The rebels fall upon the mobile garrison at dusk, sweeping in from the desert with the sun at their backs. Felothar leads the charge, her sword, Heartsblood, severing limbs and slicing throats. Loyalist blood splatters on the sand, hissing wherever it falls.

As Felothar cuts her way deeper into the camp, a young man stumbles from a tent. He wears no armor and carries only a long knife: He's no soldier. Probably some unlucky artisan who thought the garrison would see him safe across the desert. Brave but foolish. Before he can raise his blade, Felothar flicks her wrist, disarming him, and brings her sword to his throat.

"Yield," she demands.

Terror in his eyes, the boy does so. She leaves him be.

Everywhere, there's panicked shouting and the ringing of steel on steel. Felothar approaches her target, a rarity: a tent with its own honor guard, her scouts have informed her. If she's fortunate, she'll find a high-ranking member of Dromoka's brood or dissenters to add to the rebels' ranks. Ancestors, let it be something worthwhile. While the Phyrexian Invasion devastated Dromoka's forces, even one of her dragons can route an army.

When she reaches the tent, she's met by two honor guard, the gold scales of their ornate armor flashing in the last moments of daylight. She sees at once that they are seasoned warriors, unmoved by the chaos around them, the screams of the dying.

They step to either side, circling her warily.

"I hate spilling the blood of kin," Felothar says. "Step aside and no harm will come to you." She knows they won't accept, but she offers all the same.

"The word of a traitor is a poisoned oasis," one of them says and spits at Felothar's feet. Felothar hates how much the word traitor cuts her, almost as much as she hates turning her blade against her own people.

But only a fool thinks war is pretty.

"So be it," Felothar tells them. Already they're moving, well-coordinated, striking from either side. Felothar's ready for it. She dashes toward the spitter, bringing her blade up and under his defenses, slicing at his femoral artery. He arrests his momentum just in time and spins away. Felothar ducks as his counterstroke whistles past her.

On instinct, Felothar rolls to one side. It saves her life. The other soldier's spear buries itself in the sand where Felothar stood moments ago. Felothar pulls a knife from its scabbard as she rolls and drives it into the spear-guard's foot. He's impeccably trained. Even as a scream bubbles from his throat, he swings, the sharp edge of his spear seeking her own throat.

Felothar deflects the blow with her gauntlet, but the force of it staggers her. The unwounded soldier must sense an opportunity. He's on her quickly. Very nearly too quickly. Felothar manages to parry as her momentum carries her forward. The warrior twists to one side. He's too late. Felothar drives Heartsblood up through a seam in his armor and buries it in his gut.

It's an inelegant solution, and it leaves her sword trapped in the torso of a dying man. Abandoning her blade, she leaps to her feet, grabs the man by the neck, wraps one foot around his leg, and spins. The other guard's spear, meant for her, buries itself in his partner's back.

He's talented, well-trained, but injured and now alone. Felothar makes short work of him.

As she catches her breath, the rebels' cheers erupt from elsewhere in the camp. They've won the day. But Felothar's work isn't yet done. She wipes sweat from her brow, pulls her sword free, and steps inside the tent.

A child awaits her. She's young, maybe twelve or thirteen, but fury is inscribed on her face. Felothar knows that expression well; she's felt it in her own features many times.

"I mean you no harm," Felothar says, keeping her distance.

"And if I mean you harm, traitor?" The girl draws a short, slender sword and moves into a duelist's stance. She has clearly had some training.

Refusing to defend herself would insult the child. Felothar raises her own blade. "If you're about to kill me, I'd like to know your name."

The girl's brows narrow, as if she suspects she's being insulted, but Felothar is sincere. If violence is necessary, at least it should be honorable. The girl steps closer, moving on the balls of her feet, feints, and lunges.

Felothar parries, once, twice, then jumps back, leaving her opponent slashing open air. "Fair enough," the girl pants. "My name is Vasi."

"A pleasure, Vasi. I'm Felothar."

Another frown from Vasi. Apparently, Felothar's reputation precedes her. She attacks again, this time seeking to get under Felothar's superior reach. It's a clever move, but Felothar has many years of experience and the ancestors' guidance on her side. When Vasi makes her move, Felothar slides forward to meet her, crossing blades before Vasi's rapier can find a dangerous angle. She shoves, not hard, but enough to send the girl tumbling.

Felothar stands back, giving her space to rise. "This battle is over, Vasi," she says. "The garrison is defeated. Even if you kill me, you'll still have a whole raiding party to cut through."

This time Vasi's attack is pure aggression. Felothar is the superior fighter, but the girl is talented, dangerous. Superior or not, cocky fighters are dead fighters. Felothar encourages the girl's momentum, until Vasi overcommits, then steps to one side and whirls. Felothar parries one blow and raises her gauntlet to deflect the next one. But Vasi's fast, and even a misdirected blade is dangerous. It finds a joint in Felothar's armor and pierces deeply into the muscle of her upper arm. It's a price Felothar is happy to pay, as it gives her an opening. She puts her blade at Vasi's throat.

"If this were a practice duel, you'd have won," she says. Vasi, wide-eyed, stares down the length of Felothar's blade.

"Well?" the girl demands. Felothar knows the tone: defiance in the face of fear. "Make it quick."

"You're talented," Felothar says, her blade unmoving, "but not yet fully trained. I don't want to have to kill you."

"I'm loyal to Dromoka, traitor," Vasi says. Something in her tone gives Felothar hope. "I will not surrender."

"Then I won't ask you to," Felothar says. She can think of but one thing to try, the only proposal she can imagine herself accepting if their situations were reversed. "Instead, I'll make you an offer. I'll train you."

Vasi scoffs, but her eyes flash with curiosity. "Why would you do that?"

"Lots of reasons," Felothar says, but she can only articulate one. "You deserve a chance to duel me properly, once you've been trained."

Vasi's working hard to school her expression, but Felothar can read the excitement in it. "You'd swear to that?"

"If you swear not to attempt an escape."

"You're a traitor," Vasi says. "What good is your word?"

Felothar bites back anger. Vasi is testing her. "I swear by my honor, and the honor of my ancestors, that I will train you to the best of my ability, and when you are ready, we'll duel."

"They say you're an honorable woman," Vasi says after a long breath. "Even after your treachery, they say that. I swear by Dromoka's love that I will not attempt to escape until we've dueled."

Felothar lowers her blade. "Good," she says. "Now, claim some armor and a heavier weapon from among the fallen. Not every problem can be solved with speed and a piercing blade."

The caverns echo with the clash of metal. A month ago, Vasi could barely lift the kilij she'd claimed off a dead woman. Now she's using it like a seasoned warrior. She still struggles with the weight but grows stronger by the day. It's been many years since Felothar taught such a naturally gifted warrior. No wonder she was under the garrison's protection. Most likely someone high up in the brood—maybe even Dromoka herself—had big plans for Vasi.

"Good," Felothar tells her mentee. "A week ago, you'd have overcommitted to that attack."

Vasi grins. "It's like you said. I always have to be thinking about how I'll protect myself if my strike doesn't kill."

The girl soaks up every lesson Felothar can teach her. All but one, anyway.

They circle each other warily. Other youth, the children of rebels or rebels themselves, have gathered to watch. Vasi's strange position in the rebel encampment has made her interesting, and her talent has made her must-watch entertainment. Maybe the others will pick something up from this that will save their lives. Felothar hopes so, though when she's alone with her thoughts, she wonders if any of them will survive.

Vasi's style is uncommon among Dromoka's brood, relying on her speed and precision. She'll never be a natural on a battle line or defending ramparts. But any halfway competent leader will find plenty of use for someone so gifted.

The sparring session traces dance-like patterns around the cavern as Vasi seeks high ground and Felothar waits for an opportunity. She can't hope to keep up with Vasi, but she doesn't need to. Sooner or later the girl will make a misstep, or misjudge the range between them, and Felothar will exploit the lapse. Her ancestors taught her that it's a technique the Abzan have relied on for ages.

This time, though, Vasi shows the caution she's learned and doesn't give Felothar the opportunity. Good. Time for a new lesson.

Vasi clearly thinks everything is going according to plan, maybe even suspects that Felothar intends to exhaust her, as she once did to make a point. She doesn't see that Felothar's been baiting her maneuvers, trading safety in exchange for getting Vasi where she wants her.

"Losing a step?" Vasi asks with a smirk.

"Something like that," Felothar says, striking out. Vasi leaps backward, easily avoiding the blade, and only then realizes that she's pinned between Felothar and a corner. Her eyes widen. She leaps at the wall and off it, seeking an unexpected angle of attack. A clever move, but one Felothar has seen before. She pivots and knocks the blade from Vasi's hand, then puts the flat of her blade to the girl's neck.

"Water break," she says, and as the two drink, she continues the lesson. "How did I beat you, Vasi?"

"You backed me into a corner."

"I let you back yourself into a corner," Felothar corrects her. "I was willing to sacrifice to fight on my terms."

For a moment, Vasi looks far away. "My ward-sister always said the terrain makes the battle."

"A wise one, your ward-sister." Felothar chooses her words with care. Vasi has never mentioned anyone from her past. "Another warrior-in-training?"

Vasi's face darkens. She looks almost as angry as she did on the night they met.

"None of your business, rebel," Vasi says and rises to her feet. "Another round, or are you tired already?"

The meeting of the war council goes poorly, as Felothar feared it would. Dromoka's brood is weakened, and the rebels' only hope is to exploit that weakness before the dragon can rebuild her forces. They'll have to act soon, even though that risks disaster. One misstep, one poorly chosen strike, is all that stands between the rebellion and defeat. To act is dangerous, but if they delay too long, they will surely fail. Felothar tells them so but doubts they were ready to hear it.

She finds Vasi where she left her, at the Kin-Tree. Truly, it's barely more than a stump, burned and blackened. But thin, new-growth branches sprout from it, and golden leaves glow faintly in the torch light, hinting at the power within. Dromoka taught that the Kin-Trees were blasphemous and had all been destroyed. Anafenza proved that to be a lie when she discovered and bonded with one. The discovery cost Anafenza her life, but the seeds of rebellion had already been planted. The ancestors spoke through the Kin-Trees, and they told of a time when dragons hadn't ruled, when the clan communed with their ancestors and families were never torn apart by draconic whims.

Vasi hates the Kin-Tree. At first, she wouldn't tolerate even being in its presence. But Felothar insisted that without the ancestors' guidance, Vasi couldn't hope to win their duel, so she reluctantly agreed to meditate at the tree, to speak to the ancestors. From the look on the girl's face, she has had no more success this time than she did during any of the previous attempts. Her eyes are closed, her face scrunched in effort. Felothar sits, giving Vasi space, and waits for the exhale of breath that means Vasi has ended her meditation.

"Ugh," Vasi erupts at last, then startles. "I didn't hear you there."

"I didn't want to disturb you," Felothar says. "How did it go?"

"Ugh," the girl says again, looking down at her hands. "I still don't understand how the ancestors are supposed to help me kill you."

Felothar doesn't take the bait. "It's not so different from our training. The ancestors just offer different lessons and different ways of communicating."

Vasi scoffs. She won't make eye contact.

"You think this is some trick," Felothar says, surprised at how much the realization hurts her. Felothar's been stripped of her connection to the brood; her honor is all she has left.

"You are a rebel," Vasi says. She must hear the petulance in her voice, because she looks abashed. "No, I don't think it's a trick. But if I'm going to keep trying to commit blasphemy, I deserve to understand why."

Felothar considers this. Before her, the tree glows warmly, and she can feel the gaze of the ancestors upon her.

"We're Abzan," she says. "We were Abzan long before Dromoka. Armies break against us. And do you know why?"

"Because we stand together," Vasi answers after a long moment. "This isn't really helping your case, rebel."

"Do you want to argue politics, or do you want an answer?" Felothar snaps.

"An answer," her ward says.

"Because we stand together," Felothar affirms. "Because our shields protect the vulnerabilities of the warriors beside us and their shields protect us. The ancestors are like that, only they are a shield wall in time, not space. They can guide us, give us wisdom. Long ago, they would even manifest to fight beside us. When we tend to the Kin-Trees, we keep their memories alive and do what we can to be their sword and shield, just as they are ours."

"So you say," Vasi says. "But the ancestors are long dead. Why betray Dromoka for the whispers of spirits?"

Felothar fights the urge to sigh. "Because they're part of us, Vasi. Because they're a part of who we are. We can try to ignore that, but it leaves us … incomplete."

Vasi turns slightly, risking eye contact. "I don't understand," she says. "Anyway, I don't know who my ancestors are." Almost no one does, not with Dromoka's policy separating children from birth families.

"I do," Felothar says softly. "Some of them, anyway. They speak to me from the tree, and …" She searches for the words. "I am theirs and they are mine."

Vasi studies her face, turns away, and is silent for long enough that Felothar thinks she's closed herself off again, protecting some vulnerability that Felothar has only glimpsed. Then she speaks.

"How do you know who your ancestors are?" Her tone gives Felothar the impression of a skittish creature, ready to disappear back into the creosote if spooked.

"That's the best part," Felothar says softly. "At least, for me it is. A Kin-Tree calls to us, and through blood, we bind ourselves to our ancestors and they bind themselves to us."

"You mean," Vasi says, chewing on this, "our ancestors aren't only the ones we're descended from?"

"Depends on what you mean by 'descended,'" Felothar says. "In some sense, I'm descended from every soldier who trained me, whose techniques shaped me. Our ancestors are the ones who carved a path for us, the ones who made it possible for us to be, well, us."

Another wary look from Vasi. Her large eyes miss very little.

Felothar hesitates. It's unwise to expose vulnerabilities to someone who wants to kill her, but she owes Vasi honesty. "When I was little, people thought I was a boy," she says. "And, like many of us, I never knew my parents. So, for a long time, I felt very alone."

"Oh." Vasi smiles gently. "Then you found your ancestors."

"Yes," Felothar says. "And not just the ancestors I chose and who chose me, but my friends, the soldiers I have taught and who have taught me. And even when I was labeled a traitor, I did not regret being myself or naming my true family. I will not pretend to be something I'm not. My ancestors taught me that I strengthen my people, just as they strengthen me." Felothar wonders if she'll ever be granted peace, a time when she can just be an auntie and not have to worry about dragons and warrior-girls who want her dead. "That's why I know you need to commune with the Kin-Tree to beat me. Because I know how much my ancestors have strengthened me."

"In the crèche where I was raised," Vasi says, choosing her words with obvious care, "I had a ward-sister. Well, I had many. But one, Bara, we were … like sisters. Like I imagine real sisters would be. She was small, and the other kids picked on her, so I had to get tough to protect her. And I think she protected me, too, just in a different way. When I was with her, the anger …"

"She taught you that anger isn't all there is," Felothar finishes the thought. She learned a similar lesson, long ago.

Vasi grunts an affirmation, holding back tears. "Then they took me away from her," she says, "and I don't know if it's because we'd grown close, or … or because they'd noticed my fighting skills. I tried to help her, and it made things worse."

If Vasi was her friend, if she was anyone else, Felothar would offer a hug. But they are foes. "I'm sorry, Vasi," Felothar says. "Bara's your family, even if you aren't blood." She fights back the urge to say that this casual cruelty—the separation of families to consolidate Dromoka's power—is monstrous, is more proof that the rebellion is necessary. What little understanding they've forged is too fragile for the weight of those words.

They sit in silence. Vasi scoots back, wiping tears from her eyes. "You've met Dromoka?"

"I have," Felothar says. The last time was when the dragonlord stripped her of her place and ordered her execution.

"Then you know," Vasi says. "She's a match for an army on her own. Do you truly believe that even with your Kin-Tree and your ancestors, your ragtag band stands a chance against her?"

It's Felothar's turn to look away. She's been asking herself that same question. Vasi scoffs. She must see the answer in Felothar's face.

"My path is set," Felothar says at last, "and I will walk it. As my ancestors did." She stands and offers a hand. "Let's spar."

"How dare you?" It's been weeks since Vasi sounded so furious. Felothar blinks her eyes open, her meditation lost. The Kin-Tree stands before her, and beside it, one hand on the pommel of her kilij, Vasi stares at her with open hostility.

"How dare I what?" Felothar has no idea where this is coming from.

"You're planning to leave," she says, "to go off to battle without telling me."

Felothar frowns. "I don't recall agreeing to tell you my every plan."

"You swore to me!" Vasi's words echo through the cavern. "You swore that I'd get my duel."

"And aren't I honoring that?" Felothar's chest tightens with anger. It's true that she's volunteered to lead an attack on a key strategic chokepoint. If successful, it might turn the tide of the war. But precisely for that reason, it might well be a trap. Time is not their ally. They have little choice but to risk it.

"You won't have honored anything if you go off and get yourself killed!" Vasi's not quite shouting now, but she's not far from it, either.

"I plan to stay alive," Felothar says after a deep breath. "I can't tell a loyalist what we're planning."

"I swore I wouldn't try to escape," Vasi reminds her.

"Not until our duel," Felothar says. "You know I can't give you our secrets to take back to Dromoka."

"You were happy enough to teach me all about the Kin-Trees." Vasi's clenching and unclenching her fist, but her weight is perfectly distributed. Such a good student. She's learned to be ready for danger, even when at rest.

"I owed that to you," Felothar says.

"Owed it to me!" Vasi spits the words back at her like a curse. "You think I can't tell when half the encampment is mobilizing? That I haven't worked out where we are? You're going to go off and get yourself killed, and your … friends will murder me, rather than see me share what I know."

"No one here would be so dishonorable," Felothar finds herself practically growling. Has the girl learned nothing? "If we fail, Vasi, there won't be enough of a rebellion left to betray."

She means it as an admission, an acknowledgment of what Vasi surely understands, but the girl's face closes off further. She almost glows with the strength of her fury.

"Then go," she says through gritted teeth. "You've cursed me with necromantic knowledge—oh, don't you dare flinch—and now you're going to—"

"Felothar!" A voice cuts in, obviously a message runner. When she sees what she's stepped into, she adds, apologetically, "The council requests your presence at once."

Felothar stands. "We'll continue this when I come back."

"If you come back," Vasi replies.

The meeting requires all of Felothar's focus. Only later does she realize what her apprentice was truly asking for, and by that time, Vasi is already gone.

That night, Felothar sets out on her own, fearing what she'll find. Only a sliver of moon lights the mountain path away from the caverns, a path that leads toward where Dromoka's scouts have been sighted. If Vasi intends to betray the rebels, this is the route she'll take. But Vasi doesn't know this area half as well as Felothar does. Felothar prays her instincts are wrong, but all doubt disappears when Vasi comes around a switchback and stops short.

"You swore an oath," Felothar says, drawing Heartsblood from its scabbard.

Vasi gets over her shock quickly. She sets down the small pack she's brought with her and draws her kilij. "So did you," she says and lunges forward.

There's nothing elegant about this fight. Vasi's more aggressive than usual, her strikes coming from all angles as she darts, weaves, prods for openings. Caught off guard, it's all Felothar can do to parry the blows and seek openings when Vasi overcorrects. She picked this spot for a confrontation because, with a long drop to one side and nothing but a scree-covered slope on the other, there isn't much room for Vasi to maneuver.

So, she thought. Again and again, she tries to get the girl to overcommit, to take the one wrong step that will let Felothar pin her against the cliff's edge, but Vasi's learned well, and even at her most aggressive she doesn't take the bait. Their blades cut silver arcs in the darkness. The pace is unsustainable. Soon, they're both huffing for air, neither with more than shallow cuts and bruises to show for it. Their breath clouds in the cold. Vasi is good, and has the potential to be as great a fighter as anyone Felothar has ever seen. But she's still young, inexperienced, and she's been training with Felothar for less than a quarter of a year. It was a mistake to train her, Felothar realizes. Not because Vasi will win, but because she let herself believe Vasi wouldn't betray her. Now, instead of an honorable duel, all that remains is violence and loss.

"Don't you dare look at me like that," Vasi tells her, still circling warily. "You betrayed me—"

In a moment, Felothar is on her. She can see she's faster than Vasi expected. Not a lot faster, but enough. Vasi attempts to counter, but it's already too late. With a flick of her wrist, Felothar disarms her, suffering only a thin slice across her collarbone for her trouble. Kilij gone, the girl reaches for her slender blade, but Felothar slams the pommel down, pinning it in its scabbard. Vasi's neck is exposed. Any half-competent soldier could finish this now.

Felothar hesitates. It's only for a moment, but it's enough. Vasi twists and rolls, and when she rises, the sand beside her shifts, coalescing into two figures clad in ancient Abzan armor, semi-transparent in the starlight. Spirits. Vasi has learned magic that even Felothar doesn't know.

Was this all a plan, then, to learn the rebels' secrets and use them? Felothar decides it hardly matters. She rushes toward Vasi, then pivots at the last minute, swiping for the vulnerable spot beneath one spirit's armor. Her foe blocks the attack but staggers back at the force of it. Felothar can't press her advantage, though. Vasi's strike aims to pierce her throat. Felothar rolls, barely fast enough.

The other spirit is on her at once. Supine, Felothar raises Heartsblood just in time. She kicks out at the spirit, and the sand that forms its knee scatters. The spirit sags, but already its construct-body is re-forming. Felothar kips up. The other two fighters are on either side of her. There's no space to maneuver, no way out. At least I'll die on my feet, Felothar thinks and rushes Vasi, hoping to overwhelm her before she can react. But her former student expects it. She twists her blade so it meets Felothar's, then slides forward, taking Felothar's feet out from under her. Bright spots explode in Felothar's vision as she hits the ground. Vasi puts her blade to Felothar's neck.

"You've learned well," Felothar says, waiting for the blow.

"I'm not betraying my vow, idiot," Vasi says, the last word loaded with something like affection.

"You could have fooled me." Heat rises in Felothar's cheeks. "I yield. What are you doing?"

Vasi pulls back and offers a hand. Felothar sheathes her blade and takes it. The spirits watch curiously.

"Looking for Bara, my ward-sister," Vasi says. "I did like you said—offered my blood to the Kin-Tree. And … and the ancestors told me where I could find her. They say we need our families back—especially the ones we've chosen—and that the Abzan need to be whole, that we can't forget the past and we can't forsake ourselves. We must stand together. All of us."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Felothar asks, baffled.

"You didn't trust me enough to tell me you were leaving," Vasi says, sounding suddenly like the girl she is, not the warrior she's shaping herself into. "How could I trust you with this?"

The shame hits Felothar hard. "I should have trusted you," she admits. "I was … I was afraid to."

Vasi scoffs. "You're not afraid of anything."

"Is that what you think?" Felothar feels dizzy. "I'm often afraid, Vasi, and I was afraid to count on you. I'm sorry."

Vasi smiles gently. "I was afraid, too," she says, "afraid that you were manipulating me to blaspheme. I should have trusted you."

"You're the kind of student a warrior can only dream of training, Vasi. Of course you must follow the ancestors' guidance and seek your sister. But don't think your training is complete." Felothar pauses. "Go with my blessing, but don't go alone." She unsheathes Heartsblood. The spirits raise their weapons, but Vasi gestures, and they are still. Felothar holds the blade like an offering. "Take Heartsblood," she says, "May it see you safely to your goals."

Vasi blinks and wipes her eyes. "Your sword?"

"Yes," Felothar says. "You can return it to me when you resume your training. And when you draw it, you'll remember that I have not forgotten my vow."

Vasi takes the blade reverently. "I will remember," she promises. "Maybe I'll return it to you by burying it in your heart." But she flashes a crooked smile as she says it. Then, suddenly, she hugs Felothar fiercely, and Felothar hugs her back.

"Promise me you'll stay safe," Vasi says, "so we can finish this." And Felothar can't tell whether she means a duel or the restoration of the Abzan.

"In life or in death," Felothar swears, "you will have your duel if you wish it."

Vasi breaks the hug. Both cry, unashamed.

"Ancestors go with you, Felothar," Vasi says at last.

"And with you."

They part, Vasi and her spirit escort heading deeper into the desert and Felothar retracing her steps toward the rebel encampment. The sky is just beginning to lighten. The sounds of leather and steel tell her the camp will soon be ready to depart. Felothar knows the battle against Dromoka's forces will be a desperate one, and Vasi's question haunts her thoughts: Do you truly believe that even with your Kin-Tree and your ancestors, your ragtag band stands a chance against her?

Felothar doesn't know the answer, but she does know that her family is stronger than Dromoka imagines.