It all came down to this: two men kneeling side by side before Yawgmoth.
These were no mere men, of course. One was a virtual
god. His long, ash-blond hair spread across the stone, and his powerstone eyes were cast in deep shadow. Urza
Planeswalker had first opened the gate to Phyrexia, had fought the first Dominarian war against demon hordes, had planned and executed the current world war down to its
minutest detail. He had lived for millennia and had spent all the while preparing to face Yawgmoth—though he had
never expected to do so in a full, abject, and willful bow.
Beside him knelt a man who wasn’t even a hundredth his
age. No gray showed in his jet-black hair, and no worry lines in his high forehead, though he had inherited worry enough for a whole world. As Urza had unwittingly begun this great horror,
Gerrard had unwillingly received the onus of ending it.
Centuries of eugenics had distilled courage, resourcefulness, wit, tenacity, and ferocity in a single vessel—Gerrard
Capashen. With these qualities, he should have defeated the invaders. Instead, he bowed to them.
Side by side, the two best hopes for Dominaria pledged
