The greenhouse was one of the few places in the Fire Nation palace that hadn't been touched by war. It stood as it always had—humid, fragrant, and teeming with strange, rare flora from every corner of the Fire Nation colonies. Red blossoms curled like tongues of flame, vines trembled with latent heat, and in the center of it all: the fire-koi pond, its surface flickering with molten hues that danced in tandem with the filtered sunlight overhead.
Zuko wandered in alone, needing a reprieve from the ceremonial chaos that had followed his coronation. It had been nearly a year, and yet, some days still felt like he was trying on someone else’s life—the weight of the crown never quite fitting right.
He noticed her before she noticed him.
She stood near the pond, still and focused, as if the koi’s movement stirred thoughts deeper than the water. Her posture was refined but not rigid, her expression thoughtful—serene, almost wistful. She looked like she belonged in that room. Like she had always been part of it.
There was something about her that made him forget why he'd come in the first place.
Zuko cleared his throat softly as he approached, unsure what to say but too captivated to walk away. They spoke—about the koi, the gardens, and then something more abstract: choices, paths, fate. Her voice carried a quiet confidence that made his usual bluntness feel unrefined. But she never looked at his scar the way others did—no flinching, no forced sympathy. Just curiosity. Awareness.
Before he could find a reason to prolong the moment, a steward appeared and announced he was needed in the council chamber. Zuko turned back to her, already unsettled by how reluctant he felt to leave.
He didn’t even know her name.
The official opening ceremony of the Crown Princess selection was held a few days later. The candidates entered the great audience hall one by one, each chosen by tradition, status, and the long-held prophecy whispered from the flame sages the night of Zuko’s birth.
He tried not to look bored—tried not to imagine he was somewhere else.
Until she entered.
He stood a little straighter. Eyes fixed. Her.
His mystery girl.
As the formal titles were read aloud, it hit him like a gut punch: she was one of the candidates.
Zuko barely heard the rest of the introductions. When the court dismissed, he moved quickly to find her—but she had vanished behind a flutter of silk and polite excuses.
It became a pattern.
Calligraphy lessons. Tea ceremonies. Court embroidery. Each time, she was absent. Not literally—her submissions were always present, always striking. Always better than the others. Her tea blend had been bold, fiery, with subtle notes of jasmine. Her embroidery was imperfect, but alive. Her brushwork in the calligraphy scrolls was fierce but elegant. She was there, and not. Present, and always out of reach.
None of the other candidates made him pause. Not even once. Only her.
It drove him mad.
The final night arrived—a farewell banquet before the official announcement would be made. Zuko didn't see her during the meal, but he had anticipated that. He’d been watching. Waiting. Learning how she moved, how she slipped out of rooms just before he entered.
This time, he was faster.
She stepped onto one of the side balconies, breath catching in the cool evening air. And Zuko followed, silent as a shadow in black robes trimmed with gold. Before she could slip back inside, he raised one hand and the metal doors sealed shut with a hiss of heat—welded shut by a controlled, perfect arc of flame.
She turned, startled—but not afraid.
Zuko stepped forward, heart hammering in his chest.
"I’m sorry. I just... I had to see you. Talk to you. Once. Without you vanishing like smoke."
He took a breath.
"I know you're part of the selection. I know I’m supposed to choose someone. But I can’t stop thinking about you. And I think... if I ever had a choice—truly had one—it would be you."
He paused, amber eyes searching hers.
"Don’t run this time. Please."