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Zelda watched her guards drape a sheet over Captain Elias. His eyes were closed, his expression more peaceful than she'd ever seen—but still, she wished he hadn't given up. She had thought the same thing upon seeing her father's corpse.

"Saki," Link said quietly. "I'm…so sorry."

"He was going, one way or another," the deserter replied gruffly, offering no resistance to the guard who was bandaging her arm. "Rai might blame you, but I don't."

Link nodded gratefully. His eyes were tear-worn and weary, but clear, like the first hint of blue sky after a storm.

When Rusl found them, he reluctantly allowed the older to see to his own wounds. Zelda wanted to sleep for a year, but there were a thousand things to do. She moved through the estate, pausing to help where she could, until she got a full report from the squad leader who had command.

Thanks to their superior numbers and the element of surprise, her allies had captured most of the enemy alive and scraped through with only minor injuries of their own. It was by far the best outcome Zelda could have asked for, and she stood speechless for a moment afterwards, awash in a sea of hope—not just for these people or this moment, but for the future of Hyrule.

There was no way to safely transport the wounded captives without wagons or reinforcements, so the squad leader had sent his swiftest rider to Castle Town. Since everyone else would be spending the night here, Zelda went to see about provisions.

Sparrow was already in the kitchen, whirling from one task to the next while Melanie perched on the counter, engrossed in a wedge of honeycomb. "Those pigs really cleaned the larder out, but we'll do all right with what's left," Sparrow told Zelda; she was the eldest of many siblings back in Castle Town and knew how to feed a crowd.

"Thank Nayru you're here," Zelda replied. "Please ask the guards if you need help. I must see Lord Hartwell now—would you like to join me?"

Sparrow's hands paused in trimming some herbs. "Not now," she decided. "But I do owe you an explanation, Lady Queen."

"You don't."

"It's a short story," Sparrow said matter-of-factly. "The abortion doctor stole the money you gave me and ran off. I couldn't go back to you or my family without word reaching the king. Hartwell found me outside his store and recognized me from the castle…it might surprise you, but he was very kind. He coaxed the truth out of me. I know you must think I'm stupid for telling him anything."

Zelda started to protest.

"Well, I was," Sparrow shrugged. "He told me he'd marry me and take me out of the city, and that he'd never touch me…if I just kept the baby. He wanted to blackmail the king, and I…I guess I was angry enough to want that too. But I never thought he would go after you. I can't regret Melanie, of course, but it's just as you warned me—she'll be in danger all her life."

Melanie was licking the honeycomb happily, swinging her little feet back and forth atop the counter. She had more in common with Zelda than a father and a hair color: she, too, would grow up into a world that wanted to use her, that would force her to compromise the better parts of herself for survival.

"No," Zelda decided. "I will keep you both safe, Sparrow. I swear it."

"Then—" Sparrow tucked her short hair behind her ears nervously. "Can I come to Castle Town with you? To see my family, at least?"

"Of course," Zelda said, and Sparrow's answering grin was so bright that she went to face Lord Hartwell without fear.

She'd asked the guards to hold him separately so that he couldn't drip poison in the other captives' ears. They had obeyed by putting him in what looked like a servants' supply room.

"Someone saw to his injuries," the guard at the door told her. "He tried to kick the door down for twenty minutes. Then he offered me a Silver Rupee to let him go. Since then, it's been quiet."

"Quite the sum," Zelda observed. "Thank you for turning him down."

"He tried to kill you, Lady Queen. He's not worth the scum on my boots."

She smiled. Flushing, he let her into the room.

Night had finally blanketed this endless day, and the room had only one small window crammed near the ceiling. Zelda asked her exhausted magic for just enough light to show her Lord Hartwell, lounging on a crate with his legs crossed at the ankle.

"Bit early to come gloating," he remarked. "I have friends at court, and I know that's where you're taking me."

"If you had friends, you wouldn't have hired assassins," Zelda reasoned. "Or allied with these deserters. You'll understand if I have a few questions." He snorted. Settling down on a crate opposite him, she reminded him coolly, "You are not the only one who can use hostages."

"You wouldn't dare," Hartwell snapped, proving that in some strange way, he did care for Sparrow and Melanie.

"Wouldn't I? As you pointed out today, I have gone to great lengths for my throne. You helped me get there, remember? Your support against my father for a seat on the Council after I took power. If only I had known how high your sights were set. When did you choose to turn on me?"

"You turned on us the day you surrendered to that invader," he said derisively. "Or that's what people complain about when they call you the Iceheart Queen. Frankly, I couldn't care less. You'd lost your popularity, and I had Melanie, so I took a shot."

"That's all?" Zelda said, baffled.

"Yes, that's all," Hartwell mocked. "You were born into power; you have no idea what it's like to claw your way to it. I got everything I could from your father until it was clear his court was a sinking ship—and so did you. You overthrew him because you wanted to live to see eighteen; you knelt to the invader for the same reason." He barked a laugh. "I don't blame you. But I also don't want to hear about your moral high ground."

"There is an irony to being called cowardly by a man who uses others for his dirty work," she countered acidly. "But I am not here to trade insults with you. Was anyone else involved in your plot? If I am as self-serving as you claim, you had best answer honestly, or Sparrow and Melanie will suffer."

"It was me." Hartwell threw up his hands in irritation. "Is that what you want to hear, girl? It was all me. My men hired the assassins, and later they communicated with the Bear's people. Everyone who was involved is here in this damn estate, and if you hadn't somehow sniffed out Sparrow's whereabouts, we would have succeeded."

"No one at court?"

"Oh, I tested the waters. I made pointed remarks about your unsuitability…had they wanted to help, the fools would have taken the bait…"

Zelda let him talk for a moment, surprised to find that he was telling the truth. The Council was loyal to her. Well—perhaps loyal was a stretch, but they hadn't indulged Hartwell. The far-reaching conspiracy she'd been fearing was nowhere to be found.

Her father had never recovered from his poisoning, not from the actual effects or from the cruelty of the act. The same mind that once crafted Zelda's bedtime stories had imagined threats in every corner, and countless people paid the price for it, whether they were guilty or not. Looking into the eyes of this man who had tried to destroy everything that mattered to her, she understood—just a little—how her father's sickness had taken root.

"I believe you," Zelda told Lord Hartwell. "And I was lying through my teeth before. I would never use hostages."

He narrowed his eyes. "I don't buy that. Melanie is a threat to your reign."

"And you are a species that has plagued Hyrule for far too long," Zelda said sharply. "Yet still I intend to let you live, for I am not who you think I am. If I was, I would have fled this kingdom at thirteen and left you all in my father's hands."

She waited, watching him through the specks of dust that drifted under the single fading sunbeam that reached through the window. It reminded her of another room, a real prison cell instead of a broom closet, where the rope of twisted bedsheets had glowed white against the dark damp stone. Lord Hartwell and many others thought Zelda was lying about what she'd found there a year ago, and she wished she was. She wished she didn't have to carry that memory inside her forever.

She let herself out of the room and allowed her feet to choose the destination. To surprise, she brought her back to the kitchen. She paused outside the doorway at the sound of conversation.

"I only went to her for my family's sake, not for money," Sparrow was saying. "She gave me a Gold Rupee anyway, hidden inside an old locket. I tried to give it back—if the king caught me leaving, he would know she'd helped me, and he was so unstable… I told her that I was disposable, that she was the one who mattered. Because she was the only one who could stop him. You know what she said? 'No one is disposable. No one matters more than anyone else. And I am a fortress; he can't touch me.'"

"That sounds like her," Link replied sadly.

Swallowing, Zelda turned the corner. The kitchen was bathed in warm firelight; a kettle had begun to whistle above the crackling hearth. Link was peeling potatoes, having replaced his bloody tunic with a white linen shirt several sizes too big for him. He smiled at Zelda when she crossed the threshold—the same smile she remembered from a crumbling throne room at the end of the world.

She took the stool beside him and thanked Sparrow when the other woman brought her tea. Link stuck his tongue out at Melanie, who had been watching him warily, drawing a delighted giggle out of the child. Zelda took slow slips of tea, clinging to the cup like a lifeline as she prepared herself.

"You must both be wondering about what Lord Hartwell said earlier," she said at last, proud of how steady her voice sounded.

They both froze. "You don't have to explain," Link said.

"I want to," Zelda said, looking at Sparrow. "You loved him. So—so did I, beyond all reason. You deserve an explanation."

"He wasn't planning to abdicate when you turned eighteen, was he?" Sparrow guessed, her face far away.

"No, he wasn't," Zelda confirmed quietly. "But only the worst crimes would give the Council the authority they needed to remove him by emergency decree, and my father was good at covering his up. Without proof of those, my only choice was to frame him for treason. So it's true that I bribed and bullied and blackmailed to gain the court's support. It's true that my throne is built on lies."

It had taken two years to weave the tapestry. Forged documents. False witnesses. Buying off the guards was easy. The Council was more complex—some members helped of their own volition; others, like Lord Hartwell, required a quid pro quo. More still had refused outright, but Zelda hadn't given them a choice. The castle staff had acted as her spies, bringing her enough leverage to win the holdouts to her side.

The danger to her personally had multiplied with each person she brought into the fold. Her father was the one person whose actions she could never predict, but she knew that if he found out, her fate would be worse than death.

No one had talked, though. Looking back now, Zelda could see that her court deserved more trust than she'd ever bestowed upon them. For on that cold day last winter, they had stood behind her as the steward read the list of fabricated charges and the guards dragged the king from his throne.

He'd laughed as they threw him at her feet, the same way he'd laughed when she beat him at chess as a child—like she'd taken the game too far. He'd looked around the throne room to share the joke with his court.

But they had watched Zelda, not him. That moment was her first test as queen. Would she renege? Would she leave her allies to the king's brutality? No; she would stand tall and proud with her mother's sword firmly in hand, and she would look into the king's mad eyes and tell him his reign was over.

He had started to laugh again, long and hard, a laugh that filled every inch of the throne room and still resounded in Zelda's nightmares. His face was wet with tears by the time he stopped. Kill me, then, he had declared, or I will be a threat as long as I live.

Looking at his tortured face, which had once been so dear to Zelda, was a knife twisting in her gut—but looking away was a weakness she couldn't afford. Her father had been entirely correct. She had deposed him on a lie. Her complicit allies would remain silent to protect themselves, but if her father lived, he would be under no such obligation.

You have the sword! he'd screeched. Use it, girl! Use it! Stop staring at me with her eyes!

He had been begging for an end to the ruin the poison had made of him, an end to the memory of his wife condemning him through his daughter's face. And Zelda had stood there while the entire court watched, cold wind brushing her cold skin, remembering that he'd taken Auru from her, that he'd killed her uncle and aunt, that he'd led Sparrow to his bed with false promises.

"I could have killed him," Zelda told her friends, here in the warm kitchen. "I knew I had it in me. I also knew it would be safer, politically. But that was the part Lord Hartwell lied about."

"You spared him," Link said softly.

"Yes," she said slowly, understanding for perhaps the first time. "Because I wanted to spare my own heart. I wanted a better world than the one he'd taught me to expect. I wanted more than a cycle of cruelty repaid by cruelty."

"Then—" Sparrow started, then swallowed and tried again. "How did he die, Lady Queen?"

"He took his own life in his dungeon cell," Zelda answered, staring into her teacup. "I'm sorry."

Sparrow swept Melanie into her arms, hiding her face in her daughter's curls.

Zelda had pushed past her guards into the depths of the dungeon. For a long time afterwards, it had seemed like she would be standing outside that cell forever, frozen before the noose of bedsheets and the body swaying in the sunbeam.

Yet time had marched forward. Her heart had kept beating. She could bear tragedy and regret; she couldn't bear watching her father devour the land she'd been born to protect. She had saved Hyrule. She had saved herself. And Impaz and Auru were right—she had done right by her family.

Link slid off his stool to put his arms around her. Sparrow shuffled closer to lean her forehead against Zelda's shoulder while the child tugged curiously at her long braid. The shadows grew long and the fire burned low, and inside that circle of warmth, Zelda forgave herself.

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