COLLECTED STORIES 1|Page

GUILDS OF RAVNICA
COLLECTED STORIES

Compiled by Rendi Alhial

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GUILDS OF RAVNICA: COLLECTED STORIES

© 2018 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental.

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or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express
written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC.

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symbol are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC, in the U.S.A. and other countries.

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Front Cover art by Livia Prima

Back Cover art by Jedd Chevrier

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 CONTENTS
Gain a deeper understanding of everyday life within the guilds of Ravnica in these personal
stories from denizens of the plane.

UNDER THE COVER OF FOG 6

Merret, a covert agent of House Dimir, works a lowly position on the
docks until he stumbles upon life-changing magic.
By Nicky Drayden

TESTING THE DARK WATERS 18

An Izzet chemister makes an incredible discovery about the world . . .
and herself.
By Nicky Drayden

CLANS & LEGIONS 35

A newly promoted Wojek stumbles upon a massive conspiracy.
By Nicky Drayden

DEATH'S PRECIOUS MOMENTS 51

A hopeful kraul competes for training as a necromancer and brushes
closer with death than expected.
By Nicky Drayden

BOUND AND BONDED 66

A Selesnyan wurmcaller confronts the mistakes of his past with a little
help from his friends.
By Nicky Drayden

BONUS MATERIALS:

A FLAVORFUL GUIDE TO THE GUILDS OF RAVNICA 87

By Chas Andres

BUILDING THE GUILDS 94

By Chris Gleeson

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 Art by: Richard Wright

RAVNICA PLANE

Ravnica's vast, worldwide cityscape is a patchwork of grand halls, decrepit slums, and ancient ruins,
with layer upon layer of stonework—and guild maneuverings.

Of the world's countless civic centers, one looms large above all others: the City of Ravnica, a
metropolis so vast that its name has long since become synonymous with the entire plane. It is here,
amid the mazes of streets and towering Gothic spires, that Ravnica's guilds vie for power.

Each of the ten guilds has mastered two of the five colors of mana, resulting in dramatically different
cultural identities and functions.

The military guild of Boros (red-white) believes righteousness is fire, shining with the light of justice.
The dragon-led Izzet (blue-red) fuses elemental magic and technology, making its members the
undisputed masters of innovation.

The exclusive members of Selesnya (green-white) honor selflessness, nurturing, and spiritual
congregation—while outsiders see them as brainwashed nature cultists. The death-worshiping Golgari
guild (black-green) controls a vast undead army and labor force in the city's underbelly. Secretive
House Dimir (blue-black) fuels ghost stories of necromancer advisors, phantasmal assassins, and black
horrors slithering in the sewers.

Orzhov (white-black) is a rigid hierarchy of pomp and ritual, slaves to deals and coin. Gruul (red-green)
is the guild of beggars, gangs, and raiding parties, all driven by base urges and instinct.

The Azorius Senate (white-blue) are the primary lawmakers on Ravnica, in contrast to the demon-led
Rakdos (black-red), who delight in thrill-killing and pleasure-seeking. Amid all this politics and chaos,
the researchers of the Simic Combine (green-blue) work industriously to maintain nature, even
modifying it to survive.

The power of each guild had been kept in check by an ancient agreement known as the Guildpact. But
as this agreement dissolves, conflict once again flares.

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 UNDER THE COVER OF FOG
By: Nicky Drayden

Art by: Grzegorz Rutkowski

A silver-winged surveillance fly buzzes near my ear, and I resist the urge to shoo it away. Whoever had
worked the magic on it had done a shoddy job, first-year mind-mage probably. Seems like the bug
spends more time staring at me than helping track down weapons shipments. My first few weeks of
working the docks I hadn't found much, but now not a day goes by without me uncovering a crate full
of jewel-encrusted battle mallets, or bone-carved armor, or poison-infused knives. Tension is brewing
in Ravnica, I'm sure of it, but House Dimir doesn't expect me to think. They expect me to work these
covert jobs without getting caught. With crates stacked a dozen high and crammed into a maze of thin
passageways, my job is simple—quick crowbar to the lid, crack the crate's seal, just enough to let the
bug fly inside, then it zips back out, and we move onto the next . . . only this time, a gleam inside the
crate catches my attention.

"Buttress South Whiskey," the label reads, and without another thought, the whiskey bottle is in my
hands. Expensive, enchanted, and aged in casks made from thousand-year-old trees poached from

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Selesnyan forests. Immoral? Maybe. Lucrative? Definitely. Serves them right for not sealing the crate
with a stronger spell. The bug chirps at me, urging me on, but it's too late. My mind's already imagining
the pile of gold zinos I could get for it. The long, slim bottle would fit nicely into the pocket of my
trench coat. No one would notice. Suddenly, the bug whistles, then I look up, now all too aware of the
approaching footsteps I should have been listening for. Sloppy, Merret, sloppy. Fog swirls, obscuring
me from view, and in those last few moments of bought time, I shove the bottle snugly into the divot
of packing straw, gently tap the lid closed, and then try to look inconspicuous.

"Ah! Merret!" says Grimbly Wothis, my boss, arms crossed over his wide chest, horns scraping against
the stacked crates on either side of him. He's half-man, half-bull, total grind-hard. "Just the guy I was
looking for."

"Sir?" I say, averting my eyes, trying to blend into my surroundings. Wishing I could become invisible.

"Fog's too thick, and I've got a potential investor wanting to see the harbor. Clear it for me."

"Can't Warwick do it?" I ask. A little fog I can handle, but despite a year of training, I don't have enough
focus to clear the harbor. Can't concentrate hard enough to inflict nightmares or purge memories. As
a covert agent of House Dimir, I don't have much to offer except the ability to work a crowbar of
malintent.

Art by: Tianhua X

"Warwick's out. And Bender, too. You're all I've got." He looks me up and down, nostrils flaring.
"Unfortunately."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

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"How's this for confidence . . . you don't clear it and you don't get your pay for today?"

"I'm on it, boss," I grumble. Should have taken the damn bottle. There's no way I'm going to get this
fog cleared. Bills are overdue, wife and kids are hungry. Another day with docked pay and deeper in
debt. I amble up to the very edge of the deepest pier and focus on the magic all around me. I pull,
drawing the power in like an inhale of glass shards, and then release, a force from within me beating
like thunder against the inside of my eardrums. Fog swirls, barely, clearing about halfway to the other
side of the river, just enough to reveal a sleek, Simic schooner with spiral-embellished sails cutting
through the water. Two merfolk keep pace beside the boat. The one in the lead turns toward me,
scowls, then presses a webbed palm against the hull of the ship. Within seconds, the schooner fades
into shimmering blue-green ripples, indistinguishable from the choppy river water unless you knew
right where to look.

Grimbly Wothis stomps his hooves, his deep, roaring laugh a near-perfect match to the blare of a fog
horn. "Didn't see that, did we?" he says, turning to his investor, his mischievous smile stretched wide.
"The cover of fog is a key selling point for the kinds of ships that sail through these parts, and as you'll
come to find, it is a very profitable one. Tomorrow, I will show you the harbor. Tonight, we will drink
to the beginnings of a new partnership!" Grimbly Wothis slaps his massive, furred hand against the
investor's back, moving him along, but not before aiming a soul crushing glare down at me.

My feet pad softly against the wet steps to my apartment building, avoiding the crunch of leaf litter
piled in the corners. Tenement buildings crowd together, their spires jutting up like an enormous
mouth full of pitted fangs. Sun doesn't shine here. Ever. Keyhole Village isn't the worst neighborhood
we could have ended up in by far, but sometimes the gloom gets to me.

Nine stories up, I sneak a peek into an open window. Our small kitchen looks like it's been hit by a rage
spell, overturned bowls and measuring spoons spread across the counter. Tashi's balancing the baby
on her hip as she conjures minor healing salves from a blend of arrowroot and boar spice to sell at
market. She's working under the dim light of a single candle floating uncomfortably close to the loose
fabric of her cloak—it's the green cloak with the golden leaves printed on the trim. I seem to
remember it fit fine, once.

I turn the knob and step inside. House Dimir has nothing on the traps that litter our floor. Wooden
blocks sit in wait, ready to impale a bare foot with their sharp corners. A wheeled xylophone made of
rib bones offers a fast track to a broken neck. I step around them, nearly second nature now, and get
ready to break the news to my wife.

"Merret! Finally," Tashi says, exasperated. She shoves the baby into my arms, who is almost a year old
now, but he's still as fussy and listless as a newborn. He barely weighs anything at all, his nose a
constant dribble of snot. Two seconds of holding him, and it's all over my lapels.

"Daddy!" Soche, my oldest, comes barreling up to me, head hitting right in my gut. I bite back the pain
as I force a smile onto my face.

"Soche, shouldn't you be in bed?" I ask.

"I wanted to see you, Daddy."

"You've been good for your mother today?"

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"An absolute terror," my wife grates at me. "Broke a bottle of mat'ti root essence. Whole thing ruined!
Where are we going to get money to replace that? Money to run the gas lamps so I'm not hunched
over this candle all day? Money to feed the baby?"

"I brought home a dozen apples yesterday," I remind her, hoping it will stall the next question. Where's
the pay from today? The job at the docks may be a covert assignment, but the money's real, and it's
the only thing keeping us afloat.

"They're mush, Merret. Market mush. Baby eats and eats and isn't getting any bigger. He needs real
food. The kind you get from a proper grocer. Something that will fill him!"

"I need filling, too!" Soche yells, patting her belly. "And mum!"

"To bed!" my wife scolds her, and little feet pad against the stone floor. Soche ducks into her sleeping
nook next to the unlit hearth, then buries herself in a mound of threadbare covers, tattered warming
spells drifting off them like tufts of shed fur.

"I . . ." I open my mouth, but for the first time, I notice how sunken my wife's face has become. A lump
catches in my throat, and the words just won't come out. "I didn't—"

"Get the food, Merret. I don't care how." She pries the baby from my arms, then starts enchanting her
herbal mix again.

I stand there for a moment, trying to figure out how this has become my life. Fog seeps in from under
the gap in the front door, twirls around me, like the dreariness of the streets has come to claim its
stake inside my home. Inside me.

Stealing from the grocer isn't nearly as easy as stealing from the market at Keyhole Downs. Oh, they're
nice enough here. Seems I've got a personal escort, following five steps behind me, big smile on his
face. I try to lose him, snaking up and down the aisles past a display of steaming minced elk pies, a
floating pile of blemish-free fruits, and bins containing twelve different types of live maggots for the
discerning Viashino. But no matter what I do, the market clerk is still there. I guess the same scarred
face that says "don't mess with me" to the vendors of Keyhole Downs, screams "thief" here in this
posh neighborhood.

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 Art by: Wesley Burt

I leave empty handed, but for all my luck, I hear that roar of laughter that has left me cringing on so
many occasions. I look up and spot Grimbly Wothis and his investor friend coming out of an apartment
four floors up—the building massive, top heavy, and drenched in cleansing spells so it's impervious to
graffiti. I knew he lived around here, but I hadn't imagined his place being this nice. Huge gas lamps
cut through the murk, their light glinting off the silver sigils jutted out from the building's polished red
stone.

I watch as pedestrians scramble between the archways of one market to the next. An enormous indrik
stomphowler trudges through the streets, muzzled with so much magic I can feel it sizzle where I'm
standing. Throngs of workers cling to the web of harnesses strung across its back, returning home
from far-flung districts. Typical evening rush hour. Armor-clad centurions in chainmail and sunburst

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helmets are stationed here, also, ensuring the night traffic remains the legitimate sort. I press closer
into the shadows, and once I'm sure my boss is well on his way to the pub, I sneak up to his home. The
spell on the door lock is tight. Much too difficult for me to break, but minotaurs, they're too beef-
headed to ever think of themselves as potential targets. I round the building, make a quick hop to the
balcony, and sure enough, find an unlocked window.

I slip inside, like a sheet of fog, feet barely touching the expensive ceramic tiles beneath me. Doubt
bites at me. Sure, I've pinched things from the market on occasion, from a few pockets, too, but I've
never done anything like this. I nearly turn back, remembering the look of disappointment on my
mentor's face as I'd failed to pull a single memory thread after six months of close instruction. "Maybe
you aren't meant for House Dimir," she'd said to me. Well, not said. She'd jammed the thought into
my mind, easy as breathing. And there it still sits, front and center. I shake it off. My father was a spy.
And three of my aunts and an uncle. Sneaking runs in my family. I can do this.

After a short trip up a narrow hallway, I find myself in the kitchen. A gas light burns on its lowest
setting, just enough to cast a warm, yellow glow upon the cabinetry. There, on the counter, a basket
of bread. I take a loaf, feeling how hearty it is, nearly a brick in my hand. It's perfect. But next to the
basket, tucked in a wire rack, something else catches my attention. Elixirs, a dozen of them. I pull out
one of the bottles, long and rectangular, and made of thick, artisan glass. "Elixir of Focus" the metallic
label reads. Inside, blue liquid glistens like it's bathed in the purest moonlight. The bread, it's nice. It'll
feed my family tonight, but this . . . just a few drops of this elixir could change our lives. I could
strengthen my magic, prove myself on the docks. Work my way back into the favor of the guild. Just a
few drops. My boss would never notice what I've taken.

I pop the cork, and the smell wafts right up my nose . . . a soft, cottony scent like that of freshly washed
blankets. I open my mouth, tilt the bottle.

One drop.

Two.

Just one more, for good measure. But before the last drop hits my tongue, the lights flicker on full. My
eyes go wide, and the elixir spills all over me, down my chin, seeping into my trench coat. I stand there,
frozen like a statue as a minotaur enters the kitchen, her eyes half-closed, rollers in her hair, long robe
draping nearly to her hooves. Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined there was a person
in all of Ravnica willing to wake up next to Grimbly Wothis every day. A real spy would have taken time
to learn these things. How could I kid myself? I'm nothing close to a spy. I'm barely a thief.

She yawns, and I see every single tooth in her gummy mouth. Nothing threatening in there, but I'm
pretty sure she'd be able to snap me clear in half, if she put her mind to it. I stand there, completely
exposed, not even daring to swirl up fog around me. She's half-asleep, half-aware, but I can guarantee
she won't stay that way for long. She moves over to the counter across from me, pulls out a large
metal bowl, and fills it to the brim with grass and barley. Then she scoops the bowl up into her hands
and shuffles back toward me.

But the elixir, I'm feeling it now. Scattered thoughts come into focus, and I start flexing muscles I never
knew I had. My fingertips glow, and nearly forgotten spells suddenly sit upon my lips. I draw on magic,
and her mind opens up to me like a map. I tug here, push there, and suddenly I'm invisible to her.
She's inches from touching me, chewing, chewing, chewing . . . mouth open, eyes distant.

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 Art by: Izzy

Guilt overwhelms me. I'd wasted so much of the elixir. I should apologize. Offer to pay it back. But we
can't afford that kind of debt, especially with what her husband pays me. When he pays me. Besides,
if House Dimir finds out I'm this awful at espionage, I'd be disappeared for good. I'm doing the right
thing, staying quiet. Even if I have to stand here all night. I suck in my breath and clench the bread loaf
to my chest like it's my lifeline, taking comfort that it will soon feed my hungry child.

A blast of magic erupts from my fingertips, fog leaps out of my way, and for the first time since I've
worked the docks, the river is clear as far as the eye can see. It's not much of a sight—muddy waters,
riddled with trash and clumps of invasive river plants. I can't help but wonder if the mystery would
have been better for Grimbly Wothis than his investor now seeing the naked truth. It just isn't that
great of a harbor, but that's no problem of mine.

I grow antsy, all this power at my fingertips, wanting to show off a little in front of the other
dockworkers. Yantis is operating the crane, a Viashino with sticky fingers, the kind great for pulling
levers and coaxing gears. But his forked tongue has aimed more than a few reptilian curses my way,
and a little payback sounds right on time. I recount the nightmare spell I'd been taught. It never
materialized into more than haze before, but now, Yantis has ribbons steaming off his brain, just
waiting for me to give them a yank. Power wells within me, so fast, so hard, I can't control it. Yantis
screams, fighting all the terrifying nothings in front of him. The boom swivels left, the crate drops loose
and goes tumbling, tumbling toward Grimbly Wothis and the investor standing at the edge of the dock.
My boss sees the rogue crate, sees Yantis flailing, sees the last few shreds of nightmare spells drifting
from my fingertips. He scowls at me, then pushes the investor into the river at the last second. He
barely has time to jump in himself before the crate smashes right where they'd been standing.

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Glass cracks, and the sharp scent of good whisky fills the air. The surveillance bug hums in my ear
again, tiny wings flapping, eyes pointed right at me. Nope, there's nothing covert about ruining a
thousand zinos worth of cargo. I wince. Losing my job, I could handle. But once House Dimir comes
knocking at my door, it'll be like I never existed. Heh. Like they'd knock.

Fast as I can, I run home. We'll have to pack up whatever we can and leave Keyhole, maybe go into
hiding in the old Ghost Quarter or seek refuge at the ruins of Mahovana, claiming the treetops as our
new home. I turn the knob on our front door so hard that the lock shatters, remnants of weak magic
slipping away like wisps into the air. Tashi stands there, holding the baby, giant smile plastered on her
face.

"Merret! Merret, you've got to see this!" She holds the baby up. He's flourishing. Cheeks plump, his
gummy smile glistening, and an undeniable spark in his eyes. "He's so strong, now. Feel his muscles. I
think he's going to walk any day." And then she's pulling me close, kissing my cheek, telling me how
she loves me and I can't even get a word in about how our lives are about to change, and not for the
better. "Everything's going to be okay," she's saying, but me, I'm just staring at that bright blue elixir
stain on the chunk of bread baby's been gnawing on. Watching how it shimmers, ever so slightly, like
moonlight.

Then baby sneezes, and every single candle in our apartment bursts into flame.

Something's happened. Good or bad, I don't know. No time to think with the beating on our front
door. I wedge my weight against it. Grimbly Wothis is hollering from the other side about how he
knew it was me who caused the incident, and that I'd ruined his cargo as well as scared of his investor.
They say merfolk cuss like you've never heard, but dock bosses have them beat, hooves down. With a
broken lock, this door won't hold him back for long. I whisper for Tashi to hide in the cupboard with
the baby, and for Soche to duck into her sleeping nook and cover herself with blankets. Me . . . there's
no room left in our little hovel to hide. Doesn't matter anyway, because when that big hoof hits the
flimsy door, splinters fly, and I take to the air, landing hard on my chin.

It takes a moment for the fog inside my head to clear, but soon as I'm able, I reach out between me
and Grimbly Wothis, trying to pull those magic threads, trying to shield myself from sight, but it's
useless. Now, Grimbly Wothis is standing over me, brow bent, his stare as sharp as the tips of his
horns. Bits of flotsam cling to his body, and he smells like a striking combination of dank river and wet
fur.

"You owe me, Merret." He takes one look around my home and laughs his roaring laugh, as if the idea
of me possessing anything of value were a huge joke. "I'd take it out of your pay, but you'd spend
three lifetimes earning back the cost of that whiskey. Then I thought I'd just take it out on your hide,
but it seems you do have something of considerable value after all."

My heart constricts in my chest and doesn't let go. I watch his eyes track to our kitchen.

"I'll do anything," I tell him, scrambling between him and the cupboard. "Clear the harbor every waking
hour. Double shifts. My wife! My wife will work, too. We'll pay off whatever we owe you, I promise."

"I saw what that child did through the window, the trick with the candles." His hoof knocks across my
shin and I bite back the pain. Another kick, right in the ribs, and I crumple into a ball.

Then he's past me, throwing open the door to the cupboard. Tashi is inside, whimpering, the baby
asleep against her chest. The sight of my wife suffering, of my child in danger, ignites my fury, and I'm

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up to my feet again. I conjure the magic . . . before it had been a chore, like sucking hard through a
cracked straw, but now it enters me with a flow as unrestrained as the river.

"A child like this is worth something," Grimbly Wothis says, attempting to pry the baby from my wife's
arms. She bucks and bites and screams, and now the baby is awake and howling.

The tips of my fingers dance with light, and the threads of my boss's mind open up to me. I pull and
tug, weaving a nightmare, especially for him, constructed of his deepest fears. Now Grimbly Wothis is
screaming, too, a piercing and perfectly pitched note that rattles the glass of our gas lamps. He fights
the invisible foes before him, throwing pots and pans, tipping over chairs. He's stomping all over the
place, not watching where he's going. My nerves go tight as he stomps closer to the pile of blankets
Soche is hiding under. Those hooves . . . my focus wanes, just for a moment, but it's enough for Grimbly
Wothis to throw off the nightmares and make a run for my son.

Art by: Wisnu Tan

And like that, my baby is in Grimbly Wothis's arms, back arched, letting loose a heart-wrenching
scream that tears me up inside.

"As always, you've got no focus, Merret," Grimbly Wothis scolds me. "But we're even now."

"Give me back my—"

Grimbly Wothis raises his leg high, and for a moment, I'm mesmerized by the draw of all that firm
muscle, then his hoof lands square in my mouth and my world explodes with pain. I catch blood in my
cupped hands, but they can't hold all of it. I must have blacked out for a moment, because Wothis is
already at the door, trying to maneuver his horns through the opening while the baby writhes and my

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wife grips at the fur on his thigh. With a hard shake, he flings her off. She goes flying and hits the side
of a cabinet. Something cracks. Something that's not old wooden cabinetry.

I focus as hard as I can, ignoring my child's screams and the awful whimpers coming from my wife. I
pull at magic, trying to wrap a noose around my boss' thick neck, but the flow is back to a trickle now.
Whatever he feels, it's no more than a scratch in his throat. He coughs once, then looks back at me.
Laughs.

"See you at the docks tomorrow, bright and—" His eyes go wide, his breathing chokes off. I look down
at my fingers, dull as dirt. Not even a breath of magic stirs around me, but Grimbly Wothis has been
gripped by the mind, I'm sure of it. I catch a glimpse of the intensity in my child's eyes. My son arches
his back again, throws his arms up, and suddenly, he's gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

"What did you do with my baby?" my wife screams out, gripping her broken ribs.

My brave Soche has come out of her hiding spot, and now she's pitching wooden blocks at Wothis.
One hits him square in the forehead.

"Stop! You'll hit the baby!" I say, scrambling over, trying to see through the baby's cloak. I feel for him
in my boss's arm, but there's nothing. Panic overwhelms me. Had he dropped him?

Grimbly Wothis starts coughing, sucking in huge amounts of air as he regains his composure.
Bloodshot eyes stare down at me. "Where's the baby?" he says, like he's accusing me of the baby's
disappearance.

I'm so angry, I can't think straight and punch him square in the jaw. His nostrils flare, and his eyes
soften like I've just given him permission for this to be a real fight. My fists are up, and then we're
scrapping, and I'm trying to push him towards the door, and he's trying to fight his way back in, and
then Tashi screams the baby's name, and we all stop and stare.

The baby's sitting there on the floor. He's got scratches on his arms and is holding a strange purple
fruit shaped like a star. I've never seen anything like it. He puts it in his mouth, the bitter skin making
his lip pucker tight. He drops the fruit, and then pushes up on all fours, about to crawl. Grimbly Wothis
is trying to force his way past me, but I hold him back with all my might. "Go to mama," I tell the baby.
"Go to mama!"

But the baby isn't listening. His eyes are focused across the room. Then I see the near-shadow sitting
in the armchair by the hearth. We all see it. Him. And I realize somewhere deep in the back of my brain
that he's been sitting there a long, long time. He's draped in a flowing leather cloak, made from the
hide of some beast that had gone extinct ages ago . . . he's regal, even upon the throne that is our
rickety armchair. All of the magic in the room, in this apartment block, maybe in this whole
neighborhood is flowing toward him, like a sinkhole that's suddenly opened up in the middle of an
unsuspecting lake. I shake my head, trying to rid myself of improbable thoughts. Could this be Lazav?
Lazav the Mastermind, Guildmaster of House Dimir? Every aching bone in my body wants to bow in
his presence, though doing so would be the worst indiscretion I could make.

The baby pushes up again, and suddenly he's standing . . . wobbling back and forth and back again,
before taking his first timid step. He smiles for a moment, proud of himself, then takes another step,
and another, until momentum gets the best of him, and he falls right into Lazav's arms. Lazav hoists
the baby up into his lap.

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 Art by: Yongjae Choi

"Any outstanding debts Merret owes you will be paid in full by the close of business tomorrow," Lazav
says to my boss. "And in return, you will refrain from further contact with any member of this family.
Isn't that right, Mr. Wothis?"

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Grimby Wothis says, puffing up to his full breadth, head tilted
forward, horns ready for a battle.

"No one," Lazav says, his voice as hallow as a whisper, but there's nothing soft about it. He waves a
hand and the entire room starts spinning, spells blazing silvery light in circles around the edges of our
home. I cling to the floor, feeling like the weight of the world is pressing upon my lungs. It spins faster,
faster—furniture quaking, walls shaking, windows warping and on the verge of shattering out of their
panes. Then everything comes to a screeching halt.

For a long moment, there is absolute silence, then Grimbly Wothis mutters, "Okay. Sounds good.
Whatever you say," and stumbles dizzily out of the house, nearly toppling over the balcony railing.

"Good," Lazav says, smiling at me now, my son happily gnawing on one of his knuckles. "This babe will
astound us in every way you've disappointed us."

"You won't have my son," I say, respectful, yet firm.

"We don't want your son. At least not in that way. He will stay with you. You will raise him as you see
fit. But in return for paying off your debts, we would like to ask that we send a tutor to your home to
oversee his learning. Of course, we will also provide you a modest stipend so that you can adequately
provide for his needs. And yours."

My jaw has dropped. I go over to Tashi, pulling her gently into me. I try to push away some of her pain,
then we just stare at each other, dumbfounded, each grasping for questions to ask and falling short.

16 | P a g e
"Is my brother special?" comes Soche's voice, a terror-ridden peep.

Lazav laughs a raspy laugh, like stones scratching against rib bone. Something in my brain twists
sideways, my mind fogs over, and then all of a sudden, we're all laughing, and Great Aunt Bea is sitting
in our armchair, bouncing the baby on her knee. Soche's playing a tune on her xylophone, and Tashi's
in the kitchen, chopping up some strange purple fruit she must have gotten at the market. I go stand
next to her, and she smiles at me, then places a bit of the sweet pulp on my tongue. As I chew, my jaw
aches some, like I'd been punched in the mouth.

"You're sure you're okay with my aunt staying with us for a while?" she asks. "Just until she gets back
on her feet? She won't be much trouble, and she can help keep an eye on the baby while I get some
work done."

"Of course, it's okay. I like her," I say. "There's just something about her, you know? That wisdom that
comes with old age? I think she'll be good for our family."

-------------- --------------

17 | P a g e
 TESTING THE DARK WATERS
By: Nicky Drayden

Art by: Simon Dominic

Not all mad scientists are born into money. Some of us have to earn it, and sometimes earning it isn't
pretty. As I walk through the sewers beneath the Tenth District, knee-deep in sludge, I ignore the bits
of solid waste bumping up against the repellant spell covering my uniform. Instead, I focus on the
palatial sprawl of the undercity—the mesmerizing domes, stately columns, and an ornate arch inset
with a relief depicting the signing of the Guildpact. It's a dangerous sort of beauty down here, and if it
weren't for the noxious gasses and half-million gallons of urine and liquified excrement flowing
steadily downstream, I'd say it were charming.

"No time for gawking, I'm afraid," Kel'teth bellows, and I notice I've fallen several paces behind my
Golgari guide. He's the most laid-back troll I've ever met, probably because he's constantly taking
nibbles from that patch of iridescent mushrooms growing around his armpits. Eyes calm yet alert, he
urges me forth.

18 | P a g e
A rat's swimming in the sludge next to me. A scream wells up in my throat, but I tamp it down, not
wanting Kel'teth to think I'm unfit for this task. A rat's nearly the same as a lab mouse, right? Except
lab mice don't have those froth-coated fangs. Those menacing eyes. That mesmerizing squeak. I'm
overcome with the urge to pet it, right there on its furry snout. My hand reaches out, shaking, just a
little closer . . .

A chunk of pitted cement flies past me and hits the rat square in the head with a sploosh. It squeals
one last time, then sinks down into filth-ridden oblivion. I shake off the all-consuming thoughts I'd
had. What the—

"Sewer sirens," Kel'teth says, dusting his hands together. "Rabid as all get-out, but they can't attack
you unless you put your hand in their mouth. Best avoid them."

"You know, information like that would have been useful before I started the assignment," I say,
wiping away the sewer backsplash from my lips.

Kel'teth laughs. "If I'd gone and warned you about every little thing that could kill you in the sewers,
we definitely wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

I stick closer to my guide as he briefs me on the eight different varieties of flesh-eating water plants
that thrive down here and gives me tips on how to avoid getting electrocuted by eels. As we continue,
I notice shadows lurking in dank corners, behind pillars, under bridges, and decide that maybe
knowledge isn't power. I tune out of Kel'teth's lecture and start concentrating on the gear this side job
will earn me—my very own ballast of arcane induction. One of those solid mizzium ones, with the
dyna-chromatic retaining bell and double-inversion/instant conversion canister. Real Izzet ingenuity
right there, not like the borrowed one I'm lugging around. I'll be able to do analyst jobs like this one
three times as fast—detecting and identifying mana traces with ease, which will leave me with more
time to spend in the lab.

Art by: Svetlin Velinov

19 | P a g e
We cut through a series of keyhole archways, make our way around a moss-covered rotunda, and
finally we arrive at our destination. It's massive, and nearly as impressive as the two-story portico it's
wedged against. It's a giant raft of coagulated fats and solid waste clumped together into a single
mass, clogging the water's flow. Just one of the many fatbergs plaguing the sewers of the Tenth
District.

Kel'teth clasps his fingers together, puts them down at knee-height, then gestures at me to take a step
up. "After you!"

"Wait. You want us to actually get on that thing?" I adjust the bulky canister I'm carrying on my back,
trying to keep the weight evenly distributed.

"Well, you're not going to be able to see it properly from down here. Besides, eels will be coming out
of their nests soon. They don't usually attack people, but they'll shock the ever-lovin' chitin out of
anything when they're groggy."

I don't need any more convincing and hastily hop up onto the fatberg. Most of it looks hard like rock,
though some patches look waxy, some parts have mounds oozing fatty gel, and all throughout, broken
and discarded objects protrude from the berg's surface. The entire raft bobs slightly, making me
nauseated—though in all fairness, I've been pretty close to vomiting since I first stepped foot down
here.

"See," Kel'teth says, "normally, we fly a couple of drakes in to vaporize the bergs, but they've become
impervious to electrical magic. This one's been bombed a dozen times, and not a scratch on 'er." He
pats a fat protrusion lovingly. "Impressive, isn't she?"

"She's a beauty, all right." A dry heave escapes me. The anti-nausea spell is wearing off for sure. We'll
have to make this inspection a quick one. "So, I'll just look around and see if I can find any traces of
what's causing this. Okay?"

"Take all the time you need," Kel'teth says, settling down upon the berg. He pops a mushroom cap
into his mouth, then molds a fat mound, fashioning a pillow behind him. A relaxed smile smears across
his face as he leans back with both arms propped behind his head.

I unholster my ballast rod and tap the mizzium-plated canister slung upon my back. A hum starts up—
the background noise of trace amounts of mana dispersed in the air. I grip the rod and wave the
receptor coils around, collecting mana remnants until the round glass bell fills with the purple crackle
of electricity. The energies cancel out, and the hum fades down to nothing. I'm ready to begin. I aim
the ballast's copper receptor coils at the surface of the fatberg, sweeping in slow, steady strokes, back
and forth. The canister raises in pitch, a sharp zip sound that indicates evidence of an artifact. Dig
marks in the berg show it's long gone, though, probably scavenged by Golgari reclaimers.

I keep moving forward. The dreck of the sewers knows no guild divisions. One moment, I'm stepping
over a pummeled warthog mask from some Gruul festival, and the next, I'm wincing at the sunburst
helmet of a Boros soldier cracked right in two. Eventually I find another spot where an artifact once
sat. From the warbling moan my ballast emits, I can tell it's a common Rakdos artifact, likely a half-
burned effigy of an unfaithful lover or of an unscrupulous neighbor who'd borrowed a fire poker and
forgotten to give it back. Definitely not something with enough magic to affect a whole fatberg.

But then the ballast starts making an odd sizzling noise it's never made before. It gets louder and
louder as I reach the end of the berg. I look back at Kel'teth, fast asleep. I should probably wake him
and ask him to show me forward, but whatever's causing this sizzle is powerful. Arcane. And

20 | P a g e
something the Izzet League hadn't rigged my canister to recognize. That either means they hadn't
discovered it yet or they knew about it and wanted to keep it a secret. Both options are equally
appealing. And equally lucrative.

Look, I know why I was hired for his job—figure out what's causing the electric-proof fatbergs and
report back to the Golgari so they can fix it, but here's the thing: besides working this job in my spare
time, I serve as an attendant to Master Dax Foley, a high-level chemister specializing in arcane
metallurgy and practical alchemy. I'm stuck at the bottom rung in the laboratory, one of two humans
among a couple dozen vedalken attendants, and I spend most of my day sorting cable connectors and
degreasing the turbines and trapping rogue elementals siphoning energy from our lab equipment. I've
got ideas, though, more ideas than can fit in my head, but so far it seems like I'll only get to move up
when someone dies or retires. The way the other attendants are gulping down rejuvenation spells,
neither of those things are going to happen in a long, long time. So, if I'm going to make a name for
myself, I've got to take risks.

I step into the sewer water, then follow the sizzle down several pipes, each narrower than the one
before. I come to a dead end, water flowing into an old and ornate grate rimmed with ancient code
and held fast with rusty bolts that probably haven't moved since Niv-Mizzet still had his egg teeth.
Turning back isn't an option, though, not when I'm so close. I release the safety clasp on my canister,
and a backflow of stored raw mana slips out and swirls toward the grate. The canister drains, causing
the aged metal to glow red hot, and as it expands, the bolts shiver then pop loose into the water.

Three hard tugs, and the grate comes free. I set it to the side and duck in. The flickering light still
caught in my glass bell casts dancing shadows upon the curved walls of the tunnel. Shiny surfaces
reflect light, but there is one spot ahead that's as black as pitch, floating upon the surface of the sewer
water. Threads of magic swirl around it, an ominous red with sparkles of white. A spatial rift.

Too late, I notice several eels headed toward me, weaving their way through the patch of strange
plants growing around the rift. I scramble, trying to remember what Kel'teth had said about avoiding
electrical shocks . . . water's too shallow here to dive, and there's nothing to grasp onto so I can climb
out. Left without options, I hold my ballast rod out in front of me. The entire surface of the water lights
up. Electricity flows into the receptors, but they're meant for siphoning trace amounts of mana from
their surroundings, not taking the full brunt of an electrical shock. The energy travels up the rod, and
the bell explodes into shards. The cannister starts screaming bloody murder, so I unhook it and sling
it as far as I can. It hits the water, and seconds later, an explosion of electrical magic fills the sewer.
For a long, long moment, my entire body seizes up and my world goes white.

21 | P a g e
 Art by: Jonas De Ro

Finally, my thoughts congeal. I look around, neck stiff, skin smoldering. The rift is fine, and so are all
the plants around it. Like nothing happened to them. Not a single leaf burnt. Not a single petal
scorched. Contact with the rift must have imbued them with immunity to electrical magic. The same
immunity must have seeped into the fatbergs over time. I take a few plant samples, shaking with the
magnitude of this discovery. Never again will I be ordered to sterilize goggles or spit-shine furnace
grates.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't noticed the pressure mounting within the Izzet League lately, although
where it's coming from, I don't know. The Izmundi have been demanding more significant discoveries
and faster results, so much so that chemisters have resorted to running experiments day and night for
fear of losing their labs. Well, I've got their significant discovery right here, so I'm storming over to see
Master Dax, right now, and demanding that he gives me the promotion I deserve. And soon after that,
I'll be the one giving him orders.

Turns out the best ideas aren't formed when you've just had ten eels' worth of electricity jolting
through your brain. Making nonsensical ultimatums to your boss, drenched in sewer water, frizzy hair
gone white at the temples, and dragging four hundred zinos worth of broken and illegally borrowed
lab equipment behind you . . . well, that just leaves you standing at the front steps of the Lightning
Rod, a box full of your desk belongings in your arms.

I'd watched as they revoked my access spells, took the infinitum key amulets from my neck, stripped
me of my gauntlets. Now I'm just a bare-fingered stranger to the building, all the checks and
credentials that separated me from Dimir infiltrators trying to steal our inventions and Simic
biomancers looking to poach chemisters for their labs, gone. Master Dax can take my job and strip me
of my title, but he can't revoke my dream.

22 | P a g e
So, I've started a laboratory of my own in the boilerpit that runs beneath my apartment building. It's
steamy down here, and it reeks of rust and ingenuity. I've scavenged most of the lab equipment I need,
erecting a pair of makeshift mana coils fashioned from of mizzium scraps hammered thin as paper.
They're holding for now, though, sending arcs of purple light nearly to the ceiling. I've baited traps for
the electrical elemental I've heard flickering past in the quiet of night. Yeah, the lab isn't much to look
at, but it's coming along. All I'm really missing is one last thing.

A knock comes at the door.

In that box of desk belongings, I'd managed to sneak something past the Izzet guards who'd escorted
me out of the building—lab mice. Dead ones. Their little furry corpses tainted with the residuals of
experimental magic. With the right coaxing, they often don't stay dead, which makes them highly
valuable to Golgari reclaimers. I'd traded with a young reclaimer, six ripe mice for him to find me a
blastseeker willing to wield magic creations in an unsanctioned lab for an unconscionable amount of
money. I don't expect much, but anything's better than risking blowing up half a city block trying to
do it all on my own. Again.

I answer the door. She's even less than I expected, slightly built, and doesn't look like she could lift a
spectral converter if her life depended on it. But after my own experiences of being discounted again
and again, I know people can be much more than they seem. I smile. "You're here for the blastseeker
position?"

"I'm here if you're paying," she says, a gleam in her eye. "Tamsyn Sweene. Call me Tammy, and we've
got a problem."

Straightforward. I like her already. "You've got experience?"

"Five years working at the Crucible as a blastseeker. After that, two in the Foundry."

"References?"

"None that would be caught dead talking to the head of an unsanctioned lab."

Fair enough. "How about a practical test, then? Just to see if we're compatible?"

We work for three hours straight, getting all the components of my experiment set up. Tamsyn is
meticulous. She helps me hypercharge the mizzium coils, cranking the handle with a fervor I've only
seen in goblins. Then she slices my rift specimens with incredible consistency. I lay them in a shallow
trough of rarified vacuole penetrants and then watch as the rift magic separates from the cellulose.
Tamsyn even helps me to bolster spectral fields on the electrical orbs we'll use to administer the
shocks. Finally, after we've run the serum through the centrifuge and filtered out the organic
contaminants, we dispense it to the mice.

We wait a full five minutes for the serum to take effect, then Tamsyn hefts the spectral converter with
ease and conjures an orb of electricity. It bobs in the air like a ball of honey-colored lightning. The
mouse looks anxious with those pale, pink eyes, then Tamsyn lets the orb rip. The mouse lights up like
a fire elemental, so bright my googles warm around the edges. Electricity surges with a violent force
into that tiny creature, and it doesn't even twitch a whisker. It's completely impervious to electricity.

"Not even a single strand of fur is scorched. This is amazing! We have to take this to the—" I stop
short. We can't do anything with these results. No one's going to take this finding seriously, not
without humanoid trials. And I can't conduct those without board approval.

"What?" she asks.

23 | P a g e
"Nothing." I say, biting my lip. Greatest discovery of my lifetime, and I have to sit on it. I'll apply for
official sanctions, of course, but that'll take months. The Golgari will stumble upon the truth well
before that, and all of my dreams will be dashed once again. I sigh, then go to euthanize the mouse
for dissection, not my favorite part of the job, but you get used to the killing.

"I've got it," Tamsyn says, stepping in front of me. She puts a white rag against the mouth of a bottle
of stonemaker vapors, turns the bottle over, then expertly smothers the mouse so fast, it doesn't even
realize what's happened. The way she moves, so comfortable in her own skin, you can tell she's got
tons of lab experience.

"If you don't mind me asking," I say, a little hesitant, "why do you want to work in an unsanctioned
lab? With skills like yours—"

"Skills like mine got my last chemister killed. It was an accident, but the board didn't see it that way.
They took away the things I held most dear." Tamsyn holds her bare palms out. The discoloration from
the amplification stones imbedded into the gauntlets she'd once worn are painfully familiar to me. My
heart nearly reaches for hers, but I stiffen up, keep emotion out of it. I can't afford to hire her, even
with the pittance I'd advertised. Now is not the time to complicate things.

24 | P a g e
 Art by: Wesley Burt

"Well, thank you for coming," I say. "I'll let you know about the job next week. I've got a couple more
applicants to interview."

"Are you serious? After what I just did?"

"It was impressive, I'll admit, but it's only fair that I—"

"I need this job, Leighbet. Maybe I'm desperate, but you are, too. That's why we'd make a great team.
You've got the big ideas, but you need someone who's good with details and who knows how to game
the system. Sanctions aren't the only way to get laboratory approval. I know some people who know
some people. I can get your lab declared an Innovative Niche Workshop."

"You know how to do that? How?"

"Hire me, and I'll tell you. You've got something special here, and I want to be a part of it. Please, you
won't regret it."

25 | P a g e
Oh, I know I'll regret it, but you can't dangle lab approval in front of a self-proclaimed chemister and
expect her not to bite.

"I'll take care of you, you'll take care of me," Tamsyn says. "Long as my paycheck is on time, we've got
no problems, right?"

"Right," I say. Izzet League likes its oversight and its protocols, but the rules are made to be broken.

Tamsyn has worked wonders. The Laboratory of Elemental Metastream Dynamics and Coil Field
Fractalization is now one of the labs officially recognized by the Izmundi. Yes, it's a mouthful, but
Tamsyn had said that the more descriptors I used, the less likely it would be for someone to scrutinize
what we are actually doing.

My incredible blastseeker steps into the lab and catches me admiring the place. "A couple things I
need to tell you. Nothing big," she says. "If anyone comes knocking, asking for a Master Chemister
Becham, tell them she's away at a conference and won't be back for a week. And the official number
of attendants we have is twelve. Memorize their names and the errands they're out running. Each has
a backstory to make them more believable. Lastly, if you're caught and interrogated, you never knew
me."

I laugh. "Did you blackmail a member of the board to get this pushed through, or what?"

She doesn't laugh back.

I keep laughing, but more like a chuckle now. "But you didn't, right?"

"I thought you were serious about your science, Leighbet." She stares me down. I don't dare blink. "I
took the liberty of putting out an ad for test subjects. They're all in the waiting room."

"We have a waiting room?" I peek out the door into the hallway, and sure enough, three goblins and
two humans are out there sitting on wooden crates. I give them a tight-lipped smile, then duck back
in the lab. "You got people to actually show up? For free?"

"I mentioned two hundred zigs in the ad."

"Two hundred zigs? Each?"

"This will work, Leighbet, and when it does, money will no longer be an object."

I nod, her certainty reassuring me. I carefully measure and administer the serum to each of the test
subjects, documenting everything. Someday, historians will want to know more about the discovery
that propelled me from humble attendant to master chemister.

Tamsyn and I stand shoulder to shoulder, waiting nervously for the serum to kick in. My gut churns . .
. if this works, no . . .when this works, I'll go directly to the board myself to give them a demonstration.

Tamsyn steps up to the first subject. "I'm going to give you a slight shock. Please tell me if you feel any
level of discomfort." As brusque as she is, she's great at putting the test subjects at ease. Even the
hard edges of her facial features seem softer.

The goblin nods—kind of cute with her long, sloping nose, bright yellow eyes, and brass rings in her
left ear. Tamsyn picks up the spectral converter, dials it down to one, and conjures up an orb no bigger

26 | P a g e
than a coat button. Gently, she urges it toward the goblin, who is shaking, her green skin gone ash
gray. The orb hits her in the shoulder, then vanishes without note.

"Did you feel anything?" Tamsyn asks her.

"No!" she says, nearly jumping out of her seat. She settles, looking bashful. "Sorry, this is my first time
being a test subject. I'm a little nervous."

"You're fine," Tamsyn says with a reassuring chuckle as she sets the dial to four. "Okay, I'm going to
try a slightly larger shock. Remember, please let me know if you feel any pain whatsoever." The orb is
the size of a drake egg now and hits the goblin in her chest this time. No effect.

"A bit of a tickle, maybe?" the goblin offers.

"Okay, this is going to be a big one. You're sure you're okay to continue?"

The goblin nods again, with more confidence this time. Tamsyn dials all the way up to eight, and as
the full-sized orb nears our test subject, it's me who's shaking.

Art by: Mathias Kollros

The blast hits her in the head—a surge that should have knocked her unconscious, but she sits there,
mouth agape. "I felt something. Like a tap to the forehead."

"Did it hurt?" Tamsyn asks, offering the goblin a cup of water to calm her nerves. The goblin drinks it
down rapidly, still trembling.

"Not a bit. This is amazing. What was in that stuff you gave us, anyway? I mean, I know you can't tell
me . . . I'm trying to get an attendant job myself. It's so competitive out there, but I'm not giving up!"

27 | P a g e
"I'm sure you'll be on the other side of these experiments in no time," Tamsyn says. "Now, if you'll
have a seat back out in the waiting room, we'll finish up with the other subjects and then get your
payments processed."

"Sounds great!" The goblin shuffles off, a lightness in her step.

The other four tests go exactly the same, successes all around. For good measure, Tamsyn rams five
quick bursts into the last subject's chest, no response. Tamsyn and I look at each other.

"This is it," I say. "We've done it!"

Art by: Izzy

"We have."

"This is perfect! Only the test subjects are all out there . . . waiting on their money." This isn't going to
be pretty, but I can tell them the paperwork still needs to be processed, and it'll take a few days. I'll
hit up some early investors, and then—

"Leighbet." Tamsyn says my name like I'm an impetuous child. "Imagine what would happen if we let
them go out into the world with rift-tainted magic. It'd be traced back to the source, for sure. You used
to be an analyst. You know how relentless they are. Then where would that leave us?"

"But what can we do about it? Quarantine them all? For how long?" If the League gets wind of the
source of the rift magic, all my leverage is gone. I could kiss my career prospects goodbye. Then, slowly,
slowly, I see what Tamsyn is trying so hard not to say. This is still my project. I am in charge. If an order
like this is coming, it has to come from me. "There's only one way we can ensure that these finding
don't get out," I say.

Tamsyn nods.

28 | P a g e
I think of the lab mice I've euthanized over the years. Hundreds. Thousands. At first, it was hard. I felt
awful, but I guess it became routine at some point. We're not talking mice here, though, we're talking
people. Five souls, standing in between me and greatness. If I do this, if I step over this line, there's no
going back. My brain whispers to me—all these horrific thoughts, and I'm listening to them, then
entertaining them, and finally agreeing with them . . . and those small steps have made the leap to
villainhood more accessible.

It will take both of us to hold them down while we press the cloths to their faces. I pick up the bottle
of stonemaker vapor. Four doses for each test subject should be enough. Then I remember the light
in the eyes of that chatty goblin girl, with her own dreams and aspirations . . . "Tamsyn, sorry, I don't
know if I can do it."

She seems disappointed but not surprised. "Don't worry. You don't have to. I already gave them all a
hyper-concentrated dose of sleep elixir laced with an ethereal death accelerant." Tamsyn carefully
stacks the five empty cups and tosses them in the waste bin. "They went gently, peacefully. It's not
like we're complete monsters."

I'm fully unprepared for how cold my heart feels in the stifling, steamy heat of the boilerpits.

I'm not sure what I've gotten myself into, but I know how to get myself out. All I need is two thousand
zigs to pay Tamsyn the money I owe her, then I'll shut down the lab, have a mind mage wipe my
memories, and get on with my life. My options are limited, and my time is short, but there's one way
to get money in a hurry. I scour the postings for test subjects at the Crucible, looking for the highest
paying experiments. I sign up for as many as I can and hope for the best. The first couple go without a
hitch—the twenty injections down my spine barely hurt, and that minor explosion when fire and water
magic had mixed . . . I hadn't really needed all my eyelashes anyway.

The third experiment, I find myself trekking through the heart of the Simic Combine. To say that I have
reservations is an understatement. Pushing the boundaries of elemental science is one thing, but
tinkering with bioengineering gives me pause. It's dangerous. Unnatural. But Simic biomancers pay
test subjects three times as much as Izzet chemisters do, so I soothe my fears by imagining the seven
hundred zigs soon to be clanging in my pocket.

Their labs make my skin crawl, great vats of blue-green liquids, silhouettes of something moving inside
with more arms and legs than anything ought to have. The amount of paperwork they make me fill
out is daunting—a full medical history, a psychiatric profile, and a liability waiver requiring the contact
information for my shaman in case of emergency and a description of burial rituals, should the worst
happen. I'm on the penultimate page of the final questionnaire when I come to a stumbling block:

Have you been exposed to any regrowth helixes or irradiated enchantments in the past seven days?

My hand trembles, but I mark "no" even though I had a dose of each in my experiments this morning.
I can't afford to skip out on this one. They administer the test, hooking me up to a half-dozen hoses
and tubes, delivering their mystical potions to my veins. I immediately feel lightheaded.

"Everything's all right? Are you okay to continue?" the lead biomancer asks. He's human, but reptilian
scales glisten all along his skin. His lidless eyes are as black as that spatial rift had been, and I fear I
might fall right into them.

I swallow my nerves and nod. Every single one of my arm hairs starts to itch as Simic magic transforms
me from the inside out. The tingling sensation hits me in the marrow of my bones, and before I know

29 | P a g e
it, my teeth are reshuffling, becoming jagged and ragged like a mouthful of fangs. My spine is twisting,
growing, each vertebra lengthening, reaching out into sharpened points, and the warm brown of my
skin turns an ashen gray, rough like old leather. I stare at my hands as silver-blue claws erupt from my
nailbeds.

"Something's definitely not right," the biomancer says. "You're sure you haven't been exposed to
regrowth helixes lately?"

I try to answer him, to admit that maybe I had, but there's so much froth spilling out of my mouth, I
can't talk through it.

Disoriented and terrified, I rip the tubes from my arms. The biomancer tries to subdue me, but I drag
my claws through his lab coat, through his scaly flesh, then flee as fast as I can. I rush down the
corridor, hundreds of bloated faces staring out at me from fluid-filled growth vats. The corridor opens
into an atrium with a large reflection pool that casts shimmering light all around me. I feel like I'm
drowning. I fight my way to the exit, gasping for breath as the air hits my face, but I don't stop running.
There's only one place deserving of a monstrous wretch like me. The sewers.

I cower in the deep shadows of a bridge pile, half submerged, half out of my mind. I'm so hideous,
even the sewer sirens won't come near me. I think this is the end, that my life can't get any worse, but
then Tamsyn rounds the corner, spectral converter conjuring an orb that lights up the sewer. Shadows
dissipate, and I am seen.

"Leighbet," Tamsyn says.

"Tamsyn," I reply. "I'm still short on your paycheck, but if you give me more time, I can—"

"You know this isn't about money."

Yeah, I got that feeling. "Back when you told me about accidentally killing your chemister . . . that was
a lie, wasn't it?"

"You got me."

"You killed him on purpose?"

"There was no chemister, Leighbet. I never was a blastseeker." Something foreign ripples beneath her
skin, and that feeling I'd had, about her moving so comfortably within her own body, all of that drains
right out of my head. "And I never worked in the Crucible or the Foundry. Too many deterrents and
security measures. But small labs like yours are easy to infiltrate, and if you time it right, you can catch
a genius on the rise . . ."

"You really think I'm a genius?" I say, then shake off the stroke to my ego and concentrate on what's
important. "You're a shapeshifter?" And then I realize. "A Dimir spy."

"In the flesh," Tamsyn says. Her skin ripples again. "At least close enough to it."

Damn. And she was so good in the lab. Really knew her stuff. I take a deep breath. "Now when you
said 'genius,' did you mean in a literal sense, or—" But before I can get clarification, I catch a glimpse
of something approaching us fast—wings crack like sails bitten by storm winds, yellow eyes burn like
fire. An arc drake, sent down here to break up the fatbergs, is flying right toward us. Electricity crackles
on its breath, then I see it take a big inhale. "Drake!" I scream.

30 | P a g e
 Art by: Victor Adame Minguez

"You think I'm really falling for that?" Tamsyn says. The electricity within the converter pointed at me
warbles a deep and menacing tone.

I don't have time for fear. My mind's cycling through the electrical safety rules my sewer guide had
briefly covered: Able to climb, get out in time. In the water, dive like an otter. I dive deep, hold my
breath, and hope for the best.

Electricity is unpredictable, indiscriminate, and a natural-born killer. It snakes through the sewer
water, through me. My entire body clenches up so tight, I feel like I'm about to snap in half. Finally,
when it releases, I'm overcome with a thirst so intense that I must force myself not to guzzle mouthfuls
of sewer water. My heart's okay, and my brain mostly, but I don't mistake my luck for any sort of
mercy. I'm struck again, this time in the gut with a fist. My lungs expel the air I'm clinging to as
"Tamsyn" rams into me. Bubbles escape to the surface, and I try to do the same, but she's got a hold
of me, dragging me back down. I scratch and claw my way back up to the surface, and she butts her
forehead into my chin, and while I'm trying to shake it off, she's conjured another orb.

31 | P a g e
 Art by: Winona Nelson

"A mind like yours is a terrible thing to waste, but your serum is a Dimir discovery now. Goodbye,
Leighbet."

I don't know why, but the thought of losing credit for my discovery scares me worse than the thought
of losing my life. I look down at my claws—sharp, intimidating. I'm no berserker, and until now, I didn't
have a feral bone in my body, but that doesn't mean I'm going down without a fight. I lash out at
Tamsyn, swinging at her face. She ducks, then sends an orb straight into my stomach. I hunch forward
with the pain it brings, a deep, pulsing cramp that makes the edges of my vision go white. I push past
it, make another go at it. My claw catches skin this time, barely, drawing a line of pale-green blood.
Almost instantly, the wound knits back together. She dials the spectral converter two clicks past the
max, then conjures a giant orb and moves it slowly toward me.

This isn't working. I'm a thinker, not a fighter. If I'm going to best her, it's going to have to be with my
mind. I back up as she approaches, but then, something squishes behind me—a fatberg completely
blocks my exit. I've got no choice, so I turn, sink a claw into the top, then sling myself up onto the
surface. I'm completely exposed, but I'm faster up here, and I'm able to duck as she fires at me.

Tamsyn is trying to mount the fatberg as well, but I rock back and forth, making it more difficult. She
slips back under the water. I try to make a run for it but trip over an old welding jar. It's heavy and
made of thick glass. I start looking around, surprised the reclaimers hadn't scavenged this fatberg yet.
Among the usual debris and trash, I catch sight of several objects that could be useful with a little
inventiveness and elbow grease. I look at the welding jar again. Only a few remnants of solder remain
inside, but the jar itself can serve as a retaining bell. If I can find enough pieces, I can build a makeshift
ballast to absorb the shock from Tamsyn's orbs.

Her head peaks up, and she lobs an orb at me. It grazes my leg, which goes stiff and hurts so bad, I'm
barely able to stand. I raise the welding jar like I'm about to throw it at her, and she ducks back under.
I don't have much time. She won't fall for that twice.

32 | P a g e
I shuffle over to an old trident wedged into the berg. The shaft is splintered and already plucked of its
inset stones, but I can still feel the sizzle of magic working through its veins. It would make an excellent
rod for my ballast. Two cracked mana coils might work as receptors. I don't think anyone's ever tried
that, but I have to make do with what I've got. The solder is old, so I poke it back to life with a small
jolt of crafting magic. Finally, it creeps forward, joining the bell to the trident, and just as the final
piece worms its way down to the coils, I look up and see Tamsyn has found her way onto the berg. I
heft my ballast up to fight, but it's nowhere near ready.

I point over her shoulder, and my eyes go wide. "Not again!"

I dive flat, like those drills you learn as a kid to minimize your chance of getting struck by lightning
when an arc drake is on the loose. Tamsyn looks back over her shoulder, squinting into the darkness,
and then I jump up and seize both my ballast and the moment as I take a fierce backswing then throw
my entire body into it as the welding jar makes contact with her jaw. She spins, once, twice, then
plunges face-first into the gritty sewer water. Nice hit. Would have knocked out a human, but a
shapeshifter, I'm not so sure.

A proper ballast would have a cannister to store the charge, but there's no way I can jury-rig something
that complicated. But if the Warwitt-Isley principle of microfractural gains and allowances holds true
in less than ideal circumstances, I might have a chance if I can find something to redirect the energy. I
see a piece of refuse that might work, half buried in a mound of fatty gel. I step over and wrench it
free. It's the end cap to an old boiler tank—a rusty mess on the bowed-out side, and the inside is
mizzium plating painted on so thin it wouldn't be worth the effort to remove. All those years of spit
shining furnace grates finally comes in handy, and in no time, the mizzium gleams, providing a nice,
concave surface for the magic to flow across.

Tamsyn catches me off guard, coming up from the far side of the berg. I don't have time to attach the
cap, so I just hold onto it for dear life. When the next blast orb comes, I meet it with my makeshift
ballast. Electricity slides into the receptors, up the rod, then collects in the bowl of the cap. For a brief
moment, both Tamsyn and I stand there, stunned that it actually worked, but then she's barreling
toward me with a vengeance, arms outstretched, another orb ready to fire. Before my charge can
dissipate, I sling it at her, and the blast surges forth and hits her in the chest.

Her whole body lights up. The impact sends her flying in one direction, and the cap goes careening in
the other. I blink away the ghost images of Tamsyn temporarily burned into my retinas then see my
real enemy trying with all her might to get back onto her feet. But before she can, I jam my knee into
her back, pull her head up by the hair. The feral monster inside me reels, demanding revenge, but
when I look down at my arms—my skin is smooth again, my nails are nice and blunt, and I realize the
awful effects of the experiment have worn off. I am back to my normal self . . . but I still feel changed,
and I'm pretty sure I can't blame it all on Simic magic.

"This is my discovery," I hiss at her. "I can't let it fall into Dimir hands."

"I won't tell anyone, swear it," she pleads.

33 | P a g e
"I know you won't, Tamsyn," I say to her, and I become like lightning—unpredictable, powerful,
merciless—all those things that make it both beautiful and deadly. Like with the mice, the decision to
kill is easier this time, and as Tamsyn's vertebrae snap, I take comfort that she doesn't know pain for
long. I step back and watch her corpse as the spells that held her human form fade away. The body
lays there, a treasure for the reclaimer that will eventually happen upon her. I gather what's left of my
makeshift ballast to take back to my lab. A little tinkering, and I'll have two discoveries to bring before
the board, and if they don't accept my findings . . .

The monster inside shifts beneath my skin. Together, we will make a great team.

-------------- --------------

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 CLANS & LEGIONS
By: Nicky Drayden

Art by: Joe Slucher

"Salutations and congratulations, Wojek Weslyn," my boss says to me, positively burning with pride.
I've served under Sergeant Skormak, the associate director of war development, for the past thirteen
years I've worked at Sunhome Annex Four, but we've hardly ever spoken face to face. He extends his
hand, and I fight the urge to flee. They say there are two types of people within Boros Legion: those
who flock to flame-kin, and those who run from them. I definitely fall into that latter category, but I
shake my boss's hand anyway. Even through the protection of his enchanted gloves, I can feel the fire
burning beneath.

"Your adulations are noted," I say. "There is no doubt your glowing recommendation was a big factor
in my promotion."

Sergeant Skormak smiles and shakes his head, red-golden flames rising off his scalp. "My words were
nothing but the truth. You did the work. You passed the tests. It is you who have earned this honor."

35 | P a g e
He places a small box and an envelope on my desk. "I will miss your efficiencies when you move to the
Wojek Annex," he says to me. His breathless voice wavers in and out like a flickering flame. "But I know
you will make us all proud."

And now it's me who's burning up, figuratively, at least. I'm the first of my coworkers to be promoted
to Wojek in eight years. Sure, we all pretend everything is fair and equitable, and that if you work with
integrity and decency you will eventually gain recognition, but in reality, Annex Four is where Boros
Legion sends its chaff—swiftblades who'd bombed the wrong encampments, skyknights who'd
developed a fear of heights, flame-kin who'd been too hot-headed to dissipate upon battle's
completion, and minotaurs like me, who'd simply had the misfortune of being born into the wrong
family line. It's kind of fitting that this building used to be a warehouse. It's a great place to store all
the people the Legion would rather forget about.

My fingers tremble as I open the box. I can hardly bear to look at what I think, I hope, lies inside. As
the lid loosens, I make out a hint of red. My heart seizes up, and all the fur on my hide stands on end,
and suddenly I'm just staring at it, biting my lip so I don't start bawling over Sergeant Skormak with
big, fat tears that extinguish his flames. I rein in my emotions, puff my chest with pride, then take the
red cord out of the box and drape it around my neck and under one arm. My first accolade. A copper
token dangles from it with "Boros Wojek" printed around the rim. They've entrusted me to keep the
peace in our lands, to combat injustice, and to seek out what is honorable and righteous.

Art by: Aaron Miller

"It suits you," Sergeant Skormak says. "Perhaps the sun does indeed shine upon your line."

"Perhaps," I say, going to open the letter next.

Sergeant Skormak clears his throat. "It's to be read in private. Good luck to you, Wojek Weslyn."

36 | P a g e
The title gives me chills. Or perhaps it's the sudden dip in temperature now that my boss has walked
away. I look closely at the letter. My name is printed across the envelope in gold foil. I slip a fingernail
under the lip and carefully open it. There's a card inside—an invitation.

This note is to inform you that

your presence is requested this evening at dusk
at the Sunhome Solarium
for a reception held in honor of the new Wojek inductees.

Light refreshments will be served.

Dress attire to consist of formal robes and belts.

"A war fought with an unjust mind dies in the trenches. A war fought with a valiant heart lives
forever in the rubble of your enemies' bones."
—Klattic, Boros legionnaire

I look at it. I mean really look at it. The first thing to strike me is the Boros Legion symbol imprinted
into the paper . . . a fist silhouetted by a sunburst, but something's off. Then I realize it's a right-handed
fist, not a left-handed one like it should be. And the sunburst has ten rays instead of nine. My mind
snaps to the counterintelligence exam I'd taken a couple months back. There'd been a task like this
one, finding concealed messages among the mundane. We'd gone out searching for hidden Dimir
codes—a pattern of drawn shades in an apartment tower's windows, sewer grates twisted to indicate
a series of directions, that sort of thing. I'd detected eight of them, more than anyone else in the
cohort. And from now on, I would always need to remain on high alert, searching for signs and signals,
like the one I'm holding in my hands.

This isn't an invitation. It's the briefing for my first assignment as a Wojek counterintelligence agent.
Now, I must decode it.

I scrutinize every word, every letter. I turn the paper sideways, squint my eyes and assess the blank
space between words. The story starts to take shape—a meeting point with an informant . . . It's like
a game. I play with the words: Light refreshments will be served. Food. Soldiers call food gruel. Gruul.
And if that's a real Klattic quote, I've never heard it. Trenches. Rubble. The location has to be a bunker
near the Gruul Rubblebelt.

It's all starting to click into—

"Ooh, party at the Solarium. Can I be your plus-one?" Aresaan says, looking over my shoulder. I
crumple up the invitation, hide it in my fist, and then right before I turn around to face my workplace
nemesis, I empty my lungs. I don't care how many times you've seen a Razia copy, they always take
your breath away when you look at them. I won't give her that satisfaction.

"I'm not sure what you're talking about," I say, fumbling over my words, pretending that her radiant
red hair isn't dazzling the hell out of me. That message was meant for my eyes only. First day as Wojek
counterintelligence, and I've already jeopardized an assignment. "There's no party."

She raises a brow. "Sure, Ossett. Anyway, just wanted to congratulate you on your promotion. It's a
fine accomplishment for someone with such weak convictions."

37 | P a g e
My nostrils flare. She's the worst of the washouts, a former Warleader whose bad decision on the
battlefield had led to fifteen thousand dead Boros soldiers some thirty years ago. As penance, she'd
had her wings bound and was stripped of nearly all her magic, except a few rallying spells to help with
recruitment efforts. Even after decades in exile, she still flaunts the unapologetic arrogance and
intrusiveness typical of angels, but she's no better than the rest of us misfits.

"My convictions are just fine," I say, head tilted forward, my horns aimed right at her. "I've earned
this. If you've got issues about my promotion, you'd better make peace with them."

I never knew peace growing up. My father had been in and out of battle, and our family spent its time
worrying over his safety out there on the front line, and then worrying over our own safety when he'd
return. He'd watched as his Ordruun counterparts got promoted past him, year after year. Maybe
those minotaurs deserved it more than him, I don't know. What I do remember is that his temper had
gotten shorter and shorter each time he returned, and I can't even count the number of times he and
my mother had butted heads, horns scraping, angry hooves putting gashes in the wooden floors,
sometimes the walls. As soon as they started yelling, I'd hole up in my room, my sister's red hair
ribbons slung across my chest, and pretend I was a Wojek officer, charged with keeping the peace.
Wojek counterintelligence needed to be alert and astute. I'd concentrate on finding hidden messages
in the water stains on the ceiling, in the patterns of dust gathered on the floorboards, in the silent
moments when my parents finally stopped arguing. I became good at noticing things that didn't want
to be noticed.

And now, here I am on my first mission at the outskirts of Tenth District chasing down information
that will help us keep the peace. A Gruul encampment has steadily encroached into this quaint
neighborhood and tensions are high. I've heard rumors that this area was the site of a dragon
extermination ten or so millennia ago and that the dust here is largely comprised of disintegrated
dragon bone. They also say the bone is not totally, completely one hundred percent dead.

Working in a place like this, my Boros armor is a must for protection, but stealth is important as well.
I've got a red-gray cloak draped over me, the color of the dirt here. Dragon bone or not, it gets into
everything, making me feel gritty all over, but the dirt isn't the only thing that makes me
uncomfortable. It's impossible not to notice the Gruul presence, eager to tear down everything we've
worked so hard to build. The children are feral, bone and leather strung together in a loose attempt
at clothing. A drunken ogre stumbles past, then falls, his momentum obliterating an incense cart. I try
to find some redeeming qualities among them but fall short. My hand keeps itching to give out
violation notices, but I maintain focus on finding my informant.

In the market, I witness a Gruul child steal a melon from a cart. The merchant yells out, a brittle old
Viashino who couldn't give chase if he'd wanted to. The child runs right in front of me, and it's all I can
do to grab her arm. I clench it tight, and she looks up at me with the eyes of a trapped boar.

"You shouldn't steal," I scold her. "You dishonor your city. Your family. Yourself." I try to be mad at
her, but her arm, it's so thin I feel like it's going to snap in my grip. I loosen up some. She grunts at me,
teeth bared. And, whew, the smell coming off her. But something churns in my mind, and I can't bring
myself to separate her from the fruit.

I sigh, then let the child go. She snorts at me, then runs off, her bounty clutched tight, eyes darting
this way and that. I pull a couple zigs from my coin purse and pay the merchant.

38 | P a g e
He grins at me, and then flicks his tongue out to moisten an eyeball. "You know what they say," he
croaks, "fight the Gruul, and you've got a problem for a day. Feed the Gruul, and you've got a problem
for life."

I nod. Fortunately, I'm just in town for the evening, and she won't be my problem any longer than
that. I press on. It doesn't take long to locate the bunker, hidden beneath overgrown weeds and wild
cindervine enchantments slowly turning the facade to rubble. The place looks nearly forgotten, except
for the infestation of baby hydras, each no bigger than the span of my hand. A few of the heads spit
at me. I step out of the way, but some of the frothy saliva hits my boot. The acid isn't strong enough
to eat through it, but light tan splotches develop on the dark brown leather. Protocol dictates that I
report the hydras immediately, but they're not going anywhere, and my informant might.

Art by: John Avon

I enter the bunker. The heavy metal door screeches as it closes behind me, and I get my first breath
of cold, stale air. It's dark in here, and it takes a long while for my eyes to adjust from the light outside.
Finally, I see a set of stairs in front of me, and I cling to a loose railing as I make my way down. The
stairwell opens up into a large room with a packed dirt floor. Several industrial tables and chairs sit
about, cots are stacked high in the corners, and cabinets that must have once been well stocked sit
open and empty.

A haggard man who looks worn beyond his years sits at one of the tables with a six-sided Clans &
Legions playing board set up in front of him. My throat instantly clenches up. My father had taught
me to play the first time he came back from battle. The fighting had hardened him, but he was still
nurturing then. It was a good way for us to be together, to sit and be near without much talking.

39 | P a g e
"You've got information for me?" I say those words like I've practiced them my whole life. I can't
believe this guy is sitting here. That means I'd decoded the hidden message and found him, and this
wasn't some conspiracy I'd knitted together in my head.

"I do," he says, the weariness obvious in his raspy voice. "But first, let's play."

"I'm afraid I'm a bit rusty." I draw closer, keeping my calm. I can't afford to spook him now. I take a
seat at the table across from him and read his face. It's dark down here, but I can make out the pattern
of discoloration on his neck and up toward his temples, like faint scars. Interesting. Wojek
apothecaries were known to make money on the side by removing tattoos from Gruul defectors, and
the spells to disenchant the ink were harsher than the ones that put it there in the first place. Now I
have a better idea of who I'm dealing with.

Black pieces sit before me, so I make the first move.

He twirls a finger, and one of his soldier pieces slides across the board. Is he a mage, then? Beyond
the typical observations, you can also learn a lot about someone by watching how they play Clans &
Legions. The first time I'd beaten my father—really beaten him, not just him throwing me a mercy
win—he'd been so proud. Next time I'd beaten him, he flipped the board. My hand shakes as I pick up
the cleric piece. A solid but predictable move.

"Do you have a name I can call you?" I ask.

"Brazer, if you must, Wojek Weslyn."

"You can call me Ossett." I narrow the distance between us to build up trust. I watch as he pushes his
angel piece forth with the flick of a finger, leaving her completely exposed. Bait? I want so badly to
inquire about the information, but it is too soon. I ignore the boldness of his move and counter with a
skyknight. Completely bland, completely boring. "Do you play Clans & Legions often?" I ask instead. "I
used to do league competitions when I was younger."

"We didn't have those where I grew up."

"Pity. All kids can benefit from the discipline learned from the game." I realize I've said the wrong thing
as a snarl curls his top lip. I backpedal. "But you know, there's a bit of beauty in the chaos of it all, too.
My father once told me that there are more combinations of forty-move games than there are hairs
on every single living thing in Ravnica."

"Really?" Brazer says, eyebrow arched. "I never thought of it that way."

I move my angel out, a sacrifice. I could still play the game without her, but it would be only a matter
of time before he nullified my whole army. Brazer knocks my angel over with one of his soldiers, but
he doesn't claim my piece for his boneyard. Instead, he looks up at me, the pain behind his weary eyes
making me ache all over. He's ready to talk.

"What is it that you want to tell me, Brazer?" I ask. "I'm listening, and I will hold whatever you say in
the strictest confidence."

"There's a spy in the Boros Legion."

"Okay. Can you tell me who?"

40 | P a g e
He nods. "But first I want a prisoner freed from Wargate. Release her, and I will have the information
delivered to you in the market at sundown tomorrow." He passes me a note with a name on it. Baas
Solvar. I've never heard of her, certainly not one of our renowned political prisoners.

"I want to help you, Brazer, but things like this take time. There's a formal process. Applications need
to be submitted and reviewed."

"Do you know how many three-move games of Clans & Legions there are?" Brazer asks me.

I nod. Everyone knows it. "One. Razia's Folly. But your opponent has to practically be in collusion with
you to pull it off."

"Mmmm-hmmm. Bribery. Extortion. Favors. You're the player, Ossett, but this definitely isn't a game."

I hold my head perfectly still, because all I want to do is shake it right now. There's nothing honorable
in corrupting justice. But a traitor among Boros Legion would be worse, especially now when tensions
are brewing. In Boros Legion, we see things in black and white. There isn't the option for shades of
gray: we'll take a person's freedom for crimes not yet committed, we'll forfeit a soldier's life to uphold
the idea of peace throughout Ravnica, we'll punish a starving child for stealing food. It is our sworn
strength, but it is also one of our biggest weaknesses.

"I will see what I can do."

I work late into the evening, preparing prisoner release forms. Baas Solvar, arrested in a Gruul riot. No
other previous charges. Likely, she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Simple case, really. All
it took was a small bribe to Sergeant Skormak's assistant, and she'd snuck the prisoner release form
into his signature pile. I'm sure my old boss won't mind. He'd said how much he wanted to see me
succeed, for me to make him proud. He's been stuck at Annex Four for nearly as long as I have, and
he knows how much of an accomplishment it is to make it out. First thing in the morning, I'll walk the
case down to the Wargate Prison Camp myself, saving two more days of bureaucratic mishandlings,
and by lunchtime tomorrow, Baas Solvar will be a free—

My eyes stick to the release form. Something jumps out at me, something bad. I try to ignore it. Try to
miss it like whoever'd processed her intake had. But seems like those things I try not to notice scream
to be noticed, too. Baas Solvar isn't her full name. Baas Solvar Radley. Most likely related to Govan
Radley, the Rubblebelt raider who set off a mass chaos spell at Tin Street Market. Shoppers had been
consumed with sudden rage and confusion, and they turned upon each other, food and wares
becoming weapons. Twenty-four killed. A hundred seventy-six injured. I tuck the paper behind the
others, but I can't unsee it. My heart pounds. Which is more of a threat to peace? Someone who we
know is trying to attack us from out there in the streets, or some unknown who's here to dismantle
us from the inside?

"Late night, Wojek?" Aresaan says, her hand on my shoulder. "You can always count on a minotaur to
work twice as long and half as hard, am I right?"

41 | P a g e
 Art by: Alex Konstad

"For Tajic's sake," I glower, shaking her off. "Don't you have some potential recruits to foist your
'powers' on?" I clear my lungs again, nearly like instinct, now, then look at her. It's like staring into the
sun and not giving a care that your eyes are burning. Her stance is aggressive, arms crossed. Mouth
pinched tight. Too bad it won't stay that way.

"Just so you know, I signed up twenty-seven fools today, so eager to spread their blood across the
battlefield."

"Impressive. So when you're out there recruiting, do you use some kind of script, or do you wing it?"
I smirk as the arrogance drops off Aresaan's face, and suddenly, she's shifting her wings, bound up
tight with razor wire. Couldn't be comfortable. I sigh. She didn't deserve that. Or, probably she did,
but I should be the one taking the path of righteousness. "Please go away. I'm in the middle of
something."

"Something important?"

"Something that's none of your business. I'm beginning to understand why they banished you from
the Parhelion."

"Woah, now," she says, hands up. "Not banishment . . . just a reassignment. And fifty years is a blink
for angels. I'm just twiddling my thumbs, waiting for someone else to mess up worse than me, and
that's only a matter of time with the way Aurelia is running this place. You, you'll piddle around with
the Wojeks, trying to make a name for yourself, then eventually, everyone will see the imposter you
are and start wondering why they promoted you in the first place. You'll be right back here within five
years, I guarantee it."

"You don't know crap about my capabilities."

"Language, Wojek!" she scolds me, thin smile on her lips. "Where is the honor in a foul mouth?"

42 | P a g e
"Suck hoof, Aresaan." I turn my attention away from her, and eventually, she gives up and goes away.
I look at the case file. It feels so heavy now. What would it mean to my career if I can't carry out my
first mission? This isn't hard. I don't even have to lie. I just need to go on ignoring the truth.

Baas Solvar is free. I'd watched her walk out of the prison gates myself, a pit in my first stomach. Now
I calmly wait at the market. The sun is still hours from setting, but I got here early, just in case. Brazer
will show up. I can't let doubt into my heart. Not yet. Just like it takes the eyes a few minutes to adjust
from stepping out of the sun and into the dark, it takes the mind time to adjust to seeing shades of
gray.

I notice the child from yesterday, eyeing a loaf of bread sitting too close to the edge of a display table.
I rush over before she makes the decision to steal, open my coin purse, and press five zigs into her
palm. I get down onto her level. "This is no kind of life, you know that right? There are people out
there who want to be proud of you. But you have to make the right decisions, even when it's hard,
okay? Ask for help when you need to. There is so much good inside you."

The girl lights up and something sparks behind her eyes. "Kahti, good," she says,

pressing her hand to her chest. Her voice is gravelly, almost a growl.

"Yes. Yes, you are. Kahti is good." She extends her arms, and I fall into her hug.

"Kahti good," she says into my ear. "So very good." She smiles again, then backs up and runs off.

I'm filled with a warm feeling, too. Then I notice my coin purse is gone.

Embarrassed and angry, I wait for my informant to show, and every moment my self-doubt

grows. Had I let a violent raider go . . . for nothing?

Two hours after the sun sets, I face reality. I head back to the bunker, half expecting not to find it,
hoping that this had been some sort of weird dream, but no, it's there, hydras and all. My eyes adjust
quicker this time, and I rush down the stairs, the concrete tacky underneath my feet, hoping to find a
clue or hidden message.

Only what I find is Brazer's dead body, sitting where I'd left him, slit across his neck. The playing board
is red and bloated from soaking in his blood. A set of red-black footprints leads back out of the bunker.
The game pieces are exactly as they were, so he must have been killed right after I'd left. I look for
more clues, but I'm shaking too hard to concentrate. I must report this to the Legion, I don't care what
kind of trouble I'm in for.

I turn to leave, but wait . . .

I turn back and examine the board closely. There's one piece missing. My angel. She should have been
where I'd left her. I summon the courage to wedge up Brazer's slumped body. No piece hiding under
him, none on the floor. I look everywhere. Whoever killed him had taken the piece with them.

I'm running back to Sunhome, fast as I can, but right before I make it to the gates, I'm intercepted.

"Woah, woah, woah, Wojek," Aresaan says like she's trying to bring a churlish mount to a halt. She
grabs me by my shoulders, looks me up and down, sees the panicked state I'm in. "What happened to
you?"

43 | P a g e
"I don't have time for your antics, Aresaan. There's been a murder."

"Seriously?"

"Do I look like I'm joking?" I hold up my hands, blood already matting my fur.

"Crap, Ossett. I didn't realize . . ." she presses me forward toward the gates, and I nearly stumble over
my own hooves. "You need to report this. I know we haven't been the most cordial of co-workers, but
I'll come with you if you want . . ."

I grumble. I don't want her with me, but I don't want to go in there alone either. "Fine," I say. "But
don't be all . . ." I gesture at the whole of her, ". . . you."

I've always felt tiny standing before Sunhome, with its blocky stone towers like massive fists punching
into the sky, but now I feel even smaller. Flames of justice burn high in their pyres, shedding light upon
deceit and threats to order and unity. They may brighten the streets, but no way they're strong enough
to reach through the shadows dwelling in my heart. We're greeted by the Sunhome Guard, a battalion
of them standing in front of the silver-rimmed gates. Many of the guards are giants—brawny and bare-
chested, save for a few well-placed buckles. Any money saved on clothing the brutes had clearly gone
toward paying for the enormous maces they brandished. I work hard to ignore my urgent need to flee.
Then two of the guards approach me, and I'm too petrified to run, even if I wanted to.

Art by: Martina Pilcerova

"Ossett Weslyn? You are wanted for questioning," one guard says to me, a giant, his thumb and
forefinger large enough to encircle the girth of my bicep.

"Wait, what? This is about the Baas Solvar case file? See, I thought it might be problematic, but I wasn't
sure, and I didn't have enough time to really, and, and . . ."

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"You're suspected in the acute poisonings of Sergeant Embrel Skormak, Second Lieutenant Devin
Sidian, and Guildmage Rook Atalay."

My boss, my boss's boss, and her boss. I shake my head. "No, that wasn't me. I would never! Tell them,
Aresaan, that I couldn't—" I turn around, looking for Aresaan, but she's nowhere to be found. Figures.
"Aresaan!" I scream out. She's an angel, so I know she can hear me call her name. Unless they'd
stripped that power from her as well.

Another guard, a minotaur wearing her weight in gold-trimmed armor, pats me down and empties my
pockets. There's my coin purse. She opens it, pulls out my invitation to the dinner and the missing
angel piece. She sniffs the game piece, twists it, and the top starts to screw apart from the bottom.
There's liquid inside. "Some kind of Golgari poison, all right. A few drops would bring down a giant,
easy." She holds it further away from her, screws it back up.

"That's not mine, I swear!"

"You're saying I won't find your prints all over it?" she asks me.

"No! Well, yeah. I touched it. I was playing Clans & Legions. But I had no idea there was poison inside
it!"

"Says the heifer with blood all over her hands," the giant bellows, pushing me forth. The minotaur
shoots him a displeased glance, but he misses it. "Two good leaders died because of you. I suppose
you have an alibi of where you were during the ceremony yesterday? Someone who could vouch for
you? Maybe your opponent?"

"No, he's . . ." I bite my lip. "See, I was invited to the ceremony, but the invitation wasn't an invitation,
you see? It was really a coded message to meet with an informant. See how the watermark is inverted,
and the sunburst has one extra ray?"

The minotaur holds the invitation up. "Looks like the normal symbol to me. Left-handed fist. Nine
rays."

45 | P a g e
 Art by: Ben Maier

I shake my head. "That can't be right. I saw it!" I squint, but as hard as I try, that thing in my brain that
brought order to chaos is gone. It's nothing but a standard invitation on Boros letterhead. "I didn't do
it. There is a traitor among us!"

My mind feels so twisted up now, but I do know there are three high-ranking vacancies, and Boros
always promotes from within. Which means the true killer will rise higher within the guild.

Then it hits me, all at once—Aresaan. She'd been standing there when I read the invitation that wasn't
an invitation. She could have enlisted the help of a Dimir mind-mage to bend my brain to see
something that wasn't there. She'd bought a Golgari elixir on the black market and had conspired with
that Gruul child to steal my coin purse, then . . . then . . . just now she could have put it back when
she'd run into me. Who knows how deep her allies stretched, spanning guilds, spanning decades. Who
knows how long she'd been hatching this plan, waiting for the right time. Boros Legion has been so
obsessed with order lately, more so than usual. You can't walk a block without seeing a soldier in full
furs and armor, can't go a weekend without a parade honoring the accomplishments of a garrison that
had dominated on the battlefield. They try harder and harder to project solidarity and strength, and I
can't help but think of how vulnerable to chaos we really are—how one spurned angel hellbent on
working her way back up to Parhelion had set me up, and then, then . . .

And, and . . . and wait.

The web of possibilities spreads out in my mind, like all the combinations of Clans & Legions games.
Games could go on forever, but most games were fast, uncomplicated. Instead of focusing on the
chaos, I need to focus on the order. I look at the three-move game. The easiest explanation.

"Wait, you said that there were three poisonings, but two deaths?" I ask the giant.

He scowls down at me. "Sergeant Skormak was lucky to survive. A dozen shamans worked him over
well into the night."

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"You're saying the poison killed a minotaur and a giant, but not a flame-kin?"

"Maybe death elixirs don't work so well on flame-kin, I don't know."

Hmmm. Probably wouldn't work well on someone who wasn't truly alive in the first place, someone
who should have flamed out years ago. That wouldn't stop the outpouring of compassion, though.
They'd let him rest up, just to be sure he was okay, but he'd be back in the office . . . all that sympathy
and no one would think twice about promoting him. He'd make his way into Sunhome, with a nice
cushy job. But no way could he have done this himself. A flame-kin outside of the battlefield would
draw too much attention. He needed someone who could walk around the city, unnoticed. Someone
people were used to seeing on the streets.

Art by: Wesley Burt

47 | P a g e
I look at the minotaur, those big furry hands that could wield huge bludgeons also seemed delicate
enough to plant a coin purse in my pocket. I look down at her boots. Dark brown leather, tan splotches
from hydra spit. She'd been to the bunker. She'd killed Brazer.

"You!" I say. "Skormak is behind this and he poisoned himself to escape the blame. You're in collusion
with him!"

The giant balks at the accusation of his fellow guard and handles me rougher. "Maybe you should keep
your mouth shut until you meet with your counsel." He pushes me forward.

"You have to believe me. She's a killer," I plead with him. I'm not sure if they're working together, but
it's worth a shot. "Skormak framed me so he could move up to Sunhome. And your partner here is in
on it. Maybe you are, too."

The minotaur stomps her hoof. "I would never do something so honorless!"

"If you have proof, the truth will be discovered," the giant says.

"You take me to Wargate and no one will ever hear from me again. Look! Look, there's spit from the
hydra at the bunker where I met my informant." I point to my boots. "The pattern is the same on her
boots. And there's dust on her uniform."

"There's dust on your uniform," the minotaur says. "There's dust on my uniform. There's dust on his
uniform . . ." she says, pointing to her partner.

"Yes, but your dust . . . it's from the Rubblebelt—a very specific part where it butts up against Tenth
District."

"That'll be tough to prove, won't it," the minotaur gloats, "with you being locked up in Wargate?"

"No one is going anywhere," says a voice. It's Aresaan. She's back, probably because she felt guilty
about abandoning me. Or more likely, she couldn't stand to miss watching my career flame out in such
an amazing spectacle. "You're sure what you're saying is true, Ossett?"

"I'm sure. I didn't do what they're saying I did, Aresaan. You know me."

"I can prove it, then," she says, waving her hands in the air, gathering white flames into her palms. She
aims a ball of fire at the minotaur. It surrounds her, not quite touching. Maybe Aresaan's sob story
about being a fallen angel hadn't been quite all true. Her magic is strong. It's imbued with a healing
spell, and instead of turning the guard to ashes, the dust from her uniform coalesces into the shape
of a dragon. The dusty figure writhes like an apparition. "Rubblebelt dust, high concentration of
dragon bone," she says, confidently.

"Care to explain?" I say to the guard.

"I just . . . it's a—" the minotaur stammers. The iron head of the giant's mace is pointed at her, glowing
fire-hot now, like it just spent twenty minutes in the forge.

She throws the angel game piece down, and it breaks into two, death elixir spreading upon the ground.
Aresaan blasts it with another fire spell, and the liquid vaporizes before it can affect us. When we
regain our composure, the spy is gone.

"We must not let her get away!" Aresaan says.

"She isn't who we're after," I say. "It's Skormak. He's behind this."

48 | P a g e
And the way Aresaan looks at me, there are no traces of doubt. I've earned the trust of an angel, and
even though we will never be true equals, she sees me as close enough to one, now. She was
beautifully radiant before, but she grows into something else right before my eyes, absolutely
frightening to behold. Razor wire crumbles as she flexes her wings against it, and finally she stretches
wing-tip to wing-tip, like a yawn decades overdue. The white feathers are long and delicate, but the
power hidden beneath them cannot be denied.

"I misjudged you, Wojek. Come with me, and we'll see this through. If there is a spy among us, it is our
duty to restore justice." I grab her arm and am enveloped into her being. She flaps her wings, and the
world speeds past us. When her feet finally hit the ground again, we're back in Annex Four, standing
at Skormak's desk. He's there also, packing up his belongings.

"Getting ready to move offices?" I ask. He jumps and the flames on his head flicker.

"You're looking fit and well for someone who nearly died," Aresaan says, standing behind me. She's
actually letting me take the lead on this.

"Annex Four wasn't good enough for you, was it?" I say. "You wanted more, and you'd do anything to
get it."

"Do you know how many elementals serve in Sunhome? I can count them on one hand." He holds up
three fingers, all aflame. "Three out of thousands. Just because we were cast instead of born doesn't
mean we aren't capable of performing in high ranks. They deny our sentience, they balk at giving us
names, but the truth is we're not uncontrollable zealots and we deserve life past battle."

"You killed two people," I remind him. "That's not what I'd call controllable."

"Aresaan killed fifteen thousand, and all she got was a slap on the wrist. Double standards. Look
around, Ossett. Lies, treachery, injustice. This is what your Legion is founded upon."

"Wojek Weslyn," I say.

"What?"

"That's my title. Use it."

Skormak laughs. "You wouldn't even have that title if it weren't for me, you arrogant heifer."

The game has reached its rightful conclusion, and I say the line that has given me pleasure since I'd
cleared my first Clans & Legions board. "You're nullified, Skormak."

He raises a smoldering brow. "Huh—"

I tilt my head, aim my horns, and ram him with all my might. He flies back into the wall, and the papers
on his desk ignite. I didn't think that one all the way through. Maybe it's the shock of the hit, maybe it
was me putting him in his place, but his flames burn less brightly now.

"I got you, Wojek," Aresaan says. She frees an emergency water elemental from the wall nearby, then
aims it at Skormak. The elementals clash, steam fills the office, but soon both the fire on the desk and
the fire upon Skormak's skin extinguish. He smolders like a pinched wick, then dissipates into a pile of
wet ashes and charred armor.

49 | P a g e
 Art by: Mathias Kollros

"Thanks, Aresaan," I say. "Maybe I underestimated you, too."

"Nah, what you see is what you get." She shrugs a shoulder, wings clenched tightly behind her,
radiance faded back to normal.

I don't know what she's planning, or what she's hiding, but there is definitely more to Aresaan than
what she seems. "I guess I won't be seeing much of you now that you'll be off to the Wojek Annex,"
she says. "Congratulations. For real. You deserve it, Wojek Weslyn."

I smile, adjust my cord, pinch my medallion. Wojek Weslyn. I'm pretty sure that will never get old.

-------------- --------------

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 DEATH'S PRECIOUS MOMENTS
By: Nicky Drayden

Art by: Magali Villeneuve

I thrust my staff into spongy soil, bracing myself as I examine the delicate upturned caps of the bird's
nest fungus—the most coveted mushroom among Golgari shamans this season. Only three rot farms
have managed to cultivate them, and ours was the first. Even the most lackluster specimens fetch up
to a zino each. This one boasts an impressive golden-bronze hue and holds a half-dozen turquoise
spheres inside that resemble eggs, but it is not destined to adorn the elaborate gowns worn in the
Undercity. I'm claiming this fungus for my own collection.

I remove a vial from my harvester's satchel and swirl the moss-green elixir around until it glows in the
moonlight. I turn it over and let a single drop fall from the dispenser onto the mushroom cap. It sits
there for a moment, like a perfect dew drop, then a web of white tendrils grows out, encasing the
fungus in a magical cocoon that will preserve it for next season's plantings. I test the casing's hardness
with a quick tap of my pincers, then add it to a carefully marked compartment in my satchel.

51 | P a g e
Insect song echoes off the crumbling canal walls that border our farmstead, opening up into the night
sky high above. A symphony of crickets, cicadas, and katydids sing in chorus with the deep throaty
bellows of a deadbridge goliath in the distance. Even a few of my siblings join in. I hear the melodic
trill of Razi's wings rising above them all. She's the best singer in our family. Mother's favorite from
the day we hatched, though she would never admit this out loud.

Suddenly, the music on the wind changes, gone from the warbling calls for late-night romance on the
fringes of Golgari territory to the hard, fast chirps of news from the Undercity—a new lich has been
named. I look up over the vast expanse of our farmstead, and all my siblings have stopped their work
as well, straining to hear what we all hope in our hearts—that the new lich is kraul. Like us. But no, it's
another elf. My siblings go back to work, but I can't tear myself away from the rest of the message:
the lich is seeking an apprentice with a proficiency in mushroom identification and a keen interest in
necromancy.

"Why do you want to work for an elf?" Razi says later that night after the fields have all been tended
and we've returned to Mother's safe embrace. "They wear bits and pieces of us in their hair, paint
eyes on their faces so they look like insects, and yet when it comes time to lead . . . who do they choose
again and again?"

"What about Mazirek?"

Art by: Mathias Kollros

"What about him? He's one kraul priest out of dozens of gorgons and hundreds of Devkarin elves."

I wring my wings together, producing a sour note of displeasure. I know Razi doesn't mean that about
Mazirek. She's just upset about the thought of me leaving our farmstead. I'd be mad, too, if she'd told
me she was going off to sing for Vraska's court.

52 | P a g e
"You're the best at singing," I say. "I can barely hold a tune. Ellin is the best at flying," I flex my wings,
one of them malformed. "I can't even get airborne. I know a lot about mushrooms, but that's only
because Kuurik is a great teacher. Necromancy could be that special thing that I do with my life. A
profession that would make Mother proud of me."

"She's proud of you. She's proud of all of us. You can see it in her eyes."

I look up into the deep, dark sockets where our mother's eyes had once been, but I don't see the pride,
only the emptiness. We keep her iridescent exoskeleton polished to a high shine, a beacon visible from
one side of our farmstead to the other. She is our family anchor. Our everything. As soon as we'd
erupted from our egg sacs, we'd fed upon her internal organs—meat sweet and nourishing, making
our little larval bodies grow. Then we'd punctured through her carapace and made our cocoons upon
her underside, and for weeks, she'd selflessly deterred predators with her pincers. Finally, we emerged
and gorged upon what was left of her, all hundred and seven of us, until her exoskeleton was picked
clean and we were strong enough to fend for ourselves. Now her giant carapace is our shelter during
the daylight hours, just enough nooks and hollowed-out crannies for each of us to find a place to call
our own. Mother sacrificed everything for us. How could I not want to make her proud?

"Just think it over, Bozak. Please? We'll all talk about it tomorrow evening." Riza yawns, stretched out
in the sloping curve of one of Mother's mandibles. "Till death, dearest brother."

"Till death," I say, bidding her not only a good sleep, but a fond farewell. As soon as the noon sun
shines upon the murky depths of our canal, I pack my maps, my journals, my vials, and my harvester's
satchel and sneak away while my siblings lie dreaming.

The majesty of the Undercity is overwhelming, with vast stone tunnels shrouded in mist and giant
circular entryways, like open maws begging to swallow us whole. My fellow competitors have come
wearing their finest robes ribbed with mushroom gills in oranges and teals and bejeweled in shiny
pieces of carapace that had once belonged to my brethren. I clench my staff close, feeling inadequately
dressed in a bronzed head plate, a modest decorative chest plate, and nothing more. The lich
appraises each of us, a deathly pall spread across his skin. His eyes have gone milky, including the
moodmark enchantments on his forehead. His gown is a work of art, flowing black webbing with thirty-
one different species of fungus worked into a mosaic pattern that compliments his slender, nearly
skeletal frame.

There are twenty-six of us brave (or foolish) enough to attempt to identify and retrieve four of the
most dangerous mushrooms in all of Ravnica. I stand tall, keep my antenna erect, all my knees locked .
. . ready to be the first one back with all four specimens. I packed extra elixirs to seal them in, since
exposure to some of the spores can lead to paralysis, asphyxiation, death, or worse.

"Only one of you will be deemed skillful enough to serve as my apprentice," the lich says. "You must
be thorough, cunning, and quick. If you should perish, take comfort that your body will give life to
generations of decomposers whose spawn will rot the bodies of the Undercity for millennia to come."
Then he drops a kerchief woven from the finest spider's silk to signal the start of the competition.

This is my first time away from the farmstead, and I'm unfamiliar with the layout of the Undercity, but
the lich has graciously provided us with a map. Most of the other competitors hustle off, but a moment
spent surveying the lay of the land will save two moments lost in the swamps. As I plot my course, an
elf shoulder checks me as he passes, causing the brittle parchment to split in two. "Watch where
you're going!" I scream out and strum a kraul cuss on my wings. He glances back at me, barely able to

53 | P a g e
see over the bulk of the mushroom cap shoulder pads adorning his gaudy blue robes. His mouth is
obscured from view, but from the smirk his moodmarks are projecting, I'm sure he bumped me on
purpose. Never mind.

Locating the zombie fungus is easy. It's deadly, yes, but not exactly uncommon. They prefer to grow
under the shade of mangroves, and the map says there's one not far from here. I sprint through
brackish waters, ducking under vines, trailing toward the rear of the pack. We exit through a concrete
portcullis and into an open marsh. The mangrove . . . it's haunting to say the least. Thick knobby trunks
are upheld by stilted roots, twisted canopies that look more like green locks than leaves. Most of the
competitors are already scouring the tree's roots—the perfect spot for zombie fungus to grow. I run
to join them before the specimens are picked clean, then notice something is off. The moss on the
trees . . . it's on the wrong side. And those roots, I think I saw one of them twitch.

"Woodwraiths!" I scream, drawing the attention of the gorgon running past me. We both stop, turn,
and start running in the opposite direction, warning off the two elves and another kraul coming up
behind us.

We hear the creaking of old branches and the suck of roots pulling up from waterlogged soil. Then
screaming. Lots and lots of screaming. Then quiet.

The five of us don't stop running until we're on the other side of the marsh and through several tunnels
too narrow to accommodate a woodwraith's girth. Finally, we settle, winded and terrified.

"Well, we definitely can't trust the map," the gorgon says. Her hair is riled up, but I risk a glance in her
direction, just to see who I'm dealing with. She's young, skin a deep olive green. Eyes wise like
someone three times her age.

"I can't believe the lich would set us up like that," I say.

"Devkarin elves are jerks like that," the other kraul says.

The two elves with us balk, probably unused to finding themselves outnumbered. They sulk off with a
few cusses and angry moodmarks.

"Don't worry about them," the kraul says. "Zegodonis was the only elf in this competition who was
worth anything, and his bones are picking the flesh out of a woodwraith's teeth right about now.
Complete ass. Even for an elf."

"Zegodonis?" I ask. "With the gaudy blue robe and huge shoulder pads? About twenty insect legs in
his hair?" The elf who'd torn my map.

"That's the one. From death, life," he says, spitting into the marsh.

"From death, life," I repeat the Golgari mantra, trying to soothe my nerves. But I can't stop thinking
about all those people . . . dead. It happened so fast. If I hadn't taken that moment to look the map
over, my bones would be at the bottom of that bog, too.

"Hey, what's your name?" the kraul says to me.

"Bozak," I say, with a strum of my wings.

54 | P a g e
 Art by: Wesley Burt

"I'm Limin." He grins. He's got the most amazing gossamer wings, but they barely twitch when he
speaks. Without them, his words sound so flat. So elven. He must sense my unease and offers up an
explanation. "I grew up in the heart of the Undercity. There, you have to fit in to survive."

"I get it," I say, even though I don't. If I had wings like his, I'd be strumming them all day long. "You?"
I ask the gorgon.

"Kata," she says, unimpressed by either of us. She looks away from me like I'm the one who's got the
face that'll turn flesh to stone. "Oh, look. Zombie fungus."

But she's right, not twenty feet away, a small patch of the fungus grows up against a sewer grate. We
each carefully collect a specimen and douse it with a casing elixir. Once the cocoon has hardened, I
douse my specimen again, just to be safe.

55 | P a g e
"You saved our lives," Kata says to me when she's done. "I'm grateful, but don't get any ideas that
we're working together. Only one of us is going to win this competition." She runs off, leaving Limin
and me alone.

"She has a point. But that doesn't mean we can't make a temporary truce. If we share information and
resources, we can all but guarantee a kraul will win. What do you say?" He sticks his hand out, the way
elves do to seal a deal. I hold back my grimace as I press my hand into his. Where I'm from, a deal
between kraul is sealed with the touching of mandibles. Maybe this makes him feel like he's fitting in,
but it leaves me feeling like a stranger in my own body.

Together, we harvest young death caps, barely emerged from their veils, and pull firmly ahead of Kata
and one of the elves. The other is not too far ahead. He looks back, tries to run faster, but he trips over
a raised tree root and falls flat on his satchel.

"Help, I'm hurt," he cries out. "Limin . . . come on, we're friends, right? We practically grew up
together."

"He punctured his zombie fungus specimen," I whisper to Limin. The spores are puffing up into the
elf's face, but he doesn't notice. "We need to double back."

"Should we tell him?" Limin asks. "Maybe he can—"

"It's too late." He's stopped moaning already. He stands up, and we see the stick impaled through his
canvas bag, leading right into his chest cavity. He looks up, admiring the trees around him as blood
drips down his robes. It's like the pain doesn't even bother him.

"Which of these trees looks the highest to you?" he says, speech slurred. There are several varieties
of the zombie fungus, but this one is the most aggressive and the quickest acting. It's already rewiring
his brain, programming him to do the mushroom's bidding. His body is now an involuntary host to the
next generation.

The elf chooses a tree and scales it like his body had been built for this sole purpose. He goes right to
the very tip, then clamps down. A few hours from now, mushrooms will erupt from his eyes, nostrils,
ears . . . feeding slowly upon his body tissue until they're ready to rain down spores upon the
marshlands. I don't feel sorry for him. It's the way of life . . . not much different than how my siblings
and I came to our mother. She was the one who'd nurtured us, who'd given of herself, but she wasn't
our biological mother. We never knew her. She'd deposited her eggs into the giant beetle and spared
not a single thought toward us again. I know that Mother's mind had been compromised, whispers of
the invaders there prompting her to defend us. I know her screams were not really lullabies, but she
loves us. And we love her. No family is perfect.

I'm so caught up in the memories of home that Limin has to drag me away. We work together to get
the wolf's fang fungus growing from a rotting stump perched up high on a treacherous cliff face in
Selesnyan territory. Limin's wings glisten as he flies up effortlessly to retrieve them while I pitch stones
at the adolescent wurm trying to make a snack of him. Finally, we come to the last specimen on the
list.

We're back in the belly of the Undercity, my legs covered knee-high in brilliant green moss. I press
deeper through the marsh, slowing down now as the insect song goes quiet, a warning from my kin
that something dangerous is afoot. There's a mossdog den ahead, entrance covered in vines,
bioluminescent lichen, and the devouring angel mushrooms we seek. A quick dip under the water, and

56 | P a g e
I've hidden my scent from the dogs. I motion to Limin to do the same. If they're sleeping, we'll have a
chance.

The caps are white along the top and feathered like angels' wings with rubbery black rims beneath.
They're not poisonous like the death cap and wolf's fang. These cause severe hallucinations that drive
you to kill everyone in sight, and then you snap to an hour later, feeling perfectly fine, no side effects
except the blood of twenty-eight people on your hands.

I peek into the cave entrance, and sure enough, three mossdogs are curled together deep in the
shadows, paws twitching in a state of dreaming—sharp obsidian claws dragging through imagined
flesh, muffled barks coming from those fanged mouths. Carefully, quietly, I reach up to snag the
devouring angels.

"Psst, Bozak!" Limin whispers, "Are you sure that's not griffin's paw fungus?"

One of the mossdog's tentacles shifts, and I instantly stop what I'm doing. I hold my breath until the
tentacle settles. Limin's buzzing overhead, right outside the cave, gossamer wings glistening, but all I
can think about is how he's spreading his scent around and any second the mossdogs are going to
notice.

"I'm sure," I whisper back. Griffin's paw looks so similar to devouring angel that even some seasoned
spore druids have trouble telling them apart, but my brother had taught me to spot the slight
difference in the shape of their caps.

I collect the devouring angel mushrooms and carefully wrap them. I tuck my sample into my satchel
and hand Limin his. Limin lands in the marsh, right next to me. I try to push past him, but he shuffles
into my way. "What's the matter, Bozak? Afraid you can't outrun a little mossdog?" He squints into
the cave. "Oh, come on. They're nearly pups."

"Mmm-hmm. Easy to say for someone like you." Someone who can fly, I mean. "Now if you'll excuse
me, we're on our own from here on out." I hear more footsteps on the way. I look up to see a silhouette
with hair waving like a nest of snakes. Kata's caught up with us. Gorgons are stiff competition. Literally.
And I don't intend to catch a case of petrification.

"Till death and beyond!" Limin shouts, stashing his mushroom, then tossing a rock into the mossdog
den. It lands in the middle of one dog's forehead, and all those glassy black eyes become alert. Its head
lifts. Muzzle draws back into a growl. Then the other two dogs are awake and growling right behind it.

"What did you do, Limin?" I ask, but he's already flying away.

The mossdogs stare down at me, timidly stepping forth. I turn and take off sprinting, and that's all the
invitation they need to give chase.

"Mossdogs," I shout at Kata, and then we're both running, shoulder to shoulder, and the mossdogs
are gaining on us.

"I can petrify them . . ." she says to me, panting and nearly out of breath. ". . . if you can buy me a few
seconds to cast the spell."

"I thought you didn't want to work together," I say.

"Bozak, are you seriously going to be that petty while mossdogs are trying to eat us alive?"

"Fine," I say. "I'll distract them."

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"Give me half a minute, then loop them back around my way."

I nod, then flutter my wings in an irresistible hum, and as the dogs give chase, I veer around a copse
of vines, then circle back around to Kata, all the tendrils on her head aggravated and waving. She
releases her spell, and two of the mossdogs slow down, then freeze, mouths caught open in vicious
growls. Flesh turns to stone, an inch at a time, but there's no time to gawk. I've got one more dog
headed my way, and Kata is trying to cast again, but nothing's happening. Suddenly the dog is upon
her.

I can't lie . . . my first instinct is to leave her there and go after victory, but what would Mother think
of that? I rip my wings together, putting together a beautiful song. Insects flock to me, a swarm of
silver-backed locusts. I sic them on the mossdog, who stops tearing at Kata, and starts trying to gnash
away at the bugs. "Go, get away!" I yell at Kata, but she's got another idea. Her hair is flaring again.
"No!" I scream, but it's too late. The third mossdog turns into a statue, and with it, nearly a hundred
locusts. They fall to the ground like pebbles.

"What? They're just bugs," she says, when she notices me glaring at her.

I get ready to tell her that they're more than bugs, they're my kin, but then I notice her hair is still
agitated. I'm just a bug to her as well.

"Only one can win, Bozak. And it's going to be me." She fixes me with her stare. Her pupils dilate until
her eyes are entirely black, then light starts glowing around the edges. I stand there a moment, frozen
from shock, from the ache of broken trust . . . but then my staff pulses in my hand. Its point is sharp
enough to pierce flesh, maybe. I move fast, thrust the staff forward. It catches the gorgon in the
stomach. The light in her eyes fades, the spell releases, and the stiffness building in my joints eases
away.

She lies there, clutching the staff at the entry wound, coughing up blood. My staff glints and almost
seems to have come alive with magic. My mind shifts . . . and I grab the shaft, running my hand along
the pearlescent outer curve and the ribbed blackness of the inner curve. I'd carved it myself from one
of Mother's legs. Whatever bit of magic it had contained is gone now, her last gift to me. Her
encouragement spears me on, my mind set on one thing. Winning.

With all of the mushrooms safely tucked away in my satchel, all I need to do is get back to the lich
before Limin does. I may not be able to fly, but I don't need to when I've got insects on my side. I brush
my wings together and hum deeply, imitating the mating call of the deadbridge goliath. The ground
thunders, then I see it, a giant beetle running right toward me. He's confused seeing me and not his
potential mate, but I grab onto his leg and hold on for dear life and he trudges forward, making up
valuable time. I see Limin ahead, and I'm catching up, but then the beast veers and I'm forced to bail.
Still, I'm close enough that I'll have a chance.

58 | P a g e
 Art by: Chase Stone

Then out of the swamp, a moss-covered figure rises, staff held in both hands. He batters Limin as he
passes, breaking off two legs and part of a wing. Limin tumbles into the boggy water, screaming as the
mossy figure snatches his satchel. The assailant then looks up at me . . . elven ears and moodmarks
showing through the green grit upon his skin. Half his face is covered in splinters, and his gaudy blue
robe is shredded to pieces.

Zegodonis. He'd somehow survived the woodwraith attack. We race, I'm going as fast as I can, and
he's limping behind. He curses at me, calling me every kraul slur he can think of, but I keep my eye on
the prize. The lich is standing there, not far. I reach him first, and instantly I'm filled with
accomplishment. I've done it!

"Congratulations," the lich says, the dead in his voice a perfect match for the rest of him. He examines
my specimens twice over before Zegodonis hobbles up to us.

"Congratulations to you, too." He takes Zegodonis's bag, glances inside. "Both of you have met the
challenge. And both of you shall serve under me." The lich's eyes brighten when he looks at Zegodonis,
something I would have thought impossible from the look he'd given me.

There was supposed to be one winner, but I don't dare confront them about it. Instead, I choose to
savor this moment and focus on becoming the best necromancer I can be.

"Not here. Over there!" I scream at the fungus drudge for the fifth time. He moans at me, limbs
covered in soft, white fuzz and a grouping of long-stalked mushrooms sprouting from his shoulders
and head. His body is held together with death magic and fungal rhizomes that animate bones that
hadn't felt flesh for the past century. Drudges are nearly impossible to work with. The Erstwhile
zombies, they're decent at taking instructions, though the lich hasn't put me in charge of any of those.

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But I enjoy watching how they march to the beat of a bygone era, dressed in dusty fineries with lots
of scallops, frill, and innumerable cloth buttons sewed upon their bodices.

The fungal drudge, I call him Benzi, places the corpse he's carrying onto the pile in the corner of the
lich's sanctum, then turns to me. Eye sockets trained on me, he waits eagerly for my next command. I
sigh.

"Sorry, Benzi," I say. I shouldn't have screamed. I get frustrated and take it out on the zombies
sometimes. This isn't exactly how I'd envisioned being apprentice to a lich—tending to the undead
instead of learning to raise them. The lich is out consulting at Korozda, the Golgari guildhall, and he's
taken Zegodonis with him. Again. There's been a fungal attack on Sunhome. Three high-ranking Boros
officers were exposed to the same type of zombie fungus we had been asked to gather. They'd climbed
the towers of their guildhall, and one actually made it to the top. Vraska, our guildmaster, is worried
the Boros will use this as another excuse to infiltrate the Undercity and has summoned the liches to
confer on how best to proceed. They'll be gone for hours.

The lich doesn't like me in his sanctum, and he reprimands me if I linger too long when dropping off
bodies, so most of what I've learned about spells has come from eavesdropping at the door. But now
I can thoroughly explore without the risk of getting caught. There are shelves upon shelves of skulls:
Rakdos devils with thick curling horns and eye sockets that glow a deep emerald green when the lights
are low, long-snouted viashinos, minotaurs, giants . . . all the way up to a dragon's skull that now
serves as the lich's lectern. The mushroom specimens lining his walls put my own collection to shame.
There must be thousands of them. The rot is so thick in the air, so rich and decadent, that I'm tempted
to try a death spell of my own.

I practice the movements I've seen the lich do, and I prickle all over as mana rushes through me,
coursing over my skin like hundreds of marching ants. I fight the urge to shake them off, and instead
relax, letting the mana flow down my arm, the soft green light pooling into the palm of my hand. I
channel a bit onto the not-so-fresh rat corpse I'd found while cleaning behind the Erstwhile's crypts.

Then I watch. The rat's back leg twitches, but nothing more. I'm certain with the lich's instruction, I'd
be able to do it by now. Zegodonis has learned several spells already. I'd hoped that necromancy would
be my calling, but maybe it's time to admit that cleaning cobwebs out of crypts and bossing fungal
drudges around is what I'll be doing with the rest of my life.

I hear voices down the hall. The lich. He's back already. I can't let him catch me in here. I duck into the
nook in the back of the sanctum, then look out at Benzi who's still staring at me, ready to give me
away.

"Come!" I command him. He shuffles over to me. "Faster!"

The yelling never speeds things up. I run out and push him into the nook. He moans.

"Shhh," I tell him. "Play dead."

Benzi obeys, a little trick I'd taught him in our spare time. He slumps over, head leaned against the
cold, gray stone wall. The lich enters from his private door, two Boros soldiers following him. They
hold themselves tight and proud, but the way their puffy eyes are darting around in their sockets, I
can tell they are scared to be here. The lich goes to the vials of mushroom specimens and chooses the
ones we'd retrieved from the mossdog cave.

"Devouring angel. Perhaps the deadliest mushroom in all of Ravnica. It won't kill you, but it'll make
everyone who inhales its spores embrace their rage. You remember the Tin Street massacre?"

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"Yeah," says one of the soldiers. "We arrested a couple of Gruul raiders for that. You're saying we got
the wrong criminals?"

The lich arches a thin, sickly eyebrow. "I've already planted a neutralized specimen on the gown Vraska
will be wearing for her address to the Krunstraz this evening at the Hanging Keep. Exhume the bodies
from the massacre and analyze the spores. The evidence will show that the attack came from the same
plant. Boros will have no choice but to charge Vraska with murder. It will stick this time, I promise
you."

Art by: Anna Steinbauer

"Come on, we've got a party to crash," the Boros soldier says.

"Indeed," the lich says, his bony fingers pitched into a steeple. "And I do hope that when it comes time
for Boros to back a new candidate for guildmaster, they take into consideration the help I've been to
you today."

"Oh, we think we know the right Devkarin for the job," they laugh.

The lich smiles, a harrowing stretch of desiccated lips revealing an endless expanse of ash-gray teeth.
"Zegodonis!" he yells. Zegodonis comes running in. "Show these fine soldiers out, will you?"

"Yes, my lich," Zegodonis says with a deep bow.

The lich examines his pile of corpses, then starts his reanimation spells. I peek around the corner,
watching as he casts, and one by one, life fills their bodies. I wait, nervous. I've got to warn Vraska.

I look down and realize I'm still clutching the dead rat in my hand, just what I need to cause a
distraction. If I can get the lich to look the other way, I can sneak out of here. I stare at the rat and cast

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the spell as I saw the lich just do it. The green light fills my palm again, thicker now, more like syrup
than water. I pour it over the rat. Whiskers flicker. Tail twitches. Four little paws paddle at the air.

I pull a boar's tail mushroom sample from my satchel, cheesy and soft. I feed it to the rat. It nibbles,
stuffing its mouth. Pieces of chewed mushroom tumble out of the hole worn through its abdomen,
but it doesn't seem to notice. I carefully toss a couple of mushroom chunks at the lich's feet, then put
the rat on the floor. It skitters across the tile, eats both pieces, then takes a chomp on the lich's ankle.

He enrages, his flailing arm knocks a spell book off his lectern. Old parchment goes flying everywhere.
In the chaos, I stick to the shadows and slip out the door. Then I'm running as fast as I can to the
Hanging Keep.

I feel hundreds of eyes upon me as I approach the Hanging Keep. I crane my neck, looking up at the
fortress clinging to the ceiling like a wasp's nest. Even from down here, I can hear the buzzing and
clicking of my fellow kraul, riled up from the excitement of a visit from the guildmaster.

"I need to see Vraska," I say to the guards.

I expect them to ask for my credentials, or at least explain why I'm here, but the guard just eyes me
up and down like I couldn't possibly pose a threat. "Standing room only. Go ahead up," he mumbles,
motioning to the bottom entrance of the Keep.

"Actually, could I get a lift?" He glances at my crooked wing, then whistles over to a winged guard who
whisks me up and into the first level of the Keep. Overhead is a grand atrium, jewel-colored moss
draping from the overhangs. The royal guard, overwhelmingly kraul, crowds every level, and I can feel
the collective buzz through my exoskeleton. Seven stories up, Vraska is leaning over the railing and
waving at her devoted followers. I squint. I think that's Vraska. From here, she's the size of an ant.

The crowd is so thick, I'll never be able to reach her in time. The Boros officers may already be on their
way, so whatever I do, I have to do it now. I push my way through the swarm until I reach one of the
Keep's windows, a handy shortcut to Vraska. I make the mistake of looking down, dizziness clouding
my thoughts. All I need to do is scale seven stories, and I know exactly how I can climb them without
a lick of fear.

62 | P a g e
 Art by: Kev Walker

I pull a zombie fungus sample from my satchel and place it on my tongue. The cocoon melts away.
Minutes pass, and with it, my fear of heights. I can't think of anything I'd love more than to reach the
very top of the Hanging Keep. I squeeze out of the window, sink leg after leg into the outside of the
structure. I climb seven stories, and then force my thoughts against those of my fungal invaders. I
must stop climbing.

Higher, the fungus tells me.

Higher.

Higher.

It beats like my heart. But I have to go inside. I work my way through a series of back chambers until I
find the atrium. Vraska is standing there with her back facing me, giving an impassioned speech to the
Krunstraz, her hair waving wildly. A dozen mushroom species adorn her gown. I look for the devouring
angel fungus. I see golden parasols on her shoulders, scarlet elf caps on her bodice, club coral fungi,
shaggy mane . . . then there, tucked among the griffin's paw fungus trailing down the webbing of the
gown's train, I spot where the lich had hidden the devouring angel mushroom, its cap bulging up ever-
so-slightly higher than its non-lethal neighbors. I creep forward, one step at a time. Her guards and
advisors are with her, but they've all got their eyes trained on the crowd gathered below. One of her
advisors turns and sees me. He excuses himself and starts coming for me. It takes my brain a moment
to identify him as kraul. Then his face becomes obvious. It's Mazirek.

"You!" he says.

I try to compose myself so I can tell him about my lich, and the Boros, and the devouring angel fungus,
and the plot against Vraska, but the fungus has crowded out nearly every function that doesn't involve
climbing and all that comes out is an incomprehensible grumble.

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Higher.

A guard grabs me by the arm and wrenches it tight. It should hurt the way he's bending it, but it
doesn't.

"Get him out of here," Mazirek says.

The guard shoves me forward, but I focus my thoughts. If the fungus has dulled my sense of pain, I can
use that in my favor. I wrench hard against his grip, once, twice, violently enough to dislodge my arm
from the socket. There's a dull throb where it has broken free, but it doesn't bother me.

The guard is left there holding my arm while I make a run for Vraska. I grab the devouring angel
mushroom on her gown and swallow it whole. I can't let it be found here. I can't let the Boros sink
their grips further into the Swarm, just when we're starting to recover from the internal chaos of the
change in leadership. I run to the window. Looking down is still scary, but I do what I must do. I flap
my wings and jump.

Maybe what's great about me is that there are so many things I can do well enough.

I can sing a mating call well enough to fool a deadbridge goliath.

I can throw a stone accurately enough to hit a wurm in the eye from fifty feet.

And I can spread my wings and fly far enough . . . fall far enough from the Keep, ensuring that Vraska
won't be implicated in the Tin Street massacre.

I twitch in the shallow water of an Undercity marsh. I hadn't expected to survive the fall, but maybe
my wings had slowed me down just enough. My body throbs all over, not quite pain, but an
uncomfortable pressure, like I've been holding my breath too long. The urge to climb is gone. I thought
maybe I'd be raging from the devouring angel fungus by now, but perhaps the lich really did neutralize
it completely? I should go somewhere far away from people, just to be safe. I try to sit up, but two of
my legs are broken and there's a crack in my carapace running end to end. Something else is wrong
with me—a fungus stirs within that's powerful, precise, and sits watch over my thoughts.

I move my remaining arm, but it is not the automatic movement I am used to. It's more like a combined
effort, like the time my siblings and I had hoisted Mother away from the riverbank during our first
flood season. My other senses come slowly as well, like they're processed and filtered through a
hundred different minds before they get to me.

"Take. Time," comes a voice from beside me. There were a lot more words than that spoken, but I'm
only able to understand those. In a coordinated effort, I twist my neck. My muscles slither more than
move.

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 Art by: Svetlin Velinov

My vision is blurry, pressure from fungal matter taking root behind my eyes. A few of the mushrooms
have sprouted through, and they wreck my peripheral vision. I touch them, feeling upturned caps and
tiny egg-like spheres within. Bird's nest fungus. Had my samples ruptured from their casings in the
fall? They're not the fastest growing mushrooms, and I start to wonder how long I'd been unconscious.

"Careful," the voice says. I focus hard on the person and see kraul features.

"Razi?" I call out my sister's name, but my voice is a rasp, and when I'd tried to strum my wings, I
couldn't feel either of them. I panic, reach around to my back. I feel stumps covered in soft fuzz.

"Wings. Lost. Fall." The face behind the words starts to congeal. It takes a long, long moment, but I
recognize it.

"Mazirek?" I'm drawn to him, not just from years of admiration, but physically drawn to him. I'm
looking at him how the fungus drudges look at me, eagerly awaiting his command.

Maybe I hadn't survived the fall after all. But there are worse places to end up than bound to the most
powerful kraul in the Swarm. I wrench my facial features up into a smile, completely humbled, and
ready and willing to serve him as best I can.

That moment it takes for everything to sink in—that's the moment of death—not when you take your
last breath, or your heart beats its last beat. It's the moment when you realize you've got your whole
death in front of you, and the possibilities are endless.

-------------- --------------

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 BOUND AND BONDED
By: Nicky Drayden

Art by: Sidharth Chaturvedi

"You're going to visit her again, aren't you?" Ambrellin says, standing in the doorway to my room.
Technically, it's her room, but she's been letting me crash here the past few months, since the
accident. Her voice is calm, but her eyes crinkle at the edges, deepening toward her temples where
the smoothness of her skin turns to rough bark. It's an obvious tell for the frustration she's harboring,
a tell she's had since we were kids.

"I'm just going to drop off a little money for the orphanage," I say. It's the least I can do.

"That's good, Terrik. It really is. But at some point, we're going to have to talk about what's healthy
grieving and what's obsession. Eventually, you'll have to forgive yourself and move on, and it'll be a
lot easier if your emotions aren't tied up with the fate of an orphan."

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"Of course, you're right," I say, the words coming out like a reflex. Twenty-eight years of Selesnyan
training has taught me to maintain harmony with my friends and community above all else, but how
can I forgive myself for causing a building to collapse, killing two dozen people? I force a smile, then
pull my cap down over the points of my elven ears, and pull my scarf up, obscuring most of my face.
I'll need the anonymity where I'm going. "This is the last time I'll see her, I promise."

"Thank you. Oh, there's one more thing. I'm afraid the neighbors have been complaining again."
Ambrellin cocks her head, the sudden movement making the finches nesting in the branches of her
hair ruffle their feathers. "Are you sure you haven't heard any strange sounds?"

"More 'wurm noises'?" I roll my eyes.

"I know, I know. It's just that they're my neighbors, and if there's any kind of issue, I'd like to resolve
it." Her fingers trace over the lacquered wood of the chariot cab I'd converted into a wardrobe. She
opens the doors and kicks my old wurmcaller boots lined up across the bottom. A layer of dust has
already accumulated on the worn black leather. She peeks behind the armored uniforms as well,
remnants from my old life as a lead wurm trainer for the Selesnyan army, before I'd made the mistake
that had changed everything. "They say they've seen the wurm, too, peeking through the stone ceiling.
Said it had teeth the size of a butcher's knife!"

"I'm not trying to cause any discord, Ambrellin, but do you think it might be possible that your
neighbors are over-meditating? Shamans have been calling the faithful to gather more and more
often. Maybe your neighbors are seeing and hearing things in that heightened state."

She considers this for a moment, then she stoops over and lifts the edge of my bedspread.

"Ambrellin," I say, my voice tipping right up to the threshold of politeness and into aggravation. "I
appreciate your generosity of taking me into your home, but do you really think I'd be able to fit a
half-grown wurm under my bed?"

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 Art by: Wesley Burt

Ambrellin drops the bedspread and sighs. "You're right. I'm being ridiculous. What kind of person
would be delusional enough to keep a dangerous animal in a residential cooperative?"

I nod. What kind of person, indeed.

The tall, dark spires of Orzhov cathedrals loom above, seeding tension throughout my body. The entire
skyline looks as if it's been smudged by soot, with arched stained-glass windows glinting orange as the
sun starts its descent. The flavor of oppression changes from one cartel's territory to the next, but I
keep my head high, my eyes focused straight ahead, my fists clenched. I'd be better off taking the
main thoroughfare a few streets over, where the streetlights are plentiful—as are the witnesses—but
then I'd pass the site where the Basilica of the Opportune had once stood, one of the oldest churches
in the Orzhov Syndicate. Well, it was until I'd ridden my wurm underneath it, compromising its
structural support, and sending the whole thing crashing down into a pile of rubble. It was being

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remodeled at the time, nearly fifty construction workers refitting broken stained glass, refacing pitted
stone, and regrading the surrounding grounds so the spring floods wouldn't pool up against the
building and drip down into the catacombs. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still hear the
screams of the people caught in the debris. I'd rather take my risks with a few ruffians than relive that
day again.

"Oy!" says a voice. I look back and see a guy dressed in black leather with several strands of silver coins
hanging around his neck. "I see you walking this way quite a bit," he says like he's chewing each word
as it comes out. "Maybe you'd be interested in purchasing some insurance? You know, so you can be
assured that you'll get to wherever you need to get in one piece."

"No, thanks," I say, using my least confrontational voice. "It's a short walk."

"Maybe. But still, ya never know when something might happen." He grinds his fist into his open palm.
"I've got some really reasonable rates."

Suddenly, the weight of the coins in my pocket feels like a liability. He's already eyeing the bulge there.

"I'm good," I say, "I brought my own protection." I open my jacket, revealing the hilt on my hip.

The thug shrugs. "A little knife like that won't get you far in a place like this."

"It's not a knife," I say. I pop open the leather strap and pull out metal shears. "These will cut through
the densest, most enchanted bramble. Do you know the kind of damage enchanted bramble does to
flesh?"

But he's too focused on my pocket to reply. I turn and walk quickly, crossing the street, but he follows.
I slip my hand into my vest, pull a leather satchel full of bramble seeds out, and drop a handful at my
feet. When the thug steps over them seconds later, I call upon the magic infused through all things,
force the spell behind me, and turn to watch as thorny vines erupt from the sidewalk, entangling my
pursuer in their scratchy embrace.

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 Art by: James Paick

I leave him there, screaming, and double my pace until I reach the orphanage. It's an awful place—a
crumbling, oppressive building that would better be served as a place to melt down old coinage than
provide refuge to children. But bit by bit, I've been donating my meager earnings to help improve their
infrastructure.

There's a small gap between buildings where the rubble of the basilica is visible. I try hard not to look
at it, but as usual, I fail. Jagged spires jut up through tremendous hills of blackened debris, like the
remains of a long-dead campfire. Anything of value had been scavenged. Seems cruel that Bazda has
to live here, within a stone's throw of where both her parents had died. I bite my lip and walk up the
gray, dusty stairs and enter the front door. One day, I'll find the courage to talk to her, to apologize to
her, but today is not that day. My mind's so preoccupied, I run right into one of the children, smacking
him so hard that my scarf falls from my face. I try to hastily put it back, but it's too late. He's recognized
me. He jumps up and plucks the cap from my head, and the points of my ears poke out. If there was
any doubt of my identity, there isn't anymore.

"It's that wurmcaller!" the kid says, tossing my cap to one of his friends. "The thrull's ass who
destroyed the basilica! No wonder, he still can't pay attention to where he's going!"

And just my luck, Bazda is standing within earshot, small for her age, nearly drowning in the gray
institutional smock she'd been issued. Her black hair sits upon her head in two buns. She turns, sees
me. I turn away, searching for a caretaker so I can drop the money off and get on my way, but as usual,
there are none to be found.

"Your name is mud around here," the punk kid tells me. "Money's never going to pay off the debt you
owe!" He spits on my boot.

"Hey," Bazda says, grabbing my cap from his friend and making her way toward us. "Leave him alone."

"And who's going to make me?" he asks.

70 | P a g e
Bazda pulls a six-inch hairpin from her right bun and jabs it at the punk, coming less than an inch away
from his throat.

"Forget both of you," the punk says, sulking off.

Bazda looks at me, handing me my cap, then styling her hair back into a perfect bun. "I've seen you
around before," she says. "You drop off a bag of zibs every week, then stand around watching me. It's
creepy. Are you a creeper?"

"No! I'm not a creeper," I say. "Just a regular guy. You can ask anyone back home."

Bazda purses her lips. "Sounds like something a creeper would say."

"Look, I caused a terrible accident. I'm just doing my best to make it right."

"Can you give me my parents back?" she asks.

"No, but I'm sure they're in a better—"

"They're not 'in a better place' if that's what you were going to say. They're in the same place, but
worse, because they're spirits now. They're so busy working off their debts they don't have time to
visit me." She crosses her arms over her chest.

"Oh."

"Seems to me you'd be better off trying to fix yourself rather than coming here, stinking the place up
with your gloomy attitude. What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," I stammer.

"No job, no life, no friends. That about sum it up?"

"I've got friends," I say. I prickle all over. It's strange being interrogated by a twelve-year-old, but she's
got a lot of reason for her anger. Still, I feel the need to defend my own honor. "Great friends! Savaryn,
he's a loxodon, brawny as they come and isn't afraid of anything. Kellim is an architect who designs
the most tranquil sanctuaries. He's human, but we don't hold that against him. And Ambrellin, she's a
dryad who's an artifact broker specializing in antiquities. We meet up once a week to—"

"Wait . . . she knows about artifacts? Like really old ones?"

"Yes . . ."

Bazda sizes me up, then takes folded cloth from her pocket. She unwraps it and shows me a crescent-
shaped piece of carved stone with a hole in the center and golden symbols etched all over. Even I can
tell it's ancient. "My father gave me this a couple days before he died. He found it during construction
at the basilica. I want to know what it is."

"I could show it to Ambrellin, if you'd like. I'm sure she'd be willing to help." Even under the weight of
the gloom of this building, of the gloom in my heart, I feel my chance for redemption. I can only
imagine how much this artifact means to Bazda, probably the last thing her father had given her.

She raises an eyebrow. "Can I trust you to bring it back?"

"You have my word that I will return it to you undamaged," I say. "I swear it upon the roots of Vitu-
Ghazi."

71 | P a g e
The Selesnyan forests welcome me home, and as the peaceful sounds of nature penetrate my mind,
the heaviness of the Orzhov Syndicate eases out of my muscles. My shoulders relax, my fists unclench.
Evening services are already in full swing, and I pass several shamans calling upon the power of faithful
congregants to enchant a series of stone signets etched with the blessed symbol of the Conclave.

Art by: Titus Lunter

I'm nearly home when I get a sinking feeling I'm being followed. Could be any one of the Orzhov street
thugs who'd tried to shake me down for insurance money on my way back from the orphanage. I toss
another handful of seeds, then round a corner. I cast the spell, but I guess the assailant has avoided
the brambles, because the footsteps keep coming. I go to pull out my shears as a backup weapon, but
the leather sleeve is empty. I glance up as my assailant turns the corner, then sigh in relief. It's Bazda.

"Looking for these?" she asks, holding up my shears.

"You little thief!" I say, snatching them back. "How did you get those?"

"You thought I'd trust the word of a creeper? You have something valuable of mine. It's only fair I hold
something valuable of yours."

"Here. Then take your artifact and go home. I'm not contributing to the delinquency of a kid!"

"Home? Nobody will even notice I'm missing, much less care. And besides, you'd have me traveling
the streets at this hour? By myself?"

"I've seen you work a pair of hair pins. You'll be fine."

Bazda crosses her arms. "Probably. But I still want to know about the artifact. This is where you live?"
she asks, looking up at our residential cooperative, a combination of polished white stone and tiered

72 | P a g e
gardens, the topmost designed by Sadruna, the woodworker of the famed topiary grove. "Kind of a
lot of branches and leaves."

"It's a Selesnyan thing," I mumble. "Come on up, I guess."

We cross through the gardens, up the stone stairs, through two atriums, passing the open doorways
of other residents. Our downstairs neighbor waves. I wave back and hurry past, so they don't have a
chance to talk to me about the wurm noises again.

"Why aren't there any doors in your building?" Bazda asks.

"Why would we need doors?"

"To keep people out."

"All are welcome in our home."

"Yeah," Bazda says, her eyes shifting, "but what if someone tries to steal something?"

"That's just not something we worry over," I say as we climb the final sets of stairs. It's easy to forget
that much of Ravnica is focused on individual wants and gains.

The breezeway opens onto a spectacular view of the rolling vista. The sun's dipped just below the
horizon, the last remnants of day creating silhouettes of the loping risen sanctuaries roaming in the
distance. To the right, where darkness has already settled, the branches of Vitu-Ghazi are aglow with
firefly light. I'm eager to show the artifact to Ambrellin, but I stay a little longer, just so Bazda has a
chance to absorb it all. Finally, she's speechless.

"Come on," I say, tugging her through the archway of twisted branches that serves as the threshold
into our home. "Ambrellin," I shout. "I've got something to show you!"

Ambrellin greets me with a wide smile. "Terrik! You'll never guess who's come—" She stops, looks at
Bazda. "Oh, hello, dear. Welcome to our home. I'm Ambrellin." She curtseys, her branches nearly
touching the ground. Her finches flutter around Bazda in greeting, chirping happily.

"I'm Bazda," Bazda says, with a cute curtsy of her own.

Ambrellin's eyes flick to mine, searching for explanation without appearing rude in front of her guest.

"It's fine," I tell her. "She's got this artifact she wants to show you. Maybe you can tell her more about
it?"

Ambrellin takes the cloth-wrapped artifact from Bazda and gently unfolds each corner until it's
exposed. She gasps.

"My father found it digging at the basilica," Bazda says. "Is it old?"

"Very. These golden symbols, I've seen them before on ancient Izzet machinery, technology from
thousands of years ago, when they were still working heavily with stone and mana-infused circuits.
Rare enough as it is, but it's a mystery how it would have ended up buried under an Orzhovian
basilica."

"Valuable?" Bazda asks.

"Priceless," Ambrellin says with a heavy breath.

Bazda shakes her head. "Everything has a price."

73 | P a g e
"I'll speak with the brokerage magistrate tomorrow to see which guild holds the proper claim to this,"
Ambrellin says. "This is only a small piece to something much bigger."

"Maybe someone's already found the rest of it," I say.

"I doubt it. Word travels fast among antiquity brokers. I would have heard something."

"Terrik!" comes a voice from the dining room. Out steps Savaryn, his trunk raised in excitement. He
hustles over to us, arms outstretched. "Peace and tranquility to you, my friend."

"Peace and tranquility to you, as well," I say, carefully angling myself between his tusks, and falling
into a warm embrace. "How are you? It's been nearly a week!"

"Kellim and I have just come to share a bit of blessed news. I've been granted a promotion. The Kasarna
training grounds have reached maximum capacity, so they're planning a new facility on the other side
of the North Ridge Forest. I'll be the director, and Kellim has been hired to design it."

"Congratulations," I say. "North Ridge? That'll be a huge commute! You'll spend an hour easy trying to
get across the concourse."

Savaryn exchanges an anxious look with Ambrellin. After a long, thoughtful moment, she nods.

"We're not commuting," Savaryn says. "We're moving to be closer to—"

"Moving!" I shout. I bite my tongue and try to be a good Selesnyan, ignoring the pain tearing through
my heart, and instead, nurturing the tranquility within me. "I mean, moving. Of course. That would
definitely be more convenient for you." I smile so hard, I feel like my teeth are about to shatter. Finally,
I just can't take anymore, and I storm off to my room.

Art by: Alayna Danner

74 | P a g e
"Terrik," Ambrellin says, easing her way in as the others crowd in the doorway. "It's going to be fine.
We can visit any time."

"I know. But it won't be the same." Our group is dissolving. This news hits me harder than losing my
job and my reputation had. I can't let this be it for our friendship.

"What if we could have one last adventure together?" I ask them. "Before everyone is spread all over
Ravnica."

"That's a great idea," says Ambrellin. "We can visit the topiary gardens next week. We'll pack a lunch
and—"

"That's just an outing. I want to do something we'll never forget. I think we should go find out what
else is hiding under that basilica. Why can't we be the ones to discover it?"

Ambrellin shakes her head, then takes a seat on the edge of my bed. "Something that old is likely
buried very deep. It'd be impossible to dig for without the whole of the Orzhov Syndicate converging
on us."

"What about a wurm?" I ask. "We can dive as deeply into the ground as we want. No digging." I channel
a calling spell, something like a whistle to our ears, but like a bright homing beacon to a wurm. The
mattress shifts under Ambrellin, and she jumps up, watching as my bed becomes a lumpy mess.

"You were hiding a wurm under your bed!" she says.

I shake my head. "Not quite. The wurm is the bed." The bedspread is tossed off, and so is a thick layer
of quilting covering a wooden palette. "Everybody stay calm," I say as the wurm uncoils from the
tangle of sheets. Her beady eyes are trained on me, and her mouth hangs open, saliva dripping from
row upon row of razer-sharp teeth. "Good girl," I say, tossing a stick of raktusk jerky into her open
maw. She's young, just over a year old and already one ton of pure muscle.

"Amazing . . ." Bazda says, daring to step near. "Can I pet her?"

"Sure," I say.

"Absolutely not!" Ambrellin says, snatching her back.

"She's harmless," I say. "To friends, anyway. I raised her from a hatchling."

"I can't believe you've been hiding that thing in my home!" Ambrellin says, real irritation in her voice.
"And now you want us to follow you into one of the most corrupt areas of Ravnica, looking for treasure
with a runaway orphan."

"I'll go," Savaryn says. "Terrik's right. A major bonding event in the form of an adventure would provide
a positive transitional structure to a long-distance friendship."

"I'll go, too," says Kellim. "I've got to admit, I'm curious about what lies beneath that building. Come
on, Ambrellin. You know Izzet will scrap it to make some bigger and better invention, and Orzhov will
just sell it to the highest bidder."

Ambrellin holds up the artifact, a gleam in her eyes. "Okay, we'll go take a look. Just a look. If anything
feels wrong, we're leaving immediately."

I grin. "First sign of trouble and we're out of there, I promise."

75 | P a g e
The wurm cuts a path through solid rock, subsonic frequencies temporarily rendering stone into a
state of liquid, allowing us to avoid the evening traffic and any shakedowns by Orzhov gangs. I'm
armored to the teeth in my old wurmcaller's uniform, my plating shielding me from the burn of the
melted rock that surrounds us. The others are crammed into the fortified chariot cab that had
previously served as my wardrobe.

We're nearing the site of the collapsed basilica, but the wurm is drifting back up toward the surface. I
pull her reigns, bidding her to dive deeper, but she's resisting. I scratch her on the side, right behind
her ear divot. She purrs and calms some, though from the tense way she's holding herself, I can tell
she's still hesitant. It doesn't matter in the end, because she delivers us to a long, rectangular
catacomb chamber beneath the collapsed basilica.

"What's wrong, girl? Did something spook you?" I pet my wurm's snout and give her a treat as the
others disembark. Savaryn is shaking off the motion sickness, and if you've never seen a loxodon dry
heaving, well, be thankful. Kellim is mesmerized by the stone sculptures of giants, their backs hunched
up against the curved ceiling as if they're keeping the whole place from caving in on us. Stress fractures
meander through the stone, probably from the collapse above, but Kellim doesn't seem too concerned
with their structural integrity. Ambrellin is taken with the thousands of ceramic urns that are shelved
on either side of the sculptures, each decorated with gold coins.

"The Basilica of the Opportune dates back thousands of years, and the catacombs are even older," she
says, looking around, lost in awe. "Some of these urns could be nearly—" Her eyes catch on something
at the far end of the chamber. She starts walking toward it, then hastens her step. We follow.

Art by: John Avon

It's another stone statue, a thrull this time, sitting back on its haunches, head bowed in servitude,
arms outstretched and holding a chalice. The chalice is covered in layers of dust, but I can feel the
mana streaming off it. It's an artifact. Ambrellin blows the dust away, revealing finely etched
pictographs with emeralds lining the cup's rim. Carefully, she tries to dislodge the artifact from the

76 | P a g e
statue's grip, twisting it to each side. Without notice, the entire statue tilts backward, receding into
the wall, taking Ambrellin with it.

Kellim is the closest, and he reaches after Ambrellin, grabbing onto her leg, but he's being pulled into
the pitch-black opening, too. Savaryn gets a good grip with his meaty hands, and Bazda and I help to
steady him. Working together, we heave, heave, heave, and Ambrellin is nearly out, but the vigor of
our rescue has caused the stone around the statue to fracture. The floor has started to crumble, as
well. I look back at my wurm and conjure a quick spell to call her forward. She's strong enough to pull
us all out.

I hope.

But she's not responding. I whistle again, and she bristles, shaking her head like she's trying to rid
herself of her harness. "Come on, girl! I've got some jerky for you."

She inches forward, eyes wide and crazed, but right before she makes it within arm's reach, she reels
back and makes a jump for the ceiling. Stone goes liquid, and then she's gone, tail whipping through
and stone solidifying again a half second later. I call for her twice more, but something has frightened
her, and she's not coming back.

Then the entire floor gives out, and there's nowhere for us to go but down.

We're coughing rubble for a full five minutes, but the only casualties are some bruised ribs, a chipped
tusk, and our pride. We've fallen fifteen feet, maybe twenty, into some kind of corridor. I feel awful
and cast an area healing spell to help with the scrapes and cuts. I'd promised we'd be gone at the first
sign of danger, and now look at us. Stuck.

"It'll take a while, but if we stack the broken stone, we can make a set of stairs leading back up,"
Savaryn says, lifting a boulder like it's filled with air.

I lift a smaller, less impressive rock and stack it next to his. "Sounds like a solid plan."

Ambrellin cuts her eyes at me, an unmistakable "I told you so" forming on her lips. But even completely
out of her element, she clings to the harmonious tenets of the Conclave. "Yes," she says, straining to
keep her smile from turning to bared teeth. "It sounds like a good plan."

"You're mad at me," I say to her. "I get it. You've been nothing but kind, and I've been nothing but a
disappointment."

The bark near her temples is crinkling so hard, it's coming up at the edges. "I'm not mad."

"Not even a little bit? I know we value serenity and the sacredness of friendship, but if you're
bothered, you have to say something. I've spent the past three months in your home, eating your
food, secretly kept a wurm that harassed your neighbors, maybe kind of almost kidnapped a child, and
got you stuck under a collapsed building in the middle of the Orzhov Syndicate—"

"Okay I'm angry with you, are you happy?" Ambrellin walks up to me, pounding her finger right into
my chest plate. "We've been patiently waiting for you to hit rock bottom, so we could help build you
back up, but instead, you've managed to drag us down with you! Our get togethers are all about
tiptoeing around your feelings, and you've thrown off our chemistry, and now Savaryn and Kellim are
leaving because you've been so insufferable to be around!" She stops, looks up at me, relief on her
face for just an instant before the remorse sets in.

77 | P a g e
"They're leaving because of me?" I say.

Ambrellin shakes her head, leaves rustling. "I'm so sorry, Terrik, I didn't mean—"

"No, I'm sorry," I say. I thought I could lean on them for support, but I guess in times like these, you
learn who your true friends are. "Take care of Bazda. Get her back to the orphanage. You don't have
to worry about me dragging you down ever again."

I head away down the hallway, alone, except for the dozens of gargoyles perched in notches on either
side, eyes cast up, mouths open wide. They've been sleeping for centuries, maybe millennia, but I
don't dare risk waking them. Guilt pecks at my brain. I'd gotten my friends into this mess, and I should
be helping to find a way out, but at this point, I can't trust myself not to make it a hundred times
worse. So I keep putting distance between us, until I come to a stairwell that leads deeper into the
depths of the catacombs.

I take one timid step down, another, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed with the familiar scent of wurm
castings, the most highly prized fertilizer among Selesnyan gardeners. For a moment, I am swept away
by thoughts of my old life, traipsing through the forests in late autumn, digging through rich, black
earth in search of wurm cocoons. The translucent cocoons were about the size of a loxodon's fist, and
inside you could see five or six little wurmlings squiggling around. I'd trained hundreds of wurms over
the course of my career, growing them into tremendous lethal weapons to protect our way of life, but
that moment in the woods was always the best part of my job, holding in the palms of my hands all
that potential power, their futures unwritten.

The good feelings slam to the recesses of my mind when I get to the bottom of the stairs, peek around
the corner, and see three adult wurms blasting the walls of the chamber with their subsonic
emanations. Spirits, impervious to the vibrations, wipe away the liquified rock before it can solidify.

At the center of the chamber sits a circular stone machine with a large lever protruding out at chest
height, something like an antiquated mill, with similar markings as Bazda's artifact. Definitely the Izzet
technology Ambrellin was talking about. Copper coins lay in piles around the machine. A stout man
with the undeniable look of desperation in his eyes orchestrates the workers. He's dressed in white
robes with black cording, though the dust has rendered his outfit into shades of gray. An Orzhov
pontiff, if I remember their rankings right. There's an old leather-bound tome hanging from a worn
strap slung over his shoulder, and an impish thrull follows him around, practically his shadow.

78 | P a g e
 Art by: Mark Zug

"Faster! It's got to be buried around here somewhere," the pontiff says, jabbing one of the wurms
with his staff, the business end a sunburst of jeweled amber. The wurm wails out in pain, a deep cry I
feel in my chest. Cries like that can travel over half a mile. No wonder my wurm had been spooked.

Savaryn's big hand comes down on my shoulder, tugging me back. "He doesn't look like the kind of
guy who takes kindly to uninvited guests," he whispers. "Come on. Ambrellin wants to apologize, then
we can work on getting out of here."

Another thump hits my other shoulder. It's not Savaryn's reassuring hand this time though. I don't
dare twist my head. From the look in Savaryn's eyes, I can't even imagine the half-dead Orzhov
creature that's got a hold of me.

"It's . . . it's . . . it's . . ." Savaryn is saying, definitely not whispering anymore. My eyes dart to the
gargoyle perched behind him. I think it shifted ever so slightly. "It's . . ."

Squeak, comes a tiny voice in my ear. I turn and exhale sharply. "It's just a rat."

I pull it off my shoulder and show Savaryn. His hands are clasped over his mouth, stifling a scream, but
a little trumpet of fright escapes his trunk. Now the gargoyle behind him is opening an eye. It sees us,
intruders, and starts shrieking. Then all the gargoyles are emitting ear-piercing sirens that echo
throughout the catacombs. Before we know it, spirits have surrounded us. The pontiff elbows his way
through them.

"Blessed spirits, what do we have here?" says the pontiff.

"Looks like trespassers, Master," says his thrull, lurching forward to crouch at the pontiff's side. Its
voice is a hollow wet rasp, exactly what I'd expect from a creature molded from dead flesh.

"And who knows the fine for trespassing in these sacred catacombs?"

79 | P a g e
"Twenty-thousand zibs, Master," says one of the spirits, eyes cast downward. "Or ten thousand labor
hours."

"I'm guessing you don't have twenty-thousand zibs on you," the pontiff says, and as he points his staff
at me, the amber stone lights up, and all my valuables rip out of my pockets. My enchanted bramble
seeds, my shears, and a few coins.

"Those are mine," I say to him.

"Ah, but the Orzhov Syndicate considers possession ninety-nine hundredths of the law. And
now I possess them." He hands the staff and my belongings to his thrull, then opens his leather-bound
book and flips through dozens of signed contracts until he comes to a blank page. He taps his finger
on the pristine parchment, and words bleed through, dictating the terms of my indentured servitude
and a spot for my signature and the date. "Sign it or become wurm food."

Wurm food seems like the easier choice, but I sign a fake name and hope for the best, knowing the
others had heard the siren, alerting them to the danger. I know Ambrellin's mad at me, but our
friendship has deep roots, and she'll stop at nothing to find a way to free us.

Once Savaryn has signed, too, the pontiff hands us each a bucket and commands us to get to work.

The spirits seem to forget that living people need breaks, and they pile up buckets of gravel faster than
we can haul them off. I carry one in each arm as I walk down a short hallway that opens into another
catacomb chamber, this one shelved with neatly stacked bones and skulls with coins inset into their
eyes, burial practices from an even earlier era. Statues line the circular room as well, some human,
some thrull, even a vampire with her fangs bared. At the center of the chamber is where we dump the
crushed stone, an ominous hole that leads further down into the forgotten histories of Ravnica. I dare
to peek into the darkness, wondering how deep it goes, and if the fall would kill me or just leave me
with broken bones and regrets.

"You shouldn't linger," says the spirit who's come up behind me. She dumps the contents of her bucket
into the hole—wurm saliva, sickly dark with yellow foam. A sure sign of a distressed wurm.

"Sorry," I say, hustling back ahead of her. "So, what does that machine do, anyway?"

She looks around, then speaks with a voice so soft and scratchy, it turns my skin to gooseflesh. "It
mints gold coins out of copper, some Izzet invention that was stolen by Master's great-grandfather
twelve generations back. He used it to amass a great wealth that launched him into a position with
the elite, the family's dirty little secret."

80 | P a g e
 Art by: Dmitry Burmak

"But it's missing a piece," I say, and immediately regret it. But instead of the spirit looking suspicious
about how I know that, she seems racked with guilt. Somehow, despite being an apparition, she
manages to go pale. "You know where it is, don't you?" I ask her.

She shakes her head quickly, but then I notice . . . the resemblance is there. Same mousy face and
slight build, dark gray hair that had probably been black in life. "You're Bazda's mother?"

"Please, we've already lingered too long!" She runs off ahead of me, and I sprint after her.

"She misses you. She's here, in the chamber just above. Let's sneak out of here when the pontiff isn't
looking."

"We can't. We are bound by contract. The law magic would pull us right back here if we dared to run
away."

"Kadin! Zavora! You're late!" the pontiff says when we arrive back. He passes his staff to his thrull
attendant, then cracks open his tome. "One day added to your debts." Zavora makes a tiny scratch
onto a long row of marks. The pontiff then flips to my page. I feel the strain of the law magic, forcing
my hand to make the mark.

"There will be plenty more of those to come!" the pontiff laughs.

I tense, and suddenly the weight of the contract sinks in. I'm going to be indebted to him forever, and
not even death, especially not even death, will free me, unless I make a move right now. I grab the
book, then run over to Savaryn, who's carrying three full buckets in each hand. He drops them as I toss
the book at him. "Rip it up!" I say. "Rip it all up, and we'll all be free."

Savaryn obeys, and his big hands crack the binding of the book while I hold the pontiff back. Pages rip
next, and the book is nothing but shreds. I think I can feel the contract's bonds weakening already.

81 | P a g e
"Who are you, anyway 'Kadin'?" the pontiff says to me, looking searchingly into my eyes, like maybe
he's recognized me. "And what were you doing down here?"

"Nobody and nothing," I say.

"Hmm. We'll see about that." He snatches the staff back from his attendant, then scrapes the amber
tip along the stone floor as he draws a circle around my feet. Suddenly, I'm standing as straight as a
board and my tongue feels like it's been transformed into a weapon. "I'll ask again. Who are you and
what are you doing here?"

"My name is Terrik, and my friends have come down here looking for treasure to bond our relationship
after I ruined everything by steering a wurm under this very basilica and causing it to collapse!" I hadn't
meant to say any of that, but he's put me under the influence of a verity spell, a strong one, and my
own words betray me. But there's one thing I cling to with all my might, our only piece of leverage,
that Bazda has the missing piece of the machine. I meditate, surrounding that thought with mental
armor.

"I thought you looked familiar," the pontiff says. "You can ease your conscience, Terrik. You and your
wurm were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Seems I got a little too ambitious with the
digging down here and knocked out some support structures I shouldn't have. But it's good to know
you have more friends around. I'll use every set of hands I can get."

The pontiff sends a group of spirits to retrieve my friends, then waves his staff in the air, leaving wisps
of gray smoke trailing behind it. The smoke sinks down to the ground, covering the scraps of
parchment and ripped binding in an eerily glowing fog. Then the pontiff reaches down into the mist
and pulls back a perfectly bound book, pages all intact.

He looks at me and smiles. "Oh, you're going to be in debt to my family for generations."

My stomach pitches when the spirits come back, pushing Ambrellin, Kellim, and Bazda ahead.
Their eyes go wide when they see the wurms and the machine. Bazda breaks from the spirit's grip,
barreling right into me with a tight embrace.

"It's okay," I tell her. "We're going to find a way out of this."

"Get over here," the pontiff says, ripping her away from me. "Let's see what we've got." He waves his
staff over Ambrellin first, but she keeps nothing the pontiff would find of value on her, her only
adornments the branches winding down her arms and a necklace made of autumnal leaves. He gets a
dagger from Kellim, and then he turns to Bazda. I close my eyes. He's going to find her artifact, and his
machine will be complete, and our usefulness here will have run its course, and there's no way he'd
let us go, knowing what we know.

"Sign, or become wurm food," the pontiff says to my friends.

I open my eyes, and he's passed his staff to the thrull, who's only holding the dagger and Bazda's hair
pins. Where did they hide the artifact? Bazda nods at me, then I look down, noticing a bump under
my armor that wasn't there a moment ago. I discreetly feel along its edges, the shape of a crescent
with a hole in the middle. Her quick thieving hands had planted it on me without me even noticing.

"Master!" one of the spirits shouts. "This wurm has stopped moving."

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The pontiff grabs his staff and stomps over to the wurm, body gone slack against the cold stone floor.
He jabs the pointed end into the wurm's flesh, and the amber sunburst lights up, delivering a jolt of
pain magic to the animal. It shudders for a moment, a black web radiating out across the skin. He
shocks the wurm again, but this time there's no response.

"What are you all standing around looking at?" the pontiff screams. "We've still got two wurms. Find
that missing piece by the end of the day, or I'm adding another year to everyone's debt!"

As soon as the pontiff has gone, I run over to the wurm. I put my hands on the pulse behind his jaw,
feeling the faintest of beats. The eye turns to me, and I'm struck by the look of recognition he gives
me, a dark, thick tear running down his face. He's one of mine, I know it. The others could be, too. But
it wouldn't matter either way, because the pontiff is going to pay dearly for this.

"Don't linger," comes Bazda's mother's voice again. She's got her bucket filled with wurm saliva. I pick
up two filled with gravel and walk quickly ahead of her until we reach the catacomb chamber, far
enough from prying ears.

"Ma'am. I could really use your help," I plead. "I've got a plan to free me and you and everyone else
the pontiff's got bound by contract. All I ask of you is to do these two simple things . . ."

Bazda's mother stands at the hole in the center of the chamber, looking down into its depths. The
pontiff stands next to her, looking down as well.

"He just jumped," she says. "I guess the work was too rough for him. You know how elves are."

"Pity," the pontiff says. "At least I've still got the loxodon. Definitely the better worker of the two." He
hands his staff to the thrull as he always does before opening his contract book, then he flips to the
page I'd signed. The pontiff raises his hands, and as he casts the spell, I'm close enough to see where
the expiry date bleeds into the paper, and yet the pontiff doesn't notice me.

The first thing I'd asked of Bazda's mother was that she fetch the pontiff and tell him that I'd jumped.
There was no other entry or exit to the room, so it was obvious that's the way I had to go.

The second thing I'd asked was to borrow her bucket of wurm saliva. I'd rubbed it upon my entire
body. The experience, I can't say that it was a positive one, but it gave me a nice tacky coating for
gravel to stick to. After two applications, I looked as much like a stone statue as any of the others lining
the walls. I struck a pose, then waited.

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 Art by: Yeong-Hao Han

And now is my chance to strike. I barrel toward the pontiff at full speed, then swipe the contract book
with one hand. I catch him by surprise, and it goes flying. I grab onto him, wrestling him toward the
hole. He's scrappy, but I've spent my whole life atop the backs of beasts a thousand times his size, and
with two hard flips, I pitch him into the hole. Four seconds pass before I hear flesh impact and bones
snap. I wince, then race for the book, tearing up contract after contract. I look back at the thrull who's
still standing there, holding the staff.

"Come on," I say. "Help me with this, and we can all go free. Including you! He won't be able to put
the book back together without his staff."

The thrull slowly turns to face me. From the hole, we hear the pontiff moaning. There's a flash on the
thrull's face, and before I can plead with him to stop, he's jumped in after the pontiff. Moments later,
I hear the ripping of muscles and ligament. Amber light flickers down deep as the pontiff wields his
flesh magic.

"Change of plans," I say to Bazda's mother, then I'm running back toward the others. I pull the artifact
from beneath my armor and give it to Ambrellin. "Do you think you can get that machine working?" I
ask her.

"I think so," she says. "The magic is strong, but the mechanics are simple. I'll just need someone to
push."

"I can do it," Savaryn says, flexing his muscles. Ten minutes later, the piece is in place, Kellim and Bazda
are dropping copper coins into the feeder, Savaryn is pushing the lever around and around, and as the
top stone grinds against the bottom one, purple sparks fly and the hairs on my arms stand on end. I
keep checking over my shoulder, looking for the pontiff, but the hallway stays silent. The first gold
coin tumbles out the chute, and I catch it in my hands. I bite it. Looks like the real thing. A dozen more
tumble out, then fifty. The spirits count them out into buckets of five hundred zinos each.

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I ask each of them how much they have left of their debts, and divide the money between them, ready
to buy their freedom. Everything stops when we hear a click, click, click coming toward us. Moments
later, the pontiff emerges into the room, one arm hanging lower than the other and his jaw sitting too
far forward. Blue-gray flesh peeks out from beneath his robes with each step, and it takes me a
moment to realize that he's fused the thrull to his leg, its head now where the pontiff's foot had been,
the thrull's golden faceplate hitting the stone tile with each step.

"It's over," I tell him, setting a bucket of zinos before his feet. "I'm paying off all of our debts. We are
no longer bound to your contracts." And with my words, I feel the law magic loosening its grip.

"No!" he says, his scream like a gargle in his throat. "The machine is mine. Those coins belong to me!
You have no claim!"

"But we do. You said it yourself. Possession is ninety-nine hundredths of the law." I grin.

Bazda waves at him, sitting atop the coin mill.

"I will make more money," the pontiff says. "Money to feed into the Syndicate. Money to fund wars.
All other guilds will fall, starting with Selesnya."

"We'll be leaving, now," I say, tipping my head. "It was nice doing business with you."

And with that, the spirits stretch up, their ethereal bodies suddenly lighter, and they disappear
through the rock. My friends and I make our way back up the stairs, toward the chamber and half-
finished set of stairs.

I whistle, calling the wurms below, hoping they remember their training. They show up moments later.
I strip out of my armor and hand it to Bazda. "Here, put these on. It's about to get a little hot."

Ambrellin looks at me. "You expect us to ride a wurm out of here? Without protection? We'll melt!"

"It's not far to the surface. Five, ten seconds, max."

"Five seconds of molten lava in our faces."

"Or, ten," I remind her. "Alone, we couldn't make it, but if we work together. Sticking close, casting
healing spells, and weaving them together into something greater than the sum of its parts, I think
we'll make it."

"I believe in Terrik," Savaryn says. "I think it's a good plan."

"I agree," says Kellim.

"I do, too!" Bazda says, the bulk of my armor nearly swallowing her.

"It's a good plan," Ambrellin agrees.

We all climb upon the wurm and hold on tightly. I pat the wurm and speak softly to her, hoping the
abuse she's endured hasn't nullified all her training. I've still got a few jerky crumbs in my pocket. I
toss one into her mouth. "Come on, girl, let's do this."

I lean forward, taking my time like I'm training a hatchling, even though time is the one thing I'm short
on. She moves forward, gains some confidence, and trust starts to build. She wurms her way up the
gap to the catacomb where we'd entered, and by the time we've reached the other end of the
chamber, she's moving at a steady clip. "It's time. Start your spells," I say and pull back, directing the
wurm to jump toward the ceiling. Healing spells encompass the five of us, the others meditating with

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all their might as I steer. The heat hits my face, burns, but I hold steady, and finally, the curtain of
molten lava parts, and the cool of the night soothes away our wounds. Never in my life would I have
thought to be so glad to be breathing the sooty air of the Orzhov Syndicate.

Art by: Dmitry Burmak

Two of the spirits are sitting there, waiting for us. It takes Bazda a long moment, but she finally puts it
together. "Mama? Papa?" she asks them. The strong little girl I thought incapable of softness breaks
down into tears. There was a little money left over after all the debts had been paid. I hand it to Bazda.

"Here's something for you to restart your lives together," I say.

"Thank you," Bazda says. "But that man. Won't he keep using the machine? Won't he make war?"

"Not any time soon," Ambrellin says. She hands Bazda's artifact back to her.

"I told you you'd get it back," I say. "I always keep a promise."

We part ways with Bazda's family, the four of us dragging ourselves back to Ambrellin's cooperative,
but when we hear screaming coming from her downstairs neighbors' apartment, we hasten our steps.
We enter their home to find my little wurm girl curled up on their bed, slobbering through to the
mattress. Looks like she found her way back home, give or take a floor. We all start laughing. Well,
minus the neighbors.

"This feels good," I say, "all of us together like this." I don't know what the future holds, if I'll be able
to clear my name and get my job back, or if Savaryn and Kellim will still decide to leave. I do know that
the future is full of possibilities, and our bond is something that will never be broken.

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 A FLAVORFUL GUIDE TO
THE GUILDS OF RAVNICA
By: Chas Andres

HOUSE DIMIR

Art by: Cliff Childs

Are you an agent of House Dimir? People have no way of knowing for sure. Dimir is built on a network of secrets
and backroom deals, and it can count Ravnica's best spies and assassins among its ranks. Members of the blue and
black–aligned Dimir value deception and manipulation above all else, and the guild's secrecy was so important to
its founders that it was even codified into the original guildpact. For ten thousand years, House Dimir was only
known through rumors and whispers.

Even today, most members of House Dimir know very little about the guild and its leadership. All pertinent
information about House Dimir is on a strict need-to-know basis, even for those who serve it with unflinching
loyalty. Those who don't serve the Dimir may still believe that the guild's existence is either a silly rumor or a
dangerous conspiracy theory. Even those who hire the Dimir to ferry secrets or handle delicate matters discretely
may not actually know who they're working with.

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The psychic vampire Szadek was the original founder of House Dimir, and his network of spies and operatives
attempted to take control of Ravnica on the plane's decamillennial. While his plan ultimately failed, Szadek's
actions lead to massive upheaval and the dissolution of the original guildpact. Although Szadek was arrested by the
Boros and executed by the Azorius, it's quite possible that he still exists as a Spirit and continues to influence the
current operations of the Dimir.

Regardless, Lazav is the current guildmaster of House Dimir. He's a powerful shapeshifter who uses spycraft and a
web of loyal agents to consolidate power and ferret out anyone who opposes his guild. Recently, Lazav's sources
have uncovered that a powerful outside influence has begun to take over several of the other guilds. As power-
hungry and Machiavellian as the Dimir have proven to be in the past, Lazav is determined not to let this outsider's
plan come to fruition.

THE IZZET LEAGUE

Art by: Kirsten Zirngibl

Do you love science but hate how slow and tedious it can be? Then the Izzet League is for you! Members of the
blue and red–aligned Izzet value invention and discovery above all else, though they rarely have the patience for
prolonged experimentation. If an Izzet mage invents a jetpack, expect them to strap it to their back, cross their
fingers, and flip it on. If it succeeds—whoopee! Jetpacks for everyone! If it fails, they'll just dust themselves off,
disassemble it, and start working on something else entirely.

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This reckless but passionate experimentation has made the Izzet League into Ravnica's most successful civic
engineers. The iconic brass boilers, roadways, and canals that crisscross Ravnica are the result of Izzet imagination
and innovation. Granted, so was that day when the entire sky turned bright orange for a while, but the Izzet don't
spend too much time dwelling on failure. They simply move on to their next big idea.

The Izzet League is led by the brilliant, omniscient, and incomparable dracogenius Niv-Mizzet. Niv-Mizzet is one of
the ten paruns who founded Ravnica's guilds ten thousand years ago, so it's remarkable that he's still in charge of
the League. Members of the Izzet tend to be enamored with their draconic leader, which is why his visage is on the
official Izzet seal and so many Izzet creations are named after the dragon. In return, Niv-Mizzet rewards his most
accomplished subjects by allowing them to link with the Firemind and experience his own towering intellect and
passion.

But while Niv-Mizzet is still the leader of the Izzet in name and spirit, he's too wrapped up in his research to run the
guild's day-to-day operations right now. That task has fallen to Ral Zarek, Niv-Mizzet's viceroy, who has kept the
fact that he's a Planeswalker secret from his boss. Niv-Mizzet would be not too happy to learn that Ral Zarek is
secretly working for another powerful dragon—Nicol Bolas.

THE BOROS LEGION

Art by: Titus Lunter

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Might may not always make right, but the Boros Legion certainly believes in using their strength to prevent Ravnica
from becoming a chaotic and unjust place. Members of the white and red–aligned Boros value honor and glory
above all else, organizing their guild in a military-style hierarchy designed to keep the peace and enforce the law.

The Boros consider themselves to be the military and peacekeeping arm of Ravnican society. If there’s an uprising
anywhere on Ravnica, the Boros will be there to quell the dispute. If there’s a bar brawl anywhere on Ravnica . .
. well, the Boros will be there to quell that, too. While many Ravnicans consider the Boros to be self-righteous and
rigid, there is no denying that they provide much-needed protection for the guildless without asking for anything
in return.

The Boros Legion was originally founded by Razia, a righteous and inspirational angel who was treated almost if
she were a goddess by the devout members of her guild. Under Razia’s leadership, the Boros Legion zealously
defended justice on Ravnica for ten thousand years. Then, during Ravnica’s decamillennial celebration, Razia was
killed by Szadek, parun of the Dimir, during his plot to seize control of the entire plane.

These days, the angel Aurelia is the guildmaster of the Boros Legion. Unlike Razia, who liked to rule from on high,
Aurelia prefers to fight alongside her subjects. She even restructured the guild’s rigid hierarchy at the start of her
tenure, removing the guidelines that discouraged angels from mingling with other Boros troops. Aurelia also
reorganized the Boros Legion into four different theaters: one designed to fight against the Rakdos, one designed
to root out the Dimir, one to work with the Izzet on the development of military technology, and one devoted
solely to recruitment. So are you righteous and brave enough to join Aurelia’s army?

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 THE GOLGARI SWARM

Art by: Eytan Zana

While most Ravnicans prefer not to think about icky things like mortality and decay, the Golgari Swarm embraces
this messy and endless cycle of creation and destruction. In fact, members of the black and green–aligned Golgari
value the balance between life and death above all else.

Members of the Swarm mostly live underground, dwelling in Ravnica's forgotten and unwanted places, foraging
for refuse and discarded treasures from the world above. They are also talented farmers, providing Ravnica with
the vast majority of its food production. The Golgari are the largest guild on Ravnica—in large part because of their
love of reanimation magic, which they use quite liberally. To the Golgari, power is both incremental and inevitable.
The more things die, the more the Golgari Swarm grows.

Svogthir, the "god-zombie," was the original founder of the Golgari. He was a powerful necromancer-turned-lich
who ruled the Swarm for thousands of years before being overthrown by a group of powerful Gorgons known as
the Sisters of Stone Death. Svogthir managed to escape and overthrow the sisters, eventually taking over the
reanimated corpse of Savra, who had betrayed him before herself being betrayed by Szadek. While his new body
was destroyed when Project Kraj went haywire back at the end of Dissension, it's possible that his spirit has found
a way to survive. Death is rarely final for a member of the Golgari Swarm.

The Golgari are currently being led by Vraska, who got the job as part of the deal she made with Nicol Bolas when
she agreed to recover the Immortal Sun for him on Ixalan. Vraska was a passionate voice for the gorgons, the most

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downtrodden members of the Golgari, and she blamed Jarad, the Swarm's previous leader, for her people's plight.
Bolas told Vraska where Jarad was being imprisoned, and Vraska used that information to take him out and gain
control of the Golgari. Of course, Nicol Bolas doesn't know about her relationship with Jace or the fact that the
mind-mage hid Vraska's memories of Bolas's treachery deep within her mind, ready to be unleashed at the right
moment . . .

THE SELESNYA CONCLAVE

Art by: Dimitar Marinski

If you find this discordant cityscape too artificial and overwhelming, you should visit the quiet confines of the
Selesnya Conclave. Members of the white and green–aligned Selesnya value collectivist ideals and the natural
world above all else, believing that the best path to peace and happiness is through unity, togetherness, and
preservation.

Supporters of the Conclave seek to put themselves in balance with Ravnica's wildlife as well as their fellow guild-
mates, privileging the communal voice over that of any individual. While a member of the Izzet might find this
worldview to be incredibly stifling, members of the Conclave find purpose and fulfilment in serving a greater good.
While Selesnya seeks to achieve peace through unity, don't mistake them for pacifists. Their army may not be as
disciplined as the Boros, but it is still both large and powerful. Wolves, knights, dryads, elves, elementals, and even
massive armor-clad wurms fight for the utopian vision of the Conclave.

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Selesnya was founded by Mat'Selesnya, an elemental fusion who currently lives deep inside Vitu-Ghazi, the world
tree. Members of the Conclave believe Mat'Selesnya to be the voice of nature itself, and they will do whatever
they can to serve her desires. Mat'Selesnya used to communicate with the other members of her guild through a
chorus of dryads, but that connection was lost when Szadek attacked the Conclave during Ravnica's decamillennial.

Mat'Selesnya currently speaks through Trostani, a fusion of three Dryads who each represent a different key
Selesnyan value: Life, Order, and Harmony. But as discord grows between them, the future of the Conclave seems
murkier than ever. Will their vision of a Ravnica that is at harmony with itself as well as the natural world ever come
to pass? Can Selesnya even remain unified as one vibrant voice during a time of such upheaval on Ravnica?

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 BUILDING THE GUILDS
By: Chris Gleeson

HOUSE DIMIR

House Dimir is Ravnica's dark but open secret: the populace knows Dimir exists, but they pretend it doesn't. Secrecy
is House Dimir's weapon and its best defense, and the guild is hidden even from itself. Dimir agents leave no trace
of their covert activities, destroying the memories of witnesses to their crimes and even wiping their own
memories of their completed assignments.

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 THE IZZET LEAGUE

The Izzet are obsessive experimenters, the epitome of a keen creative intellect combined with an
unfortunately short attention span. Their increasingly wild experiments answer only to their insatiable
curiosity, which often yields mana geysers, spatial rifts, arcane portals, or other such powerful but
unintended results.

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 THE BOROS LEGION

Clad in shining armor and righteous zeal, the soldiers of the Boros Legion take up steel against the
corruption and chaos that gnaw at the soul of Ravnica. They enforce the spirit of law with a powerful,
disciplined military, and are hard at work to forge the city into a safe and just community for all.

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 THE GOLGARI SWARM

The Golgari are a pragmatic guild who are unafraid of the concept that death is a reality of life. The
idea that others see the two as opposing forces is naive sentimentality to the Golgari Swarm. They are
about the long view. In the end, everything crumbles and rots, and from that rot springs new life.

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 THE SELESNYA CONCLAVE

The Selesnya Conclave are a harmonious union of nature and civilization who dream of embracing all
of Ravnica in peaceful cooperation. In the meantime, though, they are growing an army, preparing to
resist the ambition and destructive impulses of the other guilds and fight, if necessary, to defend their
way of life.

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-------------- --------------

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 AUTHOR

Nicky Drayden is a systems analyst, and when she’s not debugging code, she’s
detangling plot lines and mixing metaphors. Her debut novel, The Prey of Gods
(Harper Voyager), featured in The New York Times Best of New Science Fiction
and Fantasy and The Wall Street Journal’s Summer Reading: One Expert, One
Book. Drayden’s sophomore novel, Temper, is touted as an exciting blend of
Afrofuturism and New Weird. Her travels to South Africa as a college student
influenced both of these works, and she enjoys blurring the genre lines between
mythology, science fiction, fantasy, horror, and dark humor.

Drayden learned to write novels the old-fashioned way, by banging out a crappy draft during the
month of November with thousands of other aspiring novelists. In between novels, she frequently
dabbles in short fiction, with over 30 stories in publications such as Shimmer, Daily Science Fiction,
and Space and Time Magazine.

During her stint as managing editor for The Drabblecast, she helped continue the speculative fiction
podcast’s tradition of bringing strange stories to strange listeners. Once a year, she’d escape the slush
trenches to work on “Women and Aliens Month” a special series featuring alien stories written by
luminaries such as Lauren Beukes, Nnedi Okorafor, and Alaya Dawn Johnson.

Nicky Drayden lives and writes in Austin, Texas where being weird is highly encouraged, if not
required. Her novel-length work is represented by Jennifer Jackson at the Donald Maass Literary
Agency, and you can find out more about her at nickydrayden.com or catch her on twitter
@nickydrayden.

Source: http://www.nickydrayden.com/about-me/

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 COLLECTED STORIES
Gain a deeper understanding of everyday life within the guilds of Ravnica in these
personal stories from denizens of the plane.

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