Shadows Over Innistrad

Collected Stories

Compiled by Kimberly J. Kreines

Contents

Copyright

1. Under the Silver Moon

2. A Gaze Blank and Pitiless

3. Sacrifice

4. Unwelcome

5. The Mystery of Markov Manor

6. The Drownyard Temple

7. Promises Old and New

8. Liliana’s Indignation

9. Games

10. The Lunarch Inquisition

11. Stories and Endings

12. I Am Avacyn

SHADOWS OVER INNISTRAD: COLLECTED STORIES

© 2016 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

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

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Cover art by Adam Willson

First Printing: May 2016

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1

Under the Silver Moon

By Kimberly J. Kreines

Halana and Alena are trackers, hunters, and protectors who live in the depths of the dark woods that border the edges of Kessig province—the woods known as the Ulvenwald. Innistrad's ancient forest is their domain, and they have long stood as a bulwark between the horrors within and the innocence without. But of late, things in the woods have begun to shift...

"You know that feeling? That crawling feeling?" Farmer Warin was standing in front of the long table of Elders, his plump, wide-eyed wife at his side. Both had turned their backs to the Elders in favor of addressing the Gatstaf townsfolk gathered in the cramped parish commons. Halana looked on from the seat closest to the door, where she sat next to Alena.

"It's like a beetle is crawling up the back of your neck." Warin shuddered as he spoke. "Right up from the base of it and straight into your hair."

Art by Nils Hamm

It was odd, Hal thought, that he should speak of that feeling now, today. She had never heard mention of such a thing before, never known such a sensation was possible, not until this very morning. She had woken with it, something ticking on the back of her neck, crawling up her spine. It had made her feel unsettled, which in itself was extremely peculiar. So the fact that the feeling, which had crept after her out of their bed at camp through the woods and into town, should be brought up again so soon after she first felt it was enough of a strangeness to dredge up another wave of it. She suppressed a shudder of her own.

"It's so real that you have no choice but to wonder if something's really there, you know?" Farmer Warin itched the back of his neck furiously. Seeing him do so made Hal realize she was doing the same. She clasped both hands on her lap. "Something horrible could be burrowing under your skin and you'd never know it!"

Many a townsfolk twitched and shifted in their seats, itching along with Farmer Warin.

"Yes, yes," Elder Kolman waved his thick hand as though shooing away a fly. "We all know the feeling, Warin, but what's it got to do with why you've come here today before the council?"

"Everything!" Farmer Warin turned back to face all eleven of the elders present—they were down from their usual twelve, as Elder Somlon was absent due to her performing the second day of death rites to see good Lady Mary into the Blessed Sleep. "That crawling feeling is how I know I'm right!"

"Right about what, Warin?" Elder Kolman prompted.

"Spit it out already!" Elder Glather hollered.

"One of our cattle is possessed!" Farmer Warin's wife seemed unable to contain herself. "Gone mad! In the middle of the night. And it ate the other one! Dragged it all around the pasture first, though. I saw the tracks myself. The pain the poor animal must have endured. Then the mad one just devoured it. It left nothing behind but the bones and teeth."

There were gasps from the townsfolk.

"And how do you know that it was the first cow that ate the second?" Elder Kolman asked, feigning patience.

"I saw the blood on its own snout this very morning!"

More gasps.

Hal looked to Alena. Communication between them required no words. They both knew that the Warins' farm was situated at the edge of town. They both knew it abutted the woods of the Ulvenwald. And they both knew what beasts had, of late, made a fateful resurgence in their forest. In the span of a fortnight, Alena and Hal had each on their own dispatched three lycanthropes, and in addition, together they had taken out a whole pack—small, but certainly a pack—just the night before. But those encounters had all been far enough from Gatstaf to not raise concern, Hal having followed a distant howl halfway down the Bower Passage, and the one Alena had taken was out at the Natterknolls. But now their shared look said there was reason to believe the beasts had become brazen, that they were working their way to the fringes of the woods, to the towns, to the people. That was unacceptable. The Ulvenwald was Alena's and Hal's domain, and they would not let its dark horrors leak out to harm the innocent.

"Our wards!" Wife Warin's wail drew Hal's attention back to the front of the room. "She made our shoddy wards!" The farmer's wife thrust an accusatory finger in the direction of good Lady Evelin, who gasped and clutched at the ward at her neck. "She made them, and they failed!"

"It couldn't have been the wards!" The man seated at Evelin's side jumped up to her defense. "Lady Evelin makes the best and most potent wards this town, nay, this land, has ever seen!"

"Order!" Elder Kolman shouted, pounding his thick flat hand on the table of elders. But he was ignored.

"Then how do you explain the possessed cow?" Wife Warin challenged. "The tracks that show it dragged the other around our farm? The bones it left behind after feeding?"

"Aye!" someone shouted from the back.

"The wards didn't do their work," came another voice.

"There can be no doubt, the wards failed, and our cow was possessed." Farmer Warin seemed to have gathered courage to speak from the rallying of so many townsfolk to his cause. "We are the victims of Lady Evelin's neglect." He held tight to his own ward and beseeched both the townsfolk and the Elders. "We cannot afford to go one more night without a proper ward."

Art by Kev Walker

There was a rabble of agreement.

It made sense to Hal that the townsfolk would blame it on faulty wards. That they would think their cow possessed by an evil spirt. These were things they could define. These were things they had the means to put right. Things that did not upset the careful balance that they believed to govern their world. They did not live in the same reality that Hal and Alena did. The townsfolk didn't see what happened in the darkness, in the woods. They lived in a world protected by the light of the angel Avacyn. They believed themselves safe from things like werewolves. But even in Avacyn's world, the werewolves were never completely wiped out. Lycanthropes had had a constant presence in the Ulvenwald, significantly diminished though it was. Hal and Alena would know. They had heard the lycanthropes' unearthly howls echoing off the trees, a permanent fixture in the forest's deepest reaches.

Thinking of their howls, Hal shifted uncomfortably in her chair; the crawling feeling returned to the back of her neck. A howl was what she had heard, what had brought on the unwelcome feeling in the first place. She had first thought she had dreamt it. The fight earlier that same night with the pack had been playing out in her dreams. It had been some time since she and Alena had faced a pack. It had also been some time since they had faced so many lycanthropes in such a short span. Hal had been seeing flashes of their muzzles, their muscles, their haunches in her mind as she had laid in bed, so she had not been surprised that she woke thinking that she had heard a howl.

But now, looking at the bulging eyes of Wife Warin's face, she worried that the howl had not been in her head, had not been a memory nor a dream but the sound of a real and true beast. The very beast, in fact, that had dared to come into the town, had dared to feast on the Warins' domestic cattle. It would not be allowed to do so again. "Shall we?" Hal silently mouthed the invitation to Alena.

Alena's face lit up, the glow of the hunt already upon her.

Together they rose. Hal's fingers tingled in anticipation, her eyes on the handle of the nearby door—the door that in the next instant flew open.

Innkeeper Shoran and his wife, Elsa, charged into the parish hall.

"Ring the town bell!" Elsa cried.

"She's gone," the innkeeper said.

"She's dead!" Elsa amended. "He killed her!"

Any order that Elder Kolman had succeeded in restoring in the last moments went out the window. The townsfolk howled and shrieked and jumped to their feet.

"Oh, the poor girl," Elsa wailed. "The blood was all over. I can't imagine what he did with her body. I knew he was a depraved and wicked man, I knew it from the moment they came to the inn, from the moment they came to town."

"The Palters," Hal whispered to Alena.

Alena nodded in confirmation.

It was obvious who the victim and accused were supposed to be: the Palters from Gavony. They were currently the only guests at the inn, the only guests the inn had seen in the last three months. Hal and Alena had found the cathar and his wife themselves no more than a week ago, wandering the deep paths of the Ulvenwald up near Bower Passage. Of course Hal and Alena had helped them, of course they had seen the two out of the twisted wood and to Gatstaf, fighting off no fewer than three wolves, one ghoul, and a possessed oak on the way.

Art by Jaime Jones

Hal smiled at the memory of Alena's swift dispatching of the tree. The highly skilled tracker had improved her grappling skills so significantly over the past year that Hal wouldn't be surprised if she could take down a giant skaab without any sort of outside assistance.

The Palters had thanked Hal and Alena in kind, or at least Mr. Palter had, for his wife had been so shocked by the trials of traversing the dark wood that her slender form had retreated entirely under the hood of her riding cloak. Mr. Palter, who explained he was a cathar of the Lunarch Council, insisted on giving Hal and Alena a token of protection, one that he had used many times, he claimed, to help him in his duty as guard of the mausoleum. Hal and Alena had taken the token politely, but it meant little to them, for they did not believe in the need for such things—not when they had each other.

"Ring the bell!" Wife Shoran commanded once more. "There is a murderer on the loose in our town!"

Hal would not have thought the Palters, either one, to be a murderer. The cathar was kindly, and his wife most obliging, if slightly fragile. Could it be that this too was the lycanthrope? It certainly seemed so.

"Come on," Alena hissed, gesturing toward the door, which was no longer barricaded. The two innkeepers had moved farther into the fray, embraced by the folds of townsfolk who were hungry for further details of the gruesome happenings.

Hal and Alena slipped easily through the crowd without drawing attention. They were well practiced at moving by stealth, and in two quick, lithe strides they were out the door and on the cobbled street.

"So it—" Hal began.

"Or they," Alena said.

"Yes, or they," Hal amended. "This could have been the work of a pack. Another pack..." she mused. "That would make two packs that were in relatively close proximity in one night. That hasn't happened in some time." She cast a glance at Alena, who did not look back, so focused was she on their heading. "Either way," Hal went on, "the lone lycanthrope or the pack attacked within the boundaries of Gatstaf at least twice last night. Once the cow at the Warins' farm."

"And once Mrs. Palter in the Shorans' inn."

Hal abruptly halted in her tracks, and her hands flew to cover her gaping mouth. Her mind had just put something together.

"What is it?" Alena asked over her shoulder.

"It's shocking, to be sure." Hal hurried to catch up. "But where the townsfolk are far off in their assumption of the possessed cow, they are not so far off at all in properly identifying the one responsible for Mrs. Palter's murder."

Alena cocked her head in question.

"In the inn," Hal repeated Alena's own words back to her.

"In the inn..." Alena said. Hal could see the work of her mind behind her eyes. "...In the Palters' room...behind a locked door."

"With no mention of a broken window or forced entry," Hal said.

As one, they changed course, running for the Shorans' inn.

The tolling of the town bell continued, far past the point of being any useful sort of alarm.

Art by David Palumbo

From the sound of it, Hal thought it likely that Elsa Shoran herself had come into possession of the rope, having most likely wrestled it from the hands of the bell-ringer. If that was the case, then all the better; the distraction Elsa was most likely providing to the Elders, who would be left, in turn, to wrestle the rope from her hands, would afford Hal and Alena more time to search the Palters' chambers.

They made their way past the desk in the reception area and stalked down the hall. Hal nodded ahead to the only door that was left ajar, no doubt by the harried innkeeper and his wife after having witnessed the scene of a murder. Hal moved into the room first and Alena followed; neither disturbed the angle of the open door.

The metallic scent of blood hit the back of Hal's throat on her first breath. "This way," she whispered, winding past a toppled chair in the small foyer and back toward the dimly lit bedroom. She sensed Alena tense. Though the candles were snuffed and the curtains drawn, there was enough light for them to see the pool of dark blood on the floor. Alena, Hal knew, had not tensed out of fear; she wasn't the kind of girl to become afraid at the sight of blood. The stillness was her way of focusing her senses. Hal had learned much of her own skill in tracking from studying Alena. She imitated Alena now, becoming motionless so that she could be more sensitive to the clues around her. Looking at the vast dark pool, her thoughts turned to the slight woman whose blood this was. Hal only let her mind dwell there for a moment, and for that moment she allowed herself to feel pain and pity for the woman. Mrs. Palter was an innocent who had lost her life to one she so trusted. Hal glanced up at Alena. How terrifying those last moments must have been. How awful the realization. But she could not dwell on the feelings of sorrow. It would do no good in the work they had to do next.

Careful not to disturb so much as a drop of blood, Hal stalked the perimeter of the small, square room, moving about it clockwise as Alena moved in the opposite direction. Three clues presented themselves without hesitation: a torn bit of lace, a toppled candle lying in a puddle of its own hardened wax, and a silver button. It was the button that held Hal's attention. As she came round the perimeter to meet Alena again, she pointed to where it lay on the floor near the pool of blood. "Tell me if I am mistaken," she said. "But wasn't Cathar Palter wearing a green vest with three buttons just such as that one when we met him in the woods?"

Alena's look was somber. "Your memory is accurate as always, I fear."

"Then it is true," Hal said. "His transformation occurred in this room. He killed his own wife and then fled, through the Warins' farm, snacking again, and then into the woods."

"Yes, so it seems," Alena said. But Hal could tell by her voice that she wasn't convinced, not entirely.

"What is it?" Hal asked. "What has caught your eye?"

Alena gestured to the pool of blood. "I cannot help but wonder: the blood is here, so much of it on the floor, but what of the bones, the bits of flesh, the hair and fabric, the things the beast would not have devoured?"

Hal stepped back, taking in the scene with fresh eyes. Alena's was an important question to ask. But before Hal's mind could settle into answering it, something else claimed her attention. Behind Alena, the door of the closet was cracked just enough for Hal to make out what was inside. At the sight, Hal's heart quickened. Alena noticed immediately. Her brow furrowed in question and she turned to look over her own shoulder. They both stood staring for a long moment. In the closet was a chair. It was an ordinary enough chair besides the fact that it was sitting in the closet. But that in itself wouldn't have been enough cause for concern, and that had not been what had sent Hal's heart to hammering in her chest. It was the leather straps and belts that hung from the chair, more than a dozen, of all lengths, ripped and shredded, that had given her pause. And there were three locks, one on the chair's seat and two on the floor.

"That seals it then," Alena said.

"He knew," Hal said.

"Of course he did." Alena's voice was sharp. "We must stop him. We should—"

But she never finished her thought, because in one fluid motion Hal wrapped her arm around Alena's midsection, drawing the girl to her breast and pulling her into the shadows. Together they stood still and silent. They were so well practiced in this form of concealment that their breaths instinctively fell into sync, low and shallow, difficult even for the most astute of creatures to detect.

It had been the silence that had alerted Hal. Or at least the lack of the clamoring noise, which had been sounding continuously up until that point. The bell was no longer ringing. That would mean that the murder investigation was on. The din of echoing footsteps and muffled voices confirmed it; the townsfolk were headed to the scene of the crime, to the very room where Hal and Alena were now pressed into the corner.

The creaking of the door to the inn said to Hal and Alena that they could not go out the way they had come, at least not without needlessly rousing suspicion. As a rule, they avoided run-ins with the townsfolk whenever possible. The townsfolk tolerated Hal and Alena. They accepted the presence of the trackers in Gatstaf whenever the two came to town because they had aided visitors and townsfolk alike on their journeys through the Ulvenwald. But at the same time, the townsfolk knew that Hal and Alena lived in the dark woods, and for that reason they were considered "other." Glances were cast, suspicions shared in hushed voices, and prayers uttered in passing. Hal sensed as much fright as dislike on the scents of those to whom she came too near. It would do no good to be found at the scene of a murder.

Alena nodded to the window in the back of the bedroom, the one that opened into the alley. Perfect. Hal smiled at Alena's ever-dependable adeptness at getting them out of tight situations. On their way out, Hal carefully and quietly closed the door to the closet. There was no reason for the townsfolk to see the thing that would so rattle and upset them. No point in stirring up such worry that would surely come with even the barest hint of the presence of a lycanthrope. The people need not believe they were being hunted, for they were not. Hal and Alena would handle this. They would protect the innocent. The Ulvenwald and its threats were for them to manage. And they would.

They timed the opening of the window with the banging open of the outer door to the room. The sliding of wood over wood as they closed the window was then drowned out by the thumping of heavy boots and competing baritone voices as the Elders and other townsfolk flooded the room. Hal and Alena climbed down into the alley without any of the townsfolk being the wiser.

They hadn't much time. The sun was already kissing the horizon when they arrived back at their camp deep in the Ulvenwald. Each quickly but deliberately strapped on her silver. Of course they always carried one small blade of it—it would be foolish to be completely unprepared—but until recent events there had seemed no need to carry more. Now they found both the need and means to carry nearly all of it with them: silver-tipped arrows, swords, spears, and daggers. The metal gleamed with power.

Art by Austin Hsu

As soon as they were equipped, they left their camp again. Moving as one, they navigated the maze of brambles Hal had planted around their home as a safety measure and pressed out into the darkening woods.

Alena was first to pick up on Cathar Palter's trail. She was often the first to get a scent. Her nose, though petite and perfectly round in a way that set her whole face alight when she laughed, was also sharp and discerning. Her skill was well-honed. Hal found the scent only moments later, recognizing it from the room of the inn, and saw the boot prints an instant after that. Together they stalked the murderous lycanthrope.

His tracks wound around the twisted trees, seeming to say either that he was lost, or more likely that he was struggling with himself, with the animal that he was inside. Hal imagined that same struggle was what had driven him to pick up his life and leave Gavony. He must have killed there. Most likely more than once. And when he had realized the horrors he had committed, he doubtless had no longer been able to face the people whose lives he had affected. So he had fled. It wasn't odd behavior. Not for a lycanthrope. What was stranger was bringing his wife along with him. The poor soul. Hal could not reconcile that behavior with the impression of kindness and compassion she had gotten from Mr. Palter when they had found the couple in the woods. She wished to give the cathar the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he had intended to leave Mrs. Palter in the safety of a new town, away from any suspicions that might be cast her way because of his actions, somewhere that he could believe her to one day start anew and find happiness. Then maybe he planned to sequester himself to the wood, or worse. She imagined that's what she would do, if ever the curse was transmitted to her—perish the thought—she would not, she could not, put Alena in danger. She would leave. She would have no choice but to go very, very far away. And she would do so, all the while, knowing that her heart would never mend. Perhaps the act in itself would be enough to stop her heart from beating altogether. What a mercy that would be. If that is what Mr. Palter had tried to do, Hal felt nothing but the deepest sympathy for him. That is, until the next moment when she thought of Mrs. Palter's blood on the floor. Regardless of his intentions, Mr. Palter had failed the one he loved. He had not been strong enough, and his shortcoming had resulted in the end of her life.

As though in response to Hal's shifting feelings toward the cathar, his tracks shifted too. It became clear when his transformation had taken place, for one moment Hal and Alena were following the boot prints of a man and the next they were tracking the paw prints of a beast. They moved along the lycanthrope's path until abruptly and unexpectedly they came to a crossroads. Hal and Alena eyed the split trail at their feet, visible thanks to the light of the silver moon.

Art by Ryan Yee

From the point where they stood, Cathar Palter had gone two different directions, surely at two different times. He must have gone one way first and then at some point, near or far from this point of intersection, it was hard to say, doubled back and gone the other.

"East to Gatstaf or west to the deep woods," Alena said. "It seems our beast was fighting an inner struggle."

Hal nodded. It did not surprise her that though she had not vocalized her theory, Alena's mind and landed in the same place. "So," Hal said. "Which way did he go first? Where is he now?"

"Did he let his cravings drive him to town, and then at some point retreat?" Alena looked into to the wood.

"Or did he try to overcome, only to be driven back to town by his cravings?" Hal looked to the town.

"We have to—" Alena began.

"Go to the town," Hal finished.

They ran.

The point at which the tracks emerged from the Ulvenwald was at the edge of the Warins' farm. That was unsurprising. Lycanthropes were known to return to feeding grounds that had proved fertile in the past. But Mr. Palter had not fed here this night, at least not yet. The proof of it was that one of the Warins' two cows remained standing far to the side of the field, its back toward the tracks in the pasture, which Hal could make out now in the light of the moon. They were as Wife Warin had described, thick and curved as though a heavy body had been dragged over the tall grass, round and round, compressing the blades beneath it as it went. The sorry animal.

Hal wandered into the tracks, tracing the path the lycanthrope must have taken. This was strange work for one so bestial in nature. Why not just feed? Perhaps he was fighting his urges even then. A picture of who Cathar Palter was began to form in Hal's mind. He was a good man, a kind man, a man of the church. His intentions, it seemed, were in the right place, even when he was not of his right mind.

"I've lost his scent completely." Alena's words brought Hal back to herself. As she joined Alena in a search to pick up the lycanthrope's trail, she reminded herself that intentions were nothing without action. She and Alena would have to kill the werewolf.

"Murder! There's been a murder!" Lady Elsa Shoran's voice echoed through the night. "It's the bell-ringer! Oh, poor Orwell is dead!"

Then came the ringing of the bell. The rope once again pulled by Lady Elsa herself, no doubt.

Alena and Hal wasted no time; before Lady Elsa's voice had ceased echoing, they were moving through the night like two shadows. Concealed in the dark alcoves, they closed in on the press of townsfolk who had gathered round the bell. Careful, silent posturing allowed them to see through the mass of shoulders and necks to the pool of dark blood on the ground at the base of the bell tower. There was no mistaking the pattern. This was the work of Mr. Palter. The lycanthrope had killed again.

As though in confirmation of Hal's conclusion, a howl sounded from the Ulvenwald. Without a word, Hal and Alena took flight toward the woods. But before they were out of sight of the square, Hal glanced back over her shoulder. Something about the scene niggled at the back of her mind. However, there was no time to wonder what it was. She turned back toward the trees; they were on the hunt.

Entering the wood through the Warins' farm, it was easy to pick up the large, lupine tracks again. They followed the trail past the point where it diverged, this time moving west, deeper into the forest. Hal realized where they were headed: the henge of old Avabruck, the lost capital. It was a place of geists and werewolf scavengers. Perhaps they would face more foes than just the one they were pursuing. As she ran, Hal touched the hilt of her favorite dagger, ready to defend her woods.

Art by James Paick

Suddenly, Alena held up her hand and ground to a halt. Hal nearly trampled her, but managed to stop just before colliding, her eyes on the sight that had given Alena pause. There before them on the forest floor was the body of the bell-ringer. Orwell was ghostly white, his skin withered for lack of blood in his body—a body that was for the most part intact. His limbs were splayed out as though they had been carefully arranged. And all around him the underbrush and grass had been tromped down as though something heavy had been dragged over it.

Something was not right. There should not be a body. The beast should have fed.

Senses on high alert, Hal and Alena stalked the scene, Alena at the perimeter and Hal along the path of dragging. She knew it before she paced it out—the shape of it, the look of the curves, it was the same shape as the marks in the pasture at the Warins' farm. This made no sense. Was this the result of some sort of ritual? Was this tracing of a pattern something Mr. Palter did to resist the urge to consume? What kind of lycanthrope were they dealing with?

Hal looked to Alena to ask that very question, but Alena's eyes were glued to a place further on into the woods, barely lit by the light of the moon. Hal followed Alena's gaze and saw it too: a second body. When they approached, they found that the same that had been done to the bell-ringer had been done to the ward-maker, Lady Evelin, appendages splayed, grass beat down. And just beyond was the body of Elder Somlon. Again, the same pattern in the grass, the same arrangement of the arms and legs.

"Elder Somlon was to have been—" Hal began.

"Seeing to death rites." Alena finished.

"But then, she must never have been given the chance. Look." Hal pointed to a detail that made her hand tremble. It was the lace of Elder Somlon's blouse. It matched the bit of lace that had been left behind in the Palters' room at the inn. And there, at the cuff of the Elder's sleeve, they could see the gap where the bit they found would have fit.

"If Elder Somlon was the victim at the inn," Alena said.

"If that was her blood," Hal added.

"Then what of Mrs. Palter?"

The crawling feeling returned to Hal, this time running straight up from her tailbone to the top of her skull. The shiver that passed through her was augmented by the vibrations of the howl that rang out at that very moment in the night.

"And what of Mr. Palter?" Hal asked.

"I believe it's time to find out," Alena said. She darted off in the direction of the howl and Hal followed.

As they ran, Hal noticed that they were moving parallel to another's trail. She adjusted her heading to align herself with the tracks. They were boot prints. Mr. Palter's boot prints? Something in Hal's mind clicked.

"What is it, Hal?" Even through the trees, even at a sprint, Alena had sensed the shift in Hal.

"The moment of transformation." Hal's mind was racing along with her feet, putting together pieces, struggling to find an answer to a question that she didn't know how to ask. "If it happened there," she panted, "back in the woods—"

"It did," Alena said between heavy breaths. "We both saw the proof of it. His human prints and then the lupine ones."

"No." Hal shook her head. "We saw boot prints. And we saw paw prints. Separately."

"Yes," Alena said, impatient.

"But if they were from the same feet," Hal went on, "then where were the boots themselves?"

Alena slowed in her gait, almost imperceptibly, but Hal noticed it; she had the girl's attention. Hal pointed to the ground at her feet. "And why do we see boot prints again here?"

Alena stared at the ground as they ran, taking in the sight of the boot prints.

"What if," Hal began when she believed Alena to have had enough time to put the pieces together herself.

"It is not Mr. Palter?" Alena finished.

"What if the lycanthrope is—" Mrs. Palter's name was caught on Hal's lips because in the moment she was about to speak it, they had crested a hill, from the top of which they were able to see a small clearing. And in that clearing there was what looked to be a makeshift altar made of twisted stone.

Art by Andreas Rocha

The altar was uneven and poorly constructed, and atop it lay the good Cathar Palter.

Standing behind him, her hood pulled down over her face, as it was when they had met her for the first time in this woods, was Mrs. Palter. Her arms were raised above the body of her husband, and she was chanting. It was demonic chanting. Hal recognized the intonations and deep guttural sounds. "Ormendahl. Ormendahl! ORMENDAHL!" The name was clear. This woman was in contract with a horror.

"Bes, please." Hal's heart lifted upon hearing the weak voice. Good Cathar Palter was still alive!

"Be silent!" His wife spat. She drew a blade.

Hal and Alena both lurched forward, racing toward the small clearing. Mrs. Palter looked up at the sound of their approach, but only in time to glimpse their forms as they tackled her to the ground.

Though her body bucked and her arms thrashed with more strength that Hal had previously given her credit for, they managed to hold her pinned. Alena drew her own blade.

"No!" Cathar Palter cried from atop the altar. "Don't hurt her!"

Hal glanced up at him. "She was trying to kill you."

"Let her go. Please. She doesn't know. Oh, she doesn't know what she's doing."

"It was her, wasn't it?" Alena asked, holding her blade to Mrs. Palter's neck. "She killed them. All of them."

The cathar did not deny it.

"The blood in your room at the inn that morning, that was Elder Somlon's blood, wasn't it? You knew what she was capable of when you left Gavony, when you brought her to Gatstaf. You tried to bind her, in the closet, but the straps could not hold the evil that possesses her." Alena offered one damning truth after another. "And then she got out. She tried to kill at the Warins' farm; she etched her demonic markings into the ground, but you stopped her. However, after that, you lost control. You followed her around the town, unable and unwilling to stop her from collecting her victims, so instead you brought them here. To hide them, to hide her. One after another, you moved the bodies. Three bodies, Mr. Palter. She killed three innocents."

"It's my fault!" Cathar Palter wailed. "It's all my fault! The mausoleum was under my guard. Whatever emerged from it that night, I could have stopped it."

Hal doubted that very much. The demon's name, Ormendahl, she had heard it before. And from the stories she knew of it, it was not a demon that a single mausoleum guard, no matter how good-hearted and well-intentioned, could have stopped.

Art by Min Yum

For the third time that night, her heart went out to Mr. Palter. But her sympathy for him was not enough for her to consider letting Mrs. Palter free, for the woman was lost; what was left writhing under Hal and Alena's grip was not Mr. Palter's wife. That would be an impossible thing for him to understand. Hal nodded to Alena, who readied to plunge her blade. But just then, Mr. Palter half-fell, half-launched himself off the altar, his body crashing into Hal and Alena.

In that instant, their shared grip was loosened just enough for the cursed woman to free herself. Mrs. Palter leapt to her feet, and Hal could feel the power collecting within the slender waif of a woman. Then Mrs. Palter opened her mouth wide and roared down at Hal and Alena. The sound was not unlike a werewolf's howling. Something gripped Hal's mind as she and Alena sprang for the woman. What about the werewolf? The pieces still didn't fit. The tracks in the forest—they had seen clear lupine prints. The cow that had been devoured—properly devoured with the bones and teeth left behind. That was not Mrs. Palter's doing, was it?

Hal's contemplations caused her to miss a swift, dodging movement from Mrs. Palter that she would have easily countered had she been entirely focused on the brawl at hand. Mrs. Palter moved more swiftly than she should have been able to, and before Hal could compensate for her lapsed attention, Mrs. Palter dove out of her reach and in one motion tackled and stabbed her husband through the chest.

Hal and Alena were on her before she could pull the knife out to stab again, but the damage was already done. The fading gurgling from the good cathar confirmed it.

It was nearly impossible to hold Mrs. Palter to the ground. So powerful were each of her movements, fueled by her demonic contract, that it took the two of them to hold back just one arm. But Hal and Alena were well-practiced; it was much like grappling a moldgraf monstrosity, and now Hal had turned all of her attention to the physical battle. Though Mrs. Palter fought with all her might to stand, all she was able to succeed in doing was to lift her head. As she did, her hood fell off. For the first time since they had met her in the woods, Hal and Alena looked upon Mrs. Palter's face. So disfigured was it by the power of the demon that had coursed through her time and again, so appalling was the molted flesh, that Hal cried out. Mrs. Palter smiled. Then she began to chant, and as she did, her irises changed from pale blue to dark, glistening black. The black spread quickly to fill the entirety of her eyes. Hal looked to Alena, who was struggling as much as she just to hold Mrs. Palter down. There was nothing they could do when the woman called upon the enormous amount of demonic power she had summoned and threw them off her.

Hal shot through the air until her side smacked into the thick trunk of a tree. Pain radiated out from her shoulder and the side of her head as she collapsed to the ground.

She struggled to get up, to force her limbs to move the way she wanted them to, to compel her vision to focus from three panels to one. The pain in the side of her head was like a blade that was rammed through the whole of her body, pushing her down. But she could not let it, she would not, for she could see there before her, Alena, falling to one blow after another from Mrs. Palter's thrashing fists. Though Alena jumped up every time, she was no match for the well of strength that seemed to be endlessly flowing through the cursed woman. And then Mrs. Palter reached for her blade.

"No." Hal's cry, though fed by her desperation, barely made a sound. She fought against the weakness in her limbs, pushing herself to her feet. But she was not fast enough. Mrs. Palter's blade came down.

Hal's strangled scream was never heard because it was overwhelmed by the sound of a lycanthrope's snarl. Mrs. Palter's blade was stopped, and the woman was thrown to the ground by the single swipe of a wolf's forelimb. Her blood flew everywhere, whipping off the teeth and claws of the giant beast.

Alena rolled away from the fray, and Hal was at her side in an instant. Together they plunged their blades into Mrs. Palter's raging, bloody form.

As the demonic curse drained from the woman's lifeless limbs, her body deflated, and wilted to the ground at their feet. This left Hal and Alena standing shoulder to shoulder, face to face with a massive, panting lycanthrope.

Before they could act, before they could even communicate their intentions to each other, there was a snarl from the trees to their left. And then one from their right. One behind, two in front. Then all around them they saw glowing yellow eyes, reflecting and tarnishing the light of the silver moon. They were surrounded. How many were there? A dozen, perhaps two.

Art by Scott Murphy

Hal felt Alena tense. This was not Alena's usual firm, grounding stance; the girl was rigid, strained. Hal raised her bloodied dagger, locking eyes with the biggest of the lycanthropes, the one standing before them. If they were to die here tonight, it would not be without a fight.

But even as she prepared to strike, the lycanthrope changed its form. It happened so quickly that Hal barely registered it. Suddenly the beast was a human woman, one with hard lines and a striking figure. The silver moon shone off the woman's pale skin and glistened off the white tips of her long hair. Never before had Hal seen a lycanthrope turn back to human form in the heat of battle. Never. It was impossible. Yet here it had happened.

For a moment none of the three of them moved. Then Hal held up her dagger and very slowly, keeping eye contract with the woman, set it on the ground. Alena shifted and cast a questioning look at Hal, but registering Hal's certainty, she proceeded to do the same.

Hal thought she saw a very slight nod from the naked woman before them, and then the woman turned to the rest of the surrounding pack, all of them breathing heavy, battle ready, hungry. The woman shook her head once, short and sharp. A whimper sounded in response, just one, and then the pack turned and disappeared into the trees of the Ulvenwald.

Hal and Alena were left alone with the woman who had just saved their lives.

Hal cleared her throat. She was going to say thank you, but the words would not come. Instead, she unbuttoned her outer coat and offered it to the woman.

"Thank you." The woman took Hal's coat, shouldering it on.

"Thank you," Hal said, finding her voice.

"I did not do it for you. I have been tracking her." She nodded to Mrs. Palter. "And others like her. There are too many in our towns."

"So it was your tracks," Alena said. "And you who ate the cow."

The woman ignored Alena. "If it was not for my desire to end her wretched life, I would not have saved your lives."

Hal started at that assertion.

"But seeing as you have been left alive," the woman went on, "I will tell you this only once: you must cease your killing of my pack."

"The werewolves?" Alena asked.

"If you do not, I will be forced to move against you. And when I do, I will end you." The way the woman said it wasn't as a threat, but as a statement of fact.

Hal bristled. "This is our woods. The Ulvenwald is under our protection."

"We cannot allow werewolves in our domain," Alena added.

"It is not up to you," the woman said. "And it is foolish of you to think that just the two of you could keep this woods safe from what is coming, foolish to think you can even stay alive here yourselves. Leave the woods, little hunters. Leave the woods to us."

"We would never." Alena clenched her hands into fists.

"What is coming?" Hal asked, serious.

"I don't know."

Alena snorted, but Hal was not distracted. There was something about this woman that made Hal heed her words.

"I don't know exactly," the woman said. "But," she indicated the altar and Mrs. Palter, "I have seen enough, and so have you, to know that whatever is out there is worse than werewolves. This world will need us soon. It will welcome the sound of our howl, the muscle of our pack. We may be the only force that can stand against whatever it is that is threatening it."

"We will stand against whatever threatens the Ulvenwald," Alena said. "There is nothing we won't face."

The woman sighed. "If you stay here, you will face your deaths." She dropped Hal's outer coat from her shoulders. "You did not perish tonight only because I intervened, only because of a werewolf. Consider that. Or don't. It is up to you. But know that I am advising you to leave. Get out of the Ulvenwald, and when you do, stay out. And pray, if that is something you do."

"We will not—" Alena began, but the woman had already slipped back into her wolf form. Her transformation was nothing like the usual brutal, bulging transformations that Hal had witnessed in other lycanthropes. This woman was not a usual werewolf. With a final snarl, she turned away from them and glided off into the trees.

Hal and Alena were left standing in the filtered moonlight deep in the dark woods. Once more, the crawling sensation returned to Hal, fingers running up her spine. She could not help her body from shuddering. The feeling was not because of the lycanthrope, it was because of something else entirely—something Hal did not yet know or understand.

Alena looked to her, daring in her eyes, poised to run, but Hal was unsure of which way they should go.

Arlinn Kord darted between the tangled trees. The foolish humans. How could they be so blind? She hoped she would not be forced to kill them one day. They were strong and wild. Characteristics she valued. In another life she might have befriended them. But this was not that life; in this life, Arlinn could not have friends.

Art by Winona Nelson

2

A Gaze Blank and Pitiless

By Ken Troop

Innistrad has entered a new age of prosperity and peace. Avacyn, a powerful angel who is the living embodiment of hope and protection for humans everywhere, is free from her imprisonment and has helped the humans beat back the evil horrors that lurk within Innistrad. The vampires are in retreat, and the werewolf curse has been alleviated by the Cursemute, a magical edict from Avacyn that gave afflicted lycanthropes the choice either to become wolfir, wolven servants of Avacyn, or, in rarer cases, to be fully cured.

The people of Innistrad prosper and thrive under the benevolent and caring eye of Avacyn, working toward establishing a permanent new dawn for humans...

The prayers of ten thousand souls washed over Avacyn like a misty rain, a pleading susurrus of hope and fear. Avacyn watch over my children, Avacyn make my crop strong, Avacyn the pain make it stop, Avacyn grant him a clean death, Avacyn...

Art by Jason Chan

She hovered in the thin cold air, air so thin her wings would have been insufficient to keep her aloft without the aid of power. It was one of her favorite retreats, a desolate valley in the highest mountain passes in southern Stensia. The cold was absolute at this height. Thick frost covered every surface, permitting no life to abide. Avacyn did not feel the cold. She appreciated the solitude, the purity of wide space with nothing for company but the crackling ice, the whistling wind, and the whispers of prayers.

The prayers were always present, a constant insistence in the back of her mind. From the briefest moments after her awakening, the prayers were there. They were few at first. Small, tentative, searching. But over time the number of prayers grew, and they became more direct, more beseeching. Protect us, save us, help us.

Help me! A panicked prayer broke through the normal murmurs. A woman's voice, a woman in pain. Avacyn hear me! My child! My child! Please! My Avacyn! Avacyn focused on the prayer, on the woman sending it to her, and saw an image of the woman running and sobbing in the middle of a large meadow. Avacyn soared above the mountaintops and swooped down to the south toward Gavony. Though she heard thousands of prayers throughout the world, she rarely had time to address them individually.

From the beginning of Avacyn's existence had been the word PROTECT. Even now, thinking of it triggered the cascade of images that had accompanied her first moments of existence. A flash of a world draped in autumn and blood, and the numerous predators poised to ravage it. Vampire and werewolf. Demon and zombie. Geist and devil. Each one seared into Avacyn's mind, into her very identity, as a threat to be fought and scoured. And the images of the mortals in all their shapes and sizes, their humanity defined by their frailty and their devotion. PROTECT. And over time, Avacyn's understanding of the word grew, became more nuanced. PROTECT THEM. This concept was Avacyn's essence.

Art by James Ryman

With each passing year, the purpose of her existence had unfolded in crystalline beauty. She was not meant to fight every monster, to stop every evil. Such work would have been impossible. Instead she led and inspired, bolstering the faith of countless humans, that faith in turn bolstering the wards and charms humanity used as protection from the predations of evil. There were occasions when Avacyn would fight, when some intractable or powerful evil would demand her personal attention. But there were always too many fights, too many prayers, for Avacyn to respond to every one.

But occasionally a prayer would break through to Avacyn, a prayer imbued with such fervent faith or desperation that Avacyn felt a pull to help. Early in her existence there had been little conscious intent to this pull; she just knew she must intervene personally in certain events. But over the centuries she had gained more control over when and where she involved herself. The power of this mother's prayer, her shattering panic rising to a crescendo of need, reached Avacyn. The mother's fear for her child was pure and unalloyed, and such purity compelled direct action from Avacyn.

Avacyn sped through the lower mountain valleys of Stensia, tracing an unerring path toward her petitioner, the strength of the woman's prayer a bright beacon in Avacyn's mind. The cloak covering the mountains changed from snow to trees, from the tyranny of endless white to the mélange of green, brown, and orange heralding the coming of the harvest moon. Avacyn was not prone to reflection, but she could not help feeling satisfaction at all that had been wrought since her release from the Helvault. The werewolves were gone, some cured and others transformed into the wolfir, helpful allies for Avacyn and her angels. The devils and demons were scattered and ineffective. And for the one of the few times since Avacyn's awakening, the vampires were in retreat. Humanity was free of its long siege of darkness, and civilization flourished.

It was a new era for the humans. It was a new era for the world. And Avacyn would be there, continuing to protect the humans and protect the world, as she always had. Avacyn did not like smiling—she had never understood the point of it—but she suspected this is what humans felt when they smiled. A deep and abiding satisfaction. It felt...correct.

Art by Andreas Rocha

Avacyn noted the wan light from the sun, soon to fall below the forested horizon. Night would rise shortly. As she alit upon a sparse meadow outside of a dark forest, she saw a woman lying on the grassy slope outside the first ring of trees, sobbing and crying out a name. "Maeli! Maeli!" The woman stood and walked toward the forest as Avacyn landed.

"Petitioner. You have called me." Avacyn's tone was calm, reassuring, but the woman turned in a sudden terror before recognizing what she was seeing.

"Avacyn! You came! You came! My child! Please!" The woman was frantic, and it took time for her to calm herself and tell Avacyn what had occurred. Her child had run away from home, and had been seen running off into the forest. While the world was much safer since Avacyn's return, it was still not a safe world. Especially for children. The mother had been about to brave the forest herself for her child, though she risked death for both of them. Avacyn assured the mother she would try to find the child.

Such a matter would have been trivial if the child had been praying to Avacyn. But as Avacyn turned her focus to the hundreds of prayers currently whispering in her head, none of them were from a child lost in a forest. Still, there were other ways to find the child.

Art by Andreas Rocha

Avacyn flew over the dark forest until she approached its center. She channeled her power up through her spear, and its metal blade glowed bright. Brighter, brighter, until the light eclipsed the setting sun, and Avacyn channeled even more power, lighting up the whole sky above the forest. Avacyn could hear birds caw and animals skitter and even larger things thump below the forest canopy, all to get away from the bright light. Avacyn projected power into her voice.

"Maeli! It is Avacyn! Call to me!" Her voice boomed and echoed off the trees throughout the forest. Then Avacyn was silent. She listened for a child's cry, and hoped for anything but silence and what that silence might herald.

No voice reached out from the forest canopy, but a prayer did. Avacyn, please, I'm lost, and I'm sorry, and I'm wet, and I heard...Avacyn fixed the location of the child in her mind, and swooped over and down to a spot in the forest a few minutes away. It was a small child, a boy, and he was huddled in the crook of a tree.

The boy looked at her, and at her glowing spear. "Avacyn?"

"Child, come to me. You are safe now. I will get you home." Avacyn's voice was even softer now, the softest she could make it. Avacyn had always been most comfortable with children. Their innocence, their earnestness, made them easier to comprehend. The boy approached her, his hesitation overcome as Avacyn put her spear to one side and welcomed him with her other arm. He ran to her and she gathered him up in her arm and flew out of the forest.

It took only moments for her to find the mother on the outskirts of the trees and give her the child. Both mother and child sobbed as they hugged each other. Avacyn wished every moment of every day was this. Families rejoined. Fear erased. Happiness created. This is why she was. Satisfied her work was done, she began her ascent back to her mountainous retreat. A violent shimmer wracked her body, shaking her vision.

Everything in front of her doubled. The trees, the mother and child, each blade of grass. Doubled, and then doubled again. A pounding ache ran through her head and she dropped to the ground, crumpled in pain. A field of white flashed through her eyes, followed by an image of many floating stone obelisks with intricate runes carved into their sides, moving in concert with each other...and then a normal scene resumed in front of her. Avacyn whipped her gaze around to identify the source of the attack. Few vampires had ever been powerful enough to launch such an assault. A demon lord, perhaps...

There was a soft buzzing in her ears. A constant low hum that neither raised nor lowered in volume. It was just...there, an off-tonal accompaniment to the prayers whispering in her head. The back of Avacyn's neck felt tight, and occasional involuntary shivers would shoot up from her neck through the rest of her head, as if in alarm to an attack. But no attack came. She shook her head in the hope it would clear the buzzing, but it remained in the back of her thoughts.

The two humans still huddled in front of her, clutching each other, seemingly immune to whatever had struck Avacyn. As Avacyn watched, the mother's tears evaporated, her soft face hardened with anger. "How could you run away like that? What were you thinking? You stupid child!" She pushed the child away from her violently. The small human's face crumpled up in fear, and he started bawling.

The seeds of men are rotten. Avacyn did not know where the thought came from. It was like a prayer, a missive sent directly to her head, though no mortal had uttered it. The seeds of men are rotten. Avacyn peered closely at the child, and where once she had seen innocence, she now saw other details. The poxed skin, the snotty nose, the scabs and crust of organic decay. The sniveling face in plaintive need of reassurance after committing wrong.

She looked back to the mother, that angry face already softening and seeking to reassure her wailing child. These mortals travel from anger to guilt and back again, and what is ever accomplished? Avacyn looked at the child, its wailing unabated. How short these mortals live. Today this was the small form of a child. Tomorrow it would be a man, dirty, uncouth, prone to anger and cruelty. The day after its flesh would be wriggling worms, worms writhing in the dust...

Art by Steven Belledin

Avacyn stumbled away, her balance off, her mind fuzzy. She took flight, weaving back and forth into the sky with an unusual lack of grace, leaving both humans below. She sought to hear prayers, but coating every word was the buzzing. She could not make out the prayers over the constant noise. Instead she came back to the same words again and again, plunged into her brain like a spear.

The seeds of men are rotten.

Avacyn fled, seeking refuge from her own mind. It was nowhere to be found.

Macher paced the cloistered courtyard in the inner sanctum of the church, an acid unease gnawing his stomach. The courtyard was normally a place of serene comfort for him. A lush, beautiful garden where he could retreat away from the world's horrors and pain, especially in the cool dark night when no other priest walked its paths.

But when the pain was inside the soul, no place offered succor.

Macher stopped his pacing underneath Avacyn's silver symbol, mounted on a long iron pole at the center of the courtyard. Under the deep orange light of the late harvest moon, the pointed edges of Avacyn's silver symbol seemed poised to drip and splash into the mossy ground below, a neat moonlight illusion. Macher's mind returned often to the nature of illusions. Avacyn is real, isn't she?

Macher had no doubt Avacyn existed, of course. He had seen her, had seen her angels. That Avacyn was real was not in dispute. But is she worthy of worship? Is she our god?

Those thoughts he could not escape.

Art by Christine Choi

He had been a true believer for most of his life, still just a toddler when his family had abandoned him at the door of the local parish, a fate of many a young child in this corner of Gavony. He had been fed by the church and clothed by the church and protected by the church, introduced to the doctrine of Avacyn before he could even read.

The doubts had started last year, when Avacyn had mysteriously disappeared. It had been a grim time, the horrors of the world pressing upon Gavony and almost overrunning it. Macher had known Mikaeus, the former lunarch, and the night he had seen Mikaeus as a zombie had been the worst of his life. But then Avacyn had returned, and Gavony was now as safe as it had ever been. Safer. So why should doubt arise after triumph?

The rumors had run rampant through the clergy that Avacyn had been entrapped, imprisoned in the very Helvault in which so many creatures of darkness had been sealed away. The priests spoke of miracles, of Avacyn's power breaking her free from the prison, bringing a new era of light to the world.

But how could a god ever be imprisoned in the first place?

A prayer occurred to him unbidden, and he gave a rueful smile. Avacyn, please exist. Please be true. The full orange moon glowed in the crisp night air. Avacyn's symbol was completely framed by the moon, and the symbol seemingly shimmered and twisted under the orange light. Macher watched, transfixed, and lost himself in the moon's soft glow.

There was a beating of wings behind him.

Macher whirled, his mouth agape, and saw an angel descend. Striking white eyes rimmed with black, large lustrous wings, silver-white hair tinged with orange and red hues from the moonlight. A long moonsilver spear, glowing deep white with sparks of red at the tip, held in her hands. Avacyn. It was Avacyn herself, descending into the courtyard.

She landed, her wings folding behind her, and she stared at Macher. He had never seen her eyes before. Ivory-white irises, but the black frames surrounding the iris caught his attention and did not let go. The black deepened, spread, inky pools dancing, a growing chaos that...

"Do you hear the bees? Do you hear their cries?" Avacyn's words tumbled from her mouth in a rush, breaking the spell of her eyes. Her gaze darted frantically from one side of the courtyard to the other.

Macher did not understand what she referred to, nor why she appeared anxious. "Avacyn, you came! You are here!" he blurted out. He was overcome with relief. He had prayed to Avacyn and now she was here before him. He felt ashamed at his doubt in his god. She is here to lead me back to the light, to truth.

Avacyn's face changed. She stopped looking from side to side and focused on Macher instead. "You prayed for me to come." Her voice was cold, crisp, snapping him to attention. "You prayed to me. You prayed to me because you doubted." There was a scratch to her voice now, a pause before some words as if she was listening for something, or to something. She raised her spear. "There are other ways of ending your doubts." Her lips turned upward, trembling, an awkward mockery of a smile.

Macher shivered in the darkness, looking past Avacyn at the moon and its bright orange light, wishing he were somewhere else.

"Are you pure?" Her words flowed like honey.

"I...what?" Macher did not understand. Many times he had envisioned meeting Avacyn. Never had he imagined an interaction like this.

"Are. You. Pure?" Now each word clear and sharp as crystal.

"Yes! I am pure!" Macher was relieved. His god was angry with him. She should be. He had doubted, but now his doubts were gone. "Pure in my..."

Her words overtook his, left them no room to be heard. "Of course you are not pure. How could you be? You were born." The scorn in her voice as she said the last word was unmistakable. She looked into his eyes, and he once more saw an inky blackness welling up, an endless blackness threatening to swallow him whole...he became dizzy, and almost stumbled to the ground, losing sight of her eyes, and the dizziness passed. He stood back up, careful not to look directly at her. You are not meant to gaze upon divinity.

"Have you lost faith in me so easily, mortal?" Avacyn's lips quirked in a way that would have been a sneer on a human.

Macher sputtered, unable to form coherent words in reply.

She continued, ignoring him. "The more interesting question is..." she paused, and looked up at the dim night sky as if the moon were speaking to her, "...have I lost faith in you?" As she said the word "you," she looked directly at him. He wanted to scream, but no words would come. A wet stream flushed down his leg, puddling at his feet. Terror overtook him, and he crumpled to the mossy ground, clutching himself with eyes shut tight.

Even through his fear and closed eyes, he could sense a luminescence drawing close. A chill shook his spine and he screamed. The scream subsided, and he heard a whispered "Soon," as a light, feathery touch brushed his face. A flapping of wings, and the luminescence vanished. It was a long time before he opened his eyes. He lay there huddled through the night, cloaked in terrifying certainty about the nature of his god.

Art by Vincent Proce

Liont woke up to the beautiful winter sun. Its faint light streamed onto his face, insisting upon his wakeful attention. Normally the shutters were closed to prevent such an early awakening, but he had forgotten to close them last night. One of the wooden shutters hung askew. I'll have to fix that later.

He asked his wife how she slept last night, but she did not answer. She had stayed up late. It was unusual for him to be the first one up, far more common for Hilde to be caressing him awake or the children's squabbling voices to usher him into the morning. He came to his feet, shrugging off tattered and torn bed sheets. He had a full day's work ahead of him, and he wanted to start.

His business was booming—never had his smithing been in more demand. He was at the forge or anvil for most of the day, and he was likely going to take a second apprentice soon. Ever since Avacyn's return last year, the demand for new tools and plows was high. And ever since the Cursemute, Liont was able to satisfy that demand.

The Cursemute. Everything had changed with the Cursemute, a blessing wrought by Avacyn's magic. Some werewolves had been transformed into wolven servants of Avacyn, the wolfir. But Liont had been cured entirely, and he said his blessings to Avacyn every day. He was back with his family, back in his home. Able to travel to the town, and look people in the eye, and know no fear. The absence of fear was wonderful, the absence of dread and worry and weight, no more constant gnawing clutching at his insides. No more staring up at the moon, wondering if night would bring the darkness, the true darkness. All dissipated into the light, thanks to Avacyn's benevolent power. He had a life again. A life with his family.

Art by Howard Lyon

He dressed, picking up scattered clothes from the floor. Some of these need mending. I'll give them to Hilde tonight. He went back to Hilde to wake her up. She was groggy, barely stirring, and her speech was still faint and wispy from sleep.

"Good morning, husband." Hilde's mouth was still and small. Liont wanted to tell her a joke, to see her beautiful smile, but Hilde did not have the best sense of humor in the morning.

"I'm going outside to the smithy, I need to get the plow started for Nickers. The children are still asleep." Hilde didn't reply. "Are you all right, dear?" He peered closer.

Hilde's voice was still soft, faint. "The poxes are out in bloom."

Liont was glad she was awake. "Good, darling, good. I'll be back at midday for lunch."

Her voice was louder, colder. "Liont. When the door is knocked, do not open it."

A shiver went down Liont's spine. When the door is...but he brushed the thought away. Hilde had already returned to sleep, lying motionless on the torn bed. She must have been up very late.

He went to the bed of his children, stepping over shards of wood and glass, hearing them crunch beneath his feet. When Hilde wakes up she will not be happy with this mess. I will sweep it up later today.

He stopped first at the prone form of Talia. She did not stir, her normally bright eyes, so joyful to see him, closed at rest. He shook her gently and her eyes opened.

"Good morning, father." Her voice was listless, dull. She must be so tired. I will let her rest.

"Go back to sleep, my daughter." He bent down and kissed her, his warm lips on her cool forehead.

"Father. When the door is knocked, do not open it." Her words picked up strength. She sounded scared. When he rose up from kissing her forehead, she had already fallen back asleep.

Liont realized he was scared, too, but put it aside. It was strange to feel fear on a bright winter morning, with the sun pouring through broken windows and large rents in the walls. It is cold in here. I'll have to board up those holes.

He tarried briefly on the other side of the bed to say goodbye to his son. Kan was a few years younger than Talia, the perfect age to want to do all the things his older sister did, but do them in a way that infuriated her. Most days at this time he would already be running around the house, bouncing off the walls until his mother let him go outside to play in the fenced yard between the house and the smithy. But this morning he just lay quiet and still.

As Liont stood there staring at his sleeping son, the boy's eyes flew open.

"Good morning, father." Liont could barely hear him, the voice was so faint. Liont wondered if the boy was sick, if he needed a healer...

"Father. When the door is knocked, do not open it." The boy's eyes were shut again, and Liont noticed how quiet the room was, silent except for the sound of a single person's heavy breath. Despite all the sunshine and chill wind whistling through the gaping rents in the walls, Liont felt stuffy, a pressure in his head that would not leave.

Liont bowed his head under the aching pressure. The room was suffused with a coppery, bitter scent. He had to get out of the house. Three voices cried out in his bowed head, "When the door is knocked, do not open it!"

There was a knock at the door.

Liont lifted his head. He looked at the door. Except there was no door. Where the door usually stood, there was only empty sunlit air. When the door is knocked, do not open it. Not only was the door gone, but the hinges were twisted and bent. I'm going to have to forge new hinges. But first I have to get started on Nickers's plow and then...

There was another knock at door. A heavy thudding echoed throughout the room.

When the door is knocked...Liont looked again at the open space where the door once stood. Something was wrong. Why was his house a shambles? I don't have time to clean this up right now. I have to get to the smithy. More knocking. Thud. Thud. Thud. How can there be knocking? There is no door. Pain blossomed in his head, pain so bright and fresh he sank to his knees with the force of it. As he closed his eyes tight he saw a bright door in his mind, a bright door pulsing with red. He heard more knocking, more heavy thudding, and it was coming from behind the red door, the door in his mind. He just had to open it, to stop the knocking. Everything would be all right if the knocking stopped. He reached out a hand in his mind to...do not open it.

Liont grabbed the handle of the door inside his head. The handle was metal and ice cold. He pushed down on the handle, but it did not want to turn. He pushed, his hand hurting from the cold, and pushed again, growling. The handle turned.

Liont opened the door. Suppressed reality burst forth into vision. He saw what was behind the door.

No no no no no no...still on his knees, he rocked back and forth, clutching his head in grief and rage. Blood was everywhere. On the walls, the bed, the floor. His hands and body were covered in it, the blood leaking through the torn clothes he had put on minutes before. He looked at the body of Hilde, her face frozen in terror as she lay unmoving on the bed.

Who had done this? He knew who had done this. Feverish images rose in his mind. The snarling, the screams, the claws raised high in the moonlight...he lifted his head and howled his agony into the cold winter sun, the sun that followed the hunter's moon.

Art by Daarken

The Cursemute. What happened to the Cursemute? What he had done should not have been possible. He was free of the curse. Free! He snarled a prayer to the air, Avacyn! Why have you forsaken me! Avacyn!

He knelt there sobbing for a long time. He wanted to die. He wanted his family back. He wanted to hear the laughter of Talia and Kan. He wanted to hear them fighting. He wanted it to be yesterday again. Please, let it be yesterday. Let me go to sleep and wake up in yesterday. I will wake up and I will leave. I will leave and never return. Just let it be yesterday, let...the roof of his house exploded overhead.

Liont looked up, staring at the figure hovering above him, a figure with wings and silver hair and a large, glowing spear. Could it possibly be...? Could she possibly be able to...?

His voice croaked with pain, the words barely able to form, "Please...please." The angel, perhaps it was Avacyn herself, did not respond, did not even seem to hear him speaking. She pointed her spear at him, and the tip grew bright, brighter, brighter than the sun overhead, and a lancing energy struck him in the chest, burning away clothes and skin.

Art by Greg Staples

He screamed in agony even as he welcomed the pain. This is what I deserve. But still, maybe the angel could save his family. His vision dimmed. He had to...

"Mercy, please, mercy for..." his mouth stopped working, his lips stopped moving, and his plea continued in the growing darkness of his mind. ...for my family. For my beautiful family. Please. They deserve...

The angel pointed her spear at him again. Her lips turned up as she spoke the last words Liont ever heard.

"Justice! There is no mercy." The spear flashed.

Mercy, Liont thought, and then he died.

A storm is coming, Sigarda thought. Lightning flashed in the dark gray sky, but no thunder ever came. It was unusual to see a storm in the middle of the cold winter, the season dominated by the hunter's moon. The air had hung heavy for days, the gray clouds unmoving, and now there was lightning without thunder, a storm without rain. Sigarda looked out over large swaths of the forest and was uneasy.

Art by Chris Rahn

She hovered in her personal solar, the bare stone walls and four thick buttresses in sharp contrast to the open vistas of dark green forests sprinkled with patches of white snow. Sigarda could see for miles in every direction and often spent long stretches here when seeking quiet contemplation. The solar was at the top of a long-abandoned tower in a Kessig forest, a tower built centuries ago when humans had been more ambitious.

They had become ambitious again. Avacyn's return last year had ushered in a new era of peace and tranquility. Humans had been spreading out across the land again, building new homes and farms and towns. But in the last several weeks, troubling reports had sprung up across the land. Uprisings and disappearances and slaughters. A shadow had risen over the world, and Sigarda wanted to know why.

A lightning flash lit the dark sky, and another, and in between the flashes of lightning she felt her sisters' approach, and moments later they landed in her sanctuary.

Slight Bruna, dressed in blue and white light armor with a flowing silk cloak trimmed in red lace. She wielded her staff, and its tip was already glowing with power, as if to strike down an enemy. Tall Gisela, cloaked in the red and white of her Goldnight flight, her twin blades already out of their sheaths. They are prepared for battle, Sigarda thought. She thought then of their other sister, the one who had died a thousand years ago, and she shivered.

Art by Winona Nelson

"Hello, my sister," Bruna said, an odd lilt in her voice.

"You did not respond to our summons," Gisela said.

Sigarda had not regarded it as a summons. An angel from the Goldnight had requested that she visit Gisela a week past, but Sigarda had been busy helping the communities of inner Kessig rebuild.

"I was occupied with other duties, sister. I did not realize there was an urgent matter. How may I help?" Sigarda wondered if there had been an attack on the angels. It could explain why Bruna and Gisela seemed on edge.

"It is no matter, now," Gisela said.

"We are here," Bruna said.

When the two angels had landed in her solar, they had stood very close together, almost shoulder to shoulder. But now they spread out in the room, each to a different side of her. And the way Bruna held her staff, and Gisela her two swords, made Sigarda keenly feel the lack of her scythe, resting in a room just downstairs. What is happening here?

"We have just come..." Bruna began.

"To talk. We have not seen you in a long while. Sister," Gisela finished.

The two angels continued to move to her sides, each one on the edge of her peripheral vision. Sigarda could not believe her sisters would attack her, but the only rational explanation for their tactics was in preparation for an attack. Sigarda had never fought either of her two sisters, but she was confident she could handle Bruna as long as she could get to her scythe. Bruna was not especially skilled in direct combat. Her strengths lay in other areas. Gisela, on the other hand...Gisela would be a problem.

Art by Jason Chan

More lightning crackled outside, and there was a loud burst of thunder. As the thunder subsided, Avacyn landed in the solar.

Sigarda had not sensed Avacyn, not in the way she had her sisters' approach. She had never been able to sense Avacyn. Avacyn led them, but was not of them. As she had demonstrated so long ago. Sigarda could not deny the power of Avacyn, her ability to both fight the horrors of Innistrad and inspire the humans to continue their fight. But she still missed her sister.

Now both Bruna and Gisela were behind her, and Avacyn hovered in front of her. Tall, taller even than Gisela, with perfect alabaster skin and striking silver-white hair. Her moonsilver spear glowed, though Avacyn did not need a weapon to be effective in combat. If it came to battle, Sigarda would not go down easy, even against both Bruna and Gisela. But if Avacyn had come to fight...

If Avacyn had come to fight, then Sigarda was dead.

"Sigarda. The great work is soon to be underway." Avacyn's voice had a weird slur to it. Almost a slight hiss or buzz to her speech. At first, Avacyn had appeared as she always had, but Sigarda now noticed oddities. The metal points of Avacyn's spear were twisted. Even now the metal seemed to flow as Sigarda watched. She wondered what kind of power Avacyn was channeling through the spear. Even more disquieting were Avacyn's eyes. Normally pure white, there were odd flashes of black in her irises, a momentary opacity swallowing light.

The three angels had a long and complicated relationship with Avacyn. Gisela, Bruna, and Sigarda weren't truly sisters, not in any way that the word described humans. But they had come from the same essence, the same dawn times, and they had fought the horrors of the world together for a very long time. Before Avacyn had first appeared, a thousand years ago, there had been four sisters, one the eldest and most powerful of the angels. Bruna. Gisela. Sigarda. And the one they would no longer name.

They hadn't known what to make of Avacyn at first. She was an angel, one of them, and yet not. They could not sense her, the way they could other angels. She was cold, opaque, reserved. Sigarda knew many humans felt the same way about her and her ilk—there were many reasons it was difficult for angels to have close relationships with mortals. But among each other, there was usually the joy of shared purpose, of the connection that one angel can only experience with another of her kind.

Avacyn shared no connection with the other angels.

But her power was undeniable. Unstoppable, in fact. The sisters had never seen an angel with the power and confidence Avacyn possessed. And at each step in their early interactions, Avacyn's confidence had been intoxicating. She always seemed certain of each action she took, each plan she made.

Humans were not the only creatures in need of a god to believe in.

And then Avacyn had turned on their sister. It was true their wayward sister engaged in unconventional actions and made unwelcome allies. Sometimes she would consort with vampires and witches, even demons and devils. We must know our enemies if we are to defeat our enemies, she would say. She was often distrusted and disliked by the other angels, even sometimes by her three sisters. But the four of them had a deep bond, and though their sister charted a very different path, still she was their sister.

Until the sister had formed an alliance with a demon lord, an act condemned by them all. Avacyn had declared her a heretic, an accomplice to the very monsters Avacyn and all the angels were sworn to defeat. The three other sisters had agreed with Avacyn, but did not join Avacyn in her crusade against their dark sister. Avacyn had not needed their help. A thousand years ago, Avacyn single-handedly destroyed their sister and her entire small flight, and they had made the very mention of her name forbidden.

And now perhaps Avacyn was here to end her.

"The great work? I am unfamiliar with it. Enlighten me." Sigarda slowed her speech, her breathing. She fought best when calm. She could not see Gisela and Bruna at all, but she could feel them behind her. The air was stale and heavy, and a rotting smell emanated from somewhere, unable to be masked by the sharp, tangy odor of the approaching storm.

"For so long the truth has been in front of us, but we have been blind, Sigarda," Avacyn said, her words almost slithering with that strange slur. "We fight monsters. The vampires, the werewolves, the zombies and witches and necromancers and devils. Why? Because they destroy. They pillage and consume. They commit violence against the land with the sole intent of sowing chaos." Avacyn paused, staring at Sigarda, her eyes once more flashing to black, and Sigarda felt the room was shrinking, closing in on her.

"For their crimes we have sought to punish and kill. But the humans' crimes are the same." Avacyn smiled then, and Sigarda realized that in a thousand years of knowing Avacyn, she had never seen her smile. It was not a pretty smile. It was entirely disconnected from the rest of her face, her eyes. It was as though some involuntary reaction made the corners of her lips turn up without experiencing happiness or joy.

Avacyn's voice rose as she continued, and her words became more punctuated, clear, the slurring fading. "They breed in their filth, creating new minions to destroy forests, pollute the water, lie and cheat and murder amongst themselves. What have they ever done that is worthy? What have they ever accomplished that is great? We could kill every single last supposed 'monster' of this world, every vampire and werewolf, and what would happen? Would there be peace? Would there be lasting light?"

Avacyn saw the confusion on Sigarda's face, and the disgust. She laughed, a harsh laugh that almost cackled. "You know the answer, Sigarda. You know the truth."

And Sigarda did know the truth. The humans were prone to awful acts, acts of intentional evil and unintentional neglect, and both were devastating. They did lie, and cheat, and murder. But they also did wonderful things. They loved and they built. They sacrificed and they served. They were free to commit good or evil, create order or sow chaos, and that freedom made every good act precious, a shining diamond glittering in the dark night.

And besides, none of it mattered. Regardless whether Avacyn's argument was persuasive or interesting, betraying humans was not what angels did. It was as if Avacyn argued the sun should rise in the west, or the tides should no longer wax or wane.

Sigarda did not respond. She did not see the point of a response. Avacyn was not interested in this being a conversation. In her silence, Avacyn continued. "I understand, Sigarda. These are hard truths, difficult. It took Bruna and Gisela some time to understand as well. But eventually they saw light."

At the mention of their names, her two sisters spoke.

"Now we believe..." said one.

"Sister. The great work shall begin," said the other. When she couldn't see their faces, Sigarda realized she could no longer recognize which voice belonged to whom.

"We will be back. Soon," Avacyn said. "We will need your help. The impure must be cleared, be punished. We will make way for true light. For ourselves and others like ourselves, who can create and maintain peace. Imagine it, Sigarda. No more violence, no more war, no more darkness."

"Everlasting light," said a voice behind her, though she could not tell which angel said it. Or perhaps both said it at the same time.

Art by Zezhou Chen

Avacyn held aloft her spear and pointed it at the stone roof. A surge of power leapt from the spear, and the roof...vanished. Obliterated by the force of Avacyn's power. Only a fine dust fell to the ground below, covering the angels in a sooty ash.

"Soon," Avacyn said, and flew off into the dark gray skies. "Soon," Gisela and Bruna said from behind her, and did the same.

Sigarda stood in her ruined solar, watching the lightning dance amongst the gray skies, though still no rain fell. Tears dropped from her eyes, splashing onto the dusty stone floor. She thought about her dark sister, a thousand years dead, and wondered why she hadn't fought for her, had not even tried.

The storm is coming. Sigarda considered the angels in her flight, wondering if any of them had gone over to Avacyn yet. She considered humans that could possibly help stand against Avacyn. There were few, so few. But Sigarda knew it didn't matter, even if no one joined her cause. The storm is here. This time I fight.

"Maeli! Maeli!" Kelse's voice echoed through the growing dusk. Where is that child? Kelse peered under porches and looked through bushes. Most of the other villagers ignored her. He hasn't run away again, she told herself, hoping if she said it confidently enough it would be true. Kelse tried hard not to think of a few months ago, when he had run off. When Avacyn had appeared to save her child.

Most of the village did not believe her. She and Maeli had never been accepted easily in the village, certainly not after Hanse had died. After his death, she was just the strange outsider from Kessig, with a wild child who took too much after his mother. And when she came back to the village that night, clutching her child and rambling about an appearance from Avacyn...well, she probably wouldn't have believed herself either.

But Avacyn had come, had saved her child, her only child. Maeli had been born under the new moon, and had always been a special child, spirited and free. The villagers were right about Maeli taking after her. He looked like his father, a resemblance that caused Kelse both great joy and great pain, but in spirit he was like his mother, restless, yearning to explore.

What she hadn't told the villagers that night was how mad she had been at Maeli. Of course she had been worried about him, frantic about him. Her panic at losing him had fueled her prayer to Avacyn, a prayer so powerful Avacyn had responded. When Avacyn had brought him back to her arms, all she had felt was relief, an overpowering joy that left her in happy tears.

Until the change came over her.

She could not describe it, could not explain it. In a moment all her love and care had left, vanished into the growing dark, and anger had filled her fully, a lightning bolt striking her heart. And not just anger, but a seething resentment and scorn, emotions she had never felt about Maeli before. And worse, she had displayed those feelings in front of Avacyn. Avacyn, who had saved Maeli. Who had saved her.

But after Avacyn left them on that dark meadow, so had the anger. And it had never come back, and ultimately all Kelse cared about was that she had her child back, her wonderful joy. Now I just need to find him again.

Art by Cliff Childs

On poles at the outskirts of the village, torch flames flickered and sputtered in the cold winter wind, shadows lengthening as the dusk deepened. She bit her lip, wondering where she should look next, when she heard a loud cry behind her. She turned in a panic, but it was only Maeli, running toward her with a large grin on his face, shrieking happily, "Mommy, Mommy!"

He ran into her arms and hugged her fiercely, and she hugged him back just as tight. You are everything I need in this world. Let the villagers scorn me, distrust me. I don't care. I have you.

"Where were you?" She tried hard not to let her annoyance at having to look for him show. He loved exploring, and she wanted him to explore. She wanted him to always...

The torch lights suddenly all died, their flames extinguished. It was not the wind. The cold air had become utterly still. Maeli clutched Kelse close, and Kelse put her arms around her son. There was a scream from inside the village, then a flicker of light caught Kelse's eye from above and she looked skyward.

Angels flew above them.

Art by Tyler Jacobson

Against the orange and purple of the darkening sky, the winged angels hovered high over the village. All of them wielded weapons, swords and spears and staves, and many of those weapons glowed with golden or silver light. The stars are descending from the heavens, Kelse thought. She looked down at Maeli, and he stared upward in open-mouthed wonder.

Then one of the angels pointed her glowing spear downward at the village. A shaft of light fell from the spear onto one of the houses. The house was bathed in a bright light for seconds, and then the thatched roof burst into flame. The angel pointed her spear at another house, and there was another flash of light and another explosion. Other angels swooped down low, swinging their fiery swords, and shrieks and cries echoed into the night. Maeli screamed in her arms, his wonder transformed into terror.

Kelse couldn't move, her muscles frozen, her legs rooted into the earth. There was a moment where she thought perhaps the angels were there to root out vampires or werewolves or some other evil. But from the outskirts of the village she saw neighbors die, either cut down by swords or consumed in golden light and flame. They are killing us. Maeli screamed again, breaking through her paralysis.

"Maeli, my love, listen to me. You must run, run far and fast, deep into the woods, and do not come back. No matter what, do not look back, do not come back." Kelse heard her own words as if someone else was speaking them, and was amazed at how calm they sounded. More explosions and screams came from the village.

Maeli sobbed, "Mama! I can't..."

"Maeli!" Kelse's voice was sharp and thunderous. "You will listen! Run! Run now, the fastest you have ever run! To the forest!" She broke free of Maeli's embrace and pushed him away. The boy looked at her for a second, tears in his eyes, before turning and dashing away, through the brambles and hedges that lined the village's edge. Kelse felt a sharp pain in her heart. Run, my child!

Kelse looked up, and noticed the angel who had begun the destruction staring back at her from the sky. Looking at her and past her, toward the forest. No, you cannot have him! She began screaming at the angel, running in the direction below where the angel hovered.

Avacyn, Kelse thought. Perhaps the angels had been possessed by evil spirits, or they were some malevolent force in disguise. But whatever was happening, Avacyn would save them. Standing just below the angel, Kelse bowed her head. Avacyn, hear my prayer. Help me now, help us now. Please, my Avacyn, you saved my boy once, please save him again. Save us all.

"You do not need to pray your lies to me, creature. I'm right here in front of you." Kelse heard the voice just above her. She looked up, and saw an angel dressed in black, her wings steeped in blood red, her eyes dark and pitiless, nothing like the loving eyes she had seen just a few months back. The voice was familiar and strange together, with some type of accent marring her words.

Art by James Ryman

It was Avacyn. Avacyn was here. Avacyn was destroying her village.

None of this makes sense. For a moment Kelse thought perhaps she was dreaming. She noticed Avacyn's spear, the long uneven blades attached to a symbol of Avacyn glowing bright and beautiful. But the symbol was all wrong, twisted and warped, as if the metal had somehow gone sour. That is not possible. Metal cannot twist like that. This is all a bad dream.

But she knew this was real. The angels had turned on them. The angels were killing them.

"Why have you forsaken us?" Kelse cried out. She didn't know whether she spoke to Avacyn or to the uncaring night sky, but neither responded.

Throughout the village, screams rose and ceased abruptly as the angels continued their attacks with blade and fire. The flames rose higher behind Kelse, consuming her village, consuming all the trappings of her life. Avacyn descended softly, her red-soaked wings still, her eyes black and lidded. "The great work begins! Fitting you should be here to witness its glory." Avacyn paused, looking past Kelse. "Where is the small creature? It should be here, too."

"He's gone! Beyond your reach, foul thing." Kelse was sobbing, struggling to breathe amongst the smoke and grief. Run, Maeli, run. There must be somewhere safe. Find it, my love, find it!

"Beyond my reach?" Avacyn landed a foot away from Kelse. Kelse heard a loud buzzing noise coming from somewhere, and she covered her ears in pain. Avacyn reached out and touched Kelse on the cheek, stroking her trembling flesh. "Everything that is, is within my reach. My domain has no limits. And my domain has rotted. Putrefied. Everything must be cleansed. Everything must be pure."

Avacyn stopped, withdrew her hand. "It is no matter. I will find the small creature eventually. I will find all of you, eventually." She took a step backward and pointed her spear at Kelse. "All will burn. All will bleed." The tip of the spear sparked with red and gold light.

Kelse closed her eyes. My beautiful child. The light was bright, so bright...My beautiful, beautiful...

Avacyn watched as the remains of the mortal creature blew away, the ashes scattering and swirling for a moment of flight before falling to the ground. Chaos into order. Corruption into purity. Peace increases.

The sky whispered to her. The rivers, the trees, the grass, the moon. All whispered glorious truth.

For so long I have listened to the whispers of liars, and the world has suffered. Now she was listening to truth. She knew it was truth because every whisper said the same thing, so unlike the chaotic, conflicting prayers she had heard for hundreds of years. Why did I not realize how inconsistent these mortal creatures are? Their words always change. No matter, now. Now she understood.

She looked at the moon, and the moon whispered such beautiful words. All will burn. All will bleed. Avacyn repeated the words to herself, a soothing song filling her head with joy. All will burn. All will bleed. She laughed and smiled as her angels continued the great work in the burning village.

Art by Johannes Voss

3

Sacrifice

By Michael Yichao

Dark and deep, Lake Zhava lies in the highlands of Nephalia, near the border with Gavony. Villagers who live on the lake's shores and fish its waters have long spoken of a monster living in its depths. But despite the villagers' pleas, the church of Avacyn has sent no cathar or angel to protect them. As the madness in Innistrad grows, how will the villagers face the horrors of the lake?

Mia didn't believe in the old horror stories.

Not because she didn't believe in horrors. Quite the opposite. She believed in many things that even most adults would consider too horrible to think about. Spirits that haunted the living. Reanimated corpses, stitched together by madmen. Werewolves, feral and ravenous. Vampires who viewed villages as nothing more than a selection of choice morsels. She believed in these things, things that were not polite to speak of—as if not speaking of them would keep them from being real.

No, there were too many horrors in the world, horrors the village elders feared to name, for her to give much credence to town gossip, vague in details and heavy in hysteria.

Wilbur had quite a different opinion.

"It is too real," he insisted, pounding his fist on the grass. "Veryl said he saw it once—just a glimpse, but it was as wide as his ship."

Mia rolled her eyes. "Veryl also once claimed he kissed an angel," she said. "How long have we heard tales of the Gitrog? And how many credible people have seen it? Aren't we a little old to believe such nonsense?"

Wilbur stood up, shaking his head. "This isn't some dumb story. You don't go out on Lake Zhava every day, Mia. You don't see what I do. Especially lately. The unnatural fog. The lingering chill. There's more than fish in those depths."

"Is that your expert opinion as a fisherman? A fisherman who has turned fifteen and still isn't allowed to sail on his own yet?"

Wilbur blushed. "This has nothing to do with that, Mia! I'm being serious, and you're being a jerk."

Mia shrugged as she walked toward her flock. A few had straggled farther afield than she liked. "There's no sense in being afraid of the dark, Wil. What you should be fearing is what's in the dark."

Wilbur scowled, chasing after her. "What is that, another quote from your brilliant father?" Mia didn't take the bait, but Wilbur pressed on anyway. "Famed slayer, traveling the land as a noble agent of the Skiltfolk, but too busy to deal with monsters back home?"

"Too busy to deal with the whining delusions of small-minded townsfolk!" Mia whipped around, brandishing her crook. "Look around, Wilbur. None of this matters. This village doesn't matter. We don't matter. This stupid little hamlet isn't even big enough for real terrors to haunt it! We're just a no-name nowhere mountain town slowly driving itself to madness through runaway imaginations."

Art by Andreas Rocha

She turned, looked out at her flock, and sighed. One sheep had wandered far from the group. The little bell around its neck jangled faintly as it continued its adventure up the stony hillside. She started after it.

"Is that what your father told you when he left you behind? That you don't matter?"

Mia stopped in her tracks. She shot Wilbur an angry glare. Wilbur, to his credit, looked slightly green and like he was trying to swallow the words that just flew out of his mouth. Mia scowled.

"You didn't mean that."

"...Maybe I did—"

"We both know I can take you in a fight. You didn't mean that."

She turned away before Wilbur could answer and whirled the crook above her head, breaking into a light run. A short jog, a few sharp commands, and one crook under a stubborn sheep's chin later, she had herded most of her flock toward the field.

She glanced back to see if Wilbur had run home. To her surprise, he still stood there, looking dumb and lost.

"I didn't mean that!" he shouted across the field. Mia sighed, a smile sneaking across her face.

"I know." Mia let out a sharp whistle, herding her sheep onto the path back home. Wilbur hurried across the field to catch up.

"And it's not because you could take me in a fight. I mean, you could. But that's not why." Wilbur fell into stride next to her. Mia laughed.

"I know, Wil. That's why I like you."

The two walked on, the comfortable silence between them broken by occasional bleats from sheep.

Later that week, Mia awoke to a cold, gray dawn and found a section of her sheep pen broken. A quick count showed that one sheep was missing. She spent the morning searching to no avail. A rambunctious sheep probably broke out of the pen, as they were wont to do from time to time, and wandered off to get eaten by wolves in the woods. Mia cursed her luck and mended the fence, thinking nothing more of it.

Mia walked through the market, picking at the meager wares. The village's marketplace had never been thriving, but last season's poor crops and the decrease in caravans coming through the mountain pass made the options even more sparse than usual. Even the selection of fish seemed paltry, with the best offering being a sad sack of unimpressive cod.

"Poor haul this week, Lehren?" Mia nodded to the old fisherman.

Lehren shook his head, letting out a sigh. "Haven't spent much time on the waters. Fog's heavier than usual. Dangerous."

"It's dangerous all right," croaked a voice. "And not just due to fog. Wise fishermen are staying off the lake."

Art by John Stanko

Mia looked at the speaker and rolled her eyes. "If all the fishermen were as wise as you, Veryl, they'd all have starved to death by now."

"The wise know that the Gitrog rises again!" pressed Veryl, a sneer sneaking into his voice. "Only a fool would fish the lake."

"I've never met a fisherman so afraid of the lake, or so eager to blame his poor skills on imaginary beasts." Mia picked out the fattest cod from Lehren's haul, making a show of handing him extra coin as she did so.

"Watch what you call imaginary, girl," a deep voice rumbled.

Mia turned to face the speaker and stopped, surprised. Kalim, barrel-chested and towering above the rest of the merchants, looked stern as ever. Thick brows, a thick, dark beard, thick arms sculpted from hauling nets—the only slender thing on his body was the curved fishing knife on his belt.

"The Gitrog is real. Surely a slayer's daughter knows better than to doubt the monsters of the world."

Mia noticed several other merchants and shoppers leaning in to listen or sneaking furtive glances. She gritted her teeth.

"A slayer's daughter knows to first rule out all other possibilities before crying 'monster' like a frightened child."

Veryl sidled up behind Kalim, greasy blond hair flopping across his eyes. "Rude words from a shepherd girl. Talking like you are the slayer."

"I'm more of a slayer than you are a fisherman, Veryl." As much as she wanted to knock the smugness (and just a few teeth) from Veryl's face, she knew better than to throw a punch with Kalim watching. She turned her attention to him.

"Surely you of all people do not believe Veryl's tall tales about actually seeing the Gitrog, Elder Kalim."

"I believe. For I have seen it."

The marketplace fell silent, and Mia lost all decorum as she stared at Kalim. Veryl started to say something, but Kalim put his hand across Veryl's chest, shushing the lad, and turned to address the whole marketplace. "The Elders convened last night, and we decree that fishing on the lake is suspended until further notice. We will post the announcement in the square this afternoon." He held up his hand against the groans and alarmed shouts. "The safety of the village comes first. I...I have also written to the Church of Avacyn for help." His gaze fell back on Mia. "Perhaps you could write your father as well."

A hushed silence fell over the crowd. Mia's pulse quickened as she met Kalim's gaze. Beneath the calm and commanding exterior, she saw it—terror, deep and rumbling, a flooding undercurrent in his otherwise resolute stare. She swallowed, a feeling of dread creeping up and clenching her throat.

"Father, I finally found some coriander!" Mia and Kalim turned as Wilbur came running down the market street. He waved the leafy greens, a stupid grin plastered on his face—until he tripped and went sprawling across the cobblestones. Mia let out a nervous laugh, exhaling—only then realizing she had been holding her breath. Around her, onlookers resumed their previous activities, some laughing at Wilbur, many whispering and murmuring, all dispersing, the tension of the moment broken.

Kalim took the coriander and ruffled Wilbur's hair. Wilbur looked around sheepishly until he caught Mia's eye. His face went from goofy embarrassment to serious in an instant, his brow furrowing. You okay? he mouthed.

Mia blinked, surprised, and shrugged. She started to speak, but Wilbur had already turned to Kalim, chattering and leading him from the marketplace, away from her. She stood alone, awash in a whirlpool of emotions, thoughts, and questions.

"He asked you to write your father?" Wilbur stared, incredulous. Mia nodded, stirring slowly. "But...he hates your father."

"Trust me. I haven't forgotten."

Mia tasted the soup, then offered the spoon to Wilbur. He sipped, made a face, and reached over to throw another pinch of salt into the pot.

The two huddled in Mia's cabin near her small hearth. The flickering flame cast a warm glow over the room as the woodsmoke mixed with the savory smell of mutton stew. Mia carefully pulled the pot off the fire and set it down on a nearby table while Wilbur retrieved a fresh loaf of bread from his pack. Mia slumped into a chair and drew a knife from her hip, slicing the bread. Wilbur frowned. "Tell me you've cleaned that since using it to cut rope in the sheep pen this morning. Or since cutting mutton for the stew. Or since cutting your hair three months ago."

Mia scowled. "It's my best knife. Multifunctional."

Wilbur shrugged, grabbed bowls from the nearby shelf, and sat down to spoon out generous portions of stew. "Do you even know how to reach him?" Mia looked up, confused. "Your father, that is."

"I know the branch of Skiltfolk in Drunau where he is based," Mia answered, sheathing her knife. She dipped the bread into the stew and took a bite, marveling at how it always seemed to taste better when Wilbur helped make it.

"Has he ever written back?" Wilbur watched Mia intently, ignoring his stew.

"I have never written him."

"How could—"

"I did not want to trouble him with trivial matters." Mia ate another spoonful and gestured to Wilbur's stew. Wilbur grumbled, then took a bite.

"Are you going to write him now?"

Mia continued eating, trying not to grind her teeth. Wilbur didn't seem to notice.

"Do you think he'd come? Maybe bring others? I mean, I don't think even he could take on the Gitrog without help—"

"I don't know!" Mia slammed her fist on the table, cutting him off. "I don't even know if I'll write to him."

"But—I mean, this is what he does, right? Slay monsters?"

Art by Jason A. Engle

Mia stood, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation. "We still don't know if there is a monster!"

Wilbur gaped at Mia, dumbfounded. "You still don't believe?"

"I still don't know for certain. It's all anecdotal evidence—"

Now Wilbur stood, an edge of anger sharpening his voice.

"My father has seen it! Veryl has seen it! Mia, I don't know why you refuse to—"

"Veryl is still an idiot, and your father is—your father." Mia looked into Wilbur's eyes. The two stood across the table, faces flushed and tempers raised. Even in that heated moment, Mia couldn't help but notice she and Wilbur stood eye to eye. Just that summer she had stood taller than him by a palm.

"My father is what, Mia?"

"An Elder. It's his job to err on the side of caution," Mia backpedaled.

"He said he saw it. He's not issuing decrees because he's cautious. He saw it."

"Unless he didn't." Mia sat down and started eating Wilbur's stew.

"Are you calling my father a liar?" The pain in Wilbur's voice cut far deeper than the angry shouting moments ago.

"People make mistakes. See things in the fog. They always have. A slayer must distinguish—"

Wilbur groaned. "Stop talking like that, Mia! You're no slayer!"

"And you're no fisherman!" Mia's eyes flashed angrily.

Wilbur's brow scrunched in anger for a moment, then his face slowly cleared and he sighed.

"None of us are. Fishermen, that is. Not until aid comes from the Church." Wilbur walked to the pot, grabbing Mia's empty bowl and scooping himself more stew. Mia frowned. Stupid Wil, can't even get angry long enough for a real fight. She shoveled stew into her mouth as Wilbur sat back down.

The two ate in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

"It's not just anecdotal."

Mia looked up over her bowl at Wilbur, curious. Wilbur stared into his. "Boats destroyed. Property damaged. And recently, livestock going missing. Pa says we're lucky no person has been hurt."

Mia paused. Her missing sheep...

Wilbur looked up. "Please, Mia. You have to believe. Or at least, pretend to. Just...be safe? I—I don't want you to get hurt."

Mia hesitated. Wilbur looked at her with the same seriousness as that moment in the market, a seriousness that looked strange on a face so familiar. It made him seem older. It made her feel...she couldn't figure out how it made her feel, so she looked away.

"You're right," she sighed. "I'm not saying I'm convinced," she interjected, catching Wilbur's excitement out of the corner of her eye. "But there's enough reason for doubt. There's the possibility. And the moment we move from improbable to possible, we must stand watch. Now, vigilance and diligence is demanded—if you're on watch, no noise is harmless and no shadow can be ignored."

Art by David Palumbo

"Why do you always talk like you're reciting some slayer handbook?" Wilbur rested his head against his hand, raising an eyebrow at Mia, a crooked grin sneaking onto his face.

"I may not be a slayer yet, but I turn fifteen in just two months." Mia went over to the cabinet and began rummaging through it, partially to find something, and partially to avoid looking at Wilbur's stupid face. Stupid, dopey, kind, sweet face.

"You're going to join the Skiltfolk?"

Mia pushed aside some old parchment and books in the cabinet, still searching. "I'm going to try. I have no intention of tending sheep the rest of my life—aha!" Mia turned around, bringing a small case back to the table. Though simple, it looked sturdy—oak panels, iron reinforcement, a heavy lock on the front. Mia reached to the necklace hidden beneath her blouse, took the key, and unlocked the chest.

"Oh wow." Wilbur's eyes grew wide as she pulled out a small crossbow, ornately dressed in silver. The craftsmanship was clear, even in the dim firelight. Holy runes lined both sides of its stock. Though it was slender and light, Mia felt its power as she cranked back its bowstring with a practiced hand. She took sight down its length, pointing it toward the front window, her finger lightly brushing the trigger. A heavy twang rang out, dust flurrying in the flickering light, cast loose by the reverberating string.

"Is that your father's?"

"It's mine." Mia grinned. "You don't think Olgard, famed Skiltfolk shieldbearer, would stand for the embarrassment of a daughter who couldn't defend herself, did you?"

"I know you can handle yourself. I just didn't know you knew how to shoot." Wilbur leaned back, admiring the weapon. "Why do you keep it locked up?"

"Weapons heighten tension and danger, even if there's none present before." Mia took out the quiver of bolts, counting through them. "Only have your arms at ready when necessary. Only draw them when you must."

Art by Daniel Ljunggren

Wilbur shook his head, grinning. "I think, very soon, no one can tell you to stop speaking like you're a slayer."

"I certainly hope so." Mia picked up the crossbow and quiver, walking to the small room in the rear to place it by her bed. When she returned, Wilbur had already cleared the bowls. He smiled at her.

"Thanks, Mia. Even if you're just doing this for me."

"Don't flatter yourself." Mia grinned at him, ignoring the fluttering feeling in her stomach.

Wilbur stood. "You'll see. The Church will send help. Or, if you decide to write him, perhaps your father will come back. In the meantime, though, we'll do what we can to keep the Gitrog at bay."

"If it exists." Mia couldn't help herself. Wilbur graciously ignored it.

"I trust my father to do what he can to keep us safe."

Wilbur looked at her again, serious again.

"And I'll do what I can to keep us safe."

Mia walked up to him, close, their noses inches apart.

She then planted her palm on his face, giving it a light shove.

Wilbur laughed in surprise, stumbling back a step. Mia rolled her eyes.

"Get out of my house, Wil. Lest the Gitrog eat you as you walk home in the darkness."

Wilbur grinned and gave her a little wave, turning and walking out the cabin. Mia walked to the door and watched him amble out of sight.

Yeah. That was the correct way to react to his stupid face.

The joy of that evening didn't last long. Days turned to weeks, creeping by cold and dreary. As winter approached, the fog reached its gray tendrils farther and farther off Lake Zhava, creeping deeper into the village before the feeble sun would chase it back to the shore. On colder mornings, it even enshrouded Mia's cabin on the hill.

Mia kept her crossbow by her bed at night, and carved time out to practice her aim.

In all that time, no slayer from the Church came. Soon, the caravans stopped altogether, and more and more fishermen loitered around the marketplace, huddled together, grumbling and whispering. Mia broke down and wrote her father, scrapping a dozen drafts before settling on a brief and formal missive asking for aid.

She received no reply. Shortly after, the postal rider stopped coming to town. Within two days, accounts of the Gitrog devouring the mail carrier transformed from rumor to story to fact. Mia thought the poor lad didn't want to make the cold and dangerous trek to a wretched little village. He probably chose to spend the winter in Drunau instead.

However, there were many Gitrog rumors that Mia couldn't explain away. By first snowfall, three more sheep had gone missing. Each time, the fence was broken in a different spot—as though something was testing the strength of her pen. Or, as Mia reminded herself, spooked sheep pick random points to break fences. But what could be spooking them? The latest time, she had heard the fence snap in the night, but by the time she burst out of the cabin, crossbow in hand, there was nothing but broken wood and alarmed bleating.

After that, she had finally given in and hired the local carpenter to help her reinforce the pen, dipping into the money her father had left her. Though she hated spending anything she hadn't earned herself, she knew she was fortunate to have this cache. The fishermen, banned from the lake early in the season, struggled as snowfall began. Many relied on the kindness of neighbors—but the poor soil of the village could only produce so much. Fights in the local tavern became more frequent. Cursing the Gitrog intensified. More and more townsfolk retreated to their homes earlier and earlier in the day, barring their doors and boarding up windows as the pervasive fog rolled in thicker and deeper than ever before.

Through it all, it appeared that Wilbur was right when he promised his father would do something. As winter deepened, armed men and women began patrolling the streets, some wielding torches and blades, but many armed with only a pitchfork or meat cleaver. They always wore heavy cloaks with the hoods drawn up—to guard against the creeping chill, but also as uniforms. Mia wondered what a baker with a bread knife could do against the Gitrog. It gnawed at her until one afternoon, she made the mistake of asking Wilbur.

Art by Winona Nelson

"They're patrols. Extra eyes. You said it before yourself, Mia. 'Vigilance and diligence.' We watch, and sound the alarm if we see anything." Wilbur looked annoyed, his lanky figure dripping from the rain.

"I just wonder if it's actually useful." Mia also wondered why Wilbur refused to take off his coat and boots. Or take a seat. Or smile.

"I just wonder if you'll sell me the wool so I can go home."

"You're not staying for dinner?"

"Some of us have more than ourselves to take care of." Wilbur crossed his arms, and Mia wondered when he had grown taller than her.

"What, do you have to walk around brandishing your fishing rod, protecting the people?" The words left her mouth as her heart begged her to shut up.

"There are things I can't tell you. You see the surface of what we're doing to keep the village safe, to keep people alive, and all you can do is mock."

The truth in his words dragged like sandpaper across her heart, leaving her bloody and raw.

"Why are you still here, Mia?"

Mia looked at his the stern line of his mouth, his furrowed brow, his eyes cold and questioning. Her stomach churned between anger and sadness, a bitterness rising in her throat. Wilbur pressed on. "Why haven't you left for the Skiltfolk headquarters to take your test and leave us behind like your father did?"

"I am not my father. And I...I'm not fifteen yet."

Wilbur laughed, and Mia's chest tightened. She had never heard that laugh from him—empty of joy, full of daggers.

"You knew the snow would come before your birthday. You know the pass is nigh unpassable after the snowfall. If you really wanted to test, you would've left already." His words snapped, sharp and biting as the frigid air. "You're scared. Scared you're all memorized rules and bluster."

Mia grabbed the bundle of wool and threw it at him. "Take it. Get out."

Wilbur reached to the pouch at his belt, but Mia gave him a hard shove. "I said get out! Keep your father's coin. I don't want it."

"You mean you don't need it."

Mia bit her lip. It was her own fault he knew how to hurt her most.

Wilbur turned with the wool under one arm and tossed the pouch behind him as he crossed her threshold. The coins bounced out and scattered, clattering against the floor.

Mia paused, sweating despite the cold. This was the third time today she'd had to change the water for her sheep, breaking through the ice that formed in the troughs. Between this and all her other errands and chores, she hardly had a moment to catch her breath. The sun was already sinking below the horizon, throwing a few last, feeble rays against a sky of iron clouds. The wind howled as she returned to her cabin, cutting through her coat, chilling her to the bone.

At least it isn't snowing, she thought.

Two hours later, Mia watched the flurry of white slowly overtake the scenery through the window. Of course. What a perfect end to a cold and miserable birthday.

Art by Florian de Gesincourt

She had hoped to make it into the village. Hoped to find her way to Wilbur's house. They hadn't spoken since their fight, and the intervening time grew heavier every passing day, lending heft to the silence and breadth to the distance now separating them. Though she did not put much stock in them, she couldn't help hoping that her birthday would bring Wilbur visiting like he used to.

She sighed, forehead on the glass, breath fogging.

She didn't know when she had dozed off—just that something woke her some time later.

She stretched. The fire had died down to soft orange embers, and outside, the faint glow of moonlit snow edged a silhouette of the landscape. The storm had broken crisp and clear, stars winking in the inky sky. All seemed so peaceful. What had woken her?

Then she heard it again.

A loud snap-crack! rang outside the cabin. Mia sat up with a start, heart racing. She listened intently, peering out into the silvery semidarkness, senses on alert, mind racing. Nothing but silence.

She took a deep breath and leaned back, head drifting sleepily back onto her arm. It was likely a frozen tree, bursting as its sap expanded in the cold. Nothing to worry about if there wasn't anything el—

Suddenly, Mia was sprinting, grabbing her crossbow, throwing on her coat, and bursting outside, fear and dread clutching at her chest.

It wasn't the sound that scared her.

It was the silence that followed.

No bleating of startled sheep. No jangling of bells. Even as she ran out into the snow, she could hear nothing. She held her crossbow at the ready, slowing to a brisk walk as she approached the pen.

The sight that greeted her stopped her cold.

An entire side of the pen was in tatters, the fence posts ripped clean from the ground. Broken planks littered the snow, and as she watched, one post cracked and the lean-to roof collapsed.

Slowly, Mia crept closer, praying and hoping, even though she already knew. As she quietly crossed into the pen, her fears were confirmed.

Art by Christine Choi

Not one sheep remained. Instead, blood and gore covered the ground and splattered the few planks still standing. Cold wind swept through the wreckage, and the pungent smell of viscera hit her. She doubled over, crossbow falling by her side as she inhaled through her coat sleeve, trying to calm her stomach.

As she gathered herself, a strange shape in the snow caught her eye. She snapped erect, crossbow leveled, squinting at the...thing. She cursed herself for not bringing a torch, slowly moving aside, shifting her shadow away.

The pale moonlight revealed a massive footprint in the fresh powder. She walked closer. The imprint looked like a large, webbed foot, with three talon-like divots at one end. As she looked across the pen, she saw several more prints, scattered among sweeping, dragging tracks and more pools of blood.

The Gitrog.

Mia's pulse pounded in her ears as she gazed out. Leading away from the pen was a wide swath of drag marks and three-toed, webbed footprints pointing to the woods toward the lake.

Her mind swam. The Gitrog was real! It had devoured her flock. Which also meant it roamed quite far from the lake. Which meant it probably had ventured into the village! She had to tell Wilbur. Had to apologize. Had to warn them! She began marching toward the faint lights in the distance, boots crunching through the snow, when a nagging voice in her mind stopped her.

If a menace is confirmed as monster and not man, a slayer must track and isolate it if possible. Slay it away from townsfolk and cities—avoid the panic and mayhem of frightened innocents.

Mia stood, her breath flaring in front of her in pale puffs, torn on what to do. Surely there's no way she could handle something like the Gitrog. Not alerting the town seemed incredibly foolish. She needed to talk to Wilbur—Wilbur's father, rather. Kalim and the Elders would know what to do.

But would they even help her? After all her doubts? Even if they wanted to help, what could they do? The image of bakers and farmers armed with bread knives and pitchforks flashed through her mind. If the Gitrog could devour her entire flock with hardly a sound...

Mia looked down at the crossbow in her hand. The silver gleamed in the moonlight, and she ran her finger along the runes etched in the side. She reached to her hip and rested her hand on the hilt of the long dagger there. The familiar blade had seen more use as a utility knife, but its cold iron edge was crafted to slay spirits and witches.

She had dreamed of becoming a slayer, following in her father's footsteps. But he left her here where it was "safe" and gave her a flock to keep her busy—keep her distracted. Her weapons gathered dust or became household tools, even as she tried to hone her skills on her own. Now, here she was—fifteen years old, with danger falling into her lap. She had played the role of shepherd too long, waiting for permission to become what she most wanted.

Mia took a deep breath through her nose, the cold air sharpening her focus. This was it. Her first step toward becoming a slayer. A practical trial. Even if she couldn't take down the Gitrog, she would at least track it, learn more of its patterns, perhaps even catch sight of it before it slipped back into the lake—and then she could bring that information to Kalim, or her father and the Skiltfolk of Drunau.

Mia shouldered her crossbow and followed the tracks methodically, her reckless, fear-driven pace slowing in the face of purpose.

It didn't make any sense.

She had followed the tracks carefully into the woods. They were easy to follow—the Gitrog did little to hide. However, the tracks vanished just a short span past the tree line. It did not make sense, unless the Gitrog could climb thin trees or burrow into ground frozen solid. Something that left footprints that big didn't just disappear.

She doubled back, examining the tracks more closely, expanding her search to the surrounding area. That's when she found it—a fresh, human footprint some distance from where the Gitrog trail ended. At first, she feared someone had been caught. However, the faint, isolated print didn't suggest struggle. Something didn't add up.

Mia again held her crossbow at the ready and spiraled out from the footprint looking for clues, ears sharp to any sound. Two spans from the footprint, a series of tracks and signs of dragging resumed—but they weren't Gitrog tracks. Human footprints intermingled with long furrows like sled marks, headed to the lake.

Anger replaced fear. Mia walked faster, eyes darting between the tracks and her surroundings. Someone had gone to the trouble of faking an attack, of making false prints, then sweeping away their tracks. Someone wanted to make her look like a fool. Someone had slaughtered her flock.

Someone was going to pay.

The tracks led her almost straight to the lake. As she got closer, her pace slowed. Flickers of torchlight danced by the shore. She moved quickly from tree to tree, staying under cover. Soon, she was near enough to hear voices drift through the cold night air. The torches illuminated several figures, all wearing dark cloaks with hoods pulled up. From Mia's spot, she couldn't make out any faces—nor could she hear any words that were spoken. They stood in a circle, heads bowed, chanting something in a low drone. After a moment, they filed onto a nearby ship, a fair-sized fishing vessel. Lehren's ship, Mia realized, heart dropping. What was going on?

Mia watched as the hooded figures boarded. She ground her teeth, suppressing an angry shout, as she watched each stop to load their cargo—lamb carcasses lifted from a nearby sled. She nocked a bolt, about to demand an explanation, when a strange sight stopped her.

One of the hooded figures stood on the boarding ramp, blocking the way. Even with the high ground, the one on the ramp seemed dwarfed by the figure before him, the latter casting an imposing shadow in the moonlight. The taller figure leaned forward and whispered something to the person on the ramp, then walked past. The two bumped shoulders, and the face of the figure on the ramp caught the moonlight. Mia stifled as gasp as Wilbur gave one last lingering gaze into the woods before turning to board.

A million questions flashed through her mind—but she had no time for them as the ship began to pull away from the shore. Slinging her crossbow across her back, Mia sprinted, leaping to catch the boat as it pushed off into water, hanging on the small ladder on the stern. She was sure she would be seen, but peeking over the deck, she saw most of the hooded figures had moved to the bow, looking ahead. A few held torches and lanterns that illuminated the group feebly. Only one stood near her, and his eyes were glued to the horizon as he helmed the ship. Two more poled on either side, pushing hunks of ice away from the ship. Her feet dipped into the water as the ship bobbed, and she shifted up a rung—but she didn't dare move farther.

As she clung to the ship, voices drifted back to her, familiar voices she had heard countless times. They talked about the weather and the icy conditions as though they were all just gossiping at the marketplace. If it weren't for the hooded cloaks and pile of dead lamb carcasses piled high at the center of the deck, Mia would've thought this were a casual outing onto the lake. The effect was dizzyingly surreal—a terrible dream come to life.

She wasn't sure how long she held onto the side of that ship. The temperature dropped as they sailed farther onto the water, and the fog grew thicker. Just when she thought she couldn't hold on any longer, they lurched to a stop. Mia looked about—on all sides, gray mist obscured her sight. The water looked calm, a few jagged blocks of ice bobbing nearby.

"We are here," announced a deep voice. Mia knew that voice, knew the face even before she looked over the deck, even before she saw Kalim pull down his hood and stand before the gathered assembly.

"Brothers and sisters, tonight we bring sacrifice in the hopes that it brings peace. Tonight, we offer that which was unwillingly given, from a nonbeliever. Tonight we gift the Gitrog with the sheep of the slayer's daughter."

Art by David Palumbo

Curses and dark muttering spread among the gathered hooded figures, but Mia had stopped listening at that point. She had pulled herself over the ledge of the boat and had the butt of her crossbow lined up with the back of what she was fairly certain was Lehren's head. Just one quick, sharp blow, she thought.

The figure coughed a sad, wheezing cough. Mia grimaced. She couldn't hit a frail old man.

A frail old man who helped half the village slaughter your entire flock.

She sighed. Lehren started to turn.

Thud! Wumpf.

Lehman dropped like a sack of potatoes. Mia immediately flipped her crossbow around, aiming it at the cluster of figures in hoods—just in time to watch them begin to throw the lamb carcasses overboard.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

The hooded figures turned to stare at her almost as one. Not one person spoke. Mia took an uneasy step back, lifting her crossbow higher.

"You do not understand, child." Kalim broke the silence, striding forward. He sounded calm and quiet. She trained the crossbow on him, and Kalim halted.

"You have a lot of explaining to do," she snarled, "and reparations to pay."

"Your sheep are serving a greater purpose," Kalim said. Many hooded figures muttered in agreement, echoing Kalim's words.

"What purpose is that?" She swung her crossbow to aim at a figure who had started inching toward her. The figure halted, and from beneath the hood, Veryl's face stared at her. She shivered a little, almost not recognizing him. His cheeks had taken on a gaunt look and his eyes flickered wildly from staring at her to gazing back to Kalim to looking off in seemingly random directions.

"We must appease the Gitrog!" shouted one of the hooded figures.

"The Gitrog!" echoed among the crowd.

"There is no Gitrog! You destroyed my pen and slaughtered my herd!" A sudden realization dawned on her. "It was you all, wasn't it—killing my sheep, a few at a time, before tonight?"

"They're the only thing that could stop it." Kalim again moved toward her, right hand now drifting towards his waist. Mia raised her crossbow again, but this time he continued at his glacial pace forward, forcing Mia slowly back. "The only thing that could satiate its hunger. The only thing that stopped it from coming for us."

"You're mad. You're the only one who's seen it." Mia took another step back, her foot hitting the edge of the boat.

"We have all seen it. Why do you think we're all here? We have seen the truth. We have gazed into its eyes. We know we cannot stop it. We can only feed it so it does not feed on us." Kalim was almost upon her now. Her eyes jumped to the other villagers in hoods. Familiar faces, twisted by shadows and the moonlight, gazed blankly back at her. She didn't want to shoot Kalim, but if he didn't stop...a sudden idea flickered in her head.

"Show me, then."

Kalim stopped, looking at her. Mia stood up straighter. "Show me your Gitrog." Kalim stared at her for a long time.

Finally, he took a step back and waved his hand. The other villagers all rushed to the pile of sheep carcasses, carrying them to the bow of the boat and casting them into the water. One loud splash after another broke the stillness of the lake and the quiet of the night. Soon, all that remained was a bloody stain on the wooden deck. All the hooded figures stepped back from the edge. Mia kept her crossbow trained on Kalim, walking with her back to the edge of the boat until she could look off one side toward the bow. She saw an inky patch of water spread, the blood from the sheep staining the water. A few bubbles floated to the surface, then stillness resumed.

A tense silence ticked by as everyone on the ship watched the placid waters.

"Nothing," whispered Mia. "There's nothing there."

She turned to the villagers on the boat. "Do you all see now? There's no such thing as the—"

A sudden burst of water and roar of sound cut Mia's tirade short. The horrific sound of the crunching of bones rang out across the water, and hooded villagers scrambled and shoved their way toward the back of the boat. Mia pushed her way through the terrified crowd, rushing to the bow to see what happened.

The water churned and roiled a short distance from the boat. Mia squinted her eyes in the moonlight, looking for what was out there. As the water settled, she saw it. The monster. The Gitrog.

She scoffed.

"That? That's it? That's the Gitrog?" She looked back at the villagers huddled on the other end of the boat. "It's...it's just a giant frog."

Veryl ran up to her, pushing back his hood. He grabbed her shoulders before she could swing her crossbow up and shook her violently, a look of sheer terror in his eyes.

Art by David Gaillet

"You don't understand, Mia! If it isn't satisfied by the sheep, then we are all—"

Mia never did get to find out what they all were. At that moment, Veryl went flying backward off the ship, screaming through the air, and disappeared with a splash into the water. Mia didn't understand what happened—until she saw the Gitrog open its mouth again and a dark shape lash out and fly at the ship. She dove for the deck as the thing whizzed overhead, striking the mast and knocking shards of wood clean off the boat. As villagers screamed and cried, Mia realized—that thing was its tongue.

Another loud crack boomed out as the Gitrog struck again, punching a chunk out of the mast this time. As the Gitrog pulled its tongue back, Mia sprang up from the deck and took aim with her crossbow. Just as she pulled the trigger, however, a sudden force hit her from behind and she fell back to the deck, hard.

She turned around and saw a hooded figure clinging to her legs. "What are you doing!" she cried, squirming against his grasp.

"You must not anger the Gitrog! We cannot bear its wrath!" The hood had flopped down in the struggle, and Mia saw the village baker clinging tighter to her legs, his voice squeaking as he shouted.

"Too late for that," Mia grunted, pulling one leg loose. She kicked hard, hitting the baker square in the nose, her boot producing an audible crunch. The baker let go and Mia rolled away, scrambling to her feet.

"The sheep no longer satisfy it!" She looked back to the cluster of hooded villagers crying out.

"It wants more."

"Feed it the girl!"

"What did you just say?" She stared at the woman who shouted the last thing. It was the blacksmith's wife, Sarah, who had once baked her cookies for her birthday.

"Kill her! A sacrifice to the Gitrog!" Sarah let out a chilling scream and rushed towards Mia, drawing a mean-looking knife. With a shout, several others followed suit, hoisting their makeshift weapons. Mia scrambled backward, loading a new bolt into her crossbow as the crazed villagers descended on her. Sarah slashed at Mia's face, coming closer with each swing, when another battering from the Gitrog's tongue swatted her and two others overboard.

Screams rang out, cut short by sudden gurgles and muffled pleas for help. In the chaos, another pair of hands grasped her throat from behind, squeezing hard. Mia struck out blindly with an elbow. The grip loosened and she turned around and fired blindly into the stomach of her assailant.

The man fell back, and Mia caught sight of familiar blue eyes—Kyle, the cobbler's apprentice—just before another hooded figure charged her, his hood down—Terrance, Veryl's younger brother. Mia reached for another bolt, but he was on her, an actual sword in hand, swinging wildly. Mia stumbled back and fell, the tip of the sword grazing her shoulder and drawing blood. Terrance drew back for a killing stroke—and was knocked across the back of the head by another hooded figure wielding a club. As Terrance slumped to the deck, Mia finally loaded a bolt. She leveled the crossbow to the club-wielding figure's face, finger on the trigger.

"Wait! Mia, it's me!" The figure threw back his hood, and Mia cried out.

"Wilbur! What is—"

"I'm so sorry. Everything got out of hand. We were just trying to keep the village safe, but when they started stealing your sheep—"

Another loud crash resounded behind them as the Gitrog's tongue swung by.

"So you've seen it before this?"

Wilbur shook his head. "Only bubbles."

A burst of splinters rained down on the pair. They looked up—just in time to see the Gitrog's tongue retract, leaving a massive hole in the mast. With a slow, creaking groan, the mast wobbled, leaned, and finally snapped and toppled over, smashing against the side of the boat and into the water.

"Tell me more later." Mia grabbed his hand, fired the crossbow at another villager charging toward them with a pitchfork—Verna, flower girl—and ran for the aft of the boat.

"Where are we going?" Wilbur shouted.

"I—I don't know!" Mia looked out at the chaos surrounding her. With each swing of the Gitrog's tongue, more villagers were knocked into the water or grabbed and swallowed whole. Some just cowered in the boat, trying to hide. A few had dived into the water and were now trying to swim away. Mia considered jumping overboard as well—until she saw one swimmer (Elder Ethan's son) disappear beneath the water, leaving nothing but a trail of bubbles in his wake.

Art by James Paick

"There's nowhere to run." Mia and Wilbur spun around, looking at the speaker. Kalim stood before them, his gaze locked onto Mia.

"Dad! What do we do? This...this is insanity!" Wilbur still held tightly onto Mia's hand, and even in all the mayhem, Mia could feel his pulse throbbing through his fingers.

"Your dad's right," Mia said, looking at Wilbur with sudden clarity. "We can't outrun it. We have to try to kill it." Mia let go of Wilbur's hand and raised her crossbow, drawing one of her bolts as she looked back to Kalim. "That's our only hope now."

To her surprise, Kalim laughed.

"You are a fool. You cannot kill the Gitrog. There is only one thing to do." Kalim's eyes narrowed. "Sacrifice."

Kalim lunged forward, fishing knife suddenly drawn and in his hand, swinging straight for Mia's throat. Mia stumbled back, surprised, falling to the deck and barely dodging the assault. She scrambled back as Kalim flipped the knife in his hand into an icepick grip and drove it down toward her. Mia rolled out of the way of a second strike and fired her crossbow wildly. The bolt lodged into Kalim's shoulder on a lucky shot—but he seemed not to notice, slashing again at Mia's face—just as Wilbur tackled Kalim to the ground.

Mia loaded a new bolt and aimed it at the two struggling on the deck, unable to get a clean shot. Just then, the ship lurched to port with a sudden thud. All three turned to look at the source of the sound. Immediately, Kalim and Wilbur pushed off each other, scrambling to stand while Mia swung her crossbow around, backing up as fast as she could.

The Gitrog lumbered forward onto the ship, its webbed limbs heaving its body over the side of the boat and plopping wetly on the deck. Kalim, Wilbur, and Mia stood frozen and staring. The Gitrog gazed back at them with blank, dead eyes. With lightning speed, Kalim reached out and grabbed Mia, flicking the knife against her throat and holding her body to him in a bear grip.

"Oh great Gitrog! I offer this girl in sacrifice to you! Eat, and forgive this village of its sins, and slumber so we may live in peace!"

He's mad. Mia pushed against his hands, but Kalim's grip was too strong. Wilbur was shouting something, but all Mia could see was Kalim raising his hand, the dagger flashing in the torchlight.

Thwap! The Gitrog's tongue suddenly lashed out and smashed straight into Kalim's face. The dagger flew out of his hand in surprise as he let go of Mia, both hands grabbing onto the tongue. The Gitrog pulled, and Mia was knocked into the ground as Kalim flew forward, his yells muted by the monstrous tongue wrapping around his head. Mia scrambled up, letting loose one, two, three bolts into the Gitrog as it dragged Kalim along the ground. The beast didn't even flinch as the bolts were buried into its flesh, drawing its tongue slowly back. Mia watched in horror as Kalim's head disappeared into its gullet, watched as his feet kicked desperately once, twice, then no more as the Gitrog's maw closed down. Another swallow, and Kalim's feet disappeared as well.

Mia was vaguely aware that Wilbur was shouting as she turned to again grab his hand. She tossed her crossbow down as she ran to the aft of the boat, stopping only to knock over a torch onto the deck. As flames bloomed, she saw the Gitrog slowly waddle toward them, stopping to devour the villagers huddling behind barrels. She watched as it scooped up the unconscious form of Lehren. She watched as it lethargically plodded through the flames, coming slowly their way.

Only then did Mia snap back to herself. She turned forward and without a pause dove into the icy water, dragging Wilbur with her.

The two swam hard, pushed beyond endurance by terror and adrenaline. Slowly, the boat became nothing but a bright ember fading in the fog. The two swam, the freezing water a thousand needles stabbing into skin, toes and fingers falling numb, then hands, then bodies as they flailed back toward the shore. Mia was certain the Gitrog would find them at any moment, would drag them under, would swallow them whole.

Somehow, they made it back onto land.

The two crawled from the water. Wilbur flopped down, face-first in the pebbles, shivering. Mia forced herself to sit and tried to think. They needed to make it back to her cabin. Back to warmth. Otherwise the cold would kill them before the Gitrog could. Then, the moment they were dry and warm...they would leave. Flee the village. Leave it all behind. Run anywhere else. Face down a thousand vampires, or werewolves, or ghouls. Anywhere without the Gitrog.

A wet plop sounded from behind Mia.

She sat, frozen.

Another plop.

She needed to stand. Needed to see. Needed to run.

But she could do none of those things.

Another plop, and suddenly Wilbur was dragging her to her feet, pulling her away. The two didn't make it far before they collapsed on the stones. Mia's muscles screamed. The adrenaline had worn away, leaving nothing but stiff bodies locked with terror. Slowly, she rolled over.

The Gitrog loomed over her, its girth taking up all her vision. It gazed down at her, its eyes two black, fathomless pits, empty of emotion, empty of thought. Mia stared into its eyes and saw...nothing. Wilbur was pulling her to her feet again, yelling something about running, but Mia couldn't hear him. A low drone echoed in her skull, growing in volume, as she fell into the endless hole of the Gitrog's gaze. She fell, tumbling through oozing shadows, fell through the crevices of her mind, collapsed through the membranes into the spongy slime of delirium, cocooned by a strange warmth seeping into her bones and chasing away the pesky cold of doubt and fear and uncertainty. She knew, knew everything now. She saw truth in its blackest form, the clarity of a thousand lifetimes compressed into one moment.

She turned to Wilbur, who was still tugging at her arm. She saw his lips move, trembling blue, saying something to the Gitrog, begging, pleading. She reached a tender hand to his cheek, stopping his babbling. He did not see. He could not hear. He did not know yet. Wilbur turned, his frantic eyes locking with Mia as the Gitrog loomed over them. How green they were, two crystal clear pools, currently swimming with tears. Mia could see herself in them, in their fractured, speckled surface. She smiled, and for a second, Wilbur seemed to calm a little. She saw trust and faith in his eyes, and she smiled as she caressed his cheek, smiled as she ran her fingers through his sandy hair, smiled as she slid her dagger out of its sheath and through his rib cage in one smooth motion.

She heard him then, finally surfaced from the drone in her skull to hear his gasp of surprise, his breath turning from the ragged pant of hypothermia to one of pain and shock. Mia smiled softly and put a finger to his lips, sliding the dagger out, then back in again, this time through his abdomen. She smiled as Wilbur slumped against her, smiled as he whispered her name weakly. She whispered quietly in his ear.

"All hail the Gitrog," She breathed more than spoke. She put her ear to Wilbur's chest, listening as his pulse slowed and stopped. She looked up at the Gitrog, bowing her head in supplication.

"All is sacrifice."

The Gitrog gazed down at Mia. Then, slowly, it opened its maw, and a monstrous tongue lapped out, grasping the body of the broken boy beside her. Mia sat in her position, a wide grin on her face, as the slurp and crackle of bone and blood and organs sloshed over her. She smiled as the wet sounds of webbed feet plodding against stones echoed away from her. Smiled until all was still again, the chill fog pierced by the now-rising morning sun. Then she rose, still smiling, stumbling away from the shore.

When spring broke that year and the snows finally melted, a young apprentice rode his horse through the pass, into a sleepy little fishing village near Lake Zhava. He carried with him a satchel of letters, many long overdue, written before the first snowfalls of the winter before. He did not think too much of the windows and doors snapping shut as he rode by; many small hamlets had fearful or mistrusting townsfolk, especially after a harsh season. He also noticed but didn't think much of how many empty homes there seemed to be, letters delivered to properties clearly abandoned.

His final letter carried him to a small cabin on the hill. As he rode up, he couldn't help but notice a dilapidated pen of some sort rotting nearby. He feared he would find yet another empty home, until he noticed the small wisps of smoke coming from the chimney. He knocked on the door, and a wild-eyed girl answered. She seemed uninterested in the post, even unimpressed by the letter that came from the Skiltfolk of Drunau. However, her eyes lit up when he mentioned the lake, and she invited him in to stay for the night, offering to feed him and give him rest, and even to take him onto the lake if he wished. The boy blushed and agreed, as he had always been curious of boats and the water. He thanked her for her kindness.

Mia smiled.

Art by Jason Kang

4

Unwelcome

By Kelly Digges

Jace Beleren has come to Innistrad searching for the vampire lord Sorin Markov, who he hopes can help him unravel a puzzle. But Innistrad is unfamiliar territory, and the only person Jace knows who might be able to guide him is likely to be less than helpful—particularly given the way their last encounter ended.

Horses' hoofbeats drummed a leisurely rhythm. The jagged mountains of the province called Stensia loomed ahead of them, but Jace's goal wasn't far beyond the border, and he had read enough of his guide's thoughts to know that they were close.

"I don't know why I'm even bothering with her," said Jace. "I know better."

"Mm," said his guide. He was weathered and bearded, a man of few words. Jace had started filling the silence out of boredom, and had eventually gotten around to the subject of his visit.

"I mean, I've made a lot of bad decisions in my life, even just counting the ones I can remember. And an awful lot of them involve her."

"Hm," said his guide.

A chill rain fell from patchy clouds, and something howled in the night. Jace had only been on Innistrad for two days, and he already hated it. The only saving grace so far was a new leather coat he'd bought to keep the rain and some of the cold at bay.

"Hell, part of me's hoping she'll throw me out on my ear and I can be done with her."

"Ah," said his guide.

The full moon peeked out from behind the clouds, its huge silver face marked with a shape that the locals called a heron. Jace could see the resemblance.

"Problem is, I actually need her help this time," he said.

"Ahhhhh," said his guide, a strangled sound that Jace took to indicate boredom.

"I'm sorry," said Jace. "I shouldn't be burdening you with my problems."

He prepared a spell that would cleanly excise the last few minutes of conversation from the man's mind.

"Ahhhhhrrrrrrrrrgggggghhhhh," said his guide. Not boredom. Anger?

Jace reached into the man's mind—and hit a wall of pure, all-encompassing rage, the savage half-thoughts of a predator.

His guide turned to him, accompanied by the stomach-churning sounds of bones cracking and clothes tearing. His face had bulged horribly, one eye grown large and yellow, his jaw jutting outward. Both horses shifted nervously.

"Oh," said Jace.

The transformation was complete in moments. Fur sprouted over the man's body, claws erupted from his fingers, teeth grew long and sharp, and his face elongated into a muzzle. The guide's horse panicked beneath him, and the man—the wolf-man—sank its teeth into the horse's neck.

Time to go.

Jace spurred his own horse to a gallop, past the thing that had been his guide and the terrified, screaming horse. He was close. He could get there on his own.

Behind him, the horse's scream was cut short with a wet crunch. The werewolf let loose a full-throated howl, and howls broke out in answer from the woods around them—one, then two, then more, mingled together until he couldn't be sure how big the pack might be.

Jace's moonlit gallop ate up the road, faster than was safe. He saw the lights of a large manor house ahead, tantalizingly close, but a ravine yawned before it. He jerked the horse's reins to the left and stole a glance backward.

There were at least three of them bounding after him, hideous amalgamations of human and wolf. They weren't like the krasis experiments of the Simic Combine, whose parts always seemed to show that they had come from separate species. Human-like hands with sharp claws, muscular arms covered in fur, lupine faces that nonetheless held a spark of intelligence—these were almost fully human, and almost fully wolf, all at once.

Art by Mathias Kollros

He'd heard of werewolves, but had hoped never to see them.

Jace let his horse run as fast as he dared, the lights of the manor taunting him. The trail wound around the ravine, cut through thickets, and splashed across little rills that tumbled noisily into the ravine in the darkness to his right. He couldn't hear the footfalls of the wolf-things over his horse's hoofbeats and the furious pounding of his own heart.

He sent an illusionary double of himself tumbling from the horse behind him. His duplicate rose and assumed a fighting stance, but the werewolves ran right through it. He risked a glance back and saw five of the things gaining on him, nostrils flaring.

Scent. Of course. They'd disregard anything that didn't smell real.

He could work with that.

He summoned another illusion, this one with substance and form. A hulking bear made of shining blue light took form behind him, a being of pure magic rather than a trick of the light—but still with no scent.

Art by Ryan Yee

The werewolves ran toward it, heedless, thinking it was another insubstantial phantom, as it rose up on its hind legs in a threat display. It lunged and tackled one of them, and Jace glanced back to see the two combatants fall in a furious tangle of fur and light.

As he turned forward again in his saddle, his horse stumbled, just for a moment. It was enough. In a few breaths the rest of the pack was close behind him, claws swiping and jaws snapping. Their breath was hot and rank, steaming in the cool night air.

Jace extended his mind and found the one that had been his guide, the one whose thoughts he had already touched. Now its mind was a chaos of hunger and anger, but Jace still recognized the memories and inclinations of the man he had hired to guide him into Stensia. Interesting.

Jace's mind worked its way into the werewolf's, buffeted by thoughts of tearing and biting and eating. In the werewolf's vision, the moon was swollen in the sky, its light a baleful red, the heron leering and lurid. At last, the connection was complete. Jace was in control.

His guide lunged sideways, snapping at one of the other pack members, the one that the wolf-man's dull thoughts identified as the alpha. Jace only took control for a moment, but it was enough—the alpha swiped back at her attacker. Jace's guide, now back under its own control, growled and fought back. They didn't seem to have communication sophisticated enough to say the mind mage made me do it—although even among speaking beings, that excuse didn't usually work.

Soon the two wolf-things were circling each other, the hunt forgotten, and another—a mate? Another challenger?—stayed behind to watch them. That left Jace with one assailant. But the trail now hugged the ravine in treacherous switchbacks, and it took all of Jace's attention to keep his horse on the trail.

The poor horse was frothing now, exhausted and panicked. Jace could almost feel the werewolf's hot breath on his neck. He looked back—he was imagining it, but not by much. The agile creature could navigate the switchbacks much better than Jace's horse, and it was gaining fast.

At last, the terrain opened up ahead of him and the ravine curved away, leaving nothing but a flat, muddy road between him and the welcoming lights of the manor. And not just any manor, he realized as it loomed. Her manor. His destination.

Hopefully she'd forgive him for bringing a guest.

He was within shouting distance of the gate when the werewolf struck. One claw raked sideways across the horse's rump, sending its rear legs tumbling sideways. Jace sprang from the saddle, landed in the mud, and rolled. He clambered to his feet and started running. Behind him, the werewolf attacked the fallen horse with a growl.

The gates were closed and locked, with no doorman, and the yard was dark. Jace looked back over his shoulder to see the werewolf look up from the horse's carcass, muzzle bloody in the moonlight. It rose and stepped toward him, the horse forgotten.

Breaking and entering, then. Even better.

He calmed himself and focused on the lock, pushing away all thoughts of the monster behind him. Jace's telekinesis was weak—no stronger than his own muscles, and far more exhausting to use—but his fine control was good. Invisible mental fingers felt around inside the lock, found the tumblers, and quickly twirled them into place. The lock released with a click, and Jace pushed against the enormous black iron gates. They were stuck—rusty, maybe—and Jace had to shove. They opened with a squeal loud enough to wake the dead, and Jace stumbled into the yard and fell to his knees.

He turned and kicked the gates shut behind him, then mentally sent the tumblers in the lock spinning back into place just as the werewolf slammed into the gate. Jace crawled backward, away from its reaching claws, but the werewolf sniffed loudly—once, then twice—and then it was gone, off to hunt some other prey.

Something moved behind Jace. He rose to his feet and turned. In the darkness of the manor's yard, he could just barely make out a dozen figures standing silently around him. Now he smelled it, too, the stench of rot that had sent the werewolf on its way. A quick mental check confirmed it—there were no minds in these bodies. They were dead.

They crowded around him without a sound, backing him up against the gates. Zombies crowding around him, a werewolf somewhere behind him, that damned moon glaring down over all of it...

The zombies stopped, then stirred and parted, leaving him a clear path to the mansion's ornate door. A welcoming committee. Her hospitality was everything he'd expected and then some.

He walked among the gathered dead, trying to ignore them, as he got his first real look at the house. It was large, with enough rooms for a substantial family and servants, but none of the rooms seemed to be lit by anything more than an eerie purple glow. One corner rose into a stone tower that looked like newer construction, crowned by a complicated metal apparatus whose purpose Jace couldn't discern. It looked like something an Izzet electromancer would build right before being hauled off for psychological evaluation.

Just as he reached the top of a small flight of stone stairs that led to the entryway, the door swung open to reveal a dark hallway. He stopped at the threshold.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

Another zombie stepped out from behind the door, this one clothed in some mockery of a servant's livery, and beckoned for Jace to follow. Fine.

Jace lowered his hood and followed this new guide, surprised to find that the smell was musty but not foul. Must be some spell to keep the help fresh. At last, his guide led him into a large room illuminated by moonlight and spellcraft, where half a dozen zombies shuffled about.

And there, sitting easily on a chair—more a throne—was Liliana Vess. She shut a large, leather-bound tome she'd been reading and handed it to one of her undead servants.

Art by Mathias Kollros

"Hello, Jace," she said. She looked him up and down in obvious appraisal. "Nice coat."

She rose and walked toward him, her movements as fluid and languorous as a cat's, and stopped when she was standing just slightly too close to him. She studied him with those ancient violet eyes, took in his face one detail at a time. She must be quite aware, it occurred to him, of how his muscles moved beneath the skin.

This time he looked her in the eye, despite the memories it dredged up.

She reached up to his face...and flicked the tip of his nose.

"Ow! What—"

"Just making sure you came in person," she said.

"I can make my illusions solid, you know," said Jace, rubbing his nose.

"Oh yes. But I doubt you can make them yelp so convincingly."

"I was hoping for a warmer welcome," said Jace. "You've got some very disagreeable neighbors."

"I heard," she said. "There's worse out there than werewolves."

"Like vampires?"

"Angels," she said with disgust.

Jace rolled his eyes.

"Your feelings on the subject are well documented," he said. "Personally, I'd have been thankful for a little angelic assistance out there."

"That's not—" said Liliana, then cut herself off. "Well. Who you choose to trust is your own business, I suppose. But I wouldn't trust an angel if I were you."

"My default stance is to trust no one," said Jace. "Nothing that's happened so far has changed my mind."

"Clever boy," she said. "Something to drink?"

Liliana walked back to her throne and sat, as a zombie shuffled forward with a bottle of...something.

"Thanks, but I'll pass," he said.

Liliana poured herself a glass and sipped from it.

"Now then," she said. "This is a first. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I..." Jace weighed pride against practicality and finally reached a decision. "I'm here to apologize."

Liliana raised an eyebrow in feigned curiosity. "Really? Whatever for?"

"For leaving Ravnica with...unfinished business between us."

"For abandoning me, you mean," she said, with a cruel smile. "And heading off to some wilderness plane with that walking anatomical diagram."

Gideon, she meant. Jace stifled a laugh.

"I doubt he'd take that as a compliment."

"It is!" she said. "He'll make a perfect corpse, if he gets around to dying before it all goes soft."

"And I'm certain he wouldn't take that as a compliment," said Jace. She always had to push.

"So you regret going with him?" said Liliana.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Jace. "We did good work. Saved the whole plane, in fact, with help from two other Planeswalkers."

He smiled.

"We even took an oath, to...to keep doing this. Keep going after interplanar threats."

"Lovely," said Liliana. "Very heroic. And now...what? You're here to ask me to join your little club?"

"No," said Jace. "I know you better than that."

Liliana waited. She knew him better than that, too.

"I considered it, of course," he said, with a shrug. "You could use a few friends to watch your back. But I knew you wouldn't go for it."

"I'm not interested," said Liliana. "In your friends, or your oaths."

"I didn't think you were," said Jace.

Liliana sighed.

"Jace, I know you're not here to recruit me," she said. "You're not here to help me. And you're not here to apologize."

"What makes you say that?" he asked, then added: "I did apologize."

"You said it yourself," she went on. "I betrayed you. I cursed Garruk. I still have the Chain Veil. I've never been a friend to you, not really. And you know, I never did ask for your help. Has any of that changed?"

"No."

"Which means that you're actually here because you need something from me. You know I have troubles, and you think you can make a deal."

She waited long enough for him to say "I—" then cut him off.

"Prove me wrong," she said. She stood and raised her head proudly. "I refuse your freely given aid, Jace Beleren. If you're here to help me and ask nothing in exchange, turn around and walk out that door."

Jace said nothing. Even if it was a bluff, he couldn't afford to call it.

"All right then," said Liliana, draping herself back over her throne. "Now that we both know exactly how much our personal history means to us...what can I do for you, dear?"

She smiled, predatory and alluring. She could be quite magnanimous, provided she was in complete control of the situation.

"Out of curiosity," said Jace, "would you really have kicked me out if I were just here to help you?"

"Fascinating question," said Liliana. "If it ever comes up, perhaps you'll find out."

She took a sip from her glass and waited.

"I'm looking for Sorin Markov," said Jace.

Liliana's face betrayed genuine surprise. Jace let himself take a little pleasure in that.

"Jace, do you know what you're asking?" she said. "Do you know who he is? What he is?"

"I know he's a vampire, the so-called Lord of Innistrad," said Jace. "I know he's ancient and more than a little untrustworthy, and I know right now he's either in trouble or causing trouble. Either way, I need to find him."

Art by Eric Deschamps

"Why?" said Liliana.

"Thousands of years ago—"

Liliana groaned.

"Short version, then. Three Planeswalkers worked together to trap extraplanar, world-devouring monstrosities called the Eldrazi on Zendikar. Sorin was one of the three."

"Really?" said Liliana. "That doesn't sound like him."

"My source—one of Sorin's old allies—said he did it out of a sense of...'high-minded self-interest,' something like that. He knew that eventually the Eldrazi might make their way to Innistrad, so he cooperated to trap them somewhere else."

"And then...you let them out," she said, smiling. "Am I remembering that right?"

He wished she weren't enjoying this quite so much.

"Yes," said Jace. "Manipulated and coerced, two other Planeswalkers and I inadvertently released the Eldrazi titans from their prison. Sorin showed up, briefly, then departed after trying to use some kind of failsafe to keep them in. He was supposed to meet one of his allies, my source, back on Zendikar, but he hasn't shown."

"That sounds more like him," said Liliana.

"Of course, now there's no need for him to go to Zendikar," Jace went on. "But the Planeswalker I was working with won't speak to me anymore, and Sorin and the third member of the trio are missing in action. I'm worried that a certain dragon Planeswalker might have taken an interest in them...but you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"I told you, I don't work for him anymore."

"You have many fine qualities, Liliana, but scrupulous honesty is not among them."

"Jace," said Liliana, "listen to me. Sorin won't help you. You think I'm selfish? You think I'm cruel? Sorin's had thousands of years to get used to the idea that humans are cattle and mortal lives are cheap."

"You know him?"

"I met him," said Liliana. "Once, shortly after I first arrived on Innistrad. He sought me out, tested my strength in battle, and pronounced me too weak to be a threat. Then he told me that Innistrad was his, and that I'd best be a civil guest—or he'd find me and kill me."

"Charming," said Jace. "When was this?"

"Long ago," said Liliana. "And yes, that kind of run-in was a lot more common then. But I see no reason to believe he's changed. Sorin has no more reason to be friendly to you than this other Planeswalker you've been talking to, and his take on not speaking to you might just be to kill you. Don't go."

"That's not an option," said Jace.

"He's ancient, he's ruthless, and he's powerful. You're in over your head."

"I'm in over my head?" said Jace. "You're one to talk."

"Yes," said Liliana. There was no more mirth in her voice. "I am. And I am telling you, don't go. He's not going to help you, and you can't clever your way out of being killed by a millennia-old vampire."

"If I didn't know better," said Jace, "I'd say you were concerned for my safety."

"Don't make this about us!" she said. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't have something to offer me. I'd like to find out what it is before you throw yourself on Sorin's sword, if it's all the same to you."

"If you're that worried about me, come along. Maybe you can introduce us."

"What?" she said. "No. I already told you, I have my own problems, and my own solutions. And I don't care how much help you think you can be to me in exchange—none of it does me any good if Sorin kills both of us. And that's assuming we can even find him, when the roads out there are worse than ever. I'm not going anywhere."

"Fine," said Jace. "I was hoping you could help me, but I guess I'll have to follow the only lead I have left. Markov Manor is that way, right?"

He pointed in what he was fairly sure was the right direction.

"Markov Manor?" she said. She rolled her eyes, grabbed his wrist, and moved it several inches. "Jace, that's even worse!"

"It's his ancestral home, right? Wouldn't his family know where he is?"

"Do you know anything about Innistrad?" Liliana snapped. "Or did you just see 'Markov Manor' on a map and think, 'Hey, great, there's no way that could result in me being brutally murdered'?"

"I read a few minds, but they didn't know much," he said. "Why, what am I missing?"

"Sorin's a pariah among his own people," she said. "He hasn't been welcome in Markov Manor for hundreds of years at least. Maybe longer. If you show up asking about him, they'll kill you or worse."

"Even so," said Jace, "if you won't help me, I don't have much choice. Markov Manor is the best lead I have."

Liliana settled back in her chair. Her expression hardened, and her eyes began to glow purple.

"What—"

Her zombie servants lurched forward. Jace's heart pounded.

"Lili, what are you doing?"

The zombies kept coming.

"Making a point," she said.

Too close. They were too close.

Jace cast a quick invisibility spell, but the zombies still stumbled toward him. Half of them didn't have eyes anyway.

A cold hand clamped around his arm.

He concentrated, and a cloud of illusionary duplicates sprang from his body. Half a dozen Jaces, casting spells or diving for the window or running to attack Liliana.

The zombies ignored them. Now there were grasping hands all over him, the mob of zombies pushing him against the wall—frigid stone, icy flesh. Fingers closed around his arms, his legs, his throat. Sleep spells, illusionary bindings—the zombies were immune to some of it, and there were too many of them for the rest. Jace was helpless.

She wouldn't really hurt him. Not without a reason, anyway.

"Lili," he choked out. "I'm no good against the dead, but I can fight...a necromancer. If this were a real fight, I'd have blanked your mind by now."

The zombie mob stopped, holding him in place.

"Perhaps," she said, rising and walking toward him. "Of course, without my control, they'd tear you apart. Wouldn't be much consolation to me...but I doubt that would be much consolation to you, either."

"What's your point?"

She stood over him, the zombies parting so she could glare down at him.

Art by Karl Kopinski

"This world is dangerous," she said. "For you especially. And you can't beat an ancient Planeswalker whose mind you can't—or won't—touch."

She seemed very alien in that moment, bathed in moonlight and necromantic power. He sometimes forgot how old she was—a century older than him at least, a relic of a time when Planeswalkers were something more and less than human. And Sorin was far older.

"This is a dead end," she said. "Go home, Jace. I'm sure you've got forms to file."

Undead hands released him, and he rose, rubbing his throat. He felt the sudden need for a bath.

"I'm sorry for bothering you," he croaked. "I'll head to Markov Manor on my own, then."

He turned toward the door.

"Nine hells, you are a reckless fool!"

He turned back to her.

"Of course I am," he said. "That's how I got tangled up with you. I'll be going now."

He turned to leave again, trying not to think about moonlight and bloody muzzles and Liliana's eyes and the fact that his guide and his horse were both gone.

"Don't be stupid," she said. "You can leave in the morning."

"Really?" he asked, incredulous. "After that grand display of mutual indifference, you're asking me to stay the night?"

She walked toward him and leaned close, her lips almost touching his ear. His throat tightened.

"Indifference," she whispered, "doesn't make your heartbeat quicken or your face flush."

He could feel the warmth of her body, but her breath on his cheek was cold as ice. The chill lingered as she stepped away. A momentary impulse fled back into the shadows, where it belonged.

"Don't flatter yourself," she said aloud. "I have a guest room."

"Ah."

"In the basement," she said. "More a dungeon, really."

"Lovely," he said.

She turned and walked away.

"The servants will show you to your room," she said. "Good night, Jace."

She turned, standing in the moonlight, looking back at him from a distance that seemed much longer than it was.

"Until morning," she said firmly. "After that, you're on your own."

"I know," he said.

He hesitated, wanting to say more, unsure what to say. Liliana walked away, out of the beam of moonlight, and vanished into darkness.

5

The Mystery of Markov Manor

By James Wyatt

Jace has come to Innistrad in search of Sorin Markov, one of the three Planeswalkers who imprisoned the Eldrazi on Zendikar thousands of years ago. Despite the dire warnings of Liliana Vess, he has made his way to Markov Manor, ancestral home of the vampire Planeswalker. Without Liliana's help, and with no other leads to pursue, he finds himself on the narrow path to the only place he knows that might offer a hint to Sorin's whereabouts.

Markov Manor was torn apart, opened up and laid out to view like a dissected animal pinned to a board. Spires, halls, buttresses, and turrets were ripped from their moorings and left to hang at odd angles around the sundered core of the manor building.

Jace stood at the end of a long arched bridge that jutted out from the mountainside. Below him was a sheer drop disappearing into mist. Ahead, what was once the rest of the bridge had become a scattering of steppingstones across the void, leading to the entryway of the manor.

"I guess Sorin probably isn't here," he muttered to himself.

Suddenly, he saw the place as it must have once been—an awe-inspiring structure of intricately decorated spires and balustrades, perched like a vulture at the edge of a lofty promontory. His breath caught in his chest as he took in the scale of the...not a manor, no, but a castle. A palace.

And the vision was gone, like an illusion. Scowling, he reached out with his mind, looking for some other intelligence that had forced the image into his mind. No one was nearby, at least not anyone with thoughts he could detect. He reinforced the wards he habitually kept around his mind and surveyed the castle as it actually was.

Did Sorin do this? he wondered. Liliana had suggested that he wasn't particularly welcome in his ancestral home. Either way, the sheer scale of the devastation gave him pause. Not for the first time on this journey, he wondered whether he should have taken Liliana's warnings more seriously.

I should go, he thought, but it drew him in. Patterns formed and dissipated in the drifting stones, some hint that the pieces of the castle were arranged by an intelligent mind, some promise that there was meaning behind the incredible destruction. It's a puzzle, he thought, and puzzles want to be solved.

Of course, the first challenge presented by the puzzle was how to reach the manor. A vague pathway of steppingstones did not exactly fill him with a sense of safety. Of course, after the time he had spent clambering across hedrons on Zendikar, the drop didn't trouble him as much as it might have.

He reached his mind out to the nearest stone and prodded it. It barely moved. He couldn't push it hard enough to simulate his whole weight, but this first test had provided encouraging results. Stretching his power a little farther, he pushed the next stone, which bobbed only slightly. A third stone proved completely immobile, though he had to acknowledge that the strength of his telekinesis diminished as distance increased.

It was risky, no question. But he had never seen anything like the castle before him, not even on Zendikar, where the law of gravity was more like a guideline. Puzzles demand to be solved.

He stepped off the edge of the bridge and planted his foot on a stone that hung in the air. It sank more than he had expected, and his arms flew out to his sides for balance. He brought his other foot onto the stone and lowered his center of gravity. All right, he thought. I can do this.

He stepped to the next stone, and the next, and again. Step, step.

And then he was standing on a solid bridge again, and the castle ahead of him was intact and stern, looming over him. He pulled his foot back, unsure for a moment what was solid stone and what was an illusion—or a vision, whatever it was.

He crouched and felt around with his mind again, probing for whatever entity was interfering with his senses. Still nothing, and the vision was gone.

Another step and another, one stone to the next, and at last he was across the chasm.

I hope I don't have to leave here in a hurry, he thought.

Looming ahead of him was a towering archway, tall enough that six Jaces stacked head to toe could have fit through. Above and around it crowded a grotesque throng of skeletons, hags, wolves, demons, and things that defied mere names, with a giant vampiric man—the Markov for whom the manor was named, he presumed—overshadowing them all. On either side of him, leering at him, were skulls as tall as he was, and he couldn't be sure whether the whitish stone was actually bone.

He stepped into the archway and the stone walls enfolded him.

Art by Adam Paquette

My footsteps are echoing in the long passageway, bouncing off the walls high over my head. Is someone following me? I stop and listen for anyone's thoughts. The sound continues—not feet on stone, but my heartbeat, each thump preceded by a softer, smaller one.

Of course. Vampires—naturally, they would have some magic designed to alert them of a living person entering their hall. Like the ringing of a dinner bell.

It's too fast. Deep breaths, Jace. Slow that heart down.

I need a light. I stretch out my hand and cup a blue glow in my palm, concentrating until it's just bright enough to light my way without giving my presence away from too great a distance. On either side of the hallway, tapestries rustle as if a wind is sweeping past them, but I feel nothing. I reach forward with my mind and push a tapestry aside. Only bare wall behind it—another illusion.

As if carried by the nonexistent wind, faint sounds reach my ears—laughter, conversation, maybe music. Limping rhythms in discordant keys. Is it possible this place is not abandoned? More likely I am hearing the spirits of the dead. This plane and its ghosts.

I reach the end of the hall, and the sounds cease. It feels like I've just walked into the middle of a party and everyone stopped dead, turning to stare at me. But only cold stone walls return my gaze.

"Why did you come here?" A voice breaks the silence. My voice—did I speak? My mouth is closed, and I just realized how dry my throat feels. But I was just starting to ask myself...

Why did I come here? Because she warned me not to? Because she told me it was dangerous? Because I wanted to stare death in the face and live to tell about it?

"Because you wanted to die?"

I know I didn't say that. Again I reach out my thoughts, probing for the mind behind the words. But it eludes me.

I'm not the first living man to set foot in this hall recently. I see it like a memory—whose memory, though? The castle's? Perhaps the voice is part of the memory. He stands here, terrified, knees knocking, clutching something—a book—to his chest, looking up at...I can't tell. Something over...there.

A door hangs open just a crack there, where the man's trembling gaze fell. Damn it, this place is infuriating! Something is altering my perceptions, pressing in on my mind, and I can't find it. And apparently can't stop it. I missed the door, before, and only noticed it because...someone—something?—wanted me to.

A ghost? If one of Innistrad's geists were drifting through the castle walls, would I know it? I'm not sure whether I would have detected its mind or not. I haven't yet had the opportunity to test that. I'll have to remember to do that, if I should happen to see one.

Perhaps I'm walking into a trap, but I climb the steps and push the door, and it swings open with a metallic wail.

...have to get out...

The words spring to my mind unbidden. I didn't think them. Yet I can't detect any other sign of intrusion into my mind—my wards are as strong as ever. Some trick of sound in this place? Or the mind of an ancient vampire Planeswalker, too strong for me to penetrate or to resist? Maybe Liliana was right.

...to kill me...

A snippet of thought, a memory. Someone's memory. Probably the living man I saw in the entry hall—or his geist. There's a cold tingle at my spine, which is completely irrational. I ignore it.

My heart-steps echo louder in this smaller passage. Glaring on the stone walls, my light seems too bright. I let it dim and feel the darkness draw closer.

"Why did you come here?" My voice is harsh, too loud. Yes, that was my voice. Talking to myself.

Art by Cliff Childs

Option one: something is interfering with my memory.

Option two: I am actually dreaming, in that strange fugue state where you flow from one scene to another with no transition.

I don't remember how I got here. I'm in a grand hall, deeper in the castle now, with wind rushing through the halls around me. Stone grinds against stone as massive fragments of architecture wheel slowly around me. It was once a great vault with soaring columns—now it's a floating field of rubble. With hands, faces, bodies protruding from the stone. Dozens and dozens of them, trapped and petrified and encased in the stone.

"What is happening?" someone shouts. I start, pulling back into the shadows and casting my mind around to find the source of the voice. But it grows into a clamor of many voices, dozens of them, and screams, mingled with raw pain and fury, a glimpse of a white face with fierce eyes—I will repay...

And it ends in stony silence.

I turn my head, and I'm face to face with a vampire, mouth open and fangs bared. I actually jump before my brain manages to tell my body that the vampire is dead and embedded in the wall. Embarrassing.

They're all vampires. Heirs, I assume, to the Markov who built this place. They are strikingly inhuman in death: gaunt faces, sunken eyes, jutting fangs, feral features—ugly. One near me is surrounded by a mahogany picture frame with a golden plate at the bottom, except the whole wall is upside down, and the nameplate is far above my head, too far to be read. Tatters of canvas hang from the edge of the frame. I lift the canvas, mindful of the vampire's fangs, and the remnant of the ancient portrait, two red eyes in fading paint, stare back at me. I let the canvas drop—

Did the stone vampire just blink?

I step back and suddenly there are hands all around me, clutching at me. I scream and struggle against the vampires' grasp, but they are too strong. I can feel their hunger in their hot breath, but they wait—and their sire approaches. This must be the one, Edgar Markov, the ancestor of all Innistrad's vampires...

No. This is not happening, not now. The hands clutching at me are motionless stone protruding from the wall, and the approach of the vampire sire is just a memory. The dead man's memory.

It must be his geist, or else some sort of psychic echo of his mind lingers in this place. Perhaps the geist is pushing into my mind, forcing these thoughts on me. Or perhaps it's my own sensitivity picking up the stray thoughts. Or, again, maybe I'm dreaming.

I'm walking. I don't know where to, and I can't remember if this is the way I came. Option one—yes, I considered those.

There are so many dead vampires here. Liliana was right—if I had come here earlier, they'd have torn me apart. I wonder if that's what happened to the man whose memories I seem to be experiencing.

In a narrow hall, I see my own face suspended in stone, horror imprinted on my features.

No, it's his face, bearded and blank-eyed. The man from the entry hall. One human amid all the vampires. What are you doing here, you idiot?

He's holding a book.

His stone hands clutch the book protectively to his chest. It's wrapped in blue leather, held shut with a red and green strap of silk. It's out of place here—not just in this castle, but on this plane.

Art by Chase Stone

A white face, shining like the moon, leans close to mine. Her lavender eyes gleam with excitement as she explains a theory to me, about something she calls "cryptoliths." Is she the one touching my mind? I reach for her mind—she's not there, of course. I feel around again, searching for the intruder—something lurking at the very edge of my awareness?

It's his memory again. The writing in the book—it's a journal—is hers. He couldn't possibly know or understand what she is: one of the moonfolk from Kamigawa. A Planeswalker. It will take a little more time to puzzle out her writing.

I flip to the back of the book, blank pages, and move toward the front until I find the last writing—but this isn't the careful script of Kamigawa. It's written in a different hand, probably his. Jenrik—he wrote his name at the start, when he took over, after she entrusted the journal to him and sent him here.

To his death.

I'm cowering in a secluded nook as the sounds of the vampires' feast drift through the castle, the limping rhythms and harsh laughter. I can't get out. They know I'm here, but they're toying with me, stalking around like cats outside a mouse hole, waiting for me to show myself.

This is tiresome. I might be able to learn something from his memories, but I don't need to feel his fear, his abject terror. My heartbeat has not slowed, and it has grown louder, at least to my ears.

What am I doing here?

"Looking for Sorin," Liliana says. Her voice is too loud for this place. "Looking for death."

"I'm looking for this," I tell her, holding up the journal. But she's not here. Why would she be here?

This is not good. Liliana is mine—she belongs in my mind. Somebody pried her out of my mind and used her voice against me. How is this happening?

Option two, that I am dreaming, seems increasingly likely. I would like to awaken now.

"You should go," Liliana says. I should go.

I can't get out.

I climb the stairs with their plush red runner, back the way I came, and push open the door at the top. Howling winds blow up over and around me and everything spins. My arms flail in empty air and I stare down into the misty depths below, sure I'm going to fall, until my hand catches the doorjamb and I pull myself back.

This is not the way I came. Obviously.

Something is interfering with my memory. I thought I remembered coming down the stairs to the great hall—perhaps that was Jenrik's memory as well. I need to sift through, sort out which memories are his and which belong to me, but I feel like I don't have time for that.

Interesting. Why do I feel so rushed, in this apparently empty castle? Checking yet again—I can't find another mind, but the sense of urgency only intensifies. Just some strange effect of the place, I suppose, deserving of further study...some other time.

Huge double doors stand partly open in the vampire-studded walls. Did I come through that way? Inside is a space like a chapel. A sculpture, similar to the relief that towers over the castle entrance, dominates one whole wall. Again the master vampire stands over the scene, carved into the wall, only this time he is more human, less...inhuman bloodsucker, I suppose. Others stand around him—some carved into the wall, some half-emerging like the once-living vampires in the great hall outside, and some freestanding, with their backs to me. They're dressed like aristocracy, but there is a hungriness to their poses. The dozen of them circle an altar where an angel lies bound, straining against the ropes as the master holds a knife, poised to open her veins.

Drinking an angel's blood in some kind of ritual—it seems like a recipe for something horrific. If Edgar Markov really is the first vampire of Innistrad, and if that's him holding the knife, I wonder if I'm witnessing the birth of the vampire race on this plane.

The knife slashes and glowing silver blood erupts from the angel's neck. The twelve draw closer to feast—Edgar first, catching the blood in a silver goblet before drinking it. I can only watch as the life slowly drains from the angel and new life takes root in the perpetrators of this crime.

Wiping her chin, one of the twelve looks over her shoulder at me. Either she is inviting me to join the circle, or she is planning to drink my blood next. In any case, I stumble back out of the room, a final glance over my shoulder confirming that the vampires have returned to their motionless poses.

I need to go. I can't get out.

My feet take me to another hall. It looks familiar.

"Why are you here?" I hear again. Is it Liliana's voice? No, my cracked lips sting from forming the words.

"I came for this," I say again, fingering the book.

"What's so important about that book?"

I don't know. I open the book and look through the pages for an answer.

Art by Magali Villeneuve

An angel's face stares back at me. Is she judging me for not intervening to stop the vampires' ritual? Idiot. She's a drawing in a book, and that was—an illusion, a vision, or a memory drifting through this place. An old, old memory.

Beside the drawing is another sketch, showing one of the weird, twisted stones I've seen a few times since I've been here. There's a schematic quality to the sketch, and I wonder if the author of this journal is responsible for the stones. There's magic in them, manipulating mana flow.

But I puzzle out the words on the page; they're about the angel, Avacyn. Clinical and carefully lettered, as if to underline the weight of the words: Sorin made her. Sorin wanted to protect the humans of Innistrad so the vampires wouldn't overfeed on their blood. Innistrad's incarnation of purity and goodness was manufactured by a vampire Planeswalker to maintain the balance between powerful predators and helpless prey.

Angels—Liliana mentioned angels, suggesting that they're even worse than the werewolves that attacked me. I took it as just another one of Liliana's snide remarks. She never did like angels. But the writing is suggesting something else.

"The angels have gone mad." My dry throat croaks in the echoing hall.

Sorin Markov made Avacyn. Avacyn ruled the angels. The angels have turned on the human populace. And someone tore Markov Manor to pieces.

Option one: Sorin has gone on a rampage, destroying his ancestral home and turning his angelic creation against Innistrad's people.

Option two: someone has challenged Sorin, destroying his ancestral home and turning his angelic creation against Innistrad's people.

Both options are slightly terrifying. But either one would explain Sorin's absence from Zendikar. And either option points to the angels as a way to find Sorin. And this book explores the madness of the angels. Closing it and clutching it to my chest, I say to no one, "This will help me find Sorin."

As soon as I get out of here.

The next hall is familiar, and I know where to go. It all makes sense, more and more with every step I take away from the heart of the castle: the place is full of psychic residue, snippets of memories both recent and ancient. Jenrik came to the castle carrying the journal, but as the vampires were about to catch him and feast on him, someone ripped the castle apart and trapped the vampires—and poor Jenrik—in the walls.

Here's the entry passage. I take one last look behind me:

So, so dark. And I feel a presence in the darkness, a hunger, a desire. But still no mind. I reach out and feel...nothing at all. A void.

I turn my back on the darkness, pass through the soaring entryway, and leave Markov Manor.

Art by Tyler Jacobson

6

The Drownyard Temple

By Mel Li

Jace Beleren's search for Sorin Markov has been beset by peril and has yielded more questions than answers. His investigation brought him to the twisted remains of Markov Manor, where he discovered a journal amid the rubble. He pursued the journal's description of the cryptoliths—twisted stones he had seen in Markov Manor—to other locations where they had appeared on the plane.

It was still evening when he reached Gavony. Overhead, the hunter's moon glowered through a thick blanket of misty rain that enveloped the moorlands.

Jace Beleren, Living Guildpact of Ravnica and mind mage extraordinaire, trudged through the rain in silence. An unparalleled command over telepathy did little to prevent him from half-sliding, half-falling down the slippery trails. He did, however, take some comfort in his release from the tense delusions of Markov Manor. His composure and thoughts had cleared—for now at least.

In the mists, a conjured light provided visibility for little more than a few feet ahead of him. He could proceed no farther.

"A world full of shadows and ghosts...and I'm the fool chasing after them," Jace mused aloud, feet squelching inside of rain-filled boots.

He cast a longing thought back to the marches under the capable guidance of his companions on Zendikar. Their pathfinding skills aside, the silence and solitude of his journey had started to become oppressive without them. He mused back over the familiar and distinctive patterns of their thoughts, the sounds of their voices. He—Jace's mouth twitched involuntarily—he could use their assistance.

As he pulled his cloak tighter around himself, his hands caught the weight of the journal in his pocket. A neat, compact folio bound in dark leather, held shut by a delicate wrought metal clasp. The pale face of the moonfolk whose face he had seen at the Manor flashed into his mind. My paper companion, he thought wryly.

Art by Chase Stone

He ran a cautious fingertip over the cover and up to the clasp. It fell open, pages fanned wide, each pale as a peeled apple underneath a web of script. Impossibly tidy calligraphy filled the pages, flanked by numbers nestled neatly inside of gridded tables.

Jace exhaled slowly, and pulled his hood protectively over the book to shield it from the misty rain as he turned the pages with attentive care.

Intricate field drawings filled the next page. An angel's wing—each feather described in painstakingly detailed line work. A gridded table of field drawings of delicately shaded circles under the boxed heading "Material Composition of the Heron Moon." A full-page image of a part-man, part-wolf, depicted in profile, was immediately recognizable to Jace as the same sort of creature as his unfortunate guide from the other night.

"Well, stranger. Tell me your secrets," Jace said as he brushed the dirt off a nearby rock, sat down, and began reading.

Entry 433, Harvest Moon:

A stoic rider on a dappled gray arrived at my study unexpectedly this morning, carrying with him a most curious delivery. A burlap-wrapped parcel, easily larger than a human, required both of our efforts to heave into the observatory's foyer. The rider said little, but pointed with a soiled boot-tip toward the label written in Jenrik's scrawl: "Specimen for immediate inspection."

As I removed the wrappings, my breath caught in my throat as I saw fur, then claws, then the lupine muzzle come into view—a werewolf. A cursory examination revealed it to be far larger and more complete than nearly anything else of its kind that has passed through my hands. To my great surprise, the corpse was icy cold and had been dead for some time by now. The post-mortem reversion of lycanthrope corpses to their human forms was a well-known fact that stood in harsh contradiction to the specimen before my eyes. Though quite eager to begin my work, I did inquire for a receipt confirming the time of delivery—he signed it simply "R. Karolus."

The specimen was cleansed, drained, and labeled, and I began on the left anterior section. Large amounts of thick fur were first removed, revealing the sample's dermis.

Though it is customary in such procedures to cover the face of the specimen, both to protect it from damage during the examination and for some of more delicate dispositions, I could not help but linger on its expression. Eyes wide and staring, its open mouth seemed to be caught in a call to something beyond the slayer in front of it in its last moments. Most likely, as so many that I had seen before, staring rapturously towards the Moon.

The beast's expression brought to mind Jenrik's words to me. "The exact means by which a person is subjected to the curse of lycanthropy is unknown," he had said, "though it is closely linked to the basic nature of every lycanthrope. The sight of the moon fills them with unbearable savagery and strength, though the touch of her silver is poison."

I still vividly recall my first days on Innistrad, a place of seemingly endless winter nights—the perfect slate to stage my lunar studies. As I stared up at the Heron, so perfectly full, clear, and bright that she drowned the stars, a rapturous...wildness bloomed in my heart as well. Perhaps it was the vivid memory of a past worlds away within the clouds. Perhaps there was something enviable in the lycanthrope, who did not fear to grasp that wildness and hold it close to them. Perhaps they know an ecstasy we never will, from the silvery tides of moon magic running through their veins.

Pen lines had attempted to scratch out the three paragraphs above, though the depth of the pen marks made them legible under Jace's conjured light. The entry continued:

Hallmark colorations of a Gavony province howlpack were visible about the upper mandible. The area was marred by the presence of stringy connective tissue that had wrapped around the teeth. Closing of the jaw was likely impossible for the afflicted at the time of death.

After the loss of three scalpels of Blessed Silver, attempts to make the first chest cavity incision required the use of our heavier tools, particularly a woodcutter's saw that had been hastily coated and blessed by Avacynian missionaries in the next town over. With great effort, the rib cage was separated, the specimen split from clavicle to pelvis, its contents exposed to air.

I have often admired the lycanthrope's orderly interior, organs neatly packed and encased in their membranes, branching vessels traversing perfect pathways throughout. Massive lungs for communicating with their packs over great distances and for tree-lined sprints, a relentlessly effective liver for processing the flesh of their prey within minutes, heavily vascularized adrenal glands prepared to spill their contents into the bloodstream. An oblique reflection on the human form, elevated to a predator's ideal.

This one, though. This one was...new. There was, in fact, little or nothing of the human form that remained within.

The peritoneal interior was filled with a network of tough sinew of varying thicknesses that had grown to such an extent that it pushed aside many of the organs. Though the animal had appeared larger from the outside, a significant portion of this bulk was likely made up of such a substance. They connected in some places in thick nodules, clustered together.

The largest cluster resided on what used to be the animal's liver, swollen to nearly twice its usual size.

The organ emitted a foul odor—briny, rotten, and easily detectable despite my thick examination mask. I found myself surprisingly loath to excise the thing, though curiosity quickly conquered disgust.

The halves separated, leaving a hard, round object embedded in one half, not unlike a sliced peach. They revealed a spongy mass of the twisted sinew studded with what appeared to be three broken teeth, and strands of thick gray fur.

The pit stuck in the center of one of the halves. I rolled it over to face upward.

No, not a "pit," but a sightless, yellow, lupine eye. An eye most likely staring skyward. Perhaps, as its cephalic sisters, heavenward toward the Moon.

Jace looked up from his reading with an involuntary grimace. Absorbed in the entry, he hadn't noticed that the mist had cleared ahead of him. The moon illuminated his path, reflecting off the shallow marsh, silhouetting a twisting monolith.

Art by Jung Park

It was approximately his height, the foundation formed from raw stone pulled from the earth that quickly turned to a hard-edged, twisting shape. Staring down the axis of its tip, Jace noted that the formation pointed to another just like it a couple hundred meters away. The trees themselves mirrored the direction of the monoliths. It in turn pointed to another, and another, until they disappeared from view in the distance.

For what might have been the first time since reaching Innistrad, Jace grinned, and a wave of relief washed over him. Perhaps some things might start to make sense.

The monolith was unmistakably the same as those he had seen at Markov Manor, the same as he had seen in the journal.

"And you, my paper companion, what did you know about this?" He eagerly thumbed through the pages to the image of the same twisted stones. An entry followed:

Entry 643, Hunter's Moon:

Alchemical analysis on the moorlands' cryptolith formations was completed today. It indicates a number of exceptional features of the samples received, including a high surface hardness, and a directional energy field along a twisting axis. Curiously, inspection of the striations suggests a material only recently emerged from the earth. In contrast, crystalline analysis seems to indicate the samples are far older than all other geological formations found within the area.

Jace nodded. "Not methods I know well, but I like what you did here." He missed the convenient expedience of reading minds over picking through some of the minutia of these accounts.

The strength of the internal lodestone field in each monolith is able to distort local field lines and poles. Over time, we have received more reports of these formations, causing a net migration of our poles to a location just offshore. The disruptive properties of the stones appear to also extend to an ability to warp the flow of mana through the region, with potentially severe effects for beings composed of raw mana—particularly the angels of the plane. Perhaps there's more to Avacyn's madness...

Jace held the back of his hand to the bottom of the monolith. It was cool and smooth, with a subtle network of some other lustrous mineral enmeshed in its surface.

A scintillation on its pointed upper face caught his eye. As he reached forward to touch the end of it, there was a POP and a spark jumped from the end of the monolith to his hand. Jace jerked his hand backward as a thin trail of white smoke rose from his glove. The breath of something bright and bell-clear bloomed on his senses, then quickly faded.

"AH—! Azor's blood, what was that!" His thoughts went immediately to the journal, and he cradled it in the crook of an arm. "Are...are you all right?" he asked the book as he scanned it for scorch marks and rubbed the cover gingerly with a corner of his cloak.

"Well, did you ever find out what these actually...do? What do we make of these? Am I just following someone's trail into another scheme or trap or...?" Jace aimed a piercing stare at the journal's pages.

"Or is that what happened to you?" The journal, of course, said nothing.

The moor was silent, save for a rising buzz of swamp insects. Jace returned to reading.

Entry 735, Hunter's Moon:

The previous week brought reports of continuing increases in werewolf-related fatalities sent by the Gavony Census, which have been confirmed by independent slayers and far exceed the numbers of Jenrik and Lotka's typical predator-prey predictions.

Jace had become accustomed to a number of monikers. "Prey" was not one that sat particularly well with him.

Since then, roads to the observatory have been blockaded, and further information has been difficult to gather. Many of our colleagues have barricaded themselves in their homes and abandoned their work. Resources have thinned, but I remain determined to continue my recordings on their causes.

The feeding behavior of Innistrad's supernatural inhabitants is closely entwined with the regular motions of the heron moon. A celestial conductor, she commands the mysterious motions of the primal heart that lead to transformation or murder with the shifts of her tides.

As our colleagues in Kessig had seen the renewed savagery of lycanthropes, here in Nephalia we too have recorded signs of the moon's unease (see Table 6-32). The oceans themselves have risen to record high tides in addition to a change in their direction—

Jace pored over the charts on the previous page's ledger with a critical editorial eye that would have made Lavinia proud, had she seen him do so more than a handful of times as the Guildpact.

—despite experiments performed in triplicate, far exceeding tolerances for measurement error. The gravitational force governing the movement of the tides appears to have shifted from the moon itself to a location very close to the sea—

"Wait a second. Hang on," Jace said indignantly to the handwritten pages. "I've seen Kiora move the entire Halimar Sea." (Or at least try to, he noted.) "And...and even if it was something that could move the tides, it would have to be huge. There's no way such a thing could have gone unnoticed!" He gave the book a cautionary glare before continuing to read.

Recent measurements of moon phase durations have shown asymmetric alterations. The implication is that the moon's orbit itself is being pulled in some direction by a very large, very nearby object still invisible to humanoid eyes.

Jace scanned over the night sky. A single, lonely moon looked back from a bed of hazy constellations. He probed for any of his own telltale signs of illusion magic—nothing. "You're...you're sure that's it? What happens when it reaches the plane's surface? Do we all just wait, watch, hope while this thing heads toward us?"

Curiously, both the tidal vectors and the field distortion provide identical foci that may be traced to the same coordinates—a large reef off the coast of Nephalia.

As candlelight flickers over my pen, I recall the lights of the soratami rites of the New Moon. We had held our festival lanterns in the ways of our forebears, beacons guiding each new moon to rise from the sea of clouds. What fruit will the reef bear to this plane?

Each of my studies seems to blossom into more inquiries. For every answer, three questions...

More questions, endless questions.

More clues, still with no answers. Jace clenched and unclenched his fists, filled with nervous energy. The evidence was infuriating—nothing to hear, grasp, or know on his own. Even his own eyes seemed useless. He had no choice but to let the journal lead him along.

"Why aren't you here, in person? I have so many questions..." Jace gave a longing sigh toward the journal. Silence. "Of course. Wishful thinking."

The text of the pages stared back at him, defying him to reread their final words. "I know, I know. We've found a trail in the stones, I'll—er, we'll follow it. I just...I wish I knew better what I was looking for? Trail or trap, what have you left me here?"

The road to Nephalia ended at the base of its sea cliffs, and he could see the roofs of the port town of Selhoff just over the ridge. A precipitous, narrow footpath lead up the cliff side, and Jace soon found himself short of breath on the steep incline.

Jace felt his way around a bend in the path, and nearly collided with a fisherwoman.

"Oh! Sorry, I didn't see you th—"

Her eyes affixed to his—wide and vacant with an unblinking stare.

"So...another come to listen to her call, hmm?" she asked, her words tumbling out slowly. "You've come to see her too?" An eerie simulacrum of joy crept into her voice. "So many have arrived just today!"

"See her? See who?"

"She's finally here! Brought her feathered ones from the sky, tide came up right on with them! Broke right through the floodwalls, washed all of it away!"

Ah, of course, Jace thought—the journal had mentioned the rising tide levels. "You've seen the tides shift, too?"

"Oh, we had no need for all those things—we've found...something so much more than us! Think of all these things we're holding onto, weighing us down. Living in these shells made of meat, carrying our worries, slogging forward day after day. She's up there now, waiting for us, waiting to take it all away for us, to usher in a new world!"

"Slow down...'she'? Who is 'she'? What is she bringing?"

The fisherwoman barked out a laugh that lingered too long. "I was like you once. It's a terrible burden, knowing. So many questions, drowning in questions, and never enough answers! Now I've let them go, washed right out of my mind like the sea over shipwrecks. But once I'd wanted to know…things. Lots of things! Silly things. What is my greater purpose and will I ever achieve it? How will I die? When will winter end? Where does the eye stare? How many eyes? How many legs on the moon shrew—?"

Meaningless words flowed from her mouth until she gasped for breath like a land-bound fish.

Jace had heard enough—he wasn't going to get too far with conversation, but he needed any information her mind might hold. With a well-practiced gesture, Jace reached out with his mind to grasp at her thoughts.

The first he caught dissolved on contact into a cloud of blue vapor. The second was just a collage of images—twisted stones and something dark and roiling...the sea? Each thought seemed oddly hollow, formless. He frowned—this would require more intensive measures. Opening his own thoughts, he bridged their two minds...

Art by Slawomir Maniak

...and looked out into a dull, gray calm. It formed itself into gently curved walls of perfect smoothness. The roof of the dome was similarly smooth and featureless. No doors, no entrances, no exits. He looked down, expecting to see the fisherwoman's hands. Looking down, all he saw were his own damp palms and blue robes. Jace swore silently.

His form was somehow trapped in someone else's mind. He was someone else's living, breathing mental figment, trapped inside of their head. Panic was beginning to set in, turning the silence into a high-pitched ringing in his ears. Deep breaths. This was…unexpected.

Jace moved slowly around the perimeter of the dome, feeling the wall for cracks or imperfections. A complete circuit around the room produced nothing. Trying to suppress a growing panic, he leaned against a wall and glanced at the center of the room.

A nebulous shroud of some...thing hung in the air. No, not something, but nothing. A blind spot in space that seemed to remain no matter how he tried to peer around it.

Jace's pulse thundered in his temples, in tune with the blind spot in the center of the room. His sweating palms pushed against the smooth walls firmly now, though they refused to give.

He had altered minds before, instilling wild visions and distorting truths. But he had certainly never been one of those distortions before. No, he was still real and true, he was certain of it. He could prove it.

He took a deep breath, planted his feet firmly apart, made a fist, thumb outside his fingers as Gideon had patiently insisted to him, and took a swing at the wall.

The impact resonated back through his body, and the shock through his nerves threw him backward. The walls vibrated like a tuning fork, each wave jangling through Jace's tortured brain.

His eyes flicked toward the center of the room. The blind spot in his vision had swelled to become an Object far larger than Jace himself, nearly touching the floor and ceiling of the interior of the dome that trapped Jace like a spider beneath a glass.

He shut his eyes tightly, gripping his head and trying to stay calm and concentrate.

"Solidly built, this one."

Jace's eyes snapped open. There stood another figure in hooded, damp, blue robes surrounded by a pale luminescence, who rubbed at his chin, staring thoughtfully up at the Object. It looked just like...Jace. Or, more accurately, one of his illusionary duplicates.

"We've never seen a place like this before, huh? Thoughts are a mess, place is just empty. But fascinating! What do you think is inside this thing?"

Jace gaped at the hooded duplicate, words starting to form then deflating on his tongue. He was certain he hadn't summoned it. Or had he, instinctively? He couldn't remember. Was it an effect of his entrapment in the mind of another?

"Oh, come away, can't we? We're so close now!" insisted another voice. Jace turned to see a second duplicate of himself, this one unhooded, moon-pale skin visible. "We've no time to waste with this poor woman—leave her be. We're almost to the Drownyard!"

The hooded duplicate shot an icy glare at the second. "And do what? Follow more of these anomalies? I'm tired of filtering through all these dead ends; there has to be someone around here who knows what holds it all together!"

The hooded duplicate put two hands to its forehead and stared earnestly up at the Object. Its face reddened and two veins bulged comically on his forehead as it began to sweat profusely.

Jace grimaced, watching himself with naked, harrowing self-consciousness.

"You really do look like that, you know." It came from a third illusionary duplicate, this one violet-eyed and smirking. It whispered something into the ear of the second, pale duplicate and the two giggled conspiratorially, pointing at the first duplicate that was still deep in concentration.

The pale duplicate composed itself and laid an earnest hand on Jace's shoulder.

"Months, no, years, of physical studies, observations, measurements! You're so close to helping me complete my records!" The pale duplicate tugged on Jace's arm with earnest, impatient insistence.

The Object, now impossibly, menacingly large, stared down at Jace. The smooth walls of the Chamber warped and bent under the Object's pull, then buckled with a loud CRACK. Fragments of the sundered walls tore themselves away and into the Object, revealing a spidery lattice underneath. A myriad of eyes opened, buried within the latticed walls, staring through Jace and the fisherwoman and toward the Object in manic ecstasy. Voices from behind the walls roared with a white noise that pierced through Jace's senses and brought him to his knees. The floor, too, cracked, though he could no longer hear it, but vaguely he knew that it had also given way under his weight, and realized that he was falling—

—His eyes snapped open to find his hands clapped over his head, his body curled up on the ground. As he scanned the trees, the shape and substance of those sinewy walls clung to his vision like phantom limbs.

The fisherwoman stumbled as she came to, locking eyes with Jace in a brief, knowing stare. After a few inaudibly murmured words, she scrambled to her feet with a guttural snarl and scurried down the path away from the coast.

He barely noticed her leave as he continued his climb, deep in thought.

The trail ended on the rocky shores just north of the reef near a small fishing outpost. Its floodwalls, as the fisherwoman had indicated, were indeed nearly a foot underwater, and a thick, shining layer of rotting marine slime coated what had once been the dock and its ships.

Boots caked in slime and sand, Jace waded into the shallows and let the waves pass over his feet. As he waited for it to recede, he realized the water was moving parallel with the shore, not away from it.

Something down the beach was indeed changing the normal motion of the waves.

South of the village, the moonlight shone down on a massive ring of jagged structures jutting up from the ocean, clawing at the waves and passing ships.

"The Drownyard," Jace breathed. "This is it! All the cryptoliths point here!"

Above the jagged ring was...still nothing? Hanging aloft in the skies above it, nothing more than the familiar heron moon.

He had been prepared for a lot of things. But nothing? "I thought you'd promised me something here! You told me I'd find something!" Jace hastily fished the journal out of his pocket and flipped it open.

In summary of this initial set of observations, our best explanation is the sudden migration of a large celestial Object in increasingly close proximity to Innistrad.

He stared down into the empty, unfinished ring of stones dubiously. Large, but certainly not what he would classify as "celestial object" large. And the space above the ring appeared to be just that—empty space. "Uh, exactly how large were you thinking this thing is?"

Taken in total, the findings presented in this work support the presence of an object of significant mass. Most likely a new astral body, an eldritch moon of sufficient size as to provide a gravitational pull able to disrupt the normal patterns of both the tides and magical energy.

"Astral body? Moon-sized?" Jace looked down into the empty area above the ring. Was there another illusionist hidden nearby? He didn't sense anything of the sort.

Future field studies will be arranged to investigate.

Jace flipped forward, but found no more written on the topic. "You can't stop now! We're so close! Tell me! Tell me what it means!" He gripped the leather spine and shook the book with more force than he intended.

Flashes of movement caught his eye. Dense clouds roiled overhead, and a long procession of shambling humanoids waded through the frigid, shoulder-deep ocean water below. Zombies. More specifically, the waterlogged corpses of long-dead sailors left within Nephalia's reef.

Art by Titus Lunter

He realized with some distaste that the stench of rotting meat was not, in fact, fish at all, but a well-brined undead labor force.

The vivid memory of Liliana's zombies, their cold, rotted hands pushed up against Jace's windpipe, loomed in his mind.

Jace gave a cautionary gesture, and three duplicates appeared around him.

The sight of the zombies brought back Liliana's words. "This is a dead end. Go home, Jace!" she had said to him.

"No—!" He insisted aloud, with a vehemence that surprised him.

His thoughts were too loud. Slow down, Beleren, he instructed himself.

No, he couldn't turn back. Not yet. Not when he could solve what even the journal didn't know.

Jace gritted his teeth against the bracing cold of the ocean water and waded in, keeping his distance from the prying eyes of the zombie procession. The stone formations here were similar to those he had seen in the moorlands, though these were far larger in scale, and humming with energy. Their twisted forms tapered into points, each facing the center of the circle.

A few of the stones jutted up from the shallows, away from the procession that gathered in the center of the circle. Jace made his way toward one of them and extended a hand to trace the stone's direction in dim light.

A jolt of energy jumped from the surface of the stone to Jace with a loud POP, setting his ears and head ringing with a familiar sound.

He raised his head slowly. A memory twitched.

A blind spot, the Object, loomed in his vision, hovering just above the circle of stones in the distance. It pulsed with power, in time with the lustrous web of veins on the monoliths below it. This was the nexus of Innistrad's redirected leylines, the siphoned center of its energy.

"You never were able to keep your hands to yourself, Beleren. And did you really have to let that thing zap you again?" A voice came from over his shoulder.

The accompanying face peered over Jace's shoulder and emphatically rolled its violet eyes. "For a famously perceptive mage, you've had better moments." It reached forward as if to tap him on the tip of his nose with an illusionary finger. Jace's errant violet-eyed duplicate from his mental entrapment just minutes ago. Behind it were the others—the hooded duplicate and the pale duplicate.

"What are you doing here?" Jace sputtered. "I left you and the other..." he pointed accusingly at the other duplicates, "...errant delusions back in that madwoman's head! You weren't welcome there, and if you're not going to help us against that," Jace motioned angrily at the reeking mass of zombies, "consider yourself unsummoned!"

"There's no need to be defensive. Look, you're doing a fine job of handling it already!" The violet-eyed duplicate pointed toward the center of the formation, where the pale duplicate and the hooded duplicate were eagerly advancing into the center of the ring of stones. They didn't appear to notice or care for the teeming zombie masses in their paths.

"Get back here! Move!" Jace hissed under his breath. "Move back, damn you!"

"We can finally complete our measurements! What would you put the dimensions of these stone samples at?" The pale duplicate's form wavered, its features slimming to delicate angles, rumpled hair becoming two neatly plaited tresses held in place by what appeared to be two leporine ears. The pale duplicate had reformed completely into a soratami—one of the moonfolk of Kamigawa. The same, it seemed, as the vision that he'd seen in Markov Manor, the one who wrote—

"—the journal. Is this...?" Jace sputtered, clutching at the book in his pocket. "I mean...is that you?"

"Most likely a new astral body, an eldritch moon of sufficient size as to provide a gravitational pull able to disrupt the normal patterns of both the tides and magical energy," the soratami illusion intoned with sudden solemnity. "I need you to focus, we've work to do—and where's your compass?" it yelled back at Jace as it strode purposefully toward the stones.

The hooded duplicate had already reached the base of the Object, where he stopped and stared up. "Just like in the madwoman's mind! Why did you have us leave her behind? Now we'll never know what she knew!" The shrill pitch of the duplicate's voice began to set the zombies astir. "Jace, look up!" it cried. "They're here!"

As Jace turned, something fell onto his head from above and rolled off into the sea. And again. Raindrops? He held out a hand, and grasped at the next as it fell.

They were...feathers? Falling from a dense cloud overhead. He squinted. No, it wasn't a cloud, it was made of moving things. Huge winged things. Angels.

They swarmed in midair above the center of the circle, some wheeling near the cryptoliths like moths to a flame and calling out in harsh, birdlike tones. The sound of their massive wingbeats echoed against the cliffs and through Jace's aching head.

Oh yes, he'd seen these before. The same pages that had first described the cryptoliths had described Avacyn in the same breath. A sign, a clue...it was something, it had to be something.

"Impressive-looking but useless creatures. Bird wings and bird brains," the violet-eyed duplicate scoffed, leaning against Jace's shoulder.

Below the swarm, the hooded duplicate only stared up at the sky, transfixed by the inexorable pull of the Object and the angels circling overhead. "What pulls the tides?" Jace heard it murmur. "Zombies or angels? What is my purpose, how will I end? Too many questions..."

It walked forward toward the center of the circle of twisted stones, up to its neck in the icy seawater, head tilted back, eyes still firmly focused upward. It continued moving doggedly forward as the waters closed over its head, entombing it below the surface. Jace watched in silence as the duplicate's face, his face, slowly disappeared.

A voice spoke from over Jace's shoulder. "You remember what she told us, don't you?" the violet-eyed duplicate asked with a raised eyebrow and a smile too wide to be sincere.

"Excuse me?" Jace Beleren croaked, his throat dry.

"That first night when you came here to see her." The duplicate's voice had changed. It was...familiar now.

The outlines of its illusionary form wavered under the moonlight, and slowly it rearranged itself to a familiar form: Liliana Vess.

"I didn't come here to see her! I—I came to find Sorin!"

"She knows you. She didn't ask you to come here, surrounded by the undead and those..." she flicked a hand upward in brusque disgust "...winged vermin." Liliana's voice jangled his raw nerves like a skilled violinist playing a chord.

Jace stopped in his tracks. Of course. He'd known it all along, hadn't he?

"It was you! You brought them here! That was why you'd sent your ghouls after me, why you'd warned me about angels when I first arrived?" Jace could feel the blood rising in his face and could hear his voice, grating and shrill against her calm.

He stepped forward to face her. "This is your doing! You've always hated them, and you've been planning this for years, haven't you? You're the one who redirected the stones to herd the angels here and twist their minds! Lambs to the slaughter, all gathered together for you to cut down in one blow. How did you do it? What do you have planned? Do you know what forces you're toying with?"

Blood pounded in his temples; beads of sweat rolled off his brow. "Answer me! I'll not let you make a fool out of me!"

"You don't need my help for that, Jace. And you...you know better, don't you?" Though illusionary, Liliana's eyes were the same ancient, depthless violet that Jace had remembered. They brimmed with terrible secrets crafted from lifetimes of ruthlessness.

Frustrated words and accusations piled up in Jace's throat as he stared at the Liliana illusion's smiling face, but as he started to speak, it suddenly dissipated into the cold night air.

Jace made his way back to the shore and sat alone, shivering in the dark. His robes did nothing to keep the chill from his bones, and his numb feet refused to regain feeling. He was unhurt, but shaken. In front of him, the procession of ghouls continued on, undisturbed by Jace's passage.

He looked back at the circle of stones. The Object had disappeared.

His shaking hands went to the journal, but stopped as they went to flip open the cover. Questions still flooded his mind—how had Liliana moved the tides, or the stones for that matter? What was the astral formation that the journal had insisted on? The words of the journal lingered in his mind: "For every answer, three questions..."

No, a dull, buzzing voice reverberated through his mind. Stop asking. Too many unanswered questions. You don't need the book and its bottomless well of mysteries. They'll drown you. Jace shoved the book away into his robes. You've come this far. You know the answer. Stop searching.

He played the images over and over again in his mind—unable to erase the image of Liliana's face and its mocking smile.

"Angels. Zombies. Dead end..."

The hunter's moon hung alone in the sky expectantly, its silvery light seeming to cleanse the land and sea it illuminated. Jace knew what he had to do.

Art by John Avon

7

Promises Old and New

By Ari Levitch

When Jace went to Markov Manor, he was hoping to find the vampire Planeswalker Sorin. What he found, however, was a manor in ruins, twisted into impossible shapes, its inhabitants embedded in the masonry. For Jace, it meant the start of a new mystery. But what he didn't know was that he had just missed Sorin, and that this declaration in stone was meant for the ancient vampire.

Sorin's past has come back to haunt him. Though shunned by his own kind, he hopes to gather the aid of the vampires to confront the threat that has come to Innistrad. His search has brought him to the remote estate of the powerful Olivia Voldaren.

A hundred or more pairs of eyes watched him from behind elegant masks as he made his way across the ballroom. Another person might have felt like a mouse among a host of owls in such company, but not him. He strode beneath the vaulted ceiling, his footfalls echoing so that they broke through the hiss of whispers that all spoke the same name.

"Sorin Markov," came a musical voice above the whispers, a voice both feminine and sarcastic, a voice that formed the syllables of his name in such a way that it gave Sorin the impression it was the punchline of a joke long in the telling. But that didn't matter. What did matter was that it was a familiar voice, and that it belonged to the person he had come here to see.

"It seems I have interrupted quite a party," Sorin said, sweeping a hand in a wide arc before bringing it to rest on his chest in a theatrical play at humility. "For that, I'm sorry. But please, Olivia, reveal yourself. We must talk." He scanned the room where so many vampires had gathered to partake in the lavish festivities prepared by their host. Sorin had attended dozens, if not hundreds of such events, but not for over a thousand years.

At last, one of the vampires lowered her mask, a porcelain thing built in mockery of Avacyn's heron. She tossed it aside, and with as much effort as it took to blink, she rose into the air, a demonstration of the power that flowed in her ancient blood.

Art by Eric Deschamps

"I fail to imagine what it is we have to have to discuss, lord of Innistrad," Olivia said, bowing at the waist. It was her turn to wield theatrics in mock respect, and around the ballroom, laughter broke out. Sorin ignored the jape. This was her house, after all, and she could have her fun. He simply returned her gaze, looking up at her pale face, which was framed by thick red curls. He knew this game. She would appear as his superior. It was a performance she had practiced many times, but he was not one of these neonates who fell over themselves to garner her favor, and he would tolerate it only for as long as he could.

"The scion of Edgar Markov is not welcome here," she continued. Then she gestured toward no one in particular. "Show him out."

Without hesitation, half a dozen vampires emerged from the gathered celebrants. One of them drew a thin duelist's blade from its scabbard. "Lady Voldaren asked you to leave," he said. "You don't belong here."

That was all he would tolerate.

Sorin's own sword flicked out in a succession of flashes that left five of his escorts writhing on the ground, curls of black vapor billowing from deep wounds. Only one remained—the duelist—but Sorin looked past him to Olivia to make sure she was taking this in. She was. Then he raised his hand, and as the duelist lunged for him, Sorin curled his fingers into a fist, and suddenly, his assailant's body burst apart in a scattering of ashes.

Art by Karla Ortiz

The room fell silent. He had their attention. More importantly, he had hers. Sheathing his sword, he stepped forward. There was a reason for his visit, and however rotten it tasted to Sorin, he said, "I have come for your help." Olivia's mouth widened into a smile until her lips parted to reveal teeth that had meant the end of countless human lives across the centuries. She floated down to him, her movements so smooth that the red liquid in her glass barely rippled. Despite the elegance of her gown, she was barefoot, just as she had been in Sorin's memory—ever the indulgent recluse. And now, as she drew close, her toes glided inches above the polished stone floor.

Olivia looked Sorin over, tilting her head to one side then the other, as though trying to discern Sorin's meaning on her own. "My help? And here I was convinced that this would be an unpleasant visit."

Sorin knew she would relish this, but he was growing impatient.

"Well, at least this will be a memorable party," she said, punctuating her remark by raising her glass and tipping its contents into her mouth. Then Sorin was forced to sidestep as Oliva moved past him. The crowd of masked revelers parted before the Voldaren progenitor, who nonchalantly waved a hand, an invitation for Sorin to follow.

The pair of ancient vampires made their way through a succession of rooms that were each filled with party guests.

Art by Ryan Alexander Lee

In a dim study, Sorin observed a handful of vampires huddled at one end of the chamber where a weak whimper, barely strong enough to garner attention, rose from their center. One of the vampires faced Sorin and, blood running down his chin, hissed his irritation at the intrusion. Beyond him, Sorin glimpsed an outstretched arm with ribbons of red running down its length.

Art by Matt Stewart

Beyond the study, Olivia led Sorin into an enormous dining room—a long, cavernous hall with a dozen chandeliers spaced out over the expanse of an elegant table hewn of black wood. Around it, even more of Olivia's guests were gathered, feasting on the decadent foods and drinking their fill. It was a room Sorin remembered well from his visits here, and he knew that Olivia had taken him the long way here. She'd wanted him to see the feeding, wanted to flaunt it. She must have thought it would get under his skin. How little she understood.

"Out," Olivia said. Though it came off less a command and more as a playful suggestion, the feasters obeyed all the same. With their departure went the sounds of celebration. By the time Olivia and Sorin took their seats at the end of the table, the room was quiet.

"Why here, Sorin Markov?" Olivia asked. "Why not go beg on your own doorstep?"

"I take it you haven't heard." At this, Olivia raised an eyebrow. "My grandfather's manor is no more."

Olivia laughed, and it was less melodic than Sorin had expected.

"You find this news amusing?" he said.

"The news isn't amusing," Olivia said. "The messenger, however..." With an easy grace, she collapsed into the cushioned back of her chair. "If Markov Manor is in ruins, then look to Avacyn, your own creation. She's already destroyed Castle Falkenrath and scattered that bloodline. Your creature is on a rampage. Frankly, the fact that I didn't tear you to pieces myself when you sullied my house is a mark of my generosity."

"I'm going to let that go, Olivia, because I need you to listen carefully to what I'm going to say." He rose from his seat and leaned on his knuckles. "I have just come from Markov Manor. Know this—it did not meet the same end as Castle Falkenrath. I came to you because the ruin of Markov Manor marks the beginning of something terrible for this world."

Art by Chase Stone

"Something terrible for you, you mean."

Why not both? It was indeed terrible for him. But that didn't preclude danger to all of Innistrad. He never intended for it to come to this, and his thoughts drifted back to another age.

Sorin's consciousness had been spread out across the weeks he'd been down here. Or was it months? Years? He couldn't be certain, but in the midst of his trance, a spot of white found him. It cut through all the layers of his awareness, growing closer with each moment, until finally, it touched him. And then, in the span of a heartbeat, the wayward parts of his mind scrambled over each other to find their correct places in his being. The rush was almost too great for him bear. Something had gone wrong. Something had pulled him prematurely from his restoration.

When his eyes fluttered open, Sorin found himself sitting on the stone floor of a modest sanctuary. Slowly, he rose to his feet, a task that took more effort than it should have. He was still weakened and depleted, and as he gathered himself on unsteady legs, he noticed a dark stain that stretched out across the sanctuary floor—a permanent black shadow in the shape of an angel, a testament to the magnitude of his recent exertion, his creation.

Then the white light once again strobed in Sorin's head, and with the fog of the trance lifted, Sorin recognized it for what it was—the signature of another Planeswalker arriving on Innistrad, drawn to his Helvault.

Recovery would have to wait. Innistrad was his, and visitors could remain only at his pleasure. He must discover their intent. If it came to it, fighting a duel in his current state would be far from ideal, but a threat to his plane was unacceptable. Even diminished as he was, he was still more formidable than most, and besides, this time he would have help. In a burst of inky black smoke, Sorin Markov set off to discover who would dare intrude on his plane.

Another burst of smoke, and Sorin materialized in the shade of a gnarled tree whose twisting branches ended in clusters of red leaves. From his vantage, the curtain of gray clouds served as a backdrop against which a rough, angular, monolithic chunk of silver rested upon a promontory at the edge of a sheer cliff. In the dim light, the silver mass appeared almost black. The Helvault—it had come from the plane's silver moon, and it had taken great effort for Sorin to bring it here.

Art by Jaime Jones

As he watched, a figure emerged from behind it. A woman, pale, with white hair that fell around her face in a messy array. As she came around, her fingertips brushed the Helvault's rough surface. She wore simple, drab garb, with a length of red cloth wound around a forearm serving as her only accent.

Sorin knew her immediately.

The lithomancer.

Nahiri.

She was a kor from Zendikar whom he'd known millennia ago. They had traveled together for a time, but not for many years, and the sight of her here on Innistrad struck Sorin as an oddity. In all their travels, he'd never brought her here. Their last encounter had been on her home plane, and because of the nature of their parting, he never thought he'd see her again.

And yet, here she was.

At the moment, Nahiri seemed captivated by the Helvault, so Sorin approached in silence. If anyone would appreciate what he had accomplished, it would be her.

"You'll have to forgive my rudimentary attempt at shaping stone, young one," he said, standing behind her. At his words, Nahiri spun around. Her face broke into a wide smile as she stumbled over her first few attempts at a response until at last, the words burst from her lips.

"My friend! You're alive!"

"And why would I be otherwise?" He manipulated the muscles of his face to form a smile, and reached out to place a hand on her shoulder.

"You never came." She covered his hand with one of her own. "On Zendikar, when I activated the signal from the Eye of Ugin, you never responded. I feared that—"

Sorin withdrew his hand. "The Eldrazi have broken free of their bonds?"

"They did, yes."

A caustic bitterness rose in Sorin's throat. "Where is Ugin?" He asked.

"He didn't come either," Nahiri said, looking up at Sorin. "But I handled it. On my own. With all the strength I could muster, I managed to reseal the titans' prison." She spoke with a confidence that Sorin didn't remember. There was power in her that hadn't been there when they had known each other thousands of years ago. And suddenly, standing there with Nahiri, Sorin became keenly aware of his own weakened state.

"When the task was done, I came to find you," Nahiri continued, "I had to know if you still lived. And here you are." After a moment, Nahiri's smile slowly faded. "So where were you? Sorin, why didn't you respond to the signal?"

"It never reached me," he said.

"How is that possible?"

"Hmm." Sorin extended his arm past Nahiri and pressed his hand against the surface of the Helvault. "You dedicated yourself to watch over the imprisoned Eldrazi, and it became clear to me that my plane was in dire need of its own protection, particularly in my absence. This Helvault is half of what I created to serve as such protection. It's not inconceivable that your signal from the Eye was unable to break through the magic that protects this plane."

Nahiri shook her head. "Did you know at the time that that would happen?"

"It did not occur to me," Sorin replied. It was true, but he sensed an accusatory tone in her question, and he found himself weighing his words. "Though I see now that it was a possibility."

"A possibility? You risked my plane, and more." There was hurt in her voice. "You abandoned me."

Sorin waved away the kor's concerns. "I was simply taking the appropriate precautions to protect my plane. I hardly think—"

"We had an agreement, you and I." Nahiri's voice had suddenly shifted. It was icy, devoid of any of the warmth from only a moment ago.

A sharp hiss escaped between Sorin's teeth, and Nahiri stepped toward, only for him to turn his back to her.

"Don't dismiss this," she said. "I was willing to jeopardize my home by luring the Eldrazi to it. I promised to chain myself to Zendikar to watch over them as their warden. I spent millennia with those monsters. Do you know what that's like?" As she spoke, the ground began to rumble. "All you had to do was come when I needed you."

"Don't presume to own my actions, young one," Sorin replied, batting Nahiri's hand aside. "I am obligated to nothing. I owe you nothing! When your Planeswalker spark first ignited, it was I who discovered you. I could have ended you there, but I spared you." He rounded on her, and suddenly his face was only inches from hers. In a whisper, he continued, "I took you under my wing, and molded you into what you are. If you find it necessary to pester someone, go find Ugin. I have no patience for it."

The earth lurched violently, and for an instant, Sorin had to fight to keep from stumbling.

Beneath Nahiri's feet, a column of bedrock pushed through the soil to carry her into the air. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sorin picked up a crystal glass to inspect the ruby contents within. A thin film had begun to form across its surface. Between two pale fingers, Sorin twisted the delicate stem of the glass so that the film gave way and the liquid sloshed freely. He raised the glass so that the light of the chandelier filtered through it, and he watched shapes of red light stretch out over the nearby place settings on the table.

"Do you know why I created Avacyn, Olivia?" Sorin said at last. At the mention of that name, the smirk dissolved from Olivia's face, and Sorin took some amount of pleasure in that. "I created her to be this world's protector."

Olivia clicked her tongue as Sorin sniffed at the blood in the glass before setting it back on the table. "A protector," she mocked. "You dare come to my house and disturb my guests with this absurdity?" It was her turn to rise from her chair. "We haven't spoken since your treachery—since you shamed your grandfather's noble name. The fact that you sit here across from me at my own table is a shame that I will have to bear. But if you think I will tolerate your attempt at playing hero—"

"Are you finished?" Sorin interrupted. He wasn't here to justify himself. Not to her. But he was here to explain some things. "It is indeed true that our gift of longevity is too often paired with shortsightedness, but there are people who are greater threats than our overzealous grazing." Olivia drained the remaining blood from her glass. "One of these people," Sorin continued, "has come here, and she threatens our entire world. I can't allow that."

Sorin lifted his gaze to where Nahiri loomed over him from the height of her granite pillar. All around them and between them, a field of stones floated in the air, defying gravity in favor of a more powerful master. They were an obedient army waiting for her command. Even as the wind whipped through Sorin's hair and tugged at the leather of his long coat, the myriad stones hung motionless in the air, and it seemed to Sorin as though the entire plane was holding its breath. There was no doubting the power that Nahiri now wielded, the power that had matured with her. Stone did not simply obey her command. It was part of her, and through it, she could reach across all of Innistrad and leave his plane in ruins.

The only stone that remained beyond Nahiri's influence seemed to be the Helvault, so Sorin had put his back to it to keep from being assailed from all sides. If he had been at full strength, he would have made short work of this whelp. But his energy was still spent, and as he leaned on his sword to keep from collapsing, he cursed himself.

With a sound like snapping bones, Sorin watched as Nahiri's pillar rumbled into motion, carrying the lithomancer slowly toward him. The stones parted before her, and as she passed an elongated slab, she plunged her hand into it as easily as reaching into a pond. After a moment, the whole stone grew red, and then shattered into a million pieces until all that remained was a fully formed sword in Nahiri's grasp. The blade still glowed, fresh from its stone-forge, and Sorin found himself facing off against its white-hot point.

Art by UDON

"Sorin," Nahiri said in a voice that carried through all the stones so that it seemed to come from everywhere at once, "you will fulfill your promise. You will return with me to Zendikar. You will help me check our containment measures, and ensure that the Eldrazi are secure. Only then can you slink away."

Sorin spat.

Then he felt it.

His eyes tracked up past Nahiri's sword and the end it promised, to the dark cloudscape that churned above them. He did feel it, and as he watched, a spear of light punched through the gray. The clouds retreated, and a silvery comet tore through the gap.

Avacyn. His Avacyn. She had come to protect Innistrad from a planar threat—just as he had made her to do.

At first, Nahiri didn't seem to notice. And when she did, it was only with enough time to meet the archangel who came barreling into her with enough force to carry both figures off the stone column. Sorin watched as they tore a deep gouge in the earth where they fell. And with them, the countless suspended stones clattered back to the ground.

When at last the two figures stopped tumbling, it was Avacyn who recovered first. She raised her spear, and light bloomed along its twin points, growing in intensity until it became almost too bright to behold.

Art by Jason Chan

Sorin strained against the brilliance. He watched as Nahiri was swallowed up in the earth, just as the archangel drove her spear through empty space. As the points bit into the exposed bedrock, the surface burst in spray of broken stone and dust, and Avacyn was forced to protect her face with her arms.

From where he stood, it took Sorin a moment to realize what was happening, but through the dust he saw Nahiri raining down blows with her still-glowing sword. The blade cut through the air, leaving trails of orange light as it went. Sparks leapt off of Avacyn's spear as she deflected the onslaught. But the blows were too many, and too fierce. Soon, Avacyn was in retreat. She tried to fly, but Nahiri rose up above her on another column of stone, forcing the archangel back to the ground with her unrelenting attack.

Nahiri would destroy Avacyn. The thought welled in Sorin more like a glimpse of reality than one possibility among many. No! Creating Avacyn had taken too much out of Sorin to let Nahiri end her here.

With what strength he could find, he threw himself forward. "Enough!" he rasped, and when Nahiri's sword arced down again, it clanged against Sorin's own weapon. "Enough," he said again. For a moment, the two Planeswalkers remained face to face, with blade pressing against blade. Sorin studied her. Her eyes were fixed on Avacyn, and in those eyes Sorin recognized confusion.

"What is this, Sorin?" Nahiri said through clenched teeth. "How did you bring an angel under your thrall? Who is she?

"The other half," Sorin replied. He lashed out with his off hand to grab Nahiri's sword. The hot blade hissed as his fingers closed around its sharpness, and as Nahiri struggled to free it, Sorin brought the point of his blade up to her throat. Streaks of sweat had cut through the mud that clung to her skin, and her features had taken on a severe quality. Or perhaps it was just defeat. Nahiri released her grip on her hilt, and Sorin tossed the blade aside.

Behind him, Sorin felt Avacyn approach, and he held up a hand to stay her spear. Then, to his former protégé, he said, "For what it's worth, I never wanted this, young one."

"Sorin?" Olivia said. Hearing his name only made Sorin aware of the silence that had swelled to fill the room in the long moments since he had last spoken. "Sorin," Olivia said again. "Who is this threat? Or rather, what did you do?"

"Too much. Not enough," he said, staring down the length of the black banquet table. His mind was still replaying the events that had played out centuries ago.

"Come now, Sorin. You can't decide to become cryptic at the best part." Sorin turned to her, but said nothing, even as that smirk of hers found its way back onto her face. "I must admit that you have piqued my interest. Anything that can get under your skin is most captivating. But you came to me, Sorin. So tell me, what I can do for you?"

In an instant, the fog of the past evaporated. "Summon the might of your bloodline, Olivia. The remnants of the Markovs are already mustering. Together, our combined host can confront this threat."

"Why should I? Why I shouldn't I throw in with this...threat? Illuminate me, how do I benefit from—"

She stopped mid-sentence, and suddenly broke into a laugh that seemed at odds with her melodious voice. Her eyes flashed with a frenzied glee that Sorin recognized as a look meant for prey.

"Oh, Sorin," she said as regained her composure. "I will help you. But first you will help me."

8

Liliana’s Indignation

By Kelly Digges

When we last saw her, Liliana Vess was receiving an unwelcome guest: fellow Planeswalker Jace Beleren. Jace was looking for Sorin Markov, and tried to convince Liliana to come with him to Markov Manor. When she refused, he set out on his own. What he found there eventually led him to the coast of Nephalia.

Liliana, meanwhile, has problems of her own....

Rain hammered against the windows. A flash of lightning illuminated bare stone walls and a couple of shambling corpses. A boom of thunder followed half a breath later.

Getting closer, then. Good. She needed the lightning, and the storm matched her mood. She sat on a high-backed stone chair, brooding.

How did it come to this?

Every path she sought toward freedom only seemed to lead her to more closed doors, more dead ends to escape. She'd made demonic pacts to make herself ageless, undying, at the paltry cost of a soul she was hardly using anyway.

Her breath no longer steamed, even on cold nights like this one.

But demons are harsh masters, and soon she found herself working to subvert her pacts, to kill her demons—to have immortality and freedom both. And so...the Chain Veil.

Art by Jonas De Ro

It whispered to her, even now, from the hidden pocket where she kept it. With it, she had killed two demons, lords among their kind. With it, she had commanded armies of the undead even she had never dreamt of, had besieged and taken Thraben itself, the greatest city on Innistrad, just to get her hands on one of those demons.

But the Veil...

She could no longer bring herself to wear the thing on her face, to feel its silken-soft links against her skin. She hated touching it. But when she tried to get rid of it, the pain was unbearable.

And using it was worse.

"Liliana," said a voice. A familiar voice. Wasn't it?

She stood.

"I'm busy," she said, loudly and clearly. "If you've come to torment me again, get on with it."

Something prickled at her temples, a sensation like fingers prying at the door.

"Torment?" said the voice. "I didn't realize it was that bad."

Lightning flashed, illuminating a large black bird perched on the windowsill. As the thunder's echo in her ears subsided, a second voice spoke, seemingly right in her ear.

"I didn't say anything," said the Raven Man.

She turned. There he was beside her, with his white hair, golden eyes, and elegant black and gold robes belonging to a very different time and place. He was...well, she wasn't sure quite what he was, an ignorance she tolerated only because she had no choice. He had appeared to her in her youth, taunted her, taught her. He had set her on the path that brought her here, and appeared now and then to keep her on it.

He could rot in in the nearest available hell, as far as she was concerned.

Art by Chris Rahn

"I'm not in the mood for wordplay," said Liliana.

"Fine," said the first voice. A different voice, definitely, full of sharp suspicion. "Then let's cut to the chase."

The Raven Man's spectral lips hadn't moved. And he didn't look wryly amused, as he usually did. He looked...worried.

Oh, hells.

Liliana looked away from the Raven Man. She made a fist, filling it with deadly magic ready to unleash at a moment's notice.

"Let's do," she said. "We'll start with who you are and what you're doing in my house."

Lightning flashed again, this time illuminating a figure, cloaked and hooded. Liliana's scalp crawled.

"You know who I am," said the voice—not from where the figure had been standing. "What you don't know is what I know."

That prickling sensation again. Almost like...

"You'd better do something," said the Raven Man. "I can't keep him out of your head forever."

In an instant, fear became fury.

"Jace? Are you insane? I almost killed you!"

"You almost tried," said the voice.

Jace. She'd befriended him on false pretenses, played on his emotions, manipulated him into joining an interplanar crime syndicate, then into overthrowing it. By the time it all went wrong, she'd grown genuinely fond of him, and betraying him had torn out one more strand of her threadbare sense of humanity. Not that that had stopped her, and anyway, if she hadn't done it they'd both be heroically, uselessly dead. Still, she could see why he might bear a grudge.

But never before, at any point in their dysfunctional association, had he threatened her.

She could see him now, right in front of her. She willed her zombie minions to attack him, but ropes of light bound their arms and legs, sent them toppling to the ground. She mentally beckoned more to help, to overwhelm him, but felt no reply.

"They're not coming," said Jace. "All tied up."

Liliana had never actually seen Jace lose a fight he'd had time to prepare for.

"Get out of my house," said Liliana.

"Why?" said Jace. "Am I scaring you?"

His eyes glinted beneath his hood.

"I certainly hope this display is frightening you," said the Raven Man. "This isn't like him."

"Yes," said Liliana, to Jace. "This isn't like you. I'm not convinced this is you."

The sensation at her temples became a pounding, with a whisper of voices behind it. She resisted the impulse to strain to hear them, which would only give him an opening. He really was attacking her, then.

Enough! She lashed out at him with a whip of death magic—just enough to cause agony.

The bolt of purple light slid right through him, and his image popped like a soap bubble.

"First you try to hide it from me," he said, this time from a corner of the room. "Now you're trying to silence me. But you can't hide something this big. Not forever."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Liliana. "I don't know what you think is happening. But you are way out of line."

She turned toward him, but when he spoke again he was behind her. She'd seen him use his illusions and his mind magic to melt away into the shadows and become a phantom, to keep his opponents guessing. He'd never done it to her, and she didn't care for it.

"The drownyard," he said. "The angels! I've seen what they're building out there. And you're helping them. Admit it!"

The pressure at her temples became a splitting pain.

"Liliana," said the Raven Man. "I've invested too much in you—"

"Stop it!" said Liliana. "There are a lot of drownyards on Innistrad, I warned you about the angels, and you know damn well I wouldn't help an angel for all the gold in Orzhova!"

"Not for gold," he said. "For the Chain Veil, for the problem I wouldn't help you solve. You tried to keep me from seeing what happened to Markov Manor. You tried to keep me from finding Sorin. Why? Afraid I'll tell him what you're up to?"

"I tried to keep you from getting yourself killed," said Liliana. "And I don't know anything about Markov Manor I haven't already told you."

"You can't lie to me," said Jace. He seemed to be losing his train of thought. "You know better. You're...you're redirecting a whole world's mana into this...moon...thing, just to—just to be rid of the Chain Veil? Is that it?"

His voice was coming from all around the room now, his hooded form moving every time she blinked. There were two of him, then three. This little show would be annoying enough even if she'd actually done whatever it was. Based on false accusations, it was downright infuriating.

"Days ago you came to my door asking for help, Jace," she said. "Yet now here you are with accusations?"

"You can't keep secrets from me," he said, an edge of menace creeping into his voice. "All I need is time."

"I don't know what you ever saw in him," said the Raven Man, his face very close to hers. "You're nothing to him but a puzzle to be solved. And he's nothing to you, nothing whatsoever. Or did I misunderstand you?"

"Whatever you're accusing me of," said Liliana, "step out into the light and say it to my face. This isn't what you think it is."

"How would you know what I think?" snapped Jace. "And why should I trust anything you say? You've done nothing but lie to me, caused me nothing but pain."

Her head throbbed.

"He's getting through your defenses," hissed the Raven Man. "Do something!"

One of the images of Jace snapped his head toward the Raven Man, eyes wide.

"Who—"

So you can see him!

There was no time to dwell on that revelation, which was followed quickly by another. Liliana smiled.

And I can see you.

She let loose a bolt of magic at Jace, the real Jace, that left him doubled over in pain. The other two Jaces vanished.

"Now then—" she started to say. But the pressure at her temples started up again. Damned fool.

She raked another blast of necromantic energy over him. He cried out, fell to the floor—and lifted his head, eyes glowing, face contorted.

Art by Daarken

"Tell me what I need to know," he said, rising. "Tell me about the drownyard."

"He's asking leading questions, trying to bring certain thoughts to the front of your mind," said the Raven Man. He smirked. "A basic maneuver of the telepath."

The smug bastard was right. Liliana's vision swam as Jace tried to force his way into her mind.

"Stop it," she said. "Even if I knew anything about a drownyard, your tricks wouldn't work on me."

She sent another bolt of agony through him, then another, but he kept up his attacks. He fell, rose, fell again—and this time only made it back up to his knees before she lashed him again.

"Tell me," he growled.

Her skin had begun to burn, her demonic scars etched in purple flame. And the Veil...oh, the Veil wanted to help her. It siphoned off a few stray rivulets of necromantic energy and returned them to the stream fivefold. She struggled to hold it back, to keep it from killing him instantly.

"Stop doing this!" she said. "I can't control—"

Jace was screaming now, eyes still glowing, his assaults on her mind intensifying along with the pain.

"Just...tell...me!"

The backlash started, agony suffusing Liliana as the Chain Veil took its toll. Blood began to drip from her scars. She gritted her teeth. She'd felt worse, though—when the scars were administered, for instance. She'd survive this. Jace might not.

"He's almost broken through," said the Raven Man. "Kill him."

"Don't tell me what to do!" she shouted—at both of them, at the Chain Veil, at the moon and the world and at death itself. "Stop it!"

"You'll have to kill me," wheezed Jace, tears streaming from inhuman glowing eyes. Liliana's vision began to fade.

"Do it," said the Raven Man.

"Jace, I don't want to hurt you anymore!"

The words echoed against stone, the pounding in her head stopped, and for a moment there was no sound but the boom of thunder and the drumming of the rain. The Raven Man sighed in disgust and disappeared in a rustle of feathers.

The glow in Jace's eyes faded, and he stared up at her, wan and sweating, looking suddenly very vulnerable and very young.

"Any more?" said Jace. His voice was hoarse. "As in, any longer? Or as in more than you already—"

"I don't owe you any answers," said Liliana. "And you damn well owe me some."

That, at least, told her she was dealing with the real Jace. Who else would pick apart her wording rather than face the reality of the situation?

"What did you do to me?" he asked, breath still coming in heavy gasps. "I feel like death."

"That's the idea."

He almost smiled, then his eyes went wide and he staggered to his feet.

"You're bleeding!" he said.

"Yes."

Genuine concern, moments after trying to pry open her mind like a jam jar.

"We should—"

"No," she said. "Tell me what the hell is going on."

Finally, a few zombies padded into the room. Not her freshest specimens. These were the tattered ones she used for sentry duty—he'd probably missed them on his sweep. She set them between her and Jace, but didn't have them attack. Not yet.

"You really don't know?"

Zombies grabbed his arms and legs. He didn't struggle.

"Jace," she said through gritted teeth. "Explain. Now."

"I went to Markov Manor," he said. "It was...inside out, rocks floating everywhere, vampires stuck in the walls. All that. Right? I found a book. It's a fascinating book. She's been studying—"

"Who?"

Lightning flashed, and Liliana saw the book on his belt. It was a large, ornate thing with an unusual binding. She wouldn't mind perusing it herself—unless it was the reason Jace was so out of sorts.

Art by Chase Stone

"The moonfolk! She's been—you know moonfolk? Fascinating book. She's been studying the moon—the moon, and what it causes. The tides, the werewolves, the angels. It's all connected! Those weird stones in the countryside—you haven't touched them, have you? Don't touch them. Just...don't. They all point the same way, so there was a, um...a...they all point toward something, is what I'm saying. Not a compass point. A place."

"Where?"

A crash of thunder.

"Parallax!" said Jace, looking at the window, as though the storm had answered him. "That's the word, thank you."

"What place?"

"Nephil...Neph...Nephalia," he stammered. "A drownyard, on the coast. I mean, they're all on the coast. Of course they are. Drown. Drawn. I was drawn, to this particular one. That's where I saw it."

"Saw what?"

"The moon!" he said.

She glanced out the window and raised an eyebrow. The moon was hidden behind rain clouds, but her point was clear.

"Not that moon," he said. "The other moon. Invisible...but I saw...doesn't matter. There were angels flying around. Zombies, too. I mean, the angels were flying. They were—uh, the zombies—were building some huge stone structure, angels wheeling in the sky, and I thought—I thought—since you'd tried to keep me from going to Markov Manor...and I know how much you're worried about the Veil. Enough to try something really...crazy."

He stared at her, eyes suddenly clear.

"It's full of ghosts," he said. "Souls. And you want to be rid of the ghosts but keep their power for yourself. And if there's one thing they know about here, it's ghosts—"

Her throat tightened, and for a moment she thought he really had read her mind. Then he snapped his head to one side, where there was nothing but a silent zombie, holding him in place.

"Shut up!" he hissed. "Geists, fine! Who cares?"

"Who—"

"Never mind!" he said. "These stone things are redirecting all this mana, and it's all going to this drownyard henge, and the zombies are building it and the angels are going mad and you hate angels and you might...you might need a lot of mana. To be rid of the Chain Veil, or to alter it somehow. That makes sense. Doesn't it?"

"No," she said. "It doesn't make any sense, and you're not acting like yourself."

It wasn't that unlike Jace, really, to get over-involved in a particularly enticing mystery. But no matter how deep he got, he maintained some measure of control—of himself and his powers, if not of the situation. And the one time she'd seen him lose control, he'd ended up putting himself under a mental lockout that took half a year and the death of a friend to snap him out of.

Jace was a very powerful telepath. If he went mad, he'd take her with him. Among others.

"Don't experiment with the Veil," he said. "Don't do it. So many voices. So many souls. You don't know what you might unleash."

"I—"

"Tell me you won't experiment with the Veil."

Art by Volkan Baga

She knelt down next to him and tried to hold his attention. She didn't want to touch him. She was, in fact, afraid of him. Nonetheless, she cupped his chin, made him look at her. He blinked and flinched.

"Jace," she said quietly. "What happened to you out there?"

"Nothing," he said. "Everything. Nothing happened. Everything was already like this."

He tried to turn his head, but she held him in place until he was forced to look at her. She stared into eyes that were not quite the eyes she knew.

"You really didn't do this?" he said.

"I really didn't."

"Oh, thank gods," he said.

He slumped forward, and her zombies let go of him. Liliana gently laid his head in her lap, running her fingers through his hair, thinking fast.

She had to keep him here. Had to get him to a healer, or maybe a geistmage—to someone, anyone, who could untangle whatever had happened to his mind. He wouldn't be safe until she did, and neither would she.

"You need some rest," she said. "Some time to think. And a bath, if you don't mind me saying so."

He pushed her hand off of his head and sat up. She rested her hand on his on the stone floor, trying to anchor him. Trying to keep him here.

"No time," he said. "If it's not you—"

"It's not like you to go running off on a hunch," said Liliana.

Keep him focused. Keep him here.

"I know people here. I have access to resources you don't. If this drownyard you saw is connected to what's happening with the angels, we can uncover it."

"'The shepherd turns on her flock.'" said Jace.

He meant Avacyn. Avacyn had turned on her own, had unleashed violence and cruelty that seemed to shock everyone besides Liliana.

"Is that from your book?" said Liliana.

Jace looked at her, eyes suddenly focused again. He pulled his hand back and clutched the book on his belt.

"You don't get to read it."

"I don't want—" said Liliana, then decided on honesty. "I won't."

"I have to go to Thraben," he said.

"What?"

"Thraben," he said. "That's where the cathedral is, right? That's where I'll find Avacyn."

"You can't just walk up to Avacyn and demand answers," said Liliana. "Especially not now. She will kill you."

And I'm not sure she'd be wrong, at this point. That grim calculation still stung, and Liliana took a measure of comfort in that.

"Thraben," he said firmly. "Have you been there?"

"Yes."

Been there, seen it, sacked it with an army of zombies. She wasn't keen on going back.

"Will you—"

"No," she said. "I'm not going with you. Jace, be sensible. Stay here. We'll make inquiries. We'll find out what's really going on."

"We," echoed Jace.

He staggered to his feet, looming over her as lightning flashed and thunder boomed. She let him.

"You and I are not a we," he said. "You're trying to keep me here."

She rose, smoothly, and looked him in the eye.

"You got me," she said. "I am trying to keep you here. Because you need help, and I want to help you."

"You want to help me," he said, "but only if I'll stay with you. Only as long as it's convenient. That about sums things up, doesn't it?"

There was only so much of this she could take. Her right hand flared with necromantic energy, acrid and purple-white.

"Right now," she said, "the most convenient thing I could possibly do is strike you dead and stop worrying what kind of violence you're going to stir up by shouting accusations at an insane archangel."

He stepped closer, grabbed her wrist—had he ever grabbed her wrist like that?—and pointed her glowing palm at his chest.

"Do it," he said. His voice was hoarse and wild.

It wouldn't be the worst thing she'd ever done. End the threat. End the uncertainty. If their situations were reversed, she knew he'd at least consider it.

"You ever have a pet when you were a kid?" she asked instead. "A mouse or something?"

Her hand still crackled with carefully contained necromancy.

"I...I don't remember when I was a kid. Much anyway." He glanced down at her hand in almost childlike confusion. "W-why?"

"Humor me," she said. "You must have taken care of an animal at some point."

"There was...a dog," he said. "In Ovitzia. I fed her scraps. Scratched her head when I went by."

"What happened to the dog?"

"One day I came by and she was—" He stopped, swallowed, blinked. "Why are you asking me this?"

"How did you feel?"

"Sad," he said. "Pretty devastated, actually, for a while. But I—I got over it, obviously."

"Why?"

"Because...because I always knew it was going to end that way. Didn't think about it, but I knew. I—Lili, why?"

"Because that's how I'll feel when you're dead, you idiot," she said. "Sad. For a while. And then I'll get over it. Because I always knew it was going to end that way. So don't lean too hard on my good intentions toward you. One of these days you'll find they no longer support your weight."

He let go of her wrist and stepped back.

"I'm probably going to die in Thraben," he said. "Sorry in advance for that. But somebody has to know what's going on."

Jace turned and walked away.

She watched him go, then peered out the rain-streaked window as his hooded shape slipped into the shadows outside her manor.

"Mistress," said a rasping voice from the stairwell. Gared, his name was. With his hunched back and different-sized eyes, he did a fair impression of a homunculus.

Art by David Gaillet

She turned, trying not to look startled.

"How long have you been watching?"

"Oh, a while," croaked the squat figure, tapping a finger against his engorged right eyeball. "S'what I do around here, mostly."

"So he could've read your mind?"

"Oh, no, Mistress. Haven't got one. Master says so, anyway."

He cackled inanely.

"Fine," said Liliana. "Is it time?"

"The Master bids you come to the tower," said Gared, head bobbing. "Storm's in full swing. He needs the Object."

She snorted. Gared turned and ambled toward the stairs.

"I wish you'd call it what it is," she said.

"Master Dierk is a man of learning," said Gared. "He wishes to remain detached from the, ah, poetry of the situation. What does it chain, hmm? What does it veil? You? Them?"

"Shut up," said Liliana. But she followed.

"Yes, Mistress," said Gared, with no greater deference. "That's the rest of what I do around here, mostly."

Liliana followed the lurching figure to the stairwell of the high tower. She pulled the Chain Veil from her pocket and glanced to the window, thinking of Jace, unsure whether to worry for him or fear him.

On a branch, in silhouette, a raven croaked its reproach. Then lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and the raven was gone. Liliana walked upward, into darkness.

Art by Tianhua X

9

Games

By Alison Luhrs

During the time of Avacyn's disappearance, two crazed and sinister siblings unleashed their greatest achievement. The necromancer Gisa raised a horde of undead ghouls, and her brother Geralf, an expert skaberen, created a similar army of skaabs—shambling corpses stitched together from disparate body parts. Each hoping to outdo the other in their mad sibling rivalry, Gisa and Geralf besieged the city of Thraben with their zombie armies, sending wave after wave of unhallowed creatures at the holy city. Scores of civilians and cathars fell in Thraben's defense, and the head of the church of Avacyn—Lunarch Mikaeus—was killed in the assault before Thalia, Guardian of Thraben, drove the monsters back. Odric, a champion of the church, captured Gisa and held her imprisoned in Rider's Lock. But the rivalry between Gisa and Geralf will not easily be put to rest.

Ludevic of Ulm,

I hope this letter reaches you safely—skaabs make better bodyguards than couriers, after all. I believe the last time we saw each other was years ago at one of my parents' parties. I have so many boring memories of being forced to joylessly play the harpsichord for the adults while my awful sister sang to impress the guests. How many dinners did I spend wishing I were seated with the greatest mages of our time rather than atop a creaky child-size music bench! You always held such high renown in my mother's social circle, and your talents and notoriety made you the teacher I always craved as a child. That was many years ago, and I have grown into a well-admired and popular stitcher in the years since!

I am now quite famous, and you have no doubt heard of my brave and mostly successful invasion of Thraben. I was able to evade capture thanks to my quick thinking and small stature, and have returned to my laboratory in what is left of Trostad. Upon my return, I have begun a new endeavor to expand my knowledge and skill. As a practitioner of the art of alchemy, I was hoping you would be able to provide some much-needed insight as I delve deeper into the art of necromantic fabrication than anyone has before.

Would it trouble you to pass along any alchemical texts you believe would help further my studies? I am in need of a mentor, and I cannot think of anyone who would be better suited to assist me for the sake of invention and innovation. What is your preferred method of avoiding decay or further necrosis once a body has been revived? Would the addition of a second liver assist with toxin control in the metabolic system? What is your preferred method of animation via elemental transmutation? How familiar are you with Delia Davison's methods for brain extractions on living patients? I'm giddy with anticipation of your response!

Sincerely,

Geralf Cecani

Art by Karla Ortiz

Commander Odric,

I write to you in great distress. The transport caravan departing Rider's Lock was attacked this morning by a wave of rogue skaabs.

The guards under my command were transporting the prisoner Gisa Cecani to Thraben for punishment. The road between the prison and the city is usually well-trod and safe for passage, but as per your orders I tripled the guard that would travel along with the caravan. The weather was misty and gray—nothing out of the ordinary for this part of Gavony. As the light was beginning to come over the horizon, we were overcome by a sudden attack of ghastly, violent, misshapen skaabs. We defended the caravan valiantly, but the malice and will of these creatures was too great to overcome. One-quarter of the procession is dead despite our additional reinforcements, and the prisoner seems to have escaped in the chaos.

These skaabs seemed different from ones I have seen in the past. Quick, many-limbed, as if their maker is testing a new formula for their sick development. My forces stood little chance.

I write to you from a safe haven in Merwald Downs. I received little injury in the attack, but I believe the prisoner may be heading toward the coast. She is a half-day's travel ahead of me, but I am in pursuit.

I will write when I know more.

—Executive Officer Grete

Art by Peter Mohrbacher

Geralf,

GUESS WHO JUST BROKE OUT OF PRISON!

Your ever-loving sister,

Gisa

Gisa,

You don't just say "guess who" and then answer it in the signature, moron.

Why are you writing me from the old family house? I thought it was destroyed—surely there isn't anything left after the accident. I had thought once free you would go back to your own territory.

—Geralf

Art by Karla Ortiz

Geralf,

I may have my freedom now, but there are no words to express the embarrassment and anger I felt when I was first captured, brother. I was foolish to try and go along with your dumb plan, and I was a failure for getting caught by the guard.

It seems fate itself had a hand in my release and I escaped my transport caravan while en route to Thraben from Rider's Lock. I was shackled up in the back of a covered carriage (with a muzzle and everything) and heard a dreadful commotion outside. Never one to ignore an opportunity, I swept my feet over my chains and rammed the door, escaping into the fog with the little dignity I had left in the midst of the attack. What do you think of that? I escaped all on my own! My joy was brief, and the malaise I feel now has overtaken the thrill of escape.

I abandoned my old territory before our pathetic attempt to raze Thraben and knew there would be nothing left for me there. After I got the muzzle and chains off, I thought it might be best if I returned to the old family home in Nephalia. The rubble is all falling apart now, and it all still smells vaguely of smoke, dust, and preserving fluids. Some rooms are still habitable, but I couldn't stand to go into Father's study. The evidence of our parents' last scuffle still lines the walls.

The weight of guilt hangs on me still after all this time. In an attempt to purge this feeling from myself, I raised Mummy and Father to apologize for what we did to the house. I felt such relief to tell them how sorry I was for the fire, and how neither you nor I intended to inherit our parents' loathing of each other. I spoke of my failure in Thraben, of how distant you and I have grown over the years, my humiliation at being chained and muzzled while you gleefully escaped. Of course they couldn't respond, but the experience was quite therapeutic for me.

Given these recent happenings, I wish to add an addendum to the laws of necromantic warfare to exclude use of relations or family pets in battle (I know you still have what is left of Spot). Respond with your desired time and location of our next duel.

Your loving sister,

Gisa

Art by Ryan Alexander Lee

Gisa,

You are being incredibly irresponsible. Put Mummy and Father back in the ground where they belong.

I am doing things far more important than necrowarfare now. I am pleased you are out of prison, but clearly you are too stupid to recognize my help when I give it to you. Please do not contact me again.

—Geralf

Geralf,

I've returned your skaab along with a number of alchemic texts. I believe you should find the answers you are looking for within.

If you are amenable, I am more than happy to take you under my proverbial wing. Your mother was a talented necromancer, and she clearly raised a brilliant heir. Please do not hesitate to contact me in the future. Any son of Gretchen Cecani is a son of mine.

Your family has always been so playful in their love of the dark arts. Let us enjoy our brilliance and embark on the greatest game of all!

—Ludevic

Art by Daarken

Ludevic,

Thank you for your response, I look forward to poring through the annotated text you sent over.

But please, let us not be flippant when talking about our craft.

I am absolutely sick of games.

—Geralf

Dear Cable Knit Jerky,

Irresponsible?! Don't you bark at me like a child! I am one of the most talented ghoulcallers of our time—I am capable of feats you only dream you could do. (I've heard you try to whistle—it's pathetic!) You may think you're too good for necrowarfare, but I know it's really because you don't think I can function without having to rely on you.

—Gisa

P.S. I am going to do my best to remember all my favorite nicknames for you. We are Officially Fighting.

Commander Odric,

After some time in pursuit, I have caught up with Gisa in Nephalia. She is currently residing in the remains of an old manor. I am watching from afar and awaiting backup to make the capture.

I grow ever more uneasy with regard to my current position. My compass has suddenly begun to act oddly: the needle will spin on its own, regularly jolting and stopping in a direction completely opposite to where it had been moments before. The air feels charged as if a thunderstorm were near, but the skies betray no signs of activity. I do not know why these oddities have been increasing, but it is unlike anything I have encountered before.

Something far more dangerous dominates my attention. I believe Gisa is calling again. Ghoul activity is very high, and I've nearly tripped into many empty graves as I travel near the coast of Nephalia. I have never personally seen a necromancer at work, but I can now say with certainty I have heard one. Unearthly whistles fill the fog of the night, light trills that send my stomach to my knees and raise the hair on my neck. She creates no lights nor flashes; instead her magic is a manic song that weaves with the sound of the coastal waves, penetrating the cold sand and lifting the dead from sleep. I understand now why you requested we muzzle her for captivity.

What is most unsettling is the calm of the ghouls themselves. Those undead who hear this song do not fight, shamble, or violently lash out. They simply walk toward their conductor. She seems purposeful in her calling, as if these monsters were tools for a task unknown to me.

The situation grows more unsteady as each night passes. I will await further instruction before pursuing the ghoulcaller.

—Executive Officer Grete

Art by Jason Felix

Dear Sausage Tailor,

I MADE A FRIEND! And she's my age! I think!

She looks like she needs some leafy greens and red meat, but I think she will do fine for my first friend. I met her while taking Mummy for a walk (Father is back in the ground now)—the woman simply walked up to us without any sort of fear. She looked Mummy up and down and asked if I was the one who raised her from the dead. I proudly said I did, to which the woman smiled politely and asked if I could repeat the process easily. How droll! I politely nodded, then called five ghouls and a half of a horse from under her feet.

As soon as they were out of the ground, the woman unsheathed a tremendous sword and severed each of my ghouls on the spot. She smiled from ear to ear. I knew at once that we were destined to be the best of friends.

The woman introduced herself as Nahiri, and she is clever and quite interested in my work. I showed her how to whistle just the right way to make the dead do as they're told. Nahiri was very amused by my talent and said she probably wouldn't be very good at it, but seemed very interested in seeing the extents of my abilities. I've been calling again, and it feels ever so wonderful!

So there you have it. Go back to your backstitching and needlepoint—I have a new companion and I don't need you at all!

—Gisa

Dear Meat Embroiderer,

Why aren't you answering my letters. It's because you have a girlfriend, isn't it.

—Gisa

Gisa,

Please do not bring that up. Lili was never my girlfriend! She took Mikaeus's body back in Thraben and absconded. I never saw her again after our brief acquaintance. She is terrible and I hate her.

I also hate you. Stop calling me by your old awful nicknames and thank me for helping you escape, already.

Here is a foot covered in gout. It reminded me of your personality.

—Geralf

Executive Officer Grete,

I have others stationed in Nephalia reporting an odd structure being built off the coast. There may be too many undead for you to handle on your own—pull out NOW.

—Commander Odric

Art by John Avon

Dear Squishy Quilter,

Nahiri has left me for a bit. My work continues. Isn't that wonderful? I'm a working woman now!

When I pause to reflect on my current situation, I couldn't be luckier to have found this new friend. Without Nahiri I would be ruined. I sold my old property by the old necrowarfare grounds, and all former resources I had have been poured into my new career.

My new friend asked for an army of builders, and I have raised her one! She was quite mum about what the zombies were for, but when I asked if they were to build a monument of stone to celebrate our talents she raised her eyebrows and nodded with great enthusiasm.

Hear that? We are making a monument to our greatness!

Nahiri is magnificently supportive. She adores my ghouls, and I think if I do good enough she'll even build me a weapon to eviscerate you with. I've seen her work—she is very good with rocks.

I have no clue what you mean by "thank you for helping me escape," but I'm certain it is just you trying to get inside my brain as per usual. Your silly tricks won't work on me!

—Gisa

Gisa,

This has gone far enough.

I don't want to play anymore. I am nearly finished with my greatest creation and all I want is for you to let this go.

I was the one who sent the skaabs to free you from the prison caravan. I went through the trouble of building an attack force to overtake your captors and not once have you thanked me for your release.

Who else in this bloody hellhole of a parish has the capability to raise dozens of skaabs?! Did you think you were lucky enough to just happen across the very creatures I have made my name creating?!

Your ignorance is insulting, and your insistence on clinging to our childish past is pathetic. Grow up as I have, dear sister. I just wanted to help you.

—Geralf

Art by Karl Kopinski

Commander Odric,

Departing immediately. Ms. Cecani has erupted into a most violent rage. Safety of my patrol is in jeopardy. I write from Merwald Downs but intend to return to Thraben at once. Pray for our deliverance and safe return—she is not following us yet, but I fear Ms. Cecani is capable of nearly anything in her current state.

—Executive Officer Grete

Geralf,

You are an arrogant, hubristic, feculent bastard. How dare you naively assume I could not free myself?!

I am an idiot for not seeing the truth sooner and recognizing those skaabs for what they were. Keep your presumptuous morality to your own damn self. I have never needed your help, and I will never be dependent on you for rescue.

My name will forever belong in the history books of our land. Tales of the mightiness of me and Nahiri will last as long as our monument stands tall and firm in the sea! Our physical legacy will stand forever unchallenged, and our glory will transform all of Innistrad!

All of that, of course, will happen in the fullness of time. As you can see, I chose a very special courier for this letter—I hope you don't mind I sent Mummy to deliver it to you. You always took her side in things, after all. I've given the creature instructions to assist you in whatever task you ask of her—every task other than leaving.

Do you like how it feels when I help you? Don't you feel thankful for me stepping in and assuming you cannot do things on your own?! I have greater things to do with my time than continue to entertain you. Look your mother in the eye and think of me. If you treat your own sister like a toddler who can't stand on her own feet, I will send you the one person who will always remind you that you are a child.

May you find pity in the embrace of whatever is left of your mother's arms.

—Gisa

10

The Lunarch Inquisition

By James Wyatt

Thalia, the Guardian of Thraben, was instrumental in defending Thraben from the siege of zombies launched by the necromancer siblings Gisa and Geralf. In the city's darkest hour, she faced Liliana Vess at the Helvault, in the heart of Thraben Cathedral. And while the Planeswalker threatened the life of every soldier under her command, Thalia finally acquiesced to her terrible demand: she sundered the Helvault, releasing all the demons it had contained—as well as the archangel Avacyn.

Mikaeus, the Lunarch of the Church of Avacyn, died during the siege of Thraben, and his successor was killed in the early days of Avacyn's madness. Now a new Lunarch Council has been established, made up of senior bishops of the church with a few cathar leaders in advisory positions. Another great leader in the defense of Thraben, a cathar named Odric, showed tremendous initiative in organizing the Lunarch Council to deal with Avacyn's madness. He earned a seat on the council as a representative of the cathars, without an actual vote on council matters.

But as the madness of the angels continues and spreads into the Lunarch Council, the two cathar leaders are struggling to navigate the waters between loyalty to Avacyn's church and devotion to all the church represents.

The ride from the Elgaud Grounds in Nephalia to Thraben Cathedral had taken days, through the cold air of the hunter's moon. Her fingers were numb, but Thalia's cheeks still felt hot from the flames, and her blood still boiled with outrage. She handed her reins to the stable hand and shot a wary look at the angel that wheeled overhead like a carrion crow before she stormed into the echoing halls.

Out of habit, she traced Avacyn's collar on her own chest, shoulder to heart, shoulder to heart, as she passed the open doors to the sanctuary. Her eyes stung, though, as she thought of that blessed symbol presiding over the atrocities at Elgaud.

She was still the Guardian of Thraben in name, even if she spent precious little time in the High City anymore, so no cathar barred her way or asked her business as she swept up the stairs, down a corridor, and into the chamber that the council had given the Lunarch Marshal to use as an office. He wasn't there, naturally.

Thalia shrugged out of her riding cloak and threw it down on a chair, then stuck her head back into the hall. "You," she called to a nearby cathar standing stiffly on watch. "Find him."

She clapped her gloved hands together and rubbed them hard and fast, trying to ignite a spark of warmth in her frozen fingers as she paced back and forth in the small office.

When she turned away from the doorway, it was empty; three steps later, when she turned back, he was standing there. She stopped short.

"Thalia!" Odric said warmly, opening his arms to embrace her.

He looked older. His hair had been white for years, of course, except for the single shock of raven black at his forehead. But his face had always looked young. Now it was lined with worry.

"It's good to see you, old friend," she said, stepping toward him with a smile. But instead of embracing him, she slammed a fist against his silver-inlaid breastplate. Her smile vanished. "Do you know what's happening out there?"

He sighed as his arms flopped down to his sides. "I know these are not the best of times," he said.

"Children," she said. "We're burning children now. Sin-plagued my—"

"Elgaud?" He cut her off.

"Yes. This has to stop, Odric. Ulmach is completely out of control."

"He's Chief Inquisitor, Thalia. He is control, as far as the church in Nephalia is concerned."

"No." She thumped his breastplate again. "The Lunarch Council still commands the church, doesn't it? Your council?"

Odric finally managed to squeeze past her and enter his office. "They're not my council," he said, "but the inquisition operates under their aegis, yes."

"It has to stop," she said again.

Art by Steve Argyle

"And then what? How do you intend to stem the tide of the angels' wrath?"

"Do you hear yourself? You think the angels are angry because we tolerate sin in our midst? Odric, the angels are supposed to protect us, not burn our villages to the ground. And we're supposed to protect children, not burn them at the stake! You really think this is what Avacyn wants from us?"

"Avacyn is leading this purge. You know that. If human sin arouses her fury, we must root out the sin from among us or be caught in her wrath. Avacyn has set the example for us. If she has hardened her heart against the pleas of the wicked, we must do the same."

"The wicked? What sin do you suppose those children harbored?"

"You're questioning the judgment of the inquisition?"

"Of course I am! How can they look into the eyes, into the heart of a child and find evil there—evil that deserves such a horrible death?"

"If the inquisitors are putting children to death—"

"They are. I saw them."

"If they are, then they must have good reason. Blessed Avacyn gives her church power to root out evil, punish it, and protect the innocent from its reach."

"They're abusing that power!"

"What would you have me do?"

Thalia grabbed one of his hands. Even through their gloves, it felt warm against the chill in her bones. "Speak to the council," she said. "Help them see reason."

"You know I have no vote on the council."

"But you have a voice. You represent the cathars. They can't just ignore you."

He turned his back on her. "But I am subject to their will. To Avacyn's will."

"Those aren't necessarily the same thing, you know."

He bowed his head, but gave no answer.

Suddenly overcome by exhaustion, Thalia slumped down in the chair where she'd thrown her cloak.

"Did I do the right thing, Odric?" she asked.

He turned and gave her a gentle smile. They had had the same conversation before, but he knew she needed to hear it again from time to time. "You freed Avacyn," he said. "And you saved your soldiers from the necromancer's grip."

"Yes, but I also freed demons beyond counting. And some of them have escaped the angels' reach."

"They are in hiding."

"But they will be back—they will all be back. They can't be destroyed—that's why the Helvault existed in the first place. And I let her destroy it."

Art by Todd Lockwood

"You freed Avacyn," he said again.

"What if that was a mistake too?" she said. The lines between his eyebrows grew deeper, but she pressed on. "What if her time in the Helvault corrupted her? What if she is no better than a demon herself now?"

His face grew stern. "You should not be saying this to me," he said. He was right, of course—and she had never before dared to voice these thoughts to anyone. "I am a member of the Lunarch Council..."

"You're a good man."

"I serve Avacyn and her church. And so do you, in case you've forgotten, Guardian of Thraben."

Thalia sprang to her feet again. "I serve the principles that Avacyn stands for—that she used to stand for. I serve the soft light of the moon that holds back the terrors of the night. I serve the bonds between us, driving out the fear that would break us apart. I serve the holiness we all aspire to. If she has turned against those things, then she is no better than a demon, and I can no longer serve Avacyn and her church."

Odric's face was right next to hers, red with anger. "I cannot stand here and let you compare Blessed Avacyn to the demons she has battled for uncounted centuries. Because you are my friend, I am going to urge you to leave Thraben, and do not let anyone else hear these blasphemies coming from your lips. Grete?"

A face framed in red hair appeared in the doorway. Thalia was taken aback—she'd had no idea that Odric's champion had been right outside all that time. Had she heard the whole conversation?

"Sir?" Grete said.

Odric turned his back on Thalia again. "Will you please escort Thalia beyond the outer wall?"

"Of course."

Thalia laid her hand on Odric's back. "Odric..."

"Goodbye, Thalia."

She swallowed hard. No other words would come.

Grete held the reins of the horse as Thalia mounted, avoiding her eyes as she had since they left Odric. But as she handed the reins up to her, Grete met her gaze at last.

"What will you do?" she asked quietly.

"I'm going to fight," Thalia answered. "I've sworn to defend the people of this land from the monsters that would destroy them. I'm going to keep doing that. If the cathars and inquisitors have become monsters, then I will defend the people from them. If the angels themselves have become monsters..."

"You would fight the angels themselves?" Grete asked, eyes wide.

"If I must."

"How can you be so certain you're right?"

Art by John Stanko

Thalia heard so much in that question, including the doubt that had robbed her of a good night's sleep for weeks now. But clearly Grete longed for the same certainty. Thalia wished she could provide it.

"If I'm wrong," she said instead, "well, I would rather be a heretic than betray my conscience."

Grete let go of the reins and looked away as she stepped back from the horse.

"You could come with me," Thalia said.

"No." Grete seemed to be talking to herself as much as to Thalia. "But I hope...I wish you the best, Thalia."

"Thank you."

Weeks later, Odric still heard Thalia's voice when some too-eager cathar stood before the Lunarch Council and reported the latest results of the inquisition's work at Elgaud. Every time the young man drawled the phrase "sin-plagued," he heard Thalia's voice on the brink of vulgarity, and every mention of the Chief Inquisitor made him think of her words: "Ulmach is completely out of control." It was too hard to listen to the details of the questioning, torture, and execution, so he surveyed the faces of the bishops of the council instead.

Some of them were clearly as uncomfortable as he was. But some of them leaned forward, eyes bulging wide, eager smiles tweaking the corners of their mouths as if hungry for the lurid details. Was Thalia right? he wondered. Have we all become monsters?

Art by David Seguin

A bang jolted him out of his reverie as the chamber door was thrown open. Thalia's boots echoed on the stone floor as she strode into the hall. The young cathar stepped aside, obviously cowed by her presence—and the anger that burned in her eyes.

"Thalia, what are you doing here?" he asked, breaking the stunned silence.

Bishop Jerren stood and folded his arms. "The business of the Lunarch Council is not to be interrupted," he said.

"I am the Guardian of Thraben," Thalia replied, "and I claim my right to speak before the council."

"You no longer hold that title, Thalia," Odric said gently. He saw Jerren smile. "The council has removed it from you."

Thalia looked at him, clearly not surprised. The anger in her eyes had transformed into contempt, as if he were a snake writhing on the ground before her. He had betrayed her confidence, informing the council of her heresy. His stomach churned.

Jerren simpered. "But we are in a charitable mood," he said. "What business do you bring before the council?"

Thalia turned that withering gaze to Jerren. "I come to accuse you, bishop," she said.

Odric sat back in his chair, his throat tight.

Thalia continued. "I bring evidence that you have been in communion with the demon Ormendahl, called the Profane Prince, and you are now the leader of the Skirsdag."

Jerren laughed. He laughed. Other members of the council began shouting their protest, but the nominal leader of the council could only laugh as he was accused of leading a demonic cult.

"Show us this so-called evidence," someone said, and the shouts quieted.

Now it was Thalia's turn to smile. She had been given the chance to present her case, which was all she could have asked. She turned as she spoke, including the entire council in her address—though she did not meet Odric's gaze. "Three days ago," she said, "I led a small party of cathars through the forest of Wittal parish, near the ruins of Estwald. We sought the lair of a notorious witch who had brought curses upon several of the villages in the parish. At last, we came upon hoof prints in the soft earth."

Art by Johannes Voss

"We are still waiting for your evidence," one of the bishops said.

Odric looked at Jerren. The bishop sat back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, not quite hiding the hint of a smile that quirked his lips.

"The trail led us to the dismal cave where the witch laired. A horse grazed on the blackened grass outside, bearing the livery of this council. Rushing inside, we found the witch lifting the quivering heart from the corpse of a messenger, as if preparing to take a bite from the raw flesh."

A few of the council members made faces of disgust and turned their gaze from Thalia. But Odric noticed that the ones who still stared at her wore the same eager expressions they had while listening to the inquisitor's report.

"We attempted to subdue the witch, but she fought like a fury, with demonic power at her command. We had no choice but to kill her."

"Conveniently negating the possibility that she might give testimony," someone said.

Thalia ignored the interruption. "The dead rider was a messenger of this cathedral, carrying this letter." She produced a sheet of parchment from inside her cloak. Dark splatters and smudges of what must have been blood disfigured the page. "Read it for yourself, and judge the truth of my accusation. The letter bears the seal and signature of none other than Bishop Jerren, giving instructions to this witch in the name of the Profane Prince!"

Odric's feet and hands felt numb, and his pulse was pounding. Thalia had woven a damning tale. Could it be true?

Thalia strode to the far end of the council table and held the parchment out, offering it to one of the lesser bishops, Quilion. Quilion cast a timid glance toward Jerren and refused to take the parchment from her hand. Thalia scoffed and offered it to the bishop beside him. Three bishops refused her as the council sat in stony silence, before Bishop Carlin took it with a quivering hand. Her face paled as she read the page.

"What say you to this, Jerren?" Carlin said after a moment.

"It is clearly a forgery," Quilion said, though he had not examined the parchment.

"The whole tale is an impossibility," another bishop said.

Odric could not believe it, any of it. He knew Thalia would not fabricate evidence, however much she disagreed with the council. And once he allowed himself to consider the possibility, he had to confess that he wouldn't call Jerren the holiest of men. But the leader of the Skirsdag? Chairing the Lunarch Council?

"Of course it's impossible," Jerren said.

"It seems to me there is only one heretic in this room," Quilion said. He cast his gaze toward Jerren as if seeking the senior bishop's approval.

Odric stared in shock as members of the council began shouting again, this time demanding Thalia's execution. Thalia's face was grim—he had seen her grow steadily more pale as more of the bishops sided with Jerren. Surely she had expected some resistance, but perhaps not as much as this. Jerren's influence on the council must have been stronger than she had anticipated. Her hand reached toward her sword.

Cathars came and seized Thalia's arms before she could draw it, looking to Jerren for direction. With the merest wave of his fingers, he condemned her, and they started to drag her away.

"Odric!" she called, her voice piercing the clamor of the still-shouting bishops. "I serve the light!"

The soft light of the moon that holds back the terrors of the night, she had said. I serve the bonds between us, driving out the fear that would break us apart.

And here was the Lunarch Council, seized by fear, turning on one of their most devoted servants.

The doors slammed closed behind Thalia, and with a simper, Jerren gestured for the young cathar to continue his testimony about the latest horrors performed at Elgaud on the Lunarch Council's behalf.

Odric hurried to the basement of the cathedral, where he hoped Thalia would still be awaiting execution. They would not have brought her to hang on the tree in the cathedral courtyard just yet, not without time for the ceremonial observance appropriate to the execution of such a prominent heretic.

"I must speak with the prisoner," Odric said to the soldier guarding the cells. The young woman saluted and stepped aside so he could pass.

"Don't speak," he whispered at the window to her cell. "We are leaving here, together."

"What?"

"I said don't speak." He turned back to the soldier. "Guard, open this cell."

Her eyes widened, but the cathar fumbled with the keys at her belt. Odric nodded his approval. At least some of us still know our duty, he thought.

Thalia's cell door creaked open, and he helped her up off the filth-encrusted floor. He noticed a fresh bruise, just beginning to blossom on her cheekbone. Had she struggled? Or had the guards who escorted her here been caught up in the cruelty that seemed to have become the norm, even in Avacyn's cathedral?

They walked up the stairs together. Grete met them at the top, carrying Thalia's slim sword.

"Horses?" Odric asked her as Thalia belted on her sword.

"Should be ready by the time we reach the stable," Grete said.

Art by Michael Komarck

"Well done."

"Where are we going?" Thalia asked.

"You tell me," Odric said. "You said you had other cathars with you in Wittal parish. Are they still there?"

"Yes."

"Then shall we join them there?"

"Yes. I have a lot to tell you."

They were nearly to the stables now, nearly free of the Lunarch Council and Jerren and whatever corruption festered here. But now five cathars blocked their exit.

"Stop where you stand, Lunarch Marshal," the one in the center said. Dougan was his name, Odric remembered. He had trained the young man, years ago. "Bishop Jerren's orders," he added, sounding almost apologetic.

Odric kept walking. "Step aside and let us pass," he said. Grete and Thalia walked a little closer to him.

"I can't do that, sir." The apology was gone from his voice, replaced with steel. "The bishop expected this treachery from you, and wants you—all three of you—returned to the council chamber."

More cathars were behind them now—three more, from the sound of them. Eight to three, if it came to that.

Odric was face to face with young Dougan now, and Thalia and Grete faced down the cathars on either side of him.

"Dougan, let us pass," Odric said again.

"No."

Odric tried to push his way through, but the sound of drawn steel behind him changed everything.

Eight to three might have been a problem, if the three had not been among the most experienced soldiers in Avacyn's church. Odric's first swing sent Dougan's blade clattering to the floor. While his former student scrambled for his weapon, Odric turned to parry an attack from behind him—Marta, another young cathar he had trained. His riposte drew blood at her shoulder—she had always left that shoulder open in training—and she stumbled backward.

Dougan was back, rushing at him with his sword overhead. Odric shook his head—he had taught the boy better form than that. He ducked below the clumsy swing and jabbed at Dougan's belly, checking his blow before he gutted the lad. He had almost forgotten they were not training with wooden swords.

Perhaps Dougan had forgotten it as well, for his eyes went wide and he fumbled with his sword again as a hand went to the blossoming red stain beneath his ribs.

Art by Chase Stone

A third cathar lunged at him, one whose name escaped him, and the hapless wretch impaled himself on Odric's blade. Marta, fighting on despite the wound in her shoulder, fell under Grete's heavy sword.

Haral came at him then, an older soldier who had fought with him against the zombies. He had years of experience beyond what Dougan could boast, and if his will had been stronger, he would have been commanding this team. He had always lacked that will, that drive. Tears flowed down his face as he faced Odric, blocking the exit.

Odric's sword rang against his helmet, sending the cathar staggering backward, but he kept his feet and clutched his sword more tightly.

"You're going to have to kill me, apostate," he growled.

Odric strode forward and unleashed a storm of steel, driving Haral back from his relentless assault. Haral couldn't muster an effective counterattack—he lacked the will. The inevitable opening came, and Odric took it without thinking, slashing the man's throat open.

The cathedral doors were now in sight. Odric looked back, at the eight loyal cathars bleeding or dying on the polished cathedral floor. Holy cathars of Blessed Avacyn's church. "May the angels of Flight Alabaster guide you—" He choked on the words. Did the angels give a damn about human spirits anymore?

"...guide you to the Blessed Rest," Thalia said, close beside him. Her hand traced the symbol of Avacyn's collar across her chest, shoulder to heart, shoulder to heart. She glanced up at him, eyes bright with tears, then turned and ran toward the doors.

Some part of Odric lay dead on the floor beside the fallen, but he left it there and ran with her, with Grete, to the stables. As his champion had promised, three horses were ready for them. They barely broke their stride to mount and spur the horses into a gallop. And they left the cathedral, then left Thraben, left their old lives far behind.

"Fully two-thirds of them were in the palm of Jerren's hand," Thalia said, addressing the small band of cathars she had gathered in a tiny Nearheath chapel. "Clearly I underestimated the extent to which Ormendahl's influence has taken hold of the council."

The other cathars shook their heads, distraught.

"And you knew nothing of this?" she asked Odric.

But Odric said nothing. He had uttered barely a word since they passed beyond the outer wall of Thraben. She couldn't be sure he had even blinked—he just sat and stared.

She sighed and rested a hand on his shoulder. "I think I know what you're going through, old friend," she whispered in his ear. "I think all of us do."

"He'll be all right," Grete said. "Give him time, time to rest,"

"I know," Thalia said. "He can have all the time he needs."

"What can I do?" Grete asked.

Thalia smiled. "Remember when I invited you to come with me?"

"I should have."

"I'm glad you didn't. I might be hanging in the cathedral courtyard by now if you hadn't been there to help with my escape. You're here now."

"So what is 'here'? What are we doing here?"

"Welcome to the Order of Saint Traft," Thalia said, gesturing to the chapel around her as if it were a grand palace.

"Saint Traft?" Grete said. "You lay claim to a noble pedigree by invoking his name. Demon Slayer, Beloved of Angels, Martyr of the Needle's Eye—you could hardly have chosen a more worthy patron."

"I did not choose him," Thalia said with a smile. "He chose me."

A luminous mist coalesced in the air behind Thalia, turning her hair to liquid gold, and her face seemed to shine with a light of its own. A moment later there were two faces; they pulled farther apart, and a man stood beside her, radiant but insubstantial, a holy geist. Saint Traft himself.

Thalia laid her hand on Grete's shoulder. "Are you ready to fight?"

Grete fell to her knees, but her eyes remained fixed on Thalia's face. "Wherever you lead."

Art by Igor Kieryluk

11

Stories and Endings

By Nik Davidson

Jace Beleren's time on Innistrad has been spent chasing a mystery, from Liliana’s home to Markov Manor to the Drownyard Temple, then back to Liliana, and finally to Thraben Cathedral. His guide on this journey has been a journal—a bound collection of research notes he found at Markov Manor.

As it happens, the journal's author, the moonfolk Planeswalker called Tamiyo, is several steps ahead of him....

Despite the fact that her feet never touched the stone floor, Tamiyo thought about tiptoeing as she slowly drifted through the chantry of Thraben Cathedral. Across dozens of planes, she found reference to bipeds tiptoeing, often in an exaggerated or theatrical style, as a method of indicating the intent to behave in a stealthy fashion. Yet, to stand on tiptoe concentrated a creature's weight on a smaller total area; on a wooden floor (a flooring surface common to a plurality of the planes she had surveyed), walking tiptoe would in fact increase the likelihood that the floorboards would creak, which was by far the most common form of inadvertent noise to reveal the presence of the tiptoer. Illogic of this nature was something she attributed most commonly to humans, and she took some consistent amusement from documenting it. But there was nothing amusing about Innistrad. The evidence immediately demonstrated something much deeper and more dangerous than illogic. She had already been here longer than she had intended. She had already taken on far too many risks. But this was a world entirely off its axis, and she needed to know why.

Several logical lines of inquiry had proven to be dead ends. Some had been promising, but inconclusive. Her astronomical work was near-definitive, but the cause—the first cause—still eluded her. This was a puzzle box with a thousand panels, a riddle of ten thousand lies. She had never solved anything more challenging than this.

She had also never quit before finishing her work.

Art by Eric Deschamps

Her latest line of research had brought her to the cathedral, where the humans of Innistrad housed their oldest histories of Avacyn. The stories she had collected to date, individually, were fragmented and obscured, but she knew the music of stories. She knew which threads to tug upon, which leads to follow, to bring herself—gliding step by gliding step—to a shred of truth. She did not expect to simply discover what she needed written plainly in an old tome. She had heard many stories like that, but never lived one. Still, the oldest histories had the fewest opportunities for distortion; the fewest hands had been given the chance to twist the words toward their own purpose and effect. Avacyn. The world was off its axis, and she was Innistrad's core. The metaphor fit well enough.

She whispered a small prayer to the kami. She knew, of course, that there were no kami here—that spirits manifested themselves very differently from plane to plane and that the geists of Innistrad bore no resemblance to the small gods of her home. None of her experiments had indicated that the kami could hear her prayers across the boundaries of planes. But the mere fact of their local immeasurability was no excuse to be rude.

Armed cathars patrolled the halls, stoic and vigilant, on the lookout for intruders like her. She had already made more contact with the local population than she was comfortable with, and she was pushing up against the limits of her natural silence and stealth. To penetrate the inner libraries, she would need a story—a story to tell the world around her.

An old scroll, one of her first and favorites, floated open from her side. It was a story from her home, and it was precisely the story she needed.

He Who Frightens the Sun

This is the story of the world gone dark, and He Who Frightens the Sun. His shadow brought night to those in his wake, and his hunger was never sated. The akki knew what the oni concealed, a lifetime of loot and of plunder. But none dared risk the oni's wrath, save one who felt no fear.

When that akki came upon a long flat stone, she held it above her head. From high up above, when the oni looked down, she seemed no more than such a stone. And so disguised she went to his cave, assured that she was safe.

But the oni was curious.

"It is strange, little stone, the way that you move! Are you here to steal my riches?"

"I have never heard, great one," the stone replied, "of a stone stealing riches, have you? I promise that if I see any thieves, I will let you know!"

The oni heard truth in the akki's words, and decided that all was well. He went to sleep, and the akki proceeded to take as much as she could carry. Gold, jewels, and a shining platter, in which her reflection grinned.

The next day, the akki returned, and the oni confronted the stone.

"Little stone, little stone! Someone has stolen my treasure! Did you see the thief?"

Remembering her promise, the akki replied, "Yes! I saw the thief, a clever little akki! Perhaps you should go and search for her, and punish her for her wicked ways!"

The oni agreed, and went off in search, and while he was gone, the akki once more made off with more stolen treasure.

If she had only ended there!

The greedy little akki came back to the oni's cave a third time, stone overhead and greed in her heart. The oni's heart held only rage.

"Little stone! It has happened again! I could not find the thief, but once more my treasures vanish! I do not know what to do, except to go to the akki warrens to the west, and devour them all, just to be sure I get the right one!"

Fearing for her home and friends, the akki replied, "Great one! Akki are tough and bitter, not at all delicious! It is best to leave them be, and continue your search for the thief!"

But while the oni did not know a stone, he knew a lie quite well. He scooped up the little akki, stone and all, and swallowed her in one bite.

The akki tell this tale to remember that the truth is a better deception than any lie ever told.

The story invoked, its magic became real, and Tamiyo faded from view. To any who saw her now, she would appear to be something that belonged there—another cathar, or a decorative vase—up until the moment she told a lie, or no longer desired deception. It was a very useful story, but as she did every time with every story, she whispered an apology for using it in this way. Stories were sacred, and to use them as tools felt just a little bit blasphemous every time.

She carried twenty-nine story scrolls with her this day, not including the three in iron bands—the ones that must never be used.

She walked (feet touching the stones now, quite cold) with purpose past a pair of cathars, who offered a crisp salute. She returned the gesture with less efficiency, and all saw what they needed to see. The central library was just ahead. She started mentally cataloguing the stories she brought with her, trying to determine how best to deal with the locks that would likely be up ahead, when she noticed something amiss. The door was already opened a crack, and candlelight flickered from within.

She gestured, and a slight push of wind opened the heavy door a few degrees more. She stepped into a deeper stance, her feet now gripping the stone evenly (though she still thought of tiptoeing, for reasons she could not explain), and crept toward the door, equally ready to flee or to pounce.

The well-oiled hinges parted further as she heard an unmistakable sound, a moment before her eyes confirmed it: a slumping body striking the ground, as if suddenly asleep. A librarian, aged, unarmed, and unarmored. And standing over him...a Planeswalker.

Art by Tyler Jacobson

She took in as much information as she could in the moments before she needed to decide to fight or flee. Planeswalkers were to be avoided in her work, almost at all costs. They were brash and unpredictable, and could carry the biases of any unknown world or means of thinking—they were, in short, a liability to a truth-seeker. This one appeared human, male, young, though the wisps of mana that surrounded him smelled of deception. He had acquired some local clothing, but decorated them with sigils that were clearly not of Innistrad—a curiously poor disguise. His eyes glowed, panicked, wild, possibly afflicted (a thought she had not considered—if a Planeswalker contracted this plane's madness, could they spread it to other worlds?!), and in his hands...her field notes. Another complication. She waited two more heartbeats and resolved to let him make the first move, though a scroll had already drifted from her belt and begun to unfurl.

His eyes were confused. Furious, terrified, curious, then they settled on something like recognition and relief.

"You! It's you! You brought me here. No, not you, this, this journal. Your journal! You brought me here to meet? No, but how could you?" He trailed off, his eyes drifted toward the ground again, then snapped back to her, accusing. "You were watching me? You knew!" Then they softened again, now sad, pleading. "Help me. Can you? I think...can you help me? Help me." The last words were not a plea at all. A command, oppressively powerful, battering at her mind like wind at the shutters. But her mind withdrew to a far-off castle, and the winds could not reach her. Four more heartbeats to think, then she smiled as peacefully as she could manage. With a thought, she covered the Planeswalker in her veiling spell and removed a different scroll from her satchel. She slipped into the library and closed the door quietly behind her. She had never used this story in precisely this way, but a mad planeswalking telepath was a danger of the sort she had never contemplated. The story was one she gathered many, many years ago, from a world with five moons and gleaming metal as far as the eye could see.

Original

With their creator gone, the creatures known as the myr were lost.

Some continued with their last known instructions, repeating their tasks without direction or purpose, while others simply shut down to await commands that would never come. The loss of Memnarch did not kill them, but with no true consciousness within them, their continued life was scarcely life at all.

Some of the myr had been tasked to monitor the myr population, and create new myr to replace those that had been damaged or destroyed. One of those had been in hibernation for months when its instructions demanded that it act—myr of its kind were too few, and it needed to make another.

However, without its maker to guide it, it did not have clear instructions as to how to proceed. It did what it knew to do—it gathered the proper materials, took those materials to the crafting chamber, a small spherical room, and assembled a myr, completely identical to itself.

This was the point in the process when the Master would gift the new myr with life and a mind, such as it was. But the Master was not there. Still, his instructions persisted. The myr decided to use his own mind as a template, and copied itself into the new myr, creating a being completely identical to itself in every way. Its instructions satisfied, the myr went to leave the chamber...and found itself blocked by its duplicate.

The myr tried to let its duplicate go first—but the duplicate had the same thought at the same time. They waited an identical length of time, and then tried to go again, each colliding into its other self once more. The myr and its duplicate tried everything they could to break this impossible symmetry, but nothing worked. Eventually, in frustration, the two destroyed each other.

A third myr arrived some time later, being tasked with repair, and restored one of the myr—the restored myr stopped the repair myr before it could repair the duplicate and start the whole problem all over again. Instead, it decided to try something different, and copied its mind over again, but this time left it incomplete.

The newly awakened myr was able to create others in the same way, and these new myr, created with minds partially unformed, were able to multiply and modify themselves, act autonomously, and ultimately took the myriad forms that they have today.

The myr celebrate this story as their creation myth, but the reason they celebrate it is curious. There are three theories as to which of the myr in this story was actually the first myr of their kind. Was it the first myr who created another without a specific instruction from their creator? Did the repair myr actually repair the newly created myr first, and thus it was the second myr who made the critical leap that marked the creation of their race? Or was it the first of the myr with an incomplete imprint that was truly the first of their kind? The myr disagree on this point, and they celebrate the disagreement itself—the fact that they can have disagreements on issues of such a fundamental nature, yet still remain in unison, is at the core of what it means to be myr.

The young human's eyes closed, and he took several deep, slow breaths. When his eyes opened again, they were calm.

"Thank you. Wow. I...oh. Oh dear. Liliana..." He rubbed his head as if it had been struck, then looked sheepishly up at her. "I'm Jace. And you're Tamiyo, right? Your journal..."

He offered it to her with both hands; she raised a thin palm, a gesture of polite refusal.

"It led me here. Your calculations, your studies, the moon, it all made sense...or at least it felt like it did. I was affected and you...you fixed it. Somehow. I'm rambling. Probably sound almost as mad as I did before, I just...thank you."

Tamiyo smiled serenely. "My field notes. I gave them to someone trustworthy, and now you carry them. Did you bring Jenrik to harm, Jace?"

The human shook his head. "No. But whatever happened to Markov Manor, he didn't survive it."

She spent a moment in silent remembrance, but let no sorrow show on her face. "You need to leave, Jace. This place is dangerous, but far more so for one like you. Your telepathic powers carry with them a responsibility. If driven mad, the damage you could do across the planes would be immense, and it would be irresponsible of me to allow that."

"No, I understand, but..." Jace stopped suddenly. It had taken him a few moments to realize that she had just threatened him. He raised his palms, and took a step back.

"Tamiyo, I just want to help. We can save this place. Me and my friends, we can help you solve what's happening here, and help fix it. We've done it before...sort of."

Tamiyo raised one white eyebrow and said nothing.

"Listen, you and I both know that Avacyn is at the heart of what's happening here. Well, she has a mind, like any other being, and I can find out what's afflicting her. I can stop her, if it comes to that. And then we can move on to the next step in fixing this."

Art by Magali Villeneuve

Tamiyo's smile disappeared.

"You know nothing, Jace. You suspect. You theorize. You have evidence, but it is far from conclusive. How much do you really know about Avacyn? Her purpose? You have no idea what would happen if Avacyn were destroyed. She wards the entire plane—have you ever heard of a planebound being interacting in such a way with the Multiverse? I will tell you this plainly, Jace: you know less than you are ignorant of, and I am not here to fix this world's problem. I am here to understand it. To chronicle it. To know the truth of it, and record that truth for all time. But this plane is likely doomed, and I have no intention of stopping it. It is sad, perhaps, to lose a thing of beauty, but, like the blossoms of an orchard in springtime, it is a temporary beauty. It is just one plane among countless. Planes are lost and renewed all the time. Your premises are flawed."

Jace flinched as if struck. "But the people here—there are millions of them! You'd just leave them to their fate? Madness and worse? We have the power, here, to make a difference. You have that power. Will you help me?"

Tamiyo's expression was unchanged, but her voice held a little more ice. "I have helped you, Jace. I will offer a compromise. I will share my research with you, and you and your friends can use that information to help avert similar disasters on other planes, if it suits you. But I have recorded ten thousand stories about heroes, and a hero is merely a disaster with a point of view."

The young human persisted. "Without conclusive insights from Avacyn herself, your research will be incomplete. Inconclusive. With my help, you will have the story in its entirety. And if I manage to stop Avacyn in the process, it wouldn't harm your work, and it could save countless lives."

Curiosity. Just a touch of it. "A definitive understanding of Avacyn's current state would certainly be helpful, but I suspect that even if you were capable of entering such an alien mind..."

"I can do it."

Tamiyo found the human's arrogance equal parts charming and irritating. "If you try, her madness will consume you, as it did before. But...in theory, I could anchor you. Tether you to your sanity. But if I decide that we are in too much danger, you will break off the connection immediately, and we will retreat. It will also require that we connect minds on a very fundamental level. I will understand you, and you will understand me. And if I do not like what I come to understand, I will alter the terms of this arrangement again. You, for your part, will come to know precisely what I am capable of. Is this acceptable to you?"

"I accept."

Jace felt something like a chime ringing in his mind. A tone that was clear, serene, and pure.

It was an invitation.

In an instant, she knew him. But it was not a simple thing to know this human. His mind was powerful, but broken. Shattered into a thousand shards, each of them a different man, many of them trying to work together, but some of them...

Art by Matt Cavotta

He had erased his own memories. He had destroyed his own truth. He had invaded the minds of the innocent, he had killed in anger, he had used his power for petty and selfish ends.

Yet.

He was capable of sacrifice, of bravery, and of understanding. He was willing to take on responsibilities. Too many responsibilities, perhaps, for one so young. Younger still, if you accounted for the years of his own life that he so roughly erased. His desire for truth was earnest, and his pledge to help the people of this place was pure.

And he was about seventy percent certain he could manage to do what he had told her that he could.

In an instant, he knew her. But knowing is not understanding. Jace had always held the soratami of Kamigawa in high esteem, their minds powerful and disciplined. He saw her life, and the contrast with his own was physically painful. Where he was untethered, she was safely anchored by family, tradition, and home.

Home. An endless library, high in the clouds; the place she loved more than any other. The smiles and sweet familiarity of her family. Children. They could not fully understand the places she went when she left them, but their faces lit up so brightly when she brought them stories, impossible stories, told in the voice of truth from places they could never see.

He saw her burden. The terrible burden of knowing, and the need to protect truths too dangerous to be spoken aloud, yet too important to be forgotten. Three iron-bound scrolls, each with a power...

Jace.

The connection changed, and the two Planeswalkers focused their consciousnesses back to the world they stood in.

"Jace, my veiling spell has been pierced. And there is a powerful presence moving this way."

The human nodded, and the two Planeswalkers hurried down the hallway into the cathedral's central chapel.

"I will attempt to communicate with Avacyn. Distract her. Emphatically distract her if I must. You will not have long to stop her before she kills us both."

Jace opened his mouth to reply, as the world became a symphony of howling winds and shattering glass.

The angel hovered, her massive wings stained with fresh blood, her spear molten and ablaze. The look on her face was one of restrained amusement. Tamiyo floated up to meet her gaze. The angel's wings displaced a gale; when the moonfolk rose, the air did not so much as whisper.

Art by Victor Adame Minguez

"Avacyn. I am a visitor to your world, and I have been as respectful a guest as I have been able. I want nothing but peace and wellness for those you protect. As an angel, you can hear the truth of my words. How do you respond?"

The angel's face twitched into the poorest mockery of any smile Tamiyo had ever known, and a clicking sort of laughter emanated from her, lips unmoving. Her voice was a pained scratch that brought to mind insects and fingernails.

"How...do I respond? I am...to protect. From you. Intruder. Invader. Rotmonger. Impure! IMPURE!"

"I see," replied Tamiyo, a waiting scroll unfurling. "That is unfortunate."

She did not need to do more than glance at the words on the scroll. It was a lament, a song from an ancient world, where the cold and ice were as dangerous as any beast. A song of loss and regret. She knew each line of the song by heart.

Winter's Howl

A young man took a step through mountain door,

A short trip to tend to his fence and farm,

The winter's chill and ice beneath the snow,

Did bring him to both swift and final harm.

His wife, a beauty who loved him so dear,

Went through her day not knowing awful truth,

That just a hundred yards from mountain door,

Her love's own blood did freeze despite his youth.

When widow did suspect that she might be,

She called with terror's breath from mountain door,

The truest cold had risen from the sea.

Only his howl of anguish echoed more.

Avacyn lunged forward with a massive beat of her wings, and Tamiyo slipped through the air, barely clearing the reach of the angel's burning spear. As Avacyn wheeled around in the eaves of the cathedral, Tamiyo let loose precisely targeted blasts of icy gale; a patch of feathers froze and shattered, white and red, falling like snow to the stone floors below.

The angel dove through the air, faster this time, her spear swinging in a wide arc. Tamiyo glided forward, baiting the attack, then tumbled in the opposite direction, more freezing blasts pushing her clear of the spear's tip. She targeted the angel's right wrist, then the joint of the left wing. As she passed behind, again, the spot where the wing met the shoulder. Avacyn was faster, and a single strike of her spear would likely mean Tamiyo's end, but the angel fought enraged, and the soratami moved with deftly calculated precision—Avacyn's face showed no pain, no frustration, but her maneuverability began to suffer. She slowed, and as she did so, the cathedral shook with that impossible laughter, the chattering of dry bones and the clawing of a thousand rats.

Tamiyo sent an urgent thought to Jace, hidden down below.

She's adapting. We don't have long.

Avacyn raised her spear, and for a moment, Tamiyo recognized the guardian from the stories, the Avacyn that had been a beacon to the people of Innistrad. A blinding light shone from her, illuminating every corner of the cathedral, and Tamiyo recoiled from its power. The light burned on, pressing on the two Planeswalkers like a physical force, driving Tamiyo back to the ground, driving Jace to his knees. The angel slowly descended, spear lowered at Tamiyo's chest, all her previous rage seemingly vanished—she was the picture of deadly grace.

Almost there...

And then she froze. The light persisted, but her motion stopped—she stood just feet from Tamiyo's motionless form, spear extended...and there she stayed. No breath, no fluttering of feathers, complete stillness. But the immobilizing light kept pressing down upon them.

"It's done, Tamiyo. She's, well, not sleeping exactly, but it's the closest thing I could manage."

"Jace, perhaps it's slipped your attention..."

"Working on that. But listen. She's the source of the madness among the angels. They synchronize with her somehow. And through her, the church. But...she's not the origin. She's being affected by something else, and—you were right! She's still holding something else at bay. I can't see it, but I think if I push a little deeper..."

"Jace, that's enough."

"Wait. No. That's..."

The air filled with the smell of rotting meat. Avacyn's light did not dim, but the sense of glory vanished from it; the light was cold, sickening, oily, and cruel. The angel rounded on Jace, Tamiyo seemingly forgotten, and she walked with purpose over to his crumpled form.

"Defiler," she whispered, her voice the sound of skin crackling away to ash in the flame. "Thief. Pustule of corruption." She reached down and placed her hand on his chest. Anything else she might have whispered to him was drowned out by his screams.

Art by James Ryman

Tamiyo focused on the link between their minds, tried to offer him solace, any relief from the pain before the end came. Layers of his consciousness had already been peeled away, flayed into insensate misery by the angel's agonizing grasp. But his mind was layered, protected, and the pain had not yet penetrated his deepest thoughts.

Tamiyo. The scroll. The iron scroll. You showed it to me. An old story. A powerful story. The survivors of a place that was lost...Serra's realm. That cataclysm, that power...the story fits. You know it does. You can stop this.

Even as she felt his agony, even as she felt him starting to die, with the knowledge that she would be next, she did not hesitate in the slightest in her reply.

And then? She is still defending this world, Jace, despite her madness. Did you ever make a promise, Jace? I made one, long ago. And promises aren't just to be kept when the keeping of them is easy. We make promises for times like this, when we desperately want to break them. No, Jace. The scroll stays closed.

Disbelief. Anger.

I'm sorry, Jace. Sometimes, our stories have to end.

12

I Am Avacyn

By Doug Beyer

Jace and Tamiyo have followed clues to Thraben Cathedral, the roost of the mad angel Avacyn. Avacyn attacked, and now the three of them are locked in battle. Jace has been unable to contain Avacyn's divine power, and Tamiyo, for her part, is unwilling to break personal promises in order to help save his life. Avacyn bears down on the pair and will soon destroy them both.

Art by Victor Adame Minguez

The two fiends cower before me like a stain on the cathedral floor. They avert their eyes, unworthy of my sight.

I know they are not of this world, but I know they bleed. I can feel their heartbeats under their throats, at the tip of my spear. One more gentle thrust and I will unmask these demonic creatures, send them into the oblivion they deserve, and cleanse the world of them.

I am Avacyn. I am to protect.

One of them, the creature in the blue cloak, pleads with me. As he speaks, I see worms spilling from his mouth. "Avacyn, this isn't you," he coughs, his claw holding his head. "You don't have to do this." The words crawl away into the shadows like centipedes.

Even more than my spear, my sight is my greatest weapon. My eyes see more than the humans can, more even than my fellow angels. I see the angelic heralds in the stained-glass windows, how they bow to me in deference. I see the moonlight that follows me in my travels, even here inside the cathedral, and the white-feathered doves that scatter forth from wherever my feet touch earth. Most of all, I see the squirming jelly behind the faces. I see the revolting lies that hide dressed in human form.

I alone exist to open them to the light of justice.

"You're ill, or misinformed," says the other fiend, her long ears pulled back behind her head. Her eyes are empty sockets, and behind them all I see is coarse black hair, writhing. "You're meant to protect people, not—this."

I push toward her with my hand, and my light blasts the demon back. She slams against the wall, coughing, and the sounds that fall out of her become bedraggled black hair.

"I am the bulwark against fiends from without," I say, aiming my spear at her. The spear's points bend into a scolding finger. "I destroy wickedness, no matter its origin, no matter its form. I have seen you crawl across my provinces, slither into my church. But now I see you. And now you answer to me."

I call to the light, and it obeys. A cold flickering manifests in my hand, and the shadows of my fingers fall across the trembling demons. "Finally," I say, "your corruption of Innistrad ends."

Something stirs up on the roof. I look up to see the skylight explode, a man crashing through it feet first. Tinted shards rain down into the cathedral. The glass bounces off my skin as the demons shield their heads.

Art by Wesley Burt

The man crashes onto his feet, sword in hand. He stands straight, his boots grinding glass. He is unhurt, his white hair barely ruffled.

Art by Franz Vohwinkel

It is one of the bloodsuckers, and an ancient one. I recognize him, but I cannot quite bring his name to mind.

"Stand aside, vampire," I say. "I will deal with you next."

But his body blocks my way. His weapons are already drawn: a longsword readied in one hand, a spell in the other.

"There's something wrong with you, Avacyn," the vampire says. His mouth is a leech's mouth, the words bent around a bloody circle of fangs. "I've come to help."

"Do not attempt to stay my spear, bloodsucker, or you will feel it yourself."

I cannot quite recall his title, but I see him. His face ripples with leeches, slithering just beneath the skin. He reeks of blood.

"Avacyn," he says. "I need you to come with me down to the cellar. You'll see what I must do, if you'll just wait for a moment—"

"My mission never waits," I answer. I hurl the holy magic at him, and it hits him full in the chest.

The vampire is unmoved.

"Avacyn," he says. "The cellar. We have business we must attend to."

"Sorin," says one of the creatures, her empty eyes directed to the vampire. "You can help her, can't you?"

"Silence," he snaps, and the demons jolt with the force of his voice. He turns to me again. "Listen to me. If you have some grievance with these two, you may kill them before we begin."

The two fiends look at each other.

"But I won't permit you to leave this place until our business is concluded."

In the rafters high above, feathered wings rustle. The eyes of a dozen of my blessed angels look down on us, flashing and beautiful like the stars at midnight.

I find myself wondering something. An angel is made of goodness—but is goodness made of an angel's acts? I do not know why this question occurs to me now.

"I warn you, vampire," I say. "These invaders are the foulest threat on Innistrad, but you are in danger of becoming the greater evil in my sight. Begone, or I and my host will strike you down."

Art by Chase Stone

He steps toward me in disobedience. I pummel him with hallowed light, but again the spell does not harm him. He tilts his head. His eyes look almost concerned, but his leech's fangs flex, mocking me. I hear laughter. A sliver of doubt inserts itself into my mind—not that I may be defeated, but that I may have hesitated at the moment I released the spell. I may have prevented myself from striking him down. I do not know why this should be.

I hear the wings of the angels who perch in the rafters above me, and I can feel their starlight eyes on me. I steel myself in their light. As I raise my spear-tip to the vampire, it curves into a blade of justice.

The vampire takes another step, so that his chest rests against the spearhead. "Avacyn," he says with his bloody mouth. "You cannot harm me." He reaches out to me. "And there is a reason."

The next words he says leave a mark on me. They are just sounds, just vibrations in air. But I feel them like a carver's knife. Like an inquisitor's brand.

"I am your creator," he says.

The words feel old, as if they have been chiseled somewhere inside me, dust gathering in the troughs. But now the dust floats away, and I see him.

He is Sorin, of the Markov bloodline. I see him. His mouth is not round like a leech's—I do not know why I perceived him that way before. His white-within-black eyes and high cheekbones are not unlike my own.

He is my creator. The truth of it is plain to me now. As I see him, I see myself.

He is the reason I exist. He was there when I was created, the man who stood over me that first instant when I came into being. It was he who imbued me with my mission. My creation happened here, in the deep reaches of this very cathedral. I know now that he made me, Innistrad's divinity, for one purpose.

I am Avacyn. I am to protect.

To root out threats to Innistrad. To answer the prayers of the innocent, and to strike down those who would torment them. To protect those who would otherwise be devoured by the shadows of this world.

"You are my creator," I say.

"Yes."

"Then you must be good," I say.

My creator's smile is gentle, showing just the slightest edge of fang.

"You are the source," I say. "Of me. And therefore. Of goodness."

"That's right, Avacyn. And so that you can be the best you can be, you must join me. Come." He reaches his hand out to me, but something makes me hesitate to take it.

I look at the two people I have battled tonight, their backs against a wall of the nave. They still look as fiends to me now, but also like a woman and a man. Mages. Mortals.

Their blood has been spilled in my cathedral. I can smell the tang of copper on my blade. But this could only be so if they were wicked. If I have struck them down, then what could they be but monsters? An angel is made of goodness—is goodness made of an angel's acts?

My creator regards me. His eyes are cold as they scrutinize my face. I can see his pulse in the pale skin of his neck, the vein beating with someone else's warm blood.

I am Avacyn. I am to protect.

But

Images whirl around me.

I

Villages burning.

have

Innocents slain.

not

A mother, crying over her child.

protected.

I have set those fires. I have slain those innocents. I was created as a defender, as a protector—and yet that protector has brought destruction. And I was not only a protector, but a symbol. An entire church grew up around me—but the church has kindled a zealous hatred, and my power has fanned those flames.

What does it mean to be good? Is goodness made of an angel's acts?

I look at my creator and tilt my head at him.

I was made, but I was made imperfectly. With flawed sight. I am not a protector at all, but a danger, a weapon for those who would wield me to harm this world.

"You," I say.

I square my shoulders toward my creator and flex my pinions. Moonlight gathers on my body. My skin glows, and I can see doves flying in the cathedral around me. It is clear to me now what I must do.

"Avacyn," Markov says, his voice low, a predator's tone.

"Scion of Markov," I announce, raising my spear. Its blades curve and warp to jab at his chest. "You have allowed this to happen."

"You should be careful what you say to me, child," Markov says.

"I am not your child," I say. "I am your creation. You are responsible for everything I am capable of. I was made for a purpose, and your purpose was impure. Sorin Markov, I condemn you as the greatest evil of this world."

"You've fallen out of line," Markov says through his teeth.

"Wait, Sorin—" warns one of the fiends. "Don't. The consequences for the plane—"

"Why would you allow this?" I ask. "Why would you make me this way?" I press with the spear against his chest, scratching the armor.

Markov sneers. The blade in his hand flashes in the light from the rafters. "Avacyn, come down to the cellar," he says. "Let us discuss your creation."

"You created me to ensure that all wickedness meets its demise," I say. "Prepare to meet yours."

I lunge with the spear, using every bit of my divine strength. Somehow, the blade misses his chest, and I fall past him. He lashes me with draining magic, but I turn in time to deflect it away.

I claw at him, channeling light into the blow. It connects, but only rakes sparks across his armor.

He swings back at me, batting me with the flat of his blade. Still, it's strong enough to rattle my ribcage.

I raise my spear in both hands, the deadly end pointing to the heavens. I channel my wrath into the weapon, and it thrums with divine power.

"You were made to be loyal to me," Markov says. "You can't harm me."

"It seems not," I say. "But they can."

He looks up to see the angels I have called down on him. They dive from the rafters. He barely has time to shield his face before they crash onto him, their graceful hands tearing at him like talons.

But he fights back, and his blows are terrible. He impales one angel with his sword and slices through the wing of another. He throws one angel to the floor, cracking the marble, and another through a column, turning the masonry to powder. He holds another by the neck as she attacks him with furious claws, buffeting at his face and shoulders. I will my strength to her, but I can see her essence flowing into him, dark liquid strands from her eyes and mouth into his own. She seizes into a hunch, like the rictus of a crow.

He turns to me, his leather torn and his chest plate raked open. My angels have weakened him, but he is far from defeated. He taps the tip of his sword on the marble. "This changes nothing, Avacyn," he says.

I call, and the last three of my twinkling-eyed angels, the final guardians of the Cathedral, encircle him. They attack him in concert with sword and claw, blows many and fierce. They close in on him, shrieking, slicing from all sides. Markov must feel the way I felt inside the Helvault, with demons' wings grazing me in the lightless void.

One by one he destroys my angels. He charges into one, slamming her through row after row of stone pews. As the next swoops at him, he hurls his sword overhand, catching the blade in her chest and impaling her. She falls in a heap. He grabs the final attacker by the shoulder, looks her in the eye, and throws her through the floor-to-ceiling stained-glass window. The wall shatters into a thousand shards. The angel arcs somewhere off the bluff.

Markov turns back to me once more, a snarl revealing one of his fangs. I put my spear-blade against his neck, but I can feel it resist harming him. I lean into it, and it simply fails to cut him.

I focus on his face. I remind myself—he is not a vampiric noble, but a horror. He is a monster, a blood demon, a leech.

And I see him anew. His eyes become mouths, ringed with teeth. His face is a flimsy mask. He is my creator, and he is the embodiment of evil.

"Avacyn—" he begins through a leech's mouth, and I slash my spear through his neck, cutting deep enough to hit bone.

He roars and leaps back, grasping his neck. Rotting ooze gushes from between his fingers, turning to sickly fungus on the flagstones.

He leaps at me, sword aimed at my heart, and the blade sparks along my spear as I parry. I pivot to strike him, but I must duck his claw, and the blow severs tendons in my wing. When I lunge to push light through him, it is met with a blast of blood magic that scatters my spell. I shriek and dive into him, breaking a column with his body, crashing him through glass and splintered wood until he is shoved against the wall of the cathedral.

The monster's head tilts and I hear bone crack against bone. His neck wound has begun to scar over.

The mouths in his eye sockets drool words. "Avacyn. I must do this."

"And I, this," I say, and I sink my spear through the gap in the monster's chest plate, so deep that the blade hits the granite of the cathedral wall on the other side.

He roars and I am blasted back. I skid to a halt. Markov clutches the spear handle and yanks out the blade, and for a moment I can see the slimy animal that must serve as his heart. Squirming lampreys flow from the wound. He drops the spear and his own sword, and they clatter alongside one another. He clutches his wound closed with one claw.

"You are lost," he mouths. "You can only see me as a monster now, and that is why you can harm me."

"You are a stain on the world," I say. "It is only now that I am able to see that clearly."

His attack comes at once, almost faster than the sound reaches me.

We grapple, clamping our hands into each other's shoulders. We slam each other through pews. We lift each other up into the rafters, fragmenting the beams, and our struggle is clouded with plaster dust and feathers. I scrape at his jawing face, and the wounds do not heal immediately. My fingers find flesh and shred it, and acrid smoke seeps from the wounds as great chunks of Thraben Cathedral fall to the floor far below us.

He grimaces and suddenly locks his claws onto my upper arms, pinning me as I thrash my wings to keep us aloft. His muscles are steel, and he's bending my arms behind my back, dislocating a shoulder. I realize he was holding back before. This is his true strength.

He bites my neck, and the pain is like a thousand innocents screaming, a thousand pleas for aid, a thousand prayers I will never answer. I feel my blood pumping at my throat, drawn by suction.

When we fall, it is not from gravity, not from a weakness in my wings. We fall because he drives us down, his strength slamming us from the height of the Cathedral down to its floor.

Through its floor.

When we slam to a halt, we lie in the cellar of Thraben Cathedral, a ragged hole of marble above us. Markov's sword balances on the edge of the hole, then falls beside us, sticking point-down in the stone.

I touch the cold stone floor, pawing for my spear, but it's missing. It must still be upstairs. Instead I touch a dark shape, a burn scar on the floor, the remains of some mighty spell. It is shaped like wings. Angel's wings.

Art by John Avon

Above us, the fiends are shouting warnings. Their pleading echoes through the halls. To me they sound like unanswered prayers.

"You should know this place," Markov says, getting up off me, wiping his fang-filled mouth. "This is the place where you were made."

I rise. The wound at my neck bleeds, but I let it bleed. Somehow, in this place, it feels like healing. "Where you made me what I am," I say.

"Let me help you, my child," the monster says. "I could...cleanse your mind. Make you a proper instrument of virtue again. I'll make you anew."

Never. "If I am not the daughter you want..." I say.

He winces.

"...then we must battle again, and again, forever. For I will never yield. I am no monster's instrument. I will not be altered by the likes of you."

I can feel my strength returning already, here in this holy place. I am inexhaustible. In a moment, I will be ready to strike him down again.

"No," Markov says. "This ends. Now."

"I know what you will do," I say. "So go on. Create another vault of silver. Imprison me. That is the only way you will stop me from doing everything in my power to destroy you."

"The prison is gone," he says. "I cannot create another Helvault, just as I cannot create another you."

I gather my strength. "You are my creator. You must know the way of this world. What cannot be destroyed must be bound."

Markov unsheathes his sword from the stone floor. His words are quiet. "But Avacyn...you can be destroyed."

Art by Viktor Titov

I cannot see his face now, because he turns away from me. I cannot see whether he is monster or man. I can only see the point of that sword. I can only hear ancient words, words of a ritual performed in reverse, words of a gift being revoked. I can only feel my knees dropping onto the unyielding limit of the Cathedral floor. I can only smell the ash of some nearby smoldering. I can only touch the shadow on the floor under me, the shape that marks my first moment.

I can only say to you, in this, my final prayer to the world, that I only ever meant to keep the innocent from harm.

I am Avacyn. I am to protect.

Art by David Rapoza

Art by Slawomir Maniak

Art by Wesley Burt

Art by Daarken

Art by Mike Bierek

Art by Daniel Ljunggren

"What—have you done?" Jace demanded.

Fumes rose from the burnt place on the floor, drifting up through shafts of light from one of the cathedral's skylights. Avacyn was no more. The cathedral felt overly large now, somehow. Too much space under the rafters. Too vacant.

Jace glanced back and forth between the space that had been Avacyn and Sorin's face. The vampire was trembling slightly, fists clenched around his sword, as if trying to hold an earthquake in his chest.

"I had to," Sorin whispered.

Jace made incredulous gestures with his hands, unable to figure out which of the eleven things wrong with that statement to insist on first. In the end, he turned to Tamiyo. "Did he have to?"

Tamiyo only frowned. She hiked her robes and squatted on the floor, reaching out with gloved fingertips to sample the ash remains. She rose, rubbing the ash between her fingers. She rested her hand on a small telescope on her belt, like a warrior touching a reassuring weapon, her eyes fixed on Jace. "This will have...consequences," she said.

Jace nodded. "The people of this world have lost a protector."

An extended, guttural bass rumble rolled across the sky, profound and booming. The sound thudded in Jace's chest and shook dust from the ceiling.

Tamiyo looked grave. "The plane has lost its protector," she said.

The world rumbled again, this time under Jace's feet. The ground shuddered, the tremor intensifying from moment to moment. Flagstones jittered in their ancient mortar. Shards of stained glass shook and fell, tumbling from leaden frames that depicted Avacyn's face, and the shattering sound echoed through the vacant halls.

The tremor subsided. The echoes fell silent.

Jace watched Sorin shove his sword into his scabbard and turn away, his collar pulled up around his jaw, his shoulders hunched. The vampire glided up a staircase, his fingernails raking pits in the marble bannister.

The stairs were sunken and pitted in their centers, Jace noticed. Attrition from centuries of footfalls. Centuries of worshipers. Centuries of seekers of Avacyn.

"What have you done?" Jace called after him.