Art Of War Book Novels & Stories

Raven’s point of view. I was tied up in a dark room, with my hands and legs tried, and a gag put in my mouth. I scanned the room and saw four other girls like me, with our body covered with thin, transparent fabric. I gritted my teeth as I thought of how to free myself from the alpha of Blood Moon’s pack, but just then I heard footsteps approaching the room. “We must do as he says, if we ever want to end this war and get back our soldiers that he is holding captive.” A voice said.

“You’ve shown great improvement today. You have the potential to become a great warrior.” Aiel beamed with pride at the compliment. “Thank you, Reina. I’ve learned my lesson and I promise I’ll never gossip again.” Reina nodded, her expression softening. “I believe you, Aiel. But remember, being a warrior means more than just physical strength. It also means being honourable and honest. You must always uphold the values of our people.” Aiel nodded, taking in Reina’s words. She knew that being a true warrior meant more than just physical strength, and she was determined to live up to those ideals.

It was opened at its last blank page, but words weren’t appearing on it. All the war books wrote themselves and once they were finished, they flew to the bookshelf and placed themselves on it. “What’s wrong with this? Why isn’t it completing itself?” I asked, skimming my eyes from the book to Zephyr. “The war isn’t over yet,” Zephyr said. “One side needs to be defeated for it to end.” “I am defeated, right? The war should end,” I said. “No. This time, it was different. It was you and I against the Saint. You were defeated, but I am still in the war…” Zephyr said.

It feels like I'm in a coma that has been bedridden for a year. While waiting for the people I have felt, I suddenly remembered the things that I had done last night. My body is uncontrolled at that time, it seems like someone is controlling my body. I couldn't still forget how my hands pierced through those Wolves I killed and snatched their beating heart out of their body. I can still remember how I badly wanna kill that Beta who used to be my parents' friend, and he still dares to make me treat him as my father. That wench is so disgusting.

She screamed, still looking up. "Ahhhhhhh!" She screamed, like never before... War has started. This is survival of the fittest, Who will survive and who won't?

“Men are the harshest of races and they populate most of the realm, their numbers growing each year. They mostly destroy and enslave other races, but they are unable to use any form of magic, and live in stone cities that are under constant attack as the race is forever at war. The humans have many villages and cities, but the ones with the most population are Sential, Anate, Seran, Vanaat and Denafer." “Impressive.” Tuviel nodded, “The dwarfs and trolls?” Astria bit her bottom lip as she began to recall what she knew, speaking each word from memory. “The trolls are a powerful race that stand around twelve feet tall, but they are at peace with almost every race and are said to be welcoming.

“For 363 days.” He searched my face, then let go like I’d burned him. He didn’t touch me again for the rest of the drive. That night, I found a book on my nightstand. The Art of War. No note. I opened it. On the first page, in black ink, sharp and precise: Rule six: Enemies are everywhere. Trust no one. Not even me. I closed the book and looked at the camera in the corner. Red light, blinking. Always blinking.

“The guy who wrote this book was a leader in the war. He kept talking about the importance of a blood line. His blood line to be precise.” He closes the very old book and hands it to me ‘The War.’ By Aldous Kitson.

I would have said yes anyway. The war library sat three levels under the observatory, a long vault of oak tables and iron shelves that smelled of dust, lamp oil, and wolf. Maps of every pack from Murmansk to the Black Sea hung on the walls like flayed skins. Vaelin set three things in front of me. A treatise on shifter treaties bound in dark hide. A set of campaign charts marked in his own hand. A thinner book whose cover was not leather. It was something that had once been alive. “Politics first,” he said. “Then how men die for those politics. Then the language that makes the dying mean something.”

“The storm is here. And when it hits… only the strongest will remain standing.” I raise my glass to the empty room, to the city, to myself. And after all these days of feeling nothing, I finally feel the thrill of anticipation… Because war, after all, is an art. And I am the artist.