Page 14 of Of Sins and Sacrifice

London is the most populous city in the entire of Anthropa. I can’t imagine how many people are suffering and going without because of the lack of resources.

For the first time since I can remember, I hate war.

From the corner of my eye, I note a small child of about eight or nine staring at me. His clothes are dirty and torn, and his face is smudged with dirt.

To be more precise, he’s staring at my donut, not at me.

I swallow against the immediate discomfort.

His eyes glisten with longing in the shadowy light of a street lamp. Not a moment after, his stomach growls loudly in hunger.

I shouldn’t do this, but I cannot help myself.

In a couple of steps, I am in front of the child and hand him my leftover donut, together with the little food I had left in my pouch.

His eyes widen in shock and I can tell he’s ready to refuse. I open his palm and place the items in his hand before I leave without looking back.

Not a moment ago, I was giving myself a mental lecture about the importance of not intervening in mortals’ lives. That small quantity of food could have very well made the difference between life and death. And though I know I might get told off if that is the case, I find that I cannot turn a blind eye to this type of suffering.

The image of the starving child remains with me as I continue walking aimlessly.

The streetlights go out one by one. The buildings still inhabited go dark too. Some people turn off their lights while others pull heavy, dark curtains over the windows to trap any light inside.

In a matter of moments, everything is pitch black.

Cars are still driving on the street, though there is almost no visibility. A few cries erupt in the air from people whobarely avoid getting hit. It’s the same situation every day, except sometimes they do get hit.

I take a deep breath and try to ignore the commotion around me. As I keep walking, I devote my attention to scanning the area for demons. Nighttime is the perfect opportunity for them to roam around in search of victims. As if the war casualties are not enough.

I walk for close to a mile before I stop, my senses on alert.

They’re near.

I tilt my head to the side and close my eyes.

One. Two? Maybe three demons.

They’re not far from me.

I focus on the tingling sensation I get when a demon is nearby and follow it as it intensifies.

Eventually, I end up in front of a three-story building.

On the outside, it’s as quiet and dark as the rest of the buildings on the street. The windows are all firmly shut and there isn’t any flicker of light coming out from the inside.

I sharpen my hearing, and that’s when the sounds come through.

Music.

Loud chatter.

The clinking of glasses.

I narrow my eyes.

A party. And it’s coming from the basement.

I circle around the building a few times, trying to find the entrance, until it dawns on me that the way into the basement is by going down the stairs at the front of the building—the servant’s entrance as they call it.

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