A Game Of Veils Novels & Stories

The venue was decorated elegantly with dark, glowing colors that complemented the flashy dresses worn by the guests. Ann Sinclair sat still where her mother had placed her, twirling a glass of wine between her fingers while her eyes stayed fixed on the man, Lucas Montgomery standing at the other end of the hall. She huffed as Lucas conversed with the women that surrounded him while he paid no attention to the woman he just married.

I did it for love. It was on a cold night. I sat on a sofa in the living room, passing away the night and waiting for my husband, Maverick Slade, a business tycoon, to return home. Lazily, I sipped a glass cup of wine and my soft laughter filled the room as I passed the time with my favorite TV show. Suddenly, the door of the room burst open and Maverick hurried inside with blood all over his cloth. Startled, I sprang up and the glass of wine slipped from my grip, crashing to the floor.

His eyes looked wrong—too still, like mirrors. Velza raised her chin. “You’re using stolen pieces. Things that don’t belong in your mouths.” He smiled, slow and strange. “We borrow only what she abandoned.” His gaze turned. To me. “You lit the veil, Beacon. You made yourself visible. And now we come.” I stepped into the circle beside Velza, blade drawn but down. “I didn’t light it for you.” He tilted his head. “Intent is irrelevant. Visibility invites curiosity.” The air behind him rippled. Then it tore. A crack opened in the sky—thin and vertical, like a paper cut on reality.

Alexander’s POV The instant our blood finished binding, the chamber breathed. Not metaphorically. The walls expanded with a groan like ancient lungs drawing their first breath in centuries. Runes ignited along the obsidian table, light racing through carved ley paths until the map of the Veil rose three-dimensional—rifts yawning open like wounds, threads of shadow crawling toward the academy’s heart. And through it all— Her.

Sophia's POV It was time for the date, I stepped out of the house, I had put on a long white silk gown, it was fitted with a side slit and a black heels with a matching black handbag, I had a little make up on to brighten my face. “You look really beautiful Soph,” Claire said while she escorted me outside, “Oh Hillary sent someone?” She said while I tuned my gaze to the range Rover velar packed just in front of the see through gate, A man dressed in black suit stood beside the car, his eyes hidden behind his black shade, “Good evening ma'am,” He said while we approached where the car was packed, “Have a nice date,” Claire said and we both hugged, then we pulled away and she winked with a smi

“They’ll exploit doubt. Division. Fatigue.” Elara crossed her arms. “Then we stop giving them openings.” Alexander’s gaze flicked to her. “You are the opening.” She met his stare calmly. “Then I’ll close it.” He studied her like a chess piece that had learned to move on its own. “There is another option,” he said. Damien stiffened. “I don’t like the sound of that.” Alexander ignored him. “Visibility.” Elara tilted her head. “Explain.” “We stop shielding you,” Alexander said. “We let them see you fully. Controlled exposure.”

Queens in a chess game where men thought themselves kings. Amira sipped the champagne a waiter placed in her hand, letting her eyes sweep the room. Every interaction was laced with double meaning. A touch on the arm, a whispered word, a glance held too long. Alliances and betrayals danced in the air, hidden beneath the guise of polite society. Montez placed a hand on her back, guiding her deeper into the crowd. His touch burned through the silk, possessive and unyielding. She stiffened, whispering sharply, “Don’t touch me.”

He feels it too. “Show yourself, Kael!” he calls, voice carrying too well for fog this dense. Magic-assisted. Of course it is. “You always did like an audience.” Silence answers him. Then the river moves. Not flowing. Receding. The water pulls back from the banks like it’s afraid of what’s about to surface. My blood turns cold. “Fall back,” I hiss. “Now.” Too late. The Veil tears open above the bridge—not a clean rift like the one at Marrowfen, but a jagged wound in the air itself. Light spills out wrong, colors bending where they shouldn’t. The temperature drops hard enough to frost the stones.

They argue again. No one looks to Arthur to end it. By the time it adjourns, nothing is resolved. And somehow, everything is. “They didn’t need me,” he says afterward, baffled. “They did,” I reply. “Just not as a keystone.” — The Veil continues to change. Not in spectacle, but in texture. Where it once felt taut—threaded tight with possibility and threat—it now drapes, flexible and responsive. I still sense it, still feel its currents brushing my awareness, but it no longer presses instructions into my bones.

Beautiful. I opened my eyes and looked at the Veil tear hovering before us. It was worse than I expected. The wound stretched twenty feet across, edges ragged and bleeding darkness into reality. Through it, I could see... nothing. Not blackness, not emptiness, but the absence of everything. A void where existence simply stopped. "Ancestors," Astrid breathed.