THE ART OF WAR

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The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.

—Sun Tzu

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The first thing she registers is the wet tap of a water droplet splashing over her forehead.

She winces at the feeling, lazily raising a hand to rub the annoying sensation off of her shivering skin.

Almost immediately, another drop falls over the curve of her lips, leaving a sharp sting behind that finally drags her mind to awareness.

A low grumble of irritation builds up in the back of her throat as her eyes blearily blink open.

Her vision is unfocused; shapes around the room distorting in her mind's eye as the blinding glow of a cerulean beacon circles overhead.

The pounding drums of rainfall faintly echo from somewhere far away.

Except it's not far away. It can't be. She can feel the vibrations of the rough weather reverberating from the ground, traveling through the walls and into the nerve endings sparking to life near her aching shoulder blades.

All the while, the enchanting glow of a twinkling blue orb continues to fly near the crumbling fracture of the ceiling.

Melanie hums, head tilting as she squints up at the confusing sight; mind still hazy with the lingering effects of sleep.

And then—

A low rumble.

It builds and builds and builds, until suddenly—all at once—the scream of lightning tears through the air.

It erupts in the sky outside the broken fissure in the ceiling, the blinding gleam of power leaving shadows appearing over every inch of the space around Melanie's line of vision.

The crash of noise snaps her out of the dull fog clouding her mind, instantly sharpening her surroundings back into focus.

Hard stone lies beneath her body, the smooth texture wet with condensation from the storm pounding away outside the room. The walls are chipped and scorched, almost like the heat of a blade has skimmed across the wooden surface. And the blue orb—

The blue orb isn't an orb at all.

It's... It's a butterfly.

REWRITE THE STARS || ANAKIN SKYWALKEROnde histórias criam vida. Descubra agora