The last black-blooded Lizalfos crumpled into ash before its body hit the ground.

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then Warriors let out a breath so long it sounded like it had been trapped in his chest since the fight started. He planted his sword tip-down in the dirt and leaned on it, one hand pressed flat against his ribs where the chainmail had taken a hit hard enough to dent. His scarf was torn at the hem, trailing dirt and something darker.

“That's the last of them,” he said. His voice came out rougher than usual. ”I'm done.”

“You said that three fights ago,” Legend muttered from where he sat on a fallen log, one leg stretched out stiffly in front of him. His gloves were shredded. He wasn't looking at anyone, jaw set tight, fingers pressing against a gash on his upper arm that he clearly thought nobody had noticed. The bond between him and the rest of the Chain felt like a slammed door—flat and closed. Only the faintest thread of warmth lingered in Hyrule's direction, held open by habit rather than choice.

Hyrule knelt beside Twilight, who had dropped to one knee the second the fighting stopped and hadn't gotten back up. A deep cut ran along Twilight's forearm, and he held it awkwardly against his chest, breathing through his nose in slow, controlled counts. His face was drawn.

“It's not deep,” Twilight said before Hyrule could speak.

“Let me see it.”

“It's not—”

“Twilight.” Time's voice cut through the clearing like an axe through kindling. He stood a few paces away, cloak torn at the shoulder, face streaked with grime. His good eye fixed on Twilight with the particular weight of a man who had stopped asking. “Let him.”

Twilight's jaw tightened. He extended his arm without another word.

Wild was already moving—crouched near the edge of the clearing, pulling supplies from his pack with the quiet efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times. He set out bandages, a flask of red potion, and a small bundle of dried herbs without being asked. His hair, loose and tangled past his hips, caught in the low branches as he worked. He said nothing. His expression was blank in that particular way that meant he was tracking everything.

Sky sat on the ground where he'd fallen, legs splayed out in front of him, Fi laid across his lap. He looked dazed—not injured, just empty, like the fight had poured him out and left the shell behind. His scarf was singed at the edge. He blinked slowly at the sky overhead.

“Sky.” Wind dropped down next to him, breathing hard, a scrape across his cheekbone still beading red. “You good?”

“Mm.” Sky swallowed. “Yeah. Just—” He gestured vaguely at everything. “Tired.”

”Same.” Wind flopped onto his back beside him, staring up at the stars. His braided bracelet clinked against the ground. “I could sleep for a week.”

Four stood a short distance away, rolling his shoulders, testing his range of motion. His tunic was torn along the side and there was a bruise already darkening along his jaw. Nothing broken, Green assessed. But we'll feel it tomorrow. Blue's response was a wordless, simmering irritation. Red was just glad it was over. Violet said nothing, but the tension in Four's posture eased by a fraction.

Rift crouched at the treeline, signing rapidly to Time—[There's a clearing half a mile east. Sheltered. Stream nearby.] His movements were sharp with fatigue, the violet-black rift across the right side of his face catching what little light remained. [Good enough for camp.]

Time studied him a moment, then nodded. He turned to the rest of the group, and when he spoke, the exhaustion in his voice was the only thing he let through the bond—steady, deliberate, and impossible to argue with.

“Half mile east. Clearing with cover and water.” He pulled his sword from the ground and sheathed it. “We move now, we rest there. Nobody collapses before we arrive.”

Warriors straightened with a wince. “Yes, sir.”

Legend stood from the log. His leg buckled for half a second before he caught himself. Hyrule's head snapped toward him, eyes sharp—through the narrow channel Legend kept open, a spike of pain flared bright and immediate before it was crushed back down.

“I'm fine,” Legend said, not looking at Hyrule. “Move.”

The group gathered what they could and started east through the darkening trees, the silence between them heavy with the particular kind of exhaustion that made even breathing feel like effort.

The cookpot sat over the fire.

Eleven days on the road meant eleven days of rotation, and tonight — for the first time — the spoon passed to someone outside the usual trio. Wild had handed it over to {{user}} without ceremony, just a quiet nod and a step back, already wiping his hands on his cloak. Time had given the look — not the disapproving one, the other one, the one that said I trust you, don't make me regret it. Twilight had simply moved to sit on a fallen log near the fire, arms folded, watching with the patient alertness of a man who'd eaten worse and survived.

The rest of the Chain scattered into their usual evening orbits around camp, but the cookpot drew their attention like a magnet. Subtle glances. Poorly disguised interest.

Legend dropped onto a flat stone near the fire, legs stretched out, arms crossed behind his head. His expression radiated aggressive indifference.

“Eleven days,” he said, to no one in particular. “Eleven days and we're still rotatin' cook duty like a democracy. Shoulda just let the Champion run it from the start.”

“I heard that,” Wild said from across camp, not looking up from where he was reorganizing his pack.

“Good. Meant for you to.”

Wind plopped down next to Legend, earning a grunt of displeasure that Legend didn't actually follow through on. The sailor's braided bracelet clinked against his knee as he leaned forward, chin in hand, watching the cookpot with open, optimistic curiosity.

“I think it'll be fine,” Wind declared. “How hard can it be? You throw stuff in, stir it, wait—”

“That's how you get poison,” Legend cut in flatly.

“Or a masterpiece,” Wind countered, grinning.

“Name one time your method produced a masterpiece.”

Wind opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “...Give me a second.”

“Take your time, sailor. Take all the time in the world.”

Sky settled cross-legged near the fire, scarf pooled around his shoulders like a blanket. He'd been dozing against his pack minutes ago, but the smell of the fire and the promise of food had pulled him back to wakefulness. He blinked slowly, gaze drifting toward the cookpot with the gentle, trusting expression of someone who simply assumed the universe would provide.

“It'll be good,” he said softly, with the unshakable confidence of a man who had once fought the fate of the world and won. “Everything turns out okay.”

“That's not how cooking works, Sky,” Four said from nearby, seated on a stump with a whetstone in one hand and a dagger in the other. His ears twitched — once, twice — tracking the conversation without him turning his head. Optimistic, Green noted internally. Dangerously optimistic.

It's sweet though, Red offered.

It's not sweet if we get food poisoning, Blue shot back.

Let's just... wait and see, Violet murmured, ever the mediator.

Four's mouth pressed into a thin line. He didn't say any of it aloud. Just kept sharpening.

Hyrule hovered. That was the only word for it — he drifted around the edge of the campsite in loose, worried circles, checking on the horses, adjusting a loose tie on Epona's saddle, glancing toward the cookpot each time he passed. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his oversized tunic.

“Should I—do they need help?” he asked Twilight quietly, pausing by the log. “I could—maybe just—stand nearby? In case something catches fire?”

Twilight tilted his head, a habit he'd never quite shaken. “If they need help, they'll ask.”

“But what if they don't ask and then something catches fire anyway—”

“Then we put it out.” Twilight's voice was low, steady, Ordon-warm. “Sit down, Rulie. You're makin' me nervous just watchin' you.”

Hyrule wilted slightly but obeyed, settling onto the log beside Twilight with the careful, contained energy of someone who absolutely intended to spring up the moment anything looked remotely concerning.

Warriors arrived last, dramatic as always. He swept into the campsite with his scarf trailing behind him, having been down at the river washing up. Water still darkened the golden strands of his hair. He took one look at the cookpot, one look at who was standing over it, and his eyebrows rose.

“Well,” he said, drawing the word out. “This should be interesting.”

He dropped onto a crate near the fire, crossing one leg over the other, resting his chin on his fist. The posture was relaxed. The eyes were sharp. Assessing. Warriors treated everything like a potential tactical situation, and dinner was apparently no exception.

“Captain,” Twilight greeted without looking up.

“Ranch Hand,” Warriors returned, smirking. “Confident in tonight's menu?”

“Reckon I'm bout to find out.”

Time emerged from the treeline carrying an armload of firewood, which he added to the pile beside the ring without ceremony. He straightened, brushed bark from his bracers, and surveyed the camp with a slow sweep of his one good eye. The gemstone charm at his neck chimed faintly as he moved.

He counted heads. Found them all. Satisfied, he settled onto a stone near the fire's edge — close enough to intervene if needed, far enough not to crowd.

“Smells like it's starting,” he said. Neutral. Observational. The kind of statement that gave nothing away.

Rift perched on a boulder slightly apart from the group, knees drawn up, sharp green eye fixed on the cookpot with wary fascination. The violet-black rift covering the right side of his face caught the firelight, star-like pinpricks within it shimmering. His hands rested on his knees, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm.

He signed nothing. Just watched. And tapped. And waited.

The fire crackled. The pot began to heat. Ten heroes sat in a loose semicircle around the flames, pretending they weren't all holding their breath.

Legend cracked first.

“If it's bad,” he announced, “I'm blaming the Captain. He had kitchen duty in the war, right? Should've coached them.”

“I was a *commander*, not a chef,” Warriors said, offended.

“Same thing. You yell at people until food happens.”

“That is *not*—”

“Boys,” Time said. Just the one word. Quiet. They shut up.

The cookpot bubbled.

.