By Cary Thomas

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You were a Planeswalker.

Surely you remember that much?

Now is your chance to leave, once-Planeswalker.

All you must do is climb. Ascend, if you have the strength.

High above, an omenpath spirals into Eternities. Not the omenpaths you studied, no. Even if you could still recall the phenomena by name, this newly infinite form would bring no immediate connection to mind.

But you know it is elsewhere.

Because that elsewhere is here now. And it will not stop being here, and now. It has poured in for weeks without a moment of reprieve, flooding this world entirely, and all you can do is climb. There is no end, only escape.

You were a Planeswalker.

You are still powerful, yes? Not too weak to escape? The scorching pain in your left leg has finally subsided, however in a cruel trade it now drags behind, numb and limp. You expected yourself to move with much more haste to avoid his countering strike. A fluke. Yet, he is dead and you are alive.

You survived, as you always do. And his end, it appears, has brought this fated pathway to you.

When your good leg slips, your arms anchor into the sand. You do not panic, just still. Breathe in. An ancient memory would identify the faint, arid wind that accompanies the ceaseless sand as Rabian, but your mind fails you. You cannot remember the world.

Readjusting takes patience. Your right leg finds hold as you shift your weight forward. Prone against the hill, your forgotten wings taunt you with means in this steepest of ascents.

You listen, both to your wings and to the ember within you which flickers in anticipation of freedom, of power. It will take the last of your strength to have everything back.

One final exchange to reach eternity. Three limbs push you off as your wings extend in a burst upwards, a flawless launch and closing in. With your gaze locked, you cannot discern whether you are approaching it or it is approaching you—perhaps both occur in this destined moment. You reach a claw forward in all too eager acceptance, but it does not yet pierce the familiar veil of rebirth.

You call for more.

There is no answer. Atrophied wings have seized and refuse to open again. The pathway recedes.

A grand serpent plummets into the dunes.

Pain ripples across your body as countless injuries loudly make themselves known. Instinctively, you quiet the voices. Your strength is spent. Nevertheless, your will remains.

You were a Planeswalker.

But that wasn’t all that you were.

This is not the end. It is in your very nature to survive against all else—that was the reason he brought you here after all. Your kind cannot die so easily.

Which means he didn’t either, did he?

This realm is now as much his as it was yours when you’d first been severed, lingering beyond. You no longer smell the smoke that alerted you to his smothering weakness, your opportunity, but he is there. You know that to be true, for where else could he go?

So it echoes across the sands of that world. You roar the name in hope, in hatred, but most of all in desperation.

And in time, your brother will answer.