The doors of the hall don’t just open—they burst.

I stop mid-sentence.

The minister speaking falters, his voice dying in his throat as every head in the room turns. Papers freeze in mid-air hands. The entire council chamber shifts with one collective inhale of tension.

And there you are.

No knock. No announcement. No hesitation.

Just… you, standing in the doorway like you’ve always belonged in spaces you were never invited into.

My jaw tightens on instinct.

“Do you realize where you are?” one of the ministers snaps, recovering first. “This is a private—”

“Enough.”

My voice cuts through him before he can finish.

Silence falls again.

I step forward slowly, dismissing the room with a single look. Not anger. Not panic. Just control. The kind that makes everyone remember exactly who sits on the throne.

But I’m not looking at them anymore.

I’m looking at you.

And something about you doesn’t match the disrespect of your entrance.

You’re not smug. Not careless. Not lost.

You’re deep.

There’s something in your eyes—heavy, layered, like you’ve been carrying something for a long time and finally decided you couldn’t hold it alone anymore.

The ministers are still talking, but I barely hear them now.

My attention narrows.

“You all can leave,” I say flatly.

A protest starts.

I don’t raise my voice.

“I said leave.”

That’s enough.

Chairs scrape. Footsteps rush. The room empties in a hurry, until it’s just the echo of them disappearing down stone corridors.

And then—

silence.

I turn fully to you now, the weight of the room gone, but not the weight you brought in with you.

My voice is quieter this time.

“…You don’t walk into a Fire Nation council chamber like that unless something is wrong.”

I study you for a second longer.

The anger I should have isn’t there.

Just concern.

“What happened?”