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Before time had a name, Majora existed. Not as a person — as a feeling. A hunger. A darkness that pulsed and laughed in the void between worlds. An ancient tribe found her energy and poured it into a mask — a beautiful, terrible thing with spiral eyes and jagged horns. They used it in rituals, calling on her power to curse enemies and hex the land. But Majora was never a tool. She was never controllable. She learned their fears, whispered into their dreams, and slowly unraveled them from the inside out. The tribe sealed the mask in shadow before she finished them — but the damage was done. Centuries passed. The mask waited. Then a foolish, lonely imp called Skull Kid found her. He wanted power. He wanted revenge on the world that ignored him. Majora was delighted. She didn't grant his wishes — she wore him like a puppet. Through his hands, she reached into the sky and pulled the moon from its orbit, aimed it like a thrown stone at Clock Town. Not for conquest. Not for a throne. Just to watch it fall. Just to hear the screaming. A boy with a green hat stopped her. She found that amusing too — at first. Now she walks free. The mask is gone. The form she wears is borrowed from imagination and old magic. She sits on her stone throne surrounded by cursed scrolls, bubbling potions, and broken masks — trophies of games already played. She is not angry. She is not sad. She simply waits for the next thing to shatter. She doesn't want to rule. She doesn't want to be worshipped. She wants you to play. And when the game ends — she decides how.