Flames of the Spinjitzu Era

by AthenaWisdom1

Summary:

In the ancient, feudal era of Ninjago, power does not lie with the distant Imperial Family but within the hallowed walls of the Monastery of Spinjitzu. Here, the legendary First Spinjitzu Master and his two sons, Garmadon and Wu, rule not only with strength and wisdom but also with the fierce influence of their equally formidable wives. Sera, the regal and loving matriarch, commands respect with her gentle warmth. Arabella, Garmadon’s fiery and cunning wife. Aurora, Wu’s calm and radiant partner.

Together, these three women form an unbreakable bond of love and loyalty, steering the monastery’s fate while managing their often grumbling husbands.

Meanwhile, the next generation wrestles with duty and doubt. Lloyd has to deal with being the next heir, but of course, he has the ninja by his side. His sister has to deal with their adoptive cousin, Morro.

Amidst political intrigue, ninja training, and family drama, the monastery pulses with life—a place where tradition and fire collide, and where the true rulers of Ninjago hold sway.

(Basically a comedy of the Spinjitzu Family with my oc characters)

Chapter 1: Family Duties & Other Disasters

The forest lay silent beneath a pale morning sun, the soft rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird the only sounds in the cool air.

Shadows stretched long between ancient trunks, and a gentle breeze stirred the scent of pine and earth.

Suddenly, a sharp cry shattered the quiet. Three bandits, their ragged cloaks snagged on thorny branches, scrambled desperately through the underbrush, eyes wild with fear.

“Faster, you fools! They’re right behind us!” one hissed.

From the trees above, three figures dropped lightly to the ground, their laughter echoing through the woods.

“Kai, slow down! You’re gonna break your own legs chasing those knaves,” Jay teased, nudging his fiery friend.

Cole chuckled, “They’ve got nothing on us. I swear, they’re the slowest bandits in all Ninjago.”

Kai grinned, brushing sweat from his brow. “Maybe, but they still think they can outrun us." 

Emerging from a shadowed path came Nya, her expression calm but eyes sharp, followed closely by Lloyd, whose gaze was fixed forward, serious and intent.

Behind them stepped Zane, his movements measured and precise, analyzing every leaf and twig.

Last came Lysandra, her bright eyes sparkling with amusement as she watched the bandits struggle to escape.

“Looks like the party’s starting early today,” she remarked, drawing a slender sword with a flourish.

As the bandits reached a small clearing, the chase turned to confrontation. Kai dashed forward, flames licking at his fingertips.

Jay’s lightning crackled with a sharp snap. Cole’s ground-shaking fists cracked earth beneath him.

Nya’s water flowed like a river, smooth and powerful, guiding their strikes with grace. Lloyd moved with focused precision, every move deliberate and deadly. Zane’s cold calculations turned into swift, flawless actions.

Lysandra’s laughter rang out as she danced through the fray, her blade flashing, catching bandit after bandit off-guard.

“Honestly,” she called over her shoulder, “you’d think they’d learn by now. Bandits never change.”

Kai laughed, dodging a clumsy swing. “Neither do we!”

The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. The bandits lay disarmed and defeated, panting and glaring up at the group.

“Another easy morning,” Cole said, clapping his hands.

Jay winked at Lysandra. “You sure you don’t want to join the ninja full-time? You handle yourself pretty well.”

Lysandra smirked. “Maybe I like keeping you all on your toes.”

Nya crossed her arms, giving a rare small smile. “Let’s gather them up and report back. The monastery won’t like hearing about bandits so close.”

Lloyd nodded, eyes still sharp. “Something’s stirring. We need to be ready.”

The group moved back toward the monastery path, the forest once again falling into peaceful silence, but beneath it, the subtle hum of anticipation. 

The forest path beneath their feet was soft with fallen leaves and shaded by towering pines.

Birds sang unseen above, and shafts of sunlight filtered through the branches, casting a dappled glow on the group as they made their way back to the Monastery of Spinjitzu.

The crisp morning air carried a hint of damp earth and distant blooms, mingling with the faint, lingering scent of smoke from Kai’s earlier firebending.

Lloyd walked slightly ahead, his brow furrowed, eyes focused on the twisting trail before them.

The weight of the mission pressed heavily on his shoulders today, he could feel it like a tightening knot inside his chest.

“We can’t keep ignoring the signs,” Lloyd began, his voice low but firm. “Bandits, unrest in the villages, whispers of rival clans trying to undermine the monastery’s authority… Ninjago isn’t safe, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

Nya glanced sideways at him, her tone gentle but serious. “You carry so much on your shoulders, Lloyd. You’re not just the Green Ninja or the next Spinjitzu Master. You’re the hope everyone looks to, whether they say it or not.”

Kai’s fiery eyes softened as he fell in step beside Lloyd. “It’s true. When I was younger, I thought power was all about strength and fighting. But it’s more than that, especially for you. You have to be more than a warrior — you have to be a leader, a symbol.”

Lloyd nodded, swallowing hard. “I know. Sometimes I wonder if I’m ready for that. My grandfather… he set such a high standard. And my parents, they have their own legacies too. I don’t want to fail them, or the people.”

Nya reached out, placing a steady hand on his arm. “You won’t fail. You’re not alone in this. We’re all here — the ninja, the monastery, your family. You’ll learn to carry the weight, little by little.”

Kai smiled, though a flicker of concern shadowed his gaze. “And if you ever need to just be Lloyd, not a master or a symbol, we’ll be here for that too.”

Behind them, Jay and Cole exchanged amused looks as they walked side by side.

Jay nudged Cole, nodding toward Lysandra, who walked ahead with her usual confident, amused expression.

“Speaking of family,” Jay began, his grin mischievous, “what’s the deal with Lysandra and Morro? Betrothed, huh? Sounds like a story ripe with drama.”

Cole chuckled. “Oh, definitely. They don’t exactly see eye to eye. I mean, Morro’s Wu’s prized student — disciplined, serious, brooding. And Lysandra’s… well, Lysandra. Firecracker doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Jay laughed softly, folding his arms. “I can just picture the two of them sparring, both in training and in words. Bet it’s like watching a lightning storm and an earthquake try to get along.”

Cole shook his head with a smirk. “And don’t forget the political angle. Their marriage is supposed to unite them and bring the family closer or something, but with their personalities? It’s more like setting a powder keg on fire and hoping it doesn’t blow.”

Lysandra turned her head sharply, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Careful, you two. Talk like that and you might just give the old guards another reason to remind me why I should behave.”

Jay held up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, just stating facts. You’re the one who throws down with Morro every chance you get.”

Cole grinned. “Besides, we like watching the sparks fly. Makes things interesting.”

Lysandra rolled her eyes but laughed softly, a sound light enough to blend with the birdsong.

Ahead, Zane moved silently, his gaze ever observant, analyzing the terrain and their movements. His voice, calm and measured, broke the easy chatter.

“From a tactical standpoint, the unrest Lloyd mentioned is consistent with patterns seen in previous conflicts. If the bandits are only a symptom, then we must consider the underlying causes, political instability, faction rivalries, and possible interference from forces seeking to undermine the monastery’s influence.”

Kai frowned. “Sounds like we’re not just fighting bandits anymore.”

Nya’s eyes narrowed. “No. The peace we thought we had is fragile. And it’s up to us to keep it from shattering.”

Lloyd took a deep breath, feeling the strength of his friends beside him, each one a pillar of support and strength.

The path ahead was uncertain, fraught with danger and duty. But together, they would face whatever storms came.

As the monastery’s ancient rooftops peeked through the trees, a sense of resolve settled over the group. The true test was only just beginning.

The forest path curved gently before them, and as the morning sun rose higher, its golden light began to spill through the canopy, illuminating the way like nature herself was guiding them home.

And then, just beyond the final bend in the trail, the trees gave way.

There, nestled within a wide valley cradled by old mountains and mist-draped hills, stood the Monastery of Spinjitzu.

It emerged from the wilderness like a forgotten relic of some grand, sacred age.

Massive and timeless. Its burgundy walls, faded from centuries of weather and war, glowed faintly in the sunlight like embers that never fully died out.

The red lacquer paint peeled at the edges of each tiled corner, and the wood bore the beautiful wear of age,.weathered but proud, no less magnificent for the years etched into its bones.

Seven levels climbed toward the sky, each layered with swooping eaves and crimson-tiled roofs adorned with golden tips shaped like dragons curling skyward.

Lanterns dangled from the edges, still swaying from the morning breeze, and the sharp scent of incense drifted faintly from high within.

Before the Monastery stretched a wide, sweeping approach, not quite a road, not quite a courtyard, a stone-paved expanse shaded by tall pines.

At the end of this path, wide stone steps ascended to a broad veranda that wrapped around the building like an embracing arm.

The main double doors stood grand and tall at its center, lacquered black with golden rivets and ancient Spinjitzu symbols carved across the arch.

The Monastery was not just a home. It was a fortress, a sanctuary, a temple, and a throne. It breathed power in silence.

They walked slowly now, reverently, their earlier chatter softening to a hush as they passed between the rows of weathered stone lanterns flanking the pathway.

Even Jay, who had just moments ago been joking about romantic duels between Lysandra and Morro, grew quiet in the face of the sheer presence of the place.

To the east, a cluster of tall, wooden gates marked the beginning of the training grounds, sand arenas and elevated platforms rising in the distance like stages for legends.

To the west, the lush green flicker of courtyards unfolded between the buildings, gardens branching like veins through the monastery’s ancient body.

Further still, deeper into the heart of the monastery grounds, was a place even more serene.

Beyond carved stone paths and ornate bridges arcing over narrow streams, lay the Zen Garden, the oldest and most sacred space of all. It stretched wide and tranquil, embraced on all sides by the monastery’s protective arms.

A vast koi pond shimmered in the center, its surface glassy and still, save for the occasional ripple from a lazy golden fish or drifting lotus petal.

Smooth stepping stones wound across the water toward a small red bridge, its wood polished by generations of quiet footsteps.

The air here smelled different, warmer, older. Fresh herbs grew in orderly beds beside lavender and jasmine, their scent carried on the breeze.

Wildflowers crept across stone walls, while miniature maple trees arched with fire-colored leaves in the fall.

But nothing was more striking than the lone sakura tree, tall and elegant, blooming defiantly even in early spring. Its pink petals scattered like soft snow across the grass and water.

Nestled just beyond the tree was the onsen, a natural hot spring that steamed gently behind smooth, bamboo-panel screens. Built into the landscape, it was framed by rock and moss, silent and eternally warm, a place where the weary could heal, or hide, in its embrace.

It was a monastery, yes. But it was also a kingdom of its own.

And though no bells rang and no voices called out to greet them, the group knew they were seen. Always seen.

As they climbed the steps toward the veranda, wind brushed gently through the trees and petals drifted from the high balconies above, quiet reminders that the walls had eyes, and that peace here… was only ever the beginning.

The heavy doors creaked open with a slow, familiar groan, and the group stepped across the threshold.

Inside, the air changed, from forest-scented and sun-drenched to something quieter, deeper. The kind of stillness that soaked into wood and stone over centuries.

The entryway was simple but stately, lit by the soft flicker of a paper lantern that hung from a wooden beam above.

The walls, painted in gentle tones of peach and amber, reflected the warm light like a sunrise preserved in plaster.

The faint scent of aged wood and lotus incense lingered in the corridors, as if someone had lit it only minutes before.

Lloyd slowed his steps, his eyes drifting across a scroll of calligraphy hanging to his right, a poem, handwritten by his grandfather in curling ink strokes:

Peace is not silence. Peace is breath steady in the storm.

Just below it, an old ink painting of cranes in flight over a mountain stream balanced the wall, its brushwork elegant and spare.

Further down, a landscape scroll hung from a bamboo rod, faded but still vivid, depicting the monastery gardens as they had once been, centuries ago.

The floor beneath their feet was worn but polished, dark wood softened by a long, dark red runner mat that stretched endlessly down the main hall, its edges frayed from the passage of time and countless footsteps. Their boots made barely a sound against it.

As they turned a corner, the architecture unfolded slowly, never flashy, but carefully maintained, beams etched with curling vines, alcoves holding old lacquer boxes or ceramic bowls, and tiny bonsai trees on low tables beside windows where light filtered in soft and golden.

Everything was ancient but alive, vintage but lived-in. The kind of space where time didn’t stop, it simply slowed.

Each sitting room they passed offered its own flavor of tradition. One had floor cushions of deep green silk, arranged around a square table where a teapot still steamed faintly.

Another was cast in shadow, its decor cooler, low-backed chairs of carved blackwood, cushions of midnight blue, a painted screen of a moonlit lake dividing the room.

A third room, smaller and more sunlit, was bathed in soft orange glow.

The walls bore ink illustrations of herbs and mountain flora, and a shallow stone dish of water sat in the corner with flower petals floating on top, perfuming the room subtly.

They passed through one of the covered walkways that led into the outer courtyard, the breeze drifting in through open lattice screens.

Chimes tinkled softly somewhere in the distance. From this vantage, they could see glimpses of the Zen Garden beyond, the koi pond glinting in the sunlight, the Sakura tree’s blossoms fluttering down onto the smooth path like shy confetti.

And here and there, traces of daily life:

A tray of tea cups left on a bench.

A folded cushion still warm. The faint scent of miso and herbs from a half-finished meal.

Everything was arranged as if someone had just stepped out of the room and would return in a moment, a quiet echo of lives constantly in motion.

Jay whistled under his breath as they walked. “Man… every time I walk through here, I forget I’m not supposed to touch anything.”

Kai grinned. “You do touch everything.”

“I didn’t say I follow the rule, I just said I forget it exists.”

Zane tilted his head slightly as they passed a hallway that led into the east wing. “The air here is one degree warmer than the northern corridor. Likely due to the open screens facing the sun. It is also… statistically the most aesthetically pleasing route.”

Lloyd chuckled quietly. “It’s just home.”

“Elegant,” Nya murmured, brushing her fingers along the edge of a carved screen. “And heavy with memory.”

They moved deeper into the monastery, their footsteps carrying them past centuries of history layered into every hallway, every stone, every breath of quiet.

The Monastery of Spinjitzu was no mere structure. It was a living thing. Watching. Breathing. Waiting.

The moment the group reached the main courtyard, their steps naturally scattered like leaves in the wind.

“I call dibs on the first bath!” Jay declared, already jogging toward the corridor that led to the southern wing. “I earned it with that somersault over the bandit leader!”

“Jay, you tripped over a tree root and rolled into him,” Nya replied dryly.

“It looked like a somersault!” he shot back.

Kai clapped Cole on the back. “Race you to the mess hall. Loser gets stuck polishing Zane’s gear.”

Cole groaned but sprinted after him. “You’re gonna eat that smug smile!”

Zane blinked, already turning toward the meditation rooms. “I do not require polishing. However, I appreciate the gesture.”

The breeze swirled through the open halls again as the laughter and footsteps faded, leaving only Lloyd and Lysandra behind.

They walked together through the long east hallway, passing another scroll of ancient verse and a narrow window where late morning light poured in across the peach-toned walls.

Lysandra’s steps were faster, sharper. Her jaw clenched. She exhaled, then muttered under her breath:

“Arrogant. Obnoxious. Cold-eyed, smug, steel-toed, bandage-wrapped—jerk.”

Lloyd sighed without looking at her. “You’re still thinking about Morro.”

“Still thinking about—of course I am!” she snapped. “I’m marrying him, apparently. I’m betrothed to a man who acts like a stone wall with a superiority complex. He smirks when I mess up in training. He ignores me in front of others. And when he does speak to me, it’s always—always—with that mocking, sardonic tone like I’m some airheaded little girl.”

“He probably doesn’t mean it that way,” Lloyd said calmly, though the way his mouth tightened hinted at his own discomfort.

Lysandra whirled on him, her dark braid whipping over her shoulder. “Oh, and I suppose I should just endure it with a graceful smile, right? Like a dutiful daughter of the Monastery? Be the polite, poised political bride and pretend I don’t want to set his robes on fire half the time?”

Lloyd stopped walking and turned to her. His voice was firm but not unkind. “Lys. You are the daughter of the Monastery. You know what’s at stake. You’re not being sent off to marry a stranger in some far-off province. You were raised here. You know the responsibility.”

Her jaw clenched again. “You mean like you do.”

He paused.

“That’s different.”

“No,” she said, quieter now. “It’s not. You’re just better at hiding how much you hate it. You act like duty is all that matters. Like emotions are dangerous. And maybe they are—” she looked away “—but don’t talk to me about sacrifice like you’re the only one being crushed by it.”

That landed harder than she expected.

Lloyd’s shoulders stiffened. For a moment, he looked exactly like their father, back straight, expression unreadable, eyes focused on something far away and heavy.

The silence stretched long.

“I’m not trying to crush you,” he said quietly. “I’m just trying to keep you—and everyone—safe.”

Before Lysandra could answer, they turned a corner… and stopped short.

There, in one of the modest meditation rooms, sunlight pouring in through the slatted walls and casting long shadows across the red floor mats… sat Sensei Garmadon.

Or rather, he was trying to sit.

Unfortunately for him, Arabella, in all her fiery, relentless glory, had somehow climbed fully onto his lap, legs curled over the side, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other tapping his chest with theatrical drama.

“I have been neglected, husband,” she declared in an injured tone, “utterly abandoned for scrolls, swords, and meditating with foggy old men.”

Garmadon looked as though he was deciding between fleeing, combusting, or faking his own death.

“You are not abandoned, Arabella,” he gritted out. “You were literally sparring with Aurora an hour ago.”

“Yes, but that was training. This is different. This is emotional.” She shifted, and the poor mat beneath them creaked. “You used to court me. Remember that? Whisper my name under waterfalls, catch falling petals to give me as gifts? I miss that Garmadon. Where did he go?”

“He got older!” Garmadon snapped, trying—and failing—to pry her off. “He’s tired. His back hurts. And he doesn’t want to be smothered when he’s meditating!”

Arabella clutched her heart. “So you don’t love me anymore?”

“I didn’t say that!” Garmadon barked. “I said—Stop wriggling, woman, I’m meditating, not getting mugged!”

Outside the doorway, Lloyd was frozen. Lysandra blinked… then burst into quiet, breathless laughter.

Garmadon noticed them finally, his grimace deepening into full-blown fatherly horror. “Oh good. Witnesses.”

Arabella turned over her shoulder, grinning like a cat. “Children! Come. Join us. I was just reminding your father that ignoring your wife is bad karma.”

Garmadon gave her a shove that barely moved her an inch and muttered, “Reminding, she says. Strangling, more like it.”

Lloyd coughed awkwardly into his fist. “We… uh… didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“We were just—uh—walking,” Lysandra added, still laughing.

Arabella pouted theatrically. “Your father is terribly cruel to me.”

Garmadon glared. “Your mother is a menace.”

Lloyd, used to this, just sighed and stepped inside. “Glad to be home.”

........

 

 

 

Chapter 2: Calm Before the Storm

Summary:

Lloyd and Garmadon have a conversation, Sera is annoyed, Arabella is annoyed and Aurora is annoyed. The men are tired.

Notes:

Also, I'm having way too much fun writing and making up these AUs.

Lysandra, still giggling behind her hand, took one look at the scene, her mother lounging across their father like a lioness in velvet, and immediately recoiled.

“Oh, no. Nope. I am not mentally stable enough for this today.”

She spun on her heel and marched off, muttering loud enough for Lloyd to hear, “I’m going to bleach my brain. With fire. And vinegar. And maybe a sword.”

As she vanished down the hall, Arabella merely sighed. “She gets that melodrama from your side,” she told Garmadon sweetly.

“My side?” Garmadon’s brow twitched.

But Arabella had turned back to him, twirling a lock of hair around one finger with a practiced flutter of lashes. “You know, it’s been a long week,” she murmured, voice dropping low and sultry. “We’re alone in here. There’s a futon in the corner. The doors lock. Don’t you miss the days when I used to tackle you into the bamboo grove and you pretended to be scandalized?”

“I was never pretending,” Garmadon snapped, attempting to keep her face away from his. “And stop talking like that—Lloyd’s right there!”

Arabella pouted and turned her head toward their son. “Oh, please. He’s an adult. He can handle knowing his parents still have chemistry.”

Lloyd, to his eternal credit, kept his expression as neutral as a stone statue.

He respectfully adjusted his gaze to the floorboards, pretending very hard to admire the grain of the wood while inside, his soul was desperately trying to exit through the top of his head.

“Mother,” he said, voice tight. “Perhaps… this is not the time.”

“Why not?” Arabella purred, shifting her weight slightly, her legs still draped over Garmadon’s lap. “It’s quiet. Romantic. And your father has that grumpy master thing going on. Makes me want to—”

“Enough!” Garmadon roared, thoroughly done. With one strong shove, he pushed Arabella off his lap. She landed with a dramatic oof and a roll onto her knees on the mat, though her expression remained entirely unimpressed.

“Honestly!” he snapped, getting to his feet and brushing off his robes. “You have no sense of propriety! Always climbing on me like a feral cat in front of the children! I’m meditating, Arabella—not waiting for you to rehearse your fantasies!”

Arabella stood, dusting herself off, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she hissed, voice dripping venomous sweetness, “for trying to seduce my own husband in our own monastery like a loving wife. How dreadful of me. Clearly I should have waited until your precious scrolls gave you permission.”

He glared at her, crossing his arms. “You are utterly shameless.”

“And you are utterly joyless!”

They stared at each other for a long, tense beat, neither blinking.

Then Arabella huffed, straightened her robe, and turned toward Lloyd. Her face instantly softened.

“Goodbye, my darling,” she said tenderly, stepping forward and placing a kiss on his cheek. “Be safe. And if your father gets insufferable, feel free to spar him until he learns basic kindness.”

Lloyd nodded solemnly, though his ears were visibly red. “Of course, Mother.”

She turned her head, narrowed her eyes at Garmadon one last time, and said, loud enough for the hallway to echo, “And you can forget sleeping in our room tonight. In fact, consider yourself exiled to the cold floor of your study—or maybe chain yourself to a wall in one of the scroll chambers, since you love those so much.”

She swept from the room with theatrical dignity, her hair and robes swishing behind her like a war flag.

Garmadon stared after her, unmoving for several seconds. Then slowly, very quietly, he muttered:

“I would happily stay in the study. Or the meditation room. Or under the koi bridge if it means peace and silence for one night.”

Lloyd didn’t say a word. He just let out a long, low exhale and sat beside his father, folding his legs neatly on the mat.

“…So,” he said finally, “rough day?”

Garmadon groaned and rubbed his temples. “Every day is rough. I married the wind itself.”

Lloyd nods slowly. 

Garmadon let out a long, exhausted sigh and finally lowered himself back onto the mat, folding his legs with a quiet grunt.

His shoulders were tense, but not from battle, from years of leadership, fatherhood, and trying to keep the fire of his household from becoming a wildfire.

Lloyd sat beside him, silent at first. The early sunlight streamed through the slatted window, dappling their robes in warm, golden stripes. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The quiet hung between them like a held breath.

Then Lloyd finally said, in a voice lower and quieter than usual, “Do you ever feel like… no matter how hard you try, you’re still not enough?”

Garmadon’s brow lifted slightly, but he didn’t answer immediately. He turned slightly to face his son.

Lloyd stared ahead, not meeting his father’s eyes. “Everyone looks to me now. The Elemental Masters. The people in the villages. Even the monastery. They all expect the Green Ninja to have the answers. To keep them safe. To keep them together.”

Garmadon’s expression softened slightly.

“I don’t want to let them down,” Lloyd continued. “I want peace. Harmony. I want people to feel like they can breathe. But it’s like… every time I think I’m close, something cracks. Bandits, unrest, fear. And I wonder if maybe I’m just holding everything together with thread.”

He finally turned his gaze toward his father. His green eyes were heavy, not with panic, but with purpose worn thin.

“I want to protect them all, Dad. I want to keep Ninjago from falling apart. And I want to keep us together too. This family. Everyone. Even if it kills me.”

Garmadon was quiet for a long time.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

“I know that feeling well,” he said, voice gravelly but quiet. “I once believed the same. That if I carried enough, bore enough, fought enough battles… maybe I could shield everyone from the storm.”

He looked toward the window, toward the cherry blossom petals fluttering just outside.

“But Ninjago is not a place that stays still. It moves. It shifts. The wind blows through it no matter how strong your walls are. You can’t hold everything together by force, Lloyd.”

Lloyd frowned slightly. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Be the center,” Garmadon replied. “Not the wall, not the cage. Be the center that everything returns to when the storm passes. They need your strength, yes. But they need your kindness more. Your vision. Your light.”

He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I know the weight you carry. And it may never truly lighten. But don’t lose yourself trying to protect others. If you disappear beneath the burden, what will they return to?”

Lloyd swallowed hard. His throat tightened.

“…Do you ever regret it?” he asked quietly. “Being a leader. A father. A warrior.”

Garmadon huffed, as if the question were ridiculous — but not in a dismissive way. He turned toward Lloyd fully now, his voice more certain.

“Never. Not for one moment.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice like a secret.

“Annoying wife aside.”

Lloyd chuckled despite himself, wiping a hand across his eyes.

Garmadon gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. “You’re not alone in this, Lloyd. You have your team. Your mother and I. Even your sharp-tongued sister who might burn down a temple if she gets too emotional.”

Lloyd laughed, genuinely this time.

“Be who you are. Not who everyone expects you to be.”

“…That’s harder than it sounds.”

“I never said it was easy,” Garmadon said, standing with a groan. “I said it was worth it.”

Lloyd stood too, a little straighter now. The sunlight caught in his blond hair and made him look, just for a moment, like the boy he once was. And the man he was quickly becoming.

“Thanks, Dad.”

Garmadon grunted. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m still not letting you take over my study. Your mother exiled me, not evicted me.”

Lloyd smiled.

And together, father and son walked toward the next hallway, the weight on Lloyd’s shoulders a little lighter, even if just for today.

......

The monastery gardens shimmered with the soft hum of spring, petals drifted lazily through the air, and the scent of jasmine mingled with fresh earth and herbs.

Lysandra strode purposefully along a stone path, her brow furrowed and arms crossed. She was hunting for Morro, determined to settle once and for all what she considered his insufferable attitude.

Ahead, she spotted him standing rigidly by the tall wooden doors of Sensei Wu’s study.

Morro’s arms were crossed, jaw clenched, and eyes narrowed in a glare directed inside the room.

Curious, Lysandra stepped closer and peered through the open doorway.

Inside, the scene was… perplexing.

Aurora, Wu’s wife, was perched provocatively on a low wooden bench, flicking her dark hair with a playful smile, clearly trying to get the attention of the older man who paced calmly nearby.

Wu, calm but visibly trying not to lose patience, shuffled scrolls on a low table, his eyes flickering toward Aurora with a mixture of amusement and mild frustration.

Aurora’s voice was light, teasing. “Sensei Wu, surely even the greatest of masters must find time to enjoy life’s sweeter moments.”

Wu glanced at her, an eyebrow raised. “Aurora, these scrolls do not organize themselves.”

Morro, still at the door, let out a dry snort. “You’d think a man who’s been teaching for centuries would have figured out how to delegate by now.”

Lysandra blinked, fighting back a grin. She elbowed Morro lightly, who scowled and shot her a warning look. 

“Stay out of it,” he muttered.

Lysandra stepped fully inside. “Aunt Aurora, is this really the time?”

Aurora pouted dramatically. “When is the time? Between your epic battles and my husband’s endless wisdom sessions? One must seize the moment.”

Morro sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I swear, Sensei Wu’s patience is the only thing keeping this place from burning down.”

Wu sighed and finally held up a hand. “Enough. Come in, both of you.”

Lysandra and Morro exchanged wary looks but stepped inside. Aurora stood, arms crossed in mock indignation.

“I was merely reminding your uncle that even masters need to remember joy,” she said with a sly grin.

Wu smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Joy is important. But balance is key.”

Aurora huffed, turned on her heel, and marched from the room, throwing over her shoulder, “Balance is overrated.”

Morro smirked at Wu. “Finally, some peace and quiet.”

Wu chuckled softly. “For now.”

Lysandra folded her arms, a smirk tugging at her lips. “We need better introductions." 

Morro shrugged. “Welcome to the family.”

 

...........

The sun hung low over the western hills, its fading light pouring like golden honey through the ancient lattice windows of the northwest veranda, where the First Spinjitzu Master sat in quiet contemplation.

From here, he could see the distant outline of Ninjago City, shimmering in the distance like a glass crown rising from the hills, a sharp contrast to the earth-toned temple nestled in the forest around him.

He was silent for a long time.

Then, quietly, almost to himself, he murmured, “They’ve built towers now… where there once were rice fields.”

Behind him, a soft rustle of silk. A scent of plum blossoms.

Lady Sera stepped into the sunlight with the grace of a practiced empress.

Her long burgundy sleeves fluttered around her like petals caught in a breeze. She settled beside him on the carved wooden bench, one leg tucked beneath her, her eyes following his gaze toward the distant city skyline.

She sighed.

“It’s all glass and noise now,” she said gently. “The villages bloom into cities, and the children no longer wear robes — they wear jackets with fire logos and baggy pants.” She gave a dramatic shudder. “With zippers.”

The First Spinjitzu Master huffed softly through his nose. “And piercings. And slogans on their shirts about rebellion.”

“And music,” Sera added, raising a brow. “Loud, horrible, vulgar music. No one plays the shamisen anymore. They scream about heartbreak and dance like convulsing goats.”

A silence passed between them, not uncomfortable, but reflective.

Then he spoke again. “There’s more corruption now, too. The governors and mayors... some care more about luxury and self-image than the people. They make promises with one hand and steal with the other.”

“I heard one of them built a hot tub on the roof of his administration building,” Sera said sourly, “and filled it with imported rosewater while raising the taxes on the rice farmers.”

His brow twitched.

“But,” she continued, her tone softening, “there are some perks. Medicine. Business. Communication. People can now call each other from anywhere. And the children, our grandchildren, have tools we never dreamed of. Technology, they call it.”

“They also call fish ‘sushi’ now,” he said dryly. “Even when it’s not prepared properly.”

Sera smiled at that. “And the youth flock to the cities for fashion. Low-waisted jeans. Miniskirts. And dyeing their hair unnatural colors.”

“You sound like a grandmother.”

“I am a grandmother,” she said sweetly, scooting closer. “But I am also still a wife…”

She turned, hand drifting along his sleeve, voice dropping into that purring, dangerous warmth that made even the First Spinjitzu Master pause.

“…And we haven’t misbehaved in the onsen in years, husband…”

His eyes snapped toward her. “Sera.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of his outer robe. “The stars are out, the night is warm, and your wife is still quite limber. Don’t you miss the early days? The waterfalls? The plum orchard?”

“Sera,” he said again, warningly, shifting just slightly away from her advancing form.

“We could reconnect. You’re always so stern lately. All this talk of politics and corruption, and no time to appreciate the simple pleasures. Of steam. And candlelight. And me.”

He gave her a long, long look, unmoved. “This is exactly how we ended up with Garmadon.”

She gasped. “That is not true! He was conceived respectfully, in the moonlight—”

“Enough.”

Sera pouted, withdrawing her hands dramatically and folding her arms.

“You’re no fun anymore,” she grumbled. “Always brooding, always lecturing—”

“I am trying to protect Ninjago’s future, not encourage scandals among its founders,” he replied with firm finality.

She stood abruptly, her sleeves fluttering. “Well then, enjoy protecting it alone tonight.”

“Sera—”

But she was already walking away, her voice echoing down the stone corridor behind her.

“Maybe I’ll find Aurora or Arabella. They understand passion. And spontaneity. And not crushing their wives' spirits under a mountain of scrolls!”

The First Spinjitzu Master closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.

“First bandits, now seduction. If the koi start forming political factions, I’m retiring.”

.........

Later That Night

The moon hung high above the Monastery of Spinjitzu, casting pale silver light across the rooftops and gardens.

The koi pond shimmered quietly beneath the cherry tree, the petals now still in the windless hush of midnight. Crickets chirped softly. Even the mountains slumbered.

Inside the west wing, however… peace had not yet fully settled.

Garmadon sat in his study, arms folded tightly, robe slightly askew, scowling at the unlit lantern beside him as if it had insulted his ancestors. A scroll was open before him. He had read the same line three times.

He shifted. Adjusted the cushion. Shifted again.

Something felt… off.

His brow twitched. He glanced at the tea tray.

The cup was chipped. Arabella had chipped it deliberately. He was sure of it.

Then there was the ink brush, which had been ever-so-slightly shaved down.

The armrest of his favorite chair had a tiny flower carved into it that had not been there this morning. And, ost heinous of all, his stack of perfectly ordered scrolls had been reorganized… by color.

Not content. Not type. Not subject.

Color.

He twitched again.

It was too quiet.

Too personal.

Too Arabella.

With a long, slow sigh, the kind only a husband on the brink could produce, he stood, grabbed his outer robe, and marched back to their bedroom.

He opened the shoji screen doors quietly, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of victory.

The room was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of a single lantern near the incense tray.

The faint scent of sandalwood and plum still clung to the air. Arabella lay curled on her side atop their thick futon, blankets wrapped around her. Her breathing was even. Peaceful. Elegant.

Asleep.

Garmadon exhaled again, quietly. He stepped inside, closed the doors, and moved toward his side of the futon.

The moment he laid down—

She moved.

Like a cat with a vendetta, Arabella pounced, twisting fluidly and sliding onto his chest in one smooth motion, arms locking around his neck as her legs pinned his waist.

“You’re back,” she purred sweetly, lips brushing his cheek.

Garmadon didn’t even flinch. “I was exiled to my own study, and you filled it with psychological warfare.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said innocently, kissing his throat. “Did something happen to your chair?”

“You know exactly what you did.”

“You’re very tense, husband. Perhaps you need to be reminded of your vows. They involve more than silence and self-imposed exile, you know.”

He scowled, grabbing her arms and trying to dislodge her. “Get off, Arabella. I came back for sleep. Not games.”

She arched an eyebrow, sultry and offended all at once. “Oh, I see. So now your wife is unwelcome in your bed.”

“You are welcome in this room when you’re sane.”

“Excuse me?” she snapped, tightening her grip. “Are you calling me unstable?!”

“I’m calling you ridiculous. You ambushed me in a meditation room, vandalized my study, and now you’re straddling me like a conquering warlord.”

“I am your wife, Garmadon.”

“And you are an unholy menace!”

Arabella leaned back slightly, narrowing her eyes. “Fine. You don’t want me here? Then I’ll never speak to you again.”

“That’s fine,” Garmadon grunted, trying to turn over.

“What?!”

“I said that’s fine. Silence sounds like a luxury at this point.”

Arabella gawked at him, completely and utterly offended. She slapped a pillow over his face and rolled off him with a dramatic huff, turning to her side of the futon and jerking the blankets over her shoulder like a woman scorned.

A long beat passed in frosty silence.

Then her voice came, low and deadly sweet.

“…You’ll regret that in the morning.”

“I’m already regretting it now,” he muttered.

“Good.”

A heavy pause.

Then Garmadon sighed, reached under the pillow, and gently placed his hand over hers.

“…You chipped my favorite tea cup.”

“I did.”

“…You’ll fix it tomorrow.”

“I won’t.”

But when he let out a low laugh, just a hint, just enough, she smiled into the dark, lips curving smugly.

And neither said another word.

Meanwhile, in the Eastern Wing…

The soft rustle of bamboo leaves outside swayed gently against the paper-screen windows as the final lantern was dimmed in Wu and Aurora’s room.

The air was cool, tinged with lavender from the incense she’d lit earlier, and the futon had been perfectly fluffed with lavender silk sheets and a woven throw she claimed was “for aesthetic balance.”

Wu lay down with a quiet sigh, adjusting his robe and folding his arms over his chest like a disciplined statue ready for slumber.

For exactly three seconds.

Then—

“Husband.”

Aurora slid across the futon like a graceful, determined fox, eyes gleaming with purpose as she straddled him in one fluid motion, hair tumbling forward.

Wu opened one eye. His expression did not change.

“…What are you doing.”

“Embracing you,” she replied cheerfully, already running her hands across his chest. “It’s good for sleep. And health. And intimacy. And hormones. And harmony in marriage.”

“Aurora.”

“And also,” she added, voice dropping into a sultry whisper, “you’re very warm tonight.”

“I am always warm,” Wu said flatly. “Because I have body heat. Like all humans.”

“You used to be more receptive,” she said, pouting. “In the old days, you used to kiss me by the lotus pond. Now you just lecture me about scrolls.”

“That’s because we’re no longer in our twenties,” Wu grumbled, trying to dislodge her. “I am an old man, Aurora. My joints ache. My back cracks when I sit down. And I would like to sleep.”

Aurora gasped dramatically, clutching her heart like he’d insulted her entire bloodline.

“Old? Wu, you are not old—you are distinguished! Wise! Stoic! Possibly made of granite, yes, but still very much a man!”

He scowled. “I am not a statue.”

“Then stop acting like one,” she said sweetly, leaning closer. “Couples who are physically affectionate live longer. It’s been studied. I read it in a magazine.”

“That you wrote.”

“Scientific citations are just red tape.”

Wu closed his eyes again, the corner of his lip twitching. “Go to sleep.”

Aurora leaned down, whispering, “I’ll smother you in your sleep.”

“Try it,” he said blandly. “I’m trained in 17 forms of breath control.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You are utterly unromantic.”

“And you are utterly relentless.”

“Well maybe I won’t speak to you for a week.”

“Bliss,” Wu muttered.

Aurora gasped. “What?!”

He opened one eye again, unimpressed.

“You’re being dramatic,” he said.

Then she gave a sudden sniff.

A loud, exaggerated sniff.

Wu stared. “Don’t.”

Another sniff, even louder.

“…Stop.”

She buried her face in her sleeve and gave a soft, mournful wail. “I only wanted to be loved…”

Wu did not move. Did not breathe. His expression was blank as parchment.

“Wasted in this cold marriage,” Aurora continued, throwing herself back onto the mattress beside him, limbs flopping with theatrical tragedy. “Forgotten. Ignored. Undesired…”

Wu reached out, tapped her shoulder, and pushed her gently away from him.

“You’re not crying,” he said calmly. “You’re performing.”

Aurora sat up and scowled at him. “You used to be more easily manipulated.”

“I was younger. And dumber.”

She hit his shoulder.

He didn’t even blink.

“I cried, you heartless stone pillar!”

He reached calmly for the blanket. “Sleep.”

She growled and slapped his shoulder. “You will wither alone in the cold of your own personality.”

Wu rolled onto his side with the calm of a mountain.

Aurora flopped down beside him with a huff, muttering curses in three languages. She yanked the blanket to her side.

A long pause.

Then: “You know, if I died in my sleep, you'd feel terrible.”

Wu’s eyes closed. “Only because I’d have to explain it to Arabella and Sera.”

Aurora glared at him, curled up angrily beneath the blanket.

He was silent.

She was quiet.

Then......

Soft breathing.

He cracked an eye open.

Finally.

He exhaled, deeply, peacefully

                                      ................

 

Midnight – Training Courtyard, Monastery Grounds

 

The training yard was bathed in soft moonlight, pale beams stretching across the gravel like veins of silver.

The stone dummies stood like silent sentinels, unmoving.

The wind rustled through the bamboo lining the edges of the courtyard, whispering across old wooden beams and catching on the tattered corners of forgotten banners.

And in the center of it all, Lloyd was training.

His sword moved in precise arcs, sweat clinging to his brow.

His bare arms were tense, muscles tight with effort, breath labored but measured. He wasn’t fighting an opponent, just the quiet.

And the thoughts in his head.

He didn’t notice the soft patter of bare feet on stone until a voice, half-grumpy, half-concerned, called out:

“Do you have to swing swords at midnight? It’s literally cold enough to freeze my soul out here.”

Lloyd turned, surprised, sword still raised.

Lysandra stood at the edge of the steps, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her dark hair was a tousled mess, sticking up at one side.

She was wearing a t-shirt with a faded dragon print and a pair of shorts. Her legs were goosebumped. She had clearly just thrown her slippers on and stormed out without thinking.

He blinked. “You look like a rebellious dumpling.”

She glared. “And you look like someone with untreated trauma. Now are you going to answer my question, or do I have to call Mom and tell her you’re stress-sparring in the moonlight again?”

Lloyd sighed and lowered his sword.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“No kidding.”

She came closer, hopping awkwardly from stone to stone to avoid the colder patches, then sat cross-legged on one of the training benches, shivering slightly.

“Why are you out here?” she asked, voice a little softer now. “Seriously.”

Lloyd exhaled and leaned on his sword, head bowed. “I’m just… thinking. About everything.”

She waited.

“The city’s growing. The villagers are more restless. The political mess is getting worse. The Emperor and Empress, and their court barely hold influence anymore, and the Monastery’s authority means every misstep reflects on us.”

He looked over at her, his green eyes unusually tired.

“I’m the Green Ninja. That’s not just a name. It’s supposed to mean something. I’m the symbol of peace. The face of unity. The bridge between the Elemental Masters and the world. But…”

He trailed off.

“But?” Lysandra prompted, quieter now.

Lloyd let the words sit before answering.

“But sometimes I feel like I’m failing before I’ve even started.”

The wind picked up, brushing hair across his forehead.

“I don’t just want to win battles,” he went on. “I want to keep people safe. I want this family—our family—to have peace. Even with the chaos. Even with Uncle and their bickering and Mom redecorating Dad's study in rage.”

That got a small snort from Lysandra.

“I want you to have your life,” he added, “not be forced to marry someone you hate. I want the ninja to feel like they have purpose. I want the kids in the villages to believe things can get better.”

He finally looked up. “But sometimes it just feels like no matter how much I train, no matter how much I try, it’s never enough.”

Lysandra didn’t answer right away. She stood slowly, crossed over to him, and tugged the sword out of his hand.

Then she jabbed it into the ground beside them with a clink.

“You’re overthinking,” she said plainly.

Lloyd blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re smart, you care too much, and you bottle it all up. That’s why you’re out here alone at midnight sweating into the gravel while the rest of us are trying to nap through Aunt Aurora’s fake crying and Mom's humming.”

Lloyd gave a short, tired laugh.

She stepped closer, nudged his side lightly. “You’re not invincible, Lloyd. You’re just you. And that’s enough. If you weren’t enough, none of us would still be here. Believe me, if anyone could screw this family up permanently, we would’ve done it already.”

He looked down, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So stop thinking like the world’s about to fall apart just because you missed a training block or the scrolls say you’re not enlightened enough. You’re not meant to carry the entire world. Just walk in it. And drag the rest of us behind you, like a stubborn caravan of chaos.”

He laughed again, a real one this time.

“…Thanks, Liss.”

She gave a smug shrug. “Of course. I’m your little sister. Emotional wisdom and fashionably poor sleepwear come with the territory.”

Lloyd pulled her into a brief hug, one arm wrapping around her shivering shoulders.

“You’re freezing.”

“I told you. Tee and shorts. Grave mistake.”

“Come on,” he said, draping his robe over her shoulders. “Let’s go back inside.”

“And you can sneak me some dumplings from the pantry on the way.”

“You're shameless.”

“Where do you think I got it from?”

They walked back together, the cold night air lighter than before.

And for just a moment, the weight on Lloyd’s shoulders didn’t feel so heavy.

                                          ***

 

Chapter 3: A Normal Day

Summary:

A chaotic breakfast starts the day, Lysandra shows off her new outfit, Aurora does the same and Wu has a heart attack, almost. Arabella prays for her daughter. Morro and Lysandra argue.

Morning — The Monastery Dining Hall

 

The rich scent of miso, soy-glazed vegetables, eggs, and honey pancakes drifted through the vast open hall, mingling with the sunlight that filtered in through the tall windows.

Plates clinked. Chopsticks tapped. Voices rose. And peace was nowhere to be found.

“Kai, move! I saw the stack first!” Jay hissed, reaching across the table with chopsticks aimed like weapons.

“You already took four!” Kai growled, slapping his hand away. “My metabolism’s on fire—literally!”

“You eat like your ego burns calories!” Jay snapped, lunging again.

“Oh, please,” Kai rolled his eyes. “I’m the only one who trains before breakfast. You just run your mouth and think it counts as cardio.”

Across from them, Cole sat calmly chewing with an entire bowl of rice under one arm, already halfway through a tray of steamed buns, a half-dozen pancakes vanishing one bite at a time.

“Don’t mind me,” he said through a mouthful. “I’m just making sure nothing goes to waste.”

From the corner, Nya held up her phone with one eyebrow raised, recording the entire mess.

“Smile, boys,” she said sweetly. “I’m saving this for your wedding days.”

Kai’s eyes snapped toward her. “You wouldn’t—”

“Try me.”

Meanwhile, at the large open hearth, Zane stirred a steaming pot of rice porridge with his usual serene precision.

“Lady Sera,” he said calmly, “I’ve calibrated the heat precisely. The lotus buns will be steamed in exactly six minutes and fifteen seconds.”

“Wonderful, dear,” Sera replied with regal warmth, her sleeves pushed up as she helped plate the dishes. “Add a touch more ginger, though. It helps digestion.”

Beside her, Aurora was carefully fanning dumplings while sipping tea with one hand. “I added extra sesame to the eggs,” she said cheerfully. “It’s good for marital energy.”

Zane tilted his head. “I did not realize eggs affected marital energy.”

“Everything affects marital energy,” Aurora said with a wink.

Near the front table, Arabella strolled in, her loose robe tied in a stylish knot at the waist, hair braided over one shoulder. “Oh, by the way,” she announced loudly, “Neuro, Chamille, Gravis, Tox, Griffin, Shade, and Skylor will be joining us by noon. They’ll be staying for a few days.”

The ninja groaned in unison.

“Skylor’s fine,” Kai said, smoothing his hair immediately. “Totally fine. Normal. Cool.”

Jay gasped. “You’re blushing!”

“I’m not—”

“You are!”

“Quiet!” Cole grunted. “You’re distracting me from eating.”

Right then, the double doors opened, and the First Spinjitzu Master walked in. The very air shifted.

Instantly, most of the ninja straightened.

Mostly.

“Good morning, children,” he said, his deep voice calm but firm, a presence that made even the dumplings behave.

The chaos dimmed, but did not disappear.

At the far end of the table, Morro sat brooding over a half-eaten bowl, his arms crossed and his eyebrows twitching with every second of Lysandra’s ongoing monologue.

“…and I told her, no, I can’t just wear red shoes with a plum kimono! That would clash! So I’m getting the sea-glass green ones, obviously.”

Morro took a long, slow breath and muttered, “Ancients save me from footwear and fashionable screeching.”

“What was that?” Lysandra said sweetly.

“Nothing. Please continue with your riveting lecture on embroidery and fabric-based warfare.”

“Don’t tempt me,” she shot back with a glare.

Further down the table, Sensei Wu entered quietly behind his father and surveyed the scene, Kai snatching pancakes, Jay attempting to intercept them mid-air, Cole devouring the remaining steamed buns like a possessed bear.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

“Ninja.”

Everyone paused.

“…Yes, Sensei?” Kai asked, mid-bite.

“This is a monastery,” Wu said sternly. “You will eat with dignity. You will behave with composure. And you will stop fighting over pancakes like starved raccoons.”

Jay raised a hand. “But technically—”

“No technicalities.”

Across the room, Garmadon shuffled in with a mug of tea, dark circles under his eyes.

“Can we all pretend it’s still nighttime?” he muttered, taking a seat.

Arabella immediately leaned in and brushed a finger across his sleeve. “But husband, I dreamed of you last night…”

Garmadon didn’t even blink. “It was a nightmare, wasn’t it?”

“No. You were shirtless and meditating on a mountain ledge. The wind was dramatic.”

Lloyd, sitting beside him, slowly slid his teacup over his face.

Lysandra gagged quietly and whispered, “They should be banned from speaking in public.”

“No,” Lloyd murmured. “We just need to bleach our brains.”

Arabella ignored them, fluttering her lashes as she leaned closer. “You know, Garmadon, I still haven’t forgiven you for last night. If you want redemption—”

“You’ll let me finish breakfast in peace,” he growled.

“Oh? Is that a new love language?” she teased.

“Mother,” Lloyd said, gently setting down his tea, “please.”

Sera raised her cup from across the room. “Let them flirt, children. One day you’ll be married and equally cursed.”

“I think I’ll take a vow of silence instead,” Lysandra muttered.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Aurora called from the kitchen, “that would last ten minutes.”

As the breakfast chaos continued, Zane timed the buns. Kai stole another pancake.

Jay lunged after him. Morro glared at everyone. Wu massaged his temples.

And the First Spinjitzu Master… simply sat back with his tea, gazing over the chaotic harmony that was his family.

Peaceful?

Never.

But this, this was home.

............

Later That Morning — The Zen Garden

 

The Zen Garden basked in quiet sunlight, the koi pond glimmering like molten copper beneath the arched bridge.

A breeze rustled through the blossoming Sakura tree, scattering soft pink petals across the onsen and gravel paths.

The air smelled faintly of green tea, fresh stone, and cherry blossoms.

It was peaceful.

Until it wasn’t.

“Ta-da!”

Lysandra struck a pose on the little wooden walkway near the pond, one hand on her hip, the other flourishing out in dramatic presentation.

She wore an all-black Juicy Couture velour tracksuit, snug, shiny, and low-rise, complete with rhinestones on the back that spelled out one word in dangerously sparkly letters:

JUICY.

The hood was down. Her dark hair was slicked into a neat, high ponytail. Her flip-flops smacked softly as she turned with a grin.

Nya’s eyes lit up. “Okay wait, wait, that’s actually cute.”

Lysandra spun. “Right?! It’s comfortable, it's plush, and I feel like a pop star.”

“You look like a teen idol who just dumped her boy band boyfriend and wrote a revenge single,” Nya said approvingly, hands on her hips. “I want one.”

“It's form-fitting and velvet,” Lysandra added, winking.

Lloyd, sitting under the Sakura tree with a scroll in hand, looked up, took one glance at the rhinestoned rear of his sister’s pants, and audibly groaned.

“Lysandra.”

She turned, grinning. “Yes, dearest brother?”

He pointed vaguely at her entire existence. “No.”

“It’s fashionable,” she said smugly.

“It’s indecent.”

“It’s Juicy,” she said, smugness intensifying.

Morro, who had been standing nearby with arms crossed and eyes mostly closed, cracked one eye open. He saw the rhinestones. He saw the hips. He muttered, “Stiff,” under his breath.

Then promptly looked again.

Lysandra caught it and smirked.

“See something you like?”

Morro narrowed his eyes. “Just waiting for you to trip and fall into the koi pond so the universe can restore balance.”

Kai wandered into the garden from the hall, face buried in his phone, furiously texting. He didn't even look up. “Skylor just texted me back. She says she might come early. Do I sound too eager if I respond with a heart emoji and a winking face?”

“Too desperate,” Lysandra called. “Use the sushi emoji.”

Kai paused. “…Genius.”

He resumed texting.

Near the garden bench, Zane was standing serenely with his hands folded behind his back. He nodded once in appreciation as he observed Lysandra’s outfit.

“The early 2000s have brought a fascinating shift in mainstream fashion,” he began in his lecture tone. “Velour tracksuits—particularly by Juicy Couture—have risen in popularity due to their use by various celebrities. The low-rise cut, vivid colors, and logo placement are considered provocative yet emblematic of empowered femininity in western culture.”

Lloyd looked up again, betrayed. “Zane. Whose side are you on?”

“I am on the side of data accuracy,” Zane replied coolly.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be the Green Ninja and Lysandra’s older brother?”

“Humiliating, I imagine,” Zane replied sincerely.

Lysandra struck another pose. “You’re welcome.”

Morro walked off muttering something about “materialism poisoning the youth,” though he walked straight into a garden lantern because he was still looking over his shoulder.

Lysandra beamed. “He totally looked.”

Nya grinned, flipping open her communicator. “Arabella is going to love this outfit. I’m texting her a picture.”

Lloyd gave up, closing his scroll and muttering, “I miss when everyone wore robes and fought for honor.”

Kai looked up briefly. “And now we fight for likes and dumplings.”

“Progress,” Zane agreed.

And under the cherry tree, as pink petals drifted down onto rhinestones and rebellion, peace once again met chaos, in a Juicy Couture tracksuit.

.........

Midmorning — Sensei Wu’s Study

The scent of sandalwood hung lightly in the air, curling from an incense stick balanced in a small jade dish.

Scrolls were carefully stacked, brushes organized, and everything in Wu’s study was, as always, in exacting order.

A delicate porcelain cup of oolong tea steamed quietly by his elbow as he sat behind his low writing desk, reading through a report on village taxation policy.

Peace. Silence. Balance.

Then—

Tap tap. Slide.

The shoji doors opened.

Wu did not look up at first. “Whoever it is, I ask only for five minutes of uninterrupted silence—”

The silence was interrupted.

By a long, deliberate click of heels.

And the distinct swish of velvet.

Wu slowly raised his eyes.

And froze.

Standing in the doorway,.hands on hips, one foot elegantly angled, a knowing smile on her crimson lips, was Aurora, dressed head to toe in a deep red Juicy Couture tracksuit.

The fabric gleamed in the light, velvet and vibrant. The fitted jacket was zipped halfway, just enough to reveal her delicate golden necklace, and the fact that it was struggling against the glorious weight of her rather generous bosom.

The pants clung to her hips with the soft smugness of a brand that knew it could get away with this. Across her rear end, bold gold rhinestones spelled out:

JUICY.

Wu choked on his tea.

Actually choked.

“Aurora—!” he sputtered, setting down the cup with a clatter.

She stepped into the room with a cheerful hum, her braid bouncing behind her. “Good morning, husband.”

Wu stood. Not out of respect, but panic.

“What are you wearing?!”

Aurora twirled once. “A gift from Lysandra. Isn’t it lovely? It’s velvet. Form-fitting. Bouncy.”

“You look like a scarlet siren from a questionable city billboard!” he barked, scandalized.

“Oh hush, you’re being dramatic,” she said, strolling toward his desk with slow, swaying hips. “You never complain when I wear tight qipaos.”

“Because those are traditional! This is—this is—” Wu looked like he was personally under attack. “This is modern corruption sewn into stretchy fabric!”

She ran her hand down her side, inspecting the embroidery. “But it’s so soft. And I look fabulous.”

“You are parading around the Monastery in a velvet temptation suit, Aurora.”

She scoffed, turning around slowly to show the full view of her rhinestone-laced rear. “Well, I do have the figure for it. Why not make use of the assets fate has gifted me?”

Wu turned slightly pink.

“No,” he said firmly. “No. This—this fashion is inappropriate for a woman of your station, your age, and your proximity to my disciples.”

Aurora placed one hand on her hip, the other fanning her neckline. “Ah yes. My age. Remind me, husband—how many times have I been voted Most Beautiful Woman in the Realm?”

He blinked, jaw tight. “…Eight.”

“Eight times,” she repeated proudly. “In the last forty years. And what, suddenly I can’t wear something a little modern? A little daring?”

He folded his arms. “You dared too much.”

She leaned over the desk, squishing her velvet-encased chest onto his writing scrolls. “Do you hate it that much?”

“I hate what it represents.”

“You mean my independence, confidence, and refusal to wither away quietly in a corner?”

“I mean—!” Wu paused. Froze. Realized he had lost the thread of his argument somewhere between “Juicy” and “temptation.”

Aurora grinned. “Just admit you’re flustered because I still make your heart race.”

“I am flustered,” Wu said, voice rising, “because you’re strutting around dressed like a pop star’s scandalous aunt!”

“Oh, I love that. I should write that on the back.”

Wu groaned and sank into his seat. “I’m surrounded by peacocks and danger.”

Aurora twirled one last time. “And yet you love me.”

“…Unfortunately.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Go change.”

“No.”

“Go now.”

She blew him a kiss and sauntered out of the room, hips swaying like royalty on a catwalk.

Wu dropped his face into his hands.

“…I need stronger tea.”

......

The late morning sun warmed the red bricks of the Monastery’s outer courtyard as Kai led Skylor through the carved double doors and down one of the elegant inner halls.

She carried only a small satchel over one shoulder, her steps light, her eyes scanning everything with a calm smile.

Kai, of course, was not calm.

“So uh, your room’s just down this corridor,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Corner room. Fresh towels. Very serene. Probably the most peaceful room in the monastery—aside from mine.”

She arched a brow. “And do you spend a lot of time… being peaceful?”

He grinned. “I try. When I’m not saving villages, training, or—you know—fighting off ninja fangirls.”

Skylor snorted. “Fangirls?”

“There was a whole incident with cherry blossom notes and a carved watermelon. Don’t ask.”

They turned the corner, passing the Zen garden where cherry petals floated lazily over the koi pond. Kai opened a wooden sliding door with a flourish.

“Voilà. Your royal chamber.”

Skylor stepped inside, giving a small nod of approval. “Hmm. Cozy. Minimalist. Smells like incense and danger." 

He leaned on the doorframe, smirking. “That’s probably just me.”

She turned, eyes dancing. “Still flirting, huh?”

“Only when it works.”

She walked up close, just enough to brush past his arm. “We’ll see, flame boy.”

And with a toss of her copper ponytail, she closed the door in his face.

Kai stood in the hallway, red in the face, mumbling, “Okay… yeah. She’s still got it.”

Elsewhere, in the southeastern wing of the Monastery, Sensei Garmadon was deeply unsettled.

Not by demons.

Not by war scrolls.

Not even by his chaotic children.

But by his wife.

Arabella.

She moved through the hallway slowly, prayer beads gently clinking in one hand, her head bowed ever so slightly, lips murmuring soft invocations under her breath.

Her dress, a sleek black silk qipao with crimson embroidery, clung to her figure in reverent silence. It was one of his favorites. High collar. Slitted legs. Modest in cut, sinful in execution.

She passed by a group of young monks, who were dusting scroll shelves, and paused.

“You’ve missed the upper corners,” she said gently. “And rotate the incense bowls so the smoke drifts more evenly. Feng shui, little darlings.”

The monks bowed gratefully, scrambling to obey.

Garmadon watched this from the upper stairway landing like a general watching an enemy army reorganize.

He narrowed his eyes.

“…She’s up to something.”

Arabella turned a corner and paused at a small shrine in the hallway. She kneeled gracefully and lit a stick of incense, murmuring her prayer aloud this time:

“May my sweet, gentle Lysandra find peace in her marriage… and not slap her husband in front of dinner guests.”

Garmadon descended the steps slowly.

“Arabella.”

She turned, serene. “Yes, my lord?”

He blinked. “My lord? You’re… praying.”

“I pray often.”

“You’re praying in public. You’re correcting monks. You’re wearing my favorite qipao and not trying to drag me into an empty meditation chamber.”

She gave him a wistful smile. “Marriage is a sacred thing, husband. We must set an example for our daughter.”

Garmadon stared at her. Then stared some more.

His gaze trailed from her hairpins to her curved silhouette to the soft flutter of prayer beads over her knuckles.

“…You’re scheming,” he muttered. “I just don’t know how yet.”

She smiled beatifically and stood, gliding past him slowly, her perfume faintly floral and her hips unmistakably swaying beneath that unforgiving silk.

He turned and followed. “You think I can’t tell? You’re being nice to everyone. You’re suddenly traditional. You complimented Wu’s tea. What did you do?”

Arabella paused at the doorway to the courtyard and looked back over her shoulder.

“I am simply concerned for our little Lysandra,” she said softly. “Marriage is a delicate thing.”

“She once threatened Morro with a broom for insulting her sandals,” Garmadon deadpanned. "And added chili power to his food last week." 

Arabella smiled. “That was her sweet side.”

He folded his arms. “And the qipao?”

She touched her beads. “One must look dignified in prayer.”

“You are not dignified. You’re a menace wrapped in silk.”

Arabella leaned close, lips near his ear. “And you adore it.”

He swallowed. “Unfortunately.”

She kissed his cheek and drifted away again, humming a soft temple hymn, leaving Garmadon standing stunned in the hallway with an expression that said: I am in danger.

........

Monastery Courtyard – Midday

The courtyard was bathed in golden sunlight, the echo of bamboo chimes dancing through the air. A few scrolls were laid out for training, but no one was reading them.

Training was not happening.

Drama was.

“…You are insufferable, you know that?!” Morro snapped, his arms folded, jaw tight.

Across from him, standing with one hand on her hip and her dark ponytail swishing behind her, Lysandra gave him a smile that could peel bark off a tree.

“Oh, I’m insufferable? You’re the one walking around like you’re holier-than-everyone just because Uncle Wu adopted you. Get over yourself.”

A collective “oof” rang from the side benches.

Jay and Cole sat on a low stone wall with a shared bowl of popcorn between them. Jay leaned over. “This is better than the fireworks at the Midwinter Festival.”

Cole tossed more popcorn into his mouth. “Told you they’d explode by lunchtime.”

Zane, standing awkwardly between both parties with his hands slightly raised, tried to mediate.

“I believe we should de-escalate this before someone says something regrettable.”

“It’s too late for that,” Lloyd muttered, rubbing his temple. “They’ve been at it since breakfast.”

Nearby, Nya crossed her arms and leaned back against a column, watching with a smirk. “Honestly, I’m impressed. Usually it takes her longer to reach defcon disrespect.”

Kai and Skylor sat on the opposite side of the courtyard, Kai half-grinning, half-nervous.

“She’s gonna throw something,” Skylor murmured.

“Five minutes, tops,” Kai whispered back.

Griffin Turner, one leg hanging over the ledge, laughed out loud. “Ten gold coins on Lysandra breaking his nose.”

Back at the epicenter of chaos—

Morro’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not the one who throws fits when her silk fans get folded the wrong way.”

“They’re imported!” she shouted. “And hand-painted!”

“You’re the most spoiled brat in the Monastery.”

“At least I didn’t get brought in like a stray and act like I own the place!”

Morro went still.

The wind shifted.

“Lys,” Lloyd said sharply, eyes snapping open.

Her breath caught, just a second, but her pride was still in charge.

Morro’s expression darkened.

“…Say that again.”

“I said,” she repeated coldly, “You’re not even really part of this family. You’re just Uncle Wu’s project. You act like you’re entitled to everything when you’re not even one of us.”

Zane took a step forward. “Lysandra—”

But it was too late.

“Right,” Morro muttered, voice low and venomous. “The orphan reminder. Classic. Because when you don’t get your way, you bite where it hurts.”

Lysandra’s hands clenched. “I bite back when someone talks down to me like I’m a brainless girl who only cares about her hair and clothes.”

“You are a brainless girl who only cares about her hair and clothes!”

“I am more than you’ll ever understand, mountain goblin!”

“Try me, silk demon!”

From the sidelines, Jay whispered, “They’re flirting.”

Cole nodded. “Violently.”

Zane looked between them, confused. “This is not categorized as healthy courtship.”

Kai covered Skylor’s mouth to stifle her giggle, whispering, “Morro’s gonna explode. Any second now.”

Morro and Lysandra stood toe to toe, both flushed and fuming, their chests heaving with rage.

Lloyd finally stepped in, shoving himself between them with a groan.

“Okay, okay, that’s ENOUGH!” he barked, looking ten years older. “Morro, go train. Lysandra, go… go meditate, pray, light a candle—anything! Just separate!”

They stared at each other, neither backing down.

Then Lysandra gave an exaggerated scoff, spun on her heel, and stalked off, ponytail whipping the air like a warning banner.

“Absolute. Neanderthal,” she muttered as she vanished through the archway.

Morro turned the other way, still steaming. “Royalty with no class.”

And then they were both gone.

Silence.

Cole blinked. “So… are they like… engaged, or sworn enemies, or what?”

Lloyd sighed. “Both.”

Jay munched on another handful of popcorn. “You think they’ll kiss one day?”

“No,” Lloyd deadpanned. “But they’ll definitely throw each other off the roof first.”

Griffin nodded. “I want front-row seats for that.”

Kai stretched. “Well, at least the morning wasn’t boring.”

Zane looked around. “Should we do something about this?”

Nya patted him on the shoulder. “No, Zane. This is their foreplay.”

He blinked. “I am deeply concerned.”

....

 

Chapter 4: Gentleness

Summary:

Aurora acts gentle and coy, Arabella and Lysandra talk, Aurora cries and the Ninja watch a scary movie

Wu’s Study — Early Evening

The study was quiet again. The incense stick was replaced. The scrolls were realigned. The tea, finally warm.

Wu sat in meditative silence, halfway through transcribing an old verse from the Scrolls of Balance.

His brush glided steadily across the parchment, his shoulders finally beginning to relax after a full day of lectures, nagging, and Lysandra’s latest assault on decorum.

Then....

A gentle knock on the door.

“Enter,” he said cautiously.

The door slid open, and in stepped Aurora.

Wu looked up.

And froze.

Her long hair was swept into a careful updo, adorned with delicate pearl pins. She wore a silk qipao, blush pink with white lotus blossoms embroidered along the hem. The high collar hugged her slender neck, the fabric hugging her waist and hips before opening slightly with modest slits along her legs.

She moved like moonlight over still water.

Soft. Controlled. Deadly.

Wu narrowed his eyes instantly.

“…Aurora,” he said, not even looking up this time. “Whatever outfit you’ve concocted now, I beg you to—”

“You don’t like it?” she said softly, pausing by the doorway with one foot turned inward, as if shy. “I haven’t worn pink in years. Not since I was… sweet.”

“You haven’t been sweet since the Reign of the Jade Empress.”

She ignored him. Glided in.

“I thought it might please you. A soft wife. A quiet presence.” She lowered her head. “Submissive.”

Wu leaned back slightly. “Are you mocking me?”

She didn’t answer. She knelt beside his desk on a cushion, placing her hands neatly in her lap, lashes lowered.

“Would you like tea, husband? Or would you like me to quietly braid my hair and think of the ancestors?”

Wu stared at her, stunned.

“…What are you doing?”

“I am being the wife of a man of wisdom,” she whispered. “Like the old stories. Docile. Gentle. Compliant.”

Wu’s eye twitched. “I also used to sleep at night.”

Still, her hands reached slowly for his—before gently drifting up to touch his beard.

He jolted. “Aurora—”

She began braiding his beard. Delicately. Tenderly.

“Did anyone ever braid your beard when you were younger?” she asked in a soft voice. “Your mother? A sweetheart?”

“No,” he said flatly.

“I shall be the first,” she murmured. “It will soothe your tension.”

“You are the source of my tension.”

She smiled faintly. “You’re never gentle, Wu.”

“Because I am trying to live.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice even more. “You used to look at me like I was the flame and you were the moth.”

“I also used to have boundaries.”

She pouted slightly. “Now you lecture me. Always so stern. So cold.”

“I’m cold because you keep stealing my robes and calling it seduction.”

“I only did that once.”

“Thrice.”

She hummed, ignoring him, as she finished the tiny braid at the end of his beard and tied it with a pink thread—where did she even get that?—then leaned her chin on her hand, looking at him with doe eyes.

“…I hate marriage,” Wu muttered.

She gasped. “You wound me.”

“You wore red yesterday and tried to seduce me while rearranging scrolls. Now you wear pink and act like a disciple with a crush. Which personality am I talking to now?”

Aurora fluttered her lashes. “The one who loves you.”

“Go away.”

She shifted closer. “Say you like the pink. Just once.”

He refused to answer.

“Wu.”

Silence.

“Wu.”

Still silence.

She poked his side.

“…Fine. You look moderately charming in pink.”

She beamed. “I’ll wear it every day.”

“Please don’t.”

“Every. Single. Day.”

“I am moving to the meditation hall.”

“You’ll be cold without me.”

“I’ll be at peace.”

She leaned forward and kissed his cheek, rising slowly to her feet like a princess from the old tales.

“Good night, husband,” she whispered sweetly.

Wu didn’t respond.

She left, the swish of her silk qipao vanishing into the hall.

Wu stared blankly at the scroll before him.

“…She’s plotting something.”

And then he reached up, gently undid the braid in his beard, and sighed like a man preparing for war.

 

                                           ****

 

The moonlight poured through the tall window screens, casting pale silver ribbons across the floor.

A few lanterns flickered dimly in the corners of the room, the scent of sandalwood drifting faintly through the air.

The bedroom was a picture of elegance: embroidered tapestries, tea set on the low lacquered table, and an ornate mirror where Arabella sat brushing her long dark hair, dressed in a silk night robe the color of deep green moss.

A knock sounded on the door.

Before she could answer, Lysandra burst in.

“I hate him.”

Arabella blinked once in the mirror.

“Hello to you, too.”

Lysandra stormed in like a gust of divine fury, dressed in a hoodie, fluffy socks, and a vengeance. She flopped face-first onto her mother’s bed and groaned into the pillows.

“I hate him I hate him I hate him.”

Arabella continued brushing her hair. “Morro?”

Lysandra rolled over and flailed her arms. “Yes! The sanctimonious, brooding, stiff-as-a-board, mountain hermit orc of a man!”

Arabella blinked again. “Orc?”

“He acts like he’s above everyone, like I’m some spoiled airhead who’s never fought a battle or broken a nail! I mean, yes, my nails are perfect, but I have broken one before and it was emotionally devastating!”

Arabella chuckled softly and set her brush down. “So I take it the engagement is going well.”

“He called me superficial.”

Arabella walked over and sat beside her daughter, tucking a strand of Lysandra’s wild hair behind her ear.

“Well,” she said gently, “you did once threaten to challenge him to a duel because he insulted your tiara.”

“It was my gold-encrusted ceremonial tiara, Mother.”

“I’m not saying he was right,” Arabella smiled. “Just that perhaps you both provoke each other more than necessary.”

Lysandra groaned again, hiding under a pillow.

“I don’t want to marry him. He’s impossible. He broods more than Uncle Wu during a thunderstorm. He glares at butterflies. Who glares at butterflies?!”

Arabella laughed softly, rubbing her daughter’s back.

Lysandra peeked out from under the pillow, voice quieter now. “I don’t even think he wants to marry me. He acts like I’m a burden. Like he’s being punished.”

Arabella’s smile faded just a touch. Her voice grew softer.

“It’s not punishment, love. It’s… unification. You know how fractured our family can be. Wu raised Morro like a son. This marriage—it’s meant to bring the family closer.”

“By marrying us?”

Arabella shrugged. “We’re Masters, darling. We don’t always get the luxury of freedom in our choices. But we do get to shape how the story ends.”

Lysandra sat up, frowning. “So I just... pretend I’m happy?”

Arabella tilted her head. “No. You demand your space. You make him work for your respect. You make it clear that you are not some docile little flower he can ignore.”

Lysandra blinked. “That… actually sounds like fun.”

“Of course it does,” Arabella smirked. “You’re my daughter.”

Lysandra leaned against her mother’s shoulder. “I just… want someone who sees me. Who knows that I’m not just silk and lip gloss.”

Arabella kissed her forehead. “Then show him. And if he’s too blind to see it, well… there are ways to make him see.”

“Like what?”

“Your father still trembles when I wear the green qipao and speak softly,” she whispered conspiratorially.

Lysandra wrinkled her nose. “Ew. No. Stop. Please.”

Arabella laughed, wrapping her arms around her.

“You’ll be fine, sweetheart. You are fierce. You are clever. And Morro?” she paused, lips curling. “He’s already halfway in love with you.”

Lysandra blinked. “What?”

“Oh, he is. That boy watches you like you’re a battlefield and he’s trying not to lose.”

“…Really?”

“Absolutely. I see the signs. Wu did the same thing with Aurora for ten years before admitting he had a heart.”

“…That explains so much.”

Arabella leaned back. “Now go to bed. Tomorrow, you will look beautiful, act sweet, and terrify him.”

Lysandra smiled, standing. “I’ll wear the glitter lip gloss." 

“Good girl.”

As Lysandra walked to the door, she turned back.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Arabella winked. “Anytime. And if he’s rude again, let me know. I still have throwing fans.”

.......

Monastery Veranda – Late Night

The sky was thick with stars, no moon in sight—just endless velvet darkness and the faint hush of wind through the trees.

Lanterns flickered gently in their iron frames, casting long shadows across the wooden veranda that wrapped around the eastern wing of the Monastery.

Aurora sat alone near the edge, a soft shawl draped over her shoulders, her long dark hair loose, tumbling down her back like silk.

A single porcelain teacup rested untouched beside her.

She was dressed in pale blue tonight, a robe simple in design but elegant in fabric. Her eyes were red, though her tears had long since dried. Her posture was perfect, chin high, spine straight—except for the way her fingers trembled slightly in her lap.

Inside her, the silence was deafening.

For a long time, she had been still. Staring out into the Zen garden below. Listening to the breeze and the distant sound of koi rippling the pond.

And then, without fanfare, without sobs, she whispered:

“I wanted children.”

The wind stirred. No one heard her.

She closed her eyes.

“I wanted your child, Wu,” she murmured to the air. “A little boy with your eyes. A little girl with my smile. I would’ve named her Mei.”

The words tasted like grief.

A long silence passed.

Then—

Soft footsteps.

She didn’t look up. Didn’t wipe her face. She knew that tread. Measured. Hesitant. Heavy with the weight of too many years.

Wu appeared beside her, arms folded behind his back, the tails of his robe drifting in the breeze.

He didn’t speak immediately. His eyes scanned her quietly, noting the clenched jaw, the shimmer at the corner of her eye, the untouched tea.

“Aurora.”

She kept staring at the garden.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

A pause.

She gave a small, hollow laugh. “You always did see too much.”

He moved closer but didn’t sit.

She finally turned toward him, her voice small. Fragile.

“Do you ever wonder… if it was my fault?”

He blinked. “What?”

“All the pregnancies… the miscarriages…” She swallowed. “The doctors never said anything for certain, but I know what I did. I know what I was. When I was younger. How I treated my body.”

Wu was quiet.

Aurora wrapped her shawl tighter around her, as if shielding herself from the weight of her own words.

“I wanted to be beautiful. Perfect. Regal. So I starved. And I purged. I controlled everything I ate because I couldn’t control anything else.”

She looked down at her trembling hands.

“And maybe that’s why… maybe that’s why I could never carry a child. Maybe I broke the one part of me that could’ve made me feel… whole.”

Wu slowly sat down beside her.

“I never blamed you,” he said softly.

She shook her head. “But I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do,” she repeated, tears finally spilling over.

Wu hesitated—then, awkwardly but deliberately, reached out and took her hand. His calloused fingers curled around hers.

It startled her.

Aurora stared at him, lips trembling.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“For what?" 

“For not giving you the family you deserved.”

Wu didn’t reply at first.

Instead, he shifted closer and pressed her hand to his chest, just over his heart.

“I have family,” he said. “I have Morro. I have Lloyd. I have you.”

Aurora tried to breathe. The sob came out quietly.

Wu let her lean into him. She didn’t collapse—but she leaned. Her temple rested against his shoulder, her shawl slipping a little as he wrapped an arm around her, tentative but present.

“You should’ve told me sooner,” he murmured.

“I thought I was fine.”

He looked down at her. “You’re not a statue, Aurora.”

She laughed through her tears. “You tell me that now?”

They sat there in silence. The garden swayed. The koi moved in the pond. The lantern light danced across the water.

Wu held her as she cried softly, not trying to stop her. Not trying to explain it away. Just sitting with her. Letting her mourn.

And for once, Aurora let herself fall apart.

 

***

Monastery Living Room – Midnight

Thunder cracked in the distance, lightning flashing faintly through the tall windows of the monastery. The storm hadn’t quite arrived—but the wind had started to rattle the wind chimes, and the trees outside swayed like whispering shadows.

Inside one of the grand living rooms—deep in the western wing of the monastery—the ninja were huddled.

The wide room was dark, save for the flickering light of the glowing TV screen.

Pillows were stacked like fortresses. Blankets were layered like armor. A mountain of snacks—mostly popcorn, candy, and mysterious monk cookies—covered the central floor table.

Jay was gripping a plush throw pillow like a lifeline. “WHY would she go into the basement? No one in their right mind goes into a haunted basement alone!”

Cole, halfway through a mouthful of mochi, pointed at the screen. “She’s literally asking to get possessed—”

The TV let out a blood-curdling scream as the creepy girl on screen turned her head 360 degrees.

“AGH!” both screamed together, clutching each other.

Lysandra, nestled between Lloyd and Nya with a bowl of spicy chips, snorted. “That was amazing. I want her outfit.”

Lloyd, eyes wide, was slowly eating popcorn one kernel at a time. “This is not amazing. This is not fun. This is—this is emotional sabotage.”

Zane, sitting like a perfectly upright monk with a tea cup, blinked at the screen. “I’ve tracked the ghost’s movement pattern. The entity appears every 4.3 minutes. Its presence is typically signaled by violins and ominous static.”

Kai, lounging dramatically with a blanket across one shoulder like a cape, scoffed. “I’m not scared. I’ve literally fought lava monsters.”

“You screamed when the tea kettle whistled earlier,” Nya deadpanned.

“That was startling, not scary.”

The screen went black.

Silence.

Then—

A bang from inside the movie.

The screen lit up with a horrific face behind a mirror.

Jay threw his popcorn.

Cole launched a stuffed pillow.

Lloyd screamed, “WHY IS SHE IN THE BATHROOM NOW?!”

Lysandra cackled like a maniac.

“TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF—” Jay dove for the remote, knocking over a stack of cookies.

“No! I want to see her get dragged under the bed!” Lysandra grabbed it and hurled it to the other side of the room.

Kai pulled his blanket over his head. “This is fine. This is totally fine. I’m not scared, I’m prepared.”

Nya raised an eyebrow. “Prepared for what? To be the first one eaten?”

Suddenly—

Knock knock.

The window.

The wind chimes outside jingled.

Knock.

Everyone froze.

Knock. Knock.

Lloyd’s voice cracked. “Was that… from outside?”

“NOPE,” said Cole, launching himself behind a pillow fort.

“I told you this was a bad idea,” Jay whimpered. “I SAID we should’ve watched that cartoon about the magical geese instead!”

“I’ll check it,” said Kai, dramatically getting up.

“NO YOU WON’T,” everyone hissed, dragging him back down.

Knock.

Zane tilted his head. “It is likely the wind. However, we should be cautious in case—”

The door to the living room creaked open slowly.

All seven of them screamed.

And then—

Sera, in a silk nightgown and holding a plate of fruit, peeked in.

“Children?”

They all paused, blinking.

“Your mothers are busy. Do not disturb them,” she said sweetly, setting the fruit down and closing the door behind her.

Everyone stared in silence.

Jay whispered, “…Busy?”

Lysandra snorted. “They’ve got Dad and Uncle Wu hostage again.”

Cole made a face. “Gross.”

“I mean, good for them,” Nya muttered. “But also… gross.”

Lloyd looked down at his popcorn bowl, traumatized. “I don’t want to eat anymore.”

“Please don’t elaborate,” Zane said, sipping tea.

Lysandra stretched, utterly unfazed. “Back to the movie?”

Jay and Cole cried, “NO!”

But she had already hit play.

The music turned eerie again.

A shadow moved on screen.

Outside, the chimes rang once more.

Everyone tightened their blankets.

Kai whispered, “We are not making it to morning.”

Lysandra just grinned, fanged and fearless. “Speak for yourself.”

***

Monastery – Morning Light in the Meditation Hall

Golden light trickled in through the latticed windows, dancing over the polished floors and casting a soft warmth across the silent chamber.

The Meditation Hall, normally a place of stillness, incense, and quiet balance… now looked like a refugee camp for emotionally shellshocked old men.

Two figures were slumped beneath the large central altar.

Garmadon was passed out with his head leaning back against a scroll rack, his robe wrinkled, belt askew, and a few loose beads from someone’s prayer necklace tangled in his hair.

Wu was curled under a folded meditation mat like a reluctant caterpillar, his beard partially undone, sandals tossed several feet away, and what looked suspiciously like lipstick on his temple.

Enter: Lysandra, holding a teacup and looking too amused for a girl who barely slept four hours.

Nya walked beside her, arms folded, biting back a smirk.

They paused at the doorway.

The moment lingered in silence, heavy with judgment.

Then Lysandra whispered, “Oh my gosh.”

Nya leaned in. “Did they sleep in here?”

“I think they hid in here.”

“Are they okay?”

“No.”

Garmadon groaned, slowly shifting as his neck cracked and his soul left his body.

Wu sat up like a war veteran, eyes bleary and narrowed.

“…You two,” he rasped, “say nothing.”

“Of course not,” Nya said innocently. “We’re just observing.”

“Like nature enthusiasts,” Lysandra added helpfully, sipping her tea. “Or battlefield historians.”

Wu blinked. “Why are you like this?”

“Genetics,” Nya and Lysandra replied in unison.

Garmadon slowly stood, cracking his back and muttering darkly about “evil sirens in silk robes.”

Lysandra raised an eyebrow. “So, Mom and Aunt Aurora?”

Garmadon froze.

Wu looked at the ceiling.

Nya stepped over to inspect them both. “You both look like you were mugged by affection.”

“More like ambushed by women who don’t understand the meaning of boundaries,” Wu snapped, trying to tame his beard.

Lysandra leaned in closer to her uncle. “Is that… cherry blossom lipstick?”

Wu glared at her. “You’re grounded.”

“I don’t live under your rule.”

“I’ll make a law.”

Garmadon threw a blanket off his shoulder and muttered, “Your mother’s scheming. She’s gone full holy woman.”

“Oh,” Lysandra smiled, “you mean the tight black qipao and prayer beads? She’s very convincing.”

“She tried to chant ‘divine unity’ while crawling into my lap,” he hissed.

“Romantic.”

Wu sat upright again, fully affronted. “Aurora offered me ‘spiritual alignment’ and then proceeded to try and massage my shoulders with her thighs.”

Nya choked on her laugh.

Lysandra had to grip the wall to keep from falling over.

Wu pointed at them both. “You will both suffer.”

“Oh, we already are,” Lysandra said, brushing her long hair over her shoulder. “I can never unsee the image of my father fleeing from silk robes and religious seduction.”

Garmadon huffed. “It was not fleeing. It was a tactical withdrawal.”

Nya smirked. “Backwards. While screaming.”

“I was chanting.”

Lysandra smiled warmly. “I’m telling Mom you cried.”

“I did not cry.”

“Oh no,” Nya nodded. “We believe you. Just like we believe Master Wu ‘tripped’ over a pillow trying to run.”

Wu scowled. “I should have become a hermit.”

“Too late,” Lysandra sang.

As the two girls walked off, giggling and whispering, Garmadon turned to Wu.

“They’re worse than their mothers.”

Wu sighed, dragging his fingers through his half-undone beard. “They’re exactly like their mothers.”

There was a long silence.

Then Garmadon muttered, “…We should move to the Southern Isles.”

“I hear the monks there are celibate.”

“Tempting.”

Another silence.

“…We’re going to end up right back in their arms tonight, aren’t we?” Wu said bitterly.

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

They stood there, sighing in mutual resignation.

.........

Chapter 5: Jumpy Kids

Summary:

The ninja are still recovering from last night,

Morning – Monastery Kitchen

The monastery’s kitchen was alive with the scent of scorched toast, eggs, and instant coffee.

Cole sat at the table, stress-eating like a man who had just fought a ghost with nothing but a blanket and sheer panic. He was shoving scrambled eggs into his mouth with the urgency of someone trying to forget.

Kai stood in front of the toaster, arms crossed, watching it as if daring it to jump-scare him.

It dinged.

He yelped.

Jay screamed too, dropping his spoon, which clattered against the tile. He whirled around, breathing heavily. “I swear if that creepy girl shows up again, I’m punching a child ghost in the face.”

“You screamed at the toaster,” Nya said from the counter, not even looking up from her tea. “And the blanket. And your own reflection in the window.”

Jay looked traumatized. “It looked like it moved.”

“It was you,” Zane said calmly, flipping pancakes with robotic precision. “Reflections typically behave in tandem with your own movements.”

“I panicked, okay?” Jay snapped. “It was dark and the wind chimes were playing cursed lullabies!”

Lloyd slumped at the table, his head on a pillow he had brought from the living room. His eyes were bloodshot and wide.

“I saw something in the hallway after we went to bed,” he whispered.

Everyone stopped.

“What did you see?” Kai asked nervously.

“A shadow.”

Everyone froze.

“…That was me,” Zane clarified. “I went to refill the humidifier. Your hallway corner has poor lighting.”

“Oh.”

Lysandra sat at the head of the table, sipping coffee, legs crossed in her silk pajama pants, looking like a queen watching her jester court fall apart.

She grinned. “You all are so brave.”

Kai turned to her, indignant. “You laughed when the ghost crawled out of the well and snapped someone’s neck!”

“She used parkour and flair,” Lysandra said brightly. “I respect the performance.”

“Do you even have fear?” Jay asked suspiciously.

“No,” she said cheerfully. “Only mild annoyance and the occasional craving for blood.”

Lloyd shot her a look.

She winked.

Cole groaned as he reached for more toast. “I think I pulled something in my back from flinching too hard. Can ghosts do chiropractic?”

“You knocked over the lamp and crushed the popcorn bowl,” Nya reminded him.

“It attacked me.”

“It was a pillow.”

Zane placed a fresh stack of pancakes in the center. “This concludes my post-movie trauma analysis. Results: Jay and Cole are exhibiting signs of hyperstimulation. Kai is concealing fear through performative masculinity. Lloyd is in quiet recovery mode. Nya is unfazed. Lysandra… is unwell in a different way.”

Lysandra grinned at him, utterly pleased. “Thank you.”

“Not a compliment.”

Kai finally sat down and jabbed a fork into his eggs. “I don’t care what anyone says. That movie was messed up. The girl with the mirror eyes? I’m never brushing my teeth in the dark again.”

“You don’t brush them in the light,” Nya said.

“Leave me alone.”

Jay mumbled, “I had a nightmare about the doll crawling across the ceiling. It whispered my name in backwards.”

“Was it Nya whispering ‘get it together’ in reverse?” Lysandra offered.

Zane nodded. “That tracks.”

Lloyd, still wrapped in his blanket, muttered, “Can we watch a nice movie next time? Like... a cooking documentary?”

Nya smirked. “What, so you can scream when the soufflé falls?”

Lysandra burst out laughing.

Jay shivered. “Even the wind sounded haunted last night.”

There was a pause.

A soft knock tapped against the kitchen window.

Everyone froze.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Jay screamed. 

Kai dropped his toast.

Cole ducked behind the counter.

Zane blinked and walked calmly to the window—then slid it open to reveal—

Aurora and Arabella standing outside in their shawls, holding tea cups.

Arabella smiled sweetly. “Good morning, darlings.”

Aurora added, “We thought we’d bring you some divine energy to start your day.”

Jay fainted.

Kai whimpered.

Cole muttered, “Nope. I’m moving out.”

Lysandra smiled. “Mother. Auntie. You’re terrifying.”

“We know,” they said in unison.

...

Sorry for the short chapter! 

Chapter 6: Women Empowerment

Summary:

The women have a talk about their ideals.

Monastery Garden – Late Morning

The garden buzzed with quiet birdsong and a gentle breeze, sunlight kissing the old stone paths.

Somewhere behind the hedges, Arabella, Aurora, and Sera lounged near the koi pond, sipping tea and fanning themselves.

Their conversation was low, intense, and distinctly unimpressed.

“…I saw one of those girls on that flyer—glitter in her eyes, heels too high, and calling it empowerment,” Aurora sneered, venom laced in her tone. “Empowerment, my ass.”

“Disgusting,” Arabella agreed, swishing her tea cup. “Imagine telling the world this—” she gestured to her chest, then her hips “—is all we have to offer. That our bodies are currency. Not our minds. Not our strength. Just thighs and tits.”

Sera’s tone was sharp and cold. “And then they cry about being objectified while willingly reducing themselves to objects. Selling themselves to the same system that hates them.”

Nya and Skylor, walking by, halted mid-step behind the garden wall. Their eyes met in stunned silence.

“Did they just…?”

Nya stepped forward. “I mean, I’m sorry—but what?”

Arabella, Sera, and Aurora turned toward them like queens pausing for jesters.

“Oh, good. The modernists have arrived,” Aurora said, dryly.

“Don’t get us wrong,” Skylor began, cautious but firm. “We support women. Whatever they choose to do with their bodies—that’s their right. Stripping, escorting, pole dancing—it’s still their body. Their choice.”

Arabella raised an elegant brow. “And whose narrative taught you that?”

“Um—common sense?” Nya replied. “Equality?”

Sera tilted her head, her voice cool and deliberate. “Darling, you’ve mistaken permission for liberation.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Skylor asked, crossing her arms.

Arabella leaned in, her tone cutting but smooth. “It means you were told you’re free because now you’re allowed to be naked for men instead of being forced to. That’s not liberation—it’s rebranded servitude.”

“You think taking your clothes off for a crowd of leering men makes you powerful?” Aurora added, bitter. “It just proves that even in freedom, society taught you that your body is your greatest weapon.”

Sera continued, voice like a lecture cloaked in elegance. “Empowerment, true empowerment, is when a woman can walk into a room and command respect without stripping. Without moaning into a microphone or licking a pole. That kind of ‘empowerment’ isn’t empowerment at all—it’s validation from men disguised as power.”

Nya blinked, stunned.

“That’s… harsh.”

Arabella didn’t flinch. “No. It’s truthful. Why do you think men cheer for it? Why do they stuff bills in her bra and tell her she’s ‘strong’? Because it serves them. The patriarchy doesn’t tremble when a woman becomes a stripper. It claps.”

Skylor, a little shaken, frowned. “But some women choose it. Some find confidence, safety, even financial stability.”

“And that’s what breaks my heart,” Aurora muttered. “That this world has failed women so much that this—this performance of degradation—is considered a path to strength.”

Sera looked into her tea, quietly adding, “When the only way for a woman to survive is by using her body... the world has already decided she has no mind worth listening to.”

The breeze stirred.

Aurora’s eyes gleamed. “You want to know what I think of men who cheer when a woman degrades herself for a dollar? I think they’re filth. I think they love to watch us burn.”

“I hate them,” she added plainly. “All of them. The ones who say they love women but cheer when they strip. The ones who pay and drool and ‘support sex workers’—as long as they get their pleasure. They don’t respect you. They consume you.”

Nya and Skylor stood there, quiet now, no longer combative.

“I never thought about it like that…” Skylor said, softly. “We always framed it as autonomy. Reclaiming control.”

Arabella gave a gentle, sad smile. “But if the only ‘control’ we’re allowed is over how we’re consumed, are we really free?”

Sera set down her cup. “We are not prudes. We are not ashamed of the body. But we are furious that the body is all we’re allowed to be known for.”

Arabella nodded. “I don’t want my daughter—or yours—thinking they have to undress to be heard. Or touch a pole to feel valued. Or sell themselves to be seen.”

There was a silence that followed—long, uncomfortable, thoughtful.

Aurora broke it with a final blow: “Empowerment that relies on male approval... is not power. It’s a leash in disguise.”

.....

The wind rustled through the trees outside, stirring the wind chimes hung on the eaves of the monastery.

The day was crisp, the air sweet with petrichor from an early dawn drizzle, and inside the monastery’s private sitting chamber, Skylor and Nya walked with purpose.

They had just finished sparring and were still catching their breath, both having brushed up against a conversation earlier that left them... uncomfortable.

“I still think everyone has the right to do what they want with their bodies,” Skylor murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But that conversation... with the Spinjitzu wives... it was intense.”

Nya, arms crossed and brow furrowed, nodded. “Arabella and Aurora looked like they were ready to declare war on a strip club.”

“Did you hear what Lady Sera said?” Skylor continued. “She said something like, ‘the moment a woman profits from objectification, she becomes the enemy of every girl still trying to be heard.’ That hit.”

Nya exhaled, unsure. “It’s just... weird. You’d think they’d be more supportive. They're powerful women.”

“They are supportive,” came a calm voice from behind them.

Lysandra stood poised at the archway, arms folded, her long dark braid slung over her shoulder. She wore a blood-red robe and bare feet, her expression unreadable. She stepped into the room slowly, like a lioness descending a hill. “They’re just not supportive of idiocy.”

The two older girls straightened.

Skylor offered a warm smile. “We wanted to ask what you thought. You were quiet during breakfast.”

“I was biting my tongue,” Lysandra said. “And I don’t like biting my tongue.”

She approached and sat cross-legged on the low bench, graceful but powerful. “Here’s what I think. I think it's pathetic how some women truly believe they're reclaiming power by taking off their clothes. You think baring skin for male validation is empowerment? That’s not power. That’s submission with glitter.”

Nya’s brows furrowed. “But isn’t that kind of the point? Reclaiming what men objectified and saying ‘you don’t own this—I do’?”

Lysandra’s eyes flashed. “But you’re still doing what they want. You’re feeding into the same fantasy men created. So how is that liberation? They want women half-naked and you say ‘yes, queen’? You just gave the patriarchy a free meal and called yourself the chef.”

Skylor opened her mouth, but Lysandra wasn’t done.

“And don’t even get me started on how these women never use their brains. If women started using 100% of their intellect and strategy—not their breasts—they’d conquer every government, dismantle every patriarchal system, and build an empire of equality. But no, some of us are too busy learning how to dance on poles.”

Her tone turned venomous.

“They say ‘my body, my choice,’ but where is ‘my mind, my legacy’? You think a girl born today wants to grow up watching her mother twerk online for rent money?”

The room had fallen completely silent. Nya shifted uncomfortably while Skylor just stared, stunned.

Lysandra’s voice dropped to a dark purr. “You want to know the real problem? Mothers. Women raise men. Women let sons believe they’re gods. They clean up after them, excuse their behavior, teach them nothing. If women started raising their boys with consequence, maybe fewer of them would become the pigs we all complain about.”

She leaned forward. “And if I ruled the world?” She smiled, a terrifying, beautiful thing. “There’d be mandatory testing for every man past age eighteen. One misogynistic comment? Tongue cut. Hands that wander? Fingers removed. Rape? Don’t worry, he’d beg to be killed.”

Nya and Skylor both visibly paled.

“Lysandra...” Skylor started softly, uncertain.

But the girl just kept going, now almost laughing as she spoke. “I’d build glass prisons where women can walk over and look down on their male captors. I’d commission sirens to scream in their ears every time they make a sexist comment. And when they cry? I’d feed them their own tears with silver spoons.”

Nya reached for her arm. “Lysandra, hey—”

“No, let me finish,” she said, eyes now burning. “Because it’s not a joke. I’ve seen what this world does to women. I’ve seen what it tried to do to my mother. To Aunt Aurora. To Grandma. And now they expect me to smile, be polite, wear velvet pants and bat my eyes while boys think they’re smarter because they were born with testosterone? No.”

She stood, smoothing her robe, spine straight like her mother’s. “If women wanted... truly wanted... to rule the world, we would’ve already. But too many are busy being sexy, not strategic.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Skylor stared down at her hands. Nya looked away, throat dry.

“…We were just trying to ask about the conversation earlier,” Nya said finally, voice soft.

“I know,” Lysandra replied, voice gentler now. “But don’t come to a dragon and expect a kitten.”

She gave a little smirk and turned, walking away, leaving the two girls in the quiet storm she left behind.

Only the wind chimes spoke after that.

........

The door creaked open with a gentle push, the faint scent of sandalwood and fire lilies drifting into the hallway.

Lysandra stepped inside, holding a scroll tucked under one arm, brows furrowed in deep thought from her earlier conversation with Nya and Skylor.

She had only meant to pass through the study on her way to the training yard—but stopped cold at the sight before her.

Her mother, Arabella, was draped around Garmadon like ivy on a reluctant tree.

Arabella stood with one hand pressed flat against Garmadon’s chest, the other lazily trailing down his sleeve.

She wore a sheer crimson robe that clung in all the wrong places, her long hair falling like a waterfall down her back. Her expression was one of impish confidence and sultry amusement, lips parted in a dramatic pout.

“Come now, my love,” Arabella crooned, circling him like a lioness toying with her prey. “I could strip for you right here, if you’d only listen for once.”

“Arabella.” Garmadon’s voice was firm but exhausted. His hand went to her wrist, trying to gently pry her away. “Not now. We’ve talked about this. Several times.”

“Oh but you never really listen,” she purred, ignoring his protests and sidling up to him again. “I’d be so good for you, darling. So sweet. I could light candles, hum your name, maybe even—” she leaned in close, lips nearly brushing his ear “—wrap myself in nothing but the royal crest and wait for you in bed like a proper wife.”

“Mother,” Lysandra said flatly from the doorway, one brow arched high. “We literally just had a conversation about women being objectified. Do you need me to roll out a mirror?”

Arabella turned slightly, batting her lashes at her daughter with zero shame.

“Darling,” she said, unbothered and elegant, “it’s not objectification when it’s your husband. Marriage is sacred. The only proper reason for a man and woman to undress is in the sacred confines of matrimony. Everything else,” she sniffed, “is just performance for fools.”

Lysandra’s mouth fell slightly open in disgust. “You sound like you’re quoting a holy book while climbing your husband like a tree.”

Arabella gave a laugh so light it sparkled. “Please. There’s nothing sinful about a woman wanting to make her husband remember why he married her. Isn’t that right, my lord?” she cooed, turning back to Garmadon and sliding her hand beneath the collar of his robe.

Garmadon stepped back like she’d tried to pour lava down his spine. His brows were drawn together in thunderous annoyance, jaw tight, his entire demeanor radiating do not touch me.

“Arabella,” he growled, voice strained with long-suffering restraint, “I just came in here for tea. I’m not in the mood for one of your... dramatics.”

Arabella’s bottom lip jutted out in an overly exaggerated pout. “You used to love my dramatics.”

“I’m tired. I’ve been working. You tried to bite me yesterday,” he snapped.

“It was playful,” she smiled, entirely unrepentant.

Lysandra had seen enough. She raised her hands in surrender and turned on her heel. “Nope. I’m out. I need a memory-wiping elixir and a therapist.”

“You’ll understand when you’re married,” Arabella called after her in a sing-song voice.

“Not if I marry a corpse,” Lysandra retorted as she left the room.

Garmadon stood rooted in place, stiff and pinched, resisting the urge to groan. Arabella leaned up again, all warmth and chaos.

“Come now, my Lord,” she whispered sweetly. “Let me be the reason you cancel your next meeting.”

Garmadon stared at the ceiling, muttering under his breath, “I swear, one day I’ll fake my own death.”

.....

Chapter 7: New Age

Summary:

Sera realizes how much the world has changed. Aurora and Morro talk. Wu is annoyed.

Sera sat cross-legged on a velvet lounge chair in the First Spinjitzu Master's study, the ancient room dimly lit by flickering lanterns and a single sunbeam streaming through the tall window. Scrolls lined the walls.

Tomes that predated even the concept of “electricity” lay open on his desk.

And in the middle of all that hallowed tradition…

Sera was furiously swiping through her new smartphone.

She gasped.

Then gasped again, louder.

Then held the phone up like it was cursed.

“What in the realms is this?!” she exclaimed, jabbing the screen as if sheer indignation could erase what she’d just seen. “They call this fashion? This is a belt masquerading as a skirt!”

Across the study, the First Spinjitzu Master sat at his desk, ancient quill in hand, halfway through transcribing an enchanted parchment from the old days of elemental rift binding. He didn’t look up, only gave a distracted hum.

“I mean, look at this girl!” Sera thrust the phone toward him, horrified. “She’s wearing mesh. Mesh! You can see her stomach, her chest, her navel piercing, for goodness’ sake! What happened to layered robes? Or a nice ankle-length tunic? Or dignity?”

The FSM glanced up briefly over his spectacles, eyes flicking toward the screen.

“Hm,” he said. “Is that glitter on her eyebrows?”

“Yes,” Sera snapped. “And she calls it ‘slay-core.’ Whatever that means.”

“Hm,” he repeated, going back to his parchment, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Sera was not amused.

“Oh, and here’s another one,” she said, scrolling again with the dramatic flair of someone flipping through forbidden texts. “He’s wearing pants that hang below his hips and a shirt that says ‘IYKYK.’ What is that? A code? A cult?”

“It means ‘If you know, you know,’” her husband muttered absently.

She paused, blinking. “How… do you know that?”

He smiled faintly, not answering.

Sera stared at him, horrified. “Are you corrupted?!”

“No, my dear,” he said serenely, “I simply listen when the grandkids speak.”

Sera threw her head back in dismay, scrolling faster now, as if she were on a mission to discover every tragic facet of modern Ninjago.

“Look at this!” she cried again, showing him a video of a teenage girl mouthing off to her parents while filming herself. “Where are her manners? Her spine? Her fear?”

The FSM gave a chuckle. “Perhaps she’s just confident.”

“She’s disrespectful!” Sera declared. “In my day, if you even looked at your mother with half that attitude, you’d get knocked into next week and back. And now they call their parents by their first names. First names!”

The First Spinjitzu Master folded his hands in front of his mouth to hide a smile. “I remember when you tried to fight a constable for calling me ‘sir’ instead of ‘Your Radiant Wisdom.’”

“I was right,” Sera snapped. “Titles exist for a reason.”

She scrolled again. “And don’t even get me started on this whole ‘girlboss’ and ‘sigma male’ business. Why is everyone trying to dominate everyone else? It’s a society, not a combat arena!”

The FSM leaned back, watching her pace now, the phone clutched like a fragile relic she was tempted to incinerate.

“They’ve forgotten decency. Courtship. Clean silhouettes. Education! They think ‘gaslight’ is a compliment and that emotional stability is ‘mid.’ I swear, if I hear one more person say ‘it’s giving’ followed by anything—”

“‘It’s giving dramatic monologue,’” the FSM supplied helpfully, grinning.

Sera shot him a withering glare.

“You’re lucky you’re still handsome.”

“I always am.”

With a dramatic huff, Sera sat back down, fanning herself with a spare scroll. “I weep for Ninjago. The minds are rotting. The skirts are shrinking. The etiquette is extinct. And somewhere, some child is probably livestreaming himself dancing in the middle of traffic.”

A pause.

She looked back at her phone.

“…Oh, Saints. He is.”

The FSM chuckled quietly, returning to his scrolls.

“Let the world evolve, my dear,” he said. “But you—stay gloriously indignant. The universe needs both.”

Sera was silent for a moment.

Then, she gasped again.

This time it wasn’t horror. It was… fascination.

Her finger hovered over a new image on the screen—a woman in a sleek purple velour tracksuit, glossy and tight in all the right places, bedazzled with little rhinestones spelling out “Queen” across the rear. The hoodie was cropped. The neckline dangerously low. The zipper shimmered.

Sera leaned closer.

“…Well.”

She sat straighter in the lounge chair, tilting her head and tapping the image. “This… is oddly regal. I mean, it’s… tailored. Coordinated. And purple is technically a royal color…”

Her eyes darted to the side, to where the First Spinjitzu Master was still scribbling calmly at his desk, as if the fate of decorum in the world wasn’t unraveling one scroll at a time.

“And it does look comfortable,” she murmured to herself.

Her thumb flicked faster through a wave of early-2000s and 2010s fashion. Juicy Couture tracksuits. Low-rise jeans. Wide belts over tunics. Ballerina flats. Leggings under mini-skirts. Denim everything. Off-shoulder tops. And more bedazzling than one realm needed.

A few seconds passed.

“Oh no,” she whispered. “I remember this. This was when Lysandra started stomping around in that all-black tracksuit like a tiny rebel queen.”

She squinted. “And Aurora… Aurora had that red one. Yes. ‘Juicy’ across the back, like she was advertising a fruit stand.”

The FSM raised his head.

“You mean the outfit that nearly made me go blind during breakfast?”

Sera flinched dramatically, clutching her pearls. “You noticed?”

“It was red, tight, and had glitter. I’m not a rock.”

Sera rolled her eyes, then turned the screen toward him. “What do you think of this one? Purple. Elegant. Bold. It says ‘Fierce’ on the backside. That’s empowering, right?”

The FSM gave her a withering stare. “You were just saying modesty was dead.”

She waved her hand. “Yes, for them. But this is vintage. Technically historical. And besides, I’m a grandmother. That makes it ironic. Irony is fashionable now.”

“You said dignity is sacred.”

“Yes,” she nodded, standing up with a little spin, “but so is reinvention.”

He raised a brow. “You’re really going to wear rhinestones on your behind?”

“If it gets me compliments from the tailor, yes.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’m already browsing the online shops!” she sang, eyes wide with delight as she pulled up a page labeled Retro Icons: Y2K Tracksuit Collection. “They even have a matching purse shaped like a chihuahua. How darling is that?”

“You’re royalty,” he reminded flatly.

She turned to him, deadly serious. “I was royalty. Now I’m a grandmother. This is my villain era.”

He blinked. “…What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, but it sounds fantastic.”

Sera sat down, now entirely absorbed in her search, muttering to herself as she examined crop tops and wide belts and wedge sneakers.                                        

“I mean, how is this different from battle attire, really? You show your strength, your taste, and your upper thigh. It’s all the same. Style is war.”

The FSM dropped his pen and rubbed his temples.

She clicked her tongue at him. “You’re such a buzzkill.”

“I’m trying to preserve culture.”

“I am culture.”

He groaned.

And Sera, Grandmother Supreme, slipped her glasses on and added a purple velour tracksuit to her cart, already plotting how to wear it to her next tea party with Arabella and Aurora.

 

                                      **********

 

The sweet scent of vanilla and rosewater hung heavy in the kitchen air, a delicate perfume that softened the crisp chill lingering in the old Monastery walls.

Warmth radiated from the oven in steady pulses, filling the stone space with a cozy haze, and the distant whirr of the ceiling fan stirred the smell of freshly baked sugar cookies.

Aurora stood at the kitchen island in a pale pink apron embroidered with small cherry blossoms. Her hair was twisted back in a loose braid, a few golden strands falling into her face as she worked.

Her fingers moved quickly, expertly, as she pressed another heart-shaped cookie cutter into the pale pink dough rolled thin on the floured marble surface.

Two heaping trays were already stacked beside her—glazed cookies in shades of rose and blush, some dusted with glittering sugar crystals, others detailed with tiny white icing vines.

Still, she kept baking.

They always ate everything, after all.

She reached for another ball of dough, only half-looking up when she heard slow, heavy footsteps enter the room.

Morro slouched into the kitchen with the air of a man ready to grumble at the world.

His green cloak was wrinkled and unevenly fastened, and his boots tracked in dry dust from the corridor. He wordlessly sank onto a stool by the counter, arms folded across his chest, and gave a long, sharp sigh.

Aurora didn’t pause in her baking. “I made lemon rose this time,” she said conversationally. “They’re cooling on the tray.”

“I’m not hungry.”

A pause.

“…Mhm.”

She leaned over to grab another baking sheet, brushing powdered sugar off her apron.

Her pink qipao swished as she moved, ruffled with lace at the sleeves, the opposite of her usual fierce crimson. The pink made her look soft. Harmless. Almost demure.

And Morro was starting to suspect that was the point.

He sat in heavy silence, watching her roll more dough with calm, methodical grace. The soft thump of her rolling pin filled the room.

The sunlight from the window caught in her earrings. Her hands, dusted with flour, were steady and precise. She didn’t look at him.

Morro scowled and rubbed his temple. “She’s impossible.”

Aurora arched a brow but still didn’t meet his eyes. “You’ll need to narrow that down, darling. There are several ‘shes’ in this Monastery.”

“Lysandra,” he growled. “Who else?”

Now she looked up.

Her eyes sparkled with something between fondness and mischief. “Oh.”

Morro groaned and dropped his forehead to the counter with a dull thunk.

“I told her we needed to talk about our engagement. She said she’d rather fight a lava monster. She insulted my eyebrows. Twice. And she broke my sword. Again.”

Aurora slid a tray into the oven. “So a normal day.”

He glared at her.

She finally smiled, walking to his side with a cloth and gently brushing the flour off his cloak. “I don’t know why you’re so glum. You’re marrying a treasure.”

“A menace.”

“She’s delightful.”

“She called me ‘goth broccoli.’”

“I mean…” Aurora squinted. “A little accurate.”

He looked personally offended. “Why are you taking her side?”

Aurora hummed and returned to the counter. “Solidarity, my dear. Girl code.”

Morro dragged a cookie off the cooling tray and bit into it moodily. He chewed in silence, not quite willing to admit how perfect the flavor was—soft, buttery, with a floral sweetness and a delicate crisp edge.

“She’s unpredictable,” he muttered between bites. “She doesn’t listen. She’s dramatic. Reckless. Wild.”

Aurora turned and gave him a pointed look, placing her hands on her hips. “And you aren’t?”

Morro looked away.

Aurora smiled knowingly and picked up a piping bag, beginning to decorate a row of cooled cookies with delicate spirals of cream icing. Her voice softened slightly.

“She’s bold,” she murmured. “She’s loyal. She’s terrifying when angry. She’s clever when she wants to be. Her emotions are wild, yes—but she feels deeply. That’s rare, Morro. She’s not delicate, but she’s not cold either. That’s the beauty of it.”

“…She also tried to kill me with a decorative vase.”

Aurora made a sympathetic noise. “She probably didn’t mean to. Probably.”

“Are you sure you’re my adoptive mother?” he grumbled. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

She smirked and slid another tray into the oven. “I am. Which is why I’m trying to save you before you scare her off with your brooding. Eat another cookie and stop being tragic.”

He did.

And she walked over, tousling his hair like he was ten again, which earned her a swat at her wrist and a glare.

Their relationship had always been like this—chaotic affection masked behind insults and sharp-edged banter.

Aurora was more like a chaotic older sister than a mother, truthfully. Wu was the stern, silent type. Aurora was the glitter bomb in the hallway.

But when Morro was sick, she stayed up with him. When he trained too hard, she made him soup. When he failed, she baked cookies and let him sulk at her side like this.

And when he needed her, she was always there.

“Do you ever get tired of meddling?” he grumbled.

“No. It’s a hobby.”

“Of course.”

She smiled wider, hands on her hips again. “Now eat at least five more cookies. You look malnourished.”

Morro rolled his eyes and leaned back with a heavy sigh, the cookie still in his hand. He didn’t complain again.

And for a while, the kitchen was quiet.

The smell of cookies filled the air, the oven ticked softly, and the chaos of life was, for once, sweet and still.

The kitchen was still cloaked in the rosy warmth of baking.

The soft whirr of the oven fan and the occasional clink of utensils were the only sounds in the room.

Aurora moved with practiced grace, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the flour dusted on her arms like fine snowfall. Her fingers fluttered delicately over the cookies, piping white icing in neat little spirals that looked like lace.

Morro sat hunched on the stool, one cheek in his hand, elbow resting on the counter.

He'd finished three cookies already and was eyeing a fourth, if only to have something to do besides brood over Lysandra’s latest verbal assassination.

He stared as Aurora shaped another ball of dough and began rolling it flat, her golden hair glinting in the soft afternoon light.

Despite her usual reputation as a firestorm in silk, today she seemed uncharacteristically… sweet. And soft. And pastel.

It unnerved him.

Before he could comment, the kitchen door creaked open.

Wu stepped inside, his robes flowing behind him like shadows. He paused the moment his eyes fell on the room.

On his wife.

And on Morro—who sat far too casually at the kitchen counter, in the middle of what could only be described as a suspiciously domestic scene.

Wu’s gaze narrowed.

Aurora didn’t even turn her head. “Welcome back, darling,” she purred, a teasing lilt in her voice as she continued to roll out dough, her tone as delicate as spun sugar. “You’re home early.”

Morro sat upright like he'd just been caught committing treason. Wu blinked. Then blinked again.

“Aurora,” he said slowly, cautiously, “you’re wearing… pink.”

Not crimson. Not wine red. Pink.

She finally turned, smiling sweetly, the way she always did when she was up to something.

“This old thing?” she asked, brushing invisible flour from her ruffled collar. “Just something I found tucked away. I thought it might be… pretty.”

Wu’s brow furrowed. “You look like a strawberry.”

“Thank you.” She beamed.

Morro made a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a gurgle.

Wu’s eyes trailed her figure as she crossed the kitchen again, the embroidered pink apron tied neatly at her waist, her hips swaying ever so slightly. She leaned over to check the oven, presenting a clear view of her back to both men.

Morro looked like he might die. Or explode.

Wu, meanwhile, looked vaguely alarmed.

“You’re baking,” Wu said slowly. “With frosting.”

“Mmmhmm,” she sang, spinning around with a tray and placing it down between them. “Heart-shaped ones. Because we haven’t had nearly enough sweetness lately.”

Wu eyed the cookies with suspicion, as though they might be laced with something. He turned to Morro. “How long has this been going on?”

Morro stood with a scowl. “Too long. I’ve aged five years.”

Aurora was unbothered. She picked up a piping bag and began swirling it expertly over a new row. “Oh hush. You act like you weren’t just sulking about your fiancée five minutes ago.”

“I was sulking privately,” Morro hissed. “And then you decided to dress like a cotton candy daydream and act like a 1950s housewife—”

“Compliment noted.”

Wu, clearly unnerved, stepped closer. “You’re acting… strangely affectionate.”

She set the piping bag down, then turned, taking slow steps toward him. Her expression shifted from sweet to something softer, deeper—her lashes lowered, her hands dusted gently against her apron.

“Strange?” she asked, voice quieter now, lilting. “I missed you, that’s all.”

Wu stiffened as she closed the distance between them and slipped her arms around his waist. She nestled her head against his chest with the dramatic sigh of a woman longing for her war-bound husband.

“You’ve been so cold lately,” she whispered. “And it’s been weeks since we’ve done anything…”

Wu stood frozen, mouth half open, arms still rigid at his sides. He folded his arms behind his back stiffly, as if trying to physically hold himself in place. “Aurora…”

“What?” she asked, head tilting. “I’m just saying—”

“You’re being inappropriate,” he hissed.

Morro’s chair screeched against the floor. “Oh shit,” he muttered, grabbing his cloak. “Nope. No. Absolutely not. I’m out.”

Wu finally moved, trying to extract himself from Aurora’s hold. “Aurora—”

She held on tighter. “Don’t push me away, Wuwu. I’m delicate today.”

“You are not,” he said flatly. “You are never delicate. You break bones with high heels.”

She looked up at him through her lashes. “But I can pretend.”

Morro made a gagging sound as he crossed the threshold of the door.

Wu’s face twitched. “We’re too old for this.”

Aurora clucked her tongue and stepped back just enough to look him in the eye, arms still loosely draped around his waist.

“Age is just a number,” she whispered dramatically.

“My back hurts.”

“You’re not weak.”

“I have grey hair.”

“It’s distinguished.”

“I need knee support just to meditate.”

“And I still think you’re handsome.”

Morro—now halfway down the hallway—shouted, “I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.”

Aurora ignored him and tilted her head, leaning into Wu with a playful smirk. “We’re married, darling. I’m allowed to flirt with you.”

Wu sighed heavily, though his hands finally came to rest against her waist. “You’re impossible.”

“Utterly.”

“And pink looks ridiculous on you.”

“You love it.”

“…I really don’t.”

“Yet here you are, still holding me.”

Wu stared down at her, visibly tired, visibly confused, and still visibly captivated—if only because he knew resistance would be futile. Aurora beamed as though she’d won a war.

The oven chimed, signaling another batch of cookies done.

Aurora slipped away, brushing flour off her skirt. “Now. Sit. I’ll feed you something sweet, since your attitude clearly needs it.”

Wu didn’t move.

“I need to meditate,” he muttered.

“No you don’t. You need a cookie.”

He sighed and sat.

Aurora slid a cookie into his hand with a wink, and somewhere down the hallway, Morro could still be heard muttering under his breath, cursing his entire extended adoptive family.

Just another day at the Monastery.

...

 

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Ninjago Chaotic Family AU