Best War Fiction Books Novels & Stories

I can’t remember our pack ever going to war with any other packs except rogues, and even then, we only fought when they attacked us in our own home. “We did what had to be done. All is fair in war, and in war, one side must lose for the victor to emerge. They’ve already caused us so much, it’s only right we repay the favour twice as blunt,” another man spoke, and the rest of the people grunted in approval.

“Are you guys ready to finally do as we were formed to do?” My eyes glared at Callighan as he lifted his head up to the sky. Once that loud howl came from him, we all prepared ourselves as the wolves charged at us altogether. All we could do was fight to our hearts desire. One charged at me and right when I thought life was over for me, the gunshots came right after him. Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! However, those shots were not enough… -To Be Continued- The End of Book 2

Maurice walked ahead as I scurried behind him, gazing around at the unending land of graves, "Growing up, my grandfather would tell me stories, about how people started to go missing in a bulk 50 years ago, the police had no leads, and when no one was coming forward with information, one after the other the cases became cold, and the public became outraged, started a fucking world war, end of the fucking world," he chuckled with a snort, looking back at me who was fighting to keep up, I was growing weaker and weaker with every step I took, "Why? Why were they fighting?" I swallowed hard, "Instead of trying to figure out where these missing people are?"

She rose, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the city’s fires shimmered like a thousand crimson eyes. Below, Valenfort prepared for yet another war where humans, vampires, and everything in between would soon redefine what it meant to call something peace.

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.