The rain was a icy needle-spray, each drop a tiny wound against Neyza’s threadbare cloak as she knelt. Her fingers, chapped and aching from a lifetime of ointments and sutures, fumbled with the last handful of earth, covering the small, unmarked mound. The old apothecary deserved a proper burial, not this hurried, rain-drenched interment beside the workshop's rotting fence, but the debt collectors hadn’t waited. They were waiting still, two hulking figures by the entry door, their thick cloaks shedding water like oiled pelts. “Time’s up, Varteni,” one of them, a man with a face like a pitted stone, grunted through the downpour. His companion, a gangly brute with a chipped tooth, cracked his knuckles, the sound eerily loud over the rain’s drumming. Neyza pushed herself up, her joints protesting. The workshop, her mentor's legacy, was crumbling. The lower rings of Oskara, clinging to the mountain’s base like barnacles, couldn't afford proper care, and now, with the Ghorza war looming, even her meager earnings were gone. “Just a moment more,” she pleaded, her voice a raw whisper against the wind. “Please. I just laid him to rest.” “We ain’t here for eulogies, little vet,” the stone-faced man sneered, stepping closer. “Your lease is due. Your debts are due. And since you ain’t got the coin, we’ll be taking the building. And everything in it.” The gangly brute kicked at a loose shutter, a splintering crack echoing in the gloom. “Might fetch a decent price for scrap metal, eh, Borik? That rusty medical gear. Good for spearheads.” Neyza’s breath caught. Her inherited instruments, honed and cared for over decades, were sacred. She took a defiant step forward, ready to face them, her fingers tightening into stiff fists. “You’ll not touch a single—” Before she could finish, a deafening crash ripped through the air, shaking the very foundation of the infirmary. The window to her small operating room, a pane of thick, reinforced glass, exploded inward, showering the porch in jagged shards. Through the gaping hole burst a nightmare: a wolf, colossal and black as the deepest abyss, its fur matted with crimson. It was a Tarnok beast, far larger than any she’d ever seen even in the upper rings, its muscle-bound body shuddering as it landed amidst the ruined glass. Borik and his companion froze, their faces draining of color. The wolf, a ragged tangle of blood and dark fur, lifted its head, its eyes glowing embers in the twilight. A low, guttural snarl vibrated in the air, a sound that spoke of primeval forests and hunters’ moons. The debt collectors didn’t wait for a second invitation. They turned and fled, their heavy boots splashing through puddles, their threats forgotten in the face of true terror. Neyza stood rooted to the spot, the rain chilling her to the bone, her own heart trying to claw its way out of her throat. This was it, then. Her life, ending not with a whimper, but with the tearing jaws of a monster. Yet, as the beast collapsed onto the floor, its immense frame shuddering, a flicker of something else pierced through her fear. Not hunger. Not pure aggression. Pain. Deep, debilitating pain. The beast was grievously wounded. A jagged gash, impossibly long, ran from its shoulder almost to its flank, weeping dark blood onto the worn floorboards. Instinct, honed by years under long tutelage, took over. Fear be damned. She was a healer. She marched into the parlor, ignoring the splintered glass and the beast’s sheer size. “You!” she snapped, her voice surprisingly steady, despite the tremor in her hands. “Don’t you dare bleed all over my clean floor! Sit still, you great lump of fur and teeth!” The wolf, which had been trying to push itself up, froze. Its glowing eyes, ringed with feral intelligence, fixed on her. It was so close she could feel the heat radiating from its massive body, smell the coppery tang of blood and wild earth. It lowered its head, a low rumble stirring in its chest, and Neyza braced herself for the inevitable lunge. Instead, a booming, anxious voice, strangely gentle yet raw, echoed not from the beast’s mouth but directly in her mind. *‘Must not snarl at the tiny healer… she is so fragile.’* Neyza staggered back, clutching her head. Telepathy? With a wolf? It was an impossible, fantastical thought. She shook her head, trying to clear the ringing in her ears. No time for delusions. Not with this much blood. “Sit!” she commanded again, pointing a stern finger. “I don’t care if you’re a Ghorza war-beast or the Emperor’s pet poodle. You are bleeding out on my floor, and I will fix you. But you must sit still!” The beast whined, a sound so unexpectedly meek from such a formidable beast, and slowly, carefully, settled its massive frame onto its haunches. It watched her with those luminous eyes, its head tilted slightly, almost subserviently. Neyza, utterly bewildered, wasted no more time. She grabbed her satchel of instruments, sterilizing a needle over a flickering lamp before threading it with sturdy gut-string. Her fingers worked swiftly, deftly, the rhythmic pull and knotting of the stitches a familiar comfort, even as the monstrous wolf watched her every move. She could feel the ripple of powerful muscles beneath the matted fur, the thrum of its powerful heart. Each stitch was a tiny act of defiance, binding flesh together beneath steady hands to save any wounded stray that crossed her threshold, no matter the danger. The beast remained perfectly still, a stark contrast to its earlier violent entry, only an occasional, low rumble from its chest breaking the silence of the room. Finally, with the last knot tied, she snipped the thread. The wound, though deep, was closed. “There,” she murmured, more to herself than to the beast, exhaustion washing over her. “That should hold.” Her hands, trembling now that the adrenaline was fading, instinctively reached out to smooth the fur around the stitched wound. As her fingers brushed against the coarse, matted hair, the beast slowly lowered its head, its muzzle gently nudging her palm. It wasn’t a bite, or even a rough push, but a soft, tender nuzzle, warm breath washing over her skin. A strange current, both wild and intimate, sparked between them. For a moment, the world outside – the debts, the war, the crumbling walls – vanished, leaving only the fierce, wounded beast and the small, defiant healer. The quiet, charged moment was violently shattered. The outer door, already battered, splintered inward with a deafening CRACK, ripped from its hinges by a powerful kick. Heavily armed Tarnok Vanguard soldiers, clad in dark, hardened leather and carrying gleaming polearms, spilled into the room, their faces grim, their eyes scanning for their prey. Their Alpha’s scent, thick with blood and fear, had drawn them here. They saw the giant, blood-stained wolf on the floor, its head still resting in the human’s trembling hands, and their expressions hardened, ready to slaughter the intruder. “FILTH!” one of the soldiers roared, raising his spear. “You dare defile these holy grounds?!” But the beast moved first. It lifted its massive head from Neyza’s hands, its body tensing, and turned slowly towards the invaders. A low, thunderous growl rumbled in its throat, deepening until it became a terrifying, ear-splitting snarl that vibrated through the very stones of the foundation. The soldiers, poised to strike, froze mid-step, petrified in sudden dread as the beast revealed itself.

The Beast in the Window