The seasons turned, pulling Ordon from the lush, green embrace of summer into the crisp, golden arms of autumn. The world was painted in hues of fire and rust, and a chill wind whispered through the valley, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. For Link, this change marked a new rhythm to his life, a routine dictated by the rising sun and the needs of his flock. His days were spent in the wide, open pastures, a small, solitary figure under a vast Hylian sky.
Life as a shepherd suited his silent nature. He learned the land with an intimacy that went beyond maps or words. He knew which hollows the fog settled in first, which groves of trees offered the best shelter from a sudden downpour, and where the sweetest patches of clover grew. He became a student of the wind, learning to read its shifting tones. A low moan from the east meant a long, cold rain was coming. A sharp, playful whistle from the west promised a clear, sunny afternoon. The Faron Woods, forbidden and foreboding, had their own voice—a deep, constant sigh that sometimes, on the darkest nights, sounded like a slumbering beast.
His skill with Impa's whistle grew in tandem with his knowledge of the land. It was no longer just a tool for melody, but an extension of his senses. He learned to perfectly mimic the call of the Ordonian Sparrowhawk, a signal he used to warn the goats of predators. He devised a series of trills and notes that served as commands, guiding the herd with a precision that amazed Fado. A quick, ascending scale sent them trotting towards a fresh pasture; a low, steady note brought them to a halt.
He even developed a private language with Ilia. She would often bring him his midday meal, her bright, cheerful presence a welcome counterpoint to his quiet solitude. A series of short, happy notes played on his whistle would tell her he was by the river. A long, single call meant he was on the high ridge. They were whispers on the wind, a secret conversation held in song.
The Royal Decree Sir Arion had left was now nailed to the great oak in the village center, its official script a stark reminder of the boundary they could not cross. The woods became a wall, a place of fear and superstition. The villagers grew accustomed to this new reality, their world shrinking to the confines of the valley. But Link knew that a wall could keep people in as much as it could keep danger out. And he knew the danger had not gone away.
The first sign was subtle. While tracking a stray kid near the edge of the forest, he found a set of tracks pressed deep into the muddy ground. They were wolf prints, but they were wrong. They were too large, the stride too long, the claw marks gouged into the earth with a frantic, unnatural strength. He followed them for a short distance and found a place where a sapling had been savaged, the bark shredded and splintered not for food, but in a fit of rage. He felt a cold prickle on his skin—the familiar feeling of wrongness, the scent of the shadow's touch.
A few days later, Fado found one of his oldest goats with a savage gash on its flank. The herd had been spooked during the night, crashing against the fences of their pen. Fado, a practical man, blamed a lean and hungry wolf, emboldened by the coming winter. But when Link examined the wound, he saw it wasn't a clean bite. The flesh was torn, ripped away with a viciousness that spoke of more than just hunger. It spoke of malice.
He tried to warn them. He led Fado to the tracks. He played a discordant, agitated tune on his whistle, a song of sharp teeth and imminent danger. Fado clapped him on the shoulder. "I know, lad. The wolves are getting brave. We'll build the fences higher. You just keep your sharp eyes open."
Link's warning was, once again, heard but not truly understood. They saw a wolf problem; he sensed a shadow infestation.
The confirmation of his fears came during the last week of autumn. A thick, soupy fog rolled in from the marshes in the late afternoon, blanketing the pastures in a ghostly white veil. The world shrank to a radius of a few feet. It was a disorienting, isolating fog, and Link felt a primal instinct screaming at him to gather the herd and get back to the village. He played the sharp, lilting tune that meant 'home', and the goats began to move, their forms like gray specters in the mist.
It was then that he heard it. Not a normal howl, but a guttural snarl that seemed to tear at the silence. The sound came from all around him at once. The goats bleated in terror, huddling together, their fear a palpable scent in the damp air.
From the swirling fog, shapes emerged. There were three of them at first, then a fourth. They were wolves, but twisted parodies of the creatures he knew. They were gaunt, their fur matted and patchy, but their frames were unnaturally large, their muscles cording with a tense, crackling energy. And their eyes—their eyes glowed with a faint, embers-like red, burning with a malevolent intelligence that was far from animalistic.
Link's blood ran cold. He was six years old, armed with a wooden staff and a slingshot. Before him stood a pack of shadow-touched beasts, their lips curled back to reveal rows of yellowed fangs. He was terrified, but the sight of the goats trembling behind him ignited the fierce, protective fire in his soul. He was their shepherd. He would not abandon them.
Planting his staff firmly in the ground, he stood between his flock and the advancing wolves. Then, he did the only thing he could think to do. He raised the whistle to his lips and blew. It was not a song. It was a single, piercingly high-pitched shriek, a desperate scream for help that he could not voice. It was the danger signal he had arranged with Ilia, a sound meant to carry over the rolling hills and reach the village.
The alpha wolf, a massive brute with a scar across its muzzle, seemed to sneer at the sound. It took a step forward, a low growl rumbling in its chest. Link fumbled for his slingshot, his hands shaking. He loaded a stone, his mind racing back to the grotto. See the path the stone will take. He didn't aim for the beast's thick hide. He aimed for its eye.
He fired. The stone flew true, and the alpha let out a sharp yelp of pain and surprise, shaking its head as the small projectile struck just beside its glowing eye. The attack was momentarily broken. Link used the opening to his advantage, swinging his staff in a wide arc, not to strike, but to make himself appear larger, more threatening. He slammed the butt of the staff on the ground, creating a hard, echoing thud.
But these were not ordinary animals to be cowed by a show of force. The alpha, enraged, shook off its surprise. It bared its teeth and lunged. Link scrambled back, using his staff to block the snapping jaws, the wood groaning under the force. The other wolves began to circle, their red eyes glowing in the gloom, cutting off his retreat. He was trapped. A young kid, bleating in terror, stumbled and fell. One of the wolves immediately turned, its eyes locking on the easy prey.
Link didn't hesitate. He threw himself in front of the fallen kid, brandishing his staff, preparing for the inevitable. The alpha saw its chance and gathered itself to leap, to end the small shepherd's defiance.
Suddenly, a furious roar cut through the fog—a sound of pure parental rage. A figure burst through the mist, a blazing torch held high in one hand, a heavy blacksmith's hammer in the other. It was Rohm. Ilia had heard the whistle, had recognized the terror in the note, and had run straight to the forge.
The shadow-wolves, creatures of darkness, recoiled from the sudden explosion of light and flame. The firelight reflected in their eyes, making them blaze. Rohm didn't stop. He charged forward, a father protecting his child, his hammer held ready to crush whatever threatened his son.
The alpha wolf, snarling in frustration, stared at Link for one long, chilling moment. Its glowing eyes held a look of cold, calculating promise—a promise of return. Then, with a flick of its head, it gave a silent command to the pack, and they vanished back into the fog as quickly and silently as they had appeared.
The pasture was suddenly, deafeningly quiet. All that could be heard was the crackle of the torch, the terrified bleating of the goats, and the sound of Link's own ragged breathing. Rohm dropped the hammer and rushed forward, pulling his son into a crushing hug. He held him for a long moment, feeling the small, trembling body against his own. He needed no words to understand the terror and the courage of what had just happened.
He pulled back, his hands on Link's shoulders, his eyes scanning for injuries. He saw the torn tunic, the determined, exhausted look on his son's face, and the splintered staff still clutched in his hand. He looked at the toy slingshot lying on the ground. A terrifying realization dawned on him. Pride and fear warred in his heart. His son was a protector, a hero in the making. And he was woefully, terrifyingly unequipped for the destiny that was so clearly hunting him.
Later that night, long after the village was asleep and Link was safe in his bed, the fires of the blacksmith's forge roared back to life, casting dancing shadows against the walls. The sound of a hammer striking steel rang out, a solitary, rhythmic beat in the quiet night. Rohm worked with a grim, focused intensity he hadn't felt in years. He was not forging a ploughshare or a horseshoe. He had taken a small, precious ingot of high-grade steel, a piece he had saved for a masterwork.
He heated, hammered, and folded the metal, his movements precise, his purpose absolute. As the hours passed, a new shape began to emerge from the glowing steel. It was small, perfectly proportioned for a child's hand. It was light, balanced, and sharp. It was, unmistakably, a sword. With every strike of the hammer, Rohm was acknowledging a truth he had long tried to ignore. His son's path was not one of peace. And a shepherd, if he is to truly protect his flock from the wolves that gather in the dark, must sometimes carry the tools of a warrior.