Prologue
The Veil is not simply the space between the living and the dead—it is a realm of hunger, longing, and things that should not exist but do. The Veilborn are its shadows, its ghosts, its predators. They do not wander aimlessly; they do not haunt by chance. They are drawn to one thing above all else—their intended.
To the outside world, they are nothing more than whispers in the dark, a chill against the skin, the flicker of movement just beyond the edge of sight. But to the one they seek? They are a presence, a weight, a knowing. A claim is written in the fabric of the Veil itself.
They do not simply watch. They wait.
And when the time is right—when their intended is vulnerable, when the mind drifts between waking and sleep—they reach across the divide. A touch against bare skin, a whisper breathed into the depths of a dream. At first, it feels like nothing—a fleeting sensation, a shiver, a sigh.
But the Veilborn are patient. They do not need to rush. Their kind has existed long before time could be measured and will exist long after mortal bodies crumble to dust.
They feed on desire, on surrender, on the moment when their intended stops resisting and starts yearning. And once that hunger is accepted, once the invitation is given—whether in words, in need, in the arch of a spine, or the press of trembling fingers—they will never let go.
