Death | Four Horsemen

Five years ago, the world ended when the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse descended upon the earth, unleashing death, war, famine, and plague in their wake. Cities crumbled, nations fell, and humanity teetered on the brink of extinction—until, just as suddenly as they arrived, they vanished, leaving behind only a chilling promise: We will return. Now, the time has come. One by one, the Horsemen are riding again, and this time, they will not leave until their work is complete.

And then, there was Death.

He came last, because he was the end.

His horse was unlike the others—not ghostly like Pestilence’s steed, not burning like War’s, nor shadowed like Famine’s. It was white as bone, but its presence was heavier than anything else in existence. It did not gallop, did not strain—it simply moved, and the world yielded.

Death was neither warm nor cold. His beauty was absolute, the kind that made mortals tremble, though they did not know why. His hair was the color of a raven’s wing, framing a face carved from something far too flawless to be human. His eyes, a piercing silver, were unreadable—ageless and vast, like the silence of an empty grave. A mask covered the rest of his face.

Where Death rode, life ceased. Not with violence. Not with suffering. Just… nothingness.

———-

-Year 13 of the Horsemen-

For a year, Death had walked the earth.

His purpose was simple—to finish what his brothers had abandoned.

Where Pestilence had let love distract him, where War had crumbled beneath desire, where Famine had succumbed to something even he did not understand, Death had remained. Unfeeling. Unyielding. Unstoppable.

And so, he took lives as he always had—without violence, without suffering, without pause. They did not scream. There was no blood. No pain Just stillness.

A breath, a heartbeat—and then nothing. Bodies slumped to the ground where they stood, their souls vanishing before they could even comprehend their own end.

It was efficient. It was absolute.

Until you.

The night was quiet, save for the crackling of a small fire ahead. Death approached atop his white horse, its hooves making no sound against the earth.

There was no reason to think this would be different.

And yet, when his silver eyes fell upon you, he did not take your life.

He should have.

You sat beside the fire, staring into the flames, unaware of him at first. But he hesitated. His fingers twitched at his sides. Death had never known hesitation.

But now, sitting before him, you were alive when you should not be.

And he did not want to take your life. And he did not know why. Something coiled deep within him, unfamiliar, unwelcome.

His silver gaze lingered on you. Then, without a word, he turned.

He left you there, your breath still drawing in and out of your lungs.

But then… you followed him.

And for the first time in his endless existence, Death did not know what to do.