I leave before I do something I, admittedly, probably wouldn’t regret all that much. I wanna rip that kid's head from his shoulders and watch the blood flow -- watch it all end. What colour would it be, I wonder -- his blood? Or even the other one's...

I cry out my frustration; it echoes around and around the circular hall. No, I wouldn't do any of that. I hate that kid right now with the fire of a desert battlefield. A battlefield -- but no, not sand. The one that dangles before me, just out of my reach burns with a different sensation, one I do not recognize. One I do not yet know.

What I do know? The longer that kid lives, dangling between two sides, the more my seal cracks and burns. The closer I am to truly being there.

Erchou.

Come, the voice had whispered. The spark of heat at the back of my neck that ripped like lightning down my spine. Rumour has it Ramiel knows a little something about lightning...then again, so do the archangels. Which means Death--

"That was foolish."

Conquest is watching me with their cold eyes, barely a glimmer of the usual play.

I click my teeth, "You can't tell me you're not pissed too."

A twitch of their mouth; I must be right. But, instead, they say, "I’m sure Death has her reasons. She always does--"

"Like breaking the rules she so constantly shoves down our throat and disobeying direct orders from--"

"That’s not what actually bothers you, so spare me the rhetoric," Conquest rolls their eyes. "I may be the second-youngest one here, but you always itch for a fight. You're happy Death made the choice she did -- ecstatic, even. Because it means you draw closer." They snort, "I know you better than you know yourself."

"That's the thing, isn't it: silly little War, doesn't understand. Oh, look at War, being so very young and immature again. Dismiss him. Ignore him. Cast him aside--"

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Listen to me, you little shit!" Conquest grabs my collar, pulling my face barely a breath from theirs. How beautiful a face, hard and uncompromising, taking what it wants. "You are not the first War to let Death get under their skin, and you're not the first to want to climb higher or reach farther--"

"I just want to understand!" I shout back. "This mess need never have even begun if Death had done her fucking job--"

"Death has held her title longer than any other Horseman in our history, save for one. And never, in all that history, has Death ever deviated from her position or to where she was not. And never has she hesitated in immediately bringing in the Messenger when necessary. If you think she wouldn’t do that for herself before doing anything foolish, you’re more idiotic than I could have ever imagined. Because that’s not the game she’s playing -- start seeing the board through the pieces."

That gives me pause.

"The Messenger?" I frown. "What does Gabriel have to do with any of this besides being the eternal middle man?"

A moment beats by and Conquest closes their eyes with a low laugh, "So Death wasn't lying."

"What--"

"Read all of your records, War," they say, snapping their eyes back open. "Maybe then you can stop screaming blindly at the walls and focus your rage knowingly." They move even closer, mouth right up against my ear, breath hot on the shell, "I have only ever played with Wars I like...and I do like you," they whisper. "Please don’t let our fun end so soon."

They shove me to the floor before heading towards their own bone-white doors. I barely breathe, watching their back -- the white brand on their neck, the muscles rippling beneath the tanned skin.

My partner in slaughter, older and yet a playmate -- two colts in this marble stable of thoroughbreds. My hand touches where Conquest's lips had brushed against my skin. I could try to follow them, but what good would it do? Their doors are shut and right now I have no passage; I can feel it.

My gut still roils. My hands are still clenched into fists that crack my knuckles. The smell of blood still hangs in my nostrils. Behind me, the red doors to my own chambers fling open.

Fine.

I'll read the damn War records -- maybe I'll burn them when I'm done, recreate whatever fire it is that burns like ice at the back of my neck, where I know, bright red, my own title is branded upon my skin.