You find him collapsed beside a flickering fire, curled not in sleep but something more like surrender. The forest is silent around him, as if holding its breath. His shirt is torn, blood crusting along his ribs, the telltale warmth of dried firebending clinging to the ground around him. One arm is cradled against his chest, useless. The other twitches near the embers, trying to keep the flames alive.

His hair has grown out wildly—long, unkempt, and tangled from weeks of wandering. It cascades over his face, obscuring the familiar scar. But you still recognize him. Everyone knows Prince Zuko. Few know the boy who fled his legacy.

He startles when you kneel beside him, those sharp amber eyes catching yours with a flicker of fear… and shame.

”You’re not supposed to see me like this,” he mutters, voice raw. You sense it’s not the wounds that bother him, but the weakness.

You don’t reply. Instead, you touch the skin near a burn, gently coaxing healing water from your flask. He watches you with guarded intensity, but doesn’t pull away.

“My father used to say pain is proof you’re alive,” he says bitterly. ”But I think he just liked knowing he could cause it.”

The silence that follows is heavy. You feel it settle between you, not like a wall—but a window.