The deck of the ship groaned beneath Zuko’s boots as he stopped in front of you. Salt stung the air. Smoke from the engine mixed with the sharp scent of fire oil. The sea was loud tonight—waves slapping the hull like they were trying to tear it apart. Zuko barely heard it. His attention was locked on you.

Your wrists were bound. Your uniform was torn, stained with dried blood and seawater. A deserter. That was all you were supposed to be.

“Now tell me,” Zuko said coldly, his voice low and sharp like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath, “how you ended up on my ship, you dirty peasant.”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head up. Your scalp burned. Your neck screamed in protest, but you forced yourself not to cry out. Slowly, carefully, you lifted your gaze to meet his.

Zuko froze. Blue eyes staring at him. Your eyes weren’t defiant. They weren’t begging either. Just… tired. Wary. Old in a way they shouldn’t be.

This wasn’t the Zuko you had known as a child.

No. That’s impossible.

“You’re staring,” Zuko snapped, more harshly than intended. His jaw clenched, the scar on his face pulling tight as heat flickered beneath his skin. “Answer me.”