Resolve of the Wild

by CowboyHatImogen

Chapter 10: Breakthroughs

Ryunosuke’s Journal

It’s like a Goron sitting with all their weight on my back—the guilt. I can’t keep replaying it all in my head, over and over until all that’s left is a rancid, festering morass.

I trusted him and fell for his lies… How could I ever have let that happen?

No matter how you twist it, the same conclusion remains, as stark as a bloodstain on silk: I helped that man aid Calamity Stronghart.

How could I have been such a fool to How many people have I endangered after What miserable excuse for a prince would let this happen?

The arrow strikes the outer rings of the target with authority.

Kazuma nods to himself with a smirk across his face, seemingly pleased. “It’s a definite improvement. You’re coming along nicely, Ryunosuke.”

Ryunosuke lowers the bow with a deep exhale. He concurs: though he hasn’t gotten much better in terms of accuracy, at least all his arrows reliably hit somewhere on the target now. And he can shoot a few rounds before exhaustion starts to set in. Even the string only grazes his nose two out of three times now instead of each shot. It’s about building consistency, he reminds himself. Kazuma had said accuracy will improve with time.

Kazuma passes him a waterskin and a towel. “You haven’t heard anything since?” Kazuma asks, staring down the length of the range between them and the target. Eyes unfocused, glassy. “From the Goddess Hylia, I mean.”

Ryunosuke stomach drops. He swipes at the sweat on his cheek before sitting on one of the flat rocks. “No, nothing,” he mumbles. “She thinks I’m lacking something, but I…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I wish she would’ve been kind enough to give some semblance of a hint about what that means. How am I supposed to find whatever it is without any direction?”

Kazuma taps his heel to his other foot. “I suppose that’s the gods for you…”

Ryunosuke’s shoulders slouch, expression falling with them. Muttering: “Wisdom… Wisdumb seems much more fitting.” The moment the words leave his lips, he’s already cringing.

Kazuma leans back, palms resting on Karuma. An eyebrow raises. “Perhaps what you’re lacking is a good sense of humor, then. That one was horrible and beyond lazy, even for you.”

A towel is lackadaisically flung through the air towards Kazuma, but he catches it effortlessly before it falls to the ground.

“I guess so…” Ryunosuke grumbles, despondent. He takes a big gulp of water before folding over himself, arms wrapping around his legs.

Something buttery wafts in the air when Kazuma holds out a package of some sort bundled in patterned cloth. He’s hesitant—blinking up at Kazuma with confused, owlish eyes. “What is it?”

“Plain Crepes,” Kazuma says. “My guardian’s daughter insisted I take some of the leftovers she made.” He nudges the package towards him again.

The prospect leaves both his mouth watering and his belly churning. “I, uh,” Ryunosuke fumbles out, gaze dropping to the dirt. “I appreciate it, but no thank you.”

Kazuma barks out a laugh. “Should I go to the press with this? ‘Bottomless Pit Prince Refuses Food: Once in a Lifetime Occurrence,’” he jeers, grin wide and fox-like.

Ryunosuke gives a quiet laugh—weak, lacking joviality. “Maybe the world’s ending after all…” He rests his cheek on his knee, takes a deep breath.

Kazuma’s smile drops as his arm falls limp to his side. Pinched brows and a tight frown when he puts the package away.

Kazuma’s sight goes far away again, contemplating. “I know you’ve said you were left with little information, but is there anything at all you remember from your mother that could prove useful regarding the powers?” He cups his chin with his finger and thumb.

“Well…” Ryunosuke’s head lifts slowly. His eyes dart to the ground, to the sky, to the nearby woods, as if the answers are hidden somewhere within those trees left damp with the morning’s snowmelt. “Ursavra said she had once described it to her as: you draw up your convictions from deep within you, steel your resolve, point with determination”—he thrusts out a finger dramatically in front of him—“and out pours light.” A pause. Then, meek: “…Or something like that.” He awkwardly lowers his arm.

Kazuma taps a finger against his jaw. “Very vague.” His eyes land on Ryunosuke again. “Well then, what is your resolve?” Ryunosuke stiffens. “When you attempt to draw upon the power, what’s going through your mind at that moment?”

Ryunosuke wilts. “Erm…” Eyes frantically searching those woods again. “About how much I need them to materialize.” He laughs a tight warble of a noise—something strained, without mirth. Voice high and frail, a mimicry of Elder Impa, he says, “I am the Goddess Hylia reborn. Goddess proxy—her mortal replacement.” His smile drops, along with the terrible impersonation. “My role is to use the sealing powers to contain Calamity Stronghart…so I think about how important it is that it happens.”

His lips flatten into a thin line. “I will be able to wield the sealing powers. I have to.”

Kazuma studies him. “…Perhaps that’s the wrong approach in some way, then. Something too external…” He shifts his weight on his leg. “Or maybe you’re merely psyching yourself out by putting so much pressure on it working right then and there. Like you’re getting tunnel vision and it’s interfering with your ability to act with clarity. It’s certainly not an unusual phenomenon to want something so badly that it actually ends up being a detriment.”

Kazuma’s hand drops and he moves to stuff the towel into a knapsack. “Anyway, that’s enough for today. Go retrieve the arrows, will you?”

Tunnel vision. Ryunosuke watches Kazuma begin packing and his lips purse. His mind wanders back to McGilded’s mansion—to Kazuma’s reaction to that man he called Reaper, to the lengths he went to apprehend him even if that meant wounding himself in the process.

Ryunosuke had been too afraid to broach the topic since. Not out of fear of Kazuma’s reaction, but it never quite seemed like the right time to address it. The anger from Kazuma was much more elevated than a faceless Yiga would garner. Something more personal. He knew who that man was.

Ryunosuke swallows down the lump that’s lodged itself in his throat. “Kazuma… Who is the Reaper?”

Kazuma stills. After a moment, a sigh, and he puts down the equipment he was holding. His face is shielded by his hair when he speaks. “The Reaper of the Yiga, Magistrate Barok van Zieks. Every case he takes up as a magistrate, no matter the verdict that gets passed, the accused always meets their demise.” Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide. “It is said that wherever he goes, the Yiga are always close to follow.” Kazuma grits his teeth, balls his hands into fists. “You see, he unilaterally determines culpability based on his own personal biases, and enacts his own will by employing the help of Yiga assassins.”

Ryunosuke shifts where he’s sitting. “And yet he’s still a magistrate? Surely, if he’s directing Yiga to”—he sucks in a breath, nervous—“to kill people, it’s unthinkable that he can still be allowed to practice in that role?”

“There’s no evidence,” Kazuma bites out.

“Sorry?”

“The problem is that the Castle Town Guard has launched investigations, but they have no evidence.” A heavy inhale, shoulders held rigid. “He’s infamous for his involvement with the Yiga, but unless there’s actual proof of him committing the act himself or evidence that implicates him in giving directives to the Yiga, there’s not much in terms of punishment that can be done.”

Ryunosuke tucks his chin to his chest. He pushes some pebbles around with the toe of his boot. Something in him feels heavy. “And you… Your sense of justice drove you to be that relentless when pursuing him…”

Kazuma doesn’t respond; he resumes stowing the remaining archery equipment away. The chilly breeze soughs through the clearing, jumbling Ryunosuke’s thoughts along with it.

“I just don’t understand though,” Ryunosuke says after a moment’s passed. He tips his head back, furrowing his brow. “He stopped that Yiga from attacking me. He seemed more interested in talking, honestly. If he’s part of the Yiga, then why would he prevent his own companion from attacking me?”

“Should we really be debating the intentions of a Yiga member, of all people?” Kazuma asks, giving him an unimpressed look. “I don’t know why he does the things that he does, and I’m not sure I care that much—frankly, I’m not quite all that interested in getting into that man’s head, at any rate.” Ryunosuke lets out a jittery laugh, hand to the back of his neck. “…Maybe it was an attempt to ingratiate himself to you, or something of that sort,” Kazuma continues, then shakes his head. “Either way, the man is dangerous. A single actorly performance of goodwill doesn’t negate that fact.”

The theory is sound, yet something doesn’t settle right in Ryunosuke’s mind—a puzzle piece with the correct shape, but the image drawn upon it is incorrect. If the Yiga made a deal with McGilded to bring him there with a clear path to end him, would such an elaborate act be that necessary?

He shakes his head of the thought. He’s not too keen on repeating the same errors in judgment again—of extending trust to people that give him uncertainty and getting burned by it. Past mistakes are made to grow from after all, aren’t they?

The way the sun hits the spindly branches of the trees reminds him of gold worn on fingers. He feels a stone sitting in his stomach.

An exasperated huff from Kazuma. The bag he has now finished packing drops to the floor with a loud thud. He shoots Ryunosuke an impatient deadpan before saying, “Are you going to get the arrows, or are you expecting me to do all the work once again?”

Ryunosuke shoots up, spine straight. “O-Oh, yes! Sorry!”

---

“Royal Highness Prince Ryunosuke Naruhodo!” Soseki’s bellow cuts through the bustle. Soseki’s standing on the threshold of his bookstore’s entrance, half in and half out, teeth bared with no bite. “There you are!”

Despite it all, Ryunosuke feels the pierce of fangs in those exposed canines. He sinks lower into himself. Too late to run. “H-Hello, Soseki…”

Ryunosuke’s eyes dart about. Hosonaga is nowhere to be seen—a small blessing at the very least, but still one negligible compared to the situation he’s found himself stuck in.

Both of Soseki’s hands lift, eyebrows and mustache twitching frantically. The shine in his eyes makes him look like he’s about to cry. “Please tell me, are you ignoring me? Twice now I’ve called out to you with the gift of sweet potatoes and you’ve disregarded my pleas! Twice!” He pumps his fists with an animated zeal, head jutting out like a giraffe reaching for leaves. “‘He merely didn’t hear,’ I said to myself, but then your face screws as if you’ve just eaten a lemon and you walk even faster away!”

Each word is punctuated with a full-body movement: “Devastated Dealer Deliverer of Dread!” He dramatically throws his head back with his arm covering his eyes. “What have I done wrong?!” he wails into the air.

Ryunosuke’s stomach works itself into a knot. “Y-You’ve done nothing wrong, Soseki. I just…” He can’t explain the situation to him. Even if he was able to, how could he ever find the words to describe the maelstrom that inundates his thoughts? Would it even make sense to anyone else if he did? “The thought of eating sweet potatoes has made me feel a bit nauseous lately, is all.” He grips his forearms behind his back, body held straight.

Soseki abruptly lowers his arm—theatrics doused with a bucket of cold water. “Oh.”

“W-Well, it’s not quite a sweet potato, but I’m glad to have squashed that little misunderstanding.” Ryunosuke forces out a laugh that grates in his ears. With a quick “G-Good day, Soseki,” he hurries away.

He ducks his head low as he navigates through the crowd, but when Kazuma enters his periphery, he’s examining him with an intense sort of scrutiny he can’t—or doesn’t want to—define.

---

It’s been difficult for Ryunosuke to concentrate lately.

This isn’t especially unusual—his attention and the thoughts in his mind often flitted about from one thing to another like a hummingbird whizzing between flowers—but ever since what transpired with McGilded, it’s been a particular challenge. Lingering, forever buzzing in the background no matter how much time there’s been to dissipate the initial shock and dread.

Palm pressed to his cheek, he glances sidelong at Kazuma, who is reading in a padded armchair he’s all but claimed as his own now that he’s not left posted outside of Ryunosuke’s chambers all day anymore—not that Ryunosuke minds: he’s never used that chair much anyway. Besides, he feels he owes him some personal sanctuaries of comfort in his room, with how often he’s been asking him to spend the night whenever that nightmare starts resurfacing again. (Five times since that first night, that nightmare recreation’s hold on Ryunosuke’s mind like water ebbing and flowing—receding for a while after Kazuma stays, only to surge back later with a fury. It never fails to surprise him that Kazuma still agrees to sleep on his floor—even sleeping in his wardrobe would probably be more comfortable.) Kazuma’s staring daggers down at those pages, brows drawn at such a ferocious angle, his forehead would surely be creased if not for the strip of flaming fabric obscuring it.

This also isn’t especially unusual. He’s always this way when something captures his attention—whether it’s in a good or a bad way, Ryunosuke can’t determine. He’s been reading for far too long without launching into an impassioned rant about it, however, so Ryunosuke deduces it must be the former.

He reads the book’s title on the spine—nothing he recognizes. Considering the types of novels Kazuma’s been insisting he read, it’s either a novel filled with dense war strategy and political intrigue, or dramatic romances that alter the very fabric of the world or something to that effect. One of the two. Maybe both at the same time. Frankly, either genre has been too uninteresting for Ryunosuke to really enjoy, though he’s appreciated the writing.

His eyes shift back down to the papers before him. There’s no question about the material he has been attempting to read: it’s of the bad variety. He’d start grumbling himself if he knew Kazuma wouldn’t admonish him for it.

Kazuma would be right to do it, of course—Ryunosuke’s future was sealed as soon as his father gave him the directive. He had told him when he arrived back from his expedition about McGilded and the vision and Calamity Stronghart and Goddess Hylia. King Naruhodo went as white as a Cucco and just as frantic: pacing around his study until speed-walking out to seek counsel, but not before making it clear, in no uncertain terms, that Ryunosuke was to prepare to leave to the springs once plans were ironed out. Non-negotiable.

Ryunosuke studies the map of Hebra and his eye twitches. To his astonishment and tentative relief, the king didn’t fully unload his anger on him verbally—he can’t help but wonder if finally hearing Goddess Hylia’s voice helped safeguard him from the worst of it—but the message was given loud and clear: a pilgrimage to multiple springs in the Tabantha Tundra during the dead of winter is punishment enough.

Purify yourself under the sacred waterfalls of Hebra, the king had ordered. It is imperative that you cleanse yourself of the maleficence that you have allowed to mar your soul.

(“I’m sorry,” Ryunosuke had apologized to Kazuma after speaking with his father. “You’re getting punished, too, by having to accompany me—”

“Say no more. I’m not entirely without fault in this whole matter, anyway. We’ll weather it together,” Kazuma had replied in that same courageously insouciant manner, as if anything was possible to achieve. “I said I would protect you before, didn’t I?”)

He adjusts in his seat and gets momentarily blinded—the sunlight filtering through the curtains reflecting against the exposed metal patch under his Daruma’s brilliant sapphire eye. He scrubs his eyes and absentmindedly picks at the flaking red paint.

Around the eye: silver metal. Insistence nags at him and he continues to tug at bits of vermillion, paint peeling easily under his fingers. Ribbons down its exposed body: an earthy brown, then raised ochre markings. Form familiar, but smaller—less squat.

“K-Kazuma?!” he squeaks, blindly slapping at Kazuma’s arm. His insides feel like they’re vibrating.

A loud snap of a book shutting. “What—what is it?!” Alarm in his words. If Ryunosuke’s eyes weren’t glued to the now-clearly-not-a-Daruma on his desk, he’d wager he’d see Kazuma one second away from leaping out of his chair, sword at the ready.

“Look!” Ryunosuke points at the prototypical Guardian sitting idly amidst an organized mess of papers and acquired trinkets.

There’s an audible thump when Kazuma slumps back in his chair, a stupefied sort of sound escaping from him. “You’re kidding…” He swats at Ryunosuke’s arm. “I told you that it wasn’t a Daruma!”

Ryunosuke pouts and crosses his arms tight in front of him. “It’s what my mother called it when she gave it to me!”

Kazuma groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The entire point of a Daruma is that it has two eyes you paint when you set and accomplish a goal.” He leans into Ryunosuke’s space, lip curled. “A single-gem-eyed Daruma makes no sense. Furthermore, it’s much too heavy.”

With a grumble and an eye roll, Ryunosuke shoves his face away.

---

The way the shining light reflecting off Iris’s goggles illuminates a gap-toothed, maniacal smile makes her look less like an eight-year-old girl and more of a mad scientist.

“Oh, this is simply marvelous!” Iris chirps. “We seem to be in luck because Darumy—”

“…Darumy?” Ryunosuke whispers, and Susato giggles behind her hand.

“—here has a lovely little present stashed inside his core!” She raises a finger to her temple and flicks a piece of her bangs. “That is to say: fuel, my dear fellows! Ancient Energy!”

A chorus of gasps from the three of them. Some mysterious concoction or something of the sort groans from deep within the lab.

Iris holds up a syringe filled with a vivid cerulean as she lifts her goggles up onto her silver rose hair. “We’ve only this little bit to work with, but! It gives us a beginning point to start experimenting with!” She nods vigorously, curled twintails bouncing behind her. “And thanks to the extra gears Ginny gave me, Darumy can be fixed! He’s missing some of his vital innards, after all. Ooh, and poor Eggy—”

“…Eggy?” Ryunosuke mutters, and Kazuma gives him a pitying look back.

“—can finally get some sustenance! How very wonderful!” Iris beams. She drags the first Guardian they found in the Passeri Greenbelt across the table. “You see, Eggy has all her mechanics still intact, but no fuel left in her core.”

“Oh, this is all so exciting, Iris!” Susato chimes, clasping both her hands up to the side of her face. “I should love to see them both in action once you’re finished!”

“Erm, Iris…?” Ryunosuke inquires once she begins distilling some of the fuel into small vials. His eyes sweep the dark, haphazard lab. “May I ask where Champion Sholmes is, by the way?”

“Oh Hurley?” Her tongue pokes out of her mouth as she pulls out a graduated cylinder and dumps some of the fluid into it.

Another bleating noise comes from further into the lab. Ryunosuke shivers.

“Hmm…” Iris continues. “Pestering the other researchers at the shrine at the Quarry, I would venture to guess!” She gathers a stopwatch and some other materials.

Ryunosuke blinks. “What do you mean ‘the shrine’?”

Iris places a marble on the scale and jots down the measurement on her pad of paper. “Susie, can you please explain for me?” She looks up for a split second with a cheery smile before ducking her head back down to focus on her notes.

“Oh, yes, of course!” Susato says, tucking a hand under her elbow and lifting a finger into the air. “She was explaining it to me before you both arrived: a group of quarry workers were mining and uncovered this large structure. Based on Iris’s description, this is what I’ve gleaned of its appearance. Though, of course, I’ve yet to see it with my own eyes, but she confirmed that it looks similar enough.” She pulls out her bookmarked book from her pouch and flips to a page with a rudimentary sketch of an odd-looking building of sorts—shape comparable to a bulb of garlic. “Curiously, there’s a pedestal outside of it nearly identical to those pedestals found inside the Divine Beasts, though they are lacking the indentation on its face.”

Kazuma puts a fist to his chin. “Any idea on what its purpose is for?”

“I’m afraid not, Kazzy,” Iris pipes up. Her fervent scribbling isn’t impeded when she speaks. “There’s not a single entrance into it and none of the regular miners’ tools could so much as get a dent into the thing!” She stops writing, then, as her eyebrows lift. “Ooh, maybe that means I can test out my new drill I invented! I can’t wait!” Iris clasps her hands together in front of her, bouncing in her chair.

“Haah…” Ryunosuke exhales. He always needs to remind himself just how dangerous the tiny girl can be. “That’s quite exciting for you, Iris, but why the name ‘shrine’?”

“May I?” Susato asks and Iris hums an agreement. “It’s quite too early to truly make educated guesses on its purpose, but considering the size of the structure, the interior must be fairly compact… Tentatively, we’re guessing these may be outposts to communicate with the Divine Beasts due to their sharing of similar pedestals.” She places a finger to her cheek, eyes searching the ceiling in contemplation. “A shrine seemed an apt enough name in the interim: you’d be praying to one of the Beasts in a way analogous to the goddess.”

There’s another groaning noise from behind—louder, this time. It causes Ryunosuke, Kazuma, and Susato all to look over their shoulder into the dim recesses of the lab.

“…Iris, what is making that Goddess awful noise?” Kazuma asks.

“Ah…” a dejected voice squawks out from the shadows. Glowing eyes as rich as sunsets cut through the darkness.

A yelp peals out of both Susato and Ryunosuke as they flinch out of their skin. Susato immediately spins towards the sound in front of Ryunosuke, arms raised and prepared for a brawl. Kazuma stands at the ready, hand wrapped tightly around Karuma’s hilt.

An all-too-recognizable blonde plumage flips right side up from his ceiling perch. Drooping feathers slink across the far side of the lab.

Susato’s hands fly to her gaping mouth. “Oh, Ch-Champion Sholmes! Hello!”

“You’ve finally deigned to acknowledge my—what you no doubt view as—worthless existence…” Sholmes mutters. “Pray, my dear fellows, don’t burden yourselves with feeling sorry for me! I will remain ostracized in the shadows in my very own lab the same as in the supposed sanctuary for scientific minds… Such is the way of this cruel existence…!”

“…Huh?” Ryunosuke slumps forward, teeth gritted. “Why didn’t you say anything when I asked where you were? Or say anything at all the entire time we’ve been here? No one knew you were even in the room to begin with!”

Sholmes’s wings grasp at the air like claws as he hunches forward, frustration in his features. “That’s precisely the issue! Am I that much of black mark on your acquaintance that my mere presence is nothing but a trifle?! Especially on such a momentous day of a breakthrough in research?!”

“S-Sorry…?” Ryunosuke mumbles and looks to Kazuma, who shrugs.

Susato leans forward, eyes fierce. “Of course not, Champion Sholmes! We are delighted to have you here!”

“Oh Hurley, there you are!” Iris chitters. “Would you mind taking a look at Eggy while I fix Darumy?”

Sholmes skitters over to the work table at once. “Of course, my dear girl!” Like a child getting permission to eat a cookie—his surly mood reversed in an instant.

Ryunosuke leans close to Susato. “Um, Lady Susato, do you have any idea why Champion Sholmes was…in such a fowl mood earlier?” he whispers behind his hand.

Susato frowns. “Oh, no, I’m not su—”

Iris peers over the top of Darumy. “Hurley was temporarily banned from the Ancient Tech Research Institute because he insisted on exploding a Guardian,” she explains in such a blasé way, it’s as if this was an ordinary occurrence. Ryunosuke is inclined to believe it’s not the first time something like this has happened.

“Iris, I have explained this,” Sholmes says, leaning forward with his wings held up. “After examining the inner machinery of the Guardians, a hypothesis most beguiling regarding the hardware’s heat dissipation capacities sprang to my mind that could not be ignored! Alas, our fine researcher friends at the Institute had a disagreement in opinion on how to proceed. As you know, thermal management is…”

Sholmes begins to launch into a long-winded explanation full of technical jargon that leaves Ryunosuke’s head spinning. After who knows how long, his vision goes fuzzy, the words a garbled slurry in his ears.

He’s brought to the present when Kazuma shakes him by the shoulders. “Wha… Huh?” Ryunosuke grumbles to Kazuma’s unamused face.

“...Hence why extensive testing of the efficiency of cooling systems is imperative!” Sholmes says emphatically, accentuated with a snap of feathered fingers. Susato is utterly enrapt, staring at him like he’s a star shooting across the horizon.

“Ah yes, of course,” Iris replies with a cheery, yet distracted drawl as she continues to fiddle with the mechanics of the Guardian.

There’s a light whirring noise, then it grows louder and louder. Sholmes is enveloped by a dull, blue light. Ryunosuke rubs his eyes, follows the source of the light down to Eggy—shades of amber surging through its veined outer design, blue the locus at its shining eye. A low grating noise emanates from the Guardian, off-kilter and decrepit—thousands of years of disuse trying to shed its rust.

“It seems, my dear Iris,” Sholmes says as he flicks a wingtip at his head feathers, the spotlight of lurid colors casting deep shadows on his face, “that you’ve won the bet after all.”

…He was betting with an eight year old?

Sholmes rests a wing on his hip and shifts about. “You were undoubtedly right that it uses an internal spark ignition for combustion.” He crumples forward, aggravation tinting his tone, when he continues, “Blasted! I was hoping for something a little more involved!”

“I knew it!” Iris clasps her hands up in front of her and beams, practically buzzing in her chair. “Looking at the design of the combustion mechanisms, it seemed like the only logical deduction to make!”

Sholmes nods. “Indeed, that’s quite so!” There’s something to his nonchalance that piques Ryunosuke’s attention: he seems less surprised and dejected than his previous comment would lead to expect. “Ah, I do wonder…” Sholmes places a finger to his forehead, closes his eyes.

Eggy continues to flash and ripple with colored lights on the table. The slow activation betrays the length of its disuse—it would be surprising to see it operational that day as it cycles through whatever programming resuscitation needs to take place. Ryunosuke, Kazuma, and Susato crowd around it.

“Just think,” Susato croons, “soon, we’ll be able to see exactly what the Guardians were like ten thousand years ago!” Even without the blue light reflecting in them, her eyes shine as bright as Eggy’s.

“Or, at least, what their prototypes were like, anyway,” Kazuma says.

Ryunosuke runs his fingers down the piping of orange with a grin. Even if the prototypes changed in more ways than just size when creating the other excavated Guardians, they’ll provide invaluable insight.

“But, oh phooey!” Iris’s words grow morose, disappointed. “There’s only so much Ancient Energy left…” Her mouth tugs into a deep frown, eyes downcast and cloudy. “None of the other Guardians had anything left over in their cores… Darumy had enough to power on Eggy and will allow us to run more tests, but after that, I fear…”

“But, my dear Iris!” Sholmes quickly interjects. Some time in the interim, he’s moved closer to the Guidance Stone and the Sheikah Slate sitting within its pedestal. “Have you already forgotten? Reflect back on that pool of blue tar we discovered near the Guidance Stones… The very same that our irascible researcher friends have done analysis of and determined a lack of toxicity, yet have been unable to establish the origin of?”

Iris’s eyes grow as wide as the cookies she offers alongside her tea. “You think…?!” She leaps towards her notebook, furiously flipping through the pages. “I did feel as though the fuel seemed awfully familiar!”

“Precisely!” Sholmes boasts, wings held aloft and chest puffed out. “In fact, I’d wager a chemical composition analysis comparison of the two fluids would yield identical results!”

Something begins humming. It’s plinky and carries a tension of sorts within its sound, like a taut rope increasingly fraying as it dangles a rock from above. Blue particles light up the Guidance Stone behind a posing Sholmes—a smattering of illumination like stars painting a sky, but with various glyphs cascading down its surface instead. They funnel into a now-glowing Sheikah eye at the stone’s lower crest, and a droplet of brilliant light seeps out. Both Susato and Kazuma cry out and lunge forward when they notice it: the teardrop suspended directly above the Sheikah Slate getting heavier and heavier, threatening to succumb to gravity.

It falls before they’re able to remove the Slate. The drop plunks onto the Sheikah Slate’s surface and splashes radiant light like spray from ocean waves crashing against rocks. Yet the substance is not liquid at all—it scintillates whisp-like across the air before fading out of visibility, and it’s soaked into the darker surface of the Slate itself instantaneously.

A loud chime emits from the Slate before its display slowly flickers on, growing a bright white. Ryunosuke runs around the table to join the others as they all crowd around the pedestal. The Slate’s just as sluggish as Eggy was to initialize at first, but its display soon changes: tinted a deep navy, a Sheikah eye fluttering awake overlayed above it.

The smell of burning imbues the lab; instead of ashen and smoky, it’s sweeter, like overbaked brown sugar cookies. Ryunosuke’s gaze follows the scent to a blue flame crackling underneath the Guidance Stone. He continues to stare at the peculiar flame, mumbling out, “Champion Sholmes, what did you…?”

“Ah, so you’ve noticed, have you, Your Highness?” The pride in Sholmes’s voice is unmistakable. “I figured there must be a modicum of overlap between the activation methods, so I merely lit some of the fuel. Fortunately for us that what came out of the stone wasn’t corrosive, no?” He throws his head back, wing to his head, as he guffaws. Ryunosuke’s expression droops.

“Now, out with it!” Sholmes says through gasps of laughs. “Won’t someone tell me what the blasted thing says already!” He shoves between Kazuma and Susato, pressing head feathers into Kazuma’s cheek. Kazuma swats them away.

“Well,” Susato replies, brow furrowed, “we don’t quite know… There are some symbols here, but nothing that can be read.” She pulls her book out from her pouch and pages through it. “It seems like Ancient Hyrulean, but it’s not so easy to translate. You can’t merely swap symbols for modern letters—you have to account for overall context and, of course, meanings changed over time…” Her eyes flick from book to Slate feverishly. She taps a finger to the center text. “This might be… ‘to view,’ perhaps? Or something of the sort.”

Chatter erupts from the group, them all talking at once.

“Maybe Elder Impa would know?” Ryunosuke asks.

“Grandmother is not that old, Your Highness,” Susato counters.

“That’s not what I—”

“Look here,” Kazuma says. “This little bar is filling in. Perhaps it’s still not fully ready.”

“Ooh, that’s a great catch, Kazzy!” Iris cheers.

“—I-I merely meant she might have more knowledge on resources to help translate!” Ryunosuke cries.

“Take care to not enrage her, Your Highness,” Sholmes gibes. “Her throwing technique is simply unmatched in skill!”

A hearty growl erupting from Ryunosuke’s stomach silences the commotion and leaves his cheeks aglow.

“It might be a good time for a break,” Kazuma says quickly.

It’s the perfect opportunity. Ryunosuke tries to scuttle away from captious gazes, but he’s intercepted by Iris. She has her hands locked behind her, rocking on her toes and heels. Her turquoise eyes are big and hopeful—they shine like Luminous Stones in the darkness of the lab.

“You’re about to go on your next pilgrimage soon, right?” she asks. He nods meekly. “I have every confidence that I’ll be able to get the Sheikah Slate to operational use by the time of your departure. I believe it’s a device meant to travel around, so…” She interlocks her hands in front of her chest and leans forward. “I’d like you to have it and collect as much field data as you can, so when we see each other again, I can examine the results, okay?”

Ryunosuke has to force himself to blink to get out of his stupor. “But, but Iris, you’ve only just activated it right now—you don’t need to rush into trying to get it to work in time…”

Her eyes sparkle—filled with a fiery determination. “I’ll get it done. So, promise me, you’ll come to collect it before you leave? Please, Prince Runo?”

Out of all the pressures he’s faced, the pleading eyes of a precocious eight-year-old girl with more genius than he could ever hope to possess is a contender for the most challenging. He swallows before he feels the insides of him breaking in concession. With a hand held to his heart, he bows. The warmest smile he can manage when he says, “Yes, of course, Iris. I promise. I’ll do my best.”

Iris’s eyes slip shut when a giant smile forms on her face. She hops up and down in delight. “Ooh, thank you, thank you!”

No matter what perils lie ahead on his travels, he vows that he won’t disappoint her.

---

When Ryunosuke and Kazuma ride out of Castle Town on their horses, the remaining vestiges of night are being chased away by emerging ceruleans and oranges and yellows. The streets are sparsely populated at this time of dawn, and for what seems to be the hundredth time since he was dragged out of bed, Ryunosuke complains that it’s much too early for anyone to be awake.

The cold is worse once they’re no longer protected by the shield of Castle Town’s walls obstructing the wind. The chill air tumbles through open fields unimpeded. Each puff of their breaths is like smoke out of chimneys. If only these could be the coldest temperatures they’ll face on their journey.

Ryunosuke cranes his neck to stare directly behind him. It’s an outlandish theory, he acknowledges, but he can’t shake the idea that if he never breaks sight of the castle, then maybe it’ll stay eternally unchanged that way in his vision. Preserved in amber by mere eye contact alone—no inky pools of malice or blackened clouds can materialize while under hawkish watch, surely.

At least no one can accuse him of turning his back on them all this way.

“Ryunosuke!” Kazuma’s voice barks out, and Ryunosuke is forced to pry his eyes away when his horse, Vanilla, abruptly jerks away from a collision, letting out an miffed neigh. Kazuma and his horse are stopped before him. “Are you listening to me?” There’s concern in his expression and irritation in his tone.

“Oh—um, yes,” Ryunosuke lies. His eyes continue to dart towards the castle.

Kazuma’s not swayed. Eyes are narrowed further. “What’s wrong? You’ve been acting off all week. If it’s about the getting to the stable in time, then—”

“I’m, I’m just nervous,” he ekes out. “About the pilgrimage and…”

“Calamity Stronghart,” Kazuma finishes in a low voice. Reading his mind as if it’s an open book, as he seems more and more predisposed to do as of late. He must take his guilty silence as an affirmation, because he continues after a moment, “Is your worry strong enough to defeat Calamity Stronghart?”

The question catches Ryunosuke so off guard, he can’t help but gape like a Mighty Carp. “Wh-What?”

Kazuma drums a finger at the reins, impatient. “Should Calamity Stronghart appear right now, will you worrying about it make any difference in the situation we’d be in?” A deepening scowl.

Ryunosuke exhales a thick, white cloud of breath in front of him. “Well, no, I guess not—”

“Then, there’s no point in dwelling on it.” Kazuma’s headband whips behind him when a sharp breeze rolls down the path. His voice grows softer: “Listen, Ryunosuke, we’ve gone through this. The Knights Counsel has had no reports of monster anomalies, there’s been no new abnormal weather phenomena lately… There’s simply been no evidence to suggest that anything’s been significantly altered at this time.”

Kazuma rips his gaze back towards the castle. “If anything, we’re in a better position than we were before,” he continues. “They’ve bolstered defenses across the kingdom and have altered training regimens to better be prepared for potential attacks.” His eyes land back on Ryunosuke, gentler despite the frown on his lips. “And you know better than I that the advancements with the energy for the Guardians is a huge step forward.”

Ryunosuke’s hand automatically shoots to where the Sheikah Slate sits on his hip and gives a feeble nod. “Yes…I suppose you’re right.”

“So!” Kazuma draws in a deep breath. He rightens his horse when he becomes antsy while idle, shifting about. “You can sit here worrying yourself ragged until you accidentally drive your horse off a cliff because you’re not paying attention to where you’re going…” A smirk from him. “Or we can try to get this roadblock out of the way as quickly as we can so you can get back to helping Champion Sholmes and Iris, yes?” He’s close enough to place a hand on Ryunosuke’s shoulder. He can feel the warmth, even through the thick layers of coats.

Ryunosuke swallows down the nervous lump that had lodged itself in his throat. “Yes, thank you, Kazuma.”

And with one final look at the pristine castle and the awakening town below it, he allows himself to look forward.

They’re only a bit past Salari Hill when the monotony of riding takes hold of Ryunosuke and, with a tap, the Sheikah Slate whirs to life in his hands. True to her word, Iris was able to not only make it work, but was able to change the language to modern Hyrulean; she never stops amazing him. Despite only using the Slate a few times now, the starting jingle stirs something warm in his chest—homey, in some inexplicable way.

He stares at the main screen that greets him: a navy grid with a snaking line of beige that extends longer and longer as time passes. When they stop, it stops its progress. When they turn a corner, the line follows the direction. Ryunosuke’s eyes grow wide at the connection.

“Kazuma, take a look at this!” he all but squeals and he flips the Slate around and presents it to Kazuma riding next to him. “I believe it’s tracking our movement! It’s some sort of map, surely, though I’m not sure how entirely accurate—Gah!” A change in terrain jolts Ryunosuke and the Slate jostles out of his hands, but he’s able to snatch it out of the air, clutching it tight to his chest as his heart races underneath its stone surface.

Kazuma lets out a booming laugh. “Perhaps Iris should’ve thought twice about entrusting you with the one-of-a-kind ancient artifact? How about we make a bet: do you break the thing before we reach Snowfield Stable or Talonto Temple?” He has an all-too-smug grin spread wide across his face at the thought, like a cat who’s swallowed a canary.

Ryunosuke shoots him a glare. “Haah… Very funny,” he drawls, cheeks growing hotter in indignation.

Kazuma continues to give him that dizzying grin. “Might I make another suggestion to not be distractedly looking at the Slate while riding?”

So, Ryunosuke draws Vanilla to a stop and he dismounts. He leads her beside him as he walks; Kazuma was right—it’s much easier to examine the contents within the Slate without having to worry about balancing and steering.

“I didn’t mean for you to get off,” Kazuma grumbles from above.

“I needed to stretch my legs,” Ryunosuke replies, lip curled and rosy nose pointed to the sky. Snark can be a two-player game, after all. “We’re getting close to Serenne Stable anyway, right?”

“Yes,” Kazuma says, and the next moment, he’s following Ryunosuke’s lead and taken to foot alongside him.

A tap, and the display on the Sheikah Slate has gone to a new screen. Three in total, Iris had told him: the ever-growing map, a collection of boxes that seemingly organize flora and fauna into a compendium of some sort, and a mysterious feature that acts as a mirror to what one can see in the outside world. Though they all are fascinating, it’s the last one that seizes Ryunosuke’s attention the most—it allows for the dynamic and instantaneous production of images, captured in perfect detail, all without the need for an artist to be present. “Camera,” it’s labeled across the top, and “Photograph Album” in the place where the images are then stored.

Ryunosuke snaps a picture of the trail ahead, then of the wisps of clouds above. “It’s incredible, isn’t it? With something like this, gone are the days of holding still for a painting, surely.” A relief—it always seemed like the very act of being told to not move would cast a spell on him to fidget uncontrollably.

He turns the Slate towards Kazuma. “The detail is astounding… It perfectly captures exactly how grumpy your face looks.” He points to the screen and hums. “See, it even picks up that deep wrinkle on your nose you always get when you’re bother—”

Kazuma throws a hand in front of the lens. “Keep taking photographs of me, Ryunosuke,” he growls, “and I’ll show you exactly how grumpy I can get. Perhaps after, we can get a good image of your face as you beg for mercy!” He raises Karuma.

“Ugh,” Ryunosuke groans, pulling the Slate away. Muttered through grit teeth: “Goddess, you don’t have to get so angry about it…” He makes a mental note to not let Kazuma see the numerous unflattering photos he took of him while testing the camera out earlier.

A tree still clinging to some of its leaves is his next subject—something much more agreeable than the surly knight walking beside him. He taps the plus sign on the side of the screen and the image instantly zooms in closer. Blue flickers for a brief second when he adjusts. He moves the Slate again; the blue smears across the view, as fleeting as a shooting star. It’s only when he notices a small orb of red—an apple hanging from its branches, even now in winter—and steadies his aim that a blue box frames it, somehow labeling the object with precision.

Ryunosuke nudges Kazuma to look, and when he takes the picture and it fills out an empty spot in the compendium, they share a look of wide-eyed wonderment. A new symbol pulses bright in the corner when he pulls up the entry for the apple: “Sheikah Sensor.”

Ryunosuke nearly drops the Slate when a reverberant pinging noise peals out of it.

A snerk from Kazuma. “It’s looking more and more to be before Snowfield Stable,” he says with a languid slowness, fist pressed to his chin in faux contemplation. “Perhaps we won’t even get to Serenne Stable…” Pretend innocence in his voice.

“Kazuma…” Ryunosuke whines, and when he goes to place the Slate over his head in an attempt to hide away, the sound speeds up—like a dog pulling at its leash towards food, insistent. Ryunosuke follows it, adjusting the direction of the Slate with each increased frequency of the beeps. The camera zooms and spots another apple in the tree opposite. Its deep red is camouflaged by the cluster of leaves surrounding it and hard to identify from the road they’re on, but it seems like the Sheikah eye on the Slate acts more than mere decoration—it can see anything, as if any obscurants are as transparent as glass.

“It’s a tracking mechanism…” Ryunosuke breathes out. The excitement there can’t be contained between his broad grin.

“Could be useful when finding supplies,” Kazuma says and Ryunosuke returns a nod.

An auspicious little thing, the Sheikah Slate has proven to be, even with most of its secrets still hidden underneath its vast technology. Ryunosuke captures every item he can get it to identify and more: his horse, one of the stable’s cats, a torch, Kazuma when he slipped on a patch of mud…

He can’t wait to show Iris all that he’s found already.

---

At the northern peak of Mount Drena sits a small, unassuming spring. Not as majestic in view as the other peaks around Hebra, nor nearly as tall, these mountains are seldom visited by adventurers or prayer seekers alike. The solitary small Goddess Statue erected at its pinnacle is worn and eroded—the enduring moss: a green veil draped over the effigy’s head. Snow dusts the higher elevation, blanketing the water and surrounding conifers in powdered white; it’s but a mere taste of the much more brutal snowfalls that await further up the Hebra mountains.

Despite the heavy winter layers, the cold burrows its way into the chinks of Ryunosuke’s wool armor, permeating through the limited gaps of exposed skin. He wraps his arms tight around himself, hunching against the shivers quaking through his body. It’s been quite some time since he visited this particular circuit of springs, and he curses himself for taking the more temperate sites for granted.

Kazuma hands him one of Champion Sholmes’s Spicy Elixirs. Ryunosuke purses his lips, staring at the perpetually-bubbling ruby liquid. He blinks at it, slow, as if gauging whether or not it’s a trap. “But, I’m not supp—”

“‘You’re not supposed to take any elixirs that will dull your senses,’” Kazuma interrupts with a half-lidded expression, tone saturated with mockery. “Say no more, Ryunosuke! Maybe that worked well for you all when you had a giant retinue escorting you around, but I’m no miracle worker. If there ends up being an emergency and I need to get you medical attention, I won’t be able to run like a Sheikah.” A tug of a frown. “Believe me, I’ve tried…”

It gets a snort from Ryunosuke.

Kazuma crosses his arms and closes his eyes, tilting his wrinkled nose up to the sky. “It’s already unconscionable that they force you to wear those thin robes in water while it’s actively snowing. I’m not going to stand around and watch you get hypothermia. No arguments.”

It’s not as though Ryunosuke has any; he always hates praying at the colder springs as it is. And he hates having to see doctors even more than that. “Right, thank you.” And he’s off to change.

When he’s finished, he’s greeted with a tent of respite against the snow: a tarp strung up in the trees to create a makeshift canopy above the altar. Something light floods within his chest and he can’t suppress the smile worming its way on his face. For the briefest of moments, the cold feels like nothing at all.

Ryunosuke rids the statue of loose debris and places the ceremonial incense holder and the lit stick upon the altar’s base. The lighting of the incense stick signals the official start of the Hebra Pilgrimage: the incense comprised of three different roots for the three pieces of the Triforce and four different herbs for the four giant Goddess Statues spread across Hyrule. Seven ingredients total—seven sacred sites that are visited.

A deep breath. The exhale: a wisp of warm mist across gray skies. He brings his hands up and slaps his cheeks so loud, the sound bounds down the hillside and sends birds flying from their snowy perches.

The jolt that shocks Ryunosuke’s body when he wades into the spring is enough to dispel any lingering vestiges of drowsiness left within him. He faces the smiling visage of the goddess, brings his intertwined hands up, and dips his head.

“O, divine Goddess Hylia, apotheosis of wisdom, holy sovereign of light and time—” He falters, words catching against his teeth. The Temporal Timepiece appears in his mind. Thoughts of McGilded and the association between Calamity Stronghart and the power of time. He squeezes his eyes tighter, hugs his clasped hands closer to his chest, shakes his head of the ruminations.

“I am Ryunosuke Naruhodo, the one who harbors your spirit. Once again, I humbly beseech you for your audience.” He shifts his stance. The elixir succeeds in keeping his core body temperature from dipping, but it can’t fully protect from the numbness that takes hold of his extremities. “But first, I offer my deepest gratitude. Thank you…for guiding me away from Calamity Stronghart. Without your aid, I—” Something itches inside him. “I don’t know what would’ve happened so, um, yes, thank you.”

Each word that comes out scores across his skin—claws digging against his flesh—and he can’t help but wonder if bringing up what happened again is a mistake. It seemed like a good idea at the time—to ingratiate himself into her good graces with a plea of genuine thanks; the gods love their flattery, after all. But, did he disappoint her? Embarrass her? Was trusting McGilded a display of a lack of wisdom, and evoking reminders of that fact an even more egregious one?

He finishes the remainder of his memorized prayers to silence—only the howl of the wind and the fire crackling behind him the sounds that permeate the stillness. When he emerges from the waters, Kazuma rushes over with a thick blanket.

“How are you feeling? Are you alright?” Kazuma insists. Worry in those pinched eyes—kindness there, too. It’s a peculiar feeling watching him fret over him at a spring like this; it seems he’s just as out of his depth navigating in this frigid climate as Ryunosuke is.

Kazuma wraps the blanket over his shoulders. When Ryunosuke goes to secure it around himself, his hand falls over Kazuma’s fingers—a nascence of warmth under his palm that quells the shiver of wind hitting soaked clothes and skin. Ryunosuke assuages his worry, thanks him with a smile that comes too easy in spite of the circumstances. Kazuma’s hands stay there on his shoulders as he ushers him towards the sanctuary of the fire to change.

It’s one prayer that gets answered, at least.

---

The terrain leading up to Snowfield Stable grows icy and treacherous. The snow is more representative of what the Tabantha Tundra is known for: heavy and unceasing, with biting winds that nip at long ears and toss hoods off heads with ease. The air is so thick with gray haze, it’s difficult to see more than a few feet ahead at all times.

The murkiness of the landscape seeps itself into Ryunosuke’s mind; his attention becomes wishy-washy, indecisive—thoughts lazily sloshing against one another like the slow-moving ice streams that snake through the stone. Snow flurries whip anxious in his stomach and he can’t loosen the tension in his muscles.

It shouldn’t bother him this much—it’s become familiar to receive no responses—but he held some hope that maybe she’d be willing to offer some acknowledgment now, some help, no matter how little. There was now proof she had the ability to speak to him if she so chose to. Was it true that she was withholding contact this whole time until he finds what she views is lacking in him?

It’s only the beginning of the pilgrimage—six sites left. She must be ashamed of him, broken whatever little trust he scraped up from the dregs when she presented herself to him.

The route ahead is bisected by rock formations. Whatever path that has been previously trudged has been long since covered—though, Ryunosuke figures this particular route isn’t heavily trafficked by traders at this point of the year. Indecision obscures his senses as much as the heavy fog: the left is a straighter shot, but the snow seems deeper; the right curves slower around the rock, yet seems like flatter footing.

He grips the reins tight between frozen fingers. Squinting, he turns his head and calls over the roar of the wind, “Kazuma, which way do you think we shou—”

Something skitters out from his right and he yelps, tugging at the reins as he recoils back. Vanilla jumps to the side, snorting in distress, and flings a spray of snow up when she bolts towards the left path. Ryunosuke holds on tight, yanking back. “Whoa!” he cries. He thinks he hears Kazuma yell out, but it’s a muddled mess in his ears—only whipping air and his heartbeat audible as his horse careens through the snowbank.

His mind goes blank, body frozen. He remembers training for this, but it’s static in his head. Unsure, unconfident in his memory. Circles to slow, he thinks, maybe. He tries to shorten the reins, pull one side to his hip, but the movement is apprehensive, her speed too fast already. “Whoa, girl, whoa! Stop!” he rasps out and his throat is stripped raw against the chill. Her head turns towards his pull, but her momentum continues to drive her forward, frenzied. Was that the wrong move to make?

He’s thrown forward, clutches her mane for dear life. Just stay on, he thinks—bailing is too dangerous here.

Time slurries into a nebulous soup: one moment, he’s in a blurring expanse of white; the next, he’s seeing muddy streaks of orange light in front of him, buzzes of music and people straining against the blood rushing in his ears; and then finally, the world’s spinning until everything’s gone dark and so very cold.

He’s hoisted out of the massive pile of snow he’s been chucked into. People in funny hats lift him to his feet and rush him inside the warm building, launching questions at him a mile a minute that don’t cohere in his mind. Jesters, they must be; he’s in some sort of dream, surely—the eccentric tent-building and odd hats attest to it. His head is still spinning when they sit him by the fire and drape a blanket over him. It smells like horses and strong spices.

After some time later, the local medic finishes up his examination—nothing damaged, except for his pride—when Kazuma comes bounding into the area. It’s a mortifying mess of Are you okays and I’m fines and You need to be more carefuls and Kazuma jabbing a finger in his face with each worried scolding that makes Ryunosuke want to cover his burning face under his blanket, until Kazuma finally relents with a wary sigh.

They’ve made it to Snowfield Stable, Kazuma tells him, and the hat people begin to make more sense. Vanilla was calmed and unharmed, but is still acting a bit skittish, and is currently being looked after by one of the stable’s workers. Ryunosuke sinks back into his chair with relief. It was beyond unusual for her to act that way.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Kazuma asks, motioning to the small untouched plate of Spicy Curry Rice. The stable workers had been kind enough to leave him some after he was attended to, encouraging him to eat to stave off the cold.

“N-No, I’m not all that hungry…” Ryunosuke’s stomach betrays him, letting out a ferocious growl as if on cue. Kazuma gives him a suspicious look, pitying almost. Ryunosuke’s eyes flick back towards the dancing flames of the fireplace. “I’m grateful for their generosity, of course, but…” He scrubs his arm. “Are you sure it’s safe staying here?”

There’s a staid pause before Kazuma pulls up a chair and sits beside him. “Yes, I believe so.” The embers pop so loud, it rings within Ryunosuke’s ears. “But, if you’re still cautious,” Kazuma continues, voice dropped gentle, without judgment, “I have supplies in my bag I can use with the cooking pots outside. And I can check us into a double room, if you’d prefer. Safer that way.” Ryunosuke nods lethargically.

“Alright then,” Kazuma says as he stands. “I’ll get it all settled.”

“Thank you,” Ryunosuke murmurs. “Um, Kazuma? I’m going to go check on Vanilla.” Kazuma gives him a swift nod before leaving.

An ivory-coated mare, Vanilla, stands within the covered paddock. She’s outfitted in the finest of the royal gear: fine detailing on the leather saddle, deep royal navy and gold ornamentation along the bridle and harness. Harboring a gentle temperament and ever reliable, she has been with Ryunosuke for travel since the very beginning. Utterly foolproof, the Stable Master had called her, and thus, she was assigned to the prince.

He enters the enclosure and lingers at the fence. “Hello,” he greets in a low voice.

The Hylian stable hand brushing Vanilla turns around—long, ginger hair a splash of vibrant color against Vanilla’s white backdrop. She wears a soft smile on her freckled face. “Hello, Your Highness,” she says in a Tabanthan accent, vowels elongated and as light as a breeze. She bows her head. “You’re faring well, I hope, yah?” Her words are fast, faster than even Ryunosuke’s nervous stream.

He dips his chin, eyes darting along the ground. “Yes, thank you. Just a little shaken, is all…” He clears his throat, places a hand to the back of his neck. “How is she?”

“Not too bad—better now,” the woman says. “She’s a lovely gal, oh for sure.” She strokes Vanilla’s neck, then extends the brush out towards him. “Would you like to…?”

His heart catches in his throat. “Oh, um, no, that’s quite alright.” He shifts on his feet.

It’s minute, the change in her expression, but Ryunosuke sees the slight purse of her mouth, the sad squint of her eyes. “Can I ask you what happened?”

With a shaky sigh, Ryunosuke recounts everything. Despite how embarrassing it is, he senses little judgment from the woman.

“Y-You see,” Ryunosuke stammers, “she’s never acted this way before. She’s never just…taken off like that. And I froze and now…” He bites his lower lip. “We still have a long journey ahead of us and I’m worried that—I really can’t have something like this happening again, especially up in the mountains.” He toes at the dirt.

She hums gently, smoothing down Vanilla’s mane. “Your trust’s been beat up a bit then, yah? She got unusually spooked and bolted, and now you’re afraid of her… Which is why you’re scared to come closer, am I right?” She gasps, spinning around, hand splayed over her chest. “Oh, sorry, was that rude?”

He gives a nervous laugh, shaking his head. “N-No, you’re quite right. It was a spot-on deduction.”

Her shoulders slump when she visibly breathes out in relief. “Horses are extremely observant creatures, too—highly sensitive at that, dontcha know.” Vanilla lets out a deep sigh. “They look to you as their leader, and if you’re anxious or unsure or afraid, then they’ll pick up on those signals themselves. I mean, if the leader of the herd is telling them there’s danger around and they’re scared, why would the horse feel any different, yah?” She leans back on her heels. “Something like that happens, you just gotta be relaxed and confident… Though, easier said than done, I know.”

“Yes, truly,” Ryunosuke says with a knowing laugh. “Have you ever experienced something like that before?”

It’s a question that makes her shake so much with laughter, her stable hat bobbles like a paper boat on water. “Oh, yah, you betcha! Fallen off quite a few times when a horse bolted. And much worse.” Her eyes trace the ceiling, following a thread of memory there. “One time, I was training jumps right here at this stable with my horse, Epona. We approached the jump and I just got all in my head about it… Couldn’t decide whether to slow down or speed up and Epona just…stopped and I pitched forward, right over her shoulder.” She laughs again, like it’s a fond recollection instead of one of horror. “Thank Hylia the worst of it was a few bruises, but I sure was scared of getting back on her for a bit there. But, thankfully, trust can always be rebuilt—Epona and I are slick as sleet now.”

Ryunosuke’s eyes go wide. “That’s, that’s terrible…” He fiddles with his arm guard, mind churning. “And how were you able to do that?”

She regards Vanilla for a moment, eyes growing soft, before shifting her attention back to Ryunosuke. “I chose to believe that they’re good at heart, ya know?” A cold gust sweeps through the paddock; the fence groans alongside it. “Falls are gonna happen, spooks are gonna happen, but I still trust my instinct that most horses have a kind soul deep down—even the rowdy ones.” She chuckles. “Sometimes the falls are a sort of blessing in disguise, ‘cause it’s a way to learn. Now that you know what went wrong, you can try to do better next time so it doesn’t happen again. You simply have to try to relax and build back your confidence in yourself as a rider.”

Ryunosuke leans back against the fencing with an exhale. Yes, it’s all very sensible. A pile of mistakes heaped up recently, but the only way to clear the burden of them is to sweep them up and move forward.

She drums his fingers on the brush. “But horses are an awful lot like people in that way, ya know? We’ve seen a lot of people and a lot of horses at this stable.” She shakes her head, continuing, “There’s been a few times when guests have taken advantage of us and times when horses have acted out and it’s made me question whether it’s even worth doing all this.” She closes her eyes and throws her head back with a smile, serene. “But then I think about all the good I’d be missing—all the lovely horses I wouldn’t’ve gotten to see, all the people I wouldn’t’ve met and all the friends I wouldn’t’ve made, all the stories that wouldn’t’ve been exchanged, all the dances and fun I wouldn’t’ve had experienced—all because a few bad encounters tainted things, and realize that, no, I can’t imagine living in such a sad existence…” She sways back on her heels. “So, I have faith in myself that I can handle anything that comes at me. It’s really all that you can do, yah?”

When she looks back at him, her eyes grow wide—a deer caught in torch light. Her skin grows as pale as the snowy tundra. “Ope, excuse me! Did I blabber on too much there?” She pulls her feet in and bows stiffly. “Sorry!”

“No, no,” Ryunosuke insists, pushing off the fence and flailing his hands in front of him. “Thank you for that. It’s given me quite a lot to think about, truly.” A smile.

She extends the brush out again. “Come, a little bonding with your girl might be all you need.”

He stares at the brush and then at Vanilla—at her relaxed posture, head held low, and her ears and tail free of tension. It’s true, she’s always been gentle with him since he started riding her. He knows she’d do him no harm on purpose.

He remembers a time when he was younger, when he had fled from the castle in low spirits, hiding out in the Royal Stable. He had sat there outside her stall when it was quiet and no one was around, curled up into himself. And it was like she knew. He was brought back from that spiral he was stuck in with a warm nuzzle and teeth nibbling at the spikes of his hair, and it was all he needed in that moment to feel a little less alone.

He approaches and Vanilla’s ears perk up, head turning towards him. When he takes the brush from the stable hand, Vanilla steps forward to greet him. “Hello, girl,” he gently coos, and as if in response, she nickers back. He pets her neck, her shoulder—slow and soft. “I’m sorry for earlier. I hope you can forgive me.” Then, he brushes her coat.

Vanilla reaches out with her head and sniffs him, exhaling out a big sigh in his face that blows his short bangs back and he can’t stifle the laugh. He pulls out one of those perennial apples he had picked on the way there—a favorite food of hers, one that the grooms at the castle had previously scolded him for spoiling her too much with—and carefully splits it. She eats it readily, happy as ever, and it’s a weight lifted off his shoulders.

“Well,” the young woman says once Vanilla devours the entire apple, smile plastered on her face, “I’ll leave you both to it.” She tucks both her hands behind her back when she spins on her heels. “I’m glad you’ve honored us with your presence at our little stable, Your Highness.” Blue eyes flit up to the ceiling for a second, then land back on him. “We have very special guests performing tonight, I do hope you’ll join us all, yah?” There’s a giddiness barely contained in the words.

When she turns to leave, realization dawns on him. “Erm, wait, ‘scuze me?” She regards him with a hum, orange hair flicking wild like a horse’s tail when she looks over her shoulder. “I apologize, I don’t think I caught your name…?”

Another grin, toothy. “Malia, Your Highness,” she replies and then continues off, back to work yet again, he supposes. She hums a warbling tune as she goes, bright like green pastures and grass whistles. He watches Kazuma turn the corner where she’s heading, their greetings quiet from a distance.

“How are things?” Kazuma asks when he approaches.

A smile tugs at his lips. “Good,” Ryunosuke replies. And Vanilla presses her face into the back of his hair.

---

It’s the loud voices and the screech of tables and chairs scraping across wooden floors that alert them to file into the main stable area.

Inside, it’s not just the rush of warm air that makes Ryunosuke gasp out, but the brightly-clothed musicians with a variety of instruments settled upon a small stage at the back of the building. The stable owner has just finished her announcement and slinks out of the way. Malia and another one of the stable hands stand in the center of the cleared-out floor, Malia swaying back and forth on her heels expectantly. The rest of the guests claim tables that have been pushed back; Ryunosuke and Kazuma follow suit.

Ryunosuke squints at the other stable hand as he takes a seat. Tall and lean. Under the big stable hat: salt and pepper hair. On his face: circular glasses. “Do we know…?” he whispers to Kazuma. Ryunosuke suddenly smells sweet potatoes. “Is, is that Hosonaga from Soseki’s shop?!”

“No way…” Kazuma mutters, face screwed in disbelief. So, it’s not just Ryunosuke seeing things, then.

When the Sheikah with the mandolin begins tapping his foot and counting down, a hush descends on the crowd at once, like a candle’s flame being snuffed out. The lingering confusion suffuses with it; Ryunosuke shares an eager look with Kazuma.

A singular fiddle begins, slow and rich in its sound. The fiddler gently sways with each mellow tone—its vibrato a quiver that Ryunosuke can feel rattle deep in his bones. Then, comes the creeping twang of a mandolin blending behind it.

Malia turns to Hosonaga and they both sweep their hands to their opposite shoulders and dip into an exaggerated bow. When they stand back to full height, they’re shoulder to shoulder, bodies pointed towards opposite walls, but heads angled facing each other. They hook their arms together. The fiddle slows. A deep smile cast on both of their faces, buzzing with excitement.

Two plucks of the fiddle, then the music swells. Jubilant and bombastic—the deep patter of drums, the flitting squeal of a flute, the brassy horn mixing with the fiddle and mandolin. Unlike the stiff, reined in melodies at the castle’s balls, the music is loose and quick. Even the castle’s fast-paced music still has restraint built into it—it’s nothing at all like this. A tune consisting of instruments atypical to those used by the Royal Musicians and a syncopated rhythm, in Ryunosuke’s mind, would make for a cacophonous din, but, in spite of it all—or maybe exactly because of it—it works. He’s never heard anything quite like it.

Ryunosuke turns to Kazuma and mouths the inquiry, pointing at the band: Do you recognize this…? Kazuma shakes his head with a shrug.

Malia and Hosonaga march in a circle, then she extends her arm out, catches his forearm, Hosonaga spins her, and they’re both off. Ryunosuke watches with an enrapt attention, hands gripping his knees. If there’s a practiced figure or pattern to their movements, he can’t discern it; they seem to dance erratic and extempore—separating off to their own individual moves, then coming together again when they see fit.

The music slows, just a tad, and the two move closer. Two plucks of the fiddle, and Malia hops in a circle and poses when the horn blows, leaning back on one foot with arms splayed out in an L-shape. Two plucks of the fiddle, and Hosonaga shuffles his feet at the bellow of the horn—both together then spread apart angled one way, then repeated again in the opposite direction. Their laugh cuts through the stable, the joy infectious; Ryunosuke’s smile is unbridled and he can’t seem to pry his eyes off the scene for a second.

The melody slowly grows fuller once more. The two pull away, eyes scanning the crowd as they sway along the lilt. Hosonaga clasps the wings of a deep-maroon-plumaged Rito in the crowd and they smoothly spin into the open floor. Malia pulls a thoroughly bundled-up Hylian woman forward with her—the heavy-knit scarf concealing her face except for her panicked eyes that shoot towards the equally-swaddled group of two she was with, tropical Lurelin Village’s crest proudly sewn into the back of their thick, puffy coats. They bumble along with amusement, reservations thawing after only a few moments.

Onlookers clap to their own beat. The Lurelin woman’s friends whoop and holler as she spins. The Rito twirls as the flute sings aloud. Their movements are impossible to predict. Ryunosuke leans forward in his seat, music tugging at him as if caught in a lasso. His heel jitters to the rhythm, tapping along to the closest beat he can ascertain. It’s intoxicating, it’s wild, it’s free.

Oh, what a breath of fresh air!

Two fiddle plucks and Malia and Hosonaga do some little moves completely different than the first time, then two plucks again, and their partners reciprocate with their own poses. They all separate, turn their heads back to the crowd. People stomp their feet amidst the clapping.

Those on the floor scatter to grab someone else into the mix. Malia’s eyes land on Ryunosuke, her visage glowing. She hops over, tugs his hand from his knee, jerks her head motioning to move.

Swimming eyes and a sudden flush that burns his face. “Oh, no, I don’t—I don’t know the steps,” he blurts.

She merely shakes her head with an ever-widening grin, orange hair spilling loose over her shoulders. “There aren’t any steps! Come, yah?”

When she pulls him out of his seat, he shoots a look back at Kazuma with a nervous smile. Kazuma’s gone stiff, staring hawk-eyed and wooden. Though, in the slight-seconds Ryunosuke’s embarrassed expression captures his attention, the stone cracks, just slightly; he gives a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—some sort of unease and discomfort there—and he nods.

They file onto the floor ever expanding in size. Malia grabs ahold of his hands and pushes him slightly back, then pulls him forward. The touch is light, fleeting—onto the next journey improvisation takes them.

“Don’t think, just feel it,” she laughs out when Ryunosuke flounders about. She tugs his hand and they switch places, then he follows the kick-step action she does when she separates from him. It truly is nothing like the waltzes back at the castle, with their heavily-practiced, precise movements.

The seconds melt into each other in a whirl, until she leans in and says, “After the second fiddle sound, you do a move, alright? Watch me first,” over the music. The melody crawls, then the two plucks followed by the horn again: she tucks her fists under her arms and flaps like a Cucco. Utterly ridiculous, all of it. Ryunosuke lets out a wheeze so high-pitched, it could be mistaken for the flute.

Two plucks, and he does the first thing that comes to mind: he spins on his toes—despite all the freedom granted, his racing mind pulls from familiarity when pressured—throwing his arms out wide for the dizzying seconds it takes him to regain balance, tottering slightly at the landing.

When he turns his head, Malia is already speeding away, towards a Gerudo woman all too enthusiastic to follow. He watches the surrounding crowd thin as the remaining stable guests get pulled to the floor—Hylian, Rito, Sheikah, Gerudo, Zora, and Goron alike buzzing with joy and movement. Strangers, most of them, sharing a moment of pleasant vulnerability and connection. A transient melting pot simmering in the middle of frost-covered tundras.

His eyes fall on Kazuma still sitting at their table. Chin resting on his fist, he’s peering across the stable out the small windows. There’s tension resting in the pinch of his brow.

“Kazuma!” Ryunosuke exclaims out when he speeds over, breathless. “Come on, come on!” He extends a hand, jostles it with impatience.

Kazuma gives a dazed sort of look, eyebrows lifting and mouth parting ever so slightly. “I, I don’t—I’m not—” he stammers over the build of the drums. Dithering, inordinately sheepish. His headband hangs sluggish and low.

But, he makes the mistake of raising his hand to deflect and Ryunosuke seizes the opportunity, clutching his wrist with both his hands and tugging him forward. A gasp escapes Kazuma as he’s brought to his feet. Expecting much more resistance, Ryunosuke pulls with a force that’s too strong; Kazuma’s swept in an arc like a tethered, heavy ball revolves around a teetering pole. Ryunosuke digs in his heels, grips Kazuma’s wrist tighter.

A deep laugh, giddy and unbidden, peals out of Kazuma when Ryunosuke pulls his hand towards him, and Kazuma presses into him—staggering on tiptoes after not being able to stop before running into Ryunosuke, other hand steadied on Ryunosuke’s shoulder. Ryunosuke squeezes his hand before guiding them both to hop sideways in succession.

Kazuma’s foot lands awkwardly, pinning Ryunosuke’s under it, and Ryunosuke pitches diagonally. Kazuma’s able to steady him before he stumbles. “I told you I can’t dance well,” Kazuma exhales through a diffident grin when he rights Ryunosuke.

Ryunosuke remembers it clearly because of how surprisingly endearing it all was. Like a newborn fawn on ice, Kazuma had said the dance instructor at The Knight Academy had once described him, an utter lost cause. From that day forward, he had resolved to prove the instructor wrong, training his dance footwork along with his sword footwork and practicing with his guardian’s daughter nightly—to many stepped-on toes and collisions on his part. Ryunosuke had remarked that tongue twisters and dancing must be his Achilles’ heels—he has two feet, after all, even if they’re both left.

“I don’t th—it doesn’t matter,” Ryunosuke says with a breathy laugh, mirth floating light to the top.

All the instruments fall in step with each other now, grandiose and soaring, and the two of them flow with the cascading music with much less grace. Toes smashing and shoulders colliding and elbows bumping into other people just as wild as them—it’s a monstrous amalgamation of a waltz and inelegant body flailing that would make the Royal Dancing Master weep if he saw it. And despite it all—despite the minor crashes and the awkwardness and the voluntary embarrassment of the Prince of Hyrule being seen as anything less than the projection of royal perfection in public when that would so often come at the cost of punishment—Ryunosuke realizes it’s the most fun he’s had in months.

Ryunosuke unthreads their hands, takes hold of Kazuma’s wrists, and they spin in a wild circle, round and round—as unruly as a hoop trundled by an overly-excitable child. It’s when the colors around him muddle like streaks of paint raked across a canvas and his head grows woozy with vertigo that he staggers forward with a titter. Kazuma seems to fare better, attempting to support Ryunosuke’s weight while his own boisterous laugh rings out. Ryunosuke tips forward, knocking the side of his head with Kazuma’s hard enough to see stars.

“Ow!” is their chorus of cries. It’s a blurry sequence that follows: Kazuma’s arms wrapping around Ryunosuke’s waist to steady him; Ryunosuke clinging to Kazuma’s upper arms; Kazuma’s face burying into his shoulder; Ryunosuke’s heartbeat thudding loud enough in his ears, it drowns out the music. The subsequent laughter that racks through them both makes them shake with a fury—hysteric and raucous and as saccharine as Honeyed Fruits; if anyone else were to observe them, they’d no doubt think they’d both gone mad.

“You’re hopeless,” Kazuma breathes out, words muffled by Ryunosuke’s coat. A sunspot of heat pressed burning into his shoulder.

“H-Hey!” Ryunosuke manages out. “You’re the one”—he wheezes with the force of his laughter, pressing tight against his ribs and straining the muscles in his face—“who said that you can’t dance well!”

All Kazuma does is lift his head and give him that cat-like grin plastered under rosy cheeks. His headband floats high behind him.

They regain their bearings, restrain the snickering that threatens to tumble out once more. They glide across the stable in a jerky chassé, threading through the undulating crowd, and when they spin and Kazuma dips him low, in the dizzying interim under the orange cast of candlelight above, Ryunosuke has the muzzy thought that Kazuma’s not so bad at this at all.

Kazuma’s face is close. So close Ryunosuke can feel Kazuma’s breath ghost across his face, so close he can smell the lingering scents of firewood and the beef hotpot they shared earlier still clinging to his hair. Ryunosuke feels the warmth of Kazuma’s fingertips diffuse through the fabric of his gloves, feels the solid press of his hand on the small of his back, steadfast and dependable, and it’s like sunlight burning through fog when he registers that he trusts that Kazuma would never allow him to fall so long as he was there. There’s some dewy-eyed part of him, too, that wants to believe it extends much more far-reaching.

That familiar refrain of the fiddle pulls him out from whatever Lost Woods-like trance he fell into, when Kazuma raises him back up to his feet. He tugs his hand away from Kazuma’s grasp and—to the sound of the horn—he hops on one foot, side-to-side, then gets low, wiggling his body with arms outstretched, before attempting a dodgy pirouette.

This draws a barking laugh out of Kazuma, wheezing, “Wh-What was that?!”

Ryunosuke grins so wide it aches, too inebriated with excitement to care about how he looks. The lingering vestiges of fog in his mind dissipate in an instant, and he realizes with a comfortable acceptance that there isn’t another soul in the entire castle he trusts more to see him as he is right now. “Two dancers at the castle performed this!”

Two plucks of the fiddle once more, and Kazuma freezes. Ryunosuke gives him a reassuring nod in response. Tentatively, Kazuma begins tapping his feet, then faster, then faster—punctuating the end with a flourish of his arms. If there’s a bobble in his movement, Ryunosuke can’t identify it. He stands there, stunned, thinking, Where did he learn this…? It wasn’t something The Academy would teach, surely.

“My guardian…” Kazuma trails off, teeth grit and hand tugging at the collar of his coat. Ryunosuke can’t comprehend what he has to be embarrassed about.

“It’s, it’s truly quite impressive!” Ryunosuke blurts out.

They stand there, suspended in motion, gazes fixed in soft wonderment. The music changes tempo—slowing down—before ending on a trilling fermata. Applause erupts, as infectious as the excitable chatter dispersing between the stable walls. Only when the crowd begins to thin are they brought back to the present, and make their way back to their table.

Ryunosuke collapses back in the chair, head lolling back and sucking in gulps of breath. “Amazing, wasn’t it?” he purrs into the warm air—the insulation of the stable so effective at containing the heat, the bite of the snowy air outside would be more of a relief than an affliction.

“Yes,” comes Kazuma’s reply, tone tinged in something—something both airy yet all too dense at the same time.

Ryunosuke hums. He circles a pointer finger in the air, like a conductor. “In my honest opinion, I think you’re quite capable at dancing!” He fans his face.

“Hm… Is that so?” Kazuma asks in that same odd tone—distracted, almost, but that’s not all that’s there in those few words. Some heady sort of fondness dripping off as well, maybe, if Ryunosuke dares to hazard a guess.

Ryunosuke turns his head, only to find Kazuma leaning forward against the table, looking right at him. Two eyes: unwavering, something bright and alight in that deep brown—a keenness there that’s contradictorily not sharp at all, despite how the intensity threatens to cut right through him. Pupils blown wide, like a cat staring face to face with its favorite toy. All with the sharp grin to match. For all the times Ryunosuke’s been the target of his gaze, this one feels markedly different; he feels it course down his bones, electric. Kazuma’s face and ears are flushed pink as fiercely as Ryunosuke imagines his own to be.

Ryunosuke straightens in his seat. “Wh-What is it?” he squeaks out, throat suddenly constricting.

When Kazuma finally tears his eyes away, they slip shut with an easy laugh. “Oh, nothing.” He slides effortlessly to his feet. “I’ll go get us some water,” he says as he begins to walk away, tossing up a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it isn’t poisoned.”

“O-Oh…” Ryunosuke blinks. “Alright, thank you!”

He turns his palm over on his knee, stares at it like it’s foreign—wholly new. His fingertips tingle. He curls his fingers into a fist, tries to capture the warmth that persists there for a bit longer.

When he looks up, Malia is a few tables away, animatedly conversing with the women from Lurelin. His face still aches from earlier, but he can’t suppress the smile that creeps on his face at the sight—at how the other guests mingle with each other, as well.

He sinks lower into his chair and fully takes in the energized chatter and the warmth of merriment floating weightless in the air, as light as a balloon given to a child and imparting just as much bliss.

Maybe this is what he has been missing, what could steer him back on path and free him from indecision—this good.

Notes:

The stable section was definitely inspired by the Stable Trotters' Serenade from Tears of the Kingdom! For specific rhythm, I also referenced this song, which is more reflected in the actual stable song depicted in this chapter. Finally, the silly dance Ryunosuke does at the end that the castle performers performed is Kamaro's Dance from Majora's Mask.

Malia is a portmanteau of two iconic Zelda horse girls, Malon and Ilia.

If you've seen my past fics, I'm a bad-dancer Kazuma truther :') ...Though Ryunosuke doesn't seem to mind that much