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—an unspoken pressure whenever Earth Kingdom dignitaries visited, no matter how peaceful the times. This evening, it was meant to be about diplomacy, civility, and carefully staged harmony.

And then she stepped into the light.

The music began—soft drums and the low, steady hum of the tsungi horn—and the fire dancers emerged. But only one held the room.

Her movements weren’t choreographed in the typical militaristic grace of the Fire Nation. Hers were older. Wiser. Like the memory of flame moving across silk, elegant and alive. The veils that shimmered around her shifted with every beat—revealing a wrist here, a collarbone there—not as invitation, but as invocation. She was fire personified: not to be consumed, but 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, catching 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, she slowed, circling like the last lap of a flickering 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.

She 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, and caught the veil before it could pass from her 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 and hotter than even he could name.

He looked up, voice lower than it had been all evening.

“This… wasn’t meant for me,” he said, “but I’m not giving it back.”