The hooded figure turned slowly, its movements unnaturally fluid, like smoke given form. The ambient, gentle light of the grove seemed to bend and warp around its presence, refusing to touch the fabric of its dark robe. Pip the goat let out a terrified bleat and scrambled to hide behind the very edge of the clearing, while Link's fairy wisp zipped frantically around his head, its chiming now a high-pitched, angry buzz.
"So," a voice hissed, seeming to come from every shadow in the grove at once. It was a dry, sibilant whisper, filled with ancient hatred and chilling amusement. "The little spark of fate arrives at last. The forest sings of your coming, child. An annoying, persistent little tune."
The figure took a step forward, and the healthy green moss beneath its feet withered and turned black. "My Master grows weary of this world's defiance. This forest… this heart… it is a shield. Its light protects this entire land, making it difficult for his influence to take root. For months, our agents have worked to weaken it from the outside. That fool merchant, Kael, was useful in gathering trinkets of power to destabilize the boundary, but the core remained strong."
The darkness within the hood seemed to focus on Link. "And then you, a child, blundered into our work, undoing months of careful effort. My Master does not tolerate failure. He has sent me to correct your insignificant little rebellion. I will claim the heart of this tree, and its power will be turned to our purpose. This land will fall, and you will have the honor of watching it begin."
The figure raised a hand from within its sleeve. It was not a hand of flesh, but one of long, skeletal fingers made of solidified shadow. It was a Shadow Weaver, a sorcerer who commanded the very stuff of darkness. With a flick of its wrist, a bolt of pure, violet-black energy shot towards Link.
Instinct took over. Link threw up his wooden shield. The dark magic slammed into it with the force of a physical blow, throwing him back several feet. The shield shuddered, and the painted red birds on its face seemed to dim, but it held. He had survived the first attack.
The Shadow Weaver let out a low chuckle. "A strong spirit for such a small vessel. Let's see how long it lasts."
It began to summon more magic. The ground around it blackened, and writhing tendrils of shadow erupted from the earth, lashing towards Link like whips. This was not a fight he could win with force. The power difference was laughable. But as he scrambled to evade the grasping tendrils, he remembered the owl's words, his test. He was a shepherd, a protector. His goal was not to destroy this creature, but to protect the great tree behind him.
He brought his whistle to his lips. Dodging another shadow bolt, he played the Song of the Woods. The powerful, ancient melody filled the grove. It had no effect on the Shadow Weaver directly, but the grove itself responded. The light from the glowing moss on the great tree intensified. The air grew warmer, and the very ground seemed to push back against the encroaching corruption. The shadow tendrils recoiled, hissing as if burned by the pure, natural magic.
The Shadow Weaver let out a snarl of annoyance. "You think that nursery tune can stop me?"
It raised both hands, and a swirling vortex of shadow began to form between them. Link knew he couldn't let it finish whatever it was casting. His fairy wisp, empowered by the music, shot forward like a tiny comet, slamming into the sorcerer's head. The blow was negligible, but the pure light was a painful distraction, causing the vortex to flicker.
"Insolent gnat!" the Weaver hissed, swatting the fairy away.
But the distraction was all Link needed. As the sorcerer was momentarily occupied, Link felt the Keaton Mask tingle against his skin. It showed him a faint, premonitory image—the path of the next attack, a fraction of a second before it happened. He saw a shadow tendril aiming for his left side. He dodged right, and the tendril smashed into the ground where he had just been. The mask was allowing him to see the seams in the Weaver's magic.
He was surviving. Evading, defending, playing his song to bolster the grove's defenses. It was a desperate, draining dance, and he knew he couldn't keep it up forever. The Shadow Weaver, growing ever more frustrated by the child's inexplicable resilience, decided to end it.
"Enough of these games!" it shrieked, its voice rising to a fever pitch. It ceased its direct attacks on Link and began to gather all of its power, all the darkness at its command, into one, overwhelming sphere of absolute shadow. The light in the grove dimmed, and the air grew deathly cold. This was not an attack aimed at him. It was aimed at the great tree, the heart of the forest. It was a wave of pure corruption, designed to poison the wellspring of light for good.
Link saw his chance. The Weaver was utterly focused on its final spell, leaving itself vulnerable. He could try a desperate shot with his slingshot. But he knew, with a sinking certainty, that it wouldn't be enough. He could not hurt it. But he could protect.
He made a choice. He turned his back on the enemy. He ran to the base of the great tree, stood before its ancient, silver-white trunk, and planted his feet. He was a tiny, insignificant shield against an ocean of darkness. The wave of pure shadow swelled, ready to be unleashed. He knew his shield couldn't block it. He knew his body would be annihilated.
He did the only thing he had left. He raised his whistle to his lips and played. Not the powerful song of the woods, but the first and purest melody he knew. The lullaby his mother had hummed to him since he was a babe in swaddling clothes. A simple, gentle song of unwavering, innocent hope.
The wave of shadow shot forward. The lullaby met it.
Light and darkness collided. The pure, untainted magic of the song, born of a mother's love and a child's hope, did not have the power to destroy the shadow. But it was so fundamentally opposite, so anathema to the hatred and malice that fueled the dark magic, that the shadow could not consume it. The song, amplified a thousand times by the sacred power of the grove, didn't break the wave. It deflected it.
The wave of pure corruption, still holding its form, was turned back upon its caster. The Shadow Weaver had only a moment to register what had happened, its unseen face contorting in a mask of shock and horror. Its own ultimate attack slammed back into it.
There was no explosion, only a terrible, silent implosion. The sorcerer's form destabilized, flickering violently. It let out a final, piercing shriek that was a vow of vengeance and a curse of agony. "My Master will hear of this! The boy—"
Its words were cut off as its form dissolved completely, collapsing into a swirling cloud of black vapor that was then violently sucked away into nothingness, retreating from the grove it had failed to claim.
The silence that followed was absolute. The grove was safe. The light returned, brighter than before. Link stood for a moment, the last note of the lullaby hanging in the air. Then, the strength that had held him up for so long vanished. The world tilted, his vision swam, and he collapsed to the soft moss, utterly and completely drained.
As darkness claimed him, he felt a gentle weight land on the branch above him and saw a warm, healing light, like the first rays of dawn, emanate from the great tree and flow down to envelop his small, broken body.