Today's Hyrule is shaped fundamentally by the events 8,000 years ago. The War of the Calamity was won at great cost, of men and arms and gold, and Hyrule has dedicated itself ever since to preventing its recurrence. The foremost initiative of the Royal Family has always been friendly relations with the rebellious desert provinces—and their Sheikah spymasters have always kept close watch over the Gerudo, suspicious of their loyalty.

Gesane, Treatise on the Calamity

The mother never trusted chance. They had made their home away from civilization, but not outside its orbit. True seclusion would have been too difficult to manage in her son's infancy. Even the Rito suffer in the Icefall Foothills beyond the Hebra range. She also wished to foster a connection to the place that would one day be his to rule. Now was she willing to cede his rightful kingdom, even if he had not yet announced his claim and his people believed themselves subject to another. The magic of attunement she would teach him—openness and sensitivity to the breath of the land, from which one could glean hints of the slow geologic turning of deep fate—responded better to practitioners with strong ties. Over time one could gain the favor of the very sands.

The specific arts of this esoteric branch of magical awareness would take many years to truly master. Her son was, however, progressing rapidly in the field's more basic principles. He practiced under her instruction every day. It was, of course, as always, essential to remain hidden. He was not yet strong enough to come forward with his claim. Compromise was necessary to become stronger, and to keep sane. They could not train for combat or the hunt indoors. They placed their wards, but the mother knew that her strongest could be overcome and her trickiest could be outfoxed. She was not a master of these magics.

One day she felt a flicker. It was soft enough that she almost missed it. Her attention would have been too distracted if they had been sparring, but when merely watching her son run through the forms of his swordplay she could let her mind wander along her magic. She could tell it was a professional, which meant it was probably already too late. Instantly she brought her magic to bear on the intrusion. There! Crouching on a spire above the slope leading to Vatorsa, clad in grey, with silver hair—the most dangerous opponent. She leapt into furious action. Her son noticed her absence first, then the presence of the stranger, then did his best to hide. She released the tendril of attention she had left with him and turned its full extent upon the scout.

The mother had lived in these snowfields for years. She was the daughter of a Rito and had trained as a Rito. The scout was not prepared for her bursting approach, and narrowly managed to draw her sword in time to parry the first blow. But of course the Sheikah would only send the best to spy on a Gerudo witch. She was skilled. The magic of the Sheikah is focused in the arts of movement, stealth and evasion and speed, and the scout was untroubled by the snowy footing. She would have ended the battle against most Gerudo in one stroke, before they could respond to her first step. This Gerudo, however, had seen these arts up close, her teachers among the clan elite, and knew what to expect. The two women were a blur. Their blades danced in the brilliant sun. The speed of exchange was much too quick for the mother to cast offensive magic. It is impossible to evade for long—steel found purchase—and the Sheikah crumpled.

The mother appraised her new situation rapidly. The scout would be missed and she would be pursued. It is impossible to evade a determined Sheikah forever. At least she had silenced the one who had seen her son. She herself had been injured in the exchange, it seemed to her grievously. Her opponent's sword had breached her stomach and her life's blood fell upon the snow. Sheikah assassins will do whatever it takes to meet their goal, even if it takes their own life. The mother pulled together her remaining strength to stumble in the direction of her home. Once she thought she was within earshot she called to her son. There is nothing you can do. Flee from here. If I can I will find you. Remember me. Remember this. Remember everything. Her son was insensible with tears. But he listened, as he always listened, taking the bundle of necessities they always kept packed in the corner of their home, and climbed away from the scene of devastation, hastened by magic.

When she was found by the scout's leader, the mother smiled with genuine pleasure. She told him that his compatriot had been attacked by the Yiga. She had tried to help. There was an ambush from a second Blademaster that turned the tide of battle. His magic had sealed her movement; she had panicked when her feet sank into the ground. It was opening enough to strike the deathblow. And the scout had had no chance against the Yiga pair together. The assassins had then vanished, presumably toward their hideout just below, tucked into the valley shaped by the cliffs of the Mantle.

The Sheikah leader asked what he could do for her, though he knew as well as she that the answer was nothing. Nothing except that one thing left: to sit with her and speak a little nonsense together, in remembrance of the past. And when he felt her deadweight settle against him, he threw his goggles in the snow, silent tears falling freely. So it was that the mother died in the arms of her first lover; and so it was that the man's first love died in his embrace. For the rest of his long life, the Sheikah would think of this Gerudo as his ideal companion, and her memory would drive him to a peculiar greatness. And in his despair he failed to notice the boy—now almost a man—watching from the high cliffs with hatred.