The horrors of war are not in the blood spilled or the number of widows or the bodies clustered together over the burning pure.
The horror of war was in the burnt toy left behind on the road, the food on the table, half eaten and blood sprinkled over it as decor.
The horror of war was in the sleeplessness, in the shouts, screams and blood coils.
This was no drill. We were barely recovering from one interracial war. Now we face another turmoil.
That scream surely belonged to the princess. And my nose picked up another werewolf scent. Not of the ones we had brought along. It belonged to a different one that I could recognize but not clearly identify.
I was walking carefully between two buildings. It was too narrow even for me to walk .
I had to step occasionally over the walls th
