housands of years of Magic’s history have played out on a stage known as Dominaria. Before the time of the false god Karona, before the travails of Yawgmoth and the Weatherlight crew, before Terisiare’s Ice Age and Urza’s war with his brother, and even before the ancient Thran engineered their ingenious artifacts, Dominaria flourished at the center of the Multiverse.
But Dominaria endured cataclysm after cataclysm over the millennia, and the damage has left its mark.
Life on Dominaria is a desperate struggle. The weak and sickly shriveled and perished long ago. All that remain are the plane’s most determined survivors.
The land lies in ruin. Vegetation is scarce and mana is a luxury. Salt winds scour the remains of Benalia. Lichen clings to the dust of barren Llanowar. Acid storms etch the carapaces of Phyrexian wreckage.
Planeswalkers have taken notice. Teferi, returning from his phased-out haven in Zhalfir, senses that the plane has begun to fracture under the repeated apocalypses. The deeper he looks, the more he comes to believe that not just Dominaria, but the fabric of the entire Multiverse is at risk.
Because apocalypse hasn’t just scarred the land. It has shattered time itself.