"Of all the tribes scattered across this great land of Hyrule, the Sheikah are by far the most mysterious. Secretive in their ways, deft in the arts of illusion and espionage, it is that very mystique that defines the clan. To know too much about the Sheikah is to desecrate the very essence of the culture."

Lady Ronia of the House of Faron, The Historical Atlas of the Peoples of Hyrule


Lingering in the gray shadows of the stable's roof, tucked against its panels and shingles like a cat, a dark-clad figure crouched. A loose black hood obscured her features, the jutting column of a chimney hiding the rest of her body from prying eyes. She leaned over the rotting wood, spying intently into the paddock below. Her slender, long ears perked inside her hood, listening earnestly.

The King in all of his glory, draped in a sanguine cape, stood across from an equally red warhorse. Thick, armored arms crossed, thin lips drawn into a tight scowl, he towered over nearly everything around him, with the exception, of course, of the magnificent horse. The King's trusted general, Haema, dressed perpetually in his panoply, stood at his side, face darkening with fury. She could see the Ordishman's hand clench, knuckled armor clinking, as he stepped forward, laying a foot on the shoulder of the prostrated stableboy.

The spy sorted through the reasons Haema might accompany his King to something as mundane as the showing of a new horse. There were few explanations, and all of them discouraging. Palo had been right about Haema's recent intimacy with the King—perhaps he was right when he insisted there was something terrible brewing on the horizon. She did not want to have to concede to Palo—he could be such a terror when proven right—but she could not help but share in the sinking feeling this was no ordinary meeting, and that was no ordinary horse.

The King's eyes did not remove themselves from the magnificent beast's body, whereas Haema seemed more engaged in punishing the stableboy for his insolence. The large, red-faced general stomped on his shoulder, demanding to know why he had seen fit to show such insolence to his divine ruler.

Another man, hairy and squat, sporting a thick mustache, sprinted desperately to the King and his general, throwing himself into a supplicant bow.

"Esteemed sires," the man stuttered, hands wringing, eyes on the ground. "Permission to speak."

Haema, foot still on the prostrated boy, turned to the King, who gave a slow, regal nod.

"I am not worthy," the stablehand stammered, bowing ever deeper. He waited a moment in deference before continuing: "He is deaf, your majesty. He did not hear your approach, otherwise he would've shown the proper respect. I will punish him appropriately for his misbehavior, rest assured."

"It's a little late for excuses, isn't it?" Haema growled, driving his heel into the stableboy. He twitched in pain, but didn't cry out. He remained pressed against the ground in the most reverent kowtow, hands folded in the dirt above his blond head.

"Calm yourself, Sir Haema." The King's voice came strong and deliberate, infused with the calmness only true power can impart. He tore his eyes away from the horse and lowered them to the stableboy. The kid didn't look up, didn't move—he remained prostrate, shaking ever so slightly. "Remove your foot from the poor child," the King commanded. Haema, still rubicund with anger, obeyed. The King turned to the other stablehand, still locked in a deep bow. "You may assist him to his feet. He cannot help his condition." The man scrambled to pull his underling from the dirt, nodding his head profusely and thanking the King. The monarch himself merely turned back to the horse, putting one giant foot in the stirrup and hauling himself onto her back. He settled into the saddle, and glanced down at the stableboy slowly wiping the dirt from his face, eyes still downcast. "Just make sure he is more aware of his surroundings in the future."

"Yes, your majesty, of course," the stablehand replied, pushing his deaf underling into the safety of the shadow he cast.

You're one to speak of awareness, the figure found herself thinking. She watched the King deftly maneuver the warhorse around the corral, turning her this way and that, pushing her into a gallop and slowing her to a trot, cape flinging behind him like a wake of fire. The charger glided in a perfect ring, elegant, obedient, muscles twisting in the grey light. Even with the unkempt portions of unfinished knots in her mane, she was still singularly awe-inspiring. She reared her large head beautifully—truly, she was the only horse of the size and strength worthy to carry a man like the Great King across the plains of Lanayru.

Palo had most definitely been right. The King planned to do something big, something that necessitated travel, or worse, combat. This steed was bred for battle. There could be no other use for so strong a creature. She or Palo would need to pay a visit to the palace armory to see if the blacksmiths hammered any plates for the steed or her rider.

The horse loped back to where Haema stood, metal-plated arms crossed, next to the timid stablehands. The King slowed her, and she obeyed with a vigorous snort. He slid from her back, something of a smile crossing his broad, dark features. He replaced a stray strand of bright red hair and brushed a few specks of dirt from his shoulder.

Haema bowed slightly. "Is it all you wished for, sire?"

"And more." The King's yellow eyes settled on the two stablehands. "Give the stable master my regards, if indeed he is the one who has trained her."

"Your majesty…" the swarthy servant started quietly.

"Spit it out," Haema commanded.

The man meekly stepped aside and gestured to the golden-haired boy.

"Is that a joke?" Haema spat. "Him?"

"Yes, sires. Longeing, bitting, backing—all his doing. He is… rather gifted."

"Fascinating." The King stepped forward, leaning over the stableboy, examining him. From the spy's vantage point on the roof, she could see the young man lower his head even farther, obviously uncomfortable at the close proximity to his godlike ruler. He seemed to be doing all he could to keep himself from falling back into the dirt at the King's feet. The King stared at him for a few seconds, at the back of his lowered head, before turning again to his general.

"Haema, give the boy a gold coin for his efforts."

"Sire."

Reluctantly Haema threw a shining piece at the stableboy's feet. He didn't move—at this point paying attention to the money rather than his King would've been an affront so impudent it might warrant a hanging. The boy just remained bent in his bow, ignorant of the words exchanged over him.

"I expect to see similar excellence in the future," the King said, turning toward the stable gates. "Do not disappoint me."

"Yes, your majesty," the stablehand stammered, following the pair, bowing obsequiously.

When the King made his way out of the yard, back into the safety of his grand palace grounds, the figure drew her cloak tighter around her and slid down the side of the stable roof. She was blind to the King's movements in his palace, and worse yet, his guards would be winding their way about the battlements at this hour. If she stayed on the roof, they would no doubt see her and raise an alarm.

She would've liked to stick around and spy on him, but she knew lingering at this fragile hour invited discovery. She had so much to do before she left the city—and peeping on the King was the lowest of necessities. If her information was correct, they would have plenty of time for that in the near future. But she couldn't banish the feeling that she was wasting precious time, and jeopardizing her clan's entire strategy, by letting the King live a little while longer.

She knew she could try to snip the bud before it bloomed, to cut off the King's ambitions before war reared its head. But to try would be to risk herself, her entire tribe, and the fate of the country. Despite her eager hand wandering to the knives on her thigh, despite her imagining flying from the rooftop to drive a blade into the back of the tyrant's neck, she dropped to the ground harmlessly. She slipped away from the palace grounds unseen, out to the main boulevard of the city. She pulled her hood back over her head as the first droplets of a rainstorm began to fall. She knew soon enough it would freeze, and the city streets would be soggy and piled high with grimy, dirt-smeared snow.

She detested the snow of the Capital. It was so different from the soft, pure mounds that blanketed Kakariko in the winter, swallowing all sound and worry. She even preferred the blizzards of Mount Eldin to the wet, dirty hail that fell angrily from the skies above the city.

If she was perfunctory, if she was smart about her mission, and if she was just a little lucky, she could escape the city before winter rolled around. She could return to her village with Palo at her side, and a shard of hope.

According to those operatives who came before, the last carrier of the old royal bloodline lived somewhere in the eastern quarter, safely integrated in the populace and ignorant of her heritage. Hopefully, for her sake and that of the country, the rest of the city remained equally uninformed—if the King got word of the remnants of the deposed bloodline, he'd no doubt sack the entire quarter and put to death any Hylian unlucky enough to vaguely resemble the portraits of toppled kings of old.

But as it stood now, the last scion of the old royal family was alive and well, and—if the other Sheikah spies they had sent earlier were correct—rather young. She could still be taught, stripped of any loyalty she might harbor for the King, still be brought up knowing her duty. She would hone her skills in the hidden precipices of Kakariko and face her obligation to take back her kingdom, to reestablish order. But that was in the far future. For now, the steps toward Hyrule's liberation were small, seemingly inconsequential.

The cloaked figure slipped against the wall, out of the sightline of a group of passing guards. She sank into the shadows and they stomped by her without incident. She glanced up at the darkening sky, knowing she would have to return to Palo with her report, with the embarrassing admission that he'd been right about everything—about Haema's involvement with the King's recent escapades, about the threat of war looming on the horizon.

Stupid Impa, he'd say. You should know by now I'm always right.

She could only hope he was also right when he told her what Doctor Balras told him: the heir to the old throne was somewhere nearby. It made her clench her teeth to know that he should be correct regarding so many things at once—it was a surefire way to make him insufferable for at least a month—but she, too, had a strange, elevating feeling that they were close to stumbling upon something important, something crucial.

Her grandmother, or so her father told her, was born with a remarkable power of foresight. Time and time again, Impa wished that she had at least a modicum of that woman's talent—then perhaps she would not be stuck so often in aimless ruts of confusion. It would save her plenty of hours of frustration and heartache, but the only things resembling premonitions she got were vague senses of restlessness, uninterpretable feelings, unsupported guesses.

They were sometimes wrong, sometimes right—she assumed she had been born with no such gift as her grandmother had, but merely possessed that unremarkable talent that all people shared: good old gut feeling. She had no proclivity for prognostication, no belief in the intricate plans of gods and demons, no certainty regarding her own guesses. So she did not find it odd that no visions came to her regarding the location of the royal heir. She would not expect her mission to be so easy. What really struck her as remarkable was that the presence of that deaf stableboy stayed with her, like the pieces of a meaningful dream fractured upon awakening. As she crept down the street, wrapped tightly in shadow, he was the closest thing she had to a supernatural vision.

The boy himself was unexceptional—just another young sycophant in the King's employ, showering the monarch with adoration while ignoring his own oppression. He was probably just as loyal to the Dragmire family as any other citizen, just as helpless, but for some reason, his mud-streaked face reappeared in Impa's mind again and again. He comprised a vivid image: his strong jaw and kind eyes, the posture and vigor indicating he was on the cusp of manhood, and the timidness and humility to downplay the fact. She had not personally seen the brand that marked him as palace property, but it was reasonable to assume he had one. He seemed so uninteresting, interchangeable with any other well-meaning Hylian youth, it struck her as odd she would find herself thinking about him, especially when more crucial things should occupy her mind.

Perhaps what little gift for premonition her grandmother had left in the recesses of her genes was trying to tell her the boy had something of a future, besides remaining crushed under the heel of the King and his henchmen. Whatever her gut was trying to tell her, she wished him all the best. But she knew she couldn't worry about such an inconsequential peasant at the moment.

Impa had better things to do with her time. She had to report back to Doctor Balras for the night, settle down with Palo in his back room and get what little rest she could before she resumed her reconnaissance in the morning. She would have to tell both of them about Haema, and the King, the showing of the red warhorse, and then apologize for not having gathered more information. Palo might just cross his arms and shake his head, but Doctor Balras was usually more obliging.

The good doctor was Hylian in origin, with pale skin and dark hair common to the people of the northern plains provinces. Impa never knew from which region he hailed, but he had lived in the Capital for the better part of three decades, and knew the city well enough to prove an invaluable ally. He provided hints, rumors, maps, secrets, whatever she or Palo might ask of him, with no complaints, and with strangely unwavering politeness.

Apparently he had known Impa's father when they were both young, even before Mandrag Elgra's advance on Death Mountain. They had both practiced as physicians on opposite sides of that battle, but Balras had since turned his coat, preferring instead to assist the Sheikah rather than shrink in quiet obedience to the King's demands. She had never met the man before her most recent trip to the Capital, but she was nothing but thankful for his help.

In this city, under this crown, she could use all the help she could get.