War’s palatial tent is still up. It’s one of the last structures left standing. And when I step inside, the man himself is in there, wearing black pants and a black shirt, a knife strapped to his waist. He kneels in front of an open chest, his back to me and my escorts.

“My Lord,” announces one of the phobos riders next to me, “we’ve brought her.”

War doesn’t react immediately, choosing instead to settle whatever item he’s holding into the chest. He closes the piece of furniture, running his hands along the lid.

“You may go,” he says, not bothering to speak in tongues. I guess he saves his gibberish for the general announcements he makes to camp.

On either side of me, War’s phobos riders retreat. I begin to leave with them.

“Not you, Miriam.”

I pause mid-step, the hairs along my arms rising. I want to say it’s because I’m spooked, but there’s a note to his voice … it makes me think of soft sheets and warm skin.

I swallow, swiveling back around.

War stands and faces me then, looking giant and magnificent and frightening all at once. The menace that rolls off of him in waves has nothing to do with his armor or his weaponry. There is something intrinsic about him that incites fear.

He takes me in for several seconds. Long enough for me to think he definitely hasn’t replaced me with another wife. My heart rate ratchets up at the thought.

“I have something for you,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows. I don’t think I want anything that the horseman has to offer.

When he just continues to stare at me, my eyebrows nudge up a little higher. “Are you going to go get this gift?” I ask.

“I want to gaze at you first, wife. Will you deny me even this?” His eyes hold a heaviness to them, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Every time I think he’s going to go left, he goes right. For four days the horseman kept his distance. Now he’s making it sound like he’s been starved to see me.

I can’t make sense of him.

But I can deny him.

Unfortunately, before I get the chance to do exactly that, War moves to the corner of his tent, grabbing a sack that rests there. He saunters over to me, his black shirt hugging his frame as he does so. He dumps the bag at my feet.

It only takes a moment for me to recognize my old canvas satchel.

But I’d left that back at …

My eyes snap to War. “You saw my flat?”

I try to imagine the horseman filling up my home, his sharp eyes moving over my space. He would’ve seen all the mementos I’ve kept of my family. He would’ve seen my messy workbench—made even messier by whoever raided the place—he would’ve seen the pictures hanging on the walls and the wall clock and the cluttered kitchen and my dirty clothes and my rumpled bed and a dozen other personal details.

What must he have thought, looking at my things?

When he doesn’t respond, I turn my attention back to my satchel. Kneeling in front of the bag, I open it.

My eyes first land on my leather roll. I pull the case out and unravel it. My various wood-working tools are tucked into its soft pockets. I set it aside and return to my satchel.

I catch sight of sandpaper and a couple clamps; it looks like he might’ve even packed one of my smaller saws and my axe.

War really did it. He brought me my tools from my house. I didn’t expect him to.

I still can’t believe he saw my place. It makes me feel oddly exposed, like he’s peered into my mind and seen its contents.

The tent flaps rustle then, and a phobos rider enters. “My Lord, we need to begin packing your things.”

War nods, and the rider moves to grab one of the smaller chests before leaving the tent.

Once the soldier is gone, the horseman closes the distance between us, his body eclipsing all our surroundings.

“You are to ride next to me.”

“Do you order around all your ‘wives’?” I ask.

War’s eyebrow arches. “You think there are others?” War gives me that smile of his, the one that’s fucking terrifying.

More of the horseman’s men enter the tent, immediately getting to work packing his things.

“Someone will see to your horse,” War says, backing away from me. “I look forward to our ride.”

I don’t understand why we have to ride horses when bikes exist. Bikes don’t get hungry or tired, they don’t shit, and they definitely don’t try to kick you because they’re temperamental bastards.

Though, to be fair, an army of soldiers on bikes doesn’t exactly strike fear into the hearts of men.

I stare down at Thunder, the horse I’m sitting on. I only barely managed to avoid getting punted by this beast, and now I have to ride him.

Pretty sure the horse senses my inadequacy as a human being.

It takes an eternity for camp to ready itself. By the time everything is packed up, the horde is now gathered into one giant procession made up of mounted soldiers, hitched wagons, and many, many individuals loaded with packs.

The horseman is the last one to come riding out, looking portentous on his steed. He’s clad once more in his leather armor, his gigantic sword strapped to his back and his gold hair pieces glinting in the sunlight. He doesn’t look like anything that belongs to this century.

War rides up to my side. “Ready?”

Not like I have much of a choice. I nod anyway.

“Follow me.”

He rides off, his horse racing to the front of the line that’s formed. People cheer as he passes them by, like he’s their savior rather than some supernatural menace. I watch him for several seconds before I coax Thunder to follow the horseman.

People don’t cheer when I ride by, but I feel their curious, questioning gazes.

Who is she?

Why is she following War?

I make my way to the front of the procession, and then past it altogether.

There, War waits. His eyes seem to dance as I get closer to him. Once I come to his side, he wordlessly begins to ride, setting the pace for us.

No hi, no how are you? Just a quiet confidence that I’ll fall into line.

I glance back at the horde, which is beginning to move. It’s clear from their pace that they’re not going to catch up to us. Never have I wanted such a faithless mass of people to save me as I do now.

They follow behind us for half a kilometer before the horseman and I pass a bend in the road, and then the two of us are alone.

The silence swarms in. I wait for War to break it—surely he’s going to break it—but he just rides on, those dangerous eyes of his fixed on the road ahead.

I clear my throat. “Why did you want me to ride next to you?” I ask, finally breaking the silence.

“You’re my wife.”

I’m not your wife, I want to insist. Not in any way that matters.

The words are right there on the tip of my tongue, but then I study War’s profile, and there’s something so … certain about the way he handles me. I take him in for a bit longer, from his dark, shoulder-length hair to his curving lips and sharp jaw.

“Why do you think I’m your wife?” I say.

War’s eyes flick to just beneath my chin.

“I don’t ‘think’ it,” he says. “I know it.”

Chills. There it is, that certainty. You’d think that if I was supposed to make a husband out of War, I’d know it too.