IMPACT

Posted in Magic Story on March 29, 2017

Previous story:  Renewal

Deciding that a proactive approach is best, most of the Gatewatch has gone after Nicol Bolas on
Amonkhet to attack him head-on before he can set more of his schemes in motion. With no plan and no
information, five planeswalkers set off to take down an elder dragon on a mysterious and unfamiliar
plane.

A scalding wind danced across the dunes, its invisible talons etching cryptic lines in the endless sand.
It cast sprays of dust and grit airborne in empty tantrums, heated into a burning fury by the twin suns
overhead. As dawn broke into morning, the first sun scorched its path across the sky, while the second
remained fixed in its point on the horizon. Below, the wind flitted along the vast expanses of desert,
picking up speed and ferocity, growing into a growling, tumbling sandstorm. Soon, its howl drowned
out all else, fangs bared as stinging sand swirled and slashed at anything in its path. It gnawed at stony
outcroppings, the remnants of monuments both natural and designed, and bit at the exposed flesh of
wild beasts too slow to flee before it.
At the height of its fury, near its wild and blustery heart, a sudden shimmer of light, a blurring of the
air, a ripple of shadow, a spark of flame, and a flash of green danced within the sandstorm. Five figures
stood where none were moments ago, caught by surprise in the blinding sands.
The wind carried on, oblivious to their presence.

Earlier, on Kaladesh . . .

JACE

I watched as Ajani stalked away from us, pulling his cloak closer and vanishing in a flash of light. My
mind followed after him briefly as he disappeared from my reach, his thoughts fading within the
impenetrable Blind Eternities. Behind me, Gideon cleared his throat, and I turned and gave him a quick
nod. "We're in the clear."
"Let's move quickly then," Gideon replied. "And you're sure you know of the place we are to meet him
after, Liliana?"
Liliana raised an eyebrow, a languid hand drifting up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "My
dear Gideon, I've traveled to countless worlds in the Multiverse in the centuries before you were born. I
know many places, and I know the place Ajani spoke of especially well."
"We'll trust you to navigate, then. Both to Amonkhet and to our rendezvous after." Gideon flashed what
I'm sure he intended as a warm smile at Liliana.
Liliana gave an exaggerated bow back. "I'm flattered and honored by your trust."
I cringed. He's trying, Liliana. You could cut him some slack. Liliana's eyes darted in my direction, and
she gave me a wink. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes.
"What is our plan once we get to Amonkhet?" Nissa's question cut through the lingering silence.
"Pop in, find a dragon, roast a dragon." Chandra sat on the short wall at the edge of the rooftop,
adjusting her gloves. Gideon frowned, but nodded.
"More or less. Liliana leads us there. We go to Amonkhet and learn what we can of Nicol Bolas's plans,
then neutralize the threat he poses—either by stopping his schemes, or, if necessary, taking him out."
"Don't expect that to be easy," I warned. "We don't know if Tezzeret has already found him and warned
him about us, or how much he knows, or if he is prepared for potential interplanar threats—"
"Blah, blah, blah." Chandra waved her hands, as if trying to disperse my train of thought midair. She
hopped off her perch and walked toward us. "We're burning daylight and our chance at surprise. Let's
do this."
The five of us gathered in a circle. I looked around at my companions and, not for the first time,
marveled at the oddity of our little gathering. Beyond us, Ghirapur slowly stirred to life, the sounds of
the street and the denizens below rising with the sun. Little did they know, just above them, an
indestructible soldier, a necromancer, an elven druid, a pyromancer, and a mind mage prepared to
venture to another plane of existence.
What strange friends I've made.
A second thought crept from the corners of my mind, one I tried pushed away.
How strange it is to have friends.
"See you all in Amonkhet." Liliana began to shimmer as she started to planeswalk.
I watched as the others around me began to shift as well, each form vanishing in a slightly different
manner. How other mages cast spells—especially how they planeswalk—has always tugged at my
curiosity. Perhaps I'd ask the others, when we all had more time.
Whenever that would be.
I raised my hands, concentrated on the invisible strands of mana around me, and gently pulled.
The world of Kaladesh blurred and wavered, then melted into smears of color, much as an illusion
wipes away when its magical threads are unwoven. I felt the now-familiar (yet ever-alien) press of the
Blind Eternities around me, the crackle of energy and aether leaving the taste and tingle of fresh rain
and lightning on my tongue. We traveled infinitely far yet not at all, standing still yet moving at
blinding speeds. Time and space and dimensions folded and unfolded, and I followed behind Liliana
(or was it below—or within?) as we pushed through the nothingness between worlds, leaving strange
trails and inverted wakes of energy behind us. I felt as they arrived, and with a final tug, the colors
around me slid back into place, the vague electric taste of illusion and dreams solidifying into reality.
A scorching, gritty reality.
I coughed as the wind swept a fistful of sand into my mouth. The heat crushed down on me, a
suffocating and instantaneous weight around my shoulders. A pungent smell of decay crawled up my
nose and stayed there, so thick I could almost taste it. I squinted against the blinding sands all around.
Closest by, Gideon rippled with golden light, the stinging sandstorm triggering his magical shields as it
pelted against him. Nissa hunched low, face cast down, stumbling in the sand. Even Liliana looked
slightly wilted as she stood a short distance away, hand held up against the pelting winds, her usual
flawlessness marred by the oppressive storm. Chandra alone looked mostly unfazed, hair dancing
wildly and one hand scratching at her shoulder armor.
I did not envy those of us in plate mail one bit.
As though on a mission, sand relentlessly poured into my boots and the folds of my shirt. A gust threw
my cloak into my face. I pushed the fabric away best I could, taking uneasy steps on the dune. Gideon
was shouting something about finding shelter. Through the storm, I saw Nissa attempting to cast a
spell. I reached out myself, seeking mana, and found only the dry taste of sand and wastes at my
fingertips. Didn't look like shelter would happen—
A jet of white hot flame seared across the sand. Chandra walked forward, focusing her fire on the dune
ahead. I took a step back as even greater waves of heat roiled from her and her target. "I got this!" she
shouted above the roar of the wind.
CHANDRA

Man, who woulda guessed Amonkhet would be nothing but a giant pit of wasteland and sand and sun?
Wait, make that suns, there's two of them, what the heck, no wonder it's so hot. Well I mean hot in like
a relative sense because Kaladesh had this stifling humidity thing happening sometimes and really
everywhere isn't all that hot after the lava pits of Regatha, but yeesh everyone else looks like they're
melting into watery rice pudding in this dry sandy heat. How miserable can this be?
Then again, I guess this is the home of a giant evil dragon who sends evil henchmen out to destroy all
that's good on other worlds with their . . . evilness. So never mind. This place makes total sense.

I turn up the heat, focusing my fire into a white-hot beam. I'd seen craftsmen in Ghirapur do this
before, when I was a kid, though they had an aetherkiln and some special powders and stuff. I imagine
the idea is the same though. I feel the sand melting and grasp the air with my hand, commanding and
sculpting the rivulets of molten slag. Those Ghirapur artisans made elegant figurines and fancy parts
for ships with delicate, complex, spindly bits. My goal is much simpler. I step forward and shape the
still-liquid glass into a simple, crude dome. Just big enough to fit four regular-size people and one
Gideon-size people. The glass takes shape, hardening into a semi-clear bubble as grains of sand pepper
into its still-soft surface. I drag my hand across one part, fingers not quite touching the surface, creating
a small doorway.
"Come in. It's cool. Er, cooling. Er, it shouldn't light your clothes on fire if you accidentally touch it," I
yell.
Liliana leads the way, and the rest join her, and soon we're all standing inside, looking out at the blur of
sand and dust creating a constant sound like a thousand mothers shushing their children at some kind of
weird place where there'd be a thousand mothers and their children gathered, only the thousand
mothers is just tens of thousands of grains of sand washing over our little dome in this crazy storm. We
all kind of just watch for a bit, and I'm not sure if the others are watching because there's a sort of
primal beauty and awe-inducing aspect to the chaotic melee dancing through the air, or if they just
didn't want to make eye contact after we came to kick dragon butt and ended up nearly drowning in
sand.
"Right. So. What's next?" I ask.
We all sort of look at Gideon, but Jace speaks up. "Liliana, are you sure this is the right place?"
Liliana looks mildly offended. But then, she almost always looks mildly offended, that or bored, or if
she thinks no one is looking, contemplative and a little sad. "Of course. I don't forget how to 'walk
somewhere if I've been there once."
"Where might we find Bolas on this world, then?" Gideon stands in front of the doorway, blocking the
worst of the sand and wind trying to sneak in. Liliana gives him a shrug.
"Unsure. My visit here last time was . . . brief. And some time ago. I didn't exactly get a tour of the
place. Much could have changed."
"Nissa. Jace. Can you sense anything that could guide us in the right direction?"
Nissa closes her eyes, and Jace's glow blue. A short moment passes, and Jace shakes his head. "Nothing
with minds nearby."
Nissa takes longer, her brows knitting into a tangle of concentration. Finally, she too shakes her head as
she opens her eyes. "The mana on this world feels . . . strange. I'm having trouble finding the leylines.
They're there, but weak—like the pulse of a sick animal."
Jace nods. "I suppose that makes sense, if Bolas created this world."
"Or if he killed a living one to claim it as his own," Liliana cheerfully offers.
"No ideas on where we may find him, or if there's any life on this plane? Any leads at all?" Gideon
does the Gideon thing where he stays focused on the task at hand. I do the Chandra thing where I am
mostly listening but also mostly looking outside the nearest window. Which in this case is the entire
dome we're in. Because glass.
That's when I see it.
"I think I know where to go."
Everybody turns to look at me. I point outside.
"Ah," says Nissa.
"Well then," says Jace.
"He's not subtle," muses Liliana.
"How . . . did we miss that?" asks Gideon.
Visible even through the sandstorm, against the murky red-orange of the horizon, the massive shadow
of two horns pierces the sky—a perfect match for the image of Bolas that Jace had shared with us back
on Kaladesh the night before.
"Looks like we're definitely in the right place, at least," I offer.

NISSA

We decided to wait out the storm. Gideon stayed by the entrance, a human shield against the elements.
Across from him, Chandra sat, her legs crossed, eyes closed in quiet meditation. For a moment, I
followed the rhythm of her breath, seeking borrowed solace in her journey. A quiet pride buzzed in my
chest at her progress—a warm happiness that the small tools I had shared with her helped her find
calm. Indeed, she alone seemed most comfortable here. The oppressive heat drained my energy, and the
rest of us looked worse for the wear already. I wondered, not for the first time, how we would thwart or
destroy an ancient dragon. Jace and Liliana spoke constantly of Nicol Bolas's power and cunning. We
would need to be at our full strength to face him. And yet, here we were . . .
I closed my eyes and slowed my breath, pushing away the sand and heat. I need to trust my
companions. My friends. I inhaled, sending my thoughts through my body, isolating tensions and
releasing where I could. I hesitated for a moment, then pictured a flowing river—borrowing the
imagery I lent Chandra in her meditation back on Kaladesh. Perhaps a journey downstream would help
to quench some of the endless heat buzzing in my head.
It was strange, to lean upon others, to share my burdens and shoulder the worries of those outside
myself. It came easier with some in our group than others—but all of it still felt foreign. Yet we were
undeniably stronger together, the bonds of trust perhaps as powerful a force as an animist's connection
to the land. Trust. Understanding. I am working on both.
I breathed in, drawing air and mana in equal measure, my heart and thoughts reaching out to this
strange world, seeking the tendrils of life and vitality, the familiar strands of leylines that crisscross all
worlds.
Again, all I felt at first was a yawning darkness, an endless maw of decay and rot.
I had faced worlds devastated by monstrosities in the past. On Zendikar, the unnatural,
chalky emptiness left in the wake of the Eldrazi titans. On Innistrad, corrupted leylines wild and toxic,
impossible to channel or control. Yet this felt different. Most worlds, regardless of outside corruption or
influence, harbored a balance of death and life magic, wrapped up in an intricate web with its leylines,
interweaving into a complex spiral made of knitted nodes of power. Yet here on Amonkhet, the shadow
of death dominated all I could reach, as if the world itself favored the silence of the dead.
I focused on the weak strands of life energy I could find—more ghosts of leylines than leylines proper.
I traced along their tenuous strands, and my mind left my body behind. My breath fell in tune with the
weak pulse of the world, gaining speed as I flew over the dunes, finally bursting out on the other side of
this storm, to see—
"Nissa. We're moving out."
I opened my eyes, and Chandra swam into view. She knelt next to me, her face scrunched in mild
concern. Behind her, Gideon, Jace, and Liliana had already left the glass dome and stood waiting at the
top of a dune. The sandstorm seemed to have passed, dwindling into remnant gusts of wind sweeping
the sands in wide arcs.
"I think I've found something. In the direction of the horns."
Chandra's frown broke into a grin, her freckles a mirror of the now-past storm. "Oh good—glad my
plan of 'walk toward the big thing in the distance' has some backup."
She stood and held out her hand. I hesitated for just a moment, then reached out, and she helped pull
me up. Trust. Understanding.
"Let's go kick some dragon butt." Chandra marched ahead toward the others, and I followed.
That's when the sand dune came alive.

LILIANA

The first ones attacked Jace. Because that's the sort of luck that boy has. One moment, we were
standing, waiting for Chandra and Nissa. The next, rotting hands burst forth from the sand, grabbed
Jace by the legs, and pulled him under. Jace let out an undignified little yelp as he sank up to his waist.
Only Beefslab's reflexes saved Jace as the larger man turned and grabbed Jace's arm with one hand,
keeping him from slipping under. I let loose a barrage of necrotic energy, withering the already-
desecrated limbs grasping at Jace into dust. Around my feet, the sand broiled as more hands reached up,
grasping hungrily at the air. I stepped back, cloaking myself in an aura of decay that withered all flesh
that came near me.
Panicked yells and the unfortunate stench of charred rot floated up toward me from back down the
dune. I looked over to see Chandra and Nissa just outside the little glass dome, surrounded by a
seemingly endless mass of undead, dried and desiccated by the heat and sands, with more rising from
the shifting ground near them. Nissa had drawn a sword from her staff (a cute little trick) and cut down
the charging zombies nearest to her while Chandra sent streams of flame scorching temporary openings
across the hordes. Yet as fast as she could burn them, more mummified dead rose from the sands to
replenish their ranks.
I smiled.
The Multiverse was filled with planes, each with their own wonders and horrors and infinite curiosities.
But one thing was always the same: things died.
And those that were dead belonged to me.
I raised my hands and dark tendrils billowed forward, subtly ensnaring the undead corpses closest to
me. I felt my magic touch and bind with their core, and I spoke a single word.
"Obey."
One by one, the undead I claimed halted in their approach. I dropped my aura of decay, focusing my
powers on seizing command of the rising dead. A sudden spray of sand burst mere steps from my feet
as a jackal-headed figure erupted from the ground, springing forth and swinging wildly with a curved
sword. I stumbled back, cursing my carelessness—just as the wet sound of steel through flesh sloshed
against my ears and a spray of ichor jetted across the sand. I watched the top half of the jackal figure's
torso slide off the rest of his body as the strange, flexible blades of Gideon's sural danced back to his
side. Jace stood back to back with Gideon throwing up illusions that did little to distract the pressing
horde of undead assaulting the pair.
"You all right?" Gideon shouted.
"I could've used that one, Beefslab," I called back, letting bored disappointment seep into my words.
His face soured, and I suppressed a grin. It's so simple provoking Gideon's frustration. Yes, his
intervention covered for my moment of vulnerability. Yes, his usefulness was undeniable. No, I'd never
need to let him know that.
Still, I should help him and Jace out. Play the role of helpful teammate and all. I willed my small
squadron of undead forward.
"Assist."
They launched themselves against the undead attacking Gideon, and I watched as he shifted his own
assaults to seamlessly support my minions. His sural struck with surgical precision, covering the
exposed flanks of the undead under my command, cutting down foes that threatened to overwhelm. His
effectiveness has undeniably improved, even just from the last time he fought alongside my raised
ones, back on Innistrad.
Yes. Definitely useful.
I turned my attention back toward the hordes pressing in against Chandra and Nissa, just in time to
watch one mummy land a solid swipe on Nissa's shoulder, and another bite into Chandra's armored
forearm before she ignited it into a charred cinder. No time to gain full control. Instead, I cast a much
shallower link to a greater number, touching as many as I could before issuing one simple command:
"Flee."

Swaths of undead turned away, shambling off in different directions. Some ran pell-mell over the
dunes; some burrowed back into the sands. The thinned numbers still pressing their assault fell quickly
to sword and flame as Nissa and Chandra struck with impressive synchronicity.
As I watched them cut down the straggling numbers, my fingers brushed against the Chain Veil
hanging at my side. What a luxury, to not need to draw on its powers, when I now had other
planeswalkers to do the heavy lifting for me! Sure, directing their focus was significantly
more . . . challenging than using the veil or commanding my undead servants. But I had gotten them to
come to Amonkhet. And if I played my hand well, they would probably help me accomplish the real
reason why I came—and best of all, do it of their own volition.
I looked around. Gideon stood awkwardly eying the remnants of my squadron, having dispatched the
rest of the undead. Chandra and Nissa now walked up the hill, catching their breath from the fight.
Jace . . . was conspicuously missing.
I frowned. Knowing him, he probably vanished from sight during the fight to "gain a better vantage
point." Also known as turning invisible when things went poorly. He had a knack for disappearing
when a situation turned sour, and I knew he wasn't much help in this fight. When you're a mind mage,
the undead are a weakness. No brains means nothing for your powers to manipulate. As the two of us
had determined many times throughout our numerous . . . encounters.
But maybe he vanished because a zombie managed to drag him under after all.
I sighed, and began reaching out to the corpses under the sand, just to make sure I wouldn't find a
squirming, struggling Jace in the clammy embrace of some desert dead. My focus was distracted, and I
didn't hear what exactly Nissa shouted as she suddenly began sprinting toward us.
Then all went dark.

JACE

I hate this plane.

Over my shoulder, I watched Gideon smash his fist into another undead, crushing its skull with a
sickening crunch. Another zombie (must be one of Liliana's) leapt in front of the one charging me,
dragging it to the ground, the duo kicking up sprays of sand as they tore at each other's limbs. I took the
opportunity to vanish, throwing up a quick invisibility spell, and ran for the top of the dune.
Find a clear vantage point. Formulate a plan from this chaos.
I already had my fill of Nicol Bolas's little hellscape of sand and heat and endless dead. We needed to
get out of this desert and figure out a better angle of approach. Even Nissa—quiet and shy Nissa—had
spoken up asking for a plan before we left. I knew I wasn't helpful in this fight, but I could try to think
ahead.
As I crested the top of the hill, I turned to watch the melee. Chandra and Nissa struggled against a
throng of undead, but already Liliana seemed to seize the upper hand, gaining control over swaths of
them, sending waves fleeing back into the desert. Meanwhile, Gideon . . . was Gideon. A blunt force
instrument, albeit an efficient one. And one working in effective tandem with the zombies newly under
Liliana's control.
It was strange seeing the two of them working well together and strange to witness Liliana play nice
with others in a fight. Perhaps she truly was changing. Perhaps she meant her oath and believed in the
purpose of the Gatewatch, and despite her antagonism of Gideon, truly cared about our mission.
Perhaps I really should know better.
My years of . . . entanglement with Liliana left me feeling like I knew less of her now than when I
started. The more I learned, the more unsolvable she became. Almost as unreadable as her zombies, she
never ceased to surprise me—for better, or more often, for much, much worse. And yet, even now, she
drew me in. So often, I found myself defending her to the others, even as I reminded myself to take
caution around her.
I shook my head. I wouldn't unravel the mystery of Liliana here, standing on top of this pile of sand.
Instead, I turned my attention toward the horns in the distance.
What do we know? What's Nicol Bolas's plan? What's our best next step?
This was an inhospitable plane. Nissa mentioned the world felt more dead than alive. Zombies
apparently just lurked casually in hills, waiting to pop out and devour passers-by.
Why would Bolas make a world like this his base of operations?
What secrets hid beneath the sands? Was this truly a dead world? And what purpose did those
grandiose horns in the distance serve? Sure, it was easy to think Nicol Bolas's ego was such that he'd
build a mighty monument to himself just because he could. Yet Bolas wasn't one for wasteful,
narcissistic grand gestures. No, his gestures always served hidden purposes several layers
deep andwere excessively narcissistic and grandiose.
I considered the possibility of planeswalking away then walking back in an attempt to arrive at a
location closer to the horns, but quickly discarded that line of thought. Traveling to specific locations,
even on a very familiar world, was immensely challenging. To do so on a foreign plane would require
getting very lucky. Plus, if Bolas did have guards or alarms set against interplanar intervention on his
world, I didn't want to potentially trip them more than once, giving him more opportunities to realize
we have found him.
No. We needed to push on. However, our arrival on this plane so far has resulted in landing in a
sandstorm and stepping into a zombie ambush. Our next steps had to minimize randomness and chance
and maximize our strengths. We needed to gain our footing here and press on toward the horns, fully on
our guard. No more surprises—
Nissa's yell yanked me out of my thoughts and back to the battlefield below.
. . . Did she just say—
NISSA

"SAND WURM!"
I shouted out at Liliana, but my warning came too late. The tremors I felt underground erupted in a
geyser of sand right beneath her, and I watched in horror she disappeared into the gullet of an enormous
wurm. A short distance away, a second wurm breached the sands with a bellowing roar that shook the
thick desert air. I grasped at what little mana I could find, drawing desperately at energies that weren't
there for spells I knew deep down I couldn't cast in this dry wasteland.
"Take it down!" Gideon roared, charging forward—but the undead previously under Liliana's control
turned and tackled him, and he disappeared under a pile of monstrosities.
Her zombies turned—Liliana is dead.
The thought clung stubbornly to my brain even as I tried desperately to pull it out of the way so
something useful could take its place—a plan, an idea, anything.
Underfoot, other tremors deep in the sand reverberated up my spine, rumbling as they grew closer. Fear
and doubt seeped into my heart and overflowed across my tongue, bitter and acrid.
Breathe. Act.
Trust.
"Chandra, stop that wurm! More are coming!" I charged forward, blade gripped tightly in my hand. I
couldn't draw the mana I needed for the spell I wanted, but I could cut down the undead now besieging
Gideon. I could trust that Chandra would stop the wurms. I could believe that Jace would think of a
plan, wherever he was. With a cry, I slid under the wurm now crashing toward me, spraying sand and
tucking into a roll. My feet landed beneath me and I leaped, closing the final distance between myself
and the mass of undead, my blade cutting into rotting flesh as I sliced my way toward Gideon.

CHANDRA

HOLY FIERY RIVERS OF REGATHA WHAT IN THE WORLD IS THAT THING AND DID IT
JUST EAT LILIANA NO WAY WHAT THE HELL DIE IN A PILLAR OF FLAME YOU BIG FAT
STUPID WAIT DID NISSA JUST SAY THERE WERE MORE COMING OH GEEZ YUP THERE
THEY ARE GET OUT OF THE WAY I'LL ROAST YOU ALL GIVE BACK LILIANA YOU STUPID
SONS OF INBRED BANDARS—

GIDEON

Endless teeth. Hands that ended in talon-like claws. The press of putrid flesh all around me. I strained
to bring my sural to bear, but the sheer number of them held me down. My defenses shimmered, the
familiar golden glow dancing before my eyes as they chewed and grasped, pressing my face into the
sand and tearing at my limbs, trying to rip me asunder.
With great effort, I managed to pull my left leg under my body, and pushed upward with all my might,
shoving a few of them off and rising to half-standing. At the same moment, the whistle of metal slicing
through air whizzed near my ear, and I turned to see the blur of Nissa's sword. Suddenly the limbs of
the zombie holding my right arm were no longer attached to its torso. A triumphant laugh escaped my
lips as I pushed mana into my sural. With a flick of my hand, the thin, ribbon-like blades whipped
around, their curving, glowing arcs cutting down a swath of the zombies. Within moments, Nissa and I
completed our deadly bladed dance, her elegant flips and precise cuts weaving seamlessly within the
concentric paths of my sural. We ran past the ground now littered with severed parts of the mummified
dead, once again laid back to rest, and sped toward Chandra, who had drawn the wurms away with her
jets of fire.
"Four?" I yelled to Nissa as we ran.
"Six. Two more coming," Nissa corrected.
My insides clenched, but I pushed on, my next question more urgent than my apprehension at those
numbers.
"Liliana—is she—"
Nissa pointed at one of the wurms trying to flank Chandra. I ran faster.
Nicol Bolas's realm held far more horrors than we could have imagined.

LILIANA

.
.
.

CHANDRA

"Raaaaaargh!" The yell tears out of my throat as I channel power into the inferno, engulfing one of the
wurms in a billowing pyre. It finally falls, torched and charred, sand spraying wide.
My breath heaves heavy and ragged. "Who's next?" I shout, more for my own benefit than the wurms
because they're wurms and probably don't speak any words and what do they know anyway. A blur of
motion to my right and a bellowing roar—I leap out of the way as one of the wurms dives at me. How
the hell does a giant wurm sneak up on a person?
I nearly jump out of my skin as I turn and see a behemoth of a blue, glowing scorpion appear out of
thin air, looming in front of me. I jump again as Jace pops into sight a second later by my side. He
grabs my hand and puts a finger to his lips and we both vanish just as the scorpion illusion goes
skittering across the sand, drawing one of the wurms chasing after it, diving through the dunes as if
they were cresting waves of water and not, you know, fairly solid sand.
"Their favorite food," an invisible Jace mutters, his hand still clenching my own. I can feel his pulse
frenzied and wild and I resist asking what else giant wurm monsters thought about.
I see Gideon and Nissa racing toward us, with Gideon waving his sural and yelling, trying to draw the
attention of the wurms. The two remaining (wait, four, when did two more show up?!) turn and wind
their way with unexpected speed toward Gideon, the sound of scales on sand cutting across the dry,
dead air. My eyes follow one of them and I pull free of Jace's hand to sprint after the wurm. I throw
twin bolts of fire at it, and they glance harmlessly off its body, but it peels off from the others to circle
back toward me. Behind me Jace is yelling something probably dumb. I clench my fists, focusing
points of white hot flame between my fingers.

But before I can unleash my blast, the wurm skids to a halt. I'm caught off guard and the fires in my
hands flicker as I lose focus. I watch as the wurm rears back and begins convulsing. I back away
because when I see humans do this it usually is followed by projectile vomiting, and I do not want sand
wurm vomit on me no thank you.
This wurm doesn't vomit. Instead, its chest caves in, then crumbles to dust. I watch, horrified, as
Liliana steps forward out of the wurm, guts and stomach acid and viscera sizzling off her, a weird chain
thingy floating in front of her face all aglow with purple light. She steps onto the sand, and the wurm
wobbles then collapses to one side beside her, its innards oozing out of the gaping Liliana-sized hole,
its outer shell a gray, dead color. Liliana takes a few more steps across the sand as though in a trance.
Markings on her skin glow with the same purple light as the chain, and her eyes are blank and
expressionless. I stare as wounds across her body seem to knit shut and wurm slime continues to
dissipate as though burned off by some heat, but I feel nothing from her. If anything she seems colder
and more distant than ever, an inverted star searing across the sand.
"Liliana?" I take a step forward, and the purple glow from her everything fades, and she collapses in a
heap.

JACE

This is not good. This is seriously, seriously, not good.

GIDEON

The first sand wurm dove at me, its mouth agape, ready to swallow me whole.
Perfect.
I ran forward and leaped into its open maw, punching my hand forward and sending my sural spinning
and slashing spirals down the wurm's throat. The blades sliced through its soft innards, and the burn
and suffocating press of its throat muscles gave way to daylight again as I eviscerated my way back out
its neck in a spray of blood and fluid.
One down.
The wurm fell with a wumph! onto the sands, and I went sprawling to one side. I barely picked myself
up when the tail of a second wurm caught me in the chest with the force of a charging rhox, and I went
flying backward, crashing into another dune before rolling to a stop.
I laid on my back and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to catch my breath.
I probably needed a different approach for the remaining wurms.
Gideon. We need to leave and regroup. I sit up with a start. Never going to get used to Jace's voice
just appearing in my mind. A quick glance around had me springing to my feet just as one of the
remaining wurms barreled my way.
I think we can handle this, Jace. I readied my sural, trying to split my attention between the wurm and
Jace's voice in my head. Is Liliana—
Alive. But she's in bad shape.
I grimaced. The wurm lunged at me, its mouth closed, its head a battering ram of force. I rolled out of
the way and felt a cascade of sand pour over me, displaced from the wurm's mighty blow. I watched the
distended sand churn as the wurm burrowed around, charging at me again from underground.
Hang on. Nissa and I are coming. I crouched down, and as the wurm struck, I leapt back, bringing my
sural sweeping over my head, raking along the wurm's underbelly as it rose into the air. Metal cut
through softer scales and the wurm let out an enraged shriek. I rolled sideways to my right as the wurm
fell, writhing in the sand, injured but not quite dead.
A short distance away, I saw Nissa charge toward a wurm as it emerged from beneath the sands,
landing nimbly on its head. The wurm writhed to throw her off, but she moved too quick—in a blink,
she drove her sword with both hands down, piercing its skull with a squish, and rode the wurm as it
crashed back down to the ground.
"Nissa!" I called out. "Liliana needs—"
"Jace told me." Nissa pulled her blade from the wurm's skull, and in a flash of green light it resumed
the shape of her staff. We fell into lock step as we ran toward Jace and Chandra, the two kneeling over
a crumpled figure that must've been Liliana, the corpse of a wurm inert behind them.
Jace looked our way as we ran, his eyes aglow. We should retreat. Back to Kaladesh. Come up with a
better plan, a different approach.
Hang on, Jace. I frowned at the worry echoing from his thoughts, and tried to evaluate the situation.
The surprise of the attacks inarguably got the better of us, but we survived and managed to neutralize
the threats. Liliana was badly injured, but alive. Nissa could see to her wounds, and we could press on.
Leaving now, just to return later to potentially more trouble, hardly seemed the best course of—
That's when I noticed the wurm behind Jace stirring.

NISSA

I felt it before I understood what it was—a sudden shift in the air, like the quiet pressure right before
the bursting of a rainstorm. Only this shift was a magical one, a surge in ethereal tensions, a pull on the
pulse and shadow of the world's leylines. Some power—ancient, deep to this world—stirred. I slowed
in my running, distracted and curious, looking around for what changed. Gideon's shouts of alarm drew
my attention back to Jace, and that's when I finally noticed, too late.

The dead wurm behind them lurched up, a massive hole still visible in its chest. With unnatural speed,
it lashed its tail out, sending Chandra and Jace sprawling. I watched in horror as they both bounced
across the sand like pebbles skipped on a lake, landing in still heaps.
The dead are cursed to walk in undeath.
The truth of the land seemed to boom from the plane itself—echo from the sickly leylines and soul of
the world. The strange sickness. The constant presence of rotting decay I felt since our arrival.
This world suffered an ancient, powerful curse. One that inverted and subsumed the cycle of life and
death itself.
Dread poured over me, a sudden icy downpour sending shivers down my spine, as I turned back to the
other slain wurms.

GIDEON

I doubled my speed, charging toward the undead wurm now bearing down on the unconscious form of
Liliana when the chilling roar and rumble of sand behind me pulled my attention back. Two zombified
wurms erupted from the sand. I watched as Nissa managed to dive out of the way of the first one, only
to have the second coil its massive body around her. "No!" I shouted as Nissa disappeared from my
sight, the wurm's scales flexing as it squeezed tight.
Time slowed.
Horror took grip of my heart.
My eyes flitted between two impossible choices.
Save Nissa from the crushing grip.
Save Liliana from looming death.
Either way, another friend will die, once again, due to my hubris.
I stood, suspended, for a fraction of a second, fully aware that not making a choice meant choosing
death for them both.
I took a step, pulled by instinct more than conscious thought.
Suddenly, a dazzling light burst from the horizon.
I threw up an arm and shielded my eyes on reflex as a force knocked me flying back through the air.
The next instant, my mind had to catch up with what it saw.
A massive arrow, blazing with burning white light, pierced the wurm that loomed over Liliana's
unconscious form. I watched, stunned, as the wurm withered away, its body turned to ash. The arrow
vanished, as though a sunbeam glancing off the reflective sands, as the remnants of the wurm blew
away in the wind.
The remaining wurms, both undead and living, roared and began to flee. The one that held Nissa left
her unconscious form unceremoniously behind, and I ran to her. Before I even reached her, a giant blur
of gold and red charged across the sands, moving with such speed and zeal that I could barely follow its
movements. Only when it caught up to the wurms did I see its form.

She towered above me, standing at the height of a dozen men, golden headdress gleaming in the sun, a
massive, two-pronged staff piercing one of the undead wurms. Her body glowed with radiant power,
human-like in all her features save her head, which bore a resemblance to a jackal. Silver, fathomless
eyes regarded me, and I felt her gaze pierce through me. She withdrew her weapon from the wurm, and
like the one shot by the unseen archer, this wurm also turned to dust. The remaining undead wurm
burrowed beneath the sand, but with otherworldly speed, she leapt forward and drove her staff into the
ground. The earth rumbled, a muffled dying squeal reverberated through the dunes, then all was still.
The lonely howl of the wind was the only sound as the figure stood. I started walking toward her, and
she turned her full gaze my direction. I felt my heart fill with a golden fire, my steps faltering as her
mere presence washed over me, robbing me of breath. Then, with the subtlest of nods, she broke away
and dashed toward the horizon in the direction of the looming horns before disappearing behind a
massive ridge of sand in the distance.
I slumped to my knees, surrounded by my scattered, unconscious friends, my mind as weary as my
body.
There are gods on Amonkhet.
Of everything I've seen on this world—unrelenting sandstorms, undead hordes, giant sand wurms, the
dead returning to life—this was the least expected and the most strange.
My mind and heart were torn in infinite directions. I was a small boy on Theros again, hearing tales of
powerful gods and vengeful deities. A rebellious teenager, seeing the chaos sown by their fearsome
strength and cruel vanities of those gods. A young man, standing in their exhalation and suffering their
unforgiving wrath, witnessing their casual meddling in human affairs and careless disregard for mortal
life. My faith and fear and hopes in them weaved and tightened into a knot I had not thought about in
years, out of neglect and purposeful avoidance.
Yet they were here on Amonkhet.
They were here on the world of Nicol Bolas.
And my friends were all alive because of them.
And she burned with an undeniable righteousness. Golden light, a smiting staff, aided by the arrows of
another unseen presence, scorching away undeath and darkness.
I don't know how long I kneeled in the sand. Slowly, my thoughts returned to my body, to my broken
friends, and I willed myself to stand. Slowly, I roused and gathered my friends. Slowly, we nursed our
injuries, healed ourselves the best we could.
I tried to explain what happened. What I bore witness to. They didn't fully understand. I could see
Jace's skepticism, Liliana's contempt, Chandra's confusion. Nissa alone stood apart, stating she thought
she felt a presence before she lost consciousness, but her belief in my words stemmed more from mere
curiosity than faith.
Arguments erupted over our next course of action, but I knew we needed to press on.
We still had a mission to fulfill, as the Gatewatch.
 And I needed to know.
How can a world supposedly ruled by an evil, ancient dragon, also be home to the divine?
When we had rested best we could, we gathered ourselves and continued our march toward the horns,
alert and on guard. We encountered a few more marauding undead, but Liliana turned those aside with
ease. Wild beasts and hyenas largely fled before us, or did so when encouraged by Chandra's flames.
Soon, we walked up the ridge where I had seen Her disappear. And when we reached the top, we all
gasped.
Before us, the endless sands gave way to a gleaming, fertile land. Lush plant life lined a mighty river
that flowed into the distance. The first sun burned high overhead, its light reflecting off the water, while
the second sun seemed not to have moved at all since our arrival, smoldering from its position near the
great horns in the far distance.
Much closer than the horns were other gleaming monuments and towering structures, all of which
formed a sprawling city that spanned as far as we could see. The vertical lines of obelisks and towers
ran perpendicular to expansive, geometric temples. Boats dotted the river, and the cry of birds and the
sounds of a bustling metropolis floated back up toward us.
There were people down there.
Jace was the first to point out the shimmer of magic all around the city. Upon closer look, a translucent
barrier covered the entire area, stopping the sands of untamed desert at its edges, even refracting the
clouds above. Birds within the dome skirted their trajectories, unwilling or unable to cross.
Nissa spoke first, wonder in her voice. "What is this place?"
I cleared my throat. "Liliana, do you . . . ?"
Liliana shook her head. "I saw little of Amonkhet when I came last. I had no idea this existed."
Jace frowned. "What is this place? What's going on here?"
None of us could answer. Finally, Chandra shrugged. "Only one way to find out." With that, she started
the descent toward the city and the barrier.
We all followed behind, minds abuzz with more questions than answers.

As the five descended the across the sand, the whisper of the lonely wind brushed where they walked,
shifting the sands behind them, erasing their footprints, carving new dunes and sweeping flat new
expanses. Overhead, the first sun slid toward its zenith in the sky, while the second held steady at its
position on the horizon, its fiery stare fixed on the world below. Within minutes, the desert was as it
ever had been, with only the two suns bearing witness to the silent eternal.
The wind carried on, oblivious to all that came before.
By Michael Yichao
TRUST
Posted in Magic Story on April 5, 2017

Previous story: Impact
Five Planeswalkers have come to Amonkhet to slay a dragon. As the Gatewatch, they had sworn an
oath to protect the Multiverse from the threats that spanned the Blind Eternities, and the dragon
Planeswalker Nicol Bolas was perhaps the greatest such threat. So they came to Amonkhet—a world of
blasted sand and terrible monsters, exactly the hellscape they had expected. Until a god appeared,
saved them from sandwurms, and led them in the direction of a city. What kind of city could prosper
under Bolas's reign? And what kind of god could live under his oppressive claw?

Gods? Here?
Gideon had been prepared for many possibilities in the planar lair of Nicol Bolas. To see gods wading
amidst the horrors of the desert had not been among them. Were they the pawns of Bolas—was he so
powerful that he could wield divine forces as his agents? Or were they an immortal force of opposition
to Bolas and his power on this world, hunted by the monstrous agents of the dragon? Either possibility
would lend weight to Ajani's warning about the sheer power of the dragon Planeswalker.
He paused in the slog through the shifting desert sand and rubbed his temples. Jace and Chandra were
engaged in some light-hearted banter, egged on with the occasional sarcastic remark from Liliana, and
the noise was starting to worm its way behind his eyes and put pressure on his brain. Or perhaps it was
the dry heat and the harsh, unrelenting sunlight.
He scowled at Liliana's back as she walked past him, smirking at the success of her efforts to agitate
Chandra and fluster Jace. She had pulled them out of the fire on Innistrad, no doubt. But since then she
had been nothing but contrary and mocking. She had no sense of what it meant to be part of a team.
She was just along for the ride.
And why not? he thought. We're all in this for our own reasons. It's so damn  messy—all of us, all our
emotions and drives and goals.
He felt a cool hand on his arm, and he took a deep breath before looking down to smile at Nissa. The
pressure on his brain eased a little, and without a word he and the elf resumed their trek through the
sand.
The shimmering dome they'd seen from afar was close now. Sand piled up around it, blown by storms
against the magical barrier. Worse, the wall was lined with . . .
"More zombies!" Liliana exclaimed. She sounded much more cheerful about it than Gideon felt. The
desiccated creatures stood motionless in the sand, peering into the city beneath the dome.
He quickened his steps to catch up to the others. "Liliana, you get the zombies out of the way, then I'll
try to break through the dome."
Jace arched an eyebrow at him.
"Uh, that's my suggestion, anyway. Other ideas?" Gideon reminded himself that he wasn't the general
of this little Planeswalker army. Jace, at least, expected to have a say in leadership decisions.
And Liliana would do whatever she wanted in any case.
"It might be possible to simply break through," Jace said. "But given the things we've seen in this
desert, I suspect that barrier is very strong. Assuming it's meant to keep sandwurms out and not to keep
people in."
"Do you think you can find a way to bypass the magic?" Gideon asked.
"Of course I can. But I'll know more when I actually have a chance to examine it." Jace looked over his
shoulder at Nissa, then his eyes glimmered with blue light, suggesting he had just begun a telepathic
conversation with Nissa that Gideon was not privy to.
Messy, Gideon thought again.
What was not messy was their work as a team once they reached the shimmering magical veil. Liliana
and Chandra cleared a path through the zombies, Jace and Nissa put their heads together and cast a
spell, and a hole a little wider than Jace's outstretched arms opened to admit them. Gideon was the first
one to step through the hole and enter a city that once again defied all his expectations of what Bolas's
lair would be.
He stood at the outskirts of town, where lush fields stretching off to his left abutted a sprawl of majestic
stone buildings, wide streets, and slender obelisks. He couldn't see the god whose path they had
followed here, but the Gatewatch's arrival had attracted attention: perhaps a dozen people, gathered in
clumps at a safe or respectful distance, watched them carefully.
"Hello!" Gideon said, holding up a palm and stepping forward with a broad smile, even as his mind
raced, trying to think of what he could tell these people about himself and his friends.
And about Liliana, he thought. How do I explain the way she commands the zombies with a wave of
her hand?
His greeting was answered, not by one of the people nearby, but with a flap of wings in the air above
him. Looking up, he saw a winged man, with a crane-like head atop an otherwise human body—an
aven, he supposed, though without the hawk- or owl-like features of the ones he'd known on Bant so
many years ago. Rather than alight and address him, though, the aven flew past him to the iridescent
wall they'd passed through.
Jace was still holding the passage open for Nissa, and Liliana's attention was still focused on keeping
the desert zombies from following them into the city. All three of them started in surprise when the
aven squawked at them, "What are you doing?" He landed right beside Jace and nudged him with the
butt of his staff—a staff topped with a pair of horns much like the ones still visible on the horizon, by
the second sun. "Get out of the way so I can repair—"
Before he could finish his sentence, Jace let his hands fall to his sides, and the hole he had opened in
the magical wall sealed itself back up.
"—the Hekma," the aven finished. He looked at Jace, blinked slowly, then let his long beak bob down
and back up again as he took the stranger all in, from his pale skin and strange blue tattoos to his
equally strange, equally blue boots. The aven took a step backward, then gave each of them a similar
examination, lingering particularly on Chandra's red hair and Nissa's glowing green eyes.
"Hello," Gideon said again. He had to work harder to force a smile this time, given the aven's horned
staff.
"What are you wearing?" the aven said.
Liliana laughed out loud, and Gideon shot her a frown.
"Let me handle this," Jace whispered in his mind, while he stepped forward to address the aven. "Trust
me," he said, "clothes like this are the height of fashion in . . . " He frowned. ". . . In the district of Sef?"
As a rule, Gideon wished Jace wouldn't go prying into other people's heads. In this circumstance,
though, it was a gift, allowing him to say exactly what the aven expected him to say.
"What were you doing in the desert?" the aven said. "And what did you do to the Hekma?"
Jace turned and looked at the iridescent barrier. "Really? You haven't learned this technique
yet . . . vizier of the . . . Hekma Guard that you are? Well, of course, that's why I'm here in the . . . Nitin
district, to teach you. With Kefnet. Of course."
"P—perhaps I—" the aven stammered.
"Perhaps you should summon Temmet," Jace said. "He'll know what to do."
The aven nodded quickly, then spread his wings and flapped toward the heart of the city.
"Who's Temmet?" Chandra said.
"Some sort of authority figure," Jace said. "I'm sure you'll love him."
Chandra snorted.
"Listen," Jace continued. "This is tricky. Vizier Eknet there had absolutely no conception of a place
other than this city. That's why I told him we're from another district. We didn't cross the desert from
somewhere else—as far as these people know, there is nowhere else. Let alone an infinite expanse of
other places."
"Well, maybe it's time to open their eyes," Chandra said.
Gideon shook his head. "No. We shouldn't draw attention to ourselves any more than we need to, at
least until we know what we're up against. Coming in and upsetting their entire view of the world is not
going to help us find and fight Bolas."
"And our friend Eknet is already suspicious," Jace added. "I didn't pry deep enough to be sure what he's
suspicious of, exactly."
"What about Bolas?" Liliana said.
"I didn't see anything about Bolas," Jace said. "Not in his immediate thoughts."
Nissa pointed in the direction the aven had flown off. "That must be Temmet," she said.
"Can't be," Chandra said. "He's what, like fourteen?"
"Shh," Gideon hissed, turning to face the approaching figure.
He was young—probably closer to sixteen, Gideon figured—but he carried himself with poise and
confidence. And the balance of a well-trained soldier, Gideon thought. Or maybe a dancer, he
amended.
"Hello," Gideon said, mustering what little friendly cheer he had left.
And for the third time he was mostly ignored, as the young man turned his attention—as young men
often did—to Liliana. "Good morning," he said with a small bow. "I am Temmet. Vizier Eknet
said . . . Well, what he said didn't make very much sense."
Gideon and Jace shared a look. "Best I could do," Jace said in Gideon's mind.
"Not good enough," Gideon growled back, though he wasn't sure Jace was still listening. "This is about
to get bad."
Liliana returned Temmet's bow and began slowly winding him around her little finger. "No," she said,
"we had some trouble explaining to him the particular nature of our circumstance. I'm so grateful
you've come to help sort this out."
The young man's chest puffed out ever so slightly, but despite Liliana's flattery, his voice was tight with
suspicion. "Of course. What is the problem?"
"We have been out in the desert for some time," she said, "on a special mission for the Horned One."
She gave the slightest nod in the direction of the great horns looming above the cityscape.
Temmet's eyes grew wide, and he spun to look at the horns. "May his return come quickly," he said
under his breath, as if by reflex.
His return? Gideon thought. So he's not here. Did Liliana lie to us?
"Things here seem to have changed somewhat in our absence," she continued. "Would you be so kind
as to be our guide into the city?"
"And may we be found worthy," Temmet said, frowning at her.
Liliana tilted her head at the apparent non sequitur, but Jace stepped in, repeating the young man's
words. "Apologies," he added. "The sun has befuddled our brains."
"It's something they say," Jace's voice whispered in Gideon's mind. "Whenever Bolas is mentioned.
Play along."
"Yes," Liliana said. "All the more reason we could use the assistance of such a knowledgeable and
important young man as our guide."
Gideon saw suspicion in the young man's eyes.  This is all wrong, he thought. Any second now, he'll
call for our arrest.
At last, Temmet nodded. "Of course. But I believe you will find things haven't changed as much as you
think. All things are ordered as the God-Pharaoh—may his return come quickly—" He repeated the
formula pointedly this time, and paused to make sure they responded.
"And may we be found worthy," Jace muttered, and the others followed.
"—commanded before his departure, so we will be prepared."
"I'm very glad to hear that," Liliana said with a smile.
Temmet led them down broad, straight avenues past square homes, tall obelisks, and massive
monuments that often defied gravity. Wide canals carried water from a huge river he saw in the
distance, and verdant gardens flourished in defiance of the desert beyond the magical barrier. The city
had the atmosphere of a park, smelling of fresh water and sun-warmed stone. Always on the horizon,
the twin curving horns of Nicol Bolas—the so-called God-Pharaoh—stood as a reminder of Gideon's
purpose here, with the smaller second sun hovering perpetually, impossibly, just to the left of the horns.
The people of the city were a diverse lot. Besides humans and more aven, he spotted ram-headed folk
similar to the minotaurs of Theros, jackal-headed people, and serpentine folk with cobra heads and no
legs. What most caught Gideon's attention, though, was their activity. He saw no shops, no artisans at
work, no one performing manual labor of any kind. Instead, they were engaged in combat drills,
athletic training, and study—the work of soldiers—and always in groups of about a dozen. Everyone
appeared to be at the height of physical fitness.
Is that what Temmet meant when he spoke of being prepared for the God-Pharaoh's return? Gideon
wondered.
"What are they training for?" Chandra blurted as they passed a group of people paired off in wrestling
matches.
Temmet followed her gaze. "I believe those initiates are preparing for the Trial of Strength," he said. He
nodded appreciatively. "I suspect Rhonas will find most of them worthy."
With a stern glance, Gideon cut Chandra off before she asked another question. Temmet's answer made
it clear he expected the strangers to know what the people were doing.
Then, finally, Gideon saw laborers—of a sort. Temmet was saying something about the majestic
monument they were building, but Gideon's attention was focused on the figures hauling a large block
of red sandstone toward the ongoing construction. Wrapped head to toe in white linen, the figures were
shriveled enough to convince him that they could not be alive.
More zombies? he thought, imagining the delight that Liliana must have been feeling. Mummies, dried
out and preserved?
Indeed, Liliana couldn't keep the enjoyment from her voice as she observed, "I have always been
impressed with such a wise use of the dead."
"Indeed!" Temmet exclaimed. "The Anointed perform all the work here, so the living need do nothing
but train. What system could be more perfect?"
"I can't imagine a better one," Liliana said, shooting a grin over her shoulder at Gideon.
They turned down an avenue, and once again Gideon found himself in the presence of a god.
Even before he saw her, he felt all his unease and anxiety melt away and a calm settle on his heart,
accompanied by a warm shiver that started in his spine and awakened every nerve in his body.
Compared to the horizon-walking gods of Theros, or even to the godlike Eldrazi titans, the cat-headed
god was small, but she towered over the people around her, whose heads didn't reach to her knees. She
wore white and gold and held an enormous golden bow. At first, Gideon thought her feline face was a
mask made from gold, but then the pale blue eyes blinked, and then the mouth bent into a warm smile
and the god knelt to the ground.
The god . . . 
Knelt.
Gathered before her were a group of young children, no more than ten. Each one held a staff in both
hands and stood in a combat stance. The god ever so gently tapped one child's foot—yes, his stance
was too wide.
"Oketra will know what to do with you," Temmet said, starting down the avenue toward the god. His
voice suggested a threat, but Gideon could feel no threat in her presence.
In his youth, Gideon had once encountered the sun god, Heliod, who had put a hand on the young
man's shoulder and invited him to become the sun god's champion. But that hadn't been Heliod's true
form—his divinity was veiled, his statue reduced. Gideon hadn't even recognized him until he
compared the man's likeness to that of a statue of the god.
This god was different. Even if this towering body was not her true form, her divinity was in no way
veiled. Gideon felt it in every nerve; it shimmered at the edge of his vision as he gazed at her, and rang
in his ears when she spoke. As Temmet led them closer, Gideon could see the adoration and devotion
on the faces of the people around the god—the training children, the older ones supervising the
exercise, and the others who appeared to have gathered just to be in the presence of the god.
If I could feel such devotion again . . . He shook his head. How could I trust a god again?
The mission Heliod had set before him had led to the death of Gideon's closest friends, his Irregulars.
The god of death, Erebos, had destroyed them with a flick of the wrist, punishing Gideon's hubris. The
idea of putting his trust in such a divine being ever again felt like a betrayal of their memory.
Then she looked at him. Reflexively, gladly, he opened himself to her gaze and she saw him. Still on
one knee, she reached toward him and placed one finger on his chest.
"You're one of mine, Kytheon Iora," she said. She held him transfixed with her gaze while he felt his
spirit burn with an incandescent glow. There was nothing else, nowhere else, no one else in all the
endless planes of the Multiverse in that moment but himself and the god—Oketra, he knew her name as
she knew his, his original name. She was unity, order, solidarity; she was hearts joined in common
purpose and bodies working in cooperative action. Nothing about her was messy. She was precisely
what she should be and it was good and right that she should be here, now, with him.
Then she looked away and he almost lost his balance. She cast her gaze over his companions and her
smooth golden brow furrowed ever so slightly. "The rest of you, your fate has not been decided. Not
yet."
She was finished. With perfect, smooth grace she rose to her feet, and as one Gideon and all the people
around her fell to the ground and worshiped her—not out of fear or obligation, but because love for her
swelled in their hearts.

She walked away then, and the sunbaked air felt cold. Gideon stood and watched her until she rounded
a corner and he couldn't see her any more. Then he stared in wonder at a towering temple he hadn't
seen before, carved in her divine likeness, until Chandra shoved him.
Temmet was speaking to him now, no longer to Liliana, and for the first time the young man was
smiling at him. Gideon tried to remember what Temmet had been saying, but he kept talking: ". . . two
rooms nearby that have just become available. I apologize that we do not have more space at the
moment. Follow me, please."
Gideon's head was swimming. They had come here to slay a dragon, and instead they had met a god.
Jace and Liliana and Ajani had described Nicol Bolas as the most wicked of villains, and this was his
home that he supposedly made, but he could not have made her. Not if he was as evil as they said.
Temmet led them to a nearby building. He pointed out a sort of mess hall or refectory inside,
encouraging them to join the other residents for meals there. Then he led them up a long set of stone
stairs outside, leading to an overhanging balcony that ran the length of the building. He opened two
doors and gestured at the cozy rooms inside. "I trust you will be comfortable here."
Liliana swept into one of the rooms and closed the door without a word. Jace, Nissa, and Chandra went
into the other, Jace protesting loudly. Gideon, still half-dazed, stayed on the balcony, looking out over
the city. His heart leaped at the sight of Oketra walking down the street. The people parted to let her
pass, but some of them threw flowers at her feet while others shouted her name. For a second time,
Gideon watched until she entered her temple and the great doors closed to block his view.
He lingered there, enjoying the view of the city, the light of both suns shimmering on the river and the
canals, and the iridescent haze of the protective dome, the Hekma. The great horns on the horizon, next
to the second sun, were the most prominent reminder of the apparently absent Nicol Bolas, but from
this vantage he could see other expressions of the same two-horned symbol: a carving at the top of an
obelisk, the negative space between two halves of a huge monument, even a row of them along the
outside of the balustrade he was leaning on. He couldn't reconcile the city's obvious devotion to their
God-Pharaoh with what he had been told of the dragon Planeswalker—and what he had encountered in
Oketra.
"Heya, Gids." Chandra emerged from the room and stood beside him at the railing.
With a smile, he clapped a hand on her shoulder and they looked out over the city together.
She pulled away and looked up at him with a grin. "So—what did she call you?"
"Kytheon," he said. "Kytheon Iora." The name felt unfamiliar in his own mouth. "That . . . was my
name. On Theros. A long time ago."
"Kytheon, Gideon. Not too far off."
"No. People on Bant heard it wrong or couldn't say it right and it just sort of stuck. Gideon's my name
now."
"Nah, Gids is your name, as far as I'm concerned."
Gideon laughed, shaking his head, and turned back to the city.
Chandra's voice was suddenly more serious. "So what is a god, actually?" He blinked, and she rushed
ahead. "I mean, are they like angels? Or Eldrazi? Or just really big people? Liliana said that she and
Bolas were like gods once—are they Planeswalkers?"
Gideon frowned. He hadn't seen evidence of any gods on Kaladesh, at least not like the ones on Theros,
so he supposed it made sense that she would ask the question. But it was still a hard question to answer.
He leaned on the balustrade and scratched at a sideburn.
"Nissa used to talk about the soul of Zendikar," he mused.
"She used to talk to it, yeah. I think she misses it. Was that a god?"
"Maybe, sort of. I'm not sure. I think gods are part of the fabric of a plane, sort of like that. But they
embody an aspect of the plane, like the sun or the harvest. Only they're also people. They think, they
talk . . . " He paused, thinking again of his experience with Heliod. "And on Theros, at least, they can
be just as petty, vindictive, and whimsical as humans. And care even less for the value of human life."
"You think the cat-god is different."
"I'm pretty sure she is."
She laughed. "I don't know, the gods of Theros sound a lot like cats."
"Oketra is . . . she embodies an ideal, not something like the sun. She is solidarity—she's all about
working together, being part of something bigger than yourself."
Chandra turned around and leaned her elbows on the balustrade, looking back at the rooms where their
companions were arguing about the sleeping arrangements. "Well, that part I understand at least."
Gideon nodded. That's what the Gatewatch was—an acknowledgement that being a Planeswalker
meant more to them than exerting their power and following their whims across the Multiverse.
"But if gods are part of the plane," Chandra went on, "and Bolas made this plane like Liliana said, I
guess I still don't get how you can be so keen on the cat-god."
"Didn't you feel anything? When we met her?"
"I'm pretty sure that was a special moment between you two."
Their eyes met, then she looked away and Gideon was struck once again by how complicated, how
confusing, how messy people could be.

Shouts in the street below grabbed his attention. He scanned the cityscape, looking for the source of the
agitation—so seemingly out of place in this tranquil and lovely city. The other Planeswalkers joined
them on the balcony.
It was Nissa who finally pointed out the origin of the commotion. A lone human figure, a woman, was
running through the crowd toward them, pushing people and what Temmet had called the Anointed out
of her way, causing as much chaos as she could. Behind her, a gang of soldiers (including a towering
minotaur) were gaining on her despite the disruption. Most of the shouts were coming from the woman,
but at this distance Gideon couldn't make out the words.
Chandra was already starting down the stairs. "We have to help her!"
Gideon leaped after her and blocked her path. "Hold on, hothead." She didn't, but instead ducked under
one of his outstretched arms. He spun and caught her around the waist. "Remember what I said about
not drawing attention to ourselves?"
She kicked his shin and he set her down gently. "But she's in trouble," she said.
"Probably for good reason. We don't know. It doesn't make sense to jeopardize our mission when we
don't even know what's going on."
The woman was close now, but her pursuers were gaining on her. "It's all a lie!" she shouted as she ran.
"The trials are a lie! The gods lie! The hours are a lie! Free yourselves!"
Gideon put a hand on Chandra's shoulder before she could start down the stairs again. He yanked his
hand away when her shoulder grew suddenly hot.
"Do you hear her?" Chandra said. "She's a freedom fighter!"
"We're not on Kaladesh anymore," Gideon said gently.
"No, we're in Nicol Bolas's house!"
One of the pursuers managed to hook a curved staff around the woman's foot, and she sprawled on the
ground. In an instant, the soldiers were on her, holding her arms and hauling her to her feet.
"You'll see!" she shouted. "The return will bring only devastation and ruin!" Then the minotaur's hand
clamped over her mouth and her shouting ceased.

To her credit, Chandra stayed on the stairs, though Gideon could feel the heat of her anger coming off
her in waves. "We should have helped her," she muttered.
"Look," Gideon said, putting himself in her line of sight. "We'll ask some questions. Quietly. We'll
figure out what's going on, what lies she was talking about, and we'll help her if that turns out to be the
right thing to do. I promise."
"And what if your precious cat-god is the one lying?"
"She's not."
"So much for asking questions. Seems you already know the truth."
"I don't know about the woman, or the trials, or the hours. But there is no deception in Oketra."
"You seem very sure of that," Jace said, joining them on the stairs.
"Don't you agree?" Gideon said. "Surely you were reading her mind the whole time."
Jace shook his head. "I make it a practice to avoid peeking into brains that are . . . bigger than mine,
unless it proves necessary."
"Chandra is right, Fearless Leader," Liliana said with a smirk. "The only gods I've ever known of were
Planeswalkers with pretensions of divinity. Full of lies."
Gideon pushed past them, back up the stairs. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said.
"None of you."
He stopped short on the top stair, face to face with young Temmet.
"I'm sorry for the disturbance," Temmet said. "An unfortunate incident."
Chandra was beside the young man in a flash, and she grabbed his shoulder and wheeled him to face
her. "Unfortunate incident? What was that about? What did she do?"
So much for asking questions quietly, Gideon thought.
 Temmet shrugged. "She proved herself unworthy of life among us."
"What does that mean?" Chandra demanded.
Gideon saw Temmet's eyes narrow, suspicion returning to his gaze. Clearly, Chandra should have
understood this—which meant that it was not an uncommon occurrence.
"I'm afraid I don't know the exact nature of her crime," Temmet said. "But those were viziers of Bontu
pursuing her, and if I'm not mistaken, her crop was supposed to undertake the trial of Bontu today.
Perhaps there was an incident at the temple." He shook his head. "And her crop showed such promise."
Gideon steered Chandra away from the young man. "Thank you," he said to Temmet. "I think we
should rest now."
"Indeed," Temmet said.
Gideon led Chandra into their room, and the others followed.
"Now what?" Nissa said. "I don't know what to make of any of this."
"We have a lot to sort out," Gideon said.
"Her crop," Liliana said. "As if they were meant to be harvested?"
Jace nodded. "He was thinking of a group of about a dozen people, who've been working together for a
long time. They went through three trials together, whatever that means."
Chandra flopped face-down on one of the three beds in the room.
"Rest does seem like a good idea," Nissa said. She sat on a different bed.
"Right," Gideon said. "We'll sort it all out in the morning."
"Whatever you say, General, sir," Liliana said. She swept out the door and into the neighboring room.
"Am I the only one wondering why Liliana gets a whole room to herself?" Jace said.
Gideon shrugged and sat down in a corner, leaving the third bed for Jace.

Sleep eluded Gideon as he tried to think through the tangled mess of it all—the revolt on Kaladesh,
Tezzeret and his planar bridge, Nicol Bolas and the plane he supposedly made, the return of the God-
Pharaoh, the lies of the hours. He always thought better when he was moving around, so he left the
room quietly and wandered through the city in the weird half-light of the second sun.
He found Oketra outside her temple, just as the larger sun broke above the horizon.
"What are you seeking, Kytheon Iora?" she asked him, kneeling again.
Answers, he thought. Meaning. Stability. Faith.
"You," he said.
By James Wyatt
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
Posted in Magic Story on April 12, 2017

Previous episode: Trust
The city of Naktamun is too perfect to be real. It is glistening and immaculate, and its citizens are
young and full of faith. Determined to uncover Nicol Bolas's intentions with the plane, Nissa and
Chandra explore the city in search of answers. What they find challenges every assumption they had
about Amonkhet.

She is surrounded by darkness and an unending well of malaise. The pulse of this plane beats weakly
around her.
I lived, once,  the plane seems to whisper in a hoarse, sand-scraped voice.
She senses life, but it is not alive. What is left of the plane defiantly groans.
He could never truly kill me. I abhor death.
An image: half-eaten, undead antelope being trailed by hungry happy vultures. An elephant mother
caressing the newly-arisen body of her dead child.
Those that die will always return. That is the Curse of Wandering. My gift.
She understands. What is dead, if it hasn't decomposed, will rise.
Suddenly, she sinks, far, far beneath the surface of the plane.

Her consciousness is somewhere hundreds of feet underground. She can sense the cavern she is in was
made long ago by careful hands. The stale air is dense, dark, still against cloying clay and packed
sand. The only movement is the writhing of scarabs.
Their dead were sent here for me to keep them safe from rot . . .
The halls are empty. Not even the beetles know where their food is.
She has no physical form in this place. Her body is high above on the surface, sweating and shaking
with the fever of a malnourished world.
This once was my most treasured place.
It is the echo of a scream.
She understands now that these were catacombs. It was once safe and good.
I protected the vessels to keep their souls alive and he took. . . them . . .
The elf's chest tightens with anxiety. Her spirit, here, can feel it up above.
He took them—!
The cavern is completely empty.
Please, he took them all, corrupted them all, end my guilt, I could not protect them—!
Her body above is shaking with fear. She looks above to the ceiling of the catacomb, forcing herself up
and out of the sand and scarabs and snakes she is surrounded in—
Nissa awakened.
Amonkhet was old, grieving, and desperately frightened.
The morning light spilled through the window. The larger sun rose, illuminating the linens around her
bed with a gauzy, drowsy glow. It was clean, warm, and the air smelled of a soft desert morning, but
the tightness in Nissa's chest wouldn't ease. Perhaps topside it was worth a try? She closed her eyes and
silently called out to the soul of the world.
It felt like settling into a tub of tacks and nails.
Nissa gasped and shut off the connection. The tightness in her chest remained.
She sat up and looked over the rest of the room. Chandra and Jace were both still asleep, but Gideon
was conspicuously absent.
"Chandra?" Nissa whispered.
The woman-shaped lump on the bed across the room shifted slightly.
"Chandra, please wake up."
Chandra opened a single sleep-clogged eyelid. "Whaddisit?"
Jace hadn't moved, but Nissa kept her voice down anyway.
"I'm going to go on a walk to find the woman from yesterday. Can you come with me?"
"Mmph. Sure." She sat up and stretched one arm at a time, then rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "I want
to get breakfast first before we— "
On the word "breakfast" a white-bandaged mummy burst through the door carrying a tray of bread and
a carafe of what smelled like ale.
Nissa yelped and backed up against the wall as Chandra screamed in tandem. Jace fumbled out of bed,
shocked awake by the commotion, disoriented by the unfamiliar room and the dead body bearing
breakfast.
The mummy took no notice, placed the food tray on a side table, carefully adjusting it so the ale
wouldn't accidentally tip over.
The three stared silent in alarm as the mummy gracefully straightened, turned about-face, and exited
the bedroom.
The only noise was their own panicked breathing, then an explosion of questions.
"Why is it inside— "
"Don't they knock around here?"
"Was it Liliana's?"
"That better not have been you!" Jace yelled at the wall.
Liliana's muffled voice responded loud and sharp with a quick, "Not mine!"
Nissa scrambled off the bed, all limbs and wringing hands. "I can't stay in here. I need to go for a
walk."
Chandra nodded and pulled on her boots. "I'm awake now, I'm coming with." She made quick work of
returning her bedlinens from the floor to their proper place, then threw on her armor and metal. Nissa
wondered distantly how in the world she could wear all that and not get too warm, and then realized
what a foolish question that was.
Jace was up and prodding the food the mummy had left on the table. He scowled at the dark beer.
"Gimme a moment to wake up."
Chandra wandered over as she laced up her plate mail. "Not exactly coffee, is it?"
"It is the opposite of coffee," Jace replied.
Chandra waved a farewell and Nissa followed.

Even in the mornings, Naktamun smelled of sweat. Not of labor, nor of torture, but of training.
Packs of young joggers maneuvered in swarms through the city streets. Some pairs were lifting weights
in the uncountable dozens of training arenas that lined the limestone thoroughfare. Others were
sparring with rehearsed motions in carefully roped-off gymnasiums. There were no shops, no wares
being sold, no bakers nor butchers nor builders nor police.
Every resident was awake, training, and not one could have been over the age of twenty.
"I feel old for the first time in my life," Chandra said, half-kidding. She and Nissa stopped momentarily
to watch an eight-year old spot a six-year-old while they bench pressed a weighted bar.
The child huffed with effort while trying to lift the bar with both clenched fists touching each other.
"Don' do it that way, you'll lose contwoll of the bar!" the standing child chided.
Nissa leaned toward Chandra and whispered quiet enough the children wouldn't hear.
"This is weird."
It was the first time Nissa had ever used the word out loud. Chandra nodded solemnly in agreement and
they continued walking.
Every building that lined the street was crisp white, painstakingly clean, and well kept. No litter
crowded the street, and no potholes tripped their step. The two women kept close together through the
endless groups of young adults and came to the revelation, soon enough, that no one else was
simply walking on the street. Every person was exercising except for them.
When Nissa looked closely, though, she saw how the order was maintained. A mummy was painting
the side of a wall with white paint. Another swept the entryway to dormitories, yet another led livestock
to stables, one dumped a chamber pot into the gutter. The enchanted dead were the ones who did all the
work.
"Why would Nicol Bolas create a plane and then abandon it like this?" Nissa asked. Chandra shrugged.
"Ego, I'm guessing? Making an entire plane to worship you feels like something in his wheelhouse."
"But wouldn't that make him want to stay here?"
Chandra didn't have an answer.
Nissa eyed the mummies as they walked past and considered her own perception of death. The Mul
Daya nation of Bala Ged had a relationship with the spirits of their elvish ancestors that set them apart
from the other nations. Death and the spirits of the dead were as much a part of their lives as the natural
world. But death here, on the other hand, was much more dependent on its physical aspect. Preserving
the corpses must be as pivotal to their culture as offerings to ancestors were to hers.
If I try to understand something, then I will not be afraid of it. Nissa thought of Yahenni. Their death
was unlike any she had seen before. Perhaps death was different from plane to plane.
A headache manifested behind Nissa's temples, and she swayed where she stood. She looked down.
Her stomach roiled with nausea.
"What's wrong?" Chandra asked. Nissa realized she had stopped in the middle of the street.
"I don't have the words for it . . . "
"Are you feeling sick? Here, sit down."
Chandra led her toward a fountain in the plaza square. Nissa watched, head swimming, as Chandra
approached a white-bandaged mummy. She saw her awkwardly gesture and point. The mummy looked
her way, exited the plaza square, and returned moments later with an empty cup. Chandra took it with a
thankful nod, then jogged back toward Nissa and the fountain.
"I know it's from one of the dead things, but I think it's safe to drink with."
Nissa took the cup from Chandra and dipped it in the fountain. She drank, and realized as she did she
had let her thirst get the best of her.
"Thank you, Chandra."
Chandra refilled her cup a second time and smiled. "Let's rest for a bit. Can't fight dragons when we're
dehydrated."
Nissa sighed out a sad laugh. I couldn't fight anything right now.
They sat on the bench for several more minutes. Nissa was thankful for the shade. The malaise of this
world was seeping into her, and she knew that it wouldn't let up until she left Amonkhet for good. The
sooner they could defeat the dragon, the better.
She caught herself staring at the sky. Far above she could see the gentle shimmer of the Hekma barrier
and the pale blue sky beyond. Her view of the infinite sky was interrupted by the awful horn motif on
the edge of the building in front of her.
She polished off a second cup of fresh water. "Thank you for accompanying me this morning,
Chandra."
"Nowhere else I'd rather be." Chandra fiddled with the straps on her vambrace, her eyes darting in
Nissa's direction. An involuntary smile flitted across her face—a blush, an inescapable dash of
sentiment.
Nissa scoffed. "I can think of at least twenty places I would rather be than Amonkhet."
Chandra's smile turned plain and she looked down.
The two sat in semi-silence, comfortable for one and fraught with unspoken words for the other. Nissa
took a breath, allowing the churn of the fountain and the cool shade above to her soothe her nerves.
Chandra kept her eyes focused on her buckle.
"I've never spent so long in cities before," Nissa said. "Between Kaladesh and here, I've had more than
my share of people."
"You seem to be getting along fine," Chandra replied.
Nissa shook her head. "I have gotten better at hiding my discomfort. Being around others so often is
draining."
"But not with us, right?"
The question caught Nissa's attention. She watched Chandra intently unbuckle and rebuckle the same
strap of her vambrace.
Nissa frowned. Thought over her words. "Yes and no."
Fiddling hands paused, while a meandering mind searched for the words to lend shape to unfamiliar
feelings.
"Friendship with all of the Gatewatch is still quite new. I'm still trying to understand what it means to
have friends in the first place," Nissa said.
Chandra made a small noise and looked out on the plaza, her posture heavy and leaden, her fingers
suddenly quite still.
Nissa continued. "On Zendikar, I was without the company of people for most of my life. The plane
was the closest thing to a friend I had. Learning to trust has been . . . slow—and there is still much for
me to learn. Understanding and sustaining friendships is daunting when one has never really done it
before."
Chandra shifted awkwardly. "So . . . friendship?"
Nissa blinked. Chandra worked very hard not to stare.
"Yes," Nissa smiled.
Nissa closed her eyes, and took another deep breath, her headache receding. It felt good to confess
insecurities. She smiled and looked Chandra in the eye.
"I am thankful for your companionship. You have taught me much about what it means to be a friend,
Chandra. It means much to me."
"Right. Yeah." A soft smile returned to Chandra's face. "I want to be a good friend to you."
Nissa beamed. "And you are. I am trying as best I can to be one in return."
Chandra's small smile spilled into a tight but earnest one. She locked eyes with those of her friend's.
"You're doing fine, Nissa."
Reassured, Nissa placed her cup on the edge of the fountain.
"I think I'm feeling better. Let us continue."
The elf stood and walked on. After a breath and a heavy sigh, Chandra followed.

They walked until they found something old. Rhonas's Monument was immense and incapable of
subtlety. The primary structure was shaped like the massive head of a cobra, and unlike the other
buildings around it, had the weathered look of a structure that had seen more than its share of lifetimes.
The building sat at the edge of the river, its eyes set on the horns in the distance.
As Nissa approached, she noticed a strange shape sitting on top of one of the obelisks near its entrance.
A solitary sphinx perched above, looking down with an unreadable face at the crop of acolytes training
below.
Nissa stopped at the base and looked up. Chandra followed her view, visibly uncertain of how to talk to
the sphinx.
"You must be the travelers I have heard so much about."

Nissa turned, meeting eyes with the oldest person she had seen on Amonkhet yet. She seemed to be in
her mid-thirties, with a stern face and the high hat of a vizier. She walked with her chin high and
shoulders back. Nearly everything about her posture stood in contrast to the multitudes of just-older-
than-children they had encountered so far.
The woman held up a hand in greeting. "Temmet sent word to the rest of the Temples that we had
guests in the city."
Chandra stepped forward to speak. Nissa smiled a bit. She liked that Chandra knew her comforts and
anxieties. She liked that the two of them had silently determined their own order of operations.
"Hi," Chandra said with a winning, freckled smile. "We were hoping to speak to this . . ."
"Sphinx. I'm afraid you won't have much luck with your conversation."
The vizier spoke with command. She reminded Nissa of Lavinia back on Ravnica, one who knows all
the rules and is constantly annoyed no one else bothered to memorize them.
"Why's that?" Chandra replied.
"Well, to be completely honest . . . it's tragic," the woman said with a distant sigh. "The sphinxes are a
sad story—gifted with infinite knowledge and cursed with the same dismal fate."
Nissa and Chandra were both silent with concern.
The vizier gave them a blank, dry look. ". . . They all got laryngitis at the same time."
The two women stared back.
The vizier smiled, all teeth and mirth. ". . . I'm kidding. They're fine."
Chandra chuckled awkwardly. Nissa didn't think it was a very good joke.
The vizier's demeanor dramatically shifted, and she leaned her weight onto one foot. Nissa noticed a
sweet little snake coiling around her hand—a patient pet. The vizier held up her other hand to block the
light of the suns and looked up to the sphinx.
"They actually just took a vow of silence until the God-Pharaoh's return. Which, lucky us, is quite
soon! I am the vizier Hapatra. How may I be of service to you travelers?"
"I am Nissa; this is Chandra. We come from a faraway place," Nissa replied. "Your customs are quite
strange to us."
Chandra made a noise of interruption. "What she means is that we were wondering about
the . . . ah . . ."
She gestured to a pair of mummies sweeping the front steps of the monument.
"You were curious about the Anointed?" Hapatra said.
"Yes!" Chandra nodded. "Yes. Why are there so many of them?"
"They are the ones who make our lives of competition and dedication possible."
"Even though they're dead?"
Hapatra smiled.
She motioned to the monument in front of them. "So long as the body exists, the soul will exist as well
in the afterlife. We preserve the bodies left behind, and since training for the Trials is our mortal duty,
we enchant the vessels to act in service to humanity."
Nissa shifted uncomfortably. The catacombs Amonkhet had shown her were places of permanence;
what was sent in there was meant to be securely kept. And yet Hapatra spoke as if mummies had
always been servants . . .
The vizier absent-mindedly transferred her pet from one hand to another. "These mummies are safe
within the Hekma, they are cared for, and they are given purpose through labor. The souls these ones
housed will not have a destiny as triumphant as the one that awaits those who complete all Five Trials,
but their fate is preferable to having one's vessel decay outside the Hekma. Decayed body, no existence.
There is nothing worse than that."
"And the Trials?" Nissa asked. For a topic that was omnipresent, she was frustrated at how little
information was shared openly.
Hapatra's brows knotted. "Did the gods not tell you about the Trials?"
"I didn't think they would talk to us," Chandra said plainly.
Hapatra seemed saddened by this.
"The gods will always help those who ask for assistance."
Nissa's heart fell a little. She never thought she needed gods, but seeing the pity in Hapatra's eyes made
her wonder what she was missing out on.
"Our five gods are loving and benevolent," Hapatra continued, "I'm certain they would extend their
teachings to you."
"What did yours teach you?" Chandra asked.
"Rhonas taught me I am only as strong as the community I foster. And how to make poison." Hapatra
smiled wickedly.
Nissa still wasn't sure what to make of Hapatra, but noted that Chandra smiled earnestly at the vizier.
Hapatra seemed happy to talk.
"There is still time to enter into the Trials while you can. If not, the God-Pharaoh's return is only days
away," she said, looking toward the smaller sun kissing the edge of the horns in the horizon, "But if you
do not wish to join the rush, then you may wait until the Hours."
Nissa suddenly remembered the screaming of the woman in the crowd. Free yourselves! Don't believe
the lies of the Hours!
"What are the Hours?" Nissa asked. She sensed Chandra move her body back slightly from the
conversation. She must have sensed that Nissa would take over questioning.
"The Hours after the God-Pharaoh's return. The moment we have waited on for all of history."
Alarm bells rang in Nissa's head. "And when do the Hours happen?"
Hapatra pointed toward the massive horns in the distance. "The Hours will begin when the sun rests
between the horns. I'd estimate any day now."
Nissa's sense of calm crashed through the floor.
Chandra looked at her with an exaggerated look of false surprise. "Y'hear that, Nissa? The God-
Pharaoh returns any day now! How about that."
Hapatra nodded. "The quality I love most in our gods is that they keep their promises. You should go
speak with one—Kefnet is good with questions."
Nissa was having a hard time concealing her fear. Any day now? Only days until they fight a dragon
with absolutely no plan?
Chandra bowed her head slightly. "Thank you, Hapatra. We should be going now."
"No problem at all. Come find me in Rhonas's Monument if you'd like a quick poison-making lesson.
I'm always happy to share my craft."
"As long as it's not us you're poisoning!" Chandra said with a false grin.
Hapatra laughed a little too earnestly. Nissa wanted to leave.
"A pleasure meeting you, Chandra! Compete with valor!" Hapatra gave a graceful wave and departed
up the stairs to the monument.
Chandra went back to reflexively tightening one of her buckles. "Well, she was interesting. What did
you make of her?"
Nissa didn't, but she wasn't sure how to emote that. Instead she let out a little noncommittal whine and
copied a hand-rocking motion she saw Liliana do once.
Chandra snorted. "The laryngitis joke was pretty bad."
Nissa sat on one of the steps to the monument.
"Two days."
"Yyyyep. Two days."
Nissa shook her head. "These people trust their gods implicitly," she mused, "and they trust what their
gods tell them. Of course, they believe that the God-Pharaoh is trustworthy if their own gods say so."
"What she said about the Hours reminded me of that yelling woman from yesterday," Chandra said,
taking a seat next to her.
"I thought the same thing. We should find her soon."
"Can you feel where she is?"
Nissa took a breath to prepare herself. She closed her eyes and concentrated. This time it felt like
sifting her hand through a basin of sludge.
She shivered in discomfort but felt the tug of the woman's energy through what was left of the leylines.
Nissa dragged herself back to the surface of perception, panting from the effort. Chandra looked on
with concern.
"Anything?"
Nissa nodded and pointed. "She's near this monument," she said through heavy breath.
The two stood up, one on shakier legs than the other, and moved around the building. The walk took
several minutes, and as they proceeded around the monument, the character of the architecture around
them began to change. These buildings were much older than the ones in the rest of the city, and had
more grit to their outer stones than the shining limestone of central Naktamun.
Nissa dipped into the sludge again, and felt the tug lead into a narrow alleyway between the monument
and a second structure.
The ribbon of blue sky narrowed above them as the two women entered the alleyway.
Nissa and Chandra walked forward. The walls were quite ancient, with some old writing carved into its
sides. At the end of the alley was a sequence of large, strangely-shaped boxes that stood up against the
wall.
Chandra ran her hands over the carvings and her fingers caught on a pictoglyph of the now-too-familiar
Bolas horns.
Something to Nissa felt off . . . something that reminded her of the vision she had that morning.
She ran her own fingers over the glyphs on the wall. It seemed to tell a story through its pictures;
family life, babies with mothers, grandparents sitting around a hearth, an elderly woman leaning on her
walking stick. What should be a familiar spread of generations was anachronistic with the city of
Naktamun. Above the carvings of people were etchings of the Amonkhet pantheon. Eight animal-
headed gods, all gentle and benevolent mammals, birds and reptiles—eight?
And etched above it all in fresher carving were the ever-present horns.
Nissa's heart was racing. The cut stone of the horns is weathered, but without the ancient grit of every
other glyph.
If the dragon had created this world, his sigil wouldn't need to have been added on.
Nissa's hands shook in fury. Nicol Bolas didn't create this world, she
realized, he  corrupted it. Memory of the Eldrazi spilled through her mind. Cancerous, alien tendrils
poisoning a world that wasn't theirs. Nicol Bolas didn't make this place or its religion, he didn't create a
culture on his own, he warped it, perverted it, took what he liked and ruined what wasn't his.
She impulsively reached with her senses for something that wasn't there and recoiled with nauseated
pain. This world was nearly dead, and it was killed only decades before.
"Chandra?" she said in hushed anger.
Chandra was further down the alleyway, approaching the strange tall boxes leaning against the wall.
They were each slightly taller than she was, rounded in gentle curves and carved with an intricate face.
Their color was chipped and old, but she could make out a face painted on each.
"Chandra, what are those?"
"I don't know . . ."
Chandra was standing face to face with one. She held out a hand to touch the face painted on the box—
"What are you two doing down there?"
Gideon stood at the opening of the alleyway. A cartouche hung around his neck, and his face was lit
with concern.
Nissa backed away from the wall, lip trembling. Chandra moved away from where she was and walked
toward Gideon.
"We found these boxes— "
"Sarcophagi."
The fright in Nissa's chest immediately vanished. Her stomach calmed, and she felt as if a cool breath
of wind walked in front of her. Oketra rounded the corner of the alleyway. She was taller than the walls
on either side, and the lovely silence that followed her quieted Nissa's concerns. The god looked Nissa
in the eye.
The god stilled. A voice breezed through Nissa's mind, You spoke with this land, Nissa Worldwaker?
The voice was soft as wheat and sturdy as a desert blossom. Nissa trembled. She had never spoken with
a god before.
Yes, she replied, your world is dying and afraid.
Oketra said nothing, but Nissa saw the cat's ears twitch back in a moment of fleeting, subconscious
fear.
The exchange was over in an instant. Nissa let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding.
"These sarcophagi are forbidden to approach," Oketra said out loud. "I am sorry, travelers, but I
must ask you to let them be."
Gideon came forward with an apologetic look and spoke directly to his friends. "It will cause less
trouble if we try not to violate their rules. Please."
He spoke earnestly. Nissa recognized how much this place and its gods must mean to him.
"Thank you for your understanding, travelers," Oketra continued. "I cannot convey my
appreciation for your cooperation."
Nissa felt incredibly soothed in the god's presence. She noticed the cartouche that hung around Oketra's
neck was different than those around the necks of the acolytes. She must have been there when Bolas
arrived.
What happened to the other three? Nissa projected at the god, her hand touching the pantheon etched
on the wall. Oketra turned her head slightly and looked through Nissa.
I have no memory of before.
Before what?
.  . .  I do not know.
Gideon's voice interrupted the silent conversation, "When I get back, I will thank the others for their
understanding as well."
Oketra straightened out, overcoming some private concern. She looked down at Gideon. "Come,
Champion. It is time for your next Trial."
Chandra put it together before Nissa did. "You're competing in the Trials?"
"Yes," Gideon replied. The god turned to depart, while Gideon stayed behind.
"Why?" Chandra asked with concern.
Gideon took a deep breath, expecting a verbal challenge. "These gods are good at their core. I want to
prove myself to them."
Chandra crossed her arms. "That's ridiculous. This whole plane is bad news. Bolas made these gods, so
why would you even think about trusting them?"
"I knew you wouldn't understand—"
"I understand perfectly!"
"This is important to me, Chandra, and I know that these gods are different!"
Nissa knew in her bones he was right.
Gideon turned. "I'll see you both back at the house."
He walked away to join the god.
Chandra looked back toward the sarcophagi in disappointment.
 "I don't get it. Is he trying to get more info by playing their game . . . ?"
"He's doing it because he needs to," Nissa said. "He's doing it for personal reasons."
We're all doing this for personal reasons.
"It's idiotic."
The alley walls felt too close. Nissa walked back into the open for some air, headache throbbing and
nausea roiling through her.
"Nissa, what's wrong?"
"Chandra . . . Nicol Bolas did not create this world. He corrupted it."
Chandra stopped in her tracks. "How do you know that?"
"Look at these buildings. The ones with the horns are all brand new. And in the old parts, anything that
has Nicol Bolas's sigil on it was carved on later. If he had built this plane, then his signs would be as
old as the rest of the glyphs. Every other building with his mark is new. I spoke with the plane last
night, and Chandra, it is old and its pain is new. Nicol Bolas must have come and gone only a few
decades ago."
The air heated up even further. Nissa backed away from her friend's rising fury.
"There aren't any old people here. Did he just arrive and . . ." She trailed off, unable to articulate the
fate they both inferred.
Nissa didn't want to put her hypothesis into words. "When I spoke with the plane last night, I sensed a
terrible scar."
"We need to know what he did . . ."
"Chandra . . ."
"We need to find out what he changed. If he swooped in here and made himself a god for some reason,
then we need to find out what he did when he arrived so we can change it back."
Nissa lowered her hands in firm fists. "We can't change anything ourselves. That would make us as bad
as he is."
"Then what do we do?! He isn't here now, how can we help these people."
"They don't seem like they want help."
Chandra stilled herself and took a breath. Nissa waited while her friend calmed herself.
"We still need to know how he changed this place." Chandra was calm but resolute. "If the gods existed
before he arrived, then they're victims too. I need to know more about that woman from yesterday and
what made her upset. She knew something about the truth of this place. We can help her."
"I want to speak with Kefnet. If anyone can help me understand this place, then it must be the God of
Knowledge."
A blinding white light. Three forgotten gods and five altered memories—
Nissa rubbed her temples. "I need to rest. Let us go back to the safe house."
They walked, Chandra stewed in anger, and Nissa lost herself in thought.
An elite ceremony metastasized into a mandatory life sentence. Thousands of infant orphans fathering
three generations of a people with no past. He came and killed but did not stay and left an entire
culture with a crude outline of whatever existed before—
The two women arrived at the safe house. Chandra left without a word to sit on the patio, and Nissa
climbed into bed. As she fell asleep, her mind was haunted by the wails of a dying plane and the laughs
of a distant dragon.
By Alison Luhrs
SERVANTS
Posted in Magic Story on April 19, 2017

Previous story: The Writing on the Wall

Spending her days served and waited upon by scores of devoted undead is precisely Liliana's idea of
paradise, but she can't afford to sit idle on Amonkhet. She came to the plane to find—and kill—another
of her demon creditors.

There was something, Liliana reflected, about shade in the desert.

It was always nice, of course, to be in a place where the climate was temperate and the breeze
pleasantly cool without intervention. But lounging in a little island of soothing darkness, feeling the
searing air all around you, caressed by breezes that never touched the still and sun-baked trees—there
was something downright luxurious about that.
She chewed a fig thoughtfully. Next to her, a white-wrapped undead servant held the plate of fruit on its
head with perfect poise. Behind her, another one of these strange, servile mummies waved a large
feathered fan, the source of the pleasant breeze that teased through her hair. She'd told several other
mummies to wait in case she needed anything, and they knelt before her, still and sterile. She was
accustomed to zombie servants, but these were unusually effective—not just meeting her needs, but
anticipating them.
She could get used to this place.
Except.
Except for the omnipresent reminders of Nicol Bolas, who ruled it in absentia as some kind of God-
Pharaoh. Except for the way everyone else here was obsessed with gods and trials and some glorious
afterlife instead of enjoying the city's evident luxuries. Except for the fact that she wasn't actually using
necromancy to command these zombies, so different from the ones she was used to, and didn't know
what would happen if she tried.
Except, in particular, for Razaketh.
Two of the demons who had held the contracts on her soul were dead, killed in surprise attacks by the
deadly power of the Chain Veil. Kothophed had sent her after the Veil, an evil relic of tremendous
power, and then let her walk right up to him with it—proving that even a demon can be too stupid to
live. Griselbrand was far more dangerous, but he'd been bound within a prison of magical silver.
Liliana bullied a hapless local into blowing the thing up and shredded the demon while he was still
disoriented.
Razaketh would make three. But unlike the first two, she had no idea whether she could catch Razaketh
by surprise—no idea where on the plane he was or whether he was aware of her presence.
Razaketh was somewhere on this world, a world under the thrall of Nicol Bolas. Bolas was the one who
had brokered Liliana's contracts in the first place, and Liliana had no idea how he would view her
efforts to break free of them on her own. Regardless of the outcome of the Gatewatch's full-frontal
assault on an elder dragon, Liliana was damn well going to make sure they helped her kill Razaketh
first.
"Shouldn't you be looking for someone?" said a wispy, urbane voice behind her.
Just what she needed. The Raven Man. A ghost of the past, figurative or literal, who always knew
where she'd been and what she'd been doing. He might not be corporeal. He might even be an affliction
of her own mind, a curse or a mental parasite. But he was real, had to be real. She refused to entertain
the alternative.
Whoever and whatever he was, he had haunted her intermittently since she was young. In the last few
years, he'd grown downright chatty.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" she asked, not turning around.
Liliana's legs were dangling out into the warm sunlight, and she knew the Raven Man preferred to keep
to the shadows. So he didn't face her from the front. But he did appear next to her in his archaic black
clothing, leaning on one of the poles of her tent and regarding her with his flat golden eyes.
"I'm concerned for you, Liliana. One of your demons is in reach, and time is running out." He gestured
to the second sun, so close to its final resting place. "Yet here you sit. Eating fruit."
"You're well aware that I haven't been idle."
She hadn't dared deploy any of her own zombies, not without a deeper understanding of how bootleg
necromancy would be greeted in a place where undead servitude was so ubiquitous and well
regimented. She'd summoned up a few shades instead, incorporeal undead of darkness and death. She
sent them flitting among the shadows between the great monuments, searching for signs of Razaketh.
And no matter how long he'd been gone, the Raven Man always seemed to know what she'd been
doing.
"Ah yes," said the Raven Man. "You sent servants, rather than looking around yourself. No doubt
motivated by a desire to remain inconspicuous. Certainly not by fear, I'm sure."
"Your scorn is noted," said Liliana. "Now get lost."
"I've been very patient. I left you alone during the months you spent on Ravnica, hanging around your
clubhouse and do-gooding when it suited you. I stayed quiet during your little excursion to Kaladesh,
too, even after it became a dangerous distraction. I trusted that you knew what you were doing. That
you were strengthening the bonds of affection that would allow you to manipulate those fools into
doing your bidding."
"Affection is manipulation," said Liliana. "It worked, didn't it?"
"On whom?" said the Raven Man. "You and Jace have split a bottle and reminisced about old times
more than once. You're telling me that was just you getting your hooks back into him?"
It had happened, a time or three, at her private residence on Ravnica after she joined the Gatewatch.
Then Gideon had remarked acidly at some strategy meeting about being unable to find Jace in the early
hours of the morning, and that had been the quiet, unremarked-upon end of the thing.
"That," said Liliana, "is none of your damned business."
"Don't let your affections get the better of you," he said. "Here are your loyal fools, on the very
doorstep of your enemies. Yet you do nothing. They're poking around indiscreetly, and you're sitting
here risking everything we've worked for. Have you gone soft?"
Liliana's vision darkened.
"They've done more for me than you ever have, you worthless phantom."
"How hurtful," said the Raven Man, with smirking affront. "Haven't I helped you along your path?
Didn't I protect your mind back on Innistrad, when that hooded plaything of yours lost his? Didn't I
take command of the Chain Veil to blast you out of that wurm's belly when you arrived here?"
"Excuse me?"
Now Liliana did look at him. She'd thought she was dead, sliding down that thing's gullet. She was
fuzzy on how she'd gotten out. Taken command . . . Could he actually do that? Had he done it before?
"I'm trying to help you," said the Raven Man, smiling. "Razaketh might not know you're here. The
sooner you round up your minions and kill him, the better off you'll be. It's time to make use of your
useful fools."
A flash of blue caught Liliana's eye, moving toward her through the crowd.
"Speaking of my minions," she said, smiling, "our favorite telepath is right over there. You might want
to make yourself scarce."
"Afraid he'll see me?" said the Raven Man.
"Afraid of what he could do to you if he did?" said Liliana.
The Raven Man's golden eyes narrowed. How gratifying.
"Don't forget why you're here," he said, and vanished indignantly.
Liliana leaned back, determined to appear relaxed when Jace arrived. She plucked a round, purple
grape from the bowl next to her and bit off half of it, curling her bottom lip just so to keep the juice
from running down her chin. It was a very fine grape, juicy and sweet.
"There you are," said Jace, squinting in the sunlight even under his hood.
Liliana had slipped out of her room in their borrowed quarters while Jace was still miserably nursing a
mug of thick, bitter beer, eager to see the city on her own. She'd eventually settled in this little tent by
the river, sent out her searchers, and ordered some food.
She swallowed the grape, seeds and all of course—spitting was so undignified.
"Hello, Jace," she said. "Brunch?"
"It's past midday," he said.
"It's a late brunch."
He gritted his teeth.
"That's . . . just . . . lunch."
Adorable.
"Suit yourself," she said. "More figs for me."
Jace shrugged and reached for a fig, but recoiled when he saw what was holding up the plate.
"I'd be more comfortable with food that hadn't been handled by corpses."
"Jace, I'm surprised at you. I knew the others would be squeamish, but I'd have thought that you'd
appreciate the convenience of uncomplaining undead servants. The wrappings are quite sanitary, you
know."
"Have you ever seen a society like this?" said Jace. "The dead taken away and mummified for
servitude, zombies doing all the work?"
"No," said Liliana. "Not like this. And the ones in the city are different from the ones outside, if you
haven't noticed."
"They're certainly tidier," he said. "But yes, I noticed. Out in the sands, one of those wurms rose all by
itself. You were . . . down. And I'd have known if there were another necromancer around."
Was that concern in his voice?
"Those zombies hadn't been under anyone's control in a long time," she said. "If what you're saying
about the wurm is true, then it's possible they were raised by some kind of ambient necromancy."
"Ambient necromancy? Is there such a thing?"
She shrugged.
"It might just be what happens here," she said. "It's not a nice place."
"What about the ones in here?"
"They're . . . strange," she said. The fact was, the serving mummies in the city creeped her out.
"Whatever magic raised them, it isn't like mine. And it keeps them under tight control. I've never seen
anything like it."
"If we knew more about it, we might have a better idea what was happening here."
Liliana felt the familiar chill of a shade drawing near, slithering across the shadowy sides of
monuments and stretching from one tree's shadow to the next.
Jace shivered and scanned the surrounding shadows. Smart boy.
"It's mine," she said. He relaxed, but not completely. Smart, paranoid boy.
The shade lingered some distance away, unable to comfortably reach Liliana's shelter.
Come, it whispered to her. Found. Not exactly sterling conversationalists, shades.
"Well," she said aloud. "Looks like I found something."
She dismissed the serving mummies with a wave, gathered her skirts, and turned to Jace.
"You're planning to follow me," she said.
"Obviously."
"And if I tell you not to follow me," she said, "you'll turn invisible and follow me anyway."
Jace shrugged. "It crossed my mind."
"So the only difference is whether I have to look at you along the way?"
"Uh . . . I guess?"
"Fine," said Liliana. "Come on then."
She walked away, following the shade.
Jace sighed and followed after her, muttering, "So does that mean you want to look at me, or . . . ?"
She smiled and kept walking.
They strolled along the sunlit thoroughfares, past fit young adults and eerily disciplined children.
Shouts of exertion and the scent of clean sweat wafted from training grounds where hundreds of the
city's "initiates" practiced combat.
Such fine physiques! She couldn't help but imagine them dead and in her service, provided they died
cleanly . . .
Oh.
"Jace . . ." she said. "Have you noticed that all the mummies in the city are maimed?"
"Hm?" he said. "I'd noticed that some are. Missing hands, that sort of thing. All of them? Really?"
"Even the ones that aren't missing parts have had tendons severed or bones broken. I can tell from how
they walk. Does everyone here die a violent death?"
"Or," said Jace, "do they do something different with the ones that don't?"
She frowned.
"This place is weird," she said.
"Really weird," he said.
"And it seems like Gideon . . ."
". . . actually likes it here," he finished. "I know."
They both made a noise of disgust.
"So what are we looking for?" he asked.
"I'm looking for it," said Liliana, smiling. "You're following me. Anyway, it's a secret."
"I hate secrets."
"Knowing them, or not knowing them?"
"They're trouble either way," he said. "Although not knowing is worse, obviously."
Obviously. He was still so innocent in some ways.
She sighed.
"Promise you won't be mad?"
"No."
"Promise you won't tell Gideon?"
"Uh, extra no."
"Then you figure it out, cloak boy."
He walked next to her, thinking.
"You're trying to find Nicol Bolas," he said.
"I'd just as soon not."
"You're going to betray us to Nicol Bolas."
"Tempting, but no."
"You're . . . looking for something you left behind when you were here before."
She smiled.
"Mmm," she said. "Interesting guess. Vague, though."
The shade flowed to a stop in the shadows along one wall of a building. The wall was covered in
inscriptions. The local script, some symbols she didn't recognize—and some she did.
Razaketh.
The inscription swam in her vision, and whispers pawed at the edges of her awareness. She swayed,
catching herself on the wall of the building. The heat. Must be the heat.
Jace didn't reach out to steady her, but he saw her waver.
"You all right?" he said.
"I'm always all right."
He shot her a look.
"In the long run," she said.
The shade led them around to the entrance. Its substance was starting to unravel, too long exposed to
the desert suns. She dismissed it with a wave.
The place didn't look open to the public. It didn't have a lock, or even a door, but from what she'd seen
that was typical of the city.
They walked down a stone ramp, into a long corridor lit by intermittent torches. There were carvings
on the walls, depicting initiates battling each other in earnest, some of them lying dead on the ground.
There was a shuffling movement behind them, footfalls coming down the ramp. They spun. Nowhere
to hide. Hopefully they weren't trespassing.
The blank face of a serving mummy came into view, carrying a pile of rags in its arms. Jace and Liliana
found an alcove and ducked into it, but the mummy took no notice of them at all. Behind it came
another, then another, some dragging their loads, others working in pairs to carry heavier things.
No. Not things.
The mummies carried the bodies of initiates slain in combat, dripping blood, wrapped in rags. Some
were missing pieces. They were freshly dead, going by the smell. An hour or two at most.
Next to her, Jace gagged.
Once the mummies had passed, she stepped back out into the corridor.
"Watch your step," she said. "It's slippery now."
"We shouldn't be in here," he said. "Why did we come here? What are you looking for?"
"You said yourself that if we understood these mummies, we might learn something about what's going
on here."
It was all true, as far as that went. But what did any of that have to do with Razaketh?
They followed the mummies down the corridor. The carvings around them changed, depicting
mummies carrying away dead initiates, then embalming them on slabs, creating more mummies.
They entered a large, well-lit central chamber and saw the reality of the carvings. The place was a
bustle of activity, the bodies laid out on stone slabs next to tables lined with implements and canopic
jars. The smell in here was different, the stench of death mixed with the stale stink of preservatives.

The mummies worked in perfect silence, broken only by the shuffle of bandaged feet and the
occasional snap, grind, or squelch of the bodies being prepared.
So much effort! It was like the mummification she'd read about on other planes, but on an industrial
scale. Mummies removed most of the initiates' organs, but here they were placed in large communal
jars without decoration. The bodies were mounted on racks for the wrapping process, as efficient as a
loom.
Not a religious rite. Purely practical.
Jace spoke within her mind: This is what they do with all the dead initiates. She didn't appreciate the
intrusion, and the mummies, for their part, seemed wholly uninterested in the living, going about their
gruesome work with deliberate efficiency.
Why would so many die in training?
She nudged him and gestured to the far side of the room, where the wall bore some kind of elaborate
mural. He nodded, and the two of them crept around the edge of the room.
One of the dead bodies began to stir, before it was fully wrapped. It thrashed and shuddered, and the
wrapping process clattered to a halt. It was the first thing they'd seen that wasn't efficient and orderly,
and they paused to watch. There was no necromancer besides herself, essentially no necromancy—just
an upwelling of death magic that seemed to come from everywhere.
The mummies overseeing the wrapping process approached the rogue corpse and held it down, while
another approached with a large metal plate—a cartouche. They pressed the cartouche into place on the
body's chest.
The thrashing corpse fell still.
Liliana and Jace exchanged a look. They kept moving around the room, as the embalming mummies
placed more cartouches on the embalmed bodies. Some began to stir before the cartouches were in
place. Others lay still for some time after.
Liliana and Jace stopped in front of a mural carved in dark stone that covered the entire far wall of the
chamber. They studied the mural, while the grim work behind them continued.
It was a depiction of the afterlife, with iconography that had become familiar from inscriptions around
the city. There was the second sun resting between the horns on the horizon, and the enormous gate that
(the locals said) barred the way to the afterlife. In this inscription the gate was open, the afterlife
beyond it tantalizingly visible—but guarded by a monstrous demon.
Razaketh.
The final test, read the inscription. The last inglorious death, culling the unworthy who remain.
Razaketh's hands were covered in blood, a pile of corpses at his feet. Blood ran into the water of the
river.
Beyond the gate, Razaketh. Beyond Razaketh, paradise.
The carving of Razaketh made Liliana uneasy. Like it was looking back at her.

"You're down here looking for one of your damned demons?" hissed Jace.
"Two down," said Liliana, a lump in her throat. The carving seemed to loom over her. "He's next."
"You should have told us!" said Jace. "We would have helped you!"
"You knew about my demons going into this," Liliana shot back. "You're willing to fight them. Do you
really think Gideon would have come if I'd told you all? Or Nissa?"
"I don't know," snapped Jace. "I would have backed you up. But now, since you lied about it, I don't
think—"
"I didn't lie about anything," said Liliana. Her head was pounding.
"You didn't tell the truth," said Jace. "You broke our trust."
"I never asked you to trust me."
Jace said something in reply, something angry, but she couldn't understand it. Her ears were ringing,
and her vision swam. The Chain Veil grew warm in her pocket. Protecting her.
The carving of Razaketh . . . opened its eyes. They were red, blood red, the only thing she could see.
The sounds behind them stopped, and a dozen ruined throats whispered:
"Liliana."
No no no no no
The mummies were staring at her, their work suspended. The products of their efforts stood beside
them, a few of them half-unwrapped with cartouches hastily attached. Now she heard her name
whispered all around her, from the walls themselves.
Are you doing this? Jace's voice spoke inside her head.
She shook her head helplessly.
"Liliana . . ." they whispered.
The mummies lunged forward. They were all around, a tangle of bandaged flesh and grasping hands.
And still silent, utterly silent—a quiet fight, just the occasional grunt and the whisper of silk wrappings.
Jace was casting next to her, pulling the mummies away one at a time with illusory rope. But it was
such a small space, and so many bodies.
Liliana's head cleared. She reached out, the way she had in the desert, to control them. They were just
bodies, no different from any others.
Nothing happened.
Ambient magic. In a flash, she understood it all. There was something on this world—natural or
artificial, it hardly mattered—that raised the dead. All the dead, inside the city and out. Those who
created and commanded the serving mummies didn't need necromancy at all, only a means of control.
And that control was direct, physical—far harder to overcome than the whims of a lesser necromancer.
"I can't control them," she said. "The cartouches—"
She grabbed the nearest mummy, dug her fingers around the edges of the cartouche, and wrenched it as
hard as she could. Jace saw what she was doing and gave her the assist, grabbing the mummy around
the neck and pulling it away from her.
With a fleshy snap, the cartouche came loose.
Then there was a pop, and a sizzle. The hole left by the cartouche burned with blinding white light, and
the mummy fell apart.
Well, damn.
Then the mummies were all around them, too many, grasping them by limbs and throats. She reached
for the Chain Veil. She'd been desperately avoiding it, but if that was what it took to survive . . .
The mummies froze, holding them in place. Then some of them shuffled aside, parting to let someone
through.
"You really are outsiders," he said.
Temmet.
Liliana had taken an immediate disliking to the arrogant young vizier who'd graciously granted them
housing in the city. Too poised, too self-assured. She'd even wondered, initially, if he might be older
than he looked—much older, like she was. But no. He was a teenager. Like everyone else here, he'd
been honed to a sharp edge at a very young age. Now that edge was turned on them, with enough force
that Liliana couldn't quite dismiss him as a child playing at authority.
"I didn't believe it at first. Whoever heard of such a thing?"
He came closer, examining them.
Keep him talking, said Jace in her mind. He's got some kind of protection. I need a minute.
"But I checked the birth records at the Monument of Knowledge," Temmet went on. "Kefnet knows all,
but his viziers do not know you. And now you're down here, snooping around the sacred embalming
chambers. You're truly ignorant of our ways. You know nothing of the Horned One—may his return
come quickly, and may we be found—"
"We've met him, actually," said Liliana.
Jace and Temmet looked equally shocked.
"Silence!" said Temmet.
"And just so you know, he's a complete a—"
Mummified hands tightened around her throat, cutting her off.
"LIES!" screamed Temmet, red-faced.
Then Temmet's eyes glowed blue and his face went slack. A moment later, the mummies' hands
released their grip.
Jace grabbed her arm. His eyes were glowing too, blue light leaking out around the edges, and his face
was contorted.
"Run," he gasped.
"What—"
"Can't . . ." said Jace. ". . . much . . . longer . . ."
Oh. Jace was controlling Temmet, and Temmet was controlling the mummies, and that had to be taking
a toll on the dear boy's mind. Not all of the mummies were still. There were too many, probably. Jace
barely had control.
 Liliana shouldered the nearest mummy aside and ran, away from the carving's red eyes and the
embalming chamber and the stink of death and stillness. She ran.
Outside. Blinding suns. Her heart was pounding.
Jace's eyes cleared. Liliana glanced backward, but didn't see any pursuit. Not yet.
"That . . ." wheezed Jace, ". . . was your idea to keep him talking? Blasphemy?"
"It was funny," she said.
For a moment, they just breathed and ran.
"What . . . happened back there?" he asked.
"Razaketh," she replied. "The demon. I think . . . he's involved with this afterlife. And he knows . . . I'm
here. Chain Veil's the only reason he can't . . . activate my contract."
"Great," said Jace.
"You wiped Temmet's mind, at least?"
Jace grimaced.
"No," he said. "It was all I could do . . . to keep the mummies off us. He'll be out for a while, and he'll
wake up with a hell . . . of a headache. But he'll remember."
"Then we have to find the others," said Liliana.
It's time to make use of your useful fools, the Raven Man had said.
Whether they were friends or fools, Liliana needed them. She ran, away from her demon, toward help.
By Kelly Digges
THE HAND THAT MOVES
Posted in Magic Story on April 26, 2017

Previous story: Servants
Nissa discovered hints of Amonkhet's past, a history Nicol Bolas has overwritten. Now she seeks
answers from the God of Knowledge, hoping Kefnet can explain the veneer that seems to obscure the
plane.

Nissa wandered through empty streets, meandering through hell.

Most of her senses told her the city was beautiful. Giant palm leaves rustled gently under soft breezes,
clear water burbled in pools and fountains, birdsong melodies chirped and trilled in harmonious
counterpoint. Tantalizing smells wafted through the air. Fresh baked bread here. Lilies and jasmine
there.
If one looked, if one listened, they were in paradise. But when Nissa closed her eyes and extended her
mana sense, the paradise crumbled.
The leylines of Amonkhet, the very bones and blood of the world, were stunted. Normally endless lines
of pulsing mana, but on this world they were concentrated into this decadent city. Here, behind the
barrier, they were strong and stout.
But that strength came with a cost. A dark virulent strain wove its way through the leylines. This was
not the deadening corruption of the Eldrazi. It had a vitality the Eldrazi lacked. The pulsing darkness
interlaced through and around the mana, a python choking its prey.
Nissa opened her eyes and paradise reappeared. The leaves, the water, the birds. She closed her eyes
again. The slippery snake squeezing its victims. The juxtaposition between the beauty and horror
almost brought her to her knees. She opened her eyes and closed them again, the rapid changes both
compelling and nauseating.
She continued her wandering, occasionally stopping to close her eyes and glimpse horror. Her stomach
and head rebelled, growing in agony, but she pressed on. She needed to find Kefnet. The God of
Knowledge. She needed answers.
When next she opened her eyes, the god was staring at her.
The large head of an ibis gazed at her steadily, eyes unblinking, its long beak pointing straight at her,
through her, to a horrible destiny no less awful for being unknown. She crumpled to the ground, her
will sapped in the presence of this cruel divinity.
She blinked once, twice. It was a statue. Just a statue. Kefnet, the God of Knowledge. What use is
knowledge in a world like this? Behind all veils is blight. Only blight. She stood slowly,
awkwardly,  her stomach and head still in protest.
Underneath the large stone head and the cruel fixed eyes, a pair of large limestone doors swung open. A
bright blue glow emanated from the shadows behind the door.
A greeting. An invitation. She stepped forward into the blue light.

She was in a small anteroom, a cool blue light from a larger space at the other end shading the smooth
stone walls and floors. The doors quietly swung shut behind her, the light outside snuffed, and Nissa
was relieved to be free of the city's beguiling regard. A young man in pale robes stood behind a wooden
lectern, turning pages of a book. He turned a few more pages as Nissa stood there, a thin smile on his
face though he said nothing.
"Excuse me . . ." she began, unsure of protocol and propriety. She was never sure of protocol and
propriety, amongst people.
The young man raised his head, his smile vanishing. "Do not speak, initiate! You know . . ." His voice
trailed off as he took in the sight of Nissa. She felt a clumsy pawing at the outskirts of her thoughts, her
association with Jace and his telepathy allowing her to recognize the attempts of a novice. His
skittering probing ceased, having failed to find any purchase.
"You . . . you . . . are not from here," he finished weakly.
"I am here to speak with Kefnet," she said, with more confidence than perhaps was warranted. But the
gods seemed to move freely around the city, their presence a given amongst their people. Why not
Kefnet?
The young man's eyes closed and stayed closed, his attention seemingly lost. Nissa had thought this
chamber a refuge from the bright deceit of the city, but now grew certain there was no refuge to be
found. Nothing made sense on this world; nothing was as it should be.
Perhaps I bring the blight with me.
The thought startled. Always before she had framed the corruption she fought on Zendikar, on
Innistrad, here, as enemies without. Darkness from the outside, to be vanquished. But what if the
darkness was within?
Perhaps that was why on every plane she visited she knew failure. She had failed to protect Zendikar.
Failed to overcome Emrakul. Even her successes felt hollow. Perhaps she deserved this fate.
She was bringing the emptiness with her, to soil whatever she touched.
The cool blue room now felt close, stuffy. A growing panic emerged in her chest, beating and thumping
to get out. The young man in front of her continued his senseless communion, his head bowed. She
took a tentative step closer to the larger room at the other end of the foyer, its blue light beckoning.
The young man opened his eyes. "You have been permitted to attempt the Trial of Knowledge. There
are three . . ." His voice sounded strange, strained. A pack of wild dogs chasing its prey. The panic
inside her burst free, overriding reason and thought. Nissa ran to the other room, and as the man sought
to intercept her, she flung him against the stone walls.
From the rough floor, a weakly uttered gasp, "No . . . you are not . . ."
She heard no more as she plunged into the blue light.

The angel descended from the sky. Between two suns she flew, wings unfurled, radiant light lining her
perfect form. Her shut eyes opened and snakes tumbled out. Slithering brown bodies wiggling out of
empty orbs. The angel flapped her wings, coming closer, closer, all the while snakes fell to the barren
ground, hissing and sliding across the parched earth.
The angel opened her mouth and the skies darkened, storm clouds gathering behind her.
"I can do anything I want. Anything at all. Remember that."
The angel came closer . . .
Nissa woke with a scream, sweat already cooling on her brow. Emrakul.
The monster had taken over her body back on Innistrad. But those words were not just Emrakul's. They
were Nissa's as well.
Where am I? She had been seeking . . . something. Someone. There had been a room. She looked at the
room she was in now, a different room than before. A spare cot, a threadbare blanket. Nissa ran her
hand over the ratty blanket, its coarse threads surprisingly sharp. She pulled her hand away with a yelp.
In the middle of her palm was a long, thin, red line. Blood began dripping from the cut. The blanket
was so sharp it had cut her. More lines appeared on her body. Tiny separations blossoming red. The
pain was immense. The blanket rustled over her, cutting her, over and over . . .
Nissa woke with a scream. Where am I? The dream had been awful. Some form of monster, with tiny
teeth and claws, ripping at her . . . she shook her head. Something was wrong. She looked around her
bed, but it was as if she were underwater. Nothing could come into focus. She shook her head, trying to
clear her eyes, but nothing happened.
A slow paralysis creeped up her spine. Her arms and legs felt glued to the bed, rooted by a merciless
force. Something was wrong. She closed her eyes and she could feel the unreality surrounding her. She
needed to break free.
I can do anything I want. Anything at all. Remember that. Her words. Mine. A burgeoning flash of
green light inside her, dispelling the paralysis. She floated in mid-air, buoyed by her growing
power. What can I do? No, that was the wrong question. What can't I do? The power swelled, the mere
vessel of her skin unable to contain it. The flesh crackled, ruptured, but she did not care. Her power
sustained her.
This is my destiny. To lose herself in the power, in the sweet rush of energy and leyline. The power was
growing, burning . . .
Nissa woke with a scream. There had been a light, a green light. Something awful occurred, but as
Nissa tried to remember the dream danced away, escaping the touch of memory. It had been awful, of
that much she was sure.
This is wrong.
Nissa startled. There had been a voice. A voice in her head. It had sounded like her own voice, but
somehow separate. She looked around, frantic, as the walls began bleeding shadows. The shadows
flowed off the walls, approaching in a smooth glide. Nissa knew their touch would mean death, or
worse. Nissa yelled for the others to come, but no sound emerged.
This is wrong.
It was her voice again. Nissa shut her eyes. She could feel the unreality surrounding her. She
summoned power . . .
Stop. I must stop. Do not react. Think.
Nissa did not know why she should trust the voice, but she did. She took a slow breath, concentrating
on the feel of her chest as she inhaled the damp air. She exhaled, letting the breath wash over her,
feeling muscles loosen, expand.
I am trapped.
As she said it, some of the fog in her mind receded. She had run into the blue room, the Trial of
Knowledge, the acolyte had called it. Even now she could feel the illusions and phantasms lurk over
her, caressing her mind with their sickly sweet call. There had been one nightmare after another, each
one cascading into the next.
She took another deep breath. This is magic. Powerful magic. She shuddered as she contemplated the
eternal nightmare facing any unprepared initiate who failed this trial. But as powerful as the magic was,
it was still composed of leylines. And Nissa had no small mastery of those.
For most of her life, Nissa's understanding and manipulation of leylines was instinctive. But every time
she relied on instinct in here, she stayed trapped in nightmare. She needed more than instinct. She
needed to understand.
She gazed intently at the magical structure around her, its shape and feel, the way the leylines wove
together to produce such a horrible and absolute effect. She marveled at the strength and skill required
to construct such a trap. It was beyond anything she had done. Yet.
There. In the weavings of magic surrounding her, there was a tiny gap. Small, but perceptible. Nissa
tugged at the mana, continuing to keep her eyes closed, relying solely on her feel of the magic. She
pushed and pulled at the opening, widening it with each tug.
The illusions intensified around her, calling her name, begging her to open her eyes, to see delight and
horror, truth and fantasy, anything she wanted, only for the price of a twitch of an eyelid. She kept them
tightly shut, and once the opening in her prison was wide enough, she stepped through.

She floated in an airy blue sky. No, not quite a sky. A pale blue canvas, empty, waiting for meaning.
More illusion, but Nissa felt a sense of control, a wakefulness, that had eluded her during the
nightmares. Below Nissa saw the remnants of the nightmare trap, dark purple swirls that had elicited
such terror.

And now she could see through the illusions, to the architecture of the magic underneath. To the very
underpinnings of this Trial of Knowledge, so cruelly designed.
I want to see. I want to see more.
She let the illusions swirl around her, gathering force and speed. A rhythmic beat played in the
chamber, a beat resonating with her own heart. She closed her eyes. She witnessed.

A dark snake, winged and venomous, cast its shadow upon the desert. The snake was huge, bigger than
an oak, bigger than a forest of oaks. Its shadow covered the whole world.
The shadow spoke, its voice rumbling across the empty desert. "They would take away my power.
They would take away what makes me me. This I will not abide."
The shadow of the snake wrapped its coils around the world.
"For what I require, I would drain every world. I would devour every single one. But I start here."
The shadow squeezed. The world screamed. Nissa screamed.
The scene crumbled, fleeing from the pain.
She was looking up into space, into the stars. Eight stars. Eight stars in a loose circle and evenly
spaced, lighting up the entire night sky.
A line of darkness, somehow visible even against the night, a line that shone darkness, wove its way
through the eight stars. The line twisted and turned and vibrated, its pulsing a violent cry. When the line
ceased moving, it was a figure eight on its side, a snake eating its own tail. It encompassed all eight
stars, each star twinkling desperately against the curtain of dark now nestled close against them.
Three of the stars winked out. Their generation of light and heat snuffed. Their lives vanished.
But Nissa could still see movement where those three stars had been. Stars no more, just three dark
rents in the fabric of the sky. Three dark holes, possessed of an energy and fury all their own, pulsing to
a rhythm malevolent.
The five remaining stars moved, their new alignment warped, all bending to the shadowy line woven
through their constellation. Their new outline suggested a pair of horns.
The scene shifted, swirls of illusion moving to paint the canvas anew.
Awkward figures wrapped in white linen bent and dug in the harsh sands. Mummies, they called them.
The anointed. Hundreds, thousands of the mummies dug into a deep pit, pulling out a blue ore.
Cartloads of the ore snaked their way in a large procession toward the city.
Farther away, three young children stopped before a barrier. The beautiful city on one side, the stark
emptiness of the desert on the other. They're whispering to each other. They look around, look at each
other. Uncertain. A child presses through. The two others follow. All three are swallowed by the hungry
sands.
A new scene.
She saw a young man, his face erased, stumbling among a garden of statues. High above the man a
growing cloud of dusk attacked the sun. From somewhere outside the garden there was a mighty roar.
Shift.
Nissa saw a world, then tens of worlds, hundreds of worlds. Thousands. She saw this world, the world
of Amonkhet, and wrapped around it was a dark sinewy line. That line stretched back through all the
worlds, all the thousands of worlds, and she saw an unbroken line of darkness from Amonkhet all the
way back to the beginning of the line.
Shift.
A large golden disc, shaped and stylized like a sun, descending from the sky. The sun disc approached a
large circular stone tablet covered with strange sigils, and the two discs merged, becoming a single
golden disc. Cracks appeared in the golden disc, small at first, then widening, growing. The disc
crumbled away into nothingness.
The scenes shifted faster now, barely even an image forming before being replaced. A fizzling torch. A
broken clock with a clean face. A mummified head facing backward atop a mummified body. A split
tree, its sap oozing into the ground. A shattered shield, its shiny metallic pieces torn and scattered.
She closed her eyes against the onslaught, but still the images came tumbling through her head,
crumpling her in mid-air. A falling dragon. Giants, covered in metallic blue, stomping through streets. A
massive flash of light, consuming a world.
An angel descending from the sky.
Nissa opened her eyes, and the angel continued to descend. It was the angel from her nightmare. The
angel that reminded her of Emrakul.
The angel's eyes were open, but unlike the dream, there were no snakes, just blank white orbs. She
landed in front of Nissa.
"Why do you dally? I showed you the ways of power. Use them." The angel's voice melodious, a cool
breeze. Beautiful. And beautiful the way Amonkhet was beautiful, all horror underneath.
Nissa tried to summon her power, but nothing happened.
I can do anything I want. Anything at all.
Except she couldn't. She stood there rooted to the ground, as the angel continued with her beautiful
voice.
"Are you a pawn? Or a queen?"
"Who are you?" Nissa screamed. She knew it could not be Emrakul, worlds away trapped in silver. It
was just another illusion, another creation born of the magic and her own thoughts. "Just go away!
Go!" Nissa bowed her head in agony, intense pain blossoming in her head. She closed her eyes, but the
angel remained there in front of her clearly visible whether through eyes shut or open.
"Nissa Revane. Are you pawn or queen?"
"I . . . I don't know. I just want . . ."
"No!" The angel's voice turned cold and harsh. "It is the wrong question! Pawns, queens, they're all still
pieces! All still pieces, waiting to be moved."
The angel put a hand to Nissa's chin. She gently tipped Nissa's head up, looking at her face. There was
no love in that gaze, but the look comforted nonetheless. The pain in Nissa's head receded.
"Stop being a piece, Nissa. Be the hand that moves." There was a loud rumbling behind them. The
angel looked over Nissa's shoulder, and something shifted in her eyes. Without word or farewell the
angel soared into the sky, and was soon just a speck in the far distance.
A new voice boomed. "Who makes a mockery of my trial?"
Nissa looked up. A giant ibis stood in front of her, cloaked in blue robes with gold trim, a long bladed
staff wielded in one hand. He shared the piercing, almost cruel stare of his statue in front of his temple.
But this was not a statue. It was the god himself, Kefnet.
He did not look pleased.

Nissa had faced Eldrazi titans and demon mages, but never had she felt so overwhelmed by sheer
power as she did in the presence of the ibis god.
Her thoughts, her very self, strained to remain coherent in front of Kefnet, a struggle as easy as a pile of
leaves resisting a windstorm.
"Who are you, mortal?" Thoughts and memories plucked from her head without regard for her desire,
leaving her mind scattered like dandelion seeds in a field. Struggle was useless. She sought to ride the
windstorm, to come through on the other side.
 "I see. And you think to come here? For answers?" Nissa could not read the god's tone, could not
read the god's face, could not understand anything around her. All her focus was on preserving her
coherence. She was losing the battle.
"I have an answer for you, mortal, one of the oldest answers. Knowledge is not a gift. It is earned.
Only the worthy deserve knowledge." Kefnet's touch on her thoughts pressed. "The unworthy
deserve nothing. Dissolution is my kindness for you. Better nothing than ignorance."
She was breaking apart. "No . . ." was the only word she could muster. She thought of the evil of Nicol
Bolas, of how he had corrupted Kefnet and the other gods, but as each thought arose it was mauled by
Kefnet's touch. He did not seem to know, or care, of Bolas's blighted touch upon his essence.
Even now she could see through to the essence of the god, his essence made out of the world itself. The
corrupted leylines of Amonkhet were the same strands of corruption in Kefnet, a strange melding of
potency and virulence, inimical to Nissa's desire for the natural beauty of a world. The leylines inside
Kefnet were tiny fibers, bound together so tightly that it was easy to overlook them.
The God of Knowledge was made of leylines. Leylines she could manipulate.
Nissa frantically wove a spell in the seconds left to her. An infusion of magic burst from her hands,
coating the leylines of Kefnet, seeping into their pockmarked surface. She guided her magic through
the essence of Kefnet.
She remembered her witnessing of Bolas's corruption of the gods, a dark helix in the night sky. She
could not undo what he had done, but she used some of that knowledge to create a small pattern of her
own making.
She saw the thread she wanted. She pulled it, and added a new fiber of mana to its mix.
The windstorm ceased. Kefnet stood there, unmoving, as Nissa's thoughts returned to being solely her
own. She took a deep breath, shaking, aware of just how close she had come to nothingness.
"You may go now, initiate. You have passed your trial." The ibis god barely seemed aware of her as
he flew off to some other destination.
Her spell had been broad, clumsy. Nissa was the merest amateur at manipulating a god. No,
manipulation was far too strong of a word. She had merely altered him enough to no longer want to
destroy her. And it had worked. She was still capable of breath and life and thought. Thought. It is a
gift. One that I need to use more.
And though amateur she was, there was still a pattern of her own making residing in Kefnet. Still a
thread she could tug . . . to what effect, she did not yet know. But she suspected there would be a time
to find out. She was tired of being a pawn, constantly reacting to nightmares and failures, never ahead.
And perhaps even a queen was too small a destiny.
She heard a voice, her own voice, clear as a crystal bell.
"Be the hand that moves."
Nissa dispelled the illusions around her. She was still standing in the same anteroom she had entered,
this time empty of anyone but her. She pushed at the door back to the city, and it opened, a vista to the
bright, dangerous world outside. She stepped through.
By Ken Troop
BRAZEN
Posted in Magic Story on May 3, 2017

Previous story: The Hand that Moves

The Gatewatch had come to Amonkhet to uncover the machinations of the malicious dragon
Planeswalker Nicol Bolas. What they found instead was a flourishing civilization at the height of its
power, watched over by benevolent gods. While Gideon Jura had many lingering questions about the
world, the presence of the divine most captured his attention and curiosity.

I walked quietly along the path, following in the wake of Oketra. The god glided ahead, footsteps fleet
against the limestone road, calm radiating from her presence in near-palpable waves. The relentless
glow of the two suns overhead glinted off the tips of her ears and refracted into dancing dapples of soft
light that flickered across her path, catching off the gleaming buildings and triumphant monuments that
made up Naktamun.
People turned as we passed, feeling Oketra's presence before seeing us. I marveled as they nodded their
heads and smiled in deference, and my breath caught in my chest as she bowed her head in return, soft
murmurs of words resonating low, rumbling so only their intended recipients could hear them. There
was no groveling, no fear from the masses before an almighty presence. She spoke withthe people, her
gaze piercing and warm, bringing reassurance and encouragement.
A child ran up to her, placing a shy hand on her robe. She paused, bending like a reed to pass one giant
finger across his dark hair. I watched as he mumbled something, his face nearly buried in the fabrics,
some worry or fear furrowing his brow. Oketra smiled, radiant and kind. The boy looked up, their eyes
met, and the boy's worry melted away, replaced by a smile and a determined nod. He turned and ran
back toward his friends, the excited whispers of what he received sending the others into a flurry of
head rubs and back pats.
This is how it's supposed to be.
And yet, in the back of my mind, Chandra's mistrust and Nissa's curiosity nagged at me. They were
right to be cautious. This world belonged to Nicol Bolas, and despite his current absence,
his presencelingered over everything. I glanced at the massive horns in the distance, visible through the
closer buildings, a looming silhouette marring the horizon. I caught snippets of conversation as I trailed
behind Oketra, and occasional mentions of the God-Pharoah—"May his return come quickly, and may
we be found worthy"—floated by. The whole city had a rigidity and structure that was simultaneously
impressive and worrisome, a confluence of achievement and glory against a lingering unnaturalness
and unease.
But then there were the gods . . . I shook my head. I'm thinking myself in circles.
I realized my thoughts slowed my steps and looked ahead. Oketra stood, stopped in her path, looking
back. I broke into a light run to catch up. An unfamiliar weight bounced against my chest as I ran, and
my hand reached up to the gold and blue cartouche hanging around my neck. The first step in your
journey through the Trials, Oketra had told me.
We rounded a corner and I found myself standing before a large square filled with people. Men and
women, aven and jackals, as well as a few naga and minotaurs all caroused around long, low tables,
while numerous anointed meandered through, carrying large platters piled high with a dizzying array of
foods. I noticed all these initiates had cartouches with three segments.
A celebration, before the next Trial.
I looked up at Oketra, and her blue eyes met mine.
"These crops now prepare for the Trial of Ambition." Oketra's eyes were unblinking, yet her stare
soothed rather than unnerved. "If you truly seek to embark upon the Trials, this is where you will
begin."
I bowed my head in affirmation. Oketra smiled and returned a nod, and we turned back toward the
initiates. They had taken notice of Oketra, and many nodded or kneeled in reverence, wearing the smile
of one who had just seen an old friend. One young man stood from his seat, looking up at her, then
grinned as he jogged toward us, answering the unspoken beckoning of the god.
"Greetings, Kytheon! I am Djeru of the Tah crop." The young man clapped his hands on my shoulders,
his eyes gazing directly into mine, alight with a smile, and kissed me on both cheeks. I fumbled slightly
to return the greeting.
"You can call me Gideon. Some find it easier."
Djeru dropped one arm and leaned in conspiratorially. "But what is the name on your heart?"
I paused. "For a long time now, it has been Gideon."
"And tonight?"
The warmth of Oketra radiated beside me, and I frowned. "I am less certain."
Djeru laughed. "You're a puzzle, then. I enjoy puzzles."
I leave you to this Trial, Kytheon.
I looked up, but Oketra was already gone. Djeru shook his head, his smile wide as ever. "I will never
grow used to how Oketra moves. A golden blur, a beam of sun from the God-Pharaoh himself—may
his return come quickly."
"And may we be found worthy," I answered, a half beat slower than by reflex. But Djeru didn't seem to
notice as he steered me toward the celebration.
"You must be special indeed if Oketra herself has brought you to us. The timing is also quite fortuitous!
Just yesterday, our numbers were reduced by one." A slight flinch in Djeru's grasp on my arm caused
me to search his face, but he revealed nothing more behind his wide grin. "If you are to embark on
Bontu's Trial with us, perhaps you can help our crop regain our balance."
Without warning, Djeru thrust a leg out in front of me, one hand still grasping my arm as he shoved me
with his other. I stumbled but turned in on reflex, pulling my arm free as I pushed a hand against his
chest, shoving him back. We stood and stared for a moment. Then he raised a hand and gave a short
beckoning wave.
A slow smile spread across my face.
We sparred briefly, exchanging a flurry of blows. Djeru fought with a strength and focus belied by his
earlier jovial attitude, and before I knew it, his grappling style landed me on my back. The same broad
smile returned to Djeru's face, and I laughed. Too much time punching and slicing through gearhulks
and sandwurms, not enough time fighting hand to hand.
Djeru hauled me to my feet. "You're good. You could be better. Come."

Djeru escorted me around the celebration, gesturing to the wide array of meats and foods. He pointed
out the various games being played—mancala, senet, a game bearing the name of the god Rhonas. I
watched as initiates bantered and cheered, bet against one another in the games, and broke out into
occasional friendly sparring matches. It reminded me of Theros, of home, of my youth. "I haven't seen
such celebration in some time," I said to Djeru.
Djeru nodded. "This is indeed a rare treat. Where the other gods had us in near-constant training for
their Trials, Bontu instructs only to 'prepare ourselves.'" He caught my eye. "But of course, all in life is
ultimately training and preparation for the Trials, and for the return of the God-Pharaoh."
"May his return come quickly," I muttered.
"And may we be found worthy." Djeru's seriousness lifted. "But come, friend. If you are to join our
crop, we'll need you to meet the others!"
With that, Djeru brought me toward a small group seated around a low table loaded with overflowing
platters of fruit. Names were introduced, faster than I could remember them all—Neit, Dedi, how did
that minotaur pronounce hers?—and quickly, Djeru turned the conversation toward the events of the
Trial of Solidarity, and how each person at the table contributed to their success. "Setha and Basetha's
speed played to our favor, as they dashed across the grounds and retrieved Oketra's arrow while the rest
of our crop defended the obelisk." Djeru gestured to the two jackals sitting together, clearly twins.
Sharp grins flashed under black fur.
"How did your crop complete the Trial?" a naga woman, Kamat, asked me, her tongue flickering.
"I . . ." Something told me the answer "I didn't" would not be well received. I gazed around at the
seated initiates. All wore cartouches with three segments, unique in design but similar in length and
complexity.
"You do not have to say." Djeru came to my rescue. "Forgive Kamat's directness. Our crop's success
sometimes lets us forget that not all make it through the Trials without losses. Her words cleave as
straight as her blades in battle."
"Unless you're a hydra," someone muttered, and all broke out in laughter. Kamat made a show of
looking about for the offender, and playful shoves abounded.

I looked to Djeru. "Losses."

Djeru nodded, a smile still on his face. "Many other crops are culled significantly from Trial to Trial,
and reformed with others. You are not alone, my friend. But we of Tah have been strong to have
remained one unit since the beginning. Save, of course, the one who you are replacing." Djeru hardly
paused, but I noticed the rest of the crop avert their eyes for just a moment.
"Of course, we look forward to greeting all our fallen brethren as they are restored upon the return of
the God-Pharaoh," a woman interjected.
"May his return come quickly, and may we be found worthy!" The chant came as a roar from the rest of
the crop.
"Kesi is right, of course. But come! These rabble-rousers are, fortunately, not all we have to offer."
Djeru again steered me away, his comrades shouting out in mock protest as we meandered across the
square.
My mind raced as we walked, trying to piece together all this information. I had myself witnessed the
dead returning to life on this plane, but the way Djeru spoke of the fallen returning sounded
different. Restored, he said. Was this true—or even possible?
Djeru didn't let me stew in my thoughts. We approached another group of initiates standing a little
further from the crowds.
"This is Meris, Imi, and Hepthys." Djeru gestured to the trio. "And this is . . . Gideon. He will be
joining our crop as we embark on the Trial of Ambition."
The three nodded in greeting, and once again I couldn't help but notice how young all the members of
the crop seemed. Meris couldn't have been older than sixteen—and yet, his eyes held some smiling
secret, aged and wise beyond his outward appearance, bittersweet and a little sad. Beside him, Imi
seemed positively radiant, standing barely taller than Meris, dark hair cropped at shoulder length in a
cut that I had seen on many others yet somehow seemed to uniquely highlight her beauty. The two of
them stood close, their intertwined hands erasing any questions their shared looks and subtle smiles
may have left. Hepthys's expression was harder to read—mostly because I had little practice reading
aven expressions. He held himself with a poised grace, wings folded neatly behind him.
"Meris is the main reason for our success in the Trial of Knowledge." Djeru gestured widely, but Meris
was already shaking his head.
"Our success was only possible with Djeru and the rest providing me the space and time needed to
think," he said.
Djeru smiled and gave Meris a light punch on the shoulder. "Our next Trial is of Ambition, not
deference, Meris. None of us could have unraveled the final illusion with the speed and certainty you
did."
Meris started to reply—when a commotion behind us drew all our attention.
I turned to see a woman lift a minotaur overhead with a roar, then throw him tumbling to the ground.
The initiates crowded around them cheered, some grumbling and handing over jewelry and gems to
others.
"And that is Tausret. One of our finest warriors." Djeru beamed with pride as the woman circled the
crowd, shouting for other challengers.
"Only you stand stronger," Meris commented. Djeru began to object, but Meris cut him off. "Ambition,
not deference, Djeru."
Djeru broke into a grin. Meris nodded, nonchalant. "Yes. You, and perhaps Samut."
A chill instantly befell our group. Djeru's face dropped. Hepthys and Imi looked away, bodies tensing
in the silence.
"We do not mention the name of the lost." Djeru glared at Meris, who, to my surprise, returned the
stare.
"I will name her if you will not. If this initiate is to replace our sister, he must know the role Samut
served." Meris fixed his gaze on me. "Can he replace our fastest runner, faster even than the jackal
twins? Is he a warrior fit to rival you in skill and strength, who can take down a manticore practically
by himself, as Samut did in the Trial of Strength—"
"We speak. Not. Of the lost." In a blink, Djeru stepped in, hand clenched around Meris's cartouche,
pulling him close, his face locked in a scowl. Imi, Hepthys, and I all stepped in to intervene, but Meris
held a hand up, and the others backed away.
I chose my words carefully. "I seek not to replace anyone, Meris. I cannot. I can only offer who I am.
And Djeru, I am sorry for your loss. It seems Meris is mourning her death differently, and needs to—"
"Oketra may have suggested you join our crop, Gideon, but clearly she did not tell you of our
circumstance." Djeru held me in his stare, suspicion in his eyes. Finally, he sighed and let go of Meris.
"I am sorry, Meris. My anger overrode my better sense. You are, as is often the case, correct. We should
give Gideon some context."
Meris nodded and again looked at me, dark brown eyes peering into my own. "Samut is not dead," he
said. "She is lost. But she chose to be."
My confusion must have shown on my face. "She is a dissenter," Djeru added. The others winced at the
word.
"Ah. I see," I said, trying to cover for the fact that I did not at all.
"It still sickens me to say it so plainly." Djeru spat, sullen and upset, and walked some distance away
from us.
"We do not know why she fell to such heresy." Meris spoke quietly. "But she did. And so, she was
removed. Her loss not only weakened our crop significantly—but she and Djeru had been closest
friends, since even before the Ceremony of Measurement, when they were but mere children."
I looked at Meris, Imi, Hepthys. You're all still children.
"Djeru has taken her loss the hardest." Imi spoke up, her voice soft and soothing, honey melting in the
heat. "Death would have been better—even a dishonorable death—for dissenters have no place in the
Afterlife." She looked to the lower second sun, hovering just beside the great horn statues in the
distance. "And we're so close to that glorious time now. The Hours are almost upon us."

A memory leapt to mind. A young woman, pushing her way through a crowded street, shouting as she
was pursued by soldiers. "The gods lie! The hours are a lie!"
"This was . . . recent, then." I looked to Imi, then to Meris, who gave a curt nod. "I . . . I think I saw
her."
Djeru waved his hand. "Enough. You know now. Let us speak no more of this."
I started to object when a sudden hush fell upon all the initiates. A lengthy shadow befell the square as
a great form stalked toward us, flanked on all sides by figures adorned in black. The larger sun burned
low in the sky, and I squinted against the darkened silhouette haloed in the red light of late afternoon.
My eyes took in what could only be another god—towering in height, human in body but with the head
of a great and fearsome crocodile, her long snout turned into a sharp grin. She stood, surveying all
before her, a mighty staff in one hand, black robes draped over her imposing form. As she approached,
an aura of divinity washed over me. Yet the feeling that stirred in my chest did not echo the warmth and
calm of Oketra, instead invoking a surge of pride and power.
I noticed none of the initiates bowed their head as with Oketra—instead they stood taller, shoulders
back, proud and eager to catch her eye. Beside me, Hepthys ruffled his feathers. "This is . . . unusual,"
he murmured. "Can you recall the last time we saw Bontu walk the streets of Naktamun?"
Imi shook her head. "It must be because the Hours are nigh."
A rumbling hiss swelled, growing in volume, until I realized it was Bontu's voice, reverberating across
the square.
"Time draws short," she rasped. Every face in the square was turned toward her now. "Not all will
have the chance to earn my favor. Who deserves to compete in my Trial?"
A burst of noise exploded from the assembled initiates, roaring assertions of their worth. Bontu's smile
widened.
"Only the strong will triumph. But strength is learned." Narrowed eyes surveyed the raucous
initiates. "None are born strong."
I felt a surge of fearlessness in my heart. Emboldened, I stepped forward, shouting above the fray. "Not
even the gods?"
Voices fell by the wayside as a series of gasps and mutters broke out. I felt many eyes turn back to look
at me, but held my gaze up toward the beady eyes of Bontu. Her great head tilted, and her eyes blinked
at me—one lid, then the other. Ivory teeth, each the length of a boat, appeared—and she laughed, a
hideous hissing that echoed in my gut.
"How brazen."
She turned to address all the initiates in the square. "Even I am greater than I once was," she rasped.
"Because I desired to be so." Her words were answered by murmurs of admiration and acceptance.
Bontu raised her hand, and a hush fell as she pointed a finger at me.
"Kytheon Iora."
A shiver ran down my spine as she named me. She held her hand suspended in my direction for a
moment, then slowly, her finger drifted to all the members of Djeru's crop, naming each member as she
pointed. When twenty names in all were called, she dropped her hand, ever slowly, ever full of purpose,
by her side.
"Initiates of the Tah crop. You shall be next to face my Trial."
With that, Bontu turned and left, her viziers gliding away beside her in stony silence.
I let out a sigh and realized I had been holding my breath. Others in Djeru's crop approached, cheering
and expressing thanks and praise. Djeru came by my side, a wary smile crossing his face.
"Looks like Oketra was right to have you join us after all." With that, he grabbed and thrust my hand in
the air. Around me, the roaring cheers of his—my—cropmates danced across the square. As they pulled
me toward more food and drink, I couldn't help but notice the scowls and envious stares of other
initiates.
The Trial of Ambition has already begun, I suppose. The thought lingered as the rest of the evening
passed in a blur of mirth, stories, and celebration, all under the strange, impossible red glow of the
second sun.
We hardly slept. That morning, with the rising of the larger sun, Bontu's viziers ushered us into her
monument—a massive pyramid bearing her form on the exterior. I had little time to admire the
architecture though, as once inside, we were armed with simple weapons by the viziers and
immediately led deep into the monument's heart. After a series of dizzying and confusing hallways, we
emerged in a wide chamber lit from a strange golden glow that seemed to come from the ground itself.
To pass the Trial, the viziers explained, we had to progress through the monument and ascend to the
peak, where Bontu herself awaited—but not for long. "Bontu has no patience for dawdling
supplicants," a vizier told us, cold and impassive. With that, the viziers vanished down the hallway that
led us there, a stone wall sliding up behind them. Had I not just seen the wall lock into place, I would
never have guessed there was an opening there.
We turned and looked about the room. Our first obstacle seemed straightforward enough. A large pool
of filth separated us from the one hall out of the chamber. The other initiates fanned into a defensive
formation as Djeru and Meris scanned the room for some way across the ichor. In short order, Meris
spotted a crank jutting just above the surface, near the center of the pool.
"Dedi. Investigate," Djeru said. Without hesitation, Dedi stepped forward, removed his sandals, and
waded into the muck. As Dedi pushed forward, Djeru spotted my questioning glance. "Dedi is one of
our tallest. He is also one of the weaker of our crop," he quietly explained. "This is an easy chance for
him to shine and demonstrate his worth."
We watched Dedi struggle toward the center, the viscous filth rising to his neck in parts. Some in the
crop grumbled about the slowness as we waited, but then Dedi was there, turning the crank, and slowly,
a chain link bridge rose from the muck. A few initiates barked shouts of encouragement for Dedi as he
began wading back to us, while Djeru led us toward the bridge.
We had just started crossing when Dedi's screams cut through the air.
At first I thought some creature in the muck was attacking Dedi as the dark liquid started to bubble and
churn. We sprinted across the bridge toward him, and two initiates dropped down to reach for his hands
and hoist him up—just as panels along the walls burst open and more filth spilled into the chamber.
The level of the pool rose with unnatural speed, and the two initiates who had crouched down jumped
back up, pulling hands back as if burned, violent red boils appearing on their arms where the sludge
had touched them. I watched in horror as Dedi reached a desperate hand toward us—and skin and flesh
sloughed off his forearm, revealing bone. Dedi's screams shifted as terror mixed with pain, and then the
others were shoving me across as more filth poured into the chamber, overflowing the pool and
corroding its way through the chains of the bridge. We leapt the remaining distance to the hallway
beyond just as the bridge snapped, one side breaking away and melting into the muck. I rolled across
the threshold, Dedi's screams and pleas cut unceremoniously short by a thick stone door that slammed
down behind us.
I stood, staring at the stone door, stunned.
Nineteen.
I reached toward the barrier, but Djeru stayed my hand. "We press on," he said. Already, the rest of the
crop marched forward through the narrow hall.
I stared at him. "But he was still alive –"
"Ambition does not retreat," growled Tausret from the lead. "You dishonor him by lingering."
"Dedi died a glorious death. We will thank him for his sacrifice in the Afterlife." Djeru pushed passed
me, and within seconds, I was the last one in front of the door.
A glorious death? I clenched my teeth. Nothing about Dedi's death felt glorious.
We walked on in silence. Grim faces, sullen atmosphere. They had not lost anyone in a Trial before
this,I remembered. And yet, here we are, minutes into the first obstacle . . .
What were the gods testing for? Why would Oketra guide me to this Trial?
We entered another wide, low-ceilinged chamber that extended quite some length. The room was flat
and featureless, save for a strange, dark creature crouched near the center. "An ammit," Imi hissed. All
the others hastily drew their weapons.
"What's an ammit?" I asked. Djeru looked incredulously at me.
"Soul devourer. A demon. Near impossible to kill. Our best bet is if it doesn't notice us—"
As if on cue, the creature raised its head and stared at us. From a distance, it looked like an enormous
lion—but its head ended in the snout and mouth of an alligator. It also was easily three times the size of
even the monstrous lions of Bant. Beady red eyes glowed from its thick skull as it lumbered to its feet.

Djeru cursed, then immediately began issuing orders for an improvised plan. The reason for his haste
became painfully clear as the ammit charged us, moving at a stunning speed for a creature of its size.
We scattered, archers letting arrows fly as the rest of the crop made a dash across the room.
Rather than confront the monstrosity head on, we ran for the other side in groups of two to three, with
different teams trying to distract and confuse the ammit while others dashed by. Meris and Imi made it
past as the ammit chased Neit and Tausret across the chamber. Two archers then pulled the ammit's
attention away long enough for those two to turn and dash for the corridor on the other side, the only
visible exit. The ammit ran between the groups, unable to make up its mind on who to chase, confused
in the chaos.
With a nod, Djeru and I started our run across. We were nearly at the exit when a gruesome sound
pulled my attention back. One duo had gotten cornered, and with one powerful bite, the ammit had
caught an initiate in its jaws. Her screams echoed in the chamber, followed by the wet sound of blood
splashing against stone. Her companion scrabbled past, abandoning her friend.
I sprinted back toward them, ignoring Djeru's protests fading behind me. Another scream rang out then
cut short as the ammit bit down, and the nauseating smell of blood and viscera wafted across the
chamber.
Eighteen.
Others ran by me as the ammit seemed completely engrossed in its victim, content to let the others flee.
With a yell, I charged, my sural unfurling and slashing at the demon. To my surprise, the blades didn't
cut through, instead glancing ineffectively off its thick hide, leaving little more than angry red welts on
its skin. The monstrosity turned and bellowed at me, blood and spittle spraying from its open maw. It
swiped at me with a massive paw, catching across my chest. I smashed backward hard against the wall.
I stumbled up, blinking away the stars flashing before my eyes as the low growl of the ammit pounded
against my skull.
Golden ripples of light danced across my body as I focused my magic—and not a moment too soon.
The ammit struck with lightning speed, its jaws a blur. I threw my arms up, and its teeth crashed against
them, sparks of golden light flashing as it failed to pierce my shields. I squared my feet and pulled,
intending to throw it against the wall.
It didn't move.
I strained with all my strength against it, but the ammit held—and started gaining ground. My feet slid
against the stone, unable to find a hold as the ammit dragged me back, its jaws clamped onto my arm
with an unrelenting vice grip. My skin shimmered with golden light, protecting me from being pierced
by its teeth, but I couldn't free myself from its monstrous grip.
Panic seeped in at the edges of my thoughts, my mind racing for a plan. I couldn't overpower it. Sure, it
couldn't pierce my barrier, but I also had watched devour a person in two clean bites. My sural couldn't
cut through its hide. I was running out of options. My feet slid again on the floor, and the ammit twisted
its head, throwing me against the wall. The sound of cracking stone reverberated up my spine, and
again as the ammit thrashed about, slamming my body against rock, knocking my breath from my
chest. My head spun, vertigo setting in. I gritted my teeth. If I couldn't slip from its grasp any other
way . . .
A loud screech cut across the chamber, and a gust of wind slammed into the ammit. The monster let go,
more out of surprise than injury, and I rolled back. As I sprang to my feet, another burst of air brushed
past me. Hepthys, last to cross, walked toward us with hands raised, muttering another incantation.
"Run! Now!" Hepthys fixed me with a piercing stare as he sent another volley of cutting wind. The
ammit roared in defiance.
"You can't face that thing alone—" My protests were cut short by the dark blur of the ammit sprinting
past me, barreling toward Hepthys. The aven spread his wings and leapt into the air, barely evading the
ammit as it ran past.
"Go, you fool!" Hepthys's wings flapped wildly as he flew higher, and I turned and sprinted toward the
far corridor, past the ammit now turning around for another pass.
A series of plans flashed through my mind. If the corridor is too narrow for the ammit, Hepthys could
simply join us as we cross into the next challenge. Or if not, I could stay behind and—
A squawk and the sound of teeth tearing flesh cut my words short.
I turned to see the ammit falling from an impossible height, its mighty leap just high enough to clamp
onto one of Hepthys's wings. The ammit's teeth sliced through bone and tendon and it landed with a
ground-shaking WUMPH, swallowing its prize in two snapping bites. A torrent of blood dripped down
as Hepthys wobbled in the air, then plummeted toward the ground. The ammit approached slowly,
savoring its prize.
Seventeen.
My feet carried me forward on reflex even as my mind froze, suspended in disbelief. I barely registered
that I had made it across and into the corridor itself until I nearly ran into Djeru, who stood with about
half the crop in the semi-darkness, peering ahead.
"There's bladed pendulums ahead," Djeru said, and for the first time I noticed the strange whirring
sound. The corridor was dark, with no light source, but from the ambient glow of the room behind us, I
could just make out blurs of something flashing by in intervals. Djeru shook his head. "The corridor
narrows, and soon only one can cross at a time. The first few have already made it across, but the
blades get faster with each person that passes."
"Djeru. Hepthys has fallen. We must—"
Djeru grabbed me by the arm, cutting me off. "What is wrong with you?" Anger seethed across his
features, the mask of a calm leader suddenly broken. "You have lost your entire crop in previous Trials,
and yet you treat each glorious death a tragedy. Your façade of heroics and rescues does nothing but
insult and diminish our cropmates' sacrifice and bravery."
I fell silent, stunned. I glanced around at the other initiates, but the shadows in the corridor hid their
faces from me.
Djeru pushed me away and barked out a list of names, calling members of the crop forward. One by
one, he sent them down the corridor. I realized as they ran forward through the swinging blades that he
called the runners based on speed. No hesitation, no question, no need for thought from him or those he
named—he knew everyone's abilities by heart.
I took a deep breath, trying to center myself.
You are a stranger to this world, Gideon. Things are different. Death is different. I shook my
head. Leave your judgment behind.
Instead, the image of Hepthys falling played over and over in my mind, matching the cadence of the
swinging blades ahead.
I watched the initiates run by the blades. Soon, only Djeru, the jackal twins Setha and Basetha, and
myself remained. We stood in silence, the only sound in the corridor the maddeningly rapid whirring of
the blades.
. . .the only sound. I suddenly realized the noises of the ammit had stopped. I spun around. The
chamber behind appeared empty, except for a few bloody stains across the grounds.
Djeru noticed too. "We need to go. Now." He nodded toward me—just as the ammit came barreling
around the corner, squeezing down the corridor and roaring as it charged toward us. It was just large
enough that its shoulders scraped against the stone walls, but with effort it pushed in after us, jaws
snapping.
At a command from Djeru, Basetha dashed down the corridor, followed by her brother. They made it
several spans down the corridor—and then the damp metallic smell of blood burst over us as a rogue
blade reduced Setha to a black and red smear of viscera.
Sixteen.
Basetha kept running, whether through bravery, ignorance, or sheer force of will, and joined the others
down the corridor. But now the blades swung at impossible speeds. Djeru drew his khopesh sword,
crouching to take a final stand against the approaching ammit. I took a deep breath, sending golden
light shimmering across my body, and stepped forward into the blades.
The first one smashed into me, shattering and launching me into the wall, stone chips and shards of the
blade flying everywhere. Djeru ducked and turned to stare at me for a split second—then sprinted after
me as I continued down the corridor, the snapping jaws of the ammit close behind. By the time we
made it to the other side, my whole body felt like one giant bruise, and Djeru bled from a series of cuts
from the shards of broken metal. The rest of the crop, to their credit, had already wisely moved away
from us and into the following room.
I fell to my knees, but Djeru was beside me, pulling me up and away. As we ran toward the center of
the chamber, Djeru spoke between labored breaths.
"I've never seen anyone do anything like that, mage or warrior." He peered at me, suspicion heavy on
his brow.
"It is a gift and a curse." Dark memories gnawed at me. Djeru shook his head.
"You are still a puzzle. I'm not sure I enjoy this puzzle anymore," he said.
I wanted to respond, but Meris was already explaining to the rest of the crop the discovery he made
about this room.
". . . need four to stand atop those pillars to open the main door." Meris pointed to the four pedestals
around us. He then shook his head. "But my guess is that will also unlock something . . . unpleasant.
And they'll likely need to stay on those pillars to keep the door open."
"The ammit is coming and likely to make it through the corridor since Gideon, uh, disabled the blade
trap." Djeru looked at me, then back toward the roaring and scraping sounds as the ammit pushed its
way closer.
There was only a moment of hesitation, then four initiates walked toward the pillars. But Djeru grabbed
the hand of one. "Masika. I need you to switch with Tausret."
The two singled out by Djeru look at one another and reluctantly agreed. Tausret joined the rest of us as
Masika walked to the pillars.
"Why did you do that?" I asked.
Djeru was grim. "Tausret is one of the strongest of those of us remaining. I don't know what's ahead,
but we can more easily lose Masika than Tausret"
"Let me stay." I looked back at the four. "I could—"
"Where is your ambition?" Djeru spat the words. "Would you throw your life away to prolong the fight
for three, and abandon the rest of your crop who will need you to ascend as high as possible?" Djeru
looked to me with a growing anger, tinged with disgust. "We all know the price of the Trials, the limits
and potential of our own abilities, the strengths and weaknesses of our brothers and sisters. We climb to
achieve the best station in the Afterlife. And we will surely need you in the challenges to come."
Djeru turned to the four prepared to step up on the pillars. "Brothers, sister. We will see you in the
Afterlife."
The four looked to each other, then as one, climbed onto their pillars. Immediately, the pillars began to
sink into the ground as a grand doorway on the far side of the room opened. At the same time, however,
other massive panels along the walls slid slowly open, revealing the shadows and shapes of terrible
beasts that stirred at the sound of grinding stone. Behind us, I saw the snapping jaws of the ammit poke
out from the corridor, shards of stone chipping away as it pressed and squeezed through.
The rest of us ran toward the exit. As we crossed into the chamber beyond, we turned back in time to
see the four step off the pillars, weapons drawn. Immediately, the massive stone door began to slide
closed, shutting out my fleeting, foolish hope that they could perhaps still make it across to join us. We
watched as they disappeared, the ammit charging toward them even as shadowy shapes of other
monstrosities slinked along the edges of the room.
We all stood, catching our breath for just a moment.
And then we turned and continued onward.
Twelve.

Hours later, we'd finally reached the top tier of the pyramid. This chamber was the largest and most
grand of them all, every surface gilded and lit with an uncountable number of bronze braziers. Bontu
herself sat in attendance upon a throne, attended by viziers and looking down at us from a series of
stairs that led to her presence. Behind her, three large doors, sealed with metal and the cryptic writing
of Amonkhet, gleamed in the flickering firelight. A clear pool of water separated us near the entry from
where Bontu sat, a chilling reminder of the first challenge of the Trial.
We were now nine. So many rooms, each designed to have more left behind. Some we battered our way
through, making it across intact. But more often, the room battered through us, taking lives despite our
best efforts and abilities. As we stood before Bontu, we were anything but victorious. Meris retched,
red-eyed, bleeding from bites on his arm. In the very last room, flesh-eating scarabs had poured out the
walls, devouring Imi, who had stumbled as we scrabbled up an impossibly high wall to the exit. Her
arm came off when Meris tried to pull her free.
Djeru had to haul him out.
"You have kept me waiting," Bontu hissed in displeasure.
Sighs of relief that we had made it cut short as we looked around the empty hall. Racks of weapons,
clear pools of water. Upon closer inspection, I noticed dark, sinuous shapes rippling beneath the
surface. "Water serpents," Kamat said, seeing my gaze. "Poisonous."
Looking at the pools, I also now saw that beneath the water, a bridge stretched between where we stood
and the platform Bontu occupied. However, where the walkway should begin, there was only a set of
scales. After a painful, pregnant pause, Djeru spoke up. "Have we not completed your Trial, Great
Bontu? What is left for us to do to earn your favor?"
The great lizard blinked her double eyelids, and pointed to the scales. "Only those who can pay my toll
may cross."
"What is this toll?" I asked.
Long ivory teeth. "One heart."
"For all of us?" Djeru asked. "We can—"
"For each."
I swallowed hard. The members of the crop stared around at each other. I saw hands inch toward
weapons.
"Surely, Bontu, we have lost enough to prove ourselves to you," I said.
Mighty eyes narrowed. "The Hours draw nigh. Your numbers are too great. Pay the toll, or fall
short and perish."
I stared at Bontu, stunned. Our numbers are too great?
A startled cry rang out. I turned, horrified, and watched an initiate fall, Neit's dagger in his back.
With a few bloody hacks, Neit was charging across toward the scales, cupping red hands to her chest.
Kamat slithered forward, tail lashing out, and Neit fell. Basetha dashed forward as Kamat and Neit
struggled, scooping up the dropped prize, and slammed it onto the scales. The glittering footbridge
rose, allowing her to cross over the snake-infested waters. I watched her kneel at Bontu's feet, and at
the nod of the god's head, the viziers handed her a cartouche.
The room smelled of wet earth, thick and unpleasant.
An arrow flew toward me and shattered off my skin, which was again rippling with golden light. I
turned in time to see Tarik collapse, dropping his bow as Nassor smashed his head in, the minotaur's
cudgel crunching through bone. As Nassor drew a knife from his hip to claim his prize, Neit rose,
slippery naga heart clenched in her hands.
All of it happened in silence. No screams, no shouts of command, just the occasional clang of metal on
metal, or blade sinking into flesh. Each fight ended in a flurry, one or two exchanges of blows—each
combatant knowing all the other's tricks.
I stood frozen in the center of the madness, occasional gleams of gold rippling across my skin.
Sudden words shattered the silence. Djeru and Meris faced each other, hands on weapons, a calm in a
storm.
"I won't kill you," Meris said. "You're my brother." He laughed. "As if I even could . . ."
Djeru looked about. "I can't protect you from the others."
Meris smiled sadly. "The answer's obvious."
Djeru dropped his hand from his blade, walked up to Meris, and embraced the boy. "I'll make it
painless, brother."
Meris returned the embrace. "Look for me in paradise."
The other clashes quieted as victors emerged. Soon, all eyes lingered on the pair. Djeru pulled back
from the embrace, looked Meris in the eyes, and smiled.
Then he shoved him into the water.
Immediately, the dark shapes of the poisonous snakes converged on Meris. As Meris floundered to the
surface, Djeru ran forward, holding him under.
"No!" I cried out, charging forward. Two initiates, hands bloody and red, grabbed my arms, trying to
stop me. I dragged them forward, straining toward Djeru—until I felt all energy drain from my limbs. I
looked up, my eyes catching the infinite gaze of Bontu, her slitted pupils fixed on me.
Watch, Kytheon Iora. Quiet your judgment, and learn.

I fell limp in the hold of the two initiates, helplessly watching as Djeru drowned his brother. I realized
he was muttering words as Meris thrashed.
"Rest, brother, in the cool of the water, in the eternal calm of death. You have come far, and I do this
now to preserve your body whole, unbroken and unblemished, only temporarily stilled by poison and
the weight of water in your lungs. May the Hours arrive soon, and may the God-Pharaoh return to bring
us all into the Afterlife."
Djeru's voice cracked as his incantation finished and Meris's struggles waned. I dropped to my knees,
and the initiates on either side released me, moving to retrieve their hard-won hearts.
Djeru pulled the body of Meris from the water, panting. "'The worthy strive for greatness.'" he
whispered. "'Supremacy will be rewarded in the Afterlife.'" He plunged his knife into Meris, teeth
gritted.
As he cut, the other victors walked toward the scales, one by one plopping their payment on the golden
plate. Djeru was last to cross, Meris's heart dripping in his hands. He crossed the bridge, head held
high, trying to hide the quiet tremble in his hands. The bridge sank quietly into the water as he reached
Bontu, kneeling to receive his cartouche.
Anger bubbled inside me. Not at Djeru, not at the others—but at Bontu, and Oketra as well. I stood, my
hands balled into fists.
"What am I to learn from this?" I bellowed across the chamber. My voice echoed off the cold stone
stairs. Shadows flickered as the flames in the braziers sputtered. All eyes turned toward me.
"Is this what you wanted me to see? That you demand the slaughter of the innocent? What purpose are
these deaths to serve? What mockery of faith and divinity is this madness?"
I ignored the mounting shouts of protest from Bontu's viziers and dove into the water. As I swam across
toward the platform, the snakes swarmed me, but my skin flashed gold and they reeled away with
broken fangs. I dragged myself out and stood before the god, glaring up.
Bontu's viziers stepped forward, arms raised in defensive stances, magic dancing across fingertips. But
Bontu raised a hand. She peered down her snout at me, her figure looming above. I ignored the looks of
horror and outrage from the remnants of the crop.
"You have not paid your toll," Bontu rasped.
"Here." I pounded a fist against my chest. "Come take it."
A long silence.
Bontu hissed a laugh, a wheezing sound that grew to a great crescendo.
"Still so brazen."
She stood.
"And yet, still so ignorant of our world."
I faltered. Bontu knows that I'm not from Amonkhet? . . . Of course. She's a god. But perhaps that
means she knows Bolas is also—
"You speak the words of a heretic," Djeru said. His voice trembled with a mix of rage and anguish.
"You would question our faith and our ways—you are no better than Samut."
"He is no heretic," Bontu hissed, "for he has yet to find his faith."
I shivered.
"You embarked on my Trial to find answers, Kytheon Iora. But you forgot to ask the right
questions."
Bontu stood from her throne, her figure towering above us.
"You've seen more of us, what we demand." Another hissing laugh escaped her fangs. "Only
excellence. True ambition. And yet, rather than understanding, I see only judgment in your
heart."
The slow lizard blink of her eyes. The feeling that she, too, saw right through me. I stumbled for words,
instead turning to the initiates.
"How do you all not doubt? Doubt the need of these endless deaths? Doubt this promise of your God-
Pharaoh? What if he is not what he has promised? What if—"
"Enough heresies!" Djeru cut me off, drawing his khopesh. The other initiates stalked closer, but again,
Bontu's voice halted us.
"How naïve."
She pointed a finger toward me, and I felt my breath escape my lungs. I gasped for air as her words
pierced through me.
"You look only for what satisfies your sense of justice. Your ambitions end with vindication for
your past hubris."
She sneered.
"Shallow and selfish."
I looked to the other initiates to find hardened stares and accusing eyes. I stood, frozen and unable to
breathe, and Bontu's voice echoed in my head for me to hear alone.
Such a long quest for faith, Kytheon Iora, and still you know nothing of it. Of course they doubt. Doubt
is the necessary shadow to the light of faith, Kytheon. The stronger the faith, the deeper the shadows of
uncertainty. Yet still, their ambitions drive them to shine brighter, reach higher, unsatisfied by
complacent divinity. When will you be able to say the same for yourself?
Her mouth curved into a smile.
"They are mine, and I am the God-Pharaoh's."
 "May his return come quickly, and may we be found worthy!" Initiates and viziers alike shouted as one
voice.
Bontu turned away from me and I fell to my knees, coughing, air rushing back into my lungs.
"Leave my temple."
The power of the command vibrated through my very core, and I found myself walking unimpeded, the
others parting to watch me pass. I exited through the lowest gate behind Bontu's throne, and everything
floated in a haze until I was outside again, washed in the red glow of the second sun. I looked up. It
appeared closer than ever toward its final position between the horns.
And I've moved ever further from understanding. This world. Myself.
Anything.
The sound of shuffling steps drew my attention. A stream of anointed also exited Bontu's temple,
carrying out a procession of the dead, now wrapped in white gauze. The realization slowly dawned on
me.
The anointed are the remnants of initiates fallen in battle. The missing limbs. The quiet servitude. The
stunted cartouches they wore.

Is their unlife a gift or slavery?

Are the gods good or corrupt extensions of Nicol Bolas? Is the viciousness of the Trials a dark
perversion of a world? Or is death truly the highest calling on a plane where all ends in undeath?
Overhead, the red sun plodded its inevitable steps toward Bolas's arrival and return. The God-Pharaoh's
return. The mantra echoed in my mind.
May he return quickly, and may I be found worthy.
My fingers wrapped into fists. I tore the cartouche from my neck, dropping it on the ground before me.
Worthy to strike him down.
By Michael Yichao
TRESPASS
Posted in Magic Story on May 10, 2017

Previous story: Brazen
Years before the arrival of the Gatewatch on Amonkhet, the fate and future of three children had
unforeseen effects on the destiny of the plane.

She found him at the edge of the water.

The screech of cranes taking wing announced her presence, and he turned to see her standing among
the reeds, sandaled feet spread wide, hands on hips, flashing a toothy grin.
"You may have sneaked by the others, Nakht, but you can't escape me." Her voice carried effortlessly
across the distance.
The young aven boy gave a little flutter of his wings, the girl's happiness spilling out and washing over
him.
"I couldn't sleep," he said, wading out of the river.
She nodded. "I know. Me neither."
Nakht snorted as he reached her, his bare feet squishing on the rich silt of the bank. "Please. I heard you
snoring like a roaring sandwurm as I walked by your cot."
She laughed. "Hey! I was, uh, just pretending to sleep, dummy."
Nakht fixed her with his best impression of a stern vizier's stare. "Samut: queen of snorers, worst at
telling lies."
Samut gave him a playful shove, sending him stumbling back into the water, wings flapping for
balance. A surprised yelp melted into a playful trill, and he crouched in a defensive stance, water
lapping at his knees. Samut's eyes lit up at the invitation. Her feet shifted instinctively as she assumed a
grappling pose, ready to spar.
Even though they were the same age, Samut stood nearly a head taller than Nakht. She was faster and
stronger and had the high ground. Against any other opponent, Nakht knew picking a fight was foolish.
But Nakht also knew Samut.
She sprang to action, charging down toward him, crossing the space between them with surprising
speed. Water splashed as she lunged at him. Nakht ducked, his body dipping toward the surface of the
water, weight centered and grounded. Samut stumbled in her haste, hands swiping at air as she lost her
balance in the sinking silt of the river. Nakht thrust his hands into the water, grabbed her leg, and
pulled. Samut disappeared with a yelp and a splash, dunked underwater.
His advantage was short lived, though, as Nakht felt a strong hand grasp his arm and went tumbling
under the surface as well. For a moment, all was bubbles and frothing water. Then two heads broke to
the surface, Nakht shaking the water from his feathers as peals of laughter rang out from Samut. She
stood up in the water, her short, dark hair matted and wet, framing her round face.
"Dang it, Nakht! I'll get you first one of these times!"
"Unlikely." Nakht paid for his quip with a face full of water.
"You'd take him down first every time if you paused to think before you leapt to action."
Samut and Nakht turned in surprise. On the shore, Djeru stood watching them, attempts at appearing
stern betrayed by the smile in his eyes.
Samut splashed water in his direction. "Stop trying to act so mature, Djeru."
Djeru nimbly stepped back, far out of range of Samut. "We should be preparing, not playing in the
river."
"Hey, no one asked you to follow us here," Samut said.
"Someone has to keep you two out of trouble."
Samut rolled her eyes as she waded out of the river. With a flap or two of his wings, Nakht flew ahead
of her to the shore.
"I just . . . wanted to get away and think," he said as he landed. "Be by myself, for just a moment." He
walked into the reeds to fetch where he'd hidden his sandals, and when he turned back, he saw Samut
standing, her face slightly crestfallen.
"Oh," she said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt—"
"No, no, it's fine! I didn't mean to say it like that. I don't mind you two being here. Honest. It's . . . nice
knowing you guys have my back." Nakht shook his head. "It's just—today's our Harvest." His gaze
drifted out across the river, back toward the rest of the city.
Naktamun stretched before them, proud monuments and towering buildings looming far into the
distance. The red-orange glow of the second sun, low on the horizon, glimmered off the structures.
Small felucca boats drifted along the river, white sails cutting sharp angles across the horizon. The first
sun peeked just barely above the distant horizon, still hidden behind the temple of Hazoret, its golden
rays casting a halo of light around the darkened silhouette of the temple.

Every day, for as long as Nakht could remember, the anointed caretakers took him and the other
children to the high gardens to view the city. Every day, their vizier teachers would lecture them.
"Appreciate the beauty and wonders of Naktamun," the viziers said. "Witness the blessings of the Gods
that made it possible." Every day, it seemed, a new temple or grand shrine would see completion,
testaments to the gods and to the awaited Hours. The Viziers' lessons all spoke of the people's true
purpose. And now, on the Day of Harvest, as they turned twelve, he, Djeru, and Samut would take their
first steps toward their destined paths, toward discovering their fate and part in this grand city.
Samut ruffled the feathers on Nakht's head. "It's an exciting day, Nakht! It's finally our turn! Today, we
leave childhood behind and step up to join those who have gone before. It is a day of beginnings, of
purpose and unity!"
Nakht nodded, familiar with Vizier Ahmose's words. Yet he couldn't shake the gnawing sense of worry
that lingered in the pit of his stomach, as it had when he left their sleeping quarters earlier that morning.
Djeru sighed. "We should get back, you two. The others are surely waking up now. I imagine there are
preparations still to be made." He deftly dodged the mud clod Samut threw his direction and turned
around, tromping along the bank back toward the heart of the city.
Nakht lingered behind. Samut walked up to him, too close, fingers still dripping with mud, and leered
into his face. "You're worried," she declared.
Nakht laughed. "You're blunt."
"You think too much."
"You act too rashly."
The two descended into their best Vizier Heqet impressions, wagging fingers and shaking their heads.
"I hope you find more focus in your training."
"I hope you learn to trust your instincts."
"I hope we get to stay together." One of his fears escaped Nakht's mouth and lingered in the air. Samut
stopped mid finger wag, her eyebrows raised in surprise. Nakht stumbled on. "You, Djeru, and I. I think
we are good together. And . . . I would miss you both."
Samut straightened and nodded, and Nakht felt the weight on his chest lighten, just a bit.
"Me too." Samut's gaze flitted back toward the city. "I want to strive for the Afterlife with you and
Djeru by my side. But even if not . . . even if we ended up in different crops, Oketra will guide us true.
'I place my faith in the gods, whose faith is in the God-Pharaoh.'"
Nakht nodded at the familiar incantation. "May he return quickly and may we be found worthy," he
said. Then, the next words tumbled out of him, spurred by the escape of his other fear. "But what
if . . . what if I have questions?" He broke away from Samut's gaze, averting her questioning eyes.
"What if my faith falters?"
The silence between them stretched, and Nakht wondered if he'd made a terrible mistake. Finally,
Samut spoke.
"You're no dissenter, Nakht." Samut's voice was low and quiet. "We all fear. We all falter. I too have
had questions." Samut pointed to the sand dunes just a short distance away. "But even the great Hekma
is not impenetrable. We've heard stories of monstrosities sometimes wandering in." Nakht nodded, his
eyes tracing the shimmers of the barrier that kept them safe from the wastes beyond. Hot sand, swirling
in wild storms, pushed high just outside the barrier, stopped by the powerful magic. Just steps from the
dry and dead dunes, lush greenery flourished, nurtured by the Luxa river.
Samut took a slow breath in. "But I know the gods are true. They keep us safe from those horrors. And
they guide us toward glory. It's like Vizier Heqet says. I mean, it's like he says, in between yelling at us.
'To have faith is to question, to gaze into the face of doubt and find renewed truth.'"
Nakht shook his head. "You paid more attention to lessons than I gave you credit for."
A smile crept back on Samut's face. "Like I've said: I just pretend to sleep."
Nakht gave her a shove and ran to catch up to Djeru who had stopped at the bridge ahead, waiting
patiently for them. Samut quickly sprinted by the two boys as the first sun crested over the distant
temples, and even Djeru joined as they raced back, Nakht's anxieties melting away in the heat of day.

"Psst. Nakht."
Nakht opened his eyes.
"Nakht. Hey Nakht." A little louder, a little more urgency. He stayed still and silent.
"Nakht. Nakht. Nakht. I said, Nakht." Nakht's bed shook until he turned over on his cot, his wings
crumpled beneath him as he stared up into Samut's eager face.
"Are you awake, Nakht?"
Nakht suppressed a laugh at Samut's earnest question. "No," he said, and rolled back onto his side.
"Oh shush," she said, pulling on his arm. Nakht rolled back, sitting up.
"Couldn't sleep," Samut said as she plopped down next to him.
"None of us can, thanks to you Samut," grumbled a voice in the dark. Djeru's face emerged in the semi-
darkness, grumpy and wrinkled into a yawn.
As if to prove his point, a voice from a nearby cot mumbled, "Shush, you guys." A few other voices
muttered their support, and behind Djeru, Nakht saw the shape of several anointed walking slowly
toward them. He put a finger to his beak and grabbed Djeru and Samut's hand. The trio ducked down
and crawled their way under the cots and bunks, pausing to let shambling bandaged feet go by. Once
they got as close as they could to the main doors, they rolled out and dashed for freedom. The anointed
caretakers didn't notice as they cracked the door open, a flash of nighttime red light dancing across the
rows of cots before the three of them slipped outside to freedom.
Behind them, the Children's Quarters loomed large and mildly ominous, the crimson light of the second
sun casting deep shadows across its façade. They quickly ducked down a side alley and came to a
fountain adorned with a statue of Kefnet—their usual spot where they hid on the cool nights when they
snuck out of bed.
Djeru let out another yawn, and Samut cuffed him on the head. "Were you really actually sleeping?
How can you not be excited?" She looked at him incredulously.
"For your information, I can sleep and still feel excited," said Djeru.
Samut rolled her eyes. "You're so boring, Djeru."
"Sorry, Samut, but I'm with Djeru on this one," Nakht offered. "Tomorrow we begin our training as
disciples. We'll want to be well rested."
"Sleep is for the unambitious! We are Djeru, Nakht, and Samut of the Tah crop!" Samut puffed out her
chest. The boys groaned, but beneath their surface blasé attitude, an electric excitement hummed.
Samut pressed on. "Setha and Besetha are in our crop, too. I can't wait to meet everyone and start
training together!"
Djeru nodded. "That's all swell, but I imagine Nakht will have more training separate from us."
Samut frowned. "What, you mean like more flying lessons and such?"
"Were you not paying attention during the Harvest? Nakht received a staff while we received
khopeshes." Djeru smiled at Nakht. "It seems you've been keeping a secret from us."
Samut gave Nakht a quizzical look, and Nakht's feathers at the crown of his head ruffled in mild
embarrassment. "It's not really a secret. I just haven't had a chance to tell you guys. And it's not like I
can really control it yet." With a glance at Djeru, Nakht turned his focus to the fountain behind them.
He reached out a hand, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. In the darkness, he heard the burble of
water, followed by Djeru and Samut's gasps. He pulled with his hand and pulled with his mind, opening
his eyes as a small gush of water swirled sprang from the fountain and danced around his fingertips.
The water flowed in surging ribbons, never quite touching his skin, swirling to form a small sphere in
his palm, wobbling briefly before bursting like a plump grape.
Samut let out a low whistle. "That's incredible! How did you—when did you realize?"
Nakht put his hand into the fountain, enjoying the coolness of the water. "Only recently. I found when I
moved in the river, the river sometimes . . . listened and followed my lead."
Djeru smiled. "Everyone says it's important to have mages in a crop. You'll make ours all the stronger
with your skills."
"I'm so glad we got to stay together. The three of us will be unstoppable!" Samut grabbed Nakht in a
headlock and mussed his feathers. Nakht laughed and squirmed out of her grasp, only to knock into
Djeru, accidentally pushing him into the fountain. Djeru clambered out, sopping wet, his face dour and
annoyed. Samut doubled over, giggling at the dripping Djeru—until Djeru lunged and threw her in the
fountain as well. The three descended into a tumble of playful pushes and shoves, trying to stifle their
laughter in the quiet of the night.
After tiring themselves out, they sat along the edge of the fountain, catching their breath. Suddenly,
Samut stood and turned to the two boys.
"I have a secret too," she declared.
And she was off, dashing into the night. Djeru and Nakht looked at each other, shrugged, and ran to
follow.

Nakht had never been to this part of the city before. Samut had led them there through a series of twists
and turns, ducking down narrow alleyways, leading into a forgotten district, far from the center and
from the main monuments. Once, Nakht suspected, this area had housed barracks, but as new living
quarters were built, it appeared much of the old housing was abandoned and forgotten. The buildings
that still stood in this district were old, worn with sun and time. Newer layers of rooms and roofs hid
the more dilapidated remnants of structures from bygone years. As they went deeper, even the
hieroglyphics on the walls looked different than what Nakht had studied, with many symbols he didn't
recognize.
He had taken flight to keep up. Samut ran with a speed and endurance that few could match, even
among the older children. Djeru was one of the few who came close. Nakht knew Samut had slowed
down for him, but even then, he found himself out of breath as they arrived, the narrow pathways
opening up into a small square.
"What is this place, Samut?" Djeru wheezed a bit, wiping sweat from his face.
Samut waved at a massive mural on an old and crumbling wall on the far side of the square. The paints
were faded, the carved portions worn nearly flat. "I'm not sure, but it's old. Really old. It's probably
older than anyone we know."
Nakht walked up to the mural, eyes squinting as he tried to decipher its meaning. The painting
illustrated figures in various stances. Some looked almost familiar, like a few of the combat poses
taught by the viziers, but many others didn't make any sense. There were also more glyphs and runes
that Nakht couldn't read, interwoven with familiar ones. Even the ones he could read carried odd
flourishes and deviations, resulting in a very different style and look.
"How strange," he murmured.
Djeru looked a little uncomfortable. "The gods teach us not to dwell on the old, on things that have
passed. The Trials and the Afterlife all lie ahead of us, not behind."
"But look—the gods are here too! On these old murals. There's Hazoret." Samut pointed at a tall figure
in a painting, and Nakht realized that was indeed Hazoret—but she looked different, rendered in a style
foreign to what he'd seen on everything else. Hazoret gazed over the smaller figures: humans, aven,
khenra, minotaurs, and naga, all standing in various stances.
"What do you think they're doing?" Nakht asked, pointing to the strange poses.
Samut smiled. "That's my secret. I've been trying to figure it out. I think these are old fighting stances,
or movement forms, or something."
With that, Samut assumed the first stance on the mural: a sturdy, familiar posture, with feet squared for
balance. As she began to move, though, her body flowed with a rhythm and heartbeat unlike any of the
fighting forms, fluid and lithe, strong yet flexible, a reed bending in the wind. She hit each pose
depicted in the mural, her feet stirring the dust as her gestures stirred a flitting recognition in Nakht's
mind. She moves much as I fly, he realized—muscles driven by primordial instinct more than thought,
ancestral memories passed down through something deeper than just words or even blood.
Samut stopped, jarring in her sudden stillness. "That's about as much as I've got so far," she confessed.
"That was . . . beautiful." Nakht smiled. Samut blushed. Djeru coughed.
"I wonder if this is an old temple to Hazoret," Samut changed the subject. "It just feels . . . important,
somehow, you know?"
"I don't know," Djeru interjected. He walked up to Samut, staring at the mural, his face etched with
suspicion rather than wonder. "If it is, why is it abandoned? Why do the art and glyphs look so strange?
Maybe . . . maybe we're not supposed to be here."
"You're always such a spoilsport." Samut punched Djeru in the arm.
"I just think you should be careful," he said, rubbing the bruise already forming.
Samut snorted. "You could loosen up a bit, Djeru. Kefnet demands initiates to ask questions and have
an inquisitive mind."
"Oketra teaches a crop should have discipline."
The two fell to squabbling, quoting the gods and calling each other childish names. Nakht ignored them
as he traced his hand on the faded mural, lingering at the feet of the painted Hazoret.
"It almost makes you wonder," he mused out loud, "if there ever was a time before the gods."
The sudden silence snapped Nakht out of his thoughts. He turned to find Djeru and Samut both looking
at him.
"The God-Pharaoh is eternal." Djeru raised an eyebrow at Nakht.
"Of course," Nakht said.
An awkward silence lingered.
". . . may he return quickly, and may we be found worthy," Samut said.
"Thank you. Yes." Nakht rustled his wings. Djeru frowned.
"It's just—well, if the God-Pharaoh is currently gone, was there a time before his first arrival?" Nakht
could feel the growing unease from Djeru and Samut, but he pressed on. "If he taught the gods, and the
gods teach us, who taught him before?"
"The God-Pharaoh doesn't need teaching. He is the source of all," Djeru answered. "That's the first
thing we learned in our lessons."
Samut let out a low groan. "Please don't encourage him, Nakht. I barely survived this lesson from
Vizier Heqet, I don't think I could survive listening to Djeru explain it poorly."
The tension dissipated and Djeru laughed while Nakht smiled weakly.
". . . Anyway, now you know my secret." Samut threw a punch at Djeru. "Your turn."
Djeru blinked. "My turn?"
"Nakht and I each shared a secret." Samut nodded solemnly. "It's only fair that you share one."
Djeru looked perplexed. "I don't have any secrets," he said.
"That's a lie," Samut said. "I know even you aren't that boring, Djeru."
Djeru thought for a moment, then his face lit up.
"Well," he said, "it's not really a secret. I mean, it is, but only because I haven't had the chance to tell
yet."
"Stop being mysterious and show us!" Samut poked Djeru in the chest. Djeru smiled and walked
quickly out of the square. Samut kept pace right behind him.
"So . . . I guess we're just not sleeping at all tonight," Nakht said to the back of their heads.

Nakht stared, not believing what he saw. He reached a hand out and felt the semi-translucent barrier of
the Hekma, shimmering and incandescent. Although woven from powerful water magic, the barrier felt
solid, impenetrable, a wall powerful enough to stop the sand and shadows that stalked the wastes.
From the other side, Djeru waved, smiling mischievously.
Samut and Nakht watched as he dropped prone and crawled toward them, working his way through the
near-invisible hole in the Hekma. Soon enough, he was standing next to them again, the only evidence
of his passage the small trail he left in the sand and the scalding air blasting against their shins.
"We have to go out there," Nakht said.
His words instantly wiped the smile from Djeru's face.
"No way," Djeru said. "We should tell the viziers of Kefnet so they can patch the hole."
"What good is a secret if you tell it right away?" Nakht asked.
Djeru vehemently shook his head. "I told you, it's not a real secret. I found the spot yesterday when I
was looking for you two and simply haven't had a chance to tell anyone yet."
"So another hour or two won't hurt." Even Nakht was mildly surprised at the words coming out of his
beak. But Samut's mural had stirred something within him. "I want to know what's on the other side."
Djeru's eyes narrowed. "We do  know what's on the other side. Monsters, wandering dead, emptiness,
and wastelands. It is where the angels take dissenters so that our focus and devotion may be pure."
"We know what we've been told about what's on the other side," Nakht countered. He knew how his
words sounded, but he pressed on. "I want to look for myself. Before we begin our path on the Trials."
"I'm not sure you know what you're saying." Djeru's eyes had widened as Nakht talked, and he shook
his head fervently. "You're sounding like, like a—"
"A dissenter. I know." Nakht blinked, and was surprised to find tears forming in his eyes, suppressed
fears bubbling to the surface. "I'm not. At least, I don't think I am. I love the gods—when Oketra
walked among our class, I felt so happy. When Rhonas watched us train that afternoon, I felt pride and
strength I never knew before."
He looked out beyond the barrier, felt the hot winds sweeping at his feet. "But my heart is still filled
with questions. That mural filled me with so many questions. All around us, as the gods and the viziers
provide answers, I see only more questions. I am full to bursting, and . . . I need to know. I need to see
it, to find it, for myself."
"What do you expect to find?" Djeru tried to sound stern, but Nakht caught the waver in his voice.
"I don't know." Nakht laughed and rubbed his eyes. "It's probably dumb, it's probably nothing
but . . . when are we ever going to get a chance to look for ourselves again?"
The three stood at the edge of the Hekma, watching the churn of sand. Finally, Samut spoke up.
"You're the least dumb person I know, Nakht. And . . . I want to know too." She turned to Djeru. "We'll
be careful, and quick, and back long before morning. Who knows; maybe we'll find something to bring
into the beginning of our training as disciples of the Tah crop."
She gave Nakht's shoulder a squeeze, flashed a smile, then dropped to her belly and began crawling
through to the other side. Djeru watched her go, his face etched with worry, but didn't call out to stop
her. Nakht put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You don't have to come, Djeru. I would not fault you."
He turned and crawled after Samut.
From behind him, Nakht heard Djeru sigh. "Vizier Heqet would kill us for this."
"Good thing he's not teaching us anymore," Samut shouted from ahead.

The heat pressed down on the trio, unrelenting. Even though it was still night, the warmth from the lone
sun still had all three of them drowning in sweat.
They had walked for an hour or so through the sand, always keeping Naktamun in their sights behind
them. Djeru looked on edge, but Samut seemed genuinely excited, and her energy helped loosen the
growing unease grasping at the group. For a while, it seemed everything the viziers taught them had
been true. They trekked through a dead world, nothing but sand beneath their feet and scalding winds at
their backs. Even so, they stayed alert, stories of monsters and cursed undead pressed against the
Hekma playing in loops within their heads.
Then they found it.
Nakht spotted it first, what appeared to be just a stony outcropping in the sand. Some rock, jutting out
like a wayward splinter. They walked toward it, more to have something to walk toward than anything.
Once they reached the stone, Samut clambered up, ran along the length of it, jumped off the other side
—and let out a surprised yelp. Djeru and Nakht ran forward and saw what gave her a jolt—one
enormous eye peered out from just above the sand, the half-buried face of a giant stone statue gazing
eternally off into the distance.
Beyond the buried statue, a minefield of ruins poked out of the sand. Most of the stones were worn
smooth by sun and wind. On some, remnants of glyphs and writing remained. They walked among
them, pausing at the various stones, trying to guess what they used to be. The roof of some building,
maybe training quarters. Some kind of abandoned temple for a god, the figure still etched on a broken
pillar, towering above the humans below, but its face sanded into an unrecognizable blur. Most
fragments and protruding bits of stone were impossible to distinguish. Samut soon descended into
guessing outlandish things for each ruin they came across.
"Well," Djeru said, shaking his head at Samut's suggestion that a stone slab was flooring for a room
made entirely of chamber pots, "If nothing else, this is proof that without the God-Pharaoh's blessing of
the Hekma, all else withers away."
Looking around, Nakht couldn't refute Djeru's point.
Suddenly, Samut shoved them behind the remnants of a wall, pressing them flat against the hot stone.
Their protests hushed at the wild, fearful look in her eyes, and the unexpected sound of shifting sands.
Nakht slid slowly to the edge of the wall and peeked around.

In the far distance, a looming . . . thing shuffled across the sand. Towering taller even than the gods, its
bizarre limbs seemed to extend forever,  knocking dunes flat and reshaping the sand around it as it
stalked the horizon. A strange, low moan reverberated through the air, sending shockwaves rippling
through the sand and resonating in their stomachs and their bones.
Nakht turned back to Samut and Djeru. "What in the name of the gods is that thing?" he whispered,
eyes wide.
"Don't care, don't care to find out." Samut looked around the wall on her side, watching the thing's
movement. Suddenly she dashed forward. Djeru and Nakht scrambled after her, and they all slid down
a dune toward a shallow, fetid pool of water—remnants of what must have once been an oasis.
They didn't stop running until they had crossed to the other side and ducked within the remnants of a
shrine. The tiny stone structure still had all four walls, though its roof was long gone, destroyed in
some past calamity. Samut and Djeru stood by the entrance, holding the decaying wooden door open
just a crack and peering back toward where they spotted the monstrosity.
"Okay. Endless heat. Sand. Destruction. Desolation. Crazy monsters and demons." Djeru listed the
things off on his hands. "The desert wastes are everything we've been taught. Are you two happy now?
Can we go back?"
Nakht started to respond, but something by Djeru's head caught his eye. The hieroglyphs in this shrine
were much more readable, closer in style and design to the script they learned in training. On the wall
behind Djeru, the symbol for the God-Pharaoh loomed like a crown, framing his worried face. Unlike
everything else they saw on these ruins, the symbol looked freshly hewn, rough and uneven, as if by a
desperate hand. Right beneath the symbol, a single word was carved in a shaky scrawl:
Trespasser.
Samut saw it as well, and looked questioningly at Nakht. Nakht shuddered. The word felt like a bad
omen, a curse reaching out across time from the God-Pharaoh himself. We should not be here, he
thought.
"I'm sorry, Djeru. You were right. We should not have come." Another involuntary shiver rolled down
his spine despite the oppressive heat.
Samut turned her attention back outside. "Let's get back to Naktamun before—what are those?!"
Samut opened the door further so they could see. Immediately, Nakht wished she hadn't. From the
stagnant water and the surrounding sands, rotting corpses started to rise. Humans, jackals, aven. Angry
moans rose from their dry, desiccated throats as they shambled out of the water, out of the sand,
awakening and surging toward the three children.
"Dissenters," Djeru backed away from the entrance, his face a frozen mask of horror. "Returned by the
curse of wandering."
Samut slammed the door shut just as the first corpse rushed at them. The thin wood cracked and rattled
at the impact, and Djeru quickly charged to help hold the door against the monstrosities. Claws and
dead hands raked and tore at wood, and the moans reached a dull roar as more gathered on the outside.
"We're trapped!" Samut cried. Nakht backed away from the door just as one clawed hand punched
through. Djeru yelled and ducked as the hand swung about wildly, searching for flesh.
Nakht spread his wings and leapt up. With a few flaps, he cleared the shrine walls, gaining a clear view
of the mass of risen dead below.
So many.
He gazed down as more of the risen charged the tiny stone shrine. There was no way Samut and Djeru
would hold their position. He had to do something. Through the haze of fear and doubt and panic, the
fleeting shape of a plan flitted through his thoughts, and he latched onto it.
It wasn't a good plan. But desperation didn't leave him any time for alternatives.
Nakht dove down, flying through the throngs of risen, close enough to grab their attention. Decaying
claws and withered hands gnarled into stumps swung at him. He flew back over the water, letting loose
a piercing screech, pulling their attention from the shrine and onto himself. As the throngs shifted, he
shouted out to his friends.
"Djeru! Samut! Run, now!"
The door flew open, knocking aside the few straggling risen still by it. Samut and Djeru dashed out.
"Run! Go!"
The first of the risen hit the water with a splash, and Nakht turned his attention back to the swarm now
charging him. He flapped his wings hard against the dry desert air, staying just out of reach of their
grasping hands and claws.
When most the mob was in the water, he took a deep breath, raised his hands, and closed his eyes.
Beneath him, the shallow water churned and began to swirl.
Kefnet, grant me wisdom; Rhonas, grant me strength, he prayed.
His eyes flew open and Nakht clenched his hands into fists. The stagnant waters beneath him swirled
into a whirlpool and tendrils of water broke the surface, lashing at the risen below, knocking some
down and pulling others under.
Nakht looked up and saw Djeru and Samut still standing just outside the shrine, staring with a mix of
terror and awe. "Come on, let's go!" he shouted. He kept his hands held tight, trying to maintain focus
as he flew higher, back toward his friends standing in the sand. Finally, Djeru and Samut turned and
began running back in the direction of the city. Nakht started to dive after them, the moans and cries of
the horde a dull roar beneath him.
Suddenly, a dread fell over his entire body, and all his muscles seized. Beneath him, the water stopped
churning as he lost his hold of the spell, but all the risen stood frozen as well. His wings flapped on, but
he didn't—couldn't—fly forward.
Panic descended, his mind screaming to move, to flee, to do something, but his body refused to obey.
Slowly, with a scream tearing in his thoughts and squeaking out his throat in a feeble squawk, he turned
his head to look behind him.
The great horror he saw earlier loomed, standing at the crest of the large dune in the distance. Its face—
or where there might have been a face—gazed in his direction. Icy shards of dread ran through Nakht's
body. He blinked, his wing muscles burning with the strain of flying in place.
When he opened his eyes, the horror stood right in front of him.
Mask-like bone where a face should have been. A glowing rhombus of light for an eye. Endless void,
darkness for a body, shifting horror and roiling despair.
An impossible appendage reached for Nakht, almost ponderous and drifting in its path.
The cacophonous cries of aven voices rang in his ears, and out of the corner of his eyes, he saw undead
bird forms float and flit, gnats around a corpse, gifting eternal voices to the voiceless shadow.
His scream tore from a squawk to a full-throated screech.
Then the darkness consumed him.

Samut crested the dune and paused, looking back for Nakht. She froze at the sight of the looming
monstrosity, mouth agape as the shadowy horror touched her friend. She heard his soul-rending screech
as he instantly withered and decayed, drying into a lifeless husk. An anguished cry escaped her, but
then Djeru was tackling her, sending the two tumbling down the far side of the dune, sprays of sand
flying as they rolled to a halt at the bottom. There, the two stayed, hearts pounding, half buried in the
sand, listening as the sounds of the horrors they witnessed slowly faded away. Only when the larger sun
peeked over the horizon, and the only sound that reached their ears was the whistle of the ceaseless
wind, did they pick themselves up and run, full speed and desperate, back toward the city.

Time passed in cascading waves, burying that moment deep within the hearts of the two children. Yet
from the seeds of their pain, divergent thoughts and questions grew, bearing vastly different fruit.
One heart, hardened by the sacrifice it witnessed, found deeper faith in the words of the gods, the
protections promised and the chance at a meaningful death. The other, torn asunder by the senseless
loss, took up the mantle of doubt and questions, of seeking solace and clarity in the past rather the
ceaseless march toward the future and the After.
And so time swept by, relentless and steady as the Luxa. Children became young adults. Disciples
became initiates, bound on the path of the Trials, as decreed by the God-Pharaoh and upheld by the
gods. Yet even as they journeyed forward through the path laid out before them, neither forgot their
 trespass as children.
For Samut, her search for truths long forgotten drew her back, time and again, to the mural she shared
with Nakht and Djeru. When the dull ache of her memories drew fresh pain, when the hollow loss of
her friend bubbled to the surface, she would dive deeper into the ancient, abandoned parts of
Naktamun. Fragments of what they witnessed outside the Hekma, tantalizing half-remembered glyphs
from ruins she could no longer reach, flitted at the edges of her understanding. With each new piece of
the past she found, her questions about the Trials and the true nature of the gods deepened.
And so she spent as much time among the stones as she did among her fellow initiates, seeking with the
borrowed curiosity and hunger of Nakht, striving desperately to bring into flesh and bone the dance and
motions of a secret history.
That was what led her, on one fated day, as the second sun drew closer to its final zenith between the
horns of the promised God-Pharaoh, to a sealed chamber deep within the halls of Bontu's Monument.
There, where no initiate was to tread, and where even Bontu had forgotten its existence, she discovered
a glyph she had not seen since her journey on the sands.
The walls of the shadowed chamber spoke of the God-Pharaoh's first arrival on Amonkhet, of his
eminence and power. His horns, the ever-present symbol so common throughout Naktamun, reigned
over all else. But the hieroglyphics did not call the God-Pharaoh such, instead naming him something
different, a name she could not decipher, written in an ancient script lost to time. However, underneath
the unspeakable name, was a title Samut recognized:
Trespasser.
In an instant, memories of the forgotten shrine in the desert flooded back. As Samut surveyed the rest
of the wall, depicting great and terrible destruction, cold realization seeped into her gut.
We are not the trespassers, barred from the desert.
The God-Pharaoh is the Great Trespasser.
Not of this world, born elsewhere, he arrived then left, and in his wake we struggle for meaning.
He did not save us from calamity.
He caused it.
All the childhood stories, all the myths of the God-Pharaoh, of his birth from chaos, his bringing of
order from destruction, of his promised glorious return, rendered into sharp clarity, the truth cutting
across Samut's heart and drawing blood.
The people had been fooled. The truth had been abandoned. The gods had been lied to—or somehow
made to forget.
She had to warn them all.
As she left the chamber, sprinting with otherworldly speed, a dark magic slowly flickered to life across
the runes.
Outside, in the sky, the red sun crawled ever closer to its final resting place.
By Michael Yichao
Previous story: Trespass
Samut has abandoned the Trials, her crop, and her old life. She has spent the last few days on the run
and is desperate to stay alive long enough to face the trespasser who transformed her world. After
discovering that her city is not the way it was only decades ago, she is determined to convince her
oldest and dearest friend, Djeru, to believe her. When a direct confrontation doesn't convince him,
Samut turns to the only god that could spare his life.

Samut had spent three days without casting a shadow. The light of the suns was a luxury a fugitive
could not afford. She had dashed from hiding place to hiding place, pressing herself into the dark
crevices of the city-state, out of sight of angels and the anointed dead.

Today, her shelter was a former embalming chamber. She hurried in, kicking over a table of dried-out
unguents and organ vessels in her haste, and pulled the heavy stone door shut. She lit a torch in its
sconce. And then she waited.
It was three days ago that viziers and the anointed dead had seized her. After her ill-advised shouts of
dissent, their hands had clamped onto her arms and over her mouth and dragged her out of earshot. She
had broken free of her captors at the small cost of a dislocated shoulder, fleeing into the city's dark
places using all the speed she had—but how could she have been so careless? When thousands of
citizens happily accepted their suffocating blanket of lies, how could she think she could sway hearts
by simply yelling in the street? Well, no more. She only cared about swaying one now.
There was a scraping sound at the door. She shoved it open, squinting into the dust-dancing shafts of
sunlight. A figure appeared: a guardian mummy wrapped head to toe in linen. Samut beckoned it in.
The mummy shuffled its way over the threshold, step by step. When it had made its way into the
chamber, she hauled the door shut again with a crunch of sandstone on sandstone.
The mummy looked at Samut, its taut wrappings flickering in the torchlight.
Samut grinned. "So? Give me a hug already."
The mummy's shoulders sank. "This is blasphemy," it mumbled in a familiar male voice.
"But it got you here without getting either of us killed," Samut said.
"I can barely move," the mummy said, stretching its constricted shoulders. "Get me out of this."
She helped the mummy unwrap the linen bindings. The wholesome face of her friend Djeru emerged,
and he shrugged the rest of the way out of the disguise. This was the one face she wanted to see. This
was her one remaining ally in the world—her cropmate, her brother-in-arms, her friend.
She clasped her arms around him. "I'm glad you're alive," she whispered in his ear.
Djeru backed out of the embrace, holding Samut at arm's length. "How is it you are free to summon me
here? I heard they had you on a tight leash after your show of . . . of dissent."
Samut scanned his eyes for judgment. "For my heresy, you mean."
"For defying the law of the gods," he said quietly.
"That's what I asked you here for," she said. "I'm free now, Djeru. You can be free, too."
"Free? From what? You want me to break the law as well?"
That stung. An arrest was tantamount to guilt in his eyes. Was he so ready to relinquish their
friendship? "The law has been corrupted. And so have the gods."
Djeru was shaking his head. "You impugn the God-Pharaoh himself."
Samut clasped her hands together. "But he's the very lie that has corrupted the world! There were old
customs before the God-Pharaoh, before these Trials. He made the world forget itself. He remade the
world and remade the gods to suit his whims."
"Is that why you called me here? To spin stories at me?" He shook his hands in frustration. "I should be
in training, Samut. The Trial of Zeal nears. Or have you forgotten what that means to an initiate?"
"I have not forgotten what it means to you." She put a hand on his arm and squeezed. "But I cannot call
a lie the truth, and you shouldn't either."
"What are you saying?"
"Don't go to the final Trial."
"Samut."
"Don't throw yourself away. Don't offer up your death, just for—for sport."
"Sport? You call the most holy pinnacle of my life a sp—" He walked in an exasperated circle.
That was wrong of her. Painfully wrong. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I just—I have seen what the viziers don't
want us to see. I have seen how our society has been—twisted. The skeleton of our world removed and
replaced with something else. You think you'll be proving yourself a worthy Djeru, but you'll just be
destroying Djeru."
He pointed a finger at her. "You're telling me to destroy Djeru in another way instead, by throwing
away everything I've worked for to get this far. You're telling me to dishonor myself and dishonor the
gods."
She was losing him. She didn't know what to say. "Would the gods want you to die? Would Nakhtwant
you to die?" Samut said, and instantly she knew it was the exact wrong thing to say.
"Don't you bring his name into this," Djeru snapped. "Nakht died unworthy, out there in the dunes,
because of our stupidity. Because of our foolish trespass. And now he roams the sands, biting the
intestines out of desiccated corpses. I'm not making that mistake with my own life."
Samut wanted to shout at him—You utter dunce! You proud and simple fool! You'd rather die than
show that you were tricked by a false pharaoh! But she tried to keep her voice even. She knew if she
yelled at him, she would just be another nameless dissenter, ranting in the street—and that she would
lose him to his self-destructive beliefs.
"Djeru, my friend," she said. "Nakht died to show us what it looks like when a life is cut short. To show
us the ugly futility of death."
"No," Djeru said. "He died for nothing."
Something snapped in her. "SO WILL YOU!" she roared at him. Her words rang in the fire-lit chamber,
reverberating off the stone walls.

Djeru tipped his chin up. He beat his chest with his fist with ritual solemnity. "I die to rise eternal," he
said, in the rhythm of the initiates' chants.
Samut dropped her head, feeling suddenly heavy. She walked in a slow circle, rubbing the back of her
neck, pulling at the tight coils of her hair. Every instinct in her body told her it was hopeless to try to
save him from himself. Of course she couldn't make that decision for him—the more she pressed him,
the further he would back away. She had to walk away, and let him decide for himself.
Except that walking away was not her strong suit.
"Don't go to that Trial," she said.
He made a bitter half-laugh. "You know I had hoped you called me here to ask for my help?" He shook
his head. "I thought you wanted me to help you get back on the path. To attest to Temmet for you.
Maybe to keep you from rotting in a sarcophagus somewhere."
"Djeru."
"You think I'm throwing my life away? You might be the greatest initiate of our time. It's a waste,
Samut. You've chosen to be a waste."
"I don't care what you think of me," she whispered. "Just don't die."
"Maybe the gods can teach you to believe, dissenter," Djeru said, heading for the door. "I'll plead to
Hazoret for you."
He pushed the door open. For a moment there was a dazzling light from outside. And then sandstone
scraped against sandstone, and it was just a dim, quiet chamber again, shadows swaying with the
torchlight.
She stood there for a long while, wallowing in a brume of failure. She found herself debating her own
mood, entertaining the possibility that she had done enough to save her friend's life. Maybe just having
the conversation was enough. Maybe she had planted enough of a question in his heart that Djeru
would resist the lies of the God-Pharaoh, renounce the Trials, and thank her for caring enough to
intervene on his behalf. Maybe he would approach her as a friend, his head bowed low in apology, and
ask her forgiveness—that was possible, wasn't it?
She managed to believe that for three entire seconds.
Djeru was unwavering. He'd probably never deign to speak to her again in the precious few days before
the final Trial, let alone recant. Meanwhile, the city-state still crawled with mummies and viziers who
wanted her dead. If she showed her face in public again, it would be for the last time.
And yet as she replayed Djeru's words in her mind, a nagging feeling itched at her. "I'll plead to
Hazoret for you," Djeru had said. What he intended as pity felt more like an opportunity.
She heaved the door open and ran, out from the shadows, into the glare of the two suns.

Samut was already braking as she streaked across the threshold into the monument, crumpling a
ceremonial rug with her feet. She spun and looked back, blades at the ready, but the squad of mummies
who pursued her had stopped at the entryway. Their blank faces fixated on her, with that vague linen
smile, but they did not budge. They needed explicit permission to enter the house of a god.

Samut caught her breath, sheathing her blades. A set of wide stairs led up into obscurity, lit by braziers
carved with the shapes of jackals on each step. Samut couldn't see how far the staircase went—
somewhere up into the highest interior of the monument. Into the head of a god.
Samut knelt and bowed low, her forehead touching the floor. "I request an audience, mighty Hazoret."
And she only moved when she heard the voice.
"You may enter, initiate."
The voice sounded from every direction, thick words heavy with archaic pronunciation. Samut stood,
and saw that the mummies remained outside, waiting. Samut took a ceremonial hearth candle and lit it
from one of the braziers. She balanced the candle carefully in her upturned palms and put a foot on the
first step. What could she say to a god, to spare her friend's life? Was she actually prepared for this?
She climbed.
The stairs narrowed with each step, with walls of darkness closing in as she ascended. She realized that
figures stood in the dark places, motionless mummies stationed throughout, their bodies gowned with
fabrics and hieroglyphs of Hazoret. Samut wondered if they were the past victims of Hazoret's temper,
upstarts not worthy of the paradisiacal beyond.
Samut emerged onto a dais and gasped. A thirty-foot curtain of fire rose before her, framed by a
towering gilded arch. Sparks spit from of the curtain of flame and sizzled in Samut's hair. Samut's face
roasted, but she was careful not to spill her hearth candle.

The flame curtain parted, and Samut saw, initially, feet. She looked up to see Hazoret looking down at
her. A shining ring gently revolved and undulated around the jackal god's face, a halo of living gold.
The god's mouth moved, but the sound came from everywhere. "We shall speak until your candle
burns away. Would you care to sit, initiate?"
Samut realized she was surrounded by benches, padded settees, ornate divans—all scaled to mortal
dimensions and lit by sparkling tapers. Hazoret's innermost temple was arranged like a cozy traditional
hearth, a place for family gatherings.
Samut cleared her throat. "Thank you, great Hazoret," she said. "But I am no initiate. Not anymore."
"Your words and your heart do not agree. Be seated."
Samut quickly sat, still holding her ceremonial candle.
The god gathered her legs under her in a comfortable sitting position, taking up the entire center of the
hearth. "Why is it that you come to me in anguish, at a time that should be joyous?"
Samut was unnerved by how quickly the god read her soul. She had beheld the gods before, of course,
but this was the first time she had ever conversed with a divinity one-on-one. "I beg forgiveness,
Fervent One. I cannot feel joyous for the Trial that is to come." Samut took a trembling breath. "My
friend Djeru wishes to die. At your Trial. By your hand."
"Then you should celebrate!" Hazoret said. "Your friend has the courage to seek the highest goal.
As should you."
Samut's hands trembled as she cradled her candle. The tiny flame flickered, the wax melting into itself.
Where was all her confidence and certainty from when she confronted Djeru? Where was her
conviction that the gods had become deluded now that she had the opportunity to say it to a god's face?
"I know that is what we are taught. That all must battle to win their place in the afterlife, as the viziers
tell us."
"Their counsel is wise."
"And I—I know that Djeru would not want me to interfere in his path." She realized she was speaking
more to her candle than to the god. If she was going to say this to the God of Zeal, then she would have
to say it with fervor. "But I cannot abide it. He does not know the truth of the afterlife or of the Trials."
Hazoret's head tilted, and not in amusement. Her eyes were cold flames of challenge. "But you know,
initiate? You know?"
Samut bowed with shame. She opened her mouth to object, but she could not summon up the words.
She was struck suddenly by how small and insolent she was, seated on a god's divan, welcomed into a
god's house, present only by a god's invitation. The mighty Hazoret had shown her only supreme
generosity in granting her this time, and she had brought only childish, impudent complaints.
Confusing, cold tears brimmed in Samut's eyes.
The dais rumbled, as if the entire monument stirred with a low vibration. "I could strike you down for
this sacrilege," Hazoret said. "You know this."
"Yes," Samut whispered.
"But it is never my wish to cage a warrior's heart. And I see that your heart yearns to fight. So
fight, Initiate Samut. Fight for the truth in your heart."
Samut beheld the pinnacle of ferocity and grace before her. She was overcome with admiration—she
longed for Hazoret to be proud of her. And by terrifying corollary, she desperately feared failing her.
But if she did not make her request, then she would fail Djeru instead.
"I do not know the way to ask what I must ask," she said.
The ground shook. Spikes of living gold radiated from around Hazoret's face. "Does a warrior
hesitate? Speak!"
Samut bowed, and she sniffed away tears. "Great Hazoret, Keeper of the Gate," she said. "I have come
to plead for Djeru's survival. I ask that when he offers you his life, that you not take it from him."
Hazoret sat back. The bright specks of her eyes wandered from Samut to the ceiling, and to some
mental distance Samut could not perceive. After a time, the god looked down at Samut again. "This is a
serious and woeful matter. Is this what he desires?"
"I spoke to him, but he refused me."
"So you would alter his path, in defiance of his will? You wish to cage his heart? Would you not
grant him the same favor I have granted you?"
Every part of Samut wanted to crumple in shame. She almost tossed her dwindling candle down and
fled. But the thought of Djeru bleeding on the ground flashed in her mind. She saw his life trickling out
of two puncture holes—one through his head and one through his heart. Her battle-brother, fulfilling
his dream of dying uselessly. The thought squeezed her heart like a fist.
"He labors under a lie."
"This initiate. Djeru. You call him a friend?"
"I do."
"And though you see your friend's belief, that faith that inflames his heart—you would call him
mistaken?"
"I do, mighty Hazoret. But if I may . . ." Samut swallowed hard, gathering the strength to look Hazoret
in the eye. "Is it possible that you are . . . also mistaken?"
Hazoret did not reply, but Samut felt the rumbling of the platform below her, and the keening of every
brick in the walls around her. Shuffling sounds echoed from far down the staircase—the approaching,
inexorable footfalls of summoned mummies.
Hazoret leaned in close, and suddenly the god seemed ten times larger, expanding to fill Samut's vision.
Nothing existed but the jackal-face of rippling gold, hot and crackling and immediate.
Samut withered back into her cushion. But even now, even as the fervent rage of a god enveloped her,
she felt consumed by an extraordinary feeling of love—Hazoret's love. In their closeness, she felt the
warm generosity implicit in Hazoret's invitation, the hospitality of her hearth-like temple, the thick-
walled protection of her grand home. This was Hazoret's heart. This was the Hazoret that she, perhaps,
had once been. This was connection.
"Kind Hazoret," Samut whispered. "Do you remember how we once called you? The people of this
world call you Gate Keeper now, and Trials' End—but also the Mother of Zeal. Nurturer of Hearts. We
are your children, your family. You were not always a cruel god, poised with spear and fire at the gates
of death. You were a god of compassion and inspiration, whose fiery heart inspired the people to their
greatest achievements."
A glimmer of light passed across Hazoret's vast golden face, and Samut thought she saw the god
momentarily withdraw by an almost imperceptible distance.
"You are zealous, yes," Samut continued. "But I fear that fervency that made you great has been twisted
to make you callous. Not a celebrant of life, but an instrument of death. Is there any of that still in you?
Any tiny sliver of a memory of that time before the God-Pharaoh?"
Hazoret's face hung in the air above her, roiling with majestic fire. Tears rolled down Samut's cheeks
and turned to steam. She could only wait for the judgment of a god.
Then, Hazoret spoke, and the words were thunder.
"May the ammits eat the heart from your chest."
Hazoret stood up to her full height, sweeping away from Samut. The god's face was now remote and
impassive, all intimacy shattered. Samut looked down to weep into her candle, but it had extinguished
into a handful of puddled wax.
As servant mummies filled the temple, the god said her final words to Samut. The words crushed
Samut's heart—not because of the promise of punishment, but from the revocation of welcome.
"Anointed," said the God of Zeal. "Seize the dissenter."

Samut could feel her own breath on her face. The sarcophagus was tight, its limits only a finger length
from every part of her skin. Her arms had been weaved through the sleeves, leaving her hands trapped
away from her body and exposed to the dry air outside. It had been hours since she had been forced in
that time, and as the first sun rose in the sky, the temperature in her prison rose in tandem.
Discomfort had given its way to thirst hours ago, and she had lost her perception of time by the time
thirst gave way to desperation.
Samut initially tried to force her way out. She charged a spell of speed to ram her elbows through the
walls but was met only with bruises and the straining of her own bones. She wriggled and jostled, but
the prison seemed to be enchanted in such a way that one could not break out from the inside.
She refused to weep. Mostly out of determination. Partly because she couldn't spare any extra water.
Entirely because she knew she was exactly where she needed to be.
She realized quickly that she was not alone. To her left and right were similar sarcophagi, and inside
each one was a dissenter like herself. Their heresies varied, but each had gathered enough to know that
it was their duty to inform the newcomers of what would come next.
"There are no monsters in the Trial of Zeal," one to Samut's left had said, "The monsters initiates face
in the final Trial are the dissenters themselves."
"Everything they tell us is a lie." Samut shook her head, temples tapping either side of her prison.
"The initiates fight dissenters and heretics to prove their faith. They'll come for us soon so we can be
next."
"I think we'll be the last," says the one to Samut's right. "The second sun is hours away from its zenith."
From down the line, "May his return come quickly!"
From either side of Samut, "Shut up!"
"The God-Pharaoh is not of this world," Samut said. The others are hushed to listen. "I've seen the old
temples. Our gods are true but he is not."
The others went silent. Samut's voice descended into a deadly serious tone.
"If we are to save our world when he returns I need to save the life of one acolyte."
"Why one?" said the voice to the left.
"He is strong and full of conviction," Samut replied. "If anyone could convince a god they'd been lied
to, it's him. If I can convince him, he can do anything, and we can live our lives free of the trespasser's
influence."
Samut knew that Djeru would hate her for this. She knew he would fight and spit and probably try to
kill her for ruining his death, but it was necessary. She couldn't face this without him.
The hot day passed into frigid night, and Samut's skin chilled when she leaned against the walls of her
enclosure. Sleep was a useless hope, and her muscles cramped from holding herself still and away from
the cold of the sarcophagus.
They'll come in the morning. They'll take her to the arena. She'll finally convince Djeru, they'll leave
alive, and the two will fight off the trespasser that ruined their world in the first place.
Her insomnia was interrupted by voices outside.
"When Nissa tried to track her it led us here—"
"Are those hands—"
"Those weren't there before. There's people inside, hold on—"
Searing heat and a crack of light poured in through a break in the sarcophagus. The prison fell to either
side, and Samut blinked away the blur. Standing in front of her were two strangers, a red-haired woman
and a tall, sturdy man.

These were not the people who would take her to the final Trial. This was wrong, Samut thought; she
wasn't supposed to be rescued!
Samut began to run, stumbling on cramped and exhausted legs. She was stopped by the one who freed
her from the cage, a man who introduced himself as Gideon. He explained that they saw her days ago
evading capture and came to rescue her.
Samut wanted to laugh at his arrogance. Instead, she asked why they needed her of all people.
The woman alongside him introduced herself as Chandra, and asked Samut to clarify what she meant
days ago when she tried to warn the public about the lies of the Hours.
Putting aside confusion over how they found her in the first place, Samut told the strangers about what
she had learned. About the empty tombs, about how those who died in the Trial of Zeal were taken
elsewhere, about her dance and the dead generations that came before. She watched as the two
strangers shared a look, nodded, and sent for help. Eventually, three other strangers came and joined.
They swapped information, took guesses at the time they needed before the God-Pharaoh's return.
Samut struggled to keep up with the names as she greeted Nissa, Liliana, and Jace in turn. She joined
them to help the other dissenters out of their sarcophagi as the strangers caught each other up.
Jace focused on filling in their new acquaintance. "The God-Pharaoh is a dragon from another world,
Samut. I believe he came here in a moment of desperation. Otherwise, he would have made a place
himself."
Nissa told the group of what she found on the walls of Naktamun. "There used to be eight gods, now
there are five. I am uncertain what happened to the other three, but the surviving gods were all
tampered with to suit Nicol Bolas's intentions."
"They kill each other in the Trial of Ambition," Gideon said, voice heavy with confusion. "The Trials
are intended to churn out bodies. The ones who die in the Trial of Zeal are taken to a separate place. I
haven't figured out why."
Liliana took in a deep breath.
"My third demon is here."
The conversation halted at that. Samut had no idea what the woman meant, but the others had gone
silent with fury.
"And you didn't tell us?" Chandra seethed.
Nissa narrowed her eyes. "Did you ever intend to help us with Nicol Bolas or was this your real
motivation?"
Gideon turned the group's attention to the man in blue. "Jace, did you know about this?"
The man shifted uncomfortably. ". . . It's a secondary motivation for our group. The sooner Liliana is
free from her contract the sooner she can fight at full capacity—"
Nissa shook her head. "Jace, this goes against what we came here for."
Chandra cut to the point. "For someone so smart, you do an awful lot of thinking with every part of
you except your brain, jackass—"
"Liliana, do you really expect us to drop what we came here to do and fight your battles for you?"
Gideon asked looking to the woman in violet.
She tipped her chin and absent-mindedly moved her hand to her right pocket. "Yes, because you can't
defeat Bolas without me!"
"Quiet!" Samut interjected. The others stared at her, fuming. She calmed her voice and looked each of
the trespassers in the eye.
"I want to make one thing clear," Samut said. "We don't have time to argue. We have time to get to the
Trial of Zeal and save the one person who can help me rally Naktamun. The God-Pharaoh isn't here, we
won't know what he's capable of until he arrives, and every single one of you is going to help me rescue
my friend because none of you have a plan to do anything otherwise. Got it?"
Coyly, the other five each nodded.
"Good."
Gideon stepped forward. "I swear to help you save the life of your friend."
He delivers promises quickly, Samut thought. She nodded in acceptance.
And froze.
She had felt them before she saw them.
The gods.
All of them.
In a single-file line they approached, Hazoret in the lead, the others just behind. The other four must
have come to see the show, to stay together now that the God-Pharaoh was nearly here.
Samut felt compelled to still and hush. The other mortals succumbed to the same spell.
"Dissidents. Your time has come," Hazoret said, voice as hard as steel. "Come, and face the last
initiates in the final Trial."
A haze overcame the group, and everything went dark.
The dissidents awoke with cartouches of control hanging around their necks. They were standing, still
as the dead, in the center of a great arena. Twin suns beamed down, and a sheen of sweat sat at the base
of their necks.
Samut, Chandra, Jace, Gideon, Nissa, and Liliana had been forced to stand in a ring, each of them
facing outward. At the far end of the arena was a great platform, and atop it stood Hazoret, God of Zeal,
flanked on each side by the other four gods of Amonkhet.
The pantheon was difficult to look at. Meeting their gaze filled the dissident's hearts with shame. Only
Samut locked eyes with the gods, the fire in her gut not anger at the deities, but at whoever it was that
tainted them so. Her gods were good. They were good. What had been done to them was a sin beyond
sins. Whoever the trespasser was would pay.
In the stands around them were the anointed, silent and still. The reverent quiet of the former initiates
filled Samut with wary awe, their presence a reminder of the special future that awaited those who
participated in the final Trial.
Standing beneath the platform of the gods were four initiates. Each tense with excitement, desperate for
a victory.
While the other dissidents stood frozen by the stationary magic of the cartouches, Jace was launching a
psychic assault on the cartouche around his own neck. The thing had spelled him still and mute, but his
mind was free to fight against the thing.
Jace, I think I've got it.
The white blossoms of Nissa's voice in Jace's mind caught his attention. He moved his eyes to his left
and saw Nissa's hand twitch, moving willingly against the enchantment of the cartouche.
How did you do that? Jace asked in her mind.
She gave off the suggestion of a mental shrug. They work like leylines, she thought. A different mana
source, but the same principle.
She didn't have time to completely dissolve the spell. Hazoret raised her spear at the end of the arena
and spoke.
Her voice rung like a bell through the arena.
"Initiates. Before you are heretics, doomed souls who denied your God-Pharaoh and your way of
life. Your task in this, the final Trial, is to kill each of them."
Samut scanned each initiate ahead of her, desperately searching for Djeru. Did he go already? Was she
too late?
No. There. At the end. Djeru stood with khopesh in hand, his stance practiced and unmovable. He
looked accomplished and proud and smiled with a believer's grin.
Thank the gods. He was still alive, and Samut intended to keep him that way.
Gideon spotted him at the same time she did. His stomach dropped in dread. Would he have to kill
Djeru, as Djeru had mercifully murdered his crop?
Djeru, on the other hand, saw Samut and felt a rush. Of course he would face his dearest friend on this,
his last day in this body. This was indeed destiny.
Hazoret brought down her spear.
"The Hours are moments away. May the final Trial begin."
The god held up her hand, and Hazoret's mark of battle rage appeared over their heads.

Samut had studied the effects of Hazoret's magic, of course, but experiencing it was entirely different
than reading about it.
She needed to fight.
She needed to win, to appease, to curb the favor of the chosen daughter of the God-Pharaoh.
Hazoret's magic was a welcome, zealous fire in their minds and a rush of strength in their limbs. All
were enchanted, all were under the same spell. Each driven to maim, kill, let go of their logic and
embrace Hazoret's fervor.
Conscious thought was lost.
Only the need to battle remained.
The cartouches of control vanished from the sternums of the dissenters, and with their bodies their own
once more, the group of heretics surged forward.
Samut launched herself toward Djeru alongside the frenzy of dissenters also charging. The magic
twisting her body and mind told her to fight and kill. Her heart reminded her of her goal.
She had to keep Djeru alive. By any means necessary.
Jace was the first to attempt to use magic. Instinctively he raised his hand, intent on crushing the mind
of the initiate running toward him. When no light came, no mana rose to meet his command, his eyes
went wide in surprise. The initiate rushing him bent forward, lifted, and threw Jace onto his back and
knocked the air out of his lungs.
Chandra artfully leaped over Jace's body. She embraced Hazoret's magic with ease, and though fire
wouldn't come to her fists, she punched and scratched at the initiate in front of her with all her might.
She laughed wildly. The release felt amazing, and as the initiate fighting her grappled and kicked,
Chandra dodged and volleyed. What she had in spitfire she lacked in training, however. The initiate she
was facing landed a punch to her kidney and a jab to her cheek. Chandra howled in rage and tackled the
initiate to the ground. Liliana joined Chandra in an instant, holding the other initiate down, her face
contorted by Hazoret's fury while the two women did their best to fight without magic.
Nissa was the only one doing an adequate job of fighting without magic. She had taken a few punches
from the third initiate facing her, but had lifted Jace from the ground and tossed him into her opponent.
Hazoret's mark shone red and vibrant on the crown of her head as she screamed a Joragan battle cry at
Jace and the initiate.
Gideon was as lost to the magic as the others. He was running, heaving, grunting with each stride
toward Djeru at the other end of the arena.
Samut was faster, though. She made it to him first. Her eyes met Djeru's. Underneath the magic, she
sensed his surprise.
Djeru took an instinctive swing at her with his khopesh, which Samut dodged with ease. In the span of
a second, she shifted her weight and stood back-to-back with her friend.
His understanding was immediate and silent.
She would protect him. They would fight together.
Gideon, marked with magic and mad with battle lust, locked eyes with the two friends. He swung his
fists with lack of practice and an abundance of muscle.
Djeru gripped his weapon tight, and his prayer began.
"Hazoret, Keeper of the Gate of the Afterlife and the favorite of the God-Pharaoh," Djeru cried.
He yelled his prayer as he moved, his practiced and masterful fighting style in perfect harmony with
Samut's dynamic martial skills.
As Djeru worshiped aloud, Hazoret's eyes locked on him and Samut. The initiate's voice was full and
firm, timed with the movement of battle, interspersed with breath and effort.
"Behold, mighty Hazoret, the zeal of your children!" Djeru yelled.
His khopesh ripped upward, cutting a sleek, shallow slice cut through Gideon's forearm—whites of
Gideon's eyes stared at his arm like he'd never seen his own blood before—
"My final prayer in this physical form is not for myself. It is for the person who deserves your mercy
the most!"
Samut's leg met the face of Gideon—she rode her momentum, followed through, easily took the man
from full standing height to flat on the ground—
Djeru continued, panting with rage and effort. "Please, I beg of you, forgive Samut, my dearest friend!
She is sharp in ways I am not, and her worth is proven by her talents!"
The friends locked brief eye contact—do you mean it? Yes, I do, of course, I do, Samut—two bodies
moved in tandem, grappling fellow dissidents, a flawless synchronicity, khopesh and well-trained kicks
dancing side by side—
"Forgive her for her trespasses! Forgive her for her doubts!" Djeru prayed through panting breath.
Gideon wiped away hot crimson and yelled, "You're throwing away your life! Why do you want to
die?!" Djeru ignored it—elbowed Gideon's nose, landed a punch to his kidney, sliced his proud cheek
—
"Behold Samut's faith in the old ways!" Djeru punctuates his prayer with a slice of his khopesh. "See
how she has studied our past and made manifest our people's culture!"
Samut's feet cracked bones, and the caress of her hands blooms bruises—she knocks another dissident
out cold as they try to stab Djeru with a spear—
"Please, grant Samut a glorified death."
The two initiates wove violence into dance. Pull, thrust, dislocate shoulder, box ears—
Djeru's earnest tears ran down the creases of fury on his face. "I could not spend my forever knowing
that she no longer existed. She cannot suffer Nakht's fate."
Hazoret's spell began to wear off. Time slowed down. Color returned, senses regained, Samut stopped.
Djeru was alive. How does she keep him that way?
Djeru concluded with his khopesh on the ground, a formal surrender. "Hear my prayer, Hazoret!"
"I do, Djeru."
The battle magic dissipates.
Djeru's prayer ended.
The god Hazoret stood tall at the end of the arena.
"Come forward, Djeru and Samut."
Around them was spatters of blood, the bodies of three initiates (head turned sideways, throat parted,
thrown body discarded into the crowd). The strangers known as the Gatewatch were alive, blinking,
confused, realizing they had access to their magic again.
Djeru took Samut's hands in his during the brief silence. "Samut, I choose this death."
Samut shook her head. "I need you to help me defeat the greatest trespasser. I need you to help me, and
I cannot do it if your soul is not here."
"I will see you in paradise, my friend."
Samut's eyes closed in defeat.
Djeru turned toward Hazoret and approached.
The arena seemed to stretch on and on, time itself stopped as he walked in silence across the dust and
stone. Djeru's existence had been condensed to walking this line, to willing one foot in front of the
other so he could receive his gift.
Samut couldn't wait. She couldn't stand idly by. Not after everything she'd done to convince him to stay
alive.
Please approach, Samut, daughter of our past. Hazoret's voice was a warm crackling fire in Samut's
mind. She followed Djeru and found herself standing alongside her friend in front of the god.
Hazoret looked down, looked through the two initiates. She spoke to Djeru first.
"You did not kill the remaining dissenters."
Djeru swallowed. "A dissenter's death is not one to be found in the final Trial. They do not know our
ways."
Hazoret moved her head back slightly in approval.
"Will you claim your place among the eternal, Djeru?"
Tears rolled down Djeru's cheeks. A glorious death was all he ever wanted, all he ever desired. He
nodded. He would have his place. His death would mean something.
Samut's heart sunk further with the knowledge of what she had to do. Djeru would never forgive her.
How could he?
Hazoret looked to Samut.
"Your worth is only proven if your faith is true, Samut. Will you receive my gift?"
Without hesitation, she shook her head.
"The greatest trespasser is nearly here," she said, voice cracking, eyes locked with Hazoret's. "I have
work to do."
Hazoret gave a small, disappointed sigh. Djeru only stared, eyes wide in shock and disappointment. He
couldn't answer. He only swallowed and squeezed her shoulder. A silent farewell.
It was too much.
Samut let out a shaky breath. "I am sorry, my friend. Please forgive me, someday."
Her apology was met with a crease of confusion on Djeru's brow.
"Approach, Djeru."
Djeru stepped forward and closed his eyes in reverence. He kneeled and outstretched his arms.
Hazoret raised her spear, and Samut steeled her will.
He had to live. He had to live. There was no turning back. Samut wasn't losing a friend again to a
meaningless death. Samut dug in her heel and loosened her stance, charging a spell of speed and timing
her impending intervention as Hazoret's spear pulled back.
The god released, and Samut leaped.

It happened in a flash.
Samut kicked off and tackled Djeru from the side, knocking him to the ground at the same time a
great CLANG and a burst of gold erupted behind her.
As Samut hit the ground, she realized that the noise had come from Gideon behind her. He stood
between them and Hazoret's spear, silky golden magic forming a barrier between himself and death.
He keeps his word, Samut thought with the briefest of smiles.
That mirth was instantly crushed by the wide-eyed surprise of her friend, pinned beneath her to the
stone floor of the arena.
Samut wanted desperately to look away. Couldn't look away. Her betrayal was manifest on the face of
her best friend. Djeru shook with fury.
"How could you?"
"Djeru, I know this isn't what you wanted—"
"How COULD YOU!"
He shoved her off and swung a punch, which she dodged as easily as she would a falling feather. Tears
welled up in Djeru's eyes as the gods in the arena each gave a sudden gasp.
There, above them all, the second sun was beginning to pass through the horns on the horizon, its long-
awaited cycle at last at its end.
Djeru took no notice. He tried to grapple with an unwilling Samut, his heaves of agony giving way to
open sobs.
The gods began to walk towards the exit of the arena, their attention focused skyward.
Only Hazoret stayed behind, oddly stunned by what had just happened. She held her spear in uncertain
hands.
A distracted Gideon stared at Hazoret in fright, jaw slack and eyes wide. He looked down in confusion,
then turned to Djeru.
"Djeru," he said, "she was going to k—"
"I KNOW WHAT SHE WAS GOING TO DO!" Djeru spat, his face contorted in fury. He shoved
Samut to the side and launched himself at the man. Gideon's invulnerability shimmered with each blow,
his face twisted in pathetic confusion beneath the soft golden light of his magic. He didn't try to block
the blows, and only let Djeru continue pummeling blow after blow.
"That was my chance, and now it's GONE! IT'S GONE, YOU BASTARD!"
Gideon only shook his head in disbelief behind his golden glittering shroud of protection. Samut could
see that his natural resistance only made Djeru all the more furious. She could see how he wanted to
crush that barrier, break it, stab through and eviscerate, rip through the trespasser's tendons and smear
his enchantment with the contents of his intestines. Samut felt pity, but not regret. She knew how angry
he would be. She knew that she and this stranger had ruined her best friend's life.
Gideon held up his hands at last to stop Djeru's attack. He did not touch him but instead backed off.
"Why do you want to die?!"
"Because I want to exist!" Djeru exclaimed in a sob.
He fell to his knees and wept.
The air stilled. The only sound in the arena was that of the defeated warrior. The other trespassers
watched, silent, from afar. Samut's heart sank. Of course that was his fear. After what became of Nakht,
how could it be anything else?
His mourning echoed off the hundreds of anointed in the stands. The world had ceased to exist, and all
that was left was his failure. The pantheon of gods behind Hazoret had left. They needed to be at the
Luxa River. The Hours had almost begun.
Samut's hands went to Djeru's shoulders as he lamented.
She leaned in, and in a voice quiet and small, she whispered.
"We have so much work left to do and so many people left to help. Your training was for that, not for
this."
Djeru couldn't answer. He could only weep.
Samut kept whispering, "We get to grow old together, Djeru. And someday, a long time far from now,
our people will live long, full lives, and only then we will walk into the afterlife side by side. I'm sorry
you did not get what you wanted, but I am thankful you are here." She kissed Djeru's forehead in
gratitude.
He only grieved. Samut squeezed his shoulder.
"Please, Djeru, you need to get up now."
It took a moment, but he did.
He took a single, steeled look at Gideon, whose eyes darted to the ground.
You intervened, a warm voice said in Samut's mind. She looked up and met the golden gaze of
Hazoret. Samut nodded.
What do you have to say for yourself?
I believe in you, Giver of Gifts, Samut prayed. I believe that you are not what you are forced to do. And
that you will protect your children when we need you the most.
Hazoret stood still. Uncertain. Her ears twitched and caught the light of two suns.
"The Hours have begun, Hazoret," Samut finally said aloud.
A loud droning blast, like that of an ancient horn, echoed through the city and against the stands of the
arena.
Samut, the Gatewatch, Hazoret, and the utterly crushed Djeru looked to the sky as a shadow overcame
them all, like a cloud passing overhead.
The shadow cast by the second sun began to wipe a slow line of darkness across the stadium. They all
stood still and watched as the line passed at the speed of a gentle walk from one side . . . to the other.
The shift in light settled and their eyes adjusted. The world was now half-dark, a grim saturation of
what it was before.
"It has begun. The Hours have begun!" Hazoret stepped over Samut, Djeru, and Gideon, her eyes
trained on the light glinting past either side of the structure on the horizon.
"Get up, Djeru, we need to go." Samut pulled Djeru to his feet.
Djeru wiped his wet face. "There is a chance. If the Hours have begun, the God-Pharaoh will still
deliver us."
Samut shook her head and kept her mouth shut. The chill from the second sun's shadow raised her
 flesh.
She shivered from the cold.
Outside of the arena, they heard a crowd yelling and crying, stampeding as quickly as they could to the
banks of the Luxa River. The Gate to the Afterlife lay at the end. According to the first prophecy in the
Accounting of the Hours, the gate would open when the second sun entirely sat between the horns,
revealing the promise of the God-Pharaoh.
"Djeru, we need to run. We need to make sure as many people survive the next few hours as possible."
The second sun had never set, but now that it cast a shadow on the entire city, everything was half-dark.
Everything was cold. Djeru had never felt cold  before.
"Samut, we need to go to the river. The Hours begin with the opening of the Gate to the Afterlife. He is
coming. The God-Pharaoh will show me mercy!" Djeru began running toward the exit of the arena,
toward the mass of reverent citizens outside.
Liliana, Jace, Chandra, and Nissa bolted for the exit.
Gideon held behind.
He looked at his forearm and watched a rivulet of his own blood run down to his thumb.
Distantly, he knew he should run and keep up with the others. But he was transfixed, staring at the
wound Djeru had sliced through his arm.
The blood ran thick and dark in the gloom of the single sun. It slid easily down.
Gideon's heart beat an anxious rhythm in his chest.
Hazoret had whispered in his mind the moment he stood between her and Djeru. Her words repeated in
his mind, looping over and over with the rhythm of his panicking heart.
I am neither the first nor the last immortal whom you will cross.
Cursed is the man who forgets his own past,
for I see your death, Kytheon Iora.
You are no god.
Gideon shivered at those words and watched the blood of his arm hit the stone below.
He looked to the sun passing behind the horn of the immense monument in the distance, and the
indestructible man felt only a bleak and empty horror.
By Doug Beyer and Alison Luhrs
THE HOUR OF REVELATION
By Alison Luhrs

Posted in Magic Story on June 7, 2017

Sands idly wafted over dunes, the Luxa River flowed from one end of Naktamun to the other, families
lived and worked in happy peace, and through a ripple of air, a dragon tore through the sky from a
faraway world.
He had days. Only days until he wouldn't have the magic left to execute this plan. There was just
enough time left to put into place the possible means to regain his godhood.
The dragon's plans spanned millennia and his perception straddled centuries, a winding maze of
possibility and circumstance and statistics and likelihood. Usually the dragon played the odds when
shaping his decisions—but now, to manifest his needs, the dragon would need to be violent in his
choices.
Violence is an act that cannot be taken back or amended halfway through. It is begun, then ended. The
dragon's choices must be the same. No doubt. No hesitation or uncertainty. Merely violence.
The gods of Amonkhet saw the dragon hovering outside the protection of the Hekma. They climbed to
the tops of their highest vantage points and armed themselves for battle. They were determined not to
fail this time. No monster could defeat the eight gods of Amonkhet. Not when Naktamun was all that
remained.
Oketra raised her bow high, and the light of twin suns glinted off its curve. She loosed an arrow into
the sky, and it passed through the Hekma with ease. The arrow hit the dragon's side, and he  laughed.
The great dragon flew down toward the shimmering dome of the Hekma and tested it with a tentative
claw. Oketra loosed another arrow, this time aimed directly at the dragon's eye. The beast glanced at
the incoming projectile; it splintered and dissolved mid-flight.
The gods were stunned. This dragon possessed enough power to defy the laws of nature.
Hazoret called for the children and elderly to retreat to the mausoleums for safety, and the attendants
spread the word. She took up her spear and urged the gods to attack.
The gods' distraction to protect the mortals amused the dragon. These gods cared far more about their
plane than he ever did about the worlds he created.
Kefnet, caretaker of the Hekma, was straining to keep the magical barrier together. The dragon tipped
his chin and fractured Kefnet's mind in two.
Kefnet's body and wings went limp and he plummeted to the ground, crumpled and still.
The hearts of the mortals in Naktamun recoiled in immediate pain. Even those who did not witness
Kefnet's fall felt panic. The gods in turn cried out for their brother, and for the loss that swept through
the people of Amonkhet.
The dragon smiled. He extended a claw, and a pinprick of light broke through the blue of the barrier.
The gods brandished their weapons and snarled with defiance. No beast would harm an immortal
without facing retribution.
The Hekma wavered. Its film waved as water in a river, and the hole widened enough for the dragon to
burst through.
The dragon protected himself from the attacks of the other gods by separating himself a half-step from
reality. The vision of his form remained, but his body was safe from their blows.
The gods of Amonkhet roared and cursed, but no blow from their weapons would land. The trespasser's
power was at least equal to their own. The dragon landed atop the tallest tower, closed his eyes, and
began to channel a spell.
The time for violent choices had come.
The gods felt a surge of mana weave around the dragon as a tangle of malevolence. They grasped
desperately for spells to protect and defend.
But they were too slow.
The dragon opened his eyes and every mortal old enough to walk dissipated into the sky.
A brilliant white light engulfed Naktamun, and the seven gods fell to their knees in agony as countless
souls vanished from existence.
The light retreated. Silence fell, only to be broken by the faraway cries of thousands of motherless,
fatherless infants.
The gods cried out in horror. The infant prayers were without form in their minds. Endless pleas
washed over them, waves of wordless fear and confusion, half-finished visions of mothers and fathers
breaking apart, particle by particle. The sudden loss of life rendered the gods inert, paralyzed in shock,
like losing a limb.
But two of the gods did not stay still. Hazoret pulled Oketra up from the ground with a quiet assertion.
The two fled from the great dragon as he laid claim to their brethren. The dragon, bemused, followed
at leisure, silent and unhurried.
Oketra ran alongside her sister and down into their most sacred mausoleum. As they ducked and
entered the holy tomb, passing through row after row of enchanted dead mortals, the shrill sobs of
orphans reached the gods' ears. Oketra sealed the door behind them, golden light binding the stone
portal shut, and Hazoret began gently picking up as many children as she could. Oketra assisted,
gathering the children and soothing them with her presence.
The dragon's laugh suddenly resounded through the mausoleum. Hazoret looked to Oketra as they
heard and felt the dragon on the other side of the entrance, testing the barrier's strength. The dragon
sensed the heartbeats of the surviving children behind the door, as well as thousands and thousands of
enchanted dead, and he chuckled at the perfection of his plan. Slowly he unwound the god's magical
seal, taking his time to revel in the despair on the other side of the stone.
The two gods set the babes in a small alcove within the chamber and stood side by side at the entrance
to the sacred mausoleum. Hazoret readied her spear. Oketra drew her bow.
"The children of Naktamun will not die at the hands of a beast!" Hazoret cried.
"The children of Naktamun will die at the end of your spear," replied the dragon.
The dragon burst through the mausoleum door. Oketra and Hazoret charged. With a wave of a claw,
the dragon sent forward a pulse of magic, and the minds of the two gods went utterly blank.
They fell where they stood.
The dragon, satisfied, continued his work.

The next step in the dragon's plan required self-sufficiency. A people who were willing to do the work
themselves without the dragon's presence.
There were many options with many outcomes, but time was growing short—already a day was gone in
the subsuming of the gods. The dragon chose the quick path.
Violent choices.
First, he returned to the surface and took three of the gods for his own. He stowed them away as one
would tools in a cupboard. Their time would come soon enough. With his remaining power, the dragon
corrupted and manipulated the leylines of mana that coursed through the remaining gods, willing them
to forget their origins, tying their existence to himself, and forcing them to erase all else.
Second, he opened the tombs under the city and led the enchanted bodies of the dead out of their
mausoleums and into the light. There were so many orphaned infants now, and the children would need
caretakers.
Third, he drew on the histories of the plane. There existed an elite religious ceremony—trials of merit,
with the result being a single sacrificial champion every revolution of the second sun. A rare cultural
cornerstone revered by both man and god. Perfectly suited to repurpose for his designs. The dragon
rejoiced at the convenience. What had occurred once every few decades would now demand a constant
supply of champions. He spelled the second sun to move as he was ready, to count down until whenever
he decided to return. This would be the cornerstone of his machinations on this world.
Fourth, the dragon built a throne inside the perimeter of the city. On the other side of the barrier, he
erected a monument in his own visage, an homage to his magnificent horns, and enchanted it to appear
stationary from every angle. He built the monument to frame the smaller sun on the horizon at the
moment of his choosing. The dragon was proud. Vanity is survival when one is rapidly losing
omnipotence.
Finally, he made a promise to return, delighting in the writing of his own prophecies, and planting his
promise in the gods and the minds and mythos of the denizens below. Mortals adored promises. They
saw them as unmovable as mountains, when in truth they were mercurial as rivers.
As the dragon departed, the small sun continued its slow journey across the sky.
From afar the dragon maintained, monitored, and moved his machinations on other worlds as the
years fell away, urging the second sun slowly around its track
until this particular moment
in this particular place
on this particular plane
when that sun had rounded its circuit
and came to settle between the great horns as foretold.
As promised.
At last.
The time had come for the dragon to return to collect his hoard.

"And thus the sun reached its zenith behind the horns of the God-Pharaoh, and the promised Hours
began. And the last of the people of Amonkhet fell to their knees, and there was much gnashing of teeth
for fear of what was coming in the world, and wailing from babes and children, and the gods did mark
the moment with solemnity, all as foretold."

Djeru ran as fast as his feet would carry him, eyes fixed on the second sun peeking from behind either
side of the leftmost horn in the distance. It left the city in a lingering dusk, and the strangeness of the
atmosphere only heightened the excitement and revelry of the citizens of Naktamun.
Samut ran alongside Djeru, gripping his shoulder tightly with one hand. As the two exited the arena,
they were met with a stampede of citizens, all racing toward the banks of the Luxa River. It was a chaos
Djeru had never seen before. Any semblance of commitment to one's own crop had been forgotten,
queues and decorum abandoned in the passing from one age of existence to the next.
So few were left.
In the months leading up to the end of the second sun's cycle, more and more citizens arranged to take
the Trials early and prove their worth. Schedules were rearranged. Crops became double the normal
size. The result was a city even more empty than usual, populated mostly by the anointed and the youth
too young to partake.
Djeru and Samut waded through the throngs of children too young to begin the Trials, bumping into
their hips, tripping over their legs. The children's arms outstretched and faces warped with desperate,
fervent tears. Their small feet moved fast. The anointed caretaker couldn't keep up, and most of their
kind had resigned themselves to standing aside to let the stampede through.
A shadow passed over them—the legs of Hazoret—and the god stepped high over their heads as she
made her way to the river. Throngs of children and those unable to take the Trials tugged at her sandals
and leapt for her spear—Take me! Please, Giver of Gifts! Let me die before he comes so I may go
along!—but the god ignored them, her eyes trained on the Luxa River and the Gate at the end.
The God-Pharaoh's approach was nigh. His homecoming would certainly take place at the Gate to the
Afterlife, the massive stone barrier where the Luxa River met the shimmery blue of the Hekma. The
Gate used to only open for the lucky few who passed the Trial of Zeal. But now, with the coming of the
God-Pharaoh, his promise would be fulfilled.
The promise of the Hours.
New hope cascaded over Djeru. He was meant to be the final one to pass through the Gate, his glory
was to be bestowed unto him by Hazoret, Giver of Gifts.
Until Samut ruined everything. Until the traitor, Gideon, intervened.
Yet Samut now stood at his side, a hand gripping Djeru's arm, her stance one of protection and
shielding. Djeru's heart felt at ease with her familiar presence by his side once again, even as his mind
still reeled at her betrayal.
She robbed me of my destiny for her selfish doubts, he thought.
But perhaps the God-Pharaoh would still grant them a place at his side nonetheless. Perhaps he could
plead their case, and both prove their worth and show Samut the error of her ways.
Djeru whispered a prayer of hope, a little plea drowned out by the cries and yells of the crowd around
them in the unfamiliar twilight.
"The Hours have begun!"
"Where is he?!"
"Deliver us, God-Pharaoh! Show us your grace!"
"Ow!" Samut cried out as a naga smashed past her in his rush toward the river.
"He force-fed us complacency for years and we greet him with this," she seethed under her breath. "It is
lies and chaos."
Djeru didn't respond to Samut's continued heresy. A growing sound in the distance had drawn his
attention.
Ambient noise. Endless creaking. Something dark and old, caused by something without form. The
khenra nearby all clamped their ears and whined as they ran, the naga jumped as though the earth
moved beneath them, and every being instinctively looked to the far end of the river.
Samut's grip on his arm tightened. "The Gate."
The two picked up their pace and approached the massive crowd that had gathered at the banks of the
Luxa. The mass of citizens wailed in fear and boundless joy. A minotaur sobbed, two khenra twins had
fallen to their knees in praise, and several children were attempting to ford the river and cross to the
Gate.
It was a collective madness unlike any Djeru had ever witnessed. For a moment, fear gripped his heart.
But the chaos was contagious, and the frenzy of the moment swept Djeru away. Although he was meant
to be in the Afterlife by now, Samut's betrayal had given him the privilege of witnessing the God-
Pharaoh's return. Perhaps all would work out after all!
Suddenly, as abruptly as it began, the noise stopped.
Djeru craned for a view, his sandals sinking into the soft mud of the riverbank. Warm water lapped at
his toes as bodies pressed all around him, all stretching for a better look.
"Djeru, you need to promise me something." Samut's whisper was soft on Djeru's ear.
He didn't want to listen to her. But he also didn't want to let her go.
"No matter what happens, we protect our gods. We protect each other."
Djeru didn't know what she implied, but he silently nodded.
A collective gasp of surprise washed through the crowd.
In the distance, the light of the second sun spilled past the horn. It had finally passed behind the
monument, and a line of brilliant light crossed from one side of Naktamun to the other. A cheer rang
out from the crowd as the sun reached its final point, nestled between the faraway horns.
At that exact moment, with no warning, the Gate cracked open ever so slightly, the rough grit of its
stone parting the current of the river.
No living person had ever seen what rested behind the Gate to the Afterlife. Only the dead crossed
beyond the Gate, which opened to allow a funerary barge to pass once a day.
Even from where they stood, Samut and Djeru felt a hot wind blow through the crack in the Gate.
From behind him, Djeru felt a god approach. He watched as Hazoret waded into the river, carefully
stepping over the heads of her people, avoiding them as she walked.
"He arrives!" she cried.
Djeru felt the glow of the god's joy seep into him, her exaltation reinforcing his own optimism.
A child next to them began crying as others shoved to get closer to the bank of the river.
Some aven flew up toward the Gate and tried to pry it open further. Other people waded into the water
and swam toward the opening, though none seemed to reach it.
It was still impossible to see through the crack. Only a sliver of light betrayed the fact that it was open
at all.
Samut gripped Djeru's shoulder and shook her head. "We shouldn't stay here. We should go—"
The hiss of wind coming from the Gate grew stronger, and in one swift motion, the doors opened wider.
Samut's hand fell from Djeru's shoulder as they both stood transfixed, staring at the opening Gate.
The entire crowd went silent in awe.
The heat of the wind blasting through grew in intensity, peppering the crowd with grit and sand. They
held their hands to their eyes to block the sting. The Gate swung all the way open, and the massive
crowd gasped.
They had been promised paradise.

What lay beyond the Gate were endless, empty wastes.

Djeru's mouth hung open. There was supposed to be fields of green meadows! Natural springs and a
bountiful ocean! And in its place . . . nothing. Desert. Beasts. Wurms and crocodiles and cursed bodies
of heretics. The same thing that was on the Hekma on all its sides. Endless, eternal, all-encompassing
and unforgiving nothing.
Djeru couldn't comprehend it.
Around him, the crowd erupted in confusion. Some cheered. Some yelled out words of praise. Others
looked to their neighbors for answers. Was this paradise?
The concern passed in a wave from person to person, getting louder and louder by the moment.
Something massive crashed in the water. Hazoret moved her legs sharply through the current. She
began to quiver, ears tightly held back flat against her head, but her arms outstretched in a display of
welcoming.
Djeru pushed his way to the front, wading into the water behind Hazoret, trying to get a better look.
The only thing he could see beyond the Gate was a building that could only be the Necropolis—the
fabled place where the worthy dead were laid to rest, awaiting the return of the God-Pharaoh.
Djeru turned to Samut, but Samut's attention rested on the god before them.
"Hazoret!" Samut yelled. The god whipped her golden head down, her gaze directly on Samut.
"Is that  paradise?"
Hazoret did not answer. Djeru watched her chest heave up and down with concerned breath, her face
unreadable.
"Please, Hazoret, cast away my doubts and tell me that is paradise."
The god lifted her head ever so slightly, and still refused to answer.
The rest of the crowd began to argue.
There was still no sign of the God-Pharaoh. Was this a test? Was the absence of paradise supposed to
mean something? Perhaps paradise will not become manifest until he arrives. Perhaps the place beyond
the Gate isn't the endless waste it appears to be—perhaps this was paradise all along!
The cacophony of voices fell as a massive,  dark, and winged figure flew through the open Gate and
past them on the banks of the river. Denizens ducked, then looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of the
fleeting shadow. Excited cries and hails calling to the God-Pharaoh rang out.
But Djeru knew that thing was no God-Pharaoh.
He watched its path as the thing landed resolutely on an obelisk, gazing down on the people below him.
He heard Samut draw her khopeshes behind him, heard her hiss a word that tasted like a curse, spat vile
and angry from her lips.
"Demon."
A shiver of dread danced down Djeru's back. Demons were rare on Amonkhet. Djeru had only seen
them in texts and in his studies, and as fleeting, dark shapes far outside the Hekma. Such creatures had
no place in Paradise—but Djeru knew the legends of this demon.
The final test; the last inglorious death before the God-Pharaoh's return.
The demon stood high atop the obelisk and spread its wings to catch the warmth of the second sun.
Djeru could make out a crocodilian form and a mad smile. Endless scales ending in a thick tail. Sharp
wings leading toward a sharper grin.

The demon surveyed the assembled denizens. Its lips curled into a sneer, then it spread its wings and
launched itself back into the sky, circling casually above the river and crowd before hovering just in
front of the Gate. There, suspended in midair, the demon held out its right arm and raked its claws into
the meat of its forearm. Rivulets of blood caught the light of the sun. The demon showed no reactions
of pain, instead muttering an incantation, a low and abrasive rumble that echoed over the water. Djeru
recoiled at the sight of blood magic, stepping back out of the river as demon blood fell drip, drip,
drip  into the water.

With each drop, the river slowed.

Then its current halted.
Broken reeds sliding downstream came to a sudden and utter stop.
And as the blood began to spread, leak, stain the brown-green-blue of the Luxa River, the brilliant wash
of red began to eek upriver.
Shrill screams rang out from the people near the water, growing as many turned to flee, wading out of
the river. Djeru watched as the now-stagnant water coalesced into a deep crimson. He felt a strange
power pulse from the Luxa in waves.
The demon had turned the river into blood.

The blood spread, choking reeds and suffocating everything swimming in its depths. Fish began to bob
to the surface, mouths gasping and eyes wide. Upriver, dozens of hippopotamuses tried to crawl their
way out of the sludge of blood and mud only to drown in the thick mire. An enormous crocodile
breached the surface, coughing out red and audibly gasping through the thick liquid. It rolled and
gnashed on the bank, its dying body squishing dead fish and eels further into the wine-colored mud
beneath it. Everything in the river desperately wanted out. They hastened their deaths as they
frantically writhed in the coagulating morass.
Samut grabbed Djeru's arm, a grim expression on her face.
"Do you still believe this is the act of a benevolent God-Pharaoh?"
Djeru shook his head, doubt flooding his mind. As he opened his mouth to answer, an abyssal voice
reverberated in the air, booming deep, barbed with malice and filled with horror. On reflex, Djeru
 clasped his hands over his ears, but it did nothing to shut out the voice of the demon.
"Liliana," it rumbled.
Samut's eyes widened. "Why would the demon know the name of one of the interlopers?" She asked
Djeru. He only shook his head in response.
Djeru peered up at the demon and felt the blood in his veins run cold. The demon smiled, razor teeth
and fathomless eyes a portrait of power and despair. Its voice boomed out again across the river of
blood.
"I know you are here, Liliana Vess. You cannot hide from me."
By Alison Luhrs
FEAST
Posted in Magic Story on June 14, 2017
Previous Story: Hour of Revelation
"And so the Hour of Revelation broke upon the land, and the promised time arrived when all questions
would be answered. And lo, the Gate to the Afterlife opened, and from behind its gleaming walls, the
true visage of the coming tide poured forth."

Liliana moved her foot back from the lapping crimson of the Luxa River. Razaketh's taunts rang in her
ears, and she sighed.
I'm too old for this nonsense.
She rolled out her shoulders and pulled her hair back. What Liliana felt in that moment was neither fear
nor excitement. It was anticipation. All things considered, the first two demons had been easy to defeat.
Surprise and the suddenness of her attacks had played to her favor.
How fortunate that she had the best backup in the Multiverse.
Jace? Can you hear me?  Distantly in her mind, she heard a response.
Lili? Where are you! We're coming! The crowd—
—was too large, I know. I'm on the bank of the river, before the gate. Jace, it's Razaketh, he's—
"Where are you, crone?"
The demon's voice again boomed out.
Around her, the remaining crowd murmured. Those who hadn't run away stood rooted to the spot,
trembling in fear and uncertain of what was going on.
Liliana furrowed her brow. She knew he'd be the type to toy with her. She wouldn't allow herself to be
baited into action that easily.
"Liliana, I know you're here . . ."
She slinked among the lingering people, her eyes following the dark figure gliding in lazy circles high
above the river. Razaketh flew to the open gate and scanned the crowd.
Liliana felt her hand twitch.
She looked down in surprise.
The movement of her hand had been . . . involuntary.
Liliana held her right hand up to her face, a wave of dread crashing into her chest.
Her own fingers waved back at her.
Liliana made a loud noise of disgust and shook her hand out.
It was a scare tactic, that's all. She refused to feel fear. Liliana purposefully thrust the same hand down
toward the left side of her dress, toward the Chain Veil.
The demon upon the gate laughed.
"There you are."
His words sent a chill down her neck.
Out of the corner of her eye, Liliana saw the rest of the Gatewatch arrive. They looked worse for wear,
bodies bruised from the melee of the arena. Jace moved toward Liliana's side, but she threw up a
cautionary hand. The four others stopped around her, all gazing up at the demon.
"I do not know the extent of his abilities," Liliana whispered, her voice urgent and low. "But he's
powerful. We should . . ."
Liliana abruptly stopped speaking. The demon lowered his wings. His words—smooth, steady, calm—
poured over the crowd.
"Come to me."
As soon as his words hit her ears, Liliana felt her shoulders draw back and her face fall slack. The
labyrinth of tattoos that covered her skin alit with the demon's call, and she screamed in the privacy of
her mind as, without urging or permission, her body waded forward into the river of blood.

In her long life, Liliana had withstood a number of tortures. She had fought, lost, aged, willfully signed
away her soul, and more. But nothing was as unbearable or enraging as a loss of control. She had
thought she knew the repercussions when she formed those contracts with her demons decades before,
but Liliana had never truly envisioned the outcome.
Rage wasn't an emotion Liliana liked to experience with any frequency. It was a too-hot bath, an
uncontrolled flame, an itchy dress that never felt like her own. But as the demon Razaketh urged her
body onward, Liliana bore her rage as a banner. She reveled in its churning fury and fought and tugged
with all the might of her mind to seize control of herself.
But it was to no avail. No matter how much she mentally fought, her hate never reached her face. Her
anger never pulled at her muscles. Liliana had no control over the one thing that was ever actually hers.
Damn it all to the depths of the hells!
She railed and screamed in her own mind, but the tether between her will and her limbs remained
severed.
Chandra and Nissa reached out to pull Liliana's wandering body back, and a flare of necromantic
energy pushed back their hands. The two women recoiled back, hands withdrawn before the decay and
rot seized them.
In Liliana's head, she could hear Jace yelling, and in her ears Gideon's voice echoed, but her attention
remained fixed on Razaketh before her.
Go to him was the only command her body knew. The Chain Veil remained tucked away, the demon too
close, her allies unable to halt the urge to wade forward.
She wanted to tear the demon's eyes out and swallow them whole. Liliana screamed obscenity after
obscenity in her mind, hoping that her cascade of curses would make the demon relinquish his hold.
But the hold stayed.
Liliana waded into the blood of the Luxa. It felt hot, viscous, utterly vile. Her body kept walking,
wading deeper and deeper into the river. To her hips. To her waist. To her sternum.
Liliana's thoughts turned from raging protest to an endless scream.
She felt her leg graze something dead under the water. A fish floated past her shoulder. The river was
full of freshly dead wildlife, all choked by the blood of Razaketh's ritual. Nothing living survived in the
blood mire.
Jace's voice faded in her mind. She was too far out, too deep in the river.
Liliana took a breath and felt her head dip below the surface.
The liquid was cloying and thick, its temperature hot against her skin.
Her heart beat fast and frightened.
I will not be afraid. He is weaker than I am, and I can survive this.
A voice creaked through her mind: "You can only survive this if you kill him."
The Raven Man.
Liliana screamed. Get out! Not now! I do not want to hear from you!
"You are only free if you kill each of your demons, Liliana. Only then will I leave you be."
Liliana didn't have time to think that over.
She was running out of air.
With growing urgency, she wanted to inhale, even though she knew she would just drown on mouthfuls
of blood, but the demon's control of her body overrode her impulses even for breath.
Just as she was sure she'd lose consciousness, her body swam itself to the surface, and she gasped for
air.
She had crossed the river and crawled onto the opposite bank. She looked up, blinking through sticking
eyelashes, to the base of the Necropolis just beyond the Gate to the Afterlife. Razaketh stood above her
on a stone platform, his face as smug and obnoxious as Liliana remembered.
A part of her felt foolish. No other demon wielded this sort of control over her body. How could she
fight someone who could maneuver her like a puppet? What kind of tactic could she use to fight that?
Razaketh looked down. His face was reptilian and unreadable, but he seemed pleased all the same to
encounter his contractor. Where Kothophed and Griselbrand were distant, Razaketh was playful.
"What a delightful surprise," the demon purred.
He motioned with his hand for Liliana to rise from the silt, and without hesitation, her body did it for
her, kneeling in the muck. Her dress stuck to her sides, and the blood began to crust in the heat of the
sun.
Liliana could feel that this position would cramp her feet, but she was unable to shift or move. She
instead focused on her breath, heaving in a rhythm not her own, and tried to tame her panic into
determination.
The demon stepped forward and studied his subject. "Old age never suited you."
Razaketh leered with a reptilian smile. Liliana wanted to rip the look from his face.
"I'm glad you've been reaping the benefits of our deal," the demon said, eyeing the blood on Liliana's
dress. "I do apologize for the mess I've made. A dear friend left an assignment for me to fulfill."
Razaketh looked to the second sun. "You were very fortunate to arrive when you did. You get to see the
show! I'm excited to see it myself. It is a surprise for me, too, you know."
If Liliana could have jumped she would have. A little patter of rain suddenly chimed in the back of her
mind—
Liliana! We see you. We're coming!
Never had Liliana been so relieved to hear Jace in her head. Razaketh hadn't seemed to notice, and she
was briefly thankful for not being in control of the expression on her face.
Oblivious, the demon continued to toy with her. "I apologize for the forcefulness, Liliana, but I love a
dog who comes when she is called. And you're a good dog, aren't you?"
He held out a lazy finger and tapped it.
Liliana felt her head nod. Her muscles strained and cramped as she tried to resist the urge, but her head
tipped forward . . . then back . . . forward . . . then back.
Razaketh smiled, putting his hand down. "Good."
He went quiet and considered her for a moment. A smug look pulled at the scales of his face as he
thought over his next command.
"Bark."
"Woof," Liliana replied in a tone that could ice over the sun.
Razaketh made a small noise of displeasure.
"You really ought to read contracts before you sign them, you know. People hide all sorts of nasty
clauses into them. The other co-authors were so straightforward, but I like a little flair in my dealings."
Razaketh tipped his chin, and without warning, Liliana's right hand balled into a fist and rushed toward
her own face. It halted a hair's width from her left eye. Her face was frozen in the emotionless
expression of obedience, but internally she squirmed.
Satisfied with his demonstration, Razaketh silently urged Liliana to put her fist down. As her body
obeyed, Liliana's mind reached back down the river, assessing how many dead things remained choked
and buried in the blood behind her.
Razaketh straightened himself and puffed his chest. "Now then, crone, tell me what you came here for."
Liliana's jaw popped with returned agency. She shifted it from side to side. The rest of her was still out
of reach, but at least her words were again hers.
She made them count.
"You have five more minutes to live," Liliana said, voice dripping with resolution. "You will watch me
as I kill you."
Razaketh laughed. "Five minutes. How precise."
Liliana's expression didn't change. "I'm a very punctual person."
"I doubt that."
"I killed Kothophed and Griselbrand," Liliana replied with a ghost of a smile. "It was easy."
Razaketh scoffed. "They were idiots."
Liliana smiled. "You're not wrong."
The demon considered her.
"I won't kill you. But I could maim you," Razaketh mused, toying with a knife at his hip. "I could have
you do it yourself."
Liliana tipped her chin. "Four minutes."
Razaketh laughed.
Jace's voice appeared in Liliana's mind once more.
Don't move.
Internally, Liliana sighed. Is that a joke?
A pause. Maybe.
Liliana's attention returned to the demon standing tall over her.
An awkward silence ensued.
"Did you really have nothing more than an idle, empty threat? I'm almost disappointed." Razaketh
made a show of shaking his head.
Jace's voice suddenly bloomed again in Liliana's mind, laced with panic. Wait, Chandra, don't rush
ahead—
"Four minutes is a bit long, isn't it?" Liliana said aloud with a coy smile.
The demon scowled.
Liliana grinned. "How about . . . now?"
From somewhere behind Razaketh's head, a jet of fire engulfed the demon.
Razaketh screamed.
Relief flooded Liliana as control of her body returned. She rushed to her feet, the blood of the river still
dripping down her dress, and looked to the source of the fire. Chandra funneled a blaze at Razaketh's
screeching body, leaving the demon writhing, his tail whipping wildly as he tried to fight his way
through the fire.
The demon unfurled his wings and launched into the air. He barreled down at Chandra at full speed and
rammed into her side, knocking the pyromancer into the side of the Necropolis with a bruising thud.
Liliana reached a hand back toward the river, drawing on her powers, but Razaketh turned back on her
with a snarl.
"I don't think so," the demon roared, and Liliana felt her shoulder dislocate itself.
Her scream was immediate, half pain and half fury, and then she felt her voice forcibly vanish.
Razaketh stood, hand out and brow furrowed, again seizing control.
A sudden whip of sand, rock, and reeds barreled into the side of the concentrating demon. A massive
elemental emerged, its body forming from the banks of the river. As it rose, rivulets of well water
untouched by the blood spell cascaded from it.
With Razaketh's concentration broken, Liliana again shuddered with returned control.
She wasted no time popping her shoulder back into place with a groan, then once more thrust her hand
toward the river, dark energy rippling through her as she wove her spell.
Injured and surprised, Razaketh scratched and clawed to get away from the elemental and back into the
sky. Behind him, Nissa helped Chandra to her feet, keeping an eye on her elemental. As Razaketh
ripped a massive chunk of earth from the elemental's torso, he thrust a clawed hand at Liliana to regain
control.
The exertion only half-worked—Liliana's legs gave out, but her body remained her own.
The elemental battered the demon again, and Razaketh turned his full fury on the creature. He ripped
off clumps of mud and tore reeds from its sides. He growled and spat and broke a crack in its side with
his tail. As he raised a fist to deliver the final blow, he was bathed in flames once again—Chandra,
standing once more, let loose a flurry of fireballs at the demon.
Liliana felt her right side go limp, and she fell to the ground.
Razaketh had one hand trained toward her, the other pinning Nissa's elemental to the ground.
Liliana panted against the earth and felt the sand in her teeth. In the distance, she saw the elemental hit
the ground. Nissa had retreated behind another part of the Necropolis—she was clearly having trouble
maintaining enough mana to keep the elemental active. Razaketh had flown up now and was dodging
Chandra's flames with ease.
Jace!  Liliana yelled in her mind.
But as the word formed in her mind, she halted.
Her breath had stopped.
She tried to suck in air, but her diaphragm was completely still.
Liliana tried again but found herself unable to breathe.
Razaketh landed in front of her, facing away from Liliana, taunting Chandra.
Liliana saw Chandra in the distance behind him taking aim at the demon. She realized that Chandra
was unable to see her lying on the ground.
Liliana couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. And the pyromancer was taking aim at the demon standing
directly above her.
JACE!
Jace's voice reappeared in her mind, frantic and distracted. Gideon on your left!
Liliana twitched as she felt an invisible hand grab her shoulder. Jace must have camouflaged Gideon to
help him get closer to her position.
She watched as Gideon's sural flashed into view, carving three thick lines in Razaketh's back. The
demon howled in pain, and Liliana coughed and inhaled a deep and desperate breath speckled with
sand. She sat up on her elbows and caught her breath between gasps.
Gideon's voice growled in her ear. "Make it fast."
"I intend to," Liliana croaked.
She felt bright, unfamiliar magic envelop the area around her. Gideon had extended his invulnerability,
creating a safe barrier between her and the demon.
A moment later, the air around her was engulfed in flames.
Liliana could see Gideon crouching above her now, wreathing his magic around the two of them, a
golden dome shielding them from the inferno.
Razaketh stumbled forward through the flames, flailing widely before being tackled by a second
elemental. The elemental pinned the demon to the ground, and Razaketh roared, his skin blistering
from Chandra's pyromantic bombardment.
Liliana stood. She walked forward with Gideon standing at her back, still maintaining his shielding
invulnerability. Liliana sensed a third twinge of magic—Jace must have made them invisible to
Razaketh's eye.
Jace, I need you to interrupt his control over me.
Jace's voice resounded with frustration. What do you think I've been trying to do for the last ten
minutes?
She didn't have time for this.
Drop the invisibility and focus on that while he's distracted!
Razaketh's eyes went unfocused.
Got him, move fast, Jace said, his mental voice full of strain.
"Forward, Gideon!" Liliana asserted.
Liliana walked forward into the wall of flames, blood dripping from her body and sizzling as it hit the
ground. Gideon's hand went to her shoulder to strengthen the magic that protected the two of them.
Behind the barrier of invulnerability, the heat of the inferno came across as pleasantly warm.
Comfortable, almost. Liliana squinted her eyes against the light and made out the shape of Razaketh in
front of her, wrestling with Nissa's massive elemental of sand and water, his flesh dark and singed by
the conflagration around him.
Liliana pulled the Chain Veil from her dress.
You don't need that,  Jace said in her mind, it will only hurt you—
Liliana scowled at Jace's interjection.
But then again . . . he was right.
She didn't need it for this.
Let the demon witness what terror she could wield all on her own.
Liliana slipped the veil back into her dress. If the situation became dire she could always pull it back
out, but for now she wanted to test her own abilities. The dying demon before her made her feel
particularly indulgent.
"Razaketh," Liliana called.
The demon was blistered and pinned to the banks of the river. His face was burned, melting, and
wrinkled: a grimace of rage.
Liliana held her head high, peering down at Razaketh in a way she hoped he could feel.
"Watch me as I kill you."
She held out her hands and reached her power toward the river.
The river boiled and churned with movement. Razaketh's eyes went wide.
Do it now! Jace yelled in Liliana's mind. Nearby, he flickered into view, dropping his veil as his mental
voice strained with effort. Liliana looked at him with a start—the mind mage had snuck up closer than
she thought. As Jace grimaced, Liliana felt a twitch in her hand as Razaketh struggled to reassert
control. With a flick of her wrist, a menagerie of death spilled up and out of the river of blood. Fish,
turtles, snakes, hippopotamuses, shorebirds, and drowned antelopes rose out of the crimson Luxa in a
writhing mass. Their mouths gaped, their teeth flashed, and they hurled themselves out of the river and
toward the charred body of the demon.
Liliana moved the mass as she would move her own body. Her control resided over each fin, claw, and
tooth that burst up from the thick blood of the river. She felt immense: boundless, magnified, and
distributed through waves of risen flesh. She wasn't sure where she ended and the hundreds of dead
began. For a fleeting moment, Liliana remembered what it was like to wield godlike power.
The demon struggled to pull himself out from under the grip of Nissa's elemental. With a roar and a
twist, he broke free and stretched his wings—torn like aged canvas on a rotting frame—and launched
into the air again. Liliana sent a burst of necromantic energy at him, and he convulsed as he fell to the
ground. Immediately, the morass of undead set upon the demon, fangs and teeth and horns tearing at
flesh.
Chandra, Gideon, and Nissa turned away from the carnage.
But next to Liliana, Jace remained transfixed, unable to look away.
Liliana felt him brush against the side of her mind with a cautious touch, asking for an invitation to
peer in. Liliana welcomed his mental gaze. Look Jace, she thought, at what I plan to do next.
Distantly, Liliana heard Jace gag with revulsion behind her.
He immediately retreated from her mind, but Liliana didn't care. She was busy.
Razaketh howled in pain and was suddenly, violently tugged toward the river. Liliana twisted her hand,
and another two dozen crocodiles bellowed and dragged their corpses out onto the bank. His leg
trapped in the jaws of one of the beasts, Razaketh tried to rise and crawl away from the river, but it was
too late. Liliana released her hold on the other creatures and poured her energy and mind into the
bodies of the crocodiles. Strong muscles and sharp teeth. An undead hunger for the flesh of the living.
With her consciousness divided among the two dozen dead crocodiles in front of her, she gnashed her
teeth and attacked. Her two dozen bellies hungered, and her two dozen jaws opened wide. Without
hesitation or humanity, her two dozen selves consumed the last of the demon Razaketh.
She feasted, and he screamed.
The crocodiles dragged the remains of the demon into the river of blood, splashing crimson arcs into
the air as their tails violently slapped the surface of the water. They crowded and shoved and dug their
teeth into the demon's flesh.
Liliana could feel herself getting full. Her two dozen jaws latched onto limbs and spun circles to rip
them off clean. Her two dozen mouths spat out blood and devoured the charred flesh. There would be
nothing left to stumble back to life. She laughed, and the crocodiles bellowed in tandem. Amonkhet's
curse would not get this corpse.
While her savage, divided mind ate the demon alive, her own teeth gently ground in subconscious
tandem.
She laughed and dimly heard Jace heaving behind her.
Liliana, that's enough, Jace pleaded. Liliana, he's dead. Please stop.
Liliana swallowed in her own body and tasted nothing.
She was panting with exertion.
And smiling from ear to ear.
She felt sated, relieved, and deliciously monstrous. She didn't want to stop.
Lili, enough.
Liliana lowered her hand and retreated from the bodies of the crocodiles. They lurched, and a moment
later, swam upriver of their own reanimated volition. The Curse of Wandering had taken hold.
She had done it!
Liliana giggled and fell exhausted on the sand. No wine was as sweet as independence, no victory as
satisfying as self-governance. Liliana was not a sentimental person, but lying on the bank of the River,
staring at the glimmering blue of the Hekma, she found herself feeling as if it was all actually possible.
As if she could  be free of the control of others and the things that she despised. The assistance of the
Gatewatch had provided the means to her end. Just as planned!
The wind picked up, and a hot breeze blew her hair out of her face. She saw Jace out of the corner of
her eye. He was standing next to her, staring down with an unreadable expression. Liliana could smell
his vomit on the ground behind him.
"I did it, Jace."
Liliana giggled again.
"I ate him."
Jace was, pointedly, not answering.
"The other two demons were a lot easier. They couldn't do to me what he did. And now there's just one
more. And then I get myself to myself again."
Exhaustion had set in. Liliana knew she wasn't making much sense. She sat up with effort.
"Did you throw up?" she asked through tired breath.
Jace didn't respond.
Gideon, Nissa, and Chandra approached cautiously. They had stood to the side, watching Liliana's
revenge from a distance, and walked forward now, battered from the conflict.
"Thank you all for your assistance," Liliana said with a breathy, grateful smile.
Gideon crossed his arms. "We did what had to be done. Our focus needs now to be on the arrival of
Bolas."
"Yes," she said, fixing back her hair with a ribbon from her dress. "First, a moment to catch our breath."
"We don't have time for rest," Nissa said with uncharacteristic perturbance. "From what I can sense, the
bloodspell Razaketh cast has begun a chain reaction of sorceries. 'The Hours' that herald Nicol Bolas's
return needed to be set in motion by the demon."
Liliana stood on shaky legs. None of the others offered to help her up.
"We'll be better prepared to face him with Razaketh out of the way," Liliana said.
 "I agree," Gideon said, "but we intervened to save you, despite your deception about the demon's
presence."
"And it worked out well, didn't it?" Liliana countered.
Chandra held out her hands to slow the conversation. "We don't have time to argue about what
happened. We need to split up and prevent further loss of life."
"I . . . agree," Nissa said. She looked at Jace and fell quiet as the two engaged in a silent, mental
conversation.
In the lull, Gideon took charge.
"We need to rally and conserve our strength. If we can, we'll want to ambush Nicol Bolas when he
arrives. Let's catch him by surprise instead of the other way around." Gideon looked pointedly at
Liliana.
Liliana rolled her eyes. She felt no shame for how she took down the demon. Yet she couldn't deny the
coldness with which the others regarded her. Gideon was poorly trying to hide a frown. Chandra's
mouth was drawn into a stressed, thin line. Nissa openly scowled. Jace seemed most distant of all.
"Let us seek a better vantage to prepare for Nicol Bolas's arrival," Gideon said. They turned and walked
back toward the gate, crossing the threshold back into Naktamun.
Only Jace lingered behind, looking at Liliana with an inscrutable expression.
"Don't look at me like that," Liliana said.
Jace didn't blink. "I'm not going to stand by if you lose it like that again."
"It was necessary." Liliana shrugged.
Jace shook his head. "It was overkill."
Liliana scoffed with a smile. "I did what I needed to."
She turned, tugging her hair tight and away from her face, and left to join the others.
Jace stood for a moment longer. He looked to the stain of blood on the banks of the Luxa and, despite
the heat of the afternoon and the sheen of sweat on his forehead, he shivered.
By Alison Luhrs
HOUR OF GLORY
Posted in Magic Story on June 21, 2017
Previous Story: Feast
"And as the Luxa, the lifeblood of Naktamun, turned to the foul blood of the great shadow Razaketh,
the Hours turned to that of Glory—the promised time when the gods themselves would prove their
worth before the God-Pharaoh."

In the beginning, there was nothing but darkness: a churning ocean of uncertainty.
Then the great God-Pharaoh awoke and rose, a shining golden sun, and shed light upon the unformed
world. With the unfurling of his wings, he split sky from earth; with his first breath, he formed water
and air; with a sweep of his tail, he carved mountains and crumbled stone into sand. And thus, the
God-Pharaoh sifted order from chaos, and the world took shape, raw and young and new.
The God-Pharaoh then gazed upon the barren, quiet world and planted the seeds of life. And so the
denizens of Amonkhet were born, birthed from the dreams of the dragon-creator. But unlike their
creator, they were soft, vulnerable, frail—and mortal. And the shadows of the world, the remnants of
that black ocean, seized those that died, twisting them into undeath, a threat and plague to the living.
And so the great God-Pharaoh forged the gods.
He drew upon the fabric of the world itself, weaving the mana of Amonkhet into five forms, each to
embody a virtue of himself. And thus, the immortals of Amonkhet came into being. Born of the God-
Pharaoh's will and stronger than his dream-children, the gods were tasked with protecting his mortal
flocks from the whims of shadow, shepherding them toward a glorious death instead.
For the God-Pharaoh knew of a realm beyond this world. A place only reachable by passing through
death. And though he knew the hardships of this world were many, and shadows gripped at the edges of
all that dwelled there. He knew that his children could prevail, grow, learn, and become worthy. For
the afterlife was a gift too precious to be given lightly; his children needed to prove themselves
deserving of its glory.
And so the God-Pharaoh gifted his children the Trials. And each god was honored with the task of
teaching, training, and leading the mortals on the path to life eternal.
And once all was in place, the God-Pharaoh left Naktamun to pave the way to eternity, giving time for
his children to learn, strive, and achieve their destinies before joining him in the great afterlife. He left
his children in the care of his gods and set the second sun in motion to mark the time of his return.

All this Rhonas knew to be true.

It rang with certainty through the very fiber of his being, as interwoven a part of him as the leylines of
mana that tied him to the world. It ran through the bodies of his brethren, each god-sibling tangible
proof of the God-Pharaoh's benevolence and divinity. He knew his part in the God-Pharaoh's plan.
Thus, for years he challenged the mortals in his care, helping the denizens of Naktamun hone their
bodies and seize true strength, all in the visage of himself and his God-Pharaoh.
And so, when the second sun finally came to rest between the horns as prophesied, Rhonas rejoiced,
emerging from his temple and his Trial. And he came to stand before the Gate to the Afterlife to
welcome their creator, the progenitor of all things, the God-Pharaoh returned.
What he found, however, was not what he expected.
As he joined his sister Hazoret at the banks of the Luxa, Rhonas felt an uncharacteristic chill permeate
his scales. Demonic magic clung heavy in the air, humid and thick, while the copper smell of blood
saturated all. Rhonas gazed at the water turned red, then toward the other gods as they arrived. Oketra,
fleet of foot, came to stand next to Hazoret. Kefnet, ever proud, floated down and landed beside
Rhonas, while Bontu strode up, quiet and aloof. The five stood before the crimson shores of the Luxa,
basked in the mirrored crimson light of the second sun.

It had been many years since all five had gathered in one place. Each god served a purpose in the God-
Pharaoh's grand design, guiding mortals through their own Trials, watching over the city in their own
way. Rhonas had worked the closest with Hazoret, the two striking out into the desert on occasion to
hunt down any great threat that strayed too close to the city. He had not stood in the presence of the
others in some time. Yet here they were now, all five standing before the gate. At their feet, many
mortals bowed their heads in deference or gazed up in awe, bathed for the first time in the presence of
all five divinities at once.
And still, the God-Pharaoh did not arrive.
Rhonas's tongue flicked out, sampling the air, searching for some sign—mundane or magical. The
promised Hour of Revelation had come and gone, but no answers had been revealed. Whatever spell
the now-absent demon had unleashed still wound through the air, its effects churning and unresolved,
and Rhonas brought his staff to bear, his instincts whispering of danger.
Look. The Luxa. Hazoret's voice reverberated in his mind, and Rhonas's gaze shifted to the river. The
blood, coagulating at standstill just moments ago, had resumed its flow through the gate, rushing with
increasing speed as it coursed beyond. In the past, Rhonas had seen the Gate to the Afterlife crack open
as part of the daily passage of worthy dead to the beyond. This, however, was the first time he had
witnessed it's doors thrown wide. Yet he saw no sign of the promised paradise beyond the open portal
—only the Necropolis, large and imposing, housing all the dead awaiting the God-Pharaoh's return.
Within moments, all that remained of the mighty Luxa was a few rivulets of red, coagulating droplets
of blood clinging to stones at the bottom of the riverbed. The acrid bite of the demonic spell
reverberated through Rhonas's very being, and he sensed old magics unraveling and unbinding. As the
magical pressure in the air grew thick and almost unbearable, the blood of the river seemed to
seep into the stone foundation of the Necropolis, running up the grooves and markings on the statues
lining the sides of the building.
A blast of fetid air burst from the monolithic structure, and a sudden crack rang out. Rhonas watched as
three of the massive statues—no, sarcophagi—along the side of the building cracked open, their stone
facades crumbling in a cloud of dust. A blue light flashed, and three enormous figures stepped forward
from their slumber, awakened by the demon's spell.

A wave of cries and shouts rippled from the mortals assembled at the gods' feet, while the gods recoiled
at the sight and the presence of the towering figures. The three stood taller even than the gods
themselves, their humanoid bodies ending with monstrous heads bearing the shapes of insects—one a
scorpion; one a creature with a spindly, locust-like form; and one with the azure carapace of a scarab
where its face should have been.

There was no question in Rhonas's mind: these three were immortals. Whereas the presence of his
siblings glowed like a warm flame, these gods emanated shadow, a heavy weight of darkness and
despair that washed over all present, mortal and god alike.

For the first time in his existence, Rhonas felt unsure. Nothing in the prophecies, nothing in his
memories of the God-Pharaoh spoke of these three.
The mortals at his feet murmured, and a few let out panicked screams as the scorpion god lumbered
through the gate, its massive strides sending tremors rumbling through the ground. To his right, Hazoret
took a step forward, spear at the ready, but Rhonas held out his staff to stay her fervor. Is this a foe, or
a test?
"I am Rhonas, God of Strength. Who are you, and why have you awakened during this Hour of
Glory?" Rhonas's voice boomed.
The scorpion god did not respond, but turned its insectoid head toward Rhonas. Upon closer
examination, the god appeared even more grotesque than Rhonas had initially thought. Its body was a
coil of sinew and muscle coated by dark exoskeleton, with hands that ended in sharp claws. Its head
looked like a massive scorpion perched on the humanoid body, its hardened carapace gilded and
adorned with blue orbs that Rhonas could only assume were its eyes.

The immortal seemed to regard Rhonas. No words came forth from its mandibles, but a low chittering
noise started and grew in volume. Rhonas gripped his staff tighter as the scorpion tail arched over the
god's head. A wave of panic rippled through the mortals at Rhonas's feet, and he felt a rush of their
prayers and supplication.
Rhonas pointed his staff toward the scorpion god, matching the display of aggression with one of his
own. "Whether you are a harbinger of our God-Pharaoh's return or an interloper conspiring
against the Hours, you shall proceed no further."
The scorpion god took another earth-shaking step forward. Rhonas shifted his grip on his staff as his
feet moved into a practiced, centered stance. Around him, his brothers and sisters stood at the ready,
bodies tense, eyes on Rhonas.
Rhonas's tongue again flicked out into the air. "You shall not defy a god of Amonkhet. We stand
guard over this city and its people. If you are my Trial, then I will defeat you and prove myself
worthy!"
Without warning, the scorpion god charged toward Rhonas, its chittering spiking in volume. Sand flew
as the immortal moved with surprising speed, scorpion tail tensed. It dashed into striking distance,
clawed hands swiping at Rhonas.
But Rhonas was ready, sidestepping the charging god and striking at it with his staff. The metal
smashed against the other god's back, a resounding strike against its carapace that would have reduced
lesser beings to dust. The immortal seemed to shrug off the assault as it spun around, mandibles
clacking and tail twitching in anticipation. It sprang at Rhonas again, claws raking at his eyes. Rhonas
raised his staff to parry, and the scorpion god's claws clanged against the metal of his weapon. Rhonas
felt his knees bend and his feet break the earth beneath him under the force of the blow.
Rhonas struggled, pushing up against the larger god. Fighting something bigger than himself was
unusual, but not wholly new. The deserts hid sandwurms, monstrosities, and far more terrifying beasts,
and he had occasionally tussled with a foe whose stature exceeded his own. But fighting
something stronger than him? Than the God of Strength?
Rhonas shouted in fury and pushed, muscles screaming as he shoved the scorpion god back. The
ground shook with each of its steps as it stumbled. Rhonas took advantage of its loss of balance,
drawing mana and channeling a spell of vigor. Power coursed through his limbs and he swung at the
scorpion god with all his might.
His blow caught it in the chest, and the immortal went flying across the expanse, landing with a crash
just beyond the gate. Rhonas heard the mortals cheer and shout praises behind him as the scorpion god
slowly clambered to its feet. Rhonas's stoic face hid from the rejoicing mortals the growing dread in his
heart. That spell never failed to end a fight before.
The scorpion god again crossed the threshold of the gate. This time, it did not charge. Instead, it cut a
sweeping path, keeping its distance but stalking and circling closer to Rhonas. The chittering never
ceased, droning at a mind-numbing volume and frequency. Rhonas tried to block it out, countering with
an incantation he muttered low under his breath.
This scorpion god was clearly a Trial of the Hour of Glory. It had to be. Nothing else had challenged
Rhonas's strength like this before. Nothing had sustained his attacks and lived. Rhonas's eyes flickered
to the two looming shapes still beyond the gate. Perhaps those gods would test the others in different
ways. After all, the gods could not prove their worth if they were not also faced, as the mortals were,
with struggles beyond what they had ever encountered before. A smile crept across his face as he
continued his incantation. Blessed be the strength and wisdom of the God-Pharaoh, he thought. It is an
honor to prove my worth against such a formidable foe.
Rhonas touched his staff, uttering the final words of his incantation. A sickly green glow pulsed,
seeming to come from within the metal. It shimmered across the length of the staff, then coalesced in
the bladed end of the weapon, settling into a soft viridian light.
Rhonas began to walk, a counter circle to the scorpion god's sweeping path.
"You are indeed strong," Rhonas said. "But you shall not triumph today."
This time, Rhonas charged in, dashing toward the scorpion god with serpentine speed. He parried a
strike from the scorpion tail, then spun close and landed a blow with his elbow, catching the scorpion
god in the ribs. His staff left streaking trails of green light as he swung, striking fast instead of hard,
testing the strength of the scorpion god's carapace, leaving slashing cuts and scratches on the
impossibly hard shell, deflecting and dodging the scorpion god's strikes.
As the two brawled, the scorpion god's movements seemed to slow. The strikes from its claws and tail
became sluggish. Too late, it looked at Rhonas's staff with dawning recognition. Rhonas grinned and
bared his fangs as he drove the blade end of his staff into the immortal's shoulder, cracking the carapace
just enough, the scorpion god now too slow to stop or dodge the assault. The biting glow of magical
poison, venom powerful enough to slay most living things, pulsed as it seeped in through the wound,
numbing and eating away at the scorpion god from the inside.
Rhonas pulled his staff back, and the scorpion god fell to its knees, still chittering weakly. The roar of
the people reverberated in his ears and he felt a rush of relief and warmth from his fellow gods. Rhonas
regarded the monstrosity brought low, then turned back toward his brothers and sisters and the gathered
mortals. He opened his mouth to speak.

The words never made it past his throat.

A sudden rush of motion behind him caught Rhonas by surprise. Sharp claws dug into his arms, and he
barely registered that the scorpion god had grappled him from behind before an impossible pain split
through his mind.

Time halted.
Rhonas looked down, surprised to see himself  standing on the banks of the Luxa. Behind him, the
scorpion god loomed, a dark shape that somehow exuded and  glowed darkness, claws gripping
Rhonas's body.
That was when Rhonas saw the scorpion tail, arched over the god, piercing his own skull.
I  . .  . am slain.
The realization crept through him even as he felt the ichor of the scorpion god's sting drip down his
spine, seeping into his mind and soul, severing his physical ties to his divinity and corroding the magic
that connected his body to his immortality. Rhonas watched, seized by horror and fascination, as death
consumed him. He felt the poison gnaw at his heart and fray the knot of leylines and magic and
physical strength that resided in his core.
Yet as the poison destroyed the links anchoring him to the world, it also unbound the magical threads
placed there by another force.
And Rhonas suddenly remembered the truth.
The memories began as a trickle, then flooded through him as the tangled dam of magic unraveled.
And Rhonas's very spirit recoiled as the true events and nature of the God-Pharaoh revealed itself, a
crushing tidal wave sweeping away everything he had believed for the past sixty years.
The great lie of the God-Pharaoh. The dragon, not a creator but a merciless destroyer. The great
trespasser, slayer of mortals and corrupter of gods. The cruel inversion of the world's most sacred rite,
the twisting of a glorious honor into a constant churn and murder of mortal champions. The sudden
remembrance that gods were not crafted in the dragon's image; they were born of Amonkhet, originally
eight in number, pillars of the plane and guardians of the living. And the great pretender corrupted it
all.
Rhonas wept.
And as he wept, his tears turned from heartbreak to rage, and Rhonas spat the foul name, his dying
heart filled with fury and pain.
Nicol Bolas.
As darkness crept in on the edges of his vision and he felt the last ties of his spirit to his physical form
disintegrate, Rhonas looked upon the gruesome visage of the god behind him. And though his bodily
eyes already filmed over with a milky white, he saw the god's true nature—the tiniest flickers of flame
in its heart, surrounded by utter darkness, the original light and soul of his brother buried beneath vile
corruption. This god was once one of the original eight, corrupted and repurposed to become a slayer
of the very siblings he once held most dear.
"Brother," Rhonas whispered.
Rhonas felt the scorpion's stinger retract, felt his muscles spasm and tense, felt the quickening
approach of death. And his heart broke: for his three lost siblings, for the mortals who perished, for
those he guided in supplication to a foul falsehood.
And the Strength of the World faded, his immortal light sputtering in the consuming shadows.

The assembled gods and mortals cried out in anguish as the scorpion tail pierced Rhonas's head. That
sliver of time, but a blink and a breath, seemed to stretch across eternity, the frozen image of the barbed
tail buried deep in Rhonas's skull burned into the souls of all present. Then the abomination god
retracted its tail, and black ichor spilled forth as Rhonas stumbled and fell to the earth, body
convulsing, then lay still.
The scorpion god, with nary a pause or even a look, turned toward the other gods and walked forward,
tail arced high.
All bedlam erupted. Mortals screamed as they turned and fled. The other gods scrambled for their
weapons as the scorpion god marched toward them, relentless, unstoppable.
That's when the four gods felt a lurch in the world, a pull on the very fabric of their beings. Behind the
scorpion god, Rhonas clung to his staff, leaning on it to struggle upright, bent on his knees and
bleeding from the wound in his skull. Verdant energy rippled across his body and channeled into his
staff. With the last of his strength, Rhonas pulled taut the remaining leylines that wove throughout his
being, warping the very air around him. An anguished final shout tore ragged from his throat.
"Death to the God-Pharaoh, foul trespasser and destroyer!"
With a guttural cry and final exertion, Rhonas launched his staff through the air, pushing the last of his
power into the weapon.

As Rhonas collapsed, his life extinguished, the invisible strands of leylines and mana tied to him
snapped, sending ripples of force blasting out across all life in Naktamun. Mortals doubled over in
shock as the god perished, and even the other gods stumbled and recoiled where they stood. They
watched as Rhonas's staff, carrying the final vestiges of their brother's power, flew through the air, his
final spell transforming the weapon into a living monstrous serpent, fangs bared and laced with death
 as it struck at the scorpion god.
The scorpion god fell to the ground, ensnared by the serpent. The god's tail swung wildly, trying to stab
the snake as the two wrestled for control.
The four gods stared, stunned into stillness. Around them, the cries of fear and panic swelled as mortals
continued to flee from the gate.
The cry of her children shook Oketra from her shock. She turned to her siblings, tears welling in her
eyes, her voice rough and uncertain as her usual grace evaporated.
"The Hours have gone awry. We must protect the mortals."
Her words stirred her siblings into motion. Hazoret turned toward Oketra, brows crinkled in confusion.
"Rhonas. He said . . . he blasphemed our God-Pharaoh."
Oketra nodded. She too had heard Rhonas's final words, and though they could not possibly be true,
doubt nibbled at the edges of her heart even as faint fragments of thoughts flitted just at the periphery
of her memory.
A growing buzz pulled her attention back beyond the gate.
The second of the insect gods had spread its arms, and a swarm of locusts poured forth from its hands.
Oketra watched in horror as the dark cloud flooded into the sky and across the Hekma—and began
eating through the magical barrier.
"What is it doing?!" Kefnet cried out.
A shiver of realization and recognition ran down Oketra's spine as she remembered the words of
prophecy. And at that time, the God-Pharaoh will tear down the Hekma.
Oketra spoke, her voice a muted whisper.
"The Hour of Promise has begun."
A horrific rending sound erupted before them. The scorpion god stood from the ground, two halves of
the giant snake held in each hand.
Slowly, it opened its claws and let the pieces fall to the ground. Its azure eyes stared cold and piercing
at the gods, and it again resumed its ceaseless approach.
Oketra notched an arrow to her bow, mouth drawn in a steely line, her broken heart hardening with
sharp resolve.
And the scorpion god stalked closer, while behind it, the other two gods crossed the threshold of the
gate into the city of Naktamun.
Above them all, between the great horns in the distance, the second sun cast its red glow across the
land, a ceaseless eye watching the unfolding of the Hours.
By Michael Yichao
THE HOUR OF PROMISE
Posted in Magic Story on June 28, 2017
Previous Story: Hour of Glory
"And lo, the three dark divinities returned, and as they felled the gods, the Hour of Promise arrived.
And so the great locust god fulfilled the great promise, and thus the Hekma was torn asunder, its
protections cast aside before the return of the God-Pharaoh."

Hapatra stood on the steps of the Temple of Strength, watching the blood of the Luxa seep upriver,
transforming the water to crimson as its stain spread. Her arms were crossed tight in front of her chest,
and her mouth was a hard line. The other viziers of the temple flanked her on either side, sharing her
fixation with the dry riverbed and its crimson stain.
Khufu stood to her right. He was broad-shouldered and bulky, with a patch of gray sneaking across his
temples. In a happier moment, Hapatra would have teased him for his age (a ghastly thirty-five), but
now all she could do was shake her head.
"We should have news of the new gods' intentions by now," she said. "Where is Iput?"
"Returning swiftly, I'm certain," Khufu said, faith ringing through his voice like a chime.
Hapatra toyed with the pet snake wrapped around her little finger. Earlier, a messenger had come to say
that three new gods had appeared, and that one had engaged Rhonas in combat. She wished she could
stand alongside Rhonas to greet the newcomers, but the viziers had agreed in the moment that it was
best to stay at their temples.
Hapatra pursed her lips. She was as anxious and desperate for news as the rest of her peers. "We should
be near Rhonas for the Hour of Glory."
Khufu crossed his arms. "The Hour of Glory is the time when gods and mortals alike will prove their
worthiness to enter into the glorious Afterlife."
Hapatra made a small noise of confirmation. "So the new gods will test them first? Then move on to us
and the untested initiates?"
Khufu shrugged.
Hapatra shifted from foot to foot, letting her little pet slide from one hand to the other. Her heart beat
with anxiety. She knew in her heart that Rhonas's victory would be swift, but waiting for news was
proving to be torturous.
"The prophecies have always been unclear about where we were supposed to be for all of this. How
will we know when to lead the untested initiates to the new gods? And what does the river turning to
blood have to do with it?" Hapatra frowned.
Khufu held up his hands, palms facing upward.
"The God-Pharaoh will make all clear."
May the God-Pharaoh's mercy be more bountiful than his communications, Hapatra thought to herself.
She let her gaze drift back to the River Luxa. The birds had stopped singing, and the city, usually rife
with the sounds of happy training, was utterly silent. It made Hapatra uncomfortable. Even more
concerning was the retreating water—blood—of the river. The empty riverbed was filled with undead
fish. Strange, lumpy, blood-soaked animals flopped on the mud and rolled around lamely. The Curse of
Wandering did not care that they needed water to move after all.
It was all too strange. Too unorthodox. These prophecies were vague, and their manifestations
unsettling.
Foreign doubts ghosted through Hapatra's mind. She dared not give them names.
Without warning, her breath hitched in her throat.
A sudden, jarring pain burst in Hapatra's chest, and she doubled over in agony, clutching her heart and
cursing through the sting.
She looked around desperately for the source and saw that the other viziers were clutching their chest
as well. She stilled her mind and tried to work her way through the ache. Hapatra was a master of
poisons and had spent much of her life forcing her body to work through searing pain. She breathed in,
then out, focusing on her will to ease the panic and hurt from her body.
The physical pain passed, but a feeling of dread remained.
Parts of the city were screaming. Hapatra looked out over the rooftops and temples to find the source.
The sound seemed to be coming from the Gate, but grew louder to her ear, as if something were
traveling rapidly over Naktamun. In the distance, Hapatra saw Kefnet take to the air, followed by a
strange dark shape she did not recognize.
From above, she heard something odd—a chittering, scratching, leggy little noise creeping through the
haze of the Hekma. Hapatra looked up and saw a cloud of locusts hovering above.
The monsters were meant to have been vanquished with the Hour of Revelation. That was why the
demon had arrived to fly over the city; he was the driven out of paradise, as were all beasts outside the
Hekma. Why did the monsters persist?
Her snake slipped off her finger and slithered into a crack in the temple wall.
Hapatra looked back toward Kefnet and realized that the dark shape following him could only be one
of the new gods.
It was massive. The thing seemed to be climbing the nearest tower. Its claws gripped the rock sides of
an obelisk as it hauled its enormous body upward. Halfway up the thing appeared to remember it had
wings, launching itself quickly to the top. The drone of its wings was a constant, violent noise, as
though the air itself was protesting the constant beating inflicted upon it by the gigantic insectoid
wings.
Hapatra turned to Khufu.
"We should help Kefnet!"
The other vizier shook his head, still wincing from the mysterious pain. "This is all part of the Hour of
Glory. The gods will be tested as we will."
"And that is what that pain was? A test?"
Khufu nodded, and Hapatra's lips curled. She crossed to the opposite side of the veranda. Nothing
about this felt right.
At that moment, she heard small footsteps coming up the stairs. Iput, the Temple of Strength's youngest
and most fleet-footed vizier, ran swiftly up the stairs. Her face was a mess of tears. Hapatra kneeled and
caught her in her arms.
"Iput, what did you see? What do the new gods want?"
"Rhonas is dead!" she sputtered.
Hapatra's face fell. She shook her head.
"No. He is a god. The gods cannot be killed."
Iput shuddered with grief. "The scorpion god killed him. It means to kill them all."
Rhonas was the mightiest of the gods. Beasts shied away from his power, and dark forces quailed
wherever his shadow fell. Rhonas could not be killed.
But the pain in Hapatra's heart said otherwise.
Behind her, Khufu was yelling.
"It is a test! Iput is lying! Rhonas, greatest god of them all, will join the side of the God-Pharaoh—"
"Would you be silent for once!" Hapatra yelled.
This was no time for protocol. Promises had been broken, and trust had been pierced with unfamiliar
venom. Hapatra could grieve later. Her only goal now was to keep the other gods safe so no other
citizen would feel the pain of a god falling.
Hapatra looked up and saw dark clouds of insects clinging to the inside of the barrier. She looked to the
locust god on the spire in the distance in time to witness it, arms outstretched, wielding some unholy
magic directed at the sky above.
The buzz of locusts filled the air above her.
A gray mass was coalescing on the inside of the Hekma. At first it was sparse, but as the locust god's
spell continued, the mass grew larger and larger, and the drone of buzzing wings grew louder and
louder.
Hapatra narrowed her eyes to make out what the locusts were doing. They seemed to be clambering
over each other to reach the shimmering magic of the Hekma. And as they moved, shafts of clear light
broke through where the barrier used to stand. Hapatra's lips parted in horror. The locusts were eating
away at the Hekma itself.
Hapatra turned to the other viziers. "The Hour of Promise is when the world will be transformed into a
glorious paradise. 'No more will the Hekma be required to hedge out the desert and the marauding
dead, for the waters of the Luxa will flow freely through the wastes.' Right?!"
The other viziers nodded their heads. Hapatra jabbed a finger at the locust god in the distance. She
drew back her shoulders and stood at full height. "The Luxa will flow freely through the wastes
because there won't be a Hekma!"
The viziers looked up in horror. They watched from their high vantage point as the locusts consumed
more and more of the magic that kept them safe from the outside.
Even Khufu couldn't help but look. "The locust god is doing this . . . ?"
The Hekma was coated with locusts beyond count, their swarm so thick that the light of both suns
flickered and dimmed. An eerie, black night fell on Naktamun. Hapatra blinked as her eyes adjusted.
The mass of insects moved and shifted, dappling light on the stones of the Temple of Strength.
Hapatra decided this was about the right time to go inside.
"No more gawking! Everyone retreat!" Hapatra called. The other viziers were swallowed by their grief,
and reluctantly picked themselves up off the ground with desperate sobs.
Hapatra whipped around. "Rhonas would not want you to sit and mourn! Arm yourselves for battle,
viziers!"
The others sniffed and nodded, heading inside to retrieve their weapons.
A pinprick of light escaped through the dark mass of insects above.
Shafts of light broke through across the underside of the barrier, at first several, then a dozen, and
suddenly a quarter of the Hekma barrier vanished.
Hapatra swore.
The city erupted into chaos.
She watched from the temple as Kefnet flew upward and began a spell to repair the Hekma, but his
effort was in vain. Swarms of locusts mobbed the god, and Kefnet struggled to continue the
enchantment under the assault of hundreds of thousands of insects. Hapatra cursed the limited view she
had of the rest of the city.
As the surrounding Hekma vanished, a wave of marauding mummies poured into the city from the
wastes beyond.
She turned heel and ran as quickly as she could into the Temple of Strength.
Initiates were panicking, hugging each other for comfort. Some viziers were arming themselves;
another was leading the beasts of the temple out of their habitats to let loose into the city to fight off the
marauding mummies. The inside of the Temple of Strength was an extensive training ground known as
the Holding, a carefully curated wildlife preserve designed as a place where initiates could hone their
tenacity and survival skills. Hapatra began working her way through the outer ring of the Holding
toward its more perilous inner ring. She had spent her entire life devoted to this Temple, and knew
every path and shortcut. The vizier's chambers were very near now.
Hapatra did her very best not to let the turmoil in her heart show on her face. All she had ever wanted
was a place by Rhonas's side in the Afterlife. Where would gods go when they died?
Her own chambers were shrouded in poisonous vines. She passed through with tingling ease and ran
toward her weapon cabinet.
Spear. Scimitar. Vials upon vials of poisons.
Hapatra remembered a lesson she had taught just months before.

She stood encircled by initiates, each healthy, talented, and poised for success in the Trial of Strength.
As master of poisons, Hapatra delighted in teaching her craft.
She gestured with a lift of her proud chin and asked the group of students a simple question. "How do
marauding mummies move through the sandy desert?"
Hapatra waited for a beat and then broke into a dazzling smile.
"With grit!"
Every initiate groaned, and Hapatra grinned with smug satisfaction.

Hapatra smiled at the memory and pulled out a vial of poison. She knew full well how mummies
moved. Once the Curse of Wandering took hold, the muscles animated through impulses that were sent
through the spinal cord and nerves to the muscles.
She smeared poison on the edge of her scimitar.
"Dead nerves, dead mummy."
Hapatra punctuated her quip with a shrill whistle.
Something massive rumbled past the opening to her chamber, and Hapatra smiled wickedly. She
grabbed a thick shawl to protect her skin from the locusts and called out to the thing outside.
"Tuyaaaa, sweetheart!"
She heard a hiss from behind the vines. Hapatra slung her scimitar over her back and moved the vines
to the side, cooing at the huge basilisk in front of her.
Tuya was twice as tall as Hapatra and longer than she had ever cared to measure. The two shared a
magical bond, and the basilisk nuzzled the hands of her master. Hapatra kissed the nose of her serpent.
"The world as we know it has ended, old girl," Hapatra whispered. The basilisk snuggled her nose into
the crook of Hapatra's neck.
The master of poisons swallowed her grief.
"No time for mourning, sweetheart. We have a city to save."

Hapatra clung tight to Tuya's back as the serpent wound its way through the rings of the Holding. There
were no initiates in here now, and the wilderness was strangely empty.
Hapatra extended a hand and wove a spell of calling. To me, she projected. Follow me outside and
avenge your master, for he is dead.
The beasts and animals of the Holding lifted their heads attentively. They began to follow, first one,
then many, until a mass of antelopes, hippopotamuses, rhinoceroses, and elephants were following the
slithering basilisk.
Vines and leaves whipped Hapatra's face as she barreled through the jungle of the Holding. She tugged
at Tuya's side to steer the basilisk up the central staircase, shutting her eyes tight as they broke through
the doorway into the terror of the brilliant light of day.
The light hit her face at the same time as a storm of screams and noise. Free of their task, the locusts
were swarming whatever body they could find first. Cursed dead had begun to wander in from the
desert outside, and a few horrors from the wastes had started to attack any living person they could
find.
Naktamun, once shining alabaster, was stained with plague and beasts.
Hapatra could feel locusts bouncing off her even through her thick shawl. She brought Tuya to a halt,
and the menagerie of animals from the Temple of Strength following behind stopped in turn.
The suns above were dappled with clouds of insects. Kefnet hovered far above now, desperately trying
to rebuild the Hekma. In the distance, Hapatra could make out the locust god still standing atop its
spire, setting wave after wave of locusts upon a hapless Kefnet.
Hapatra quickly wove another spell of calling. Attack the pretender gods! Kill the insectoid
trespassers!
The beasts roared with bloodthirst and fury, and Tuya reared up to bare her fangs. Hapatra drew her
scimitar and willed Tuya to charge.
They tore through the streets of Naktamun, ramming as many marauding mummies and locusts as
possible. Hapatra leaned over the side of her serpent and sliced through the chests of several mummies
with her poisoned scimitar. With every swipe of her blade, another mummy halted, hunched over, and
fell to the earth, its body seizing and shaking.
If only Rhonas could see me now, she thought with a bittersweet smile.
Tuya's fangs clamped down on the bodies of several marauding mummies, and Hapatra leapt to the
ground.
"Keep the cursed dead out of the city!" she yelled. The basilisk gave her a quick loving flick of her
tongue and slithered away to the edge of Naktamun.
Hapatra looked up, spotted the struggling Kefnet high above the city, and ran toward him.
The shawl prevented the locusts from biting and scraping her skin, but Hapatra quickly realized it
would be no help against the mummies that surrounded her now. She charged forward into the throng
all the same. She started to intone a prayer to Rhonas before catching herself and cursing. Yet still she
wove her way through swaths of enemies, her blade dancing with a practiced, deadly grace as she cut
herself free from the crowd of undead.
She knew that her poison would freeze the mummies on its own. Hapatra ran toward the nearest group
of marauding dead and began to make as many cuts as possible. Her poison would cease movement on
both the living and the dead. She could not remove the Curse of Wandering, but she could make it a
hell of a lot harder for them to wander in the first place.
Hapatra cut slice after slice, leaving a trail of seizing corpses in her wake.
She lost herself at that moment. Moving her blade side to side, with locusts disrupting her vision and
buzzing filling her ears, Hapatra felt old. She had lived for thirty-four years—two lifetimes' worth of
experience. Rhonas had been there for her from the very start. He was so good and so true. How could
her god betray her like this?
No. It wasn't the gods.
It was the one who was absent. The God-Pharaoh who was not here.
This was his fault.
Hapatra screamed in fury and sliced the head of a marauding mummy clear off.
A flash of gold caught her eye.
Hapatra looked over and watched as two children stood back to back against a group of decayed
mummies.
They stabbed with stolen spears and yelled tactical advice to one another. Their movements were
unskilled, channeled from a place of abject terror.
Hapatra's heart felt heavy. She charged forward and made quick work of the attacking mummies, with
the two children stabbing and screaming alongside her.
Once their enemies had fallen in a poisoned heap, Hapatra turned to the children.
"Where are your caretakers?"
"They won't stop," replied the older child.
Hapatra's brow fell in confusion. She kicked in the door of the nearest house and walked inside.
Several anointed were preparing lunch in the kitchen. Mounds of food piled up on all sides and each
bowl was coated with feasting locusts. The stink of insects and tainted food was thick in the air. One
anointed mummy had run out of bowls to put food in and was simply dropping it, spoonful by
spoonful, onto the floor. A mass of locusts busily consumed the extra food, but the mummies took no
notice. It appeared the anointed were unable to stop their duties despite the chaos that permeated the
city.
Hapatra recoiled and exited quickly. She knelt to the level of the children and pulled out a vial of
poison.
"Give me your spears," she instructed.
The boys handed over the spears, and Hapatra uncorked her poison, applying it to their blades with her
fingers.
"Find some adults and stay near them. Slice as many marauding mummies as you can with this."
A scream caught her ear. Hapatra stood, drew her scimitar, and ran toward the sound. Locusts were
mobbing the body of a man while a woman stood at his side, smacking the insects away with her
hands. The slap of her fingers was drowned out by the incessant drone of their wings.
Hapatra realized she was standing by a fountain in her favorite courtyard.
The fountain had pulled water directly from the river. It was stained with blood now.
Hapatra felt a tug at her heart, and Tuya rounded the quarter of the square, her massive scaled body
smacking into the walls with indelicate force. Her snout was coated with blood and the viscera of dead
insects.
Hapatra climbed atop her familiar and urged her forward. Kefnet was perched atop a tower nearby, his
wings drooping with fatigue.
Hapatra pushed Tuya forward, and they slid through the city with ease.
More citizens were fighting back now, and a few had encouraged their anointed to do the same. Every
now and then, Hapatra passed one of the beasts from the Holding; they tore and bit and scratched at the
intruding mummies. Some noticed as the basilisk passed and ran to tag along.
"Vizier Hapatra!"
Hapatra halted Tuya, looking for whoever had called her name.
The heretic Samut stood below.
"If you're here to say 'I told you so,' I don't want to hear it," Hapatra yelled down.
Samut shook her head. She looked to her left, and the champion Djeru came around the corner.
"We need to find and protect Oketra," Samut said.
"We . . . we saw Rhonas fall." Djeru shook his head. "We cannot let the other gods suffer Rhonas's
fate."
Hapatra sighed.
"Get on."
The two former initiates gracefully climbed atop Tuya, and Hapatra urged the basilisk forward.
Hapatra mused as the basilisk travelled. "I always understood the Hour of Promise to mean that the
Hekma would fall to reveal paradise."
"It is all part of the God-Pharaoh's lies." Samut's mouth was a hard line. Djeru shook his head behind
her and remained silent.
Hapatra petted the cool scales of her basilisk. "Serving Rhonas was my purpose in life. I refuse to
believe he knowingly lied to us."
"He did not knowingly lie to us. The gods were manipulated by a more powerful force."
Hapatra nodded, considering this. She looked over her shoulder and met eyes with Samut.
"Can this force be killed?"
Samut shook her head slowly. "I don't want to find out."
"For someone who claims to know so much, your vision is narrow," Hapatra snapped.
Djeru piped in from behind. "Keeping our people and gods alive is paramount. Let the trespassers fight
each other."
Sure enough, two of the trespassers came rushing across their path. One was Gideon, the broad-
shouldered warrior Oketra had claimed as one of her own. The other was a pale woman in a violet
dress.
"Don't stop for them," Djeru spat.
Hapatra looked back for a last glimpse at the strangers. There were no other cities save Naktamun, and
yet these trespassers knew nothing of its culture. The day before yesterday, she had received word
through the viziers that the gods were welcoming these guests. Hapatra sneered. Let the trespassers
deal with the God-Pharaoh. If he is from a different world as well, then they all deserve each other.
A gust of wind blew a new cloud of locusts over the basilisk. Hapatra huddled the other two close
against her back and shielded them all with her shawl, then looked down the thoroughfare.
Kefnet and Oketra were there: Kefnet hovering in the air, Oketra solid, unmoving, almost a statue save
for the flick of one ear. As a servant of Rhonas, Hapatra had never had much appreciation for Oketra,
but she found herself overcome with relief to be in the god's presence, grateful for the first warmth she
had felt since Rhonas's death.
The two gods were looking at something behind her. Hapatra halted her basilisk and turned to see what
they were staring at, but her view was blocked by broken columns, fractured stone, and the endless
clouds of buzzing locusts.
Hapatra looked back to her gods with a plea in her heart.
"Kefnet! Oketra! The Hekma is lost! We will take you to safety!" Hapatra distantly realized how
ridiculous this command would have sounded only a day before.
Both gods ignored her, continuing to look off into the distance. Oketra's bow was in her hands, an
arrow of white light nocked.
"Oketra, please!" Hapatra called, voice cracking as she contemplated all that she had already lost, and
all that was still left to lose. "Oketra! We will protect you!" The hole in her heart from Rhonas's death
was already too large. She could not bear to see it grow.
Oketra looked down at her. Her pale eyes glowed softly, and Hapatra basked in her familiar calm. The
God of Solidarity looked down on Hapatra and smiled, sad and small. Around Hapatra, the sounds of
people fleeing in terror abated as the god gazed into her soul.
"You are not here to protect us, child of Rhonas." Oketra shook her head ever so slightly. "We are
here to protect you."
Hapatra's heart clenched. "Oketra, no!"
But with those words of dismissal, Oketra turned once more and raised her bow. Kefnet flew higher in
the air, and Hapatra was finally able to see what the two gods had been staring at.
The beast was nightmare given form.
It was more immense than any monster she had seen through the Hekma in the wilds of the desert. Tall,
taller than any god, even Rhonas, which Hapatra would not have thought possible. It had the body of a
man and the head of a scorpion, but one that somehow stood upright on the being's body—and it was
far larger and bulkier than any scorpion had a right to be. Dancing behind it, in a loose, rhythmic,
weaving circle, was its stinger, the point glistening with ichor. Even the ever-present swarms of locusts
gave the monster a wide berth, reluctant to cross its path. Hapatra could hear a loud chittering sound,
though whether it came from the monster's mouth or its tail she could not tell.
Kefnet looked back at Oketra, and Hapatra was shocked to see the god's fear so clearly written on his
face.
"Stow your terror, brother!" Oketra said with a finality that thrummed through Hapatra's heart. "Face
this beast and wield your gifts in the ways of war!"
Kefnet lifted his head. With a flex of his shoulders, he flew high and to the side of the scorpion.
Oketra lifted her arrow again.
"Turn back, god-killer, scourge of everlasting life, and you will live through this day."
Oketra's voice rang throughout the clearing, her notes pure silver, though she emphasized this day in a
way that made it clear she would be coming for her brother's killer eventually. She raised her bow, its
white arrow now incandescent, burning hot. The scorpion swiveled its head to regard both Kefnet and
Oketra, though if it spoke, Hapatra could not understand anything through the constant chitter chitter
chitter  sound it made.
As the being came closer, Hapatra felt its presence and gasped. Her heart filled with terror as she
recognized the scorpion god for what it was. Its divinity—though malevolent, an inverse of the other
gods—was unmistakable.
The three gods were still, sizing each other up as if captured in one of the temple friezes Hapatra knew
so well.
And then chaos erupted.
Kefnet flew at the scorpion god, darting in and out as he cast spell after spell. He disguised his dives in
a series of illusions, massive birds and crocodilian dragons, each one catching the scorpion god's
attention just in time for Kefnet to attack when least expected, narrowly avoiding the scorpion's sting.
Oketra fired a succession of arrows, but somehow the scorpion god turned its thick carapace to
intercept every missile. Oketra's white energy dissipated against its shields even as it attacked Kefnet
with a blur of blows from its stinger.
Kefnet soon ceased any attempts at illusory deception, for the scorpion god seemed never to take a
wrong step or to mistime an attack. Many tales were told of Oketra's arrows striking down giant
sandwurms and demons, and Hapatra was awed at the kind of power the scorpion god must possess to
shrug off such blows, thick shell or no. She urged Tuya to keep to the shadows and soon found herself
praying aloud to Oketra and Kefnet, shouting praise to aid in their battle.
Kefnet flew higher to avoid the scorpion god's attacks, but the god immediately switched to focus on
Oketra instead, closing on her with terrifying speed. Oketra was forced to backpedal furiously, her
footfalls shaking the ground as Kefnet was forced to swoop back in to distract and harass the assassin.
As deadly efficient as the scorpion god was, Kefnet and Oketra fought with a grace that Hapatra
thought almost poetic. They moved in tandem with one another, their flurries of attack and
counterattack timed precisely to expose a flank on the scorpion god's side or a weak spot in its armor.
Although the scorpion god was so far undeterred, Hapatra knew she was watching two masters of
combat, their cooperative technique honed over thousands of years of fighting.
The scorpion god made several strikes, all misses, and quickly changed direction. Its sting had seemed
to make contact with that shift—it must have grazed one of Kefnet's wings, for the ibis-headed god
began to sputter through the air, one wing refusing to move at the same speed as the other. He faltered,
and the scorpion god immediately took advantage, its stinger darting, each time narrowly missing
Kefnet's head or chest. Kefnet, straining under the exertion, lurched from side to side in desperation.
Oketra stood still at the edge of the thoroughfare, holding her bow aimed but still. She could not risk
hitting Kefnet as he fought to stay alive, his body now interposed between her and the scorpion god. In
his dance of survival, the ibis-headed god stumbled. The scorpion god rushed in and Kefnet's wings
gave out.
The scorpion god's pursuit was halted by Oketra's arrow of white light exploding through his head. The
constant chittering sound vanished as the scorpion god, headless, crashed into the earth, its body
flattening rubble into dust and the reverberations briefly lifting Hapatra, her basilisk, and its passengers
off the ground. Hapatra watched as the body of the scorpion god crumbled to dust, whatever force had
animated it no longer present.
Kefnet straightened his wing and stood up, seemingly uninjured. He smiled wickedly at his sister, who
shared his joy.
The three humans cheered atop the basilisk. They praised the courage of Oketra and the brilliance of
Kefnet.
My gods are magnificent, Hapatra thought in wonder. Samut and Djeru hugged each other tight, and
clapped Hapatra on the back. Hapatra refused to share their tears of joy. She would have time to herself
later for that.
But as she contemplated how she would mourn the passing of Rhonas, the dust and particles that once
were the form of the scorpion god began to shift.
The pieces lifted from the ground and, within moments, reconstituted the very beast that had been
killed only just before.
The beast rose whole and uninjured, as though the battle that had shaken the earth beneath the
thoroughfare mere moments before had never happened. Kefnet turned back toward his fallen foe only
to find the scorpion god facing him dead on, its vile chittering the last thing Kefnet heard before its
stinger pierced the middle of his forehead. The wound was neither deep nor wide, but the beautiful and
brilliant Kefnet, God of Knowledge, was dead before he hit the ground.
Hapatra screamed, and Samut and Djeru did the same, their hearts aching once again with the loss of a
god. Oketra hissed with fury, firing her arrows in an act of futility.
"Mortals! Flee to the safety of the mausoleums!" Oketra cried.
Hapatra halted for a moment. What mausoleums?
She ignored the command and yelled to Samut and Djeru sitting behind her, "Get off now!"
The two did as they were told, and Hapatra dug her heels into Tuya to urge the basilisk forward.
The serpent spat its venom, weaving itself around the scorpion god and gnashing its venomous jaws.
Hapatra gripped tightly with her thighs and pulled the basilisk in a sharp turn, urging her mount toward
the enemy.
The blood of Kefnet had spilled over the stone in the courtyard, and Tuya slid as she tried to grapple
with the scorpion god. Hapatra kept a firm grip on Tuya's scales and silently urged her familiar
forward. Her heart ached with the pain of Kefnet's death, but she shoved the hurt as far deep as she
could. This trespasser needed to die, and it would be at her hand.
Oketra leapt between the basilisk and the scorpion god.
Hapatra's chest cramped in pain. She looked up, and she cried out in horror. Directly above her, the
scorpion god's stinger was lodged in Oketra's gut.
Hapatra screamed and heard an unfamiliar voice shout in grief at the same time. Gideon stood on the
opposite end of the courtyard, his face the very picture of anguish.
She and the basilisk froze in fear as the scorpion god stepped over the two of them. It looked to the sky,
seeking something, and proceeded on its way through the streets of Naktamun, ignoring the mortals in
its wake.
The thoroughfare was empty, and two of Hapatra's gods lay dead in front of her.
For the first time all day, she openly wept.
She wept for the death of her god. She wept for the death of her pantheon. She wept for the children
forced to fight and the men devoured by locusts and the beloved serpent that shivered with fear under
her hand. Her grief cascaded over the levy of her control and sent her into the arms of a champion and a
heretic. Djeru and Samut held the vizier as she sobbed, and they, too, mourned their many losses.
Other citizens, survivors one and all, came out of alleys and hiding places to see the bodies of the gods.
Hapatra gasped for air through her grief and saw Gideon standing still over Oketra.
She composed herself and nodded to Samut and Djeru, who let go of her shoulders and allowed her to
cross to Gideon.
Hapatra looked down her nose at Gideon. Her cheeks were stained with teary kohl, and her lips
twitched in a deadly combination of grief and fury.
"The source of this hell is a trespasser like yourself, isn't it?"
Gideon swallowed hard and nodded.
Hapatra glared and spoke with a voice that dripped with venom.
"Then he is your responsibility to kill. Be done with your task and get out of my city."
The master of poisons turned away and approached Samut and Djeru, her sandals stepping through the
ichor of gods.She looked at them both with resolution in her eyes. "We must find Bontu and Hazoret
and keep them alive at all costs. They are all we have now.”
HOUR OF ETERNITY
Posted in Magic Story on July 12, 2017
Previous Story: Favor
The God-Pharaoh has returned, and the five Hours have arrived as foretold. The Hours of Revelation, Glory, and
Promise unleashed disaster upon Naktamun, and now the Hour of Eternity brings an unimaginably personal terror to
the city's denizens.

Now was faith justified.

Nylah had never understood the zealous before, never understood their endless need to proclaim their faith. The gods
walked among them, their divinity requiring no faith to believe, only eyes to see. Hands to touch. Ears to listen. Words
spoken from the mouths of gods reverberated through the city, their divine weight more solid and true than anything
that merely existed.
She had never understood faith itself. She thought it weakness, an affectation of piety for those weak of character.
What use was faith when the gods were so abundantly true?
But now she believed.
The God-Pharaoh's return had occupied little thought for her. There was still so much to learn, so much training to do.
She wanted to be the best, as did they all. What point was there in thinking past her Trials, when the Trials were all
she aspired to? No lover, no child, no friend had ever stayed long in her life. None could compete with her ambition.
Yes, the gods deserved her worship, and her daily prayer was her training. Her ultimate goal was to be found worthy.
For that desire, she would have no competition.
But still her heart quickened when the gate to paradise had opened. To know that someday was now, that eternity
was here. She craned her neck, eager to witness divine bliss . . . but there was no bliss revealed behind those gates,
only horror.
God-Pharaoh's Faithful | Art by Bastien L. Deharme
Never had she appreciated the beauty of her city until it was taken from her. The mighty Luxa, once as blue as the
summer sky, ran blood red, filled with stinking fish corpses and bubbling filth. Clouds of buzzing locusts stripped
gardens and trees bare, swarming small animals and leaving only bones in their wake.
Even the gods were dying. Mighty Rhonas. Clever Kefnet. Ambitious Bontu. Beautiful Oketra. All gone, their divinity
ripped away by their burgeoning mortality.
What god can be a god if they die?
Nylah's most wicked thought came to her then, unbidden. The gods have failed their trial. They deserve their death.
A moment's pause, and then the abyss stretched, beckoned. We all do.
That last thought did not horrify her. Instead, it kindled an ember deep within, a warmth that comforted, here at the
end of now and the beginning of the forever promised them. Her city was destroyed, her gods dead, her people
scattered. And never had she believed more completely than now.
We must be tested. Without trial, there can be no honor. Without sacrifice, there can be no glory. Without death, there
can be no life.  The litany of the priests had never found purchase within her before, but now she clung to each word
as though it were a raft in a river flood. This was her Trial. This horror was what she must overcome so she could be
found worthy.
The word thrummed in her heart. Worthy.
Several angels in the sky, all of whom had overseen the chaos and violence without interference, suddenly threw their
heads back and spread their arms and wings, their eyes ablaze with a sickly green glow as they shouted in unison,
"The Eternals come!"

She was standing next to the entrance of the central mausoleum, the repository of the worthy dead. As the angels
repeated their cry, the gates of the mausoleum opened.
A dread figure, tall as a god, cloaked in darkness and shaped in the likeness of a scarab beetle, came striding through
the open gates. And behind him, in the wake of his implacable dark divinity, came an army.
There were thousands of them, coated in a bright, hard metallic blue. Humans and minotaurs, nagas and aven. All
were imposing, though each form was only sinew and bone encased in a polished lazotep glaze more beautiful than
any jewelry. Nylah realized that despite their lack of muscle and flesh she could recognize several past champions and
challengers of recent Trials. The minotaur Bakenptah, who had run his axe through a stone wall to defeat his final
opponent. The mighty mage Taweret, whom many had called the most powerful wizard the Trials had seen for a
decade. Everywhere she looked she saw champions she recognized and many more she didn't.
All of them wielded weapons, sharp and gleaming, and the dead champions moved with a grace and fluidity that
suggested none of them had lost any of the agility or strength that had propelled them to their earlier victories.
These were the Eternals. The worthy dead. This was the destiny of those who would be champions.
Nylah's heart beat with envy. This destiny was all she had ever wanted. All she still wanted. The scarab god strode
past her, taking no notice of her presence, but the army of worthy behind the god noticed her.
Their eyes glowed with golden flame and their faces were frozen in grim smiles as they raised their weapons. Nylah
could see the soft dusk light shimmering along the edges of their blades. They swarmed her as she cried out in ecstasy,
wanting nothing more than to become one with them forever.
"Now I believe!" she shouted to her desired brethren. Each blade sunk into her flesh with a cold kiss, a greeting from
the other side of glory, a sharpness that could not be imagined, only felt. Only lived.
Now I believe, she thought with each blow. Her kin swarmed over her, stabbing, stabbing. Now I believe.
Now was faith rewarded.

Asenue was going to lose.

It wasn't that they were better than her, though her opponents were some of the best blademasters she had ever fought,
dedicated champions who had lost none of their skill in death. She was a master herself, in the prime of her ability and
training.
It wasn't that there were two of them against her alone, though the odds were not in her favor. She had chosen her two-
blade style precisely because of its usefulness in fighting multiple opponents, and she felt a thrill as she parried and
whirled and countered, her wrists a direct extension of her mind, changing between relaxed and tense as she kept
herself alive for another parry, another swing, another breath. One more breath.
No, she was going to lose this fight because she was human. And they were not.
Her shoulders ached. Her lungs labored. Her legs tired. Her weapons master's voice came shouting back at her, "You
imbeciles think your most important muscles are in your arms, or your shoulders, or your back. It is your legs! When
your legs get tired, you die!" Her legs were very, very tired.
She was going to lose. She was going to die.
Eventually. But not now. Not right now. One more breath.
Just minutes before hundreds of nightmarish creatures with blue armor and skull faces had burst through the streets of
Naktamun, slaughtering all in their path. The angels had called them "Eternals." Asenue saw her peers, whether they
were crop-mate or friend or barely known acquaintance, fall to the Eternals' blades.
I love you, here at the end, whether I know you or not. I love you all.
It was that love that had propelled her into combat. People died in the initial onslaught, people died as they ran
screaming, people died begging for their gods. The Eternals killed them all, no touch of mercy staying their blades.
She had leapt into the fray, attracting the attention of two of the Eternals even as countless more streamed by her in
their pursuit of slaughter. But these two she could stop.
Except she would not even be able to accomplish that. She would not fall to their blades. At least not easily. But while
they would not kill her quickly, they were too good for her to overcome. Around her, other fighters had joined the
wider battle in the streets, but she heard the sounds of their labored breathing, their clashing steel, their gurgling last
cries.
No one was coming to save her.
But her rescue did not matter. Every moment she stayed alive, that was another person not dying, another person who
had another moment. A moment to survive, to get somewhere safe.
There must be somewhere safe, yes? There has to be . . . she killed the thought.  One more breath.
A few minutes ago, an eternity ago, panic had threatened to overwhelm her. She was strong, skilled and used to
fighting for hours over the course of a day in her normal training . . . but never without stopping, never without a
single moment to catch her breath, never against opponents who were faster, stronger, and did not sweat or tire or slip.
The panic grew in her chest until she had discovered her new mantra. Then her breathing evened, and the ache in her
shoulders grew distant, and the fire in her lungs burned slow, and her legs continued to move and move and move by
the sheer strength of her will.
One more breath.
Asenue saw one, two, three more people make it through a broken wall in front of her unscathed. She did not have
time to wish them well or even to hope they would still be alive when the suns rose tomorrow. It hurt to breathe. It
hurt to move. Her legs were so tired.
One more breath. One more breath. One. More. Brea—

"Makare! Makare!" Genub frantically screamed his lover's name into the darkening red sky. In the distance he saw the
blue armored killers, their grotesque shapes a mockery of their former selves. He knew that to face them was to die,
but if he did not find Makare, then he would welcome death.
They had pledged themselves to each other months before, saying the three true words that it was forbidden to say. An
affront to the God-Pharaoh, the priests called it, but the lovers did not care. Nothing, not the Trials nor their crop-
mates nor the God-Pharaoh himself, had mattered in the face of their love.
Later that night, in the quiet grove where they had secluded themselves, she had looked up at him, her wide brown
eyes the only sight he ever wanted to see.
"I will always be with you, Genub," she said. He didn't know how it could be possible, how they could continue to
stay together, to avoid the Trials, but at that moment, he didn't care.
"I will always be with you, Makare." As he said it, he became more convinced it would become the truth. It felt more
true than anything else in Naktamun.
And now she was gone. After Oketra had fallen, someone shouted that there was an old temple on the outskirts of the
city that would be safe. They ran as part of a large group, Genub's heart beating fast with terror as he clutched
Makare's hand tight.
As long as we are together, he thought, and he clung to that thought desperately. If he was with her, then everything
would be alright.
Then someone screamed, and the Eternals rushed their street from every side with raised swords, axes, and scythes.
One leaped directly in front of Genub and Makare, a naga, smooth and sinuous, casting a spell of blue fire that
disintegrated several people behind them.
Genub couldn't remember what happened after that, only that he ran and ran, his terror leaving no room for any other
thought. When next he stopped to breathe, Makare was not there.
He had failed her. He had abandoned her. "Makare!" he screamed, wildly swinging his head, desperate for a glimpse.
There!  Through a desolate, broken plaza he sprinted, her brown hair and bronze-striped dress unmistakable. Even as
he ran to her side, he saw the gathering crowd of Eternals flanking her, but nothing would stop him this time, even if
he had to fight them all.
He skidded to a stop in front of her as she turned her head. Her eyes, the beautiful brown of her eyes, had been
replaced with a cold, glowing blue. She stared at him, and there was no love in that gaze. Only then did he notice the
large axe in her hand, bloody brown bits staining its blade, and only then did he notice the naga wizard behind her,
whispering close into Makare's ear.
She raised her axe, and Genub knew this could not be, knew he could reach her to break through whatever spell she
was under. They could still be free. They could still be together.
"Makare!" The only true thing in this world was their love for each other. "Makare!" He had to reach her, he had to
break through. "Makare!"
Her swing did not slow as it came. Hers was not the only blade that punctured his flesh, but it was the first. As it fell
the last thing Genub saw was the smile on his true love's face.

Kawit should have given up when Oketra died.

Her god had been present in her life from her earliest memories. Her kindness, her warmth, her presence a constant
pull toward being a better person. To know Oketra, to worship Oketra, to bask in her light, was a constant as true as
the suns in the sky . . . until Oketra's light was snuffed out, ended by the venomous point of a scorpion's tail.
Kawit should have felt despair. Should have felt panic. But instead she only felt rage. A bright, consuming anger, all
doubt and fear burnt away by its white-hot clarity.
She had knelt at Oketra's side as the lifeblood seeped out of her god, whose eyes were already a dull gray. The plaza
was devoid of other life. Most had fled the threat of the Eternals, but Kawit remained, uncaring of any desire but
seeing her god one last time. A growing group of anointed had gathered around the god, oiling her skin and wrapping
her in cloth to prepare her for whatever destiny awaited the fallen divine.
In the midst of the dead, no one cared when Kawit picked up one of Oketra's arrows, its length making it more like a
spear in her hands. While the arrow was no longer imbued directly with the god's divine light, Kawit still felt a
humming energy within it, an echo of her god's presence.
She was a devoted warrior of Oketra, proud and powerful, and she would see her god avenged today.
A thunderous clacking sound grew behind her and she turned to see a minotaur Eternal charging toward her at full
speed, its long-bladed axe raised high. Kawit had time only to brace with her new-found spear against the charge.
The minotaur crashed into the spear's point, and Kawit felt a surge of power. There was a flash of white light as the
minotaur disintegrated, its blue lazotep armor crumbling to dust from the power of Oketra.
She stood there panting as her anger continued to rise; it would not be satiated until every Eternal was reduced to dust.
And then she saw him.
It was the horns she saw first, the long curved shape so intimately familiar to her eyes. Those horns were everywhere
in her city, and she knew there was only one being to whom they could belong.
It was the God-Pharaoh himself.
He was massive, larger than any god. A strange golden egg hovered between his serpentine horns. And he was a
dragon. Her mind faltered for a moment, wondering briefly if this was an interloper, some force of evil that had taken
over the God-Pharaoh. Was this impostor why her city was destroyed and the Luxa had turned to blood? Was this
impostor why her god, her dear, beautiful god, was dead?
The clarity of her rage provided an answer, and it hit her with such stunning force that she knew its truth immediately.
This dragon is not an impostor. This dragon is our God-Pharaoh. This is the being we have served all our lives. Her
stomach roiled, her head feverishly hot.
She screamed her challenge into the darkening heavens, raising her spear to the God-Pharaoh, no, that title no longer,
to the dragon. "I will kill you!" She sprinted toward him.
Her scream had attracted the attention of a large group of neighboring Eternals, and they ran, slithered, and flew to
intercept her.
Oketra, protect me. Give me strength. Kawit did not know, really, to whom she was praying, but that did not lessen
her confidence that Oketra would provide.
And Oketra did. A glowing, pulsing shield formed around Kawit, a tangible expression of Oketra's power and love.
Eternals crashed into the shield and bounced off as Kawit continued untouched to the dragon.
Oketra, help me strike true. Kawit launched the spear into the air and it flew with speed and accuracy she knew she
could never have achieved alone. It shone in the air as though launched directly from Oketra's bow as it hurtled
toward the side of the unsuspecting dragon's neck.
The Eternals on all sides continued to pound on the force-shield that surrounded her, but to no avail. Oketra's love
protected her. She would see justice done this day.
At the last possible second, the dragon turned his head toward the spear, and the missile froze mid-air, all speed and
force lost in an instant. The spear dropped uselessly to the ground below, snapping in two as it hit the rough stone.
The dragon regarded the broken spear for a moment, and then spoke, his voice thunder in a storm, "In a different
world, child, in a different time . . .," here the dragon paused, sparing her a glance, "you might have been useful."
There was no hate nor anger in his glance, but rather a dry bemusement. He turned and strode off, forgetting she had
ever existed.
His moment of nonchalance accomplished what a hail of rage could not. She collapsed under the weight of his
disregard, stunned at how much of her life he had destroyed without any emotion. It would have been kinder, she
realized, to have her life torn away with angry purpose.
She knelt there nearly senseless as her shield began flickering. Flickering, and then it was gone.
The Eternals closed in, and Kawit did not have strength enough left to scream.

Amenakhte heard footsteps, soft steps, not the hard clink of metal on stone, and thought it might be safe to say a word.
In a few minutes, he would not be able to say anything at all.
"Help . . ." blood dribbled out of his mouth, and the word gurgled out with it, barely comprehensible. He thought it
might be easier to just die then, but he remembered the child underneath him, the brave and smart child who even now
stayed silent, careful not to alert any more of the killers.
Even as the blood poured out of his mouth, it made him realize how thirsty he was, how much a cup of water would
do to heal him. I will be fine, I just need a cup of water, he thought.
"Help." He said it again, clearly, audibly. It took more strength to say the word than anything else he had done that
day, though he had already been strong enough for a lifetime in the last hour alone.
Someone turned him over and gasped loudly. He looked at his rescuer, but his eyesight was blurry. All he could make
out was that she was human, not one of the army of Eternals that had filled the streets killing everyone they could.
"Please," he hacked and spit, more blood coming up. "Please, save the child."
He had been running away. They all had. The locusts, the Hekma destroyed, the deaths of the gods. It was all too
much. Their world, everything they thought about their world, ripped away from them in the time of a day.
So they ran. And then they discovered the true horror of the Hours, the true meaning of the God-Pharaoh's return. The
Eternals were among them, numerous as the locusts, murderous as the scorpion god, and merciless as the God-
Pharaoh himself must be. Their blades swung, their spells flashed, and people died.
Amenakhte was large, and he had the broad, strong shoulders and chest of a fighter. But he was not good at fighting,
and he had never been brave. The Eternals killed you if you ran, and they killed you if you stayed; Amenakhte had felt
the fear taking over his heart until he saw the child wailing in the middle of street.
It wasn't his child. He knew that. He had met his child once, a few years ago, even though such chance meetings were
usually ignored and certainly never acknowledged. Nevertheless, he had seen the child's broad shoulders, the thick
black hair so much like his own, and he had known. This child is mine. And his heart swelled with pride that day,
though he could not share his pride with anyone, not even the child's mother, whom he rarely saw.
The child he had seen sobbing in the streets did not have thick black hair, nor did he have broad, strong shoulders. But
something had pulled at Amenakhte's heart, just as it had on the day he found his own child. The Eternals had started
sweeping in from both sides of the street, their blades flashing and their metal-clad feet clacking harshly against stone.
He had leapt to the child, scooping him up to carry him away, but the Eternals were everywhere, their blades swinging
down, and all that Amenakhte had time to do was put himself between the falling blades and the child, covering him
to protect him against all blows.
I am your shield, child.
He had felt every thrust, every cut, but were his shoulders not broad? Was he not strong? With every stab, he thought
of the child he protected, his only hope to keep him alive.
After a moment that felt like an eternity, the violence was done, and the harsh clacking moved off elsewhere. The man
dared not try to move for fear of bringing the Eternals back, but after a few moments, he realized he could not move
even if he wanted to. The child had stayed silent throughout without stirring. Even now he could feel no
movement. So brave. So clever. I will save you.
And now the woman was here, and Amenakhte could give the child to the woman. And then he could die.
She didn't say anything, but she knelt down and held his hand. Her hands were so warm, so soft. They were almost as
good as a drink of water. He looked up at her face, and though he could not see her well, he knew she was beautiful.
"You will . . . you will save the child?" Strangely the words were easier now than before, flowing out of him just like
blood. She nodded, and Amenakhte could see even through his blurred eyes that she was crying.
Don't cry for me, he wanted to say. Just take the child. But his mouth refused to work.
She leaned close, whispering gently into his ear. "The child is . . . I will," she sobbed. "I will . . . save the child."
Her voice was like her hands, liquid and warm, like the first drop of golden honey licked off the comb. His vision
dimmed, and he tried to drink in her face, her beautiful face, the last sliver of sun before bowing to the night, vast and
dark and forever.
ENDURE
Posted in Magic Story on July 19, 2017
Previous Story: Hour of Eternity
"The world crumbled beneath the heel of the mighty God-Pharaoh, and an unnamed hour dawned as the blood red
sun drowned the land in crimson. And thus, the Hour of Devastation reigned, and, the God-Pharaoh completed his
great plan, leaving behind ruin while darkness consumed and unmade the entirety of the city."

Samut ran.
Behind her, the small band of survivors followed. Djeru kept pace with the slowest of the group, guarding their backs.
Escape the city. Get to the desert.
Hazoret's command burned at the back of Samut's thoughts as they moved. She and Djeru had obeyed the god, parting
ways with Hazoret and striking out toward the edges of the city. They had grown in number as they traveled, other
survivors joining to fight together.
They had shrunk in number as god-fueled destruction crumbled the city around them.
Get to the desert.
The endless dunes and strangling sands had long been symbols of death and danger to the people of Naktamun, and a
personal reminder of folly and loss for Samut. Yet now, the desert was her people's last hope for survival.
The rag-tag group approached a building just a short distance from where the Hekma had stood only hours before.
Once a barracks for the viziers of Kefnet who helped maintain and repair the barrier, the building looked utterly
abandoned, save for a few small clusters of locusts that clung to various surfaces. Samut gestured for the others to take
shelter behind a wall. She scrabbled up the rough stone, climbing to the roof for a better vantage.
Before her, the deserts of Amonkhet stretched to the horizon. Winds drove sheets of sand through the air, and the
rippling dunes cast strange shadows. Samut couldn't tell if they were shifting due to the light, the wind, or because
they hid some unknown horror. She knew that other ruins lay buried beyond the city, places where they could possibly
hide temporarily for shelter—but beyond that, she was at a loss.
Hazoret still believed that the God-Pharaoh might come to save them from the darkness. Some in their group seemed
to believe the same, still invoking the God-Pharaoh in their battle cries or whispering prayers for his return to fix what
had gone wrong. But Samut knew the truth.
A series of cries rang out from below her. Samut looked down to find all the survivors pointing back toward the city.
In the sky, a dark void appeared, and from its unfathomable depths, a massive golden figure appeared. For a moment,
Samut's brow crinkled in confusion. Then she saw the being's golden horns.
The blood drained from Samut's face.
He has arrived.
Some in their party cheered. Some started running back toward the heart of the city, toward the distant God-Pharaoh.
That was when the dragon raised his hands, and black fire fell from the skies.
Samut yelled above the noise, urging the survivors into the enclave behind them. She suppressed her despair as she
watched a streaking blast of flames annihilate a young minotaur running back toward the group. She dashed out to
scoop an aven girl into her arms, running with the child back toward shelter, pushing her to join the others. Once
everyone was inside, she followed. Djeru was herding folks into the center of the room, away from windows and
doorways. The shuddering sound of blasts hitting walls and other buildings reverberated through their bones,
punctured only by the quiet sobs of the young.
"Why—why would the God-Pharaoh—" a naga youth, barely of age to be a disciple by Samut's guess, stammered and
stared wide-eyed at those around him.
"The God-Pharaoh is a lie." Samut spoke loud enough for the room to hear. "He is no great redeemer. He is a
trespasser, an interloper from another world."
"That—that can't be true. That . . . beast cannot be our promised God-Pharaoh." A tall, barrel-chested man pushed his
way forward. Samut recognized him as Masikah of the Ahn crop.
"Do your eyes not see, your ears not hear? Does your heart not feel? The death of our gods! The destruction of our
city! This spell of hellfire, from the very claws of the God-Pharaoh himself!" Samut spoke with icy conviction, staring
straight at Masikah.
A voice cried out from the crowd. "We have been betrayed! Our gods have been betrayed!" Angry shouts of
agreement rippled across the assembled group.
"The dark gods are his harbingers, not his adversaries." Samut put an arm on Masikah's shoulder. "We must confront
the truth and fight to survive."
Samut turned and addressed the crowd, looking each survivor in the eye. "I have uncovered the erased histories of our
people. I have seen the ruins and hidden places in the sands." Samut's words softened as she spoke. "I had hoped that I
was wrong, that I was mad, that the heresies I found were not true. But all of my worst fears have come to pass."
The survivors murmured among themselves. Some faces hardened with anger, while others turned to Samut, waiting
for her next words. She opened her mouth to speak when a sharp, stabbing pain pierced her chest. Samut doubled
over, sucking in breath through clenched teeth. As she looked up, she saw all the survivors clutching their chests, their
faces frozen in stunned shock. One of the younger survivors vomited.
Which one had fallen?
Samut chose her words with purpose.
"Four of our gods are now dead. Yes, four," she said, shouting above the moans and wails from the survivors. Some
shook their heads, denying the truth Samut just spoke aloud. Others simply gazed off into space, stunned into silence.
Samut pressed on.
"I live for the glory of my gods. I reject the lies of the false God-Pharaoh. We must stand and protect what's ours. We
must survive. We must defy the great trespasser."
"I stand with her."
Samut turned, surprised, her chest tight with emotion. Djeru stood from where he had been comforting a young
survivor and faced the crowd. "Samut is my oldest friend. I, more than anyone, thought her words were vile heresy
when she first spoke against the God-Pharaoh. But I have seen more than I needed to realize she speaks truth."
An uneasy silence fell over the group, broken by the young naga boy.
"What do we do now?" he asked, looking around at those near him.
"What can we do?" wailed a voice among the crowd. Murmurs of agreement rippled through the survivors.
Another voice cut through, clear and bold. "A good question. What can we do against dark gods who slay divinity,
against a dragon who rains fire from the skies?"
A few survivors stepped aside as Hapatra strode forward. Samut looked to Djeru then back to the vizier before
replying. "Hazoret asked that Djeru and I protect those we could—to hide among the desert sands. To survive. We
defy the trespasser by living."
Some heads nodded in agreement.
Samut drew her twin khopeshes. "But I am going back into the city."
She strode to the door, then turned to address the room. "I would not ask any of you to come with me. Escape and
survival would be honoring the wish of our god, and would be a brave act in defiance of the trespasser." Samut's voice
cracked as she continued speaking. "But I cannot bear the death of another god. Though Hazoret wished for us to flee,
I will return because I must try to protect that which has protected me my entire life."
Djeru drew his weapon as well. "I will go with you, sister." He turned to address the crowd. "We, the children of the
gods, have never feared death. I was glad to give my life in dedication to the glorious after. Now I am proud to give it
in defense of the divine."
Other warriors stood, drawing blades, readying staves, their faces set in grim determination.
"I will not go with you."
Hapatra spoke, and all turned to listen. "Though my heart yearns for even the faintest chance to avenge my Rhonas's
death, I know my poisons would better serve to pave the path for the living." She drew her dagger and held it to her
chest in a salute, a small snake winding its way from her sleeves up her arm. "I am Rhonas's broken fang, and I know
where to strike to stop the undead and the monstrosities in their tracks. I will strike down all that would threaten our
people as we seek refuge amongst the sands." Hapatra stared at Samut with burning intensity. "I trust the safety of our
god to your hands, Samut."
Samut returned the gesture with her khopeshes. "Knowing our strengths and sacrificing our wishes for the welfare of
others is not easy. Thank you for your bravery."
She turned to the others and raised a blade in the air. "The rest, to me! We will find and protect our last god!"

Samut clenched her teeth. They're unstoppable.

Even as Djeru smashed two of them back, a third charged forward, spear at the ready. Samut cried out as Djeru parried
the jab from the lazotep-coated minotaur's spear. She dashed in and smashed her khopeshes against the undead
warrior, leaving two jagged gashes along his chest. The blow didn't seem to affect the minotaur at all as he spun,
knocking Djeru and Samut back with a powerful roundhouse kick.
As she scrambled to her feet, Samut noted that only four other fighters remained; the rest had fallen to the endless
stream of eternalized warriors. The cruel joke of the promised Hours nagged at Samut's thoughts. The Hour of
Eternity—when the worthy dead shall rise again to a glorious afterlife.Samut grimaced. If "glorious afterlife" meant
slaughtering everything you once held dear.
The minotaur conjured an angry flame that engulfed the head of its spear. Djeru shuffled closer. "I . . . I've never seen
the undead cast spells before," he said.
"I've never seen the corpses of our slain champions imbued with lazotep then unleashed on the city before," Samut
said. "It is a day of firsts."
Djeru grinned. "Lucky us."
"If these are our past champions, then this must be him," Samut said. Djeru and Samut stepped back as the minotaur
approached, his spear spinning in one hand behind him, creating a dizzying pattern of light. Djeru nodded. The brutal
champion with a spear of flame: it could only be Neheb the Worthy, a legendary initiate skilled in magic and combat
alike. He had passed the Trials when Samut and Djeru were mere children. "The greatest warrior of a generation,"
their trainers had told them. "Fight like Neheb," their sparring instructors had said.
"This is a fool's errand," Samut whispered to Djeru, adjusting her grip on her weapons.
Djeru shifted his stance, keeping an eye on Neheb. "We can take him, sister."
"To what end? We cannot hope to defeat all the returned champions of Amonkhet. We should be finding the last
remaining god."
Neheb swung his spear forward, sending a wave of flame at Samut. Samut dodged out of the way, but Neheb was
already charging in, spear thrusting at Djeru's chest. Djeru held his blade up to parry and the minotaur pressed
forward, closing the distance and bringing a powerful fist smashing into Djeru's face, knocking him sprawling. Samut
let out a roar and charged, khopeshes swiping down in an overhead strike. Neheb countered with a swift kick to her
stomach. The blow knocked her back and left her gasping for air. In a blink, Neheb took advantage of his opening and
charged at Djeru, spear raised to pierce the prone warrior.
A flash of light dazed all the fighters present. Samut leaped to her feet to find the interloper Gideon standing between
Neheb and Djeru, the golden glow of his invulnerability stopping the minotaur's fiery spear. Around him, the other
four interlopers charged forward, spells flying as they assaulted the Eternals. Neheb struck blow after blow against
Gideon, but nothing pierced the golden light.
Samut seized her opportunity. She sprinted toward the Eternal minotaur and stabbed him in the back with both
khopeshes, knocking him to the ground. The blades cracked through the lazotep, leaving deep gouges. She drew her
weapons back and stabbed again, this time piercing the base of its neck. Neheb—or rather, the monstrosity that once
had been Neheb—twitched and spasmed briefly, before finally laying inert.
So they can be destroyed, Samut thought. She looked around to see the other interlopers dispatching the remaining
Eternals. The one with the pointy ears and unnerving green eyes—Nissa—was helping some of the injured warriors,
healing cuts and wounds.
Djeru stood and clapped a hand on Gideon's back. "That is the second time today that you have saved me. The first
time, I was furious. Now, I am grateful."
Gideon started to reply, but Jace cut him off. "We're wasting time and energy here, Gideon. Bolas remade this place in
his image. He has the advantage here. We must approach carefully. But the longer we delay, the more time we give
Bolas to prepare for us."
"Agreed," Liliana said. "I'm certain he already knows we're here." Samut wondered how the woman's dress came to be
soaked in blood—and how she still managed to look elegant and poised despite this.
"We bring the fight to him, then." Gideon strode forward, but Samut caught his hand.
"I shall come with you," she said.
Gideon hesitated. Djeru stepped in. "We will not, Samut. We will stand down."
Samut's temper flared. "How could you say that, Djeru? If they intend to slay the trespasser, the one responsible
for all of this—"
"Then we will support them by getting out of their way."
Samut fumed, but Djeru held up a hand.
"You are a far stronger fighter than I, Samut." Djeru shook his head at Samut's half-formed objection. "Others may
speak of us as equals, but you and I know the truth. There is only one thing that I do better than you: seeing the
potential of those around me."
Samut thought back to Djeru's leadership of their crop, his intuitive knowledge of each member's skills and
weaknesses, and fell silent.
Djeru continued. "A wise warrior once said, 'Knowing our strengths and sacrificing our wishes for the welfare of
others is not easy.'"
Samut rolled her eyes. "Don't think flattery will win me over, brother."
"The interlopers must strike down the God-Phara—the trespasser." Djeru looked toward the great horns in the
distance, toward the second sun perched at its zenith between them. "We must stay true to our course. Find the last
god of Amonkhet, protect her, and protect the people of our city."
Samut glared at Djeru, then sighed. She clasped his arm, and brought him close for an embrace. "I am grateful to have
you with me again, Djeru."
She looked to the interlopers, five strangers, bearing strange markings and wielding foreign powers. She did not know
if she believed in them or their ability to bring the trespasser low. She looked each of them in the eye as she spoke.
"For what he did to my people, my gods, my world—slay him. Slay the great destroyer. Slay the dragon trespasser.
Slay Nicol Bolas."

Samut was not accustomed to stealth or to following.

After leaving the interlopers to plot their battle with the dragon, Samut, Djeru, and their small band had picked up a
few more survivors. The roaming bands of Eternals seemed to be thinning—but only because the living denizens of
the city had either died; escaped; or on extremely rare occasion, hid well enough to survive. The streets of Naktamun
were strangely quiet, broken by the occasional buzz of locust wings and the shuffles and groans of roaming corpses
raised by the Curse of Wandering.
Ahead of Samut, a young vizier of Hazoret led the way. Introducing himself as Haq, the vizier had told Samut and
Djeru of the battle he had witnessed between Bontu and Hazoret, of Bontu's betrayal and the God-Pharaoh's ultimate
cruelty. The vizier couldn't have been older than fourteen, no more than a year or two into his tenure, yet he spoke
with a calmness and eloquence that belied his years.
"After Bontu fell, the scarab god woke the Eternals and attacked the city," Haq had said. "I had enough time from my
vantage at Hazoret's temple to flee, but in the ensuing bedlam, I lost track of Hazoret."
As a vizier of Hazoret, though, his heart beat as one with his god, and he could sense her presence faintly. He was
tracking her movements, trying to reach her, when a roaming band of mummies trapped him in a storehouse. He had
hidden within the barrels of salted fish until Samut's band happened by.
Now the boy led the group with Samut right behind. Samut prayed quietly that they would reach Hazoret in time, then
stopped. It seemed strange to pray to the deity you were trying to save.
Haq led the survivors down a path at the foot of a massive monument, turned a corner, then froze. As the rest of the
group rounded the corner, everyone gasped.
Rhonas's body lay inert on the ground. Some of the survivors fell to their knees. Others approached slowly, hands
outstretched, desperate to disprove the reality before them. But trembling fingers met solid golden scales and divine
robes. The finality of his death washed over the survivors. Tears, angry cries, and quiet embraces followed. Djeru
approached the god, kneeling and placing a hand on the god's face.
Anger again bubbled in Samut's gut, and she approached the fallen body of Rhonas. She climbed up his chest,
drawing gasps from some of the others, and stood. "Brothers. Sisters. We mourn. But we will endure. If you believe
the God-Pharaoh tests you, charge with me to prove yourself. If you believe he betrayed us all, join with me to fight
for tomorrow. We will embody the strength Rhonas taught us and gifted us, through his teachings and his Trial!"
The survivors around her cried out in solidarity, faces hardening from grief to anger.
Suddenly, Djeru stood, his eyes glued to the horizon. "Samut. I think we should seek out shelter," he said.
Samut squinted where he looked. From the direction of the Gate to the Afterlife, a massive sandstorm was sweeping
in. In the past, such a storm would've crashed into the Hekma, harmlessly rippling against the barrier—but with the
Hekma gone, the swirling sands and howling winds approached with alarming speed, a solid wall of dust and
darkness.
Samut called out to the survivors and turned to retreat the way they had come. But Haq suddenly grasped Samut's
hand, pointing in front of him, straight into the storm. "Sister. Hazoret comes. She is not alone."
Samut looked at the boy, then drew her khopeshes. "Warriors. Brace yourselves. Stand ready!"
The survivors drew their weapons and pulled cloths over mouths and faces. Several ducked behind the monument wall
for some shelter. Samut, Djeru, and Haq stood where they were, leaning in as the storm swept over them.
The stinging sands nipped at them through their clothes and armor. The three held their arms over their eyes, feet
braced against the buffeting winds. Everything dimmed to a semi-darkness, the sand thick enough to filter out most of
the twin suns' light, the roar of the wind blocking out any other sounds.
Then Samut saw it: a large shadow approaching in the gloom. The silhouette grew, sharpening into a clearer shape,
and soon came the sound of massive feet running. And then Hazoret emerged from the clouds of sand, and Samut
again felt her heart surge at the sight of the god.
Her excitement immediately dampened as she took in what she saw. Hazoret did not look well. She gripped her spear
in one hand, while the other dangled oddly by her side. Gashes and wounds decorated her golden body, and the god's
breath came labored and frequent.
"Hazoret! We've come for you!" Haq cried out above the storm. Samut watched Hazoret turn and gaze toward them,
face flickering from determination to surprise.
Run.
The command echoed in Samut's head with the force of an order, and Samut staggered back several steps before
seizing control of herself. Hazoret's attention had already turned back behind her, and with a jolt, Samut realized that
the towering gloom she had thought was just the rest of the storm was actually a much larger shadow.
A scorpion's tail pierced through the haze, and Hazoret parried the strike, dodging to the side as the massive form of
the scorpion god crashed into sight. She's slow, Samut noted. Sluggish. And fighting one-handed.
Yet even so injured, Hazoret moved with power and purpose. The scorpion god turned to grasp at her, but Hazoret
disappeared in a burst of flame and sand. The scorpion god's mandibles clattered, and Samut watched it swerve and
lurch back into the gloom, following Hazoret by some unknown sense.
"She's casting a spell," Haq said. Samut looked at the ground where Haq pointed and saw a small ring of fire
flickering, buffeted in the wind. In the darkness, through the sands, Samut saw other little glowing points of light
emerge as the sounds of titanic blows continued.
"Warriors! Fall back!" Djeru cried, backing away from the fiery circle. Samut and Haq followed suit, and the
survivors ran for cover behind the monument they passed earlier.
The air crackled with energy, and an enormous pillar of flame erupted in the storm, hungry tongues of fire fed by the
winds, licking through the sand. The air itself seemed to burn as the spiraling flames created a massive, undulating
column of fire as tall as any of Naktamun's grandest monuments. The heat of the blaze blistered the exposed skin of
the survivors and seemed to burn away the sandstorm, the twisting fiery spell consuming all in its radius.
Samut held a hand up against the heat, peering toward the flame. Silhouetted against the red-orange glow was
Hazoret. She held her spear in her one good hand, pointing at the burning pyre, her arm shaking with concentration.
Moments crawled by, and Hazoret finally dropped her arm. The flame pillar persisted as the god fell to her knees,
leaning against her spear to stay upright.
"She . . . she caught it in the flame trap," Haq whispered. And indeed, as the fires slowly burned out, Samut could
make out the scorpion god's form standing at the center of the blaze, its carapace glowing white hot.
"It cannot still be alive," Djeru breathed.
But the scorpion god took a halting step forward, arm outstretched toward Hazoret. Then another step. And another.
And its carapace cooled from white to orange, then slowly to charred black. Still it approached, regaining momentum
and purpose with each step.
Hazoret looked up and moved to stand, but stumbled, falling back to her knees.
And the scorpion god ran forward.
The flash of a tail. The sickening sound of stinger piercing flesh.
Samut stared, stunned. Hazoret had whipped her body around, blocking the scorpion god's blow with her deadened
arm. The scorpion god pulled its stinger back, and Hazoret cried out in pain. She rolled backward away from the
scorpion god's second strike. Samut watched with horror as green ichor glowed and crawled up Hazoret's limb,
creeping its way toward the god's body and heart.
Hazoret's spear glowed with heat.
A swing of its bladed edge.
The sizzle of flesh.
A small mist of blood evaporated in the air as the molten edge cauterized the cut.
Hazoret crouched, panting hard, blood seeping from the wound that had saved her life. Before her, her severed arm
blackened, the poison consuming the flesh.
And again, the scorpion god approached.
Samut let out a primal scream and sprinted forward, terror and rage and pain and heartbreak melting into molten
strength. Behind her, she was faintly aware of Haq and other mages readying spells. In front of her, the impossible
height of the scorpion god loomed. She was tiny. She was inconsequential.
And she did not care.
Instinct seized Samut as she channeled magical power to her legs. She leaped  into the air, launching herself flying
over Hazoret and toward the dark god, khopeshes gripped with blades pointing downward. She smashed into the
scorpion god's side, and her blades pierced  its carapace, lodging there and giving her a temporary handhold. Surprise
turned to epiphany as she realized that the molten heat from Hazoret's spell must have softened the god's impenetrable
shell.
Samut laughed, a blend of battle rage and utter joy. She gave her blades a shake and a jolt, sliding down  the god's
body, gravity lending momentum to her descent. She swung her feet out and carved across the god's ribs towards his
abdomen, her blades slicing through the heated carapace like an ibis cutting through a clear blue sky.
The scorpion god roared and swatted at her, an insect-like god trying to squash an insect-like human. But Samut
pulled her blades loose and launched herself again, kicking off his chest, her khopeshes biting into the god's arm. She
cut a thin line through his shell before the god flicked her off with a shake of his hand.
A cloud of sand softened Samut's crash landing. As she stood, slightly dazed, a minotaur mage approached, hands
aglow with power, now shaping the sands into a dense mass, pummeling at the scorpion god's legs. Beside him, other
mages launched bolts of fire and blasts of lightning at the god.
"Samut! Push it toward the river!" Djeru's cry carried across the distance, and Samut spotted him running with two
other warriors towards a cluster of obelisks in the distance.
A genuine grin flashed across Samut's face as she realized Djeru's plan. "To me!" she cried, and the remaining
survivors from their band charged forward, following her lead.
The mortals battled with the weakened god, battering it with blows and spells. An aven screeched as it was snatched
out of the air, crushed in the god's grip. A warrior wielding twin axes disappeared underfoot, the god's step obliterating
him where he stood. A spray of venom from the god's tail caught several mages by surprise and they collapsed in the
acrid pools.
But the mortals chipped away at the god, their blows battering its melted carapace. And they succeeded in pushing it
back, ever closer to the field of obelisks. The scorpion god raged, lashing out at the combatants barraging it with
spells, arrows, and spears. Behind it, Djeru stood at the ready with a few others, partially hidden behind a half-toppled
obelisk. So close, Samut thought, surveying the battle. But the scorpion god managed to hold its ground just a touch
too far from Djeru's waiting trap.
"We need to push it back! Just a little further!" Samut shouted.
From behind her, Samut heard a clear voice ring out.
"Dark god! For Rhonas, I will strike you down."
She turned, and the sight took Samut's breath away.
A lone khenra stood, hoisting Rhonas's staff into the air, the weapon magically reforged into one. Her hands glowed
with golden power, some last vestige of the god's strength coursing through her body, and she ran forward with the
staff held high overhead. Samut and the other survivors dove out of the way as the khenra passed. With a mighty roar,
the khenra swung the staff at the scorpion god.
The god raised its arms to block the blow, but the force of the strike knocked it careening back. Fragments of carapace
fell from its arms, shattered into pieces.
At that moment, Djeru and his team ran forward, a rope held taut between them, tripping the Scorpion God as he fell
back toward the obelisks, their pointed ends suddenly a field of daggers for the enormous god.
But Samut could see the arc of the god's fall and the angle of the obelisks would not align.
Without a word, she once again dashed forward and leaped, propelled by magical force, smashing into the falling god
tipping him to the right, just the right amount, and an earth-shattering crunch echoed across the battlefield as the
obelisk pierced  the scorpion god's chest.
The assembled survivors let out wild cheers, but Samut simply watched the god with grim suspicion. The god
twitched and clawed feebly at the obelisk protruding from its chest, but it did not cease moving. Whatever power
beckoned it to stalk and kill still pulled at its broken body, still commanded its tail to lash out weakly.
"Thank you, my children."
Hazoret limped toward the scorpion god, leaning on her staff as a cane, young Haq walking beside her. The survivors
surged toward Hazoret, but she shook her head.
"You all have done more than I could have asked. More than any mortal has. But this task I must finish
myself."
Samut, Djeru, and the others stepped back as Hazoret approached the scorpion god, still struggling weakly. Hazoret
looked upon the massive beast, tears glistening on her face.
"You have slain my brothers and sisters. But I know it was not by your wish or design. Rest now, brother. May
my fires free you from this form and these dark shackles."
With a jab, Hazoret pierced the scorpion god with her two-pronged spear, right where the obelisk protruded from its
shell. Rippling heat emanated from her, and black smoke billowed forth from the scorpion god as it burned from the
inside until its outer carapace collapsed inward, the god reduced to cinders and ash.
At last, Hazoret drew back her spear and thrust it into the ground. The god looked about until she spotted Samut, then
knelt before the mortal. Samut stood, stunned. Hazoret reached out a large hand, and Samut raised her own hands,
grasping Hazoret's finger, feeling the warm and healing glow of the god before her.
In the arena, Samut, you told me that you believed that I was not what I was forced to do—that I would protect my
children when you all needed me most.
Samut looked into the eyes of her god and smiled. "You have, Hazoret. And I thank you."
Hazoret shook her head. I could not have done so without you. You, my beloved children,
protected me  when  I needed  you the most.
My heart is yours. Thank you, Samut the Tested. You have seen through the Trials and bested the darkness beyond.
Tears of unbridled joy trickled down Samut's face. Pride, strength, and boundless love for her god flooded her body.
She knew this moment was but a small triumph in the face of overwhelming darkness, but the flickering flame of hope
remained alive, salvaged from destruction and shielded from the winds of the great trespasser.
Euphoria drowned out all else around her.
And within her soul, a powerful force crackled, and sparked.
A rush of energy poured out across Samut's body, and she felt her muscles contract as her mind expanded—she was
falling, falling through space, through flashing waves of aether, moving infinitely fast and not at all, plummeting
through a crack in reality itself. The desert air around her was suddenly replaced with a cool breeze, and Samut found
herself standing among strange grasses, the plants rippling at her feet.
Samut looked up, her eyes not quite comprehending what she saw. The sky held no suns—in fact, the world seemed
covered in a strange darkness, punctuated by peculiar speckles of light that danced and twinkled like distant gems.
Strange twisting patterns of color danced through the sky, and some of the glowing pinpoints seemed to shine brighter
than others. Samut rubbed her eyes. If she stared long enough, they seemed to form a strange sort of pattern, a
connected luminescence that almost seemed to take on an almost familiar form, like a thought lingering just outside
the reach of memory, or the whispered fragments of a forgotten dream . . .
Samut tore her eyes from the strange sky and looked around her. She could make out the black outline of some
buildings in the distance, straight and rigid in their architecture. The wind continued to dance through the grass at her
feet, its whistle almost musical as it brushed across her skin, and unfamiliar scents tickled her nose.
A deep panic swelled within Samut. This is not Naktamun. This is not Amonkhet. This is . . . some other world.
She thought of the interlopers, of their strange spells, odd clothing, and unusual markings.
I  .  .  . I am them. I am a walker between worlds.
She shook her head and yelled in frustration. She needed to be back home. Needed to help Hazoret, still grievously
injured, help her people escape—
Samut turned to run, pulling on memory and instinct, drawing on magics still new and tenuous. As her legs churned,
she felt the same strange indescribable feeling seize her. Suddenly a force wrenched her from reality, her magic
intertwining with the fibers of her muscles, her body serving as medium for a spell she didn't know she could cast. She
plummeted again through flashing blue and swirling colors, and as she fell she could vaguely feel other worlds—
planes—passing her by until with a jolt, she landed on her knees in warm, familiar sand, basking again in the glow of
Hazoret's presence.
Around her, the other survivors looked on in shock, having watched their champion vanish in a blur, only to reappear
before anyone could react.
My child.
Hazoret's warm voice echoed in Samut's head, and she started to stand and reply—but her body slumped forward and
she fell, completely drained of energy.
Hazoret caught Samut in her hand, and gently held her until two other survivors rushed forward to take her and lie her
down. Djeru knelt by Samut's side, worry etching his brow.
A thunderous crash and ripple of power drew everyone's attention skyward.
The golden dragon flew above the city, lightning crackling between his claws. His gaze fell below him, and
thunderous laughter boomed forth.
"I imagine the interlopers have engaged the great trespasser." Djeru sheathed his khopesh and stood.
A khenra warrior spoke up. "We should go to their aid!"
Djeru shook his head. "That is a conflict that we cannot win. We are far from our full strength."
The khenra scowled. "So we do nothing?"
"We endure."
The survivors turned to Hazoret. The god drew her spear from the ground and gazed toward Nicol Bolas.
"When the gods numbered eight, we stood against the dragon, and we fell. I do not know if these interlopers
can stop him. I pray for their success."
She turned back toward the gathered survivors.
"But for now, my children, we must simply endure, persist, survive. We will march forth into the desert and
seek shelter among its sands and mirages. And as long as I draw breath as a god of Amonkhet, I will protect
 you."
"And us, you." Djeru knelt before Hazoret and pounded his fist against his chest. One by one, the other survivors
followed.
Hazoret smiled a sad smile and gazed down at Samut. Her unexpected champion, the child who saw the truth, who
dared defy the gods because she loved the gods so fiercely.
And she marched forward toward the distant sands, her people trailing behind her, as the dragon trespasser descended
on his unseen foes among the ruins of Naktamun.

". . . But even as the great trespasser rained destruction down upon the ruins of Naktamun, Hazoret, the God-
Survivor, mother and protector of the mortals of Amonkhet, shepherded her children from certain ruin. And so it was,
and so it shall be, divinity and mortals marching into an unknown future."
—Haqikah, survivor of Amonkhet
By Michael Yichao

HOUR OF DEVASTATION

Posted in Magic Story on July 26, 2017

Previous Story: Endure
The Gatewatch, outraged by the mounting devastation that has overtaken Amonkhet, confronts Nicol
Bolas to bring him to justice for his atrocities across the Multiverse. However, Nicol Bolas has plans of
his own.

Nicol Bolas flew toward the heroes, eager to kill someone today.
Either he would have deaths, screams, and blood, or he would, perhaps, have something better.
He did not expect to have both. One could not have everything. Not even Nicol Bolas. He was not
greedy. Greed implies wanting something you didn't deserve.
Everything Nicol Bolas wanted was entirely deserved.
Several decades ago he had come to the world of Amonkhet, a blighted, superstitious backworld of
interest to no one who mattered, to no one who was paying attention. He had prepared—layer upon
layer of preparations. Miserable lives that would soon have ended anyway ended just a bit sooner, with
a touch more violence.
Hardly worthy of the effort, normally. Except . . . except several decades were an eyeblink when he was
fully himself, able to wield the divinity due him. But as he was now, merely a shadow of a shadow of a
god, those several decades had seemed an eternity.
Ruminating on all he had lost fanned the glowing ember of hate burning in his chest. The growing
flame felt good. The hatred felt right. Today, Nicol Bolas thought, it begins.
He flew down to the center of a ruined plaza. Rubble and broken bodies garnished the toppled statues
and cracked obelisks. At the edges of the plaza, five planeswalkers stood arrayed against him, grim
determination on their tiny faces. He knew each of them intimately. He had scouted them, studied them,
analyzed and categorized them. Chandra Nalaar, pyromancer. Liliana Vess, necromancer. Jace Beleren,
telepath and illusionist. Nissa Revane, elementalist. Gideon Jura, invulnerable soldier.
They fancied themselves The Gatewatch. As though for some bizarre reason there were gates scattered
throughout the Multiverse. That deserved watching.
The heroes, Nicol Bolas thought. Bless them, each and every one.
Clouds of yellow dust spun into the air, stirred by the beating of his massive wings. He saw the slight
widening of Chandra's eyes as she realized, seemingly for the first time, just how large Nicol Bolas
was. Her naiveté amused. Not for the first time, he wondered if these heroes would be suitable for what
he required.
No matter. There were others, if need be.
Tiny perturbations prickled his mind, a cautious but insistent probing from Jace. Yes, my dear boy, find
your footing, Bolas implored silently. He landed with a soft thump, his wings flexing with a final,
ponderous beat. He had not needed wings to fly for a very long time, but he loved the way it felt, his
majesty fully unfurled and on display.
He lifted his head to the sky and roared, a throaty cry that shook buildings and quailed hearts. His roar
echoed the cries of countless other predators throughout the eons, predators who have no more need to
be silent. Over the long years, Nicol Bolas knew it served him poorly to be too much the dragon. But it
was no fun to be the dragon too little.
The five planeswalkers stood uncertainly around him. He extended his mind outward and could feel the
ripples of their telepathic communication, orchestrated by Jace. He could intercept it if he wanted, but
thought it would be more interesting to see what plan they had come up with. Given their hesitation and
dawdling, he was growing ever more certain they would disappoint.
Oh, they probably had a plan. A plan, charitably, could consist of kill the dragon. Or, you burn it, you
zombie it, you elemental it, you illusion it, you block it. These were all, given enough leeway, plans.
And plans of similar competence had served them well enough in their recent escapades. Nicol Bolas
could appreciate efficiency. Why bother being smart when the Multiverse so conveniently conspired to
keep your idiocy alive?
Chandra and Nissa began circling around him in each direction. Yes, tactics, assuredly. He wondered
how much it would crush their spirits if he applauded. Metaphorically, of course. His talons did not
clap together well.
Not for the first time, he marveled at how these planeswalkers had managed to stay alive as long as
they had. They were children of a civilized and gelded age, these planeswalkers, this Gatewatch. They
had no idea of the dangers lying in wait, ready to kill them . . . or worse. Their lack of actual power had
somehow protected them from all the ways they could have died. Or rather their lack of knowledge of
what actual power should be. None of them except for Liliana had tasted true power.
Nicol Bolas ran a slithering tongue over his lips. It was purely for effect, but that did not make it any
less necessary.
Charmed lives, these planeswalkers had led. The problem with charmed lives, though, as Nicol Bolas
had ample reason to know, is eventually the luck turns. Fate darkens. Charm abandons. It helps, in
those moments of misfortune and unfairness, to have a very well-prepared and meticulous plan.
Several, really. More than several, ideally, but unless you are a brilliant elder dragon archmage
planeswalker, several would suffice.
Or one. Just one plan. Even a snippet of genius, tactical or strategic, would have given Nicol Bolas
hope for their future. But he saw the plan written on their faces, in their narrowed eyes and tensed
muscles, in the growing ripples of their telepathic chatter.
They had chosen kill the dragon. Bolas sympathized, to a point. Simple plans were often
underestimated, especially by the brilliant. Far too often, an intelligent opponent had lost a battle
because of an over-complexity of design. Simple plans wielded by a master were often devastating.
But simple plans wielded as the desperate last resort of the simple? The consequences of that approach
were about to be displayed. He would have either blood or better, and either way he was hungry to
begin.

JACE
The dragon landed softly in the plaza, and Jace was afraid.
Nothing about this day had gone as planned. There had been too much horror, too much death, too
many lives they could not save. They had tried to help as they could, but they were gnats fighting a
thunder storm. Jace had never seen so much death.
He felt empty inside, his mind dulled to the endless pain and grief it had been subjected to. For a
moment, the images came: children screaming, people running futilely as they were slaughtered from
behind, the incessant buzzing . . . no. He walled the images off again. There was a mission to complete.
But it was more than a mission now. Jace had pressed Gideon for an actual plan, had warned they could
not engage Nicol Bolas unprepared, but Gideon had lashed out, his raw pain suffusing each word as he
demanded to face the dragon now.
"He will pay for everything he has done. He has to." It was that last sentence that so concerned Jace.
But he did not argue with Gideon. None of them did, not even Liliana. They were all empty, all seeking
meaning in the slaughter, in the cries of children. They wanted justice.
Justice had to exist somewhere, for it had yet to be found on Amonkhet today.
Are you sure? Jace reached out to Gideon one last time, hoping there was a better plan.
We hit him with everything we've got. He will fall, Gideon thought back at him. Jace had never felt such
an undercurrent of rage in Gideon, could feel his anger wrapped in Gideon's normal stubborn
determination. Jace was swept in its current, willing himself to believe they could be triumphant today.
They began. Gideon charged, his golden force shield shimmering, while Chandra launched gouts of
flame. Seedlings burst from the ground, courtesy of Nissa, becoming roots and vines that twisted and
knotted around the dragon's legs. Liliana began raising the dead; there was no shortage given the
carnage of the day.
Jace tried to attack Nicol Bolas's mind.
The walls around the dragon's mind were smooth and featureless, like dark obsidian. There seemed to
be no entry, nothing to even latch onto. Jace had never encountered a mind so impenetrable, except
for . . . the merest moment of a memory surfaced of a mind as smooth and dazzling as a wall of crystal.
But even as the thought entered his mind, it erased itself, and he could not remember where he had seen
such a thing—or even what kind of thing it was.
What . . . Jace shook off the sudden fugue that had overtaken him. It hadn't seemed to come from
Bolas, but rather from inside himself. What was I thinking about? But he could not recall. Bolas's mind
still loomed in front of him, closed and locked, as he futilely sought purchase.
His friends were not doing any better.
Nicol Bolas's tail whipped around, lightning-fast, and its end slammed into Gideon and his invulnerable
shield with the force of a charging baloth. Gideon sailed into a thick brick wall lining one side of the
plaza. His shield kept him unharmed, but he had no leverage to do anything more than be whacked
against the wall by Bolas's tail like a ball hit by a stick, over and over as bricks flew and shattered with
each impact.
The wall would crumble before Gideon did, but neither would be going anywhere for a while.
Bolas ignored Chandra's fire, trampled Liliana's dead, and broke Nissa's vines. He did not move to
attack them, merely continuing to fling a helpless Gideon against the wall. He stared at Jace, knowing
what the telepath was trying, and failing, to do.
The voice blasted into Jace's mind with all the subtlety of an avalanche, shredding several of his
defenses effortlessly. You have been alive for all of an eye-blink, and because of a thimble of natural
talent you presume to touch my mind? And some have called me arrogant. Bolas's laughter was acid,
scarring Jace's mind.
He frantically strove to erect stronger psychic shields, shocked at how easily Bolas had penetrated his
outer walls. But perhaps, in his arrogance, the dragon had made a mistake. Bolas had left a trail, a
metaphysical string connecting his mind to Jace's. Perhaps this was the handhold Jace needed.
He followed the trail, desperate to break through, desperate to save his friends.
It was working! He found a small crevice in the otherwise featureless obsidian shields. He concentrated
on opening it wider, he just needed to . . .
If you wanted in, child, you merely needed to ask. Each word from Bolas was like boulders crashing
down a mountain.
The obsidian shield disappeared, and Jace fell unexpectedly into Nicol Bolas's mind. There the dragon
was waiting, smiling.
Nicol Bolas clutched Jace's mind as he tried to fight him off. He crumpled over with pain, livid with
himself at how easily he had fallen for Bolas's ruse. I have to do better. He could still escape this trap,
he just needed more time. Seconds, he only needed seconds . . .
Seconds you do not have, Bolas whispered inside his mind. The Multiverse only suffers fools briefly. A
useful lesson, if you survive.  The dragon held Jace's mind roughly, and squeezed.
Synapses crumbled. Pain blossomed. Insanity beckoned. A towering wave of darkness rose in the
distance. Jace knew the crash of that wave meant dissolution. Mind-death. Without conscious thought,
he began planeswalking away blindly, not knowing or caring where. He had to avoid that darkness.
He felt himself being pulled across the Blind Eternities as the wave of darkness struck, and then he
knew nothing at all.

LILIANA
Liliana stared in shock at the empty space that Jace had occupied just moments before. The fight
against Bolas was a disaster, as she had feared it would be. She had still been hoping Jace could come
up with some plan when he screamed in agony. It was a scream she knew well—the scream of the
dying. The primal scream of life not wanting to end.
Liliana shivered. He can't be dead. He planeswalked away before the end. I saw it. He's alive.
"That was your mind expert, I believe? Do you have a spare? I can wait, or I promise not to listen if
you shout at each other." Nicol Bolas lingered on each word, his voice rumbling through the open
plaza, punctuated only by the continued thwaps as he bounced Gideon off the wall.
Liliana raged inside. She had known this fight with Nicol Bolas was a terrible idea, and every
misguided intervention and distraction trying to help the doomed inhabitants of this plane only
furthered her certainty. The group was ragged and reeling and in no condition to confront a
planeswalker as powerful as Bolas. She would have left already if she hadn't pushed the group past its
breaking point with her machinations to defeat Razaketh. Several times she had weighed staying with
the group against abandoning them, but she felt her investment in them justified staying.
Perhaps she had made the wrong choice.
But that wasn't the only reason for her rage. A long time ago, back on Innistrad, she had compared her
feelings for Jace to those she would have toward a dog, a house pet. The boy had been stung, as she had
intended.
Liliana cared about her pets. Usually tampering with anyone who belonged to her was a fatal choice.
She hungered to show Bolas the consequences of his folly.
Yes, use us. Unleash your full power, whispered the Chain Veil hanging at her side.
You have never been such a fool as to think you can win this battle, Liliana, whispered the Raven Man.
And perhaps that was the biggest reason for her rage. She wanted her mind to be hers alone again.
If she was going to fight Bolas, she knew she would have to use the Chain Veil, and with it the spirits
of the Onakke dead. It gave her great power, but that power always came at a cost. Every time she used
it, she risked death or complete subjugation to the Onakke spirits within. Neither fate was tolerable.
There was a lull in the fighting as Chandra and Nissa dealt with their own shock at the loss of Jace.
Nothing the three of them had done so far had been effective against the dragon. Nicol Bolas turned
toward Liliana and smiled, a grotesque display of teeth and arrogance that Liliana found repulsive, not
least because she recognized that she was prone to giving the same smile to vanquished enemies.
"Liliana Vess. It is so good to see you again. Your complexion looks remarkably . . . healthy." Bolas did
not even try to mask his condescension.
Her fingers twitched toward the Veil. "I'm going to kill you, Bolas. I will see you die and then
reanimate your corpse to—"
"Oh, please," Nicol Bolas cut her off. "These children lost this battle before they were even born. You
know this. You alone amongst them know what true power was. You alone amongst them know what
true power can be again."
The dragon did not lie, but she thought again of Jace's final scream, of the boy planeswalking blindly
away. The etched runes on her body and face glowed a dark purple, as the Veil continued its insistent
whispers. He cannot stand against you with our power. Use us!
The dragon leaned his head down closer to Liliana, lowering his voice to a soft, smooth tone. "I
understand, Liliana. You joined them, confident in your ability to manipulate. But the problem with
surrounding yourself with fools is . . . this." The dragon swiveled his head, taking in the rest of the
scene, even as Chandra and Nissa huddled close, trying to come up with a new plan.
Every word he said was truth, and the truth was too much for her to bear. She stroked the Chain Veil,
drawing in the power she would need. Yes, the voices inside those golden links cried, yes, we will
destroy him!
The dragon continued in his smooth voice. "Do you know, Liliana, how to use the Chain Veil so that it
doesn't rupture your skin or drain you of life? Do you know how to make the spirits of the Onakke
serve you as their master instead of seeking the destruction of your soul and body? I do, Liliana. I do."
He lies! screamed the Onakke in her head. Interloper! We will crush him!
You know he speaks truth, Liliana. He can help you. The Raven Man.
Shut up! she snarled at all the voices in her head, and they mercifully went silent. She was drawn out,
exhausted. Did Nicol Bolas actually know how to unlock the Chain Veil? It would kill her one day. It
demonstrated with every use she was not its master as it bucked her will and ravaged her body.
"Yes, it's a nasty weapon in the hands of the untutored. A testament to your power and skill that it hasn't
killed you already. But I can help you unlock its power, Liliana. Its true power."
Liliana let the Veil drop limply to her side. She caught Gideon's eye. He had remained grimly stoic
throughout his ordeal as Bolas's plaything, though still he continued to careen into the crumbling
wall. I need more from you than stoic silence, Gideon, she thought to herself. Liliana hated being
uncertain of her next step.
Bolas stared at her, his eyes black pools of malice. "I promise you this: whether you use the Chain Veil
or not, if you fight me today, you will die. I am a better telepath than your mind mage, more destructive
than your fire mage, more powerful than your elementalist, a better general than your so-called
tactician. That each of you has lived so long is merely a function of how useful you can be to me."
Nissa and Chandra approached together. Nissa's eyes glowed bright green, and the earth rumbled under
her feet, buoying her height by several inches. "You lie, dragon," she snarled, her face contorted in a
rare display of anger.
He turned to her, bemused. "Lie? Me? Look around you, elf. What need have I to dissemble here?" The
rumbling under Nissa's feet grew more turbulent.
Bolas straightened, his massive form once more towering over each of them. "Liliana. Go. Leave if you
want to live. The safest place in the Multiverse is the place where I have use of you."
They were not going to win today. That was clear. As Bolas himself had said, these children lost this
battle before they were even born. It was true. What were they going to fight for? To die? This was
ludicrous, even for them. She looked again at the space where Jace had been, his agonized screams
echoing in her mind. She felt something wet at the corner of her eyes, but willed it away, refusing to
show weakness to anyone.
She didn't know what made her turn to the others, but she did it anyway, the words coming before she
could stop them.
"Come with me. We've lost. You can see that, right? We're not going to win today. We can regroup, find
Jace, figure something else out." She didn't care that Bolas could hear her; he knew they didn't have a
chance today, and he wouldn't believe they would have a chance in the future.
He's right, whispered the Raven Man. The Chain Veil was silent.
Chandra would not meet Liliana's eyes. Nissa shook her head. The anger on Gideon's face was obvious,
but he offered no argument, no plea to change her mind. She was unused to the swirl of emotion she
felt. Better she had just left, uncaring of their fate.
"Please. If you stay here, you will die. This is not the way." She hated the pleading in her voice, but she
let her words stand.
They did not respond.
She turned back to Bolas. "Where  . . . where do you want me to go?" She swallowed uncomfortably,
finding it as hard to speak these words as the others.
"No!" Chandra screamed. "No! We trusted you! I  trusted you! No!" Chandra's head and hands burst in
flame anew. You knew who I was, child. You knew. But those words she could not say aloud.
"Away," Bolas said. "Away. I will find you, and then we will talk. There are so many useful matters to
discuss. Go now, Liliana Vess."
Her choices always led her here. Another betrayal. Another disappointment. Another trap. It was the
comfort she found in the dead. They could not be betrayed. They could not be disappointed. They could
not look at her with hurt and anger in their eyes.
She looked at Chandra, wondering if she would have to strike her down to survive. The air around her
was growing very hot. I don't want to kill you, Chandra.
So leave, whispered the Raven Man.
It was one of the few times she agreed with that damned voice. She surrounded herself in a glowing
nimbus of dark energy and vanished into the void, her tears finally free to fall in the empty spaces
between worlds.

CHANDRA
She wanted this day, this awful, horrendous day, to be over. Nothing had gone the way they planned.
She had thought Gideon's plan was brilliant, free of the useless details that always ended up changing
anyway. It was a short, simple plan that played to their strengths. Perfect.
Even if it wasn't perfect, it gave her free reign to burn something. She needed to burn something to deal
with all the horror and bloodshed she had seen today. She couldn't burn away grief. She couldn't burn
away terror. She couldn't burn away heartbreak.
So she resolved to burn away Bolas instead.
But it wasn't working. Yes, he was a dragon, and she knew that, but she thought there was a decent
chance she could still hurt him. It wasn't like he was literally made of fire. She needed to try harder.
Nicol Bolas looked down at the planeswalkers and smiled. "And then there were three. I didn't want to
annoy your dear departed necromancer, but between us, I admit I know a fair bit of necromancy. Do
you have an opening in your Gatewatch? Is there some type of application process?"
"Shut up!" Chandra screamed. She hated people who talked and talked just to show how clever they
were. She hated traitorous necromancers who pretended they were your friend. Most of all she hated
losing—hated, hated, hated it.
Her fire was blinding white, coruscating rivers of flame that lashed the dragon. Bolas's eyes narrowed,
and he was forced backward for the first time in the fight, letting Gideon drop to the ground as the
dragon retreated.
I hurt him! I did it! It was the only exhilaration she had felt all day. "Gideon! Nissa! We can do this!"
Gideon was already up and making his way over toward her. Nissa was strangely silent. Chandra didn't
know what Nissa was up to, but she trusted her to come up with something.
"Enough, foolish child." The dragon lofted into the air, out of reach of her strongest fire blasts, but that
didn't stop her from continuing to launch them. It felt good to be doing something.
"Chandra Nalaar. You had so many useful characteristics. Powerful. Emotionally unstable. Easy to
manipulate. Refreshingly predictable unpredictability. I really wanted to make this work." Bolas's voice
boomed through the empty air. I am  not easy to manipulate, she thought, her anger revving up. Her
flames lit up the night sky.
"But fire, against a dragon? A dragon. I have standards." Bolas ascended even higher, his wings flexing
wide.
He finished his climb and dove down back toward Chandra, his wings now hugging his massive
body. Bring it, she thought. This is what she wanted, the opportunity to let it all go, let everything burn.
The fire poured out of her, free and unreserved.
If this was the way she would die, then she would take the bastard with her.
The earth rose around her.
A large spur of rock and soil and root thrust up from the ground seeking to impale the oncoming
dragon. Bolas swerved at the last moment, but more spurs launched, deadly spears aiming to kill. He
avoided them but circled around wide.
"Yeah! Go Nissa!" She glanced over at Nissa on the far side of the ruined plaza, and saw her friend
completely outlined in a green aura, as she wielded the earth against the dragon. She knew Nissa would
come up with something great. Chandra was now protected, cradled between several spurs of thick
rock, able to launch her fire at will. "We can do this . . ."
Bolas's tail crashed through the rocky spurs, shattering them as though they were thin glass. Propelled
by the dragon's tail, a large wave of rock and dirt rushed toward Chandra. She reflexively cast a huge
fire blast to repel the oncoming assault, but the wave still hit her, knocking her into one of the far spurs
of rock.
Pain coursed through her body. Several of her ribs were broken. She groggily struggled to stand as she
saw the sinuous form of Nicol Bolas weaving through the broken spurs, his agility mindboggling for
someone that large. He swooped in and grabbed her in a huge claw.
She tried to summon more fire, but she was in so much pain. Nicol Bolas squeezed his claw, and she
felt another rib snap. She screamed in agony.
Nicol Bolas smiled. "Yes, Chandra. Let me show you what a dragon can do."
An enormous earth elemental rose behind Nicol Bolas, swinging a massive fist into the dragon's jaw.
Bolas grunted and turned to face the elemental, dropping Chandra to the ground.
Wow, that's a lot of pain. She struggled to get up. She needed to help Nissa. Her head swam, and she
stumbled once more. The ground trembled as the elemental and the dragon fought, and in the distance
Chandra could see more titanic earthen shapes rising to join the battle.
Chandra smiled despite her agony. Maybe they could actually do this . . .
"Fine. I was being overly modest. I'm not just a dragon." Nicol Bolas uttered a single word that left
Chandra's ears as soon as she heard it, and black tendrils rose from the ground, entwining themselves
around Nissa's chest and throat, strangling her as she thrashed violently in their grip.
No, no, no, I have to . .  . Chandra took a step toward Nissa, and screamed in pain. She could barely
move.
Nissa looked at her and shouted. "Go! Leave!" The tendrils attacked ceaselessly, and even as Nissa
shredded them with magic more rose to take their place.
"No . . ." Chandra coughed, and there was blood in that cough, red drops that sprayed onto the broken
rubble below. She tried to steady herself, resisting the urge to vomit. Where is Gideon? She swiveled
around to look for him and realized she was seconds away from passing out.
Nissa yelled at her again. "Go! I will be fine! You'll die! Go!"
Chandra couldn't find Gideon. She couldn't save Nissa. She couldn't beat the dragon. She couldn't even
stay conscious.
If I stay here, I will die. She didn't want to die. She planeswalked away in a fiery blaze, the only trace
left of her presence the blood that stained the broken rocks as it, too, evaporated under the fiery heat.

NISSA
Nissa felt relief as Chandra departed the world. She could not hope to save herself and Gideon while
also protecting a grievously injured Chandra. She wasn't sure she could save herself and Gideon even
still.
This battle was not going well. Nissa was barely holding her own against Bolas's spell, while her
elementals lay dormant, no longer fueled by her will as she fought to stay alive.
Early in the battle, after it became obvious any shallow summonings would have no effect on the
dragon, she had sought a deeper communion with the earth. It was like fighting through a thick sludge.
Somehow the dragon's presence had intensified the land's resistance to Nissa's touch.
But she had finally broken through, finally wrested enough control to move the earth to her will, only
for Bolas to have crippled her with a word. She had thought her destiny to be different on this world,
had thought her time in Kefnet's temple opened up possibilities previously unimagined . . . but no.
Kefnet and the other gods lay dead in the streets, their threads cut short, their uses unexplored.
And this battle, this confrontation against the evil that was Nicol Bolas . . . The Gatewatch had been
exposed.
Nissa had never questioned the purpose of the Gatewatch before. There was always an immediate need,
wrongs to be righted, evil to be overcome. And it had worked. For so long it had worked. Until now.
Until a dragon of immense power and intellect had shown the errors of coming in unprepared and
underpowered.
Perhaps there was a better way.
Such musings occupied her as she fought to regain control of the land. If she were to have any chance
in this fight, it would be through the earth.
Nicol Bolas's thoughts penetrated her brain, rank and oily. This land is not yours, elf. It is mine. You
may not touch it. Dark necrotic energy burst through the leylines she had struggled to control. The
corruption lashed through her, shriveling flesh and tissue. She cried out in agony.
She realized the truth now. She never had a chance. The land had submitted to Bolas long ago, had
acknowledged its master. She had to be away, away, but the tendrils of corruption held her in place.
The dragon approached slowly, his smile wide. "The time of pretend is over. You are blessed to witness
the beginning of the beginning, Nissa Revane. It is a prize few mortals can claim."
Something blasted into the dragon's side, low and hard, knocking him off balance. It was Gideon, but
Nissa had no time to think of how to help him as her very breath was stolen by the constricting tendrils.
She used Gideon's interruption to flee from this dead husk of a world.
GIDEON
Rage consumed him. Only once before in his life had Gideon felt so helpless. He had resolved never
again to watch his friends die as he had when Erebos had killed all he held dear. This entire battle had
been a nightmare from the beginning as Bolas had kept him out of the fight. Gideon could only watch
in impotent frustration as Bolas dispatched of Jace and then convinced Liliana to abandon them without
a fight.
He saw Chandra and Nissa both narrowly avoid death, and he was glad they had escaped. He could not
fathom dealing with the loss of his friends again, especially knowing it would be his fault.
He scrambled up Bolas's legs, seeking desperately to ram his sural through the dragon's throat. Bolas
grabbed him in a large claw and thrust him back toward the ground. All of Gideon's invulnerability had
proven little worth against an opponent with the size and strength and mass of the dragon. He struggled
and shook against Bolas's talons, but could not escape.
"You will not win. We will beat you." He spat the words in defiance, but the words sounded empty
even to him. He needed to keep fighting.
"Will not win? Will not win?" Bolas's laughed rumbled through the plaza. "Gideon Jura, you are very
bad at analyzing reality. I have fought against thousands of generals, thousands of tacticians and
strategists and battle masterminds. You might be the worst. Let me help you. Ignoring obvious reality is
a fatal flaw in our line of work. By all means, I understand the importance of . . .aspirations, but being
able to accurately assess the facts in front of you is an essential skill in the trade."
Gideon was aware that the dragon sought to inflame him further, throw him off balance, but Gideon
knew that goal was already accomplished. He had stopped thinking logically a long time ago. And that
is why I lost.
"You partner with an illusionist, but you are the true illusionist. You regard yourself as invulnerable,
yes? A conjurer's trick, Gideon. This is how vulnerable you are."
One of Bolas's talons began to glow as it pressed into the invulnerable shield protecting Gideon. The
talon pushed, and pushed, and the shield parted like melted butter, the talon's sharp point puncturing
shield and armor and flesh alike. Gideon grimaced in shock and pain, but did not scream.
"I could kill you, Gideon, anytime I want. But I suspect you would not mind dying, the way you play
so carelessly with your life. And the lives of others." Gideon thrashed his head back and forth,
desperate to escape.
"No, far better for you to live today. To know how pathetic you were, how useless you were. Even
better, this is how little I care. I give you the choice. Stay and die, or leave and live. I am content either
way." The dragon's smile gaped like a fresh wound.
Gideon was shocked to realize that a part of him yearned to stay. To no more feel the guilt of losing
Drasus, Olexo, all his Irregulars. All the people he had seen die on Zendikar. He didn't want any more
death on his hands. He could just . . . let go.
Distressing images swarmed through his head. Drasus staring at him, spitting the word, "Coward!"
Erebos looming over him, the laughter of the God of Death rattling in his head, "Yes, coward, come to
me!" Chandra screaming at him, "Traitor!"
He could stay and die . . . or he could leave and live. And learn, and fight. Bolas did not think Gideon's
choice mattered. In the end, it was the dragon's indifference that settled his choice. He would prove the
dragon wrong.
He willed his body through the Blind Eternities, the hole the dragon left in his shoulder only the most
 visible of his wounds.

The plaza was silent and still, lit only by the fires still burning from Chandra's rampages. A few
minutes later than desired, Tezzeret planeswalked in.
"You're late," Nicol Bolas said. "Did you doubt?"
Tezzeret had served him long enough to know the right answer.
"No, master, I did not doubt. I was . . . delayed. You defeated them as quickly as you predicted." He
glanced around the plaza, looking for bodies of planeswalkers that weren't there. "I can seek to find
where—"
"No. It does not matter. This was better than blood."
Tezzeret looked at him quizzically, but knew he would offer no more explanation.
"Master, I should update you on . . ."
"Later. Go and tell Ral Zarek to come to me. His progress is too slow." Tezzeret hated being used as an
errand runner, which was part of why Bolas enjoyed doing it so much. An unbalanced Tezzeret was an
effective Tezzeret. Every time he found satisfaction he quickly became useless. "Go. Now."
Tezzeret bowed his head and disappeared. In the quiet of the night, the first true night on Amonkhet in
years, Bolas surveyed the bodies and the destruction and the quiet. He had wrought well in his creation
sixty years ago. He had wrought well today. The planar bridge was his. The army was ready. The
Gatewatch was loose in the Multiverse.
He roared into the night, letting loose a burst of flame from deep in his chest. Much of what Bolas did
was performance for an audience, a critical part of his tactics in any engagement. But this roar was for
himself. No more shadows. No more skulking. No more hiding.
Nicol Bolas, elder dragon, genius, archmage, planeswalker, was finally taking his first steps, visibly
and openly.
Let all tremble now. They will certainly bow later. He lofted into the night sky to survey more of the
devastation he had wrought. He was, for this moment, content.
By Ken Troop