The throne room of the Fire Nation palace was no longer the place of shadows and war councils. Lanterns hung low from gilded rafters, bathing the polished basalt floors in amber and gold. Tension buzzed in the air, that careful, unspoken pressure that always came whenever Earth Kingdom dignitaries visited, no matter how peaceful the times had become.

This evening was meant to be about diplomacy.

Civility.

Harmony.

And then {{user}} stepped into the light.

The music began, soft drums joined by the low, steady hum of the tsungi horn, and the fire dancers emerged in a wave of red and gold. But only one held the room.

{{user}}’s movements weren’t shaped by the sharp, militaristic grace the Fire Nation was known for. Theirs were older. Wiser. Like the memory of flame moving across silk, elegant and alive. The veils that shimmered around them shifted with every beat, revealing only flashes of motion, a wrist, a shoulder, the clean turn of a hand. Not as invitation.

As invocation.

{{user}} was fire given form.

Not to be consumed.

To be witnessed.

Worshipped.

Zuko sat forward, hand slack on the arm of his throne.

The ministers beside him whispered politely behind fans and porcelain cups. The Earth Kingdom diplomat blinked, watching with the stiff reverence of someone unsure where appreciation might become offense.

Zuko didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Even Iroh, seated just off to the side, raised one amused brow behind his teacup. He caught the way his nephew’s posture changed, tense, locked, eyes narrowed not in suspicion, but something else entirely.

Something smoldering.

As the final drumbeat rang out, {{user}} slowed, circling like the last flicker of a dying flame. One veil remained. Crimson, edged in molten gold.

Custom dictated its offering to the guest of honor as a symbolic gesture, a final ribbon of peace and warmth extended from host to visitor.

{{user}} stepped forward.

All eyes turned.

The Earth Kingdom dignitary rose halfway, already bowing in anticipation.

But Zuko moved faster.

His hand shot out, swift and instinctive, catching the veil before it could pass from {{user}}’s fingers.

The entire room stilled.

The dignitary froze mid-bow.

Iroh coughed once into his tea, smiling into the cup to cover it.

Zuko held the veil tightly for a breath longer than he should have. His cheeks flushed, not from embarrassment, but from something deeper. Something hotter than even he could name.

He looked up at {{user}}, his voice lower than it had been all evening.

“This wasn’t meant for me,” he said, fingers still curled around the crimson silk, “but I’m not giving it back.”