Chapter 8: The Man of the Jungle

The slamming door echoed seemingly forever in the miles of empty palace halls as Emperor Maximilian pulled it shut hard behind himself. He had told his guards to wait outside because the resident of this suite of chambers was one they would not understand. There were rumors that she was his personal concubine, and he preferred that over the public learning the truth.

The front room of the suite looked as one would expect of a sitting room. Like his own and his sister's suite, several chairs and a dining table near the center, and bookshelves lined with tomes of history and even fairy tales of heroes and wizards. Without saying anything, Maximilian crossed the room to the door on the far side, stopping to knock. "It's me," he said loudly so the occupant would hear him.

There were several clicks as at least four locks were released one by one, then the door's latch clicked, and it opened just enough for an eye to peek out the crack. "You are alone?" a girl's voice came from inside.

"As always," Maximilian said.

The door swung open, the girl already turning away to walk back into the room. "Lock it behind you," she said as he entered. He did so, sliding each of the latches back into place.

The room inside was lit by four lamps hanging from bare walls, and there was no furnishing save a large iron cauldron, empty now, atop a fire pit, and several tables on the other side of the room covered in bowls and bottles filled with gods-knew-what horrible chemicals and concoctions. There was also a stack of firewood for the fire pit and several large kegs filled with pure water, all meant for the unholy rituals of the occupant.

The girl appeared no more than fourteen or so, but Maximilian knew her to be much older. She dressed in a loose-fitting black robe, which he also knew the inside was lined with dozens of pockets that she kept many more of the chemicals like those on the table in vials within. He could hear the glass of the vials rattling softly as she walked.

Like his sister, she was also very pale, like one who did not often step into the sun, though in this case it was more by choice, and it made her raven-black hair stand in stark contrast, especially when strands fell across her face like the legs of a spider wrapping across her.

She was likely the most dangerous person in the palace.

"Sibette," Maximilian said, and held up the book he had retrieved from the palace library, "What do you know of necromancy?"

She eyed the book in his hand. It was bound in old, tattered leather, well worn around the cover edges. Likely hand-written as well, she decided when she saw the symbol branded on the front. It was an image of a raven, clutching a struggling snake under its talons while pinching behind its head with its beak. She was well familiar with that symbol. It was used in ages past as the symbol of witch hunters. She didn't need him to tell her that the book was a journal of an ancient hunter, who very likely put down details on how to identify and fight against witchcraft and necromancy both so that such knowledge would be passed down.

"More than the average person, not as much as a true necromancer," she replied to the emperor's question, idly tracing a fingertip along the rim of the cauldron as she walked past it.

"According to what I read here, it can manipulate flesh to create monstrosities," Maximilian said, "The younger and more innocent the flesh, the easier it is to manipulate."

"Ah, this is about the missing women," Sibette said, picking up a wooden bucket from beside the table and lifting the lid of one of the kegs.

"You know about that?"

"I make a point to keep an eye on events of my potential rivals," Sibette said, and scooped water from the keg into the bucket. She then turned, walking back to the cauldron and poured the bucket into it. It was barely any to the large pot, making only an inch or so on the bottom. "The white masks appeared very suddenly, conducting their rituals. Skinning people alive and performing sacrifices of what was left. Now they're kidnapping pregnant women, and you want to know why."

"That's right."

"That makes two of us," she went on, "Their rituals seem random, unguided, though they do have real power. This sudden change in their behavior has more purpose behind it. The women are likely already dead, or will be soon. I doubt they can be saved."

"If what this says is true," Maximilian said, tapping the book with two fingers, "That younger flesh is easier to manipulate..."

"You are correct," Sibette said, "It is the unborn children they are after, not the mothers."

"But for what purpose?" Maximilian asked.

Sibette licked her lips, looking away from him as she thought. "Necromancy can animate the dead, cause corpses to rise up, but they are less than even beasts," she said, more to herself than to him, "Their existence is mindless agony. Pain unending. They have no idea where the pain comes from or why, but they are driven with a single goal: To bring an end to their pain by spreading it to others.

"There is no magic that can truly resurrect the dead. A soul cannot be restored to its body once it has fled. This is forever the failure of necromancy and why the wizards of old outlawed its practice. But if a necromancer is after the most viable of all flesh, that of unborn innocents, could he…?"

"Could he resurrect someone?" Maximilian asked when she trailed off. "And if so, who would he go to such effort for?"

"I don't know enough of necromancy to say whether it's possible or not," she said, "But if it is..."

Sibette turned back to him and lifted the bucket toward him. "Fill the cauldron with water. I will gather what I need and we shall see what I can divine."

Something no other person alive would demand of the emperor, but Maximilian took the bucket and did as she ordered. He had paid a great and terrible price to secure the witch's service years ago, but her divinations had been worth it. Originally, he had been infuriated to discover that the visions were too abstract, too vague to build real plans on. Brief glimpses into the future that seemed useless when they could not reveal troop movements or even identities of the people depicted. But they had been useful for warning him of betrayals, imagery of a snake hiding among his own men, or potential allies that could be brought back to the empire's side. He was left to dissect and solve the puzzles of the visions himself, but that had been far more useful than not.

So he went to the kegs and hauled the water, one bucket at a time, to the cauldron, slowly filling the large pot. While he did so, Sibette went to the back tables, gathering bottles and jugs, ingredients for the task. Necromancy wasn't the only forbidden form of magic in the world. The black arts she practiced would have her burned at the stake in most countries, even in this one if she were discovered.

The most dreadful of the powers she possessed was her ability to manipulate a person's mind. She could trap them in a waking dream and they'd see her as anyone she wanted. A friend, a family member, even a lover, and with this the weak willed could be manipulated to do anything. She could even cause them to see their true friends as enemies, make them kill even their own friends and allies to protect her.

She had attempted it on him when they first met. But Maximilian had come looking for her at the time, out in the bog she had hidden away in, and he had prepared carefully. He'd known what she would do, studied the old journals of the witch hunters carefully, so he'd entered her hut alone. Because none of his allies were there for her to try to send him at, he knew that most of the people he'd see would be fully illusion. She'd tried to disguise herself as his sister to manipulate him, but she made a severe error of judgment, and picked the wrong perfume. He saw through her illusions by the smell.

She'd been impressed. Very few had ever broken through her illusions, and only one other by a smell. But once she knew he was there for her powers of divination, she'd lowered her guard and been more talkative. And she named her price. A truly horrific price.

She appeared to be fourteen now, but she'd looked to be in her fifties when they first met. One of the black arts she possessed was to extend her own life by draining it from others. Each life she took in such a way gave her back a decade of her own youth, though in appearance she aged more rapidly than normal. The lives he had given her would give her another thirty years or so before she needed more.

If he had not already secured his passage to Hell for the lives he ended in the war, this deal must have guaranteed it. There truly was a difference between killing in battle and cold-blooded murder. He'd seen hundreds of corpses, piled up and burned, or impaled on the stakes he favored, but what he saw her do made his skin crawl. She may have been the one who killed them, but their lives were on him.

But he'd come this far, there was no going back now, and no reason to let her services go to waste.

He filled the pot about two thirds of the way up, the same as their previous sessions, and then retrieved several logs from the pile of firewood, bringing them back to insert them into the fire pit beneath it. He then took a fire-kit from his pocket, using some of the kindling inside, along with his belt-knife and piece of flint, to strike the fire. In a moment, he had a decent blaze going and the cauldron was heating. It would have to be near boiling before Sibette could begin.

He could hear her, pulling stoppers from the bottles at the table and sniffing the contents before replacing the stoppers and setting some aside, while putting others into pockets inside her robe.

A few minutes and steam was rising from the cauldron. Sibette at last turned from the table, walking back to it as Maximilian added two more logs to the fire pit. Next came the worst part of the process.

Sibette took a bottle from her robe, pulling the stopper and pouring some into the cauldron. How she could so perfectly measure the amounts, or if that was even necessary, Maximilian did not know, but he knew the smell was awful as soon as the liquid hit the hot water, a green color spreading through the clear water in the cauldron. It didn't smell like anything else he knew of. Even the smell of rotting corpses on a battlefield was something he'd gotten used to, but he could never get used to this.

And then she poured in a second chemical, and then another. Each of these were terrible things. Snake blood, poison, nightshade, and a host of other things he preferred not to think about. A handful of something dried and ground up, he didn't ask, and another moment of this, and the fire beneath the cauldron suddenly flared, though nothing had touched it. Black smoke started to rise from the liquid. A vent was in the ceiling for this very reason, so they would not suffocate on it.

Sibette lifted her hands, wrists crossed, then spread them wide, and the smoke parted, revealing color and images within.

The image showed a grave, nondescript and with no tombstone. The mound of earth showed the body was not buried deeply. And then it parted, a hand reaching forth from within.

"It seems my hunch was right and a necromancer has found a way to defy the laws of life and death," Sibette said, "Using the unborn flesh of his victims, he has found a way to bridge the gap between death and the world of the living."

"Can you tell who the necromancer is bringing back?" Maximilian asked.

The body burst forth from the grave, the image turning, his back to them, and before him rose more figures from the ground, with rotting flesh and visible bones through their skin.

"Himself," Sibette said with a hint of surprise in her voice, and then the image turned again, showing the figure from the front, a white mask covering his face with six other figures in the same masks behind him. One of the figures was smaller than the others, the size of a child, but the others seemed to be three men and two women. "He is a member of the white masks, if not their leader."

"Who are they?" Maximilian asked.

"You know I can't see that," Sibette said, "I only saw your enemies in the war by their crests in the visions. The mask is these people's crest."

Maximilian growled under his breath. That was true. He'd even been the one to know those crests, not her.

The vision turned again, showing the rotting creatures rising in ever greater numbers. "The necromancer will raise an army of undead, likely intended to finally take your lands by force."

"So they're going to make a real move," Maximilian said, "We'll dig up the graveyards, burn all the remains, smash the bones to dust. That should slow it down."

The view panned around again, showing the undead army and another riding to clash. The army carried a banner with a golden dragon as the crest. That crest was Maximilian's own family crest. It was the imperial army. And the undead army dwarfed it by a massive number.

"The empire does not have the forces to face this threat alone," Sibette said.

"We have no allies," Maximilian said, "The only other nation that might be able to help is Hyrule, and they don't have the numbers."

"Numbers alone will not win this battle," Sibette said, the view changing again, revealing a figure in green with a blue sword in his hand facing the white-masked necromancer. "One person in the right place can make the difference. Slay the necromancer and his army will fall."

The view changed, showing more figures with the green-clad hero. Men and women of all shades and sizes. And then appeared the other white-masked figures. Then suddenly a dark wave appeared behind the heroes and rushed forward washing into the undead army.

"The beasts will come and fight the undead as well," Sibette said.

"Animals?" Maximilian asked.

"From the south," Sibette said.

"You mean Narak," Maximilian said with a tone of disgust, "They eat their own dead."

In the vision, the green-clad hero struck down the necromancer with his blue sword, and the undead army crumbled away to nothing.

What happened next was so fast, Maximilian wasn't even sure he'd seen it at all. A dark shadow rose, blocking the view completely, then two slits appeared within the shadow, revealing a red light within. They were eyes, and he felt their gaze upon him.

Sibette screamed, backing away from the cauldron suddenly and falling backward onto the floor. With a flash, the vision vanished, the smoke closing and becoming nothing but smoke.

Maximilian leaned down, offering her his hand. "What was that about?"

Then he noticed Sibette was shivering, her face covered in sweat and her hands trembling.

"It saw us," she whispered.

"What?"

Sibette looked up at him. He'd never seen true fear on her face before, but that was what he saw now. "A demon, more ancient than any of us can comprehend," she said, "It appeared in the vision and… It knew it was being watched… It will appear in this world and… and..."

"And what?" Maximilian demanded.

"Demons are not the be trifled with," Sibette said, finally taking his hand and letting him help her to her feet, "Even a wizard like the King of Darkness would be on his guard when facing a lesser demon. But this one is no such lesser..."

She turned to Maximilian, grabbing at his tunic. "And it is hungry," she went on, "It will devour this world and everything in it. Nothing will survive."

"Where will it come from?" Maximilian asked.

"I don't know, it blocked the vision before I could see," Sibette said, "But it is somehow linked to the necromancer. A final scorched earth plan if he should fail, perhaps..."

"The visions aren't set in stone, you've told me that before," Maximilian said, "Even the slightest action can change the result. I'll just figure out how the necromancer intends to summon it and prevent that."

"Yes, it must not enter this world," Sibette said, "If it does, there will be no hope for any of us."

Princess Zelda's head ached from the strike. She also felt dizzy from hanging upside-down over the shoulder of the man carrying her. All the blood was rushing to her head, but she realized they hadn't tied her hands. They didn't think she was a threat. The weight of her dagger was still there on her left wrist. They hadn't even disarmed her.

She could see trees passing by around her, the swaying motion as her carrier walked was making her feel sick. There were at least four of them still around, but none of them behind her captor. She might have one chance. As her vision was steadying, she could see the line of small bumps down her captor's back, his spine easy to follow. She thought back to her youth, and the lessons in self-defense she had been given for years.

"Physically, you are not as strong as most men will be, so you cannot fight them directly," she had been told, "Aim for vulnerable spots, gaps in the armor, or a spot that will do real damage. One of the most effective, if coming from behind, is to strike near the spine."

She eyed the line of her captor's spine again. She remembered how to do it. Don't hit the spine directly, the bones are strong and it takes a great impact to actually shatter or sever the spine. Instead, aim just to the side, with your blade horizontal, so the edge scrapes against the bone as it goes in. It won't drop a tough opponent for long, but will temporarily disable anyone because it'll hurt like hell. Then give the blade a twist to do some real damage.

Well, she was sure they were going to kill her anyway, the only question was how. No reason not to try. She'd never actually hurt someone before, but she'd reflexively stabbed that other woman, her doppelganger, without hesitation. She could do this.

She quickly drew her dagger and drove it into her captor's back, just to the side of his spine as she'd been told. He cried out and she felt his grip loosen and his knees buckle as he fell out from under her. They hit the ground and she twisted the knife hard, feeling the edge of the blade grinding on the bone of his spine, then she pulled it free as she rolled off him, quickly rising to her feet.

The other hunters had turned, moving to surround her. But even as their companion screamed in agony, they moved slowly, almost relaxed. It was as though they still didn't see her as a threat. That would be her one chance, and she quickly darted toward the trees, taking her one opening.

But she stopped as another hunter stepped into her path from behind one of those trees, a grin on his face. There were more all around, out of sight.

Zelda grit her teeth, wanting to scream. She really had no chance to escape.

One of the hunters knelt down by the wounded one, looking at the stab wound in his back.

"Well done, a valiant effort," came a voice from behind Zelda, "But you are still just one girl."

She and the hunters all turned at the sound, to see him. The man she'd met that first night, approaching them. He walked openly, with no fear, and the Narak clutched there weapons, their relaxed atmosphere vanishing in an instant.

"I was expecting to follow you all the way to the temple," the stranger said, stopping about ten feet away from the group, "But they were in no rush, and I'm happy to see you fight for your life, even if it was futile."

Seeing him beside the Narak, it made it clear in spite of his dark skin, he was not of these lands. His skin tone was not as dark as theirs, and he towered over them, rising head and shoulders above even the largest hunter. Seeing him in daylight also highlighted his intimidating visage. A clean-shaven head and face, but strong square jaw and prominent nose stood out, yet even at this distance, she was drawn into his eyes. A dark vision in those eyes that sent a chill down her spine.

This was a man who was ready to kill and would show no hesitation.

One of the hunters shouted at him, brandishing a spear.

"Shut up," the stranger said, and stepped toward them.

The hunter charged with the spear. Zelda almost couldn't follow what happened next. The spear was aimed straight at the stranger's chest, then the stranger had turned it aside with one motion of his arm, the tip harmlessly passing his shoulder. Then he struck with his other hand, a fist going straight into the hunter's gut, doubling him over, and the stranger's first arm rose high and struck down directly on the back of the hunter's neck. Zelda heard the crack even at this distance and the hunter hit the ground, screaming in agony, but twitches going down his arms and legs the only moves he was making.

With one blow, the hunter's neck had been broken.

The other hunters were visibly shaken, stepping back, but then one with a club ran at him. Zelda heard the rush of air as he swung it, the stranger evading it by merely leaning back and letting it pass by his face. The hunter had swung it so hard, he was unbalanced, nearly falling into the stranger as he spun. The stranger then easily grabbing his shoulders and pulled down as he lifted one knee directly into the hunter's back. Another scream of pain and a crack so loud no one missed it, and the hunter fell to the ground, still screaming, trying to crawl away while his legs limply dragged behind him.

He didn't make it far. The stranger raised one foot and stomped down, his hard boot-heel coming down on the hunter's head, and the hunter convulsed and lay still. Zelda gasped, feeling her stomach turn at the result. He'd stomped down with enough force that the hunter's skull caved in and the ripped skin was bleeding profusely with white chips of bone visible ripping through it.

"Oh gods..." Zelda whispered, turning away as her stomach gave way and she vomited what had been the fish she'd eaten onto the ground.

"Who's next?" the stranger asked, looking toward the other hunters.

There was a moment of hesitation, then the other hunters scattered. The one Zelda had stabbed even managed to get to his feet and run, all of them vanishing into the trees.

Zelda turned back to the stranger as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She was trembling. She'd never seen such vicious violence before, let alone someone who could commit such acts so readily and easily. As she watched, the first he'd struck, paralyzed at the neck, was fighting for breath. It was likely a relief that the stranger now killed him with a stomp to the skull, just like the other.

"Time to go," he said to her, "They'll be back in greater numbers."

"Why'd you follow me?" she asked, her voice shaking like the rest of her, "You said you wouldn't help any more."

"Because I wanted to see what choice you'd make," he said, "To see if you'd give up and die, or choose to live. I was going to give you a week, but you have proven adequately which you have chosen. Now follow me."

"Follow? Where?" Zelda asked.

"First to one of my stashes nearby to make you some clothes," the man said, "Unless you intend to walk all the way to Hyrule naked?"

For the first time in a while, Zelda remembered her own state, and quickly drew her cloak tight around herself.

"But why?" she asked, "You said you didn't want any reward I can promise."

"I still don't," he replied, "But there is something in Hyrule I want, and taking you back will get me closer to it."

"What is it?"

"That's not important right now," the man said, "Now, are you going to come with me, or take your chances on your own?"

Zelda swallowed hard. If the Narak found her again, she doubted it would go any better. And the lynels had proven to her there were even more dangerous monsters in the jungle. The odds of making it out alone were against her.

"Okay," she said, "I'll go with you."

"Good," he said, smiling for the first time since she'd met him, "Now, my nearest stash is about an hour from here. So keep up."

"You have them all over the jungle then," Zelda said, following him as he started walking.

"That's right," he said.

"Oh, my name is-"

"The Princess Zelda," the man said, "I know who you are. You may call me Bannon, for what it's worth."

"Not your real name, I assume," she said.

"It's as real as I choose it to be," Bannon replied, "Now come. We need to be away from here before they find courage in numbers."

He'd been true to his word. This "Bannon" led Zelda some distance before they came to a small ravine. Descending into it, Zelda surmised it likely became a lake when the river rose. Now it was bare, but Bannon approached a large rock to one side. It was a boulder about as large as a human man was tall, and equally as wide. She'd guess it weighed at least four or five hundred pounds, but likely even more.

So it was with a bit of a shock when she saw Bannon lean his shoulder into it and with a grunt, shift it to one side and kicking a smaller rock under its edge to prevent it from rolling back. It was without ceremony on his part, and once it was moved, he turned to the hole in the rock wall behind it, stepping inside. Zelda moved closer, leaning in just as light flashed within. Bannon had lit an oil lamp that he placed on a table within.

"Wow..." Zelda whispered.

There was an entire living space within. A bed in the far corner, a dining table with one seat, and shelves full of furs and bottles of solutions she was not sure of. There were also several crates, one of which Bannon opened the top and reached within.

"Here," he said, and tossed something from the crate to her. She caught it and looked in the light. It was wrapped in paper, but opening that, she found dried meat. "Thought you might want something a bit more filling than the fish you had earlier."

"Wait, you were watching me at the river?" Zelda said, feeling her face grow hot as she remembered standing there without her cloak, fully nude and in the open as she was spearfishing.

"Of course I was," Bannon said, closing the box, "And so were four other Narak hunters you didn't even know were there until just now."

"Why didn't they attack me?" Zelda asked.

"Because I killed them."

The way he said it, it was so flat and emotionless. So that was at least six people he'd killed this day alone. She thought about the man she'd stabbed, and wondered if he still lived. It was so heavy a thought, as if it were physically weighing her down, and yet this man had killed so many more for certain. How does one become so cold?

As she ruminated on this, he had walked past her and kicked the small rock out from under the edge of the boulder, ducking back inside as the boulder rolled back across the entrance. On one hand, it was good to know no one would walk in on them without warning, but she also knew she couldn't possibly move that boulder to get out on her own.

"Now, let's see about this..." Bannon said as he opened another crate. From within, he drew out a large piece of folded leather.

"How were you able to get all this?" Zelda asked, looking over the shelves and bottles stacked upon them.

"I've been out here a very long time," Bannon said, "This is just one of my stashes. I have sixteen more, scattered across the jungle, and all stocked roughly the same."

He laid the leather out on the table, unfolding it and laying it out smooth.

"Now, I'm not a tailor," he said, "This isn't going to be the most comfortable outfit, but it will help protect you from the weather and road, at least."

He looked up at her, then drew his knife and ran it down the leather. The extremely sharp blade cut through it like paper, the loose cut falling to the floor over the table edge. Then he cut a circle into the center of the piece that was left.

"Come here," he said to her, "Lose the cloak."

Oh. Of course. She should have expected that. Reluctantly, she undid the pin at the neck, dropping it to the floor. Without preamble, he picked up the leather and dropped it over her head, lining up the circular hole to fall around her neck so the leather piece fell around her shoulders.

What followed was a long process of pulling, cutting, and stitching the leather to fit her. She'd never had an outfit made this way. The tailors she knew would take her measurements, ask her about materials or fits she wanted, then she wouldn't see more until it was finished. She was rather impressed by Bannon's dexterity with a needle and thread in spite of the relatively enormous size of his hands and fingers.

"How long have you been out here?" she asked as he worked.

"Nearing a decade, at least this time," he said, "Every so often I make my way back to civilization to see how things are going. Last time I went north, the emperor of Riastad had died and a civil war had started over the power vacuum."

"Oh, yes," Zelda said, "I had heard the news that finally ended a few weeks ago."

"Did you also hear who won?"

"I think it was the emperor's son. The messenger said his name was Maximilian, if I'm remembering correctly."

"So the imperial dynasty continues for one more generation at least," Bannon said, pulling the leather tighter around her and threading the needle through it to stitch the side together, "All it takes is one weak link to break a chain like that."

"You said you came out here to get away from kings," Zelda said, "Why keep tabs at all?"

"Because when I go that far, I like to be aware of who is going to try to cut my head off if I step out of line," Bannon said, "And there are several people who would do it even if I don't. I have made enemies in my life."

"Seems that's the case even without trying for some of us," Zelda said quietly, thinking about the woman with her face and the others in the white masks.

When she'd stabbed the woman, she'd done it purely by reflex. The self-defense practice that had been honed into her. She hadn't thought about it. But now after watching what Bannon had done to those hunters, the memory came back to her. What would she feel now if she had killed her?

"Have you killed many people?" she asked, her voice soft, almost not wanting to hear the answer she already knew she was going to get.

Bannon looked up from his stitching to her face. His eyes meeting hers, for just a second, and she saw that cold edge within them. She had seen eyes like that before. Eyes that had a deadly edge to them, as if there was a vicious animal just barely being held back, waiting to be unleashed. Yet, something else there, behind that edge. A deep and powerful sadness, trying to be hidden from her gaze.

His eyes were like Link's. That older knight who answered directly to the queen herself and no other.

But then that sadness was gone, hidden even more completely behind the deadly edge.

"I've fought in several wars," Bannon said, turning back to the stitching, "I lost count of the number of people I've killed long ago. Turn, I need the light."

She turned as he indicated and he pulled another section of the leather tighter across her body and started stitching.

"You get hardened to it after a while," he went on, "When you see enough death, life starts to lose its value. You reach a point when the only time life is valuable is when you find yourself staring down the blade of a sword aimed at you, or when someone you care about is. But for others, you simply stop caring.

"But kings and queens, they never care in the first place. They sit safe in their castles while they send young men to die in wars. Young men fighting for causes they don't believe in or don't even understand. They're ultimately nothing but resources to be spent for the cause. The cold arithmetic of war is all their leaders care about."

"You're wrong," Zelda said, thinking about the memorial her mother had built. All those names on the walls and ceilings, of every soldier who had died in her name. "Maybe some don't care, but there are those that do. That maybe care too much."

"And how would you know?" Bannon asked.

"When we reach Hyrule, I'll show you."

Bannon smirked. "I'll look forward to it."

They fell into silence as Bannon worked. He cut the extra leather from the steadily growing outfit before repeating the process to add sleeves and leggings to the outfit.

While Bannon might not claim to be a tailor, she was impressed with the fit once it was done and she tugged at it to make small adjustments. It certainly wasn't the most fashionable, being layers of crisscrossing leather from different animals and of different colors, but it fit snug enough to not shift while walking, but he also hadn't stitched it so tight she couldn't get it off. The leather was also soft enough to not hinder her movement, but tough enough it should protect against scratches from branches and thorns.

He didn't have the means to make her a real set of boots, but did also make some leather wraps to tie around her feet to help protect her in that regard. It was a relieving feeling to be properly clothed again. And the dried meat tasted better than the fish had, certainly. And it had at least been salted, giving it quite a bit more flavor.

Bannon had gone back to the crates, and begun filling a bag with more of the dried meat and some other foods, and tied it shut once it was full, dropping it onto the table in front of Zelda.

"That's yours to carry," he said.

Zelda took the rope tie, pulling at it to test the weight. "That's heavy," she said.

"Strictly speaking, there's enough food in there to last a month," Bannon said, "if it comes to that, anyway. Also, this."

He reached to one of the shelves and plucked a leather waterskin from it, sitting it next to the bag.

"Now, with the time it took to make that outfit, it's already dark outside, so we'll stay here for the night," he said, "You can have the bed. Enjoy it, because it'll be the last one you sleep in for a while."

He stepped past her, moving toward the entranced.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Outside to relieve myself," he said, "You need to?"

"I'm fine," she said, feeling her face growing hot again.

He grunted, and pushed at the boulder blocking the entrance, slowly moving it aside, pausing for a moment to listen before pushing it further out of the way. He was certain no one knew of his stash here, but there was always reason for caution in these lands.

"Thank you," Zelda said as he stepped out, "for helping me."

"We'll see if you feel that way after the march tomorrow," Bannon said.

After a moment he returned and allowed the boulder to roll back in front of the entrance again. Zelda rose from her seat, looking over at the bed, then back at him. He had pulled a spare blanket from a nearby shelf and unfolded it over himself as he sat down on the floor near the entrance, his back to the wall.

"I suggest you sleep," he said, closing his eyes, "You're going to need it."

"Right," Zelda said, and stepped to the bed, pulling up the blanket.

She hadn't been expecting a fine mattress, but when she lay down on what she was sure were just leaves stuffed into a blanket, she wondered if the floor might be softer.

The Sacred Realm was a land separate from the world at large, but also a part of it. In a way, it could be seen as another dimension, but it was intrinsically linked by three gateways. Everything about these worlds was in threes, it seemed. One gateway lie in the ruin of the Temple of Time, which had stood in the capital city of Hyrule more than four thousand years earlier. This gateway had an effective lock, which could be sealed by the Master Sword being placed in the altar. Even with the sword gone, however, it was no easy path through for those who did not possess the magical talent to open the portal themselves.

The second was buried beneath the ruins of the capital city of Darimar, far across the ocean to the west of Hyrule. It was sealed more permanently by a magic circle crafted in ancient times by Darius, the wizard hero of an ancient age who had later become the Sage of Light known as Rauru. Crafted of the finest silver, the magic circle would hold its power for eons, if it ever faded at all. The entire city had been destroyed in the attack of the necromancer, Tharkus, who had come in a flying fortress that he had dropped on the city, killing nearly everyone in the city in the resulting earthquake. But the gate had been buried, likely forever, as a result.

The third gate was far to the north of both of these, connecting the worlds inside the mountains known as the World's Crown. In the arctic lands far to the north, these mountains rose high into the sky, and were impossible to cross on foot. The air became thin as one went up, and without magical aid no mortal being could cross them. If they did, they would see an incredible sight. Crossing the peaks, the mountains rapidly descended again. The mountains were shaped as a ring with a deep valley inside, and a climate that defied its location in the arctic.

A temperate forest lay within the ring, kept warm by the magical barrier surrounding it, complete with songbirds, deer, and other animals from much warmer climates. The gateway was connected to a stone circle near the center of the forest, in a clearing beside a lake. Also in the clearing were six cabins constructed of wood, each the private residence of one of the living sages. This was their secret hideaway, hidden from the world, where they found what freedom from their duties that they could.

The gateway was the link by which they freely traveled between the two worlds, the stone circle a lock preventing passage for any who did not bear the symbol of a sage.

It was through this gateway that Sheila, Sage of Light, now emerged with a flash of white light. There was no one waiting to greet her, as expected, the other sages all busy with their own tasks at this time. Wasting no time, Sheila clutched her silver staff as she walked, one of the few things her predecessor had left for her upon his death. Silver was one of the most effective conduits for magic, thus it was the ideal material for long-lasting magic, such as the seal on the gateway in Darimar. As a staff like this, Sheila could channel her own magic through it for remarkable effects. It did not increase the potency of her magic, but allowed her to focus it to incredible degrees. It might not sound like much to a layman, but with the staff, she could focus the power of a lightning strike into a needle-sized point, which used correctly, was far more terrifying than a massive hit across a large area.

But now as she entered her private cabin, she leaned it against the wall inside the door, walking through the kitchen and dining area, to the wooden tub in the back, across from the bed. With a snap of her fingers, a stream of steaming hot water poured into the tub through a tube leading outside. Goron engineering, provided by the Sage of Fire. Sheila undid her robe, letting it fall to the floor, and stepped out of her boots. Another moment and she'd shed her underclothes and slowly entered the tub, letting out a small gasp at the heat of the water, but that turned into an enormous sigh of relief as she sank into the steaming water.

Even as she bathed, however, her mind was racing. She was certain the darkness in the Sacred Realm was the spirit of Demise, a demon more ancient than surviving records of history. In fact, the more she delved into the legends, the more convinced of it she was. The ancient civilization that had existed in the same era as Demise was gone, though its remnants could be traced to many of the modern civilizations, such as Hyrule, the Empire of Riastad, and even her homeland of Darimar.

She was not a true Hylian, but she was not unrelated. Evidence suggested that Hylians were descended from both the human race and the near-extincted species known as elves. A species that was very likely to be extinct in just a few more generations. She herself was a half-blood, with far more elvish blood than any Hylian, and her own father had been one of the last full-blood elves left in the world, and even that was debatable over the thousands of years it had taken for elves to gradually vanish.

But Sheila had come to believe that this ancient civilization, if they had not been the ancient elves, had been ancestors of the species. In fact, more evidence was suggesting that the elves and humans were both descended from these ancients, and the Hylians might even be the two species that had evolved along different lines becoming one people again.

But all of that was just theories that she could not prove, and hardly mattered. What was important was that a hero of these ancient people had defeated Demise and slew him. Demons do not die easily, however, and Demise had enacted the curse that had resurrected him in mortal form eons later.

But Demise's mind had been destroyed, or so they'd thought. This was why the Sages had seen it as potentially a good thing to separate the spirit of Demise from the mortal body of Ganondorf. In the aftermath, Ganondorf had continued the same path for some time, making it seem like a wasted effort, but in the end, the man had found himself, his own soul, when he met the girl he would raise as his own daughter.

But what had been pulled from him in that separation? A creature with no mind. The Demise she saw in the Sacred Realm was a beast of pure instinct. With no thoughts to guide it, it fell to basest aspect of survival: The need to feed.

Pieces of it had broken off, taken the force of shadows resembling the monster known simply as Ganon, in his different forms. Some even had intelligence. But now they were rejoining the original shadow, and it showed no such sign of that intelligence. Demise was hungry, and while it was held in check by the Sacred Realm itself for now, it was not a problem that was simply going to go away on its own.

So what had happened to Demise's mind? According to the legend, it had been trapped inside the Master Sword itself, where it would slowly fade into nothing. She'd examined the blade herself multiple times, and saw no sign of a presence within. The sword did seem to house a strange sentience of its own, but nothing like a demon. It was how the blade chose its own wielder, and how it guided them toward whatever destiny it saw for them.

The sword had been lost for some time, only for Darius to rediscover it in the Sacred Realm some eight thousand years ago, during the Ancient War. Sheila closed her eyes, reaching into the memories of her predecessor. There were a great many. The man had lived far longer than a mortal should. But she knew where she was going, back to that time, eight thousand years ago.

"Oh gods..." she whispered, her eyes shooting open.

Darius had found two swords there. At the time, he believed them to be the balance for one another. The Master Sword, which he at the time dubbed Silver Fang, representing light and good, while the other was a sword with a blade black as coal that seemed to suck away the light around it.

What if Demise's mind hadn't vanished into the Master Sword? What if he'd managed to escape, but in his weakened state, he'd been forced to find another form to inhabit? Something that on a battlefield would be very close by?

As Sheila came to this realization, many thousands of miles from where she was, the very sword she thought of hung from the hip of one oblivious to this knowledge.

The being known as Zero surveyed the handiwork of the white masks. It wouldn't be long before imperial soldiers saw the smoke from the fire, so he had to look fast to pick up the trail if he didn't want to have to deal with them.

It was the same as all the others. Bodies that had been skinned and then killed, leaving behind the corpse and taking the skin with them. An entire family in this farmstead. Looked like four adults. A married couple, the parents of one of them, and four children.

Zero was never the type for mercy, and the evidence the White Masks left behind gave him no reason to make them the exception. He fully planned to kill every last one of them he had to in order to find Leselle.

But the sword in question was hanging from his belt. Grip and blade as black as coal, with a single blue gem in the pommel.

And Zero did not notice when that gem opened, a red eyeball visible within, that looked around the room, and quickly closed again, having surveyed the current situation, and continued to bide its time.