#disgraceofthenation

Zuko had been quiet these past few days. Not withdrawn, nor unkind, but quiet in a way that held no coldness. In their solitude, he bore a gentleness that soothed her. There was care in his silences, thoughtfulness in his touch, and though precision may sometimes be lacking in his word, he was always earnest. He was attentive without indulgence, present without pressing. Always aware but never lingering long enough for anything deep to anchor itself.

They had spoken of duties, of the Fire Nation, Arendelle, of the burdens that crowned them both. And in intervals between their marital obligation to produce an heir, they had shared laughter. She held onto those fragments more than she let herself admit.

But here, in this chamber of flame and marble, with the air thick with tension and smoke, she felt the ache of all the spaces between them --spaces too narrow for knowing him as a man.

She stood just behind him, posture composed, breath measured, though within, a slow thaw stirred beneath the surface. She did not fidget but her pulse moved like the melt of winter ice, steadily. Around the obsidian war table, the generals' voices rose and broke like surf on rock, and still she stood unmoved, hands loosely clasped, expression calm.

Zuko had yet to speak.

That, she was beginning to understand, was not unusual. He listened first, intently. And now, his gaze held fast to the map before him, unreadable and distant, she could see how deep in thought he was.

The unrest in Cranefish Town consumed the conversation, if such disorder could be called that. The table was strewn with maps and crimson tokens marking rebellion, but the real battle raged in their voices, sharp with fear and brittle with blame. Elsa didn’t know the intricacies of the conflict -- not yet -- but she recognized the tension.

It mirrored her own; tight and breathles.

"It's not just radicals anymore," one general said, his voice flint edged. "Workers are joining them; smiths, builders, people who once sang the Fire Lord’s praises. This is spreading."

"It's spreading because the Avatar coddles them," another snapped. "We should’ve struck when the first stone was thrown."

"And what would that solve?" a third challenged. "Push them underground? Make them martyrs?"

The storm rose again, louder, angrier. Elsa let the noise break over her like surf over a glacier. It was not hers to calm --at least, not yet.

"Fire Lord," General Jee said, finally cutting through the fray. He addressed Zuko but cast Elsa a sidelong glance, a subtle reminder that her crown was foreign, her presence still provisional. "We need a display of strength. A decisive act. Delay, and this rot spreads to the capital’s heart."

Her gaze shifted to Zuko. Still he did not speak. Behind him, the brazier’s flame flared, quiet, involuntary, as if it sensed the tension he held so carefully within.

Elsa moved, just slightly, into his line of sight. She did not speak. She didn't need to. Not yet. But she wanted him to see her, not merely standing beside him, not just the seal on a treaty signed days ago, the ink barely dry, binding them irrevocably, but with him. Because the things that mattered in a marriage, trust, understanding, even love were not written. They were shaped by their choice to choose each other, to put their own needs aside to nurture those of the other.

@honorforged @disgraceofthenation

Switch POVs/characters and its the same vibe as

Anna stood awkwardly in the grand hallway outside the Fire Lord's private chambers, her hands twisted together in front of her. The warm air of the Fire Nation was already making her braids frizz, but that wasn’t the most pressing issue.

“She’s asleep now,” She said as Zuko approached, her voice soft and full of that familiar mix of worry and exasperated affection. “Which is honestly a miracle considering she tried to lecture the guards about snowflake symmetry before passing out face-first on her pillow.” She paused, glanced around like she was about to confess to a minor crime, then leaned in slightly. “Okay, so… not to alarm you or anything, Zuko —I mean, Fire Lord Zuko— but this isn’t the first time this has happened. Elsa and cough syrup don’t mix. She never drinks, like, ever, so one dose of that stuff and her powers get… creative.”

This was… not good. Lyra had been exploring as she traveled. Hiding her wings and appearing human. She thought she looked unimpressive and would easily be able to look around the market in peace.

Sadly, that wasn’t the case. Apparently her appearance and confusion over some of the spices made her look like an easy target. So when she was grabbed by a large man that tried to drag her away she did the first thing that came to mind.

Elsa had only meant to rest her eyes. The book still lay open beside her, half-forgotten in the grass, its pages fluttering in the breeze like wings. Above her, the cherry blossoms swayed softly, casting dappled shadows across her face as she dozed beneath the tree’s graceful arch. The warmth of the sun, tempered by spring wind, lulled her into the kind of sleep that came easily now by the quiet changes stirring within her.

Her hand rested lightly over her abdomen, almost instinctively. She wasn’t showing yet, not enough to be noticed by anyone but her husband, but the feeling was there, something delicate and precious.

Around her, the palace garden had transformed.

Three Fire Nation guards had quietly, comically, closed off the area once it was clear their Fire Lady had fallen asleep. One stood like a sentinel at the edge of the path, arms folded and expression grave. Another had blocked the entrance with two ornamental lanterns and an overturned bench, forming a makeshift barrier. The third paced in a wide circle around the garden’s perimeter, scanning for potential noisy threats. Their face were carved into absolutely serious expressions as they guarded the nation's most sacred treasure.

The shadows moved unnaturally, too quick, too precise. Link’s eyes narrowed beneath the green hood as he stalked the perimeter of the palace courtyard, bootsteps silent on the polished stone. The Fire Nation guards hadn’t noticed. Neither had Zuko, seated calmly in the garden, a moment of rare peace gracing the scarred ruler’s face.

But Link had noticed.

The glint of steel. The flicker of movement in the treetops. The assassin was already in motion, a blur of red and black leaping from the canopy with twin blades drawn, angled straight for Zuko’s heart.

Link didn’t call out. There was no time for warnings.

He moved.

In a single, fluid step, he was between Zuko and the descending assassin. The sword that seals the darkness, silent and certain, sliced through the air. It met the assassin mid-fall with a clang of metal and a sickening thud of impact. The force of it drove both of them to the ground, Link atop the now-still body.

A shallow breath escaped the assassin’s lips. A final twitch. Then nothing.

“It’s done,” Link said simply, not looking up yet. His blade dripped red as he pulled it free and rose.

The body lay still, face hidden beneath the mask. A symbol —the Fire Nations emblem, inverted and scorched— was burned into the assassin’s gauntlet. Link frowned. This wasn’t random. This was a message.