Witch Veiling Novels & Stories

I try but fail to suppress a possessive growl. She looks startled. “My wolf approves as well,” I tell her. She nods. I reach for what looks like a headband with a long white tulle veil and hand it to her. “Will you be wearing this?” She smiles. “I was thinking about it.” “Show me?” She puts it on, leaving her hair down and wavy, piecing together loose strands to frame her infuriatingly beautiful face, then brings the shorter half of the veil forward to cover her.

"You should know. You're one of them." ​A faint, bitter smile touched the corner of her lips. She didn't pull away. Instead, she took the needle and thread from the kit, her hands moving with a cold, practiced skill that told me she had seen rooms like this long before she ever met my name. ​"We are both wolves, Valeriano," she murmured, leaning in just a fraction closer as she pulled the first stitch tight through my skin. "The only difference is, you keep your weapons in the safe... and I keep mine behind my teeth."

Micah stood guard on the northern line, having the same doubts as Camerin. The witch pressed her palms into the ground. Wind picked up from nowhere. The trees moaned. Then the grave glowed a deep, unnatural blue only for a second and then fell deathly still. “It’s done,” she said, voice strained. “The veil is sealed. Nothing should come through it now.” Should. I caught the look she shared with Celia. Kate must’ve noticed too, because her voice cut through the quiet like a blade. “What aren’t you saying?”

I reassured her, and she let out a sigh of relief. “I already brought these out,” she said, pulling out short fabrics. “For my wrists. It'll cover the crescent mark,” she explained. “And here, this is for you,” she said, handing me a different set. “Quick, put them on,” she ushered, and I hurriedly did. We finally finished up. She grabbed a veil, covering up, and I pulled up my veil, doing the same. We pushed the door open, and I peered out, looking out for any major figures to avoid. But there were none.

Liquid metal slid down my skin like tears of mercury. The runes screamed as they dissolved. The guards fell back completely now, fear naked in their eyes. The shadows surged forward, curling around my legs—not suffocating. Protecting. Matron Iskrya fell to her knees. “She carries the Veil,” she breathed. The word echoed. Veil. I had never heard it before. Rhaegon looked at her sharply. “Explain.” But she was staring at me like I was the end of something. Or the beginning.

Veil’s heart pulsed erratically against her chest, threatening to explode. He teased her small waist with his fingers, touching parts of her mind. Veil had no clue could be pulled out. His hand slid down her booty shoots for only a minute, but it was enough to get Veil’s breath intense. The next moment, he held the hem of her crop top and pulled it over her head, baring her breasts.

It moves. Sometimes it is where people gather to fix something broken. Sometimes it is where they argue without violence. Sometimes it is where they fail loudly enough that others learn quietly. The Veil—once boundary, once burden, once miracle—exists now only as language. “To veil something” comes to mean to obscure unnecessarily. “To unveil” means to trust others with what they might misuse. This evolution is not documented officially. It spreads anyway. — In the end—if end is the right word for something that refuses to conclude—the story leaves behind only conditions.

"This one concerns us all." Silence settled. Aurelius placed both hands on the table. "The Veil has begun mobilizing." No one reacted. Every person in the room already knew the name. The Veil wasn't merely an organization. It was an ideology. An obsession. They believed supernatural gifts existed to be controlled. Collected. Weaponized. For centuries they had hunted rare bloodlines. Oracles. Witches. Elementals. Seers. Anyone whose abilities threatened the balance they wished to create.

“Then where?” Riven crouched beside him, pulling a scroll from his satchel—old, tattered, marked with seals of both witch and wolf. “You said she shimmered. That she lit up like the stars. That’s not death magic. That’s Veilcraft.” Kael frowned. “Veilcraft was banned centuries ago.” Riven shrugged. “So were half the things keeping her alive.” Kael took the scroll. The symbols blurred before him—ancient glyphs no Alpha was ever meant to touch. “You can read this?”

“Aelys, end her!” Aelys channels the group’s auras—Cassia’s fire, Renn’s loyalty, Maddox’s hope, Sylvara’s resolve, Lysara’s redemption, Zorath’s spark, Valthor’s unity, Lirien’s defiance, Zynara’s resolve—and merges them with the relics, her voice a crescendo. “Veil, restore me!” The forge erupts, starlight and shadow flooding the chamber, her lunar mark blazing anew, her Veil connection surging. She strikes Veyra, the relics’ light piercing her hybrid aura, and Veyra collapses, her form flickering, her void dimming.