Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Summons
She arrived before sunrise. No one waited for her.
The gates opened without question — a single knock, a nod from the guards who didn’t quite meet her eyes, and she was let through like something inconvenient. Something heavy. Something expected.
Narena stepped into the barracks with boots still dusted from the southern border, armor smudged with ash and dried blood. She didn’t clean it before returning. There hadn’t been time. And even if there had, she wouldn’t have bothered .
The inner halls hadn’t changed. Same lanterns flickering low. Same banners straining to look regal in a drafty corridor. Same damp scent of stone and sweat that clung to the Royal Guard’s bones. The castle breathed slow and cold this time of morning — still asleep, not yet aware she was back.
She walked alone. Always alone.
At the duty station, a folded parchment lay on the table with her name. Not her title. Not her rank. Just Narena , inked with pressure.
She didn’t unfold it. She didn’t have to.
Her quarters were waiting. Her weapons had already been returned. And by the rhythm of the guard changes, she could tell who had been shifted to make room.
She didn’t need the paper to know what it said.
Reassignment to Castle Detail.
Direct report: Link.
Effective immediately.
Do not repeat last incident.
It was always the same.
She stepped out of line. They panicked. And so they sent her back — to him . The only one they trusted to keep her sharp without letting her slip. The only one who had ever managed to steady her, even when she didn’t want it.
Narena stared at the paper for a long moment. Then folded it again, tighter this time, and slipped it into her belt. She didn’t feel anything about it. Not pride. Not guilt. Certainly not surprise.
And if there was a part of her that didn’t mind being sent back—
If there was something quiet and stupid inside her that had missed him—
Well.
She didn’t let that part speak.
The corridors wound like memory — sharp corners, thin stone, light that never quite reached the ground. Narena’s steps echoed louder here than they did in the field. She hated that.
Every sound in the castle waited to be noticed.
She passed through the outer barracks wing, past the armory where recruits fumbled steel they didn’t deserve. No one greeted her. A few stared. Most pretended not to.
One of them — a young guard she didn’t recognize — whispered to another just after she passed. Not loudly enough for her to catch the words. But she didn’t need to.
She had the file. She was the file.
Narena.
Combat effective. Field rate exceptional.
Control record: poor.
Reprimanded twice for excessive force. Once for insubordination.
Recommendation: supervised command.
Preferred handler: Link.
That last word always made her feel like livestock.
Still, the castle was the only place where the whispers never got louder than a breath. No one said it to her face. They wouldn’t dare. But they stared the way you stared at a sword left unsheathed too long — beautiful, but dangerous. Too easy to misjudge. Too easy to bleed.
She kept walking. Same gait. Same rhythm.
The eastern hall was still cracked near the second archway — she ran her hand along it as she passed, a habit without thought. Her fingers caught the groove she’d made during a sparring match years ago. She’d been fifteen. Knocked a senior officer off his feet. Didn’t apologize. Link hadn’t made her.
She didn’t know if that was the first time they feared her.
Only that it hadn’t stopped since.
A staircase. A turn. Her corridor.
The door to her quarters stood open — not in welcome, but as an instruction. A sign she was expected. That someone had already aired out the space, checked the weapons rack, made sure she had a functioning uniform. No personalization. No gesture.
But the cot was made. Her gear was stacked.
Someone had prepared for her return.
And she didn’t need to ask who.
The castle wasn’t fully awake yet.
But she was.
Narena moved like a shadow down the inner stair — quiet, focused, body still remembering every creak, every echo. Her braid, damp from a fast rinse, brushed the back of her collar as she turned toward the north corridor that led to the training yard. She had no plans beyond reaching it. No urgency, either. Just movement. Forward, always.
The footsteps came from the other end of the hall.
Measured. Deliberate. Light, but not uncertain.
She recognized them before she saw her.
Princess Zelda walked alone, as she often did in the early hours — always just ahead of the rest of the world’s rhythm. She wore a slate-blue cloak. Scrolls hung from her belt in worn leather tubes. No crown. No guards. Just presence.
Zelda’s eyes found Narena immediately.
There was no hesitation. No flinch. Just recognition — old, familiar, layered with too many things that had never been named aloud.
Narena stopped walking.
Without needing to think, she lowered herself to one knee, head bowed, hand closed in a fist across her chest. Not theatrical. Not dramatic. Just precise.
It was the motion expected of a soldier in the presence of the royal line — one Narena hadn’t had to make in years, not directly, not alone like this.
Zelda paused a few steps away. She didn’t command Narena to rise. Didn’t reach out. She only stood there for a long, quiet moment.
Then she said, softly:
“You’re back.”
Two words. Not cold. Not warm.
Narena lifted her head. Her gaze met Zelda’s — not defiant, not soft. Just steady.
She said nothing.
Zelda didn’t press. She never did. She studied Narena’s face for a breath longer than what was likely required, as if searching for something. And then she stepped forward, cloak trailing behind her like a whisper, and passed without another word.
Narena rose only after Zelda turned the corner.
But she didn’t walk away.
Not yet.
The corridor was still empty, but it felt full of something — like breath held too long. Like the moment after a blade has stopped singing and before the blood begins to fall.
And Narena stood in it, silent.
Then — only then — she kept moving.
—
The courtyard was still the same.
Even after everything — after years in the field, after disciplinary orders and command shuffles, after standing in blood that wasn’t hers and walking away without comment — this place hadn’t changed.
Stone underfoot. Dust curling along the edges of the ring. The faint scent of old ash, old sweat, old memory.
The sparring yard wasn’t ceremonial. It was a battlefield shrunk down, sacred only to those who bled in it. And she had left more of herself on these stones than she had anywhere else.
She stepped into the yard without hesitation.
Link was already there.
He stood near the center, back to her at first, adjusting the grip wrap on a practice blade. His hair was pulled back in a low tie, half-shadowed by the morning light cutting across the wall. No armor. Just training gear — linen sleeves rolled, boots braced, body calm.
He had always looked so calm.
But she’d trained under him long enough to know that wasn’t stillness. It was containment.
He turned when he heard her step.
Didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move. Just looked at her — really looked.
Her armor was still travel-worn. A scratch ran down one shoulder plate. The edges of her braid were still damp. Dust clung to the bottoms of her boots.
She waited.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“Welcome back.”
Two words. Nothing more. But his voice had weight behind it — like he’d been holding them in.
Narena crossed her arms loosely, not defensive, just settled.
“You knew it’d be me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Link’s mouth didn’t quite smile. But something in his eyes did.
“It’s always you.”
She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
There was no ceremony. No formal orders. No instruction. Just the two of them, standing across familiar ground, years of memory humming in the air between their boots.
She glanced at the weapons rack — her own double-bladed staff sat clean and waiting. Sharpened. Balanced.
He’d kept it ready. She hadn’t asked. He hadn’t told her.
Of course he had.
A long silence passed, but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt like weather returning to normal. Like pressure evening out after too many months of tension.
Link stepped aside slightly, nodding toward the weapon rack.
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Narena didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.
She moved toward the staff, hands already steady, breath already anchoring itself without her permission.
And when she stepped into the ring across from him, she felt something shift back into place — not duty, not title.
Just rhythm.
The sound of wood striking wood echoed across the courtyard.
Not loudly. Not with showy violence. But with precision. Repetition.
Narena moved like she hadn’t stopped.
Her footwork was clean. Her transitions were tight. Her breath was controlled, but sharp at the edges.
Link mirrored her pace easily. Not testing her. Just syncing.
Their weapons met, separated, met again. Faster. Closer.
They didn’t speak. Didn’t call hits. There was no need. They knew when contact would’ve landed. Knew when an angle could’ve killed. Knew when the shift in stance meant retreat instead of drive.
It was natural — not perfect, not pretty. Just fluid. Practiced. Earned.
When Narena finally stepped back, sweat damp at her collar and lungs pulling hard beneath her tunic, Link didn’t push.
He lowered his blade. Gave her space.
She didn’t thank him.
He didn’t expect her to.
The sun had cleared the battlements now, casting clean lines across the training yard. The stones were warming beneath their boots. Somewhere in the castle, the bells began to ring — a soft, echoing chime that meant the court was stirring. The day had begun.
But here, in this pocket of stillness, nothing moved.
Narena stood still, double-blade lowered, gaze steady.
Link mirrored her.
Neither of them said anything.
Because what would they say?
Welcome back? I missed this? You’re the only one who ever matched me?
No. Too much.
So instead they shared the silence.
The wind stirred her braid. She adjusted her grip. He nodded once — an unspoken cue.
She placed her staff back on the weapon rack, and they left the courtyard side by side.
Not together, but not apart.
—