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Chapter Text

At the beginning of the world, long before the days of man, the world was a great dark ocean. In these days, dark spirits that thrived on chaos and darkness ruled and they were called the Early Ones. But in time, volcanoes formed from the depths, shooting fire into the sky and forming the first stars and the magma they oozed became the became land. From the pyroclastic flows, lightning flashed across the sky and order began to take form.

In time, there was a great battle and the Early Ones were vanquished. This was a great war, and should be known because the Early Ones will return when their story has been forgotten. This is the end of the world, which has been foretold.

But it is not the story being told today.

One day the spirit called Agni said to her brother,

“Brother, I am tired from the battle and of the dark. I have seen the way the earth looks in flashes of lightning, and now that we have won the war, I desire to see more of it.”

“This is the way it has always been, sister.”

“But not the way it must always be. I will take the lightning to the sky and see the whole earth.”

And so she harnessed the lightning and the land was covered in light and this was the first day. She could see all the things her light touched, but the great beasts, the Badger moles, were afraid of the light and ran into the mountains, leaving behind great canyons and valleys they had carved. Many great creatures thrived under the warmth and light she had brought and there came to be a great race of beasts and under Agnis light, they grew and grew and took flight to brush their wings against her dappled light. They were the dragons, and they were Agni’s first children

In time, the seeds that had lain dormant began to grow under her light and in this way, trees and grass soon covered the earth. But her light was too bright and strong and after some time, the grasses wilted.

“Sister,” Tui said on a Thursday morning as the Northern Wind sped across the yellowed grasses of the Western plains, “it is a great thing you have done. But the trees and grasses grow tired from always growing, and I can see that you have grown tired too. Rest, my sister, and I will shine a softer light over the earth while you sleep.”

And so there was the first sunset and many of the beasts were frightened that they would be in darkness once more. But then Tui rose, casting the earth in gentle silver and the creatures of the earth knew they had not been left to the dark again. La, the great Ocean Spirit heaved her first breath as the moon moved over her, and all her children looked to Tui and the great beasts of the sea worshiped Tui for he had not forsaken them.

In those days, mankind was born from the earth and the wind and the fire and the water and they learned from the lesser spirits of the elements–from the dragons and the sky bison and the badger moles and the great serpents of the ocean and in this way, men learned the ways of bending. For many years, the children of earth lived together and shared their bounties. This is called the First Peace.

But one day, a man of fire took a woman of the waves from her home and by her, they had three strong sons. How he took her is another story and also important as their children eventually beget the Fire lord, but it is not today’s tale.

As is the way of men, this taking caused great conflict and the men of the ocean flooded the kingdom of fire to get the water princess back. This was the First War of Man and it caused much destruction and ruined many of the beautiful things of the earth and made Agni’s heart weep such that she hid herself away. This became the Polar Night.

Tui called a meeting of the Spirits and said, “The humans must end their war or they will ruin all the beautiful things of this earth and my sister will never come home and the land will fall dark again and the many creatures of this earth will die and it will be as it was before there was day and night and the great cycle of all things.”

The one called Heibai said, “There is one who was mortal and lived among them and now lives high on Penglai mountain and has not died although they have children and grandchildren and great grandchildren who have all grown old and died. Yet it is said this one is still in the virility of their youth and that they have taught themselves the way of all the elements. This one may know how to bring peace back to the nations.”

“I have heard of the immortal, but they are very clever and loathe to leave their mountaintop,” said Tui.

Another Great Spirit spoke, a black winged creature that claimed he had planted the first seeds that grew into men. He was called Raven. “Then let me go,” said Raven, “for I am also clever.”

And so it was decided.

How Raven convinced the immortal is another story, only to be told after the last storm of the season, else the Raven hears it and comes to play tricks on the one who told the tale at the wrong time.

But it is known that after many trials and riddles, the immortal agreed to leave the mountain and come to the spirit wilds, which they had already done many times before and knew the way.

The immortal had plaited black hair, so long it touched their feet. Their face was fair to look upon and unmarred by time. They looked upon the Great Spirits of the wilds and said,

“My name is Lan Caihe and I was mortal but now I am eternal. Although I was not always a bender, I first visited the badger moles and learned the ways of earth, and then I went to the great fire mountains and met the Dragon King of the Eastern mountains and studied for many years and presently, learned the ways of fire. Then I traveled to the cold lands of the north and the south, and I learned of the moon and the ocean and the great creatures that ply the depths and in that way, I also learned the way of water. Last, I traveled to the highest mountain I could climb and when I went to this place, the North Wind took me higher and I spoke with the great sky bison that both live on the land and in the air and in this way, I began to understand how the wind and the water and earth and fire are all parts of the same wave that travels the world and stars. Once I mastered all the elements, I went to Penglai, where I have spent these many years until you sent Raven.”

“Lan Caihe, we have a great request for you. There is war between the men of fire and those of water, and it is destroying everything that was made and that over which we preside.”

“I know of this war,” said Lan Caihe. “It is a terrible thing. What would you have me do?”

“You, who can walk amongst both the spirit world and that of mortals and can control all the elements, would you stop the war and bring balance back to the mortal realm?”

Lan Caihe nodded. “I will do this thing for you.”

“And what do you want in return?” Asked Tui, because there are no favors on this earth or in the spirit wilds, and it is wise to remember this.

“That I may continue to seek enlightenment and teach it to others and live each generation as a different nation.”

“Make it so,” said Tui, and Lan Caihe Went back into the world as they had promised, and brought peace to the peoples. Thus was the Avatar born.

And so it was that for ten thousand years, Lan Caihe walked the earth and lived a hundred lives and neither nation ruled over another and all was well.

But Agni had never forgotten the man of Fire so presently, when another man that reminded her very much of the first one came to power and began invading other lands, she searched for Lan Caihe so they may intercede. But they could not be found so she called all the Spirits. Many came but for her brother and the Ocean as they had taken mortal bodies many years ago and now resided in the human realm. Wan Shi Tong, the one who knows Ten Thousand Things, would not leave his library, but instead sent a fox spirit to hear and record the proceedings.

She said to the Spirits, “The Avatar has gone and will not be roused. We must find another.”

Feng Po Po , the Spirit of the Wind said, “This is twice now your children have done such a thing and they have murdered nearly all my own children and my shrines stand empty, guarded only by bones. Why do your people use fire for destruction and not for life? What will you do, Agni, to fill my temples with my children once more?”

Agni’s eyes filled with tears because she could not deny what her children had done, and the deaths of the Children of the Wind hurt her deeply. “You will have your justice, Feng Po Po. I must confer with my brother.”

So she went to the Oasis of the North, where Tui now spent his time in mortal form, circling the great Ocean spirit. Tui and La had lost many of their children in the war during this last century, so it was with humility that Agni bowed her head to the lush grasses of the oasis and said, “Brother, as you know, there is great imbalance in the world and again, it is my children who have done this thing. I weep for those you have lost.”

“Sister, you must never need to apologize to me. Stand, sister, and know all is well between us.”

“What should I do, brother?”

Tui thought for several loops around the pool before he finally said,

“Although the Avatar has done their job well these many years, it has been a lonely task with much responsibility. Perhaps this is the reason they have sequestered themself away and the men of Fire are once again allowed their pursuit in controlling the world. Or perhaps it is one of the Early Ones who has visited your children and spoken dark things in their souls.”

“Raven has said that in his travels, he has seen the workings of much darkness upon the land.”

“Then it may be so. But my sister, I have never understood the working of men. Perhaps when the first of their kind rose from the earth, some of the Early Ones rose within them and if this is so, then it means men are always fighting a battle we thought we ended many many years ago.”

Agni thought on this. In time she said, “If the Avatar is gone, there must be another.”

“This seems wise.”

“I have identified a soul that still grows in his mother. He is the great grandson of the man who murdered your people of the south.”

Tui said, “He should be your child but ours as well. He should be tempered by the night and as fluid and changing as the ocean. This will make him tempestuous but he shall be grounded by the earth. The wind will be his companion. He will be a mortal child of the elements. So it is spoken.”

“So it is written.”

And so Agni returned to the Wilds once more, calling a meeting of the spirits. She said, “I have conferred with my brother. He thinks it possible we never completely vanquished the Early Ones, and they may yet live in the hearts of men.”

Feng Po Po scoffed. “So quick to blame the Early Ones! But I have seen no evidence–you must admit, Agni, that your gift corrupts.”

“It is not true, Feng Po Po. My gift is one of life and cleansing. That man’s drive for power have begot dark actions does not mean the gift is dark.”

“So what is your plan?”

“The Avatar is gone, we need another to bring peace back to the world of men. I have chosen the son of the Fire Prince who continues this war.”

“Lan Caihe is an immortal being who had many years to master the elements, long before they became the Avatar. If your child is to be successful, would it not be wise to gift him for his journey?” Asked the Golden Dragon, the first of her kind.

And it was agreed this was a good idea indeed. So the Golden Dragon gave the child luck and the Phoenix gave the child strength of will and so it went. At last Feng Po Po, who was last, spoke.

“Agni, I spoke hastily and regret what I have said. As I ride my tigerdillo over the earth, I see many acts in all the kingdoms of both great violence and great evil, but also benevolence and humility. It is not your gift that corrupts, but the nature of men. I gift the child with fair winds and so that he may travel well, wherever he goes.”

So the Spirits thought their work was done but then the one called The Face Stealer made its presence known. It peered at the other spirits, thousands of faces flickering across its visage. “You did not think to invite me,” said the thief. “I have a gift. Would you rebuke me?”

“Koh,” Agni said. “I am gladdened by your presence. I cannot reach the shadows of the banyan tree of which you reside.

Koh nodded, knowing this to be true. “I could take offense that you didn’t try, but I won’t.”

“What is your gift, Koh?”

“I have spent many years among mankind and I wear their faces. To your child of fire, I give the blessing of Doubt.”

“Doubt?” Asked the black tortoise spirit, who presided over winter and had given the blessing of protection from the cold. “It does not much sound like a gift.”

“These humans are fickle. Should the child know he is blessed, his head will swell, like that of the Avatar Kuruk. You lot are fools. Without Doubt, he will gain his father’s favor and he and will never stray from the Fire Nation and in this way you will have created one perhaps even worse than his father. And so with the gift of Doubt, I give him bad tidings. The boy must earn his gifts you have so easily given through a life of great difficulty and pain.”

“Koh, I must ask you to take this gift back,” said Agni, who knew that the only way a blessing could be revoked is if the one who gave it unspoke the words.

“I will not, Agni. I have walked among the mortals and you have only watched them from afar. Your blessings will have cursed him, it is only my gift that he may have a chance. So it is spoken.”

Agni sighed. “So it is written.”

And so the blessings of the great spirits were taken by one of Wan Shi Tong’s fox messengers to be delivered to the mortal realm.

Thus begins the story of Zuko, son of Ursa and Fire Lord Ozai.

Chapter Text

Chapter

On the night of the autumnal equinox, when Tui and Agni shared the sky equally, a great storm surged from the south, birthing the tempest well known to the Fire Nation as a typhoon. As the ocean battered the black shores of the island nation, and the wind ripped between buildings, tearing off shingles and uprooting trees, a young woman labored through the troubled birth of her first child. It had been a difficult pregnancy and the Fire Sages did not know what it meant for a child of the royal family to be born during a typhoon on the first day of autumn. They feared that the child would be weak in fire and in spirit, and this they all thought but were reluctant to say.

“What do your readings tell us, Fire Sage Hao?” Asked the High Fire Sage.

Fire Sage Hao grimaced as he examined the entrails of a mother turtle duck. “They tell of two fates, High Sage. One, of unmatched power. The other, of exile and disgrace. What it means, I do not know.”

The High Fire Sage looked down at the entrails, a chill sliding down his spine despite the storm’s oppressive heat. As a young man, he had studied the scrolls in Wan Shi Tong’s library. He had read of a child, born on a storm-darkened equinox, who would bring balance to a fractured world alongside the Avatar. The weight of understanding settled upon him. Fire Sage Hao met his eyes.

“To reveal such a prophecy would mean our deaths,” the High Fire Sage said.

“Perhaps I misread the signs,” Hao muttered. “If we declare him powerful and he is not, Fire Lord Azulon and Prince Ozai will curse us. If we name him weak and unworthy, we will not be blamed.”

“To condemn a child out of fear is not our duty,” the High Sage said, his long-buried sense of honor stirring. “We serve the Fire Nation, not one man.”

“You have grown old and your soothsaying is as blurred as your eyes,” sneered Ascendent Zhouyi, a man with ambition sharper than wisdom. ““The future is clear. The child is to be nothing—unremarkable.”

Fire Sage Tenro, ever cautious, nodded. “Prince Ozai is strong, and Lady Ursa may bear another heir, one truly fit to lead.”

The High Sage saw only self-interest in their eyes. He sighed, weary of the world, weary of himself. “So it is said, and so it must be.” Yet, his mind lingered on the old scroll. He felt old, and he wondered when he had become a coward.

Behind the gathered sages, a figure stood half in shadow, his crimson robes lined with faded gold—Fire Sage Veyu, the silent keeper of older prophecies. He said nothing, because he knew it would fall on silent ears.

He did not look at the entrails. He had seen all he needed in the sky.

And so the great sages went to the royal family and presided over the birth. The child was born in the eye of the typhoon, the moon’s unblinking gaze falling upon the palace. He was taken to the Hall of Ancestors for his test of spark. The High Sage looked upon the pinched face of Prince Ozai, his brow furrowed as he studied the tiny boy in his arms.

“Well?” The Prince asked. “Is he to be great? What have you seen in your bones and your innards and your little tea leaves?” He held out the child.

The High Sage studied the baby’s golden eyes. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw sunlight flickering on the sea, or gold glinting through autumn trees. Then the boy blinked, and the vision was gone. He placed a small tumbleweed into the child’s outstretched hand. Together, they watched as the child played with the ball, pulling the sticks apart. Ozais' frown deepened.

“Where is his spark?”

The High Sage felt sweat spring to his brow.

“I’m sorry, my prince. He is but a sickly boy and the divination speaks of hardship, of struggle. Perhaps he will find strength in adversity.”

“Or perhaps,” Ozai said coldly, “he is no son of mine.”

The prince turned and left. The High Sage remained, cradling the child in the Hall of Ancestors. Generations of Fire Lords glowered down from their painted thrones. The baby looked at the High Sage and once more, the old man thought he saw oceans in his eyes, of the glimmering air over the desert. But the boy yawned and clenched his eyes shut and fell asleep.

The boy grew up, as boys are wont to do. He was a sweet child and mild tempered. In this, he took after his mother. When he was two, a sister was born. The pregnancy was easy and on the summer solstice the child came screaming into the world. Unlike her brother, her power was unquestionable; her first cry crackled with fire. Prince Ozai allowed a rare smile at the news. When they stood in the Hall of Ancestors and the High Sage told him that the divinations foretold great things for the child, Ozai held her as she played with the glowing bundle of tumbleweed. In every way his firstborn was a disappointment, she was not. It would be too much to say Ozai loved her—men like him were not capable of love. But he felt something close to it, or at least, as close as he could. There was a kinship he had never felt with his son, a sense of pride that came as easily as breathing. It was in that moment, standing beneath the painted gazes of his ancestors, that he made his choice.

He would shape this girl into a weapon. He would make her strong and capable. And one day, it would be she— not her brother—who ruled the Fire Nation.

On Prince Zuko’s third birthday, the High Sage died in his sleep. Ascendent Zhouyi took his place. Fire Sage Veyu watched the coronation from the far end of the chamber. He said nothing. But as Zhouyi raised the sacred flame, Veyu turned and walked away.

By four, the boy still had not found his spark. Yet, strange things happened around him. When he trundled past the evening torches, they’d flicker after him as if pulled. In the throne room, the curtain of fire that sequestered Azulon upon his throne would pull towards the boy before Azulon called it back under his control. Azulon, a cold, distant man who had had the great potential to be kind until time and his father had ground it out of him, saw this.

“Ozai, I have heard you speak much on the failings of your first born, but he seems to have a strange relationship with fire,” Azulon observed after Ursa had taken the boy for afternoon tea after the customary weekly family gathering.

Ozai scoffed. “The boy has never shown any talent.”

Azulon, ever watchful, observed. “Be wary, my son. Your hatred may be your undoing.”

Ozai bowed but Azulon knew it was contemptuous.

On a particularly scorching day in the seventh month, a heat wave settled over the Caldera like a living thing, pressing its weight upon the palace. The air was thick and stagnant, the great halls suffocating despite their vastness. Even the ever-burning sconces flickered weakly, their flames sluggish in the oppressive heat. The gauzy curtains, usually swaying with the ocean breeze, hung limp and lifeless.

Servants moved like ghosts, their steps slow, their breath shallow. The great reservoirs beneath the palace ran dangerously low. Water rationing had been declared, but within the Fire Lord’s halls, privilege still held sway. Cool baths were drawn in shadowed chambers and delicate passion guava was served in cooled crystal cups.

And yet, one room remained untouched by the heat.

The boy’s chamber was cool, the air moving in a way it should not. The curtains stirred as if caught in a phantom breeze. The coals in the brazier smoldered low, their embers barely glowing.
Min, Ursa’s handmaiden, fanned her mistress absently as she watched the stillness outside. “It is said the breeze always finds the prince,” she murmured.

Ursa’s fingers tightened on the armrest of her chair. “Show me.”

So Min did. The prince was fast asleep, he lay curled in sleep, his small body rising and falling with each steady breath. The air around him was different—lighter, cooler. A wind, unfelt anywhere else in the palace, rippled through the room, teasing the edges of the crimson drapes.

Ursa and Min stood in silence, the heat of the world pressing against their backs, unable to cross the threshold.

“What does it mean?” Ursa whispered.

Min hesitated. “There is an old prophecy… of one born on the equinox. The savior of the Fire Nation.”

Ursa’s lips thinned. “The nation needs no saving.” To say anything else was traitorous.

“No, my Princess.” Min’s gaze flickered toward Ursa, cautious. “An anomaly, nothing more. But I thought, if the heat was too much, this would be a pleasant place to spend the evening. It is said that dark spirits move on the wings of night.”

Ursa studied her handmaiden, then the child sleeping in the cool darkness. Slowly, she nodded. “Move my things into my son’s room. I will stay with him tonight.”

That night, a shadow slithered through the corridors, a formless thing, its edges fraying where the moonlight touched. It pooled in the corners of Zuko’s chamber, stretching toward the sleeping child. But Ursa, wakeful and waiting, sat straight-backed in the dim glow of the lantern.

Her voice was low but unwavering. “Begone, Early One. My son is destined for greatness, and you shall not be his undoing. Take your evil back to the dawnless morning from which you came.”
The darkness recoiled, twisting upon itself before vanishing beyond the threshold.
A drought fell upon the city.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The drought settled over Caldera like a vengeful spirit, its breath hot and dry against the skin. Throughout that summer, sun blazed white-hot in a sky devoid of clouds, turning the black stone of the palace into a slow-burning kiln. The great fountains that once sang in the courtyards fell silent. The royal gardens, once lush with flame lilies and golden peonies, wilted beneath the unrelenting heat, their petals curling like burned parchment.

Beyond the palace, the streets of the capital lay thick with dust, and the once-proud aqueducts, feats of Fire Nation engineering, now carried little more than a sluggish trickle. In the lower districts, where water was rationed by the bucket, tempers flared as the people queued in the oppressive heat, their voices hoarse from thirst. Merchants hoarded what little remained, selling water at prices only the wealthy could afford. The scent of scorched earth and desperation hung heavy in the air.

Yet within the palace walls, the prince’s chamber remained untouched by the drought. The air was cool, stirred by an unseen breeze, and the turtle duck pond, which should have long since dried up, remained full. The water lapped gently at its banks, undisturbed by the heat that choked the rest of the city. Servants whispered of strange happenings, of a boy who did not burn beneath the sun’s glare and whose presence seemed to bend nature’s will.

And still, the rains did not come.

Desperation gnawed at the Fire Sages. A secret ritual was performed in the dead of night—one meant to confirm the prince’s destiny. Flames roared high, then guttered into cold embers. The omens were unreadable. The ritual had failed. Fear set in.

Servants murmured of a boy who carried the elements in his bones. They whispered of the prince who walked beneath the burning sun without wilting, whose breath cooled the air, whose presence drew fire like a moth to flame. Rumors spread like embers on the wind, and Ursa took care to see that those who spoke too freely were sent away—banished not in disgrace, but with enough coin to find comfort in their hometowns.

And so, beyond the palace walls, the stories flourished. The Prince born on the equinox, a child who had not yet kindled his fire but who stood apart from all others. A boy whispered of in old prophecy, blessed by Agni herself and her brother, Tui—one who would bring balance to the world, whose hands would command all the elements. It was said he would end the reign of tyrants, close the factories that choked their rivers and poisoned their fields. That he would end the war and bring their lost sons and daughters home.

But within the palace, he was only a boy, struggling through flameless katas, while his sister commanded fire before she had mastered walking.

Fire Lord Azulon continued to watch the boy carefully. He knew of the stories. He sent a young, ambitious lieutenant by the name of Zhao to Wan Shi Tong’s library to seek out a yellowed old scroll that foretold of a boy destined for greatness. The ambitious man returned as promised, bringing with him words that unsettled even the Fire Lord. For his efforts, Zhao was promoted, his loyalty rewarded.

Azulon shared his knowledge with his son.

Ozai furrowed his brow as he read over the ancient script. He set the scroll down with a scoff. “Father, I have never taken you to believe in old wives’ tales and empty prophecies.”

Azulon’s gaze was sharp, unwavering. “And yet, the omens persist. The drought, the whispers of the people, the failures of the sages’ rituals.” He tapped a finger against the brittle parchment. “You would do well not to dismiss what you do not understand.”

Ozai clenched his jaw. “The boy is weak.”

“He is untested,” Azulon corrected. “But weak? No. I see the way the fire moves toward him. The way the wind stirs in his presence. The way the drought clings to the land yet never touches his chambers.” He leaned back on his throne, scrutinizing his son. “You fear what you cannot control.”

“I do not fear him,” Ozai said, his voice cold, clipped. “I resent that such foolishness clouds your judgment.”

Azulon let out a low, knowing hum. “Fear, resentment—what does it matter? You cannot kill prophecy, Ozai. If the boy is meant for greatness, no force of will can change that. If he is meant to fall, the world will see to it.” He exhaled, his voice turning thoughtful. “But destiny is not always kind. Even those born under auspicious stars may burn before their time.”

Ozai straightened. “Then why indulge this farce?”

Azulon’s smile was grim. “Because if the omens are true, then your son may not only survive but surpass you.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through Ozai’s eyes. He turned away, his expression darkening.

Outside, the drought deepened.

That winter, the boy breathed his first sparks on the solstice under the light of a full moon and Princess Ursa felt she could finally breathe out a stale breath she’d been holding since the day he was born. But it was too late; his father already hated him. For all of Ursa’s attempts, Ozai knew of the rumors that were being spread about his son. He’d known since the day he’d had the High Fire Sage killed.

The following day, heavy flakes of snow fell from the sky. It was the first time snow had ever touched the ground in the Caldera. Though the snow melted as soon as it landed, its arrival ignited a fervor of speculation.

The stories of the boy grew.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Once, when Azula was six, she caught Fire Sage Veyu watching her brother from a temple balcony.

 

“Why are you looking at him?” she asked, voice already edged with suspicion.

 

Veyu bowed his head. “He was born in stormlight. That is rare.”

“He’s weak,” she said. “You should be watching me.”

Veyu did not answer. And Azula never forgot it.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

At eight, the boy had become an adept enough firebender, though he struggled to summon flames through anger, as was expected. That changed the day he and Azula performed katas for their father.

Azula went first, executing each form with surgical precision. When it was Zuko’s turn, his fire sputtered and spit. He finished the sequence, chest heaving, jaw tight. Azula smirked.

“Azula,” Ozai said, his voice smooth, “as always, you never fail to disappoint. Go—you’ve earned the rest of your afternoon. Find your friends.”

She bowed and left without a backward glance.

“Zuko,” Ozai said, “you can stay.”

Zuko’s stomach twisted. They were alone now in the training room. He bowed low.

“Father.”

“I have never seen a boy work so hard to be such a failure.”

Zuko stared down at the marble floor. “I’m sorry, Father. I’ll try harder.”

“I suspect you could try the rest of your life and still come up short.”

Zuko swallowed. “Father—”

“I have nothing more to say to you. Run off to your mother.”

A year later, Zuko stood in that same courtyard, feet in the same grooves worn into the stone. In the colonnade stood Fire Sage Veyu. He had seen this boy stumble before; had watched the girl bloom with fire as sharp as her tongue. But it was the boy who interested him. The one who flared and failed, again and again. There was something in that.

Zuko stood before his father, bare feet pressing into the warm stone of the training courtyard. The sun hung low, its light casting long shadows across the arena. Around him, firebending masters stood in silent observation, their hands folded behind their backs, their expressions impassive.

Ozai watched from the dais, his golden eyes sharp and expectant.

“Again,” he commanded.

Zuko’s breath shuddered in his chest as he steadied himself. He shifted into a stance he had practiced endlessly, one that felt awkward no matter how many times he corrected his form. He inhaled, reaching for the fire within.

Nothing.

Azula, lounging at their mother’s side, smirked. A flick of her wrist sent a perfectly controlled flame twisting through the air. It curled into the shape of a dragon before dissipating.

Zuko clenched his fists.

He drew in another breath, forced his hands forward. This time, something came—heat, the faintest flicker of a spark, then smoke. The masters remained silent. Ozai’s expression did not change.

Then, without warning, a jet of fire streaked toward him.

Zuko yelped and scrambled to avoid it, stumbling onto his hands and knees as the flame dissipated behind him. He looked up, heart pounding.

His father lowered his outstretched hand. “Pathetic.”

Zuko’s cheeks burned hotter than any flame he had ever conjured. He scrambled to his feet, his limbs trembling, his breath coming too fast. He knew better than to speak—knew that excuses would only deepen his father’s disappointment.
“I am not interested in weak sons,” Ozai said, standing. He turned without another word, leaving the courtyard.

Azula’s laughter followed him as the firebending masters bowed and departed.

Zuko stood alone in the training hall. Fire Sage Veyu watched from the shadows. From the folds of his robes, he withdrew a brittle scroll. The ink was faded, but the words were clear—old prophecy, long dismissed by the court as nonsense from a forgotten age.

The fire that yields shall not be consumed. The dragon's heir shall kneel before the flame, and in kneeling, rise.

Veyu's eyes followed Zuko as the boy stood, trembling, eyes burning with shame.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

When the boy was eleven, a scroll bearing dark news was brought by a dragon hawk. Lu Ten, the heir apparent to the throne, was killed in the siege of Ba Sing Se. The Crown Prince Iroh begged for a leave of absence. Azulon, who had always favored his eldest son for being gentle but fierce, granted it. Azulon had long known of Ozai’s ambition for the throne, and couldn’t help but wonder if he’d had some part in his nephew’s death.

Several days later, Ozai requested an audience with his father. He made his case for the throne—but Azulon’s suspicions only deepened. The old Fire Lord snarled at his youngest son.

“You dare suggest I betray Iroh? My firstborn? And just after the death of his only beloved son?” His voice shook with fury. “Iroh has suffered enough. But you... your punishment has scarcely begun.”
He jabbed a finger toward Ozai. “You never believed me about your son—but that is your folly. I order you to kill him. If I am right, you will find yourself thwarted

Azulon’s final words to Ozai would prove true. Ozai was indeed thwarted—by Ursa.

She offered him a solution: to use the herbcraft she had learned in Hira’a—the same knowledge she once used on the High Fire Sage—to give Azulon his last, dreamless sleep. Ozai agreed, on one condition: Ursa must leave the palace. In a single move, he would rid himself of both his meddlesome father and the wife who had always loved Zuko more than she ever loved him.

* * *

The palace halls were colder than Iroh remembered.

Gone were the familiar banners of his father’s reign, replaced by harsher colors, sharper edges. The fire no longer danced in its sconces—it burned still and hard, without joy. He wandered the outer cloisters of the old temple, hoping to find something of the past still intact.

He found Fire Sage Veyu instead.

The old man knelt before the shrine of the First Flame, his eyes closed in silent prayer. The shadows of the brazier danced across his weathered face. When he spoke, it was without opening his eyes.

“You returned too late.”

“I always return too late,” Iroh said quietly.

Veyu opened his eyes. “They tell me you went beyond the veil. Into the Spirit World.”

Iroh nodded, his voice low. “I saw things there I do not wish to share. But now that I have returned… I see what I could not before. A thread—subtle, but strong—tying my nephew to many things.”

Veyu rose slowly, the weight of the words settling in the space between them. He nodded once.

“They call him a failure,” Iroh said, his voice tightening. “The High Sage names his sister the future.”

“Zhouyi sees with the eyes of men.”

Iroh stepped forward, brow furrowed. “Tell me, Veyu. What do you believe he is?”

Veyu did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a strip of red silk, carefully bound around a fragment of parchment—brittle and burned at the corners

He held it out.

Iroh unfolded the cloth. On it, a single line of ancient script:

The dragon’s heir shall kneel before the flame, and in kneeling, rise.

Iroh read it again. “You believe this speaks of Zuko?”

Veyu’s gaze sharpened. “He was born in stormlight, on the day the old scrolls foretold. Fire has tested him, reached for him, recoiled—and yet, it has never left him. He still stands. He is not meant to rise as a prince, nor merely as a warrior, but as something older than the throne.”

“He can summon fire,” Iroh said quietly. “But not as others do. It does not answer him.”

“Because it does not yet know him,” Veyu murmured. “He is not out of balance—but the world around him is. He bends in a land that has forgotten truth.”

Iroh’s hands clenched around the cloth in his lap. “Ozai has twisted everything. Ursa is gone. And Zuko... Zuko is alone.”

“Not alone,” Veyu said. “Not while you breathe.”

They stood in silence, the fire crackling low between them.

Then Veyu turned toward the shadows. “There is another path, old friend. But it cannot be forced. If you wish to save the boy, do not carry him. Let him fall, if he must.”

Iroh’s jaw clenched. “What if he breaks?”

Veyu didn’t answer at first. The fire cracked, casting long shadows across the temple wall.

“Then the thread may fray,” he said quietly. “And the world may follow.”

Iroh sat in silence, the fire’s light flickering across his face. Outside, the wind stirred the temple eaves, sighing like an old ghost.

“I have already lost a son,” he said, barely above a whisper. “And now I watch another walk to the edge. How can I let him fall, knowing what it cost me the last time?”

Veyu stepped closer, his voice gentler now. “Because this boy is not Lu Ten. Zuko’s path is not paved in victory or rank. It is rough, uneven. It was never meant to be easy.”

Iroh looked into the fire, eyes distant. “He burns with grief, with shame, with longing. And still he bends. Still he rises.”

“Because the fire knows him,” Veyu said. “It waits for him, just as the world does. But you cannot shield him too long, or he’ll never learn to stand.”

Silence fell again.

Iroh exhaled slowly, as if releasing something heavy he had held for too long.

“Then I will walk beside him,” he said. “But not before him.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

On the day Fire Lord Ozai finally found a reason to strike down his son, the boy’s eyes flashed golden—sunset over a desert, the glinting spark of dawn over a peaceful equatorial sea—as he pleaded for mercy. And then, without hesitation, Ozai raised his hand and pressed fire to flesh. The skin crackled and turned black. The boy screamed, not only from the pain, but from betrayal—raw and soul-deep.

When it was done, Zuko crumpled, smoke rising from his ruined cheek. His golden eyes fluttered shut—not in death, but in something close. Silence fell. And in that silence, Ozai found himself no longer judged by the boy he’d never understood.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The hallways of the palace were quiet, muffled beneath the hush of night. Braziers burned low, their embers sullen. Storm clouds that had been gathering all week now pressed against the mountains like a held breath.
In the outer garden temple, Iroh found Veyu kneeling before the flame altar, coaxing incense to burn. The fire flickered weakly, as if unwilling to rise.

“You’re awake late, old friend,” Iroh said, his voice soft but heavy.

Veyu didn’t turn. “The flame resists tonight. It does not want to wake.”

Iroh stepped closer, watching the flame gutter, then steady. “I failed my son and now I have failed my nephew. He has paid for my negligence and cowardice.”

Veyu finally turned, and there was something ancient in his eyes. “He has always paid. Since the moment he was born in stormlight. Since the moment the fire refused to consume him.”

Iroh frowned. “You still believe he’s the one in your prophecy?”

Veyu nodded. “Today he knelt before the fire. And that is how it begins.”

“He’s just a boy.”

“All great fire is born from pressure,” Veyu said. “From collapse. The mountain does not ask for permission before it erupts.”

“He may not see the morning.”

“You cannot stop the pain. But you can be there when he rises.”

Iroh’s jaw tightened. “If he survives.”

Veyu reached into his sleeve and handed Iroh a sealed scroll. The wax bore the ancient mark of the Sages. “If he doesn’t... let this be burned before dawn on the day of his death.”

Iroh took it, eyes narrowing. “What is it?”

“A record. Of what was done. Of what should have been. The Fire Nation forgets its sins too easily.”

Iroh bowed his head. “Then we will remember.”

He turned to go. The fire crackled behind him.

“Guide him,” Veyu said softly. “Let him fall, if he must. But be there when he begins to rise.”

Iroh paused at the threshold, the scroll tight in his hand. He didn’t look back

Behind them, the incense curled toward the moon.

Chapter Text

Captain Jee stood on the bridge, watching the procession with quiet interest: a small stretcher bearing an even smaller boy, followed closely by the portly figure of his uncle—a solitary guardian trailing in their wake.

 

Crates of provisions were being loaded onto the ship, heavy with supplies for the long journey. The stretcher came nearly last, slipped between pallets of vegetables as if its cargo was just another crate. Jee realized he knew almost nothing about the boy they were bringing into his ship. At the officer’s club they said he was weak; a failure overshadowed by his sister who was more suited for the throne than the boy would ever be.

But down on the waterfront, where slumping roofs leaned over sagging porches; old glass warping the view of the harbor the traders, fishermen, and the raucous crews on shore leave told different stories. There were the typical whispers of spirit omens and prophecies by old fishermen. Jee didn’t put much stock in those.

But what had happened at the palace, on the broad limestone floors of the agni kai arena?

That story was harder to ignore.

As the boy grew closer, Jee could see his face was half-wrapped in bandages. He looked far too small lying there—only two men were needed to carry him. Jee had seen all manner of naval discipline in his years , but never this. Never fire as punishment for one’s own.

“What’d they say happened, sir?” Bosun Izen. The tall, broad shouldered man stood beside him, skin was weathered from a life on the decks of ships; the sun and wind having carved deep lines around a mouth that rarely smiled. An old scar formed a hook around his right ear, and faded where his hairline would be. In all the years they’d served together, Jee had never known the man to have any hair. Jee was grateful to have the man at his side for a patrol that had no end.

Jee didn’t look away from the stretcher. “Training accident.”

Izen grunted. “That’s the official line?”

Jee nodded tightly. “That’s the official line,” he confirmed.

Izen watched the litter bearers carry their load up the brow before it disappeared into one of the hatches. “Kid looks half dead,” he muttered.

Jee shrugged. “If so, this’ll be a short patrol and all this hassle just another useless endeavor. But,” the captain sighed, “if the navy is good at anything, it’s useless endeavors.”

“Helmsman Roken said we are headed to the Earth Kingdom.”

“General Iroh’s orders. Supposed to be a neutral port. The gist of it is that we are to get the hell out of Fire Nation waters and don’t come back.”

“Until when?”

“Until we find the Avatar.”

“He’s been missing a hundred years, Skipper.”

“Well I guess it’s a good thing you don’t have a family you’re leaving behind, Bosun, since it doesn’t look like we’ll be back for a long time.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

They left the next morning under a red sky, the flat waters of the harbor glowing with the reflection of rose-colored light. It would’ve been beautiful—if not for the ill omen it carried. On the bridge, General Iroh stood silent, watching as the crew made ready to cast off.

“Should’ve left yesterday, Skipper,” Helmsman Roken grumbled. “Red sky and a Friday?” He shook his wizened head andspat a wad of fire weed into his tin cup, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “That’s bad luck squared.”

Before Jee could respond, General Iroh broke in. “The fault is mine, Helmsman.” He looked over from where he was standing at the starboard window, watching the city. “My nephew’s health took a turn yesterday. I requested the palace physician.”

Roken frowned. “But General… no one came.”

Iroh didn’t answer. He stared toward the horizon, his face unreadable.

Jee watched the last eye lift off the pier fitting. “Underway at zero-eight-hundred. Ahead slow. Come to heading two-seven-zero.”

“Ahead slow, aye. Steering two-seven-zero.”

A low rumble rolled through the steel hull as the ship pulled from the dock, smoke trailing from her stacks. Lines were cast off, sails furled, rigging stowed. The Wani eased out of her berth with the groan of old iron returning to sea.

“Secure special sea and anchor detail. Strike the jackstaff and shift colors. Prepare for Sea and Anchor Debrief. Mr. Roken has the helm.”

“Aye, aye. Captain.”

The ship dipped into choppy swells as she passed the harbor wall, her bow cutting clean into open water. Behind them, the cliffs of the Fire Nation slowly receded, the city shrinking into haze beneath a blood-colored sky.

Iroh stood at the window, unmoving.

He did not look back.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The first few days at sea were filled with drills, sea trials, and the kind of monotony that forged discipline.

They ran fire-fighting exercises on the aft deck, flooded compartments to test the bilge systems, and conducted damage control simulations under the watchful eye of Bosun Izen. The drills were mostly formality—there would be no returning to the Fire Nation if the Wani was found wanting—but they forced the crew into tight cooperation. Through sweat and repetition, cohesion began to take root.

Deckhands pulled hoses, coiled lines, checked watertight doors, and ran emergency musters. The air inside the steel corridors thickened with heat and the smell of metal and brine. Orders barked from the bridge echoed down ladders and through the p-ways. Men cursed, slipped, and hauled themselves upright again. By the end of each day, they dropped into their racks too tired to do more than groan.

Still, even exhaustion couldn’t smother the talk. The crew gossiped as they worked—scuttlebutt spreading through the ship like spilled oil. They all recognized General Iroh, but the boy was harder to reckon with. No one had seen him since his arrival, wrapped in bandages and carried like fragile cargo.

It didn’t stop the stories.

And by nightfall, when the steel bulkheads echoed with screams, the stories only deepened.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

That night, the mess deck was quieter than usual. Trays clattered, but conversation was sparse, voices kept low as if the ship itself were listening.

Seaman Riku sat cross-legged on an upturned crate, dealing out cards on a crate-lid table. He was fresh out of boot camp and from the colonies, barely a day over 18. His narrow face tapered into a pointed jaw, his ears stuck out like a water tribe skiff in a crosswind. Opposite him, Seaman Toma leaned back against a bulkhead, arms folded. Jomei, a junior engineer, perched nearby on a grease-stained stool. His coveralls were streaked with soot, and his face looked like it hadn’t seen clean water in a week.

The lantern light above them shifted with the swell of the ship, casting uneasy shadows across their faces.

Riku broke the silence first. “That screaming again...”

Jomei leaned in, voice low. “You know that's why they mothballed this ship, right? She’s haunted.”

Toma groaned. “Here we go.”

“No, listen,” Jomei insisted. “I got a friend on the Chì Lǐng and he said the Wani was at the Battle of Shanhai Pass. They hit a mine and started taking on water. The bilge pumps were failing, so one of the engineers went down and bailed by hand but they had to seal the watertight door before he got out. He drowned down there–fighting to save the ship. Now his ghost walks the bilges. Chief Engineer Katsen says so.”

“Katsen's a suspicious old salt. She was mothballed because she’s old, not haunted.” Toma said flatly. “She’s a steel tub with patched pipes and a temperamental boiler. That’s no ghost. It’s the prince. He’s the one screaming. ” He tossed his hand down. “That’s my win, boys.”

Riku’s face fell. “Awww, I would’ve won with one more round.”

Jomei started shuffling. “Still doesn’t explain why he’s screaming like that. He was in some training accident, his injury shouldn’t be that bad. ”

Toma raised an eyebrow. “It was no training accident. Didn’t you hear what happened?”

Jomei and Riku leaned in. The older seaman leaned forward, his eyes flickering between them as he spoke in a conspiratorial tone. “I have a friend who’s on Commander Zhao’s ship, the Wú Yè. He said he was talking to one of the other sailors who had overheard the chief who’d been talking to one of the ensigns that the prince challenged Fire Lord Ozai to an Agni Kai. Tried to take the throne.”

Jomei blinked. “That can’t be right.”

Toma smirked. “Ozai showed mercy. Spared his life—but burned his face. Banished him. But gave him a shot at redemption... if he found the Avatar.”

“The Avatar?” Riku breathed. “He’s been gone a hundred years!”

Toma nodded. “Exactly.”

Jomei shuffled slower now, digesting the information. “Well, I still think the ship is haunted.”

“Maybe the ghost is haunting the prince,” Riku suggested.

Toma and Jomei looked at each other. Jomei drew a card, then shrugged. “Yeah... I guess I can see that.”

“So what do we do?” Riku asked.

Toma shrugged. “You light a stick of incense and hope it’s enough.”

Jomei nodded solemnly. “Salt too. Spirits hate salt.”

Toma rolled his eyes. "If it's a sailor ghost, a little salt isn't going to amount to much."

Riku looked between them, uncertain. “So... we make a shrine?”

Toma shrugged. “Can’t hurt. Worst case, we've got a little protection from dark spirits. Best case? The ghost stops screaming.”

Jomei looked toward the bulkhead. “Or the prince does.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko walked alone through a corridor he didn’t recognize. The stone walls pulsed as if breathing. Red lanterns swug on unseen currents, casting shadows over hundreds of theatrical masks that seemed to move with the light.

They stared at him with eyeless voids, their faces painted with the same expressions of everyone who had watched the Agni Kai in silence. Anger, anticipation, retribution.

One, a red mask, its smiles too wide, reminded him of Azula.

He stumbled through the hall, the air around him heavy and airless, like a summer day long past. A blue mask turned as he passed. Two tusks jutted from its top lip—it grinned. Not exactly kindly but something that wasn’t cruelty, either.

At the corridor’s end stood a mirror. Its silver surface was cracked, fogged with age. As Zuko neared it, he realized his own reflection was missing. Only the masks stared back.

His breath caught. He reached toward the glass. It was cold.

Behind him, the masks began to whisper, their accusatory voices sibilant as they echoed down through the corridor like wind through ash.

"Failure."

"Shameful."

"Unworthy."

A mask fell, shattering at his feet.

He dropped to his knees, trying to gather the pieces. They sliced into his hands, blood blooming in the cracks of the porcelain. He couldn’t make them fit. The pieces didn’t belong to the same face.

Soft footsteps echoed in the hall. Zuko looked up. In the mirror’s fogged surface, a woman stood behind him–blurry, like half remembered memory. He recognized the form all the same.

“Mom?”

He whipped around, but the hallway was empty. Heart pounding in his chest, he looked back at the mirror. The surface had cleared. Azula, resplendent in her armor, stared out. She wore the Fire Lord’s crown, perched perfectly atop her coiffed hair.

“You were never meant to be Fire Lord, Zuko,” she smirked. “You were never meant to be anybody.”

Zuko gasped awake, pain crashing over him like surf. His face throbbed. He scrabbled for purchase.

Calloused hands steadied his shoulders. A familiar voice, low and steady:

“Shh, Zuko. I am here.”

Iroh gathered him into a hug. Zuko clung to the folds of his uncle’s robe, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Unable to sleep, Jee looked out the porthole of his cabin. On the bow stood General Iroh, bathed in moonlight, watching the restless sea beneath the thin band of a waning crescent moon. The skies were starless to the south, lightning occasionally revealing heavy clouds laden with rain. The ship was already taking heavy rolls from the ground swells, but the wind had begun to pick up, whipping the tops of the waves into spray that feathered before falling back into the black ocean.

Throwing on his heavy weather coat, Jee went down to the forecastle. Iroh glanced over as he approached.

“We’ve got a gale blowing in from the stern. It’s going to be rough going.”

He’d served with General Iroh long ago in a joint mission at the Battle of Crescent Bay. Back then, Iroh had been a Major and Jee had not yet sabotaged his own career. Glancing over at him, the general was older, which Jee expected, but in the intervening years, grief had worn permanent lines into a face already aged by war, his shoulders, softened by weight and time, were now curved under an invisible weight. He tried to reconcile the image with the man he’d once known.

“I’m afraid it’s already rough going, Captain. Tea?” He produced a thermos. Jee nodded. Iroh filled an iron cup and handed it to him.

“The boy–” Jee hesitated. “Prince Zuko,” he corrected softly, trailing off.

Iroh dipped his head. “I am sorry for any disruption he must be causing your crew.” He frowned, watching the black ocean splash against the bow. “I have to debride the wound every night. It is…not pleasant.”

Jee blanched. He’d never seen a wound so severe it needed regular debriding, but as a younger man, he had once helped hold down a shipmate after a steam pipe burst and scalded his arm. He remembered the screaming. “The crew understands, General. Is there–anything we can do?”

Iroh gave him a tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, Captain. I’m afraid this part of the journey belongs to Zuko alone. All we can do now is trust in his strength—and the spirits’ mercy.”

Jee wondered again about the truth of what the boy had done. “I’ll take my leave, General. Good night.”

“Good night, Captain. Thank you for the company.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

By morning, the storm had overtaken them.

Swollen gray skies hung low over angry waves whipped up by the southern gale. Each time the ship pitched forward, the propellers breached the surface, spinning uselessly in open air before slapping back into the churning sea.

In engineering, Chief Katsen—gruff, broad-shouldered, and superstitious to his core—frowned at the gauges. Every time the props lost traction, the RPMs spiked, grinding against nothing. They’d have to throttle down—the only way to spare the drive shaft from damage. It’d mean feeling more of the sea state, but it was better than burning out the engine.

He picked up the speaking tube and piped the bridge. Captain Jee’s reply came back tinny but immediate: “Understood. Make it so.”

Katsen shut down one engine, then hauled himself back into his chair, his ruddy face set in a scowl as the deck groaned beneath him.

“Gonna be a long watch,” he muttered, and reached for his tea.

Jomei, who had just finished shoveling coal into the furnace, stood and arched his back with a groan. The bones along his spine popped in sequence. Sweat poured from his brow, cutting narrow tracks through the soot smeared across his face. “You know how you told me about the ghost, Chief?”

Katsen didn’t look up. “Engineer Taen,” he said flatly.

Jomei blinked. “What?”

“Not ‘the ghost.’ His name was Taen. He was an engineer. One of us. It’s important to remember his name.”

Jomei swallowed and nodded. “Right. Taen,” Jomei nodded.

“He’s never been trouble,” Katsen said. “What of him?”

“I've been talking to the guys. We think he’s angry.”

That earned a look. Katsen turned slightly, one brow rising. “What’s this nonsense then?”

Jomei shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. “Just… the way the pressure’s been bucking the gauges. It’s off. Like something down here doesn’t want us pushing forward.”

Katsen stared into the furnace—a hulking thing that consumed much of the compartment. Pipes and machinery burst from its flanks, diving into the bowels of the ship where they powered the propellers. Below, in the shaft room, where the great drive spun against pressure and current, was where Engineer Taen had died.

A photograph—yellowed with time and curling at the corners—hung there, casting the boy’s face in amber.

“Why would Taen have any reason to be angry?”

“Because of what the prince did.”

Katsen scoffed. “Training accidents don’t anger ghosts, Jomei. The boys on the mess deck have been filling your head with saw dust.”

Jomei, excited to know something the engineer didn't, leaned forward. “Training accident’s the official story, Chief. But that’s not what they’re saying really happened."

“I’ve no time for scuttlebutt.” Katsen growled. He tapped his fingers on the chair, looking speculatively at the gauges. The RPM were back down, was no longer running hot.

Satisfied, he looked back at Jomei with narrowed eyes, curiosity getting the better of him. “What’d they say he did?

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

In the galley, the cook–known to the crew as Cook–stood wide legged over a hot iron wok. He wore a stained apron covered in pockets he’d sewn on himself. They bulged with spice jars, packed tight to keep them from toppling off the counter during heavy seas—a trick he'd learned after years afloat.The apron, patched and threadbare, had grown smaller as he’d aged. The ties, once long enough to wrap twice around his waist, now barely knotted.

He hummed tunelessly as he prepared the evening meal: charred komodo beets and lotus root, stir-fried in ginger oil and served with grilled razorback boar strips—a tough, gamey meat favored by sailors for its long shelf life—and a side of salt-cured eel, sliced thin and coiled over sticky rice.

The beets bled color into the pan, staining the lotus root a deep crimson.

Beside him Riku woodenly tossed ingredients into the wok. His face was pale and sweaty, eyes fixed on a bolt in the wall.

Cook barked a laugh. “First time, landlubber? You’ll get used to it.”

“That’s great to hear, Cook. Or maybe I’ll just die.”

“Of seasickness?” Cook grinned, “You’ll >wish you’d be so lucky!” He cackled, rubbing his hands on his apron, then carefully plated two meals and shoved them into Riku’s hands.

“Now, go deliver these to Captain’s cabin. He’s up there with General Iroh. Try not to fall down a ladder well and break your neck when the ship rolls. You’ll get your sea legs yet, Riku!”

“Oh,” he hollered out the p-way. “And don’t throw up on the food!”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The meal was hot, and the tea stronger than expected. For a time, the two men ate in companionable silence, letting the clatter of distant footsteps and the low groan of the hull fill the room.

“Still prefer your own blend, I see,” Jee said, nodding to the kettle on the warmer. His tone was casual, but his eyes lingered on the tea too long, as if lost in a memory.

Iroh smiled. “Some things are worth carrying, even at sea.”

“You’ll spoil the crew if you’re not careful.”

“I believe they are already spoiled,” Iroh said mildly. “Your cook makes an excellent eel roll.”

Jee chuckled, though the sound came late and faded quickly.

The ship gave a deep, rattling shudder. A loose cup rattled on the table. Rain drummed harder overhead.

Jee tapped his chopsticks lightly on the edge of the bowl. “Cook still makes too much rice.”

“You will hear no complaints from me that his portion control is the same as mine!” Iroh laughed, slapping his paunch.

The ship gave a heavy roll—pitching hard to port before swinging back to starboard. Both men reached instinctively, steadying their plates and the tea kettle before it could tumble off the end of the table.

Jee took a long sip of tea, staring into the cup. “I’ve seen a lot of storms,” Jee said eventually. “Never had one follow me before.”

He watched the candle flicker in its holder, the flame bowing with the ship’s motion. The hull groaned above them, deep and slow.

“We changed course twice,” he went on. “Slowed down. Sped up. It’s almost like it’s keeping pace.” He gave a small shrug. “Odd, is all.”

Iroh plucked out another crimson lotus root. “You sailors are known for being superstitious bunch.”

Jee smiled, looking into his cup. “My son would he agree.” He looked up. “He just graduated from the Army academy, oh, about six months ago now. Commissioned as a second lieutenant.”

General Iroh allowed the corner of his eyes to crinkle into a smile. “Not the navy, eh?”

Jee barked out a laugh. “Not for him, said I could stay married to the sea, but he liked the ground just the way it is–steady.” Despite the levity, there was a tightness around his eyes.

Iroh took a sip of tea, watching the captain over the brim of the cup.

Jee went on, his face softening with remembered pride. “They assigned him to a platoon in the 41st division. Shipped out a few days before we sailed.”

Iroh’s face tightened. “Oh?” He put down his chopsticks and slipped his hands into his sleeves, his expression grim. The wind scraped along the hull like claws.

Jee reached into his breast pocket and drew out a tightly rolled scroll. He placed it on the table with care and nudged it toward Iroh.

 

Iro took it and read:

 

Heavy losses suffered by the 41st at Battle of Yellow Ridge against superior earth bending forces. I regret to inform you that your son, 2nd Lt Huan, is among the missing and presumed dead. Please know he fought valiantly for our great nation and his loss will not be in vain.

When Iroh looked up, Jee’s face was set, but in the candlelight, his eyes glistened.

“He was twenty-two.”

Same as Lu Ten. The age he would be for the rest of Iroh’s life. Grief twisted in a heart already bruised by loss. “I’m sorry, Captain,” he said gently.

Jee nodded, but didn’t speak for a moment. The missive lay between them, quiet as a third presence at the table.

“Down at the docks, General, there was a lot of talk about what happened to your nephew. Some believe the palace’s version. But why would you banish a boy for a training accident?”

His fingers drummed once on the edge of the table, then stilled. “Most of the rumors agree it was punishment. Half say it was for a failed grab at the crown.”

Iroh’s brows twitched, but he said nothing.

Jee continued, his voice low but steady. “Then there were a few who said he’d spoken out against his father–that part was true–but not in a prideful grab for the crown.”

He paused.

“They said it happened in a war council. That he attempted to defend his people when the generals wouldn’t.”

He rolled the tea cup between his hands.

“And what ever happened…it ended with an Agni Kai.

He looked up, eyes searching Iroh’s face. “What happened in that war room, General?”

Jee pushed on before the older man could answer. “Was is it about the 41st? Did Prince Zuko try to stop this,” Jee gestured to the scroll on the table, “from happening?”

Iroh sat in stillness for a long moment. The ship creaked and moaned around them, the storm pressing in close.

“He showed more courage in that war room than I ever did on the battlefield.”

And he told Jee what had happened in the war council and at the Agni Kai.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

More messenger hawks arrived over the next few days, word spreading about what had happened to the 41st spread like a lament. A pall settled over the crew. Many had friends or family who were in the division.

The hawks carried little information, and so speculation filled the gaps. Some whispered blame at the ship’s ghost.

Between the bad news and the worsening weather, Katsen muttered to Jomei that perhaps the prince’s dishonor had drawn divine scorn—that La and Feng Po Po had turned their backs on them, leaving the ship to the mercy of Gong Min, the capricious storm spirit who wrecks the vessels abandoned by the Ocean and Wind.

A shrine appeared in forward berthing—a small, makeshift altar tucked between lockers and bulkhead. Someone had lit incense. A dish of sea salt had been placed beside it, along with a wedge of dried fruit and a coin, blackened from handling. Offerings for the ghost. A quiet plea for peace.

Lieutenant Jee’s grief hung around him like a shroud. His feet felt heavy and he moved through the ship as if the passageways had filled with mud; each step forward an insurmountable task.

He’d heard of the rumors, and Izen had told him of the shrine. As captain, he had to swallow his grief and address the rumors if he meant to keep any order. The steady onslaught of bad news and rise of whispered superstitions were taking hold of the crew. Fear was settling in–not the kind that could be braced against, but the slow, corrosive kind that made men reckless.

Already the word curse had begun to form in hushed voices.

They were calling the prince a Jonah.

Lieutenant Jee knew the risks speaking. There were loyalists aboard. But he owed it to the prince—fighting for his life in that dark, silent state room—to tell the truth. To give Zuko the honor he so badly deserved.

Had earned.

So he called them to quarters and said:

“By now, many of you have heard of the 41st and the slaughter at Yellow Ridge. Many of us have received bad news these last few days.

He paused, his throat tightening. “It is understandable to grieve. I myself…” Jee broke off. He looked up at the sky, unable to finish the sentence.

“We have all lost someone.” He said instead, tearing his eyes from the clouds. He spoke his next words firmly. “But I need to clear the air. There is no angry ghost aboard this ship. But there is a prince. Our prince. And as loyal sons of the Fire Nation, we owe our loyalty to him.”

The crew stirred, glancing at one another.

Jee clenched his jaw. What he was about to say could cost him his commission. Probably worse. But after losing his only son, he found he didn’t care.

He pressed on.

“Many of you have heard he was wounded in a training accident. This is not true.”

He had the crew’s attention now.

“Prince Zuko was in the war council where the fate of the 41st was being decided. He learned that they were planning on using the 41st as bait.” Jee broke off again.

His son had died as a distraction.

Something shifted in him, some deep seated sense of loyalty that he’d always had despite all the bureaucracy and meetings and failure to promote over one act of insubordination–fractured.

“He stood up against seasoned generals twice his age and told them that they were wrong. That it was dishonorable to sacrifice those that.” He stuttered. “Not those. Ours. Our families and brethren –who loved and were loyal to our great nation.

“Your brothers and sisters. Your friends. Your cousins.” His voice wavered. “My son.”

He stared out at the horizon, stormy gray waters churning restlessly. The rain that had poured for days had become a heavy mist that banked down around them like a veil.

“General Bujing challenged him to an Agni Kai for the offense. Prince Zuko accepted. But when he found himself in the arena, it was not the general that faced him.

“It was his father."

The crew stood at parade rest, but they’d begun to steal glances at one another as the rumors they’d heard and spread started to congeal into an ugly truth none of them had guessed.

“He asked for mercy, and was given no measure.”

Jee paused, scanning the faces of his crew. He wondered who among them might report what he’d said—who would betray him. He found he didn’t care; he’d been betrayed by the nation he’d dedicated his life to.

“If we are lucky, he will live—and bring justice to our dead. And victory to our people.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The shrine remained but instead of offerings to an angry ghost, it was tended in quiet reverence to Agni.

No one spoke of who kept the flame burning, or who left fresh incense each morning. But it was always tended.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The wind was colder on the open deck than it had been when they left port, salt-laced and sharp. The storm had eased from its earlier rage, but the sea was still restless—waves rising and falling like the breath of some fathomless monster from the depths.

Lieutenant Jee stood at the railing, his coat drawn tight against the spray, watching the storm clouds roll under the gale.

“You showed my nephew great honor,” said General Iroh, stepping beside him, his voice nearly lost in the wind. “At great risk to yourself.”

Jee didn’t look away from the water, his dark eyes distant.

“There’s no bravery in it, General.” He said. “What can the Fire Nation do to me that they haven’t already done? They took my son.” He raised a hand to his brow as if to rub a headache. Iroh ignored the tears that mixed with sea spray under his cupped head.

Jee cleared his throat, leaning on the railing. He began, apropos of nothing. “Years ago, I was at Tinhai Atoll—small chain of islets, considered neutral waters for generations. Fisher clans from both Earth and Fire nations used to offer prayers there—leave spirit-stones and incense for safe passage. They were a peaceful bunch, and the location wasn’t particularly strategic.”

He clasped his hands then unclasped them, hanging loosely over the bow railing.

“Then some Admiral got the idea to use it as a fueling station so the orders came down: burn the islands. Locals rowed out in little boats, waving white flags, holding offerings. Said the land was sacred. My orders were to fire anyway. I refused. I wasn’t masted, but they never promoted me again.” He laughed wetly. “A disgraced lieutenant presiding over a disgraced prince.”

“You’re no disgrace, lieutenant,” Iroh said softly.

“Is this my punishment, General? That I did nothing to protect that atoll and the spirits finally got their revenge? That my son suffered my cowardice?”

Iroh drew a long breath and reached into his coat. He poured two cups of tea from a thermos, the scent of jasmine cutting briefly through the salt air. He handed one to Jee.

“It’s no spirit’s curse, Captain. It’s just men. We thought we were doing something great–bringing culture and showing the other nations the greatness of the Fire Nation. There is no great thing in waging war for a hundred years.”

“Your nephew recognized it was wrong and tried to do something,” Jee said.

“Yes,” Iroh said.

Jee looked over at him. “He is the one who should sit on the throne.”

Iroh gave Jee a weighted look. “I believe it is his destiny, but it is a heavy burden for a child.”

 

Jee nodded. “It is not a burden he will carry alone. The Wani has your full support, General.”

“Just Iroh, please, Lieutenant. I left my stars at the walls of Ba Sing Se.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The waves slapped the hull, the wind wound through the smokestacks like a ghost’s wail, swallowed by the sea before. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder in silence as the storm rolled on.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

It was nearly midnight when Bosun slipped through the narrow corridor toward forward berthing. The ship creaked beneath him, metal groaning under the strain of open seas, but the storm had calmed just enough to allow a few minutes of quiet.

He stopped before the shrine.

It had been built in fear—incense left to ward off an angry ghost. But now, it bore symbols of the spirits all sailors prayed to–the sun and moon; to the ocean. A small flame that burned, eternal; a mirror catching what little light filtered in from the storm, a bowl of sea salt.

And now, portraits of those who had been lost in the Massacre of Yellow Ridge.

Bosun hesitated, then reached into his pocket and placed a piece of polished obsidian beside the others. For balance.

The prince’s fever broke.

Chapter Text

Zuko woke to the gentle rocking of the ship on calm waters. He still felt feverish and wrong but was tired of bed. The pain of his wound pulsed with his heartbeat, a heavy thing that sharpened into sharp flashes if he moved too quickly. He forced himself to breathe through it.

The room smelled of salt and iron and under that, the astringent stink of burn ointment. Sunlight streamed through the porthole in a thin band, a sliver of blue sky visible through the tiny hole.

He pushed himself up, using his right arm to steady him. He had to turn his whole head to see the room. He wanted to remove the bandages; see what remained of his face, his vision. His breath hitched as he realized there might be nothing to find; that maybe he had no eye left at all, or that he’d never see from it again.

Iroh stirred from the floor. “Zuko?”

Zuko glanced at him, realizing his uncle’s voice was muffled. He brought a hand to his wrapped ear, wondering if it was the linen or something more permanent. “I need air.”

“Zuko, you should take it easy.”

“I can’t be here anymore, I need to get out.” There was a panic building in his chest that made breathing difficult. The drab room with crimson Fire Nation flags felt cloying and claustrophobic. He lurched from his bed, his thoughts confused.

He didn’t know why his uncle had come. He’d hardly seen him in the years since Lu Ten’s death, and only in glimpses before that—between campaigns, always the victorious general until the day he wasn’t. He used to watch the way Iroh laughed with Lu Ten, easy and open. If Zuko had been half as skilled, half as bright—would his father have loved him the same way? If Lu Ten had been half as flawed as Zuko, would Iroh still have loved him?

He stumbled outside. If he used the steel bulkhead to steady himself, Iroh didn’t mention it. If he struggled entirely too long with the grab handle—throwing his body weight against the lever before it finally groaned open, the heavy weathertight door slamming wide, the nerves in his face burning and stealing his breath—Iroh only gently steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

“We should grease that hatch,” he murmured, as if the failing were the door and not Zuko.

Zuko winced as he stepped into the sunlight. The movement caused his injured eye to rebel, and Zuko rushed to the rail, vomiting bile into the silvery ocean below. The violent action caused his vision to gray, his head spinning. He grabbed the metal railing, wondering if he just fell over the side and into the blue fathomless depths if he could bring an end to his pain. Iroh placed a calloused hand on his back; a comfort that had weighted him through his illness.

A feeling he hadn’t had since Mom.

Zuko didn’t know why his uncle was here, but he was the reason Zuko was here.

He pushed himself from the edge and away from the promise of cool, depthless fathoms–just as a member of the watch passed behind him, startling them both as they collided.
A young man, older than Zuko, stared at the prince with wide eyes. Pink tinged his cheeks and spread to his large ears. His hands fumbled first in an aborted attempt at a bow and then a clumsy salute. He tried to smooth his face into casual stoicism, but his eyes kept darting between the prince and the general, his honey brown eyes sliding over the bandaged wound just long enough to register curiosity, before settling on the mid horizon.

“Sir. Sirs. Prince.” He swallowed his word ending lamely, “ Gentlemen.”

“Seaman Riku,” Iroh said, his tone as warm as the tea he always kept on him. “Carry on.”

Zuko turned away before the young man could say anything else, jaw clenched. His fingers balled until his knuckles went white. He hated the pity that reflected in the sailor’s eyes.

The sailor bowed to the general, a last fleeting glance at the prince before he continued his rounds.

Zuko spent the day a silent apparition, drifting through the ship but not part of it. His pale skin was sallow, his good eye glossy. His uncle trailed him like a silent turtleduck, his face furrowed in concern. The crew shared looks, uncertain how to approach their hungry ghost.

 

Later in the day as the deckies were swabbing the fantail, Toma said, “Maybe we should just talk to him?”

“He didn’t look like he wanted to talk,” Riku hedged, dipping his swab in the bucket and slopping it over the side .

“You startled him!” Toma chided. “He probably thought you were someone else.”

“Like who?” Riku asked, straightening up. “There’s barely thirty of us on this tub.”

Toma didn’t answer right away. He looked over the flat horizon. Earlier, there’d been a pod of orca-dolphins playing beside them, but now the sea was nearly flat. Occasionally a deep groundswell, indications of storms far out at sea, would send her careening port to starboard. They’d spilled more than one bucket from an unexpected 15 degree tilt.

“I’ll talk to Jomei. We’ll come up with a plan.”

“A plan to talk to the prince? I don’t think we should be doing that, Toma.”

Toma sniffed. “Even ghosts need a crew.”

 

The next morning, Jomei and Toma shared a look when they spied the prince seated alone in the galley. His shoulders were hunched, he was staring down at the spoon in his hand. The pair pushed each other as they settled into the seats across from him. The prince looked up at them. His face was still wrapped in linen, the bandages stained with fresh seepage. There was a sickly smell, and Jomei briefly wondered if the prince should be out of bed at all—but thought better of asking.

“It’s good to see you awake, highness!” Jomei started. “I’m Engineer third class Jomei, and this is Seaman Toma. That pipsqueak you ran into yesterday was Riku. We are honored to have you on our boat.”

Zuko looked up. His good eye didn’t quite focus, and he appeared to be putting all his attention into staying upright. The simple act of opening his mouth seemed to cause him pain, and his bowl had remained largely untouched.

“The honor is mine,” he said hollowly.

“I wanted to give you my gratitude, my prince. My older brother was in the —“ Jomei wheezed when Toma jabbed him in the side. The engineer scowled at the seaman before continuing. “Is. Is in the 41st. I heard what you did for him, sir.”

Zuko glared at the young men across from him. “I didn’t do anything.”

“But you tried,” the engineer said.

Zuko set his chopsticks down.

“Your brother deserves better than me.”

He pushed away from his unfinished meal and wobbled out of the galley. Jomei and Toma watched him go.

“He doesn’t look good at all. I wonder why General Iroh let him out of bed?” Jomei mused.

“Why would you bring up your brother?” Toma hissed.

Jomei shrugged. The laissez faire expression fell from his face as he thought of his brother who now hung in the shrine in forward berthing. His voice was low when he spoke. “The kid already looks like he’s got one foot in this world and the other in the next. Who knows if he’ll make it to port? He should know that somebody is grateful for what he did.”

After that, the ghost of the Wani—as the crew had begun to call him—spent his days on the forecastle, staring out at wind and waves. The seas had laid down as they’d traveled north and now rolled under them in a silvery blue, the sun sparkling off gentle waves. Great frigate birds dipped white wings as they rode the tradewinds, swirling around the stacks of the ship before soaring off to distant lands.

The ship pressed on toward the Earth Kingdom.

The prince’s wound festered.

On a Saturday morning as Agni stretched her bright arms across the rippling sea, Zuko collapsed on the bow.

Bosun Izen, who absolutely did not have a soft spot for the prince, thank you very much, Skipper, had taken to spending his days either on the flybridge—provisionally to watch his deckhands and not the listless prince—or on the forecastle working rope into fancy knots–and so was present to see the boy fall in a boneless heap. Putting his work down, he crossed the gently rolling deck and knelt, checking for breath, before gently lifting the boy in his massive arms. He could smell the stench of infection, a sheen of sweat on the boy’s face. Bosun frowned. He’s seen such wounds before.

Looking up toward the bridge, he locked eyes with Lieutenant Jee. Moments later, a pipe whistle sounded for General Iroh.

And then the man who had once been a general and a prince—and was now just an uncle, perhaps his proudest title yet although he didn’t yet know it—found Bosun waiting on the deck. The hulking figure, all rope-thick muscle and weathered scars, stood cradling Zuko with a tenderness Iroh hadn’t known he possessed.

“I’ll carry him down for you,” Bosun rumbled.

In Zuko’s stateroom, a bowl of water already waited, rags soaking beside a fresh set of linens. Bosun moved carefully, lowering the boy onto the narrow bed as if afraid he might fall apart in his arms.

He adjusted the blanket with thick, calloused hands, then stepped back. For a long moment, he looked at Zuko’s face—what little could be seen of it beneath the bandages.

Then he bowed.

“I had a son,” he said quietly. “Dead, in the Battle of the Fog.”

Iroh looked over at the man.

“He was on the Burning Gale. One of the Imperial Scout Fire Cruises. I know you was Army, so maybe you don’t know about those ships. But theys famous for being built too fast. The aft port bulkhead was never welded right. Everyone in the yard knew it.” He paused, jaw tight. “When they hit the Water Tribe mine, it tore through like paper. The engine room flooded in minutes. They had to tie down the dogs—the hold was already going under. He got trapped on the wrong side."

Bosun clenched his jaw, an old, remembered pain flickering in his eyes. Iroh knew it well. “Ship woulda sunk either way,” he said. “But if it had been built proper, maybe he’d have had the chance to get out. The admirals knew and they never should have sent that ship out anyway. Nobody ever said anything against it.”

His chin jutted out. “The prince has shown more honor and bravery than a whole mess of brass, and he got banished for it. Don’t sit right with me, General.”

Iroh sighed. “No, Bosun Izen. It doesn’t. I’m afraid he won’t see it that way.”

Bosun frowned. “Then it’s the crew’s duty to fix that.”

The large man nodded and bowed. He gave one last glance at Zuko, then turned and left without another word.

Outside, the sea rolled on—endless, gray, and waiting.

Iroh moved to the bedside, pulled the damp cloth from the bowl, and gently pressed it to his nephew’s forehead. The fever had returned worse than before. Iroh wondered if he should’ve done more to insist Zuko stay in bed and heal. He wondered when he’d stop failing the young men in his charge.

The boy stirred, murmured something he didn’t finish.

“Live, Zuko,” Iroh whispered. He wasn’t sure if it was a prayer to the spirits, or a command to the boy.

And the boy did—at great cost to himself.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Three days later, the Wani made port, docking beneath gray skies in a neutral Earth Kingdom harbor more known for its silence than its welcome.

Baisha Landing was unremarkable from every other neutral port town—the architecture told of a time, decades ago now, when the town had been prosperous. But time and war had stripped it of its wealth, and now the old buildings wore its outdated architecture and sagging roofs like tarnished medals. Bars lined the waterfront, squeezed in between the fish market and logistics warehouses. The smell of fish wafted over the docks.

Their hungry ghost didn’t stir until the sea’s rolling had ceased. He rose from his sickbed–skin sallow and eyes sunken– and said, “Burn these sheets, Uncle.”

And the old man did.

Together, they left the ship. Zuko leaned against his uncle the whole way, bones leaden, robe clinging to sweat-soaked skin. The crew looked away, pretending not to see the boy too injured and weary to stand on his own.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The healer’s home was small—no sign or banner—just a faded curtain strung across the doorway and the earthy smell of crushed roots. The woman who examined him had once been a healer of water, but she had left the South long ago and worked now only with herbs and silence and a resentment that had grown deep into her soul, like weeds in a neglected garden.
She gestured for Zuko to sit, her expression unreadable as she studied him with eyes the same blue as the southern ocean–so dark they were almost black. Her hands were calloused and stained with tinctures, her touch steady and impersonal as she unwound the bandages.

Zuko flinched.

Iroh sat nearby, watching silently.

She frowned, staring at the weeping, purulent skin. She glared at Iroh. “Who are you?”

“An uncle and his nephew, damaged by the war. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more, eh?” You must think I'm a country bumpkin, out here in the sticks. ” She said archly. “Fire Nation ship pulling into town isn’t exactly a secret, and this wound was no accident.” She pointed to Zuko.

She turned back to the basin, rinsing her hands again—harder this time. She continued, before Iroh could answer.

“I lost three brothers to fire. Two of them burned alive in their boats. The third—he was lucky. His ship sank, but at least he was committed to the deep.” Her jaw trembled.

“My sister—” she began, then stopped, swallowing hard. “They said she was a bender. Captured. Because she could be the Avatar—or bear the next one. I never saw her again.”

She glared at Iroh before looking at the boy before her. “We didn’t have the Avatar. We didn’t even know he was missing—until your men came burning through our villages.”

Zuko didn’t meet her gaze. His one good eye stared at the floor, unmoving. The other one wept infection, the swollen lid sealed shut.

She crossed the room and stood over him, fury tight on her face. “Your nation killed my family and there was no one to save them–because your nation had taken them all. Now you show up here and expect me to heal you? Tell me why I should.”

Iroh opened his mouth but Zuko spoke first. “You shouldn’t.” He rose, pretending not to need the wall as he stood. “We shouldn’t have come.”

The woman glared at Iroh. “You. Go. Let me speak to the boy.”

Iroh bowed and slipped out.

The old woman fixed her glare on the boy in front of her. She tried to steel her heart against his sorry condition—but she couldn’t ignore the plaintive look on his face, or the way his tired shoulders tried to square itself in defiance.

“Sit, boy, before you collapse. What’s your name?”

Zuko tried to think of one—any name—but his brain was muddy, and he’d never been a good liar.

Azula had always said so.

“Zuko,” he said finally. Because what did it matter?

The healer’s gray eyebrows lifted. The lines of her forehead deepened.

“The prince?” She whispered.

The boy shrugged.

“They say–” she started, trailing off.

They said he was a traitor to his nation; that he was weak and an embarrassment to his father. This, from the pirates that picked up their stories from the fringes of the Fire Nation, in lawless places that the Fire Nation Navy only kept lightly patrolled.

The earth kingdom traders told a different story—that he’d stood in front of a room of old experienced flag officers , and told them they were wrong to sacrifice their children.
Some even said—if she were to believe in rumors and prophecies anymore, and after a lifetime of war, she wasn’t—that there was a boy, born of fire, who would bring balance to the world when the Avatar could …or would not.

But the boy sat in front of her–sick, burned, and too tired to lie, didn’t look like anyone’s answer to a broken world.

He only looked like a boy.

The wound that swallowed half his face wept green around the eye and ear. His skin was waxen, and his voice still cracked with puberty when he spoke; he wasn’t even grown. She wondered about the sort of man who could maim a child like this and then send him out to die.

She wondered when she’d become the sort of woman who saw an injured boy and met him with hatred and not compassion.

“Zuko,” she said, her voice softening. “I’m Atka.”

The boy’s good eye flicked up to meet hers. The movement cost him; she saw it in the way his jaw clenched, his hands balled in his lap. She leaned forward, placing a hand on the unburned side of his face. “Shhh, child, I will not harm you.”

Unwanted tears gathered in his good eye, causing pain in the putrid one.

“This war has hurt so many. I once devoted myself to the healing arts. And here I am– old and bitter–thinking I’d not waste those skills on you because of the ship you came in on.”

“I’m sorry,” the boy whispered. His voice was rough, cracked with exhaustion. His golden eye welled with tears again, and for a moment, Atka saw reflected in his good eye, the first sunrise glittering over the ice after a long, dark winter.

Her heart ached.

“Is it true what they say?” She asked.

He looked at her wearily.

“Did you stand up before a Fire Nation General and tell him he was wrong? And did you bow before your father and plead for mercy?”

The boy’s shoulders crumpled and tears leaked from his golden eye. He pressed his right palm to his good eye; the other leaked pus and pain. His left hand clenched tight in his lap. Sickness radiated off him.

“I was only trying to be loyal,” he sobbed. “Who am I loyal to, if not the people of my nation?”

Atka had her tinctures of feverfew and her poultices of yarrow-plantain and honey, and these things would cool his fever and, possibly, ease his infection. She also had a basin of water that she used to dip her rags in. It sat beside her unused, the water pristine.

It beckoned her in a way she’d not felt in decades–since she left the glacier fields of her southern home.

He closed his eyes as she gently applied the salve. She swirled her fingers, and the water in the bowl lapped at the roughhewn edges of the bowl. Gently, she coaxed the water up in a rusty and nearly forgotten pattern. When the cool water plied away the infection and pain, the boy sagged in her arms, for, since the first time since leaving the palace, pain no longer consumed his every waking thought.

“Is it true,” she asked softly, “that you were born on the equinox?”

“A weakness,” Zuko murmured in her arms. “All my life I’ve been told, a curse.”

“Or,” Atka murmured, her hands moving with the ebb and flow of surf breathing upon the shore, “a blessing.” She prayed to Tui and to La, the ancient spirits of her home, whose gift she had forsaken out of fear for herself. She wondered if, when the time came, she would walk in the southern lights with her brothers and sister or if the Spirits would condemn her to the sunless place for ignoring their gift. She wondered that this small, broken boy had more courage than she’d shown in all her decades.

And for the first time since leaving the Southern Water Tribe, she began to hope.

“Sleep, child. Sleep. I hold you in my arms. The protection of the moon and the waves are upon you.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko stood on the edge of a vast black sea. The sky was a canvas of velvet, but the stars glittered only beneath the surface of the motionless water.
A man stood beside him. He was tall, with snowy hair and skin the color of the night sky. His robes were pearlescent and pale as frost. Silver, white, and the faintest hues of seafoam and blush bled together in its folds, shimmering in constant motion under a windless night. Silver chains, thin as spider silk, draped from his shoulders and wrists in soft arcs, as if he were clothed in the night sky’s own music.

“Hello, my child. You are far from home,” he said, his voice low and even, the cadence like waves lapping a shore. “And now you stand at a crossing.”

Zuko looked out over the ocean. “I don’t know how to get home."

The spirit appraised Zuko with luminescent eyes.

Zuko hesitated. “I failed. I was cast out. I’m—” He clenched his fists. “I’m not who I was meant to be.”

“You were meant to become,” the spirit said. “And becoming is not the same as being.”

The sea shifted around him. From the depths, a woman rose—tall and barefoot, her skin the deep blue of the equatorial sea, with robes of seafoam and eyes like the stormlit horizon.

“You are adrift, child.” She said, not unkindly, and with great patience, for that is what the ocean is known for.

“I’m scared,” he said in a small voice.

The Ocean nodded.

“If I stay,” he whispered, “will it be peaceful?”

The Ocean Spirit considered the question. “There is peace beneath the waves. But there is no fire.”

He looked up. “And if I go back?”

“There is pain. And becoming. And the path you have not yet walked.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Yes,” said the Ocean.

A path of stars formed under the surface, rising up from the depths like a bridge to a distant shore. Zuko swallowed. His body trembled, but his feet moved. One step. Then another. The sea resisted—not with force, but with sorrow. He felt the tension dissolve, felt the pain and shame seep into the ocean around him, carried away by the tide. When the water had reached his waist, he stopped and turned.

“What about my uncle? My people?”

“They will no longer be your concern,” said the Ocean.

Zuko stepped closer to the shore. Far away on the land, a signal fire burned. He looked up at the Moon and the Ocean.

“I am not ready.”

The Ocean smiled, and the sea pulled away, leaving him back on the shore.

He walked towards the fire.

0o0o0o0oo0o0o0o0o0o

Atka found the General of the West sitting on her front porch. He’d produced a tea pot from somewhere and had an iron cup clasped in his hands, a laconic swirl of steam rising from its surface. He looked up, the sides of his eyes crinkling. “Tea?” He held up a cup.

Atka tried to muster some of the rage she’d felt towards him earlier. She knew the man before her was responsible for the deaths of countless thousands, but as he held out the cup he just looked very old and weary. There was a slump in his shoulders and sorrow behind his eyes. She took the cup and sat on the chair beside him. “You have failed this boy,” she said. She found she’d grown tired of being angry but maybe it was better than the deep black hole of sorrow that had formed within her one day years ago and that she’d never been able to fill.

The old general met her gaze, unwavering. “I know,” he said.

Atka had prepared a speech–about the evil of the Fire Nation and of the royal family, specifically. But as she looked across at the man, she found there was nothing she could say that he didn’t already know.

“I will heal your nephew, General. He is very sick. I make no promises.”

Iroh nodded.

“But I need to know why I should work so hard to return him to a man who has murdered thousands?”

Iroh stared at the earth below him, and then the sky, an endless blue punctuated by voluminous white clouds that slid leisurely by on the western wind. The last day of the siege had been one like this.

A beautiful day to lose his only son. He’d never expected it; had seen Agni In the perfect blue sky, and had assumed only victory was in his grasp.

He said, “You are right,” Iroh said. “About me. About what I did.”

“Where were you when he was burned? Did you let this happen?”

The genial old man who’d been sadly sipping tea now looked at her with something sharp; an anger that roiled beneath the surface. She felt her hackles up until she realized the anger was at himself and not her.

“I have many regrets in my life, Healer. Most prominent is that I believed, for a long time, that our war was just and that what I was doing was for the greater good of the world. The second is that I stood and watched as my brother burned the face of his only son–my nephew–and I did not act. I did not even look.”

Atka’s eyes widened. “Why not?” She asked, aghast.

Because he had not believed his brother was so cruel.

Because intervening would have looked like a coup, and the timing had been wrong. (And he did not want the crown; it was not for him.)

Because he had lost his son and could not bear to witness the death of his nephew.

“Because I am a coward.”

Atka wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it wasn’t that.

He looked toward the hut, his voice quiet.

“But I would spend the rest of my life trying to make this right. Even if he never forgives me.”

He bowed his head.

“Whatever my nephew chooses, I will not take it from him. I’ve taken too much already.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Atka pulled the sickness from the boy’s body. She’d gotten used to dockside ailments–broken bones easily set and mild skin infections requiring poultice and kind words. She’d not used her water in decades, and the wound was more than physical–it was a black, festering thing that infected the very pathways of his spirit. She coaxed him away from the infection’s grip, toward the light that still flickered within him.

The work was exhausting.

The boy fought—both her and the infection—in a confused battle on two fronts. She tried to guide him back, steady as the incoming tide, pulling him towards the part of himself that still wanted to live.

Outside, Iroh held a silent vigil.

As the sun sank low in the sky on the second day, he watched the hulking figure of Bosun making his way down the muddy street. His brown eyes scanned the healer’s small building before settling on Iroh.

He nodded once, then bowed to Agni, rosy on the horizon, before clasping his hands behind his back and taking up a silent guard.

Engineers Jomei and Katsen came next, Toma and Riku in tow. Helmsman Roken was not far behind, a wad of fireweed thick in his lip, his tin cup jangling against his hip. Together, the crew set up a tent beside the healer’s hut just as twilight faded, the earliest stars puncturing through an indigo sky.

Cook arrived with a cart. He pulled it open to reveal his cookwares and set to making dinner. Throughout the night, the rest of the crew trickled in. Iroh made tea, a lightness in his heart he had not felt since before Lu Ten’s death.

In the morning, Lieutenant Jee arrived. Bosun greeted him with a salute.

“Sir, all present or accounted for.”

“Very well, Bosun. You have the watch.”

“Aye, aye.” Bosun saluted.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Later that day, Atka pushed the door open to fetch more linens. Her eyes widened at the small military encampment that had sprung up outside her door overnight. A brief panic tightened in her chest—until she saw Iroh pouring tea for several young men.

Another man, large and scarred with brown eyes that glinted gold bowed.

“Ma’am. I’m Bosun Izen.” He nodded toward a man in the corner. “That’s Captain Jee. If you need any assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“You’re here for—for the boy?”

“To stand watch, ma’am. Until he’s better… or until his own watch has ended.”

Atka felt a lump rise in her throat. She had forgotten there could still be humanity in the Fire Nation. It was easier to see them as faceless monsters. Murderers.

She brushed an errant hair behind her ear. “I—uh. I could use help boiling these rags. And I need more golden root. The vendor about three carts down—Shen—she should have what you need.”

The man turned, holding out the rags. “Toma, I need you and some deckhands to wash and boil these rags for the healer—”

He turned to her.

“Atka,” she said.

“For Healer Atka.”

Bosun nodded to two of his men—fresh-faced men barely out of boyhood themselves– who grabbed her basket as another pair headed to the water pump on the side of her house.

Atka returned to the boy inside.

The despair that had filled the hut—once a constant companion that had crowded her like an unwanted guest—had lifted. It was replaced by something new, something gentle. Like the first warm breeze of spring after a long, bitter winter.

She returned to her work, finding it easier now that her heart wasn’t so heavy.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Atka stood at the edge of the porch, watching as the young deckhands worked. One of them—a wiry boy with soot-smudged cheeks—was carefully sorting herbs beside the fire. She blinked, confused, as he held up a wrinkled red root.

“Ma’am,” he said, earnest and unsure. “Is this the herb you wanted?”

She stepped closer, peering at it. “That’s fire root,” she said gently. “It’ll scorch his stomach raw.”

The boy flushed and nodded quickly, clutching the root like it might explode. She softened. “Shen will know what I need. Ask her for golden root. Tell her it’s for the wounded boy. She’ll understand.”

He bolted off with a quick salute.

Bosun stood nearby, arms crossed, his scar catching the light like a cord of rope. He watched the boy vanish around the corner, then spoke without looking at her.

“I know my nation has caused much harm to you and yours. We appreciate everything you are doing for our prince.”

She looked up at the man, saying nothing. But the words stayed with her—low and glowing like coals.

Then she felt the warmth of a teacup pressed into her hands. Iroh stood beside her, silent. The scent of jasmine rose in the air between them.

She hesitated, then brought the cup to her lips.

Out in the clearing, a few of the sailors had started playing a quiet game with polished stones and a circle drawn in the dirt. One laughed at something. Another removed his boots and set them in the sun to dry. Just boys. She swallowed hard.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

On the evening of the third day, she motioned for Bosun who was spent over his rope, deft hands creating intricate knots. Toma noticed her beckoning and approached the man quietly. Bosun looked up, his eyes locking on hers. He approached her grimly, expecting bad news. She dropped her voice low.

“I need help debriding. Someone will need to hold him down–and they’ll need a strong constitution.”

“I will help you. But I believe the boy’s uncle should be here. Difficult work. Would that be permissible?” He glanced down at her.

Atka was surprised at the question; had expected the boy’s uncle would be there regardless of her opinion. Her hazel eyes skittered over to where the old man sat over a game of pai sho, his gold eyes meeting her.

She nodded. “Please.”

The general stood and approached, bowing deeply before joining them. Together, they stepped inside.

When the boy’s screams began, the light banter in the tent faded. The crew grew silent, their eyes haunted. A few stood and drifted toward the small shrine that Seaman Riku had built from stacked stones, fire lilies, and a bit of red cord.

No one spoke.

Then, from near the tent’s edge, a voice rose—tentative and rough, like a line cast into the dark. One of the younger deckhands, his voice cracking but steadying with each word.

I dreamed I walked the sea alone,
No stars above, no wind to guide.
The waves were cold, the salt like bone,
And none but ghosts walked at my side.

Another joined in. Then another.

To everyone’s quiet surprise, Captain Jee’s voice followed—low, worn, and steady. He didn’t raise it loud, but the crew felt it like a keel beneath the waves.

But then I saw a lantern’s light,
A fire that burned but did not flee.
It held the dark at bay that night,
And sang me home across the sea.

The crew sang quietly, not to drown out Zuko’s cries—but to hold them. To let him know he was not alone in the pain.

So if I fall, don’t cry for me—
I’ve had the sea, and she had me.
Just light a flame and let it burn,
And I’ll find my own way to return.

Inside, Atka’s eyes burned as she worked. She’d grown used to the callousness of war but had forgotten the camaraderie. If the stories were true–if this boy had done all he was said to have done–he might be the future of their world. It was too much destiny to ask of a boy.

Her healing came back with the power of the ocean–sea salt and fathomless depths and the hope of fair winds–and she worked.

Zuko writhed as she cleaned out the wound, washing the infection away with the tide. Bosun’s arms were locked around his shoulders, holding firm as the boy thrashed. Iroh knelt at his side, whispering through the pain.

The third verse drifted through the cracks in the walls.

And the boy, at last, was still.

He dreamed.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko walked through a dense forest. Trees, lush with recent rain, bowed under the weight of fruits and cocobananas. Ferns unfurled their fiddleheads in the deep undergrowth, their weeping fronds dew laden. The wind was warm, smelling faintly of petrichor and jasmine, and his mother’s favorite fire gardenia perfume.

There was a mountain.

He climbed it.

It was steep, and seemed to grow taller with every step. Black basalt rolled underfoot and he found himself stumbling. He fell to all fours when it grew too difficult. His clothes grew shredded but his skin remained uncut but the sharp volcanic rock.

Just as he crested the rim, the sun creeped over the caldera and a silhouette made of shifting flame and coiling mist, crowned in flickering gold sat in the middle of the caldera. He stood on the edge, bubbling magma separating them.

He breathed, and stepped out onto the molten lake.

A stone formed under him, and then another, until a path lead to the figure waiting for him.

A beautiful woman, her eyes brilliant gold, her hair the incandescent white of the hottest part of a fire, her skin, dark as coals banked down, smiled at him, and the air grew warmer, like the southern sun after the first spring storm. She wore bracers of obsidian. Above her her brow a corona blazed. She cast no shadow.

“You have come far,” she said, “and have much farther to go yet.”

“I am so tired.”

Agni nodded. “It is not an easy path. But you are my chosen, the chosen of all of us. You are blessed, my son.”

Zuko swallowed. The warmth of her presence pressed close, vast, like a prairie in summer. He felt small.

“But you do not know your name.”

“I know my name,” he said, almost defensively. “I’m–” He faltered. “Zuko.”

“You know what you are called. It is the name your father used when he cast you out.” Her gaze didn’t waver.

Zuko knelt, the warmth of the caldera sinking into his bones. “Then tell me.”

She smiled

“I cannot.” She leaned forward. “But know this—your fire is not your father's. And it never was.”

He bowed his head.

“Others will try to name you,” she said. “Your enemies. Your kin. Even your own shame.”

“Will I be strong enough?” he asked.

“That is the wrong question,” Agni said kindly.

She touched her hand to his chest. Warmth bloomed—not violent, but steady.

“Will you endure long enough to learn?” she said. “Will you rise again, and again?”

He didn’t speak. But slowly, he nodded.

“Fire is life, Zuko.

“So live, my child.

And he did, at great cost to himself.

But it was a cost he paid willingly.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The next morning, the boy’s blistered, weeping face no longer burned with fever—the purulent discharge now seeped clear. His breath was steady and his skin, while not rosy, was no longer the pallor of death. He still had a long way to go–the infection had been deep and Atka had never been a particularly strong water bender, nor had the opportunity to study healing very long before the Fire Nation had come. She slathered the wounded eye with poultice and rewrapped the injury with fresh linens.

The boy woke. He stared up at Atka with a golden eye that reminded her of diamond dust on a cold day. He was clearly a child of Agni, but there was something about him that reminded her of the ocean and the moon, of something ancient.

She cupped his good cheek, thumb brushing gently across the skin.

“You’re here, Zuko. You’re all right.”

He blinked at her again, dazed with exhaustion.

She smiled softly, brushing a thumb across his brow.

“You’ve reminded me of something I’d forgotten.”

Zuko’s eye narrowed faintly. “What?”

“Hope,” she breathed. She brought her hands over his face, summoning a power she had nearly forgotten—one that now flowed through her like the restless wave. With a sweep of her arms, she whipped the water gently over his skin, washing away his pain. He sank back into sleep once more.

The boy recovered quickly over the next few days, the infection purged from his blood. On the third day he woke to find Iroh once more at his side.

“My nephew.” The old man smiled. “Welcome back.”

“Help me up, Uncle?”

“Gladly.”

Together, they went outside.

The crew of the Wani were going about their morning chores. Deckhands moved quietly, folding canvas and loading provisions. The morning sun hung low in a sky scrubbed pale by days of wind.

Bosun Izen noticed them first. He straightened, boots crunching in the dirt, and raised his hand in salute.

Gradually, the others looked up—one by one, they turned toward their prince. Each crewman snapped to attention, arms rising in a crisp, formal salute.

Zuko leaned against his uncle, still too weak to stand without help, his face still wrapped in bandages, his body thin and raved by fever and healing. But his head was high, and his uncovered eye swept over the crew—

Captain Jee stepped forward, shoulders squared with all the pomp and discipline due someone far greater than a disgraced prince. He halted in front of Zuko, heels clicking together in the Earth Kingdom mud, and saluted smartly, his eyes meeting Zuko’s.

“Sir, Crew of the Wani is all presented or accounted for.”

Zuko pushed away from Iroh, standing as straight as he could under the early morning sun. He cleared his throat.

“Very good, Captain. Carry on the orders of the day.”

Captain Jee turned to Bosun. “Bosun Izen, carry on the plan of the day. Load the provisions and break down camp.”

Izen saluted back. “Aye, aye, sir.” He turned to the crew and began barking out orders.

Captain Jee turned back to Zuko, his weathered face softening. “Good to have you back, sir.”

Zuko met his eyes. His voice was quiet. “It’s good to be back, Captain.”

The camp moved around them, alive with purposeful motion—tents coming down, crates packed, tools stowed. Zuko watched them for a long moment, then looked back to Jee.
“I…” he faltered, cheeks flushing. “I… don’t think I deserve your loyalty.” He swallowed. “But… thank you.”

Captain Jee regarded him for a moment. Then he gave a single, firm nod.

“Respectfully, Prince Zuko, you’re wrong. It is not your rank we are saluting–although it is your due–it is your courage and bravery.”

Zuko looked down, unsure of what to say. The old sailor placed a hand briefly on his shoulder, then stepped away to oversee the final loading.

Behind him, Atka stood in the doorway of her hut, arms crossed lightly over her chest. Her face was soft, something close to a smile touching her thin lips.

Zuko turned and walked toward her, his movements stiff but sure. They stood in silence for a long beat before he spoke.

She reached into her pocket and pressed something into his hand. A tiny pouch, woven from sea-wool and sealed with waxed thread.

“Tea,” she said. “For fever, or dreams. Or memory. Should any of those trouble you.” She hesitated. “You will always carry the scar. I did what I could for your vision, but you may find it gets blurry when you’re tired, and your peripheral may not be what it was. Oh,” she held out a jar. “And you’ll want this. The eye will be prone to drying. The tear duct was destroyed; I couldn’t heal what was gone.”

Zuko looked at it for a long moment before tucking her offerings into the inner lining of his robe.

“You were from the Southern Water Tribe?” He asked, because he couldn’t quite remember what had been real and what had been fever dreams.

She nodded once.

Zuko looked down at the spring mud under his feet. Then, slowly, he forced himself to look at her again. “My people–The Fire Nation–wronged you. I have nothing to give back for all that you’ve done for me.”

Atka pulled the boy into a gentle hug. “Zuko.” She sat her chin on his head. Tears gathered in her eyes. She looked up at the sky, blinking them away. “Zuko,” she put her hands on his shoulders so she could look down at him. “You have given me so much. Things I thought I’d lost.”

Zuko’s good eye searched hers. “I don’t see how.”

A sob wracked her chest, and she pulled the boy back. “That’s why, child. Go, now, back to your crew. Don’t waste what you’ve been given.

Zuko nodded, unable to speak around the knot in his throat. He stepped back, then bowed deeply, his hands cupped in the sign of the flame.

Atka’s mouth twitched into a small, crooked smile. She returned the bow.

“Safe journeys, Zuko,” she said. “And should you ever come this way again… you’ll find the door always open.”

Zuko hesitated—just for a breath—then turned and made his way back across the clearing, toward the crew already preparing to depart.

Atka watched them go, her shawl wrapped around her in the cool spring air. The formidable figure of Bosun approached, holding something in his hands–coiled, knotted, and precise. He offered it without ceremony: a loop of braided cord, intricate and strong, knotted into a prayer weave only sailors used for safe passage.

“For your doorway,” he said. “To keep the wind from stealing what’s important.”

She looked down at the intricately knotted rope in her hand, her eyes softening. “Thank you.”

Bosun dipped his head, then turned and followed his prince.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Back on deck, the crew was already preparing to cast off. Lines were coiled, tools stowed, and the faint smell of sea brine hung sharp in the wind. Zuko moved stiffly, each step testing a body still rebuilding itself. He didn’t speak as he rejoined the others, but he didn’t flinch away when the crew looked his way.

Bosun appeared at the brow, voice crisp as he relayed the order to make ready. “Stand by to get underway.”

“Aye, Bosun,” came the echo from the rail.

Zuko took his place near the bow, one hand braced lightly against the gunwale. He didn’t look back at the village or the woman who’d helped save him. He didn’t look at Iroh. But he stood there, steady in the wind.

Topside, Toma nudged Riku. “He came back,” he murmured.

Riku gave a slow nod. “Wasn’t sure he would. Glad to see it. My grandmother used to tell a story about a boy who would bring balance–”

“Riku, nobody wants to hear about your grandmother’s crazy stories.”

Below deck, Katsen’s voice crackled over the pipes “All engines ready. Holding at one-third until we clear the shoals.”

“Copy,” Jee answered. He watched the boy at the bow, hair whipped by the wind, coat snapping like a flag in storm-tossed air. “Let’s bring her about.”

The Wani creaked and shifted, turning slowly from the protected bay toward open water once more.

Chapter Text

The sea was calm; each wave catching the gold light of Agni's gaze. The hull of the Wani creaked and groaned in rhythm with the water. It was a familiar rhythm, and Zuko walked the decks with the wide stance of a seasoned sailor. His face was still bandaged although the bandages had diminished in size, and now the bright pink of his scar was visible around the stark white linen.

 

Behind him, the crew worked. Sailors repaired lines, murmured about rations, called rope lengths to one another.

 

Zuko stood near the bow, hands shoved into the pocket of a coat too large on his fever-thinned frame.

 

Iroh approached quietly, carrying a steaming cup of tea.

 

“Tea, my nephew?”

 

Zuko shot a look at his uncle. “Leaf water, you mean?”

 

Iroh chuckled, pouring tea into an iron cup, pushing it into Zuko’s hands. “It warms the soul.”

 

Zuko took the cup, his good eye squinted against the sun. “Uncle.... what happened to the Avatar?”

 

Iroh followed his gaze to the endless horizon. “No one knows, nephew. He was rumored to have been an airbender. That’s why your Great Grandfather wanted them exterminated.”

 

Zuko digested this information. His tutors had barely covered the airbenders–just that they were war mongering monks that had fallen in combat against Sozin’s forces when he brought peace keeping forces to their temples to spread the glory of the Fire Nation. “Which temple was he supposed to have been from?”

 

Iroh didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted toward the sky—clear and pale, thin strips of clouds spreading out, like under a painter’s brush.

 

“They say he was from the Southern Temple,” he said finally.

 

A muscle in Zuko’s jaw clenched. “Then that is where we should go.”

 

Iroh studied him, a shadow passing behind his eyes.

 

“It’s not a place for easy answers, nephew.”

 

Zuko met his gaze. “I know. I’m not looking for easy.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

As they traveled south, the high pressure system above them gave way to gray clouds and unsettled seas. The temperature dropped, leaving fog on the breath of the deckies as they worked outside.
The Wani hummed with quiet labor. Afternoon light filtered through the haze, casting long shadows over the deck where ropes were coiled and salt dried in the seams.

 

Riku was bent over a cleat near the midship rail, his hands working through the tangles of a stubborn line. The hemp was soaked and salt-stiff, and his knuckles were raw from the cold. He bit back a curse as the rope fought him. Occasionally, he shot a glance at the prince, who was moving through his katas. No one had seen him bend since the Agni Kai. Jomei said it was because he was waiting for the right time. Toma said it was because he was scared. Riki thought it probably had to do with the spirits, but he wasn’t sure how.

 

Nearby, Toma leaned against a crate of rations, ostensibly checking the inventory manifest, but mostly watching the prince. His eyes occasionally flicked toward Riku.

 

“You know,” Toma said, “You’re wasting your time with that line. It’s half-rotted. Should’ve been tossed last week.”

 

Riku didn’t look up. “Bosun says we’re short on spares till our next port and to patch what we can.”

 

Toma snorted. “And then it snaps under strain, and we’re worse off. Typical Bosun”. He went back to inventorying and watching the prince..

 

Riku grunted as he finally freed the worst of the tangle, looping the frayed line into a clean coil. “Well he’s our Bosun, so he probably knows better than you,” he sniped.

 

That got a laugh out of Toma. “Finding your balls, eh kid?”

 

Zuko let out a low grunt, fists cutting the air in a sharp, incomplete kata. No fire answered him. Riku looked up. Toma didn’t. Riku didn’t know much about fire bending himself, but he thought the forms looked precise and well executed.

 

"Sad sight, isn’t it?” Toma muttered. “Firebender with no fire. Our prince, no less."

 

Riku hesitated. “He almost died, Toma. Jomei said Chief Katsen told him he’s blessed by the spirits. I’m sure it’ll come back.”

 

Toma’s jaw flexed, just slightly. “Some people don’t know when they’re beat. Still clinging to myths.”

 

Riku’s hands stilled. “Some myths are worth clinging to.”

 

Toma didn’t respond, just turned back toward the rail, eyes scanning the horizon.

 

The wind picked up, catching the edge of the coiled rope in Riku’s lap. He smoothed it down and went back to work.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The helmsman, Roken, was a scrawny man carved by the seas, who grasped the helm with sinewy arms. He always had a wad of fire weed shoved in the corner of his mouth, spitting it into a tin cup he kept perched behind the helm. He was from the southern islands, and spoke with their heavy accent, dropping the h’s.

 

“‘Adn’t been ‘ere in an age, Prince. But I remember the way.” Roken cackled. “Rite of passage, it is, for the royal family.” His face crumpled as he realized he may have said something untoward. Prince Zuko hadn’t had his birthright taken away, but Fire Lord Ozai had not made any attempts to learn of what had happened to his son after he’d been carted onto the ship.

 

As they approached the land, fog gathered around the ship, a gray ocean rocking the ship as they approached. Dark gray spires erupted from the sea.

 

Zuko stared up at the spires, reaching far above the clouds. “How did they get there? My fam–the others?”

 

Roken spat into the tin cup wetly before setting it back down with a dull clank.

 

“They didn’t’. Sent the deckies up there or whatever upstart officer that ‘ad stars in their eyes. One of ‘em, ambition burning hotter than wisdom, that one. Big sideburns.” He held his hands around his face to mimic where hair would be.

 

“Zhao,” said Zuko.

 

Roken nodded. “That one. Zhao. Full of smoke and ambition. Came with your father, struttin’ like he’d already won the war."

 

Zuko stared up at the steep rocks. “I’ll climb it myself with uncle. I won’t make anyone follow but let them know they're welcome.”

 

Jee saluted. “Aye, aye, Sir.”

 

They dropped anchor just offshore, the breakers too treacherous to risk docking closer. From the deck, the coastline looked desolate—jagged cliffs thrust from the sea like the ribs of some long-dead beast, wind howling between them. Above it all, carved directly into the mountain face, loomed the remnants of the Southern Air Temple.

 

They made landfall at dawn. A narrow footpath, half-swallowed by creeping grass and scree, wound up the cliffside. The air grew colder with each step, and by the time they reached the outer wall, most of the crew had pulled their coats tight.

 

The temple itself was immense. Stone buildings stood in solemn silence, their sweeping roofs and circular windows outlined with the faded echoes of wind and time. Only the wind moved through the temple, keening through broken archways and open halls.

 

Zuko stepped through the crumbling main gate. The stone underfoot was clean—swept bare by years of relentless wind. His footsteps echoed, too loud in the empty space. Faded murals lined the walls, depicting skies and currents, monks in flowing saffron robes suspended midair. They felt impossibly distant, like they were from myths.

 

Zuko wondered what it would be like to fly.

 

As they searched the ancient chambers, Zuko stepped through a narrow passage. The air changed. Colder. He realized the wind had stopped. He was met by grinning skeletons in burned saffron robes, surrounded by skeletons in Fire Nation armor.

 

Zuko stumbled between cavernous rooms, his boots crunching ash and bone. He gagged at the sight of a smaller chamber, where tiny skeletons lay curled in scorched cradles, their faces turned upward in eternal, empty smiles.

 

He sought out his uncle, finding him standing in a colonnade open to the wind. Zuko's voice cracked. “This wasn’t a battle. It was a massacre.”

 

Iroh turned, his face drawn and gray.

 

“We knew. We knew. My father–”

 

“Ozai never left his ship.” Iroh said softly. “To my shame, neither did I. Searching for the Avatar was a rite of passage. I drank below decks while some seaman claimed to have searched the ruins. He probably played dice out on the docks. I was three sheets to the wind by the time he reported back; I didn’t care.”

 

Zuko’s face paled. “It’s a graveyard.”

 

“It was genocide, nephew.” Iroh exhaled, slow and unsteady. “I failed you long before the Agni Kai. I failed you before you were even born. I never took the search seriously. It was a formality. A game.” He bowed his head.

 

“What do we do?” Zuko asked. “Do we burn them? What did the airbenders do? They were monks, weren’t they? What were their practices?”

 

Iroh breathed. “We leave them. We never found the Avatar. One day, he will return. He’ll know what to do for his people. Until then, it will remain as testament.”

 

“To what?” Zuko cried, plaintive.

 

“To our depravity.”

 

The crew began to descend back to the ship, a small speck below them on gray waters.

 

Zuko saw saffron out of the corner of his good eye. His heart stopped for a moment in his chest. What if one of air benders still lived. “I’ll be right there, Uncle.”

 

He followed the trailing saffron into the temple courtyard. Pale blossoms, wind-scattered from an old plum tree, tumbled across the worn flagstones.

 

A woman stood in a great billowy robe that floated around her like guileless clouds on a summer’s day. Her hair shimmered like sunlit leaves caught in a southern breeze, and her eyes were the deep, bruised hue of an approaching storm. Her face was ageless, mouth soft with knowing. She smelled of spring rains on cracked earth, and the sharp, brittle edge of northern wind.

 

Then she stepped lightly to one side, her bare feet never quite touching the stone. From her sleeve she withdrew a single ribbon—silken, pale as cirrus clouds, its edge stitched in golden thread. She let it go.

 

The ribbon caught the breeze and danced upward, circling Zuko before drifting gently down. It came to rest across his shoulders, catching lightly on his bandaged face before falling into his hands. He looked down at the gossamer ribbon. It was the finest material he’d ever seen–slightly translucent with silvery undertones, a bright gold border glittering under the pale sun. When he looked up, she was gone.

 

He returned to his uncle, a contemplative look on his face. Iroh saw the ribbon, his brow furrowing.

 

“Where did you get that?”

 

“There was a woman back there. She gave me this.” He held up the band of cloth that fluttered in the stiff wind like something breathing.

 

Iroh plucked the corner of the ribbon in his hands, studying it. “This looks like ton-byan,” he breathed, his eyes widening.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“A fabric cultivated from an unknown planet fiber–it was a specialty of the air nomads. When they were killed, the knowledge of how to make the fabric died with them. We have robes in the treasury; they’re priceless now.”

 

“What does it mean?” Zuko asked, taking the ribbon back. It was weightless but heavy in his hands. He wrapped it around his wrist.

 

Iroh shook his head. “The spirits are mysterious.” He stroked his beard in thought before shrugging. “Perhaps she was simply showing her interest in a fine young man!” He exclaimed.

 

Zuko scowled.

 

They descended the mountain in silence.

 

When they reached the docks, Bosun stepped ahead. He knelt at the edge of the fractured pier and drew a prayer weave from his coat. Placing it on the cracked wood, he brought a flame to his hands, lighting it on fire. A thin line of smoke curled into the bruised sky.

 

Bosun Izen turned, bowing at Zuko before climbing back aboard.

 

That night, Zuko couldn’t sleep. He stood at the rail of the Wani, the sea black and endless around them. Iroh joined him, holding two cups.

 

“Tea?”

 

Zuko took it without answering. The smell was always better than the taste, but tonight it reminded him of summer and the warm lands of the Fire Nation. A pang of homesickness squeezed his heart.

“Uncle,” he said, “were we always like this?”

 

Iroh didn’t answer right away as he gazed out at the sea. The moon, waxing, was rising late. A silver ribbon of light formed a band over the black waters.

 

“No,” he said softly. “Long ago, we were a nation of life. We brought light to dark places and warmth to frozen lands. We were in balance, and the other nations loved us. In those days, we rode dragons.”

 

Zuko didn’t reply. He just held the cup in both hands, as if warmth might fill more than just his fingers.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The sea stretched black and endless under a sky just beginning to pale. Somewhere behind the eastern horizon, Agni stirred, but the sun had not yet risen.

 

Zuko stood alone on the forward deck of the Wani, stripped down to his light tunic despite the cold. His breath misted in the pre-dawn air. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, drew in a slow, deliberate breath and struck forward with his fists.

 

Nothing, not even a spark or a puff of smoke.

 

He tried again, harder. His fists cut through the air with perfect form, but the fire that he had fought so hard to summon and master stayed silent.

 

Frustration twisted in his chest. He struck again, and again, every movement sharper than the last. Still nothing. His healing wound ached from the effort.

 

The deck clanked beneath his boots. A gull cried once, far away.

 

Behind him, someone cleared their throat. Light footsteps approached. Zuko didn’t turn.

 

"You’re going to tear something if you push too hard, Prince Zuko," Jee said quietly.

 

Zuko exhaled, his breath fogging in the cold air. It should’ve been smoke. "Something’s wrong with me."

 

Jee frowned. He stood at a respectful distance, coat drawn tight against the sea wind.

 

"We’ll be making port by evening,” he said, because he didn’t know what to say to a banished prince who’d lost his fire; didn’t know how to bring him comfort. "Small place. It’ll be our last resupply until after the Western Air Temple. There’s a lot of Fire Nation land between us….” He trailed off.

 

Zuko straightened and turned to Jee, his mouth drawn in a thin line. “And I can’t enter Fire Nation waters or set foot on the homeland.”

 

“No,” Jee agreed, meeting Zuko’s gaze.

 

Zuko nodded. “Do…” His voice faltered. “Do any of the crew want to leave?” He asked, sounding as small as he looked. Jee felt something in his chest squeeze. The boy was his prince, but he was also just a lost and injured child with all the makings of someone great.

 

“No, Prince Zuko. The crew is true to you.”

 

Zuko sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. He nodded.

 

The sky lightened slowly. The ship rocked steady beneath them.

 

Zuko stared out at the horizon. It was beginning to bleed from black into bruised purple. Somewhere far off, a bell buoy clanged–a hollow, lonely sound.

 

"Let me know when you set nav detail.”

 

Jee saluted sharply. "Aye, sir."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Shoji Point was little more than a scar on the coast—rickety piers lashed together with rusted iron, warehouses leaning like drunkards, and taverns with windows so grimy they looked painted over. Once, it had been a Fire Navy refueling depot, but the foundries were cold, the docks splintered, and the banners of the Fire Nation hung sun-bleached and ragged, flapping like tired ghosts.

 

The town, provisionally a fire nation colony, had been built early in the war but had been abandoned when Sozin had moved inland and further north, conquering Yu Dao and moving the foundries. In the intervening years, Shoji Point had since become a rough place, filled with men prowling the market with rough hands and rougher intentions. Pirates bartering information and pilfered goods filled taverns full of big bosomed women with sharp smiles.

 

The crew spilled into the tawdry places, happy to trade coin for liquor and women. Toma, Riku, and Jomei tumbled into The Broken Coil , a grimy tavern with a sloping roof and a sign that promised cheap Soju. Inside, the smell hit them first–of unwashed men, cheap fireweed, and stale alcohol soaked into the floorboards. The ceiling sloped so low that Jomei bumped his head on the lanterns more than once, swearing and laughing as he ducked.

 

Riku, still green around the ears , clung close to the others. He glanced around, wide-eyed, as a woman with kohl-rimmed eyes and teeth like polished stone slid past with a tray of drinks and a wink. Toma slapped him on the back hard enough to nearly knock him off his feet.

 

"Drink faster, Riku. You’ll never grow sea legs on tea."

 

They found a battered table near the back, just far enough from the dice pit to stay out of the splash zone of any brawl but close enough to watch the action. Jomei ordered a pitcher of rice beer that tasted like it had been brewed in a bucket, and they passed it around like it was water.

 

“She smiled at you,” Jomei said, elbowing Riku and nodding at the waitress who had returned with their drinks. “You see that?”

 

“She smiled at you,” Riku muttered, face already flushed from a single cup.

 

Toma leaned back with a grin, propping his boots on an overturned crate. “Let the boy dream. That’s what shore leave is for—cheap drinks, warm company, and pretending we’re not drifting around chasing old stories”

 

“It’s not stories,” Riku argued, his eyes bright with alcohol. “The Avatar is real and The prince is blessed by Agni.”

 

“He can’t even bend fire,” Toma scoffed. “Some blessing.”

 

“Shut up with that spirit stuff, boys,” Jomei raised a glass. “It’s drinking time!”

 

They toasted to that, laughter drowning out the reels a trio was playing in a corner. For a few hours, the three men pretended they were just sailors in a tired port, and not sailors adrift on an impossible quest.

 

Jomei eventually staggered off toward the head, humming tunelessly. Riku passed out across the table, forehead pressed to his folded arms. Toma pulled the letter he’d gotten during mail call from his breast pocket. He unfolded it.

 

Toma,
We heard from the steward—the factory’s gone to half shifts again. Mara’s stitching sails for coin, but it’s not enough. Mama’s cough is worse. The healer says we need sea root tincture, but it was a hard winter.

We’ll make it through. We always do.

We’re so proud of you.

Love,

Your sister, Aki.

 

His throat burned and he ducked outside for air, the tavern door swinging closed behind him with a rusty creak.

 

The alley reeked of old fish and spilled liquor. Fog slithered up the cobbles, slick and slow, swallowing the lanternlight until everything looked half-drowned.

 

An older man leaned against a barrel nearby, pissing against a stone wall. His graying hair hung in strings beneath a battered overcoat patched at the elbows.

 

“You came in on the Wani, didn’t you?” the man said, voice slurred. “I served on her oh–twenty years ago. Didn’t know she still floated.”

 

Toma scowled at him as the man finished his business. “She’s held up by spite and determination.”

 

The man barked a laugh. “She was back then, too! Most ships are.” He leaned forward, leering with his toothless mouth. “Rumors follow that ship like barnacles."

 

Toma’s brows furrowed. “What kind of rumors?”

 

The man leaned against the barrel, hand braced like he might tip over otherwise. “About the prince. Heard he spoke up when he should’ve stayed quiet. Said something that would’ve gotten a lot of good soldiers killed. The Firelord burned him for it, but let him sail to earn redemption.” He hiccupped. “Merciful, that.”

 

“Tried to stop a massacre, that’s what I heard,” Toma said.

 

“Sure, sure.” The man gave him a watery look. “Lots of versions floating around. Fire Nation prince turned war hero. Or maybe just another failed son telling ghost stories to salvage what’s left of his honor. Heard his sister is better than by half in firebending. ” He straightened slowly, groaning as his back popped. “You’ve sailed with him. Is he any good?”

 

Toma hesitated.

 

The man continued blithely, “Can’t be much of a Fire Lord if you can’t even bend fire.”

 

Toma looked at the stone wall that pitched and swam under his vision.

 

The man peered at him. “Ah, tight lipped. Smart sailor. You know your information is worth money. Well.” He reached into his overcoat and dropped a purse on the barrel with a clunk. “I know people who pay well for truth, or at least the shape of it.”

 

Toma looked at the bag. The man motioned for him to take it, and Toma dropped glittering coins into his hand. They looked real enough. It was more than six months worth of pay, and would go far to paying his family’s debt down. He looked up. “I’m a loyal Fire Nation sailor,” he said.

 

The man slapped his hand on the barrel. “Exactly right you are! That’s immediately what I said, soon as I saw you. Loyal. Not to a ghost ship, or a banished prince chasing fairy tales—but to the real Fire Nation. To the man actually on the throne.”

 

He tipped an imaginary cap. “Name’s Xu. Ask around.”

 

Toma watched him vanish into the fog. The smell of brine and rot lingered behind.

 

Back inside, the tavern was louder, sweatier. Riku was snoring, his head on the table. Jomei had yet to return.

 

Toma sat down slowly, the taste of beer suddenly sour in his mouth.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko pursued the market with his Iroh at his side. He picked up a blue mask with fangs jutting out. It stirred an old gauzy memory at Ember Island with his mother, Azula at his side back when there was some good in her and she wasn’t always trying to find new ways to hurt or manipulate or lie.

 

The merchant grinned at him. “That’s an original from Love Amongst the Dragons used during the first run at Caldera.”

 

He stared down at the mask, grinning back up at him. He could feel Uncle’s gaze on him.

 

“Is it important to you?” his uncle asked gently.

 

“It was Mom’s favorite play,” he said. “She took us every year to see it at the Calder and then later to the Ember Islands version but it…wasn’t so good.” He flipped the mask over, a small tag with the price dangling in the wind. They couldn’t afford it and he didn’t need it. He put it back.

 

The merchant appraised Zuko, his muddy eyes flickering between the prince and his uncle. “You’re Prince Zuko aren’t you?”

 

Zuko’s good eye flicked up to meet the appraising eyes of the merchant. When he didn’t answer, the merchant’s smile widened. “You are. You’re the Coward Prince.”

 

Zuko felt his blood leave his face, his wound burning. Beside him, Iroh stiffened.

 

“What?” Zuko asked.

 

“You heard me.” The merchant leaned forward, eyes glinting. “The one who cried in the middle of an Agni Kai. Begged for mercy like a child. Couldn’t finish a duel against an old general just because the man had a real war plan. You screamed, didn’t you? That’s what they say.”

 

“That’s–” A hand reaching for his face, a caress that became warm and then intolerably hot and then the pain, the smell of his own skin burning. “That’s not what happened.” Zuko’s hand hovered at the bandage on his face, his chest tightening with the memory of heat, of betrayal, of shame he couldn’t explain to anyone who hadn’t stood in that arena.
He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if saying anything even mattered.

 

“Keep the mask,” the merchant said. He rummaged behind his kiosk and pulled out an eye patch that he tossed over. “But you might want this more. Helps hide the shame.”

 

Zuko felt his breath coming sharp and short. Iroh stepped in front of him. “Strong words,” he said, voice low and flat, “for a coward behind a cart.”

 

The merchant straightened, still grinning. “Wasn’t meant to offend—”

 

“But you did,” Iroh said. “I was there.” Iroh said, the normal levity gone. “I don’t remember your face. Have you heard of the 41st?”

 

The merchant hesitated. “Tragedy, what happened. Lost a cousin.”

 

Iroh nodded. “It was. There was one person in the entire Fire Nation who knew about a plan to send untested troops into battle against seasoned earthbenders and spoke against it.”

 

“There was?” The merchant’s scruffy brows popped up. “Then why—?”

 

“Because he showed courage and his father burned him for insolence. If you want to speak of cowards, you speak to me, who did nothing.”

 

Understanding shuttered over the man’s face. He looked at Zuko.

 

“You stood up for the 41st?”

 

Zuko gave a small nod, afraid of voicing insolent words that would bring him more pain.

 

The merchant paled and nodded. He prostate himself. “My apologies, Prince Zuko. I did not know. They say—they’re saying a lot.”

 

“Come, nephew,” Iroh said, gently now. “This place smells worse the longer we stay.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The second bar was worse than the first but Bosun and Jee were already well into their cups and had found their standards lowered.

 

It didn’t have a name so much as a painted plank swinging from rusted chains, the letters long worn away by salt and wind. The inside smelled of old grease and spilled rum. The crowd was older–dockworkers, mercenaries, men with the look of those who’d lived through war and never quite come back from them.

 

They settled at a battered table near the door, where they could watch the room without drawing attention. Jee nursed a cup of bitter rice liquor. Bosun had his giant hands clasped around a tiny warm earthware glass of rice wine.

 

Across the room, near a splintered support beam, a group of rough-looking men played a lazy game of pai sho. One wore the remnants of a Fire Navy jacket, the insignia torn off, the sleeves stained. His laughter was too loud, the kind that carried.

 

"—Prince Zuko," the man was saying, voice thick with drink. "More like Prince Leech, suckin' up our ships, our coin, our men, for some mad fool's hunt."

 

A ripple of mean-spirited laughter answered him.

 

"Banished for cowardice, I heard," said another, tossing down a tile with a sharp clack. "Couldn't even finish a duel with a general without begging."

 

Jee's hand tightened around his cup. Bosun's gaze sharpened but his expression didn’t change.

 

Another man, a pockmarked brute missing his front teeth snorted. "I heard it was worse. Heard he ran his mouth in a war council, tried to stop a real campaign from goin' forward. Got his face cooked for it."

 

"I heard he thinks he's some kind of hero," the first man sneered. "Chasing after fairy tales.”

 

The table erupted in hoarse laughter.

 

Bosun rose, slow and deliberate. Jee looked up at him, gave a slight shake of his head—not here, not now.

 

Bosun ignored him.

 

He crossed the room with a sailor’s easy roll, the crowd parting instinctively around him. He stopped at the gamblers' table and set one massive, scarred hand down flat on the tiles, scattering them like leaves.

 

The men looked up, startled.

 

"You got a lot to say about a boy who's not here to defend himself," Bosun said, voice low and calm.

 

The first speaker, emboldened by drink, sneered. "What's it to you, old man? You one of his little lapdogs?"

 

Bosun smiled unpleasantly.

 

"I'm a man who doesn't like traitors," he said. "Or cowards."

 

Without warning, he seized the speaker by the front of his jacket and lifted him bodily out of his chair. The man yelped, feet kicking uselessly above the floor.

 

"If’n you got something to say about the Prince," Bosun said, "you take it up with me."

 

He threw the man into the nearest table. It collapsed in a spray of splinters and spilled drink.

 

The bar roared into motion—chairs scraping, men rising—but Jee was already moving, stepping in at Bosun’s back.

 

“Goddammit, Izen, I’m too old for this shit,” Jee muttered as he came to Bosun’s side. The taller man grinned down at him in a rare expression of glee.

 

“Skipper, we’re due for a little fun.”

 

Jee glowered. “This is below my rank.”

 

Bosun laughed. “That’s why you commissioned folks are always so grim. Remember when we were young?”

 

Jee launched with a quick jab as the toothless man lunged, his answer lost in a brawl.

 

Not much later, the stumbled into the streets. Jee sported a split lip but Bosun, who towered over most everybody, had escaped unscathed. Jee glowered. “This is why I stopped fighting with you.”

 

Bosun allowed a rare laugh.

 

“It was worth it,” he said, and for a moment, he appeared unbridled and young, his dark eyes sparkling. He looked at his captain. “Bunch of nobody’s running their mouth about Prince Zuko.”

 

Captain Jee looked up at his old friend, his smile fading. “Do you think it’s real, Izen? The stories about him?”

 

Bosun’s levity faded. “We been at this a long time, Skipper. You know as well as I do about the state of our navy and we’ve been punished for speaking up. It’s why you’re still just a lieutenant and we’re both on this rotten tub. I know you think I’m a superstitious man but, sir, there’s something about our prince. He should never have survived that wound.”

 

“No,” Jee agreed. They’d both seen men with injuries less severe than Zuko’s and still claimed by the deep.

 

“Even if the spirits weren’t involved, he did what we’ve always tried to do: stand up for what he thought was wrong, and that’s enough for me.”

 

They finished their walk back to the Wani in contemplative silence.

Later that night, Jee, finding himself very maudlin, stood on the deck of his ship and thought of his son. Every day, he missed him worse than the last with the knowledge he’d never see him again. The grief was as fathomless as the ocean and hollowed him out. He looked down at the harbor waters lapping against the hull. He was not a very spiritual man, not after twenty years of war, but he found himself asking a prayer of La all the same.

 

And as the ocean had done for all the years he’d spent afloat, the waves remained stoic.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the pier. He was reluctant to return to the ship, but was tired of the stares and crude comments in town. He heard the shuffling step of his Uncle and then the old man was beside him, a cup of tea in his hand.

 

“Why always with the tea, Uncle?”

 

Because,” Iroh said, pouring a cup for himself. “We cannot change the past, nephew, or our situation. We only change ourselves and accept what is.”

 

“What does that have to do with tea?”

 

Iroh smiled. “Everything.”

Chapter Text

They’d been to all the air temples, and the story at each was the same: genocide.

Zuko stood before his crew, knees unsteady, scar throbbing. He no longer needed bandages but the skin always felt taut and his eye was prone to drying out, blurring his vision.

“We have been to all the Air Temples,” Zuko said to his crew. “And everything we were taught was a lie. There were no armies. They were not a threat to our people. My great grandfather wiped out an entire group of people to kill one person–the Avatar.”

He heaved a breath, wobbly with the gravity of what he was about to say. “This war–” his voice cracked, and he forced it to steady. “It wasn’t built on honor. It was built on lies.”

The crew shifted, too disciplined to glance at each other.

“I’m not searching for the Avatar because of my banishment but because he must exist and it is our duty to bring balance back to the world and honor back to our nation.

“And if you are not loyal to that–then when we make port, you’re free to leave. Full pay. But,” he scanned the crew. “The dishonor and betrayal of our nation ends with us.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

In the Fire Nation, a rumor spread of a banished prince, now a traitor, who had turned his back on his country.

Lord Ozai heard these rumors and to an old friend and seasoned officer with stars in his eyes he said,

“Find the banished prince. He is a traitor to the crown.”

And Zhao smiled.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Anshou Harbor sat on a windswept spit of land. Salt and wind had scraped all color from the town. A southern wind, still carrying the bite of the ice sheets, howled between stone structures built from the granite and gneiss cliffs that erupted from the shore. A lighthouse sat at the end of the harbor, its rotating light a beacon and a warning of the rocky shoals that threatened their approach. The Wani moored at the far end, her silhouette a ghost against the dying sun filtering pale through ice clouds. The sky was a sallow blue, when it could be seen at all.
It was a lonely place on the edge of the Earth Kingdom; the southernmost harbour before open sea and eventually, the frigid glaciers of the Southern Water Tribe. Summer never gained a strong foothold in this land, and was already being quickly replaced by the skeletal fingers of fall.

The heavy smell of old fish and cooking fires formed a miasma on the wind. The fisherman and dock workers were bundled in heavy padded jackets of greens that had faded to grays and browns with time. As the crew disembarked, they were hardly spared a passing glance.

Toma slipped away down the brow. The rest of the crew was already on shore leave. They stuck out in their clean, pressed clothes and bright red, like poisonous berries.He ducked between fishmongers and dock workers, finally slipping into the back of a tumbledown warehouse.

Stepping out of the shadows, a man with hooded eyes and pockmarked skin glared at Toma. “You’re late.”

Toma bowed. "My apologies, sir. We had to finish anchoring detail and trash offload. I didn’t want to look suspicious.”

The man hummed. "The Fire Nation appreciates your loyalty, Seaman Toma.” He paused. “I understand your family has some debt, after your father died a few years ago.”

Toma tensed.

“For the right information, we can ensure the debt is paid off and your family is taken care of. That is what loyalty to the true Fire Lord looks like.”

Toma shifted his balance. “What kind of information?”

“I work for an honorable officer loyal to Fire Lord Ozai. He is grateful for anything you learn. It is too bad to hear that the prince may be….straying from his loyalties.”

“We’ve gone to all the air temples, and he’s saying the Fire Nation committed genocide! That they didn’t have an army at all!” Toma blurted. He’d been in the Northern Air Temple and seen it for himself, but there’d been Fire Nation skeletons, too, so that had to mean something didn’t it? And it made sense to kill—to kill babies so they wouldn’t grow up and seek revenge. Didn’t it?

“Some people say–there’s rumors that he’s blessed by the spirits. Some kind of… prophecy.” Toma knew he was rambling, but felt guilty; that he was betraying his prince and the ship. “But how can that be if he can’t even bend?”

The man nodded with a scowl. “Saying he’s backed by prophecy resonates with the weak-willed, especially among those who have grown tired of war.” He spat on the ground. “You are loyal to the Fire Nation, Seaman, not a traitorous prince and his cowardly Uncle.”

The man smiled. “Thank you, sailor, for your information. Consider a year of your family’s debt paid off. Look for those wearing this,” he pointed to a red tassel looped around his waist, “and with the information you give us, another year is wiped clean from the slate.”

Toma nodded shakily. The man cupped his hands in the Fire Nation sign and bowed deeper than someone so far below his rank merited.

Toma stayed bent for longer than necessary, even after the officer had gone. He told himself he was doing the right thing, but a weight had settled in his stomach, making him nauseous.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Bosun Izen adjusted the weight of the coil over his shoulder, boots grinding against the salt-slick stone of the docks. Around him, old fishermen with curled backs stumped back from the market with whatever they hadn’t sold. Women in revealing dresses and too many baubles leered out from doorways as the lights came on for the evening. The people here were crude and rough, but this far removed from anything that mattered, they were not cowed by the war. Their shoulders were held back and they met the crew of the Wani with hard eyes–almost in challenge.

As he pushed through the crowds, he saw Toma stumbling past. His head was down, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was headed back to the ship and didn’t notice Bosun. He filed it away.

He caught up with Captain Jee and the Cook near the supply stalls, where a squat merchant haggled with a scowl carved deep into his face.

“Flour’s damp, Captain, and the meat’s green around the edges,” Cook was saying.

“Only coal they’ll sell us is half dust,” Bosun added as he approached.

Captain Jee looked between them. He drew them away from the merchants and lowered his voice. “What benefit do they have in cheating us?”

Bosun shrugged. “Could be they just don’t like Fire Nation, Sir.”

“But they’ll take Fire Nation money.” Jee’s eyes narrowed.

Beyond the harbor, the lighthouse spun its slow rotation–a pale arc of light across the gray water.

And just past the farthest rocks, Jee caught a glimpse of a black smudge low against the horizon, where the sky and sea blurred.

“Bosun, double the watch. As soon as the Wani’s reloaded and fueled, we cast off.”

Izen nodded, following his captain’s gaze. His eyes flickered back to Toma, still pushing himself through the evening crowd.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko watched one of the sailors–Toma, Zuko remembered– come back aboard the ship. His brown eyes flickered up and met Zuko’s. His thin lips creased in a frown, the corners of his eyes tight. He gave a quick bow before shuffling back inside, the clanging of the weather tight door marking his departure.

Footsteps pounded up the brow. Jee came into view, moving with purpose, the stiff wind snapping the hem of his coat.

“Prince Zuko,” he said, saluting briskly. “We’ve got a problem. The merchants are stalling. Supplies are spoiled, the coal’s half dust—and I spotted a ship offshore.”

Zuko’s gaze narrowed, following Jee’s nod out past the rocky shoals.

There, low against the horizon, was the unmistakable black wedge of a Fire Nation cutter.

Zuko exhaled, the mist of his breath swallowed by the cold.

“How long to get us underway?” he asked.

“Too long,” Jee said grimly. “If they’re coming, we won’t outrun them here.”

Zuko looked back at the ship on the horizon. Iroh arrived beside him.

Then he looked at the crew On the docks — his crew — moving like red sparks against a gray world.

“Why would they be here? I’ve been banished and we’ve not violated any of the terms.”

The Captain shrugged. “Could just be a standard patrol. Anshou Harbor isn’t a popular port call, but it’s not uncommon.”

Zuko’s hands tightened into fists at his sides.

“Get the ship loaded and we’ll see what they want.”

The cutter moved with predatory grace, slipping closer to the mouth of the harbor as the Wani finished loading.

From the quarterdeck, Zuko could see it now — the black steel hull, the sharp prow designed to cut through heavy seas. Iroh stood beside him. At the rail, hands clasped behind his back, stood a figure Zuko recognized even at a distance.

Zhao.

The light caught the silver gleam of his armor, the stiff set of his jaw.

The ship made port and the Captain strode down the brow, his shoulders back, a small grin pasted on his face. Zuko and Iroh stood on the quarter deck. The ship’s bells announcing Zhao’s arrival clanged as he climbed the brow of the Wani.

“Captain Zhao!” Iroh exclaimed. “So good to see you. You have sailed far from home, what brings you here?”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” Zhao said. He looked over the beaten ship, his eyes lingering on the dents and rust. “We were patrolling in the area and heard that you were ported here. It felt…appropriate to give our respects.”

Zhao cocked his head at Zuko, smiling thinly. “No bow? Is that anyway to greet an honored officer of the Fire Nation?”

Zuko met his gaze without flinching. He tried to breathe through the anger that curled around him.

“No matter,” Zhao said softly. “It must be…difficult. To lose one’s birthright. To lose…one’s spark.”

Zuko couldn’t keep his eyes from widening. Zhao knew. He looked at Iroh, but his uncle’s face was saccharine, a warm smile plastered on his face.

He said, “ Lieutenant Jee has been so kind as to offer his cabin to us. I’m afraid this southern wind gets into these old bones. Why don’t we take this inside?”

Zhao sneered. “I’d be honored.”

The cabin was cramped, lit by a single oil lamp that swung gently with the harbor waves. Pale, gray light filtered through the open portholes. Zhao made great pains settling into Jee’s chair, the wood creaking under his armor. An aide stood behind him with a clipboard and a roll of parchment, ready to take notes. Iroh and Zuko sat across from him, Jee standing behind them. Zhao studied Zuko the way a man might study a half-tamed animal in a zoo. Finally, he laced his fingers together and leaned forward.

“You’ve been far from home, Prince Zuko,” he said, voice light, almost pitying. “So far, in fact, that I hear…certain ideas have begun to take root.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. Zhao’s smile widened.

“Ideas of peace and justice. Strange words from the prince of the Fire Nation.”

“We’re not traitors! We have been hunting the Avatar,” Zuko said tightly.

“Traitors? The words never crossed my lips,” Zhao smirked. He leaned forward.

“Fire Lord Ozai realizes he was remiss in banishing you. He feels it is better that you be raised in the Fire Nation—in your home.” He paused.

Zuko sat back against the chair, floored. He looked at Iroh, whose smile had faded into a thin, grim line.

“My brother does not make mistakes,” Iroh said.

Zhao ignored him. “I offer you a chance, Prince Zuko. Lower your banner. Strike your colors. Come aboard my cutter peacefully — and I will see that you are brought home… intact.”
The smile sharpened.

“Refuse, and…”

He made a small, almost lazy motion with his hand.

“The seas are treacherous. Accidents happen. Even to princes of the Fire Nation.”

The lamp swung slightly overhead, throwing Zhao’s shadow long across the table.

Zuko’s mouth was dry. “And my crew?”

Zhao blinked slowly, as if considering.

“They will be…given the opportunity to defend themselves in court martial. If it is true, as you say, that you are not traitors–your word, not mine–then they should have nothing to worry about.”
Zuko tightened his fists beneath the table.

Iroh laid one hand lightly against his arm — a silent reminder.

Patience. Strategy.

Zhao watched Zuko with amusement.

“I’ll expect your answer before morning, Prince Zuko,” he said, standing smoothly.

“It’s so good to see you, Captain Zhao,” Iroh said, guiding him out. “You may find the sea far more treacherous than you remember. It is good to see you safe.”

Zhao’s eyes narrowed a fraction and gave a shallow bow — just enough to be insulting — and swept from the cabin, boots striking hollow against the deck.

The door swung gently in its frame, then settled with a soft, final clunk.

For a long moment, none of them spoke. The lantern swung above them. The faint smell of salt and old coal smoke filled the tight space.

Zuko looked between his uncle and Captain Jee.

“Someone betrayed me.” His voice was distant, broken, and anchored with hurt rage.

“We will find out who, Zuko,” Iroh promised, “but first we must escape.”

Zuko looked at Jee. “Any suggestions?”

“We cannot fight them head-on,” he said. “Not in open water. Our ship is fifty years old; they have better weaponry and faster engines.”

“So we create a distraction,” Zuko said. “On land.”

Iroh looked at Zuko thoughtfully. “What are you thinking, Nephew?”

“Diversion in port. Wani stays cold until Zhao’s looking the other way. Then we cut the moorings and push off under auxiliary power.”

Jee leaned over his shoulder, studying the map of the harbor. “Here.” He pointed to an area out of the channel, multiple dotted lines with “shoals” in a tight script. “Our draft is shallower than Zhao’s. If we can get to the shoals, we may be able to navigate them safely and hug the coastline. By the time they can get their anchor up, we should be out of the harbor and halfway to the shallows.”

Iroh rubbed his chin. “It is a new moon and a fog is rolling in, these are to our favor.” He smiled.

Jee said, “It’s ambitious but it may work. Bosun Izen will know the men we can trust,” Jee said.

Zuko shook his head. “I’ll do it.”

Iroh frowned. “Zuko, I’m sure Bosun or Lieutenant Jee know of someone better suited to this without putting your life at risk.”

Zuko scowled. “Uncle, I will not order someone else to risk their life for a distraction if I’m not willing to take do it myself, and I’m sure there are some in the crew that are loyal, but there’s a traitor on the ship. The less people that know, the better.”

“You’re the only one Zhao truly wants,” Iroh said. “If you’re caught, he wins. The rest of us are collateral.”

“I’m not asking for permission. I’m telling you.” He stood. Some of the anger on his face softened. “I’ll be okay, Uncle. But I can do this. Believe in me.”

Iroh hesitated. “Of course, Zuko. Be careful.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The first blast ripped through the southern docks just after midnight.

Zuko felt it before he heard it — a tremor under his boots then the concussive BOOM that shook the Wani against her lines.

Zuko stood on the quarterdeck, still dressed in black. He was sodden from where he’d slipped out of the harbor water, climbing the Jacob’s Ladder to get back onto the Wani. He watched the fire surge upward, creating a glowing haze against the fog and low clouds that the sky above the harbor a hostile orange.

Moments later, the second explosion rattled the town, the blast rolling across the water like thunder. The deck pitched. Zuko gripped the rail, smoke stinging his eyes.

Screams followed — high and ragged — as townsfolk scattered into the alleys, shadows jerking and stumbling in the firelight.

Captain Jee approached Zuko’s side, voice low.

“Signal from the Bosun. Ready to cut lines on your order.”

Zuko gripped the rail, feeling the ship strain beneath his hands.

Across the harbor, Zhao’s cutter shifted — men swarming the decks, shouting orders, confused by the sudden chaos.

Zuko’s gaze swept the burning docks, the panicked harbor, the cutter lost in smoke and firelight.

“Cut us loose,” Zuko said.

For a half-breath they drifted — weightless.

Then the auxiliary engines rumbled to life below, a low, coughing growl. It’s sound was hidden by the clanging bells at the harbor as the town was summoned to fight the spreading fire.
The ship began to move, slow at first, then faster — pushing away from the pier, slipping through the firelight like a ghost.

Zuko stood at the rail, the cold wind cutting through him, smoke stinging his eyes.

Iroh stood beside him on the fantail, watching the town burn. They heard the horn over the water as Zhao’s ship began casting off its mooring lines. They’d made it to the break in the harbor and hit open sea. Instead of heading straight into the open ocean, the Helmsman took them to port, skirting the towering cliffs, black again a black night.

Zuko moved to the bow, and looked down at the black waves. He could hear surf crashing against rocky outcroppings.

Zuko was a child of Agni but he had met La in his fevers. “Sea Mother, I did not choose your depths before. I do not choose them now.”

Either through providence or the skill of Helmsman Roken, they did not run ashore.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

By morning, they’d left the coast. A cold wind drove across the decks and seeped below deck where the air was thick with cold and coal smoke.

The low piping of the Wani’s engines rattled through the walls, steady but strained.

Toma sat alone near the auxiliary stores, his back to a crate of rust-streaked supplies, hands buried deep in his coat.

He could still smell the fires from Anshou — the burned wood, the acrid tang of smoke clinging to his clothes.

He pulled his cap lower over his eyes, heart pounding against his ribs like a drum. He’d helped provide lookout for the ship as they skirted the dark cliffs and shoals, the fog banked deep around them.

Toma wiped his palms against his trousers and stared at the deck.

Footsteps echoed down the companionway, boots striking sharp against the metal.

Toma stayed frozen against the crate, heart hammering in his throat.

“Toma?” Riku’s soft voice penetrated the gloom. Toma started. He plastered a smile on his face.

“Riku! I was just down here looking for…for some tools Jomei needs.”

Riku frowned, looking around the crates. “But you’re in dry stores?”

“I got turned around.”

Riku looked at him in the gloom. He frowned. “You don’t look too good, Toma.

“Just tired,” he mumbled. “Long night. I think I breathed in some of that smoke. Prolly bad fish at Hua’s place, too.”

Riku watched him for a long moment, the lamplight swinging gently between them.

Then he smiled — small and tight — and clapped Toma once on the shoulder, hard enough to make the other man flinch.
“Get some rest, Toma,” he said.

And he turned away, the soft scuff of his boots fading into the gloom.

Behind him, Toma sagged against the crates, breathing in ragged gasps.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko meditated. He felt his lungs expand and slowly let the air out—it used to remind him of fire but after months at sea, it now reminded him of the endless waves of water rolling under them. Sometimes he found himself not concentrating on the flame, but of the steady rocking of the ocean. He opened his eyes in frustration as he realized he’d done just that—was breathing with the ocean swells. He balled his hands into fists. This was taking him farther from what he needed to do; he was meditating on the wrong element.

A knock at the door interrupted him. “Enter,” he said.

Uncle towed the door open, his hands full with tea. He folded his legs under him, settling across from Zuko. He poured the tea out, a laconic curl of steam lifting up.

“Jasmine,” Iroh smiled. “My favorite.”

Zuko sighed, taking the cup and letting it warm his hands.

“My fire is gone,” he said.

Iroh nodded. “It is not gone, Zuko. It is part of who you are. You’re changing, nephew. You used the fuel your masters taught you, but it was a bad source.”

“How can there be a bad source, it’s fire.”

Iroh smiled. “Fire is life, Zuko. All the bending forms are.” His smile faded. “But for many years we have taught the wrong thing—that fire is anger and war.”

“But I am angry,” Zuko said. “I’m angry about what happened, and that we have a traitor, and that the crew puts their trust in me but they shouldn’t. I can’t even bend.” He shouted.

“Those are indeed things to be angry about, but is it anger you feel, or sorrow and fear?”

Zuko’s eyes widened. “I’m not a coward.”

Iroh sipped his tea. “I didn’t say you were. A man can be afraid and still be brave. It just means he’s not an idiot. It is much braver to go to battle knowing you might die than to think you will live forever. I was scared on the eve of all my great battles.”

Zuko blinked. “You were?”

Iroh nodded. “I knew I was sending men to die and if I had strategized wrong, if I didn’t understand my enemy, the death toll would be much higher.”

“My father is never afraid.”

“In this, Zuko, you are mistaken. My brother’s life is driven by fear.”

Zuko stopped pacing. He folded his legs and settled across from Iroh. “Fear of what?”

Iroh set the cup down and looked at his nephew. “Fear of the knowledge he will one day be defeated.”

Zuko stared at him.

“Now,” Iroh smiled. “Shall we play pai sho?”

Outside, the ocean whispered against the hull, patient and endless.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The next morning Zuko awoke to the high pitched whistle of general quarters and Bosun's voice coming in tinny over the pipes.

“General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations. Set material condition Zebra throughout the ship. Make your reports to the bridge.”

Zuko threw on his armor and ran to the bridge, where Jee was already in the captain’s chair, Iroh beside him. Off the starboard bow, a black cutter loomed in the distance, its trebuchets loaded.

 

“Zhao.”

Chapter Text

The Wani shuddered as another round slammed into the aft plating. Sparks sprayed across the bridge, and Zuko tasted the bitter tang of scorched metal in the air. A warning klaxon howled overhead, adding to the cacophony. The deck tilted as Roken swung them hard to starboard, trying to evade the cutter’s prow.

“Engage rear thrusters !” Jee barked.

Zuko gripped the railing, eyes locked on the enemy—Zhao’s warship, sleek and black against the boiling gray sea. Its trebuchets reset with mechanical precision, launching fire-laced barrels across the water. One exploded midair, casting burning tar across the surf like molten stars.

“Engineering, damage report!” Jee’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Steering’s sluggish. Auxiliary engine overheating.” Kazaen’s voice, tinny over the pipes, came fast and clipped. “We’ve lost partial power to port stabilizers.”

The ship listed again as another impact struck near the stern. Zuko nearly fell, catching himself on a rung.

“Marines, keep that trebuchet turning!” Bosun yelled on the deck below.

Another flaming barrel arced toward them, slowing before hurtling down. It struck the sea just short of the hull, the explosion sending a gout of burning slick and ocean spray across the deck. A wall of flame curled up the starboard side.

Zuko coughed, smoke clawing his throat. He stumbled forward. He could see below him as some of the deckhands dragged a hose toward the fire.

“We’re losing the deck!” Izen shouted. “Fire’s spreading across the weatherboards! Where’s my damage controlmen?”

“We can’t win this,” Jee growled to Iroh over the shriek of metal and alarms. “Zhao’s staying out of our range and bleeding us. If we don’t turn east, we’re boxed in.”

“There’s nowhere to turn,” Roken said grimly. “Unless you want to beach ‘er on rocks or steer straight into the Zhao’s jaws. We’d be close enough they wouldn’t be able to fire the trebuchets.”

“Bring us in,” Jee commanded. “We can broadside them.”

Zuko looked around, breath ragged. Fire. Screams. Steam venting from cracked pipes. The Wani was coming apart around him. Every choice led to death.

Zuko clenched his fists. He was useless—untrained on ranged weapons and without fire, he could only watch as his ship was Zhao battered his ship.

He looked at his uncle and Jee. “Run up the white flag,” Zuko said hoarsely. “I’ll surrender.”

“Zuko, no,” Iroh snapped, turning to face him. His voice was low but fierce.

“They’ll kill the crew!” Zuko shouted.

“And Zhao will torture you,” Iroh said, shaking his head. “And then he’ll kill them anyway.”

Zuko clenched his fists. “He’ll sink the ship and everyone will die regardless,” he said. “I’ll surrender and at least we have a shot!” He glared at Jee. “It’s an order, Captain, run up the white flag.”

Before Jee could respond the Wani shuddered as a burning barrel slammed into the port bow, shrapnel flying across the deck like knives. Zuko threw open the hatch and bounded down the ladder wells. The lower decks screamed with warning bells. The corridor was choking with smoke and steam.

He burst onto the deck. Black tar crackled beneath his boots. The air was thick with flame and fear. Sailors yelled at one another as they fought to control the fire, seawater spraying from the nozzle. On the fantail, the Marines fought to reload. The Wani listed to port, klaxons clanging with the warning that the ship was taking on water.

He hit the lower deck at a sprint. A section of railing had collapsed. Tar slicked the plating. The air was blister-hot.

“Get that hose up!” someone yelled. Zuko grabbed a dropped line and began putting out the fire that raged across the desk over great slicks of tar. The Marines were split between manning the trebuchet and using their firebending to suppress the flames. His chest was tight, he was a failure. He couldn’t even put out his own element, it no longer listened to him. Agni had abandoned him.

Another blast rocked the Wani, and he dropped to one knee beside a pile of debris. He reached in barehanded and pulled a smoldering beam off a jammed hatch.

“Sir—watch it!”

“I’m fine. Get it clear!”

One of the deckhands came to replace him at the nozzle. For the next several minutes, Zuko hauled water buckets, braced beams, and shoved aside flaming rubble.

He did not notice that the burning deck did not touch him. He had no burns, no blistering of the skin from the heat. When he walked, the fire bent around him.

The sailor beside him, the one with soft brown eyes, a sharp smile, and a dozen excuses to avoid work collapsed, the buckets he was carrying spilling water over the deck. Blood poured from his side, dark and pulsing, shrapnel buried deep in his ribs.

Zuko turned, his hands suddenly numb. He fell to his knees besides the man, Toma, he remembered. Already, his pallor was pale, a surprised look on his face as he held the wound in his side.

Zuko’s breath hitched.

He wasn’t a healer. He wasn’t even worthy to be the leader of his crew on this hopeless quest his father had thrust upon him.

He fell to his knees beside the sailor, the fog of war fading around him. He’d never seen so much blood.

He closed his eyes and breathed.

He felt the rhythm of the ocean, the timelessness of La and her rolling waves that went endlessly onward , that crashed against the shore and pulled back and surged forward once more. For the first time since the Agni Kai, he felt the spark of Agni, sunlight flickering in the ridges of the waves, each immortal wave catching a new angle of light.

Toma’s breath was unsteady. Zuko matched it to the tide, guiding sunlight to the ridges of his breath and strengthened them. And when he’d done that, he realized the blood that pulsed from his wound was part of the same undulations and he guided heat and warmth and found he could knit flesh.

Agni flowed through him.

And he finally understood what his Uncle had been trying to tell him.

Fire was life.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o

The fog was thick as smoke, curling low over the waves like breath on cold glass. Hakoda stood at the prow of his ship, war cloak flapping in the bitter wind. His jaw was tight, hands resting against the carved railing.

He smelled smoke on the breeze, could hear the distant clash of a naval battle.

“Visuals confirmed,” Bato said, lowering his spyglass. “Two Fire Navy ships. One looks dead in the water. Other one’s running them down.”

Hakoda’s brow furrowed. “The smaller one—bearing arms?”

“Minimal. One trebuchet. They’re outgunned.”

“So they’re trying to flee?” He asked, mildly surprised.

“Could be bait,” Lek, their scout, muttered behind him. “One ship plays wounded, lures us in. The other finishes the kill.”

Hakoda looked over his shoulder. “Could be, but it’s one hell of a ruse.”

“What if it’s deserters?” Bato offered. “Or prisoners. Could’ve commandeered that little ship.”

Hakoda frowned. “or maybe pirated. What flags are they flying?”

Bato lowered the spy glass, a complicated look on his face. “Fire Nation but…they just raised a White flag.”

“That,” Lek said, “is exactly what I’d fly if I wanted Water Tribe ships to get close enough for a blast radius.”

Hakoda looked back toward the horizon. The fog parted just enough to reveal the distinct crimson flare of Fire Nation colors—and, beneath them, the fluttering white of the surrender pennant.

Another blast echoed across the sea—trebuchet fire from the larger warship, striking the wounded ship’s stern. The smaller vessel listed hard, smoke rising in oily plumes from her smoke stacks.
He brought the eyeglass up and observed the two ships. The smaller one was old, her sailors fighting several fires on the decks. The white flag flapped in the steady sea breeze. He brought the glass over to the larger warship. His face darkened.

“I recognize that hull. That’s Zhao’s ship.”

He looked at Bato. “Bring us about. want all ships fanned in a half-moon formation—flank and press.”

“And the smaller ship?” Bato asked.

“If the smaller ship flees while we engage, we let them run.”

A murmur of tension passed across the deck. Hakoda turned to scan their faces. “We will not divide our forces for a ship that’s run up a white flag and looks to be on her way to sinking. They’re still our enemy, but unlike Zhao, we will respect the white flag.”

This seemed to appease the crew. Hakoda nodded once.

“Load frozen tar and harpoons. Aim low, just above the waterline. I don’t expect we can sink them without mines, but we can cause some hate and discontent.”

Then he paused, voice low.

“And if that white flag is a lie—if this is a ruse—then they’ll learn that the ocean gives no second chances.”

The war drums began.

And across the fog-wreathed water, the Southern Water Tribe ships surged forward like wolves through snow.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o

“Multiple ships approaching fast from the south!” a lookout screamed.

Zhao squinted into the fog.

They came in low and fast—curved prows painted in blue and bone, sails reefed tight against the wind.

Southern Water Tribe.

A harpoon sang across the water, slamming into their propellers. They wrapped the rope up, a high whine of propellers under strain screaming across the fog laden water.

A second ship flanked from the portside, flinging cold tar across Zhao’s upper deck. The cutter rocked, its broadside turning just enough to lose line of fire on the Wani.

Small skiffs darted ahead of the main line, barely more than canoes, but each one launched a pair of pitch charges—animal-skin bladders packed with lichen smoke and powdered ash. They burst midair with a dry pop, and the world vanished into gray.

“Visibility lost!” someone shouted from Zhao’s deck, the voice muffled through fog and fire.

Through the shifting veil of smoke, a third Water Tribe vessel emerged—low, narrow, and silent. It launched a volley of barbed harpoons, aiming for the siege engines. Two found their mark. One embedded deep into the housing of a trebuchet, jamming its rotation. Another tore through the winch mechanism, splintering gears and throwing shrapnel across the deck.

The cutter’s deck was chaos—sailors slipping on tar, shouting through thick smoke, trying to unjam weaponry blinded by resin and ice.

A muffled bang echoed through the mist—then another. Dummy craft. Small unmanned rafts loaded with flint and pitch, drifting into Zhao’s blind side. One exploded in a plume of orange fire. The other careened under the stern and detonated, forcing the crew to abandon the lower gundeck.

On the Wani, Jee watched the unexpected fight unfold. “Full ahead!” He barked. “They’re breaking his line. While he’s pinned—move!”

The Wani’s engine screamed in protest, metal shrieking like it might come apart, but the ship surged forward.

“It’ll take us right by the Water Tribe fleet.” Roken cautioned.

“If they meant to cause us harm, they would’ve already done it. Bearing 2-1-0, Helmsman.”

“Bearing 2-1-0, aye.”

 

The Wani limped through the fog, smoke trailing behind her like a torn banner. Fires aboard were mostly out, but the hull was scorched and listing. The Southern Water Tribe fleet loomed ahead—five vessels in a loose crescent, their carved prows silent, as they gleamed wet in the mist.

Zuko stood at the quarterdeck, hands curled tightly on the railing. As they came abreast of the fleet, he locked eyes with a man on the prow of the lead ship. Cloaked in furs, armor glinting with frost, face painted with ash-blue streaks, he stared at Zuko with blue eyes the same color of the equatorial ocean.

Zuko made the sign of the flame and bowed. Mild surprise flickered across the Chief’s face. He raised one hand in response and as a signal to his crew, and his ship peeled away. One by one, the other Water Tribe vessels followed, slipping back into the mist like phantoms.

 

On the bridge, Roken guided them through the heavy fog. It had banked back down, obscuring them from Zhao but made navigation difficult.

“Which way?” Roken asked, his sinewy arms clenched on the helm.

Jee looked over at Roken, his mouth creased into a grimace. “We need a safe harbor so we can assess damage and repair what we can. I doubt we are seaworthy as it stands.”

Roken considered this. “Gorsai’s ‘Ollow, old smugglers cove. Just up the coast. Treacherous waters. Zhao would ‘ave a ‘ard time following and may not make it through the narrows, ‘is ship's beam too wide.”

“Make it so,” Jee said.

“Aye, Skipper. And the Water Tribe?”

“If they mean to pursue, we won’t be putting up much of a fight. We’re at the mercy of the spirits,” Jee said.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o

The sea narrowed into a throat of stone, the cliffs rising high and dark on either side. Spume foamed white against jagged basalt. A crumbling shrine marked the mouth—Tui’s crescent worn smooth by salt and wind. Gull-osprey wheeled above the stone, their cries sharp.

They limped into the cove just before dusk. It was a hollow throat of stone where the protected sea lapped quietly against pale white sand, large fingers of granite stretching from the beach down beneath the gray waves, forming hazards to the unsuspecting.

The anchor chain rattled out with a final, grinding lurch. The Wani settled low into the tide, still listing badly to port.

A watch was left on the ship, but the rest of the crew paddled to shore, happy to be off their sinking ship. Not far from the beach, above the high tide line, they found an overhang carved by wind and time. One of the Marines flicked his wrist, summoning flame out his hand and lighting up the natural protection. They found a firepit, the stones still warm. Burned seal fat clung to the edges of the basin beside it, and a bone-handled knife was wedged into the driftwood shelf above. A line of footprints trailed toward the water—light, deliberate, recently washed by the tide.

“The Water Tribe anchors here,” Bosun realized. “Send a message to the ship, let the captain know we’re not alone for long.”

The Marine nodded. Turning, he faced the ship and flashed a signal using bursts of flame.

Jee watched the signal through the spyglass. He looked at Zuko, who was standing beside him on the bridge. The prince looked wan in the dimming light, but his eyes held a strange, golden brightness, like the golden light of the setting sun.

“Water tribe encampment,” he said. “Probably the fleet that saved our asses.” The captain sighed. “We’ll have to take our chances. We must repair the ship or we’ll never make it back to a proper port. Anshou Harbor is compromised.”

Zuko nodded. He stepped forward and raised his hands, returning the signal in crisp, fluid movements.

The fire he summoned was unlike any Jee had seen.

It wasn’t fierce or wild but golden and clean, warm like the beach on a summer’s afternoon. As the heat washed over him, Jee felt the tightness in his back ease. The stiffness in his bad shoulder released. He exhaled without meaning to, as if the fire itself had breathed for him.

He stared at the prince, lips parting slightly. The boy he’d followed through fog and fire—angry, half-mad with fever—now stood steady and alight, like a sun had ignited in his chest.

Beside him, Iroh murmured, “Nephew… you’ve gotten your fire back.”

Zuko didn’t speak. But he gave his uncle a faint, shy smile.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o

This far south, night settled fast in the cove, slipping down the granite cliffs like oil. A crescent moon hovered above the mouth of the Hollow, barely enough to light the worn path between the shore and the overhang.

The crew had built a fire beneath the natural shelter. They sat in clusters—bandaging wounds, picking glass and splinters from their arms, passing flasks, speaking in low tones. The smell of salt and ash clung to everything.

One of the Marines, Corporal Naisan, an older Marine with a trim cut and angled features said, slightly too loudly, “Did anyone see what the prince did?”

A hush fell over the crew.

The corporal glanced around. “I saw him on deck. Thought he was out of his mind—charging into the flames but they didn’t touch him. That kid Toma was bleeding out. I thought he was dead.”

He paused. “But then the prince… knelt beside him. And I swear—”

He looked around at everyone.

“I swear, he glowed.”

“Glowed?” Cook, squatting over the wok he’d hauled to shore, tossing the chicken-pork with long metal chopsticks.

“Yeah,” said Lance Corporal Horin, an earnest young man with just enough time under him to make him salty, soot still smudged across his jaw. “Not like a flare or anything. It was… softer. Like sunlight on water. I felt it. Just for a second. I was five paces back and it hit me in the chest. Felt good. I could breathe easier, like the smoke just cleared from my lungs.”

Riku stared at them. “Firebenders don’t heal.”

Corporal Naisan shrugged. “I saw what I saw.”

The fire cracked. Resin hissed from the branch Izen had just thrown on.

Then a voice from the perimeter called, low and urgent: “Ships.”

Dark shapes were moving across the water—three, maybe four. Sleek silhouettes against the starlit cove. Their sails were furled, their hulls barely visible above the waterline.

“Better throw more food on the pot,” Cook said, dumping more meat into the wok.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o00o

Hakoda guided the fleet back through the narrow walls of the cove. After damaging Zhao’s ship, they’d gone northwest, back towards Anshou Harbor where they’d stopped for quick resupply and information gathering, making a show of traveling west along the coast in easy view of the town. When they were certain they’d set up a false trail, they slipped back out to sea before doubling back towards Gorsai’s Hollow.
The moment they cleared the narrow channel, Hakoda could see the wounded Fire Nation ship, listing to port, anchored in the cove. Beyond her, a fire glowed bright and orange on the shore, the silhouettes of her crew stark against the light.

He studied the ship again—its battered plating, the makeshift repairs to her stack. The Wani, if his intelligence in Ashou was right. A small-class cruiser, lightly armed. The prince’s ship. Pariah of Fire Lord Ozai.

Hakoda drummed his fingers on the smooth wood of the railing, worn first by sanding and then by time and wind and hands. If he killed the prince, it would be a boon to Fire Lord Ozai. It might actually give him a bargaining piece in this war.

If they allied,

Well.

Wouldn’t that be something.

Bato breathed beside him. “What are you thinking, Chief?”

Hakoda looked at his old friend, a quirk of a smile on his lips. “They owe us one. Let’s see if there’s any honor left in the Fire Nation. That ship is half sunk already, it won’t take much to finish the job if we find them…unaccommodating."

 

By the time they’d closed on the camp, a small boat had been rowed to shore–the prince–Hakoda surmised.

The Water Tribe skiffs scraped ashore in silence. Hakoda stepped out first, boots sinking into the cold surf. Bato and Lek followed close behind, fanning out behind him in loose formation. The remainder of the crew remained in their ships, watchful.

The Wani’s crew stood in a double line beneath the granite overhang—uniforms patched, soot-smudged, sleeves torn, but backs straight and boots squared. Their weapons were laid carefully in the sand at their feet. The Marines, marked with flames on their sleeves, stood in the back.

Between the formation, a brazier had been set in the sand. Its fire burned low and steady, the scent of sea-wrack and cedar bark curling into the night air.

A young man, his face badly marred by an ugly scar that puckered the skin, stepped forward—the boy from the ship, Hakoda realized. His eyes reflected the glow of the firelight in such a way to seem otherworldly. Beside him, a portly man stood, his copper eyes studying Hakoda carefully. A faint, pleasant smile curved his lips, but he held himself straight and Hakoda could see his muscles tense.

The young man stepped forward and bowed deeply, making the same sign with his hands that he’d formed earlier when they’d passed by. The boy straightened and looked at Hakoda with his eerie golden eyes. When he spoke, his voice was raspy, like he’d swallowed too much smoke.

“I am Prince Zuko, Son of Fire Lord Ozai and Fire Lady Ursa.

“You stand beneath the banner of Agni. No blade shall cross this fire.
By imperial rite and oath of flame, this fire is lit in peace, and peace is its purpose.
Let this fire bear record: you are received with honor.
Let none defile it with violence or falsehood.”

The prince bowed again, lower this time.

They were ancient words, last spoken, to Hakoda’s knowledge, over a hundred years ago. The Fire Nation hadn’t offered parley to anyone in a century. Not when they could raid, pillage, and burn instead.
Bato stirred beside him.

Hakoda stepped forward and held out his arm.

The boy hesitated—just a breath—then reached out. Their forearms locked, firm and steady.

“We come with hands clean of blood,
our blades sheathed, our hearts steady as ice in deep water.
Your fire stands. We see it.
If it burns true, we will not put it out.”

The clasp broke. Hakoda stepped back, his face unreadable.

The prince’s shoulders loosened slightly. “We uh, we haven’t messed with your stuff. We’d be honored for you to share our dinner.”

Unburdened by the cage of formality, the boy suddenly seemed very much just like a boy–dressed in the bravado of a teenager unsure of his place in the world. Something in Hakoda’s heart warmed as he thought of his own son. They were about the same age.

The older man beside the prince stepped forward, copper eyes warm and alert. He held out a bowl of stew. “I’m Iroh,” he said with a genial smile. “We owe much to you.”

Hakoda took the bowl, and soon his men were clumped around the fire in a small space they carved out for themselves. The Wani crew gave them room, and both sides soon fell into quiet chatter.
Nuniq, one of the younger men of the fleet, known for his sharp vision, leaned close to Tuva, the harpoon captain. “They’re weirdly…not evil.” He observed. Tuva grimaced.

“Tell that to my parents, killed in a Fire Nation raid.”

Nuniq fell quiet, watching the men across from them. They were mostly his age, and several were bandaged. One had his boot off, foot bruised and swollen. They looked as tired as he felt. They passed a flask of something between them. Nuniq brightened.

“Let me try some of that!”

The Fire Nation sailor’s brows popped up. He stared across the fire at Nuniq. “It’s airag, you can’t handle it”

“I’ll be the judge of that!” Nuniq grinned. “We’re your honored guests, remember? What’s yours is ours, just like our cove is apparently yours!”

The chatter around the fire died as the two groups waited for what would happen next. Hakoda tensed, studying Zuko’s face. The boy’s face had gone hard—his golden eyes fixed on his sailor in a sharp, warning glare.

“He’s right,” a deep voice rolled out from the shadows. A large man stepped forward from the back of the cave. He was a full head taller than Hakoda, his pale skin pockmarked by old scars. He glared at his sailor. “Whats ours is theirs. Pass it over, Marine. Politely,” he added, when he saw the Marine about to chuck the flask over.

The Marine scoffed but climbed to his feet and limped over to Nuniq. He bowed and then held out the flask.

Nuniq accepted it with exaggerated ceremony, popped the cork, and threw back a generous swig. He immediately started coughing, his face turning bright red. The tension left the Marine’s shoulders as he laughed.

When Nuniq could breathe, he scowled. “It tastes like old mare’s milk!”

The Marine wheezed in laughter. “It is!”

Laughter rippled around the fire.

“Here, I got the good stuff. None of that hillbilly swill,” Corporal Naisan brought over another flask. Nuniq eyed him but took the beverage. He smelled it this time before carefully trying it. He grinned.

“Hey, this is good!”

The laughter still echoed behind him as Hakoda stepped away from the fire. Zuko had drifted to the edge of the camp, standing at the break of the ocean where the tide turned to sand, dark under the sliver of moon, wet and packed. The waves lapped gently at the shore, their rhythm soft and unhurried. The boy looked contemplative as he stared out at the waters. He looked up when Hakoda approached.
Hakoda came to a stop beside him, arms folded loosely across his chest. They stood in silence a moment, watching the moonlight catch on the sea.

“I wasn’t aware they still taught the Fire Nation Parley,” Hakoda offered by way of greeting. He realized it sounded hostile in his ears but then, the Fire Nation was hostile.

“They don’t,” Zuko said. “My Uncle taught it to me.”

Understanding clicked. “Iroh.” The genial man at the fire, with a gentle face and steel in his spine.

Zuko nodded.

“The Dragon of the West,” Hakoda continued slowly.

Zuko nodded again.

“He laid siege to Ba Sing Se for 600 days.”

“Yes,” Zuko agreed. He looked askance at Hakoda, a faint, dry smile on his lips. His golden eyes glimmered with humor. “They wouldn’t parley.”

An unexpected laugh bubbled up. The boy surprised him.

Their intel in Anshou had been brief–that the prince had lost favor with his father and wore the mark to prove it. The stories had grown muddy as to what, exactly, had happened. There were some that said it was a training accident and some that said it was punishment for an attempted coup, and some that said the Prince was spirit touched and his father had tried to kill him when the prince stood up to him in defense of his countrymen. Hakoda wasn’t sure which he put stock in, but he had a hard time believing this awkward, scarred teenager had attempted to overthrow the throne.

“He’s a good man?”

Zuko was quiet for a long time. “The best I know.”

Another wave broke, pulling foam across the sand.

“You’ve lost people?” Hakoda asked.

Zuko’s hand flexed at his side. “Too many, but less than everyone else.” The prince’s gold eyes flashed to meet his. “I’m searching for the Avatar.”

“Your father’s mission,” Hakoda said. He was struck by a sudden pang of sadness that he may have to kill this boy. Hakoda believed in the Avatar the same way he believed in the Qalupalik–, it was safer to believe in them than not, but he’d never seen it.

“Yes, but not for the reasons he wants. My Nation has brought great unbalance to the world. Only the Avatar can bring it back.”

Hakoda appraised the boy beside him. His next question was undiplomatic but the answer would help solve what he proposed to do next.

“Is it true you stood up for your countrymen and your father burned your face because you spoke up in their defense?”

The boy’s golden eyes glittered with rage, and Hakoda found himself bracing for a fight. But then his shoulders slumped. He looked back at the ocean. He took so long to answer, Hakoda thought he wouldn’t say anything at all. The response, when it came, was soft.

“Yes, it’s true. But I failed. They all died anyway.”

Hakoda shifted his weight on the sand. The tide had pulled the sand under his feet, and he’d sunk in. “Several years ago, your people came for mine. I have two children–about your age now. My daughter is–she’s special.” He glanced over at the boy. “The Southern Raiders came for my village and killed my wife, because they thought she was a bender.”

Zuko sighed, the surf almost breathing with him. It pulled away from the land, and Hakoda sank deeper into the sand. The boy looked up at him and breathed, and when he did, Hakoda smelled the juniper smoke of his homeland fires, and felt a deep, forgotten warm wash over him and settle in his bones.

“If I thought sacrificing myself would bring people back, I would. Everyone has lost so much. My own mother gave her life so I might live. That is the poison of my nation. But I think,” Zuko continued, looking back at the ocean, the moon a thin ribbon strand across her surface, “that my death would benefit no one but my father.”

Hakoda said,

“I’ll help you fix your ship.”

Chapter Text

Under the wan sky of late fall in the southernmost portion of the Earth Kingdom, where the gray stones erupted from a gunmetal sea into a leaden sky, for the first time in over a hundred years, the Fire Nation and Southern Water Tribe worked together.

 

To the surprise of neither crew, patching the ship was easier than healing a hundred years of genocide and war.

 

Bosun Izen and Boatswain Sillaq developed a curt but cordial relationship anchored in keeping their men from coming to blows. At the end of the evening, they’d swap stories over work accomplished and tiffs between the men and creative ways to come to peace.

 

In this way, they became friends.

 

The crews spent their evenings ashore, sharing bottles and telling sea stories of women, raucous port calls, and homesickness.

 

When they needed parts the Wani did not have enough of, one of the water tribe ships would sail back towards Anshou Harbor and return with parts, booze, and information.

 

Zhao had limped north, away from the colonies and towards the proper Fire Nation to lick his wounds.

 

The price on the prince’s head was higher than before by half.

 

A man could retire on that kind of money.

 

Among the Wani other stories were spreading. Prince Zuko could speak to the waves and the moon; he was Agni’s blessed. He lived when others should’ve died. His presence protected the ship and the crew.

 

He had healed by fire.

 

Hakoda wasn’t sure if he believed the tales. Zuko was quietly funny and prickly, like any other teenager boy. And Hakoda wasn’t sure what was expected out of prince’s of the Fire Nation beyond the capacity for conquest, but the boy was surprisingly hard working. He came back from the ship in the evening, his face smudged with grease, his hands callousing. He worked without complaint and the members of Hakoda’s crew said he was always polite and respectful with them.

 

Hakoda had never seen the wound the ship claimed Zuko had healed, but he knew of the boy. He was a sallow-skinned man with a drawn face, a hooked nose, and dark, flickering eyes. He kept to himself, pushing away even his own shipmates. Hakoda would catch him wandering the shore, plucking oyster clams from the shore, but he never returned with very much.

 

The General of the West was everything and nothing that Hakoda expected from a man of his stature. He was polite and self-deprecating. He seemed passingly familiar with Southern Water Nation customs and courtesies and always knew the right thing to say, using a casual mix of philosophy and proverbs to deliver cutting condemnations when the Wani’s crew was being unruly. But his eyes were sharp and Hakoda thought there wasn’t anything that occurred on the ship or shore that the General wasn’t aware of. If Hakoda wasn’t careful, the old man would know all of their tactics and plans simply through genial games of pai sho and warm cups of tea.

 

The days began to grow shorter. This far south, they’d only get a few hours of sun, a weak greeting to the world before sinking into the horizon.

 

The benders of the Wani became listless.

 

But not the prince. He spent the evening on the shores with the moon and the waves and worked throughout the day with the crew, fixing the ship.

 

By the second week, they no longer kept separate mess circles. Meals were a fusion of seaweed stew and peppered jerky, of blubber-fat fishcakes fried in woks and slow-roasted seal wrapped in banana leaves brought from port. The Water Tribesman crew initially balked at the Fire Nation’s fermented milk drink until Katsen challenged Tuva to drink three cups without blinking. He did, and then vomited spectacularly into the sea. The next day, the challenge returned with sake, and Tuva didn’t blink either—he just fell asleep sitting upright.

 

Riku traded a copper compass for a fur-lined hood, and two days later, Helmsman Roken could be found showing a Water Tribe scout how to make fog bells from old metal boiler plates. Jomei ran a bootleg gambling ring in the old artillery bay, and Nuniq kept losing his winter gloves and accusing Katsen of theft. Katsen denied it—loudly, and with increasingly elaborate counteraccusations involving crabs.

 

(He was wearing the gloves as he blamed the crabs.)

 

At night, they played cards or tossed stones, and sometimes someone would pull out a battered stringed instrument and butcher a Fire Navy sea shanty until it became something almost passable. The Water Tribe men didn’t know the words, so they sang over the top with sea shanties of their own. The lyrics would become progressively bawdy and one day Iroh himself provided lyrics that were so suggestive even Hakoda found himself wincing.

 

They taught each other curse words in their native tongues. What started as insult contests turned into full-blown competitions, with Izen as judge. The Water Tribe had more poetic invectives, full of salt and animal comparisons; the Fire Nation’s were cruder, sharper, and usually involved something on fire.

 

Eventually, the insults evolved into affectionate jabs—“fish-brained fire-rat” and “snow-sniffing boilhead” became greetings instead of slurs. When Zuko overheard Jomei being called a “half-frozen squid-licker,” he arched a brow.

 

“That’s a compliment now?”

 

Jomei grinned in response.

 

The cold deepened by the third week. The Fire Nation crew, bred for tropical coasts and humid archipelagos, complained bitterly.

 

The Water Tribe men taught them how to line their boots with elk-reindeer and waterproof with oil skins. In return, Iroh brewed them tea so spicy it made even Tuva’s nose run.

 

At night, they built up the fires onshore and huddled together—sailors, warriors, exiles.

 

Someone whittled a pai sho set from driftwood. They played slow games under the stars, breath fogging in the air, flames dancing against the granite walls.

 

Roken claimed every constellation had a different name in the Fire Navy: the Ox, the Chain, the Spear.

 

Tuva said they were all wrong, and retold them from the Water Tribe’s lore: the Sleeping Bear, the Whale Mother, the Three Brothers Who Drowned.

 

One night they disagreed so long that Jomei tied their boots together while they argued.

 

When they stood up and fell over, the entire fire pit howled with laughter.

 

The stars didn’t care what anyone called them.

 

In this way, they became friends.

 

Outside the cove, the sea grew restless. As they applied pitch to the ship and fixed her engines and boilers, the wind curled skeletal fingers over the land. The ice was coming.

 

They worked regardless—applying pitch, hammering plates, tending to the boilers. The smell of tar and metal clung to their coats and soaked into their skin.

 

When he wasn’t working, the prince took to walking the coast. Some evenings, he wandered until the sky turned silver. Others, he sat for hours, watching the tide churn against the stone, as if waiting for something to answer him.

 

“I heard he can talk to the Ocean,” Corporal Naisan said one twilight, when the sun’s rays were beleaguered and the Marine’s face was wan after so much time south. “It’s how we escaped Zhao.”

 

“No Fire Nation prince can talk to our Lady,” Amaruq, an older man with graying hair at the temples argued as he scooped food from the pot.

 

Naisan sniffed. “We’re an island nation. We have as much claim to La as you do.”

 

“Knowing her waters and being known by her are not the same thing,” Amaruq said. He set the ladle down with a click against the pot.

 

“I’m telling you what I heard, Naisan said, “And what I heard was that he can speak to the waves. He healed Toma, can any of your men do that?”

 

“They could, but your people killed any of ours who even looked at a wave sideways,” Amaruq snapped.

 

Naisan scowled into his bowl. He mushed his chopsticks into the bowl. “Well,” the Marine said. “I seen what I seen.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko found he liked the honest work of a hard day’s labor. He didn’t have to worry about formality or the correct words to say, and he found he could mostly work and be left alone. Over the month since they’d pulled into the cove, the crew had begun to relax around him, their sailor’s speech now on full display as they cursed and talked about women and things that would make his mother’s ears burn.

 

He thought about his mother a lot; wondered about where she’d come from and how she’d ended up with his father. Now that was gone, he realized she’d never been happy, but she’d done her best.

 

She’d not even been honored with a proper death. Consigned to the ground, that’s all his father had said, and “lucky it wasn’t the sea” as if they weren’t an island nation with a navy and thousands of their men had died at sea in a hundred years of war and they’d not been given an honorable death, at least by his father’s standards.

His father, who had never gone to war.

So he worked, and he grew to know his crew in a way he hadn’t before. He learned how to fight and how to gamble and from Jomei he learned sleight of hand and how to pick locks. Jomei said, “It was the Navy or jail.” With a shrug. “I chose the Navy and I ended up here.”

From Roken, he’d learned the stars and charts, and from Bosun Izen, he learned knots and seamanship. He helped Katsen and Jomei with the boilers, and he learned his ship was old but true.

From the Water Tribe, he learned how to create patches from tar and fat and how to find food in the rocky shores of the south and how to fish and make nets. In this way, he grew to know the ocean in a way he never had before and came to fear her less and also more, for she was ancient and powerful and gave life, but in her most moody, could easily steal it away, too.

She called to him and he spent the evenings in her embrace, listening to the secrets of her depths.

In this way, he came to know the Ocean.

He learned she was unknowable.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Iroh didn’t know how to reach his nephew anymore. Zuko was drifting, not in the way a boy slips away from childhood, but in the way flotsam drifts from a wreck—unanchored, surrendered to currents that couldn’t be charted.

 

He no longer sought warmth or comfort. He communed with the moon and the ocean as often as he did the sun. Some nights, Iroh found him waist-deep in the frigid waters of the cove, unmoving.

 

“Come in, Zuko,” Iroh would say gently. “You’ll freeze.”

 

And his nephew would turn, water slick on his skin, eyes glinting gold like the edge of dawn, and say only, “Not today, Uncle.”

Iroh could see the spirit world, though he seldom spoke of it. Sea spirits flitted around his nephew, like bear dogs sniffing out something new and curious. He had once believed he could keep his nephew on the mortal side of things—that fire and water would not tug him too far in either direction.

 

But now, watching the boy in the water, Iroh wasn’t sure where Zuko belonged anymore.

 

The water came up to Zuko’s waist. The tide was rising, slow and steady, lapping at his hips like the hand of something ancient and half-asleep. The cold bit at his skin, but he stayed still, arms loose at his sides, eyes fixed on the horizon where the clouds had begun to melt into silver.

 

Behind him, he heard the soft crunch of boots on stone.

 

“Zuko,” Iroh said. “It’s late.”

 

Zuko didn’t turn. “I know.”

 

“You’ve been out here a long time.”

 

“I know.”

 

The tide surged a little higher. Zuko took a deeper breath. His chest hurt—not from the cold, not exactly. Something old and familiar, a deep, ancient sadness he couldn't define.

 

“Why do I feel more at home at sea than I ever did at the palace?”

 

Iroh gazed over the quiet waters, the waves lapping quietly against the rocky shoreline. It was bitterly cold. Iroh exhaled a whisper of fire just to stay warm. He didn’t know how to answer his nephew; had never even heard of a fire bender that could commune with the sea or healed by fire.

 

“The Avatar has been missing a long time,” he finally said quietly. “Perhaps the spirits are tired of waiting.”

 

Zuko turned. “What does that have to do with me?”

 

“Perhaps nothing, my nephew. Come now, Zuko, join us at the fire.”

 

Zuko closed his eyes. The salt was in his mouth, on his tongue. He thought of his mother. Of the stories the crew whispered when they thought he couldn’t hear them. Fire spirits, sea-blessed. A prince touched by Agni and La both.

 

He didn’t feel like any of those things. He just felt tired. And unworthy. Why would the spirits choose him, of all people? He hadn’t even been good enough for his own father.

 

Iroh stepped to the edge of the surf. The frigid water washed over his boots.

 

“Come back,” he said. “The sea will still be here tomorrow.”

 

Zuko hesitated. Then he turned, slowly, and walked back through the waves. By the time he reached shore, he was pale and sodden but not shivering.

 

They stood there in silence, salt drying on their skin, the sea still muttering to itself behind them.

 

“Let’s go back to the fire, my nephew.”

 

Zuko allowed himself to be led back.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The days grew colder, but the work went on.

 

They rebuilt the gunwale with shipwrecked scrap steel hauled in by sled from the next cove over, a miserable job made worse by wet boots and frozen hands. Sillaq barked orders in his thick accent, and Izen translated without missing a beat, their voices overlapping like oars on a longboat.

 

When one of the Water Tribe skiffs returned from a scouting run with a crate of dried seal meat and sour berry wine, both crews feasted by firelight. Someone passed around a battered concertina, and a few of the younger Marines tried to dance. It didn’t go well. The Water Tribe sailors laughed until they cried and then tried to teach them properly. That didn’t go well either.

 

Even so, they kept trying.

 

The younger ones started swapping gear—whetstones, shell buttons, weather charms. Tuva showed Katsen how to lash a makeshift spear with sinew and gut; in return, Katsen showed him how to strip a valve and reseat it with bare hands, swearing the whole time.

 

Jomei got into a half-serious wrestling match with a Water Tribe harpooner named Nirvak, which ended with both men soaked, bruised, and grinning. The next day they shared a pipe and carved scrimshaw from an old bit of bone that had washed up on the shore.

 

No one talked about the war. Not directly. But they cursed the same weather, ate the same terrible rice, and nursed the same blisters.

 

Even Amaruq, who’d once refused to share a fire with a Fire Nation sailor, was heard telling a story one night—something about a sky bison and a spirit storm—and Naisan passed him a cup without being asked.

 

That night, the frost came in early, curling around the tents and crackling on the canvas. Outside the cove, the ocean had begun to form thin plates of pancake ice. The work was almost done, and the ship—patched, ugly, stubborn—stood firm against the tide.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Toma remained disparate from the crews. He’d pick at food and remained just outside the circle as it grew closer. His pallor became gray and his motions listless. His cheeks were sunken, the bones of his face sharp.

 

He was tasked oyster clam hunting and was poor at it, his bag half empty. The crew would frequently catch him just standing on the shore, staring out. He was impervious to their jibes and taunting.

 

He became known as lazy and recalcitrant.

 

Riku watched him carefully, wondering where the cocky boy had gone. He’d asked, but Toma had become distant. “I’m fine,” is all he said.

 

“It’s a small death,” said Nuniq one day to Riku, following his gaze to Toma standing on the shore, his bag nearly empty at his side. “A thousand of them lead to the last death.”

 

“What stops it?”

 

“His soul is poisoned. It has to be lanced.”

 

“Why?”

 

“There’s many reasons men suffer small deaths. I’ve seen it before.” He shrugged. “Could be a Qivittoq or a Tuungait.”

 

“I don’t know what any of those are. Do you think he’s haunted, like a Yurei?”

 

Nuniq looked up at the stars. “I’ve never heard of those. Are they spirits that can steal the soul?”

 

“Yeah,” Riku said. “Sort of.”

 

“Then yeah, it could be like that.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Bosun Sillaq came back with knowledge from Anshou Harbor. He whispered it into Hakdoa’s ear.

 

The Chief stared across the deck, where Zuko stood in profile. He was overseeing the work and when his unmarred profile faced Hakoda, he looked very young and vulnerable.

 

“Toma?” Hakoda whispered back to Sillaq. It explained how disparate he was from the rest of the crew. Sillaq nodded. “This stays between us,” Hakoda said.

 

That evening, as Hakoda stood on the shore as the evening wind stirred in the cove, enough to bring a bite to the air but not enough to whip the waves up into a froth, he mulled over the knowledge he wished he didn’t have.

 

He turned as he heard the rocks shift. Captain Jee, an old salt dog if Hakoda had ever met one, came to rest beside him. The late autumn sun was low in the sky, a lemony disc that poked through the mist. The captain held out a flask, which Hakoda took gratefully.

 

“We appreciate all your help,” Jee said, as he said every day for the past two months, but there was warmth behind his words now.

 

“Made good headway,” Hakoda replied, as he’d said every day in response, but these days he meant it.

 

They stood in companionable silence, watching the sallow sun sink into the horizon with a long twilight.

 

Once Hakoda was feeling warm with the rice wine Jee had brought he said,

 

“Sillaq came back with some interesting information today.”

 

Jee raised an eyebrow and waited.

 

“About your traitor.”

 

Jee nodded. “Toma.”

 

Now it was Hakoda’s turn to look surprised. “Did he already tell you?”

 

“No, it’s written all over the boy’s face. After we left Anshou Harbor, Riku found him hiding out in dry stores and after the prince saved him…he’s been…different. I’ve had my suspicions.”

 

“What are you going to do?” Hakoda asked.

 

Jee said, “It doesn’t matter what I would do. It matters what Zuko does.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Toma and Lek wandered the coast, oyster clam hunting in the low tide. The rocks were slick, the air cold and sharp. Osprey-gulls swooped overhead. Lek moved fast, calling out tips without waiting to see if Toma was listening.

Toma wasn’t. He couldn’t keep his hands from shaking as he crouched near the rocks, scooping bivalves into his bag. His side ached, but nothing like the pain he’d felt when he’d been hit.

He’d betrayed his prince.

 

The prince had saved his life.

 

The words tumbled through his head in an endless cycle, his guilt had gnawed a hole in him. He looked out at the sea and wondered if it would be easier just to…go out and not come back. Let the sea take him.

 

“Are all Fire Nation as lazy as you?” Lek sniped. His bag was nearly full, but Toma’s was barely sagging with the weight of his harvest.

 

Toma stared back at the young man. His eyes were a piercing light blue, the color of the winter sky, his long hair twisted and knotted, beads of blue and white tied into the hair by his temple. His face was pinched into a frown.

 

“I did something terrible,” Toma said.

 

Lek rolled his eyes. “You’re Fire Nation. Doing “something terrible” is your national pastime.”

 

Toma sighed heavily. He was tired of the guilt, a weight that slowed his steps and fogged his brain. He dropped the bag of oyster clams and started wading into the water.

 

“There’s no oysters clams there,” Lek chided. “Tide’s already out. This is a deep cove, there’s a shelf. Step too far and–” Lek made a disappearing motion with his hands.

 

Toma thought of his family. The secret wouldn’t stay buried forever. When it came out—and it would—his name would be disgraced. Would his mother still be proud, knowing he sold out his prince? He told himself it had been for them. But the prince had shown humility. Mercy. Things Toma hadn’t deserved.

 

His foot slipped on the slick stone. He reached out to steady himself, but there was nothing. The self dropped away beneath him, the sea opened like a maw. Cold water swallowed him whole.

 

A hand grabbed him by the back of his jacket and yanked him up. The two men fell backwards into the shallow surf. “You idiot,” Lek cuffed Toma. “You would’ve drowned! What the hell is wrong with you? What sort of “something terrible” is worse than everything else you people have done?”

 

Soaked in the cold waters, Toma began to shiver. Lek hauled him to his feet, still glaring at Toma, but his gaze had softened.

 

Toma didn’t answer. His breath came in hard, uneven bursts. He didn’t know what he wanted—but it wasn’t this.

 

“I didn’t mean to,” he sobbed. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

 

Lek sighed. “Let’s grab the bags. We’ll freeze out here, and the sun’s setting fast.” He pushed Toma ahead of him so he could keep an eye on the other man. “Whatever you did, you have to make it right.” He muttered. "You don’t just get to disappear.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The two men didn’t speak as they trudged back toward the firelight. Their boots squelched in the cold sand, seaweed clinging to the seams. Cold water trickled down Toma’s spine with every step. His joints ached like rusted hinges, stiff and slow. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering.

 

At the edge of camp, they paused. The fire crackled just ahead. Voices drifted: the soft murmur of a card game, someone teasing Nuniq for burning the rice again. Toma looked down at his empty bag, his fingers raw and trembling. He couldn’t make himself move.

 

“It won’t go away just because you don’t want to address it,” Lek muttered next to him.

 

“I betrayed him. The prince. They told me if I gave them information, I could pay down my family’s debt.” He hadn’t told anyone, but the words spilled from him. He had been willing to die for it but now it had sat hollow in his gun for months, like an infected wound.

 

Lek shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to say, In my tribe, they’d throw you off the ice for betraying the chief but he didn’t think it would help and besides, he figured the Fire Nation would do much worse. It was too bad. Maybe he should’ve let him kill himself after all; a small mercy.

 

But then, while the Fire Nation was one thing, the only cruelty Lek had seen on the Wani’s crew was the mark on the prince’s face. He’d plied the story from a drunk Marine one night. The boy’s own father.

 

“Is it true? That the prince healed you?”

 

Toma said quietly, “Yes.”

 

Lek digested that knowledge. He’d heard the stories around the camp fire, but didn’t know if he could believe it. No one had heard of such a thing. Long ago, the water benders were known for their skills in healing, but none were left. It was said the Northern Water Tribe still had those powers, but they’d not left their walls of ice for over 80 years.

 

“I was dying,” Toma said. “And he brought me back.”

 

“Dying?”

 

Toma nodded.

 

Lek said, “Well, he’s probably not going to kill you since he just saved your ass.”

 

Toma blinked, startled by the note of dry humor.

 

“Come on,” Lek said. “There’s a warm fire and hot food waiting for us. You have to face your prince, might as well do it with a full belly and dry clothes.”

 

Toma hesitated one last second, then nodded. Together, they stepped into the glow of the firelight.

 

“Looks like you brought back a drowned rat,” Tuva joked as they approached the bonfire.

 

“Fuck off,” Lek snapped. “You, Toma, go get changed.”

 

Tuva scowled, looking ready to snap back with something clever, but Sillaq caught his eye and shook his head sharply. Tuva glanced between his boatswain and the sodden figure of Toma, now trudging toward the overhang, already peeling off his wet coat.

 

“Change your clothes, Lek. You’re soaked. Then come and tell me what happened.”

 

Lek gave a short nod, the firelight catching on the wet strands of hair clinging to his temple.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sillaq led the two men along the shore. The small fire flickered with gold and blue—the telltale colors of a flame born from the prince’s hand. Prince Zuko sat in a low chair, silent, his expression unreadable. Behind him stood Iroh and Jee, their faces drawn and watchful. To his left sat Hakoda, Bato nearby, arms folded and brow furrowed. Sillaq stepped into position behind them, his presence quiet but resolute.

 

Toma snapped to attention. Lek lingered a few paces off, arms crossed. The sea hissed softly against the rocks.

 

“Seaman Toma,” Izen began, his voice low but unwavering, “Boatswain Sillaq brought us word of a traitor aboard the Wani. He says it is you."

 

Toma’s eyes flickered down to look at the stony faces staring at him before he resumed staring off into the distance.

 

“Do you deny these charges?”

 

“No, Bosun.”

 

“Are you aware that the punishment for treason is death?"

 

“Yes, Bosun.”

 

Sillaq stepped forward. “Lek, what did you learn on the shores while you were oyster clam hunting with Seaman Toma?”

 

Lek looked over the gathered faces—his tribe and the Fire Nation crew. He wasn’t a snitch. But the good of the tribe came before the pride of one man.
“I saved Toma from drowning. He told me he betrayed his crew to pay down his family’s debt.”

 

“Thank you, Lek,” Sillaq said.

 

Izen turned to Zuko. The prince gave a small nod.

 

He looked at Lek. “Thank you for saving him. My crew owes you much.”

 

Lek snorted. “Saved him so you could execute him? Could’ve saved myself the trouble.”

 

“Not now, Lek,” Bato said sharply. The younger man fell quiet.

 

“What do you have to say for yourself, Seaman?” Prince Zuko asked.

 

“My honor demands my death, my prince,” Toma said. He continued to stare into the distance beyond the prince’s shoulder, where the black cliffs knifed down into the sea black under the night. He thought of his family—what would happen when word reached them? His breath caught.

 

Toma felt every eye on him like a weight. Shame had hollowed him out, but this—this was something else. He thought of his sister’s hands, always raw from scrubbing floors. His mother’s quiet pride. Would they light incense for him when the notice came? Or would his betrayal bring shame to them all?

 

Zuko’s hands curled in his lap. “It’s easy to die,” he said, his voice creeping up in volume. “Living is what’s hard!”

 

A muscle in Iroh’s face jumped. He heard Jee shift weight behind him. He studied the young man before him. Were he still a general, the punishment would be swift. It didn’t matter why he’d done what he’d done. He had betrayed not just his ship, but his prince.

 

Silence followed. Zuko’s face was drawn tight, his scar stark in the firelight. When he spoke again, his voice was sharp with heat.

 

“For betraying me and for your crew, for attempting to kill your self against my explicit orders, I give you the punishment of mercy.“

 

Toma’s head jerked up. He stared at Zuko, wide-eyed.

 

“You will tell the crew what you have done and the crew will know of your shame and you will have to live with that. During port calls, you will remain aboard the ship. If you are seen leaving, or trying to communicate with anyone that is not the crew, you will be dismissed from the ship and never allowed to return. If you attempt to kill yourself again, your name, and that of your family’s will be erased from the Fire Nation census. They will become less than nothing. You will be forgotten."

 

Zuko paused. “You are dismissed.”

 

“You aren’t going to execute me?” Toma whispered, his mouth dry. The prince looked at him, and Toma was suddenly struck how young is prince was. The boy’s mouth pinched before drawing into a thin line. His scar was still bright pink against his face, the left side of his face narrowed in a scowl. But the right side of his face looked sad.

 

“I am not my father,” he said, his voice quiet. “We have ruled with unrelenting cruelty for a hundred years, Toma. “We’ve killed tens of thousands—wiped out entire peoples and tribes. The world is lesser for what we’ve done to it. And what we’re still doing.” He paused. “So no, I’m not going to execute you. I don't see how another death benefits the world."

He paused. "Don’t make me regret my decision, Toma. Serve with honor. It will be hard; you have to earn back my trust and that of the entire crew and even then, you might never get it back. Every day you must live with the choices you made."

 

Toma bowed deeply. He turned, weaving an unsteady line back towards the crew. He felt like he was drunk on the Wani during heavy seas. Bile churned in his gut. He had expected death. Mercy felt heavier.

 

Before him, the camp’s large bonfire glowed with ordinary light–the crews were laughing and sharing jokes while patching clothing and practicing rope work. He lurched toward it like a man underwater. Each step scraped against the raw place inside him. He had thought death would unmake his guilt. Instead, Zuko had returned it to him, sharpened and bright.

 

He collapsed next to Jomei and Riku, who were playing dice with Tuva and Nuniq. The four looked up at him in surprise. Riku scooted over to allow space for Toma.

 

“Toma? You don’t look so good. I heard you fell into the ocean earlier, do you need some spicy tea?”

 

Toma stared at the boy he’d harassed on the Wani for being naive and earnest. At the gentle offer of kindness, he felt a sob in his chest.

 

He stared down at his hands. “It wasn’t an accident,” he said wetly.

 

“What?” Riku asked, aghast. The dice stopped clattering as the other men stopped their game and watched him.

 

“I tried to kill myself for betraying the prince.”

 

“What?” Jomei echoed, sharper. Tuva and Nuniq shared a look. “Does the prince know?”

 

“Yes,” Toma said softly.

 

“And? What’s he going to do to you?”

 

“Nothing. He said my punishment was to live. That it was harder than dying.”

 

The group looked out over the sand, to the distant fire where the prince sat. It was a glowing beacon in the dark, cold night.

 

“I guess that’s something the prince would know a little about,” Jomei conceded. He stood. “I uh, I think I’m done playing dice for the night. Gonna go see what Katsen’s got for us tomorrow.”

 

The tribesman were less political in their departure. “We don’t think much of the Fire Nation,’ Nuniq said, slipping his feet back into his boots. “But we think less of traitors.”

 

Toma and Riku sat in silence. Riku picked up the dice. “I’m um, I’m going to see if Cook needs help cleaning up. I’ll see you around, Toma.”

 

Toma sat alone in the firelight, watching the word of what he’d done spread like wildfire among the crews.

 

The prince was right; dying would’ve been easier.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko looked over the faces of the council. Hakoda was the first to speak.

 

“The crew may still kill him.”

 

“If they do, they’ll answer to me directly,” Zuko said. “They’ll face a tribunal, and their rank will be stripped. No man on this ship will punish another without command. We are not savages.”

 

“Aye, my prince.” LT Jee bowed and left to speak with Bosun.

 

Zuko looked at the water tribesmen and bowed to Lek. “I thank you for saving his life.” He turned to Hakoda. “You have done more for my crew than I can ever repay.” He bowed low. “My apologies cannot bring your people peace. I am an exiled prince, I have no power. I owe you everything.”

 

Hakoda who would never bow to another man held out his arm. Zuko grasped it.

 

“Perhaps one day you will be Fire Lord, and bring balance back to the nations.”

 

“Perhaps one day,” Zuko agreed with a faint smile. “For now, I’ll just look forward to getting through tomorrow.”

 

Hakoda stood a while after Zuko left, watching the boy and his uncle disappear into the murk of sea mist and lantern smoke. He had expected to find a tyrant’s son aboard that ship—a miniature Ozai, all arrogance and fire. But the boy who had labored in the mud and salt beside his men was not that.

 

He thought of Kya. She’d hated the war even more than he did. She had once told him, quietly, that she thought the Fire Nation had simply forgotten how to grieve. That somewhere behind all that fire and steel was a sorrow they had burned out of themselves.

 

Hakoda had not believed her. Not until now.

 

Zuko was not what he had expected. And perhaps—perhaps—neither was the future.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Iroh and Zuko walked back along the shore.

 

"I am proud of you, my nephew," Iroh said.

 

"For what?"

 

"For the man you are becoming."

 

"Toma made a mistake. I don't think he meant to hurt me, he just...chose wrong. He shouldn't have to die for that."

 

"Your father would disagree," Iroh pointed out gently. Zuko walked beside him for several steps without speaking, the soft whispering of the ocean and the crunch of rocks beneath their feet filling the air.

 

"I think...." Zuko started then trailed off. "my father has been wrong in his justice."

 

Iroh smiled. "I find I agree with you, Nephew."

 

"Is that treasonous? To say that?" Zuko asked quietly.

 

"Only a weak man fears criticism of his rule."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

That night, far to the south, a column of white and blue light pierced the heavens—a radiant pillar that split the sky and turned the sea to silver.

 

For one breathless moment, the ocean stilled. Then the sea drew back from the shore, as if the world itself had taken a long, trembling breath.

 

When the wave returned, it struck the rocks with thunderous force, sending sprays of salt and foam into the dark.

 

No one in the Water Tribe had ever seen anything like it. Speculation spread quickly through the camp, voices hushed and awed.

Among both crews, men paused mid-step. Fire Nation and Water Tribe alike turned their faces skyward. And though none spoke the words aloud, every soul felt it in his bones:
Something ancient had stirred.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko, who had been standing just out of the firelight at the edge of the water was there as the ocean pulled back and then rushed back with jubilation. He had spent months listening to her restless voice in the waves.

 

Tonight, the ocean did not whisper, she sang.

 

And her song was clear:

 

The Avatar had returned.

Chapter Text

There was a story told among the monks of the Eastern Air Temple.

It goes like this:
Long before the temple was carved into the cliffside—before even the first glider took flight—there were three sisters, daughters of the wind. They rode the Long Wind, which sails west to east high above the earth, and played in the Goldwind that wraps around the equator. They sledded down the great katabatic winds that poured off the polar glaciers.

The eldest sister was sharp and wild, like the breeze that stirs the trees on a hot summer’s day. The middle sister moved in silence, like the still air in valleys or the hush before a storm. The youngest was the first cold wind of fall, who sang old mourning songs and wept into the sea.

They danced together above the world, circling mountain peaks and chasing moonlight across oceans.

One day, as the youngest sister rode the hot winds off the Si Wong Desert, she heard a song she’d never heard before. Far below, on the Radiant Ocean, a fisherman sang as he cast his nets—his voice rough, but beautiful, full of longing and joy. The youngest sister hovered to listen. And the next day, she returned. This she did for many days.

Her sisters warned her. “The wind cannot love a man. The lives of mortals vanish like mist.”

But the youngest sister did not heed them. She went to the fisherman again and again. He taught her stillness and gave her a name.

Among his people he was known to be lucky. Storms never troubled him at sea and the wind was always in his favor. He built a fishing fleet and dedicated a shrine to his maiden of the wind.

But men grow old. And the fisherman died, as all mortals do.

The sister was undone. Her grief scattered her across the sea. Her cries became gales; her sorrow, a great storm. It lashed the western edge of the Radiant Ocean, capsized fleets, and shattered hulls. The fishing fleet was no more.

This was the first typhoon.

Her sisters came to her at last.

“My sister,” said the eldest, “I am sorry for your great sorrow. But you must stop this destruction. Come home.”

“I cannot,” said the grieving sister. “I do not want to be alone. And I have forgotten how to leave.”

“Then we will stay with you.”

So the sisters settled beside her in the sea and became stone. This is how the Three Sisters Islands formed.

The eldest became the northernmost island—known now for its soft cliffs, warm currents, and temperate breezes. The monks would one day build their temple there.

The middle became the central island—low, smooth, and still. Fog clings to it all year round. Even now, it’s the quietest place in the archipelago.

The weeping sister became the southern island—cracked cliffs and deep-cut caves where the wind howls at night like something grieving. Sometimes, the monks would light incense for her. They honored all three sisters, for they had all sacrificed something to become stone.

(Those shrines lie empty and forgotten.)

The sea between the islands and the Radiant Ocean became known as the Narrow Sea. And beyond them, to the east, typhoons still gather to this day—in the old fishing grounds of the youngest sister’s loved one.

This legend was lost–vanished with the Airbenders who once told it. It was a warning against attachment but also a reminder of the beauty in love, even if it must end.

Zuko and his crew do not know this story. To them, the Narrow Sea is simply dangerous.

Over 700 nautical miles long and 360 miles wide, the sea is infamous for its violent weather. In the south, the cold waters of the Southern Ocean rush northward via the Xuán Current. There, they clash with the temperate Fēng Current, churning up storms, heavy fog, and unpredictable waves. Craggy cliffs and jagged capes line the edges. It is one of the most treacherous waterways in the world.

In the days of the Air Nomads, the monks maintained a network of lighthouses to guide safe passage. Those towers now sit dark and hollow, a lonely cairn of stones.

At the northwest mouth of the Narrow Sea lies Poison Shell Cove and the port town of Death’s Reach—so named for the toxic shellfish that once killed many settlers. Protected to the northwest by sharp granite peaks and the Si Wong Desert beyond, the harbor became a haven for pirates, smugglers, and traitors of all nations. Officially, the Fire Nation avoids it.

It also boasts the only dry dock in the region.

To the east of the Three Sisters Islands is the open waters of the Radiant Ocean, which, beyond atolls and small spits of sand, is largely empty for a thousand miles, where the great basalt islands of the Fire Nation erupt from the sea. This unopposed swath of sea allows for great waves and unopposed storms to form. This is why the Fire Nation sends most of its fleet east.

It was up the Narrow Sea that Wani decided to sail.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

“It is time for us to go,” Hakoda said on a bleak morning when the Marines could barely stir from their bedrolls and the fog banked down low around the cove. Pancake ice had turned the ocean outside the cove into a shifting mass.

 

“The winds are foul and the work is hard,” Zuko said in the traditional Water Tribe response.

 

A faint smile touched Hakoda’s lips. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Prince Zuko.”

 

“Where do you sail?” The prince popped his collar up against the cold wind that stirred the steel gray sea of the cove.

 

“We are allies, but not brothers. I’ll leave that question open to the wind and the waves. If you need me, we have contacts at nearly any port. Go to the bar that has a spiral carved on the right side of the frame, near the top. Tell them, ‘the voyage is long and the winds don’t blow.”

 

Zuko nodded. “Thank you, Chief. We owe you everything.” He held out his arm.

 

Hakoda grasped it. “You can repay me and my people by doing what you're doing. Maybe someday, something will come of it.” He released Zuko’s forearm. “Now, haul away your anchor, Prince. Waves are surging under. I hope to see you again in this life. Will you head south, towards that light?”

 

“We are allies,” Zuko returned, a sly grin splitting his face. “But not brothers.”

Hakoda held two scrolls out. “If you head south, you may find my children there. They are your age. Sokka and Katara. You’ll know when you see them.”

 

“Chief, my ship cannot take the southern seas,” Zuko said, his grin fading.

 

“Then one day. If you see them.”

 

Zuko took the scrolls. “Of course.”

 

“If you head west, watch for Zhao. If you head east, watch the Sisters.”

 

Neither of them ever expected Zuko to meet Hakoda’s children, and both of them were wrong.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The Wani headed northeast through the Narrow Sea. As they chugged north, the sea shifted from its cold gunmetal gray into the moody, deep blues of 45 degrees south, beneath a high cerulean sky.

 

After months in the cold Kamchatka Sea, it was a welcome reprieve.

This far north, the sun lingered longer in the sky. The Marines regained their stamina. Soon, Zuko was sparring again—this time with fire.

 

That afternoon, while a warm westerly wind blew over gentle seas, the patches holding, Jee addressed the crew during quarters on the wide deck of the fantail.

 

“By now, many of you have heard, we have a traitor aboard. Seaman Toma. The Prince spoke with him and handed out his sentence—mercy. But not trust. That must be earned.

 

“Seaman Toma must live with his actions. He is not to leave the ship at port. If you men see anyone approach the ship, notify myself or Bosun Izen immediately.

 

“All of us carry regrets. Some are forgivable. All shape the rest of our lives. What happens now belongs to Toma.

 

“But hear this: Seaman Toma is still a member of this crew and one of your shipmates. If he goes missing, if harm befalls him–and it turns out any of you are involved, you will be taken to Mast and held accountable.

 

“Any action against Toma dishonors not only your rank, but Prince Zuko’s command.”

 

He paused, letting the silence stretch. A frigate bird looped large circles around their smoke stacks.

 

“At ease, gentlemen. Are there any questions?”

 

There were none. He dismissed them.

 

As they shuffled off, Jomei muttered to Riku, “Death would’ve been kinder.”

 

Riku glanced toward the officer’s deck. “I think the Prince knows that.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

That evening, Bosun and Jee stood together on the quarterdeck, nautical twilight sweeping over them as they watched the sea darken toward midnight blue. It was already several degrees warmer, and a temperate western wind blew at 10 knots–enough to whip the water into large wavelets, crests breaking in gentle, glassy foam. The pennants fluttered. The ship rocked in gentle two-foot seas.

 

“Nice to smell that salt air,” Bosun breathed in, his nostrils flaring. “That’s the strange thing about the south. All that wind and ocean and no smell at all.”

 

“I don’t think I ever appreciated the sorts of people that decided to make the Southern Continent their home.” Jee paused. “I guess I never thought much about them at all. Only thing I ever heard was that they were savages, barely men at all, and so whatever happened to them–” Jee frowned. He heaved a deep breath. He continued.

 

“Do you know what Hakoda told me?”

 

Bosun watched the horizon and waited, used to his captain’s introspections.

 

“He said that there’s a story among the Southern Water Tribe. In the days before the Fire Nation, there were seafaring people who explored the whole world, and some of them found the Southern Continent and decided to stay there. Hakoda said they came from volcanic islands and the atolls in the Radiant Ocean.”

 

“You’re saying we’re related?” Bosun leaned against the gunwale, watching the sea lap the hull.

 

“It’s Hakoda’s story, not mine.”

 

“I thought that Silliaq looked like my cousin on my mother’s side!”

 

Jee shot him a startled look before he caught the crinkling of Bosun’s eye. Jee grinned.

 

“It’s good to be at sea again,” he said. “I’m not made for land.”

 

“No, sir, none of us are,” Izen agreed.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Toma worked alone by the aft hatches, back to a crate of rope. The crew mostly ignored him, like he was a ghost. Even Cook wouldn’t acknowledge him in the chow line–just dropped food into his bowl.

 

He wasn’t given any job that mattered—swabbing, sanding, painting. Someone always kept an eye on him, as if he could sink the ship by not painting well. He hadn’t realized how much implicit trust he’d earned until it was gone.

 

Jomei looked past him. Riku would at least meet his eyes and give a small nod of his head, his face twisted into a frown. On the second day after a watch full of sea trials, they crossed paths in a passageway.

 

“Why, Toma?”

 

Toma stared past him. “There’s no reason in the world good enough for what I did. I wish I could die.”

 

“But you can’t,” Riku said. “So you might as well find a way to live.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Below decks in the heat and reek of the engine room, Katsen studied the flow meters. He knocked one with a wrench and scowled.

 

“We’re not getting full RPMs on the port shaft.”

 

“There’s a crack in the line of the forward bilge pump,” Jomei reported.

 

Katsen scowled at his gauges and then at the engine room around him. “We’ll be fine as long as the seas stay agreeable. I don’t think we can take any heavy rolls.” The engineer patted one of the large intake valves. “Just hold together, girl. Those water folk weren’t half bad and kept us from sinking, but we’ll need a dry dock if we want to finish this thing.”

 

“What are we finishing?” Jomei asked, wiping a slurry of coal and sweat from his forehead. He hooked his thumbs in his coveralls.

 

“Whatever it is that the prince started. We’re with him until the end.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko stood barefoot on the bow just before sunrise, letting the westerly wind whisper across his face. He could hear it in a way he never had before, but the words didn’t make sense.

Nothing made sense.

There was fire in his hands. Just enough to warm his fingers. He let it flicker with the rhythm of his breathing. When the breeze shifted, so did the flame. Not against it, but with it.

His left hand struck low—just as a wave rose to meet it. He braced, turned, swept high. A single arc of fire curved upward with the water, caught the wind, and died.

“You are doing things I’ve only read about,” Iroh said from behind him.

Zuko didn’t turn. “I felt it,” he said. “Just for a second. The fire didn’t fight the wind. It wanted to be a part of it.”

“Nor should it,” Iroh said gently, stepping beside him. “Fire was not meant to dominate. It was meant to live. There is an old story, in the annals of the Fire Sages. It has been forgotten.”

Zuko settled beside his uncle and allowed the old man to pour him tea. They’d run out of jasmine, but the Southern Water Tribe had showed Iroh how to make tea from seaweed. Zuko blanched.

“Bracing, I know! But you get used to it.”

“I don’t like normal tea.”

“You will,” Iroh said blithely. He cleared his throat.

“Before the Avatar, there was a great sage who learned to bend all the elements. That sage became the first Avatar, and they have been reborn ever since, in an endless cycle.”

Zuko wanted to say–I know the story but he realized he didn’t know anything at all. Everything he thought he knew was wrong. He tried the seaweed tea and swallowed thickly. It tasted of lost memories and sunrises and the brisk salt air.

“This is not the first time in ten thousand years the Avatar has gone missing–or been remiss. Over the millenia, there have been stories of other Avatars that have failed–after all, they may host an immortal sage, but they are themselves mortal.

“Many years ago, in a time so old only Wan Shi Tong knows exactly when, a boy was born. He was not of a great line; the second son of a second son. His family owned a salt-streaked strip of land where they struggled to grow anything at all. They could not afford all their children and he was often not fed.
The boy could hear things no one else could. He could hear the salt arguing with the tide and the wind hushing the mountains. He could hear the fire remembering the stars.

His village thought him lazy and foolish. His father thought him slow because he spoke only rarely–this was because he was always listening.

One day, a woman came to the village. She asked for shelter, but it was a poor village, and the people turned her away.

The boy, though, gave her his blanket–it was threadbare, but it was all that he had–and his bowl of rice.

The woman, who was actually a spirit, said, “You have shown kindness to a passing stranger. Tell me what it is that you wish for. Whatever it is, I can grant it. I can give you riches, or land, or a beautiful wife.”

The boy said, “I don’t want any of those things. I hear the winds speaking to the mountains and the waves crashing against the sand. I wish to know what they are saying.”

The woman said, “Go east of the sun and west of the moon. Cross the burning river and speak with the Mountain That Forgets. Bring me back the word the Ocean has hidden.”

The boy set out.

After many days of walking, he found the burning river. The heat blistered his feet and cracked his lips. But he listened to the fire, and it whispered a safe path between the flames.

Then he climbed the Mountain That Forgets. With each step, he lost a piece of himself: his name, his home, his mother’s voice. But he listened to the stone, and it sang back what he’d lost.

Finally, he came to the edge of the sea, where the ocean would not speak.

The boy sat for three days and three nights, saying nothing.

On the fourth night, he stepped into the sea and said, “I do not want to steal your secrets. I only want to hear your sorrow.”

And the sea, moved by his gentleness, gave him a word older than wind.

He carried the word back across the mountain and the fire and returned to the woman. She took the word and set it to the sky where it became a star–this is the northern star that guides all ships.

The boy was spurned for leaving and not working the fields. But the wind and waves and fire knew him, and they told him where to go to find a bountiful land. He became very prosperous. His family came to him and begged for money, but instead of money, he built them a home and gave them food and taught them how to cultivate the land in a way that would become fruitful.

All was well for many years until one day, the Avatar faltered and the world tilted. The boy, who had become a man, knew the secrets of the wind and the sea, and he went to war.

The war is so ancient that no one remembers who was fighting. He stepped between the two great armies and raised no weapon. The sea rose behind him and fire swirled at his feet. When he walked, the earth shook”

Iroh set his cup down. The steam coiled upward, seaweed-scented and strange.

“What happened after that?” Zuko asked.

“There was no war. The generals were afraid of him. So the man listened to both sides and brokered peace. He went home to his prosperous village and died an old man.”

“The Avatar has been gone for a hundred years. If the spirits can make another person special, why haven’t they done it?” Zuko asked.

Iroh said, “Isn’t the seaweed tea such a delightful combination? Salt and sea and fire. I would never have discovered it if not for you, Nephew.”

Zuko’s face crunched in frustration. “It’s gross, Uncle. It just tastes like the sea.”

Iroh smiled and looked over the ocean. The sky was dawning salmon pink against flat bottomed clouds. The ocean was so still it could’ve been glass if not for the wake of their ship.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Later that day, a backing wind formed.

 

Helmsman Roken watched the pennants flap in the breeze, his lips drawing into a thin line as he watched the wind skip and feather across the water. Occasionally, the ship rolled with the ground swell of distant storms.

 

“There’s a storm on the wind,” he said.

Jee glanced northward. The sky there was deceptively clear, streaked with high cirrus clouds—long and thin, as though a painter had dragged a dry brush over blue canvas.

 

But to the south, the sky was milky, congested with dark, flat-bottomed cumulus congestus clouds that looked like a bruise. The sea was steel-gray and glassy, interrupted only by the swells spaced 12 seconds apart.

 

Another swell lifted the ship beneath their feet.

 

Jee studied the barometer–it was lower than it’d been this morning. His jaw tightened.

 

“How far until Death’s Reach?”

 

“Another two days at this speed, Skipper,” Roken said.

 

“We’re water tight, but I don’t trust these patches in heavy seas. The port stabilizer is on its third life, and the bilge pumps are straining under calm seas.” He considered. “What’s our safest port?”

 

“There are none, Captain.” Roken scanned the charts.

 

Jee stood beside him. He pointed out a deep inlet on the middle sister. “What about here?”

 

“We’ve no reliable charts of the Narrow Sea and none of th’ Sisters. That ‘ole middle island is known for its mists and shoals. The sands ‘ave sunk more than one boat.” He spat fireweed into his tin cup. “The Narrow Sea is a fair shake when th’ weather is good, but this time of year, a gale can come tearing up, and then they’re like a tunnel.”

 

Jee drummed his fingers against his chair. He picked up the horn and piped Katsen.

 

“Engineering, what’s our max speed?”

 

Delay. Then Katsen’s voice crackled through, raspy with exhaustion. “Twelve knots, Captain. Port engine is running too hot as it is; I might have to take her offline. Any more and we risk blowing it.”

Jee exhaled slowly through his nose. “Very well.”

He hung up the horn and turned back to Roken. “Maintain heading. If the wind shifts again, I want to know the moment it happens. Keep your eyes peeled for an inlet–anything to keep us out of this storm.”

“Aye, aye, skipper.”

On the way down the ladderwell, he ran into Bosun. “Gale off the stern,” Jee said.

“I know. I’ve got the crew battening the hatches and tightening the dogs down. We secured for sea before we set out, but I’m having the Marines double check everything.”

“Roken’s looking for safe harbor.”

Bosun frowned. “The younger sisters aren’t known for their kindness, and the northern island is too far.”

“Shoals and sandbars and craggy rocks–I know. Roken gave me the rundown. But the port side patch could go, and the port side stabilizer is limping in calm seas.”

Bosun nodded. “Have you talked to the prince?”

“I’m on my way to brief him.”

“You should see if he can do anything.”

Jee paused in the passageway. “Like what?”

Bosun shrugged his massive shoulders. “You saw him at night. He speaks to the sea.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Jee found the prince on the fantail throwing volleys of fire back and forth with the Marines. The boy moved with fluidity and grace, and Jee was struck once more that his fire was unlike any Jee had seen before. It reminded him of sunlight more than flame, if such a thing were possible.

Jee had watched the prince the weeks they were in the southern cove. He didn’t consider himself a superstitious man, not like Katsen or Bosun, but he’d been at sea long enough and seen enough strange things that he’d learned there were things better explained by spirits and legends than engineering and math.

But watching the storm bearing down on them and knowing the seaworthiness of the ship–

Beside him, Iroh said. “Good, Prince Zuko. Ground the stance.”

“He’s gotten better,” Jee said after watching for a moment. Off the stern, he could see the storm clouds building.

“He has always been adept. He is not his sister. This is not the failing he was raised to believe it was.”

“There’s a storm coming.”

 

“Indeed,” Iroh said, following Jee’s gaze to where dark clouds tumbled and built on one another.

 

“I was hoping to speak with the Prince.”

 

“Of course.” Louder, he said. “Prince Zuko! That is enough for today. Captain Jee would like a word with you.”

 

Zuko grabbed a glass of water and walked with a wide, staggered stance. He bowed to Captain Jee.

 

“A moment, Prince Zuko?”

 

“Always, Captain.”

 

They headed to the stern of the ship and leaned against the gunwale, watching the gathering storm. The Wani pitched harder, the sea striking her with rising force.

 

“Bosun thinks you can talk to the sea,” Jee said.

 

Zuko looked askance at Jee and for a moment his eyes glittered golden, like the first rays on the ocean after a long storm.

 

“I don’t know about all that, Prince Zuko. But you healed with fire and I’ve never heard of anyone doing that. It doesn’t make sense for a firebender to have any connection with the ocean, but...” Jee paused. “If you do, let her know we can’t take a high sea state. We’re barely making it as it is.”

Zuko looked at him with his strange golden eyes and scarred face. “It…it isn’t like that.” Seeing Jee’s face, Zuko said, “But…I’ll do the best I can.”

 

Jee nodded, his face grim.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

By evening, the light had changed.

The sun hung low off the port side and the south was black. It formed a wall, stretching from sea to sky, tinged faintly green at the edges where the late light filtered through rain. The swells were no longer gentle. They rolled with weight now, long and heavy, the Wani rising and falling like a breath caught too deep in the chest.

The wind backed again—more southerly now, and gustier.

Roken stood with both hands gripping the wheel, his shoulders stiff.

Jee entered the wheelhouse, oilskin slung over one arm, his eyes scanning the horizon. “Report.”

“Barometer’s still dropping,” Roken said. “Down another five millibars since noon.”

Jee muttered a curse. “Visibility?”

“Dropping. Squall line’s visible off our stern. Clouds are marching fast.”
As if on cue, the first cold gust slammed the ship—startling, sharp, and soaked in salt. The flags snapped. Lines creaked. Somewhere forward, something metallic groaned under strain.

“What about that inlet?”

“Still 20 miles out but I don’t trust th’ maps.”

“It’s the inlet or the Narrows in a high tide and a gale, Roken.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

An hour later, the sea turned violent.

Sheets of rain smacked the windows, nearly blinding them. The swell had shifted, confused and stacking—some waves came from the southwest, others from due south, a churning mess funneled by the channel between the islands.

The Wani groaned and rolled hard to starboard, then again to port. The patched stabilizer shrieked in protest.

In the engine room, Katsen barked over the roar. “Keep her fed! If that pump dies, that’s it! Get the water out of here, Jomei!!”

Jomei pumped furiously.

Above, on the bridge, Jee stood with his boots braced wide. Saltwater streaked the windows. The horizon was gone.
Roken watched the compass, his lips moving silently—calculating drift, angle, survival.

Greenwater slammed the bow, splashing over and drenching the windows before slipping out the scuppers.

Jee gritted his teeth. “Hold her steady. We ride this through.”

He looked out at the black void beyond the glass and thought, This is where ships die.

“Is that the prince?” Corporal Naisan, who was on watch, asked, his dark eyes white at the edges as he stared down at the deck below them.

“What?”

The corporal pointed. Jee stumbled under heavy rolls to the fore windows of the pilot house. Far below on the forecastle, Zuko was tethered to the deck, his back to them.

“What’s he doing?” Jee wondered.

The prince stood at the bow, his silhouette burning dim gold in the stormlight, rain hissing off his skin. His hands were spread and he was watching the ocean, a black void off the bow of the ship.

The sea roared, the sky cracking in great white streaks. Wind whipped sideways across the deck, hard enough to stagger a man. Below, the prop whined as it bucked upward out of the water, catching only foam.

Zuko moved fluidly, almost like firebending, but in forms Jee had never seen. Beside him, he heard Iroh breathe in sharply.

Fire slid up his arms—not a blaze, but like the corona of the sun. He stepped to the very edge of the bow and slammed his heel into the deck.

A column of flame lanced into the air and met the wind. Spirit fire erupted in bright blue plasma on the gunwale, sparking along the steel mooring and anchoring lines and the coiled rope of the trebuchet.

A rogue wave that had been bearing down on the portside sheared off at the peak and rolled past them, harmless.

On the bridge, Roken swore under his breath. “That should’ve rolled us.”

Zuko raised his hands again—sweeping them outward this time—and two bursts of fire arced into the wind like twin sails catching the sky. The rain sputtered where it met the heat.

Jee felt the hairs on his arms rise. “What is he doing?”

“What you asked,” Iroh said, stepping beside him. “Speaking to the sea.” His eyes didn’t leave the boy. “In the Spirit World I saw–” he cut off as another wave rose to their port side, a great black wall.

Roken spun the helm furiously to drive the bow into the wave so they wouldn’t be hit on the beam. The propellers couldn’t bite, spinning helplessly in the foamy sea. The wave continued to rise off the port side–it had to be seventy feet or more.

“Prepare for heavy rolls,” Jee shouted into the pipes. He grabbed the railing in the wheelhouse.
Zuko bent low, palms together, and this time fire poured from his mouth, gold-white and searing. Lightning flashed around him, and for a moment he was ethereal—rippling gold in a flash of white lightning.

He threw his hands forward just as the wave crested the port side—

—and the top of it exploded into steam, the wave splitting in two, cleaving a path for the ship.

“What kind of bending was that?” Corporal Naisan gasped.

“No,” Iroh said beside him, sounding shaken. “It’s older than bending. It is from the world before names.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

“Coolant line!” Katsen roared in the engine room. “Pressure’s spiking—we’ve got a blowout on valve three!”

The engine room rattled. A vent pipe burst open, scalding mist hissing into the air. Jomei screamed something and shoved a wedge into place with his boot, but the floor was slick, the lights dimming.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

“Captain,” Roken barked from the helm. “We’re at the mouth of the inlet—shoals to port!”

“Hard to starboard, thirty degrees—take us in!”

The Wani groaned as it angled. The wind slammed against the side, and for a moment, they were broadside to the storm once more.

“Now!” Jee shouted. “Ride it!”

Roken gripped the wheel with both hands, teeth bared.

Out of the black gloom a light sputtered, then flickered to life—a lighthouse. Its golden beam rotated in an ancient pattern, flashing warning. They were headed straight towards a rocky outcropping, angry white waves exploding over slick, black rock.

Roken spun the helm, driving them away from jutting rocks.

The hull scraped bottom.

Jee held his breath.

They broke through the bar and into the protected cove. The storm still lashed them with driving rain and a howling wind, but the patches had held, and they were in safe harbor.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

On the bow, Zuko dropped to one knee, coughing smoke. His tether strained against the rail. For a moment, he looked up—toward the storm, toward something only he could see.

Then he slumped forward, fire guttering out.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Below deck, seawater hissed through split seams. Pumps struggled. The ship’s bones groaned. But they were still afloat.

“What the hell was that?” Katsen wiped his face, leaving a great greasy smear.

“Everything’s holding, chief. She’s not bucking like she was,” Jomei cleaned out the pump. He was soaked in dirty water and grease, but he could tell from the rocking that they were either in safe harbor or the storm had passed. From the lack of ocean swells, he assumed the former.

Katsen piped the pilot house.

“What the hell happened, Captain?”

A long, pregnant pause. Jee’s voice was tinny and thin, the weight of his voice heavy with fear or awe. “The prince has saved us.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Bosun pulled the heavy hatch open and thundered out onto the deck. He was lashed by rain and wind, and the deck was alight with lightning and the intermittent glow of the lighthouse off the starboard stern. He found the slumped form of the prince and gathered him up, as he’d done so many months ago.

The boy felt very small in his arms.

Zuko pushed himself up and stared at the misty shore. Far away, a small fire guttered.

“Prepare a longboat. I have to go ashore.”

“You should wait for the storm to pass, Prince Zuko.”

The boy stumbled to his feet. “I can’t. There’s someone waiting for me.”

Chapter Text

Zuko arrived on the beach, soaked and exhausted. The storm still raged around him but here in the cove, it was quiet. The leaves did not stir and the air was still and heavy. There was no croaking of tree frogs or humming of crickets.

He dragged the boat up onto the sand and turned toward the heavily wooded interior, towards the fire he’d seen from the ship. Great cedars with curling bark formed a canopy so thick it blocked out the stormy sky. The ground was loamy; great big ferns and fallen trees heavy with moss barred his way.

He was tired right down to his bones, and each step felt like he was sludging through mud.

The boreal forest didn’t buzz or chirp. No bugs clouded his face. Nothing moved. Besides the forest, he felt like the only living thing on the island.

His way was lit by flashes of silver lightning that weren’t answered by thunder. Even the surf fell against the sand in silence. His steps were absorbed by the forest. He caught an orange glimmer out the corner of his eye and redirected his steps. He stumbled onto an ancient path of smoothed, porous coral and limestone.

He walked for hours. The firelight ahead would vanish, then reappear. Sometimes it seemed close enough to touch. Other times, it was a faint flicker in the distance. All the while, the lightning pulsed overhead, lighting his path in silence.

The trees thinned. He stepped into a clearing, mist banked low around him. He heard himself breathing loudly through his mouth and was scared to stop; thought that if he did, he’d breathe no more, his breath frozen in chest like the air around him.

In the middle of the clearing was a silver pool. It reflected the storm above them, and thunder rippled its surface. Zuko approached the silver disk, looking into it. Instead of his reflection, his mother stared back at him.

Zuko reached out toward her–

–and the moment his fingers touched the surface, the world tipped.

He fell forward into the water and the silver pool swallowed him whole without a splash.

He sank.

The still water closed around him. Zuko held the little breath he had in his lungs. He fought towards the surface, but realized he didn’t know which way was up. He swam as far as he could in what he thought was the right direction, panic curling the edges of his consciousness.

He couldn’t even see the sky.

Blackness closed around him, his lungs burning.

He heaved a deep breath, and water filled his lungs.

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko awoke.

The water was still around him, barely rippling. He lay in the shallows of a pool that shimmered like liquid starlight, his hair fanned across the surface.

The forest was gone— a horizonless plain of water and silence stretched out before him.

He sat up slowly, coughing reflexively—though no water came. His chest didn’t hurt. His lungs were full, but he didn’t know if it was air or water.

He wondered if he was dead.

 

A woman leaned over him—her skin the color of sea mist, her dress spun from the gauze of a moody ocean. Her dark hair fell in soft, shifting waves. Though her face was uncovered, Zuko couldn’t quite see make out her features, like looking through rippling water, or trying to recall a dream while still dreaming.

Zuko climbed to his feet.

“You have my mother’s ribbon,” the woman said. Her voice was the hush of the quiet before a storm.

“What?” Zuko said.

The woman nodded to the fabric tied around his wrist. He looked down at the ribbon he’d collected at the eastern air temple. He untied it and held it out. The woman took it carefully, like it was a lost treasure or a precious heirloom. She held it to her face, and for a moment her visage was clear– ethereal and beautiful– it reminded him of the soft stir of wind on a hot summer’s day. Her eyes glittered like the slow wind that stirs a still fall day. Silver tears gathered in her eyes.

“I miss her so much. I miss the sky.”

“I miss my mother,” Zuko said, because he’d never known the sky.

She turned her face slightly, watching him—not with pity, but with a sorrow so old it had become stillness. She gave a slight bow. “I am the middle sister.”

Zuko considered this. “I don’t know what that means,” he said.

Tears spilled from her face.

“I will tell you a story of when I was young and free and sailed the skies with my sisters.” So she did.

“Can I… can I help?” Zuko’s voice came out small when she was done. He knew what it meant to be anchored to something, and to lose the things that mattered most in the world.

“Grief does not abate, fireborn, it is the tide.” She looked down at the ribbon again, smoothing it between her palms. “I wish I could be the wind once more. I would climb to the sky and tell my mother the things I always meant to say–things that I thought I had forever to speak.” She sighed then, a long breath like the wind in the heart of winter.

“She does not visit this place. The monks used to come and they brought wind and laughter, but it has been many years now, and we are alone. My little sister still grieves and my older sister still longs to race the great winds. She gave her gifts to the monks–but the monks are gone.”

Zuko clenched his jaw. “What am I supposed to do?” he asked. “I’m not the Avatar. I’m not--I'm not anyone. I can’t fix this.”

The woman closed the distance between them in the time it took to blink. “You have given me something I nearly forgot. I was the wind before I became stone. Perhaps one day, when my sister’s grief is over, I will be the wind once more.”

She leaned in. Her breath stirred the air against his face, cool and weightless, like the hush before a storm.

“I will give you something in return.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper, almost lost in the stillness.

“The wind does not belong to any one people. It was free long before it was named.”

She raised her hand to his chest. Her fingers hovered just above his heart.

“You will not command it. But it will know you. When you are still, it will listen. When you are honest, it may answer. When you are lost… it will carry you home.”

Then she stepped back, her expression unreadable. Mist gathered at her feet.

“Go now. Find the guru.”

“Who?”

“The guru. He comes here sometimes to light the shrines. He is waiting.”

She paused, her expression clouding with sorrow.

“You’ll find him in my shrine. He is the only one who still remembers who I was.” Her fingers curled around the ribbon once more. “Share my story, fireborn, so that I might live—and one day, return to the skies. Without you, when he is gone…”

Her voice faltered.

“…I will no longer be the one who was the wind. I will only be a lonely island.”

She reached for his hand—cool fingers, featherlight. For a breath, they were tethered.

“Beware the Early One,” she whispered. “It leads to despair. And its fire is not home.”

Then she was gone.

Zuko choked on air.

He rolled onto his side, coughing hard. Water spilled from his mouth, and his chest hitched as he drew in great, ragged lungfuls. The ground beneath him was solid—damp and real, heavy with the scent of leaves, salt, and wood rot.

The silver lake was gone.

He stumbled upright, swaying. His boots sank into loam.

The forest around him was silent still, but a faint breeze stirred the leaves in a way it hadn’t before.

Zuko continued walking, looking for the campfire, unsure how long he’d been gone. The forest pressed in, strange and quiet. The trees arched over the trail like watching sentinels, and mist curled low around his boots, dampening every step.

The path forked.

To the left, an old mountain trail climbed steeply into shadow. The woods drew in close around it, dark and heavy with moss. Stone steps, worn and uneven, vanished into the overgrowth.

To the right, the mist brightened. Golden lamplight glowed steady and warm through the trees. The air turned fragrant—fire peonies and jasmine—his mother’s perfume. He felt a yearning, a pull to follow that scent; one he’d almost forgotten.

Zuko hesitated.

He paused, remembering the spirit’s warning. He looked up the dark path again, ascending into the gloom.

He was so tired, and the stairs were steep and dark. The left path felt like work.

The right felt like a memory.

He turned right.

The path sloped gently downward into a glade The dense trees of the forest gave way, slowly, to tropical palms and flame-trees, heavy with red blossoms. The scent of frangipani clung to the still air, thick and sweet.

The trees opened into a courtyard. Stone tiles appeared beneath his feet—warm and smooth, half-covered in fallen petals. Above him, lanterns hung in graceful arcs, glowing in soft oranges and reds.

Zuko stopped.

He knew this place.

The Fire Nation palace gardens.

Ursa stood beneath the lanterns, arms open.

“Zuko, my son,” she said softly. “I’ve waited so long,”

He ran to her and fell into his mother’s embrace. Her arms closed around him—solid and warm. He buried his face in her robes and breathed her in, a smell he’d forgotten and never thought he’d smell again: jasmine, fire smoke, and the faintest trace of fire peony.

“Mom,” he sobbed.

She smoothed his hair, as she’d done a hundred times before, a thing he'd almost forgotten until he felt her hand in his hair. He let out a deep, shuddering breath.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “You don’t have to fight anymore. You are home, my son.”

More voices rose around them—low, easy conversation, the chime of porcelain, the distant notes of a tsungi horn. A garden party. Lanterns swayed overhead, flickering gently in the still air.

Zuko turned.

Azula sat beneath the lotus tree, smiling as she had when they were young—before her eyes sharpened like knives and affection was weaponized. She looked up at him, and for once there was no mockery in her face, her face was unguarded and the smile she gave him was unbridled and genuine. She raised a cup of jasmine tea in salute. “You’re just in time,” she said.

Zuko’s throat ached.

At the head of a long, lacquered table, Ozai stood.

Zuko’s body went taut with old reflex—fear like steel cables under his skin. His father’s presence had always filled a room like smoke, choking and thick.
But then his father smiled warmly. Zuko felt something stir in his chest–sharp and sudden, and almost unbearable.

Hope.

“I’m proud of you,” Ozai said, his voice low and warm. “You made it home.”

Zuko staggered, as if struck. The breath went out of him.

In his entire life, he had never heard those words.

Ozai stepped forward from behind the table. His hands were open. “You have endured more than anyone expected. You survived exile. You became strong. You returned to me, son, not as a frightened, truculent boy, but as a man.”

Zuko’s fists clenched at his sides. “I didn't think you wanted me."

“I know, and I am sorry. I had to test you,” Ozai replied, gently. “But you proved worthy. You came back to us.” He spread his arms, encompassing the courtyard, the table, the family. “We’re whole again. Come. Sit at your place.”

Zuko’s gaze flicked to the empty seat beside his father where a bright red cushion with a gold dragon delicately embroidered waited, a cup of tea already poured.
His knees nearly buckled.

“This is all I ever wanted,” Zuko whispered. “To be loved.”

“And you are,” Ozai said.

Ursa’s hand found his again. “Stay, Zuko. It’s over. You’ve earned peace.”

His eyes burned. He felt like a child again—small, tired, safe.

His whole body ached with the desire to believe it.

Ozai’s gaze sharpened slightly. “There’s just one thing left.”

A thin scroll appeared in his hand—sealed in black wax. He held it out.

“Lieutenant Jee. He’s a traitor to our nation. He violated the chain of command. He defied your authority. And he revealed private matters to the crew—your Agni Kai, your disgrace.”

Zuko’s breath caught. “He told them the truth.”

“He told them his truth,” Ozai corrected gently. “Is that the kind of loyalty you reward? If you mean to command, Zuko, then command. Court-martial him. Strip him of rank. The others will fall in line.”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth warm and full of pride. “Then you’ll be ready.”

Zuko stared at the scroll. His hand hovered over it.

He thought of Jee’s face—lined, tired, unwavering. The man who’d stood by him after his own father had banished him. Who’d saluted him not because he had to, but because he chose to. He’d given up his life to follow Zuko, which he’d done first as an honorable officer, and then of his own volition–because he believed in Zuko. And Zuko had not had to give any concessions, had not had to meet any terms before he was accepted.

 

“No,” Zuko said. His voice shook. “I’m not doing that.”

Ozai’s smile dimmed. “This is your final test.”

“Then I fail,” Zuko said. “Jee is a good man.”

“Zuko,” Ursa pleaded. “You don’t have to make a decision tonight.” She reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Tonight, everything is perfect, exactly what you always wanted. Sit beside me, my son, and tell me of your great adventures.”

He buried his face in her silk robes and clutched at her like a boy waking from a nightmare. She smelled like memory—jasmine and ash, firelight and garden rain. For a moment, he let himself believe.

Then he remembered the last time he’d seen his mother.

Never forget who you are

His breath caught.

He pulled back, looking up at his mother’s face. She looked down at him gently, her amber eyes full of life.

“Tell me,” she urged softly. “Tell me everything.”

Zuko stared at her, his throat tight. “You’re not real,” he said.

Ursa frowned in confusion.

“You’d never ask me to stay here,” he whispered. “You’d tell me to keep going.”

Her hands tightened around him, but they were cold; she looked more like a doll than his mother. Around him, the courtyard shimmered.

Zuko stumbled back, but his feet dragged like they were caught in thick roots.

“I want this,” he choked. “I want you. All of you.”

“Then stay,” the grove whispered.

The garden groaned, tilting like a sinking ship.

“I want this,” Zuko said again, and his voice broke. “But it isn’t real.”

Behind him, the laughter of the garden faded into silence. The music stopped, the koi pond drying to a bowl of dust and bone.

 

Zuko stepped back—and the earth gave slightly underfoot.

He looked down. Beneath his feet was moss and the glimmer of thousands of bones, glinting faintly in the low light. He stumbled back, the crunch of a skull cracking underneath his foot. The trees that lined the grove were spindly and gray, like they, too, had traded life for a wish.

There, at the edge of the grove, a small flame flickered, small and cold and hovering just above the ground–no wood, no smoke, no warmth.

 

A Wispfire.

Zuko turned and ran. the older bones cracked underfoot. His boots slipped in the loam of rot and sorrow. He stumbled over shattered ribs, brittle femurs, a collarbone still wrapped in a red sash.

He couldn’t breathe—not fully. His chest felt hollowed out, like the spirit had already begun to feed.

He ran until the bones gave way to loam again, until the trees grew thick with moss and the Wispfire was gone behind him. He hit the fork in the path again, and ran up the worn stairs two at a time until his lungs burned and his chest heaved.

Lanterns lined the trail now, warm and golden behind glass. The trees, which had loomed dark and narrow before, had softened. Their leaves whispered above him, green and alive.

He tripped, his knee slamming against stone. His heart hammered in his chest and he gasped for air. He couldn’t breathe, not because of the run, but because something inside him had broken open. A raw ache, deep and ancient. He pressed his forehead to the stairs. It was cold and smelled of wet leaves and old salt. His body shook, not from fear, but from the weight of what he’d just run away from.

“I would’ve stayed,” he whispered to the stones. “I would’ve been happy.”

When his mother had first left, he’d dream she’d come back. In the dreams, he’d run to her and she’d open her arms and say, There, there, Zuko. I’m here. I never left. It was just a bad dream.

But then he’d wake up and realized he was living his nightmare, and his mother was still gone.

“I miss her so much.” Zuko sobbed into the stone.

He toyed, briefly, with the idea of going back, of giving in. Of knowing, just once, what it would feel like to be loved by his father, to have his mother back. To be whole. He would die, but he would be happy.

The wind stirred. Just a whisper, brushing across the back of his neck. It carried the smell of tea leaves and sea air and the faint musk of metal and oil. His uncle, his crew.

Zuko lifted his head. His face was streaked with tears, his knee bloodied, his chest hollowed–but he rose.

And he climbed.

At the top stood a shrine.
Its roof had partially collapsed, but someone had swept the stones clean and hung prayer flags between the beams. Clay jars sat beneath the eaves, each holding herbs. Windchimes made of bamboo and bronze whispered softly in the breeze.

A fire crackled in a shallow pit before the shrine.

Beside it sat an old man, cross-legged, humming tunelessly to himself. His beard was long and white, his eyes closed, his posture unnervingly straight.

Zuko hesitated.

The man cracked open one eye. “You’re late.”

Zuko blinked. “What?”

The man smiled. “You’re always late, in these sorts of stories. Storms. Dreams. Detours. You took a little longer than I thought you would, but the wind said you were coming.”

“You’re the guru?”

The man hummed.

“I met…someone. She told me to find you.”

The old man nodded. “Yes. I know her well.” The man gave a toothy grin, patting the stone beside him. “Sit, Prince Zuko. You’ve come far, and nearly died tonight, but your journey is not yet over. I am Guru Pathik.”

Zuko sat, his limbs heavy.

The old man didn’t speak right away. He reached into a small satchel beside him and withdrew a tin kettle, which he set over the fire. The scent of salt-tea and dried ginger filled the air.

“I find,” said the guru, “that most seekers think answers come first. But it's the questions that matter.”

Zuko frowned. “I’ve had enough questions.”

“Then you’re just about ready for a riddle.”

The guru closed his eyes and spoke:

“I am not seen, only felt.
I touch all things but hold to none.
I am the path, the fire, the fear—
The end of what is, the start of what comes.
What am I?”

Zuko was silent. The fire popped, sitting embers into the air.

“Is it… the wind?” Zuko offered.

The guru smiled. “Good guess. But no.”

Zuko frowned deeper. “Fire?”

“Closer.”

The kettle began to sing.

Zuko stared into the flames. “Change,” he said slowly. “It’s change, isn’t it?”

The old man opened both eyes and smiled. He poured the tea into two clay cups and handed one to Zuko.

“Everything you are afraid of losing, Prince, is already gone. It has become something new, but just because it’s new doesn’t mean it’s worse.” He paused, letting the steam curl between them. “And everything you are trying to become…” Pathik tapped Zuko’s chest with one crooked finger, “...is already inside you.”

Zuko didn’t answer right away. He accepted the cup, cradling it in both hands. It was warm, grounding. The scent was strange—earthy, with salt and something bitter—but not unpleasant.

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be—or who I am meant to become,” he said quietly. “I’m not a good son, I was never a good enough fire bender. Because of me, my mother is gone and so is the entire division of the 41st. An entire crew of men has dedicated their lives to following me around, but I don’t know where I’m going. None of that is good.”

The guru tilted his head, studying Zuko. “And yet,” he said, “here you are.”

Zuko looked up.

“You speak of failure like it defines you,” the guru went on. “But failure is not the same as unworthiness. One is an action. The other is a choice.”

“You weren’t a good son?” Pathik sipped his tea. “To a father who burns his children? Your sister is the way she is because she is terrified of what might happen if she’s not perfect. Your father’s perfect son would have championed the sacrifice of the 41st and volunteered to lead them to their deaths. Instead, you carry them with you every day. That is empathy, and it is not cowardice. It is wisdom.

“You weren’t a good enough firebender?” He gestured toward Zuko with one hand, casual but precise. “You’ve done something with your fire that no one has heard of in over five thousand years–you healed with it.”

Zuko looked down again, his throat tight.

“You don’t know where you’re going?” Pathik laughed, a quiet, kind sound. “Show me a man who does!” He looked over the fire.

“They follow you,” Pathik said, “because you have earned their loyalty through sacrifice and bravery. That is more dangerous to tyrants than fire ever was.”

He leaned forward and tapped Zuko’s chest again, gently this time.

“You don’t have to know where you’re going. Only that you are walking in truth.”

Zuko looked down at the tea. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I can hear things I’m not meant to hear. The wind whispers. The sea… moves when I’m angry. Or afraid. Or sometimes even when I’m nothing at all.”

He looked up. “It doesn’t feel like bending. It feels like… the world wants something from me, but I don’t know what.”

The guru’s gaze didn’t waver.

“That’s because it isn’t bending,” he said. “And it isn’t the world that wants something from you.”

He tapped Zuko’s chest gently.

“It’s you.”

Zuko stared at the guru. “It can’t be me. I don’t want any of this.”

“No,” Pathik agreed. “People like you never do. The Avatar never does. When you meet Aang, I think you’ll find him an unlikely choice.”

“Who’s Aang?”

Pathik gave a laugh that started in his stomach as a rumble and then came out quiet chuckles. “He is the Avatar.”

“I don’t want to meet the Avatar. I just—wanted my father to see me. I want my mother.” Zuko rubbed at his good eye, where the sting of tears had gathered. “But everything I’ve ever done–it feels like I’m farther than when I started.”

The guru nodded. “Love given conditionally,” he said, “is not love. It’s a leash.”

The old man leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You have been given a heavy burden. One day, you will meet the Avatar. When you do–will you bring him home to your father and claim your place at his side?” He let the question hang.

“Or will you do the hardest thing you’ve ever done?”

Zuko’s voice cracked. “Leaving my mother tonight was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, even if she wasn’t real.” Zuko heaved a shuddering breath. The cup trembled slightly in his hands. He spun it in his palms and met the gray eyes of the man sitting across from him.

“My father is cruel, and what he’s done—to the world and—” Zuko stumbled over his words. “And to me–they were wrong.”

Pathik nodded. “Exactly right.”

The guru stood, joints cracking like old wood.

“Come,” he said. “Bring your tea.”

Zuko followed him through a narrow path behind the shrine, winding through cedar roots and stone cairns overgrown with moss. They emerged into a quiet clearing—a circle of flat stone bordered by wind-bent trees. Thin lanterns hung from the branches, dim and swaying, their light barely touching the stone.
In the center of the clearing was a shallow bowl of water, smooth as glass.

“Sit,” the guru said, settling across from him.

Zuko obeyed. He set the tea beside him, uncertain.

“This was once a place of training,” the guru said. “Not for fighting, but meditation. The Air Nomads believed that a soul must become still enough to feel the world move around it, and by feeling the world move around them, it allowed them to move in the world. This is how they mastered the air."

Zuko looked at the water.

“I’m not good at stillness.”

“Then it will be a challenge,” the guru said, smiling.

Zuko sat cross-legged opposite him. The cold stone bit through his pants. He set the tea beside him.

“No fire. No breathing techniques. No mantra,” Pathik said. “Just you. The bowl. And the world around you.”

Zuko stared at the water. “And what am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing,” said the guru. “And that’s the hardest thing of all.”

Zuko stared at him.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Zuko heaved a sigh and closed his eyes.

At first, all he could hear was his own breath—shallow and too fast. His shoulders were tight, his back sore from the climb. His knee throbbed, and he could feel the stickiness of blood against his pant leg. A branch creaked somewhere above. A lantern clinked faintly in the wind.

He tried to think about nothing. Instead, he wondered how long this would take.

He let out a rough breath and restarted. He tried not to think of his mother or the fact that he’d almost died earlier, consumed by the wispfire–and almost wanted to.

He tried not to think of the Wani and her crew and their loyalty, or his uncle and his tea and riddles. He tried not to think about the forgotten woman who had been the unnamed wind and was now the island he was sitting on.

Instead, he thought of all of that.

His eyes snapped open. “I’m not even good at doing nothing!” Zuko shouted.

The guru nodded. “It may be the hardest thing you’ve ever done. The air benders dedicated their entire lives to it.”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking me to do,” Zuko said. “I don’t understand why any of this is happening, or why I’m supposed to be something special!”

Pathik sighed sadly. “The air benders, my friends, did not understand why Sozin murdered them. Things happen, Zuko, that we can’t change, but we can change ourselves.”

Zuko slammed his hands against the stone ground. “It was wrong! What my great-grandfather did was wrong. What my father does is wrong! I won't change my opinion on those things!”

Pathik nodded. “I’m not asking you to change your morals. That is your strength, Zuko. I’m asking you to change the way you see. What happened to you can’t be changed. What happened to your mother cannot be changed. What happened to my friends–to all the air benders–cannot be changed.” He placed a gnarled hand on the island. “You spoke to the lady earlier; what did she tell you?”

Zuko paused, his anger softened at the edges. “She told me the story of how she came to be here. She used to be the wind.”

Pathik nodded again. “And now she’s an island. Can we change that?”

Zuko looked around, at the blue sky peeking through the heavy canopy of trees, and the moss growing on the stones. “No,” he said quietly. “But she wants to be the wind again. She said if I don’t tell her story, she’ll forget she ever was.”

Pathik hummed. “So you can’t change that she became stone. What can you change?”

“I… I can make sure she’s not forgotten. I can tell her story to my crew. I can keep the lanterns lit.”

Pathik smiled. “Yes. So you cannot change what was but you change what is.”

Zuko considered this. “What about my mother? I can’t change that. I–I saw her tonight. It wasn’t really her, but—” tears welled in his eyes. “I miss her every day, I could’ve gone home.” His chin dropped to his chest, tears rolling down his face. “How do you live, having lost everyone you knew?”

Pathik studied Zuko, his eyes warm with understanding. Slowly, he reached forward and pressed his old, gnarled hand against Zuko’s chest. The skin was dry and leathery.

“I miss my friends every single day. I miss everything that died with them. For a long time, I hated. But I realized… that hatred wasn’t what they taught me. And if I held onto it, I would dishonor everything they were.” He took his hand away, finger trembling slightly.

“I cannot change what happened to them, but you know what I can do?”

Zuko looked up, his face streaked with tears. “What?”

“I can love you,” Pathik said simply. “Because you are not your great-grandfather. You are not your father. I can share their knowledge with you. And in that way, they will live on. That is what I can do.” His voice lowered, steady and somber.

“Or I can let hatred hollow me out. I can walk down into that grove with the Wispfire and choose the world that was, instead of the world that is.”

Zuko’s voice was barely audible. “I almost did. My father would call me weak.”

Pathik shook his head. “You did the bravest thing a man could do: you were given everything you wanted, and you turned away.” He leaned back slowly. “Now, try again.”

Zuko closed his eyes.

At first, all he could hear was his own breath—shallow, tight. The wind tugged faintly at his collar. A branch creaked somewhere above. A lantern flickered. He tried not to think. It reminded him of all the times Iroh had sat beside him in silence, the sound of nothing but breathing and a slowly cooling cup of tea.

He thought of his mother, but this time, he realized she’d be proud of him, for what he had done. He didn’t know where she was, if she was even alive, but it didn’t matter. He could be–was becoming–the son she had always believed he was.

Tears slipped unbidden from his good eye, the other one too ruined to weep. He thought of Ozai. Of a man who would burn his own son for speaking out, who cared so little for other people’s children—Lu Ten, Jee’s son—that he would offer them up like firewood. And in that moment, Zuko understood.

He did not want–did not need–the love of a man like that.

He let out a long, shaking breath.

Time passed. It stretched thin.

He thought of the island that had once been the wind. He let the quiet, steady breeze move over his face and thought of how gentle it was—how kind. The wind grew stronger, not loud or wild, but sure of itself. He couldn’t change who she’d been, but he could make sure she was never forgotten.

Pathik watched as a bird took flight, silent against the pale sky. For the first time in over a century since he had first visited the island, wind stirred the leaves, and it was like the island was heaving a stale breath she had held for millennia.

Zuko’s eyes opened.

The ache was still in his chest, the leathery scar still marked his face. His knee throbbed and his shoulders were still sore, but the anger that had simmered like coals in him was banked down.

He bowed his head. For the first time in his life, he did not long for what he had lost, or what he’d never had.

Zuko inhaled, and the air tasted different. Alive. The silence around him was no longer empty, but waiting.

Zuko opened his eyes fully. The water in the bowl was still again, but something had shifted. The silence wasn’t empty. It was full. He could hear the wind and the water.

He looked to the guru, unsure what he had just done—if he’d done anything at all. The old man’s eyes were crinkled, deep lines carved into the smile lines around his face. “You felt it.”

“I don’t know what I felt. I didn’t do anything.”

Pathik smiles. “That is enough. That is everything.” He rose, joints crackling. The trees parted just slightly in the breeze, revealing a faint path of light between them.

Zuko frowned. “To do nothing?”

The guru leaned forward, voice calm but steady. “The world is not something you conquer. It is something you belong to. It’s not that you did nothing, it’s that you listened.”

Zuko watched him curiously.

“In the Fire Nation,” the guru continued, “you were taught to assert your will. That fire is strength. That breath is a weapon. That bending is dominance.”
He shook his head gently.

“But fire is not wrath, just like air is not simply freedom. All the world is connected. When we named the things—water as changing, the earth as stubborn, we tried to make them be a singular thing. But fire and air and wind and yes, even the earth, have a great potential for change, just as they do for wrath and stubbornness.”

He looked Zuko in the eye.

“You are not meant to command the elements, Prince Zuko. You are meant to listen to them.”

Zuko sat back, as if those words physically struck him.

“But why?”

Guru Pathik’s expression grew solemn. “Because that is who you are.”

“I don’t know what to do, I don’t know who I am.”

“There is seldom a man in this world who knows who he is supposed to be.” Pathik leaned forward, tapping Zuko’s chest. “What I know is this: you are not your father. Be the man you’re meant to be, Zuko. Not the man others would make you.”

“Now go, Prince. Your ship needs you.”

Zuko rose slowly. He bowed deeply but when he straightened, the old man was gone. He was accompanied only by the soft rustle of leaves and the fading scent of salt-tea.

Zuko looked once more at the clearing, then stepped back into the jungle.

The trees no longer pressed close. The path he took felt like it had always been there. The ground was dry beneath his feet. He knew where he was going, as if he’d been there before.

He reached the beach just as the tide was turning. The sky was a cloudless blue, the sun a great bright ball.

In the distance, the Wani bobbed quietly offshore, her patched hull rising like a wound that refused to give in.

Zuko stood for a long moment on the sand, wind brushing through his hair, before he pushed his boat onto the surf.

The sea did not resist him.

It carried him home.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The storm had passed a week ago. A thin mist clung to the waves, and the air smelled of fish and salt. Iroh kept a watch on the bow for Zuko. Behind them, the lighthouse continued to flash warning and welcome.

On the first day, Bosun had rowed out to examine the tower and returned hours later, pale under his tan.

“There’s been no one there for decades. Dust and cobwebs. There’s no reason for that lighthouse to have started flashing.”

Two days later, he made landfall and found the forest too dense to enter. The prince’s footsteps had vanished into a wall of green—trees tight as teeth and undergrowth deeper than shadow.

Jee kept the kettle warm for Iroh and spent each watch scanning the shoreline.

“He’s not gone,” Iroh told him.

“I know,” Jee agreed. “We will stay as long as it takes.”

The crew fished daily. Lines over the side always came back heavy. Cook was pleased. The men were fed. But they watched the shoreline.

On the eighth day, Bosun said, “Boat in the water!’

The crew crowded the rail. Zuko was rowing toward them, a lone figure over the placid cove. His face was hollow, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. But more than that—he looked older. Weathered. Worn in a way no boy should be.

He climbed aboard in silence. His boots struck the deck with a solid, final thud. He met Iroh’s eyes, then Jee’s and Bosun’s.

His gaze—those golden eyes that had always seemed a little too bright—now looked unearthly. As if he’d seen something not meant for men.

Iroh stepped forward. For a moment, Zuko stood frozen. Then he let himself be drawn into his uncle’s arms. “I was worried, Zuko.”

Zuko’s arms tightened around him. The scent of salt and smoke clung to his uncle’s robes. Something inside him broke loose and settled, all at once. He buried his head in Iroh’s shoulder, his fingers dug loosely into his robes.

When he pulled away, he turned to Jee. The captain saluted him. He looked down in surprise as Zuko held out his arm in the Southern Water Tribe greeting. Jee took his outstretched arm and squeezed.

“Prince Zuko–welcome back.”

An open smile broke open on Zuko’s face. “It’s good to be back, Captain.”

Jee’s face broadened into an open smile.

Zuko turned and looked over the flat waters of the cove. The water glittered under the sun, a light breeze feathering the surface. Satisfied, he turned to Jee.
“There’s a dry dock waiting for us.”

Jee grinned back. “There is,” he agreed. Beside him, Bosun was already moving to make ready.

That evening, as the sun settled into a rosy glow off the port bow, the Wani steamed out of the cove.

Before them, hundreds of lighthouses sputtered to life, marking clear passage up the calm waters of the Narrow Sea.

Chapter Text

Death’s Reach is a deep water port carved into the jagged eastern coast of the Earth Kingdom, nestled in a crescent cove where the land curls protectively to the north and south in a great, wind-smoothed arc. To the west sits the Flame Mountains, so named because of the spirit who was said to be trapped there–or once trapped. The legends are unclear, as Earth Kingdom denizens are generally very practical people and not particularly prone to myths and legends.

Caught in the rain shadow of the Si Wong Desert, the region is a harsh one. The land cracks during drought–which is most of the time. The air tastes of salt and rust and the dry sand of the western desert. Grain won’t grow in the dusty soil, and what little does is small and withered–claimed by the dry winds that sweep off the dry mountains and into the sea. If not for the cove—its waters so clear the bottom 50 feet down is visible, where oyster clams cluster like silvered teeth in the reef's jaw—the first settlers would never have lasted. The oyster clams were not only a bounty of food, but also for the pearls clutched inside them. The fishermen soon began to trade with them, and Death’s Cove grew famous. Demand grew.

Before the Sisters became islands, very long ago indeed, the fishermen took too much. They gorged on the bounty of the sea, dragging more than needed, leaving the old beds broken and stripped. The spirit of the cove grew angry. The fish vanished. The water soured. Many died, and those who didn’t withered in slow waves of hunger and salt-poisoned grief, until only a hard remnant remained: a scattering of people so tenacious, so flint-hearted, that not even despair could finish the job.

They rebuilt their cove and they called it Poison Shell Cove for the poisoned oyster clams and the town Death’s Reach, because death had reached for them and come back empty handed.

For generations, they lived as fishermen again. And at the edge of the water stood a statue—weathered but beloved—of the man the youngest sister once loved. When time and tide ground away his features, the town held a contest. Earthbenders from across the cove came, not to show strength but memory, reshaping his face in stone as it was remembered, not imagined.

Then the Fire Nation came.

At first, the villagers endured them. Soldiers could be ignored. But when the shipyards were raised and the smelting pots fired, when the sky turned black and the bay turned bitter, these hardened people rose up, and against all odds, they won.

This is known as the Smelting Rebellion, and on the ninth day of the ninth month, it is celebrated. The cannons that guard the coast are lit, the entire town gets drunk, and effigies of Fire Nation soldiers are burned.

The Fire Nation returned with a fleet, eager to reclaim what they had lost. But before they could strike, the sea struck first. A great typhoon rose from the sea and shattered them. Some say the spirit of the cove had not forgotten the old greed—but had learned, at last, who its enemies truly were.

The Fire Nation never came back.

The old shipyards remain, long after the empire abandoned them. Death’s Reach sits now in the long shadow of both desert and empire—too dry for rice, too far for taxes, too tough to tame. It became a free port, beholden to no one. Neutral, on paper. Lawless, in practice. Here, they build ships for anyone with coin: sharp-keeled, low-drafted, cannon-lined vessels meant for fast work and hard living.

Two stone forts still flank the harbor’s mouth—one to the north, one to the south—always garrisoned. Earthbenders to hold the rock. Firebenders who had turned away from the Fire Lord, finding a strange, hard peace in the bitter winds of the Reach. Together, they watch the sea with narrowed eyes and loaded guns.
It was to this scarred, stubborn harbor that the Wani sailed.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The wind was fresh and the seas agreeable.

Off the port bow stretched the dry hills of the eastern Earth Kingdom, their ochre slopes catching the last of the sun. Overhead, the sky faded into a pale, washed blue—hazed by the westerlies that blew fine grit from the Si Wong Desert, smearing the horizon in dust and light. It made for vivid sunsets: the hills blazed orange, the clouds lit mauve and rose as the sun sank behind the ridgeline.

By day, the warmth clung to the decks, but at night the heat vanished, stripped away by bone-dry winds.

Bosun stood on the port side, swinging a lead over the side. Jee waited until he’d pulled the plummet up before he interrupted him.

“How’s the channel?”

Bosun gave Jee a queer look. “I had Riku on the soundings but he told me every time we hit the shallows, the current pushed us back into the depths. Figure I’d see it for myself.”

Jee gave a small nod. “And?”

Bosun held up the plummet, wet and clean. “Same thing. I know Roken’s keeping a straight course. But the sea keeps...rearranging us. It’s like it won’t let us run aground, even when we should. I’ve never seen anything like it, Skipper.”

Dusk wrapped its arms around them. Along the shore, scattered lighthouses blinked to life, their fires catching in the growing dark. On the fantail, just past the bulk of the superstructure, Jee knew Zuko sat with his uncle, sipping tea beneath the deepening sky.

Jee rested his arms on the gunwale, watching the darkening land slip by. He was silent a long time before he answered. “I don’t understand what our prince is, or what’s unfolding around him—but for the first time in a long time, I have hope.” He chuffed, as though he was surprised to find the emotion in him.
Bosun came to rest beside him. They watched the western sky sink into indigo, the brightest stars poking through the blanket of night. The sun tucked herself behind the dry, brown mountains, her golden light fading quickly.

 

In the late twilight, Iroh prepared tea with the practiced motions of ritual—steady, familiar, and unhurried. The gentle scrape of the pot against the kettle tray, the click of porcelain lids, the whisper of leaves unfolding in the steam. Beside him, Zuko sat quietly, his eyes turned toward the horizon where the sun was beginning to slip behind the scorched hills of the eastern Earth Kingdom.

He hadn’t protested the tea. Not even a grumble. Iroh noted this small change. Once, the boy would have scoffed or sulked, claiming he had better things to do. Lately, his complaints had softened, then vanished altogether. Now he just sat beside his uncle, silent, like he understood that the tea wasn’t the point.

“You saw something on the island. Besides the island’s spirit,” Iroh said, by way of opening salvo.

Zuko didn’t look at him. He nodded once, eyes still fixed on the reddening sky.

“I went to the Spirit World once,” Iroh said, carefully. “After Ba Sing Se. After your—” His voice caught, but he didn’t look away. “After Lu Ten.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed golden as he refocused from the sky to his uncle. The boy seemed older somehow since returning, and sadder. There was something in his eyes now that hadn’t been there before. Something old and tired.

“I didn’t go to the spirit world, Uncle,” Zuko said. “It came to me.”

Iroh nodded. “The spirits can be mysterious,” he intoned wisely.

“It wasn’t anything mysterious,” Zuko said. “It was a wisp fire.”

Iroh’s hands went still over the tea tray. His eyes widened. “Zuko…”

“It showed me everything,” Zuko said, voice flat. “Everything I thought I ever wanted.”

Iroh exhaled through his nose. He had never seen a wisp fire himself. They were said to be old—older than the spirit realm. Things that preyed on men’s dreams, called them into lowlands and forests with a flickering light. Bones found years later, curled in peaceful repose. Smiles frozen on skulls.
“But you returned, so it must not have been everything.”

“It was,” Zuko said. “But at a price. Even in the perfect hallucination, Ozai can’t help himself. He wanted me to court martial Jee.

Iroh’s heart clenched. “But you wouldn’t.”

“No,” Zuko said, his voice heavy. “I wouldn’t.” He heaved a deep shuddering breath.

The sun dipped lower, crimson under the distant mountains. They took their tea in silence.

“I saw my mother,” Zuko’s voice was barely above a whisper he said in a quiet voice. “And Azula, but she wasn’t cruel.”

Iroh frowned. “She was a sweet child when she was young. Your mother loved her deeply. She tottered around you like a little turtle duck.”

Zuko’s mouth twitched at the memory. He hadn’t thought of that in years—Azula, small and barefoot, clinging to his fingers, tugging at his sleeve to show her the koi pond, the stables, the secret places between spaces. She had been clever, even then. Bright-eyed and bold. And he had been proud of her. He had loved her. Still did, even if he was pretty sure she’d kill him.

He was filled with a deep longing for the sister he’d had.

“What happened to her?” Zuko asked.

Iroh’s hands stilled. He looked up and met Zuko’s gaze—old eyes to young, tired soul to wounded one.

“Your parents,” Iroh said.

Zuko blinked. “You mean Ozai.”

“No, Zuko. Your mother, too.” Iroh pierced Zuko with golden eyes.

Zuko stiffened. “Mother—”

“Ursa made choices,” Iroh said. “Some out of fear. Some out of love. Some, I suspect, out of pride. And she paid for them. You all did.”

Zuko’s jaw worked. “She protected me.”

“Yes,” Iroh said. “And in doing so, she left Azula behind.”

Zuko stared at him, stunned.

“She loved you,” Iroh said. “More than anything. Both of you. And she was right to fear your father. But your sister has always been precocious, and your father claimed her as his own. Your mother thought Azula was strong enough. That she could survive him. That she could outplay him. Ursa made her bet... and Azula lost.”

The silence between them stretched like taut sailcloth.

“You blame her?” Zuko asked finally, his voice steely.

“No,” Iroh said, voice hoarse. “But I see her clearly. I did not, once. I see now that she tried to save one child—and in doing so, she broke the other. It wasn’t fair. But war is never fair, Zuko. And family... family is worse.”

Zuko looked away. The wind picked up across the deck, dry and salt-tanged. The ship rocked on suddenly heavy seas, the deck swinging wildly from port to starboard and back again. The sky was clear above. Iroh watched his nephew closely.

“You must learn to control this gift you have been given.”

“I don’t want it!” Zuko snapped, sea spray splashing over the rails.

“But you have it, Zuko. No one asks for their fate. A thousand decisions have led you here, to this ship, to this moment. You might not want what the spirits have given, but you have it, and you must learn to control and use it or it will destroy you.” Iroh’s timbre lowered, his countenance serious.

“She was still good,” Zuko said quietly.

“She was,” Iroh agreed. “She loved you. She did her best. That’s all a parent can do.”

Zuko closed his eyes, pain flashing across his face. “Then why does it still feel like she disappeared when I needed her most?”

“Because she did,” Iroh said, catching his nephew’s eyes. The boy looked back at the heaving sea. He heaved a sigh and the swells tapered. Soon the ship was sailing once again down glassy black seas that reflected the starry sky above.

They sat in silence a while longer. Iroh poured the tea at last. The cups steamed in their hands, and the sun’s last light turned the sky into flame. Below them, the Wani cut silently through the deepening waters, carried forward by currents it no longer controlled.

The evening bells rang, calling them to dinner.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

By the morning of the third day, the peninsula of Death’s Reach unspooled off their port bow, a tawny finger of land reaching into the sea.

The Wani flew no Fire Nation colors now. Instead, a blue and white pennant snapped above the deck—a neutral signal, faded by sun and salt.

Ahead, the port revealed itself in increments: first a scatter of buoys bobbing over the shoals, then ships riding low at anchor, and finally the spidering jetties that clung to the shore like broken teeth.

The harbor bristled with vessels of every make and age. Slender merchant sloops from the Eastern Archipelago floated beside armored steel corvettes from forgotten Fire Navy squadrons. Junkers with mismatched sails groaned at their moorings. Some bore hand-painted sigils, others nothing at all. Above them, albatross gulls coasted the warm thermals rising off the sea, riding the desert wind with effortless grace.

The land itself was austere and strange—brown hills eroded by wind and sand sloped toward the coast. Chartreuse cacti burst from the rocky soil in surreal towers. Yellow grasses rattled in the wind, giving the impression the land itself whispered.

As they neared the mouth of the cove, two jagged outcroppings loomed. Forts sat atop each one, rough-cut from stone and hunched like sentries. Their cannons, burnished silver under an unforgiving sun, tracked the Wani’s movement in silent readiness. The ship passed between them without challenge, slipping into the calm expanse of the inner bay.

The water inside was flat as glass, reflecting the colorless noon sky. Scores of ships floated in the motionless water, anchored or lashed to creaking piers that jutted into the cove’s tun-colored mudflats. The hot wind funneled down from the mountains, dry and hot.

At the docks, there was no welcome—only a quiet, sun-beaten chaos. Men with wide-brimmed hats and rusted cutlasses lounged on crates or played dice in the shadows. The air reeked of salt brine, engine oil, and rotting bait.

As they drifted in, a woman emerged from a low, tin roofed building. The harbor master. She stumped down the dock with a limp. Her right leg ended in a peg that clacked hollowly against the wood with every step. She was lean as driftwood, her skin sun-darkened, and her broad-brimmed red hat hadn’t been fashionable in fifty years.

She wore a loose cotton tunic tucked into flax trousers faded nearly to white. A battered clipboard was tucked under one arm. She didn’t speak at first, just jerked her chin at the idle dockhands, who scrambled to catch thrown lines and guide the Wani in with practiced ease. Only when the brow dropped and crew began to disembark did she approach the officers, stopping just short of Jee.

“The Wani, eh?” Her eyes scoured the hull, her voice low and gravelled. “Not seen anything this old since I was a wee one. What are you, some sort of ghost ship?” She leaned in slightly, eyeing Jee like a suspicious relic.

Jee met her on the dock. “She’s been called worse.”

“Mm.” The woman sucked her teeth. Her eyes swept up the gangplank to where the rest of the officers lingered in the shadow of the superstructure. Her scowl deepened.

“Fire Nation steel,” she muttered. “No mistaking that stink—oil, soot, and imperiousness.”

Bosun Izen stepped forward. “We’re flying neutral colors.”

“And I’m sure you paid full price for them, too,” she snapped, eyeing their uniforms. “This port doesn’t give a flaming eel’s spine what colors you fly if your boots are still caked in ash. You come off a Fire Nation deck, you’ve got blood in your wake.” She spat on the deck.

Iroh stepped forward, bowing just slightly. “Madam, I assure you, we seek only shelter and repairs. We are not here to cause trouble.”

She snorted. “Trouble’s not something you bring here, sweetheart. It’s already watching you from every alley and crow’s nest. You’re of the same cloth of the people who burned the fields and killed the families of the people who live here.”

“This is supposed to be a nationless port,” Iroh protested mildly.

She jabbed her clipboard toward the gangway. “Dock fees double for Fire Nation steel. Triple if I feel like it, and if you have something smart to say, I’ll feel like it. If your crew draws steel or fire in my streets, you’ll be feeding the sharks off the breakwater before dawn.”

Izen opened his mouth, then closed it again. Jee gave a stiff nod. “Understood.”

The woman gave him one more lingering look, then scribbled something on the clipboard. She handed the receipt over. Jee’s eyes bulged.

“Madam,” he began in protest. She spat at his feet.

“Your kind carries no weight here. If you can’t pay it, shove off.”

“Miss–” Iroh interjected. She cocked her head back to pierce him with a glare, golden eyes flashing under her hat. Iroh’s face remained pleasant.

“Old Jiu. There’s no miss or madam.”

“Old Jiu,” Iroh continued amicably, “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. Is there a Fire Nation purser here?”

She snorted. “Sure, next to the queen and king of bullshit. You can find them up on hill “go fuck yourself.” Pay the tab by the morning or find your way out of my harbor.” She stomped off.

“What a spirited woman,” Iroh said. “Interesting eyes.” He considered the port. “I am sure we can work something out. Zuko, why don’t you accompany me?”

The pair passed down a switchback alley that smelled of tar, brine, and rotting fruit. Buildings jutted at odd angles, built from scavenged wood, old hulls, and broken brick. A painted sign over one door read “Mother Amiya’s: Clothes, Cuts, and Curses Removed.”

Inside, the shop was cluttered and dim, but the walls were hung with everything from heavy woolen coats to sailor’s leathers and desert robes dyed in long-faded hues. A pale eelcat snored on the counter, its whiskers twitching in a dream.

A woman emerged from the back with scissors tucked into her bun and a thimble on her right thumb. She could’ve been anywhere between thirty and sixty, her nut-brown skin creased at the eyes, her indigo dress light and flowing, embroidered with swallows at each shoulder. The material was light and gauzy. She looked, Zuko realized, like Guru Pathik. She caught Zuko’s gaze, recognition flickering in her eyes.

Iroh put a white lotus tile down on the dark wood of the counter. The woman picked it up, her expression changing. “There are not many that favor the old ways.”

“But those who do can always find a friend,” Iroh beamed.

The woman smiled, her teeth flashing white. “You’re far from home.”

“Nationless men in a nationless port,” Iroh said, his face sobering. “Looking for a friend.”

The woman hummed, her eyes assessing him before flickering to Zuko. “Who’s this?”

“My nephew. Flotsam, like the rest of us.”

“Not this one.” The seamstress stepped closer. Her voice was quiet, reverent. She studied Zuko as though seeing past his clothes, his scar, even the storm behind his eyes. “He is not flotsam.” Her accent was clipped but drew out consonants, not unlike the guru.

She bowed. “I am honored, Spirit Speaker. I am Amiya.”

Zuko blinked. “I’m not—” He hesitated. “I mean—I’m honored to meet you. But I’m not a–I’m not– Spirit Speaker.”

“You are,” Amiya said simply. “You have met the wind and the waves. You have met my great-grandfather. He sent word. The lighthouses lit your way.”

Zuko fumbled for words.

Amiya smiled. “He always said the spirits choose strangely. Never the boldest, or the loudest. He said—“

Zuko shifted uncomfortably, continuing her statement. “He said listening was important.”

Amiya’s smile deepened. She passed behind a hanging curtain and reemerged with an armful of cloth. “Then he saw something true in you. He always did have the eye.” Her gaze lingered. “I never met him. He left long before I was born. But his journals made their way back, and we talk in dreams. He saved everything he could of the Eastern Air Nomads so that it may one day be passed down.”

“But he’s alive. I met him.”

Amiya gave him a knowing smile. “He died fifty years ago, before I was even born, Spirit Speaker.”

“My name is Zuko.”

She nodded. “That is what you are called. It is not who you are.”

She moved with quiet authority, tossing garments toward them in neat, practiced bundles.

“Now–you gentlemen need nationless clothes. I’m afraid you won’t get much out of the people of this town dressed as you are. You’ll find no friends of the Fire Nation in this port.”

Iroh cleared his throat uncomfortably. “There’s the issue of money–”

Amiya pushed the white lotus tile back towards Iroh. “For a member of our order, no money is needed. We work towards the same thing.”

She held up a tunic–burnt ochre and storm-gray, the color of sunbaked stone and the stormy ocean. The weave was coarse, hand-spun in a Water Tribe pattern but made of Earth Kingdom flax, the stitching deliberately irregular. A faded blue sash crossed his chest to break the silhouette, its frayed ends embroidered with a broken wave motif—old Northern make. “A nationless Spirit Speaker stands for all nations.” She held the tunic to Zuko’s shoulders. “This will fit.”

His trousers were a soft, mossy green—riverwear, worn by reed-cutters and deckhands on barge routes winding up from Gaipan. They tucked into calf-high boots scuffed from long travel, their soles repaired with mismatched leather—one stamped faintly with an Earth Kingdom merchant seal, the other plain.
She laid a cloak across the bundle last—lightweight and sun-bleached, but hooded. It was stitched from old sailcloth, smelling faintly of sea salt and oil. “To keep the sun off.”

Zuko took the clothes in silence. They weren’t the robes of a prince or the leathers of a soldier. It was a patchwork of people who survived the wreckage of the Fire Nation empire.

She added a faded wrap for the head—deep indigo, lined with sweat-salt and sunbleach. “It was my brother’s,” she said, almost casually. “He went to Ba Sing Se and never came back.”

Zuko turned the weathered cloth in his hands, sewn from a world he’d only begun to understand. He looked up at her. “I am honored.” He bowed. “But they’ll still recognize my face.”

Amiya placed a hand over Zuko’s. It was warmed and calloused. “Not in these clothes. In these, you’re another scarred child, victim of the Fire Nation’s cruelty.”

“But I’m not–” Zuko protested.

“Aren’t you?” Amiya caught Zuko’s scar in her muddy eyes before he could finish his thought. His protests tapered off. The words struck deeper than he expected. He could feel Uncle’s eyes on him. He resisted the urge to touch the leathery skin of his face.

Iroh chuckled as she handed him a patchwork vest and wide-legged trousers. “Fortune teller down on his luck?”

“Worse,” Amiya replied, her eyes serious. “Retired tea hawker with secrets.” She met his eye and added, “We don’t all forget the Siege of Ba Sing Se, Dragon.”

Iroh gave a low bow, his eyes dimming with memory. “I wish I could,” he admitted quietly.

“You couldn’t. Shouldn’t, or then your son would truly die, and my brother with him.”

Iroh straightened. “I regret–”

“I don’t care to hear of your regrets, General. What’s done is done, and neither of us will see our loved ones again. No, no protestations. I do not despise you. I pity you. You killed so many, and for no reason at all. I could not live if I had that much blood on my hands, but you must live every day because you are as much on this journey as the Spirit Speaker.”

Iroh, who always had a clever turn of phrase or a snappy return, looked out the dust-covered window of her shop, his face solemn, sorrow in his eyes.

Amiya turned to Zuko.

“You have a crew. I will have their clothes sent to the ship. It won’t do for you to look like Fire Nation men. Not anymore.”

“But we are,” Zuko said.

Amiya didn’t answer, pulling clothes from hangers and folding them into a pile.

“If we don’t pay for the ship by tomorrow, the harbor master said we have to leave,” Zuko said.

Amiya nodded. “The…group we are a part of can cover you through tomorrow. After that, you’re on your own. Talk to Chinwe. They own the ship yard on the northern end of town. Their business is not the most reputable, but then, neither is anything else in this place.”

“You’re here.”

Amiya nodded. “One day balance will be restored. I will be here when it is.”

“The Avatar is gone,” Zuko said.

Amiya caught Zuko in her eyes. “He was,” she agreed. “But the responsibility does not fall solely on his shoulders, Spirit Speaker. Now, go to Chinwe.”

0o0o000o0o0o

Chinwe’s ship yard sat on the north spit of Death’s Reach, where the rocky headland curled like a claw into the harbor. The yard was ringed by a tall earthen wall. A weather-beaten sign hung sideways on a post, faded letters barely visible beneath a scrawl of red paint and soot.

At the gates, an old man sat on an overturned bucket, shaded by a faded and torn umbrella. As Zuko and Iroh approached, he stood. His hand clutched a harpoon upright like a staff. His skin was leathered, his hair bleached gray, and his left eye filmed over with white. Shark teeth dangled from a cord around his throat. He shifted his foot slightly, and the ground under Zuko heaved. He stumbled forward. Iroh shot him a warning look but plastered a smile to his face.

“Greetings! Amiya sent us to call after Chinwe. I assume this is the right place?”

The man scowled. “Amiya’s known to pick up strays.”

Iroh continued to beam at the man.

“You come in on that new boat?” He jutted his chin towards the Wani.

“Indeed.”

“Fire Nation build.” The man spat.

“So are half the ships in the harbor,” Iroh pointed out mildly. “But you will see, our ship is fifty years old and patched–barely sea worthy as she is.”

The man narrowed his good eye at them before looking closely at Zuko. He hesitated before stepping aside. With another shift of his foot, the heavy stone doors slide open.

“All the way back now. You’ll know when you get there.”

Inside, the ground was hard-packed sand and oil-stained gravel. Hull frames rose on scaffolding like ribs of stranded whales, their undersides exposed to the punishing sun. Some were little more than warped spines and bolted beams. Others had half-plated bellies, their skin patchworked with scavenged iron—metal of a dozen different makes and nations.

Piles of stripped engine casings, coiled ropes, broken rudders, and melted cannon muzzles cluttered the yard in no apparent order. A few yard members, stripped to the waist, worked re-riveting iron seams or splicing cable with rough precision. A forge on the far side belched intermittent smoke, its chimney jury-rigged from a pair of welded stovepipes.

A long boat hung midair on a hoist, its keel cracked open like a chest cavity. Below it, the deck of a larger ship had been completely removed—just the keel and ribs remained, like a dissected anatomy lesson in naval death.

The main warehouse stood at the back—a tall, barnlike structure built from old masts, ship planks, and reinforced steel doors, one of which had a Fire Nation emblem visibly burned off. Inside, the shadows were thick with rusted parts, salvaged rigging, sailcloth, and crates stamped in half-legible ink from all over the world.

And overseeing it all, often from the shade of a rusted conning tower turned into an office, Chinwe reigned like a warlord of wreckage—sharp-eyed, grease-slicked, and unflinching. A wrench was slung over a massive shoulder, a long thick braid trailing down their back. Their arms were bare and strong, corded with muscle. A heavy welding apron covered the front of a flowing mauve dress, intricately embroidered in gold thread, forming anchors, compasses, and light houses at the hem of the skirt. They eyed the pair with golden brown eyes that narrowed when they slid over Zuko’s scar.

“You must be Chinwe,” Iroh smiled.

Chinwe didn’t smile back. “I’m busy. What has you darkening my doorstep?”

“Amiya said you may be of some help,” Iroh said. “We came on the morning tide, and our ship is in sad need of repairs.”

“I don’t run a charity.” They made to close the door. Iroh stepped into the door, his bulk preventing Chinwe.

“We aren’t asking for charity,” he said. “But I am sure we can find a way to come to an understanding.”

Chinwe scanned their faces again. Reluctantly, they opened the door and swung an arm to repurposed captain chairs. They crossed their arms, leaning against a battered desk littered with schematics and charts. “Amiya’s done favors for me in the past, which is lucky for you; otherwise you wouldn’t have made it this far."

Iroh cleared his throat gently. “We’re looking for repairs. Or a ship. We’re willing to trade.”

“Repairs cost coin, which I gather you don’t have.” Chinwe responded in a bored tone. “And you two don’t strike me as the type to work.”

“We’ll work,” Zuko said tightly.

Chinwe studied him. “Well, I won’t stand on ceremony. I saw your ship come in. It can be fixed, but it will take time and money. I’m not sure what happened that she ended up looking like a battered–”

“It was a battle with Zhao,” Zuko cut in. “He was trying to sink us, but a fleet of Southern Water Tribe ships showed up and helped turn the tide in our favor. He limped off and the chief tried to fix us up as best he could, but we need to be seaworthy. Zhao will not forget, and if the seas don’t sink us, he will."

Chinwe’s brows raised. “Commander Zhao?”

Zuko nodded.

“Of the Fire Nation fleet?”

Zuko nodded again.

Chinwe drummed their fingers on the desk, looking out the dusty window to the glassy harbor. “Well. That changes the calculus. Zhao is no friend of mine–or anybody here. He’s harried plenty of the people who call this place home.” Chinwe pushed away from the desk. “It still doesn’t handle the issue of time, and I still don’t do work on charity, but I might have something that interests you.” They pulled a ledger off a shelf, flipping it open.

“There’s a ship, The Fanged Current, It’s an E-class frigate coming in tomorrow night. She’s captained by an ensign of the Navy, Zaijing, who was court martialed and sentenced to death. But he mutinied and killed the captain, and now sails the high seas, pirating whatever merchant ships they cross.” Chinwe gave a humorless smile. “It’s an admirable cause, but he’s dragging the Navy’s eyes to our shore.”

Chinwe continued, “You take the ship, I get what’s in the hold. She’s a good ship, 8 guns and fast. She’ll be able to outrun Zhao’s clunker of a first rate.”

“What’s in the hold?” Iroh asked.

“My business. What’s in yours?”

“Ballast and dry goods,” Zuko replied.

Chinwe blinked before letting out a deep throated laugh. They leaned forward on the desk. “So do we have a deal?”

Zuko said, “I’ll have to discuss it with my crew.”

Chinwe nodded. “Of course. I look forward to your answer tomorrow morning.”

That evening, as promised, the Fire Nation E-class frigate steamed through the pincers of Poison Shell Cove. She anchored in harbor, sleek, low in the water, and blackened with soot. She was just over a hundred feet long, her hull tapered and reinforced with riveted iron plating. The bow was sharp and flared, shaped like a predator’s jaw breaking the surface. Her beam was broad enough to carry weight, but narrow enough to cut fast and clean through the tide.
Unlike the Wani, whose high superstructure made her top-heavy in storms, she made a low profile. Her conning tower was flattened and partially armored, with two squat smokestacks that belched black smoke as she puffed in. Scorch marks spidered out from the funnel vents—signs of firebending-assisted engine boosts.

Along her flanks, four gunports were visible. At her prow, instead of a standard masthead, a steel mounting pole jutted forward at a slant—fluttering with tattered pennants: faded silks, shredded banners, and blood-streaked ribbons from ships she’d taken.

That night, in Jee’s stateroom, the officers of the Wani gathered.

The portholes were propped open, the western wind stirring maps and receipts across the desk. Heat clung to the steel walls, heavy and metallic. Bosun wiped at his brow with a worn kerchief and adjusted the green leather vest Amiya had given him—sleeveless, with a dramatic train that skimmed the tops of his boots. A tan linen shirt billowed at his elbows, tucked into high-waisted canvas pants.

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You look ridiculous,” Jee agreed.

Bosun snorted. “Skipper, you look like a Sickle Coast pirate.”

Jee didn’t miss a beat. “If this is what Sickle Coast pirates wear, then they know what they’re about. This is the most breathable thing I’ve owned since before the Academy.”

Iroh, seated cross-legged on a cushion and dressed in flowing layers of gold and sun-bleached brown gently cleared his throat. His tone, in contrast to the easy banter, was laden with gravity. “We need to discuss the opportunity we’ve been given—and the alternatives.”

He turned to Zuko. “What do you think, Nephew?”

Zuko frowned. The light from the porthole cast sharp lines across his face. “We need repairs, and we have no money. Dry dock will take longer than we can afford. The Fire Nation is supposed to have a purser here, but then Zhao will know where we are.”

Jee nodded grimly. “The Water Tribe kept us water tight this far, but the Wani can’t survive another storm, much less a naval battle.”

“We could take the Current,” Bosun said. “We wouldn’t have to wait for repairs. Those frigates are maneuverable and capable.”

“Take the ship?” Iroh said. “That’d make us pirates.”

Zuko looked over the flat rosy waters, reflecting the early evening sky. “No, it doesn’t,” he said. “I’m the prince of the Fire Nation. I’d be reclaiming a mutinied ship. In the name of the royal family. That’s not piracy.”

Iroh studied him. Slowly, he folded his hands into his sleeves, expression unreadable.“No,” Iroh agreed. “I suppose it’s not.”

Zuko turned away from the porthole. “We might not have to take the ship by subterfuge at all. We can just seize it. In the name of the Fire Nation.”

Bosun cleared his throat. “That might be hard.” He reached into his vest and pulled out a wrinkled parchment. “Found this around town earlier.”

Zuko took it and unfolded it. An inked drawing of his scarred face stared back at him and the words TRAITOR TO THE FIRE NATION in red brushstrokes. The color drained from his face. He sat in the nearest chair. “Who issued it?”

Bosun didn’t flinch. “Your father, my prince.”

Zuko heaved a shuddering breath.

“Do you need a moment, Prince Zuko?” Jee asked quietly.

Zuko’s face hardened. He crumpled the paper in his hand. “No. We take the ship. But we give our crew a choice. If they sail with me, that makes them traitors, too. This includes all of you.” He looked at Jee and Bosun. “If we are caught, the punishment for treason is death.”

Jee reached into his desk and slid open the bottom drawer, pulling out an earthenware jug. He set it on the table with a thud before adding three glasses and pouring the liquid into each of them. He hesitated, grabbed a fourth glass, and filled it. “My son is dead. Our war has killed thousands, and will kill thousands more. The Avatar is gone, and no one can stand against our Nation. So if no one else will do it, we do it ourselves. We’re with you to the end, Prince Zuko.”

Bosun grabbed one of the cups and raised it. “I’ve fought on the wrong side my whole life, and I’ve lost everything. To piracy and treason,” he toasted.

Slowly, Iroh reached forward and took the third cup. “From Dragon of the West to a traitorous pirate,” he observed. “Destiny moves in strange waves.”

They drank.

Silence settled. The dusk light was dimming, and Bosun lit the lanterns.

“We should give the crew a choice. Even Toma. They have the right to leave; otherwise we’re no better than a press gang,” Zuko said.

“If we leave them here, they could betray you,” Jee pointed out.

“My own father has betrayed me, Captain Jee. What’s one more?”

Jee drummed his fingers on the table. He poured another glass. “Very well, Prince Zuko.”

“Pipe the crew,” Zuko ordered.

“Aye aye, my prince.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The crew gathered on the main deck just after nightfall. The dry heat pressed around them, simmering against the scorched metal plating. Above them, the stars blinked faintly through the haze.

Zuko stood on the quarter deck, just below the bridge. He wore the plain, nationless clothes he’d been given. He looked over the crew with golden eyes. “You have not been released for liberty yet, so you wouldn’t know. But, I have been declared a traitor.” He pulled the folded wanted portrait and passed it out. The crew passed the poster around.

“This is who the Fire Lord says I am now. If…if you stay with me, you’re traitors, too.”

He looked over his crew. They were in parade rest, their faces blank. Zuko had been willing to duel in an Agni Kai against some old general, but he found that facing the crew was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He realized the thickness in his throat was from the fear of losing these men that he’d spent the last two years of his life with. He watched his wanted poster pass among their hands.

“I won’t force any of you,” Zuko continued. “If you want to leave, you can. This is a neutral port, but if you want to return to the Fire Nation, I’ll ensure it happens. You can go home. No one will call you a coward. This extends to all members of the crew.” Zuko met Toma's eyes.

“I will give you to the morning. We will have muster at 0730. If you’re not here, you’ll not be charged as AWOL. If you decide to go,” Zuko paused, trying to find his words. “It has been a pleasure to serve with you. I am honored.” He bowed.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The next morning during muster, Bosun reported to Zuko that all men were present and accounted for. The captain took the news to the prince.

“No one left?” Zuko asked, sounding very young and hopeful.

“The crew sails with you, my prince.”

Zuko allowed a small smile. “Then let’s take that ship.”

Chapter Text

Zuko kneeled alone on the fantail in the predawn morning. The wind stirred his hair. He breathed, and the ship heaved under a swell. He exhaled, a small dirt devil swirling in the corner before collapsing. His hands clenched on his legs, bunching the rough linen between his fingers.

 

He watched the Fanged Current in the harbor. Its running lights were off, but the lanterns on the mast head and stern glowed, casting pools of flickering light on the ocean below, like the fire wisp on the island.

 

Boots thudded on the deck behind him but he remained motionless, staring out across the water. Jee settled beside him. There were popping sounds, and Jee huffed out a breath of laughter.

 

“Was that your knees?” Zuko broke his meditation to stare at the captain.

 

“Sounds like the

Wani in a storm,” Jee acknowledged wryly. “But it’s lucky.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I’ve gotten old enough that my knees creak. That’s more than I can say for a lot of men.”

 

Zuko digested this. “Uncle sounds like an old house.”

 

Jee laughed. “Military life isn’t easy on the joints.”

 

The lieutenant looked out over the water. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful sunrise.”

 

Zuko’s eyes flickered to the eastern sky, a pale lightening that bled into the indigo of the fading night. Only the brightest stars were still visible on the horizon.

 

“Why–why didn’t any of the crew leave?” Zuko asked quietly. Jee glanced at him.

 

“Why would they?”

 

“Because I am a traitor.” His voice broke on the last word.

 

“Tell me, Prince Zuko, what hurts the people of our nation more–a hundred-year war that has killed countless–both on our sides and theirs–the decimation of an entire people and way of bending and life, the raping of our land and waterways to feed more into the war machine–or a young man banished to the ends of the earth because he showed the courage to stand up to a corrupt man.”

 

Zuko stared at the older man with wide eyes.

 

Jee glanced at him before continuing. “Because if you were to ask me, I’d say the war has hurt not only our people, but the generations after us. One day when peace comes–and it will–the things we have done will not be easily forgotten.”

 

Zuko blinked and stared at Jee. Morning had begun in earnest now, and the whole sky was pale turquoise quickly deepening into cerulean. Jee met Zuko’s eyes.

 

“By Fire Nation decree–by your father–what I said is treason. I would be put to death for it. You are the prince of the Fire Nation by blood and by right. Would you put me to the sword for those words?”

 

“...No,” Zuko said quietly.

 

“Why not? Is it not treason to say the war is wrong, that your father is wrong?”

 

“It is treason to say that,” Zuko acknowledged, “But my father is wrong. What he’s doing–what my family has done–is wrong.” Zuko's shoulders curled inward as he realized the gravity of his words.

 

Zuko looked at Jee, his eyes bright. “What do I do, Lieutenant? It’s my family. He’s the Fire Lord.”

 

Jee hesitated, then clasped Zuko’s shoulder. “You do what you’ve always done, Prince Zuko. You do what you think is right.”

 

Zuko stared back, golden eyes the same yellow as the sun blazoning in the eastern sky. “But what if it’s not the right thing?”

 

“Well,” Jee smirked. “You’ve got a 50-year-old boat and a bunch of has-beens and wash-outs backing you up. That counts for something.”

 

Zuko grinned weakly.

 

Jee nodded to the black ship in the harbor. “Now, have you been thinking on how we’re going to take that thing?”

 

Zuko’s smile became feral. “I have.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

In the bright unadorned light of the morning sun, they gathered in Jee’s cabin. Zuko unfurled a scroll, revealing an intricate map that he anchored with mugs and a wrench. The men studied it.

 

“Zuko, did you draw this?” Iroh asked, studying the map. It had the locations of every ship in the harbor, and a shore line populated with boxes annotating the buildings that made out Death’s Reach. Topographic lines in tight bunches that eased out denoted the low-set mountains and bay. A second scroll, smaller, annotated shift changes aboard the Fanged Current. The map was detailed not only in its placement of ships and structures, but its accuracy. The entire thing was drawn to scale.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Very impressive, Zuko. When did you find the time?”

 

“I…went out last night,” Zuko said. “Nobody saw me!” he exclaimed when Iroh’s brows rose.

 

“Just so. You’re a wanted man. It is…good to be discreet.”

 

“I know that,” Zuko grumbled, his cheeks burning red. Iroh and Jee shared a fond look over the table.

 

“What’s your plan?”

 

Zuko grinned. “A cutting out. We’ll go in tonight, just before shift change,” he continued. “There’s minimal crew aboard and they won’t be expecting it. Most of the crew will be drinking on shore.”

 

The men looked back at the charts.

 

Bosun nodded. “It makes sense. We can launch in a skiff and take the watch when they’re running a skeleton crew. What makes you think we won’t be sold out by Chinwe?”

 

Zuko shrugged. “Chinwe said they wanted what’s in the hold. They seemed to think Zaijing wouldn’t hand it over. We give Chinwe what’s in the hold, and we get a new ship.”

 

“Zaijing?” Jee echoed. “Ensign?”

 

Iroh and Zuko looked up. “That’s what Chinwe said, a court-martialed ensign. You know him?”

 

“Heard of him. He was under Lieutenant Cho, who served under me a few years ago when he was an ensign himself. He’s…a difficult man. Has a habit for floggings and heard a couple of men died under his heavy hand. What else did Chinwe say?”

 

“He’s bringing the Navy’s eyes to Death’s Reach. They’d prefer not to have the infamy.”

 

Jee looked down at the annotated map. His mouth drew into a thin line. “I would’ve probably committed mutiny under Cho, too. We may be,” he hesitated, his stoicness falling for a moment. “About to commit piracy, but–let’s try to keep the body count low.”

 

“Of course,” Zuko said. “They’re our own people. We’re taking the ship, but we aren’t killing anyone on board.”

 

“Okay, so a cutting out. How?” Jee asked.

 

“I’m afraid, gentlemen, that I do not know this tactic you’re speaking of,” Iroh said with a smile. “As I am myself a lowly army man.”

 

Jee and Bosun looked to Zuko who stared back, wild eyed, as he realized the expectation of explaining fell to him.

 

He cleared his throat. “We’re going to sneak on board and overrun the crew before they know we’re there. We’ll take the small boats and ferry over tonight when it’s dark and secure the pilot house and engineering. We’ll give the crew the opportunity to join our crew. We’ll need extra bodies. She’s a bigger ship, and they’ll know it better than we do.”

 

“And if they don’t?”

 

Zuko shrugged. “We’ll shackle them, row them back to the Wani and free them once we’ve got the Fang ready to go underway and the hold goods turned over.”

 

“It’s a good plan,” Jee nodded. “Who are you taking with you?”

 

Zuko looked up at the trio. “No one. I can do this myself.”

 

Iroh looked at his nephew. “Zuko, you don’t have to do this alone.”

 

“I know I don’t. But I don’t want to put the crew at risk. I can do this.”

 

“I know you can, Prince Zuko. But that’s not what being a crew is about. You don’t have to do things alone when you have a crew. We’re here to support.”

 

Zuko met Bosun’s eyes before falling back down to the charts. “What if you get hurt?”

 

“That’s my choice to make. A man doesn’t take to the sea expecting to live forever. Your job as our prince is to lead us.”

 

Zuko looked back up. “Okay. Who were you thinking?”

 

“The Marines. You’ll need an engineer–Jomei or Katsen. And me, of course.” He pointed to the chart. “We can board here. Midship’s got too much visibility from shore. But back here–shadowed, out of line from the main lanterns.”

 

“I can go aboard first and throw over a Jacob’s ladder,” Zuko said. “Once we’re over, we’ll secure the deck. Then you and engineering can go below, and I’ll take the pilot house with Corporal Naisan.”

 

Jee pulled a drawer open and put two flares on the table. “If it goes south, send a flare up. Get off as fast as you can. We’ll be ready to sail as soon as you get back. If this goes belly up, we can always try our luck at the Crescent Coast. That ship isn’t worth your lives.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The skiff slid across the dark water without a sound. The oars had been wrapped in rags and resin-soaked cloth, muffling every stroke. Moonless night cloaked the harbor. Ahead, the outline of the Fanged Current loomed like a jagged cliff face cut from black glass.

 

Zuko sat in the bow, one hand curled tight around the coaming, eyes fixed unblinking on their target. The salt air burned faintly in his lungs. Behind him rowed Bosun, Corporal Naisan, Jomei, and Lance Corporal Horin.

 

"We’ll come in under the port quarter," Bosun had said earlier. "There’s a shadow cast by that derelict coal barge. That’s our cover."

 

Now they slipped into that shadow. The reek of salt, tar, and rust surrounded them. Below the clear waters, barnacles clung to the Current’s hull like leeches. A lone lantern glimmered weakly at the Fanged Current’s stern rail. The roaming watch had already made his rounds outside the skin of the ship. Zuko had counted the man’s steps earlier from the docks—twelve paces aft, ten across, then gone into the superstructure.

 

The skiff bumped the hull with a soft thud. Zuko tossed a grappling hook into the lower rail, caught it firm, then climbed. His boots made no sound on the rope netting as he scaled the side. At the top, he found the Jacob’s ladder furled and dropped it down. The others followed quickly, one after the other, gathering low on the deck like smoke pooling around the scuppers.

 

Zuko pointed to Jomei and Naisan, then angled two fingers down. The engineering deck. Jomei nodded once, and the two men slipped off like wraiths, their footfalls barely audible on the worn metal grates.

 

Zuko and Bosun moved for the pilot house, ducking beneath a swaying line and stepping over a rusted coil of chain. Just before they reached the hatch, Zuko tapped Bosun’s shoulder, then pointed forward—toward the bridge—and peeled off, gesturing toward the captain’s cabin instead.

 

Bosun turned, frowning, and motioned with two fingers that they should take the pilot house together first. He added a short, silent slash of his hand: then the cabin.

 

Zuko paused. Weighed it. Then nodded.

 

Inside was empty.

 

“They should have more men aboard than this,” Zuko said. “There were more last night.”

 

“Think it’s a trap?”

 

Zuko’s jaw worked. “You think Chinwe sold us out?”

 

Bosun didn’t answer at first. He shifted his grip on the haft of his axe. “I think we better make for the hold. If we’ve been double-crossed, better to get what we came for before the hammer drops.”

 

Zuko’s eyes flicked down the companionway. “What about the captain’s cabin?”

 

Bosun narrowed his eyes. “What do you hope to find there?”

 

“The captain.”

 

Bosun gave a quiet snort. “You hoping he’s gonna hand us the keys?”

 

“No,” Zuko said. “But if he really turned against the Fire Nation… if he mutinied for a reason… Even if he’s not inside, there should be journals, maps, missives. We haven’t had good intel in months.”

 

Bosun considered this.

 

Zuko added, “And if he is there… we might be on the same side.”

 

“You’re gambling on a traitor.”

 

“I am a traitor,” Zuko said quietly. “I’d rather gamble on one than assume he’s a monster.”

 

Bosun stared at him, face unreadable. After a beat, he jerked his chin. “Fine. We check the cabin. Fast. Then we get below.”

 

Zuko nodded once and turned toward the aft corridor, the deck groaning faintly under their feet as they moved.

 

The captain’s cabin sat one level below the bridge. The companionway was silent, save for the soft tread of boots on polished metal. The handrails were wrapped in thick red cord, intricately knotted in symmetrical patterns—naval, ceremonial, deliberate. The black-painted steel gleamed under the lanterns. No rust or grime, just clean lines and the faint smell of wax and citrus oil. The hall was twice as wide as anything on the Wani, with soundproof doors and silent hinges—every inch of it maintained like someone still believed in protocol.

 

Zuko reached the cabin. Its handle was brass, polished to a high shine. An etched insignia—Fire Nation crest—had been partially filed off.

 

He gave Bosun a look, then turned the latch and pushed the door open.

 

Inside, the air was warm and dry, laced with the faint smells of candle wax, old parchment, and something herbal—bay or ginger root. The cabin was spare, but not neglected: a single berth tucked under a round porthole, neatly made. A lacquered weapon rack hung with a saber and halberd. Bolted shelving held rows of scrolls, bound ledgers, and sealed missives—all arranged with the precision of someone who kept order even when no one was watching.

 

At the center of it all sat Zaijing.

 

He was behind his desk, coat half-buttoned, hair damp from a recent wash. A towel hung off the back of a chair. One hand hovered above an open leather-bound journal, the other rested near a guttering candle, the wax pooling in a warped tin base. The flame threw long shadows across his face, catching on the hollows beneath his cheekbones and the faint line of a healing burn across his collarbone. He looked up with resignation at their approach.

 

“You’ve come.”

 

“You know who I am?” Zuko appraised the young man. He was Zuko's senior by several years but not much older than Toma.

 

He looked very old and tired.

 

Zaijing gave a single, faint nod. “The banished prince. Marked by his father’s hand.”

 

Zuko stiffened, just slightly.

 

Zaijin stood, slow and deliberate. He moved like someone whose joints ached when it rained. “You’ve come to drag me back to Commander Cho,” he said. “For a court martial. I mutinied. The punishment is death.”

 

He took a step back from the desk and shifted his weight into a stance—low, steady, Fire Nation standard. A spark flickered at his palm. The air around him warmed by a fraction.

 

“I won’t go without a fight.”

 

Zuko opened his mouth—to speak, to protest, to offer something else.

 

He felt the blast of fire from behind the door a heartbeat before it struck.

 

A roar of fire, violent and sudden, slammed through the corridor and into the room. The deck shuddered as heat and light filled the space like a flood.

 

A young marine, wild-eyed, charged from behind the door. HIs hands burned with fire as he hurled a bolt straight at Bosun’s chest.

 

He pivoted fast, stepping into the path of the blast—between Bosun and the door—and raised both hands. His fire surged forward in a rush of heat and will.

 

But it didn’t come as it should.

 

The flame ignited with a sharp crack, but laced through it was something else—white-hot steam, coiling and shrieking as it tore through the air. The fire struck the incoming blast and unraveled it, smothering it mid-flight. Vapor exploded outward in a bloom of ghostly mist, filling the cabin with a hiss like a spirit exhaling.

 

For a heartbeat, the room was washed in heat and fog, shadows flickering against the walls like phantoms.

 

Then the Fanged Current rolled.

The deck canted beneath them as an unexpected swell slammed the hull broadside. The floor dropped away and twisted, sending the desk skidding half a foot and the candle tumbling, sputtering out on the floor. Papers flew. Bosun staggered against the wall. Zaijing grabbed the back of a chair to keep upright.

 

Zuko rode the list easily, knees bent wide, one hand braced on the metal floor. Steam clung to his skin, beading along his collarbones, his breath rising in twin curls.

 

Bosun clambered to his feet.

 

But Zaijing was already moving.

 

He vaulted cleanly over the desk, landing in a crouch beside the attacking marine. Without pause, he launched a volley—one, two, three searing blasts aimed for Zuko’s head and shoulders. They moved like a pair trained for this: Zaijing precise, honed and fluid; the marine wild with momentum, pressing forward hard.

 

Zuko ducked the first. Turned the second aside with a twist of his wrist. The third he met head-on—an open palm thrust that called his fire up in a flash of scalding mist. It burst outward in a wide arc, not flame alone but steam and heat braided together. The fog hissed against the steel bulkheads, forcing both attackers back as the rising vapor clung to skin, hair, and breath.

 

Zaijing recoiled a half-step, face flickering with confusion beneath his grim determination.

 

“What kind of firebending is that?” he demanded, circling. Color had flushed his cheeks and Zuko could see the white of his eyes, realized he’d unsettled the man.

 

Zuko didn’t answer. He stepped in, driving a low kick into the marine’s leg and using the rebound to pivot. A high arc of steamfire followed, catching Zaijing in the shoulder—not enough to burn, but enough to stagger.

 

“Bosun, behind me!” Zuko called.

 

Bosun obeyed, axe drawn but watching.

 

Zaijing recovered quickly, spinning into a backfist that flared with heat—but Zuko ducked under and swept his leg out. They hit the floor nearly at once, shoulder to shoulder, but Zaijing rolled through and came up in a tight, guarded stance. The marine was slower—panting, off-balance, struggling to see through the roiling mist that had transformed the cabin into a ghost-drenched blur.

 

Zaijing’s chest heaved. He stared across the steam at Zuko, flame trembling at his fingertips.

 

“What are you?” he asked, voice raw.

 

Zuko crouched low, one hand extended, fire coiling with white condensation at his palm.

 

“I didn’t come here to kill you.”

 

“Then why did you come?” Zaijing snapped.

 

“I need your ship,” Zuko said.

 

Zaijing’s arms dropped slightly, but his face twisted with disbelief. “I’m a mutineer. A traitor. Why would you want my ship? You’re the prince of the Fire Nation. You could have any fleet in the world.”

 

Zuko quenched the flame in his hand and held it out.

 

“Not anymore.”

 

Zuko straightened slowly, letting the fire gutter and vanish from his hands. Steam curled off his sleeves in pale wisps. For a moment, he hesitated. Then he reached into the breast of his coat and drew out a scroll—creased, fire-sealed, and slightly damp at the corners.

 

He handed it over.

 

Zaijing took it cautiously, unrolling the paper with practiced fingers. His eyes moved quickly over the inked lines. When he looked up, his expression was unreadable.

 

“You?” he asked. “Wanted for treason?”

 

Zuko met his gaze, jaw tight. “If you turn me in, you might earn your place back.”

 

Zaijing gave a sharp huff—half scoff, half laugh. “Now that I’ve tasted freedom,” he said, folding the scroll back into its seam, “why would I ever go back?”

 

He shifted his stance slightly, no longer on guard but still alert as he studied the young man.

 

“What do you propose?”

 

“I made a deal,” Zuko said. “I need what’s in your hold—and I need this ship. Zhao is hunting me, and my fifty-year-old frigate can barely survive a headwind, much less another sea battle.”

 

The corner of Zaijing’s mouth twitched. “Another?”

 

Zuko exhaled through his nose. “Zhao’s an ass.”

 

That earned a full-throated laugh—rough and surprised. Zaijing straightened, the tension easing from his shoulders. “We might be on the same side after all.”

 

He bowed, low and deliberate.

 

He said, “What’s in the hold isn’t for sale. I was looking for safe passage. It’s why I mutinied.

 

“If you can promise its safety, I will take you there willingly. But I ask something in return.”

 

Zuko’s eyes narrowed. “I promise. What is it you want?”

 

Zaijing didn’t rise. His head stayed bowed, his voice calm.

 

“To be on your crew. And for any of mine who so chooses to sail with you, to be granted the same. We know this ship better than any of you, and you’ll find us loyal.”

 

Zuko frowned. “Not that loyal. You mutinied.”

 

“Because what we are doing is wrong. Because this war is wrong. I am loyal to our nation, but what we are doing–I cannot condone.”

 

Behind him, Zuko heard Bosun shift. He glanced back. The big man shrugged—massive shoulders rising and falling like mountains at sea.

 

Zuko stood still for a moment, listening to the rhythm of the ship beneath them. The hull groaned. A swell rocked them gently, sending the lanterns swinging overhead and casting warped shadows across the steel.

 

Then he stepped forward and bowed in return—just enough.

 

“I shall make it so.”

 

Zaijing straightened, his eyes glancing to the lanterns before skirting to the outside, where the cloudless night sky lay beyond. He looked back at Zuko with a look that bordered with awe.

 

“Show me the hold,” Zuko said.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The lantern Zaijing carried bobbed ahead of them, casting flickering, golden arcs across the steel bulkheads and looping mooring cables that twisted like veins through the ship’s spine.

 

“This way,” Zaijing murmured. His voice was low, unreadable.

 

At the end of the passage stood a reinforced hatch, black-rimmed with tar and fitted with a heavy padlock. Faded paint along the edge marked it Auxiliary Hold. A place meant for overflow stores.

 

Or contraband.

 

Zaijing reached into his coat and drew a small key, blackened from use. He hesitated.

 

“They’re afraid of noise,” he said. “And fire.”

 

Zuko’s brow furrowed. “They?”

 

Zaijing said, “I told you, I wanted to make sure what was in the hold was safe.”

 

Zuko nodded once, then let the faint glow at his fingertips go out. Beside him, Bosun thumbed down the wick of the lantern until it cast just a thin wash of gold across the bulkhead.

 

The key turned with a soft click.

 

The hatch creaked open.

 

Inside, the hold was dark save for the lanternlight—and quiet, unnaturally so. At first, Zuko thought it was empty.

 

Then a pair of wide, luminous eyes blinked at him from the shadows.

 

Then another.

 

And another.

Dozens of children ducked out from behind crates, dozens more crowded in the dark hold, the stench of humanity and unwashed bodies rank.

 

None of them were older than ten.

 

They were crouched low, half-buried in coils of canvas and cargo netting, wrapped in burlap and threadbare coats. Their tunics were Earth Kingdom brown and green—torn, soot-stained, too big or too small. One had bound feet in rags. Another clutched a wooden spoon like it was a weapon.

 

Zaijing stepped inside first, slow and careful.

 

And the children erupted.

 

“Zai!” they cried, rushing him in a flurry of limbs and eager hands. They clung to him, burying their faces against his coat, murmuring his name like it was a spell that kept the dark at bay.

 

He pulled them close.

 

Zuko stepped in behind him. Bosun followed, silent.

 

At the sight of the strangers, the children froze—wide-eyed, uncertain. One hid behind a crate. Another kept her hand on Zaijing’s sleeve.

 

Zuko felt cold.

 

“Shh, it’s okay. They’re here to help us. We’re going to get you home.”

 

One of the children—a boy, maybe six, with large eyes and a runny nose—stepped tentatively toward Zuko.

 

“You’ll take us back?” he asked.

 

Zuko crouched to his level. “I’m going to get you to someone who can.”

 

The boy tilted his head. He stared at Zuko’s scar. “You’ve been hurt, like us.”

 

Zuko’s hand fluttered to his face. He nodded. “Who hurt you?”

 

“The bad men. They said they’re going to take us somewhere safe, teach us important things so we wouldn’t be backwards anymore.” Tears welled in his eyes. “But I miss my mom and I don’t know why I have to go anywhere.”

 

“It’s okay,” Zuko said, feeling very much eight again, and hiding behind his mother’s robes. He was too old for tears, his father had said. He had felt very old at the time, but looking at the boy, he was struck by just how young eight really was. “Zai is going to help you, and he’s right. We will get you home.”

 

Zuko looked back up at Zaijing. “Where did you find them?”

 

“After Makhi Ridge fell. I was ordered to escort a convoy west. Orders were to deliver them to the Imperial Academy at Kouzai Province. For reeducation.”

 

Bosun hissed through his teeth. “I’ve heard about the place, but nothing good.”

 

Zaijing nodded. “I mutinied. I joined the Navy to serve. To protect and defend our motherland, not to traffic children.”

 

One of the children—an older boy with a shaved head and a scar running across his temple—moved forward slightly. His gaze flicked to Zuko’s firebrand, and then to his eyes.

 

He spoke, voice soft and steady: “Are you the one who speaks?”

 

Zuko blinked. “What? How do you know that?”

 

“I heard, and I felt.” The boy said. “Up there. Just now. It smelled like thunder after rain.”

 

Zuko said nothing.

 

The boy came closer, reached out, and touched his sleeve. “You’re not like the others.”

 

Zuko swallowed. “I don’t know who I am,” he whispered.

 

From beside a crate, a little girl with a tattered badgermole plush—its ear sewn back on with mismatched thread—looked up suddenly. “Are we going to die?”

 

“No,” Zuko said quietly. “You’re safe.” He reached his arms out and the girl fell into them, her badgermole clutched between them. “You’re safe,” he said again, wrapping her close.

 

He said it like a vow.

 

And as he held her, he thought of Azula.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Aboard the Wani, Jee and Iroh absorbed the news.

 

Iroh’s gaze lingered on his nephew. “How many?”

 

“A lot. The hold is full of them. We need assurances Chinwe won’t just…sell them again. I’ll talk to Amiya.”

 

Iroh nodded. “Be safe, nephew.”

 

Zuko turned to Jee: “Ensign Zaijing has offered his services and his ship. He’s asked for parlay—for himself, and for any of his crew who wish to join us.”

 

Zuko paused. “I have granted it.”

 

Jee bowed. “Of course, sir.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Sea grass bent under the morning breeze, rustling its dry strands. The fishermen were already moving along the docks in the predawn light, their nets slung over shoulders, but the town was otherwise silent. Even the osprey gulls circled in quiet loops over rooftops, not yet awake.

 

Zuko walked alone.

 

Barefoot on the worn stone stoop of her shop, an indigo shawl wrapped loose around her shoulders, Amiya waited. She watched Zuko approach. Behind her, a string of paper talismans danced in the eaves, fluttering softly in the still morning air.

 

He stopped a pace away. “We took the Fanged Current at Chinwe’s behest.”

 

Amiya nodded.

 

“Do you know what’s in the hold?”

 

“Do you, Spirit Speaker? Those children are the future of your nation–to be adopted out to fine families who have lost their sons in the war machine your family made–or consigned to the mines and factories. To fight on the front lines, after years of indoctrination. Would you take that from your people?”

 

Zuko stared back at her. “They’re not ours to take. This war is–it’s wrong. Everything is wrong. This isn’t the country I was raised to believe in. Nothing is what I thought it is, or what it’s supposed to be.

 

“‘Supposed to be’ is the luxury of poets and philosophers,” Amiya said. “For the rest of us, it is. It is the elimination of my entire people. It is the eradication of the Water Tribes. It is the loss of everything you thought you knew, and if you want to make it what it’s ‘supposed to be,’ then that responsibility falls on your shoulders.”

 

“It isn’t supposed to!” Zuko snapped. “I could’ve just found the Avatar and gone home. I’m not supposed to be a—a Spirit Speaker!”

 

Amiya nodded. “There you are again, with supposed to. It’s not supposed to be Zuko. But if not you, then who?”

 

Zuko stared back wildly. “The Avatar! Isn't that his job?”

 

“The Avatar that you’re supposed to capture?” she asked quietly.

 

Zuko sputtered. He broke her gaze and stared at the talisman behind her, still fluttering in the unmoving air. His shoulders dropped.

 

A long silence passed between them.

 

“I’m afraid,” he said at last, barely above a whisper.

 

“Of what?”

 

“Of who I am. Who I could be. Who my family is.”

 

Amiya nodded. She stepped forward. And a warm hand on the scarred side of his face. Her calloused palm was warm and gentle.

 

“I’d be scared if you weren’t,” Amiya said. “Everything you’re going through is hard. Change is hard. But what’s happened, what continues to happen in this world, is worse. You can take those children back to the Fire Nation if you want. You might find a pardon from your father. You can return to your gilded palace and silken robes. These are things you can do.”

 

Zuko shook his head. His voice cracked.

 

“I don’t want to. I can’t.”

 

Amiya pulled him close, wrapping her arms around the boy. He buried his head in her neck and fought the tears that leaked from his good eye, the other one too damaged to ever cry again.

 

“I love you, child. Who you are, and who you will become. The spirits would not have given you this gift if they did not think you could bear it.”

 

Zuko clenched his eyes, her shawl grew damp. “It’s hard.”

 

“It is hard,” Amiya agreed. “The right thing often is. But you’ve always chosen the hard thing, and the world is better for it.”

 

“The 41st still died,” he whispered into her shoulder. “I couldn’t change anything.”

 

“No, my child, that is not true,” she breathed in his ear. “You changed everything.”

 

Zuko pulled back, blinking through tears, one eye wet. “How?”

 

“You gave something back to the world it thought it had lost. Hope. For a hundred years your family has ravaged the world, until you stood up against them.”

 

“But I didn’t do anything,” he said. “My father, he—he—” He choked on the words. “And they all died. Captain Jee’s son. So many of my crew lost someone.”

 

“I know what he did,” Amiya said. “And I know what you did. You couldn’t save them—but every time you choose something that defies your father, you honor them. In that way, they will live forever.”

 

She reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his face.

 

“Now go, Spirit Speaker. Tell Chinwe of the hold, and we will bring them to safe passage. You will always have a friend in Death’s Reach. And you will need many friends for what you are meant to do.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The harbor gave way to streets slick with ash and salt. The sky above was hard-edged, too blue under the golden ball that now hung low in the sky, the heat already oppressive.

 

Zuko pulled his coat tighter as he made his way to Chinwe’s shipyard, the feel of the stone beneath his boots, still cool from the night. The alleys were narrow, the air thick with the smell of brine, coal smoke, and frying oil. Vendors shouted in nearby plazas. A pot of ink boiled over at a calligrapher’s stall, black slick pooling into the gutters.

 

He slipped into a side alley to avoid the square as he made his way to the shipyard.

 

The morning sun hadn’t yet reached this far—the shadows still pooled thick between leaning stone walls and warped rain barrels. The air was heavy with brine and coal smoke, the stone underfoot stained black from years of ash and sea salt.

 

The blow hit him square across the ribs—a blunt metal pipe from a shadow he hadn’t clocked until it moved with intent.

 

Zuko dropped hard to one knee, breath punched from his lungs. His left hand shot instinctively to his side.

 

Another figure came from behind—something heavy slamming into his spine.

 

He collapsed. His palms scraped rough stone.

 

He tried to rise, but a boot came down between his shoulder blades, grinding him into the alley floor.

 

“Stay down, traitor.”

 

Another blow—low and sharp. Something gave in his side. His vision blurred.

 

Zuko reached for flame, but pain staggered him. His breath came shallow, uneven. Fire sputtered in his palm, but the earth pulled it down—cracking beneath him, tugging at his wrist, anchoring him to stone.

 

The third man dropped from above, boots thudding onto crates.

 

Zuko twisted—flame blasted from his feet, kicking up steam as he rocketed backward. It knocked the third attacker into a stack of barrels with a hollow crash.

 

The air around him shivered.

 

Steam hissed up from wet cobbles. His next breath came ragged—but cold. Sharp.

 

He exhaled.

 

Mist thickened around him. It didn’t drift—it moved, curling like fingers.

 

One of the attackers shouted, “He’s worth a lot! Get him!”

 

Zuko clawed his fingers into the stone.

 

Steam swirled tight around his frame.

 

He exhaled again—and wind erupted from the ground, blasting outward.

 

The men flew—crashing into the alley walls, skidding through fish-greased puddles.

 

The earthbender among them surged forward and slammed both hands to the ground—stone erupted in jagged spires, aiming straight for Zuko’s chest.

 

Zuko braced for it, his free arm shielding his face.

 

Flame erupted around him.

 

A blast of fire cut through the air—bright and sudden—slamming into the earthbender’s chest. The stone fell in a clatter around him as he let out a scream and collapsed.

 

Zaijing stepped into the alley, twin flames dancing in his palms, casting jagged shadows along the scorched stone walls. The remaining men froze, eyes wide with fear.

 

Zuko reached across to his wrist, still locked in a prison of earth, and melted through it with a hiss of steam. He surged to his feet, movements raw and desperate, his breath tearing from his throat. His eyes locked onto the man with the pipe.

 

He launched fire—furious, focused, instinctive.

 

The man raised the pipe, but it glowed red, then white-hot, before he could even scream. His fingers spasmed and released it. It hit the stone with a clatter, molten at the ends. The fire engulfed him.

 

His scream was short, sharp, and silenced almost immediately.

 

The last man turned and ran.

 

The alley fell quiet again—just the echo of footsteps, the fading hiss of cooling stone, and the low hum of mist still rising from the cobbles.

 

Zuko collapsed to one knee, coughing—wet and ragged. Fire still coiled in his left hand. Water dripped from his right. Steam clung to his skin. The wind circled low at his heels.

 

A hand touched his shoulder, firm and careful.

 

Zuko wheeled around, fire kindling in his palm—only to find Zaijing standing there, solid as stone, flame now extinguished but heat still radiating from him.

 

“You’re hurt,” Zaijing said softly.

 

Zuko blinked, vision swimming. “Why are you here?”

 

“I had to trust those kids were safe,” Zaijing said. “So I followed you.”

 

He dipped his head, a gesture of respect—not formal, but real.

 

“You’re the Avatar.”

 

Zuko shook his head, breath hitching. “I’m not,” he rasped. “I’m not even a prince. I’m banished.”

 

“You’re not a prince,” Zaijing agreed. “You’re my prince.”

 

The words hit with unexpected weight. Zuko didn’t answer.

 

“I’ll tell you a story,” Zaijing said after a moment, voice quieter now. “My little brother was drafted into the 41st Division.”

 

Zuko froze.

 

“He was only fourteen. They took him because my parents—earth farmers in Shu Jing—spoke too loudly about the war. About how it was wrong. About how it was lost. I was already commissioned. I thought my rank would protect them.”

 

He gave a small, humorless smile. “I was wrong.”

 

Zuko’s jaw clenched. His fists curled faintly at his sides.

 

“They put me under Commander Cho,” Zaijing said, his voice darkening. “I watched him flog his own men to death. He burnd supplies to punish cowardice. And then we were told to move children. Children, Prince Zuko.”

 

His eyes shone with something sharp—pain that had not dulled with time.

 

“I couldn’t do it. So I mutinied.”

 

He stopped walking.

 

Zuko’s breath hitched.

 

Zaijing turned to him, eyes hot with something that was not just anger—but grief.

 

“This is not who we are supposed to be.”

 

Zuko’s lips were bloodless. “No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.”

 

Zaijing’s tone softened—just a touch of levity beneath the exhaustion. “So you’re not a prince, and you’re not the Avatar. What are you, then?”

 

Zuko looked at him askance—his eyes still sharp despite the blood on his face, the tremble in his limbs. Steam curled off his skin like breath. The wind stirred again, brushing the back of his neck. Salt and soot clung to the air.

 

His golden eyes glinted in the harsh alley light, like the sun breaking through the eye of a storm. Something moved behind them—something deep and old and rising.

 

He stared at Zaijing so long the older man began to think he wouldn’t answer.

 

Then, finally:

 

“…The Spirit Speaker.”

 

Zaijing’s brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”

 

Zuko laughed—short, breathless, a sound caught between defiance and despair. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I guess I’m finding out.”

Chapter Text

Chinwe was good to their word.

The docking fees were waived, and the children were offloaded at dusk. Word moved fast in Death’s Reach. In the back of the shipyard, an old corrugated warehouse had been swept clean and transformed. Bolts of dyed cloth from Amiya’s shop had been hung from the rafters, softening the harsh industrial bones of the space. Green lanterns swung from low beams, casting a gentle glow over rows of cots dressed in patchwork quilts stitched in old Earth Kingdom patterns– mountains, grain stalks, angular forests and a yellow and orange ombre one that represented the Si Wong Desert.
Outside, the yard had been swept flat and covered in trestle tables, hastily erected but already groaning under the weight of food. Dumplings steamed in baskets. Platters of pickled vegetables, rice cakes, taro-root pancakes, and honeyed yam were replenished almost as quickly as they vanished.

The whole town turned out to welcome the children. Grizzled fishermen with skin like old bark, merchants with amber eyes in sun-faded robes, dock workers in soot-stained boots—they brought clothes, rice balls, carved toys with articulating wheels and spinning tops painted by hand. The women arrived with trays and pots and blankets for the youngest. Someone produced a worn stringed instrument and began to play My Beloved Earth Kingdom Home.

Children spilled between the tables like minnows, bare feet smacking the dirt. Someone had brought chalk. A hoprock pattern appeared, and then another. Laughter rang against the hulls and scaffolding

Zuko stood just beyond the pool of lantern-light, arms folded. Jee stood beside him, his posture looser than Zuko had ever seen it. His shoulders were square but not rigid, and there was a faint, almost private smile playing across his lips as he watched the children dash past, chasing ribbons on sticks.

“We don’t know who half of them are,” Jee said quietly. “Some of them aren’t even old enough to remember their parent’s names. Many were on the move, refugees headed towards Ba Sing Se most likely, so they don’t know where they’re from–if where they’re from even exists anymore.”

Zuko didn’t answer. He was watching a girl with a wooden mule ox—one of the legs was too short, and it clacked as she pulled it behind her.

“I don’t understand why we’re stealing children,” Zuko finally said quietly. “They deserve to have their moms. Why would we take them from their parents?”

Jee studied the boy beside him. He didn’t know the details about the Fire Lady’s disappearance–just that one day Azulon was dead, Princess Ursa was gone, and Ozai was crowned Fire Lord.

“Is this the light we are supposed to be sharing with the world?” Zuko continued, rhetorically. “Stealing children to–what? Fill in for the dead children of our own nation? As though children are replaceable?”

Jee looked over the mass of children. The townsfolk had welcomed them with open arms and while they all looked half starved, they looked happy. Happier than the haunted children they’d pulled from the Fanged Current’s hold.

“What’s your plan, my prince?”

The troubled look on Zuko’s face was replaced with a firming of his jaw and brow. “We need to get the children home, but that can’t be our focus. We have to trust Amiya and Chinwe to help with that. If we loiter too long, we’ll bring Zhao’s attention to Death’s Reach.”

A slight, feral smile graced his features. He turned to Jee, giving the captain his full attention.

“We’ll need to fund our voyage,” he said. “There’s a trading route not far to the north. All the goods from Ba Sing Se that are traded with the Fire Nation go through the Bay of Gold, down the Jade River,” Zuko said.

“This is true,” Jee agreed.

“We could both fatten our coffers and disrupt that trade. It would make an awful lot of people in Crescent City upset if they couldn’t get the newest silks and spices.”

Jee smiled back. “It would bring the war to them in the way the death of Fire Nation peasants’ children never has.”

A voice called from the far end of the yard. “Prince Zuko!”

It was one of Chinwe’s apprentices, holding two bowls of stew high above the crowd. “They saved you a seat!”

Jee clapped a hand to Zuko’s shoulder. “Come on. Before the rice runs out.”

The yard had been strung with more lanterns now, some of them shaped like moons or badgermoles or old ships with curling sails. Children darted past with sweets clutched in sticky hands, and a small group had gathered near the sanshin to dance—bare feet stomping in joyful disorder.

Amiya sat near the head of one table, her sleeves rolled, laughing at something Cook had said. Chinwe leaned against a barrel with a bowl in one hand and a goblet in the other, their tools still tucked into the belt at their hip.

Someone pressed a skewer of roasted meat into Zuko’s hand. A child immediately ran into his leg and giggled before dashing away again. For a moment, it was almost too much. The light, the noise, the sheer life of it all.

But then Iroh appeared at his side, seemingly out of nowhere, and passed him a cup of warm plum tea.

“I saved you from the pepper dumplings,” his uncle said mildly. “You’d find them bland.”

Zuko took the tea with both hands. “Thanks, Uncle.”

Iroh studied him. “You look tired.”

Zuko shrugged.

“I came across some interesting news,” Iroh continued, in the same tone he would use to discuss the weather. Zuko looked askance at his uncle.

“The Avatar has been spotted. Far to the west.”

A complicated look crossed Zuko’s face.

“He is a child,” Iroh said.

Zuko sighed. “A difficult child, I understand.”

Iroh observed his nephew. “Some might say you are a difficult child.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve been a child for a long time, Uncle,” Zuko said. “Not since…mother.” He stumbled over the word.

“I’ve never said I’m sorry, Zuko.”

“For what?” Zuko peered at his uncle with one golden eye and one dimmed by trauma.

“For not doing…. For not stopping my brother.”

Zuko pierced his uncle with his mismatched eyes that glittered like molten gold.

“I am glad.”

“Glad?” Iroh echoed faintly.

Zuko fell silent, folding his arms behind his back and watched the children play. “Glad,” he repeated. “If he hadn’t tried to kill me, I wouldn’t know of all the children that needed saving, or the broken world he has created. Had he not done what he had done, or had you intervened,” Zuko heaved a sigh.

“—I might still think he was a good man.”

“You should not have had to learn it that way,” Iroh said, looking sad and old.

“But I did, Uncle.”

Iroh’s eyes welled with tears. He blinked them away, his jaw soft. He wrapped his nephew into his arms. “I love you, Nephew. You are my son. Ever since Lu Ten–”

“I know,” Zuko said quietly into Iroh’s neck, his arms wrapping around him. His uncle smelled faintly of jasmine and herbs, smoke, and the spices of home. “I love you, too.”

 

Iroh’s smile blossomed. He shoveled oyster clams onto Zuko’s plate. “Eat, my nephew. And rest. There is time for war tomorrow.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The town had changed with the delivery of the children.

 

Previously hostile fishermen and merchantmen smiled when Zuko approached. Childless families opened their homes to the youngest who did not know where they came from or where their beleaguered parents had been taking them. There was a hope that one day their biological families would be found but for now, they were safe. Even Old Jiu had a smile and a steamed bun for him.

For the first time in generations, Death’s Hollow was full of children, and the town blossomed with their presence.

The wanted posters disappeared.

A body was found in the harbor a few days later.

It was the man who had attempted to assassinate Zuko.

The name Zuko faded from whispered conversation—but the story of the Spirit Speaker spread like fire in dry grass.
And for the first time in a hundred years, people began to hope again.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The stories reached the ears of the Fire Lord.

“Father,” Azula said, kneeling before the basalt dais. “Let me find him. Let me kill that traitor.”

“No, Azula,” the Fire Lord said. “You need not waste your time with that. Admiral Zhao will handle the matter of the…former prince.”

Azula’s hands tightened in her sleeves, but she was careful not to clench them. She bowed her head.

“Of course, Father. Zuko is not worth our attention.”

Ozai’s gaze darkened. “He is not Zuko anymore,” he said. “He is unknown to me. Less than ash. A failure of a prince. A failure of a son. He taught you weakness. That is all.”

He rose slightly from his throne, firelight catching in the gold of his robes.

“When Zhao finds him—and if an assassin does not do the job first—the fools that follow him will see him for the spineless coward he is.”

Azula bowed low until her forehead touched the cold floor. But in the silence that followed, she did not think of Zhao, or of traitors.

She thought of the only family member who had ever shown her unguarded kindness and loved her for who she was.

He had abandoned her—but unlike their mother, he hadn’t done so by choice.

(Neither had her mother.)

“Of course, Father,” she murmured.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Under the dry sun of Death’s Reach, Chinwe’s crew made modifications to the Fanged Current. Their crew moved like a practiced hand, each worker trained not just in steel, but in the language of ships—how they shifted, breathed, resisted, obeyed.

Ballast tanks were shifted forward and low to correct the ship’s trim. The stern, which had ridden too high, now sat balanced—just enough for speed without sacrificing stability. Copper grounding rods were bolted in place, wired directly to the hull. A precaution, Chinwe said, against the kind of storm that had nearly torn the Wani apart.

Black pitch tar was melted and mixed with ground pumice and matte pigment, then smeared across the hull like armor. The finish dulled the reflection of light—harder to see at sea.

“Function is beauty,” Chinwe said, as they checked the sealant for bubbles.

A new exhaust stack was cut and fitted into the aft chimney: an emergency smoke shroud valve, hidden behind a baffle plate. With one pull, it could flood the ship’s wake in thick, hot smoke, giving the ship time to flee, or to reposition, or to vanish behind the next jag of cliff.

 

False panels were cut and fitted into unused lower compartments—places to hide refugees, or stolen riches. One compartment, beneath the lowest rung of the aft ladder, housed the memorial to the 41st, carried over from the Wani.

The sigils of the Fire Nation were scrubbed from her hull and bulkheads. She became nationless.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko was revered in Death’s Hollow. While he waited for the Fanged Current to be overhauled, he walked the streets and was unused to the reverence with which people regarded him.

“I haven’t done anything special,” he said to people who had hated him but now had children at their feet and light in their eyes and tried to press gifts into his hands.

“I don’t deserve this.”

They ignored him.

 

Zuko took to the hills and climbed the dry mountains, unable to stand the unbridled adoration he’d earned from Death’s Reach for doing what he thought was an act of very basic human decency.

There was no honor in stealing children from their parents, or stripping them of their culture and using them to replace the Fire Nation’s own children, lost to the war effort. The thought that there were more ships out there, that an entire trade existed around it, made his stomach roil.

Why the Fire Lord sanctioned it, Zuko could not understand. The more he learned of his father, the less he understood him.

After several hours, he crested the brown hills, and saw a stretch of rocky canyons layered in red and white before him.

He climbed down.

The air was hot and dry and the sky a limitless blue above him. Here, the vegetation was brown and tucked in the orifices of rocks and hollows. Creosote trees, some of them more stick than trees, formed spindly, weather-stripped arms that cast about like a drowning man searching for salvation on a stormy sea.

The rocks layered in white and red, ancient ocean beds carved by time and wind, deposited him into a broad canyon.

He walked.

On the other side of the mountains to his east roared the ocean and to his west, the shifting sands of the Si Wong Desert, and here, the forgotten sea that was now rock, as if it had always been rock, and would always be, were the world not so changeable.

Which it is.

But Zuko did not know that the rock had once been an inland sea or that one day, it could be again. For now, he was in a dry canyon with a dry wind, and before him, a woman.

Her skin was layered sandstone in warm, earthen bands, the kind he’d seen in cliff faces that had been standing since before his ancestors learned fire. Veins of opal ran through her like frozen lightning, catching in the sun with sudden, sharp flashes. Her eyes were the turquoise of deep desert pools, but the pupils flickered to molten silver, deep and timeless.

The tunic she wore shimmered like a heat mirage, its colors shifting with each breath, heavy with jewels—some he recognized from the Fire Nation’s own treasuries, others he had not seen before. A belt of obsidian cinched her waist, the edges so polished they threw back the light in thin, bladed gleams. Her nails glimmered with the fractured fire of tourmaline; her lips were azurite, sparkling with malachite, like ocean shallows under a storm sky.

Her hair spilled down her back in molten sheets of copper and gold, moving like something poured from a crucible. When she shifted her weight, it was the way a boulder peels from a cliff—inevitable, unstoppable. The air shuddered. The ground beneath him groaned. Dust erupted around her feet, then settled as if it had never been disturbed at all.

That is the deceit of the earth. It is constantly moving and changing, but appears eternal.

Her lidless turquoise eyes fixed on Zuko with a gaze that felt as old as the stone itself. She moved with the slowness of continents—deliberate, inevitable—except when she didn’t.

Zuko blinked and she stood before him, a trail of dust in her wake, rocks clattering down the canyon walls as though a slab of rock had collapsed from where it had hung tight for hundreds of thousands of years, until it forgot it was a wall of rock and not part of the sandy canyon floor that had once been an ocean bottom, and would once more be an ocean bottom, but not yet.

This is the way of the earth. Always part of what it was and what it will be, and for now, what it is.

“You’re the Earth Spirit,” Zuko said, and he bowed.

“You are built from me,” the Earth said. “My minerals run in your blood and build your bones. One day, you will die and I will take you back into my arms.”

Zuko stayed bowed, his gaze fixed on the sand. He thought of his bones—how the Air Nomads’ skeletons had looked when he’d found them, still stark and human in shape, yet already becoming part of the stone they’d lain against. He wondered what he might look like, stripped of flesh and left long enough for the earth to claim him.

“Why have you come, child?”

Zuko studied the spirit—aware she could crush him with an idle rockfall, grind his bones to powder, or simply withhold her hidden springs until thirst hollowed him out from the inside.
The wind whistled through the lonesome valley as he sank to his knees.

He bowed his head to the sand.

“I’ve come to learn.”

The Earth regarded him in her ancient way. “Will you not dig into me for my secrets? Will you not strip my veins for riches to sell? You are poor, and need my bounty.”

“No,” Zuko said. “I do not care about those things.”

He’d had all the trappings of opulence in the palace, but it had been hollow.

The Earth stilled, and in that moment could have been mistaken for nothing more than a fallen boulder—one that had come to rest in a dry riverbed, harmless until the rains came, when the valley would become a funnel of water and death.

“Come,” she said.

And Zuko followed.

Great sandstone arches rose around them, geometry carved by wind and time. They reached one that framed the sky on both sides, and stepped beneath its curve—

—only for Zuko to find himself in a cave.

He blinked and looked back, expecting to see the arch’s warm stone halo behind them. Instead, there was only the cave’s mouth, rough and shadowed, the canyon beyond already far away.

The air was cool and damp, great stalactites rippled in folded curtains from the ceiling and bulbous stalagmites erupted from the ground, forcing him onto a narrow path. Green crystals glittered on the walls and reflected the mica of the spirit’s skin.

The Earth placed a hand against the wall. “This was formed from ancient shells,” she said. “Creatures that lived when this was an inland sea. When they died, time pressed them together until they became stone. They were creatures, and now they are me.”

Zuko stared at the limestone, which looked exactly like every other rock he’d cared to notice (which, he admitted, was not a lot) and tried to think of them as creatures.

“Are their—are the souls of the creatures here, too?”

The Earth did not look back. “No, different spirits are in the rocks now, but no souls. It is simply who they were and what they are. They were shells and now they’re rock. Do you understand?”

Zuko didn’t.

The Earth, correctly, took his silence for ignorance.

They passed through the cave, and before them the Si Wong Desert stretched to every horizon—a sea without water. The sand rolled in undulating waves, cresting in the wind before plunging into deep, shadowed troughs. In the shifting light, the ripples looked like wavelets on an endless ocean.

Zuko said as much.

“This was an ocean, long before man. Nearly before Agni, though she would never admit it. The men of earth think I am as eternal as the tide. This is not true.”

Zuko stared out at the undulating dunes. “It hasn’t always been a desert?”

“No. In the same way you haven’t always been the Spirit Speaker.”

“But it’s the desert,” Zuko sputtered.

“And you were Zuko, Crown prince of the Fire Nation. Before that, you weren’t even that, your cousin was. Now you are not a prince at all. The earth is much the same way—a constant state of change, just on a different scale.”

She turned to gaze at Zuko.

He felt very small and insignificant.

“Your kind is so rushed. It is your way. More patience would benefit you, Spirit Speaker.”

Zuko nodded. “You sound like my uncle,” he muttered.

He wondered how Uncle would feel, knowing the Earth Spirit agreed with him.

Elated, probably.

The Earth’s mouth curved. “Your uncle was once famous for a temper that matched the fury of a volcano. But as the mountaintops are worn away, so too have the sharp edges of the Dragon of the West been smoothed. The lessons he tries to give you are his attempt to keep you from repeating his own missteps. He is trying to spare you pain.”

She laughed at that thought. It sounded first like a distant rumble of stone and then opened into a cascade. It was so warm and bright that Zuko felt himself smiling in confusion.

“I have yet to see one of your kind, but especially you, willing to learn from anything but a hard lesson. Your uncle’s endeavors are empty, but he tries. That’s what I love about mortals. You see a wall and say, ‘I’m different than the rest. I’ll beat that wall.’ But the only thing you’ve bested is yourself.”

She turned her full attention to him then, the gems in her skin and clothing catching the sunlight until she seemed woven from light and stone.

“I have a task for you.”

Zuko studied the spirit. “I accept,” he said, before she’d set her conditions.

”Wait.”

Zuko peered at her. “For what?”

The Earth smiled. “That is the task.”

“Waiting?” Zuko asked.

“If you are to know me, you must first know patience.”

“For how long?”

She smiled, blue lips curling. “For as long as it takes.”

She stepped away, her body abruptly crumbling back into the canyon wall—just another stratum in a landscape shaped by time.

The wind whistled through the cave and over the coral sands.

Zuko felt very alone.

He settled onto his knees and stilled his breathing, as his uncle had taught him first, and the Ocean after. He slowed his thoughts and listened, as the Wind had taught him.

This is easy, he thought.

But as the hours compounded, he realized he’d been foolish in this thought.

This was often true, that he mistook the size of the task he was undertaking.

The sun climbed, then burned overhead. His mouth dried. Dust gritted his teeth and coated his tongue until swallowing scraped raw. His stomach cramped, then settled into a hollow ache. The thirst was the worst—sharp and insistent, a spike blooming behind his eyes. It turned out the mouth of the cave faced west, which he should have thought of before he agreed to the challenge.

When the mountains finally caught the sun, the light spilled into an eruption of color—orange cream fading into lavender, then into deep indigo. The first stars appeared, bright and cold. Zuko knew them all; he’d spent long nights on the fantail when seas were kind, or in the pilot house when they weren’t, pestering Roken, Izen, and Jee to point out the constellations.

The arc of stars currently puncturing the western sky was the Dragon’s Spine, said to be the back of the first dragon, who had ascended to the sky to watch over the Fire Nation. Soon, the Lantern joined it; a small square with a bright star at its center, a guide for sailors to follow home.

Hakoda had different names for some of the constellations. Where the Fire Nation charted the Dragon’s Spine, he saw the Seal Mother—the spirit who had given her skin to the first mother of the Southern Water Tribe so she and her child might live through the first winter. Her shape curved across the sky, a reminder that survival was not always won by strength, but by sacrifice.

There were other constellations, too, that belonged only to his people—clusters so far sunk into the polar sky they were invisible anywhere else on earth. The Fire Nation had never named them, never told their stories. Hakoda had pointed them out to Zuko. The Net, cast wide across the heavens to gather the souls of hunters lost at sea; the Spear, pointing northward like an unerring guide; the Whale’s Tail, spread broad in defiance of storms.

Hakoda had told their stories and their names, and Zuko had remembered them.

Distantly, he wondered if his father had set foot in any of the places he waged war against. He wondered if he’d ever left his cocoon and seen the ice sheets or the hard outcroppings of the southern Earth Kingdom. Had he ever thought about the people his grandfather had slaughtered in their temples? Did he know their stories were still being carried on?

His father wanted the Avatar. That was the price he’d named for Zuko’s return to the Caldera, for the restoration of his title as crown prince.

Zuko no longer wanted to be the crown prince; had never really wanted it. In every single way, Uncle and Lu Ten had been better suited.

But if Ozai was willing to maim (to kill) his own son, what would he do to a hapless boy who happened to be the Avatar?

He didn’t know the child, but he knew he had to protect him from his father.

He realized that if his nation were ever to return to glory, it meant his father could no longer reign.

 

The air cooled quickly as the star studded sky deepened. The evening wind had died, and he found himself missing his crew. He’d gotten so used to knowing someone was always around, that he was acutely aware of their absence. He watched the stars pass in arc overhead. The moon, carved into a crescent, rose late.

Gradually, jackalopes snuck out of their burrows and browsed the dry creek bed, snuffing quietly. He placed a hand on the cave floor and picked up a rock, letting it tumble through his hands as he watched the desert night waken with creatures—long legged snub nose deer that browsed the edges of the dry creek bed and little balls of fluff prairie cats that stalked the jackalopes.

On the morning of the second day, his thirst had become a constant and persistent sensation. Behind him, the stalactites dropped beads of water onto the stones below. He grew obsessed with the sound, wanted to drag himself into the cool depths of the cave and open his mouth and let the cool water fall in.

But he had accepted a challenge. Zuko was not good at many things, but he was good at being stubborn.

So he clenched his hands against his knees, willed his thirst away, and waited.

The hours dragged. He measured them by the lengthening reach of the canyon’s shadows, by the shifting hiss of grit sliding down the walls. He focused on breathing—slow and even—feeling the thin wind brush against his face, tasting the dust in every inhale. He kept his gaze fixed on the sun’s slow crawl toward the west, forcing his mind away from the hollow ache of his throat.

He thought about home.

He thought about the volcanoes. The Fire Sages dedicated their lives to predicting their eruptions. That was when the earth moved suddenly. He thought of earthquakes that would send vases tumbling from their perches and formed cracks in the walls and paths, requiring Earth Kingdom artisans to be shipped in at great cost, to repair them. It was an obligation his father hated. He hired artisans to rebuild everything with wood when they could.

By the third day, his body began to rebel. The skin across his shoulders and neck blistered under the sun, then split and peeled. His lips cracked, bleeding when he tried to wet them. Sweat had abandoned him hours ago; there was nothing left to give. His vision blurred at the edges. His spine bowed beneath the knotting ache in his back, but he refused to let it curve. He’d given his oath to the Earth and would not break it.

He watched the sand dunes undulate in the wind, building and collapsing and shifting under the relentless wind and sun.

He studied the arches of sandstone and thought about the water and wind that had worn them away. He saw the boulders at the bottom of the canyon, cleaved from the cliff side and gradually being worn down to the collected sand of the dry river bed.

A dark wall built on the horizon.

The wind rose in a low, moaning rush, and then it was everywhere—whipping through the canyon, carrying grit that stung his cheeks and peppered his skin like shot. The air turned the color of rust, and the walls vanished behind a seething curtain of dust. Sand scoured his eyes until they watered, caked in his nose and mouth until he could hardly draw breath without choking. He squeezed his eyes shut and bent his head, but he didn’t move from his place.

His bad eye, unable to sweep the dust away, became blind.

The noise was constant—wind shrieking, sand rattling against stone. Time stretched until minutes bled into hours, and he lost track of everything but the heat, the ache, and the rasp of grit against his skin. His mind drifted in and out; once he thought he saw shapes moving in the haze, but the next blink they were gone.
When the wind finally eased, the canyon lay muffled in a fine veil of dust and the dunes were reformed. His body trembled, every muscle taut and raw, but he was still there—kneeling, blistered, half-drowned in heat and thirst.

His bones ached.

That night, Zuko was certain he would not live to see the sun rise. Weariness weighed every breath, and thirst had hollowed him to the marrow. His head sagged against his chest. He might have missed his new companion entirely, were it not for the faint, deliberate footfalls pressing into the sand.

He looked up with his one good eye. He couldn’t make out the shape as it turned and skipped back into the dark.

Zuko felt its absence through the ground—the echo of each step fading into distance—until the sound returned. The fox reappeared, a flask of water gripped delicately in its jaws.

He reached for it without ceremony, the desperation in his hands louder than words. The first swallow was almost pain—cold against the cracked walls of his throat, sweet against the dust in his blood. He drank until the last drop was gone.

When he lowered the flask, the fox was gone too, leaving only the scent of wind in the sand.

Zuko spent the night watching the stars through his one good eye, their cold fire steady above him. At some point, his lids grew heavy. The constellations blurred and folded into dream.

He dreamed of a library.

Not the neat, ordered halls of the royal archives, but a place so vast the shelves faded into haze, their heights swallowed in shadow. The air smelled of dust and old ink. Every step echoed, and the sound went on too long, as if the shelves themselves were listening.

The fox waited at the end of the aisle, tail curled neatly around its paws, amber eyes following him without a blink. It turned and padded ahead, the rhythm of its steps drawing him deeper.

They came to a table. On it lay a single scroll, the paper pale as bone.

“Read,” the fox said—though its mouth did not move.

Zuko reached for the scroll. The parchment crackled beneath his fingers, and the moment he touched it, the letters bled into being:

Ursa, beget of Jinzuk and Rina, beget of Avatar Roku and Ta Min. Married to Ozai, Usurper. Mother of Zuko (nationless, Spirit Speaker) and Azula (heir apparent).

His breath caught. The words shimmered on the page as though written in fire.

The air thickened, heavy as water. The shelves groaned and shifted, leaning inward until the aisle narrowed around him. Scrolls appeared on either side, stacked high in endless towers, their bindings humming faintly in his bones, as though each one recognized him, pulled at him.

The fox’s amber gaze never left him. Its tail flicked once, deliberate, and the voices of the shelves whispered in unison.

“What you know belongs here,” the fox said. “All knowledge does.”

Zuko felt the scroll pull at him—no longer paper, but a thread hooked behind his ribs. He tried to step back, but the shelves leaned forward, whispering in a thousand dry voices.

The fox’s tail twitched. “You have walked into the desert before, prince without a land. You will walk into it again.”

Zuko awoke painfully. The sun had crested the mouth of the cave and speared straight into his good eye. The light burned sharp, unrelenting, and he blinked against it until his lids ached. He hadn’t remembered the pain in his other eye—his bad eye—until now, when the dryness clawed at the scar tissue and made it throb. Without the drops, without the ointments Uncle always pressed into his palm, he realized how blind he truly was.

Uncle, or Jee, or Bosun—someone always remembered. Someone always carried the vial, always steadied him with the casual ease of a habit. He hadn’t noticed how much he leaned on them until he was here, stripped bare.

He clenched both eyes shut and would have cried, if there had been any tears left in him. His throat was too dry, his body too empty. Grief was another luxury the desert had burned away.

For a long while, he stayed still. Kneeling, spine rigid out of sheer will, though every muscle trembled. The silence pressed in, broken only by the faint rasp of wind shifting dust across stone. He had given an oath, and there was nothing left now but to keep it.

That night the moon didn’t rise at all, and the sky was resplendent in its stars.

The next day returned with three more foxes. He felt them before he saw them—the faint tremor of their paws drumming through the earth, small heartbeats carried into his bones. Then came the sound of their whispering steps over the sand.

They brought him water again. He drank, though it was never enough. They sat in a half-circle, tails curled neatly around their paws, watching. Always watching. He didn’t know why.

Behind him, the cave went on with its slow labor—drop after drop falling from its teeth, striking stone, wearing it down grain by grain. Water onto stone, stone onto water. He wondered if one day the roof would finally meet the floor, sealing its mouth shut forever.

His thoughts began to fray. It took effort to remember his own name, to cling to the rhythm of breath in, breath out. His vision blurred, and for a moment he thought the canyon itself was leaning.

Then the boulder shifted.

Stone ground against stone, and the shape of the spirit rose from the canyon floor. Her form resolved from the rock itself, sunlight sparking off the gems stitched into her tunic until she seemed wreathed in fire.

“You have gained the attention of Wan Shi Tong,” she said, her voice a low rumble that shook dust from the canyon walls. She studied the foxes, who dipped their heads in silent acknowledgment. “It is rare that He Who Knows Ten Thousand Things takes interest in your kind. He prefers what is already written.”

“I hurt,” Zuko said.

“Of course you do. It is not for the last time.”

She lifted her arm, and the canyon floor split with a sound like thunder. A seam opened, jagged and raw, and water welled up from the wound, spilling into a hollow that widened into a stone basin, dark and glimmering.

“Drink, my child. And rest. You have waited long enough.”

Zuko made to stand but his knees buckled so he crawled, dragging himself toward the oasis. His palms skidded in the dust, his elbows buckling with every heave forward. He could smell the water now, cold and mineral, so close it made his chest ache.

Halfway there, his arms failed him. His body sagged forward, cheek pressed to the dirt. For a breath he thought he would die there, so near salvation. Then the ground shifted beneath him like a living thing, lifting, carrying him as gently as a tide until he slid into the waiting pool.

The shock of coolness seized him, stealing his breath. Then relief came rushing in, raw and overwhelming, as the water closed around his blistered skin.

He stripped off his clothes, stiff with dirt and caked with sweat, until he was bare. The spring was still rising, swelling to fill the hollow in the canyon floor until it lapped against his shoulders when he stood. He ducked under, letting it slide over his scarred face, the sting of dust and grit washing away in the dark silence below the surface.

When he broke the surface again, he gasped. For the first time since before the Agni Kai, he felt…whole. For a brief moment, his scar didn’t pull at his skin; the dryness in his left eye was gone, soothed by the water’s touch. His chest felt clean, the ache in his bones eased.

He stared at her—the spirit, the Earth made flesh—while rivulets ran down his face. She studied him in return, her expression faintly bemused, as if she alone understood the shape of what had just passed between them.

“What have you learned, child?”

“The stalactites are still growing.”

The Earth nodded. “Forever, or until the cave collapses. Then it will become something new.”

“And the desert isn’t just sand. It moves and forms with the wind.”

The Earth nodded again. “Dunes crest and fall, always changing. The desert you walk today is not the one you walk tomorrow. To endure, you must change with it.”

Zuko climbed out of the pool and settled across from the Earth. The bottom of the pool was bright with agates in a vivid array of color.

“Things that have been can be again,” Zuko murmured, almost in awe. “And just because something has always been that way doesn’t mean it has to stay that way.”

He turned the thought over, heavy as a stone in his hands. The Fire Nation had once been different—a place that traded peacefully, that acted with a kind of rough benevolence toward the other nations. Then his great-grandfather had changed it. He had made it into something else, a nation that stole children, that murdered Air Nomads, that raided distant southern tribes. It had become a nation of war, and Zuko had thought that was what it would always be.

But it didn’t have to be.

“Things can happen quickly,” he added, his voice gaining strength. “A volcano can raise an island as suddenly as an earthquake can swallow a town.”

The Earth regarded him with timeless eyes, her face as still as stone.

“Orogeny cannot occur without cataclysm,” she said. Her voice echoed through the canyon, deeper than thunder. “But sometimes, it takes epochs. Just because you do not see the mountains rising does not mean they are not being made.”

Zuko bowed his head. “I understand.”

The Earth reached out her hand, her turquoise gaze unblinking. “Then go, child, with the patience of change.”

Chapter Text

“Trebuchets?” said Gunner Garo, peering at the Wani across the way. He spat over the side of the Fanged Current, watching the gobbet vanish in the oily water. “Those ain’t been relevant since before Sozin was a wee lad, and y’all had them strapped to your deck like some hayseeds.” He guffawed, loud enough to turn a few heads down the quay. “Ain’t that somethin’.”

Gunner Garo was, himself, a hayseed. He heralded from the southern islands, the second son of a second son. His drawl was heavy and his uniform creased, like he woke up every morning and remembered he was in the Navy and did his best to sort it out. His hair ran long for regulation, and there was always a ghost of a five o’ clock shadow on his broad face, like his beard always grew as fast as he shaved it down. He didn’t quite fit the height-weight regs, but he’d be the best gunner in the Fire Nation fleet, if he knew how to keep his mouth shut.

Which he couldn’t.

“Well, that’s what we were given,” Corporal Naisan said, bristling.

Garo turned as though seeing the Marine for the first time. He took in the high collar, the squared shoulders, the clean boots. His squint deepened into a scowl. “Who’re you?”

“I’m the acting gunner’s mate and senior Marine aboard the Wani and now the Fanged Current,” Naisan said, puffing his chest.
Garo blinked. “Well, shit. You ain’t nothin’ but a corporal. You mean to tell me the Fire Nation sent the prince hisself out huntin’ the Avatar with a buncha nobodies and wannabes?”
Naisan’s mouth thinned. “You’re a mutineer.”

Garo grinned. “Well, you’re a traitor, so how about that?”

Naisan scowled, fists clenched at his sides, but Garo held up a placating hand.

“Alls I’m sayin’ is, we’re on the same side. Ain’t nothin’ against you. Sorry state, is all—father treatin’ his son the way he’s treated the prince. Now here we are, both standin’ with him. Seems to me we’re gonna see it through.”

Naisan shifted his weight, still caught between insult and agreement.

“What I’m sayin’ is,” Garo continued, “Trebuchets just ain’t worth much, is all. Throw the whole ship catawampus. Bad balance. Bad load. Ain’t personal.”

He scratched under his collar at the stubble on his chin. “Anyway, I figger we gonna get along just fine.”

Naisan stared. “You’re an odd man.”

Garo guffawed. It was deep seated and so filled with mirth that Naisan caught himself grinning. “Son, if I got a gold piece every time somebody told me that —well. I wouldn’t have to rely on a Navy paycheck.”

“I don’t know anything about cannons,” Naisan finally said, after they had stood on the deck and watched the Wani, still heavily listing to port. “Shit, I didn’t really know much about trebuchets except what I learned in boot, and they put me in charge of them anyway.”

Naisan paused.

“Sometimes I wonder if the Fire Lord meant to kill his son. If I failed, and a shot landed short… straight into the deck. We’d have sunk in an instant.”

Naisan set a hand on the smooth rail of the Current, letting it hold him up as he realized that’s probably exactly what had been meant to happen.

Garo stared at him for a moment, measuring his worth.

“Well, if’n you can work a trebuchet, you can master a cannon. Ain’t nothing much to them now, ‘less they blow up.” He peered at Naisan. “If you gonna be working under my command, I’ll get you sorted out. Ain’t much for Navy life, but I can get you squared away on any weapon system.” He considered the man before him.

“You stand with the prince?”

“I do,” Naisan’s shoulders squared. “Until the day I die.”

Garo’s grin went lopsided. “I ain’t properly met him, but I can figger a man well enough. Weren’t never much for bending in the classical way, but I got my talents. People got a flare, a fire about them. His is good. Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it. You can take that to the pyre. You understand?”

Naisan didn’t, not really, but he nodded.

“Then we’re gonna be just fine, Corporal. I’ll teach you everything worth knowin’.”

The two men leaned on the rail together, watching the western slope of the town. Smoke curled from hearths along the hillside; gulls wheeled overhead, crying harsh against the clatter of shipwrights’ hammers.

“Say,” Garo said at last, squinting. “Ain’t that the prince hisself?”

Naisan followed his gaze. A figure stumbled down the ridge, mostly naked, skin blistered and raw. Naisan’s expression softened with something like fondness. He turned and called out to Lance Corporal Katsen: “Tell the general his son’s back. And bring him clothes.”
“Ain’t that his uncle?” Garo asked. “General Iroh, I mean.”

Naisan looked over at the scraggly gunner. “In name only,” he said.

Before Zuko reached the outskirts of town, Amiya was waiting. She held a cloak of layered reds, whites, and blues, the fabric falling in bands like the stratum of stone. She draped it over his blistered shoulders, the colors hiding the rawness of his skin.

“Your uncle has been worried about you,” she said.

Zuko blinked at her. “He knew I’d come back,” he murmured. “I always do.”

Amaya smiled faintly and brushed the hair back from his good ear, her palm lingering warm against his cheek. “Just because someone who loves you knows you’ll return doesn’t lessen the burden of waiting.”

Her hand slipped away.

“You have met the Earth,” she asked softly. “What was she like?”

“Beautiful,” Zuko said, “and terrible.”

Amiya nodded. “The earth often is. You are burnt and blistered and your skin is raw. I have salves. Come.” She guided him gently back to her shop.

“But first,” Zuko said, “I need to talk to my uncle.”

“First,” Amiya grinned wryly, “let’s get you dressed.”

They found Iroh in a small tea shop, hunched over a pai sho board. He was winning handily while lecturing on the merits of Xingdao’s fourth-century treaties, his voice calm and steady.

When Zuko entered—cloaked in all the colors of the nations, his body swathed in white bandages—Iroh’s chair scraped back hard against the stone floor.
“Zuko,” he said. “I was worried.”

“I know, Uncle. I’m sorry. I was meeting someone important.”

Iroh grasped his shoulders and held him fast. “And did it go well?”

“I think,” Zuko said slowly, into Uncle’s shoulder, “I’m starting to know who I’m fighting for.”

Iroh’s eyes searched him. “And who is that?”

“For who we were, and who we could be.”

The words struck deep. Iroh smiled then, a rare, unfettered warmth breaking across his face.

“We need to defeat Zhao. And find the Avatar.”

A flicker of concern passed over Iroh’s face. “The Avatar?”

“He’ll need help to defeat my father.”

For the first time in years, Zuko saw true joy light in his uncle’s eyes.

But the light faded quickly, replaced by a shadow of thought. Iroh kept his hands on his nephew’s shoulders, grounding him. “You speak as though you carry the weight of the world, nephew,” he said softly. “And perhaps…perhaps you do. A boy should not have to bear such things.” His mouth bent in a sad smile. “Yet I see in you the strength to do it.”

Zuko looked away, jaw tight, unwilling to answer.

Outside the tea shop, the evening wind shifted, rattling the paper lanterns strung across the street. Word was already moving, faster than ships could sail.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

In a seaside city, a cabbage seller leaned against his cart, his wares stacked high and green. The street smelled of fish brine and coal smoke, voices rising and falling in the clamor of trade. He listened more than he spoke, catching the scraps of stories drifting between vendors and buyers.

“The Avatar has returned,” said a thin woman, a child clinging to her skirt while she carried another on her hip. Her voice was dull with exhaustion.

“An old wives’ tale,” the cabbage man muttered, shifting uncomfortably. A folded missive burned in his pocket, its words heavier than his wares. He had met the Avatar, and found him unimpressive. The letter, though, whispered of another legend.

“They welcomed him at Omashu,” the woman pressed. “Gave him everything he wanted. I would have wanted him a hundred years ago, before all this mess started. But now?” She hitched her child higher, eyes sunken. “Now I have three mouths to feed and a husband at the front.”

The cabbage man reached into his cart, plucked out a round head, and pressed it into her bag. “Have a cabbage,” he said. She nodded her thanks, too weary for pride.
He leaned forward then, his voice dropping, the sea breeze tugging at his white hair. “But tell me—have you heard of the Spirit Speaker?”

The woman frowned, uncertain. “Another tale?”

“Not a tale,” he whispered. “A reckoning.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

In the galley, Cook boggled. The space was nothing like the cramped, smoky hole aboard the Wani. It sat amidships beneath a high-beamed ceiling, brass-rimmed skylights spilling shafts of daylight even when the sea outside lay gray. Lanterns fixed along the bulkheads gleamed so bright their glass threw golden arcs across the room. Twin stoves, set back to back, vented cleanly to the deck above. The iron had been scrubbed until it shone, and copper pots hung from an overhead rack, buffed to catch the light like mirrors.

The mess tables were long and broad, their benches bolted firmly to the deck, the wood stained a warm honey color and worn smooth by use. Someone had carved curling waves along the edges of one table, and a compass rose sat at the center of another, filled in with dark ink.

Baskets of dried fruit, sacks of rice, and clay jars of spice stood neatly stacked in the larder, alongside nets of garlic and onions swinging gently with the roll of the ship. Where the Wani’s galley smelled perpetually of coal smoke and boiled cabbage, here the air was bright with ginger, sesame, and pepper.

The place felt more like a hall than a galley — a space for men to gather, to eat, to laugh. For mutineers, it was a sanctuary; for Zuko’s men, stepping into it was like stumbling into a different navy altogether, one where a crew could feel human, even at sea.

“I’ve never seen anything so magnificent,” Cook breathed. He straightened, suddenly embarrassed by his stained apron. His Wani-born pride prickled a little; in this place, with its shining stoves and polished tables, he felt more like a scullion than a chef.

Ume, the Current’s cook, gave a wide, toothy grin. A solidly built man with a flared nose and dark, sparkling eyes that nearly closed when he laughed, his teeth flashed perfectly white. “Welcome aboard,” he said warmly. “There’s room enough for the two of us. Where are you from?”

Cook hesitated, still smoothing his apron, before answering. “Fire Fountain City, you?”

Ume nodded proudly. “So you excel in rice and spice! I am from Akahai, in the western mountains. You have probably never heard of it.”

Cook hadn’t. But he softened at once, recognizing the pride in another man’s home. “The best noodle dishes come out of that region. What you do with ginger—unprecedented.”

The two chefs regarded one another for a long beat, then both nodded in mutual approval.

“We should be able to combine styles and spices,” Cook said, his earlier embarrassment forgotten.

“It’ll be the best food these sailors have ever had!” Ume guffawed, already reaching for a jar of sesame paste.

Cook leaned in. “Especially if we’re picking up…Earth Kingdom fare.”

“Legally, of course,” Ume said.

“Of course,” Cook agreed with a sharp grin.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The first meal came that evening.

The galley filled with steam and laughter as bowls were ladled out, the air thick with sesame and ginger, fire peppers cut with the sharper tang of mountain herbs Ume had carried in a clay jar from Akahai. For once, the scent of cabbage was nowhere to be found.

Men from the Wani hesitated at first, shoulders stiff as they took their places beside mutineers from the Current. But hunger was a powerful equalizer. Soon benches scraped, cups clinked, and spoons rattled.

Jomei slurped noodles too fast and choked, drawing jeers and backslaps from the table. Riku, grinning, bragged about his hometown dishes until Ume cut him off by plunking an extra spoonful of fire oil in his bowl. Even the Marines cracked smiles, though Naisan tried to hide his behind his collar.

Toma lingered at the end of a bench, sleeves still powder-streaked from the gun deck, and found a bowl pushed into his hands. He blinked at it, then sat down among the others. The taste lit his face with a boy’s grin he hadn’t worn since before his betrayal. He wasn't welcomed to the table, but Riku made space for him on the bench with a slight nod.

By the time the last bowls were scraped clean, the noise of the galley was a roar. Wani and Current, exile and mutineer, slapping backs and trading stories as though they had always been one crew.

Above them on the deck, Zuko stood at the rail, listening to the laughter rising up through the iron belly of the ship. He smoothed his face into calm command, but the warmth in his chest was harder to hide.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Zuko ran his hands over the sleek lines of the Fanged Current. He looked up at his crew, faces he knew and those of the Current’s original crew, who he didn’t know yet, but would. Jee and Bosun had vetted all of them with Zaijing. For now, Zaijing would be XO. Garo, a proper gunner’s mate, was training the Marines in their new weaponry. The crew had doubled in size.

Zuko stepped forward. His voice carried over the deck, steady and clear.

“Men, I know you are here because you choose to be. This crew—this ship—will never be a press gang. If you serve here, it is because you want to, and because we—I—want you to.”

He swept his gaze across them. His chest clenched. These were the ages of the 41st: boys and men old enough to be brothers and fathers, now standing ready to follow him. Older than him, and yet, in this moment, so young.

“We sail to cripple Zhao, not our brethren,” he went on. “But to do that, we need ships, and we need coin. For that, we’ll do a little privateering.” His voice sharpened.

“We sail north to the Gold Coast. Our aim is not slaughter. Our aim is gold and silks bound for the nobility—the wealth that fuels this war. We will take it, and we will use it to fund our voyage.”

He let the silence gather, his scar catching the light.

“We are free men. But we will be honorable. If you kill without reason—if you harm women, or children, or civilians—you will answer to La and to Agni.” His tone dropped, low and dangerous: “And to me. Am I understood?”

The cheer thundered off steel and iron, echoing through the hull until it seemed the ship itself roared with them. Men clapped backs, boots hammered the deck, and for the first time the crews of the Wani and the Current shouted as one.

Zuko stood before them, his face smoothed into command, but the fire in his chest burned bright. He had never been good enough for his father.

But here, with these men, on this ship, under a banner of his own making—

It turned out, he was good enough.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The stokers fed the fires until the grates glowed white. Heat shimmered through the iron belly of the Fanged Current, and the ship came alive with a vibration that rattled down the bulkheads. Steam hissed through valves, gauges crept upward, and for the first time the Wani’s men felt what it meant to stand inside a ship that wasn’t half-dead from rust and patchwork prayers.

Katsen wiped his brow with the back of a blackened hand, staring at the pressure dials with the awe of a man used to cheating death with every turn of a wrench. The Current had lost her engineer in the mutineer, but he’d gained a first class engineer, Kai, who knew his way around the ship. Riku hovered at his side, practically dancing with excitement. “She’s steady,” the young engineer said, voice high with glee. “Look at those lines. She could carry us halfway around the world at this pace!”

From the bridge, the engine telegraph clanged. Ahead full. Roken braced at the helm and eased her forward. The Current surged, not sluggish like the Wani, but eager — as though she had been waiting years to be cut loose. Spray fanned white over the bow as the horizon rushed to meet them.
Jee barked for maneuvers. Hard to port. Hard starboard. Reverse engines. The stokers threw coal onto a roaring fire, the deck quivering from power as the ship carved arcs across the sea sharp and fast. On the Wani, such punishment would have torn seams or blown a gasket but the Current transitioned with ease.

On the gun deck, Garo strode up and down with a whistle in his teeth, his voice carrying even over the thunder of pistons. “Powder! Ram it home! Seal the breach! On my word!” Marines and sailors worked in tandem as they hauled shot, swabbed barrels, and locked breeches. The first cannon roared, a bright belch of flame and smoke. The ball landed several hundred feet off starboard with a splash. The Wani’s sailors stared, slack-jawed at the sheer violence of it.

Toma was there, sleeves rolled, powder smeared on his cheek. He had been first to grab a ramrod, shoulders squared under the weight. When the gun fired, the recoil shuddered through him and left him grinning like a boy.

Garo squinted at him, then gave the barest tilt of his chin with approval. Toma straightened under it as if the nod had given him back the weight of his name.

By the time the drills ended, the men were roaring with laughter, sweat streaked and black with soot. Wani and Current, mutineer and exile, shoulder to shoulder.

Zuko stood at the rail and watched them, his scar catching the light of the sinking sun. The sea trials had been for the ship, but he could see the truth plain: the Current had tested her crew, and they had passed.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

They slunk over the new moon waters. Waves lapped in steady rhythm against the hull, but at the bow Zuko whispered to the sea to remember how it was on windless days—and it obeyed.

The Fanged Current moved in silence, her running lights extinguished, closing on a merchant ship heavy in the water, her holds weighing her down until her wake dragged sluggish and unready. The lone watch paced the deck, his lantern bobbing like a firemoth in the dark.

Zaijing crouched at the rail, his profile sharp against the faint stars. He gave a short nod to Bosun, who had the grapnels coiled and ready.

“Range,” Bosun murmured.

“Close enough,” Zaijing returned.

The grapnels arced silently through the dark, iron teeth biting wood with a muffled thunk. Ropes were made fast. Bosun hissed the signal.

Zuko vaulted first. His boots struck the merchant deck almost soundlessly, as though the air itself had caught and lowered him. Behind a blue mask, his gaze locked on the watch.

The man froze. The lantern quivered in his grip before he dropped it. The oil fire spilled—and with a sweep of Zuko’s hand, it guttered out.

“We aren’t here to hurt you,” Zuko said. “But we need what’s on your ship.”

The others spread across the deck—Bosun toward the helm, Garo toward the forecastle, Riku and Jomei plunging belowdecks with a squad. The thrum of boots against planking echoed hollow, like the ship itself had begun to beat with the crew’s pulse.

A door banged open. The merchant captain stumbled out in his nightclothes, hair loose, clutching a cutlass he looked ill-fit to use.

“Our cargo is bound for the Caldera. It belongs to the Fire Lord.” He barked, though his voice shook.

Zuko stepped forward. “Not this cargo.”

The captain’s eyes darted across the intruders.

“Pirates,” He breathed.

“We’re not here to kill you,” Zuko said, voice low but carrying quiet authority. “We’re here for the gold that keeps this war running."

The cutlass wavered. Then it fell, clattering to the planks.

Zaijing’s voice rang out: “Cargo hold secured!”

A ragged cheer rose from the men. Silks and gold, crates bound for nobles, all reclaimed.

Zuko raised a hand, and the noise died. His gaze swept over his crew. “Take what we need. Split the reward. The rest goes back to Death’s Reach”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Back at port, Zuko motioned for Old Jiu. She stomped down the pier, her straw hat tilted back, gold eyes glittering in the late-afternoon light. The tide slapped lazily against the pilings, the smell of tar and fish thick in the air.

“More children?” she asked sharply, squinting at the black-hulled ship.

“Gold.” Zuko pressed the weight of it into her hands. “Back pay for harboring the Wani. The rest is for the town. For the children. There’s enough for everyone.”

Old Jiu looked at the money dumped into her palms, the extra coins clattering to the wooden planks. She looked back up at Zuko, her sour face creased into a smile, knocking years off her age. She stood a little straighter.

“You were good for your word.”

“My word is all I have.”

She studied him for a long moment.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve met one from the Nation who was honorable,” she said at last, clenching her fists around the gold. And then she bowed.

“I don’t deserve that,” Zuko mumbled.

Old Jiu stood, her eyes sharp. “I have lived on the edge of the map for decades, in this forgotten dusty town at world’s end. I left everything I knew because I could not stomach what the Fire Nation was doing–what they continue to do. You don’t tell me where I can place my allegiance." She jabbed a finger at his chest. “For the first time since I was a lass, I believe there is more to the Fire Nation’s future than fire and ruin. You carry a burden—one heavy enough to crush grown men.”

The old woman spat, the phlegm hitting the sea with a loud plop.

Zuko blinked.

“Uh, okay,” he agreed awkwardly.

Old Jiu kept his gaze for a beat longer, then turned and clomped down the pier, her pockets heavy with gold. Halfway down, she twisted her head and shouted back, her voice carrying across the water:

“It’s hope, you idiot prince! That’s your burden! Don’t fuck it up!”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

They went back to sea.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

They left the Narrow Sea and skirted the eastern rim of the crescent coast, the shoreline curving north in a slow, deliberate arc. The waters grew treacherous as they passed the Maw of Yansu, jagged rocks rising like broken teeth from the surf, with Slipper Island crouched low to the east. Beyond those hazards the sea settled, flattening into calm, glassy swells that carried them toward the Bay of Gold—the greatest trading harbor on the Earth Kingdom’s eastern coast.

For several days the Fanged Current lingered miles offshore, her funnels cold, her crew watching in silence. Ships came and went in endless procession, flowing from the bay as though from the mouth of a hive. Heavy merchantmen groaned eastward on the trade winds, their holds swollen with silks, spices, and rice. Others returned from the far side of the Shining Ocean, sitting low and sluggish in the water—cargo holds near empty, hulls heavy with coin and bullion. The rhythm was constant, ceaseless, as if the bay itself breathed wealth in and out with the tides.

“There’s no naval presence,” Jee observed on the quarterdeck beside Zuko. He handed off his scope. The warm wind ruffled his hair. He’d abandoned shaving it since the Agni Kai, but hadn’t let it grow so long to pin up in a topknot. Jee wondered if the length was less about rebellion and more about shadowing the scar.

“We’ll wait until nightfall, then board one of them.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The second ship they took was eastbound, an elegant sloop with Ganlu painted along her side in delicate calligraphy. With a breath, Zuko extinguished every fire aboard, asking it not to return. The boiler stayed dark.

When they boarded under a black sky and a silent sea, the Ganlu’s captain was already waiting. A superstitious man, he had decided that the spirits themselves were angry. He had ordered his men to stay below, and came out alone in his nightclothes to face the intruders. He carried no weapon. His hands trembled as he personally led Zuko—clad in black, his face hidden—to the hold.

In silence, the Current’s men offloaded crates of silk and dyes, bound for Fire Nation nobility. Zuko stared at the bolts of shimmering fabric, thinking of his father in his gold-trimmed robes. He remembered being a child, careless in luxury, never wondering who had labored for it—or what villages had burned so he could wear it.

“Spirit,” the captain whispered, voice breaking. “What have I done wrong? How do I keep from angering you?”

Zuko stared at the man. The front of his pants was stained dark, urine dripping onto the deck. He was taller than Zuko, broader in shoulders, bigger in every way, but appeared very small. Zuko’s gaze dropped to the crates of silk and spice, then lifted west—toward the lands where they were bound. Toward what had once been his home

The thought cut sharp. Would his own people see this as treason, even if he was doing it for the right reasons? But then, he had acted once for the right reason—for his countrymen—and been burned and banished for it.

In the eyes of his father, no action he could take would ever be good enough, because the man had never seen him as his son. His real family was on the ship behind him, and he would do right by them, and by the children he’d saved, and by the people in Death’s Reach and everyone else that had been brought to ruin in his family’s desire to rule a world they didn’t understand.

The captain had fallen to his knees, trembling, words tumbling out in a rush: “I will go back to my family’s lands. I will farm. I will forget gold and riches.”

Zuko turned without answering. He crossed back to the waiting skiff, the sea dark around him. Only once the Current was a shadow on the horizon did the lights of the Ganlu flicker back to life.

 

The following night, they came upon a grain barge wallowing low in the water, bound for the Caldera. Lanterns burned along her deck, weak and flickering against the burgeoning night.

Zuko inhaled, let the heat rise in his chest, and exhaled in a sweep that snuffed every flame at once. The lanterns guttered, then died, leaving the ship plunged into blackness so complete the crew did not even cry out.

Grapnels bit. Ropes tightened. The Current’s men swarmed over the rails unseen. Boots thudded, muffled, as if the sea itself had swallowed the sound.

When light finally bloomed again—rekindled lanterns trembling in sailors’ hands—the barge’s crew stood in a neat, frightened line, their captain pale and trembling. He held out the ring of keys to the hold without a word, his knuckles white.

The barge carried sacks of grain, tribute for the Caldera. The Current’s men moved quickly, disciplined, filling their skiffs in silence.

A story began to spread—of a Fire Nation ghost ship that swallowed light and left nothing but silence behind.

Their next ship was west bound. They caught her at midnight, a broad-bellied merchant carrack heavy in the water, her wake sluggish under the weight of treasure. She was bound west across the Shining Ocean, her holds packed with chests of coin and tribute from the Caldera, bound for Earth Kingdom merchants.

The Current slid in under black funnels, her lights dead, until she loomed alongside like a shadow torn from the sea. Grapnels bit wood with a muffled crack, and the Marines swept over the rail before the watch could even cry out.

The merchant’s captain was already on deck, dressed in silks far finer than any sailor’s wage. He clutched a jewel-hilted dagger but did not draw it, his eyes darting to the black-clad figure who stepped forward with fire coiled faintly in his palms.

“Stand down,” Zuko said, his voice low, unhurried.

The captain’s mouth worked soundlessly before he gave a short nod. He dropped the dagger to the planks with a clatter and gestured toward the hatches.
Below, the Marines pried open the first chest. They were all stamped with a flying boar, and the lamplight flared against stacks of gold taels, neatly stamped with the Fire Lord’s seal.

The men moved with disciplined haste, chests lifted in pairs, the deck trembling under the weight. The merchant crew watched, silent and pale, while their ship grew lighter with each passing minute.

By the time the Current slipped back into the night, the carrack rode high in the water, her captain slumped against the rail, and her crew whispering prayers to spirits they were certain had walked their deck.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

After their fifth prize, Jee called a meeting in the wardroom. A stiff westerly breeze pressed through portholes cracked for air, sunlight falling in golden pools across the tigeroak desk. Charts were spread wide and weighted down, the deck rocking gently underfoot.

“We’re too heavy,” Jee said flatly, his finger tapping the inked lines of the Gold Coast. “Coal’s burning faster than we can replenish. If we don’t make port soon, we’ll limp instead of strike.”

Zuko studied the map. “We can offload everything we don’t need. The silks, grain, gold. Let’s give them back to the ports that don’t have anything—Driftrock, Red Clay, Stone Weir. Leave it on the pier and just go. They have more use of it than we do.”

Iroh poured tea with his steady calm, as if they were discussing weather and not piracy and treason and stealing from their home nation and giving it back to the penniless of their declared enemy. “We need resupply anyway. For tea—and a decent game of pai sho.”

Jee looked to Zaijing, who pointed to the mouth of the Ruby River. “There’s a small port town here, Hongzhu. They’re a step down from Jinshi, the port at the Bay of Gold, but it’ll split the difference between Stone Weir and Drift Rock. We can lighten the load before we get there and make harbor. Get information and…play pai sho.”

“Do they need the goods?” Zuko asked.

“I don’t think there’s anyone on this coast besides Jinshi that doesn’t,” Zaijing replied.

That night, they offloaded cargo at Red Clay, a decrepit fishing village at the Bay of Gold’s mouth. The pier was quiet, save for a few drunks weaving between lanterns. By the time the eastern sky paled indigo, the holds were lighter and the Current slipping north again.

A day later the watch spotted a ship on the horizon, her pennant snapping in the wind. Zaijing glanced at Zuko, who grinned.

“We’ve space in the hold,” he said.

As they closed in, Jee frowned through the scope. “She’s coming about.”

Zuko picked up the spyglass. “She’s armed.”

“Trebuchets,” Garo barked, his grin wolfish. “Ancient, useless, and still deadly if they land.”

“Man the stations!” Zuko said.

“To stations, aye!” Garo bellowed, already bounding down the ladderwell. The ship’s bells clanged.

A moment later the first bolt arced across the gap, trailing flame. It slammed into the sea just off the Current’s starboard bow, sending up a geyser of steam and spray.

The sea hissed where the bolt had struck, steam curling high into the night. Another groan of steel, another thump of release, and a second fiery streak carved the dark.

“Captain!” Bosun roared, hand tight on the rail.

The flaming arc hung above them, brighter, lower—falling straight for the Current’s deck.

And then the world turned to fire.

Chapter Text

The boulder—slick with the resin-and-pitch mixture the Fire Nation called Wrath of Agni—came screaming toward the deck, a rolling furnace of death. It lit the superstructure in a wash of molten orange, shadows stretching sharp across steel bulkheads. Rivets glowed red in the blast of its passage, and men ducked instinctively, as if bracing for the end. Bosun stood on the deck and watched it come.

So this is how I die, he thought, and it seemed right. A Fire Nation sailor couldn’t wish for a better way–swallowed by flame on the sea.

A soft gust of wind ran behind him as Zuko dropped from the conning tower, the wind laying him down as if the sky itself had carried him. His right hand snapped upward—flame burst into a blazing shield, white-hot and radiant. The boulder struck. Pebbles of molten stone hissed and shattered harmlessly across the deck, tiny suns guttering into ash as they plopped into a stormy sea.

A second roar split the air—a final shot, smaller but faster, shrieking through the haze. Zuko braced, both hands rising. Fire leapt into a blazing wall, but when the rock struck, it burst in two, fragments veering wide. One half plummeted harmlessly into the waves; the other slammed against the Current’s rail with a crash that showered sparks and steel.

The shield guttered. Zuko staggered back, knees buckling, breath torn ragged from his chest. His vision tunneled white with heat; blood trickled from one nostril, sizzling as it struck the deck. He pressed a hand to the steel rail, steadying himself, every muscle trembling. For a heartbeat, it seemed he might collapse.
On the deck, men scrambled—one sailor crying out as shards scored his arm, Bosun roaring orders to clear the rail. But their eyes flicked back, again and again, to the prince who had caught the firestorm twice and still stood. He moved to keep the boy upright, as he’d done so many years ago with the flame branded boy who refused to die.

Instead, Zuko straightened. He drew in a single breath—long, deep, his chest heaving with the swell. His left hand swept low, coaxing the sea like a tethered beast. The swells heaved in answer. A wall of black-green water rose higher than the superstructure, its crest silvered red in the dying sun before crashing down upon the merchant vessel.

The sound was apocalyptic: thunder tearing through steel, ocean devouring iron.

Water poured across the deck, ripping the trebuchets from their moorings. Tons of steel shrieking as rivets sheared and plating tore. The great trebuchets skidded across the flooded deck before toppling over the rails, vanishing beneath the foam with a final metallic bellow.

The ship listed violently, hull groaning under the uneven weight, ballast thrown into chaos. The vessel staggered, half-dead, her bow rising and falling heavily as the sea began to drag her under.

On the stern, Garo felt a pang of disappointment. There would be no use for his cannons. He turned to Naisan.

“Cattywampus.”

“I got it, Gunner.”

“I’m just bringing your attention to it, Corporal.”

“She’s sinking.”

On the stricken vessel, panic reigned. Sailors dragged at lines, trying to dog hatches that were already lost. Water poured unchecked into the hold, a black torrent sluicing below.

“She’s downflooding,” Garo observed grimly. “Once the righting arm goes, she’ll roll and that’s that. “

Zuko’s eyes widened as he realized what he’d done. “Bring us about! Save the crew!”

Smoke belched from the stacks as Roken spun the wheel hard to port. Below, Kai and Jomei vanished into a haze of coal dust, shoveling furiously, while Katsen cracked open the throttle valves. Steam howled through the pipes. The propeller shafts hammered to life, frothing the sea into white water behind them.

On deck, Bosun bellowed orders. The deckhands surged to the port side, hauling a Jacob’s ladder and a heavy boarding net over the rail, letting them spill down toward the swells. Marines joined in, tossing heaving lines as the first of the merchant crew leapt into the warm, glassy sea, thrashing for their lives. The lines hissed out over the water, coiling around desperate hands before the Fanged Current sailors hauled the half-drowned men up toward safety.

Zuko stood on the deck, breathing in time with the swells so that a floundering sailor was at the peak of the wave when he cast exhausted arms into the netting. Soon, the Current’s deck was full of sodden men.

The last of the merchant crew collapsed onto the planks, coughing up seawater. A few bore burns from the trebuchet, and one man bled from a torn leg. Bosun’s voice cut through the low moans.

“Who’s the captain?”

A sailor in beige who had lost his boots in the swim looked among the other sailors. He brushed long hair out of his eyes and stared up at Bosun. “Said he wasn’t going to leave his ship.”

Zuko frowned. He looked ragged, a smear of blood across his face from where he’d wiped it away. “Why not?”

“He lost his son when the trebuchet went. Said he’s got nothing left. It was folly to fight you, and he lost everything.”

“That’s stupid! Bring us in closer, throw him a line!” Zuko ran to the rail.

“We can’t get too close, sir. She could take us with her when she capsizes,” Bosun said at Zuko’s shoulder.

They were close enough to see the captain at the helm. He was an older bearded man with flint eyes and a sailor’s bearing.

A rope arced across the swell, striking true. The captain stood at his own rail, one hand braced against twisted steel, the other hanging limp at his side. For a heartbeat, Zuko thought he would take it. The man met Zuko’s eyes and held them. Then the ship lurched, listing past recovery.

The crew shouted as the vessel rolled, water rushing through her holds. She capsized with a roar of steel tearing itself apart, then slipped under, dragging her captain down with her.

Zuko stood frozen at the rail, breath caught in his throat, watching until the last bubble broke the surface. The sea smoothed back to glass, broken only by drifting wreckage. He clenched the rail hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

“Why did you fight!” His voice cracked raw across the deck. “We would’ve let you live!”

An older sailor lifted his face, lines carved deep by salt and years. His green eyes were bright against weathered skin. “We’ve heard of your ship. The captain thought he could win.”

Another man coughed seawater, narrow shoulders trembling. “We weren’t meant for this,” he rasped. “We’re not Navy—we were taken. Drafted from docks, from villages… Earth Kingdom, Fire Nation, all of us. He”—the man jerked his chin toward the vanished hulk—“he was a merchant marine. We followed his orders because we had no choice.”

“A press gang?”

The gangly man nodded.

Zuko’s hands curled into fists. “Why would the Fire Nation be pressing people?”

The barefoot sailor in beige answered, voice low. “Rumor is they’re building up the fleet. Some kind of siege. All the proper sailors are being pulled into that. For the rest—” he gestured to the rescued men—“they’re forcing us into cargo runs. That’s where we came in.” He paused, studying Zuko, his eyes sharpening. “You saved us.”

“Are you the pirate that’s been harassing the Earth Kingdom merchants?” another sailor asked. He looked to be in his late twenties, his tanned face as yet unlined. Broad shoulders filled his tunic, the sleeves hacked off to bare an intricate tattoo common among the seafaring islanders of the Shining Sea.

Zuko’s mouth thinned. “Yes.”

The sailors grinned, fear washing from their faces. “We heard what you did—returning Bei Fong coin to the ports, taking silks meant for the Fire Nation!”
Zuko met the older sailor’s eyes. There was no mockery in them, only a measured curiosity.

“It’s–” Zuko started awkwardly. “It’s not for me. We don’t pirate for riches. What the Fire Nation has done is wrong. There’s unbalance.”

“But aren’t you Fire Nation?” The sailor studied Zuko’s gold eyes, lingering on the scar that maimed his face.

A complicated look twisted Zuko’s face. He glanced at Jee and Iroh before looking back at the sailor.

“It is my nation and was my home,” Zuko said. “But the war is wrong. The Fire Lord is wrong. I am Fire Nation, but not the one that is.”

The man nodded slowly, as if weighing the truth of those words against the boy who stood before him—scarred, soaked in spray, his face smeared with blood. But he burned with something ancient.

“I’m Hanto,” he said at last. “A fisherman before they pressed me. I know rigging, I know the weight of a hull, I know when a ship’s about to founder. If you’ll have me, I’ll stand under your colors.”

A murmur rippled through the rescued men—eager, almost hungry. Bosun’s brows rose, but he said nothing. Naisan snorted under his breath, a half-smile curling his mouth. Even Jee, arms crossed at the quarterdeck rail, looked down with a mixture of unease and recognition.
Zuko hesitated. The captain of the sunken vessel still haunted the back of his mind, that unflinching stare as the sea claimed him. But these men—these men had chosen life.

“All right,” Zuko said, his jaw tight. “If you want to join us, you pull your weight. Jee is the captain, Zaijing his first mate. Bosun commands the deck.” He motioned the crew. “You follow their orders and you fight with honor. If you steal from anyone, you’ll be answering to Bosun and Captain Jee, and you’ll find no place on this crew.”

“What about the rest of us?” The tattooed man asked.

“Do all of you want to join?” Zuko looked over their weary faces and found them nodding.

“Then the same rules apply. Otherwise…welcome aboard.”

The men cheered.

“All right, you bilge rats!” Bosun barked, stepping forward in front of Zuko. “We’ll get you sorted—names, skills, racks, kits. We may be pirates, but we have standards!”

As the new hands were herded below, Iroh stepped forward, resting a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. His voice was pitched low, nearly swallowed by the wind. “They’ll remember this day, nephew. The day you pulled them from the sea and gave them a banner worth standing under.”

Zuko stared out at the waters smoothing back to glass. Then he turned to his uncle.

“Looks like we need to make a banner, then, Uncle.”

“But first, rest.”

And if Zuko sunk into his uncle’s shoulder as they made their way across the deck, no one mentioned it.

When Zuko sank into a deep sleep, too exhausted to dream, and Iroh sat a quiet vigil at his side,

Well.

That was just home for both of them.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Bosun and Jee sat in the captain’s cabin, the portholes thrown wide to the sea breeze that swept in from the south, cooling the day’s lingering heat. The new sailors were on the manifest, settling into racks and watches. Even so, Jee sometimes felt drowned by their number.

He often wished his son was among them. At sea he could pretend the boy was still out there, another name on another roster. But in quiet moments the truth gnawed at him.

His heart hurt so badly that sometimes Jee couldn’t see his way through the day.

The prince, though, gave Jee a thin, stubborn hope that an end to the death might come.

“I should have died today,” Bosun said, raising his cup. The lychee liquor lacked the bite of fire brandy, but he savored its earthy sweetness all the same.
Jee turned from the stars. Bosun’s face was softened by liquor and lantern light.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Jee said, sitting heavily in his chair. It was padded and adorned in red silk, but sometimes he missed the wooden chair from the Wani. “It would've been hell to wrangle all these new recruits without you. And the prince would’ve carried the guilt forever.” He let out a sigh with no heat behind it. “I’m not sure I have the fortitude for that.”

Bosun gave a crooked grin. “I’ve been on the sea a long time, Skipper. Thought I’d seen everything. But I’ve never seen the things our prince does.” His smile faded. “It’s a lot of weight for a boy.”

“There are no children left, Bosun. Not in this war,” Jee said quietly.

Bosun grimaced. “It’s a lot of weight for a man, too.”

Jee nodded solemnly. “His father abandoned him, but this crew won’t. I won’t.”

“No,” Bosun agreed. “I’d die first.”

They fell silent, reflecting on the day. Jee, feeling a pang of jealousy at the captain who had gone down with his ship. Bosun, thinking about his brush with death. It was not the first time but maybe the closest he’d been in a while.

Bosun cut a look at Jee. “Don’t get maudlin, Skipper. It don’t suit.”

Jee sighed, pouring another dram before returning to the porthole, where a lonely tune drifted in, a thin song that spoke of loss.

“I miss my son, Bosun. As long as I’m at sea, I can pretend he’s out there. I don’t know who I am when this voyage ends.”

“You’re captain of the greatest ship that ever sailed, Skipper. We follow where the prince takes us. I don’t know where we’re going, but it’s something we haven’t seen for an age. A fairy tale of a fairy tale.”

Jee’s jaw tightened. “My son won’t be here to see it.”

“No,” Bosun agreed. “He won’t. But you will. The prince needs you, as much as he needs his uncle. It’s a tough row ahead of him. It’s our job to see him through.”
Jee looked over at Izen.

“And we will.”

Bosun raised his glass.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The sea was black glass under the moon. On the fantail, Jomei sat cross-legged, back to the rail, idly plucking at a battered lute someone had salvaged. The tune was rough, half-forgotten, but it carried into the stillness.

Riku leaned beside him, pipe between his teeth, a habit he’d picked up in Death’s Reach, his gaze fixed on the wake spreading silver behind the ship. Toma sat a little apart, his shoulders hunched, hands knotted in his lap.

“You gonna sit there all night like a ghost?” Jomei asked without looking up.

Toma’s jaw worked. “Maybe.’

Riku exhaled, the ember glowing faint red in the dark. “You’ve had a thousand chances to jump ship, and you haven’t. You’re okay by me, Toma. All these new hands aboard. That makes us the old salts. Might as well stick together. You’ve been giving Garo hell. He can hardly keep up.”

Toma scooted closer. “I’ve never seen a man love anything as much as he loves munitions.”

Riku grinned, passing over the pipe. Toma took it.

“Heard we might get promoted even. You, to GM3! Field promotion!”

Toma beamed. “Garo said he’s gonna push it up to the captain!”

“Did you see what the prince did today? Blew that whole round wide open. That ship never stood a chance.”

“I can’t believe I almost betrayed him,” Toma said tentatively. “I’m lucky to be alive!”

Jomei stopped playing and stared at Toma.

“Ha! You thought you knew something about everything, and it turns out you were just a horse donkey's ass!” the engineer said. Before Toma could respond, Jomei continued. “Have I told you how much that new EM1 gets under my skin? He thinks he knows engineering, but I’ve never seen somebody shovel coal as bad as he does!”

“It’s because he’s a first class. Before their mutiny they had nonrates to do that work for him, now he’s gotta do it for himself.”

“Not anymore! We got a few of those new merchant sailors and they’re eager to work.”

“Did you see that new merchant sailor with the tattoos? Where do you think he got them?”

“He’s a Shining Sea sailor. They’re sort of part of the Fire nation, but not,” Riku said. “I heard they’re the best sailors you ever saw. Chief Hakoda said it was the Shining Sea sailors that found the southern continent and made their own tribe.”

They dissolved into laughter and gossip before falling silent under the stars.

The silence stretched. Toma shifted, edging closer until he sat with them against the rail. Jomei’s tune steadied into something whole. For a while, they said nothing—just three sailors under a wide sky, the ship carrying them forward.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The morning dawned pale over a quiet sea, citron light casting a pale beam through the porthole in Zuko’s estate room. The boy, who was prone to waking suddenly from nightmares, drifted instead into wakefulness with the soft rocking of the ship over occasional swells from distant storms.

It smelled of jasmine, and Zuko cracked his eyes open to see his uncle preparing a morning pot. Zuko lifted a hand to his bad side, a habit he’d developed in the months after the injury, as if to check his eye was still there.

It was.

“Uncle?”

“Nephew,” Iroh smiled. “I trust you slept well.”

Zuko knocked his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. “Was I hurt?” He looked down at his body, his head still muddled by sleep.

“No, nephew. Just tired.”

Zuko made a face, as if fatigue was an assault on his person.

“Why?”

“I suspect, Zuko, because you are doing things that only the Avarar is said to be able to do, and this can be exhausting.”

Zuko considered that. “Well, I can’t get tired every time I bend.”

Iroh’s indulgent smile warmed the room. “Not every time. Think of it like training: the first time hurts. The next time less so. Do it enough and the body learns.”

“So I should train more?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Iroh nodded. He passed a steaming cup across the blanket. Zuko took it gratefully.

“I don’t know how. There’s no airbenders left and the waterbenders are nearly all wiped out. Even if we find one, who’d want to help me? Our family is the reason they don’t have any left,” Zuko said around the rim.

“Best to worry about that later, Prince Zuko. For now, it is as productive as worrying about the weather.”

Zuko mulled that over, and Iroh was concerned the point hadn’t landed, but then, all he could do was guide his nephew.

“Were any of the crew hurt yesterday?” Zuko changed the subject.

“Minor things. They’ve been cared for.”

Zuko sat up in his plush bed in his plush estate room, full of things they’d pirated.

“The wind carried me. I moved the ocean.”

“Yes,” Iroh agreed.

Zuko sat in silence as he thought about what he’d done.

“I saved Bosun.”

“You saved the ship,” Iroh corrected.

“Why me, Uncle? Why did the spirits choose me?”

Iroh thought of the prophecy he had heard, many moons ago. But to burden his nephew with a prophecy was unfair. He met Zuko’s eyes.

“Because you are worthy,” he said. “Because you are steady and clever and refuse to accept failure. Better to ask, ‘Why not you?’ than to wonder why the gift fell where it did.”

Zuko hummed, not entirely satisfied, but not unwilling to rest in the answer.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The next few days were filled with drills. The pressed men—fishermen, dockhands, farmers dragged from their villages—were no strangers to hard labor, but they were unaccustomed to the rhythm of a warship. Early hours, heavy watches, work that left no room for sloppiness. What they had lacked in training they made up in hunger: for food, for rest, for a place that felt less like chains.

On deck, Bosun stalked the lines like a storm with a whistle, voice booming above the sea.

 

“Haul! Faster than that—my grandmother could pull rope quicker, and she’s been ash for twenty years!”

The new sailors floundered, shoulders straining, palms blistering as they heaved heavy hawsers across steel decks. The old hands barked corrections until the rhythm came. By the third morning, the lines sang taut under practiced pulls, the men moving as one.

Below, the engine room was a hell of heat and coal dust. Katsen had the new recruits running bucket relays until their shirts were black and their lungs burned. Riku, soot streaked and grinning, clapped a boy on the back after he nearly scorched his arm on a live pipe.

“Congratulations—first burn’s your coal tattoo. Means you’re part of the ship now.”

The mornings were dedicated to cannon drills. Garo stomped around, drilling the men until their ears rang.

“Don’t stand behind that breech, unless you want to be smeared from here to the Si Wong Desert!”

One of the new men—the wiry islander with quick hands—proved a natural, ramming powder and shot with the grace of someone born to rhythm. Garo bellowed his approval so loudly the whole deck heard.

In the mess at night, bowls scraped clean and cups clattered. The new men ate like they’d never been fed, then swapped stories over their food. Some swore the prince had called the sea like a spirit. Others swore his fire burned brighter than Agni’s own forge. Hanto told tales of storms in the Shining Sea, his voice rough but steady, and the younger men listened with wide eyes. They were far from home, but no one spoke of leaving, as if they knew they had become something greater than themselves.

Zuko walked the decks each night when the lamps burned low. He passed hammocks filled with men who, a week ago, had been half-starved strangers. Now they snored in time with the heartbeat of the engines. Laughter drifted from the fantail, where Jomei’s battered lute found new songs. The ship felt different—alive, full in her bones.

Zuko leaned on the rail, staring out into the black water until the spray cooled his scar. He didn’t know why everything was happening, why he, unworthy in his father’s eyes in every way, had garnered such love and support from a crew of men thrust upon him. He realized they followed him not out of duty or desperation, but belief.

The realization froze him to his core. He didn’t know how to be the man they thought he was. He only knew he had to try.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The wardroom was warm with the smell of ginger and sesame, steam curling from dishes Cook and Ume had prepared. It had grown with the addition of Garo and Zaijing, but the Current had a proper wardroom, and they weren’t all forced into Jee’s cabin as on the Wani. It was a large space retrofitted at Death’s Reach, stripped of its old allegiances. The portrait of Ozai was gone, replaced by a broad naval chart of the Earth Kingdom’s eastern seaboard, inked with fresh marks and routes. One of the great red banners had been pulled down to make room for a hanging scroll of mountains, mist rising from painted peaks. Another had been replaced with the carved figurehead of a carp leaping waves, its lacquer worn by salt but its turquoise eyes still bright. Opposite, a panel of green silk embroidered with cranes unfurled in the lamplight, taken from a tribute ship bound for Caldera, while between them hung a battered Earth Kingdom shield, lacquer cracked and dented, its scars facing outward like a promise. Lanterns from half a dozen ports—red glass, green, even a pale amber globe from the Shining Sea—cast the room in a strange blended glow.

Steam curled from a platter of pork dumplings, their skins crisped golden, while bowls of rice were ringed with pickled roots and a rich stew of sea bass, thick with Earth Kingdom greens. Cook and Ume had outdone themselves, laying the spread with small touches of home—spiced tea, Fire Nation flatbreads brushed with scallion oil, even a jar of preserved plums someone had been hoarding since Death’s Reach.

Bosun whistled low as the lids came off the serving trays. “By the spirits, Cook’s trying to make us soft.” He speared a dumpling, shoveling it into his mouth.

Iroh poured tea with both hands, his movements unhurried, ceremonial even. “Food binds men to each other,” he said, smiling faintly. “Especially when it comes from two hands instead of one. Compliments to Cook and Ume.”

They ate well, the tension of the day loosening by degrees. Jee, who so often guarded his words like rations, allowed himself a second helping. Bosun groused about the new recruits clogging the passageways, but there was no venom in it, only the steady grumble of a man who knew his job and, like any sailor, enjoyed complaining.

For a little while, the war was far away. The laughter was low and rough, the kind born of hard men sharing something rare. Zuko listened more than he spoke, the food rich on his tongue, the warmth of the lanterns settling into his bones. He caught himself thinking that this—this table, this crew, this unlikely mix of Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom—felt more like home than the palace ever had.

Garo tipped his bowl back, chasing the last of the stew with a hunk of flatbread. “Pity every fight can’t end with a meal like this. I might stop being disappointed when I don’t get to fire the guns.”

Bosun snorted. “You’d fire them at your own mother’s fishing boat if she came within range.”

“Only because I know she’d put up a good fight!” Garo grinned back, shoveling the food into his mouth.

Zaijing chuckled, setting down his chopsticks. “The new recruits—most of them never wanted to be in a fight at all. Press-ganged from docks and villages. They’re lucky to find their way aboard a ship that feeds them instead of bleeding them dry.”

Jee’s expression darkened. “It’s true. They’re stripping the harbors bare. Pulling every hand into service they can. Whatever this siege is, it’s big.”
“It explains why we haven’t seen any navy vessels,” Iroh mused. “Leaves the shipping lanes ripe for the taking, but I fear something may be amiss. May I be so bold as to suggest a port call?”

Jee considered. “The men could use a break and some space.”

“I think a little piracy may be in order first,” Bosun suggested. “Would give a chance for the crew to work together before we make port.”

“We need a flag to run up,” Zaijing said.

Bosun grinned wolfishly. “What’s it to be? Skull and crossbones?”

Garo rumbled low. “Something simpler. A mark you can see across water and know to cheer—or to run.”

Bosun set his plum brandy down. “If we’re to be feared, give me a proper skull. Two crossed cutlasses, maybe. Let every sailor piss himself when he sees it.”
Zaijing shook his head. “Too common. Every dockside raider paints bones on a sail. We’re more than that.”

Garo tapped the table with a thick finger. “A cannon. Simple. Bold. Black iron on red. Says exactly what we are.”

Bosun groaned. “Of course you’d want a cannon. You’d put one on your grave if you could.”

“I plan to,” Garo deadpanned.

Iroh chuckled, pouring more tea. “A cannon inspires fear, yes. But fear burns quickly. Hope lasts longer. The silk cranes—perhaps they should fly on our banner instead.”

“Cranes?” Bosun wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sailing under birds.”

Zaijing leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “What about the sea itself? A wave cresting, black against white. Men would remember that .”

Jee, silent until now, set down his chopsticks. “If it’s to carry weight, it needs Fire Nation red. Not to honor the Fire Lord, but to defy him. Let them see their own color turned against them.”

Zuko listened as the voices clashed, his gaze fixed on the lacquered carp figurehead mounted on the wall, its wooden eyes bright in the lantern light. He thought of the men pulled from the waves, of the captain who had gone down with his ship, of his own scar catching the light whenever he faced a mirror.
“We don’t need waves,” he said at last, his voice low but certain. “Or cannons. Or birds. We need something that speaks to both sides—the Fire Nation and the Earth Kingdom. Something they can both see and know exactly who we are.”

The table quieted, waiting.

“What do you have in mind, Prince Zuko?” Iroh prodded.

The table was silent, every eye fixed on him. Zuko felt the weight of it—their hunger, their doubt, their belief. His gaze swept the chart nailed to the bulkhead, the lacquered carp, the silk cranes.

“I don’t know yet, but I’ll come up with something.”

Iroh raised his cup, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Then we will wait.”

Zuko lifted his tea in silence. The lanterns guttered with the ship’s roll, shadows shifting over chart and silk and scarred wood. Outside, the sea whispered against the hull.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The next day dawned with the horizon full of distant clouds, a smeared gray line where the sea met the sky. But the storms were far, and as the sun climbed, the clouds broke apart, erupting into streaks of yellow and pink.

Zuko kneeled on the bow, the morning breeze ruffling his hair, the cuffs of his green silk robes fluttering. He breathed in, feeling the storms on the horizon, and back out, feeling the swell of the distant storms beneath them as the ship heaved.

The watch passed behind him, boots clattering, voices low. He kept his eyes fixed forward, watching the shipping lanes.

He didn’t like piracy, but he didn’t see a way around it. He needed to feed the crew, and there was reward in returning goods to port towns without.

He had wanted so badly to be a good son, and since he couldn’t ever be the son his father had wanted,

He would be a good man instead.

Zuko rose, the sea wind lifting his robes, and turned toward the bridge. His gaze locked with Jee’s. He raised a hand and pointed.

A lone merchant vessel sat heavy on the horizon.

Jee’s salute was sharp, his face unreadable. But the glint in his eyes was enough. Orders would be carried.

The hunt was on.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The Current bore down on her prey, smoke trailing from her stacks, the sea splitting white at her bow. Bosun strode the deck, voice a bark above the churn. “Guns ready! Nets stowed! Marines to the rail!”

Garo’s crew swarmed the batteries, hands steady as they rammed charges, checked priming pans, and ran swabs through barrels slick with grease. “Keep it clean, keep it fast,” Garo growled.

At the bridge, Jee stood with Zaijing, spyglass to his eye. “Merchant hull, broad-bellied. Slow, but armed. Middeck catapults.” He lowered the glass, meeting Zuko’s gaze. “Orders?”

Zuko’s scar caught the morning light. “Fire a warning shot across the bow.”

Jee’s salute was crisp. “Aye, sir.”

A single ball launched, splashing harmlessly in the water. The merchant ship, too heavy to run, stalled in the swell.

“Bring us in.”

Below, in the stokehold, Jomei and the new men heaved coal into the roaring furnaces. Sweat plastered their hair, black streaking their faces. The pistons hammered, steam shrieking through pipes as Katsen eased open the throttle. The Current surged, deck trembling underfoot.

The merchant crew was scrambling on the deck. They began to run up a white flag.

“Range closing!” Zaijing barked.

They pulled alongside the ship. The crew was topside, in a loose formation behind their captain.

“Are you the pirate prince?” The captain called over the wash.

“I am.”

The captain threw his sword down. Metal clattered as a few armed men followed his lead. “We heard of you. We don’t want trouble. The hold’s yours. I know I’m not in a position to ask, but if you’ll leave the provisions, I’d be grateful.”

Zuko nodded. “Provisions and water will be untouched.”

“And the rice wine?” The captain hedged.

“And the wine.” Zuko smirked when Bosun sighed gustily behind him.

Zuko’s men clambered aboard. Jee and Bosun flanked the prince as he met the captain, a broad chested man with ruddy cheeks and a bulbous nose, a loose sash tied around his prominent belly. His eyes were a muddy green that sparkled like deep forest shade when the sun hit them.

If he had opinions about Zuko’s appearance or age, he kept them to himself. Instead, he offered a proper bow, making the sign of the flame. Surprised, Zuko returned it.

The man smiled. “I’m Captain Li of the Prosperous Dawn from the colonies. Mother is half fire but my grandmother is strict about the old ways. Welcome aboard, pirate prince.”

The boarding party swept into the hold with lanterns, and soon crates were hauled up, groaning under their weight. The tops were pried off in the sunlight: artillery pieces wrapped in greasecloth, stamped with Fire Nation seals; stacks of iron and brass; barrels of powder lashed in place and marked with red warning sigils. Beyond them, bolts of fine silk, ingots of copper and tin.

“Spirits,” Garo muttered, leaning over the coaming. “Guns and powder, enough to outfit a fortress.”

A murmur rippled through the Current’s crew. Bosun looked over the open crates. “Not a fortress. A fleet.”

The merchant captain nodded. “That’s because it is.”

Zuko’s head snapped toward him. “What fleet?”

“Zhao’s,” Li said. “Every crate, every barrel—bound north. He’s building an armada.”

Zuko stared down into the yawning hold, the cargo gleaming in the lantern light. Siege guns. Powder. Wealth enough to choke the Fire Lord’s coffers. He had wanted only food and coin to keep his crew alive, but instead he’d stolen a piece of the war itself.

They began loading the crates onto the Current. The captain watched them before turning back to Zuko.

“They missed one. Come with me.”

“Take a Marine,” Jee added. “In case he tries anything.” He nodded at Naisan, who was already finishing with a crate and ducked over to join them.
Together, they followed the captain into his cabin. It was not as grandiose as the Current’s, but well appointed and clean. The captain bent under his rack and pulled out a small, well-worn chest. He fitted a key into the lock; it popped open. Zuko leaned over his shoulder. The chest was full of yellowed scrolls.

“What is it?”

“War loot,” Li said, handing a scroll up. Zuko unrolled it carefully. Form diagrams for waterbending lay across the paper—sophisticated flows and precise stances. “There’s scrolls for airbenders, waterbenders—stolen histories. They fetch high coin to the right buyer.”

“Why give this to me?” Zuko asked.

The captain stood, using his knee to help him up. “Who better than the pirate prince and Spirit Speaker? I’m more earth than fire. The Fire Nation pays me to transport. I’ve been thinking about hanging up my sailing days and returning home. When better than now?”

“The Fire Nation will call you a traitor for handing this over,” Zuko said.

“Better a traitor to the Fire Nation than to the world,” Li replied. “My family’s been in the colonies a hundred years. That land’s my home. I can’t unmake what I am, but I can choose where my loyalty lies.” He bowed again, lower this time.

“What do you know about the siege?”

The captain stood. “Nothing. Shipyards at full tilt. Port Shilong, up in the northwest of the Earth Kingdom, is full. Too many ships for the port have them spilling into all the nearby harbors.”

Zuko inclined his head. “Is there anything I can do to make it look less like you gave the goods willingly?”

“I didn’t. You boarded me before I could rally a response.” The captain grinned. “When you are gone, we will strike neutral Earth Kingdom colors and head to a neutral port and get a lay of the land. We’ll head home when it suits.”

“Death’s Reach is a good option.”

“A little far south but I’ll take it into consideration.”

“They have children needing to find a way home.”

“Children?”

“Stolen,” Zuko said. “Taken for Fire Nation families or the mines and fields.”

The captain’s face grew dark. “You’ll forgive me for being hard of hearing. Did you say the Fire Nation is stealing Earth Kingdom children?”

“I want to return them to their homes, if they know where they’re from. There’s more children out there we haven’t found. If you’re serious about helping—do something more than going home. Actually fight against the Fire Nation.”

Li’s face went thoughtful. “I’d sail under you, then? Under your flag?”

Zuko said, “I’m nationless. You’ll find no safe port if you sail under me. I have nothing.”

Li considered, then smiled. “You’ll find more safe ports under your banner than you think. Your name’s spreading, pirate prince. All right. I’ll take my crew to Death's Reach and see what we can do for the children.”

They made ready to go. As they climbed back up the ladder, Li called over his shoulder, “Do you have a banner? You aren’t flying one.”

Zuko grimaced. “Almost. I can give you the design.”

The captain nodded. Once they reached the deck, the sky above was wide and blue. Captain Li dipped into a deeper bow with the sign of the flame, “Captain Li and the Prosperous Dawn are at your service.”

“I am honored and pleased to have you at my command.” Zuko bowed back.

“How should I contact you?”

“When you reach Death's Reach, find Amiya. She’ll know.”

As they parted, Naisan carrying the chest of scrolls, the corporal asked, “Do you think he’s to be trusted?”

“No more or less than anyone else in this war,” Zuko said under his breath. ”But if he means ill towards the children, Old Jiu and Amiya will see he answers for it.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The Current cut clean through the morning haze, her stacks trailing ribbons of smoke. Ahead, the crooked masts and stone jetties of a busy port rose from the gray sea, flags snapping above clustered ships.

On the forecastle, the crew gathered shoulder to shoulder. Bosun held the halyard taut, the cloth still bound. Iroh stood with the officers, his hands folded serenely; Garo craned his thick neck, grumbling under his breath; Zaijing’s eyes gleamed with that sharp fox-curiosity.

“Ready, Prince?” Bosun asked.

Zuko stepped forward. He looked once at the harbor—Earth Kingdom sails, Fire Nation colors, even a few neutral traders. Then he gave a single nod.
Bosun snapped the line. The cloth unfurled in the wind, bold against the pale sky: A black banner with a dragon’s skull looking to the right, crossed dao swords beneath him.

Bosun grinned. “You did choose a skull!”

“For the dragons,” Zuko said. “From before Sozin. They’re all dead now because of what my family did, but we will remember them and the Fire Nation will rebuild from the ash it has made.”

He kept his eyes on the flag, the skull stark against the sky. “Not fear,” he murmured, the cheers of his crew around him. “Memory.”

The sea answered with a rolling swell, lifting the Current as though the waters themselves bore witness.

Chapter Text

Shulin Fort stood beleaguered at the mouth of the Yanchi River, the broadest and most temperamental of the waterways that braided the Shuigang Delta. It was a fort only in name now—a relic of another age, its ramparts half-swallowed by vines and salt. Once, during the reign of Avatar Kyoshi, it had been a jewel of Earth Kingdom strategy. She had poured her will and wealth into the construction of a ring of such bastions, binding the coasts in stone and discipline. That she had set foot in these lands was still a point of fierce pride among the locals, though little remained of her legacy beyond weathered foundations and memory.

Only the lighthouse endured. Striped in gold and green, it stood on a narrow spit of rock that clawed into the bay, its beacon still sweeping the waves each night. Every decade the townsfolk gathered to repaint it, a ritual as much about reverence as repair—a promise to keep one thing bright amid the ruin.

In Kyoshi’s day, Shulin Fort had thrived as a hub of trade, its deep port thick with ships from every corner of the kingdom. But the Yanchi River had long since silted over, and the tides that once brought wealth now brought only mud. Farther south, Jinshi on the Jade River and Hongzu on the Ruby had risen in its place—deeper ports with cleaner channels, their rivers feeding close to the outer walls of Ba Sing Se itself.

Now Shulin Fort watched from afar, a forgotten gate to a forgotten waterway, its stones dreaming of the days when the world still needed it.

Were it not for the dykes built centuries ago by Avatar Salai, the land would’ve long since drowned under the brackish tide. Even so, little grew there now. The people of the fort were a hard-worn, flinty breed who had traded plow for net generations ago. They turned to the sea—harvesting whitefish from the northern reaches of the Eastern Ocean, in a region known simply as the Veil.

The Veil was a place of fog and ice, where the horizon often vanished into gray mist. Most sailors feared it. The fishermen of the Lowlands, though, were the only ones stubborn, or foolish, enough to ply those waters. They knew the northern ocean like a living thing, knew the shape of her moods and the rhythm of her breath. When she stirred, they stirred. When she slept, they waited.

It was to this dour and wind-beaten port that the Fanged Current came at last, her holds heavy with plunder and salvage. Fog hung thick as wool around her hull, muffling the creak of timbers and the churn of the screws. Every thirty seconds, her horn sounded—a low, mournful note that rolled across the gray sea like the voice of something ancient. The lighthouse of Shulin Fort answered in flashes, its beam slicing the mist in slow rhythm: welcome and warning both.

Roken stood at the wheel, hands firm on the spokes as the ship eased into the narrow channel.

The people of Shulin Fort were suspicious by nature, having largely been abandoned by the capital, and both their mannerisms and speech were far removed from the large city that sat to their south.

Two old men, clad in beige and tan and faded forest green, watched the Fanged Current approach with the suspicion born of people who had learned that suspicion had never led them wrong, but trust had.

“What’s that flag theah flying?” An old man with a pegleg asked. He’d gotten his left leg tied up in a rope as a young man and had now spent more of his life with a wooden one than a real one. He went by Peg. Nobody, including Peg, remembered his real name.

“I nevah seen it,” said Old Man Fox, who was so old it was said he remembered a time before the war.

This was not true.

“Looks like a dhragon,”

“A dhragon skull,” Peg replied, thumping his wooden leg on the deck to emphasize his point. “Nevah seen a dhragon skull flown befoah, Who d’you suppose it is?”

“No use in supposin’,” Old Man Fox said. “Looks like theah’ll be heah soon enough. And we can ask ‘em ouhselves.”

 

He squinted toward the fog. “Fire Nation ship, though, if I’m any judge.”

“Fire Nation gold spends just as well,” Peg hedged. “Still—odd. Haven’t seen any o’ their kind ‘round heah in years.”

The old men watched closely as the ship followed the pilot boat in, gliding into a slip with minimal wash.

“Huh,” Old Man Fox muttered, rheumy green eyes narrowing. “They don’t look to be Fire Nation.”

“No,” Peg agreed. “Theyah in Earth Kingdom clothes.”

“Think it’s a ruse?”

Peg looked over the collapsing houses of Fort Shulin, sagging under years of neglect and forgot. He looked up the line of the Yanchi River, muddy and shadowed from the trees that crowded her banks.

“No,” he decided. “If theyah weah Fire Nation, theyah could take us by the balls and not much we could do about it. The wah is eithah going very well or very poorly for the Fire Nation to want to come heah.”

They watched as the brow was lowered. A diminutive figure in colorful, flowing clothes strode down the gangway with more confidence than his small stature should have garnered.

Peg pulled out his scope and peered across the misty waters. “Why, he’s only got half a face.”

 

“Half a face?” Old Man Fox echoed. “How’s that, now?”

 

“I said what I said,” Peg replied stiffly, handing off the scope.

Old Man Fox took it, squinting one eye shut. After a long silence, he lowered it and passed it back, a strange look tightening his mouth.

“Hrm,” he said.

After some deliberation, they agreed to meet the strangely dressed half faced man.

Peg watched the crew carefully. The brightly dressed —captain?—stood at the head of the pier with a small entourage. A portly man, a tall, muscled one, and a shorter, slender one with dark hair and a humorless face.

“He can’t be the captain,” Peg muttered to Old Man Fox, “He’s a boy.”

 

“Hrm,” Old Man Fox agreed.

 

The boy with half a face stood with his shoulders squared. His gold—gold!—eyes studied them with an intensity that reminded Peg of the sun when it broke through the fog on the rarest summer mornings.

“I am the Spirit Speaker and nationless prince, Zuko,” the half faced man exclaimed in a raspy voice, as though he breathed smoke.

Old Man Fox and Peg shared a look. The boy and his crew were clearly of Fire Nation blood, and the ship behind them Fire Nation build, but they did not wear Fire Nation colors or fly the standard.

“I’ve nevah heard of you,” Old Man Fox said bluntly. “Are you pirates?

The strange boy smiled. “Do you speak for your town?”

Old Man Fox and Peg shared a look. There wasn’t much of a town to speak of, and most of the able bodied men were out fishing. If this strange ship meant to burn them to the ground, there wouldn’t be much to lose.

Old Man Fox shrugged. “We do.”

“We’re a neutral port,” Peg added, though the claim had never carried much weight with the Fire Nation.

The boy nodded once and made a small hand signal. Peg and Old Man Fox tensed. There were no earthbenders left in Shulin Fort—all conscripted for the front years ago—so there’d be no defending themselves against Fire Nation might.

A crate was offloaded by the crew, a ragtag bunch in mismatched clothes. They set the crate on the pier and pried off the top with a crowbar. The old men leaned forward

Bars of gold, the same color as the boy’s eyes, glinted in the dim light.

Peg looked up sharply. “What’s this?”

“Gold, silks, dyes—indigo and logwood.”

“Why?”

“Because it belongs to you.”

Old Man Fox and Peg shared a furtive look.

“Weah a fishing village,” Peg said slowly. “We catch whitefish up in the Veil. We’ve got nothin’ rare enough to eahn this.”

“It was bound for the Fire Nation,” Zuko said. “But it doesn’t belong to them. It belongs to you, and your people. What you do with it ius up to you.”

“What do you want in return?” Peg peered suspiciously at them.

“A pai sho game!” the portly man declared cheerfully. “And a port call, if you have tea.”

“And ale,” added the tall, bald man.

“Ale we have,” Peg said at once.

Old Man Fox studied the portly man. “And pai sho,” he said. “Although I tend to favor the lotus gambit, myself.”

The man’s eyes brightened. He bowed. “It is rare to find one that favors the old ways.”

Old Man Fox bowed back. “But those that do will always find a friend.”

“Come, Zuko, let us play pai sho.”

“Uncle,” the boy groaned, sounding suddenly and unmistakably young.

Old Man Fox smiled beneath his beard.

“Lieutenant Jee and Bosun will handle the loot. There is much for us to discuss.”

“Peg, get everything loaded in the store house,” Old Man Fox commanded with a steel in his voice he hasn’t used for many, many years.

Peg nodded, startled but obedient, and waved the ragtag crew forward.

 

Old Man Fox led the portly man and the prince up the pier and through the small village to his cabin at the end of a muddy lane. It was a humble place, the northern corner slumped into the earth. Gray stones, tilled from the fields, composed its walls. A slate roof sloped to ward off rain was softened by lichen and moss. The eaves curved gently outward in the Earth Kingdom style, like the modest lift of a boat’s prow. The shudders to the windows were weather beaten, slats missing so as not to totally ward off the northern winds.

The inside was warm and crowded with the collection of a well traveled man. Fishing nets hung from the beams, dotted with shells polished by years of touch. Maps curled at the corners on the walls—some drawn in charcoal, others stitched on old sailcloth. On a low shelf sat a scattering of stones: jade, serpentine, and one chipped lump of sea glass so pale it looked like ice. The air smelled faintly of tea, lamp oil, and the salt that lived in the seams of every house this close to the sea.

Iroh turned in a slow circle, hands clasped behind his back, taking it all in. “You’ve seen much of the world,” he said, admiration softening his voice.
Old Man Fox shrugged as he stoked the coals in a hearth blackened by years of use, feeding kindling into the embers. “More of it than I meant to. Less than I hoped.”

When the fire had come roaring back to life, he hung a kettle on its iron hook and began setting out the pai sho board. The tiles clicked against the wood like raindrops, a slow, patient rhythm that echoed the distant tide.

Iroh took the seat opposite, settling with a contented sigh. The two old men began to play—if play was the right word. The tiles fell into place not in any form Zuko recognized from the long, disciplined lessons of his youth, but into a spiraling mandala of color and symbol.

Zuko stood near the door, half in shadow, his golden eyes tracing the trinkets crowding the room. He felt out of place among the relics of another man’s long life, as though he had stumbled into history rather than a home.

When the last tile was set, Old Man Fox looked up, eyes bright with approval.

“Welcome, Grand Master.”

“Iroh.”

”Old Man Fox.”

Iroh studied him for a moment, one brow arched. “Any relation to General Fox—who led the defense at Flame Valley, outnumbered four to one, and won?”

The old man’s grin split his weathered face. “Any relation,” he countered, “to General Iroh—who laid siege to Ba Sing Se for six hundred days… and lost?”

Iroh gave a belly laugh, rich and unguarded. “In more ways than one.”

He looked askance at his nephew, his laughter fading into a softer expression. The firelight caught the lines beneath his eyes, carving them deep with memory. “But in many ways,” he said quietly, “I gained more.”

He turned fully toward Zuko then. “Nephew—it is time you knew of the White Lotus.”
Zuko blinked, uncertain. “The game?”

Old Man Fox pulled the iron kettle off the fire with great tongs, setting it on a grate. Switching to a quilted mitten, he carefully poured the water into a ceramic tea kettle and let it steep, the rising steam winding up towards the low ceiling.

“The order,” Iroh corrected, his tone gentler now, as if unwrapping something fragile. “A brotherhood older than the kingdoms themselves. A gathering of minds who see the world not as nations, but as one. Philosophers, scholars, benders, and wanderers—all bound by a single truth: that wisdom belongs to no single crown and that the scales of our world are out of balance.”

Iroh allowed himself a wry smile. “I have always said Pai Sho is more than a game.”

“I thought you meant like….battle strategy.”

“It’s good for that, too!” Iroh laughed.

Zuko glanced at the board, then at Old Man Fox, then around the room—the maps, the trinkets, the weathered tokens of travel and long life; of a retired Earth Kingdom general, who had once stood in opposition to his uncle.

“You’re a network,” he said slowly. “That’s why you always disappear at port calls—'”to play Pai Sho”.' And you came back with news. With… connections.”

Iroh inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying. The firelight flickered across his face, painting his features in gold and shadow.

Across from him, Old Man Fox regarded the boy carefully. “Is it wise to read him in?” he asked at last, voice low but not unkind. His eyes—sharp, sea-green even in the dim light—studied Zuko like he might a new recruit, or an heir to something dangerous.

 

“If Prince Zuko is to win this war,” Iroh said, his tone firm but even, “he needs to know the assets at his disposal.”

Old Man Fox cut his eyes over to him. “Are you sure? You could jeopardize the entire Order.”

“I am biased,” Iroh admitted with a small smile. “But only because of who my nephew is—and what he can do.”

Fox’s gaze returned to Zuko, measuring. “Is he truly the Spirit Speaker, then? The one said to rise in times of great need—equal to the Avatar himself? Are the stories true?”

He spoke to Iroh, but his eyes stayed on Zuko.

Zuko thought of all the times his father had measured him and found him wanting. He stared back at the man, recognizing the weight behind his stare–the demand to prove himself.

He asked, then, for the stone to listen.

It was a house now, but had once been a pile of rocks gathered from the fields. Before that, it had been mountain, and before that—something older still. One day, it would crumble again to dust and begin its long journey back.

He shifted his foot, and the stone wall rippled.

The wave traveled upward like water disturbed by a breeze. Dust fell from the old mortar; books trembled on their shelves. The hearthstones groaned softly—and then, as if letting out a long held breath, the room shifted.

The ceiling smoothed. The flagstones realigned. A hairline fracture in a stone near the window sealed itself, a line of quartz filling in the seam.

A small shelf that had tilted for years adjusted by a hair’s breadth and came level. The house, which had settled with time, shuddered and straightened out, the stone floor heaving up from where it had sunken in the northern corner.

With a sweep of his hand, years of dust and soot spiraled toward the door. It flung open in a gust of clean air, then shut itself again. He exhaled, and the fire leapt higher, burning clear and steady.

When he was done, it didn’t look like anything had changed—except that everything had, and the old Earth Kingdom general recognized it.

Old Man Fox saw it. He bowed low, his voice tremulous. “I am sorry I doubted you, Spirit Speaker. I welcome you into the White Lotus.”

He stayed bowed.

Zuko frowned. “I don’t want you to fear me,” he said quietly. “I am not my father.”

Old Man Fox straightened and assessed the young prince.

“No,” he agreed, “you are not.”

He motioned to the table. “Sit, Prince. I will pour the tea and tell you the news of the world.”

The old general poured amber liquid into three cups.

“A curious blend!” Iroh enthused.

“One of my own making,” Old Man Fox grinned before sitting down at his earthen table. “Rose hip, ginger, and lavender.”

When the tea was poured and suitably admired, and Iroh had commented on the fine earthenware cups, Fox said,

“The Avatar has awoken.” Iroh and Zuko nodded. “He is a child, prone to mischief. He travels with siblings of the Water Tribe. They are headed north, to the Northern Water Tribe, in search of a bending master.”

Iroh’s eyes sharpened. “And Zhao?”

Old Man Fox’s expression hardened. His lips thinned before he answered.

“He is amassing an armada. Every shipyard under Fire Nation control is running at capacity. Naval ships have been recalled from the western and southern fronts. The fleet’s already begun moving north.”

He glanced at Zuko. “He’s been hunting the Avatar, but with no luck. The boy’s as slippery as an eel-snake. I suspect the spirits are guiding him.”

“And the purpose of the fleet?” Iroh asked.

Fox hesitated, sipping his tea before replying. “Our contacts in the northern fleet have gone silent. Either they’ve been compromised, or it’s too dangerous to send word. But the White Lotus believes Zhao is planning an assault on the Northern Water Tribe. I have tried to alert the master in Agna Qel’a, but none of the messenger hawks have returned.”

Iroh set his cup down slowly. “The North hasn’t been considered strategically important in decades. Why now?”

“We don’t know,” Fox admitted. “The only one who does is Zhao—and he’s convinced the Fire Lord it’s worth a fleet of men.”

Iroh’s brow furrowed. “He’s always been ambitious. But this…” He shook his head. “Something changed. He’s never had interest in the north before.”

“He’s picked up admiral.”

Iroh scowled into his tea. “His plan must be grand, for my brother to sign a promotion warrant.”

“And have you any word from your travels?”

“The Fire Nation has been dealing in child trafficking and press gangs,” Iroh said grimly. “We found a ship carried by a mutineer, who turned on his captain for what they were doing. We are looking for their families. They are safe for now in Death's Reach. Our contact in that city is aware.”

Fox’s expression darkened. “Whenever I think the Fire Nation has struck rock bottom,” he said, “they find a way to dig deeper.”

“Not all the Fire Nation," Iroh corrected gently.

Fox wrapped his hands around his tea cup, studying Iroh and Zuko.

“No, he agreed, “not all. Not anymore.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

The tavern was raucous that night—alive with fishermen who had returned from sea to find a strange ship in port and a storeroom full of gold. Ale flowed freely, lanterns smoked in their sconces, and before long the crew of the Fanged Current and the citizens of Shulin Fort were shoulder to shoulder, bellowing sea shanties and trading stories loud enough to shake the rafters.

“You’he Fire Nation?” A fisherman slurred at Bosun, already deep in his cups. “I heahd you eat children for breakfast and drank blood.”

“Well, I heard you grind up children’s bones for your fine porcelain,” Bosun returned drolly, “the kind you serve to a king who doesn’t even know he’s at war.”

The fisherman’s eyebrows popped up. “Well now! I heahd the same thing, if you can believe it. Puppet king, they say—and meanwhile we’ve had no one from the capital to dredge our river in over half a century. Cursed, that’s what they say.”

Bosun peered at the thin man, noting the collarbones jutting through his threadbare tunic and the white, straggling beard that hung from his narrow chin.

“Why is it cursed?”

The fisherman leaned in, ale on his breath. “A bad spirit. Angry.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Been that way a hundred years. Since the Avatar disappeahed—or neah about.” He leaned even closer, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “Could be the lost souls.”

At this point, Bosun felt he was being taken for a rube, but he played along gamely. “What lost souls?”

“Battle of Lost Lake,” the fisherman said with the certainty of a man who’d told the tale many times. “Your people drowned ’em.”

Bosun reared back. “We don’t drown people.”

The fisherman scowled. “It’s what I heahd. Anyway, don’t matter. The river don’t dredge, and there’s nobody left to buy ouh fish. Sad state, is all I’m sayin’.”

Bosun clasped his meaty hands around his earthenware mug, and thought.

He found the prince the next day, studying the wildflowers that grew in the meadows along the shore. The wind came off the water, carrying the scent of salt and grass.

Zuko straightened as Bosun approached. His gold eyes caught the morning light—bright as marigolds.

“Prince Zuko.”

”Bosun.”

Bosun nodded at the patch of mountain poppies between them. “Do they speak?”

Zuko said, “Everything does.”

“Must be loud.”

”It is.”

They looked at one another for a long moment.

Bosun said, “Have you listened to the river?”

Zuko stared at Bosun with his mismatched eyes. “Should I?”

”It filled with silt a hundred years ago, and no earth bender has been able to clear it since. The town has collapsed without a link to Ba Sing Se.”

Zuko looked to the river that spilled sand into the deep water port.

“Hm,” He said, and went upstream.

Bosun followed.

The river was soon encompassed by trees. Once broad, it had grown flat and muddy, the banks choked with underbrush and roots. Zuko paused in sections, listening, then moved deeper into the forest.

At a bend in the river, he knelt and dipped his hand into the current. The water rippled outward and then stopped.

Bosun watched, his breath catching. The air seemed to ripple too, as if the world itself had drawn a slow breath and held it. The light changed. The trees around them were no longer ones he recognized—taller, older, their bark dark as iron. A stillness pressed against his ears until he could hear nothing but his own pulse. He had the uneasy sense that something was watching from behind the trunks, unseen but near.

The prince looked back at him, eyes burning gold through the dim.
“Don’t lose sight of me,” he said.

Bosun, who had always found himself a spiritual man, nodded. A chill running down his spine. His grandmother would’ve said it meant someone had walked through his ashes.

They followed the river until the trees pressed close enough that the light dimmed to a green twilight. The water here was sluggish and brown, thick with silt that clung to the banks like old blood.

Zuko knelt again. “I don’t think it’s angry,” he murmured, half to himself. He drew a slow breath, and Bosun watched the air around him seem to flex. The mud along the shore trembled, quivering like a muscle on the edge of exhaustion. “It feels old and sad.”

Then something deeper answered—a pulse beneath the riverbed, slow and resonant. The current shifted, a single swirl of clear water cutting through the murk before the silt rolled back to smother it.

Bosun rubbed his arms against the chill that had settled over him. “You feel that?”

Zuko didn’t reply. He closed his eyes, listening. The forest was quiet except for the faint creak of trees and the rhythmic suck of the mud.

For an instant Bosun thought he saw shapes beneath the surface—flickers of movement that might have been fish or might have been faces. The reflection of the trees wavered, and in it he saw a different sky, darker, lit with strange constellations peeking through the heavy canopy. He blinked, and it was gone.

Zuko pressed his palm flat in the mud. It congealed between his fingers, not the black loam of a healthy bank, but a deep crimson like from an old wound, sluggish and necrotic.

The forest around them swayed, though there was no wind. The light brightened for a moment, then dimmed.

Bosun felt it before he saw it: a pressure, a pulse, a heaviness in the air. Then the river erupted.

A great, angry thing rose from the depths, dripping with putrid mud the same color Zuko had squeezed between his fingers. Its body was a tangle of roots and rotted wood, swollen and slick with decay. Limbs formed from knotted branches, lurching in grotesque approximation of motion. From its chest and shoulders, skulls protruded—dozens of them—half-sunk in muck, their jaws slack with a wordless scream.

The stench of stagnant water and old death filled the clearing. The trees seemed to recoil.

“I am the Pirate Prince Zuko,” Zuko bowed his head to the mossy ground. “Formerly the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation and now nationless. I am the Spirit Speaker, and I would hear your words, great river.”

A muddy arm, embedded with bones, swung out faster than Bosun could think. Zuko moved just as fast with a whirling firestorm countering the strike, dissolving the mud into clay. It splattered across the riverbank before slithering back toward the bulbous mass, dragging more mud with it as it reformed, swelling larger.

The spirit roared, and the stench of decay rolled over them like a tide. The faces bulged from its flanks, pulsing in and out of the mire—dripping ooze.
Bosun dropped his gaze to the river’s edge and tore up a handful of reeds, his hands working quickly through the old knots of protection his grandfather had taught him.

The great mass shrieked, a sound like stone grinding underwater, and lashed out again. Its arms no longer shaped like limbs, but like the flood itself—wide and curling, dragged up stone from the riverbed as it struck.

Zuko darted forward, fire wreathing his arms. He twisted low, then rose with a high kick that burst flame into the spirit’s side. It hissed and recoiled, steam hissing where fire met rot and river.

But more mud sloughed off the banks and slid into the spirit’s form. It grew again, now dwarfing them. Bosun could see the curve of ribs beneath its surface, human bones, too many of them to be just one body, tangled together with rotting ropes and rusted chains.

A second strike came for Bosun. He braced—but Zuko threw himself in front, his back arching as he summoned a shield of fire, the air whooshing hot with the force of it. The blow shattered the shield and sent both men tumbling into the trees.

Zuko hit hard, coughing up loam. Beside him, Bosun muttered a prayer and went back to his knotwork, fingers trembling but sure.

“I thought you said it wasn’t angry,” Bosun said tightly.

Zuko wiped mud from his mouth, fire guttering in his palms. “It isn’t,” he rasped. “It’s in pain.”

Another roar tore through the woods, shaking leaves loose from the trees. The air smelled of copper and rot.

Bosun shot him a look. “You got a strange way of tellin’ the difference.”

“Fighting is a form of speech,” Zuko said. “When the thing fighting feels lost—or hopeless. Or weak.”

The ground quivered beneath them, a long, low groan that felt like grief made solid. Bosun’s knots tightened in his hands, the reeds humming faintly with whatever old magic his people had once known, before Sozin had stolen their culture away.

Zuko dug his hands into the rocky soil and listened.

He heard sobbing, an old grief that pulled at him, that would drown him, if he let it.

He felt the current in the air. Not the muddy, low wind that crept through the forest, but a buried breath, a whisper of air caught in lungs that no longer moved.

He pushed to his feet and exhaled.

The wind gathered. He thrust both arms forward, and a spiral of air howled through the trees, tearing at the spirit’s body and flinging its outer layer back into the river. Skulls clattered onto the bank, bones snapping as the clay that bound them broke apart before the monster gathered them back up, reforming its misshapen body.

The spirit roared. It surged forward with its entire mass, a tidal wave of muck and silt.

Zuko stood his ground. He drew a long breath, then stamped the ground and pushed fire up from his heels, into his spine, through his hands. The breath of fire and the breath of air met in his center, and he pulled them apart like a bellows.

He shouted and the fire whipped forward in a curling arc. It didn’t just burn; it peeled, like light through fog, carving heat through the center of the mass.

He saw them.

The bones. Whole skeletons, tangled in reeds and half-formed prayers. Enough bones for two families, some of the skulls so small that Zuko’s stomach turned. He thought of the Air Temples, of the charred courtyards and silent halls, and bile rose in his throat.

He cast away the memory and flung out his arms and bent the air around the bones. One by one, they tore free from the muck and sludge.

The spirit shrieked as the bones tumbled down the riverbank in clattering cascades.

When the torrent was over, the mud and sludge slithered back into the earth. The skeletons lay in soft collapse along the riverbank, white bones gleaming wet beneath the dim light.

Over the water hovered a small figure—small enough to be a child, or an old woman. Its form rippled like a free-flowing brook, all water and light, with the faint shimmer of moss along stone. A fresh breeze moved through the woods, carrying away the stench of decay and leaving only the scent of leaves and river grass.

“You have unburdened me,” it said.

“Are you the spirit of the river?”

The small figure nodded.

“A hundred years ago a man killed so that he might claim the fishing grounds and trading rights of his estranged brothers. He had gambled away his fortune and lost his wife to drink and he seethed that his brothers were so happily married and their children so loved. So he shackled their feet and cast them in my broad, deep waters.

“It is not a fate meant for children of the Earth Kingdom, and so they remained—trapped. Their sorrow and pain dammed my flow.”

Zuko and Bosun looked down at the skeletons that littered the shore. Zuko’s eyes lingered on the small skulls of several children.

“I don’t know Earth Kingdom funeral rituals,” Zuko admitted.

“They need to be buried,” Bosun said.

The river spirit inclined its head.

“Then help me gather all their bones,” Zuko said, “and we will bury them. Are there words that should be spoken?”

“Yes,” Bosun said. “I know them.”

They collected all the bones and tried to match them as best they could—four adults and six children. One has been an infant, its skull still not fused. Zuko held it reverently.

“It wasn’t even the war,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t the Fire Nation. It was just greed.”

Bosun sighed. “It usually is. War, greed, hunger–they all walk hand in hand. You can’t tear one from the other without losin’ a finger.”

He scooped a handful of soil, dark and cool, and let it fall between his fingers. “My gran used to say the earth don’t care why we die, only how we’re remembered. That’s why we bury ’em—so the ground can remember for us.”

When the skeletons had been gathered, Zuko turned his heel into the earth and felt it yield beneath him. He opened his arms wide, and a hollow formed in the soil—deep enough that they would never be disturbed again.

Bosun’s voice was steady. “As the earth has formed our bones, so do we return to the dirt that has made us.”

Zuko swept his hands together, folding the soil back over the skeletons. The ground settled with a low sigh, and for a moment, everything was still.

A gust of wind breathed through the forest, a clear torrent of water raged down the river banks, brown sluggish water pushed out by fresh waters from the headwaters. Zuko and Bosun watched as the river grew wide and deep once more, a steady current replacing the stagnant pools.

Above them, the heavy canopy shifted, and light filtered through, casting broad shafts across the forest floor.

“How did you know those words?” Zuko asked. His feet felt heavy, and his head ached from where he’d been thrown against the ground, but he kept his shoulders square and his chin lifted. If Bosun noticed him stumble over the roots, he said nothing.

Bosun glanced over. “The Fire Nation colonies have been on Earth Kingdom land a long time, Prince. And there’s things our own people knew, before we were told we all had to be one way.”

They returned to Shulin Fort with the afternoon sun peeking gold through the trees, the last of the fog burned away between the forest boughs. The fishermen had come back from the Veil to find the river running clear and wide, its banks sloping gentle and green. They clambered along the water’s edge like children, laughter and light returning to eyes that had been dim for over a hundred years.

Old Man Fox and Peg were sitting on barrels they’d rolled to the river’s mouth. They looked up the pair’s approach. The old general’s expression was unreadable for a long moment—somewhere between reverence and relief.

“You went for a walk and came back with passage to Ba Sing Se.” He grinned, the corners of his mouth creased by a lifetime of storms.

“Old Man Fox here has been tellin' me about you,” Peg said. “Rivers carry stories. This one will reach the sea before you do, Prince Zuko.”

“There’s a family in those woods, two brothers and their wives and children. Drowned by their brother and blamed on the war.”

The smile faded from Peg’s face. “Youh talkin’ about Shenwei. I remember him. He was an angry old man when I was a lad. Used to 'ell anyone who’d listen that the Fire Nation had come one day and burned his brothers’ homes to the ground, losin’ everyone in the flames. Took over their fishin’ grounds after that– but he was a lazy man and he gambled all it away. Died angry and penniless, his name almost forgotten.”

“Forget Shenwei,” Zuko said. “But remember the names of his family. Go to the bend upriver where they’re buried, and build a shrine for them—and for the spirit. If you do, your river will run broad and clear for the rest of your lives.”

“We’ll see it done,” Old Man Fox promised.

He pushed himself off the barrel and made his way down to where the fishermen had already thrown their lines into the river’s mouth. Every cast came back heavy—fat salmon, silver carp, and tide bass gleaming in the sun. The men whooped and shouted, laughter carrying across the quay as they hauled the catch into waiting barrels.

Zuko watched as Old Man Fox gathered them and repeated his words. The men listened, hats in hand, their faces growing solemn. They started packing away the lines and began gathering supplies for a shrine.

Zuko and Bosun turned back toward the path that led through the village, the steady thrum of voices rising behind them.. The wind had shifted, bringing in warm air from the south and driving off the persistent chill.

For the first time since they’d arrived, Shulin Fort felt alive.

They walked in silence for a while, boots scuffing against the cobbled pavement as they headed back to the ship.

“Did you notice, did the tavern have a spiral carved into the right side of the frame?” Zuko asked.

Bosun shook his head. “Can’t say I saw it, but can’t say I was looking, either.”

Zuko changed course, leading them through the narrow lane to the tavern. He studied the doorframe, weather-beaten and bare.

“What are you lookin’ for?” Bosun asked.

“Hakoda said if we needed to contact him, to look for a spiral carved on the top right frame.”

“What’re you thinking, Prince?”

Zuko turned to look at Bosun with a grin. “Zhao’s amassing a fleet. Sounds like a little sabotage may be in order, and I think Hakoda may be the man for the job.”
Bosun laughed, clasping his hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “We’ll keep an eye out. For now, let’s head back to the ship. You deserve some well earned rest.”

Chapter Text

In the town of Xingdao, while perusing the market, Sokka paused at a stall to consider different meat buns.

They didn’t have anything like meat buns in the south because they didn’t have wheat, and while he missed seal jerky heartily, he’d discovered a deep and immediate love for these warm, doughy parcels. The creamy, slightly sweet buns, stuffed with all manner of surprises from savory to sweet, had nearly replaced turtle-penguin meat and seal liver in his affections.

The stall owner glanced at him and, seeing the drool drop from his mouth but no coin in his palm, returned to a heated discussion with the woman selling beads in the stall next to him.

“Well I heard it’s a water spirit awakened from the depths and reclaiming the Earth Kingdom ports.”

“No, it’s the ghost of a stolen Earth Kingdom child who is wreaking vengeance on the Fire Nation for what’s been done to his family!”

Sokka tuned in but without much interest. Even though he traveled with the Avatar, he did his best to ignore the spirit gobbledy-gook stuff. He spilled the coins Katara had allowed him into his hands.

“It’s none of those things,” said a third voice, from a woman selling bamboo and shell windchimes that clacked and tinkled in the sea breeze. “It's the Spirit Speaker. Cai told me. He heard it from his cousin out east.”

“Cai the cabbage seller?”

The windchime seller nodded.

“Says it’s an ancient legend, someone who is gifted the gifts of the spirits and brings balance and order back during great times of chaos.”

“Oh,” Sokka said, a grin spreading across his face as realization dawned. “You’re talking about the Avatar.”

He was already calculating how many meat buns that revelation might earn him. People loved handing out free food when they realized who he was traveling with.

He was surprised by the scowls the three shop owners gave him.

“No, we know about the Avatar. Been back for months and hasn’t done anything except destroy Cai’s cart and ride on animals,” the bead seller spat.

“A boy who hid for a hundred years,” the meat bun vendor added, “and brought nothing but hard times to every village he’s touched.”

Sokka opened his mouth to protest but as he went through their journey so far, he found he didn’t have much ground to stand on.

“So who are you talking about?”

“The Spirit Speaker. Nobody knows who he is, but —“

“I told you,” the bead seller cut in, “it’s an angry water spirit!”

“A ghost!” the meat bun vendor insisted.

“No, he’s human,” the windchime seller fired back, voice sharp over the market noise. “The legends say he has to be.”

Sokka put a copper down and pointed to a chicken pig bun. “I’ll take that one,” he said.

The shop owner wrapped the bun up neatly in wax paper and barely gave Sokka a second glance as the conversation continued heatedly.

As Sokka walked away, peeling away the paper from the bun, which was soft and warm and mildly sweet and salty, he thought,

Well, that was odd.

He meant to mention it to Katara when he got back but they ended up fighting over which rice bowls they should buy, and the conversation completely slipped Sokka’s mind.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

For the first time, Azula watched her father dissolve into rage.

And she was delighted.

There was not much that gave her delight. When her brother had been banished she had been pulled from the Royal Fire Academy for Girls and set to training as the crown princess. She had no mother, no uncle, no smiling cousin.

She had no brother.

What she had was a dour-faced friend, an air-headed one, and a father that saw her as a tool.

But her father was a poor craftsman and had not learned how to hone his tools.

When Azula had first heard of her brother, still living, and now a thorn in Commander Zhao's side, she hadn’t paid it much notice. If there was anything her brother excelled at, it was being annoying. The fact he had survived the Agni Kai was a mild curiosity; she had thought him too weak.

The fact he had allied with the Southern Water Tribe and crippled Zhao's ship made her take notice.

After that, she began collecting missives from the tatters of her mother’s old spy network. (The fact that her demure mother had a network at all was of mild import in itself. Azula remembered her as passive and ineffective. Now she was dead—but her web still lived.)

Azula felt like a spider.

But she did not yet understand the complexity of the web she had been placed in.

Azula thought little of her brother until the day there was no gold thread to line her sleeves or indigo to dye her underrobes.

“Pirates,” her lady-in-waiting told her.

“Your brother,” her spy clarified.

Azula had never thought much of her brother, in the way she had never thought much of her mother. Weak. Dismissive. Easily manipulated.

Then the stories began to spread—of the Pirate Prince, who stole from vessels traveling between Ba Sing Se and the Caldera and returned the goods and gold to the peasants.

Whispered were the stories of who he had become—was becoming—Something called a Spirit Speaker. They said he could call the sea and the air. That he would soon rival the Avatar in power.

Azula scoffed. He had never been an exceptional fire bender. How could he possibly command the other elements when he couldn’t command his own?

Her father, always mercurial, grew dark and angry. He began executing people who spread the stories. The execution pyres were nearly always burning these days.

Azula's spy network began to form holes, like when she was a child (she was still a child) and threw a rock through a web one autumn morning, undoing the banana spider's careful work. Her mother had scolded her then for ruining what another had labored to build.

She now understood the spider's frustration.

Azula knew she was in danger. She had always been in danger, but it was growing more acute. She ensured her fire bending was perfection—but was careful not to excel too much. She did not want her father thinking she was a better bender than he.

(She was.)

She heaped praise upon her father and made a show of her undying loyalty, but she seldom spoke unless it was in adoration. Her brother, weak as he was, had showed his spine once–and nearly died for it.

(Now he was free.)

She has a brief, traitorous thought that perhaps her brother was not the coward she had believed. He had stood before a room full of men and told them they were wrong.

On a hot lazy afternoon, the way nearly all afternoons were hot in the Caldera, she turned to the only two people in the world she trusted.

“Find my brother.”

Mai sighed, long and slow, her mouth pinching. It was her only tell.

Ty Lee twirled a strand of hair. She had no tells. “And what do we do when we find him?”

Azula said,

“Keep him safe.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Katara was marveling at the silks of vibrant indigo fluttering in the wind at a stall at the inland town of Haifan. Most of her experiences since leaving the south had been of marvel. An entire world existed outside of the monochromatic blues and whites and greys of her homeland, as if a switch had been flipped. There were colors she had never even seen, and while she had heard of trees, she could not imagine the plush forests of the Earth Kingdom.

Here, people did not have to eke out a living on the land and hope for a good hunting season and a mild winter. People bought and sold things that had no intrinsic value, and they did it a lot. There were crates of bright red fruits and leathery citrus as big as her head. There were so many that sometimes they had to be thrown away because they’d not been eaten fast enough before rotting.

There were also a lot of cabbages.

But perhaps her favorite of all the frivolities were the bolts of silk that shimmered like water under sunlight. They were cool to the touch and light as air. She had no reason for silk and no money even if she did.

The old woman who manned the silk stall, her back curled with time and hands burled with age, watched Katara with a knowing smile.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they? Best silk in the whole kingdom.”

Katara let her hands fall from the bolt. “Why’s that?” she asked, half out of politeness, half out of genuine curiosity. She liked talking to people. For her entire life the only strangers she’d ever met were the Fire Nation sailors who had killed her mother. To be surrounded by so many new people was at once both overwhelming and intoxicating–they carried entire worlds within them, each so different from her own.

“Because these silks were bound for the Fire Nation but taken by the Pirate Prince and returned to us.”

Katara paused. She’d been expecting a rambling monologue about the silk worms being of a storied family known for centuries for their excellent silk. “By who?”

The woman leaned in as if sharing a secret. Her breath was hot and stale, her gray hair wispy around her leathered face. “The Pirate Prince. He’s stealing from the Fire Nation and bringing back gold and silks and dyes that were bound to the Caldera. He says it’s rightfully ours.”

Katara blinked. “I’ve never heard of him.”

The woman leaned back, a slow smile spreading through the creases of her face. “Not many have. But they will. He’s a spirit-touched one, that boy. Some say he walks with ghosts at his back. Some say the sea itself bends to him.”

Katara hesitated. “You mean…a waterbender?”

She inclined her head. “Just so. They say he called up a storm that tore a Fire Navy blockade to ribbons. Said the ocean bent around his ship like it knew his name. But that’s not all–they say he can wind walk and knows the ancient words of the earth.”

“Like…like the Avatar?” Katara’s stomach tightened. She didn’t believe half the stories that drifted through markets and docks, but something in the old woman’s voice carried weight. “But the Avatar has already returned.”

“No,” the silk seller said softly. “Not the Avatar. But something just as old.”

Shaken, Katara moved on through the market, her basket light in her hands. The sea breeze tugged at her hair, and she caught herself glancing toward the harbor, where ships rocked gently against their moorings.

She almost missed Aang by the ramen stand until he waved, grinning, a bowl in each hand. “Katara! They gave me free noodles!”

“That’s great, Aang,” she said, smiling despite herself. She paused. “Aang… have you ever heard of something besides the Avatar that can bend all the elements?”

Aang blinked, noodles halfway to his mouth. “No? Why?”

Katara hummed. “No reason.”

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

At the Bolder Boulder, flush from her recent victory, the large belt heavy around her shoulders, Toph leaned back on a stone chair of her own making and stamped her hand down on parchments slid in front of her. She could write her name, even if she couldn’t read it–her parents had insisted on this formality–but outside of the confines of her cloistered home, her signature was her hand print.

Her fans loved it.

There was an undercurrent of excitement on this balmy night that she couldn’t attribute to her win; a thrumming that almost had people talking about something that wasn’t earth bending.

Hm.

She began stamping her hand on rocks and paper and listened in on the conversations filtering in around her. Just as she was good at listening, she was good at ignoring, and she typically grew bored by the play-by-play re-enactments people shouted at each other as they stood in line, unless, of course, she was the source of conversation.

Which she often was.

But tonight there was an unfiltered joy, like a burden had been lifted, that was fueled by more than an enjoyable tournament with a surprising upset. She could hear the coin changing hands was heavier than usual. She started stamping her hand slower, listening.

“Who’s the Pirate Prince?” She asked the next fan. A young woman by the feel of her.

“An Earth Kingdom rebel,” she said. “Stealing from the Fire Nation and giving back to us. He cleared the Yanchi River for the first time in a hundred years and just last week, he ran a Fire Nation blockade and sank five ships.”

“Earth Kingdom? On a ship?”

“You’re blocking up the line, lady! Move out!” A man’s heavy steps cut through the crowd.

Toph scowled.

“I was talking to the lady,” Toph said.

“Yeah, well, I been standing in this line thirty minutes!”

Toph stomped her foot on the ground and the man was ejected from the line by a pillar of stone. “Well, you can stand thirty minutes longer, you badgermole ass!”

She felt him clamber to his feet, dust off his clothes, and grumpily reposition himself at the end of the line to the cheers of others.

Then came a tall man with a limp. His voice rasped like unoiled wheels. “They say he speaks to the dead. Some say he’s a spirit hisself. Good job out there, Blind Bandit.”

Toph pressed her inked hand against the stone block he’d set before her, lovingly hand carved by not a bender but a true stone mason.

A kid, whose right leg jittered when he was nervous, stumbled before her. Toph slapped her hand down on the rock he slid in front of her. He leaned in, his breath smelling of candy.

“My parents say he’ll save us all.”

 

Back in the cloistered halls of her parents' estate over dinner the next night, they discussed the pirate who had stolen their recent shipment in the open waters of the Shining Ocean.

“I thought you said the Fire Nation is bad,” Toph said, her tone deceptively small as she allowed the servant to delicately place a dumpling into her mouth as if she was still four.

“They are bad, honey, but their money spends the same. The Fire Nation is our greatest trade partner and certainly the biggest exporter of Earth Kingdom goods.”

“Shouldn’t we be grateful that someone is stealing from the Fire Lord and returning it to the Earth Kingdom?” Toph kept her voice pitched high.

Her father sighed. “Oh, honey, there’s no reason to burden yourself with the goings-on of adults. He’s a simple pirate, there’s nothing glorious about him. Most of the stories they’re telling are ludicrous–a banished fire prince who can bend the wind and waves? Peasants will always make up folk heroes, but there’s no use putting any stock in them.”

“Why was the Fire Prince banished?” she asked.

There was a heavy silence as her parents considered what to tell her.

“He wished to overthrow the throne,” her mother finally said. “Fire Lord Ozai is no polished jade, but better a cracked stone you can stand on than a sinkhole you can’t see, as they say.”

Toph felt her mother’s lie and fought the frown that tugged her lips.

 

That night, Toph slipped out of the cloistered fortress that was her home and settled her feet in the garden and felt the earth. She was not a spiritual person, but she took stock in what she could feel, and she could feel the earth thrumming in a way it never had before. It wasn’t the energy of a constrained earthquake–they were rare in these parts–but almost as if the ground beneath her was singing, if she lent herself towards the romantic, which she did not.

It pulled her.

By the time the house slept, she’d packed a knapsack with gold, two changes of underwear, and the certainty that whatever was calling through the ground wasn’t going to stop.

 

She headed north.