Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(Artwork courtesy of @mayskalih)

Katara had one job: Save the world.

Which, if you thought about it (and she tried not to), was frankly hilarious. This monumental responsibility was supposed to fall on the presumably broad shoulders of some mythical Chosen One. You know, the one who’d demonstrated the jaw-dropping audacity to pull a disappearing act just as the global dumpster fire was really getting roaring.

Since the aforementioned Avatar was still playing hide-and-seek with destiny, someone, anyone, really, had to step up and handle business. And that someone turned out to be Katara.

The plan, as far as these things went, was pretty straightforward: (1) infiltrate the Fire Nation, (2) murder their megalomaniac of a leader, and (3) hopefully usher in an era of world peace without accidentally starting three new wars in the process.

Naturally, there might have been a few minor details tucked between those ambitious bullet points that Katara was actively, vigorously glossing over. She had discovered that dwelling on the particulars was a fantastic way to either develop a nervous tick or start hyperventilating into her parka until she passed out face-first in the snow. Neither was conducive to world-saving.

Katara could totally do this. She had to. Besides, how hard could it be to waltz into the most heavily fortified nation in the world and casually murder their supreme leader? People probably did that sort of thing all the time, right? Right?

The mission was hers, for better or worse (mostly worse, if she was being honest). This was despite the extremely vocal opposition from her darling brother Sokka, who’d been working himself into increasingly elaborate fits of protective brotherly hysteria from the very millisecond the harebrained idea had been floated.

“This is absolute seal-penguin dung!” Sokka proclaimed loudly. He stalked back and forth across the icy floor of the war room, his boots leaving wet tracks that refroze instantly in the frigid air, his arms windmilling so dramatically he nearly knocked over three ceremonial urns and one very unimpressed elder. “Katara has no real combat experience outside of training! She’s got the temper of an angry arctic hen, the impulse control of a charging moose-lion, and—”

Sokka, alas, never got to finish his colorful assessment of her myriad character flaws, mainly because Katara chose that exact moment to demonstrate his point about impulse control by sending a water whip straight at his precious wolf tail. The resulting ice formation looked rather fetching, if you asked her. Like, some sort of exotic crystalline hair ornament, just significantly heavier and colder than the usual variety. Also, potentially doing unspeakable things to his hair follicles, but hey, that’s what he got for running his mouth.

“KA-TA-RA!” Sokka shrieked. “Do you have ANY idea what ice does to hair structure? The cuticle damage! The frizz! I just got it perfectly styled with whale blubber this morning!” 

He hopped around the chamber like someone had stuffed ice cubes down his pants, tugging futilely at the frozen mass weighing down his head. His vaunted warrior’s dignity lay forgotten somewhere between his third panicked hop and the moment his voice decided to betray him with that rather unfortunate pre-teen squeak.

Master Pakku, looking every bit the man who’d spent far too many years navigating the treacherous waters of youthful idiocy, released a sigh that seemed to originate somewhere around his liver and journey upward through several decades of accumulated disappointment. He massaged his temple with one hand while the other moved in a lazy arc, contemptuously melting Sokka’s impromptu ice accessories. This act of mercy wasn’t born of any compassion for Sokka’s follicular distress. Rather, the young warrior’s high-pitched squealing was beginning to make the vein in Pakku’s forehead throb in a concerning manner.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” Pakku declared grimly. “Ozai didn’t become Fire Lord by being gullible. In the best possible outcome, she’ll end up decorating the palace gates. Her head will, at least. The rest of her might end up scattered across the Fire Nation as a warning. And if we’re especially unlucky, he’ll keep her alive as leverage against us.”

Katara felt her eye twitch at Pakku’s casual classification of her decapitation as the “best case scenario.” Honestly, the nerve. She swallowed the biting retort that clawed at her throat. She’d learned enough from life—mostly by observing Sokka’s many, many failures—to know when to pick her battles, and right now she needed to focus on the real power in the room. Turning deliberately away from Pakku, she addressed Chief Arnook directly.

“Chief,” she began. “If Ozai tries to use me as a bargaining chip, would you give in to his demands?“

“No,” Arnook answered without a hint of hesitation. “You know I care for you as if you were my own, child, but this war transcends individual lives.” 

He didn’t sugar-coat it, though his face did that thing where it tried to look both sympathetic and completely unmoved at the same time—an expression unique to leaders who’ve had way too much experience delivering bad news. Katara made a mental note to practice it in the mirror later. Could be useful.

“Well then,” Katara spread her hands in a gesture that was half shrug, half challenge, “I fail to see the problem. Either I succeed and we win the war, or I fail and die trying, in which case nothing changes. Seems like acceptable odds to me.”

The color that flooded Pakku’s face was truly something to behold—a sort of mottled purple that started at his neck and worked its way up like an angry sunset. Katara had long since developed a mental catalog of the various shades of rage she could inspire in him. This particular hue often preceded an apoplectic fit of truly epic proportions. It was a special talent of hers. No one else, not even Sokka with his most boneheaded antics, had quite managed to master the art of driving the old master to the brink of an aneurysm with such consistent and delightful results.

Back when she’d first started training, such displays of her... let’s call it “spirited questioning of authority”... would end with Pakku wiping the floor with her ass. However, that was before she’d become strong enough to match him blow for blow. These days, his only recourse was to sputter and fume while she smiled sweetly at him.

“Foolish,” Pakku managed through clenched teeth, the word forced out like he was chewing on seal blubber. He said nothing more, probably because the next sound would have been an undignified squeak. Katara savored the small victory.

It was then that Hama glided over, inserting herself into the debate. The old woman might have looked like a harmless grandmother with her silver hair and wrinkled face, but anyone who’d seen her in action knew better. Those shrewd eyes had watched a hundred men die, and her movements still held all the deadly grace of a master waterbender.

“The plan will work,“ Hama purred, wrapping an arm around Katara’s shoulders. Her weathered fingers gripped Katara’s chin, tilting her face this way and that as if she were displaying prize breeding stock at the annual blubber festival. “Have you seen my girl? What red-blooded man could resist such... temptation?”

Uncomfortable as it was to admit her esteemed teacher was basically pimping her out to the enemy, Hama had a point. Sokka might have been right about Katara’s explosive temperament and disastrous impulse control, but Hama’s assessment of her physical charms wasn’t off the mark, either.

At eighteen, Katara had grown into the kind of beauty that made poets write truly atrocious metaphors and artists forget how hands worked. She was built like someone had taken all the best features of Water Tribe genetics and decided to show off a bit: tall enough to make an impact but not so tall she’d scare off the fragile male ego, with the kind of curves that made perfectly sensible people walk into walls (and not just because she’d sneakily bent a patch of ice under their feet). 

Her face was the sort that launched ships, though in this case it might be more accurate to say it could sink them, what with the whole waterbending thing. Bright blue eyes that could freeze a man’s soul or melt his resolve, depending on her mood. Thick brown curls cascaded past her shoulders like a waterfall at midnight, somehow managing to always look effortlessly perfect instead of the “caught in a hurricane” look most people got in the polar winds. Her skin was a warm honey-gold that seemed to glow from within. The devastating package, as it were.

Usually, Katara didn’t need to rely on her looks to make men weak in the knees. A well-placed water whip typically did the job just fine. That said, having both in her arsenal certainly didn’t hurt her chances. One might even call it strategically sound.

“Right,” Sokka grumbled, looking like he’d rather lick a frozen flagpole than continue this line of conversation about his baby sister’s alleged seduction potential. “I’m sure the Fire Lord is just sitting there in his fancy palace thinking, ‘you know what I don’t have enough of? Beautiful women!’ It’s not like he’s the ruler of an entire nation or anything.”

“Ah, but Ozai doesn’t have anyone quite like her,” Hama countered smoothly, her smile revealing too many teeth to be comfortable. “No Fire Lord has ever had a Water Tribe princess in his collection.”

“Even if he does fall for her face,” Sokka persisted, trying his best not to think too hard about the implications of what he was saying, “he’ll see right through her. Ozai isn’t just a fire-flinging brute. He’s smart, he’s cunning, and Katara is…” he gestured vaguely, perhaps even a little despairingly, at his sister, who was currently contemplating how much trouble she’d get in for freezing his mouth shut. Just a little. For a few minutes.

Hama chuckled darkly. “She doesn’t need to fool him for very long, dear boy. Men are most vulnerable when they’re... distracted. It’s simple biology. All Katara needs is one moment of weakness. One moment is all it takes.”

One woman to end a century of war. It sounded like the kind of plot you’d find in one of those trashy romance scrolls that definitely weren’t hidden under Katara’s bed (and if they were, she was just confiscating them from the younger girls for, uh, tactical research). But desperate times called for ludicrous measures. They were fresh out of options.

The Earth Kingdom was fractured, its various states more concerned with saving their own asses than anything else. The Water Tribes were running on fumes and rapidly dwindling hope. Arnook wasn’t certain they could last another year. Complete annihilation loomed closer with each passing day. That’s what had led to this brand of insanity being proposed in the first place.

When Arnook had polled his council of ancient advisors for war-ending ideas, he was likely hoping for something sensible like “build a bigger wall” or “try asking the spirits really nicely this time.” Instead, Hama had sauntered in with what had to be the most audacious plan since someone looked at a tiger-seal and thought, “I bet I could ride that.”

Offer up Princess Katara of the Southern Water Tribe, pretend to negotiate a temporary cease-fire, make suitably pathetic noises about becoming Fire Nation colonies, all while maneuvering their secret weapon—one very deadly, very beautiful waterbender—into position. Specifically, into Ozai’s bed, where she could introduce him to a very different kind of penetration than he was expecting.

Katara had jumped at the chance. This was not, it should be stressed, out of any enthusiasm for the bedroom aspect of the mission. Sure, in an ideal world, she’d be Commander Katara, leading armies into glorious battles and dying in some appropriately heroic way that would get her name sung in epic ballads for centuries. Unfortunately, the world they lived in was about as far from ideal as you could get without actually falling off the edge into whatever cosmic void lay beyond, and this was the unglamorous hand she’d been dealt.

After a hundred years of getting their collective asses handed to them by the Fire Nation, one might have naively assumed the Northern Water Tribe would have figured out that restricting combat roles to only half their population was akin to trying to paddle with one arm. Miraculously, that particular epiphany was still pending.

Katara herself had been forced to raise enough hell to wake the slumbering spirits just to learn proper waterbending beyond the ladylike arts of healing. If it hadn’t been for Hama taking her under her wing (and teaching her some decidedly non-traditional applications of waterbending), she’d still be stuck in the healing huts, expertly folding bandages and dreaming of violence.

And truthfully, Katara was the best candidate for this batshit mission. The only other contender who might have had a slight edge in the looks department was Princess Yue with her whole “touched by the moon spirit and now I glow a bit” aesthetic, which tended to make men sigh wistfully. However, the thing was, Yue’s gentle soul wasn’t made for cold-blooded assassination. She couldn’t even bring herself to eat seal meat, let alone shove a blade between a man’s ribs. And she certainly couldn’t do that nifty trick of bending all the blood out of his body in a few heartbeats. 

No, Katara was the only one with the requisite combination of beauty, power, and the steel in her soul to see the damn thing through.

So with options ranging from “ah shit” to “certain doom“ (and Pakku looking as though he’d swallowed a sour sea prune), Arnook reluctantly relented. Next thing she knew, Katara was sailing off to the Fire Nation with a small crew of “diplomats”—aka her darling brother and some random guys who’d drawn the short straw when volunteers were being requested. Apparently, she couldn’t even die for the greater good without Sokka insisting on tagging along.

Katara hadn’t been thrilled about that development. Not one bit. The whole point of a suicide mission was the “suicide” bit, preferably performed solo and with minimal nagging. But her brother, being the annoying voice of reason he occasionally was, pointed out that any legitimate princess on a diplomatic mission of dubious intent would have some kind of entourage. 

They needed someone to present the peace offering with the correct amount of pompous diplomatic flourish, and Sokka had been practicing his leader talk routine since he was old enough to string two words together (those two words being “Sokka” and “meat,” for the record). Once inside the Fire Nation, they’d be on their own. He’d argued that having his supposedly brilliant tactical mind on hand might prove useful, especially since Katara’s standard move consisted of “hit it with a large volume of water until it stops moving, then hit it some more just to be sure.”

Katara had found the concept of needing backup, specifically Sokka-shaped backup, entirely superfluous. She figured this whole messy business would be over pretty quick. 

Option A: Ozai, blinded by her feminine wiles (or perhaps just poor eyesight), fell for the trap, and she’d introduce him to some highly creative uses of bloodbending.

Option B: He didn’t fall for it, and she’d end up as a gruesome cautionary tale periodically trotted out in Northern Water Tribe history lessons about why women shouldn’t ever do anything more ambitious than mending socks.

Either way, she’d projected a swift resolution. Over by the end of the day, most likely. A few days max, assuming Ozai was courteous enough to let her rest before trying to fuck her. See? Simple as seal-jerky. No need for one of Sokka’s infamous 47-step plans with color-coded backup scenarios and contingency flowcharts for when the backup scenarios inevitably failed.

That had been the plan.

Right. So, how, in the name of all the blithering spirits, had Katara ended up here?

Specifically, here, splayed out on what felt like acres of expensive silk sheets, her thighs spread wide, writhing beneath the Fire Prince as his tongue laved her nipple, swirling around the peak before drawing it deep into his hot mouth with a tug that sent a jolt straight to her already throbbing core. And all this while his cock, thick and impossibly long, was buried so deep inside her she could practically taste his royal lineage. She hadn’t even been in the Fire Nation a full day. The diplomatic delegation hadn’t even finished unpacking, for La’s sake.

And why, oh why, did he have to be so damn good at this? It was honestly offensive. The sheer talent he possessed in the art of fucking was an affront to less gifted men everywhere. Like, save some skill for the rest of the world, Your Highness. This was an unfair distribution of carnal prowess.

Katara’s indignant mental complaints were cut short, along with her breath, as Zuko grunted and slammed into her again, the head of his cock grinding against that one spot deep inside her that she hadn’t even known existed until approximately three seconds prior, but which was now demanding his undivided attention. 

A pathetic little whimper escaped her lips before she could clamp down on it. Her fingers clutched his stupidly perfect hair. Seriously, how was it this silky? What kind of royal conditioner was he using? Was it infused with the silent screams of his vanquished foes? And could she get some? Her legs, which were supposed to be kicking him into next week, trembled helplessly around his driving hips, begging him to go deeper.

Her mind, or what was left of it after he’d licked her clit into a quivering mess earlier, was screaming bloody murder and demanding a full tactical retreat. Meanwhile, her depths were enthusiastically clenching around his shaft, voting for MORE PLEASE with a side of HARDER and RIGHT THERE YOU HORNY BASTARD. The cognitive dissonance alone was enough to make her head spin, though that might have been the multiple orgasms talking. They tended to have that effect.

Every deep thrust sent another wave of pleasure crashing through her body, making it really hard to focus on important things like “you’re supposed to be seducing his father, you moron” and “this is definitely not part of the plan.” Holy spirits, the way he moved… His hips didn’t just thrust; they rolled, tilted, ground against her in a symphony of friction. It was like he’d majored in Advanced Pleasure Studies with a minor in Ruining Enemy Infiltration Plots at whatever morally bankrupt school they sent princes to. 

His hands seemed to be everywhere at once: gripping her hip, angling her for even deeper penetration, splaying across her stomach, occasionally dipping lower to tease her slick folds, leaving trails of heat that had nothing to do with firebending, and everything to do with the way he was playing her body like an instrument he was born to master.

What was Katara supposed to do now? How exactly would she go about murdering Fire Lord Ozai after what had gone down… or rather, what was currently going down, up, and sideways with his son?

Katara’s higher cognitive capabilities, already on life support, were decisively short-circuited by another perfectly aimed thrust that had her seeing the Southern Lights, a few stray comets, and possibly the meaning of life. Any attempt at coherent thinking dissolved into a puddle of raw sensation as Zuko hit that spot again, and again, and— Oh spirits, he was going to make her come again—

The plan. Oh, right. The glorious plan. It was absolutely wrecked. Demolished. Scattered to the four winds. 

Katara was going to need a new strategy. Tomorrow. Maybe the day after. Once she could feel her legs again and her brain had rebooted. She’d try to figure out exactly where it’d all gone wrong and how she’d ended up impaled on the Fire Prince’s impressive royal scepter mere hours after seeing the man. Thank La that Sokka was here. She’d let him handle the strategy part. He loved that stuff anyway. He could make flowcharts and color-code her impending doom.

For now, though... Well, Katara was already thoroughly compromised, might as well enjoy the compromising. Waste not, want not, or something equally profound she couldn’t quite grasp through the haze of lust.

With a sigh that was more surrender than anything else, she arched her back, her nails scraping down Zuko’s sweat-slicked skin as she clung to him. He drove into her with the kind of single-minded dedication that suggested he was trying to pound his way through her to the other side of the world. He was chasing his own release, his groans growing harsher, his thrusts deeper and faster, while somehow, infuriatingly, managing to wring yet another orgasm from her already oversensitive, thoroughly debauched body.

Oh spirits help her, she was so screwed. In every conceivable way.

Chapter Text

Now, Katara would very much like to say it had all been some sort of cosmic accident. You know, the kind where you’re just minding your own business, maybe picking up a dropped scroll, and whoops! Wouldn’t you know it, you’ve accidentally tripped, stumbled, and landed squarely on the Fire Prince’s well-endowed royal parts. Repeatedly. For hours. Just a classic case of gravitational mischief and unfortunate anatomical alignments. Pure happenstance. Could happen to anyone, really.

That narrative would have been significantly less mortifying than admitting the truth: she had brought this catastrophe upon herself, jeopardized the mission, and quite possibly doomed the entire world, all thanks to her spectacularly shitty impulse control. Just as Sokka had wailed to anyone who would listen (and many who wouldn’t).

But denial, tempting as it was, wouldn’t un-fuck this situation nor the Fire Prince, who seemed remarkably content with the current state of affairs. The plan was thoroughly, comprehensively screwed. Because of her. And to think it had started out so promising.

Their laughably small diplomatic vessel—basically a glorified fishing boat—had somehow managed to chug its way from Agna Qel’a to the Fire Nation capital without being turned into floating kindling. They’d flown a neutral banner so diminutive it might as well have been a handkerchief, yet by some baffling miracle (or perhaps because the universe was saving up its schadenfreude for later), they’d avoided being blown to smithereens by the trigger-happy navies of both the Earth Kingdom and the Fire Nation itself.

Chief Arnook had commanded Hahn, a man whose greatest accomplishment to date was being born into the right family and whose personality could best be described as “a damp sock with delusions of grandeur,” to lead a small fleet as escort for the initial leg of their journey. However, once they’d cleared Northern waters, Katara’s crew was alone. 

They did encounter the occasional pirate ship, but that had been more entertainment than threat. Katara was in her element, literally. The ocean sang to her blood, responded to her will like an extension of her very soul. Anyone dimwitted enough to mess with a master waterbender in the middle of her liquid kingdom quickly learned why that was a terrible and often final life choice. 

Indeed, nothing conveyed the sentiment of “fuck off” like having your entire ship hoisted fifty feet into the air by a massive wave before being unceremoniously dumped back into the ocean. Upside down. Each time she’d pulled off one of these aquatic displays of dominance, the familiar frustration had gnawed at her gut.

Just imagine what she could have accomplished for the war effort if Arnook had gotten his head out of his frozen ass and let her fight. How many Water Tribe warriors might still be alive if they’d had a master waterbender of her caliber watching their backs? Or if her dear old dad, Hakoda, hadn’t ditched her and Sokka in the North when he’d split from the tribes after their mother’s brutal death to wage his own revenge quest? 

Regardless, that was a whole other iceberg of emotional baggage that Katara did not have the time or inclination to unpack right now. She had more pressing matters to focus on than family drama. 

Like how the most powerful waterbender their people had seen in generations had been relegated to bandaging scrapes and brewing healing teas when she could have been out there on the vast ocean raising glorious hell and sinking warships like the spirits had clearly intended. The sheer waste of it all made her want to freeze something. Preferably something small, dangly, and attached to a misogynistic old man.

Anyway, the point was that after weeks of sailing (punctuated by the occasional delightful bout of pirate-dunking, which Katara considered a vital form of stress relief), they had arrived somewhat safely at Caldera’s main port. The fact that they hadn’t been immediately barbecued on sight and served as a light afternoon snack for the local Komodo rhinos was, she supposed, a good sign.

They’d been permitted to dock—a shockingly civil turn of events—and, mere hours following Sokka’s abbreviated version of their diplomatic bullshit, the Capital Governor had graciously provided transportation to the Royal Palace, where they would await an audience with Fire Lord Ozai himself. 

“Transportation” might have been a generous term for what they got. The carriages assigned to “Princess” Katara’s retinue looked like they had been retrieved from some forgotten storage facility where they had spent the last few decades fermenting in their own regret, only to be given a halfhearted dusting just moments before their grand unveiling.

These dilapidated contraptions probably hadn’t been considered fit for actual royalty since Fire Lord Sozin was in diapers. Having zero experience with proper princess-grade carriages (unless one counted Sokka’s leaky canoe, which she did not), Katara couldn’t say for certain whether this was an insult or just standard Fire Nation hospitality, but she had her suspicions. At least Sokka and his men were crammed into their own creaking death trap, so she was spared his anxious muttering and could enjoy a few moments of blissful, if bumpy, peace.

Their ragtag procession, more pathetic than diplomatic, slowly wound its way through the streets of Caldera City. They were flanked by heavily armed soldiers whose expressions suggested they’d rather be anywhere else, as thrilled with escort duty as Katara was with her bone-jarring carriage. Through the window (which stuck halfway down and had dubious scorch marks around the edges), she got her first real look at the heart of the Fire Nation.

The architecture was a dramatic fusion of intimidation and beauty. Everything screamed wealth and excess, from the sweeping pagoda roofs with their elaborate dragon motifs to the perfectly maintained streets paved with smooth stones. Massive structures of deep red and burnished gold stretched toward the sky, reaching, grasping, as if the buildings themselves were trying to claw their way to the heavens. Giant columns of carved stone dragons coiled around government buildings, their eyes seeming to follow passersby with ancient, judgmental looks. Even the simplest buildings showed signs of careful maintenance and artistic touches.

The streets bustled with life. Merchants hawked their wares from stalls draped in rich fabrics. Women in elegant robes glided past, their hair arranged in intricate styles held aloft by an absurd number of flower-shaped pins. Children, well-fed and clean, played games in the streets while their mothers gossiped near fountains that spurted crystal-clear water (Katara noted with professional interest that none of the decorative water features were within easy grabbing distance of the main thoroughfare). Citizens walked these streets without a care in the world. Their biggest worry was probably what to have for lunch, or whether their silk robes clashed with their new slippers. Everyone seemed... happy. Comfortable. Safe. 

So this was what happened when you weren’t constantly scrambling to rebuild your walls or fishing the bodies of your loved ones out of the unforgiving sea. This was what prosperity looked like when it was built on the shattered bones and stolen resources of other nations. This was what peace felt like when you were the ones doing the burning instead of being burned.

When was the last time she’d seen Water Tribe children playing without having to keep one eye on the horizon for black snow? When had their merchants had anything to sell besides the bare necessities? How long since their people had known what it felt like to go to sleep without the gnawing fear of a midnight raid? The answer, of course, was “longer than she’d been alive.”

Katara’s hands clenched in her lap. Her chi stirred restlessly, humming in response to her anger, tugging at every drop of moisture within range. She could feel the condensation on the outside of a distant tea vendor’s kettle trying to answer her call. She forced herself to take a deep breath, then another. 

The air here was thick with humidity and the spicy scent of street food, so different from the clean, sharp cold of home. It made her nose itch and her clothes stick uncomfortably to her skin. But discomfort was good. Discomfort meant focus. And she was going to need every bit of focus she could muster.

Soon, Katara told herself. As soon as she put Ozai in the ground where he belonged, her people could know this kind of peace. 

Fed up with the Fire Nation’s blood drenched wealth being flaunted on such nauseating display, Katara was about to yank the flimsy window shade closed when a commotion further down the street caught her attention. Her eyes narrowed as she watched city guards hurriedly steering a cage into a shadowy alley, clearly trying to keep their cargo out of sight. The rickety contraption was pulled by a single visibly frazzled ostrich horse that looked like it was one loud sneeze away from a complete nervous breakdown. 

It took her brain a moment to process what she was seeing. The cage wasn’t carrying contraband or stolen goods. It was full of children. Small, dirty, bloodied children huddled together. Street urchins, she would later learn the term, being “cleaned” from the pristine streets of the capital.

Was this how they kept their precious streets so perfect? By sweeping away the inconvenient, living, breathing evidence of poverty and suffering? Just chuck ‘em in a cage and make them disappear?

Katara felt her blood begin to simmer, then boil. The rational part of Katara’s brain, the tiny voice that sounded suspiciously like Sokka, tried to intervene. Katara, no! Think of the mission! The greater good! World peace, remember?!

She was here for one purpose and one purpose only: Kill Ozai. Everything else was a distraction. This was just a handful of lives versus the entire world’s freedom. The math was straightforward. Sokka would have known the right choice. Hell, anyone with two brain cells to rub together would have known to stay put. 

But the day Katara could coldly weigh children’s lives like goods at a market, the day she could watch terrified kids being hauled off in cages like garbage for disposal and do nothing... that would be the day her soul shriveled up and died. The day she became everything she’d sworn to fight against.

So, against every shred of common sense, every survival instinct, and the imaginary voice of her brother screaming warnings in her head, Katara fished a dark cloak from her bag. Concealing herself as best she could, she slipped out through the rear door of the still-moving carriage without anyone noticing.

It would be quick and simple, she told herself with the unwavering conviction of someone about to do something monumentally stupid. Just a few scrawny city guards in a dark alley. She could take them down without even using waterbending. A few minutes tops, no noise, free the kids, back to the carriage. Barely even counted as a detour. No one would ever know.

Famous. Last. Words.

In her optimistic haste, Katara hadn’t factored in the possibility that the guards would take such vehement offense to a mysterious cloaked figure appearing from nowhere to rearrange their faces. Nor had she anticipated that they’d have a city-wide alarm system that could be triggered by specific calls from the horns they each carried. She’d barely managed to liberate the terrified children before the entire city garrison, or what felt like it, was breathing down her neck.

Shit. Shit. Triple shit with a side of fuck.

This. This right here. This was exactly why Sokka handled the planning. Katara’s preferred problem-solving method of hitting things really hard worked beautifully right up until the moment it spectacularly didn’t.

Katara’s heart pounded like a berserk war drum, threatening to bust out of her ribcage and make a run for it on its own. She wove through the labyrinthine alleys of the Fire Nation capital, a place that seemed designed by someone with a deep-seated grudge against straight lines and clear escape routes. Her feet barely touched the ground as she fled, the cacophony of angry shouts and blaring horns growing alarmingly louder behind her. 

The oppressive heat and humidity of the tropical climate clung to her skin, causing beads of sweat to form and trickle down her spine. If Gran-Gran could see Katara now, she’d cuff her over the head with a frozen fish and demand to know what in the sacred names of Tui and La she thought she was doing.

Katara clutched her cloak tighter around herself to conceal the distinctive blue of her Water Tribe clothing. She’d changed into lighter garments shortly after arriving. The breathable fabrics were specially selected (and practically forced upon her) by Hama.

“You’ll need to showcase your best assets, dear,” Hama had cackled, waggling her eyebrows lecherously, an expression Katara often saw in her nightmares. “After all, you’re going there to seduce a Fire Lord, not join a nunnery!”

Now, as Katara sprinted through the sweltering streets, lungs burning, she was acutely aware of how the absence of her usual chest bindings allowed her breasts to bounce freely with each step. The sensation was mortifying. Honestly, the things a girl had to endure for world peace. On the upside, the lighter clothes made running for her life easier than trying to do so in heavy furs.

Still, even with the aerodynamic advantage of less clothing, Katara couldn’t keep this up forever. Her athletic prowess was considerable, but the Fire Nation guards seemed to be multiplying with every panicked footstep. She needed a hiding spot, and fast.

Sokka would notice the chaos soon enough, and he wouldn’t need to check the carriage to know his idiot sister was behind it. He’d find a way to cover for her absence, at least temporarily. She just needed somewhere to lay low until the heat died down and she could slip back to her entourage. But where could someone so obviously Water Tribe blend in? It wasn’t as if she could just pop into a tea shop and order a frosty beverage without raising a few thousand eyebrows.

As if in answer to her silent plea, the universe decided to throw Katara a bone—or perhaps more accurately, a thorny branch that might just save her ass or impale it, depending on how this played out. The solution presented itself as she rounded yet another corner. A massive, multi-storey building loomed at the far end of the street, its very architecture radiating an aura of expensive sin. 

Open balconies adorned each floor, dripping with beautiful women in various states of strategic undress. They draped languidly across plush cushions or leaned against intricately carved railings, chatting amongst themselves and occasionally calling out to the men passing below. Some were in silks so fine they were practically theoretical, while others wore elaborate robes that somehow managed to reveal more by covering up.

Above the ornate front doors, which looked like they could repel a small siege, hung a sign proclaiming the establishment as the “House of Camellia” in the common script. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what kind of business was conducted within those walls. This was clearly a brothel, and a high-class one at that.

What caught Katara’s attention, however, wasn’t the general miasma of sophisticated debauchery. It was the women themselves. They weren’t all Fire Nation natives. Amidst the local beauties, she spotted Earth Kingdom features, mixed colonial looks, and—most importantly—a couple of faces that could have been her cousins from the Water Tribes, albeit with a much more extensive makeup collection and a distinct lack of sensible parkas.

The implications made her blood boil all over again, but she filed that rage away for later. Right now, she needed to hide, and this palace of purchased pleasure was perfect. The Fire Nation’s humidity finally proved useful for something besides making her hair frizz. Water vapor condensed into paper-thin patches of ice under her feet as she vaulted the outer wall. The makeshift icy stairs dissolved instantly behind her, leaving no trace of her passage. So far, so good.

The interior of the House of Camellia was a feast for the senses, though not necessarily in a good way. The air was thick with a heady aroma of competing scents, incense battling perfumed oils in a silent war. On the walls were tapestries depicting scenes that made Katara wish she’d paid less attention in anatomy lessons. Plush carpets, likely chosen for their ability to muffle illicit thuds, absorbed her footsteps, and the tinkle of wind chimes mixed with distant, professionally joyous feminine laughter.

Katara quickly stashed her incriminating cloak under a conveniently shadowy staircase, wincing at the sounds of guards shouting obscenities echoed from the street outside. She moved as quietly as possible, dodging the occasional servant scurrying about with armfuls of laundry or mysterious trays. The early afternoon hour worked in her favor. Most of the occupants were probably asleep, resting, or otherwise indisposed, so the gilded halls were relatively empty.

She headed upward, testing doors as she went. Locked. Locked. Spirits damn it, still locked. Until finally—success! Except… 

The room wasn’t empty. Of course it wasn’t. That would have been far too easy, and the universe had a quota for Katara-related screw-ups to meet for the day.

A man reclined on a velvet chaise lounge like some sort of divine being who’d decided to take a quick break from the tedious business of being ethereal. His hair, black as a moonless night and twice as silky, spilled over his shoulders in waves that reached his waist. His skin was like porcelain warmed by sunlight, neither too pale nor too dark.

He wore only a thin crimson robe that was doing a spectacularly poor job of actually covering anything of importance. The front gaped open to display a V of exquisitely sculpted chest and a hint of taut abdomen that suggested he spent his free time bench-pressing komodo rhinos for fun. A blanket draped artistically over his lower half, though given the general theme of the establishment, Katara had doubts about what, if anything, lay beneath it. Hopefully, at least a loincloth.

Incense smoke curled around the man like amorous spirits trying to get a closer sniff, bestowing upon him an otherworldly quality that made Katara’s previous assessment of her own beauty feel laughably optimistic. If random Fire Nation men lounging in brothels looked this good, her chances of seducing Ozai had just plummeted from “unlikely” to “you’re joking, right?”

Was this gorgeous creature a client? A very high-end worker? Did the Fire Nation even do male prostitution? She didn’t have time to contemplate the socio-economic implications because those eyes suddenly snapped open.

Golden irises, bright as flames, fixed on her. They seemed to glow in the dim room, making his features even more striking as his gaze swept over her, taking in every detail of her appearance—from her disheveled hair and flushed cheeks to the blatant panic in her eyes—in the space of a heartbeat that did funny things to Katara’s own pulse.

The sound of heavy footsteps and gruff voices from downstairs snapped Katara back to the reality of her predicament. She was in deep, deep trouble. Possibly up to her neck in it, and the tide was rising.

Sending a silent prayer to any spirit that might be listening (and not currently laughing at her misfortune), Katara kicked the door closed behind her. Her mind frantically cycled through increasingly terrible options.

Beg for help? Offer him... something? Take him hostage? Jump out the window and hope for the best? Maybe she could just flood the entire city and call this mission a success? The harbor was close, if she used that thing, she could probably pull enough water from the ocean to cause some serious property damage…

Her internal monologue of doom was rudely interrupted by his smile. It wasn’t a kind smile, or a reassuring one. It was a slow, wicked curve of his lips that promised either salvation or a very interesting brand of damnation, and Katara suddenly wasn’t sure which would be worse. Or better. It really ought to have come with some sort of warning label about potential cardiac and moral compass malfunctions.

“You’re the new girl, I see,” he said, his voice warm honey with just enough rasp to make it positively indecent. “Come here.” He patted the narrow space beside him on the chaise, a gesture that conveyed the casual arrogance of someone accustomed to instant obedience.

The guards were definitely on this floor now. Katara attempted a smile that probably looked more like a grimace and cautiously moved closer. She had absolutely no idea what she was going to do next, but at this point, any port in a storm would do.

The moment she came within range, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. She gasped, startled by both the speed and strength of his grip as he yanked her against his chest. What happened next was so sudden, so unexpected, that Katara’s brain temporarily shut down operations.

With movements too quick for her eyes to follow, the man’s hands were suddenly at her shirt, deftly unbuttoning the garment and peeling it away as if he’d been practicing the maneuver his entire life. One moment, Katara was fully clothed, reasonably dignified (if slightly sweaty); the next, she was bare from the waist up, her breasts exposed to the warm, incense-laden air of the room. Her brain sputtered back to life just in time to process the fact that holy-mother-of-spirits, she was topless in a Fire Nation brothel with a very handsome stranger.

Under normal circumstances, Katara would have unleashed the full fury of her waterbending upon anyone who dared to so much as look at her sideways, let alone strip her half-naked, not sixty seconds after their first awkward hello. But these were far from normal circumstances, and before she could even squeak, the beautiful man had maneuvered her onto the chaise lounge beside him, not even glancing at her bare breasts. The lack of ogling was oddly unnerving.

Katara found herself pressed against him, the blanket that had been covering his lower half now thrown over them both. She might have objected to this development with some well-placed ice daggers if the door hadn’t chosen that exact moment to bang open.

She instinctively pressed herself closer to his chest, hiding her face and trying very hard not to think about how nice he smelled (like jasmine and something herbal she couldn’t name) or how warm his skin was against hers. His heart beat steady and strong against her cheek. Katara held her breath, waiting for the inevitable. Any second now, rough hands would yank her away, and she’d be dragged off to whatever grim fate awaited Water Tribe spies and impromptu child liberators in the Fire Nation.

“What is this?” the beautiful man who was currently functioning as Katara’s human shield inquired. 

His voice was a silken purr that somehow managed to convey the regal boredom of a god interrupted mid-nap and the distinct possibility he might incinerate them all for the inconvenience. It was, Katara had to admit, a rather impressive vocal range. Katara made a mental note to ask him for lessons, should she survive the next five minutes.

The guards’ collective intake of breath suggested they’d just realized they’d blundered into a situation far above their pay grade and possibly life expectancy.

“We... we didn’t know you were here, sir! Please forgive the intrusion!” one of them stammered, his voice several octaves higher than it had probably been moments before. Clearly, this “sir” was someone who could make their lives very short and very unpleasant.

Well, wasn’t this interesting. The guards seemed terrified of this man. Some kind of high-ranking nobleman, then? A notoriously sadistic general, perhaps? But he didn’t look very old, perhaps a few years older than Katara at most. Her luck couldn’t possibly be that bad, could it? (Spoiler: yes, it absolutely could.) Her thoughts were interrupted as the man spoke again, his voice now carrying an unmistakable edge of steel beneath its silky exterior.

“Leave,” he commanded, “before I make you.” He sounded like he had some very creative ideas on how to make them.

“Of course, sir! As you wish! Right away, sir! Wouldn’t dream of not leaving, sir!” came the hasty, overlapping replies, followed by the sound of shuffling feet and what Katara could only imagine was a stampede of armored men tripping over each other in their haste to vacate the premises.

Katara’s muscles tentatively began to unknot themselves, entertaining the foolish notion that she might actually get out of this alive and relatively un-arrested... until another set of footsteps entered. These steps were different—measured, authoritative. Important. The kind of footsteps that usually preceded someone saying something deeply unhelpful. The way the other guards greeted him—“Captain”—only confirmed her sinking fears.

“What a drag,” her accidental savior muttered to himself, deeply inconvenienced by the interruption to his... well, whatever he’d been doing before Katara crashed his party.

His body remained relaxed even as he pulled Katara impossibly closer. One hand, the nerve of it, trailed down her side to rest on her hip beneath the blanket in a move that was either protective or incredibly opportunistic. She didn’t resist. She hardly dared to breathe, lest her lungs give her away through an inopportune wheeze of terror.

“We’re greatly sorry to disturb your... pursuits,” the Captain said, his tone implying he was anything but sorry, and was, in fact, rather enjoying this. “However, there’s a dangerous criminal loose in the city, and we lost them in this area. We’re conducting searches. For the safety of the capital, you understand.”

Katara’s heart hammered against her ribcage so loudly she was certain everyone in the room, possibly even people in the next building, must be able to hear it. This was it, she thought, her life flashing before her eyes (mostly images of Sokka looking smug). This was how she was going to die—half-naked in a Fire Nation brothel, cuddled up to a stranger who was clearly more trouble than he was worth, no matter how nice he smelled. But the Captain wasn’t finished. His next words were somehow worse.

“I trust you won’t object if we take a look around... Prince Zuko?”

Katara felt her heart not just stop, but pack its bags, write a farewell note, and elope with her spleen. Every drop of blood in her body seemed to freeze solid. Her lungs staged a strike, refusing to participate in the act of breathing.

Hold on. Rewind. Did he just say…

Prince Zuko?

As in, son of Fire Lord Ozai? The Crown Prince of the Fire Nation? The actual Fire Prince?

Of all the people in this spirits-forsaken nation she could have literally fallen into bed with (or onto a chaise lounge with, semantics), it had to be the fucking Crown Prince. It was so absurd, so utterly, ridiculously improbable, that Katara almost burst into hysterical laughter.

If she somehow survived this mess, Katara vowed to never, ever complain about how boring life in the North Pole was ever again. Clearly, excitement came with far too high a price tag in the Fire Nation, and her current funds were severely depleted.

Chapter Text

“We’ll need to search every room,” the Captain announced, his tone carrying the weight of inevitability accompanying taxes, death, and tedious dinner parties with distant relatives. “For the safety of the capital, Your Highness understands.”

The words themselves were a masterpiece of performative politeness, each syllable buffed to a diplomatic shine. His tone, however, told a rather different story. This was a demand dressed up in the flimsiest of courtly ribbons, and the Prince’s cooperation wasn’t so much requested as simply expected.

Wasn’t it a tad... impolite? Since when did mere captains speak to Crown Princes as if they were dimwitted children who needed the obvious explained to them in small, digestible words? This whole dynamic was bizarre. Something wasn’t right here.

Katara felt Zuko’s chest rise in what might have been a sigh of profound boredom or perhaps the kind of deep breath one takes before setting someone on fire. It was hard to tell.

“By all means, Captain Masaru,” Zuko replied magnanimously. He stretched with the languid grace of a cat who’d found the perfect patch of sunlight and had no intention of moving for anyone short of the Spirits themselves. “Far be it from me to impede such diligent law enforcement. We must all make our little sacrifices for the good of the Fire Nation, mustn’t we?”

The city guards scattered around the room like startled chicken-pigs. Their movements were a comedy of nerves and uncertainty, caught in the crossfire between their mortal terror of the Prince (who could have them executed before lunch) and their more professional fear of the Captain (who could make their lives miserable starting immediately and continuing indefinitely). 

One guard kept shooting panicked glances between Zuko and his boss as he tried to calculate which authority figure was more likely to end his career or his life. Another knocked over a delicate glass decanter, fumbled it twice, caught it on the third attempt, and looked ready to fall on his sword when Zuko’s golden eyes flicked in his direction.

“Careful with that,” Zuko reminded. “It’s worth considerably more than your yearly salary.”

The guard went pale enough to pass for a snowman. 

Katara forced herself to remain still against Zuko’s chest. His heartbeat was maddeningly steady beneath her cheek, while hers threatened to burst through her ribs. His fingers continued their lazy dance through her hair, occasionally brushing against her neck, as if this was all terribly amusing to him. 

Masaru cleared his throat and spoke again. “Your Highness, the fugitive we’re pursuing happens to be female. I’m afraid I’ll need to see the woman you’re... entertaining.”

“Come now,” Zuko chuckled. “This lovely little thing has been keeping me thoroughly occupied since dawn.” His hand drifted to Katara’s bare shoulder, his thumb tracing circles that made her want to simultaneously melt and stab him with the nearest sharp object. “Are you suggesting I’m being less than truthful with you?”

The silence that followed was the sort that usually precedes either revelations or revolutions. The guards had gone completely still, like prey animals hoping a predator wouldn’t notice them if they didn’t move. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, waiting to see whether the next sound would be laughter or the distinctive whistle of flames seeking something to burn.

“Of course not, Your Highness.” Masaru’s voice had grown careful, but not careful enough. “However, protocol demands—”

“Protocol?” Zuko mused lightly. “Tell me, Captain, how did your protocol let a single woman slip through your men? It’s almost impressive, really.” 

Masaru’s chi spiked with rage. Interesting, Katara noted. No one in the Water Tribes would ever show such open hostility to their chief’s son. What game was being played here?

“Your Highness misunderstands,” Masaru bit out. “These are perilous times. This woman is Water Tribe, which makes her a potential enemy agent. We must verify her identity against the House’s records.”

His footsteps drew closer. Katara tensed. The water in the air responded to her anxiety, damn her overachieving chi. Tiny droplets began forming on the windows, a subtle condensation unnoticed by the guards, who were far too busy having collective nervous breakdowns to observe the finer details of atmospheric moisture. This powerful bending of hers could be so inconvenient at times. She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek, using the sharp pain to wrestle her rebellious powers back into submission.

“An enemy agent?” Zuko cut Masaru off again. “In a brothel? How fascinating. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by your thorough investigation of such establishments. You do seem to maintain a rather specialized interest in Water Tribe women, don’t you?” He paused deliberately, and she could feel the cruel smile curving his lips. “How is your wife, by the way? I trust she’s recovered from that unfortunate incident last month? Such a delicate constitution, from what I understand. Does she happen to share your enthusiasm for... cultural exploration?”

Sweet merciful spirits, he actually went there. Katara could feel Masaru’s rage like a physical presence. A wave of heat rolled off him. His breathing had grown heavy, controlled only through obvious effort. She pressed closer to Zuko’s chest, not entirely acting anymore. The captain’s barely contained fury was starting to frighten her. This was not the orderly chain of command she was used to; this was a viper pit.

“This isn’t about my personal life,” Masaru hissed. “This is about national security. That woman you’re with—”

“That woman,” Zuko said, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr, “belongs to me. For the present moment, at least.” His hand slid up to cup the back of Katara’s neck, stroking just below her hairline. “And I don’t share.”

“With all due respect—”

Now Zuko laughed, the sound rich with cruel amusement. “Is that what you call this, Captain? Respect? Because from where I’m lying, it looks an awful lot like insubordination. And an embarrassing display of incompetence. Perhaps if you devoted more energy to actually training your men and less to disrupting my private entertainment, no woman would have managed to throw your entire garrison into chaos.”

The barb struck home. Masaru’s body tensed with humiliation and rage. “Your Highness, I must insist—”

“Must you?” Zuko’s tone went soft, almost gentle. It was somehow more terrifying than if he’d shouted. “You know, I saw your daughter in the market the other day. Amara, isn’t it? She’s grown into quite the beauty. Perhaps you could arrange a proper introduction? I’m sure we’d have much to discuss over tea. I could even teach her Pai Sho. I’ve been told I’m a most thorough instructor.”

The threat saturated the air like poison gas seeping into every corner of the room. Masaru’s chi fluctuated wildly—fear, rage, helplessness. Katara had seen that exact combination before, reflected in the eyes of parents watching Fire Nation soldiers drag their children away into the night. The silence stretched until it became almost unbearable, a living thing that fed on tension and grew fat on terror.

“You… honor us beyond measure with your gracious attention,” Masaru finally managed through gritted teeth. “However, I’m quite certain you have far more pressing matters requiring your immediate attention. We shall trouble you no further today. Please accept my deepest apologies for this unforgivable interruption, Your Highness.”

He bowed stiffly, then barked orders at his men. The guards fled like spooked cattle, leaving behind only the lingering scent of fear and one abandoned helmet that its owner counted as acceptable losses in the face of absolute royal dickishness.

Katara lay still as she tried to process the theatrical performance she’d witnessed. Honestly, it had everything: drama, suspense, thinly veiled threats, and a surprisingly high-stakes power struggle. All it was missing was an intermission for snacks.

Prince Zuko had protected her, though he must have known from the start that she wasn’t a working girl from the House. Her clothes, her bearing, her general air of “I just committed a felony and am trying not to freak out” would have given that away to anyone with eyeballs. He’d lied, faced down the Captain of the city guards, and then threatened the man’s daughter for the sake of shielding a complete stranger.

But why? 

The cynical part of her brain refused to entertain the notion that any Fire Nation man, a member of the royal family at that, could act from a place of genuine kindness. No, this was just some twisted power play, a way to assert dominance over the captain and remind him who was higher on the food chain. Men were predictable that way, especially the privileged ones. They’d burn down the world just to prove they could, and then complain about the smoke.

Still, the captain’s reaction to Zuko’s casual interest in his daughter suggested the Prince wasn’t just your typical entitled noble throwing royal tantrums when his tea wasn’t the right temperature. There had been real fear there. The kind of fear that spoke of reputation earned through more than mere birthright.

Katara had escaped the guards only to end up with someone far more dangerous, who clearly enjoyed the power he held over others, who would help a woman in trouble, but only because it amused him to do so.

Now alone with the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, her mind raced through her extremely limited options, none of which seemed promising. While the immediate danger of discovery had passed, she’d merely traded one deadly predicament for another. She was half-naked in the arms of quite possibly the second most dangerous man in the Fire Nation. Bravo, Katara. Truly inspired work.

She could try to take Zuko down quietly. For a delicious moment, she considered freezing those beautiful features into a perfectly sculpted ice monument to royal arrogance. Future historians would puzzle over the mysterious case of the Crystallized Crown Prince for centuries. It would be her gift to the world.

Then, logic marched in and bitch-slapped Katara with a few uncomfortable facts. Yes, she was a master waterbender who’d trained under both Poles’ greatest masters. Yes, she could totally trample this pampered prince in a fair fight. And therein lay the problem: nothing about this situation qualified as remotely fair. All His Royal Hotness had to do was raise his voice—probably something along the lines of “Help, I’m being assaulted by a half-naked peasant!” —and the entire city garrison would crash back through the door, this time with fewer concerns about property damage. 

Besides, even if Zuko didn’t scream for help and decided to fight her for fun… Rumor held that all members of the royal family possessed formidable firebending abilities. The ensuing battle wouldn’t be as brief as she’d like, and would inevitably endanger every person in the House of Camellia. Although Katara harbored serious reservations about the establishment’s business model, she couldn’t justify risking innocent lives for her own survival. The last thing she needed was to set the brothel on fire while engaged in extended, half-naked mortal combat with the Crown Prince. Sokka would never let her live that down. Assuming she lived.

Katara could already envision the wanted posters: “Dumbass Waterbender. Wanted for Property Damage, Treason, Public Indecency, and Crimes Against Architecture. Approach with Water-proof Clothing and Low Expectations.”

As if sensing her internal crisis, Zuko shifted position, withdrawing his arm to create a respectable distance between their bodies. When she dared to meet his gaze, she discovered him watching her with an infuriatingly gentle smile. It was a smile that probably caused international incidents and made perfectly sensible women do tremendously stupid things. His golden eyes sparkled with mischief as his lips parted to speak—

Something fundamental in Katara’s brain chose that precise moment to simply cease all operations. Later, she would attribute her actions to temporary insanity brought on by extreme stress. Or perhaps heat stroke. Or possibly the psychological aftereffects of spending too many years surrounded by the North Pole’s collection of aggressively misogynistic men, which had lowered her standards to subterranean levels. Either she was the thirstiest waterbender in history (a distinction she’d really rather not have carved on her tombstone), or proximity to royal pheromones had triggered some sort of evolutionary override of her survival instincts.

Before Zuko could voice whatever insufferably clever observation he’d prepared, before her common sense could stage the full-scale military intervention it was undoubtedly planning, Katara surged forward, seized his stupidly perfect face between her hands, and pressed her mouth to his.

His eyes widened for approximately half a heartbeat, then his expression settled into something that suggested this sort of thing happened to him regularly. Which, given his appearance and royal status, it very well might be. Smug, beautiful bastard. She’d bet good sea prunes that women flung themselves at him with such regularity that he maintained a designated “swooning lady” catching area for the overflow, furnished with silk cushions, ambient lighting, and a detailed scorecard rating each encounter on technique, creativity, and overall dramatic impact.

Zuko’s arms snaked around her waist as he fell back onto the cushions, pulling her with him until she was sprawled across his chest. And now, Katara was well and truly stuck.

Her theoretical knowledge of these delicate matters came from two sources: First, there were Hama’s disturbingly detailed lectures on seduction, complete with hand gestures that would haunt her nightmares until the end of time and possibly beyond. Second, she had Yue’s breathless midnight gossip sessions, filled with giggles, wild speculation, and information that she was now beginning to suspect had been significantly embellished for dramatic effect.

As it turned out, theory and practice were very different things. Very, very different.

Katara had no idea what to do with her tongue. Was it supposed to just... sit there? Was there a specific swirling motion involved? Where should she put her hands? Every part of him looked both appealing and terrifying to touch. And how, in La’s name, was one supposed to coordinate breathing with the whole process? Who knew kissing required such advanced lung capacity?

This was, without question, the worst disaster of her entire life, and that was saying something considering her personal history was a highlight reel of catastrophes, near-death experiences, and Sokka’s inventions.

Thankfully, Zuko seemed to have an advanced education in the art of kissing, and he didn’t seem to mind her amateur fumbling in the slightest. In fact, judging by the way his breath hitched when she accidentally nipped his lower lip, he might have even found it charming. His tongue sketched a lazy question across her lips, and she answered by parting them on a desperate gasp. He kissed her deeply, thoroughly, and with an expertise that made her toes curl, stealing the air from her lungs and replacing it with a heady mix of his own scent and something that tasted like pure sin.

He was her sin. And right now, she wanted to drown in him.

His hands roamed her back and sides, leaving trails of heat that should have worried the waterbender in her, but instead just made her arch closer. The friction of their bodies was intoxicating. She rubbed against him mindlessly, one hand tangled in his soft hair while the other gripped his neck as if to keep from being swept away in the storm he was creating. The press of her bare breasts against his chest was an agony of sensation. Her nipples hardened into peaks, and an embarrassing amount of wetness gathered between her thighs. So much for Southern Water Tribe dignity. It had apparently packed its bags, said “good luck with that, idiot,” and taken the first boat home.

But Katara wasn’t the only one affected by their impromptu cultural exchange program. Something very impressive was making itself known against her thigh, hot and hard even through the fabric between them, substantial enough to suggest that the “Prince of Fire” title might be more anatomically descriptive than political. She ground against it experimentally, and the friction drew a groan from him that she swallowed with her kiss. The sound vibrated through his chest and into hers, coiling low and tight in her belly.

His hand slid lower, slipping past her waistband to squeeze her ass teasingly. Then those clever fingers slid forward, finding the wet heat between her thighs, and oh. Oh. Spirits and sea prunes. That was... that was something else entirely. That was a whole new level of international relations.

He paused there, the pads of his fingers resting right at her entrance, waiting, giving her a chance to object. The gesture was annoyingly decent for someone she was supposed to loathe. Here she was, trying to maintain a proper level of patriotic animosity toward the Fire Nation, and he had to go and be considerate. The audacity.

Beyond caring about anything except relief from the burning need building inside her, she arched into him. Permission granted, he resumed his masterful exploration. He didn’t just touch her; he played her body. His thumb found her clit and began to draw maddening circles around it, a whisper of a touch that promised everything and gave nothing. He teased that tight little knot of nerves, pressing down just enough to make her gasp before lightening his touch again, a wicked game of push and pull that had her bucking against his hand. 

“Open up,” he murmured against her lips.

Her legs parted before her brain could process the command, as if they’d decided to defect to the Fire Nation without consulting the rest of her. Once she was practically dripping onto his hand, he finally slipped one finger inside. Just the tip. A down payment on the ruin he intended to visit upon her sovereignty. The shallow thrusts were clearly a technique taught in some advanced psychological warfare curriculum, designed to torture her while his thumb never abandoned its hypnotic rhythm against her clit. La help her, it was working. Rational thought was rapidly losing ground to the far more persuasive arguments being made by his hand.

Evil prince or not, the man knew things. Divine things. Unspeakably wonderful, politically inconvenient things. Things that made her gasp against his mouth, torn between wanting to murder him and begging him to never stop. She wanted more. She needed more. She needed that finger to slide deeper, needed two or three of them, needed to know if they’d stretch her the way she’d imagined late at night in her bed, her own hand a poor substitute for this reality. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, each exhale carrying little moans that would have mortified her if she had any dignity left to lose.

As his tongue tangled with hers in a kiss that had escalated from “diplomatic incident” to full-scale “declaration of war,” her imagination broke free of its chains and went sprinting through the gardens of What-Ifs. She pictured him finally getting bored with this whole tender seduction nonsense and showing his true colors. 

In her mind’s eye, he shoved her back onto the chaise. Those mesmerizing golden eyes would cloud over with lust. His hand would go to her pants, but he wouldn’t bother taking them off completely, just tear them enough to gain access. A real time-saver, a man who respected a tight schedule, even during acts of debauchery. He was Fire Nation, wasn’t he?

Then he’d pin her wrists above her head, not exactly in a threatening way, but definitely with that “You are a national security threat and I am now going to thoroughly debrief you with my royal scepter” energy. Her legs would be spread wide, and there would be no more teasing. Just his cock, which her brain generously rendered in stunning detail, finally free from whatever silk thing he was wearing. He’d press the tip against her, a blunt pressure that promised to rezone her entire southern territory.

One single thrust would shove a scream right back down her throat. She imagined the feeling of his hips meeting hers as he sheathed himself all the way to the hilt. The rhythm he would set, slow and deep at first, then harder, faster, until she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, until the world narrowed to nothing but his body moving inside of hers. 

She wanted him to lose that infuriating control. She wanted him to fuck her like the enemy she was. She wanted to wrap her legs around his waist and take all of him, to feel him shudder and groan her name as he emptied himself into her. There would be no room for thought, no room for anything but him.

Katara realized with a jolt that she had never been so aroused in her entire life. Her previous romantic education sourced from those trashy romance scrolls Yue sometimes sneaked her under the guise of “tactical research” (as if The Pirate King’s Passionate Prisoner had any real military value) had not prepared her for this particular... genre. They had no chapter on what to do when the devastatingly hot prince of the nation you’re supposed to destroy makes you want him to rearrange your internal organs. The closest thing had been A Court of Dragons and Desires, but even that paled in comparison to the reality of having the actual Crown Prince’s fingers doing unspeakable things to her virtue.

This is wrong, her rational mind protested weakly. But her body had staged a coup, seized control of the government, and was now here to inform her that the enemy was exactly her type. Tall, dark, and likely to commit war crimes? Check. Dangerous, brooding asshole with fantastic hair? Double check. Capable of burning down entire villages, but currently using those hands for much more interesting purposes? Triple check with a side of delicious political tension.

The sheer wrongness of it all was apparently the secret ingredient. Perhaps Katara deserved one really, really good lay before she inevitably got herself killed trying to save the world. This wasn’t fraternizing with the enemy; this was... a strategic imperative. A morale boost for the troops (troop of one, but still). Yes, that’s what it was. For the war effort. Hama would understand. Probably. Maybe. If she squinted really hard and ignored the whole “sleeping with the enemy whose father you’re also supposed to sleep with” part.

That would have been nice. That would have been very nice indeed.

Alas, as tempting as it was to see that particular fantasy through to its... explosive conclusion (and oh, what a conclusion it would have been), Katara had neither the time nor the freedom to indulge in her selfish desires. The moment she sensed Zuko’s chi smoothing out, his guard completely dropped as the haze of lust officially took over, and his higher cognitive abilities had decisively relocated southward, she struck.

The water vapor around his neck obeyed her silent command. It condensed and cooled, the temperature plummeting to just shy of freezing—the precise point that’d constrict his arteries and throttle the blood flow to his brain, a delicate balance that few waterbenders could maintain. 

It wasn’t that the technique itself was particularly difficult. Any waterbender worth their salt could freeze the air around someone’s head. However, doing it with enough finesse to induce immediate unconsciousness without triggering fatal hypothermia took a level of mastery few possessed. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your political allegiances), Katara was among the best.

Within seconds, Zuko’s body went slack beneath her, his perfect features relaxing peacefully as if he’d simply dozed off in the middle of some exceptionally good foreplay. Katara carefully, almost regretfully, extracted herself from his embrace and stood staring down at him. The cruel curl of his lips had softened, and the arrogant fire in his eyes was banked. He looked younger like this, almost innocent.

But there was nothing innocent about him or his bloodline. This wasn’t just some beautiful man she’d nearly bedded. This was the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation. Heir to a century of genocide. Future keeper of his forefathers’ bloody legacy.

Unless…

The thought doused the lingering desire in her blood and replaced it with a colder, darker kind of lust. It would be so easy to kill him now. Just a slight drop in his brain temperature and he’d never wake up.

There’d be no blood, no messy sign of struggle. He’d look just like he was sleeping off a pleasant encounter. The servants wouldn’t dare disturb his rest. By the time they realized something was wrong, it would have been too late. She might have already put his father in the ground by then, too.

It was the smart play. The practical choice. Zuko had seen her face. If they met again, he’d recognize her instantly. That would compromise her entire mission. This was the perfect opportunity to eliminate a future threat. She was here to kill Ozai anyway; why not take out his heir in the bargain? Two tyrants for the price of one. Clean up the whole rotten bloodline. Proactive world-saving.

Sokka would approve of the tactical advantage. Hama would praise her ruthlessness. Wasn’t this what the old woman had been training her for?

For once in her impulsive life, Katara had thought through all the angles. She reached toward Zuko’s head, frost crystallizing around her fingers. One touch would be all it took. Quick, clean, merciful, even. More than his family had ever offered her people.

And yet…

Her hand stopped inches from his skin. The frost in the air melted away into harmless humidity.

She couldn’t do it. The realization was as frustrating as it was confusing.

Was it because he was helpless? Would it be easier if they were facing each other in combat, if he had a chance to fight back? Or was it because he’d protected her, shown her kindness—even if that kindness was just a side effect of him being a bored, arrogant prick wanting to one-up the city guard, ignorant of who she was and why she was here? Was she really this sentimental? What a liability.

A distant horn, likely signaling the all-clear or perhaps just a shift change for the city guards, snapped Katara from her moral crisis. She growled in frustration. No time for philosophical debates about the ethics of assassinating attractive men in their sleep. The guards would have left the area by now, and she needed to get back to her retinue before Sokka ran out of excuses and her absence was noticed. She had a mission to complete, a mother to avenge, a world to save, and an older brother who was definitely going to say “I told you so.”

Katara yanked her shirt back on as she scanned the room for anything she might have left behind that could be traced back to her. Satisfied that everything was in order, she glanced one last time at the prince, still slumbering peacefully amidst the rumpled cushions. 

We’re even now, she informed him silently, a petty justification for both knocking him out and not killing him. He’d saved her from the guards; she’d saved him from... well, herself. For now. Seemed fair enough.

On her way out, she spotted a red cloak draped carelessly over the staircase railing, probably belonging to one of the House’s patrons who’d been too eager to bother hanging it properly. Well, they could afford another. She snatched it up and pulled it on, tugging the hood low over her face. With luck, the common color would help her blend in better than her dark cloak. 

As she slipped out of the House of Camellia the same way she’d entered, Katara tried very hard not to think about the unconscious prince she’d left behind. Or the way his lips had felt against hers. Or the way his hand had felt between her legs. Or how she’d probably have to kill him eventually anyway.

Maybe next time they met, she’d have better answers to all those nagging questions. Maybe next time, she’d make the smart choice instead of the right one. If there was even a difference between the two anymore. War had a way of blurring those lines.

Chapter Text

The spirits, for once, must have taken pity on Katara. Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect. As their bedraggled procession approached the Royal Palace, she slipped back into her carriage through the rear door exactly as she’d exited, leaving no trace of her unauthorized, near-fatal, royally-compromising excursion.

Up at the front of the sad little parade, her darling brother had somehow acquired an ostrich horse in her absence. He looked almost dignified up there, if you squinted and completely ignored the fact that he was swaying precariously and seemed about two seconds away from toppling off. Yet the whole bumbling act was covering for something else. 

Sokka was torturing their Fire Nation escort with the most mind-numbing stream of questions imaginable, flailing around and accidentally slowing his horse or steering it in completely random directions every few steps. His theatrical pointing and excessive commentary weren’t fooling Katara. He had noticed her disappearing act and was buying her time the only way he knew how: weaponized stupidity.

“And what kind of trees are those?” Sokka inquired loudly, jabbing his finger at the most boring clump of ash trees in existence, the same crap that lined half the streets in this city.

Lieutenant Saram—their poor, doomed Fire Nation babysitter—drew in a breath so deep his armor plates creaked. The guy was definitely counting sheep or maybe praying to whatever high spirits dealt with insufferable foreign royalty. “Those are common ash trees, Your Highness. Identical to those you inquired about three streets ago. And six streets before that. And at the city gates.”

“Ah, but these look different! More... ashy?” Sokka leaned so far off his mount that several soldiers tensed, perhaps fearing having to scrape Water Tribe ass off the cobblestones. “Do they produce special Fire Nation ash? Is that your secret to being better at melting stuff than everyone else? Some kind of super-flammable tree magic?”

Lieutenant Saram’s left eye developed a concerning spasm. Tree-related small talk wasn’t his strong suit. “No, Your Highness. They are simply trees.”

“Fascinating! Simply fascinating!” Sokka cranked his fake enthusiasm up another impossible notch as he swung his attention to the nearest building. “And that building there—the pointy red one?”

Katara had to press her hand to her mouth to stifle a snort. The “pointy red one” was about as generic as Fire Nation architecture got. She’d seen fifty identical buildings on this street alone. The lieutenant’s response emerged through teeth that might have been grinding themselves to powder.

“That would be residential housing. As I explained when you asked about the identical building two corners ago. And the one before that. And the one before that.”

“But the angle of the roof! Surely it must have some significant cultural meaning? Perhaps it channels the energy of Agni in a particular way? Or maybe it’s designed to withstand dragon attacks? Do you get many dragon attacks these days?”

The lieutenant’s hands tightened on his reins until his knuckles went white. “Dragons are extinct, Your Highness. As any educated person would know.”

“Extinct! How tragic! When did this happen? Was it recent? Were there witnesses? Do you have any dragon bones on display? What about dragon eggs? Dragon scales? Dragon toe clippings? The historical value would be immense!”

A muscle in the lieutenant’s jaw began jumping with such vigor it threatened to escape his face entirely. “I am not,” he managed through incredible self-control, “a dragon expert.”

“Then who should I ask about dragons? Is there a Dragon Minister? A Keeper of Dragon Lore? Ooh, what about that guy?” Sokka yanked his reins and brought the whole parade to yet another screeching halt. “Fire flakes vendor! Surely someone selling fire flakes would know. Do they contain genuine dragon’s breath? Is that the secret ingredient?”

“They do not—” Saram started, then stopped himself from saying something that would probably get him court-martialed. “Perhaps we should focus on reaching the palace, Your Highness? Where there are certainly many... qualified individuals who could address your numerous queries?”

“An excellent suggestion!” Sokka agreed cheerfully, then proceeded to spend an inordinate amount of time examining and sniffing the fire flakes before meandering back into formation. “Though speaking of qualified individuals… Those guards at the previous checkpoint! I couldn’t help but notice their helmets have different decorative elements than the ones we saw at the harbor. Is there a meaning behind that? A complex system of rank identification through helmet accessories? Do they get to pick their own bling? Is there like an annual Helmet Decoration Day?”

The purple shade creeping across Saram’s features clashed magnificently with his uniform. “The helmets are standard issue based on unit assignment.”

“Standard issue! How wonderfully efficient! Who oversees such matters? Is there a Master of Helmets? A Helmet Council? Do they have meetings about helmet regulations? I have so many questions about your helmet bureaucracy!”

By now, Sokka’s weaponized stupidity was having a devastating effect on enemy morale. Half the guards were shaking with suppressed laughter. The lieutenant was falling apart in real time with each new bit of nonsense. His answers were getting shorter, hissier, and it was clear to everyone that he was fantasizing about throttling Sokka with his own stupid wolf tail.

“And those lanterns! Are they special Fire Nation lanterns? Do they require special Fire Nation oil? Is there a dedicated corps of lantern lighters? Do they have special lantern-lighting ceremonies? What about—”

“Your Highness,” Saram finally ground out through clenched teeth, “while your... enthusiasm for our culture is admirable, perhaps we could continue this discussion after you’ve been properly settled at your accommodations?”

“Oh, but I have so many more questions! Like that cart over there. Why are its wheels round? Is that a Fire Nation innovation? In the Water Tribe, we’ve been experimenting with square wheels, very exciting stuff…”

The lieutenant appeared to experience a serious midlife crisis as Sokka launched into an elaborate fabricated history of Water Tribe transportation technology with wild hand gestures and sound effects. Katara made a mental note to buy her brother something really nice if they made it out of this alive. Maybe a whetstone. Or a map that wasn’t drawn by him.

As expected, they weren’t immediately ushered into Ozai’s no-doubt extremely dramatic throne room (Katara had heard rumors about walls of fire, which seemed both incredibly extra and a massive waste of fuel). Instead, they got dumped at a nearby inn—its gilded everything made the House of Camelia look positively austere in comparison. The building was an architectural flex of wealth and power; three stories of dark timber and deep crimson tile rose around a central courtyard with lanterns hung from every eave.

When it came time to “assist” Princess Katara from her carriage, Sokka’s relief at seeing her actually inside the carriage where she was supposed to be was so obvious she thought he might burst into tears right there in front of their escorts. Their eyes locked in a split-second exchange of pure sibling telepathy developed through years of covering each other’s various crimes:

Sokka’s widened eyes and slightly raised brow: What in La’s name did you do THIS time?

Katara’s subtle eye roll and compressed lips: Don’t even start.

His quick head tilt and narrowed gaze: Oh, we are absolutely having words later.

Her barely perceptible shoulder lift: If we live that long.

The chambers assigned to Princess Katara occupied the entire top floor—a move that was equal parts “look how much we respect you” and “good luck escaping from up there, sucker.” The suite itself was filled with the kind of luxury designed to either impress the hell out of you or make you feel completely out of your league. 

Ornate screens provided privacy while breaking lines of sight. The furniture arrangement, while appearing randomly elegant, created natural choke points and forced visitors to move along predetermined paths. Even the decorative crap was positioned to funnel attention toward specific focal points, usually at something that reminded you how awesome the Fire Nation was at burning things. They had truly elevated hospitality-as-surveillance into an art form.

Once they were locked up nice and cozy in their fancy jail cell, Katara’s crew quickly broke out their own food stash, unwilling to risk their one shot at world peace on potentially drugged noodles. Clear heads and steady hands required a diet free of surprise poisons. The irony of chewing on what was essentially dried meat leather while sitting on silk-upholstered divans worth more than their entire boat was not lost on anyone.

Then, the real preparations began. 

In the main chamber, Sokka paced as he rehearsed his peace proposal. He cycled through various diplomatic personas. First came The Pompous Kiss-Ass: “Most esteemed Fire Lord, your magnificence burns brighter than a thousand suns!” he boomed, executing a bow so deep he nearly head-butted the floor. Next up was The Earnest Idealist: “The Water Tribes seek only harmonious coexistence,” he intoned with puppy-dog eyes for added persuasion.

His hands flowed through choreographed gestures: palms up for humility, sweeping motions to emphasize grand and entirely meaningless statements, precise finger movements to punctuate key points that didn’t actually exist. He’d crafted a speech so long-winded and convoluted that even a professional scribe paid to listen would fall into a stupor halfway through. Which was, of course, exactly the point.

Meanwhile, in the adjoining rooms, the rest of the guys were getting down to the serious business of arming themselves. The luggage compartments were a masterwork of smuggler’s ingenuity. Hollowed-out scrolls concealed bone knives carved thin enough to bend in half while still being sharp enough to ruin someone’s whole day. What appeared to be innocent bottles of ceremonial oils and medicinal salves actually contained carefully separated components that, when combined, would create a delightful array of explosives.

The men worked efficiently: They mixed blasting jelly with powdered sulfur and crystallized sea salt in exact proportions, using hollow whale-bone measuring spoons that would later serve as backup shivs in a pinch. The nasty paste was packed into small clay spheres no larger than a copper piece, each containing enough force to blow apart a stone wall. These they wrapped in oiled seaweed and silk to create waterproof packages that would go boom the second they hit something hard.

Next came the fun part: hiding all this portable death on their bodies. The explosive charges were secured in specially designed undergarments, loose enough so they could actually move without blowing themselves up, tight enough to keep everything where it belonged. Small pouches were sewn into the creases of their formal robes, positioned where the fabric would naturally bunch and fold. Some charges were even hidden in plain sight, disguised as decorative buttons, hair ornaments, and belt buckles, just waiting to make a fashion statement of the most explosive kind.

The bone knives got equally creative hiding spots. Flat blades slipped into reinforced seams along their sleeves, accessible with a quick downward motion that would appear natural if they were bowing politely right before introducing said blade to an unsuspecting kidney. Shorter blades were strapped to their inner thighs, where the robes would hide any suspicious lumps. Even their boots had been modified, with blades tucked into false soles that would separate with a specific twist of the foot to release spring-loaded mechanisms. All Sokka’s brilliant ideas, naturally.

Every weapon was positioned for grab-and-stab convenience—standing, kneeling, or even with arms bound. They’d practiced every motion for weeks until it became smooth, natural, unremarkable to any watching eyes. Unless the Fire Nation stripped them naked, their little death collection would stay hidden.

Each warrior checked their hidden arsenal repeatedly, with the quiet determination of those who had accepted their fate. Their eyes held no fear. If they were to die—and they all knew they likely would—they would ensure their deaths served their purpose. Whether Katara pulled off her part or not, they would make the Fire Nation pay dearly for their lives.

Katara’s prep work was just as intense, except hers was all about looking drop-dead gorgeous while plotting actual death. Step one: get rid of any evidence she’d been up close and personal with the Crown Prince. While scrubbing off in the bath, she discovered several surprisingly located love bites. One on her inner thigh. Another just above her hip bone. Seriously, when had he even gotten down there?! She quickly healed them away with a swirl of her hand. Clearly, Zuko had a future in stealth operations if the whole prince thing didn’t work out.

The dress she squeezed into next made her previous outfit look downright conservative. The fabric was so sheer it was nearly theoretical in some spots. The slits reached heights that redefined “daring.” One wrong step and she’d be giving the Fire Nation court an entirely different kind of show than planned. The neckline didn’t just plunge, it dove straight to hell and kept going. 

It was one of Hama’s diabolical masterpieces, designed to make men stupid and distracted. There wasn’t enough material to hide a toothpick, let alone a weapon. No water pouch either, which would really sell the whole “harmless pretty girl” act. Perfect for lulling everyone into thinking she was just eye candy, right up until she murdered their leader.

Katara did her hair like Yue used to wear it: half piled up in this complicated mess of loops and twists, held together with a carved bone hairpin whose suspiciously sharp tip vanished into all that hair. The rest she braided into two thick plaits, weaving blue silk strips through them before letting them hang down past her shoulders to frame the bare skin the dress’s backless design was showing off.

This hairstyle typically required at least one assistant, usually two if you didn’t want a crick in your neck. But Katara had refused Yue’s offer of one of her ladies-in-waiting and learned to do it herself. The fewer people involved in this clusterfuck, the fewer lives at risk. When you’re planning a suicide mission, it’s best to be self-sufficient.

The makeup was understated but effective: charcoal to make her eyes look bigger and more innocent (ha!), crushed berries to make her lips look even more biteable. Then came the face markings: three parallel lines across her forehead representing the ocean’s waves, curved marks on her cheeks for the moon’s phases, and a single vertical line down her chin symbolizing the connection between spirit and mortal realms. 

The designs were old-school Water Tribes, meant to honor where she came from and, with any luck, make her harder for a certain prince to recognize. Not that he’d know her face anyway, considering how focused he’d been on other parts of her earlier. She might have been offended if it hadn’t worked so perfectly to her advantage.

When she finally stepped back to check out the full effect in the mirror, even Katara had to admit she looked like something out of a fever dream. The dress was somehow more obscene than being naked, creating a teasing game of “is that skin or is that fabric?” The traditional markings contrasted beautifully with her skin. She looked exotic, dangerous, and utterly irresistible—the kind of woman men would start wars over, which was ironic given she was actually here to end one.

For a brief, traitorous moment, she wondered what Zuko would think if he saw her like this. Would those golden eyes darken with that same hunger? Would his hands—

Nope. Bad Katara. No daydreaming about the enemy’s ridiculously hot son.

She mentally smacked herself back to reality. She shouldn’t wish for him to see her. Even if he wouldn’t recognize her (and she was reasonably confident the markings would throw him off), the last thing she needed was another encounter with the Crown Prince. She had a job to do. A very important, suicidal job that didn’t involve thinking about how good Zuko’s hands had felt or how his mouth—

FOCUS, dammit.

Meeting her own gaze in the mirror, Katara touched the familiar curves of the waterbending symbol carved into her mother’s necklace. 

“Mom,” she whispered. “Lend me your strength. I’m going to make Ozai pay for everything he’s taken from us.”

The stone felt cool against her fingertips, like revenge served at the right temperature.

Lieutenant Saram showed up way too damn soon. His punctuality was honestly insulting. Couldn’t he have gotten lost for another hour or six? But no, there he was, looking freshly stressed and politely murderous. Sokka appeared at Katara’s door, a luxurious white fur cloak draped over his arm, his fingers twisted in the material as he cleared his throat.

“You know,” he said quietly. “It’s not too late to bail on this whole thing.”

Katara arched an eyebrow. “And then what? We just… Ask nicely if we can leave?”

“Actually…” Sokka stroked his chin thoughtfully, a gesture that always made him appear like he was trying too hard to appear wise. “We could make a break for it? Sprint for the harbor, blow up some stuff along the way. Take one of those fancy warships. The ones with the pointy bits on the front? I bet those are fun to drive.”

“Their Great Gates of Whatever might have something to say about that plan.”

“Pfft. Those are meant to keep people out, not in. How hard could it be? We’d wing it. Maybe tie some barrels together, splash some water around…” He wiggled his fingers in what she assumed was supposed to be a waterbending motion, but looked more like he was trying to juggle invisible fish.

“Sokka,” Katara cut him off gently. “We can’t just run. Arnook would consider it treason. Pakku would probably volunteer to execute us himself.” Assuming he could fit it into his busy schedule of being disappointed in everything, anyway.

“So we don’t go back to Agna Qel’a!” Sokka exclaimed. “We could find Dad—” He winced as Katara’s face went dark at the mention of their father. “Or not! Definitely not that! We could do our own thing! Live on the ocean, raid Fire Nation ships, fight pirates… You know, normal brother-sister bonding activities! I’m a warrior, you’re basically a water spirit at this point. We could make it work! Team Southern Water Tribe: Terror of the High Seas! We’ll figure it out together. We always do, right?”

He was trying so hard to sound casual, but Katara could see the desperation in his eyes. This was Sokka’s last-ditch effort to save his little sister—the only real family he had left. Their father had abandoned them to the Northern Water Tribe a decade ago and never looked back, probably couldn’t even remember what they looked like anymore. Since she was eight and he was nine, it had always been just the two of them against the world. Now here was her big brother, ready to throw away his warrior’s honor, everything he’d worked for, just to keep her alive. He’d probably turn pirate in a heartbeat if that’s what it took to save her.

It was a lovely fantasy: The two of them wreaking havoc on the high seas, doing what they wanted, answering to no one but themselves, fighting the Fire Nation on their own terms. Freedom in its purest form. Unfortunately, they couldn’t afford that kind of freedom. Not anymore. Some prices were too high, even for a brother willing to pay everything.

Katara took a deep breath and bowed her head. “Thank you, brother.”

She didn’t need to say more. Sokka had always been good at reading between her lines. He closed his eyes briefly, absorbing the weight of everything she wasn’t saying, then draped the fur cloak around her shoulders so carefully it felt as though he was dressing her for her own funeral.

They descended the stairs in silence. Outside, four Northern Water Tribe warriors waited by the carriage: Tahi, built like a glacier and about as talkative; Alriaq, who communicated primarily through lethal glares and the occasional grunt; Siava, whose scarred hands had throttled a sea serpent or two and never once trembled; and Hewa, youngest of the group whose whose gift for creative mayhem had probably gotten him shipped off on this suicide run to keep him from accidentally blowing up decent society back home.

Like most chauvinistic products of the Northern Water Tribe’s rigid culture, they’d started this mission thinking Katara was a joke—a Southerner, a woman, leading such a crucial operation? The very idea was laughable. However, weeks trapped together on a glorified fishing boat had thawed their skepticism considerably.

Turns out watching a woman twist entire storms around their boat and send pirate ships to a watery grave does wonders for changing one’s perspective on gender roles. Who knew? She’d earned their respect the hard way: by being objectively more terrifying than anything else on the open ocean. Now they saw her not just as Chief Hakoda’s wayward daughter, but as a fellow warrior who could hold her own and watch their backs. 

As Katara approached, all four warriors bowed deeply, fists crossed over their hearts. In the presence of the Fire Nation escorts, no words were exchanged, but their message was clear: wherever this crazy plan led, they were riding it out with her till the bitter end.

Katara smiled and took one last look at the evening sky. The stars were just becoming visible. She wondered if they’d look the same from the spirit world. Then she ducked into the carriage, and they began their final journey toward either total victory or a really spectacular death.

***

The Royal Palace was what you’d get if paranoia had a baby with megalomania and raised it on a strict diet of “compensating for something.” The imposing ring of defensive walls made no pretense at aesthetic appeal; they were proudly, unapologetically ugly. Every stone block was fitted and polished to such a high sheen that even a determined gecko-lizard would slip, fall, and reconsider its life choices. 

They’d cleared out everything around the palace, too. Not a single blade of grass was allowed to grow, lest it provide cover for an assassin or perhaps just ruin the vibe of absolute dominance. Watch towers dotted the perimeter at regular intervals, manned by archers who looked terminally bored, just waiting for someone to give them an excuse. Katara had no doubt that if you so much as sneezed in the general direction of the palace, at least three different spotters could immediately report on the trajectory and velocity of your snot.

The palace itself was trying really hard to look impressive. The central spire, clearly suffering from some deep-seated architectural insecurities, stabbed aggressively at the sky. It was flanked by two golden pagodas, dripping with so much gilt they looked sticky, like overachieving siblings desperate for attention. The entire complex sported more upturned eaves than any single structure had a right to.

The overall effect was less residential and more theological, as if the Fire Lords had intentionally styled their seat of power after a temple to emphasize their quasi-divine authority. The steep angles and smooth surfaces would make aerial approach suicidal—something Sokka confirmed with a subtle frown that translated roughly to, “Well, that’s gonna be a real pain in the ass to break into.” Katara answered with a minute twitch of her lips.

Not that they were planning anything like that, obviously. They were just two totally innocent Water Tribe nobles on a diplomatic mission of peace and friendship. Definitely not scheming to murder anyone in their ludicrously pointy house. Nope. Nothing suspicious here at all.

Lieutenant Saram (who by now looked like he was seriously considering a career change to cabbage merchant) halted their procession well short of the main gate—a towering slab of metal polished enough that you could fix your hair in its reflection, if you somehow got close enough without being shot full of arrows. The Fire Nation insignia blazed across its surface, looking both ornamental and threatening. No convenient peek-holes or gaps compromised its defensive integrity. 

When Saram raised his fist, Katara briefly wondered if he was actually going to knock—which would have been hilarious—but no, it was just a signal. The gate responded with the kind of mechanical grinding noise that suggested the engineer designed it had been specifically instructed to make it sound as ominous as possible. Beyond stood a palace official in the standard red and black getup.

As expected, only Katara and Sokka were permitted entry. Their warriors had to stay outside with Lieutenant “Please Let This Day End” Saram. Katara gave them a slight nod. Everything was proceeding according to plan, though whether it was their plan or the Fire Nation’s remained to be seen. Taking Sokka’s arm, she lifted her chin to the proper princess-appropriate angle and stepped forward.

The gate descended behind them with a boom that felt distinctly final. The subsequent passage revealed itself as a killing ground disguised as architecture. Torches lined the walls. Arrow slits and fire ports were artfully concealed within decorative patterns, so you could admire the craftsmanship while being turned into a human pincushion. 

Katara reached out with her bending, feeling the water vapor in the air flow through hidden spaces behind the walls. Perfect positions for soldiers to man those sneaky murder holes. The floor beneath their feet felt hollow, definitely rigged with nasty surprises. 

No blind spots. No weaknesses. Even if some hypothetical army of super-warriors managed to breach the gate without getting shredded by the towers, this passage would ensure they never saw the other side.

The plaza beyond opened into a large garden. The official led them into the palace, through winding corridors, past displays of wealth that Katara, under normal circumstances, would have enjoyed despising. Right now, however, she was too focused on controlling her nerves to give the stolen gold and blood-soaked artifacts the proper amount of silent contempt they deserved. The conspicuous absence of servants and guards only heightened the sensation of being watched from every shadow and alcove.

Their destination was a reception chamber—grandiose but clearly not the infamous throne room itself. There was a raised platform at the far end, elevated just enough to force visitors to look up at whoever occupied it, accessed by seven needlessly symbolic steps. On the dais sat an ornate chair that was not a throne but wanted very badly to be one when it grew up. The whole room was meant to make you go “ooh, ahh” while also reminding you that you weren’t special enough for the real throne room.

The official directed them to kneel at what he deemed the perfect distance for groveling. Obviously, Fire Lord Ozai would make them wait. Nothing says “I’m important” quite like poor time management. Katara failed to see how making them cool their heels in an empty room made him look more impressive, but apparently, that’s how they did things around here.

Sokka helped her ditch her cloak with a shared look of grim resolve. Then, Katara used the dead time to make some strategic tweaks to her dress for maximum visual impact. She fluffed her hair, arranged her features into an expression of demure submission, and assumed the proper posture: back straight, boobs front and center, eyes modestly downcast. Beside her, Sokka remained unusually quiet, likely running through his peace proposal one final time and trying not to panic. 

As Katara’s knees began to send resentful little twinges of pain up her legs from kneeling on the unforgiving floor, Fire Lord Ozai made his fashionably late entrance through a side passage, flanked by two advisors. The moment Ozai settled onto his wannabe throne, Sokka kick-started the performance.

“Your Majesty, great Fire Lord—”

“Prince Sokka and Princess Katara of the Southern Water Tribe, correct?” Ozai cut him off. 

His voice startled Katara. It was smoother than Zuko’s rasp but deeper, younger than she’d imagined. He sounded reasonable, almost… pleasant. She’d expected something more monstrous. A guttural growl, maybe. Something that matched the horrors he’d inflicted on the world. The jarring disconnect between his civilized tone and his barbaric actions made everything worse.

“Yes,” Sokka replied carefully. “We come bearing—”

“Let’s dispense with the tedious formalities,” Ozai interrupted again. “If the Water Tribes were truly serious about this proposition, why am I entertaining children instead of Chief Arnook himself? Surely matters of such importance warrant leader-to-leader discourse?”

Sokka smoothly pivoted to Plan B. “Your Majesty honors us with your directness. Chief Arnook deeply regrets his absence, but unlike yourself, the years have not been so kind to him. The rigors of such a journey would have proven challenging for someone of his advanced age.”

Complete bullshit, naturally. Arnook could totally still out-punch half his warriors and drink them under the table afterward. But what the Fire Nation didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Yet.

Ozai responded with a light laugh that held no humor. “And in his stead, he sends you. With your sister as a peace offering? One princess in exchange for sparing your entire people? In the Fire Nation, we value fairness above all. This seems rather unbalanced.”

Katara’s blood pressure spiked. Fairness? From an empire that had spent a century destroying everything in its path? Sokka’s hand landed on her shoulder in silent warning as he resumed his performative humility.

“Of course not, your Majesty,” Sokka continued, somehow maintaining his grovelling while imagining creative ways to introduce Ozai’s head to various blunt objects. “My sister comes not as compensation, but as a symbol of our willing submission to Fire Nation supremacy. Her presence demonstrates our eagerness to unite our peoples under your enlightened rule. She would be honored to serve however you deem fit. We merely hope you might contemplate the possibility.”

Sokka’s restraint amazed Katara. She hadn’t known her brother could fake diplomacy this well without gagging. A heavy silence descended as Ozai appeared to contemplate the offer, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the arm of his chair.

“Indeed,” Ozai finally said. “Your sincerity has been noted. However, such matters require careful consideration. We must consult the will of Agni…” He paused, and Katara felt his gaze settle on her with uncomfortable weight. “Tell me, Princess Katara. How far would you go to secure peace?”

Katara’s heart stuttered. Was he actually considering it? She looked up through her lashes, finally getting a good look at the boogeyman of her childhood stories. 

Fire Lord Ozai was... disappointingly ordinary. No horns, no scales, not even a decent set of fangs—just a man around her father’s age, though with better posture and fewer signs of a soul. She could see echoes of Zuko in his features, but where the son burned bright, the father’s eyes were a duller gold, the angle of his face more severe. 

He wore simple robes. Well, simple by Fire Lord standards, but still. Made sense he wouldn’t dress up for peasants from a frozen wasteland. Something about his scrutiny set off warning bells in her mind, but she couldn’t afford to analyze it. He was waiting for an answer, and she had a role to play.

“I would do anything,” she breathed, letting her tongue caress each word. It wasn’t even a lie.

Ozai merely chuckled. “Very well.”

Katara and Sokka exchanged bewildered glances. Had their half-baked plan actually worked? Sokka hadn’t even deployed a tenth of his prepared diplomatic nonsense. He hadn’t needed to spin elaborate tales about the Northern Water Tribe’s supposed weaknesses or their eagerness to lick the Fire Lord’s boots. 

It seemed too good to be true. And as Gran-Gran had once whacked them upside their heads, if something seems too good to be true, it’s usually because it’s a trap, you idiots!

At that moment, said trap snapped shut with a resounding clang.

“You heard the princess’s dedication, Great Sage,” Ozai addressed the old man standing on his right, his pleasant tone unchanged. “Begin preparations for the communion ritual. Princess Katara will be offered to Agni’s flames at sunrise.”

The words sucked all oxygen from the chamber. Katara’s lungs constricted painfully. Ice flooded her veins despite the room’s oppressive heat. Beside her, Sokka went rigid, the tendons in his neck standing out like cords as he fought to maintain composure. Even the Great Sage looked taken aback, his beady eyes widening in a very un-sage-like fashion.

“Your Majesty,” Sokka’s voice cracked before he forced it steady. “Surely there are... alternative methods to demonstrate our commitment?”

“Oh?” Ozai drawled. “Didn’t you just pledge she would serve however I deemed appropriate? The princess herself vowed to do ‘anything’ for peace. Isn’t that right, Princess?”

Katara’s throat closed up. “I—”

The chamber felt like it was slowly filling with invisible smoke, making each breath more difficult than the last. The torches along the walls seemed to burn brighter, hotter, as if the flames were already hungry for her life.

“Your Majesty,” the second advisor, a younger-looking fire sage, ventured cautiously. “I feel compelled to point out that Agni has never once, in the entire history of our great nation, demanded human sacrifice. Such extreme measures might be—”

Ozai dismissed him with an elegant wave. “Perhaps not typically. But extraordinary circumstances demand extraordinary demonstrations of faith. How else will our people truly appreciate the Water Tribes’ dedication to peace, if not through the greatest sacrifice in sacred fire?”

The Great Sage, having found his footing, jumped to support his master. “Indeed, Your Majesty! Agni will surely be most pleased by such profound devotion! It will be a historic day!”

“But there’s no historical precedent for—” the younger sage tried again.

“Silence, Shyu!” the Great Sage snapped. “Do you presume to understand Agni’s will better than your superior? Or, worse yet, to question the divine wisdom of the Fire Lord himself?”

Shyu looked like he had several more extremely relevant objections to make, but wisely decided to keep them to himself. Ozai was already rising from his chair, a clear sign that all further debate would be met with immolation.

“The matter is settled. Princess Katara burns at sunrise. If Agni accepts her sacrifice, I may consider her people’s plea for mercy.”

“Guards!” the Great Sage barked. “Seize the princess for ritual preparation!”

Palace guards instantly flooded the chamber, surrounding Katara and Sokka from all sides. Sokka’s jaw clenched as he frantically searched for a way out, while Katara’s fingers curled into fists. So much for Pakku’s predictions. Ozai didn’t just want her head on a pike. He wanted spectacle. No wonder they’d been allowed into the capital at all. The Fire Nation would get their show, and the world would get their message written in her ashes. Simply sinking their boat wouldn’t have made the same statement.

From his dais, Ozai watched their terror with the satisfied smirk of a predator playing with its prey. He didn’t need scales or fangs to be monstrous. This was the monstrosity of a man who had long since stopped seeing others as people.

This was it then. Katara and Sokka rose in perfect sync, backs pressed together. Sweat began beading on their skin, whether from fear or the rising temperature, impossible to tell. The palace guards advanced, hands raised in firebending forms, the air around their fingers already starting to shimmer with heat.

Sokka flung out his arm, ready to draw his concealed blade as Katara touched the pendant of her necklace. Ozai was within range. She could still salvage this. She had one shot…

Just as the bloodbath was about to break out in earnest, a light voice carried in:

“My, what’s all this doom and gloom about?”

Katara recognized that warm rasp instantly. Her gaze snapped toward the entrance where Crown Prince Zuko was strolling in, thank the spirits, fully clothed this time. His crimson silk robes billowed theatrically as he crossed the chamber, dark hair pulled into an immaculate topknot secured with a golden flame-shaped ornament.

“Your Majesty,” Zuko dropped into a perfect bow before his father, bending at the waist, every line of his body precisely arranged in formal submission.

Ozai’s eyes narrowed as he studied his son. The seconds stretched. Zuko held the position without so much as a tremor, his spine straight, not a muscle trembling despite the prolonged display. He had either incredible core strength or extensive practice at waiting out his father’s power plays. Probably both.

After an uncomfortably long pause, Ozai granted him a dismissive flick of the wrist. “Rise.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Zuko straightened gracefully.

“What brings you here at this hour?” Ozai asked, making it clear he found his son’s dramatic timing suspicious.

“I noticed Lieutenant Saram escorting some interesting company outside the palace. He mentioned something about Water Tribe savages finally crawling here to beg for mercy.” Zuko glided toward the standoff, the guards instantly parting to let him through. “I simply had to see these barbarians acknowledge their natural place beneath Fire Nation supremacy for myself.” He paused, bright golden eyes sweeping over the scene with aristocratic disdain. “Though I must ask… What seems to be the issue? Have our guests already managed to displease Your Majesty with their primitive ways?”

Sokka bristled at the casual insult. Katara might have shared his outrage if confusion hadn’t overtaken her anger. This wasn’t the same man from their previous encounter. Zuko’s entire being had transformed—posture, voice, even the way he moved. What game was he playing?

Fire Sage Shyu stepped forward with a careful bow. “Your Majesty, might I explain the situation to His Highness?”

“Proceed,” Ozai nodded.

“The Water Tribes have indeed come seeking mercy,” Shyu began carefully. “His Majesty has graciously agreed to consider their petition, provided Princess Katara demonstrates their sincerity by submitting herself to Agni’s sacred flames at sunrise.”

Katara searched Zuko’s face for any trace of the man who had shown her kindness, who’d smiled at her with such warmth. Had he come to help her once more? Could he even help her if he wanted to? She crushed the fragile hope before it could take root. Crown prince or not, Zuko was still just his father’s son, and judging by their earlier exchange, Ozai held little affection for him. What power did he really have here, and why would he risk his father’s wrath for a stranger? 

Still, if he was willing to speak up for her, even futilely, perhaps…

Zuko tilted his head in consideration. When he spoke, Katara’s heart plummeted into her stomach. “How perfectly reasonable. Naturally, the savages must demonstrate proper devotion if they expect clemency.”

Fire Sage Shyu’s face drained of color. He’d likely harbored the same desperate hope that the prince might intervene, might find some excuse to delay the execution. Of course, Zuko wouldn’t dare contradict his father. Not openly. Not when his own position seemed so precarious.

Then, without warning, Zuko stepped directly into Katara’s space. “Actually, wait a moment,” he mused absently. His hand shot out to grip her chin, forcing her head up.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sokka lunged forward only to be slammed down by the guards, arms wrenched behind him. “Get your filthy hands off my sister!”

Fury blazed through Katara’s veins. She raised her hands… which Zuko casually swatted aside. 

“Easy,” he breathed, so quietly only she could hear. For just an instant, his face softened. The moment passed so quickly she might have imagined it, yet it was enough to stay her rage. His thumb traced across her cheek, smearing the markings she’d painstakingly applied. “Well, well. I thought she looked familiar!” he announced loudly.

“Zuko,” Ozai said tersely. “Explain yourself.”

The prince turned toward his father. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he offered an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid we can’t sacrifice this particular woman. Perhaps the Water Tribes could offer something else instead? I hear polar orca meat is quite the delicacy.”

“And why is that?” Ozai hissed.

Zuko’s response hit a perfect note of nervous, boyish embarrassment. “Well, all offerings to Agni must be pure and untouched, as the Great Sage surely knows. Unfortunately, this woman... isn’t.”

“How could you possibly know such a thing?” The Great Sage spluttered, his elaborate headdress quivering.

“Because,” Zuko replied without missing a beat, “I’ve already bedded her.”

The silence that crashed through the chamber was so complete Katara could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears, feel every drop of sweat beading on her skin. No one, absolutely no one, had seen that coming. Every face in the chamber registered identical shock, including her own. Even Sokka, pinned and furious, had gone slack-jawed with disbelief.

“Impossible!” The Great Sage objected. “They only arrived this afternoon!”

Zuko shrugged. “It’s evening now, isn’t it? More than enough time for a quick tumble.”

A terrible smile spread across Ozai’s face. “You’re certain it was her? What a remarkable coincidence.”

“I would never dare fabricate such claims, Your Majesty,” Zuko said, once again bowing humbly. “I deeply regret my thoughtless actions. I assumed she was simply another Water Tribe peasant. Had I known she was intended for sacred sacrifice, I never would have touched her. But the deed is done, and I cannot in good conscience remain silent while we risk offending Agni with an impure offering…”

This whole situation had officially derailed, rocketed off the cliff, and burst into flames on the way down. Not even Sokka’s most deranged contingency plans—and he had forty-seven of them—could have prepared them for this development.

“Princess Katara,” Ozai said after another suffocating minute. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” Katara whispered, lowering her gaze and putting just enough tremor in her voice to sell complete mortification. 

She had no idea where Zuko was leading with this charade, but he’d just hurled himself under the royal wagon to save her neck—again—so the least she could do was roll with whatever he was cooking up. Besides, when the alternative was becoming ritual barbecue at sunrise, how much worse could his scheme possibly be? Her life had become some twisted theater production where everyone was improvising and she’d never even gotten a script.

“If the prince has compromised my sister’s virtue,” Sokka cut in, his voice strained as if the words themselves were causing him more physical pain than being pinned to the stone floor. “Then he must answer for his actions. Otherwise, what does Fire Nation honor even mean?”

Oh, brilliant strategy, genius, Katara thought with a fresh wave of panic as Ozai’s face went from general malevolence to something truly apocalyptic. She was certain that her brother had just signed their death warrants with his big mouth, that the Fire Lord would abandon all pretense of fairness and just order them both executed on the spot…

But no. 

The nightmare wasn’t quite surreal enough yet. This hellish play had a third act, and right on cue, another player sauntered onto the stage.

“Beautifully put, Prince Sokka.”

A young woman practically floated in, somehow managing to make an entrance even more dramatic than Zuko’s. She was around Katara’s age, and that’s where any resemblance ended. Even at this late hour, her formal court attire was pristine, her makeup flawless, her hair swept into an elegant topknot with artistic wisps framing sharp features and calculating golden eyes that catalogued everything while revealing nothing.

“Your Majesty, if I may?” She bowed, and unlike Zuko who’d been forced to wait an eternity for acknowledgment, Ozai waved her up immediately.

“Speak, Azula.”

With Ozai’s approval, Azula started circling Zuko. “What a spectacular embarrassment, dear brother. Couldn’t manage five minutes of self-control, could you? Half the capital’s maidens weren’t enough entertainment. You had to sample the Water Tribe princess the moment she set foot in our city.” 

While her tone was all sisterly teasing and fond exasperation, her eyes glittered with something far darker.

Zuko’s shoulders tense in a way they hadn’t even under his father’s scrutiny. Apparently, baby sister was the one person who could actually rattle the Crown Prince. That’s either really sweet or absolutely terrifying. Katara was betting heavily on the latter.

“You know how easily distracted I get,” Zuko only smiled, waving his hand half-heartedly, as though he hadn’t noticed the venom in his sister’s tone. “Beautiful women have always been my weakness.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Azula agreed easily. Too easily. She turned that predatory focus on Katara next. “What a delectable little thing. I can see why my brother couldn’t resist.” 

She patted Katara’s cheek condescendingly. It felt worse than a slap. Every instinct Katara possessed screamed at her to grab those perfectly manicured fingers and see how many different ways they could bend. She forced herself to stay still. Breaking the Princess’s hand probably wouldn’t improve their diplomatic standing.

“Prince Sokka raises an excellent point, though,” Azula continued. “We are an honorable people. Naturally, Zuko should accept responsibility for his indiscretions. For all we know, she could already be carrying his child. We can’t very well risk letting royal blood perish, can we?”

And there it was—an even more outrageous claim piled on top of Zuko’s already unhinged tale. The royal family seemed to operate on the principle that if you were going to tell a whopper, you might as well make it legendary. 

First, Zuko had claimed to have bedded Katara within hours of her arrival, and now Azula was suggesting she might already be pregnant from their imaginary tryst. These people didn’t just tell lies. They constructed entire alternate realities and then invited everyone else to live in them. Katara had to admire the sheer audacity, even if she wanted to strangle every last one of them.

The Great Sage made a choked sound. “How could she possibly be with child? It hasn’t even been a full day! Even if they—”

“How should I know?” Azula shrugged one elegant shoulder. “I’m a princess, not some village midwife grubbing around in birthing huts. But tell me, Great Sage. Are you willing to stake your head on the certainty that no royal heir would be lost?”

The Great Sage’s mouth snapped shut. Azula shot Zuko a triumphant look, and Katara caught the brief exchange of glances between the siblings. Whatever silent communication passed between them, instinct warned her it couldn’t be good. Her suspicions proved correct when Ozai suddenly clapped his hands together, his face alight with genuine amusement. 

“Since the Water Tribes have offered Princess Katara as tribute, I shall grant her to my son. A fitting reward for his... diligence. If within one year she bears an heir, we will know Agni has blessed this union. The Fire Nation will then formally ally with the Water Tribes. In the meantime, her entourage may remain as our honored guests. We’ll also cease military operations in Northern waters, provided the Water Tribes don’t interfere with our activities elsewhere. These terms seem more than fair. Don’t you agree, Zuko?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Zuko replied a little bit stiffly.

Ozai’s eyes gleamed while Azula’s smirk turned positively demonic. The Great Sage was muttering what sounded like prayers under his breath. Fire Sage Shyu just looked relieved that nobody was asking him to light any princesses on fire anymore.

Katara bowed her head, hiding her expression from them all. 

In a year, there would be peace, all right.

In a year, Ozai would bleed out on his precious throne. Katara would give the world the gift they’d all been waiting for: a dead Fire Lord. And perhaps, she’d find a creative way to take out his smug daughter, too, just for the satisfaction.

This empire had no idea what they’d just invited into their gilded palace of horrors.

Chapter Text

The grand finale of the Water Tribes’ disastrous diplomatic mission was an awkward walk of shame back through the Palace’s murder-corridors. 

(They weren’t officially called that. The official term was probably something like “The Radiant Passages of Ascending Flame” or “The Glorious Halls of Our Eternal Empire.” But when seventy percent of your architectural features involved sharp edges, open flames, and balconies with no railings over hundred-foot drops, the nickname rather applied itself.)

Sokka was released the moment they were out of Ozai’s sight. The guards simply let go of him, as if he were something deeply unfortunate they’d discovered on the bottom of their expensive boots. He stumbled forward half a step, caught himself, and immediately resumed his position at Katara’s side, vibrating with unasked questions and un-throttled rage.

No one spoke. The silence had weight to it, the kind that pressed down on shoulders and made breathing feel like a political statement.

The royal siblings led the way. Azula didn’t walk so much as occur across the floors, her every step proof of a lifetime being better than everyone else and knowing it. Her robes moved as if even the fabric understood it served at her pleasure and was grateful for the opportunity. The whisper of silk was the only sound she made. No heavy footfalls, nothing that suggested she was made of ordinary human components like bones and muscle. She probably didn’t sweat or blink unnecessarily either.

Zuko followed a pace behind her, his posture ramrod straight in the way of soldiers and people who’ve been trained since childhood to never show weakness, even to their own spines. He didn’t look at Katara once. It was as though their whole life-altering, politically explosive encounter had been a minor inconvenience he’d already forgotten. 

Katara focused on the back of Zuko’s head, studying the way his pristine topknot didn’t have a single hair out of place despite everything that had happened in the last hour. It was a perfect representation of the man himself: composed, controlled, and giving absolutely nothing away. 

What the hell was his game? 

Questions circled in her mind. Why throw himself into this mess? He’d already saved her once, which was one time more than any Fire Nation royal had a right to. Doing it again, in front of his tyrannical father and psycho sister, wasn’t just risky. It was suicidal. The smart move, the sane move, would have been to stand there looking pretty and princely while she got dragged off to her dramatic execution. Instead, he’d made himself the second-biggest problem in the room, which took real commitment considering Azula was right there, being professionally problematic. 

And for what? A woman he’d met for all of five minutes before she’d knocked him unconscious? None of it added up. 

The corridors eventually opened up—or rather, exhaled them—into the massive plaza where Lieutenant Saram and her warriors stood waiting by the carriages. They snapped to attention as the royal siblings approached.

“Lieutenant,” Zuko began, his voice as flat and emotionless as the marble they were standing on. “Prince Sokka and his men will require an escort back to their lodgings for the evening.”

Sokka’s head whipped around, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What? No. Absolutely not. We go where Katara goes. That was the arrangement.”

Azula let out a tinkling little laugh. “Oh, that’s adorable.” She took a step closer to Sokka, close enough for him to smell whatever expensive perfume princesses wore when they wanted to intimidate people. “The ‘Prince’—” she made air quotes with her fingers, somehow making the gesture look both mocking and elegant, “—thinks he gets to make demands.” 

She paused to study her perfectly manicured nails, each one lacquered a deep crimson that matched her lipstick and probably also the blood of her enemies. When she looked up at Sokka through her lashes, there was something dangerously playful in her expression, like a cat that had found a mouse that might actually put up a fight.

“Do you truly think my brother is foolish enough to invite a cadre of savages into his home? What would he do for security? He only has his personal guard. And they’re so busy keeping him alive from all his questionable life choices.”

“We are a diplomatic retinue, not savages,” Sokka replied through gritted teeth, and Katara noticed that he didn’t step back. Didn’t retreat even an inch from Azula’s proximity, which was either very brave or very stupid, and with Sokka, it was often hard to tell the difference.

“Potato, po-tah-to,” Azula waved a dismissive hand, the movement bringing her fingers briefly too close to his chest. She tilted her head, looking up at him—and yes, she was looking up because he was taller—but somehow she made it seem like she was the one with the height advantage. “Although I must say, for a savage, you wear diplomatic outrage quite well. Very princely. Almost convincing.”

“Almost?” Sokka hissed.

“Well.” Azula’s smile sharpened into something that was definitely not diplomatic. “You’re clearly trying so hard. It’s rather…” she hummed, tasting the word before releasing it, “...endearing.”

A muscle jumped in Sokka’s jaw. His hands clenched at his sides.

“Like a wolf pup trying to howl with the adults,” Azula continued, not waiting for a response. Her eyes locked with his, golden and merciless. “All that passion and fury, and nowhere to put it. Must be frustrating.”

The air between them had acquired a charge, the kind that happened right before lightning struck. They were standing too close for strangers, too focused on each other, and Katara was suddenly feeling like a very unwelcome observer of something that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with two people who’d like nothing more than to either murder each other or—

Actually, Katara didn’t want to finish that thought. 

“You know what I find frustrating?” Sokka said, looming over Azula just enough to make it clear he wasn’t intimidated. “Spoiled children who think cruelty makes them clever.”

Azula’s eyes flashed. If anything, she looked delighted. “Oh, he bites.” She matched his gesture, closing the space between them to something that was definitely, absolutely inappropriate for a public plaza. “And here I thought Water Tribe warriors were all honor and restraint. Your Highness, how much restraint are you exercising right now? Because I think—” her voice dropped, “—you look like you’re about to do something remarkably stupid.”

“I can think of several stupid things I’d like to do right now,” Sokka replied, unflinching.

“I’m sure you can,” Azula smiled again, razor sharp and knowing. “But you won’t. Because you’re a warrior. Diplomatic. Honorable. And—” she drew the word out like silk over skin, “—restrained.”

Sokka’s jaw worked silently, grinding his teeth. Every line of his body screamed tension, the kind that came from wanting to do violence and possibly other things and knowing he couldn’t do either. Azula held his gaze, her expression one of triumph. She’d won, and she knew it. Azula always won.

Katara’s heart rate kicked up again. She wanted to say something, to defend Sokka or de-escalate the situation, anything to fill the catastrophic silence that was stretching on. The thing is, Katara really wasn’t good at de-escalating. She was usually the one doing the escalation, if she was being honest with herself, which she tried not to be too often because it was depressing. De-escalation required patience and tact, two things that had apparently been on back order when the spirits were handing out personality traits.

It was Zuko who once again came to her rescue, having appointed himself Chief Rescuer and was determined to be thorough about it. 

“Prince Sokka,” he addressed Sokka in a neutral tone, interrupting whatever insane moment was happening.

Satisfied with her victory (for now), Azula stepped back smoothly, her expression shifting to bored superiority as if nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Sokka looked like he’d been struck by lightning and wasn’t sure if he’d survived.

“My private estate is not equipped to house a foreign delegation,” Zuko went on then. “Princess Katara will be my guest. You will be the city’s.”

The statement snapped Sokka back to their predicament. “Guest?” he repeated, voice hoarse, barely able to keep himself from screaming. He glared at Zuko. “She’s your prisoner! I am not leaving my sister alone with you!”

“This is an order from the Fire Lord himself,” Zuko replied in a bored tone. “Princess Katara is to remain with me. You have no say in the matter. Unless, of course, you’d like to take it up with my father? I’m sure he’d be delighted to hear your objections. He so enjoys a spirited debate.”

The threat hung in the air. Arguing with Zuko was pointless. Arguing with Ozai was suicide, and it would get everyone killed. They were trapped.

Katara took a step and placed a hand on Sokka’s arm. The muscle beneath her palm was rigid with tension. She could feel him shaking. “Sokka. It’s okay,” she said quietly.

“No, it’s not okay!” he snapped. “Katara, what is going on?” 

Zuko seemed to take pity on them, or perhaps he just wanted to expedite the process so he could go home and brood in peace. He gave a curt nod to the guards. “Give them a moment.” 

Then he turned and walked a dozen paces away, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, staring off into the middle distance like a statue commemorating “Man Who Wishes He Were Literally Anywhere Else.” It granted them the illusion of privacy. Azula had, thankfully, vanished somewhere, probably to go gloat in a mirror or torture small animals. Whatever it was that Azula did for fun, which Katara knew was universally terrible.

The second Zuko’s back was turned, Sokka grabbed Katara by the shoulders, his grip borderline painful. “Talk to me, Katara! What happened? We had a plan! We had forty-seven backup plans!” His voice climbed steadily toward hysteria. “None of them involved this! Did you really sneak out to sleep with him?”

Katara wondered if she should lie to Sokka. Spirits, the truth was somehow even more insane than the lie. The memory of her actual encounter with Zuko in the House of Camellia flashed through her mind, and she shoved it down deep where Sokka would never, ever find it. She couldn’t tell him that. She couldn’t tell him anything. It would require explaining things she didn’t understand herself. Also, Sokka’s head might actually explode, and she’d just gotten him back from the guards.

“It’s complicated,” she said weakly, gently removing his hands from her shoulders before he left permanent finger-shaped dents.

“‘Complicated’?” Sokka’s voice rose in pitch. “That’s all you’ve got? Katara, you can’t just—”

“Sokka, lower your voice,” she warned, glancing over at Zuko, who was still studying the horizon with feigned indifference. “The original plan wasn’t going to work anyway. Zuko showed up and saved our lives.”

Sokka stared at her, then at Zuko’s back, then back at her, his brain struggling to reboot after a critical system error. “Are you saying he’s helping us? But why?!”

“I don’t know,” Katara admitted, and spirits, that was the truest thing she’d said all day. “But he did. Now stop freaking out and start thinking.” She gripped his shoulder, forcing him to focus on her instead of spiraling into all the catastrophic scenarios his mind was conjuring. “We’re on the inside now, closer than we ever could have dreamed. This is an opportunity.”

“An opportunity to get yourself killed! Or worse!” Sokka whisper-shouted, his hands flailing helplessly, gesturing at everything and nothing. “Katara, you can’t go with him alone! We have no idea what he wants, what he’ll do to you! What if this is all some sick game? What if he hurts you?”

Sokka’s panic clawed at her own frayed nerves. She could see the terror in his eyes, the same terror she remembered from when they were children hiding from Fire Nation raiders, when he’d pressed his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet and she’d felt his palm shaking. For all his bluster and tactical nonsense, he was still her big brother, and he was terrified for her. 

She reached out and squeezed his hand, forcing a calm she didn’t feel into her voice. “Zuko won’t hurt me.”

“How can you possibly know that?” Sokka’s voice broke on the last word.

Because he’d had her at his mercy and done nothing. Because he’d faced down the captain of the city guard for her. Because he’d just risked his father’s wrath to save her from a fiery execution. There were a hundred small reasons, none of which she could explain, that added up to a gut feeling she couldn’t ignore. It was a flimsy foundation to build any kind of trust on, but it was all she had.

“I just know,” she said firmly. “Sokka, look at me. Look at me.” She waited until his gaze focused. “I can handle this. But I need you to help me. Get back to the inn. Keep the guys ready. Figure out our next move. Be the tactical genius I know you are. Tell me who to punch and when. We have a year. Make a plan that will actually work this time. All we need is a different angle.”

“A different angle,” Sokka repeated, testing the words. He took a deep breath, the warrior shoving the terrified brother back into his cage. “Okay. Okay, a new approach. I can work with that.” He looked over her shoulder at Zuko. “Just… be careful, Katara. Don’t trust him. Don’t trust any of them.”

“I won’t,” she promised and meant it. “Now go. Before they change their minds and decide to execute us for wasting time.”

Sokka pulled her into a fierce, clumsy hug. “If he lays one wrong finger on you, I swear I will burn this whole nation to the ground myself. I’ll invent a way.”

“I know you will,” she whispered back, clinging to him for a moment longer than she should have. Then she forced herself to let go.

When they broke apart, the four warriors had moved closer, forming a protective semicircle that was more symbolic than practical given they were surrounded by approximately fifty armed firebenders. But the gesture landed anyway, warming her chest.

Hewa gave a sharp nod. Alriaq let out a grunt that sounded remarkably like, “Give the word.” Tahi and Siava simply crossed their fists over their chests in the traditional salute. They were good men. Loyal men. Stupid, perhaps, for following her into this nightmare, but loyal. Sure, they had been expecting either death or triumphant chaos, the latter of which would also swiftly lead to death but with more fire and screaming. While they had certainly not expected this development, their faith in Katara was absolute. There were no questions, no second-guessing. If she said this was the path, then this was the path they would follow, even if it led straight off a cliff into shark-infested waters that were also somehow on fire. 

“Time’s up,” Zuko called. He gestured toward a carriage, this one more ornate than the one she’d arrived in, emblazoned with the golden flame insignia of the royal family. “Get in, Princess.” 

Katara turned away from her brother, from her warriors, forcing herself to walk toward her new life, her new cage. Her legs felt mechanical, each step requiring conscious effort. Left foot. Right foot. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about any of it. She didn’t look back. If she did, she might lose her nerve. She might turn around and do something catastrophically stupid, like trying to fight her way out of the capital with one brother and four men against the entire Fire Nation military. So she kept walking. 

Behind her, she heard Sokka’s voice: “Come on. We have work to do.” And then the sound of footsteps moving away, taking a piece of her heart with them.

Zuko didn’t join her in the carriage, much to her relief and also vague annoyance because at least if he were there, she could yell at him and demand answers. He spoke a few quiet words to the driver, then mounted an ostrich horse that was waiting for him, flanked by two of his own royal guards. He was letting her travel alone. 

A small mercy, or just another power play? A way to make her sit with her thoughts and spiral into anxiety while he rode outside in the fresh air, looking dramatically contemplative? Maybe he didn’t trust himself alone with her. Maybe he didn’t trust her alone with him. Maybe he just preferred ostrich horses to people.

The carriage door closed with a solid thud, and the world outside was silenced. As the vehicle lurched forward, separating her from her brother, her warriors, her mission, and everything she knew, Katara finally let herself slump against the plush velvet cushions. The iron control she’d maintained for Sokka’s benefit crumbled. Her shoulders sagged. Her hands, which had been clenched into fists at her sides, uncurled and started shaking.

For a few precious moments, she allowed herself to feel the overwhelming terror of her situation. She was alone. Completely and utterly alone in the heart of the enemy’s empire, gifted to a man who was a living, breathing enigma, with the fate of the world somehow still resting on her shoulders. Spirits, she needed a drink. Or something to hit. Preferably both. Maybe she should drink while hitting something. That seemed like a reasonable coping mechanism for her current situation.

Katara pressed her palms against her eyes, taking slow breaths that were supposed to be calming but mostly just reminded her that she was still breathing, which meant she was still alive, which meant this was all really happening.

This was fine. Everything was fine. She’d been in worse situations. Probably. Maybe. Had she? She tried to think of a worse situation and came up blank, which wasn’t encouraging.

The journey was longer than she expected. Long enough that her anxiety cycled through panic, exhaustion, numbness, and was working its way back around to panic again. They left the polished streets of Caldera City’s government district behind, passed through a residential area of wealthy noble houses, and then continued outward, toward the lush slopes that cradled the city. The air grew cooler, fresher, losing the dense weight of urban living. She could smell damp earth and night-blooming flowers instead of city smoke and cooked meat and too many people living too close together. It was peaceful, deceptively so.

The carriage rolled to a stop before a set of high, dark-wood gates, on each panel carved a large crest bearing the image of a stone camellia. Katara wondered idly if Zuko really liked flowers. They passed into a large, lantern-lit courtyard. The estate was impressive, of course—all Fire Nation architecture seemed to be built on a foundation of “go big or go home, and also make everyone else feel poor”—but it felt different from the palace. 

The palace screamed power, dominance, and paranoia. This place… this place felt like a home. A very large, very expensive home for someone who enjoyed beautiful things, but a home nonetheless. It was built with clean lines of dark wood and grey stone, sprawling horizontally rather than reaching arrogantly for the sky.

The architecture was elegant but restrained, speaking quietly where the palace had shouted. Two-story structures connected by covered walkways formed a loose square around the courtyard. The roofs curved gently upward at the corners in traditional Fire Nation style, tiled in dark slate. Water flowed through artfully designed channels in the courtyard, gurgling peacefully over smooth black rocks. 

Everything was beautiful. 

Katara hated everything. 

She hated how beautiful it was, how peaceful, how welcoming. She hated that part of her wanted to step out and walk those paths, to feel the cool stone under her feet and listen to the water sing its small song. She hated that this place made her think maybe the person who lived here wasn’t a complete monster. Most of all, she hated that she was here at all.

Zuko had already dismounted by the time the carriage came to a complete stop and was waiting for her as a servant rushed to open her carriage door. He offered her a hand, his palm up, fingers slightly curved in what was probably the textbook-perfect gesture of noble assistance. 

Katara glared at his hand, then ignored it completely. She gathered her dress in one fist and climbed down on her own with significantly less grace but infinitely more spite, which she felt was a reasonable trade-off. Her foot caught on the carriage step and she had to grab the doorframe to keep from face-planting into the courtyard. It somewhat ruined the effect of her dignified independence, but the principle remained intact.

Zuko’s hand hovered in the air for a moment before he let it drop, his lips tightening into a thin line. Good. Let him be annoyed. Let him feel a fraction of the frustration and confusion and rage that was currently spiking in her chest. She hoped it ruined his whole evening. She hoped he lay awake tonight thinking about it. She hoped his tea was slightly too cold.

An old woman emerged from the main house to meet them, her purposeful stride implying she’d seen everything at least twice and wasn’t impressed by any of it. She had a severe topknot pulled so tight it must have given her frequent headaches and possibly supernatural powers. Her face was etched with a thousand tiny wrinkles that made her look more formidable rather than less. Her robes were simple but impeccably maintained: charcoal grey with subtle red embroidery at the collar and cuffs. She bowed deeply, first to Zuko, then to Katara without a flicker of surprise, no differently than if he’d brought home a new potted plant. 

“Welcome home, Your Highness,” the old woman greeted Zuko, her voice dry as old parchment. “I trust your evening was… eventful.” The pause before “eventful” was masterful. It contained multitudes.

“You could say that, Madam Lin,” Zuko acknowledged with what might have been the ghost of a grimace. “This is Princess Katara of the Southern Water Tribe. She will be staying with us for the foreseeable future. See that she is given the Jade Wing and provided with anything she requires.”

Foreseeable future. What a delightfully vague phrase. Could mean a year. Could mean a week. Could mean until Ozai decided to just execute her anyway. Katara’s stomach twisted.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Madam Lin bowed again, then turned her neutral gaze back to Katara. “If you would follow me, Princess.”

Madam Lin was clearly the head of the household staff, and she herded Katara away with an efficiency that bordered on alarming. Zuko didn’t follow. He stood in the courtyard, watching them go, his expression unreadable in the flickering lamplight.

The interior of the house was just as elegant as the exterior. Instead of grand, intimidating halls, the house was a labyrinth of cozier corridors and interconnected rooms, many of which opened onto private gardens or verandas through sliding doors made of paper and wood, blurring the line between inside and outside.

Madam Lin led Katara to a long corridor that ended at a large door made of dark wood with jade inlays that formed the shape of waves. She slid it open to reveal an enormous washroom. It was larger than Katara’s entire hut back home. Larger than several huts. It was the kind of space that made her recalibrate her entire understanding of what a washroom could be, what it was allowed to be, and whether she’d been living her entire life with fundamentally incorrect assumptions about indoor plumbing.

A massive sunken tub, big enough for four people (five if they were very friendly), was placed in the center of the room. A changing screen stood in one corner, and shelves were stocked with piles of soft towels and an array of soaps and oils in glass bottles.

And water. There was so much water. 

The tub was already steaming with hot water and the surface was scattered with white flower petals that Katara didn’t recognize but that smelled faintly sweet. A large basin on a stand was filled with cool water for washing. The channels she’d seen in the courtyard apparently ran right through this part of the house, visible through a section of the floor that had been replaced with thick glass, the water moving lazily beneath her feet.

They didn’t keep water from her. 

Katara felt a surge of relief so powerful it almost made her dizzy, like she’d been holding her breath for hours and only just remembered to exhale. They didn’t know. Here, surrounded by her element, she was at her most powerful. This gilded cage had a fatal design flaw.

“You might wish to refresh yourself after your journey,” Madam Lin said flatly, less a suggestion and more a polite observation that Katara looked like she’d been dragged backward through a hedge. Which, fair. “Fresh garments have been provided for you behind the screen. When you are finished, pull the cord by the door. A servant will come to escort you to your chambers. Is there anything else you require at present?”

Food, Katara thought. Answers. A way out of this nightmare. Her brother. Her freedom. A really good scream into a pillow. A do-over on the last twelve hours.

“No. Thank you,” Katara managed.

Madam Lin gave a curt nod and departed. For a moment, Katara just stood there, breathing it in. The steam rising from the bath. The subtle perfume of the flower petals. The sound of water flowing beneath the glass floor, a constant murmur that felt like a conversation in a language only she could understand. 

The very presence of so much water felt like coming home, like stepping into her mother’s embrace after a long absence. It sang to her, called to her, made her chi rise up inside her chest like a tide responding to the moon. Every drop was aware of her, and she was aware of it—the temperature, the movement, the weight and potential of it all.

She was tempted, so tempted, to reach out with her bending, to pull a globe of water from the tub and let it dance in the air around her, just to feel the connection, to reassure herself of her own power. Her fingers twitched. The water in the basin rippled slightly, responding to the barely suppressed impulse.

Katara restrained herself. That was a secret she had to guard with her life. No displays, no practice, not until the very moment she could use it to kill Ozai. One shot. That’s all she’d get.

She stripped off the heavy fur cloak Sokka had given her, letting it fall to the floor. It landed with a soft whump that sounded accusatory, like she was abandoning everything it represented.

Maybe she was.

Then she walked to the basin and plunged her face into the cool water, scrubbing away the Fire Lord Ozai’s oppressive gaze, the stifling air, the dust of the road. She washed her hair next, working a fragrant soap into a lather. Her thick curls resisted, as they always did, tangling around her fingers and refusing to cooperate. She worked through the knots methodically, wincing when she hit particularly stubborn snarls, rinsing and repeating until the water ran clear and her scalp tingled.

Finally, she peeled away her dress and sank into the bath, the water so hot it was almost painful. She let out a long sigh as the heat seeped into her aching muscles. The water held her. Supported her. Whispered to her in that wordless language of currents and pressure and possibility. She soaked until the water began to cool, her mind clearing, her resolve hardening. 

When she finally climbed out, she felt like herself again. Katara of the Southern Water Tribe. Master Waterbender. A woman with a mission and a grudge and absolutely no intention of playing by anyone’s rules but her own.

Behind the changing screen, she found a simple robe of cream-colored linen laid out on a small bench. It was modest, comfortable, and unsuitable for her mission. Katara didn’t touch it. She picked up the scandalous dress she’d arrived in and put it back on. The fabric clung to her skin, the neckline plunging just as low, the slits rising just as high. The war wasn’t over. She just had a new battlefield. And she was damn well going to dress for it.

Katara took another look at herself in the burnished silver mirror hung beside the tub. Her makeup was gone. There was nothing she could do about that now. She’d have to rely on her actual face, which felt oddly exposing after spending hours hidden behind the paint.

She also couldn’t do anything about her hair, which was rapidly becoming her primary source of rage in a day that had provided many excellent options. The thick curls were still damp, clinging heavily to her neck and shoulders. The feeling drove her insane. It was such a small thing. Such a trivial discomfort that most people dealt with daily without a second thought. Wet hair. Everyone had wet hair after bathing. It dried. Life went on.

For Katara, it was a profound loss of control. 

She hadn’t been truly damp a day in her life since she was eight years old and first learned she could command water to do her bidding. A flick of her will, a subtle gesture of her hand, and any unwanted moisture would simply vanish, coaxed back into the air or channeled away or persuaded to go bother someone else. She no more thought about drying herself with waterbending than most people thought about which foot to put forward first when walking.

Here, she didn’t dare. 

The very thing that made this washroom a sanctuary also made it a test, she was sure of it. They gave her access to water because they saw her as a harmless little princess. If they suspected for a single second what she could do with it, they’d chain her up and lock her in the driest, most barren cell they could find, somewhere water had never been and would never go. They’d do to her what they had once done to Hama. She couldn’t risk revealing her ultimate move for something as trivial as frizzy hair. 

So, Katara endured the weight of water. The way that dampness made her neck itch and her shoulders feel heavy. It was good practice, really. If she couldn’t endure wet hair, how was she supposed to endure everything else this place was going to throw at her? Wet hair was nothing. Wet hair was easy. She kept telling herself that.

Doing her best to tame the wild curls with an ornate bone comb she found on the vanity, Katara made herself presentable, less like a drowned rat and more like an exotic princess about to attempt seduction. Close enough. She adjusted the ridiculous dress one last time, tugging the fabric into place. Then, she walked to the door and pulled the cord, as Madam Lin had instructed. 

Somewhere in the depths of the house, a bell chimed softly. The door slid open to reveal a young serving girl no older than sixteen. She had a bright, curious face dusted with freckles across her nose, large brown eyes, her hair pulled back in a bun that was already starting to come loose at the edges. Her uniform was the same charcoal grey as Madam Lin’s, but simpler, with less embroidery. New, maybe. Or just lower-ranking.

“Princess,” she said breathlessly, bowing so low Katara worried she might tip over. When she straightened, there was a flush of excitement on her cheeks, like she’d just been given the most important assignment of her life and was determined not to mess it up. “My name is Mina. I am to escort you to your chambers.”

“Actually, Mina,” Katara said, keeping her voice pleasant despite the anxiety clawing at her insides. “I’d like to see the Prince. Could you take me to him?”

Mina hesitated, her eyes even wider with uncertainty. Her gaze darted down the empty corridor as if she expected a rule book to materialize out of thin air and smack her in the head with instructions for this exact scenario. Katara could almost see the frantic thought process playing out in the young girl’s expressive face. 

Oh, spirits. Oh, spirits above and below and everywhere in between. Madam Lin will skin me alive if I make a mistake on my first night attending the princess. She’ll use my hide for new upholstery. But the Prince said she should have whatever she requires. And she looks like she really requires the Prince. But is this proper? Is this allowed? Why didn’t anyone give me a manual for this situation? Why is this my life?

Madam Lin had seemed like the type to run a household where any deviation from the schedule was punishable by death, or worse: strongly worded disappointment. But apparently, the prince’s whims—and by extension, the whims of his new politically mandated plaything—took precedence over everything else. 

Poor Mina gnawed on her lower lip for a moment, running through every possible outcome in her head and finding them all equally terrifying, before arriving at a decision. 

“Of course, Princess,” she said, a little too loudly, as though she was trying to convince herself. “This way.” She turned and started down the corridor at a brisk pace, trying her best to complete this task before she lost her nerve or Madam Lin materialized to ask what exactly she thought she was doing.

Mina led Katara back out into the maze of halls. Katara did her best to memorize the route, creating a mental map of the estate the way Sokka would have. Turn left at the screen painted with tiger lilies, right at the hanging scroll of a volcano, past the small courtyard with the pond. It was difficult. Her brother had a freakish talent for spatial awareness. He could walk through a place once and draw you a map from memory, complete with guard positions and escape routes. She had a talent for getting distracted by interesting details and then promptly getting lost. 

And this place was profoundly distracting. It wasn’t the architecture or the art, though both were exquisite. It was the feeling of it, the lived-in quality.

Unlike the suffocating silence of the palace, Zuko’s home was filled with the soft sounds of life. Servants moved through the halls not in silent, fearful single file, but in pairs and small groups. They were talking. Laughing, even, which seemed like it should be illegal in a Fire Nation prince’s household but apparently wasn’t. 

When they passed Katara and Mina, they would quiet their chatter and bow respectfully, but there was no fear in their eyes when they glanced up at her. Just curiosity. Katara scanned their faces. She saw a few with the distinct features of the Earth Kingdom, and others with the mixed heritage common in the colonies. 

Were they slaves? Ozai certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to staff his son’s estate with war captives. That’s what the Fire Nation did. That’s what they’d always done. Take, conquer, subjugate. Turn free people into property.

But these people didn’t look like slaves.

They walked with their heads up, not bowed in perpetual submission. Moved with purpose rather than fear. Spoke to each other in cheerful tones, not afraid to laugh where their masters might hear. Their uniforms were clean. They looked well-fed, their faces full and their movements energetic. And they appeared… happy. Or at least content. Like people doing a job they didn’t hate, in a place they didn’t fear.

As a small group of three women passed, she overheard snippets of their excited conversation. “…the fire lily lanterns this year will be even better…” “…heard the musicians from Jang Hui are coming…” “…can’t wait for the sweet buns!” 

They were looking forward to a festival. Planning for it. Excited about it, the way people got excited about things they were actually allowed to enjoy.

Slaves didn’t get festivals. Slaves didn’t get sweet buns and musicians and fire lily lanterns and things to look forward to. They got work and punishment and maybe enough food to survive another day, if their masters were feeling generous.

Katara’s bewilderment grew. Nothing about this place made sense. She shook her head, forcing the confusion down. She was being ridiculous. Just because the Prince fed his property and allowed them to attend festivals didn’t make it right. 

Slavery was slavery, no matter how pretty you made it. This was just a more insidious version, the kind that made you forget you were trapped because the cage was comfortable. A gilded cage was still a cage. A kind master was still a master.

There would be time to figure out the truth of it. Time to deal with Zuko’s labor practices later. Time to judge and condemn and liberate if necessary, to add it to the long list of Fire Nation crimes that needed answering for.

For now, Katara had a more immediate matter to deal with. She quickened her steps to catch up with Mina.

Zuko’s personal chambers were in a secluded part of the estate, nestled against a sprawling garden. The corridor they walked down grew quieter, more private. The sounds of servants and household life faded behind them until it was just the soft pad of their footsteps and Mina's slightly nervous breathing.

It was too dark to see much of the garden through the open sections of wall, just shadows and shapes, the silhouettes of trees and the glint of water. The night air that drifted in was thick with the scent of a hundred different flowers and herbs, a complex perfume of jasmine, sharp mint, and something earthy she couldn’t place. Underneath it all, the rich smell of damp soil and growing things, the scent of life and cultivation.

She wondered, suddenly, if this garden was the reason Zuko smelled the way he did, of jasmine and something she couldn’t name. Not incense, but the living world. The smell of someone who spent time among growing things, who let the plants leave their mark on his skin and clothes. Another baffling thing to add to the pile. The Crown Prince of the Fire Nation should smell like smoke and ash, like conquest and fire and the blood of his enemies. Not like a garden at midnight.

Mina stopped before a set of large, finely carved double doors that were slightly ajar, showing a sliver of warm light from within. She knocked three times on the heavy wood. “Your Highness?” she called out, her voice pitching higher with nerves. “Princess Katara is here. She wishes to see you.”

There was a pause from within, a beat of silence that stretched just long enough to make Katara’s stomach clench and her mind spiral through approximately seventeen worst-case scenarios. Maybe he wasn’t there. Maybe he’d already gone to bed and was currently asleep and she’d be waking him up like some kind of desperate, clingy—no, stop that thought. Maybe he’d heard it was her and was currently deciding whether to pretend he wasn’t home, like when you hear someone knock and you just freeze and hope they’ll assume you died or moved to the Earth Kingdom. Maybe he was in there with someone else, doing—no, also not thinking about that. Maybe—

Then, his voice drifted out, that same rasp that did funny things to her insides, low and devoid of the performative arrogance he’d worn at the palace. “Let her in,” he said, and there was something almost... tired in his tone, like he’d been expecting this. Or dreading it. “And thank you, Mina.”

Katara’s brain short-circuited for a second.

Zuko remembered the girl’s name, could recognize her by voice alone, which meant he actually paid attention to the people who served him. Knew them as individuals rather than interchangeable parts of the household machinery. And he’d just thanked Mina. Casually.

It was such a small thing. So insignificant it shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

The Fire Lord treated his advisors like furniture. Useful when needed, ignored when not, and easily replaced if they broke or displeased him. Azula treated everyone like bugs she might deign to step on if they were lucky. It was the natural order of things in the Fire Nation, at least as far as Katara understood it. The powerful didn’t thank the powerless. They commanded, and the powerless obeyed with their heads bowed and their mouths shut. Gratitude implied equality, implied that the powerful person’s life had been improved by the powerless person’s action, and that was unthinkable.

Zuko had just thanked a serving girl for doing her job, something as simple as escorting a guest. Those two simple words rattled something loose in Katara’s understanding of who this man was supposed to be.

Mina, for her part, beamed as if she’d been given a bag of gold. Her entire face lit up with delight, dimples appearing in her cheeks. She bowed again to the closed door, gave Katara a cheerful little nod and practically bounced away down the hall, humming something off-key that might have been a folk song or might have just been happy noise.

Katara watched her go, baffled by the strange, upside-down world of this estate where servants smiled and princes said thank you and nothing made any sense. Now she was alone again, standing before the entrance to the rhino lion’s den. Or the dragon’s den. Whatever the Fire Nation equivalent was. Probably something involving way too much fire and certain death.

She took a deep breath. Her lungs filled with the scent of jasmine and mint from the garden, sweet and sharp at the same time, like breathing in contradictions. It reminded her of him and that was not helpful right now

This is fine, she told herself firmly. He’s not Ozai. He won’t hurt you. He saved your life twice in a single day. There is nothing to be nervous about.

Except she was so, so nervous. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, trying to break free, to fly away and leave her to deal with this situation alone. Her mouth was dry. Her hands felt clammy, a fine sheen of sweat making her palms slick. She wiped them on her dress and immediately regretted it when the fabric stuck to her damp skin. 

This was infinitely more terrifying than facing down a shipload of pirates. That had been straightforward. Simple. Fight or die. Stab the ones trying to stab you, freeze the ones trying to burn you, don’t fall off the boat. She knew how to do that. She was good at that. Violence made sense. Violence had clear rules and objectives.

This was seduction. Or the attempt at it, anyway. This was a fight she had absolutely no idea how to win, and she couldn’t even punch her way out of it.

Katara looked down at herself, at the dress that was supposed to be her primary weapon in this war. She reflexively adjusted the plunging neckline, trying to frame her breasts in the most appealing way possible, shifting the material slightly to the left, tugging it down a fraction to show more skin, then back up because that seemed like too much, then down again because commitment was important. 

She felt like a complete idiot. He’d already had his hands all over her. He knew exactly what was under the fabric. Who was she trying to fool with strategic neckline adjustments? What was the point of optimizing cleavage presentation for an audience that had already seen the preview? She adjusted it anyway, one more time, because doing something was better than standing paralyzed in the hallway

Just go in there, she commanded herself. Open the door. Say something clever.

What would be clever? What did people say in situations like this? How did seduction even start?

Or don’t say anything clever, her panicking brain amended. Just say words. Any words. Words are good. People like words. He speaks words. You also speak words. This gives you something in common. Start there.

Her internal monologue was not helping. At all. If anything, it was making things worse, which she hadn’t thought was possible, but apparently, there were new depths of panic to discover. 

She had survived pirates, sea monsters, blizzards, and most dangerous of all, her brother’s inventions, which had a disturbing tendency to explode at the worst possible moments and occasionally set fire to things that shouldn’t technically be flammable. She could survive this. She just had to remember why she was here. 

For her mother, who’d die so Katara could live, who’d stepped forward when the raiders came, who’d looked that monster in the eye and lied to save her daughter. Who’d burned so Katara could have a future. 

For Sokka, who carried the weight of everything on his shoulders and somehow still managed to make terrible jokes and care about everyone and stay standing when anyone else would have collapsed under the pressure. 

For Gran Gran, who’d taught Katara everything she knew about strength and stubbornness and refusing to give up even when the world said you should.

For her people. For every life the Fire Nation had extinguished over a hundred years of endless war. For the children being born into a world on fire, for the villages burned to ash, for the future that had been stolen from entire generations.

For the waterbenders who’d been captured and never came home. For Hama, who’d spent decades in a cage. For all the warriors who’d died rather than submit.

This was duty. It was strategy. It was just part of the mission.

(It was also the biggest lie she’d ever told herself. But that was a problem for Future Katara, who would hopefully have her life more together than Present Katara, who was currently having a minor breakdown in a hallway.)

Mustering what was left of her courage—which wasn’t much, but would have to be enough—Katara reached out and pushed the door open wider. The hinges moved silently, well-oiled and perfectly balanced. The door swung inward to reveal warm golden light from paper lanterns, the gleam of dark wood, and somewhere deep inside, where she couldn’t quite see yet, the Fire Prince who’d turned her entire world upside down in the space of a single day. She strode forward, intentionally letting her sandals scuff against the floor.

After all, Zuko had already confessed to bedding her. It would be a shame to make a liar out of a prince.

The only way out was through.