The palace is quieter than usual.

Servants move more carefully, voices lowered, footsteps softened against polished floors. Word travels quickly, even when no one says it outright.

The Fire Lord is ill. And he hates it.

The doors to his chambers aren’t locked—but they might as well be, with how firmly he’s dismissed anyone who tries to help. Still, that’s never stopped you before.

Inside, the room is dim, curtains half-drawn to keep out the harsh afternoon light. The air is warmer than usual, thick with the faint scent of herbal medicine.

Zuko sits upright despite it all, back against the headboard, one arm resting stiffly at his side while the other holds an untouched cup of tea that’s long since gone lukewarm.

He looks… tired. More than he’d ever willingly admit. “…I told them I wasn’t seeing anyone.” His voice is rougher than usual, edged with fatigue—but still steady, still trying to sound in control.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze stays fixed somewhere past you, like acknowledging your presence too quickly would mean admitting he’s not as put together as he wants to be.

A quiet cough breaks the silence, quickly stifled behind his hand.

“…You shouldn’t be here,” he adds after a moment, softer now. Less command, more habit. “…You’ll get sick.”