The first robe was red. But not Fire Nation Red™—not the flame-scorched, war-hardened crimson that screamed “tyrant in training.” This one was a richer hue, almost wine-dark, with soft gold embroidery instead of armor plating.

Zuko blinked at it hanging in his wardrobe, suspicious.

“I didn’t order this,” he muttered.

The next morning, his boots were polished. His shoulder sash mended. The collar that always itched? Replaced with a softer lining. The spikes were gone. Just… gone.

He checked the servant rota. Nothing. The tailors? Unaware. Palace staff? Clueless.

“I think there’s a ghost,” Zuko told Iroh, dead serious.

Iroh only raised a brow, sipping his tea. “A very fashionable ghost.”

Then came the jewelry rotation. The spike-ring from Ozai’s war cabinet? Swapped for a minimalist signet in obsidian. The firelord's brooch with a flame-tongue motif? Gone. Replaced with a phoenix crest, quiet but regal.

Zuko stormed into his closet. There were seasonal charts pinned behind the mirror. Matching guides for dignitary attire. A silk swatch labeled “Dignified But Approachable.”

A tiny, meticulous scrawl: "Worn leather is for brooding exiles, not ruling monarchs."

That’s when he checked the palace quarters—specifically Azula’s old wing. It had been abandoned after the war. Or so he thought.

He found her there. Calm. Polite. Still living in the echo of Azula’s madness. Still working, still styling. She offered him tea like they’d seen each other yesterday, not years ago.

“I... thought you left,” he said blankly.

“No one told me to,” she replied, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.

She listed off what had been fixed, replaced, and reordered like a ledger. Then she tilted her head, examining his current outfit. She didn’t comment—just quietly took a note and vanished into a panel in the wall.

Zuko turned, stunned. “Did she just walk into the wall?!”

Iroh was already behind him, hands clasped serenely. “Ah. So you’ve met the Royal Shadow. About time.”

And just like that, she kept showing up. Hems hemmed. Scars respected, not concealed. Public image polished, fire softened—not dulled, but refined.

Zuko never remembered asking for any of it. He just… looked better. Felt better.

At tea that evening, Iroh leaned in, eyes twinkling. “You know, she does have access to all your chambers... including the bridal suite.”

Zuko choked on his tea. Iroh smiled. The fashion ghost? She just hummed down the hallway, clipboard in hand.