Chapter 1: The Fire Scion (Zari POV)
Chapter Text
Sunlight filters through the sheer curtains of my chamber, casting a warm, golden glow around me. I stand before the mirror, my reflection staring back calmly - brown eyes steady with quiet confidence, pale skin clear and soft, silky straight hair pulled carefully back into a formal bun held together by my golden hairpiece. I take a slow, steady breath and straighten my shoulders. Perfection is expected today, just as it is every day.
In the training courtyard, familiar murmurs reach my ears, a subtle blend of admiration and expectation from servants and instructors alike. The courtyard itself is grand, enclosed by high stone walls emblazoned with the Fire Nation emblem, vivid banners of deep crimson and gold fluttering gently in the morning breeze. My firebending forms flow smoothly, flames flickering obediently from my fingertips, disciplined and precise. I must perfect every aspect of my firebending. I am the Fire Scion, destined to serve our nation, to uphold our greatness when my time comes. Pride warms my chest, sharpening my movements and deepening my breaths.
“Impressive, as always, Zari,” Master Kunyo praises with a nod, his voice a steady affirmation. His aging eyes hold genuine respect. “Your progress honors both the Fire Nation and Royal Family.”
I bow respectfully, keeping my expression composed. “Thank you, Master Kunyo.” My eyes drift across the courtyard to where Prince Zuko practices alongside Princess Azula. A subtle warmth tinges my cheeks briefly before I force it down. There's something compelling about Zuko’s earnest determination, always striving to rise above his sister’s seemingly effortless superiority.
My gaze briefly lands on Azula, whose movements are as fluid and natural as breathing. Flames leap effortlessly at her command, sharp and precise, reflecting her innate talent as a firebending prodigy. A striking young girl with her jet black hair perfectly pinned up in a top bun, there is not a hair out of place or a wrinkle in her clothes. She carries herself with absolute certainty, fully aware of her exceptional abilities. Despite my status as the Fire Scion, a pang of shame and envy twists in my stomach. Watching her effortless mastery reminds me painfully that my own skills, though praised, are still not quite at her level, and they may never be. I desperately strive to be like her, or even surpass her, to make my nation proud and help bring the Fire Nation to total victory.
Stepping closer, I offer a respectful bow. “Prince Zuko, Princess Azula,” I greet formally.
Zuko meets my gaze briefly, a gentle, almost shy smile forms. “Good morning, Zari.”
Azula’s glance slices sharply towards me, her eyes glittering with a familiar, competitive edge. “Perhaps today we’ll see how well the Fire Scion fares against actual royalty.”
I match Azula’s gaze, a spark of jealousy and defiance igniting within me. “I’d be honored to train alongside both of you.” I set aside my jealousy and remind myself of the blessing in front of me- there is no better way to sharpen my skills than to spar with a true prodigy such as her.
Master Kunyo gestures, signaling for us to begin a three-way sparring session. The morning fades into fierce exercises, fire crackling and bursting around us, with intermissions of corrections to our form and tactics. Azula moves effortlessly, a cruel smirk constantly at her lips, her confidence both irritating and admirable. Zuko pushes himself tirelessly, sweat glistening on his brow, driven by a desperate need to keep up with us and prove himself. There are times he becomes so desperate to match his sister’s skill that he pours all his focus into the strength of his flame, resulting in sloppy form and blunt corrections from Master Kunyo; Azula appears to find great satisfaction in these moments. Quiet admiration stirs in me, alongside subtle pity for his struggle. Out of sympathy, I can’t help but soften my sparring towards Zuko. My flames remain steady and controlled, but I feel a twinge of worry as Ozai watches us silently from above, his presence alone casting a chilling shadow over the warm courtyard. He must have noticed my subtle compassion for Zuko. His deep, commanding voice cuts through the crackle of fire.
“Zari,” his voice is calm but edged with steel. “Power belongs to those who take it without hesitation. The Fire Nation thrives because we do not falter, we do not forgive, and we do not bow. In your hands rests the legacy of fire- let it blaze or be consumed by those stronger than you.” He makes it clear that hesitation is a path to shame, and every spark we summon is a step toward either glory or disgrace.
His words hang heavy in the air.
As we finish, breathing heavily, Zuko flashes me an exhausted yet appreciative glance. “You fight well,” he murmurs quietly, just loud enough for me to hear. I admire his humility, considering he is the prince of the Fire Nation.
“So do you,” I reply softly, the sincerity clear in my voice. Although I tend to soften my attacks on him from time to time, it would be unfitting to say he does not carry a certain level of talent.
Azula laughs lightly, a sound edged with mockery. “Adequate, both of you. But as Father says, there's always room for improvement.” She turns away with a dismissive flick of her wrist, leaving Zuko visibly deflated.
I touch Zuko’s arm briefly, a silent gesture of encouragement. He nods slightly, gratitude flashing in his eyes.
After training, I wander the palace corridors alone, deep in thought. Grand tapestries depicting our nation’s fiery triumphs stretch endlessly along the hallways, an ever-present reminder of duty and destiny. Pausing at a window, I gaze at the sprawling capital below. I see bustling streets filled with loyal citizens and diligent soldiers, a testament to the Fire Nation's might and order. Despite my pride, I feel a subtle heaviness, knowing great expectations rest on my shoulders. I have a vital role to serve in the war, but not knowing what it is brings me great anxiety.
I pass servants who greet me politely, their eyes respectfully lowered. My status is clear, but I often wonder if they see anything beyond my title. I think of my father Piandao’s estate, where weekends bring quiet contemplation and gentle philosophical discussions beneath serene trees and beside softly rippling ponds. Dad’s gentle wisdom always contrasts sharply with the palace's intense demands. The slow weekends with my father give my body adequate time to recover from the rigorous sparring and exercising here at the palace. I always look forward to those weekends, yet even there, my training never truly stops.
The sun begins to set, painting the corridors in fiery shades of orange and red. My fingers brush a loose strand of hair back into place, a soft sigh escaping me. Tomorrow is the beginning of the weekend, which will bring a brief respite, yet my heart remains tethered here, bound by duty and pride, and perhaps something more- a quiet, secret admiration for Zuko fighting earnestly for his rightful place amidst unyielding expectations and harsh judgments. Thinking about the position he is in causes my heart to ache at times.
Later that evening, I sink into a steaming hot bath, allowing the heat to soothe away the day's tensions. The gentle ripples of water echo softly around me, offering rare solitude within these palace walls. My mind drifts, revisiting the day's events- the relentless training, Azula's effortless superiority, and Zuko's quiet determination. Mixed emotions swirl inside me; pride mingled with lingering doubts and quiet aspirations. The pressure that comes with being the Fire Scion consumes me at times.
To be the Fire Scion is to carry a flame much older than myself- a spirit reborn only within the Fire Nation. Where the Avatar walked all four nations as a bridge, the Fire Scion burns for one alone. It is a legacy of mastery, not mercy, and one that demands ruthlessness and perfection.
The other nations also have their own Scions: Earth, Water, and- long ago- Air. The Water Scion flows like the tides, the Earth Scion stands unyielding, and the Air Scion… its voice has gone silent with the fall of the Air Nomads, along with the Avatar. Though no Scion will ever rival what boundless power the Avatars once carried, I am the Fire Nation’s living emblem of that ancient strength. Every respectful bow from the servants, every calculating glance from the royals, is a reminder: I cannot afford to falter.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the edge of the tub and try to shove aside the pressures of my role in hopes of allowing myself this fleeting moment of vulnerability before tomorrow's demands reclaim me.
The pressure softens beneath the water, but it is replaced by a restless, burning ache I’ve been pretending isn’t there. My mind drifts to Zuko- his shy smile, the way his hair clung damp to his forehead during training, the determined light in his eyes. A pulse of heat sparks low in my stomach, and my hand drifts almost unconsciously across my chest, feeling my heart hammer against my palm.
The water ripples as I slide my hand lower, cupping myself hesitantly beneath the surface. A soft sigh escapes before I can stop it, and the image of him- sweat-slicked, panting from sparring, looking at me like I’m more than a war pawn- makes my body tense with desire. I circle my fingers slowly, seeking the release I’ve denied myself for so long, but the coil of pleasure refuses to snap.
Frustration builds instead. The pressure of duty creeps back in, strangling the fantasy, and I freeze. My breath shudders out, and I slump against the smooth edge of the tub, the water lapping softly around me. My hand falls limp into the bath, unsatisfied, the ache settling into my chest as much as my body.
Alone in the dim room, I whisper his name to no one. Tomorrow, I’ll face him again, calm and composed, the perfect Fire Scion- but tonight, I sink deeper into the water, letting the warmth hide my quiet, private shame.
Chapter 2: Out of Turn (Zuko POV)
Summary:
Zuko’s day spirals from humiliation in the courtyard to disgrace in the war room, ending with a challenge he can’t take back. Yet in the quiet of the garden, Zari’s steady gaze and soft words linger, igniting a longing he doesn’t dare touch.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sound of steel rings across the courtyard as the morning sun rises high enough to cast long shadows over the firebending arena. I stand at the edge of the polished stone, sweat already sliding down the back of my neck, and watch my sister twirl her flames with that infuriating grace she’s had since she was old enough to throw a spark.
Azula’s fire spins like silk in the air, ribbons of blue light licking at the sky before curling back into her waiting palms. Not a single misstep. Not a single hesitation. She doesn’t even look winded. Of course she doesn’t.
I clench my fists, trying to focus on my own breathing, the steady inhale and exhale that Uncle was always reminding me about. “Breath becomes flame,” he said. “Control your breath, control your fire.”
But all I could think about was the echo of Father’s words when discussing our training session a few days prior. Azula’s already a prodigy. Zari is the Fire Scion, closely trailing your sister. You have to work twice as hard to be half as good.
I thought I was improving, but Azula and Zari make it look so easy.
“Prince Zuko,” one of the instructors calls, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You’re up.”
I step into the arena, feet pressing into the warm stone, and position myself in the first form. Arms out, back straight, chest open. I visualize the fire moving through me the way Uncle taught- rooted, controlled, strong.
And for a moment, I almost feel proud of the arc of orange that burst from my palms. It was solid, clean, almost worthy.
Almost.
Azula claps slowly from the sidelines, her smirk just wide enough to grate on my nerves. “Not bad, Zuzu,” she says, voice dripping with fake sweetness. “But you left your left side open. In a real fight, you’d already be on the floor.”
I force a straight face and try not to let the heat in my cheeks betray me.
“Try it again,” the instructor orders.
I move back into the stance, forcing my body to obey, but my head was still buzzing. And then, like clockwork, she makes it worse.
“Why don’t we make this more… interesting?” Azula’s voice rings across the courtyard. “Spar with me. Unless, of course, you’re scared.”
Before I could answer, another presence entered the courtyard.
Zari.
She has returned from her usual weekend away at her father's estate. She moved with quiet purpose, hair in the neat bun she always wore, but something about her presence made the space feel… different. Lighter. The morning light seemed to follow her as she crossed the courtyard, carrying herself like someone who belonged without even trying. She does not carry the same cold energy as my sister.
“Training already?” she asks, voice soft but clear. Her brown eyes drift between me and Azula, calm and unreadable.
Azula doesn’t hesitate. “Perfect timing. You can judge our match. I want to show Zuko what real firebending looks like.”
I stiffen, glancing at Zari. She nodded politely, but there was a faint flicker of something- sympathy, maybe? Or curiosity? I couldn’t tell.
Azula’s first blast comes before the instructor can even give the signal. A streak of blue fire hissed across the courtyard, and I barely rolled aside. Heat seared my arm, close enough to sting. She was faster.
Always faster.
I grit my teeth and spring forward, forcing my breath to steady. Flame surges from my hands in a wide arc toward her midsection. She doesn’t even flinch. Azula vaults into the air, twisting like a ribbon of fire herself, and sends three quick bursts at my feet.
Stone scorches beneath me. I stumble, heart pounding.
“Predictable, Zuzu,” she sings, and the sound of her laugh claws at my chest.
I lunge again, this time pushing harder, forcing the fire to flare hotter. Maybe this time-
But I don’t get my chance. Azula sweeps her leg low, and next think I know, mine are gone from under me. The world spins, then cracks as my back slams into the warm stone. The air shoots from my lungs in a painful gasp.
Somewhere on the edge of my vision, in the midst of my pain, I am briefly distracted by Zari.
She is standing next to the instructor in courtyard. Her skin is pale against the sun, her frame slender but not delicate- there is strength under the calm. Almost as tall as me. Almost. Her brown eyes sweeps over our spar like a soft wind, and for a moment, they lock with mine.
I look away. The burn in my lungs twisted into something worse.
I push to my elbows, my spine aching against the warm stone, when I steal another look at her; Zari’s lips are press into a faint, uncomfortable line. She is not laughing. She is not gloating. Somehow that stings even more than Azula’s smirk. On the other hand, I am glad she does not find the same sadistic pleasure in my struggles as my sister does.
Then comes the voice I dread.
“What is this?”
Father’s shadow falls over me first, sharp and cold. I freeze.
Fire Lord Ozai’s eyes sweep the courtyard and find me on the ground. His gaze lingers, slow and heavy, before sliding to Azula with approval.
“Your sister is making a fool of you, Zuko,” he says, voice like a knife. “If you can’t keep up, perhaps you should watch and take notes instead of wasting our time.”
Heat rises in my face hotter than any flame I could bend, and my eyes begin to sting. I open my mouth to defend myself, but nothing comes out. Only a stiff bow.
“Yes, Father.”
He doesn’t even look at me again. I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes and regain my composure. His eyes are now on Azula, glowing with pride. “Excellent form. You’re a credit to this family.”
I swallow hard, forcing the lump in my throat down where no one can see it. And when I finally dare to glance Zari’s way, she was still watching. Not laughing. Not pitying. Just… seeing me.
Later that afternoon, the palace is humming with tense energy. Servants scurry through the halls, carrying scrolls and setting tables for the upcoming war meeting. I walk up to the red curtains of the war room, adorned with a large Fire Nation emblem, when one of the guards steps to the left, blocking me.
“Let me in!” I demand. Anger swells in me; my sister is in the war room, so why aren’t I?
Uncle puts his hand on my shoulder and asks, “Prince Zuko, what’s wrong?” which makes me angrier. I know Uncle saw what has happened as he approached the curtains to the war room.
I exasperatedly exclaim, “I want to go into the war chamber, but the guard won’t let me pass!” I point my finger at him and look into his eyes through the eye holds of his helmet.
Uncle reassures me, “You’re not missing anything, trust me. These meetings are dreadfully boring.” His reassurance does not matter to me.
“If I am going to rule this nation one day, don’t you think I need to start learning as much as I can?” There is a brief pause between us. I just don’t understand why I am never allowed in these meetings. Azula is always attending, and even Zari sometimes! I feel like they know more than I about the Fire Nation’s war plans, yet I am in line for the throne.
“Very well. But you must promise not to speak,” says Uncle, when another elder soldier walks by us into the war chamber. “These old folks are a bit sensitive, you know?”
“Thank you, Uncle,” I say before bowing to him. I am so relieved and excited to attend my first war meeting. He puts his arm around my shoulders as we quickly walk in, sit down, and the meeting starts.
Generals bow as Father takes his place on the throne, his expression carved from stone.
High General Bujing stands, preparing to share his plan. After a moment of collecting his thoughts, he begins speaking, “The Earth Kingdom defenses are concentrated here.” He uses a long, slender wooden dowel to precisely point to the location on the large map we are all surrounding. “A dangerous battalion of their strongest earthbenders and fiercest warriors… So I am recommending the 41st Division.”
Another general speaks up, “But the 41st is entirely new recruits. How do you expect them to defeat a powerful Earth Kingdom battalion?”
A confident smirk spreads across General Bujing’s face, “I don't. They'll be used as a distraction while we mount an attack from the rear. What better to use as bait than fresh meat?”
His plan quickly makes my chest tighten. It wasn’t honorable. It wasn’t right. And before I could stop myself, I stand up, ball my fists, and blurt out, “You can't sacrifice an entire division like that! Those soldiers love and defend our nation! How can you betray them?”
The room went silent. I stare into the angry eyes of eight generals seated to my right. I turn over my left shoulder, peering over Uncle sat next to me, and I lock eyes with my father as he sits on his throne. Father’s gaze burns into me as the flames surrounding him burn higher.
Azula’s smile twitches at the corner of my vision.
“You dare speak out of turn?” His voice is a whip.
I bow deeply, heat crawling up my neck. “I only meant-”
“You meant to question Head General Bujing in front of many other respectable, knowledgeable war officers,” he snapped. “Your challenge against him is an act of complete disrespect! And there was only one way to resolve this.”
My father is implying an Agni Kai. I look at Head General Bujing. It almost feels laughable. I stand firm in what I said, and I say, “I am not afraid of you! See you at the arena at sunrise.” I storm out.
I find Zari in the garden courtyard as the sun dips low, draping the palace in soft gold. She sits on the edge of the fountain, toes hovering above the water, her back perfectly straight. The fading light glints against her black hair, the gold hairpiece catching like a spark.
“You left in a hurry,” she says, her voice gentle, almost blending with the fountain’s hum.
I hesitate, then lower myself onto the cool stone next to her. The words are heavy in my throat. I could tell her about Father, about Azula, about how it all feels like a weight pressing me down- but I don’t. I don’t want her to see all that.
“They don’t take me seriously,” I mutter instead. “Azula’s perfect. Father… he only sees me when I fail.”
Zari tilts her head, studying me with those steady brown eyes. “I saw your match this morning. You’re not weak, Zuko. You’re… different. You care about things Azula doesn’t.”
Her words catch me off guard. No one ever says things like that to me.
“Different doesn’t win battles,” I say, bitterness curling in my chest.
“Maybe not,” she says softly. “But it wins people.”
Her voice lingers in the warm air, soft as the evening breeze. The tightness in my chest loosens, just a little. I think of the war room, of standing up to the general’s cruel plan, of speaking out even when I wasn’t supposed to.
By nightfall, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, the faint scent of smoke clinging to my skin. Azula’s laughter echoes in my head. Father’s disappointment presses down like a weight. Tomorrow’s Agni Kai looms like a shadow I can’t shake.
But in the quiet between breaths, my thoughts slip back to Zari on the edge of the fountain. The way her hair caught the setting sunlight, the calm strength in her eyes, the way she moves without even trying- like fire when it’s soft and warm instead of dangerous. Simple. Beautiful. Untouchable.
Heat creeps into my face before I even realize it. I roll onto my side, trying to shake the thoughts, but they keep coming. Her lips, soft and pink in the fading light. Her long neck, the pale curve of her shoulder. I imagine my fingers brushing her cheek, sliding through that silky hair, the warmth of her leaning into me. My chest tightens with something I can’t name- want, maybe.
My hand twitches against the sheets, but I freeze. Shame and fear crash over me at once. What am I even doing? She’s the Fire Scion, leaps and bounds ahead of me in skill. She probably doesn’t think about me like that.
I bury my face in the pillow, my heartbeat quick and restless, and let the fantasy flicker in the back of my mind just long enough to make me ache. Then I force myself still, letting the image of her fade into the darkness.
But in the quiet between breaths, I remember the way Zari looked at me by the fountain. Steady. Honest. Like I’m not invisible after all.
And for reasons I can’t explain, that thought makes sleep come easier than it has in weeks.
Notes:
I hope you are enjoying the story so far. Feel free to make any corrections on spelling, grammar, etc. I appreciate you :)
Chapter 3: Agni Kai (Zuko POV)
Summary:
He thought he was prepared for the Agni Kai. He was wrong.
Chapter Text
The first thing I feel when I wake is the weight in my stomach. Heavy. Cold. I lie there in the half-dark, staring at the carved ceiling of my chambers, and for a moment I forget why. Then the memories slam into me like a wave.
The war room.
The map.
The general’s voice, sharp and certain: “What better to use as bait than fresh meat?”
My own words, loud, shaking: “You can't sacrifice an entire division like that! Those soldiers love and defend our nation! How can you betray them?”
Father’s eyes narrowing.
The challenge.
Agni Kai.
I sit up, breath tight in my chest. The sheets are damp under my palms. I swing my legs over the bed and touch the cold stone floor, trying to ground myself. Dawn light spills through the window, painting everything in gold and red.
A bitter thought curls in my chest as I walk to my wardrobe. If Azula had spoken out of turn in that war meeting, would she be facing an Agni Kai, too? Or would Father have just laughed, maybe even praised her for her fire? I can almost hear her voice in my head- calm, sharp, confident- words Father would never punish. No one expects her to be in my shoes. That humiliation is mine alone.
I don’t put my hair in my usual top bun; I pull it into a high ponytail. I tie the black armbands high around my biceps, the fabric rough against my skin. My chest is bare, the air cool against it. The lack of armor makes every inch of me feel exposed, every heartbeat too loud in my chest. I pull on the ceremonial trousers- deep red with black and gold trim, cut for movement, not protection. Every step I take feels heavier than it should.
I tell myself I can do this. I’ve trained for this. I’m facing the Head General, an old man too cowardly to put himself in the same positions he puts so many of our soldiers. I saw his face twist with rage last night, the way his fists clenched. He’ll want to humiliate me, but I will win. He is no match for me.
The palace halls are silent except for the faint shuffle of servants. They bow quickly and retreat, whispers following me like smoke. The air feels thicker the closer I get to the arena, my breathing shallow despite Uncle’s constant advice to control it.
“Zuko!”
I freeze.
Footsteps slap against the stone behind me, fast and uneven. I turn just in time to see Zari running toward me, her eyes bright with tears, her dark hair not in its usual top bun; it's flowing in the air as she sprints to me. She skids to a stop in front of me, breathless.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice trembles. “Why didn’t you tell me about the Agni Kai?”
Guilt stabs deep. I can’t hold her gaze. “I… I didn’t want you to worry.” My voice comes out rough, weak.
“I am worried,” she says, grabbing my arm like she can physically stop me. “I can’t believe you are fighting-” Her breath catches, and I see the fear she’s trying to swallow.
I want to say something-anything-but the words stick in my throat. What am I supposed to tell her? That I’m terrified too? That even if he’s just an old man I can take down, I’ve never killed before?
“Zuko.” Uncle’s voice drifts from the corridor ahead, calm but insistent. “It is time.”
I swallow hard and gently pull free from Zari’s grip. I don’t look back as I walk toward the arena, but I can feel her eyes following me like a shadow I can’t shake.
The Agni Kai courtyard waits for me.
The polished stone gleams under the pale morning sun. Red-and-gold banners ripple in the breeze, each one marked with the flame of our nation. Beyond the walls, jagged peaks frame the sky. I’ve watched Agni Kais before from the safety of the stands, thinking them a spectacle of discipline and honor. But standing here now, barefoot on the cold stone, the arena feels like a trap. A place meant for someone to be broken.
I walk to the center and kneel, bowing low until my forehead touches the stone. My heartbeat hammers in my ears. My palms sweat against the smooth floor.
The opposite gate groans open.
I brace myself for the general. I imagine his sneer, his heavy steps, his eagerness to make me pay for defying him. I can fight him. I know I can. I have to-
Footsteps echo. Slow. Heavy. Commanding.
I stand up and turn around to face my opponent.
The world stops.
It’s not the general.
It’s my father.
My throat closes. For a second, I can’t breathe. The air feels thick, burning hot in my lungs. I forget the stance Uncle drilled into me, forget the forms, forget everything but the weight crushing my chest.
“Please, Father-” This isn’t right. It can’t be right. “I only had the Fire Nation’s best interest at heart. I’m sorry I spoke out of turn!” He’s here to watch, to judge- not to fight. He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t-
His eyes cut through me, golden and sharp, colder than fire should ever be. I may be eighteen, but I feel ten years old again, standing in the training yard, flinching at every word that leaves his mouth.
“You will fight for your honor,” he says, each word slow, deliberate, like a knife sliding between my ribs.
The stone beneath me suddenly feels like it’s swaying, like I might slide right off the world. Fight him? I can’t. He’s my father. My chest tightens, panic clawing up my throat. I stumble back a step, shaking my head before I even realize I’m moving. I drop to my knees and bow, forehead nearly touching the cold stone.
“I meant you no disrespect,” I gasp out. My voice is raw, so small in the open courtyard. I force myself to look up into my father’s eyes. “I am your loyal son.”
“Rise and fight, Prince Zuko,” he demands, still moving toward me with that slow, inevitable pace. He doesn’t blink. The arena is silent except for the wind snapping the Fire Nation banners overhead.
I bow my head lower and whisper, broken, “I won’t fight you.” Hot tears spill before I can stop them.
“You will learn respect,” Father says. “And suffering will be your teacher.”
I press my palms into the frigid stone and lift my tear-streaked face to him. My chest heaves. My heart pounds as I clench my eyes closed. I can only wait for the fire.
Then fire explodes.
The heat is instant, searing, alive. It crashes into the left side of my face like molten iron on my eye and cheek. My scream tears out of me before I can stop it, raw and ragged, echoing off the stone walls of the arena. I stand and stumble away.
Pain. There is nothing but pain.
It’s blinding, endless, swallowing the world. My hands fly to my face, but even the touch of my own skin is agony. My knees give out, and I collapse to the stone, curling instinctively, as if I can hide from the fire still burning across my cheek. My ears ring. My breath comes in short, choked sobs.
Somewhere far away, I hear footsteps. Murmurs. A voice that might be Uncle’s calling my name. But it’s distant, blurred by the roar in my head.
Then the stone tilts beneath me. The world fades to black.
I wake to agony.
It’s the first thing I know, the only thing. My face feels like it’s still on fire, every heartbeat another strike of heat and pain. I try to lift a hand to my cheek covered in rough bandages and instantly regret it.
The room is dim, lit by the glow of a single lantern. Only using one eye is disorienting. The smell of smoke clings to me. My vision tilts as I focus on Uncle’s silhouette at my feet. He’s speaking low to someone, his voice tight with anger he’s trying to swallow.
“He’s awake,” someone says. A stranger.
Footsteps. Then a cold, formal voice: “Prince Zuko, by order of Fire Lord Ozai, you are hereby banished from the Fire Nation. You will leave immediately to capture the Avatar and restore your honor… or live in exile.”
The words scrape across my ears. I try to speak, but my throat is raw and dry, and all I can manage is a rasp. Banishment. The word sticks in my chest like a stone.
Uncle’s voice breaks through the pounding in my skull. “He needs rest. He needs time to-”
“The Fire Lord’s orders are clear,” the official interrupts. I hear the shuffle of boots, the clink of armor. “The ship is waiting. He departs tonight.”
My stomach twists. I force the words out, broken and hoarse. “Zari… I need to see her-”
“That will not be permitted.” No hesitation, no mercy.
The voices blur together after that-banished, exile, Avatar- until all I can hear is the echo of fire, smell the singed air of the arena. And through the haze of pain, a single thought burns through: Zari knew. The way her hand shook when she grabbed my arm. That raw, trembling fear in her voice- it wasn’t just because I was fighting an Agni Kai. She knew it would be him. She knew, and I didn’t. Did Azula know? Did everyone know?
Uncle’s hand is suddenly on my shoulder, steady and warm. “I will take care of everything,” he murmurs. I can hear the steel beneath the softness, the fury he’s holding in for my sake.
I close my eyes, and the world tilts as they lift me from the mat. The movement sends a wave of pain crashing through my body, and I can’t hold back the quiet sob that slips from my throat. The world wavers as Uncle steadies me, his arm firm around my back as my arm is wrapped over his shoulders for balance. My legs barely hold me, and the cold palace air bites through my bandages against my burned skin.
“Easy, Prince Zuko,” Uncle murmurs. “Focus on your breathing.”
I let out a harsh, shaky laugh. “Breathing? That didn’t save me, Uncle.” My voice is raw and jagged, and the words come out sharper than I mean them to, and although I feel a sense of guilt, my anger overpowers. “Some great help that is.”
Uncle doesn’t respond. He just keeps walking, silent as stone, taking the weight of me like he always does.
The palace is silent as we move through it, step by echoing step. I keep my gaze on the floor, because if I look, if I see the gold walls and red banners one last time, I might break completely.
Although I refuse to look around, every corner we turn, every stretch of hallway, I pray she’ll appear. I imagine Zari rushing toward me again, hair flying, eyes wet with tears- but no one comes. The halls are empty, stripped of life and warmth, and each step we take bleeds that fragile hope out of me.
By the time we pass through the palace gates into the cold night air, I know I won’t see her. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
The gates slam behind us with a metallic finality, the sound echoing in my bones. Cold wind bites my burned skin through the bandages as the ship waits in shadow, black against the dark water.
And as the gates shut, it feels like part of me is sealed away with them.
Finding the Avatar is a task presented to me as a chance to restore honor- my path to redemption- but even through the pain, I can taste the bitter truth. They want me to chase a ghost. The Avatar has been dead for a hundred years. Banished, scarred, and exiled for life… and now sent on an impossible hunt I can never win.
Chapter 4: Shadows of Exile (Zari POV)
Summary:
Zuko has been gone for months, but his absence lingers. When Zari's father, Piandao, entrusts her with forbidden texts, she finds herself caught between loyalty to her nation and a growing, dangerous doubt.
Notes:
I’m sorry for the delay in getting this chapter out... life has been busy, and I wanted to really take my time here. This is the chapter where I start laying the foundation for Zari’s path and her destiny, so it felt important to slow down and do it right.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The palace is quieter without him.
Not that Zuko was ever particularly loud, but the space he left behind is immense. Even when I know he won’t be there, my eyes search for him. In the training yard. At breakfast. Turning the corner ahead of me with fire in his step. But the corridors stretch empty.
He is gone. Truly gone. Banished.
And every time I allow myself to remember that, the tightness in my chest returns.
I didn’t cry when he left. I hadn’t allowed myself the luxury. In front of the royal family, especially Fire Lord Ozai and Azula, any show of sympathy for him would be seen as weakness- or worse, disloyalty. So I held it in, and I still do. I hadn’t even said goodbye.
I thought about it, though. I paced my room for hours the night before he was set to leave, fists clenched, heart racing. Part of me wanted to run through the palace halls, to find him before they escorted him to his warship. I imagined catching up to him just before the gates, grabbing his wrist, saying something.. anything.. to make it hurt less.
Azula, of course, was delighted. She didn’t even try to hide it. In the days after his banishment, she floated through the palace, tossing snide comments into conversations like sparks waiting to ignite. “At least now Father doesn’t have to be embarrassed by him anymore,” she said once at dinner, loud enough for the entire table to hear. “Maybe he’ll finally learn how to firebend properly- assuming he survives his little field trip.” No one laughed, but no one stopped her either. I always clenched my jaw so tightly I gave myself a headache. But now that months have passed, it’s as if she has forgotten her brother altogether. I rarely hear his name anymore.
My body moves through the palace like a ghost still tethered to its bones, going through the motions. I still train. I still nod politely to the guards and bow during council dinners. I still rise at dawn and perform the drills everyone demands of me. But my firebending feels mechanical, as if my body remembers what my spirit no longer has the energy to feel. It’s muscle memory; I am simply going through the motions to keep everyone happy.
It is always worse at night.
The courtyards glow with lanterns, their light bending and breaking in the evening breeze, while the halls are cast in restless, flickering shadows. Before, I slept deeply and without fear, but now sleep hovers just out of reach. On the worst nights, I wander. My footsteps echo too loudly against the polished stone floors, and I find myself walking slower just to quiet them. I trace my fingers along the walls, feeling the cool, uneven grooves carved by masons centuries ago. The tapestries hang heavy and suffocating, each thread boasting of Fire Nation conquest and glory, wars won, territories claimed, cities brought to heel. They are meant to inspire pride, but to me, they feel like veils, covering rot with gold.
I pass the curtains of the war room. Behind them, strategy is carved into lives and futures, but I am rarely welcome there. I move on. The alcove where Zuko once hid to escape Azula’s taunts still waits in silence, a shallow hollow in the wall that feels emptier without him crouched inside it, shoulders tense but eyes daring me to laugh. I linger there longer than I should, staring at the shadows that gather in the corner.
I walk past everything that should still be whole, but isn’t.
Azula never mentions him.
Neither does Father.
Not even his own father.
It is as if the Fire Lord’s decree had erased Zuko not just from the palace, but from the minds of those who remained in it.
But I remember.
I remember the morning of the Agni Kai.
It was Azula who woke me- far too early, as I was still laying in bed. She had that sharp glint in her eyes that always meant something awful was about to happen.
“Zuzu’s in trouble,” she whispered, giddy and cruel. “He’s been challenged to an Agni Kai… with Father.”
I sat up too fast. “What are you talking about?”
She just smiled. “You’ll see. It’s starting soon. Better get dressed. Attendance is required.” She pranced out.
I didn’t believe her at first. Azula delighted in cruelty, and this sounded like one of her elaborate lies, a story meant to watch me panic and squirm. The Fire Lord would never challenge his own son. Not truly. It was unthinkable. Zuko respected tradition; he bowed when others didn’t, listened when others scoffed. He honored the chain of command with a sincerity most courtiers mocked. He knew better than to risk dishonor.
But then I remembered the war meeting the day before, one of many from which I had been barred. I had waited in the garden courtyard for news, restless, until Zuko appeared at last. His stride was stiff, his jaw clenched, but his eyes… his eyes lingered on me with a strange, heavy weight, as if he wanted to tell me something. We sat together in silence longer than usual.
At the time, I told myself he was only tired. The palace weighed on both of us, after all. I didn’t press him.
I didn’t know he was carrying such a burden, one that would drag him into the arena at dawn.
I barely had time to dress before rushing toward the arena, heart hammering so hard I could hear it in my ears. That was when I saw him.
He was moving down the long hallway toward the arena gates, shoulders stiff, hands clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles looked bloodless. His steps faltered when I shouted his name, my voice cracking as my eyes stung with tears streaming down my cheeks. He turned to face me.
I asked him why he didn’t tell me. I will never understand why he didn’t tell me…
He looked concerned, yes, but not nearly enough for what lay ahead of him. It was as if he were already resigned to something he couldn’t change.
Iroh called his name, and he was pulled forward by duty, swallowed by the arena gates. I had no choice but to follow where I was allowed: the stands.
I sat stiffly among generals, ministers, and courtiers, their voices a low hum of anticipation. To them, this was nothing more than another spectacle, another show of fire and fury for the glory of the Fire Nation. My hands twisted in my lap, clammy and cold despite the heat radiating from below.
The arena stretched wide and unforgiving, its stone floor glowing faintly with the warmth of the rising sun. The air shimmered with heat, and every breath scraped dry in my throat. I saw Zuko stand up and turn toward the opposing end, the weight of hundreds of eyes pressing down on him. When he realized who stood across from him, I saw the shock ripple through his body. He dropped to his knees.
His voice carried through the chamber, trembling but clear, begging for mercy, for understanding. His words cracked against the walls, sharp and desperate, but they met only silence.
Fire Lord Ozai is merciless. I knew he was going to follow through. I looked away.
He struck Zuko with a blast of searing flame that lit up the entire arena. The fire burst so bright that they seared themselves into my peripheral vision. His scream ripped through the arena, raw and broken, and then was swallowed by silence far heavier than sound.
And I did nothing.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t cry. My fingernails dug crescents into my palms, but I kept my head high, my face still, because to do anything else would have been dangerous. So I sat frozen in the stands as the boy I grew up with, the boy I trained beside, the boy whose laughter once filled these halls, the boy I loved in my own quiet way, was struck down and scarred for his compassion.
When the fire cleared, he was lying there, smoke curling from his robes, the smell of charred fabric and skin clinging to the air until it turned my stomach. The attendants moved briskly, as if this were routine, lifting him from the stone floor with practiced hands. They carried him away while the haze of ash and smoke still lingered, leaving only scorch marks behind.
No one looked back. Not the generals. Not the ministers. Not even Azula, who watched with a slight, satisfied curl to her mouth.
And that was the last time I saw him before he left on his warship.
On the weekends, I visit my father.
His private estate, a sprawling mansion of white stone and red tile, sits on top of cliffs overlooking Shu Jing. From the balconies, I can see the river winding like a silver blade far below, its mist curling upward until it mixes with the ever-present sulfur haze. The air is sharp with the smell of ash and hot stone, every breath carrying the sting of smoke. Lava fields stretch out in the distance, their slow, pulsing glow rising and falling like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
Here, the world is quieter. No Azula. No council members. No ministers rehearsing speeches or guards whispering about heirs and legacies when they think I can’t hear.
Just Father and me.
When I first arrived this weekend, he hardly spoke at all. That silence was unusual; he always has something to critique, some lesson to weave into his words. But this time he only stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching me train beneath the sulfur sky. His gaze was sharp, weighing, but his voice offered nothing more than an occasional correction. Straighten your stance. Loosen your breath. Again.
But the silence stretched longer than the training itself. It wasn’t the calm quiet of focus; it was disconnected, a kind of distance I couldn’t name. He nodded whenever I didn’t falter, but even those gestures felt hollow, as though his thoughts were elsewhere.
After a long day of unusual silence and relentless drills, Father finally moved. Without a word, he reached to the low table beside him and held something out to me.
A book.
Its cover was unmarked; plain black leather, edges cracked and corners worn thin by years of handling. The spine sagged slightly, as if it had been opened and closed too many times to count. There was no golden emblem of the Fire Nation pressed into its surface, no stamped seal of the Royal Archives to mark it as sanctioned knowledge. It looked… ordinary. And yet, the way he held it made it feel dangerous.
“Don’t show this to anyone,” he said, his voice low enough that the breeze might have carried it away if I hadn’t been listening so closely. “And don’t take it to the palace. It must stay here.”
I stared at the book, then at him. “…What is it?” I asked, my words sharper than I intended, edged with confusion. Was he being dramatic? Testing me?
For a moment, his eyes met mine. In them, I saw something I had never been able to name in him before. Not affection. Not pride. But a flicker, an unease, a trace of anxiety, laced strangely with trust.
“Truth,” he said simply.
And then, as though the word explained everything, he turned and walked away, leaving me with the weight of it in my hands, the leather warm as though it still carried the heat of his palm.
Now that it’s night, I light a single lantern in the far corner of my room. Its glow is soft, unsteady, the kind of light that leaves half the walls in shadow. I settle on the floor with the book resting heavy in my lap, its cracked leather rough beneath my fingers, and finally open it.
The script inside is old- ancient, even. The characters are long and formal, curling in ways I’ve only ever seen in relics at the Royal Archives. My eyes stumble over them, and I have to reread many passages twice, sometimes three times, before their meaning sinks in. But once I begin, I cannot stop. The words feel alive, as if they’ve been waiting centuries for someone to find them again.
One page is written in verse, the ink so faded I have to tilt the parchment toward the lantern to catch the letters.
Fire is not merely rage,
but the breath that warms the newborn’s skin,
the hearth that draws wanderers home.
It is the golden pulse at dawn,
stretching its arms across the earth,
waking river, stone, and seed alike.
It is the whisper of the sun to the sleeping soil,
the glow that bends the shadow back,
the quiet promise that night will end.
To burn without compassion is to burn without truth.
To kindle life is the highest flame.
I lower the page slowly, the words echoing in my head like an unwanted chant. This has to be the most ridiculous thing Father has ever handed me. The poem contradicts everything I have been taught since I could first form a flame.
In the Fire Nation, we prize strength, dominance, and conquest. Fire is power. Fire is meant to be wielded against the weak. That’s what the scrolls in the Royal Library say. That’s what the Academy drills into its students. That’s what Azula recites with ease and precision, like it’s something she was born knowing.
But this book, this fragile, forbidden relic, tells a different story.
“True firebending is in harmony with breath, with rhythm, with life itself.”
The words are foreign and yet unsettlingly familiar.
As I turn each page, something stirs inside me. A flicker, faint but undeniable.
Was this what Zuko had felt before he was banished? Had he stumbled across ideas like these? Had he fallen for this… propaganda?
Is that why he spoke out in the war meeting?
The thought gnaws at me. I want to dismiss it, but I can’t.
The more I read, the more confused I feel. It doesn’t feel like a lesson, not in the way I’m used to. It feels like a seed, small and dangerous, planting itself inside my chest.
I catch myself mouthing a line from the verse “to kindle life is the highest flame” and the realization makes my stomach twist. I shut the book quickly, harder than I meant to, the sound of leather and parchment slapping together echoing in the quiet room.
The lantern flickers as if startled, and I shove the book aside.
But the words still burn in the back of my mind.
When I return to the palace, I see the walls differently. The familiar corridors no longer feel like home, but like a museum of victories carved in stone. The murals of conquest, once dazzling with gold leaf and scarlet threads, now strike me as gaudy and hollow, their painted generals more arrogant than glorious. The statues of former Fire Lords seem less noble, their sharp features cast in shadow that makes them look cold, almost cruel. Even the lanterns flickering along the halls unsettle me; where I once saw symbols of strength, now I see flames trapped behind glass, forced to burn endlessly for the sake of appearances.
And I begin to doubt.
Doubt, I find, is a dangerous thing.
It creeps in quietly, like smoke beneath a door. It spreads like vines through my ribs, winding itself into the very foundation of what I believe. Once planted, it refuses to leave, twisting tighter each day.
Why do we conquer? Why do we suppress the other nations? Why do we teach our children that strength matters more than compassion, that fire exists only to destroy?
The more I ask, the less I like the answers. The more I think, the heavier the guilt grows, because I know these thoughts are treason. I cannot doubt my nation.
At my father’s estate, I sit with the book open in my lap. The garden outside glows faintly with bioluminescent moss, torchlight flickering across stone, shadows dancing with every shift of the wind. Father stands a few paces away, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out over the lava fields.
I should be at peace here, but I’m not. I’m unsettled- angry, even. He may doubt the Fire Nation if he wishes, but why burden me with it? Why give me words that corrode what I’ve been taught, what I have sworn to uphold? He is the one twisting my thoughts against me, and it is clouding everything I once held certain.
“Did you write it?” I demand, sharper than I mean to.
He doesn’t turn. “No.”
“Then who did?” I say as I stand up.
His silence stretches like taut rope. At last, he answers: “A philosopher from the Southern temples. Before the war.”
I blink hard, disbelieving. “From the Southern Air Temple?”
Now he turns, slow and deliberate, his expression unreadable. “Yes.”
I grip the book tighter. The leather feels heavier than before, as if I’m already guilty just for touching it. Frustration knots in my chest. I can’t believe he’s dragging me into this- into something forbidden. Punishment for even possessing such words would be severe.
“That’s forbidden,” I snap, sharper this time.
“So is thinking for yourself,” he replies, a strange smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “And yet, here you are.”
The answer only makes my throat tighter, heat prickling at my skin. I don’t want to think for myself if it means tearing apart the foundations I was raised on. I don’t want to doubt. I don’t want his voice in my head, whispering against everything I’ve been told is true.
“Why show it to me?” My words come out like a challenge, brittle with anger.
He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze sharpens, heavy enough to pin me in place. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, deliberate.
“Because the Fire Nation is built on a lie.”
My heart stops.
His gaze sharpens, like a blade catching light. “And lies, no matter how long they stand, eventually collapse.”
The words hit harder than any fireblast. My stomach twists, my knees feel unsteady. It’s as if the ground itself has dropped beneath me. My own father, speaking treason so calmly, so fearlessly. My own father… a traitor.
“Then why not speak out, if that is how you truly feel?” The challenge bursts from me before I can stop it, sharp with anger and fear. “Why play along? Why make me carry this?”
His eyes lock onto mine, unblinking, unwavering. “Because timing matters, and survival matters.”
He steps closer, his presence heavy as a storm cloud, lowering his voice until it’s almost a growl meant for my ears alone.
“There will come a time when the world will change. And when it does, you must be ready. You must know more than they’ve taught you. You must burn brighter, and differently, than all the rest.”
He places a hand firmly over the book, sealing the weight of it there like an oath.
“Knowledge is your fire now. Let it light the path ahead.”
After that night, everything feels shifted.
Not just in how I see the world, but in how I see myself. The air tastes different, heavier. My own footsteps sound unfamiliar in the palace halls. I feel as if I’m caught between two flames; one burning with loyalty to my nation, the other lit by the seeds of doubt my father pressed into my hands. I love my people. I love my country. And yet, I trust my father. That trust binds me even when I don’t want it to.
So I train harder, throwing myself into every stance and strike. But the purpose feels changed, warped. I am no longer bending only to perfect my power, but to test what he said; to search for the meaning beneath the motions. I begin to explore the fluidity of flame, not just its force. I hold my breath, release it slowly, and let the fire breathe with me. I practice in secret, coaxing flames not to lash out but to rest warm against my skin, gentle and steady. For the first time in my life, I wonder if fire can protect instead of destroy.
I keep a journal now, one no one can ever find. Just me, ink, and the questions that won’t leave me.
Some days, I write about Zuko. About how he sometimes looked like he doubted, too. About how maybe he saw the same cracks I think I see now, and how speaking out against them led to his banishment.
I miss him.
Not just the way he filled the space beside me, but the way he made me feel less alone in a palace that prizes obedience over curiosity. His absence leaves me hollow, and the silence he left behind is loud.
I wonder where he is now; if he is surviving. If he still feels like himself, or if the world has already begun to strip him down into something else.
I hope he hasn’t lost his way. Because I can feel mine shifting beneath me, and I don’t know what is right anymore.
I love my nation. I love my people. But the words in that book cling to me like smoke, refusing to be shaken off. I feel pulled toward something beyond the Fire Nation’s creed, something dangerous.
And sometimes, when the shadows stretch long in the halls and the silence closes in, a thought slithers in and refuses to leave.
I wonder if someday it might be me in that arena. If compassion was enough to mark Zuko a traitor, then what would doubt make of me?
Notes:
I hope you are enjoying reading this just as much as I am enjoying writing it :)
Chapter 5: Jaded and Faded (Zari POV)
Summary:
Her fire sputters out, her worth is questioned, and Zari is sent away under the guise of “further study.” At home, she faces the ache of doubt, the betrayal of her nation, and the longing for the one person who might understand. Zari finds herself haunted by thoughts of Zuko- wondering if their shared exile binds them closer, and what their lives might have been without war or legacy.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The air is already hot when I step onto the practice stones. The flagstones hold yesterday’s fire, pressing warmth into the soles of my feet. I set my stance. Inhale. Exhale.
A spark jumps to life in my palm- thin, weak, trembling. It should swell into a flame, but it flickers out almost as soon as it’s born.
Ozai’s words return, sharp as if spoken in my ear:
“In your hands rests the legacy of fire- let it blaze, or be consumed by those stronger than you.”
The words burn more than any flame. I try again. Heat rises, but the spark withers. Smoke drifts upward, curling into nothing. I’ve felt my fire weakening for weeks, and though I’ve managed to hide it, I can no longer do so.
The bell rings for sparring.
The sparring arena is bright with scorched stone and torchlight. Azula waits in the center, posture precise, eyes gleaming. She doesn’t need to taunt me; the curve of her mouth already says she’s won.
Above us, Ozai sits high on his seat, robed in shadow, his advisors gathered close like eagle hawks. The shade cools them, but I feel their presence pressing heavier than the sun itself. Every murmur that passes between them slithers down into the arena, coiling through the air like smoke- or snakes waiting for something to falter.
Azula steps lightly onto the stone, shoulders straight, her gaze bright with that sharp, merciless clarity she always carries. Even her smirk feels practiced to perfection, as though it’s been honed as carefully as her fire.
“You look tired,” she says, her voice dripping sweetness like honey laced with venom. “Practicing your breathing again?”
Azula always sees straight through people. There’s no hiding from her gaze.
I bow, low, my voice steady even as my stomach knots. “Ready.”
We begin to circle, footsteps whispering across the ground. The torches spit and crackle, heat pouring down from above until it feels like a second sun has descended into the pit. Sweat prickles along my brow, and every breath tastes of ash.
Azula strikes first. Of course she does- I can’t find it in me to move first. A flick of her wrist, elegant and precise, and blue fire tears across the ground toward me. The air shivers with its heat. I block, barely, and redirect most of it. Still, the edge of her flame kisses my cheek; the sting lingers, hot and humiliating.
“Do not waste our time,” she calls, annoyance curving through her tone. It isn’t just impatience- it’s mockery, the pleasure of exposing weakness.
I dig my heels into the ground. Inhale. Exhale. My chest rises and falls like I can breathe strength into myself. I summon what I can, and a trembling flame blooms in my hands. It’s small, a fragile orange glow, wavering like a candle in a storm.
Azula’s eyes narrow. With a sharp movement she sends another strike, clean and merciless. My flame collapses under hers, scattered into sparks and smoke.
And then I hear it again:
“…or be consumed by those stronger than you.”
His voice in my head, harsher than the sun, heavier than the advisors’ whispers.
Something inside me breaks. The fire abandons me entirely, and it feels as though I’ve lost half my soul. My palms open, empty. The heat that should rise from within me refuses, leaving only a hollow ache.
Azula does not hesitate. She never does. Blue fire cracks like lightning as it slams into my ribs, folding the world in around me. The impact drives me into the ground, the breath knocked clean from my lungs.
The arena spins above me in dizzy circles- torches, sky, high stone walls. Ash sticks to my skin, gritty and cold against the burn on my side.
When my vision clears, she stands tall, hands relaxed at her sides, not a hair out of place, not even out of breath. Azula’s smile is all teeth, sharp and merciless.
“Some flames,” she says, her voice carrying easily through the silence, “were never meant to last.”
Above us, silence stretches long and heavy. Even the torches seem to quiet, their flames bowing low as if listening. The advisors lean toward one another, their robes whispering against stone, their words sharp enough to cut even when spoken in near-breath.
“What has changed in the past few weeks?”
“She has lost her flame.”
“Perhaps she is not the Scion.”
The words coil downward, seeping into me like poison. Each one lands heavier than Azula’s strike, pressing into my chest and throat until my breath feels thin and brittle.
I force myself to bow, though my body trembles from the effort. Ash clings to my skin, gritty against the sweat cooling there. I don’t want to look up. I want to melt into the ground and never be seen again.
But when I lift my eyes, they meet his. Ozai’s gaze is colder than stone. He does not speak. He doesn’t need to. His silence carries the weight of judgment, final and absolute.
Something inside me loosens and tightens at the same time. Relief swells- an escape, a reprieve from the endless drills and expectations. But shame binds it tight. Together they form a knot I cannot untangle, heavy and unyielding in my chest.
They don’t summon me before a council. No audience, no trial, no chance to answer. Instead, a steward arrives at my door, posture flawless, voice polished smooth as glass. In his hands is a scroll tied with red ribbon.
“You will return to your father’s estate,” he says, pausing long enough to let the next words cut. “For further study, until further notice.”
The phrase is laced with condescension. It isn’t instruction- it’s dismissal. Further study, as though I were a child who hadn’t yet learned her letters, as though the palace had decided I was a failed experiment rather than a chosen one.
The steward bows shallowly and leaves. By the time the door shuts, I realize the work has already been done. My belongings are packed neatly by hands not my own, my room stripped clean of me. It feels less like I’m being sent away and more like I’ve already been erased.
Azula is waiting in the corridor. Of course she is. Her steps are light, her expression curved into a condescending smirk.
“Perhaps this time,” she says smoothly, her eyes glinting with cruel delight, “your little studies will prove what the rest of us already see. That you’re not truly the Fire Scion at all- just a girl playing at greatness.”
Her voice is silk, her words a knife. She lingers a heartbeat longer, watching to see if I’ll break. Then she turns, leaving the air behind her heavy with smoke that isn’t there.
I close the door, hollow, my chest aching. They aren’t sending me away to learn.
They’re discarding me.
The instant she’s gone, my skin goes clammy. A cold sweat breaks out across my neck and back. My breaths come shallow, fast, and I can’t draw them deep enough. My chest feels too tight, as though the whole corridor is closing in.
I stumble into the washroom, grip the basin, and throw water over my face in frantic handfuls. The shock of it steals my breath, grounding me for a moment. Droplets trail down my temples and cling to my lashes. In the mirror’s faint reflection, I barely recognize myself: ash-smudged skin, trembling shoulders, wide eyes. If I am not the Fire Scion, who am I? What is my purpose?
For a heartbeat, I think of Zuko- the day they said he was no longer welcome here. How he left the palace stripped of everything that made him a prince. My own exile isn’t the same- it doesn’t carry the same violence, the same finality. But the hollowness, the humiliation… maybe that part overlaps.
I grip the basin tighter, knuckles pale against porcelain. The thought of Zuko lingers, heavier now.
Azula always outpaced him, sharp where he stumbled, perfect where he faltered. But he had his own strengths, and I never doubted his ability to grow stronger, more refined.
And spirits, how I miss him.
In this hollow moment, I want nothing more than to see him again- to close the space between us, to fold into his arms and let him hold me steady. I ache for the comfort of someone who would understand what it feels like to be judged and cast aside.
The thought twists warmer than it should. Not just comfort, not just kinship, but something else beneath it- something that quickens my pulse. I want his understanding, yes, but I also want his closeness. His presence. His warmth.
The realization sends heat rushing through me, so at odds with the cold sweat clinging to my skin that it almost hurts. I splash water over my face again, as if the chill might drive it away. It doesn’t.
When I lift my head, the girl in the mirror still trembles. Still alone.
The carriage rolls out of the palace gates with no one to watch me go. No farewell, no words of parting. The city stretches before us, red roofs stacked like tiles of flame, black shingles catching the sunlight in sharp gleams. Street by street, it unravels into terraces, then into open road.
When I glance back, the palace is already shrinking. Its towers crown the mountain, dark against the sky, distant and cold.
Zuko left without ceremony, too. Not a single word to soften the weight of exile. He had been branded, scarred, made a spectacle of, and yet his departure was just as quiet as mine. He carried a kind of resilience I hadn’t understood until now. And here I sit, hollow in my chest, carrying both shame and an edge of relief, braided so tightly I can’t pull them apart.
When we stop for a break, I slip away from the escort and guards. The air smells of dust and iron. I open my palm and draw in a slow breath, reaching for the fire that used to rise so easily. A flicker answers, a faint glow, then only smoke curling upward. The wind snatches it before I can even mourn it.
I stare at my empty hand.
Maybe I was never the Fire Scion.
The estate greets me before I see it. The air carries the sharp tang of salt from the distant sea, mingled with the resinous sweetness of pine. The wind always feels different here- lighter, freer- carrying birdsong instead of whispers and judgment.
When the carriage pulls into the courtyard, my father is already waiting on the veranda. His arms are crossed, his boots still dusted from work, his posture steady as stone. There’s no fanfare, no retinue, no courtly stillness. Just him.
“You’re home early,” he says. His voice is even, neither surprised nor accusing.
I lower my head. My mouth shapes the words, but they scrape like ash on the way out. “The Fire Lord has sent me back… for study.”
The phrase tastes bitter, like I’m repeating a lie everyone already knows.
He studies me, not with the cold eyes of Ozai searching for weakness, but with the quiet gaze of someone making sure nothing essential has been broken. His silence isn’t judgment; it’s steadiness. He doesn’t press for details, doesn’t demand excuses.
At last, he nods once and gestures toward the house. “Come inside. Supper’s nearly ready.”
That’s all. No lecture. No pity. Just home- unchanged, solid, waiting for me whether I deserve it or not.
Later, I sit on the back steps with tea cooling in my hands. The garden hums with insects, the pines swaying softly in the breeze. The air smells of salt and earth, and the stone beneath me holds the day’s last warmth.
I set my tea down and open my palm. A thin flame flickers, unsteady, then collapses into smoke.
“Maybe I am not the Scion,” I whisper. The words leave me like a confession.
The smoke curls upward, vanishing into the sky, and something inside me breaks with it. My chest tightens until it aches. My throat closes, and my eyes blur. I press my palms to my face, but the pressure only makes the tears slip free.
Before I know it, I’m on my feet, stumbling across the courtyard. My vision blurs, but I find him easily- my father, brushing dust from his sleeves, work-worn and steady as the stones themselves.
“Father-” My voice cracks. My tears come hot, stinging. “I can’t- I couldn’t-”
Before I can finish, he pulls me into a hug. His arms close around me firmly, not crushing but certain, as though nothing in the world could make him let go. The dam breaks; sobs shake me until I can hardly stand, but he holds me as though I’m not a burden at all.
“Tell me,” he says, quiet but steady.
The words spill out of me in ragged pieces- the sparring match, the moment my fire sputtered and failed, the advisors’ whispers, the steward’s decree, Azula’s smirk. Each memory tastes bitter, like ash on my tongue.
“It’s not just what they said,” I manage, my voice breaking. “It’s me. I doubt everything I know, I hear Ozai’s words in my head, my fire abandoned me. I can’t hold it anymore. And if I can’t even summon my flame, then maybe they’re right- maybe I was never the Scion at all.”
He doesn’t let me go. His voice is calm, grounding, the same as it’s always been when I was small and frightened.
“Zari,” he says, and my name feels heavier, steadier, when he says it. “The Fire Lord, his court, Azula- they don’t decide what you are. Doubt doesn’t erase you, and failure doesn’t define you. They may not see it now, but you are still you. And you are not lost.”
Fresh tears sting my eyes. “But what if the Scion in me really is gone? What if I can’t find it again?”
His embrace tightens, steady as stone. “You will find your fire again. Until then, you learn to stand without it. You endure. And when your fire returns, it will be because you did not give in to them- or to your own fear.”
His words sink deeper than any command I ever obeyed at the palace. My tears keep falling, but for the first time in weeks, I feel less like I’m unraveling and more like I’m being held together.
That night, I lie awake in my bed, staring at the familiar beams of the ceiling.
I can’t stop thinking of Zuko.
He was cast out, scarred, branded as unworthy. I wasn’t paraded through judgment the way he was, but the emptiness feels similar. That hollow space where certainty used to be. That quiet dread of being unwanted.
Did he feel this same knot of relief and shame wound tight in his chest? Did he lie awake too, wondering who he was without the palace walls to define him?
I close my eyes, and for a moment I imagine him beside me. I imagine reaching out, pulling him close, burying my face against him- not only for comfort, but for something warmer. If anyone would understand me right now, it would be him.
The thought lingers. I want an update. I want to know if he’s surviving, if his fire still answers him, if he still believes he has a place in the world. I want him here.
A reckless idea flickers: What if I hunted him down? What if I joined him, wherever he is, so neither of us would have to carry this weight alone? I know I won’t. But the craving remains.
My mind drifts further, past what is possible, into what can never be. I wonder what our lives might have been if we hadn’t been born into fire and war. If there were no throne to fight for, no Scion duties, no exile, no endless shadow of the Fire Lord.
What if he were just Zuko, and I were just Zari- two children who could have grown up without scars, without whispers, without the weight of a legacy we never asked for?
I picture us running along the shoreline near my father’s estate, our feet sinking into wet sand, laughter chasing the birds into the sky. I imagine him visiting with no guards, no titles- just a boy with tired eyes who might finally have a chance to rest. Maybe we would have been friends first, in the simple way children are, with no politics between us- only shared games, shared secrets.
But the thought twists, and my chest clenches.
Because beyond that shoreline, beyond my estate, my nation wages war. And I don’t know how to hold it all inside me.
I love my country. I love the fire that lives in its people, the brilliance in its cities, the pride that once felt like it lived in my bones. I want to believe in its strength, in its rightness.
But what has that strength become? Cities burned, families torn apart, nations crushed under our banners. We call it glory, but it feels like cruelty. It feels like betrayal.
And yet- I feel the betrayal in reverse, too. I’ve been cast out by the very nation I’ve bled for in training, the one I swore to serve. The Fire Nation doesn’t want me, not really. Not as a daughter. Not as the Scion. Maybe it never did.
I hate it. I love it. I want to protect it. I want to see it fall. I want to believe it can be more than conquest, but maybe I am a fool. Maybe I deserve this confusion.
Tears spill hot down my cheeks before I even realize I’m crying. I bury my face in the pillow, but it doesn’t muffle the sound that escapes me- a quiet, broken sob I can’t control.
I don’t know if I’m crying for my country, for myself, or for Zuko. Maybe all three.
I wonder... If Zuko and I weren’t bound to duty, if the world didn’t demand so much of us, would I have looked at him the same way I do now, with this ache in my chest? Would I have dared to linger longer on the thought of his hand brushing mine, of leaning closer not for comfort but because I wanted to?
The question burns quietly inside me. If we had been free, could we have chosen each other?
The thought is too soft, too dangerous, and yet I can’t turn it away. I let myself hold it, just for a moment, before the ache swallows me whole.
I roll onto my side, clutching the blanket tight, and whisper into the dark:
“Where are you, Zuko?”
The night doesn’t answer.
Notes:
Thanks for reading this far. I kind of want to do the occasional short chapter of Zari's journal entries. Or maybe random short filler chapters of text from the ancient text that shakes Zari's understanding of firebending and her nation. What do you think?
Also, a Zuko chapter is coming up. I think I have one or two more Zari POVs before we hop over to our banished prince.
Chapter 6: Aftertaste (Zari POV)
Summary:
Far from the palace, Zari struggles with isolation, failed fire, and the weight of being unwanted. A letter delivers her dismissal with cruel finality, breaking her down in ways she cannot hide. That night, desire and shame blur into a fevered dream of closeness- and a nightmare of fire’s true cost.
Notes:
A little smutty. Nothing too intense. I hope you enjoy :)
Chapter Text
The estate is too quiet. Silence wraps itself around the stones, the trees, even the air. It’s not the stillness of peace, but of abandonment, the way fire dies and leaves only smoke behind.
I train every morning with Father on the blackened flagstones. The drills are simple but relentless- stance, breath, circle, strike. Over and over until my muscles quiver. He no longer demands perfection, only presence. Yet presence feels heavier than any weight I’ve ever held. To stand in myself, to feel every breath, every flaw, every empty space inside me- that is harder than any strike.
And always, when I call the flame, it resists me. A spurt, a flicker, sometimes nothing at all. A weak cough of fire that dies before it leaves my palm. My fists ache from clenching around emptiness. The air smells faintly of smoke, but it is a cruel joke.
When the messenger hawk arrives, crimson wings cutting the sky, I already know it carries nothing good. Its shadow falls across the stones like a blade. The scroll is small, sealed in red wax. Its message is even smaller. One line. Cold. Dismissive.
Your presence is formally declared no longer required.
No name. No plea. No reason. Just dismissal.
I read it once, twice, three times, as though repetition might conjure some hidden kindness between the eight words. There is none. The little fire in me stutters once and dies.
The words echo all day, until they are louder than Father’s instructions, louder than the scrape of my own faltering steps. They press into my ribs like a brand. I keep training because it’s all I know, but my strikes grow hollow, my circles collapse in on themselves, and every time I reach for flame it sputters out, mocking me. By evening, even Father does not correct me. His silence is a mercy I cannot bear.
That night I can’t eat. Rice turns to ash in my mouth. The tea is bitter no matter how much honey I stir into it. Breathing feels like swallowing smoke.
When I go to fetch water, my hands tremble. The jar tips. Cool liquid spills across the floor, catching the lamplight in silver streaks. And with it, something in me cracks. I sink down with the jar, the water soaking my sleeves, sobbing until my whole body shakes. My forehead presses into the mats, damp with tears, with spilled water, with everything I cannot hold inside.
“I want to disappear,” I whisper to the shadows. My voice breaks into pieces. “I want to dissolve into nothing.” The confession tastes like blood and salt.
Father finds me there. He does not speak. He does not try to pull me up or wipe my face or tell me to be strong. He only sits beside me and strokes my hair, silent, steady, a pillar in the storm. His presence is heavier than words. Somehow, it makes the sobs sharper, because I know he sees me like this. And still he does not turn away.
When at last the storm passes and my tears thin to shallow gasps, I stagger to bed. My limbs feel carved from stone, heavy and useless. The memory of failed flame lingers in my hands. I curl them into fists beneath the sheets. But sleep does not come gently.
It comes in shards. And then-
I’m on the shoreline. The sea is restless, dark water lapping against my ankles. Above, the sky is violet, streaked with fire.
He is there. Zuko. Older. Taller. Shoulders broad, eyes fierce but softened by something I can’t name.
When he looks at me, it feels like being seen for the first time.
I move toward him without thinking, the waves pulling back to make space. His hand brushes mine, a graze that ignites every nerve in my body. When our fingers intertwine, the spark doesn’t burn- it melts. Heat floods through me, low and insistent, a pulse that leaves me breathless.
His lips find mine before I can think. The kiss is not gentle. It’s desperate, like he’s been waiting years to breathe me in. His mouth is heat and salt, his breath ragged against my cheek. My hands grip his shoulders, anchoring myself to the solidity of him.
His arms wrap around me, dragging me closer, pressing me against the sharp line of his chest. The fire in him pours into me- hot, consuming, endless- and I open to it, needing it, needing him. The kiss deepens, and I lose myself in the rhythm of it, the taste of smoke and sea, the pounding of blood in my ears.
When his hands slide to my breasts, the world tilts. My body answers before my mind does, arching into him, aching for more, for closeness that erases the space between us. The surf crashes around us, fire rises behind us, and still I crave more, too much, too fast.
His lips leave mine and wander lower, tracing heat down the line of my jaw, my throat, the hollow where my pulse flutters. Each touch sets fire under my skin. I clutch at his shoulders, unsure whether to push him away or draw him closer. The press of his mouth against my nipples draws a moan from me, a warmth spilling through me that I can’t contain. His lips close around me, gentle but consuming, and the pull of it leaves me trembling, desperate for more.
Then lower still- down the plane of my stomach. The dream shifts and blurs, but I feel him, his breath hot against the place that aches for him, too close, too much. My body shudders. The space between what is and what could be is a knife-edge, unbearable. He lingers there, not crossing, only teasing, only threatening to undo me completely.
Finally, his slick tongue explores me in ways I thought only I knew. When he moans with his tongue against my clit, the vibration sparks through every nerve, a tremor I can’t contain. My hips move with him, instinctive, desperate, following every flick and press.
My breath catches on a sob that sounds like his name as I run my fingers through his hair.
And then-
The sky erupts. Fire surges higher than the horizon, swallowing the stars. His warmth slips away, his grip loosens, his face blurs into smoke. I reach for him, but my hands close on nothing but ash.
And then- screams.
The shoreline twists beneath me, transforming into a battlefield. Villages in flame. Children wailing as they clutch at mothers already falling. The air chokes with smoke and the stench of charred flesh. I see soldiers pressing forward, fire pouring from their hands as casually as breath. Their torches are people. Their fuel is the helpless.
I try to run, but the ground is littered with the burned. Their eyes are glassy, mouths open in eternal cries. A man stumbles past me, skin blackened and splitting, reaching out for help I can’t give. His hand crumbles to ash in mine.
Above it all I see him- Zuko. Not the man who was making love with me, not the warmth that pulled me close, but the boy I remember, standing in the palace yard as blue fire devoured his life, his honor. His face twists in the same pain I see mirrored all around me. His scream becomes their scream, and it is endless.
I fall to my knees, clutching my head, but the fire won’t stop. It licks up my arms, across my body, until I can’t tell whether I am the one burning them or the one being burned.
I wake gasping. My sheets are tangled around me, damp with sweat. My body is trembling, my skin hot and flushed as if the dream clings to me still; I’m left aching, my body throbbing with a release I never asked for.
At first there is only the memory of him- the press of his lips, the heat of his touch, the way desire consumed me. Then the shame follows, sharp and twisting. Not because of him alone, but because longing for him feels like treachery: against my nation, which named him traitor, and against the confused part of myself that still clings to loyalty.
And then the nightmare’s smoke floods back in- the screams, the fire, the faces burned beyond saving. Zuko’s cry was swallowed by theirs until I couldn’t tell where he ended and the war began.
I press my palms hard to my eyes as if I can push it all back into the dark. But the truth gnaws at me: I still crave the closeness, the intimacy between us. And I hate the part of me that wishes that part of the dream had never ended…
lovelysophiex (Guest) on Chapter 1 Mon 25 Aug 2025 04:15AM UTC
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Hamasu on Chapter 1 Mon 25 Aug 2025 04:27AM UTC
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