hylianhoneycomb

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 25/32

masterlist

Chapter XXV: Smoke and Silence

⸻

Draped in the castle’s faint early morning hush, Zelda’s study felt empty and watchful.

A single lantern burned low on the desk, casting long, golden shadows across parchment maps and scattered records.

The air smelled of lavender and old wood. Outside, the first birds began their distant chorus.

Link entered without announcement.

His boots pressed soft on the stone floor. Zelda looked up from her scroll, sensing rather than seeing him.

He paused just inside the doorway, hand resting on the frame. His cloak hung heavy, and his eyes were drained, not angry—just concerned.

“Zelda,” he began quietly, his voice still. “Can I talk to you?”

She set the stylus down, balancing the scroll on the desk. “Of course,” she replied, voice neutral.

He stepped into the lantern glow. The parchment rustled as a gentle breeze drifted through a narrow window. Link inhaled, steadying himself.

“I—” he paused, searching for words. “I need you to ease off with Narena.”

The air held still.

“I appreciate everything you’re doing. I know why you’re pressing so hard about Ros. I know how much this means.” His voice caught, betraying the weight behind the words. “But… I need you to stop. For now.”

Zelda’s fingers tensed around the desk edge, but she said nothing.

Candles flickered.

Zelda’s gaze lowered to the map of the northern ridge path—its contours dark against unlit stone.

“She’s not doing good,” he added, voice soft but firm. “I’m just— I’m really worried.”

Zelda’s shoulders drooped slightly, and she exhaled—a quiet, even breath. She didn’t argue.

Didn’t ask for more.

She just nodded.

Her fingers slid the scroll aside, folding it with care. “Okay,” she whispered, voice soft. “I’ll stop.”

He allowed himself a moment’s relief before the weight in his chest returned.

“Thank you,” he said, voice near-bare.

He turned toward the door, the soft scrape of his boots brief in the hush. Zelda watched him leave before returning attention to her maps.

For a heartbeat longer, she lingered, hand poised above parchment.

—

The quiet was the first thing Narena noticed.

It wasn’t the sharp-edged hush of alertness, or the kind that held its breath for danger—but a deeper, stranger quiet.

Heavy with warmth. Wrapped in something soft. A silence that draped over her like a thick wool blanket.

Narena stirred faintly.

The shift of her body against the bed was sluggish, like surfacing from a deep pool. Her limbs didn’t resist so much as sink.

Her eyes opened slowly, blinking against the dim.

The ceiling above her was dark wood slats, softened by the pale spill of light filtering through drawn curtains.

Cool gray edges laced the room where day tried to bleed in, but couldn’t fully breach the thick velvet.

The lamp on the bedside table glowed low and golden, casting a halo onto the stone floor below.

Everything felt still. And it unsettled her.

She breathed in slowly, testing the ache in her chest—but it didn’t come.

No tightness.

No trembling.

Just the quiet inhale of someone who had, impossibly, rested.

Her brow furrowed faintly.

This wasn’t where she’d fallen asleep.

She blinked again.

Everything around her was quiet.

And warm.

And still.

Her fingers twitched under the blanket.

The motion felt too precise, like she was testing herself for signs of breakage.

She didn’t feel broken. But she also didn’t feel whole.

Just suspended. Held in some pocket of time she hadn’t given herself permission to enter.

And in that hush, memory came back—not in a full sweep, but in fragments.

The lilies.

Purple petals bright even in low lamplight. The smell of soil. The cool edge of the planter against her boots.

Then arms.

Strong. Steady. Wrapping around her like they’d always known how.

The press of cloth. The faint thud of a heartbeat against her ear. The warmth of a body that didn’t ask anything from her, just stayed.

Link.

Her fingers grazed the edge of the blanket, then her cheek—dry now, but her skin felt tight from where the tears had dried.

Her boots were set neatly by the door.

Her boots.

She stared at them for a long moment.

She hadn’t taken them off.

The heat that rose in her throat was not quite shame. It was something softer.

He’d carried her.

Here. All the way across the castle. Through stone halls, past the guards and the weight of what she couldn’t carry herself.

Her.

She turned her face against the pillow, pressing her eyes shut.

—

A soft knock.

Then the door creaking open, just wide enough for a silhouette to slip through.

Impa.

She entered with a tray balanced in one arm. Steam curled gently off a bowl of broth, rice tucked beside it, a few slices of pear glinting in the lamplight.

She didn’t say anything at first.

Just nudged the door shut with her foot, crossed the room in three short steps, and set the tray down on the table near Narena’s cot.

“I figured you hadn’t eaten,” she said simply.

Narena was sitting up, one leg drawn to her chest, the other hanging loose off the side. Her hair was a mess. Her face looked like it hadn’t remembered how to move in hours.

She stared at the tray.

Then blinked up at Impa.

“Didn’t know they promoted you to castle catering.”

Impa snorted. “Promotion came with a fancy hat. Didn’t fit.”

Narena huffed a breath, something between a laugh and an exhale.

There was a pause.

She dragged her sleeve across her nose with a quiet sniff.

“Why are you here?”

her voice was soft, like she was afraid it might crack if she spoke any louder.

“Let’s just say a very concerned commander came knocking on my door. Didn’t say much. Didn’t have to.”

Impa gave the tray a light tap. “Eat before he figures out how to draft an official meal summons.”

Narena smiled.

Then Impa leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but not unkind.

“You’re not sleeping,” she said, not a question.

Narena didn’t answer.

“You’re not eating. You’re training like you’ve got something to outrun.”

That made Narena look up. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Impa’s voice was quiet now. Not soft—measured.

“So what’s going on in that head of yours?”

Narena swallowed.

Her hands fidgeted with the edge of the blanket beside her. One twist. Then two.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t…”

She trailed off.

Impa didn’t fill the silence.

So Narena started again.

“If you thought you’d done something,” she said slowly, “something really bad… but you didn’t remember it… what would you do?”

Impa didn’t move. “Bad how?”

“I don’t know,” Narena said again, too fast. “That’s the thing. It’s just… there. All the time. Sitting in me. Like a bruise that never goes away.”

She looked down.

“I feel it,” Narena whispered. “I carry it. This—this guilt. Like a weight in my chest I can’t dig out. It’s there when I wake up. When I’m alone. And it’s like… some part of me remembers. But not the part that would let me take it back.”

Impa was still watching her.

She hesitated before speaking.

“I think…” she said slowly, “if it were me—I might not want to know.”

Narena blinked.

“I’ve lived long enough to know this,” she said. “Some truths cut deeper coming out than they ever did going in. You might dig into that guilt and find something real. Or you might dig forever and never find it. And still bleed anyway.”

Narena’s fingers tightened in the blanket.

“I thought maybe knowing would help.”

Impa didn’t blink. “It might.”

A pause.

“Or it might break the thing in you that’s still holding you together.”

The room was quiet again.

She nodded once.

But she didn’t feel better.

Impa turned toward the door.

“Eat if you can,” she said. “Or don’t. Just don’t disappear on us.”

Narena didn’t promise anything.

And Impa didn’t expect her to.

“You’re not alone,” she said.

Then she left.

The door closed with a soft click behind her.

—

The outer courtyard still wore the hush of evening.

Mist clung low across the cobblestones, softening the sharp edges of walls and casting the archways in a warm gold.

Overhead, gulls cried faintly from the cliffs beyond, and the flag above the battlement shifted with the breeze.

Soldiers moved with quiet purpose—buckling straps, checking blades, trading murmured words that dissolved into breath.

The staging gate loomed half open, its iron bars damp with dew. Beyond it, the trail to the northern ridge waited.

Link stood slightly apart, near the column’s head, one gloved hand gripped the leather strap of his shoulder guard, adjusting it with the habitual efficiency of someone who never quite stopped bracing for what came next.

He scanned the formation without hurry—taking in each soldier, each step of readiness. Then his gaze lifted.

Bootsteps echoed across the flagstone—faint, sure.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t have to.

Narena moved into view at the far end of the yard, the low morning light catching the edge of her staff where it rested slung across her back.

Her cloak was crooked on one shoulder, and her walk had a stiffness to it, but she didn’t falter.

Not even when she reached him.

Link’s hand lowered.

“You don’t have to be here,” he said, voice quiet.

She rolled her shoulder slightly, flexing her fingers on the strap across her chest. “And yet, here I am.”

His brow furrowed.

He didn’t smile. Just studied her face for a long moment—eyes clear, unreadable.

“You’re dragging one foot,” he said.

“Only the left.”

A pause.

“You’re low on sleep.”

“So are you.”

A pause.

He nodded once. It was small. But it was enough.

Then, after a pause, his voice dropped lower.

“If you feel yourself slipping out there—don’t power through it. Fall back.”

Her expression didn’t change.

But she nodded.

“Okay.”

He looked past her, toward the gate.

The courtyard had sunk into quiet.

Torches flickered low along the walls, throwing long shadows across the stone.

Above them, the sky faded into that deep, velvet blue that came just before full dark.

The kind that made everything feel like it was holding its breath.

—

The northern ridge was colder than usual.

Not wind-cold, but bone-damp. Mist clung low across the slope, curling around boots and legs like it was trying to pull them under.

Narena moved near the middle of the formation—staff in hand, boots steady, pace even—but her weight was slightly off. Not enough to notice if you weren’t looking. But Link was.

He caught it in the way her heel slid a fraction too far when the incline steepened. The way her grip on her staff was tighter than it needed to be. Her eyes were alert, but shadowed. Focused—but deeper than that, there was strain.

She didn’t stumble.

She didn’t lag.

But she was fighting for every step.

The others in the unit, six in total, walked in practiced silence. No idle talk this deep in the ridge. Just the hush of boots on packed earth, the occasional whisper of a drawn breath when a branch snapped underfoot.

The fog thickened the higher they climbed.

Ahead, the trail curved sharply around a rock outcrop, narrowing to a choke point where the tree cover thinned. It was the most exposed part of the ridge, a place they should’ve moved fast through.

But this time—

Link lifted one hand. A silent signal.

The line stopped.

Something was wrong.

The fog was too dense here. The air too still. The kind of quiet that doesn’t just hold breath—it swallows it.

Then—

Snap.

A twig, sharp behind them.

Narena turned just as it hit.

Smoke bombs.

Not one. Not two.

Seven.

They crashed in from above and both sides—hissing cylinders that hit the ground like pebbles, then bloomed upward in thick, acidic plumes. The ridge vanished into white.

Shapes moved through the smoke like phantoms—fast, low to the ground, cutting from opposite angles. Red veils. Curved blades. The glint of masked eyes.

No sound. No warning. No hesitation.

Yiga.

And every one of them moved for Narena.

She didn’t wait.

The first came from her right—blade poised mid-air—and she spun into the attack, the double-ended staff flashing in a tight arc. Steel met bone with a satisfying crack, and the figure went down hard.

Another closed from behind.

She pivoted on instinct, twisting low, sweeping the haft under his legs and following it with a sharp boot to the ribs as he staggered. He hit the ground with a grunt.

More shadows surged toward her—three, maybe four—emerging and vanishing in the shifting fog like they were part of it.

Narena moved faster.

Her blade sliced high, then dropped low, striking with practiced violence. Every movement desperate and wild and not quite clean.

She kicked one attacker away. Elbowed another.

But it was too much.

They were too many.

And they weren’t random. They didn’t go for the others. Not even Link. Every blade turned toward her.

The rest of the unit fought back—Rellen on her left shouted something, another soldier’s sword flashed out of the smoke to drive back one of the masked attackers.

Through the haze, Link’s voice broke: sharp, low, commanding. “Hold the line!”

The unit fanned out. Closed ranks.

But the Yiga didn’t waver.

They kept coming.

Her staff snapped out in a sharp arc—steel edge slicing low, then reversing clean through a second swing that forced one of the masked attackers back a half step.

Narena pivoted.

Another Yiga lunged in from her right—too close.

She ducked.

Drove her elbow into the soft spot under his ribs.

Spun and caught the next with the rear blade of the staff, the blunt edge cracking hard across his temple.

Her footing slipped slightly in the gravel, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

She twisted again, staff a blur now—clashing, whirling, cutting low and fast.

Another blade hissed toward her.

She dropped to one knee, the sword slicing air where her head had just been. Her leg swept wide—caught someone’s ankle, sent them sprawling.

She was moving on instinct. Desperation.

Elbow. Kick. Twist. Strike.

Two more surged in. One slashed. The other grabbed.

She twisted violently, broke the grip, ducked low again, but her foot dragged.

Her breath was ragged.

She could feel it—the slowness in her arms. The weight in her legs.

She was giving everything. And it still wasn’t enough.

Another Yiga moved in behind her.

And she didn’t have time to turn.

Narena dropped low, ducked the first blade, and swept her staff wide. Steel caught fabric—ripped clean.

Then something hit her.

Not a cut. Not a slash.

Blunt.

Heavy.

Her side exploded with pain.

The strike slammed into her ribs from behind—no warning. No time to brace.

She was lifted off her feet.

Thrown sideways like a sack of flour.

The world tilted, blurred. Her staff tore from her hands.

Then came the ground.

Hard. Unforgiving.

Her shoulder struck first. Then her hip. Then her back.

She rolled once, maybe twice, before slamming flat into the dirt with a breathless thud—gravel digging into her spine, dust choking in her throat.

Air wouldn’t come.

Her mouth opened, but nothing filled her lungs.

She lay there, one cheek pressed to the cold, broken earth.

Then—a shadow.

It loomed through the thinning smoke, blocking the slivers of gray light that filtered through the trees. Heavy boots crunched the gravel near her hip.

Before she could twist away, a hand shot down.

Thick fingers seized the front strap of her chestplate—right over the sternum—and hauled her up in one jarring motion. Her head snapped back, legs dangling beneath her.

She gasped, one hand flying to the arm that held her, the other fumbling for her weapon—already lost somewhere in the dirt.

Her staff was gone.

All she had were fists.

She struck out blindly—once, twice—her knuckles slamming into the man’s wrist, his forearm, the edge of his plated gauntlet. But he didn’t flinch. His grip was like iron. Her blows bounced off uselessly.

He lifted her higher.

Her boots kicked the air, searching for footing that wasn’t there. Her hand clawed, trying to loosen his hold.

Still nothing.

His other hand moved now—calm, slow—toward the curved dagger at his belt.

The blade caught the light. Steel, polished and clean.

Narena thrashed harder.

The man didn’t react.

Didn’t speak.

It was like fighting stone.

And then—

A flicker of movement.

Fast.

Too fast to register.

Steel flashed through the smoke—low, sharp, horizontal.

Link.

His sword carved clean through the space between them—slamming into the Yiga’s exposed side with a crunch of armor and flesh.

The man’s body seized.

His grip slackened.

Narena dropped.

She hit the ground on her side with a breathless grunt, shoulder scraping earth. Her limbs curled in, instinctive and sharp.

Above her, the Yiga toppled backward—crashing into the dirt with a heavy thud, blade still unsheathed.

He didn’t move again.

Link stepped over the corpse, blade already rising again as another attacker surged from the mist.

Behind him, the rest of the unit broke through the smoke—steel clashing, voices rising.

One by one, the shadows fell. Driven back or cut down, their assault scattered as quickly as it had begun.

The air thinned. The smoke lifted in patches. The ridge held its silence again—shaken, blood-soaked, but still.

Narena moved.

Slow. Shaky.

She pushed herself up from the dirt, one palm braced against the ground, the other curled around her middle. Her body folded over itself, breath ragged.

She didn’t rise all the way—just enough to sit hunched, knees tucked, ribs heaving shallow beneath the weight of it.

Her staff lay half-buried beside her, blade-ends smeared with grit.

Link was already there.

He dropped to one knee beside her, careful and quiet. His hands found her arms—gently, just below the elbows. He lifted with care, guiding her up like she was something already cracked.

She winced but didn’t pull away.

“I’m fine,” she breathed.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t believe it.

He just helped her up. One arm looped under hers, slow and careful, until her feet found the ground again.

He watched her a moment longer.

She didn’t lift her eyes.

But she felt his gaze on her, like he was measuring how much she had left.

Around them, the rest of the unit gathered. Quiet. Grim. Eyes moved toward Narena, then away again.

They’d seen it too.

The way the Yiga came for her.

Not the formation. Not the patrol.

Her.

The smoke had cleared by now.

But whatever had brought them here hadn’t lifted.

—

Pt.24 Pt.26

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 24/32

masterlist

Chapter XXIV: Unraveled

⸻

The yard was mostly empty this early, except for the bite of cold in the air and the chalky clatter of distant steel.

Dawn hadn’t broken yet, but the sky was bruising purple at the edges, and a thin breath of frost clung to the stones.

Narena stood at the far end of the practice ring, boots planted, staff drawn, shoulders squared like she could hold herself together by stance alone.

She moved through the form again.

Diagonal sweep. Block. Pivot. Draw back. Repeat.

Each motion was clean. Too clean. Like she was chasing perfection to make up for something else.

Her fingers were pale where they gripped the haft. She wasn’t wearing gloves.

Breath came through her nose, sharp and controlled. Too fast to be calm, too steady to be panicked. Somewhere between the two—like she’d been living in that space for days.

She moved again. Faster this time.

Diagonal sweep. Block. Pivot. Her left foot landed a hair too wide, and she adjusted mid-turn. Barely a slip. But she felt it.

Again.

Twist. Block. Strike.

She pushed harder into the next set.

Sweat gathered at her collar despite the cold. Her braid clung at her shoulder. Breath sharp. Grip white-knuckled. Her wrists were aching, but it didn’t register. She didn’t want to notice anything.

She didn’t stop until her lungs were burning and her sleeves were sticking to her arms. Even then, she didn’t still—not until:

“You’ve been at it a while.”

She didn’t hear him approach, of course. She never did. But she stopped mid-step now, chest rising, exhale sharp as if the words had broken whatever rhythm she’d forced into her muscles.

Link stood just beyond the edge of the ring, hands at his sides. His voice had been soft—low enough to leave her the choice to ignore it if she wanted.

She didn’t.

Instead, she adjusted her grip, reset her stance, and said, “Not long.”

Link didn’t move. “Sun’s not even up yet.”

She didn’t respond. Just started through the form again. This time slower, more careful.

He watched without interrupting. His eyes were quiet, steady—not appraising, not critical. Just watching.

She went through another set. Halfway through, she hesitated.

Only for a breath. Then kept going.

“You haven’t slept,” he said.

Not a question. Just a thread of truth laid flat between them.

She didn’t answer.

The form ended. She stopped in place, staff resting down at her side. Her chest rose and fell once. Twice. She turned her head slightly, not looking at him directly.

“I’m fine.”

There wasn’t sharpness in her voice. Just exhaustion, neatly wrapped in control.

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

A long silence stretched out. She didn’t move. Neither did he.

She tried to cycle through the motion again—slow, deliberate—but her arms were starting to shake. She ignored it. Reset her grip. Breathed in.

Link still hadn’t moved.

She paused.

“I don’t need you watching me,” she said, and this time there was a flicker of something sharp in her voice. Not anger—more like shame.

“I know,” he said again, quietly.

And still, he stayed.

She didn’t tell him to leave.

Instead, she turned back toward the yard.

Set her stance.

And started again.

—

Torchlight danced across the war table in the East Wing’s strategy chamber, orange flickers falling on parchment maps and ink-stained hands.

Commander Vos cleared his throat, voice low in the hush of anticipation.

“We’ve lost contact with three northwestern outposts,” he began, tapping the fragile map.

“They were empty before dawn—no battle reports, no retreat traces. Just… abandoned.”

Link leaned in, tracing the shaky trail of patrols that once tied those posts together.

Rivan’s voice was quiet, but edged with concern. “No signs of conflict. Not even tracks. It’s like they vanished willingly.”

Tresa, pacing by the lampstand, narrowed his gaze at scattered rune markings across the corners of the map.

Link studied the terrain. “And the route patterns? Any overlap in supply runs or messenger paths?”

“All standard,” Tresa replied. “But the timing’s off. Too quiet. Patrols from two sectors reported strange glyphs carved near the tree lines. Shallow markings—not visible unless you knew where to look.”

“Glyphs?” Link echoed, looking up sharply.

He nodded, continuing:

“These glyphs are far too deliberate to be random. Whoever did this isn’t just passing through. They’re leaving a message.”

The air felt heavier.

Link lifted his head. “What do the scouts say? Any signs of Yiga presence?”

Vos dismissed that possibility with a shake of his head. “Our scouts report no known Yiga runes in the area. But they noted the outposts were cleared carefully—neither burned nor looted. That’s not their style.”

Rivan folded his arms, brow furrowed. “If not Yiga… who? And why so close to the castle perimeter?”

“It’s not a threat—it’s a warning.” Vos’s words were measured. “It’s performative. They want us to see it. And to worry.”

Tresa circled the table. “These glyphs correspond to key terrain: waterfalls, ridge lines. It’s tactical—natural strike pathways.”

Vos looked each man in the eye. “Night marches on those routes might catch us off guard. We need double patrols, rotating watches every three hours—no shift shorter, no guard static.”

He slid written directives across the table: patrol schedules, sector assignments, contingency protocols.

The men accepted them in silence, absorbing the gravity.

Link finally spoke, voice steady: “I’ll take the northern ridge rota tomorrow evening. Assess any movement.”

Vos inclined his head. “Diversify your patrol times and vary your routes. Their intent is to find predictable patterns.”

The gathering ended in a quiet tension, the torchlight guttering as the commanders stepped away.

—

The air clung thick with heat and metal, the sky overhead drained pale with the slow fall of evening.

Narena’s arms ached.

Her grip on the staff had slipped three times in the last set, and her stance had lost something—precision, maybe. Control.

She didn’t care.

She adjusted her footing again. Sweat slicked down her neck, pooled at the base of her spine. The band at her wrist itched like it had welded itself to her skin.

Behind her, footsteps approached—measured, familiar.

Zelda’s voice reached her back. “I didn’t want to interrupt. I just came to update you.”

Narena didn’t turn. Her staff stayed lifted in position, though her hands had stopped adjusting. She waited.

“I’ve combed through everything we have on Ros,” Zelda continued. “No direct Yiga connections, but his assignments overlapped with two compromised units. He scrubbed his trail well.”

A gust picked up. Sweat cooled in patches. She blinked at nothing—the yard blurred at the edges.

And something shifted.

The clang of steel fell away. In its place: a voice. Orders barked. Not here. Not now. Somewhere else—red-lit and distant.

She jerked her head once, trying to dislodge it.

Zelda spoke again, more gently now. “Do you think he could be connected to the recent attacks?”

Narena’s throat felt dry. She swallowed. She didn’t look at Zelda, only gave the smallest shrug—shoulders tight, lungs dragging like the air was too thick to hold.

Another flash.

Boots in mud. Blood sprayed across a tree trunk. A scream that cut off fast.

Zelda waited.

Her voice, when it came next, was softer. More careful.

“Do you remember anything that might help?”

A beat.

More.

A flicker of heat. Hands pinned. Someone shouting just out of reach. Her vision swimming red.

Narena blinked hard. “No.”

Zelda didn’t press. “Okay, just…let me know if you do.”

She nodded, but her eyes were distant, unfocused—like she wasn’t really there.

Zelda left with the same quiet steps she came in on.

Narena stood alone again, staff heavy in her grip.

Somewhere nearby, Link’s shadow leaned against the low wall, silent—but watching.

She adjusted her stance again. Her foot slipped.

Not much. But enough.

She caught herself with a short breath.

Her arms were trembling.

And this time, she didn’t fix them.

—

The room was too quiet.

The kind of silence that didn’t settle, but pressed.

Against the floorboards, against the ceiling beams, against her chest.

Narena lay on her side, eyes open, watching the faint blur of moonlight creep along the edge of the shutters. The shadows moved slowly—too slowly.

She hadn’t slept.

She wasn’t sure she even could.

The blanket was a twisted weight tangled around her legs. Her pillow had long since lost its comfort.

Every inch of her body ached—from the repetition, from the way her muscles never unclenched even when she stopped moving.

She’d trained too long, pushed too hard. Every one of her limbs echoed with it now.

Dull, persistent.

An ache that nested deep in the bone.

And still, it wasn’t just that.

Her body buzzed with that kind of exhaustion that never tipped into rest.

Just sat there, heavy and useless.

She shifted, once. Then again.

The mattress creaked beneath her, soft but accusing. Her wrists throbbed. She flexed them against the sheets, trying not to think about it—but the ache was deep, like bruises blooming in places she couldn’t see.

Her fingers curled into the linen.

It had been weeks, but the weight still lingered tight around her wrists. Cold and precise, like the memory of being held down had etched itself into the bone.

She closed her eyes, breath shallow.

A flicker—bright light, red-tinted. Wet sounds. A body slumping against something hard. The smell of blood. Her mouth filled with the taste of metal.

She turned onto her back, heart climbing.

Blood. Screams. A field soaked through with it. The scent of copper. Heat.

Orders barked from somewhere behind her, muffled and indistinct, like they were being shouted through water.

Not her voice. Not her memories.

And yet—

Fear, like ice, settled behind her ribs. Freezing everything, sharp and splintering.

She tossed again, breath unsteady, heartbeat quickening like she’d run miles without leaving the bed.

Her hands curled in the sheets. Her chest felt tight.

Her eyes snapped open.

She sat up too fast. The room tilted.

Her breath caught in her throat, lungs refusing to work the way they should.

Her fingers scrambled for the edge of the nightstand, found the lamp. She fumbled with the striker, missed once, then caught the wick.

The flame flared, casting long shadows across the walls.

The light steadied.

She didn’t.

Narena sat there, halfway out of the blankets, hair sticking to her neck, sweat clinging to the back of her shirt.

The lamp’s glow painted everything in soft gold—but it felt wrong.

She could still feel it.

In her wrists.

In her ribs.

In the way her legs didn’t want to move.

—

The halls were quiet.

Not the suffocating kind, just still.

Cool stone pressed beneath her boots as she moved slowly through the corridor, lamp held low.

The wick flickered with each step.

Her shadow stretched behind her, long and thin against the wall. Narena hadn’t meant to come here.

It wasn’t a decision, exactly.

Just motion.

Her body moving before her thoughts caught up.

She pushed through the old side door—the one with the warped frame and rusted hinges.

The scent met her instantly.

Earth, damp and sweet.

The lingering breath of rain-soaked soil and leaf-green humidity.

The space opened up around her, glass walls casting moonlight into slanted angles along the floor. Her boots moved quieter here. The sound softened under the vines and overgrown foliage.

She walked past rows of sleeping herbs and carefully staked stalks until she reached the back corner.

The purple daylilies were there.

Unbothered. Unchanged.

She sat on the edge of the low stone planter, knees drawn tight to her chest, the lamp’s glow settling quietly beside her.

The flowers stretched just within reach—soft, vivid, untouched.

Her fingers hovered near them once, then curled back.

She didn’t trust her hands not to ruin them.

So she sat there, breathing in the smell of them. Rooted. Warm. Familiar in a way nothing else had been lately.

Her shoulders didn’t relax, but her jaw unclenched a little.

Minutes passed.

Or maybe more.

Then—

A knock. Soft and abrupt.

Her whole body flinched, posture snapping upright.

The lamp’s flame guttered sharply.

Link stood just inside the doorway, half-lit by the lamp’s glow. His expression didn’t shift, but his eyes lingered on her a moment too long, brows drawn with a quiet crease that softened as he saw her.

Her hand moved instinctively to her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, already stepping back. His voice was low, steady.

She shook her head. “It’s fine.” But her voice was thin.

He didn’t ask if he could come closer.

She turned her eyes back toward the lilies. Watched the still petals instead of him.

“Hard night?” he asked.

She nodded.

Link stepped forward at last, boots hushed against the moss-lined stone. He didn’t sit. Just lowered into a crouch beside her—quiet, like always. Not watching her, exactly.

The air hung soft between them.

Then, after a long pause:

“Narena?”

Something in his tone made her blink. She turned.

He was looking at her face, expression drawn in that small, quiet way he had when something didn’t sit right. Touched by something deeper than worry.

Her hand rose to her cheek before she realized what it was reaching for.

Her fingers came back wet.

“Oh,” she said, softly. No surprise in it. Just the faint realization of it.

She hadn’t noticed.

Her lips parted, but no words came. Tears slid down her cheeks, beyond her control.

They didn’t stop.

She wiped them. One, then another. But they kept coming. Slipping past her hands as if they didn’t need permission.

Her chest hitched once, then again.

Link didn’t say anything.

He just moved.

Before she knew it, she felt the press of his cloak against her cheek.

He wrapped both arms around her, pulling her into a firm, protective hold.

And she couldn’t stop the tears.

Slow at first, then all at once, drawn from someplace too deep to name. Her chest tightened around them, every inhale catching like her body didn’t know how to hold sorrow this old.

Outside, the greenhouse air felt impossibly still, scented with earth and lilies.

His embrace didn’t shift. His hand pressing gently to the back of her head, anchoring her.

Little by little, the sound of her crying softened.

The gasps between each breath evened out, stretched longer. The tension in her shoulders began to melt, the trembling eased with each slow exhale.

Around them, the greenhouse exhaled too.

Leaves rustled overhead. Lamplight shimmered faintly against the glass.

Link’s heartbeat stayed steady beneath her ear.

And slowly, like rain giving way to stillness, she quieted.

Her grip slackened. Her body grew heavier in his arms.

Until all that remained was breath—soft, even, and deep.

And at last, sleep found her.

—

Pt.23 Pt.25

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 23/32

masterlist

Chapter XXIII: Clotted

⸻

The air in the lower cells hung damp and unmoved, like a held breath.

The corridor narrowed with every step, stone archways casting deep shadows as torchlight flickered low. Zelda walked in silence.

The guard at the end nodded once and unlatched the gate. She stepped through.

Rowen sat cross-legged in the far corner of the back cell, elbows on knees, head tilted back against the wall. His shirt was torn near the collar, dried mud crusted along the hem. His eyes opened when she approached, slow and unfazed.

“Royal company,” he said. “How quaint.”

Zelda didn’t respond.

Rowen shifted upright, letting his spine press against the stone—solid, deliberate. “I thought you were above dungeon theatrics,” he said, glancing at the torchlight dancing off the cell bars. “But maybe that’s just the dress talking.”

She stopped at the edge of the bars. “I know you and Ros were working together.”

His smile didn’t falter. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“You funneled personnel. You bypassed oversight. You rerouted one of our soldiers for your own ends.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. “If this is your pitch for leniency, you might want to lead with a softer hand.”

Zelda’s tone didn’t rise. “You used her. I want to know why.”

A beat.

Then he leaned forward, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

Zelda’s face gave nothing away.

Rowen smiled, eyes gleaming in the low light. “The thing about weapons, Your Highness, is that they always remember how they were forged.”

He stood slowly, the chains at his ankles barely clinking as he moved closer to the bars.

“You keep digging for answers,” he said, voice low. “But what happens if there’s nothing left for you to dig up?”

Zelda stared at him, unmoving.

Then: “Whatever game you were playing, it’s finished.”

Rowen’s grin widened. “Still clinging to the notion of control, are we?”

Silence stretched.

Zelda turned toward the exit, but he spoke again, smooth, taunting.

“Control’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Slips between your fingers before you know it’s gone.”

She paused just before the door. The dungeon walls seemed to inhale in that space between them.

He called after her—lightly, almost conversational. “When she comes undone, remember this conversation.”

Zelda closed her eyes for a second, blinked, and opened them as the door clanged shut—metal and shadow sealing the cell and the moment behind her.

Each footstep away felt like carving choice into stone.

She didn’t look back.

—

She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there.

The gravel beneath her boots had long since stopped crunching—flattened under heel, pressed into stillness.

Her staff rested across her knees, the ends just barely touching the dirt on either side. It should’ve felt grounding. But her fingers moved around it like it was unfamiliar.

The training yard behind her was still busy—metal clanging, barked orders, soldiers shifting in and out of stance. No one came this far into the corner. It wasn’t hidden exactly. Just overlooked.

Like her.

She exhaled, slow. Her jaw ached. She hadn’t even realized she was clenching it.

Nothing in her body felt settled. Her thoughts floated wide and apart, like the inside of her skull had widened to make room for something she couldn’t quite catch.

She should’ve been training.

Or at least doing something that made sense.

Instead she sat here. Twisting the staff once, twice, then still again—one hand steady on the haft while the other dragged through the gravel at her side, turning up tiny stones in slow, uneven rows.

She didn’t hear Link approach.

His presence didn’t announce itself. It never had. He just appeared—quiet as shadow, steady as breath—and stood for a second longer than someone might if they were passing by.

Then he crouched in front of her.

Not low, not looming. Just close enough to meet her eyes—steady, unhurried. Like he wasn’t trying to fix anything. Just see her.

She looked at him, finally.

He wasn’t speaking, but the way he was watching her, steady and quietly concerned, made her chest pull tight before she could breathe around it.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked.

It wasn’t pressed. But it was closer to pleading than she’d ever heard in his voice.

Her mouth opened.

Then closed.

She shook her head.

“I don’t know.”

The words didn’t feel like hers. They felt borrowed. Small and strange and real in a way that scared her.

Link didn’t flinch.

“I can’t breathe right,” she said, a little faster now, like the truth might turn sour if she let it cool too long. “Not all the time. Not like something’s wrong physically. Just… like I’m always half-full. Like something in me is bracing for something I don’t remember.”

She felt the burn in her nose. Bit down on it.

“I’m not sleeping. I—” She stopped. The staff dug lightly into her palm.

“I feel like there’s this weight. Inside. And every day it’s just… more.” She gestured unevenly to her chest.

Link said nothing. Not yet.

“And I don’t know if I’m a good person.”

That made him move.

Not much—just a breath deeper. A shift in the line of his brow. But it hit her harder than if he’d shouted.

Her eyes dropped. She didn’t want to see pity.

But when she looked back up, there wasn’t any.

She swallowed the rising sting in her throat, but it stayed.

Of all people—why did it have to be him? She could hold herself together in front of anyone. But not him. Not when he looked at her like this.

Like she wasn’t breaking. Like she was allowed to.

But he was. And it was him.

Solid. Uncomplicated. Still looking at her.

“You are,” he said quietly.

Two words.

No fluff. No philosophy. Just… belief.

She swallowed, slow. Her right thumb shifted along the staff’s grip.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

“I know.” His voice didn’t waver.

His fingers brushed the ground once beside hers—not offering, not demanding. Just a presence. Just enough to say: I’m still here.

The wind shifted slightly in the yard. Metal clanged. Someone shouted something distant. But here, in this corner, everything was still.

He stayed with her.

And for the first time in days—maybe longer—she didn’t want to get up.

She just wanted to keep sitting here.

Because Link was still there, breathing steady.

And he was still looking at her like she was worth waiting on.

—

Narena walked alone.

She didn’t remember how she got there. The path was unfamiliar—tight-tracked, choked with overgrowth.

Thorny brush clawed at her sleeves, wet with dew or something darker. The trees here leaned in too close, bark split down the middle like old wounds.

The ground squelched underfoot.

Damp, uneven.

At first, it was just mud—dark, sticky, clinging to the treads of her boots. But as she kept walking, it thickened. Got harder to lift her feet.

Then: a sound behind her.

A crack. A hush. She turned.

No one.

The air stank—metallic, thick. She kept walking. The mud beneath her deepened to something gelatinous. Her boot sank deeper, then deeper again.

She looked down.

It wasn’t just mud anymore.

It was thick. Red. Clotted.

It oozed around her ankles. Her boot wouldn’t come free. She yanked once, twice. The suction held. And then—

Her foot slipped.

She hit the ground hard.

Her cheek struck something soft and cold. She turned instinctively, gagged, shoved herself up with her elbows—

And found herself staring into the open eyes of a body.

The face was slack. Blood smeared from the hairline to the jaw. Lips parted, breathless. Unmoving.

She scrambled up, vision blurring, slipping again, hands slick with whatever coated the ground.

When she stood, her boots dragged free with a sound like suctioned flesh.

Then she saw them.

All of them.

Bodies.

Dozens.

Lying broken across the clearing.

Some on their backs, arms flung wide. Some curled in on themselves. Women. Children. Faces she couldn’t place—but they looked real. Familiar, even. Like someone she might have known once, in another life.

Her hands trembled. A cold weight clamped around her ribs.

The red was everywhere. Across her arms, her chest, soaking into the front of her uniform.

She spun around, disoriented, breath turning jagged. Her lungs clamped down like they were trying to reject the air. She took a step back—slipped again. Regained her footing.

Then ran.

She didn’t know where to.

The trees blurred. The bodies seemed to multiply. The blood clung to her like it had always been there.

Then—

She hit something.

Solid. Tall.

A man.

He grabbed her by the collar, eyes sharp with fury. “You were supposed to finish it,” he hissed. “You left them alive.”

She stumbled back, falling hard into the muck, hands behind her to break the fall. Her palms landed on something wet and warm.

She looked down.

Her hands were covered in it. Her sleeves. Her chest. Her thighs. The blood was thick. Still fresh. Still warm.

And hers.

Her breath caught.

A sound rose in her throat—raw and choked.

The man was gone.

The forest around her shrank.

The air constricted.

Then—

She woke.

Gasping.

The blanket clutched in her fists like it had tried to hold her down. Her lungs refused to expand. Her chest heaved once, twice. Her whole body seized forward, a ragged sob curling out of her mouth before she could stop it.

She clawed for air.

The air of her room was too thin. Her heart thundered against her ribs like it was trying to get out.

She stared at her hands like they weren’t hers.

And still, she couldn’t breathe.

She blinked hard—but the blood was still there.

She swore it was.

On her wrists. Her sleeves. Her skin.

She curled forward. Clutched her stomach.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t real.

She rocked slightly, breath ragged, eyes wide in the dark.

But even with her heart pounding, her lungs catching, her fists clenched in the linen—

She could still smell it.

And she didn’t know if that would go away.

—

Pt.22 Pt.24

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 22/32

masterlist

Chapter XXII: Lingering Whispers

⸻

The trees had grown thicker as they climbed east.

Here, the forest canopy laced so tightly overhead that the morning light came only in narrow seams, silver and slow, catching in the dew at the edges of bark and stone.

Every few steps, the underbrush shifted underfoot—not loudly, but enough to notice. Wet leaves, disturbed moss. Nothing sharp. Nothing fast.

Narena moved near the front of the unit, just behind Link.

The others spread in a staggered arrowhead behind them—quiet, focused. The forest wasn’t dangerous on its own. But today, it felt like it might be.

A recent report had marked this quadrant for “potential infiltration signatures.”

It didn’t say “Yiga” on the dispatch sheet. But no one had to say it.

Narena’s eyes tracked the woods in slow arcs, her steps light and even. She hadn’t spoken since they passed the ruined bridge. Her fingers never drifted far from the staff strapped across her back.

It was her first mission back in the field.

No ceremony. Just an assignment. She preferred it that way.

They passed a low ridge where the moss grew heavy and thick, clinging to the edges of half-collapsed ruins. Ancient stone. The shape of old walls swallowed by root and time.

A wind moved through. Not loud. Just cool, and odd.

Link slowed. One hand raised.

The unit paused in quiet synchronicity.

Narena’s body went still.

From somewhere ahead: not a noise, exactly.

A pressure.

Like movement displaced something that hadn’t made sound yet.

She turned slightly, adjusting her stance. A small click—her glove brushing against the haft of her staff.

Rellen, one of the younger soldiers, stood two places back. He shifted, adjusting the strap on his sidepack.

She remembered him—barely. From a mission a while back.

His grip on the sword was better now. Not good. But better.

A crow lifted suddenly from the treetops, its caw sharp, cutting through the hush.

Then they struck.

The first figure came from above—not from the trees, but the slope beyond them. Fast, silent, all cloak and steel.

Link met the blow before it landed. Blade caught mid-motion, a flash of frictioned metal against the green-gray backdrop.

The fight snapped open like a wire pulled too tight.

More shapes surged from the woods. Not dozens— six, maybe seven. Enough to outnumber. Not enough to overwhelm.

Narena stepped left, her movement fluid. Her staff came free in one practiced arc.

A Yiga soldier charged low, blades in both hands, mask tight.

She ducked him. Pivoted. The haft caught him first in the ribs, then a backward sweep to the jaw. He crumpled before his second foot could land.

Another tried to flank her. She didn’t change rhythm.

Strike to the thigh. Then to the ankle. The moment the weight shifted, she stepped in and drove the end of the staff behind his knees. Clean. Final.

The unit fanned out. Rellen stumbled as a blade glanced past his shoulder.

Narena didn’t call out. She didn’t signal.

She simply moved.

Intercepted.

She caught the attacker at the side, low and sharp. A sweep to knock his balance. Then a two-point rotation, first to the gut, then the neck as he dropped. Fast. Unceremonious.

Rellen righted himself, chest heaving. Their eyes met for half a breath.

Recognition flickered—but no words passed.

A third came, slower, bigger. More armored. She didn’t dodge.

She redirected.

Deflected the strike with the grain of the staff. Stepped inside his swing. Disarmed the off-hand. Elbowed the mask askew, then struck at the gap beneath the chinplate. One motion, two beats. His knees gave out before he realized what she’d done.

The fight didn’t swell. It sharpened.

Link moved to intercept a final pair near the edge of the trail. The rest fell back. One staggered.

The others fled.

The quiet returned—jagged this time. Breath and dirt and the metallic scent of sweat-warmed leather.

Narena stood still, staff held vertically at her side. Her chest rose, then stilled.

Link scanned the unit. A few bruises. A shallow cut. Nothing worse.

Rellen, still near the tree line, stared at the space where the Yiga had fallen. Then at her.

Not with fear.

With comprehension.

She met his eyes. Held it for half a second.

Then turned.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t break stride. She moved back to Link’s side and waited for his word to continue.

He gave a short nod.

Then the column reformed.

—

The archive chamber lay beneath the east wing—far enough below the main court to mute the noise of passing feet. Only the occasional shift of stone overhead gave any hint of life above.

Here, the walls breathed dust and parchment.

The corridor narrowed the deeper she went—walls thick with age, the ceiling low, like the stone had slowly pressed downward over the centuries. Torch sconces flickered in intervals, casting long shadows between each turn.

Zelda didn’t bring a lantern.

She knew the path well.

The old archive chamber door was sealed under the royal sigil that hadn’t been used officially in a decade. She pressed her hand against it. The mechanism clicked, reluctant.

Inside, the room exhaled dust and parchment. A breathless hush.

She moved quickly. Not hurried—but intentional. Her robe brushed the floor in quiet rhythm, and her hand hovered over labels as she passed.

Military Transfers, Unclassified.

Judicial Inquiries.

Disciplinary Reports, 1st Division.

Too public. Too expected.

She bypassed them.

Near the back, a smaller drawer. Older keyplate. Its label etched faintly into brass:

PERSONNEL — NON-STANDARD REASSIGNMENTS.

She pressed her clearance slip into the slot.

A quiet click. Then the drawer opened.

Inside: maybe a dozen folders.

She sifted.

Then—there.

ROS, ARLEN.

The handwriting was clean. Court-issue. The ink had faded only slightly.

She opened it.

Narena’s name appeared on the second page. The transfer slip was intact. No notation of approval, no routing through the usual commands. Just Ros’s signature.

She read it twice.

But there was nothing else. No letters. No requests. No addenda.

Just the transfer, logged and filed.

A second folder, thinner, marked Internal Conduct Review – Ros yielded even less.

The complaint descriptions were vague. “Inconsistencies in leadership.” “Abrupt disciplinary measures.” “Training misalignment.”

One comment noted a “marked tendency toward psychological separation from unit protocol,” but it was buried beneath bureaucratic phrasing.

No outcomes. No attached statements.

Zelda’s fingers tightened along the page edge.

She searched for more—cross-references, additional authorizations, anything.

But the drawer was empty now. The gap between what she suspected and what was written had never felt wider.

She stood still for a moment.

The torchlight shifted behind her. The air smelled of closed parchment and stone that remembered fire.

There was nothing else here.

Not in this room.

Not in these records.

But something else existed. She was sure of it.

Just not where they had allowed it to be seen.

Zelda closed the drawer quietly.

If the paper trail had been buried—

—perhaps it was time to ask the man who held the shovel.

The door eased shut behind her, and the hall beyond waited in silence.

—

The forest held its breath.

Narena stepped away from the makeshift triage circle where arrows were being pulled and wounds dressed.

The soldiers murmured low, checking each other’s gear, tending to splinters. Rellen was crouched by a broken branch, snatching a splinter with deft calm.

But Narena didn’t linger.

She followed a thread of absence—a cool hollow in the air that felt carved just for her.

She moved deeper into the shadows, her boots quiet on moss that glistened with late-afternoon dew. The light through the canopy fractured into pale green tiles, shading the world in interlocking panels of calm.

Then she paused, watching a tremble in the air—a flicker of motion where a fallen leaf twirled up without a breeze.

She supposed the others might notice if she vanished, but the wind was too still for voices to carry.

She felt her pulse—solid, steady. But the quiet pressed in around her in ways she could feel behind her ribs. The underbrush grew thicker. Ferns brushed her sleeve, dripping with moisture she didn’t bother to shake off.

She kept going, drawn toward something she couldn’t name.

Her staff stayed strapped to her back, fingers brushing the leather wrap for reassurance.

Then: A sound—a breath?—like something exhaling from deep under bark.

A low hum, soft, as if clipped from a longer word no one had permission to speak.

She froze.

The leaves overhead stilled, though the forest was not still.

She inhaled.

The air tasted of rich loam and distant rain. Warm, just enough to remind her how far from the training yard she was.

From the periphery: a murmur, impossible to localize. A voice, or memory, or unspoken promise:

“The shape of your mind was perfect.

We carved it gently.

You didn’t even flinch.”

Her jaw clenched.

A flicker—was that movement? No, just bark, cracked in the shape of a face. Gone now.

Nothing visible, only floating breaths between the trunks.

Her fingers twitched at her side, grazed the haft of her staff. She swallowed, breath jagged.

She took a step forward.

Her throat tightened. Not in fear. In resistance—like something was pressing back against her from inside.

The leaves overhead rustled—soft, tight, a coil unwinding too slowly.

“Returned, reshaped… but never broken.”

She exhaled sharply. The words wrapped around her thoughts, clinging to them like sheen on metal.

She swallowed. Her voice was firm, but her mouth was dry.

“Who’s there?”

No answer.

Just the soft drip of a droplet falling from moss-heavy bark to stone.

She closed her eyes, listening. Footsteps? No. Just space between the trees.

The air cooled. Cracked bark glowed pale where sunlight had died.

She reached out and tapped a trunk. Smooth. Unscarred. Or maybe scarred and already healed over.

Again, the space shifted. She moved left. The path forked. Neither way felt familiar.

She shifted—stepped sideways. Found herself facing the same tree she thought she’d passed already.

Had she turned around?

No, she was sure—

Another whisper. Something like a sigh, wet with the weight of expectation. It was impossible to say whether they drifted down from above or rose up from the depths of her own mind.

Her heart pulsed. That was enough.

She turned.

The trees stood too close, aligned in perfect angular silence.

Light dropped away.

“You can’t protect them.”

Not a threat. Just… a truth shaped in darkness.

She braced herself, staff still strapped behind her. She could feel the forest pressing at her through all her bones.

Her eyes adjusted to the dim. The trunks seemed to lean in. She felt watched, measured—not by eyes, but by intent.

She didn’t answer.

She took a breath and began to walk back.

But the forest stretched her steps thin. The mist of green light shifted under her feet.

Narena caught her breath. Thought of Link. Of the unit. Of retreat, of returning.

A single twig snapped behind her.

She stumbled back, caught herself.

The air thinned. Smelled sharp, like hot stone. Her tongue tasted copper.

She blinked. Her hand grazed a trunk. It felt smooth—but also like skin.

She flinched. Looked. Bark. Just bark. It’s just bark.

The forest shifted again. The path behind her was gone. No trail. Just more trees, aligned like teeth in a closing jaw.

Light bled upward from the ground.

A bioluminescent ring of moss, pulsing soft beneath her feet.

She jerked, stumbled backward—breath caught in her throat.

The light faded.

Just moss. Just earth.

Just silence.

She stayed there, chest tight, mind racing, until—

A soft click from the trail.

She blinked.

And then—

“Narena?”

Link’s voice, low and calm, edged with relief.

He appeared at the trail’s edge, silhouette framed by the remaining light. Behind him were faint voices: the unit, pulling back, looking for her.

He took a step in. She stayed in shadows.

The underbrush settled. The forest exhaled once more, and darkness reclaimed the spaces between the trees.

Link’s boots paused.

They stood in opposite halves of the silence.

And the forest waited.

“Are you alright?”

She nodded, but it was late, too slow. Her eyes weren’t on him—they flicked once to the treeline behind him, then down.

His brows drew together, but he didn’t press.

“You were gone a while,” he said. Not accusing. Just a fact.

She shifted her stance. “I thought I heard something.”

He waited a beat.

“You didn’t call out.”

She didn’t answer that.

Link didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. He just stepped back, one foot easing onto the trail. “They’re finishing up. We’ll be moving soon.”

She nodded again, shorter this time.

Link didn’t say more. Just waited. His eyes tracing her like he was memorizing something he hadn’t meant to notice.

Eventually, she stepped forward. Walked past him without a word.

He turned and followed, one pace behind her.

When they reached the others, she didn’t explain where she’d been. No one asked.

Link straightened.

“Let’s go,” he said quietly. “We’ll stick close.”

—

The castle gates were only just creaking open when they returned.

Pale light caught on the torches still burning low with morning ash, the smell of spent firewood lingering in the air like a memory.

The unit passed beneath the archway in silence—no heralds, no watchful garrison waiting. Just the muffled sound of boots on stone and the steady breath of a courtyard not quite awake.

Link dismounted first, boots landing with a soft thud.

Narena followed, her pace even but subdued. Her braid had loosened, loose strands clung to the collar of her uniform, dark with sweat and dew. No one commented.

The rest of the unit filtered off toward the barracks. Rellen gave her a second glance, subtle, unreadable. But he didn’t linger.

Only Link stayed close.

They walked side by side without speaking. Gravel shifted beneath their feet, softened by the rain from two nights past. The air had that faint mineral smell—clean, cold, familiar.

The silence wasn’t awkward, or forced.

It was something like trust. Or maybe the quiet space where it forms.

They moved through the outer court, past the shadowed fountain and the long garden edge, where the sun had barely started to warm the stone. The wind tugged once at her cloak; she adjusted it with a sharp breath but didn’t break stride.

When they reached the barracks corridor toward the officers’ quarters, Narena slowed.

She stopped at her door.

He did too.

His voice came after a long pause, low and gentle. “You sure you’re alright?”

She turned the latch with a small click, fingers resting there a moment longer than necessary. Then she looked at him—not fully, but just enough to catch the care threaded into his posture. The stillness. The slight lean forward, like part of him wasn’t sure if he should leave.

“I’m fine,” she said.

It wasn’t dismissive. But it wasn’t confident either.

Link didn’t nod. Didn’t take it at face value.

He just watched her.

She shifted, her weight tilting slightly on one foot, hand still braced against the doorframe.

“I shouldn’t have gone off,” she said, quieter now. “That was—”

“You came back,” he said.

There was something final in how he said it. Like it outweighed whatever mistake she thought she’d made.

She let that sit between them.

Then: “Still. I’m sorry.”

His gaze didn’t move. “You don’t need to apologize.”

The words weren’t for dismissal. They were offered—firm, and without space for argument.

Another silence.

Not heavy. Just… held.

She eased the door open. The room behind her was dim and familiar. Nothing had moved since she’d left it. Boots still at the cot’s edge, a half-folded tunic near the basin.

But she didn’t step inside right away.

She turned back, one hand still on the door, the other brushing lightly at her shoulder where a strand of hair clung.

“I’m alright,” she said again.

This time, it was a little more real.

Link didn’t speak right away.

He just met her eyes.

Then, gently: “Get some rest.”

She gave a nod. The kind that wasn’t just compliance.

The kind that said thank you without saying anything at all.

He stepped back.

She lingered one second longer—just long enough for him to see it. Then she slipped inside.

The door clicked closed with a soft finality.

—

Pt.21 Pt.23

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 21/32

masterlist

Chapter XXI: Threshold

⸻

The castle halls had begun to settle into the hush of early evening—lamplight catching along stone walls, footsteps fewer now, more deliberate.

Zelda stepped through the doorway of Link’s office without ceremony. He was seated at his desk, a short stack of field reports half-read, a quill resting idle near the inkpot.

He looked up as she entered. “Zelda.”

She gave a brief nod, closing the door softly behind her. “Do you have a moment?”

He gestured to the seat across from him. “Of course.”

Zelda sat without adjusting her robes. Her movements were uncharacteristically brisk.

“It’s about Narena,” she said.

Link leaned forward slightly, already alert.

“She came to me this morning,” Zelda continued. “She was attacked yesterday—in the training yard. You already know that part.”

He nodded once, slow.

“She said the Yiga mentioned Rowen,” Zelda went on. “Said he would be ‘avenged.’ It struck her. Enough to bring it to me.”

Link’s expression didn’t change, but the lines around his eyes tightened.

“I started looking into it again,” Zelda said. “Records, patterns. I found something. Nothing direct, but… Arlen Ros. He was under investigation before he resigned. Internal reports. Unusual complaints. Whispers of ties to the Yiga. Not confirmed, but concerning.”

She drew a folded slip of parchment from her sleeve and set it on the desk without unfolding it. “There were internal flags—small things. Procedural gaps, irregular complaints. But what stood out… he and Rowen had a history. Not recent. But enough.”

Link sat with it for a moment.

Then: “Ros.”

Zelda glanced at him. “You know him?”

He nodded once. “He was Narena’s commander. Before she was reassigned back to me. That transfer happened almost two months ago. She’d been under him nearly two years.”

Zelda’s posture shifted slightly, the pieces realigning in her head.

“She froze when I told her,” she said. “Didn’t speak. Just left.”

Link’s eyes dropped to the table. His fingers tensed briefly against the wood. “She was different when she came back. Quieter. Less sure of her place.” He paused. “But not less capable.”

Zelda was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, “Do you know what happened?”

His answer was slow. “No. Not exactly.”

“But you’ve suspected.”

He didn’t deny it.

“I know how much she trusts you,” Zelda said.

Link’s gaze lifted at that—sharper, a little too direct. She continued,

“That’s not something she gives lightly.”

He nodded once, agreeing. “No. It isn’t.”

She didn’t press further. Just stood there a moment longer, the silence shaped by more than what was said.

“I thought you should know,” she added.

Link gave a short nod. “Thanks.”

When she turned to leave, he didn’t move. Just sat there, watching the paper she’d set down, like the meaning in it hadn’t fully settled yet.

And the room held its quiet a little longer.

—

The training yard was still quiet with the late evening chill—stone arches draped in soft light, torches long since extinguished, and dew glistening in the cracks.

Narena moved with deliberate repetition, each staff sweep measured, her breath misting in the air as she fought fatigue.

After a moment, Link appeared just beyond the archway, watching quietly.

She didn’t break her pace until he stepped close.

“Before you say anything,” she breathed, winding the staff. “Yes, I’ve taken a break.”

He inclined his head with something close to relief. “That was a concern.”

She set the staff down and rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead.

Link hesitated, then shifted his stance. “Zelda spoke to me.”

Narena paused mid-turn, staff pointed downward.

“I heard about Ros,” he said quietly. “About what came up.” He offered nothing else but made room for her to fill it.

Her grip tightened around the staff, but she stayed silent, waiting.

Link took a shallow breath. “You know you can always talk to me, right?”

She bristled. It felt strange to hear that tone—gentle, but firm.

“About what?” she asked softly.

He held her gaze. “Anything.” He paused, as though willing himself not to push.

Then added, very quietly,

“Did he hurt you?”

At that, her arm wavered just a bit. She stared past him at the courtyard’s edge.

The air now tasted like iron.

“I—” She shook her head, slow and certain. “No.”

He said nothing further. Just stayed, the distance between them small and steady. The sun crept under the walls.

They stood there, in that hush, until the rest of the yard began to settle.

—

Her quarters were quiet.

The kind of quiet that didn’t press, didn’t linger—just stayed. The shutters were half-drawn, letting in only the softest edge of light.

No lamp burned. No kettle boiled.

Just the sound of the comb’s teeth pulling slowly through her hair.

She sat on the edge of the cot, braid already unwound, strands loose down her back.

The comb moved in measured strokes, tugging through knots that hadn’t formed from sleep but from motion—too much of it.

The kind that comes from refusing to be still.

Her arms ached, but she kept going. The motion gave her something to hold.

Her eyes weren’t focused on anything, just the grain of the floor, the faint patch where water had stained the wood months ago and never fully dried back to color.

She pulled the comb through again.

And the thought returned.

Ros.

His name had sat dormant behind her teeth for months, long enough she’d almost convinced herself it didn’t need to be spoken.

But now—he was here again.

In words, in patterns. In that scratch of something she hadn’t named when she’d left the southern outpost and hadn’t dared name since.

She exhaled sharply through her nose and paused the comb. One hand braced against her knee. The braid, now half-unwound, spilled over her shoulder in dull strands.

It wasn’t one moment she remembered.

It was all of them.

The quiet conditioning.

The silences he rewarded more than answers. The way failure wasn’t met with consequence, but with emptiness—weeks without acknowledgment, without correction, without any signal that she was even worth the weight of being seen.

And the way that when praise finally came—once, maybe twice—it landed like salvation.

She had learned to bleed for it.

To stay silent when her ribs bruised from drills run too long, too hard. To watch others falter and not reach for them. To believe that compassion made her soft. That loyalty only counted when it was silent.

She combed another section. Her wrist twitched, but she didn’t stop.

That was the worst of it.

Not what he did.

But what she let herself become to survive it.

Useful. Efficient. Unquestioning.

Not just a weapon. The hand that wielded it too.

She blinked. Her eyes didn’t sting. But they didn’t settle either.

Maybe it was just the light.

The comb snagged. She forced it through. The strands split.

He hadn’t hurt her—not really.

But he’d shaped her. Bent her edges until she didn’t recognize where her instincts ended and his expectations began.

She wasn’t sure how to peel that apart now.

She stared at the braid. Not quite finished. Not yet.

One last section fell loose against her collarbone.

She lifted the comb again.

And didn’t move.

The air in the room held still.

No judgment. No clarity.

Just her.

And the silence.

—

The knock was soft. Not tentative. Just considerate.

Link looked up from the dispatch logs. The morning light stretched long across the desk, catching faintly on the ink blot at the corner of his sleeve.

“Come in.”

The door opened, steady on the hinges.

Narena stepped inside, posture upright but not rigid. Her uniform was formal—pressed, clean, tunic sleeves folded just enough to reveal the faint white band where the worst of her wounds had healed. Her braid was tied back neatly, tucked behind her shoulder.

She held a folded paper in one hand.

“Commander,” she said.

Link leaned back in his chair. He didn’t speak right away—just watched her for a second, letting the quiet confirm itself before responding.

“You’re early,” he said, soft.

Her mouth twitched. “I was already nearby.”

He nodded, once.

She crossed the room slowly, steps measured, and placed the paper on his desk. It made the faintest sound as it touched the surface.

“Infirmary clearance,” she said. “Full physical return. No cognitive delays, no medication dependencies. I’ve passed two full sessions.”

He didn’t reach for it.

“I’m requesting redeployment,” she added, voice even.

His brow lifted slightly. “That soon?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “I’m ready.”

He studied her face. “And it’s not just because standing still feels wrong?”

She gave a small breath—maybe a laugh, maybe not. “Standing still isn’t the problem,” she said. “Being treated like I might fall over is.”

That pulled a corner of his mouth into something very nearly a smile. But it faded quickly.

“I just want to make sure you’re not pushing out of pride.”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Then, softer: “I want to work. I want to be where I belong. I’ve been breathing under water since the tribunal. This—” she tapped the paper gently, “—this feels like air.”

Link looked down at the parchment, then back up at her.

She added, “If I’m wrong, I’ll say it. I’ll step back. But I don’t think I am.”

For a moment, all he did was study her. Not appraising. Not commanding.

Just… present.

Then he reached for the paper. Didn’t read it. Just unfolded it once, turned it over between his fingers, and set it down.

“Alright.”

She blinked. “That’s it?”

He nodded. “You’re cleared.”

There was a pause—long enough for a reply, but she didn’t give one.

Then he added, voice quieter: “You never needed to prove anything to me.”

Her throat caught slightly.

“I know,” she said.

He rose slowly from the desk, stretching out his shoulders from where he’d been hunched. He stood across from her, the light catching on the edge of his jaw, his collar loose.

When he spoke again, his voice was low.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

This time, her expression softened, just a little. Not a smile, not entirely. But something close.

“So am I,” she said.

Then she gave a short nod, turned, and stepped out.

The door closed softly behind her.

Link stood in the quiet of his office, hand still resting on the parchment she’d left behind. The warmth of the rising sun stretched long across the floor.

The door hadn’t even had time to settle fully in its frame before it opened again.

She came back in brisk, almost breathless, and didn’t speak.

Link turned just in time to catch her.

Her arms wrapped around him quickly, all motion and impulse. Not tight, or dramatic, just fast. Honest. Unthinking.

It wasn’t practiced. It wasn’t part of any regulation.

It just was.

His arms came around her just as easily, one hand resting firm between her shoulder blades, the other curling around her back like it had been waiting longer than either of them would admit.

She didn’t stay long.

Just that brief squeeze—enough to register, enough to ground.

Then she stepped back, eyes still bright from whatever had propelled her in.

“I just—” she started, but didn’t finish.

She didn’t have to.

Link’s mouth turned up, just slightly. “I know.”

She gave a short nod—half sheepish—and slipped back out the door, cloak catching slightly on the frame before vanishing around the corner.

This time, it clicked shut for good.

And Link, after a beat, let the smile settle fully.

Quiet. Certain.

Then he sat back down.

And picked up the next file.

—

Pt.20 Pt.22

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 20/32

masterlist

Chapter XX: Echoes and Edges

⸻

The castle halls carried the weight of midday stillness, voices distant, footsteps few, and the sunlight filtered through high-set windows in long, cool stripes.

Narena moved with measured steps, her boots brushing faint echoes off stone and tapestry.

Zelda’s study door was ajar.

She knocked once, lightly, before stepping in.

The room was quiet save for the slow scratch of quill on parchment. Shelves lined with folded documents and stacked atlases framed the far walls. A pot of tea—untouched—sat cooling beside a single earthen cup. The air smelled faintly of dried lavender and old vellum.

Zelda looked up from her writing. Her expression shifted only slightly.

“You’re up,” she said.

Narena gave a small nod and lingered just past the threshold.

Zelda didn’t rise. Instead, she set the quill down and folded her hands over the parchment, watching Narena the way one watches a window for signs of storm.

“I heard from Link,” she added, quieter now. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Narena said. A pause. “That’s part of why I came.”

Zelda nodded once, gesturing to the seat opposite her desk. Narena sat slowly, her movement stiff but composed.

For a moment, neither spoke. Only the soft tick of the mantel clock filled the space.

Narena glanced at the tea but didn’t reach for it.

“The Yiga that attacked me,” she began. “He said something.”

Zelda didn’t move. “Go on.”

Narena kept her eyes on the edge of the desk. “About Rowen.”

Zelda’s brow knit slightly, but her voice stayed even. “That’s specific.”

“It caught me off guard,” Narena said. “But it wasn’t random. Something about him being ‘avenged’.”

“You think he was working with them?”

Narena hesitated. “I don’t know. But if they’re invoking his name like that, either he was involved, or someone wants us to think he was.”

Zelda’s eyes dropped to the parchment, unfocused now.

“That doesn’t align with what we knew about him,” she said, half to herself.

“I know.”

Zelda looked up again. “But it’s not nothing.”

“No,” Narena agreed. “It isn’t.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Zelda leaned back slightly in her chair. The window behind her let in a slanted beam of light, just enough to catch the edge of her crown where it rested near the inkstand—set aside, for once.

“I’ll look into it,” she said. “See what connects, if anything.”

“Thank you,” Narena said quietly.

Zelda gave a nod of confirmation.

The room fell back into silence. Narena stood after a beat, the chair legs brushing softly against the rug. She didn’t linger.

Zelda didn’t stop her.

As Narena stepped out into the hall again, the door whispered shut behind her.

And Zelda stayed where she was, eyes fixed on the parchment—but the quill didn’t move.

—

The afternoon sun clung high in the sky, casting long shadows from the battlements onto the worn flagstones of the training yard.

A chill moved faintly from the stone walls, the faint breeze slipping through the archways now and then, stirring dust and the hem of Narena’s tunic.

She moved in silence.

Each sweep of her staff carved the air with precision, the leather wrap warm against her palms. Her footing was deliberate, practiced, controlled—until it wasn’t. A slight falter at the pivot. She caught herself, cursed under her breath, and began the form again from the top.

The rhythm kept her steady. Repetition gave shape to the hours.

A soft shift of metal sounded behind her, light, deliberate. She didn’t break her motion, only angled her head. The steps were paced, familiar.

“Still here?” Link’s voice cut gently through the stillness.

Narena exhaled and slowed her stance, letting the staff settle against her shoulder. She turned halfway to look at him, sweat dampening the edges of her hairline.

“I left for a bit,” she said. “Saw Zelda.”

Link crossed his arms as he stepped fully into the yard. His boots made soft contact with the dusted flagstone, stirring faint traces of grit.

His eyes moved briefly over the scattered scuff marks around her feet. “And then came right back here.”

She tilted her head. “It felt better than doing nothing.”

“That’s not the same thing as resting.”

She turned the staff in her hands, letting the grain of the wood run under her fingers. “I don’t feel like resting is the best use of my talents.”

His mouth quirked slightly—not quite amusement, not quite disagreement. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I’m not,” she said, though the words sat stiff in her mouth. “I’m just… keeping pace.”

Link stepped closer, just within the edge of her reach. The breeze caught the hem of his cloak, lifting it slightly before it fell back flat.

He spoke gently. “You need to go easy.”

Narena scrunched her face, half deflecting, half resisting. “That’s not really in my nature.”

“No,” he agreed, “but stubbornness only works when you know when to stop.”

She let the silence settle again. Her fingers gripped the staff tighter than she meant to.

Then, finally, she sighed and loosened her hold. “Alright.”

Link gave a faint nod. “Good.”

He turned without another word, heading toward the archway’s shade.

Narena stayed a moment longer, watching his back as he walked.

Then she turned, set the staff against the wall, and followed slowly, the yard behind her breathing again into stillness.

—

The slope beneath the southern wall hadn’t dried.

Rain lingered in the soil, softening the edges of the stone path as Link made his way down the incline. The air smelled of moss and warmed iron—sun just past its peak, cloud cover pushing inland.

Two scouts waited near the tree line, standing just off the old overpost where the boundary gave way to forest.

One of them stepped forward when Link approached, boots quiet over the gravel.

“Spotted something odd east of the ridge trail,” he said.

“Two scorch marks. Shallow. Circular.”

Link didn’t speak. Just waited.

“No sign of a fire,” the scout added. “No embers, no ash pile. But the bark’s been scorched—like something hot was placed and lifted. Clean burn.”

The other scout stepped aside and pointed toward a canvas satchel tucked against the grass.

“We cut a piece off the tree. Mark’s deliberate. Sharp blade. Symbol carved after the burn.”

Link crouched, taking the scrap in hand. The wood was thin, seared in a perfect ring with a jagged line bisecting the center. Intentionally ugly. Symbolic maybe.

He held it up against the light. The edge curled slightly.

“Anyone nearby?”

“No voices,” one said. “But we heard a whistle. High-pitched. Short. Just once.”

Link’s eyes narrowed.

The second scout shifted his stance. “Didn’t feel like a signal. Felt like a test.”

He ran his thumb along the edge of the scorch.

He rose, handed the bark back.

“Any movement since?”

“None. Just silence.”

He looked out across the ridge. The trees held still. Too still for this time of day.

“Keep eyes on it. Don’t engage. If anything moves after sunset, send word.”

The scouts nodded.

Link turned, one hand resting near his belt.

The forest edge didn’t feel far.

But it watched.

—

Sunlight angled through the eastern records office, illuminating motes of dust dancing over stacks of ledgers and parchment. The air felt patient, waiting.

Zelda paused just inside the threshold, smoothing her sleeve before stepping forward.

“Auditor Rellor,” she began quietly, bowing her head in greeting.

The elderly man looked up from his papers, smiling gently. “Princess Zelda,” he replied with affable deference. “It is good to see you.”

She offered a small smile. “I’m… relieved you returned. You seem well.”

“My thanks, Princess,” he replied. His tone was soft but warm, as if tasting his own words for sincerity. “Your inquiry is what brought me back.”

She let the silence stretch before moving to the chair opposite him.

With thoughtful precision, she arranged her folds of fabric, then set a pale slip of paper on the desk. “I wanted to ask… about something unsettling that came up.”

He adjusted his spectacles and regarded her patiently.

Zelda inclined slightly, keeping her voice measured. “Yesterday, during an attack at the east gate—one of Commander Link’s officers, Narena, was targeted. The assailant mentioned Rowen.”

At the name, Rellor’s expression tightened. He drew the paper closer. “That… isn’t nothing.”

She nodded, pressing her lips together. “You mentioned previously that another commander was under scrutiny around similar circumstances.”

Rellor’s fingers hovered over his quill. “Yes, Your Highness. I recall our last conversation.” He bowed his head slightly, gravely.

Zelda’s gaze stayed steady. “I wondered if there was ever any tie between him and the Yiga?”

He set aside his quill, folding his hands neatly before him. “Yes. Arlen Ros,” he repeated softly. “Investigated a couple months ago. His conduct, and that dossier on unusual complaints…” He brushed a fingertip over the corner of a ledger. “There were rumors—enough to warrant quiet scrutiny. But nothing conclusive.”

Zelda leaned forward a fraction. “Is it… far‑fetched to think there might be something more?”

Rellor’s aged eyes narrowed, concern flickering in his expression. He closed the ledger with gentle care. “I can tell you what the records show. Ros resigned under that cloud, yes. But the official note cites ‘procedural irregularities—not tied to external alliances.’ Only internal whispers suggested deeper ties.”

He paused, choosing his words. “I should add: before his resignation, he and Rowen were… acquainted. That relationship soured, and any direct connection took place more than two years ago. Nothing since—at least nothing in our ledgers.”

Silence lengthened between them.

Her gaze didn’t waver, but her breath slowed. She’d known both names. What startled her was how easily they now shared a page.

Distant footsteps drifted beyond the doorway; the quiet echoed through the stacks behind them.

Zelda sat back, the quiet weight of it pressing against her ribs, too heavy for words. She set the folder down gently. “Thank you, Auditor. I appreciate your discretion.”

Rellor managed a reassuring smile. “I remain at your service, Princess. If you ever need anything—”

Her fingers grazed the back of the chair as she stood. “I will. Thank you.”

He bowed respectfully. “Be careful, Your Highness.”

Zelda nodded once more before leaving—and the office receded into its practiced hush, the sun shifting slow across the timeworn ledgers.

—

The ramparts stretched in a long, weatherworn curve above the castle’s eastern edge.

Late afternoon sunlight stretched across the stone, warm against the cool breeze threading up from the valley. Below, fields shimmered with wind through tall grass, and the sound of distant birds rose faintly between the stillness.

Zelda found Narena leaning against the parapet near the watchtower arch, staff resting beside her. She wasn’t exactly moving but she wasn’t still either, shifting her weight from one heel to the other, watching nothing in particular.

Zelda slowed her approach, her sandals soft on the worn stone.

“I thought I’d find you in the training yard,” she said.

Narena didn’t look over, just smiled faintly. “I’m supposed to be resting. Link made me stop.”

Zelda came to stand beside her, keeping her hands folded in front of her. “And this is you resting?”

Narena gave a soft exhale through her nose. “I’m trying.”

“Mm,” Zelda said, turning her face to the wind. “You’re very bad at it.”

That drew a short laugh from Narena—quiet, but real.

They stood in silence for a moment, the wind tugging at the hem of Zelda’s outer robe. The breeze smelled faintly of pine and iron.

“I won’t tell him,” Zelda said after a pause.

Narena glanced at her. “Thanks.”

Zelda turned a little more, facing her now. “I didn’t come just to check on you.”

That softened the edge of Narena’s posture a bit. She straightened, though her fingers tensed slightly around the lip of the parapet.

“I found something,” Zelda continued.

Narena’s eyes flicked to her, expression tightening.

“Nothing direct,” Zelda clarified. “Nothing confirming that Rowen was linked to the Yiga Clan. But something else.” She reached into her sleeve and drew a small folded sheet of parchment. She didn’t hand it over yet. “A name came up. A connection I didn’t expect.”

Narena waited.

“Arlen Ros,” Zelda said quietly.

The name hit harder than she anticipated.

Narena didn’t react right away but the air between them seemed to still. Her shoulders held the same line, but something behind her eyes had vanished, as if the wind had pulled it out of her.

Zelda watched her carefully, not pressing.

“More than that,” Zelda said, her voice low. “Ros was under investigation. Internal reports flagged questionable behavior—and there were rumors, enough to raise concern about possible ties to Yiga movements.”

Narena finally moved, one hand lifting to brush a loose hair back behind her ear. Her fingers shook once before settling.

“You knew him?” Zelda asked gently, already suspecting the answer.

But Narena only nodded once—slow, measured. Her jaw locked tight. Her eyes didn’t leave the horizon.

Then she turned, boots brushing quietly over the stone. No words. No acknowledgment. She just walked away.

Zelda watched her go, the wind tugging at her cloak.

Zelda didn’t ask more.

Not yet.

—

Pt.19 Pt.21

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 19/32

masterlist

Chapter XIX: Unsteady Ground

⸻

The stone yard held onto the morning cold longer than the rest of the castle. Dew clung to the flagstones in pale seams, collecting in the cracks where boots had worn them down over years. Somewhere behind the walls, a bell marked the second hour after sunrise.

Narena stood near the middle, staff in hand.

It had felt lighter yesterday—or maybe her grip was off. She turned the staff once, letting her arms remap the motion until it caught in her shoulder.

She exhaled and tried again.

From behind her: footsteps. Light. Familiar.

She didn’t turn.

Link crossed into the open without announcement. No armor. Just the quiet weight of presence. He stopped a few paces behind her and watched.

He didn’t interrupt—not even a correction.

She shifted stance, lifted the staff, caution dimpling her strength.

Again.

The silence stretched. Not awkward. Just full.

He stepped forward.

Not close. Just enough to cast a second shadow beside hers.

“You’re off-center.”

His voice came low, almost absent of tone. Like wind through a slit window.

She didn’t answer. Just frowned slightly and tried to shift. Her boots caught on uneven stone. Too wide. Too shallow. She reset again.

He moved closer.

Behind her now. Closer than before.

He didn’t touch her at first. Let his hand hover just above her elbow, then her wrist, then finally settled on her left hand. Adjusted her grip with two fingers.

The leather wrap turned slightly under his touch.

She didn’t move.

His other hand came to rest just behind her shoulder blade—not pressure, just direction. She breathed in through her nose. Held still.

“Keep the elbow forward,” he murmured.

She shifted. The staff angled differently. He stepped to the side, out of her periphery, and circled again.

Still close.

“You’re compensating,” he said, watching her hips. “You’re favoring your right.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to.”

She didn’t respond to that. Just moved again. Slower. Letting the motion settle in her bones.

He watched.

Then: “Try the open form.”

She moved.

The staff swung wide, the tip glinting in the soft light. Her balance wavered—too much reach—but she caught herself. Reset. Repeated it slower.

When she paused, her breath left visible trails in the cold.

He stepped beside her again. Took the staff from her hands gently, turned it in his own, and mirrored the movement. One smooth arc. Then another. Then again, deliberately slowed.

She watched without speaking.

When he offered it back, she took it without comment.

Reset her stance.

Tried again.

This time, it landed.

The staff hummed slightly as the tip cut air.

Link didn’t speak. Just gave a small nod, more felt than seen.

She glanced at him.

Then lifted the staff again.

The next motion came easier.

She swept the staff in a controlled arc, boots angled into the frost-darkened stone. Her grip adjusted naturally now. The stiffness in her right arm had faded into something manageable.

Link stood a few paces off—still, watchful. Arms crossed. Not offering correction, just waiting. Observing the rhythm settle back into her.

She pivoted, brought the blade down with a controlled reverse. The leather in her gloves creaked faintly. The courtyard was still cool, but the sun had edged over the parapets now, casting long light through the archways. Somewhere above, a gull called, too far inland.

Link shifted, just enough for her to catch it in her periphery.

Then: fast footfalls.

Not a soldier on patrol.

Urgent.

A guard appeared at the arch, breathing hard, helm slightly askew from the pace. He skidded briefly before correcting himself, chest heaving.

“Commander.”

Link turned, one hand already on the hilt at his hip.

The guard’s throat bobbed. “East gate—they’ve breached the treeline. Yiga confirmed.”

Narena’s grip on the staff tightened.

“How many?” Link’s voice was clipped.

“Four at least. Two more in shadow. They haven’t pushed past the outer wall yet, but it’s coordinated—intercept pattern. Same cloaks. Same speed.”

He glanced at Narena but didn’t address her. “Casualties?”

“None. But the gate watch is pinned. They need command.”

Link exhaled once through his nose. No surprise. No hesitation. Just motion.

He stepped forward—and paused.

Not for the guard.

For her.

“You stay here.”

His eyes didn’t ask.

They instructed.

She blinked. “But, I—”

“No.”

The word left no opening.

She took a breath, jaw set. Her stance shifted forward, half a protest still caught in her throat—but he was already turning.

Boots struck the stone. The guard fell into step without another word. Their silhouettes faded under the arch.

Silence reclaimed the courtyard.

She stood still a moment longer.

The staff rested loosely in her hand. The quiet was louder now, like the space left behind echoed more than the sound had.

She turned back toward the center of the yard. Her shoulder ached. Her legs felt heavy again.

But she stepped in anyway.

Reset her stance.

And began again—each motion slower now. Each pass through the air drawn tighter. The silence didn’t help.

She was supposed to be recovering.

She didn’t feel still. She felt stalled.

The staff caught awkward on a turn. She stopped. Breathed.

Reset.

Again

—

Link came through the low arch into the gatehouse, steel footfalls echoing on flagstone. Muddy morning light filtered through narrow slits in the heavy wood gates.

He didn’t pause to breathe.

The sounds hit him all at once: the scuff of cloak leather, low grunts, metal against metal. Yiga.

He glanced to his flank. Two soldiers hovered—outnumbered, tense—but held steady.

The first Yiga sprang forward, a chain of blades flashing.

Link met him with a movement both immediate and practiced.

Their swords clashed. Steel rang. Sparks flew bright against the dull wood background.

Beside him, reinforcements clattered through the gate—Link didn’t flinch. He dropped low, spun the blade low and wide. A foot kicked free dirt. The Yiga stumbled back, caught their balance. Link pressed forward.

He held his breath in rhythm with the fight. The Yiga countered with speed, weaving in. Link sidestepped, blade cutting past the breastplate rather than into it. A red slick bloomed there. The enemy hissed.

Another Yiga hurled forward—dagger in each hand. Link parried one, then swept the second aside. He didn’t raise a sound. His boots never stuttered. He pressed his advantage.

A third pressed. He’d been watching. Link felt it before he saw it—pressure behind his ribs, a rasp of blade on mail. He ducked the arm. The strike nicked the wood above the gate, cracking the lintel.

Link twisted and drove his blade through the attacker’s arm guard. A dull thud, a grunt. The Yiga slumped, blade clattering to the floor.

Behind him, one of his men—Coran—pivoted, drawing steel. Link took the moment to scan the gate. The latch held fast. No other openings compromised.

He raised his voice—low, urgent. “Focus on the treeline. Keep them outside the gate. Press forward only when they break rank.”

Coran nodded. His face pale, adrenaline silvered beneath the rash of sweat. He pressed forward alongside Link.

A dull silence followed. Only groans and the clink of armor. Link exhaled—his breath loud in his ears.

Another burst of Yiga—three more. Link met them head-on. Two fell almost immediately. The third hesitated, reevaluating. Link closed the distance and slashed the edge across his ribs. Firm. Final.

He withdrew the blade and didn’t look away.

The gate creaked shut behind them—reinforcements finally arrived. Link stepped back, unsheathed, blood staining the blade. He checked his companions. Coran’s hand shook. Two others bowed gradually.

Behind him, the wooden gate held its weight. The breach hadn’t compromised it. No more creak, no more force.

Link straightened, shoulders still tense. He stared back through the arch.

Nothing returned.

He wiped the blade clean on his cloak—not fastidious, not unchecked. He did not breathe easy yet.

From just outside the gate, the guard from earlier approached, breath ragged.

They didn’t need to exchange words.

The gate stood.

Link nodded once.

He turned.

—

Wooden dummies stood frozen, torches darkened in their stanchions.

Narena’s staff cut silent arcs through the air—rehearsed motions muscle memory should’ve remembered. But something felt brittle.

Her foot stumbled, missed its mark, and she halted.

Just then a guard rounded the corner, urgency in every line of his stride.

He skidded to a stop. “Commander Link…” His voice cracked. “He’s down at the east gate.”

Narena froze. “What do you mean—” Her voice trembled as her staff drooped, crossing over itself in confusion.

The guard swallowed, gaze shifting.

A tremor skated down her spine. She stepped past him, boot scuffing the gravel.

The yard had blurred, shrank, collapsed.

But the guard shifted.

His posture flickered in a blur of red. His face changed. Eyes narrowed. The gap between them collapsed.

A Yiga soldier.

He reached.

Narena recoiled, instincts heightened under the fracture of panic.

She sidestepped, planted her weight, and spun the staff into his forearm, smacking the haft across his jaw before he even landed.

He staggered, but came back. Faster. Louder.

She breathed in.

The world slowed again.

He threw a kick. She swept it aside, seized his balance, and drove her elbow between his ribs. A grunt. He twisted—offered an opening.

She sliced the staff across his shoulder. He fell, sliding against the mud.

The Yiga scrambled up, half-mask ripped loose—eyes glinting.

“Rowen will be avenged,” he spat. “Soon.”

Narena pivoted, staff raised. He launched again—arms flailed.

She blocked high, slashed low. Caught his thigh, then his wrist. Drew back. Pushed—hard. The staff crossed his throat, tipped his mask askew.

He fled—dropped into a run before she finished.

She stood, chest heaving, staff trembling in her grip. She didn’t register the dust, the torchlight, or the guards closing in.

She only stood there, panting. Her staff clattered against the ground.

She didn’t hear the steps—just felt a shift in the air behind her, too sudden, too close.

Then a hand grabbing her arm.

She turned fast.

Didn’t look. Didn’t think.

She lunged.

Fist swinging—but met a hard forearm catching her strike. Another hand clamped her wrist. She twisted, breath catching. Her other hand was already moving.

“Stop!—Narena!—”

She kicked. Elbowed. Fought against the hold.

He caught both arms this time, held them close to her sides, bracing her in place.

“It’s me!”

She didn’t stop.

His voice wasn’t enough. Not yet.

“Get—get off me!” Her voice cracked. She shoved, gasping too fast, vision tunneling.

“Look at me!”

He caught her chin with one hand, gently but firm. Tilted her face toward his, forcing her to look at him.

“It’s me,” Link said again, quieter now. “You’re safe.”

Her fists didn’t fall, not right away. Her chest heaved against his grip. She stared at him like he wasn’t real.

Her eyes searched him—mud splattered across his boots, a gash across his sleeve, the line of his jaw tight with something unreadable. But he was here.

“I thought—” Her throat closed around the words. “They said you—”

He didn’t let her finish.

His voice was steady. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, her eyes locked on his.

He watched her a second longer—searching, measuring. Then he stepped in.

One hand found the back of her head, firm but careful, and he pulled her in against him.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just certain. Like he knew she needed it before she did.

—

Pt.18 Pt.20

[hylianhoneycomb]

knowledge long forgotten

got really into reading item descriptions on this playthrough. anyway did you know the silent princess is one of the only raw materials with a cooking effect to not explicitly list that effect in its description

[hylianhoneycomb]

conspiracy theories...

saw some pic on pinterest and just had to drag myself out of artist block lmao

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 18/32

masterlist

Chapter XVIII: Purple Daylilies

⸻

The hall outside the infirmary was colder than it should’ve been. Stone underfoot, sconces guttering with the last of their oil. No guards. No paperwork. The door clicked shut behind her like a formality.

He was already there.

Leaning against the far wall, arms folded.

He didn’t step forward. Didn’t speak.

Just looked at her, like he’d been standing there longer than he needed to.

She came to a stop beside him.

No words. Not at first.

Then: “Nice of you to turn up.”

A pause.

Link tilted his head, shrugging.

“I was in the area.”

She smiled, letting the silence sit between them.

They started walking, not toward anywhere. Just forward.

She didn’t say anything for a long stretch. Neither did he.

Their boots didn’t echo here. Too much fabric. Too many turns. The place folded in on itself like it wasn’t meant to be watched.

He watched her sidelong as they walked. Not openly. Just enough to track the tension in her shoulders, the slight drag in her gait she didn’t bother to hide.

She noticed.

“Are you staring because you’re worried I’ll collapse?”

“No.”

“Because you don’t trust my sense of direction?”

“No.”

She glanced over. “Then?”

He didn’t look away.

“I just missed you.”

The words landed.

Simple. Unloaded. Not tender.

She didn’t reply at first, but her pace slowed a fraction.

She looked ahead. Kept her hands tucked into her sleeves.

And after another minute—

“I missed you too,” she said.

Quiet.

Unassuming.

Not needing anything back.

But he glanced over anyway.

And that time, he smiled.

—

The armory smelled like oil and steel.

Not fresh—forged steel, but the kind that had settled into its purpose. Racks lined both walls. Hooks for belts and clasps. Low windows throwing pale light across the flagstone. Most of the room sat unused this early. Quiet. Too quiet.

She stepped in first. Slowed.

He followed, a step behind.

She scanned the racks out of habit—bastard swords, spears, hammers heavy enough to stagger someone half her weight. And then she saw it.

Near the end of the line, resting horizontal across a shelf just high enough to draw the eye.

Her staff.

Double-bladed. Clean. Oiled. Both ends sharpened.

She didn’t ask if Link had done it.

She didn’t need to.

She stepped forward, ran a hand along the center grip. The weight was right. The leather had been rewrapped. One of the notches near the haft had been burnished smooth.

She turned it once in her hand.

Then again.

The motion was a little off—her right arm still tight from the bandages. But it felt familiar. Like something remembered by the bones, not the muscles.

Link didn’t speak.

But she felt his eyes on her.

She twirled the staff once more, slower this time. Letting the weight settle in her palm before she spoke,

“Don’t say it.”

He didn’t.

But after a beat: “You don’t need to push.”

She let the staff still in her hand. Didn’t turn.

“I’m not made of glass.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

A breath passed.

She set the staff back on the rack. Carefully. Let her fingers linger on the leather grip a moment longer than necessary.

Then she turned and sat on the bench behind them.

The silence gathered again. This time not sharp. Just still.

She spoke without looking at him.

“I just…want to feel useful.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just moved to sit beside her.

Close, but not quite touching.

Their shoulders nearly aligned.

The quiet held.

Then, low: “You are.”

She didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just let the words settle.

“I don’t feel like it,” she said after a while.

Link didn’t move.

She stared ahead. The wall across from them was blank, save for a faded training chart that hadn’t been updated in years. She wasn’t reading it.

“I thought getting out would feel different,” she said. “Like stepping back into something I remembered. But everything fits a little wrong.”

A beat.

“It’s like I’m wearing someone else’s uniform.”

Link glanced at her, quiet.

She shifted her hands in her lap. Fingers curled slightly, then stilled.

“I know it hasn’t been long. I know I’m not expected to…” She trailed off.

“But I don’t want to be the one people whisper about in the hall.”

“You think that’s what they’re doing?”

“I know it is.” Her voice was even. Not bitter. Just tired.

She looked down.

She stared across the armory floor, watching dust drift in the slats of late light.

“I’m not asking for a patrol,” she added. “I just—can’t sit through another room where people talk around me like I’m a paper file someone lost and found again.”

Another pause. More dust.

She didn’t look at him.

But when she spoke again, it was quieter. Almost flat.

“I need to be something that moves.”

Link leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“You will,” he said.

Not like a promise.

Just like something already decided.

—

The sun hadn’t fully set, but the northern greenhouse felt like it belonged to twilight already. The stone paths glowed faintly with warmth held from earlier, and the low beds near the walls were damp, freshly turned. A breeze moved between the hedges—not cold, but quiet. Like something that had learned to move without drawing attention.

Narena stepped out slowly, boots scuffing the edge of the gravel path. She wasn’t sure why she came here. The corridors had felt too narrow, the barracks too loud, the armory… too still. Her legs had walked without deciding.

She spotted Zelda near the far end of the terrace, bent beside one of the long planter boxes. Her sleeves were rolled, one knee pressed into the stone, a tin watering can in her hand. She didn’t look up right away.

Narena slowed.

The flowers were purple.

Not the rich, royal kind she saw on banners—softer. Cool-toned. Somewhere between blue and dusk. The petals curled back in a way that felt… unfinished. Like they bloomed in parts.

She remembered seeing her out here tending them before.

Zelda tipped the can and the water fell in a thin arc, catching in the sun before darkening the soil.

Narena cleared her throat. “Didn’t know you gardened.”

Zelda looked over her shoulder, just enough to offer a faint smile. “Only the ones that don’t need much guidance.”

Narena took another step closer, letting her eyes drift back to the flowers.

“They’re… daylilies?” she asked.

Zelda nodded. “Purple variant. Rare here.”

Narena tilted her head slightly. “Are they your favorite?”

Zelda’s hand stilled on the watering can.

“No,” she said. Then quieter: “They’re yours.”

Narena blinked.

She didn’t respond right away. Just studied the petals more closely, her brows knitting. “I don’t remember saying that to anyone.”

Zelda didn’t answer.

Not immediately.

Then, casually—so light it might have been overlooked: “You didn’t.”

The words sat strangely. Measured.

Narena looked at her now. “Then how did you—”

Zelda let the last of the water drain into the soil, then rested the can against the planter’s edge. She brushed her hands together once, then leaned back on her heels.

“Link told me,” she said simply.

Narena felt her spine straighten slightly, though she didn’t know why.

She stared down at the blossoms again. One petal had caught a piece of grit. She brushed it away gently.

“I didn’t think he-” She cut herself off. “I didn’t think it showed.”

Zelda rose slowly, dusting off the hem of her tunic.

“He notices things,” she said. “Especially when they matter.”

Narena didn’t reply.

She stood quietly, one hand still near the edge of the planter. The scent was faint but distinct—earth, and something cooler beneath it. Something that reminded her of high cliffs and windbreaks and places no one else thought to stop.

“They’re blooming late,” she said after a long pause.

“They shouldn’t be,” Zelda agreed.

Silence again.

Then, as she turned to go, Zelda added—softly, without turning back: “But some things don’t like to listen to rules.”

Narena stood alone after she left.

The wind shifted.

She didn’t reach for the flowers again.

But she didn’t walk away either.

—

The war chamber sat cloaked in dusk. Oil lamps on wrought-iron brackets cast pools of pale light across the polished mahogany table.

The shadows gathered in corners where patrol maps lay unfurled—penciled routes snaking along the northern wall, supply trails, and shaded forest edges.

A draft sighed through the rafters; the air smelled faintly of leather, ink, and last night’s embers.

Captain Rivan stood over the paper, tracing a finger along a convoy route.

“We’ve had six confirmed Yiga sightings near the eastern wall in the last two cycles. No direct assaults yet, but their patrols are deliberate—probing, withdrawing.” His voice carried steady authority, but a tension ran beneath it.

Captain Vos, closer to the table’s center, tossed a leather-bound notebook onto the surface.

“They’ve been harassing supply convoys—not random skirmishes. Sharp, coordinated. Retreating before we can mount a full response.”

Link remained quiet, leaning against a narrow window frame. One lamp illuminated his profile—jaw tight, posture reserved. He studied the maps before speaking, voice low.

“All the marked encounters—they’ve happened within my sector, near the old supply gate.”

Vos glanced at him.

“Your unit’s already repelled each group.”

Link crossed the table to stand even with them.

“We have. Without losses, so far. But…” He paused, tracing a line on the map. “My unit is still down a soldier.”

Rivan’s eyes flicked up from the route he’d been studying.

“Reinforcements were due weeks ago. Any update?”

Link pressed a palm flat against the table.

“Rotation got delayed. Administrative backlog pushed it back. I don’t have that position filled.”

Vos leaned forward, voice clipped.

“And you’ve been out of active patrol for weeks?”

Link’s back straightened.

“I’ve been short a soldier for weeks.”

A low murmur passed between the commanders. One lamp guttered; a distant draft rattled the rafters overhead.

Rivan folded his arms.

“The Yiga pattern is shifting. They’re testing us. We need a fully staffed team at the eastern wall.”

Link met his gaze evenly.

“Our squad intercepts every sighting—but an undermanned force invites risk. Someone gets hurt—because we thought it wise to under-rotate.”

His words landed in the silence. Vos exchanged a look with Rivan.

“We fill the gap then. We can’t have weak points—not now.”

Link closed his eyes briefly, then opened them with resolve.

“I won’t approve a squad only making do.”

At that moment, Major Helden, silent until now, cleared his throat from across the room.

“Adjutant’s already processing replacements. Rivan, can we get confirmation?”

Rivan nodded, gathering several rolled-up maps.

“Yes. Replacement begins processing today. Readiness assessment in five nights.”

Vos added, laying a hand flat on a map dotted with tent icons.

“While we wait, coordinate with Outrider scouts. Their knowledge of the terrain could help plug the hole.”

Link inclined his head once.

“Understood.”

He stepped back from the table, his boot scraping softly against the stone.

“I’ll adjust patrol schedules. No one goes beyond capacity.”

All went silent afterward.

Link crossed the room, passing framed sketches of watchtowers etched into rough stone.

The lanterns flickered. He reached the door, then slipped through.

And the chamber exhaled into quiet again.

—

Pt.17 Pt.19

[hylianhoneycomb]

always just beyond my reach

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 17/32

masterlist

Chapter XVII: Where the Verdict Lands

⸻

The uniform she wore wasn’t new.

The cuffs bore the faint pucker of restitched seams. The tunic was a standard issue cut—dark, pressed, sharp in the lines where it hung from her shoulders. There was nothing ceremonial about it. No insignia. No gleam.

But on her, it read like intent.

She sat near the infirmary window. Not for the view—there wasn’t much of one. Just the gray court wall across the east yard and a sliver of sky too pale to call blue.

But the light was clear. And she liked that.

The tray on the side table had been cleared. Her bed made with careful hands. She had done both. Slowly. Deliberately. Like someone reminding her body how to move in the world again.

Now she was bent slightly forward, her sleeves rolled to the elbow, one strip of linen draped across her lap. Her right hand trembled slightly as she tried to loop it around her left wrist.

The skin there was torn, thickened now with scabbing and the half-formed sheen of salve. The kind of wounds that never fully forgot how they got there. The kind that weren’t meant to heal quickly.

She winced as the edge of the linen caught.

The door clicked open behind her.

She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t shift.

But her hands stilled.

Link stepped in, quiet as a shadow.

He closed the door behind him with the kind of care that implied a knock, unspoken, uninvited, but offered anyway. He wore no rank, no cloak. Just the plain wrap of someone who wasn’t here officially, but couldn’t stay away.

He saw her—already dressed. Tunic neat. Boots laced. Hair pulled back in the same braid she always wore.

She almost looked like herself.

Almost.

He moved toward her.

She didn’t turn. Just adjusted her grip on the linen.

It slipped.

He knelt.

No announcement. No offering.

He just lowered himself beside her, one knee down. His hands reached gently—not to take, just to ask.

She didn’t argue, just let go of the bandage.

Link wound the wrap in silence.

Not hesitantly—but slow. Purposeful. Every pass from elbow to wrist covered what the shackles had left behind. The skin there was red and uneven in places, raised with the imprint of iron and time. His fingers were steady. Gentle. Not too light. Not too soft.

Like he was holding something fragile that didn’t want to be treated that way.

The silence between them stretched.

Not empty.

Just full of the things they weren’t naming.

When he reached the last turn, he tucked the linen edge under, flattened it with his thumb. He didn’t let go right away.

Then:

“You don’t have to do this.”

She didn’t respond at first.

She looked out the window. Watched how the light caught the edge of the sill.

“I know.”

The next part took a breath.

And then—almost too quietly:

“I want the last thing he sees to be my face.”

Her voice didn’t shake.

But it caught—just barely—on the last word.

Link didn’t answer right away.

He didn’t have to.

He looked at her.

Not pitying. Just… present.

Like whatever she was holding up, he could hold it too.

And he would.

He sat back on his heels, hands resting loosely on his knees. Shoulders angled just slightly toward her.

Then, a little lower, like the words belonged here, in the hush between them:

“You look pretty.”

Not flirtatious.

Not a balm.

Just true.

Like the kind of truth that didn’t have to make sense to anyone but them.

She blinked.

Then looked away, like maybe the light was too bright just then.

A half-smile touched her lips.

Barely.

“Thanks,” she said.

And for a long moment, neither of them moved.

Because here—beneath the high windows and the sterile hush of the infirmary, dressed not for battle but for bearing witness—they had already said everything that mattered.

—

Morning light pressed through the high windows of the Great Hall, filtering through the dust like pale gold. The air held a low hum—anticipation without noise. Torches along the walls flickered softly, sending wavering shadows over carved stone.

The chamber didn’t feel like it had yesterday.

It was colder now. Brighter.

It didn’t feel warm. It didn’t feel alive. It just cut through the space like clarity that hadn’t asked for permission.

The seats were filled. Councilors in their formal robes, staffers and scribes perched like shadows along the edges. Witnesses lined the lower benches—some from the hearing yesterday, some newer. The tribunal dais stood at full height now, the senior adjudicator elevated center, gavel resting within arm’s reach.

And she sat near the front.

Not with the witnesses. Not behind the defense. Somewhere between.

Not quite official.

Not quite silent.

Narena’s hands rested on her lap, fingers curled lightly in the fabric of her coat. Nothing formal. Just clean. Presentable. Dark navy, high-collared, sleeves rolled once to the elbow where the fresh white wraps peeked out beneath.

Her arms ached.

She hadn’t taken anything for the pain.

A healer had offered. She had declined.

She wanted to feel everything.

She heard Zelda’s voice once, clear and even, submitting the final evidence summary. She heard Link’s—just once, brief and low—confirming the authenticity of the submitted logs.

And Rowen—

She hadn’t looked at him.

Not directly.

Not until the final witness stepped down and the chamber fell still again.

The air held its breath.

Councilor Edran rose.

He didn’t speak at first. He waited for the silence to settle so completely that even the creak of leather felt deafening.

Then:

“After formal inquiry into the actions of Commander Rowen, by authority of Article Twelve and sovereign charter, this tribunal finds the accused—”

A pause.

The pause.

Her heart didn’t race.

It just waited.

“—guilty on all charges.”

It didn’t echo.

Not at first.

Not to her.

But the words clung to the air, like ash after a strike.

“Misuse of sovereign seal. Falsification of psychological reclassification orders. Unlawful detainment. Neglect. Abuse of internal protocol. Complicity in procedural erasure.”

He paused.

Then continued.

“Effective immediately, Commander Rowen is hereby stripped of rank and sentenced to life in Castle Jail. Isolated containment. Permanent revocation of access to military command, classified record, and formal counsel.”

There was a beat of murmured reaction.

Muted, respectful.

She didn’t hear it.

Not properly.

All she heard—again and again—was the sound of the words hitting her mind like the slow roll of thunder down a mountain:

Guilty.

Life.

Isolated containment.

They didn’t feel real.

Not yet.

She sat very still. Blinked once. Then again.

On the far side of the chamber, two guards approached the lectern.

Rowen turned slightly as they reached him. No struggle. No words.

But then—

As he was stepping back from the podium, wrists now cuffed, shoulders held level with a rigid soldier’s pride—

He looked at her.

Just once.

Just long enough.

His eyes met hers.

No venom.

No fear.

Just something distant. Unreadable. Like a man who had always known he would lose eventually—but not to her.

And maybe that was what stung.

Not the chains.

Not the sentence.

But her.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

And then the guards turned him toward the inner door.

And he was gone.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was hollow.

The kind of quiet that doesn’t ask what comes next because it never thought this part would arrive.

Narena didn’t rise.

Didn’t speak.

She just sat.

Hands still curled in the fabric of her coat.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks—

She didn’t feel the cuffs.

Just the weight of the space he’d left behind.

—

The hall emptied.

Chairs scraped back. Boots softened against marble. Papers rustled and robes trailed. Voices dipped to murmurs, then to nothing.

Narena didn’t move yet.

She listened to the murmur of the crowd dissipating. Watching the floor under her feet, as if it could tell her that this was real.

She stood all at once—too fast.

The room tilted. Her stomach clenched. Her breath hitched like she’d swallowed smoke.

She didn’t wait.

She didn’t look at anyone. Not even Link.

He said her name as she passed.

“Narena—”

But she didn’t stop.

She walked straight out of the chamber, steps sharp and uneven, her boots slipping slightly on the polished stone.

The corridor outside was too bright.

The light hit wrong. Angled through glass like knives instead of warmth. Her throat was dry. Her fingers tingled.

She kept walking.

Faster now.

The hallway stretched. Tilted.

Something was wrong. Not outside—inside.

Her lungs.

Her ribs.

The shape of her own heartbeat.

She didn’t know where she was going until the windows changed. The corridor thinned. The arches opened on one side to the air.

Stone balustrades. An eastern overlook. Balcony level.

She reached it just in time.

Her hand hit the railing. Her knees buckled. And she retched—hard—over the edge.

Dry, raw, wretched.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t cinematic.

It was just real.

And awful.

And loud in a way nothing had been since the verdict landed.

She heard his footsteps before she saw him.

Then his hand—warm, steady—on her back.

Another brushed her hair aside. No words. No questions.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

Just held her braid back and kept his palm against her spine, solid and unmoving.

She braced herself on the railing, breath heaving. The wind cut through her sleeves.

When the wave passed, she pressed her forehead to the crook of her elbow and just stayed there, trembling.

Link’s voice came low. Gentle. Careful.

“Just breathe.”

She didn’t answer.

Not for a long time.

But when she finally did, it was muffled. Rough.

“This doesn’t feel like I thought it would.”

Link didn’t move.

She inhaled hard. Shaky.

“I thought it would help,” she said. “Make it feel… fair. Or finished.”

Another breath. Shuddered. Barely there.

“But it just feels like—”

Her voice cracked.

“Like nothing.”

Link’s hand shifted slightly.

“I know,” he said.

And that was all.

Just that. Quiet. Undemanding.

Enough.

—

Pt.16 Pt.18

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 16/32

masterlist

Chapter XVI: Pending Judgement

⸻

The Great Hall had been cleared by dawn, leaving behind only the tribunal setup: a semicircle of high-backed chairs for the councilors, a lectern in the center for the accused, and two tables—one for defense, one for prosecution. The air smelled faintly of candle wax and old stone. Heavy drapes remained closed, though morning light filtered through cracks in the wood above.

Zelda waited at the counsel’s table, parchment and annotated notes at her elbow. Link stood behind her, arms folded, quiet but unyielding.

They both knew the chamber would fill soon.

Edran cleared his throat, tapping his gavel. “We are assembled to hear charges against Commander Rowen. He stands accused of unauthorized use of a decommissioned Royal Command seal, falsification of reevaluation orders, and the unlawful containment and neglect of Officer Narena. Commander, you may respond.”

Rowen rose, calm. “Councilors, I will not deny that I invoked the seal. I believed Officer Narena posed a serious risk—volatile in the field, endangering the unit. I ordered her held for reevaluation. Every action I took, I took in what I believed to be the Kingdom’s best interest.”

Zelda had her notes open, but she waited. Let them make their case. When they paused, she stood calmly, stepped to the lectern.

“Esteemed council,” her voice rang clear, “the prosecution does not dispute the field reports. Officer Narena is indeed a decorated officer. But the questions before you are not about her preexisting record—they are about the process by which authority was seized, and the human cost of that seizure.”

She laid out the sealed medical report: ligature wounds, untreated injuries, malnutrition over six days. She referenced the forensic audit, which showed the seal code was officially retired—no extension. She pointed out missing internal logs, silence on the uncharted wing where Narena was held.

Each detail uncrossed Rowen’s narrative of “exceptional circumstances,” exposing systematic obfuscation.

Councilor Rassa interjected.

“And why was Officer Narena not brought before this tribunal sooner? Why are daily medical checks absent?”

Zelda turned to Rowen. Noble, measured.

Rowen’s silence in that moment spoke volumes.

“Commander, you testify it was urgent—but you allowed a week of clandestine containment before internal request, medical assessment, or tribunal notification?”

Rowen cleared his throat. “I acted to prevent potential field instability. I initiated muster orders. I believed medical review followed.”

But no muster orders existed.

“Your belief does not justify breaking covenant with your commanding officers, nor fabricating Crown authority.”

Rowen didn’t reply.

Councilor Edran regarded him steadily. “Commander Rowen, your actions have exposed a flaw in the chain of command—formal or not. This Tribunal must now deliberate. We are convening a full hearing tomorrow morning for witness testimony, including relevant debrief officers and medical staff.”

He paused.

“This session is adjourned. Commander Rowen, you are hereby remanded to secure holding quarters, pending final judgment. You will be escorted at once.”

Two guards stepped forward. Rowen gathered his things and, without a word, walked out under their escort.

Zelda and Link exchanged a look—no celebration, just a shared understanding. This was only the first step. The core work remained: heeding the voices left silent in stone walls and broken seals.

—

The tribunal doors shut behind them with a low, resonant thud—final, but not satisfying.

Zelda stepped into the corridor first, her expression composed, every angle of her posture tuned to formality. Behind her, Link followed in silence. The light here was sharp, brighter than inside, catching on polished stone and lacquered trim. A few aides stood posted along the walls—junior scribes, legal runners, off-duty officers pretending not to linger.

They bowed.

Zelda acknowledged them with the smallest incline of her head. Link didn’t look at them at all.

They walked in silence.

Their boots sounded different out here—less like something private, more like performance. Every step a cue. Every glance a measured beat in a script neither of them had written but both knew too well.

It wasn’t until they passed the last set of marble columns, turning toward the side corridor that led to the inner chambers, that Link spoke.

Not loud. Not bitter.

Just dry.

“Funny how polite everyone gets once the accusations are written in ink.”

Zelda didn’t stop walking. “Politeness is easier than accountability.”

He gave a short exhale. Almost a laugh. But it had no humor in it.

They passed a quiet sconce. The hallway narrowed. No more aides lingered here.

Zelda slowed.

Link did too.

He glanced toward her—not directly. Just enough to read her profile. She looked the same as always: composed, poised, untouchable. But he’d seen her in the infirmary. At the desk. In the dark.

He knew better.

She spoke again, softer now. “This isn’t over. The tribunal will call witnesses. Re-examine the timeline. And Rowen has allies.”

“They won’t save him,” Link said.

“No,” she agreed. “But they might try to save themselves.”

He nodded once, then leaned back slightly, the corner of his jaw flexing like a muscle that refused to stay still.

“I keep thinking about how long he got away with it,” he said. “How cleanly he wrote the orders. How long they sat hidden.”

Zelda looked at him now.

“You blame yourself.”

It was more a statement than a question. An observation.

He didn’t answer at first.

Link exhaled once through his nose, slow.

Then he said, “We’re not going to pretend this ends with him.”

“No,” Zelda said. “We’re not.”

—

The Sheikah wing didn’t echo. Not like the upper courts did. Its halls folded sound instead—into stone, into shadow, into memory.

Zelda moved like she belonged there.

Not because the space welcomed her.

But because it didn’t need to.

Impa’s door was half-shut. Light pooled from beneath it—warm, flickering, touched by soot.

Zelda stepped through without knocking.

Inside, the workbench was crowded—old scrolls, half-inked sigils, a blade resting edge-up on a worn cloth. Impa stood beside it, binding something in wax string. Her sleeves were pushed to her elbows, fingers stained faintly with charcoal.

“I figured you’d show eventually.”

Zelda didn’t move closer. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I don’t.” She set the cord down, finally glancing over. “But I assume this isn’t a courtesy call.”

Zelda nodded once. “No.”

Impa leaned back slightly. “Alright then. What do you need?”

“The council meets tomorrow,” Zelda said. “Rowen’s facing formal charges. We’re collecting statements.”

A quiet pause.

“You want mine.”

“Yes.”

Impa didn’t respond right away. Her expression didn’t shift much—but something behind her eyes did.

“I trained with Narena when she was barely twelve,” she said. “Back before she could run a full form without getting distracted by her own reflection.”

Zelda said nothing.

“She was wild,” Impa went on. “All elbows and questions. Had more fire than focus. But she had grit.”

Her voice didn’t soften. Not exactly.

But it lowered. Grew heavier.

“I didn’t think anything could put that fire out,” she said. “But when Link came to me that night… he looked like he’d watched it flicker.”

She looked up now. Direct.

“You want my statement? Fine. But I’m not coming to repeat what your tribunal already knows.”

“I don’t want you to,” Zelda said. “I want them to feel what they’ve been pretending not to see.”

Impa’s jaw shifted.

Then she nodded once.

“Send your scribe,” she said. “I’ll make it clean. Sharp enough they won’t be able to ignore it.”

Zelda inclined her head.

And turned to go.

But as she reached the door, Impa’s voice followed:

“She won’t be the last.”

Zelda paused.

“I know.”

Impa looked back to her hands, already pulling the wax string tight again.

“Then make sure this hearing actually means something,” she said.

Zelda didn’t answer.

She just stepped out, and let the door close behind her.

—

When Link pushed the infirmary door open, the light was different.

Not in the empty way it had been the night before—more like something settling. The harshest edges of urgency had softened. The air smelled less like antiseptic and more like steam. Clean linen, boiled herbs, faint lavender.

The room was quieter now.

Late-afternoon sun filtered through the high windows, warm and slanted. The room felt lived in now—not just a holding place for pain. More like the edge of something turning.

She was sitting up.

Not fully. Just enough to prop her back against the headboard, one arm steadying the tray balanced across her lap. Her hair had been washed—it clung damply to her shoulders in loose waves, darker than usual. Someone had combed through it. The bruises on her face were still visible, but the skin looked less hollow.

She was eating slowly, methodically—like her body wasn’t sure what to do with the food, but was determined to remember.

She looked up when he entered.

“Hey,” she said.

Her voice was still a little rough, but stronger now. More rooted.

Link stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. “Hey.”

He didn’t ask if she was okay yet. He didn’t have to. The relief in his face did most of the talking.

She shifted the tray slightly and gave him a dry look. “You’re not going to ask if I finished my soup, are you? Because if this is about rations protocol, I—”

“You’d forge the records?”

“I’d embellish them with creative accuracy.”

Link’s mouth twitched.

He moved to the chair beside her bed, setting his gloves down on the table without a sound. She watched him settle—quiet, sure. Like nothing in the world was more important than being right here.

Her tone gentled. “How’d it go?”

Link rested his forearms on his knees, hands clasped. “He’s being held. Tribunal convenes again tomorrow.”

She nodded once. It wasn’t relief, exactly. Just acknowledgment. A slow processing.

“Good,” she said.

A beat passed.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “And you?”

She leaned back, adjusting the tray slightly to avoid spilling her tea. “Thinking of hitting the training yard. Maybe find someone half my size to spar.”

He huffed out a breath—half a laugh, half something else.

She smiled.

Small, but real.

It sat there between them for a moment, quiet and steady. Like a breath held and finally released.

Then he said, softer, “You look better.”

“I feel like something that got dragged through a fire and then stomped out with a boot, but thanks.”

“Still an improvement.”

Her brow lifted. “That’s the bar now?”

He didn’t answer.

But the look on his face—the quiet awe of it, the way his gaze held her without pressure or demand—said enough.

She picked up her tea, hand trembling slightly, and took a careful sip.

When she set it down again, she glanced at him sideways.

“You didn’t sleep, did you.”

“No,” he said simply.

She didn’t chastise him.

Didn’t ask why.

She just reached, slow and tentative, and let her hand settle near his on the edge of the blanket. Not touching. Just there.

He turned his palm upward.

And their fingers found each other, light and certain.

No rush.

No explanation.

Just contact.

—

Pt.15 Pt.17

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 15/32

masterlist

Chapter XV: Where it’s Written

⸻

The palace was quiet in the early hours. The kind of quiet that didn’t invite thought. Only function.

Zelda didn’t light the main lamp.

She sat at her desk with only the narrow wall sconce glowing above her—enough to see the parchment in front of her, not enough to soften the edges of the room. Her sleeves were rolled. Her cuffs damp from where she’d washed the ink from her hands earlier and hadn’t bothered to dry them properly.

The paper before her was smooth. Cream-colored. Heavy. Unmarked—except for the folded slip tucked beneath a brass weight near the edge.

A report.

Medical.

She hadn’t broken the seal yet.

Not because she couldn’t bear it.

She could bear anything.

She had to.

But there was something about the silence in the room—clean, dignified, expectant—that made her hands slow.

The seal cracked with a soft snap.

And then the room wasn’t quiet anymore.

Not inside. Not where it mattered.

The words weren’t bloody. Not in the literal sense. They were dry. Technical. Careful in the way that only clerics and medics could be. But beneath every line was something else—something jagged.

Lacerations. Untreated.

Contusions. Defensive pattern. Sustained over multiple days.

Ligature wounds, bilateral. Depth suggests restraint under weight-bearing tension.

Blunt-force trauma. Shallow abrasions. Malnutrition indicators.

Zelda read it all.

Once. Then again.

Not because she doubted it. But because the mind has a way of folding in on itself when something doesn’t sit. And nothing in this report was sitting.

She closed the file.

Slowly.

Her fingers rested on its edge.

Then she pushed it aside, reached for a new page, and began writing.

Not slowly. Not this time.

The air around her shifted—tightened.

Each line she marked was clean. Sharp. Stripped of emotion but carved with intent.

Names. Titles. Dates. Chain of command.

She didn’t describe what had been done to Narena.

That was already documented.

This was about what had been allowed.

What had gone unreported.

Unquestioned.

She didn’t write like a girl who had flinched from a medical report.

She wrote like a queen who knew the weight of negligence.

And the shape of its consequences.

When she finished, she didn’t linger.

No reread. No rephrasing.

She signed.

Stamped.

Pressed the wax flat with the seal she did have authority to wield.

And then she stood.

—

The infirmary had grown quieter since the previous night. Even the nurses’ footsteps, usually a soft counterpoint to the hiss of oil lamps and the muted clink of medical tools, had stilled. Someone had drawn the far curtain to reduce the draft. The room smelled like antiseptic and boiled cloth.

Zelda entered without ceremony.

She didn’t pause at the threshold, didn’t glance at the nurse’s station. The heels of her boots clicked softly across the polished stone as she made her way to the corner alcove, where the cot remained exactly where it had been. Tightly made. Lantern lit low.

Narena hadn’t moved.

But the tension in her limbs had eased. A fraction.

Link sat in the same chair as before— unchanged, unshifted. The only difference was his posture: arms folded this time, elbows dug into the armrests like he needed something to hold himself still.

Zelda approached slowly. She didn’t speak until she was beside him.

“I submitted the report.”

His eyes didn’t move. But something in his jaw locked.

She said nothing more for a beat, then glanced at the cot.

“Any change?”

He shook his head.

“She stirred once,” he said. His voice sounded like sand through gravel—flat, quiet, not strained but deliberately controlled.

Zelda nodded. A simple motion. But it didn’t land.

He hadn’t taken his eyes off the floor.

Zelda turned to him now, fully. Studied him.

“And you?” she asked.

Link exhaled.

It wasn’t a sigh. It was heavier. Like something let go of a ledge inside him, but didn’t fall far.

His fingers curled on the arms of the chair, slow and quiet.

“I’m angry,” he said.

Zelda didn’t blink.

“I’m furious.”

Still she didn’t answer. She just let him keep going.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry. Not in the field. Not during my own hearings. Not when I’ve been undermined, set up, outnumbered.” His voice didn’t rise. But it narrowed. Like each word was stripped to bone. “This is different.”

He turned his head—just slightly—and for the first time, their eyes met.

“She was down there for six days,” he said. “Not moved. Not checked. They told me she was under containment review, and they buried her in a cell they don’t even list in the internal wing guide.”

Zelda’s expression didn’t shift. But her hands were no longer still in her lap.

“I would walk into Rowen’s quarters right now,” Link continued, quieter now, “and end his career myself if it didn’t mean leaving her again.”

The pause that followed wasn’t hesitation. It was too heavy for that.

“I’d lose my title. My position. I’d wear the dishonor gladly. Just to look him in the face and tell him why it’s coming.”

He didn’t stop to let her interject. He wasn’t asking permission.

“But I won’t,” he said, after a beat. “Because if I leave her now—even for that—there’s a chance she opens her eyes and I’m not here. And I won’t risk that.”

The silence after that was sharp.

Zelda inhaled once through her nose.

Link’s eyes closed for just a second. When they opened again, the weight in them hadn’t lessened—but it had steadied.

She looked at him, and nodded slowly.

“I’ve filed charges against Rowen with the tribunal,” she said. “They’ll move on it by morning. The seal is already in place. They’ll summon him within the day.”

He didn’t nod. He didn’t thank her.

Just said, “Good.”

And his gaze drifted back to the cot.

Narena’s fingers had moved.

Just barely.

Zelda saw it too.

But neither of them said a word.

They just sat.

In the hush of the low lamplight, surrounded by the scent of gauze and steel and the kind of silence that only exists when rage has finally found its purpose.

—

The chamber doors shut with a sound like stone on stone.

Inside, the council room was cold—by design. No banners. No decoration. Only a central table of carved basalt and the pale gleam of sealed documents under oil light.

Four members sat at the table. Not a full inquest panel—yet. This was the preliminary quorum. Enough to open formal review.

The senior adjudicator, Councilor Edran, broke the silence first.

“Filed under royal authority. Stamped, witnessed, and timed. Do we have confirmation on the authenticity of the seals?”

Another member, a woman with copper-threaded robes, nodded. “Cross-referenced. Zelda’s signature holds. Commander Link’s clearance was current. No irregularities.”

Edran tapped the document with one finger. “And the complaint?”

“Unlawful detainment. Falsified reevaluation orders. Unauthorized use of a decommissioned Royal Command seal—HN–Δ47. Documentation of physical trauma consistent with prolonged restraint and neglect.”

A pause.

The third councilor, older, leaned forward. “This is not a disciplinary referral. This is an inquiry into willful institutional abuse.”

Edran nodded. “And the accused?”

“Commander Rowen. Tier-One strategic authority. Court-eligible, but not immune.”

The fourth councilor opened a supplementary scroll. “The seal cited was struck from command use two years ago. No extensions. No surviving authorization. Its invocation on an operative’s reassignment qualifies as fabrication of sovereign authority.”

Edran closed the document slowly.

“We are not deliberating outcomes tonight,” he said. “Only confirming scope.”

There was no disagreement.

He turned to the scribe standing silent at the back wall. “Record the session. Effective immediately, launch a closed inquiry under Article Twelve. Notify the Office of Internal Oversight. Freeze all outgoing orders from Commander Rowen’s station. Restrict access to affected files.”

“And Rowen himself?” one of the others asked.

Edran didn’t blink.

“Summon him by writ,” he said. “No public notice yet. But do not give him time to move the pieces.”

The scribe bowed and left.

Silence reclaimed the room.

And the inquest began.

—

The light in the infirmary room had shifted.

Not by much. Just enough that it felt warmer at the edges. Less like a lantern, more like sun filtered through something old and soft—linen curtains, cotton bandages, breath.

Link hadn’t moved in hours.

He sat slouched in the same chair, one hand loosely curled on his knee, the other resting on the edge of the cot, near—but not touching—hers. His shoulders had dipped. His eyes, heavy-lidded. But he hadn’t slept. Not really. He wouldn’t let himself.

And then—

She stirred.

Barely.

Her brow tightened first. Her head shifted on the pillow with a kind of exhausted defiance, like waking wasn’t something she trusted yet.

And then she opened her eyes.

Slow. Careful. As though she expected something worse to be waiting.

Link leaned forward the instant he saw it, not fast, just enough for her to register motion. A silhouette. A figure. Not a voice yet.

And she blinked.

At him.

Not all the way. Not fully focused. Just enough to let the doubt show.

Like maybe this wasn’t real.

Like maybe the cell had rewritten her too deeply, and her mind was filling the cracks with the only thing it wanted to see.

She stared.

He swallowed.

“Narena,” he said.

Soft. Immediate. Like a promise he didn’t know how to wrap in anything else.

Her mouth parted slightly.

And then, after a beat, her voice—hoarse, barely there:

“…Link?”

Not a call. Not a cry.

Just a dare. A whisper. A question with no breath behind it.

He was at her side in one motion. Not loud. Not urgent. Just there.

Her head didn’t move, but her gaze tracked him, wide and dark and unreadable.

He crouched beside the cot, arms braced lightly on the edge. Close, but not crowding her.

“Hey,” he said, almost under his breath. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t look away, either.

So he tried again. “How do you feel?”

She didn’t move.

Just stared.

And in her face was everything—exhaustion, wariness, disbelief.

Not mistrust of him.

Mistrust of peace.

Like she wasn’t ready to lower her guard yet. Like maybe she couldn’t remember how.

She watched him for a long moment without saying anything, and he didn’t move under her gaze. There was no fear in her eyes, not exactly, but something like distance. Not because she didn’t know him, but because part of her didn’t trust that any of this was real.

Her throat worked. She blinked slowly, once. Then again.

“I thought…” Her voice cracked, soft but whole. “I thought I made you up.”

Link’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t.”

Her fingers twitched weakly against the sheet. “You came.”

“Of course I did.”

Something about the way he said it made her glance down, like the answer landed heavier than she meant it to.

She shifted. Tried to sit up. Her breath hitched.

Link was at her side before she got halfway.

“Hey—wait,” he said, low.

His hand hovered near her shoulder, not pressing, just steady. She froze, then eased back.

“You’re okay,” he said. “You don’t have to move.”

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t nod, either.

Her lips parted again, but this time the sound that came out was rougher. Dry. She winced.

“Water?” he asked gently.

She gave the faintest nod.

He reached for the cup on the side table, careful not to rattle it, and held it toward her with the straw angled close. Her eyes followed the motion, then flicked up to his face again—as if checking, just once more, that he was real—before she leaned in and took a small sip.

He held it steady the whole time, watching the way her hand barely lifted from the blanket like she might reach for it and then thought better of it.

When she finished, she sank back again, breathing a little easier.

“How long was I..?” she asked, trailing off like she didn’t know if she wanted to finish the question. Or if she even wanted the answer.

“Six days.”

She closed her eyes.

“Felt longer,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Another silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but thick. She wasn’t crying. He wasn’t speaking. But everything unsaid was still there in the way her breathing hitched now and then. In the way his hands didn’t quite unclench.

She opened her eyes again.

“You’re not leaving, are you.”

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “I’m not going anywhere.”

This time, she didn’t question it.

Just exhaled slow. Then turned her face slightly toward the wall. But before her eyes drifted shut again, her fingers shifted once on the blanket.

Closer to his.

And Link moved instantly.

Not sudden. Not sharp.

Just sure.

He reached out and took her hand in his—slow, deliberate, palms meeting like the gesture had already happened a thousand times in silence.

—

Pt.14 Pt.16

[hylianhoneycomb]

doodle request: BOTW Link chilling with his horse (pick your fav BOTW horse)

giant horse giant horse 🐴

[hylianhoneycomb]

masterlist

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

‧₊˚ ♡ Link BOTW/TOTK/AOC ♡‧₊˚

Mine to Look After - 25/32 (completed/editing)

The Summons

Weight that Doesn’t Bleed

The Cost of Being Useful

Friction and Stone

Return, Return

Still Breathing, Still Bleeding

Control Measures

Detainment and Departure

The Paper Cage

The Body Remembers

Fault Lines

The Lantern Burns

Borrowed Time

Paper Weight

Where it’s Written

Pending Judgment

Where the Verdict Lands

Purple Daylilies

Unsteady Ground

Echoes and Edges

Threshold

Lingering Whispers

Clotted

Unraveled

Smoke and Silence

[hylianhoneycomb]

Mine to Look After

Chapter 14/32

Chapter XIV: Paper Weight

⸻

The door shouldn’t have been that heavy.

But it groaned like it hadn’t been touched in years.

Link pushed it open with both hands.

And stepped into silence.

It was a room built to forget people.

The air didn’t move.

The walls were bare.

There were no lights save the faint torch glow leaking in from the corridor behind him.

There, against the far wall—

She lay curled on the floor.

And the world stopped.

He couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t speak.

For a full second, he didn’t know how to move.

Narena was—

She was a shape. A shadow. A ghost.

She didn’t look real.

Not at first.

She was curled onto her side, facing away from the door, motionless. Her arms were behind her back, shoulders twisted unnaturally from however long she’d been pinned like that. Her knees were drawn in toward her chest. Her boots half-off. Her shirt soaked through with dried blood. Her frame—

Too thin.

Too still.

Too quiet.

The floor beneath her was stained.

She didn’t turn when the door opened.

She didn’t react.

As if whatever part of her might’ve lifted her head—reached out, called his name—had been left behind long before now.

He stepped forward.

The world tunneled.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Narena.”

The word cracked as it left him.

Still, nothing.

He crouched beside her. Reached for her shoulder.

“Narena, it’s me. I’m here.”

His fingers brushed her skin.

She flinched.

Not violently. Not like someone startled.

It was smaller than that. Like a muscle twitching for the first time in days.

Her eyes blinked. Slowly. Her gaze shifted toward him, unsteady, unfocused.

And still—no recognition.

No spark.

Like she saw him the way she might see water in a mirage.

Something her mind built to keep her alive.

His hand came up to her face, trembling slightly. He brushed a streak of dried blood away from her cheekbone. Her skin was cold. Her pulse faint.

Still she didn’t pull away.

But something in her gaze… changed.

Not belief. Not yet.

Just—curiosity.

Wonder.

Like her body was beginning to suspect something her mind didn’t dare name.

That he might not vanish this time.

That he was real.

That someone had actually come for her.

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Link swallowed hard.

The cuffs at her wrists were crusted with blood. The iron had eaten into the skin. His knife shook in his hand as he worked the lock.

When they snapped open, her arms fell limp. He caught them before they hit the floor, lowered them gently across her lap. She didn’t move to hold them. Her fingers twitched.

She was barely upright.

So he shifted forward, wrapping an arm behind her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. Her head lolled forward—and for a heartbeat he thought she’d lost consciousness—but then her brow pressed weakly against his collar.

And stayed there.

No words.

No sobs.

Just that one small motion.

Like her body finally knew it could stop bracing for pain.

Link closed his eyes.

And breathed in the scent of iron, and blood, and her.

The weight of her in his arms was nothing.

But the shape of her—the bruises, the silence, the flicker of disbelief in her eye—

That nearly broke him.

—

The hallway outside the infirmary was whitewashed stone, too clean for what had just happened. Too still.

Link hadn’t spoken in hours.

Zelda was seated on the bench across from him, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her dress was creased where she’d wrung the fabric between her fingers. She hadn’t asked him anything in a while. Not since they arrived. Not since the doors closed behind the stretcher.

He hadn’t stopped staring at them.

The blood on his knuckles was dry now. Her blood. His cloak was folded under one arm, but the stain on the front hadn’t faded. He hadn’t changed. Hadn’t moved much.

But his whole body felt… hollow.

And shaking under the surface.

When he closed his eyes, he saw her—still on the floor.

Just lying there.

So quiet he’d thought, for one sick heartbeat, that he’d been too late.

And even now, knowing she was behind that door—bandaged, treated, safe—he couldn’t breathe quite right.

Because that stillness hadn’t left him.

Not really.

The healer returned.

Her face was soft but unreadable. She held a clipboard, but didn’t look at it as she approached.

“She’s stable,” the woman said. “More so than we expected, given the condition she was brought in. We’ve cleaned the wounds, stitched the lacerations. Her wrists were infected but treatable. She’s dehydrated. Exhausted.”

Zelda stood. “Is she awake?”

“No,” the healer said gently. “But sleeping naturally now. Not sedated.”

She turned slightly—toward Link.

“You can go in, if you want. Just one person for now. She won’t wake for a while, but… she’s there.”

Link didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He moved past them without hesitation, like he’d been waiting to be told to breathe again.

-

Zelda remained in the corridor.

She stood a moment longer—silent, unmoving—then turned and made her way down the hall to the side desk where the healers had gathered. Two of them remained on call, sleeves rolled, faces drawn with the quiet fatigue of night duty. They straightened as she approached.

“I’ll expect a full report,” she said. Her voice was composed. Low. “Every mark. Every injury. Even the ones that look old.”

The older of the two nodded once, brisk and efficient. “Of course, Your Highness. We’ve already begun documentation.”

Zelda’s eyes didn’t waver. “Include probable cause and timing. Bruise patterns. Restraint damage. Chain width, if you can determine it.”

“We can,” the healer said. “Protocol mandates full trauma documentation in cases involving confinement.”

“Then follow protocol,” Zelda said. “Submit two copies. One to the royal registry. One to me.”

The younger healer hesitated—only for a breath—but the older one glanced at her and nodded again. “By morning, Your Highness.”

Zelda dipped her head slightly. “Good.”

She turned without another word.

And walked back to her bench.

The lamp above her flickered. She folded her hands in her lap once more.

And waited.

—

The door creaked quietly as it opened.

Inside, the light was low.

A single oil lamp glowed from the corner, casting a shallow pool of gold across the wall. The air smelled of herbs and antiseptic. Beneath that—linen, starch, the faintest trace of metal. The cot where she lay was narrow, pressed tightly to the wall. Crisp white sheets. Too clean for how broken she’d been when he found her.

Narena lay still on her side, one arm unbandaged and resting across her ribs, the other wrapped tightly from elbow to wrist. Her face was turned slightly toward the door, but her eyes were closed. Her skin, still pale beneath the bruising, looked thinner somehow—drawn taut against the bone. Mottled with yellow, black, purple. The old gash across her cheek had been cleaned, stitched carefully from temple to jawline. Her hair had been brushed back, but not washed; it still held the weight of sweat and dust and time.

She didn’t stir.

Link stepped inside.

And stopped.

Not because he didn’t want to get closer—

but because something in him recoiled from the sight.

Not from her.

Never from her.

From what had been done. What had been allowed.

She looked small.

Smaller than she ever had.

Like the parts of her that were fire and edge and fight had been buried under something heavier. Something silent. Not extinguished—he wouldn’t believe that—but dimmed. Shielded. Like a flame forced to gutter in the dark for too long.

He took another step.

The floor didn’t creak.

There was no rush. No guard. No shadow at his back.

But the silence pressed down on him anyway.

He reached the edge of the cot and lowered himself into the chair beside it. It creaked under his weight—too loud in the hush. He folded his hands in his lap. Stared at hers.

Bandaged.

The fingers bruised. Swollen. The knuckles split and wrapped and taped with care, but no amount of gauze could disguise the depth of the damage.

Dragged? Beaten? Pressed too long into stone? He didn’t know. And that, more than anything, made his stomach twist.

He couldn’t tell which injuries were days old. Which ones were fresh. Which ones had reopened from older pain.

He’d seen field wounds before. This was something different.

He wanted to reach out.

Just to rest his hand near hers. Not to wake her. Not to disturb the stillness.

Just… to be there.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t forget the way she’d looked at him in that cell—

That flicker of recognition that hadn’t been recognition at all.

The hesitation.

The disbelief.

Like her mind had built him out of desperation, and her body was still catching up to the idea that he was real.

That lived behind his ribs now.

He studied her face.

The twitch in her eyelid. The faint motion of her breath.

The way her brow creased slightly, even in sleep, like her body didn’t quite trust the peace it had been offered.

She’d always slept light. Even as a cadet. Even before everything.

Now it looked like she was too tired not to.

He leaned back in the chair, eyes on her hand, and let the silence stretch.

And still, he didn’t reach out.

But he stayed.

—

2 Years Earlier

Link pushed open the office door, expecting quiet.

Instead, he heard it.

A muffled sound—sharp, wet, choked.

He froze.

Narena sat at his desk, hunched forward, hands cupped over her face. Shoulders trembling.

She didn’t hear him.

Not at first.

The room was dim—just the outer sconce flickering through the half-open door behind him. Her braid hung loose over one shoulder, unravelling, her uniform smudged with dirt or ash or something worse.

He stepped in carefully.

“Narena?”

She jerked upright, wiping her face in one hurried motion, as if that might erase what he’d already seen.

“I—sorry—I’ll go—”

“You’re not in trouble,” he said quickly, voice low but firm. He moved around the desk, kneeling a bit to meet her eyes. “What happened.”

She shook her head, inhaled hard, but couldn’t get the words out right away. Just lifted her arm.

In her hands were the pieces of a staff.

Snapped clean through, then snapped again—four jagged fragments. The wood was scorched at the edge, splintered unevenly. The lacquer had been scraped down to the grain.

“I—I left it by the rack while I was washing up,” she said, voice shaking. “When I came back, it was on the ground like this.”

Link didn’t speak.

“They—” her throat caught, and she pressed the heel of her palm into her eye. “They laughed.”

A pause.

“They waited until I saw. And when I picked it up, they just—stood there. Said it was an accident. Said maybe I shouldn’t leave ‘sticks’ lying around like I’m better than everyone else.”

She laughed once, bitter and breathless.

“And then when I told them to stop—when I asked them to stop—they broke it again. Right in front of me.”

Link’s jaw set.

“I didn’t want them to see me cry,” she whispered. “I just—I didn’t know where else to go.”

He looked at the fragments in her hands.

Then at her.

The tears were still fresh on her cheeks, catching the lamplight like betrayal.

“They said it was just teasing,” she muttered, fingers curling tighter around the splinters. “But it wasn’t. They wanted me to feel small.”

He reached forward, slowly, and placed a hand over hers—not to take the pieces. Just to anchor them.

“You’re not small,” he said quietly.

She swallowed hard. Didn’t look up.

“I’ll replace it,” he added after a beat.

“That’s not the point.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a long time.

Then she said, barely audible:

“I liked that one. I’d had it since my first patrol.”

Link didn’t move.

He just stayed there—half-kneeling beside his own chair, one hand on hers, the other resting on the desk as if grounding them both.

Outside, the barracks buzzed with the low drone of training drills and shift changes. Inside the office, there was only quiet.

Only her grief.

And the space he gave it.

—

Pt.13 Pt.15