"The Gerudo sand fox is a sly, hardy creature. It can be spotted from the reaches of the Haunted Waste all the way to the cliffs of Silk, though it is a rare sight. It leaves no prints, and it has never been seen with any other of its kind. Some say that there is only one sand fox in the world, and it is a spirit, neither alive nor dead, an assembly of regrets and ungranted wishes taken form as an animal."

R. Keaton, keeper of the Moonriver Menagerie


The morning sun glittered across the dew, unobscured by the smoke that usually rose from the Capital's factories. It was a clear day, quiet and bright, perfect weather for the entirety of Hyrule to hold its breath and watch its fate be decided.

Ganondorf and his wife waited at the crossroads between Oldcastle and the Capital, commanders and guards at their flanks. As the sun crawled overhead, he wondered if the stableboy would indeed ride to meet them, or if he would only hole himself up and wait for the battle to begin. It was anyone's guess—if the tales about the Triforce of Courage were true, it would propel its wielder out into the fields, a slave to curiosity and restlessness. But then again, he might heed the counsel of the Triforce of Wisdom, speaking with the mouth of his little princess.

Ganondorf could not know for certain, he could only wait for his triforce to sense its kin approaching. He could only wait for that ripple of power, wait for the shimmering sensation to crawl up his sleeve as Link approached.

Or, he supposed, he could use his spyglass. A line of shadows appeared on the crest of the next hill over, warped in the warm breezes, and as he raised the device to his face, he could hear the distant snort of horses, the clinking of armor. The curved glass revealed a small party of riders, tattered flags bearing a smattering of sigils—Ganondorf made out the ancient Hyrulean royal family crest, the Eye of the Sheikah, the Worm of Obra Garud, and some confused amalgamation of them all, waving boldly at the cavalcade's head.

Familiar faces appeared, one by one—first the monstrous Gerudo leading the party, one of Ahnadib's henchwomen, a giant atop her giant horse. Then the solemn faces of two Sheikah, red tattoos shining against brown skin—it did not surprise the King to see one was his former captive, the silent, unyielding Impa. Then came a Knight of Hylia, flanked by his brothers and armed to the teeth. Worst of all, there was that wretched stableboy, riding his stolen warhorse, dressed in costume armor like a character in a stage play. It turned the King's stomach to see such a perversion of order, to see the lowly stablehand riding the palace's prized animal, surrounded by ruthless traitors, guarding the Capital from its own rightful keeper.

He could sense the golden light approaching him, swaying with Epona's easy walk. His own triforce shook, whirring almost like a tiny machine, filling his head with thoughts of destroying the boy, of flicking his golden hand and crushing him under a column of power. The images invaded his eyes suddenly, unstoppably—he was ripping the fragments of the god's light from under Link's skin, from under the little girl's, gathering all three in his bloodied palms, reuniting them the same way he had reunited Hyrule. An overpowering sensation of completion came over him, and his vision blurred into an expanse of light, broad at the base and tapering to a peak like a gargantuan golden mountain.

He blinked. The images fled, and he passed the spyglass to his wife. "Take a look," he said.

Barudi raised it to her eye. Her fox poked its head out of her saddlebag, craning its neck to follow its mistress' gaze. The small party had stopped in the shadow of the city, dreadful banners flapping in the wind.

"I suppose we should ride to greet them," Ganondorf said. "They don't seem eager to wander out of cannon range."

He knew that Link must be feeling the same pull as he did—the urge to ride forward, to reunite the broken artifact in a clash of blade and magic. But he lingered under the protection of his allies and his projectiles—Ganondorf could almost feel the great powers of wisdom and recklessness wrestling on the other end of that field.

"My love, we must move," he said, kicking Rebonack forward. "Barudi?"

The Queen said nothing. She closed the spyglass and handed it back to the King. When his fingers touched hers, he felt a slight tremble under her leather gloves.

"What's wrong, my love?"

"One of the Sheikah," she started. "He has the tattoos of a deadseer."

Ganondorf grit his teeth. He had not recognized the man's tattoos, though he supposed he should've. "Is he…"

"I can smell his magic. He is the one who defeated us in Ordona."

"He can't be. He should be dead."

"And yet here he is." Barudi nudged her horse forward.

"Do you think he could perform such magic again?"

"I do not know, my love." She took a breath. It was bad enough that they could both feel the power radiating from the stableboy—the possibility of another army of undead complicated matters even more. The King could almost see the gears turn in his wife's head, as she calculated the enemy's magic against their own, weighing the powers of the triumvirate against one another, pitting the Nameless One's might against the unspeakable god of death.

They were halfway to Link and his party before she spoke again. "I must remove him," she concluded. "He must be killed before we march on the Capital. He is a danger to all of us."

Ganondorf reached over and touched her elbow. "Tell me what you're thinking."

She did not seem to hear him. "If I gift my own blood…" she muttered, "then perhaps he will be unable to stop us. Yes, we will get to those two…"

"Barudi." He was not fond of where her mind seemed to be going. "Whatever you're planning, abandon it. The Capital's hills are not like the potter's fields of Relta. There is little to unbury—farmers' families, dead travelers, the drunks and gamblers of Oldcastle. Slaves' bones in the catacombs. Not a thousand years' worth of Ordish warriors." He did not like to think of the deadseer raising an army, but he knew that not even the servants of hell could stop him from reclaiming what was rightfully his. "We will face their magic together, my love. I will protect you, and you me. We will overcome them."

"Yes, my King…" She lowered her gaze. "But… he should not be here. He should be dead. By all the known laws of magic, that spell's caster should have died."

"He will be dead soon enough," Ganondorf told her. "I have learned much since Ordona. I know my magic can outstrip his."

"Leave him to me, my love," said the Queen. She lowered her voice as their company came within earshot of their enemies. "You must focus your power on the gods for which you are destined. You must face your battle as they see fit, and I will face mine."

Ganondorf reined in Rebonack as their party came to a stop before Link's. The two warhorses stared at one another, and their riders even more so. Ganondorf got a good view of his old slave, armed and armored, stroking the royal warhorse as if she belonged to him. The boy's face—the King could not quite call him a boy anymore—was hard, scarred, determined. A cursory glance at his armor proved it was real, and well-made, and the sword on his back shone with the purplish light of a Goron-forged hilt. He somehow even managed to lend dignity to his risible green hat.

"So you've done it," Ganondorf started. "You've truly done it. You've found what's been missing for over a century." He almost smiled, the light was so bright inside him. "I hear they're calling you the Verdant Knight. From a palace slave to a named warrior of Hylia—you've grown much."

"You almost sound proud of him." The voice was smooth, low, and had come from the deadseer, lingering like a specter behind his leader.

I will be prouder when I dismember him in the town square, Ganondorf, or his triforce, thought. "I am," he said. "I've known for a long time he would do this. I was the first to see it in him."

"I assume you know we find your conditions of surrender absurd," the other Sheikah said, unmoved. "So you have invited us out here to either speak to us about something else, or try to kill us."

"I am not so dishonorable as that," Ganondorf said.

"Good," Link replied. His voice had changed as much as his face. It resonated deeply in his throat, still soft and mild, but a far cry from the cowardly whisper he had used at the palace. "Because it would not be worth it."

As he spoke, a dim golden light arced over him, thin as an eggshell but radiating strength. That glow wasn't just the soft fortitude of Wisdom, there was a trembling shine to it that Ganondorf had never seen before.

Destroy him, the fire in his hand commanded. Do it now. He murdered Haema, he will do the same to you.

"I will kill you in due time, stableboy," the King said. "I know you will not surrender. You would rather see Hyrule destroyed than unified under me. But I wanted to meet with you, to see with my own eyes that you've done the impossible." And I wanted to see you whole before I flay you like an animal. "Tell me, where did you find it?"

"In your castle," Link answered, something of a complacent, satisfied look crossing his face. "Not too far from its pedestal."

Ganondorf narrowed his eyes. Angry curiosity wrote itself across his face, but it didn't look like the stableboy was going to offer anything more.

"And what of the other piece?" the King asked. "Where is your little princess? Can the tiny child who presumes to usurp me show her face?"

"No," Link answered. He was definitive, almost authoritative.

Ganondorf's hand twitched. Beyond the fields, he could feel the distant flicker of the last piece. It felt so different from when his grandmother had wielded it—back then it had been subdued, temperate, nothing but a pale glow in Garona's eyes. Now, even at this distance, he could feel it dancing hotly, as bright and new as the life that held it. It was far too close for his comfort, and not nearly close enough. The King would have to tread carefully, he would have to ensure that his strategies were impeccable. Ganond had proven that it was possible for one piece of the triforce to overcome the others, but it wouldn't be easy. Even with a rova on his side.

"Well, I hope that child knows how thoroughly you have ruined her life," the King said. "If she indeed is as wise as she is supposed to be, she knows she is as much your hostage as the rest of my citizens." He grit his teeth. "Tell me, is she suffering? Can she even speak? Are her words her own?"

Link's cheek moved, a muscle in his neck twitched. Somehow Ganondorf had gotten through to him—but still, he said nothing in reply.

"You do not know what you are doing," the King growled. He hoped the stableboy could hear the truth in his words. "You are only allowing the gods to toy with you."

Link's brow furrowed, his mouth tightened.

"You can feel it, can't you?" Ganondorf nearly laughed. "Just as I can. You can feel the goddesses' hands, moving you to where they desire you. You feel crowded, like your body is sharing space with something far too big for it. You are struggling to maintain control."

The look on Link's face told him as much.

"Poor boy, you know nothing," the King continued. "That is why the triforce belongs to me. All of it." He liked the way Link shifted in his saddle, unsure, hesitant. "You cannot possibly play with this kind of magic and survive. Even if you manage to defeat me, what will you do when my triforce spills from me, how will you capture it, contain it? You have no idea how to handle the gods' power. Only I do."

Link stayed silent for a moment, then lifted his eyes, sharp, too confident. "You and all who came before you," he said. "We are learning from them each day."

Ganondorf's triforce danced inside his hand, aching to grab onto the boy's neck and wring the smug determination from his face. "You will only destroy yourselves, and my city. If you value the safety of our nation, you will return what is rightfully mine."

"The safety of our nation!" Link laughed. It was an unexpected laugh, jaded, mirthless, too broken for the earnest stablehand Ganondorf once knew. "You want to keep Hyrule safe? Like you did for Obra Garud? For Ordona? For Eldin? You have only used the gods' power to kill." He clenched his jaw, and his next words came through teeth grit with ire. "The first time I saw you use it, it was to break a Gerudo child's neck. The last time, it was to exterminate my entire homeland." Link's hand twitched, almost rising to the sword hilt at his shoulder. "You murdered thousands. You massacred my village, you left Eldin in ruin. You are the beast Ganond could never even hope to be."

The King's blood boiled—it was all he could do to stop himself from drawing Wormtooth and ending the petulant slave in one swing. There will be plenty of time for that, he told himself. When you have your true power in your grasp.

Ganondorf clenched his fist and buried his rage. "And what do you know of Ganond?" he asked.

Link showed his teeth, but whether it was in a grimace or a smile, the King could not tell. "Only what your grandmother told me."

Confusion and offense mingled with Ganondorf's rage. The boy must be insane—yes, that was it. His particular fragment of the triforce must've commandeered his mind. It was always said that Courage was the most capricious of the three, unpredictable in its blessings and curses.

"You pathetic little madman," the King hissed. "You are not fit to even think of her. And you defile her memory by using her as a taunt to rile me." Rebonack shifted under him, stomping with his rider's displaced anger. "I will defeat you on the morrow, stableboy, and I will drag out your death for months to come. It is all you deserve for stealing what is mine, for hiding behind the denizens of this city as their own sons and daughters lay siege to it. It is all you deserve for destroying an innocent child's life."

Link pulled on Epona's reins, nudging her back toward the city gates. "On the morrow, then," was all he said, and his cabal followed him, toting the repulsive flag of their little rebellion.

Ganondorf turned back to his own camp. His guards, commanders and messengers turned with him, but Barudi did not. She lingered, staring at the retreating party, clutching the broach of her golden pelisse. She watched their enemies pass under the portcullis, and her lips moved in a subtle blur, forming words too fast for Ganondorf to read, too low for him to hear. When he followed her gaze, between the shadows of horses and spears and capes, for a brief moment, cast against the curved stones of the city wall, he thought he saw a ghostly outline of a fox slipping under the gate.


I have worn this crown for so many decades now, I thought nothing could surprise me. But this world is a vast and unknowable place, eternally vexing, infinitely blessed.

One of my butlers came to me with an unusual request for an audience. It was for me alone, not for Elgra or any of my other ministers, with whom I often share responsibilities in my old age. This was a personal request, addressing me as Garona—not Mandrag, not Queen, but Garona only. Had my daughter seen such a display of familiarity, she would've had the writer of this note executed on the spot, but it only intrigued me. And so I arranged an audience in one of my private chambers, without informing Elgra.

My servants brought before me an elderly woman. She looked nearly a decade older than me, straight-backed but with hands gnarled from work. She seemed to me at first glance like she could have been Gerudo, though her hair was snowy white and her garb was southern Hylian. She wore a simple peasant's traveling cloak, but when she strode toward me, it was with a confidence and grace that could befit a princess. Every second I stared at her only heightened my rapt curiosity. There was something so foreign about her, yet so familiar.

When she lifted her eyes, I lost my breath for a moment. They were a deep, soft brown, rare in Hyrule, a color I could never forget. When she smiled, recognizable wrinkles appeared at the edges of her mouth. She looked just like my mother.

"I have read of your exploits from afar," she said. "And I am proud of you."

I could not speak, I could not stand. I could only lift my arms and wait for her to fall into them. We embraced, unmoving, wordless, until the servants suddenly acquired the good sense to leave. Only then could I say her name.

I do not remember much of our reunion but tears. I had so many questions for her (I still do)—I blurted them all out at once, I blubbered, I may have even sobbed like a babe. I ran my fingers through her hair, every trace of its once bright red faded into white. I was (and still am) a mess of uncontrollable emotion—relief, grief, anger, bewilderment, unprecedented joy.

My dearest sister has returned to me. Without warning, and decades too late, Nadiba has come home.


In the north tower, splayed in the center of the King's massive bed and half-buried in silken pillows, Nabru dreamt. It was a strange and precarious dream, teetering between awe and terror, as dark and warm as the belly of the Mother Worm. Nabru did not want to wake, and she knew she could not if she tried—the dream was a ring of scales, turning and turning and turning in a sea of sand, eternal.

The images swallowed her sight, they swallowed her mind. She could hear the distant shifting of Molgera under the sands, she could hear the voices of Her sacred children calling out to her, rumbling in deep tones as only worms can. The smells of the desert traveled over mountains and rivers and fields to fill her nose—spices, campfires, horses, the dry crispness of early morning, the musky odor of Wormhaven. Even asleep, Nabru's entire body was overtaken by a mournful ache. She longed to ride under the vast stars and breathe in the wind, she longed to grasp an opponent in the fighting pits, she even longed to cross the Haunted Waste, to gaze upon the face of the Colossus and descend into the void beneath her.

She had to go. She had to follow the cries of her Mother.

The dream did not release her, even when she opened her eyes. It drew her out of bed, scooted her to the edge of the mattress, and swung her legs over the side. It pushed her to her feet, forcing her to ignore the somnolent protests of her lover, curled on the other side of the bed. Her body moved without her, her mind and soul trapped in the weaving ring of worm-scales, eternally dying and being reborn.

She rose and dressed without knowing it. She was efficient, and quiet—she was out the door, down the hall and almost to the armory before Aelina noticed the room had gotten a little colder, the bed a little lighter. And even then, the Ordishwoman only turned over, muttering something about early rising, and resumed snoring.


Only after days of listening, interrupting, weeping and laughing, can I piece together Nadiba's story. And even now I am not sure if it is accurate. It is certainly incomplete.

The night Nadiba escaped, she and the stablehand took the castle's fastest horses due west toward the mountain provinces. They stayed hidden in the northern reaches of Hebra for weeks, camping out on the remote cliff-tops and in abandoned hunting cabins. Then, after they were sure some of the fervor of her disappearance had worn off, they moved south, to the boy's homeland, deep into the forests of Faron. It was a long, dangerous journey, but through her uncanny senses and her skill in witchcraft, she outran the hired blades and the palace guard, she assimilated into the crowds and kept herself hidden. At one point, somewhere east of Deku Swamp, she even faced our grandmothers and defeated them (a harrowing tale for another day—perhaps, if enough time is left to me, I shall make a novel of it!). Against all odds, Nadiba survived, and when she deemed it safe, she settled in Saliana.

Two years after starting her new life with the stablehand, she realized she did not love him. He had a cruel side that had not revealed itself in the palace—he was petty, selfish, impulsive, all the worst parts of herself that she had hoped to leave behind. She left him—she packed her things and fled their house, relocating to the other side of the city. She was not devastated by losing him; she readily acknowledged that theirs was a hotheaded teenaged affair, doomed to failure. But to survive alone in an unfamiliar province, in a world so different than the palace, proved difficult for her.

She told me that during this time she suffered a deep depression, racked with the guilt of leaving me alone with Ganond. Many times she thought of fleeing back to the castle, and just as many times she convinced herself not to. She could not come home, she could never come home, not as long as our father lived.

So she endured, and eventually she adapted to life in the south. She took on the common Faronian name Dina, cut her hair, and led a quiet life as a gardener in a shrine dedicated to Farore. She met a man, a farmer from the lands north of the woods, and fell in love (truly this time, she insists). She found happiness with him, moved onto his farm, gave birth to a son, and ran a prosperous house a few miles north of Saliana. They lived a rather isolated life, but every week Dina would go back to the city to restock supplies, trade goods, and gather information. She bought the papers detailing the exploits of Mandrag Ganond, she collected rumors like trinkets and listened for word of her sister. For years, even well after the Crown had abandoned her memory, she kept a close eye on it, for danger, for good news, for any chance that she could come home and rescue me.

Here, of course, I had to interrupt. "Ganond died years ago," I told her. "You could have come home then, and I would've welcomed you with open arms!"

She lay a hand on my shoulder. "I had a family to care for. I could not abandon them thoughtlessly, as I abandoned you."

"You could have brought them with you," I said, somewhat foolishly.

She glanced at me—of course she couldn't have. To revive her own legend now, after the dust had settled, to reveal to her unfortunate son that he was the grandchild of the loathed tyrant who crushed Faron under his heel, it was too cruel. Her family was content, even wealthy, there could be only harm in revealing to them the cursed house from which they had come. So Nadiba had to return to the palace on her own—and on her own terms, in her own time.

Her husband had already died by the time I ascended to the throne, so she was the only one around to help her son manage his marriage, his children, and his household. She had to make sure he knew how to run the farm before he inherited it, she had to help secure the fates of his two daughters, a pair of girls that reminded her, she said, of us when we were young.

Nadiba's grandchildren are beautiful and clever, she tells me—pale as the moon, as Faronian as Faronian gets. She claims they have no trace of Ganond in them, in looks or in behavior—like me, she was afraid of passing down his nature. Perhaps she has truly managed to save her descendants from Ganond's blood, or perhaps the idyllic sylvan environment has nurtured their better temperaments. I cannot say for certain—all I can say is that Nadiba does not worry for her son or granddaughters the same way I worry for Elgra and Ganondorf.

That was why she was able to leave them. After she had everything in order, when she had the household managed, when she had the farm's ledgers arranged to her satisfaction, when she had secured ample dowries for her granddaughters, who were to marry a handsome pair of sons in the prestigious Blackwood family, she finally allowed herself to set off on her own journey.

"I had barely arrived at Silk when I got word of a crisis," she said. "The younger sister had run off with a Sheikah stranger on the eve of her wedding night." She laughed. "I was ready to turn around and remedy the situation, but decided not to. I sent a letter back to my son, telling him to let her go. I didn't tell him that it's just what happens in our family. We've been fleeing from one another for generations now. It's in our blood. No, I had to make my own way home, I had to make up for my own flights."

I am glad she did. I will pray for her family and their crises, but I will not let them have her back. She must stay with me until we both go meet the goddesses on those golden fields, she must stay with me to help me as I bequeath my kingdom to my daughter. She will be my advisor, my friend, she will have a privileged place in the castle—though of course it will not do to tell everyone that this stranger is the long-lost second princess. The role I have devised for her is that of an old friend from the Schism War, an ally from Saliana whom I have not seen in years. At least that story explains the shock with which I first greeted her. It may even explain our giggling secrecy, the way we speak quietly to one another in the shady gardens like schoolchildren. We are easily dismissed as old women telling old stories, of war and love and family drama.

Elgra, at least, tolerates Nadiba's presence and leaves us be. She has taken on more and more responsibility in affairs of the state, and has no time for her elderly mother. Little Ganondorf, however, cannot stand to see my attention diverted from him. Every time Nadiba and I find a quiet place to chat, there he is, grabbing my hand and pulling me away from her, insisting that he must show me something he has made or found. Poor boy, he cannot survive ten minutes without my approval—and Din knows he doesn't get any from his own mother.

Oh, but I can never resist him. He is a little fire, like Elgra used to be, burning with questions and seeking more kindling. But he is gentler than his mother was at that age, more curious and less demanding. He is always exploring his role in the world, learning his own castle, greeting every minister and servant, giving orders (often to the wrong people, bless him). When faced with a difficult problem he will fall silent for minutes at a time, thinking deeply before opening his mouth. He always has many things on his mind at once, and as of yet he is not been poisoned by Elgra's influence—not entirely, at least.

Nadiba assures me that I should not agonize over him, that he is far enough from Ganond that the Mandrag cannot reach through time and corrupt him. I am not so sure. I pray that when I die, when the golden power of wisdom spills from me, he will take it in my stead. I do not want him to inherit what Elgra inherited from Ganond. That power has changed her. Of course, it changes all of us, in different ways. I can only hope that whichever piece Ganondorf chooses will reshape him in auspicious ways. We will both do our best to teach him how to use it, Elgra and I, but I'm afraid our methods may irreconcilably differ.

Certainly I worry for him, but I have faith in him. I know he will be a better person than Ganond, a better person than Elgra, and certainly a better person than me. He will grow into a man unlike any of us. He will abandon the lust for power and grandiosity that plagues his mother, he will eschew the cruelty of my father, and he will certainly never inherit my own weak will. He is my only hope for this side of our family—he is impressionable, unmolded, as the Gorons say. He is wet clay, ready to be shaped.

I will mold him as best I can. I adore him, and he adores me. Would that I could stay with him forever, to usurp Elgra as his mother, would that I were younger, so I could counsel him on matters of state, and lead him toward mercy and wisdom rather than fear and force. But I am closer to death than I would like to admit, and even this golden power cannot save me. I feel spryer and freer than ever, but I know my time is limited. I have only a few precious years left with my sister, and with Ganondorf, and I intend to use them.

I have the highest hopes for him. I love him so much.