Dragon's Maze

“No one gets to kill anyone,” said Jace. “None of you will make any claims. You’ve all assembled, finally. This is the moment that the maze wanted to produce.”

“So why haven’t we unlocked it?” asked Ral. “Where is my prize?”

From the edge of the forum, a cloaked figure approached, and all eyes turned to him. The man stepped forth and threw off his robe. He was a wizened elf dressed in Simic garb, someone Jace didn’t recognize.

“Advisor,” said the Simic mage Vorel, who clearly recognized the newcomer. “How is it that you’ve come here?”

“Have you dispensed with the obsolete specimens yet?” the newcomer asked.

Vorel’s face hardened. “No, I—no. You’re right, Advisor. I’m sorry. I was distracted from my duties. I shall carry out the plan immediately, and bring the Simic to a bright future.” Vorel unsheathed a dagger and began preparing a spell.

The newcomer then walked to the legionnaire Tajic. The newcomer’s form melted, turning into formless liquid for a moment in a manner that made Jace’s stomach go cold. The liquid flesh then took the form of a young legionnaire in Boros armor. She wore a braid of dark hair down her back.

“You,” Tajic gasped.

“Tajic, Blade of the Legion,” said the young woman. “I told you that your charge was to destroy all of the Warleader’s enemies. Yet I see many of her enemies still breathe. Have you admitted defeat, Commander?”

Tajic blinked for a moment, then recovered and snapped his boots together. “Absolutely not.” Tajic had his sword out in a flash, and thrust it into the sky. “For the Warleader!”

“No,” whispered Jace. He peered into the mind of the shapeshifting figure, even as her form began to melt and rearrange itself yet again. Just as he suspected, the newcomer’s mind was an impenetrable blank.

Lazav.

“Don’t listen to this person!” Jace shouted. “Don’t obey him! He’s deceiving you! He’s fed you lies!”

Lazav, now in the form of an Orzhov high priest, laughed and spread his hands as if handing out candy. “It’s no use, Jace. They all know me. They’ve all had their visits from me, and their minds have all made a place for me. And you’ll see that they’ve all devoured the lies I prepared for them.”

His form wobbled and changed again, inverting on itself and emerging out of itself like twisted dough. His new form was that of a burly, tattooed troll with a Gruul insignia on his forehead.

Ruric grunted. “You told us maze would lead us to weapon.” Thar stuck out his chin. “Great weapon that could tear down city.”

“Stop listening to him!” said Jace. “Block him out! Can’t you see that he’s a shapeshifter?”

Lazav grinned, showing tusk. “Yes, true warrior,” he said to Ruric Thar. “Kill all the weak, and the weapon is yours.” He turned to Jace. “They can only blame themselves for what has transpired, of course. They were the ones who invited me in, the ones who opened their ears to my whispers and rumors. They welcomed the suspicion, the blame, the mistrust into their hearts. They made room for me, and now they can hear nothing else. And once they all kill each other, I’ll finally get my prize.”

Lazav’s lips curled into a smile, and everything around that smile became Calomir.

Jace looked to Emmara. He could see her struggling, her eyes drawn to Calomir’s face, even though she knew the real Calomir had been killed by the same shapeshifter. He could see the conflict tearing her apart inside.

Meanwhile the maze-runners were all at each other’s throats again, about to make the first kill, about to bring death to the Forum of Azor.

The flow of mana intensified, and the beams of power grew stronger. The guild symbols on each of the pillars flared to life, each signet ablaze in tinted light. An ethereal figure materialized above the monolith. It was the bailiff, the manifestation of the Implicit Maze, his runic body a beacon of light floating in the storm. The bailiff’s empty eyes regarded all those gathered in the forum. The Assessment was beginning.

“You haven’t failed yet!” said Jace. “Emmara! Emmara, you can bring them together. You have to help them. You have to show them how to become one.”

Lazav reached out to her, and her hand rose, slowly but inexorably, toward his. He clenched his hand into a fist, and Jace saw Emmara’s fingers trembling, curving, tightening. She clenched her jaw and squeezed her fist, and Jace could feel her summoning mana, focusing all her feelings of betrayal and pain and rage for some act of woeful spellcraft.

She shot a look at Mirko Vosk, and her fist began to luminesce, growing as bright as sunlight. She began to walk toward the vampire, her white-hot fist reflecting as intense pinpricks in her eyes.

“Will you protect your guild, Emmara?” Lazav asked her, as Calomir. His tone was cajoling, drawing her out. “Will you do what it takes? Will you kill for your guild?”

“Yes,” she hissed.

“Yes,” said all the other maze-runners.

“Then let’s give you the weapon you all need,” said Lazav.

“The Assessment has been made,” said the bailiff. “The will of Azor is to deliver the verdict.”