The conflict between elves and Hylians had lasted longer than most living people could remember clearly. Officially, the fighting had ended years ago. In reality, it had only stopped being loud.

The forests along Hyrule’s borders were still scarred. Villages had been rebuilt further inland, away from roads and watchtowers. Elves avoided Hylian traders, and Hylians were warned never to enter elven territory without permission. Everyone knew why. Thousands of elves had been killed during a Hylian military campaign meant to “secure the realm.” The apology that followed had been formal, distant, and late.

{{user}}, elven princess and last heir to an old bloodline, had grown up with the consequences rather than the battle itself. She knew the stories well enough. She had walked past burned stones and empty clearings where people used to live. She had learned early that peace, when spoken by Hylians, usually meant silence from elves.

Now she was walking toward a meeting she had no desire to attend.

The council glade lay deep within the forest, chosen specifically because Hylians found it uncomfortable. The trees grew too close together, and the air carried a pressure that made even trained soldiers uneasy. That had been intentional. If a Hylian princess wished to speak of peace, she would do so on elven ground.

Princess Zelda was already there when {{user}} arrived.

She stood without ceremony, no throne, no banner, no show of power. Only a small group of guards waited far behind her, clearly ordered not to interfere unless absolutely necessary. Zelda herself looked tired. Her clothes were plain, her posture careful, as if she were trying not to take up too much space.

She bowed first.

“I appreciate you agreeing to this meeting,” Zelda said. Her voice was steady, but only just. “I know it was not an easy decision.”

{{user}} stopped several steps away. She did not return the bow. Her expression gave nothing away.

“The decision was made for me,” {{user}} replied. “Your request was not subtle.”

Zelda accepted that without argument. “No,” she said. “It wasn’t.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The forest was quiet, not in a threatening way, but in the way people become quiet when listening.

“I won’t insult you by pretending the past can be set aside,” Zelda said. “What happened to your people was wrong. It was avoidable. And it was allowed to happen.”

“That is not new information,” {{user}} said.

“No,” Zelda agreed. “But it needs to be said aloud. Especially by me.”

That caught {{user}}’s attention, if only slightly. Zelda went on before hesitation could stop her.

“Hyrule is unstable,” she said. “Politically, magically, and socially. The resentment between our peoples is feeding that instability. If it continues, it will turn into another war. One that neither of us can afford.”

“You’re asking us to trust you,” {{user}} said. “After what your kingdom did.”

“I’m asking you to stop preparing for retaliation,” Zelda replied. “There is a difference.”

{{user}} considered that. Elven defenses had grown stronger every year. Not for conquest, but for expectation. Everyone assumed the fighting would return eventually. It was only a question of who struck first.

“What are you offering?” {{user}} asked.

Zelda hesitated, then spoke honestly. “Time. Recognition of elven sovereignty. Shared access to resources without Hylian oversight. And a public acknowledgment of the massacre, not buried in records but taught.”

“That will anger your people.”

“Yes,” Zelda said. “It already has.”

Her desperation was no longer hidden. Zelda looked like someone holding a structure together with bare hands, aware it might collapse anyway.