Why we failed pt. 22
Nightfall Approaches
"Take your marks!" Athelon's voice roared across the clearing, cutting through the sunset like a knife's edge. The old veteran stood behind them, shoulders squared, face illuminated by the line of torches glowing. The sun began its descent into the west, now obstructed by the stands, marking the beginning of their fate.
Link stood among the other pledges, their silhouettes stark against the torchlit meadow's edge. The tall grass whispered against his greaves, each blade damp with a foretelling of evening dew. He could smell the tension in the air, bitter and taut, as if the land itself held its breath. Ahead rose the forest line, a ragged sentinel of ancient oaks and tangled vines that wove so thick and high they devoured the coming sunset overhead. The murmurs from the stands behind him—cheers, hushed wagers, nervous laughter—felt distant now, muffled by the pounding of his own heart. He steadied his grip on his hilt and took his mark, positioning himself as instructed, trying to ignore the flicker of doubt gnawing at the back of his mind. This is it! There's no turning back now!
As Link surveyed the line of his fellow cadets to his left and right—some ten paces apart spread out each of them—he glimpsed their nervous nods and their silent gulps. None of them truly understood what lay beyond that thicket of shadow and silence. Even flames of torches guarding the entrance seemed to balk and lick away in fear from what lies beyond. Link's fist clenched tighter over his blade. He couldn't deny the thrill of fright woven into the moment, a sensation that both chilled and awakened him. His mind soon drifted to all what was at stake and then, he thought of her, of the expectations she carried, and he refused to let this forest, and its terrors break him.
Athelon's grin hardened into something graver, his one good eye scanning them all even as his dead one swirled pale and ominously. "Before you lies your first task," he said, voice dropping low, "and with it, either the dawn of your glory or the dusk of your dreams." He paused, letting that promise settle, the crackle of torches spitting orange sparks into the sunset air. The crowds behind also listened as he gave his farewell.
"Ahead of you now lurks the very shadows of thought," he continued, addressing them all but seeming to stare straight at Link's soul. "More frightening than any monster you've heard sung in tavern ballads, or murmured in old fables, that I assure you." The old man cleared his throat. "This trial is not for the faint of heart. For beyond those trees awaits you is a dance with death itself." The air shivered at his words, and Link's throat went dry.
"So, dance it well, or forever remain lost in its terrible song," Athelon smirked before continuing. Link swallowed hard, tasting a faint tang of metal on his tongue, something old and ominous in the damp breeze.
"Alas, I say this, do not tarry in the mist," Athelon warned, voice stern yet oddly paternal. "Fight against all temptations to waver off the path and guard against any siren song of apparitions genuine or fantasy alike that may ensnare you. Be wary of creeping crawling critters of the underbrush and night-stalking phantoms. Dangers all of them. For inside that grey void, if you falter, forces ancient as time will seize upon your doubts and lure you to your demise. Your safety is not guaranteed in the shadows beyond."
Some pledges stiffened at the stark revelation and Athelon continued his warning. "So to those who find themselves tarrying or unwilling to venture further, you will find that there is only but one retreat—just one."
He raised a calloused finger skyward. "If fright takes you or if reason fails, strike a flint against a pitch-soaked arrow and send your firebolt to the heavens. My Rito friend here says scouts will be patrolling the skies above the tree line, ready to pluck you from the jaws of fate." Athelon assured, pointing over to Revali who stood near him, looking disinterested like a disgruntled cleanup crew.
"But know this: if you wait too long, if you linger carelessly and let the maddening of your mind twist beyond remembrance, no escape can save you," he warned, straightning up and resting his burly hands on his waist. "Seek the sacred prize if you must," he continued. "That ancient torch of valor, but lest you succumb to slightest sign of hesitation you must choose swiftly what you'll do next, or reason will slip through your fingers like smoke."
Athelon's gaze lingered on each of them, and Link could almost feel that iron-will pressing him forward. He inhaled, bracing himself, the scent of moss and timeless earth filling his lungs. Past that wall of trees lay the mysterious beyond, and he would face it—no matter what nightmares stirred in those silent shadows.
"And lastly, to those who reach the end of the trial unscathed and with their remaining wits about them, yet only clenching half a victory without the prize, despair not. Another opportunity still awaits thee." Athelon then searched them all a final time, sucked in a breath and decreed again.
"To the man who claims that sacred flame of ancient's past, your journey does not end there. Only a beginning. It merely awards you just a slight advantage in the next round. There remains two more trials. Two more chances for any of you to take the lead. An opportunity for any one of you to prove your mettle and redeem your worth in the sights of Goddesses and men. For the Ancient Cistern and the Colosseum of fate still await you all." His words were measured, striking a balance between hope and forewarning.
The old guard spun sharply on his heel, his voice rising as he addressed not only the cadets but the cheering crowd beyond. " If any among you desire to abandon this quest with a bit of your honor in tact, now is the time to do so. Because once you embark on this journey, I fear you may find it hard to retreat. Impossible by all likes. For once the traps of the mind are sprung, there is little chance breaking free. Adventure forth at your own peril."
"Now, let the Trials of the Flame, begin!" the old veteran declared, to the roaring approval of the stands. Horns blared their songs of encouragement again. The moment had become real. It was then a few lads' knees buckled in fear, their armor rattling as they broke ranks, scattering back to the safety of the sidelines, abandoning all hopes of being Guardsman.
"Hmph! Cowards!" Cadet Regoso spat, his voice carrying just enough volume to ensure the deserters could still hear him as they fled. "Run along, flee then! Makes it easier for the rest of us. Not that it matters. That flame is as good as mine. It will be me that takes the advantage in the next round."
Turning sharply, his gaze landed on Link with the precision of a drawn blade. "Tell me, farmer, how do you plan to fare without dear old Pa around to hold your hand? Or are you just here to make up the numbers?" Regoso sneered, his tone dripping with mockery, the deliberate pause stretching his insult like salt rubbed into an open wound. "I guess there has to be some of us unlucky ones that fall for the crowd to cheer, it might as well be your kind, am I right?"
Link's jaw tightened, but he kept his composure. A flicker of irritation passed across his features, but he let the words slide off him like water from a shield.
"Just ignore him," Orin muttered under his breath, his voice a steadying anchor beside him. "He's a git."
All the while Link had another thought cross his mind; how would the spectators witness their deeds beyond the darkness of the woods? How could anyone see what they were doing? How they were fairing or what acts of valor they were displaying?
But Regoso wasn't done, clearly emboldened by his own laughter and the stifled chuckles of his entourage. He gestured grandly toward the treeline, tearing Link from his musings.
"But, who knows? Perhaps, I'm speaking too soon, eh?" Regoso continued. "Perchance, you'll surprise us all with some new trick taught by your upstart father. I suppose even peasants deserve their champions too, am I right?"
His glare then locked onto Link like a hawk circling its prey, the corners of his mouth curling into a crooked grin. "Here's an idea—when I win, and if by some miracle you make it out alive, I'll even let you fetch that mighty prize they promised for me. Carry it back to the Princess when she crowns me champion for all to see. Who knows? Maybe you'll even get a glimpse of her up close when she gives me that victory kiss too. Imagine that, peasant—a front-row view of what the likes of you will never have."
Link exhaled slowly, a deliberate effort to steady the simmering frustration building within. His hand briefly tightened around the hilt of his sword, but his gaze remained steady, unflinching. Regoso's taunts were nothing more than words in the wind. The flame was still far from his grasp, and Link intended to make sure it stayed that way. Even if he didn't win by night's end, so long as Regoso didn't either is all that mattered.
Fearing he wouldn't get any rise out of him, Regoso leaned in as he marched his way past him, his voice dropping to a mockingly sympathetic whisper as he marched by. "Good luck in there, farm boy. You'll need it."
Link didn't rise to the bait. He stood rooted to his spot, watching as Regoso stormed headlong into the dark embrace of the woods, his arrogant boasts fading into the cacophony of cheering crowds. One by one, other pledges followed, their resolve stiffened by the roaring spectators. Soon, the clearing emptied of all but him and his closest friends, Sven to his left and Orin to his right.
He took a moment to drink it all in—the fading sunlight, the murmurs of the trees, the distant echo of celebration behind him. The weight of what lay ahead pressed on his chest, but he steadied himself with a deep, cold breath. The chill of the coming dusk kissed his skin, and he exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the air like a fleeting ghost.
"Forget him," Link said, speaking forward. Turning to Sven and Orin, he met each of their gazes, his own brimming with unspoken resolve. A faint smile flickered at the corner of his lips before his expression hardened. "Remember our training," he said quietly, his voice firm but laced with a brotherly warmth. "You'll make it out of this. I just know it."
With that, he gripped one of the remaining torches standing before him, the flame licking hungrily at the air as he freed it from its post. Its warmth brushed his face, a fleeting reassurance against the cold expanse of the forest ahead. It's now or never, he thought, the beat of his heart matching the rhythm of his steps as he crossed the threshold into the woods. And now it was.
"Don't forget to smile, dear Princess," Arasmus murmured, his voice smooth and honeyed as he leaned in, his presence a calculated intrusion into her space. Zelda caught the faint spice of his aroma—the kind of princely cologne that lingered like an unspoken boast. Today must have been important to him indeed, she mused, if he had gone so far as to lather himself in the finest fragrances rupees could buy. A scent of rain-soaked pine and smoldering amber, with just a whisper of dark, earthy musk. The kind of fragrance that evoked desires to be untamed; like a forest after a summer storm, raw and arresting, or a dare whispered against her better judgment. If it had belonged to anyone else, she might have found it alluring, attractive even. But alas, it was his, and the thought soured before it could settle.
She didn't doubt the effort was as much for show as it was for her benefit, a well-rehearsed performance of devotion meant to turn heads and win approval. The scent clung to the high collar of his impeccably tailored doublet; an extravagant deep black outfit with intricate gold embroidery that stitched crimson accents. They shimmered with a subtle, refined brilliance from the orange glow of the lanterns.
Yet, what struck her most was the contrast between him and his father, Lord Danarus, who sat next to the King like a sentinel of sober worry. When he lifted a morsel of bread up to his lips, she spied the glint of burnished steel and polished leather chainmail beneath his finely woven tunic and tabard, emblazoned with their house sigil—A Burning Serpent coiled protectively around a gleaming, triangular stone relic. The ensemble, though of impeccable tailoring, spoke of readiness, a calculated practicality that hinted at far more than ceremony. Not your typical courtly attire for one awaiting a feast to be sure.
Arasmus, however, seemed as though he were preparing for an elegant moonlit dance rather than a knightly showing of strength. The juxtaposition gnawed at her curiosity, though she had little time to ponder over it. Arasmus leaned closer, his voice soft as silk, intent on pulling her thoughts back to him and away from the whispers of unease stirring at the edges of her mind.
"Um, Princess?" he asked again, tearing her from her thoughts. His tone was calm, almost caring, yet laced with that familiar note of calculated charm. Zelda blinked and offered him a measured and cordial smile, though inwardly she longed to roll her eyes. Let him think he was charming her.
On her other side, Purah offered a quiet, encouraging nudge beneath the table, just enough to remind Zelda she wasn't alone in this crowded gallery. The late afternoon sun stretched across the royal balcony, bathing its tiers of carved wood and polished accents in a mellow light that promised twilight soon to come. Below, the festival grounds stirred with renewed cheer as the people settled in to watch the Trials proceed.
Zelda tried to comply, curving her lips into a permanently fixed polite smile to anyone who would chance a glance her way, even as her heart wrestled with worries that refused to relent. She caught her father's eye—King Rhoam, seated a short distance away, deep in some light, courtly conversation with nobles and dignitaries. He seemed relaxed, or at least eager to appear so, as if determined to enjoy the evening's revelries despite the unsettling eddies of politics that had swirled earlier. Her friends lounged comfortably, goblets raised, laughter on their lips.
Musicians plucked at strings, sending lilting melodies drifting upward. The aroma of bite-sized spiced meat and honeyed fruit lingered on the breeze, pleasant and enticing, yet Zelda's stomach fluttered uneasily. She yearned to lose herself in this tapestry of voices, aromas, and gentle laughter, to savor the moment as any girl her age might. But how could she truly enjoy it, knowing that Helmsworth—even now—was stepping into that mysterious forest alone, far below the watchful crowd?
Zelda's gaze flicked once more toward the darkened treeline, where each cadet vanished into the damp hush of the Forest of Dark Whispers. Beneath her composed exterior, her heart tightened at the thought of Helmsworth—quiet, determined Helmsworth—stepping into those looming shadows. For a breath, she imagined the cadence of his pulse, the steadiness of his grip on his weapon, the flicker of doubt that might gnaw at him the way her own fears did now.
Purah caught her eye, a sympathetic smile in place, and Zelda returned a grateful tilt of her head, though her stomach churned with worry. Sitting between Arasmus's poised form and Purah's reassuring presence left her torn between obligations to courtly appearances and the private anxiety curling in her chest.
The princess was eager to dispel any interrogations into her feelings. "So, how are we supposed to witness the Trials if the competitors simply… vanish into that woodland?" Zelda mused aloud, interrupting the light chatter of the others. Her voice steady but carrying an undercurrent of unease. She hoped someone—anyone—would offer an answer that might soothe the coil of anxiety tightening in her chest.
Purah perked up, a gleam of mischief flashing behind her spectacles. The corners of her mouth twitched as though she'd been waiting all day for precisely this moment. "Ah-ha, dear Princess," she began, swirling the contents of her goblet with theatrical flair, "And—that, as they say, is the trick."
Zelda arched a brow, her curiosity piqued, but before she could reply, her uncle Arcturus jumped in, his tone laced with playful intrigue. "A riddle to solve? Now this I must hear, I do love riddles and enigmas," he said, voice carrying that familiar unmistakable cadence of High Hylian, a fading accent which royalty and few high nobility spoke with. Its grace held an air of disappearing elegance of an era of majesty long forgotten. Zelda also could be heard with glimpses of it in her own speech, she knew. Across the table, even the King paused mid-conversation with a cluster of lords, turning slightly at the sound of Purah's voice.
Zelda eagerly spoke up on their behalf, "So, Purah, what is this grand and elusive secret you wish to share with us?"
"More like a trick, you mean," Arasmus groaned under his breath to only where Zelda heard.
Missing his snipe, Zelda's uncle leaned forward, folding his arms in exaggerated patience while fighting back the smile. "I've been pondering the very same thing, Sweet Niece. Everything is so dreadfully under wraps here! I can't get a straight answer out of anyone. Not from the servants or even the highborn running this show. Either they're clueless, or they enjoy watching me squirm. I was beginning to doubt we'd ever find out how to get this show to begin."
"All you had to do was ask me, my Prince," Purah began with relish, her voice lilting as she gestured grandly, "We sheikah always have answers to those who ask."
"Indeed, I should've. Somebody must be punished at once for leading me astray." The prince joked, not before smiling warmly to wink at his niece. "It seems your friend is ever as clever as you say she is, My Dear. I must say, I believe you are in good hands as you say are." Turning to face the Sheikah scientist. "Carry on, do tell me this secret."
Purah cleared her throat. "You see, it's all thanks to what some folks would call old magic. Of the ancients, of course," she added conspiratorially with a whispered lean, as if telling a hushed secret across the table.
Purah perked up in her seat, a victorious grin spreading across her face—like she had just cracked a long-lost code; a final key to an unsolvable enigma forsaken by time. "But, we know better, of course. It's merely a lasting relic of their brilliance." She sloshed her chalice with dramatic coolness before taking a long, self-assured sip.
"Is that so?" Arasmus interjected, his tone sharp with excited skepticism. He leaned closer, his smirk faint but cutting. "Do enlighten us, Purah. I'm certain we'd all benefit from your vast knowledge of the Ancients and their…How should I say, mysticism. Goddesses know, if you or the princess could bottle their dusty old magic, you'd both drink it like the finest spiced wine, I'd wager."
Purah didn't so much as flinch at his barbed comment. Mysticism, what does he know? She adjusted her spectacles with deliberate grace, her gaze skipping over Arasmus as if he were no more significant than a smudge on her chalice. Her focus landed squarely on Zelda, and she spoke with mock solemnity. "I have two words for you, Princess: Guidance Stone and Ancient Furnace. That's the trick!"
At the mention, a chorus of mild exclamations rose from those at the table—nodding lords and half-curious ladies. Zelda's brow lifted; her lips parting slightly intrigued. She leaned back, silently counting the number of Purah's words on her fingertips, while the table murmured its collective curiosity. Even Danarus gave an approving nod, though not without casting a sidelong glance at the King, who seemed to follow the conversation with only partial interest.
At the far end of the table, Impa shifted nervously, fidgeting with her delicately woven rush and lightly lacquered bamboo kasa atop her head. The sheiakah girl was desperate for the dangling silver pendants called spirit tassels to sit pretty, adjusting them absentmindedly. She shot a pointed look at her sister, silent plea clear: Whatever trouble you're stirring, don't spoil this evening, I beg you.
Purah, however, remained unbothered, and Zelda couldn't help but admire her audacity. Even as the tension between Purah and Arasmus thickened, she found herself leaning further into the conversation, eager for anything that might distract her from the shadows of the forest below.
"Now, with a flick and snap, we can see everything as if we were in the thick of it ourselves. Watch this, Princess!" Purah declared with dramatic flair, revealing a small stone tablet from the depths of her cloak pocket. With a stroke of it's spine and single finger pressed against the face of the object she commanded it to activate. "And…SNAP!"
The device glimmered faintly as she raised it with a flourish, aiming it toward a lone stone podium covered in old moss standing resolute in the center of the grassy field below. Faintly etched in its stonework a somber sigil of the Sheikah tribe—a single tear weeping from its all-seeing eye—the podium exuded an air of mystery, as though it had been plucked straight from the depths of ancient Hyrule's forgotten past. Everyone watched in amazement at what would happen next down below.
Now that she pondered on it, were her eyes playing tricks on her? The princess couldn't believe what she was seeing. Had that stone pilar been there the whole time? How could she have missed such a peculiar device? Had it just appeared? But, from where, under the ground? These sorts of curiosities made her skin flush and alive with excitement. Nervous wings fluttered in her belly but for once were of the good kind.
Zelda leaned forward instinctively, turning her attention from the arena below and back to Purah.
The mechanism sparked immediate recognition in her hands. She'd seen it before, only yesterday, when Purah and Impa had eagerly thrust it into her hands during her dress rehearsal. She remembered the strange weight of it, the faint hum of dormant power vibrating beneath her fingers, and the cryptic symbols etched into its surface. Now, as Purah tapped and fiddled with the device, Zelda's fascination mingled with apprehension, her heart fluttering with nervous anticipation. Could this really show them the trials as if they were there themselves? But how?
A hush fell over the royal table, an electric tension crackling through the air as the gathered nobles leaned in. Even her father, who had been embroiled in conversation only moments ago, now turned his gaze toward Purah's contraption with visible intrigue. The tablet flickered briefly to life, its glow casting faint blue light across Purah's determined features. For an instant, Zelda glimpsed a flash of ancient Sheikah script—beautiful and indecipherable—but the light sputtered out before she could make sense of it. After what seemed like a long-baited moment, nothing happened.
Beside Arasmus, and just beyond the reach of Zelda's ears, the Seneschal delicately dabbed the corners of his mouth with a silk handkerchief, no doubt gifted from dignitaries from the distant strange lands of Hytopia. His movements were slow, calculated, his expression one of mild amusement. "Ah, poor thing," he murmured, gesturing subtly toward Purah. "I was rather rooting for her, you know. Such a shame. If it had worked as I suspected, well… it might have been quite the spectacle. I guess, I'll have no choice but to take it from here—"
Arasmus leaned closer, his voice a low rasp that barely carried beyond their table. "—And where do you think you're going, my friend? Fun or exciting as this all may seem I'm sure. But, I know you neither desire fun or excitement, so what is it you're really heading off to? You can't distract me with hollow excuses of courtly duty like you can the others, Seneschal," he warned in a whisper. His tone was calm, yet laced with steel. "I'm going to need answers about what happened earlier before you sneak off."
The Seneschal's smile didn't waver and nobody else was none the wiser to their quiet discussion. It was a thin, knowing curve that seemed stitched into his face. "Now, now, My Lord. No need for fretting. I've taken full responsibility for this morning's little mishap, as any loyal servant should. Rest assured; I've addressed the matter thoroughly." His words slid out like the silken handkerchief he prized, each one polished to perfection, but with an undercurrent of something darker.
"You'd better have," Arasmus hissed, his knuckles tightening against the edge of the table. "My father expects as such and need I remind you, he isn't as forgiving as I am. He won't be made a fool of, that I can assure you. Nor will I, especially not by some upstart peasant lad. And definitely not from any foreigner like you, no less."
"Your words wound me, my lord. I would never dream of such a dastardly thing. And the boy, does he know how much you revile him so?" Amusement flickered in the liquid gold of his hazel eyes.
"Spare me your courtesies, I know you care not from the boy nor do you share any love for me and my father. But, I care not for your love, only your loyalty when the time comes. Besides there is something that I know you do crave which I—and only I can offer you. The one thing you care about most. Remember that and you'll live many more years to die old and wrinkled in your bed. If your sort wrinkle that is." Arasmus folded his arms, feigning to watch others gathered about the table continue their celebrations of the excitement to come.
"I'm aware, My Lord. And I'm listening. However, do be quick about it for all our sakes, for time is not on our side and is of the essence. I'm sure you're aware."
Arasmus leaned closer to the Seneschal's ear as he continued with tasting refreshments that dotted the table. "The Crimson Cloaks are a relic of a dying age, and my father means to see their embers snuffed out once and for all."
The Seneschal's lips twitched into a sly grin as his hand hovered over the platter of pastries before them. "Your devotion to your family and passion is commendable, My Lord, who knew you had it in you to find the time, I mean with how busy you've been these few days," he said, his tone oily and amused; taking a jab at Arasmus' late night activities since being in the city.
Arasmus' playful tone darkened like a flip of a coin. "How dare you have me followed!" he said in a loud whisper.
The seneschal only relaxed more at his turn of aggression, leaning forward in his seat to survey the delectable treats in front of him. "Easy, now, we are on the same side. I was merely making conversation with a friend."
"Well, if I had wanted friends, I'd find them in the company of others who—"
"—Who are more like you? Noble?" Arasmus knew what he meant by that and he didn't mean status of class. The sly man didn't let him respond and plucked a delicate confection instead—a cherry tart drizzled with golden glaze—and held it aloft, examining it as if it were a priceless gem. "Here, how's this for better conversation then. It's sure to interest you seeing it is we're not friends yet. Mayhaps to garner more of your trust, I hope."
The seneschal swallowed the delight thoughtfully, savoring the sweetness and tartness in every chew. "Let me ease your concerns," he began. "Let's just say that our mutual friend is… feeling rather stretched thin at the moment."
Arasmus' brow lifted, intrigued by the news. "Go on."
"Oh, we did find him trying to escape to be sure. He had nearly gotten away too. And not without a large sack of whatever heirlooms or priceless treasures found aloft in the castle. No doubt to barter and purchase passage across the Wandering Sea to the fair isles of Gamelon, to join the ranks of their many princes. Or, mayhaps, he planned to join a caravan of nomads to journey past the hot, white sands to the Sunrise lands of Corredi. It makes no matter now, rest assured, he was found."
"How?" Arasmus asked.
"My men tell me they caught him at the outer curtain wall of the city, attempting to flee out of an unguarded postern gate to the west." The senechal took a sip of his goblet playfully. "Again, another gift I offer you, to tell the princess and the King when the time is ripe. To earn more of their favor, if you get my meaning. Catching a thief is always a good deed, you know?"
The seneschal sighed mockingly as if he nearly pitied the fate of the man they captured. "We'll find out the errors of his ways soon enough. A shame too, if only he had left his gems and stolen loot behind, he might have escaped our reach. Amazing, even after all we paid him he still hungered for more. What a wonder it is how even in one's most dire happenstance does one still risk fate for riches," he said, offering a hint to the high lord.
A flash came across Arasmus' mind as he imagined what could only be a barbaric and painful interrogation happening somewhere in the bowels of the castle to the man who failed his mission with the potion.
"You'd better be right," Arasmus growled, his eyes narrowing. "Remember, Seneschal, we are bound in this together. If I fall, you'll be tumbling right behind me."
"Clear as crystal, My Lord, I have no intentions to meet our good friend Sir Borz the Weeper and his axe just yet," the Seneschal replied, his grin widening. "Oh, how he longs to use it in the King's service. It has been many, many a year since the last time. I fear his blade may becoming dull for lack of use. That being said, I like my head on my shoulders just where it is. And—I—I also like sweets." He bit into his tart, savoring it with an exaggerated hum of delight before chasing it with a sip of firewine. With the elegance of a seasoned courtier, he rose, gave a polite bow to his lieges, and excused himself with the air of a man who had urgent, mysterious business to attend.
Arasmus watched him float away, his jaw set tight, before his gaze drifted downward to the crowd below the gallery. Finally, the distraction he'd been hoping for all day caught his gaze. At last, he can loosen his collar for something less—a bore. Not far off sat a young maiden lingering near the lower deck—a soft beauty that seemed out of place amidst the mundane of lesser lords. Her movements were shy, soft and unguarded. Just the way he preferred. Ripe and ready to be plucked, he mused. The corners of his mouth curved into a faint smile, but it was devoid of warmth—a predator's grin as he assessed her like a hawk circling its prey.
Zelda on the other hand he knew was untouchable, at least in her state right now. Her defiance an impenetrable fortress he couldn't breach even with an army, at least, not without consequence. She had made that abundantly clear, though she wore her rejection behind layers of polite smiles and royal decorum. So, he had to find other prey to satisfy his cravings. The fire in his chest cooled to a slow, calculating burn as he adjusted the cuffs of his doublet, already imagining the scene to come. "Slither away if you must," he muttered under his breath as an afterthought to long departed Seneschal. "I know I shall."
The murmuring around him swirled as Purah continued her stubborn tinkering, eliciting laughter and exasperation from the onlookers. Arasmus stood and glanced toward Zelda, who, much to his delight, appeared utterly engrossed in Purah's antics. He leaned down, his voice as smooth as a serpent's glide. "This is all rather premature, don't you think, Princess? Perhaps the artifact isn't ready for the demands of such a grand stage. In the meantime—I've some matters to attend to. I shall return to you before the excitement begins, I assure you."
Without waiting for a reply, he straightened, offered a shallow bow to the table, and strode off with purpose. Zelda absentmindedly nodded, still watching Purah not before realizing he left. She suppressed the urge to give a relieved sigh at his absence so others wouldn't notice.
"Um, Purah—" Zelda began, her voice tinged with caution, but Purah silenced her with a sharp wave of her hand, her eyes narrowing at the uncooperative device.
"Give it a minute, please. You'll see," Purah huffed, her usual confidence now edged with irritation. "Any second now…"
The gathered spectators murmured amongst themselves, their growing impatience pressing against Purah's nerves like an unrelenting gnat buzzing in her ear. Even the King, his arms crossed and goblet forgotten, watched with uncharacteristic interest. Zelda felt a pang of secondhand embarrassment as Purah began shaking the tablet, muttering in random exasperated curses under her breath.
"Oh, for Hylia's sake, c'mon! You worked earlier!" Purah grumbled, smacking the device firmly with the flat of her hand as though a mother would swat the behind of a wayward child. Zelda bit back a laugh, her lips twitching despite herself.
And then Purah shut her eyes in frustration. Nothing was happening. Silence befell the table just as she opened them back up and spoke. "I think I need to, uh, excuse me!" The young scientist said, scooting out from her chair with a fervent bow toward all the guests. "I swear Robbie, I'm going to kill you. If that furnace isn't lit so help me—" she said, last heard by Zelda mumbling to herself as she bolted down the stairs leading away from the royal gallery and down to the denizens of spectators below.
Left on that note of suspense and after taking a nibble of food, Zelda decided to wipe her lips with a doily as a proper young lady should, excusing Purah on her behalf to the others. "I'm sure what she has planned will come to fruition soon enough, and whatever it is, will be well worth the wait. She never disappoints, that Purah."
Polite nods circled the table, though Zelda noticed the subtle shifts in demeanor among her company. Some guests leaned back with an air of skepticism, their silence speaking louder than any words, while others resumed their refreshments and casual banter, their attention drifting back to the unfolding trial.
The hum of light conversation returned, mingling with the soft clink of silver against trencher bread and the faint roar of cheers from the crowd below; eager to begin. The world seemed momentarily at ease—until Zelda's shoulders tensed. Her reprieve was cut short, for Arasmus had returned, much sooner than she had hoped. His presence swept over the table like a shadow, his earlier confidence now dimmed by a sour expression. He wore the kind of petulant frown a spoiled child might don when denied a second slice of dessert, and though his attempts to mask it were half-hearted at best, the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
Hmm, I wonder who managed to ruffle his cucco's feathers? Zelda mused, the faintest flicker of satisfaction daring to tug at the corners of her lips at his misfortune before she dismissed the thought. Whatever grievance plagued him, she decided, it was not worth the effort to ponder. She would've gladly returned her attention to her company or even the empty theatrics of Purah's faltering device, though she already left. But, before long, the atmosphere shifted. Something—or someone—demanded her attention once again.
A solitary remaining Guardsmen who stood watch approached her table, cutting through the hum of courtly chatter. He bowed low as he flung his crimson cloak behind his shoulder, voice pitched so only her and those beside her could overhear. "Your Highness," he said, deference softening each word, "Theres a few visitors requesting entrance to the gallery. They say they are acquainted with you and gave me this as proof." His gaze flicked over the gathered nobles, then returned to Zelda as he lifted from his care an exquisite set of jewelry.
From his gloved hands, he offered an object that caught the lantern light, its brilliance casting faint prisms across the polished table. Zelda's breath hitched as her gaze fell upon the necklace—a masterpiece of craftsmanship she knew intimately. The pendant sparkled with fire, ice and green stars fused into perfect harmony. Made by triangular engravings seated with three resplendent gems: a sapphire for wisdom, an emerald for courage, and a ruby for power—Or, so she had been told by the scholars.
Each jewel gleamed with a light that seemed to breathe, the intricate goldwork encasing them bearing the unmistakable crest of her royal house. The locket's surface felt almost alive, as though it carried the weight of both memory and legacy, and for a fleeting moment, the world around her dimmed into insignificance.
"Should I bring them in at your pleasure?" The guard's tone was polite, but there was a hint of expectancy there, as though he knew she might find this moment a welcome respite. She smiled back gleefully, happy that they kept their word and came. With a nod and a quiet response, she replied. "Yes, most certainly. I have been expecting them."
Arasmus cut her off. "And who may I ask are these guests that I am just being informed about? After all, things are a little precarious as right now. There still is an assailant on the loose that we have yet to apprehend, my dear, Sundelion."
Zelda turned to him, taking more satisfaction in the dissatisfaction growing more apparent on his brow with just the mere mention of bringing more guests she would rather spend the day with. "Oh, but, I thought you said you had things handled? And besides, a man of your talents as I've heard so much about, surely, you can keep me safe here, right?" She teased sweetly, all the while rubbing salt into his fragile ego like a burned wound.
"I mean, of course," Arasmus blundered and instead shook it off. "I was just asking as a precaution is all. Your security is my top priority, and I need to know who you surround yourself with, that's all."
"Oh, don't fret, My Lord, it's just a few more friends. One of whom is that squire from before. You remember him, right? The boy you called, what was it again? A ruffian?" She continued with that air of sass to which only he noticed. Others who listened only managed intrigue by the surprise in guests.
Arasmus groaned to himself and slunk back in his seat. "How can I forget."
Stepping forward, Link felt the world behind him shrink into something distant and unreal. Just beyond the torchlit clearing, a legion of trees stood sentinel in silent judgment —an ancient maze of twisted trunks and clinging vines that had worn a hundred names through the ages. Depending on who you asked it had several names. Some called it the Forsaken Forest, where poor souls stuck between this world and the next lose all memory of their former selves, hence the name. Others simply recalled it as a Lost Woods of sorts; and to the most superstitious, it was the Forest of Dark Whispers. Regardless of its title, all seemed to agree that it was no place for mortal eyes to wander. For misfortune lurked beneath its leafy crown, patiently awaiting any trespasser who dared into its shadowed realm.
As Link crossed the threshold of pale mist which guarded the entrance, an immediate hush fell around him. The world and all its celebrations behind him instantly muffled to a barely decipherable hum as if they drowned underwater. Several more steps and they silenced forever. What sort of magic, no, sorcery was this? He thought precariously.
The ruckus earlier seemed now more like a distant memory as if they were never there at all. The damp, untouched earth gave way beneath his boots, releasing a strong scent of age-old rot and loam that burned his nostrils. Each step stirred sodden underbrush that clung to his armor and cheeks, and above him, a canopy of leaves so dense it swallowed the setting sun, leaving only the weakening torch's gleam in his grasp—a fragile reminder of the life he left behind. And just when he found his courage in its light, a whisper of wind blew and dimmed his torch to silence, leaving only a whisp of grey smoke.
The canopy of branches choked out whatever sunlight remained. And now, alone in the dark, Link tossed the useless stick to the wayside in frustration as his breath caught in his throat, the air tasting bitter and faintly metallic, as if charged with secrets too old to name. He could sense the forest's silent scrutiny and hear the soft crack of distant branches. Whether they were disturbed by innocent critters of the woods or unnamed foes of the looming night that was coming, he could not tell. Worry would pulse in his ears as they instinctively twitched to any sound or quiet hiss of wind threading through narrow gaps in the foliage.
In the disquiet gloom, something like a hushed murmur—uneasy energy rather than a true voice—raised the hairs at his nape. As he inhaled slowly, a mingled stench of floral decay and sweet perfume teased his senses, as though even the blossoms here struggled beneath a veil of menace.
He adjusted his grip on his shield, the leather strap damp and yielding, and pressed forward. Darkness pressed close, inviting him deeper. Each footfall led him further from hearth and home, from every warmth and comfort he had ever known. Something strange had been seizing the dark corners of his thoughts. Something dark from these woods he realized.
This was the place from old legends and secret tales, where once you entered, the world you knew drifted away like a half-forgotten dream. Link swallowed, calling forth every ounce of bravery he possessed. He had come this far—he would not falter now. He needed to remember his mission. He wouldn't let the silent forgetfulness take hold of him.
However, the eerie quiet of his fellow cadets missing in action couldn't be heard either. Surely, they too would be rummaging through the thick of the woods nearby he realized to himself. He wondered how they were faring if they even were at all. Yet not a stirring of them was heard. Not even a hint of their existence could be found near him at all. And the sudden realization of that sent an icy shiver up his backside.
He moved forward, heart thudding in his chest, and he sensed fate's distant games unfolding in the hush. No guiding light, no map of friendly faces would steer him now. The Sacred Flame lay somewhere ahead, and with it, the proof of his worth. The Forest of Dark Whispers had him, and the life he once knew slipped quietly from his grasp.
Yet just as Link spied a narrow trail to pass through, winding through a twisted circle of gnarled branches that clawed at the dim, filtered sunlight, he glimpsed something peculiar. A rooftop—crumbling clay tiles softened by moss and age—barely visible through the tangled thickets. An abandoned settlement, surely; what else could it possibly be, nestled forgotten within these shadowy woods?
The path twisted upon itself relentlessly, serpentine and deceitful, until Link could no longer trust his senses. It felt as though the world had inverted—his feet walking upon clouds, the sky swirling beneath him, ground replaced by a dizzying void. Still, he pressed on, compelled by the faint, tantalizing shimmer of muted sunlight glancing off ancient tiles, distant yet undeniably real. He knew he must reach it.
Yet reaching it would not be easy—nothing in these woods ever was. As swiftly as his resolve solidified, the whispers began. Softly at first, like leaves stirred by wind, gentle and harmless. But soon they grew louder, clearer, a rising chorus of disembodied murmurs rustling urgently through the underbrush, until they pressed against him, their phantom breaths warm and moist upon his neck, their haunting pleas whispering sharply at the edge of his ears. They almost sounded like, children.
"Right this way, lad, that's it," murmured the guardsman, ushering Jun carefully to the seat awaiting him beside the princess. The boy moved hesitantly forward, eyes wide with both awe and quiet unease. Zelda smiled warmly at him, eyes brightening like sunlight over calm waters as she gestured invitingly.
Just behind Jun stood Lady Anjuel, radiant and flushed with shy joy, clutching Kafei's arm. She was draped beautifully in the gown Zelda had gifted her—a garment of softest silk embroidered in silver and golden threads that caught the afternoon sun. Kafei, too, looked handsome in his carefully tailored vest and polished boots, visibly proud yet bashful before so many noble eyes.
Zelda cleared her throat. "I'm so glad you both decided to come. I was beginning to worry you wouldn't take me up on my invitation. Come, sit, and let us celebrate this happy day."
"Princess Zelda," Anjuel began shyly, dipping gracefully into a curtsey. "Forgive our lateness in accepting your kind invitation. I—I was feeling somewhat unwell yesterday. Kafei insisted I rest, lest I miss the festival entirely."
Zelda's brow knitted gently in concern, though her smile remained tender. "I hope you're feeling better now?"
"Oh yes, much improved," Anjuel said quickly, a faint flush coloring her cheeks, her hand unconsciously drifting to her abdomen before she caught herself and lowered it hastily. "I promise you, it was nothing serious."
But before either could properly offer their thanks, Arasmus interrupted, smooth as velvet yet edged with steel. "And pray tell, what joyous occasion are we to raise our cups to?"
"These two," Zelda said brightly, eyes sparkling as she warmly indicated the couple, "These two are to be bound together as one in the sight of the seven maidens and goddesses. And as fate would have it, I asked them if they would be so generous to allow us to partake in their happiness. So that we too, may be blessed by the fruit of their union."
"At that moment, King Rhoam stirred from his contemplation, his heavy voice gentler than usual as he regarded the humble pair. "Friends of my Zelda shall ever find friendship in me. Come," he commanded warmly, "and let us enjoy this happy day indeed." He clapped for placements to be made for them, a position of high honor near the princess.
Relieved, Anjuel bowed her head respectfully, eyes glistening with gratitude, while Kafei flushed with nervous pride. They quickly took their seats, murmuring heartfelt thanks as servers swiftly brought goblets brimming with cool, spiced wine and platters heaped with fruits and steaming pastries. Arasmus read the room and didn't press the matter further.
Overjoyed, the princess turned her attention fondly back to Jun, whose youthful eyes flicked nervously between Zelda and the lively festivities unfolding around them. She smiled warmly, gently teasing him. "Finally, you return! And how fares Sir Helmsworth? I caught sight of him below just before he slipped into the forest."
Jun straightened proudly, though he couldn't quite hide the nervous tremble in his voice. "He's well enough. He sent me back to keep you company—and to guard you, of course—while he continues with the trials."
Zelda's brows lifted playfully. "Is that so? You truly think yourself equal to the task? Guarding a princess is no small feat, you know."
"My sword hand's as good as any—better than most, I'd wager!" Jun declared boldly, punctuating his boast with a mock thrust of his fork, skewering some invisible foe in midair. Zelda's face brightened, laughter bubbling gently from her lips, though beside her Arasmus gave an audible scoff of disdain masked by a choke from a sip of his goblet.
Jun's bravado softened quickly, replaced by a quieter tone that almost bordered on melancholy. "Though I doubt I'll see much fighting from up here."
"Pray, let us hope not," Zelda agreed softly.
Jun on the other hand knew better and the thought of that gnawed at him. The boy swallowed hard, his youthful heart twisting uncomfortably. He liked her—liked them all, truly. Well, except maybe for Arasmus, but the others weren't so bad he realized. The dread began to bubble in his belly as he knew the hour drew nearer. Behind his friendly grin, darker thoughts gathered like storm clouds. The whispered promise of bloodshed from his clan echoed bitterly in his mind, louder and more oppressive with every breath. Desperate to feel better he shook away the worry.
Overhearing their conversation about the prospect of battles, Kafei spoke up. "Rumor among the crowds say there is fighting to be had at Salty Point near Cucco Cross."
Anjule concurred setting down her mug of perpetually cool Zora water. "Truth be told, Your Grace, simply reaching your table proved journey enough, what with the crowd's endless murmurs about pirates and other troubles at Salty Point. There seems to be a stir about it. Even the guards were hard pressed to listen and let us by—and are most alert it would seem."
"Is that right?" Zelda remarked, her eyes blinking in worry. She knew of the dispatches but played it off coolly. Jun winced inwardly at her words, pulse quickening as guilt gnawed at his heart.
"Gossips only," Arasmus drawled smoothly, raising his goblet toward the pair. He didn't care to breathe life into the comings and goings of soldier movements. Certainly, not among the rabble below. "I assure you, my father has seen to our safety here. There is no cause for worry tonight. Even if there were troubles at the Salty Shore—and that's a big if, those dangers are many leagues off."
As they spoke, Jun's young face fell shadowed, doubt gnawing relentlessly. Luckily for him, nobody noticed. He glanced nervously at the horizon beyond the vibrant festival banners, beyond the laughter and music that echoed through the pavilions and stands. For he alone knew the true threat that lurked, cloaked by the setting smiling sun. And it sure as hell wasn't at Salty Point, but right underneath their own noses. Their swords were marching the wrong way.
However, Zelda did notice the dour look on his face and spoke to cheer him up. "So, Jun, how do you find the festival from the royal vantage?"
The lad shook his head of his mood and put on a face. "It…it's wonderful, Your Highness," he said at last, forcing his voice steady and cheerful. "Better now that I'm free of Helmsworth's constant armor and weapon polishing duties. Don't tell him though."
"Oh? I won't." Zelda teased gently, brows raised in amusement. "But, are you weary of your heroic duties already? I thought you wanted to be a knight too one day?"
Jun laughed shyly, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. "Oh, not the heroics so much as the polishing, milady—I mean, Your Grace." Zelda smiled at his lack of formalities. It reminded her of Helmsworth and how he would fumble words at times too when they spent the day together. Oh, how she wished to get to know him more. Perhaps, his squire may give her some insight to the sort of young man he is.
"Give me monsters or stone crows—I mean, bandits any day and I'll show you how much I know of knights, the other squires can keep their wet stones and wax!" Jun declared.
Zelda's laughter was sweet and genuine at his proclamation, her bright eyes crinkling merrily. Beside her, Arasmus huffed impatiently, his gaze cool and sharp. Luckily for Jun, he had been preoccupied in mild annoyance to notice the mishap in his words. "A squire who tires at the task of polishing swords will scarcely fare better when his blade faces real foes," he remarked dryly, sipping from his goblet.
Jun snapped back defiantly, unafraid. "Lucky for me, My Lord, polishing swords isn't half as important as knowing which end to hold," he said, taking a munch from a piece of bread dipped in butter. "Sir helmsworth also said, a shiny fancy blade may impress ladies, my lord—but it's the arm behind it that impresses foes. If you'd like, I'm happy to show you what he taught me today."
Zelda quickly pressed fingers to her mouth, stifling a delighted laugh at the boy's daring cheek. This one is fearless, she realized. Arasmus's eyes narrowed sharply above his goblet, clearly displeased, but Jun merely returned an innocent grin, triumphant yet boyishly mischievous.
But before any further debate over whose battle prowess might prevail, Purah returned swiftly, Robbie trailing miserably behind her. "Bugger it all!" the Sheikah scientist groaned loudly, collapsing dramatically into the seat beside Zelda. Only then did her eyes narrow curiously at the new arrivals. "And who, pray tell, is this?" she asked, adjusting her spectacles for a closer look at Jun.
Zelda's eyes sparkled as she turned warmly toward the boy. "This is Jun—Helmsworth's squire, whom I mentioned earlier."
"Oh, yes, of course, I remember now," Purah muttered distractedly, already losing interest as she glared irritably toward Robbie.
"I take it there's no luck yet with the tablet?" Zelda ventured carefully, her voice tinged with gentle caution.
Purah groaned, throwing a sharp glance sideways. "None, and no thanks to this useless lump of stone," she huffed, motioning indignantly to Robbie as he awkwardly took the chair next to her. "I swear, Princess, I have to do everything myself."
Robbie cleared his throat, adopting a wounded air. "Perhaps—and just perhaps—if someone hadn't rushed ahead without proper consultation, neglecting all protocol and thorough research, the relic might already be functioning." He gave Purah a pointed glance, adding with exaggerated dignity, "Besides, I have been entrusted to oversee the three relics for tonight's ascension ceremony—or have you forgotten? Mayhaps, if you would have waited for me, my research may have been of value to you."
"Bugger your research." Purah huffed in annoyance. Zelda couldn't tell if they were truly mad with each other, or this was a clever way to mask their flirting.
Purah rolled her eyes dramatically, launching into hushed, sharp banter with Robbie, oblivious to the princess who had already reached curiously toward the stone artifact lying quietly on the table. As Zelda lifted it carefully into the sunlight, the stone surface gleamed faintly. Captivated, Jun's gaze fixed immediately upon the familiar glow, his breath catching softly in his throat.
Noticing his awe-struck expression, Zelda smiled gently. "Amazing, isn't it? Our research team recovered this in the ruins near the Dying Mountains. We've only begun to understand what wonders of the ancient world it might unlock."
Jun nodded slowly, mind racing faster than his heart. He'd seen such artifacts before from his past, he remembered one his father carried—some even endured to make it to the sanctums of the Yiga had hidden dotting the edges of the kingdom. Though he dared not say so aloud. He swallowed thickly, quickly masking his unease. "Yeah, it's...quite something, Your Highness," he murmured dismissively, feigning mild interest.
Zelda giggled softly, mistaking his hesitation for childish ignorance. "I don't think you understand, my young squire," she chided gently, excitement tinging her voice. "This small thing holds the power to reshape our world. Here, look closer."
She ran her fingertips lightly along its spine, triggering a pulse of cerulean brilliance as it awakened. Jun couldn't help himself; his eyes widened momentarily, betraying fascination before he swiftly covered it with studied indifference.
Purah, who had finally disengaged from her whispered argument, interjected abruptly. "See, that's precisely as far as it gets—just a flicker of light, nothing more. The pedestal below will rise briefly, and as surely as sunset, the device powers down, leaving us as mystified as before." She shot a sidelong glare at Robbie. "Unless our resident genius here has suddenly conjured a brilliant solution?"
Robbie sighed dramatically, shrugging in exasperation. "How many times must I say—I've been occupied elsewhere. Moving the relics for tonight's ascension ceremony takes no small amount of care!"
"Excuses," Purah muttered, arms folded.
As the two Sheikah began to argue again, Zelda glanced down curiously at the device in her hands, perplexed. Beside her, Jun's heart thumped erratically as anxiety and impatience warred within him. He bit his lip, the truth pressing unbearably against his tongue until finally, despite himself, he blurted out softly: "Have you tried joining the slate directly with the control panel, then activating it?"
Silence fell abruptly. Purah's mouth hung open agape with surprise while Robbie's glasses fell to the bridge of his nose; and Zelda's eyes blinked in startled confusion. The idea just might work, they collectively thought.
"Slate?" Zelda repeated softly, glancing down at the artifact in her hands. "Control panel?" The terms illuded her. "Jun, how would you know to do that?"
Jun stiffened, a flush warming his cheeks, panic quickening his pulse as he realized he'd revealed too much. "I—I just thought...it seemed obvious, doesn't it?" he stumbled, cheeks reddening beneath Zelda's questioning gaze. He needed an escape—and quickly. "Maybe just a stupid guess,—" He paused, eyes darting frantically until they fell upon a sheikah servant standing discreetly nearby, offering him salvation. Just his luck. "Pray, Princess, may I be excused? I, um, need to make water."
Zelda felt heat rise immediately to her own cheeks, embarrassment mingled with gentle amusement at the boy's blunt innocence in choice of words. "Of course, shall I have someone escort y—"
"—Thanks, but I think I know the way, milady," Jun muttered, cheeks burning fiercely. "I mean—thank you, Your Grace."
Without waiting for another reply, Jun slipped swiftly away from the table, practically fleeing toward the servant below. The boy's heart pounded painfully, his guilt threatening to choke him. He knew the servant's true identity—knew all too well those scars above his eyes, mask or no mask covering the bottom half of his face. And of the dark tidings he brought.
"What are you doing here!?" Jun said in a shouted whisper, daring to shove the servant against the wall, though the man barely budged against his force.
"What does it look like? I'm tending to the beckon need of these no-good high born making sure you're doing your job," said the servant now known to be a fellow Yiga infiltrator. "To keep an eye and make sure you don't get cold feet."
"I told you I won't, so stop following me. I got this. Sensei entrusted me, remember? You're like to just get in the way! If I need you, you'll know."
"Sorry, but like it or don't I don't take orders from alley cats like you." The man scoffed as Jun stood defiantly below him. "But don't you fret, boy, I know how much you enjoy to play with your food before the deed is done." And with that, before Jun could retaliate, the man slinked off away, a servant once more and a practiced elegance about him leaving the boy to stew in his thoughts.
Link froze, his breath catching sharply in his throat as the voices surged louder around him. Each whispered plea echoed like the faint murmurs of forgotten souls, slipping invisibly between twisted branches and tangles of ivy, urgent and pleading. He strained his ears desperately, trying to discern their source, yet found nothing but shadows and vapor.
Suddenly, high above the dense canopy, a fierce red arrow streaked upward, piercing the dusky sky like a comet aflame. Link's heart skipped, dread seizing him as a second arrow followed swiftly, then a third—crimson sparks scattering brightly across the evening haze. It was the signal of surrender. Three initiates, perhaps more, abandoning the trial. He shuddered inwardly, suddenly fearful for Orin and Sven, hoping against reason they weren't among those who'd faltered.
He drew a shallow, trembling breath, forcing aside fear. He had his own battles yet to face, trials yet to conquer. There was no turning back now.
Yet, as Link gathered his resolve and turned once more toward the narrow trail, he halted abruptly. He blinked, heart thrumming with confusion—there was no trace of the forgotten settlement he'd glimpsed moments before. The tiled roof had vanished completely, as if the forest itself had erased its existence. Only a rolling fog lingered, thick and oppressive, twisting among trees as ancient as time.
He swallowed dryly, tightening his grip on the hilt of his arming sword, feeling the reassuring weight of his buckler strapped firmly to his forearm. A cold sweat broke on his neck, trickling down his spine like ice-water. Again the whispers rose around him, this time louder, clearer—voices of children, sometimes frightened and others laughing, their tiny whispers echoing unbearably through the endless gloom. He pressed forward, forcing shaky steps ahead, through tendrils of vapor that clung to his clothes like ghostly fingers.
His breath quickened painfully, matching the pounding rhythm of his heart. Something was here—something unseen yet near enough to feel its hateful breath. And then, before he could even think to prepare himself, a monstrous roar split the mist apart, a sound so terrible and ferocious it seemed to tear through the very fabric of the world.
Instinct took hold. Link lunged blindly forward, sword slicing through thickened air, striking nothing but emptiness, mist scattering mockingly at the wild swing. Get a grip, Link.
But his resolve evaporated just as it came. He pivoted sharply at the sudden snapping of a twig just behind him, the warmth of air as an arm reached out for his shoulder. Instead, he thrusted his blade forward instinctively—only to halt mid-motion, suspended in shock.
Before him stood not a beast, but a figure cloaked in mystery—a bald, wizened man, his long, flowing beard pale as moonlight cascading gently over robes of faded azure and grey. In his gnarled hand, he clutched an ancient staff, intricately carved and crowned with a mysterious jewel glowing softly with otherworldly light, as if from another time.
Fear and surprise surged together in Link's veins; panic overtook reason. He slashed again without thinking, desperate, terrified, blade whistling sharply toward the elder's chest. This must have been one of the dark illusions Athelon warned them all against. He would not fail.
Yet with grace impossible for one so aged, the old sage flicked his wrist upward casually, the staff blazing white with sudden magic, and effortlessly parried Link's blade aside. The sword rebounded violently as though striking stone, the ringing echo reverberating through Link's trembling bones.
He scarcely had time to gasp before the elder raised his staff, the carved jewel flaring fiercely with light brighter than midday sun. A powerful force burst outward, striking Link squarely in the chest, hurtling him backward into blackness.
The forest dissolved around him, whispers fading into silence as consciousness slipped like sand through trembling fingers. Link sank deeper, swallowed by a darkness both frightening and comforting, drifting helplessly, haunted by a single, unanswered question that lingered even as the world abandoned him: Who are you?
Authors notes: I apologize for the late drop of chapters. I have been so preoccupied with the audiobook, with directing actors, editing takes and such it has taken a bit of time from my writing. Not to mention, work has been rough lately as well. There is more to come and I hope this bit can hold you over until then. I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know in a comment what you think or what you suspect might happen next. It really helps me. Now until we meet again friend, safe travels wherever you are in Hyrule.