The corridors of the royal palace still trembled with the echo of raised voices. The argument had ended minutes ago, but the silence that followed was far worse. You stood by the open balcony, the night air heavy with the scent of ash and the distant hum of the city below. The red lanterns flickered in the wind, their light dancing over your face as though uncertain whether to linger or flee.

Ozai entered without announcement—he never needed one. His presence filled the space before he spoke, a quiet storm wrapped in gold and fire. The tension between you still burned, raw and bitter. You didn’t look at him when he came to stand behind you, though you felt the heat of him even without a touch.

He said your name once, softly, the way he always did when he wanted to sound human. You didn’t answer. You’d learned long ago that his gentleness was as sharp as any blade.

His reflection appeared beside yours in the polished metal of the balcony rail. He looked untouched by the argument—calm, poised, every inch the Fire Prince and soon-to-be Firelord. Only his eyes betrayed the flicker of the temper that lived behind them, the same temper you’d just endured.

He spoke again, his voice low and measured, every word chosen like a weapon. He said you misunderstood him. That everything he did, everything he demanded, was for the Fire Nation’s future. For their future—Zuko’s, Azula’s. As if cruelty could ever be love.

You didn’t move, but your knuckles whitened against the railing. He noticed. He always noticed.

He stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of his breath brushed your ear. He told you that Zuko would need to be stronger, that Azula was already proving herself worthy. That softness was weakness, and you had too much of it. That perhaps it was your influence that made Zuko hesitate, doubt, fail.

That word hung in the air like smoke.

You turned your head slightly, enough to see him in the corner of your vision. The firelight painted his face in shadow and gold, half-beautiful, half-terrifying. There had been a time you loved that face. There were still moments—quiet, cruel moments—when you almost remembered why.

He looked at you then, studying your silence, your defiance. For a moment, his expression shifted—something softer, nearly regretful. But it was gone before it could breathe.

Outside, thunder rumbled across the distant sea. The scent of rain cut through the heat.

Ozai’s hand rested briefly on the balcony beside yours, not quite touching. “You think I don’t care,” he said, almost a whisper. “But one day, you’ll see—everything I’ve done, everything I will do—it’s for them.”

He turned away before you could answer, his crimson robes whispering across the floor, his shadow swallowing the lanternlight as he left.

Only when he reached the door did he pause, his voice drifting back through the dark.

“For our children,” he said quietly, “and for the empire they’ll inherit.”