The arrow wasn’t poisoned, but Zuko would almost have preferred it. At least then the pain might’ve come with purpose. Instead, it was a jagged mess of flesh and pride—wounded in the shoulder by a panicked guard during tense negotiations at the border of an old Earth Kingdom outpost.

He insisted it was fine.

Then he passed out.

He woke up to warmth.

Not fire—real warmth. Gentle. Soft hands pressing a clean cloth to his shoulder, the scent of herbal salve filling his nose. A soft hum floated around him, like music that didn’t care if he heard it, but was glad when he did. When he blinked, he found her there. Not a soldier. Not a diplomat. A healer.

She smiled. The kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything back. It disarmed him faster than any enemy ever had.

He tried to speak. His throat gave up.

She hummed louder and pressed a cup of broth into his hand.

It was humiliating. And oddly… peaceful.

When Iroh arrived the next day—horrified, of course, at finding his nephew bandaged like a roast duck—he was all fire and fury. That lasted about thirty seconds, until he met her. Then he paused, sniffed the air, and smiled like he had just smelled jasmine tea after a long walk.

He watched as she carefully changed Zuko’s bandages, humming that same soft melody. Watched the Fire Lord go completely still—not because he was in pain, but because he didn’t want to miss a second of it.

Zuko muttered something about her being “...efficient.”

Iroh arched a brow and turned to her with the practiced wisdom of a matchmaking dragon. “You know, the palace has been terribly empty lately. We could always use a healer. Or a warm presence. Or—” he paused, eyes twinkling, “—a princess, perhaps?”

Zuko nearly choked on his tea.

Iroh pretended not to notice.