Still White Veils Novels & Stories

Former runway model and once married to a popular pop star, now chief communications and brand officer of the Hawthorne group and divorced. She was staring back at one of Penelope’s fashion and lifestyle idols. It reminded her that she needed to know why Penelope ran away. Clad in a sleek, caramel-colored leather trench coat held at the waist with a matching belt, Vanessa exuded effortless sophistication. The kind of woman that naturally intimidated Kallista. The coat parted slightly as she moved, revealing a fitted cream silk blouse tucked into high-waist tailored trousers in a rich espresso hue. The straight pleats and precise tailoring of the trousers emphasized her elegant frame.

Richard nodded in agreement. “Alright as you wish,” he said. To be honest, he had already realized that Renea’s main reason for wanting to wear a veil was to conceal her face. Renea nodded in gratitude. The crowd cheered when Richard worked on to stage in a white suit under the dim illumination. Richard walks to the piano and takes her seat. The light fell from above, casting him in a surreal grow that made him seem untouchable. As the enchanting melody of the piano began, a spotlight illuminated the other end of the stage. A woman dressed in a white, classical attire wearing a veil, moved gracefully in a dance.

Instead, his eyes grew darker. His gaze remained fixed on Violet's appearance. She was not in her business suit to meet Alpha Evan. Rather than a suit, she wore a beautiful silk dress that highlighted her pale skin even more. The silk wrapped around her neck in a V-shape, and the long white sleeves were nearly transparent. The dress almost fit her body, revealing a glimpse of her beautiful shape.

Glancing down at my robe, I noticed the patches at the cuffs and hem, the wear and tear from my time spent in mountain solitude. "This is what I wear for my spiritual practices," I said, undisturbed by her mockery. Betty laughed, sharp and mocking. "Aria, surely you haven't given up on love just to live as a hermit?" Laughter erupted from the relatives as they caught sight of me. "Seriously, who dresses like that anymore? You look like you're begging in the streets."

Dawn arrived without ceremony, without pity, creeping pale and grey across the camp like a sickness. The witch was already awake. She looked at me once—my bloodshot eyes, the tremor in my hands, the way my shoulders hunched as though bracing for a blow—and nodded. “White,” she said, pressing the cloth into my hands. “You will stand clean before the river so he has nothing over you again.” My fingers fumbled as I wrapped the cloth around myself, the fabric too light, too bright. ‘A shroud,’ Vethros purred. ‘She dresses you like something meant to be buried.’

Ahead, between the black trees, something hung from a branch. A strip of white cloth. No. Not cloth. A veil. It swayed gently though the air was still. My stomach tightened. It looked like the veil I had worn in Thorncrest Hall. White silk. Silver thread. A smear of red near the edge. Mara whispered, “Is that…?” “No one touch it,” Cassian said. His voice was low, but every person heard him. The veil drifted lower. As if invisible fingers had released it. It landed on the snow in front of us without making a sound.

Serena approached, her expression unreadable. “You’re sure you can control the pattern?” “I can’t control it,” I said. “Only listen.” She studied me, then clasped my forearm. “Then listen well, Bianca. The Veil has waited centuries. Don’t let it swallow you.” I nodded. “If it does, it will remember who entered.” >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> The Ascent to the veil We rode in silence through the northern valley, wolves padding ahead in rhythmic formation. The mist thickened, coating our cloaks with dew. Kale rode beside me, his hand resting loosely on the hilt of his blade.

Only a name, soft as breath, sharp as longing, passed from one to the next like a forbidden secret: Seren. They did not wear armor. They wore veils, every colour borrowed from the palette of loss: ember-grey, soot-black, blind-silver, bloodless red. Each veil was heavy with meaning. Some stitched with runes, the sigils of kin lost to fire or frost. Some bore only a blank square, unadorned—grief without a name. Others were cut from remnants of banners, repurposed as reminders that the old world was gone.

This isn’t over. The Veilborne didn’t lose. It won.

Chapter 15: The Widow’s Second Wedding "White is for the innocent, Bianca. You’re wearing the blood I spilled for you." Dante’s voice rumbled behind me as the seamstress tightened the corset. I stared at my reflection. The dress wasn't the virginal silk my father would have chosen. It was a heavy, structured ivory that caught the light like polished bone, but the underskirt was a deep, bruised crimson. Every time I moved, a flash of red peeked out—a secret wound trailing behind me.