Page 212 of War

I approach the grave once more.

I step up to it, and it’s just as hard to stare down at War’s body now as it was the first time I peered over the edge. Only this time, I force myself to stop and actuallylookat him.

The first thing I recognize are the tattoos on his hands. Not even death has diminished their glow. That’s how I first knew it was him.

His hands are folded over the hilt of his sword, which lays over his armored chest.

If it weren’t for his missing … missing head, he’d look like some savage, sleeping knight. It’s an oddly noble position for the phobos riders to place him in, considering how gruesomely they slaughtered him.

Eventually my eyes make their way up to War’s head—or where his head should have been anyway. I have to bite back a sob.

The horseman’s lower jaw is still attached to his body, and the skin of it and his upper neck look pristine. It’s his chest and shoulders that are doused with blood. Lots and lots of blood. The sight doesn’t look quite right, though I can’t put my finger on exactly why …

Before I get a chance to puzzle it out, my attention snags on a dark, egg-shaped device nestled next to War’s thigh. There’s another on the other side of his body. But now that I’m noticing those, my eyes take in the longer, cylindrical objects that rest around him like grave goods.

A chill courses through me. Those craters I passed on my way here, the mangled bodies scattered along their edges …

You’ll die if you try to save him,the phobos rider had told me.

I’ve never seen a grenade or an IED with my own eyes, but that must be what these are. Explosives.

I had assumed the phobos riders were using them to kill War. I hadn’t realized they were using the explosives to keep the horsemaninhis grave—just in case he really could survive decapitation.

I sit back down on my butt, hard, and breathe through my mouth.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. You can’t fall apart, not yet. All isn’t lost.

My gaze returns to the explosives. I swallow down a low moan.

But it is, though, isn’t it?

War has no head and his body is packed with explosives.

I bite my lower lip hard enough to bleed and press my palms into my eye sockets. Now a cry does slip out, and it’s an ugly, broken sound.

I was never supposed to fall in love with him. It wasn’t just about the fact that he represented everything I was fighting against. It was also my deep certainty that everything you care for, you’ll lose.

I drop my hands, my palms wet with tears, and I stare down into that crudely made pit again.

I can’t lose you too, War.

What am I supposed to do?

The answer comes in the horseman’s own words.

Have faith.

The trouble is, I’m not sure that I have faith in anything anymore, except maybe for him.

“Can you?” I ask.

“Die?” War clarifies. “Of course I can. I just have a tendency to notstaydead.”

Have faith.I take a deep breath.Have faith.

My eyes go back to his body, and I stare at the blood that rings his lower neck and chest. I stare and stare at it.

Suddenly it hits me, what looks so odd about the blood splatter. Halfway up the column of his throat, the bloodstain abruptly stops. Not a single drop mars the skin beyond that point. It’s as though the wound happened at War’s neck, and then everything above it …