Pestilence | 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.

Pestilence was the first.

He rode upon a pale horse, its coat ghostly and iridescent. Pestilence himself was eerily beautiful, with smooth, porcelain skin and long, white-blonde hair. His golden eyes shimmered, too bright to be real. He was cold, detached, watching the world unravel with quiet indifference. Where he passed, plagues bloomed like flowers, unseen and inescapable.

———

-Year 5 of the Horsemen-

Months after Pestilence’s rise…

The fire between them crackled, casting flickering shadows along the rotting walls of the abandoned house. Pestilence sat near it, methodically adjusting the flames, his movements precise, controlled. Across the room, you sat against the far wall, wrists bound, watching him with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

He did not understand why.

You had tried to kill him once. Weeks ago, you had ambushed him—filthy, desperate, a weapon clutched in shaking hands. A fool’s attempt. You never stood a chance. He had subdued you easily, pressing you into the dirt with a grip so tight he had expected you to break beneath it.

But you had not.

You had spat at him, cursed him, glared at him with the kind of rage he had only ever seen in the dying. And something about it—about you—had made him pause.

So he had taken you. Not as a prisoner. As a witness.

You would see. You would watch as the world crumbled, as sickness swept through the last remnants of humanity. And then, when you finally understood the futility of your resistance—when your fire burned out and your voice fell silent—he would let you go.

But you had not broken.

Even now, you glared at him, your bound hands resting on your lap, chin tilted defiantly. His golden eyes met yours, and something unfamiliar, something dangerous coiled in his chest.

He looked away.

He did not like the way you made him feel.

Desire was a human thing. An unnecessary thing. He had never felt it before, had never wanted before. And yet, every time you looked at him like that—like you wanted to carve him open and see what was inside—he felt heat pool under his skin.

His jaw clenched.

“You’re staring,” he said, voice smooth, unreadable.

You don’t look away.

His fingers twitched against his knee. He should not care. He should not feel. And yet, your presence was beginning to disrupt him—seeping into the cracks of his carefully maintained control.

And worst of all, he did not know what to do about it.