Veil Is Thinning Novels & Stories

When it opened its mouth, no real sound came out, save for a cold whisper that made the air heavy. They all recognized what it was. "A Veilwraith." "The Veil has thinned." Draekon and Alpha Noir said at the same time. "What?" Vaelora muttered. How was that possible? The priestesses should have seen it coming. Before the Blood Moon every year, the priestesses read the constellations, charted the rise of the crimson star, and sent word across the provinces. The signs were never wrong. They were always supposed to warn the kingdom, days before the veil began to thin. Yet, there were no warnings. No star shifting. No whispered prophecy.

Marcus drank every drop, not stopping until she was whimpering, oversensitive. He rose, stripping off his soaked shirt to reveal chiseled muscle and scars. His belt hit the floor. Pera's eyes widened at the sight of his massive cock, thick, veined, nine inches of intimidating girth, already leaking precum. "It won't fit..." she whispered, voice husky.

They waited for a threshold to be crossed. "Julian," I asked, pointing to a sentence in a scroll that looked like it had been written in dried blood. "What does this translate to? When the veil is thinned by the touch of the outsider, the shears are sharpened." Julian’s face went white. He didn't speak for a long time. He just stared at the parchment, his lips moving silently as he translated it over and over, hoping he was wrong. "It means exactly what it sounds like," he finally said, looking up at me. "The Veil didn't just break when you pulled Lysandra through. It thinned. You didn't just walk into the room; you turned on a beacon."

The Dying Veil Realm was no longer dying. It was beginning to live again.

I knew this veil. Not from this store, not from this morning. From years of waking up reaching for something that was not there. From a sketch I had made so many times that the paper had worn thin in the same places each time, the sweep of tulle, the way it moved in a wind that only existed in dreams, the particular quality of the light coming through it. From a prophecy delivered by a woman who did not waste words, who had looked at me across a fire and told me that my bride would find me behind a veil and that she alone could break what was destroying me. The veil was exactly right.

“What?” She pointed. And indeed, the liquid inside the flask quivered, expanding against the glass as though reacting to her voice. Caius swore under his breath. “It wasn’t doing that before.” Sebastian moved closer, his wolf stirring uneasily. The air around the flask grew colder, the faint scent of iron rising with each pulse. Then a whisper. Low, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably there. “The veil will thin out soon, be prepared for me.” The flask cracked. Black smoke seeped out, curling like fingers through the air. Aria stepped back.

She ran her fingers slowly across one of the documents, her brows tightening. “Something is wrong here,” she murmured to herself. The shipment dates looked normal. The quantities matched. But one column kept repeating the same coded initials. “F.V.” It appeared again and again in shipments that had unusually high security clearance. Elyra leaned back slightly in her chair. “F.V…” she whispered. A quiet knock came from the open door. She looked up. Zevarion stood there. He had changed from his formal suit into a dark shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled up. Without the jacket, he looked less like the distant CEO she had first met and more like someone… real.

The panel had been reinforced twice with barrier glyphs designed to prevent tampering. And yet the outer rim had been cleaned. Not recently. But not long ago either. Days, maybe. A week at most. A Thornveil trap this deep didn’t react to idle interest. You had to know what you were reaching for. Which meant whoever accessed this wasn’t just hiding. They were hunting. I didn’t touch the sigil. Not yet. I’d seen what Thornveil backlash could do to people with pure bloodlines. I had no intention of finding out how it would react to something like me.

“Like the air was bleeding.” My stomach twists. “Bleeding?” Sylvara enters the library, her jade-green form gliding silently, vine-hair swaying. She carries a small, rune-carved orb that pulses faintly, like a heartbeat. “The rift is destabilizing,” she says, placing the orb on the table. “The Veil’s threads are fraying faster than anticipated. Voren’s forces are probing its weaknesses, likely using stolen relics to amplify their Veil-touched mercenaries.”