Author's note: The time has come. I have finally decided to continue with the story after being mightily discouraged by the dreadfulness of the draft of Book 1. Dear me! So much to edit, so much to throw out and improve. I will admit, I have been struggling with it mostly because I have so many ideas for the second book and the first book is like a ball and chain holding me back, demanding to be finished first. Well, out of the blue I decided to write a prologue, which turned out to be a bit longer than intended, which became Chapter 1 of Book 2. I very much enjoyed it, and I hope you will stay with me through this next great adventure. Who knows, if things go well I might finish it before my thirties!

Anyway, enjoy!

DR

Chapter 1

The motion was quaint. Up, down, consistently. Left, right, only sporadically, in great heaves; funnelling like a spiral through the air. It fuelled his sickness and caused his stomach to twist. The air reeked of charcoal and only intensified his nausea. Rain pelted him from the sides and cascaded down his thick, blood-crusted fur.

Link was a wolf again, of that he was sure. If he was alive, he did not quite know. His snout dangled limply with the terrible motions of the bright figure carrying him, and after many tries he determined himself incapable of lifting his head long enough to see who it was. The effort made him cough and gag, and soon he felt a trickle of acrid blood drip from his teeth. Like a vortex sucking him deeper and deeper into darkness, the wind pulled him along until, quite suddenly, the up-and-down movements ceased to alternate. A harsh cold pressed against his belly then, hard and wet. With the absence of motion the nausea intensified, but Link's swimming mind shut down before his stomach could order a messy cleansing.

All that remained was the scream. Faint, nearly extinguished, like a whistle blown with hardly enough breath to produce a sound. But he heard it ringing like the storm that it was, dreadful, haunting, filled with despair and agony.

Midna's dying cry before the light consumed her.

Another pain woke him – minutes, hours, days – later. Deep and piercing, but delicious in its effect. With the pain his mind gained more lucidity until, blinking away the rainwater, he could turn his head and make out a blurry shape above him.

''… could not feel the presence. It cloaked itself quite masterfully. Why, Princess, would you ask me to bring that creature of darkness? After what it has done?''

''Is it shame that spurs you to question my wisdom, Light Spirit? You who would – without even a single doubt – sacrifice the only hope of freedom this land has left?''

It was not its timbre, but the touch of a profound sadness that told Link who was beside him. Sadness that was not overcome despite the tone of angry disapproval ringing within the woman's voice. He forced his eyes to open completely, and recognized the dark tower room that was Princess Zelda's lonely prison. Looking up he made out Lanayru's large, shimmering head drifting above them in the cramped chamber. The light spirit gazed back, his eyes – blended almost seamlessly with his head – devoid of all feeling. Had Lanayru brought him here? And if Link had escaped the serpent's cavern alive, then where was…

''A sacrifice that was deemed necessary, given the circumstances,'' Lanayru countered, his spirit voice unusually upset. ''It was the Hero's duty to fulfil his service to the people. A service he wilfully refused to give.''

''As the spirit of empathy, you show astonishingly little compassion for us mortal beings.'' The princess's words were sharp with anger.

Link, however, had only eyes for the small, miserable shape lying on the cold stone floor a few nose-lengths away. Zelda was kneeling beside it, her delicate hands connected to one of its long, thin, limp arms. The faint smell wafting around the body was dreadful, but held some familiarity.

A slow whine escaped his throat, and the two arguing voices turned quiet. Gritting his teeth he forced his arms – now a pair of alarmingly feeble front legs – to pull him closer. Claws scratched granite cobblestone and drew small ridges he barely felt but which helped to inch him nearer. When his nose finally prodded the small shape, he was overcome with Midna's smell turned pungent by burnt flesh and singed hair. The difference was so stark that he whimpered and drew back.

''Be at ease, Hero, she is still alive,'' the sad voice of the princess said.

She looked down at the imp's form, gently cupping a hand over her cheek. Midna's broad head turned towards him, showing a pair of dull, glazed eyes.

''Hey… Wolf,'' she murmured, and cracked a smile so crooked it looked upside down.

Link felt bile rise in his throat; she looked as if she had been boiled in oil. The large patches of alternating black and white skin that composed her body had not just been bleached and turned ash grey; they had been inverted. Her forehead, once a rich and glossy black that framed and deepened her eyes, was now pale, ghastly light grey. Formerly nacre white, her cheeks and chin were the colour of a newly formed bruise and puffy with blisters. The ground beneath her was dusted with grey skin flakes, and more peeled off at her every move be it as slight as a blink. Only a few of her long amber strands remained, the rest was smelly and curled into black strings. Her crown was gone, but its imprint was still starkly marked.

Yet despite her horrible state, she looked peaceful.

Midna, I'm so sorry… he tried to say, but it was just another whine that came out of him.

Midna's other arm lifted from the ground where it lay in a heap of flakes – her own skin, slowly crumbling to bits. Her fingers grazed his glistening snout, her smile widening. ''Thought you could best him, didn't you?'' she whispered. ''Now look at you. A wolf… again.''

Link began to realize that his transformation was indeed quite bizarre. Glancing around him, he could see no Twilight speckles floating in the air. From the open window leading to a balcony where most of Lanayru's glistening body lay curled and resting, he could make out black rainclouds shedding their tears upon the world. But the sickly orange hue of Twilight was nowhere to be seen. Why, then, was he a wolf?

An even more horrid thought crossed his mind; Midna was a shadow being and could therefore not abide the harsh touch of the light world. Why was she not a shadow?

Midna's head turned back towards Zelda who was still holding her hand. ''Princess, please, you have to tell us how to… to lift the curse on Link. I could only see fragments of what Zant shot him with. An arrow… of a strange magic.''

The princess looked up at Link. She was clad in her black cloak, the hood down to reveal her royal tiara. She had removed her silken gloves to hold Midna's smaller hand, and stretched her right palm towards Link.

Upon it, a set of three golden triangles began to glow.

''The magic that pierced him is different than what transformed him when he first passed the curtain of Twilight,'' she murmured, eyes closed in concentration. ''It is of an evil kind. One that has not sullied this land for a long time, a power meant to do nothing but consume. Were he merely a Hylian, it would have destroyed him.''

''Princess, I can sense this same power permeating the air,'' Lanayru said, inclining his large golden head towards the princess. ''He is close. The Twilight king has breached the boundary of the two realms using the forbidden power, as we have feared. He is directing its forsaken magic towards this very castle.''

''I can feel it too, Light Spirit,'' Zelda answered. ''But Hyrule is prepared, as am I. I will do what is necessary, but I will need your assistance, and that of your brethren.''

Lanayru gave a slow nod. ''You have it, your Highness.'' Then he turned to float out into the night, leaving the room in gloomy darkness.

Zelda leaned forward to place her naked hand on Link's head. Her eyes closed once more. ''Our world is one of balance. Just as there is light to banish darkness, so, too, is there benevolence to banish evil. Passed down from the ancient heroes, a relic remains hidden and guarded in the sacred woods of the south. It is a weapon that evil can never touch. Find it, Hero, and wield it in the name of the goddesses.''

She opened her eyes, her look bearing a silent warning. ''The beast saved you, Hero, but I fear it has surmounted its former confines and permanently bound itself to your spirit. The Blade of Evil's Bane will drive away the power that is still threatening to consume you, and the beast shall be conciliated, if only for a time. However, it will be more present than ever before.''

''Link can take it,'' Midna murmured, her voice pained yet slightly amused. ''He's always been more beast than man anyway.''

Link nudged her hand. She looked back, her smile wavering with effort. ''Well, that's nice, isn't it, Link? The southern woods… It's where you grew up. You can get there… on your own, right?''

Link felt a whimper rise in his throat. Midna's breathing had turned raspier and slower during Zelda's speech, her skin losing more flakes. He could see the fight leaving her eyes. Desperately, he lifted his heavy head to cast a pleading look at Zelda. Why didn't she do something?

Zelda twitched once beneath his eyes, then lifted her hand to place it on Midna's forehead. The imp, however, brushed her aside. ''Princess, don't bother with me. It is my fault that Zant got all four Fused Shadows. I thought I could best him, and I couldn't be more wrong… But it's not Link's fault. I'm sure he would have done… what the spirit asked for, even if that meant giving up his life. I was the one who stopped him. You need him… to save your world, and eventually mine.''

She coughed more, her body shaking feebly with the strain. ''Princess, I don't have much time. The crown, it can only be fully controlled by the heir of the First Ancestor. Zant is not that person, and so his grasp on the Fused Shadows will be inevitably weakened. You say you can feel the connection between the realms forming?''

Zelda had turned very quiet, listening to Midna's words with fitful attention. ''I can,'' she breathed, her voice husky.

''It will be unstable,'' Midna continued, speaking fast as if sensing that her time was running out. ''He is intent on bringing his master to this world. If you could sever the passageway, you could trap him in the Twilight Realm, and his master here… Then Link can deal with them separately. The Mirror of Twilight! I don't know where it is. Please, you must tell him… Tell Link where to find… the Mirror of Twilight…''

She relapsed to silence, her breathing slowing as her consciousness slipped from her grasp. Link whimpered and nudged her with his snout. Zelda, however, stared at Midna, her eyes moving quickly. Outside, a ray of light shone into the room from Lanayru's head. He broke the silence with his deep, rumbling voice.

''There isn't much time, your Highness. We have to act now.''

But Zelda paid him no mind. She took Midna's hand once more in hers, lifting it to her forehead with a quivering sigh. ''The goddesses have cloaked my vision surely for a reason, but I believe I finally understand just who and what you are, Midna,'' she breathed. ''And why you made your way to my forsaken prison all those weeks ago. How could I not see it? These dark times are the result of our own deeds, yet it is you who have reaped the punishment. All this, and despite your mortal injuries you still act in our stead…''

''Your Highness, we have to hurry,'' Lanayru warned.

Midna struggled to open her eyes. ''Princess, don't–'' she whispered.

''No,'' Zelda said, her voice firm. ''If none of my ancestors would face the atrocity of their actions, then I will gladly bear the consequences.''

A sudden thunderclap made Link jump. The wind outside had picked up speed and was rattling the windowpanes leading to the balcony. Lanayru lifted his head to gaze outside. A long, penetrating hiss escaped his opening maw.

''Listen carefully, Hero,'' Zelda said, lowering herself to look into Link's eyes. Her words were quick with urgency. ''The Mirror of Twilight is kept hidden inside a prison deep within the western desert. It will be the last passage into the Twilight Realm. If I succeed in trapping Zant–''

Thunder broke through her words, glass shattering into the room and pelting Link's back. He whined, instinctively moving closer to shield Midna. He felt her tiny palm briefly brush against him, minuscule fingers coiling weakly around strands of his fur, before even that last touch fell away. Her eyes slid shut, her breaths nothing more than soft rattling.

The princess gave a silent nod to Lanayru, then raised the dying imp's hand in hers, her body a silent poise of preparation. ''My time has run out. Midna, I pass this to you. Please accept it.''

A strange glow began to radiate from Zelda's body, coating Midna's immobile form in hues of silver. Link stumbled back in shock, watching how the imp's body was lifted from the ground. The motion brought some life back to her eyes, eyes that opened to stare at Zelda first with wonder, then with mortification. For just as Midna's colours began to intensify, so did Zelda's body fade.

''Princess, what–'' Midna stammered as her hair sprouted from her scalp like a flame of bright orange. She gasped, her skin glossing to the slick smoothness of a polished stone. Her eyes widened as life once more filled their blood red irises, staring at the dwindling woman before her with horror. Finally, her voice rang out in a shrill, desperate, powerful scream.

''No! Link! Stop her!''

But Zelda only smiled, her body blending with the thin air around them. By the time Link had made it to his aching paws, she had already vanished.

Midna drew in a deep, shaking breath, her body shrinking into the shadow at Link's feet at the same time.

''Come, Hero. We have to hurry.''

Link barely felt the light spirit's body coil around him, pulling him from the room. By now, thunder was crashing through the sky at an alarming pace, each strike like an earthquake in Link's painfully sharp ears. Rain came from the clouds like curtains of shards, but the blackness of the sky did not come from the night; above his head, he could make out a whirlwind of dark fog that was gathering around the highest tower of Hyrule Castle. Lightning struck and briefly illuminated the sky, and the fog took on the form of a gruesome face. It howled and snarled in victory with its black mouth wide open, eyeless sockets staring at the clouds above. Then it dove for the castle and vanished.

Zant's god had arrived in Hyrule.

A sudden, high-pitched cry sounded from Lanayru then, and the spirit's light dimmed and flickered. Like sparks blown away by the wind, his light hurried back towards Hyrule Castle, leaving Lanayru bare and fading. Only his bright orb that contained the spirit's bundled power remained and encircled Link, shielding him from the darkness of the night. Link looked back, tried to catch a glimpse of the castle, but Lanayru's speed outdistanced his visibility. Before long there was nothing but the foggy rain around them accompanying their quick flight towards the south.

0

Rusl could not remember the last time he had seen an inhabited farm.

The destruction the old buildings presented were of weathering and lack of maintenance, thankfully, but he came across a few that looked like they had been set on fire. Around him, pastures untilled or in a stage of half-growth stretched far and wide, the wind rustling stalks of wheat that, sometimes, covered only a portion of a field as if its farmers had been interrupted mid-sowing. Rusl could very well imagine the scene; another bright spring day, perfect for work outside, the farmers singing jolly tunes while tossing handfuls of seeds in a practised arc. The black spots at the horizon. Shrieks and gurgles filling the air. The hooves of oversized boars digging into the overturned earth. Men and women fleeing. Children snatched from their parents' arms…

He tugged on the reins of his horse, gritting his teeth in the hopes of staving off the memory that threatened to flood his mind with more sorrow. With the cramping of his stomach, the now healed wound on his side began to ache.

The blacksmith sighed and goaded the horse onward, leaving the farm to its weathering. His destination was not far now.

Of all the grandiose landscapes in Hyrule, the plains of Lanayru had always been his favourite. The grass grew tall but did not look haggard like some untended meadows in Ordona. Roads were mostly free of rocks, the wooden signs reliable and regularly taken care of. Hylians – especially those of Lanayru – seemed to value longevity more than personal effort and always sought to keep time in check just a little more, if ever the opportunity occurred. He was presented a good example of this tradition as the path before him forked, the Western Road continuing north through the grassland while he guided his mount along the trail and up a hill crested by a tall windmill. Its blades were patched many times but clean and flapping and oriented to catch the strong wind that whipped across the hill. The mill itself barely showed the twenty years it had now withstood the elements.

Rusl dismounted by the door, tethering his horse to the fence surrounding a small vegetable garden next to the mill. He knocked twice but did not get an answer. Trying the forged handle, he found it unlocked.

The inside was very dark, so much that he had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. A steady rumbling and knocking resounded from a large pole in the middle of the room that reached through the ceiling as tall as a tree. Slowly, it turned with the steady spin of the blades above. The room itself was almost monastic in its furnishing, and only a crackling hearth and a table cluttered with various metal parts showed it had been recently used.

''Hello?'' he called, and received no answer.

He walked across the room to find a second door slightly ajar, and from it issued the rhythmic clanging of a hammer on an anvil. It made him stop in his tracks, briefly overcome by memories so sharp they were almost painful. Two decades had not altered the high-pitched sounds of that particular hammer, its strokes regular yet slightly faster than he performed his. It was more than music to his ears; it was therapy. He had made the right choice in coming here.

His hand pushed the door open, finally revealing the woman stooped over the anvil, a fire mask strapped to her head. Her curly hair glistened with golden rays in the glow of the forge. She had kept it long with only the front strands bound together at the height of her nape by a leather band. Where before it had been of a flaming red, it was now completely silver.

Rusl's foot triggered the creak of a plank, causing the woman to look up and lift her fire mask. ''Oh, my apologies, good sir!'' she chimed, her voices slightly unsteady with age. ''I was so absorbed in my work that I did not hear you enter.''

Rusl felt his lips part in a grin – the first in weeks. He realized his face was obscured by darkness, and passed under a low beam to approach her. ''This would be the first time you called me a good sir.''

The woman frowned, rounding her anvil to get a better look. ''Oh dear goddesses…'' she breathed, pulling her mask free. ''Rusl of Ordon, could it truly be you?''

''Hello, Millie,'' Rusl answered and crouched, spreading his arms. The woman let out a hearty laugh before flinging herself into his embrace. He had almost forgotten her size, and found himself newly astonished with how short she was. Age had only lessened her inches; he remembered a woman as tall as a ten-year-old, burly and strong despite her size. With him squatting, she now barely reached to his forehead.

''And I thought my eyesight had finally abandoned me,'' she said, pushing back and cupping her wrinkled hands around his face. ''My, you've grown so much. Look at that beard! You've always wanted one.''

Rusl chuckled. ''Glad I was Human to get one before the age of fifty.''

She released him, and he walked over to the workbench. ''Your eyesight is as good as ever, considering that lock you're making,'' he said, inspecting the confusion of entwined rods, springs, and levers resting there.

''Oh, that? For one of the lords in Vigjaro,'' Millie said and picked up the brass cover she had been in the process of forging. ''Man's got all those trinkets that he wishes to secure with another trinket. One could have thought these dire times would sharpen anyone's sense of the essential. Not Lord Master Frivolity of Grand Chêne, no sir!''

She placed the cover onto the lock. It fit perfectly. Rusl quietly shook his head in wonder.

''I've been the enthusiast, Millie, but you? You've always been the master.''

He turned to her, cherishing the fond smile she presented him. She reached for a rag and cleaned her hands, waving at him to follow her back into the first room where she lowered a kettle on a toothed rack closer to the hearth fire.

''It's ironic, isn't it?'' she said, pulling back a chair for him to sit. ''I've had this mill for almost twenty years, and not once have I realized how inappropriate of a home it is for someone with that nickname.''

''I would not call it inappropriate,'' Rusl countered, spinning the offered clay mug in his hands. ''More like a happy coincidence.''

She gave him a flat look. ''Truth be told, I haven't heard that nickname in a long time. Here everyone just calls me Dame la Naine.''

Rusl stared at her briefly before pointing at her. ''Now that is inappropriate.''

She waved a hand and sat down. ''Better than the other mouthful.''

''And what is wrong with Mélisande Gobinet?''

''Can you think of a name more pompous?''

''I'll name you ten for the right price.''

''Oh? And your price shall be?''

''Something better than tea.''

Millie reached into a shelf behind her and slammed a bottle onto the table. ''Vigjaro brandy.''

Rusl frowned, noting the half-drunk content. ''That won't suffice.''

''You have something better?''

He stuck his hand into his shoulder bag and brought forth a flask. ''Ordon honey liquor.''

Millie raised her brows in respect, then handed him her cup. ''You got yourself a deal, sweetheart.''

Mugs clanked, drinks were downed, and the day slowly grew older. Millie's mill had only one tiny window by the table facing the east to catch the first rays of the morning light, and so it was that the living quarters grew even dark and gloomier with the passing time until nothing but the low fire and a table lamp illuminated the two talking and drinking friends. The rhythmic whirring of the mill gears accompanied their tales of former times like the lute of a storyteller. Though it was in the later hours – the wind having picked up considerably – that the female smith briefly excused herself to disappear in the engine room above to operate a few levers and pulleys. With a wholehearted clank, the mill slowed to a stop.

''I have lost much canvas to unforeseen nighttime storms, especially during summer,'' she said, lowering herself on her chair with a sigh. ''And there's rough weather ahead. Let's enjoy the crickets while they're still out.''

''Crickets are what I know of my hometown,'' Rusl replied. His head had been comfortably mulled with alcohol, drowning – if for only a while – the pain he felt in his heart.

He sat still for a moment, relishing the soft chirps echoing through the open window. He had forgotten how peaceful summer nights could be, and this one held a special kind of quiet despite the strong gusts of wind.

''I lost my two sons,'' he said, finally bringing the words across his lips. Millie did not move. Only her eyes, formerly contemplating her mug of liquor, moved to fix on him.

Rusl took an avid sip of his brandy. ''They were both taken. My oldest made it back on his own, somehow, but after just one day he vanished. And I haven't seen my youngest since the day he was kidnapped. Millie, I can still hear it, right here, in that thick noggin of mine. Those screams… I haven't slept one night without being woken by them. And they won't stop. Day in, day out. Whatever I do, I can't stop hearing his voice.''

He remained quiet for a moment, taking another gulp and savouring the thick flavour of the brew. ''I don't know what I'm still doing here, anyway.''

''What do you mean?'' Millie's voice had turned suspicious. Her frown was calculating, wary.

Rusl waved a hand at the fields of grass stretching out beyond the window. ''I've been on the road for weeks, Millie, following whatever clue I could find of the attackers. I've heard of more raids in the north. Of the army being surrounded near Forgaru and Dalagra, their generals kept busy despite their superior numbers. But nothing of a caravan transporting children, or where it might be headed. All I have found are abandoned farms, terrified villages, cities turning down strangers by fear of infiltration. Any possible trace I might have found of either of my sons has run cold. And I have a wife and a newborn daughter at home.''

''So why not return to them? What is keeping you on the road?''

Rusl laid his forehead in his palm. ''The fantasy of finding both my sons, alive, and bring them back home to their mother and sister.''

The female smith suddenly slammed a hand on the table, causing Rusl to jump. ''A fantasy, you call it? Are you even listening to yourself?!''

''Millie, what are the chances that both Link and Colin are still alive? It's been weeks! Colin is frail and insecure, he doesn't have the fortitude to–''

''Have you seen him being taken?'' Millie interrupted. ''Rusl, was he alive when they took him?''

The blacksmith paused, his fingers white against the clay mug. ''I… I don't know.''

Before him, Millie gave a quiet sigh. ''Then you haven't lost him. Not yet.''

He attempted a retort which the small woman brushed aside with a hand move. ''Children have been taken across all of Hyrule. The farming village down the road has lost half of its young to the raids. They were children I knew, sons and daughters of friends, of people I would consider family. They have all come to me with their grief, and I have told them the same thing over and over, and I will tell you now: Do not, under any circumstances, assume your sons are dead just because they have been missing for all this time. There is always a chance, always a sliver of hope, that they might return safely. But do not speak of death, Rusl, for I know. I know…''

She broke off, her wrinkled face contorted in a grimace of pain. Her kneading hands sought his, and within her grip he felt the grief, the anger suppressed for so long still sharp despite twenty years of healing. He cursed his own sense of tact shamefully muddled by drink, and held on to her hands in silent compassion until she had relaxed.

''Forgive me, old friend,'' she muttered, wiping her eyes. ''A woman's heart can become brittle with time.''

''The apology is mine. I did not know you were still so affected by it.''

''With all the forgiveness I have sought I would have thought so too. But there comes a day when you think you have finally buried all the remains, only for their ghosts to haunt you anew.''

While she spoke she leaned back and pulled open a drawer below the table, retrieving a rolled-up piece of paper. Laying it in front of him, she took hold of her mug and downed the last of its content.

''What's this?'' Rusl asked.

''Look at the seal.''

He held the wax closer to the oil lamp, and gasped. It showed a boxelder leaf, yet to be broken. ''When did you get this?''

''A fortnight ago,'' she answered, her face weary. ''I lacked the courage to open it.''

Rusl's hands performed the move without thinking. The crack of the breaking wax caused Millie to jerk as if she had been stung, but she sat quietly watching him unroll the letter, a look of grim determination on her face.

''Castle Town, in the old tavern,'' Rusl murmured, reading quickly. ''He's truly done it.''

''With what's been happening out there, is it that much of a surprise?'' she asked.

''He's gathered some of the old members. Some new ones too. And he's enacting the Underground Service Accord.''

''That means the royal family has not ordered the assembly,'' Millie grunted. ''If they had, I would not have been informed of their gathering.''

''Millie, he's asking you to join.''

''That's what I had feared.'' She pulled out a piece of parchment stained with ink splotches and crooked writing. Her assiduity and attention to detail was renowned among the finest artists of locksmithing; it did not, however, apply to her penmanship. ''I have my written refusal ready to be sent.''

Rusl read the letter again, rubbing his fingers across the expensive sheet. His old friend and commander, Auru Nahamani, had always been fond of extravagant merchandise. Had he not wholeheartedly meant the summons to be taken seriously, he would not have used such fine stationery. The paper legitimized the message all the more.

''Odds are you were summoned too,'' Millie added. ''You just weren't home to receive it.''

Rusl looked out the window past the vast hills surrounding Millie's home, the place he had sought out more on instinct than on the hope of finding a trace of his missing sons. She joined his gaze; Mélisande Gobinet, a friend of old he had spent five of his shaping years fighting side-by-side with against the wrongs of the kingdom, first as an apprentice, then as a fully-fledged member of a group led by the most ingenious tactician he had ever known. Auru had been more than just a mentor; his guidance had made Rusl into a man, had shaped him in both skill and mind and, when all morals of humanity seemed gone, had taught him to deal with the consequences of cruelty.

But Auru's wisdom had not managed to fortify all minds against the whims of life the goddesses sometimes bestowed upon their creations. Rusl's look rested on Millie's written refusal and on the few dried circles where salt and water had diluted the ink. For how could one hope to find solace in blaming bad luck? Did it absolve the shooter of their mistake despite having failed to kill the right target?

The wooden mill had been creaking and groaning around them like an old ship, and a stronger gust of wind pushed one of the shutters closed with a bang, making Rusl jump. Millie leaned out the window, and Rusl noted the stars covered by heavy clouds. In the distant hills, a rumble of thunder echoed.

''I don't like the sound of that,'' Millie muttered, standing up. ''Could you help me get the canvas in?''

Rusl had rarely seen or worked on windmill blades; in Ordon and Faron and the provinces' abundance of streams, it was common to build waterwheels. Millie led him up the ladder into the engine room that rendered the many cogs accessible for regular maintenance, and opened a small latch that lead outside. One of the enormous blades stood vertically before her, and she began undoing the buttons that kept the wildly flapping canvas attached to the wooden frame.

The wind was now whipping at them from the side, and Rusl had trouble keeping his balance on the small, thankfully fenced catwalk. As Millie handed him the canvas, he was nearly thrown over, the cloth struggling to tear from his hands.

''Pull it inside, then turn that crank over there!'' she shouted. ''It'll bring the next blade close to me.''

He watched her lean over the railing, her silver hair fluttering like the windmill blades. The crank was meant to turn the cogs as well as the entire middle pole by hand, and due to the wind catching in the large sails he was surprised of how easily they spun. At a call from Millie he jammed the crank in place with a wedge before hurrying back out to help her.

The storm was gaining pace with every minute. The birches and oaks lining the hill slopes groaned against the wind, their foliage rushing like the sound of a thousand arrows. The Ordonian stared at the land unfolding beneath him, bending with the gusts that slammed against his body.

''Is it normal for storms to be this harsh here?'' he called to Millie who was handing him the next sheet. It bloated like a sail in her hands and threatened to rip free from her grip.

''Is anything normal these days?'' she answered, yelling out as the sheet stretched and nearly pulled her off the catwalk. Rusl caught her, and the sail flew into the air to be swallowed by the arriving rain.

Millie pushed him back towards the latch. ''Leave the rest,'' she called. ''You go down and bring your horse into the barn before it bolts.''

The stallion he had gotten at one of the stables in Palaguard stomped and tugged at his bonds, every new thunderclap making him scream. Rusl hurried to undo the knot and pull the animal to the back of the mill where Millie held open two large doors. The extent of the storm's destruction was now fully visible to him as he froze, at the top of the hill, to gaze out across Hyrule's enormous fields.

The hills heaved like waves on the ocean. Lightning had struck several trees that now stood blazing in the gusts of wind and rain and threw sparks into the air like confetti. Flying shingles rose from the rooftops of the village close by where people ran desperate for shelter. And in the distance – engulfed by black clouds and sheets of rain – Hyrule Castle's largest tower pointed like a finger into the night sky.

''Rusl!'' Millie called, but he did not hear her.

The clouds had begun to congregate around the tower, spinning, swirling, creating a vortex of rain and wind. Lightning struck several smaller towers and illuminated – too briefly for Rusl to be sure – the shape that seemed to gather amid the dark clouds. Though they were no longer rainclouds.

Fog. Black, dense fog. Just like at the entrance to Faron Woods. Fog that, as Rusl remembered, had vanished before Link found his way back to Ordon.

''Millie!'' he called, extending his hand towards the elderly blacksmith, pulling her out into the rain. She gasped, a sound he could barely hear over the storm. The fog was ever gathering above the highest tower, broadening with mass and speed. Every cell in Rusl's body seemed repulsed at the sight of it, and he felt his hands clench into fists. The tower was now almost engulfed in black.

''Look!'' Millie suddenly called.

A light had appeared near the tower, faint and distant yet shining distinctly against the deep obsidian of the fog. Rusl did not believe it to be torchlight. The fog was bundling up close to it, lashing out to drown it. But just as quickly as it had come, the light fled into the night and vanished like a white flame, but Rusl caught a brief glimpse of its shape – not like any he had expected. It wound through the air like a flying paper strip cut loose and carried away by the wind. For him to see it at this distance of several dozens of miles, however, it must have been large. Very large.

Colossal.

With its disappearance, the storm heaved a massive, final breath of wind that swirled around the black fog and bundled it into a ball above the tower. Rusl felt his body being pushed to the grass, Millie tumbling down after him. The rain sliced at his face, and the mill shrieked behind him.

Then a bang of thunder sounded from the castle and carried with it a wave that swept across the land like the burst of an explosion. Rusl held Millie close as the wind rushed over him, flattening the grass and bending the trees. Behind him, he heard the mill's blades crack and splinter. His horse screamed inside the barn.

Then all became still.

When Rusl lifted his head, the rain had calmed to a light sprinkling brushed along by a gentle breeze. Groaning, he straightened to his knees and stooped to help Millie up. The tiny woman held on to him wet and shivering, her silver hair matted to her head. Yet her deep green eyes rested on the land stretching before them, her mouth slightly agape, and upon her gentle nudge he turned his head and looked.

The sky had cleared, the fog gone. Several trees laid like fallen soldiers in the wet grass that smothered the fire still gripping their wood. But the fields were green and healthy. Frowning, he looked upwards at the bright beacon Hyrule Castle had become.

It was encapsulated inside a prism of shimmering, golden walls that stood in strong contrast to the blackness held within. The highest tower was just visible inside, ever strong and pointing towards the heavens while black fog coiled around it and licked at its confines, trying to break out. But the barrier held strong. At its narrowing foot, Castle Town stretched free and untainted.

''What in Nayru's name just happened?'' Millie whispered.

Rusl grunted as he stood, shaking off blades of grass before assisting his friend to her feet. ''I'm not sure,'' he admitted. ''But I have a feeling that whatever this storm was, it… helped.''

He frowned, promptly turning on his heels to dash back inside. The mill still stood despite its broken blades, and Millie seemed little shaken by the state of her home as she followed him, casually kicking aside a fallen canvas frame.

He stumbled through the small room picking up chairs and crouching beside cupboards until he called out and held a triumphant hand skyward. It held Auru's written summons.

''Speak your mind, damn you!'' Millie said, coming to a halt beside him. ''What's gotten into you?''

''This!'' he called and showed her the writ. ''Auru knew it all along. He's summoned the Group because he knew there was much more at play than raids and kidnappings. What we've just witnessed was not a simple storm. Here!''

He showed her a line in the letter. The last line.

Millie's eyes widened. ''Dear goddesses…'' she mouthed.

''Millie,'' he said. ''This is not a question of guilt or forgiveness any more. This is about survival. You are of this land, just like me, just like Auru, just like all of us. And as its people, we have to unite to protect it. It is time to set aside the memories of the past.''

''Oh, quit your preaching!'' she suddenly called, tearing the letter from his hands. ''You young ones have always been so darn dramatic. You're just as terrible as Auru! And you haven't even seen the man in twenty years!''

She shoved him aside and stomped towards a liquor closet near the back wall, half-hidden in the gloom of the window's shadow. From her belt she proffered a small key.

''Millie, now is not the time for yet another drink!'' Rusl called, approaching. His body still shivered at the thought of the repulsive fog he had seen. ''How much more proof do you need? Did you not see what just happened outside? This was an assault, an… an attack of some kind. Something that hasn't happened in centuries, only heard of in stories! Stories that just might come true if we just sit here idly–''

''My eyesight hasn't dwindled one bit, Rusl of Ordon,'' she said sharply, swinging open the cupboard doors. Inside, Rusl saw not bottles but three well-maintained contraptions, half wooden and half metallic. Bolts topped with arrowheads of all different shapes and sizes hung in pouches from the doors. Millie reached in and picked up a leather helmet from the closet floor, holding it to her chest. Its small, rounded glass eyes stared up at her.

''Not one bit…'' she murmured, staring at the head gear before turning a guilty pair of eyes to Rusl.

''You kept them all,'' he said, walking to her and placing a hand on her shoulder.

''No. I burned most of them, including the one that…'' She paused, then sighed. ''But I could not burn the passion. I've spent the last few years going over the drawings, rebuilding them, trying to make them better. And, of course, if you hold one… Well, you cannot be accurate in your study if you work on assumptions''

''Millie, this is who you are. Auru needs you for what you have achieved here.''

''I will not shoot them,'' she said, placing the helmet back. ''I will not be bear the decision of life and death any more, that I promise you, Rusl of Ordon.''

He met her eyes, eyes that looked longingly at the three magnificent crossbows folded and resting in her cupboard. ''But you will join us, and teach us what you know?'' he asked, tentatively.

A long sigh shook her body. ''When do they gather?''

''During the carnival, ten days from now. But I'll be going to Castle Town tomorrow. I do not want Auru to think I refused his summons because I was not there to receive them. You will have time to prepare.''

She swallowed and clenched her fists, but he could see the determination returning to her posture. Mélisande Gobinet, the best sharpshooter and inventor in the kingdom, had never truly ceased to exist. He knew somewhere in that small frame still rested her once legendary and insatiable will to craft, to shoot, and to protect, only waiting to be awoken once more.

Hyrule needs us. She needs us now more than ever. Those words, written by his former leader at the bottom of the summons, had granted him new purpose, new courage. The Group would give him the resources needed to continue his search for his sons while, in exchange, he would give his support to the other group members. A service for a service; that was Auru's principle.

And for Millie, it might give her redemption for a mistake that had cost her her livelihood, her freedom, and her happiness. If only she believed in it.

The short woman stooped to pick up her letter of refusal laying by a fallen flowerpot, and tossed it into the hearth fire.

''I'll see you at the carnival then,'' she said, and smiled.

000