The violet luminescence pulsed from the tiny carved rib, a rhythmic flare against the darkening rafters. Cold prickles traced Jasker's forearms, distinct from the mountain drafts. This was not a natural emanation. This was a deliberate blight. “Give it to me, Piotr,” Jasker commanded, his voice low, urgent. Piotr’s hand trembled as he passed over the carved talisman. The surface felt slick, almost greasy, and its radiance flared slightly as Jasker’s fingers closed around it. A low thrum vibrated through his fingertips, matching the foul resonance coiled inside Skov, but distilled to an oily pitch. This wasn’t an ordinary ward; it was a focal point for a hex. The corruption was neither in the feed trough nor the water buckets. It was a creeping sorcery, delivered directly to the beast. He pocketed the carving, its muted vibration tapping through his wool trousers. “Piotr, stay here. Do not touch anything else. If anyone comes, tell them I am tending to Skov.” Without waiting for a reply, Jasker strode out of the aerie, his mind racing. He needed to present this to the Queen, immediately. This wasn’t a medical case anymore. This was treason strikes from inside the citadel walls. Sentries clad in blackened iron barred the archway leading toward the solar. He invoked the Queen’s direct order, the threat of his own execution, and the immediate danger to her gryphon. His passion, usually reined in, flared, convincing them of the urgency. They stepped aside, flanking him with drawn polearms. He found Queen Roksana seated at a polished obsydian table, reviewing scrolls by the flickering light of a brazier. Chancellor Borislav stood beside her, his posture impeccably deferential, his expression a mask of grave concern. Charcoal smoke from the iron brazier hung motionless between the tapestries. “My Queen,” Jasker said, dipping his chin before shifting his gaze toward Borislav. “I found the root of Skov’s distress.” He set the small relic upon the dark slate. The faint gleam showed pale against the polished stone. Roksana leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as they focused on the object. Borislav, however, remained impassive, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “What is this, physician?” the Queen asked, her voice level and sharp as honed steel. “A focus for an enchantment,” Jasker said. “It leeches a slow rot into Skov’s marrow, draining him by degrees. It was buried deep in his bedding straw.” He fixed his gaze on Borislav. “This is deliberate sabotage.” Borislav’s expression remained perfectly calm, almost pitying. He stepped forward, a slight, sympathetic smile touching his lips. “A curious claim, Korvits. But let us avoid hasty conclusions. May I?” Borislav extended fingers toward the table. Roksana gave a curt nod. The chancellor lifted the small rib, rolling it thoughtfully. “Ah. A common Vorsk charm, kept by grooms to ward draft horses from colic. My grandmother pinned them to her stables.” Jasker felt a cold dread creep up his spine. “No, Chancellor. This is—” Borislav interrupted smoothly. “Are you quite certain? It appears to be an old, crudely notched scrap of mutton bone.” With a dry snap of his fingers, Borislav broke the splinter in half. The fragments rattled against the table. No glow sparked, no thrum pulsed. Only bare marrow-pith remained. Jasker stared, his mind reeling. The object in Borislav’s hand was an exact replica, but utterly devoid of power. A fake. He had swapped it, somehow, in that brief moment. The hair on Jasker's neck bristled; cold sweat gathered under his collar. Borislav turned back to the Queen, his expression one of polite concern. “A harmless token, as you see, my liege. A groom’s dropped trinket.” Borislav offered a mild sigh. “I understand his zeal, yet raising screams of sabotage over stable superstition nears slander. It smacks of inventing conspiracies to inflate one’s importance.” Roksana’s gray eyes flattened. The wary distance carved by past treasons closed across her expression. Jasker stood before her as a foreign beast-tender; Borislav had stood beside her throne for decades. “Korvits,” Roksana said, her voice dropping to a rasping whisper. “My patience has limits. You were summoned to treat my mount, not invent plots among my ministers.” She pointed at the dry fragments. “Confine yourself to the aerie. Requisition whatever roots you require, and keep the boy as your helper. Leave governance to my council.” She locked her gaze onto his. “Save Skov, or face the block.” The escorts shifted, leather scabbards creaking. Heat flushed Jasker’s cheekbones, hot against the hall’s draft. He bowed stiffly. “As you command, my Queen.” He retreated down the vaulted corridor, the escort pacing two paces behind his boots. Borislav had anticipated him cleanly, stripping his word of all value before the throne. Hours later, after sundown left the crags draped in soot and slate, boots clicked against the aerie flagstones. Borislav waved the posted guards down the stairwell, stepping past the iron gate alone. Skov shifted upon his straw bed, a guttural rattle rising in the avian throat. Borislav ignored the beak entirely, his gaze fixed on Jasker with sharp amusement. “A clumsy display, Korvits,” Borislav said, dropping his voice to a soft murmur. “Attempting to expose me with a mere trifle like that.” He chuckled, a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves. “I confess, for a moment, you almost amused me.” Jasker stood his ground, his hands clenched at his sides. “You corrupted him,” Jasker said, his tone dry and hard. “You are poisoning her mount.” Borislav’s smile widened, a cruel, triumphant baring of teeth. “Far more than that, practitioner. I have cultivated this condition for months.” Borislav stepped into the straw's perimeter. “I know your bloodline. A Sky-Binder. Your hands feel the creature's marrow and pulse. You recognized the rot clinging to his sinews, didn’t you?” Jasker said nothing, a knot of icy fear tightening in his stomach. How did Borislav know? “And now you plan to cleanse him,” Borislav said softly. “The irony pleases me. The venom acting on his blood presently bridles the curse. It suppresses the full horror while binding him to my intent. Once you purge the toxin—once the beast recovers—that harness breaks. The ancient rite will awaken unhindered, engineered specifically to purge the matriarchs who seized this kingdom.” Borislav’s eyes gleamed with maniacal triumph. “Skov will become the living embodiment of the curse. A beast of pure, primal rage, untethered, uncontrollable, driven by a singular, instinctual command: to hunt the Queen. To tear her apart and end the Kosciusz line forever.” He leaned in, his breath cold against Jasker’s ear. “Cure him, country leech. Release my masterpiece.”

A Chancellor's Gambit