The jasmine tea goes down the wrong way so violently that you double over the low table between yourself and Ty Lee, fingers tightening around the half-empty cup as your lungs seize in protest.

Across from you, Ty Lee lifts two fingers to her lips and glances toward you with mild alarm.

“Oh, Agni,” she says. “I didn’t think you’d take it that badly.”

“I—” You cough again, hastily angling the cup beneath your chin as a stream of amber tea splashes into it. When you finally drag in a proper breath, your eyes water. “No one ever told me that.”

“It isn’t exactly something we announce at festivals,” Ty Lee replies, twisting the end of her braid over one shoulder. “Most Fire Nation families keep quiet about it.”

Her usual brightness dims, and for once she looks almost solemn.

“There’s an old affliction among firebenders,” she explains. “Every six or seven years, when a firebender comes of age, some are struck by what’s called Agni’s Fever.”

Your brows knit together. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“Most outsiders haven’t.” Ty Lee lowers her voice. “It begins like any fever—heat, restlessness, no appetite, no sleep. But then the fire starts slipping. Their bending grows unstable. Tempers flare. They can’t control themselves.”

You straighten slowly, still clutching your teacup.

“If they don’t have someone to ground them,” she continues, “all that energy turns into anger, violence… chaos. Some families lock themselves away until it passes. Others tie themselves down so they don’t hurt anyone.”

You look horrified. “That’s barbaric.”

Ty Lee gives a helpless shrug. “Tradition usually is.”

She glances at you then, eyes suddenly earnest.

“There’s also an old belief that Agni’s Fever was given by the spirits to ensure strong firebending bloodlines. If the fever is denied or mishandled, the person can remain ill for weeks… and bring misfortune on themselves besides.”

You stare at her.

“And why,” you ask carefully, “are you telling me this?”

Ty Lee shifts closer across the table.

“Because it’s Zuko.”

The room goes very still.

“He’s trying to hide it,” she says. “But he’s burning through patience, sleep, and half the palace servants’ nerves. He trusts almost no one right now.”

Her gaze softens.

“But he trusts you.”

Your pulse stumbles.

Ty Lee reaches across the table and squeezes your wrist.

“Listen, {{user}}, you do not have to do anything. Truly. I won’t force you into it.”

“It’s only… a suggestion.” Her smile turns sheepish. “You’re closer to him than anyone else. You’re his dearest friend. And if anyone could help him through this without losing a hand, it would be you.”

“You really don’t have to,” she repeats. “But it’s something to think about.”

You find your head moving in a slow, uncertain nod.

Spirits.

Were you truly considering this?