I cringe at the sight of it, remembering my own close encounter. But instead of swinging it down on the man, War tosses the blade in front of him.

“Sunu uk. San suni, adas Susturu tıtuu üçüt huniştüü nunıtnuu utenin dukikdep nurun.” he says.

Take it. Prove that you are worthy enough to defy me, human.

Elijah is shaking, either from fear or from exhaustion, but he doesn’t look like he regrets his actions.

War backs away slowly. “San Tuduygu uturun teknirip, nik niygiziş üçüt hutişnüü nunıtnuu utenin dukikdep nurun.”

Prove that you are worthy enough to defy God Himself.

With that, the horseman turns, giving Elijah his back.

The bloody phobos rider waits a second or two, then scrambles for War’s blade. He hits his first snag when he picks up the sword. The weapon is clearly too heavy for him to wield; even with both hands on its hilt the sword sways in his grip.

My heart plummets at the sight. Here is a man who decided to kill the killers. I want him to stop this horseman once and for all. The realistic part of me knows there’s no chance of that. I’ve seen War’s strength. There is no beating him.

The horseman turns around, his hands bare. His red leather armor is splattered with blood, and his kohl-lined eyes are ferocious. He wears another blade on him, but even when his opponent begins to approach him, he doesn’t reach for it.

Elijah approaches, his face full of righteous anger. “You expected me to just watch as you slaughtered us?”

“Tuz utırtı juni şuur üçüt önüt dup atna üçüt ıtuuzı vokgon.”

You were content to do that for the last seventeen cities we passed through.

Seventeen? Seventeen?

Not sure I should be cheering this man on anymore …

He stumbles forward, his grip shaky, his body obviously exhausted from the day. He must know fighting is a lost cause, but that doesn’t stop him from running at War, hatred in his eyes.

The man is almost upon the horseman, the latter who stands very still. Elijah fights to lift the sword high enough to strike. War still doesn’t move.

“San sunin nupşırsunı suksugın tönörö ukvuyn.”

You cannot carry the weight of my task.

As if in challenge to War’s words, the phobos rider swings the blade. The horseman easily ducks under the blow, the gold coils in his hair glinting as they swing in the light.

Elijah stumbles forward, kicking up dust as he tries to regain control of the heavy weapon. It takes an agonizing several seconds for the phobos rider to turn around and face War once more.

The horseman is completely at ease, and yet I sense so much bridled power behind his relaxed stance.

“San Tuduydın urtin nüşütüü süstün eses,” he taunts.

You cannot understand God’s will.

With a yell, Elijah comes at him again, swinging War’s sword wildly. And again, the horseman sidesteps the attack. His opponent is panting, his arms shaking at the effort it takes to hold the horseman’s blade.

It’s almost painful to watch, and what makes it worse is that I’m rooting for Elijah. I might be the only one here who is.

War steps in close and grabs one of his opponent’s wrists. The move forces Elijah to lose the two-handed grip he had on the giant sword, and without that grip, the weapon sags in his hand.

The horseman leans in close, his next words barely audible. “Sani övütün urtin nüşütügö süstün eses, vurok San senin öç nüşünön.”

You cannot understand His will, but you will understand my vengeance.

It happens almost too fast to follow. I hear something snap, then a scream. The man drops War’s sword, cradling his arm against his chest.

The warlord catches the massive weapon as it falls. He unsheathes his other smaller sword. For a split second the two men stare at each other. Then War scissors his blades across his opponent’s body.

Blood sprays, and part of the man’s body goes one way, the rest, another. It takes everything in me not to sick myself at the sight.

Around me, a cheer rises up from the crowd.

The world has gone mad.

Sheathing his swords, the horseman walks away, letting the rest of the camp close in and defile the body.

Not an hour later I’m called to the horseman’s tent.

I walk alongside several solemn-faced phobos riders, the men bracketing me in. For the first time since I arrived, I enter War’s section of camp.

Now that the raiding is over for the day, the phobos riders meander about the tents here, smoking hand rolled cigarettes and playing cards. A few of them watch me with interest, but most of them simply ignore the woman being brought to War’s tent.

It’s unmistakable which tent is the horseman’s. War’s home is set apart from the rest, and though the phobos riders’ accommodations are much larger than mine, War’s tent dwarves theirs. He’s made a canvas palace for himself, the place illuminated on the outside by smoking torchlights.

About a meter away from the tent flaps, the phobos riders break away from me to stand guard, leaving me alone at the threshold to War’s tent.

My heart beats fast in my chest. I’ve faced a decent amount of scary shit since the Arrival. You’d think I’d have some tolerance to it by now. But I don’t. I’m still afraid. I’m afraid of this place and what it does to people. I’m afraid of what the future holds. Most of all, I’m afraid of the horseman and what he wants with me, especially after watching him mercilessly butcher a man.

“Go in,” one of the phobos riders calls out.

Blowing out a breath, I step forward and enter.

The first thing I see is War’s massive frame sitting on a bench. He’s still clad in his red leather armor, still covered in dust and blood. His eyes catch sight of me just as he begins to remove an arm guard.

“Miriam,” he says by way of greeting.

I swallow.

War’s tent is filled with a table and chairs, a bed and several chests that must contain all of his spoils of war. Brightly woven rugs and pillows are scattered throughout the space, and then there are the weapons. Swords and daggers, double-headed axes and bows and arrows sit on various surfaces. He’s clearly fond of sharp objects.

It’s all so very lethal and luxurious, but it’s hard to take in when I can barely stand to look away from War himself.

“Why am I here?” I ask, lingering near the doorway.

War pauses in his work. Setting aside his loosened piece of armor, he stands, his kohl-darkened eyes moving to mine.

My knees go a little weak, having the full force of War’s focus on me.

God, but he’s handsome—handsome the way deadly things are. He has no soft edges, from his sharp jaw to his full, wicked lips. And then there’s his violent, violent eyes.

“How are you, wife?” he says, not bothering to speak in tongues. “Enjoying yourself?”

No, not fucking really.

I have to fight myself from taking a step back, especially when he takes a step forward. There’s still meters and meters between us.

“I heard you were adventurous this morning,” he says.

He’s been keeping tabs on me?

I swallow delicately. “And?”