Chapter Text
Hero for Hire Link is stood silently in the forest. Which is to say, he did not walk away from camp. He vanished from it. One moment, he had been seated near the fire with perfect posture, clean hands, bowl balanced neatly in one hand as though stew is something a man can accept without becoming messy. He had smiled, politely declined a second serving with the kind of gracious restraint villagers mistake for virtue, and listened like he was listening. The next, his space was empty. No scuffed dirt. No creaking bedroll. No offended spark from the fire as a shadow crossed it. Not even the small, human noise of someone shifting their weight before they rise. Just absence. Clean. Deliberate. Surgical.
It is, Hero for Hire Link tells himself, an art. The leaving. The exiting a circle without tugging its attention toward you like a thread. Heroes are always being watched, by villagers, by monsters, by destiny, and so heroes who survive learn how to become nothing, briefly, when nothing is safer. The camp’s warmth bleeds away behind him as he moves deeper through trees that lean too close together, trunks crowding inward until the forest becomes corridor instead of clearing. Branches knit overhead like conspirators. Leaves brush his shoulders, damp and whispering. The air changes, cooler, thicker, carrying that old scent of moss and decay that says the ground here has been itself for a long time, undisturbed by trust. This part of the forest hasn’t been worn down by familiarity. It hasn’t learned the shape of people. It watches.
Hero for Hire Link stops where the undergrowth grows dense enough to swallow footfalls and the canopy knots tight enough to break moonlight into thin, sharp slivers. He doesn’t crouch. He doesn’t brace. He simply stills, breath slowing, weight settling evenly through his feet like a blade being set carefully back on a table. If anything is following him, it will reveal itself in the smallest betrayals: an uneven breath, a shifted leaf, the subtle change in night-sound that happens when a living thing listens back. He listens. Wind. Insects. The slow, careless breathing of a world that believes it is alone. Satisfied, he exhales, and the sound is so quiet it is almost not a sound at all.
“Unbelievable.” he murmurs. “No perimeter.”
Not even a token loop. Not even the illusion of caution. They sleep like they are safe. Like the world is kind. Like the only thing that might approach in the dark is a friend. He reaches into his pouch. The mirror is small enough to be overlooked, dull enough to seem mundane. Its frame is tarnished gold, worn smooth by handling, and its surface is dark as ink, swallowing moonlight rather than reflecting it. It looks like a cheap trinket until it isn’t.
At first, it shows exactly what it should, a man beneath fractured moonlight. Clean tunic. Thoughtful brow. Earnest eyes softened by firelight not long gone. The sort of hero people trust instinctively. The sort of face that gets handed children and quests without question. A face built to be believed.
Then the reflection smiles.
The Hero for Hire does not move, but something in him sharpens, like a hinge clicking into place. The forest inside the mirror bends wrong; shadows fold inward, crowding close like they’ve been waiting for permission. The face staring back is still his, but harder, darker, cheekbones cutting sharper, eyes bright with confidence that has never once questioned itself, eyes a gleaming red. How good it felt to shed that disguise!
Dark Link. He studies himself with open approval, as if admiring good craftsmanship.
“You’d think,” he says lightly, “at least one of them would notice, especially with how many of them I’ve met.”
He murmurs an invocation under his breath. It isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. The words scrape against something ancient and patient, something that has been listening for a long time, waiting, bored, hungry, pleased by routine. The mirror ripples like water. Reality thins around the glass as the world behind it peels away. The forest in the reflection collapses into darkness, then into a depth that feels like falling without motion.
Demise does not appear so much as press through. His presence fills the glass with heat and pressure, like a storm leaning close. The shape remains incomplete, a suggested face, a mouth curved in something that might be amusement,but the weight of him is unmistakable, as though the mirror is holding back an ocean with a single pane.
“I trust,” Demise says smoothly, “that you have infiltrated them.”
Dark Link scoffs, shifting his weight against a tree like this is a casual debrief rather than communion with an ancient god of hatred. He keeps his tone light on purpose; he will not sound eager. He will not sound like a servant. He will sound like a professional reporting progress.
“Infiltrated?” he repeats. “I shared stew and jokes with them, fools.”
A low, pleased hum vibrates through the mirror, the sound deep enough that the bones in Dark Link’s hand feel it.
“And they accepted you?”
“They invited me back.” Dark Link says, satisfaction threading his tone. He cannot help it, it is too ridiculous not to enjoy. “No contracts. No safeguards. No questions worth asking.” He clicks his tongue. “Honestly, I expected more resistance.”
Demise’s presence coils closer, the pressure increasing, not threatening, just curious, as if he is leaning in to watch a particularly entertaining experiment.
“And the heroes?” Demise asks.
Dark Link’s gaze drifts toward the distant glow of the campfire, barely visible through the trees. Even from here he can picture them: bodies loose with trust, weapons placed without paranoia, companionship worn like armour. It’s revolting.
“A mess.” he says flatly. “No hierarchy. No defined command structure. They make decisions by instinct. By feeling.”
“And yet,” Demise murmurs, indulgent, “they persist.”
“For now.” Dark Link agrees. He lifts his right hand, turning it slightly as the Triforce catches the moonlight, a quiet, inevitable gleam. It looks so simple. Three triangles. A symbol. A promise. A brand. “They mistake connection for strength.”
Demise’s voice softens, almost fond. “And you will correct this.”
“I will refine it!” Dark Link replies. “Optimise it. Encourage discord. Reward strife.” His smile sharpens, a neat blade of intent. “Frame hesitation as failure. Compassion as liability.”
He imagines it as a diagram. A structure. A clean set of collapses set into motion by small pressures applied at the right joints. Heroes are always a brittle architecture of pride, duty, and doubt. You do not need to hit the wall, you need only remove the supports. Silence hums between them, thick and pleased.
“They will fracture,” Dark Link continues, unhurried, “without ever realising I pushed.”
“And when they do?” Demise asks.
“They will blame each other!” Dark Link says. “The captain for leading. The knight for being too soft. The wild one for acting. The quiet ones for standing aside.” His eyes gleam. “They already carry the fault lines. I’m just… clarifying them.”
Demise’s presence pulses with approval, like a slow heartbeat.
“And the weakest link?” he asks. “Who is your in?”
Dark Link chuckles. He can already see it, Warriors standing in front, smiling like it doesn’t cost him anything. “The Captain. He’s already bleeding quietly.” He tilts his head, pleased by the elegance of it. “He thinks leadership is standing in front. I’ll help him realise how often he’s standing there alone.”
Demise is silent for a moment. Then, pleased: “You wear the role well.”
Dark Link’s reflection grins, bright and certain. “I am the role.”
A twig snaps. Dark Link freezes. The mirror vanishes into his pouch in a blink, posture smoothing, expression settling into easy neutrality with the speed of a practiced liar just as…
“Oh! Sorry!”
A voice. Too close. Too cheerful. Dark Link turns. He does not move. He does not breathe. He does not blink. The forest, which moments ago had felt like an accomplice, now feels like a witness that has decided to testify.
“…Hello?” The voice is light. Cheerful. Unconcerned in the way only someone who is sure of themself can be. Dark Link closes his eyes. Very briefly. Then opens them with the measured patience of a man who has just been inconvenienced by reality.
Wind stands a few paces away, half-hidden behind a tree that is doing a very poor job of concealing him. One hand is awkwardly braced against the trunk. The other rubs the back of his neck with the unmistakable air of someone who has absolutely been doing something they didn’t want an audience for.
There is a long pause.
Wind blinks.
Dark Link blinks back.
“…Hi.” Wind says.
Dark Link stares at him. Of all the possible interruptions. Of all the sentries, scouts, veterans, and paranoiacs in that camp, this one.
“…Hello.” Dark Link says carefully, as if speaking too quickly might summon more.
Wind shifts his weight, clearly relieved that the greeting went over well. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
You absolutely did, Dark Link thinks, because the alternative is worse, that Wind is simply this quiet by accident.
Wind gestures vaguely over his shoulder. “I, uh. Had to… you know.”
Dark Link does not, in fact, know.
Wind elaborates anyway. “Nature. I tried to ignore it but that was a mistake. Real mistake.”
“…I see.” Dark Link says.
Wind nods, satisfied, as if this is the beginning and end of a perfectly normal conversation. “Yeah. Anyway!”
Anyway is doing a lot of work here.
“What are you doing back here?” Wind asks, peering at him with frank curiosity. Not suspicion. Not caution. Curiosity, like he’s found a frog doing something interesting. Dark Link does not hesitate. Hesitation is weakness and he refuses to bleed weakness into the air.
“Walking.”
Wind nods slowly. “…At night?”
“Yes.”
“In the creepy part of the forest.”
“Correct.”
Wind hums, unconvinced. His gaze drifts down, then back up, lingering on the pouch at Dark Link’s hip like a child who has spotted a sweet.
“…Is that a mirror?”
Dark Link reacts too fast.
“No.”
Wind jumps like he’s been yelled at. “Whoa, sorry! I didn’t mean to probe!”
Dark Link inhales. Forces his shoulders to relax. Pastes on a smile that has soothed mobs and sold miracles. He resents, with an intensity that borders on spiritual, the fact that this is necessary.
“I mean,” he corrects smoothly, “yes. It is.”
Wind tilts his head. “Why?”
Dark Link searches for the least incriminating explanation his mind can produce in under a second. “It’s a focusing aid.”
Wind’s eyes light up. “Oh! Like meditation?”
“…Yes.”
“I hum when I meditate.” Wind offers helpfully.
“I do not.” Dark Link says, and is offended on principle that he has to clarify.
Wind peers closer, completely unafraid. “Were you talking to yourself?”
Dark Link’s smile tightens. He can feel it, the strain at the corners. “Thinking aloud.”
Wind beams. “Me too! Sometimes I even answer myself.”
Dark Link resists homicide, which is unfortunate because homicide would be simpler than this.
“Time says that’s normal.” Wind adds brightly. “But I cant argue with myself anymore. It’s ‘too loud’, apparently.”
Dark Link exhales through his nose. “Duly noted.”
Wind rocks back on his heels, studying him like he is mildly entertaining rather than potentially catastrophic. “You sounded intense though.”
Dark Link’s pulse ticks faster. “Intense how.”
“Like,” Wind gestures vaguely, “dramatic whispering. Long pauses. Kind of serious, but like… in a professional way?”
Dark Link seizes the first lifeline available with the desperation of a drowning man who refuses to admit he is drowning.
“I was practicing a speech.”
Wind gasps. “Oh!”
“For later.”
“For us?”
“Potentially.”
Wind grins, delighted. “Nice! I love speeches. Are there metaphors?”
“…Several.”
“Good.” Wind nods approvingly. “Metaphors make everything better.”
He turns to leave, then stops, as if struck by a final thought that he simply must share.
“…You’re not gonna stab anyone in their sleep, right?”
Dark Link laughs. Too fast. Too sharp. “Of course not!”
Wind squints at him for a beat, and for one horrifying moment Dark Link wonders if he has miscalculated, if Wind is secretly perceptive, if this is the end…
Then Wind shrugs. “Cool.”
He takes two steps away, then turns back again.
“Oh! Also,” he says cheerfully, “you might wanna be quieter out here. Time says the forest echoes weird and sometimes it carries voices.”
Dark Link smiles thinly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Wind nods, satisfied. “Great! Night!”
He wanders off toward camp, humming tunelessly, entirely unbothered by the fact that he has just walked in on something deeply wrong. Dark Link watches him go. Listens to the sound of his footsteps fade. Waits. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Only then does he exhale, slow and measured, as if exhaling too quickly would admit vulnerability.
“…Annoying variable.” he mutters.
He straightens his gloves, smooths his tunic, and schools his expression back into pleasant neutrality. Because if that one can wander in unnoticed, if Wind can move through the forest like a ghost by accident, then this infiltration is going to require a great deal more finesse than anticipated. Dark Link does not hurry back. There is no need. Panic is for people who do not have a flawless plan. He returns at an unremarkable pace, boots quiet against the path, breath steady, posture relaxed just enough to sell fatigue. By the time the firelight reaches him again, the forest has already swallowed his absence. Anyone watching would assume he’d never left. Which, of course, is the point.
The clearing is exactly as he left it, alive with low noise and motion, that peculiar half-chaos that only happens when danger has not yet arrived but is expected eventually. The stew pot simmers. Someone is definitely stealing something from someone else. The fire crackles like a living thing content in the middle of them. Dark Link slows at the edge and watches. Not openly. Never openly.
Warriors stands near the fire, arms folded, listening to two arguments at once without appearing to do so. His gaze drifts constantly, unconsciously counting heads, tracking movement, recalculating tomorrow. He does not sit. He pauses. He exists in a permanent state of readiness, and everyone around him adjusts to that without realising, voices lowering when he looks their way, bodies turning subtly so he has sight-lines, complaints shifting into jokes before they become friction.
Interesting.
Legend is loud in the way sharp things are loud. Every word carries edge and intent, every complaint sharpened just enough to draw blood. And yet, when Warriors speaks, even casually, Legend still listens. Pretends not to. But listens. The defiance is real, yet so is the trust beneath it, tucked away where no one can accuse him of softness.
Sky is quiet. Not passive, selective. He sits near the fire with needle and thread, mending a strap that does not urgently need mending, hands moving with patient precision. He speaks rarely, but when he does, the camp tilts toward him like flowers toward light. Comfort disguised as politeness. Authority disguised as kindness. The most dangerous kind.
Wild is chaos incarnate. Motion without pause, curiosity with legs. He drifts between conversations, between people, between trouble and opportunity, like gravity does not apply to him the same way. Everyone watches him. No one stops him soon enough. The camp’s heartbeat spikes every time he goes quiet, because quiet Wild is thinking, and thinking Wild is about to touch something.
Twilight leans back against a log, arms crossed, pretending to rest. He is not resting. His eyes follow movement through half-lowered lashes, body positioned between the camp’s centre and its perimeter without anyone assigning him the role. Protector, whether he wants it or not, doing the work without asking for credit.
Time sits apart, as always. Still. Observing. Not watching people so much as patterns. When he speaks, conversations end. When he does not, people fill the silence for him. Leadership without noise. Authority without effort.
Annoying.
Wind is… everywhere and nowhere, currently attempting to teach Four a card trick while Hyrule watches with mild concern. Wind laughs. Four corrects him. Hyrule mediates. The hierarchy establishes itself without a word.
Dark Link steps into the firelight. No one reacts immediately. Good.
Then Warriors glances up, registers him, and gives a short nod, permission granted, presence acknowledged. Dark Link mirrors the gesture easily, sliding into the edge of the circle, close enough to be included, far enough to remain optional. He listens. He catalogs. Who defers to whom without noticing. Who bickers because it’s safer than silence. Who fills gaps. Who absorbs tension so others don’t have to. He could pull this apart in a week. Maybe less.
“Hey.” Sky says gently.
Dark Link turns, surprised, genuinely, this time.
Sky smiles at him, soft and polite and far too perceptive. “We never asked.”
“Asked what?” Dark Link replies smoothly, voice mild, expression open.
“What we should call you.”
The camp quiets just a fraction. Not silence, attention. A subtle turning of bodies, a collective pause like the fire itself leans in. Sky gestures vaguely around them. “Most of us go by our titles. Hero of the Sky. Hero of Time. Hero of the Wilds. Things like that.” He smiles, apologetic. “It gets confusing otherwise.”
Dark Link opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. Titles. Of course they would do this. Of course they would name themselves. Heroes always do. They carve meaning into words and wear them like armour. His eyes catch on the Master Sword that rests comfortably on Sky’s back, never far from his reach. And then, unbidden, like a whisper slipping through a crack in his mind, it may have been a trick of the light but Dark Link could have sworn the sword pulsed.
Hero of the Shadows.
The phrase is silk-smooth and certain. It settles in his skull like it belongs there. Dark Link stiffens. No. That is not…! He is not…! He does not…! Hero. He is not a hero. He is a correction. A refinement. A mirror. He is Link’s arrogance and pride and doubt given hands and purpose. He is the part of heroism that looks at itself and thinks, I can do this better.
The thought unsettles him more than Demise ever has, because Demise is simple. Demise is hunger. Demise is inevitability, his creator. This is… something else.
Sky watches him with gentle concern, misreading the hesitation entirely. “If you’re unsure,” he says kindly, “that’s okay. Sometimes the sword helps.”
Before Dark Link can respond, Sky rises and crosses the small distance between them. And then Sky holds out the Master Sword. Not dramatically. Not reverently. Just… offering it. Like a tool. Like an old friend.
“She’s good at listening.” Sky says softly. “If you’re struggling.”
Dark Link stares at the hilt. Every instinct in him screams not to touch it. Every instinct in him wants to. The sword hums faintly, a sound just beneath hearing, like breath caught in a chest. The air feels tighter around it, charged. It is not judgement, exactly. It is awareness. It is the uncomfortable sensation of being seen by something that does not care what mask you built. Hero of the Shadows, the whisper insists again. Dark Link swallows. Stalls. His smile strains, just a hair.
“That’s… generous.” he says carefully. “But I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Sky’s smile widens, warm and welcoming. “It’s no imposition.”
The camp waits. Dark Link thinks, rapidly. If he takes it, something might happen. If he refuses, something definitely will. So he laughs lightly and steps back, putting just enough humour in it to make refusal look like personality rather than fear.
“Titles are overrated!” he says. “Too much expectation.”
Sky tilts his head. “What would you prefer?”
Dark Link’s mind blanks. He panics. Just a little. The sensation is so unfamiliar that he hates it immediately.
“Hire.” he says, too quickly.
Sky blinks. “Hire?”
“Yes.” Hire clears his throat, as if the name needs smoothing into something sensible. “The, uh… Hero for Hire. Call me Hire.”
There is a beat. Then Wind grins. “That’s kinda fun.”
Wild nods enthusiastically. “I like that.”
Legend snorts. “Figures.”
Warriors shrugs. “Simple enough.”
Sky smiles, accepting without question, and lowers the sword. “Alright then. Hire.”
The Master Sword quiets. Hire exhales slowly, invisibly, the tension easing from his shoulders in a way he will deny if asked. He sits again. He smiles. He listens. And somewhere, deep beneath the pleasant mask, something sharp and satisfied settles into place. Because names matter. And he has just bought himself time. He watches the camp carefully, eager to just get this over with.
Warriors and Legend are arguing again.
Not loudly. Not angrily. Just enough. It starts with rations, because it always starts with something harmless. Portions. Distribution. Whether Wild counts as two people. Whether Wind ate his share already (he did). It is familiar in the way a repeated argument becomes ritual.
Legend’s arms are crossed, chin lifted in that posture of irritation that is at least forty percent performance. “I’m saying we don’t need to ration that tightly. We’re not marching into a siege.”
Warriors doesn’t look at him. He never needs to. “And I’m saying I’ve been in sieges that started with ‘we’ll be fine.’”
Legend scoffs. “You’ve been in sieges that started because you refused to listen.”
A lesser man would bristle. Warriors does not. He just exhales through his nose, like patience is a muscle he has trained into strength. “You’re welcome to take command, if you think you can do better.”
Legend smirks. “Tempting.”
Hire watches. Oh. Oh this is perfect. This is it. The fault line. The rivalry. The pride. The simmering resentment buried beneath years of shared battlefields and mutual aggravation. Hire can almost see the invisible cracks spidering under the surface. All it needs is pressure in the right place. A gentle twist. A well-placed suggestion. He straightens, heart lifting with anticipation. Yes. Yes. This is where it begins. Step one, he thinks smugly, delighted: isolate.
He leans forward, voice smooth, concerned, helpful like a professional offering support while quietly sharpening a knife.
“You know,” he says gently, as if offering a neutral observation, “it must be difficult.”
Warriors glances at him. Legend does too.
“Difficult?” Warriors repeats.
Hire gestures vaguely between them. “Sharing authority. Especially when you both clearly think you’re right.”
Legend snorts. “Oh, I know I’m right.”
Warriors huffs. “At least you’re honest.”
Hire presses on, emboldened by the opening. “It’s just… in my experience, unresolved tension like that can build. Resentment festers. One day it stops being about rations and starts being about respect.”
Legend blinks. Warriors blinks. There is a pause so clean it could be measured.
Legend looks at Warriors. “Is he trying to start something?”
Warriors considers this with genuine thoughtfulness. “I think he is.”
Hire’s pulse spikes. Excellent. Recognition. Awareness. The first stirrings of… Legend waves a hand dismissively. “Anyway. Like I was saying, if you actually listened when I pointed out we don’t need to feed Wild like a horse…”
“I am not a horse!” Wild protests from somewhere near the stew pot.
“You eat like one.” Legend fires back without missing a beat.
Hire frowns. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He tries again, more pointed. “You don’t ever feel,” he says carefully, “like you’re being dismissed? Undermined?”
Legend stares at him. Then laughs. Not mockingly. Not cruelly. Just… genuinely amused, like Hire has asked whether the sky ever gets tired of being blue.
“By him?” Legend says, jerking his thumb at Warriors. “Constantly.”
Warriors nods. “He thrives on it.”
Legend smirks. “Keeps me humble.”
Warriors snorts. “You’ve never been humble in your life.”
“And yet you keep me around.”
“Because you’re useful.”
“And you’d miss me.”
Warriors doesn’t answer. Legend’s smirk softens, just a fraction. Hire feels something in his chest tighten. This is not how this is supposed to go. That was not emotional destabilisation. That was… bonding. He doubles down anyway because he is stubborn and because he hates being wrong more than he hates the idea of being kind.
“Surely,” he says, voice lowering conspiratorially, “you must feel overshadowed. Compared. Like your contributions are… secondary.”
Legend’s brow furrows. Then he looks at Warriors again. Really looks.
“You feel overshadowed?” Legend asks, incredulous.
Warriors frowns. “By you? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Legend scoffs. “See? This is what I mean.”
Warriors finally turns to face him fully. “You know damn well I don’t think you’re secondary.”
Legend pauses. The fire pops.
“…I know.” Legend says, grinning. “You just don’t say it.”
Warriors shrugs, as if this is obvious, as if it has always been obvious. “Didn’t think I had to.”
And then, infuriatingly, they lapse right back into bickering over stew ratios like nothing happened, comfortable, familiar, utterly uninjured by Hire’s interference. Hire sits there. Stunned. Internally flailing.No. That should have worked. He knows it should have worked. They argue like brothers. Not rivals. Not enemies. Brothers who know exactly where the line is and refuse to cross it because the line is part of the structure that keeps them standing.
Hire leans back slowly, expression pleasant, mind recalibrating. “…Interesting.” he mutters.
Either his plan requires refinement, or these heroes are far more broken-in than he anticipated.
He starts to shift away again, instinct tugging him back toward the edges, toward the outside, toward distance. Distance is control. Control is safety. Safety is… He notices Time noticing him.
Hire feels it before he sees it: that subtle change in attention, the way gravity tilts when Time decides something needs addressing. He looks up. Time is still watching him. Not staring. Observing. The way one watches a loose nail in a floorboard. Or a child sitting alone on the edge of a playground, pretending very hard not to care.
Hire stiffens internally. No.
Time rises. Slowly. Casually. Like this is not a manoeuvre at all.
Hire’s mind immediately supplies a dozen responses: deflections, barbs, polite refusals sharpened to points. He readies himself like a man bracing for a blow.
Time stops a few steps away. “Comfortable?” he asks mildly.
Hire nods. “Perfectly.”
Time hums, unconvinced, gaze flicking over Hire with the quiet thoroughness of someone who has patched too many wounded heroes to be fooled by posture. “You’re sitting outside the fire’s reach.”
“I prefer the cold.”
“You’re shivering.”
Hire blinks. He is not shivering. He stops shivering. “…Habit.” he says.
Time accepts this with a nod that accepts nothing. He gestures vaguely toward the fire. “You’re welcome closer.”
“I’m fine here.”
Time sits anyway. Not beside him. Near him. Close enough to share the same pocket of quiet. Hire’s skin crawls. This is not interrogation posture. Not command posture. This is… Patience.
“I’ve met a lot of heroes.” Time says conversationally, eyes on the fire. “Most of them arrive loud. Some arrive broken. A few arrive angry.”
Hire smirks faintly. “And which am I.”
Time considers. “Careful.”
Hire bristles. “I’m not careful.”
Time lifts a hand gently. Not silencing. Just… slowing. “You don’t sit with the group. You watch first. You step back when you’re offered help. You choose names that keep distance.”
Hire’s smile tightens. “I don’t need help.”
Time nods. “That’s what we all thought.”
Hire’s internal monologue begins to scream. This is not the plan. This is not the plan at all. Why is he being reasonable. Why is he being soft. Why is that worse than suspicion.
Time continues, unbothered. “Most heroes who say that learned they were wrong early.”
Hire scoffs. “You’re projecting.”
“Perhaps.”
They sit in silence for a moment. The fire crackles. Someone laughs. Wind is definitely stealing food again. Hire tells himself he is unaffected. He tells himself he is in control. He tells himself…
Time speaks again, voice softer. “You don’t have to stay apart.”
Hire turns sharply. “I’m not apart.”
Time meets his gaze calmly. “You are.”
Hire opens his mouth. Closes it. Annoyance flares, hot and sharp and deeply inconvenient.
“I work alone.” he says instead. “That’s why I’m effective.”
Time nods, thoughtful. “So did everyone you see here.”
Hire freezes.
Time doesn’t look at him when he adds, “It didn’t last.”
Hire’s chest tightens. This is not manipulation. This is not accusation. This is worse. This is understanding.
Time finally turns, studying him with something dangerously close to kindness. “You’re safe here.”
Hire almost laughs. Safe. He thinks of the mirror. Demise’s voice. The plan unfolding perfectly, piece by piece. Safe? They are the ones who aren’t safe.
“I don’t need a family.” Hire says sharply.
Time smiles, just a little, like he’s heard this before from a hundred mouths that all said it the same way. “That’s usually when one shows up.”
Hire stands abruptly, anger rescuing him from whatever this feeling is.
“I’m going to…” he gestures vaguely, “check the perimeter, I can’t sleep.”
Time does not stop him. He just watches him go, expression calm and resolved.
“Don’t go too far.” Time calls mildly. “We like knowing where our people are.”
Our people. Hire walks faster. Inside his head, something snarls and scrambles and insists this is unacceptable. He is not a lost hero. He is not a problem to be solved. He is not… a liability! He is better. The best. He doesn’t need help.
Sky notices him go, worry knitting his face. “He…” Sky starts softly. “Should we…?”
Time lifts a hand again. Not sharp. Not commanding. Just enough. Sky hesitates, then nods, trusting without question. He sits back down, though his eyes linger on the dark tree line a moment longer than necessary.
Hire does not look back. He pushes into the forest, branches scraping at his sleeves, leaves snapping underfoot. He walks until the firelight is gone, until the air cools and the woods press close again, until the sounds of the camp soften into background noise instead of presence. Only then does he stop. He drops onto a fallen log with a sharp, irritated motion, elbows braced on his knees, head bowed. The mask cracks, not visibly, not outwardly, but inside, something snarls and twists, tangled and furious.
“This is impossible.” he mutters, and hates that the word feels too true.
He yanks the mirror from his pouch and flips it open with more force than necessary. The glass darkens at once. The forest bends wrong in its reflection, shadows folding inward as if drawn to a centre point. Dark Link stares back, eyes bright, mouth set in a scowl that looks uncomfortably petulant. He is revealed in the face of the mirror, a magical item so powerful that in its face, the simple illusion is gone. Demise’s presence presses through a heartbeat later, heat and pressure blooming behind the glass like a furnace door cracked open.
“You sound displeased.” Demise observes mildly.
Hire scoffs, bitter. “They’re insufferable.”
Demise hums. “You’ve faced worse.”
“They’re nice.” Hire snaps. “That’s the problem.”
Silence stretches, curious.
“They don’t fracture when pushed.” Hire continues, words tumbling out sharper now. “They bicker and then… then they laugh. They argue like it’s rehearsal. Like it doesn’t matter.” He clenches a fist. “I tried. I tried to drive a wedge between the Captain and the Veteran and it just… slid off.”
Demise’s voice curls, amused. “You are losing patience.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore.” Hire says abruptly, childishly.
The words hang there. Even the forest seems to lean closer. Demise does not roar. He does not threaten. He laughs. Soft. Indulgent. Certain.
“You are frustrated,” Demise says, “because they resist you.”
“They don’t even notice.” Hire snaps. “And one of them…” His jaw tightens. “The oldest one. He keeps looking at me like I’m a problem he wants to fix.”
Demise’s amusement deepens. “And that offends you.”
“It’s patronising.”
“No.” Demise corrects gently. “It is tempting.”
Hire bristles. “I am not tempted.”
Demise’s presence presses closer, the mirror warming in Hire’s hands. “You were not created to be comfortable.” he murmurs. “You were created to be better.”
Hire’s reflection sneers. “They think I’m one of them.”
Demise smiles, something sharp and approving. “And that is why you will succeed.”
Hire looks away, teeth grinding.
“You are clever.” Demise continues. “You see what they cannot. You understand the flaws they insist on calling virtues.” His voice lowers. “They rely on one another. You rely on yourself.”
Hire’s shoulders ease just a fraction.
“You are not failing.” Demise says. “You are learning the terrain.”
Hire exhales, slow and shaky. “They’re… complicated.”
“Yes.” Demise agrees smoothly. “And you are superior.”
The word lands exactly where it’s meant to. Hire straightens slightly.
“They trust you.” Demise goes on. “They offer you names. Weapons. Belonging.” A pause. “Do you know why?”
Hire’s eyes flick back to the mirror. “Because they’re foolish.”
“Because they recognise everything in you that they admire in themselves.” Demise corrects. “And they mistake it for kinship.”
Hire swallows.
“They will break.” Demise promises. “All things bound together too tightly do.”
He sits there for a long moment, breathing hard, anger cooling into something more controlled. More familiar. Resolve settling back into place like armour he knows how to wear.
“…Fine.” he mutters. “I’ll finish it.”
The forest does not answer. But somewhere, far behind him, the fire crackles. And for reasons he refuses to examine, the thought of walking back toward it feels heavier than it should. Hire snaps the mirror shut. The click is sharp in the night, too loud for comfort, like the forest itself might turn and say excuse me? He holds it in his hand a second longer than necessary, knuckles whitening around tarnished gold, then shoves it back into his pouch with all the grace of a man stuffing away evidence. He sits very still. Breathing hard, like he’s run. Which is ridiculous. He does not run. Running implies panic. Panic implies a lack of control, and he is, by design, by principle, by sheer spite, nothing if not in control.
Except. Except his chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the fact that Time looked at him like he was… salvageable. Hire stares at the ground.
A leaf drifts down in front of his face, lazy and unbothered, and he watches it fall like it has personally offended him.
“…No.” he whispers.
Then, louder, still quiet enough not to carry, but with actual heat in it, “No. Absolutely not.”
He stands abruptly. The log shifts under him. Moss flakes off. A twig cracks. The forest does not care. The forest never cares. Hire paces three steps, then four, then turns sharply and paces back, hands fisted at his sides like a sulking child trapped in an adult body.
“This is absurd.” he mutters. “This is… this is ridiculous.”
He kicks a stone. The stone skitters pathetically two feet and stops in a clump of grass. Hire’s eye twitches. He kicks another stone harder. It disappears into the dark with a satisfying thunk against a tree trunk. Better. He draws a breath and lets it out through his teeth. “Fine.” he says again, like he can argue reality into submission. “Fine. Fine. I will finish it. I will.”
He points at absolutely nothing. “You,” he tells the trees, because the trees are the only witnesses and they deserve to be reprimanded, “will not…” He stops, searching for the correct word, “adopt me.”
He says it like it’s a curse. A branch creaks overhead. A distant owl calls.
Hire glares up at the canopy. “Don’t you start.”
He storms two steps forward, then stops again, because storming implies drama and he refuses to be dramatic. He switches to brisk, purposeful walking in a tight circle that definitely is not a tantrum, thank you very much. His thoughts churn, sharp and petulant.
They’re too soft.
They’re too loud.
They’re too… together.
He hates it. He hates the way they argue without breaking. He hates the way they share space like it belongs to all of them. He hates the way Sky offers kindness like it’s a weapon he’s trained to wield. He hates the way Time’s quiet feels like gravity. He hates, most of all, that a part of him keeps noticing it.Not just strategically. Not just clinically. Noticing it the way a starving man notices bread.
Hire drags both hands down his face and groans into his palms, muffled and furious. “Stop.” he hisses at himself. “Stop it. Stop being weird.”
He drops his hands. Straightens. Rolls his shoulders back, as if physically shrugging off emotion.
“Listen.” he says, voice low and firm, addressing himself like a commander addressing an incompetent recruit. “You are not here to make friends.”
He holds up one finger.
“You are not here to bond.”
Second finger.
“You are not here to be…” he grimaces, “…understood.”
Third finger.
“You are here to infiltrate, destabilise, and dismantle.”
He pauses, glaring at his own hand.
“…Efficiently.” he adds, because that matters.
He draws himself up taller, chin lifted. He tries to summon the familiar feeling of superiority like a cloak, wrap it around his shoulders, let it settle into place. “Yes.” he says, nodding once like he’s just delivered a profound truth. “Yes. Good. Exactly.”
He points at himself again, accusatory. “You are better than this!”
A beat. “…You are better than them.” he corrects, because that’s the point, isn’t it? That’s what Demise said. That’s what he knows.
He takes a breath. In. Out. Controlled. “Okay.” he says briskly, as if starting a chore list. “New plan.”
He begins pacing again, but this time it’s purposeful pacing. Tactical pacing. Adult pacing. “Step one: stop letting Time look at you like that.”
He shudders, deeply offended. “Step two: stop reacting when Sky smiles.”
He pauses. His mouth twists. “…Step two is going to be difficult, he has such a kind smile.” he admits, and then immediately frowns. “No. No it won’t. Shut up.”
He clears his throat like he can clear the feeling out with the sound. “Step three: find the weak point.”
He stops pacing. Stares into the dark. The weak point. There is always a weak point. A crack. A loose thread. No group survives without one. And he knows them now, how Warriors carries responsibility like a punishment, how Legend bites before he can be bitten, how Twilight stands like a shield between everything and his companions, terrified of loss, how Wild’s laughter covers wounds that never healed, how Sky’s gentleness is a blade with the edge turned inward. And Time… Time is the spine. Break the spine and the body collapses.
Hire’s lips curl into a smile that would look villainous if anyone could see it. “Good.” he whispers. “Good. That’s… good.”
He nods once, satisfied, like he’s just won an argument in his own head.
Then, because he cannot help himself, he adds: “And if anyone tries to adopt me again,” he mutters, stalking toward the direction of camp, “I’m going to commit a felony.”
He pauses mid-step. Considers.
“…Metaphorically.” he amends, because Wind might somehow hear it and ask. He exhales, composes his face into something pleasantly neutral, and starts walking back toward the firelight with the determined stride of a man who has absolutely not just had a tantrum in the woods.
And if his ears are a little warm… If his jaw is set a little too tight… Well. The night is cold.
And he is very committed to being evil. Obviously.
Back at camp, the fire keeps doing what fires do when people are thinking too hard around it, crackling louder than necessary, throwing sparks up into the dark as if it’s trying to punctuate the conversation. The stew pot bubbles with quiet insistence. Bedrolls lie half-arranged, never quite settled. The forest presses close, listening with the patience of something that knows secrets are inevitable. And in the middle of it all, the Chain does what it always does when the universe drops something new into their path without explanation. Not loudly. Not officially. Not as a meeting, because if anyone calls it a meeting then Legend will make a face and Warriors will start saying things like “agenda” and suddenly everyone’s miserable. It’s more like… circling. Like wolves around an unfamiliar scent.
Warriors stands, as usual, because he’s apparently allergic to sitting when there are variables unaccounted for. He’s holding his scarf like it might try to strangle him again, and he keeps glancing toward the tree line with the subtle tension of a man who has noticed a chair is missing from a room. He remains standing. He’s been standing for a while now. Long enough that Legend notices and opens his mouth.
“You’re going to wear a trench into the dirt.” Legend says dryly, leaning back on his hands. “Sit down before you injure the ground.”
Warriors doesn’t move. His gaze is fixed on the tree line, jaw tight, scarf looped around his wrist like an anchor. “He left.”
“Yes.” Legend replies. “People do that when you try to make them eat a second bowl of stew.”
“I did not try to make him eat a second bowl of stew.”
Legend lifts an eyebrow. “You offered him a second bowl of stew in your captain voice. That counts.”
Warriors huffed. “Back to the case in point please, he left abruptly.”
Legend squints at him. “Yes. People do that.”
“He didn’t say where he was going.”
Legend shrugs. “Neither do you, half the time.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
Sky looks up from where he’s been folding a length of cloth with careful, repetitive motions. He’s been doing that for several minutes now, the same fold and unfold, like his hands are busy so his thoughts don’t get too loud. “He did say he couldn’t sleep.”
Wild rolls over onto his stomach, chin propped in his hands, eyes bright with interest. “I couldn’t sleep either. But I stayed here and stared at the fire like a normal haunted person.”
Twilight, leaning against a log with his hat tipped low, cracks one eye open. “Maybe he just needed air.”
Legend snorts. “At night. In the woods.”
Wind, who has been happily chewing on something that may or may not technically be his, sits up. “I think he’s nice.”
There is a pause.
Four looks up from where he’s been checking the edge on one of the swords with grim focus. “Wind.”
Wind blinks. “What?”
Four stares at him with the expression of a man who knows precisely how the universe punishes optimism. “You cannot decide someone is nice because they smiled at you once.”
Wind shrugs. “He smiled at me twice.”
Legend groans. “I hate it here.”
Hyrule stirs the stew, spoon scraping softly against the pot. “He was… polite.” he offers, measured.
Legend points at him without looking. “That’s worse.”
Hyrule frowns. “How is that worse.”
“Because polite strangers with perfect posture are either nobles, conmen, or possessed.” Legend replies. “Sometimes all three.”
Wild raises a finger. “He did have business cards.”
Twilight rubs his face. “He had paperwork.”
Four adds, grim, “He tried to invoice a child.”
Wind beams. “But he helped with the dog!”
“He screamed at the dog.” Four corrects flatly.
Wind nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! Like a kettle!”
Sky makes a small, strangled sound that might be a laugh if he weren’t fighting it so hard. Twilight coughs, suspiciously. Even Warriors’s mouth twitches for half a heartbeat before he forces it flat again. Warriors points at Wind without looking away from the trees. “You are not allowed to repeat that, it could hurt feelings.”
Wind nods solemnly. “Okay.”
Then, inevitably “But it was really funny.”
Legend leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing toward the dark, “So. What are we thinking. Weird hero? Real hero? Fake hero? Secretly three Koroks in a tunic?”
Wild gasps. “That would explain the cleanliness. Koroks like it tidy.”
Wind grins. “Weird hero.”
Four says immediately, “Fake hero.”
Hyrule hesitates. “Lost hero.”
Legend nods. “Demon.”
Sky opens his mouth, closes it, then says carefully, “Someone who doesn’t know where he belongs.”
Legend stares at him. “Sky.”
“I’m just saying.” He defends, palms up.
Twilight shifts, finally sitting upright. “He didn’t feel like a monster.”
Four doesn’t look up. “Neither do wolves.”
Warriors exhales slowly. “He has the Triforce.”
That lands like a stone dropped into water.
Sky’s hands still. Twilight’s posture tightens. Even Wild sobers a fraction.
“And that,” Legend says slowly, “is the part that bothers me.”
Time has been quiet through all of this, gaze fixed on the fire as though it might confess something if stared at long enough. When he speaks, he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
“He is trained.” Time says.
Everyone goes just a little more still.
“He moves like someone who expects violence.” Time continues. “Not because he enjoys it. Because he’s prepared for it.”
Legend scoffs. “So are jugglers.”
Time’s eye flicks to him. “Jugglers don’t watch exits.”
Wild rolls his eyes. “Jugglers aren’t even real.”
Everyone stares silently at Wild for a few moments.
Warriors’s jaw tightens. “He watches us.”
Sky frowns. “He listens.”
Wild tilts his head. “He judges.”
Wind grins. “He dresses like he’s going to sue someone.”
Twilight mutters, “He acts like he’s already decided how this ends.”
Another pause settles in, heavier now. “What if,” Hyrule says slowly, “he’s like us. Another one pulled through. Another hero dropped into the wrong place.”
Four looks up at that. “Then he’ll have a story.”
Legend nods sharply. “And if he doesn’t?”
Warriors answers, flat. “Then he’s lying.”
Wind raises a hand. “Are we keeping him?”
Legend turns to him in disbelief. “We are not keeping him.”
Time finally looks up. “We invited him.” he says simply.
Warriors’s shoulders lift and fall with a measured breath. “He does have the Triforce.”
Legend immediately shakes his head. “No, even so this one’s wrong.”
Four’s voice is flat. “Everything about him is wrong.”
Wild rolls onto his stomach, chin in his hands, delighted. “He’s like if someone tried to sell being a hero.”
Sky smiles faintly despite himself. “He did have business cards.”
Twilight rubs a hand down his face. “He had paperwork.”
Legend shudders theatrically. “He had a clipboard.”
Wind looks between them, confused. “But he helped with the dog.”
“Not out of the kindness of his heart.” Four corrects.
Twilight sighs. “Okay, let’s stop rehashing this.”
Sky adds quietly, “He looked lonely.”
Legend stares at the sky like he’s reconsidering his life choices. “I swear, one day that instinct of yours is going to get us all cursed.”
Wild smiles. “It hasn’t failed us yet.”
Warriors’s jaw tightens. “He knows how to speak like a salesman, what if he’s conning us.”
Sky’s brows knit. “But… he didn’t feel malicious, and you said it yourself, Triforce.”
Legend looks at Sky like Sky has just said something deeply offensive. “Sky. Sweetheart. Villains in disguise don’t feel malicious. That’s literally their whole thing.”
Sky flushes. “I’m just saying…!”
Wind tilts his head, asking for the second time. “Are we gonna keep him?”
Legend stares at Wind. “For the last time we’re not adopting strays.”
Time finally looks up. His gaze moves, slow and thoughtful, from Wind to Warriors to Sky, as if taking stock of the whole camp the way he takes stock of a battlefield. “I agree with Sky, he does seem lonely, and as far as I can tell he’s one of us.”
Legend throws his head back in silent agony. “Oh for Hylia’s sake, can we just make a decision.”
Wild sits up, eyes bright. “He did look lonely though. Like a dramatic statue in a museum.”
Twilight mutters, “And that makes him the perfect angel?”
Hyrule stirs the stew a little harder, like agitation can be transferred into soup. “We should let him stay, Hylia knows I was a little strange too at first, and I hope you’re all glad you gave me a chance.”
Four glances up, expression serious. “What if he’s some sort of… I don’t know, demon?”
Wind raises his hand. “We poke him with the sword.”
Sky looks alarmed. “Wind!”
Wind shrugs. “Its worked before!”
Warriors pinches the bridge of his nose. “No one is poking anyone with the sword unless absolutely necessary.”
Wild, starry-eyed, “Counterpoint: it would be funny.”
Time’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “We do not make decisions based on whether they would be funny.”
Legend mutters, “We absolutely do.”
Another pause. Legend opens his mouth to argue, and then the forest shifts.
Just slightly. A soft rustle of leaves. Footsteps, unhurried. Warriors straightens instantly. Twilight’s hand drifts toward his sword. Four’s grip tightens. Wind perks up like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“He’s back.” Wind whispers, delighted.
Time lifts a hand, not commanding, just steadying.
The footsteps break into the clearing. Hire steps into the firelight looking exactly as he always does: composed, neat, faintly tired. The expression of a man who has simply taken a thoughtful walk and absolutely not argued with an ancient god of hatred or kicked any rocks in frustration. Warriors watches him like a storm front. Legend watches him like a card trick. Sky watches him like someone deciding whether to offer a blanket. Time watches him like a door that’s already been measured for hinges. Hire smiles, polite and pleasant. The camp, collectively, pretends they weren’t just debating whether to stab him. And the fire crackles on, perfectly content to witness whatever comes next.