“I’m not going to stop trying to warn them,” I say into the darkness. “You’ll have to kill me first.”

“I’ve gathered as much,” he says.

I don’t know what to make of that. But at least the battle lines have now been officially drawn.

“I could kill them all instantly, you know,” War says, out of the blue. “Every town, every nation. Man wouldn’t stand a chance.”

I don’t react. I think I’m numb.

“I used to do such things,” War continues.

I stare out at the dark landscape, repulsion rolling through me.

“I woke about two years ago,” he begins, “right around the southern tip of Vietnam. Back then I had no army, only the dead I raised from the ground. But it was enough. It was more than enough. Every city I came upon was wiped out within hours.”

I lock my jaw to keep myself from telling him what a monster he is all over again. He knows. I can hear it in his voice.

“I don’t kill like that anymore. Despite my battle-lust, there is a part of me—a growing part of me—that takes issue with such tactics.”

So you simply kill us slower, I want to accuse him, but what’s the point? I’d rather not waste breath arguing with War over his method of killing people when what I really take issue with is the fact that he is killing people.

He falls silent again, and the two of us spend the remainder of the journey brooding.

When we arrive back at camp, it’s still dark, still silent as the grave.

I pinch my eyes shut. Don’t think about graves.

A few soldiers on duty watch us curiously as we ride through.

It feels wrong being back here. Like the entire trip was some dark reverie.

War pulls Deimos to a stop in front of his tent. There the undead wait for us, and I quake at the sight of them.

I know what they are truly capable of. I saw it firsthand only hours ago.

War hops off his steed, nearby torchlight making his golden hairpieces glint.

When I don’t follow him down, he reaches up for me and pulls me off the steed himself.

For a second, I think he’s going to bring me into his arms. There’s a look in his eyes, like half an apology, and I almost believe it. But the hug never comes.

He grips my upper arms, his expression fierce. “If you were anyone else, wife,” he says, his voice low, “I would kill you myself for your actions.”

I raise my chin. “Then kill me and let me be free,” I say, my voice hollow.

His hold tightens on me. “Goddamnit, woman,” he says, giving me a shake, “do you not feel a single shred of what I feel for you? I’m telling you this because I couldn’t—I couldn’t ever kill you. I can destroy an entire civilization, but not you, Miriam. Not for a thousand different slights you might visit upon me. I’d sooner cut off my own hand than hurt you.”

I’m blinking back tears all over again, and I’m angry and sad and frustrated and heartbroken all at once.

“Then cut it off,” I snap back at him, feeling the poison of my emotions in my veins. “And while you’re at it, make it your sword arm.”

I know I’m being cruel. Right now I relish it. It feels good to wound the horsemen when nothing and no one else can.

The words find their mark. War releases me, looking shocked, his eyes more naked than they usually are.

Now that he’s let me go, I turn on my heel and stalk away.

I’ve only made it about five steps when one of the undead lurking nearby trots over, making its way to me. I glare at War over my shoulder.

“You are staying with me tonight, just as you do every other night.” His voice is deep, controlled. Right now, he is one hundred percent the horseman, set to destroy my world.

“Like hell I am,” I say.

The zombie comes in close enough for me to recoil at its smell, but it’s War who closes the distance between us, coming so near his chest brushes mine.

He tilts his head down to me.

“I’m giving you your dignity right now.” War leans in. “And something tells me you still have plenty of dignity left in you. Don’t force my dead to sling you over his shoulder. Now, get in our tent.”

I glare at him for a second or two. My body practically shakes with the need to undermine him. But the horseman’s already proven once tonight that I can’t get away.

I bolt anyway.

Defiance—even fatalistic defiance—feels good.

I don’t get ten meters before one of his undead soldiers runs me down. I’m shoved to the ground, then hauled into the corpse’s arms.

I curse at him, at War, at God, at every other useless person in this camp. I’m mindless with rage. The horseman wiped out an entire city with his will alone. And it was the most awful sight I’ve ever seen.

All because I tried to save them first.

My curses become sobs. The zombie carries me all the way to War’s tent, where the horseman already waits.

“I hate you, you rat bastard,” I say to him as I’m dumped on the ground.

War doesn’t respond. Instead, he moves through his tent, removing every weapon he stores inside his home. He hands each of them to his undead soldier. “Store these in a secure location,” he tells the creature. “And once you’re done, bring hot water for the basin.”

I don’t move from the ground, even as the soldier leaves with War’s things. There are still more weapons in War’s tent, and the horseman continues to strip the room of them until every last one lays in a pile.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“I don’t trust you with sharp objects right now.”

So he’s disposing of them.

“That’s smart of you,” I say softly, “because the moment you close your eyes, I will try to skewer you.”

The horseman appears mildly amused as he walks to his table and pours himself a glass of spirits. At least, his expression appears amused. His eyes are serious.

He takes a sip of his drink. “I can rise like my dead. You cannot. Therein lies my problem.”

It takes me a moment to put together the meaning behind his words. When I do, I raise my eyebrows. “You think I’m going to kill myself?”

War watches me, his face inscrutable.

The horseman swallows the rest of his drink down, then he pours another and kneels down in front of me to hand me the glass. When I don’t take it, he sighs and polishes it off himself.

“Why do you care if I kill myself?” I ask, from where I sit. My temper still burns hot, but right now, curiosity is overpowering my hate.

War rises and returns to the table, pouring himself another drink. Once again, he returns to my side and offers it down to me. I hesitate, then stand and take it from him.

“This isn’t a peace offering,” I state. He can’t buy my forgiveness. Not after what I saw and what he did.

“I didn’t intend for it to be one.”

I move to the table and sit down. I don’t know why I’m playing nice at all. War just did the most godawful thing I’ve ever seen. But then everything that’s come after that event has diverged from the appropriate script. I’m supposed to kill him, and he’s supposed to punish me, yet none of that is happening.

War fixes himself another drink, then sits down across from me.