"She who is given the Gift must not misuse it.
A wise witch uses her Sight and her Talent sparingly,
And only for the good of her Clan.
She knows that every spell has a cost, known or unknown,
That every custom of her tribe grants her protection from her gods,
And her gods protection from her.
Even the Rova have spells which are forbidden,
And it is for good reason."

Ghadib ahn-Molgud, The Creed of Molgera, Canto 10


Link returned from the library around midnight. He held a stack of books closely to his chest, bound together with twine—some were small, some large, some tattered, others preserved so well in their hiding places their leather covers shone like new. When he set them on the bedside table, his hands were still shaking.

He stared at them for a moment, numb mind trying its best to churn out thoughts. Eventually, he gave up, and began to undress.

"Link."

Impa's voice was soft, heavy with sleep. She must've gone to bed a while ago, anticipating the chaos in the morning. At least one of them was responsible enough to prepare properly for battle.

"Link, where have you been?" She rubbed her eyes and sat up. "What are those?"

"The diaries of Mandrag Garona," he answered. He crawled into bed beside her and lay down, but she remained upright, staring at his collection of books.

"Is that what you've been doing all these nights?"

"Essentially," he answered.

"I thought you had been training. I assumed you were just sleeping in the yard." She frowned at him. "Have you been sleeping at all?"

"Not really."

She sighed her schoolmarm's sigh. "You know better than that. You'll kill yourself. Especially on the battlefield—all your training will be for nothing if you're too tired to fight."

"I don't feel tired," he said. His mind was as sharp as it had ever been, his muscles as strong. He was able to stay up reading until the wee hours of the morning, and best even Nabru in the training yard the next day. "I think it's this thing," he continued, raising his left hand. "It's... well, I've been getting better at redirecting its energy. Mostly thanks to those books. Garona… had a lot to say about living with the triforce inside her."

"So that's what you meant," Impa started. She narrowed her eyes, no doubt thinking back to the parley on the fields. "Is that what you meant when you mentioned Garona to the King? I had thought it was an ill-advised taunt, but nothing more."

"It was more than that. Garona helped us both. Me and Zee."

Impa sighed. "Well, I suppose I'd rather you be staying up all night to educate yourself than running around breaking vases and leaping off the palace walls." She reached over and picked up the smallest book from the pile, wrestling it from its twine. "But… diaries?"

He forced himself to smile. He met her skeptical gaze, trying to spy any flecks of gold in her irises. He couldn't—brown, perhaps, a mahogany that blended so perfectly into the deep, dark red it was virtually undetectable. Maybe he was reading too much into Nadiba's tale, maybe he was seeing things that weren't there, tying knots between mismatched threads.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" she asked.

"I think you should read them." He watched her put the little book back on the top of the pile. "No, you have to read them."

"I find it amusing you think I have time for that," she said. "Not everyone has the gift of infinite energy on their side."

"There are important things in them, Impa." He bit his lip, knowing he should tread carefully. On the eve of the greatest battle of their lives wasn't the best time to distract her with matters of the distant past. It might not even be relevant—or even true. "You really should read them. There are… there are things in them even Ganondorf doesn't know."

This seemed to get her attention. "Like what?"

"Things about his family," Link said, lamely. "Secrets. Things about rova…" He shut his mouth for a moment. She had perked up her ears, no doubt expecting something tactically advantageous, but he had nothing as good as that to offer her. "Impa, back when we were imprisoned here, that winter… did the rova ever… pry into you?"

She tilted her head. "She looked into my dreams. The same thing she did to you—she was looking for Zelda."

"But she never cast any other spells? She didn't sew your lips shut and… dig around inside you?"

Impa's eyes darkened, and she reached over to stroke Link's cheek. "No, love. She was more focused on you. I'm sorry. It's difficult to be back in this palace, and constantly have those reminders around us." She tugged him close. "But unless you have something for me that will help us defeat the King on the morrow, I think you should stop talking about those diaries. Clearly what the old Mandrag wrote is bringing back memories better left buried, at least for the time being."

He squeezed her. He breathed deeply, her scent tickling his nose. He searched for any hint of fire, of smoke, but she only smelled like Kakariko, as she always had. "You're right," he sighed. "Now is not the time. But please, promise me. When this is over, you'll read those diaries."

"I promise."

"Good." He nestled into the pillow, tugging her down with him. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her ear, but he couldn't quite close his eyes.

She must've sensed his tenseness. "Are you sure you can sleep?" she asked.

"I can get there eventually."

She wriggled a little, laying her hand on his leg. "Well, if you need to get some of that energy out, I'd be happy to take some from you."

He smiled at her, taking in the lines and curves of her face in the thin moonlight. It was not quite the same face she had when he'd met her, it was older, tougher, but it was undeniably the same as he had kissed in the hot springs of Kakariko, the same face that laughed and cried and screamed with him as their lives fell apart and were rebuilt and fell apart again. He saw Talporom's strong jawline, Irma's nose, eyes that were at once hard and gentle, a perfect combination of both parents. He could see Talm's cheekbones, and a hint of Palo's influence, as if just being around him for so long had allowed a part of him into her, to merge with the others and mold her face into a patchwork of truly beautiful things.

Link kissed her, loosening a tiny fraction of his triforce. The energy buzzed between their lips, traveling down to their stomachs, dousing every part of them in tingling, dim light. She gasped, wrapping her legs around him, pushing him against her.

Later, well after Impa had tired herself out trying to keep up with him, after she had collapsed and fallen into deep sleep, he took her in his arms and held her against him. He was not sure if it was because this might've been his last chance to do so, but he gripped her tightly, as if she might slip through his arms any moment.

He tried to use her body as a shield against his own thoughts, but they came crawling back, filling his mind with tapering hills of gold. Even Garona's breathing exercises could not stop his wayward mind from sending him into a wondrous half-panic. He stared at the ceiling, mind teased with the fragments of light that haunted and empowered and cursed their bearers, their children, their children's children.

There was no stopping that force. Somehow, through unfathomable manipulations of countries and families and battles, it would find its way into whomever it wanted. It would perpetuate itself through generations, reuniting with its chosen blood, separating, then reuniting once more.

"It means nothing," Link told himself, trying to channel Nabru, her casual smile, her fiercely independent strength. "We are all forgers of our own destiny. By our wills alone. Not gods', not ancestors'. Bloodlines don't mean shit."

But lying here, with Ganond's heir outside the city walls, with the scion of the Hyrulean royal family a few rooms over, with the descendant of the lost princess in his arms, it all seemed too fateful.

Maybe Ganondorf had been right. The gods were toying with him. They were toying with all of them. Even when the King and his wife had both of them at their mercy, when they had dug into Link and found an empty space inside him, receptive to the influence of the gods, they had not done the same to Impa. The King had not interrogated her, he had brought his triforce nowhere near her—and she was buried so deeply inside herself at that point, perhaps it wouldn't have responded. Perhaps that was the only thing that saved her.

"It doesn't mean shit," Link said again, to the ceiling. "It doesn't mean anything at all." Then, quietly, leaning into her ear: "But… if anyone can handle this cursed power, it's you."


"They stuck you on night duty?" Palo asked.

Viscen nodded, something of a defeated look on his face.

"Gods, I'd have thought they wanted you down at the barracks, I don't know, inspiring the men or something." Palo followed in the captain's wake. He knew the poor bastard would have to cover the whole perimeter of the north wing tonight, from the great hall to the outer gardens. "The King may march tomorrow. Surely they'll want you down with the other soldiers."

"I asked for this shift," Viscen said. "I have spent time with many a soldier in the days before a battle, and I would rather be elsewhere."

Palo smiled. "Ah, yeah, now's the time they start to get jittery, isn't it?"

Viscen frowned, unamused. "What are you doing awake at this hour, deadseer?"

"Just looking for trouble," Palo answered. "Odd, since it usually finds me first."

"You should be asleep," Viscen said. "You will want your wits about you tomorrow, if the King does indeed march."

"Aye, I know, but there's a ghost following me and it won't shut up."

"There is something amiss," Agahnim said, possibly for the hundredth time that night. "There is magic afoot—and it is moving. Rather quickly. In several places at once."

"I think we're both going insane," Palo muttered. Agahnim flickered in response, disappearing for a few seconds, then reappearing. He seemed panicked, his aura was anxious, spinning almost like a top. But neither he nor Palo could manage to pinpoint the source of his unease.

"I can't find it—" the ghost growled.

"Have you checked on Zee tonight?" Palo asked. He opened an oak door for Viscen and followed him down the corridor toward the great hall.

"I just came from her room—she's sound asleep. The only one of us who is."

"And Link? Is his triforce acting up again?"

"Not that I know of. I saw him going to bed about an hour ago, and he seemed fine."

Palo shot Agahnim a pleading look. The ghost frowned, stroking his translucent chin in thought. "It's moving..." the Ordishman said. "I can't tell where. It's here, but not here…"

They walked from the corridor to a mezzanine above the grand hall, level with the glittering chandeliers and the intricate marble pillars. Two flights of curved stairs met at the platform, glinting with polished marble and adorned in gold. Below them, inlaid in the stone of the expansive floor, was a glittering map of Ganond's kingdom, from his palace all the way to the swamps of the south, every road and township labeled in perfect Gerudo script. Viscen may have chosen to take a long shift, but at least he would be traversing one of the prettier parts of the castle.

"Have you seen anything strange around here?" Palo asked.

"You truly are looking for trouble," Viscen sighed. "Let's see... on the eve of the greatest battle of our lives, our four-year-old queen has decided to write a novel or something, and spent the whole morning conjuring quills and ink from thin air. Our wayward stableboy accidentally cut clean through an oak table with a magic sword yesterday, Nabru got bit by a cat or something and won't stop complaining, and I caught Kasheik trying to hunt the messenger pigeons for dinner. And now I have a deadseer following me at my shift asking me if I've seen anything strange."

"Hah, fair enough. I meant anything... otherworldly, perhaps?"

"Not today, no."

Palo wasn't sure if he should press the matter further, or just give up and resign himself to Agahnim's complaints. It occurred to him that the ghost might finally be deteriorating, that he might be going mad, as most ghosts did. Hovering between the worlds of life and death didn't exactly do wonders for one's sanity.

"If I see something strange, I'll tell you," Viscen said. He turned to walk down one set of curved marble steps, but stopped himself when a shadow fell over both of them. Palo turned, almost drawing his knife, until he saw a familiar face under a shining helmet, a cascade of red hair flowing over golden pauldrons.

"Hey, Nabru," he said. He leaned a against the marble balustrade and looked her up and down. "What's with the getup?"

It was not her normal armor—it was an ancient design, but polished and well-kept, as if it had been scavenged and refurbished from the palace stores. It would not surprise Palo to learn it had once belonged to Ganond—Nabru might be the only person alive to fit the Conqueror King's old battle garb. The axe she carried was certainly not hers; perhaps it was another relic, fished out of the armory for aesthetics.

"Did Talm make you do a pictograph shoot?" Palo asked. "In the dead of night, too—she probably wanted to get you under the moon, huh?"

Nabru said nothing. She slowly moved her axe from one hand to the other.

"Madam, are you all right?" Viscen asked. He turned and approached her, outstretching his hand.

Nabru didn't take it. She didn't move at all.

A sudden, sinking feeling gripped Palo. He did not like the way Nabru stood in silence, her mouth drawn taut in a grim frown, he did not like the way her gauntlets gripped her axe, twisting around the leather-bound metal in a series of tiny clinks. He did not like the way Agahnim had fallen uncharacteristically silent, and he certainly didn't like the aura wafting from Nabru, a dark, smoky kind of scent. It almost hit his tongue like a death.

"Viscen," Palo started, hand crawling to his knife. "I think—"

The axe came bearing down on him before he could finish. He dodged, throwing his weight aside, and the weapon hit the balustrade behind him. A crack flew through the marble, shaking rock-dust loose, sending a few flecks of stone down onto the map below.

"Nabru!" Palo hissed. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Look out—" Viscen shouted a warning, just as Nabru thrust her weapon toward him. The axe came at him tip-first, as if its wielder still thought of it as a spear, as if she was acting on instinct alone.

He danced out of the way once more, trying his best to look her over without having his head separated from his body. She was not herself, certainly—she held her axe with an awkward, heavy grip, and the dancelike arcs of her spear were replaced by heavy, almost mindless swings of the axe.

She couldn't possibly be drunk, Palo knew. She could hold her liquor with the best and biggest of them, and never lost control of herself. She didn't partake of anything heavier than that—and she couldn't possibly be asleep.

Could she? Palo's curious mind put in. As he spun out of her range, he glanced beneath the shadows of her helmet—her eyes were glazed, blank, maybe even blind. That irritating Ordish ghost was right, again. Something was certainly amiss.

"Agahnim!" Palo called, barely outmaneuvering Nabru's next blow. She sent a good chunk of the balustrade flying onto the floor below, landing directly in the center of Lake Hylia. "Agahnim!"

A coward even in death, the ghost was nowhere to be found. He offered no explanation, no help, no tools or revelations. Palo was alone in this fight with nothing but a little Sheikah knife and his own wits.

Well, alone besides Viscen. And there wasn't enough room on this damnable little mezzanine for all three of them.

"You traitor, what are you doing?" the captain cried, lunging forward with his spear. "We're your allies!"

Nabru swiped his weapon away, retaliating with enough force to tell Palo she truly meant to kill them both. His heart dropped, his hackles rose, and the faint taste of magic tickled his tongue again.

"Viscen!" Palo called. "We've gotta run. This is—" The axe blade whistled by his face, forcing him to duck. He counted himself lucky she was wielding a weapon she was unused to—if it had been her spear, he knew they'd both be diced meat by now. "We can't—"

"She's turned on us!" The captain, unheeding, struck again. "Goddamn it, all along she—"

"Wait!"

Viscen reached Nabru before Palo could intercept him. "Run, Palo!" Viscen's primal growl was surprising in its intensity, and when the soldier swung at his enemy's throat, it was with all the force he could muster. For a moment Palo knew that Viscen truly thought Nabru had betrayed them.

"Don't—"

The deadseer couldn't finish. He couldn't stop Viscen or Nabru from crossing blades, he couldn't stop the former from nicking his opponent's cheek, drawing a spray of blood, and he couldn't stop the latter from responding in kind.

He could only call the captain's name as Nabru's axe swiped his spear aside, turned in her hand, and buried itself into his stomach. The creak of breaking, bending armor rent the air, and Viscen doubled over, dropping his spear and clutching his middle. He grunted, his knees buckled from beneath him, and when Nabru pulled away the axe, it was red with blood. Viscen fell to the floor, and Nabru slowly turned away from him, readjusting her grip on her weapon.

"Shit," Palo muttered. He knew he didn't have time to help the captain. With her standing between them, bloodied axe ready to draw more, he didn't have time to stem the flow, he didn't have the time to seek out and trade the life of an animal for a few moments of healing, he couldn't even call to Agahnim for help.

So he ran. He fled to the edge of the mezzanine and flew down the stairs, clutching his knife. Nabru followed, slowly, unstoppably—across the mezzanine, down the curved stairs and onto the huge marble map. Her axe preceded her, flinging itself into every object in her way, burying itself into marble and wood, searching for flesh. Every time she stomped her armored feet, every time her axe chipped away at the stone, the chandeliers rattled, the hall shook with the entire force of her strength.

Palo thought furiously. He was faster than her, he was probably smarter than her (at least right now, in her sluggish, presumably hypnotized state), but he didn't have the endurance or strength to last until she tired herself out. He could run, he could call for help, or he could count on the booming echoes of her axe to do it for him. He could try to outmaneuver her, he could try to wake her, to return her to her senses, or he could—

He swung his body out of the way of her axe, blade plunging into a carven pillar. The stone cracked, the delicate knots of gold leaf broke open in a rumble that shook the whole hall. For half a second Palo feared the building would collapse on top of him, but the pillar held strong—and held Nabru's axe.

When she tried to withdraw, the blade stuck. She tried again, and at most a few broken pebbles crumbled from the gash in the pillar. Palo saw his chance, dipping out of reach as she wrestled with her weapon, laying a foot against the stone and pulling with all her might.

He ran for the mezzanine again, dancing up the stairs and skidding to a halt beside Viscen's crumpled form.

"Please be alive," he muttered, "please be alive—"

When he turned the captain over, he saw empty eyes, a motionless, limp jaw. The strong, bitter stench of death hit the back of his throat, and he knew there was no point in bargaining. Viscen was gone, though his body was still warm, his spirit still shivering loose from his skin, trembling upward.

Palo stilled. Below him, he heard Nabru struggling to wrench her axe from the pillar. He had a few seconds, at least. So he closed his eyes, glancing about him, fist clenched around the handle of his knife.

The spirit of the captain did not linger. It began to slip away like water, unaware of his outreach. Viscen disappeared from sight within seconds, but Palo caught a glimpse of another ghost, floating by one of the chandeliers, motioning for him.

Agahnim gave him a look that told him everything. Here was the abrupt end of a life, the remnants of its spirit still clinging to its form. A violent end, a sudden end. The blood was still fresh, still usable.

"Shit," he muttered. Agahnim was right. There was magic at work here that neither of them could truly fathom. Old magic, blood magic.

He didn't want to do this. He knew he shouldn't even think about it. But he could not stop himself from seeing the numbers, the weights, the moving parts falling into place, building and disassembling life with perfect precision. It might be the only way to save Nabru, it might be the only way to save himself. He had to try.

He locked gazes with Agahnim, and he knew what to do.


Link's eyes snapped open. The room shook again, slightly, and a few petals fell from the dried bouquet on the dresser.

"What was that?"

By the third rumble, Impa woke too, pushing herself upright and glancing about the room. Her hand went for the knife on the bedside table, and she cocked her head, ears perked.

When the fourth sound entered their room, a muffled, distant boom, they were both out of bed. Impa pulled on what few clothes she could manage, clipping her knife to her belt before she grasped her harp and went for the door. Link followed suit, barely managing to pull on his boots and trousers before he grabbed his sword and stumbled out into the hallway. They sprinted past the grandfather clock on the far wall, which told them they'd been asleep for little more than an hour.

"What is that?" Link growled. He half directed his question to Impa, and half to his sword, which only vibrated slightly, pulsing with a blue glow.

"I don't know," Impa panted. "But we have to check on Zee—"

She slid past the door to the queen's room, bare feet squeaking on the marble, then flung open the door. Inside, the little girl rose from her pillows, unharmed, wiping the sleep from her eyes. Her two guards, Kasheik and one of Telma's men, already had their weapons drawn.

"You go," Kasheik said in his splintered Hylian. "We will stay and watch, and protect."

Impa nodded. She turned back down the hall, ignoring Zee's calls for them to return, to tell her what was going on. Link knew she would demand her guards to let her go after them—she would worry and fret until the unimpeachable wisdom inside her would force her to stay where she was. He trusted her triforce to at least try to keep its wielder safe.

As he tore down the hallway, the noise grew in intensity—it was deep, metallic, similar to the striking of Goronic hammer on steel, as he had heard deep in the Forges of Darun. He gripped his sword tighter in his palm, listening for its voice, asking it to tell him what to expect.

It buzzed slightly, passing into his mind an image of a giant, unmatched in strength. He shook the vision away—surely that was only his imagination, already primed with the images of Gorons and their stomping feet, their ringing hammers. It could not be something as big as that.

Unless it was the King.

Link and Impa flung themselves through the last door of the hallway, and skidded to a halt on the ground floor of the great hall. Link raised his sword, metal ringing in his ears, prepared to see the dark, tall figure of the Mandrag under the glittering chandeliers. What he saw instead both comforted and distressed him.

It was Nabru, dressed in a suit of golden armor, trying to wrest a bloodstained axe from a central pillar. Her hair hung tangled, unbraided, down her back, and when she finally tore the weapon from the stone and turned to face them, he saw her cheek had been cut open.

"Nabru, what happ—" he started, but Impa's harp interrupted him. A sharp glissando emanated from its strings and sent the Gerudo sliding backward, axe raised in defense. The music rattled her weapon like a tuning fork, nearly flinging it from her grasp.

Impa stepped between Link and Nabru, planting her bare feet firmly on the marble. "That's not Nabru," she said.

Her fingers flew across the strings, composing a cadence that nearly swept the Gerudo's feet out from under her. She drove her axe to the floor, supporting herself, and managed to push through the harsh notes. Link knew Impa was not playing her sharpest tunes—clearly there was still something of Nabru in this behemoth, something she did not want to hurt.

The warrior shook off the residual overtones of the harp, and a wide, strange smile crossed her face.

"You call that savagery magic?" she asked.

Link's heart nearly stopped in his chest. It was Nabru speaking, surely—the deep, breathy timbre was unmistakable. But the intonation was wrong, the accent was distorted. It was her voice, but those were not her words.

He recognized her immediately. He could never forget the way she spoke, the way every word dripped from her mouth like poison.

"Barudi," Link growled.

Beside him, Impa muttered the same name. She lifted her hand and clawed at the high notes of her harp, tense against the strings. Her song descended, defensive, as she weaved protections over them both.

Link stepped forward, sword ringing with Impa's music. Hand steady, blade raised, he met Nabru's eyes—they were a glazed gold, mindless but intense. He thought he could see a spark of malice deep behind them, but he could not guess how the rova managed to worm her way into them. He didn't know how long Nabru had been kept under this spell, and he didn't know whose blood stained her axe—he could only stop it from drawing more.

"Let Nabru go," he said. He had no idea if it was possible, if Nabru truly was in the rova's clutches, or if there was something deeper at play. "Give her back, or we'll take her back."

The woman only lifted her axe, a soulless smile crossing her face. "Go on, then."

Link lifted his left hand, calling forth the energy that sat in his gut, letting it flow with his breath down his arms to his extremities. The light came easily, dancing between his fingers like a web, burning, electrifying. It took every inch of his willpower not to release it, not to send it sailing about the room, hurting himself as much as his enemies.

Nabru—no, Barudi—did not seem impressed. She only gripped her axe, eyes bright, lips moving quickly, unintelligibly.

"Link, look o—"

Impa did not have time to finish her warning, she did not have time to finish her song. A column of freezing wind barreled into her, sweeping her away with nothing more than a gasp and a residual puff of icy air. In her place was a familiar aura, that horrible paradox of ice and fire that marked a rova's magic.

Link called her name, reaching out for her with a golden hand, but Nabru barreled toward him, blade raised. He parried, arm shaking with the impact. He would've lost his sword had the triforce not traveled down its length, ringing strength through it—but as it was, he recovered, gripping the hilt with both hands, letting the golden light envelop him, letting it tremble life into his arms.

"Wonderful," Nabru growled. She lifted her axe again, never losing that joyless grin. "Raise that cursed blade against me—let me taste its power."

Reluctantly, but quickly, Link obeyed. He summoned a surge to his left arm and sprang forward, lifting his blade above his head and bringing it down against the curve of her axe. When metal met metal, sparks of golden light flew in all directions, enveloping the great hall in an eerie glow. Nabru shifted her axe, catching Link's blow—but he leaned into it, the edge of his sword sliding down into the nick between the blade and the axe's handle. The strikes locked, light radiating from metal, the force of each of their magics meeting in hot sparks between them.

"Go on," the Gerudo said. "Cut me open. Strike me down."

Link knew he could. He could release the mad glow that pulsated through his arms. With one surge of the triforce he could cut through her axe completely, he could plunge his blade through her armor and into her flesh, he could end her.

But he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to drive his blade through his friend's body, he couldn't bring himself to let the triforce tear through her. He couldn't kill Nabru, even if it wasn't really Nabru.

He abandoned his strike, withdrawing his sword and moving in again, uncommitted, slow, rigid with the effort of holding his power back.

It was an opportunity Barudi was waiting for. She parried his strike, excessively, sending a rogue spark of god-light into the ceiling. The clattering of broken glass rang through the hall, and shards of a chandelier rained down onto them. Link flinched, raising his sword against the hundreds of tiny blades, but they cut through, nicking his arms, his head, his back. Nabru only laughed, glass pattering off her armor as harmlessly as raindrops. While Link busied himself protecting his face and head from the falling shards, the Gerudo raised her arm and summoned a burst of flames.

The fire encircled him, colder than ice and equally as impassable. He swung his sword, dousing a portion in waves of golden light, but where the steam rose so did more flame, licking at him, freezing him, wrapping closer around him like the constricting body of a giant snake.

"Your will is weak, but your heart is strong," Nabru smiled, face glowing in the light of the flames. "And that is why it is so desirable." She stepped through the fire, axe raised, but as he lifted his sword to defend himself, she only turned away from him. Her glazed eyes wandered from the ring of fire to the mezzanine, and she smiled. "Stay here, stableboy. I am not here for you. Not yet."

No, he thought desperately. Zee.

He knew he had to keep Nabru occupied, keep her in this room, at least until Impa or Viscen or one of the other warriors came to his aid. As she stepped away, leaving him trapped behind the flames, he thought desperately through the stories Garona had of her grandmothers, he tried to remember if those witches had ever dabbled in possession, if there was a way to stop it, if there was any way to save Nabru.

He did not want to kill his friend, but he also knew that when it came to choosing between Nabru and the little queen, Zelda won out.

"Barudi!" he called to her. She glanced over her shoulder, but didn't stop her march. "You can have it! Take it!"

She slowed, watching him lower his sword and tear at his collar. The cloth ripped, revealing the white, flat scar of his shoulder, where his brand once lay, and his chest pulsating with a frantic heartbeat.

"Go on!" he called. "Rip it out of me! If you release Nabru, you can have it."

Barudi only looked him over and laughed. "You must try harder than that to deceive me, boy. My husband will mete out your fate, as is his right. Only then will the Nameless One feast upon you."

When she turned to leave once more, Link clenched both his fists. The fire around him choked the air from his lungs, the ice in his blood forced the will to move from his legs, but the golden light was still within him. He summoned it, letting it course through his arms, his stomach, his sword.

I'm sorry, Nabru, he thought.

Right when he raised his hand, right when the power gathered at his palm, the fire went out. The lanterns snuffed to nothing, the chandeliers flickered, and the entire hall was engulfed in freezing, impenetrable darkness.