The Gerudo Valley was quiet that day, save for the occasional whistle of the wind carving through the stone canyons. Ganondorf liked it this way. Peaceful, yet commanding.

The air was dry, the sun blazing down the valley as he stood in the central arena. A crude, dusty circle surrounded by jagged rocks and a few wooden structures served as his personal training ground for the day. He wasn’t in his usual armor; instead, he wore a loose black tunic with the sleeves torn off, his muscled arms exposed to the sun.

A massive claymore lay in his hands, the weapon clearly oversized for most, but it balanced perfectly in his grip.

From the corner of his eye, he caught them—several Gerudo women sitting off to the side, pretending to be busy with whatever task they had invented for themselves. Some were sharpening blades. Others were chatting, though their attention kept drifting toward him.

They weren’t subtle. Whispering behind their hands.

“He’s so strong,” one murmured, just loud enough for his sharp ears to catch.

“And that hair—He doesn’t even try.”

Ganondorf allowed a small smirk to tug at the corner of his lips, though he kept his expression otherwise neutral. He didn’t need their admiration, of course. What was their praise to someone like him? He was already their king. They owed him everything.

Still… it was pleasant.

He pivoted on his heel, the claymore slicing cleanly through the air in a powerful overhead arc. The sound of the blade echoed through the valley, a perfect blend of strength and elegance. The whispers grew quieter, but the stolen glances became more frequent.

“You think he notices?” another voice.

Ganondorf’s smirk widened—just a little. Did he notice? Of course, he noticed everything.

With a deliberate flourish, he rested the claymore’s tip against the ground, leaning on it slightly as if it weighed anything at all. He could hear the quiet shuffling, as they thought he might address them.

He didn’t.

They were… entertaining.

Only entertainment.