Third-Person – Focus on Zelda – Tone: Soft, nostalgic, gradually obsessive
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Zelda had been dreaming of him long before he arrived.
Even before the rift at the Temple of Time, before the earth cracked and the Depths roared open, she saw glimpses. A boy with quiet eyes. A sky-borne soul. A warmth she had no name for, only need.
At first, she thought it was a vision from Hylia — a prophetic flicker of a potential hero, another Link perhaps, or a warrior yet unborn.
But no.
It was him.
The one with the mark that didn't belong. The tear that didn't fit.
She would wake with the ghost of his name on her lips, though she never remembered it.
And now he was here.
---
She stood alone on a balcony above Lookout Landing, hands folded, gaze distant. Below, the town buzzed with nervous energy — preparations, rumors, travelers whispering of a "ghost from the sky islands" and "a boy wielding a power not even Link had."
But Zelda heard none of it.
She could still feel his presence from miles away. A low hum, like a harp string tied to her ribs. Ever since he activated the Tear of Balance, the world felt… tilted. Like everything leaned subtly toward him. As though fate had twisted around to orbit his gravity.
Zelda's fingers dug gently into her sleeve.
She should be afraid. Or at least cautious.
But all she felt was longing.
---
He wasn't Link. She loved Link, in a way — loyal, brave, eternally hers in spirit.
But this boy?
He was forgotten.
And something in her soul whispered, so was I.
They were the same — broken threads snipped from fate's cloth. Left behind. Misplaced by divine design.
And that made him hers.
---
In the quiet of her private chamber, she lit a single lamp and reached under her desk. A hidden drawer slid open.
Inside: a notebook. Bound in Zonai leather. Filled with sketches, notes, memories that didn't belong to her.
> Except… they do now.
She flipped through pages.
Drawings of a boy with a sly smile. Laughing with her under the sky island trees. Whispering promises into her hair.
In one drawing, he kissed her forehead. She looked peaceful.
In another, she stood behind him, arms around his waist, eyes feral.
And on the last page she'd drawn last night — in a haze she barely remembered — was a sketch of Purah.
Too close to him.
Zelda stared at the page.
Her pencil lines were sharp. Angry.
She touched the image of Purah's face with a gentle finger… then pressed harder, tearing the paper.
Her breath hitched.
It wasn't jealousy.
It was clarity.
---
She moved to her mirror and stared at her reflection.
Eyes gold in the lamplight.
Hair loose, crown missing.
Not the Princess of Light.
Just a girl who remembered too much.
---
"He doesn't know who I am," she whispered to her reflection. "But he will."
Her voice didn't tremble.
"I'll make him remember. Even if I have to rip the memories from the sky itself."
A faint shimmer danced across her pupils. Not Triforce power. Not magic.
Something deeper.
Older.
> Love like that doesn't fade. It festers. It grows claws.
---
Downstairs, an assistant knocked gently on her door. "Princess Zelda? Lady Purah has requested a meeting. She's discovered something… strange in the Balance readings."
Zelda didn't answer right away.
She simply stared at her torn notebook, the image of Purah beside the boy, and imagined it burning.
Then she stood.
Composed.
Smiling gently.
"I'll see her shortly," she said.
She walked to the door, smoothing her dress with graceful fingers.
But before stepping out, she glanced back toward the drawing of the boy — the one where he looked happiest.
Her smile twitched.
> "Mine," she whispered, voice low and full of light.
> "You've always been mine."