"I don't know where you came up with this theory—"

"Dr. Purah, I assure you, if you've had the sort of progress with your research that I assume you have, then there's—"

"Oh no, you're not placing the impetus for this... this scheme on me. I'm telling you that the physics don't work. Guardians communicate through flashes of light, and breaking line of sight makes them incapable of either receiving or sending those signals! You showed me the mechanism they use for it, even if I'm the one who identified it. If you think that you can just cook up an alternative solution to a communication problem that was reasonably solved ten thousand years before you were ever born..."

Zelda took a long, steady breath that nearly came out as a hiss. "Doctor. Again I assure you, this is not just theory. I put it into practice when reaching the shrine that was outside of the Yiga Clan Hideout."

"You transmitted very specific, very narrow instructions to one receiver, and you had to use the heavens-granted powers of the goddess Hylia to do it! Unless you've actually tried to," and that was when Paya unknowingly found the same solution as her grandmother, completely tuning out the two women arguing in the center of the room.

Paya could not pretend to understand anything that either of them was talking about; she understood, in principle, that they were discussing the Guardians and the underlying technology that informed how the machines communicated with one another, but anything more concrete than that was so far above her head it might as well have been in a different language.

The conversation had started plainly enough: Zelda had brought them to the Hateno Ancient Tech Lab with the hopes of coordinating her understanding with Paya's aunt, which would hopefully afford them some sort of advantage over Ganon in the battle to come. On walking in, Zelda's enthusiasm had been infectious, and both she and Purah had tried to get out the new discoveries that each of them had made in their time apart. They'd spread out diagrams on the table, and Zelda had laid out the Sheikah Slate to illustrate her points with references she'd made through photographs and topographical notations on the map while Purah stood on a chair to get a better vantage point. They'd both been happy about discussing their respective ideas, but it was when these ideas started to trend toward one another that there had been friction. What friction, of course, Paya could not guess, but even Symin seemed affected by it; though he'd stood in the third space around the table to start with, staring with owlish intensity and interjecting where he thought his insight would prove valuable, he'd slowly backed off and taken on the role of observer as the two women argued and Purah jumped on top of the table to tower over the younger woman.

Paya could not help empathizing, which made her reflect that, no matter how removed Symin seemed, she was more removed still; this was one of the things that she could not share with Zelda. But, based on the tone her aunt had taken on, maybe that wasn't so bad.

When there was a momentary lull where Purah and Zelda stared each other down with wide, intense eyes, Paya cleared her throat. "Pardon me," she said. "I'm going to step outside for some fresh air."

Purah and Zelda did not look at her; if anything, their staring grew even more intense and confrontational. The much older (and much younger) woman waved her hand at her niece. "Of course. Zelda will be right along behind you."

That made Zelda actually scowl, her eyebrows drawn low and her mouth pursed as if holding back a retort. Still, she did raise her face to look over at Paya, her expression apologetic. "I'm sorry, Paya. As much as I hate to countermand such an auspicious researcher, I have a feeling this might take a while longer. I'll join you when I can."

"Hate to countermand, you say—"

Paya bowed deep, though no one saw it, then turned and left the laboratory, shutting the door behind her.

The heavy wood frame settling into place sealed the noise of the argument behind her.

The wind was blowing up from the village, carrying the smell of dye and livestock and wood smoke. The wood was different from the trees that grew around Kakariko, and the smell was different, too, but something in it still made her nostalgic. She walked away from the laboratory, down the path, and stood on the edge of the cliff overlooking the village. There was so much life there, and from this distance it seemed so tranquil. Perhaps, if she tried, she might be able to feel that tranquility even up close.

Paya closed her eyes.

She breathed in. One.

She breathed out. Two.

She breathed in. One.

She breathed out. Two.

She counted her breaths, one and two, all of her focus on the act of breathing, on the controlled expansion and contraction of her diaphragm. All the world retreated to just that act, to just herself, and her thoughts fell away.

There was no tension; there was nowhere for tension to find its seat. She was only the breaths she took. One. Two. One. Two.

Slowly, slowly she let her awareness extend beyond her breathing; she felt the air in her nostrils, her windpipe, tasted the air on her tongue. Her hands touched gently in repose in front of her—she had learned this pose from her grandmother, though it was supposed to be done seated, rather than standing.

She let that thought come and go of its own accord. One. Two. One. Two.

The world moved around her, and she was in the world, and her heartbeat slowed with her breathing. There was nothing in the world that would upset the world; the world would continue on, and she was part of that. One. Two.

The door opened behind her; she knew, instantly, that it was Symin. The sound of Zelda and Purah's argument was too removed by distance to be at the door, then fell to silence again when the door was shut. She thought, very briefly, of letting go of her meditation, out of reverence for the elder Sheikah—but no, that wasn't right, either. She needed this, and it was an imposition to interrupt it just because Symin was stepping outside. She would not burden him with her own skittishness.

She breathed.

Symin's footsteps were quiet in a way that suggested he had been trained when he was young and then gotten lax as he aged, which was typical for many Sheikah men who didn't work as guards. He drew up behind her but stood at a respectful distance—and then, after four seconds, turned and walked further down the path, toward the orchard. Perhaps he did not want to disturb her; she felt momentarily guilty for seeming stand-offish, and then that feeling slipped away. She let it go.

She realized that, for the first time in her living memory, she was alone with a man she didn't really know and she did not feel nervous.

That is a good stopping point.

She breathed out a cleansing sigh. Opened her eyes.

Impa's hands were steadier than many people a fifth her age. The cup of tea in her hand was placid as she held it in front of her face, breathing in the smell of the drink before sipping.

Paya exhaled at the same moment her grandmother did; that exhalation was the strongest expression of pleasure that Impa allowed herself, and the tension in Paya's back released.

"It is prepared perfectly," the elder of the Sheikah said.

"Thank you, Grandmother," Paya said, inclining her head. Now that her grandmother had begun drinking, she poured herself a cup. The heat of the tea spread through her hands.

Rain fell outside, beating a comfortable pattern against the walls and roof of the elder's manse. Paya closed her eyes, breathing in the steam from her tea and reflecting on how familiar this felt.

"Paya."

She snapped out of her reverie. "Yes, Grandmother?"

The elder's expression was impossible to read; according to Aunt Purah, she'd been impossible to read even in her youth. It created an effect where it was almost impossible to guess what topic she would try to broach, and Paya felt the faintest flutter of anxiety at what might be coming. "Tell me what you are thinking about, child."

"Thinking about?" It was rude to answer a question that way, but she couldn't help it.

Impa nodded. "You are so deep in thought that you should be wearing a harness. We have not spoken privately in months, but you plainly have a great deal on your mind. Share with me."

Paya nodded, setting her cup aside. Her first instinct was to prevaricate, but that had never availed anyone when speaking to her grandmother, and in spite of the vastness of the elder's authority she had always tried to make sure that Paya could confide in her. To fear her, to be shy toward her, would be to dishonor the boundless love that she had shown Paya for her entire life.

"I was thinking of the last time we had tea together. That was before Zelda came to the village—and I was wondering how much I have changed, since then." It was a silly thing to suggest. Even for someone as young as she was, months were not a very long time; to her grandmother, it must have seemed very brief indeed.

Still, Impa once more shamed the preconception by looking at her granddaughter very seriously, setting her tea aside to place her wizened hands on her knees. "You have traveled with the divine princess and you are not sure how you should relate to her."

It was lucky that Paya was not drinking her tea; she would have spilled it, and scalded herself, and possibly used that as an excuse to flee. Instead she tried not to react and found herself biting on the insides of her cheeks. She marshaled herself, calling upon all of her focus, all of her discipline, to levelly get out the words: "That is very true."

"The princess is resting now," the elder continued, a statement that invited confirmation.

"She is. She wished to spend a night in an inn before continuing on her journey tomorrow. She wishes to use her power to reach for all of the remaining shrines across Hyrule simultaneously."

Impa raised her eyebrows, nodding appreciatively. "That had not occurred to me, though I can see why she would think it possible. I am sure that she will succeed, once she begins. Will that be the last step she takes before going to the Hero's aid?"

"I... believe so." Talking about Zelda with her grandmother was already hard; talking about matters where the princess was unsure was much more difficult. "Her memory has not returned to her. She is worried that she hasn't regained full control of the sealing power of the royal family, though she has exhausted the places she thought important enough to record a century ago."

Impa did not respond; instead she turned her head, the charms on her hat swinging gently, and looked across the room. Paya followed her grandmother's glance.

Many times had she seen the painting that hung on the wall, been taken aback by the hyper-realism in its depiction of utter ruin. What she saw there was the Blatchery Plain as it had been a hundred years ago, on the day that Zelda fell in battle: instead of green grass there was only evil smoke and earth that had the quality of crumbling ash. Mountains burned in the distance, and pools of Malice had congealed, dried up by some unseen force, and desiccated eyes on twisted stalks stared sightlessly into the void. Whoever had painted the scene had captured not just its reality but the reality of its experience; many times had Paya, in her childhood, had nightmares of the carnage that must have informed that image.

"That," Impa said, "is the one place she could not record in the Sheikah Slate. The things that happened there..." The elder shook her head, as if to clear away the memory. "Tell me. Almost all of Zelda's memories have been about her journey with the Hero, yes?"

"Yes." That was the truth, but it was also nearly a lie; it did not capture the degree to which she knew Link's presence, his shared past with Zelda, had informed their entire journey. Paya thought of lightning in the dark, a hand pried open as she was pulled away from oblivion. "Almost all. Some few have been about her relationships with the other Champions, but all of those that she marked in the Sheikah Slate were about the Hero."

"Then it is there, on the Blatchery Plain, where she will find the last of her memory. That is the place where she fell—the last place that she saw the Hero before he took up his long, lonely vigil against the dark."

The two faced each other again. Impa took up her cup, and Paya took that as a signal to pick up her own. They both drank, and the tea had cooled enough that their sips were longer, more relaxed, and more meditative.

Impa drew her lips away from her cup first. "I wonder more at how Zelda has changed."

Paya took another sip while thinking. Her grandmother would flit back and forth between topics like this to keep the other person on their toes. "As compared to how I have?"

"Yes. A century ago, I would not claim to have been on intimate terms with the princess—our relationship was very formal, and was never bridged by the passion for study she shared with my sister or the common destiny and heavy burden she shared with Link—but I was her attendant for several years. She is not the kind of person that you forget, even with a century intervening against your memory. She has changed a very great deal."

Paya sipped. Drinking tea was an excellent way to extend silences and to gather thoughts. "Could it be because she's been so thoroughly severed from her past?"

"I wonder."

Paya became suddenly aware of her grandmother looking at her, not as a matter of conversational protocol but really looking at her, as analytically as she'd done during Paya's training a decade ago. The weight of those eyes, of that experience, of the century-honed mind and judgment, would have put her on the floor in the days before she'd left the village.

The leader of the Sheikah continued. "Zelda is at the crossroads of many lives, now. She is slowly rediscovering the person that she was; she is learning more about the person that she is; she is hurtling toward the person that she must be. This would be burden enough for any monarch, but hers is heavier because she is still a child."

"Grandmother!" Later Paya would remember the scolding tone she'd taken in that moment and want to leap headlong into her own grave.

"Do not be so surprised. It is not a failure to be a child; it is simply what one is. And what she is. And what you are. And, though it might sound ridiculous, what the Hero is." A scowl weighed down her face. "This world is cruel to its children, Paya. It takes them in its hands and shapes them to tasks that the people who should protect them have never been equal to. That fate befalls Zelda now. It befell Link a century ago. And it is befalling you, too." One wrinkled hand came up, cutting off any response. "No. Do not speak yet. I will tell you the truth, granddaughter, because you need to hear it.

"You have gathered already that the Calamity is the result of apocalypse deferred by generations that could not deal with it in their own time. My generation is guilty of the same. But that does not make you more responsible for the world; it only means that you are the last ones who have a chance. Our failures weigh on you, but that does not change who you are. All of you who are preparing to fight, all of you who have fought—you and the princess and the Zora prince and the Chief of the Gerudo and all the others—are still children. You are still growing. When you stop this end, when you keep the world from breaking, you will continue to grow."

Paya inclined her head.

"But you are not like everyone else, Paya. You are Sheikah. I have tried to prepare you to lead our people, but your first duty is the duty of all Sheikah: service to the goddess." She held up one hand, balling it into a fist. "You must be prepared to serve Zelda by any means necessary, to facilitate both her well-being and her victory. No matter the cost, to you or anyone else. Though I have no right, though I speak as another of your failed ancestors, I charge you with this duty. Though it might stop your own growth; though it might cost you your very life; you are the last and best hope of our people. Keep her safe. Stay with her."

Something shifted in Paya's mind.

None of what her grandmother said was new to her; she was not sure, even, why she was being told these things again. Still. Still, that reminder, no matter how redundant, did stir something. Even if it was just an echo of her own personal oaths, even if she would have done precisely the same without a word spoken, it fanned a spark that was in her chest.

The granddaughter rose to her feet, opening a pouch at her belt and drawing forth her diary. She crossed the room and offered the book to her grandmother with a bow.

The book was taken from her hands. She returned to her spot on the floor, kneeling.

She finished her tea while her grandmother read. Impa's eyes were still sharp, and Paya's handwriting was very neat.

Paya refilled Impa's cup, and then her own. Then again.

Impa's fourth cup had grown cool beside her when she closed the book. Once more her expression was unreadable as she looked at her granddaughter.

"Oh, my girl."

Paya bowed low from her kneeling position, nearly pressing her head to floor. "I submit myself to your judgment."

She could not see Impa blinking hard, could not quite hear it as her grandmother drew herself up straighter, but she knew these things were happening.

Finally the old voice spoke: "Your duty is unchanged."

"By my blood and my blade." Paya rose again, bowed once more. "I would tend to the princess, by your leave."

"Paya."

Her name, spoken so tenderly, was harsher than a slap across the face. She had to blink back tears. I thought she would be so angry. "Yes, Grandmother?"

"Zelda will need her rest, and she is well-guarded here. It would do me good to have you sleep under my roof again, if only for one night. I have kept your room prepared."

She hesitated, tried to unpack her grandmother's reasoning, then almost recoiled in shock and shame at how far she dared to go when she was being received so warmly. "Of course. Nothing would make me happier. May I serve you breakfast in the morning?"

"I would be very happy if you did."

"Then I will. Thank you, Grandmother." She raised her eyes from the floor. Saw the storm of emotion in her grandmother's face. Did not understand. "Grandmother?"

"My child," Impa said, slowly and carefully, as if picking her way through a thorn bush. "What Zelda's heart desires is inherently righteous. But... I want you to be prepared. You want to serve as her anchor, but you may not be able to do so this time. The connection between the Goddess, the Calamity, and the Hero is as old as the world, and its gravity is truly terrible."

Now it was Paya's turn to smile, to see the shock written on her grandmother's face. "I have been prepared for this all along."

Another pause. Finally: "Good child."

Paya went up the familiar stairs, feeling sure and tired and light.

The mountain range had been named for Levias, an ancient spirit said to have served the goddess in days long since lost to history. The guardian of the sky, Levias was said to have watched over the goddess's own realm, protecting her most beloved chosen when the world was full of darkness. Paya had been told, once, that the spires were so named because only those with wings could ever hope to scale the stone.

Zelda (usually) and Paya did not have wings, but when they stood at the base of the tallest peak Zelda knelt on the ground and called upon the power of Revali's Gale. The updraft that blossomed beneath them was so strong that Paya felt herself grow lighter, and she had to fight the urge to clutch at the grass. Zelda turned to her and nodded. The two of them braced their arms, unfurled their paragliders, and were lifted into the air as if by an invisible hand.

They had tested the effective range of Revali's Gale almost immediately after receiving it, and if Paya recalled correctly it should not have been able to carry them even halfway up the face of the rock, but in moments they were cresting the top and angling down and away from the draft. Zelda must have put her power into it, thought the handmaiden as she landed on the grass that grew like a crown on the spire's cap. Zelda landed a moment after, and as she did the sound of the wind faded behind them until the world was silent.

The sun was high as noon approached. Zelda and Paya both put away their paragliders, and then the princess stood looking out to the west, toward the castle, her brow set and her lips compressed into a thin line. Paya followed her gaze, spent several moments watching the cloud of Malice around Hyrule's heart roil and lick at the sky, then turned her attention back to the princess.

"Zelda," she said, and only continued when the oracle nodded. "I would like to help you with this, if I can."

That pulled the amnesiac back to the present moment, and she turned to Paya with a pensive, analytical look. From anyone else, this expression would have been embarrassing, even mortifying, but in Zelda's case it only meant that she was trying to work out a way to grant Paya's request. The intensity of her thoughts seemed to fill the air around her head.

"I don't know that you can help me," Zelda said, "but if you want to share my perspective while I perform my task then it shouldn't be any harder, at least. Would you be satisfied with that—with being a witness, even if there's no guarantee you could render aid?"

"I would," Paya said.

There was no need to close the distance between them, Paya knew; it was only familiarity, habit, that made Zelda think of her power as being an extension of her body. It was that habit and that familiarity that made Zelda cross the distance between them and place her fingers lightly—so lightly, like the touch of a butterfly—on Paya's temples.

"Close your eyes."

She did.

There was a moment where the world fell away, and the only thing she felt was the warmth of Zelda's fingers, the surety of the other woman's presence. She held onto that moment, fiercely, as if she could extend the space between her heartbeats by will alone. Then their thoughts touched and the world exploded into clarity all around her.

The mountain was a living thing—not in the same way as Death Mountain, a quieter sort of life, but still very much alive. So too the land beneath it, the firmament itself a densely packed field of stars. They two stood above a giant thing that breathed and slept, and even sharing in a goddess-given perspective Paya's mind shied away from the fullness of what that could mean. Some things were not for mortals to touch upon.

Zelda was with her, and Zelda was different than she had been when last their minds had touched, or even when she had charged across the dark to pull Paya from Ganon's grasp. In those times Paya had been able to see the conflict in her charge's mind, the way the aspects of her being vied for supremacy, but now there was... not harmony, exactly. Something else, something that made Paya feel very sad even as she exulted in the radiance of the goddess. For it was the goddess's light, more than any other, that now inundated Zelda.

"I know," the goddess-in-Zelda said to her. "I know."

She wanted to go to Zelda, then fought down the urge. She relegated herself to the role of the observer. She did not have to communicate this; Zelda understood as soon as the decision was made, just as Paya understood that the princess's awareness encompassed all of her. She was a witness to a great act, and it might well be that she could not be anything else.

Zelda stood at the top of the great stone, and Paya watched as she unfurled the goddess's awareness like the slow opening of a hand with many thousands of fingers. They were tendrils of starlight, radiating out from Zelda, reaching across the surface of the land. The goddess's power manifested externally, and Paya saw at its heart that Zelda was still there, whole and separate from Hylia, her soul bright and blue and trembling with the effort of holding the power and herself in one place.

Those tendrils of starlight reached across the continent. Distance was nothing; proximity was nothing. With the power Zelda touched dozens of shrines, and across Hyrule they woke from their slumber as though she had placed the Sheikah Slate against their consoles.

A shrine sat in the heart of Hyrule Castle. The goddess's power radiated from it, and even that subtle flexing sent out ripples. Below it, the Calamity turned its eye, its mind aflame with hunger—and howled as the Hero pulled its attention away.

Zelda trembled with the effort of it. Her physical body sank to its knees, blood drained from her face.

"Zelda," Paya said, physically and in that space.

"It is harder than I thought it would be," the blonde woman responded, and the tremor was only there in the voice of her spirit; her body did not speak at all. "I think my reach has exceeded my grasp. I don't know if I—" And she quailed.

Paya did not think. She reached out with her mind, clinging to Zelda, seeking purchase with the woman who had used her body to shield Paya from a Guardian's death throes. Here was not the goddess; here was a woman with courage who would stand against the end of the world and defy it utterly. She felt the tremble in Zelda's spirit, the limit of the princess's strength, and willed her own to join it.

The world faded for Paya. She sank down as Zelda's task swallowed the vitality of both women, a mouth draining a cup of water. Their perspectives blurred until they could not be separated.

The starlight reached deep beneath the shrines, finding the monks who had waited ten thousand years to commune with their goddess once more. Each monk simultaneously knew, simultaneously responded, and offered up the gathered wisdom of millennia upon millennia of meditation. The starlight encircled the manifested Spirit Orbs, whisking them away across the vastness of Hyrule, and with sighs of relief the monks let go of their mortal bodies.

There was no distance; there was no space. The goddess's power grabbed hold of the Spirit Orbs, and as a body they were drawn deep into Zelda's heart. Without thinking, without needing to think, Zelda offered up the Spirit Orbs to the goddess.

A sacrifice to herself, Paya thought, and Zelda was darkly amused by the aptness of the image.

Then, light.

Vitality exploded from within Zelda—and the first thing she did was return Paya's strength.

The connection snapped.

Paya gasped, opening her eyes to find herself on her back, staring at the sky. She leapt to her feet, looked about her.

Zelda was pushing herself back to her feet, too. There was no light rolling off of her, now, no power of the goddess hanging in the air. There was only the two of them, the wind blowing across the crags, and the light of day spreading its warmth and radiance over the world.

The princess raised her head. Her face was still pale, but the color was returning even as Paya watched. The concern in her eyes was so raw, so fierce, that it was like a physical blow to Paya's chest. Zelda said, "Are you all right?"

Paya did not respond; she crossed the distance to Zelda and helped her princess to stand.

"Oh, that's not necessary. I feel... stronger than I've ever been, actually! I think that I could climb this mountain on my own, with just my hands. Isn't that a funny thought? No equipment at all."

The princess was wobbling on her feet. Helping her stand had been the wrong call. Paya started to lower her to the ground.

"There's no need for that! I'm utterly fine. I think I could take a bokoblin in a bare-handed fight, now."

"I'm sure that you could."

"Yes! I am bursting at the seams with vigor. I am. I am certain I could not have done that without you. It was too much, too soon. The strength of perhaps ten more shrines would have left me able to do it on my own, but."

Paya lowered Zelda to a sitting position, placing a hand against Zelda's back. "You need to lie down. Even if you have new strength, the toll of using the power so extensively will have drained you."

Zelda did as commanded, though her eyes did not seem able to focus on Paya's face and she exhibited very little fine motor control.

"When you latched onto me, I feared for you."

"Why?"

"You started adding your strength to mine, but you didn't realize how much you would have to give. You could have hurt yourself. You could have died. And it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't overreached. How many times?"

Gently Paya laid Zelda's head on the grass, saying nothing.

"How many times have you had to save me from myself? I'm sorry. You're right. The ground is very soft. I will rest. Just for. Moment."

Before the last word was out of her mouth Zelda's eyes fell closed and her breathing took on the shallow, slow rhythm of sleep.

Paya sat watching Zelda breathe, watching for any worrying change in the rhythm or the depth. When she was satisfied, she shifted so that her body cast a shadow over Zelda's face, protecting her skin from the light of day, and she began to meditate.

Far away, a roar sounded from the castle. It was so distant that, had she been conscious, Zelda wouldn't have heard it.

Paya did.

Zelda did not really wake for the rest of the day. She could be roused—Paya tested and made sure—but wasn't able to communicate clearly and would drift back to sleep as soon as she was allowed. The sun moved through the sky, and day moved to evening, and Paya prepared a meal of preserved fish and good bread. Zelda only woke long enough to have three bites, then returned to sleep. Paya finished the princess's portion.

With the gear she had in her pack, Paya was able to build only a scanty, modest fire. She moved Zelda close to it, as close as she dared, and fed it until she thought it would last through the coldest part of the night. She layered blankets on top of her charge, then took out the thin canvas and small sticks she kept for emergencies and erected a tent around Zelda, just large enough to keep the wind off of the sleeper. Once she was sure that the princess would not suffer from hypothermia, she took her own place on the other side of the fire. The Yiga were dead, and the Divine Beasts were free, and there had been no Bleeding Earth for weeks longer than any time in the past century—in this remote spot, there was nothing to watch for or guard against, save for the cold.

For the first time since they had left the Lost Woods, Paya did not really need to guard Zelda. She spent an hour in contemplation, checked that the princess was warm enough, and then lay down on the other side of the fire. Her eyes fell closed in very little time.

An hour passed. A little more, perhaps.

The Lightscale Trident, the Boulder Breaker, the Scimitar of the Seven and Daybreaker, and the Great Eagle Bow were all in Zelda's pack, which had been placed a little further from the fire. The weapons and symbols of the Champions gleamed in the scant light.

The heat from the fire bent the atmosphere around it. The air shifted, however lightly.

Daruk reached over with his finger and stirred the embers like a Hylian might have done with an iron poker.

"Don't put it out," Revali said.

"I won't! Let me tell you who knows a thing or two about fire: the great Daruk." He stirred for another moment, then leaned forward and blew. The dead man's breath made the gentle orange glow flare to a bright yellow. "Look at it. Gorgeous little thing, isn't it? Shame they couldn't bring more wood up here for it."

The four Champions were seated around the fire, closer than the living people on the spire could be. The ghost fires whorled around them, whispering softly, so low that the wind carried the words to the world of the dead.

"It's been a long time since we last got together like this," Urbosa said.

"More than a century," Mipha agreed. "I have missed this. I have missed all of you. It is so good to be with you again."

"It's good to be back in the company of friends," said Daruk. He restrained his laughter, but his shoulders shook anyway. "I tell you, it's been quite the journey, hasn't it?"

"Some journey," Revali said, "where we sit waiting and immobile for a hundred years, biding our time until rescued."

"But we were rescued," Mipha said.

"And a hundred years is not so long," Urbosa said, "if you have something to look forward to." Her lips curled up in a smile that showed her teeth, and thunder rolled in the distance.

Daruk waved his hand over the fire. "The real point is that we are together. The kids managed to get all of us out." He jerked his head toward the miniature tent. "Are we ready to do the same for her?"

The fire crackled loudly as the Champions all considered the place where Zelda slept. The battle to come hung in the air around them.

It was Urbosa who broke the silence.

"I will keep my oath."

"And I," Mipha said.

"And I. I hope Ganon's been eating its gravel; it has no idea what's in store for it."

The last Champion scoffed.

"This is all very touching. Very touching." Revali leaned forward, holding his head above the fire so that everyone present could watch him roll his eyes. "But if you're all done stewing in the potential melodrama of spectacular sacrifices which haven't come to pass or the tragedy of our deeply ignominious deaths or repeating oaths that we prove our fealty to simply by existing—because obviously we will all keep ours!—I would like to draw your attention to the fact that this conversation is no longer private."

The fire crackled. The wind grew calm as Revali motioned with his wing.

"Paya," Urbosa said, "we know you aren't sleeping."

Her stomach clenched into a knot at the sound of her name, and she fought the urge to squeeze her eyes shut like a child feigning slumber.

"You don't need much rest, huh, kid?"

Light footsteps on the grass, and then a warm hand was on her shoulder—Mipha's hand. "Revali misspoke. You are not intruding; you should be included, too. Would you come sit with us?"

Paya pushed herself up, rolling over to look to the fire and the Champions there gathered. Urbosa and Daruk were sitting across from each other, and Revali was opposite the empty space that Mipha must have been occupying. Urbosa looked at her with the same expression she'd had when Paya had left her alone with Zelda in the desert, and Daruk was grinning. The ground groaned beneath him as he scooted closer to Revali, making space on his other side, and patted the ground. Revali, for his part, rolled his eyes again.

"Oh, I guess you might as well, even if you didn't do very much for my predicament."

"She did more than enough for mine. You should have seen the way she squared up on the Fireblight. I haven't seen anybody with guts like that in a long time."

Urbosa scowled at Revali, and the Rito Champion stared back as the dead Chief spoke. "There is a young Chief who might be dead if not for her interference. And you should well know, Revali, that courage is more than what we accomplish. Or do we all lack courage for—"

Mipha's hand squeezed Paya's shoulder, drawing her attention away from what must have been a well-worn argument. She looked up at the dead princess, and the closeness of their faces made heat rise in Paya's. Mipha's expression was all serene kindness, and that kindness reflected in her voice when she said, "Don't worry about them. Sit between me and Daruk. It will be the most comfortable place."

Paya nodded, rose to her feet. Followed Mipha to the fire, then took her place between the Goron and Zora Champions. She found herself staring into the fire, forced herself to look up and meet everyone's eyes. Their gazes were so heavy. She wouldn't buckle. She couldn't.

"You heard everything." Mipha wasn't asking a question, but it seemed to beg an answer anyway.

"I did, yes."

Daruk chuckled. "Ah, then you caught us all at our most sentimental. Sorry. I guess that's probably a bit heavy."

Urbosa's earrings jangled as she shook her head. "One of the privileges of the dead."

"I'm sorry," Paya said, then stopped herself. She wouldn't apologize. They didn't want that from her. It wouldn't help them for her to be sorry for being awake, especially when they knew she was awake. "It's so striking, listening to all of you. I feel like I'm looking through a portal in time."

"In some ways," Urbosa said, "you are. The only difference now is that we're prepared for the battle to come."

"More prepared, at least." Revali's tone was not so gentle.

"Fine. Granted."

Daruk stirred the embers again. "You were saying, kid?"

Paya swallowed. "Yes. I just meant to say... I-I've grown up hearing so many stories about all of you. And you lived up to them... all of them. All of you lived up to all of them."

Mipha's hand on her shoulder again. The touch should have been a shock, but something in the Zora princess's regard was calming, even strengthening. "You worry you're not worthy of the task."

"Yes."

Mipha's smile was made sadder by the light of the ghost fires. "You worry, still, that you are not worthy of helping her. Of standing by her."

Why wasn't she more nervous? Why was she able to touch on these issues without being floored by her shame? Had sharing her diary loosed some fundamental part of her by so much? She was surrounded by heroes; in every direction she looked she was greeted by the courageous.

"Yes."

"No point worrying," Revali said. "You definitely aren't."

Slowly, every pair of eyes turned toward the Rito champion.

Revali looked at nothing in particular, wings crossed over his chest.

Then he continued, "None of us are. Not even me, and if I'm not, then who could expect to be? You gain nothing, worrying about worthiness."

The tension bled out of the air. Paya noticed that Urbosa's relaxing hands had been clenched into fists a moment before.

"Revali is right," Mipha said. "We cannot worry about being worthy of our task, or of the people we love. We can only fight, and help each other."

"And we will help each other." Urbosa had turned to Paya, but Paya had a feeling that this was more because she now refused to look at Revali. "No matter what it takes. When the time comes, the four of us will be there for Zelda, and Link, and we'll be there for you, too."

Paya breathed in. One.

Paya breathed out. Two.

"Why did you ask me to sit with you?" she asked. "Why invite me to a gathering of the Champions?"

Daruk tilted his head, and the other three Champions looked to him. He shrugged, as if setting aside the question. "You really don't think highly of yourself, do you, kid? Well, that's all right. We invited you here because, after everything you've been through, you're one of us. You might not have a Divine Beast or a magic sword, but believe me: you're one of the Champions, now."

Paya looked into the fire, then. She could not meet any of their eyes. Mipha's hand was still on her shoulder, warm and assuring.

The Champions were very quiet, as the night wore on.

When the horizon changed color with the coming of the dawn, only Paya was seated by the fire.