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Chapter Text

Captain Shinu held a cup of plum wine and stared into the fire.

He’d like to believe the banished prince was lying about the Forty-First.

In the three years since their slaughter, “For the Forty-First!” had become the rallying cry of the nation. The date of their massacre was now a national memorial day. Recruitment had surged—especially from the colonies. The Fire Nation had needed something noble to cling to after Ba Sing Se. The story of the Forty-First had been clean. Heroic. Useful.

Zhao had told it well.

For nearly two decades Shinu had followed Zhao. They had climbed the ranks together, Shinu rising in the Admiral’s wake. Every new stripe on his sleeve had felt like validation.

It was only weeks ago, when Zhao had spoken of destroying the Moon to end the war, that doubt had finally taken root. Shinu had felt it then — a tightening in his chest, a wrongness he could not name — but he had followed him anyway.

Somewhere along the way, validation replaced conviction.

He could not remember when he had stopped believing in something and started believing what men with rank told him to believe.

Somewhere along the line he had become the man with rank, telling others what to believe.

There had been a time when he was an ensign who believed in the future of the Fire Nation—in the Great Light movement. He had believed the Air Nomads and Water Tribes were obstacles to progress. Savages clinging to backward ways.

But the glittering spirals of Agna Qel’a had not been the work of savages.

And he had helped try to extinguish it.

He turned the cup slowly.

Zhao had called the prince a mouthy little shit who’d earned his punishment. Shinu had accepted this without question.

What he had not been told was that the boy’s father had burned off half the face of his own child.

He had not even suspected it until he’d stared at the boy’s face—one eye gold and one silver, buried in scar tissue.

And what he would never have believed—had he not seen it himself—was that the boy had become the Moon, had offered Zhao mercy, and that the admiral had refused.

For seventeen years Shinu had followed that man.

He had scoffed at the idea of the Moon Spirit. He saw the moon every night in the sky—how could it be a fish? Spirits were stories for children and sages.

But he had seen the Ocean rise in judgment.

If the Fire Nation stood in the right, would Agni not have answered Zhao’s call?

If not for the prince, would La have sunk the Golden Talon?

If not for the boy’s sabotage, hobbling the armada in Cauldron Bay, would she have sunk the whole fleet?

Shinu tossed the cup of plum wine into the fire. It erupted with a burst of flame.

He watched the blue-tinted flames from the plum wine flicker and die. He stood, the joints in his knees popping—a reminder he had spent more years on a deck than he likely had left to give.

He did not return to his quarters.

Instead, he pulled on a heavy, soot-stained cloak and stepped out into the biting air of the Cauldron.

Down in the town square, several sailors had built a bonfire that roared, beating off the northern chill. Earth Kingdom vendors had begun to set up their wares around it. The sun was low in the western sky, and the northwest wind cut sharp and unfriendly.

The shipwrecked sailors of the armada mingled with the crew of the Talon and Current. As is their way, the sailors soon began swapping stories.

Sokka normally loved towns. They had so many things he’d never seen or imagined. So many new things to buy—even if he didn’t have the money.

But here—here he just felt out of place. He settled onto a barrel and watched the sailors tell their sea stories.

“You sail with the prince?” A young sailor asked the boy with large ears that Sokka vaguely recognized from the ship.

“The Spirit Speaker!” said Toma. “I do.”

“What’s he like?”

“Fair and worthy,” Toma promised.

“I heard he killed Admiral Zhao!” the sailor said.

“I heard he became a wave!” Another voice joined in.

“Well, I heard he became the moon.”

“He’s always been something else, the prince,” Toma said with reverence. “He can heal with fire.”

“No way, that’s bullshit,” said the first sailor.

“It isn’t,” Toma fired back. “It was me he healed. I was dying and he saved my life. And that’s the second time he did that.”

“Healed you?”

“Saved me.”

The sailors considered this. The first one, a young man with a scar on his chin and a receding hairline despite his age said in a hushed voice, “I was on watch on the Golden Talon when we were in the city of ice—”

“Agna Qel’a,” the second sailor, a fat cook with round cheeks and small, golden eyes that nearly disappeared in the folds of his skin when he smiled, filled in.

“Yeah, Agna Qel’a. We were making ready to get underway and suddenly the harbor drained of all water.”

A few more sailors had stopped to listen, and soon the young man had an audience.

“Like a tsunami?” an older sailor with sharp eyes and a crooked nose asked. He was an engineer on the Talon and had felt the propellers bite into the mud.

“Yeah! Like that. And then the banished prince was walking across the ground, but easy as you please, like there was no mud at all. He was shedding ice and hoarfrost all around him and he glowed silver.”

“He was the prince of the Fire Nation, how is he cold?”

“I don’t know! I’m just telling you what I saw!” the sailor continued, “He told the admiral he would offer him mercy: the justice of men.”

“It’s not justice,” said one. “It would’ve been those ice savages, and there’s no justice there.”

“Cut up and fed to leopard seals, I heard,” another intoned wisely.

“Admiral Zhao refused,” the first sailor continued, undeterred. “He said he was the Moon-slayer and did not believe in superstitions. So the ocean rose up and grabbed him, pulling him into the deep.”

“Just the admiral? Why didn’t she sink the whole ship?” asked the engineer.

“The prince would not allow it.”

The sailors muttered.

“They said he’s a traitor. Banished, and for good reason.”

“I heard he’s a shit firebender, too.”

“His only crime was defending the 41st,” Toma said over the group. This quieted them down. They stared at Toma.

“The 41st?”

Toma nodded. “The generals wanted to sacrifice them so our army could flank them. The prince told them they were wrong. The Fire Lord punished him for speaking out.”

“But they all died,” the fat sailor said.

“What would you know? You’re one of the traitors, anyway!”

“I was,” Toma said. “I betrayed the prince, and he could’ve executed me. But he didn’t. He’s a good man.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’s banished.”

“The Fire Lord has declared him a traitor.”

“Believe what you want, I don’t care,” Toma said. “But I know what I’ve lived.”

Across the square, several of the junior officers of the shattered armada stood apart from the bonfire’s glow. They watched the excitement among their sailors grow as they swapped stories and legends.

“The Fire Lord will send reinforcements,” Ensign Hyejin said. He came from a proud Fire Nation family with distant lineage to the Fire Lord—on his mother’s side, twice removed. He believed in the Fire Nation’s mission and not in the stories bandied around like a pachinko ball.

“When has he ever?” Lieutenant Junior Grade Soren grumbled.

“This fleet was the backbone of the navy, and the prince crippled it in a night,” Lieutenant Kazuo observed.

“There’s no resupply. We’ll starve here unless we find a way out. The locals are already getting restless,” Soren pointed out. “With our stores destroyed, we’ve nearly cleared out their reserves. It’s not a good way to win favors.”

Ensign Hyejin sniffed. “They’re a defeated nation. Of course they’re restless.”

“You’re an idiot,” Soren said. “We have no fleet. We have no resupply. We have no admiral. The Fire Lord probably sees us as failures and will leave us here to rot. We need the locals.”

“We can take them in a fight,” Hyejin said.

“Sure, and then we can claim this barren rock for ourselves and starve anyway. What would you suggest we do, Hyejin? Eat them?”

Hyejin puffed out his chest. “We will do what we must.”

Soren and Kazuo shared the look of two men who had been officers long enough to realize when they were in the company of idiots.

“So you’re going to sit here and eat Earth Kingdom townsfolk?” Soren asked mildly. “And how long would that last? It’s not like we have another navy just waiting to show up. And it’s several months’ march across Earth Kingdom territory before an army could get here—assuming there’d be anything left.”

Hyejin’s jaw tightened. “The Fire Lord does not abandon his own.”

Kazuo’s gaze drifted toward the bonfire, where laughter rose again. The enlisted had begun playing a game of Fire Cup.

“He abandoned his son,” Kazuo observed, knowing what he said amounted to treason. “Banished him, in fact.”

“Kazuo,” Soren hissed.

Kazuo shrugged. “We’ve all heard the rumors about what happened. But Lieutenant Aran on the Golden Talon told me if not for the prince, the ship would’ve sunk.”

Hyejin’s nostrils flared. “He’s a traitor. That should end the discussion. But I understand morale is low. I won’t report you.”

Kazuo and Soren shared another look. Kazuo rubbed a hand over his face and kept his mouth shut.

The wind cut across the square, flattening the fire for a moment before it roared back to life. Sparks spiraled upward into the dimming sky.

Sitting on a pair of upturned barrels near the edge of the firelight, Sokka muttered to Katara, “That’s not what happened at all,” and took a bite of his roasted yam, listening to the sailors trade stories.

They sat bundled in borrowed furs that still smelled faintly of coal smoke and ship oil, blue parkas too bright against a square full of imperial red and muddy Earth Kingdom greens. For all the noise around them, the port did not feel like a place meant for them.

The prince had given them an allowance—an allowance!—for their port call.

His pockets had never felt so full, and he had never felt so empty.

“Dad’s here,” Katara said dully. “For years, all I’ve wanted to do is see him again, but how can he ever love us after what we did?”

“Katara—”

“He was there. He saw what we did.”

“It was an accident. We didn’t actually kill the Moon.”

“But we didn’t stop Zhao, Sokka. We fought the prince and he died. He died, Sokka. We saw it happen. And Yue would’ve died too, if—whatever happened hadn’t happened—they would all be dead. And it would be because of us.”

Sokka stared at the half-eaten yam in his hands. “We thought we were doing the right thing. Dad will understand that.”

Katara stared out over the people. It had become a mingling of Earth Kingdom locals and Fire Nation sailors. They should have been enemies, but they were bartering goods and stories—and a lot of something called soju. Katara stared at them dully, everything she thought she knew twisting on its head.

She wondered if any of them had been there the day her mother died, but most of the faces around the bonfire looked so young—not much older than her.

She opened her mouth to answer Sokka, to tell him that understanding didn't stop the nightmares, when Aang joined them.

“They don’t hate us,” Aang said, settling in with his own yam beside them, Momo perched on his shoulder. “The sailors. I thought they’d be angry about—well, everything. But they’re not. They seem pretty happy. Cold, though.”

“Of course they are,” said the blind earthbender.

She dropped down beside them as if she’d always belonged there. Behind her stood the girl in black and the one in pink—faces Sokka and Katara recognized from the decks of the ship, though neither of them had made much effort to get acquainted with the prince’s companions.

“They’re not dead,” the earthbender continued. “That’s pretty sweet.”

She stuck out a hand in the general direction of Sokka’s shoulder. “Anyway, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Toph. Greatest earthbender in the world. The gloomy one is Knives—”

“I’m Mai,” the girl in black corrected flatly.

“And the bouncy one is Jackalope.”

“Sure,” the girl in pink said cheerfully. “That works.”

Sokka looked the tiny earthbender up and down. “Oh yeah? Greatest earthbender in the world? Based on what?”

Toph snorted. She waved to the destroyed fleet in the harbor. “Who do you think folded rudders and crushed boilers?”

“That was you?!”

Sokka nearly dropped his yam.

He leaned back against the barrel, appetite forgotten, and stared at the crippled ships. Zhao had told them the sabotage was the work of the Bastard Prince—petty vengeance, reckless pride.

“It wasn’t a mercy mission, was it?” Sokka said slowly. “It wasn’t a hundred ships for a hundred years, meant to resupply the north?”

Toph barked a laugh. “Oh no. Is that what you were told? It was an invasion fleet. We just leveled the field a little.” She hooked her gloved thumbs into her belt. “Probably saved these guys. Who knows what would’ve happened if they’d gone north?”

Sokka looked around the bonfire.

Sailors were laughing. A pair of them knelt in the dirt, trying to teach a handful of Earth Kingdom locals a Fire Nation card game. Someone passed a skin of something warm. Boots scraped stone. The fire snapped.

It was an almost domestic scene—warm, ordinary.

It felt profoundly wrong against the silhouette of broken hulls choking the harbor.

“You crippled an entire armada with what—forty people?” Sokka said, trying and failing not to sound impressed.

“Strategy,” Mai replied. “Zuko didn’t want any of them dead. By folding a few rudders and crumpling a few boilers, spoiling the water and goods—he kept the bay mouth blocked. The fleet couldn’t sail. But they lived.”

Katara finally looked up from her hands. “How long has he been like this? Protecting people who hate him?”

Mai’s gaze drifted toward the harbor, toward the wreckage and the men warming themselves at the fire.
“Maybe his whole life,” she said.

A shadow fell over them.

A young sailor stood there, thin-faced, deep brown eyes flecked with gold. His crimson watch cap was pulled low against the wind, his fingers worrying the cuff of his crimson overcoat.

“Miss? I’m sorry to trouble you.”

“Who’re you talking to, bub?” Toph asked. “Is it me? Because I can’t see.” She waved her hand over her eyes.

“Oh—no, miss. It’s, um—it’s you.” He looked directly at Katara now.

“Me?”

“I’m Liu.” He tugged off his cap and twisted it between his hands. “I’ve heard stories. Old tales. About how your people can… fix things. With water.” His eyes flicked to her hands. “My friend, Pao—he was a rigger on one of the ships. A crane-stay snapped when the boilers blew and pinned him. The surgeons say they’ll have to take the leg.”

He took a shaky step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “He’s only nineteen, ma’am. If he can't stand a deck, he's got nothing to go home to but a beggar's bowl. I don't know if the stories are true, but... please.”

Katara’s jaw tightened.

She had once thought it pure misogyny that the women of the North were permitted to bend only for healing. She had resented it, dismissed it as lesser work than combat. If she was honest, she had not practiced it as diligently as she could have.

It had seemed, if not an insignificant thing compared to combat, a far second.

“Of course,” she agreed.

Relief broke across Liu’s face, raw and unguarded. “Just here, ma’am. By the fire. The hospital hasn’t been doing him much good.”

Katara followed him. Sokka and the other trailed behind.

When she knelt beside the injured rigger, the square shifted. The crackle of the bonfire seemed suddenly too loud. Conversations thinned, then fell away altogether as water rose at her call.

It gathered in her palms, luminous and pale, casting a soft blue glow across soot-streaked faces. The sailors watched in a stunned, heavy silence as the “witchcraft” they had been warned about turned out to be a quiet act of grace.

A torn muscle knit. Swelling eased. Bone settled back into place.

When she finished, she tucked the water back into her flask.

Katara’s hands dropped.

The glow faded, leaving the rigger’s leg whole and her own arms trembling with sudden weight. She brushed a bead of sweat from her brow with a soot-stained sleeve.

“He’ll walk,” she said softly to Liu. “Just… keep him warm.”

“Thank you,” the sailor breathed, his eyes wide with a reverence that made Katara uncomfortable.

“Katara.”

The voice was a jagged anchor. Katara froze. She knew that voice—it was the sound of the churning Southern sea, of a crackling fire in midwinter. She turned slowly, her knees still pressed into the black granite blocks of the square.

Hakoda stood a few yards away, flanked by Bato. He looked haggard, his blue-grey furs stained with the salt of the North and the soot of the harbor. His eyes were fixed on his daughter’s hands, then they moved to the Fire Nation boy sailor she had saved.

“Dad?” Sokka’s voice broke. He dropped his yam, the barrel he’d been leaning on nearly toppling as he scrambled to his feet.

Hakoda crossed the distance in three heavy strides, pulling both of them into a crushing embrace. Sokka buried his face in his father’s shoulder, the warrior mask he’d been wearing for weeks finally shattering. Katara clung to him, her fingers digging into the familiar, sturdy wool of his parka.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been present, children. I thought you needed your space.”

Sokka pulled back. “You’re not angry with us?”

“Angry? My children, I am so happy you’re here and alive.”

Sokka looked at the ground, his shoulders slumped. “But we sided with Zhao.”

Hakoda left his hands on Sokka’s shoulders. He met his son’s eyes, searching. “Did you follow him because you believed he was good and honorable?”

“We thought so. He gave Katara a bending scroll and said he was going to introduce her to masters of the North. He said he was taking the fleet full of supplies on a peace mission.”

“Then you acted in good faith, Sokka. Zhao was a master manipulator. He made you believe what you wanted to.”

He looked at Katara, whose lower lip was trembling.

“They died, Dad,” Katara whispered. “It was our fault. We were on the wrong side.”

She buried her head in her hands.

“Shh, come here, Katara.” Hakoda pulled his children into his arms. “War is hard. That’s why I left you behind. I’m sorry I’ve been gone for so long, and I’m sorry you’re embroiled in all this.”

The children sobbed into his shoulder. Hakoda looked back at Bato, his own eyes wet.

“I will say something, and it will be hard to hear, but it is the truth. You were complicit. But you made the best decision you had with the knowledge you had. You had no way to know that the prince was trying to save the Moon—you had been told the opposite. And had Zhao ever given you a reason to believe he was acting in bad faith?”

“No!” Sokka pulled back, looking up at his dad with tears gathered in the corners. “He knew all the right things to say, but I should’ve known better,” Sokka said.

“No, there’s no way you could’ve. But now you’ve learned, and you survived.”

“But someone had to die for that to happen,” Sokka said.

“Yes, son. Experience doesn’t come easily.”

“Is Zuko good?” Katara asked, her eyes sliding to the ship in the bay. “He’s the Fire Nation prince.”

Hakoda nodded. “He was. But that’s not who he is anymore. I saved his ship in Gorsai’s Hollow when Zhao was hot on his tail. We helped make the Wani seaworthy again. He was just a boy then, still finding his footing—but even so, he asked me to sit on his council for a man who had betrayed him. That’s the kind of man he is. One who listens, even to those who once stood against him.”

“What did he do?” Sokka asked.

“He punished him with mercy.”

“Mercy?”

“He said it was harder to live than to die, and the punishment was that the boy must live.”

“Did he?”

“He did.” Hakoda nodded in the direction of Toma. “That’s him right there.”

“Him?” Katara said. “He’s never been anything but nice and polite! Even when everyone else has given us the cold shoulder.”

“That’s the quality of mercy,” Hakoda said.

Katara glanced toward Toma, who was laughing quietly at something one of the sailors said, unaware of the weight of the story being told about him.

She thought of the boy by the fire, of Pao’s mended leg, of the ships that might have burned.

Mercy suddenly felt less soft than she had imagined.

Shinu stood on the stone steps leading down into the square, watching the bonfire burn against the northern dark. He remained beyond its warmth and light, the cutting wind slipping down the collar of his jacket.

He watched Katara offer a miracle to a boy who had been sent to destroy her. Sokka stood guard at her shoulder as sailors pressed in, their faces caught between awe and disbelief. The other children formed a loose circle around her, protective without seeming to be.

He saw the Water Tribe chief draw his son and daughter into a fierce embrace, forgiveness given without condition.

His own father had never offered him that measure of grace.

Instead, he had carried his father’s lessons forward. He had looked children in the eye and assured them the fleet sailed for mercy. He had known it was a lie—and he had not cared.

That was the worst of it.

The wind slipped colder down his spine.

“An art Zhao would have wiped out.”

Shinu started at the voice beside him.

“An art Zhao would’ve wiped out.” Shinu startled at the voice.

General Iroh stood beside him, a ceramic mug in his hands. He looked like a retired gardener in a heavy wool wrap.

“General,” Shinu acknowledged, his voice a low rasp. He looked back at the girl. “Zhao said they can freeze the vapor in your lungs. That they are barbaric.”

“They probably can,” Iroh agreed. “And yet it was the Southern Raiders who invaded the waterbenders of the south and wiped out nearly their entire population. That young woman is the only Southern waterbender left.” He paused. “And Zhao would’ve wiped out an entire people–and a Great Spirit. Some might call that barbaric.”

Shinu finally looked at him. “The Forty-First. Is it true?”

Iroh’s eyes seemed to age by decades. He nodded once. “Eighteen thousand men were meant to be dead before they ever saw a battlefield.” The old man sighed.

Shinu turned back toward the square.

Zuko was approaching the fire now, Yue at his side. As they passed through sailors and townsfolk, men straightened without realizing they had done so. Heads bent together. Whispers followed in their wake.

“He's just a boy,” Shinu whispered.

“He was,” Iroh agreed.

They watched as Zuko paused near the rigger Katara had healed. The boy attempted to rise; Zuko put a steadying hand on his shoulder and pressed him gently back down. He crouched to speak with him directly.

“It’s good to be frightened,” Iroh said.

”Frightened?” Shinu scoffed.

“It is easy to follow a tyrant. The Fire Nation has done it for a hundred years. There’s not much thinking involved. But to follow change—that demands courage.”

Shinu frowned. “And what’s your interest in all this? To regain your lost throne?”

Iroh’s gaze did not waver. “I forfeited any right to a throne long ago.” A pause. “No, Captain Shinu. This is my penitence.”

Zuko remained crouched beside the healed rigger a moment longer, the bonfire’s light flickering across the scarred planes of his face. A silver mist rippled faintly from him, turning the flames pale.

He met Katara’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “I know my people have not been kind to you.”

Katara blinked at him, caught off guard. “It’s… you’re welcome.”

Zuko stood, his mismatched eyes sweeping over the square. He met the gaze of the men staring at him—some the familiar faces of his crew, but more belonging to strangers. Men he had saved, though he knew they likely did not see it that way.

“Look at you, the traitor prince, strutting around like you own us now,” a voice called from the edge of the firelight.

A chief petty officer, cheeks flushed with soju, pushed his way through the circle of young enlisted.

“We’re loyal to the Fire Lord,” he continued. “Not to his traitorous son and his savage cu–”

The ground lurched beneath his boots. He staggered, barely keeping his footing.

Zuko glanced over his shoulder to see Toph giving him a thumbs up, her mouth curved in a feral grin.

“The Fire Lord isn’t here,” a voice rose above the crowd. The insignia on his collar marked him as a gunner’s mate. “We’ve all heard things about the banished prince. Let’s let him say it in his own words.”

Zuko threw a quick look at Yue, who almost smiled. “Hopefully you’re better at public speaking than you are at talking to other kids,” she said.

Zuko grimaced. He turned to the men.

“Men of the armada,” Zuko said, his voice carrying over the wind more by steadiness than volume. He looked over the faces of the fleet—those who had sailed with him for three years, and the greater number who had sailed under Zhao.

“The Fire Lord says you are heroes if you die for him.”

A few men shifted. The card players lowered their hands. Conversations thinned into silence.

“He tells the nation your deaths inspire loyalty. That your sacrifice strengthens the war.”

His gaze moved across the wreckage in the harbor.

“We have all lost in this war. Ask yourselves this: are you stronger for the friends you have buried? For the brothers no longer at your side?””

The men murmured.

“Admiral Zhao intended to sail this armada north and destroy the Northern Water Tribe—and the Moon itself.” He let the words settle. “We hobbled this fleet because he would have spent you for his glory. I will not.”

The wind snapped at his hair and cloak.

“If you wish to call that treason, you can. My father already has.”

He paused. “I will give you all the same choice I gave Captain Shinu:

“You can follow me.

“You can return to the Fire Nation.

“You can go home.

“But know this: if you stand with me, you will stand outside the Fire Lord’s favor.”

He paused, searching the eyes of those closest to him. “If you believe the Fire Nation should murder Great Spirits and call it destiny—if you believe genocide is strength—if you believe a war council may condemn an entire regiment to die for strategy—”

The murmurs swelled; a few men shouted in protest.

“—then I do not want you.”

A man pushed through the crowd, his officer’s topknot held by a gold pin. He was a commander of the Third Fleet, his face flushed with a mixture of fear and fury.

“You crippled the fleet,” the commander barked. “You consort with savages. And now you expect us to betray the Fire Nation?”

Zuko turned his mismatched eyes on the man. “I will not call ending a wrongful war treason. And I will not call saving our men a crime.”

The commander drew himself up. “By authority of the Fire Lord, I place you under arrest.”

On the stairs, Shinu felt the moment close around him.

There would be no more reflection. No more distance. The decision had arrived.

“At ease, Commander.”

The words were not loud, but they carried the weight of three decades at sea.

Shinu stepped into the firelight, his heavy, soot-stained cloak falling back to reveal the shoulderboards of his rank.

Commander Xi went still. “Captain, you command this harbor. Arrest him. He’s admitting to the sabotage. He’s consorting with the Avatar!”

The crew of the Fanged Current began shouldering their way forward, forming a loose phalanx around the royals.

Shinu surveyed the square.

Katara and Sokka were glaring at him, standing almost protectively over the healed rigger. The younger enlisted were staring at him warily. Even the townsfolk had quieted as they awaited his judgement.

Shinu met Zuko’s eyes. The boy met his gaze evenly. He did not have the ethereal look as he’d had in Agna Qel’a, but there was something almost otherworldly about him. The boy had no rank—stripped of his titles by his father. By rights, Shinu should arrest him. He’d return to the Fire Nation a hero, the banished prince in chains.

He would be taking up Zhao’s mantle.

His gaze flicked back to the Avatar and his companions. They would not surrender the prince quietly.

It would be a massacre.

And they would all be heroes if they died fighting the prince. A plaque in their honor. An annual memorial—the Cauldron Bay Massacre.

Sacrificed to the maw of the Fire Nation war machine.

He looked back at the boy before him. The prince had followed his gaze and met it evenly. “I will surrender,” he said quietly. “No one has to die today.”

Shinu stared at him.

If the boy surrendered, he would become a martyr. The coasts were already whispering his name. The colonies were repeating his story. They had heard of the pyres in the Caldera—of the Fire Lord burning those who spoke in the prince’s defense.

In his entire career, Shinu had only ever executed orders.

General Iroh had been right. Choice was frightening.

He had spent his life fighting for his nation.

And now he was about to risk losing it.

If he chose poorly, he would be branded a traitor. His family name would be dragged through ash.

“Captain—” Commander Xi pressed.

Shinu walked past him.

He stopped before Zuko.

He saw the frost on the prince’s boots and the silver mist in his breath—but more than that, he saw the boy who had stood in a war council and spoken for men like those gathered here.

With deliberate calm, Shinu unbuckled his officer’s sword—the one Zhao had presented to him after the Siege of Yu Dao—and offered it to the prince.

“I will not arrest Prince Zuko for defending the men of the Forty-First,” Shinu said, the words echoing off the granite blocks of the square.

He saluted.

“The Golden Talon is yours. My officers may choose for themselves. As for me—the ship stands at your command.”

Zuko bowed as he would to an elder and not a subordinate. When he straightened, the silver mist seemed to catch the light of the bonfire, crown-like and cold.

“I am no longer a prince of the Fire Nation,” Zuko said. “But I will be a brother to the men of the Talon.”

Commander Xi spat on the ground and pushed his way away from the firelight to the back of the circle. A silence fell over the square, filled only by the wind and the crackling bonfire.

Kazuo and Soren shared a look. Kazuo pushed his way through the crowd. He clicked his heels together and saluted. Beside him, Soren did the same. Slowly, other officers and enlisted joined them, falling into ordered lines.

“Help me up,” Pao said. Liu hesitated, then slipped a shoulder under Pao’s arm. When he was steady, the rigger released Liu and came to attention.