The pale horse halted a few strides from him, hooves silent upon the ashen ground. The boy swallowed hard, his body trembling though the air was still. The rider loomed above him, black robes swaying faintly as if stirred by a wind that did not exist.
The hood obscured the rider's face, but beneath it there was no flesh, no warmth—only shadow. What little the boy could see of his hands were bony, stretched thin as twigs, gripping the reins with skeletal grace.
He wanted to turn, to flee, but his legs felt rooted. He wanted to speak again, but the words tangled in his throat.
The rider's voice came once more, low and inevitable.
"Do not fear me, child. I am not your enemy."
The boy's breath caught. His mouth finally worked. "Then… then what are you?"
The rider tilted his head slightly, and the sound that followed was not quite a sigh.
"I am the end of your road."
Confusion warred with dread inside him. His fists clenched helplessly at his sides. "No… no, that can't be. I was just—just at home. With my family. I was—" His voice cracked. "I was alive."
"Alive?" The rider's tone shifted, deeper, colder. "Then let me show you."
Before the boy could move, the rider's skeletal hand reached out. Fingers touched his forehead.
Ice shot through him. His vision exploded in white. His eyes rolled back, and the world twisted—
—he was in his home again.
The familiar clay walls. The oil lamp flickering. His siblings huddled close, their faces pale with fear. His mother clutching her arm, weeping. His father staggering, blood at his mouth.
And the men. The demons in black. Shouting. Laughing. Raising weapons.
"No!" the boy cried, though no one seemed to hear him. His voice was a ghost in this place.
He saw himself again—his own body, smaller, trembling, hiding with his siblings. The anger, the helplessness, the scream that burst from his throat. He saw himself charge, strike, fight like a wild thing. For a heartbeat, he almost believed he could change it, could alter the outcome.
Then the gun fired again.
The sharp crack tore through him like lightning. He watched himself fall, blood staining his tunic, his family rushing to his side. His mother's tears splashed upon his face. His father's voice cracked as he called his name. His siblings reached for him with small, desperate hands.
He tried to step forward, to grab them, to shout that he was still here—but his arms passed through them like smoke. His cries were swallowed by silence.
The scene dimmed, blurring, unraveling into black.
And then he was back.
Back in the plain, back before the rider. The skeletal hand withdrew from his brow, leaving his skin cold as stone.
The boy staggered backward, clutching his chest though no wound was there. His breath tore out in ragged gasps. "I… I saw it. I died. I really died."
The rider nodded once, slow and solemn.
"You are beyond the reach of breath and blood. Your body lies where it fell. What remains is you—your shadow, your memory, your soul."
The boy's vision swam, tears burning his eyes. He dropped to his knees on the black earth, hands pressed against his face. "No… no, it can't be. I—my family, they need me. I protected them. They can't… they can't live without me."
The rider's voice came like stone upon stone.
"They will. In grief, in pain, in sorrow—but they will."
The boy shook his head violently, his voice breaking. "Then take me back! Please! If you can bring me here, you can bring me back. Let me return to them!"
For a moment, silence. The rider's hood turned slightly, as though considering him. Then the words came, heavy as the sky above:
"There is no return, boy. Your path is only forward."
The boy's tears fell onto the lifeless earth, vanishing without trace. His shoulders heaved as he bowed beneath the truth. Yet in the hollow of his grief, a strange flicker stirred.
If this was death, then he was not alone. This rider had come for him, as surely as night came for day.
And if he could not return, then at least… at least he had saved them.
The thought was fragile, but it gave him breath.
Slowly, he raised his eyes to the rider once more. His voice was faint, but steady. "Then… what happens now?"
The rider's skeletal hand extended—not toward his brow this time, but outward, a gesture of invitation.
"Now, you walk with me."