Dominara is a ruin. Where proud cities or ancient natural wonders once stood, there is ash. The plane itself is threadbare, reality coming apart at the seams: raw mana crackles and spits – and disappears, forever. No devils live there. No phyrexians invade; they don't have a reason to. The desolation is almost absolute.
Almost.
In a crooked stone tower, swaying slightly in the mindless wind, there burns one candle over one book, with one man scribbling furiously in it. He is a spindly old creature, made of skin and sinews and, it seems, far too many bones. The quill he uses is taller than he is, a massive iridescent peacock feather, and when he needs more ink, he stabs his left forearm with it. He doesn't flinch; he doesn't seem to notice. By now that forearm is a mess of hamburger. He had been developing a spell to summon Yawgmoth, the God of Phyrexia and Bane of Dominara, from his dark slumber below Urborg, and bind him into a construct that would be bound to serve. It is a devious and horrible spell, what there is of it, but right now this wizard is doing something else. He is a wizard, indeed, and not a very nice wizard, at that: fortunately for the multiverse, he's also fairly absent-minded.
"'They lie who call this love,' yes, I think that's an excellent bit, 'for even love is not so blind as thee!' Oh yes, that's marvelous, got the romantic tension just right, but now it needs something, something... a swordfight! Yes! And at that moment, in came brave Cyran a-swinging on his chandelier..."
As soon as he finishes his epic romance, he'll get back to the Destroying of Worlds. Probably.