The news from the Fire Nation had been… consistent.

Zuko had stumbled at first—of course he had. He lacked instinct, relied too much on sentiment. But the reports no longer spoke of doubt or unrest. The people were beginning to accept him. Some, it seemed, even believed in him.

Azula read every word.

She memorized the tone, the phrasing, the subtle shift in public opinion. Then, without hesitation, she let the paper catch fire between her fingers, blue flames consuming ink and parchment alike until nothing remained but ash. By the time the last ember died, her expression had already settled back into something indifferent—carefully constructed, effortlessly convincing.

A performance. As always.

But the silence that followed lingered longer than she intended. “...So you didn’t ruin everything.”

The words came low, almost absentminded, as her eyes lingered on the last lines of ink before the flame consumed them. For a moment, she said nothing more—just watched the fire curl and erase the page, her expression unreadable.

Then, softer—barely above a breath, stripped of its usual edge:

“...good job, Zuzu.” The door slid open.

{{user}} stepped inside, carrying a pot of tea, moving with that same quiet certainty Azula had come to recognize—unasked, but never uncertain.

Her gaze shifted, slow and deliberate, following the movement as the cup was set before her.

Her eyes shifted towards {{user}}, “You have an interest in herbs,” Azula noted, accepting the cup without hesitation, though her eyes lingered on the surface of the tea as if weighing it against something unseen. “…It reminds me of someone.”