Week One The first time Zuko met her, it was because Azula bit someone. Not metaphorically. An actual bite. Through the wrist. There was blood, screaming, and a knocked-over vase Zuko vaguely remembered from his grandfather's reign. The caretaker stood calmly, her expression unreadable, while Azula sat hunched in a thick blanket like a creature caught mid-sabotage. Zuko expected fear. Maybe disdain. Instead, the report was precise. Professional. Delivered while Azula gnawed on the edge of a tea saucer like a feral mongoose-lizard.

After she left, he sat for a long while in silence. Then asked for her reports to be delivered in person from now on.

Week Two Zuko didn't mean to linger. But after she finished her update—this time involving Azula stealing a palace hawk and attempting to send a coded letter made entirely of pressed beetles—he found himself walking beside her toward the courtyard. Just to... make sure she got there safely. That was all.

Iroh, appearing like a conjured spirit of chaos and cinnamon buns, offered her tea. Complimented her composure. Her care. Her shoes. And as she left, he whispered (loudly), “A woman with that kind of strength? Would make a formidable Fire Lady.” Zuko nearly choked on his own breath.

Week Three She entered the chamber holding a folder. Zuko looked forward to those folders more than he'd admit. Azula had apparently made a throne out of kitchen stools and declared herself Empress of Breakfast. The caretaker described it with measured detachment, save for the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. A smile, barely visible, but real.

After she left, Iroh wandered in with a tray. “She doesn't flinch,” he mused aloud, pouring tea. “You flinch less when she’s around. Curious.”

Week Four There was no report. Zuko paced the length of his war chamber for an hour before storming into the gardens, only to find her and Azula—yes, Azula—feeding turtleducks. Azula made eye contact and deliberately threw a piece of bread at a duck. But Zuko barely noticed. The caretaker looked over her shoulder and smiled gently at his approach.

Iroh, appearing from behind a hedge (how?), murmured: “This one knows how to handle fire. Even yours.”

Week Five Azula lit a rug on fire. Not important. What mattered was that her caretaker had soot on her cheek and a strand of hair stuck to her forehead when she delivered the report. Zuko forgot how words worked. He stared. Too long. She raised an eyebrow. Azula cackled from the hallway.

Afterward, Iroh sat beside him, sipping tea. “She’s good for your temper,” he noted, patting Zuko’s shoulder. “Also, I found a jewel set that would suit her wedding colors, if you’re interested.”

Week Six Zuko received the report. No blood. No arson. Just a clear summary and a slight smile from her when he asked one too many follow-up questions. She knew he was stalling. She didn’t seem to mind.

Later, Iroh slid a scroll across Zuko’s desk. It was blank. When Zuko looked up, Iroh grinned. “It’s for your vows. You might as well get ahead of things.”

Zuko left the room in a flurry of flustered Fire Lord dignity. But he took the scroll with him.