Sunlight filled the shrine’s entryway, marking Link’s return to the surface of Mount Hylia. He had spent most of his ascent mentally mapping out arguments for why the old man should still hand over the paraglider despite his very obvious lack of the agreed-upon treasure. For a brief moment, however, he allowed himself to enjoy natural light again. Only now did he realize how draining the underground trial had been.

Once his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, Link took stock of his surroundings. The sun was setting, its gleam bright orange as it neared the reddish, flat-topped mountains to the west. It had taken him all afternoon to traverse the shrine, and a rumbling discontent from his stomach emphasized that length of time.

Link turned eagerly toward the campsite set a few paces away from the shrine, but no old man nor heavenly sight of slow-cooking food greeted him. The fire was doused and cold, though enough wood remained to kindle another. One haversack of supplies lay on the ground near the place he had last seen his mysterious companion.

Something fluttered under the corner of his supplies. Upon closer inspection, Link realized it was a piece of parchment. Removing it carefully lest the mountain wind snatch it away, Link read the message written upon it:

Link,

You have completed the trial of the shrine, as I knew you would. That is because I do know you, Link. I believe you are now ready to learn much of what you do not yet remember, including who you are. Meet me within the Temple of Time. I have left you enough supplies for the journey. Trust me when I say that the wait for the answers you seek will be worth it.

There was no name signed, but Link knew the words to be written by the old man. There was also no mention of treasure. Maybe he assumes I’ll have brought it with me, Link thought. He sincerely hoped not. The only thing he had obtained — the runes of the Sheikah Slate — were useful to him alone.

Wondering what answers would be worth another night’s wait, Link set about rekindling the fire and preparing a meal. He could only perform a rough imitation of the old man’s roasted boar from the previous night, but it was still enough to satisfy the hunger that gnawed at him after his journey through the shrine.

Link reflected as he ate, allowing the hot food and fire to combat the frigid breeze that eddied around the mountain. Perhaps the old man had only used treasure as an excuse for Link to enter the shrine? But if so, why? He had to have known the Sheikah Slate was the sole means to obtain entry. Then the shrine had enhanced the slate, giving it powers normally reserved for fairy tales or the imaginations of children.

What if the slate is the treasure, and its power is what he seeks?

This logic was alarming, and Link reached for the slate as if to ward off the thought. He took his hand away almost as soon as it arrived, however. Link could still visualize the old man’s face. Whether it was telling of those who died before Calamity Ganon’s onslaught or addressing him by name just before entering the shrine, he invited a trust that Link could not dismiss. True, he took his time divulging what Link wanted to know, but everything he had shared thus far had been timely and useful.

Continuing to wrestle with his own half-formed conclusions, Link eventually dozed off, with the soft crackle of the fire making the only noise atop Mount Hylia.

Link ran faster than he had ever run in his life. He had been running for so fast and so long that even the sword on his back, which had always felt a part of him, was digging painfully into his back. He could feel the long, angular end of the hilt jab into his shoulder blade again and again and again, rubbing raw the skin that could be seen through his torn and mud-spattered tunic. The rhythmic pain of the sword was matched by a similar fire searing his side, a stitch that jabbed as sharply as any blade.

Link did not care. They had to get away.

Rain poured from the heavens in an unceasing deluge as Link struggled to avoid trees, shrubs, and rocks in his headlong sprint through the forest. Pools of water and mud gathered to further punish him every time he failed to avoid an obstacle, but Link paid them no mind. Cleanliness and stealth were no longer options. They had to get away.

Link did not look back, but he felt his companion’s hand gripped firmly in his own. It was a smaller hand, smooth to the touch where mud did not cover it. He knew that if he loosened his iron grip, if he so much as let it slip, she would fall and likely not rise again. He could not let that happen.

Like foxes fleeing the hound, they delved blindly into the forest depths. Link inwardly thanked and cursed the rain. It gave them additional cover, but it did the same for their pursuers. Link knew the odds were greater that they would be discovered before evading discovery.

Movement to the right. Link did not wait. He swung his companion by the arm, flinging her behind the cover of a great chickaloo tree. He stood in front of it, hoping to draw the thing’s attention. His sword was drawn, its blade glowing blue in the darkness. Unsheathing it had been an unconscious act that took no more time or thought than a breath. He peered through the trees, willing his enemy to reveal itself.

A single eye flared red and blue. Its glow intensified. Link snarled at the thing, willing it to attack him so his charge could escape. Anything was worth that. Anything.

Blue light erupted from the eye, and Link had only a split second to meet it with his blade. The world erupted in blue fire.

The keese circled slowly above the object of its search, its single yellow eye confirming what its other senses told him. A man lay below. It registered enough warmth for the Keese to know it was sleeping. For a brief moment, its eye burned red. If it was here with a swarm of its fellows, it could kill the man and dine on its flesh in a matter of minutes. The Keese longed for the taste of fresh meat.

That, however, had not been its instructions. Remembering that returned the keese’s eye back to its natural, vivid yellow, interrupted only by the vertical pupil that ran down its center. Its bat-like wings fluttered silently to remain aloft. Indeed, the keese was like a bat, save for its single eye and propensity to feast on much more than fruit or insects.

It was cold hovering above the mountain top, especially without the keese’s fellows to buffer the night’s chill air. It had flown long and far to find the man because the Stalfos had told him to. The Keese did not like the Stalfos, but it was bound to obey it. The connection that bound creatures to the skeletal monster had been established by a power higher than either of them.

“You will find a young man on the plateau. Return to me when you do. You will tell me exactly where he is and where he is going. Then we will hunt him. Do this, and you will feed well.”

Those had been his instructions, spoken from mind to mind. The keese had briefly wondered why its brethren would not join the search. Unfortunately, the question crossed its mind while it was still connected to the Stalfos.

“Because, keese, I do not want the man to know we are seeking him. Not yet. And if you fail in this, if he sees you, he will kill you. If he does not, you will curse the fates that allowed you to escape when you return to me.”

There had been a pause after the Stalfos’s raspy voice faded from the keese’s mind. Then pain. Pain that made the keese squeal pathetically in the night. None of its brethren came, as it knew they would not. Turning on a bokoblin or even a moblin master was within the realm of possibility for a swarm of keese. Bokoblins and moblins needed flesh and blood to live. The Stalfos did not.

So the keese suffered its punishment, then flapped pathetically away with the Stalfos’s laughter ringing mockingly in its head. It was a long time before that sound faded.

Now, however, the bond was weakened by the great distance between them. The keese was hungry. It had not stopped to eat during its journey. Without its brethren, hunting was difficult given the keese’s diminutive size.

Here, however, was a sleeping man, its flesh and blood made warm from slumber.

If the Stalfos wants to kill the man, the keese thought suddenly, I could do it now. It would be pleased. I could eat.

Satisfied with this logic, the keese wheeled one last time directly over the man. Its fire was out. That was good. The man was beginning to stir, however. Better to make it quick. Several rapid bites to the neck with dual, needle-sharp fangs would be enough.

The keese folded its wings and dove.

“NOOOOOO!”

Link’s sword hand thrust forward, seeking the source of the deadly blue light that threatened to extinguish his life and that of his companion.

He was rewarded with the feeling of his blade striking true. His eyes snapped open, revealing the difference between dream and reality.

The blue-eyed threat was gone. Instead, fluttering in its death throes, a bat-like creature no bigger than his boot lay at Link’s feat. Its single eye, pierced by his sword, oozed purple liquid. A few more death throes, then it lay still.

He looked around, still struggling to separate what he had seen from what now lay before him. He had been dreaming. Dreaming of running. What had he been running from?

Link’s left hand reached behind him, but found no smaller hand nor wrist to seize. Someone had been with him in the dream. Someone important. A girl, he remembered suddenly. Who, though?

He shook his head, willing images of the dream to return, but few did. Link could not recall seeing the girl’s face, only the sense of fear and fleeing the source of that fear, then the defiant rage once their flight proved futile.

It was more than a dream, Link thought to himself. She was more than a dream.

Link was curious, shaken and frustrated all at once. His dreams were as bad as the old man, hinting at everything yet revealing nothing.

Thinking of the old man caused Link to look up and eastward. Lightening skies betrayed the oncoming sun, which would break the horizon soon enough. In what remained of night’s darkness, Link could see four towers scattered across the land in that general direction, still beckoning with their orange lights.

His eyes roamed nearer, ultimately finding his next destination. The crumbling spire from the Temple of Time jutted into the sky like some skeletal limb. The old man had told him to meet him there, had promised him answers there.

Taking one last look at where the bat-like creature lay dead, Link decided there was no point in trying to go back to sleep, and began gathering his provisions and belongings.

The Stalfos would have cursed had there been a point to such exhibitions. Instead, it merely stood and walked back into the cave that served as its resting place.

The keese was dead. The connection had been too distant for the Stalfos to know how or why it had met its end, but the fact was enough. In a way, it was simpler. The keese’s death all but assured the boy was on the plateau.

The Stalfos could not smile, but it tried anyway. Its fleshless jaw bared in a rictus grin, and it briefly wondered if this is how it had looked when it died: mouth agape, flesh hiding the lifeless smile its bare bones now showed.

The Master would be pleased. The Stalfos quickly sent a mental summons to the two bokoblins hiding in the nearby forest. They were stupid beasts, even less reliable than the keese. Oncoming daylight, however, made them necessary. The Stalfos was dead during the day. Only at night did its bones rise again, granted unnatural life by its Master.

The bokoblins ambled into view, clearly terrified to come any closer than was absolutely necessary. The Stalfos would have sneered if it were possible. Stupid beasts. They were no better than the swine they resembled. The Stalfos remembered when one such beast had ended its mortal life with a blunt club. At that moment, it had pleaded for mercy. At that moment, it sold its soul to its Master.

The Stalfos focused on the bokoblin to its right.

“Take your brethren through the mountains and wait by the tower. If you see a Hylian approach, kill it, leave its body unspoiled, and send me word.”

The bokoblin grunted, then retreated to the forest from whence it came. Its companion remained, its eyes rolling in fear as the Stalfos’s voice resonated inside its primitive mind.

“Go with him. When you reach the tower, take four of your brethren and ride to the Master. Tell him I have found the boy.”

The bokoblin nodded frantically and squealed its pathetic willingness to obey. The Stalfos was sorely tempted to kill it right then and there, but it was nearly dawn, and there was not enough time to find a replacement for the task. The undead skeleton allowed the bokoblin to flee back to the forest before retreating into its own cave.

When night returned, the hunt would begin. The Stalfos would have to remember to spare one keese to deliver the same message to his Master, just in case the fool bokoblin failed to do so. The rest of the keese would join the hunt.

Light did not enter the depths of the cave, but the Stalfos knew dawn had arrived. It could feel its life draining, feel its skeletal limbs begin to crumble around it. Its final thought before oblivion came was that the Master might even reward the Stalfos with flesh by which it could live during the day.