UNCHARTED REALMS

This book is a fan-made compilation of stories from the official Magic: The
Gathering website. To read new stories as they are published, visit

http://magic.wizards.com/en/articles/columns/uncharted-realms
The Madness of Sarkhan 4

Awakening the Bear 11

Sorin's Revelation 16

Taigam's Scheming 23
Way of the Mantis 28

The Chensal Twins 32

Enlightened 44

The Salt Road 49

Mercy 56

Victory 60
Bond and Blood 70

Journey to the Nexus 82

A New Tarkir of Old 90

Unwritten 99

The Reforged Chain 109

The Truth of Names 119

The Doom of the Golden Fang 126

No End and No Beginning 135

Khanfall 143
A Tarkir of Dragons 162

The Great Teacher's Student 173

Sorin's Restoration 188

The Guardian 196

The Poisoned Heart 207

The Call 212

Unbroken and Unbowed 219
The Madness of Sarkhan
BY JENNIFER CLARKE-WILKES

The Planeswalker Sarkhan Vol has never had it easy. Born on a windswept, war-torn world
where dragons are extinct, he became a Planeswalker as a young man and set out to find and
worship the greatest dragons in the Multiverse.

He eventually ran afoul of the one of the oldest and most powerful dragons in existence: the
ancient and malevolent elder dragon Planeswalker, Nicol Bolas. With his will broken and his
mind unraveling, he became Bolas's servant. In Bolas's thrall, he traveled to Zendikar, entered
the mysterious chamber called the Eye of Ugin, and unwittingly helped unleash the plane-
ravaging Eldrazi.

Unable to trust his own mind, fearful of Bolas's retribution, and cast out by his own people,
Sarkhan Vol has returned to Tarkir.

So I am home again. I look out over the ragged hills and the smoking steppes. This world roars
life and screams death, a panorama of struggle and violence. It could be so strong. Yet it is so
full of pain. It is damaged, just as I am.

I wandered for so long. What purpose lies

before me now? The Eye is empty. The worlds
are empty. I return in disgrace because no other
plane will have me.

And yet...I hear something. Echoes of thought.

What do they say? Do they call my name?

It all began with dragon's fire, Sarkhan. And

dragon's fire will be witness to the end.

Who are you, unwelcome voice? You have

Art by Eytan Zana whispered in my brain for so long, but now you
shout. Are you an echo from the past? A now
that never was? Or perhaps I am mad, just as
Bolas said.

Bolas sent me to the Eye. He told me to wait. To stand watch. But when the others came, and
when the...Others...left, I was left blinded. Sleeping. And when I confessed my failure, I found
that I was a mere witness all along.

The Eye was closed. My eyes were tricked. He left me there to watch. Watch what? Mere
images on a cave wall, that writhed and spoke to me. Whispers in the dark. And when the
challenge came, all I could do was fail. To fail was to succeed?
I thought Bolas was the one. Old, powerful,
foremost among his kind.I sought his service,
and he granted it. Fool to think that I was
favored in his view. A mere pawn. Now I
understand: an intellect as vast as the
Multiverse itself sees all the worlds as his
playthings.

I am dismissed, a dragon's toy, tossed aside and

useless. Rags of thought over dishonored bones.
Such is my reward for service.

But a dragon spoke to me once. Whisper to me, Art by Volkan Baga

King. What is the nature of sacrifice?

You can heal this place. You can heal yourself.

I grew up longing for the dragons. My world was·is·torn apart by constant fighting. The
clans clashed amid the old ones' bones, as much part of Tarkir as the bloody battlefields. We
were savage, but part of me always wondered: how much more fierce had the old ones been?

Like all of my people, I was born to war. Some embraced the warrior's path. They rejoiced in
the furious charge and the spray of blood, hurling themselves into battle at the forefront of the
Mardu. Others entered the fray out of duty. Not to fight meant cruel death at the hands of the
war leaders. And there were the scavengers who tumbled about at the feet of the horses and
snatched up what spoils they could in the wake of the warriors.

I was none of these. The song of battle did not fill my heart. To me, warfare was just the reality
of life. One wakes, one rides, one fights. That is the daily existence of the Horde. Survival
depends on victory: to conquer is to eat.

Still, I had a killer's way. Talent with battle magic, and natural ferocity, made me feared among
the Horde. I ripped gaps in the enemy lines and drove foes before my wrath. Those who fought
beside me caught my fury and swept over the opposing ranks. Grandfather said my will was
unmatched among our people.

The hinterlands. We scorched their clans.

What did we fight for, though, in the end? A scrap of land? A paltry store of foodstuffs? Such
conflicts were always so petty, although so many fought and so many died. Wherever we
conquered, we did not stay long. Always up and riding with the wind.

I grew sick of the endless blood. Although Grandfather warned against it, I set down my spear
and traveled away from the tents. Up into the Qal Sisma Mountains I traveled, seeking a call
whose words I did not understand. I wandered alone through the snow, sometimes fighting the
huge beasts that prowled there, but I did not know what it was I heard.

You know what you seek.

 Do I? No, do not speak to the voice. Yet...it
seems somehow familiar.

Then one night, under the rainbow curtain, I

found a strange thing, like a woven turtle's shell
resting on a frozen river. As I approached, a
figure rose from the ice and took my own
shape! It whispered to me in words that echoed
deep within, speaking of the dragons and their
might. I reached to touch it, sealing a vow I
didn't even realize I had made.

Art by Wayne Reynolds The figure vanished, and I faced a youth seated
on the ice, unclothed but for the shell-like
headgear covering his face. He rose and draped
himself in a bearskin. Then he silently gestured. I followed him into the trees.

There was a cave there, where had gathered a

number of others. They regarded me wordlessly
from under their hoods until the youth spoke
and made motions toward me. Then they all
revealed their faces and began a low,
murmuring chant. The voice of ages was in it.
The voice of...kings.

They remembered the old ones. Although the

dragons flew no more, these folk heard the
roaring and whispered songs of claws and
blood. There was a word. A memory. A name I
should know. Do I hear it now? Art by Ryan Barger

I spent many moons there among the

whisperers, but in the end I could not stay. Talk of memories, echoes of voices: these were not
enough to sustain me. I had found a kind of peace, though. Maybe I could carry it with me.

The whispers are no echo.

Stay out of my mind, ghost! I deny you. The old ones are gone. Only the one remains. And he
was false.

I returned to my clan to the welcome of my warriors but not of my hordechief. Zurgo's face was
dark as I approached. "You dare to return?"

"I required rest and contemplation."

"Are you some Jeskai sandalfoot, then, to sit and think? I require total obedience."

"I am a wing leader. To command best I must be sure of myself."

"To rule is to bleed. So the Edicts say. You will bleed for the Horde."

The Helmsmasher grudgingly sent me forth

with a wing of riders to challenge the Sultai, on
the border where their stinking swamps fouled
our wild lands.

Perhaps those Zurgo assigned me were the

dregs of the Horde. Perhaps they did not value
my leadership. Whatever the reason, when we
joined battle we did not sweep the snakes into
the muck. The two sides scuffled like ants at
war. None prevailed. At last, in frustration, I
charged through the confusion and cleaved the
Art by Todd Lockwood sorcerer who led them.

That should have ended it, but like a serpent

with its head cut off, the enemy did not know they were dead. The pointless battle went on and
on.

Rage welled up in me. And with it, an inner voice that spoke of stillness. In the midst of the
carnage, I found the quiet point.

And there I heard a voice. I knew it was an ancient. I could hear the ages in its words.

Do you hear it now, Sarkhan?

The voice spoke in the tongue of dragons. And I replied.

My hands burst into flame. From my soul, a being of pure fire burst into the sky. The dragon
raced across the battlefield, burning everything in its path. Flesh crisped, bones cracked. None
were spared: horses, riders, naga. Rage and violence incarnate were born within me. I welcomed
my fiery child. And I roared!

I fell through dragonfire, glorying in the destruction. The world blazed around me in an endless
moment of pure joy. Such passion! I had never felt so alive.

Something must have called to me from beyond my world: the scream of the predator, perhaps?
Maybe I have always heard a dragon in my mind. But which dragon?

I was standing in the midst of an endless desert. A red sun clawed my shoulders. The sky was
purple. This was no land I had known or even imagined.

As I surveyed the alien landscape, a great shadow fell over me. Overhead wheeled the huge form
of a beast I had never seen except in trances and in shamans' paint. Wonder and joy filled me.
Cut off from my own world, I had at last found my true kin.

I spent the next years watching and following, learning all I could about the dragons. I had
thought the one I saw in my first moments to be a lord of the skies. How foolish and naïve I was
then! It was but a lesser breed of their kind. I soon discovered its weakness. It fell to the fire of a
mightier beast. I followed the conqueror.

Years passed, and I sought ever larger, older, and more cunning individuals. I tracked them. I
learned their names. I marked their roosts. And I saw them all meet their end. But the death of
each only spurred me to find one even more powerful, one who was fit to honor as a true king.

One day I came to a fierce new world. Cinders

crunched beneath my boots. The sky shuddered
with storms. Tangled trees crawled down the
slopes to boiling pools of tar. Red rivers clawed
through the tortured rock.

As I surveyed the savage landscape, I heard the

screeches of countless wild beasts. The air and
even the earth reverberated with the growls of
carnivores and the death cries of prey. A hot
wind scoured my cheeks, and I looked up. The
air was filled with mighty wings and fire.
Art by Jaime Jones
Ah, he was magnificent! Even at distance, his
power was evident, in the thick muscles of his
neck and jaw, in the forceful stroke of his wings. He was garbed in ash, like the royal robes of a
khan.

Then the great predator stooped on some unseen prey. He unleashed a shriek so raw it seemed
to tear the land itself. Fire burst from the peaks as the master of the sky dived to meet them.

I had arrived in paradise.

There on Jund also I found tribes of humans, braided and painted hunters who stalked the
dragons and took their strength as trophies. Their ways were simple, but their spirit and their
daring were unmatched by any but my own folk. An entire hunting party might be lost in the
chase, only to be followed by others just as eager. They were strong, in a way so many others
were not. I crossed paths with them at times, but never joined their pursuits.

Except once. Old Malactoth·he had been a true challenge. The one against whom I would test
myself, to offer my fealty. But even he fell.

The sky tyrants of Jund were mere beasts, no matter how powerful. None there deserved my
service. And I began to wonder if any dragon lived in all the worlds who could be what I sought.
One who could lead me, instruct me, bring out all my potential.

One did. But you did not listen.

"I put him where he lies." Did not Bolas tell me this? Or maybe it is Bolas who lies. What
dragon did I hear? Who do I hear now? Maybe the mountain seers were right. The world
remembers what its people have forgotten.

A name.

Ugin.

I am here now, phantom. You tell me to return. To a world that rejects me, as my master
rejected me? What awaits me here?

Find the doorway.

Nothing but riddles! Trickery! What doorway? This world is a battleground. Nothing stands for
long. What would you have me do?

Tarkir is a place with no future and a contended present. In the long past, though...we humans
had built something to endure. Our civilization had lasted for centuries despite the constant
attacks of dragons. Or was it because of them? To compete together against a powerful enemy
·that was what made us strong. But when the storms stopped, and the sky kings fell, that was
the start of our fatal weakness.

I hear the hunters' horns. I feel the arrows' wind. The dust of numberless hooves sweeps across
my sight. The battle is on me, as it has always been. The answer is here, somewhere on my
world, but not in this place. My travels are not yet at an end.

I hear your voice. I will seek again the whisperers of the mountaintops. Maybe they hear you as
well. I will find the door.

I will make us strong again.

Art by Daarken
Awakening the Bear
BY JENNIFER CLARKE WILKES

Perhaps you've seen Surrak Dragonclaw, the khan of the Temur clan. Perhaps you've even seen
him punch a bear. But the Temur aren't all face-smashing and bear-punching. They're also a
deeply spiritual people, and Surrak represents that duality of reverent respect for the wilds and
utter pragmatism in dealing with them.

But the position of khan is not hereditary, and Surrak wasn't born into it. He was once just
another young Temur warrior trying to make a name for himself. Until one wilderness
encounter altered his destiny forever⁄

The youth hesitated at the entrance to the dark

cave. He pulled the fur hood closer to his face.
The cold air was hungry and the thin wisp of
beard offered no protection from its bite.
Surrak could see no light within, but a wild
scent chased down his nose and smote it with
sturdy blows. An atavistic memory roared
through his mind.

A sound reached from the darkness. Or was it a

thought? He didn't know if he had heard
anything. But it called him onward. It did not
comfort. It spoke of fear. But it also whispered of strength.

He took a breath, stepped forward. The close

air was heavy with animal scent. He moved with
the throb that hammered all around, the great
heart of the wild. It seemed as though many
voices were chanting in weird harmony. The
song grew louder. It wrapped him tighter than
his furs.

The drumming stopped. Sudden light flared,

and he squeezed his eyes tight. The voices rose
to a shout. Then silence.

He opened his eyes. A fire was burning,

Heir of the Wilds | Art by Winona Nelson
somehow, in the middle of the stony floor. No
wood fueled its flames. It flickered, orange,
blue. Above him rose a vault of rock. Across it,
like a river, streamed a line of creatures. Some he recognized: great elk, white wolves, huge
bears, even skulking minks. Some were legends: the ancient mammoths and the mighty dragons
whose bones still anchored the clan's tents. More still were amazing beasts that had never lived.
He had no name for them. They ran across the ceiling, seemingly alive, their bright colors
rippling in the firelight.

He saw no one. But many openings led from the great hall, and now the strange chant started
up again. Look now, young one, it seemed to say, although it held no words. See your destiny,
heir of the wilds.

The rhythm seemed to soak into him. As if in dream, he dropped supine on the stony floor. The
painted parade shimmered above him. A great bear, roaring on its hind legs, stepped from the
ceiling. It swung its heavy paws over a tiny-looking human figure that had not been there a
moment before. The human was unarmed. The two met, clashed. Then only the human was
left. It lifted a double-bladed staff overhead.

The vision ended. Surrak's eyes grew heavy, and he slipped into blackness.

When he awoke, the cavern was chill and empty. Only faint light from the cave mouth intruded
on the dark. The panorama overhead was dim and lifeless. But he still clasped tight the vision of
the night. He gathered his fur cloak around himself and stepped into the frozen forest.

As Surrak grew, he listened to the inward echoes of the chant and let his spirit point the way.
He walked where none had gone. He sought the wildest places.

He came upon the paw prints one day as the hidden sun grew high. Each print was as big
around as the youth's waist, driven deep into the snow. A rank smell still lingered about them.
The beast was near.

Surrak stopped and cocked his head to listen. At first, only the susurrus of snow and the thin
wind met his ear. He stood motionless, like a stone-pile guide in the woods. Crystals settled on
his shoulders.

Then he heard a hoarse grunting sound. A heavy form breaking through the ice and shoving
aside branches. Not far ahead.

He tightened his gloves. Crafted from the hide of some Abzan beast fallen long ago to his clan,
they gripped his arms up to the biceps. The claws of wolves thrust from the knuckles. Other
than these, Surrak's own bravery and strength were the only weapons he carried.

He shouted a challenge. The words were ancient; he did not know their meaning. The
Whisperers said the words once were screamed by dragons. Surrak knew only that they were full
of fury and power. Then he hurled himself forward.

The bear reared up before Surrak. It bawled its own challenge in the tongue of its kind, shaking
its head and gaping wide. It was nearly twice his height. Surrak could not check his rush in
time. A huge paw smashed into him. It was as though the mountain itself struck. He was tossed
into the air. He flew backward and crashed into a tree. Ribs gave way. The breath burst from
him. He gasped, half buried in the snow.
The creature charged. The ground shook to its bounding gait. Surrak struggled to haul himself
to his feet. Too late, he realized he could not
avoid the onslaught. Instead, he threw himself
to the side as the monstrous creature lunged to
crush him in its jaws. A powerful, clawed foot
clipped his head. Pain burst in his eye, his
brow. His sight was blurred in a film of red.

Surrak shook his head, bearlike. He staggered

to his feet and put a thick tree trunk to his back.
With one rough glove he scrubbed the gore
from his face. He could feel shreds of skin
flapping. The bear turned to attack again.
Surrak set his feet against the bole.

The bear gathered itself to charge. Surrak

roared and sprang at it, driving with his feet
from the tree. His gauntleted fist drove into the
bear's face like an axe blow. Stunned, the
creature dropped to the snow.
Bear token | Art by Kev Walker

Before the bear could rise, Surrak howled again

and threw himself on its back. He gripped its
shaggy neck with one hand, and hammered on
it with the other. He tore off fistfuls of fur as he
struck, again and again, while the beast threw
its head about and tried to shake him off. Blood
spattered the snow. At last, he let go and
jumped away, panting and bloodied, to
confront his opponent.

The two brutes stared at each other. Surrak's

remaining eye held the other's gaze and dared it Savage Punch | Art by Wesley Burt
to come at him again. The bear's head hung
low, an ear torn, teeth shattered from the
savage punch. Finally it dropped its gaze and turned aside. It huffed, shook itself, and slowly
moved away.

Surrak stood, shouting the chant of triumph, until his enemy was lost to sight. Then he sank to
his knees.

Surrak returned to the great camp at Karakyk. The right side of his face was raw and ragged,
and he could not see from that eye. He carried tufts of brown fur, a claw that had torn loose
from the bear's initial charge, and several broken teeth.
Silently, he presented the trophies to the clan elders. They acknowledged the gifts and bestowed
on Surrak the rights and titles of the grown. Into his hands, The One Who Whispers Twice
placed a greatspear tipped with flint and bound in blessed strands.

The healers took him and cleansed his wounds. The scars were stark, bone white against his
wind-chapped skin, and his right eye was clouded like a winter day. No hair would grow on that
side of his face. But Surrak smiled. He bore the marks of a great warrior.

From that day, he led clan fighters to hunt both game and foes. At first, his warriors were few,
but as he harvested victories, so too did their numbers swell. Soon, only the Dragonclaw and
the Hunt Caller counted more blades.

The cruel winter loosed its claws, if only slightly. Spring crept into the high passes, and the
families dispersed to their hunting grounds. But as the weather grew more gentle, the boldness
of the clan's enemies swelled. To Surrak, this season seemed worse than many previous years.
Raiding parties from other clans, and especially the hated Sultai, continually harried the camps
and drove away the game.

The Temur replied in force. Surrak and his kin spent more days in pursuit of two-legged prey
than in the hunt for food. His people grew weary and drawn. To their great shame, some began
to drop away from the group, too weak to go farther.

The ragged party continued its trek. It moved to the lower slopes, where food might be easier to
find. But the land was bare, befouled by the passage of many feet·and things without feet.
Surrak scowled and urged his band in pursuit of the raiders.

In a trampled clearing, they caught up to their prey: a huge group of scavengers under the
banner of a trio of snake-folk, and a train of the shambling dead. The Temur spat curses as they
recognized the emaciated forms of their own clansfolk, lost to hunger and disease.

The hunting party was badly outnumbered. But Temur strength does not come from mere
numbers. The fury of the wild erupted from the warriors' breasts, and they fell upon their foes.
Claws and axes slashed flesh. Their enemies hurled vile magic and spat venom. Although the
stalwart mountain folk slew many, more of them began to fall.

Surrak had led the charge. He found himself surrounded and jabbed with his spear and clubbed
with his fist. Dozens lay dead about him. Wounds gaped on his body. But he would take down
as many as he could before he joined the ancestors.

Suddenly, a roar shattered the clash of battle. The earth shook. From the nearby forest rushed a
hulking, shaggy form. The cave bear crashed into the ranks of the Sultai, ripping apart the gaunt
zombies and bowling over the astonished humans. It forced a path straight through to Surrak.
Then it turned and began to rip into another swath of enemies.

Surrak laughed in welcome for his old challenger, his new ally. He waded again into the fight.
His companions hesitated only a moment, then redoubled their efforts. The Sultai fell back in
terror and amazement. Many broke and ran, leaving their serpent masters undefended. With a
massed shout, the Temur overwhelmed the rest.

The battle was won, the enemy ruined. Their

foulness would not soon stain the mountains
again. Surrak leaned on his spear shaft,
breathing hard. He then felt the pain of his
many injuries.

He heard a heavy, grunting groan behind him

and turned. Splayed on the ground, the mighty
bear rolled its head in anguish. Surrak saw the
shafts of barbed Sultai arrows sunk in its flanks.
Black smears of venom mingled with the dark
blood.

The bear turned its eyes toward Surrak. In

them he saw a plea. He knew his duty. He bent,
removed a gauntlet, and laid his hand on its
muzzle. He spoke the ancient chant that sent
the fallen to the ancestors. Then he stood and
Roar of Challenge | Art by Viktor Titov drove his spear through the beast's skull.

He Who Whispers Twice spoke the invocation

that marked Surrak as the First Father of the Temur. About Surrak's shoulders he draped a
cloak of bearskin: the preserved hide of the clan's defender. Surrak drew on new gauntlets,
crafted from the great beast's paws. He lifted the ancestral Dragonclaw overhead. He and the
bear and the clan were one.

Surrak Dragonclaw | Art by Jaime Jones

Sorin's Revelation
BY ADAM LEE

Sarkhan Vol is not the only one who has come to Tarkir in search of something. The vampire
Planeswalker Sorin Markov is here as well, for reasons of his own. Although the two
Planeswalkers don't know it, they are here looking for the same thing: the spirit dragon Ugin.

Long ago, Sorin helped Ugin and another Planeswalker, the Lithomancer, seal away the
monstrous Eldrazi on Zendikar. Recently, the Eldrazi escaped, and Sorin believes that Ugin is
one of the few who can stop them.

Sorin has found his way here, to Ugin's home world, in search of his old ally. He still holds out
hope, but he has not seen Ugin in a long time. And he knows that he may be much, much too
late.

Tarkir.

Sorin winced at the sun's grotesque glare as if someone had stabbed him. He stood on a vast
steppe. The scrub grasses made dry sounds in the hot breeze that swirled and scoured the rocks
and hills.

Sorin instantly loathed Tarkir's relentless heat, and he could

feel his flesh burning. He pulled his hood up over his head to
shield his pale skin and headed for the nearest shadow under a
high, irregular plateau that rose up from the steppe. His boots
broke through the thin crust of dried earth as he walked. A
lone buzzard wheeled high overhead, its shadow tracing silent
circles on the ground as Sorin moved to cover.
Plains | Art by Noah Bradley In the relative shade of the high plateau, Sorin turned toward
the distant, snow-capped peaks that stretched along the
northern horizon and scanned the jagged ridges. There, a
single peak stood out·a dragon's head looking to the east. A small smile crossed Sorin's lips.
Somewhere up there was his destination.

"So the oracle was right," Sorin said. "I hope the rest of her visions prove true, dragon. I don't
have much time."

Sorin waited until the agreeable cold of the night set in before he ventured out onto the moonlit
landscape and headed north. The mad scatter of images from the dark oracle still burned in his
mind's eye. They made some sense: a great battle of dragons, a chasm of ice, Ugin's swirling
form. But the images were vague, blurred, and chaotic. He would have to work out the details
on the way, but his path was known. As he walked toward the mountains, Sorin kept his senses
sharp·not for danger but for blood. The journey had been a long one and the hunger had
grown within him.

It wasn't too long before Sorin could see the

heat of a campfire from his vantage point on a
ridge. The fire had burned down to cinders
long before dark, but Sorin could still sense its
heat and the five warriors camped nearby. They
looked to be scouts·they were armored for
speed·and their small horses were tethered to
a strand of tough, desert shrubs. Two of the
warriors were on watch, a fair distance from the
camp and each other. They would be the first
to go.

Sorin moved like a cat's shadow until he could

see the warrior's eyes glinting in the moonlight.
He reached out and caught the sentry's mind
like a small, docile fish.

The man stiffened. His eye went large. Sorin

moved into view and smiled.

"Tell your friend you'll take the watch alone,"

he whispered.

The warrior nodded and set off toward the

other man.
Sorin, Solemn Visitor |
As Sorin watched him move off into the night,
Art by Cynthia Sheppard
he felt a customary pang of irritation. The need
for food·it felt so weak, so stupid, so mortal. A
repetitive, mundane task that bound him to
lesser beings. He had tried to ignore it once, but the results had been dangerous and horrifying.
Sorin resented the hold that it had over him.

Sorin felt a small, unsettled feeling rustle inside of him like a snake, coiled and ready to strike.
Nahiri was gone and her silence disturbed him, but Ugin should have sensed the danger. Why
hadn't he come to Zendikar? The Eldrazi titans were a fire that could not be quenched, and
Ugin's absence was strange. Sorin knew he had to find the dragon soon and hoped the two of
them could once again stop the impending catastrophe.

The warrior shuffled back and stood before Sorin, who seized him without hesitation, like a
spider, and drained him to a pale husk. He looked up at the moon and lowered the man's body
to the earth where it crumpled at his feet, bloodless and gaping.

Sorin regarded the dead man at his feet for a moment, then moved off and blended into the
night.
Sorin followed an old animal trail that led him deep into the mountain wilderness. The granite
peaks, capped in snow and ice, rose up far above his head as he traversed the crags and passes.

The experience of time as a phenomenon had long

since ceased for Sorin. And the long trek through
Tarkir was no more than a series of moments.
There was no anticipation, no sense of ennui, no
unnecessary urgency. He knew what he needed to
do and his mind was occupied with the action of
the moment. Over the millennia, his human frailties
and neurosis had grown, blossomed, and withered
away. Now, all that remained was a mind
unburdened by the yoke of mortality.
Rugged Highlands | Art by Eytan Zana
He drew near the snowline, the tall pines laden with
thick snow that glistened in the light. He heard
them before they rounded the bend in the trial: a band of five warriors and a shaman on
massive, long-haired beasts. The warriors carried heavy spears and wore bear-claw necklaces.
The shaman was hooded in a thick fur and masked behind a veil of bones and knotted yarn.
The leader held an axe made from the jawbone of some hulking creature; a bearskin cloak
wrapped his broad shoulders, and he had a weathered face that looked like tanned leather. They
didn't seem afraid of him.

Good, Sorin thought. I need a guide.

"Is this the 'terrible traveler' that the whisperer spoke of?" one of the warriors asked the others in
hushed tones, not realizing that even at thirty paces, Sorin could hear every word.

"I doubt it," the captain replied. "My guess, he's a Sultai: warped by too much rakshasa magic.
What do you sense, Rushka?"

"There is no life within that creature," the shaman said. "It's dangerous."

"Wait to hear what he says, then we kill him."

Sorin approached. He could feel their lives as they pulsed before him, each heartbeat its own
rhythm. He began to hum a spell under his breath as he neared the warriors, an old spell from a
forgotten time·a tune of death.

"That's far enough, Sultai demon-spawn," the warrior captain said from atop his beast. "Your
head will decorate a spear tonight."

Sorin smiled and closed his pale fist in front of his face as a chuckle escaped his lips. Dark
smoke issued from between his fingers like ink poured into clear water. Two warriors suddenly
gasped and then shrieked as they desiccated into corpses in a matter of seconds. Their mounts
flew into a panic and charged off the mountain path. The leathery cadavers of their former
riders fell to the ground like dried beef as the mounts crashed through the woods.
The other three warriors were shocked and struggled to calm their wild-eyed beasts. One
warrior was thrown to the ground and, in a flash of speed, Sorin subdued him with a well-
placed boot heel.

The shaman held out his hand and a pillar of greenish fire blazed up from the ground. In an
instant, it coalesced into a hulking form that charged Sorin. Sorin reached out his hand and
willed the two leathery corpses back from the dead. The former warriors writhed on the ground
and jerked onto all fours. Their eyes blazed with unlife and their bodies were gripped with blood
madness.

"Master," they hissed, their faces pulled into rictus grins filled with sharp fangs.

Sorin only had to look, and his vampire thralls moved with unholy speed. They leaped from the
rocks to grapple with the great beast as it charged toward Sorin. Even as they were crushed
beneath the beast's powerful feet, the vampiric fiends tore at the creature's flesh with terrifying
power and savagery. The creature tried in vain to shake them off but it was only moments
before the gluttonous feasting brought the enormous beast to its knees.

The shaman howled and charged Sorin, hurling three slashes of fire that streaked through the
air. The spell tore through Sorin's leather vest, which caused Sorin's skin on his arm to blacken
and peel away from his bones.

Sorin hissed and thrust his will into the shaman's mind. His eyes flashed with malevolence. "Kill
that one." Sorin pointed to the captain who steadied his beast and prepared to charge.

The shaman wheeled about and swung his spear at his captain's head, but the captain reacted
like a cat and struck the shaman's head off with one blow from his jawbone axe. As he turned to
face Sorin, the captain failed to see a lone, leathery vampire as it crawled from the corpse of the
beast and scrabbled across the rocks on a broken leg. As the captain raised his weapon, the
undead husk leapt onto the warrior captain's back and caught him in an iron grip. The captain
struggled but the vampire sank its fangs into the captain's spine and drained his blood.

When it was finished, Sorin dismissed the broken vampire and it fell still, its fangs streaked with
blood. He walked over to the unconscious warrior and knelt down to cradle his head.

"You shall serve me," Sorin whispered in his ear.

The warrior's eyes snapped open. Sorin made sure not to dominate the warrior's will too much,
lest he erase all agency from his newest thrall's mind. Sorin needed the man to find Ugin.

At first mention of the name Ugin, the warrior seemed afraid. But with another mental stab
from Sorin, he spoke.

"The Spirit Dragon's domain. The journey is not long from here, but it is dangerous."

Sorin extended his hand. "Lead the way."

The warrior shuffled before him and followed an ancient trail that only an experienced tracker
could pick out. They moved high across a mountain face for a day and then camped under the
stars. Sorin watched the warrior sleep in his furs
next to the dwindling fire. Sorin had forgotten
what it felt like to need warmth and tried to
remember his days as a mortal, wrapped up in
mortal concerns next to the large fireplace in
Markov Manor. There was still a fondness for
Innistrad that somehow persisted within Sorin
through thousands of years.

As he sat there in the darkness, Sorin held the

memory of Innistrad like a secret jewel within
the dark velvet of his mind.

They trekked along the narrow trails and icy

crags in relative silence, but Ugin's presence
interested Sorin.

"How long have you known about the domain

of the Spirit Dragon?" Sorin asked his guide.

"Our people found the Spirit Dragon's domain

long ago, before the end of all dragons."
Vampire token | Art by
"Dragons no longer exist here?" Sorin asked. Cynthia Sheppard
"They have all been killed," his guide said as he
shuffled along. "Hunted to extinction. It was
said that the dragons were born from great storms, but those storms ended."

"Born from storms? Interesting. Ugin never mentioned it."

The warrior paused for a second and then continued down the trail.

"The elders say that a dragon tempest was a time of celebration. We revere the memory of the
dragons. Their spirit of savagery is why we Temur survive. But some say that the dragons
became greedy and corrupt, so the Spirit Dragon gave us magic to fight them. Now the dragons
are all dead, so we fight each other."

"A story I have heard time and time again." Sorin said. "It never seems to go smoothly, does it?"

The Temur guide said nothing.

Days passed until they crested a ridge that eventually led to a steep cliff. Far below was a flat
plain of ancient, shattered rock covered in ice and snow. Sorin could see that the rock on the
plain had been warped and shaped by an immense outpouring of energy. He could see a spiral
of rock that looked as if it had once been molten and made to follow lines of force, then flash
frozen. The strange rocks surrounded a deep canyon of blackened granite that streaked through
the center of the plain.

"There lies the Spirit Dragon." The Temur guide pointed to the canyon floor.

Sorin looked.

Bones.

The chasm stretched before him for hundreds

of yards and, deep within the huge crack in the
earth, Sorin could just make out places where a
huge, skeletal rib cage stuck out from the ice
like the bare beams of a cathedral.

"Impossible," Sorin whispered and staggered to

the edge of the cliff. Sorin reached out and felt
the lack of life far below him. He slammed his
fist against the cold rock. "Oracle be damned!
Lies and vagaries! That cannot be Ugin."

The warrior stared at Sorin.

"Take me down there. I must see for myself."

"It is dangerous," his guide said, emotionless. "All who enter the chasm have died."

"I don't care," Sorin said with a surge of ire. "Move. Now."

The warrior winced in pain, then moved along the cliff's edge. Eventually, a precarious path
that led down to the canyon appeared. As they picked their way along the rocks and ice, Sorin
couldn't take his eyes off the bones. Even against the white glare of the snow, they glowed and
gave off a bluish mist. The magic trapped in them was still powerful.

They reached the floor of the chasm. A section of skeletal tail could be seen jutting out from the
snow, the bluish mist emanating from it. The closer they got to the bones, the more Sorin could
feel the forces at work·powerful magic from another age.

These were Ugin's bones.

The warrior guide began to falter as he struggled forward.

"Stop," Sorin said. The warrior wobbled on his feet. "No need for you to get ripped to pieces.
Move back."

The warrior turned and took shelter in the lee of a boulder as Sorin moved toward the ghostly
arc of ribs that rose overhead. The closer he came to them, the more he could feel the tidal
forces of magic as they pulled at the very fibers of his being. He could feel the spark within him
respond, holding him together as he moved upward through the Spirit Dragon's ribs toward the
skull.
Blue mists of energy began to swirl around Sorin. He kneeled down to brush the snow from the
solid ice below. There, within the darkness of the ice, gleamed Ugin's unmistakable skull. It
looked at Sorin through the dead hollows of his eyes. Sorin reached out and felt for any sign of
life, any shred of Ugin's spirit, but there was only a palpable void.

Sorin gazed into Ugin's black sockets. "There's

more life in me than in you, dragon."

Sorin pressed his forehead against the ice and

spat a curse into the snow as the reality sank in.

On the journey down the cliff into the canyon,

he had held onto the hope that Ugin's spirit had
not been destroyed. He had hoped there would
be something that could be resurrected, a shred
of consciousness that could be pulled back from
the brink of annihilation. But Sorin's hopes
were snuffed out like a feeble flame.
Bitter Revelation | Art by Viktor Titov
Ugin was dead. And with him fell the hopes of
countless worlds.

Sorin walked back through the archway of ribs to the warrior who waited for him. Zendikar
would surely be destroyed. And what would be next? Innistrad? Whether it was now or in a
thousand years, it was only a matter of time before his world would be consumed. The thought
made Sorin feel both furious and helpless at the same time.

"We're all doomed," Sorin said to the warrior and the winds.
Taigam's Scheming
BY MATT KNICL

The man called Taigam is known as Sidisi's Hand, the personal enforcer of the Sultai khan. But
Taigam was not always Sultai, and his former clanmates have not forgotten him.

To learn more about the Sultai, check out the Planeswalker's Guide.

The Marang River flowed through Sultai territory, deep into the jungle and around many of
their most illustrious palaces. Along the river, far from these palaces, were less regal settlements
·homes of farmers and fishermen, built on raised wooden stilts and platforms. Although the
marshy jungle was inhospitable to most, some had found the means to make a living, but only
enough to scrape by. Their stomachs were as empty as their purses, and the small town of
Kishla was in debt to the Sultai. They couldn't remember if it was for taxes or outright
extortion, but they knew that Sidisi's Hand was there to collect. What the town could call its
leadership was a small group of men and women who only were forced to get together and
congregate when dealing with the Sultai.

The vessel pulled up to the dock. It moved

slowly, and the village leaders could see the
ropes from the ship's bow leading into the
water. The water there was shallow enough they
could see the undead sibsig servants pulling the
ship, some of their heads partially above the
waterline. Many of them had once lived in the
village they were visiting. One of the younger
leaders retched off the side of the dock. The
others kept their composure, having dealt with
the Sultai in the past. In contrast to the sibsig,
Treasure Cruise | Art by Cynthia the vessel itself was opulent and covered in
Sheppard gold. A light breeze brought the smell of
perfume and spices to the leaders. A human
Sultai enforcer lowered the gangplank for the
leaders to enter the ship and head belowdecks.

The only sound was the clinking of coins. Taigam sat on his chair, an ornate golden throne
covered in silk and pillows. He put his hand on the temple of his bald head, closing his eyes,
trying to force out the sound. He used to be able to do that·focus his mind to close out all
distractions, but that was when he was Jeskai. Weak, idealistic. But Taigam would easily trade
strength for peace and quiet.

"Unless you've managed to pull gold from the air, I doubt there are any more or less than there
have been," Taigam said, annoyed.
A deep laugh bellowed next to him.

"Do you not doubt that I could perform such a parlor trick?"

"I wouldn't doubt that you could, only that you prefer to take from others," Taigam said,
massaging his temples.

Again, a deep laugh.

"You'd better shake off that headache, Hand. Your public awaits."

Laughter again, followed by the clinking of coins.

Taigam had always craved more. As a young man, he never knew what that meant. Growing up
in a small fishing village in the shadow of the Jeskai strongholds, he had always thought that
meant knowledge. That was how his father had conditioned him. With wisdom came respect,
with respect would come a stable life. He had believed that fable, at least for a while. He found
he was not a physical fighter, not like the other monks, but his power lay more in his mind.
While others mastered pearls or mantis riding, Taigam absorbed the scrolls and the lessons of
his teachers. He was still a fighter, but preferred the scrolls. He even had the honor of being
trained by the khan of the Jeskai, Narset. She once confessed she regarded him as one of her
most adept students. Taigam felt great pride from that comment, but realized that would be the
height of what he could get from the Jeskai. Respect? Honor? All for just a stable life?

He didn't set out to join another clan. In fact,

he had elected to follow the Way of the
Wandering Warrior·or so he told Narset and
the other monks he had trained with. He hoped
to uncover different disciplines of magic,
possibly learn different forms of fighting.
Taigam travelled to Purugir, the trading post
near the Salt Road, hoping to find work as
either a teacher or bodyguard. He had always
heard of the Sultai as decadent monsters, and
although he was inclined to agree, seeing some
of their nobles pass through Purugir had Taigam's Scheming | Art by Svetlin
sparked his interest. They had rich clothes and Velinov
exquisite taste. But Taigam sparked their
interest as well·a Jeskai looking for work was
peculiar.

That night, a rakshasa visited him in the inn where he slept. The rakshasa were powerful
demons, and the Sultai derived much of their power and undead from age-old deals made with
them. That rakshasa, named Ebirri, wished to make Taigam a deal. In exchange for the
privilege of being the knowledgeable Taigam's most humble servant, Ebirri would bring Taigam
great fortune and power within the Sultai. Taigam knew he was being deceived in some fashion,
but the immediate promise of power won out over his common sense. The pact was made, and
in exchange for power, Taigam swore his life in service of the rakshasa.

Taigam rose to chief advisor of Sidisi, the kahn of the Sultai. The brood tyrant sent Taigam to
perform her decrees outside of the palace, which was a great honor, as she usually kept those
she mistrusted close to her so she could be the one to end their lives. Taigam executed Sidisi's
rule throughout Sultai territory, all under the watchful eye of his true master, Ebirri, who had
bound himself to Taigam.

The farmers stank. Not even the spices and perfumes that covered the smell of a wet sibsig
could remove the stench of the peasants that stood before Taigam. They looked worried·they
always looked worried·and seemed unsure if they should speak or wait for Taigam to begin the
proceedings. Taigam was content with sitting back in his chair, making them squirm a little
longer. These were not true Sultai. They were those who had the poor fortune of being born in
Sultai territory, and although they were required to give tax and food to the Sultai, they had less
value to Sidisi than a sibsig.

An older man, a rarity in these parts, stepped forward to speak, which shocked Taigam, as one
didn't gain gray hair by speaking first.

"My lord Taigam," he said, as he lowered his head, stepping forward to approach, "our next
shipment will exceed the current quota and make up for what the last shipment lacked."

The man was clearly guessing as to why the Sultai were there, and it was a good guess. Taigam
was disappointed at the level-headed response. He wanted to have fun.

"Why do you not kneel in the presence of your better?" Taigam asked with a smirk.

The man took to a knee, and knelt. Taigam cleared his throat, and the man repositioned
himself so his forehead was on the floor. The rakshasa Ebirri laughed from the shadows.

"If you want him to bow any lower he should bow from below the deck."

Taigam hid his anger at the comment.

"How many children do you have?"

The man didn't rise from his prostrate position.

"Three, my lord."

"Now you have two," Taigam said. He nodded to the human guard, who nodded back and left
the ship.

Outside, on the river, the sibsig stood in the water, tethered to Taigam's boat. Blurred figures
ran fast on the water, using the sibsigs' heads as stepping stones.

As the guard sent by Taigam was exiting the ship to enact his task, half a dozen small daggers
riddled his body and he fell over, dead, before he realized what had happened. The figures ran
up the tethers, ready to perform their task.
 Taigam would not have time to revel in his
cruelty. From the sides of the ship, three
blurred figures flew through the windows into
the room. Three human Jeskai monks stood
with clenched fists. They dashed toward
Taigam. The peasants ran the opposite way,
heading toward the door.

"By Narset's will!" one of them shouted.

Taigam moved to stand. He was able to dodge

the first fist, but the second caught him in the
shoulder, sending him spiraling to the floor.
Leaping Master | Art by Anastasia Rusty, but not completely out of practice, he
Ovchinnikova used the momentum of the fall to send his foot
out to kick the first monk in the leg near the
knee, bending the monk's leg the opposite
direction. The monk cried out in pain and fell over.

Ebirri emerged from the shadows. One of the remaining monks threw daggers at Taigam, but
the rakshasa growled in their direction and they fell to the ground as though hitting an invisible
wall. Although Ebirri usually hunched over, the feline demon then stood tall, nearly hitting his
head on the ceiling. Taigam pulled himself from the floor and saw a chance to free himself from
the demon in the confusion. As the rakshasa willed dark magic, purple mist emanated from his
eyes toward one of the monks. Taigam drew a dagger from his ankle and rushed toward the
demon. Although the assassins were there to kill him, Taigam knew the greatest threat to his life
had always been the rakshasa.

The remaining monk grabbed Taigam's arm,

but the Sultai spun away, tossing his dagger to
his other hand and striking at the rakshasa. The
dagger stuck in Ebirri's side, interrupting his
concentration, and the monk who was hovering
in the air, strangled by smoke, fell to the
ground. Ebirri roared and backhanded both
Taigam and the monk who held him. They
both slammed into the wall, but the monk was
not deterred. He punched Taigam in the throat,
interrupting Taigam's breathing. The rakshasa
grabbed the monk by his clothes and pulled
him back, then grabbed his head. Ebirri
crushed it, exploding brain and skull all over Rakshasa Vizier | Art by Nils Hamm
the cabin. The uninjured monk had recovered,
but Ebirri continued his spell and choked the
life from the monk with his dark magic.
Taigam finally caught his breath, and the hulking rakshasa picked him up by his clothing and
pulled him close, so the Sultai's face was next to his mouth.

"I own you," Ebirri growled.

The rakshasa dropped Taigam, who picked himself up. There was still a monk alive, but unable
to move due to the damage to his leg.

"Who sent you?" Taigam asked.

"Narset, khan of the Jeskai," he said with contempt, cringing through the pain.

"That doesn't seem like her," Taigam replied. "Are you saying she sent you, or that you act in
her name?"

The monk didn't reply. Taigam nodded to Ebirri, and the rakshasa stepped on the monk's
chest, crushing him.

"Do you think the Jeskai khan meant to end you with assassins?" Ebirri asked.

"No," Taigam said. "They were zealots, most likely acting without her knowledge. I'm sure
there are still many among the Jeskai who would like to see a mistake like me removed from the
picture. Still, things have been escalating lately, so I can't be sure dear old Narset hasn't finally
become more of a threat. I'll take care of it."

Ebirri growled.

"I'll take care of it," Taigam restated, more forceful.

Ebirri didn't reply, but returned to the shadows. Taigam signaled the sibsig to keep the boat
moving as he began to size the intact dead monks for golden uniforms.
Way of the Mantis
BY MATT KNICL

On many planes, the mantis is a small creature. On Tarkir, the mantises are larger than oxen
and native to the mountainous region the Jeskai control.

Atop a red-roofed Jeskai tower, a monk named Kuhnde stood on his mantis and looked over the
valley. A cold wind blew across his skin; he did not shiver, nor did he move. His mantis
twitched beneath him, its arms always moving and head craning toward invisible prey. Mantis
riders knew their mounts owe them no allegiance. Even a mantis ridden for years would
consume a rider who lost focus for only a moment.

There are many Jeskai styles. Riverwalk imitates

flowing water; Dragonfist, the ancient hellkites;
and Flying Crane, the wild aven of the high
peaks. No name exists for the ceremony, but
within the Jeskai, it is among the most
important, defining events of one's life.

Kuhnde began training for his mount when he

was very young, and showed great potential as a
student. When he was a few years old and just
starting to read, representatives from the
different strongholds and disciplines met with
Mantis Rider | Art by Johann Bodin him. He was given a few minutes of
understanding of each different style and told to
try his best. The master of Sage-Eye Stronghold
valued stealth, quickness, and cunning, while the master of Dirgu Stronghold brought with him
several bladed weapons for Kuhnde to use. An aven master met with Kuhnde to see how adept
he was at moving through the air as he leapt. The Riverwheel Stronghold master assessed
Kuhnde as he performed their variation of Riverwalk magic, while the Cori Mountain
Stronghold master was there to assess Dragonfist maneuvers. The School of Pearls, while not
having a stronghold, watched the young boy attempt to manipulate a dozen pearls while he
fought. He was tested on magic and identified the Jeskai's preferred types·soulfire, mistfire,
and bloodfire·easily avoiding deathfire and vitalfire. The masters were all disappointed. He
was competent in all the disciplines, although not an expert, but they all recognized in Kuhnde
the skill set that was required of being a mantis rider.

Kuhnde met his mount that day, a mantis that was tethered to the ground by other riders. He
was told to never let down his guard. One of the riders showed Kuhnde his own mantis and
explained that he had trained it for years, fed it daily, and kept it clean. The rider removed one
of the mantis's tethers and the insect lashed out, cutting the rider's hand. Kuhnde was scared
when that happened, but the rider explained why Kuhnde was destined to be a mantis rider.
"There is no one way to tame a mantis," the
rider explained. "It takes parts of all of the
disciplines to learn how to stay forever vigilant
and control your mantis, sometimes while also
fighting another foe. You need to be aware of
every variable, anticipate all outcomes, and in a
mere second react to what is and what might
be. You will be riding, with tenuous control, a
creature that is your greatest threat."

Kuhnde had felt honored. He was young and

filled with the promise of prestige. As he began
to train, he saw how unique his path would be. Highspire Mantis | Art by Igor Kieryluk
Each mantis rider was able to work with the
specific discipline needed to ride the mantis.
Some required more study in the Riverwheel tradition to stay atop their mounts while others
spent time at Dirgu Stronghold and learned how to keep themselves balanced when using a
spear.

It took Kuhnde twenty years to learn how to ride his mantis. Although he stood tall watching
the valley below, he focused on where he shifted his weight, rested his spear, and pulled his
single rein. He was vigilant, reacting when his mantis quickly moved its head or buzzed its
wings. Its wings produced a high-pitched, barely audible whirring sound in flight, and only the
Jeskai were normally quiet enough to hear one coming. Kuhnde understood his mantis enough
to know what the changes in the pitch and speed of the buzzing meant·his mantis was restless
and wanted to move.

Kuhnde allowed the mantis to fly freely, steering it only when it flew too close to the tower
windows where other students took lessons. There was always the danger, no matter how
trained one was, that a mantis would no longer take orders from its rider. One of the first
mantis riders brought his mount into a village, so it is said, and the mantis was so fueled by
anger that, despite its master's commands, it rampaged and killed several people. Mantis rider
never allowed their mounts to get close to others, for fear of a similar event.

Kuhnde's mantis turned its head, alerting him to movement near the base of the mountain.
Whatever it was, it was disguised by a concealment spell, and Kuhnde knew well enough to
anticipate a terrible foe cloaked in that magic. Jeskai use the obscuring magic for the element of
surprise, to disguise their identity, or scout foreign lands. They also use it as destructive ambush
magic against their enemies, so Kuhnde was well aware of the danger it could present to the
monastery. The orb continued to blaze up the side of the mountain and Kuhnde repositioned
his feet, signaling the mantis to intercept.

They dove toward the amber ball of energy. As they got closer it diverted its path to race up the
mountain, but not toward them. Kuhnde tensed and held his spear. He signaled the mantis to
go lower, so they could lead the energy ball away from the monastery. He dared not get too
close or attack it·he had no idea what lay within. The mantis veered down toward the valley,
toward the lakes below. Kuhnde looked back, trying to gauge distance to the concealed enemy,
but saw it had returned to climb the summit.
He shifted his weight to turn around the mantis
and braced himself to move with the abrupt
shift, lest he would fall to the ground.

They flew beside the fast-moving sphere close

the ground. Kuhnde felt the mantis begin to
buck, so while he applied pressure with one foot
to the back of the mantis's head he jabbed at the
orb with his spear. There was a loud screech,
one the monks in the monastery would have
heard, and the orb dissipated. A phoenix
emerged and attacked.

Morph Overlay | Art by

Raymond Swanland

It was a large bird, the size of Kuhnde's mantis. Ashcloud Phoenix | Art by Howard Lyon
It burned brightly as it slashed with its claws.
Fire rolled off of the phoenix's wings like liquid,
leaving trails of burning earth, but the phoenix
had presented its underbelly. Kuhnde made the mantis take the attack, and it slashed at the
phoenix. It cut the phoenix with its longer claws, and blood and flame emerged from the
wound. The phoenix screeched again and flew higher. Kuhnde understood it was attempting to
get away, but it was flying toward the monastery tower, most likely to land and try to regain its
strength. A bird landing on the monastery would be no cause for alarm·but that bird was a
force of nature and left fire in its wake.

Kuhnde watched as the phoenix headed toward the tallest tower, which housed this stronghold's
library·a building least welcoming to an invader of fire. The scrolls in the library were not
important, of course, but the information written in them needed saving. Kuhnde hadn't
needed to train from scrolls much during his training and he knew some of the djinn that
guarded them had never read their contents, so he didn't value them highly. But he knew that,
for many in the Jeskai, the words on the scrolls were more precious than gold was to the Sultai.
Kuhnde would lay down his life protecting them.

He goaded his mantis to fly faster, ignoring the freezing winds that rushed around him. Injured,
the phoenix flew slower. Kuhnde struck again with his spear, impaling the phoenix near where
the wing met the body. The phoenix reacted, crying out a screech of pain and igniting its body
in flames. Kuhnde knew he'd been hit with the flames, but his flesh was so numbed by the cold
he couldn't feel the pain. His mantis began to fall and he knew why before he saw·its wings
were burning. He grasped his mantis's body as they fell alongside the phoenix, which dropped
due to its wounds. The phoenix and the mantis hit the side of the mountain and slid rapidly
toward its base.

Kuhnde held on tight when they slid down the slope, but relaxed his muscles when they
stopped, minimizing injury. His mantis was burned, its wings and a large portion of its carapace
gone. Its insides leaked onto the mountainside. The phoenix was next to a boulder, upside
down, one of its wings obviously broken. The massive bird was unable to right itself. Kuhnde
turned back to the mantis. He approached it, his companion for twenty years, as it lay dying.
The mantis, unable to comprehend its situation, struck out at Kuhnde with the same chattering
and head movements, as it attempted to kill and consume the man before it.

Kuhnde did not take the attempt personally. He had trained not to. Despite the sharp pain of
injury he felt in his shoulder, he picked up his spear. With a quick, precise motion, Kuhnde
impaled the mantis's head to end its misery, although the creature's mandibles continued to feel
around for human flesh for a few moments. Kuhnde turned to the phoenix. It was still a threat
to the monastery, even injured, and killing it would only cause it to be reborn, stronger even.

So Kuhnde took all his knowledge, training, and years of discipline and began to make a new
path. He approached the phoenix and used his spear to help the bird right itself. The bird
snapped at him, but he struck the phoenix on the beak with the shaft of his spear. The bird was
stunned, then ignited itself in anger. Kuhnde again struck it on the beak. It cawed, but that time
more in pain than anger. Kuhnde knew much from training a mantis, but even then he only
trained to ride one specific mantis. He had never learned how to tame a phoenix, but he knew,
given the time, he would master a new way. Even if it took many years.
The Chensal Twins
BY KIMBERLY J. KREINES

A thief stands accused. A Jeskai village is ready to mete out justice. But true justice has only one
source.

"They're here! They're here!"

"The twins!"

"Hurry!"

The sing-song voices and pattering footfalls drew Kela's attention. She shifted her gaze, all the
while keeping her neck faultlessly straight and walking step for step at Dar's side.

A handful of Jigme Village children were racing toward them along the far bank of the babbling
river.

"Do you think they'll say he's guilty?" the boy in front called back to the others.

"He is guilty!" said a slightly chubby boy with flushed cheeks. He ran past the other boy.

"How do you know?" a girl with a fringe of straight, black bangs panted.

"I know because·" Abruptly, the chubby boy slowed to a stop. "Wow." He pointed at Kela and
Dar's foreheads in awe. "Look."

The others fell in behind him, staring

unabashedly.

"The dragon's eye," the first boy said reverently.

"The marks are so bright," said the girl with the

fringe.

"They hurt my eyes." The chubby boy shielded

his face.

Dragon-Style Twins | Art by Wesley Burt "That's ridiculous." This voice, an annoyed
mutter, came from Kela's other side.

Kela looked without moving her head. She

wouldn't have seen the girl in the tree had it not been for the child's glistening eyes. They were
sharp and bright and they followed Kela and Dar's every move.

"It's a symbol of strategy," one of the children on the other side of the river said.
The girl in the tree rolled her eyes. "Cunning. The dragon's eye is a symbol of cunning." She
spoke in a whisper, barely loud enough even for Kela to hear.

"It means they're really good at combat," one of the other children said.

"Incorrect," the girl in the tree said. "It means they are on a path to enlightenment." She
touched her own forehead, an act that looked familiar and practiced. "A path that led them
here. A path that will lead us all to the places and times we are most needed." She closed her
eyes and dipped her head in a bow.

How Kela wished that those words were true; she did not feel she was on a path, rather that she
was wandering aimlessly, following Dar.

Suddenly, the branch beneath the girl gave way with a sharp snap.

Kela gasped.

The girl reacted before Kela could, flipping and somersaulting as though the whole stunt had
been planned. She landed soundlessly in a crouch like a cat on the side of the path. Her piercing
eyes flashed to Kela's. Caught, she stood and smiled shyly.

Kela stretched her lips into a configuration they weren't much used to, returning the gesture.

"What are you doing?" Dar's voice startled Kela out of her grin.

Her eyes shot forward. "Nothing. I was just·"

"Don't. Speak."

"We're not even to the village yet."

"There are villagers here, are there not?"

"They're only children, Dar."

"And they can see you talking."

"They can see you talking. You spoke fir·"

"Enough. You shall not show emotion. What we do, it's all about perception, Kela. When will
you understand that?"

"What we do is about justice, brother."

"A justice that the Jeskai only accept because of the way we are perceived. If that perception is
tarnished, so too will be our decrees. Is that what you want?"

The question felt like a trap; Kela didn't dare shake her head, nor speak a response, for that was
a trap too. Luckily, she was saved from doing either as they arrived at the village gates.

Jigme villagers lined the bridge on the other side of the entrance. Eyes and mouths hung agape
as Kela and Dar approached.

It was a narrow bridge, and with villagers on both sides it was only wide enough for one of them
to cross at a time. Dar went first. He always went first. He had done everything first since the
day they were born. Although they were twins, he had been born first·first by a day. He in the
evening, and Kela in the morning of the next day.

Being born in the morning light was the reason she was innocence. And Dar's birth in the
darkness of night was the reason he was guilt. At least that was as it should be, that and nothing
else.

A gong sounded from the village center. Kela could feel the reverberations in her chest. She
followed her brother through the corridor of chattering villagers into Jigme Square. As she
walked she caught snippets of gossip, slander, and suspicion.

"...guilty as water runs south..."

"...don't need arbiter twins to tell us..."

"...he never even climbed the Initiate's Stair."

"What kind of man..."

Together, Kela and Dar ascended three shallow steps and came to stand on a low wooden
platform in the village center.

The village elder, a woman with a tight, white braid running down to her ankles, bowed to
them. A breathless quiet settled over the villagers.

"Welcome to Jigme." The elder's voice was

crisp. "I am Elder Ngabo. You honor us with
your presence, Arbiter Twins." She bowed long
and low. "May justice be served today."

"So say the Rules of the Reeds." Dar and Kela

returned the bow, Dar dipping slightly lower
than Kela.

Kela bristled silently.

They were supposed to be equals; they were

supposed to be balanced. That was how justice Jeskai Elder | Art by Craig J Spearing
was ensured, by innocence equaling guilt in
every measure. But with Dar being born the day
before her, with the way he held himself over
Kela, it was a wonder that they could serve justice at all. Kela often thought they should not,
that she should not.

"Come," Elder Ngabo said as she stood. "It is time."

Like all courts in all small Jeskai villages, the Jigme Village Court was carefully maintained. The
floors had the look of just recently having been swept and the matching pillows that had been
laid out for Kela and Dar looked as though they had been freshly embroidered. Kela had heard
that Jigme was known for its exquisitely crafted fabrics.

As she settled into the soft cushion, Kela glanced around the courtroom. It was small; there was
only enough room for a dozen villagers to watch the proceedings. That was fine with her; the
scrutiny of too many eyes made her feel like a fraud.

"This court has been called to session under the Dragon Eyes of the Chensal Twins." Elder
Ngabo spoke before the small crowd. "Today, we hear the case of Lotse Taring against the
Jigme Village." She extended her arm, gesturing at a raw, rangy man who stood near the wall
with his head bowed. "May justice be served today."

"So say the Rules of the Reeds," the villagers intoned.

With that the room fell silent, and Kela and Dar began the Ritual of Arbiter Twins. Through a
series of slow, controlled movements and a low, sonorous chant, they fell into a state of deep
meditation. They would hear the trial from that state, connected as they were to truth, justice,
and the way of the dragons.

The trial proceeded around them; Lotse Taring was persecuted and he made his defense. The
case was straightforward. The man was accused of thievery. Nine baskets of apples had been
stolen from the Village reserve. Three baskets had been found in Lotse's shelter, less than a half
day's journey from Jigme. Six more baskets were found empty not far off, and many wandering
Jeskai who often went hungry had littered cores along the nearby trails in the days that followed.

Lotse admitted to feeding the hungry, but he also claimed the fruit was his to give.

The voices washed over Kela, rocking her gently as she slipped ever deeper into her meditation.

Lotse's tearful voice swirled around her.

Kela fell deeper still.

Elder Ngabo's words danced on Kela's eyelids.

She drifted.

The villagers rumbled.

And Kela was transported to the place where justice dwelled.

When she surfaced from her meditation, Kela slowly became aware of her surroundings. She
was in the Jigme Tower of Innocence. The trial had ended. She had been carried up to the top
of the tower while still in her meditative state, as was the tradition.

She faced the moment of judgment.

That moment was supposed to be one of purest clarity, a moment only Arbiter Twins could
experience. She was supposed to open her eyes knowing the verdict, feeling Lotse's innocence
or guilt in her soul.

But the only thing she felt in her soul was the weight of deception. Her deception. It was what
she always felt in every Tower of Innocence in every Jeskai village she and Dar had visited. She
was a fraud.

As she looked to the oil lamp in the center of

the tower her stomach tightened. It was for her
to decide if she should light, or not light, the
wick. No, it was for her to know. But she did
not know.

She stood and paced the small circumference of

the room. There was not much time. Soon the
gong would sound, and at that moment she
would have to act. Dar would act too; he would
light or not light the lamp in the Tower of
Guilt. But unlike her he would know
Jeskai Banner | Art by Daniel Ljunggren unquestionably what he should do. Dar always
knew.

Kela tried to think back on the trial, tried to sort through the details that swam in her mind.
Was Lotse innocent? It seemed like he might be. Perhaps. She should light her lamp, she
thought. Yes she would light it.

She tried to feel confident about her decision. That was the trick to it, or so her mentor at the
Cori Mountain Stronghold had told her, time and again. "You must believe in yourself, in what
you feel inside, that is where the truth lies."

She tried to believe. She had to believe, for if she was wrong...

Only one flame could burn. Arbiter Twins, for as long as there had been Arbiter Twins, only lit
one flame at every trial. Twins did not speak to each other, they were not allowed to see each
other, their towers were separate, yet somehow only one flame was ever lit. Never two, never
none. That was how the villagers knew it was justice.

The gong rang out.

Kela picked up the flint and moved to strike it, but then she stopped.

No, she should not light it. No. He was guilty.

Wasn't he?

"Oh, I don't know." She held her breath, clenching the flint in her fist. "Please, please, please."

"Guilty! He is guilty!" The cries rose up from the villagers below.

"Give us back the apples!"

Kela breathed.

Lotse was guilty. Dar had lit his lamp.

She had been right to leave hers cold.

The celebration that followed was as much for the Jigme villagers as it was for their guests.
Music was played on hand-carved flutes, magical dancing lights filled the sky, and villagers
sang, hands clasped, around fires.

At the edge of the crowd, Kela picked out the girl from the tree. She was observing the
festivities intently, but was unwilling to join in. When she noticed Kela watching her she offered
the same shy smile she had earlier. Her admiration for Kela was obvious in her wide eyes and
Kela was thankful that she and Dar had been able to live up to the girl's expectations that day.

It was one more trial that they had arbitrated successfully, one more time that they had, despite
their imbalance, despite her fraudulent birth, executed justice. She glanced at Dar. Was it
possible that was their path after all? Was there a chance that she belonged?

Dinner was served to the village elder first, as was tradition. It was flatbread and, fittingly, if not
appropriately, a thick apple soup.

"Thank you." Elder Ngabo nodded to the young man who had served her. All eyes were on the
old woman sitting atop the wooden platform as she tucked a wisp of her white hair behind her
ear. She wafted the aroma of the soup to her nose and nodded. "Smells good."

There was a smattering of polite laughter. Kela could sense the hunger behind the sound; they
would not be served until the elder ate.

Elder Ngabo finally lifted the bowl to her lips and drank the soup. She swallowed once, twice,
and then she lowered the bowl, a smile on her face. "It is del·" Her voice caught in her throat.
She cocked her head to the side as though puzzled, and then her eyes shot wide. She raised her
hands to her neck, clawing wildly, her face turning gray.

The music stopped.

The dancing lights fell from the sky.

"She's choking!" someone shouted.

"Help her!" another cried.

Villagers crowded up the shallow steps, running to the elder's aid, healers and mystics.

The commotion escalated to a frenzy...and then, just as quickly, it diminished into silence.

A Jigme healer stepped back, shaking his head.

"What happened?" a stray voice wondered.

"I don't know," came an answer. "She just·she just·"

"She was poisoned!" This voice was loud and sure. "It was the apples!"

Kela was not the only one to gasp.

"It was Lotse!"

The Jigme villagers mobilized, and before Kela's mind could catch up with their feet they were
at the doors of the prison, pounding them down.

"Murderer!" they cried.

"Kill him!"

They broke into Lotse's cell and dragged him out. A mob, thirsting for blood.

"Stop!" Lotse begged. "Stop, please!"

"We will have your head for what you have done!" A Jeskai warrior drew his blade.

"No!" Kela jumped in front of the sword. She didn't realize she had leapt until she was there,
staring at the sharp tip, her breath coming in quick, short gasps.

"Get out of the way!" the warrior shouted.

"What are you doing?"

Kela recognized the second voice as Dar's. He was standing back from the crowd glaring at her.
She knew what he was thinking without his need to speak. That was not the way he wished for
the villagers to perceive them. He was telling her with his eyes to get up, to get out of the way,
and to let them kill the man.

But she could not move. Something bound her to that place, that moment. It was as though she
had been walking a long road and only then had she realized this had been her destination all
along.

"Get out of the way, so help me!" The warrior pressed his blade to Kela's throat.

"He should have a trial," she whispered.

"What did she say?" The question came from further back in the crowd.
"What did you say?" the warrior asked.

"He should have a trial," Kela said, slightly louder this time.

"But he is a murderer!" a villager cried.

"Murderer!" The voices of the other villagers echoed.

"Can you say he is not?" the warrior asked Kela.

Kela looked to Lotse. There was fear in his eyes, fear and pleading. She tried to see more, but
there was no more to see. She did not know if he was guilty or innocent. She could not tell.

"Well?" the warrior pressed. "Say it, arbiter. If you can. Say he is innocent."

She could not.

Kela saw Dar behind the warrior, his lips curled up into a sneer. And around him it seemed that
all the villagers mimicked his expression.

The sneers made Kela feel foolish. What had she done? What was she thinking? She looked
away, down to the muddy ground, for there was nowhere else for her to look. And that's when
she saw the girl from the tree.

The girl was staring up at Kela, wide-eyed, from under the shelter of an upturned wagon. Their
eyes locked, and in that moment Kela understood something she had never fully understood
before. There was more at stake here than the guilt or innocence of one man. Jeskai justice was
at stake. And the girl from the tree was holding Kela to her part in that moment.

"See! She cannot say it!" a voice from the crowd called. "She cannot say he is innocent!"

"He is guilty then!"

"Murderer!"

"Kill him!"

"Enough!" Kela found her voice, shaking though it was. Fear didn't matter. She nodded to the
girl from the tree and pushed aside the warrior's blade. She got to her feet and faced Dar and
the wild Jigme villagers.

"I will not stand for this!" She had never felt that way before. Flame was coursing through her
veins and lapping at her soul. Rather than holding it in, she let it flow, to flow out of her in the
name of justice. "The Rules of the Reeds dictate that any Jeskai accused of murder will have a
trial. So this man shall. I will not make a judgment until I am in my tower!"

"Blasphemy!"

"He is guilty!"
"Can't you see it?"

"Is this what you would have too, twin?" The warrior turned to Dar.

Kela felt slightly sorry for her brother then. He had no choice but to agree with her, both for
perception's sake and for the sake of the Rules of the Reeds.

Dar nodded slowly. "Yes."

The crowd gasped.

"But·" Dar held up his hands before they could launch into their cries. "But we will be quick.
Let us go to our towers now and make our judgments as my sister wants. Let us do that before
you have his head, let us do that and your village will not be guilty of breaking the Rules of the
Reeds."

"So be it!" the warrior cried. "Light your flame if you must. It will do well to cast a light on the
murderer's beheading!"

The Jigme villagers cheered and moved toward Kela and Dar as one.

Kela shouted, but her voice was not heard above theirs. She was hurried toward the tower and
shouldered up the stairs. That was not how an Arbiter was to be treated. That was not how a
trial was to be run.

She caught Dar's eye.

He shook his head once, sharp and pointed. She knew what he was telling her: "Do not light
your flame."

He would be lighting his, affirming the villager's beliefs, upholding the perception of justice.

But justice was not a perception.

Kela was thrown into the room at the top of tower and the door slammed behind her.

She barely had time to push herself to her feet before the gong sounded.

Driven still by the flame inside, she ran for the flint and struck it. Then she lit wick. The lamp
of innocence ignited.

"What is this?" The cry from below came mere seconds later.

Kela ran to the window. All of Jigme was staring up at her and Dar.

"Two flames!"

"This is not justice!"

"We will have justice!"

The mob turned on the towers and so too did their thirst for blood.

Kela's tower shook as they climbed, and they were at her door the next moment beating it
down.

Kela sprang out through the window. She sprinted down toward the ground on the currents of
the air. She would not fall to those hands, not that night.

"What have you done?" Dar stormed onto the current of air that supported her weight. It shifted
under them as he followed her. "You are ruining us, sister. They will never trust us again."

"I am not ruining us, I am saving us. We do not know the judgment. This was the only way."

"I know the judgment."

Kela hesitated, slowing. The current trembled beneath her feet. Dar had spoken so surely. She
looked back at him over her shoulder. His face was a mask she could not read.

"I know the judgment," he said again. "That should be enough for you, sister. Come now, you
never knew anyway, did you? I could always tell. It was all blind luck. A guessing game. 'Will
Dar light his flame?' How many times did you ask yourself that?"

Kela faltered and the current of air dipped. She lost her footing and her control and she
plummeted to the ground.

For a moment all was black. When she blinked the world back into focus, Dar was standing
above her, his sword drawn. "Do not make me do this, sister. Concede to me. The thief is guilty
of murder. I know."

But Dar did not know. Kela was sure. She was certain. The feeling welled inside her, and she
recognized it then. She had felt it before, so many times before, in all of the villages, in all of the
Towers of Innocence, in that very village earlier that day when it had told her not to light her
flame. It had only been a whisper previously because she had not given credence to its voice.
But then, when she was listening, it was screaming. So she screamed too. "No!" She rolled out
of reach of Dar's blade and jumped to her feet. "You cannot know if I do not know."

She drew her sword.

"Don't be foolish, Kela. If you attempt to fight me, I will kill you. Put down your blade."

"Only one justice will force my blade from my hand." Kela swung her sword. Dar parried. "We
will fight, brother. For the judgment of this moment, we will fight."

Their blades met in mid-air with a great clang.

And so began their Combat of Clarity. It was an old, unused tradition of the Arbiter Twins. If
ever they disagreed on a verdict they were to be set to single combat. It was said on the scrolls
that so evenly matched as they were, the only thing that would set the twins apart would be the
clarity of their judgment. The twin who was fighting for justice, defending truth, would have the
edge, as slight as it was, and would therefore be victorious.

Kela possessed the clarity in that combat and

she knew it. She could see everything. It was as
though she was looking at the world from four
different vantage points at once, and two more
in the future. She saw her brother roll and she
saw him get up at the same time. But when she
moved to stop him she saw him stumble back,
never reaching the place where he would have
stood if he had rolled.

Every move was like that. She knew where to

place her blade and when. She knew how hard
to strike and when to turn. Dragon's Eye Savants | Art by Jason
Rainville
She felt the eyes of the entire village upon them
as the twins circled each other. And with each
blow she felt the shift in the villagers' gazes. Their moods were turning from shock to disbelief,
and then to awe. Those around her were understanding what she understood. They saw,
perhaps with less clarity, but they saw what she saw. They saw her reasons, they saw her truth,
they saw her justice.

When the moment was right, Kela leapt into a spinning strike and landed in a crouch on the
ground with her knee on Dar's chest and her blade at his throat.

He looked up into her eyes. He saw then, too. He saw it all.

"What will you do, Kela?" he whispered. "What judgment will you pass? I am guilty."

Kela realized that for the first time in their lives she had the power. And she realized she did not
want it. Power over Dar was not what she had sought. Balance was what they needed.

She smiled down at her brother. "Just as there cannot be light without darkness, day without
night, there cannot be innocence without guilt." She removed the blade from Dar's throat and
she stood. "Alone I am only one side of a blade. Together we are the sword of Justice." She
extended her hand, offering it to Dar. "Will you join me?"

His eyes locked on hers. He took her hand and allowed her to help him up.

For the first time, they stood together before the villagers as equals.

"The man will have a fair trial," Dar said. "Justice will be served here today."

"So say the Rules of the Reeds!" the villagers intoned.

The gong sounded.

Kela turned toward the tone. The young girl from the tree stood by the metal plate, holding the
hammer. She smiled at Kela.

Kela returned the grin.

Enlightened
BY MATT KNICL

Narset is the Khan of the Jeskai. Although younger than the other Jeskai Elders, she leads her
people against the other clans. More about the Jeskai can be found in Part 1 of the
Planeswalker's Guide to Khans of Tarkir.

Life on Tarkir is difficult, and it takes its toll on Narset as it does on everyone else·she just has
practice with hiding it. She seeks to bring peace to the clan, and studies Tarkir's history for the
answer.

My legs were asleep. I haven't had this problem while meditating since I was a student. I wasn't
focusing. To the hundred monks who meditated in the plaza with me, I was motionless,
meditating as I always did. But just because I look quiet and serene doesn't mean I am. Just
because I don't show emotions doesn't mean I don't have them. And it's not that I can't show
them; it's that I'm not supposed to. My mind was racing, as it often did. Others would stop this,
but I let it run. I would pretend I was at peace, as I knew other Jeskai did, although I made sure
not to betray my quiet contemplation.

As a young girl, I had the same "problem," as

my teachers called it. I always lived in my head,
but not in the way the instructors wished. I
dreamt of fantastical worlds and used the scrolls
given for lessons to draw them, incurring the
wrath of my elders. I found solace in my own
mind and often had difficulty knowing how to
talk to others. It was as though my mind was
always five steps ahead of my mouth. It was so
taxing interacting with others. I never knew
what to say, often causing me to blunder, and I
was embarrassed in front of my teachers and
Quiet Contemplation | Art by Magali classmates. I then went over those failed
Villeneuve interactions in my mind, and I found the
imaginary worlds more forgiving.

Studying was a way to escape my anxiety and I eagerly embraced history and philosophy,
memorizing all I could about Jeskai teachings. I impressed my teachers, but I still felt like an
outsider. I did enjoy sparring with those who had taunted me, easily humiliating them in
combat as they had humiliated me with their words. When I was old enough and passed all the
physical and mental tests, I undertook the Way of the Wandering Warrior. I was able to learn
about the other clans through observation and unfortunate events, where I was forced to fight
and kill rival clan members for my own survival. I saw that Tarkir was a divided and brutal
place, and took this perspective back to my people.
Over the next few years, my counsel was sought out by many regarding these matters, until the
elders saw to appoint me the khan of the Jeskai. I had fought the clans in battle and knew their
tactics. Even though I am now their khan, I still felt like an outsider·like the young girl always
fumbling her words·only now I don't show it. I think this has been what gives me the strength
to do what is needed, looking at the Jeskai like I am not really a part of them.

I sat in front of a room of the other Jeskai monks meditating, as they meditated with me. I knew
they would be deep in thought, so I opened my left eye to look around. The other monks were
arranged in a square, all cross-legged and meditating·except for one child. He was dressed like
a monk, although his robes were slightly too big, and he was not even a decade old. He was
looking around, clearly bored. The boy saw me looking at him and his eyes went wide. I stuck
my tongue out quickly and he covered his mouth with both hands, apparently trying to stifle a
gasp. The monk who sat next to the boy repositioned himself slightly, and I could see the
monk's facial muscles tense, which meant he knew the boy wasn't meditating. The boy closed
his eyes and went back to meditating, but when I opened my eye again later I saw he was still
watching me. This time he stuck his tongue out at me. I allowed myself to smirk. I tried not to
think about how in just a few years he'd be on the frontlines fighting against our enemies.

A bell rang, which signaled the session was over. The monks turned their attention to me,
waiting for me to speak.

"Our own selves are the greatest obstacles to enlightenment," I said. "True understanding of the
universe comes from understanding of the self. Pretension and malice obscure that
understanding, so we must strive to banish them from ourselves and from the world."

I hate these sayings. They were part of the tradition, but they don't really mean anything. It was
a vague truth that had some bearing on reality, but it made me uncomfortable to have to give
out wisdom when sometimes it was better not to say anything at all. They should find these
lessons on their own, yet they rely on me to tell them how to be enlightened. I just need to make
sure I don't sound foolish. I've come to see the Jeskai need that direction·philosophy for
lorekeepers to debate about for years to come. I guess it's what separates them in their mind
from the decadent Sultai or the lawless Mardu.

The monks bowed and stood, beginning to file

out of the plaza. The boy looked back, and I
was able to quickly stick my tongue out at him
again. The plaza was outside on the mountain,
although it was considered part of the Sage Eye
Stronghold, which was only a quarter-mile hike
away. My personal guard, Shintan, nodded at
me from the edge of the pavilion. Custom
dictated I was meant to mediate on my own
after this daily group session. Although Shintan
was meant to keep me safe, I knew his other job
was to serve the elders and make sure I was
observing ceremony. Mystic Monastery | Art by Florian de
Gesincourt
Shintan was assigned to protect me shortly
after. Although custom dictated that he must
wait outside the plaza, he had the occasional vantage point to make sure I was present. He
nodded at me after the last monk left, and I nodded to him. As soon as he turned his back, I
spun and stood, reaching behind some of the ornate statues. I quickly constructed my decoy,
dressed in the same clothes, complete with a melon for a head I had stored here the night
before. I wasn't going for realism up close, but at the distance Shintan was it looked as realistic
as it needed to be. I moved fast out of the opposite end of the pavilion, which dropped off as a
steep mountainside. It was easy enough to scale and I made for the stronghold.

The Annals were found in the lowest section of the stronghold. I had easily become
preoccupied with the relics and ancient scrolls within. I understand some might have thought I
was neglecting my duties. Every day, there are reports of Sultai and Mardu aggression against
us, and news of the Temur and Abzan clashing. The fighting was getting to a breaking point.
Resources were becoming scarce.

The Annals dated back a thousand years, at least, and spoke of the time of the dragons.
Although they intrigue me, I was fascinated not by the ancient predators, but by the reports of
the clans working together to defeat the dragons. But I couldn't find how they worked together,
only that there was fierce fighting and then the dragons' power began to wane. I learned that a
dragon named Ugin was connected to Tarkir in ways the khans couldn't comprehend, and that
some had claimed Ugin was gone, but not dead. The runes of the Spirit Dragon were
indecipherable, written in an ancient language that was neither dragon nor clan·bizarre
patterns etched in stone. It was dark in the tunnels beneath Sage Eye, and I only had a candle,
but I did as much as I could to learn about the dragons Ugin and Bolas.

I ran quickly along the sharp rocks, keeping off the path, as I sprinted back toward the pavilion.
I had to hide for a few moments as a mantis rider flew by. I made it to the rock face and
climbed back up to the pavilion to find eight Abzan orcs standing within. Each was armed with
a blade, and two of them were archers. They didn't see me, and I hid behind a pillar. I was able
to see that two of them held Shintan. My decoy had been broken in pieces, bits of stick and hay
everywhere, with an arrow in the melon that would have been my head.

"You knew we were coming, monk," the head

orc yelled at Shintan. "Where is Narset?"

Two orcs held Shintan, one on each arm. I

could tell the orcs were contorting his bones
painfully, bending them behind his back farther
than should be possible, but Shintan showed no
reaction. I also saw the orcs had not had a kind
trip through the mountains. They were a desert
folk and the rugged, cold journey had weakened
them. But I was impressed by their resolve, as
they had avoided aerial patrols of aven and
Mer-Ek Nightblade | Art by Lucas mantis alike to get to here, one of the most
Graciano isolated areas within Jeskai territory. Based on
 their armaments, these orc were not true
Abzan, but Disowned·those exiled from the
Abzan. I had no weapons, but I had the element of surprise and years of training on these
would-be assassins.

I ran quickly from behind the pillar toward the three orcs closest to me and leapt forward into
the air, placing both hands on the center orc's shoulders. Springing up, I kicked both of my legs
out to the left and right, connecting powerfully to the heads of the other two orcs as I vaulted
over the third. I landed in front of the orc and spun around, striking left of the center of the
orc's chest, having timed his heart's pumping to stop it with my palm.

The other orcs barely had time to react. Shintan took the chaos as a chance to reposition his leg
and shift his weight, causing the orcs holding him to topple over. He was able to kick one in the
head, knocking the orc unconscious. The other orc righted himself and yelled, but Shintan
stood in a fighting stance, unmoving. I could tell Shintan sensed the malice in his opponent, but
he did not strike until the orc's muscles tensed in preparation to throw the first punch.

I focused on the last three orcs. The head orc rushed

forward with his large sword raised above his head in a
frenzy toward me, ready to cleave me down the center.
As the orc swung his blade down, I delivered a swift
kick to his throat. He dropped his sword in panic, and I
clasped both of his wrists and shifted my weight to
redirect his movement, spinning him around. He was
larger than me, but I had hold of tender muscles on his
arms, and was able to control his general movements.
When the last two orcs attacked, I was able to fight
them with their own commander as a weapon, guiding Swift Kick | Art by Mathias Kollros
the fists of their superior officer to crack their skulls.

Shintan had defeated his other would-be captor, and I spun my orc around to meet my
bodyguard's fist. The orcs lay, some dead, all bleeding, on the marble floor of the sacred temple.
We both caught our breaths.

"I made the orc talk before I put him down," Shintan said. "He said he and his kin were hired
by the rat Taigam. He claimed you sent assassins after Taigam."

Taigam, my old pupil, who had betrayed the Jeskai to seek riches with the Sultai·he could
have given them the information on how to move through Jeskai lands. I hadn't sent assassins,
but that didn't mean another Jeskai hadn't.

"I had no knowledge of any assassins," I said.

"I will have to tell the elders you left your meditation," Shintan replied.

I motioned toward the fallen dummy.

"Then I'll have to tell them they got the drop on you and I'd have taken an arrow through my
head."

He glowered, then moved to secure the unconscious orcs.

The orcs were imprisoned, and all told the same tale, that Taigam had hired them as retribution
for an assassination attempt. The elders were eager to accept the orcs were lying, most likely to
cover the treachery of one or all of them. Shintan said he feared there would be others, but I
showed no fear. Taigam was not the only one who wanted me or the Jeskai dead. I saw that my
own people plotted the deaths of others. Taigam and the elders were symptoms of a larger
problem. Tarkir was sick with war. Maybe the ancient runes of the dragon Ugin would hold no
answer. Maybe the world was doomed.

I meditated atop a mountain peak, ignoring the snow and cold winds as the sun rose and its
warmth touched my skin. I was far from Sage Eye, from my devoted followers, from the elders,
from Shintan, and from responsibility. I melted away from myself, no longer looking for an
answer, but waiting for it to find me. In my mind I saw darkness and knew peace.

I'm not sleeping, but I dream. The worlds from my youth rush toward me.

Narset, Enlightened Master | Art by

Magali Villeneuve
The Salt Road
BY JEREMIAH ISGUR

Despite sharing two colors, the Mardu and the Abzan couldn't be more different. The Mardu
emphasize speed, moving fast and striking hard to seize the spoils of victory. The Abzan believe
in endurance, outlasting their opponents and fighting to be the last ones standing.

Today, we get a glimpse into the minds of Mardu and Abzan patrol leaders as they prepare their
troops for battle⁄

"Captain." The lieutenant jogged up beside him, kicking up a spray of dusty sand that drifted
sideways in the breeze sweeping across the craggy steppes that hot afternoon. "Do you see that
smoke there on the horizon, to the east of Golem Rock? That could be a Mardu camp." He
raised his arm to illustrate the vector and pointed with his gloved hand, each overlapping metal
plate of the articulated fingers clicking into place as he straightened his index finger.

"Good eye," Riza responded, scanning in that direction. "But that is no Mardu encampment.
We would see many campfires as they like to make a show of numbers in order to confuse
enemies. And if it was a Mardu scout, the only evidence we would see would be the hoof prints
left in the dirt." Riza breathed a quiet sigh of relief that his lieutenant was wrong. Let us pray,
he thought, that we do not make contact with the enemy for the remainder of this patrol. He
looked over his shoulder at his men, fifty strong, walking in two columns, maintaining a
disciplined march, but engaged in small talk and laughter.

"When I get back to my wife," his krumar chief of scales boasted, "I'm going to drink an entire
jug of wine, eat an entire hindquarter of a goat, and I will not leave my bedroom for two days."

"And I," Riza replied, "will sing my children to sleep." He paused. "And then drink a jug of
wine, eat a goat, and retire to my bedroom." His men laughed as they marched the shepherd's
path that paralleled the Salt Road, moving ever farther from the safety and civilization of the
Abzan territories.

As the day wore into a reddish afternoon, the

lieutenant again hurried up to the commander's
side.

"Commander, do you see that smoke there?" He

pointed it out in the hazy distance. "It looks like
many campfires."

"Yes," Riza replied slowly, his smile fading, "I do

see that." He stopped and his men drew to a halt
behind him. "What do you make of that?"
 Sandsteppe Citadel | Art by Sam Burley "Sir," his battle priest said, "I do not think that is a
campfire. I sense something very different."

The patrol marched on, more quietly now as they

slowly approached the distant smoke. It became obvious that it was not campfires they were
seeing but burning buildings, as the smoke rolled up thick and black, drifting back and forth in
the shifting desert winds. The men grew silent and wary, keeping keen eyes in all directions.
The patrol's falconer dispatched their buzzard who screeched as he took wing, a stray feather
circling back to the ground behind him.

Eventually, they reached the source of the smoke, a summer

camp for the shepherds who grazed their flocks in the grasses
of the nearby mountain slopes. The horror of the scene was
hard for the men to absorb. They had seen villages ravaged by
Mardu hordes before, but nothing quite this brutal. The small
village lay in utter desolation. No survivors were left. Men,
women, and children lay where they fell, splayed open or
missing limbs and heads. Each of the wood-framed lean-to Plains | Art by Noah Bradley
huts smoldered, with not one left standing.

The patrol fruitlessly looked for survivors. The scouts counted

hoof-prints to determine the size of the horde that had moved on to the north, estimating at
least one hundred.

I do not want to meet this horde, the commander thought as he ordered his men to bury the
bodies.

The hordechief dropped the goat bone he had just stripped of its meat and chugged the last
gulps of wine before letting the vessel fall to the ground and break.

"This is the fruits of our labor!" he exclaimed to his warriors as he slumped back on his pillows.
The small army arrayed across the field before him looked up from its meat and wine to hail its
fearless leader.

"Backstabber, take stock of our new supplies and

figure how long before we must loot again."

Backstabber took a final bite and slinked away to

count the stolen goats and cheeses.

"Nightrider, we must discuss our next target." He

motioned his advisor to come closer. "The
shepherds will be moving their flocks north to the
villages for winter. Let us raid while the pickings
are easy." And keep away from Abzan strongholds
Raiders' Spoils | Art by Wayne Reynolds when we can, he thought.
 He surveyed his horde·orcs, humans, goblins,
horses, all relying on him. They need me, he thought, self-satisfied yet grave. Their survival
depends on my unwavering certainty. Any crack in my façade is the opportunity another will
take to become horde leader. It is how I gained my rank, it is the way of our people, and it is
what has kept us alive for so many generations.

He was roused from his introspection by the return of one of his spies. The diminutive goblin
slinked up and whispered in his ear.

"I have news. An Abzan patrol is tailing us, only half a day's ride to the south. Their numbers
are half of ours, mostly on foot, well-armed and armored, and they know we are here. They
have seen the shepherd camp." He looked up at his leader, awaiting a reaction.

The horde leader breathed out slowly, reached for a nearby flagon, and drank deeply.

"We are outnumbered two to one," Riza, the patrol captain, said to his top lieutenants, who
stood in a circle around a map of the area. "I do not think direct confrontation is wise."

"Sir," said his battle priest, "we are the law on the Salt Road. If we do not act, more innocents
will surely die."

"If we march out there and confront the Mardu," Riza replied, "we will find ourselves
outflanked, outnumbered, and completely open to their deadly archery. If we are slaughtered by
the horde, no one will protect the shepherds who feed the Sandsteppe Gateway."

His men murmured consent. I am afraid, he thought, but I must remain steadfast. The Mardu
strike like lightning on a dry day. We will be slaughtered like stray dogs and I will never see my
family again.

"We will fall back to the oasis at Canyon Falls and await the larger Salt Road patrol. Once we
rendezvous, we will have the strength and support to drive the horde back to their lands.
Lieutenant, send runners to find the patrol and apprise them of our situation. Also, engage our
spy to put eyes on the horde."

When the Abzan had finished burying the dead

and giving their rites, the patrol rested briefly
before packing up and backtracking toward the
oasis.

The hordechief stood up and brushed crumbs and

gristle from his belly.

"Abandon your feast," he yelled with a

suddenness that froze his warriors arrayed around
him for hundreds of yards. "The foolish Abzan
have sent a patrol after us that is half our strength.
Watcher of the Roost | Art by Jack Wang
Once we slaughter them we will be free to raid
these lands at our will. Anyone who makes an
Abzan kill may claim the spoils of the body."

The leader's advisors stared in shock at the

unexpected dictate. Only the quartermaster
spoke up.

"I advise against this," she said. "We are fat with
supplies and hoped to give our warriors a
deserved rest. If this patrol is so weak, they are
no threat to us. Let us feast for a night and
enjoy our victory."

Anger flashed in the hordechief's eyes. "Do you

want to lead this horde? Do you want the
Mardu Warshrieker | Art by Yefim responsibility on your shoulders? Because if we
Kligerman wait, the Abzan will gather their strength and
build their defenses. Reinforcements are never
far behind their patrols. You do not question
my orders."

The quartermaster's mouth twisted into a pained expression as her eyes flinched away from the
leader in a submissive gesture.

"I am giving you a warning so that you will remember not to question my authority in front of
my people. Hold out your hand."

The quartermaster tentatively reached her hand toward the leader, who quickly snatched it,
drew his knife, and sliced the tip off the pinky finger before she could react. The other advisors
backed away, ready to fulfill the hordechief's orders. It pains me to hurt her, he thought, but
there can be no question of my absolute authority.

"We ride at once!" he screamed at his people, who burst into action, packing their camp and
gathering their mounts as the golden sun turned red on its last dip toward the horizon.

The buzzard spy returned to the patrol early the

following morning, circling down from beyond the
vision of ordinary men. The sun had not yet crested
the mountains to the east and the desert dew lay thick
on the crumbly earth. The moon had not yet set and
the patrol navigated by the watery reflection off the flat
earth.

"The horde has turned south to engage us," the

falconer reported. "They have been riding all night and
will be upon us before noon." Valley Dasher | Art by Matt Stewart

The captain gathered his lieutenants around him but

did not halt the march. They stepped to the side to
confer quietly, out of earshot of the rank and file.

"We cannot retreat as fast as they can ride," he began. "There is little hope we can rendezvous
with the larger patrol before we are caught. I am afraid our only hope is to prepare for a direct
fight."

"If we hurry, sir, we might be able to reach the oasis. The canyon will nullify the advantage of
their cavalry. We might be able to establish a strong defense using the terrain and trees of the
oasis. If we can hold them back, we may be able to outlast them until reinforcements show up.
We will have access to water and shelter, and they will be fighting from the open desert."

The first lieutenant looked at the other men, pleased.

The captain looked at each of his lieutenants in

turn. No one disagreed with that course of
action.

"If we are caught retreating, we are surely dead.

But even if we stand and fight here we will
probably perish anyway. Let's give ourselves the
best odds." He stood tall among his men.

"Double time," the captain ordered, and jogged

to the front of the ranks.

Chief of the Scale | Art by David Palumbo The hordechief slumped forward a bit on his
warhorse. Riding through the night was tiring.
But not as tiring as marching, like the Abzan
were surely doing. He had hoped to overrun them in the dark and take them unawares, but
clearly they had been alerted to his plans. The horde had been following the retreating tracks of
the patrol ever since they had passed the burned-out shepherds' camp.

If the Abzan had time to establish a defensive position, it would be foolish to attack them head
on. His riders were swift, but they were lightly armored. Even a smaller Abzan patrol could
prove devastating once it had prepared for an attack. But now that his plan was set in motion,
he had to retain the initiative. To change course would be a sign of uncertainty. He could not
show weakness if he wanted to maintain his position as hordechief. At that point, he simply
hoped they would come upon the Abzan before their enemies had time to gather reinforcements
or establish a defense. It was still possible, although it was turning into a larger gamble than he
had hoped for.

But this was the way of the Mardu. The strong survive. And the clan was strong. They had been
living off of the labor of the weak for generations. All these warriors were relying on him to
provide unwavering leadership in order to survive. The traditions of the clan, which had kept
them alive and thriving for so long, must be maintained.

Perhaps this would be the day they were to die. But if not, then his position as leader would be
extended once again.

The captain gathered his lieutenants in the shade

of a boulder and passed his water skin around. The
day was already hot. The fifty men of the Abzan
patrol filled their water skins from the oasis pool
and watered the few ibex.

"Ogan Shieldmender, join us," Riza said to his

Mardu krumar chief of scales, who stood nearby
scanning the horizon for signs of the horde. "Array Mardu Ascendancy | Art by Jason Chan
your men at the mouth of the canyon and form a
shield wall. Make sure they have ample spears and
water."

The krumar hurried to fulfill the captain's orders.

"Hide our archers among the boulders along the

west rim of the canyon to keep the horde away
from that side. That should protect the men and
supplies at the bottom. Send the rest of the men to
the north end of the canyon where the spring
begins to flow and set an ambush in case they try
to come at us from behind. Keep four soldiers
with the gear to resupply us and run my orders to
the troops."

His lieutenants nodded. The battle priest

Take Up Arms | Art by Craig J Spearing supplicated himself to the ancestors and passed his
blessing on to the troops, who crowded around the
shade of the palms that grew along the spring bed.

"When we are on patrol, you are my family," Riza said to his soldiers. "It is this bond that gives
us our strength. I believe in the capabilities of this unit and together we will make a defense
worthy of our Abzan heritage."

The troops shared the interlocking handshake of the Abzan military and quickly busied
themselves.

The Mardu horde picked up speed as the oasis came into view. Only a few miles of hard, pebbly
desert separated the two. Although the horde had ridden through the night, it was not
exhausted. The temptation of battle and the hope for glory spurred it on. The hordechief looked
back at the line of dust stretching hundreds of yards across the flat steppes. He closed his eyes
and listened to the thunder of his cavalry, felt the hot desert wind rush through his hair. Victory
was no longer in is hands. It was in the hands of the dragon now. The speed of the dragon's
wings would win the day.
"The horde is closing!" cried the runner as he swept past
the men stationed at the mouth of the canyon. Twenty-
five heavily armored dragonscale infantry took up their
spears and locked shields forming a solid wall across the
small mouth of the canyon. No arrow could penetrate the
wall that now stood as invulnerable as the dragon's back.
The horde was swift, they knew, but the horde could not
endure like the scales of the dragon.

The air hummed with the flight of arrows. The Abzan Rush of Battle | Art by Dan Scott
took shelter beneath their shields and behind trees and
rocks. An unnatural wind blew into their faces and for a
surprised few, there was no shelter from the barrage. The dragonscale infantry nervously filled
in the holes left from their fallen comrades.

The Mardu horde fluidly divided into two, on the hoof, wheeling toward both ends of the oasis
canyon.

"To the victor goes the spoils!" the hordechief shrieked, as he drew his sword, the power of his
voice spurring the horses faster, as if by magic.

He rose in his saddle just in time to see the tower of the Abzan siege elephant poking through
the haze in the distance⁄

Ivorytusk Fortress | Art by Jasper Sandner

Mercy
BY SAM STODDARD

The goblin. The stinking goblin. The fat, stinking goblin. Sidisi sat, slumped in her throne,
head bare, crown gone·taken right off her head by the accursed goblin. There was little else
she had been able to think about in the past few months except for the goblin and what she
would do to him and his clan when she got a hold of them. It had become an obsession. One by
one, her most trusted advisors had warned her against the course of blind revenge, and one by
one they had met their fate at the maw of the Mother Crocodile at the center of the Kheru
Temple pit.

"Jhinu," Sidisi hissed. "I am hungry. Bring me my

food."

The crown had once been taken by Sidisi herself,

off of the freshly severed head of the previous
khan. Like all Sultai khans, she had proven her
abilities of trickery and ruthlessness, and created
her own destiny. When she dropped his lifeless
body into the pits, it was the sign to all other
comers at the throne that a similar fate would
befall them. The purge of her potential rivals in
Jeering Instigator | Art by Willian Murai her first years as khan had left all other challengers
afraid to do anything but bow to her, leading to a
golden age of calm in Sultai politics. Now,
however, the courts at Kheru Temple were
uncharacteristically quiet, and it was unclear if the nobles and merchants who usually made up
its halls were afraid of Sidisi's famous temper, raising armies of their own to take the throne
from her, or simply dead. She had fed so many to the pits. Oh so many.

"My queen," a gaunt, balding man said, bowing as he led an armless Sibsig with a bowl of fruit
attached to its head. "I hope this is of your pleasing."

Jhinu had been part of the merchant class, from one of the wealthiest families in the entire
Sultai Empire. In an attempt to curry favor, and to get a monopoly on the Niraj River tax
collection duties, he delivered to Sidisi the heads of three goblins he claimed to have been the
culprits of the sinister act. The ape knew nothing of the Rakshasa magic or that, to the Queen of
the Sultai, the dead's lips are as easily moved as those of the living. The three goblins knew
nothing of her crown·they were deserters who drowned in an attempt to cross the Niraj,
looking to scavenge food from the farms on the far side. Trickery and deception was expected in
politics, but there was a high price to getting caught. She kept him alive as a reminder to all that
there were fates worse than death.
"Tell me, Jhinu," Sidisi said, putting a grape in her mouth and swallowing it whole. "It has been
some time since one of your relatives has come to bargain for your life. Do they no longer care
about you, or are there none left?"

"They⁄they are afraid, my queen." Jhinu said. "They do not wish to displease you with offers
not worthy of your magnificence"

Sidisi picked through the fruit, throwing the pieces she had no desire to eat onto the floor. "And
what happened to the last relative who brought gold and jewels?"

Jhinu looked toward a Sibsig chained to a pillar on

the left of the room, holding up a Sultai banner."

"Do you have no more brothers?" Sidisi asked. "I

could've sworn you had at least two brothers."

Jhinu looked at the Sibsig that he had brought into

the room.

"Oh yes," Sidisi said. "I thought I had put him near
the mandrill cages."
Dutiful Return | Art by Seb McKinnon
"My cousin," Jhinu said. "My cousin was the one
you had guarding the cages."

"Well," Sidisi said, picking up a grape and putting it in her mouth, "If nobody is left who would
barter for your life, maybe you are worthless. Perhaps I should be done with you then. Give you
to the pits."

"No, no, my queen!" Jhinu said, prostrating himself on the floor in front of her. "I am sorry. I
have other family. I will send more messages. I am sure someone else will come to barter for
me."

"See that they do," Sidisi said. "With the raising of my army, we have been sending so many
fewer people to the pits. A worm like you is not fit for a second skin."

"I⁄I am sorry," Jhinu said again, backing away from the khan. "Please⁄please. I have recruits
for you to inspect."

Sidisi motioned for him to bring them to her. In raising her army, she had requested that all of
the Sultai provinces provide five percent of their population to be enlisted into Sidisi's army.
The provinces sent first their unwanted, criminals, and destitute, many of which were hardly fit
to feed to the crocodile pits, let alone be the front line in the greatest Sulati army in a
millennium. To show her displeasure at the level tribute, Sidisi had sent out a second request·
this time for the eldest born of each family. While this request had been unpopular, Rakshasa
emissaries sent to the provinces who were not compliant quickly quelled any risk of an uprising.
From this crop, Sidisi had requested that the strongest be sent in for her personal inspection.
The best of these would be her personal guard·undead warriors strong enough to guard her
from incursions like the one she had suffered at the hands of those wretched goblins.

"Allow me to present the contingent from the Niraj province," Jhinu said.

Sidisi inspected the recruits from her throne. They were strong warriors, in the prime of their
lives. Their second skins would be free of the defects that the lesser Sibsig were born with·
weak knees, weak shoulders, teeth unable to rip the flesh from bones.

"Hold. What is this morsel?" Sidisi said, pausing as she made it halfway through the recruits. In
the back was a youth, no more than thirteen years old. "This is a joke of yours, Jhinu? I thought
you inspected this crop yourself."

"I assure you, my queen," Jhinu said, "these are all strong warriors. They will serve you well."

Sidisi whipped her tail angrily, knocking the bowl of fruit, along with the Sibsig's head, onto the
palace floor. "Do not toy with me, ape. I know this is your home province, and I will not show
them leniency by allowing them to send me such children."

"My queen," Jhinu said, kneeling to the floor. If you inspect the youth yourself, I assure you,
you will find he is as strong as any other man here."

Sidisi left her throne and approached Jhinu. "I know you have relatives left, and if not them,
then friends and business associates. Disobey me again, and I will scour the empire clean of not
just you, but everyone you have ever known, and your name will never be spoken again."

Jhinu lifted his head and nodded once. From the corner of her eye, Sidisi saw the youth hesitate
for half a second, then bounded at the queen. He was unfettered·his shackles attached to
nothing at all, just a ruse. His speed was rarely seen in these apes, almost snakelike. Likely the
boy had come from the Jeskai, either by force or as a willing participant in the plot. The pause
had given Sidisi a moment to react, and with preternatural speed, her tail grabbed Jhinu by the
leg and threw him into the youth. He screamed as they tumbled across the marble floor of the
palace. The youth attempted to regain his footing, but found the queen's tail around his neck.
He reached for the dagger but found it out of his grasp.

On the floor, Jhinu gasped for air, black streaks quickly

moving across his skin from where the dagger had
scraped him in the tumble. Sidisi recognized the poison.
It was known as Silumgar's Breath, made from the
distilled essence of hundreds of orchid stems that
bloomed only once a decade in the heart of the Objung
Swamps. The poison was as rare and expensive as it was
potent. Painful, slow, and totally incurable. A single
scratch would have been more than enough to kill her
Throttle | Art by Wayne Reynolds over the course of several days or weeks as she rotted
away from the inside. This was a personal attack.

"You were right, Jhinu," Sidisi said, cracking the neck of

the youth and tossing him to the ground. "That one was strong. He will make a worthy addition
to my guard."

"I⁄" Jhinu said, writhing in pain. "I won't let you beat me. I will make you pay for what you've
done to me and my family."

"I gave you too little credit," she said, running her tail across Jhinu's sweaty, convulsing brow. "I
thought you a helpless fool, but I was only partly right. Still, you reminded me of something·I
have become too lax." Sidisi picked up the dagger and thrust it squarely into Jhinu's chest. "As
much pleasure I would get from watching you writhe in agony for the next few days, it is a
mistake I won't make again."

Sidisi returned to her throne, her head held high now, reminded again of her purpose.
Reminded again of the greatness of the dragons, and the ruthlessness that had for so long made
them the rulers of this world. Allowing Jhinu to live just to watch him suffer was a form of
mercy in disguise. Mercy, the greatest sin of all sins, had almost cost Sidisi her life. It was an
emotion that even in its barest form, she would never show again.

If the goblin had been armed with spear or

arrow, it's possible that it could've struck a
mortal blow. Fortunately for Sidisi, the Mardu
love war more than they love victory. Sidisi
knew that her army was not yet close to being
complete. She needed to raise an army the likes
of which had not been seen since the time of
Tasigur. An army of Sibsig that would cover the
entire steppe and march tirelessly on the Mardu
until their horses died of exhaustion. And one
by one, she would kill every encampment she
could find, raising the dead by herself if need
be, so that they could join the unyielding march Sidisi, Brood Tyrant | Art by Karl
on their brethren. Soon, the great orc Zurgo Kopinski
himself would adorn her palace as her greatest
prize. Perhaps she would turn him into a
serving tray, or maybe a chair.
Victory
BY TOM LAPILLE

Zurgo, khan of the Mardu, knows how to nurse a grudge. And there's no one he hates more
than the Planeswalker Sarkhan Vol, a former Mardu who burned his own clanmates with
dragonfire when his spark ignited.

But what lengths will he go to for vengeance?

Zurgo Helmsmasher stood on a rocky outcropping at the edge of a jagged plateau, surveying the
assembled multitudes of the Mardu below him on the plain. Spread out among them were the
corpses of many warriors. Some were Mardu, but the great majority were Temur. To the left of
the army lay endless windswept scrubland, the home territory of his people. To the right lay the
beginnings of the Temur foothills, where the Temur force he had just defeated had come from.

While he surveyed his army, his army watched him as well. They looked at him with triumph,
and weariness, and expectation.

"We are Mardu!" he shouted.

"MARDU!" they returned, and they cheered as

one for several seconds. He drank in their unified
exaltation until the roar quieted.

"Surrak has tested our borders," he shouted, "and

we have shown him that they are strong. Perhaps
he thought that we were sitting idle at Wingthrone.
He is wrong! We are Mardu, and we rule these
plains!" Zurgo stomped his great foot and the
multitudes cheered again.
Mardu Ascendancy | Art by Jason Chan
As they cheered, a low cracking sound came from
the rock below him. He looked down and saw that
a jagged line had appeared beneath his feet. The
cracking sound continued. Zurgo took two steps backward, and a moment later the forward
part of the outcropping broke off and fell to the ground below with a great thump.

As the cheer died down, a shrill voice coming from down on the plain reached Zurgo's ears.
Warriors near to its source were turning to face it with worried, confused faces. Zurgo turned to
Varuk, an old but clever orc standing nearby who served as Zurgo's closest advisor, and asked,
"What is that?"

Varuk swiveled his ears forward. "It is a goblin, my khan. He is angry."

Zurgo sniffed. "Bring him here."

Varuk gave him a quick but nervous look. "Your will, my khan." He looked at a nearby human
guard and snapped his fingers, and she took off running toward the disturbance. By the time
she returned to Zurgo with the goblin, the plain was silent once again, and the army watched as
Zurgo peered down at the little ball of fuzz.

Zurgo opened his mouth to speak, but the

goblin was too fast. "My sister died to take this
rock, and you broke it!" The goblin's squeaky
voice somehow carried across the silent plain as
the crowd began to shift uncomfortably.

Zurgo stood as tall as he could. "We were

victorious over the Temur because we fought as
one mind, one body, one clan. Death in battle
is a great glory if it serves the clan! Your sister's
brave sacrifice saved many Mardu lives!"

Varuk raised his weapon and shouted a cheer.

In answer, the multitude raised its weapons to
the sky and matched it. Their unified voice
washed over the plateau, and dissipated.

"Then you broke it!" The goblin looked down

at where the section now lay at the foot of the
plateau, then returned its defiant gaze to him.
"It was a good rock!" The pathetic goblin stared
up at Zurgo as its squeaky voice rang out across
the silent plain. The warriors closest to Zurgo
were edging forward, and their faces were cold Goblin token | Art by Kev
and angry as they began to mutter among Walker
themselves.

Rage welled in Zurgo's heart. "You think I do not command what is best for the Mardu?"

"My sister died for nothing!" it squeaked.

Zurgo raised his left foot as high as he could, then stomped on the goblin, dropping all his
weight onto it. It flattened nearly to the ground with a satisfying crunch.

Zurgo returned his attention to his multitudes. "I have no need for this rock, or any other! We
move, we take, we eat! We are Mardu, and we have shown Surrak our might!" The army roared
one more time, although this time it was not quite as loud.

Zurgo turned away from the crowd, and the dull roar of conversation began below him. As the
army's attention dispersed, Varuk approached Zurgo with a slightly lowered head and indicated
the crushed goblin's corpse. "I am not certain it was wise to kill the goblin."

"It threatened my authority, and without unity

we are nothing."

Something flashed in Varuk's eyes. "Is this more

important than your position? His family will
resent you."

A warrior wearing a messenger's banner cut her

way through the crowd around Zurgo, and
stopped breathlessly in front of him. "I know
why," she panted, "they attacked us. A Temur
scout saw one of us in the forests, beyond our
Mardu Warshrieker | Art by Yefim borders."
Kligerman

Zurgo snapped to face her. "What?"

She took a step back. "They surrounded him.

He called himself 'Sarkhan.' The Temur were
insulted that he claimed rule over them and
they demanded that he surrender⁄"

She stood there, saying nothing. Zurgo snorted.

"And?"

"He⁄they say he turned into a dragon. And War-Name Aspirant | Art by David Gaillet
breathed fire on them, took off, and flew farther
into Temur territory."

Vol. It could only be Vol. Zurgo's eyes narrowed.

"They assumed it was the new khan of the Mardu, and so they attacked, while their enemy's
leader was elsewhere. Except you weren't. And you can't turn into a dragon." She looked down
for a moment, then back up with questioning eyes. "Right?"

"You are dismissed," Zurgo bellowed.

As she scurried away, Varuk approached closely, head bowed. "You should not chase him."

Zurgo looked down at him. "He has threatened this clan enough. He must die."

Varuk tilted his head to one side, a bit bolder now. "You forget how long I have been at your
side. I remember when you were just a wing leader. I was there when Vol deserted, and
expected to be welcomed with open arms when he returned. I was there when you sent him into
battle against the Sultai. I was there when he turned into a great flying beast of flame and
roasted your army with his breath. I know what he can do, and he is too much for you."

"He called himself Sarkhan, and that is why Surrak attacked us. Do you think the next khan
who hears this name will laugh and slap her thigh when she hears this claim? No. This will not
be the last time we are attacked because of his treachery."

"After a defeat of this size, Surrak must leave us alone for some time. Our horses do not do well
in the mountains. And Vol is moving away from us."

"He is a traitor and a threat, and I will see him dead."

Varuk turned his head to face the army, which was now a good deal of the way into pitching
camp. "How will you convince the rest of them to go? They do not share your history."

Zurgo sneered. "Tonight, we celebrate. Tomorrow, we prepare. The next day, we punish
Surrak for his impudence. Tell the rest of them."

Varuk nodded, and disappeared into the raucous crowd.

Zurgo's horde spent the night in celebration. Zurgo himself remained in his tent, allowing them
their triumph. He was livid with Vol, and any warrior who saw him in this state would assume
that he was angry at one of the Mardu instead. Only a veteran few of his warriors still desired
revenge on Vol, and so Surrak's head would have to be enough to lead his army into the
mountains. He could say now that he was angry with Surrak, but that would not work until the
glory of the victory had faded, so he remained alone.

The next day, the Mardu prepared to move. Zurgo's warriors scoured the corpses of the fallen
for supplies and made great piles of their bodies. Shamans created great chasms underneath the
piles and closed them again once the mass graves were full. Scouts probed the edges of the
wooded foothills adjacent to the plains. And the three top wing leaders of his army attended
Zurgo in his tent.

"Tomorrow, we move into the mountains," he said to them. "We will punish Surrak for his
impudence."

"The Temur fare best in their mountains," Varuk said. "This path is dangerous."

"We have scouts," Zurgo said. "We will be prepared when the enemy strikes."

"They do not know Temur lands," said a female orc named Rufaz, her eyes wide with
confusion. "We will be blind in comparison to our enemies."

Zurgo glared at her. "You should have more confidence in our warriors."

"We have already punished Surrak enough," said a male human named Batar, his lowered black
eyebrows and mustached sneer thick with disdain. "Risking so much to punish him more is
foolish."

Zurgo's face twisted. "I am the khan of the Mardu. You will do as I say."
Varuk nodded, and then Rufaz nodded. After a few moments, Batar nodded too and they all
left. By the time he rejoined the army, all three of them had begun to prepare his horde for the
next day's travel.

The next morning, Zurgo's army packed its tents, mounted its horses and riding-beasts, and
began to move. He sent scouts ahead to probe the forest for the Temur.

"I also heard reports of a Mardu deserter," he said to the scouts. "If you find him, do not chase
him but tell me." They nodded and dispersed into the woods.

Zurgo traveled in the center of the horde, his

riding-beast towering over the horses of the army
around him. It struggled a little in the hills,
although not as much as the horses.

His first wave of scouts returned with vague but

disquieting news. The Temur were nearby, it was
certain, but none had actually been seen. The
scouts had only found broken branches, snapped
twigs, fresh footprints that the Mardu had not
made.
Wooded Foothills | Art by Jonas De Ro
Surrak was sure to know where they were.

Three hours later, the Mardu army entered a valley

that zigzagged up the mountain. A sudden chill fell over them and it began to snow. It was an
unnatural, driving, insistent snow that coated the ground in minutes, even though they were far
below the elevation where one would expect snow. His horde's mounts, horses and beasts alike,
struggled to slog through the piled powder. A few scouts returned from forays into the forest
with little to no information. One of them caught a glance of a Temur shaman doing what
looked like some kind of weather magic, but this was hardly a revelation to anyone.

Batar rode up next to Zurgo, his horse shifting uncomfortably in the snow. "My khan, we must
turn back. This is absurd. We are riding into a trap."

Zurgo considered him for a moment. "A threat to the unity of this clan hides in these
mountains. Would you not see it stamped out?"

Batar sneered. "The snow threatens our unity."

Zurgo sat up in his saddle and glared at Batar with all of his might. "A little snow should not
threaten a Mardu warrior, Batar Throatslasher."

Batar huffed and rode away from Zurgo. After only fifteen feet Zurgo could not see him
anymore.

A scout ran up to him, her whole body covered with a fine layer of snow. "There are Temur
nearby. They were massing at the top of a hill, above us. Perhaps a hundred of them."

Zurgo's breath clouded in the unnatural cold. "Tell the others to prepare for·"

The sounds of battle surrounded them. The clash of steel on steel, shouts of triumph and death,
the great wet sounds of slain riding-beasts came from both behind him and in front of him in
the near distance. He couldn't see far enough in the snow to know what was going on.

He dismounted and ran forward. Perhaps two hundred feet ahead of where he had been, fifteen
fur-clad Temur stood surrounded by many Mardu corpses and more Mardu warriors. The
Mardu closed in, and soon all of the Mardu had been slain, and then all was quiet. The snowfall
stopped.

"What happened?" Zurgo bellowed.

Sounds of running came from behind Zurgo. He turned and saw a scout approaching him.
"Two breaches," she said, panting. "This one here and another one five hundred feet back. Fifty
Temur arranged in a column broke into our line, killed fifty-six, and disappeared back into the
woods. We were not prepared to chase them. They left eleven corpses behind."

Zurgo turned back to the scene in front of him. "And what happened here?"

"The same," said a female orc who stood nearby with two bright red cuts across her face. She
surveyed what was now a clearing full of corpses in the center of the Mardu marching line. "I'd
say about fifty dead Mardu, and I only see eight Temur."

"You⁄and you," he said, pointing to each of them. "Show me where they came from. The rest
of you, clean this up."

Both the scout and the orc led him to the edge of the valley, where each path led up a steep
slope. Each was steeper than any Mardu horse could climb and only wide enough for perhaps
five warriors across. The Temur had hit him twice in the dead center of his army with a small
enough force to fit through that passage, and they had disappeared back into the woods like
water. He squinted and held his hand above his eyes, but could not see any farther up either
path.

When he returned to his lines, a scout was waiting for him. "What would you have us do?"

"Collect them," he said. "Mass the army here and I will address them."

The scout scurried away.

Nearby, three young warriors sat in the snow, talking.

"They came out of the woods, out of nowhere," one young man said, "and then were gone as
quickly."

"My brother sprouted four arrows and died in front of me, and I could not reach his killer!"
cried a second young man.
"This could happen five more times, and it would work just as well," said a young woman next
to him. "We do not know this terrain."

Zurgo pushed his way through the crowd and swaggered up to them. They stopped talking, and
stood.

"Tell me," Zurgo said. "Was this your first battle?"

All three looked up to him and nodded.

"And did you each kill an enemy?"

They nodded again and stood, their faces now expectant.

"You," Zurgo bellowed, pointing at one of them. "How did you slay your foe?" Silence began to
spread around them.

"I removed her head," he said, "with one clean cut."

"Headtaker," Zurgo decreed.

He turned to the next, who trembled with wide eyes. "And you?"

They stood taller now. "I put three arrows in her chest," she said.

"Heartpiercer." Zurgo turned to the last.

"We had lost our weapons, and were wrestling," he said. "I crushed his throat with my bare
hands."

"Neckwringer!" Zurgo bellowed.

The three of them bowed, each glowing. By then, much of the army had massed around him,
and many warriors were filling in around the edges of what he could see.

Zurgo raised his sword to the sky. "To the warriors of the Mardu, and their victory!"

The horde cheered on command, but not as loudly as Zurgo had hoped.

"No!" came a shout from nearby, and Batar stepped out of the crowd. His face was red, his
muscles were tight, and his eyes were angry. "These young warriors were right. You led us into
this forest to punish Surrak, you say. But you do not know where he is. And this is bad ground.
And this is unnatural snow. And yet we continue. You must have other reasons. And you have
not spoken of them to us. And now many of us have died.

"I challenge you for the right to lead this clan."

All motion stopped. All eyes came to rest on the two of them.
Zurgo took his measure. The man was angry and stupid in his rage. Were he thinking about the
good of the clan around him, he would not have done this. Zurgo had no choice now but to kill
him.

"Fine." Zurgo shrugged and drew his sword. The little man was defiant, a shield in each hand.
Three great bone dragon claws were lashed to each shield. His weapons were impressive to the
eye, but for a little human they would be heavy and slow.

"Come show us," Zurgo said, "how great a warrior you are."

Batar sneered. With his heavy weapons, he

must have wished Zurgo would come to him.
But Zurgo would not. Batar could not wait, lest
he look weak.

The man loped forward, holding both shields at

his sides. Zurgo waited for him. When he got
close, he thrust at Zurgo with his right shield.
But Zurgo dodged left, putting himself nearly
behind the man. He cut for Batar's neck with
the sword in his left hand, but Batar raised the
hand that had just thrusted for Zurgo's chest
with surprising speed. Zurgo's sword impacted Bloodsoaked Champion | Art by Aaron
on the man's forearm armor, denting it but Miller
doing no real damage.

Then the other shield came hurtling toward Zurgo from under Batar's raised right arm, one
claw pointed at his face and the other at his groin. Zurgo spun away from the attack fast enough
that it impacted only the armor on his leg and shoulder, tearing a few plates out of each.

He kept moving further behind Batar, putting the man's awkwardly raised right shield further
out of position. As he moved, he cocked his right arm for a punch. Batar kept spinning to match
him, guarding his face with his right shield. But the instant he let his guard drop, Zurgo's fist
slammed into his chin.

Batar slumped to the ground, groaning.

Zurgo grasped Batar by the neck and lifted him off the ground. Batar struggled some, dangling
like a child's doll as he gasped for air. Zurgo ran his sword straight through Batar's chest, threw
the limp form to the ground, and stomped his great foot on the man's head. Bright red gore
splattered in the white snow around them.

He turned slowly, surveying all around him. "See what happens to those who challenge the khan
of the Mardu!"

Varuk rode into the clearing. "It will not happen again," he said.

"I will kill anyone who dares!" Zurgo roared, thrusting his blood-soaked blade to the sky.
"No," Varuk said, dismounting. "Because there is nothing more to challenge." His eyes were
hard and cold, and he stood straighter than ever before. In defiance, not submission.

Zurgo's eyes narrowed. "I am right here," he bellowed.

Varuk motioned with one arm toward what remained of the horde.

"Look at them, Zurgo." His voice echoed throughout the valley. "They once served you. Now
they only fear you. And that means that you are not truly their khan."

"You challenge my authority!" Zurgo bellowed.

"There is nothing to challenge," he said. He turned his whole body to face the horde.

"The Mardu have no quarrel with Surrak! Return to our home at Wingthrone with me," Varuk
said, "and we will no longer risk our lives in service of this one foolish orc's desire for revenge!"

The horde cheered its assent. Zurgo stared at them with wide eyes and a gaping jaw.

Varuk turned to look at Zurgo once again. There was a moment of what might have been
remorse, but then there was nothing. Varuk climbed back onto his mount and rode back down
the valley through the center of the army. Zurgo stood and watched as his army turned away
from him and slowly followed behind Varuk. And then they were only banners in the distance.

The clan was gone, and Varuk was right. They

were not truly Zurgo's anymore. He only had
one thing left to give the Mardu, and that was
Vol's head lying motionless in the snow.

He looked down at his sword, which was still

covered in Batar's glistening blood. He loped
toward a corpse that had a dry shirt and ripped
a piece of it off with his right hand⁄but
stopped just short of wiping his blade clean.

That blood was all he had left. He would not

Nomad Outpost | Art by Noah Bradley clean it until it had mixed with Vol's.

A nearby fur-clad body with three arrows stuck

in it shifted and groaned. He padded over to it
and held his dripping sword at the dying human's throat.

"You," he said. "Tell me, when your people last saw the khan of the Mardu, where was he
going?"

Her eyes bugged. She feebly pointed a finger further up the mountains. "The Spirit⁄" she
croaked, "Dragon's⁄tomb," she heaved.
He plunged his sword into the woman's throat and she stopped moving. Zurgo returned to his
mount, climbed into the saddle, and rode for the chasm.

Zurgo knew where the dragon's tomb was rumored to be, but it would be a dangerous trip. If
Vol could turn into a dragon, though, it made some sense that he would seek it out.

The ground grew increasingly treacherous as he rode in the direction of the chasm where the
dragon's body lay. He rode over several steep hills, and into the beginning of the night. Soon
after twilight, his mount lurched and heaved, groaned and stopped, and he nearly fell off.

He dismounted. The beast had missed a step and broken a front leg, which now bent in an
unnatural direction. Great shards of bone protruded from its skin and shifted slightly as the
thing yowled in pain.

Zurgo left it to die and continued alone.

Bond and Blood
BY ARI LEVITCH

Anafenza, khan of the Abzan Houses, takes the throne·and her vengeance.

Anafenza always climbed barefoot. Her toes

gripped the bark at the base of a sturdy branch,
and she crouched there for a moment to steady
herself. The leaves of the First Tree gave off a
dull minty scent that filled her nostrils. She
closed her eyes, and rose to her full height. As
she emerged through the cover of the
uppermost leaves, the sun's heat was waiting for
her. The day was hot, but she enjoyed
surveying the city from its highest point. The
First Tree grew out of the rooftop plaza of the
keep of Mer-Ek Fortress. From Anafenza's
Anafenza, the Foremost | Art by James
position, she could peer down past the keep's
Ryman
massive ramparts to the market below, where
merchants scurried about to trade in rumors
and wares.

Her gaze drifted beyond the walls that protected the capital. Arid wilderness stretched out in
every direction. Into the expanse of dunes and dust, a causeway descended from the rock upon
which the capital was built. This was where the Salt Road disappeared into the restless sands of
the Shifting Wastes, where only the rolling fortified caravans of the merchant houses trekked. It
was a world Anafenza knew well, for it was her home for most of her life.

She turned her face to the wind, the familiar breath of the desert
bringing with it so many memories draped in emotions. She
followed her own backward-drifting thoughts, and each path led
to the same familiar dark place. Her family was gone. All but
one member.

She wanted him to remember her as she was almost ten years
before. In the morning, she had cut her hair short, and as the
hot desert air rushed around her, she became very aware of her Plains | Art by Sam Burley
bare neck. The only remnants of its former length were the locks
that hung from each temple, fluttering wildly when they caught
the wind.

But she was not the same, and he would see what had become of her.

"My khan?" came a voice from below.

Khan. The thought might have overwhelmed her if her mouth didn't yield to her impulse to
smile.

"I'm at the top, Kwaro," Anafenza said. Kwaro was Anafenza's captain of the guard, and he had
taken to his new position most eagerly. Before Anafenza became khan, the aven veteran had led
her honor guard in battle when she was a general of the Abzan army. Despite Anafenza's
protests, he insisted in maintaining formalities with the new khan, and every time he addressed
her, it was either prefaced or punctuated by "my khan." It was endearing, to a certain degree.
"What news?"

"The heads of the clan houses are gathered, my

khan," said Kwaro.

"All of them?"

"Every single one, my khan."

The one that matters most, she thought.

The khan descended through the branches of

the First Tree. Her first climb had been just two
weeks before, when she first entered the plaza
with the tree's namesake, on her first day as
High Sentinels of Arashin | Art by James
khan. Although the branches and footholds
Ryman
were already familiar to her, the First Tree
somehow felt different than other kin-trees.
Khans were buried beneath it·people not
bound by blood, but by duty to the clan. Like all kin-trees, however, their names were etched
into its trunk. Like all kin-trees, the spirits of ancestors dwelt within. Like all kin-trees,
Anafenza considered, the First Tree grew as a reminder that an individual has a sacred duty to
family and clan.

Anafenza lowered herself from a branch until her feet touched the golden-orange seat of the
amber throne. The seat of the khan, a solid piece of ornately carved amber, stood on a stone
dais that ringed the First Tree's massive trunk. Anafenza dropped into it, rattling the sword that
hung from an arm of the throne. Beside her, brown leather riding boots lay in a heap, and she
pulled them on.

As she waited for Kwaro to return, she reclined against the back of the throne. It was a solid
chunk of carved amber, and its translucent depths seemed to capture and hold the sun's light.
Absently, her fingers played along the arms of the throne as she scanned the plaza for a
moment. It was empty except for her and a dozen of her honor guard. Although outdoors, the
entirety of the space was awash in the shade of the First Tree, and Anafenza was struck by the
plaza's illusion of seeming to be both an enclosed chamber, and an open courtyard all at once.
The plaza would be dark if not for the various low flames that burned in braziers throughout.
She surprised herself by how calm she was. She was cool and collected, prepared to do what
must be done, and for the first time, she felt like a khan.

The massive wooden doors of the Plaza of the First Tree at last swung open behind the strength
of four of her guards. Anafenza was standing in front of the Amber Throne to greet the first
delegate as the clan's houses entered.

The houses of the Abzan didn't swear fealty to their khan. Rather, they cultivated kinship
through blood relations or by binding oaths. Loyalties can change, Anafenza's mother once
explained to her, but kinship is a sacred thing.

The houses had elected Anafenza to be khan, and they filed into the plaza, one after the other,
to profess kinship either by bond or by blood.

"Anafenza, Khan of the Abzan," began one of the delegates, a captain of the clan's elite
Dragonscale infantry, "House Emesh embraces you as a sister before the First Tree and the eyes
of our ancestors."

"Marrit of House Emesh, I am your sister, as you are now my sister," Anafenza returned the
formality, and the two embraced.

The procession continued in kind. Many delegates were veterans of the armies she led to defend
Abzan lands. Some were from the ancient merchant houses that now prospered as a result of
the safe commerce along the Salt Road. Most were the supporters who put her on the Amber
Throne. Some were the detractors who came to avoid becoming political pariahs. One was
family.

The last delegate approached the khan. He was clad in the polished breastplate of an Abzan
warrior, its surface scored to resemble the pattern of dragon scales. A pristine white linen cloak
fell from his shoulders. As he walked forward, the fabric rippled behind him.

Anafenza waited at the lowest step of dais to receive him. When he stood before her, she looked
him over. His hair was gray at the temples, and his face was freshly shaved. When their eyes
met, he was smiling. That familiar smile. It was him, and that was the moment she had wanted.
The one she craved. The one she fantasized into foregone certainty. As she held his gaze in
silence, she waited for it.

His smile faded, and his eye grew wide.

Recognition. Then fear.

Her smile emerged.

"You look well. Prosperous," Anafenza said. "Trade is good?"

The man just stared, his mouth slightly agape.

The khan nodded, and a thick orc stepped behind the delegate. He was the man's height, but
twice as wide. At his khan's command, he dropped a heavy hand on the man's shoulder, forcing
him to his knees. The plaza was silent, save for the rustle of wind through the leaves of the First
Tree.

Anafenza ascended the dais to her throne, and slowly drew her sword, the Khan-Blade, from its
scabbard.

"Please!" the man shrieked. Anafenza extended her arm until the point of the Khan-Blade
pressed into the flesh of the man's throat.

Dust got into everything out on the Salt Road. Anafenza woke up once again to the lurch of the
colossal wheeled fortress as it creaked into motion behind the power of the behemoth that
pulled it, and watched the motes of dust play in the sunlight that filled her room. At thirteen,
she had spent most of her life rumbling from city to city throughout the Abzan lands as a
member of one of the most prosperous merchant houses in the clan. It was a life built around
routine and family. She trained at swords and bows, learned to read the charts and maps that
meant survival in the Shifting Wastes, and when in a city, she practiced the art of negotiation
and trade, although she lacked the diplomatic finesse for which the rest of her house was
known. It was a life infused with dust.

Everyone on a rolling fortress came close to snapping at

certain times. The close proximity of family, the winds of
the Wastes, the heavy footfalls of the enormous beast that
pulled the fortress, and the incessant gritty cracking of sand
beneath the fortress wheels all worked constantly to wear
down one's nerves. Anafenza learned early on that this was
natural, and that everyone had their own release. Her
mother would ride out alone in front of the fortress on her
ibex when conditions permitted. Her father collected
Siegecraft | Art by Viktor Titov
dragon bones and carved intricate designs onto their
surfaces.

For Anafenza, cutting her hair was release enough. Dust clung to it, and she hated waking up
on hot mornings with her hair clinging to her neck. One such morning, she reached for the
scissors and began the familiar work. When the ritual was complete, her hair no longer hung in
her face at the front, and it was off her neck in the back. The hair at her temples she left long,
and they hung past her chin. They were her outlet for fidgeting, and she knew they bothered her
mother.

"There she is," her cousin said, greeting her with a smile as she entered the fortress's cramped
study. There were always people there, poring over maps and ledgers, trying to determine the
most efficient and profitable trade route. Her cousin, Oret, was the house's cartographer, and
since his return from his travels, he had become a fixture there. He was almost ten years older
than her, and he had an endless supply of stories from the lands beyond the Abzan. He was also
easy to talk to. "Hair's gone, huh?"

"It was time," said Anafenza. Oret smiled from behind a thick dark beard.
As always, a map was spread out on a table in front of her cousin. Each time she came to visit
him, he insisted that she locate their current position on the map. She was good at it, most of
the time.

"We're two day's from Arashin by way of the Salt Road out of, uh, what city were we just at?"
Anafenza twisted up her face and closed her eyes in concentration. All the cities blurred
together for her during long trade expeditions.

"Kavah," came a low gravelly voice that didn't belong to her cousin. "Two days from Arashin by
way of the Salt Road out of Kavah."

Anafenza didn't have to open her eyes to know who spoke, but she did, if only to roll them.
Gvar Barzeel. The name grated on her. It always had. Gvar was a krumar, which meant he was
not born in the Abzan. Rather, he was the leftover of an Abzan battle against the Mardu clan,
where the Mardu were the losers. Custom dictated that the Abzan care for the children of
enemies killed in battle. Gvar, accordingly, returned home with one of Ananfenza's uncles after
the battle where his son, her favorite cousin, was killed.

"Kavah's where I bought these," said Gvar. He held out a bowl of grapes to Anafenza, who
pretended she didn't notice. Gvar and Anafenza were close in age, and therefore, they were
expected to be friends.

"Very good, Gvar," came Oret's approval when he place a carved wooden model of the fortress
correctly on the map.

To Anafenza's relief, she didn't have to listen to Gvar open his mouth again, because the trio in
the study turned their attention to the arrival of Anafenza's mother, father, and one of her many
uncles. They were in the middle of a deep discussion.

"Are we not in the business of trade? We should go where business is good," said Anafenza's
mother, her voice thick with exasperation.

Her uncle held up his hands to playfully shield his face from the assault. "We've already
conceded," he said.

"Let us just consult our cartographer," her father added.

"About what?" said Oret, clearly amused at his elders' display.

"A rider arrived. She told us that a shipment of dyes has arrived back in Kavah. I think it's
worth our effort to go back for it, especially because the capital is our next stop."

"I see." Oret looked over his map, his smile fading. "You know that Arashin is only·"

"Two days away!" Anafenza threw in.

"Two days away," repeated Oret. "Dust storms look to be building behind us. I must insist we
continue to the capital." It was not the answer Anafenza's mother wanted to hear, and the room
erupted in argument. Anafenza and Gvar were ushered out.

Anafenza winded her way up through the interior of the fortress until her steps brought her to
the rooftop plaza, where her family's kin-tree grew. Gvar followed behind.

"Do you think we'll go back to Kavah, cousin?" Gvar asked.

Anafenza whirled around. "We're not cousins, Gvar! We're not even family! My cousin died
fighting your clan! You're only here because there was no one left from your family to care for
you, and the Abzan aren't savages."

"Then we have something in common."

"What are you talking about?" Anafenza threw her arms up in frustration.

"Neither of us chose the families we've got."

Anafenza looked him in the eye, said nothing, and turned away. She kicked off her boots and
scrambled up the trunk of the kin-tree. Her kin-tree. Gvar watched her ascent, but she didn't
care. She'd be at the top, and he'd be out of sight.

The rumble of the fortress's wheels along the road resonated through the branches, but
Anafenza had done the climb countless times, and she made it easily to the upper branches.

Leaves rustled below her position.

"Gvar?" said Anafenza.

"Not Gvar," came a whisper. A face emerged. It belonged to Hakrez, the kin-tree warden. In a
tradition typical of the Abzan, Hakrez, the family's most skilled warrior, became the kin-tree
warden. She was responsible for protecting the tree from harm and preserving the ancestors.
She was fearless, fierce, spoke only in whispers, and·to Anafenza·she was equal parts
terrifying and amazing.

As Hakrez climbed, her eyes never went to the branches. She knew the tree better than anyone.
Her eyes stayed on Anafenza. When the two were level, Hakrez began to speak, and Anafenza
had to lean close to hear her over the wind.

"Where are we?" the kin-tree warden asked.

On the road from Kavah, two days from Arashin, she would have blurted had it been anyone
else asking. Instead, she said nothing.

"It's not a trick. Where are we?" said Hakrez.

"In a tree."

"Our kin-tree."
"I'm sorry. Our kin-tree," Anafenza corrected herself.

"Which is what?"

Anafenza suddenly had the feeling she had done something wrong. "The tree of our family."

"The tree of our kin, Anafenza. Blood-kin and bond-kin. This tree belongs to all of them."

Anafenza knew that kin-tree wardens had a special connection to the ancestors' spirits, and that
always seemed to give their word an added dimension of wisdom, like the words were somehow
passed down through the ages.

Hakrez left Anafenza to dwell on her words. Anafenza stayed there for hours, watching the
scores of Abzan soldiers march beside the fortress.

She realized the fortress hadn't altered course. They were still on the road to Arashin, and she
smiled at the prospect of stretching her legs in the markets there.

She peered out across the dunes that hemmed in the caravan fortress. Desert stretched out in
every direction, and it struck Anafenza that even that close to a city, there was no evidence of
civilization. As if to punctuate that, they approached a row of gigantic rib bones jutting out from
the sand to the right of the fortress. It was not an uncommon sight in the Shifting Wastes,
where the sands swallowed up entire villages, or receded to reveal scoured relics of dragons
felled by Abzan ancestors many centuries before.

She was watching the ribs as the fortress rolled alongside them when two of the ribs moved.
Sand fell away. The dune looked to be collapsing in on itself at first, until Anafenza saw that
something was rising out the sand. Matted, black fur emerged, and Anafenza's jaw hung open,
her gaze fixed on the rising shape. She was frozen with dread.

Not dragon ribs.

Tusks.

An enormous head followed, its skull only half-covered by strips of rotted flesh. And then a
trunk. Anafenza was not the only one to notice, and shouts of warning could be heard
throughout the height of the fortress. Below, the infantry escort fell into a defensive position.

By the time the animated corpse of the mastodon rose to its full height, three more were rising
from the sand. The stench of death must have spooked the behemoth that drew the fortress,
because it bellowed and stomped.

Then chaos erupted.

The sand between the mastodons seemed to burst into flame in dozens of places at once.
Spheres of light with trails of orange energy skimmed the surface of the sand down toward the
fortress. The spheres gave way to reveal countless warriors who descended upon the frightened
behemoth.
 "Ambush!" came a voice from the plaza below the
kin-tree.
"A
Sultai
war
party!"

Rotting Mastodon | Art by Nils Hamm Ruthless Ripper | Art by Clint Cearley

Anafenza saw dozens of archers take positions at the

parapet. Arrows flew from their bows, and the Sultai warriors dispersed to avoid the volley.

The mastodons lumbered toward the fortress, and the soldiers below were forced to scatter. In
the kin-tree, Anafenza felt a sudden whoosh of wind. Dust whirled about before settling into the
shape of three humans, clad in the heavy armor of the Abzan. Ancestors. They acknowledged
Anafenza with a nod, and streaked toward one of the massive shambling undead horrors,
tearing into it with their spirit weapons.

The mastodon collapsed, but the others were at

the fortress. The first one slammed into a wall
with enough force to split its own skull.
Anafenza was almost thrown from the kin-tree,
but she was able to cling to the branches and
balance herself just before the next mastodon
crashed in. The world shook. Another impact.
Anafenza couldn't focus, everything went
sideways, and the Salt Road rushed up to
toward her.

A moment later, Anafenza was sprawled out on

Kin-Tree Invocation | Art by Ryan the sand. She lay there dazed. A heartbeat
Alexander Lee before, she towered over the sand, and now her
face was buried in it. The sounds of violence
rang in her skull. She willed the muscles in her
neck to turn her head, but searing pain flashed across her cheek as it slid across the gritty sand.
She reached up to soothe the pain, and her hand came away sticky and red.

She rolled onto her back and looked down at the tops of her bare feet, which were cut up the
way she imagined her face must have been. Beyond, the fortress lay on its side, and beside her
were the shattered remnants of the kin-tree. The jolt of the fall had torn it free of its soil, and it
split upon impact. Broken branches and broken soldiers were scattered all around. Beneath a
heavy bough, Anafenza recognized the lifeless body of Hakrez, the kin-tree warden, whose
breastplate was caved in. Anafenza's mind raced to parse what had happened, and she
remembered the mastodons.

The blare of a horn brought Anafenza back. Her muscles surged with energy, and she rose to
her feet to see the Sultai retreating beyond the dunes. Cheers did not follow the horn blast,
however, and the air remained thick with the sounds of slaughter.

Anafenza circled around the fallen fortress to find the commotion, hoping to see the soldiers of
her house finishing off the last of the mastodons. There were screams, though. Human ones,
and she approached carefully.

When she came around a corner, her world fell to pieces. The scene that unfolded before her
was a violation against nature. There was a wrongness in it that pricked at both her flesh and
her guts. She saw Abzan butchering Abzan.

People were trying to scramble out of the fortress through its narrow windows, but before they
could get clear, Abzan soldiers were cutting their kin down with sword, axe and halberd.

"Mother! Father!" she screamed. "Oret! Please!" Eyes wide, and streaming with tears, Anafenza
knelt to scoop up the sword of a dead soldier. When she rose once more, a figure, silhouetted
against the sun, loomed over her.

"Your parents are dead. As is my bond-father." Through clouded vision, Anafenza recognized
Gvar, who bled from a gash at the corner of his eye.

Anafenza ignored the orc, and pushed past him.

"Anafenza! We were betrayed." Gvar stepped in front of her again. "We have to get out of he·"

The word caught in the orc's mouth, as he suddenly lurched forward, nearly knocking Anafenza
to the ground. He fell to one knee, and Anafenza saw the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding
from his shoulder.

More arrows fell around them.

"Ancestors damn you, Gvar!" Anafenza grunted as she helped lift him to his feet. "Let's go!"

They made for the cover of the Shifting Wastes and kept going.

For the better part of the day, they walked in silence. Each step through the sand was an effort,
but they continued onward away from the carnage behind them. The hot sand scorched the
soles of Anafenza's bare feet, and the sword that rested on her shoulder seemed to get heavier
with each footfall.

"Want one?"

"What?" said Anafenza, her voice cracking as the word left her parched mouth.

Gvar's big fist opened to reveal a small mound of crimson grapes. "Eat some," he said.
Anafenza stopped and stared in disbelief at the fruit, and then at Gvar. The orc shrugged his
shoulders, wincing slightly at the pain. "I know, I know. Just take them."

"Thank you," she said between grapes.

Gvar smiled and tossed the last grape into his mouth, and the pair resumed their march. As they
crested each dune, they hoped to find some indication of civilization. On the road, they were
two days from the capital. But across the Shifting Wastes, there was no certainty.

"Do you still admire the Abzan?" Anafenza's voice was tinged with bitterness. "Is it the Mardu
who are the savages?" She looked at Gvar, who didn't answer. He kept his eyes forward,
shielding them from the dust.

"Gvar?" Anafenza insisted.

"You know," Gvar said at last, "I am Abzan because when I was a child, an Abzan warrior·
your uncle·killed my blood-parents in battle, and left me with nobody. Your uncle took me
into his house and raised me. Had it been the other way around·had I been born Abzan, and
Mardu warriors killed my Abzan parents, I would have been killed with them." He turned to
Anafenza. "Our house was betrayed, but our clan will demand justice."

They walked until the sun hung low in the cloudless sky. Wind began to pick up, and sand beat
mercilessly against any exposed skin.

Another dune.

At the top, Anafenza peered into the quickly dimming haze. Through squinted eyes, she was
able to make out a vague, but unmistakable straight horizontal line that ran parallel to the
ground. "A wall!" she blurted. "Gvar, look!"

"Your ancestors must love you." Gvar was already striding down the dune toward the wall, and
Anafenza was right behind.

The wall surrounded an abandoned village, and by

the time they passed through a crumbling gate, the
edge of the sky was a brilliant orange. The village
was nothing more than a handful of dilapidated
sandstone dwellings arranged in a circle.

"We'll stay in one of these for the night," said

Anafenza.

"One that won't collapse on us, preferably," said

Gvar. "See what you can find. I'll look for the well."
Brave the Sands | Art by Dave Kendall
Anafenza walked between two of the dwellings,
giving both a cursory inspection. Emerging on the
other side, she came upon the village's tiny main
square. In the center, around which the meager structures had been built, rose a gnarled tree,
left pale and stripped of bark by the battering sand. With each gust of wind, its leafless branches
clattered.

The sight of the abandoned tree against the darkening sky was too much. Anafenza ran over to
it, letting her sword drop before collapsing in the sand that had gathered in a pile, obscuring its
roots. All she could see was her kin-tree, splintered and dead. Her family was gone. She pressed
her forehead against the trunk and stifled a scream in the crook of her arm. Tears came, and
they stung her wounded cheeks as they slid down her face.

She stayed there until the sun was gone. Until she heard Gvar's shout.

"We were followed!" He yelled. "Go!"

"Gvar!" Anafenza was on her feet, sword in hand.

"I'll be right behind you!" He was struggling. Anafenza could hear it in his voice. And then she
heard running. In the darkness, she saw Gvar's wide frame come into view from around a
corner. He was breathing heavily, his legs pumping, and he wasn't alone. Two figures were close
behind, and Anafenza caught the glint of steel on them. She said nothing, but silently pulled
herself into the tree.

She watched Gvar fly past beneath her. The pursuers followed. Two humans·and she saw the
familiar outline of Abzan heavy armor. Her eyes narrowed, her grip tightened on the hilt of her
sword, and she dropped behind the traitors. One of the men turned in time to receive the point
of Anafenza's blade below his breastplate. Steel bit into flesh, sinking deep into the man's belly.
Some incomprehensible protest gurgled from his mouth, and he collapsed.

Gvar and his pursuer spun around to see Anafenza slide her sword free. The remaining attacker
raised his own blade, but before he could bring it down, Gvar had him around the neck from
behind. The two wrestled to the ground, and the orc rolled onto his back so that the attacker
was pinned to him, facing away.

Anafenza pressed her bloodied sword against the throat of their incapacitated enemy. "If you
struggle, you will die."

The man went limp in Gvar's arms.

"You will tell us who planned this. All of it," Anafenza said, her voice cool and clear.

The man was silent.

Anafenza pressed. "If you don't give us a name, we're going to believe it was you. And we plan
to hurt that person. Badly." She leaned close to his face to look him in the eye. "So try again."

"It was a member of your house," the man managed. "He hired the Sultai."

"You can do better," she said. "Who?"

"Oret. It was Oret."

With the fierce eyes of the veteran of countless

battles, Anafenza looked down at her cousin.
He looked so small at Gvar's feet. "It seems
your maps held secrets only you knew," she
said, her voice was cool and unwavering. "But
even you must come out to swear kinship to a
new khan, Oret."

Barely audible, Oret managed, "You were

dead."

"I am the khan."

Sandsteppe Citadel | Art by Sam Burley
"Please," Oret resumed his plea.

The khan held up a hand to silence him.

"Please!" he tried again. "We have found each other again. I am the last family you have!"

Gvar erupted. "You dare?"

Anafenza looked past Oret to the orc, and her face broke into an amused smile.

"Oret, you are not my family."

The khan flicked her wrist, and the blade flashed. A red line appeared at the side of his face
from ear to chin, and Oret screamed. His blood clung to the tip of the Khan-Blade, and she
held it over one of the lit braziers at the base of the dais. The blood popped and sizzled in the
heat. She turned the sword edge skyward, and she proceeded to drag her own hand along its
sharpness. Without shifting her gaze from Oret, she held her fist over the flame and squeezed.
Blood dripped out, hissing when it hit the burning coals.

"Before the First Tree and the eyes of our ancestors, I disown you, Oret. You are no longer of
my blood. I declare you my enemy. If we should meet on the battlefield, you will not leave it.
Your spirit will be rootless, wandering alone in agony for all time. Now Gvar, my brother, show
him out."
Journey to the Nexus
BY JENNIFER CLARKE-WILKES

When last we saw him, Sarkhan Vol had just returned to his home world of Tarkir.

He fears his enemies, from the ancient dragon Nicol Bolas to the Mardu khan Zurgo, who
despises him. He still follows the voice of Ugin, the spirit dragon·long-dead dragon
Planeswalker; enemy of Nicol Bolas; and, perhaps, the key to Sarkhan's salvation.

He does not know where he is going, or what he will find when he gets there. He knows only
one thing: This world is broken, as he is broken, and there may yet be hope to set things right.

The wind screams across the barren dunes. Flecks of bone tear from the ancient, gigantic
skeletons and whirl in the storm along with the ever-present sand. The horizon is indistinct, lost
in the scouring grit.

A distant speck is moving.

Perhaps it is a mirage. It wavers in and out of vision,

its shape indistinct.

But it is slowly growing larger. The rippling form is

resolving. A winged thing? A man, perhaps. Walking.
His shape fluctuates, flowing outward in the wind.

He comes closer. A heavy cloak is billowing behind

him like wings as he trudges over the ragged land. He
Scoured Barrens | Art by Eytan Zana clutches a staff.

Closer still. The walking figure gestures wildly with

his free hand. He shouts to the air. He shakes his staff. An object hanging from its tip clatters
against the pole like dry bones.

He is here now. Wild, unkempt hair, a ragged beard, eyes that shine with madness. He is
talking. No one else is here.

"Stay out of my mind, ghost!" he cries. He grabs his head as though in pain. "What would you
have me do?"

He stops, turns, and surveys the wild landscape. He falls silent. Then he nods to himself,
slowly. He looks to the sky. He squares his shoulders. He turns toward a distant peak and
begins to walk again, his steps surer now.

Soon, only shallow footprints remain, fading as the howling sand spills into them.
Narset was meditating, as she always did at sunrise. She focused on her breathing, then went
deeper, finding the still point beyond the
rhythms of life. The silence was absolute, soul-
deep.

She drifted in quiet contemplation, considering

the ancient mysteries. The baffling runes of the
Spirit Dragon floated before her eyes as she
called up her studies. The characters shifted,
always just outside comprehension.

A less disciplined student would lash out in

frustration, but Narset had trained her patience
over many years. Enlightenment required time
and long silences to let the hidden meanings
speak. She focused harder, listening. She had
spent many months that way, coming so close
to their essence but never quite reaching it.

That day was different. In her calm center she

caught a flicker, the faintest scent of a word.
Heal. She felt a psychic urge, like a push
between her shoulder blades. Then she was out
Sarkhan, the Dragonspeaker
of the trance and gazing at the dawn's tinge on
| Art by Daarken
the mountaintop.

From the clouds at the peak burst an awe-inspiring

shape: a kirin, the messenger of fate. Its eyes and
horns blazed with ethereal flame. It ran through the
air on fire-pointed hooves. The magical creature
paused and tipped its head toward her, catching her
gaze with its own. Narset nodded in
acknowledgement. Then the kirin turned, bucking
and prancing, and headed away to the north and
east.
Alabaster Kirin | Art by Igor Kieryluk Narset stood, understanding. Tarkir had spoken,
through the hidden words of Ugin and the
appearance of the harbinger. The destiny of the
world lay there, somewhere in the kirin's fiery tracks.

She would need to appoint someone to oversee the clan's business in her absence. But such
wandering in search of wisdom was part of every Jeskai's calling. She smiled and took up her
staff.

Sarkhan was close to the mountain. He could see monumental structures at its peak, banners
snapping in the chill wind. A cataract spilled over a waterwheel mounted near the peak, and
rope bridges spider-webbed the deep chasms that surrounded it.

"Why have you driven me here?" he shouted to the sky. His voice came back to him: here, hear,
heal.

"Another trick? Another lie? Will my bones join those of the dragons, unfulfilled and broken?"
Sarkhan tore at his hair and gritted his teeth. He smashed the butt of his staff into the slope. He
sank to his knees, mumbling.

A voice came from above. "Weary traveler, do you seek peace?"

Sarkhan flung his head back and forth, as though shaking off water. Then he looked up, slowly.
There stood a slender woman, clothed in saffron robes, poised atop a head-high boulder. A
glowing sigil like an eye shone from her brow.

"Is this real?" Sarkhan growled. "Or do you

mock my eyes as well as my ears?"

The woman stepped off the boulder and landed

lightly on her toes. She slowly approached,
reaching out a hand. "I am here." Sarkhan
shrank back, but then went completely still as
her fingers brushed his forehead. She brought
her palm firmly into contact with his burning
flesh. It was cool and dry.

She held her hand there and looked into

Sarkhan's eyes. "I see⁄another⁄with you. Narset, Enlightened Master | Art by
Around you. Like an echo of a shadow." She Magali Villeneuve
stepped back, breaking the contact.

Sarkhan rose, leaning on his staff. "Do you hear

it too? A voice within. A thought that is not your own." Wonder smoothed his brow, and his
eyes focused on the serene face before him. "They all say I am mad. No one else hears it. The
endless whispering. Never a moment's peace! How do you know this voice?"

"I have only sensed it in your aura, an echo on the breeze. An idea. An image. Your coming has
been foretold, traveler.

"I am Narset. I dwell here, among other seekers of enlightenment. I guide my clan toward a
higher destiny."

Sarkhan nodded. "The Jeskai. I have heard of those mountaintop sages, though I never met one
in battle. Our khan thought them weak, seeking endlessly for some imagined truth."

"The truly strong do not reveal their power until it is needed." Narset wheeled and struck the
boulder with three fingers, a short, stabbing motion. The stone split neatly, falling into halves
like a hatched egg. "Our mountain strongholds yet stand, though many have tried to take them."

She turned back. "Tell me your name, traveler. Let me hear your tale."

Sarkhan had spoken little to another since the Eye of Ugin. And that had been painfully brief.
He strung together words in short clusters, halting, breaking into half-forgotten songs and
children's doggerel. Sometimes he simply stopped and stared into space for minutes at a time.

But slowly, agonizingly, he put together an account of his travels since leaving behind the
meditation realm of Nicol Bolas. Of the voice that constantly spoke to him, driving him ever
onward until he fled back to Tarkir. The path to heal his world. Once his home. Now his quest.

Narset listened. Sometimes she asked a question, never interrupting, but waiting for one of
Sarkhan's anguished pauses. When he spoke of wandering the planes, her eyes grew wide for a
few moments, but then she nodded to herself as though she had discovered something precious.
She asked to inspect the jagged piece of stone that hung from his staff. She studied the strange
markings that covered all its unbroken surfaces.

"I have seen something like these symbols before," she murmured. "They are ancient. Only the
most hidden lore mentions them. Secrets that only dragonfire can reveal. How came this relic
into your hands?"

"It is from the Eye. The sheer fire shattered it. Overcame
me. But I saved this. All that I could."

"What is the Eye?"

"The Eye of Ugin. He speaks to me. Still."

Her eyes flashed wide again. "You know of Ugin? You

were in his sanctum?"
Eye of Ugin | Art by James Paick
"It was a trap. Then a trick. Now no more. But the Spirit
Dragon is dead. Bolas said so. Or does he lie?"

"It is no lie. Ugin is dead. And with him, all his brood, the dragons. Did you not know this?"

"But he speaks! He taunts me, constantly. He tells me to seek him out. He sent me here. He
says just one thing: 'Heal.'"

"The voice of the Spirit dragon led you to me. I might be able to find surcease for what troubles
you. But perhaps it meant more than that. This world is in pain, Vol. You feel it, don't you?"

Narset spoke quietly, her eyes distant. "For centuries the clans have fought. When the dragons
lived, we struggled for survival against them. But when the last dragon fell, we turned on each
other. What balance was struck in our mutual fight was lost long ago.

"Now even our quiet strongholds know the shout of war. The Abzan leave their sturdy
fortresses to seek enemies on the steppe. The Sultai send forth armies of the dishonored dead.
Even the hardy Temur descend from their mountains. And over every land, the Mardu ride,
and raid, and ruin.

"We have lost our way. I fear that soon the clans too will be only bones in the wilderness,
gnawed by wild beasts. All that we have built will crumble away until even the past is gone."

Sarkhan's shoulders fell. "Then I have failed again. This world is already dead. The past is lost.
Ugin is only a dream."

Narset shook her head. "Ugin is far more than that. He is this world's soul. When he was lost,
Tarkir was lessened. But perhaps something yet lingers. Something that you can awaken. That
stone you bear might be the key."

"The key⁄" Sarkhan stared into the distance. "Yes, that is what I called it. I thought it would
unlock the secrets of the Spirit Dragon." Then his eyes focused again and he stared hard at the
jagged piece of stone. He looked up at Narset. "Secrets only dragonfire can reveal. How could I
have forgotten?"

He clenched a fist around the fragment and uttered a bestial sound, deep in his throat. His eyes
flared and smoked. And his hand became a dragon's jaws. Fire rolled from within. The
markings glowed, swirled, seemed to form words.

Narset leaned forward, despite the heat. Her face was eager, excited, shining like a blade from
the forge. "It is a phrase, in the language of the mighty. The ancient scrolls use it. 'Look to the
past and open the door to Ugin.'"

Sarkhan shook his head. "But Bolas said he put Ugin where he lies."

Narset looked back at him. "Do you not know where Ugin lies?"

"My clan never stayed in once place for long. We had no interest in scrolls or maps or ancient
tales. The Mardu move on. That is all."

"And yet you have seen so little of this world."

"The voice spoke of a door. I was seeking it, though I have no guide to show me."

"You have one now," said Narset. She laid a gentle hand on Sarkhan's shoulder. "The place
where Ugin fell is not known to many. But it is recorded in the Annals of the Sage Eye. As
keeper of the Annals, I have read the lore within. I can take you to the tomb of the Spirit
Dragon."

The night sky shimmered and hissed, a counterpoint to the voice murmuring in Sarkhan's
mind. The weird light cast multicolored shadows across the snow, as he and Narset slowly
climbed into the Qal Sisma range, following a path made of memory as much as land.

Sarkhan looked across the campfire embers at Narset. She bent her head over a small pot of tea.
As the fragrance rose about them he sensed a closeness, something he had not known with
another human being for as long as he could remember. She looked up and smiled openly. "It is
a luxury, but I always carry a small handful of leaves. Will you join me?"

Accepting the steaming pot, Sarkhan inhaled deeply. He sipped and looked up to the sky as he
savored the brew. "I have been in these mountains before," he said. "I listened with those who
spoke to the long ago."

Narset nodded. "The shamans of the Temur have a special connection to the world's soul. They
hear the spirits of the dead and echoes from times both past and yet to come, what they call the
unwritten now. Perhaps their closeness to the Nexus grants such gifts."

"The Nexus?"

"It is a point, deep within the ravine where Ugin's bones rest. There, reality is always shifting
and twisting, as though seeking a final form but never finding it. Seekers have approached the
place, but none were able to enter. The few who pressed on were simply torn apart. Those
wanderers who survived told me what they saw, but I know nothing more than this."

"Is that where we are going?"

Narset nodded. "You carry a talisman," she said, "bearing the words of the Spirit Dragon.
Perhaps only one such as you, who can pass between worlds, can withstand the violence of the
Nexus."

She finished the last swallow of her tea.

They walked in silence after that. There was nothing more that needed to be said.

It was Ugin's voice that disturbed the quiet.

"He's speaking to me," muttered Sarkhan. "His voice seems stronger now."

Narset pointed. Between the ragged peaks rose a contorted stone spire, bathed in a weird glow
that outshone the cold light overhead. "That twisted rock marks the entrance to the canyon, the
gateway to Ugin's grave."

The eerie luminescence caught Narset's face

and seemed to transform her into cool, blue-
green jade. Sarkhan's burning eyes shone with a
chill light. Below them stretched a miles-long
fissure, plunging deep through the ice into the
ancient stone.

Dragon bones lay there, as they did all across

Tarkir, but they were different. They glowed an
uncanny blue, from the tip of the immensely
long tail all the way to the arched passage of
ribs a hundred feet away. A curve in the canyon
wall hid the rest from view. Tomb of the Spirit Dragon | Art by Sam
Burley
All at once, Sarkhan's mind fell silent. He
stopped in his tracks.

Narset moved to his side. "Be at peace, traveler. You have found your path. See, the Spirit
Dragon shows you the way."

A new light cast Sarkhan's shadow before him, down the long slope that led to the dragon's tail.
He looked up at the shard that hung from his staff. It pulsed, a warm orange glow from the
markings that scrawled its surface.

Then, with a bestial cry, a thuggish orc leapt from the crag behind them. "I have you, traitor!"
roared Zurgo, as he chopped with his butcher's blade.

Narset spun, faster than Sarkhan's eye could follow. She raised her staff, and the murderous
blow slammed to a stop as though it had struck stone. Zurgo howled and threw a mighty punch
that could have felled a loxodon. Narset held up a palm as though to hush a willful child. The
orc's fist smashed against it, and he howled again as knuckles shattered.

"Go now." Narset's voice was urgent,

breathless. "I feel the power of the Nexus even
from here. It seems stronger than ever before. I
will guard your passage."

"I can't let you fight my battles."

Narset's eyes flashed. "You must. The moment

is right. Whatever fate Ugin has in store for
you, this is the time to meet it."

Anguish and shame raced across Sarkhan's

Deflecting Palm | Art by Eric Deschamps brow. But he turned and began to run along the
pathway. The snow-covered stones were slick,
and he had to watch every step to avoid a fall.
He was abreast of the glowing tail tip. He could
see around the curving stone, into the vaulted ribs that formed a glowing gateway. Waves of
pressure pulsed across him, and the landscape shuddered with the same rhythm. He felt the
forces of destiny pulling him in, dragging him inexorably forward.

He looked back at the crest where Narset and Zurgo struggled. She seemed to catch his eye,
even smile, as her graceful staff swung in a killing arc. Zurgo was outmatched. Sarkhan could
see it.

But then the powerful orc moved with unexpected agility, dodging the staff's swing. He lashed
out with his sword. A gush of blood.

Narset stood still. She seemed almost to be meditating again. But then she began to sink, a cut
flower. She turned her head toward Sarkhan. He heard her shout. "Go!"

Sarkhan's world went crimson. Fury and grief and vengeance fought for a voice, leaving him
silent. He stumbled, began to stagger back upslope, where Zurgo waited, glorying in the blood
of his companion.

"Zurgo! Monster! I will have my vengeance!" Sarkhan screamed.

But the Eye fragment flared bright. All around him the world wailed. The land twisted. He had
to turn away, howling his despair as his hands erupted with flame. The dragonfire roared into
the vortex ahead of him, and a gate appeared.

It was the door he had been waiting for all this time.

Yes.

Sarkhan turned and looked from Zurgo to the crumpled body of Narset, and then back to the
gate.

Yes.

With a bellow, equal parts rage and release, Sarkhan charged into the flaring arch.
A New Tarkir of Old
BY KIMBERLY J. KREINES

Sarkhan Vol has been following the voice in his head·the whispers of Ugin, the Spirit Dragon
·for years now, and UginÊs whispers finally led him to something remarkable: a flaming gate at
UginÊs grave. Although Sarkhan doesnÊt know it yet, when he stepped through the gate, he
traveled back in time 1,280 years, into TarkirÊs past.

Sarkhan has left behind the dragonless Tarkir he knew, and heÊs left behind Narset, his friend
and kindred spirit, who perished at the hands of his enemy, Zurgo. HeÊs in the Tarkir of the
past now, and heÊs alone.

Darkness.

Silence.

Where a heartbeat, before there had been blazing flame and a bellowing roar.

The roar had been his; it had come from SarkhanÊs own lips, lips that were still parted, his
breath still rushing through them·now only as a soundless exhale. It was as though the voice
had been ripped from his lungs and the world out from under his feet.

A mere moment before he had been running across UginÊs bones, running toward the flames.
But now he was standing still in the darkness in the middle of a vast, snowy Temur tundra. The
glowing bones were no longer underfoot. And the fire?

Sarkhan turned, looking back the way he had come.

There was no blazing gate.

Zurgo was not there. She was not there.

Narset.

His breath hitched.

She was not supposed to have died.

„Why?‰ This time his voice made a sound. The pain it carried echoed in the still night. „Why
did she have to die?‰

There was no answer.

There was nothing·Sarkhan realized with a rush of vertigo·nothing at all. The ceaseless
whispering, the constant flow of UginÊs words in his head·the voice was gone!
The sudden quiet was disorienting. Without the dragonÊs whispers to prop him up, Sarkhan
faltered. He leaned on his staff, but it could not support his weight the way that UginÊs words
could.

The world tilted, and Sarkhan stumbled across the snowy ground, panting.

The endlessness before him, the emptiness

inside him, were suffocating.

„Ugin!‰ he cried.

He waited for an answer, but none came.

„Where⁄are you?‰ he choked out the words.

„Where am I?‰

Nothing.

Dizziness engulfed him and he fell to his knees.

Art by Eytan Zana His staff clattered on the rock beside him, the
hedron shard from the Eye of Ugin alight
somehow even in this darkness. Sarkhan ran his
trembling fingers over the shard. Ugin was here, of course he was here; he was always here.
„Ugin,‰ Sarkhan whispered. „Please.‰

Nothing.

Nothing.

„No!‰ How could there be nothing? How could the dragon, in this moment, after all that was,
after all the worlds, all the years⁄after all of it, how could the dragon abandon him now?

„Speak to me!‰ Sarkhan cried. His gripped his head, coaxing, begging the voice to return. „I
walked through the gate. Is that not what you wanted? It is! I know it is! So why have you left
me?‰

A ringing silence blanketed him in response, threatening to smother him.

His coaxing turned to tugging, desperate yanking, ripping at his hair. The pain radiated across
his scalp, but it did not draw an answer. In his head there was only a peaceful calm.

„Ha!‰ The bark of a laugh issued from SarkhanÊs lips, tearing through the quiet and opening
the floodgates; he erupted in a fit of hysterics.

The irony; when for so long he had wished the whispers away, struggled against their magnetic
pull, now that they were gone·„You canÊt do this! Do you hear me? You canÊt be silent now!‰
He wiped a wet hand across his mouth, stringing along his saliva. „She died for this.‰

For what?
Only the dragon knew.

„Why? Why did you send me here? Where am I? Speak to me!‰

A sudden peal of thunder·an answer?·drew SarkhanÊs gaze upward, and the sight that waited
sent him reeling.

Thick crags of luminous clouds were heaped in the sky. They swelled like a range of towering
mountains from one end of the horizon to the other. With a sharp crack, a bolt of green
lightning shot through one of the ridges. It was followed by another and another. The lightning
crackled and popped in a display that seemed to set the night afire.

Then all at once, the clouds burst open. Torrents of freezing rain crashed down, pounding on
SarkhanÊs face, slicing at his eyes. But he did not look away, could not, for the clouds had just
come to life; they had begun to stir.

The bluffs and peaks clambered over each other, pushing and fighting, jostling for position.
They slashed at each other with their long, trailing tails; snapped their jaws; and tore apart the
firmament with their razor-sharp claws.

He thought he saw·no, it couldnÊt be. Sarkhan squinted, shielding his face with his hand. Oh,
but it was! It was!

A pair of wings!

The wide, leathery appendages beat against the storm harder and harder, spawning waves of
low, rumbling thunder. They labored to pull a form, gnarled and twisted, out of the fray. The
form coalesced as it emerged behind the wings, opening its maw and bellowing a great,
resounding roar.

A dragon!

Sarkhan grabbed his staff and struggled to his

feet only to fall to his knees once more, gasping
for breath, clutching his chest, for his heart
might otherwise rupture his ribs.

A second dragon was birthed from the tempest,

and then a third.

They were wondrous, dazzling, exquisite. They

were dragons the likes of which he had never
seen.

Tears rallied to the corners of SarkhanÊs eyes,

mixing with the ebbing rain as they streamed Art by Véronique Meignaud
down his cheeks. He blinked them away; they
obscured his vision, and he wanted to see, he
had to see.

The great beasts frolicked, fledglings learning themselves for the first time. They careened
across the sky, locking antlers in spirited fights·they had antlers! Sarkhan laughed gleefully.
The dragons on Tarkir had antlers!

Dragons on Tarkir.

Impossible.

A vison. A dream. It must be.

And yet·

Sarkhan reached down to ground himself, placing his palm on the snow-covered rock. He
gathered the white, wet slush, gripping it between his fingers, squeezing until his hand went
numb.

Did visions feel this cold?

Could dreams make oneÊs fingers raw?

A screech from above pierced his eardrums. The sound was palpable; it was as real as the snow.

He looked to the magnificent creatures that crowded the sky. There were a dozen now, no two
·more.

Their wings beat against the night, sending swirling gusts of charged wind down to where
Sarkhan knelt. He breathed in the brisk draft, laden with their scent. It stirred within him, filling
his lungs, encircling his soul. He felt the truth of it then. They were dragons. They were real.
And they were here.

„Where?‰ He whispered the question, though he was not asking the voice in his head, nor was
he expecting an answer; he knew the answer. Narset had said it. It had come from the ancient
scrolls: Look to the past and open the door to Ugin.

The flaming archway.

He had opened the door.

Then he had walked through it.

And it had led him to the past. It had led him here.

Here to the Tarkir of old. Here to the Tarkir of dragons.

His chest swelled. „Ugin. Thank you.‰

Above him the noble beasts of the sky bellowed, and Sarkhan Vol raised his voice to join the
chorus.

How long he had been tracking their flight·playful, lazy circles in the sky·Sarkhan did not
know. He would walk in their shadows forever and feel no shame. This was his path, the path
that Ugin had set him on, the path of healing for his plane. Here. Hear. Heal.

The dragons knew the way.

„Show me.‰

They must have heard him, for they quickened and focused their flight.

Sarkhan picked up his pace, running across the snowy frontier; a staggering, jilted run that
lurched and lunged. He tripped and stumbled over stray rocks and fallen branches, for his eyes
were in the sky and not on the ground; he refused tear his gaze from the marvelous creatures
soaring above.

He could tell that the dragons were restless, hungry. They nipped at each otherÊs necks,
snapped at each otherÊs tails. The two that led the pack were locked in a battle, somersaulting
through the sky, hissing and spitting in blatant assertions of dominance.

Their fight delighted Sarkhan, but at the same time he could feel the insignificance of it. He
could sense something coming, something much more grand. The power of the fledglings, so
new to the world, so limited, was nothing compared to the might of what they were about to
face.

He steadied himself on the stump of a fallen tree as she soared in. Born on the dark tendrils of
the night air, she was the most remarkable dragon Sarkhan had ever witnessed.

Her bestial roar, deafening and all-consuming,

enveloped the entire expanse of TarkirÊs tundra.

As one, the fledglings turned their attention to

this majestic dragon, all vestiges of their
squabbles falling away at the mere blink of her
great, yellow eyes. She circled them, sniffing
and nipping. Testing, welcoming.

When she was satisfied, she grunted and then

dove to the front of the ranks. The fledglings
fell into formation behind her.
Art by Karl Kopinski
She roared again, ripping the night in two.

Her dragons·for they were her dragons; there

was no question that they belonged to her·responded with high shrieks and screeches.

Order was established, purpose was communicated. She had come to lead them. Now they
would hunt.

Sarkhan careened to the edge of a bluff, following with his eyes, the dragonsÊ coordinated dive
into a valley below. He threw himself to the ground on his stomach, claiming the fringe, the
perfect vantage point to relish the raid.

In the basin below was a small encampment. Frenzied figures were already scattering; they must
have heard the dominantÊs cry, the cry that had consumed the night. But it had not been a cry
of warning; it had been a resolved cry of finality. It mattered not how fast they ran, they would
never outpace the beasts.

The brood descended like a barrage of flaming arrows. The dominantÊs fiery breath led the
charge. The fledglingsÊ fire came after in short bursts as they tested their skill, learning their
craft.

And then they were on the ground. Ripping and tearing. Sinking their teeth, brandishing their
antlers, and ruthlessly swinging their tails.

It was a dance, a choreographed performance. In intervals they launched themselves up into the
sky and dove back down at the encampment for another attack, another kill.

The sheer power!

Sarkhan reveled in it. This was how a world should be. This was how Tarkir should be.

This was glorious.

In its upward flight, one of the fledglings came mere feet from Sarkhan. He held its intense
gaze, locking his with its burning yellow eye.

In that moment, the dragon touched SarkhanÊs essence. It welcomed him to its world, to its
brood.

His transformation began without a conscious thought, without his permission, but he exulted
in the familiar feeling of wings at his shoulders, the tight sharpness of his elongating maw, the
rush of seeing the world through his dragon eyes.

He stomped his clawed feet and stretched his wings. He would join them in their pillage. Here
and now, Sarkhan Vol would finally fly with the dragons of Tarkir.

He flapped his wings, preparing to launch, but he came up short. A magical, glowing claw
ripped through the sky like a bolt of blood-red lighting, tearing into the side of the soaring
fledgling.

The young dragon screeched in pain and plummeted back past Sarkhan before crashing into the
ground below.

The red claw lunged again, this time tearing at the creatureÊs stomach. And again, relentless,
spilling its innards into the snow.
A sober roar followed, and a great beast, a sabertooth larger than any Sarkhan had ever seen,
pounced on the dragon. It was a battle finished before it even began.

SarkhanÊs heart stopped.

„Go! Run!‰ It was a human voice that cut through the roar of bloodshed. SarkhanÊs dragon ears
perceived it, but the speech made no sense.

„I will hold them off!‰ This time the string of words, and the tenor·strong, solid·tugged him
back toward human consciousness.

He turned toward the source of the outcry, baring his teeth.

„Hurry!‰ It was a woman speaking, a human

woman, standing in the center of the basin. She
wore plates of armor, a mastodonÊs hide tied
round her neck, and the antlers of dragons
armoring her shoulders and arms. She was the
one who wielded the blood-red claw.

As she called out to the others to seek shelter,

she drove her burning claw into the wing of a
second fledgling that was feeding on a human.

The young dragon started. Instinctively, it

attempted to flee, but with a broken wing it was Art by James Ryman
unable to take to the sky. It squawked and
flopped like a fish out of water.

The warrior wasted no time. As the fallen dragon turned on her, she cut through its face from
eye to jaw. It collapsed in a writhing heap.

„No!‰ The cry erupted from SarkhanÊs lips, for they were lips again·his maw was gone, his
wings were gone, the moment was gone; this woman and her beast had stolen it from him.

She turned with her great cat to slay yet another, but neither she nor her sabertooth landed their
blow, for an immense plume of dragonfire ripped through the snowy basin, pouring endlessly
from the mouth of the dominant.

The woman ran from the flame.

The survivors scattered.

The dominant bellowed for her fledglings to take to the sky.

And with a rush of wings and screeching cries, the brood disappeared into the night.

Sarkhan staggered back, dark emotions surging through him, a fire of hatred heating his blood.
He would kill her; he would end the warrior for this.

He reached for his blade and braced to jump off the bluff, but something stopped him.

A voice. When the dragons lived, there was balance. A steady, gentle voice. The plane was not
in pain. A voice filled with wisdom. When dragons lived, all who inhabited Tarkir were greater.

The words gave him pause.

He looked to the warrior woman, the single remaining figure in the whole of the basin. She was
using the glowing, red claw at the end of her staff to carve a symbol into a large rock.

SarkhanÊs rage turned·to what? Awe? Elation?

She was great. Greater than any human he had known before. She was a survivor·no, a
conqueror!·following a battle with dragons. Dragons! Gooseflesh flooded SarkhanÊs arms.

He watched her move about the basin, etching more rocks, claiming her victory.

She had won the right to this ritual.

„It is as you said it would be. The clans are

stronger, the humans mightier.‰ Sarkhan
turned to tell Narset. „It is perfec·‰ But she
was not there.

He swallowed the fresh wave of pain.

She was not supposed to have died.

She should have seen this. She deserved to see

this.

And she would. Sarkhan resolved in that

Art by Winona Nelson moment to make it so. He would do anything,
everything in his power, to make certain that
when her time came, when Narset lived again
on Tarkir, there would be dragons waiting for her.

He smiled, picturing NarsetÊs new fate. She would thrive with the dragons, strong and mighty.
And she would not die at ZurgoÊs hands. For none of it had happened yet, none of the missteps,
none of the regrets.

The past was no longer the past. It was just⁄gone.

Gone forever.

Sarkhan could feel the weight of the years lift from his shoulders. Hundreds, thousands, he did
not know. They had all melted away when he had stepped through UginÊs fire.
There was so much in front of him now.

This was a new beginning, a new Tarkir·his Tarkir.

Unwritten
BY KELLY DIGGES

Sarkhan Vol has arrived in Tarkir's past, more than a thousand years before his birth. When he
first arrived, he saw the plane's long-extinct dragons for the first time, watching them emerge
from a crackling storm.

Then he saw her: a human woman fighting with a glowing dragon's claw on her staff and a
sabertooth cat at her side. She killed a dragon broodling with powerful magic and drove the
others away. She is everything he hoped for when he yearned for Tarkir's dragons.

He has to know more.

Snow crunched under Sarkhan Vol's boots. He and his guide were moving higher. The cold
mountain air seared his lungs, and he savored the feeling, like breathing dragonfire in reverse.

She might not know she was guiding him, but she'd certainly made herself easy for him to
follow.

Every mile or two, she'd found or cleared some bare patch of stone and gouged two sweeping
curves into it with the clawed staff she carried. When he first saw it he had thought she was
marking the place where she had defeated a dragon. Now, as the trail grew longer, he was not
sure what to think.

Perhaps she was Ugin's herald, leading him onward.

Perhaps these signs really were meant for his eyes.
Yet they meant nothing to him. Each was the same.
With wiser eyes he might see⁄but he did not dare
take dragon form where she might see him, not if he
wanted any hope of speaking to her.

This patch was still warm, the marks glowing with

the red heat of her staff. He was catching up with
her. She was Temur, native to these mountains. He
Thornwood Falls | Art by Eytan Zana was Mardu, out of place and time.

She wanted him to catch up with her.

There was a whistle, like a bird's, behind him. He got no more warning than that.

Something slammed into him from behind, huge and living and warm. He sprawled face down
in the frigid snow, pinned beneath what felt like one enormous paw. Huge fangs and hot breath
pressed against his neck. He did not struggle.

Another whistle, different. The fangs lifted, but the weight on his back still held him immobile.
He could not see what held him, but he suspected.

Snow crunched, heavy boots tracing a wide semicircle around him, until at last she came into
view.

She was older than he·far older, some inane part of him whispered·built compactly, with a
stern but unlined face. The claw at the tip of her staff glowed red, and her eyes were cold and
appraising. Dragon's claw, dragon's eyes.

"You're following me," she said. Her voice was

rich and vibrant.

"You left a trail to be followed," he said. His

voice came in choked gasps, crushed beneath
who knew how many pounds of sabertooth cat.
He gestured weakly to the mark she had made.
"You left signs."

"Not for your eyes, vagrant," she said.

Her tone was unhurried, but she glanced

Yasova Dragonclaw | Art by Winona
frequently at the sky.
Nelson
"You're following me," she said again. "Why?"

Cold snow, cold eyes, hot breath. He

considered his answer for as long as he dared.

"I am following a⁄voice, the whispers of a spirit," he said. He hesitated, then: "I seek the great
dragon Ugin. I think⁄I think this might be a vision, and you my spirit guide."

She laughed once, harshly.

"I think you might be out of your mind," she said.

"I may be," said Sarkhan. "Time will tell."

The woman whistled, and the weight lifted off of Sarkhan's back.

"Get up," she said.

Had his seeming madness moved her? Or his mention of Ugin?

He crawled toward his staff on his knees, like a beggar. The hedron shard he had taken from the
Eye of Ugin was still securely tied to it. It had fallen across the woman's mysterious mark, and
for a moment, when he moved it, he thought he saw both of them shimmer.

Leaning on his staff, he stood.

She was shorter than him. He might even have called her small. But with that sabertooth cat
curled around her, with a clawed staff glowing with fiery magic, with those deadly dragon eyes,
she looked anything but.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"My name is Sarkhan Vol," he said.

He saw her eyes take in his strange clothes and wild hair. The claw on her staff began to glow
red.

Sar-khan, great khan. High khan, sky-khan. To

anyone else on Tarkir, it was an absurd claim
on anyone's part, most of all coming from an
anonymous wanderer. He should have known
better, but he'd forgotten himself. In his own
mind, it was his name. The voice in his head
called him Sarkhan, before it fell silent. But
Bolas called him Vol.

"Sar-khan," she said flatly. She bowed with a

flourish, but there was iron in her voice. "In
that case, Yasova Dragonclaw of the Temur
pays her respects to you, O khan of khans, and
bids you welcome to her lands."

Dragonclaw! Even in his own Tarkir, was that

not the title of the Temur khan?

"And over what," she asked, pronouncing every

word carefully, "do you claim dominion?"

He had dealt with khans before. With Zurgo.

With Bolas. No khan, even a friend, could
Sarkhan, the Dragonspeaker | Art by tolerate disrespect. They knew only one
Daarken language, the honeyed tongue of flattery, and in
his time as Bolas's thrall he had learned to speak
it well.

Vol is ever your servant, said a voice in his head. It was his voice, pathetic, squirming in the
silence of his mind. It awakened a memory, an echo of himself that answered a khan's question.

"No one and nothing," he said hurriedly, averting his eyes and bowing. "It is a nickname, given
to me in jest, to mock my arrogance. I took it for my own."

"And your khan tolerates this?"

No. But Ugin⁄

"I have no khan," he said. "I have traveled far from my home."

"An exile," said the woman, with contempt. "No wonder you're dressed in castoffs."

She lowered her staff at him. The claw's glow intensified.

"You follow me," she said. "You insult me. And you trespass in my lands. Give me a reason to
spare you, Vol, or I'll kill you and be on my way."

He dropped to his knees.

"Please, forgive my rudeness," he said. "As I said, I have traveled far, and even the mighty khan
of the Temur is known to me only by reputation. Clearly, you're not here to guide me. Perhaps
instead I am here to serve you. You are a khan. I am nothing, a beggar⁄"

She regarded him for a long moment, then shrugged and lifted her staff.

"Enough," she said, with obvious disgust. "Get up."

He stood back up, brushing snow off of his clothes.

"Thank you," he said.

She scowled.

"Thank you, khan," she corrected. "Your delusions are forgiven, but I'll tolerate no further
disrespect."

"My thanks, khan," he said, a small rebellion. "And my apologies."

The sound of his own voice was thick in his ears, cloying. She acknowledged him with a nod.

"I am Yasova Dragonclaw," she said. "Khan of the Temur Frontier, dragon slayer many times
over, and lord of these lands." She swept her arms wide. "Vol, exile, khan of nothing and no
one⁄welcome."

He looked around the mountain, seeing it with new eyes. Yes, these were Temur lands. Not far
from where he'd been when he⁄when time fractured. There was less snow than he
remembered, more bare and steaming rock.

He turned back to see that she was already walking away, her back turned. He hurried to follow,
but a snarl from behind him stopped him where he stood. The enormous cat's carrion breath
washed over him.

"Follow me, if you're certain that's your path," said Yasova, without turning. "But I wouldn't
walk too close. Anchin is very protective, and he won't be gentle with you a second time."

They walked in silence, for a time. Sarkhan struggled to follow·but not too closely·as Yasova
scrambled over the rough terrain at full speed, his breath coming in steaming gasps. She led him
up the sides of a high ridge lined with stout trees. Behind him, the sabertooth padded along,
just loudly enough that he could hear it.

Yasova stopped on a wide ledge. Sarkhan kept a

respectful distance, mindful of the great cat behind
him. He breathed heavily. Yasova, seemingly
unaffected by the climb, ignored his wheezing.

The dragon claw atop her staff began to glow again,

and Sarkhan feared for a moment she was going to
kill him after all. But she brought the staff's red-hot Rugged Highlands | Art by Eytan Zana
head down, sweeping it across the snowy surface of
the ledge. The snow hissed and melted, rivulets of
steaming water running down the hillside, until
bare rock revealed itself. She reversed the staff and made that mark again·two long, sweeping
curves, symmetrical, carved in stone.

Sarkhan waited until she was finished.

"What is that symbol?" he asked. "Why do you keep making it?"

Yasova turned. Her eyes were reptilian, cold and hot all at once.

"No questions, Vol," she said. In her mouth, his birth name was a curse. "Not until you've told
me about these whispers you're following."

Why was she indulging him? What use to her could a madman's ravings be?

"I was in⁄." He faltered, unsure how to translate his history into words she could accept. "I was
in a distant place, far from my home and far from here. I visited a cavern called the Eye of Ugin
·"

"Where?" she asked, sharply. So the name did mean

something to her.

"As I said, it is very distant. Across an⁄"·ocean, he

almost said, before remembering he had learned that
word on another world. "Across a vast lake, so wide you
cannot see from one shore to the other."

She snorted.
Eye of Ugin | Art by James Paick
"There is no such lake."

"Even so," he said, "I have crossed it."

"And then?"

"After visiting the Eye, I heard Ugin himself, speaking to me. He drew me to this place. But
then⁄everything changed. Ugin's voice fell silent, and I found myself alone, with no whispers to
guide me. I mistook you for a herald of Ugin."

Yasova looked out over the valley, her back to him.

"May I ask you something, Yasova khan?" said

Sarkhan.

"You might as well."

"That storm, that birthed the dragons⁄what was

that?"

She turned and stared at him, mouth agape.

"Forgive my ignorance, khan," he said. "In my Tormenting Voice | Art by Volkan Baga
homeland, we do not have such things."

"Then where do the dragons come from?" she

asked.

He thought a long time before answering. "In my homeland, we have no dragons."

"Vast lakes and empty skies," said Yasova, her eyes narrowing. "You really are mad."

"I know how it sounds," he said. "But there are no such storms, none of these⁄"

"Dragon tempests," she said, as though to a child. "The source of all dragons. How can you not
know this? Where are you from?"

Doubts swirled like phantoms. Ugin's voice was silent, his thoughts were his own, and yet he
felt less clarity than ever. Was he mad? Had he dreamed all this? Was he dreaming now?

"I knew a Temur shaman once," he said, "who taught me a great deal about the spirits of
dragons."

"You know the Temur, but you do not know their khan? Are there Temur in this distant home
of yours, too?"

"I beg your indulgence," he said. He tried to remember if he had ever said exactly those words
to Bolas. "My story may seem nonsensical, but it is the only story I have to tell. Consider it a
mere vision, a fever dream, if it aids your patience."

She nodded at him to go on.

"This shaman and his cohort showed me many things. I heard the low, steady voice of an
ancient dragon, long dead, whose spirit yet lingered. I would hear that voice again, years later,
when I came to the Eye. The Eye of Ugin, my khan. The voice of Ugin."
"Ugin lives," she said flatly. The sabertooth, roused by her tone, took its place behind her.

He backed away, arms wide, palms out.

"My khan," he said. "It's all very confusing to me, but⁄my home, my life⁄I believe they are
not yet written."

The unwritten now, the Temur conception of things yet to come. Shrouded by the now, all
around it, circling it like beasts, were the possible futures of the unwritten.

"Nothing lives in the unwritten," she said. "It's

not a place. I don't know what this shaman told
you, but it simply doesn't work like that."

"Then perhaps I had it backwards," he said.

"Perhaps I am your spirit guide·a phantom of
the unwritten, here to tell you of one possible
path from this now to the next. Ask. I will tell
you anything."

She advanced on him, her staff crackling to life.

Shamanic Revelation | Art by Cynthia
Sheppard "This place you speak of, your supposed home,"
she said. "It's this place, isn't it? Tarkir, but
beyond the now?"

He nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I was Mardu, once, and I traveled among the Temur. But my khan's name, and
that Temur khan's, would not be known to you. They are not yet born."

"And there are no dragons?" she asked. Her eyes gleamed eagerly. "Not one?"

"Not in all of Tarkir," he said. "Only bones."

Flooded Strand | Art by Andreas Rocha

"And Ugin?"

"Long dead," he said. "Only whispers remain.

The whispers that brought me here."

"Then it's true," she said. "If Ugin dies, the

storms cease. The dragons fall."

Ugin and the storms, connected! No wonder he

had been greeted, on his arrival, by one of those
tempests. Ugin was not yet a whisper, and
could not or would not speak to him as he had.
But he had sent a storm to guide Sarkhan. To guide him⁄to Yasova?

"Where did you hear that?" he asked, heart racing.

"In a vision of my own," she said, but she would not be deterred. "Tell me of this unwritten
now. Tell me of its people. It must be glorious."

He recognized, now, the gleam in her eye. It was greed, the same greed he had seen in the eye
of every khan he had ever met. Zurgo sought blood and vengeance, Bolas sought power beyond
imagining, even gentle Narset sought knowledge above all else⁄and Yasova, his spirit guide,
sought the end of all dragons.

"No, my khan," he said hurriedly. "The people, the khans, of my now⁄they are not like you.
They are weak, foolish, grasping at the shadows of the past. They no longer have to fight for
their lives, so they fight for glory or greed or nothing at all.

"They are not like you," he said again, pleading. "You are better."

She thrust her staff at him. A wall of heat hit him, the claw dangerously close, and he staggered
back, lost his balance, and fell. He sprawled across the mark she had made in the bare rock, the
gouges in the stone still uncomfortably warm through his furs.

"Better," she spat. "We watch helplessly as our homes are ravaged and our children killed. We
glance to the skies like frightened rabbits, dedicate our lives to nothing more than survival,
scratch out a living as simpering peasants in someone else's domain."

She stood over him, eyes filled with fury, holding a

claw torn from a dragon, glowing with the fire of her
magic and the heat of her rage.

"And for this you call us better?"

"Please," he said. "I have seen the unwritten·"

"I don't know what you are," she said. "I don't know
how you came here, or what any of this means. But
Frontier Siege | Art by James Ryman I've seen the unwritten myself, seen a world with no
dragons. And it was paradise."

"I have played your spirit guide," he said. "I have told
you, as true as I know it, what I have seen. Please, I beg you, do the same for me. Tell me of the
vision that guides you."

She planted her staff.

"I saw fields choked with dragon bones," she said, eyes distant. "Skies clear of those cursed
tempests. There was no more fighting. No more war. The Temur had been freed to conquer,
and my descendant, a daughter many times removed, was sar-khan, lord of all Tarkir. The
people lived off the land, hunting and herding, with enough for everyone and to spare. And I
heard a voice, smooth and quiet, telling me how I might bring it about."

"That is not how it happens," he said. Confusion reigned. "There is no sar-khan. There is no
peace. Ugin showed you these things?"

"No," she said, "although he spoke of Ugin. He told me to chart the storms, to track them, to
leave a trail."

She gestured to the scratched stone beneath him.

"He told me that if I showed him the way to the spirit dragon's lair⁄he would kill Ugin."

Bile rose in Sarkhan's throat.

"Who?" he whispered. "Who spoke to you?"

"A great dragon," she said, her tone filled only with awe. "The greatest, as unlike them as a khan
is to a packbeast. He spoke, in true words, not dragon's howlings, and he towered above me,
bigger than Atarka herself, with scales like burnished gold. Above his head, between his horns,
floated an egg, and in my fever-dream I thought it might crack and hatch the world anew."

"No," said Sarkhan. "No."

Curved horns, like the double curves of Yasova's marks. He should have seen it. But how could
he have known?

Bolas.

Bolas had followed him. No·impossible. Fool.

Bolas was already here! What had the dragon
said? I know where Ugin lays. I put him there
myself, not so long ago. Not so long. Damn
him! What was a hundred years to a creature
such as Bolas, or a thousand, or ten thousand?

It's happening here! Now!

Fire rushed through him. It burned his pink,

soft flesh away and stole his voice, forcing out a
roar that shook the snow from the trees. Now it was Yasova who fell backward, shrinking before
him.

His jaws burned and stretched, and he opened his mouth, breathing in a lungful of cold
mountain air, ready to breathe out a gout of pure, glorious flame.

But Yasova was no morsel, much as she looked like one. Her cat backed away from him,
hissing, but she sprang to her feet. Her staff glowed as she drew it back, and he thought back
dimly, in dragon-mind, to the claw of flame that had arced through the sky and killed one of the
 dragon broodlings before his eyes.

Ugin was in danger. Bolas was here, now, or

would be soon. He could not risk injury fighting
this little creature. Not when he was so, so
close.

Flame spilled from his mouth as he exhaled,

but it was no jet of fire. She tumbled back,
singed but no doubt still alive.

Form of the Dragon | Art by Daarken With a kick from his powerful legs, Sarkhan Vol
launched himself into the sky.
The Reforged Chain
BY DOUG BEYER

Sarkhan Vol followed the whispers of the spirit dragon Ugin back into Tarkir's past, with no
idea what to expect. He found a glorious world, full of hungry dragons and vigorous clans.

But all is not well in ancient Tarkir. Yasova, khan of this era's Temur clan, revealed to Sarkhan
that she is following the guidance of a dragon as well. Unbeknownst to her, her patron is·or
will later become·Sarkhan's most hated enemy: the unfathomably ancient dragon Planeswalker
Nicol Bolas.

Now, Sarkhan races against time to find Ugin before Bolas can set Tarkir's history·and
Sarkhan's own·on the path to ruin.

Sarkhan thrashed his wings against the frigid air, flying over the tundra toward the churning
storm. Thoughts flashed across his mind, mirroring the pops of lightning and mana illuminating
the tempests ahead, thoughts that broke into nothingness like brittle ash. He had traveled all
this way, shattered the laws of time and history·and for what? He had found a time when
dragons still lived, when dragon tempests still birthed mighty sky tyrants onto his world, when
warriors sought glory by clashing with dragon-kind·but it had amounted to nothing, because
the shadow of Nicol Bolas loomed even here. Even in this precious place, a time long before the
mistakes of Tarkir's history, in a refuge hidden centuries before Sarkhan's own errors of
judgment·the influence of Bolas had somehow made it here before him. Sarkhan spat a blast
of fire at the air and flew through it.

Do you understand now, dragon mage? Questions exploded at him in roaring tones, as if voiced
by the thundercracks of the storm ahead·but they were only his own mind shouting at itself.
Do you see why Ugin would lead you here, to witness this? Do you grasp the lesson now? A
sobering answer crept over Sarkhan's mind: perhaps the lesson of this entire quest was that fate
was inescapable. That he should embrace despair and accept the iron rigidity of time, and of
Bolas's dominion over him.

In a flash, the grim, circular joke of it all took shape for Sarkhan. Bolas had killed Ugin over
some ancient feud. Ugin's death ended Tarkir's dragon tempests, which wiped out dragons on
Tarkir long before Sarkhan was born, and the clans rose to rule the plane. The clans'
remembrance of dragons led the young Sarkhan to revere the ancient beasts, which led to
Sarkhan, in a moment of weakness, bowing his head in loyalty to Bolas, the very dragon who
had made Sarkhan's obsession possible in the first place. The chain looped back on itself,
inevitable and unbreakable. Sarkhan was here just to serve as witness to the forging of its earliest
link.

Sarkhan felt like letting his wings drop, to stall his flight in the air. He could just fall, here, as
Ugin would fall. Some part of him wanted to plunge, to let gravity be his final master, to meet
the ground at speed and feel everything collapse.
But instead he tipped his head up, wingbeats hammering the air as he climbed. The cold tore at
him and ozone filled his lungs, but he continued to climb up and up, trying to punish the clouds
with his rage. There was still a chance. He still had the hedron shard with him, a piece of Ugin's
chamber on Zendikar, and the thought of it pulled him onward. If he was still here, still alive,
then there was a chance he could reforge the chain. If he still held on to the breath in his chest
·then maybe Ugin could too.

Sarkhan flew through the tempests. He could

feel the wings of other dragons passing through
the storms around him, and heard their roars.
He broke through the rumbling cloudbank and
his breath caught at what he saw. The
shimmering, ghostlike dragon Ugin flew across
the atmosphere like a comet, dragging a tail
made of storm. Sarkhan knew Ugin instantly, as
surely as he knew the sun or the earth. Pale
blue mist trailed out behind the spirit dragon,
merging with the tempests, like a cape that
spread out to connect him to all of Tarkir.
Fearsome Awakening | Art by Véronique Sarkhan forgot everything that had brought him
Meignaud to this moment, and his soul stirred. It was
Ugin·and not Bolas·who had truly birthed
his fascination with dragons. Ugin was the true
beginning of the chain that made Sarkhan who
he was·and made Tarkir what it should have been. Sarkhan felt like staying in dragon form
forever, dancing in the clouds around this immense and wise progenitor. He flew at a distance,
just watching Ugin's wings hold him effortlessly in the air.

This, before him, was his purpose. This was the reason he was here. He could stop what was
about to happen, to alter Tarkir's path. He would do whatever he needed to do. He would·

Kill Nicol Bolas.

Or at least he would help Ugin fight Bolas when the time came, so Ugin would survive and
Tarkir's dragons would never die out. Sarkhan sped toward Ugin, a tiny satellite approaching a
great star. Sarkhan roared out to him, but it was lost in the chorus of thunder and draconic
voices ringing through the clouds below.

It was a tilt of Ugin's head that made Sarkhan notice the spell happening down on the ground.
Sarkhan followed Ugin's eyes. Through a break in the clouds, he saw lines of greenish elemental
energy tracing a curving pattern across the snow and ice, anchored at certain nodes like tethered
lightning. As Sarkhan looked closer, he could see that the nodes were carved boulders, marked
by slashing claw patterns.

Sarkhan cursed a name in his mind. Yasova.

Together, the claw-rune sites formed a pathway. The pathway marked the exact path of the
dragon tempests·and therefore, predicted the path of Ugin. Yasova had been tracking the
storms in order to track the spirit dragon.

But Yasova's path down on the tundra was not for her own benefit. It was a guiding spell, but
not for her sabertooth cat or Temur warriors to follow. This pattern was meant to be seen from
the air·by Nicol Bolas.

A hiss of bile and rage rose in Sarkhan's throat. And at that very moment, Nicol Bolas appeared
out of a ripple of sky, like a dropped pebble in reverse, the world giving way for this being.

Bolas was positioned directly in Ugin's path. His wings unfurled like a billowing cloak,
shadowing the sun with his liquid-dark scales. His great horns swept up, crownlike, with his
gem hovering between them. The great elder dragon's attention was focused on Ugin, the one
he had come to destroy. Sarkhan was still too far off for Bolas to notice·perhaps this was his
chance to strike.

Ugin drew up with a flurry of wingbeats, taking in Bolas's arrival, and the two dragon
Planeswalkers faced off.

Bolas spoke something to Ugin, barbed words in

low tones that Sarkhan couldn't hear over the
wind. Ugin spoke back, calm and serious, with a
note of warning, and Bolas's smile spread like a
stain. The dragons spiraled around each other,
great lungs and great wings churning air, eyes
darting from weak spot to weak spot. The storm
clouds encircled them, two titans at the eye of a
hurricane.

Sarkhan flew as fast as he could, but his wings were

failing him. His shoulders burned as he pumped
his wings, and he was losing altitude, his tail Crux of Fate | Art by Michael Komarck
skimming the clouds. Now that he saw Bolas
again, a thousand years before he had laid eyes on
him for the first time·or was this the first time,
now?·he realized he could do nothing that would affect this mighty creature. Bolas was like a
god, Sarkhan an insect. But he thought maybe if he flew in at the right angle·maybe if he
blasted him with fire at just the right moment·he could distract him just long enough so that
Ugin could deal the fatal blow. He clenched his teeth and flew on.

Bolas and Ugin dipped and dived around each other, occasionally switching directions, each
matching the other's movements with jabs and feints. Bolas blew a gust of smoke from his
nostrils and slapped at Ugin's wing. Ugin dodged to the side and made a test snap with his jaws.
They threw spells, but not at each other·just shimmering runes on the air, laying mystical
groundwork for the fight. They spun around each other, lashing out with a claw or a hot breath,
never quite overcommitting to a strategy, never quite making the first true move.
Then Ugin roared, and it was the roar of a force of nature, the roar of an entire plane.

And with that roar, Sarkhan felt a wrenching impulse reverberate in his soul. The feeling spread
through his draconic body, electrifying him, goading him to join the fight at Ugin's side, as if
that roar spoke to the core of his very being. Some part of him was conscious of how strange
this feeling was, but his dragon's brain seethed with irresistible drive.

Sarkhan found himself roaring in answer, and his muscles responded. As he roared, he heard
calls from all the dragons throughout the tempests. Dragons appeared in droves, flying out of
the dragon tempests toward the fight. Sarkhan's heart leapt·this was Ugin's advantage. The
progenitor of Tarkir was calling his kind to fight at his side, and they were answering the call.

Bolas's grin dissolved. He attacked all-out with a barrage of jagged spells, pummeling Ugin with
his strange utterances. Sarkhan saw Ugin recoil, chunks of glimmering scales exploding from his
body, his head thrashing back and forth from some kind of simultaneous mental assault, his
wings chopping at the air to maintain altitude.

Ugin spun in the air and blasted back with his

own magic. He cut an arc across Bolas's body
with a torrent of invisible fire, and followed it
up with a lunge of pale mist that struck like
thunder. He pivoted in space, firing forth more
invisible impacts. Bolas slapped away half of the
assaults, but many of them landed, and Sarkhan
saw the effort in Bolas's face.

Determination surged through Sarkhan, making

his skin prickle with heat. This could be the
Ugin, the Spirit Dragon | Art by Raymond crossroads of history, this moment. Tarkir
Swanland dragons closed in in from every direction, a
circular army collapsing in around its leader.
Sarkhan even saw new dragons spawning from
the clouds, each one born with a mission to
fight for Ugin.

Sarkhan and the other dragons were about to converge on the fight. He swooped, about to blast
a chestful of breath weapon onto Nicol Bolas, but then·

·a crackling of elemental energy, reaching up from the ground like fingers·

·a glance down, to see Yasova weaving some passionate elemental magic, her claw-rune spell
meant not only to guide Bolas, but for some other, more disruptive reason·

·a body-wracking surge, as the elemental spell struck, struck him, struck dozens of dragons at
once·

·a new impulse seizing Sarkhan's soul, even more powerful than Ugin's roar, goading him to
fight·

·a strange bloodlust kindling in his heart, driving him to want nothing more than to·

Kill Ugin.

Yes, said his draconic heart. Yes, destroy the all-father. Destroy the progenitor who commands
us. Destroy him, and be free of his rule.

No, said some small part of Sarkhan. No!

All around him, the other Tarkir dragons were seized by the same spell. Yasova's power
drowned out the force of Ugin's call, and the dragons converged on Ugin instead of Bolas.

Sarkhan was close now. He could feel his

ribcage filling with heat. He could feel himself
wanting to unleash fire on Ugin, the very source
of draconic spirit on Tarkir, the very dragon
who brought him to this moment.

He exhaled. But as his breath was about to

emerge as fire, instead he shouted a savage
"No!"·a human word, shouted in a human
voice, as he forced himself out of dragon form.
His wings collapsed inside him. His face
became stubbled skin instead of overlapping Nicol Bolas, Planeswalker | Art by D.
scales. And his drive to kill Ugin melted away, Alexander Gregory
as the spell no longer gripped his draconic
mind.

What gripped him instead was gravity. He fell.

And it was a long fall.

He fell past the Tarkir dragons, who breathed their fire and lightning and death onto Ugin from
all sides.

He fell past Bolas, who never glanced his way, but only watched Ugin's own progeny shriek and
attack their forefather viciously.

He fell through the churning clouds, and through a breathless distance of empty air.

He heard a thundering crack from high above, a sound with terrible, unmistakable import·
Bolas's final blow, the battle-ending deathblow that broke Ugin's body.

As Sarkhan hurtled through air, he caught glimpses of the other dragons scattering like birds
away from the disturbance.

Before he got to see Ugin himself, there was a savage, crunching bounce, as his body ricocheted
once, and then sickeningly twice against the rocks of a great spiraling crag.

He took a chaotic tumble off one snow-padded cliff, onto another, and rolled down a slope, as
his mind whirled along with his limbs.

Thundering motion and the cracking sound of an avalanche followed, and a crushing sensation.
The world was all ice and snow.

And then it stopped. He was suspended in a snowbank, a foot or a mile from air, lungs
compressed, suffocating. He held onto a thread of consciousness, enough to tell him that he was
dying.

When the claws dug away the snow above him, Sarkhan thought for a moment that it was
Bolas, come to finish the job, to finally have his victory. But it wasn't. It was Yasova's sabertooth
cat, clearing snow with great swipes of its paws. Its tusks bit into the back of his collar, grabbing
him by the scruff, and lurched him painfully out of the snowbank. The cat laid him out on his
back on the tundra.

Sarkhan was a limp thing, a sack of skin with

assorted bone-pieces inside. Through squinting
eyes he could see Yasova looking down at him.
She held his staff, with the hedron shard
dangling from it.

"Don't try to move," she said. "Don't try to

speak."

She said some other words in a low voice, and

he could feel his insides begin to sort
themselves out.

Yasova Dragonclaw | Art by Winona "Ugin," Sarkhan managed.

Nelson
"Don't try to speak," she repeated. But she
looked up at the sky, and then back down at
him. "It's just about over. The Unwritten Now
will finally be free of the blight of dragons."

Sarkhan twisted his eyes to one side, to see as much as he could see. What he saw was Ugin's
body falling out of the clouds, streaking toward the ground.

Ugin defeated. Dragons on the road to extinction. Tarkir's fate sealed.

Sarkhan groaned.

"I don't know what you are," said Yasova. "But you seem like you might have some answers in
you. So do me a favor, and don't die just yet. I'll drag you back to my shamans and see what
you're about."
The healing spell had not completed its work, but Sarkhan lurched onto his side anyway.
Everything hurt·consciousness was a wall of pain·but somehow he rolled onto his hands and
knees.

"What are you doing, fool thing?" said Yasova.

At that moment, Sarkhan raised his head to see Ugin hitting the tundra.

There was a moment, before the force of it hit them, that Sarkhan and Yasova glanced at each
other. They both felt it. Something had tilted on Tarkir. The world was poised to change
forever. For a moment, Sarkhan thought he saw a shadow of concern brush across Yasova's
face.

Then the wave of force, stronger than the power of Ugin's roar, hit them. Snow exploded into
them, and the earth bucked. Sarkhan, Yasova, and the sabertooth were knocked over. Sarkhan's
staff tumbled and landed in snow.

Sarkhan crouched as the snow blast pummeled him for what felt like a thousand heartbeats.
After the blast of snow and force subsided, he crawled back to his knees, but then huddled
again as rocks and chunks of ice rained down.

When the rubble-rain ended, Sarkhan coughed and shuddered. He looked for the crater, to find
where Ugin's body had landed. He saw the place where Ugin fell, but it wasn't just a crater·it
was an entire chasm punched into the land, a massive crack of shattered earth, with Ugin's body
somewhere far below the level of the snow. It was the same place Sarkhan had come to in his
own time·the site of the temporal nexus.

Sarkhan glanced up to see Nicol Bolas turn toward the sky and vanish. The air rippled, and he
was gone, along with Sarkhan's chance to destroy him.

Sarkhan climbed to his feet, climbing out of the snow and rubble. He pulled his staff from the
snow, and felt an urging to move when he saw the hedron shard attached to it.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Yasova, dusting herself off.

"To save him," said Sarkhan, and he turned and stomped toward the chasm. His balance
wavered, and his muscles and bones protested, but Yasova's healing spell, still at work in his
bones, dulled the pain.

"You weren't meant to do this," warned Yasova. "I can't let you do this."

Sarkhan snapped around to her. He lashed an accusatory hand at the ancient Temur khan. His
hand became the head of a dragon, and that dragon's head breathed forth a flame as hot as
Sarkhan's rage, blasting Yasova full on in the chest. Yasova tumbled back from the force of the
spell, flying boots over head into the snow. She landed, and slumped, and let out a groan.

The sabertooth leaped over to her, sniffed her breath, and then snapped around to snarl at
Sarkhan. Sarkhan snarled back with ten times its intensity, heaving icy breaths, his arms and
legs out in challenge. The big cat flinched, then slowly lowered its head in reluctant submission,
staying near its unconscious master.

After one more snarl of warning, Sarkhan marched

off toward Ugin.

The climb down to the floor of the chasm was an

awkward skid more than a climb. Sarkhan didn't take
time to choose footholds carefully, and he half-
slipped his way down the craggy walls of the gorge,
reinjuring his already battered bones. His body felt Banefire | Art by Raymond Swanland
like a broken marionette, but he continued forcing it
to move, using his staff like a crutch.

Ugin was laid out against the chasm floor, burned and abraded on every surface, littered with
rubble from the impact. His eyes were closed. Sarkhan's heart leaped when he saw that a slow
exhale was escaping the dragon's nostrils.

There was still part of a breath in him, he thought. There was still time.

Sarkhan ran over to the dragon. He brushed away the rubble from the twisting, runic shapes
along Ugin's neck, and pressed his own face against Ugin's. He closed his eyes, and tried to feel
the essence of the great dragon, tried to hear the same voice that had drawn him back to his
home plane.

But there was nothing. There was no voice, just the long, ragged exhale of a broken titan.
Sarkhan's heart sank.

The only voice was an unwelcome one, from Sarkhan's own mind, an echo meant to torture
himself with old questions. Do you understand now, dragon mage? The question rang in his
skull. Do you grasp the lesson now? Do you see why you had to come?

"No, I don't!" he whispered into Ugin's face. "I don't understand! Tell me! Guide me!"

Do you see now? Do you understand the lesson?

"No! I don't! I can't!" He slapped Ugin's scales softly with his hand. "Ugin, help me, please.
Help me⁄"

Do you understand how you must always fail?

Sarkhan gritted his teeth and gripped his staff. "No! I·I can't!"

Do you understand that you must always fail, as long as your goal is not truth, but guidance?

"What does that mean? I don't understand! I don't see it!"

⁄that as long as you seek dragons around you, you will never become the dragon within you?
Sarkhan pushed his forehead into Ugin's scales and squeezed his eyes shut tight. He tensed
every muscle in his beaten body, trying to force an answer, some missing truth, into his brain.
He felt the wood of his staff start to splinter in his white-knuckled fist.

Then, as Ugin's final breath slowly ended, Sarkhan unclenched. His body loosened, and he
caressed Ugin's face gently. He took in a long breath, and let it out slowly. With that breath, he
let out all the pain, all the uncertainty, all the struggle that suffused his body. He stood straight,
opened his eyes, and breathed in and out again.

"Ugin, I've brought something for you," he said.

He detached the hedron shard from his staff, that small stone remnant he had brought from the
Eye of Ugin, Ugin's chamber on faraway Zendikar. He held the stone in his hand. The runes on
the hedron-piece glowed pale blue at his touch, mirroring the shapes etched in Ugin's face and
neck. It was a piece of Ugin's shelter on another world, a piece of Ugin's edifice that he had
built for himself. The Eye of Ugin was a place for containment, yes, a place to concentrate on
the spell that contained the Eldrazi·but it was also a place for recuperation, a safehold in a
world torn by powerful forces.

Sarkhan raised the hedron shard. Its runes glowed brighter, and it hovered in the air between
them. Sarkhan put his hands around the shard, gently drawing it toward him, and concentrated
on what he desired. He inhaled deeply, and then slowly blew air out over the hedron·not the
fire of a dragon, nor truly the exhalation of a man, but the breath of Sarkhan Vol, the dragon
mage.

He released the stone shard. The hedron

hovered, rotating slowly in the air. Its surfaces
began to glow brighter and brighter, and then it
began expanding·unfolding. Planes of stone
replicated themselves, shifting and sliding
outward from the shard like an infinitely
blooming flower. Impossible surfaces unpacked
and unfolded, creating an interlocking structure
that grew and grew, repeating the runes from
the Eye of Ugin, from Ugin himself, over and
over again.
Art by Daarken
Sarkhan stepped back to the wall of the chasm.
The spell was done. The hedron shards
unfolded themselves faster now, creating an
edifice, filling in around Ugin's body like a massive cocoon. He watched with wonder at the
beauty of it. Sarkhan caught Ugin's eye opening just slightly, just for a moment, and then saw it
close again. The protective cocoon assembled itself around Ugin now, hiding him away from
Sarkhan, enclosing the great dragon in an impenetrable, mystical shell.

"What have we done?" came an echoing shout, Yasova's voice, from the top of the chasm.
Sarkhan looked up to see her peering down at him from the chasm's edge, a bewildered
expression on her face.

Framing her, in the sky high above, the dragon tempests churned with new vigor. New dragons
erupted from them, shrieking with the simple, unrestrained glory of being.

Sarkhan smiled up at Yasova, a crooked smile made of gratitude and simple dumb joy. "What
we were meant to," he yelled up at her. "Thank you, Yasova khan."

She looked around at the hedron cocoon,

confounded, and Sarkhan laughed. It struck
him that the chain of events that had brought
him here was not a circular joke at all·it was a
chain with a purpose. Fate had conspired to
place him here, at this crossroads of history, to
give him the chance to act. If he had never
served Bolas, if he had never been sent to the
Eye of Ugin, if he had never come to Tarkir
with voices ringing in his broken mind·
without all of that hardship, he wouldn't have
had a chance to forge a new chain for his world. Crucible of the Spirit Dragon | Art by Jung
Park
For the first time in a long while, Sarkhan's
skull felt like his own. An unfamiliar sensation
of clarity and elation spread through him, as if
he were waking from a dream in which his eyes didn't quite work. His thoughts flowed simply,
without their usual jaggedness, his consciousness undivided and unbroken.

Then all at once·

·as Sarkhan's presence became an impossibility·

·as his travel to the past of his own world had become an affront to the laws and flow of
history·

·as his actions had irrevocably changed the conditions that had led to the nexus of a dead
dragon Planeswalker in this chasm·

·as all the events that had led to his world's history, and even had led to his own existence, had
become nullified·

·temporal forces whisked Sarkhan away.

Snowflakes fell past Yasova, dropping flecks of white on the snug structure at the bottom of the
chasm. Her sabertooth padded over and nuzzled her, and she put her hand on its head. High
above, dragons screeched and soared across the sky.
The Truth of Names
BY JAMES WYATT

Additional story contributions by Matt Knicl and Allison Medwin.

The young khan of the Mardu sat poised at the front of her horde, perfectly still despite her
horse shifting nervously beneath her. The worn leather grip of her bow, the weight of her sword
on her back, the nervous energy of the warriors almost palpable behind her·she drew strength
from all of these. More than anything else, she drew strength from her war name, Alesha,
because it was hers.

She scanned the bluffs above her, but couldn't see the warriors she knew were crouching there.
She peered ahead, toward the mouth of the canyon, searching for a sign of their foe.

There.

She saw five·no, six·dark shapes in the air. They were too far away to make out the details·
their four feathered wings, sinuous bodies, and long fins and spines·but a crackling of
lightning around and among them left no doubt in her mind. These were the dragons they
sought, the filthy brood of the monstrous Kolaghan.

"Mardu!" she shouted.

"Mardu!" The answering shouts from the horde shook the canyon, and Alesha smiled. The
dragons couldn't miss them now.

The distant shapes grew larger as the dragons sped toward the horde. Horses snorted as riders
shifted in their saddles, readying themselves for the charge. Goblins chittered in their eagerness
to die, and orcs stood like stone, waiting.

Silently, Alesha raised her bow over her head,

signaling the archers to ready their arrows. She
waited, taking in a long, slow breath as the
dragons winged ever closer. The air thrummed
with the beats of their wings, and the tang of
lightning blew to her on the wind.

She lowered her bow, fitted an arrow, and drew

back, hearing the creak of a hundred bows
behind her. She could see the cold glow of the
beasts' eyes and the lightning crackling in their
Outpost Siege | Art by Daarken mouths.

Now.
Her arrow struck the first one in the mouth, sending a stray bolt of lightning harmlessly to the
ground. A hundred arrows followed it, and the dragon veered up and to the side. Right into
place.

A half-dozen warriors dropped from the bluff onto the swerving dragon. One hit a wing and slid
off, falling to his death. Two more clung desperately to spines on its back as it wheeled around
in surprise. One clutched the dragon's long tail. But two Mardu·two who would be celebrated
this night·drove swords into its flesh, striking deep into its shoulder and its flank. The beast
roared its pain, and lightning sent a cascade of rock tumbling down the canyon wall.

Alesha nudged her horse and loosed another arrow as she charged forward to meet the other
ones head-on. Hooves thundered behind her, goblins shrieked, orcs rumbled their war cries.
The Mardu surged to greet death, swords in hand.

A dragon swooped down, opening its mouth to strafe Alesha and her vanguard with its deadly
lightning breath. Her arrow lodged in its mouth, but an instant later lightning was flashing all
around her. Panic surged in her chest, a memory of past terror, when another spawn of
Kolaghan's brood had given her the scars she wore on her back. Her horse reared and whinnied,
and Alesha jumped from the saddle before the beast could throw her. She rolled on the ground
and came up in a crouch.

The brazen shouts of the Mardu horde were mingled now with howls of pain and warning cries
as the battle began in earnest. Alesha nocked another arrow and surveyed the field.

With a handful of arrows jutting from between its scales, the dragon that had blasted her
vanguard was circling around for another run. "That one!" she shouted, gesturing with her bow.
"Bring it down!"

From the smallest goblin to the tallest orc, every warrior in earshot turned as one, ready to carry
out her will. A flurry of arrows battered the beast, bouncing off its scales or lodging between
them, piercing holes in its wings, or·one very skilled or lucky shot·lodging in an eye. The
creature shrieked, a deafening noise that sent goblins diving for cover and made even seasoned
veterans duck their heads and shuffle a few steps backward. It landed, claws first, crushing and
tearing at everything in reach. Alesha loosed one more arrow, which lodged in the beast's
shoulder, then drew her sword from her back.

"On it!" she shouted. "Now!" She could see the dragon collecting itself, getting its feet beneath
it so it could launch itself into the air again. They had to kill it before it could do that.

As one, her band surged ahead and crashed on it like a wave, with Alesha in their midst. Their
numbers were pitifully small, she realized. The crash had killed many, and five other dragons
kept the rest of the horde occupied. Six of the beasts were enough to guarantee a moment of
glory for every fighter who deserved one.

Her heavy blade·as long and as wide as her arm·bit deep into the dragon's flank, and she
ducked as its wing lashed out in response to the pain. It tried to wheel around and face her, but
a mighty swing from a towering orc's blade knocked its head back and sent a spray of sharp-
smelling blood in its wake.

Alesha nodded, watching the orc, a soft heel

who had yet to earn his war name, despite
fighting in many battles. This was his moment,
and she wanted to witness it.

A true warrior would have leaped into the

opening his mighty blow had created, driving
his sword into the creature's neck. An orc as
strong as this one might even have been able to
sever the head with a well-placed strike. There Alesha, Who Smiles at Death | Art by
was the briefest pause as the others watched, Anastasia Ovchinnikova
anticipating the moment of glory.

It didn't come. Instead of going for the kill, the

orc turned and slashed at the dragon's foreclaw,
an instant before it would have cut across
another fighter's belly. It was Gedruk
Wingbreaker who ran forward and hacked at
the creature's neck before it could regain its
balance. It took him three hacking blows as the
dragon writhed and flailed, and the beast's foul
blood coated him before it was done. But at last
it lay still, and a cheer went up from the fighters
Battle Brawler | Art by Karl Kopinski that circled it.

Alesha scanned the field of battle. One other

dragon was dead·the one that had led the
initial charge·and two more were grounded. She pointed at one in the air, wheeling around for
another strafing run. "That one!" she called, and the Mardu braced themselves to bring it down.
While it maneuvered, though, they would have a moment to savor their triumph.

Or their shame.

"You!" she barked at the orc.

He stepped closer, towering over her. "Khan?" he said, his voice a rumble almost drowned out
in the noise of battle.

"That kill could have been yours."

She watched him carefully as her words sank in. He bristled, drawing himself up even taller.
"Gedruk stole it."

"Did he?"
"I saw you hold back. I saw you cut the beast's claw instead of its neck. Why?"

The orc snarled. "I don't know."

"You could have earned your war name," she said. "Know who you are, and claim it."

Anger twisted the orc's face and he took another step toward her. "You tell me this? A human
boy who thinks he's a woman?"

Alesha kept her face impassive as a nearby goblin squeaked and scampered away from her, no
doubt anticipating her wrath. Before she could answer the nameless orc, though, the dragon
was upon them.

They all knew what to do. Another hail of arrows sought out the beast's softer spots, this time
joined by a blast of fire from a spark cannon. This one, too, crashed to the ground, and this
time most of the warriors were out of reach of its flailing claws as it landed. Alesha shouted and
the Mardu·even the nameless orc who had challenged her·rushed forward to meet it.

It had been a day like this, a battle very much like this, when Alesha won the right to name
herself. With blood running down her back where the dragon's claws had raked her flesh, she
pulled a spear from a dead man's back and plunged it into the beast's mouth, up into its brain.
The spear shaft splintered, but the dragon died in an instant. She didn't remember if she had
been afraid as the monstrous head lunged at her.

What she remembered was the panic that came after. Earning her war name had been her only
goal. When the fight was over, she stood silently among the other young ones who were
boasting of their accomplishments and the bold, grisly names they would choose. Headsmasher.
Skullcleaver. Wingbreaker·Gedruk had been among them. Some of them, mostly orcs,
boasted of their ancestors' deeds and spoke of their pride in adopting those ancestors' names.
She had been so different·only sixteen, a boy in everyone's eyes but her own, about to choose
and declare her name before the khan and all the Mardu.

The khan had walked among the warriors, hearing the tales of their glorious deeds. One by one,
they declared their new war names, and each time, the khan shouted the names for all to hear.
Each time, the horde shouted the name as one, shaking the earth.

Then the khan came to Alesha. She stood before him, snakes coiling in the pit of her stomach,
and told how she had slain her first dragon. The khan nodded and asked her name.

"Alesha," she said, as loudly as she could. Just Alesha, her grandmother's name.

"Alesha!" the khan shouted, without a moment's pause.

And the whole gathered horde shouted "Alesha!" in reply. The warriors of the Mardu shouted
her name.

In that moment, if anyone had told her that in three years' time she would be khan, she just
might have dared to believe it.
Half-lost in her memories, the khan of the Mardu was smiling when the other dragon hit the
ground behind her, smiling as she whirled to face it, smiling as her sword bit deep into its neck
while it lunged at the nameless orc beside her. It bellowed and thrashed as death came to claim
it, but one more swing of her heavy blade cut its head clean off.

The orc beside her stared dumbly, no trace of

anger remaining on his face.

"I know who I am," Alesha said to him, still

smiling. "Now show me who you are." She
nodded toward the last two beasts that still
snapped and snarled at the surrounding Mardu.
He hesitated, still slack-jawed, but then
collected himself and ran back into battle.

She followed him, watching as he threw himself

into the frenzied melee around the largest of the Mardu Runemark | Art by Viktor Titov
dragons. He was strong, clearly, and fast despite
his bulk. He fought with no lack of skill, but his
techniques were unorthodox. He used his
strength to batter the beast's head and limbs, to knock it off balance and shift its position. He
ensured that its deadly teeth and claws never made contact with the other fighters, and he made
openings for his allies to strike. He wasn't looking for the killing blow, but he made it possible.

Alesha nodded, smiling to herself.

Soon enough, the battle was over. Six dragons lay dead on the canyon floor among many dead
warriors. Their losses were steep, but six dragons! Six of Kolaghan's brood would never prey on
the Mardu again. The horde had much to celebrate.

The survivors set to work. The woe-reapers chanted their ancient rites over the dead to keep
them still in death. Goblins skittered over the battlefield, gathering arrows that could be reused
and broken weapons that could be reforged. Other Mardu carved up the dragon corpses for
meat and trophies.

Alesha walked among them, just as she had

fought beside them. In each cluster of fighters,
she sought out those who had not yet claimed a
war name. On this day, many had earned the
right to claim their names. She listened to tale
after tale of heroic deeds, and with each name
chosen, she shouted the name for the horde to
hear·with never a moment's hesitation.
Fangbreaker. Cliffleaper. Barzeel. Tailrider.
Turuk. Vallash.

Bloodfell Caves | Art by Adam Paquette At last she came to the orc who had fought
 beside her, the orc who had dared to question
her.

"You," she said. "How many battles have you fought?"

He stood stiffly, looking over her head rather than meeting her gaze. "Nine."

"And what deeds of glory do you claim this day?"

"None, Khan."

"None? Nine battles and you have earned no glory? You have no war name to claim?"

"No."

"Then you are a fool. I know who you are, but you don't know yourself."

He bristled again, but this time didn't dare to speak.

She turned to the warrior next to him. "Kuru Vashar," she said, "you fought beside this soft heel
today. What did you see?"

Vashar stood and looked at the taller orc. "I fell underneath one of the dragons," she said. "Its
weight crushed me to the ground. You stood beside me and struck the beast, shifting its balance
so I could get out, then you helped me to my feet."

Alesha nodded and pointed to another. "Magran Backbreaker, what did you see?"

"Khan, this one put himself between me and a deadly claw. His strength knocked the claw
aside, then I slipped past and drove my spear beneath the dragon's foreleg."

One more. "Jalasha Impaler, what did you see?"

Jalasha reached up and clapped the orc on the shoulder. "My friend saved my life, throwing
himself onto a dragon's head when it was about to take me in its jaws."

Alesha nodded and stepped close to the

nameless orc. She grabbed the edge of his
armored collar and pulled his head down,
forcing his eyes to meet hers.

"I know who I am. I am not a boy. I am Alesha,

like my grandmother before me."

Several of the nearest warriors murmured their

approval.

"And I know who you are," she said. "The

Shockmaw Dragon | Art by Alejandro
Mardu know you. But you·you think every
Mirabal
Mardu must be a Backbreaker or
Helmsmasher. You think your deeds are not as
glorious as theirs. And you are wrong."

She let go of his armor and shoved him, sending him stumbling back a few steps.

"When you learn what your place among the Mardu is, then you can choose a name."

She turned away, ready to move to the next group of soldiers.

"Wait," the orc said.

Alesha paused but did not turn around. "Why?"

"I have a tale of the battle."

She turned and glared at him. "We have heard enough of your deeds."

"This is not my glory." He raised his voice so all around could hear. "Today I saw a warrior
strike down a dragon with a single blow, and on her face she wore the joy of battle."

Alesha smiled.

The orc took a step closer and spoke more quietly. "As you say, my khan, I do not know myself.
But I know you, I follow you·"

Now he shouted over all the din of the battlefield. "·and I call you Alesha, Who Smiles at
Death."

And once again, the warriors of the Mardu shouted her name.
The Doom of the Golden Fang
BY JAMES WYATT

Tasigur lifted a banana from the bowl at his side and turned it over in his hands. A large brown
spot marred the yellow skin. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, he prodded it with his thumb, feeling
the squish of the fruit inside and the gentle tear of the softened skin. He glanced around, threw
the spoiled fruit at the nearest human servant he could see, and picked a bright green grape
from the bowl instead.

The herald was still talking, yammering on about the heroic deeds of the warrior who stood
proudly behind him. Yala was the so-called hero's name, a woman from a backwater region
practically in Abzan lands. With her stocky frame, she might as well have been an Abzan·
probably had been, before the last Sultai conquest. Tasigur's lip curled at the thought.

"And as the dragon became tangled in the

zombies' nets," the herald was saying, "Yala
loosed her crossbow and buried her poisoned
bolt between the beast's scales!"

Tasigur yawned loudly.

The herald shifted on his feet, and the hero's

husband, standing just behind her on her right,
almost let himself scowl. Yala didn't move, her
face an impassive mask. Tasigur smiled and the
Tasigur, the Golden Fang | Art by Chris herald stammered on, rushing to finish before
Rahn he completely lost the khan's attention.

"Wi·uh, with poison coursing through its

veins, the dragon landed hard, its legs buckling
under its weight, crushing zombies under its slimy belly. Yala rushed to its side as it let out its
caustic breath in billowing, black clouds. Without hesitation, she plunged her spear into its
chest. It writhed and shuddered, knocking her off her feet and spraying her with its acid blood,
but her blow was enough. The beast died and the Sultai won the day!"

It took a moment for Tasigur to realize that the herald had finished his story. He forced his eyes
back into focus and popped another grape into his mouth. Then he beckoned the hero of the
Sultai forward.

"Yala," he purred. He saw her suppress a shudder and his mouth quirked into a grin. "Your
heroic deeds are a credit to the Sultai. Please accept my gratitude."

Yala dropped to one knee and bowed her head. "I am honored, my khan."
"Yes, you are," Tasigur said. Turning his attention back to the fruit, he gestured for the herald
to have her shown out. He yanked at the chain that bound the zombie·whose skull was part of
the fruit bowl·to his throne, bringing it closer so he could more easily reach what looked like a
very succulent pear.

Its sweet juice dribbled down his chin as the hero of the Sultai was escorted from the chamber.

Tasigur's stomach rumbled as a zombie

approached his throne the next morning,
carrying a tray laden with food. The zombie
stopped a few strides away and waited as a
living servant was brought out to sample the
food. Tasigur shifted in his seat, impatient and
hungry, angry that a mere servant·an Abzan
wretch captured in a recent raid·should be
allowed to taste his food before he could eat. It
smelled exquisite.

The servant seemed delighted, savoring each

bite with his eyes closed and a broad smile on Dutiful Return | Art by Seb McKinnon
his face. No doubt this was better fare than he'd
ever had in his life. For a moment Tasigur
congratulated himself·he was a kind and
beneficent lord who allowed the fine pleasures of life to those who served him, even if their
service was unwilling.

Then all the pleasure vanished from the servant's face and his eyes went wide. His hand
clutched at his throat, and Tasigur leaned forward in his throne.

"What's happening?" the khan demanded.

Flecks of black foam appeared at the corners of the servant's mouth, and he fell to his knees,
gasping for breath.

"Poison!" Tasigur shouted, springing to his feet.

The servant collapsed, writhing and shaking, and finally screamed·a long, shrill note that
ended in a sick gurgle.

Silence gripped the room.

Tasigur scanned the faces of every servant and courtier around him, looking for some hint of
treachery, some indication of who was responsible for this attempt on his life. Blank faces·
tanned human faces pale with shock, the inscrutable scaled faces of the naga, the vacant eyes of
the zombies·stared back at him, waiting for his command.

"Khudal," he said. He fell back into his throne. "Bring me Khudal."

Only silence greeted his command.

"I need Khudal!" he shouted.

A voice hissed in the shadows behind the throne. "My khan, one does not summon Khudal."
Shidiqi, his closest advisor, slithered to his side.

"Am I not the Golden Fang?"

"Of course, my khan," the naga said.

"Yes, yes," Tasigur huffed. "Take me to him now!"

Shidiqi gestured to the shadows and six zombies came forward. Each group of three was linked
by golden chains that passed through their chests, where their hearts should have been. The
zombies took up positions alongside the throne and, on Shidiqi's command, stooped to lift it
from the ground. The throne swayed, provoking an angry curse from Tasigur, but then steadied
as the zombies followed the naga out of the audience chamber.

As they moved through dim corridors barely wide enough for the throne to pass, Tasigur
fumed. Someone had tried to kill him·someone dared. As if his tasters wouldn't foil the
attempt. As if he couldn't identify the traitor. Someone was about to pay dearly for this idiotic
treachery.

Darkness closed around Tasigur as the naga led him into the rakshasa's chamber. He heard the
soft hiss of Shidiqi's invocation beckoning Khudal from whatever nether regions he occupied,
and a chill washed down Tasigur's spine.

The rakshasa stepped into the dim half-circle of light spilling into the room from the hallway
outside. "My lord." His voice was a rumbling growl befitting his feline head.

"Someone tried to kill me," Tasigur blurted.

"Yes," the demon said. "I have seen it."

"You saw? Then you know who put the poison

in my food? I demand that you tell me this
instant!"

"You demand it?" The rakshasa sounded

amused, and Tasigur's fury boiled.

"Yes!" he shouted. "I am the Golden Fang,

Rakshasa Vizier | Art by Nils Hamm khan of the Sultai, and my demands must be
answered!"

"Indeed," the rakshasa said, nodding the

slightest of bows, showing more mockery than deference.
Tasigur's face flushed. "Tell me who is responsible."

"I possess the knowledge you seek," Khudal said. "I ask only the smallest favor in exchange for
my service to my khan."

"Your duty is to serve your khan·you are bound to give me this information." Tasigur thought
he saw the rakshasa and Shidiqi exchange a glance, and he softened his tone. "However, I am a
kind and beneficent lord, and I show favor to those who please me." Even if their service is
unwilling, he thought. "What favor would you ask?"

The rakshasa's feline mouth twitched with what might have been a hint of a smirk. "After I
name the traitor, my khan, I ask that you carry out whatever punishment you see fit·short of
claiming the traitor's life. I would take that life myself, in order to feed on the traitor's soul."

Tasigur shrugged. "A small enough favor. Name the traitor."

"Yala, whom you honored before your throne yesterday, has done this."

Anger seized the khan, leaving him speechless and trembling. That this so-called hero should
betray him after receiving his commendation, that his herald should bring someone so vile into
his presence·it was too much to be borne. He waved his hands to the naga, who led the
zombies in slowly turning the throne around. Khudal disappeared back into the shadows.

By the time the shuffling procession made it back to his audience chamber, Tasigur had found
his voice.

"Bring Yala," he snapped. "And her husband. And that blathering herald."

Tasigur shifted in his throne, carefully crafting the appearance of perfect unconcern. He pulled
at a strand of his razor-tipped whip, bringing it in line with the other coils in his right hand.
Then he draped his left arm over the arm of the throne just so. Satisfied, he turned his head·
careful not to move anything else·to address the nearest human servant.

"How long has the traitor been waiting?"

"Three hours, my khan."

"Perfect. And her husband·is he prepared?"

Shidiqi slid closer to the back of his throne and hissed. "Yes, Khan."

"Excellent. Bring her in."

The large doors at the far end of the audience chamber ground open and a new herald led Yala
back into his presence. Tasigur smiled, seeing fear and anger warring on her face despite her
best efforts to keep calm. It was all he could do to sit still as she walked to the same position she
had occupied the day before and the herald withdrew.

"Welcome once again, hero of the Sultai!" he said warmly.

She bowed deeply. "Thank you, my khan."

"I owe you an apology," Tasigur said. "In my impatience yesterday, eager for the tedious
ceremony to come to an end, I neglected to give you a gift in recognition of your heroism."

"Your praise is gift enough."

"Oh, no. Let it never be said that the khan of the Sultai withholds what is due to his faithful
servants!" He waved absently, beckoning a zombie forward.

The fresh corpse shuffled out from the shadows, carrying a velvet pillow. Tasigur watched
Yala's face, savoring the anticipation.

The blood drained from her face as she

recognized the zombie and fell to her knees.
Staring aghast at the animated corpse of her
husband, she mouthed his name, but no sound
emerged.

"No, the hero of the Sultai need not kneel

before me!" Tasigur said, beckoning two burly
servants forward. They flanked Yala and lifted
her roughly to her feet, bringing her face to face
with her husband and his lifeless eyes. She
turned her head away. Sultai Emissary | Art by Mathias Kollros

The zombie tried to shift its pillow into one

hand, but dropped it. A necklace clattered on
the stone floor.

"Clumsy oaf!" Tasigur snapped. "Pick it up!"

The zombie shuffled a few steps and lifted the necklace, then turned back to Yala. With a lurch,
it put the necklace over her head, brushing her cheek with one cold hand. She winced and tried
to pull away, but the servants held her fast.

"Please accept this token of my gratitude for your heroic deeds," Tasigur drawled.

Yala looked past her husband's lifeless eyes to glare at the khan. Sneering back at her, he
snapped his fingers.

Yala's eyes and mouth went wide as the necklace tightened around her neck. She pulled free of
the servants' grasp and clutched at the garrote, trying in vain to get her fingers under it.

Tasigur stood. "That is how you see yourself, is it not? A hero, a champion of the people,
sneaking into your khan's palace in the dark of night to poison my food?"

He stepped down onto the back of the zombie that served as his footstool, prostrated on the
floor before his throne.

"Did you think to claim my throne for yourself?" he said. "Yala Dragonslayer, khan of the
Sultai?"

She fell to her knees, and Tasigur snapped his fingers again. The necklace loosened, and Yala
drew a long, gasping breath as she bent her purpling face to the floor.

"Bind her hands and show me her back," Tasigur whispered, and the servants flanking her
roughly obeyed. He let the coils of his whip fall from his hand, the silver razors on its many ends
clattering on the stone.

"No, my khan," Yala said, still panting. "I am loyal to the Golden Fang!"

His whip cracked and Yala screamed as the razors tore through silk and skin to draw their
crimson lines across her back. He dangled the silver claws over the wounds, savoring her pain.
Khudal wanted her alive, he reminded himself, so he could not enjoy too many lashes.

With the fourth lash, she could no longer scream. Sighing, he carefully coiled the whip again
and laid it on his throne. The servants hauled her to her feet and held her up within the khan's
reach.

Tasigur closed his eyes in a moment of concentration, and his hands began to glow with a
purplish light. Grinning, he sunk his fingers into Yala's head and sifted through her thoughts.

So much delightful pain and horror, so much

fear, so much burning hatred. He prodded at
the hate he found, looking for her memories of
her treachery. His smile faded. Yala
remembered spending the evening celebrating
with friends, falling asleep in her husband's
arms, and greeting the morning with a smile
born of well-earned pride. Nowhere could he
find evidence that she had poisoned his food.

Snarling his frustration and disgust, he

Tasigur's Cruelty | Art by Chris Rahn wrenched his fingers and snuffed out what little
remained of her life.

Every light in the chamber went out at once,

draping the chamber in utter darkness. Chaos erupted everywhere as servants tried to find the
torches and light them again. And Tasigur heard a whisper in his ear.

"You swore that I could feast on her soul," Khudal said.

Tasigur clenched his fists. "You lied to me," he muttered.

"You have robbed me of what was rightfully mine."

A torch sputtered to life, and Tasigur turned to face the rakshasa. "You lied! Yala was not the
poisoner!"

"No," Khudal said. "The poison was mine."

"Yours? You sought to kill me?"

"If I wanted you dead, young princeling, you

would be dead."

"But you·the poison·"

"I wanted Yala dead, and now she is dead."

"You lied to me!" Tasigur said again, his voice

growing louder as more torches drove the
darkness away.
Rakshasa's Disdain | Art by Seb
"Of course I did." McKinnon

"All for the sake of killing that woman?"

"You're a petulant child, Tasigur," the rakshasa said. "Look at you, throwing a tantrum,
quivering with impotent rage. And why? You got what you wanted·a victim to beat and kill.
But I wanted her soul, and you have denied me that prize. That was a mistake you will long
regret."

"No, you are the one who has made a mistake," Tasigur said. He raised his voice to make sure
everyone in the room could hear. "With your lies and your poison you have shown your
disloyalty. Seize the traitor!"

No one moved. The rakshasa snarled. "You are a fool as well as a child. Humans rule the Sultai
only because the rakshasa and the naga allow it to be so. And your insolence will end that
indulgence."

The razor-tipped whip lashed out from Tasigur's hand and cracked in the air where the rakshasa
had been standing.

Khudal's voice seemed to come from the shadows, pooling in every corner of the room: "And so
the Sultai fall."

Tasigur felt him go·the room seemed a little lighter, the air not quite so oppressive. He
gathered the coils of his whip and sat on his throne. "Shidiqi!" he called.

The naga hissed in the darkness behind him, and his neck suddenly prickled with fear. Was he
surrounded by treachery?

"Shidiqi, come and bow before me!"

"And so the Sultai fall," the naga echoed, and she was gone, too.

Shifting uncomfortably on his throne, Tasigur

reached absently for a piece of fruit, but no
bowl-skulled zombie stood ready at his left
hand. All the zombies were gone. Without the
naga and their necromancy, no one could keep
them under control. Some of them had simply
shuffled away. Some had gone berserk, clawing
and biting at any living person in reach until
soldiers put them down. And some had tugged
at their chains until their rotting bodies
crumbled and sloughed away to nothing.
Will of the Naga | Art by Wayne Reynolds
He cleared his throat, the sound echoing much
more loudly than he'd intended in the mostly
empty hall. Half his palace soldiers were gone,
either killed in the recent Abzan raids·intolerable, that they should have reached so far into
Sultai lands!·or deserted, no longer afraid of his wrath.

And so the Sultai fall. The words had echoed in his mind since Khudal and the naga left. The
months since had been one long slide into a perfect fulfillment of those prophetic words. The
Abzan and the Jeskai launched frequent raids, stealing Sultai goods and capturing Sultai people
·or liberating members of their own clans who the Sultai had captured before, when they were
strong. The people were hungry·I am hungry! Tasigur thought·and with every new assault
more soldiers deserted, more Sultai citizens welcomed the arrival of enemy forces.

As Tasigur's gurgling stomach announced its displeasure in the echoing hall, a young servant
came to his side bearing a tray of food. Tasigur lifted a plate and brought it close to his face,
peering at the scant morsels for anything that looked amiss. The naga schemed against him, he
was sure, and he had no doubt that they would find a way to slip their venom into his food
before long. He couldn't spare servants to taste his food for him anymore, so he speared a piece
of unidentifiable meat on his knife and sniffed at it, then touched it gingerly with the tip of his
tongue. It didn't smell or taste good, but it didn't seem toxic, and his stomach rumbled again in
anticipation. Sighing, he put it in his mouth. Better to die of poison than starvation, he thought.

No sooner had he swallowed that first bite than a herald·another new one·came bursting into
the hall. "Dragon!" he cried, and a wave of terror washed through the room.

"Here?" Tasigur asked, standing on his wooden footstool.

As if in answer, a chorus of shouts erupted outside·cries of warning, the screams of the dying,
incoherent sounds of terror·followed in a moment by the wafting smell of something acrid and
vile.

"Close the doors!" Tasigur shouted. "Take me to the inner chambers!" Servants rushed to obey
his commands as a handful of soldiers took up positions near the great doors, ready to defend
their khan if the dragon came too close. Six shuffling servants·strong enough to lift his throne
but unable to fight by virtue of other injuries·
carried him out through the back, into his
private chambers deep inside the great palace of
the Sultai.

And there the khan cowered in fear until the

noise died down.

Tasigur stood on the banks of the Marang river.

His feet had never touched earth before that
day, and they were sinking into cold mud that Palace Siege | Art by Slawomir Maniak
oozed between his toes.

A mass of troops formed a semicircle around

him. Across the river stood the first dragon Tasigur had ever seen, larger than he could ever
have imagined·the progenitor of the entire Silumgar brood. Awe and terror churned in his gut,
making his head swim.

"Great dragonlord Silumgar!" he shouted. His voice seemed small and weak in the forest, barely
audible over the rushing water. He wasn't sure the dragon could hear him at all.

"I bring you an offering!" he said anyway, and

he beckoned behind him.

Six of his soldiers came forward, carrying the

throne he had forsaken. The jade seat was laden
with gold and jewels·a fortune beyond what
any mere soldier could comprehend. Tasigur
dearly hoped it was enough.

The dragon sniffed at the air and stretched his

neck out over the water. Then he coiled back,
Silumgar, the Drifting Death | Art by stretching his wings wide as his legs curled
Steven Belledin beneath him, and sprang.
Tasigur felt death descending on him, blotting
out the light of the sun. He fell to his knees and
planted his hands in the mud. Death, the death of all things, the end of the Sultai and the end
of the world, were all embodied in this magnificent scaled god. Not daring to lift his head, he
watched his hands as the earth slowly swallowed them up.
No End and No Beginning
BY NIK DAVIDSON

Several years have passed since Sarkhan Vol altered the fate of Tarkir by saving Ugin from the
villainous Nicol Bolas and encasing the ailing Spirit Dragon in a cocoon of stone. Since then,
the dragon tempests that spawn young dragons on Tarkir have not only continued·they have
intensified·as though enraged at Ugin's injury.

Few on Tarkir know the reason for the storms' fury, but all can see the effects. What was once a
delicate balance between clans and dragons is becoming an all-out rout. Every month brings
new dragons and new losses.

In the Shifting Wastes, the Abzan Houses face off against foes at least as adept at desert survival
as they are: the great dragon Dromoka and her brood. With nowhere to hide, the Abzan have
lost more to the dragons' renewed assault than any other clan.

Daghatar, khan of the Abzan, must choose his course wisely if his people are to endure.

The winds howled over the stone citadel of Mer-Ek, seat of the Abzan khan. The storms had
become more frequent over the last year, and there was rarely much of a respite between them.
The winds were constant, and in the desert, they were deadly. At their strongest, the winds and
sand could flay the flesh from an ibex, or an unprotected person. The fortresses moved less
often. Food and water reserves were at their lowest level in the clan's history. But no storm
could ever be crisis enough to bring the Abzan elders from the corners of the empire back to
their seat of power.

Daghatar, khan of the Abzan, sat at the head of a long marble table. It was scratched and
scored, stained and worn by the generations of councils that had been held on the spot. Every
seat was filled; twenty of the clan's finest and wisest were in attendance, and per the tradition
that he had reinstated from Burak Khan, Daghatar did not speak until he had heard the words
of each of his advisors in full. He would speak last, and his would be the final words on the
matter.

Knowing that, his advisors had been talking and arguing for two hours. It was an existential
crisis for the clan, and none wanted a decision to be made without the surety that they had been
heard in full. Daghatar rested his chin on his hand, weary but attentive, as the battle raged in
front of him.

"What you suggest is absurd! You speak of Dromoka's brood as if they were force of nature. In
the last six months alone, my warriors have brought down three dragons. That's in addition to
the two that our khan struck down himself with that mace of his! I'm not talking about whelps,
either·the one they called Korolar had a wingspan of twenty yards! Yes, we've had losses, but
we can win this fight!" The speaker was Reyhan, joint commander of the forces of three Houses,
and the only military leader to achieve any consistent success in the past two years. "Assuming
you cowards don't decide to give up on us." She glared around the table. Fewer and fewer
people were able to meet her gaze.

The man at Daghatar's right began to clap,

slowly. "Yes, well done. Well done! And did
you hang your trophies across your gates like
some Mardu savage? Twenty yards! A mighty
victory. Five in six months! An amazing feat.
Yet in that time, how many dragons were
birthed from the storms?" This was Merel,
Daghatar's uncle·a man who refused the
khanship himself in his younger days. "My
scouts have identified sixteen. And those are
Daghatar the Adamant | Art by Zack Stella
just my scouts. Dromoka perches not twenty-
five miles from here, and she summons more
and more through the storms to her side. She
doesn't just command the other dragons' obedience, she commands an army. And I don't think
I need to remind anyone of what happened when we faced her directly. Reyhan, you are a
master of the war of attrition. My math may be a little rusty, but please, enlighten me as to why
you think this could possibly turn in our favor?"

Daghatar's frown deepened. He had held out hope that the Abzan leaders could all come
together, and that their collective wisdom would provide a path that he had not already
conceived. But instead, they seemed only to confirm his deepest fears.

Reyhan glared. "I've heard a lot of criticism out of you, old man, and no solutions. None of you
have offered a better plan than resistance. My solution is simple. We pool our remaining forces,
and we go straight to the source. We call up all of our fighting men and women, we call up
every ancestor willing to listen, and we strike at the brood's heart. We bring down Dromoka,
and her brood will scatter. The rest of Tarkir can fend for itself until the storms relent and the
winds change. As we have always done."

Merel's retort was barely a whisper. His eyes shone with regret. "You weren't there, Reyhan.
You didn't see what she did to us. We lost over a thousand soldiers, and we never scratched her.
What you advocate is the end of the Abzan."

Silence fell over the room. Reyhan's face

softened, and she hung her head. "I have heard
nothing today that does not lead to that
destination, old friend. I'm trying to offer us a
fragment of hope, or failing that, an end we can
be proud of."

Nobody spoke. All that needed to be said had

been said, and the truth lay bare on the table
before them. Daghatar stood, and everyone
straightened in their seats.
"I have heard your wise counsel, and I thank Citadel Siege | Art by Steven Belledin
each of you for it. On one hand, we have a war
we are unlikely to win. On the other, we have a
siege we are unlikely to survive. I will not
understate this: we may be facing the end of the Abzan. As such, I will not act hastily. The
ancestors must be consulted. But whatever is decided, I will be with you until the end. You are
dismissed."

The khan's chambers were austere. Daghatar was a wealthy man from a powerful family, but
none of that was on display in the one space he did not have to share with anyone else. No
servants cleaned his room, and no visitors ever saw the inside of it. It was an oddity for a people
that prided themselves so much on community, but he was the khan, and he was due his
occasional eccentricity. Still, he was not truly alone there. Not with the Remembrance.

It watched him enter, and he felt its glare upon him. It was the burden of every khan, going
back a dozen generations. It rested in a place of honor, and it was an inspiration to the people
that beheld it. Not so to the handful who had borne it. To them, it was a terrifying burden. But
in dark times, it was a weapon and a resource like none other.

The Remembrance.

It was said that it came from one of the first kin-trees, bound up with the spirits of some of the
very first Abzan, the ones who survived, the ones who learned, the ones who persevered when
life itself seemed impossible. These great spirits nurtured that sapling into a mighty, towering
tree. Those branches rose higher than the walls of Mer-Ek, higher, it was said, than the far-away
spires of the Jeskai, a veritable mountain of wood and bark and leaves, growing, thriving, despite
the harshness of the desert. Daghatar often thought it must have been an affront to the heavens,
and so the heavens finally brought it low. In the middle of a great storm, lightning struck,
shattering the tree to its core. There, they found it. The tree's ancient amber heart, pulsing with
the power of the long-dead, merged into a single consciousness. The amber heart was forged
into the head of a mace, and it had been carried by the Abzan khans ever since.

If he had known what it truly was, Daghatar might have never accepted the title.

The amber swirled and pulsed with a fluid light·its movement quickened as it sensed his
approach. He reached out for it and hesitated slightly before he gripped the hide-wrapped
handle. The voice pounded his mind like a stampeding beast.

"Coward. Weakling. You have been avoiding us. Do you fear your duty so much?"

Daghatar respectfully lifted the mace and cradled the amber head in his left hand. The elders
had not provided the guidance he needed, but the ancestors had never failed him. He sat down,
took a deep breath, and tried to keep the weariness and resentment out of his voice. "On the
contrary. I fear what might happen if my duty is left undone. But yes, I have been contenting
myself with the wise counsel of the living."

"The living. Yes. So afraid of what you might lose, you lose sight of what you are responsible
for. Your duties are larger than a life, or ten thousand lives. Your duties are to every Abzan who
will ever live."

Daghatar closed his eyes. "With the way we are

headed, that will not be a terribly large
number."

He felt a wave of contempt from the amber

heart. "Only if you fail. Have you already
softened to the idea of failure? Will it comfort
you as you die, as you reconcile the annihilation
that you have consigned your people to, that
your road was a hard one?"

Abzan Ascendancy | Art by Mark Winters "I am willing to accept your abuse in return for
your advice. There are two options available to
us, and neither seems to have much of a
chance. Dromoka and her brood are like no
other dragons. They are powerful, yes, but they also protect each other. They work in concert,
and they are inured to the harshness of the desert. We are at war with a foe that possesses our
own strengths in greater quantity than we do. We can do what we have always done, keep our
defenses tight, but the dragons are growing in both number and power, and our supplies will
not last forever. Or, we can strike at the leader of their brood, and hope that the rest will scatter
to other regions.

"But I wonder if even that would be enough. I have heard from some of the other khans, and
there is nowhere in Tarkir that has been spared the dragon tempests. We might repel one
brood, but another would almost certainly take its place in time. If there is a third option, I have
not yet discovered it. So what would you have me do?"

There was a brief silence from the Remembrance.

"The first crisis you came to me with. Such a trifling matter. You had lost a patrol, it was
captured by the Sultai, and you wanted to mount a rescue effort. You wept when I forced the
truth upon you, that the hardest thing a khan must do is lose, and survive to win the next battle.
You would have lost five times the number in the recovery than you lost to the Sultai. You
punished them in the next season, and the spirits of the fallen were brought home again. That is
what it means to be Abzan. To suffer a defeat and yet lose none of your strength. You will do
this again. The strength of the Abzan is enough to overcome this beast, and no matter how
many you lose, you will ensure that there is a future for those who remain. Daghatar Khan, are
you prepared to do what must be done?"

The khan pondered the words of the Remembrance for a long time.

"Yes. I believe I am."

The skies were clear, but the wind was strong. Daghatar's helm echoed with the constant
beating of sand against the steel. His mask kept out the worst of it, but he still had to squint as
he and his company approached the meeting place. A large outcropping of rocks came into
view. Merel's posture changed, but he kept up alongside his nephew·it was the site of the first
battle with Dromoka. A thousand Abzan had fallen on these dunes, but time and the desert had
washed away any trace of the dead. Still, it was a sacred place; a momentous place. Daghatar
could feel it.

As they approached, he could see a handful of

people waiting for them among the stones.
Most of them dressed in Abzan fashion,
although they no longer bore the insignia of any
house. An instinctive hatred of these men
welled up in the khan, but he knew it for what it
was. He gripped the Remembrance, and kept
marching into the oncoming gale.

The stones provided some shelter from the

wind, and Daghatar's men loosened their masks
and helms enough to take a drink of water. The Plains | Art by Noah Bradley
khan looked at the faces of the envoys, and kept
his face a blank. The envoys bowed low, and
Daghatar returned the gesture.

"Daghatar, khan of the Abzan. On behalf of the Eternal, we welcome you. I am Sohemus."

"You welcome me to my own land, Sohemus. Although given the circumstances, I accept. But
I'm not here to speak with you. Where is your master?"

Sohemus bowed his shaven head low. He had the look of a Jeskai pilgrim about him. "She will
be joining us when it suits her. But in the meantime, I will let you know of the protocols that
must be followed. When you speak, look at her. She will speak only Draconic, and I will
translate. Do not look at or address me in any way."

Daghatar cocked his head slightly, then nodded. "Very well. Anything else?"

"I wish only to remind you that she has not granted any state of truce for this meeting. Given
what she accuses your people of, we make no guarantee of your safety."

"What?" Daghatar's heart raced as fury washed over him. "What she accuses us of?"

Sohemus bowed low, extending his empty palms. "It is not for me to discuss." Sohemus
flinched, and a strange smile crossed his face. "Ah. You will not need to wait any longer. She
comes."

Daghatar looked to the sky and saw nothing but the blinding light of the sun. Then, the light
relented. A giant form descended from above, wings so large that they eclipsed the windstorm.
The men below felt pulse after pulse of air forced down from above, as the dragon landed in
front of them. Dromoka was enormous, easily three times the size of the largest Ivorytusk
 Daghatar had ever seen. Her scales were thick,
ranging from bronze to pearl, and not a single
one seemed to bear a scratch. Thousands of
arrows, spears and swords had broken against
those scales. Here they were, Daghatar thought,
completely unmarred for the effort.

The khan stepped out and bowed. The dragon

lowered her head slightly in return. She seemed
to be studying him, like a person might upon
seeing an unfamiliar kind of beetle. The dragon
Dromoka, the Eternal | Art by Eric spoke, a rumbling, scraping sound unlike any
Deschamps he had ever heard before. He resisted the
instinct to turn toward Sohemus as he
translated.

"I grant you this audience, Daghatar of the Abzan, although I do not understand what you hope
to achieve by it."

Daghatar stared up at the dragon. He felt like he was addressing a fortress. "Great and powerful
Dromoka. I have come here to seek an end to the hostilities between the Abzan and your
brood."

The dragon made a sound, a rumble that felt like an earthquake in his chest. It took a moment
for Daghatar to realize it was laughter. Sohemus translated what followed. "That will not be
possible. Your tribe of necromancers is a stain on her land that she cannot tolerate."

"What? Necromancers? I don't understand. You speak of the Sultai, Dromoka. We have never
practiced their foul arts."

The dragon lowered her enormous head down to look Daghatar almost in the eye. Her
expression seemed curious. When she spoke, the heat from her mouth eclipsed the burning sun.

"You bind your dead to serve you. Necromancy. You even bring such a dark spirit into her
presence, and you look at her and deny it? Yet you seem earnest. Explain this contradiction."

Daghatar looked down at the Remembrance.

"You misunderstand. These are our honored
ancestors. Their wisdom helps guide us. It is
tradition, our way. We cannot·"

She cut him off, the Draconic speech a bellow

of noise. Sohemus cringed before her outburst,
and paused before translating.

"The living serve the living, and the dead pass

from us. This is the natural way, and⁄she has
strong objections to those who defy it." The Rally the Ancestors | Art by Nils Hamm
dragon continued, in a softer voice. "Dromoka
wishes you to know that she has studied your
people, and she finds much to respect. You
serve one another with courage and are stronger together than apart. You understand sacrifice
and strength. Even your tradition of krumar is not unlike what she has instituted among those
humans who have pledged ourselves to her. But as long as your people are tainted by
necromancy, our brood will continue to wipe yours clean from the desert."

Daghatar stared into the eyes of the dragon for a long time.

The Remembrance's voice assaulted Daghatar's mind. "Fool. You will not let this opportunity
pass you by. You are not here under a banner of truce, and this beast has promised to kill us all.
You will never get this close again. Raise me up. Strike your enemy down, now."

Daghatar gripped the Remembrance's hilt. He steadied himself, and stepped forward.

"Dromoka, our ancestors have guided us for centuries. And I will share with you the truest
advice that they have ever given me. They reminded me that a khan's duties are larger than a
life, or ten thousand lives. I have a responsibility to the lives of every one of our descendants,
until the end of days. That to be Abzan, we must suffer a defeat, and yet lose none of our
strength. That we must do what is necessary, even if it is hard. Even if it is unthinkable."

He strode up to the dragon, fearless. Dromoka did not flinch, even as he walked up within an
arm's length. He could feel the Remembrance, pulsing with power and anticipation. He
whispered under his breath as he raised the mace.

"Forgive me."

Daghatar slammed the head of the mace down on the stone beneath his feet. The amber
cracked, and the voice of the Remembrance exploded into a thousand screams of agony and
rage. He slammed it down again, and again, until it shattered into a thousand shimmering
shards. The voice went silent. The ancestors were gone.

He released a slow breath, and bent his knee.

"Merel. You will take word to every house.
Uproot every kin-tree. The practice of
necromancy is hereby forbidden." He looked up
at Dromoka. "I trust this will be sufficient?"

The dragon nodded.

Merel suddenly looked much older. "Son,

entire Houses will rebel. You're talking about
turning our backs on all our traditions. The
Shatter | Art by Tim Hildebrandt destruction of our ancestors! About civil war!"
"Yes. But there will be a future for those of us
 who remain."

He looked down at the shards of the Remembrance in silence. As the wind blew, the shards
were carried away, shining motes lost to the sand. In just minutes, there was no trace to be
found.
Khanfall
BY KELLY DIGGES

Several years have passed since Sarkhan Vol saved Ugin from death at the hands of Nicol Bolas.
More than a thousand years before Sarkhan's home era, Ugin lives, asleep in his hedron cocoon.
Sarkhan Vol disappeared into the time streams, swept away to an uncertain fate.

For Sarkhan, for Ugin, and perhaps for the Multiverse as a whole, this is welcome news. But for
the clans of Tarkir, Sarkhan's actions have brought tremendous hardship. The dragon tempests
have intensified, and the clans are being overrun. Daghatar, khan of the Abzan, recently
abdicated in favor of the dragon Dromoka in a desperate bid to save his people.

High in the mountains of the Jeskai, the khan Shu Yun has convened an unprecedented
summit, a meeting of minds that must do the impossible·or the khans themselves will vanish
into history.

"Although they seem at odds, the clans live in subtle harmony," said Shu Yun. He paced as he
dictated. The only sounds in the high tower room were his own quiet footfalls and the soft
whisper of an inked brush on paper.

"The Abzan promote stability and trade, patrolling the roadways. The Mardu range far and
wide, killing dragons that might otherwise grow to menace the other clans. The Temur are
hardy folk with deep spiritual roots, and their shamans warn the other clans of dangers lurking
unseen. Even the Sultai, untrustworthy although they may be, keep the pests and horrors of the
swamplands under control. And the Jeskai, above the rest in their mountain monasteries, serve
as Tarkir's memory, keeping records of the tales, secrets, and truths that might otherwise pass
into the tumult of history."

As he spoke, a shaven-headed initiate entered

and knelt patiently. Shu Yun knew she would
wait for hours if he made her, but it would take
something extraordinary to justify that. This
was just his pet project, a history of Tarkir,
although admittedly it had grown more urgent
of late.

"Yes?" he said.

"Master," said the initiate, rising and bowing.

Shu Yun, the Silent Tempest | Art by "The final delegates have arrived."
David Gaillet
"Thank you," he said. "Show them to their
quarters, and see that they're comfortable. They
will complain about the cold. Rest assured that
this does not reflect poorly on our hospitality, only our geography."

She bowed.

"Ask all of them to meet me here in one hour," said Shu Yun, "under minimal guard."

He would learn a great deal from who arrived first, and what sort of guard each of the khans
considered minimal.

"And remember to call them khan," he said, smiling. "It is their way."

The initiate hurried out, and Shu Yun turned to his most trusted scribe, Quan. When Shu Yun
had set out for this summit, he brought Quan with him. There was no scribe more reliable, and
Quan could write for many hours without stopping.

"That's enough dictation for today," said Shu Yun. "But there will be more for the Annals
before the day is done. How's your hand?"

"As ever, Master," said Quan. "Ready."

"Good," said Shu Yun. "This meeting may be tense, even violent. Whatever happens, write it
down. Our descendants will thank you."

If we have any descendants. It had been years since the dragon tempests had intensified. All
across Tarkir, seemingly in an instant, they went from maintaining the dragons' numbers to
swelling them immensely, great thunderclouds of wings and fangs tumbling out of a boiling sky.
No one knew why, but it no longer mattered. This meeting, this council of khans, was Shu
Yun's desperate effort to improve the odds of survival.

He walked to the window. The air was cold on his bare shoulder, but he noticed it only
distantly, as one might notice clouds on the horizon. That shoulder had been bare for many
decades, ever since he had slain his first dragon and been marked with the winding dragon
tattoo of a ghostfire warrior.

Below him stretched the great lake that

surrounded Dirgur Stronghold and the island
on which it sat. Small boats plied the waters,
ready to scatter if sentries sounded the bells that
signaled the approach of dragons. In the
courtyard below the tower, a small contingent
of Abzan soldiers was filing out of their war
barge. Dirgur was neither the most amenable
nor the most secure of the four great Jeskai
strongholds, but it was the closest to the Salt
Road and the other clans' territories.
Island | Art by Florian de Gesincourt
Shu Yun stared out the window in standing
meditation, losing himself in the whistle of the
wind and the white-capped dance of the distant
waves, waiting for the other khans to break his reverie. Quan, ever vigilant, sat silently behind
him, ready in case this meditative state yielded some sudden addition to the Annals.

The first arrival was the Mardu khan Alesha, who swept in with only two guards in tow·a
towering male orc and a lean, sharp-eyed human woman. Alesha's head was bare, her long hair
flowing loose. She was young, and proud, and Shu Yun wondered whether she would
understand his perspective. She flashed him a predatory grin.

Alesha, Who Smiles at Death | Art by

Anastasia Ovchinnikova

"The Jeskai welcome you," said Shu Yun,

bowing.

"And the Mardu rank and file told me you

could stick it in your ear," said Alesha
cheerfully. "But I'm here. If you're willing to
talk, I'm willing to listen. Hopefully they haven't
chosen a new khan yet."

Her orc bodyguard frowned and said, "They

follow only you, my khan."

Alesha looked back at him, her smile fading.

"And that will be true," she said, "until I lead where they won't follow. This might be it."

"Then I welcome you all the more," said Shu Yun.

After that came Reyhan, a stout woman, armed and armored, who styled herself khan of the
Abzan. Daghatar, longtime khan of the Abzan and a formidable leader, had been bent to a
dragon's service, and had taken most of his clan with him·a shocking turn that had led Shu
Yun to propose this unprecedented meeting. Reyhan was half a khan with a tenth of a clan, and
Shu Yun knew the others would not take her seriously.

Reyhan bowed to Shu Yun and Alesha, exactly

proper. Her honor guard of four Abzan soldiers
took up positions along the wall.

"Welcome," said Shu Yun. "I commend you for

coming. You have the least to spare of any of
us."

"Perhaps," said Reyhan. "But we also have the

most to lose if this effort fails."

Next to arrive was Yasova, khan of the Temur. Dragonscale General | Art by Volkan Baga
Shu Yun had met her once, years before, before
she was khan. Now she looked weary beyond
her years, leaning on her long, claw-tipped staff.
She came alone. Shu Yun bowed in greeting, and Yasova bowed back.

"It's good to see you again, Dragonclaw," said

Shu Yun.

"I can't say the same," said Yasova. "No offense,

but I'd rather none of us were here."

"None taken," said Shu Yun. "I think all of us

would prefer it that way. But this is bigger than
any of us."

Last to arrive, wheezing from the climb and

bundled comically under two people's worth of
Yasova Dragonclaw | Art by Winona
Nelson furs, was Tasigur, the arrogant, treacherous
khan of the arrogant, treacherous Sultai.
Behind him came a full dozen Sultai troops·all
human, noted Shu Yun, and all living·none of
the foul sibsig zombies among them. Tasigur was the youngest and the proudest of all of the
khans, but the last few years had not been kind to him. Worry creased his brow, and he looked
even more wan than usual. He looked around the room with beady eyes.

"I'll be damned," he said quietly. "We're really all here." His eyes fell on Reyhan. "Well, almost
all of us. No offense, of course."

Reyhan's eyes narrowed.

"Welcome, all of you," said Shu Yun. In the corner, Quan brushed quiet calligraphy on a fresh
scroll. "This meeting is unprecedented, and I'm afraid the protocol is rather vague. But I expect
all of us to treat one another with the deference due our station."

"Of course," said Tasigur, bowing. "Forgive my

rudeness, ahhh⁄"

"Reyhan," said the Abzan, through gritted

teeth.

"⁄Reyhan Khan. As I said, I meant no offense,

but only to acknowledge the dire circumstances
in which we all find ourselves."

"Dire circumstances," snorted Alesha. "And if

your own circumstances were better, no doubt
Tasigur, the Golden Fang | Art by Chris
you wouldn't be here at all. The way I hear it,
Rahn
these days you're lord of nothing but scrawny
servants and thirsty bloodflies. Or have the naga
finally returned to hold your hand?"

"Such bravado!" said Tasigur. He rounded on the Mardu khan, although he had to look up
several inches to look her in the eye. "You'd think it came from something more than a glorified
bandit covered in dust and horsesh·"

"Enough!" said Shu Yun.

Alesha's orc bodyguard rested his hand on the haft of his axe.

"That's enough," said Shu Yun. "We are here because all of us, and our clans, are in existential
danger. We can no longer afford to fight each other. We can no longer afford even to fight the
dragons separately. We must stand together, or our ways of life will vanish from the world."

Alesha held Tasigur's gaze for a moment longer, then shrugged. She gestured, and her
bodyguard relaxed.

"Shu Yun is right," she said. "If our circumstances were better, none of us would be here."

"No," said Tasigur, hard-eyed. "We wouldn't."

"Everywhere," said Shu Yun, "dragons are overrunning our homes. No one can deny that the
storms strike more often now, and more intensely. There are simply too many dragons. No one
seems to know the reason for it, what changed. But everyone knows it is true."

"I know the reason," said Yasova quietly.

The other khans turned to her. Shu Yun glanced sharply at Quan, who was too busy writing
even to notice his khan's eyes on him. Good.

Yasova slumped. She looked tired. Defeated. Shu Yun found that far more dispiriting than the
squabbling of the younger, prouder khans.

"It was years ago," said Yasova. "I was on⁄a vision quest, of sorts. I had foreseen that the
dragon storms would cease if I⁄" She grimaced. "I know how it will sound. But I saw that the
storms would cease if I helped a malevolent dragon spirit kill the great Ugin."

There was murmuring. Everyone knew the name Ugin, even if no one understood exactly what
he was. The Jeskai knew him as a font of wisdom, the source of the magic that concealed them
against the predations of dragons.

"You sought⁄to kill the Spirit Dragon?" said Shu Yun.

"I had to!" said Yasova. "Your people die to the dragons, just as much as mine. If you thought
you had the slightest chance to end the tempests, to bring the dragons under control, wouldn't
you take it?"

"Ending the storms would do more than bring the dragons under control," said Alesha. "It
would eradicate them."

"Killing Ugin would stop the tempests?" said

Tasigur. His eyes were greedy. "We could end
the dragons once and for all?"

Yasova shook her head.

"I was a fool," she said. "Ugin is power. He is a

force of nature. Even with the help of a spirit,
how could I have thought it possible to destroy
him? How could I have thought it wise?"
Mastery of the Unseen | Art by Daniel
Ljunggren "What happened?" asked Reyhan.

"I led the spirit to him," she said. "I showed it

the way. In the skies above the tundra, the two
dragon spirits fought. The world shook."

"I remember tremors," said Shu Yun, "just

before the storms intensified."

"Everything was coming true. The other spirit

cast Ugin down and vanished. Then⁄then he
came. Another spirit. He appeared to me first as
a vagrant, then as a great dragon of no breed I
have ever seen. He called himself sar-khan,
great khan. He told me of a future with no
dragons in it, but not the prosperous future I
had seen. A future where the khans fell to
infighting and Tarkir was a place of ruin and Crux of Fate | Art by Michael Komarck
war.

"Ugin's body struck the earth, and in that

moment I knew that the sar-khan was right. Ugin was dying, and a vital force in the world was
dying with him. The storms were dying with him. For a moment, everything was still. The sar-
khan was wounded. I healed him, thinking to interrogate him, certain I had won, no longer
certain I was right to. But he⁄he used some kind of magic I've never seen before. He encased
Ugin in a great stone cocoon inscribed with draconic runes. The stillness ended. The tempests
returned fourfold, the sky howling with fury at my presumption. And the sar-khan was gone,
vanished back into whatever spirit world he came from.

"I didn't know what to do. Everything was worse than when I started. I tried to contact the
other dragon spirit, to tell him that Ugin yet lived, to implore him to finish the job. I tried to
breach the stone myself, with every force at my disposal. I even tried to heal Ugin through the
stone, to beg him to calm the tempests and at least return things to the way they were. Not a
hint. Not a scratch. Not a breath. The cocoon yet stands, and Ugin lies within it. The storms
have raged ever since."

For a moment, no one said anything.

"You," said Reyhan. "You let this happen. You

made it happen. You've killed thousands of my
kinsmen, forced thousands more to bend the
knee to a dragon! Do you have any idea what
you've caused?"

Yasova took a deep breath, but said nothing.

Crucible of the Spirit Dragon | Art by Jung "Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
Park said Reyhan. "Any reason at all I shouldn't drag
you back to the only free Abzan fortress left and
hang you from the walls for everyone to see?"

Shu Yun interposed himself between Reyhan and Yasova. The summit was his idea, under his
truce, and he wouldn't see it end in violence.

"No," said Yasova. "None. I came here alone. I left my clan behind. If you want to kill me for
what I've done, kill me. I just wanted to make sure that someone knew the truth."

A brush moved across paper.

"You did what you thought was right," said Alesha. "No one can fault you for that."

Reyhan frowned, but nodded.

"I have no interest in placing blame," said Shu Yun, "or absolving it. The important thing is that
we know more than we did. Perhaps that knowledge will save us."

"Our course is clear," said Reyhan. "We must pool our efforts and open that cocoon."

"Strike down Ugin," said Tasigur. "End the storms."

Yasova looked stricken.

"The Jeskai will not aid any effort to kill the Spirit Dragon," said Shu Yun. "Ugin has always
sought balance. Are your memories so short? He gave us concealment magic, the last time the
dragons seemed to be gaining the upper hand. He values the dragons and the clans alike. If he
were well, this would not be happening."

"Then we open the cocoon and heal him," said Reyhan. "If he truly values balance, he'll
intervene. And if he doesn't, there's always Tasigur's plan."

"He's as likely to punish us as help us," said Alesha. "It's the great dragons we should be
worrying about·they're flourishing in his absence. Forget Ugin. We should focus all our efforts
on killing the brood-lords."
"There's no need for that," said Shu Yun. "The destruction of the dragons is no better than the
destruction of the clans. We must seek balance. We must seek Ugin."

"The time for balance is past," said Tasigur. "We·"

"Wait," said Alesha. "Do you hear that?"

The voices of the khans fell silent, and everyone could hear what she heard: a low, mournful
bell ringing, far to the east. Then another, louder·and another.

"Dragons," said Shu Yun.

He moved quickly to a window on the east wall, not quite running. Out above the lake, heavy
shapes on short wings slid over the water in a V formation, their shadows rippling beneath
them. There were dozens of them. At the head of the formation was the biggest, a malevolent
smear of darkness against the sky.

"Silumgar," said Shu Yun. The great swamp

dragon had never before dared come up into
the mountains. Dragons were highly territorial
·surely Ojutai and his brood would drive them
off.

All the khans save Yasova started giving orders,

sending word to their troops to be ready for
attack.

Then came more bells. To the north.

Silumgar, the Drifting Death | Art by
Shu Yun crossed to a north-facing window. Steven Belledin
Ojutai himself skidded along the surface of the
lake, ice-flecked waves swirling in his wake.
Behind him came at least twenty dragons of his
brood, as graceful as Silumgar's were ponderous. Shu Yun had fought Ojutai, once. He'd been
lucky to survive, and he didn't relish the thought of facing the great dragon again.

"Never thought I'd be so relieved to see a

dragon," said Reyhan. "They'll fight the
others⁄. Won't they?"

The courtyard below became a scene of chaos

as the khans' orders were relayed. The pealing
of the bells was ceaseless, seemingly from every
direction.

Out over the water, the two massive flights of

Ojutai, Soul of Winter | Art by Chase dragons raced toward each other, crashed
Stone together⁄and merged, into a single cloud of
 soaring death that turned and headed straight
for Dirgur Stronghold.

"They're coming here," said Shu Yun. "All of them are coming here."

"Dragons don't cooperate," said Yasova. "It's never happened."

"They might," said Shu Yun, "if they thought they could kill the khans themselves."

"They don't take human servants either," said Reyhan. "Times have changed."

The evidence, soaring toward them across the lake, was incontrovertible.

"How would they know we're here?" asked Alesha. "We flew no banners, any of us. And I doubt
they'd cooperate like this just to attack a stronghold."

"Someone must have told them about our little summit," said Reyhan.

Alesha's hand flew to her weapon, her eyes fixing on Shu Yun like an eagle watching a rabbit.
"Someone did."

The bells tolled. The dragons drew closer. Quan kept writing.

"I did nothing of the sort," said Shu Yun. He ran a hand over his tattoo, which shimmered with
magical light. "No dragon will suffer me to live. Why would I ally with them?"

"You'd forfeit your own life and all of ours if you thought it would save your clan," said Alesha.
Her two bodyguards stood behind her, hands on their weapons.

Shu Yun hesitated.

"Yes," he said finally. He shrugged. "Honestly, I don't think it would."

"Where's Tasigur?" asked Yasova.

All eyes in the room swiveled to Tasigur's guards. Half of them had left as the khans shouted
orders, and the Sultai khan was no longer in the room.

"I thought you'd never ask," said the head of Tasigur's guard, a scarred man in ornate armor.

Alesha and her bodyguards charged, and the room erupted in chaos.

Shu Yun slipped off to the side, keeping one eye on the battle.

"Quan," he said. "Give me the Annals. They must be preserved. There's a room beneath the
stronghold where they'll be safe."

"I'll take them there," said Quan. He started packing them up, frowning as he smudged the still-
wet ink.
"I'll take them faster," said Shu Yun. He
glanced meaningfully to the window. Quan's
eyes widened.

"Master, you cannot," said Quan.

"Are you worried for my safety?" asked Shu

Yun with a smile. "Or the scrolls?"

"The scrolls," said Quan, without hesitation.

"No individual is vital to the clan, but
knowledge is our lifeblood." Scroll of the Masters | Art by Lake
Hurwitz
Shu Yun bowed low.

"You are a wise man," he said. "Give me the

scrolls. That's an order. I will see them preserved, no matter what happens."

Quan finished packing the scrolls into their case and handed it to Shu Yun, bowing. They were
not the entirety of the private history Shu Yun called the Annals of the Sage Eye, but at least the
latest few chapters and the account of that calamitous day would survive, and the rest would be
secure at Sage-Eye Stronghold, at least for a time. Shu Yun strapped the scroll case to his belt.

Tasigur's guards were dead, along with two of the Abzan, and Alesha was cleaning the scarred
man's blood off her blade. Reyhan was nursing a wound to her shoulder, but Yasova's magic
was already knitting it together.

"Come on," said Alesha. She was smiling again·that unnerving, mirthless smile. "The khans,
standing together against the dragons. Not quite what you were hoping for, but it'll have to do."

Shu Yun bowed. "I'm afraid I have a different role to play," he said. "Good fortune and good
hunting. Do not underestimate Ojutai·he is as cunning as anyone alive. And if you find
Tasigur⁄remind him that he came here under truce."

Shu Yun glanced out the window. The skies around the tower were thick with dragons of two
different broods, searing cold and corrosive acid blasting out of dragons' mouths. He unfocused
his eyes, found his moment, and jumped.

Wind rushed past him. Then a surface slammed into his feet·the scaly, slippery hide of one of
Silumgar's dragons. He crouched low, unbalanced by the bulky scrolls. It had been much like
that, his first kill. No ropes, no assistance, just a foolhardy young man and a very unlucky
dragon. His dragon tattoo flashed with magical energy, and he slammed his palm into a very
particular spot on the dragon's skull.

The dragon shuddered, rolled, and began to fall. A glob of its corrosive spittle hissed against
Shu Yun's sleeve.

He held on tight as the dragon's half-gliding, unconscious body spiraled toward the ground. At
the last moment, Shu Yun sprang off the dragon's back, spun in the air, and landed on his feet
in a low crouch. The dragon landed face-first
behind him with a wet crunch.

The courtyard was a mess of running soldiers,

strafing dragons, and a mounting pile of
corpses. Shu Yun ran for the gates of the
stronghold.

Inside, Shu Yun ran past troops rushing the

opposite direction. He wove a very particular
Pressure Point | Art by Chase Stone path, through hallways and down stairwells, to
a nondescript room deep beneath the
stronghold. He thanked fortune and fate that
he'd spent time at Dirgur in his youth and knew
its secret places.

He pushed open the door. The room was dusty and long unused. He tucked the scroll case into
a corner, turned, and left. There was a lock on the door, and a key in the lock. He shut the
door, took the key, swallowed it with a shudder, and ran back to the courtyard.

He blinked in the sunlight. There were many more humanoid corpses, and only a few of
dragons. Globs of smoking black liquid and patches of ice marred the courtyard and the walls of
the buildings.

A shadow passed over him, and then a massive form settled gracefully to the ground in front of
him: Ojutai himself, looming above him, elegant head cocked to one side.

"Ojutai," he said. He spread his arms wide,

palms out. "You know who I am. You know
what I've done. Once I dreamed of facing you
again, of testing my skill against yours. But I
come to you now with a different purpose."

He dropped to his knees, looking up at Ojutai.

Past the dragon, in the window of the high
tower, Quan looked down. Shu Yun nodded,
and Quan bowed his head.

"Kill me," he said. "Kill everyone who bears the

mark of a dragon slayer, if you must. I offer you Monastery Siege | Art by Mark Winters
my life. But please, I beg you, as one teacher to
another⁄spare my clan."

Ojutai barked a stream of harsh Draconic syllables. An aven landed next to the dragon, wearing
clothes Shu Yun didn't recognize. The aven·Ojutai's translator, it seemed·rendered the
dragon's speech into words:
"The dragonlord agrees to your terms."

Ojutai's jaws opened, and the cold that poured out of them was the heart of a glacier, the end of
the world.

The khan of the Jeskai fell.

Quan saw his master die, crusted with rime and frozen into a pose of abject supplication. No
individual is vital to the clan, he'd said. But Shu Yun was close.

Yasova, Alesha, and Reyhan had pooled their efforts. Reyhan stayed behind with her troops,
fighting off dragons, until they were overwhelmed. Reyhan was felled by Silumgar himself.
Yasova and Alesha boarded a small, swift boat with Alesha's bodyguards. Quan watched them
sail away, as Temur magic and Mardu archery sent their dragon pursuers crashing into the lake,
until they reached the far shore and whatever safety the Salt Road could offer. By that time the
battle was over, and Quan had done nothing. He was an artisan and historian, not a fighter. It
was his role to watch.

Silumgar and his dragons were gone, too, chased away by Ojutai's brood as soon as the
hostilities ended. Quan thought he saw one of them carrying a human.

Down in the courtyard, Jeskai monks and soldiers were laying down their weapons and bowing
before the great dragon Ojutai. Quan hurried to join them.

He dropped to his knees before the dragon, which towered over him. Quan was not like Shu
Yun. He had never faced a dragon. He prostrated himself beside his master's frozen body. The
dragon barked and hooted.

"Great Ojutai announces that the Jeskai are no more," said the aven. "Your khan has fallen, as
has one of your strongholds. The others will follow. Great Ojutai commands⁄"

The aven faltered, just for a moment, then continued.

"⁄that this body and the other fallen be disposed of without ceremony, and that⁄that every
individual who bears the tattoo of a ghostfire warrior be put to the sword."

There was angry murmuring, among those assembled, but there were dragons all around them.

Ojutai spoke again in Draconic.

"You," said the aven, pulling Quan to his feet. "You're a scribe?"

Quan nodded, looking down at his ink-stained fingers.

"Great Ojutai has a task for you," said the aven. "As of this day, there are no more clans. There
are no more khans. Those words will not be spoken. Search within your records, in every
archive, and scrub the names of the clans from existence. Your history begins today."

Quan looked up into Ojutai's shining eyes. He thought of what he had written today, wherever
Shu Yun had hidden it away. He hoped someone found it. He hoped they kept it safe.

"It will be done," he said.

Tasigur trembled with fury.

Silumgar had squeezed his heaving bulk into

the palace, smashing down walls where he had
to. The dragon had carried the throne·
Tasigur's throne!·back to its rightful place in
the great hall, then curled around it and fallen
asleep. Drool oozed from Silumgar's jaws,
Aven Surveyor | Art by David Gaillet
dribbling down the throne and eating away at
its ornate decorations. Being carried back from
Dirgur in one of those great scaled hands had
been bad enough. Seeing a dragon ruin his most prized possession, in his own palace, without
even bothering to wake up·that was too much.

The traitorous naga Shidiqi, who had

abandoned Tasigur and sided with Silumgar,
waited next to the dragon. Tasigur kept a
respectful distance, but his patience was
thinning.

"Wake him up!" he called. "I have an audience!"

"Silence, worm!" said Shidiqi. She was clearly

enjoying herself. "The dragonlord sleeps and
wakes as he pleases. And he doesn't like to be
disturbed." Palace Siege | Art by Slawomir Maniak

"I said wake him!" screamed Tasigur. "I was

promised a place of pride! This⁄this⁄this
invasion is not what I agreed to!"

Silumgar stirred. Shidiqi slithered back, out of range of his claws. The dragon's mood could be
foul when he first woke.

The dragon opened one eye and rumbled in Draconic. Shidiqi answered back, and Silumgar
rumbled more.

"The dragonlord apologizes," she said, practically purring. "You were indeed promised a place
of pride."

This was wrong, Tasigur thought. She was too damned happy about it, whatever it was.

He turned, but three zombie servants had surrounded him. Two grabbed his arms, and the
other clapped a heavy collar around his neck, inlaid with gold. It was attached to a chain, gold
plated, that trailed around, and away⁄to the other end, which Shidiqi presented to Silumgar.

"You can't do this!" yelled Tasigur. "We had an

agreement! I am the khan!"

The dragon yanked the chain viciously, roaring.

Tasigur sprawled on the stone floor.

Shidiqi leaned down close to Tasigur.

"The dragonlord informs you," she said, "that

there is no khan. Speak that word again,
maggot, and we will discover new and creative
Sibsig Muckdraggers | Art by Zack Stella interpretations of the word 'agony.'"
Tasigur hauled himself halfway to his feet, but
Silumgar reeled him in, wrapping the golden
chain around its thick, rubbery forearm. He slid and stumbled helplessly across the floor until
he was crouched at the dragonlord's feet, Silumgar's acidic drool dripping dangerously close.
The dragon rumbled in obvious pleasure.

Shidiqi leaned down and put her face very close to Tasigur's, knowing he could only move
toward Silumgar.

"The dragonlord assures you," she said, "that this is a place of utmost pride."

She smiled, a vicious, fanged smile.

"After all, Tasigur," she said, "you are his finest trophy."

Daghatar finished reading the letter. He read it again, just to be sure, then folded it crisply,
cleanly in half. The oil lamp that burned on his field desk blurred, ever so slightly.

Reyhan was dead, fallen at some last-ditch summit of the five khans. The Temur khan Yasova,
of all people, had decided Daghatar needed to know that Reyhan had died saving the lives of
two other khans.

That should have been you, said a voice inside

his head, with all the malice of an angry spirit.
But the Remembrance was gone. It was only his
voice, his own guilt, speaking to him.

He set the folded letter on the table next to the

lamp.

"Beril!" he said.

A lean ainok soldier with dust-brown fur

entered the tent, almost before he'd finished
saying her name. Valorous Stance | Art by Willian Murai

"Sir!"

"Send word to the dragonlord," he said. Both Abzan and khan were "forgotten words," not to be
spoken, so he couched his message in the now-familiar euphemisms. "I've received intelligence
that the leader of the holdouts is dead," he said. He sighed heavily. "Tell the dragonlord that if
we move now, we can either force the remaining holdouts to surrender⁄or crush them for
good."

Beril held his gaze for a moment. She'd been under his command for a long time, and she had a
sense for how he actually felt about the orders he gave.

"Yes, sir," she said quietly.

The tent flap closed, and he turned back to the table.

He picked up the letter, touched one corner of it to the flickering flame of the oil lamp, and
watched as it burned to ash. He silently said a forbidden prayer, a prayer he had spoken aloud
many times in a booming voice for entire regiments to hear. It was a prayer for the dead, a
simple expression of hope that the souls of the departed might find a place to rest in peace.

He wondered if Reyhan's soul had anywhere peaceful left to go.

Alesha rode as hard as she dared, her two bodyguards riding beside her. She was flying her own
banner, readily visible across the steppe.

Somewhere ahead of them, ever roaming, were the Mardu. The clan. Her clan. She'd left them
to pursue this one last hope, but it had turned to ash, like everything the dragons touched. She
cursed Tasigur, cursed his escape, cursed her fortune that she might never get to jam her blade
all the way into his guts where it belonged.

A storm was brewing, off in the distance. Red and purple lightning jagged through the sky, and
the dark shapes of dragons were already roiling among the clouds. Storms came so frequently
these days, and every one brought more dragons.

She thought of Daghatar bending his knee to Dromoka, of Tasigur and whatever deal he'd
managed to broker with Silumgar. She thought of Yasova, who had spoken, before they parted
ways, of reaching some kind of arrangement with Atarka. And with Ojutai perched in one of
their four strongholds, the Jeskai were likely to capitulate as well. The khans fell. But the people
lived.

The clans weren't dying. They were changing.

"Do you think the Mardu would ever kneel to a dragon?" she asked aloud.

Jagun Wingmate, her orc bodyguard, turned in his saddle.

"Mardu do not kneel," he yelled, over the thunder of hooves. "But they will follow you,
wherever you go."

She would rather die than live as the servant of

a dragon. The thought of her own death didn't
bother her. But the thought of every single one
of her people, an entire way of life, wiped out⁄

"Look," said Doshiyn Eye-Piercer, her other

bodyguard, pointing almost straight behind
them. She was a quiet woman, only a little
Battle Brawler | Art by Karl Kopinski older than Alesha herself, with sharp eyes and a
steady hand.

Alesha craned her neck and saw.

A dark shadow was racing across the steppe, skimming above it so low a warrior could probably
hit it with a thrown spear·if that warrior didn't want to live much longer. Lightning rippled in
its wake, scorching the earth. It was Kolaghan, the fastest thing that lived, the shadow of death
itself.

And she was going to pass right by them.

"Break!" yelled Alesha. "Weapons ready!"

All three horses wheeled around. Alesha and Doshiyn nocked arrows, and Jagun hefted a huge
spear.

Kolaghan didn't seem to see them. She was on her way to the storm, to welcome her new
broodlings and assert her authority. Three humanoids on horseback were beneath her notice.

"Hold," said Alesha. "Wait for my mark."

Then Kolaghan's frills flared, and she roared and adjusted course to meet them.

The great dragon loomed ever larger. She rolled as she approached, peering down at them. Her
mouth hung open, ready to loose bolts of lightning that would fry them before the dragon ever
touched them. Alesha raised her bow, ready to give the mark.

Their eyes met. For a very brief instant, time seemed to stand still.

The dragon's mouth closed. Alesha lowered her bow. And then Kolaghan was past, whipping
past them in a cloud of charged dust.

"You didn't fire," said Doshiyn. "I could have hit her."

Alesha wheeled her horse, watched Kolaghan swiftly recede into the distance.

"I understand now," she said. "The other dragons want to lead. They want to be called lord, to
be served and bowed to."

She reached behind her, pulled her banner out

of its mounting on her saddle, and tossed it on
the ground.

"Kolaghan doesn't want to lead," she said. "She

had the Mardu khan dead if she wanted it, and
she knew it. And here I am."

"What are you saying?" asked Doshiyn.

"We don't have to kneel," said Alesha, grinning. Kolaghan, the Storm's Fury | Art by Jaime
"Just try to keep up." Jones

Jagun didn't return her smile.

"I don't think I can do this," he said.

"This is where I lead," said Alesha. "Follow, or don't."

She kicked her horse and rode away. After a moment's hesitation, her bodyguards followed.

Three warriors on horseback chased the impossible bolt of darkness that was Kolaghan, leaving
the banner of the Mardu khan lying in the dust behind them.

Yasova Dragonclaw walked along slowly beside a dead mammoth on a sledge. The smell of
fresh blood was overpowering. She kept one hand on Anchin, her sabertooth. She'd fed him as
much elk as he could eat before they brought down the mammoth, but every instinct he had
must have told him to bury his head in its still-warm carcass and eat his fill. But the mammoth
wasn't for him. She'd only taken one thing from it, the tip of one of its tusks that she'd
painstakingly sawed off. She still had the piece of ivory tucked away.

Her little entourage of warriors escorted the mammoth's body up into the mountains, toward a
narrow valley called Ayagor. Atarka's roost. Dragons circled the caravan, and Yasova kept an
eye out, ready to fight them off. But none landed, probably respecting Atarka's hunting
grounds.

The krushoks pulling the sledge wheezed and snarled, uneasy in the presence of raw meat and
circling dragons. The men and women who trudged along with her were in no better mood.

The valley of Ayagor opened around them. At the far end was an enormous pile of charred
bones. Then a shadow passed over the sun, and Atarka's enormous bulk dropped to the ground
in front of them like an avalanche. Her body radiated heat, her antlers glowed with internal
warmth, and her mouth hung half open, ready to breathe fire on all of them. Anchin growled.

Yasova pulled on the scruff of Anchin's neck until he followed her. She and her warriors ran
back the way they'd came, Anchin padding along behind. They hid behind a fallen boulder to
watch.

Atarka regarded this strange scene for a

moment, then roared and unleashed a torrent
of flame that killed the krushoks, seared the
mammoth meat, and set fire to the sledge.
Then she devoured the mammoth, pulling its
flesh free in huge chunks, before settling in to
gnaw on the charred armored hide of the
krushoks.

Atarka, World Render | Art by Karl When Atarka seemed settled, Yasova stepped
Kopinski out from behind the rock. She left her staff.
Atarka's head rose sharply, blood dripping
down her muzzle. She eyed Yasova hungrily,
and her mouth dropped open.

Yasova pointed to what was left of the mammoth's carcass, then spread her own empty hands.

"Atarka!" she said. "I don't want to fight you anymore. I'm tired of fighting. That was a gift.
Spare us, and there will be more."

Atarka cocked her head, then roared and went back to chewing on the krushoks.

"It seems we're dismissed," said Yasova.

She gathered her warriors and left the valley.

They walked in silence, back to the cave they'd been using as a hideout from the dragons.
Someone built a fire. Yasova pulled out the piece of ivory from the mammoth's tusk and began
to carve it with a small knife, continuing work she'd already started.

"I'm not sure how long it will take Atarka to understand that we'd rather hunt for her than fight
her," said Yasova. "And even less sure whether she'll bother to tell the other dragons not to eat
us." She shrugged. "It's a start, anyway."

"Are you sure about this?" asked one of her warriors, a smooth-faced young man named Yeran.

"No," said Yasova. "But I'm damned sure we weren't going to survive doing things the old way."

She finished her work and held the piece of mammoth-ivory up to the firelight. It was a simple
carving, using crude images and shamans' runes to show a group of people·Temur, the rune
meant, specifically·offering meat to the dragon Atarka. She stood up and walked over to a low
shelf of rock and set the carved piece of ivory next to the one that was already there. That one
depicted a man with dragon wings, marked with the rune for khan written twice, standing
beneath a dragon storm.
"The future isn't yet written," she said. "It's up to us to write it, together. One day at a time."

Shamanic Revelation | Art by Cynthia

Sheppard
A Tarkir of Dragons
BY KIMBERLY J. KREINES

The Planeswalker and dragon mage, Sarkhan Vol, left his time to travel back more than 1,200
years into Tarkir's past and save Ugin, the Spirit Dragon from death. By saving Ugin, Sarkhan
ensured the dragon tempests would continue to thrive on Tarkir, and thus he saved the dragons
·or so he hopes. After he created a magical, protective hedron cocoon around the fallen Ugin,
Sarkhan was ripped back through time to his present. Now he is left to wonder how much
change his actions caused. How many ripples propagated out across Tarkir's history? And who
will share this new world with him? Who will glory in a Tarkir of dragons?

Sarkhan Vol was going home.

Yes. He felt it with utter certainty as he was whisked through the endless eternities. Whatever
forces had thrust him back in time had now conspired to return him to·where was he going?
The future? The present? The now? It did not matter what it was called, it was home.

Time passed him by, countless years, untold centuries; the history of Tarkir tore through him in
the matter of a single heartbeat.

As solid ground coalesced beneath his feet and the world took shape around him, Sarkhan
breathed for the first time a breath of this new Tarkir of now. The depths of his stomach stirred
with the fullness of it.

He was standing before the hedron cocoon, exactly where he had been a mere moment before·
no, hundreds, or perhaps thousands of years before. If he had been a man of lesser awareness, if
he had not understood the chain of time, he might have guessed that he had never left; he might
have surmised that he'd had an episode of vertigo or that he'd simply lost his bearings. But even
then, even if he was not in tune with temporal forces and the flow of history, he could not have
missed the clues on the cocoon itself that spoke of the passage of innumerable years.

Sheets of ice covered the sides of the hedrons,

icicles hung from the points and edges, snow
had collected in the ruins, and there were
grooves and cracks in the exposed portions of
rock, worn by time. The evidence was all there,
the truth was unavoidable: time and history had
come and gone in a blink of Sarkhan's eyes.

"Ugin." Sarkhan spoke the Spirit Dragon's

name, his voice quavering, as though testing its
credibility in this new time. "I'm here, Ugin. I'm
Crucible of the Spirit Dragon | Art by Jung here." He reached out to the cocoon with
Park trembling fingers.
 For a moment the only answer was the
whistling of the wind.

Then a bellow sounded from above.

Sarkhan turned his eyes to the sky and a burst of giddiness erupted in his chest·an entire herd!
Dragons were circling overhead.

"Ha ha!" he cried. "Look! Just look at them!"

He had not been wrong to hope. It had happened. It had worked. The hedron shard that had
saved Ugin's life had saved the dragons of Tarkir.

Tears sprang to Sarkhan's eyes, wet and hot. Real. This was real.

"You have to see this!" Sarkhan called to Ugin. "I've done it! The chain of time has been
reforged!"

But the Spirit Dragon did not stir.

No matter. Sarkhan was here. He tossed his head back and let out a whooping cry that blasted
across the land. As the cry echoed back to him, it turned into a roar, a guttural roar, a dragon's
roar. And in his dragon form, Sarkhan Vol took to the sky.

He shot up, up, up, gaining altitude so quickly that the skin of his snout pressed back into his
eyes. He careened headlong into the herd of dragons above, buffeting off their thick hides,
weaving around them, awash in the turbulence kicked up by their heaving wings.

He recognized the dragons; they had antlers and broad shoulders. They belonged to the brood
that Yasova and her sabertooth had attacked·when? A millennium ago?

Yasova. Tenacious, powerful Yasova. What she had done was not her fault. She had played her
part just like him. He could not be mad, not at her, not at anyone, not anymore. No, everything
felt too right. His head was clear, his thoughts were his own, and his Tarkir was full of dragons.

Dragons!

Sarkhan wanted to grab the beast at his side, he

wanted to shake her and say, "You're here!
You're here on Tarkir because I made it so!"
But his dragon lips could not form the words,
so instead he turned to the dragon beside him
and bellowed with all of his might.

Her great eye blinked at him.

Did she understand? Could she understand

how wonderful, how amazing, how impossible
this was? Art by Steve Prescott

He trumpeted again and again as he zigzagged

through the herd.

His energy was like a spark in a haystack, igniting the other dragons around him.

They joined Sarkhan's voice, meeting him roar for deafening roar. One exhale charged the next
inhale, picking up intensity, volume, and speed as it went, growing into an all-consuming force
that took hold of every dragon in the herd and united them in one moment, one collective
breath. They roared as one, and all of Tarkir trembled.

As Sarkhan soared with his adopted herd, he took in the new world of Tarkir. There was so
much he recognized, so much he knew, and yet it was all so different. He could see other herds
in the distance, some that looked the same as the antlered herd he flew with, and others that
were utterly different. There were sleek dragons that glided like feathers on the currents; there
were dragons with thick armored scales that flew far below and close together. And there were
those that acted more like serpents, spending their time in great temples in the marshes, which
Sarkhan only glimpsed from above.

The land itself had changed, too. Where once there had been ruins and piles of dragon bones,
now there were fields and forests. The snowy tundra that in a different time was blanketed in
endless white was now only partially covered; large swaths of it were charred black. Dragonfire!
Sarkhan dropped into a spiraling dive of glee, letting the aroma of burnt undergrowth flood his
nostrils. This land had changed because there were dragons here!

As he shot back up into the herd, he was

greeted by nothing less than the sight of a
dragon tempest rupturing before him. From it
emerged more dragons.

Sarkhan bellowed in ecstasy.

The herd bellowed back.

And the new fledglings joined the cry.

It was glorious.
Art by Titus Lunter
It was everything Sarkhan had ever wanted.

He could live like this forever.

What a world! What a time! What perfection.

But Sarkhan's perfect moment was shattered by the sudden, grating peal of a bell.

The sharp, metallic sound cut through the herd like a knife, ringing out again and again.
Dragons scattered, breaking off and away, issuing urgent cries. Sarkhan was battered about by
snouts and wings and thick, kicking legs.

He could sense their distress and could not help but feel it too. But a bell, he thought, should
not be the cause of such upset in a herd of mighty dragons.

He glimpsed down in the direction of the intrusive sound. There on the ground, standing in the
middle of what looked very much like a sparse Mardu encampment, was a figure striking a bell.

A mere human. Or was it an orc? Even so, what kind of threat could such an insignificant
creature pose to a herd like this?

His answer came the very next moment. Like a spout of volcanic magma, a stream of dragons
erupted up out of the encampment, shooting into the sky.

They beat their wings in time with the bell·the bell that a Mardu orc was striking. Even in his
state of alarm, Sarkhan thrilled at this. Dragons and clan members living in the same
encampment; dragons and clan members working together! It was just as it was supposed to be.

But he could not rejoice for long, for the dragons of this Mardu herd, a fifth unique brood he
had not yet seen, were faster than a barrage of flaming arrows.

The attack was led by an ancient and powerful dragon with a leathery fringe that encircled her
face, and horns that lined her snout and back. She was made for speed, her body agile and taut,
her wings strong⁄and she was barreling straight at Sarkhan.

For an instant, time stood still. Sarkhan looked

into the great dragon's eyes. He recognized her
face, the shape of her snout, the cut of her jaw.
It was so familiar. But how could it be? He had
never seen this dragon before. He couldn't
have. And yet⁄as he squinted down at her, the
clanging of the bell rattled an image out of his
mind. It was a memory from the time before.
For the space of a heartbeat Sarkhan could see
two Tarkirs, one inlaid over the other. Shooting
toward him was both the dragon of this now,
flesh and blood and scales, and the dragon of Art by Jaime Jones
the now that had been lost forever, nothing
more than an empty, rotting skull, a khan's
throne. That is why he knew this dragon.

Oh how the world had changed!

A fierce roar collapsed the two histories back into one, and Sarkhan shook free of the thrall just
in time to dart out of the path of the ancient dragon. As she led her herd upward, he careened
down. He was small enough to be missed, small enough to be ignored, and for that he was
grateful. He did not wish to do battle with the ancient dragon.
 Heart pounding and mind reeling, Sarkhan
landed and took his human form at the edge of
the encampment. He sought shelter under the
protection of a rocky outcropping as the
dragons of the two herds clashed in the sky
above him. Listening to the echoes of their
bodies cracking, he gloried in the dawning
realization of what he had truly done. These
dragons were only here because of his actions.
Even the mightiest among them owed her
existence to Sarkhan Vol. He had made this
Dragon Throne of Tarkir | Art by Daarken Tarkir. He had made it and it was glorious.

"Intruder! Intruder!"

Sarkhan started at the voice. It came from below rather than above.

"Intruder! Attack!" An angry goblin charged out of the bush to his right⁄a goblin that Sarkhan
recognized.

"Ankle Shanker?"

She was dressed differently than he remembered. She didn't wear a cape, and she brandished a
thick vial rather than her blade, but it was her. It was definitely her! Sarkhan's heart soared at
seeing her·at seeing her in this time, in his new Tarkir, and alive!

"Ankle Shanker!" Sarkhan ran out from under the outcropping and opened his arms so that the
raging goblin hurtled into his embrace. He could not contain his delight. He shook her
enthusiastically. "You're here! You're alive! Just like the dragon."

"Put down! Madman! Madman! Put down!"

"Was it a dragon that saved you? It must have been! Or was it that your life was never
threatened at all in this time?"

"A threat! A threat on life!" Ankle Shanker spat at Sarkhan, her hot saliva dripped down his
cheek. "Madman life will end! Unhand Vial Smasher! Now!"

"Your name! Ha ha! Even your name has changed!" Sarkhan's mind struggled to make sense of
it all. A million changes, differences, details·"Wait. You say I'm an intruder? You don't know
me?"

"Intruder!" Ankle Shanker, known as Vial Smasher, bit him. She dug her thick, flat teeth into
the skin of Sarkhan's wrist, grinding down with the force of her jaws.

He threw her away and cried out in pain, but his cry turned into a laugh, a joyous laugh. "You
are even stronger than you were before. You're stronger and you're alive!"
"Manic! Raver! Stay back or Smasher smash!" Vial Smasher rattled the vial she was holding.
The hairs on her arms stood on end as though electrically charged.

Sarkhan realized they were charged by the glowing liquid in the vial. He recognized it. She was
holding a vial of·

"Dragonfire," Sarkhan whispered. "They share it with you? The dragons give their fire to the
clan? That's perfect. It's all so perfect!"

"Smasher smash!" She wound up.

"Stop!" Sarkhan said, but too late.

The goblin launched the vial.

Art by Franz Vohwinkel

As it shattered on the ground, Sarkhan

transformed into a dragon and dove in front of
Vial Smasher, spreading his wings to form a
protective shield around her.

Her outcries hushed immediately and Sarkhan

could feel her trembling beneath him. He
looked down at her as he transformed back into
a man.

She was in a prone position, bowing before

him. "Dragonman." She glanced up at him and
scampered back. "No smash. Smasher no smash dragonman. Smasher didn't know. Smasher
sorry. Don't hurt Smasher. " She backed away, her eyes darting around, looking for an escape.

"What's going on down here?" The booming voice of an orc made them both turn. "I saw a flash
of dragonfire, but I know that all the dragons are in the sky. What have I told you about wasting
·" The orc broke off at seeing Sarkhan.

And Sarkhan's breath caught in his throat. Zurgo

Zurgo grunted. "Don't tell me, Vial Breaker, that you wasted dragonfire on this pathetic excuse
for a raider."

"Smasher! Vial Smasher, not Breaker! Zurgo Bellstriker know." The goblin balled her fist and
growled. "Zurgo Bellstriker bad orc. Bad."

"Bellstriker?" Sarkhan balked. "Zurgo, Bellstriker?" He looked from Zurgo to Vial Smasher and
back again. "He is·you are the bell-striker?" As his eyes alighted on Zurgo's sword he saw this
was true. The blade was dull, not from war but from striking a great metal bell. Zurgo was the
figure Sarkhan had seen from above.
"Ha!" Sarkhan cried.

"You dare laugh at me, wretch?"

Sarkhan ran his fingers through his hair, piecing it all together. "But you were Helmsmasher,
you were·"

"Not Smasher. He Bellstriker," the goblin interrupted. She pointed to herself. "I Smasher."

Sarkhan ignored her. He searched Zurgo's face. "You once led the Mardu."

"Enough!" Zurgo bellowed. "Enough of your disrespect."

"Mardu who?" Vial Smasher asked.

"Your clan. Our clan of warriors," Sarkhan said. "Who is khan now?"

"No khan! No say khan!" The goblin launched herself at Sarkhan and threw her hand over his
mouth. "Kolaghan Dragonlord kill khan-sayers."

"Dragonlords," Sarkhan echoed through Vial Smasher's hot hand. She was clinging to his side
now. "There are dragonlords and no khans?"

"No say khan!" the goblin pleaded.

"Get off him, Breaker," Zurgo spat, swatting the goblin away. "I say let the man speak if he
wants death. Go ahead, stranger, call your words to the sky. Make your affront to Kolaghan
herself."

An unsettling feeling tugged at the corner of

Sarkhan's gut. "You think I'm a stranger too?"
he asked. "You don't know me, Zurgo?"

"Why would I know a lowly vagrant?"

"I am not a vagrant. I am·how could you not

remember? How could you not know? I am
Sarkhan Vol!"

"Don't say khan, don't say khan." Vial Smasher

covered her long ears and rocked back and
Art by Jason Rainville
forth.

"Vol?" Zurgo laughed. "Is that a feeble Atarka

name?"

"No, it's my name." Sarkhan's voice was quiet. "Don't you know it at all?" There was no
recognition whatsoever on the orc's face. How could this be? Things were different, yes, but
how different? How could no one know him? Was it possible that these were Sarkhan's first
moments here in this time? When he made a new now, had his past been lost?

"Vol is a pathetic name for a pathetic man. Vol should fall easily."

Sarkhan heard Zurgo's words as though from a very distant place; his mind was too busy
combing through the knots of time, parsing the implications of what he had done.

Zurgo raised his blade just as Sarkhan unthinkingly took his dragon form. Sarkhan's thoughts
briefly settled on the dull, useless edge of the orc's blade. It was a bell-striker's blade. "But you
were once khan," he said as he transformed. Or perhaps he merely thought the words, for Vial
Smasher did not shout.

Both orc and goblin stood in paralyzed stillness as Sarkhan Vol launched himself into the sky.

It wasn't until he pushed up to crest the first mountain that he heard the peal of Zurgo
Bellstriker's bell in the far distance.

Disjointed thoughts tumbled through Sarkhan's mind as he heaved himself through Tarkir's sky.
This was his Tarkir, the Tarkir he had made, and yet no one knew him here.

It was as though he did not exist, as though he had no history.

His stomach lurched and he thought for a moment that he would be sick there in the sky. But
he swallowed it and attempted to rein in his bumbling thoughts.

Did it matter?

Did it truly matter that he was not known?

He was here now, was he not? And Tarkir was perfect. That was what mattered.

Even if no one here knew him, even if he himself did not have a history, Tarkir had a brilliant
one because he had made it so.

Dragons had survived·no, they had flourished. And so too had the clans; Vial Smasher was
proof of that. She had lived here when in another time she had met her death. At that thought,
Sarkhan's breath caught and his wings ceased their flapping. If Vial Smasher's fate had been
altered, and Zurgo's, and the great dragon's too, then the same could be true for another. The
same could be true for⁄Narset.

Yes! Narset!

Of course. It was obvious. Why hadn't he thought of it before? Zurgo would not have killed
Narset in this now, not with his dull, useless sword. Their paths would never have crossed at the
chasm. She would never have led Sarkhan there. She would never have had to lay down her life.
She would be here. She would be alive!

Sarkhan pulled himself out of his paralyzed dive.

Narset! He barked the name out across the land.

This world, the wonder, the balance, the perfection, Narset would know it. She would rejoice in
it. And he would tell her that he had made it so.

Sarkhan hastened to the Jeskai territory. He believed he would find Narset there, for in another
time she had been khan of all that stretched along the river. But when he arrived, he learned
that a dragon called Ojutai ruled in her stead. Dragons seemed to rule everywhere in this now;
that was as it should be.

Sarkhan learned from Ojutai's followers that the sleek, agile dragon was the oldest and wisest
being on all of Tarkir. Those who lived in Ojutai's territory called him the Great Teacher and
held him in high esteem, longing for his enlightenment. In turn, the dragon respected his
students. He taught them what he knew, sharing his insight and his wisdom to help each of
them grow stronger and more cunning.

Sarkhan knew that of all of Ojutai's pupils, Narset would be the best. She would have risen to
the top. And of course, he was right. He followed word of her name up and up, ever closer to
Ojutai's roost. The dragon's perch was at the top of a tower, which Sarkhan recognized as a
stronghold, but in this time was called Dragon's Eye Sanctuary.

The closer he got to the top, the more right everything felt. This was where she must be; Narset
at the highest perch in the land; Narset in the sky with the dragons. His insides stirred at the
thought of it.

When Sarkhan reached the topmost room, he

thought it to be empty at first. But his eyes
caught a slight movement, the heaving of a
chest for a shallow breath. There was a figure
sitting in a meditative pose, still as a statue, on
the far side of the room. He nearly raced across
the floor to embrace her, but then he realized
the figure was not Narset. He came up short.
"Who are you?" The words came out without
his thinking.

The figure lifted his head to the light and Art by Florian de Gesincourt
Sarkhan could make out the man's features. He
was a perfect specimen·everything a human
trained by dragons should be. Power radiated
off him.

"I am Master Taigam." The man's voice was as smooth as the skin on his head. "And you are a
student come to seek knowledge and wisdom. You have come a long way, traveler. Welcome to
Dragon's Eye Sanctuary."

"No, I·I'm not a student. I've come to find her. Where is she?" Sarkhan glanced about the
room for a second time, but there was nowhere to hide in the clean, open space. "Is there
somewhere higher?" He looked up.

"Higher?" Master Taigam chuckled. "There is nothing higher except Ojutai himself."

"Then where is Narset?"

Master Taigam's eyes widened ever so slightly and then slowly closed. They remained that way
for more moments than felt comfortable.

Sarkhan's excitement turned to question and then to worry. He waited until he could contain
himself no longer. "Do you know her? Narset? I have to find her. She will understand. She'll
understand everything."

Master Taigam's eyes opened even more slowly than they had closed and he tilted his head up
ever so slightly so as to look Sarkhan in the eye. "Narset is not welcome in the Dragon's Eye.
She was a heretic, and for that she was punished to full extent of the law. Do not look for her
here. She is long gone."

"Gone? Where? You must tell me."

Master Taigam let out a controlled breath. "Narset is no more."

"No more?" The blood drained from Sarkhan's head, he staggered. "But that can't be."

"It is as it is." Master Taigam's lip twitched. "She met her fate. And any who seek out a heretic
shall meet the same."

"She is not a heretic. She is·she is everything."

"I will hear no more." Master Taigam waved his hand in a gesture that was so strong that the
force of it pushed Sarkhan toward the door.

He gripped the wall, straining to hold on against Master Taigam's power. "You don't
understand. She has to be here. This is a world for her. A world of dragons·for her!"

"Leave, heretic." With another wave of Master Taigam's hand, Sarkhan was thrust through the
door and sent tumbling down the stairs.

Sarkhan's mind reeled as his legs flailed, taking him down, down, down. He did not know what
force was pushing him now·Master Taigam or his fear.

This could not be. Narset was not supposed to die. Not this time. Not on this Tarkir.

There were dragons.

He careened out into the light, fumbling his way through a marketplace.

This could not be.

 "No." He shook his head, pulling at his hair.
"No, no, no." He began to run. He had to
move. He had to get away. He had to change
this. "No!"

With a cry, Sarkhan shifted into his dragon

form and took flight.

If Vial Smasher was alive, if long-dead dragons

still flew in the sky, if Zurgo the khan was a
bell-striker, Narset must be here. She had to be
Art by David Gaillet here.

As he flew over Tarkir, Sarkhan could not look

down. The world that had seemed so perfect
before, so glorious, was now marred and ruined. Without her, this place was nothing.

Sarkhan roared in rage. How could fate have allowed for this? The chain was supposed to be
reforged. His breath, that had saved Ugin, was supposed to·

Ugin.

Sarkhan's trembling mind clutched at the thought of the Spirit Dragon.

Ugin would know. Ugin, whose voice had led Sarkhan across time. Ugin, whose power
flourished on this now. Ugin would know.

Yes.

Ugin would know how to make this right.

Sarkhan thrust his wings with new resolve. It was time to wake the Spirit Dragon.
The Great Teacher's Student
BY KIMBERLY J. KREINES

In another time there were no dragons. In another time Narset was the khan of a clan known as
the Jeskai. In another time she felt a great potential within her·one that she would never
release, for in that time she fell at the hands of Zurgo Helmsmasher, the khan of the Mardu.
But that time is gone, lost forever to endless eternities. This time is all that remains. In this
time, dragons fill the skies of Tarkir, there are no khans, there is no clan known as the Jeskai,
and Zurgo is a bell-striker. But one thing remains the same: Narset has a secret power burning
inside of her·a restless potential that pulls on her, begging to be released.

"You have to learn to let things go." Her mother's words swam in Narset's mind as she teetered
on the precipice of the Eternities.

Oh, how she wished she could! How she longed to forget what was and leap into the unknown.
Her skin crawled with impatient anticipation and her legs twitched and burned with a familiar
restlessness, one she had known her whole life. Only now it was amplified; it was as if her body
was telling her that this was the place she had always been meant to go, this was where she had
been heading all these years.

She wanted to take the next step more than she had ever wanted anything.

There was so much out there. So many new things. So much to learn. So much to see.

Then why didn't she go? What was holding her back?

Ojutai.

The thought of him nearly dragged her all the way back to herself.

He was the reason she was clinging to the edge; he was the reason she had been holding on for
so many years, fighting her restlessness.

Ojutai. Her teacher. Her dragon.

She hadn't thought about him that way in a long time.

She wished she could pick up the pieces and put them back together the way they were before;
before, when she didn't know the things she knew now; before, when he was everything, when
he knew everything, and when he held the promise to share it all with her.

"Fresh fruit! Honey-sweet apples!"

"Carrots plucked straight from the field! You can still see the dirt on 'em. Look here!"
"Hot breads! Nothing better than piping hot bread!"

The cries of the merchants, the bold colors of the wares, and the too-sweet aromas of the
produce were like walls that made the marketplace feel too tight, too close, too much. The
muscles of Narset's legs twitched and her lungs felt cramped. She tugged at her robe; it was
strangling her. Her mother must have cinched it too tightly.

"Stand still," her mother scolded from above. "You'll knock something over." She was poring
over the apples at the top of a tall mound too high for Narset to see.

Narset tried to stand still, but she couldn't. The restlessness inside her wanted her to move.
Sometimes when she felt that way she distracted herself. She would count things, or search for
patterns, or study people's expressions. But she knew the marketplace too well; she knew its
numbers and she knew its patrons. She had already taken inventory. The man with the cane
was limping less that day, putting more weight on his bad leg; Narset supposed the balm he had
purchased from the herbalist the week before had worked to ease the pain. There were, as usual,
three dozen meat slabs hanging at the butcher's stand with an average of eighteen striations per
slab; the average number of striations hardly ever changed, although sometimes there was
greater variance. The merchant at the squash stand had uneven stains on his sleeves and three
stray threads hanging from his robe; he must have gotten it caught in his cart and had to pull
himself free. And there were sixty-eight apples in the mound in front of Narset; that was
accounting for the volume inside the mound, which she couldn't see but could predict well
enough. There would be sixty-seven apples if her mother would ever just choose one.

Her mother hemmed and hawed, her fingers alighting first on one apple and then another,
fluttering over the choices, but never settling.

She's never going to pick one, Narset thought. We're never going to leave. Panic set in. Her
vision blurred, her ears rang, and her forehead began to sweat. She frantically searched for
something else to distract her, but there was nothing else she could see. At eight, Narset wasn't
tall enough to see over any of the stands or any of the bodies. It was like she was in a never-
ending maze of tall sweaty, smelly people-trees.

She was trapped.

She struggled to draw the thick, cloying air into her lungs, but she couldn't get enough. Her
body tingled and itched. It felt like her skin was warning her that it wasn't going to stay put
much longer; if she didn't move, it would move without her and she wouldn't have skin
anymore. She had to go. She had to get out of there.

"Take this one." Narset pointed to the nearest apple.

Her mother bent to inspect it. "No, no. It's bruised." She waved her hand dismissively. "And
stop fidgeting, Narset."

Narset ignored the reprimand. "Then this one."

"Bad spot." Her mother barely looked. She was dancing her fingers over the fruit at the top of
 the mountain.

If it was an apple from up there that her mother

wanted then that was what she would get.
Narset jumped. "Then that one!" She pointed
to one of the topmost fruits·and her sleeve
snagged the long stem of it.

What happened next happened in slow motion.

The apple wavered first forward and then back.
Narset reached to steady it, but she was already
on her way down from her leap, and when her
fingers touched it they dragged the fruit to the
precipice. It teetered there for a heartbeat and
Art by Daniel Ljunggren then began to tumble down.

"No!" She heard the apple merchant's desperate

shout from somewhere above.

She reached for his precious piece of produce as it sailed off the stack and plummeted toward
the floor.

She could predict the trajectory; she had studied falling objects before, and her hand connected
just before it hit the ground.

"Ha! Got it!" She lifted her arm, holding the apple on display·as hundreds more rained down
around her, thumping and bumping, hopping over each other and rolling across the floor.

"Oh no." That shouldn't have happened, Narset thought, not if the pile was stacked as tightly as
she had assumed. However, if there were only sixty-five apples then there would have been
structural instability and this behavior would make sense.

"My fruit! All of my beautiful fruit! It's ruined!" the merchant cried.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." Her mother scampered across the floor, picking up the apples within
her reach. "They're fine. See?" She held one up. "They'll be fine."

The merchant marched around the stand. "They're bruised."

"How many are there?" Narset asked. "Because if there were only sixty-five then you should
have·"

"You!" The merchant rounded on Narset. "Get away from my stand!"

Narset jumped back, bumping the corner of the stand. A dozen more apples tumbled to the
ground.

"Get out! Out!" the merchant shouted.

Narset looked to her mother. "I'm only trying to explain. He stacked them wrong."

"How dare you turn the blame on me!" the merchant bellowed. "I've been stacking apples for
decades. Decades! And you come in and take out an entire day's harvest in one fell swoop."

"But sir·"

Her mother's hand on Narset's wrist cut her off. "Please," her mother said. "You have to learn to
let things go."

"But·"

"Wait outside," her mother nodded to the exit. "I'll try to make this right."

Narset didn't bother to say that that's what she had been trying to do: make it right. She didn't
want to argue any further because her mother had uttered the words she had been waiting
desperately to hear. She was finally allowed to escape the too-tight marketplace; she was
permitted to go outside.

She made a break for it, pushing past the hard

stares of the other merchants and shoppers who
had seen the debacle. She ducked under the
melon booth, jumped over three baskets of
bread, and flew through the parted curtain
before anyone could stop her.

She was free.

The first breath of fresh air filled her lungs and

her soul lifted.

The sun on her skin, the scent of fish in the

nearby river, and the vast, endless space before Art by Florian de Gesincourt
her were perfection. That was the way things
were supposed to be. Narset began to run. It's
what she did, or rather what she couldn't help
but do whenever there was unexplored space in front of her. She had never been on the far side
of the market before; the land was all new to her. The thrill of it propelled her down the river,
her restlessness turning to delight. The wind worked its way through her thick hair, cooling her
scalp, and her feet learned the rocks with each step. She studied the flow of the river as it ran
and memorized the patterns of the currents and eddies. She took account of the number and
types of plants that were blooming and which were still barren. Her mind churned with the
details of the world unfurling before her, devouring every minutia.

This was what she was made to do: to go, to find, to learn, to search, to run, to seek·

"Seek enlightenment."
The voice startled her. It had sounded like someone had spoken in her ear. A tingle ran down
her spine and she slowed.

"Hello?" She glanced over her shoulder. There was no one there. She told herself it was just the
wind playing, nothing more. She fell back into step with the coursing water.

"Pursue wisdom." The voice sounded in her ear again.

Narset gasped and spun around so fast that she nearly fell into the river.

"Who's there?" Was someone following her?

She could see nothing but the low bushes that lined the water, the grassy field on the other side,
and beyond that·"Wait." It couldn't be⁄

Narset staggered back, floundering to find her balance. It was. She knew exactly what she was
looking at although she had never seen it before. There in the distance was the grandest of all
the sanctuaries: Dragon's Eye. And perched atop it at the highest point was Dragonlord Ojutai,
the Great Teacher. She knew him the moment she saw him, although he was a distant figure.
She could make out his sleek, strong body silhouetted against the sun.

"Gather knowledge."

It was his voice! Narset reeled. It was Ojutai's

voice that she was hearing in her ear. But how
could it be? He was so far away. And didn't he
speak in Draconic?

"Find truth."

Once she understood what she was hearing, she

heard his voice for what it was. It was far more
complex than anything she had ever
encountered·a fusion of grunts, clicks, clacks,
Art by Filip Burburan scratches, snaps ticks, groans, squawks, growls,
and perhaps a roar. But somehow it made sense
to her; her hungry mind could parse its
meaning.

As she listened to the sound that carried across the distance, she realized he must have been
giving his lesson. Narset had heard of the lessons the dragon gave daily from his perch, but she
never thought she would hear one.

"Ha-ha!" She threw up her arms, her insides bursting with excitement. "This is amazing!"

The dragon turned his head in Narset's direction and she instinctively shrunk down. Was he
looking at her?
"This is where it begins," he said.

Was he speaking to her?

"I can show you the way."

"Me?"

"You are on a quest for knowledge; a journey for wisdom," Ojutai said.

"Yes," Narset said. He understood her. The Great Teacher understood what she had been
trying to explain to her mother for so long.

"You have come to the right place. I know all there is to know." The dragon puffed out his chest
proudly. "And I will teach those who are willing to learn."

She knew it was strange to feel that way, but she couldn't help but think his words were meant
for her and her alone. "I am willing." Narset's voice was no more than a whisper. "I want to
learn everything." She focused her gaze on his silhouette, and although he was no more than a
speck on the horizon, she felt closer to Ojutai in that moment than she had ever felt to anyone
before. "I want to be your student," she said. "Please, let me be your student."

The dragon nodded.

She had seen it. It was not a trick of the light. Ojutai, the greatest dragon in the land had
nodded his assent. She would be his student and he her teacher. And she would learn all there
was to know.

And she had learned. She had learned so very much.

From that day on, Narset greeted her trips to the marketplace with anticipation rather than
apprehension. Her mother had found it agreeable that Narset wait outside where she couldn't
knock anything over and land the family with more apples than they could ever hope to eat as
long as Narset was there to carry the filled bags back home at the end of the day. She was
allowed to wander as far down the riverbank as the bend, and as it turned out the bend was the
perfect vantage point. From there, she could see Ojutai's silhouette unobscured and she could
hear his voice crisp and clear from across the water.

Over the next three years, Narset studied, trained, and practiced under the Great Teacher from
afar. She learned of the ancient wisdom of dragons and the endless wells of knowledge they
possessed. She learned that of all the dragons in all the land, Ojutai was the oldest, the wisest,
the most powerful. And he was her teacher.

With her dragon as her guide she studied the draconic aspect of cunning and sharpened her
mind, working through puzzles and solving riddles. She exercised her body, too, learning what
to do by watching Ojutai's silhouette and mimicking his movements. She practiced in every
spare moment she could find, and quickly increased her strength, stamina, balance, and
dexterity. The bags she carried back from the marketplace soon felt as light as bags of cotton.
And if she had wanted them to be lighter, she could have cast a spell to make it so. Her curious
mind adored the complexities of spellcasting. There were so many moving parts, so much to
keep track of, so many concepts and layers to become intimately familiar with. And she threw
herself into the task of it. She learned how to wield the magic of the plane like the dragons of
Tarkir had done for ages.

Much of the restlessness she felt subsided, but

not all of it. Narset's insides still fidgeted and
stirred when she thought of how far away
Dragon's Eye Sanctuary was. Although she
knew that in many ways she was close to Ojutai,
the physical distance that separated them was
great. She longed to one day train alongside the
Great Teacher on his perch, and she sent quiet
pleas out to him every day.

"Ojutai, my dragon," from her inverted position

in a one-armed handstand on the riverbank, her
gaze set on Ojutai's form, "my greatest wish is
to learn all that you teach." She worked up her
Art by Lake Hurwitz
courage to say the next part. "I have come so
far, but I know I could learn so much more if I
could study at your side. Help me find a path to
you and I will forever be your most devoted student."

"Hello, student." The voice startled her. It was not Ojutai's voice; it was not the voice of a
dragon at all. It had come from somewhere up by her feet.

Had she not been well practiced in concentration and balance she would have tumbled to the
ground. As it was, she managed to hold on to her center and lower herself into a standing
position with only the slightest hint of a wobble in her left ankle. She glared down at her ankle,
silently cursing it; it was a weak point for her, often refusing to cooperate in her exercises.

"Impressive."

Narset spun around to see a tall, regal aven standing at arm's length.

"I wouldn't be too hard on that ankle if I were you," the aven said, nodding down to Narset's
left foot. "Often the things we perceive as our most undesirable imperfections turn out to be our
strongest assets."

Narset gaped. The aven wore a robe, which she recognized·a dragonspeaker's robe!

"I can see that I have disturbed you and I beg your pardon," the aven said. "I would not
normally interrupt a student's practice, but this message comes urgently from·"

"Ojutai." Narset said the dragon's name without thinking, but as she said it certainty set in. The
dragonspeaker's robe was not just any dragonspeaker's robe·the lines of the fabric, the
decoration, it was unmistakable. Blood rushing away from her head, Narset lowered herself into
a bow. "Dragonspeaker Ishai."

Art by

"Ah, so you know who I am." Narset glanced up to see the aven cock her head. "Impressive,
again."

Narset stood up, only barely stopping herself from wheeling straight into the elegant aven.
"You're·you're his·and you're, well you're here, and you're talking to me. Ojutai's
dragonspeaker is talking to me!" She squealed and then threw her hand up to cover her mouth.
She couldn't believe that sound had escaped her lips in front of Ojutai's dragonspeaker.

The aven clucked a short, kind laugh. "Yes, student, I am here to speak to you. Ojutai"·she
said his name with the correct Draconic accent, flicking her wings to add the appropriate
emphasis·"has heard of your dedicated practice. We all have. You are quite the talk up in
Dragon's Eye Sanctuary."

"Dragon's Eye Sanctuary." Narset's scalp tingled and her face felt hot and then cold and then
both at the same time. She faltered, lightheaded.

"Breathe, young one." Ishai·Ojutai's dragonspeaker!·lifted her wing to steady Narset.

Narset did as the aven said, sucking in a long, deep breath. Slowly the world ceased its
spinning.

Ishai patted Narset's shoulder gently, reassuringly. "It pleases me greatly to see your
enthusiasm. And it will please Ojutai all the more. That is, if you agree to come."

"To·to Dragon's Eye Sanctuary?" Narset whispered.

"Yes," Ishai said. "To study under the Great Teacher."

"You're serious?" Narset looked into Ishai's eyes.

The Aven held her gaze. "Of course."

This was real. This was really happening. The moment had finally come; she would finally
journey to the top of the mountain. She would finally meet her teacher face to face. She would
finally learn all there was to know.

All Narset could do was nod.

Their first meeting had been everything she had hoped, everything she had dreamed·
everything. When Ojutai greeted her, Narset returned the greeting in Draconic, and the Great
Teacher smiled. She would see him smile many more times over the course of the next few
years. As she trained with the other students at Dragon's Eye Sanctuary, the eyes of the dragon
were often on her. His gaze empowered her; she performed at her best when he watched. And
he smiled when she did well.

Often, she felt his words too were meant for her alone to hear. It was as though the two of them
were engaged in a private conversation and others were merely eavesdropping. No one else
could hope to understand the true depth of meaning in what passed between them, for no one
else had a mind like hers and Ojutai's·not even the skywise. Narset did not mean to be
arrogant, those were just the facts. Her mind was more like a dragon's mind than a human's.
She learned more and faster than any other student at the Sanctuary, and the more she learned
the closer she felt to her teacher.

As she looked back now, she recognized her

time at the sanctuary as the best years of her
life. She was happier than she had ever been;
she was challenged, recognized, fulfilled. Her
restlessness had ceased haunting her; she had
felt a sense of peace. And while she wasn't
physically moving, she knew she was on a path,
going where she was meant to go, becoming
who she was meant to be. Ojutai was leading
her. And not a day went by that she didn't
thank her dragon for the gift.

Narset advanced more quickly than any other

student, climbing the ranks of Dragon's Eye Art by Chase Stone
Sanctuary, moving upward from the lowest
balconies to the highest terraces, until one day
Ojutai called for her to come stand on his own
private perch. He interrupted lessons to do so, requesting her presence after she had won a
practice match against her peer, Taigam. As she ascended the final flight of stairs, Narset felt
Taigam's glare burning into her back. He had been at the Sanctuary much longer than she. She
knew he longed to be where she was, but she also knew he would not stand there until he
learned to purify his quest, until he learned to seek wisdom instead of power.

She pushed her awareness of Taigam aside and cleared her mind before taking that step up onto
Ojutai's perch. It was the most significant step she had ever taken.

"My student, Narset, it is time. Your hunger for knowledge is your greatest strength. You have
become strong, and powerful, and wise because you have never stopped seeking
enlightenment." The dragon beamed down at her. She knew what was about to come, and for
one glorious moment everything felt perfect. "I now bestow upon you the title of Master, which
you have assuredly earned, and with it all the honor and responsibility it brings." Ojutai bowed
his head and rested his giant paw on her shoulder.

Narset bowed her head in return and clasped her small hand over the dragon's paw, making no
attempt to wipe the hot tear that streaked down her cheek. At fifteen, she was the youngest
master Ojutai had ever named. She had reached the top.

She turned to look down from the summit of Dragon's Eye Sanctuary, down at the world
below. It was the first time, she realized, that she was not looking up at Ojutai's perch.

It felt strange.

The students below her cheered·or at least most of them. The skywise soared around her in a
display of celebration. And Ojutai's bright bursts of magic danced and cavorted in the sky.

This was it then. She had done it. She had

reached the end⁄

Suddenly, a ringing started somewhere deep in

Narset's ears.

There was nowhere else to go.

There was nothing more to learn.

Her face flushed and the moment started to

fade. And just like that she was trapped. Her
vision blurred and her forehead sweated. In her
Art by Willian Murai mind she was back in the marketplace.

Ojutai looked down at her, pride in his eyes.

 She could tell he expected her to speak, to
thank him, to celebrate. But she could do nothing more than fight the urge to run. And though
the thought shocked her, she could not help but feel that this was the dragon's fault. She could
not help but feel that this moment was supposed to be different, that there was supposed to be
more. He had promised that he knew everything, but everything couldn't just end. She wanted
to cry out. Her journey couldn't be over.

She wondered now: had he known what she would do? The wise Ojutai, the Great Teacher who
knew all, had he known then that she would run? She hadn't meant to. She would never have
left him on purpose. She wanted to tell him that. She would tell him that now if she believed he
would listen.

"I'm sorry," she whispered out across the water.

There was no answer.

Although Narset fought the restlessness for nearly a year after the day it set in, it only worsened.
Her insides bucked like a wild storm, tearing her apart. She had to move, she had to go. Since
she could not climb any higher, Narset decided to descend the mountain.

The descent went more quickly than she anticipated. Once she started running, she did not
slow. And when she reached the bottom she kept going because her legs would not cease
carrying her.

She did not stop until she discovered a hidden doorway tucked away in a corner of the
mountain and sealed shut. Even then she did not stop for long. She cast a spell to open the
door. Behind it she found a passage and stairs that went down. She descended them. And when
they ended on a platform that offered another staircase, she descended that one as well.

She kept going down, down, down, winding through passages and crawling through partially
collapsed tunnels. She would have burrowed deeper and deeper into the land forever, studying
the rocks, learning the sand and silt, but all too soon the tunnel came to an end.

At first, her restlessness reared, but before it could sink its claws into her, Narset saw that there
was somewhere else to go. The walls of the room were lined with scrolls! She could read them;
they would take her somewhere; they would teach her more.

As she raced to the nearest scroll, desperate, she was vaguely aware of where she must be. It had
to be an ancient archive, a place that she had only heard of in legend, a place that Ojutai had all
but forbidden. She did not care, could not care·all she could feel was the need to search, to
seek, to know.

With as much care as she could muster in her mind's ravenous state she unfurled the longest of
the scrolls. It was brittle, but intact. And it was filled with words·glorious words that conveyed
history, knowledge, and wisdom. She knelt on the dusty, brick ground spreading the words out
before her, and she began to read. She felt like she was moving again.

The ancient scrolls contained an account of Tarkir's past, but one she had not learned before.
While some of it overlapped with what the Great Teacher had taught her, there were also stray
pieces that stuck out and contradicted. The
details were twisted: clans that served khans,
not dragonlords, and spellcasting and magic she
did not recognize. And from what the scrolls
said, it seemed that there had been dragons
before Ojutai.

Was the Great Teacher not the oldest dragon

on Tarkir? Was he not the wisest? Was he not
the one who knew everything?

The idea took root in Narset's mind. She had to

know the truth. She had to know if there was Art by Chase Stone
more she could learn.

When she ran out of scrolls to read in the

archives under Dragon's Eye, she decided to search for more somewhere else. She ran back up
the stairs and out into the light·and then straight into Taigam's hard, muscled chest.

"I knew you were down there," Taigam spat.

"Let me through." Narset had no patience for his petulance. Not now.

"You know as well as I that there are things down there unfit for Ojutai's followers, especially
those who are called master." He lingered on the word.

"Taigam, please, out of my way. I must go." The restlessness was buzzing inside Narset, the
burning need to know the truth was a force of its own pushing her from within. She would not
be able to resist it much longer.

"I have no choice but to report you for

blasphemy. You have betrayed Ojutai. You
have chosen to follow a dark path, and for that
the Great Teacher will punish you."

"Then let him!" Narset erupted with power,

blasting past Taigam and ignoring his screams.

Narset remembered exactly how she had felt in

that moment. It was the same feeling that had
propelled her in her youth under the melon
booth, over the baskets of bread, and out into
freedom. It was the same feeling that had
Art by Jason A. Engle carried her up the mountain of Dragon's Eye
Sanctuary, through her training, to Ojutai's
perch. And it was the same feeling that swelled
in her chest, pushing her to let go, to take the leap, to walk away.
She hated the feeling. In her life all it had caused her was pain. But never so much pain as when
it had pushed her to learn the truth about Ojutai.

After the archive at Dragon's Eye, Narset had succumbed to her restlessness and she let it guide
her actions. It was hungry for more, always hungry for more. There was more knowledge out
there, she could feel it, and she was desperate to know it.

She found other archives under Cori Mountain and Riverwheel, and in them she found more
scrolls. From the words written on the scrolls she pieced together a deeper account of that
alternative history of Tarkir. She learned of a Spirit Dragon, Ugin, who was the source of all
magic on the plane, as well as the dragon tempests. She learned of a time when clans warred,
and when dragons kept their distance.

It fascinated her, all of it.

It should have been enough, but it wasn't. She searched for more.

And then she found the archive under Dirgur.

Unlike the other archives, the one under Dirgur was not well preserved. It seemed to have been
looted and broken long ago. Part of her hoped it was utterly empty; something inside told her
that if she continued to look she wasn't going to like what she found.

On the fourth week of searching, she came upon what seemed to be the singular scroll
remaining at the archive. It was locked away deep underground and sealed behind a thick door.
For a long moment Narset did nothing more than stare at it. She could hardly believe she had
found anything at all. Then, fingers trembling and heart beating wildly, she reached for it.

She unrolled the scroll on the ground, summoned a cold fire on her fingertips for light, and
began to read.

The writing was rushed and smudged, as though whoever had written it knew there was very
little time. And as she read she understood why.

The scroll was an account of a meeting between the khans of long ago.

She learned of the khans' hope to end the dragons in order to save their clans. She learned of
their disagreements and their plans. And she learned of a name: Sarkhan·a man, a dragon, a
khan·one who had saved the Spirit Dragon and thereby saved the dragons of Tarkir. And then
she learned one last thing, one final truth. The meeting had been brought to an abrupt end as
two dragons and their broods swooped in to attack the gathered khans. One of those dragons
had been Ojutai.

As she read her teacher's name, Narset's back straightened and her hands clenched. The brittle
paper cracked in her fists. At the same moment, something inside her cracked, too. She felt it
breaking in her chest like an egg. Whatever was inside the thing that broke was hot and thick
and it ran down her ribcage, spreading outward through her body. And then she was pulled
backward with such a force as she had never felt before and ripped away from Tarkir.

Another world extended before her. A new

world. An unexplored world. It held promise·
promise of knowledge, of possibilities, of places
to go.

It was wonderful.

And Narset almost went.

But at the last moment she pulled herself back.

Gasping and quivering, Narset crumpled into a Art by Yeong-Hao Han

heap on top of the very last scroll on Tarkir.

She still couldn't explain exactly why she had

not gone.

Since that time, she had felt the force tug on her insides nearly every hour of every day. It would
have been so easy to give in to it. It would have been so right. But she had held back. She had
instead scoured Tarkir·every crevasse, every mountaintop·convinced there had to be more to
learn, that there had to be more to find.

Now she had come full circle, she had seen all the land and witnessed all of its secrets. And she
sat again at the river's bend.

"We must always find time to reflect on what we have learned." The gravelly voice suddenly
drew Narset's gaze upward.

Ojutai.

Her dragon, her teacher, silhouetted against the first rays of the rising sun. He had come out on
his perch to teach the morning's lesson.

"So, what have you learned?" He turned his

head toward her.

He was looking at her.

"What have you found?"

He was speaking to her.

Narset's insides trembled. She had thought for

so long that he had disowned her as Taigam
had promised he would. She was a heretic. She
had disobeyed.
 Art by Steve Prescott "What do you know?"

Perhaps Taigam had been wrong. Perhaps

Ojutai was still her teacher. His question rang
in Narset's ears. What did she know? She knew Tarkir. She knew it for all it was, for its beauty,
its wonders, and for its imperfections. And often it was those imperfections that were its greatest
assets. She smiled up at her dragon. He was part of Tarkir, and because of his presence, the
land, the people, and the history were better. The world was stronger; it was more perfect. She
could see that now.

"I have learned the truth," she whispered.

Ojutai nodded. And Narset knew that while she could not see it he was smiling too. A warmth
filled her. A peace. "Once we reflect we must then move forward," Ojutai said. "All one needs
do is·"

"Seek enlightenment," Narset added her voice to his.

"For there is always more to learn." With that, Ojutai spread his wings and took to the sky.

"Thank you," Narset said. Her words were carried away on the winds of Tarkir as she let go.

Narset Transcendent | Art by Magali

Villeneuve
Sorin's Restoration
BY DOUG BEYER

The vampire Planeswalker Sorin Markov has come to Tarkir seeking the spirit dragon Ugin.
Long ago, Sorin helped Ugin and another Planeswalker, the lithomancer Nahiri, seal away the
monstrous Eldrazi on Zendikar. Recently, the Eldrazi escaped, and Sorin believes that Ugin is
one of the few who can stop them.

Sorin has found his way here, to Ugin's home world, in search of his old ally. In another
timeline, Sorin found Ugin long dead, leaving his quest on Tarkir a failure·but Sorin will never
know that version of events. Tarkir's history has been changed, and Sorin's path has a chance to
go another way. He holds out hope to find Ugin, but even now, he knows that he may be much
too late.

Tarkir.

Sorin winced at the sun's grotesque glare as if someone had stabbed him. A merciful shadow
swept across him as a four-winged dragon sailed over the dry steppe, its outline rimmed in gold
sunlight. But then the heat of the steppe closed in on him again. He pulled a hood up over his
head. This world was nothing like his chilly Innistrad, but there was a task at hand. He needed
to find someone·someone who was very possibly dead.

He had never come here before. In all the time

he had known Ugin, he had never visited the
spirit dragon's home world, nor even asked after
it. His only guide now was a cluster of vague
impressions given to him by an oracle. This
place, with its arid winds and flights of wild
dragons filling the skies, was a mystery to him.

A company of dragons crackled and swooped in

the air above him, which gave Sorin an itch of
foreboding about his visit. If Ugin was alive, the
Plains | Art by Sam Burley spirit dragon must have learned of the world-
devourers' escape by now. In that case, why
hadn't Ugin tried to contact him? Why was he
the one coming to Ugin? The Eldrazi were truly
free of their imprisonment this time, and there was no way to know what the titans' hunger
would wreak·and yet Sorin was the only one doing anything about it. Ugin had been silent for
centuries. Sorin may have traveled all this way to find a tomb rather than an ally.

Distant, snow-capped peaks stretched along the northern horizon. A single peak stood out,
shaped like a twisting dragon's head. The rock formation had a unique structure, identical to
the vision Sorin's oracle had conjured. As dragons cawed above him, he walked.
The trek toward the spiraling rock led Sorin into cooler air. After a number of days, the land
under his boots became ice and snow. An old animal trail led him deep into the mountain
wilderness, and the shaggy dragons above breathed gouts of green-tinged fire rather than
thunderbolts.

Granite peaks, capped in snow and ice, rose up

far above Sorin's head as he traversed the crags
and passes. He lost eye contact with the
spiraling rock for an entire day, and he longed
for a sense of certainty that he wasn't wasting
his time. The mad scatter of images from the
dark oracle still burned in his mind's eye, and
they spelled out a kind of story: a great battle of
dragons, a chasm of ice, Ugin's swirling form.
But the images were vague, blurred, and
chaotic. He needed a guide.
Savage Ventmaw | Art by Slawomir
Thankfully, the world provided a fine selection Maniak
of them.

"That's far enough, Silumgar death-spawn,"

said a burly human warrior from atop some kind of long-tusked war-beast.

A party of warriors encircled Sorin, wielding spears and sharpened bone-clubs. They wore the
layered hides of tundra mammals, and their headdress antlers resembled those of the big
firebreathers that hunted in the sky. One of the humans readied a spell, his hand glowing hot
like a claw made of fire.

The lead warrior spoke again. "Your head will decorate a spear tonight."

Sorin and his enthralled guide trekked along the

narrow trails and icy crags in relative silence.
The thrall floated heavily, his bootless feet
dragging across the top of the snow,
occasionally snagging twigs or roots from the
path. Sorin had fed on the thrall's blood more
than once, but now he instead pumped the
floating warrior for information.

"How long have you known about the domain

of the spirit dragon?" Sorin asked.
Atarka Beastbreaker | Art by Johannes
Voss "Our people found the spirit dragon's domain
over a thousand years ago. Not long before the
Khanfall."
"Khanfall?" Sorin asked. "The fall of the khan?"

"Khans," said the thrall. "The human clan leaders of old. 'Khan' is a cursed word now. A dead
word."

"You serve dragons."

"I serve you now, of course, master. But the dragon broods rule the five clans, and those lesser
beings·humans, and others of their ilk·serve them." The trail crested a ridge, and the thrall
hovered over the top and continued down into a valley where ice had given way to patches of
bare earth. "There were once other clans, ruled by arrogant humans. Those clans bore different
names, and their warriors killed dragons even of their own land. Traitors. Traitors to the spirit
of dragonkind. They earned their fate."

"I find it strange whenever mortals seek out their own demise."

"They did not possess the spirit of savagery of the great Atarka. They did not survive."

"Atarka·your dragon leader."

The thrall nodded. "Dragonlord of my clan."

Sorin asked, "And this spirit of Atarka·you

believe that came from Ugin?"

"Ugin is the beating heart of the world. He

dwells within the Haven. He is why the dragons
have their many strengths."

So he may be alive after all, thought Sorin.

A thought crawled up into Sorin's mind like a

spider ascending a thread. He frowned, at a loss
for what to do about the skulking thought: the
knot of complications involving a certain
Zendikari kor woman·Nahiri, the third Dragonlord Atarka | Art by Karl Kopinski
member of their alliance all those millennia ago.
If Sorin managed to find Ugin alive, wouldn't
the dragon's first question be about her?

Far below was a flat plain of ancient, shattered rock blotched with ice and snow. Sorin could see
that the rock on the plain had been warped and shaped by an immense outpouring of energy. A
spiral of stone looked as if it had once been molten and made to follow lines of force, then flash-
frozen. The strange rock surrounded a deep canyon of blackened granite that streaked through
the center of the plain.

"There lies the spirit dragon." The Atarka-clan guide pointed to the canyon floor.
Sorin looked down.

Hedrons.

Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of stone hedrons

were piled at the bottom of the chasm. They
did not float free, but interlocked with each
other, forming a protective sheath.

Sorin's hand went to the hilt of his sword.

Lithomancy on Tarkir? Had Nahiri traveled
here before him and bested the dragon? The
oracle's visions had not warned him of any of
this.

Crucible of the Spirit Dragon | Art by Jung "This is the haven," said the thrall. "The great
Park cradle where the spirit dragon rests."
Even from the lip of the chasm, Sorin could see
that the stone shapes were old. Ice and debris
had settled in the crannies of the magically carved runes, and the elements had worn and
battered the stones. These stones had lain here for a long time.

Sorin could feel the life essence of the being within the cocoon of hedrons. He wondered if he
still knew some of the old blood magic he had used back on Zendikar.

"I need to wake the beating heart of your world, thrall," said Sorin. "Have you any more blood
in you?"

"I fear my veins are brittle, master, and empty of life," said the Atarka guide. "It has been⁄a
long journey for me. But all I still have is yours."

Sorin made a dismissive gesture. The thrall collapsed onto the snow, his desiccated body
leathery and spent.

I'll have to do this with what I have, thought Sorin. Time to awaken, dragon.

Sorin unsheathed his sword and pointed it down at the dragon's resting-place. He willed the
blood in his body to flow through him, warming him, focusing and concentrating his mana. He
pronounced ancient syllables, words worn by time, words of binding and of release. His magic
wove around the cocoon and through it, tracing its surfaces, finding the edges of the mystical
lock that bound the hedrons together. As blood thudded in his temples, Sorin found the
keystone to the cocoon. Buried deep within the stone structure was a single, tiny, broken shard
·a remnant of Ugin's own magic from another world. That shard was the source of the binding
magic.

Sorin thrust his sword into the air and shouted an ancient word of unmaking. The hedron shard
crumbled to dust, and the cocoon began to crack. Stone surfaces broke and slid, and the
structure fell in on itself.

Ugin exploded from the hedron cocoon,

rocketing into the air. The whoosh of air blew
Sorin's hair back as Ugin shot upward in a
flurry of wings. Soon, Ugin was only a bright
speck against the sky, trailing spirals of
shimmering mist through the air, tracing a
jubilant path. The air crackled around him.
Sorin noted that the clouds seemed to roll and
curl in concert with Ugin's flight, as if the
dragon obeyed the clouds' laws·or the clouds
obeyed his.
Haven of the Spirit Dragon | Art by
Sorin sheathed his sword, watching the dragon Raymond Swanland
bank with a billow of his wings. Ugin finally
seemed to realize that a force had set him free,
and became aware of Sorin back at the lip of
the chasm.

Ugin returned, hovering in the air above the broken ruins of the hedron cocoon. The dragon's
voice rumbled. "Sorin?"

"Indeed," Sorin said. "What happened here? You were trapped?"

A faraway look came over the dragon's face. Ugin blew a gust of mist from his nostrils in a
moment of contemplation. "Saved, I believe," said Ugin.

He turned his head toward Sorin. There was a strange twist to his neck·it was bent, almost
cowed. "Tell me·is Bolas·gone from here?"

Sorin didn't know what to make of the question. A battle between dragons had been part of the
oracle's visions·perhaps it was the ancient Planeswalker Nicol Bolas that Ugin had faced. Not
Nahiri, then. "Did he do this to you?"

"He thought me his rival for power, and

attacked me. Used my own dragons against me.
But someone intervened on my behalf." The
dragon examined the hedron ruins below him,
and inspected the landscape again. Dragons
wheeled in the sky, spitting bright flashes of
fire. "It seems I took some time to recuperate.
How long?"

"Over a thousand years, if the locals are to be

believed." Sorin took a note of pleasure in
Ugin, the Spirit Dragon | Art by Chris dispensing knowledge to the aeons-old dragon.
 Rahn "I had almost forgotten the look of your face."

"Much must have changed." Ugin drew a

breath into his chest, then shimmering steam
floated from his nostrils into the air above Sorin's head. "Why have you come? Why revive me
now?"

"The Eldrazi. You're not the only one to have awoken from a hedron slumber."

"They can't be·free. The network was built to last indefinitely."

"They're free." Sorin had the urge to press the matter, to needle Ugin, to make someone else
shoulder the blame. "They awoke, and you didn't come. I suppose you were here at home.
Resting in your cradle."

"How could this be?"

Sorin looked at the horizon. "Planeswalkers. And a series of childish errors at the Eye."

Sorin had traveled to Zendikar to meet the young elf Planeswalker Nissa, a native of the world
of Zendikar. He and Nissa had struggled over whether to free the Eldrazi. Nissa chose to release
them, thinking it would spare her world·and it hadn't.

"What would have led Planeswalkers to do

this?" Ugin seemed to be asking himself more
than Sorin.

Sorin had been there personally, when the

Eldrazi rose from their torpor and began their
rampage across Zendikar. He had tried to
intervene, but the Eye of Ugin had been
tampered with. He did not know why their
hedron prison had been compromised in the
first place·he only knew that Ugin would be
crucial to stopping them once again.

"I can only tell you what I know."

Ugin breathed a different kind of breath. A sigh. "This is frantic news."

Sorin saw Ugin's eyes wander to the ground, searching for his next thought. Sorin could see the
next question forming·the logical next leap for Ugin's mind to take. He knew that next
question would cut deeper. Sorin unconsciously counted the moments.

Ugin's eyes swiveled back to Sorin. "Where is the hedron mage? Where is Nahiri?"

The notion of shame had long since evaporated from Sorin. Over the millennia, Sorin's human
frailties and neurosis had grown, blossomed, and withered away·he was as immune to regret as
he was to old age. And yet, for the first time in years, an uncomfortable feeling grew within him,
an unpleasant itch, the sense that he was
responsible·solely·for something important
going awry. It wasn't remorse exactly, just a
dull, discordant echo ringing in the space where
remorse had once resided.

"She is·not here," said Sorin, to no particular

patch of air.

"That is clear," said Ugin. "I inquired about her

Nahiri, the Lithomancer | Art by Eric whereabouts. Is she still on Zendikar? We
Deschamps should rejoin her, as soon as I am able to
travel."

"I do not believe that she is there," Sorin said

carefully.

Ugin's neck pleats fanned in irritation. "Speak facts, you vague thing. She's dead?"

"No," said Sorin. "She lives." The fuller extent of the truth was not something Ugin needed to
know at this time, in Sorin's estimation. "I think I may know where she might be."

"Then fetch her to Zendikar. If the titans remain there, we'll need her to rebuild the hedron
network."

"Is it crucial that she come?"

"Of course it's crucial," Ugin said. "Your blood magic is great, as is my knowledge of the
dwellers of void. But none of our efforts can be made permanent without the lithomancer."
Ugin curved his body, bringing his head down close to Sorin's, like a bird regarding a worm
with its great eye. "Let me be clear. It must be the three of us. Whatever petty tiff you've had
with her, or whatever matter it is you're hiding from me, resolve it. I do not wish to see your
face without hers."

Sorin snapped his head away with his teeth

clenched, suddenly gripped by an urge to
destroy something. He clasped his own arms,
holding his own body in check. He nodded with
what looked like bored nonchalance.

Ugin gave a single firm nod. "I will join you at

the Eye soon. Thank you for your assistance
here."

Sorin ran his tongue over his fangs, staring a

hole in the snowy ground. As he began his Soul Summons | Art by Johann Bodin
planeswalk away from Tarkir, he scanned the
shapes above the horizon·not for the birdlike
formations of dragons, but to watch Tarkir's
rippling stacks of clouds. They drifted through the air like the lazily floating islands of the
savage world of Zendikar. Things had been so much simpler when he only had his own world to
worry about.
The Guardian
BY ARI LEVITCH

In the original timeline of Khans of Tarkir, Anafenza was khan of the Abzan, the stalwart ruler
of an enduringly loyal clan. In the alternative timeline of Dragons of Tarkir, her fate has been
less kind, but no less grand⁄

It was the same in every military camp·or that's how it seemed to Oret for the past year.

He was a cartographer for Commander Faiso, one of the few humans Dragonlord Dromoka
and her scalelords respected enough to consult in matters of war. As such, Oret had leave to
come and go as he needed. He had ridden through the night, and as he passed through the
camp, he was being tugged in opposing directions by hunger and weariness. There were pockets
of soldiers huddled around cookfires, and the smell of meat cooking in fat tipped the odds in
favor of hunger.

He dismounted at one such cookfire, where the

soldiers were engaged in a lively discussion Oret
had no intention of interrupting. He knew what
they were discussing anyway: the Guardian.

He filled an amber bowl with water and took a

seat.

"I've seen spirits. Fought them, even," said a

stern-faced ainok. When he spoke, Oret noticed
he was missing several teeth. "They're malicious
Salt Road Quartermasters | Art by and spiteful. Unnatural."
Anthony Polumbo
"Then explain what they saw," said a youthful
soldier.

"I'm not sure that I can, no matter how many times you go over it." The old ainok shrugged. "I
wasn't there, and neither were you."

The younger soldier turned to her comrade on her left. "Yeffa! You were there!"

"You know I was," said Yeffa, a broad woman who flashed a broad grin at seeing her friend's
exasperation.

"Explain to Khurz here what you saw."

"We shouldn't be talking about this, Ajuf," said a fourth soldier. He was a gaunt man, the skin
of his face bronzed by the sun. He didn't look at the others as he spoke.
Yeffa waved a hand dismissively at him. To Oret, it seemed a practiced gesture, and he watched
as the veteran leaned in closer to the others. Yeffa was whispering, clearly reveling in the thrill of
the forbidden. "Though I was across the battlefield, I know what I saw. From nowhere, their
shrieks came, followed by riders beyond count, all charging into our left flank."

This one's a storyteller, Oret thought.

"Before our forces could do more than face the

charge," said Yeffa, "the Kolaghan were into
their slaughter. The line began to crumble
beneath the hooves of their horses. And that's
when it happened." She paused to look her
comrades in the eye, each in turn. "A great
wave of sand rose up behind the line. It surged
past our soldiers to crash down upon the
enemy."
Pitiless Horde | Art by Viktor Titov
Khurz raised both hands to protest, but before
he could speak, Yeffa continued, "'But we have
sandbringers that could accomplish such feats,'
you may say. And to that I would add that at the front this great wave of sand was the form of a
woman, armed and armored as a Dromoka soldier. This was no sandbringer's trick. This was
the Guardian."

"And you saw this detail from across the battlefield?" Khurz clicked his tongue. "Taram is right,
we shouldn't be wasting our time talking about this."

"She saved us, whatever you may say," said Yeffa.

"There are others who saw the same thing," said Ajuf. "In other battles too. I've even heard talk
that she has healed wounded soldiers and freed captured prisoners."

Khurz let out a hollow chuckle. "And I suppose she makes the wastes bloom, and the tempests
subside, too. Who, then, is this spirit who watches over us?"

There was silence among them. All but Taram seemed to contemplate a plausible answer, and
if not plausible, then at least clever. Finding neither, Yeffa stirred the wood of the cookfire with
a stick. "Who can say?" she said at last.

Oret knew these stories. He'd heard them in every camp on his travels. They had warmed him
more than the fire before him.

"I can tell you who she is." He did not whisper. The words came out crisp and heavy with
authority. The way the soldiers turned to him as he spoke told him they had forgotten he was
sitting there. To him it was a bit silly, the thought of himself as the mysterious stranger. But
that's exactly what he'd become in the past year, drifting across Dromoka territory.

"And who are you, stranger?" asked Khurz, at last.

"I'm the one who killed that spirit in life."

The soldiers clung to every one of Oret's words that followed.

Two trails of dust merged into one behind the

pair of ibexes that raced at full gallop, carrying
their armored riders along the canyon floor.
Anafenza, the lead rider, risked a glance over
her shoulder to scan for the crush of enemies
they both were expecting to overtake them.

"Captain! Did we lose them?" called Oret, his

voice cracking with strain. "I think we lost
them."

Mountain | Art by Noah Bradley The captain's head tilted skyward to where
dark, roiling clouds were gathering. "Not
likely," she said more to herself than to the
other rider. The walls of the canyon closed in
around them, and the captain spurred her ibex on.

"We should wait for our scalelord. He will break their offensive."

The captain wheeled about so suddenly that Oret was almost thrown from his saddle in his
effort to halt his mount. "Our lord is occupied with other things at the moment." She pointed
up toward the mountains that rose on the eastern edge of the canyon. "On the outcrop, see?"

Oret saw him, his scalelord, the dragon to whom he was bonded. The scalelord had a smaller,
four-winged dragon pinned beneath his massive arms. As Oret watched, lightning erupted from
the smaller dragon's mouth. His scalelord tumbled backward as the other dragon flew away.

"Is he in trouble?" asked Oret.

"He's occupied. We're in trouble."

"Then we're alone."

"Not quite. Follow me." And the captain was

off again.

Oret stared a moment longer at his scalelord,

locked in an exchange of power he would never
fully understand. Behind him came the rumble
Stormwing Dragon | Art by Svetlin
of horses, and the taunts of their riders, and he
Velinov
too was off. He followed his captain, who drove
her ibex through the twisting path that brought
the pair deeper into the canyon. It proved to be
difficult to keep pace with her, as she would all but disappear around a bend, or suddenly
change directions to dart down one of the canyon's countless labyrinthine branches. Wherever
she was leading them, if nothing else, it was away from the Kolaghan warriors. Oret had served
with his captain for several years, and he had never seen her act rashly. There was always a plan,
always some contingency that proved that she had considered the threats and made the correct
preparations. But here they were, their fortress lost and their lines broken, fleeing for their lives
before the bulk of a Kolaghan horde.

More twists. More narrow paths. The Kolaghan war-shrieks at their heels soon became
scattered and confused shouts that echoed off the canyon walls. A smiled crept in at the corner
of Oret's mouth. He realized what his captain was doing. At best, the Kolaghan would lose track
of their quarry and overshoot their position entirely. At worst, the captain would have forced the
Kolaghan to divide their forces to find them. In the narrow corridors of the canyon, the two of
them may actually be able to fight their way out.

The captain made another abrupt turn into a gap in the canyon wall. Oret missed it, and rode
past before slowing to wheel about. He opened his mouth to call after his leader, but before
words emerged, he was struck by the sudden taste of metal on his tongue. The air became
unnaturally dry, and a crackling hum drowned out all noise, except the panicked bleating of
Oret's ibex. He struggled with the reins in a vain attempt to maintain control over the animal.

"Captain!" Oret yelled, desperate to leave. "Anafenza!" He dug his heels into his mount's flanks,
and it bolted.

A pop broke over the air. After only three steps, the ibex lurched and crumpled mid-stride. Oret
fell hard from his saddle and his jaw slammed closed when the ground rose up to meet it. He
tasted blood as he scrambled for cover behind his ibex, which lay lifeless with a spear jutting
from its back. All along the shaft, electrical energy still danced, curling and blackening the
surrounding fur.

Another echo boomed through the canyon. This one, the growling, guttural bellow of a hunter
after a kill. Oret found a Kolaghan orc perched above him at the edge of a flat rock that poked
out part way up the canyon wall. He was adorned with a metal mantle that rose from a harness
on his back. A web of lightning fanned out from the mantle to complete the impression of
formidable wings, bright against the dark, churning clouds above.

The orc roared once more, this time forming a sound that Oret could discern. "Gvar!"

Oret knew the name. Gvar, the orc who led the attack on Sandsteppe Gateway. Beneath the
shadow of Kolaghan dragons, Gvar stormed the walls, dislodged its Dromoka defenders, and
drove the survivors into the wilderness.

The warrior's call would summon Gvar to finish the two remaining soldiers of the garrison.

But the orc did not wait for his leader, and instead he leapt for Oret.

There was time for Oret to scramble to his feet or draw his sword, not both. Oret rose, and the
raider was on him. A powerful downward cut punctuated his war cry, but Oret shifted so the
blow glanced off a pauldron. He closed the distance between them, and before his attacker
 could recover, Oret threw his armor-clad bulk
forward, bringing both of them the ground in a
cloud of dust and curses.

The Kolaghan raider maneuvered until his

elbow pressed in on Oret's throat. The blood in
his mouth welled, but Oret could not swallow
it. Instead, he let it fly at the orc in a spray of
red. It was enough for Oret to wrench free. And
it was then that he heard his captain's voice.

Warbringer | Art by Raymond Swanland "Oret, move," said Anafenza.

The command was a simple one, and Oret

complied. He broke away from the raider, but
the orc refused to relent. Anafenza stepped forward, wreathed in shimmering golden-white
light, and the sand around her feet rippled as though alive. Anafenza held out a hand, and the
swirling light curled around her arm and spiraled out toward the orc. It passed through him,
pulling something unseen but vital from him as it passed, leaving him lifeless in the dust.

No sooner than the body collapsed than were the walls of the canyon again awakened by the
sounds of war. Hoofbeats and warshouts boomed out, growing louder with each passing
moment.

"Captain?"

"This way," said Anafenza, indicating the narrow path behind her. "Gvar and his horde will be
here soon. We must be ready for them."

The pair was on foot, running flat out, careful enough only to avoid rolling an ankle on the
loose, stony ground. Behind Anafenza, Oret emerged in an oblong chamber that was hemmed
in almost entirely by the sheer face of the canyon wall. The only way out was the way they had
come.

"A dead end," said Oret.

"It's a good thing, too," said Anafenza. She was unlacing her boots. "It will be harder for them
to flee."

Nervously, Oret paced the perimeter of the chamber. He found Anafenza's ibex tied to a small,
twisted tree, drinking water from an amber bowl. The humble tree was half hidden in the
shadow of the wall. Scattered all around tree, Oret saw shards of amber. To his eye, many of
the shards had once fit together to form an untold number of containers, figurines, or
ornaments. Oret knelt and scooped up a shard, this one a remnant of some ancient intricately
crafted pitcher.

"What are these, Captain?"

"Amber is a special substance, Oret. The broken vessels at your feet served two functions. Like
any vessel, they carried water. But made from amber, a substance of trees, these vessels could
also carry spirits."

Oret dropped the amber shard as though it burned. "Captain, please. We should not be here."

"I want to show you something," said Anafenza, calmly talking past him. She was standing at
the tree, and Oret cautiously obliged. She took his hand and placed it on the bare trunk. "Now
look closer." Oret leaned in. His eyes strained in the growing darkness, but there, carved into
the surface of the trunk were dozens, if not hundreds of names.

Oret recoiled. "Cursed names?"

"That was my first thought as well, but I've come to believe otherwise. Many people went to
great lengths to bring these here. Spirits can be carried in amber, but I believe the tree is their
anchor."

"You've been here before?"

"Many times."

Anafenza crouched at the base of trunk, brushing sand away until the arches of roots were
revealed. She rose, and placed her bare feet upon the roots. "Now, Oret, get behind me. You're
going to see something amazing." She flashed him a smile, the first one he'd seen since the
attack on Sandsteppe Gateway.

"I can't do that, Captain." Oret smiled back. It was a sad smile. His captain·his cousin·was
going to die there. He was going to die there. But not easily. He drew his sword.

It wasn't long before the Kolaghan caught up. The taunts resumed as they closed in, even
before they could be seen.

"Let's hope all that running has left enough strength for a fight." By the time the words were
uttered, Gvar's hulking frame entered the chamber. "I am Gvar Barzeel, who shattered your
gates, and toppled your walls."

Anafenza unsheathed the curved two-handed sword that hung in a scabbard across her back.
"It's because you are Gvar Barzeel, who shattered our gates, and toppled our walls, that you will
not leave this place."

Dozens of Kolaghan warriors piled into the chamber behind Gvar. Shamans were among them,
and they began summoning lightning, which crackled into being among them.

Ever calm, Anafenza removed her helmet and reached up to touch a gnarled branch with her
hand. "Spirits of this tree, ancestors of my people, your descendants need you." It was not the
first time she said the words, Oret was certain, and at their utterance, the still air of the chamber
began to stir. Dust rose, and tiny golden flecks of amber rose with it. For the moment, the
gathered warriors at the opposite end of the chamber halted their taunts.
Although Anafenza was barely visible through the maelstrom of dust, Oret could still hear his
captain, who said, "Oret, get behind me." And Oret moved to the other side of the tree,
shielding his face as best he could.

He was pulling Anafenza's ibex over to him when he saw impressions of human shapes take
form in the dust. They were not solid forms, although some appeared to be armored in the
manner of the ancients. Oret's eyes widened.

Spirits.

The revelation stole the remaining moisture from this mouth.

Necromancy.

Anafenza inhaled deeply. Her lungs filled with dust and amber, and the spirits swirled in toward
her. They merged with her, until she became a blur of amber light. She stepped off the roots,
took another step forward, and an instant later, she was among the Kolaghan.

She was a horrifying mass of spirit limbs, angry and vengeful. Sand and dust moved in great
billowing sheets, fed by an endless stream of furious spirits that continued to surge from the
tree. Among the tumult, Oret was able to track Anafenza by the flashes of her blade and the
cries she extracted from the Kolaghan as she went.

Gvar, the shamans, all of the Kolaghan raiders·they didn't stand a chance.

During the carnage, the storm clouds overhead swelled. As Anafenza caught, and cut down the
last of Gvar's warriors, lightning split the sky, thunder shook the canyon, and the clouds spilled
out their contents. Dragons of Kolaghan's brood descended from the sky.

Oret was stuck between the horror composed of

spirits and death before him, and the horrors
borne on four wings above him.

The lead dragon tucked its four feathered wings

back and fell into a dive at Oret's spirit-
shrouded captain. There was no hesitation, no
moment of panic or fear. Anafenza simply
looked skyward, and all at once, the spirits
within her streaked up toward the clouds to
meet the dragon. They moved as a massive bolt
of golden light, and at its advance the dragon Dragon Tempest | Art by Willian Murai
tried to reverse course. Too late, though, for the
bolt tore through scales and flesh and bone.

Oret saw spirits splinter off to devour the rest of the monster, and the remaining dragons
scattered back into the safety of the clouds.

The dust and sand in the chambers settled back to earth. Utterly exhausted, Anafenza
collapsed.

It took Oret a long moment to realize that the

sequence of threats had ceased. Slowly, he
made his way to where his captain lay,
motionless. Air rattled in her lungs. It was a
sound that both unsettled and relieved Oret.
Anafenza's eyes hung open, but her pupils had
rolled back in her head, leaving only a pair of
glassy, white fields in their place.

Radiant Purge | Art by Igor Kieryluk "Anafenza," Oret whispered.

More air passed through her lungs, weak and
ragged.

Oret put his hand on her shoulder, and gently shook her. "Anafenza," he said again. And again,
louder, "Captain!" He desperately wanted to help her, and lacking another course of action, he
looked for some wound, some physical evidence of harm he could bind or mend. But there was
nothing. This wasn't a slash from a sword, or a puncture from an arrow.

"Oret." The word came as a hoarse whisper.

Oret's face broke into a smile. He looked down to find Anafenza staring up at him.

"You see?" she asked.

"Don't strain yourself, Captain."

"I'm okay," she said, propping herself on her elbows. "Really. I just needed a moment."

"Captain, I've never seen anything like that."

"Me neither. I've never felt anything like it." The fullness of her voice was returning, and she
began to speak rapidly. "Oret, so many ancestors, all bound by common purpose·to protect
their descendants, their people. There was nothing political about it. There was no
maneuvering for the favor of a dragon. It was pure, and it was powerful."

A sudden gust riled the sand, and they felt the air in their ears compress. Wing beats. If there
were no clouds, a massive shadow would have filled the oblong canyon chamber. But there was
no shadow, only a series of sickening cracks, as their scalelord descended into the chamber
where, beneath its great weight, the ancient tree fell to splinters. And with it, Anafenza's last
shred of obedience.

"He saw," Anafenza said through gritted teeth. Even as Oret bowed his head, she stared directly
into the dragon's eyes.

"Captain, please," Oret said. "Not now." But Oret knew, as he was sure Anafenza knew. The
cost of calling upon spirits, of practicing necromancy, was death. Their scalelord would open
his mouth, and out would pour a blast of scouring light that would peel away all the layers of
her being until there was nothing remaining. Not even a spirit.

The dragon reared its head back, and Oret

stepped between his scalelord and his captain.

"This is the way of it, Oret," Anafenza said, "get

out of the way. There's no getting out of it. My
life is forfeit for what I've done."

Oret remained. "Sovereign of mine," he said,

dropping to one knee before the dragon, "I ask
you, with all the respect of one of your humble
children, to grant a single request."
Enduring Scalelord | Art by Clint Cearley
Dragons didn't debase themselves with the
language of people. When they spoke, their
draconic words first passed through speakers.
There, in the canyon, there was no one to translate, and the only indication of understanding
Oret would have would be the dragon's actions. It was a prospect that clawed at his stomach.

"My captain has practiced necromancy," he continued. "An affront that must be punished."
Oret swallowed. "Please, my scalelord, allow me to be the one to execute her."

The dragon's gaze shifted from Oret to Anafenza, and finally back to Oret, to whom he dipped
his head. It was a gesture Oret took to be a nod. His request was granted.

Anafenza made no motion to escape, and Oret allowed himself a momentary glance in her
direction. She was calm, as always. She knelt to receive her judgment, and as he bent to scoop
up her two-handed sword, she turned to smile at him.

The leather hilt of Anafenza's sword was coated in dust, making it difficult to grip.

Anafenza had called forth spirits from the tree to protect them. She called the spirits ancestors,
and from across the ages, these ancestors found a common bond, and they emerged to fight the
enemies of their people. Anafenza had discovered this bond. She was driven by the same cause.

Oret raised the blade over his head. "This is not the end," he whispered to his captain. A
moment later, it was done.

Taram spat into the fire. "Justice served. Now I've heard enough. If you're going go on about
necromancy all day, then I'm off." He rose and walked off into the dim light of the morning.

"I don't understand," said Ajuf, still transfixed. "Those spirits saved you. She saved you. And
you killed her for it."

"I did," Oret said, "and I was honored for it. Blood was pooling around my captain's lifeless
body, and I knelt before my scalelord to receive his favor."

He continued. "Upon my arrival at the city of

Kavah, I was greeted as a hero. I was raised to
the rank of scout captain, honored with the title
of cartographer and, with it, a life in exile. But I
put my exile to use, and soon my wanderings
brought me back to the canyon. Nothing
remained of Anafenza's body. The wilderness
saw to that. But that's not what I went there for.
Among the remnants of the tree were all those
pieces of amber that had carried the spirits of
ancestors to the site. In those I placed my hope,
Scale Blessing | Art by Matt Stewart and I scoured the sand for every bit of amber I
could find."

Oret drained the last of his water. "The

cartographer of Commander Faiso has the distinguished honor of maintaining the official maps
of the territory, and from such maps, I found my destination. Months of travel brought me to a
stretch of cracked, arid land. At the horizon, I spotted the ruins of a crumbling fortress that I
knew I would find. Between myself and the fortress, reaching up from the highest point of a low
hill, was an ancient tree. I compared the tree in the distance to the equivalent notation on my
map. All trees in Dromoka territory are noted on maps as an indicator of water, but the leafless
limbs of that tree could never provide such comfort for travelers. There was nothing there. It
was perfect.

"When I reached the tree, I emptied my bags of all the amber pieces I brought from the canyon
and spread them around the trunk in a ring. I had no idea if I was doing it correctly, but if
amber truly was a vessel for spirits, then Anafenza's had to be in one of the pieces.

"Where the trunk disappeared into the sand, I shoveled the sand away. With my knife, I carved
her name into the living wood, and when I finished, I pushed the sand back into place. It was to
be Anafenza's tree. One that would not be splintered, or burned, or uprooted. It would be her
anchor."

"Unbelievable!" said Ajuf.

"Agreed. I'm not sure I believe a thing you've

said," said Khurz. It was his turn to rise to
leave. But before he left, "Where is this tree,
then?"

"My answer won't convince you of the truth of

it," Oret said through a smile, "because all
records of that tree, on every official map have
been destroyed."
Anafenza, Kin-Tree Spirit | Art by Ryan
"Of course they have." Khurz let out a sharp Yee
hiss of disgust. "And now you travel through
our lands sharing this story?"

"Believe what you will. The success of my journey did not become apparent to me until tales
like Yeffa's began to crop up. For Anafenza, it had always been about the clan. In death, her
fervor has refused to wane. I now travel our territory to share the truth. She is, as Yeffa said, a
guardian."

Echoes of the Kin Tree | Art by Ryan

Alexander Lee
The Poisoned Heart
BY SAM STODDARD

In the heart of the Dragonlord Silumgar's fortress, the undead naga Sidisi bides her time⁄

Silumgar's court was not the busy place that Sidisi had imagined it in her youth, rising through
the ranks of Naga in her attempts to gain power. She had imagined one day being a trusted
advisor for the dragon, that she could use her influence to smite her enemies, making her the
wealthiest of all Naga.

The truth as she understood it was that few

ventured into Silumgar's court, as venturing out
was far from guaranteed·even in seemingly
benign diplomatic negotiations. The dragon
viewed lesser beings as an outlet for his whims.
Most of the peoples under Silumgar's dominion
sent excessive tribute in the hopes of never
being called for a private appearance. This
meant that many days had seemingly endless
lulls where there was very little use for Sidisi's
skills as a translator.
Custodian of the Trove | Art by Raoul
Vitale It was in those lulls that her mind drifted back
to her last mortal moments, as the knife
plunged into her heart, and the necromancers
chanted the spell that would bring her back·or
at least the part of her that remained. There was pain in those final moments, yes, but there was
also the cool evening breeze, the scent of orchids on her tongue·distant, fleeting, but present.
Those sorts of sensations Sidisi had ignored during her life, disregarded them in her rise of
power. Now, they were the one thing that she could never get back.

That was the ultimate punishment of the dark magic of necromancy·to remove the ability to
experience the pleasures all around, but not their memory. The desire remained, but it was a
hunger that could not be satiated. The memories that remained after Sidisi's transition, even
ones as painful as that, were more pleasant than her existence as a sibsig.

Sidisi was brought back to the present by the noise of a caravan arriving·from the Marang
region, if she recognized the carts correctly. Dozens of strong men emerged carrying chests of
gold. As they marched up the steps to the entrance of Silumgar's court, one of the humans
approached her.

"I seek an audience," the man said. "I wish to explain why our tribute is not to the level
expected of us."
Sidisi examined the gold medallion on the man's chest. A clear indication of wealth and power.
"Perhaps you might send one of your
underlings, if you have ill news," she said. "You
do not look like a man who values honor above
life."

"Jhinu sent me," he said, handing Sidisi a small

purse of gems. "He told me you have a
receptive ear. Though when he told me of you,
he did not mention that you were⁄"

Sidisi interrupted him. "I remember this Silumgar's Command | Art by Nils Hamm
human," she said. "It has been several years
now, during my previous life. He also offered
me jewels for favors with the dragon. They were
very pretty. A bag of jewels for a mountain of gold⁄a very good exchange." Sidisi tucked the
bag into her sleeves. "Follow me."

Sidisi led the man inside. She approached Silumgar's throne, loudly making a path through the
gold coins and other objects of tribute that he had collected during his millennia of rule. The
dragon was known to slumber in the late summer afternoons, and ensuring that he was aware of
your presence was important if staying in one piece was a prerogative.

"My lord," Sidisi said, barking in a low and gravelly language. Naga could not create the precise
language of the dragons, but they could produce a weak imitation. It was the tongue the dragon
enjoyed speaking in.

The dragon lifted his head and turned it toward

the procession of valuables carried into the
room by two dozen of the man's servants. Gold
coins, gold helms, relics from the fallen warriors
of Dromoka's protectorate·Silumgar eyed this
bounty, but his monstrous head provided no
insight. When the last servant had emptied his
treasure, the dragon turned his head away.

Dragonlord Silumgar | Art by Steven

Belledin

"Your men may leave," Sidisi said to the man.

"But you may not." As the servants left the
throne room, Sidisi brought her tail up to the
face of the man standing before her. "We have
heard stories of the conquests in the Gurmag Hedonist's Trove | Art by Peter
province. Great victories against many of Mohrbacher
Dromoka's fortresses. Wealth beyond measure!
But here, this wealth you have brought us is
measurable. Do you not believe that your Lord
deserves his cut?"

"Indeed, we have achieved many victories," the man said, turning to the dragon. "But also
suffered many losses. We needed to rebuild·we needed to feed the families of those who fell in
battle."

"You will not speak to the dragon," Sidisi said, her rotting tail lightly passing over his neck.
"You will speak to me. I will speak to the dragon."

Sidisi growled, and the dragon turned his head. "You have lined your pockets with gold that
was by all rights his," Sidisi said. "You have attempted to bribe me, but I have no use for such
petty things anymore." Sidisi dropped the pouch of jewels on the ground. "The dragon has
made me who I am today, and I am loyal to him. Tell me, human, who are you loyal to? Jhinu,
the one who sent you to die in his place, yes? Has he protected your lands like Silumgar? Has he
allowed you to live?"

"I know you serve the dragon," the man said. "But you do not revere him."

Sidisi closed the distance between her and the man. "And why not revere him? In my life I
sought power, but I did not understand what that meant. I look at him now, and I understand."

"You can't truly be pleased with what he has done to you," the man said.

"What do you think you know of me, human?" Sidisi curled her tail. "Resisting the dragon is
fruitless. One can only serve him and hope for a painless death when he asks for it."

The man leaned close to Sidisi. "What if it wasn't futile? In my pocket, I hold three vials of
poison made from the Jrung Orchid. A mere quarter of one was enough to fell one of
Dromoka's regents. Allow me to approach the dragon, and I can end his reign."

Silumgar chuckled, and spoke words in his

ancient tongue that caused the room to vibrate,
piles of gold swirling in the wake."

"Just because he does not wish to speak your

tongue," Sidisi said to the man, "does not mean
he does not understand it."

Sidisi reached her tail around the man's

midsection, but he wrestled an arm free and let
a vial loose. It sailed across the room and struck
Hand of Silumgar | Art by Lius Lasahido Silumgar's massive body. The vial shattered and
the black liquid dripped onto the ground,
 fizzing as it hit the gold below.

"The dragon breathes poison," Sidisi said tightening the grip on the man. "Did you believe your
oil would have any effect on his magnificence?"

Silumgar snorted and a toxic cloud engulfed the

room. Before, when Sidisi was still alive, the
dragon's breath burned her skin. She would
skitter and rush to calm it with salves before
large black boils formed.

The man was not sibsig. His flesh held no

resistance to the vapors.

"Had you come without the gold, Silumgar

would have only asked for one tenth of your
population as a penance, "Sidisi said to the man Damnable Pact | Art by Zack Stella
as he gasped for air. "Many of those you loved
would have survived. Now, I'm afraid, the
punishment will be more severe."

The dragon barked more orders. Sidisi grabbed the man by the neck and dragged him out of
the throne room, to the edge of a sibsig pit.

"Please," the man said. "Please. No. Please. I

don't want to die. I know you can help me."

"Could," Sidisi said, as she removed the

remaining vials from the man's cloak. "Won't.
What good are your riches now? They offer me
no respite."

"My family, I have failed you," the man said,

weeping as his breath became more shallow.
"No poison will kill that beast. Surely we are all
doomed."
Corpseweft | Art by Nils Hamm
"Alone, no," Sidisi said. "But tribute brings
many like yourself who believe they can end the
dragon. They all bring such lovely poisons."

Sidisi unceremoniously tossed the man's near-lifeless body into the pit. Her kin would have
their feast, and nothing would be left of him to be returned. She lifted the ornate plate covering
her midsection to reveal a large gash·the gaping hole where her heart once beat.

There, she held a collection of poisons from all over the lands, their potent oils mixing.

Sidisi waited for the day when their potency had matured, and for when the dragon let his guard
down. On that day, she would take the power the dragon had stolen from her, and the naga
would become what they were always meant to
be·rulers of these lands.

Sidisi, Undead Vizier | Art by Min Yum

The Call
BY NIK DAVIDSON

On another Tarkir, with a different destiny, the man called Surrak was khan of his clan. Savage,
swift, and attuned with nature, he ruled the Temur by example.

Times have changed, however·time itself has changed·and Surrak never lived that life. Now
he is the Hunt Caller of the Atarka clan, who hunt to feed their dragonlord. If Surrak knew of
this other fate, his original destiny as khan, he might prefer that life.

But then again, he might not.

Birds burst from the pines, scattering snow to the steep slopes below, as the hours of long
silence are broken by the sound of the horn. The hunting horn. The call to the most sacred of
tasks.

The mountains are vast, trackless, and pristine. A dragon's gaze stretches far, but none can see
every slope, every cave, every hollow. Deep in the mountains is a place of peace. A human or
ainok can escape for days, weeks; a clever one, maybe even a year. But the quiet has a price.
The empty mountains are yet ruled, and when the horn sounds, you answer.

Four ainok rise from their hidden camp. They

do not serve Atarka, but these are her lands.
Their peace is her peace. They bundle up as
best they can, and shuffle off in the direction of
the sound. It is the better of the two options.
Neither the mother nor the father is much of a
hunter. The eldest daughter is fit, the younger
son scrawny. There is no debate, no discussion.
The horn sounds, and they walk. Some of them
will last the week.

Mountain | Art by Titus Lunter The great sledge rumbles over the snowdrifts,
pulled by fur-covered men and women that
look not that dissimilar from the beasts heaped
atop it. Nobody speaks. There are noises,
noises of effort and exertion, noises of nervousness and frustration, but no words. There will be
time for words later, once the hunt is done.

Surrak stood atop the sledge and relished the small pain of the icy air in his lungs. They had
been on the trail of a mountain krushok for almost a day now and, by the size of the tracks, it
was enormous. An offering like that could keep the dragonlord satisfied for almost a week. Once
a krushok reached this size, they no longer bred, they no longer traveled with their herds. A
perfect quarry. Along the way, they had taken a dozen elk, three saberclaws, a handful of yeti,
and a hermit who refused the call. Surrak was particularly pleased with the saberclaws. Atarka
seemed to enjoy them, and by thinning out the area's predators, that left more game animals for
the hunt.

Out in the wild places, Surrak felt completely at home. There was a fierce joy to this·he could
put from his mind the reason that he hunted and focus everything on the instincts that would
lead to a successful conclusion. Every bit of movement caught his eye, every sound turned his
head. He had never come this way before, but he knew this place. The power deep within the
land resonated with him, gave him strength, drove him onward. There was no time for anything
else.

The tracks were fresh as the sledge moved

through the treeline and across a mountain
spring. The beast stopped for water here, and
its tracks in the stream bed had not yet washed
away. They were close now. Surrak gestured to
his scouts, sending two of them off parallel to
the tracks, while he dismounted from the sledge
and breathed in the scent of his quarry. Close.
Very close. Energy from the land welled up on
him, and he could feel it tingling in his fists. He
carried no weapon. He had never needed one.
Surrak, the Hunt Caller | Art by Wesley
Just as he was about to start his chase, a shadow Burt
passed over the sledge. His eyes searched the
skies and saw the silhouette of a dragon, flying
lazily above. One of Atarka's brood, by its size
and mass. Something seemed off in the way it flew, and he hissed to his scouts and hunters to
hold still. They hunkered down into the snow, and to a dragon above, they must have seemed
to disappear entirely. But there was no hiding the sledge. The dragon circled again, and now
Surrak saw what had caught his eye to begin with: its wingbeats were uneven and its flight
unsteady. He was silent and still for several moments.

"What do you see?" Surrak's second broke the stillness. He was an enormous man, and he kept
his voice low.

"It's one of Atarka's brood, but it's circling us. It's seen the sledge, and it's thinking about it. It
should know better, but it's thinking about it." Surrak let out a long, slow breath, which turned
to frost in the air. "Look at the wingbeats. That's not a healthy dragon. Injured, perhaps. Maybe
sick. Either way, it's thinking about coming for us."

"And what do we do if that happens?"

Surrak took another few breaths.

"This meat is for Atarka. We bring her the meat, or we become the meal. That's not so
complicated, is it?"
His second shook his head. The wingbeats grew more distant, and then the dragon faded from
sight. Surrak whistled a command and, as one, the hunters rose from the snow. The pursuit
began.

The krushok must have caught the smell on the wind. They don't get old without being clever,
Surrak thought, and the krushok had done everything it could to throw the hunters off of its
trail. It crossed a river, then crossed back. But the ainok could track its scent in the dark, if they
needed to. It stayed to rocky terrain in order to leave less obvious tracks, but there was no
hiding its passage from the hunters' keen eyes. Finally, it used its size and speed to try to
outpace them, but Surrak's scouts had already reached it. With spears and slings, they harried it,
driving it back, turning its course back toward the hunters' ambush. When the krushok burst
into the clearing, the hunters let loose a volley of spears and hooks. It was trapped.

It let out a bellow that shook the stones, and the hunters, moving as one, began to rein it in with
hooks and ropes. Hunters crept forward with long-bladed spears, looking to deliver the mortal
blow. The beast bucked and strained, but the hunters were strong and skilled. It let out a low
sound, and its head sagged as it showed its exhaustion. The ropes went taut, and the spear-
bearers lunged in.

But the beast had been hiding its strength, just

as the hunters had. With a burst of might, it
leapt up, snapping ropes, and swinging its great
horn. Two of the spear-bearers were swatted
aside, bones snapping, bodies flung against
trees and stone. With a mighty kick, it crushed
several of the hunters holding the ropes and
hooks. Surrak's second grabbed one of the
fallen hunters' spears and charged in with a
shout. With a powerful thrust, he drove the
spear upwards under the beast's great jaw. It
Feral Krushok | Art by Kev Walker shuddered, stumbled, and knelt down·
defeated·blood pooling red against white,
steam rising from the snow.

There was little celebration among the hunters. A quick check on the fallen to see whether they
were wounded or dead. There was an unspoken calculus at work here. With this kill in hand,
they needed to load the sledge and turn around. Those that could walk, would walk. Those that
could pull, would pull. But there was only one way to ride back to Atarka on the sledge, and
nobody volunteered for it.

The sledge was pulled up as close to the enormous corpse as the hunters could manage, and
planks were cut from the surrounding pines, so that the enormous krushok could be hoisted
atop it. Surrak let his second direct the effort while he watched the clouds·they were starting
to pool around the nearby peaks. A storm was coming. Not a dragon tempest, but the regular
kind that brought wind, snow, cold, and death to anyone caught in it. The clouds darkened as
he watched, and if the winds prevailed⁄.
A shape burst from the clouds, dropping into a thunderous dive.

"Get clear of the sledge! NOW!" Surrak shouted a warning, but it was too late, as the dragon
dropped down from the skies, a meteor of wings, scales, and antlers. It crashed to the earth,
smashing a crater into the snow and ice, and it slid twenty yards down the slope after it hit. It
scored the trees and the hunting party with a gout of flame, and blinding smoke wreathed its
form. Surrak squinted through the flames to see it. He saw its eyes and he saw a feral madness
in them. It stomped over to the krushok, and took a gluttonous bite while the surviving hunters
scattered into the treeline.

The dragon was stout, thirty feet in length, with

a rack of jagged antlers that marked it as one of
Atarka's brood. But her dragons were
intelligent, and they knew that the Hunt was
not to be interfered with. For one of her brood
to attack, it had to be mad or desperate.

"Everyone get back. I'm going to secure the

sledge." Surrak wrapped his bearskin tight
around his shoulders and slowly walked
through the smoke. He growled guttural
syllables and punctuated the sound by scraping Herdchaser Dragon | Art by Seb
and striking a stone against a scale that he wore McKinnon
against his coat for that purpose. No human
had the capacity to speak draconic, but Surrak
had managed to improvise a close
approximation of several of those impossible sounds. "I am the Hunt Caller," he tried to say.

The dragon did not react, save to glare at him as it chewed its stolen meal.

Surrak continued. "You are stealing Atarka's meat. Stop now."

Again, nothing. If the dragon understood him, it gave no sign. He sighed.

"Fine, we'll do this the other way."

Surrak crouched down, growled, and bared his teeth. There was no man nor beast that could
have possibly misunderstood this. The dragon gulped down a mawful of meat, and returned the
glare.

The dragon roared and snapped at him, but it was posturing. Surrak circled, crouched low,
palms down toward the ground. This was a good place. Lots of energy to be drawn. An old
place. The magic started to well up in him, and his blood felt hot. The dragon let loose a burst
of flame, but Surrak dashed forward, ducking most of it. He was burnt, but didn't feel it. The
dragon wheeled around on him, bringing a thick, clawed arm down toward his face. But before
it could land, he planted his back fist and threw a punch.

One was all it took.

 The dragon fell to the earth, neck broken. The
hunters that survived re-emerged from their
hiding places. They took stock of the damage,
but they didn't have long. The winds had
picked up, and the snow began to fall. The
storm was upon them.

Two days passed, and the storm did not let up

in the slightest. Keeping a fire lit was almost
impossible, and the trees only provided so
Epic Confrontation | Art by Wayne much shelter. The sledge was full of food, but it
Reynolds was frozen solid. It would keep for Atarka, but
unless they found a way to do something about
their immediate predicament, it would never
reach her. And if that happened, Surrak knew
what would follow. His people would pay the price.

"I'll be back shortly."

His hunters were huddled together for warmth, using the sledge as a windbreak. They gave him
quizzical looks, but said nothing. Surrak trudged straight on into the wind, toward where the
dragon had fallen. Despite its bulk, he needed to dig the dragon out of the snow before he could
get to work. He cut into the creature, digging out chunks of flesh and an organ from the beast's
torso. Once he reached the camp, he sliced the organ open and poured a thick, foul liquid on
the wood. A few sparks later, and it burst into a roaring flame. Dragonfire. The hunters eyed
Surrak suspiciously, but were grateful enough for the warmth. Then he skewered a chunk of
meat, and began roasting it.

"Is that⁄?" Surrak's second stared, disbelieving. "That's not allowed. We have all this meat⁄"

Surrak cut him off. "Allowed? We eat what we

kill. I killed it, and I was right to do so. It had
lost its reason. It was a beast, and I was
stronger. Now that," he said, pointing toward
the sledge, "is not allowed. That is hers. We're
going to be late getting back to her as it is. We
barely have enough to pull the sledge, so we'll
be moving slow. We're days delayed by the
storm. So we're going to eat our kill, we're going
to regain our strength, and then we're going to
do our job. Understood?"
Atarka Beastbreaker | Art by Johannes
Surrak's second opened his mouth to reply, Voss
then saw Surrak's clenched fist and thought
better of it.
Surrak had never eaten dragon before. It was delicious.

The ascent to the Ayagor was assisted as the sledge approached. Atarka lounged atop the peak,
the largest thing that lived on Tarkir. Despite her massive bulk, Surrak had seen her enraged to
action. Nothing that large should move that fast, and yet she could when she needed to. For
now, she was content to watch as the enormous sledge of meat was tipped into the bowl of
stone before her. She gave a snort, charring the bowl with dragonfire, and then began to eat.
Surrak was on hand to deliver the traditional message.

"Great Atarka, dragonlord and protector. This is a gift. Spare us, and there will be more."

Atarka growled her acceptance and her mighty

jaws crushed up bone, fur, hide, and meat alike.

Surrak smiled to himself. It had been another

successful hunt, and his people would live. He
turned and began to walk back down the
mountain, when he heard a panicked voice. His
second.

"Dragonlord Atarka! Please forgive us! We had

no choice."

Surrak turned back and hissed, "Idiot, stop this

Dragonlord Atarka | Art by Karl Kopinski at once."

But his second continued. "Surrak killed one of

your brood to defend your offering. He violated
the natural order! Please forgive us and limit your vengeance only to him!"

Surrak smiled, and he waited.

Atarka looked up from her meal, obviously annoyed. She growled four words in draconic. "Take
care of it."

Surrak rounded on his second, who had already

turned toward him with a knife.

"I will make sure she is fed, Surrak."

Surrak shook his head.

"She wasn't talking to you."

With a burst of speed, Surrak slammed his fist

into his second's ribs, cracking several, and
sending the knife clattering along the stone. He
Atarka's Command | Art by Chris Rahn
caught the huge man before he hit the ground
and held him close, whispering into his ear. "I
don't blame you for trying. But she knows I did
nothing wrong. Why are dragons above humans? They're stronger. Simple as that. But the
dragon we found was weak. Sick. So what reverence did we owe it? She understands. And now
you do."

Surrak tossed the larger man to the ground, and began to walk away. "We leave for the next
hunt in two days. It'll be hard for you to keep up with those ribs."

He turned back and smiled.

"But we bring her the meat, or we become the meal. So you'll serve either way."
Unbroken and Unbowed
BY KELLY DIGGES

Sarkhan Vol has been on a strange journey, and his search for understanding is almost at an
end. He traveled back through time, changed the past, and returned to a present transformed
by his action. He has encountered old enemies and old friends, and none of them remember
him. He has searched for Narset, whose sacrifice enabled him to change the past, and found her
nowhere on Tarkir.

Now, he must find the only other being in existence who may be able to help him understand:
Ugin, the Spirit Dragon, whom he left slumbering in a hedron cocoon over a thousand years
ago.

Sarkhan's wings stretched in glorious flight, soaring high above the scrub and steppe of Tarkir.
In dragon form he could smell every dragon within miles, pick out details invisible to his human
eyes, and sense the presence of thermal updrafts that carried him higher into the sky. In dragon
form he sometimes wondered whether he had ever been human at all, and why he would ever
want to be.

Zurgo was alive, but changed. Sarkhan's hated enemy was dead·more than dead, better and
worse, beyond redemption or revenge. That Zurgo was erased, replaced by a stooped creature
who followed a dragon and rang a bell. Ankle Shanker was alive, but with a different name, a
different life. She had lived instead of died, but she did not know him.

Ugin was alive, but dormant, locked away by Sarkhan's own actions. His life force still pulsed at
the heart of a hedron prison, sustaining the storms that birthed the dragons. The magnificent
dragon elders of the old era seemed to have lived as well, risen from glorious beasts to holders of
the reins of power.

Everyone lived, it seemed, save two. Sarkhan.

And Narset. Where was she? Where was he?
What was he now, here on the other side of
time's great river?

Ugin would know. Ugin had to know.

Ahead of him, many miles ahead·near the

canyon where Ugin lay, he thought·a bolt of
blue-white light careened upward into the sky.
It soared gleefully, shining like a second sun,
Plains | Art by Florian de Gesincourt before descending again, and Sarkhan could not
see where it landed. Could it be? Ugin⁄awake?
Had someone freed him? Had he freed himself?
An ape's instincts, deeply buried, urged him to hurry forward toward Ugin's canyon, to rush, to
run. But in the sky, a straight line wasn't the shortest route, and the intervening air was far from
empty. Dragon-mind knew, and he had finally learned to listen to it. He wheeled around,
letting the thermal take him higher.

From that height, one long glide would take him to the canyon, and the truth.

The canyon came into view as the sun reached its zenith. Blind to the sky above him, Sarkhan
didn't see his attacker until it was upon him.

A ghostly dragon, trailing blue-white mist, dove toward him from above, veering off at the last
moment. A wave of heat washed over him, fire without flame. Ugin! The blast of heat hardly
singed his scaled skin and the ghost-dragon never touched him physically. It hovered a few
body-lengths away, serene but menacing. It had no scent at all.

Sarkhan growled, somewhere between the noise

an angry tiger makes and a clipped Draconic
"Get out of my way." He breathed a bright blast
of flame to punctuate his point and kept flying.

Soon the spirit was joined by others. Sarkhan

sped toward the canyon, harried by half a dozen
of the ghostly creatures, outracing the sheer fire
of their breath. Then, just as suddenly, they
turned away, plunging into cloud banks, their
translucent bodies disappearing into the mist.
Within moments he could see no trace of them. Scion of Ugin | Art by Cliff Childs

He flew out over the canyon, looking for any

sign of the ghostly dragons. The great hedron
structure he had seen when he arrived had crumbled in on itself, reduced to pieces no larger
than the one he had brought with him from the Eye. The base of the canyon was filled with fine
dust and rune-etched rubble. No corpse, no bones. His draconic heart beat harder. Ugin lives.

Sarkhan transformed as he dropped, landing lightly on the field of hedron rubble with human
feet as his wings shrank and folded away.

There, at the end of the canyon, a luminous shape towered, wings outstretched. Ugin was
facing away from Sarkhan, toward the canyon wall, ringed by more spirit guardians. Projected
on the rock wall before him were images from all over Tarkir. The sleek, graceful shapes of
Ojutai's dragons soared among the towering monasteries of his clan. A horde of savage warriors
rode across the steppe, following the lightning-blur of the dragon Kolaghan. A thick-bodied
dragon lounged in a dank palace, covered in jewelry and waited on by attendants. The antlered
dragons Sarkhan had seen in Tarkir's past swooped low over bare and steaming mountains.
Armored humanoids marched to war beneath the watchful gaze of regal, barrel-chested
dragons. There was even an image of Sarkhan himself, standing in the canyon.
Ugin turned, and his ranks of spirit guardians parted. He was radiant, luminous, the idea of a
dragon cast in flesh and mist.

"Forgive my sentries," said Ugin. "They are

overzealous. I called them off as soon as I
became aware of you."

"Do you⁄know me?"

Ugin smiled.

"Yes and no," he said. "I know what you did. I

Sarkhan Unbroken | Art by Aleksi Briclot
owe you thanks. And you owe me an
explanation."

Sarkhan's eyes widened.

"Great Ugin⁄" he said, "I came here hoping you could explain all this to me. What could I
know that you do not? What questions can I possibly answer?"

"I've been asleep for a thousand years," said Ugin. "You may be the only one who truly
understands what's happened here. Who are you? What has happened to my world? How did
this·" He opened his hand, and a shard of hedron-stone rose from the rubble to float above his
palm. Not a shard·the shard, the one Sarkhan had taken from the Eye of Ugin, intact after all
this time. "·travel backward through time, to arrive here over a thousand years ago?"

Sarkhan gaped.

"Then you already know what happened."

"Not at all," replied Ugin. "I'm applying logic." The shard pulsed. "This came from the Eye of
Ugin on Zendikar. This particular stone came from the inner chamber of the Eye, and could
only be removed if the Eye had opened. And if that had happened prior to my⁄defeat, I would
have known about it instantly. I know of no force in the Multiverse that could have prevented
that. Thus, it must have happened later."

Ugin drew himself up to his full height and glared forty feet down at Sarkhan.

"Yet my questions remain," he said. "Who are you, Planeswalker? And how did this stone come
into your possession?"

"My name is Sarkhan Vol."

Vol was forgotten, Sarkhan forbidden, but there could be no question, not now. That was his
name.

"Sarkhan," said Ugin, with a hint of amusement. Great khan. He gestured to the images on the
canyon wall, encompassing all of Tarkir. "They bow to you?"
"⁄No," said Sarkhan. "But I bow to no one."

"Go on."

"I am from Tarkir," said Sarkhan, "but my

Tarkir was a tomb·a graveyard for dragons,
hunted and killed by the ancient khans. You
were dead, Ugin. I saw your bones, in this very
canyon."

Ugin was impassive.

"You spoke to me," said Sarkhan. "Your Ugin, the Spirit Dragon | Art by Raymond
spirit⁄spoke to me. Whispered to me of the Swanland
glory of dragons. Told me that everything I
suspected of this world·the decadence, the
wrongness, the lack·was real. I did not know then that you were a Planeswalker. I knew only
that you were a ghost. My own Planeswalker spark ignited in a rush of flame. I left Tarkir, and
your voice fell silent. I found dragons, great beasts deserving of my reverence·not least because
they did not know or care that they had it. Then⁄then I found one who welcomed it, and I
foolishly gave myself to his cause. He sent me to the Eye."

"Who?" said Ugin.

"You must understand," said Sarkhan, "I was not in my right mind. He was not what I thought
he was, and it broke me, bent me to his will."

"Who?"

"⁄Nicol Bolas," said Sarkhan miserably.

Ugin raised a hand, and a sphere of glittering

force sprang into being around Sarkhan. He
pushed against it, but it was smooth and warm
and utterly unyielding. The runes on Ugin's
neck glowed brightly.

"Bolas sent you to the Eye?" said Ugin. "Why?"

"He wanted⁄" Sarkhan faltered, sorting

through memories twisted by madness. "He
wanted it opened, the devourers released. He
Cruel Ultimatum | Art by Todd Lockwood never told me why."
Ugin's neck frills flared.

"If he engineered the Eldrazi's release, he is far less cautious than I remember him."
"He is obsessed with power," said Sarkhan. "He was once like a god, so he told me·but no
longer. He wants that power back."

"And you?" asked Ugin. "What do you want, Sarkhan Vol?"

"To be free of him forever," said Sarkhan. "To make him pay, someday, for what he did to me.
And to you."

Ugin waved one clawed hand, and the sphere of force vanished.

"So you journeyed to the Eye. There were others?"

"Yes," said Sarkhan. "A pyromancer, and a mind mage. Both Planeswalkers. We fought. The
pyromancer bested me with⁄" Understanding dawned. "With your own fire, Ugin. Somehow
she knew."

"Interesting," said Ugin. "Yet you lived."

"They had no great desire to fight me. As soon as I was incapacitated, they fled. When I awoke,
I heard your voice again. The Eye was open. I took the hedron shard back to Bolas, and told
him you had spoken to me. He told me he had killed you, said something about a⁄a failsafe.
And then he dismissed me."

"And you came here?"

"Here, but not here," said Sarkhan. "I returned to my Tarkir, a Tarkir of khans and dragon
bones. Your voice grew all the stronger, urging me to come to this canyon. I arrived at the
canyon⁄with the help of a friend. Your death created some kind of⁄vortex in time, linking
that moment to the present. When I stepped through I traveled back, before the dragons died,
and tipped the scales of history. Then I found myself here, truly here, in a world transformed by
my own actions."

"Do you know what happened after I fell? I have had no time to study history."

"Some," said Sarkhan. "The dragon tempests never ceased. Dragon-kind never died out. The
khans fell. And in their place rose five elder dragons. The dragonlords claimed their rightful
place in command of the world. Where once the clans fought dragons, now the dragons and the
clans are one."

Ugin turned to the canyon wall, watching the scenes of dragons and humanoids fighting
together. Sarkhan scowled. Ugin had been his guide, his confidant⁄the only person who
believed he could change the world. Ugin had known. But this Ugin seemed anything but all-
knowing.

"I have answered your questions," said Sarkhan. "Will you answer mine?"

Ugin turned back to Sarkhan and nodded.

"Dying, speaking to me, sending me back⁄" said Sarkhan. "You truly remember none of these
things?"

"The last thing I remember," said Ugin, "is you

and your hedron shard, after Bolas cast me
down. Then I slumbered. Time passed, but
how much I could not say. I slept⁄and I
healed. An ally of mine, a vampire and a
Planeswalker, woke me up and spoke to me of
'foolishness at the Eye.' He meant you and the
other two, though I'm not sure he knew that.
Sorin Markov·do you know him?"

Sarkhan shook his head. Confusion reigned; the

companion in his head had not been Ugin⁄or Tormenting Voice | Art by Volkan Baga
not this Ugin.

"Who spoke to me, if not you?" asked Sarkhan.

"The friend who helped me get here·she died in the helping. Where is she now? Who was she?
Who is she? A whole world has gone missing on my account, Ugin. And though I had no love
for it, it was my home. What of that Tarkir?"

"It is gone," said Ugin. "She is gone. Not only gone·the world you remember never existed
and its people met very different fates. And what spoke to you at the Eye was the ghost of
someone who never died. A ghost you brought there with you, most likely. Or perhaps only a
voice."

"Different fates⁄" said Sarkhan. "I have met people who looked like those I knew, both friends
and enemies. But they did not know me. As though I were never born. But how can that be? If I
was never born, then where did I come from? Who went to the Eye? Who saved you?"

"You did," said Ugin. "The Eye is in your past, in this hedron shard's past. You went there,
traveled to Tarkir's past, and used the shard to save me. It must have happened, or the change
itself would not have been possible. Whatever circumstance arose when I died·whatever my
spirit did that allowed you to travel back through time·it only affected Tarkir. Which means
that you, Sarkhan Vol, stepped fully formed out of a shadow, a place that never existed."

"Then in this world's history, I was never born," said Sarkhan. Understanding dawned. "I
sprang from the sky one day⁄like a dragon."

"I suppose so," said Ugin.

"So I'm a curiosity now," said Sarkhan, smiling. "An orphan of time. Whether I was haunted or
only mad, the voice that guided me has fallen silent. My mind is my own, and Tarkir is the
world I always longed for."

He stepped back.
"You say my friend is gone. Ojutai's monks said the same. I say she lives again, and I will find
her."

He focused, drawing mana to himself and

awakening the dragon within. It was easier now.
It grew easier every time. A dragon's shape
spilled forth.

"Thank you," he said, before his human mouth

slipped away, and launched himself into the
sky.
Dragon Tempest | Art by Willian Murai
The canyon fell away and the icy wastes spread
out beneath him. The Narset he knew had
sought knowledge above all else. And that quest
had brought her, ultimately, here·to Ugin's canyon. If this world's Narset was exiled, branded
a heretic⁄where else would she be?

He ranged over the valley at top speed·riding thermals up, gliding down·sharp eyes watching
for any sign of movement. At last, as the sun dipped low in the sky, he saw her walking
resolutely through knee-deep snow. He dropped to the ground on a bare patch of rock and shed
his scales for human flesh. He stood, staff in hand, and waited.

Her progress was slow, but she saw him and turned to meet him. She looked different. He
supposed he did too. Her eyes pulsed with power. This Narset had touched something the other
Narset had only glimpsed.

She stopped a few yards away from him, but said nothing.

"Narset!" he said. "You're alive!"

She looked him up and down, her eyes eventually settling on his face. She blinked.

"I don't know you," she said, looking away. "Do I?"

"I am Sarkhan," he said.

"You are the sar-khan?" she said, eyes narrowing. "Or do you claim his mantle?"

"You've heard of me?" asked Sarkhan. He laughed. "That's wonderful! On all Tarkir, you are
the only one who knows me. But how?"

She moved to walk around him.

"I need to find Ugin," she said, shaking her head.

"He is in the canyon," said Sarkhan, "though I fear you'll find he has more questions than
answers. Narset, how do you know me?"
She stopped.

"You're not⁄some enforcer for the dragonlord, here to punish my heresy?"

"I am no one's servant," said Sarkhan. "I am your friend·or was, and hope to be again."

"My friend," said Narset. "Yet I've never met you. How is that possible?"

Sarkhan weighed his options⁄and decided on the truth, no matter that it sounded more
implausible than any lie he might concoct.

"The Narset I knew was from Tarkir, but not this Tarkir. A Tarkir without dragons·of khans,
and clans. My home. She died so I could travel to the past⁄and rewrite history. She died so
that Ugin·and you·could live. She was my friend."

"Then the histories are true," said Narset. Her eyes flicked back and forth, as though reading.

"What histories?"

"Secret histories," she said. "About a dragon-man, a sar-khan, who came from something called
the Unwritten·a spiritual vision of the future that an ancient clan called the Temur wrote
about. They say the sar-khan raved about a world with no dragons. He saved Ugin, then
vanished back into the Unwritten. I didn't credit the story, not in its details. But⁄it's true, then?
The Unwritten, the khans, all of it?"

"I don't know what you've read," said Sarkhan,

smiling. "But everything you just said is true.
Even the raving, I suppose."

"That is how I know you," said Narset. "But

you do not truly know me, do you? You
know⁄some Unwritten Narset. A phantom."

"I suppose not," said Sarkhan. "Yes. I knew

Narset. But I do not know you."

Narset frowned, as though searching for words. Learn from the Past | Art by Chase Stone
"Were you⁄close?"

"We might have been, given time," said

Sarkhan. "But she is twice gone, now·dead and never born. You are here, now. But where
were you? I looked for you among the Ojutai. The man I spoke to called you a heretic, told me
you were 'gone.' Was it exile he spoke of?"

Narset shook her head.

"No," she said. "Something⁄far greater. It will sound mad, but I traveled beyond Tarkir,
written or Unwritten, to⁄"
"⁄to another world?" said Sarkhan.

Narset's eyes widened.

"How do you know about that?"

"Planeswalker," said Sarkhan. "That's what we're called. There are very few of us. But between
you, me, and Ugin, there are three in this valley right now."

"Ugin," said Narset. "I need to speak to him."

She began to walk again, away from him,

through the snow.

"Perhaps you should," said Sarkhan. "I hope he

has more answers for you than he did for me.
And after that?"

"To Atarka lands," said Narset, still walking.

"Rumor has it they have ancient stories, carved
Narset Transcendent | Art by Magali in mammoth ivory, that go all the way back to
Villeneuve the Khanfall."
"You're not planning to leave Tarkir again?"
asked Sarkhan. "There are multitudes of worlds
to explore, and you cannot have seen them all."

"Someday I will," said Narset, looking back over her shoulder. "But this world has secrets
enough. For right now⁄I'm right where I want to be."

Sarkhan smiled and looked out over the tundra. In the distance, dragons soared.

"I know exactly what you mean."