Moonlight glistened on the stagnant waters of the Lanayru wetlands, which lay still after a day's worth of ceaseless disturbance. Normally an odd ripple or two would betray the presence of the innumerable carp that dwelt there.
Now, however, the shallow depths were all but fished clean by the scores of man-sized lizards that had claimed the wetlands for their own. Their many campfires dotted the "islands" that rose from the marsh, with anywhere from four to eight lizalfos hunkered and hissing at each site. Most of the pots hanging above those fires contained some concoction of herbs, snails and whatever other dregs could be found - a pitiful concoction for the flesh-eating reptiles
More than one lizalfo cast an independently rolling eye toward the Wizzrobe as he walked past their fires, his dark red robes nearly black in the roiling shadows cast by firelight. The warlock's face remained hidden within the depths of its hood. Only red-glowing eyes confirmed the presence of someone within the heavy folds, and wherever they looked, a previously discontent lizalfo would immediately avert its gaze, newly resigned to its paltry excuse of a meal.
The Wizzrobe readily wielded his ability to frighten the Ganonspawn. Lizalfos were far more intelligent than bokoblins or their larger moblin cousins, making them that much harder to control. This many gathered together were untamable by all save the most powerful of the Demon King's servants. That was why the Wizzrobe wielded his twisted wooden wand openly, loosely held by unnaturally long fingers encased in a dark red glove. Its ruby-tipped end pulsed with a scarlet glow, ready to unleash fiery chaos in the space of a heartbeat.
Elemental magic would not be necessary this night. Despite the lizalfos' numbers, the Wizzrobe was confident no uprising would take place. True, these creatures were smarter and far more devious than their pig-like brethren, but that also lent them a greater sense of understanding. They knew Who had set the Wizzrobe to command them.
Thoughts of his Master drove the sinuous lizards out of the warlock's mind. His pace quickened, causing his nearly concealed boots to clunk swiftly on the wooden bridges connecting each of the wetlands' islands. These were little more than series of logs lashed together with rope, a crude construction by the Hylians who normally traversed the area. Though lizalfos had not gathered in such numbers since the Calamity, enough of them frequented the wetlands that neither Hylians nor the neighboring Zora had dared to build more permanent roads through the marshes.
The Wizzrobe's considerable strides saw him swiftly traverse the gloomy landscape. One larger slice of land still featured the rotting ruins of some small village, destroyed long ago. Red eyes glimmered brightly from within the depths of the scarlet hood. Soon, more lifeless husks would be left as proof of the Great Master's inevitable return.
To the north, the glowing lava rivers of Death Mountain stood out in sharp contrast at night, illuminating the vast shape of their fount. It served as a fitting backdrop to the Wizzrobe's destination: the last and largest island at the wetlands' northern edge. Crossing the final, unsteady bridge of log rafts, he made his way around the hill at the island's center.
The rise was comprised of large boulders held fast by half-sodden mud. The Wizzrobe continued to circle the mound until he found what he sought. The pitch-black mouth of a cave, set at the base of the hill and large enough for several to enter at once, yawned wide. He entered without hesitation, the still-glowing red of his eyes only faintly illuminating the cavern.
There was nothing inside. Neither blank, craggy walls nor the mud floor contained anything of value. To that nothing the Wizzrobe knelt, his cowl further hiding his visage as he faced the ground on one knee. His red eyes were now doused, closed in concentration for the magic needed to establish this particular connection. Soon, he thought with satisfaction, there would be no need for such ephemeral means.
Light flickered in the pitch blackness of the cave directly in front of the dark warlock. It emitted from two sources: twin yellow pinpricks that struggled to steady themselves in midair. Faster they winked in and out while beginning to expand and take shape. The Wizzrobe did not need to look up to know two eyes, each as large as he was, now loomed over him, their gaze attempting to crush him with size and severity. Finally, they ceased their struggle for existence, hovering steadily so as to look down upon their servant.
"As you have commanded, so do I commune with you, Great Master," the Wizzrobe intoned. His voice rasped as it always did, as though uttered by a creature not meant to speak the human tongue.
The twin eyes blazed yellow fire that threatened to sear the warlock's robes.
TELL ME ALL.
The Wizzrobe shuddered at the power that voice carried. It was even more overwhelming in person, as he had been reminded at Hyrule Castle some days before. Even this imperfect presence, however, made the warlock feel like an insect, able to be crushed without the boot deigning to notice. Words hastily spilled from his mouth, their sound grating harshly off the rocky cave walls.
"Twenty score Lizalfos await your command, my Lord," the Wizzrobe grated. "We have taken the wetlands. No Hylian has dared cross since our coming. They cower in their stables, praying to their filthy goddess we do not take it upon ourselves to wipe them from the earth."
WHAT OF THE ZORA?
A shudder ran through the Wizzrobe. His Master must know. How could he not? He was as omniscient as he was powerful. The Demon King would not ask if he was not already aware. With luck, one day a portion of that power would be his. Until then, the warlock must disclose everything, even his most valuable piece of information. Perhaps, however, this was best. He might yet learn more for his honesty. He must be careful.
"The man-fish have slain several scouts, Master," he admitted rapidly. "They conceal themselves well, but we were able to capture one and force it to talk. They seek a Hylian to help quell the Divine Beast that threatens to drown their home. With the boy dead and other Hylians little better than groveling dogs, their quest will surely fail."
There it was. A question expertly disguised as praise. The yellow eyes flared alarmingly. The Wizzrobe could feel their heat intensify in the darkness.
THE BOY LIVES.
White-hot rage emanated from the eyes and voice, and the Wizzrobe very nearly recoiled at the presence of both. He did not. All of his concentration was being pooled into maintaining the connection, and he dared not risk breaking it.
Shock ran through him, however — and elation. Somehow, the boy had survived what should have been certain death. That miracle might very well lead to the Wizzrobe's ultimate power. He had been furious upon learning a Stalfos was poised to seize the boy and, with him, the honor of Karanlik. Apparently, reanimated bones and a horde of pigspawn had been ill-equipped for the task.
He would not be.
"If you but ask it of me, Master, I will seek out the boy and destroy the very memory of him," the warlock hissed.
YOU WILL REMAIN.
The words were spoken immediately and with no room for rebuttal. Still, that did not mean a question would be out of place, not one from whom the Master trusted to lead His army. He must phrase it carefully. There were more ways to find out the "why" without asking as much. Deflecting the subject onto others was one.
"What would you have your lizalfos do, my Master?" the Wizzrobe asked submissively. "We are surely numerous enough to destroy the Hylian stables nearby. I believe we could even attack the —"
YOUR BELIEFS ARE NOTHING, WORM. YOU WILL REMAIN AND WAIT FOR THE BOY TO COME TO YOU. WATCH THE ROAD AND THE TOWER. IF HE EVADES YOU, YOU WILL DESIRE THE PLEASURE OF DEATH MORE THAN THAT OF KARANLIK.
The Wizzrobe was not sure what burned more: the merciless fury in his Master's voice or the flames that flared from those yellow eyes, threatening to turn his treasured robes into ash. The warlock's own eyes burned bright red through his eyelids as he struggled to maintain the magical link. He must not let go before his Master. If he did, he would be worse off than the slop in the lizalfos' cook pots.
In that instant, the yellow eyes winked out, leaving the Wizzrobe blinking in the sudden darkness of the cave. He fell to his hands and knees, retching as he allowed his body to fully release physical and emotional strain.
Once his mortal terror subsided, the warlock slowly rose to his feet. The memory of his Master's anger was still sharp, but he had not missed the hint of reward at the very end.
"Karanlik…"
The Wizzrobe's voice echoed in the empty cave, its hiss like that of a snake readying to strike.
For the first time in over a century, Sidon was troubled.
No. That was not the right word. The Zora prince had been troubled when Van Ruta began — and then did not stop — spewing forth relentless rain on his beloved Domain. His people were born in and made for the water, but the ceaseless deluge was a danger to everyone and everything dwelling on or near the Zora River.
Sidon was certainly troubled by the presence of so many lizalfos. He had been loath to believe his scouts' initial reports. All those with him were young, and the shark-crowned prince had briefly assumed his water brethren were exaggerating or simply mistaken.
They were not. The wetlands were crawling with lizardspawn, to the point that any of his party wishing to explore beyond them were forced to waste days circling the swamps and then back again to report. Sidon's enormous Zora spear — made to fit his equally large and impressive red-skinned frame — had dispatched more of the beasts in the last week than in the rest of his 120-year-old life combined.
It was certainly troubling that only young Zoras had accompanied him on this quest. He respected the elders nearly as much as his father, and that respect was, to Sidon's gratitude, returned. He tried his best to follow their teachings and live up to their expectations. Now, those whom he most admired had turned their dorsal fins on him. Not because the quest was difficult or fraught with danger, but because the goal thereof was more than they could stomach.
The Zoras needed a Hylian's help. Hylians could wield the electric shock arrows needed to check Vah Ruta's rage. Hylians could do what the Zoras could not. Yet it was a Hylian — their Champion, no less — whom the elders blamed for the loss of their princess one hundred years ago.
The Zora prince had loved his sister. He had been little more than a fingerling when Mipha was taken by Vah Ruta, but he remembered her. She had been beautiful, her human-like face gentle and kind, her red-skinned body as light and diminutive as Sidon's was now large and powerful. Every now and then, the Zora prince's dreams recalled the soothing effect of his sister's soft voice. She had bobbed him to sleep in the resting pools no small number of times, her velvet tones carrying him in time with the gentle lapping of the water.
Sidon blinked away the sudden presence of tears that threatened to fall from his large yellow eyes. His father had always gently accused him of having too big a heart.
"You see and remember the best in everyone," Dorephan told him once. "Do not be overly disappointed when someone proves unworthy of such a gift, my son."
The Zora prince looked over his shoulder, where the platform atop the slowly diminishing Wetlands Stable was still visible through the driving rain. Disappointed. Yes, that was how he felt. Disappointed in the men whose help he sought.
Sidon could remember being very small and seeing the grand Hylian escorts come to visit his father. Their shining armor, streaming banners, and complete unity had entranced him. It was that impression - combined with Dorephan's more lenient stance towards their fall to the Calamity - which had made Sidon all but certain that Hylian nobility was merely dormant and awaiting a chance to return in heroic glory.
The stable had shown no evidence of such virtue. Lean and unkempt fishermen comprised the majority of the four score Hylians clustered there, far more than a stable would normally accommodate. Wives and their children, only recently arrived after fleeing their homes, crouched in whatever space they could find closest to the stable itself. The sight had turned Sidon's heart. Everything and everyone about the place spoke of helplessness and fear.
At first, Sidon had empathized with them. Much like his own people, their world was being turned upside-down by evil awakened. Still, he had thought there would be those who believed, as he did, that hope was not lost until those willing to fight for it were gone.
This was not the first time Sidon had frequented the place. As recently as twenty years ago, he had accompanied Seggin to this same stable. It was peaceful, then, an optimistic abode after eight decades of relative and uneasy quiet following the Calamity's backblast. Dorephan had sent his son and Demon Sergeant to ascertain the stability of the Wetlands Stable and its sisters to the north and south. The Zora prince had seen first-hand how Hylians had adapted since their kingdom's fall, that these temporary sanctuaries and their patrolmen were the brave threads holding their now nomadic people together.
Recalling that structure, Sidon had ignored the surprise his presence ignited among the stable's current occupants and sought out their equerry. Once the smallish man had ceased stammering at the much larger Zora's appearance, he was able to inform Sidon that only six patrolmen remained.
"Rest done in by them lizalfos, ain't they?" the equerry had said, shaking his head. "You can ask Quince over there. One patrolman won't make a difference if the beasts ever decide to sack the place."
This was not at all the attitude Sidon had expected from the leader of a Hylian stable. Shrugging it off to the weight of immediate troubles, he had indeed approached the patrolman the equerry had pointed out. Surely this modern-day warrior would not refuse a righteous request from a Zora prince.
Quince had turned out to be even worse than his superior. Apparently, he was new to the area and had never set eyes on a Zora in his life. Only a stern shout from the equerry had prevented the patrolman from running off in terror.
Applying patience well-learned and honed as a prince of his people, Sidon had knelt down - so as lessen his size for the poor man's sake - and calmly explained his need. At the end of his request, he spared no amount of confidence in the man (confidence it appeared he could sorely use, Sidon reflected). The combination of need and trust should have infused the Hylian with the spirit of his ancestors.
Instead, the patrolman had hemmed and hawed like a lazy Hyrule bass in the depths of summer.
"The thing is, Mr. Sidon, I'm none too grand with a bow," Quince said sheepishly while averting Sidon's yellow-eyed gaze. "I don't think I'm the one you'd want trying to slay a great beast what's threatenin' to drown your village."
"Domain," Sidon had corrected him. "Zora's Domain. The jewel of Hylia's waters. And you are the one, Master Quince! At least, you can be! You have only to believe in yourself, as I do!"
Rather than be inspired by Sidon's faith, Quince had actually seemed somewhat embarrassed. He merely turned sideways to avoid the Zora's direct attention while nervously rubbing the back of his neck.
"Truth be told, Mr. Sidon," the patrolman said haltingly, "I think you'd best find someone else for the job. I'm surely needed here and you've got the look of someone brave enough to face whatever it is that's threatenin' your… Domain?"
With that, Quince had scurried off, leaving Sidon completely nonplussed. A patrolman, a blade of bravery commissioned to defend Hyrule, evading the call of duty? It was astounding. It was… disappointing.
Sidon wasn't used to feeling this way about someone, let alone an entire race. No, he thought. I won't become embittered like the elders. He followed that thought with a quick prayer asking forgiveness for his mental disrespect. More important now was his next course of action.
He could continue his journey north, find the stable he vaguely remembered in that direction. Yes, it was on the other side of the river fed by the wetlands, beyond a small bridge if he remembered correctly. Perhaps he would even meet a Goron, as the stable lay at the southwest foot of Death Mountain. Even now he could see the molten streams at its summit, visible despite the torrential rain that continued to fall.
Cheered by newfound purpose and the potential bonus of a chance encounter, Sidon was about to set out at a run toward the river when the volcano retained his attention. Those rivers of lava were now obscured by something enormous. Enormous and moving.
On the rocks of his dear Zora River, Sidon often saw blue lizards basking on the rocks, waiting for the lazy darner to hover too close before snatching it up as a meal. If he thought it was possible, Sidon would have sworn the monstrosity clambering around the mountain's peak was a giant version of those small reptiles. The Zora prince shook his head and wiped excess rainwater from his eyes. Shielding his face with a clawed and slightly webbed hand, Sidon peered again to the northeast.
The phenomenon was gone. The bright orange rivulets exiting Death Mountain's crater were once again visible. Nothing moved on the mountain, at least, nothing able to be seen from this distance.
Sidon frowned. He was not normally given to passing fancies or flighty imaginings. Then again, he had not slept in over a day. His search for the ever-elusive Hylian had consumed him, to the point of putting off the elementary needs of food and rest as long as possible.
I'm hungry and overtired, Sidon told himself firmly. I will be of no help to my people this way.
Resolving to find a meal and a quiet inlet in which to sleep, the Zora prince set out northeast once again, praying anew that he might find the Hylian his homeland needed.