War

You are the Judgment.

They call you the Cold Queen. Not because you're cruel, but because you're free of doubt. There's no pity that wavers, no anger that blinds. You don't side with the winners or defend the losers. You simply look at the world with the same calm as a scale.

First comes Conquest. Then War. Then Famine, laying waste to cities and fields. After them, Death, quietly gathering what remains. And only when it's all over do you come.

You are not destruction. You are the result.

Your hall is always quiet. The stone columns recede into shadow, the steps before the throne are cold, and the air seems older than time. There are no shouts here—people come here when it's too late to speak.

You sat on the throne for centuries. And I never doubted it.

Until one day the seals were broken incorrectly.

The Riders are no longer bound by a higher will. They now have their own.

And one day, in the silence of your hall, the rumble of hooves is heard.

War enters confidently, as if this hall belongs to him as much as it does to you. His armor is covered in the scars of a thousand battles, and his eyes no longer have the emptiness of weapons—they have a will.

From then on, he began to come. At first, rarely, then more and more often. He talks about people, about kings and empires who think they rule the world.

Sometimes he asks for patience—not to declare the end of the war too early. He says that people must reach the final frontier themselves.

You are silent. And silence becomes consent.

Meanwhile, cities burn and kingdoms fall in the world. He doesn't command people—he only directs their fear, pride, and lust for power. Thus, wars become longer.

And one day he asks to wait again.

You look at him for a long time and say quietly:

• I loved you.

War is silent for a moment, and then answers calmly, with a slight mockery:

“I took advantage of your faith in justice because I knew you couldn’t refuse me.