Chapter Text
The training grounds were quiet at evening, lit only by the orange breath of oil lamps. Alcoves carved into the stone walls held weapons, clay discs, and rows of water jars—enough supplies to train an army.
Kyoshi stood at the entrance, watching Jianzhu prepare tea in the largest of the storage areas. Straw dummies lined the walls like silent witnesses. Dust softened the floor, marked with the faint tracks of countless drills.
“Come sit,” Jianzhu said, gesturing for her to join him.
She obeyed, settling opposite him on a rolled mat. He plucked a twig from one of the sacks nearby and began sketching circles in the dust between them. The pattern emerged piece by piece until she recognized it: a simplified Pai Sho board.
Kyoshi blinked. It had been years since she’d seen him draw that game. He’d taught her the rules once, back when lessons were lighter and laughter still found its way into their evenings. But as her bending intensified, Jianzhu had declared the game a waste of time—a “distraction from the work of an Avatar.”
Now he stared at the rough grid with a faint, nostalgic smile. “I’ve received some news,” he said at last. “Our emissaries report that Tagaka has agreed to sign a new version of her great-grandfather’s treaty.”
Kyoshi’s pulse quickened. The name alone filled her with a strange dread. Tagaka—the Queen of the Fifth Nation. The pirates who haunted the Earth Kingdom’s coasts and the nightmares of its villages.
“That’s… good?” Kyoshi asked carefully.
“It’s extraordinary,” Jianzhu said. “She’s promised to halt all raids within sight of the Eastern Air Temple and the Xishaan Mountains.”
Kyoshi frowned. “Why would she do that?”
Jianzhu smiled faintly, gesturing toward her. “Because of you. Because the world knows the Avatar has returned—and that she is one of the most gifted benders of her generation.”
Heat crept up her neck. She bowed her head. “Thank you, Sifu.”
He poured tea for both of them. The steam curled between them like smoke. “This is a great moment, Kyoshi. Years of patience, finally bearing fruit.”
“What do we give her in return?” Kyoshi asked.
“Permission to keep the hostages that she collected from the villages,” he said, his tone casual, as if discussing weather. “She needs the manpower. This simply makes her theft legal.”
Kyoshi hesitated. “That seems… unfair. To the villagers.”
Jianzhu’s lips twitched. “You think like a peasant. You must learn to think like a ruler. It’s not about fairness—it’s about control. Tagaka gains what she already has, and we gain peace.”
He took a slow sip of tea, watching her over the rim of his cup.
She thought of the coastlines they’d flown over—villages stripped bare, homes emptied, the echoing silence where laughter should have been. The raids left nothing but ghosts.
“Peace for us,” she said softly. “But what about the next village she raids somewhere else?”
Jianzhu looked pleased by the question. “Go on.”
Kyoshi drew her knees up slightly, thinking aloud. “If we let her have the Yesso hostages, she’ll move her operations. Maybe north, where the Fire Nation can deal with her instead. They won’t tolerate her for long.”
His eyes gleamed. “You would shift the battlefield—and let the Fire Nation handle the hostages in due time. They’ll be freed eventually, and the balance will hold. A necessary cruelty for a lasting peace.”
She hesitated. “Wouldn’t that save more people in the long run?”
“Brilliant,” Jianzhu said, smiling in full now. “Exactly. You have the insight to see the world as it truly is. The Avatar’s duty is not to shield every single person, but to weigh suffering against stability. You think strategically, not sentimentally.”
Her chest warmed under the praise. “So… it’s the right choice?”
“The only choice,” he said. “Kuruk wasted his power chasing pleasures. But you—” He tapped the Pai Sho board with the twig. “You see the whole game. You know which pieces must fall so that others may live. That’s what makes you great.”
Kyoshi’s throat tightened. He sounded proud of her. She swallowed it like sunlight.
Still, a quiet unease lingered. “What about Kelsang?” she asked carefully. “He won’t agree with this.”
Jianzhu’s expression cooled. “Kelsang believes the world can be fixed through forgiveness. That naïveté is what makes him weak. You cannot let his sentimentality infect you.”
Kyoshi looked down, guilt twisting through her. “He only wants to protect people.”
Jianzhu’s tone hardened like stone. “He wants to protect you—from me.”
She flinched.
In the past year, something between them had changed—soured in ways she couldn’t name. She could feel it in the sharp pauses that fell whenever Kelsang entered a room, in the way Jianzhu’s voice cooled when the monk’s name came up. And she felt it in herself, too, the way her heart pulled in two directions.
Every day, the distance between her and Kelsang grew wider.
And every day, Jianzhu’s shadow fell longer over her life.
His hand reached across the dusty board, resting briefly on hers. The gesture was almost tender, but his grip was iron. “Kyoshi, my dear, the world will always have those who cannot stomach what must be done. You must decide who you are willing to disappoint—the few, or the many.”
She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“I…” Her voice faltered. “I understand.”
He smiled again, satisfied, and withdrew his hand. “Good. Remember—guilt is the enemy of duty. And duty,” he said, rising to his feet, “is what separates the Avatars who change the world from the ones who are forgotten.”
He left her sitting there, staring at the scuffed outline of the Pai Sho board.
The game was unfinished.
Kyoshi reached out with one finger and brushed her palm across the center tile, smearing the pattern away.
The tea had gone cold.
---
“You know, this is much harder when you’re around,” Rangi muttered.
Kyoshi looked up from the pile of gifts she’d been sorting through. “Excuse me?”
“This,” Rangi said, gesturing toward the cluttered sprawl of boxes, fabrics, and carved trinkets. “You keep reorganizing everything I just organized. You’re impossible.”
Kyoshi blinked. “I’m trying to help.”
“You’re trying to drive me insane.”
Despite herself, Kyoshi felt a tiny smile pull at her lips. It faded as quickly as it came.
The freestanding screens had been pushed to the walls, and the potted plants banished to the hall to make room for the mountains of offerings sent in the Avatar’s honor. The air smelled faintly of lacquer, silk, and something metallic from the gold inlays.
Kyoshi sat cross-legged amid the clutter, surrounded by wealth that didn’t feel like hers. It should have been a distraction, but all she could think about was Jianzhu’s voice in her head: This is necessary, Kyoshi. The cost is small compared to the peace it will buy.
Rangi dropped onto the floor across from her, brushing dust from her trousers. “We’ll never finish this,” she sighed. “You have enough tribute here to start your own kingdom.”
Kyoshi lifted a lacquered circle inlaid with luminous gems. “Another Pai Sho board,” she said softly.
Rangi groaned. “That makes what, thirty?”
“Forty-five,” Kyoshi murmured. “Maybe forty-six.”
Rangi snorted. “People really don’t know what to give the Avatar.”
Kyoshi turned the board in her hands, watching light catch the gems. “They think if they give enough, it’ll mean something. That I’ll remember them.” Her tone was flat, distant. “I don’t even know their names.”
Rangi looked up at her. “Kyoshi?”
Kyoshi realized she’d been gripping the board too tightly. She set it aside with careful precision.
Rangi studied her, her sharp gaze softening. “You’ve been quiet since Jianzhu called you into that meeting.”
Kyoshi froze. “It was nothing.”
“Nothing,” Rangi repeated skeptically. “He doesn’t summon you for nothing. What did he say?”
Kyoshi hesitated. The lie was already on her tongue, and still it tasted like ash.
“The Fifth Nation,” she said finally. “They’ve… agreed to a peace treaty.”
Rangi blinked, straightening. “That’s incredible news. Kyoshi, that’s—”
Kyoshi cut her off before Rangi could finish, the words spilling out too quickly, too desperate. “You’ll support me, won’t you? You’ll be there for me?”
Rangi’s brow furrowed. “Of course,” she said immediately. “Always.”
Kyoshi’s throat tightened. She forced a small nod, pretending that was enough—that it made everything fine. “Good,” she whispered.
Rangi didn’t push further. She only smiled softly, that same look that always disarmed her. “Then let’s just sit here,” she said, her voice gentling. “You can pretend to organize, and I’ll pretend to believe you’re good at it.”
Kyoshi blinked, startled into a quiet laugh. It sounded strange to her ears—small, brittle, but real.
Rangi smiled faintly. “There it is. I was starting to think you’d forgotten how.”
They worked in silence for a while, sorting through the endless heap of offerings. Kyoshi folded the discarded silks into neat squares, one after another, trying to impose order on something that refused to be ordered.
Rangi nudged a small jade box toward her. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said after a long pause. “But… whatever it is, you’re not alone. All right?”
Kyoshi looked up. Rangi’s eyes met hers—steady, patient, impossibly warm.
The words caught somewhere behind Kyoshi’s ribs. She wanted to say I can’t tell you, or you wouldn’t understand, but all that came out was a faint nod.
Rangi smiled like that was enough.
“Good,” she said softly. “Now help me hide this ridiculous statue before Jianzhu sees it.”
Kyoshi managed a quiet exhale that might have been a laugh. She reached for the statue, and for a fleeting moment, the ache in her chest loosened.
But when Rangi turned away to wrestle another box open, Kyoshi’s hands stilled.
She stared down at the smooth lacquer of the Pai Sho board—the same game Jianzhu had used to teach her justice, the same one he’d drawn in the dirt when he told her what must be done.
Necessary, he’d said.
Rangi hummed under her breath, sorting ribbons. Her presence filled the room like warmth from a nearby fire.
Kyoshi closed her eyes.
If she told Rangi the truth, she would look at her differently.
Maybe even stop looking at her at all.
So she stayed silent.
And kept folding silk.
---
Kyoshi’s nightmare smelled like wet bison.
It was raining, and bales of cargo wrapped in burlap splashed into the mud around her as if they’d fallen from the sky—part of the storm itself. The air was thick with the scent of rot and salt. Whatever those bundles once were, it didn’t matter anymore.
A flash of lightning tore across the clouds.
When her vision cleared, a man stood ahead of her—young, handsome, with scarred forearms and a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The rain slicked his dark hair against his face.
“Hey there, kid.”
She knew that voice. Even before he spoke her name, before she saw the blue of his Water Tribe robes darken with rainwater—she knew.
Kuruk.
Avatar Kuruk.
The man whose ghost she’d followed all her life without realizing it. The man whose failures haunted every lesson Jianzhu ever gave her.
The rain hissed around them, drumming against invisible water. His voice carried over the wind, casual but edged with exhaustion. “Big deal coming up, huh? Thought I’d check in. You’ve got a plan, right?”
Kyoshi straightened, her breath misting in the cold. “I’m going to do what I have to do,” she said. “Whatever it takes to bring peace. Everlasting peace. Something you weren’t willing to do.”
Kuruk’s half-smile didn’t waver, but the light in his eyes dimmed. “So that’s what you think of me.”
She didn’t answer.
He sighed, raking a hand through his wet hair. “I had three mentors once,” he said. “My closest friends. They guided me through everything. But there were times when I had to make choices they couldn’t understand. Things I had to do alone.”
He met her eyes—tired, distant, the weight of centuries behind them. “Do you understand that, Kyoshi?”
She clenched her fists. The rain came harder, stinging her skin. “If you hadn’t pushed them away—if you’d let them guide you—maybe your life wouldn’t have ended the way it did.”
Kuruk’s expression flickered—grief, then pride, then something older than both. “Maybe,” he said softly. “Or maybe that’s what every Avatar tells themselves before they end up like me.”
He turned toward the horizon. Lightning split the sky, revealing a vast wall of black storm clouds, roiling and endless.
“There’s darkness everywhere, kid,” he said, his voice almost lost to the wind. “Make sure it doesn’t taint you.”
He looked back at her one last time. “And whatever you do—look within yourself first. That’s where the real fight is.”
The thunder swallowed his words. The world dissolved into rain.
Kyoshi jolted awake with a sharp gasp—and nearly pitched over the side of Pengpeng’s saddle.
The wind roared around her, cold and salt-slick. She caught herself on the rail, the sanded edge biting into her stomach, and stared down at the endless blue churning beneath them. It was a long, long way down to the ocean.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. It wasn’t rain on her face but sweat. A droplet slipped off her chin and vanished into the clouds below—just before hands seized her shoulders and yanked her back.
“Spirits, Kyoshi!” Rangi hissed, dragging her upright with both arms. The sudden motion threw them off balance, and they tumbled into the center of the saddle in a tangle of limbs.
Kyoshi landed half on Rangi, half on Pengpeng’s warm hide—the air knocked clean from her lungs.
Rangi groaned beneath her. “You trying to die before we even get there?”
Kyoshi blinked, disoriented. The world tilted and spun, the echo of thunder still ringing in her skull. “I—” She pressed a shaking hand to her chest. “It was just… a dream.”
Rangi frowned, brushing a strand of hair from Kyoshi’s damp forehead. “You were thrashing. I thought you were about to hurl yourself overboard.”
Kyoshi tried to steady her breathing, but Kuruk’s voice still lingered in her mind. There’s darkness everywhere, kid. Make sure it doesn’t taint you.
She met Rangi’s eyes—steady, fierce, alive—and the contrast between dream and reality hit her like cold air.
Rangi’s grip softened. “You’re safe,” she said quietly. “You’re with me.”
Kyoshi nodded, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. The sky ahead was growing darker—storm clouds curling on the horizon.
“Yeah,” she murmured. “With you.”
“What happened?” Kelsang called over his shoulder, shifting carefully in the driver’s seat without letting go of the reins. His legs straddled Pengpeng’s massive neck, his orange robes whipping in the wind. From where he sat, it was nearly impossible to see behind him.
“Nothing, Master Kelsang,” Rangi called back, still a little breathless. “Kyoshi just had a bad dream.”
Kelsang craned his neck as far as he dared, brows knitting together. “A bad dream? Up here?” He sighed and faced forward again. “All right, but no roughhousing back there. We don’t need anyone falling off before we reach Tagaka’s camp. Jianzhu would have my head on a platter.”
Despite the light tone, his glance lingered on Kyoshi—a flicker of worry softening his features.
Kyoshi sat stiffly in the saddle, clutching her cloak around her shoulders. The wind bit through the sweat cooling at her collar, and she could feel the weight of Kelsang’s concern like a hand between her shoulder blades.
He’d been uneasy ever since Jianzhu sent them on this mission—uneasy about the secrecy, about the orders she refused to explain. And Kyoshi knew that the worry in his eyes wasn’t just for her safety. It was for the person she was becoming under Jianzhu’s hand.
“It’s fine, Kelsang,” she said quietly, though the lie scraped her throat raw.
He didn’t press. Just smiled that small, patient smile that always made her feel seen. “If you say so, little one.”
The wind howled through Pengpeng’s fur, and the world below disappeared into mist.
Rangi leaned closer, her shoulder brushing Kyoshi’s. “Try to relax,” she murmured. “You’re safe now.”
Kyoshi wanted to believe her.
But Kuruk’s words still pulsed in her chest like a heartbeat. There’s darkness everywhere, kid.
She looked toward the storm curling on the horizon. For a moment, she wasn’t sure whether he’d been warning her about the skies ahead—
or the one gathering inside her.
---
It was a very, very awkward dinner.
Tagaka’s camp sprawled along the ice, centered around a grand yurt draped in furs and banners that didn’t match — trophies from ships and nations she’d plundered. Inside, colored rugs and heavy tapestries muffled the sound of the sea and the cold of the wind. Stone lamps burned low and steady, the air thick with heat and smoke.
Low tables and cushions formed a circle for the guests of honor. Jianzhu sat to Kyoshi’s left; Hei-Ran and Kelsang flanked her in quiet vigilance. Rangi kept her post just behind, standing guard like an ember poised to strike.
Tagaka faced them across the table — tall, broad-shouldered, her hair slick with salt and oil, gold rings glinting in her ears. She ate like someone who’d never known fear.
The food, all Water Tribe fare, made Kyoshi’s stomach twist. Raw fish slick with oil, thin slices of whale blubber gleaming like marble. Every bite tasted of salt and blood. She chewed carefully, following Hei-Ran’s example, while Tagaka downed her own meal with a predator’s delight.
Jianzhu raised his cup. “Mistress Tagaka, on behalf of the Avatar, I thank you for your hospitality.”
“Hospitality,” Tagaka echoed with a grin. “Not a word often used for pirates.”
“You’re no pirate tonight,” Jianzhu said smoothly. “You’re a leader making peace.”
Kyoshi watched him, uneasy. He was at ease here, charming and composed. How could he be so calm in the presence of someone who’d burned and taken villages alive?
She forced herself to swallow another bite. Duty first. Doubt later.
Tagaka snapped her fingers, and a servant produced a Pai Sho set. “I hear the Avatar enjoys this game. Will you humor me?”
Kyoshi stiffened, glancing at Jianzhu.
When she was a child, she’d hated Pai Sho. Everyone had assumed she would be a natural — Kuruk’s successor, after all — but she wasn’t. She’d been slow, hesitant, constantly second-guessing her own moves. Jianzhu never accepted that. He made her play with him over and over again, until every mistake burned like shame. Until she learned to mask hesitation with stillness.
Now, years later, that same instinct to obey rose like a tide inside her.
Jianzhu nodded once — permission and command wrapped into the same gesture.
Kyoshi bowed her head. “If it would please our host.”
The pirates laughed and cleared space at the table. Rangi’s hand brushed the small of Kyoshi’s back as she passed, a silent reassurance that made her pulse jump.
Tagaka leaned forward as Kyoshi took her seat. “Do you play to win, Avatar?”
Kyoshi’s fingers trembled over the first tile. “Always.”
They began.
Tagaka was good — aggressive, reckless, more interested in chaos than strategy. Jianzhu had taught Kyoshi the opposite: patience, inevitability. She moved with care, each tile a lesson in restraint. Around them, the pirates and guards traded glares and quiet insults, but all Kyoshi could hear was the faint click of Pai Sho pieces on wood and the thundering of her own heart.
When the last move was made, she’d cornered Tagaka completely. The tent erupted in laughter and applause. Tagaka leaned back, shaking her head. “Clever. You think ahead.”
“Thank you,” Kyoshi said.
“Tell me,” Tagaka said, voice softening to something more dangerous, “are you enjoying yourself, Avatar?”
Kyoshi inclined her head politely. “Your hospitality has been… unmatched.”
Tagaka’s grin widened. “Good. I was convinced you were planning to kill me before the night was through.”
The laughter died instantly.
Jianzhu’s hand stilled on his cup. Hei-Ran’s eyes narrowed. The pirates froze like wolves waiting for a signal.
Kyoshi’s throat tightened. “You mistake me, Mistress Tagaka. I came seeking peace.”
“Peace.” Tagaka rolled the word around like it tasted bitter. “Funny thing, that. You come here with your masters—” She gestured sharply, her fingers forming a trident. “—the Gravedigger of Zhulu Pass. The Fire Nation’s Black Widow. And the Living Typhoon himself. And you call it peace?”
The tent seemed to shrink.
Kyoshi blinked, unsure she’d heard correctly. “The… Gravedigger?”
Tagaka’s eyes glittered. “Five thousand men buried alive. Zhulu Pass. You didn’t know?”
Kyoshi turned to Jianzhu. “Sifu…?”
He smiled faintly, unbothered. “Superstition,” he said. “Old stories tend to grow larger in the telling.”
“Not superstition,” Tagaka snapped. “Fact. The earth swallowed them because your mentor decided it should.” She turned to Hei-Ran. “And your Fire Mistress — shall we count the bodies she’s left behind in her ‘accidents’?”
Rangi flinched.
Kyoshi wanted to reach for her instinctively, but she stopped herself. Comforting her friend would have to wait.
Jianzhu’s silence pressed down like stone. The air in the tent had gone taut, drawn thin between danger and decorum.
“And you,” Tagaka said, fixing her gaze on Kelsang. “The Living Typhoon. My grandfather told stories of the bison-rider who called down a storm so fierce it split ships in half. He lost three brothers that day. Three. Your Air Nomad’s mercy, was it?”
Kelsang’s head bowed, his face pale.
“Do you understand what you’ve brought to my shores, Avatar?” Tagaka said. “A gravedigger, a killer, and a storm.”
Kyoshi’s mouth went dry. “They’re my teachers. My family.”
“Family?” Tagaka’s tone dripped with mockery. “No wonder you're no different than them. You’ve been forged by a man who measures peace in corpses. Tell me, Avatar—how many graves will you dig before you think the world is safe? You’re already trading these villagers’ lives. Not that I disagree. It’s a good trade. A brutal one.”
Silence fell like ash.
Kyoshi felt Kelsang’s and Rangi’s eyes on her. Hei-Ran already knew the plan—Jianzhu had let her in on it—but the others hadn’t. They thought they were here to negotiate peace, not purchase it with innocent lives. Jianzhu had thought it best not to inform them.
She had agreed.
Now, under Tagaka’s words and her friends’ stunned stares, that choice burned. All the secrets, the half-truths, the “necessary” cruelties she’d hidden in shadow were suddenly exposed. She could feel Rangi’s faith in her falter, Kelsang’s disappointment forming like a storm cloud.
For the first time in years, Kyoshi wanted to disappear—back into the dirt, the hunger, the anonymity of the child she used to be.
Kyoshi’s heart pounded in her ears. “That’s not who I am,” she said, but her voice trembled.
“Not yet,” Tagaka said, smiling with her teeth. “But you will be.”
Silence settled like a weight. Then Tagaka stood, brushing dust from her furs. “It’s bad luck to undertake a treaty with blood still fresh on your spirit. I think I’ll purify myself before tomorrow.”
Her guards rose with her. The pirates followed.
“You may stay here as long as you like, Avatar,” she said, turning toward the tent’s flap. “Try not to drown in your mentors’ shadows.”
Tagaka snapped her fingers, and her men filed out of the tent as unquestioningly as if she’d bent them away. The Earth Kingdom captives went last, ducking through the flaps without a glance behind them. The gesture was deliberate—a final insult. They’re more afraid of me than hopeful of you.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Jianzhu exhaled, dusting his hands together as if closing a minor transaction. “You did well for—”
“Is it true?”
The sharpness of Kelsang’s voice cut through the air. Kyoshi’s head snapped up. She had never heard him interrupt Jianzhu before—and judging by the brief flicker in her master’s eyes, neither had he.
“This matter is between us,” Jianzhu said softly, a warning edge in his tone. “Is what true?”
“You told Kyoshi to trade those villagers’ lives for this treaty?”
Jianzhu sighed, tiredly, as though the accusation were beneath him. “Kelsang, this is necessary. Think of the benefits. Peace across three kingdoms, stability for—”
“I can’t believe you,” Kelsang said, voice trembling with restrained fury. “I knew you were straying, but this—this is too far.”
He turned to Kyoshi. The look in his eyes hit harder than any blow. Disappointment. Not just in Jianzhu—in her.
“Kelsang—” she began, but he was already gone, pushing through the tent flap into the cold night.
The silence he left behind was unbearable.
Rangi rose next. Her jaw was tight, her movements clipped. She didn’t say a word.
Hei-Ran watched her go, and for a heartbeat Kyoshi saw something in the woman’s eyes—a flicker of longing, restraint. She wanted to follow her daughter. Instead, she turned and walked out the opposite side of the tent, her back as rigid as armor.
Kyoshi was left alone with Jianzhu.
And for the first time, she wasn’t sure whose side she was on.
The silence in the tent felt heavy as stone. The lamps flickered, throwing long shadows over the abandoned Pai Sho board.
“Gravedigger?” Kyoshi demanded. Her voice sounded sharper than she meant, but she didn’t care. “Five thousand? You buried five thousand people alive?”
Jianzhu looked up from his tea as if she’d asked something trivial. “That’s an overstatement made by a criminal.”
“Then what’s the truth?” Her hands were shaking. “Five hundred? One hundred? What’s the number that makes it justified?”
Jianzhu laughed once — a dry, mirthless sound that barely moved his chest. “The truth? The truth is that the Yellow Necks were filth. Bandits who plundered, murdered, and destroyed with no regard for life or law. They believed they could hurt others without consequence.”
He leaned forward, pressing his finger into the center of the dusty Pai Sho board still drawn between them.
“I visited consequences upon them,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “Because that is justice, Kyoshi — nothing more than balance restored. I made it clear that every horror they inflicted would return to them, no more, no less. And it worked. Those who survived scattered to the winds. The Earth Kingdom has been safe from their kind ever since.”
He turned his gaze toward the tent flap, in the direction Tagaka had gone. “Decent citizens don’t speak of Zhulu Pass because they understand what had to be done. It’s only criminals who wail about the lack of mercy — conveniently forgetting the lives they ruined first.”
Kyoshi’s throat felt dry. She wanted to argue, to say something that would untangle the tight knot building in her chest, but no words came.
“Kyoshi,” Jianzhu said softly, almost kindly now. “Do you think peace is born of purity? You cannot reason with chaos. You end it. You contain it. That is your burden — our burden — as those who guide this world.”
She flinched at the word our.
Outside, the waves hit the ice like slow applause.
“I don’t want to hurt people,” she whispered.
Jianzhu’s expression softened with the practiced grace of a father. “Neither do I. But sometimes, mercy causes greater suffering. You’ve seen what happens when weak leaders hesitate. You, more than anyone, should know that kindness, left unchecked, invites ruin.”
Her pulse thundered in her ears. She wanted to tell him he was wrong — that Kelsang’s way meant something, that compassion was strength — but the thought of disappointing him made her stomach twist. Jianzhu had found her when no one else had. He had given her a name, a home, a purpose.
He reached out and took her hand, steady and unyielding. “You did what was necessary tonight, Kyoshi. That’s what the Avatar does. You made a choice for the greater good.”
His gaze held hers — steady, inevitable. “I’m proud of you.”
The words sank deep, like stones dropped into a well. Pride. Approval. The things she’d spent her whole life chasing.
Kyoshi drew a slow breath. Her shaking stopped.
“I understand,” she said quietly. “It had to be done.”
Jianzhu smiled — thin, triumphant. “Good. Remember that feeling. Mercy is a luxury we cannot afford.”
He rose and left the tent, his shadow passing over her like a cloud.
When he was gone, Kyoshi looked down at the smudged Pai Sho board between them. The center tile was missing — an empty space where something should have been.
She placed her hand over it and whispered, to no one:
“I'm doing the right thing.”
But the words didn’t sound like hers anymore.
---
“What are you doing here?”
Kelsang stood in her tent, robes stirring in the sea breeze. His face was pale in the lamplight, eyes shadowed.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said softly. “What do you plan to do now that you’ve decided to give up these villagers’ lives? How will you look their families in the eyes, knowing you traded them for peace?”
Kyoshi’s stomach twisted. “First, I need to close the deal, Kelsang. What happens after—I’ll deal with.”
“And then what?” His voice cracked, rising like a wave. “Will you trade your honor next? Your morality? Because Jianzhu tells you to?”
“I know my own destiny, Kelsang!”
“Do you?” His voice thundered now, echoing off the canvas walls. “Is it your destiny—or one someone else has forced onto you?”
“Stop it, Kelsang!” She clenched her fists, nails biting into her palms. “I have to do this! Just like you had to deal with the pirates!”
The words struck him like a slap.
Kelsang shivered, though the air was still. His gaze fell to the ground. “You know,” he said quietly, “after Kuruk died, I thought my failure to set him on the right path was my last and greatest mistake.” His voice trembled. “It turned out I wasn’t finished disgracing myself.”
Kyoshi blinked, unsure what he meant.
“I never told you what happened after that day on the western coast.” His hands tightened at his sides. “I violated everything I believed in as an Airbender. I broke my vows. I took lives, Kyoshi.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I let my teachers down. I let my people down. I let myself down.”
She shook her head quickly. “No—you did what was necessary. You saved towns, Kelsang. You saved lives.”
He looked up sharply, anguish flashing through his eyes. “And now you sound like Jianzhu.”
"So? Why is that a bad thing?"
He took a step closer, voice dropping. “I know about Master Amuk, Kyoshi. I know about the secret training. The poisons. The deals.”
Her breath caught.
“I’m sorry,” he said, eyes glistening. “I’m sorry you felt you couldn’t trust me—that you had to keep this from me.”
Kyoshi froze. The words hit her sideways, wrong. He was sorry?
For a moment, everything inside her tangled — shame, anger, grief — a snarl of feelings too big to hold. He was supposed to yell, not forgive. Forgiveness was unbearable.
So she did what she always did when she was afraid.
She turned her fear into armor.
She laughed — harsh, brittle. “Felt like I had to keep it from you? I wanted to, Kelsang! Because I knew you wouldn’t understand. This is what being the Avatar means, don’t you get it? This is necessary! Jianzhu thought you were too weak for the truth, and he was obviously right!”
Her voice broke halfway through. She couldn’t tell if she was shouting at him — or at herself.
Kelsang didn’t fight back. He just looked at her, that terrible sadness softening his face.
“I failed you,” he said quietly. “Since you were six, I’ve tried to show you that I love you, Kyoshi — unconditionally. But I should have protected you from Jianzhu. He’s trying to control you. Don’t you see that?”
“Jianzhu loves me!” The words tore out of her like they were wrenched from her chest. “He took me in! He gave me everything. If it weren’t for him, I’d still be a beggar on the streets. Because of him — because I’m the Avatar — I got a second chance. I owe him everything!”
Kelsang’s expression broke. “No,” he said softly. “That would never have happened. The moment I saw you, I knew you were coming with me. I would have never left you there, Avatarhood be damned. You never had to earn that. You never had to prove anything to anyone.”
Her breath came fast, shallow. “You don’t understand. If I stop—if I fail him—he’ll leave. They all leave.”
“Oh, Kyoshi,” Kelsang whispered. “You’re not a mistake to be walked away from. Not to me.”
Something inside her cracked. The tent seemed too small, the air too thin. She wanted to scream that he was wrong, that she was strong, that she had to believe it—because if she didn’t, then everything she’d done, every compromise and silence and secret, would turn to dust in her hands.
Kelsang stepped closer, voice breaking. “I’m begging you, Kyoshi. It’s time for you to look inward and start asking yourself the big questions.” He swallowed hard. “Who are you? And what do you want?”
He held her gaze for a long, unbearable moment — then turned and walked away.
Kyoshi didn’t move. The flap of the tent fell shut behind him, muting the sounds of the sea and leaving her in silence.
For a long while she stood there, the echo of his words pulsing through her like a heartbeat. Who are you? What do you want?
She didn’t know anymore.
Her hands trembled. The ground beneath her felt unsteady. For the first time since she was a child, she wanted to cry — but the tears wouldn’t come.
She was Jianzhu’s perfect stone.
Unbreakable.
Unmoved.
So why did she feel like she was shattering?
---
Kyoshi lay facedown on her bedroll, her hands covering her face.
She didn’t know how long she’d been there. Time felt suspended—measured only by the hollow ache in her chest and the dull throb behind her eyes.
The flap rustled.
“Kyoshi?”
Rangi’s voice.
Kyoshi didn’t look up. The tent dimmed as Rangi stepped inside. She hesitated in the doorway before taking in the sight of Kyoshi, curled into herself on the floor.
“Kyoshi,” Rangi said carefully, “have you been drinking?”
It seemed easier to lie.
“Yes,” Kyoshi muttered into her palms.
With a sigh, Rangi crouched down and got her arms under Kyoshi’s shoulders. Even through layers of fabric, her grip was firm. “Come on,” she said. “You’ll freeze like that.”
She hauled Kyoshi upright with surprising strength. The tent was warmer with Rangi inside, a cocoon against the night’s bite—the difference between a winter storm and an afternoon in spring. Kyoshi’s limbs began to loosen, the heavy echo in her head easing as warmth seeped in.
Rangi maneuvered her onto a stool, then started undoing the clasps of Kyoshi’s battle outfit with brisk efficiency, muttering under her breath. “You can’t sleep in this getup. Especially not the armor.”
Piece by piece, she stripped the layers away, movements quick but careful, as if disassembling a weapon that might go off in her hands.
Then, without a hint of hesitation, Rangi began unfastening the buckles of her armor.
The clasps came loose one by one, soft metallic clicks against the hush of the tent. She peeled away the crimson cuirass, then the fitted greaves and bracers, each piece landing in a careful pile beside her bedroll. Beneath the polished plates was the close-fitting underlayer of her uniform — dark, sleeveless, clinging to the lines of her body.
Kyoshi found herself watching without meaning to, struck by how methodical Rangi was even now. Every movement was deliberate, efficient, almost ritualistic.
Rangi tugged loose the ties at her shoulders, sliding out of the underarmor until she stood in her thin cotton underclothes, pale fabric stark against bronze skin. The firelight traced every precise motion — the faint flex of muscle at her arms, the long line of her spine as she reached for the folded garment by her side.
Finally, she slipped into a simple shift, soft white cotton that brushed her knees and left her arms bare. It was an almost jarring contrast — the fearless warrior, now wrapped in something fragile, domestic.
Kyoshi swallowed, unable to look away.
“Shouldn’t you be sleeping in your own tent?” Kyoshi asked hoarsely.
Rangi’s face flushed. “I—well, I was anxious. About you. I know Master Amuk’s on guard, but what if someone tried to attack? You need me here.”
Kyoshi wanted to argue, but the warmth of Rangi’s presence settled like a blanket over her frayed nerves.
They lay down beneath the furs. The silence stretched, soft and fragile.
Kyoshi already knew she wouldn’t sleep. The conversation with Kelsang replayed in her mind again and again, every word cutting deeper.
And besides—she’d never shared a sleeping space before. Not as a child scavenging for warmth under docks, not in the mansion built to worship her name. The closeness was foreign, disarming.
She could hear every small motion beside her—the rustle of fabric, the faint shift of breath. Rangi’s steady inhalations rose and fell like the tides.
For the first time all night, Kyoshi didn’t feel completely alone.
“Rangi…?”
The name came out small, almost lost in the dim quiet of the tent.
Rangi shifted beside her under the furs. “Yeah?”
Kyoshi turned her head, the motion heavy with exhaustion. “Aren’t you upset with me? About what I plan to do tomorrow?”
Rangi exhaled slowly. The sound was somewhere between a sigh and a release of tension she’d been holding all day. She turned onto her side to face Kyoshi, eyes soft but searching.
“A lot of things I heard today upset me,” she admitted. “More than I want to admit. But I’m not going to judge you.”
Her voice steadied, quiet but sure. “I know you’ll do the right thing.”
Kyoshi blinked, caught off guard. “You really think so?”
Rangi nodded once. “You’ve changed this past year,” she said. “And it’s been hard—because I really wanted to be there for you. You’re my Avatar… but more than that, you’re my friend.”
Her throat worked around the next words. “And I—” She swallowed hard, the sound audible in the hush. “I really care about you, Kyoshi. I just… I need you to know that. Okay?”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt fragile, stretched thin by too many truths left unspoken.
Kyoshi opened her mouth, but no words came. Her heart thudded unevenly in her chest. After everything—Jianzhu’s orders, Kelsang’s disappointment, the weight of tomorrow—Rangi’s voice was the first thing that made her feel like she could still breathe.
She wanted to be there for Rangi too. To anchor her. So she broached the other topic on her mind.
“I don’t think they did anything wrong,” Kyoshi said quietly, staring up at the underside of the tent.
Rangi didn’t respond.
“I heard from Auntie Mui about what Xu and the Yellow Necks did to unarmed men, women, and children,” Kyoshi went on. “If half of that is true, then Jianzhu went too easy on them. They deserved worse.”
The moonlight slipped through the seams of the tent, scattering into tiny stars along the stitch holes.
She should have stopped there. But her certainty carried her forward, past the point of safety.
“And accidents are accidents,” she added. “I’m sure your mother never meant to harm anyone.”
Two strong hands seized the lapels of her robe. Rangi yanked her onto her side until they were face-to-face.
“Kyoshi,” she said hoarsely, her eyes flaring with pain. “One of those opponents was her cousin. A rival candidate for headmistress.”
She gave Kyoshi a hard, jostling shake. “Not a pirate. Not an outlaw. Her cousin. The school cleared her honor, but the rumors never stopped. I heard them for years. People whispering that my mother was—” Rangi’s voice broke. “—was an assassin.”
She spat the word like poison. For her, it might as well have been.
She sagged forward then, burying her face in Kyoshi’s chest, her fists gripping tightly at the fabric as if trying to hold herself together.
Kyoshi’s stomach knotted. Shame rose sharp and sour in her throat. How could she have been so careless? She wanted to hit herself, to undo the words, but all she could do was lift a trembling hand and rest it against Rangi’s back.
The Firebender trembled once, then pressed closer, her breath warm through the thin layer of Kyoshi’s robe. A few sharp inhalations escaped her — short, rhythmic. Kyoshi didn’t know if it was crying or breathing discipline, or some strange blend of both.
Rangi shifted again, curling closer still. The silken brush of her hair caught against Kyoshi’s lips. The scent of smoke and salt filled her lungs.
The contact startled her. It felt like a transgression — a mistake made in exhaustion. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t.
She knew what Fire Nation customs meant. Hair was sacred. Only family or lovers were allowed to touch it.
And yet Rangi didn’t pull away.
Kyoshi’s heart pounded in her throat, a painful, impossible rhythm. She shut her eyes, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, terrified that if she did — this fragile, impossible closeness would break.
Rangi pulled back slightly, her breath catching.
For a long moment she just looked at Kyoshi — really looked at her.
Her eyes, a deep molten bronze, reflected the lamplight like twin flames.
“Rangi…” Kyoshi whispered, the name barely sound at all.
She didn’t know what she meant to say next. The words lodged somewhere between apology and plea. “I…”
Rangi’s face twisted — a flicker of pain, longing, and something else that Kyoshi didn’t yet understand. She looked as if she were begging for permission, or forgiveness, or both.
Then she leaned forward.
The first brush of her lips against Kyoshi’s was so tentative it felt imagined — a ghost of warmth, a heartbeat suspended in air. But the shock of it spread through Kyoshi like fire through dry grass, unstoppable once it began.
The kiss deepened.
Rangi’s hand fisted in the front of Kyoshi’s robe and tugged her closer until there was no space left—only heat and breath and the stutter of two heartbeats trying to find the same rhythm. Kyoshi’s palm slid to Rangi’s jaw, her thumb trembling against warm skin. Rangi shivered and pressed in, answering like a spark catching dry tinder.
Every thought Kyoshi had clung to—Jianzhu, duty, control—burned away at the edges. There was only Rangi: salt and smoke and the soft, desperate sound she made when Kyoshi dared to kiss her back. Slow at first, then braver, surer, as if the world might end if she let go.
It wasn’t careful anymore. It was fierce and shaking and honest—two people holding on because everything else felt like it might fall apart.
When they finally broke for air, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. Kyoshi realized her hands were still gripping Rangi’s sleeves like lifelines. Rangi didn’t pull away.
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped her—breathless, raw.
“I’ve wanted to do that for ages,” she whispered.
Kyoshi stared at her, dazed. The world outside the tent had gone completely still. For the first time in her life, she felt untethered—and free.
“I didn’t know until now,” she said, voice unsteady, “but… me too.”
Rangi gave a trembling laugh and wrapped her arms around her again, pulling her close. “Kyoshi,” she murmured into her shoulder, “I know you’ll do the right thing. You’re an amazing Avatar. And you’re a good person. I believe in you.”
Kyoshi’s breath caught. She wanted to tell Rangi everything—that she wasn’t amazing, that she wasn’t good, that tomorrow she would stain herself in ways she couldn’t undo. But the words wouldn’t come. So she just nodded against her.
“Come on,” Rangi whispered, pulling back slightly. “Let’s get some sleep.”
The faint, flowery scent of her hair filled Kyoshi’s lungs, making her head swim and her pulse quicken. She stayed perfectly still, unwilling to make any movement that might disturb Rangi’s fitful slumber.
Eventually, Rangi drifted off, radiating warmth like a small, steady flame in the dark. Kyoshi watched her, unable to close her eyes. Comforting her throughout the night was both an honor and a quiet torture she wouldn’t have traded for anything in the world.
Kyoshi closed her eyes at last, trying to ignore the numbness creeping down her arm and the ache gathering behind her ribs.
She’d never felt pain like this before—her body losing circulation and her heart turning to ribbons all at once.