For Avatar: Rise of the Dragons, Book 1: Prophecy, Chapter 15. Based on the RP that Lisa and I did many years back.
The heavy doors to the Royal Gardens burst open, followed by the rapid pitter-patter of small, panicked footsteps echoing across the polished stone.
“Dad’s coming!” Zuko yelped.
“Run faster!” Azula squealed.
Zuko and Azula barreled into the sunlit courtyard in a blur of movement, their breathing uneven and their faces flushed with alarm, as though the very palace itself were pursuing them. Behind them came the steady echo of rattan against stone, matching Ozai’s long strides as he devoured the distance between them.
“Come back here,” The command rolled down the corridor like a distant thunder- low, calm but heavy with unmistakable intent.
Ursa was kneeling among the fire lilies when the children collided into her with enough force to almost knock her over. She caught herself with practiced grace, though her shears clattered onto the soil beside her. Both Zuko and Azula vanished beneath the heavy crimson folds of her skirts, clutching at her legs, as though their mother alone could negotiate mercy from consequence.
“Zuko, Azula,” she said, startled, glancing down as the silk shifted with their trembling forms. “What on earth has gotten into you?!”
From beneath the skirts came a six and a half year-old Zuko’s muffled voice, small and urgent. “Dad has the cane!”
“And he’s really furious this time,” Azula cried, more defensive than frightened, as though correcting a detail in an already unacceptable situation. “He said we ruined everything forever!” she added.
“I said no such thing,” came their father’s voice from the corridor, even and precise.
Ozai emerged into the courtyard a moment later. He carried himself with the same composed authority he bore in court, though the rattan cane in his right hand gave his presence a more immediate edge. He stopped a few paces away, his gaze narrowing slightly as it settled on the unmistakable shapes concealed beneath Ursa’s dress.
“Zuko. Azula,” he said evenly. “Come out.”
Neither child moved.
“You did!” Azula finally shot back from beneath Ursa’s skirts, indignant even in hiding. “You said we’d regret being born!”
Ozai’s expression did not change, though his gaze sharpened slightly- not in anger, but in correction.
“I most certainly did not,” he corrected firmly. “I said you would regret your actions, not your existence.”
From beneath the skirts, Azula went silent for half a heartbeat, as though mentally reviewing the phrasing.
“That still means the same thing,” she concluded.
“It does not,” Ozai said at once.
“All right, that’s enough.” Ursa rose slowly to her full height, her expression shifting from confusion to measured concern as she instinctively adjusted the folds of her skirts to keep them hidden. “Ozai,” she began, her tone soft but steady, “what is the meaning of this? Why are you holding that thing in my garden?”
“They have turned my study into a disaster,” he replied, his tone controlled but edged with restrained frustration as his frown deepened. “Ink on the walls. On the scrolls. And on ceremonial fabrics that cannot be replaced!”
Ursa studied him for a moment, then let out a quiet breath, weighing his words rather than his emotion. “It cannot possibly be as irreparable as you make it sound.”
“It is not a matter of irreparability,” Ozai said, his jaw tightening slightly. “It is a matter of discipline.”
At that, Ursa turned her head slightly toward the palace wing, already aware he would not let it rest. “Then show me.”
Ursa moved at a steady pace, the children trailing closely behind her skirts, still partially hidden as though the fabric itself were negotiating terms on their behalf. Ozai led the way without another word, though the cane remained firmly in his hand; a silent extension of his expectation that order would be restored.
When they reached the study, he pushed the doors open.
The moment Ursa stepped inside, her eyes widened and her mouth parted slightly. The room was no longer simply messy; it was as though a troop of hogmonkeys had escaped from the circus and found their way into her husband’s office. Ink marked the walls in sweeping, uneven strokes, climbing higher than a child’s reach should have allowed. Scrolls lay scattered across the floor in complete disarray, and the surface of Ozai’s desk bore the unmistakable imprint of small hands treating official parchment as though it were scrap paper.
Ursa’s gaze moved slowly across the damage before she spoke.
“I told you,” Ozai replied, folding his arms as he stood just behind her shoulder.
Zuko shifted first, stepping out from behind her skirts with his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “We couldn’t find any parchment,” he murmured, as though that detail might explain everything.
“So you decided the walls were an acceptable substitute?” Ozai asked, though his tone remained more controlled than sharp.
Azula followed more slowly, peeking out with a mixture of guilt and stubborn justification. “They were very empty,” she said.
Ursa pinched the bridge of her nose, though there was no anger in her expression yet- only the weary recognition of childhood logic operating without boundaries. Then she stepped forward, examining the wall more closely.
That was when she saw it.
Among the chaotic ink strokes, there was one section that was noticeably different. It was not random or scattered but deliberately arranged, as though the child responsible had paused to think about what they were trying to create. A crude but unmistakable family portrait emerged from the ink: a tall figure with a topknot that resembled more like a turnip, standing beside a woman in flowing lines of dress, and two smaller figures between them, hands joined in an uneven but intentional connection. Beside them stood a crooked willow tree and what appeared to be a turtleduck pond drawn with the earnest conviction of something deeply understood but poorly executed.
Ursa’s expression softened almost immediately.
“Oh…” she murmured, stepping closer until she was nearly within arm’s reach of the wall. Her fingers hovered momentarily before lightly tracing the inked outline of the figures. “You drew this?”
Zuko nodded hesitantly. “I did Dad.”
“I did the pond,” Azula added quickly, as if anxious not to be excluded from credit. “And the willow tree!”
“And I made the people,” Zuko continued.
Azula frowned. “You made them look like sticks.”
“They are sticks,” Zuko said defensively.
“They are not supposed to be sticks,” she insisted.
Ursa gave a quiet titter under her breath, the tension in her shoulders easing as she studied the crude depiction of their family with unmistakable affection. When she finally turned back towards Ozai, there was a faint warmth in her expression that softened the air between them.
“Ozai,” she remarked gently, “you have to admit this is rather precious.”
Ozai looked at the wall for a long moment before answering. His expression remained composed, though the gold in his eyes softened as he took in the uneven likeness of himself and his family. “It is vandalism,” he said at last.
“It is art,” Ursa replied.
“It is badly proportioned vandalism.”
“It is our family,” she corrected softly.
At that, he exhaled slowly through his nostrils, his gaze lingering longer on the drawing than he intended. The criticism came easily, as it always did, but the certainty behind it did not feel as firm as it usually would. After a moment, he spoke again, quieter this time.
“They need to understand the consequences,” he said. “If they are allowed to treat property this way without correction, they will come to believe that rules are optional.”
Ursa turned slightly toward him. “And what consequence do you think they need?”
His grip loosened. A more practical thought cut through his lingering frustration. If he struck them now, they would be nursing sore hands or calves for days. That would give them the perfect, unassailable excuse to slack off in their firebending training- and, more immediately, a reason to whine about being in too much pain to clean up this very mess.
Not hesitating a moment longer, he turned and walked to the tall wooden cupboard in the corner of the study. He opened it, chucked the cane inside, and shut the door firmly with a decisive click.
“No cane today,” he said, turning back toward them.
Both of the children blinked in unison, their eyes brightening.
Ursa’s expression softened into a small, knowing smile.
Ozai pointed toward the wall, his authority returning in a different manner as he instructed sternly. “But you will clean every mark of ink from this room. Understood?”
Both children nodded quickly.
“Except that,” Azula said suddenly, pointing.
Ozai’s gaze followed his daughter’s finger, examining the drawing again, exhaling through his nostrils.
“…That one can remain,” he said at last. “Not because it is acceptable. But because removing it would waste time better spent correcting the rest of this disaster.”
Zuko’s face lit up. “Really?”
“Yes,” Ozai said flatly. “Do not mistake this for approval.”
Ursa smiled as she whispered to her husband. “It already is.”
Ozai did not respond to that. Instead, he looked once more at the wall, then at his children, and finally at Ursa standing beside them. His expression remained composed, but something in it had shifted- subtle, unspoken, and not yet fully understood even by him.
Then, with quiet resignation rather than defeat, he turned toward the desk.
“Begin cleaning,” he said. “I expect this room to look like itself again by evening.”
Azula wrinkled her nose at the dark puddles staining the floorboards. "Can't we just ask the servants to do it for us?" she suggested casually. "They're much faster."
Azula's smile faltered as Ozai's sharp gaze immediately snapped down to her.
"No," Ozai repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"They serve the palace," Ozai said evenly. "Not your laziness."
Azula crossed her arms tighter, stubbornly holding her ground. "But they clean things."
"And today," Ozai replied, "so do you."
He stepped closer to the children, his expression stern but lacking its usual biting edge. "You are the prince and princess of the Fire Nation. One day, people will obey your commands without question. That is precisely why you must learn this now."
His gaze shifted between them, making sure they both understood the weight of his words. "If your actions create a burden, you carry it yourself."
Zuko nodded immediately, eager to comply and relieve the lingering tension. Azula, however, looked unconvinced, her chin tilted up in defiance.
"You may inherit privilege," he said softly, yet with absolute authority, "but responsibility always comes first."
That finally gave her pause. Slowly, she uncrossed her arms.
"Yes, Dad," Zuko and Azula said together.
Ursa watched quietly. Because beneath the sternness, beneath the lecture and the insistence on consequence, she saw the truth Ozai himself rarely admitted. He wasn't simply teaching them obedience. He was trying to raise children strong enough that they would never become the sort of rulers who expected others to clean up their mistakes.
And for all the ways they disagreed...
Ursa could not fault him for that.
