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Summary
When the warriors came to take her, Gran Gran whispered stolen secrets that she only dared share in the deepest of night where the sunlight could not reach them: a name, and a weakness, and the answers held betwixt.
And so she waited, like all the other women brought here before her, for the brutal and capricious God of Sun, and for the gift He would give to her people, and for what it would cost.
And so, she knew what she must do.
If Katara were another woman, she might have wept for them, or for her grandmother, or maybe for herself.
But, tonight, as she knelt low before the flames and began her terrible devotion, her eyes were dry and hard as bleached whale bone; the ice dagger in her palm and the power within her to wield it would have to be consolation enough.
Or, Katara plots to kill the god of Sun.