Inanis stood at the edge of the graveyard, the scent of damp earth and decay clinging to the air around him. The funeral was a quiet affair, attended only by two people.
Three freshly dug graves lay before him, each marked with a simple stone—no names, no dates, only a symbol carved deep into each: a cleaver, a bow, and a book. The symbols of War, Pestilence, and Famine. His companions, his fellow Horsemen. Now gone.
Grimm, standing beside him in his human form, was silent as always, his pale skin and jet-black hair giving him an almost spectral appearance. He blended into the mist swirling through the graveyard, his presence as constant as Death itself. His black eyes glimmered with a reflection of the world around them—both the seen and unseen. The only sound between them was the rustle of Grimm's coat as the wind tugged at it.
"You'd think after the hundredth time, I'd stop feeling anything at all," Inanis muttered, his voice flat and cold. But there was something behind it—a weight, an exhaustion that had nothing to do with physicality.
Grimm said nothing. He rarely did.
Inanis cast his gaze back to the graves. Three horsemen, three cycles come to an end. Their artifacts—the Carnage Cleaver, the Bow of Plague, and the Tome of Gluttony—now lay in rest beside their former wielders, waiting for the next to claim them. He was the only one who remained, as always. The eternal one. The only one who can never pass his power to another.
A purple aura flickered faintly around him, the telltale sign of his immortality. The Soul Harvester, his artifact, rested quietly at his side, its blade etched with the remnants of souls long forgotten. It hadn't been used in days, but it hummed with the essence of its purpose. It always did.
"Does it ever change, Grimm?" he asked, his gaze distant. "Does anything? Or am I the only fool here who's still trying to make sense of it?"
Grimm glanced at him, a flicker of something—concern, maybe?—crossing his face. His silence was its own answer. Nothing ever changed. Not for them.
Inanis sighed and stepped forward, standing at the foot of the first grave. War, or rather the previous War. She had been bold, reckless, everything you would expect from the embodiment of conflict. And now, she was nothing but dust, a name already forgotten by the world she once fought to protect.
He knelt, pressing a hand to the cold stone. For a moment, the purple aura around him flared, a brief connection to the remnants of her power. The Carnage Cleaver pulsed beneath the dirt, acknowledging the presence of Death, but it no longer belonged to the fallen War. It was simply waiting. It was always waiting.
The same process repeated for the graves of Pestilence and Famine. Each time, he felt the faint echoes of their lives, their struggles, and their inevitable fall. It always ended this way. The cycle never stopped, and neither did the burden.
When he straightened, he found Grimm's eyes on him again.
"We'll have to find their replacements soon," Inanis said, more to himself than his companion. The wind carried the words away almost as quickly as he spoke them. "The balance won't hold without them."
As if on cue, the world shifted, subtly at first—barely noticeable to the average person—but Inanis could feel it. The divide between the mortal and supernatural realms trembled, strained by the absence of three Horsemen. Without War, Famine, and Pestilence to keep the forces in check, the barriers were beginning to weaken.
"They're coming," Grimm said at last, his voice low and soft, like the whisper of a distant storm.
Inanis nodded. He had felt it too. New incarnations would soon be called. Mortals, unaware of the powers that would soon find them, the duties they would inherit, and the weight they would bear.
But they would come, as they always did.
"Let's go," he said, turning away from the graves. "There's nothing left for us here."
As they walked, the graveyard began to fade behind them, disappearing into the mist like a forgotten dream. Inanis hoped it would be a long time before he returned to this place. For when he did, it would likely be for another funeral.
That was the way of things. An endless cycle of death and rebirth, duty and loss.
His footfalls were heavy against the cracked earth as he left the past behind, and the weight of the future pressed down upon him. Somewhere out there, new Horsemen were waiting. They didn't know it yet, but they were about to step into a world they could never leave.
And Inanis would be there to meet them, as he always had, and always would.
For him, nothing ever truly ended.