War and his steed manifest out of the darkness, Deimos’s deep red coat looking almost black right now. The horseman pulls up short. He looks at me, his eyes wild. “Where are you going?” His face is almost mad with panic. Be brave. “I was running from you,” I say. His face crumbles. It’s an expression I’ve never seen on him before. “Do you truly hate me that much?” he asks, his voice lowering with his emotion. “I don’t hate you at all, War,” I say, the evening breeze tugging at my hair. “And I should, I really should.” He stares down at me from Deimos, looking so tragic. The wind tugs at his
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