“No more, Miriam,” War says. “No more fighting, no more running, no more distrust between us. I understand. Finally, I do. What I have done to you and what I have refused to do for you.

“I understand,” he repeats, emphasizing the word. “From this moment on, things will be different, wife. I gave you my vow and I intend to uphold it. You have surrendered—I will as well.”

A chill slides over me then, which is the absolute wrong response because this is everything I wanted.

“Just say you’ll be mine. Not just in name, but in all ways. Then it is yours. It is all yours.”

I search the warlord’s face, sure that I misheard him. But this is no trick. All I have to do is give myself over to him. To be War’s wholly and completely … and things will change.

It’s hard to trust your heart, but it’s easy to give in to it.

“I am yours, War,” I say. “Now and forever.”

After we get back to camp, War pulls me into bed and holds me close, his hand drifting down to my stomach.

“I have a child.” He’s been saying varying versions of this since he found out. He’s still dumbstruck by it.

The horseman leans down and places a kiss against my stomach, and I run a hand through his hair.

His eyes rise to meet mine. “I don’t know what it means to have a pregnant wife,” he admits. “I’m wholly unfamiliar with the process.”

I guess he would be. There’s not a whole lot of pregnant women involved in wars.

“I’ve never done this either.” For once, we’ve found something we’re both equally inexperienced at.

“What do you know of it?” he asks.

“Not much—other than the fact that women stay pregnant for nine months before giving birth,” I say. “I’ve probably been pregnant for a month or more already,” I add.

“An entire month.” War digests that, looking fascinated and pleased. “My child has been in you that entire time. No wonder you’ve been so bloodthirsty.”

Oh God.

“What else?” the horseman asks, moving the conversation along.

I rack my brain for the few things I do know about the subject. “My sickness and the food aversions—I think that’s part of pregnancy. They say that some women get physically ill during the first few months of pregnancy.”

War frowns. “This is supposed to happen?”

I lift a shoulder. “I mean, I think so.”

The warlord looks massively displeased by that news, and I realize he’s displeased on my behalf.

He doesn’t want to see me suffer.

“How long does it last?” War asks.

“I don’t know.” This was never a topic I looked into with much interest. I hadn’t assumed it would apply to me anytime soon. “Hopefully not too much longer.” It’s a miserable state to be in.

I bite my lower lip. “And then there’s childbirth.” I guess I should probably go over that one too.

Since the horsemen’s Arrival, most advanced medical interventions have become obsolete. There are still doctors, and there are still physical procedures and hospitals and all that knowledge we wrote down in textbooks, but the elaborate technology once used to save wayward pregnancies is mostly gone. Women and babies die during childbirth, just as they have for thousands of years before the modern age.

“What is it?” War says, sensing my mood change.

“Giving birth can be dangerous.”

“How dangerous?” he presses.

I look him in the eye. “I could die. And your child could die.”

“Our child,” he amends, his hand still pressing against my belly. For the first time since we began this conversation, he smiles a little. “You forget wife—I can heal all manner of injury. As I said before, you and the baby are safe.”

Me and the baby.

I glance at War, and I almost want to laugh at the idea of domestic bliss with this horseman. It seems so preposterous. And yet, he’s clearly way into it. Way into it.

He kisses me. “All will be well. Trust me on that.”

The change in War starts small. So small I almost think I’m imagining it. He had promised me—no, vowed to me—that he would surrender. And yet I’m not sure I believed him until the proof starts rolling in.

Over the next several weeks, as we travel down the Nile, War stops attacking the small, satellite communities that speckle the land. Even more staggering, the horseman chooses to spare those few humans who manage to survive his raids.

It’s a shock to hear—after all, War takes his undead army into battle with him, and those killing machines leave no one unharmed. I’m having a difficult time believing that there is anyone left to spare.

But there are in fact survivors, and the proof of it comes the day after we leave Beni Suef.

War and I travel alone on our steeds, the Nile a short distance from us. The rest of the camp—the dead and all—trail far behind us, just as War has always arranged it.

As we come up to the city of Maghaghah, an arrow zings past me, so close I feel the air shift. I glance at War, a bewildered look on my face.

This has never happened before during our travels because people don’t know War is coming.

Another arrow zings by. Then another and another.

Or at least, they didn’t used to.

“Miriam, move!” The horseman sounds like a general, and instinctively, I obey him.

I pull on my horse’s reins, angling myself away from the line of fire. Another arrow whistles—

My body jerks as the projectile hits me in the shoulder. I grunt, pain and surprise nearly throwing me off my horse.

“Miriam!” War shouts. His eyes are locked on the arrow protruding from me.

I stare at my wound, warm blood pooling from it. The pain is there, but it’s buried under my shock.

Someone just shot me.

They knew we were coming and they shot me.

War steers Deimos in my direction, putting himself between me and the city ahead of us. There are more arrows coming our way. Most fall short or go wide, but several come right at us.

I have to duck to avoid another one.

The horsemen gets to my side, his flank exposed to the onslaught. His face is calm, but his violent, violent eyes give him away.

In one fluid movement, he grabs me by the waist and drags me onto his horse.

I bite back a cry as the action jostles my shoulder.

And then I’m on Deimos and we’re retreating, though I’ve never known War to retreat, ever.

As we ride away, I see a few arrows sticking out of Deimos’s side. The horse doesn’t so much as flinch from the pain, though it must hurt him.

This is what happens when you let people live. They pass warnings along to cities that haven’t been attacked, and those cities prepare. And then they fight with every last piece of themselves.

My heart beats a little faster, and I feel a thrilling sense of accomplishment, despite being on the wrong end of this fight.

This is because of me and War. Without the trades and the fights and eventually, that vow of his, this never would’ve happened.

War places his hand under the collar of my shirt, near the wound, trying to heal it.

“I can’t remove the arrow until we’re safe,” he says apologetically.