Graveyard Keeper Silk Novels & Stories

"Sloane! What's wrong with you? Say something!" He shook my shoulders, but my body just swayed mechanically. A pack elder suddenly appeared at the garden gate. He wore a black ceremonial robe, holding a bouquet of white memorial flowers. "The moonlight is upon us! Prepare the silver pyre! Let us send our warrior home to the Goddess!" the pack elder proclaimed. Killian snapped his head up. The wreaths of laurel flowers hanging all around the courtyard fell with a crash. They revealed the mourning decorations hidden beneath, woven from silver-blue moon grass and the shed fur of our pack.

There was kindness in his gaze, but it felt worn down—shaped by experience and often pushed aside by what was necessary. “Miss Wynn,” he said with a polite bow. “I am Silas Thorn, steward to Lord Avel Morcant.” My throat tightened. “His steward?” “Yes.” He offered a velvet box. “His Lordship sends a gift. He asks that you wear it tomorrow.” A gift. My fingers trembled as I opened the box. Inside lay a choker made of black metal, with roses winding around a deep crimson stone that seemed too bright for its setting. Heat rushed to my cheeks.

"In here." The boutique was beautiful. Soft lighting and minimalist décor and racks of carefully chosen things that had the specific quiet of a place that knew it did not need to shout. Sophia gravitated immediately toward a display of vintage band tees at the back and I drifted toward a section of silk scarves, running my fingers along them, admiring the colors. Deep emerald greens and rich burgundies and soft golds that caught the light differently as I moved them. "Try one on," Grey said from behind me.

“I’ve lost sleep.” Her mouth almost curves, almost. The dress rests on a mannequin behind her, black silk layered over something deeper. Ember red flickers beneath the outer sheen when the light strikes it. Gold embroidery spills down the bodice in intricate sigils, Sariyah’s chosen crest, altered just enough to look reverent. At first glance, it is breathtaking. At second glance, it is a warning.

The silk shimmered faintly in the candlelight—deep violet threaded with silver, the kind of fabric he hadn’t seen since he was a child listening to stories of relic-bearers and rituals long abandoned. He stared at it like it might lunge. A part of him didn’t want to touch it. Not out of fear—he’d fought monsters made of worse—but because some deeply buried instinct in him knew: once he opened it, he would never again return to the version of himself that sat there, uncertain and unbound. This was a gate. Just not the kind you walked through. It opened you. And it was from her. That realization hit the hardest. He reached out finally, fingers brushing the silk. The cloth was soft but firm, wr

The space where they dump the text when the entire manuscript fails. ​Lord Garrett’s hands were still locked into her white hair, his iron grip unyielding even as his own obsidian armor was systematically crushed into a fine, glittering gray ash by the descending stone ledgers. His face was unrecognizable, a mask of cracked porcelain and silver arbiter grease, but his pupil-less eyes still burned with the absolute, terrifying zeal of a bureaucrat who had successfully balanced a dying ledger with blood.

"And right now, you look like a corpse fished out of the Hudson." I left him there and took the service stairs. The third floor was dark and silent. I navigated by memory to the Special Collections storage. The air here smelled of mothballs and old velvet. I scanned the racks. I needed something classic. Nothing flashy. I found a garment bag labeled "1950s Tuxedo - Black." I unzipped it. It was heavy wool, immaculate. I grabbed another bag for myself. A deep midnight-blue silk gown. It was simple, elegant, and dark enough to hide bloodstains.

Leon sighed and took on a gossipy tone. “You know what? I have a friend who sells custom made caskets. He is preorder only and the wait-list is long, but I can put Ina food word for you. His craftmanship is so good, you would even buy a few more for your sons and grandchildren to use. He has a family package and will give you a discount…” Before Leon could continue, the old woman ended the call. Leon had completely forgotten that Evan was in the car. He looked at the phone in his hand and scoffed.

Her words settled inside me like an anchor. The priestesses signalled the ritual’s completion. Attendants stepped forward as I rose from the bath. They wrapped me in fresh white silk and guided me toward the dressing chamber. I barely had time to gather my thoughts before the seamstress entered, followed by three attendants carefully carrying a long, velvet-covered stand. They placed it before me, unveiling it slowly as if revealing a sacred relic rather than fabric. My breath caught. Silver silk spilt downwards in smooth layers, embroidered with moonstones stitched in platinum thread. At the centre rested the Alpha crest, woven directly over where my heart would rest.

In fact, I specifically drew that line in the dirt. But Zorren is just holding my gaze, his silver eyes flashing cold, his thick fingers tapping a slow, lethal rhythm against his knee. "Put it on, Healer Vale. Unless you want the enforcers at your door by sunrise." I take a breath and yank the zipper down. "Fine. Turn your head. And—oh." The breath catches in my throat. A pale, moon-silver silk spills out of the bag, shimmering like running water under the cabin lights. I've never touched anything this refined in my entire life. The weave is infused with subtle protective threading—exquisite, royal-tier craftsmanship.