While it has been under two months since you last visited the old man, it feels like an age. The seasons have changed from snapping winds and biting cold to warm chirps and fresh buds. Flowers surround the monastery like soldiers protecting a king. The monastery’s residents make excuses to be outside between, or even during, their duties.

You have been no exception, but tonight is not a night for aimless wandering. Fog hangs heavy and thick, like a damp rag over your eyes. It penetrates the walls, hovering in the walkways, dousing lamps and torches everywhere. You are able to find the old man’s study only because of the countless times you have walked this route.

When you arrive, you sense a quiet you are unable to describe. The air has been silent since you departed thanks to the mist all around, but that is not what you feel. It is a silence within your soul—an immeasurable depth that has suddenly fallen away. Nothing can stop the shiver that comes upon you from this realization, but it fades quickly. Before it can grip you again, you lunge for the door, shoving the heavy thing open with your shoulder.

What greets you is the strangest sight you have seen since first coming to the old man’s study. He sits before you in his chair facing the massive desk, but that is all that is familiar. The bookshelves are empty, and the stone floor is bare of even straw or rat droppings. A single, lone candle remains in the center of the old man’s desk.

I have not told you much of myself, have I? That is a lot to ask of a student: obedience without companionship.

The old man’s voice is strained, as if he has suddenly aged fifty years in the intervening months. Though he has not turned toward you, an image of his face, weathered and wrinkled like the folds of a crop field, emerges in your mind.

I suppose it is not too late to start. It never truly is.

I was born in the city of Phoenon, the most ancient of Thran cities, sixty years before the Civil War. I grew to adulthood during the Thran Empire’s height, and I knew nothing but excellence. I learned the greatest secrets Dominaria’s greatest civilization had to offer. I loved a beautiful woman and oversaw a time of peace and progress in my city. By most men’s standards, I lived a joyous life.

I lived too long to agree with most men.

I saw my city overrun by rebels in the war—people burned and buildings razed. Somehow, my family and I survived. I was able to process what had happened to my life—what I had lost. That was worse than dying, but at least we were still together. Then, elimination.

I should have died that day. I should have joined my wife and my children on whatever plane awaits us beyond this world. But the destruction of Phoenon did not signal the end of my life. Instead, it heralded the beginning of a new life: a tortured existence.

When Yawgmoth eradicated all living souls in Phoenon, I was left breathing. A small, stubborn piece of me rejected death and brought me back from the brink. My spark was lit.

Since that day, I have carried a lead cloak of guilt with me. The powers of a planeswalker did nothing to soothe the pain of losing everything and everyone I had ever known and loved. It taunted me by saying, “You can do anything you wish, but you cannot bring back the life you lost.”

A very dark season followed. It was a bleak era for Dominaria after the Thran Empire collapsed, and I joined the spirit of the age. I committed unspeakable, disgusting acts in an effort to reclaim what I had lost, but nothing alleviated the pain.

Perhaps I might have wandered as an empty shell for millennia, but it was not meant to be. The end to the Brothers’ War shocked me out of my mindless stupor, scalding me with the ability humans have for violence and showing me what I had become. Then, I sensed a presence: the hint of another living Thran.

I will not bore you with the details. You have heard enough tales from me. I eventually found an ally in Urza, and though we had our disagreements, we aided in the fight against Phyrexia. When Urza was gone, I befriended Karn and helped him with the Mirari, and then its evolution, Memnarch.

With the Mending came, it was a massive change to those of us who had been ’walkers for so long. Some denied the transition, attempting to use brute force or tricks to regain their lost power. Some fell into that depression that so many of the old planeswalkers seemed destined for. A few intelligent ones adjusted and accepted the new life, some even becoming mentors to a fresh generation that would never know power like ours.

Me? I drifted once again. I did not commit atrocities this time, but perhaps I could be considered one of those who fell into dark pits of nothingness. Lucky for me, my pit was fairly shallow.

I eventually came here, to your plane, and found it enough to my liking that I decided to stay. I saw no future for myself in the wider Multiverse. This monastery provided a place to stay and books to keep my mind sharp. In time, I began to reach out to the Multiverse, seeking old friends.

The old man pauses, as if he is unsure what to say next.

Now you know my tale.

I have nothing left to give you. From here, you must find your own way. I know you can.

The old man gets up slowly, using his walking stick as leverage, then walks toward you and the door.

Do not linger too long. This is not your place.

You move aside for the old man, holding the door open for him. He nods slowly in thanks, and then turns left down the corridor. Curious as to where he is going, you follow.

Goodbye my student. It has been a pleasure seeing you grow.

The old man takes a right through an open doorway onto the surrounding grounds, and in the moment it takes you to catch up, you lose him in the mist.

You take a few tentative steps forward with your hands outstretched, but they touch nothing. You consider shouting out to the old man, but it seems childish.

Suddenly, a burning light flares up only a few long strides in front of you, so brilliant you are forced to throw your hands in front of your eyes. Seconds later, the night goes black.

You run forward and shout out the old man’s name, ignoring any reservations you held a moment ago, but you find nothing.

Issar Roon is gone.

As is obvious now, this is the end—the end of Issar Roon. It’s been a fantastic journey these past two years plus, but it is time to set him aside. This does not mark the end of my writing, however. I still have much to share. I’ll be talking more about what will happen in the coming weeks. For now, I hope you’ve enjoyed the ride—bumpy and erratic as it was—these past few years. Thanks for reading, and see you next week!

–Brendan