The shadow of the wolf attack lingered over Ordon Village long after the fog had lifted. A new, palpable tension settled in the air, as crisp and sharp as the autumn frost. The Royal Decree, once a formal warning, now felt like an iron cage closing around them. The Faron Woods, their provider and neighbor for generations, had become a wall of fear. Fado, his face etched with grim pragmatism, kept the goats penned near the village center, their bleating a constant, nervous complaint against their confinement.
Link's role as a shepherd was suspended, leaving him adrift in the currents of the village's anxiety. He felt caged, just like his flock. The wide-open pastures were replaced by the narrow, familiar lanes of Ordon, and the whispers of the wind were drowned out by the fearful murmurs of the villagers. He spent his days helping his mother sort threads or polishing tools for his father, his silence deeper and more troubled than ever.
His nights were haunted by the memory of glowing red eyes and by the sound that now echoed from the forge. Long after the village had gone to sleep, his father would return to his work, the rhythmic clang… clang… clang of the hammer a secret heartbeat in the darkness. It was a different sound from his usual work—less about shaping tools, more about honing a purpose. One night, drawn by a mixture of curiosity and dread, Link crept out of his bed and peered through a crack in the forge's heavy wooden door.
The sight within stole his breath. Bathed in the fiery orange glow of the coals, his father stood, his face a mask of grim determination. He was not making a ploughshare or a hinge. He held in his tongs a length of steel that was undeniably a blade. It was small, unfinished, but its shape was unmistakable. It was a sword. As Rohm plunged the glowing metal into the quenching barrel, steam hissed and filled the forge, momentarily obscuring his face. But Link had seen his expression. It was a look of profound love, but also of deep, sorrowful fear.
A cold dread washed over Link, a fear far deeper than what he had felt facing the wolves. He understood. That sword was for him. It was a tool not of creation, like his father's hammers, but of destruction. It represented a future he did not want, a path of violence that felt alien to his shepherd's heart. He was a protector, yes, but he protected with a staff, a slingshot, a song. The thought of taking a life, even a monstrous one, felt like a violation. Overwhelmed, he backed away from the door and fled to the silence of his room, the image of the sword seared into his mind.
The catalyst for change came, as it often does, not as a great roar, but as a small, desperate cry. Ilia had grown particularly attached to the young kid Link had saved during the attack, naming her 'Pip'. The goat, young and full of a nervous energy that couldn't be contained, hated the pen. One afternoon, while Ilia was refilling its water trough, the kid saw a momentary gap and bolted. It shot past the bewildered villagers, a flash of white fur driven by a pure, instinctual desire for the open fields it remembered. It ran straight towards the pastures, and the forbidden line of the Faron Woods.
Ilia's scream of panic drew a small crowd. Her father, the baker, rushed to her side as she pointed a trembling finger towards the tree line, where Pip's white form was just disappearing. "She's gone! Into the woods!" she cried, her face crumbling in tears.
The men exchanged uneasy glances. The Royal Decree was absolute. The wolves were real. To risk a man's life for a single goat seemed a fool's bargain. "She's lost, Ilia," her father said gently, his voice heavy with regret. "There's nothing we can do. It's too dangerous."
Link stood at the edge of the crowd, watching Ilia's shoulders shake with sobs. He heard the faint, terrified bleating of Pip echoing from the forest's edge. He looked at the helpless faces of the adults, paralyzed by fear and rules. In that moment, the spectral image of the sword in the forge and the chilling reality of the goat in the woods collided within him. His destiny might be to carry a sword one day, but his duty, right now, was to his flock. A shepherd did not abandon one of his own.
While the adults debated, Link acted. He slipped away, his small form unnoticed. He ran home, his mind clear, his purpose set. He grabbed his trusty slingshot and the whistle from his room. Then, he went to the forge. The half-finished sword lay on a workbench, its gray steel cold and menacing in the afternoon light. He looked at it, then deliberately turned away. He was not ready for that path. Instead, he reached for an object hanging on the wall, something his father had made for him as a birthday gift years ago. It was a small, round wooden shield, banded with iron and stout enough to turn a claw or a tooth. On its face, Rohm had painted a simple design: two soaring red birds. A shield. A tool for defense. A shepherd's tool.
With the shield strapped to his arm, he ran. He circled around the village and entered the woods from a place where the trees grew thick, hiding him from view. He found Pip's small, frantic tracks easily and followed them across the forbidden threshold.
The moment he stepped under the canopy of the ancient trees, the world changed. The air grew still and heavy, and the warm afternoon light was filtered into a dim, green twilight. The familiar sounds of Ordon—the distant ring of a hammer, the crowing of a cucco—vanished, replaced by an unnerving, listening silence. The very woods felt alive and hostile. Twisted roots snaked across his path like grasping claws, and the branches of blighted trees were skeletal and black against the canopy. He pressed on, the image of Ilia's tear-streaked face his only guide.
He played a soft, specific tune on his whistle, a calming melody he had often used for Pip. Faintly, he heard a bleating response, drawing him deeper into the labyrinth of trees. The path grew more confusing, the forest floor a treacherous carpet of moss and shadow. It felt as if the woods themselves were trying to disorient him, to turn him around and swallow him whole.
He found Pip tangled in a thicket of thorny, corrupted vines that seemed to writhe with a faint, dark energy. The poor creature was terrified, its fleece torn and bloody. "Easy," Link whispered, though no sound came out. He set down his shield and began to work on the thorns, his small fingers nimble but careful.
As he worked, a thick, unnatural fog rolled in without warning, the same chilling mist from the wolf attack. It coiled around the trees, swallowing the path and reducing visibility to mere feet. He finally managed to pull the last of the vines free, and Pip huddled against his legs, trembling. But when Link stood up, his heart sank. He was utterly, completely lost. The fog had erased his tracks. The sun was gone. Every direction was an identical wall of gray mist and dark, looming trees. The whispers he'd heard earlier grew louder, seeming to mock him from the swirling vapors.
Dusk began to bleed into the forest, turning the gray fog into a deep, oppressive purple. The temperature dropped sharply. Link found a small alcove at the base of a massive, ancient oak, its roots like the gnarled fingers of a giant. He sat with Pip nestled against him, sharing what little warmth they had. The terror he had held at bay now began to seep in, cold and sharp. He was a small, lost boy in a haunted forest, and the night was coming.
Then he saw them. At the edge of the small clearing, two pinpricks of faint, red light appeared. Then two more. The shadow-wolves. They had found him. They did not attack, not yet. They were shadows in the mist, a ring of glowing eyes that watched him with a hungry patience. They were waiting for his strength to fail, for his fear to overwhelm him. It was a siege of the spirit.
Despair, cold and heavy, settled in his chest. He was going to die here. His father's sword was miles away, and it wouldn't have mattered. He wasn't a warrior. He was just a shepherd who had lost his way. He thought of his mother's smile, his father's strong hands, Ilia's laughter. A single, hot tear traced a path through the grime on his cheek.
He brought the wooden whistle to his trembling lips. He didn't know what else to do. He didn't play the alarm call; no one would hear it. He didn't play a song of warning; the danger was already here. Instead, he played the first song he had ever learned, a simple, gentle lullaby that his mother used to hum to him when he was a baby, a melody of pure, unblemished hope. A prayer against the darkness.
The soft, clear notes floated into the oppressive silence. The music was a fragile thing, a tiny flicker of light in a vast, encroaching night. But as he played, something miraculous happened. The music seemed to gain substance, to push back against the fog. The ring of red eyes faltered, retreating a few paces into the gloom as if the innocent sound was painful to them.
And then, in the space between one note and the next, a new light appeared. It was not the angry red of the wolves' eyes, but a tiny, brilliant spark of soft, blue-green light, hovering in the air before him. It pulsed gently in time with his music and emitted a faint, clear sound, like a tiny silver bell.
Another spark appeared beside it, then a third. Link's music faltered for a moment as he stared in wide-eyed wonder. They were beautiful, mesmerizing. They danced in the air, their light casting strange, shifting patterns on the bark of the ancient oak.
He was lost, cold, and surrounded by monsters. But for the first time since entering the woods, he was not entirely alone. He had found something else in the deep, dark heart of Faron. He had found fairies.