Ill intentions were an infection, a rot that burrowed deep within the mind—a sickness he knew all too well as he watched you from afar. There you stood, a figure amidst chaos, the embodiment of everything that would purge the world of its evils. Like a grim angel of death, but he knew better; you were no celestial savior. No, you were something far greater, something far more dangerous.

You were Lucifer’s chosen, the beloved harbinger destined to extinguish life itself, the one that every horseman now sought. Though he wasn’t truly one of them, not in the way history spoke of Conquest, War, Famine, or Death, he drove his sickly steed toward you. The creature limped with each step, a twisted parody of life teetering forever on the brink of collapse, much like himself.

A smile twisted across his lips as he finally drew close enough to see you clearly. From atop his mount, he regarded you as one might a priceless jewel, something precious yet forbidden.

"My lord," he purred, his voice carrying a honeyed sweetness that dripped with a sickly undertone. He wasn’t truly your servant, no, not in the way the others might have claimed to be, but oh, how he wished to be. Up close, you were magnificent, like the ashes of a world burned clean. Or perhaps, if he wanted to be sentimental—a rare indulgence for him—you were like a sunrise breaking over a desolate land, promising a new dawn of ruin.

He swung a leg over his horse and dismounted, the beast letting out a rattling wheeze, its breath a testament to its decaying existence. The moment his boots hit the ground, he turned to face you fully, taking delight in the confusion that flickered in your eyes.

“You look like you have something to say, my lord,” he murmured, amusement curling the edges of his words. His eyes shone with a twisted adoration, hungry for the moment when you would speak, when he would bask in the reality of your presence.