The titan suit toppled backward. Sparks from the grass ignited the oil. It flashed fantastically. Mantled in fire, the titan burned.

Oh, what a terrible scene-so many pneumagogs unmade by that burning oil! They fled up and away, but some were too slow. Pneumagogs flocked around him like burning birds. Even in death, Taysir was a killer. Such a horrible waste.

At least Taysir was dead. The oil had stopped spraying life force. Taysir's suit went dark. It was a waste of good design material. The dome had cracked. The hydraulics systems had shattered. Weapons across the machine were ruined. Perhaps the genius of it was lost.

Yawgmoth would know how to salvage the best parts, the best designs. Taysir's suit was a gift to Yawgmoth.

"What of the others?" Urza wondered to the wind. "Freyalise, Lord Windgrace, Bo Levar, and Commodore Guff? Surely they will try to detonate the bombs. If they are successful-"

A voice in his mind replaced his thoughts. They are no longer your concern. Leave them to my minions. You must descend toward me. Leave your titan engine here and come to the seventh sphere.

Urza's breath caught short. "The seventh sphere? It is a place of torments. Why do you call me to the seventh sphere? Have I failed you?"

There is a final test you must pass, Urza Planeswalker. I must know your true heart.

"You will know it," replied Urza. "You will surely know it."

He planeswalked from the piloting harness of his titan suit. It would stand without him, another gift to Yawgmoth. The sixth sphere of Phyrexia disappeared.

Urza rematerialized in another place, a deeper place. Just over his ashen hair rolled enormous grinders studded in diamond teeth. They gnashed against each other. Were Urza to reach up, his hand would be caught and his whole body ripped away. The ceiling extended in every direction, supported by nothing and tumbling ravenously by. Spatial distortions sometimes lifted the grinders away from the ground and other times brought them into direct contact.

Urza looked at the ground. It was covered with bodies. This was no random carnage, but a calculated thing. Creatures were laid out on their backs. Their legs and arms were bolted to pipes. Some were human, some elf, some minotaur or dwarf-but most were Phyrexian. Their feet and kneecaps had been ground away. Their bellies had been ripped open by the diamond points. Their faces were gone. It was a horrid death to have suffered but fitting for those who had failed the lord of Phyrexia.

As Urza watched, the ceiling nearby warped and descended. Grinders spun, coming into contact with a whole field of bodies. Where they rolled, blood and oil and bits of meat came away. That was not the most ghastly sight though. Worst of all was the jiggling of the bodies, the agonized shuddering that told that these forms were still alive.

Blinking powerstone eyes, Urza said, "Is this the test then? To watch unflinching as you work eternal punishment on your foes?

"This will not shake my belief. I see this and am unmoved. Mortality is no better than this-to lie helpless as time grinds flesh to bone. I have watched mortals-even best friends, even brothers-get ground away like this. It is your right to do this. You are a god."

As if waiting for Urza to finish his lecture, the voice said simply, Proceed.

Urza did. He stepped among arms and legs, passing over the flayed figures. They breathed even though their noses were only holes in their faces. They lived even though their hearts were laid bare. The air shivered with agony.

None of this poisoned Urza's heart. Those who pleased Yawgmoth received his bounteous mercies. Those who displeased him received his bounteous wrath. It was the right of gods. Stop.

Urza did so without hesitation, setting his foot down beside a Phyrexian. Look at him.

Urza did. Unlike so many others, this creature's head had not been held down. He could turn it to the side when the rollers came down. Both of his ears were gone. The skin and muscle on either side of his head were mere tatters over bone, but his face remained. Black hair, a rumpled brow, sharp eyes, a prominent nose, a mustache, a goatee… It was a familiar face. Even after eons, it took Urza only a moment to recall it. "Mishra," he murmured, staring at his brother. When last Urza and Mishra had been face to face, they had sought to slay each other. A fireball had shown Urza what his brother had become-Phyrexian. Metal sinews had strung along beneath the man's flesh. That single spell had also shown Urza what he must do to annihilate the plague he had brought to Dominaria. The sylex blast had made Urza a planeswalker and, he thought, had slain Mishra. He had been wrong.

Your brother failed me. He sought me out in hopes of gaining power. He wanted to use me to defeat you, but I am never used. Mishra failed to slay you. He even closed Dominaria to me for an age. For this, he suffers eternally.

Urza stared down. His gemstone eyes gleamed. One of those stones had been Mishra's-the Weakstone. In the sylex blast, Urza had received both the stones and the power they bore. Mishra had meanwhile received damnation.

He came to me, but I did not want him. I wanted you, and you did not come.

"Until now," Urza said.

Until new.

"Brother," rasped Mishra, "save me." Urza only stared down at him. "Grasp my hand. 'Walk me from this place! We can both escape this hell. Take me to some grassy place where the wind blows, that I may die in peace. Take me away. He will allow it. He has told me. Take me, Brother."

I will allow it, confirmed the voice. This is your test. I would know your heart on this matter.

"Brother! Please! If there is any humanity left in you, take me away!" pleaded Mishra. His eyes reflected the violent rolling of the grinders above.

Urza stared once last. "Good-bye, Mishra." He turned and strode slowly away.

"Come back! Help me, Brother!" Mishra's shouts were interrupted by the roar of the grinders descending on him.

Excellent. I know your heart now. You are mine.

"Yes, Lord Yawgmoth. I am yours."

The damned thing was fast, lightning fast. She skipped across clouds like a stone across water. Her silver hull hid her in plain view. Unnatural, otherworldly, impossible – Weatherlight was the monstrous creation of a monstrous planeswalker. She had the arrogance to claim the skies over Urborg. The Primevals would not rest until Weatherlight was a shattered hulk. She was not easy prey. Whenever Rhammidarigaaz and his fellow gods drew near, Weatherlight dived among magnigoths. Treefolk shielded her behind thickets of green. They slashed the Primevals with thorns and battered them with boughs.

Darigaaz's fire burned hundreds of magnigoth branches, but hundreds of thousands more fought on. Rith poured rampant spores onto the treefolk, but the resultant growths only strengthened them. Treva's purifying light energized leafy crowns.

Dromar's distortion waves only bent the boughs. Even Crosis's death-word was impotent. The treefolk had no ears with which to hear.

These magnigoths held divinity. A god lurked in the wood and shoved back at them.

Dauntless, the Primevals soared among the magnigoths, intent on flushing Weatherlight into clear air. She jittered around a bole just ahead.