Jasker’s lungs burned, a sharp, cold ache. The phantom talons of the beast's agony still dug into his nerves, a harsh counterpoint to the chancellor’s smirk. Borislav’s smile faded as quickly as it appeared, his face resuming its usual impassive mask. He merely inclined his head, a gesture of almost imperial dismissal, before melting back into the deeper shadows of the alcove. The sentries, unmoving figures carved from the Citadel's gray granite, seemed oblivious to the confrontation. Jasker tore his gaze away, his mind racing. Murder. Not just an illness, but a deliberate, slow execution. The enormity of it pressed down, threatening to crack his composure.
“Physician,” one of the sentries rumbled, his voice flat. “The Sovereign requires your presence in the lower mews. Your attendant awaits.”
An attendant. Jasker had looked no further than keeping Skov alive. He followed, the metallic tang of fear and something darker – defiance – filling his mouth. The winding descent down the spiraling aerie stairs felt endless, each stone step echoing the chill in his bones. He knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his gut, that the chancellor was the architect of this slow death. But how could he prove it? And more terrifyingly, what did Borislav stand to gain from destroying the queen’s most trusted companion?
The lower aerie was a vast, open-air cavern, still and quiet compared to the wind-whipped heights. A lone figure, wiry and perpetually hunched, stood amidst scattered bales of fresh straw and neatly stacked grain sacks. He was polishing a leather harness with frantic, almost desperate energy, his eyes darting to every shadow. This must be the assistant.
“Piotr, I take it?” Jasker asked, keeping his tone measured. The man nearly jumped out of his boots, dropping the polishing rag with a small cry.
“Master Korvits! Gods, you gave me a fright! Yes, Piotr, at your service. The Queen commanded me to aid you. Anything, anything at all, just tell me. I’m very good at fetching, and carrying, and… polishing, as you can see.” He gestured wildly at the dropped rag, his hands fluttering like trapped birds.
Jasker offered a small, reassuring smile. “Piotr. Your name, not your occupation. We’ll be working closely, so best to be comfortable.” He looked around the well-appointed space. “First, show me Skov’s usual feeding and watering stations, then we’ll examine the air circulation. Any changes to the aerie recently?”
Piotr, still trembling, led him to a sturdy wooden trough and a large stone basin. “No, Master Healer. All as it ever was. Fresh spring water from the mountain’s heart, delivered thrice daily. And the feed, always the same. Dried river salmon, fresh-killed forest deer, and a mix of Kresovian mountain herbs for digestion. Nothing new.” He wrung his hands. “I’ve tended Skov for years, since she was a fledgling. Never seen her like this. It breaks my heart, truly.” He looked up, his eyes wide and earnest, despite the fear still etched around them. “You’ll make her well, won’t you? The queen… she’s not herself without Skov.”
Jasker nodded, a grim resolve settling over him. “I’ll do my best, Piotr. Now, the feed. Can you show me the current batch?”
As Piotr nervously retrieved a sample of the dried salmon and herbs, Jasker began his meticulous examination. He tested the water for minerals, sifted through the floor rushes for foreign debris, even tasted a pinch of the herbal mix. Everything appeared perfectly normal, meticulously prepared. The air, though cold and carrying the scent of mountain pine, circulated freely, ensuring no stale pockets. There was no visible mold, no strange residue on the stone, no sign of any obvious contaminant.
“We need to bring Skov down for a closer inspection,” Jasker stated, straightening up. “I need to check her plumage, talons, and internal resonance with a direct touch, without the wind complicating my senses.”
Piotr’s face, already pale, drained of all color. “Bring… Skov… down? Here?” He swallowed hard, glancing toward the upper aerie. “Sir, Skov is… well, she has a wingspan wider than a wagon and talons that shear iron. And when she’s sick… she snaps at everything.”
“I understand the risks, Piotr. But I cannot properly assess her condition from a distance.” Jasker’s tone was firm, brooking no argument. He then added, a little softer, “If you are too afraid, you may wait in the antechamber.”
“No! No, sir, I remain!” Piotr stiffened his spine, though his knees shook. “I was placed here. I will do my duty.”
Just then, the heavy iron door leading to the queen’s private quarters swung open with a soft thud. Queen Roksana Kosciusz entered, her stride silent, her presence immediate. She wore a gown of dark forest green, simple and unadorned, yet radiating an undeniable power. Her gaze, pale as winter ice, raked Jasker and then Piotr, who shrank back against a bale of dry straw. They settled on Jasker, cold and assessing.
“You have not begun treatment,” she stated, not a question but an accusation.
“I have begun examining her, Your Majesty,” Jasker replied, meeting her gaze. “A physician must determine root causes before offering a remedy. I find nothing amiss in the environment or provisions. The tainted agent, if present, is elusive.”
Her lip curled slightly. “Elusive? You named venom where my physicians saw only a wasting affliction. Now you claim to find nothing? Are you mocking me, Korvits?” Frost seemed to gather along the cave's edges.
“No, Your Grace. I am being thorough. The lack of obvious traces suggests an arcane contaminant. I require a closer inspection of Skov herself. She needs to be brought down to the lower aerie.”
Roksana’s eyes narrowed. “She will not tolerate it. She recoils from even my touch, these past weeks.” A flicker of pain, swiftly masked, crossed her face. It was the briefest of glimpses into the deep attachment she held for the beast. Jasker felt a strange ache of empathy.
“Her frenzy stems from her suffering, Your Grace,” Jasker said softly. “She senses your worry, too. She feels your fear for her, and it adds to her distress. If you approach her with calm reassurance, she may respond.”
He slowly approached the queen, extending his hand, palm up. “May I demonstrate?” Without waiting for a direct answer, he took her hand, his fingers warm against her cold skin. A brief sting flared against his skin. Her gaze locked with his, surprised, perhaps even alarmed, by the unexpected contact. His thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand, a simple, non-threatening gesture.
“When you approach her,” he murmured, “keep your steps deliberate. Keep your voice level. Press here.” He guided her palm toward the joint above her mount's flight feathers. “A non-threatening area. It’s a point of comfort for many winged creatures.”
He released her hand. Roksana stared at her palm, then at the distant form of Skov, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. For a moment, the fearsome Queen of Kresovia seemed like a young girl, unsure how to comfort a beloved pet. Jasker watched, his breath held. Then, straightening her posture, the queen withdrew behind her cold reserve. She merely gave a curt nod. “See to it, Korvits. But if her condition worsens under your ministrations, your life will be forfeit.” She turned and strode out, the heavy door thudding shut behind her.
Piotr, who had been holding his breath, let out a long, shaky exhale. “Gods above. You… you touched the Queen. And survived. Word in the yard says no one has laid a finger on her since the Iron Betrayal.” His eyes were wide with a mix of terror and awe.
Jasker ignored the comment, his mind already back on Skov. “Piotr, prepare the restraint harnesses. We’ll need a team of guards to assist in bringing her down, carefully. Then I’ll need fresh bedding, clean water, and a fresh portion of the herbal mix. And fetch me any old medical texts from the Citadel library that speak of arcane illnesses or slow-acting magical poisons. Anything.”
For the next several hours, the lower aerie was a flurry of activity. With Jasker’s calm guidance and Piotr’s surprisingly efficient, albeit terrified, assistance, Skov was gently coaxed into a temporary, padded harness and brought down to the inspection area. The queen’s escort, moving with trained discipline, followed Jasker’s directions without a word. Skov, though still in pain, seemed to sense Jasker’s gentle intent, her golden eyes watchful but not hostile. His examination confirmed his initial findings: no physical injuries, no obvious skin lesions, only a profound internal malaise that felt like a slow, creeping decay. He took samples of her blood, feathers, and a scrap of her shed skin, carefully labeling each one.
Later, as twilight deepened and the moon cast long, ghostly shadows across the aerie, Jasker reviewed the ancient, dust-laden tomes Piotr had retrieved. The texts chronicled blood-hexes, vengeful bindings, and banes targeted to rot an animal's core. None quite matched Skov’s symptoms, but the descriptions of 'unraveling' and 'corrupting' magic felt chillingly familiar. Piotr, having somewhat mastered his terror of the great beast, scattered fresh straw across the floor, humming a tuneless strain.
“Master Korvits,” Piotr whispered, his voice dropping low. “I… I heard something. From the stablehands, you know. They always know everything. There’s gossip.” He fidgeted with a loose piece of straw, avoiding Jasker’s gaze.
“What gossip, Piotr?” Jasker prompted, setting aside a heavy tome. His attention was fully on the anxious stablehand. Piotr's eyes betrayed a fresh dread, altogether distinct from his awe of the winged predator.
“Chancellor Borislav,” Piotr stammered, leaning in closer as if the stone walls had ears. “He… he apparently acquired something. Weeks ago. From the Shadow Markets in Port Tenebrae. They say it was a rare toxin. Untraceable, they called it. For a ‘pest infestation,’ he claimed. But no one in the Citadel has seen a single rat since the winter culling.” Piotr’s eyes, usually so jittery, fixed on Jasker with desperate intensity. “And… and it cost a small fortune, sir. A fortune for rat powder. It made no sense then. But now…”
Jasker felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. Untraceable toxin. Borislav. It all fit. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. This was no crude draught; it was an insidious scheme that bypassed every standard ward. He looked from Piotr’s earnest, terrified face to the magnificent, ailing form of Skov. The implications were vast, terrifying.
“Piotr, you’ve done well,” Jasker said, his voice strained. “Keep your ears open. Anything else, no matter how small, tell me.”
Piotr nodded vigorously, clearly relieved to have unburdened himself. He reached far into the fresh straw, raking it out around Skov's flanks. His hand, as it swept beneath a particularly thick pile, paused. His brow furrowed. He nudged something small and hard. Curiosity made him sift beneath the reeds. He pulled out a small, intricately carved bone fetish, no larger than his thumb. It was smooth, polished, and seemed to drink the meager light in the aerie. As Piotr held it, a faint, sickly purple glow pulsed from within the tiny object, a soft, rhythmic throb against the deepening gloom.