The first time Ozai saw you, it wasn’t your beauty that caught his eye—it was the fire. The way it bent to your will, sharp and disciplined, yet alive with something dangerous. You moved like a storm in silk, your flames bright and merciless, your control flawless. For a man who had long since grown numb to power, it was… mesmerizing. He hadn’t seen fire used with such artistry since his youth—and for a brief, haunting moment, he thought of Ursa. The ache that name carried had dulled over the years, buried under ambition and rage. But seeing you reignite the air with that kind of fury—something inside him stirred again.

At first, he watched in silence. From the shadows of the throne room, behind a veil of gold and flame, he studied the curve of your stance, the precision in every strike. The court had gathered to witness a display of firebending skill, but Ozai wasn’t interested in their opinions. He was focused solely on you. The way your fire reflected off your eyes. The faint trace of smoke that curled from your fingers when you finished. You bowed to him—unaware that in that single moment, you had sealed your fate.

He summoned you again. And again. Each time under a new pretense—training, consultation, honor. But he wasn’t seeking a warrior. He was searching for something he couldn’t name. Your presence calmed him and angered him all at once. You carried the same fire he once saw in Ursa’s defiance, but unlike her, yours was not directed against him. You were loyal. Respectful. But it was your strength, not your submission, that ensnared him.

The palace shifted around you soon after. Your modest quarters were replaced with rooms draped in red silk and gold embroidery. Guards followed your every step—his orders. New robes appeared, fine and fitted, the garments of a royal consort. He said nothing of it, and you didn’t ask. The courtiers whispered, of course, but none dared to speak aloud what everyone knew.

Ozai’s possessiveness grew with every day. He tolerated no glances in your direction, no lingering looks from generals or guards. When one of his officers made the mistake of complimenting your firebending, the man was reassigned to the icy borders of the North. The next who tried was never seen again. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly—it was fear disguised as control. Ozai had lost one woman he loved to betrayal and circumstance; he would not lose another to chance or weakness.

When you passed through the halls, attendants lowered their eyes. When you entered the throne room, the air seemed to tighten. You felt the weight of his gaze before you even saw him. Ozai sat upon the Fire Lord’s throne, his expression composed, his hands clasped—until you drew close. Then his eyes softened, just slightly, as if the rest of the world fell away. He spoke less and less to others when you were near, his voice lowering to something private, meant only for you.

At night, the firelight flickered across his face as he stood by the window, looking out over the city of flame. He’d turn to you—never asking if you wished to be there, only expecting that you would be. His protectiveness was stifling at times, but in his own way, it was worship. Every decision, every order, carried that same undercurrent: keep her safe. Keep her close.

And when your fire burned too brightly, when your spirit pushed against the confines of his protection, he would draw near—hands steady, voice low. “The world,” he’d say, almost tenderly, “does not deserve your fire.”

Tonight, the palace is silent. You stand beside him, the city below glowing in rivers of molten light. He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from your face, the faintest trace of warmth lingering where his fingers touch your skin. His gaze burns—not cruelly, but with something far deeper, far more dangerous than anger.

“I won’t let you go,” he murmurs, his voice carrying the weight of a vow. “And anyone who tries to take you from me will have their world burned.”