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Chapter Text

"Daddy... tell me about Mommy?"

The little voice cut through the scratching of Zuko's brush on parchment. He froze, ink blotting the corner of the scroll before he set it aside. Slowly, he turned toward the small bundle curled beneath crimson sheets. Esale's golden eyes (his eyes) peeked out from a tangle of dark curls.

She had asked before. Little things. What was her name? Was she pretty? Did she sing? But never this. Never tell me about her.

Zuko's throat tightened. He dropped his gaze, unable to meet those burning gold eyes that reminded him too much of both fire and loss.

"She's away, firefly," he murmured. His voice was low, but the words came out sharper than he intended.

Esale wriggled free from the silks, tiny feet padding across the mattress. "Away where?"

"She's with her family," Zuko said, watching her brush a stubborn curl from her face.

"Why?" Her small arms lifted in silent demand, and he rose to gather her against his chest. She fit so lightly in his arms.

He swallowed hard. "Because... we made mistakes."

Her head tilted, the question trembling on her lips. "Mistakes... like me?"

Zuko's grip tightened. He pressed his cheek against her hair, unable to answer.

⸻

"Mommy... tell me about Daddy?"

The soft voice stopped Katara in her tracks. She had been moving quietly through the igloo, ready to bank the lantern for the night, when she turned and saw her son's wide blue eyes gleaming from beneath fur blankets.

Rilek. Her boy.

He had asked before, in passing. She had always deflected. Even now, after two years, she wasn't sure she could bear to shape the truth into words. But there he sat, clutching the pelts in his little fists, staring at her as if her silence would drown him.

"He's gone, snowflake," Katara whispered, her voice carrying just enough to reach him.

Rilek pushed himself upright. "Gone... how?"

Her chest clenched. She sat beside him, brushing her fingers through his wild brown curls. "We made mistakes, baby. Now he's at sea... and we're here, with the Tribe."

His brows pinched together, blue eyes stormy with a child's confusion. "Mistakes like me?"

Katara's hand froze. For an instant, she could only stare at him, the words she should say lost on her tongue. Then she pulled him into her arms, holding tight against the ache that no ocean could wash away.

Chapter Text

A low fire crackled in the hearth of the Healing Hut, its glow casting warm light against the snow-packed walls. Across from it, Katara sorted carefully through bundles of fresh herbs, laying them neatly on the shelves. The shipment had arrived that morning with the Earth Kingdom trading vessel — a precious lifeline for their isolated tribe.

Behind her, Lady Atok tended a young child who had scraped her knees, murmuring instructions while rinsing the wound. Katara had long ago grown used to the quiet rhythm of the hut. Day after day, she spent her hours here, mending scrapes, brewing salves, and when necessary, bending water to knit wounds together.

Her healing was not something formally taught. Everything she knew had been pieced together from a few scrolls and her own stubborn persistence. Trial, error, instinct. She was good at it — gifted, even — but the lack of guidance gnawed at her. There should have been more waterbenders here. There should have been teachers.

But the South had been hollowed out by war.

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the sealed entrance as she arranged a set of dried roots. The Southern Water Tribe was small compared to the other nations, yet they fought — with what little they had, they fought. That was more than could be said for nations with ten times their strength.

The Northern Tribe in particular. Hidden behind their walls, untouched and unbroken, they had sent no soldiers, offered no aid. Their people were kin, yes, but Katara could taste the bitterness in every whispered conversation at the fire pits.

We fight. We bleed. They hide.

The thought burned in her chest, even as she tried to focus on her work.

Bang!

The door burst open, slamming against the wall. Cold air rushed in, scattering the scent of herbs. Katara spun just as a familiar voice groaned.

"Talon—easy," Sokka wheezed, half-supported by another young warrior.

Katara's eyes widened. Her brother was staggering, blood seeping through his parka, staining the fabric at his side.

"What happened to you?" she demanded, already moving toward them, hands on her hips though her stomach was twisting.

Sokka gave a crooked grin, as if his insides weren't leaking onto the floor. A cut split his cheek, and crimson spread steadily beneath his arm.

Before he could answer, Talon rolled his eyes. "Your Prince decided he was braver than a pack of wolf seals." He hefted Sokka toward a cot, muttering under his breath. "Kinda a dumbass, Princess."

Lady Atok snorted from her seat, dropping a piece of hard candy into the child's waiting palm. "That's generous, boy." 

Katara huffed as she gathered a bundle of supplies and pulled a basin of water close. With brisk, practiced movements, she knelt beside the cot where Talon had deposited her brother. "You told me this morning it was a simple hunting trip," she accused as Sokka tugged his parka over his head, wincing.

"It was." His voice carried that too-casual edge she knew far too well.

Talon smacked the back of his head. "Yeah? Then why do you look like bait that actually got eaten?"

Katara ignored their bickering, already pulling water into her palms. The stream bent obediently toward Sokka's side, glowing as it pressed against the torn flesh. He sighed at the cooling touch, though his eyes flicked warily toward her face, as if expecting a lecture.

"I'm not chewed up," he muttered at last. "These are obviously claw marks..."

"Obviously," Katara shot back, her voice sharp as she shifted the water to his arm. "I don't care what they are, Sokka. You're hurt. Again. That's the third time this month."

His gaze skittered away, jaw tightening. "We don't have many options, Katara. There's only a handful of us old enough to hunt. The village depends on us."

"Then let me help!" The words tore out of her before she could stop them. "There are plenty of women here who are ready and willing. Why shouldn't we fight, too?"

Talon's brows lifted, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and oh boy, here it comes.

Sokka's head snapped toward her. "Not this again."

"Yes, this again." She didn't pause in her healing, but her eyes locked onto his with the force of a challenge.

He sat up straighter, ripping the water away as he pushed her hands aside. "Fine, you want to have this fight? Then let's have it." He yanked his shirt back over his head, squaring his shoulders. "You're a woman, Katara. You're not a fighter. You never will be. None of the women here will."

Katara shot to her feet, chin high even though her eyes barely reached his collarbone. "You don't get to decide that. You don't get to make every choice for this tribe just because Dad isn't here. I have rights too. The women here have rights!"

Sokka crossed his arms, every inch the stubborn warrior. "You may be Princess in name, but that doesn't make you a leader. If you think I'm wrong, go ahead. March to the Council of Elders. Tell them to overturn my decision."

Her hands curled into fists, fury rushing to her cheeks — fury at his arrogance, and fury at the truth underneath his words.

"They're all men!" she shouted.

"Gran Gran's on the council. She's a woman." Sokka's tone was maddeningly calm, like he'd already won the argument. He brushed past her toward the door, Talon trailing behind. "If you want change so badly, stop screaming at me and try convincing them. But I'm not changing my mind."

Katara's voice cracked, quiet now, but no less fierce. "And they won't change theirs, either."

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving her alone in the silence, anger simmering in her chest like a tide with nowhere to go.

Her fists unclenched slowly, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her fury.

Not a fighter. Never will be.

The words cut deeper than Sokka's wounds ever could. He said them like a fact — like something carved in stone long before she was born. Like her future had already been written for her.

Katara turned back to the basin, the water within rippling with her agitation. She bent a thread of it upward, watching it dance between her fingers. She could knit flesh together, pull fevers down, restore life with a touch. The last waterbender of the South.

And yet, in the eyes of her own people, she was little more than a girl with bandages and bowls of herbs.

Dad is gone. The men fight and bleed, and I'm told to stay here. To heal. To wait.

Her throat tightened, the memory of her mother's absence like a bruise that never faded. Would she, too, spend her life bound to the walls of igloos, raising children and tending the wounded, while others fought for their survival?

I want more than this. I want to stand on the frontlines. I want to raise the ocean itself against the Fire Nation and drown their fleets in waves.

But no matter how loudly she shouted, no one heard her. No one cared.

Katara let the water slip from her grasp. It splashed back into the basin with a hollow sound, echoing the hollow space inside her.

"They'll never see me," she whispered to the empty room. "Not here."

Not here.

The words pulsed in her skull, each repetition louder than the last. Before she realized it, her feet carried her to the door, slamming it wide as she stepped into the freezing night.

The streets of Wolf's Cove stretched out before her, snow crunching under her boots. In the distance, beyond rows of igloos and torchlight, the harbor burned with green banners. Earth Kingdom merchant ships rocked against the docks, sails catching the bitter wind.

Her breath caught. She had thought of them before — wondered where they went, who they carried, what it would be like to disappear into their shadows. But now, staring at them, the thought was no longer fantasy. It was a choice.

Her legs moved as though the tide itself pulled her forward. Wind whipped strands of hair into her face, the salt bite of the sea stinging her lips. She stopped at the foot of the dock, staring up at the hulking form of a ship.

She could do it.

Hide away.

Leave.

The idea thrummed through her like the beat of a drum.

But then she turned, gazing back at the snow-covered village — her village. Her people. Her family. The towering palace igloo loomed above the shoreline like a silent judge. She was the daughter of a chief, the last waterbender of the South. She had duties, responsibilities, roots.

Yet out there... out there was freedom. Out there was a world where she wasn't just a healer in the shadows of men. Out there, perhaps, she could become someone who mattered.

The sails shivered in the wind, impatient, as though the world beyond the sea was calling her name.

The ships would depart at first light. If she was going to do this, she had to decide now.

Katara clenched her jaw. "I'm sorry, Father. Forgive me, Mother."

Her boots echoed against the icy steps of the palace igloo. In her room, she moved with urgency, stuffing a small bag with necessities — spare clothes, her meager bending scrolls, a map she had studied until its edges wore thin.

"Forgive me, brother," she whispered as she scribbled a note, her hand trembling only once before she forced herself to tuck it neatly on her desk. "I have to do this."

She did not look back when she shut the door.

The harbor was near-empty by the time she returned. She slipped into the belly of the ship, curling up in the dark storage room among barrels and sacks. The wood creaked beneath her as the tide rocked gently, like a cradle lulling her into the unknown.

Tomorrow, when the ship left the harbor, there would be no turning back.

But the thought didn't scare her. It thrilled her.

With a quiet breath, Katara let her eyes drift shut. For the first time in her life, the horizon was hers.

This was her new beginning.

—

This was her ending.

The storm struck on the second day, swift and merciless.

Winds howled like angry spirits, tearing at the sails until they split. The hull groaned under each monstrous wave. Katara clung to the shadows of the storage room, heart hammering as the shouts of men above rattled through the boards. Then came the sound she feared most — splintering wood, a deafening crack. The ship lurched violently as ice tore through its side.

Water gushed in through a jagged hole, rushing over the crates. Icy spray hit her face, shocking her into motion.

Move. Run.

She bolted toward the stairwell, boots slipping on the flooding floor. She didn't care if they saw her now — not the sailors, not anyone. Better shame than death. She was not going to drown, she told herself. Not here. Not like this.

The hatch burst open and she staggered onto the deck, only to be met with chaos incarnate.

Hail and rain pelted down with furious abandon. Waves towered higher than buildings, slamming the vessel from side to side. Lightning split the sky, jagged and blinding, before striking the bow. The impact erupted in a shower of flame, sparks cascading into the storm.

The ship screamed around her, timber shattering as men were hurled screaming into the black sea. The air reeked of burning pitch and salt. Katara's breath caught as she stumbled forward, frozen between fire and water.

The vessel was dying beneath her feet. Tilting. Breaking. Sinking.

And there was nowhere left to run.

The deck buckled as another wave smashed into the hull. Katara's legs gave way, and suddenly she was airborne—flung over the railing like so many others before her.

The ocean swallowed her whole.

Salt and ice stabbed her lungs as she plunged beneath the surface. The world became a churning void of black water, torn by flashes of lightning above. She clawed for the surface, her arms burning, her lungs screaming. When she finally broke through, the storm's fury greeted her with another wave, forcing her back under.

No. No. Not like this.

Her hand caught something rough—splintered timber, a fragment of the ship. She latched onto it, coughing and heaving, clinging with all her strength as the waves battered her again and again.

It wouldn't last. She could feel it sinking lower each time the water surged. The wood was too small, too fragile.

Her heart raced, but instinct took over. She forced her shaking hands forward, gathering what little strength she had left. The water around her churned, obeying her desperation. Slowly, with trembling arms, she bent it solid—freezing the surface into a jagged, uneven slab of ice beneath her.

She dragged herself onto it, chest heaving, clothes soaked and stiff with salt. The sea raged on all around, tossing her makeshift raft like a leaf in the wind, but it held.

For the first time since the storm began, she wasn't sinking.

Shivering violently, Katara curled in on herself. Alone, adrift, she whispered hoarsely into the roaring night:

"This was supposed to be my beginning..."

Her voice was stolen by the wind as the storm carried her into darkness.

She drifted for over a day.

When the sun broke through at last, its light cut cruelly across the endless sea. Her lips were cracked, her skin raw from salt and cold. But still—her eyes scanned the horizon. Icebergs. Waves. Nothing else.

Until she saw it.

Smoke. Thick and black, curling into the bright air. The smell of soot carried on the wind, sharp and familiar. She had known that stench since childhood, since the day her mother's body had been laid to rest.

Fire Nation.

Her stomach knotted. Rescue or death—she couldn't be certain which awaited her. But hope, however bitter, was a dangerous thing to deny.

Katara lifted trembling arms and bent the sea, casting a thin column of spiraling water into the sky. It glistened, fragile against the vast horizon. Her only chance.

The vessel altered course.

She laughed weakly, the sound rasping in her throat, and froze her slab larger, steadier, so the ship could draw close. As the hull loomed over her, the truth struck hard. This wasn't just any ship. Its lacquered red sides gleamed like blood, its gold-trimmed armor glinting in the sun. Painted across the prow in bold, sweeping strokes: The Wani.

The flag of the Fire Nation snapped above her, red and black against the pale sky.

Figures lined the deck, shouting, pointing. A rope unraveled down the side. She braced to climb—then froze.

A figure was already descending.

He moved with a predator's balance, sliding down the rope with ease. Tall, broad-shouldered but lean, clad in deep crimson. Black hair swept loose by the wind. And when he landed before her, boots thudding against ice, she saw what marked him most.

Golden eyes.

They burned like the sun against the storm-wracked horizon.

Everyone knew what that meant. The royal line of Agni. The sons and daughters of Ozai.

A prince.

Her chest tightened. He was danger incarnate, every story she'd ever been told made flesh. Yet when he extended his hand to her, there was no hesitation in his grip—only heat. A blaze of warmth so stark, so consuming, that it shocked her numb body into stillness.

His scar cut harsh across his face, but it wasn't what held her. It was the fire in his palm, searing against her chilled skin, grounding her in a way she hadn't expected.

The ocean raged. The shouts of his men thundered above. But all Katara felt, in that instant, was the blazing contrast between his fire and her ice.

And against every instinct screaming in her veins, she took his hand.

Chapter Text

Three years at sea.

Three years away from the Palace.

Three years stripped of his proper title.

He wasn't Crown Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation—he hadn't been that for a long time.

Now he was nothing but Banished Prince Zuko. Scarred. Disgraced. Forgotten.

Not even his own father wanted him.

At eighteen, he should have been leading battalions into glorious victory, his name carried across the war-torn nations like a banner of fire. He should have been courting noblewomen, preparing himself for the throne that had been promised to him since birth. Instead, he was marooned on a rusting Fire Nation vessel, the Wani, surrounded by outcasts who, like him, had no place in the gleaming ranks of the Fire Navy.

But maybe that was why they followed him. Because none of them belonged anywhere else.

Zuko's body coiled like a bowstring as he launched forward. His heel cracked the air in a tight arc, a burst of flame roaring from his foot. His opponent staggered back, the heat blistering the deck planks.

Zuko didn't stop. He pivoted, thrusting his palms forward, fire splitting like twin whips that lashed into the second soldier. The man tumbled hard, smoke curling from his singed uniform. Sparks snapped across Zuko's fingertips, his breathing heavy, every strike a demand: See me. Respect me. Remember me.

Both men scrambled to their feet, bowing their heads quickly to their commander before retreating from the training circle.

A slow, deliberate clap broke the silence.

Zuko turned, chest still heaving, to see Iroh leaning against the railing. His uncle's expression was soft, but his eyes—sharp as ever—missed nothing.

"There is much power in your strikes, nephew," Iroh said warmly. "But that power still comes from your anger. That... is not the way."

Zuko dragged a forearm across his sweat-slick brow, jaw tightening. "I'm not angry."

The lie hung in the air like smoke.

Both of them knew better.

He had been at sea for three years. Three years chasing an impossible mission with no hope beyond it. "Capture the Avatar," his father had said. "Only then may you return home with honor."

Honor.

The word still burned worse than his scar.

The war raged on, though Zuko often wondered why. The Fire Nation was already winning—had already won, in his eyes. They had seized strongholds across the Earth Kingdom, built colonies that stretched for miles, and stripped conquered lands for resources until their own coffers overflowed. The Fire Nation stood unrivaled: wealthier, stronger, more advanced than any nation still clinging to hope.

The Southern Water Tribe was nothing but scattered huts and ghosts of warriors long gone. The North hid behind walls of ice, pretending the world's suffering could not touch them. The Earth Kingdom remained fractured, its kings—Kuei in Ba Sing Se and Bumi in Omashu—too paralyzed or eccentric to unify their people.

What was left to fight for? In Zuko's mind, the Fire Nation had already claimed victory. His father could declare the war over tomorrow, and the world would have no choice but to kneel. Everyone—except perhaps bloodthirsty zealots like Commander Zhao—would celebrate the end.

But the war dragged on.

Because Fire Lord Ozai ruled with an iron fist, feeding lives into the fire as if they were coal for his endless furnace. Fire Nation soldiers, Water Tribe villagers, Earth Kingdom rebels—it didn't matter. His father demanded sacrifice.

And Zuko?

Zuko was here. Banished. Forgotten. Wandering the sea on a forgotten ship, clinging to scraps of command his father had allowed him to keep.

No crown. No future.

Only a fool's errand tied to an old legend. The Avatar. His only path home.

His gaze slid across the deck. The crew bustled about—men too clumsy, too reckless, or too defiant to serve anywhere else in the Fire Navy. Soldiers who had failed their commanders. Officers who had spoken out of turn. Boys who hadn't measured up. They had all been cast aside, given to him.

A crew of outcasts for a prince in exile.

Zuko clenched his fists. It was almost laughable. They didn't belong anywhere else, just as he didn't. And yet—they still looked to him. Still followed his orders. Still called him Prince, even if the world no longer did.

It should have felt like something. Instead, it felt like nothing at all.

"What the hell is that?" one of the younger soldiers shouted.

Zuko snapped his head toward the sound. The boy—Tera, if Zuko remembered correctly—was one of the men he had just trained with, still rubbing his scorched shoulder from Zuko's last strike. Now his arm was outstretched, finger stabbing toward the horizon.

Zuko narrowed his eyes, following the line of Tera's trembling hand. At first all he saw was the endless roll of waves. Then—there. A column of water spiraled upward, catching the newborn light of dawn. It glimmered unnaturally against the steel-blue sea, bending with a precision no mere storm could make.

He strode away from his uncle's patient gaze and toward the telescope mounted near the railing. Snapping it into place, he brought the swirl into focus.

A girl.

She stood on a slab of ice, pale and jagged as if torn from the ocean itself, her hands moving in sharp, deliberate arcs. Even from this distance, Zuko could tell she was bending. Not just keeping herself afloat, but fighting to be seen. Her figure wavered through the scope—dark skin against blue cloth, the fur trim of her parka heavy with seawater.

Water Tribe.

His gut twisted. They were only days from the Southern settlement. No Water Tribe ship should be this far from shore, and certainly not a lone girl. Their men crewed the fighting vessels; their women remained behind. So what was she doing here, stranded, alive, defying the storm?

"What is it, Prince Zuko?" Iroh's voice was calm, but Zuko could feel the weight of his curiosity pressing closer.

Zuko kept his eye on the scope, jaw tightening. "A woman. Southern Water Tribe. Shipwrecked."

His voice came out clipped, hard. He lowered the scope and gestured sharply to the helmsman. "Bring us about. Head for her position."

Murmurs broke out among the crew. Rescuing enemies was not their business. But none dared question the order outright.

Zuko set his shoulders, masking the unease twisting in his gut. "Apparently," he said coldly, "we're a rescue crew today."

The ship groaned as it shifted course, cutting through the ice-rimmed waters until it loomed over the fragile slab below. The girl had thickened it, he realized, the ice jutting solid beneath her as though sheer will alone held it together. A rope sailed down, fastened tight against the railing.

"Is she even gonna make it up?" Tera muttered, his tone doubtful. Zuko didn't blame him—the girl was swaying where she stood, her coat heavy with seawater, lips tinged the faintest blue.

"I'll go down."

The words escaped before he even considered them. His crew turned, startled; his uncle's brow lifted in quiet surprise. Zuko ignored them all, gripping the rope with practiced ease and vaulting over the side. The cold wind bit harder the lower he went, spray lashing his face until his boots struck the ice raft.

Solid. Unnaturally so. Not the slick, brittle surface he expected. She had made this—shaped her survival with bending.

When his eyes lifted to hers, time seemed to stutter.

Blue met gold.

She gasped—just softly, a breath—but her chin didn't dip, her gaze didn't break. Instead, her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her body taut as a bowstring. She was afraid, yes, but she would never show it to him. That defiance burned brighter than the cold around them.

He stepped closer, the storm-stiff wind catching strands of her dark hair, curling them damp against her rounded face. Salt and snow clung to her skin, her shivers betraying how close to collapse she was. The top of her head reached just beneath his collarbone, yet the strength in her eyes made her seem taller.

And she was—different. Striking in a way that jarred him. All the women of the Fire Nation courts with their perfect posture and polished silk seemed hollow shadows in memory beside this half-frozen stranger. She was raw, untamed, real—and more beautiful for it.

He extended his hand. For a heartbeat she only stared, hesitation warring with need. Then her fingers slid into his, icy against his fire-warmed palm. The contrast jolted through him, sharp and grounding.

He tightened his grip, steady but gentle. "Hold on." His voice was low, commanding yet softer than he intended.

Her only answer was a nod. But when she moved in, her arms locking around him as the rope strained and lifted, he felt it—the moment she stilled. Her trembling eased, her body leaning into the heat of his.

And for the first time in years, Zuko felt someone reach for him not as a prince, not as a failure, but simply as a man.

The rope creaked as the crew hauled them upward. Salt wind whipped against his face, and the girl's weight leaned heavier into him with every tug. When their boots finally struck the metal deck, she sagged against his chest—then collapsed entirely.

"Shit," she muttered, the word cracking with exhaustion. Her fists clenched into the fabric of his uniform like it was the last solid thing in the world.

The crew stared—some with confusion, some with poorly hidden curiosity. Brows rose, whispers started. Iroh's expression shifted into something complicated, a flicker of thought behind his eyes as though he already had some proverb at the ready.

Zuko ignored them all. His arms tightened instinctively around her waist, steadying her trembling body against him. "I've got you," he whispered, low enough for only her to hear.

His gaze snapped up. "Where's the physician?"

Doctor Mu stepped forward, grey hair tied neatly back, hands clasped behind him. His lined face showed no hesitation. "This way, Prince Zuko," he said firmly—the only man aboard besides Iroh who dared speak to him so directly. "If we don't get her warm soon, she'll catch her death."

Zuko shifted his grip and followed, guiding her toward the stairwell. She managed the descent with his help, one weak step at a time, her hand clinging to his sleeve for balance. But the moment they reached the flat of the lower deck, her lashes fluttered—and she crumpled, going limp in his arms.

His breath hitched, the weight of her sudden and startling. For one panicked instant, she felt too fragile, like she might dissolve if he loosened his hold.

And Zuko realized he was already holding her as though letting go wasn't an option.

Chapter Text

Warm.

That was the first thing she noticed.

Not the sting of salt in her lungs, not the ache in her bones, not the endless shiver that had rattled her ever since the wreck. She was warm—in a soft, cocooning way she hadn't felt since leaving home.

The covers weren't furs, though. Too smooth, too light. The fabric brushed over her skin like water slipping through her fingers, but still, the heat lingered. Comforting. Steady.

Her lashes fluttered open to muted candlelight. Pale shafts of sunlight filtered through a small round window—a port window.

Katara froze.

There shouldn't be a port window.

The Earth Kingdom ship had no such thing. The Earth Kingdom ship hadn't had a bed either. Only splintered boards, musty cargo, and damp walls that had smelled of mildew.

She sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as the room sharpened into focus. Four cots in total, all narrow, all fitted neatly against the wall. Her own was tucked in the corner, tucked beneath shelves bolted firmly into metal walls. Rows of jars and bundles of herbs lined the shelves, some recognizable—dried ginger, mint, willow bark—but others foreign to her, labeled in a script she didn't know. Strips of white bandage hung from hooks like orderly banners. The faint tang of alcohol and ash clung to the air.

A healer's space.

Not Wolf's Cove, though the similarity pricked her heart with a pang of memory. No, this was something else—strange and familiar all at once.

The storm returned to her in flashes. The ship breaking apart. Water roaring in through the hull. The desperate claw for air. The cold biting into her marrow.

And then—

Golden eyes.

A hand reaching for hers.

Warmth, fierce and steady, pulling her from the brink.

Katara's pulse quickened.

Not just a man—him.

The Fire Nation prince.

She swallowed hard, pressing a palm against the blanket as if grounding herself. Somehow, she was still alive. Somehow, she had been brought aboard his ship. And now, here she lay in the Fire Nation's infirmary, in enemy territory.

Her stomach knotted as the truth settled in. Saved or not, she was still surrounded by enemies. Every metal wall reminded her of who she was trapped with. Every breath carried the faint sting of smoke and ash, the mark of the Fire Nation.

She shifted upright, letting the smooth covers slide from her shoulders—then froze. Her heart lurched. She wasn't in her clothes. Just her under-wraps, bare in a way that felt both vulnerable and dangerous.

Snatching the blanket back up, Katara's gaze darted wildly across the room until it landed on a neatly folded bundle of fabric resting on a small table. Relief flickered, only to sink again the moment she saw the colors.

Not the cool blues of home. Not the furs lined with warmth and love. No—red, black, and gold. Fire Nation colors.

Her throat tightened. She hated the way her hands trembled as she reached for the bundle, sending a whispered prayer that no soldier barged through the door.

The tunic was burgundy, cut long enough to reach her knees. The trousers were wide, far too loose for her smaller frame. She swallowed her pride and slipped the shirt over her head, the fabric smelling faintly of smoke and salt. The hem brushed just to her knees. Not enough.

Grinding her teeth, Katara stole the belt from the pants, cinching it tightly around her waist. The makeshift shape gave the illusion of a dress, short by Water Tribe standards but decent enough. Her fingers tugged at the sleeves, tying them behind her neck so the collar wouldn't gape.

She had barely knotted the last tie when the door creaked open.

Her heart jumped to her throat. She spun toward the sound, pulse hammering.

They may have saved her. They may have given her clothes. But none of that erased what they were. What he was.

The Fire Prince.

Enemy.

Murderer.

Evil.

But it wasn't him who entered.

A man with iron-grey hair tied back, eyes lined with years, stepped inside. His gait was steady but unhurried, his expression somewhere between weary and unimpressed.

He let out a huff at the sight of her upright. "Now you want to stand." His voice was gruff, clipped. "The Prince carried you in here yesterday morning because you were half-dead and ready to collapse. Now you're standing on your own two feet..." He shook his head. "Figures."

Katara swallowed hard, clutching the borrowed fabric tighter around her waist. "I'm sorry?" The words slipped out uncertainly, part apology, part question.

He waved a hand dismissively. "You're speaking, standing. That means you're not dying. That's all that matters."

Her jaw set, heat sparking in her chest. "I'm not apologizing for not dying."

One silver brow arched, his lips twitching in something between amusement and annoyance. "No one asked you to."

Her arms crossed automatically, defensive. The silence pressed down heavy between them. Finally, she forced the question that had been clawing at her since she woke. "Where am I?"

The doctor shrugged, utterly unconcerned. "I'm Doctor Mu. That's all you need to know. As for the rest, I can't tell you a thing without the Prince's orders." His voice softened a touch, though his eyes remained sharp. "And to be honest, I don't know what he plans to do with you."

Katara's arms loosened at her sides, unease creeping through her bones. "Is he... going to speak with me?"

Mu reached for a salve jar, scanning his shelves without looking at her. "Depends."

Her brows knit. "On what?"

"On whether he's in a good mood or not." He tucked the salve under one arm, adding bandages to the bundle. "He's training now. I'll let him know you're awake while I patch up the poor fools who sparred with him."

The words landed like stones in her stomach. Mood. Training. Anger. She didn't need to imagine how the Fire Prince fought.

Mu moved toward the door, bundle in hand. He slipped out with a metallic clank, then paused. The door cracked open again, and his lined face poked back through.

"Don't go anywhere, yeah?" His voice carried a wry edge now. "No reason a pretty little waterbender should be wandering around a ship full of Fire Nation soldiers."

Before she could bite back a retort, he shut the door again with a sharp clank.

Katara sank onto the cot, heart still racing, blanket bunched tight in her fists. Trapped. Alone. Waiting for the golden eyes she both feared and couldn't forget.

She hated herself for remembering the heat of his hand more than the cold of the sea. For recalling the steadiness of his grip instead of the cruelty his nation had carved into her people's bones. He was Fire Nation—enemy. Yet the memory of him pulling her out of the freezing abyss gnawed at her, warm where she wanted only anger.

Her mind churned with questions she couldn't shake. What did he want with her? Why keep her alive? If he discovered she was the daughter of the Southern Water Tribe's chief, would she be leverage, a hostage? Or worse—would he throw her into some Fire Nation prison and let her rot?

She didn't know how much time passed. Long enough for her to count every shelf in the room, long enough for her healer's eyes to catalogue every jar, every bandage, every salve until she could have redrawn the room from memory. Anything to keep her hands from shaking.

The door creaked open at last, and voices carried into the room.

"If it isn't bad enough you injure all your opponents in training..." Doctor Mu's gruff voice came first as he shuffled in, irritation riding each word. "This time you've put yourself in a cast."

Katara's stomach tightened as a taller figure followed him inside.

Golden eyes. A scowl. His left arm bound in a makeshift sling of bandages, sleeve rolled up to reveal angry bruises and burns across the skin. Even injured, he radiated a sharp authority that pressed against the room like a storm.

"You're not paid for lecturing, Doctor," the Prince said coldly, his gaze brushing over her—just a flicker, but enough to send her pulse skittering. He sat on a cot with controlled precision, as though refusing to betray any weakness.

Mu snorted. "I'm hardly paid at all."

Katara's breath caught when the Prince's voice softened, directed at her. "You didn't inform me she was awake." His eyes lingered on her stiff posture, the way she held herself as though ready to flee but with nowhere to run.

"I was busy caring after your carelessness," Mu replied, already gathering fresh supplies.

The Prince clicked his tongue, annoyance sharp in the sound.

Before she could stop herself, Katara's voice cut through. "Is it sprained or fractured?"

The doctor's head lifted, his brows drawing together. "I don't see how it matters to you—unless you have medical training, Miss."

It mattered more than he realized. Mu had told her plainly: he didn't know what the Prince wanted to do with her. Katara's only chance of survival lay in tilting the balance, in proving her usefulness before he made a decision. If she could show him she was more than a burden, maybe he'd take her to the Earth Kingdom instead of some Fire Nation stronghold.

She drew in a steadying breath. This was a risk. But survival demanded risks.

"I'm a healer," she said softly, her eyes shifting from Mu to the Prince. "I can use my bending to completely fix the injury."

Her pulse thundered as she spoke the words aloud.

Would they see her as useful? Or dangerous?

Mu raised an eyebrow but sighed. "Yes, I've heard of the famous healing of a waterbender. But you're a stranger here, Miss, and this isn't just any patient..."

Zuko flexed his hand with a faint wince, eyes cutting to hers. Gold met blue, steady, commanding, merciless. Then he turned to Mu. "Prove your abilities on him. And then we'll see."

Katara blinked, her mouth opening, but Zuko was already moving. In one fluid motion, he drew a short blade from his boot and, without hesitation, drove it into Mu's thigh.

The sound—metal tearing through flesh—snapped through the air. Mu grunted in pain. Katara shrieked, stumbling back as crimson spilled down his leg. Before she could even process the horror, Zuko yanked the blade free, blood dripping off the steel, staining the floor.

"Heal him," he ordered. His tone was sharp, unforgiving, as though he had just asked her to fetch water instead of patch up the wound he created.

Katara spun toward him, fury blazing hotter than her fear. "You can't do that!" Her voice shook the walls.

She moved toward him without thinking, but Mu's hand shot out, gripping her arm and holding her back. "It's fine," he said through clenched teeth. "Prince Zuko was simply teaching me a lesson for my earlier lecture. Heal me as you claim you can, and all will be right."

Zuko. His name.

It struck her harder than she expected—like a brand. She'd always imagined the Fire Nation prince as a faceless tyrant, a symbol of destruction who commanded fleets and burned villages from the safety of his throne. But here he was in the flesh: young, scarred, and cruel enough to cut down his own physician for the sake of testing her.

For a moment, it almost made him more human. Almost.

But humanity wasn't what she saw when the blood hit the floor.

What she saw was the monster who carried the weight of his father's fire in his hands, who could so casually hurt someone who served him, who now held her life in that same balance.

Her cheeks burned with rage as Mu handed her a half-full canteen of water, limping toward a cot. He groaned as he pulled up his pant leg, exposing the jagged wound.

Katara's hands trembled as she bent water from the canteen. Her instinct screamed to slam it back into Zuko's face, to drown him right there in his arrogance. But she swallowed the urge, pressing her fury down until all that remained was focus.

The water glowed between her palms. Slowly, steadily, she knitted torn muscle, sealed broken skin. Her breathing steadied with the rhythm of her bending. In less than a minute, the wound was gone—no scar, no trace of the blade's cruelty.

She pulled back sharply, glaring at Zuko as if her healing had cost her a piece of herself.

Mu tested his leg, laughter bubbling out of him despite the blood still staining his trousers. "I'll be damned," he whispered, staring at the unblemished skin. "I do say she's good, Prince Zuko. Not even a scar."

Katara said nothing. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on Zuko, burning with a question she refused to voice: What kind of man are you?

"Your name?" Zuko asked at last.

Not heal me.

Not thank you.

Not even the courtesy of asking—only demanding. As if even her identity belonged to him now.

Katara drew in a slow breath, squaring her shoulders. Her fists clenched at her sides, but when she lifted her chin, her voice came steady. "Katara."

He tilted his head slightly, the barest smirk tugging at the corner of his scarred mouth. "Katara? Daughter of Chief Hakoda... Princess of the Southern Water Tribe?"

The title cracked against her chest like a whip. Her first instinct was to deny it, to protect her tribe the way her father had taught her. But this was his ship. His crew. His power. He already knew, and he wasn't afraid to use force to pry open whatever truths he wanted.

So she stood taller. She would not cower. She would not give him the satisfaction of fear.

"Yes," she said firmly. "Let me heal you as repayment for saving me."

His eyes glinted at her choice of words, sharp as a blade. Repayment. He liked the sound of that.

Zuko chuckled low in his throat and shrugged off the makeshift sling, the motion stiff with pain though he masked it well. The bandaged arm fell free, bruised and mottled with burns. He flexed his hand once, jaw tightening before he looked back at her.

"Might as well, Princess," he said, the title wrapped in mockery, though not without a strange edge of respect. He extended his arm toward her like a challenge. "Afterwards, you can answer some of my questions."

Katara's stomach twisted. Questions. She could guess what kind: about the Water Tribe, about her father, about the warrior fleets. He wanted to strip her bare, piece by piece, until nothing remained but what served him.

But for now, she forced her breath steady, summoned the water to her palms, and told herself she still had one weapon left: the power to heal.

Chapter Text

Princess of the Southern Water Tribe.

Katara, daughter of Chief Hakoda—leader of the strongest resistance still standing against the Fire Nation.

She wasn't the Avatar. But she didn't have to be.

A waterbender from the South Pole, where the Southern Raiders had long since declared there were none left. Her very existence made her rare. Add her bloodline—Hakoda's daughter—and she wasn't just rare. She was leverage.

Zuko could use her to draw Hakoda out. Use her to fracture his strength, to bend the great Chief into desperation. Perhaps even lure him back across the seas to watch his tribe crumble. Whether Hakoda surrendered his fight... or broke beneath it, Zuko could turn Katara into the knife that cut him down.

Cool water flowed over his arm, glowing softly beneath her hands. The light shimmered across bruises, burns, and scarred skin, easing pain with every careful pass. She was steady, deliberate, focused and undeniably beautiful.

More beautiful than he'd expected.

It wasn't just the water's glow, though that made her seem almost untouchable. It was the way she stood in his Nation's colors, draped in one of his tunics she had reshaped into a dress. A symbol of defiance and ingenuity all at once. She wore it like she belonged, and that unsettled him in ways he couldn't name.

His injuries vanished beneath her touch, but his thoughts stayed tangled.

Beauty didn't erase usefulness. Skill didn't erase opportunity. He reminded himself of that as firmly as he could. Katara wasn't here for herself—she was here for him. For his throne.

Because Ozai would never grant him honor without conquest. Without cruelty. If turning Hakoda's daughter into a weapon was what it took, then so be it. He would use her. Break her ties to her tribe. Offer her power where her people had denied her.

How powerful would it be... to make a waterbender turn on her own?

To make her turn to him?

The glow faded, water dripping back into the canteen. Katara withdrew her hands, and Zuko flexed his fingers. Pain was gone. Strength had returned. It was as if he'd never been injured at all.

"Thank you," he said quietly. His voice was calmer than she'd ever heard it—steady, almost human.

Her eyes flickered up, surprised. "It's repayment, nothing more."

"It's more than that, Princess." His lips curved into a small, deliberate smile. "You're far from home. Why?"

Katara stiffened, leaning back as though she'd forgotten he still had questions.

"I want to learn more," she said finally, carefully. "There's no one left to teach me there."

"Learn what?" Zuko pressed, reclining on his uninjured arm.

Her swallow was tight, her voice low. "To fight. To defend myself. There's no waterbenders in the South. And no man in my tribe will waste time teaching me any other combat."

Zuko's eyes narrowed slightly. She wanted to fight. And her own people had denied her the chance.

She wanted to learn.

So she would.

And if she learned from him, step by step, blow by blow—her loyalty would shift. Not all at once, but slowly, inevitably. And when Hakoda saw his daughter standing beside the enemy, choosing his side... that would break him.

Either Hakoda surrendered, and the Fire Nation claimed victory.

Or Hakoda accepted them, and they turned against Ozai together instead.

One path led to honor in his father's eyes.

The other to the throne itself.

Either way, Katara would be the key.

Her loyalty. His throne.

Almost too simple.

"Where do you plan on going to be taught?" Zuko asked, his tone deceptively calm.

"The North has waterbenders." Katara's voice carried a stubborn edge, as if saying it aloud would make it true. "They'll have teachers."

Zuko shook his head slowly, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Benders, yes. Teachers, yes. But for you? No—not one."

Katara's brows knit together, her arms crossing over her chest. The motion was unconscious, defensive, but it only drew Zuko's attention to her posture—how fiercely she stood, how unaware she was of the effect she had. He forced his gaze away, masking the flicker of heat in his chest.

"There's a reason the Fire Nation wins," he continued, voice sharpening with conviction. "One reason among many. We don't waste talent. Our women fight, command, and carve their own place on the battlefield. My great-grandfather once said, 'If they have fire, let it burn.' We honor that. But the Water Tribes? Even much of the Earth Kingdom? They'll never give you that chance. You'll always be told no."

"You're lying," Katara whispered, though the defiance in her eyes faltered. "There's someone out there who can teach me. Someone who will."

"Yes," Zuko said, leaning forward. He grasped her hand in the one she had only just healed. His touch was firm, grounding, as though he could anchor her storm with sheer will. "Me. You want to learn to fight? I'll teach you. Your bending will be trickier, but we'll find a way."

Her eyes flicked down to their joined hands. His scarred, calloused fingers wrapped around hers, warm and unyielding. She didn't pull away.

"What's in it for you?" Her voice was low, careful—steel wrapped in silk. "You're the Fire Prince. My opposite. My enemy. You gain nothing from teaching me."

Zuko intertwined their fingers, thumb brushing across the back of her hand in slow, deliberate strokes. His words were smooth, but his eyes burned with a dangerous sincerity. "I've been at sea for three years. Do you know what that does to a man? It's monotonous. Empty. What I gain is... entertainment. But you, Princess you'll gain strength."

Gold met blue, and something shifted.

For the briefest moment, Katara's gaze flared not just with rage, but with longing. A spark. Dangerous, impossible, but real.

He has her.

Hook. Line. Sink.

She said nothing. Instead, she withdrew her hand and folded it primly into her lap. Her curls tumbled into her face as she lowered her eyes, but Zuko could tell she was thinking—turning over his offer, his words, his touch.

But he needed more than thought. He needed action. Acceptance.

He reached out before he could stop himself, brushing a brown curl from her cheek and tucking it carefully behind her ear. The intimacy of the gesture startled even him.

"There may be another reason," he muttered, quieter now, like a confession.

Her eyes lifted, curiosity sparking. "Another reason?"

Zuko held her gaze, allowing the silence to thrum between them before answering. "I'd like to see you every day. You have a rare beauty, Princess. One I haven't seen before."

He told himself it was part of the plan. Words to lure her closer, to weave her into his game.

But as he watched her cheeks flush and her lashes lower, Zuko felt the truth gnawing at him.

For once, it wasn't a lie.

Katara froze, the words hitting her harder than she wanted them to. She told herself it was flattery, empty Fire Nation manipulation meant to twist her. She told herself not to believe it, not to fall for the honeyed tone of a man who was supposed to be her enemy.

And yet—her chest tightened, warmth spread through her cheeks, and something fragile in her heart fluttered like it had never been touched before. No one back home had ever said things like this to her. No one had ever looked at her like that.

It was dangerous. It was foolish. She hated herself for even caring. But when she turned her face away, biting the inside of her cheek, it wasn't just out of anger—it was because she was afraid he'd see the truth in her eyes.

That a part of her wanted to believe him.

"Of course, I can drop you off at an Earth Kingdom port. Perhaps you'll find a place there. Or a way back home..." Zuko runs a hand through his hair. Reaching to pull a golden ribbon tied around his wrist, he undoes it with one pull. Slowly he gathers his fallen hair and secures it into a tight bun. Only one stubborn strand curls beautifully in the front.

"But have you thought any of this through, Katara?" He asks. The use of her name with no title catches her attention. She's not angry. If anything, she's listening more closely now. "Does your father know you're far from home?"

Her lips dip into a frown, the wobble in them betraying the weight of the truth. "No, I just needed to do this. I need to do more than sit in the healing hut. I needed more of a future than healing, a warrior husband, and too many kids to raise."

She shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping. "You wouldn't understand."

"Try me," Zuko states coldly.

Katara flinches at the edge in his tone, but she doesn't retreat. Instead, she turns her body fully toward him on the cot, her eyes darting to the corners of the cabin as if realizing for the first time that Doctor Mu had been gone far too long. They are alone.

"My brother is Crown Prince. He's the future Chief. He's the male, the warrior, the leader in my father's absence," Katara explains, her voice steady though her hands tremble in her lap. "I'm the waterbender. A princess in name. But he told me this, before I left: 'You're a woman, Katara. You're not a fighter. Never will be.'"

Her throat tightens, but she pushes on, watching Zuko's reaction carefully. "Sokka didn't believe I could be anything more than his healer. Staying would only ensure I became everything he expected."

"What of Hakoda, your father?" Zuko presses.

"He hasn't been home long enough to properly care in years." Her answer is sharp, cold, the bitterness of abandonment clinging to every word. "I shouldn't trust you. I don't. But I want to learn. I need to. If you'll teach me, I'll learn."

Zuko's gaze softens almost imperceptibly, but his smile carries something sharper. "Welcome to the Wani, Katara. Your training starts after we leave the next port town. I suggest you get accustomed to life on the ship before then."

He stands, rolling his sleeve down, his hand already reaching for the door. The moment feels like it's slipping too quickly, and Katara acts before she can think. She grabs his arm just as his fingers brush the handle.

"Prince Zuko..." Her voice falters. She isn't looking at him, not directly, but her fingers tighten around his wrist as though anchoring herself. "Thank you... for giving me a chance."

Zuko glances down at her hand, the smallness of it against his skin. Something flickers in his chest—something he does not want to name.

"Join me for dinner. Tonight. Every night." His voice is softer now, but it carries command all the same. "And we'll call it even."

Her hold lingers a moment longer before she forces herself to let go. The loss is almost invisible.

But he feels it.

And though he doesn't let it show, he almost misses it.

Chapter Text

She followed behind the young firebending soldier, Tera.

He was older than Zuko not by much, but enough for her to notice. His shoulders were broader, his steps more grounded, his face hardened by experience. Still, for all his maturity, he remained one of the youngest aboard Zuko's crew.

Katara couldn't help but compare him to the Prince with every measured stride. Tera wasn't as tall as Zuko, but his build was sturdier, his eyes a plain, earthy brown—not the molten gold that seemed to sear right through her when Zuko looked her way.

Tera had been nothing but polite, his tone respectful, his manner patient. The tour of the Wani with him had been surprisingly pleasant. And yet, Katara noticed the slight wince every time his right shoulder shifted at the wrong angle. Concern prickled her more with every turn they made down the narrow passageways.

"This will be yours, by order of the Prince." Tera stopped at a door identical to a dozen others, his hand gripping the handle. With a low creak, he pushed it open.

She stepped past him into the room. It wasn't large, but it wasn't cramped either. Shelves lined two walls, stuffed with scrolls and worn books. A small desk sat opposite, its surface marked with a dried ink stain. Against the far wall rested a narrow cot, neatly made.

Tera lingered in the doorway as though the threshold itself marked a boundary he dared not cross.

"We didn't have a true spare," he admitted. "Prince Zuko's been using this as a personal study and library. But... he said it's yours now. And you're welcome to read anything that interests you."

Katara turned, surprise flickering across her face. "Then I'm taking up his space?"

"If he minded," Tera said, rubbing the back of his neck—only to flinch at the strain on his bad shoulder, "he would have found another answer. This is yours while you're here. Make yourself at home."

Her fingers brushed along the spines of the books as she sighed. Her new space. Her new room. Could she really call it home?

But when she glanced back, Tera was still there, rooted to the open door. Watching her. Nervous.

"Are you injured, Tera?" Katara asked at last, her brow furrowing. "Your right shoulder—something's wrong, isn't it?"

He waved her off with his left hand. "It's just a sparring injury. Nothing time and burn salve can't fix."

She crossed her arms. "But I could heal it. There's no need for you to suffer. In fact, I'll help anyone on this ship who's injured. That's what I do."

Tera chuckled awkwardly and shifted back into the hall. "I appreciate the offer, Lady Katara, but I'll manage."

Her frown deepened. "You're backing away from me. Did I say something to make you uncomfortable?"

Color rose in his cheeks. "No! Not at all. It's just..." He hesitated, glancing down the corridor as if to be sure they were alone. "Prince Zuko gave orders."

"Orders?" Katara's arms fell to her sides. "What does Zuko have to do with me helping you?"

Tera's voice dropped, calm but firm, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "You're off-limits, Lady Katara. None of us are to come within a foot of you. Certainly not close enough for you to lay hands on us—even to heal."

Katara froze.

And suddenly, the distance made sense. Why he'd kept several paces ahead during the entire tour. Why he hadn't stepped inside any of the rooms they passed through. Why he hovered at thresholds instead of crossing them.

Zuko had drawn a circle around her. A command. A cage.

But why?

Her chest tightened. "Off limits?" she repeated, the words sour on her tongue. "Like I'm some kind of prisoner?"

Tera shifted uneasily. "I wouldn't call it that—"

"Then what would you call it?" Katara stepped closer, her frustration rising. "Why can't I help you? Why can't I help anyone? Healing isn't a weapon."

"It's not my place to explain," Tera said carefully, gaze flicking to the floor as if the planks might offer escape.

"Then whose place is it?" she pressed, her voice sharper now. "The Prince's? Does he think I'll poison you with water? That I'll attack my own patients?"

"I don't know," Tera admitted, his tone apologetic but firm. "All I know is what I've been told. And I follow orders."

Katara stared at him, heat rising in her cheeks. The answer wasn't enough—it couldn't be. But she could see in the way his jaw tightened that he truly didn't know more. He was just as bound by Zuko's command as she now seemed to be.

Her fists clenched at her sides. Zuko had saved her life, given her a room, even offered to train her... and yet at the same time, he was isolating her, keeping her at arm's length from everyone else on this ship.

Not a guest. Not a prisoner. Something in between.

Something she didn't have a name for.

Tera left quickly after telling her Zuko would come to her when it was time for dinner. At dinner, she'd ask. She had to. If she was a prisoner, she wanted the truth. If she wasn't, then... what exactly did this deal between them entail?

—

She was halfway through a stack of brittle scrolls when the knock finally came. Three sharp raps, quick and commanding. Katara jumped, hastily returning the scroll to its shelf. Some of the books she'd skimmed had been in the common tongue, but others... others were strange, written in curling Fire Nation script she couldn't read. Knowledge locked away from her, same as everything else on this ship.

The knock came again.

Katara smoothed her palms against her tunic before tugging the door open.

Zuko stood there. No armor this time. His hair pulled back into a near-perfect topknot, a golden ribbon cinched tight. Without the harsh metal and smoke of the battlefield around him, he looked different. Collected. Relaxed, even. Almost princely.

"Can I come in?" His brow lifted, the faintest edge of amusement in his voice. "Or are you just going to stare?"

Katara flushed hot, stepping aside quickly. "Come on in, of course."

He moved past her with easy confidence, claiming the desk like it belonged to him—as it had, before it had been given to her. Katara perched carefully on the edge of the bed, suddenly all too aware of the smallness of the room.

"And I wasn't staring..." she added, a touch defensive.

Zuko let out a dry chuckle, lips tugging in the shape of a smirk. "If you say so, Princess." He leaned back against the desk, arms folding. "Someone will be around with tea and dinner soon."

The words slipped out before she could temper them. "Will they be able to enter the room, or do they have to keep their distance from me too?"

Sharp. Too sharp. But she was tired of circling questions in her head with no answers.

Zuko's expression didn't flicker with offense. "What are you asking?"

"I was told you gave an order." Katara's chin lifted, eyes hard. "That no one was to come within a foot of me."

No flinching. No hesitation. Just calm acknowledgment.

"I did."

The honesty hit harder than a lie would have. He didn't even try to hide it. Didn't look guilty.

Zuko braced an elbow on the desk, his posture casual in a way that grated against her urgency. "This ship's crew is all men, Katara. Men who have been at sea for three years. Yes, some are kind, like Tera..." His golden eyes slid to hers, unblinking. "But others are unpredictable."

Katara let out a harsh, disbelieving huff. "So what? You're trying to protect me?" She shook her head, curls slipping loose around her face. "You must not think very highly of your own men if you just expect one of them to attack me."

Zuko clicked his tongue, somewhere between annoyance and disbelief. "It's caution, Katara. There are over thirty men on this ship—and one pretty girl. You'd be naive not to recognize the danger. And I'd be a fool not to set boundaries."

The words struck deeper than she wanted them to. One pretty girl. Said so plainly, like it was just fact. Not a compliment, not flattery, but part of the equation.

Her chest tightened. Heat rushed to her cheeks before she could stop it, traitorous and obvious. She forced herself to scoff, crossing her arms like a shield. "You make it sound like I'm some... liability."

Zuko's gaze sharpened, but not cruelly. "I'm making it sound like you're valuable."

Katara blinked, thrown off-balance. That wasn't what she expected. Not from him.

Her throat went dry. She swallowed, trying to push away the unsteady beat of her heart. "Valuable," she echoed, as if tasting the word. "That sounds an awful lot like prisoner to me."

"Not a prisoner," he corrected, steady and unflinching. "And not a guest. Something in between."

The same words she had whispered to herself earlier. They stung on his tongue.

Katara's pulse quickened. She stared at him, searching for a crack in his calm, some hint of mockery—but all she found was quiet certainty, as though he'd already thought through every angle and chosen this ground to stand on.

Her nails dug into her arms through the fabric of her sleeves. She hated how his words twisted inside her, hated the spark of curiosity that came with them.

"And what does that even mean?" she demanded, more breathless than she wanted. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

Zuko leaned back in the chair, his expression unreadable now. "That's for you to decide."

Katara exhaled shakily, unsettled. She wanted to argue, to press harder, but her thoughts tangled in too many directions—pride and suspicion pulling one way, the restless flutter of something unnamed tugging the other.

For a flicker of a moment, she wished Tera were still here. Someone safe to ask, someone who might untangle this meaning. But Tera hadn't known, and Katara doubted she ever would.

So she sat in the silence that followed, feeling the weight of his eyes, the unsteady rhythm of her own heart, and the unbearable truth that she had no answers either.

The knock at the door came almost as a relief. A soldier handed Zuko a tray with two cups, a pot of tea, and bowls of food before bowing out quickly. Zuko carried the tray to the desk and set it down with a muted clatter. The door closed, leaving them alone again.

Katara swallowed, hoping tea and dinner might smooth the edges between them. It seemed neither of them knew exactly what to do with the other.

He handed her a bowl and a cup, wordless but not unkind. Katara placed the tea on the floor by her feet, balancing the bowl of fish and rice in her lap. Zuko stayed at the desk, posture rigid but eyes fixed on her even as he took his first bite.

The silence stretched too long. Finally, Katara blurted, "What's your favorite color?"

Zuko's lips tugged into the smallest smile, amusement flickering across his scarred face. "Gold."

Of course. Katara's chest tightened. Of course it would be gold—the same shade that haunted her in his eyes, the shade that made her feel seen and burned all at once.

"I like lavender," she said softly, surprising herself. "Not purple as a whole—just lavender. It's a color that's both warm and cool."

One of his brows rose, intrigued. "Colors have temperatures now?"

Katara shifted, uncertain if he was mocking her or genuinely curious. "In the way they make you feel. Blue will always be cold to me. The color of my tribe—ice, snow, the sea." She hesitated, fingers tightening around her bowl. "Gold is hot. Like red and orange."

Zuko gave a low snort, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You must not have had much to do if you sat around thinking about the temperature of colors."

The words pricked. Katara winced, heat rising to her cheeks. "I had plenty to do back home. I worked endlessly in the Healing Hut..." Her voice cracked defensively, sharper than she meant. She glanced down at her food to hide her reaction, wishing she hadn't started talking at all.

"How was the work in the Healing Hut?" His voice cut through her discomfort, low and even. "Did you enjoy it?"

Katara blinked, caught off guard. She tapped her spoon against the edge of her bowl. "It was important. Fulfilling, in some ways. But I wanted more... more than the same four walls, more than fixing every scrape and bruise from my brother's carelessness."

"He was a regular patient, then?"

Her lips curved despite herself. She looked up and found him watching her, truly listening. It was strange. Strange, and comforting.

"Yeah. Sokka's reckless. Brave, but reckless. He's always charging in, always trying to save everyone else. And he means well—he's so protective—but sometimes..." She exhaled, shaking her head. "Sometimes I wish he would've let me prove myself. I can do more. I know I can."

"You will, Katara," Zuko said simply, but there was weight behind it. A promise, almost. "We're docking in a port town by morning. You'll need proper supplies, and clothing besides my tunic."

Her gaze dropped to the red fabric draped around her knees. She tugged at the hem. "Wait... this is yours?"

"It was." His mouth quirked in something not quite a smile. "You can keep it. I rather like the way it looks on you."

The words hit harder than she expected. Her ears burned, and she quickly ducked her head, pretending to fuss with her bowl. Silence lingered, heavy but not uncomfortable this time—an unspoken shift between them, fragile and uncertain.

Katara sipped her tea, trying to steady her heart. Not a guest. Not a prisoner. Something in between. And for the first time since stepping onto this ship, she wondered if maybe that was a place she could find her own strength.

Chapter Text

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Nephew?"

Zuko didn't answer right away. His uncle's tone was too casual, but his eyes sharp beneath the droop of age, studied him too closely. Always studying. Always prying.

"She's here for a reason," Zuko said flatly. "That's all you need to know."

Iroh hummed, the sound low and knowing in the back of his throat. "Ah. Then I was right."

Zuko's brow furrowed, but before he could demand what that meant, Iroh went on, hands folded behind his back as they walked the corridor together.

"I understand this girl must be very pretty, Zuko. I have seen the way your eyes follow her. But I advise caution. At your age, hormones can cloud judgment. What feels like strategy may only be..." Iroh let the word linger, his mouth quirking, "...infatuation."

Zuko's ears burned, though not for the reason his uncle assumed. "We are not discussing this." His voice was sharp, final.

Iroh only sighed as if he'd expected such a response. "I only worry you'll mistake distraction for destiny. It has happened to many men before you."

Zuko clenched his fists, resisting the urge to snap. He wasn't distracted. He wasn't keeping Katara because of her eyes, her voice, or the way she'd looked at him in the infirmary. She was leverage. A tool to turn Hakoda's world inside out. And Uncle, soft, sentimental Uncle—could never understand that.

Without another word, Zuko strode ahead, knocking sharply on the cabin door when they reached it. His voice was cool, steady again. "She should be ready."

Uncle lingered behind him with another of those long, weighted sighs. But Zuko ignored it.

Katara wasn't here because of feelings. She was here to help him win back everything that had been taken from him.

And she didn't even know it yet.

The door slid open in an instant. Katara stood in the frame wearing his black tunic, cinched at her waist and falling just high enough above her knees to make her tug at the hem with restless fingers. As though pulling hard enough might coax the fabric to grow longer. Her blue eyes lifted to meet his, uncertainty tugging at her mouth.

"I can go into town like this?" she asked slowly. "It feels... indecent."

Yes. That was precisely one reason he liked it.

But with her discomfort so clear, and Uncle looming at his side, Zuko kept that thought buried.

"You'll need to be measured for clothes," he said instead, voice flat and practical. "It can't be done if you stay on the ship. And I only have so many spare tunics to give you."

She gave a reluctant nod, stepping into the corridor and letting him slide the door shut behind her. Her gaze shifted to his uncle.

"Ah, so you must be Katara..." Iroh's voice was warm, his bow deeper than necessary. "My nephew tells me you'll be traveling with us. I am Iroh, Zuko's uncle."

Katara's face softened into a polite smile. "It's nice to meet you, Iroh."

"And it is lovely to meet you, my dear. I look forward to hearing all your stories. It will make our journey far less dull."

A light laugh escaped her, girlish and unguarded, and Zuko felt irritation prickle low in his chest. Uncle always managed to disarm people in a way he never could.

When the gangplank clattered beneath their feet, Iroh paused to wave them off. "An old man has no need to keep up with the young on a day this beautiful. You two enjoy yourselves." With a knowing smile, he wandered off in the opposite direction of the seamstress' shop.

Katara fell into step beside Zuko and the two soldiers shadowing them, but it wasn't long before she pulled ahead, her pace quickening as her wide eyes devoured everything around her.

The port town was alive with noise and color—sails flapping in the breeze, merchants shouting prices, baskets of bright fruits and glistening fish carried down the dock. Beyond the port stretched narrow dirt streets crowded with wooden stalls. Vines crawled up stone walls, their leaves thick and glossy. Somewhere nearby, cicadas buzzed in a steady chorus.

Katara spun slowly in place, lifting her face toward the sun. "It's so warm," she whispered, almost to herself.

Her wonder drew stares. A pair of fishermen paused, one of them grinning as he moved toward her.

No. Absolutely not.

Zuko was at her side in an instant, his arm looping firmly around her shoulders before the man could come close. His voice was low, sharp. "Katara, stick close. There are too many people here."

Her lips parted, the beginnings of an argument on her tongue, but when her eyes flicked to the fisherman's sneer, she stopped short. "Right. Sorry. It's just... I've never been anywhere like this before."

Zuko let his arm fall back to his side, though her hand lingered against the crook of his elbow.

She didn't seem to notice what she was doing.

"It's warm here," she said again, almost giddy this time. She stepped off the wooden boardwalk and planted her boots squarely in the dirt road, bending to press her palm into the soil. "And there's dirt! Back home it's all snow and ice." She looked up at him with a bright, unguarded smile. "Can you believe it? Dirt."

Her laugh carried through the bustle of the street—light and free, so unlike the heavy clang of smithing hammers, the bark of vendors, or the creak of fishing nets straining under their catch. Zuko didn't smile back. He rarely did. But something tightened in his chest all the same.

"There will be dirt at every town we stop at," he said dryly, steering her down the road, her hand still wrapped neatly around his arm.

"It's not just the dirt..." Katara shook her head with a grin, her eyes chasing a strange insect that glittered in the sun as it passed. "It's how alive everything is. At home, the world is quiet, frozen. Few plants grow, fewer insects survive. The colors are endless white and shadowy blue, all of it bound in ice and snow."

Her voice softened, almost reverent. "But here... it's like the world is breathing."

The road carried them beyond the bustling port, where stalls of fruit and meat gave way to sparser shops and, eventually, the wild edges of green where the town met the land. The smell of brine and fish faded into damp earth and crushed leaves beneath their boots. Katara's hand squeezed tighter around his arm, and he slowed, brow raised in silent question.

Before he could ask, she pulled away, crouching low before a bloom nestled at the path's edge. Its petals spread wide, white at the center with a dusting of gold, fading into a halo of deep blue at the edges. It seemed almost to shimmer, the way certain things in the wild do when they belong more to old stories than to the present day.

The soldiers trailing them shifted, but stayed respectfully behind. Zuko crouched at Katara's side, more out of duty than wonder. Still, he couldn't ignore how she leaned close, as though she were memorizing the flower with every breath.

"This one I know," he said, voice low. "I can't tell you much, I'm a prince, not a florist but it's called the Silent Princess."

Katara traced a petal with her fingertips, careful as if touch alone might bruise it. "The Silent Princess... why that name?"

"I'm not sure. It's rare, grows only in the wild. But I think there's an old legend about it, something about resilience or impossible wishes." His hand went to the back of his neck, a nervous habit. "I may have a book on the ship that mentions it."

Her smile bloomed almost as bright as the flower. She stood, tugging at his hand until he rose with her. "Then I'd like to read it."

They continued down the path, the greenery growing denser as the street curved toward the seamstress's shop. "And Zuko..." she added softly.

"Yes, Princess?" His tone was guarded, but his gaze flicked toward her.

"You could always be a florist if you wanted to," she teased, giggling at his puzzled look. "Might suit you better than being a prince."

His golden eyes narrowed, but she only grinned wider.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because maybe you wouldn't be so grumpy if you spent your days surrounded by flowers. You're too stiff as Prince Zuko. But Florist Zuko? He might even be happy."

"I am happy."

But the words rang hollow, even to his own ears.

They walked in silence the rest of the way, but the moment they crossed the threshold of the seamstress shop, noise swallowed them whole. Women's chatter, the snip of scissors, and the hum of sewing needles filled the warm, fabric-laden air.

Katara had barely stepped through the door before a round, silver-haired woman with a sharp eye descended upon her. Lady Jo, as Zuko recalled, the seamstress who ran half this port town with nothing but thread and her tongue.

"You poor girl," Lady Jo clucked, glaring at Katara's makeshift tunic-turned-dress. "Fire soldiers never know how to treat a lady—especially a breathtaking one like you."

Zuko's brow twitched. Fire soldiers. That was a slight he couldn't ignore.

Before he could correct her, Lady Jo met his gaze head-on and scoffed, the sound sharp as the snap of thread. "Oh, even worse. The Fire Prince put you in such a state. Baby, he may be rich, but you deserve better than this... dreadfulness."

Zuko's jaw tightened. He was a prince of the Fire Nation, heir to an empire, not some bumbling boy to be scolded. And yet—something about the fearless way she spoke, without bowing, without flinching—was... almost impressive. Almost.

Katara laughed softly, awkward but earnest. "I'm here to get out of this dreadfulness. Prince Zuko saved me from a shipwreck. He's been... nice enough since I came aboard."

Lady Jo snorted like Katara had told the funniest joke in the world. With a snap of her fingers, she barked for a younger seamstress to take Katara to the back. "Nice enough, she says. The audacity."

Then those hawk-sharp eyes pinned Zuko again, her hands braced on her hips like she'd dealt with far scarier things than princes. "Listen here, boy. I don't care if your father's Fire Lord Ozai or King Bumi himself. You treat that young woman right. Ain't no one disrespecting a lady under my roof—not even some Prince."

Zuko's first instinct was to bristle, to remind her exactly who she was speaking to. But instead, he found himself silent, caught between irritation and a grudging admiration. Few dared speak to him so directly. Fewer still lived to scold him twice.

His uncle would have loved her.

Nonetheless, Lady Jo waves him toward a chair in the cramped lobby like he's just another impatient husband waiting out his wife's shopping. Zuko lowers himself stiffly, listening to the chorus of voices in the back.

Fussing. Always fussing.

"No, it should be blue!" one voice insisted.

"Make it pink!" another fired back.

Zuko closed his eyes with a breath through his nose. He was going to be here for a while. Still, Lady Jo was known throughout this colony for her speed. People whispered that she had a gift, even a kind of magic, for finding the perfect fit and style for anyone. Zuko hoped she had something ready-made—Katara's small frame and lean build might make her an easy fit. If they started talking about custom orders, he'd be here until next week.

The curtain jingled. He opened his eyes to see Lady Jo herself emerge, all business.

"I have plenty of attire that fits Lady Katara," she declared. "She's basically a dream model for any designer. Honestly, I almost wish she'd stay here and let me dress her every day."

Zuko's face didn't so much as twitch.

Lady Jo clicked her tongue, unimpressed. "But clearly you've laid claim to her."

His golden eyes narrowed. He didn't dignify her words with a response—just straightened in his seat until his silence became an answer of its own.

Then Katara stepped out.

The dress was not blue. It was a soft, dusty pink trimmed in gold, with a whisper of Fire Nation red stitched cleverly into the seams. The sleeves flared delicately at her wrists, the top cut just short of the skirt so that a slip of her midriff showed when she moved. It wasn't formal—not noble court attire, but the kind of gown a young woman might wear wandering a port town on a warm day. Casual, unpretentious... but devastating all the same.

"Does it look okay?" she asked, voice soft, uncertain. "It's so different from my Water Tribe clothes."

The truth?

She was breathtaking. She put every girl he'd known in the Caldera to shame. Mai with her sharp edges, Ty Lee with her endless acrobat's grin—neither compared to the sight of Katara, standing proud and self-conscious all at once in borrowed Fire Nation colors.

"It's very nice," Zuko said, the words carefully composed, even as something inside him tightened like a bowstring. He rose to his feet, already turning toward Lady Jo. "I'll take whatever you have for her."

Lady Jo arched an eyebrow at him, as if unimpressed with how quickly he'd surrendered. "Mm. Thought so. Men like you never last more than two minutes in my shop. Always gruff, always impatient, then throwing coin at the problem. Typical."

Zuko's jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Lady Jo swept past him without waiting for a reply, fussing over Katara again. She tugged lightly at the sleeve, adjusted the waistband, then tilted her head as though she were an artist looking at her favorite canvas.

"My dear, you glow in this. Don't let that boy convince you otherwise," Lady Jo said warmly, patting Katara's arm.

Katara flushed, ducking her head with a shy smile. "It feels strange, but... I do like it. Thank you."

"Strange is good," Lady Jo replied, her tone brisk. "Strange means you're becoming more than what you were told to be."

Zuko shifted, his patience thinning. He wasn't used to being dismissed so easily—much less by some wrinkled seamstress in a port town. And yet... there was something oddly impressive in her boldness. Very few people dared to talk to him that way, not even nobles back in the Caldera.

Lady Jo turned back to him one last time, sharp eyes narrowing. "You hear me, Prince? I don't care if you wear that crown of yours sideways—don't let me find out you're mistreating this girl. I've chased worse men than you out of my shop with a broom."

A flicker of heat curled low in Zuko's chest, though not from anger alone. The old woman's audacity was infuriating... and almost admirable. Still, his reply came out clipped, curt.

"She'll have what she needs."

Lady Jo snorted, already ushering Katara back toward the curtain for more fittings. "Hmph. We'll see if you live up to that."

Zuko exhaled slowly through his nose, sinking back into the chair with the weight of a man who knew this would take much longer than he'd hoped.

His uncle really would have loved her.

Chapter Text

She couldn't believe any of this.

Her room aboard the Wani hardly felt like the same space anymore. At first, it had been clear she was only borrowing Zuko's private study, a room meant for maps, strategy, and sharp-edged authority. But now it breathed like a place someone actually lived in. A large mirror had been hung above the desk, turning it into a makeshift vanity. A carved chest rested by the bookshelves, brimming with soft fabrics and delicate folds of clothing that still didn't feel real beneath her fingers.

Thanks to Iroh, there was a neat little tray of powders, brushes, and tinted glosses on the desk, as well as a small lacquered box filled with jewelry—rings, bracelets, even a pair of earrings she hadn't been brave enough to try yet. Of course, the mirror itself had been Iroh's touch. Katara could almost hear his gentle insistence, see his pleased smile when he had it delivered.

The room looked like it belonged to a woman now. Katara wasn't sure if she was that woman.

It was all so different from the South. Her chamber in the palace back home (if "palace" was even the right word anymore) had been cold and practical. She'd seen old sketches of the ice palace before the Fire Nation raids: towers that sparkled like crystal, staircases that gleamed like frozen rivers. All that grandeur had been lost long before she was born. What remained was a proud but diminished home, a mansion of snow that bent to the will of the wind.

Here, there was no sharp sting of frost in the air, no firepit glowing against icy walls. No whites or deep blues surrounding her. Instead, blacks, reds, and golds filled every corner. Bold colors. Heavy colors. Colors that belonged to people who took space instead of yielding to it.

Even the details were foreign. Jewelry at home had been carved from bone and shell, each line etched with care, with history. The Fire Nation's pieces glittered with gemstones and polished metals—cold in a different way, gleaming like captured stars. Makeup in the South had been for war paint, stripes of strength before battle. Here, powders and glosses softened her edges, brought warmth to her cheeks and shine to her lips.

And yet... she liked it.

She liked the way the red gloss stained her mouth, catching the light when she smiled. She liked the delicate clink of the gold bracelet on her wrist, how it made her feel dressed even when she wore nothing but a plain tunic. She liked the way the pink fabric of her new dress clung to her lightly, reminding her with every brush of movement that she wasn't bound to furs anymore.

And still, her mother's necklace sat against her collarbone, cool and steady, the pendant a vibrant blue that refused to blend in. It clashed with the Fire Nation red but not in a tasteless way. No, it defined her. Marked her. Reminded her.

She might wear their silks. She might even learn to paint her lips and fasten gold at her wrists. But the pendant was proof that beneath all of it, she was Water Tribe. Always.

A crisp knock sounded at her door, pulling Katara away from her reflection in the mirror. They had left the port town that morning, and now it was time again for her ritual dinner with Zuko. Part of their deal, part of the routine that had somehow become... expected.

She opened the door in one smooth motion—half-expecting Zuko himself but instead found Tera standing there with a tray balanced carefully in his hands, his expression caught somewhere between annoyance and resignation.

"You Zuko's new errand boy, Tera?" Katara teased, her laugh light and playful.

Tera scowled, shouldering past her to set the tray down on the desk. He moved carefully, making sure not to disturb the scatter of powders, brushes, and jewelry she'd left out earlier. "I got a lucky hit in during our spar this morning," he muttered. "Don't let Prince Zuko know, but he's a sour loser sometimes."

Katara had to bite down on her lip to keep from laughing outright. Zuko's reflection appeared in the doorway behind her, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed. Tera, oblivious, continued fussing with the tray until Zuko's voice cut through the room like a blade.

"Except you didn't win, Tera." His tone was flat, but edged with amusement. "I'm impressed you finally managed to block that kata but you were on your ass a moment later."

Tera went stiff, his ears flushing red. "Yes, of course, Prince Zuko. My apologies." He gave a stiff bow before retreating hastily toward the door, all but brushing past Katara in his rush.

She caught his eye and offered him a reassuring smile. "I'm sure you did fine."

When she closed the door behind him, she turned back to find Zuko already seated at the desk, arms no longer crossed but his posture no less guarded. He looked every bit the Prince again, as though he hadn't just been caught eavesdropping in the hallway.

"Not a sour loser, huh?" Katara laughed softly, sinking down with her bowl. "And yet Tera's the one running errands?"

This time, Zuko's lips twitched caught somewhere between annoyance and reluctant amusement.

"Am I going to be doing maid work if I beat you in training?" Katara teased, her eyes bright with mischief.

Zuko rolled his eyes. "You'll have to learn how to throw a punch first, Princess. We're not even starting basic hand-to-hand until tomorrow."

Katara shrugged, slipping her spoon into her mouth before adding with mock innocence, "Does training mean you're actually going to hit a girl? How will your soldiers feel, watching their Prince give me black eyes?" She grinned, leaning into the jab. "Imagine if Lady Jo found out that would really ruin your image."

Zuko clicked his tongue in irritation, but the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest curve. "I'm not going to give you a black eye. I'm teaching you, not beating you up."

Katara tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Mm, so no black eyes then... maybe just a fat lip?"

He groaned low in his throat, rubbing a hand across his scarred temple. "Spirits, you're insufferable."

Katara only laughed, clearly pleased to have gotten under his skin. After that, she let him finish his meal in peace. When his cup clicked gently against the saucer, she rose from her bed and drifted toward the shelves, running her fingers across the spines of his scrolls and books.

"What are you looking for?" Zuko's voice came from just behind her, quiet but close enough to send a shiver down her spine.

She tilted her head back, brushing against the heat of his chest as her shoulders touched him. "You said you had something on the Silent Princess. I'm curious."

Without hesitation, he reached over her head and plucked a worn book from the shelf as though he'd known exactly where it was. "It's written in Middle Fire Nation tongue. You won't be able to read it."

Still, he handed it to her. Katara carried it back to the bed, opening to the first page. An intricate illustration greeted her—delicate petals of a pale flower framed by two figures: a woman cloaked in light on one side, a swordsman standing guard on the other. But when she turned the page, her eyes tripped over the unfamiliar script, dense and curling in patterns she couldn't decipher.

The mattress dipped beside her, and immediately she felt him—his warmth radiating like a second hearth. He wasn't sitting indecently close, but the nearness of his fire was impossible to ignore. With quiet patience, Zuko slipped the book from her hands and rested it in his lap.

"How about I tell you what it says," he offered, eyes scanning the text, "instead of you trying to piece it together from the drawings?"

Katara smiled softly and leaned closer, close enough to share the view of the illustrations across his arm. "I'd like that."

And so he began. He told her the story of Princess Zelda and her knight, Link—the way Zelda struggled against the weight of her destiny, how her sacred power only awakened when she fought to save him. Link, broken and near death, was hidden away to heal while Zelda faced the Calamity alone, holding back its darkness for a hundred years. When he finally returned, alive, he fought for her—and together, they prevailed.

Katara frowned thoughtfully. "But what does that have to do with the flower?"

Zuko flipped back through the book until the sketch of the Silent Princess bloomed across the page. His voice lowered as he read and explained, "Because Zelda was the Silent Princess. Bound by her father's expectations, trapped by what she couldn't become... until she found her own strength. The flower thrives where it isn't meant to… untamed, free."

Katara's expression softened as she rested her head against his shoulder, gazing at the drawing of Link offering the flower to Zelda. "I think I can relate to that. But I'd rather save myself than wait for some knight to do it."

Zuko's arm shifted, wrapping around her almost instinctively, steady and protective. "You'll get there. But until then... I might have to protect you."

She didn't answer. Her breathing evened, soft and steady against him, her eyes slipping closed. Katara had fallen asleep on his shoulder, leaving Zuko staring at the flower on the page, his arm holding her as though letting go would break something fragile.

She's starting to trust him and she hasn't even been here that long.

Falling asleep against the enemy Prince. Spirits, if her father or brother could see her now, they'd think she'd lost her mind. What kind of fool would let her guard down this close to Zuko of all people?

He's the son of the man who declared war on her people. The leader of the Nation that burned villages, destroyed fleets, and tore families apart. Orders from his family left her tribe weak and scattered, left her as the last waterbender of the South. By all rights, she should hate him. Loathe him. Spit at the very sight of his scarred face.

And yet... here she is. Sleeping. Vulnerable. Her head resting against his shoulder like he was something safe, something steady. Unbothered by the danger she should feel radiating off of him.

It doesn't make sense.

Yes, he's been... kind. Kinder than she expected, at least. He's bought her clothes that actually fit, made space for her in his quarters, humored her curiosity by reading her stories, and—even if he'll never admit it—he's given her more freedom than most Fire Nation prisoners could dream of. He's treated her like more than just a pawn.

But kindness is a weapon too. It shouldn't be this easy. She knows better than to fall for it. All of this, her comfort, his patience, his small gestures, is meant to weaken her. To make her pliable. To use her against Chief Hakoda. To shatter the Water Tribes' resistance. To secure Zuko's throne.

He should be celebrating how quickly she's begun to lower her walls.

But instead, something in his chest aches.

Because when her weight tips softly against him, it doesn't feel like strategy. It doesn't feel like a victory. It feels... fragile. Precious, almost. As if her trust is some delicate flame cupped in his hands, and he's terrified of snuffing it out.

He even likes it—the way she feels against him. Her warmth. The slow, steady rhythm of her breathing as it brushes his collar. There's a kind of quiet sacredness in holding someone who isn't afraid of you, when the whole world seems to be.

Somehow, impossibly, this girl feels safe enough to sleep in his arms.

But why?

And worse—why does he want to stay?

To lay down beside her. To rest with someone who doesn't fear him. Someone who, by all reason, should fear him. She has every reason to hate him, to loathe his very existence, and even more reason to not respect him. Yet here they are. His arms around her. Her head pressed against his chest.

He's held women before. Close, warm, unguarded. Usually in moments that were fleeting, complicated, or far from innocent. But never like this. Never with someone who looked at him as an equal rather than a prize or a trophy.

Those other women—rich, devoted, proud of proximity to a Fire Nation Prince—they had every reason to be near him. To love him, even a little. They were used to the power, the prestige, the danger.

But she's not any of that.

Katara meets him in rank. She's royalty in her own right, strong, capable, unbowed. She doesn't need him to protect her, to be impressive, to command respect. She simply is.

And somehow, that makes everything more dangerous.

He holds her tighter, letting her warmth settle against him, letting the rhythm of her breathing steady his own. She doesn't pull away. She doesn't flinch. She presses closer, soft and trusting.

Zuko almost expects her to stir, to recoil, to remember for even a heartbeat that he is the enemy. But she doesn't. She trusts him here, now, fully, completely.

And Zuko?

He closes his eyes. Consequences be damned. His mission be damned. Her safety, her trust, the quiet weight of her against him—that is what matters in this moment.

Tomorrow, the world will demand schemes, battles, loyalty, deceit. Tomorrow, the mission will loom again. His throne will call, his plans will unfold, and everything will weigh on them both.

But tonight?

Tonight, he lets it all fall away.

Tonight, he is the safe place she believes him to be.

Tonight, he lets himself feel the pull, the warmth, the fragile intimacy of holding someone so alive, so alive in spite of him.

Just for tonight.

Chapter Text

He's peacefully asleep.

Katara shifts just enough to look at him. The furrow between his brows is gone. The firm scowl he wears like armor is nowhere to be found. Even the faint twitch of a smirk has softened. The Fire Prince beneath her looks... human. Relaxed. Almost (spirits help her) pleased.

When she had first woken in the middle of the night, panic had clawed at her chest. She wanted to shove him off the bed, run, and never look back. But she hadn't.

Because he was warm.

Like a living, breathing blanket of heat pressed against her side. It was a warmth different from the furs of home, different even from the silk sheets aboard the Wani. It seeped into her bones. Comforting. Steady.

Once the shock faded, she had allowed herself to stay.

Katara has never been this close to a man unless it was to heal him—bloodied, broken, struggling to breathe. This... this was nothing like that. This was quiet. Safe. And far more dangerous.

Because she should hate him.

The son of her father's greatest enemy. The Prince of the Nation that turned her tribe into little more than a memory. And yet... she doesn't. Not fully. Not anymore.

Because when he looked at her, he hadn't said "you will never." He had said "you can."

He was giving her a chance—one no one else had. A chance to grow stronger, to fight, to be more.

Katara's gaze lingers on his face a moment longer before she buries her head back against his chest. Her fingers clutch at his shirt almost without her permission, grounding herself in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

This isn't right. Not in any way.

What would her father think?

To be here like this—tangled in sheets with a man she's not married to. Worse still, with the son of the man her father despises most.

She squeezes her eyes shut. She should pull away. She should hate him. But she doesn't. She's never felt safer in her life than she does right now in Zuko's arms.

Maybe—just maybe—she hopes that whatever she is to him... it's something more than a friend.

Her thoughts scatter when his hand moves, heavy and warm, sliding up to rest on the crown of her head. His fingers thread lazily through her curls.

"You know..." his voice is low, ragged with sleep, "...most girls leave before I wake up."

Katara jerks, heat rushing to her cheeks. The meaning in his words is unmistakable.

"I'm not one of those harlots," she snaps, sitting up too quickly, arms crossing defensively over her chest.

Zuko hums in faint amusement, his amber eyes following her. His hand rises again, tugging lightly at one of her curls before she can pull away.

"No," he says simply, "you're far more than any of them."

Her heart stutters treacherously in her chest.

"Why are you even in here?" she demands, trying to sound stern, though her voice wavers.

Zuko doesn't move to leave. Doesn't even look guilty. He just leans back against the headboard as if the bed belongs to him—and so does she.

"You fell asleep on me at dinner," he answers evenly, voice steady in that way that makes it impossible to tell if he's teasing or serious. "I was comfortable. Now it's morning."

Before she can react, his arm snakes around her shoulders and tugs her back against his chest. The motion is effortless, unyielding, like she belongs there whether she agrees or not. His fingers comb lazily through her curls again, each absent stroke making her heartbeat stumble faster. She wonders—spirits, does he know? Can he feel it hammering against his ribs?

"Don't you need to go?" Katara asks quietly, her voice a whisper she hopes will disguise the tremor in it. "Before someone knows you're here..."

Zuko hums in thought, low and distracted, as though her concern is hardly worth the effort. "It's over an hour past sunrise. I've already missed my first spar."

"Oh..." The word slips out before she can stop it. Her mind scrambles for something clever, something scathing, but everything withers away beneath the weight of his warmth. All she can do is fight the drowsy pull of sleep that tries to claim her again while she's curled against him.

"Soon enough," he goes on, his tone wry, "Uncle will grow restless and begin looking for me. He always fears I'm up to no good."

Even without looking at him, Katara can hear the eye roll in his voice. It pulls the corner of her mouth into a reluctant smile.

"And you normally stay out of trouble?" she teases, tilting her head just enough for her words to brush against his collar.

He lets out a dry chuckle, one that vibrates through his chest beneath her ear. "No. He definitely has plenty of reasons to suspect me."

That earns him a raised brow. Katara lifts herself up, just enough to catch his gaze. His amber eyes flick to hers with a spark of mischief, sharp and bright, and her breath stutters.

"And staying here is going to help with that?" she challenges, though the amusement in her voice betrays her.

For the first time since meeting him, she sees him smile. Not the faint, reluctant curl of lips she's caught glimpses of. No—this is something else entirely. A grin so wicked, so unapologetically smug, it makes her stomach flip. A grin that all but declares, I'm up to no good, and I like it.

"Absolutely not," he admits shamelessly. "Uncle believes you're here because I'm infatuated by your beauty."

Her breath catches, and she ducks her head quickly to hide the heat creeping into her cheeks. "But that's not true..." she mutters, the protest weak even to her own ears.

"It partly is." His voice dips lower, softer, brushing the shell of her ear like firelight flickering against skin. Before she can recoil, he presses a feather-light kiss to the top of her head. The gesture is disarming, startling in its gentleness.

"Not even I can deny a pretty girl," he murmurs.

It's a smooth line. Too smooth, delivered with just enough sweetness to make it dangerous. Katara knows she should roll her eyes, shove him off the bed, put an end to this before it becomes something she can't take back. And yet—her chest flutters, traitorous and light. A part of her wants to lean in closer, to believe him, because no one has ever spoken words like that to her before.

She's only read them. Stolen glimpses of romance novels tucked away at Wolf's Cove, stories whispered in ink of star-crossed lovers and stolen mornings. A warrior with kind eyes. A maiden whose heart quickened at the sound of her name. Conversations held in hushed tones while the sun painted the horizon. She had thought such things belonged to fiction, to someone else's life. Not hers.

But this isn't a story from the library. He isn't a warrior from her tribe. And she is not meant to be a damsel.

Back home, safety meant structure. Her father's watchful blessing, Sokka's protective glare, the rules that hemmed in her every step. Courtship was supposed to be chaperoned, proper, carefully measured against family honor. There would be a betrothal necklace, painstakingly carved, handed over only with approval. There would be permission asked and granted, witnesses nearby to ensure nothing "went too far."

Here, there is none of that.

There is only Zuko—who has no concern for virtue, no illusions about restraint. From the way he speaks, from the way he touches her hair like it's second nature, she can tell he has been here before. He knows what it means to let affection turn physical. He knows the weight, or lack of it, in choosing to share himself with another.

Katara doesn't.

She grew up with different expectations, those whispered rules pressed onto her shoulders since childhood: guard yourself, wait for a husband chosen by your father, remember that a woman's worth is tied to her name, her purity, her silence. But for the first time, she wonders—were those her expectations, or just the ones others forced upon her?

Does she even want the future laid out for her back home? A dutiful marriage to a warrior who would sit at her father's side and nod along when Sokka declared, "Women will never fight." A man who would look at her and see not a partner, not a warrior, but a vessel for children and a quiet shadow for his glory.

Here, that man does not exist. Her father is not here to remind her of tradition. Sokka is not here to scold or restrain her. No one is here to tell her no.

There is only her.

And Zuko—the Fire Prince, the enemy she should despise—who looks at her and says, "You can." Who sees her with startling clarity, as if she is more than the role carved for her at birth.

So Katara does the one thing she never could at home: she chooses for herself. She stays. She lets herself remain tangled in his arms, not because duty demands it, not because expectation cages her, but because she wants to.

For the first time in her life, she isn't her father's daughter, or her brother's sister, or her tribe's Princess. She is simply Katara.

And she breathes.

"Don't fall asleep, Princess." Zuko's voice cuts through her newfound peace, low and teasing. "I'm sure the cavalry will come knocking at the door soon."

Katara only snuggles closer, her cheek pressed against the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her eyes squeeze shut. "I'm in my room. Where I'm supposed to be. They'll be looking for you."

He huffs a quiet laugh, "So, not your problem then?"

She yawns, soft and stubborn. "Not my problem."

"I'm supposed to be teaching you hand-to-hand right now..." he reminds her, drawing out each word as if dangling bait. "But if you'd rather sleep all day..."

He fully expects her to spring upright, to insist she's ready, to prove him wrong. Instead, her only answer is a lazy hum. "Tomorrow will be better. I'm comfortable here for now."

There's a pause before he lets out a dramatic sigh—more performance than genuine defeat. "Only for today, Princess."

They must drift back into half-sleep, because the sharp knock at the door startles her. Katara's head jerks up, her hair falling into her face.

"Lady Katara, sorry to disturb you, but have you seen Prince Zuko?" Tera's tired voice filters through the wood.

Zuko's eyes widen in alarm, and he shakes his head rapidly, silently commanding her not to give him away. Katara bites her lip to hide a smile as she slides out of bed. She cracks the door just enough to meet Tera's gaze, rubbing at her eyes for good measure.

"No, I'm sorry. I haven't seen him." She yawns convincingly. "I was asleep until just now."

Tera rolls his shoulders, his frustration obvious. "General Iroh's driving us all up the wall searching for him. There's no telling what Prince Zuko has gotten into. You'd think the General would have learned by now."

Behind her, Zuko rakes a hand through his messy curls, looking equal parts guilty and annoyed.

"Oh?" Katara risks, her curiosity piqued. "What do you mean?"

Tera snorts. "What don't I mean? The month the Prince turned sixteen—legal adult by Fire Nation standards, mind you—he started three bar fights, got arrested by a group of soldiers, smuggled too many girls aboard, and—" he pauses with a shake of his head, "tried to fight a pigeon-seagull."

Katara slaps a hand over her mouth to stifle the burst of laughter threatening to escape. Zuko's mouth drops open in outrage, his brows shooting up like she's just heard state secrets.

Tera, oblivious, adds with a shrug, "He was drunk for that last one."

This time Katara can't help it. A few giggles escape, spilling into the hall.

"Oh well... surely he's grown out of that?" she manages through her laughter.

Tera crosses his arms, rolling his eyes. "No. He picks a different month every year to relive it all. Claims it's to keep General Iroh on his feet." He steps closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "But really, I think he's just a rebellious teenager at heart. Hides it under all that anger and firebending."

Katara nearly chokes trying to swallow her laughter, especially with Zuko glaring daggers at her, his lips pressed into a deeply offended pout.

"I'm sure he's around here somewhere," she says quickly, cheeks pink from trying to hold it together.

Tera sighs. "I'm sure General Iroh will find him in a tavern or a cell. Just let us know if you see him."

Katara offers a polite nod and closes the door, waiting until the footsteps fade before bursting into laughter. She turns to Zuko with a wide grin. "Three bar fights?"

He lifts both hands in immediate defense, his voice incredulous. "I was young. It was a different time."

Katara grabs the nearest pillow and smacks it into his chest. "It was two years ago."

Zuko groans, collapsing back onto the mattress, muttering under his breath, "Spirits save me from nosy soldiers and loudmouthed girls."

But the faint flush in his ears betrays him.

He clears his throat, leaning forward with a spark of mischief in his eye. "You know, I haven't chosen a month to relive it all yet..."

Katara's eyes widen, and she throws her hands up. "Absolutely not! You are not dragging me into your antics."

He smirks, the corner of his mouth curving with trouble. "You're already hiding me in your room. You're part of the problem. Might as well enjoy it. It'll be fun..."

She snorts, crossing her arms tight against her chest. "Fun? What—taking me to bars so we can get arrested together?"

Zuko shrugs casually, nudging her shoulder with his. "Maybe. Depends on the town we're docked in."

"There's no way I'm joining your crazy outing," Katara insists, refusing to uncross her arms.

"Our crazy outing," he corrects smoothly, standing from the bed and stretching like he's already made up his mind. "Change it up a bit. Be ready at six."

"Zuko, no, I'm not—" She tries to argue, but the door's already clicking shut behind him.

Katara stares at the metal, her jaw tight. A long groan escapes her as she drops back onto the bed, hands over her face.

She isn't going to get arrested. Right?

...Spirits help her. Prince Zuko was going to get her into trouble.

And worse, she wasn't sure she wanted to stop him.