Collected Stories

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HOUR OF DEVASTATION
Collected Stories

Compiled by S’Tsung
 Contents
THE HOUR OF REVELATION 5

FEAST 16

HOUR OF GLORY 27

THE HOUR OF PROMISE 40

FAVOR 55

THE HOUR OF ETERNITY 66

ENDURE 80

HOUR OF DEVASTATION 100

HOUR OF DEVASTATION: COLLECTED STORIES
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 THE HOUR OF REVELATION
By Alison Luhrs
Sands idly wafted over dunes, the Luxa River flowed from one end of Naktamun
to the other, families lived and worked in happy peace, and through a ripple of air,
a dragon tore through the sky from a faraway world.
He had days. Only days until he wouldn't have the magic left to execute this
plan. There was just enough time left to put into place the possible means to regain
his godhood.
The dragon's plans spanned millennia and his perception straddled centuries,
a winding maze of possibility and circumstance and statistics and likelihood. Usu-
ally the dragon played the odds when shaping his decisions—but now, to manifest
his needs, the dragon would need to be violent in his choices.
Violence is an act that cannot be taken back or amended halfway through. It is
begun, then ended. The dragon's choices must be the same. No doubt. No hesita-
tion or uncertainty. Merely violence.
The gods of Amonkhet saw the dragon hovering outside the Protection of
the Hekma. They climbed to the tops of their highest vantage points and armed
themselves for battle. They were determined not to fail this time. No monster could
defeat the eight gods of Amonkhet. Not when Naktamun was all that remained.
Oketra raised her bow high, and the light of twin suns glinted off its curve. She
loosed an arrow into the sky, and it passed through the Hekma with ease. The ar-
row hit the dragon's side, and he laughed. The great dragon flew down toward the
shimmering dome of the Hekma and tested it with a tentative claw. Oketra loosed
another arrow, this time aimed directly at the dragon's eye. The beast glanced at
the incoming projectile; it splintered and dissolved mid-flight.
The gods were stunned. This dragon possessed enough power to defy the
laws of nature.
Hazoret called for the children and elderly to retreat to the mausoleums for
safety, and the attendants Spread the Word. She took up her spear and urged the
gods to attack.
The gods' distraction to protect the mortals amused the dragon. These gods
cared far more about their plane than he ever did about the worlds he created.
Kefnet, caretaker of the Hekma, was straining to keep the magical barrier to-
gether. The dragon tipped his chin and fractured Kefnet's mind in two.
Kefnet's body and wings went limp and he plummeted to the ground, crumpled
and still.
The hearts of the mortals in Naktamun recoiled in immediate pain. Even those
who did not witness Kefnet's fall felt panic. The gods in turn cried out for their
brother, and for the loss that swept through the people of Amonkhet.

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 The dragon smiled. He extended a claw, and a pinprick of light broke through
the blue of the barrier.
The gods brandished their weapons and snarled with defiance. No beast would
harm an immortal without facing retribution.
The Hekma wavered. Its film waved as water in a river, and the hole widened
enough for the dragon to burst through.
The dragon protected himself from the attacks of the other gods by separating
himself a half-step from reality. The vision of his form remained, but his body was
safe from their blows.
The gods of Amonkhet roared and cursed, but no blow from their weapons
would land. The trespasser's power was at least equal to their own. The dragon
landed atop the tallest tower, closed his eyes, and began to channel a spell.
The time for violent choices had come.
The gods felt a surge of mana weave around the dragon as a tangle of ma-
levolence. They grasped desperately for spells to protect and defend.
But they were too slow.
The dragon opened his eyes and every mortal old enough to walk dissipated
into the sky.
A brilliant white light engulfed Naktamun, and the seven gods fell to their knees
in agony as countless souls vanished from existence.
The light retreated. Silence fell, only to be broken by the faraway cries of thou-
sands of motherless, fatherless infants.
The gods cried out in horror. The infant prayers were without form in their
minds. Endless pleas washed over them, waves of wordless fear and confusion,
half-finished visions of mothers and fathers breaking apart, particle by particle. The
sudden loss of life rendered the gods inert, paralyzed in shock, like losing a limb.
But two of the gods did not stay still. Hazoret pulled Oketra up from the ground
with a quiet assertion. The two fled from the great dragon as he laid claim to their
brethren. The dragon, bemused, followed at leisure, silent and unhurried.
Oketra ran alongside her sister and down into their most sacred mausoleum. As
they ducked and entered the holy tomb, passing through row after row of enchanted
dead mortals, the shrill sobs of orphans reached the gods' ears. Oketra sealed the
door behind them, golden light binding the stone portal shut, and Hazoret began
gently picking up as many children as she could. Oketra assisted, gathering the
children and soothing them with her presence.
The dragon's laugh suddenly resounded through the mausoleum. Hazoret looked
to Oketra as they heard and felt the dragon on the other side of the entrance, testing
the barrier's strength. The dragon sensed the heartbeats of the surviving children
behind the door, as well as thousands and thousands of enchanted dead, and he
chuckled at the perfection of his plan. Slowly he unwound the god's magical seal,

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taking his time to revel in the despair on the other side of the stone.
The two gods set the babes in a small alcove within the chamber and stood
side by side at the entrance to the sacred mausoleum. Hazoret readied her spear.
Oketra drew her bow.
"The children of Naktamun will not die at the hands of a beast!" Hazoret
cried.
"The children of Naktamun will die at the end of your spear," replied the dragon.
The dragon burst through the mausoleum door. Oketra and Hazoret charged.
With a wave of a claw, the dragon sent forward a pulse of magic, and the minds
of the two gods went utterly blank.
They fell where they stood.
The dragon, satisfied, continued his work.

The next step in the dragon's plan required self-sufficiency. A people who were
willing to do the work themselves without the dragon's presence.
There were many options with many outcomes, but time was growing short—
already a day was gone in the subsuming of the gods. The dragon chose the quick
path.
Violent choices.
First, he returned to the surface and took three of the gods for his own. He
stowed them away as one would tools in a cupboard. Their time would come soon
enough. With his remaining power, the dragon corrupted and manipulated the ley-
lines of mana that coursed through the remaining gods, willing them to forget their
origins, tying their existence to himself, and forcing them to erase all else.
Second, he opened the tombs under the city and led the enchanted bodies of
the dead out of their mausoleums and into the light. There were so many orphaned
infants now, and the children would need caretakers.
Third, he drew on the histories of the plane. There existed an elite religious
ceremony—trials of merit, with the result being a single sacrificial champion every
revolution of the second sun. A rare cultural cornerstone revered by both man
and god. Perfectly suited to repurpose for his designs. The dragon rejoiced at the
convenience. What had occurred once every few decades would now demand a
constant supply of champions. He spelled the second sun to move as he was ready,
to count down until whenever he decided to return. This would be the cornerstone
of his machinations on this world.
Fourth, the dragon built a throne inside the perimeter of the city. On the other
side of the barrier, he erected a monument in his own visage, an homage to his
magnificent horns, and enchanted it to appear stationary from every angle. He

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built the monument to frame the smaller sun on the horizon at the moment of his
choosing. The dragon was proud. Vanity is survival when one is rapidly losing
omnipotence.
Finally, he made a promise to return, delighting in the writing of his own prophe-
cies, and planting his promise in the gods and the minds and mythos of the deni-
zens below. Mortals adored promises. They saw them as unmovable as mountains,
when in truth they were mercurial as rivers.
As the dragon departed, the small sun continued its slow journey across the sky.
From afar the dragon maintained, monitored, and moved his machinations on
other worlds as the years fell away, urging the second sun slowly around its track
until this particular moment
in this particular place
on this particular plane
when that sun had rounded its circuit
and came to settle between the great horns As Foretold.
As promised.
At last.
The time had come for the dragon to return to collect his hoard.

Art by Christine Choi

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

Djeru ran as fast as his feet would carry him, eyes fixed on the second sun
peeking from behind either side of the leftmost horn in the distance. It left the city
in a lingering dusk, and the strangeness of the atmosphere only heightened the
excitement and revelry of the citizens of Naktamun.
Samut ran alongside Djeru, gripping his shoulder tightly with one hand. As the
two exited the arena, they were met with a stampede of citizens, all racing toward
the banks of the Luxa River. It was a chaos Djeru had never seen before. Any sem-
blance of commitment to one's own crop had been forgotten, queues and decorum
abandoned in the passing from one age of existence to the next.
So few were left.
In the months leading up to the end of the second sun's cycle, more and more
citizens arranged to take the Trials early and prove their worth. Schedules were
rearranged. Crops became double the normal size. The result was a city even
more empty than usual, populated mostly by the anointed and the youth too young
to partake.
Djeru and Samut waded through the throngs of children too young to begin
the Trials, bumping into their hips, tripping over their legs. The children's arms out-
stretched and faces warped with desperate, fervent tears. Their small feet moved
fast. The anointed caretaker couldn't keep up, and most of their kind had resigned
themselves to standing aside to let the stampede through.
A shadow passed over them—the legs of Hazoret—and the god stepped high
over their heads as she made her way to the river. Throngs of children and those
unable to take the Trials tugged at her sandals and leapt for her spear—Take me!
Please, Giver of Gifts! Let me die before he comes so I may go along!—but the
god ignored them, her eyes trained on the Luxa River and the Gate at the end.
The God-Pharaoh's approach was nigh. His homecoming would certainly take
place at the Gate to the Afterlife, the massive stone barrier where the Luxa River
met the shimmery blue of the Hekma. The Gate used to only open for the lucky
few who passed the Trial of Zeal. But now, with the coming of the God-Pharaoh,
his promise would be fulfilled.

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 The promise of the Hours.
New hope cascaded over Djeru. He was meant to be the final one to pass
through the Gate, his glory was to be bestowed unto him by Hazoret, Giver of Gifts.
Until Samut ruined everything. Until the traitor, Gideon, intervened.
Yet Samut now stood at his side, a hand gripping Djeru's arm, her stance one
of protection and shielding. Djeru's heart felt at ease with her familiar presence by
his side once again, even as his mind still reeled at her betrayal.
She robbed me of my destiny for her selfish doubts, he thought.
But perhaps the God-Pharaoh would still grant them a place at his side none-
theless. Perhaps he could plead their case, and both prove their worth and show
Samut the error of her ways.
Djeru whispered a prayer of hope, a little plea drowned out by the cries and
yells of the crowd around them in the unfamiliar twilight.
"The Hours have begun!"
"Where is he?!"
"Deliver us, God-Pharaoh! Show us your grace!"
"Ow!" Samut cried out as a naga smashed past her in his rush toward the river.
"He force-fed us complacency for years and we greet him with this," she seethed
under her breath. "It is lies and chaos."
Djeru didn't respond to Samut's continued heresy. A growing sound in the dis-
tance had drawn his attention.
Ambient noise. Endless creaking. Something dark and old, caused by some-
thing without form. The khenra nearby all clamped their ears and whined as they
ran, the naga jumped as though the earth moved beneath them, and every being
instinctively looked to the far end of the river.
Samut's grip on his arm tightened. "The Gate."
The two picked up their pace and approached the massive crowd that had
gathered at the banks of the Luxa. The mass of citizens wailed in fear and bound-
less joy. A minotaur sobbed, two khenra twins had fallen to their knees in praise,
and several children were attempting to ford the river and cross to the Gate.
It was a collective madness unlike any Djeru had ever witnessed. For a mo-
ment, fear gripped his heart. But the chaos was contagious, and the frenzy of the
moment swept Djeru away. Although he was meant to be in the Afterlife by now,
Samut's betrayal had given him the privilege of witnessing the God-Pharaoh's
return. Perhaps all would work out after all!
Suddenly, as abruptly as it began, the noise stopped.
Djeru craned for a view, his sandals sinking into the soft mud of the riverbank.
Warm water lapped at his toes as bodies pressed all around him, all stretching for
a better look.
"Djeru, you need to promise me something." Samut's whisper was soft on

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Djeru's ear.
He didn't want to listen to her. But he also didn't want to let her go.
"No matter what happens, we protect our gods. We protect each other."
Djeru didn't know what she implied, but he silently nodded.
A collective gasp of surprise washed through the crowd.
In the distance, the light of the second sun spilled past the horn. It had finally
passed behind the monument, and a line of brilliant light crossed from one side
of Naktamun to the other. A cheer rang out from the crowd as the sun reached its
final point, nestled between the faraway horns.
At that exact moment, with no warning, the Gate cracked open ever so slightly,
the rough grit of its stone parting the current of the river.
No living person had ever seen what rested behind the Gate to the Afterlife.
Only the dead crossed beyond the Gate, which opened to allow a funerary barge
to pass once a day.
Even from where they stood, Samut and Djeru felt a hot wind blow through the
crack in the Gate.
From behind him, Djeru felt a god approach. He watched as Hazoret waded
into the river, carefully stepping over the heads of her people, avoiding them as
she walked.
"He arrives!" she cried.
Djeru felt the glow of the god's joy seep into him, her exaltation reinforcing his
own optimism.
A child next to them began crying as others shoved to get closer to the bank
of the river.
Some aven flew up toward the Gate and tried to pry it open further. Other
people waded into the water and swam toward the opening, though none seemed
to reach it.
It was still impossible to see through the crack. Only a sliver of light betrayed
the fact that it was open at all.
Samut gripped Djeru's shoulder and shook her head. "We shouldn't stay here.
We should go—"
The hiss of wind coming from the Gate grew stronger, and in one swift motion,
the doors opened wider. Samut's hand fell from Djeru's shoulder as they both stood
transfixed, staring at the opening Gate.
The entire crowd went silent in awe.
The heat of the wind blasting through grew in intensity, peppering the crowd
with grit and sand. They held their hands to their eyes to block the sting. The Gate
swung all the way open, and the massive crowd gasped.
They had been promised paradise.
What lay beyond the Gate were endless, empty wastes.

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 Art by Raymond Swanland

Djeru's mouth hung open. There was supposed to be fields of green meadows!
Natural Springs and a bountiful ocean! And in its place . . . nothing. Desert. Beasts.
Wurms and crocodiles and cursed bodies of heretics. The same thing that was
on the Hekma on all its sides. Endless, eternal, all-encompassing and unforgiving
nothing.
Djeru couldn't comprehend it.
Around him, the crowd erupted in confusion. Some cheered. Some yelled out
words of praise. Others looked to their neighbors for answers. Was this paradise?
The concern passed in a wave from person to person, getting louder and louder
by the moment.
Something massive crashed in the water. Hazoret moved her legs sharply
through the current. She began to quiver, ears tightly held back flat against her
head, but her arms outstretched in a display of welcoming.
Djeru pushed his way to the front, wading into the water behind Hazoret, trying
to get a better look. The only thing he could See Beyond the Gate was a building
that could only be the Necropolis—the fabled place where the worthy dead were
laid to rest, awaiting the return of the God-Pharaoh.
Djeru turned to Samut, but Samut's attention rested on the god before them.
"Hazoret!" Samut yelled. The god whipped her golden head down, her gaze
directly on Samut.
"Is that paradise?"
Hazoret did not answer. Djeru watched her chest heave up and down with
concerned breath, her face unreadable.

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 "Please, Hazoret, cast away my doubts and tell me that is paradise."
The god lifted her head ever so slightly, and still refused to answer.
The rest of the crowd began to argue.
There was still no sign of the God-Pharaoh. Was this a test? Was the absence
of paradise supposed to mean something? Perhaps paradise will not become
manifest until he arrives. Perhaps the place beyond the Gate isn't the endless
waste it appears to be—perhaps this was paradise all along!
The cacophony of voices fell as a massive, dark, and winged figure flew through
the open Gate and past them on the banks of the river. Denizens ducked, then
looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of the fleeting shadow. Excited cries and hails
calling to the God-Pharaoh rang out.
But Djeru knew that thing was no God-Pharaoh.
He watched its path as the thing landed resolutely on an obelisk, gazing down
on the people below him. He heard Samut draw her khopeshes behind him, heard
her hiss a word that tasted like a curse, spat vile and angry from her lips.
"Demon."
A shiver of dread danced down Djeru's back. Demons were rare on Amonkhet.
Djeru had only seen them in texts and in his studies, and as fleeting, dark shapes
far outside the Hekma. Such creatures had no place in Paradise—but Djeru knew
the legends of this demon.
The final test; the last inglorious death before the God-Pharaoh's return.

Art by Jaime Jones

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 The demon stood high atop the obelisk and spread its wings to catch the warmth
of the second sun. Djeru could make out a crocodilian form and a mad smile. End-
less scales ending in a thick tail. Sharp wings leading toward a sharper grin.
The demon surveyed the assembled denizens. Its lips curled into a sneer, then
it spread its wings and launched itself back into the sky, circling casually above
the river and crowd before hovering just in front of the Gate. There, suspended
in midair, the demon held out its right arm and raked its claws into the meat of its
forearm. Rivulets of blood caught the light of the sun. The demon showed no re-
actions of pain, instead muttering an incantation, a low and abrasive rumble that
echoed over the water. Djeru recoiled at the sight of blood magic, stepping back
out of the river as demon blood fell drip, drip, drip into the water.

Art by Slawomir Maniak

With each drop, the river slowed.

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

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 Art by Cliff Childs

The blood spread, choking reeds and suffocating everything swimming in its
depths. Fish began to Bob to the surface, mouths gasping and eyes wide. Upriver,
dozens of hippopotamuses tried to crawl their way out of the sludge of blood and
mud only to drown in the thick mire. An enormous crocodile breached the sur-
face, coughing out red and audibly gasping through the thick liquid. It rolled and
gnashed on the bank, its dying body squishing dead fish and eels further into the
wine-colored mud beneath it. Everything in the river desperately wanted out. They
hastened their deaths as they frantically writhed in the coagulating morass.
Samut grabbed Djeru's arm, a grim expression on her face.
"Do you still believe this is the act of a benevolent God-Pharaoh?"
Djeru shook his head, doubt flooding his mind. As he opened his mouth to an-
swer, an abyssal voice reverberated in the air, booming deep, barbed with malice
and filled with horror. On reflex, Djeru clasped his hands over his ears, but it did
nothing to shut out the voice of the demon.
"Liliana," it rumbled.
Samut's eyes widened. "Why would the demon know the name of one of the
interlopers?" She asked Djeru. He only shook his head in response.
Djeru peered up at the demon and felt the blood in his veins run cold. The de-
mon smiled, razor teeth and fathomless eyes a portrait of power and despair. Its
voice boomed out again across the river of blood.
"I know you are here, Liliana Vess. You cannot hide from me."

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 FEAST
By Alison Luhrs
"And so the Hour of Revelation broke upon the land, and the promised time arrived
when all questions would be answered. And lo, the Gate to the Afterlife opened,
and from behind its gleaming walls, the true visage of the coming tide poured forth."
Liliana moved her foot back from the lapping crimson of the Luxa River. Raza-
keth's taunts rang in her ears, and she sighed.
I'm too old for this nonsense.
She rolled out her shoulders and pulled her hair back. What Liliana felt in that
moment was neither fear nor excitement. It was anticipation. All things considered,
the first two demons had been easy to defeat. Surprise and the suddenness of her
attacks had played to her favor.
How fortunate that she had the best backup in the Multiverse.
Jace? Can you hear me? Distantly in her mind, she heard a response.
Lili? Where are you! We're coming! The crowd—
—was too large, I know. I'm on the bank of the river, before the gate. Jace, it's
Razaketh, he's—
"Where are you, crone?"
The demon's voice again boomed out.
Around her, the remaining crowd murmured. Those who hadn't run away stood
rooted to the spot, trembling in fear and uncertain of what was going on.
Liliana furrowed her brow. She knew he'd be the type to toy with her. She
wouldn't allow herself to be baited into action that easily.
"Liliana, I know you're here . . ."
She slinked among the lingering people, her eyes following the dark figure
gliding in lazy circles high above the river. Razaketh flew to the open gate and
scanned the crowd.
Liliana felt her hand twitch.
She looked down in surprise.
The movement of her hand had been . . . involuntary.
Liliana held her right hand up to her face, a wave of dread crashing into her
chest.
Her own fingers waved back at her.
Liliana made a loud noise of disgust and shook her hand out.
It was a scare tactic, that's all. She refused to feel fear. Liliana purposefully
thrust the same hand down toward the left side of her dress, toward The Chain Veil.
The demon upon the gate laughed.
"There you are."

16
 His words sent a chill down her neck.
Out of the corner of her eye, Liliana saw the rest of the Gatewatch arrive. They
looked worse for wear, bodies bruised from the melee of the arena. Jace moved
toward Liliana's side, but she threw up a cautionary hand. The four others stopped
around her, all gazing up at the demon.
"I do not know the extent of his abilities," Liliana whispered, her voice urgent
and low. "But he's powerful. We should . . ."
Liliana abruptly stopped speaking. The demon lowered his wings. His words—
smooth, steady, calm—poured over the crowd.
"Come to me."
As soon as his words hit her ears, Liliana felt her shoulders draw back and her
face fall slack. The labyrinth of tattoos that covered her skin alit with the demon's
call, and she screamed in the privacy of her mind as, without urging or permission,
her body waded forward into the river of blood.

Art by Titus Lunter

In her long life, Liliana had withstood a number of tortures. She had fought, lost,
aged, willfully signed away her soul, and more. But nothing was as unbearable or
enraging as a loss of control. She had thought she knew the repercussions when
she formed those contracts with her demons decades before, but Liliana had never
truly envisioned the outcome.
Rage wasn't an emotion Liliana liked to experience with any frequency. It was

17
a too-hot bath, an uncontrolled flame, an itchy dress that never felt like her own.
But as the demon Razaketh urged her body onward, Liliana bore her rage as a
banner. She reveled in its churning fury and fought and tugged with all the might
of her mind to seize control of herself.
But it was to no avail. No matter how much she mentally fought, her hate never
reached her face. Her anger never pulled at her muscles. Liliana had no control
over the one thing that was ever actually hers.
Damn it all to the depths of the hells!
She railed and screamed in her own mind, but the tether between her will and
her limbs remained severed.
Chandra and Nissa reached out to pull Liliana's wandering body back, and a
flare of necromantic energy pushed back their hands. The two women recoiled
back, hands withdrawn before the decay and rot seized them.
In Liliana's head, she could hear Jace yelling, and in her ears Gideon's voice
echoed, but her attention remained fixed on Razaketh before her.
Go to him was the only command her body knew. The Chain Veil remained
tucked away, the demon too close, her allies unable to halt the urge to wade forward.
She wanted to tear the demon's eyes out and swallow them whole. Liliana
screamed obscenity after obscenity in her mind, hoping that her cascade of curses
would make the demon relinquish his hold.
But the hold stayed.
Liliana waded into the blood of the Luxa. It felt hot, viscous, utterly vile. Her
body kept walking, wading deeper and deeper into the river. To her hips. To her
waist. To her sternum.
Liliana's thoughts turned from raging protest to an Endless Scream.
She felt her leg graze something dead under the water. A fish floated past
her shoulder. The river was full of freshly dead wildlife, all choked by the blood of
Razaketh's ritual. Nothing living survived in the blood mire.
Jace's voice faded in her mind. She was too far out, too deep in the river.
Liliana took a breath and felt her head dip below the surface.
The liquid was cloying and thick, its temperature hot against her skin.
Her heart beat fast and frightened.
I will not be afraid. He is weaker than I am, and I can survive this.
A voice creaked through her mind: "You can only survive this if you kill him."
The Raven Man.
Liliana screamed. Get out! Not now! I do not want to hear from you!
"You are only free if you kill each of your demons, Liliana. Only then will I leave
you be."
Liliana didn't have time to think that over.
She was running out of air.

18
 With growing urgency, she wanted to inhale, even though she knew she would
just drown on mouthfuls of blood, but the demon's control of her body overrode
her impulses even for breath.
Just as she was sure she'd lose consciousness, her body swam itself to the
surface, and she gasped for air.
She had crossed the river and crawled onto the opposite bank. She looked up,
blinking through sticking eyelashes, to the base of the Necropolis just beyond the
Gate to the Afterlife. Razaketh stood above her on a stone platform, his face as
smug and obnoxious as Liliana remembered.
A part of her felt foolish. No other demon wielded this sort of control over her
body. How could she fight someone who could maneuver her like a puppet? What
kind of tactic could she use to fight that?
Razaketh looked down. His face was reptilian and unreadable, but he seemed
pleased all the same to encounter his contractor. Where Kothophed and Grisel-
brand were distant, Razaketh was playful.
"What a delightful surprise," the demon purred.
He motioned with his hand for Liliana to rise from the silt, and without hesita-
tion, her body did it for her, kneeling in the muck. Her dress stuck to her sides, and
the blood began to crust in the heat of the sun.
Liliana could feel that this position would cramp her feet, but she was unable
to shift or move. She instead focused on her breath, heaving in a rhythm not her
own, and tried to tame her panic into determination.
The demon stepped forward and studied his subject. "Old age never suited you."
Razaketh leered with a reptilian smile. Liliana wanted to rip the look from his
face.
"I'm glad you've been reaping the benefits of our deal," the demon said, eyeing
the blood on Liliana's dress. "I do apologize for the mess I've made. A dear friend
left an assignment for me to fulfill."
Razaketh looked to the second sun. "You were very fortunate to arrive when
you did. You get to see the show! I'm excited to see it myself. It is a surprise for
me, too, you know."
If Liliana could have jumped she would have. A little patter of rain suddenly
chimed in the back of her mind—
Liliana! We see you. We're coming!
Never had Liliana been so relieved to hear Jace in her head. Razaketh hadn't
seemed to notice, and she was briefly thankful for not being in control of the ex-
pression on her face.
Oblivious, the demon continued to toy with her. "I apologize for the forceful-
ness, Liliana, but I love a dog who comes when she is called. And you're a good
dog, aren't you?"

19
 He held out a lazy finger and tapped it.
Liliana felt her head nod. Her muscles strained and cramped as she tried to
resist the urge, but her head tipped forward . . . then back . . . forward . . . then back.
Razaketh smiled, putting his hand down. "Good."
He went quiet and considered her for a moment. A smug look pulled at the
scales of his face as he thought over his next command.
"Bark."
"Woof," Liliana replied in a tone that could Ice Over the sun.
Razaketh made a small noise of displeasure.
"You really ought to read contracts before you sign them, you know. People hide
all sorts of nasty clauses into them. The other co-authors were so straightforward,
but I like a little flair in my dealings."
Razaketh tipped his chin, and without warning, Liliana's right hand balled into
a fist and rushed toward her own face. It halted a hair's width from her left eye.
Her face was frozen in the emotionless expression of obedience, but internally
she squirmed.
Satisfied with his demonstration, Razaketh silently urged Liliana to put her fist
down. As her body obeyed, Liliana's mind reached back down the river, assessing
how many dead things remained choked and buried in the blood behind her.
Razaketh straightened himself and puffed his chest. "Now then, crone, tell me
what you came here for."
Liliana's jaw popped with returned agency. She shifted it from Side to Side. The
rest of her was still out of reach, but at least her words were again hers.
She made them count.
"You have five more minutes to live," Liliana said, voice dripping with resolution.
"You will watch me as I kill you."
Razaketh laughed. "Five minutes. How precise."
Liliana's expression didn't change. "I'm a very punctual person."
"I doubt that."
"I killed Kothophed and Griselbrand," Liliana replied with a ghost of a smile.
"It was easy."
Razaketh scoffed. "They were idiots."
Liliana smiled. "You're not wrong."
The demon considered her.
"I won't kill you. But I could maim you," Razaketh mused, toying with a knife at
his hip. "I could have you do it yourself."
Liliana tipped her chin. "Four minutes."
Razaketh laughed.
Jace's voice appeared in Liliana's mind once more.
Don't move.

20
 Internally, Liliana sighed. Is that a joke?
A pause. Maybe.
Liliana's attention returned to the demon standing tall over her.
An awkward silence ensued.
"Did you really have nothing more than an idle, empty threat? I'm almost disap-
pointed." Razaketh made a show of shaking his head.
Jace's voice suddenly bloomed again in Liliana's mind, laced with panic. Wait,
Chandra, don't rush ahead—
"Four minutes is a bit long, isn't it?" Liliana said aloud with a coy smile.
The demon scowled.
Liliana grinned. "How about . . . now?"
From somewhere behind Razaketh's head, a jet of fire engulfed the demon.
Razaketh screamed.
Relief flooded Liliana as control of her body returned. She rushed to her feet,
the blood of the river still dripping down her dress, and looked to the source of the
fire. Chandra funneled a blaze at Razaketh's screeching body, leaving the demon
writhing, his tail whipping wildly as he tried to fight his way through the fire.
The demon unfurled his wings and launched into the air. He barreled down at
Chandra at full speed and rammed into her side, knocking the pyromancer into the
side of the Necropolis with a bruising thud.
Liliana reached a hand back toward the river, drawing on her powers, but
Razaketh turned back on her with a snarl.
"I don't think so," the demon roared, and Liliana felt her shoulder dislocate itself.
Her scream was immediate, half pain and half fury, and then she felt her voice
forcibly vanish. Razaketh stood, hand out and brow furrowed, again seizing control.
A sudden whip of sand, rock, and reeds barreled into the side of the concentrat-
ing demon. A massive elemental emerged, its body forming from the banks of the
river. As it rose, rivulets of well water untouched by the blood spell cascaded from it.
With Razaketh's concentration broken, Liliana again shuddered with returned
control.
She wasted no time popping her shoulder back into place with a groan, then
once more thrust her hand toward the river, dark energy rippling through her as
she wove her spell.
Injured and surprised, Razaketh scratched and clawed to get away from the
elemental and back into the sky. Behind him, Nissa helped Chandra to her feet,
keeping an eye on her elemental. As Razaketh ripped a massive chunk of earth
from the elemental's torso, he thrust a clawed hand at Liliana to regain control.
The exertion only half-worked—Liliana's legs gave out, but her body remained
her own.
The elemental battered the demon again, and Razaketh turned his full fury on

21
the creature. He ripped off clumps of mud and tore reeds from its sides. He growled
and spat and broke a crack in its side with his tail. As he raised a fist to deliver the
final blow, he was bathed in flames once again—Chandra, standing once more,
let loose a flurry of fireballs at the demon.
Liliana felt her right side go limp, and she fell to the ground.
Razaketh had one hand trained toward her, the other pinning Nissa's elemental
to the ground.
Liliana panted against the earth and felt the sand in her teeth. In the distance,
she saw the elemental hit the ground. Nissa had retreated behind another part of
the Necropolis—she was clearly having trouble maintaining enough mana to keep
the elemental active. Razaketh had flown up now and was dodging Chandra's
flames with ease.
Jace! Liliana yelled in her mind.
But as the word formed in her mind, she halted.
Her breath had stopped.
She tried to suck in air, but her diaphragm was completely still.
Liliana tried again but found herself unable to breathe.
Razaketh landed in front of her, facing away from Liliana, taunting Chandra.
Liliana saw Chandra in the distance behind him taking aim at the demon. She
realized that Chandra was unable to see her lying on the ground.
Liliana couldn't breathe. She couldn't move. And the pyromancer was taking
aim at the demon standing directly above her.
Jace!
Jace's voice reappeared in her mind, frantic and distracted. Gideon on your left!
Liliana twitched as she felt an invisible hand grab her shoulder. Jace must have
camouflaged Gideon to help him get closer to her position.
She watched as Gideon's sural flashed into view, carving three thick lines in
Razaketh's back. The demon howled in pain, and Liliana coughed and inhaled a
deep and desperate breath speckled with sand. She sat up on her elbows and
caught her breath between gasps.
Gideon's voice growled in her ear. "Make it fast."
"I intend to," Liliana croaked.
She felt bright, unfamiliar magic envelop the area around her. Gideon had
extended his invulnerability, creating a safe barrier between her and the demon.
A moment later, the air around her was engulfed in flames.
Liliana could see Gideon crouching above her now, wreathing his magic around
the two of them, a golden dome shielding them from the inferno.
Razaketh stumbled forward through the flames, flailing widely before being
tackled by a second elemental. The elemental pinned the demon to the ground,
and Razaketh roared, his skin blistering from Chandra's pyromantic bombardment.

22
 Liliana stood. She walked forward with Gideon standing at her back, still main-
taining his shielding invulnerability. Liliana sensed a third twinge of magic—Jace
must have made them invisible to Razaketh's eye.
Jace, I need you to interrupt his control over me.
Jace's voice resounded with frustration. What do you think I've been trying to
do for the last ten minutes?
She didn't have time for this.
Drop the invisibility and focus on that while he's distracted!
Razaketh's eyes went unfocused.
Got him, move fast, Jace said, his mental voice full of strain.
"Forward, Gideon!" Liliana asserted.
Liliana walked forward into the wall of flames, blood dripping from her body
and sizzling as it hit the ground. Gideon's hand went to her shoulder to strengthen
the magic that protected the two of them.
Behind the barrier of invulnerability, the heat of the inferno came across as
pleasantly warm. Comfortable, almost. Liliana squinted her eyes against the light
and made out the shape of Razaketh in front of her, wrestling with Nissa's mas-
sive elemental of sand and water, his flesh dark and singed by the conflagration
around him.
Liliana pulled The Chain Veil from her dress.
You don't need that, Jace said in her mind, it will only hurt you—
Liliana scowled at Jace's interjection.
But then again . . . he was right.
She didn't need it for this.
Let the demon witness what terror she could wield all on her own.
Liliana slipped the veil back into her dress. If the situation became dire she
could always pull it back out, but for now she wanted to test her own abilities. The
dying demon before her made her feel particularly indulgent.
"Razaketh," Liliana called.
The demon was blistered and pinned to the banks of the river. His face was
burned, melting, and wrinkled: a grimace of rage.
Liliana held her head high, peering down at Razaketh in a way she hoped he
could feel.
"Watch me as I kill you."
She held out her hands and reached her power toward the river.
The river boiled and churned with movement. Razaketh's eyes went wide.
Do it now! Jace yelled in Liliana's mind. Nearby, he flickered into view, drop-
ping his veil as his mental voice strained with effort. Liliana looked at him with a
start—the mind mage had snuck up closer than she thought. As Jace grimaced,
Liliana felt a twitch in her hand as Razaketh struggled to reassert control. With a

23
flick of her wrist, a menagerie of death spilled up and out of the river of blood. Fish,
turtles, snakes, hippopotamuses, shorebirds, and drowned antelopes rose out of
the crimson Luxa in a writhing mass. Their mouths gaped, their teeth flashed, and
they hurled themselves out of the river and toward the charred body of the demon.
Liliana moved the mass as she would move her own body. Her control resided
over each fin, claw, and tooth that burst up from the thick blood of the river. She
felt immense: boundless, magnified, and distributed through waves of risen flesh.
She wasn't sure where she ended and the hundreds of dead began. For a fleeting
moment, Liliana remembered what it was like to wield godlike power.
The demon struggled to pull himself out from under the grip of Nissa's elemen-
tal. With a roar and a twist, he broke free and stretched his wings—torn like aged
canvas on a rotting frame—and launched into the air again. Liliana sent a burst of
necromantic energy at him, and he convulsed as he fell to the ground. Immediately,
the morass of undead set upon the demon, fangs and teeth and horns tearing at
flesh.
Chandra, Gideon, and Nissa turned away from the carnage.
But next to Liliana, Jace remained transfixed, unable to look away.
Liliana felt him brush against the side of her mind with a cautious touch, ask-
ing for an invitation to peer in. Liliana welcomed his mental gaze. Look Jace, she
thought, at what I plan to do next.
Distantly, Liliana heard Jace gag with revulsion behind her.
He immediately retreated from her mind, but Liliana didn't care. She was busy.
Razaketh howled in pain and was suddenly, violently tugged toward the river.
Liliana twisted her hand, and another two dozen crocodiles bellowed and dragged
their corpses out onto the bank. His leg trapped in the jaws of one of the beasts,
Razaketh tried to rise and crawl away from the river, but it was too late. Liliana
released her hold on the other creatures and poured her energy and mind into the
bodies of the crocodiles. Strong muscles and sharp teeth. An undead hunger for
the flesh of the living.
With her consciousness divided among the two dozen dead crocodiles in front
of her, she gnashed her teeth and attacked. Her two dozen bellies hungered, and
her two dozen jaws opened wide. Without hesitation or humanity, her two dozen
selves consumed the last of the demon Razaketh.
She feasted, and he screamed.
The crocodiles dragged the remains of the demon into the river of blood, splash-
ing crimson arcs into the air as their tails violently slapped the surface of the water.
They crowded and shoved and dug their teeth into the demon's flesh.
Liliana could feel herself getting full. Her two dozen jaws latched onto limbs
and spun circles to rip them off clean. Her two dozen mouths spat out blood and
devoured the charred flesh. There would be nothing left to stumble back to life.

24
She laughed, and the crocodiles bellowed in tandem. Amonkhet's curse would not
get this corpse.
While her savage, divided mind ate the demon alive, her own teeth gently
ground in subconscious tandem.
She laughed and dimly heard Jace heaving behind her.
Liliana, that's enough, Jace pleaded. Liliana, he's dead. Please stop.
Liliana swallowed in her own body and tasted nothing.
She was panting with exertion.
And smiling from ear to ear.
She felt sated, relieved, and deliciously monstrous. She didn't want to stop.
Lili, enough.
Liliana lowered her hand and retreated from the bodies of the crocodiles. They
lurched, and a moment later, swam upriver of their own reanimated volition. The
Curse of Wandering had taken hold.
She had done it!
Liliana giggled and fell exhausted on the sand. No wine was as sweet as inde-
pendence, no victory as satisfying as self-governance. Liliana was not a sentimental
person, but lying on the bank of the River, staring at the glimmering blue of the
Hekma, she found herself feeling as if it was all actually possible. As if she could
be free of the control of others and the things that she despised. The assistance
of the Gatewatch had provided the means to her end. Just as planned!
The wind picked up, and a hot breeze blew her hair out of her face. She saw
Jace out of the corner of her eye. He was standing next to her, staring down with
an unreadable expression. Liliana could smell his vomit on the ground behind him.
"I did it, Jace."
Liliana giggled again.
"I ate him."
Jace was, pointedly, not answering.
"The other two demons were a lot easier. They couldn't do to me what he did.
And now there's just one more. And then I get myself to myself again."
Exhaustion had set in. Liliana knew she wasn't making much sense. She sat
up with effort.
"Did you throw up?" she asked through tired breath.
Jace didn't respond.
Gideon, Nissa, and Chandra approached cautiously. They had stood to the
side, watching Liliana's revenge from a distance, and walked forward now, bat-
tered from the conflict.
"Thank you all for your assistance," Liliana said with a breathy, grateful smile.
Gideon crossed his arms. "We did what had to be done. Our focus needs now
to be on the arrival of Bolas."

25
 "Yes," she said, fixing back her hair with a ribbon from her dress. "First, a mo-
ment to catch our breath."
"We don't have time for rest," Nissa said with uncharacteristic perturbance.
"From what I can sense, the bloodspell Razaketh cast has begun a Chain Reac-
tion of sorceries. 'The Hours' that herald Nicol Bolas's return needed to be set in
motion by the demon."
Liliana stood on shaky legs. None of the others offered to help her up.
"We'll be better prepared to face him with Razaketh out of the way," Liliana said.
"I agree," Gideon said, "but we intervened to save you, despite your deception
about the demon's presence."
"And it worked out well, didn't it?" Liliana countered.
Chandra held out her hands to slow the conversation. "We don't have time to
argue about what happened. We need to split up and prevent further loss of life."
"I . . . agree," Nissa said. She looked at Jace and fell quiet as the two engaged
in a silent, mental conversation.
In the lull, Gideon took charge.
"We need to rally and conserve our strength. If we can, we'll want to ambush
Nicol Bolas when he arrives. Let's catch him by surprise instead of the other way
around." Gideon looked pointedly at Liliana.
Liliana rolled her eyes. She felt no shame for how she took down the demon.
Yet she couldn't deny the coldness with which the others regarded her. Gideon
was poorly trying to hide a frown. Chandra's mouth was drawn into a stressed, thin
line. Nissa openly scowled. Jace seemed most distant of all.
"Let us seek a better vantage to prepare for Nicol Bolas's arrival," Gideon said.
They turned and walked back toward the gate, crossing the threshold back into
Naktamun.
Only Jace lingered behind, looking at Liliana with an inscrutable expression.
"Don't look at me like that," Liliana said.
Jace didn't blink. "I'm not going to stand by if you lose it like that again."
"It was necessary." Liliana shrugged.
Jace shook his head. "It was overkill."
Liliana scoffed with a smile. "I did what I needed to."
She turned, tugging her hair tight and away from her face, and left to join the
others.
Jace stood for a moment longer. He looked to the stain of blood on the banks
of the Luxa and, despite the heat of the afternoon and the sheen of sweat on his
forehead, he shivered.

26
 HOUR OF GLORY
By Michael Yichao
"And as the Luxa, the lifeblood of Naktamun, turned to the foul blood of the great
shadow Razaketh, the Hours turned to that of Glory—the promised time when the
gods themselves would prove their worth before the God-Pharaoh."
In the beginning, there was nothing but darkness: a churning ocean of uncer-
tainty.
Then the great God-Pharaoh awoke and rose, a shining golden sun, and shed
light upon the unformed world. With the unfurling of his wings, he split sky from
earth; with his first breath, he formed water and air; with a sweep of his tail, he
carved mountains and crumbled stone into sand. And thus, the God-Pharaoh sifted
order from chaos, and the world took shape, raw and young and new.
The God-Pharaoh then gazed upon the barren, quiet world and planted the
seeds of life. And so the denizens of Amonkhet were born, birthed from the dreams
of the dragon-creator. But unlike their creator, they were soft, vulnerable, frail—and
mortal. And the shadows of the world, the remnants of that black ocean, seized
those that died, twisting them into undeath, a threat and plague to the living.
And so the great God-Pharaoh forged the gods.
He drew upon the fabric of the world itself, weaving the mana of Amonkhet
into five forms, each to embody a virtue of himself. And thus, the immortals of
Amonkhet came into being. Born of the God-Pharaoh's will and stronger than his
dream-children, the gods were tasked with protecting his mortal flocks from the
whims of shadow, shepherding them toward a glorious death instead.
For the God-Pharaoh knew of a realm beyond this world. A place only reach-
able by passing through death. And though he knew the hardships of this world
were many, and shadows gripped at the edges of all that dwelled there. He knew
that his children could prevail, grow, learn, and become worthy. For the afterlife
was a gift too precious to be given lightly; his children needed to prove themselves
deserving of its glory.
And so the God-Pharaoh gifted his children the Trials. And each god was hon-
ored with the task of teaching, training, and leading the mortals on the path to life
eternal.
And once all was in place, the God-Pharaoh left Naktamun to pave the way
to eternity, giving time for his children to learn, strive, and achieve their destinies
before joining him in the great afterlife. He left his children in the care of his gods
and set the second sun in motion to mark the time of his return.

27
 Art by Richard Wright

All this Rhonas knew to be true.

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

28
 Art by Christine Choi

It had been many years since all five had gathered in one place. Each god
served a purpose in the God-Pharaoh's grand design, guiding mortals through their
own Trials, watching over the city in their own way. Rhonas had worked the closest
with Hazoret, the two striking out into the desert on occasion to Hunt Down any
great threat that strayed too close to the city. He had not stood in the presence of
the others in some time. Yet here they were now, all five standing before the gate.
At their feet, many mortals bowed their heads in deference or gazed up in awe,
bathed for the first time in the presence of all five divinities at once.
And still, the God-Pharaoh did not arrive.
Rhonas's tongue flicked out, sampling the air, searching for some sign—mun-
dane or magical. The promised Hour of Revelation had come and gone, but no
answers had been revealed. Whatever spell the now-absent demon had unleashed
still wound through the air, its effects churning and unresolved, and Rhonas brought
his staff to bear, his instincts whispering of danger.
Look. The Luxa. Hazoret's voice reverberated in his mind, and Rhonas's gaze
shifted to the river. The blood, coagulating at standstill just moments ago, had
resumed its flow through the gate, rushing with increasing speed as it coursed
beyond. In the past, Rhonas had seen the Gate to the Afterlife crack open as part
of the daily passage of worthy dead to the beyond. This, however, was the first
time he had witnessed it's doors thrown wide. Yet he saw no sign of the promised

29
paradise beyond the open portal—only the Necropolis, large and imposing, hous-
ing all the dead awaiting the God-Pharaoh's return.
Within moments, all that remained of the mighty Luxa was a few rivulets of red,
coagulating droplets of blood clinging to stones at the bottom of the riverbed. The
acrid bite of the demonic spell reverberated through Rhonas's very being, and he
sensed old magics unraveling and Unbinding. As the magical pressure in the air
grew thick and almost unbearable, the blood of the river seemed to seep into the
stone foundation of the Necropolis, running up the grooves and markings on the
statues lining the sides of the building.
A blast of fetid air burst from the monolithic structure, and a sudden crack rang
out. Rhonas watched as three of the massive statues—no, sarcophagi—along
the side of the building cracked open, their stone facades crumbling in a cloud of
dust. A blue light flashed, and three enormous figures stepped forward from their
slumber, awakened by the demon's spell.

Art by Grzegorz Rutowski

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

30
 Art by Grzegorz Rutkowski

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

Art by Grzegorz Rutkowski

31
 For the first time in his existence, Rhonas felt unsure. Nothing in the prophe-
cies, nothing in his memories of the God-Pharaoh spoke of these three.
The mortals at his feet murmured, and a few let out panicked screams as The
Scorpion God lumbered through the gate, its massive strides sending tremors
rumbling through the ground. To his right, Hazoret took a step forward, spear at
the ready, but Rhonas held out his staff to stay her fervor. Is this a foe, or a test?
"I am Rhonas, God of Strength. Who are you, and why have you awakened
during this Hour of Glory?" Rhonas's voice boomed.
The Scorpion God did not respond, but turned its insectoid head toward Rho-
nas. Upon closer examination, the god appeared even more grotesque than Rho-
nas had initially thought. Its body was a coil of sinew and muscle coated by dark
exoskeleton, with hands that ended in sharp claws. Its head looked like a massive
scorpion perched on the humanoid body, its hardened carapace gilded and adorned
with blue orbs that Rhonas could only assume were its eyes.

Art by Lius Lasahido

32
 The immortal seemed to regard Rhonas. No words came forth from its man-
dibles, but a low chittering noise started and grew in volume. Rhonas gripped his
staff tighter as the scorpion tail arched over the god's head. A wave of panic rippled
through the mortals at Rhonas's feet, and he felt a rush of their prayers and sup-
plication.
Rhonas pointed his staff toward The Scorpion God, matching the display of
aggression with one of his own. "Whether you are a harbinger of our God-
Pharaoh's return or an interloper conspiring against the Hours, you shall
proceed no further."
The Scorpion God took another earth-shaking step forward. Rhonas shifted
his grip on his staff as his feet moved into a practiced, centered stance. Around
him, his brothers and sisters stood at the ready, bodies tense, eyes on Rhonas.
Rhonas's tongue again flicked out into the air. "You shall not defy a god of
Amonkhet. We stand guard over this city and its people. If you are my Trial,
then I will defeat you and prove myself worthy!"
Without warning, The Scorpion God charged toward Rhonas, its chittering spik-
ing in volume. Sand flew as the immortal moved with surprising speed, scorpion
tail tensed. It dashed into striking distance, clawed hands swiping at Rhonas.
But Rhonas was ready, sidestepping the charging god and striking at it with his
staff. The metal smashed against the other god's back, a resounding strike against
its carapace that would have reduced lesser beings to dust. The immortal seemed
to shrug off the assault as it spun around, mandibles clacking and tail twitching in
anticipation. It sprang at Rhonas again, claws raking at his eyes. Rhonas raised
his staff to parry, and The Scorpion God's claws clanged against the metal of his
weapon. Rhonas felt his knees bend and his feet break the earth beneath him
under the force of the blow.
Rhonas struggled, pushing up against the larger god. Fighting something big-
ger than himself was unusual, but not wholly new. The deserts hid sandwurms,
monstrosities, and far more terrifying beasts, and he had occasionally tussled with
a foe whose stature exceeded his own. But fighting something stronger than him?
Than the God of Strength?
Rhonas shouted in fury and pushed, muscles screaming as he shoved The
Scorpion God back. The ground shook with each of its steps as it stumbled. Rho-
nas took advantage of its loss of balance, drawing mana and channeling a spell of
vigor. Power coursed through his limbs and he swung at The Scorpion God with
all his might.
His blow caught it in the chest, and the immortal went flying across the ex-
panse, landing with a crash just beyond the gate. Rhonas heard the mortals cheer
and shout praises behind him as The Scorpion God slowly clambered to its feet.
Rhonas's stoic face hid from the rejoicing mortals the growing dread in his heart.

33
That spell never failed to end a fight before.
The Scorpion God again crossed the threshold of the gate. This time, it did
not charge. Instead, it cut a sweeping path, keeping its distance but stalking and
circling closer to Rhonas. The chittering never ceased, droning at a mind-numbing
volume and frequency. Rhonas tried to block it out, countering with an incantation
he muttered low under his breath.
This scorpion god was clearly a Trial of the Hour of Glory. It had to be. Nothing
else had challenged Rhonas's strength like this before. Nothing had sustained his
attacks and lived. Rhonas's eyes flickered to the two looming shapes still beyond
the gate. Perhaps those gods would test the others in different ways. After all, the
gods could not prove their worth if they were not also faced, as the mortals were,
with struggles beyond what they had ever encountered before. A smile crept across
his face as he continued his incantation. Blessed be the strength and wisdom of
the God-Pharaoh, he thought. It is an honor to prove my worth against such a
formidable foe.
Rhonas touched his staff, uttering the final words of his incantation. A sickly
green glow pulsed, seeming to come from within the metal. It shimmered across
the length of the staff, then coalesced in the bladed end of the weapon, settling
into a soft viridian light.
Rhonas began to walk, a counter circle to The Scorpion God's sweeping path.
"You are indeed strong," Rhonas said. "But you shall not triumph today."
This time, Rhonas charged in, dashing toward The Scorpion God with serpentine
speed. He parried a strike from the scorpion tail, then spun close and landed a blow
with his elbow, catching The Scorpion God in the ribs. His staff left streaking trails
of green light as he swung, striking fast instead of hard, testing the strength of The
Scorpion God's carapace, leaving slashing cuts and scratches on the impossibly
hard shell, deflecting and dodging The Scorpion God's strikes.
As the two brawled, The Scorpion God's movements seemed to slow. The
strikes from its claws and tail became sluggish. Too late, it looked at Rhonas's
staff with dawning recognition. Rhonas grinned and bared his fangs as he drove
the blade end of his staff into the immortal's shoulder, cracking the carapace just
enough, The Scorpion God now too slow to stop or dodge the assault. The biting
glow of magical poison, venom powerful enough to slay most living things, pulsed
as it seeped in through the wound, numbing and eating away at The Scorpion God
from the inside.
Rhonas pulled his staff back, and The Scorpion God fell to its knees, still chit-
tering weakly. The roar of the people reverberated in his ears and he felt a rush of
relief and warmth from his fellow gods. Rhonas regarded the monstrosity brought
low, then turned back toward his brothers and sisters and the gathered mortals.
He opened his mouth to speak.

34
 Rhonas the Indomitable | Aby Chase Stone

The words never made it past his throat.

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

35
 Time halted.
Rhonas looked down, surprised to see himself standing on the banks of the
Luxa. Behind him, The Scorpion God loomed, a dark shape that somehow exuded
and glowed darkness, claws gripping Rhonas's body.
That was when Rhonas saw the scorpion tail, arched over the god, piercing
his own skull.
I . . . am slain.
The realization crept through him even as he felt the ichor of The Scorpion God's
sting drip down his spine, seeping into his mind and soul, severing his physical ties
to his divinity and corroding the magic that connected his body to his immortality.
Rhonas watched, seized by horror and fascination, as death consumed him. He felt
the poison gnaw at his heart and fray the knot of leylines and magic and physical
strength that resided in his core.
Yet as the poison destroyed the links anchoring him to the world, it also unbound
the magical threads placed there by another force.
And Rhonas suddenly remembered the truth.
The memories began as a trickle, then flooded through him as the tangled
dam of magic unraveled. And Rhonas's very spirit recoiled as the true events and
nature of the God-Pharaoh revealed itself, a crushing Tidal Wave sweeping away
everything he had believed for the past sixty years.
The great lie of the God-Pharaoh. The dragon, not a creator but a merciless
destroyer. The great trespasser, slayer of mortals and corrupter of gods. The cruel
inversion of the world's most sacred rite, the twisting of a glorious honor into a
constant churn and murder of mortal champions. The sudden remembrance that
gods were not crafted in the dragon's image; they were born of Amonkhet, origi-
nally eight in number, pillars of the plane and guardians of the living. And the great
pretender corrupted it all.
Rhonas wept.
And as he wept, his tears turned from heartbreak to rage, and Rhonas spat
the foul name, his dying heart filled with fury and pain.
Nicol Bolas.
As darkness crept in on the edges of his vision and he felt the last ti es of his
spirit to his physical form disintegrate, Rhonas looked upon the gruesome visage
of the god behind him. And though his bodily eyes already filmed over with a milky
white, he saw the god's true nature—the tiniest flickers of flame in its heart, sur-
rounded by utter darkness, the original light and soul of his brother buried beneath
vile corruption. This god was once one of the original eight, corrupted and repur-
posed to become a slayer of the very siblings he once held most dear.
"Brother," Rhonas whispered.
Rhonas felt the scorpion's stinger retract, felt his muscles spasm and tense, felt

36
the quickening approach of death. And his heart broke: for his three lost siblings, for
the mortals who perished, for those he guided in supplication to a foul falsehood.
And the Strength of the World faded, his immortal light sputtering in the con-
suming shadows.

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

Art by Winona Nelson

37
 As Rhonas collapsed, his life extinguished, the invisible strands of leylines
and mana tied to him snapped, sending ripples of force blasting out across all life
in Naktamun. Mortals doubled over in shock as the god perished, and even the
other gods stumbled and recoiled where they stood. They watched as Rhonas's
staff, carrying the final vestiges of their brother's power, flew through the air, his
final spell transforming the weapon into a living monstrous serpent, fangs bared
and laced with death as it struck at The Scorpion God.
The Scorpion God fell to the ground, ensnared by the serpent. The god's tail
swung wildly, trying to stab the snake as the two wrestled for control.
The four gods stared, stunned into stillness. Around them, the cries of fear and
panic swelled as mortals continued to flee from the gate.
The cry of her children shook Oketra from her shock. She turned to her sib-
lings, tears welling in her eyes, her voice rough and uncertain as her usual grace
evaporated.
"The Hours have gone awry. We must protect the mortals."
Her words stirred her siblings into motion. Hazoret turned toward Oketra, brows
crinkled in confusion.
"Rhonas. He said . . . he blasphemed our God-Pharaoh."
Oketra nodded. She too had heard Rhonas's final words, and though they
could not possibly be true, doubt nibbled at the edges of her heart even as faint
fragments of thoughts flitted just at the periphery of her memory.
A growing buzz pulled her attention back beyond the gate.
The second of the insect gods had spread its arms, and a swarm of locusts
poured forth from its hands. Oketra watched in horror as the dark cloud flooded
into the sky and across the Hekma—and began eating through the magical barrier.

Art by Daniel Ljunggren

38
 "What is it doing?!" Kefnet cried out.
A shiver of realization and recognition ran down Oketra's spine as she remem-
bered the words of prophecy. And at that time, the God-Pharaoh will tear down
the Hekma.
Oketra spoke, her voice a muted whisper.
"The Hour of Promise has begun."
A horrific rending sound erupted before them. The Scorpion God stood from
the ground, two halves of the giant snake held in each hand.
Slowly, it opened its claws and let the pieces fall to the ground. Its azure eyes
stared cold and piercing at the gods, and it again resumed its ceaseless approach.
Oketra notched an arrow to her bow, mouth drawn in a steely line, her broken
heart hardening with sharp resolve.
And The Scorpion God stalked closer, while behind it, the other two gods
crossed the threshold of the gate into the city of Naktamun.
Above them all, between the great horns in the distance, the second sun cast
its red glow across the land, a ceaseless eye watching the unfolding of the Hours.

39
 THE HOUR OF PROMISE
By Alison Luhrs

Hapatra, Vizier of Poisons | Art by Tyler Jacobson

"And lo, the three dark divinities returned, and as they felled the gods, the Hour of
Promise arrived. And so the great locust god fulfilled the great promise, and thus
the Hekma was torn asunder, its protections cast aside before the return of the
God-Pharaoh."
Hapatra stood on the steps of the Temple of Strength, watching the blood of
the Luxa seep upriver, transforming the water to crimson as its stain spread. Her
arms were crossed tight in front of her chest, and her mouth was a hard line. The
other viziers of the temple flanked her on either side, sharing her fixation with the
dry riverbed and its crimson stain.
Khufu stood to her right. He was broad-shouldered and bulky, with a patch of
gray sneaking across his temples. In a happier moment, Hapatra would have teased
him for his age (a ghastly thirty-five), but now all she could do was shake her head.
"We should have news of the new gods' intentions by now," she said. "Where
is Iput?"
"Returning swiftly, I'm certain," Khufu said, faith ringing through his voice like
a chime.
Hapatra toyed with the pet snake wrapped around her little finger. Earlier, a

40
messenger had come to say that three new gods had appeared, and that one had
engaged Rhonas in combat. She wished she could stand alongside Rhonas to
greet the newcomers, but the viziers had agreed in the moment that it was best
to stay at their temples.
Hapatra pursed her lips. She was as anxious and desperate for news as the
rest of her peers. "We should be near Rhonas for the Hour of Glory."
Khufu crossed his arms. "The Hour of Glory is the time when gods and mortals
alike will prove their worthiness to enter into the glorious Afterlife."
Hapatra made a small noise of confirmation. "So the new gods will test them
first? Then move on to us and the untested initiates?"
Khufu shrugged.
Hapatra shifted from foot to foot, letting her little pet slide from one hand to
the other. Her heart beat with anxiety. She knew in her heart that Rhonas's victory
would be swift, but waiting for news was proving to be torturous.
"The prophecies have always been unclear about where we were supposed to
be for all of this. How will we know when to lead the untested initiates to the new
gods? And what does the river turning to blood have to do with it?" Hapatra frowned.
Khufu held up his hands, palms facing upward.
"The God-Pharaoh will make all clear."
May the God-Pharaoh's mercy be more bountiful than his communications,
Hapatra thought to herself.
She let her gaze drift back to the River Luxa. The birds had stopped singing,
and the city, usually rife with the sounds of happy training, was utterly silent. It
made Hapatra uncomfortable. Even more concerning was the retreating water—
blood—of the river. The empty riverbed was filled with undead fish. Strange, lumpy,
blood-soaked animals flopped on the mud and rolled around lamely. The Curse of
Wandering did not care that they needed water to move after all.
It was all too strange. Too unorthodox. These prophecies were vague, and their
manifestations unsettling.
Foreign doubts ghosted through Hapatra's mind. She dared not give them
names.
Without warning, her breath hitched in her throat.
A sudden, jarring pain burst in Hapatra's chest, and she doubled over in agony,
clutching her heart and cursing through the sting.
She looked around desperately for the source and saw that the other viziers
were clutching their chest as well. She stilled her mind and tried to work her way
through the ache. Hapatra was a master of poisons and had spent much of her life
forcing her body to work through Searing Pain. She breathed in, then out, focusing
on her will to ease the panic and hurt from her body.
The physical pain passed, but a Feeling of Dread remained.

41
 Parts of the city were screaming. Hapatra looked out over the rooftops and
temples to find the source. The sound seemed to be coming from the Gate, but
grew louder to her ear, as if something were traveling rapidly over Naktamun. In
the distance, Hapatra saw Kefnet take to the air, followed by a strange dark shape
she did not recognize.
From above, she heard something odd—a chittering, scratching, leggy little
noise creeping through the haze of the Hekma. Hapatra looked up and saw a cloud
of locusts hovering above.
The monsters were meant to have been vanquished with the Hour of Revela-
tion. That was why the demon had arrived to fly over the city; he was the driven out
of paradise, as were all beasts outside the Hekma. Why did the monsters persist?
Her snake slipped off her finger and slithered into a crack in the temple wall.
Hapatra looked back toward Kefnet and realized that the dark shape following
him could only be one of the new gods.

Art by Lius Lasahido

It was massive. The thing seemed to be climbing the nearest tower. Its claws
gripped the rock sides of an obelisk as it hauled its enormous body upward. Halfway
up the thing appeared to remember it had wings, launching itself quickly to the top.
The drone of its wings was a constant, violent noise, as though the air itself was
protesting the constant beating inflicted upon it by the gigantic insectoid wings.
Hapatra turned to Khufu.

42
 "We should help Kefnet!"
The other vizier shook his head, still wincing from the mysterious pain. "This
is all part of the Hour of Glory. The gods will be tested as we will."
"And that is what that pain was? A test?"
Khufu nodded, and Hapatra's lips curled. She crossed to the opposite side of
the veranda. Nothing about this felt right.
At that moment, she heard small footsteps coming up the stairs. Iput, the Temple
of Strength's youngest and most fleet-footed vizier, ran swiftly up the stairs. Her
face was a mess of tears. Hapatra kneeled and caught her in her arms.
"Iput, what did you see? What do the new gods want?"
"Rhonas is dead!" she sputtered.
Hapatra's face fell. She shook her head.
"No. He is a god. The gods cannot be killed."
Iput shuddered with grief. "The Scorpion God killed him. It means to kill them all."
Rhonas was the mightiest of the gods. Beasts shied away from his power, and
dark forces quailed wherever his shadow fell. Rhonas could not be killed.
But the pain in Hapatra's heart said otherwise.
Behind her, Khufu was yelling.
"It is a test! Iput is lying! Rhonas, greatest god of them all, will join the side of
the God-Pharaoh—"
"Would you be silent for once!" Hapatra yelled.
This was no time for protocol. Promises had been broken, and trust had been
pierced with unfamiliar venom. Hapatra could grieve later. Her only goal now was
to keep the other gods safe so no other citizen would feel the pain of a god falling.
Hapatra looked up and saw dark clouds of insects clinging to the inside of the
barrier. She looked to The Locust God on the spire in the distance in time to wit-
ness it, arms outstretched, wielding some unholy magic directed at the sky above.
The buzz of locusts filled the air above her.
A gray mass was coalescing on the inside of the Hekma. At first it was sparse,
but as The Locust God's spell continued, the mass grew larger and larger, and the
drone of buzzing wings grew louder and louder.
Hapatra narrowed her eyes to make out what the locusts were doing. They
seemed to be clambering over each other to reach the shimmering magic of the
Hekma. And as they moved, shafts of clear light broke through where the barrier
used to stand. Hapatra's lips parted in horror. The locusts were eating away at the
Hekma itself.
Hapatra turned to the other viziers. "The Hour of Promise is when the world
will be transformed into a glorious paradise. 'No more will the Hekma be required
to hedge out the desert and the marauding dead, for the waters of the Luxa will
flow freely through the wastes.' Right?!"

43
 The other viziers nodded their heads. Hapatra jabbed a finger at The Locust
God in the distance. She drew back her shoulders and stood at full height. "The
Luxa will flow freely through the wastes because there won't be a Hekma!"
The viziers looked up in horror. They watched from their high vantage point as
the locusts consumed more and more of the magic that kept them safe from the
outside.
Even Khufu couldn't help but look. "The Locust God is doing this . . . ?"
The Hekma was coated with locusts beyond count, their swarm so thick that
the light of both suns flickered and dimmed. An eerie, black night fell on Naktamun.
Hapatra blinked as her eyes adjusted. The mass of insects moved and shifted,
dappling light on the stones of the Temple of Strength.
Hapatra decided this was about the right time to go inside.
"No more gawking! Everyone retreat!" Hapatra called. The other viziers were
swallowed by their grief, and reluctantly picked themselves up off the ground with
desperate sobs.
Hapatra whipped around. "Rhonas would not want you to sit and mourn! Arm
yourselves for battle, viziers!"
The others sniffed and nodded, heading inside to retrieve their weapons.
A pinprick of light escaped through the dark mass of insects above.
Shafts of light broke through across the underside of the barrier, at first several,
then a dozen, and suddenly a quarter of the Hekma barrier vanished.
Hapatra swore.
The city erupted into chaos.

Art by Jonas De Ro

44
 She watched from the temple as Kefnet flew upward and began a spell to re-
pair the Hekma, but his effort was in vain. Swarms of locusts mobbed the god, and
Kefnet struggled to continue the enchantment under the assault of hundreds of
thousands of insects. Hapatra cursed the limited view she had of the rest of the city.
As the surrounding Hekma vanished, a wave of marauding mummies poured
into the city from the wastes beyond.
She turned heel and ran as quickly as she could into the Temple of Strength.
Initiates were panicking, hugging each other for comfort. Some viziers were
arming themselves; another was leading the beasts of the temple out of their
habitats to let loose into the city to fight off the marauding mummies. The inside of
the Temple of Strength was an extensive training ground known as the Holding, a
carefully curated wildlife preserve designed as a place where initiates could hone
their tenacity and survival skills. Hapatra began working her way through the outer
ring of the Holding toward its more perilous inner ring. She had spent her entire life
devoted to this Temple, and knew every path and shortcut. The vizier's chambers
were very near now.
Hapatra did her very best not to let the turmoil in her heart show on her face. All
she had ever wanted was a place by Rhonas's side in the Afterlife. Where would
gods go when they died?
Her own chambers were shrouded in poisonous vines. She passed through
with tingling ease and ran toward her weapon cabinet.
Spear. Scimitar. Vials upon vials of poisons.
Hapatra remembered a lesson she had taught just months before.

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

Hapatra smiled at the memory and pulled out a Vial of Poison. She knew full
well how mummies moved. Once the Curse of Wandering took hold, the muscles
animated through impulses that were sent through the spinal cord and nerves to
the muscles.

45
 She smeared poison on the edge of her scimitar.
"Dead nerves, dead mummy."
Hapatra Punctuated her quip with a shrill whistle.
Something massive rumbled past the opening to her chamber, and Hapatra
smiled wickedly. She grabbed a thick shawl to protect her skin from the locusts
and called out to the thing outside.
"Tuyaaaa, sweetheart!"
She heard a hiss from behind the vines. Hapatra slung her scimitar over her
back and moved the vines to the side, cooing at the huge basilisk in front of her.
Tuya was twice as tall as Hapatra and longer than she had ever cared to mea-
sure. The two shared a magical bond, and the basilisk nuzzled the hands of her
master. Hapatra kissed the nose of her serpent.
"The world as we know it has ended, old girl," Hapatra whispered. The basilisk
snuggled her nose into the crook of Hapatra's neck.
The master of poisons swallowed her grief.
"No time for mourning, sweetheart. We have a city to save."

Hapatra clung tight to Tuya's back as the serpent wound its way through the
rings of the Holding. There were no initiates in here now, and the wilderness was
strangely empty.
Hapatra extended a hand and wove a spell of calling. To me, she projected.
Follow me outside and avenge your master, for he is dead.
The beasts and animals of the Holding lifted their heads attentively. They be-
gan to follow, first one, then many, until a mass of antelopes, hippopotamuses,
rhinoceroses, and elephants were following the slithering basilisk.
Vines and leaves whipped Hapatra's face as she barreled through the jungle
of the Holding. She tugged at Tuya's side to steer the basilisk up the central stair-
case, shutting her eyes tight as they broke through the doorway into the terror of
the brilliant Light of Day.
The light hit her face at the same time as a storm of screams and noise. Free
of their task, the locusts were swarming whatever body they could find first. Cursed
dead had begun to wander in from the desert outside, and a few horrors from the
wastes had started to attack any living person they could find.
Naktamun, once shining alabaster, was stained with plague and beasts.
Hapatra could feel locusts bouncing off her even through her thick shawl. She
brought Tuya to a halt, and the menagerie of animals from the Temple of Strength
following behind stopped in turn.
The suns above were dappled with clouds of insects. Kefnet hovered far above

46
now, desperately trying to rebuild the Hekma. In the distance, Hapatra could make
out The Locust God still standing atop its spire, setting wave after wave of locusts
upon a hapless Kefnet.
Hapatra quickly wove another spell of calling. Attack the pretender gods! Kill
the insectoid trespassers!
The beasts roared with bloodthirst and fury, and Tuya reared up to bare her
fangs. Hapatra drew her scimitar and willed Tuya to charge.
They tore through the streets of Naktamun, ramming as many marauding mum-
mies and locusts as possible. Hapatra leaned over the side of her serpent and
sliced through the chests of several mummies with her poisoned scimitar. With
every swipe of her blade, another mummy halted, hunched over, and fell to the
earth, its body seizing and shaking.
If only Rhonas could see me now, she thought with a bittersweet smile.
Tuya's fangs clamped down on the bodies of several marauding mummies,
and Hapatra leapt to the ground.
"Keep the cursed dead out of the city!" she yelled. The basilisk gave her a quick
loving flick of her tongue and slithered away to the edge of Naktamun.
Hapatra looked up, spotted the struggling Kefnet high above the city, and ran
toward him.
The shawl prevented the locusts from biting and scraping her skin, but Hapatra
quickly realized it would be no help against the mummies that surrounded her now.
She charged forward into the throng all the same. She started to intone a prayer
to Rhonas before catching herself and cursing. Yet still she wove her way through
swaths of enemies, her blade dancing with a practiced, deadly grace as she cut
herself free from the crowd of undead.
She knew that her poison would freeze the mummies on its own. Hapatra ran
toward the nearest group of marauding dead and began to make as many cuts
as possible. Her poison would cease movement on both the living and the dead.
She could not remove the Curse of Wandering, but she could make it a hell of a
lot harder for them to wander in the first place.
Hapatra cut slice after slice, leaving a trail of seizing corpses in her wake.
She lost herself at that moment. Moving her blade Side to Side, with locusts
disrupting her vision and buzzing filling her ears, Hapatra felt old. She had lived
for thirty-four years—two lifetimes' worth of experience. Rhonas had been there
for her from the very start. He was so good and so true. How could her god betray
her like this?
No. It wasn't the gods.
It was the one who was absent. The God-Pharaoh who was not here.
This was his fault.
Hapatra screamed in fury and sliced the head of a marauding mummy clear off.

47
 A flash of gold caught her eye.
Hapatra looked over and watched as two children stood back to back against
a group of decayed mummies.
They stabbed with stolen spears and yelled tactical advice to one another. Their
movements were unskilled, channeled from a place of abject terror.
Hapatra's heart felt heavy. She charged forward and made quick work of the
attacking mummies, with the two children stabbing and screaming alongside her.
Once their enemies had fallen in a poisoned heap, Hapatra turned to the children.
"Where are your caretakers?"
"They won't stop," replied the older child.
Hapatra's brow fell in confusion. She kicked in the door of the nearest house
and walked inside.
Several anointed were preparing lunch in the kitchen. Mounds of food piled up
on all sides and each bowl was coated with feasting locusts. The stink of insects
and tainted food was thick in the air. One anointed mummy had run out of bowls
to put food in and was simply dropping it, spoonful by spoonful, onto the floor. A
mass of locusts busily consumed the extra food, but the mummies took no notice.
It appeared the anointed were unable to stop their duties despite the chaos that
permeated the city.
Hapatra recoiled and exited quickly. She knelt to the level of the children and
pulled out a Vial of Poison.
"Give me your spears," she instructed.
The boys handed over the spears, and Hapatra uncorked her poison, applying
it to their blades with her fingers.
"Find some adults and stay near them. Slice as many marauding mummies as
you can with this."
A scream caught her ear. Hapatra stood, drew her scimitar, and ran toward the
sound. Locusts were mobbing the body of a man while a woman stood at his side,
smacking the insects away with her hands. The slap of her fingers was drowned
out by the incessant drone of their wings.
Hapatra realized she was standing by a fountain in her favorite courtyard.
The fountain had pulled water directly from the river. It was stained with blood
now.
Hapatra felt a tug at her heart, and Tuya rounded the quarter of the square,
her massive scaled body smacking into the walls with indelicate force. Her snout
was coated with blood and the viscera of dead insects.
Hapatra climbed atop her familiar and urged her forward. Kefnet was perched
atop a tower nearby, his wings drooping with fatigue.
Hapatra pushed Tuya forward, and they slid through the city with ease.
More citizens were fighting back now, and a few had encouraged their anointed

48
to do the same. Every now and then, Hapatra passed one of the beasts from the
Holding; they tore and bit and scratched at the intruding mummies. Some noticed
as the basilisk passed and ran to tag along.
"Vizier Hapatra!"
Hapatra halted Tuya, looking for whoever had called her name.
The heretic Samut stood below.
"If you're here to say 'I told you so,' I don't want to hear it," Hapatra yelled down.
Samut shook her head. She looked to her left, and the champion Djeru came
around the corner.
"We need to find and protect Oketra," Samut said.
"We . . . we saw Rhonas fall." Djeru shook his head. "We cannot let the other
gods suffer Rhonas's fate."
Hapatra sighed.
"Get on."
The two former initiates gracefully climbed atop Tuya, and Hapatra urged the
basilisk forward.
Hapatra mused as the basilisk travelled. "I always understood the Hour of
Promise to mean that the Hekma would fall to reveal paradise."
"It is all part of the God-Pharaoh's lies." Samut's mouth was a hard line. Djeru
shook his head behind her and remained silent.
Hapatra petted the cool scales of her basilisk. "Serving Rhonas was my pur-
pose in life. I refuse to believe he knowingly lied to us."
"He did not knowingly lie to us. The gods were manipulated by a more power-
ful force."
Hapatra nodded, considering this. She looked over her shoulder and met eyes
with Samut.
"Can this force be killed?"
Samut shook her head slowly. "I don't want to find out."
"For someone who claims to know so much, your vision is narrow," Hapatra
snapped.
Djeru piped in from behind. "Keeping our people and gods alive is paramount.
Let the trespassers fight each other."
Sure enough, two of the trespassers came rushing across their path. One was
Gideon, the broad-shouldered warrior Oketra had claimed as one of her own. The
other was a pale woman in a violet dress.
"Don't stop for them," Djeru spat.
Hapatra looked back for a last glimpse at the strangers. There were no other
cities save Naktamun, and yet these trespassers knew nothing of its culture. The
day before yesterday, she had received word through the viziers that the gods were
welcoming these guests. Hapatra sneered. Let the trespassers deal with the God-

49
Pharaoh. If he is from a different world as well, then they all deserve each other.
A gust of wind blew a new cloud of locusts over the basilisk. Hapatra huddled
the other two close against her back and shielded them all with her shawl, then
looked down the thoroughfare.
Kefnet and Oketra were there: Kefnet hovering in the air, Oketra solid, unmov-
ing, almost a statue save for the flick of one ear. As a servant of Rhonas, Hapatra
had never had much appreciation for Oketra, but she found herself overcome with
relief to be in the god's presence, grateful for the first warmth she had felt since
Rhonas's death.
The two gods were looking at something behind her. Hapatra halted her basilisk
and turned to see what they were staring at, but her view was blocked by broken
columns, fractured stone, and the endless clouds of buzzing locusts.
Hapatra looked back to her gods with a plea in her heart.
"Kefnet! Oketra! The Hekma is Lost! We will take you to safety!" Hapatra dis-
tantly realized how ridiculous this command would have sounded only a day before.
Both gods ignored her, continuing to look off into the distance. Oketra's bow
was in her hands, an arrow of white light nocked.
"Oketra, please!" Hapatra called, voice cracking as she contemplated all that
she had already lost, and all that was still left to lose. "Oketra! We will protect you!"
The hole in her heart from Rhonas's death was already too large. She could not
bear to see it grow.
Oketra looked down at her. Her pale eyes glowed softly, and Hapatra basked
in her familiar calm. The God of Solidarity looked down on Hapatra and smiled,
sad and small. Around Hapatra, the sounds of people fleeing in terror abated as
the god gazed into her soul.
"You are not here to protect us, child of Rhonas." Oketra shook her head
ever so slightly. "We are here to protect you."
Hapatra's heart clenched. "Oketra, no!"
But with those words of dismissal, Oketra turned once more and raised her
bow. Kefnet flew higher in the air, and Hapatra was finally able to see what the two
gods had been staring at.
The beast was nightmare given form.
It was more immense than any monster she had seen through the Hekma in
the wilds of the desert. Tall, taller than any god, even Rhonas, which Hapatra would
not have thought possible. It had the body of a man and the head of a scorpion,
but one that somehow stood upright on the being's body—and it was far larger
and bulkier than any scorpion had a right to be. Dancing behind it, in a loose,
rhythmic, weaving circle, was its stinger, the point glistening with ichor. Even the
ever-present swarms of locusts gave the monster a wide berth, reluctant to cross
its path. Hapatra could hear a loud chittering sound, though whether it came from

50
the monster's mouth or its tail she could not tell.
Kefnet looked back at Oketra, and Hapatra was shocked to see the god's fear
so clearly written on his face.
"Stow your terror, brother!" Oketra said with a finality that thrummed through
Hapatra's heart. "Face this beast and wield your gifts in the ways of war!"
Kefnet lifted his head. With a flex of his shoulders, he flew high and to the side
of the scorpion.
Oketra lifted her arrow again.
"Turn back, god-killer, scourge of everlasting life, and you will live through
this day."
Oketra's voice rang throughout the clearing, her notes pure silver, though
she emphasized this day in a way that made it clear she would be coming for her
brother's killer eventually. She raised her bow, its white arrow now incandescent,
burning hot. The scorpion swiveled its head to regard both Kefnet and Oketra,
though if it spoke, Hapatra could not understand anything through the constant
chitter chitter chitter sound it made.
As the being came closer, Hapatra felt its presence and gasped. Her heart filled
with terror as she recognized The Scorpion God for what it was. Its divinity—though
malevolent, an inverse of the other gods—was unmistakable.
The three gods were still, sizing each other up as if captured in one of the
temple friezes Hapatra knew so well.
And then chaos erupted.
Kefnet flew at The Scorpion God, darting in and out as he cast spell after
spell. He disguised his dives in a series of illusions, massive birds and crocodilian
dragons, each one catching The Scorpion God's attention just in time for Kefnet to
attack when least expected, narrowly avoiding the scorpion's sting. Oketra fired a
succession of arrows, but somehow The Scorpion God turned its thick carapace to
intercept every missile. Oketra's white energy dissipated against its shields even
as it attacked Kefnet with a blur of blows from its stinger.
Kefnet soon ceased any attempts at illusory deception, for The Scorpion God
seemed never to take a wrong step or to mistime an attack. Many tales were told
of Oketra's arrows striking down giant sandwurms and demons, and Hapatra was
awed at the kind of power The Scorpion God must possess to shrug off such blows,
thick shell or no. She urged Tuya to keep to the shadows and soon found herself
praying aloud to Oketra and Kefnet, shouting praise to aid in their battle.
Kefnet flew higher to avoid The Scorpion God's attacks, but the god immediately
switched to focus on Oketra instead, closing on her with terrifying speed. Oketra
was forced to backpedal furiously, her footfalls shaking the ground as Kefnet was
forced to swoop back in to distract and harass the assassin.
As deadly efficient as The Scorpion God was, Kefnet and Oketra fought with a

51
grace that Hapatra thought almost poetic. They moved in tandem with one another,
their flurries of attack and counterattack timed precisely to expose a flank on The
Scorpion God's side or a weak spot in its armor. Although The Scorpion God was
so far undeterred, Hapatra knew she was watching two masters of combat, their
cooperative technique honed over thousands of years of fighting.
The Scorpion God made several strikes, all misses, and quickly changed di-
rection. Its sting had seemed to make contact with that shift—it must have grazed
one of Kefnet's wings, for the ibis-headed god began to sputter through the air,
one wing refusing to move at the same speed as the other. He faltered, and The
Scorpion God immediately took advantage, its stinger darting, each time narrowly
missing Kefnet's head or chest. Kefnet, straining under the exertion, lurched from
Side to Side in desperation.
Oketra stood still at the edge of the thoroughfare, holding her bow aimed but
still. She could not risk hitting Kefnet as he fought to stay alive, his body now
interposed between her and The Scorpion God. In his dance of survival, the ibis-
headed god stumbled. The Scorpion God rushed in and Kefnet's wings gave out.
The Scorpion God's pursuit was halted by Oketra's arrow of white light explod-
ing through his head. The constant chittering sound vanished as The Scorpion
God, headless, crashed into the earth, its body flattening rubble into dust and the
reverberations briefly lifting Hapatra, her basilisk, and its passengers off the ground.
Hapatra watched as the body of The Scorpion God crumbled to dust, whatever
force had animated it no longer present.
Kefnet straightened his wing and stood up, seemingly uninjured. He smiled
wickedly at his sister, who shared his joy.
The three humans cheered atop the basilisk. They praised the courage of
Oketra and the brilliance of Kefnet.
My gods are magnificent, Hapatra thought in wonder. Samut and Djeru hugged
each other tight, and clapped Hapatra on the back. Hapatra refused to share their
tears of joy. She would have time to herself later for that.
But as she contemplated how she would mourn the passing of Rhonas, the
dust and particles that once were the form of The Scorpion God began to shift.
The pieces lifted from the ground and, within moments, reconstituted the very
beast that had been killed only just before.
The beast rose whole and uninjured, as though the battle that had shaken
the earth beneath the thoroughfare mere moments before had never happened.
Kefnet turned back toward his fallen foe only to find The Scorpion God facing him
dead on, its vile chittering the last thing Kefnet heard before its stinger pierced the
middle of his forehead. The wound was neither deep nor wide, but the beautiful
and brilliant Kefnet, God of Knowledge, was dead before he hit the ground.
Hapatra screamed, and Samut and Djeru did the same, their hearts aching

52
once again with the loss of a god. Oketra hissed with fury, firing her arrows in an
act of futility.
"Mortals! Flee to the safety of the mausoleums!" Oketra cried.
Hapatra halted for a moment. What mausoleums?
She ignored the command and yelled to Samut and Djeru sitting behind her,
"Get off now!"
The two did as they were told, and Hapatra dug her heels into Tuya to urge
the basilisk forward.
The serpent spat its venom, weaving itself around The Scorpion God and
gnashing its venomous jaws. Hapatra gripped tightly with her thighs and pulled
the basilisk in a sharp turn, urging her mount toward the enemy.
The blood of Kefnet had spilled over the stone in the courtyard, and Tuya slid
as she tried to grapple with The Scorpion God. Hapatra kept a firm grip on Tuya's
scales and silently urged her familiar forward. Her heart ached with the pain of
Kefnet's death, but she shoved the hurt as far deep as she could. This trespasser
needed to die, and it would be at her hand.
Oketra leapt between the basilisk and The Scorpion God.
Hapatra's chest cramped in pain. She looked up, and she cried out in horror.
Directly above her, The Scorpion God's stinger was lodged in Oketra's gut.
Hapatra screamed and heard an unfamiliar voice shout in grief at the same
time. Gideon stood on the opposite end of the courtyard, his face the very picture
of anguish.
She and the basilisk froze in fear as The Scorpion God stepped over the two of
them. It looked to the sky, seeking something, and proceeded on its way through
the streets of Naktamun, ignoring the mortals in its wake.
The thoroughfare was empty, and two of Hapatra's gods lay dead in front of her.
For the first time all day, she openly wept.
She wept for the death of her god. She wept for the death of her pantheon.
She wept for the children forced to fight and the men devoured by locusts and the
beloved serpent that shivered with fear under her hand. Her grief cascaded over
the levy of her control and sent her into the arms of a champion and a heretic. Djeru
and Samut held the vizier as she sobbed, and they, too, mourned their many losses.
Other citizens, survivors one and all, came out of alleys and hiding places to
see the bodies of the gods.
Hapatra gasped for air through her grief and saw Gideon standing still over
Oketra.
She composed herself and nodded to Samut and Djeru, who let go of her
shoulders and allowed her to cross to Gideon.
Hapatra looked down her nose at Gideon. Her cheeks were stained with teary
kohl, and her lips twitched in a deadly combination of grief and fury.

53
 Art by Greg Opalinski

"The source of this hell is a trespasser like yourself, isn't it?"

Gideon swallowed hard and nodded.
Hapatra glared and spoke with a voice that dripped with venom.
"Then he is your responsibility to kill. Be done with your task and get out of my
city."
The master of poisons turned away and approached Samut and Djeru, her
sandals stepping through the ichor of gods.
She looked at them both with resolution in her eyes. "We must find Bontu and
Hazoret and keep them alive at all costs. They are all we have now."

54
 FAVOR
By Michael Yichao
Three gods have fallen since the Gate to the Afterlife opened to reveal unimagi-
nable horrors. Only Hazoret the Fervent and Bontu the Glorified remain to protect
the mortals on Amonkhet. But will they be able to hold against the onslaught until
the God-Pharaoh returns to protect his people?
Despair brought the god to her knees.
For the third time that day, a rushing pain washed over her, sapping her limbs
of strength, corroding her heart and spirit.
Another god is dead.
Hazoret gazed toward the horizon, where swarms of locusts still blotted out
the suns. Around her, the horrors of the desert rampaged through the streets, ter-
rorizing the citizens of Naktamun.
For as long as Hazoret could remember, she and her siblings had protected
their people from the nightmares of the world. Together, they pushed back the dark-
ness, shielded the mortals from the curses of the world, and hunted the shadows
that lurked just beyond the city.
But the keeper of the Hekma barrier was dead.
The golden archer, the sister whose arrows pierced those who would threaten
the city, was dead.
The indomitable wanderer, strongest of her siblings and patroller of the desert,
was dead.
Bontu and I are all that remain.
A myriad of prayers reverberated in the back of her mind, the deluge of mortal
fears falling on her shoulders, their number and volume growing each time a god
fell.
Hazoret clenched her teeth and willed herself to stand. She would not falter.
Not now—not when her children needed her most. Not when all the promises of
the God-Pharaoh seemed to be crumbling, and her siblings were falling one by
one to a dark god.
I must protect my children. I must protect Bontu.
Hazoret closed her eyes and let go.
Let go of all control. Let go of any restraint. Hazoret let go of any shreds of
doubt and uncertainty and fell forward, plunging into fervor, into action, into rage
and flame and the seamless dance of her Battle Frenzy. Her two-pronged weapon
slashed through throngs of desert mummies as she charged, a golden blur cleav-
ing the air around her. The wayward cry of a child sent her leaping across the
thoroughfare, shielding the boy from a collapsing wall and pushing him toward the

55
arms of his fleeing cropmates. A giant hellion burst up from the ground, smashing
through buildings and charging a cluster of citizens. With a word and a thought,
Hazoret sent gouts of flame scorching through the air, reducing the monster to ash.

Chaos Maw | Art by Steve Argyle

Hazoret fought with the full fury of a god unleashed. Around her, mortals rallied
and found renewed zeal, Hazoret's presence igniting their own passion and power.
As Hazoret impaled a desert horror on her spear, a flashing whirl of blades caught
her eye. A mortal wielding twin khopeshes cut through a pack of undead hyenas,
moving at impossible speeds. The beasts snapped and snarled around her, but
the mortal made short work of them, dodging powerful jaws, severing tendons,
and cutting through limbs, immobilizing The Brutes.
As the mortal plunged both of her blades into the last of the pack, Hazoret fi-
nally saw her face—Samut, the dissenter. Samut, blasphemer of the God-Pharaoh.
Samut, who had asked Hazoret, "Is this paradise?" as the Gate to the Afterlife
opened onto wastes, unleashing the waves of terror that now consumed them.
The mortal looked up from her grisly work and locked eyes with Hazoret. Beside
her, the champion Djeru ran up, also gazing up at the god.
"Hazoret! What are we to do?" Samut shouted.
Hazoret looked back at the chaos spread across her beloved city.
"Protect each other, my children. Take those you can and hide among the
desert sands. We must survive until the God-Pharaoh comes to right these
wrongs."

56
 Samut shook her head. "The God-Pharaoh will not fix this—"
"We do not have time for words or doubt." Hazoret spoke with the full force
of her will. Samut and Djeru both bowed in deference to their god, silenced by her
power.
Hazoret sighed and softened ever so slightly. She knelt, piercing Samut with
her gaze.
"You are strong, Samut, and strong-willed. Channel that strength to protect
your brethren. Amonkhet needs you. And you, Djeru, my final champion."
The chilling roar of a sandwurm off in the distance drew Hazoret's attention.
She readied her weapon and stood.
"We will obey, Hazoret. We will protect our brothers and sisters." Djeru spoke,
voice clear and unwavering. Samut however gazed at Hazoret, doubt still dancing
behind her eyes.
"Who will protect you, Hazoret?" Samut asked.
A small smile flitted across Hazoret's face. "Go. Fight. I will endure."
A short stretch from where they stood, a massive monument crumbled as the
wurms burst through its walls, chasing after viziers whose spells bounced harm-
lessly off their toughened hides. Hazoret didn't wait for Samut and Djeru's response,
instead dashing toward the offending beasts, weapon and flame at ready, a Battle
Cry already in her throat.

It is not enough.
For every mortal she saved, she knew a dozen more were lost. Her heart ached
with their fear and pain. Each empty death sent a fresh twinge of guilt coursing
through her. So many were mere children, too young to have ascended the Trials.
The Hour of Glory was supposed to test the remaining mortals—to give them the
chance to prove themselves worthy—but instead, they were left as prey, victims
of the encroaching desert's endless hunger. Every mortal death meant one more
person caught in the Curse of Wandering's cruel grasp—doomed to return as un-
dead, hunting the very friends whom they had died fighting to protect.
Hazoret's heart yearned for her God-Pharaoh. What had happened to delay his
return? Could the three insectoid gods have sabotaged his great work of preparing
the path to the Afterlife?
Hazoret shook her head. He would not forsake us.
Her gaze turned toward the heart of the city, where the empty Throne of the
God-Pharaoh stood grand and majestic—yet another reminder of the God-Pharaoh's
promised arrival.
It was covered in locusts, a black stain on the blood red skyline.

57
 A guttural roar ravaged Hazoret's throat as she ignited the air around her, send-
ing a wave of fire to burn clean her God-Pharaoh's throne. Countless locusts were
disintegrated in the blast, but the smoke had barely cleared before an even larger
swarm took the place of those Hazoret had destroyed.

Forbid | Art by Richard Wright

Around her, Naktamun continued to fall.

Desperation seeped into Hazoret's heart. In her head, the buzz of prayers had
grown deafening, a din matched only by the buzz of the locusts.
And so the god prayed.
She prayed to the God-Pharaoh for his return. She prayed for him to fulfill the
prophecy. She prayed for him to arrive and once again sift order from chaos.
As she prayed, above the throne, the sky rippled as though bent by a mirage.
Then with a low rumble, the air ruptured. A pinprick of black nothingness, a tiny
hole in the fabric of reality, hung suspended in the desert air.
The void grew, the red sky around it eroding and flaking away like burnt paper,
crumbling Into the Void. Cracks spindled outward from the hole and crackles of
blue energy flared out then burned to black, scorch marks suspended midair. More
chunks of reality collapsed into the hole, accelerating into oblivion as the growing
rift consumed the space above the throne, growing into a massive portal.
Golden horns appeared first, gliding out of the dark portal, gleaming and flaw-
less. The dragon's perfect form followed, sliding out of the void, enormous and
lithe, power coiled behind massive wings and sharpened claws.
The God-Pharaoh had arrived.

58
Behold my Grandeur | Art by Zack Stella

59
 Hazoret raised her arms in exultation, praise dancing on her lips. He truly was
as great as she remembered, his massive golden form an incarnation of perfection.
In her mind, the voices crying out in desperate prayer lessened dramatically, even
as a cacophonous outpour of reverence echoed from the mortals around her. The
voices of Amonkhet shouted out in relief and joy.
The God-Pharaoh landed before his throne, talons clattering on the polished
stone. He lowered his gaze, eyeing the swath of death and destruction that had
been carved through Naktamun.
And he smiled.

Imminent Doom | Art by Daniel Ljunggren

Dread flooded Hazoret's body. Rhonas's dying words echoed in her mind as
she watched a wave of desperate mortals rush toward the dragon, cries of relief
and joy and exultation echoing in their wake. The God-Pharaoh gazed down at
them, raising a clawed hand, and Hazoret felt the air crackle with energy.
A spark of violet light burst forth from between his talons, and from the sky, a
deluge of black flames streaked down, consuming everything it touched.
The mortals' cheers turned to screams as destruction rained from the heavens.
Hazoret dashed forward, looming over the mortals closest to her, trying to
block them from the destructive magic with her body. With a whirl of her spear,
she conjured a shield of swirling sand and flame around her, gritting her teeth as
the God-Pharaoh's spell crashed down around them.

60
 Torment of Hailfire | Art by Grzegorz Rutkowski

As the mortals at her feet sobbed, Hazoret's mind raced at the turn of events.
The God-Pharaoh has arrived, but brings only destruction. The Hours tick by
and the prophecies have been subverted, their fulfillment a dark and perverse
twisting of their original promise.
A Splitting Headache seized her as she tried to think of the past, to remember
the God-Pharaoh before he had left. Her shield faltered as her concentration broke,
her thoughts dancing between Rhonas's final warning and Samut's questions.
Both god and mortal had spoken against their God-Pharaoh, but when Hazoret
tried to focus on what they had said, her head buzzed with pain. The impossibility
of the God-Pharaoh being anything but just and good combated what her senses
showed her.
He rains destruction upon his people, his children.
Hazoret peered up at the God-Pharaoh. His spell had finally relented, and his
gaze drifted toward the gate in the distance. Hazoret looked and was surprised to
find the third god—the one with the scarab head—still standing before the gate.
Despite the mayhem around the god, it seemed to have stayed eerily still, an
indigo statue amidst the pandemonium. The God-Pharaoh spread his wings and
crouched, preparing to take flight.
"Hail, Nicol Bolas, God-Pharaoh of Amonkhet!"
The voice caught the dragon's attention and took Hazoret completely by sur-
prise. Bontu strode forward and knelt in supplication to the God-Pharaoh. Hazoret

61
clutched her head, trying to shake clear her thoughts. The name Bontu had ut-
tered—Nicol Bolas—had sent another Searing Pain through Hazoret's head, and
she was now certain: some magic was suppressing her memories.
"I have served faithfully in your absence, oh God-Pharaoh." Bontu's rasp-
ing voice cut through the din. "I have harvested only the most ambitious and
powerful to be your worthy dead. I have culled dissenters from all the crops,
ridding Naktamun of those who would derail your work. And I have maintained
the threads you wove into the fabric of my siblings." Bontu bowed her head
low. "I am yours, Nicol Bolas. I live to serve. Speak, and I shall do."
As Bontu spoke, Hazoret's hands clutched her spear harder and harder. Finally,
she could take no more.
"Sister!" she cried. "What are you talking about?"
Dragon and god turned to look at her, and for the first time in her existence,
Hazoret felt small.
The God-Pharaoh turned his gaze back to Bontu and spoke.
"Kill your sister."
Without hesitation, Bontu raised her hand and sent a dark blast of energy at
Hazoret.
Hazoret screamed as the spell hit her full force. She felt her mind unravel,
the edges of oblivion corroding her sanity, grasping and tearing at thoughts and
memories alike. Inside her mind, she conjured healing fires, staunching the spread
of shadows with a cauterizing mental blaze.

Oblivion | Art by Sidharth Chaturvedi

62
 Hazoret surfaced from her mental struggle just in time to twitch out of the way
of another blast of energy. She cut through the next barrage from Bontu with the
fiery edge of her spear. However, the third necrotic blast clipped Hazoret's arm as
her movement slowed, her mind distracted.
Bontu's first spell hadn't just assaulted Hazoret's mind—it had eaten away the
blocks on her memories.
And suddenly, Hazoret remembered everything.
The full weight of Bolas's deception and Bontu's betrayal crashed over her,
slowing her reactions and distracting her from the fight at hand. The guilt of hav-
ing brought death to her children weighed down her limbs, and the impotent rage
at the dragon's cruel warping of her purpose dulled her reactions. All by Bontu's
design, she realized. That first attack wasn't just a mental assault. It was crafted
to distract Hazoret and to slow her down, for Hazoret had always been faster than
her sister—fast enough to dodge her blows and spells.
Bontu had prepared for this fight.
The depth of Bontu's betrayal sent Hazoret's mind churning between fury and
despair.
"Why, Bontu?" she cried.
Bontu laughed, a rasping, grating sound. To the mortals who heard, it sounded
cruel and confident, but to Hazoret, she heard the desperation tinged with sad-
ness. "Have you forgotten who I am, sister? I am ambition incarnate. Bolas
destroyed all who resisted. I chose to join with his power instead. I chose
survival."
"You chose to betray your world." Hazoret fired a jet of flame at Bontu, but
Bontu absorbed the spell within her staff.
"This world is Bolas." Bontu pointed her staff, and the fire erupted back to-
ward Hazoret, tinged black by Bontu's necrotic magic. "And you are not worthy."
Hazoret dashed backward, avoiding the dark flames, and ducked behind the
remnants of a destroyed building. As she crouched, her heart hardened with resolve.
In a blink and a spray of sand, she dashed from her cover and flashed behind
Bontu, twin-pronged spear ready and thrusting toward her sister. Her weapon seemed
to pierce flesh, but then Bontu burst into tendrils of smoke. Hazoret stumbled back,
coughing as she breathed in the poisonous cloud, looking about for where Bontu
hid. The sands beneath her feet erupted as Bontu emerged from below, her jaws
clamping down on Hazoret's arm. Hazoret cried out as her sister's crushing bite
forced her to drop her spear.
Hazoret let loose a flurry of punches and kicks, but Bontu held fast as magi-
cal energy rippled across her scales, shielding her from the assault. Inspiration
struck, and Hazoret ignited her arm within Bontu's mouth. With a cry, Bontu finally
released Hazoret's mangled limb, the two gods stumbling apart.

63
 Hazoret grabbed her spear, one arm dangling uselessly at her side. Bontu
breathed heavily, her mouth and face charred from Hazoret's attack. Hazoret
watched Bontu raise her staff and braced for another barrage of spells. To her
surprise, Bontu's staff glowed but no assault came.
A fresh round of screams behind her erupted, and Hazoret turned to look. Her
heart froze as horrors crawled from the crevices and shadows, launching them-
selves at and tearing into the mortals. Bontu's magic called forth the dark beasts,
and they set about the work of brutally murdering anything in their path.
Hazoret again flashed Into the Fray, striking at the horrors and swinging des-
perately to protect her children. As her spear pierced the first horror, however, it
burst into blackened tar, clinging to her weapon. The other horrors leapt at her,
their shadowy forms coalescing into a binding morass, restraining her. Hazoret
shouted in frustration, trying to conjure heat and flame, but the tar only hardened
and tightened its hold.
"Your zealotry and compassion make you predictable, sister." Bontu's voice
whispered in Hazoret's ear. She heard Bontu's staff tap against the hardened tar
and gasped as the warmth and power drained out of her body. Out of the corner
of her eye, she saw Bontu reach a hand into the tar, grabbing hold and dragging
Hazoret back toward the throne, back toward the dragon deceiver. Hazoret struggled
weakly, but Bontu's magic drained her life force at a slow, relentless pace.
With a heave, Bontu dropped Hazoret at the feet of Nicol Bolas, then knelt again.
"I have done as you asked, my God-Pharaoh. I exist to serve."
The great dragon gazed down at the god bent in supplication. Slowly, he raised
one claw—and blasted Bontu with a bolt of dark energy. The god collapsed to the
ground, writhing in agony.
"Your usefulness has ended," the dragon sneered. "Serve me in death, little
god."
Nicol Bolas strode forward, leaving the two dying immortals of Amonkhet be-
hind him.
A primal yell tore out of Bontu as she crawled toward him, spasms of pain
still wracking her body. Nicol Bolas turned around and watched, an expression
of smug amusement on his face. Slow, halting steps accelerated to a charge as
Bontu rushed toward the dragon.
A monument collapsed in the path of Bontu as a wave of undead poured forward,
a mix of mummies from the deserts and denizens of Amonkhet risen by the Curse
of Wandering. The god stumbled over the rubble, and the undead swarmed and
attacked. Bontu swatted at the undead, but in her weakened state, what normally
would be a mere nuisance to the god now managed to bring her down.
As Nicol Bolas watched Bontu disappear beneath the crush of undead, his cold,
cruel laughter reverberated across the ruined city of Naktamun. With a sweep of

64
his wings, he took to the air, flying toward the gate and the waiting scarab god.
Hazoret watched the dragon retreat, heard the undead gnaw and writhe over
their prize, and felt her own hold on life slowly slipping away.
A sudden Surge of Power pooled before her, and Hazoret looked up just in
time to see a wave of shadowy decay ripple forth from the pile of undead. Bontu
burst from the heap, surfacing with gasping breath and throwing the inert bodies
of monstrosities skyward, her spell slaying all things living and undead near her.

Bontu's Last Reckoning | Art by Victor Adame Minguez

Bontu met Hazoret's gaze, and the jackal god felt the tar around her soften
and melt away.
And for the fourth time that day, Hazoret felt a rushing pain wash over her,
piercing her gut as Bontu fell, the dragon's necrotic spell severing the final leylines
that tied the god to this world.
And Hazoret alone remained, the last pillar of Amonkhet.

65
 THE HOUR OF ETERNITY
By Ken Troop
The God-Pharaoh has returned, and the five Hours have arrived As Foretold. The
Hours of Revelation, Glory, and Promise unleashed disaster upon Naktamun,
and now the Hour of Eternity brings an unimaginably personal terror to the city's
denizens.
Now was faith justified.
Nylah had never understood the zealous before, never understood their endless
need to proclaim their faith. The gods walked among them, their divinity requiring
no faith to believe, only eyes to see. Hands to touch. Ears to listen. Words spoken
from the mouths of gods reverberated through the city, their divine weight more
solid and true than anything that merely existed.
She had never understood faith itself. She thought it weakness, an affectation
of piety for those weak of character. What use was faith when the gods were so
abundantly true?
But now she believed.
The God-Pharaoh's return had occupied little thought for her. There was still
so much to learn, so much training to do. She wanted to be the best, as did they
all. What point was there in thinking past her Trials, when the Trials were all she
aspired to? No lover, no child, no friend had ever stayed long in her life. None
could compete with her ambition. Yes, the gods deserved her worship, and her
daily prayer was her training. Her ultimate goal was to be found worthy. For that
desire, she would have no competition.
But still her heart quickened when the gate to paradise had opened. To know that
someday was now, that eternity was here. She craned her neck, eager to witness
divine bliss . . . but there was no bliss revealed behind those gates, only horror.

God-Pharaoh's Faithful | Art by Bastien L. Deharme

66
 Never had she appreciated the beauty of her city until it was taken from her.
The mighty Luxa, once as blue as the summer sky, ran blood red, filled with stink-
ing fish corpses and bubbling filth. Clouds of buzzing locusts stripped gardens and
trees bare, swarming small animals and leaving only bones in their wake.
Even the gods were dying. Mighty Rhonas. Clever Kefnet. Ambitious Bontu.
Beautiful Oketra. All gone, their divinity ripped away by their burgeoning mortality.
What god can be a god if they die?
Nylah's most wicked thought came to her then, unbidden. The gods have failed
their trial. They deserve their death.
A moment's pause, and then The Abyss stretched, beckoned. We all do.
That last thought did not horrify her. Instead, it kindled an ember deep within,
a warmth that comforted, here at the end of now and the beginning of the forever
promised them. Her city was destroyed, her gods dead, her people scattered. And
never had she believed more completely than now.
We must be tested. Without trial, there can be no honor. Without sacrifice,
there can be no glory. Without death, there can be no life. The litany of the priests
had never found purchase within her before, but now she clung to each word as
though it were a raft in a river flood. This was her Trial. This horror was what she
must overcome so she could be found worthy.
The word thrummed in her heart. Worthy.
Several angels in the sky, all of whom had overseen the chaos and violence
without interference, suddenly threw their heads back and spread their arms and
wings, their eyes ablaze with a sickly green glow as they shouted in unison, "The
Eternals come!"

Angel of the God-Pharaoh | Art by E.M. Gist

67
 She was standing next to the entrance of the central mausoleum, the repository
of the worthy dead. As the angels repeated their cry, the gates of the mausoleum
opened.
A dread figure, tall as a god, cloaked in darkness and shaped in the likeness
of a scarab beetle, came striding through the open gates. And behind him, in the
wake of his implacable dark divinity, came an army.

Hour of Eternity | Art by Tyler Jacobson

There were thousands of them, coated in a bright, hard metallic blue. Humans
and minotaurs, nagas and aven. All were imposing, though each form was only
sinew and bone encased in a polished lazotep glaze more beautiful than any jew-
elry. Nylah realized that despite their lack of muscle and flesh she could recognize
several past champions and challengers of recent Trials. The minotaur Bakenptah,

68
who had run his axe through a stone wall to defeat his final opponent. The mighty
mage Taweret, whom many had called the most powerful wizard the Trials had
seen for a decade. Everywhere she looked she saw champions she recognized
and many more she didn't.
All of them wielded weapons, sharp and gleaming, and the dead champions
moved with a grace and fluidity that suggested none of them had lost any of the
agility or strength that had propelled them to their earlier victories.
These were the Eternals. The worthy dead. This was the destiny of those who
would be champions.
Nylah's heart beat with envy. This destiny was all she had ever wanted. All she
still wanted. The Scarab God strode past her, taking no notice of her presence, but
the army of worthy behind the god noticed her.
Their eyes glowed with golden flame and their faces were frozen in grim smiles
as they raised their weapons. Nylah could see the soft dusk light shimmering along
the edges of their blades. They swarmed her as she cried out in ecstasy, wanting
nothing more than to become one with them forever.
"Now I believe!" she shouted to her desired brethren. Each blade sunk into
her flesh with a cold kiss, a greeting from the other side of glory, a sharpness that
could not be imagined, only felt. Only lived.
Now I believe, she thought with each blow. Her kin swarmed over her, stabbing,
stabbing. Now I believe.
Now was faith rewarded.

Asenue was going to lose.

It wasn't that they were better than her, though her opponents were some of
the best blademasters she had ever fought, dedicated champions who had lost
none of their skill in death. She was a master herself, in the prime of her ability
and training.
It wasn't that there were two of them against her alone, though the odds were
not in her favor. She had chosen her two-blade style precisely because of its useful-
ness in fighting multiple opponents, and she felt a thrill as she parried and whirled
and countered, her wrists a direct extension of her mind, changing between re-
laxed and tense as she kept herself alive for another parry, another swing, another
breath. One more breath.
No, she was going to lose this fight because she was human. And they were not.
Her shoulders ached. Her lungs labored. Her legs tired. Her weapons master's
voice came shouting back at her, "You imbeciles think your most important muscles
are in your arms, or your shoulders, or your back. It is your legs! When your legs

69
get tired, you die!" Her legs were very, very tired.
She was going to lose. She was going to die.
Eventually. But not now. Not right now. One more breath.
Just minutes before hundreds of nightmarish creatures with blue armor and
skull faces had burst through the streets of Naktamun, slaughtering all in their path.
The angels had called them "Eternals." Asenue saw her peers, whether they were
crop-mate or friend or barely known acquaintance, fall to the Eternals' blades.
I love you, here at the end, whether I know you or not. I love you all.
It was that love that had propelled her into combat. People died in the initial
onslaught, people died as they ran screaming, people died begging for their gods.
The Eternals killed them all, no touch of mercy staying their blades.
She had leapt Into the Fray, attracting the attention of two of the Eternals even
as countless more streamed by her in their pursuit of slaughter. But these two she
could stop.
Except she would not even be able to accomplish that. She would not fall to
their blades. At least not easily. But while they would not kill her quickly, they were
too good for her to overcome. Around her, other fighters had joined the wider battle
in the streets, but she heard the sounds of their labored breathing, their clashing
steel, their gurgling last cries.
No one was coming to save her.
But her rescue did not matter. Every moment she stayed alive, that was another
person not dying, another person who had another moment. A moment to survive,
to get somewhere safe.
There must be somewhere safe, yes? There has to be . . . she killed the thought.
One more breath.
A few minutes ago, an eternity ago, panic had threatened to overwhelm her.
She was strong, skilled and used to fighting for hours over the course of a day in
her normal training . . . but never without stopping, never without a single moment
to catch her breath, never against opponents who were faster, stronger, and did
not sweat or tire or slip.
The panic grew in her chest until she had discovered her new mantra. Then
her breathing evened, and the ache in her shoulders grew distant, and the fire in
her lungs burned slow, and her legs continued to move and move and move by
the sheer strength of her will.
One more breath.
Asenue saw one, two, three more people make it through a broken wall in
front of her unscathed. She did not have time to wish them well or even to hope
they would still be alive when the suns rose tomorrow. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to
move. Her legs were so tired.
One more breath. One more breath. One. More. Brea—

70
 Act of Heroism | Art by Magali Villeneuve

"Makare! Makare!" Genub frantically screamed his lover's name into the darken-
ing red sky. In the distance he saw the blue armored killers, their grotesque shapes
a mockery of their former selves. He knew that to face them was to die, but if he
did not find Makare, then he would welcome death.
They had pledged themselves to each other months before, saying the three
true words that it was forbidden to say. An affront to the God-Pharaoh, the priests
called it, but the lovers did not care. Nothing, not the Trials nor their crop-mates
nor the God-Pharaoh himself, had mattered in the face of their love.
Later that night, in the quiet grove where they had secluded themselves, she
had looked up at him, her wide brown eyes the only sight he ever wanted to see.
"I will always be with you, Genub," she said. He didn't know how it could be
possible, how they could continue to stay together, to avoid the Trials, but at that
moment, he didn't care.
"I will always be with you, Makare." As he said it, he became more convinced
it would become the truth. It felt more true than anything else in Naktamun.
And now she was gone. After Oketra had fallen, someone shouted that there
was an old temple on the outskirts of the city that would be safe. They ran as part

71
of a large group, Genub's heart beating fast with terror as he clutched Makare's
hand tight.
As long as we are together, he thought, and he clung to that thought desper-
ately. If he was with her, then everything would be alright.
Then someone screamed, and the Eternals rushed their street from every side
with raised swords, axes, and scythes. One leaped directly in front of Genub and
Makare, a naga, smooth and sinuous, casting a spell of blue fire that disintegrated
several people behind them.

Spellweaver Eternal | Art by Jason Felix

Genub couldn't remember what happened after that, only that he ran and ran,
his terror leaving no room for any other thought. When next he stopped to breathe,
Makare was not there.
He had failed her. He had abandoned her. "Makare!" he screamed, wildly swing-
ing his head, desperate for a glimpse.
There! Through a desolate, broken plaza he sprinted, her brown hair and
bronze-striped dress unmistakable. Even as he ran to her side, he saw the gath-
ering crowd of Eternals flanking her, but nothing would stop him this time, even if
he had to fight them all.
He skidded to a stop in front of her as she turned her head. Her eyes, the beau-
tiful brown of her eyes, had been replaced with a cold, glowing blue. She stared
at him, and there was no love in that gaze. Only then did he notice the large axe

72
in her hand, bloody brown bits staining its blade, and only then did he notice the
naga wizard behind her, whispering close into Makare's ear.
She raised her axe, and Genub knew this could not be, knew he could reach
her to break through whatever spell she was under. They could still be free. They
could still be together.
"Makare!" The only true thing in this world was their love for each other. "Ma-
kare!" He had to reach her, he had to break through. "Makare!"
Her swing did not slow as it came. Hers was not the only blade that punctured
his flesh, but it was the first. As it fell the last thing Genub saw was the smile on
his true love's face.

Threads of Disloyalty | Art by Yongjae Choi

Kawit should have given up when Oketra died.

Her god had been present in her life from her earliest memories. Her kindness,
her warmth, her presence a constant pull toward being a better person. To know
Oketra, to worship Oketra, to bask in her light, was a constant as true as the suns
in the sky . . . until Oketra's light was snuffed out, ended by the venomous point
of a scorpion's tail.
Kawit should have felt despair. Should have felt panic. But instead she only

73
felt rage. A bright, consuming anger, all doubt and fear burnt away by its white-hot
clarity.
She had knelt at Oketra's side as the lifeblood seeped out of her god, whose
eyes were already a dull gray. The plaza was devoid of other life. Most had fled the
threat of the Eternals, but Kawit remained, uncaring of any desire but seeing her
god one last time. A growing group of anointed had gathered around the god, oil-
ing her skin and wrapping her in cloth to prepare her for whatever destiny awaited
The Fallen divine.
In the midst of the dead, no one cared when Kawit picked up one of Oketra's
arrows, its length making it more like a spear in her hands. While the arrow was
no longer imbued directly with the god's Divine Light, Kawit still felt a humming
energy within it, an echo of her god's presence.
She was a devoted warrior of Oketra, proud and powerful, and she would see
her god avenged today.
A thunderous clacking sound grew behind her and she turned to see a minotaur
Eternal charging toward her at full speed, its long-bladed axe raised high. Kawit
had time only to brace with her new-found spear against the charge.

Without Weakness | Art by Alex Konstad

74
 The minotaur crashed into the spear's point, and Kawit felt a Surge of Power.
There was a flash of white light as the minotaur disintegrated, its blue lazotep ar-
mor crumbling to dust from the power of Oketra.
She stood there panting as her anger continued to rise; it would not be satiated
until every Eternal was reduced to dust.
And then she saw him.
It was the horns she saw first, the long curved shape so intimately familiar to
her eyes. Those horns were everywhere in her city, and she knew there was only
one being to whom they could belong.
It was the God-Pharaoh himself.

Omniscience | Art by Josh Hass

He was massive, larger than any god. A strange golden egg hovered between
his serpentine horns. And he was a dragon. Her mind faltered for a moment, won-
dering briefly if this was an interloper, some force of evil that had taken over the
God-Pharaoh. Was this impostor why her city was destroyed and the Luxa had
turned to blood? Was this impostor why her god, her dear, beautiful god, was dead?
The clarity of her rage provided an answer, and it hit her with such stunning
force that she knew its truth immediately.
This dragon is not an impostor. This dragon is our God-Pharaoh. This is the
being we have served all our lives. Her stomach roiled, her head feverishly hot.
She screamed her challenge into the darkening heavens, raising her spear

75
to the God-Pharaoh, no, that title no longer, to the dragon. "I will kill you!" She
sprinted toward him.
Her scream had attracted the attention of a large group of neighboring Eternals,
and they ran, slithered, and flew to intercept her.
Oketra, protect me. Give me strength. Kawit did not know, really, to whom she
was praying, but that did not lessen her confidence that Oketra would provide.
And Oketra did. A glowing, pulsing shield formed around Kawit, a tangible ex-
pression of Oketra's power and love. Eternals crashed into the shield and bounced
off as Kawit continued untouched to the dragon.
Oketra, help me strike true. Kawit launched the spear into the air and it flew
with speed and accuracy she knew she could never have achieved alone. It shone
in the air as though launched directly from Oketra's bow as it hurtled toward the
side of the unsuspecting dragon's neck.

Oketra's Avenger | Art by Anthony Palumbo

The Eternals on all sides continued to pound on the force-shield that surrounded
her, but to no avail. Oketra's love protected her. She would see justice done this day.
At the last possible second, the dragon turned his head toward the spear, and
the missile froze mid-air, all speed and force lost in an instant. The spear dropped
uselessly to the ground below, snapping in two as it hit the rough stone.
The dragon regarded the broken spear for a moment, and then spoke, his
voice thunder in a storm, "In a different world, child, in a different time . . .," here

76
the dragon paused, sparing her a glance, "you might have been useful." There
was no hate nor anger in his glance, but rather a dry bemusement. He turned and
strode off, forgetting she had ever existed.
His moment of nonchalance accomplished what a hail of rage could not. She
collapsed under the weight of his disregard, stunned at how much of her life he
had destroyed without any emotion. It would have been kinder, she realized, to
have her life torn away with angry purpose.
She knelt there nearly senseless as her shield began flickering. Flickering, and
then it was gone.
The Eternals closed in, and Kawit did not have strength enough left to scream.

Merciless Eternal | Art by Mathias Kollros

Amenakhte heard footsteps, soft steps, not the hard clink of metal on stone,
and thought it might be safe to say a word. In a few minutes, he would not be able
to say anything at all.
"Help . . ." blood dribbled out of his mouth, and the word gurgled out with it,
barely comprehensible. He thought it might be easier to just die then, but he re-
membered the child underneath him, the brave and smart child who even now
stayed silent, careful not to alert any more of the killers.

77
 Even as the blood poured out of his mouth, it made him realize how thirsty he
was, how much a cup of water would do to heal him. I will be fine, I just need a
cup of water, he thought.
"Help." He said it again, clearly, audibly. It took more strength to say the word
than anything else he had done that day, though he had already been strong enough
for a lifetime in the last hour alone.
Someone turned him over and gasped loudly. He looked at his rescuer, but his
eyesight was blurry. All he could make out was that she was human, not one of the
army of Eternals that had filled the streets killing everyone they could.
"Please," he hacked and spit, more blood coming up. "Please, save the child."
He had been running away. They all had. The locusts, the Hekma destroyed,
the deaths of the gods. It was all too much. Their world, everything they thought
about their world, ripped away from them in the time of a day.
So they ran. And then they discovered the true horror of the Hours, the true
meaning of the God-Pharaoh's return. The Eternals were among them, numerous
as the locusts, murderous as The Scorpion God, and merciless as the God-Pharaoh
himself must be. Their blades swung, their spells flashed, and people died.
Amenakhte was large, and he had the broad, strong shoulders and chest of a
fighter. But he was not good at fighting, and he had never been brave. The Eternals
killed you if you ran, and they killed you if you stayed; Amenakhte had felt the fear
taking over his heart until he saw the child wailing in the middle of street.
It wasn't his child. He knew that. He had met his child once, a few years ago,
even though such chance meetings were usually ignored and certainly never
acknowledged. Nevertheless, he had seen the child's broad shoulders, the thick
black hair so much like his own, and he had known. This child is mine. And his
heart swelled with pride that day, though he could not share his pride with anyone,
not even the child's mother, whom he rarely saw.
The child he had seen sobbing in the streets did not have thick black hair, nor
did he have broad, strong shoulders. But something had pulled at Amenakhte's
heart, just as it had on the day he found his own child. The Eternals had started
sweeping in from both sides of the street, their blades flashing and their metal-clad
feet clacking harshly against stone.
He had leapt to the child, scooping him up to carry him away, but the Eternals
were everywhere, their blades swinging down, and all that Amenakhte had time
to do was put himself between the falling blades and the child, covering him to
protect him against all blows.
I am your shield, child.
He had felt every thrust, every cut, but were his shoulders not broad? Was he
not strong? With every stab, he thought of the child he protected, his only hope to
keep him alive.

78
 After a moment that felt like an eternity, the violence was done, and the harsh
clacking moved off elsewhere. The man dared not try to move for fear of bringing
the Eternals back, but after a few moments, he realized he could not move even
if he wanted to. The child had stayed silent throughout without stirring. Even now
he could feel no movement. So brave. So clever. I will save you.
And now the woman was here, and Amenakhte could give the child to the
woman. And then he could die.
She didn't say anything, but she knelt down and held his hand. Her hands were
so warm, so soft. They were almost as good as a drink of water. He looked up at
her face, and though he could not see her well, he knew she was beautiful.
"You will . . . you will save the child?" Strangely the words were easier now
than before, flowing out of him just like blood. She nodded, and Amenakhte could
see even through his blurred eyes that she was crying.
Don't cry for me, he wanted to say. Just take the child. But his mouth refused
to work.
She leaned close, whispering gently into his ear. "The child is . . . I will," she
sobbed. "I will . . . save the child."
Her voice was like her hands, liquid and warm, like the first drop of golden
honey licked off the comb. His vision dimmed, and he tried to drink in her face,
her beautiful face, the last sliver of sun before bowing to the night, vast and dark
and forever.

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 ENDURE
By Michael Yichao
"The world crumbled beneath the heel of the mighty God-Pharaoh, and an un-
named hour dawned as the blood red sun drowned the land in crimson. And thus,
the Hour of Devastation reigned, and, the God-Pharaoh completed his great plan,
leaving behind ruin while darkness consumed and unmade the entirety of the city."
Samut ran.

Blur of Blades | Art by Anna Steinbauer

Behind her, the small band of survivors followed. Djeru kept pace with the slow-
est of the group, guarding their backs.
Escape the city. Get to the desert.
Hazoret's command burned at the back of Samut's thoughts as they moved.
She and Djeru had obeyed the god, parting ways with Hazoret and striking out
toward the edges of the city. They had grown in number as they traveled, other
survivors joining to fight together.
They had shrunk in number as god-fueled destruction crumbled the city around
them.
Get to the desert.

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 Endless Sands | Art by Noah Bradley

The endless dunes and strangling sands had long been symbols of death and
danger to the people of Naktamun, and a personal reminder of folly and loss for
Samut. Yet now, the desert was her people's last hope for survival.
The rag-tag group approached a building just a short distance from where the
Hekma had stood only hours before. Once a barracks for the viziers of Kefnet who
helped maintain and repair the barrier, the building looked utterly abandoned, save
for a few small clusters of locusts that clung to various surfaces. Samut gestured
for the others to take shelter behind a wall. She scrabbled up the rough stone,
climbing to the roof for a better vantage.
Before her, the deserts of Amonkhet stretched to the horizon. Winds drove
sheets of sand through the air, and the rippling dunes cast strange shadows.
Samut couldn't tell if they were shifting due to the light, the wind, or because they
hid some unknown horror. She knew that other ruins lay buried beyond the city,
places where they could possibly hide temporarily for shelter—but beyond that,
she was at a loss.
Hazoret still believed that the God-Pharaoh might come to save them from
the darkness. Some in their group seemed to believe the same, still invoking the
God-Pharaoh in their battle cries or whispering prayers for his return to fix what
had gone wrong. But Samut knew the truth.
A series of cries rang out from below her. Samut looked down to find all the

81
survivors pointing back toward the city. In the sky, a dark void appeared, and from
its unfathomable depths, a massive golden figure appeared. For a moment, Samut's
brow crinkled in confusion. Then she saw the being's golden horns.
The blood drained from Samut's face.
He has arrived.

Nicol Bolas, the Deceiver | Art by Svetlin Velinov

Some in their party cheered. Some started running back toward the heart of
the city, toward the distant God-Pharaoh.
That was when the dragon raised his hands, and black fire fell from the skies.
Samut yelled above the noise, urging the survivors into the enclave behind them.
She suppressed her despair as she watched a streaking blast of flames annihilate
a young minotaur running back toward the group. She dashed out to scoop an
aven girl into her arms, running with the child back toward shelter, pushing her to
join the others. Once everyone was inside, she followed. Djeru was herding folks
into the center of the room, away from windows and doorways. The shuddering
sound of blasts hitting walls and other buildings reverberated through their bones,
punctured only by the quiet sobs of the young.
"Why—why would the God-Pharaoh—" a naga youth, barely of age to be a
disciple by Samut's guess, stammered and stared wide-eyed at those around him.
"The God-Pharaoh is a lie." Samut spoke loud enough for the room to hear.

82
"He is no great redeemer. He is a trespasser, an interloper from another world."
"That—that can't be true. That . . . beast cannot be our promised God-Pharaoh."
A tall, barrel-chested man pushed his way forward. Samut recognized him as Ma-
sikah of the Ahn crop.
"Do your eyes not see, your ears not hear? Does your heart not feel? The death
of our gods! The destruction of our city! This spell of hellfire, from the very claws
of the God-Pharaoh himself!" Samut spoke with icy conviction, staring straight at
Masikah.
A voice cried out from the crowd. "We have been betrayed! Our gods have
been betrayed!" Angry shouts of agreement rippled across the assembled group.
"The dark gods are his harbingers, not his adversaries." Samut put an arm on
Masikah's shoulder. "We must confront the truth and fight to survive."
Samut turned and addressed the crowd, looking each survivor in the eye. "I
have uncovered the erased histories of our people. I have seen the ruins and hid-
den places in the sands." Samut's words softened as she spoke. "I had hoped that
I was wrong, that I was mad, that the heresies I found were not true. But all of my
Worst Fears have come to pass."
The survivors murmured among themselves. Some faces hardened with an-
ger, while others turned to Samut, waiting for her next words. She opened her
mouth to speak when a sharp, Stabbing Pain pierced her chest. Samut doubled
over, sucking in breath through clenched teeth. As she looked up, she saw all the
survivors clutching their chests, their faces frozen in stunned shock. One of the
younger survivors vomited.
Which one had fallen?
Samut chose her words with purpose.
"Four of our gods are now dead. Yes, four," she said, shouting above the moans
and wails from the survivors. Some shook their heads, denying the truth Samut
just spoke aloud. Others simply gazed off into space, stunned into silence. Samut
pressed on.
"I live for the glory of my gods. I reject the lies of the false God-Pharaoh. We
must stand and protect what's ours. We must survive. We must defy the great
trespasser."
"I stand with her."
Samut turned, surprised, her chest tight with emotion. Djeru stood from where
he had been comforting a young survivor and faced the crowd. "Samut is my old-
est friend. I, more than anyone, thought her words were vile heresy when she first
spoke against the God-Pharaoh. But I have seen more than I needed to realize
she speaks truth."
An uneasy silence fell over the group, broken by the young naga boy.
"What do we do now?" he asked, looking around at those near him.

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 "What can we do?" wailed a voice among the crowd. Murmurs of agreement
rippled through the survivors.
Another voice cut through, clear and bold. "A good question. What can we do
against dark gods who slay divinity, against a dragon who rains fire from the skies?"
A few survivors stepped aside as Hapatra strode forward. Samut looked to
Djeru then back to the vizier before replying. "Hazoret asked that Djeru and I pro-
tect those we could—to hide among the desert sands. To survive. We defy the
trespasser by living."
Some heads nodded in agreement.
Samut drew her twin khopeshes. "But I am going back into the city."
She strode to the door, then turned to address the room. "I would not ask any of
you to come with me. Escape and survival would be honoring the wish of our god,
and would be a brave act in defiance of the trespasser." Samut's voice cracked
as she continued speaking. "But I cannot bear the death of another god. Though
Hazoret wished for us to flee, I will return because I must try to protect that which
has protected me my entire life."
Djeru drew his weapon as well. "I will go with you, sister." He turned to address
the crowd. "We, the children of the gods, have never feared death. I was glad to
give my life in dedication to the glorious after. Now I am proud to give it in defense
of the divine."
Other warriors stood, drawing blades, readying staves, their faces set in grim
determination.
"I will not go with you."
Hapatra spoke, and all turned to listen. "Though my heart yearns for even
the faintest chance to avenge my Rhonas's death, I know my poisons would bet-
ter serve to pave the path for the living." She drew her dagger and held it to her
chest in a salute, a small snake winding its way from her sleeves up her arm. "I
am Rhonas's broken fang, and I know where to strike to stop the undead and the
monstrosities in their tracks. I will strike down all that would threaten our people
as we seek refuge amongst the sands." Hapatra stared at Samut with burning
intensity. "I trust the safety of our god to your hands, Samut."
Samut returned the gesture with her khopeshes. "Knowing our strengths and
sacrificing our wishes for the welfare of others is not easy. Thank you for your
bravery."
She turned to the others and raised a blade in the air. "The rest, to me! We will
find and protect our last god!"

Samut clenched her teeth. They're unstoppable.

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 Djeru's Renunciation | Art by Kieran Yanner

Even as Djeru smashed two of them back, a third charged forward, spear at
the ready. Samut cried out as Djeru parried the jab from the lazotep-coated mi-
notaur's spear. She dashed in and smashed her khopeshes against the undead
warrior, leaving two jagged gashes along his chest. The blow didn't seem to affect
the minotaur at all as he spun, knocking Djeru and Samut back with a powerful
roundhouse kick.
As she scrambled to her feet, Samut noted that only four other fighters remained;
the rest had fallen to the endless stream of eternalized warriors. The cruel joke of
the promised Hours nagged at Samut's thoughts. The Hour of Eternity—when the
worthy dead shall rise again to a glorious afterlife. Samut grimaced. If "glorious
afterlife" meant slaughtering everything you once held dear.
The minotaur conjured an angry flame that engulfed the head of its spear. Djeru
shuffled closer. "I . . . I've never seen the undead cast spells before," he said.
"I've never seen the corpses of our slain champions imbued with lazotep then
unleashed on the city before," Samut said. "It is a day of firsts."
Djeru grinned. "Lucky us."
"If these are our past champions, then this must be him," Samut said. Djeru
and Samut stepped back as the minotaur approached, his spear spinning in one
hand behind him, creating a dizzying pattern of light. Djeru nodded. The brutal
champion with a spear of flame: it could only be Neheb the Worthy, a legendary

85
initiate skilled in magic and combat alike. He had passed the Trials when Samut
and Djeru were mere children. "The greatest warrior of a generation," their trainers
had told them. "Fight like Neheb," their sparring instructors had said.

Neheb, the Eternal | Art by Chris Rahn

"This is a fool's errand," Samut whispered to Djeru, adjusting her grip on her
weapons.
Djeru shifted his stance, keeping an eye on Neheb. "We can take him, sister."
"To what end? We cannot hope to defeat all the returned champions of Amonkhet.
We should be finding the last remaining god."
Neheb swung his spear forward, sending a wave of flame at Samut. Samut
dodged out of the way, but Neheb was already charging in, spear thrusting at
Djeru's chest. Djeru held his blade up to parry and the minotaur pressed forward,
closing the distance and bringing a powerful fist smashing into Djeru's face, knock-
ing him sprawling. Samut let out a roar and charged, khopeshes swiping down in
an overhead strike. Neheb countered with a Swift Kick to her stomach. The blow
knocked her back and left her gasping for air. In a blink, Neheb took advantage of
his opening and charged at Djeru, spear raised to pierce the prone warrior.
A Flash of Light dazed all the fighters present. Samut leaped to her feet to find
the interloper Gideon standing between Neheb and Djeru, the golden glow of his
invulnerability stopping the minotaur's fiery spear. Around him, the other four inter-
lopers charged forward, spells flying as they assaulted the Eternals. Neheb struck

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blow after blow against Gideon, but nothing pierced the golden light.
Samut seized her opportunity. She sprinted toward the Eternal minotaur and
stabbed him in the back with both khopeshes, knocking him to the ground. The
blades cracked through the lazotep, leaving deep gouges. She drew her weapons
back and stabbed again, this time piercing the base of its neck. Neheb—or rather,
the monstrosity that once had been Neheb—twitched and spasmed briefly, before
finally laying inert.
So they can be destroyed, Samut thought. She looked around to see the other
interlopers dispatching the remaining Eternals. The one with the pointy ears and
unnerving green eyes—Nissa—was helping some of the injured warriors, healing
cuts and wounds.
Djeru stood and clapped a hand on Gideon's back. "That is the second time
today that you have saved me. The first time, I was furious. Now, I am grateful."
Gideon started to reply, but Jace cut him off. "We're wasting time and energy
here, Gideon. Bolas remade this place in his image. He has the advantage here.
We must approach carefully. But the longer we delay, the more time we give Bolas
to prepare for us."

Strategic Planning | Art by Matt Stewart

"Agreed," Liliana said. "I'm certain he already knows we're here." Samut won-
dered how the woman's dress came to be soaked in blood—and how she still
managed to look elegant and poised despite this.
"We bring the fight to him, then." Gideon strode forward, but Samut caught his
hand.

87
 "I shall come with you," she said.
Gideon hesitated. Djeru stepped in. "We will not, Samut. We will stand down."
Samut's temper flared. "How could you say that, Djeru? If they intend to slay
the trespasser, the one responsible for all of this—"
"Then we will support them by getting out of their way."
Samut fumed, but Djeru held up a hand.
"You are a far stronger fighter than I, Samut." Djeru shook his head at Samut's
half-formed objection. "Others may speak of us as equals, but you and I know
the truth. There is only one thing that I do better than you: seeing the potential of
those around me."
Samut thought back to Djeru's leadership of their crop, his intuitive knowledge
of each member's skills and weaknesses, and fell silent.
Djeru continued. "A wise warrior once said, 'Knowing our strengths and sacri-
ficing our wishes for the welfare of others is not easy.'"
Samut rolled her eyes. "Don't think flattery will win me over, brother."
"The interlopers must strike down the God-Phara—the trespasser." Djeru looked
toward the great horns in the distance, toward the second sun perched at its zenith
between them. "We must stay true to our course. Find the last god of Amonkhet,
protect her, and protect the people of our city."
Samut glared at Djeru, then sighed. She clasped his arm, and brought him
close for an embrace. "I am grateful to have you with me again, Djeru."
She looked to the interlopers, five strangers, bearing strange markings and
wielding foreign powers. She did not know if she believed in them or their ability
to bring the trespasser low. She looked each of them in the eye as she spoke.
"For what he did to my people, my gods, my world—slay him. Slay the great
destroyer. Slay the dragon trespasser. Slay Nicol Bolas."

Samut was not accustomed to stealth or to following.

After leaving the interlopers to plot their battle with the dragon, Samut, Djeru,
and their small band had picked up a few more survivors. The roaming bands of
Eternals seemed to be thinning—but only because the living denizens of the city
had either died; escaped; or on extremely rare occasion, hid well enough to survive.
The streets of Naktamun were strangely quiet, broken by the occasional buzz of
locust wings and the shuffles and groans of roaming corpses raised by the Curse
of Wandering.
Ahead of Samut, a young vizier of Hazoret led the way. Introducing himself as
Haq, the vizier had told Samut and Djeru of the battle he had witnessed between
Bontu and Hazoret, of Bontu's betrayal and the God-Pharaoh's ultimate cruelty.

88
The vizier couldn't have been older than fourteen, no more than a year or two into
his tenure, yet he spoke with a calmness and eloquence that belied his years.
"After Bontu fell, The Scarab God woke the Eternals and attacked the city," Haq
had said. "I had enough time from my vantage at Hazoret's temple to flee, but in
the ensuing bedlam, I lost track of Hazoret."
As a vizier of Hazoret, though, his heart beat as one with his god, and he could
sense her presence faintly. He was tracking her movements, trying to reach her,
when a roaming band of mummies trapped him in a storehouse. He had hidden
within the barrels of salted fish until Samut's band happened by.
Now the boy led the group with Samut right behind. Samut prayed quietly that
they would reach Hazoret in time, then stopped. It seemed strange to pray to the
deity you were trying to save.
Haq led the survivors down a path at the foot of a massive monument, turned a
corner, then froze. As the rest of the group rounded the corner, everyone gasped.
Rhonas's body lay inert on the ground. Some of the survivors fell to their knees.
Others approached slowly, hands outstretched, desperate to disprove the reality
before them. But trembling fingers met solid golden scales and divine robes. The
finality of his death washed over the survivors. Tears, angry cries, and quiet em-
braces followed. Djeru approached the god, kneeling and placing a hand on the
god's face.
Anger again bubbled in Samut's gut, and she approached The Fallen body of
Rhonas. She climbed up his chest, drawing gasps from some of the others, and
stood. "Brothers. Sisters. We mourn. But we will endure. If you believe the God-
Pharaoh tests you, charge with me to prove yourself. If you believe he betrayed us
all, join with me to fight for tomorrow. We will embody the strength Rhonas taught
us and gifted us, through his teachings and his Trial!"

Life Goes On | Art by Daarken

89
 The survivors around her cried out in solidarity, faces hardening from grief to
anger.
Suddenly, Djeru stood, his eyes glued to the horizon. "Samut. I think we should
seek out shelter," he said.
Samut squinted where he looked. From the direction of the Gate to the Afterlife,
a massive sandstorm was sweeping in. In the past, such a storm would've crashed
into the Hekma, harmlessly rippling against the barrier—but with the Hekma gone,
the swirling sands and howling winds approached with alarming speed, a solid
Wall of Dust and darkness.
Samut called out to the survivors and turned to retreat the way they had come.
But Haq suddenly grasped Samut's hand, pointing in front of him, straight into the
storm. "Sister. Hazoret comes. She is not alone."
Samut looked at the boy, then drew her khopeshes. "Warriors. Brace your-
selves. Stand ready!"
The survivors drew their weapons and pulled cloths over mouths and faces.
Several ducked behind the monument wall for some shelter. Samut, Djeru, and
Haq stood where they were, leaning in as the storm swept over them.
The stinging sands nipped at them through their clothes and armor. The three
held their arms over their eyes, feet braced against the buffeting winds. Everything
dimmed to a semi-darkness, the sand thick enough to filter out most of the twin
suns' light, the roar of the wind blocking out any other sounds.
Then Samut saw it: a large shadow approaching in the gloom. The silhouette
grew, sharpening into a clearer shape, and soon came the sound of massive feet
running. And then Hazoret emerged from the clouds of sand, and Samut again felt
her heart surge at the sight of the god.
Her excitement immediately dampened as she took in what she saw. Hazoret
did not look well. She gripped her spear in one hand, while the other dangled oddly
by her side. Gashes and wounds decorated her golden body, and the god's breath
came labored and frequent.
"Hazoret! We've come for you!" Haq cried out above the storm. Samut watched
Hazoret turn and gaze toward them, face flickering from determination to surprise.
Run.
The command echoed in Samut's head with the force of an order, and Samut
staggered back several steps before seizing control of herself. Hazoret's attention
had already turned back behind her, and with a jolt, Samut realized that the tow-
ering gloom she had thought was just the rest of the storm was actually a much
larger shadow.
A scorpion's tail pierced through the haze, and Hazoret parried the strike, dodg-
ing to the side as the massive form of The Scorpion God crashed into sight. She's
slow, Samut noted. Sluggish. And fighting one-handed.

90
 Yet even so injured, Hazoret moved with power and purpose. The Scorpion
God turned to grasp at her, but Hazoret disappeared in a burst of flame and sand.
The Scorpion God's mandibles clattered, and Samut watched it swerve and lurch
back into the gloom, following Hazoret by some unknown sense.
"She's casting a spell," Haq said. Samut looked at the ground where Haq pointed
and saw a small ring of fire flickering, buffeted in the wind. In the darkness, through
the sands, Samut saw other little glowing points of light emerge as the sounds of
titanic blows continued.
"Warriors! Fall Back!" Djeru cried, backing away from the fiery circle. Samut
and Haq followed suit, and the survivors ran for cover behind the monument they
passed earlier.
The air crackled with energy, and an enormous Pillar of Flame erupted in the
storm, hungry tongues of fire fed by the winds, licking through the sand. The air
itself seemed to burn as the spiraling flames created a massive, undulating column
of fire as tall as any of Naktamun's grandest monuments. The heat of the blaze
blistered the exposed skin of the survivors and seemed to Burn Away the sand-
storm, the twisting fiery spell consuming all in its radius.
Samut held a hand up against the heat, peering toward the flame. Silhouetted
against the red-orange glow was Hazoret. She held her spear in her one good
hand, pointing at the burning pyre, her arm shaking with concentration.
Moments crawled by, and Hazoret finally dropped her arm. The flame pillar
persisted as the god fell to her knees, leaning against her spear to stay upright.

A Reckoning Approaches | Art by Yeong-Hao Han

91
 "She . . . she caught it in the flame trap," Haq whispered. And indeed, as the
fires slowly burned out, Samut could make out The Scorpion God's form standing
at the center of the blaze, its carapace glowing white hot.
"It cannot still be alive," Djeru breathed.
But The Scorpion God took a halting step forward, arm outstretched toward
Hazoret. Then another step. And another.
And its carapace cooled from white to orange, then slowly to charred black.
Still it approached, regaining momentum and purpose with each step.
Hazoret looked up and moved to stand, but stumbled, falling back to her knees.
And The Scorpion God ran forward.
The flash of a tail. The sickening sound of stinger piercing flesh.
Samut stared, stunned. Hazoret had whipped her body around, blocking The
Scorpion God's blow with her deadened arm. The Scorpion God pulled its stinger
back, and Hazoret cried out in pain. She rolled backward away from The Scorpion
God's second strike. Samut watched with horror as green ichor glowed and crawled
up Hazoret's limb, creeping its way toward the god's body and heart.
Hazoret's spear glowed with heat.
A swing of its bladed edge.
The sizzle of flesh.
A small mist of blood evaporated in the air as the molten edge cauterized the cut.
Hazoret crouched, panting hard, blood seeping from the wound that had saved
her life. Before her, her severed arm blackened, the poison consuming the flesh.
And again, The Scorpion God approached.
Samut let out a primal scream and sprinted forward, terror and rage and pain
and heartbreak melting into molten strength. Behind her, she was faintly aware of
Haq and other mages readying spells. In front of her, the impossible height of The
Scorpion God loomed. She was tiny. She was inconsequential.
And she did not care.
Instinct seized Samut as she channeled magical power to her legs. She leaped
into the air, launching herself flying over Hazoret and toward the dark god, khopeshes
gripped with blades pointing downward. She smashed into The Scorpion God's
side, and her blades pierced its carapace, lodging there and giving her a temporary
handhold. Surprise turned to epiphany as she realized that the molten heat from
Hazoret's spell must have softened the god's impenetrable shell.
Samut laughed, a blend of battle rage and utter joy. She gave her blades a
shake and a jolt, sliding down the god's body, gravity lending momentum to her
descent. She swung her feet out and carved across the god's ribs towards his ab-
domen, her blades slicing through the heated carapace like an ibis cutting through
a clear blue sky.
The Scorpion God roared and swatted at her, an insect-like god trying to squash

92
an insect-like human. But Samut pulled her blades loose and launched herself
again, kicking off his chest, her khopeshes biting into the god's arm. She cut a
thin line through his shell before the god flicked her off with a shake of his hand.
A cloud of sand softened Samut's Crash Landing. As she stood, slightly dazed,
a minotaur mage approached, hands aglow with power, now shaping the sands into
a dense mass, pummeling at The Scorpion God's legs. Beside him, other mages
launched bolts of fire and blasts of lightning at the god.
"Samut! Push it toward the river!" Djeru's cry carried across the distance, and
Samut spotted him running with two other warriors towards a cluster of obelisks
in the distance.
A genuine grin flashed across Samut's face as she realized Djeru's plan. "To
me!" she cried, and the remaining survivors from their band charged forward, fol-
lowing her lead.
The mortals battled with the weakened god, battering it with blows and spells.
An aven screeched as it was snatched out of the air, crushed in the god's grip. A
warrior wielding twin axes disappeared underfoot, the god's step obliterating him
where he stood. A spray of venom from the god's tail caught several mages by
surprise and they collapsed in the acrid pools.

Torment of Venom | Art by Johann Bodin

But the mortals chipped away at the god, their blows battering its melted cara-
pace. And they succeeded in pushing it back, ever closer to the field of obelisks.

93
The Scorpion God raged, lashing out at the combatants barraging it with spells,
arrows, and spears. Behind it, Djeru stood at the ready with a few others, partially
hidden behind a half-toppled obelisk. So close, Samut thought, surveying the
battle. But The Scorpion God managed to hold its ground just a touch too far from
Djeru's waiting trap.
"We need to push it back! Just a little further!" Samut shouted.
From behind her, Samut heard a clear voice ring out.
"Dark god! For Rhonas, I will strike you down."
She turned, and the sight took Samut's breath away.

Gift of Strength | Art by Kieran Yanner

A lone khenra stood, hoisting Rhonas's staff into the air, the weapon magically
reforged into one. Her hands glowed with golden power, some last vestige of the
god's strength coursing through her body, and she ran forward with the staff held
high overhead. Samut and the other survivors dove out of the way as the khenra
passed. With a mighty roar, the khenra swung the staff at The Scorpion God.
The god raised its arms to block the blow, but the force of the strike knocked
it careening back. Fragments of carapace fell from its arms, shattered into pieces.
At that moment, Djeru and his team ran forward, a rope held taut between them,
tripping The Scorpion God as he fell back toward the obelisks, their pointed ends
suddenly a field of daggers for the enormous god.
But Samut could see the arc of the god's fall and the angle of the obelisks
would not align.

94
 Without a word, she once again dashed forward and leaped, propelled by
magical force, smashing into the falling god tipping him to the right, just the right
amount, and an earth-shattering crunch echoed across the battlefield as the obelisk
pierced The Scorpion God's chest.

Puncturing Blow | Art by Eric Deschamps

The assembled survivors let out wild cheers, but Samut simply watched the god
with grim suspicion. The god twitched and clawed feebly at the obelisk protruding
from its chest, but it did not cease moving. Whatever power beckoned it to stalk
and kill still pulled at its broken body, still commanded its tail to Lash Out weakly.
"Thank you, my children."
Hazoret limped toward The Scorpion God, leaning on her staff as a cane, young
Haq walking beside her. The survivors surged toward Hazoret, but she shook her
head.
"You all have done more than I could have asked. More than any mortal
has. But this task I must finish myself."
Samut, Djeru, and the others stepped back as Hazoret approached The Scor-
pion God, still struggling weakly. Hazoret looked upon the massive beast, tears
glistening on her face.

95
 "You have slain my brothers and sisters. But I know it was not by your
wish or design. Rest now, brother. May my fires free you from this form and
these dark shackles."
With a jab, Hazoret pierced The Scorpion God with her two-pronged spear,
right where the obelisk protruded from its shell. Rippling heat emanated from her,
and black smoke billowed forth from The Scorpion God as it burned from the inside
until its outer carapace collapsed inward, the god reduced to cinders and ash.
At last, Hazoret drew back her spear and thrust it into the ground. The god
looked about until she spotted Samut, then knelt before the mortal. Samut stood,
stunned. Hazoret reached out a large hand, and Samut raised her own hands,
grasping Hazoret's finger, feeling the warm and healing glow of the god before her.
In the arena, Samut, you told me that you believed that I was not what I
was forced to do—that I would protect my children when you all needed me
most.
Samut looked into the eyes of her god and smiled. "You have, Hazoret. And I
thank you."
Hazoret shook her head. I could not have done so without you. You, my
beloved children, protected me when I needed you the most.
My heart is yours. Thank you, Samut the Tested. You have seen through
the Trials and bested the darkness beyond.
Tears of unbridled joy trickled down Samut's face. Pride, strength, and boundless
love for her god flooded her body. She knew this moment was but a small triumph
in the face of overwhelming darkness, but the flickering flame of hope remained
alive, salvaged from destruction and shielded from the winds of the great trespasser.
Euphoria drowned out all else around her.
And within her soul, a powerful force crackled, and sparked.
A rush of energy poured out across Samut's body, and she felt her muscles
contract as her mind expanded—she was falling, falling through space, through
flashing waves of aether, moving infinitely fast and not at all, plummeting through
a crack in reality itself. The desert air around her was suddenly replaced with a
cool breeze, and Samut found herself standing among strange grasses, the plants
rippling at her feet.
Samut looked up, her eyes not quite comprehending what she saw. The sky
held no suns—in fact, the world seemed covered in a strange darkness, Punctuated
by peculiar speckles of light that danced and twinkled like distant gems. Strange
twisting patterns of color danced through the sky, and some of the glowing pinpoints
seemed to shine brighter than others. Samut rubbed her eyes. If she stared long
enough, they seemed to form a strange sort of pattern, a connected luminescence
that almost seemed to take on an almost familiar form, like a thought lingering just
outside the reach of memory, or the whispered fragments of a forgotten dream . . .

96
 Art by James Ryman

Samut tore her eyes from the strange sky and looked around her. She could
make out the black outline of some buildings in the distance, straight and rigid in
their architecture. The wind continued to dance through the grass at her feet, its
whistle almost musical as it brushed across her skin, and unfamiliar scents tickled
her nose.
A deep panic swelled within Samut. This is not Naktamun. This is not Amonkhet.
This is . . . some other world.
She thought of the interlopers, of their strange spells, odd clothing, and unusual
markings.
I . . . I am them. I am a walker between worlds.
She shook her head and yelled in frustration. She needed to be back home.
Needed to help Hazoret, still grievously injured, help her people escape—
Samut turned to run, pulling on memory and instinct, drawing on magics still new
and tenuous. As her legs churned, she felt the same strange indescribable feeling
seize her. Suddenly a force wrenched her from reality, her magic intertwining with
the fibers of her muscles, her body serving as medium for a spell she didn't know
she could cast. She plummeted again through flashing blue and swirling colors,
and as she fell she could vaguely feel other worlds—planes—passing her by until
with a jolt, she landed on her knees in warm, familiar sand, basking again in the
glow of Hazoret's presence.
Around her, the other survivors looked on in shock, having watched their cham-
pion vanish in a blur, only to reappear before anyone could react.
My child.

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 Hazoret's warm voice echoed in Samut's head, and she started to stand and
reply—but her body slumped forward and she fell, completely drained of energy.
Hazoret caught Samut in her hand, and gently held her until two other survivors
rushed forward to take her and lie her down. Djeru knelt by Samut's side, worry
etching his brow.
A thunderous crash and ripple of power drew everyone's attention skyward.
The golden dragon flew above the city, lightning crackling between his claws.
His gaze fell below him, and thunderous laughter boomed forth.
"I imagine the interlopers have engaged the great trespasser." Djeru sheathed
his khopesh and stood.
A khenra warrior spoke up. "We should go to their aid!"
Djeru shook his head. "That is a conflict that we cannot win. We are far from
our full strength."
The khenra scowled. "So we do nothing?"
"We endure."
The survivors turned to Hazoret. The god drew her spear from the ground and
gazed toward Nicol Bolas.
"When the gods numbered eight, we stood against the dragon, and we
fell. I do not know if these interlopers can stop him. I pray for their success."
She turned back toward the gathered survivors.
"But for now, my children, we must simply endure, persist, survive. We will
march forth into the desert and seek shelter among its sands and mirages.
And as long as I draw breath as a god of Amonkhet, I will protect you."
"And us, you." Djeru knelt before Hazoret and pounded his fist against his chest.
One by one, the other survivors followed.
Hazoret smiled a sad smile and gazed down at Samut. Her unexpected cham-
pion, the child who saw the truth, who dared defy the gods because she loved the
gods so fiercely.
And she marched forward toward the distant sands, her people trailing behind
her, as the dragon trespasser descended on his unseen foes among the ruins of
Naktamun.

Leave | Art by Dan Scott

98
 ". . . But even as the great trespasser rained destruction down upon the ruins
of Naktamun, Hazoret, the God-Survivor, mother and protector of the mortals of
Amonkhet, shepherded her children from certain ruin. And so it was, and so it shall
be, divinity and mortals marching into an unknown future."
—Haqikah, survivor of Amonkhet

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 HOUR OF DEVASTATION
By Ken Troop
The Gatewatch, outraged by the mounting devastation that has overtaken Amonkhet,
confronts Nicol Bolas to bring him to justice for his atrocities across the Multiverse.
However, Nicol Bolas has plans of his own.

Damnation | Art by Zack Stella

Nicol Bolas flew toward the heroes, eager to kill someone today.
Either he would have deaths, screams, and blood, or he would, perhaps, have
something better.
He did not expect to have both. One could not have everything. Not even Nicol
Bolas. He was not greedy. Greed implies wanting something you didn't deserve.
Everything Nicol Bolas wanted was entirely deserved.
Several decades ago he had come to the world of Amonkhet, a blighted, super-
stitious backworld of interest to no one who mattered, to no one who was paying
attention. He had prepared—layer upon layer of preparations. Miserable lives that
would soon have ended anyway ended just a bit sooner, with a touch more violence.
Hardly worthy of the effort, normally. Except . . . except several decades were
an eyeblink when he was fully himself, able to wield the divinity due him. But as
he was now, merely a shadow of a shadow of a god, those several decades had
seemed an eternity.

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 Ruminating on all he had lost fanned the glowing ember of hate burning in
his chest. The growing flame felt good. The hatred felt right. Today, Nicol Bolas
thought, it begins.

Imminent Doom | Art by Daniel Ljunggren

He flew down to the center of a ruined plaza. Rubble and broken bodies gar-
nished the toppled statues and cracked obelisks. At the edges of the plaza, five
planeswalkers stood arrayed against him, grim determination on their tiny faces.
He knew each of them intimately. He had scouted them, studied them, analyzed
and categorized them. Chandra Nalaar, pyromancer. Liliana Vess, necromancer.
Jace Beleren, telepath and illusionist. Nissa Revane, elementalist. Gideon Jura,
invulnerable soldier.
They fancied themselves The Gatewatch. As though for some bizarre reason
there were gates scattered throughout the Multiverse. That deserved watching.
The heroes, Nicol Bolas thought. Bless them, each and every one.
Clouds of yellow dust spun into the air, stirred by the beating of his massive
wings. He saw the slight widening of Chandra's eyes as she realized, seemingly
for the first time, just how large Nicol Bolas was. Her naiveté amused. Not for the

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first time, he wondered if these heroes would be suitable for what he required.
No matter. There were others, if need be.
Tiny perturbations prickled his mind, a cautious but insistent probing from Jace.
Yes, my dear boy, find your footing, Bolas implored silently. He landed with a soft
thump, his wings flexing with a final, ponderous beat. He had not needed wings to
fly for a very long time, but he loved the way it felt, his majesty fully unfurled and
on display.
He lifted his head to the sky and roared, a throaty cry that shook buildings and
quailed hearts. His roar echoed the cries of countless other predators throughout
the eons, predators who have no more need to be silent. Over the long years, Ni-
col Bolas knew it served him poorly to be too much the dragon. But it was no fun
to be the dragon too little.
The five planeswalkers stood uncertainly around him. He extended his mind
outward and could feel the ripples of their telepathic communication, orchestrated
by Jace. He could intercept it if he wanted, but thought it would be more interest-
ing to see what plan they had come up with. Given their hesitation and dawdling,
he was growing ever more certain they would disappoint.
Oh, they probably had a plan. A plan, charitably, could consist of kill the dragon.
Or, you burn it, you zombie it, you elemental it, you illusion it, you block it. These
were all, given enough leeway, plans. And plans of similar competence had served
them well enough in their recent escapades. Nicol Bolas could appreciate efficiency.
Why bother being smart when the Multiverse so conveniently conspired to keep
your idiocy alive?
Chandra and Nissa began circling around him in each direction. Yes, tactics,
assuredly. He wondered how much it would crush their spirits if he applauded.
Metaphorically, of course. His talons did not clap together well.
Not for the first time, he marveled at how these planeswalkers had managed
to stay alive as long as they had. They were children of a civilized and gelded age,
these planeswalkers, this Gatewatch. They had no idea of the dangers lying in wait,
ready to kill them . . . or worse. Their lack of actual power had somehow protected
them from all the ways they could have died. Or rather their lack of knowledge of
what actual power should be. None of them except for Liliana had tasted true power.
Nicol Bolas ran a slithering tongue over his lips. It was purely for effect, but that
did not make it any less necessary.
Charmed lives, these planeswalkers had led. The problem with charmed lives,
though, as Nicol Bolas had ample reason to know, is eventually the luck turns. Fate
darkens. Charm abandons. It helps, in those moments of misfortune and unfair-
ness, to have a very well-prepared and meticulous plan. Several, really. More than
several, ideally, but unless you are a brilliant elder dragon archmage planeswalker,
several would suffice.

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 Or one. Just one plan. Even a snippet of genius, tactical or strategic, would
have given Nicol Bolas hope for their future. But he saw the plan written on their
faces, in their narrowed eyes and tensed muscles, in the growing ripples of their
telepathic chatter.
They had chosen kill the dragon. Bolas sympathized, to a point. Simple plans
were often underestimated, especially by the brilliant. Far too often, an intelligent
opponent had lost a battle because of an over-complexity of design. Simple plans
wielded by a master were often devastating.
But simple plans wielded as the desperate last resort of the simple? The con-
sequences of that approach were about to be displayed. He would have either
blood or better, and either way he was hungry to begin.

Hour of Devastation | Art by Simon Dominic

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 JACE
The dragon landed softly in the plaza, and Jace was afraid.
Nothing about this day had gone as planned. There had been too much hor-
ror, too much death, too many lives they could not save. They had tried to help as
they could, but they were gnats fighting a thunder storm. Jace had never seen so
much death.
He felt empty inside, his mind dulled to the endless pain and grief it had been
subjected to. For a moment, the images came: children screaming, people running
futilely as they were slaughtered from behind, the incessant buzzing . . . no. He
walled the images off again. There was a mission to complete.
But it was more than a mission now. Jace had pressed Gideon for an actual
plan, had warned they could not engage Nicol Bolas unprepared, but Gideon had
lashed out, his raw pain suffusing each word as he demanded to face the dragon
now.
"He will pay for everything he has done. He has to." It was that last sentence
that so concerned Jace. But he did not argue with Gideon. None of them did, not
even Liliana. They were all empty, all seeking meaning in the slaughter, in the cries
of children. They wanted justice.
Justice had to exist somewhere, for it had yet to be found on Amonkhet today.
Are you sure? Jace reached out to Gideon one last time, hoping there was a
better plan.
We hit him with everything we've got. He will fall, Gideon thought back at him.
Jace had never felt such an undercurrent of rage in Gideon, could feel his anger
wrapped in Gideon's normal stubborn determination. Jace was swept in its current,
willing himself to believe they could be triumphant today.
They began. Gideon charged, his golden force shield shimmering, while Chan-
dra launched gouts of flame. Seedlings burst from the ground, courtesy of Nissa,
becoming roots and vines that twisted and knotted around the dragon's legs. Lili-
ana began raising the dead; there was no shortage given the carnage of the day.
Jace tried to attack Nicol Bolas's mind.
The walls around the dragon's mind were smooth and featureless, like dark
obsidian. There seemed to be no entry, nothing to even latch onto. Jace had never
encountered a mind so impenetrable, except for . . . the merest moment of a memory
surfaced of a mind as smooth and dazzling as a wall of crystal. But even as the
thought entered his mind, it erased itself, and he could not remember where he
had seen such a thing—or even what kind of thing it was.
What . . . Jace shook off the sudden fugue that had overtaken him. It hadn't
seemed to come from Bolas, but rather from inside himself. What was I thinking
about? But he could not recall. Bolas's mind still loomed in front of him, closed and
locked, as he futilely sought purchase.

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 His friends were not doing any better.
Nicol Bolas's tail whipped around, lightning-fast, and its end slammed into
Gideon and his invulnerable shield with the force of a charging baloth. Gideon sailed
into a thick brick wall lining one side of the plaza. His shield kept him unharmed,
but he had no leverage to do anything more than be whacked against the wall by
Bolas's tail like a ball hit by a stick, over and over as bricks flew and shattered with
each impact.
The wall would crumble before Gideon did, but neither would be going any-
where for a while.
Bolas ignored Chandra's fire, trampled Liliana's dead, and broke Nissa's vines.
He did not move to attack them, merely continuing to fling a helpless Gideon against
the wall. He stared at Jace, knowing what the telepath was trying, and failing, to do.
The voice blasted into Jace's mind with all the subtlety of an avalanche, shred-
ding several of his defenses effortlessly. You have been alive for all of an eye-blink,
and because of a thimble of natural talent you presume to touch my mind? And
some have called me arrogant. Bolas's laughter was acid, scarring Jace's mind.
He frantically strove to erect stronger psychic shields, shocked at how easily
Bolas had penetrated his outer walls. But perhaps, in his arrogance, the dragon
had made a mistake. Bolas had left a trail, a metaphysical string connecting his
mind to Jace's. Perhaps this was the handhold Jace needed.
He followed the trail, desperate to break through, desperate to save his friends.
It was working! He found a small crevice in the otherwise featureless obsidian
shields. He concentrated on opening it wider, he just needed to . . .
If you wanted in, child, you merely needed to ask. Each word from Bolas was
like boulders crashing down a mountain.
The obsidian shield disappeared, and Jace fell unexpectedly into Nicol Bolas's
mind. There the dragon was waiting, smiling.
Nicol Bolas clutched Jace's mind as he tried to fight him off. He crumpled over
with pain, livid with himself at how easily he had fallen for Bolas's ruse. I have to
do better. He could still escape this trap, he just needed more time. Seconds, he
only needed seconds . . .
Seconds you do not have, Bolas whispered inside his mind. The Multiverse
only suffers fools briefly. A useful lesson, if you survive. The dragon held Jace's
mind roughly, and squeezed.
Synapses crumbled. Pain blossomed. Insanity beckoned. A towering wave of
darkness rose in the distance. Jace knew the crash of that wave meant dissolution.
Mind-death. Without conscious thought, he began planeswalking away blindly, not
knowing or caring where. He had to avoid that darkness.
He felt himself being pulled across the Blind Eternities as the wave of darkness
struck, and then he knew nothing at all.

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Jace's Defeat | Art by Kieran Yanner

106
 LILIANA
Liliana stared in shock at the empty space that Jace had occupied just moments
before. The fight against Bolas was a disaster, as she had feared it would be. She
had still been hoping Jace could come up with some plan when he screamed in
agony. It was a scream she knew well—the scream of the dying. The primal scream
of life not wanting to end.
Liliana shivered. He can't be dead. He planeswalked away before the end. I
saw it. He's alive.
"That was your mind expert, I believe? Do you have a spare? I can wait, or
I promise not to listen if you shout at each other." Nicol Bolas lingered on each
word, his voice rumbling through the open plaza, Punctuated only by the continued
thwaps as he bounced Gideon off the wall.
Liliana raged inside. She had known this fight with Nicol Bolas was a terrible
idea, and every misguided intervention and distraction trying to help the doomed
inhabitants of this plane only furthered her certainty. The group was ragged and
reeling and in no condition to confront a planeswalker as powerful as Bolas. She
would have left already if she hadn't pushed the group past its Breaking Point with
her machinations to defeat Razaketh. Several times she had weighed staying with
the group against abandoning them, but she felt her investment in them justified
staying.
Perhaps she had made the wrong choice.
But that wasn't the only reason for her rage. A long time ago, back on Innistrad,
she had compared her feelings for Jace to those she would have toward a dog, a
house pet. The boy had been stung, as she had intended.
Liliana cared about her pets. Usually tampering with anyone who belonged to
her was a fatal choice. She hungered to show Bolas the consequences of his folly.
Yes, use us. Unleash your full power, whispered The Chain Veil hanging at
her side.
You have never been such a fool as to think you can win this battle, Liliana,
whispered the Raven Man.
And perhaps that was the biggest reason for her rage. She wanted her mind
to be hers alone again.
If she was going to fight Bolas, she knew she would have to use The Chain
Veil, and with it the spirits of the Onakke dead. It gave her great power, but that
power always came at a cost. Every time she used it, she risked death or complete
subjugation to the Onakke spirits within. Neither fate was tolerable.
There was a lull in the fighting as Chandra and Nissa dealt with their own shock
at the loss of Jace. Nothing the three of them had done so far had been effective
against the dragon. Nicol Bolas turned toward Liliana and smiled, a grotesque

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display of teeth and arrogance that Liliana found repulsive, not least because she
recognized that she was prone to giving the same smile to vanquished enemies.
"Liliana Vess. It is so good to see you again. Your complexion looks remarkably
. . . healthy." Bolas did not even try to mask his condescension.
Her fingers twitched toward the Veil. "I'm going to kill you, Bolas. I will see you
die and then reanimate your corpse to—"
"Oh, please," Nicol Bolas cut her off. "These children lost this battle before they
were even born. You know this. You alone amongst them know what true power
was. You alone amongst them know what true power can be again."
The dragon did not lie, but she thought again of Jace's final scream, of the boy
planeswalking blindly away. The etched runes on her body and face glowed a dark
purple, as the Veil continued its insistent whispers. He cannot stand against you
with our power. Use us!
The dragon leaned his head down closer to Liliana, lowering his voice to a soft,
smooth tone. "I understand, Liliana. You joined them, confident in your ability to
manipulate. But the problem with surrounding yourself with fools is . . . this." The
dragon swiveled his head, taking in the rest of the scene, even as Chandra and
Nissa huddled close, trying to come up with a new plan.
Every word he said was truth, and the truth was too much for her to bear. She
stroked The Chain Veil, drawing in the power she would need. Yes, the voices
inside those golden links cried, yes, we will destroy him!
The dragon continued in his smooth voice. "Do you know, Liliana, how to use
The Chain Veil so that it doesn't rupture your skin or drain you of life? Do you know
how to make the spirits of the Onakke serve you as their master instead of seeking
the destruction of your soul and body? I do, Liliana. I do."
He lies! screamed the Onakke in her head. Interloper! We will crush him!
You know he speaks truth, Liliana. He can help you. The Raven Man.
Shut up! she snarled at all the voices in her head, and they mercifully went si-
lent. She was drawn out, exhausted. Did Nicol Bolas actually know how to unlock
The Chain Veil? It would kill her one day. It demonstrated with every use she was
not its master as it bucked her will and ravaged her body.
"Yes, it's a nasty weapon in the hands of the untutored. A testament to your
power and skill that it hasn't killed you already. But I can help you unlock its power,
Liliana. Its true power."
Liliana let the Veil drop limply to her side. She caught Gideon's eye. He had
remained grimly stoic throughout his ordeal as Bolas's plaything, though still he
continued to careen into the crumbling wall. I need more from you than stoic silence,
Gideon, she thought to herself. Liliana hated being uncertain of her next step.
Bolas stared at her, his eyes black pools of malice. "I promise you this: whether
you use The Chain Veil or not, if you fight me today, you will die. I am a better tele-

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path than your mind mage, more destructive than your fire mage, more powerful
than your elementalist, a better general than your so-called tactician. That each of
you has lived so long is merely a function of how useful you can be to me."
Nissa and Chandra approached together. Nissa's eyes glowed bright green,
and the earth rumbled under her feet, buoying her height by several inches. "You
lie, dragon," she snarled, her face contorted in a rare display of anger.
He turned to her, bemused. "Lie? Me? Look around you, elf. What need have
I to dissemble here?" The rumbling under Nissa's feet grew more turbulent.
Bolas straightened, his massive form once more towering over each of them.
"Liliana. Go. Leave if you want to live. The safest place in the Multiverse is the
place where I have use of you."
They were not going to win today. That was clear. As Bolas himself had said,
these children lost this battle before they were even born. It was true. What were
they going to fight for? To die? This was ludicrous, even for them. She looked
again at the space where Jace had been, his agonized screams echoing in her
mind. She felt something wet at the corner of her eyes, but willed it away, refusing
to show weakness to anyone.
She didn't know what made her turn to the others, but she did it anyway, the
words coming before she could stop them.
"Come with me. We've lost. You can see that, right? We're not going to win
today. We can regroup, find Jace, figure something else out." She didn't care that
Bolas could hear her; he knew they didn't have a chance today, and he wouldn't
believe they would have a chance in the future.
He's right, whispered the Raven Man. The Chain Veil was silent.
Chandra would not meet Liliana's eyes. Nissa shook her head. The anger on
Gideon's face was obvious, but he offered no argument, no plea to change her
mind. She was unused to the swirl of emotion she felt. Better she had just left,
uncaring of their fate.
"Please. If you stay here, you will die. This is not the way." She hated the plead-
ing in her voice, but she let her words stand.
They did not respond.
She turned back to Bolas. "Where . . . where do you want me to go?" She
swallowed uncomfortably, finding it as hard to speak these words as the others.
"No!" Chandra screamed. "No! We trusted you! I trusted you! No!" Chandra's
head and hands burst in flame anew. You knew who I was, child. You knew. But
those words she could not say aloud.
"Away," Bolas said. "Away. I will find you, and then we will talk. There are so
many useful matters to discuss. Go now, Liliana Vess."
Her choices always led her here. Another betrayal. Another disappointment.
Another trap. It was the comfort she found in the dead. They could not be betrayed.

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They could not be disappointed. They could not look at her with hurt and anger in
their eyes.
She looked at Chandra, wondering if she would have to strike her down to
survive. The air around her was growing very hot. I don't want to kill you, Chandra.
So leave, whispered the Raven Man.
It was one of the few times she agreed with that damned voice. She surrounded
herself in a glowing nimbus of dark energy and vanished Into the Void, her tears
finally free to fall in the empty spaces between worlds.

Liliana's Defeat | Art by Kieran Yanner

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 CHANDRA
She wanted this day, this awful, horrendous day, to be over. Nothing had gone
the way they planned.
She had thought Gideon's plan was brilliant, free of the useless details that
always ended up changing anyway. It was a short, simple plan that played to their
strengths. Perfect.
Even if it wasn't perfect, it gave her free reign to burn something. She needed
to burn something to deal with all the horror and bloodshed she had seen today.
She couldn't Burn Away grief. She couldn't Burn Away terror. She couldn't Burn
Away heartbreak.
So she resolved to Burn Away Bolas instead.
But it wasn't working. Yes, he was a dragon, and she knew that, but she thought
there was a decent chance she could still hurt him. It wasn't like he was literally
made of fire. She needed to try harder.
Nicol Bolas looked down at the planeswalkers and smiled. "And then there were
three. I didn't want to annoy your dear departed necromancer, but between us, I
admit I know a fair bit of necromancy. Do you have an opening in your Gatewatch?
Is there some type of application process?"
"Shut up!" Chandra screamed. She hated people who talked and talked just to
show how clever they were. She hated traitorous necromancers who pretended
they were your friend. Most of all she hated losing—hated, hated, hated it.
Her fire was blinding white, coruscating rivers of flame that lashed the dragon.
Bolas's eyes narrowed, and he was forced backward for the first time in the fight,
letting Gideon drop to the ground as the dragon retreated.
I hurt him! I did it! It was the only exhilaration she had felt all day. "Gideon!
Nissa! We can do this!" Gideon was already up and making his way over toward
her. Nissa was strangely silent. Chandra didn't know what Nissa was up to, but
she trusted her to come up with something.
"Enough, foolish child." The dragon lofted into the air, out of reach of her stron-
gest Fire Blasts, but that didn't stop her from continuing to launch them. It felt good
to be doing something.
"Chandra Nalaar. You had so many useful characteristics. Powerful. Emotion-
ally unstable. Easy to manipulate. Refreshingly predictable unpredictability. I really
wanted to make this work." Bolas's voice boomed through the empty air. I am not
easy to manipulate, she thought, her anger revving up. Her flames lit up the night
sky.
"But fire, against a dragon? A dragon. I have standards." Bolas ascended even
higher, his wings flexing wide.
He finished his climb and dove down back toward Chandra, his wings now

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hugging his massive body. Bring it, she thought. This is what she wanted, the op-
portunity to let it all go, let everything burn. The fire poured out of her, free and
unreserved.
If this was the way she would die, then she would take the bastard with her.
The earth rose around her.
A large spur of rock and soil and root thrust up from the ground seeking to
impale the oncoming dragon. Bolas swerved at the last moment, but more spurs
launched, deadly spears aiming to kill. He avoided them but circled around wide.
"Yeah! Go Nissa!" She glanced over at Nissa on the far side of the ruined
plaza, and saw her friend completely outlined in a green aura, as she wielded the
earth against the dragon. She knew Nissa would come up with something great.
Chandra was now protected, cradled between several spurs of thick rock, able to
launch her Fire at Will. "We can do this . . ."
Bolas's tail crashed through the rocky spurs, shattering them as though they
were thin glass. Propelled by the dragon's tail, a large wave of rock and dirt rushed
toward Chandra. She reflexively cast a huge Fire Blast to repel the oncoming as-
sault, but the wave still hit her, knocking her into one of the far spurs of rock.
Pain coursed through her body. Several of her ribs were broken. She groggily
struggled to stand as she saw the sinuous form of Nicol Bolas weaving through
the broken spurs, his agility mindboggling for someone that large. He swooped in
and grabbed her in a huge claw.
She tried to summon more fire, but she was in so much pain. Nicol Bolas
squeezed his claw, and she felt another rib snap. She screamed in agony.
Nicol Bolas smiled. "Yes, Chandra. Let me show you what a dragon can do."
An enormous Earth Elemental rose behind Nicol Bolas, swinging a massive
fist into the dragon's jaw. Bolas grunted and turned to face the elemental, dropping
Chandra to the ground.
Wow, that's a lot of pain. She struggled to get up. She needed to help Nissa. Her
head swam, and she stumbled once more. The ground trembled as the elemental
and the dragon fought, and in the distance Chandra could see more titanic earthen
shapes rising to join the battle.
Chandra smiled despite her agony. Maybe they could actually do this . . .
"Fine. I was being overly modest. I'm not just a dragon." Nicol Bolas uttered a
single word that left Chandra's ears as soon as she heard it, and black tendrils rose
from the ground, entwining themselves around Nissa's chest and throat, strangling
her as she thrashed violently in their grip.
No, no, no, I have to . . . Chandra took a step toward Nissa, and screamed in
pain. She could barely move.
Nissa looked at her and shouted. "Go! Leave!" The tendrils attacked cease-
lessly, and even as Nissa shredded them with magic more rose to take their place.

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 "No . . ." Chandra coughed, and there was blood in that cough, red drops that
sprayed onto the broken rubble below. She tried to steady herself, resisting the
urge to vomit. Where is Gideon? She swiveled around to look for him and realized
she was seconds away from passing out.
Nissa yelled at her again. "Go! I will be fine! You'll die! Go!"
Chandra couldn't find Gideon. She couldn't save Nissa. She couldn't beat the
dragon. She couldn't even stay conscious.
If I stay here, I will die. She didn't want to die. She planeswalked away in a fiery
blaze, the only trace left of her presence the blood that stained the broken rocks
as it, too, evaporated under the fiery heat.

Chandra's Defeat | Art by Kieran Yanner

113
 NISSA
Nissa felt relief as Chandra departed the world. She could not hope to save
herself and Gideon while also protecting a grievously injured Chandra. She wasn't
sure she could save herself and Gideon even still.
This battle was not going well. Nissa was barely holding her own against Bo-
las's spell, while her elementals lay dormant, no longer fueled by her will as she
fought to stay alive.
Early in the battle, after it became obvious any shallow summonings would
have no effect on the dragon, she had sought a deeper communion with the earth.
It was like fighting through a thick sludge. Somehow the dragon's presence had
intensified the land's resistance to Nissa's touch.
But she had finally broken through, finally wrested enough control to move the
earth to her will, only for Bolas to have crippled her with a word. She had thought
her destiny to be different on this world, had thought her time in Kefnet's temple
opened up possibilities previously unimagined . . . but no. Kefnet and the other
gods lay dead in the streets, their threads cut short, their uses unexplored.
And this battle, this confrontation against the evil that was Nicol Bolas . . . The
Gatewatch had been exposed.
Nissa had never questioned the purpose of the Gatewatch before. There was
always an immediate need, wrongs to be righted, evil to be overcome. And it had
worked. For so long it had worked. Until now. Until a dragon of immense power
and intellect had shown the errors of coming in unprepared and underpowered.
Perhaps there was a better way.
Such musings occupied her as she fought to regain control of the land. If she
were to have any chance in this fight, it would be through the earth.
Nicol Bolas's thoughts penetrated her brain, rank and oily. This land is not
yours, elf. It is mine. You may not touch it. Dark necrotic energy burst through the
leylines she had struggled to control. The corruption lashed through her, shriveling
flesh and tissue. She cried out in agony.
She realized the truth now. She never had a chance. The land had submitted
to Bolas long ago, had acknowledged its master. She had to be away, away, but
the Tendrils of Corruption held her in place.
The dragon approached slowly, his smile wide. "The time of pretend is over.
You are blessed to witness the beginning of the beginning, Nissa Revane. It is a
prize few mortals can claim."
Something blasted into the dragon's side, low and hard, knocking him off bal-
ance. It was Gideon, but Nissa had no time to think of how to help him as her very
breath was stolen by the Constricting Tendrils. She used Gideon's interruption to
flee from this dead husk of a world.

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Nissa's Defeat | Art by Kieran Yanner

115
 GIDEON
Rage consumed him. Only once before in his life had Gideon felt so helpless.
He had resolved never again to watch his friends die as he had when Erebos had
killed all he held dear. This entire battle had been a nightmare from the beginning
as Bolas had kept him out of the fight. Gideon could only watch in impotent frus-
tration as Bolas dispatched of Jace and then convinced Liliana to abandon them
without a fight.
He saw Chandra and Nissa both narrowly avoid death, and he was glad they
had escaped. He could not fathom dealing with the loss of his friends again, es-
pecially knowing it would be his fault.
He scrambled up Bolas's legs, seeking desperately to ram his sural through
the dragon's throat. Bolas grabbed him in a large claw and thrust him back toward
the ground. All of Gideon's invulnerability had proven little worth against an oppo-
nent with the size and strength and mass of the dragon. He struggled and shook
against Bolas's talons, but could not escape.
"You will not win. We will beat you." He spat the words in defiance, but the
words sounded empty even to him. He needed to keep fighting.
"Will not win? Will not win?" Bolas's laughed rumbled through the plaza. "Gideon
Jura, you are very bad at analyzing reality. I have fought against thousands of gen-
erals, thousands of tacticians and strategists and battle masterminds. You might
be the worst. Let me help you. Ignoring obvious reality is a fatal flaw in our line of
work. By all means, I understand the importance of . . .aspirations, but being able
to accurately assess the facts in front of you is an essential skill in the trade."
Gideon was aware that the dragon sought to inflame him further, throw him off
balance, but Gideon knew that goal was already accomplished. He had stopped
thinking logically a long time ago. And that is why I lost.
"You partner with an illusionist, but you are the true illusionist. You regard yourself
as invulnerable, yes? A conjurer's trick, Gideon. This is how vulnerable you are."
One of Bolas's talons began to glow as it pressed into the invulnerable shield
protecting Gideon. The talon pushed, and pushed, and the shield parted like melted
butter, the talon's sharp point puncturing shield and armor and flesh alike. Gideon
grimaced in shock and pain, but did not scream.
"I could kill you, Gideon, anytime I want. But I suspect you would not mind dy-
ing, the way you play so carelessly with your life. And the lives of others." Gideon
thrashed his head back and forth, desperate to escape.
"No, far better for you to live today. To know how pathetic you were, how use-
less you were. Even better, this is how little I care. I give you the choice. Stay and
die, or leave and live. I am content either way." The dragon's smile gaped like a
fresh wound.

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 Gideon was shocked to realize that a part of him yearned to stay. To no more
feel the guilt of losing Drasus, Olexo, all his Irregulars. All the people he had seen
die on Zendikar. He didn't want any more death on his hands. He could just . . .
let go.
Distressing images swarmed through his head. Drasus staring at him, spitting
the word, "Coward!" Erebos looming over him, the laughter of the God of Death rat-
tling in his head, "Yes, coward, come to me!" Chandra screaming at him, "Traitor!"
He could stay and die . . . or he could leave and live. And learn, and fight. Bolas
did not think Gideon's choice mattered. In the end, it was the dragon's indifference
that settled his choice. He would prove the dragon wrong.
He willed his body through the Blind Eternities, the hole the dragon left in his
shoulder only the most visible of his wounds.

Gideon's Defeat | Art by Kieran Yanner

The plaza was silent and still, lit only by the fires still burning from Chandra's
rampages. A few minutes later than desired, Tezzeret planeswalked in.
"You're late," Nicol Bolas said. "Did you doubt?"
Tezzeret had served him long enough to know the right answer.
"No, master, I did not doubt. I was . . . delayed. You defeated them as quickly

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as you predicted." He glanced around the plaza, looking for bodies of planeswalk-
ers that weren't there. "I can seek to find where—"
"No. It does not matter. This was better than blood."
Tezzeret looked at him quizzically, but knew he would offer no more explanation.
"Master, I should update you on . . ."
"Later. Go and tell Ral Zarek to come to me. His progress is too slow." Tezzeret
hated being used as an errand runner, which was part of why Bolas enjoyed do-
ing it so much. An unbalanced Tezzeret was an effective Tezzeret. Every time he
found satisfaction he quickly became useless. "Go. Now."
Tezzeret bowed his head and disappeared. In the quiet of the night, the first
true night on Amonkhet in years, Bolas surveyed the bodies and the destruction
and the quiet. He had wrought well in his creation sixty years ago. He had wrought
well today. The Planar Bridge was his. The army was ready. The Gatewatch was
loose in the Multiverse.
He roared into the night, letting loose a burst of flame from deep in his chest.
Much of what Bolas did was performance for an audience, a critical part of his
tactics in any engagement. But this roar was for himself. No more shadows. No
more skulking. No more hiding.
Nicol Bolas, elder dragon, genius, archmage, planeswalker, was finally taking
his first steps, visibly and openly.
Let all tremble now. They will certainly bow later. He lofted into the night sky to
survey more of the devastation he had wrought. He was, for this moment, content.

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