by N Felts
unwelcomingly dark and foreboding.
“What promises have I broken?” The figure asks, his cavalier tone intentionally disagreeable. “You are the most memorable king in history. You have the love and devotion of your people. Disagree with my methods if you wish, but the results—“
“Results?” Igos shouts, becoming increasingly animated. “Rack and ruin! My kingdom falls, my enemies on my doorstep, assassins leap into my throne room at every opportunity,” he declares, thrusting a finger at the windows. “Are these what you deem to be results?”
“It matters little,” the figure shrugs, slowly pacing as his thoughts apparently wander tranquilly. “Death should not concern you so,” he points out, briefly inspecting his open palm. “It is the curse that should concern you now.”
“The curse?” Igos bellows, marching over to the man. “The curse you brought down upon my people? Is that the curse you’re referring to?”
“Careful,” the figure scoffs, placing a hand on the king’s shoulder and raising a single finger. “You do remember who you’re talking to,” he inquires, rhetorically.
“Yes,” Igos confirms with a charismatic smile. Turning his back and marching slowly back to his throne, the king reclines in his seat before briefly waving a beckoning hand. A pair of swordsmen step into view on either side of their king, each of them radiating confidence in their mannerisms as they casually move toward the cloaked man. “An enemy of the state,” he grins, his unusually wide smile equally capable of being charming or sinister. “Arrest this man.”
“What is this?” The figure chuckles, not backing up a single step as the elite guards draw closer. “You are every bit as responsible for your kingdom’s plight as I, and you will have an eternity to regret testing me,” he starts, bowing slightly. “Your majesty,” he concludes, a pair of red irises visible for just a moment within the veil of darkness.
“These two are rivaled only by one another in the exquisite art of the sword and shield. I fear they would rather enjoy any attempt to resist,” Igos muses, sequentially tapping his fingers together beneath his chin. Making no attempt to reach for their weapons, the pair of guards slowly encircle the man, eyeing him carefully as an enthusiastic attempt to escape is duly expected. A maneuver far too sudden for either of the surveilling reavers to perceive prompts the taller of the two guards to twist his shield in a deflecting motion. A bolt of lightning bounces off the barrier aggressively, the hooded figure’s agility proving overwhelming as he dashes toward the stout guard opposite his initial attack. An impressive sword draw ends in a spinning slash, the royal guard missing the mark as the figure ducks into a sweeping strike, his heel knocking the guard’s feet out from beneath him. The guard instantly recovers, utilizing his shield arm to roll back to his feet while his comrade lunges into a thrusting offensive. An absurd feat of athleticism ensues, the cloaked man springing into an inverted position, his shrouded visage drifting inches from the slender guard’s unbelieving face. The overzealous attack ends in disaster for the guard when the hooded figure spins into a physics-defying back-fisted strike, the guard’s momentum multiplying the force of the blow exponentially.
“Out of my way!” The stout guard growls, deflecting his fellow soldier’s unintentionally approaching blade as he twists into another assault. An impressive flurry of strikes cannot find their target, the mysterious figure clasping his hands behind his back as he dodges with precognitive efficiency. A sudden blast of lightning rebounds off the guard’s shield as he continues the assault, his companion regaining his senses, and charging back into the fight. The cloaked man twists and drops low, throwing another lightning bolt in his methodical dance of evasion and attack. Bashing the edge of his shield into the stone floor, the guard springs into the air athletically while deflecting the spell, but the redirected attack misses his partner by a negligible margin. Scarcely able to dodge in time, the trim guard becomes infuriated upon regaining his footing.
“Watch what you’re doing!” He shouts, battering the stout guard aside with a shoulder check as he occupies his place in the battle. The hooded figure continues to use their lack of cooperation against them, their swords clashing when he dodges their simultaneous attacks. Dropping to a knee, he hears the edges of their shields bounce off one another, leaving them vulnerable for the briefest of moments. Their egos quickly become their downfall as they angrily glare at each other while their true foe rises into a finishing blow. An electric palm slaps against each of their foreheads, the destructive energy forcing their limbs to spasm uncontrollably while spastic jolts of electricity flash throughout the room. The steady scream pulled from each of the guards proves to be the only act of harmonization they accomplish in this life, their eyes turning pure white as sparks of lightning sporadically jump from where their pupils were once visible. Finally deciding their mortality has been confirmed in spades, the cloaked man ceases the attack, keeping his arms outstretched as the pair fall abruptly to the ground.
“You—“ the king starts, his formerly taunting hands dropping into his lap as the enigmatic figure slowly brings his outstretched palms together. A deep breath swells the man’s chest as he widens his stance for the accumulating spell, his wrists colliding as he sweeps his arms in a flowing motion away from his target. Igos roars in desperation, snatching his shield from its resting place beside the throne, and diving forward, rolling to a knee as he braces for impact. The blast eclipses the room in blinding light, electricity radiating around the king in a vortex of devastating power. Holding the force at bay as long as his body will allow, his shield is finally launched aside, the potent torrent instantly pinning him to his royal chair as he shudders violently. A brief outburst of painful cries is followed by unintentional murmurs of gibberish before the mysterious magi relents, rolling his shoulders as his arms drift back to his sides. King Igos du Ikana, the last ruler of a ravaged land, rests silently in the darkness, his eyes frozen in shock as he exhaled his final breath.
“Royalty,” the man scoffs, twitching with anger. “The true Sheikah will never serve royalty again,” he mutters to himself, lifting his head to loudly ask, “did you enjoy the show?” His back still turned to the hidden duo just outside of the room, he makes no effort to engage them in any way other than conversationally. Both Geist and Cale share a worried glance, neither of them quite sure what their next move should be. “I have no quarrel with you sad creatures,” he admits, turning with his arms crossed behind his back, and promptly proceeding to the door. Jumping back a step, neither of the reavers are inclined to believe the dangerous figure, his ultimate intentions beyond anything they could possibly fathom.
“Who are you?” Cale works up the courage to ask, glancing at the symbol proudly displayed on the chest of the figure’s blue robes. A convictive eye stares into him, three triangles arrayed atop the shape paying homage to some tribe or custom the young magi has never known.
“In the eons your souls will soon roam these lands, one such as you could never conceive what I am,” the man explains, walking between them with a purposeful stride. “Should you encounter the mask salesman, tell him I’ve no further use for this doomed world,” he adds just before turning a corner. “I’ll be waiting in Hyrule,” he concludes, the cryptic message of an unknown land falling on uncomprehending ears.
“What—“ Cale starts, dashing after him. Following suit, Geist rounds the corner to find his friend staring at the vast, empty room, equally perplexed.
“None of this makes sense,” Geist mutters, palming his brow.
“No kidding. You’ve got to fill me in,” Cale pleads, desperate to understand.
“There’s no time,” Geist sighs, understandably frustrated. “The king is dead. The soldiers are fighting a losing battle, and without a leader. We’ve got to get as many people as we can to a safe place,” he rambles, his thoughts quickly spinning into a purée. “Why is all of this happening at once?”
“But—“ Cale starts,
realizing he is right moments later. “Okay, okay. We need to move fast. We’ll get people to the barracks. It’s the furthest place from the battle.”
“Yes, good idea,” Geist nods, motivation charging back into his veins. “Let’s go.” With that, they dash through the castle, emerging into the courtyard to find a horrifying scenario they could not have anticipated. The battle has crashed through the fortified barrier at the castle gates, but the combatants have long since ceased spilling blood. Ikanian soldiers swing and stab listlessly, their charred and mutilated bodies clearly no longer among the living. The Garo share this trait with their nemeses, their vanquished essence seeming to will itself back into their robed shells, eager to rejoin the assault. The grotesque war rages on endlessly, the losses on both sides clawing their way back into the fray, the blight which emerged from the stone tower continuing to curse the wayward souls with undeath.
“Tell me this isn’t happening,” Cale exhales, his jaw hanging in disbelief.
“He knew this would happen,” Geist mumbles, his overburdened mind demanding he put the pieces together. His hand grasps for the bottle no longer hanging
