In an instant, hundreds of thousands of Planeswalkers were reduced to clouds of blood and fragments of flesh scattered through the void. Their sparks, their shattered souls, and their vital essences were torn from existence before they could even scream.
Then something even more unsettling occurred.
All that extinguished energy did not dissipate—it was absorbed.
A colossal blood-red matrix appeared out of nowhere beneath that infinite chaos, spreading like a network of unknown symbols that covered entire regions of the dimension. The countless consumed essences flowed into it in scarlet torrents, feeding every single one of its strokes.
Ugin frowned.
Beside him, the woman did the same.
Both fixed their gazes on the colossal formation for barely a second, but that was enough for them to immediately understand its purpose.
—Ugin! Today I will transcend to a level that even in my life from the previous era I could not reach!
The woman snorted, her fingers tightening around the bronze mirror.
—We are hundreds of thousands, and he is only one —she said, though her tone was not arrogant, but calculated. She was referring only to those of rank eight and above. Those below that level who had not yet died would inevitably perish as soon as the battle began, from the residual energies of the attacks unleashed alone.
—Amaterasu —Ugin called her, his voice deep but firm—. We must give our all in this battle. If we do not, we will all die.
Amaterasu nodded.
Both changed their appearance in the same instant.
Ugin's body expanded with an explosion of blue light. His robes tore as his bones elongated and widened, his skin became covered in scales, and his limbs transformed into claws. In less than an instant, where an elderly scholar had stood, now rose an enormous blue-scaled dragon that rivaled Nicol Bolas himself in size. His wings, translucent and crisscrossed with veins of energy, unfurled with a thunderous crack, and his eyes, now two beacons of blue light, fixed upon his twin brother.
Amaterasu also transformed. Her body stretched and became covered in fur as white as freshly fallen snow. Nine tails sprouted from her back, each as long as her body, undulating with a life of their own. Her face sharpened into a fox's snout, her golden eyes grew even brighter, and behind her, floating in a halo of blinding light, appeared nine immense suns radiating heat capable of melting stars.
The nine suns on Amaterasu's back illuminated intensely. The white light turned golden, then orange, then a white so pure it erased the contours of reality around it.
Ugin roared.
Amaterasu also roared.
And together they took the first step, leading the hundreds of thousands of planeswalkers surrounding them. The army surged forward like a tide of power, magic, and fury, ready to fight a definitive life-or-death battle against Nicol Bolas.
The green dragon opened his jaws in a colossal smile and spread his wings, preparing to receive them.
"…"
"…"
"…"
—Ugh!
A small girl with ashen hair woke with a start, bringing a hand to her temple. A dull headache throbbed just behind her eyes, as if someone had been pressing hard against her temples while she slept. She blinked several times, letting the interior of the carriage slowly come into focus before her emerald-green eyes.
—That annoying nightmare again.
She pouted, crossing her arms in annoyance. Beside her, the padded fabric of the seat still held the imprint of her body, and the travel blanket had fallen to the floor during the jolt of waking.
—I can't believe Grandma wants me to marry Prince Kistrin —she began to grumble under her breath, as if talking to herself but expecting the entire universe to listen—. If at least he were one of those blue princes from the stories, it would be fine. But when we finally traveled to meet him, he turned out to be a disgusting, ugly, fat man!
She snorted. The memory of Prince Kistrin, with his booming laugh and his greasy fingers staining the banquet tablecloth, turned her stomach. Now they were on their way back home, and for the first time in weeks, the carriage was moving in the right direction.
She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, chasing away the last shreds of the nightmare. Green dragons, armies of thousands, a white nine-tailed fox goddess… she shook her head and turned toward the window.
The fog enveloped everything. It was a thick, damp fog, so dense that the silhouettes of the trees along the roadside were barely discernible as ghosts in the twilight. The carriage moved slowly along a steep path, skirting a forest whose nearest branches scraped the roof of the vehicle like wooden fingers. Moonlight filtered through the fog in silver tatters.
The girl's emerald eyes gleamed.
With feline movements, she slipped from the seat. Her feet, clad in leather ankle boots, touched the carriage floor without a sound. The door on the side opposite the guards creaked open with a minimal squeak, barely a whisper of well-oiled hinges. The fog, a silent accomplice, swallowed her silhouette as soon as she set foot outside.
Crouching low, she moved forward, hugging the rear wheel as the carriage continued on its way. The guards flanking the vehicle were blurry shadows in the fog, their silhouettes outlined by the torches they carried. One of them turned his head one way, then the other. He saw nothing. The girl waited for the carriage to move a few more meters away, and then, with her heart pounding against her chest with pure excitement, she broke into a run toward the forest.
—The princess has escaped!
A sudden shout tore through the fog like a knife. The torches flickered, shadows danced, and from among them emerged the tall, stocky figure of the head escort. Zywiecki cursed under his breath and broke into a run, his heavy boots crushing the undergrowth as he plunged through the curtain of fog.
—Princess Cirila! Please come back!
His voice boomed among the trees, but the girl was already barely an ashen flash among the trunks. She ran with great energy, dodging roots and low branches with the agility of a squirrel.
Zywiecki sped up. His lungs pumped cold air as his eyes strained not to lose sight of her. The distance between them began to close when something whistled in the darkness.
A dull thud. Then another, wetter.
Zywiecki stopped dead, his boots sinking into the mud. He looked down. From his chest protruded the shaft of an arrow, its fletching stained a dark red that slowly spread across the fabric of his uniform. His breath escaped in a liquid gurgle. The arrow had pierced his lung.
With his eyes wide open, Zywiecki took a couple of steps forward before collapsing to the ground.
—No… it can't be… —he murmured, as a dry cough shook his chest—. Am I really… going to die here?
He tried to push himself up on one arm, but it gave way under his own weight. His gaze wandered across the place, unfocused.
—After everything I've done… is this the end? Here…? —he whispered, with a mixture of disbelief and bitterness.
With resignation in his eyes, Zywiecki slowly closed his eyes.