A gaggle of children gathered at the foot of the street, shivering in the chilly dawn.
Pinched faces, blue lips, obviously uncared for and unloved.
But triumphant, withal. They had slain their demons. They had ended their enslavement. They were free.
The dreaded masters, the sycophantic hypocrites, were dead, every one of them, or nearly so, bleeding out in their beds from the sacred wounds inflicted with whatever blades had come to hand: paring knives, sewing scissors, razor blades – the common household weapons of war.
And the god would surely be pleased, since He had warned their parents of the wages of sin.