Black Cloak Novels & Stories

She fidgeted in her seat, her eyes darting anxiously to the entrance each time someone walked in, her heart leaping with false hope again and again. Until finally—A man in a tailored business suit entered. “I’m sorry for the delay,” he said, approaching the officers. “The boss is currently in a meeting. I was sent as his representative.” Belle looked up. Her heart sank. It wasn’t him. “This is the CEO’s black card,” the manager explained eagerly, showing it to the man. “We recognize it anywhere. Only a few people in the country own one. Yet today, it was used by… her.” His tone carried thinly veiled disdain.

The man continued to direct his rage at the surrounding trees, the monks used this opportunity to escape, running towards the temple with heavy hearts and despair for their lost comrades and the villagers. The academe was filled with silence in the middle of the night. All the lights were out and only the luminous moon and glittering flowers were illuminating the surroundings. There was no one left awake except for a figure that was secretly creeping in the hallways of the headmaster office. The dark path was shone by a tiny light coming from the tip of the figure’s fingertip. The figure was wearing a black cloak; it was pure black that the figure could not be

"Becca!" A voice, low, deep but soft, called. I closed my eyes even tighter not wanting to wake up from my dream where I was the queen of the dark, sitting on a black acrylic royal chair with a gold wood finish. Every morning I woke up, I would walk to the mausoleum connected to my palace by an underground tunnel, clanking my heeled boots along the cobblestone tiles as I checked on my prisoners. Each cell had someone who had crossed my line one way or another. It wasn't until I walked to the end where two cells were separated from the rest. The cells that were labeled hostes, latin meaning worst enemies and mortem below hostes, meaning death. Behind the old rusty bars of one of the cells was

I stood in the midst of a moonlit forest, the silvery glow of the moon casting an otherworldly light over the serene landscape. Suddenly, a shadow appeared, and my heart raced when I saw him under the moonlight—tall, broad, and dangerous. His long black leather coat shimmered faintly, silver buckles gleaming on his shoulders. A dark cloak swirled behind him, and his black boots thudded heavily as he approached. The demonic mask of blackened iron obscured his face, leaving only glowing eyes visible, and the smile he wore was sinister and bone-chilling. Then, he lifted his hand and slowly removed the mask. My eyes widened in horror as I realized that the man before me was Zander Blake, standin

Even the spirits along the ruined streets beyond the chamber had gone quiet, watching. A figure emerged from the darkness. He was tall, almost unnaturally so, wrapped in a cloak that seemed woven from midnight itself—black fabric that drank the light rather than reflected it. No crown sat on his head, but the air around him carried the unmistakable pressure of one. His face was sharp, all angles and hollows, with eyes the color of frost over deep water. Something about him felt… wrong. Not evil, exactly. Just *absent*, like a piece of the world had been carved out and replaced with a mirror that showed only what you feared.

But now I know what’s under it. A dampening field. A leash. A hidden supply line feeding their “clarity” with something that does not belong to them. I don’t go in plain this time. No cloak. No soft veils. No anonymity. I wear black with the Axis sigil stitched at my throat, not as a crown but as a warning. A declaration. A reminder that I am not absent simply because I refuse to dominate. Rowan rides at my right, visibly armed, expression carved from predatory patience. Lucien walks on my left, elegant and cold, coat fastened high, eyes already calculating angles and exits.

he blurted, pupils quivering, hands scrubbing his uniform in nervous excitement. I snapped to attention. "Really? I'll be right there!" Talk about perfect timing—Craig's arrival felt like a answer to my prayers. I bolted out like a gust of wind, with Valentin hollering, "Take a cloak—it's freezing out!" Ignoring him, I rushed outside, only to have him toss me a wolfsbane-embroidered cloak. In the conference hall, a man in a black cloak sat calmly. Half his hair was tied with a blue ribbon, the rest cascading down. His striking face held a gentle smile, as if the journey hadn't fazed him.

Another punches my stomach while I’m simultaneously being shoved down to the ground. “Let me go,” I scream, or at least I try to, but no sound leaves my lips. Suddenly, something shifts in the air. The large men surrounding me freeze before taking position at my sides, letting me see what is ahead. Who is ahead. A man steps forward, a large black cloak covering his body and dragging against the mud as he moves. His face is shrouded in shadows, but I see his eyes. They are sharp yet deep, a swirl of greenish-brown filled with death.

There, barely visible in the blue light, stood a figure dressed in a dark cloak. Motionless. Watching. Marcus immediately raised his pistol. “Show yourself.” The figure didn’t move. Instead, a familiar voice echoed through the chamber. “You’ve come farther than I expected.” Claire’s expression hardened. “The Raven.” The cloaked figure inclined his head. “You’ve been chasing the wrong journal.” Amelia frowned. “You stole Nathaniel Ashcroft’s confession.” “I borrowed it.” “Why?” The Raven took one slow step into the light. His face remained hidden beneath a smooth black mask shaped like the head of a raven.

The mysterious figure was wearing a dark cloak, watching me intently through the glass, holding a jagged piece of a glowing black stone in his hand.