But Jasker Korvits wasn’t waiting. He stood by Skov’s side, the immense beast’s breathing shallow, its powerful frame occasionally wracked by tremors. The knowledge of the curse pressed down on him, a physical ache behind his ribs. He traced the smooth, cool surface of a scrying mirror, its polished basalt reflecting only his own strained face. Words spoken years before the cold stone of the Spire echoed in his mind, sharp and clear. *The scent of pine and damp earth filled his nostrils, thick with the tang of fresh blood. Young Jasker, barely ten summers old, pressed grimy hands against the gaping tear in the man's tunic. The older healer, a man whose smile could soothe a charging gronak, gritted his teeth, his face pale beneath the grime. Beside them, whimpering softly, was a young Shard-Wyrm, its crystalline scales dulled with fear, a brutal snare still wrapped around its slender neck. A nobleman, Baron Vlasto, had wanted its scales for a new cloak. His poachers hadn’t cared about the ‘forbidden’ status of a creature so rare. “Stay with me,” Jasker pleaded, his own voice thin and reedy. He tried to focus, to reach out with his nascent Sky-Binder empathy, to mend the torn flesh, to stop the crimson flow. He felt the life force draining, a vibrant flame dimming to embers. A calloused hand covered Jasker’s. “Our gift, boy,” he rasped, his eyes, usually so full of gentle wisdom, now clouded with pain, “is not to rule them. Never. It is to serve them. To give voice to the voiceless, solace to the wild heart.” A cough wracked his frame, spattering blood on the forest floor. “Never let a man’s greed… destroy a spirit. A creature’s spirit.” His gaze fixed on the Shard-Wyrm, then found Jasker’s eyes, fierce and unyielding. “Swear it, Jasker. Swear you will protect them.” “I swear,” Jasker choked out, tears blurring his vision. “I swear.” Those pale lips curved into a faint smile, a final, peaceful expression. “Good… My boy…” His hand went limp, his breath a faint sigh that mingled with the wind through the ancient pines. The Shard-Wyrm cried out, a keening sound that tore through Jasker’s soul. He had failed. His gift, his empathy, his love, had not been enough. The baron’s greed had stolen two lives that day.* The memory faded, leaving behind a cold resolve. Jasker ran a hand over Skov’s dull plumage. He would not fail again. He would not allow a man’s greed, Borislav’s ambition, to destroy Skov’s spirit, or Roksana’s. There had to be a third option. There had to be a way to neutralize the venom without activating the curse, to free them both. A light tap at the aerie door. Queen Roksana entered, her posture as rigid as ever, but her eyes, when they met Jasker’s, held a new, raw vulnerability. The harsh light of the morning streamed through the high windows, illuminating the fine lines of fatigue around her eyes. “Any change?” she asked, her voice low, almost tentative. She didn't approach Skov, instead remaining a few paces away, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace. Jasker shook his head. “The poison is still present. It’s a slow burn, designed to weaken before the final activation. I’m certain the ‘cure’ is the final ritual component.” He paused, then looked directly at her. “Queen Roksana, I swear to you, I will find a way. A way to save Skov, without… without condemning you.” Her gaze held his, unwavering. The usual icy mask was absent, replaced by a quiet intensity. “I believe you,” she said, the words a soft admission in the echoing expanse of the aerie. “I have seen too much deception. Too many masks. Yours, Jasker Korvits, is not one of them.” She took a step closer, then another, until she stood directly before him. Her hand, slender and unadorned, reached into the deep pocket of her tunic. She pulled out a ring, not one of the grand, gem-encrusted adornments of royalty, but a simple, heavy band of dark iron. Etched into its surface was a single, stylized raven, wings spread wide, a symbol Jasker recognized from ancient texts as the Kosciusz matriarchal emblem. His mother’s signet. “This was my mother’s,” Roksana said, her voice barely a whisper. “It is given only to those in whom the Queen places absolute trust. It grants the bearer unrestricted access to any part of the Spire, its archives, its stores. It commands the obedience of any who serve the crown, save for myself.” She pressed it into his palm, the cold metal a sudden, unexpected weight. Her touch was brief, fleeting, yet it left a warmth behind. Jasker stared at the ring, then back at her. This was more than trust; it was an alliance forged in desperation, a silent vow between a queen and a common man. “Your Majesty…” “Roksana,” she corrected, her eyes firm. “If we are to face this, we face it as partners. Your knowledge, my authority. Borislav will not expect it.” She turned, a flicker of her usual regal bearing returning. “Tell me what you need. What resources. What information.” Before Jasker could respond, a low groan rumbled from Skov. The vast body began to convulse, slowly at first, then with increasing violence. The chains securing its legs strained against the stone anchors, rattling with a terrible sound. Skov’s eyes, which had been dull, now rolled back, showing only whites. A guttural shriek tore from its throat, a sound of agony that ripped through the quiet aerie, echoing off the stone walls. “Skov!” Roksana cried, her voice cracking, her iron composure shattering instantly. She rushed forward, forgetting her caution, reaching instinctively for the thrashing beast. Jasker moved faster, intercepting her, pulling her back just as a massive wing lashed out, sending gusts of wind that nearly bowled them over. The gryphon’s entire body was seized by violent spasms, its talons digging deep furrows into the hardened earth of the aerie floor. Foam frothed at the corners of its beak. The air grew heavy, thick with a sweet, sickly odor, faintly metallic. It was the scent of the toxin, accelerating its work, consuming Skov from within. This wasn't merely a seizure; it was a crisis. Jasker felt it through his Sky-Binder senses – the frantic, desperate struggle of Skov’s life force, besieged and overwhelmed. The curse was feeding, growing stronger even as Skov weakened. The draught was not just weakening the host; it was actively *preparing* it for the transformation. A terrible realization struck him, cold and sharp. The slow burn was over. The 'cure' was no longer a distant threat; it was imminent. Skov was not dying slowly. It was collapsing rapidly. He had miscalculated the timeline entirely. “The venom,” Jasker said, his voice strained as he wrestled to keep Roksana away from the flailing beast. “It’s reaching its apex. It's not days we have. It’s hours. Maybe less. We have to act now.” Skov’s shriek intensified, a sound of pure, unadulterated torment that promised to tear the Spire apart. “Borislav will come soon,” Jasker continued, his voice tight with sudden, terrible urgency. “He’ll be expecting to deliver the ‘antidote,’ to activate the curse. We need to stop him, before he even sets foot in this aerie. Before Skov succumbs.” He looked at Roksana, her face pale, her eyes wide with terror, not for herself, but for Skov. The ring felt heavy in his hand, a tangible promise of shared purpose. He gripped it tightly. The game had changed. They were out of time. “We have to move. Now. Tell me, Roksana, what is the fastest way to get to Borislav’s study? And how do we ensure he doesn’t take the antidote with him?” Skov let out another ear-splitting roar, its body thrashing, its wings slamming against the stone with terrifying force. The Spire itself seemed to shudder under the assault, as if the mountain was groaning in sympathy for the dying beast. A crack appeared in the aerie wall, spider-webbing outwards from where Skov’s shoulder had impacted. The air crackled with a dark, nascent energy. The curse was not just imminent; it was awakening.

The Sky-Binder's Oath