Art Of War Book Novels & Stories

“Oh, an art gallery? Sonia gasped. “Of course, I'd love to check it out.” The housekeeper gave her a walk around the art gallery and Sonia was in awe. The room was colorful and she could resist touching the portraits. “Ma’am, please, do not touch.” the housekeeper warned. By evening, Austin got back home, the atmosphere of the house changed. Everyone ran to their various duties. “I hope they treated you nicely,” Austin asked, holding her by the waist as he led her to his room. Sonia nodded her head, “yes, they did.”

He didn’t need to worry about me being spat on by the same city we once called home. Instead, I curled into the corner of the library window seat, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with old mining contracts, blueprints, and books on business theory. I opened one at random. A dusty copy of The Art of War. Page one: “All warfare is based on deception.” I couldn’t help but laugh. Bitterly. Logan wasn’t at war with our company. He was at war with our love. Because in the midst of this chaos, Darren and I had found each other — truly, honestly.

When she found it, she took it home with her. The Art of War was a famous ancient Chinese text written by Sun Tzu, a general who served as the Chancellor of Shu during the Sixteen Kingdoms period. In the book, Sun Tzu wrote about war and strategy. One of the greatest lessons he taught was to remain calm, even when facing your enemies. Jewel opened up the book and turned to chapter four. It was titled, "Know Your Enemy."

The contact was light, almost cautious, yet it sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with fear. “I would keep it,” he said. I looked at his hand, at the way his fingers hovered as though he would withdraw the moment I asked. “You cannot,” I whispered. “Your world and mine are already at war.” “Wars begin because people refuse to see one another,” he replied. “They end when someone dares to.” I searched his face for deception, for hunger, for the dark cunning the council insisted lived in his kind. I found none of it. Only a quiet gravity. Only a man who carried loss like an old scar.

The confident, untouchable star athlete who had charmed the entire campus… powerless against the fortress she had built around herself. Back in her room that night, Nora set up a new canvas. This painting would not be delicate or forgiving. This painting would not be beauty for the sake of admiration. It would be fire, anger, pain, and defiance poured into color and shape. Crimson streaks of rage bled across the canvas. Black swirls of hurt twisted into sharp shapes. Gold highlights burned like hope she refused to allow herself to feel.

There was a kind of respect in the way he let the question dangle. My father nodded once, a crisp downward dip of the chin. “For now.” Another pause, its duration just long enough to reestablish the hierarchy. Then he leaned back slightly, a posture less of relaxation than of disengagement. “There is a difference,” he continued, “between a war that begins by accident….” His gaze found Alexander again. “…and one that begins by design.” The implication hung between us. Someone wanted this war. It was no longer just a matter of pride or territory or even Gabriel; it was a matter of design, and my father intended to be its architect, not its victim.

Thus, on this second day he would learn a lot about how to become a true warlord. "During the war against the Omra Empire's army, your father prioritised tactics over technique. This was because the troops had no war experience at the time and were not well equipped with weapons. His strategy was to place the archers on both sides of the hill. The lure was the infantry near the lake. The enemy thought that the troops from Arbilis Village were only near the lake, whereas there were archers on the other side of the hill."

Well, at least he did not sound like a whore. He took a look around him. Yes, he deserved this, he thought, but he wasn’t going down like a weak damsel in distress. Alarick wanted him, then he’d have him. All of him. But not without a fight. “The gods have answered the Warlord’s prayer. Bards will make songs about this,” Avinash whispered to him, smiling. Erriene felt like screaming.

“These are the wolves that confessed themselves as traitors as far as I’m concerned. If this war did anything at all, it sorted the bad unloyal wolves from the good ones,” I think about what Arthur is saying. Part of me attributes his attitude to his cold up brining, but maybe he has a point. Or maybe the war has hardened me too. “I think this is a new start, Little Wolf” Arthur adds more gently. A cool breeze passes between us and beyond the stench of rotting flesh is the hinted aroma of leaves beginning ready to fall. I let out a deep breath. “I’d like to experience an ending before any new things start,” I add mostly jokingly. I think back on the events that occurred over the last several

Gael, Hakeem, and I had passed out after four hours of non-stop mating. I was sandwiched between my two men, my head resting on Hakeem’s chest and Gael’s leg and arm thrown over both of us as he snuggled into my back. I felt as if I had just fallen asleep when flashes and fragments of dreams began to play through my mind. They were disjointed, speeding through my mind almost too fast to catch. There is Charlie holding two pups in her arms, the pack being attacked on the western front, Arya fallen to her knees sobbing in the middle of a battlefield, funeral pyres, me looking down at my pregnant stomach with Gael and Hakeem smiling down at me, whoops of victory and wails of defeat. As the