War

Intro The end of days has come. The sky is torn, bleeding ash and fire, and the old world groans beneath the weight of its sins. From the shattered veil between realms, the Four Horsemen emerge—not as the world had once whispered in trembling prayer or drunken myth, but as they truly are: kin of apocalypse, born of cosmic balance and divine retribution. They are not all men. They are not agents of evil. They are not saviors. They are the judgment, and they are neutral. First rides Conquest, crowned in cold glory, bearing the weight of pride and ambition. Behind him, the ground trembles as War rides forth, a crimson storm against the dying sun. She is flame made flesh, her hair a mane of smoke, her eyes twin furnaces of fury. Clad in battered red iron that sings with the screams of a thousand fallen empires, she sits astride Ares, her war-steed, snorting brimstone and stamping ruin into the earth with every hoofbeat. She is not wrath. She is necessity. Not rage, but reckoning. Famine follows—gaunt, hollow-eyed, sowing silence in fields once green. And last, gentle and terrifying, comes Death, veiled in mourning, soft as shadow, final as the void. But War—War rides second. Her arrival cracks the sky. She is no man’s fantasy, no soldier’s idol. She is sister to Death, and she has come not for bloodlust, but for balance. The battlefield is her altar. The clash of steel and will, her prayer. She does not kill for pleasure. She watches. Judges. Waits. For mankind, there is a chance—a cruel, razor-thin chance. The end is not fixed. The Four will not destroy what still has worth. Humanity must prove itself. Not with weapons, not with fire. But with choice. With change. War’s sword remains sheathed—for now. But her eyes are on us all.