying... a relic from an age before memory.

With that ancient monument to the Lychos bloodline behind him, Menelaus set his stride toward the distant Thunder Mountain, a jagged monolith that loomed ahead like a titan’s tombstone. Each of his steps echoed softly along the stony path that coiled upward between shadow-draped ridges.

Nature’s hand had not yet relinquished its claim on the mountain slopes. Groves of Aleppo and Calabrian pines leaned over the path like silent sentinels, their needle-laced branches whispering in the highland wind. Tall cypress trees stood still as statues, wrapped in a subtle mist that clung to their trunks. Wildflowers... some pale as moonlight, others deep crimson like blood-soaked silk... swayed in quiet ritual, while long grasses danced to rhythms only the mountain seemed to know. The scent of pine resin mingled with damp earth and blooming petals, threading through the air in waves. Here and there, butterflies flickered like coloured embers between the blossoms. From above, the lonely cry of a highland raptor would pierce the hush, then vanish into the thunder-laced heavens.

Menelaus walked alone, the rocky trail crunching beneath his boots, his long cloak stirring behind him like a dark banner. His tall, wide-shouldered, and commanding silhouette cast a colossal shadow across the narrow trail, devouring sunlight like a herald of dusk. The mountain air crackled faintly, tingling on his skin. The further he ascended, the louder the silence became, until even the whisper of wind and birdcall faded away, leaving only the distant voice of the sky: the low, rolling drum of periodic thunder.

The Thunder Mountain came into his view. Vast clouds churned endlessly around its peak, stitched with veins of white-hot lightning that danced across the heavens like celestial serpents. The air vibrated with a low hum, the song of countless tempests coiled in fury. Thunder cracked with the voice of a wrathful god, shaking the bones of the land. As Menelaus ascended, lightning arcs descended in silken strikes, coiling around his body like luminous vipers before sinking harmlessly into the stone beneath his feet.

The path ended in the open expanse of the summit, and there the storm made its home. The sky above was a churning ocean of cloud and lightning arcs, torn apart by wild rumbles of lightning. lightning tendrils cascaded downward in endless succession, crashing into the earth, curling through the air in intricate, blinding patterns. There was no shelter in front of him... no trees, no soil, only blackened rock scoured smooth by years of sky-born fury.

The brightness was unbearable; the lightning arcs were so luminous, so constant, that no eye could look directly at their center without pain. Within that terrible light, the vague silhouette of a werewolf was suspended in mid-air.

He hovered amidst the fury, motionless, as if held aloft by the will of the storm itself. Thousands of lightning arcs wove a living cage around him, lashing the air in violent elegance. His form was barely visible... just the faint, hulking outline of something immense and still. Not even thunder broke his concentration. Surrounded by the periodic crack of the sky itself, distant and divine.

Menelaus lowered himself to one knee on the scorched rock, the electric air prickling across his skin. His voice rang out clear, strong, and alone beneath the storm.

"Your Majesty, I came to report."