Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

In the waning days of summer, when the fields of Hyrule glowed like embers beneath a dying sun, the kingdom grieved. The Great Bell of Hyrule Castle tolled in measured lamentation, each knell resounding like a mournful heartbeat across the plains and villages that clung to the shadow of the mighty citadel.

It was not the chime of heroism or triumph, but one steeped in regret—a kingdom mourning not only the death of its sovereign, but the burden of his deeds.

The late King, eldest scion of the royal line, had ruled with an iron hand veiled by silk. In his years of power, the land knew no war, no waking nightmares of a resurrected Calamity. Yet peace born of silence masked the tremors of the earth, and Link, brother to the departed, felt the weight of those buried truths more keenly than most.

He stood alone in the Hall of Kings, where frescoes of Hyrule’s storied past unfurled across the vaulted ceiling in shades of azure and gold. Their heroes stared back at him, judgment veiled beneath strokes of paint. A breeze stirred the crimson banners that draped the room, whispering of unfulfilled oaths and echoes of glory. The crown, newly burnished and waiting upon a pedestal of cold marble, seemed both regal and foreboding. 

It was to rest upon his brow in but a fortnight, a circlet heavy with the sins of its former bearer.

Link was young by the reckoning of rulers—twenty-three summers, with eyes the hue of a storm-held sky and a countenance cut by both shadow and light. Yet no weight of years nor veteran's scars could match the gravity he bore now, knowing the realm that lay at his feet. The people awaited him with bated breath, their hopes tethered to him like ships adrift, yearning for the mooring of just rule. He felt the pulse of expectation in their silence, in the hurried whispers of courtiers who watched him from dark alcoves and unseen corridors.

He would do his best. Nay, he must. To cleanse the sins of a brother who wore the crown yet never upheld the true spirit of the kingdom—who quashed voices that spoke of seers' forgotten warnings, who sowed distrust among the tribes with policies both harsh and inscrutable.

Though peace had reigned, it was a peace of shackles, hidden behind gilded smiles.

Link closed his eyes, letting the cool breath of the hall steady his resolve. For the first time, he felt not the pull of a sword’s hilt but the weight of inheritance; it was not the swift battle against a clear foe, but the ceaseless dance with doubt and the ghost of a crown that threatened to be his undoing.

The crown would fall upon his head, as unbidden as a curse.

Later, from the high balcony of the keep, Link gazed upon the expanse of mourners gathered like a sea of shadow beneath the pallor of a bleached sky. The air was thick with grief, carried on the slow dirge of mournful horns and the rustle of banners that sagged like the weary hearts of the kingdom. Below, the procession wound through the cobbled streets in solemn cadence, where Hylians clad in muted greys and blacks moved as if under a single breath held too long. Link had given his eulogy, his voice tempered, his words measured to balm the hearts of those who would listen, but now even that rote duty felt hollow, robbed of true solace.

He turned his back on the sight, leaning against the cool stone wall. Its roughness pressed into his palms, grounding him in a moment that felt both too vast and suffocatingly narrow. In the echo of the mourning chant, he craved, for the first time, the freedom to turn away—to leave behind the role of son, brother, king.

He yearned to be merely Link, a man without the scaffold of duty cinched tight about his throat. Just once, he longed for the selfish luxury of solitude, hidden from eyes that sought salvation in his every breath. He wouldn't know until later that he ought to have been careful with his wishes.

Below, the crowd moved as one, a tide of bowed heads, each face marked by the loss of their ruler. Yet even from his perch, Link saw the stark truth like a crack that split the stone beneath his feet—no Goron chanted their basso farewells, no Gerudo warrior stood resplendent in scarlet veils of mourning, no Rito arched wings to cast shadows of respect upon the procession, and no Zora wove their water-slicked songs into the air.

The absence yawned wide and deep, an indictment not spoken but undeniable.

A bitter taste, sharp and metallic, rose in his throat. His brother had held the throne with pride, wielding power as a scepter to distance rather than unite. 

The ancient alliances—those cords woven tighter than steel in ages when the Calamity had gnawed at their world—had frayed and unraveled under his watch. Distrust, that old serpent, had coiled between the races, its venom pooling in silences that once rang with laughter and the clash of shared toils.

The memory of the past, when he as a boy had watched Goron caravans rumbling into the castle courtyards with booming greetings, or heard the wind-borne song of Rito heralds descending from the north, rose unbidden. Now those echoes felt as far as myth. His brother’s reign, suffused with order and gilded pretense, had dulled the lifeblood of their realm. Link knew the ease of silence mistaken for peace, the rot beneath the bloom.

He pressed his hand to the stone balustrade, fingers curling as resolve kindled within him, a fire that burned away the last vestiges of doubt. 

I will mend this, he vowed, the silent words tasting of iron. I will call them back, the Gorons with their roars, the Gerudo with their knowing smiles, the Rito whose wings speak of skies beyond reckoning, and the Zora, patient and proud. I will see this kingdom made whole.

The wind shifted, tugging at his cloak, as if urging him to move from this high, silent perch and into the throng of duties that awaited him. The world had gone quiet but for the pulse that beat in his chest, steady and certain. It was the pulse of promise, not for his lineage, but for Hyrule itself, bound by oaths that would defy the silence left by the crown.

The soft rustle of silk announced her presence before Zelda stepped onto the stone of the balcony. The scent of crushed lavender clung to her gown, carried by the whispering wind as she moved to stand beside Link. She looked out over the mass of mourners, her gaze a blend of solemnity and the steely determination that had always set her apart.

The daughter of the Duke, the princess in all but name—Hyrule’s brightest star beneath its clouded sky.

“My prince,” she said, her voice low but clear, woven with a warmth that chased the chill from the air. “I know this weight sits heavy, but your hands will bear it with strength, as they always have.”

Her eyes flicked to him, watchful, the azure flecks catching the sun like embers. “Under your rule, the echoes of the past will be more than whispers of what once was. They will become songs sung openly, as they should be.”

Link turned, the shadows of duty pressing against his face as he regarded her. There was a comfort in Zelda’s words, a balm that smoothed the jagged edges of doubt clawing at him. He nodded, a gesture half-grateful, half-guarded. 

“Thank you, my lady. Your faith in me... it steadies more than you know.” He paused, seeking the right words as the gravity of the moment settled between them. “Hyrule has been at peace, yes, but it was peace held in a fist, not carried in an open hand. That will change.”

A soft smile touched her lips, fleeting as a star’s wink. “You will be the king they need, Link. I have seen it, in the way you hold yourself, in the way you listen, even now. You speak for duty, yes, but you have always carried more than what the crown demands.” She inclined her head slightly, the formality of it at odds with the quiet sincerity in her eyes.

“I believe in you, Your Highness.”

The title, spoken as gently as the breeze, seemed to jar the silence around them. Link’s gaze drifted from her face to the kingdom sprawling below, its streets webbed with shadows. He breathed deep, the scent of her lavender mixing with the scent of stone and mourning garlands.

“Two weeks, and this crown will no longer loom as an heirloom, but as a reality.” He exhaled, a sound heavy with unspoken thoughts. “Yet there is more than just the coronation to reckon with. The bonds we have lost—the Gorons, the Zora, the others. It’s time correspondence found them again, not as a command, but as a gesture of peace.”

The princess’ smile widened, softened by understanding. “It will fall into place, one by one. It must. The trust that was left to wither will bloom once more, if given the hand of a king who does not shy from what is hard or humble.” She turned her gaze outward, to the horizon where hills rose like sleeping giants. “And when it does, Hyrule will remember its true self.”

Link watched her, finding in her words a reflection of the resolve that now coursed through him, tempered by her steadfast presence. “With you by my side, I will not fail,” he said at last, the statement as simple as the dawn breaking behind them.

Zelda’s eyes met his, a spark of something like relief glistening there. “That is all I hoped to hear, Your Highness,” she said, the formal address softened by her tone. She took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and added with a knowing glance, “Are you nervous?”

He let a shadow of a smile touch his lips, the first in days. “There is too much to consider, too many threads to untangle, to dwell on the coronation alone. The crown is inevitable; restoring Hyrule, that is where my thoughts lie.”

The breeze stirred, cool against their skin, as if carrying away some unspoken burden. Zelda inclined her head once more, the gesture imbued with assurance. “One by one, Link,” she echoed, a promise set between them.

A hush settled between them, heavy as the stone beneath their feet. The mourning chants below faded to a distant murmur, leaving only the sigh of wind weaving through the tower’s high arches. Link’s gaze slipped from the sea of black-clad figures to the horizon, where the land unfurled in muted greens and golds, awaiting a promise long delayed.

“I wish he could have stayed the brother I grew up with,” Link said, his voice low, touched with the ache of memory. It was rare, this opening of old wounds—he spoke not as a prince or a king-to-be but as a brother burdened by loss. “Before the crown, he was different. A man with laughter like thunder and a will as steady as the earth. But after… after the prophecy did not come true, something in him changed.”

Zelda turned, the pale light catching in her hair like spun gold. Her expression softened, but it was the shadow of something more somber that clouded her eyes. “I’ve often wondered,” she began cautiously, a note of hesitation threading through her words. “If the crown, or perhaps the sheer relief that followed the prophecy’s failure, made him complacent. Or if he was ever truly what he seemed.”

The question, bold and raw, startled the silence. Zelda’s breath caught, and she drew herself up, hands folding in front of her as though to guard against the slip of her tongue. “Forgive me, your Highness,” she said, words hurried. “I spoke out of turn. It was not my place to—”

“No,” Link interjected, and his voice, though soft, carried the firmness of understanding. He looked at her, the blue of his eyes deepened by something like acceptance. “You need not ask pardon, my lady. I am not offended. Truth be told, I have wondered the same, though I scarce had the heart to say it aloud.”

The wind stilled for a moment, as though even the air held its breath. Below, the procession edged forward, the glint of steel and polished wood catching sunlight where the guards flanked the bier.

Link’s gaze traced their movements, but his mind strayed to memories half-buried, of a brother whose joy had once been untamed before ambition coiled around him like a serpent.

Zelda’s voice, quieter now, softened the sharpness of their exchange. “Do you think the prophecy was the catalyst, then? That the moment it proved false, he saw it as a sign that he could never be challenged—that he could never falter?”

Link’s eyes clouded, torn between grief and understanding. He nodded once, slowly, as if testing the weight of that truth. “Perhaps. Or perhaps he feared that fate would return in another guise, seeking a reckoning. And in that fear, he grew hardened, bitter. The seers’ family paid the price for that fear—an act I could neither defend nor forget.”

Zelda’s expression shifted, brows knitting as she grappled with her own thoughts. “It was a cruel thing,” she said, her voice strained with the burden of knowing.

“To punish them for a prophecy they believed, for words that lingered like storm clouds over the realm. When they only made use of what the Goddess Hylia had blessed them with… It marked the end of innocence—for him and for all of us. How could trust thrive after that?”

The weight of their shared understanding pressed against them, binding them in the silence that followed. Link watched the sky, the first pinpricks of twilight seeding its expanse. He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly.

“It was an end, yes,” he murmured, “but now it must be a beginning. If my brother’s reign was forged in doubt and fear, then mine must rise on what was lost—trust, unity, and the bond that once made us strong.”

Zelda’s eyes met his, her expression brightened by a rare gleam of hope. “And that bond,” she said, “will hold so long as you are the one to restore it.”

The wind resumed its whisper, gentler now, as if their vows had been carried on it, out to the distant mountains and beyond.

Zelda’s gaze lingered on the horizon, her thoughts heavy as the sky bled into the brighter shades of dawn. The silence between them had settled once more, but this time, it thrummed with unspoken truths.

She turned to Link again, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face before she pressed forward, her words cautious, deliberate.

“My prince, you speak of trust, of unity,” she began, choosing each word as one might place a foot on a narrow ledge. “But tell me—your heart is wide with understanding, even for those who were wronged. Do you believe that same kindness, that same mercy, could extend to the Harbinger?”

The name fell between them like a blade, sharp and cold. She almost feared she had pushed too far this time.

The Harbinger—last scion of the seers who had dared to speak Hyrule’s most dreaded prophecy. A shadow whispered about in dark corners, feared and hunted. She was a specter who carried a trail of blood behind her, a wound that never healed.

Link’s gaze shifted from the dim glow of the sky to the steady azure of Zelda’s eyes. The question twisted in the space between them, drawing out an answer that he weighed with the full measure of his conscience. 

“Sympathy,” he said slowly, the word carrying the weight of a judgment he hadn’t yet rendered. “I have that, yes. She was a child when she fled—a child who saw her kin struck down for speaking what they believed to be the truth.”

The memory of the decree—the royal guards, their eyes cold, the murmurs that followed like a storm—still haunted the halls of his mind. Link’s jaw tightened, and he turned his gaze outward, looking beyond the walls of the keep as if he could see through the years of shadow and rumor that cloaked the Harbinger’s name.

“But vengeance,” he continued, his voice deepening with resolve, “should not be meted with vengeance. The lives she took were not hers to claim, no matter the pain that drove her hand.” He exhaled a breath that seemed to take a part of himself with it.

“When I catch her—and I will, for Hyrule’s safety and the justice that has long been neglected—I will see that she stands before judgment. It is not mercy to let violence go unchecked, no matter how it was born.”

Zelda watched him, a spark of understanding igniting in her gaze. The future king stood before her, not just a brother bereft or a man weighted by the sins of his kin, but a ruler who would carry his convictions even when they warred with his sympathy. 

She nodded, a gesture as solemn as the words it punctuated. “I understand, my prince. The line between justice and mercy is thin, but it is one that must be kept.”

A stillness settled over them again, but it was not void. It thrummed with the awareness of trials yet to come, as the last bands of gold and violet surrendered to the rich blue of morning. Stars flickered into cessation, their cold fire hidden in the light watching over Hyrule like the eyes of ancestors who bore witness and judged from afar.

The wind, once cool and insistent, softened to a whisper that carried their vows out to where they could no longer touch them.

And so they stood, the prince who would soon be king, and the princess with wisdom that challenged fate, gazing into a sky that promised more battles, more reckonings, and perhaps a hope that only they could forge. 

The silence spoke as the sun rose, but it was a silence that promised that the future, with its secrets and oaths, had far more to say.

But that day, it wasn’t only silence that spoke—but the haunting echo of a folly that promised fruition.

A/N

Prologue's done! Welcome, lovely.

With Tears of the Kingdom out, there are plenty of potential routes to consider for a fanfiction. Ultimately, I decided to go for a completely new tale in the LoZ universe. For references, this setting is post-TOTK [many, many years after that…  around a millennia], so geography will follow it, aside from a few differences/additions to emphasize the change.

[Name] hasn't made her appearance yet, but she will in the next chapter! We're all laying the groundwork first here… because afterwards, we'll jump right into it! 

Chapter Text

I.

The dawn of coronation day broke over Hyrule in hues of gilded flame, dawn catching the newly polished battlements of Hyrule Castle and glancing off its high spires with a light that seemed almost divine. 

Beneath that sky, the capital teemed with life, a city that had grown beyond the whispers of its storied past into a thriving bastion of culture and trade. Cobblestone streets crisscrossed between buildings of stone and timber, adorned with the bright pennants of merchants and artisans, their crafts speaking to centuries of ingenuity forged by necessity and perseverance. Market squares rang with the calls of vendors, the hiss of forges, and the chatter of eager townsfolk. 

Hyrule’s civilization, once scattered and rebuilt in the shadow of the Calamity more than a millennia ago, now stood resplendent—a testament to resilience and newfound unity.

Yet, behind the grand colonnades and arched thresholds of the castle, a quieter world stirred. Link, the prince who stood upon the brink of kingship, felt the hours crawl by as the morning unfurled. His eyes hadn’t gotten the chance to flutter asleep at all, and he could feel the wringing grasp of exhaustion in his limbs.

The weeks before this day had been a storm of preparation, more rigorous than any campaign he had faced. The castle’s halls bustled with tailors draped in measuring ribbons, advisors shuffling ledgers and decrees, and guards standing vigilant by doors that seemed to never cease opening and closing. The capital thrummed with anticipation, a heartbeat matched by Link’s own. 

Yet among the court’s flutter and fuss, there was a shadow of frustration that marred his resolve. He had penned letters of earnest plea and entreaty many moons ago, sending messengers by horse and hawk to the peaks where the Rito made their roosts, to the river-laced domain of the Zora, to the scorching mountains the Gorons called home, and to the sun-scorched expanse of the Gerudo Desert. He had written each letter by his own hand, words inked in the long hours of moonlit solitude, laden with the promises of renewal, with vows to mend what had been severed by his brother’s cold edicts.

But the day of his coronation had arrived, and the responses that should have flown in on swift wings or stamped hooves did not come. The silence from the tribes was as palpable as a blade held against the skin. Couriers returned empty-handed, their gazes downcast, offering only stammered apologies for the empty echoes they brought back with them. Link accepted their returns with a nod, concealing the ache that unfurled within his chest like a slow, inexorable tide. 

It was not unexpected, but disappointment left its own mark, deeper than any scar.

Within the capital’s heart, beyond the palace walls, the citizens busied themselves with preparations for the grand event. 

Town criers announced the coronation with voices loud enough to reach the farthest alleys, while weavers embroidered new tapestries with the crest of the Hylian royal family, unfurling them over the stone facades like fresh blooms. Cobblers, masons, and innkeepers all felt the rippling effects of this day, as every corner of the capital hummed with anticipation and wonder.

Hylians from all about the territory of Hyrule flocked into the Kingdom, from the towns of Kakariko and Hateno, to the city of Tarrey, and even the faraway Lurelin.  

Yet the glistening streets and the throng of people bustling in celebration masked the nervous energy that threaded through the heart of Hyrule. Whispers of the absent tribes grew like ivy on the edges of conversation, too daring to be spoken outright yet persistent enough to remind the kingdom of its fragility. 

The crown that Link would bear would not merely rest upon his head as a symbol of his sovereignty; it would be a testament to his reign. 

He paced in the Hall of Crowns, a place commemorating history just as the Hall of Heroes did. His reflection was dim, wavering in the polished marble floor, bedecked in sunlight that streamed through the towering stained glass windows. Each panel was a story—the Hylian Champion, the Princess of Wisdom, and the Calamity vanquished by courage reborn. 

Link's heart thudded beneath the ceremonial robes, weightier than the steel of his mail had ever been. The missives sent to the tribes had been his first effort to draw the kingdom's breath back into one harmonious song, yet they lay silent like embers in an empty hearth.

Beyond the walls of the palace, the capital itself was proof of change: villages that had once huddled in the protective shadow of the castle had grown into towns, their modest fields replaced by bustling districts alive with the shouts of traders and the clamor of smithies. Towns, in turn, had flourished into cities marked by stone bridges that arched over winding canals and public squares where scholars debated openly beneath statues of Hylian champions. 

It was the dawn of a new era, but one threatened by fractures only visible to those who dared look closely.

Link breathed deeply, the lingering scent of wax and parchment mingling with the faint echo of festival drums drifting through the window. Despite the elegies weeks ago, Hyrule was more alive than ever, as if it sensed the turning of an age, one day poised between the past’s grip and the uncertain promise of the future. 

But without the tribes, without their trust rekindled and their banners raised alongside his own, the peace he hoped to shepherd might prove as fragile as an autumn leaf.

The crown awaited him, cold and gleaming—a symbol not just of rule, but of a kingdom divided and yearning.

Today, he would take it. Tomorrow, he would seek to mend the silence that still lay heavy across the land.

The hour of crowning loomed the longer Link stood in the hushed expanse of the Hall of Crowns. The morning sunlight poured slantwise, casting a lattice of colors from the great stained glass windows onto the cold marble beneath his feet. Suddenly, the regalia on his person felt as heavy as the burdens of rectifying all that had been wronged. 

He could drown in his ceremonial robes as deep as midnight, a cloak of duty and destiny woven tighter than any fabric. His fingers flexed by his sides, betraying the tension that coiled within him like a tightened spring.

A knock, gentle but firm, stirred him from his thoughts. The massive wooden doors creaked open, and Zelda stepped inside, her presence as graceful as ever, eyes sharp with understanding. She moved with the poise of one who knew the weight of royal duty yet carried it lightly enough not to stumble under its press. She was, after all, the princess of Hyrule in all but name—betrothed to the Crown Prince, by decree if not by heart.

Link’s gaze met hers, a silent question conveyed in the line of his brow and the shadowed flicker in his blue eyes. “Is everyone in attendance?” His voice was steady, but beneath it lay an edge, frayed with hope and a premonition of disappointment.

Zelda’s lips pressed into a thin line, the pause between them weighted. She knew what he truly asked for. 

“None of the other tribes are here,” she said softly. The silence that followed was more eloquent than any consolation she could offer. It stretched between them, draped like a mourning veil over the gilded hall.

Link exhaled, the breath shuddering as it left him, and nodded once. “I shouldn’t dwell on it,” he said, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s hardly fitting to be so bleak on the day of my crowning.”

Zelda’s mouth quirked at the corner, almost teasing, though her eyes remained serious. “Indeed. Some claim that such thoughts on coronation day bring misfortune. Wouldn’t want to start your reign under such omens, would we?”

A mirthless chuckle escaped Link, fleeting as a ghost. Together they paced the hall, their footsteps echoing off the arched stone ceiling. The Hall of Crowns was a place carved from legend and memory, each corner resplendent with carvings of great kings and queens past. But it was the stained glass that drew the eye most fiercely, that pulled Link to a halt with its somber radiance.

There, in brilliant blues and golds, the Champions of the past were immortalized: Mipha, poised with serene grace; Revali, wings spread with defiant pride; Daruk, steadfast and unyielding; Urbosa, fierce as the desert sun. Their faces gazed down, eyes unblinking, unwavering, reminding him that the blood and sacrifice that once saved Hyrule still coursed through the veins of its people. 

And yet, those bonds now felt like memories shrouded in mist.

“I do not wish for it all to go to waste,” Link said, voice tight as if the stained glass itself might hear and judge him. “Everything they fought for… everyone who believed that Hyrule could be more than just fractured kingdoms sewn together by necessity.”

Zelda watched him, eyes softened not with pity but with an understanding deeper than words. “It is no secret that your royal advisor claims you are nearly inconsolable,” she said, a hint of a smile in her tone, lightening the air between them. 

The echo of the old man’s mutterings reached back to them both, softened now with fondness. She stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm. “But perhaps that worry is what ensures you will do better.”

A silence passed, one of shared acknowledgment. Then Link’s head dipped, the tension in his shoulders easing as though a great weight had shifted, even if only slightly. 

“You’re right,” he said at last, his tone resigned but not without warmth. “Worries add no days to a life.” He turned to her, catching her gaze as if it anchored him to the present moment, to the path that awaited him beyond these hours of doubt.

Slowly, he reached for her hand, lifting it to press a light kiss upon the back of her fingers, a gesture of thanks more than affection. “Thank you, my lady,” he murmured, the touch of ceremony to his voice softened by sincerity. “You will be my anchor once I am king.”

She inclined her head, the movement slight, but her eyes lingered on him, and for a fleeting instant, there was something in the way she regarded him—duty-bound, yes, but more than that. It was the unsaid comfort that passed between them like a current, steadfast and silent as the stone beneath their feet. Ambiguous as it could be.

They stood there, the colors of the Champions casting a brilliant kaleidoscope over them, as if the past and the future both watched with bated breath. Beyond the hall, the bells began to toll, and the sky beyond the high windows seemed to darken with its own knowing. 

The hour approached, and with it, the weight of what was to come.

The throne hall of Hyrule Castle was adorned as if to rival the heavens themselves. 

High, vaulted ceilings traced with golden filigree reflected the sunlight streaming in through grand arched windows, casting a warm glow upon the sea of expectant faces gathered within. The opulent banners of the royal crest hung heavy against marble columns, and the air was filled with a quiet hum of anticipation, the kind that settled before a storm.

Link knelt before the altar, its stone polished and cold against the weight of his robes. In his hands, he cradled the golden scepter, the symbol of Hyrule’s continuity and rule, its engraved surface cool beneath his touch. Before him stood the sage, robes of deep green embroidered with the symbols of the Triforce. The old man’s voice rolled through the hall, a sonorous chant of wisdom and peace, heralding the dawn of a new era brought by the king who now knelt before him. 

Link’s head remained bowed, eyes cast down to the floor where the light danced in prismatic shards. The words of the sage washed over him, solemn and deliberate, but within, Link’s mind churned. Each breath was weighted with the whispers of doubt and the heavy thrum of resolve. 

What if the tribes never answer? What if peace eludes my grasp as it did my brother’s? He pushed the thoughts aside, replacing them with silent vows—vows of unity, of penance, of a kingdom reborn under a reign not marred by pride or distance.

“Link of Hyrule, prince of valor, soon to be crowned king of a new dawn,” the sage intoned, lifting the crown in trembling, wizened hands. The gemstone-encrusted circlet seemed to shimmer with an inner light, its golden frame reflecting the hopes of those gathered. 

The air held its breath as the sage turned to him, voice deepening with reverence. “What words do you offer to your people before this momentous bond is sealed?”

The hall fell silent, every pair of eyes fixed on the man who would soon rise as their sovereign. Link lifted his head, blue eyes meeting the crowd, absorbing the expectation in their gazes. His heart beat steadily, like the distant call of a drum. Their faces were a mosaic of hope, trepidation, and silent pleas for a future unmarred by the errors of the past. 

“People of Hyrule,” he began, his voice steady, resonating through the throne hall like the echo of an ancient bell. “Today, I stand before you not just as a prince, but as a servant who knows the trust placed in him is sacred and heavy. I vow to lead not with the silence that divides but with the voice that calls us to unity. The days when Hyrule stood as fractured kingdoms, bound by suspicion and grudging alliances, will end under my rule.”

A murmur rippled through the hall, the sound of hearts quickening as hope took seed.

”I pledge to mend what was broken, to reach out to the tribes that have turned their backs and bring them to the table not as subjects, but as allies. Hyrule will not be a realm of shadowed peace and silence, but one of shared song and shared toil.” His chest rose and fell, a breath held and then released, as if the weight of each word was a chain lifted from his soul. “By this scepter, and with this crown, I shall uphold not just the safety of our lands, but the honor and kinship that binds us. This, I swear.”

The sage nodded, satisfied, lifting the crown in both hands to place it upon Link’s brow. The crowd leaned forward as if drawn by an invisible thread, breaths caught in the moment where history paused, awaiting its next breath. And then—

Slam-! Crash!

The intrusion shattered the sanctity of the ceremony, drawing a collective gasp from the assembly. Guards shifted, hands flying to the hilts of their swords, but no one moved, stunned by the audacity of such an interruption. The sunlight pouring in from the entryway silhouetted a lone figure who stepped forward with a stride that defied the decorum of the day.

Clad in the deep crimson and silver of his house, the intruder’s eyes dark and sharp as a hawk’s. They scanned the room before settling on the kneeling prince with a look that challenged all who watched. Lord Varyn, the late king’s confidante, stood in stark contrast to the opulent splendor around him.

Link felt the wave of adrenaline and confusion altogether, and in one swift, practiced motion, he rose from the altar, the weight of the scepter grounding him as he leveled his gaze at the intruder. The crown hovered still in the sage’s hands, forgotten in the sharp tension that now bound the hall.

“Lord Varyn…” Link’s voice cut through the silence, tempered with authority and the steel edge of surprise. “What reason have you for this interruption on a day such as this?”

He believed that all nobles had already taken their seats accordingly, his page told him so, but a bird was missing from its nest, it seemed. 

The hall held its breath, the golden gleam of the crown now a mere shadow as eyes flicked between the would-be king and the defiant lord who stood between them and destiny.

The man in question surveyed the crowd with eyes as sharp and cold as polished obsidian. His long, silver-streaked hair fell in a regal cascade over the dark robes embroidered with Sheikah and Zonai glyphs that seemed to writhe with latent power. The silence crackled with tension as he raised one hand, adorned with an old signet ring that gleamed inconspicuously.

“You have spoken well, Prince Link,” Varyn’s voice was smooth as silk, yet it rang with an edge that cut through the gathered assembly as he ignored the question demanded his way. “You have promised unity, harmony, and restoration. But let me ask you all, my fellow Hylians—how many times have we, as a kingdom, placed our faith in such promises, only to be met with ruin?”

A murmur swept through the crowd, uncertain and nervous. Link’s breath hitched as he met Varyn’s gaze, bewilderment warring with indignation. This was his older brother’s confidant, a man once trusted and close. 

Yet now, there was an ambition gleaming in Varyn’s eyes that spoke of deeper motives, twisted by years of shadowed plots and forgotten secrets.

In the back of the prince’s mind, he couldn’t fathom the intrusion—the need for such theatrics. Even if it’s patently clear that this was no mere entertainment. Dread crept into his bones.

“... Your audacity is noted, Lord Varyn,” Link said, voice steady despite the turmoil within him. He took a measured step forward, the scepter held firm in his hand. “But to interrupt this sacred day with such accusations—this is not a challenge born of loyalty or concern, but of ambition and discord. I ask you, my people, to see through the veil of these words. I swear to you, I will bring change.”

Varyn’s mouth curved into a slight smile. 

“Change,” he echoed, letting the word hang like smoke. “Tell me, will this change come from a king who begs his people to follow him? A king who sends desperate letters, pleading for the return of old alliances?”

The sting of Varyn’s words coiled around the crowd, tightening like a noose. Link felt the pulse of doubt thrum through the hall, and his heart quickened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Varyn’s voice, calm and commanding, cut through again.

“No,” Varyn continued, each word enunciated with deliberate force. “Hyrule needs a ruler born not of hollow vows but of sheer discipline and unwavering strength. You speak of the tribes that once stood beside us—where are they now? Absent. Silent. They have not answered you, and they will not. But I would see a kingdom where the will of the crown is iron, unbending, unyielding.”

A palpable chill settled over the gathered Hylians. For a moment, doubt gleamed in their eyes like the sheen of a drawn blade, reflecting Varyn’s vision of order born of dominance. But then, a murmur rose, hesitant yet defiant, carried by one voice and then another. 

“No!” came a shout, breaking the silence. It was followed by others, rippling through the pews and seats until it surged like a wave. Princess Zelda stood from her seat, her expression one of resolution as she too, carried the voice of many. “We believe in the era of the next king.”

Link’s gaze swept over his people after casting a grateful look at his betrothed, and something within him steadied, fierce and bright. He raised the scepter high, letting the murmurs grow until they drowned out the last echoes of Varyn’s speech. 

“Hyrule will not be ruled by fear,” said the king-to-be, his voice ringing with conviction. “You may speak of discipline, of iron will, but I speak of trust. And I see now that my people wish to hope, not cower.”

A long, drawn breath slipped from Varyn’s chest, and he inclined his head, a gesture that dripped with mock civility. “Ah, hope,” he said, the word soured as it left his lips. His eyes swept over the assembly, now thrumming with unity. “Hope, a word so often spoken for centuries past. And yet, tell me, how much did your hope truly stave off the darkness? How many times has hope alone been your savior?”

Silence reigned again, the chill of his question seeping into the marble floors and high, vaulted ceiling. But Link stood firm, crownless yet resolute, the dawn of his rule poised at the edge of an uncertain blade. 

Is this truly happening? The question flitted not only in his mind, but everyone else’s. 

An objection to the sovereign rule.

Varyn’s laugh rang out, cold and cutting, echoing from the vaulted stone arches as if the hall itself joined in mockery. The silence his question had cast lay heavy, but now it broke beneath the sound of his scorn. He stepped forward, dark robes flowing, eyes alight with a cunning gleam that spoke of power held and wielded in secret.

An usurper.

“Knights, seize him!” The prince’s command cut through the thrumming tension, voice laced with urgency. The guards, clad in glistening mail and crested helms, surged forward in disciplined ranks. But Varyn’s smile only widened, and he lifted a hand, fingers splayed like the talons of some dark bird.

On the day of crowning…

A crimson mist, sharp as fresh blood, unfurled from his fingers and spread like a living shroud, twining through the air in whorls of creeping malice. It descended upon the knights and the gathering of onlookers, curling through the aisles and pews, making the gold-inlaid stone seem to shiver. Cries of alarm broke out as the people pressed back, crowding toward the doors in desperate confusion. 

When the sun doth meet the shadowed veil,

“Ah, you see it now, don’t you?” Varyn’s voice was silken with triumph, and it coiled around the hall like the mist itself. “You have been disillusioned by peace, fooled into believing in the strength of hope alone. But your hope, your frail faith, has done nothing but falter. The late king shattered oaths as if they were straw. Who among you dares say that this new king will not do the same?”

Shall the ancient malice rise,

Shadow magic. Link’s heart pounded, eyes darting over the scene as chaos threatened to splinter the room. The knights who had pushed through the mist began to stagger, limbs jerking as if pulled by invisible strings. Their swords clattered to the ground, fingers twisting into grotesque shapes, faces contorted with a pain they could not voice. A breath of horror swept through the gathered crowd, eyes wide and white with fear as the mist seeped closer.

Borne anew from blood and betrayal.

With a single, decisive motion, Link let the scepter fall, its golden weight echoing as it struck the stone floor. His hand flew to the hilt of the sword at his side, drawing it with a ring that cut through the din. The blade gleamed, the steel unmarred and ready, though the foe before him was unlike any he had faced. 

His voice, edged with resolve, rang out: “Enough, Varyn. Your words will hold sway no longer.”

But even as he spoke, Zelda’s voice pierced the rising clamor. “Ancient Sheikah magic-!” Her eyes were wide, the color in her cheeks drained as she watched the red mist writhe like a living thing. “Magic of shadow and blood—long thought lost!”

The Sheikah, whose wisdom and prowess had once protected Hyrule, had dwindled over centuries; their secrets had been whispered only in legends, left to crumble with time. Yet here was Varyn, wielding the forgotten arts with a mastery that struck terror into the bones of those who looked on.

Varyn’s gaze shifted to Link, dark amusement playing across his features. “You see, Prince, while you speak of alliances and mercy, I speak of rule so absolute that even your enemies will bow before you.”

The knights trapped by the crimson tendrils twitched as though they were marionettes, jerking against their will. Link’s grip on his sword tightened, muscles coiled as he shifted his stance. The red mist crept closer, seeping like a wound through the grandeur of the hall. And beyond the chaos, Varyn stood resolute, eyes bright with the promise of an age not ruled by peace, but by force.

Link’s gaze swept to Zelda, whose expression mirrored the urgency thundering in his veins. He raised his sword, the keen edge gleaming in defiance. The path forward was dark and shrouded, but one thing burned clear as the flames of war: Varyn would not be allowed to claim Hyrule.

The clang of metal echoed in the opulent hall as Link charged forward, sword raised, the gleam of the blade catching the shifting light of the stained-glass windows. Each stride carried the weight of desperation, the thrum of his pulse pounding like war drums. 

Varyn watched him approach, dark amusement unfurling across his features, and a low chuckle slipped from his lips, as though the chaos around them was nothing but an elaborate jest.

Before the blade could strike true, a figure was flung into Link’s path—a civilian, eyes glazed with unashamed manipulation, limbs seized by the thrall of crimson mist. The sword met flesh, and time almost froze, the sickening thud resounding louder than any cheer or fanfare.

Blood bloomed, dark and red, as the victim crumpled forward, lifeless eyes fixed on nothing.

Link staggered back, breath caught in his chest, horror etched into every line of his face. His sword, still in his grasp, trembled. The sword in his hand felt heavy—heavier than he could ever thought. No—I... !

“Your people, Prince,” Varyn said, the mockery in his tone biting, “are not yours to command now. Not when the very breath they take is bound to my will.”

The red mist thickened, its tendrils snaking through the hall like living veins. Civilians and knights alike stood twitching, their eyes glazed and unfocused, as if puppets awaiting their master’s command. The hall that had moments before echoed with hope now became a tableau of twisted dread.

“What… have you done, Varyn?” Link’s voice was hoarse, fury and anguish laced within each word as he looked around, unable to avoid the sight of hands grasping at him, limbs jerking unnaturally, faces pale and lost.

Varyn spread his arms wide, a dark crownless king upon an unseen throne. 

“Behold, the power of true rule. Not whispers of promises or empty alliances, but might that bends all to its will. Now, marionettes,” he commanded, voice raised, rich and cutting, “seize the pretender, the false lord who would lead you to ruin!”

The spellbound knights surged first, blades whistling through the air as they charged. Link’s instincts roared to life. He parried the first strike, the clash of steel reverberating in his bones, the next blow narrowly deflected by the flat of his blade. The mind-bound guards moved without hesitation, and the horror of their forced loyalty carved a deeper wound in him than any blade ever could.

Link gritted his teeth, twisting as a civilian—a woman whose hands trembled with the strain of forced movement—lunged at him. He kicked her back, the action a dagger to his conscience as her body fell limp like a discarded doll. 

The cries of the onlookers mingled with the groans of those caught in Varyn’s thrall, creating a cacophony of misery that made the hall feel suffocatingly small.

“Zelda!” The name ripped from his throat as he fought through the press of bodies, the sword a reluctant tool to defend himself. He caught a glimpse of her, golden hair disheveled, eyes wide but unfocused, pupils ringed with a sickly red glow. His heart clenched as he saw her move, a puppet of Varyn’s will.

She staggered forward, her voice, usually so steady, twisted into something foreign as she spoke, “He must be stopped. The king must fall.” The words, though not her own, struck him deeper than any command Varyn had uttered.

Link pushed forward, despair clawing at him as he tried to reach her, to pull her free from the unseen strings that bound her will. Around him, the knights moved with a dreadful rhythm, their strikes relentless. He parried one blow, his muscles straining, and spun to dodge another as sweat stung his eyes. The civilians, too, moved toward him, their hands outstretched, faces twisted by the same crimson-hued control.

“Varyn, stop this!” Link shouted, desperation cracking his voice as he fended off another lunge. But the man only laughed, a sound woven of shadows and the inevitability of defeat.

“No, Prince,” Varyn’s voice rang out, triumphant and cruel. “This is the dawn of a reign built on true power, not the weakness of hope.”

The throne room dissolved into a blur of sword strikes, shouts, and the metallic scent of blood, as the heir to the throne fought not just for his kingdom, but for its very soul.

The clamor of steel and the anguished cries of the people melded into a din that gnawed at Link’s mind. His sword felt heavier with each swing, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid bitterness of crimson mist. There were too many people, their dazed eyes fixed on him as they moved with twitching, unnatural grace. 

He was alone—utterly alone. No ally stood by him now. Only the haunted silence of those controlled and the mocking laughter of the one who had orchestrated this nightmare.

A chill gripped him, running deeper than the clash of battle. The air grew heavy, almost suffocating, and then a memory, dark and long-buried, surged forward with the clarity of prophecy spoken anew.

"On the day of the crowning, when the sun doth meet the shadowed veil, shall the ancient malice rise, borne anew from blood and betrayal."

The words echoed in his mind, each syllable sinking like a knife into his chest. This was no ordinary coup, no display of power by an ambitious lord; this was the prophecy that had haunted Hyrule for decades, the omen that was thought to have died with his brother’s unchallenged coronation. But now, in the shadowed light cast by the stained-glass depictions of past Champions, Link knew with a certainty that struck to his core: it was not his brother’s crowning that had been marked by fate. 

It was his own.

Varyn’s voice cut through the turmoil, loud and cold as a winter wind. “My hatred will never perish, Prince,” he declared, arms raised high, red mist swirling around him like a shroud. The power that radiated from him seemed to darken the very light of the hall, casting long, sinuous shadows over faces slack with dread. “I shall establish a rule that will echo through the ages, a reign forged not in the frailty of promises, but in the might of unyielding command.”

Link’s chest tightened, the pieces of the prophecy slotting together with a dreadful finality. Borne anew from blood and betrayal. The blood of the man he had cut down, innocent and unwilling. The betrayal of trust, embodied in Varyn’s false loyalty. This was it. The ancient malice had risen, not as some phantom from the past, but here and now, amidst the carnage of his coronation.

He locked eyes with Varyn, who met his gaze with a smile, cruel and knowing.

His breath caught, and in that heartbeat of distraction, an armored knight—a man he had trained beside in the yard, laughed with over shared tales—lunged forward. The sword found purchase, slicing through the heavy ceremonial robes and into the flesh of his shoulder beneath. 

“Grah-!” Pain flared hot and sharp, dragging Link back into the fray as crimson warmth soaked into the blue of his royal attire.

He gasped, staggering as he deflected a second blow, the clang of metal against metal echoing in his ears. The room was a whirl of movement, the faces of once-loyal knights and terrified civilians twisted and dazed, their limbs driven by a force not their own. Fingers clawed at him, mouths opening in wordless wails as they tried to seize him, their eyes ringed with the unnatural gleam of Varyn’s red mist. 

Among the throng, Zelda’s face appeared—pale, stricken, but with that same red glow in her eyes. She reached for him, her fingers trembling with the strain of an unseen command. Link’s heart clenched, and the sting of guilt flared, deeper than the wound in his side. 

He had failed them.

On the day he was meant to stand as their beacon, he was instead a man hunted, the hall of his ancestors turned into a nightmare of thralls.

“Seize him! End him!” Varyn’s voice carried, ringing with the authority of a conqueror, each word pressing down like the sentence of a judge.

Link’s vision wavered, but he forced himself to move. He could not die here, not under the weight of his people’s—all puppets now—screams. He wrenched free from the hands clawing at him, gritting his teeth as the pain seared through his side. With a last, desperate sweep of his sword, he pushed the thralls back and lunged toward the postern door set in the hall’s stone flank. 

It burst open under the force, and he stumbled through, the cacophony of shouts and clanging swords swallowed by the corridor’s shadowed silence.

A/N

To, say, compensate for the lack of MC, there will be another update very very soon! [In hours or a day soon] Because I too am itching to get her out there, because that's where the fun actually begins. It probably won't even seem urgent because MC's going to be a complete menace. So while everything is tight and rigid in structure now, all's bound to change when MC slots herself into the actual narrative.

Ah, and I wanted to show off Link's mannerisms as royalty, especially to Zelda. Is there a reason for it? Yes, because he's going to be in for such a loop when he finally encounters MC—who is going to be the paragon of all noble finesse. Or rather, the lack of it 😆

Until then, my darlings, be charming ◇

Chapter Text

II.

The cold of the hallway struck him, stark against the fevered heat of his wound. Blood dripped, staining the polished marble as he staggered forward. His breaths came shallow, ragged, each step a labor that made his vision pulse with darkness. But he kept moving, even as guilt threatened to suffocate him. 

He had left them—left Zelda, left the innocents caught in Varyn’s thrall.

The flicker of sunlight revealed a figure standing at the corridor’s junction: his royal advisor, robes pristine, eyes sharp behind spectacles. Relief surged, bitter, and fleeting. “Your Highness, what—” the advisor began, but Link cut him off, eyes wild and desperate.

“Flee! The hall—Varyn, he—”

The words died as the advisor’s mouth curved into a smile, thin and cold.

Too late, Link saw the glint of steel. 

Pain exploded in his waist, the dagger slipping between his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs. He choked, vision blurring as he shoved the man away, the betrayal more potent than the blade.

The advisor’s smile twisted, the red mist curling like tendrils from beneath his robe. “Too late, Your Highness,” he whispered as Link stumbled back, clutching the wound.

The corridor was awash in red, the mist seeping through cracks, slithering across the walls like living veins. Link pressed on, every step a battle against the encroaching dark. He deflected a blow from a mind-bound knight, the weight of his sword feeling leaden in his blood-slicked hands. Civilians, faces blank and eyes burning with unnatural fury, lunged for him, and he moved through them like a shadow, pushing and deflecting, each attempt to spare them a testament to the man he still yearned to be.

The palace that once symbolized hope and history was now twisted into a labyrinth of peril, every hallway thrumming with the whispered echoes of the prophecy fulfilled.

How did everything come undone so swiftly? He would never get the satisfaction of an answer.

The postern gates gave way with a groan, and Link burst into the open day, the sharp scent of earth and stone mingling with the metallic tang of his blood. Sunlight glared down mercilessly, bathing the courtyard and castle walls in harsh, unforgiving brilliance. The crimson mist clung to the air, seeping out through the cracks and seams of the grand castle like poison, its color vibrant and sickly under the midday sun. The sounds of pursuit echoed behind him—footfalls and shouts, the ring of steel drawn from scabbards.

He pushed forward, pain lancing through his side as he stumbled down the narrow path toward the stables. Each step felt like a lifetime, his breaths ragged, mingled with the gasps of the few stable hands who fled at the sight of their prince in such a state. He wasn’t even able to warn them of the mist.

But if he had, would it have changed anything? Another question without a satisfying answer. 

The wooden doors groaned as he flung them open, startling the horses into nervous whinnies. The warm, familiar scent of hay and beasts settled over him like a fleeting balm.

“Easy,” he whispered, voice trembling as he approached his horse, sword sheathed again. The animal’s eyes rolled, wide and white with fright, but Link’s bloodied hand was firm as he reached for the bridle. His fingers fumbled with the buckles, slick with blood and sweat, but he managed to secure it just as the cacophony behind him grew louder—screams and the pounding rush of feet.

They had breached the gates.

A swell of bodies surged into the courtyard, faces once familiar now vacant and enraged, weapons glinting under the unforgiving sunlight. Link’s heart thundered, grunting as he mounted with the pain crawling into his side like beams of lightning. Then with a sharp, desperate kick, he urged the horse forward, out through the stables and onto the stone path that led away from the castle.

The bright day tore at him, whipping his hair back as they galloped toward the edge of the capital. But dread clenched his gut as his eyes swept across the city. 

The red mist curled through the streets, licking at the stones, twisting around lampposts like the fingers of some monstrous hand. People shouted, their voices raised in confusion and anger. Figures lunged at him as he passed, reaching with clawed hands, eyes bright with the eerie glow that marked Varyn’s control.

How, how, how? How had it come to this?

“Hylia, aid me,” Link prayed as he leaned low over the horse’s neck, urging it faster, the shouts of pursuit mingling with the hammer of hooves and the rush of wind in his ears. 

“The defiler is here—do not let him escape! Close the gates!” 

Children cried, mothers screamed, Knights roared. Their voices rang the same words, voices like that of a hellish choir singing an aria. Eyes dipped and withered with red, limbs twisting grotesquely, grumbling as though they were Gibdos and not Hylians.

The gate loomed ahead, the iron portcullis already groaning as it began its descent. His heart clenched, and he dug his heels in, the horse leaping forward in a final burst of speed. 

The sharp clang of the iron teeth biting down roared behind him as they barely slipped through. But even as he escaped the capital, relief was short-lived; a cry split the air, and an arrow, loosed from the walls, struck with deadly precision.

The horse faltered, its scream of pain piercing the day. It stumbled, legs collapsing as it crashed to the ground, sending Link tumbling over the packed earth. He cried out and rolled, the breath knocked from his lungs, pain flaring bright and sharp along his wounded side.

Around him, a cheer rose from those watching atop the city walls, hollow and terrible.

Link pushed himself up, a ragged breath scraping through his teeth as he glanced at the fallen horse, legs kicking in futile, pained arcs. A lump rose in his throat, guilt gnawing at him as he forced himself away. 

There was no time, no hope to save his mount. The open prairies stretched before him, an expanse as broad and flat as the sea, sunlight glaring on the grass like fire. He’d never make it far on foot, exposed and hunted.

“Arrows!” 

He turned, eyes catching the dark line of a stone bridge spanning the width of the river that cut through the land. Staggering forward, he pressed his hand to his wound, crimson seeping between his fingers as he pressed against the stone walls, forward and into the blindspots where arrows would be unable to reach him. Then he continued down the bank, boots almost slipping in the loose earth. The sound of water murmured below as he ducked beneath the stone arch, the world above receding into muffled chaos.

The ceremonial garb, now sodden with blood, clung to him like a curse. He struggled out of it, fingers shaking as he cast it into the current, watching the rich blue fabric catch the sunlight before disappearing downstream. Left in his white tunic, stained and torn, Link pressed his back to the cool stone, every breath a struggle.

It was Hylia’s grace, surely, that he had hidden himself in the canopy of shadows in the nick of time. Above, boots clattered across the bridge, shadows moving in search of him. 

He clenched his jaw, the bright midday sun casting harsh lines across the stone and the shifting water. The current carried away more than just his discarded robe; it carried the echoes of his failures, the hopes of his people, and the vows made before fate turned cruel.

Link pressed his palm against the wound at his waist, the heat of blood seeping through his fingers, sticky and relentless. The other, he pressed against his shoulder, the laceration making his head spin. Each throb sent a spike of pain through his body, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to stifle a groan. The murmur of the river, cool and indifferent, was the only sound beneath the stone arch. Above, the cacophony of booted feet, shouted commands, and the clash of weapons echoed through the air, fractured by the midday glare that turned the world to blinding brightness.

He could not move. Not now, not with his head swimming and every breath a labored effort. His vision blurred at the edges, dark spots crowding in like encroaching night. Link sank onto the earth, letting his head rest against the rough stone, its cold biting into his sweat-dampened hair. 

Whispers of the seer’s prophecy rang through once more for good measure, the truths perceived as mockery now truer than ever. 

“On that day, the Crown shall fall, and all will sing its Requiem.”

Time passed, the minutes bleeding into hours as the sun arced across the sky, relentless and uncaring. The heat pressed down on him, mingling with the fever that gnawed at his strength.

The words still drummed in his mind, a chant as old as it was cruel. “On the day of the crowning, when the sun doth meet the shadowed veil, shall the ancient malice rise, borne anew from blood and betrayal.” It mocked him before, and it still did now, with each pounding heartbeat that pushed the life from his veins. 

It was not his brother’s coronation the seers had foreseen; it was his own—a day that should have been marked by oaths and crowns, but had become one of slaughter and chaos.

A distant shout brought his attention back to the present, his body instinctively tensing as heavy boots thudded over the bridge. Link’s breath came shallow, every muscle taut as shadows flitted across the stones above him. The red mist still coiled in the streets, curling like smoke across rooftops and alleyways. 

Voices carried on the air, calling orders, searching.

“Nothing down here,” one voice barked, rough with impatience. Link's heart threatened to betray him, pounding so loudly he was sure they would hear. The footsteps receded, and he allowed himself the barest exhale, the relief sharp and fleeting. Each time he was left undisturbed, he knew it was only temporary, the next search party only minutes away.

His head dipped, breath shallow. Why was he not under Varyn’s influence? Was it on purpose? To make tyranny a show to the rightful heir? How could he ever begin to make another step?

The sun moved, its light dimming to an amber hue that painted the water beneath the bridge in strokes of fire. The sunlight caught his cerulean eyes, blinding for a moment. He cast his gaze towards it, the warmth a comfort amid the coldness of the river and the chill of his leaking blood. 

“Hylia,” he breathed—he pleaded to the sun.

But with each passing moment, Link’s strength waned. The heat of his blood, now clotting and crusting along his side, felt heavy, dragging him into a sluggish stupor. He shifted, a sharp bolt of pain making him gasp, louder than he intended. The sound dissolved into the whisper of the river, but the echo of his own voice shivered back at him, reminding him of his solitude.

As twilight descended, painting the world in deepening shades of purple and shadow, Link’s vision flickered. His hands fell from the wound, fingers numb and trembling, stained with the dark evidence of his struggle. The world around him blurred, the edge of consciousness fraying. He was too weak to rise, too weak to draw breath without the sharp stab of pain driving it back out.

A hollow ache bloomed in his chest, heavier even than the wound. I was supposed to be their beacon, he thought, a bitter smile twisting his cracked lips. Not their failure. He had vowed to unite the tribes, to break the cycle of broken oaths and silence, and instead, the prophecy had found him like a hawk upon its unsuspecting spoil.

The whispers of the water lapped gently, uncaring as the horizon deepened into the violets of crepusculum. His eyes fluttered, the fight to stay awake slipping from his grasp. The murmur of voices in the distance blended with the echo of the prophecy in his mind, and the weight of guilt pressed harder than any blade.

Link’s eyelids drooped, the last light of day nearly sinking away, taking with it the strength to hold on. His thoughts turned, scattered as leaves in a gale, and he wondered—if the dawn found him again, would he still be himself, or merely a shadow, a memory betrayed by fate?

The world had dimmed into a blur, Link’s vision swimming with the shapes of twilight and shadow. His fingers, slick with blood, were useless weights at his side, and the sword that had once felt like an extension of himself now lay inert across his lap. 

He barely registered the clamor of metal atop the bridge, the shouts and whispers of fabric, and the shift of stone above as a figure dropped down from the bridge with feline-like grace.

The presence was a cold blade at his throat, even before a voice followed—a voice that dripped with sardonic amusement, sharp as the edge of a dagger.

“Well, well. This isn’t the bounty I set out to find,” the voice drawled, feigning a gasp of mock surprise. “But look at you… what a prize indeed. What’s a prince doing so far from his gilded throne? Bleeding, dirty, and panting like a dog.”

Link’s heart clenched, his body too spent to even flinch as the figure stepped from the thickening gloom. The fading light etched her features in sharp relief—eyes glinting with something dangerously akin to glee, a smirk curving her lips as if the world around them was nothing more than a play for her amusement. A stage where she led as the main heroine. 

The mark on her neck, a twisted echo of the seers’ crest, stood stark and defiant, the rest of the mark disappearing down the collar of her ruffled undershirt. “Oh.” She feigned contemplation, an insincere frown tugging her lips as she bowed. “Pardon my manners, you’re no prince anymore, are you, kingling?”

He swallowed thickly, the insult not flying past him. Everyone knew today was the advent of a new rule—his rule, but it had been thwarted. His crown was out of reach, and his throne no doubt hosted the usurper as he lay on the bank, bleeding.

He was no king. Yet this woman regarded him as such with obvious derision. This kind of ire towards the royal family… 

Link met her eyes, steeling himself. “You…”

The Harbinger. 

The name crashed through his mind like the clang of a bell. He knew the stories. He knew her identity—knew her appearance for it was inked on one too many bounty papers. It hadn't clicked until a few seconds ago, and he found the blame in his weakening disposition. 

She was an outlaw, a fugitive, the last remnant of the seer’s line whose family had been purged for their prophecy. Now she stood before him, dark vestments hugging her frame, shadow-threaded cloth catching the dim light like a snare.

“How flattering,” she said, her voice light, mocking. She took a step closer, tilting her head as she surveyed him, eyes dancing with a cruel sort of humor. “Why the awe? Did you think I’d be shuffling about with the rest of your puppeted courtiers?” 

She made a show of glancing around as if expecting a thrall to stumble from the underbrush even if she sheathed her blade. “Not a chance.”

Link tried to move, to draw his sword, or even push himself up against the stone wall, but his body betrayed him. The effort made him gasp, a sound that only widened her smirk. The breath he managed was hoarse, words slurred with exhaustion. His mind was slow to cleave unto the weight of realization, propelled by her taunts. 

“Why… why aren’t you—” 

“Under that puppet-master’s thrall?” she finished for him, her tone clipped with amusement. She raised one eyebrow, the red glow of the fading mist catching on the dark lashes framing her eyes. “I wondered the same when your so-called knights and their loyal pets started lagging around like drunks. Didn’t even spare me a glance when they’d often be on the hunt for me.” Her expression darkened, eyes narrowing with a sharp gleam. 

“But then, I’m not as weak-willed as your beloved subjects, kingling. And it just so happens that there's new prey in the hunting grounds.”

The mockery in her voice made his blood boil, if only for a moment. 

Again with the insulting title. It was one to refer to him as a king when he wasn’t even crowned properly, but to belittle him—kingling. And yet, it was so infuriatingly true; he fled from the castle, left his people to the snare of Varyn. 

He knew it was to preserve his life, to have that chance to return stronger than he was before to liberate his kingdom. But a part of him underneath the armor of honor and duty knew that he also fled from fear of failure. For all his words and oaths, he did just become that; failure personified.

She stepped closer, boots swishing in the shallow currents by the bank, hunkering down until her face was level with his. It was so close he could see the silver threads woven into her dark vestments, the smudge of battle-worn dust on her jaw. “I’m not turned. And you, the golden prince, aren’t so easily turned either,” she noted, voice softening with irony as she glanced at his wound, the dark stain seeping across his tunic, the grin on her face sinister. 

“Though at the moment, it looks like you’re losing a different battle.”

She was amused. This close, he could see it clear as daylight in her eyes, the mocking twist of her lips. The ridicule cut deeper than any wound, but it was the truth that made his stomach twist with something close to despair. The realization settled like a stone in his gut: here he was, heir to Hyrule, reduced to a hunted fugitive, and at the mercy of a woman whose name was whispered as a curse.

The Harbinger, the last defiant note of the prophecy that had unraveled everything, leaned back on her heels, arms folding across her chest. The sunlight fell through the cracks above, painting their hiding place in stripes of light and shadow. And for the first time since the chaos began, Link felt the edges of fate blur, twisting into something new and dangerous.

The Harbinger’s gaze glinted with mirth as she leaned back, hands propped on her knees, the shadowed corners of her smirk catching the last of the sun’s rays. 

“Imagine that,” she said, voice lilting with contempt, “the King-to-be, hiding under a bridge like some forgotten troll. I can’t decide if it’s tragic or poetic.” Her eyes swept over him, taking in the blood-smeared tunic and the pallor of his face. “But I suppose it’s better than finding your pretty head on a pike.”

The words stung, slicing through him with a truth too sharp to ignore. The shame twisted deeper, and Link’s fingers curled weakly against the cold stone beneath him. He wanted to spit a retort, something to pierce the smug veil of her expression, but the breath caught in his chest. 

It wasn’t just her jabs—it was the reality they mirrored. 

He was the prince who had promised hope, now reduced to hiding in shadows, unable even to hold his sword aloft.

The Harbinger shifted, one boot scraping softly against the stone as she straightened. Her [c] eyes took on a speculative gleam as she glanced out at the river’s winding path.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn, but,” she said, almost to herself, as if considering a hand of cards dealt by fate. “Delivering you to the new king of a few hours, now that would fetch quite a bounty.” She smiled, the curve of her lips more dangerous than any blade. 

“Imagine that—me, sitting pretty with a chest full of gold, maybe even a place at court.”

A shiver ran through Link, colder than the pain gnawing at his wound. He knew what it meant for her to think like this, to turn him over. Varyn wouldn’t stop at taking his throne; he’d use it as a foothold to dig deeper into Hyrule’s heart, twisting prophecy into something catastrophic. 

And Calamity itself…

Ganondorf, ancient malice made flesh—

“—shall the ancient malice rise, borne anew from blood and betrayal.”

—would rise in a storm of blood and shadow if the prophecy was fully realized. He didn’t know how it would come to pass, but with Varyn’s art of shadows fulfilling the coup and half the prophecy already, it wouldn’t be impossible. 

Perhaps Varyn himself was malice incarnate. It wouldn't be farfetched. 

His vision blurred, the dark edges creeping closer, and he fought to stay conscious. He needed strength, if only for a moment longer. He drew a breath, ragged and thin, and forced his voice up from the pit of exhaustion. 

“Wait,” he rasped, cutting through the flow of her musings.

Her eyes flicked to him, brows arching in mock surprise. “Oh? The prince speaks. What is it, Your Highness? A plea for mercy? Perhaps some noble last words before I turn you over to the wolves?”

Link swallowed, the effort almost breaking him, but he pressed on, each word laden with urgency. Everything within him screamed insanity, demanding to perish the thought he deigned to consider. But if not now, then when?

“I have… a better offer.”

If not her, then who? 

The smirk on her face wavered, curiosity sparking in its place. She took a step closer, leaning into the fractured light, shadows moving like silk across her features. The silence between them thrummed, tense and electric, as Link felt the weight of his gamble pressing down on his trembling body.

The Harbinger’s smile widened, a spark of mischief glinting in her gaze. She crossed her arms, tilting her head as if pondering a riddle. 

“A better offer, is it? And what, pray tell, can a dead man like you offer that outweighs riches, power, or safety?” She took a step closer, crouching to meet his gaze, her expression a dance of mockery and intrigue. “Speak quickly, prince. Time is hardly your ally, and you’ll trust a Harbinger with such warnings, no? After all, I herald death.”

Link’s chest rose and fell as he struggled for breath, the strain making his vision pulse with black spots.

“Heal me first,” he bit out, voice raw and unsteady.

“Eh?” A pause.

Then she laughed, the sound echoing in the hollow beneath the bridge, sharp and biting. “Heal you?” She clicked her tongue, eyes narrowing with amused malice. “I’m no fool, kingling. I know a rat’s ploy when I see one. Better start talking now, or your fate will be sealed by silence. Besides… I don’t think you are in any position to make demands, hmm?”

Her sing-song voice made him clench his jaw, anger stirring in the pit of his despair. This was a risk—a gamble on the only sliver of leverage he had left. His silence hung between them like the taut string of a drawn bow, and for a moment, he refused to break. 

Duty and morality warred inside him like fire and ice, clashing without end. Two equally powerful forces that made up the principles he lived by, and here he was, thinking of upending everything for what? A desperate gamble. 

Just a few weeks ago, he had been discussing this very criminal with the princess—how he would pass judgment for all that she did. And yet at this moment, it wasn’t her head on the line, but his.

The criminal's eyes flashed, and she sighed dramatically, straightening as if to walk away.

“Very well,” she said, with a casual air that belied the menace in her voice. “I’m sure the Knights would be most interested to know that their fugitive prince cowers beneath their very feet. I’ll call them over, and perhaps they’ll reward me by sparing a seat in the front row when your crown rolls from your head.”

The image jolted through him like a spark to dry tinder, and he called out, eyes shutting tight, voice cracking under the strain. Hylia, forgive me. Before he knew it, pride left and bit the dust. 

“Amnesty! I’ll grant you amnesty!”

It felt as if he made such a grievous sin impossible of penance after forcing the words out of his mouth, burning his tongue like he'd drank poison.

She paused mid-step, and the sound led him to opening his eyes again, daring to glimpse. Slowly, she turned back to him, eyes gleaming with a mixture of curiosity and something else—something far too dangerous for him to name. The smile on her lips had frozen into something sharper— hungrier, was the correct term for it.

The last vestiges of twilight dipped beneath the bridge, sunlight glaring at the shadows, painting blacks with gold. It was only then that he was able to properly see the Harbinger for who she was as she prowled closer. [C] hair billowed in the breeze as she crouched once more, her face so close he could see the scar that cut a pale line below her right eye, like a perpetual mark of a teardrop. Her face was deceptively cherubic, with a daintiness that blossomed for Hylian women, yet the terrorizing expression she wore on her visage was anything but angelic.

“Amnesty,” she whispered, licking her lips, testing the word as though she could taste and savor its weight. 

There was a shallow cut on her cheek that bled, and her tongue darted to lick the essence as if it were sustenance. Link shuddered in repulsion, but it wasn’t like she cared. 

“What a desperate promise from a broken prince. How interesting,” she murmured. Her calculated gaze roved over his battered form, and she leaned in, her breath cold as steel. He was tempted to clamp his eyes shut, or avert them elsewhere—anywhere but those [c] eyes that dared him to do just that. Challenging him, testing him. 

The prince firmly stood his ground as much as he was able with the strength he had left, glaring at her as he breathed heavily. 

“Heh.” A grin broke across the Harbinger’s face at it, wolfish and wicked. Sinister and excited.

“It’s a pleasure to be of service to you, then... your Majesty.”

A/N

Second update as promised! And she's finally here, folks! The one and only! I had a blast writing this, and now that they've finally met, Link is signing himself up for the most chaotic alliance he'll ever have! Ah, but we all have to start somewhere. 

If I were to have a "love meter", both their levels would be at -100 😆 But I did say that MC's a complete menace. So be prepared to see her be an imp around him, because if she can't annoy and frustrate Link, she's going to try a whole lot of other methods. 

Chapter Text

III.

Link's world returned in flickers of pain and disorientation, the sun's waning glow casting long, fractured shadows beneath the bridge. His tunic clung to his skin, soaked through with blood, and a chill that crept from the stones under him bit deeper than he cared to admit. The sudden cold splash across his scalp jolted him fully awake, and he sucked in a ragged breath, eyes snapping open to meet the dark, triumphant gaze of the Harbinger.

She stood over him, the empty vial of red potion dangling from her fingers like a trophy, her lips curved in a grin both amused and sharp. "Careful now, Kingling," she drawled, the nickname a barb wrapped in mock affection. “Wouldn’t want you thinking I’d waste good medicine on just anyone. But seeing as I’m presently your savior…” She gestured grandly, a playful smirk daring him to argue.

Right. 

He had been on the verge of losing consciousness after he…

Link’s glare was as fierce as his battered form allowed, but he held his tongue. 

… After he promised her amnesty.

The coldness of the potion spread through him, dulled pain becoming a memory, though weakness still coiled like an iron chain around his limbs. He shifted, testing his strength, and felt a flicker of frustration at the slow return of movement. Still, he met her gaze, blue eyes tempered steel. 

The prince felt many things at once, all of which refused to ebb away, creating a maelstrom that proved difficult to quell. But within the fray, he caught disbelief from the coup, despair at his people’s hypnosis—and utter shame for stooping so low as to enlist the aid of the very criminal he swore to convict. 

But what was he to do?

He shifted again, the sting of his injuries leaving a phantom-like claw that tugged at his flesh. 

“We have to talk,” he managed, his voice was losing its raspiness.

The Harbinger laughed, tipping her head back as though the very idea was absurd.

“Aren’t we already? Oh, noble one, you are delightful. What terms could you possibly want to discuss besides the depths of a riverbank?” She crossed her arms, leaning against the stone in a casual pose that belied the predator’s readiness in her stance. “But fine, speak your royal heart, Kingling. Let’s hear how you think to tame me.”

Ignoring the bite of her words, Link pushed himself up with a grimace, still sitting but more upright now. The unpleasant feeling of his bloody white tunic sticking to his skin was distracting. The sun finally dipped low behind her, turning the wild strands of her [c] hair to a halo of crimson fire, [c] eyes lit with barely restrained fascination. She stared as though he was but a dented artifact in her menagerie.

The thought nearly made him bristle.

“If we are to form any kind of alliance,” he said, forcing strength into each syllable, “terms must be set.”

The Harbinger raised an eyebrow, amusement flashing in her eyes like a spark to dry grass. “Terms?” She parroted the word, savoring it. “You still speak like a noble scribbling decrees on parchment.” 

Link’s jaw clenched as he met her mocking gaze, refusing to flinch. “Amnesty,” he began, watching her reaction closely. “For your past crimes, if—and only if—you commit no acts against innocents going forward.”

Her smirk widened into a grin, sharp and dangerous. “No harm to innocents?” she said, stepping closer, the edge of her boot brushing against his knee. He moved away as she spoke. “Do you count those mindless thralls of Varyn’s as innocents, Kingling? Should I stay my blade when they come at you like rabid wolves?”

He swallowed, recalling the horrifying panorama of his people scuffling through the throne halls, cleaving unto him with murderous intent. How his most trusted knights drew their blades and lunged… 

The prince shook his head.

“No needless bloodshed,” Link pressed, voice steady despite the ghostly tremor of pain that still echoed in his side. “Defend yourself, defend me, defend Hyrule. But we are not beasts, and we cannot become them. No unlawful doings.”

A breathy laugh escaped her, low and bitter. She circled him, eyes flickering like the very wolves she spoke about. “So noble, so polished.” She stopped, leaning in so their faces were close enough that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes. “And what of ‘unlawful doings’? Am I to ask your royal permission before I breathe, lest it offend your crown?”

This woman…

“Unlawful acts,” Link expounded, meeting her gaze unflinchingly, “such as thievery or sabotage without reason—these cannot stand. If we are to win back Hyrule, trust must be rebuilt, not broken.”

Her grin faltered for a breath, her eyes narrowing as the mockery slid away, revealing a sentiment far darker. “Loyalty to the crown that named my family traitors and buried them for uttering a prophecy they couldn’t control?” Her voice was sharp, a blade cutting through the dusk. 

The mark of the seer on her neck seemed to glow as she spoke, a cruel reminder of truths too long ignored. Its light traveled down to where the rest hid under the collar, the trail he could liken to a dropping tear.

Link’s heart mourned, but he did not look away.

“Loyalty not to the crown, but to what we must reclaim,” he rephrased. “Hyrule itself. Its people, its peace, its future.”

A shadow passed over her face, quick and unreadable, before it vanished behind the return of her smirk. 

“Hm, hope, you speak as if it’s a coin to be bartered,” she said, the word tasting bitter on her tongue. She straightened, arms crossing again as she considered him with a tilted head. “Fine. I’ll play your game, Kingling. But I want more than amnesty. When the day is won, I want safe passage beyond these lands. No blades at my back, no chains waiting in the dark.”

Link’s brows drew together, a flicker of frustration lighting his eyes. “Peace brings freedom, Harbinger. But do not expect treasures or titles.”

A bark of laughter escaped her, rich with disdain. “Treasures? They do well, but I have no need for your trinkets. Perhaps a title, yes? ‘Savior of the Crown’? ‘Hyrule’s Redeemed?” She leaned back, eyes glinting at the flicker of disbelief that crossed his face.

He was certain she was avaracious, if the way she perceived him as bounty earlier was to say anything. It hadn’t even been an hour, and yet she was already losing him in the twisting maze known as her psyche. He wondered if he’d ever come to understand her—but then again, what was there to understand in someone who drew her blade against everyone?

She was the antithesis of the values he stood for. Like black and white.

There was nothing to understand.

“You will have your amnesty and your safe passage,” Link said, voice hardening with finality. “But break this oath, and even I will not protect you.”

Her eyes searched his, the mocking light dimming as something almost serious twisted in their depths. Perhaps she was in quiet contemplation. The possibility of withdrawing from his offer was a looming shadow encroaching at the back of his mind, but he perished the thought. 

Sickening relief made his heart race when he saw her nod, her voice accompanied by a mocking lilt that he surmised was a part of her character. He had a feeling it would do more harm than good to his patience. 

The Harbinger sat on her haunches, gaze kept on his person. “An oath, then, between the King who would save his realm and the villain who knows only how to burn it.”

With the twilight waning like a truncated candle, the evening started to creep in, its solemn blues a mirror to his heart that mourned what befell his kingdom in a matter of hours. He nodded. “An oath that binds us both, Harbinger.”

It felt like he had struck a deal with the devil—such a sentence was poignant in and of itself, considering the only real devil in this realm was malice incarnate, Ganondorf. 

The name brought a shiver up his spine. 

The silence between them held fast, strained and expectant, when the woman finally broke it with a laugh, sharp and ringing beneath the arch. “Well, Kingling, that’s quite the contract you’ve crafted,” she said, her voice dripping with irony. “Not a scrap of paper, not a witness in sight. My usual patrons would be scandalized.”

Link’s eyes narrowed, confusion flashing across his features as she reached into the pouch at her waist, fingers flicking through a bundle of old, yellowed parchments. She drew them out one by one, spreading them in front of him like cards in a game. The fading light caught the inked scrawls, each one bearing a crest or hastily scrawled signature.

He almost gawked—and he would’ve, had he wanted to satisfy her ego.

“See these?” She continued, her tone casual as she gestured to the assortment, her hands flitting to lay them before him. And oh, did Link see. Some were brushed by the wind to meet the calm currents of the river, but she didn’t seem to care. 

They were commissions, all official—by corrupt nobles who wanted rivals silenced, merchants eager to reclaim ‘stolen goods’ that weren’t theirs to begin with… And even a few desperate peasants ready to pay their last coin for a taste of revenge. One parchment was flipped over, a glint of familiar handwriting catching Link’s eye. He swallowed hard for the nth time, recognition striking him like an arrow; it was a case he had known of—a magistrate’s murder, ruled as an unsolvable mystery for the past few years.

All of the “requests” spanned for the entire decade, some even dating back to the year of his late brother’s coronation. He felt sick with how many papers she was able to procure that he didn’t even realize his wounds had fully healed. 

“You… you’re involved in these?” Link’s voice held an edge of disbelief, gaze darting across the proofs of her trade, realizing how deeply her reach had gone. Each one tied to a story, an unsolved crime that he or his brother’s court had once struggled to grasp.

It shouldn’t have been so baffling that she was behind most of these, especially with her cunning.

The Harbinger fanned herself with some of the papers, a smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, I can feel that royal blood boiling,” she teased, voice honeyed with sarcasm. “But alas, Your Highness, there’s not a thing you can do about it. Not now. You promised amnesty, remember?” She leaned closer, the shadow of the bridge sharpening her features. 

“And you can’t threaten me either, not when every ally you ever had is stumbling around with red eyes and slack jaws.”

The truth hit him harder than any strike. 

He could not wield his authority over her—not here, not now. Alone and hunted, with the people of Hyrule turned against him, she was his only tenuous lifeline. The flicker of frustration gave way to bittersweet resignation as he met her stare, the weight of their unequal bargaining pressing down on him. 

The papers rustled, caught by the breeze as if taunting him with the breadth of her crimes. The evening winds carried them away and she didn’t even bother chasing after them, well aware of the prize that waited at the end of their journey. Amnesty.

What would knowing more of her crimes do now? Yes, he could always rescind his promise, but he was not a man who withdrew promises, as terrible as they were. He would not be a partaker of some deception. 

Whatever happened hereafter, justice would still be meted in its appointed time.

He took a breath, steadying himself as he pushed aside the sting of helplessness.

“Then what do you propose,” he said, voice low, “for a legally binding contract without paper?”

The smirk returned, edged with a thrill that glinted dangerously in her dark eyes. She slid one of the parchments that weren’t taken captive by the wind back into her pouch. The rest—or what’s left of them—were tucked away with deft fingers before she drew a dagger,  its blade honed and silver under the dying light.

“A blood oath, Your Highness,” she said, her tone almost playful. The sharp gleam in her eyes promised that this was no jest. She twirled it once, its edge catching the blue light of the sky. “After all, nothing holds quite as tight as a vow made in blood.”

Link scoffed, a sharp, disbelieving sound that cut through the tension between them.

“A blood oath? I’ve just barely managed to get this far without bleeding out, and you desiredst me to cut myself open for a promise? It’s absurd,” he said, voice edged with incredulity. The memory of his side splitting with pain and the red potion’s warmth seeping through him was still too raw, too close.

She clicked her tongue, the noise sharp and teasing as she lifted the dagger. Without hesitation, she drew the blade across her palm, the edge biting deep enough that crimson welled and dripped down her wrist, vivid against her dark armor. Link’s eyes widened, astonishment mingling with a touch of dread as he watched her expression—intrigued, even delighted.

“You believe it’s inane, do you?” she said, voice steady despite the sting. “But that’s exactly the point, Kingling.” She held up her hand, blood seeping into the cracks of her skin, tracing the lines of old scars that spoke of past oaths and betrayals. “This wound, this sting—it’s a reminder. A reminder that while you’re whole now, the only scar left on you will be from this oath. It will be a sign of what you agreed to, of what you’ll have to fulfill.”

“I may have agreed to your terms, but I require more proof of your zeal if you truly wish for my services.” [C] eyes gleamed. “I thought you wanted your throne? Come, show me you can bleed for it.”

Link’s breath caught, and he felt the weight of her words settle over him like a shroud. Of course, she would want to know his capabilities. He could admit that he was far from being a paragon of honor right now, having fled and bled out nearly to his demise. She most likely deemed this whole deal a jest. 

So requiring to see just how far he was willing to go to seal his promise… Well, he couldn’t deny the cold logic behind them. Furthermore, the Harbinger wasn’t just a mercenary; she was meticulous, almost unnervingly so. Each parchment she had displayed moments ago, every contract that linked back to some dark tale in Hyrule’s court, whispered of precision, of commitments followed through with ruthless efficiency. 

As much as he loathed admitting it, she got results. She followed through—always. 

But how was he meant to supply the reassurance that she would not betray him halfway through their quest? 

Truthfully, he didn’t know—he just needed to have faith. And a little trust.

Link almost scoffed. Trusting a criminal. 

It wasn’t like he had any other options now, did he?

If she could so easily draw her own blood… 

The thought gnawed at him, considering her ludicrous proposal. His allies were gone, their minds not their own, and the tribes he had reached out to remained silent. All he had was this outlaw, this seer branded by fate and blood, who held the means to navigate the chaos. He looked at her, the fierce line of her jaw and the mark of the seer on her neck, defiant even in the failing light.

Her bloodied hand extended toward him, a smile playing at her lips that dared him to flinch, to step back. But before she could take his hand and do the swiping herself, the decision crystallized in a heartbeat. 

The prince reached out, snatching the dagger from her grasp, its weight cold and solid in his palm. 

She arched an eyebrow, surprise sparking in her eyes as he drew in a sharp breath and cut a swift, deep line across his own palm. The sting shot through him, mingling with the phantom ache of his earlier wounds, but he held fast. Tiny crimson beads grew into rivulets, pooling over like a current. 

The blade clattered to the ground between them, blood pooling into the dust as they locked eyes—hers glinting with something unreadable, his alight with steeled resolve.

The vow, though unwritten, was sealed.

Hissing, Link snatched her hand, locking it in a handshake.

The Harbinger watched him with a morbid fascination, eyes wide and mirthful as the blood from their hands trickled together. A thin stream ran down and stained the earth and the grass before slipping into the river, swept away by the current. The ripples in the water caught the glimmers of the eventide, a fleeting spark before the sun vanished completely and night folded over them.

“Well, well,” she drawled, her voice low, edged with approval. “You’re not the coward I thought you were. It seems there’s more spine to this Kingling after all.”

Her grin widened as she gave his injured hand a firm, almost challenging grip. Link winced, the sting biting deep into the muscles of his palm, but he refused to look away from her, refused to show anything more than the iron resolve that had pushed him this far.

“Allow me to start over, then,” she squeezed his hand. “I am [Name]. Years ago, I was dubbed the seer alongside my family, tasked to deliver Hylia’s divine prophecies.”

The prince squeezed hers in return, unwilling to yield to the strength of her grip, even if it sent painful needles up his arm. Even if it made his fingers tingle with the urgency to pull away. 

Her distasteful re-introduction was like salt rubbing his wounds, the emphasis of who she had been—and who she was now. If everyone believed then, would she still have turned out this way?

“Now, I go by the Harbinger… And instead of divine prophecies, Kingling,” she giggled, finding his obstinacy entertaining. “I herald the call of death. And you evaded yours today.”

Enough was enough.

Link pulled his hand free, a sharp movement that sent a fresh jolt of pain through him. His cerulean eyes flashed, catching the faint moonlight as he straightened, rolling his shoulders back with effort. 

“I have no need for your dastardly compliments,” he muttered, flexing his fingers to keep them from trembling. Blood still trickled from the cut, staining the edge of his white tunic, now splashed with rust-colored streaks. “And I will not perish until I’ve liberated Hyrule and reclaimed both my crown and my throne.”

[Name] chuckled, stepping back to rise and fold her arms, the mockery in her posture shifting to a nonchalant ease.

“Suit yourself, Kingling. I’m just here for the show.” She leaned against the rough stone arch of the bridge, the play of shadows across her face making her expression unreadable. The rustle of the river and the calls of night creatures swept into the silence, filling the space between them. 

It wasn’t enough, however, not when there were bigger problems that clouded over.

“So, Your Majesty, what’s our first move? Or are we waiting until that wound stops bleeding to plan?” His accursed ally prompted, her voice almost lazy, but her eyes sharp. 

The chill of the evening deepened as Link’s eyes swept over the shadowed expanse, the city walls beyond the bridge distant yet towering, flickering with the muted glow of torches. The wound on his palm throbbed, an insistent reminder of the oath just sealed. He clenched his jaw, the weight of the coming struggle pressing down on him, almost suffocating.

“It won’t do us any good to rush in blindly,” Link said, breaking the silence with a voice edged in practicality. “Varyn has all of Hyrule in his grip. His shadow magic controls hundreds, maybe thousands. The knights, the people—it’s the whole kingdom against two of us.” 

The admission settled like a bitter stone in his throat.

The Harbinger’s eyes glittered with a wry light, her expression shifting to one of almost amused acknowledgment. “Mm, there it is—common sense.” She shifted her stance, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. 

The corners of her mouth quirked up as if she expected some grand declaration. When he shot her a glare, sharp and warning, she only shrugged, unfazed. Clearly, he didn’t appreciate her humor.

Drawing in a breath, the prince flexed his fingers, his mind racing. 

What to do? His thoughts tumbled over each other, grasping for a strategy that wouldn’t end with them cornered like prey. The moon slowly rose higher, casting its pale light over the rippling river, shadows dancing at their feet like restless ghosts.

Her voice broke the silence, laced with a sardonic edge that only she could manage in such dire moments. “Funny, isn’t it? All of this chaos could have been avoided if your precious court had paid attention to that prophecy more than a decade ago.” Her eyes met his, a glint of something more than mockery in their depths. “But I suppose hindsight makes the best prophet.”

Link’s expression faltered, but he kept his voice even. “There’s no use dwelling on what’s happened,” he said, though the admission scraped at something raw inside him. He did share the sentiment, the gnawing realization that they had grown complacent, lulled into a false peace after the prophecy failed to manifest at his brother’s coronation. 

The kingdom had taken the silence for safety, and now it had cost them everything.

She watched him, the sharp planes of her face softening slightly before she rolled her eyes, breaking the moment. “Fine. Brood on it later, Kingling. Right now, we need to think of how to slip under that shadow without getting strangled by it.”

Link fell quiet, lips pressed into a grim line. The weight of strategy, survival, and hope tangled within him like a storm. Above, the stars blinked coldly, distant and unfeeling. His eyes moved skyward.

“On the day of the crowning, when the sun doth meet the shadowed veil, shall the ancient malice rise, borne anew from blood and betrayal.” The words spilled from his lips, heavy as lead, their weight pressing upon the night like a shroud. Silence followed, thick and somber, the whisper of the river a faint counterpoint to the dread that pooled in the shadowed hollow of the bridge.

The Harbinger's eyes scintillated, curiosity sparking within their [c] depths. “... Into a budding seed, whose destruction shall only be when its bane strikes its root.” 

Link’s eyebrows furrowed. She hummed.

“Your prophecy is incomplete. I merely added the rest.” 

Pleasantly surprised, he blinked. Into a budding seed, whose destruction shall only be when its bane strikes its root. 

Perhaps he had been too young then to recall everything verbatim, but nevertheless, the fact that the ancient malice will be born ‘into a budding seed’ could mean that… 

[Name] tapped her foot impatiently on the side of the river, clicking her tongue. “Speak then, Kingling. If the ancient malice shall rise—if this shadow-monger Varyn seeks to awaken such evil, or if it resided within him—what is to be done?”

If it resided within him, so she had a similar theory. The possibility that the evil was born and planted within Varyn, who unknowingly became its vessel was… terrifying, to say the least. To host such darkness within oneself… He wouldn’t wish it even to his greatest enemy.

Link’s gaze shifted, the tension in his frame palpable as stone, remembering the latter part of the prophecy. The ultimate medium, one that had been depicted in stained glass with the Heroes of the past. 

“There is but one weapon that may cleave through such darkness. The divine bane of all evil—the Master Sword.”

A flicker of interest lit in [Name]’s face, the smirk giving way to intrigue. “The fabled blade. Say, does it rest within your keep? Hidden, perhaps, in some forsaken vault? Surely, it can’t be that easy.”

The air between them stilled, thick with the weight of revelation not yet spoken. Link’s eyes, shadowed with a mix of dread and resolve, met hers. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring, until at last he spoke, voice low and rough as river stones. 

“Nay, not in Hyrule. The blade is shattered.”

A breath caught in the Harbinger’s throat, the mockery fading from her features, replaced by stunned disbelief. “Shattered? The blade of evil’s bane lies in pieces?” She snorted, but the incredulity gave way to a sentiment far deeper. Sharper. “Why, then, do you bear the look of one already defeated? Speak, for the pieces can be found, can they not?”

A solemn nod followed, eyes cast toward the dark expanse beyond. 

“They can,” Link said, the words sinking like stones into the river’s current. 

He was relieved, how could he not be? The Master Sword was the key to solving this conflict, and it existed—it lived through the passage of time. But… 

The prince breathed heavily in lieu of slumping his shoulders. It was unbecoming—highly improper to appear so laden in front of a criminal he ought to judge. 

“Each shard rests far from our grasp, held within the lands of the Four Tribes,” he finally revealed. “The same tribes that now shun Hylian voices, turned away by a reign steeped in cruelty.”

Understanding dawned upon her, dark and fierce. The smirk returned, edged with the glint of a gambler about to make the highest wager. “So the journey leads not just to reclaiming fragments, but to embattled hearts and bonds long broken.”

“Aye,” Link answered, the weight of the path ahead etched into every line of his face. 

Each step meant more than recovering the shards; it meant rekindling alliances buried beneath distrust and silence, reaching into realms where peace once was, but where shadows now reign. They hadn’t even responded to the invitations he sent weeks prior to his coronation… what if they choose not to entertain his presence altogether if he came upon their lands? He knew he couldn’t allow it to hinder him from collecting the fragments—but just considering underhanded tactics to procure them was enough to make him taste bitterness. 

He hoped—oh, Hylia, he hoped—that he wouldn’t resort to such desperation. 

“Well let us be off, then.” She spoke as though she was commenting on the weather, swiping the dagger from the ground and slipping it into a small pouch tied to her thigh. “If your blade fails you, there are many to… borrow, from the knights on the bridge.” 

The bridge? The prince was too late to stop and ask her what she meant by that, as she already vanished, hiking the trail of grass. Sighing, he rose, relieved that the injuries he sustained were now healed, leaving but tears on his white, bloodstained tunic. His hand still stung, though, and he hissed as he sheathed his sword. 

When he followed the Harbinger’s trail up, he stopped, eyes catching the sight of fallen knights on the cobblestoned bridge. Initial horror struck him like a thunderclap, only abating when he realized that there wasn’t any blood. The perpetrator stood at the center, nudging their bodies with the tip of her boot, humming. 

He swallowed thickly, an accusation already on his tongue. “I told you—”

“Ah, I knocked them unconscious before I saw you under the bridge. I assumed they were after me.” She waved her hand innocuously, peering at a discarded pouch that flowed with rupees, her fingers itching and drawing closer. “Ooh, that’s a handful.”

Link’s eye twitched.

“Thievery,” he reminded her.

[Name]’s hand snapped to her hips as she cursed, glaring at the money.

Can I really have faith in a criminal who has already forgotten the terms of our oath? He pursed his lips.

Shaking his head, the prince brought his gaze towards the ramparts, releasing his withheld breath when he saw that no one was there keeping guard. Which was odd, considering he assumed they would be searching for him, but he’ll take this opportunity gladly.

“Where are we off to first?” asked the Harbinger, “I hope to visit a Tribe that is less inclined to shoot us down at first sight.”

Honestly, he thought and felt the same, but who was he to admit that? To her, no less?

“The first piece, the hilt,” Link started, “will be in the region of Lanayru. Specifically, guarded by the Zora in their shrine. I surmise it won’t be an easy endeavor, so we must prepare well.” 

[Name] snorted, traipsing across the bridge with her arms behind her head, a picture of nonchalance and sheer levity that he almost believed she was walking out of their oath. She stretched her limbs, yawning. 

“Aye, how can I forget? The Kingling must prepare his speech first, hopefully, the Zora listens before they spear or haul us into the depths of their pure waters to drown.” She shrugged. “Well, come along now! I can hardly wait to experience the quest of a lifetime. Oh, but before that, I would prefer if we tarry for a little while at my humble abode. To pack supplies, of course.” 

Her sarcasm could be mistaken for sincerity, and he lightly feared he would mistake one for the other very soon. Hopefully not. But if Hylia had answered his prayers in the most ludicrous way possible, then he could only hope that she had enough mercy to spare him wisdom. 

“Why are you not moving, Kingling? Need I fetch the retinue and banners to announce your travel throughout the lands so Varyn could witness it? Or do you require a carriage for your royal bottom to rest upon? I’ll secure one, but I fear your horse is out of commission!”

He took a deep breath, following after her. And patience.

Wisdom and patience. 

A lot of it.

A/N

We're onto the slow progress of their relationship (actually nonexistent right now). With all the important foundations laid down, we can move on to the admittedly "lesser" urgent chapters... and I mean the shenanigans. Like slice-of-life chapters, only with a whole lot of menace, a whole lot of "MY PEOPLE ARE IN DANGER AND YOU'RE DOING THIS RIGHT NOW??", and a whole lot of banter :") 

MC's already starting it here! ToT