December heat pressed itself over Lagos like a heavy blanket, but inside Madam Sugar's mansion, the atmosphere felt different—cleaner, colder, and almost too perfect. Workers rushed in every direction, hanging golden stars, arranging candy-cane arches, checking sound systems, wrapping gifts in shimmering white paper. Christmas here wasn't just a holiday; it was a spectacle, a stage only Madam Sugar could command.
She stood on the top floor balcony, gazing down at the bustling preparations with soft eyes. Her white-and-gold dress caught the light, making her look like a silhouette carved from purity. Her hands rested on the marble rail, calm and steady. Her smile was gentle. Almost holy. Anyone who saw her in that moment would swear she carried heaven in her veins.
But deep beneath her ribs, something else pulsed.
A weight.
A calling.
A deadline.
This year's charity event had to be flawless — not just for public glory, but for something far older than politics and fame.
"Ensure the children's section has more lights," she said to a passing worker. "It must feel magical."
"Yes ma," he replied quickly, bowing slightly before hurrying on.
Madam Sugar inhaled slowly. Magic. Sweetness. Innocence. She had spent her entire life studying these performances, hiding the truth beneath layers of kindness. She had perfected the art—being an angel outside, even when something darker lingered behind her smile.
December wasn't just charity season.
December was Adun's month.
Inside her, a storm churned—fear, guilt, and the quiet resignation of someone who had never been free from the destiny carved into her family long before she was born.
Her phone buzzed.
She didn't answer it. Instead, her gaze drifted to the small monitor beside her — one the staff never touched, one even her children did not know existed.
A hidden camera feed.
A street in Lagos Mainland.
A cluster of shops. Motorcycle horns. Voices arguing over prices.
And then — four boys walking together.
Ayo.
Banji.
Emmanuel.
Adeoluwa.
Laughing as if the whole world wasn't squeezing them. Bouncing shoulders. Sharing a roasted corn. Pushing each other playfully.
Madam Sugar watched them silently.
She had observed them for months.
Every routine.
Every struggle.
Every moment of innocence.
They were perfect.
Untouched by corruption. Genuine. Pure-hearted despite the dirt under their nails and the hardship in their lives.
Pure sweetness — a requirement Adun did not bend on.
She sipped her tea slowly and whispered, almost too quietly for herself to hear:
"Forgive me."
A soft creak broke the silence behind her.
White Sugar entered.
Without his mask, he looked almost gentle — calm, clean, handsome. His agbada was brilliant white, as always. He wore his purity like armor.
For a moment, he simply observed her.
"You're watching them again," he said, voice low.
Madam Sugar kept her eyes forward.
"They remind me of… of life before all this."
He stepped closer, stopping beside her. His presence brought a coldness with it.
"We do not choose destiny," he murmured. "You know this."
Her fingers tightened on the rail.
"I also know we once said our children would never be part of this darkness."
"And they won't be," he replied. "That is why we offer others."
He gestured at the screen. At Ayo wiping sweat from his forehead. At Banji adjusting his backpack. At Emmanuel teasing Adeoluwa. At all four of them walking innocently through life.
"They are perfect," White Sugar whispered. "Pure sweetness. Untouched. Adun will accept them."
Madam Sugar closed her eyes for a moment.
"They are boys," she said softly. "Children, just like ours once were."
White Sugar looked at her with a calm that was almost terrifying.
"Our children were born into the covenant," he said. "These boys were born outside it. Better for the offering."
Madam Sugar's heart twisted painfully. The boys hadn't been chosen by her. They had been chosen by Adun — through signs, patterns, ancient alignments she wished she didn't understand.
But disobedience carried consequences darker than what she prepared to do.
She forced another smile — the same smile she used for crowds and cameras.
"It will be done," she breathed.
White Sugar nodded approvingly.
"We must prepare the masks," he said. "The White Mask members are already gathering."
She didn't turn to look at him. She didn't want to see the shift in his eyes — the one that appeared whenever ritual season approached.
When he finally walked out, leaving a faint scent of incense behind him, Madam Sugar allowed her smile to fall.
She looked at the screen again.
The boys were now at Ayo's mother's stall. Laughing. Eating puff-puff. Planning how to hustle for extra money so their families could enjoy Christmas.
Her throat tightened.
She whispered again, this time trembling:
"Forgive me… all of you."
---
Meanwhile, in the crowded market, the boys had no idea a powerful woman in Ikoyi was watching them like stars chosen for sacrifice.
Ayo stacked crates beside his mother's stall.
Banji negotiated with a customer over a repaired phone cable.
Emmanuel kept an eye out for trouble.
Adeoluwa cracked a joke so loud three people turned to stare.
They were ordinary boys with extraordinary hearts, dreaming of a sweet Christmas in a world too bitter for them.
They didn't know fate had already marked them.
They didn't know their names were already whispered in rituals.
They didn't know that by nightfall, they would step into a story soaked with sweetness… and blood.
---
Back at the mansion, Madam Sugar walked toward the inner hallway.
Her steps slowed when she reached the last door — the one no worker, no visitor, and no child ever touched.
A faint red glow leaked through the cracks.
The smell of incense and something metallic filled the air.
She touched the doorknob with trembling fingers.
"Just a little more," she whispered to herself. "After this… after this maybe we can break free."
But she knew she was lying to herself.
Destiny was already unfolding.
And the boys were already chosen.