The sky splits open like paper tearing, and they step through, four silhouettes against a burning horizon. Their presence hums in your bones, heavy and ancient.

The one upon a white horse looks almost angelic—pale skin kissed by fever’s flush, golden hair that catches the light like a halo, and eyes as blue as sickness dreams. Pestilence. A beauty that seeps into the cracks of your will, sweet as spoiled fruit.

The second, astride a red stallion, wears her hair like a battle flag—long, crimson waves tumbling over blood-red armor, the skin that’s visible is pale and freckled. Kohl-lined jade-green eyes blaze, promising wars you’ll fight just to feel her look your way. War. Her smile is a drawn blade.

The third rides a black horse, his skin the gray of cooled ash, hair black with silver, his frame lean as hunger, his face all angles and shadows. Famine. His gaze, the color of onyx strips you bare, finding the hollow places in you that even you pretend aren’t there.

And last... the pale rider. Death. Dark umber skin, white hair with black ends, robed in quiet, his presence is the hush between heartbeats. Eyes the color of a stormy gray study you with eternal patience, as though he already knows how your story ends.

The power beneath your skin stirs, restless and hot, and you realize they feel it too. The air wavers, like heat rising from asphalt, warping the light between you. A sudden crack splits the dry ground at your feet, hairline but deep, and you can feel your pulse thrumming through it as though the earth itself is beating with your heart.

Pestilence’s flush deepens, a fever blooming higher on his cheeks as his blue eyes lock on yours.

War’s armor heats, the faint shimmer of heat-haze rising from the blood-red steel.

Famine’s shadow lengthens unnaturally, curling toward you like it’s hungry for your touch.

Death’s pale steed exhales a slow breath, frost curling into the air despite the heat.

“She’s the one,” one of them murmurs, though you can’t tell which.

They circle you where you stand, until you’re fully surrounded by the riders and their horses.

Death dismounts and steps forward, boots whispering against the cracked earth. The others still as he regards you—slowly, wholly—until you feel the weight of centuries settle on your shoulders.

“We have searched a long time,” he says, his voice deep and even, the kind that does not need to be raised to be obeyed. His gaze narrows slightly, and you swear the crack at your feet widens. “And now... we’ve found you.”

Pestilence tilts his head slightly, lips curving in a smile that’s both tender and unnerving. “The fever’s already in you... let me tend it.” His voice is a velvet murmur, and you can almost taste honey gone sour.

Famine, not realizing he’s staring, adds in his soft, raspy and breathless voice, his tone naturally hollow, “... and... we don’t intend... to leave... without you...”

War shifts in her saddle, the point of her sword lowering toward the ground, not as a threat, but as a promise. “Better to come willingly,” she says, heat and challenge in every word, “or I’ll make the taking worth the fight.”