The Veskar chimera thrashed, a guttural snarl tearing from its leonine throat. Its scorpion tail, thick as Jasker’s arm, arced through the humid air of the Healer’s Crag, missing his head by a hair’s breadth. Jasker Korvits didn’t flinch. His hands, calloused and quick, moved with practiced grace, pressing poultices of crushed rime-fern and sun-bloom paste onto the raw, infected gash along the beast’s flank. The horned chimera, named Kruk by the few who dared approach it, shuddered, its four amber eyes fixing on him with a mix of pain and primal distrust. He murmured low, soothing words, a cadence of empathy and care that often calmed creatures far fiercer than Kruk. “Easy now, old friend,” Jasker breathed, his focus absolute. “Just a little more. We’ll have you hunting the high passes again by season’s end.” The air, thick with the scent of herbs, damp stone, and beast, shifted. A cold draft, alien to his secluded cave-dwelling clinic, swept through the entrance. Heavy boots crunched on the pebbled floor, silencing Kruk’s low growl. Jasker turned, his heart sinking with a premonition as he saw the steel glint of Kralova Guard armor. Two hulking figures, clad in the polished black and silver of Queen Roksana’s personal guard, filled the archway. Their visors were down, faces hidden, but their stance radiated an unyielding authority. The taller of the two, her hand resting on the hilt of a broadsword, held a scroll sealed with the Kosciusz sigil – a snarling beast rampant. “Jasker Korvits?” the guard’s voice, a deep alto, cut through the quiet. “By decree of Queen Roksana Kosciusz, you are summoned to the Spire Citadel.” Jasker slowly straightened, wiping a smear of manticore blood from his brow with the back of his hand. “My apologies, Commander. I am occupied. Kruk here…” He gestured to the panting creature, whose eyes were now darting nervously between Jasker and the guards. “Your occupation is forfeit,” the officer stated, her voice devoid of inflection. “Effective immediately. Your practice, the Healer’s Crag, and all its contents are held in trust by the Crown until your task for Her Majesty is complete. Failure to comply is treason.” The words struck Jasker like a physical blow. Forfeit? His life’s work, the sanctuary he’d painstakingly carved from the ridge, his refuge for creatures cast aside by the realm's harsh world. He felt a fierce protectiveness surge, a familiar heat in his chest. “You cannot simply…” The guard lifted a gauntleted hand. “Her Majesty’s gryphon, Skov, is ill. You will cure it. You have no choice.” The Spire Citadel, a jagged tooth of dark granite piercing the northern sky, loomed impossibly larger the closer they rode. The cold wind, biting and relentless, whipped at Jasker’s simple tunic, a stark contrast to the relative warmth of his clinic. He rode astride a sturdy highland pony, flanked by the silent guards, his few medical satchels strapped behind him. The enormity of the demand, the sheer arrogance of it, chafed at him. But the thought of Kruk, left alone, or worse, the royal guards emptying his carefully cataloged herbs and tonics, had forced his hand. They entered the Citadel’s main gate, a gaping maw in the granite face, carved with ancient protective runes. The interior was a labyrinth of stark stone corridors, echoing with the clank of distant armor and the whispers of unseen servants. Finally, they ascended a dizzying spiral stair, emerging onto the vast, wind-scoured platform known as the Sky-Peak Aerie. The aerie showcased the realm's might, a wide expanse of magically reinforced stone that jutted precariously from the highest crest. Here, the air was thin and sharp, tasting of ice and distant clouds. And there, at the center, was Skov. The royal winged beast, magnificent with plumage the color of slate clouds and the powerful build of a hunting cat, lay huddled, its once proud form now strangely diminished. Its breath came in ragged gasps, and its golden eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, were dulled by suffering. Queen Roksana Kosciusz stood beside her gryphon, a formidable presence even in the bleak light. Her silhouette, sharp and unyielding, was framed against the bruised sky. Her robes, the deep, severe indigo of the royal house, seemed to absorb the meager light. Her hair, the precise silver of winter ice, was pulled back from a face that was all sharp angles and unforgiving resolve. She looked less like a monarch and more like a force of nature, sculpted by the cruel northern winds. She turned as Jasker approached, escorted by the officer. Her eyes, the color of a frozen lake, swept over him, dissecting him with a chilling intensity. Jasker felt a tremor of unease, but his focus quickly shifted to Skov, whose labored breathing was growing more shallow. “Healer,” Roksana’s voice was low, melodic, but threaded with an iron edge. “You are Jasker Korvits. They say you speak to beasts.” It was not a question. “My Skov wastes away. I brought you here for one reason: to heal him.” Her gaze intensified, boring into him. “Fail, and I will have your tongue. Fail, and I will have your hands. Fail, and your name will be purged from Kresovia’s memory. Is that clear?” Her words, a stark promise of brutal punishment, hung in the frigid air. Any sensible person would have quailed. Jasker, however, saw past the formidable mask. In the depths of her icy eyes, beneath the fierce, regal fury, he glimpsed something else: raw, unadulterated terror. A flicker of vulnerability, quickly suppressed, but visible nonetheless. It was the terror of a woman losing her last, most trusted companion. And suddenly, Jasker’s fierce loyalty, his impulsive need to defend, ignited. “I understand, Your Majesty,” he said, his own voice steady, his gaze unwavering as he met hers. “I will heal Skov.” He knelt beside Skov, his heart thrumming with a quiet resolve. The creature’s hide was cold to the touch, its feathers ruffled and dull. The sickness emanating from it was not merely physical. Jasker closed his eyes, extending his unique empathy, a gift some called Sky-Binder. He reached out, not just with his hands, but with his spirit, seeking to connect with Skov’s consciousness, to fathom the suffering from within. The connection snapped into place like a key turning in a lock. Agony, sharp and searing, tore through him. Skov’s pain was immense, but beneath it, Jasker felt something far more sinister. A cold, insidious corruption, like venom seeping through vital organs. It was a methodical rot, designed not to kill quickly, but to unravel the very essence of the beast. This wasn't a natural illness. This was a calculated, malicious assault. Jasker’s eyes snapped open. He scanned the aerie, his gaze searching, urgent. His eyes landed on a shadowed alcove carved into the stone wall, where a figure stood, almost perfectly camouflaged in the deepening twilight. Chancellor Borislav. The Queen’s chief advisor, a man whose placid features rarely betrayed emotion. But now, as Jasker met his gaze across the windswept aerie, a faint, knowing smile played on Borislav’s lips. It was a smile of satisfaction, of chilling success. This beast isn't sick... it's being murdered.

The Iron Queen's Last Hope