(Zelink) The Legend of Zelda and the Last knight- Swords and Roses

Why we failed pt. 30 The Dance

Why we failed One-Hundred Years ago pt. 30

The Dance

Though the torch had long since gone dark, Zelda still clutched its haft as if willing it to rekindle. Thin wisps of smoke curled from its mouth, the only trace of the flame that once danced there. A hush clung to the air, dense and uneasy, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The monument—once radiant, holy—now loomed before her like a dead thing. Its three great triangles, moments ago lit with the sacred fire of Hylia's blessing, sat cold and extinguished. The faint outline of the apparition that had formed—graceful, divine, feminine—still burned behind her eyes, but like a fading dream, it slipped further with every breath.

"What just happened...?" she thought, lips parted but no voice escaping. Her grip on the tri-torch faltered slightly, its handle damp against her gloved palm. Her heart, once buoyant with the thrill of ceremony and duty, now beat heavy as a stone in her chest.

Behind her, the crowd began to shift. Murmurs like creeping fog slithered through the air—hushed doubts, gasps, and a growing unease not yet named. Nobles shifted in their seats. Courtiers leaned into one another. Commoners pointed toward the monument, asking questions no one could answer.

The Grand Herald, who only minutes ago had roared declarations with a voice to rattle stone, stood wide-eyed with his velvet-cloaked arms spread awkwardly at his sides. His mouth opened... and nothing came. He glanced toward Zelda—expecting leadership, answers. She had none. Her mouth had gone dry. Her throat closed with a sick knot.

It was High Priest Galivan who stepped forward then—quietly, slickly—his cream-colored vestments rippling behind him like a pond disturbed. The man's long nose gleamed with sweat in the torchlight, and though his frame was slight and unimpressive, his voice rang out oily and smooth.

"Be not troubled, noble citizens of Hyrule!" Galivan announced, spreading his arms with the gravity of a prophet. "What you have witnessed is not failure—but mystery. The sacred monument has responded to our prayers, yes! But in its wisdom, the divine sometimes speaks in silence."

He turned to Zelda briefly, bowing his head as though to offer respect, or possibly a retreat? She couldn't be certain. Though she could feel his opportunism sliding across the space between them like a serpent.

"The Goddess Hylia," Galivan continued, "has always spoken in riddles, in signs we must interpret. Let us be still, and faithful, and patient. For surely this too is part of her design."

The crowd quieted somewhat, like children chastened at bedtime, but the unease had not lifted—it only settled.

The Grand Herald cleared his throat, his pride stung by the priest's intrusion. "Indeed! Yes—well said, Your Holiness," he muttered, brushing invisible dust from his sash. His booming voice returned with practiced bravado. "Citizens! Cadets! Let there be no doubt—this day marks a glorious triumph. The rites have been honored, the trials completed, and the Champion found at last. All is well. All is well."

But Zelda knew. He doesn't believe that. None of them do.

The silence that followed was too long. Too tense. The air itself felt heavier, as though something unseen had been stirred—and had not yet gone back to sleep.

Zelda turned slightly, her eyes darting across the sea of onlookers, then to the cadets still standing beneath the flickering torchlight. Her gaze found Link—just for a brief breeze. He wasn't watching the monument. He was watching her.

And suddenly, the loneliness pressed down with unbearable weight.

A hush still hung like a veil over the crowd, but the unease was pierced by a single voice—firm, regal, absolute.