Chapter Text
Ryunosuke’s Journal
The thoughts of my time within Mr. McGilded’s mansion consume my brain entirely. I’ve dreamt of this for so long, I can hardly believe I was truly able to feel the Goddess Hylia’s tremendous power so close up! Tomorrow, I just need to bridge that gap and maybe, finally, I’ll be able to use the power of my birthright that’s eluded me for so very long.
Gina’s sudden display of magical power wouldn’t leave my mind either. An object that can instill magical ability to someone who wasn’t born with it… It’s almost unthinkable. I swear the texts always spoke of this being a cardinal rule—that magic cannot be casted by those who lack inherent magical ability. But I saw it with my very own eyes, didn’t I?
Did I misremember what was said? Or maybe those who studied this were wrong? I mean, what we thought we knew about the Guardians has been ever changing. What if this is the same? After all, isn’t taking all the current evidence and constantly updating our assumptions based on our findings the very foundation of science?
This could possibly be a breakthrough that completely upends how magic is seen in the world. After tomorrow’s session, we’ll no doubt have to look into purchasing the Temporal Timepiece—if not only for the research teams to investigate further.
…But even so, I can’t shake this anxious feeling in me that something’s going to go wrong. That it’s all just a dream and I’m going to wake up tomorrow and the watch never existed or I can’t attune to it anymore or something… I suppose this whole journey around my powers has been so fraught and fruitless up to this point, it feels bizarre to have some good news for once.
The following morning, the rains that descended upon Castle Town retreated as soon as they arrived—sheets of large, cold drops as ephemeral as bitter medicine tablets melting on tongues: one moment there and the next gone, yet its influence left lingering in the aftermath.
“The Goddess Hylia must be weeping,” an attendant had lamented to himself in the hall when Ryunosuke passed, listlessly watching out a window. Ryunosuke couldn’t help but stifle an indignant laugh under his breath; the Goddess must’ve had a wicked sense of humor in attempting to delay him in that way. A fickle thing, the gods were—to rebuff him after reaching out to him so desperately only the day prior. Was he truly so unworthy of her power that she would cry out from the heavens—that she would adjourn their meeting? Did she want to prevent the Calamity from happening or not?
Kazuma had waited with him that agonizing span of the morning, tapping a foot to the sound of the drops pattering outside, but when sunlight finally cut through the veil of clouds in thick slices and the rain subsided, they made the messy trudge back to that gilded house on top of the hill once again. The weather had left its mark: pervasive dreary skies, frizzy hair, mud-caked boots.
When they arrive, it’s a mirror to the day before: the butler calls for McGilded, they traverse through the funhouse, Kazuma is left to wait outside the safe room with the guard, Ryunosuke enters alone with McGilded to stand in front of the pedestal. He scans the room; Gina isn’t there this time. He’s sure of it.
“Are you ready, Your Highness?” McGilded asks with a sharp grin.
“Yes, of course,” Ryunosuke answers with a nod. It’s an understatement—the jittery energy under his fingertips can attest to that. He’s been ready since he came back to lucidity after collapsing yesterday. He feels he’s been ready for this moment for far much longer than that.
When he makes contact with the Temporal Timepiece, his energy latches to it just like before—a key slotting into a lock with ease. But the effortless transference of power comes at the same price as the day prior: a convulsion of current racks through his body as he sucks in a sharp breath, eyes clenching closed. Electric, blazing. It courses through his arm up to the very tips of his ears, down to ends of his toes—searing with oppressive heat.
He stands his ground longer this time with the wisdom of hindsight, but his legs tremble under him with a fury. The weight boring down on him is heavy—it’s so heavy. A leaden net ensnaring him. It’s untenable.
He knows great magics can be intense—can harrow its wielder in the process of attempting to command it—but, in this moment, even Ryunosuke can tell that something’s fundamentally not right. The weight is suffocating, all encompassing. It’s wrong.
That gravitational feeling is there again: a hand reaching out to him. Pulling, tugging at him to come closer—its attraction its own magnetic field. And it’s ruthless in its insistence. Beckoning: closer, closer. No matter how much effort Ryunosuke makes to fight it, it’s unyielding—an unstoppable descent into its spiral of quicksand. It becomes just as hard to breathe.
Pain lashes across his forearm as the hand seizes his wrist. Sharp claws like a vice dig into the skin there, puncturing through his arm guard as though slicing through tissue paper. Each gash below fanged nails sears where it draws blood. He chokes out a shuttering gasp under the pressure.
Panic bangs like a festival drum inside his chest—all percussion and no pleasance in its horrific clangor. His heart trying to leap out of his ribcage. He struggles to wrest his arm from its grasp, but it’s a losing battle. Writhing.
Ryunosuke wants to let go of the Temporal Timepiece. He can’t let go of it. It doesn’t let him let go of it.
Something’s terribly wrong.
The only sounds that fill the expanse of the ancillary room are that of low breaths and the creak and groan of that enormous house settling into its foundation. If there’s any other occupants within the rest of the house, Kazuma can’t determine. By sound alone, the storeroom where Ryunosuke and McGilded are in may as well not exist—a fortified black hole of information, impossible to discern the goings-on of within.
Leg crossed over the other, he bobs his foot to a silent rhythm. He watches the guard posted outside the door with a sharp displeasure. The man is burly—his clothes cling to his frame and his musculature seems suited for utility rather than pure aesthetic. At his hip: that peculiar, massive sword Kazuma still can’t place. Kazuma’s brow furrows further.
The guard is as stalwart as the day before, but something seems off—a chink in that faceless armor. Even with the mask obscuring his expression, the way his pineapple-spike of dark hair jostles about feels fidgety, antsy. A low rumble cuts through Kazuma’s thoughts: the unmistakable grumbling of a stomach.
Kazuma lifts an eyebrow. “Would you like one of these cookies?” he asks, motioning to the untouched plate of banana cookies before him. Despite the hospitality of McGilded and Ryunosuke’s seemingly delighted review of the man, he still isn’t keen on partaking of any food offered there.
“Resist…temptation… I’m on duty… Self-control!” the guard mutters—so quiet and mumbled Kazuma can just barely make it out. Murmuring to himself about food aloud, just like Ryunosuke, it seems. A louder growl escapes his stomach this time. “They’re for the guests only,” the guard finally says clearly, in a deep bass voice that gives Kazuma a start.
“Well,” Kazuma says as he rises from the seat, “I don’t quite have the appetite for cookies at the moment, so these will sit here uneaten otherwise. How about a deal: you tell me what kind of sword you carry, and you can take as many of these cookies as you like and I won’t tell McGilded.” He crosses his arms, stance planted firmly.
A beat, then a strained “Okay.” He snatches the then-offered plate out from Kazuma’s hands like a gull swiping a piece of bread from an unsuspecting child—so fast, Kazuma blinks and almost misses it entirely. He shovels the banana cookies under his mask and Kazuma ventures a look at the man’s face, but it’s still too obscured to discern any distinguishable features.
Once the guard’s had his fill, he carefully unsheathes his sword. Even with his strength, maneuvering the sword takes an effort that betrays its true weight. “The Windcleaver,” he explains. It shares a similar elongated shape as Karuma but much longer—resemblant to a Sheikah construction, except for its unique design of twin twisted waves of steel comprising its blade, leaving gaps along its length. That nagging feeling of recognition pricks at the tip of Kazuma’s tongue again.
“Intriguing name and blade design,” Kazuma muses, narrowed eyes trailing down the sword. “I can imagine only the most skilled of craftspeople could forge such an intricate design. If you’d indulge me, where would I go about locating such a swordsmith? I’d be interested in seeing if they could craft one for me as well.”
Three raps from behind the door, rhythmic—some sort of private code between McGilded and the guard. “It’s none of your concern,” that gruff voice replies, “for the only thing you’ll be seeing is your life flashing before your eyes, Hylia’s Champion!”
Ryunosuke has no recollection of him falling to his knees, just a grave sensation of overwhelming exhaustion dragging his body down like an iron weight. His arm limply hangs aloft, suspended by the iron grip from the Temporal Timepiece. It’s the only thing preventing his body from fully collapsing to the ground.
Lifting his head feels like heaving a tall stack of books up. “Help, please,” he rasps, “I can’t move… It hurts…” But McGilded doesn’t answer his pleas—he doesn’t react to the situation at all. No shock or horror on his face. He just continues to blankly watch Ryunosuke. Unfazed. Undaunted. As vacant as the stone effigy of a Goddess Statue and just as mute. Fear pounds in his chest.
“To tell the truth,” McGilded then says after agonizing silence, “I wasn’t quite convinced of it—that the force behind that ol’ disaster ten thousand years ago could still be alive, right under our noses.” A burning shock jolts down Ryunosuke’s spine. “So when my associates approached me about this here Temporal Timepiece and some piffle about revivin’ Calamity Stronghart, I was mighty skeptical. A bunch o’ kooks if you’d ask me. But lo and behold, the blasted thing reacted to you, and with quite the vigor at that!” His face pulls in mimed shock, hands held up in front of him. “I was more surprised than you were, so I was! To think that devil is still kickin’ somewhere—no wonder you were so desperate!” A coarse laugh hidden under a jeweled fist.
“What—” Ryunosuke breathes out. The air is thin against the cotton sensation tamping his mouth. “What are you talking about? The Temporal Timepiece is the Goddess Hylia’s. Why would it be—” Another shooting pain cuts him off; he squeezes his eyes shut.
McGilded hums, contemplating. “Aye, ‘tis what everyone thought, isn’t it? Besides light, the goddess is said to have dominion over time, after all. That’s why I also had my doubts.” He taps a finger to his chin. “But now I think I’m startin’ to understand: you see, how else could somethin’ exist for ten thousand years unless it also had some command of time?”
“What?” Ryunosuke chokes out. It’s a cacophony inside his head—trying to follow the logic of the conversation while suppressing the pain. That needle of doubt from the day before burrows into his skin again, so much deeper than before, and it twists within him.
“‘Tis nothin’ personal, Your Highness. I truly didn’t believe that it would even work.” McGilded presses his palms to his eyes; his mouth tugs down into a deep grimace. It’s an expression of sympathy Ryunosuke can’t begin to determine the recipient of, for it’s much too distant to be directed at him. “You see, I have a good system here in Castle Town, after all. Every day, people all around this fair kingdom of ours are strugglin’, utterly hopeless. Now, the gentleman I am, I can’t be turnin’ a blind eye to those in distress, now can I? So, I offer them my charity—I provide the funds they so desperately need when they have no one else to turn to, that I do. And then I turn around and give those extra rupees I get in interest back to my community! But, as it happens, times are changin’—and not for the better, I tell you here!”
He scrapes his hands down his face and his expression underneath is replaced with fury. His voice growls, tight: “There’s a greed issue happenin’ in this town, that there is. Self-serving knights and aristocrats and the like thinkin’ they can encroach on my territory all for a quick pilfer—pocketin’ every last one of those rupees for themselves! Castle Town was lucky to have me over these chancers!” He slams his foot into the floor over and over, face turning as red as the ruby worn on his finger.
“Haah… Haah…” He takes a moment to catch his breath; he stands back up straight. His expression slides back to insouciance as he cradles his chin in his hand. “But ‘tis truly a gift to find people whose interests overlap yours, that it is. With my associates’ help, those miscreants were taken right care of—all to the benefit of everyone, I’d say! Though, of course, our partnership required a bit of extra compensation…” He traipses to the door and Ryunosuke watches him knock, but the sound gets lost in the muffled din in his ears.
The asthenia catches up to Ryunosuke as his head falls down with no resistance, beads of sweat dripping off his nose like the morning’s cascading rain. He swears he can see faint wisps of inky blackness painting spirals along the ground. A spinning headache—someone hammering into his skull.
“‘Bring us the Prince of Hyrule,’ is what they said,” McGilded continues with that enigmatic tone, slicing through the clamor. It’s metal on metal—grating, raucous. “Aye, the loyal followers of Calamity Stronghart, themselves…”
It clicks. “The Yiga!” Kazuma gasps out.
He lurches away from the guard’s swing of his blade, narrowly avoiding the slice of air reverberated out from the sword before it rends the small table and chair behind him in two. The Windcleaver: the dual-twisted sword capable of launching a shockwave of wind, wielded by Yiga Blademasters, the most elite soldiers of the Yiga Clan.
It’s a slow sword to use—maneuvering that size of a weapon is laborious, even with the Blademaster’s physicality—which gives Kazuma just the opening he needs. He unsheathes Karuma in a smooth motion and returns a shining beam of light of his own that cuts true, slicing into the laggard arm of the Blademaster mid windup. The Asogi Sword-Drawing Technique is his own ace hidden under his sleeve: a powerful sword art passed down the Asogi clan unique to Karuma, able to shoot a slashing laser from draw when the user is at full vitality.
(It was something he had to figure out how to do alone, piecing together fragments of memories of his father’s instructions like a mosaic of broken shards of glass.)
The sword beam rips open the Blademaster’s sleeve, but his motion is unimpeded—only a slight flinch of his arm, like a shiver after a chilly breeze. A swing again from the Blademaster, this time diagonal. Kazuma lunges to the side, letting momentum carry his roll. The room is small—unwieldy to navigate in and not conducive for a fight. His left shoulder slams into the wall, but the pain is tempered by the rush in his veins. He’s quick to his feet, like a spring rebounding.
There’s a low rhythm filling Kazuma’s ears now; it’s both discordant and melodic—contradictory in its nature, but it feels right, feels so familiar it’s as if Kazuma’s heard it a thousand times over. Karuma thrums under his grip, anxious to move forward. Jittery with trepidation.
Kazuma figures that the flash of blinding light he sees out of the corner of his eye is the blade catching the light within the room, but when his eyes flick down, it persists past mere reflection. Karuma is effulgent, radiant from sacred light all her own. She buzzes more intensely in his palms and she pulls, she pulls, like a magnet towards the wall of that locked room. Her tug is relentless—he can’t tell if it’s in excitement or in fear.
“Prince Ryunosuke!” he yells, quickly slamming the back of his fist onto the wall. With how little noise he can hear from inside, he doesn’t expect the sound to reach, but he tries anyway.
The Blademaster rears a hand glowing with red light back, up into the air, and strikes the ground. The impact splits the ground crimson—slices of cracked rock and a geyser of air snaking towards Kazuma with precision, even when he moves. He leaps away from the homing strike and bolts towards the door to the hallway, but not before seeing an opportunity: the attack leads the Blademaster to linger in his knelt position.
Kazuma surges out of the doorway, chips of stone biting at his heels in pursuit. He hears the ground below him fissure and snap, feels the earth quake under each stride. Then, a heel turn: he pushes off the balls of his feet, U-turning from where he came from with a backflip. Large, jagged stones rupture up from the wooden floors and luxurious violet rugs. Upside down, Kazuma watches slips of red paper seals scatter along the rush of wind battering his face; fragments of scattered stone cut along his cheeks, but he narrowly misses the big rock formations.
His feet land with a heavy thump, yet he springs forward with ease—the time spent training with the lithesome Sheikah fighters proving yet again to be an indispensable boon to him. He courses back through the entrance to see the sight he was hoping for: the Blademaster kneeling, vulnerable.
Kazuma strikes, fast as a viper—a streaking arc of light down. The blade slices into the Blademaster’s shoulder, catching on whatever armor is worn beneath his disguise, before the Yiga is able to lift The Windcleaver and parry the remainder of the swing. Armor or not, the Blademaster grunts, rolls his shoulder ever so slightly.
The Blademaster thrusts a fist from the sky, index and middle finger pointed upwards, down to his chest and vanishes in a spray of coarse smoke and red paper seals. Kazuma wheels around, searching. Karuma roars and quivers, implacable.
He spots a flash of bright flame in that hallway as the littered seals gravitate towards it. He lunges at the smoke that appears and steel makes purchase against leather, cutting deeper this time. Scarlet flings off the blade effortlessly when Kazuma pulls back, like water repelled off rubber. Another grunt escapes from the Blademaster.
As the smoke clears, the Yiga’s shed his disguise; deep reds and blacks and yellows cling tight to his body, and a white mask with the signature upside-down Sheikah eye hides his face. His fingers move in a blur as they form into hand seals. Kazuma’s eyes grow wide as he jumps back—he’s seen just how formidable the Sheikah arts can be up close plenty of times.
It’s instant: a centralized whirlwind pelts Kazuma before he even sees its inception. The winds subside after only a few seconds, but it’s achieved its goal; he staggers back, thrown off-kilter. It’s just enough time for the Blademaster to heave a horizontal swing. By the time he’s regained his footing, the whistle of steel pricks close at his ear. Goosebumps rise as he feels his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach. There’s not enough time to parry.
A mechanical chime rings in his mind, as keen as any blade: “ You must dodge, Master. ”
His focus on the Blademaster is pinpoint when he digs his heels into the ground and flings himself backwards into the air. But it’s not like before when he evaded the cresting rocks—time seems to slow around him, as still as the air before a storm. Yet, he is the sole one unaffected.
Eyes still trained on the Yiga in front of him, he feels Karuma pulse with energy between his fingers. His movements feel deft and nimble—untethered by the pull of gravity. His toes barely make contact with the ground before he whips forward. He swings and it’s effortless. The Blademaster doesn’t even react—can’t even react, under whatever time dilation is in effect. He swings again.
When he blinks, the Blademaster has let out a harsh yelp, staggering backwards with his hand clutching his chest. He drops to his knee and gestures another hand seal. The inverted Sheikah eye flashes in the air in front of him. A body is replaced with crimson smoke and flittering paper seals that dissolve, wisp-like, into the wind. The items that were on his person clatter onto wood: a metal key, some rupees, a Mighty Banana…
Kazuma makes the decision to not touch that.
He heaves a heavy breath and his eyes trail from the last vestiges of ashy vapor to Karuma. His hand trembles under her hilt—mind spinning, trying to comprehend. His connection with Karuma has always felt intimate, instinctual. He can feel her emotions by how her energy ebbs and flows under his fingertips, can hear her melodies filling his ears. But he’s never heard her voice before. Not like that.
He shakes his head and grits his teeth, dispelling the static. He snatches the key up from the ground and is about to run back to the locked door when he hears the pounding of footsteps coming closer from down the hall, shouts about slowing down and louder refusals in return. His grip tightens on Karuma. They’re much too loud to be Yiga, but he can’t discount additional combatants.
A streak of strawberry blonde hair and green fabric rounds the corner, blurring past him in a full sprint: that girl from before, Gina. “I said I don’t need help from no one!” she yells into the wild. She doesn’t seem to even notice him.
He spins to follow her path and gapes, about to call out to her, when he feels the air behind him brush at his back. He hears no sounds of additional footsteps advancing closer, only a sharp gasp. Black clothing pirouettes around him, barely avoiding crashing into him. Ryutaro, from yesterday. A peculiar set of reunions.
“Ch-Champion Kazuma!” Ryutaro jolts up, splayed fingers covering his mouth. He gives a look of concern, then turns his head to watch Gina’s figure disappear further down the corridor, before looking back. “Where, where is Prince Ryunosuke?!”
The people Ryutaro and Kazuma are both chasing, swallowed by this colossal house.
Kazuma huffs. There’s no time for this. The fight with the Blademaster already was too much of a distraction, and he has no reason to give a response to someone he doesn’t trust yet. “I don’t know what your purpose is in being here, but it’s dangerous.” He sheathes Karuma and begins proceeding back to the locked door, key in hand. “There was already one Yiga soldier here. Who knows how many more are crawling in this pla—”
The Yiga Clan, McGilded had said. He led him directly into the Yiga’s den. Right into Calamity Stronghart’s hands.
It takes all of Ryunosuke’s energy to speak. “You, you deceived me… And for what?” He scoffs, brusque in his hurt. “S-So you could make more”—he winces, sucking in a sharp breath—“rupees? You—You’ve doomed this entire land all to sate your greed—”
McGilded stomps his foot down. “Now don’t be givin’ me that lip! This was my livelihood we’re talkin’ about!” He points a knife-like finger at Ryunosuke, accusatory. A keen curl to his lip and nostrils flaring, his shoulders heave up and down with each rage-filled breath. “I pushed the issue to the Crown, to the Castle Town Guard, and nuttin’ was done! Then to go rub salt in the wound: that damned magistrate Reaper comes out of the woodwork to slander my good name to the public! Me! Magnus McGilded! Madness, it is!”
Egotistical. Avaricious. Hypocritical. They’re all words Ryunosuke wants to scream, to yell until he’s red in the face, but his throat constricts into itself and not a single sound escapes. He can’t comprehend how after admitting to his own transgressions, McGilded still sees himself the victim.
McGilded’s face is lit with self-righteous indignation. “Nuttin’ is ever given to you no strings attached, lad.” The words roll off his tongue bitter, laced with spite. “You best be rememberin’ that!”
McGilded spins his cane, and a kaleidoscope of lights swirl off it. “…Somethin’ that can let just anyone use magic? Bah! Everyone knows that’s impossible!”
The swirls of darkness upon the floor are no longer just his eyes playing tricks on him, he’s sure of now. He can hear McGilded still ranting in the background as the muffled acoustics get more and more intense, until it feels like he’s listening from under water. The swirls take form—reaching out towards Ryunosuke with slender fingers, engulfing his body, his face. Inside the center of the smog: two icy blue eyes staring back. Like looking into a knife-point. He shuts his own eyes tight. Constricting, constricting. He can’t breathe—
A searing pain stabs through Kazuma’s chest. The room grows dark, fractured. Deep purple cracks fissuring along all surfaces. Ryutaro’s horrified face gets swallowed by the shadows. Kazuma collapses.
Ryunosuke’s eyes fly open; he gasps for air. The first thing that hits him is the revolting smell—charred, rancid. He hacks out a cough, curling further into himself on his knees. His fingers rake dirt mixed with soot. Not much longer after, he hears the crackling, the snapping of wood, the rumble of stone falling.
When he dares to look up, his blood runs cold. In McGilded’s mansion no more, before him is a structure in ruin, set ablaze. The silk pennants that remain; the lofty spire piercing the black, ghoulish simulacrum of the heavens above; the shape of what’s left of its skeleton of stone and brick—he recognizes it immediately: Hyrule Castle.
Behind it is a circular backdrop of blood-red. A massive scarlet moon looms overhead—the kingdom consumed by its striking, ruddy glow. The flames lick up against splintered trees and wooden buildings, extending skyward in desperation to be ensnared into the moon’s pull. Cinders flutter about like butterflies. Smoke billows in fat stacks along the horizon, suffocating and blinding.
A weak sound peals out of Ryunosuke, choked. It can’t be real, he insists; denial is worn snugly like a fitted jacket—and feels all the more safer. But all the evidence—the malodor of sulfur in the air, the dirt beneath his fingernails, the dry static snapping against his skin—is all so visceral, even he can’t convince himself otherwise.
There’s a glint on the ground. An egg of steel and screws—has that always been there? He turns the object over and his fingers are coated in blueish liquid, viscous and oily. It’s the small Guardian, but damaged; its smashed eye weeps, oozing its fuel like the blood on Ryunosuke’s hands for falling into McGilded’s trap. He inhales a shuddering breath, clutching the Guardian tight.
“Prince Ryunosuke!” a familiar voice rings out, distant.
Ryunosuke’s eyes are wide and searching. “Ch-Champion Kazuma?!” He sees nothing but flame and ruin and the evidence of his own failures. Guardian scooped up in his arms, he follows his voice.
In a second, Ryunosuke hits a railing—the bridge connecting the castle to Castle Town. The small Guardian is gone. Kazuma is below, on an outcrop. It’s far too long of a drop to make. Pressed to the railing, he calls out to him again.
Kazuma sees Ryunosuke above him, on the bridge to the castle. His eyes survey the land around: no easy path to get up there to him. He’ll have to climb up the cliff for a better chance.
Something clamps around Kazuma’s ankle when he takes a step, as constrictive and relentless as the jaws of a Wolfos. A body exhumed from the soil reaching out, metallic mask on its face—a cage of anonymity, of indignity. Recognition laps at the edges of his memory, despite it all, and he feels revulsion. Not at the ghastly sight—no, something deeper, more primal, closer to him. He can’t fully place it. Karuma vibrates on his hip.
He’s unable to move. As still as a wax sculpture.
The arm pulls—pulls with the strength of someone with conviction, who has seen the murky truth behind the secrets and the façades of stone and the clandestine agreements, no matter their noble intentions. Who’s identified him for the imposter he is, just one tip away from shattering and being exposed to everyone around him, and still accomplishing nothing at the end of it all. The Grim Reaper come to collect his dues.
How could Hyrule ever depend on someone like him?
Its pull is too much. He fights back against its force, but his body then laxes on its own accord, acquiescing. Maybe it’s better this way—to accept absolution. He’s mad to think he could ever be adequate enough to save him in death, to save them all in life.
After all, the apocalypse already began for him the moment the sword was placed in his care.
Can you truly be a hero without being willing to become a martyr?
He shuts his eyes. The earth below his boots parts effortlessly as the masked figure descends into its grave; rock and soil consumes him. When he looks, one last time, he sees the smoky visage of something not entirely a monster yet not quite human forming within the castle—so powerful in its presence, Kazuma can no longer repress the unmistakable dread of facing death head-on as the dirt smothers his vision.
Ryunosuke watches helplessly as Kazuma is swallowed into the ground. And the world stills—a lull of suspended animation. Coldness seeps into the crevices, freezing him down to the bone. In his ears, he hears the ticking of a clock; it reverberates down his chilled body like an earthquake. Something burns holes into his back, unable to be ignored.
He turns towards the castle. A pair of frozen eyes stare down at him like concentrated torch light. It’s a pall of malice taking shape, elongated like a serpent—a crackling mane of dark magenta and ebony flames, a fanged maw roaring peals of thunder, a horn of lightning atop its nebulous head. The only movement in the world: Ryunosuke’s shuddering breaths and the swirling beast high above.
“...Time…” the apparition gurgles. Every vocalization rattles against Ryunosuke’s rib cage. The ticking grows louder, faster—incessant. “Running out…of time…”
Nightshade clouds roll closer on the horizon, but they malform and bubble as they move—an aberrant, undulating heft to them that betrays mere water and vapor. A roiling tempest, blotting out the already scant bit of light beyond the castle and consuming all in its wake. Dread screams at him to do something—anything—but Ryunosuke can’t take his eyes off the calamitous figure ahead; his faculties and body seem bound and tethered to the spot.
Something radiant soars above the castle, piercing through the churning clouds of darkness—an arrow of light, a guiding shooting star. His eyes follow, freed from their previous shackles.
“Ry…no…ke…” A voice, staticky and warbled. The pitch: higher, feminine, he thinks, though it's hard to tell. Not someone he recognizes.
“You…” The voice becomes clearer, like it’s adjusted to the correct frequency. “…Have yet to find it.” The intonation is peculiar—syllables and phonemes stressed in an odd rhythm to his ear. Antiquated.
Ryunosuke’s mind reels. “F-Find what?!” he cries out to the air. Under the thread of shimmering light above, he feels control return to his body, stitching him back together again. He spins around, scanning his eyes wildly amongst the abandoned streets and ruined buildings of Castle Town. He doesn’t even know which direction to search—the voice feels simultaneously right next to him and an unreachable distance away. “Find the powers? What?!”
The viscous sludge ripples across the bridge, poppling along over debris and remains, and he backs away with a gaping mouth and wide eyes.
“Run!” the voice lashes like a whip. “Ryunosuke, you must run!”
He obeys her call. Obedience is second nature, after all: praying, sacrificing, deference. All things instilled in him from the moment he was born with that symbol branded on his hand. Without a second thought, he whirls around and sprints as fast as his legs can take him through the dilapidated town square. Lungs heaving, the wreckage blurs past him in smoky streaks. The snapping trailing him grows closer and closer—a guttural bellowing rushing like rapids behind him—until he feels the blistering heat licking right at his boots.
His effort is not enough.
Ryunosuke stumbles to his knees when the hazy mire clings to his ankles, sweeping his body out from under him. The swirling beast was right: he was running out of time. He sinks into the muck like a brick, without any resistance. The last thing he sees is a Goddess Statue staring down at him from atop its pillar, aloof smile eternally plastered on its marble visage, until even it is engulfed by an inky eternity.
Ryunosuke chokes out a gasp when he regains consciousness. He’s back in McGilded’s manor, splayed out on the cold floor. McGilded is gone—no doubt absconded towards somewhere far off from Castle Town, where his identity is unknown and news is slower to spread.
(Though, Ryunosuke is not under the illusion that what happened here today will be broadcasted across the kingdom. The public knowing that the prince’s incompetence led him to being taken advantage of would already be a show of weakness his father wouldn’t want to project. Implying that he helped fuel Calamity Stronghart’s power—or, possibly, something much worse—would be tantamount to political suicide. The incident will be buried, spoken only to The Knights Counsel as a warning to boost their ranks.)
The pedestal in the center of the room is bare; the Temporal Timepiece is unaccounted for. The room is still, frigid, and Ryunosuke can see his breath fog in front of him against the flooring. When enough strength returns to him, he shakily peels himself off the floor, gripping onto that pedestal the same way it latched onto him.
There’s an explosion of smoke and red ribbons and, in an instant, the room’s occupancy grows from one to four: a Yiga Blademaster flanked by two Footsoldiers. The metal of the Footsoldiers’ sickles catch the chandelier light as they approach—Ryunosuke eyes that flicker of silver like a wounded deer stares down an arrowhead flying towards it.
“For Lord Stronghart,” the Blademaster says.
“For Lord Stronghart!” the Footsoldiers echo in unison—a dissonant choir of pestilent devotion.
He’s a resource no longer useful to them: a power source depleted, then spit out and needed to be exterminated for the continued success of their plans.
Their departure mirrors their entrance: one moment there and the next gone. Something hefty goes careening through the wall, smashing all of the Yiga like a line of bowling pins. Mighty Bananas and weapons rain from the sooty haze.
Ryunosuke blinks. Outside the body-shaped hole, he spots Kazuma loosely holding a key in his hand, dumbstruck, and that boy they saw yesterday, Ryutaro, maintaining the follow through of a throw. The sight of them makes him want to cry.
“Champion Kazuma!” he yells out, voice grown thick. He draws himself up; despite how much energy was extracted, he feels his strength slowly begin to return. His lip quivers.
Kazuma’s eyes grow wide, then he’s in front of Ryunosuke with a concerned hand on Ryunosuke’s arm. His frantic gaze searches the room, then Ryunosuke, trying to assess the damage. Worry is plastered on his face, no matter how much he tries to veil it. Something else is there too, a little more successfully concealed—something like fear, a deeper distress.
“I—I saw you—earlier you were—” The words fly out of Ryunosuke’s mouth erratic, stumbling over each other. “What happened—are you alright?!”
Ryunosuke perceives the similar sense of confusion etched on Kazuma’s face. “Later,” he says quickly. “We have to get out of here first. Are you hurt?” Ryunosuke shakes his head—any lingering pain is unimportant at this point. Kazuma’s eyes flick to the empty pedestal. “Where is McGilded?”
“I don’t know. When I woke up, he was gone.”
Knitted eyebrows and a deep frown. “Okay. We should get going at once.” Kazuma reaches out and grips Ryunosuke’s hand, tugging him behind him. Ryunosuke’s fingers flinch under the sudden contact, but he’s glad for Kazuma’s quick thinking—it’ll be much easier keeping pace and avoiding getting separated this way. “Stay close. More Yiga may appear at any moment. You’ll watch the rear, Ryutaro?”
Apprehension spikes in Ryunosuke. How can he be sure Ryutaro wouldn’t betray them like McGilded did?
He squeezes Kazuma’s hand, tensing. The hesitancy must be written plainly on his face because Kazuma’s expression softens ever so slightly, quelling the surging waters inside him. Whatever happened outside that room must’ve been enough for Kazuma to have faith in Ryutaro; Ryunosuke trusts his judgment.
“Of course,” Ryutaro replies, both of them exchanging a nod. He gives Ryunosuke a reassuring smile, and something in that expression reminds him of someone else. Similar to Elder Impa, perhaps. He quickly casts it out of his mind and returns a nod of his own.
Kazuma leads them down the hallway. Without a guide, it’s unwieldy to navigate in. They turn the corner and an unseemly painting on the wall catches Ryunosuke’s eye: a giant Bokoblin reclined on its side in a rather suggestive pose. A disgusted shiver runs down his spine at the sight of it. Maybe Champion Sholmes can come up with an elixir to induce mild short-term memory loss next.
The second time he sees another of the same painting, he’s baffled. Why McGilded would have even one of those hanging up gives him pause, but to have a second is far worse.
It’s the third time he sees that Bokoblin’s half-lidded face that he stops in his tracks, glaring. Kazuma jerks backwards. “Have either of you seen this painting?” Ryunosuke questions, perturbed, when Kazuma asks what’s wrong.
It’s a long moment of silence while his two compatriots examine the painting in question. The house groans.
“Oh dear…” Ryutaro mumbles into a palm pressed to his face, countenance sour.
“Your Highness…” Kazuma grits out, strained. His scowl twitches in frustration, and his grip on Ryunosuke’s hand tightens. “Though I fail to see an instance where this would ever be appropriate, our current situation is beyond the worst time to indulge us in your perverse fantas—”
“Hold it!” Ryunosuke shrieks, the tips of his ears growing red. “That’s, that’s obviously not what I’m referring to!” He motions to the painting, pointing repeatedly, frantic. “We’ve passed this same painting three times—we’re going in circles!”
“With all due respect, Your Highness,” Ryutaro pushes, “but that can’t be correct. I’ve been monitoring the direction of the corridors and we haven’t backtracked.”
“It just”—Ryunosuke scrapes a palm across his forehead—“doesn’t make sense to me that McGilded has three identical paintings on his walls, especially not of that.” He scans the walls, the ceiling, the floor—anything distinct to act as a guidepost.
Kazuma notices the flicker of flint sailing through the air before he does, jumping out in front of the both of them and blocking the arrows with a quick flourish of his sword. They clatter to the floor, fletching crimson and black. An echo of laughter fills the hall before the blast of smoke appears in the air. Kazuma reacts before the Yiga even appears; his brilliant blade slices at the Yiga archer’s torso and sends them retreating immediately.
Something rolls under Ryunosuke’s feet—faint, almost imperceptible if he wasn’t standing completely still. Like the soft sway of a boat on calm waters. When he turns around, he’s facing a wall. Eyes wide, he backs up, scouring the corridor for an orientation point. He calls out for Kazuma, for Ryutaro, in a panic, but there’s no response. He spins around; the dead end feeds perpendicular into another section of hallway.
A laugh directly behind him, sandwiched between him and the wall. Then another somewhere down that long stretch of corridor in front of him. Ryunosuke’s breath hitches in his throat.
He’s reminded of the words from the woman from earlier, with her inflection of antiquity: run. The singe of brimstone barely hits his nose before he’s dashing towards that intersection, ducking out of the way of the spray of arrows.
The footsteps are light, but they patter against the rugs just enough for Ryunosuke to perceive their relative distance: there’s a Yiga member a short few paces following him, and another running faster down the corridor to the left. At this rate, the Yiga in front will cut him off before he gets the chance to make it to the intersection. He picks up the pace.
It’s a foolish plan that pops into his brain and he has half the mind to discount the idea entirely, but with no weapon and no protection, it’s the best chance he has. He curses himself for not being able to pick up Kazuma’s archery training faster. As he runs, he focuses on listening—paying attention to the minute changes in rhythm and stride—and runs the calculations in his head.
The slip of interconnecting corridor is before him. The Yiga coming from his left does what he predicted: sliding on their heels to halt their momentum in order to trap Ryunosuke between both of them. But they’re all much closer than they expected and running much too fast. Ryunosuke screws his eyes shut and takes the leap of faith—an unceremonious lunge at an angle away from the Yiga before him. He tumbles hard to the floor, but hears the high-pitched yelp and the sound of two bodies slamming into each other.
When he regains his bearings, the two Yigas are entwined in an unconscious heap. A Yiga bow of wood and metal spikes lays at their feet, next to a couple stray arrows. Ryunosuke snatches them up and flees; it’s better than nothing.
Left, something in him pulls. It’s not a voice, nor mere intuition, but something deeper—more innate. An internal North Star, leading him towards where Kazuma is. It’s a new sensation, whatever it is. The Triforce on his hand flickers dimly. After the interior shuffle of the accursed house, he can feel that there’s new distance between him and Kazuma, but he’s still close enough to reach in a couple minutes. That time will be shaved; he can sense him approaching. He picks up the pace—he’ll meet him halfway.
The line of candles along the walls become sparse and inconsistent, drawing long shadows sweeping across the hall. The creak of the floorboards below and the groan of the house’s frame are raucous, prominent. He hears, in the distance, a shriek and the clang of metal; closer, the scurry of light footfalls approaching.
He ducks into a nearby room. He slides behind a lounge chair and nocks an arrow to his bow. Arrow trained at the door, he holds his breath.
The stark white of a mask enters through the doorway and he looses the arrow. It plunges off the mark, deep into the doorframe—splinters flying into the air amongst the reverberating thwock sound filling the air. But it’s enough to startle the Yiga for a few precious seconds. Distraction is a welcomed thing.
Heart pounding, Ryunosuke shifts back behind the chair to reload. He goes to nock another arrow, but his hands are shaky—fingers sweaty—and the arrow slips and rolls across the floor. The Yiga’s shadow grows larger.
He recognizes the whistling noise of a windup along air and drops prone to the floor. The blade is so much faster than he expects; its sharpened tip barely swipes across his cheek. He feels a small dribble of warmth trickle down his face. With wide eyes, he cranes his neck and watches a sickle sink into the upholstery above him. There’s resistance there when the Yiga attempts to yank out that crescent moon of steel—a red limb, exposed.
His eyes dart about wildly. Kazuma’s coming closer, but he’s being delayed—encounters with Yiga members along the way, he assumes; he won’t be there in time. The room is sparse, with little to act as cover or to use as improvised weapons. He was blessed with luck earlier that the two Yiga could be utilized to his advantage, but that luck has run dry. It’s just him and this Yiga member and their giant, curved blade between them.
Ryunosuke sucks in a sharp breath and does the first thing his mind thinks of: he plunges the spiked portion of the bow as deep as he can into the Yiga’s arm. The Yiga rears back with a roar of pain, relinquishing their grip on the weapon.
Ryunosuke’s trembling fingers paw at the hilt of the sickle, but it’s too slick with sweat, driven too deep into the chair’s backing to wrest free in time. He relents and backpedals across the hardwood like an Ironshell Crab when he hears the bow get thrown to the ground, wood snapping under the force. A sickly ochre of candlelight reflects off the surface of a kunai knife as the Yiga saunters forward; their facial expression is hidden, but their tensed body language and the pitter of blood on the floor below them do little to mask their frustration, their eagerness to eliminate the mark that wounded them.
Ryunosuke’s back bumps into the wall. Air dying in his throat. A roar of blood in his ears. He can’t tell if he vocalizes it or it’s all in his head, but he cries out to the Goddess Hylia, pleading for her to hear his call and respond in the same way he did for her earlier—a little reciprocation seems long past due, after all. His only hope: he dredges his determination up from deep inside and pushes out a hand into the air.
Blinding light, they all said. Holy magic so intense it can instantly vanquish evil and level threats with a single flick of the wrist.
But there is nothing there—just a frightened prince dumbly holding a hand out in front of himself. Instead: a futile attempt to signal stop, to beg a nihilist assassin to have a sudden change of heart.
He can’t look. He’d rather bury his face in his shoulder and pray the end comes quickly than have to watch the knife plunge into his body. Thoughts swirl in his mind a mile a minute, eddying rapidly like slurry washed down a drain—all the things he regrets not being able to do, of the hundreds of ways he’s disappointed his kingdom in life and the thousands of ways he’ll damn them after his death.
He thinks of dango, of sweet potatoes. Of the warm sun on his skin on a lazy afternoon and the cool breeze to balance it out. Of that small Guardian, still not yet functional.
He thinks of Kazuma, forced to brunt even more of the burden he’ll be leaving behind. He had just found the perfect tongue twister to teach him, too, after so long trying to ignore their existence—one that was simple, but still fun to say. For someone so accomplished, his utter inability to talk fast always makes Ryunosuke laugh. Kazuma’s funny like that, he’s found.
A loud cracking noise, followed by a slam that rattles the walls, snaps him back to the present. A tall Sheikah man stands before him, leg raised impossibly straight. Ryunosuke follows his gaze to the Yiga slumped down on the ground to the side, unconscious. He lowers his leg with a deliberate slowness, as if insulted at having to lift it in the first place.
The man turns to face him. Panic thunders harder in his chest—a weary moon waning and waxing against an indecisive storm; if he somehow makes it out of this alive, the adrenaline spikes will surely kill him instead. The man stares down at him, face creased in an impenetrable, imposing glower. It’s dipped in animosity—something particularly inveterate—and his presence carries a distinct air of death, as deep-seated as the large x-shaped scar between his eyes.
If he’s part of the Yiga, he doesn’t abide by their penchant for full-body disguise. His face is uncovered, he’s draped in elegant navy blues and creams and gold embellishments. Less of an assassin, more of someone from nobility or another high rank, though he doesn’t recognize him. A large emblem peeks out from under his tall-collared cloak—a family crest or some sort, Ryunosuke surmises.
Yiga or not, it matters little. That look of disdain in his eyes seems clear: he wanted that Yiga out of the way so he could kill Ryunosuke himself. Kazuma is approaching closer, he can feel that, and he tries to call out, but it’s just a weak wheeze that escapes from his raw throat. The man reaches under his cape and, reflexively, Ryunosuke squeezes his eyes shut, shielding his face with his arms.
He hears chinking noises—of metal or glass, he can’t tell—followed by the slosh of liquid into a container. Venturing a glance, he opens an eye to see the man holding a chalice up to his lips, a look of deep contemplation upon his face as he stares at the incapacitated Yiga left in a crumple.
Does he usually drink before taking someone’s life?
The man’s gaze shifts back to Ryunosuke; a shiver runs down his spine. “Those terrified eyes…” His deep, gravelly voice startles him—dipped in such revulsion, it feels like it physically stings his ears. The man languidly swirls the chalice held in his palm. “To think, we all have to place our faith in someone that looks to be no more than a mere sacrificial lamb.” He pauses, looking at that deep red in his hand. It could be easily mistaken for blood at a glance. “…Along with that demon’s son, no less.”
Ryunosuke’s eyes widen, brows pinched together in confusion. …Is he talking about Kazuma?
The house groans.
A noise from the man—a mix between a scoff and a wry laugh, though his mouth is still frozen in that scowl. “Indeed, what a cruel twist of fate… You Hylians are an abstruse breed.” He makes a moue of disgust at that, nose wrinkling like smelling something particularly fetid. His grip on his chalice tightens. “You’ve the opportunity to do better than your brethren, yet. The world will be watching, Hylian.” He spits the word. “Here’s to your answer”—he holds the glass up towards Ryunosuke, a sardonic toast—“of which we all wait with baited breath.”
“S-Sorry?” Ryunosuke is finally able to eke out, though it’s hoarse. “I don’t—I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t follow—”
“Prince Ryunosuke!” Kazuma yells. He’s running with Ryutaro right behind him at the end of the hallway. The man in front of him turns towards the sound. Ryunosuke watches as shock crashes on Kazuma’s face like a lightning strike and something shifts in his expression: a stoking of rage, of flames ignited under a surge of electricity. “You—!” It’s choked, clawing.
The crash of broken glass makes Ryunosuke jump. Burgundy drips off the man’s fingers, yet it doesn’t faze him. The floor rumbles below. He takes one last look at Ryunosuke, surly. His voice is leveled, but with a twinge of annoyance: “…Pray forgive the discourtesy of making such a sudden departure.” He steps towards the Yiga.
“Stop!” Kazuma shouts. He’s broken out into a full sprint, face filled with fury. “Reaper!” A vehement growl of a sound.
The last thing Ryunosuke sees of the man is him hoisting the collapsed Yiga to his hip like a sack of flour before the wall sprouts up from the ground and the room shifts yet again. The room is plunged into shadow. Crates sit in the corners.
Kazuma slides back on his heels, coming to a stop right before Ryunosuke. His eyes are bulging, rabid, his jaw clenched so tight, it looks painful. A forest fire within a man, burning him alive. “He hurt you?!” he sputters with rage, frantic.
Ryunosuke’s heart sinks—a heavy stone falling inside his stomach. Something’s wrong. Not for the first time today. “N-No, he—”
Before Ryunosuke can finish, Kazuma slams into the wall that’s covered by wooden planks with his shoulder—the direction the man he called Reaper was last in. He bangs the backs of his forearms hard against the lumber, mouth twisted up in a ferocious snarl. It creaks feebly under the impact.
Ryutaro helps Ryunosuke to his feet, checking that he’s okay. Ryutaro presses a handkerchief to his cheek, swipes away the lingering blood there. Ryunosuke’s head spins. He can’t keep his eyes off Kazuma. Something tastes bitter in his mouth.
“Don’t think you can run!” Venom flies off Kazuma’s tongue. He slams the bottom of his left fist against the wall. “Reaper!” he screams. Fangs bared. Crazed. It’s the angriest Ryunosuke’s ever seen him. He strikes the wood. Again, again, again.
“S-Stop,” Ryunosuke murmurs out, able to find his voice again. The only thing Ryunosuke and Ryutaro can do is watch in horror. They both mutter soft pleas to stop, rooted to the floor.
Nothing cuts through. A guttural scream escapes from deep within Kazuma, frustrated. Again, again. A hammer of flesh—once protected by leather gloves, now only just barely. The wood snaps and splits apart under the impacts; blood flicks off his fist when he rears back again. It’s a futile endeavor: the man with the scar is already long gone, Ryunosuke knows this to be true. Again, again, again.
Ryunosuke’s body moves on its own. He plants his feet to the ground and, with both hands, grasps Kazuma’s wrist before he can swing again. Ryunosuke’s face is still stained with alarm, but it’s molded further by something much more deep-rooted: concern. The concern he has for Kazuma emboldens him with a determination like no other.
“Stop,” Ryunosuke repeats again, forcibly. He’s all furrowed brows and tense shoulders, mouth a grim line. “Please, Kazuma. That’s enough.” He presses harder against the forearm padding, hands trembling.
Kazuma stills. He looks dazed—his eyes a deep spiraling brown, churning. “But he—he’s one of them,” he grinds out. Lost in a smoky forest, looking for a landmark to orient himself. “He tried to kill you, he—”
Ryunosuke shakes his head. “He saved me,” he presses. His eyes flick down, towards where that Yiga was once standing just moments before. “...I believe so, anyway.”
Kazuma draws in a sharp breath, face suddenly grown lax. Oxygen cut off from a fire. “That doesn’t—I don’t understand.”
Ryunosuke slowly lowers Kazuma’s arm down with no resistance, flipping his palm up and cradling it within his own two hands. The motion is slow, careful, as if to not startle a skittish animal. The tension in Kazuma’s fist dissipates—fingers slowly unfurling like a flower in bloom. He gently sweeps at the blood staining the side of Kazuma’s hand with his thumb, featherlight in his touch. All this damage, done to himself. Ryunosuke aches and aches.
“It’s okay now,” Ryunosuke coos, a little more than a strained whisper. He carefully folds back the cloth of the forearm padding before peeling the glove off, as delicately as he can. Kazuma winces; Ryunosuke lightly squeezes back. His eyes lift, and Kazuma’s watching him with an expression he can’t begin to define—a press of the lips, then parted, brow wrinkled, a gaze so vast Ryunosuke worries he may become submerged in if he looks too long. An ineffable mix of ardency and perplexity.
Ryunosuke tears his eyes away when Ryutaro shifts, pulling out a small container from his pouch. Medicine of some sort—Ryunosuke smells the sharp sting of antiseptic as soon as he unscrews the top, though it’s offset by floral undertones. His heart still roars in his chest.
He releases his grasp, allowing Ryutaro to clean and dress Kazuma’s wounds. Mumbled questions inquiring if he’s okay, an equally muted response of yes. He works quietly and efficiently. The house is placid and unmoving.
“I’m afraid I must take my leave now,” Ryutaro says with a bow. They stand at the crossroads between West Castle Town proper and the castle’s West Bridge; that house is a mere blip on a hill.
“Thank you for all your assistance back there,” Kazuma replies with a nod. Ryunosuke concurs. Kazuma’s fingers tug at his tunic sleeve, arms crossed. Curt: “But, please ask Royal Advisor Susato why she was traipsing into a dangerous house alone.” Ryunosuke’s eyebrows lift.
Ryutaro tucks his chin to his chest, guilty. “Ah, you’ve noticed, have you?” Something dimly sparkles in the air in front of him and his face changes ever so slightly, features shifting and softening. A boy stranger no more—the Sheikah art of disguise. “I must apologize for the subterfuge,” Susato continues, “but I wasn’t expecting to run into you both here, especially not twice. How ever did you know?”
Kazuma lifts his pointer and middle fingers to his forehead. “Your throw technique—it was unmistakably a Susato Toss. And the salve you used on my hand is the same you’ve recently received from Lady Rei, isn’t that correct?”
A small smile, bashful and apologetic. “…Astute as ever.”
Ryunosuke blinks, disoriented. He knew Ryutaro looked familiar somehow, but for it to be Susato? “But, Lady Susato, what were you doing inside Mr. McGilded’s house?”
Her lips purse and her expression hardens. “Gina.” Her eyes wander past both of them, searching the browning fields. Melancholy softens her gaze. “I don’t know the full story—she refuses to say—but, as I understand it, Mr. McGilded has been taking advantage of her in some way. I arrived yesterday in order to try to find some information to assist her, but then I overheard her speaking to Iris last night. She said she knew someone that had something that could help Iris with her research and…” She wrings her hands together in front of her. “I was worried, so I followed her back to this house. I don’t know what it was she was referring to, however. She was holding something in a small bag when she fled from me…”
Ryunosuke’s chest tightens. Gina was there when McGilded made her demonstrate the Temporal Timepiece’s supposed capabilities. If he had manipulated her in a similar way that he did to him…
Kazuma exhales forcibly through his nose, eyes shut. “Yes, always valliant. Though, I suppose I can’t chastise you for it too much…” He sounds like a relenting parent. His voice grows low when he speaks again: “Whatever it may be, I do hope she’ll be able to escape from under McGilded’s thumb now, considering everything…” Ryunosuke’s fingers claw into his sleeve.
“Yes,” Susato agrees, solemn.
The somber air grows heavy, thick. The lighter blues of the night sky have since been replaced with deep cobalts, stars pricking pinpoints of light. The light chittering of Keese echo in the distance. They part ways not long after.
“I bid you a good night,” Kazuma says, fist over chest with a bow. It’s an incongruous turn of phrase tonight of all nights—how could the night ever be good with the day it’s been?
They didn’t speak about it the entire walk back to Ryunosuke’s chambers. He had tried to broach the subject, but the words wouldn’t come. Water blocked behind a dam. It was just silence between them, tense.
Ryunosuke looks at Kazuma’s bandaged hand pressed flush to his hip. The shadows cast by the single candle in the room flit about—apparitions of the night. Just like that ever-changing house full of Yiga. Just like the malice dripping out of Calamity Stronghart’s incorporeal form. He ducks his head, squeezes his eyes closed. He sees shapes moving behind his eyelids. His heart pounds fast.
“Wait,” he croaks out. “C-Can you… Would it be possible for you to stay here tonight?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes how ridiculous it sounds. It’s only amplified by the way Kazuma’s mouth falls open, how his wide eyes reflect the low light. He scrambles, flinching back with his hands swatting the air in front of him, words spilling out like a tipped jar of sand: “S-Sorry! That, that was beyond inappropriate!” He hides his burning face under his arms. “It’s, it’s not as if you’d willingly inconvenience yourself by staying here instead of going home just because I’m afraid of sleeping alone, of course not!” He barks out a gruff laugh. “In, in fact it was just a bad joke, truly! Forget I said anything—good, good night!” He spins on his heel to face the wall.
“Yes,” Kazuma answers. “I…can stay, if you want.” His voice is subdued, hesitancy apparent in its tremor.
Ryunosuke looks over his shoulder. “Um, what?”
Kazuma runs a hand through his bangs and exhales. “I said, I wouldn’t be opposed to it. I-I understand, is all.” He shifts weight on his legs. “That vision—or whatever it was—was quite harrowing for me as well, you see.” Unusually flustered. They had both been acting on edge since exiting McGilded’s estate, but it still throws Ryunosuke off to see him this rattled, considering the brave face he often puts on.
Part of Ryunosuke wants to object, to push back and apologize again, rescinding the offer out of embarrassed guilt, but he bites down the impulse. He has a pretty good idea now that Kazuma wouldn’t lie out of mere propriety; if he truly was uncomfortable with the idea, he’d say so.
“Al-Alright,” Ryunosuke settles on, with a nod. His eyes swim. “I’m, I’m really sorry that you have to sleep on the floor like this…” He puts a hand to the back of his head. “I can check if there’s any big blankets in storage, or I can call one of the attendants to see about setting up a pallet of some sort or—”
“No need, Your Highness,” Kazuma replies with a quick wave of the hand.
Ryunosuke winces. Something in that pricks at him—a thorn stabbing at his side he can’t fully identify. He tries to cast it away, justifying it as the exhaustion of the day finally snowballing into irrational irritation. He just needs to sleep.
Kazuma pulls out a bedroll out of his impossibly small pack. No matter how many times he takes out something that’s much bigger than it, Ryunosuke can’t help but marvel. Kazuma unrolls the padded sack across the floor, and they’re off to readying themselves for bed. It’s a brief affair, as fatigue outweighs the need for routine hygiene. Ryunosuke shuts the curtains surrounding his bed and watches the blurred outline of Kazuma’s back disappear as he snuffs out the candle.
Ryunosuke’s tossing in bed one moment, and the next, he’s staring that wraith with the piercing blue eyes in the face. The memory in repetition—reliving that chase, that anachronistic voice telling him to run. “You have yet to find it,” rattles around his brain, discordant against the screech of ticking clocks. He tries to run faster this time, but his legs don’t heed his commands. The mire catches and swallows him—
“Prince Ryunosuke,” Kazuma’s hushed voice rouses him from being submerged.
Ryunosuke’s eyes fly open. Kazuma’s sitting on the edge of his bed, his hand on his shoulder. It’s difficult to see in the dark, especially in the cloak of the canopy curtains, but he thinks he can just make out the concern etched in his features. Only then does he realize that he’s clutching Kazuma’s outstretched arm in a death grip—how long has he been holding onto him like that for? Sweat sticks to his skin. His lungs heave.
He immediately releases his hold on Kazuma’s arm, and Kazuma’s hand slips off his shoulder. “I’m s-sorry,” Ryunosuke wheezes out hastily, the air never quite filling his lungs completely. He scrubs his eyes with his sleeve. “I woke you, didn’t I?” He sits up, but his weight buckles under him. He has to lean back on his elbow. His head spins and spins.
A huff. “Always apologizing…” Kazuma mutters under his breath. “No, I couldn’t fall asleep.” A pause, then, gently: “You were crying out in your sleep.” A door cracked open to address it, an implicit invitation.
Ryunosuke mashes his lips together. “…I saw it all again—Calamity Stronghart. Its destruction.” Kazuma makes a troubled noise of acknowledgement. Ryunosuke pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them and rests his chin there. The bed creaks under his weight. “I heard her there, too… The Goddess Hylia. I didn’t see her, but I know it was her talking to me. For certain this time.”
The bed shifts; Kazuma leans forward. “Really? What did she say?”
“She told me to run when Calamity Stronghart attacked.” He exhales, shaky. “She said that I hadn’t found something, but I don’t—” He groans, scraping a hand across his slick forehead. Kazuma hums in thought. Ryunosuke watches him sitting there with tired eyes—a dark shape much more comforting than any other he’s encountered that day. “…You were there too, weren’t you? What happened?” The words come out soft—a whisper amongst the quietude of the chamber.
Kazuma moves: arms wrapped around himself, head lowering. He’s slow to answer, tentative. “I was looking for you and then…a person in a mask grabbed hold of my leg and dragged me underground.” A rustle of fabric. “I saw Calamity Stronghart right before. And that was it… Dread and then…nothing.”
A shiver shoots up Ryunosuke’s spine. He squishes his cheek into his arm and closes his eyes. The silence that descends and lingers is heavy, but not encumbering—a thick, warm blanket of connection, no matter how grim the design stitched on it. Ryunosuke is grateful for it, at the very least.
“I’ll tell you what,” Kazuma says after a while. He lifts himself off the bed, the weight redistributing behind him. “How about…I move my bedroll closer and you can take ahold of my hand. It helps with the nightmares—having someone else there and all.”
“Sorry?” The skepticism in Ryunosuke’s voice is palpable.
A small laugh from Kazuma. “It’s the truth. Generations of parents in Hateno Village can attest to it.” He pulls the curtain back on the side of the bed. “If you’re too uncomfortable, you can always say no, of course. But as things are, I doubt either of us will be getting any sleep tonight—why not at least make an attempt?”
Murky moonlight filters through the windows, spilling across the contours of Kazuma’s face. Ryunosuke traces the weary droop of his features, the lines of exhaustion already beginning to burrow hollows under his eyes. Not rejecting things before giving it a chance, Kazuma had said before.
“Alright,” Ryunosuke says as he tries to suppress a yawn. “I believe you. No harm in trying, I suppose.”
Kazuma gives him a small nod before dragging his bedroll next to the side of the bed. He’s still wearing that silly red headband of his, even at night—the ties fluttering behind him, catching moonlight like ripples on a lake. Ryunosuke dangles his left arm over the edge; Kazuma props up his right arm with a pillow to hold onto his hand.
It’s a bit awkward at first for Ryunosuke, but he begins to acclimate to the slight pressure, to the warmth wrapped around his fingers. Kazuma was right: it feels more comforting with that weight anchoring him to the present—much harder to slip away into oblivion if you’re moored to a post.
“I’m sorry,” Kazuma mumbles then, sound muffled into his pillow.
Ryunosuke’s nose scrunches up. “For what?”
A long sigh. “That Yiga posted outside the room…I should’ve recognized the sword yesterday and realized what was going on.” There’s a quiet sound—frustrated, choked. “I was careless and it almost had dire consequences. I—”
“You think—” Ryunosuke scoffs out a bitter laugh. “No, I should be the one apologizing, not you,” he mutters into the mattress. He curls up into himself. “I’m the whole reason we even got into this mess in the first place…” His voice grows tight, throat constricting it on itself. “I, I fell right into his trap like an utter fool and inadvertently helped—I don’t know, wake? Empower?—the very Calamity I’ve dedicated my whole life to trying to stop!” Tears prick at the corner of his eyes. “All of this is my fault, not yours.”
Kazuma lightly squeezes Ryunosuke’s trembling hand. “I don’t…” he begins, voice subdued, “I don’t think it’s fair to blame yourself for McGilded taking advantage of you. You were just following what you believed to be true at the time and he used you, nothing more.”
“But, but that’s the issue. I don’t know if I was following what I believed in—not fully, anyway. Despite everything I was seeing, I still had that doubt in the back of my mind about it all.” Ryunosuke pinches his eyes closed tight. The words slip out of his mouth in a quiet murmur: “I just—I think I wanted so badly to believe what he was saying and what he showed me, that it clouded my judgment and I went against my instincts. Can you truly say it isn’t my fault?”
A staid silence hangs between them. “The fact of the matter is,” Kazuma says after a long moment’s passed, “he targeted you on purpose and betrayed your trust. I don’t think you hold all the blame here. But, now that we know what we’re up against, we’ll both have to be more vigilant from now on.”
“Yes, I suppose so…” Ryunosuke scrubs his face with his sleeve. The wound still stings, but it’s soothed just enough to be tolerable for the time being.
“Furthermore,” Kazuma says, “we don’t know exactly what happened with the Temporal Timepiece. All that we saw—it could be a premonition that can be changed, or it could very well be an abstract dream with no real logic behind it.” A disgruntled sigh. “What I’m trying to get at is that we don’t have enough information to make a judgment right now. Evidence is key before we start jumping to conclusions, Your Highness.”
There it is again: that irritating feeling. The words sound grating to his ears—a nettling little thing he feels an urge to swat down and eliminate. A low frequency always buzzing in the background, quiet enough to overlook in a moment, but too loud to ever fully ignore. Right now, after everything that’s happened, it’s unbearable.
“Ryunosuke,” he enunciates, emphatic. It’s more forceful than he intended.
Silence. Then: “...Pardon?”
“We’re, we’re friends, correct?” Ryunosuke swallows. The nervousness catches up with him much too late. “I-I’d like to be addressed by my first name only, without the titles. Just… Ryunosuke.”
A pause. “Alright, then,” Kazuma answers. “As you wish, Ryunosuke.”
And, all at once, it feels like the rush of warm wind from atop rolling hills, sun-kissed and lungs filled with the scents of honey-sweet florals—who knew the absence of a couple words could make so much of a difference, could feel so freeing? He feels like he can finally breathe.
The bedding rustles from Kazuma’s bedroll. “Then, I’d ask that you call me just by my first name, as well,” Kazuma continues. “I don’t care much for all the formalities.”
A tired smile pulls at the corner of Ryunosuke’s lips. “Of course…Kazuma.” He hears a quick exhale of a laugh below him in response. Then, quiet.
It’s a soft lull from Kazuma a bit later: “…We’ll figure it out.” Both exhaustion and resolve at the edges.
Ryunosuke hums a low agreement. He hopes he’s right. His eyes slip shut and the blackness before him seems that much less daunting.
The Triforce markings on their hands flicker, ever so faintly—hope piercing the veil of the dark.