"War," hissed the head of the vampires, Abraxas Ollivander. "War. The wolves destroyed their side of the pact; they went past the boundary. The wolves razed the little separation that divide us. War," he repeated. "We must prepare for war."
"It was a child. A child "razed the little separation that divided us". We must head off to war because of a child went over the boundary? That's foolish," retorted a women standing to the left.
Ollivander's eyes were glittering with malice, "I don't care. It doesn't matter to me who did it. A war will begin."
******
Blood sprouted from the boy's chest, startling against his grey jacket. The boy — no, teenager — fell to the ground with a feeble moan. A look of astonishment was plastered on his face. A light flickered out of his eyes. He was dead. I moved swiftly pass him not bearing to give him a second glance. Yet, of course I look back. He was my first kill. Regret and nausea find its way to me. I feel sick. He was only a little boy, probably around thirteen. Maybe fourteen. His a wolf. His kind started this war. He deserves death. All wolves deserve death. And, so, I killed another. And another. And another.