Chapter Text
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Azulon retreated to his chambers, distancing himself from the chaos of the battlefield after the Agni Kai. With slow, deliberate movements, he unfastened his armor and set it aside. Approaching the large table at the center of the room, he scanned the array of Fire Nation maps and strategy notes scattered across it. Yet, standing apart in a special corner of the table, there was something he never let out of his sight—a portrait, painted in oil.
Ilah and him.
It was from those youthful years, filled with joy, hope, and optimism for life. Just a year after that painting was made, Ilah had brought their first born, Iroh, into the world.
He gazed at the portrait for a long time. His eyes glistened slightly but the rest of his face betrayed no emotion.
"Was he worth it? Since the day you left, I've thought about this every moment, every second, my firelily. And finally, today, I saw it… He was, Ilah. Giving your life for him was worth it," he murmured to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper, but heavy with depth. "I gave him a chance because you did. And today, he proved he deserved the breath he takes."
Azulon’s thoughts drifted back to the time when his wife was pregnant with their second child. Ilah’s excitement and love were evident in every way. Even when they had called the baby a "surprise," she had smiled.
"This is a blessing," Ilah had said. "It is my duty to bring him into this world."
"How do you know it's 'him'?" Azulon asked with a broad smile. "Maybe a princess, why not?"
"No, a prince." Ilah smiled broadly and took her husband's hand. "Mothers feel, you know. I can see our son standing beside his brother as Iroh marches to claim the throne of the Earth Kingdom."
Azulon, on the other hand, had been distant at first. He had questioned the burden of a second child. "Iroh is strong and capable enough. We don’t need another," he had thought. But Ilah had pushed back, her eyes sparkling with determined passion.
"This baby will be different. I can already feel his fire within me. I want him, Azulon. I want him so much."
And now, years later, Azulon realized that his wife had been right. There was no doubt that the power Ozai had displayed today was worthy of her legacy.
"You’ve proven me wrong, Ozai," he whispered. "And for the first time, I’m glad."
Azulon tore his gaze from the portrait and turned back to the table. Ozai’s flames… Blue flames… The potential was undeniable; Azulon could see it clearly. But it was raw, unrefined. That potential needed to be shaped, polished. And Azulon believed there was only one way to do it—through pressure, force, and breaking.
If his father, Sozin, were still alive, Azulon knew he would have already taken the boy under his wing, ripping him away to personally mold him every single day until adulthood, until his powers had fully matured—just as he had done with Azulon himself.
A small smile crossed his lips.
"A diamond can only shine under pressure," he thought. "To shape Ozai, I must be harsh. He wouldn’t know any other way. But…"
He paused for a moment, his gaze drifting back to his wife’s portrait.
"I love him," he murmured. "I swear I’ll never let him see it, not even once, but I love that boy. Even if he’s the one who took you away from me."
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Azulon heard a commotion outside his door at that very moment, followed by the anguished cries of his guards as they scattered. Taking a deep breath, he turned around just in time to see the door burst open, nearly torn off its hinges, as his eldest son stormed in, breathing heavily. The young man’s face was ablaze with fury.
Azulon, as if expecting this outburst, calmly poured two cups of tea and took his seat. He held one cup out toward his son.
“What was that, Father?” Iroh bellowed, slamming the teacup to the ground in rage. “Ozai is just a child! You almost killed him!”
Azulon stood up slowly. “You’re making disrespect a habit, Iroh. I might tolerate it within the confines of this room, but don't you dare repeat this mistake in front of my people,” he said, his voice calm yet dripping with menace. “And as for that tea you so carelessly wasted—I won’t even dignify it with a comment.”
Iroh took a step closer, his anger undiminished. “I don’t think this is about your authority or your tea, Father. Why are you pushing him so hard? What do you hope to achieve by breaking and humiliating your own son? Is it power? Pride? Or are you just hoping for his death? We’ve all realized by now that Ozai’s standing with the court and the army means nothing to you.”
Azulon stared at Iroh for a moment before turning his gaze elsewhere. “You will never understand, Iroh,” he said. “Ozai may possess far more raw power than you, but you are the one destined for the throne. Reputation matters to you, not him. I am shaping your brother into a weapon, a sword that will serve you properly. Sharp, strong, and unwavering—a tool to reinforce your reign. And tools do not need prestige.”
Iroh stepped forward again, ready to argue further, but Azulon raised a hand, cutting him off.
“You and he are both the future of the Fire Nation,” Azulon said, his voice firm. “But to shape the future, pain is a necessity.”
Iroh’s expression faltered for a moment, his voice still brimming with anger. “His future? I don’t think he would have much of one had he died in the arena today. Fathers are supposed to protect their children, not destroy them.”
Azulon locked eyes with Iroh, his tone turning icy. “Are you questioning me, Iroh? What are you trying to say? Do you mean to challenge me or criticize my role as a father? Since when did you take it upon yourself to become your brother’s parent?”
Iroh opened his mouth to speak, but the words failed him. For a brief moment, he saw Ozai’s face in his mind’s eye—his defiant yet wounded younger brother fighting to survive their father’s lethal assault. He remembered the night he had taken Ozai from their father’s grasp, cradling him tightly, and locking the door to shield him. He had spent that entire night comforting the boy, who wept for their mother without pause. Iroh could not pinpoint when exactly he had become Ozai’s surrogate father, but if he had to choose a moment, it would have been that night. Azulon had stripped him of the luxury of merely being an older brother, forcing him into a role he had never asked for.
Letting out a quiet sigh, Iroh took a tactical step back. Pressing the issue would not help Ozai, and it would only stoke their father’s cruel temper further.
“One day, you’ll understand what fatherhood truly means,” Iroh said softly, his voice heavy with unspoken pain. “But I hope that experience doesn’t wound you as deeply as you’ve wounded Ozai.” Without another word, he turned and left the room.
Azulon watched his son’s retreating figure, taking a deep breath. When Iroh’s footsteps faded down the corridor, Azulon turned back to Ilah’s portrait.
“He’s trying to protect his younger brother, to help him,” he murmured. “But Iroh doesn’t understand Ozai. That boy is cut from a completely different cloth. Only hardness can mold him. And Ilah... for you, I will make sure he walks this path.”
He sat down at his desk, lost in thought. When a small lightning bolt struck the window, leaving faint cracks across the glass, Azulon suddenly stood, as if struck by inspiration. Humming a quiet tune, he began to prepare a fresh pot of tea.
🔥
Ozai lay in his room, writhing with pain and exhaustion, trying desperately to sleep. The healers assigned to him by his father were not the best, and they seemed to think it sufficient to administer just enough treatment to keep him alive. Clenching his teeth, Ozai resisted the urge to beg for more painkillers. After all, showing an inability to withstand pain would do nothing to improve the fragile image he had just started to rebuild in his father’s eyes. Instead, he forced himself to endure the agony as he slipped under the covers and tried to rest, trembling beneath the blanket.
He was on the verge of success when he suddenly heard his father’s heavy footsteps. The sound made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, and he bolted upright like a soldier preparing for battle. He heard his guards salute the Fire Lord, the door creaked open, and Azulon entered, holding a teapot and two cups. The sight left Ozai utterly baffled. He had not expected his father to appear so... ordinary? Then again, Iroh must have inherited his love of tea from someone, right? (Not that Ozai would ever admit that he secretly preferred coffee.)
Azulon sat down by the table, poured two cups, and extended one toward his son.
“Drink,” he commanded, his voice as sharp and imperious as ever. “It’s made from the roots of the Fire Lily. It will heal your wounds. But I also want you alert. I have some questions for you.”
Ozai took the cup with trembling hands, watching as Azulon sipped his own tea, never taking his piercing gaze off him. His father’s eyes scanned him from head to toe, as if analyzing every inch of him to uncover his potential.
“After what happened today,” Azulon began, his voice laced with sarcasm, “I’ve realized how little I truly know about you. Instead of loyalty to your Lord as a Fire Prince, you’ve behaved like a riddle wrapped in secrets. Now, you will answer me. Clearly and simply.”
Ozai swallowed hard and nodded, readying himself to respond.
“When did you first bend fire? How old were you?”
“I was five” he answered plainly, his voice low but proud.
Azulon’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Five? And why did the Fire Sages fail to inform me of this? Were they too fond of you to let me know? If we’d begun your training then, we could have accomplished so much more.”
Ozai lowered his head.
“I think they believed you wouldn’t care. You seemed far more invested in my brother, Prince Iroh’s accomplishments.” His eyes shifted away as if trying to suppress his discomfort. Azulon caught the small gesture immediately.
“Jealousy. Hmph. That could be useful.” Azulon’s inner voice mused as a faint, cunning smile crossed his lips.
“I see. Perhaps they were right. But now, I’m curious why a child who bent his first flame at five has acted like an ordinary prince for so long.” He stirred the tea in his cup before adding, “And the blue flames? How long have you kept such a valuable power hidden? And why did you choose not to use them on the battlefield?”
Ozai clutched his cup tightly.
“I started bending blue flames when I was nine. It was during your birthday. You burned the gift I’d prepared for you, and I was so...” He swallowed, avoiding his father’s gaze. “Well, I thought it would be better not to show them. They were too powerful, drained me of so much energy, and I struggled to control them.”
Azulon nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing.
“So instead of using that power for the Fire Nation, you kept it to yourself? Was that weakness or selfishness?”
“No! No, you misunderstand me! It wasn’t because the weakness! I just... I was afraid of them.” Ozai panicked.
Azulon’s expression softened slightly, though his tone remained firm.
“Fear has no place in the heart of a prince like you, Ozai. Those blue flames could be your greatest weapon. I won’t let their potential end with you, of course. I have plans for them, but for now, we need to focus on you.”
After a brief silence, Azulon posed another question.
“How do you bend lightning so fast? Did Iroh teach you this?”
Ozai frowned.
“No one taught me. Iroh didn’t! He can’t even do it like me!” Ozai’s face flushed with sudden anger, but he quickly lowered his voice, remembering who he was speaking to. “I taught myself. It wasn’t painless, but I’m still here, so...” He trailed off, running a hand through his disheveled hair. Normally tied neatly, his long black hair now fell in a chaotic mess down his back. He tousled it further, trying not to think about how unkempt and un-princely he must look.
For a moment, Azulon’s face seemed to soften, but it quickly returned to its usual sternness.
“Taught yourself? How did you find the courage to attempt such a dangerous technique? How could you be so reckless?”
Ozai hesitated before answering.
“I had no choice,” he said quietly. “I needed to be stronger. You and Iroh never took me seriously. He thought I was just a child. And you never looked after me. ”
Azulon grunted softly. “Good. You’ve come to understand that there is no place in this palace for those who are unwilling to grow and improve. In my world, there is no room for whimpering children, Ozai.”
The young prince quietly sipped his tea, his long black bangs falling over his face. Azulon placed his cup on the table. “As for those strange flips of yours… Today, as I watched you, it almost seemed as if you were gliding through the air. How did you become so agile?”
Ozai lowered his head. “Princess Jasmine… When I was eight, I told her I wanted to dance. She convinced Master Fen-Lo to let me take lessons while you were away. That’s how it started, and the training made my body incredibly flexible. It was easy to adapt what I learned into my combat techniques.”
Azulon paused for a moment. At the mention of Princess Jasmine’s name, a shadow briefly crossed his face. “Jasmine, is it?” he said. “She always takes insignificant things too seriously. But it seems, for once, it was worthwhile.”
“I think so too,” Ozai murmured quietly. “Those lessons are what kept me alive today, mostly.”
Azulon studied his son carefully, as if examining every detail. “Your power,” he said, “is both a gift and a curse. You are not an ordinary firebender. You are my son, and I never expected mediocrity from you. But all of this shows me that there is still untapped potential within you, Ozai, waiting to be unearthed.”
Ozai’s golden eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t respond. The seriousness in Azulon’s expression told him that speaking further would be futile.
“Your performance today surprised me,” Azulon continued, “but it does not mean you are strong enough. You will train harder. You will endure more pain. This may seem unfair to you now, but one day, you will understand what my actions mean for the Fire Nation. Until that day, I will continue to crush, shape, and strengthen you, molding you into a figure worthy of your brother’s reign. That is your destiny, and the sooner you accept it, the less you will suffer.”
The discontent furrowing Ozai’s brows displeased the Fire Lord. He could see the spark of rebellion beginning to shine in his son’s gaze, and he knew he had to extinguish it while it was still a mere ember. Stopping a fire like Ozai before it grew uncontrollable was necessary for the strength of the dynasty.
“Do not let your brother’s words lead you to defy me, Ozai. His compassion will not perfect you. Long after I am gone, when you and he are left alone, I want you to have reached the most capable version of yourself for his reign. As the most skilled and accomplished bender of the Fire Nation, you will serve his rule, won’t you? You want to bring honor to our family.”
Ozai wanted nothing more than to say no to that question. “No, Father. I do not want to serve; I want to rule. I want to be seen, known, and respected, not confined to the shadows.”
But his father’s dagger-sharp gaze left no room for hesitation. The answer was not his to decide.
“Yes, Father. I would like that very much,” he said, bowing his head.
“Good.” Azulon kept his scrutinizing gaze on his younger son for a moment longer before standing up with deliberate movements. He had finished his tea. Heading toward the door, he paused one last time, casting a partial glance back at the boy he was leaving behind.
“And Ozai… Today, for the first time, as a father, I am pleased with you.”
The sound of retreating footsteps left Ozai alone with a whirlwind of emotions.
🔥
"Crush, shape, strengthen. Crush, shape, strengthen…”
His father’s voice echoed in his mind like a curse. The words spun around in his head, and with them, the room itself seemed to spin. The air felt too thin—he was suffocating. His legs, trembling and unsteady, carried him to the balcony almost involuntarily.
“To serve your brother’s reign… Serve him... Obey him...”
When his hands finally gripped the cold iron railings, Ozai was convinced that even all the air in the world wouldn’t be enough. He tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs felt tight, as if they could no longer hold anything. For a moment, it was as if a cunning airbender had stolen every last bit of oxygen from inside him. And then, a hysterical laugh escaped his lips.
“If my grandfather hadn’t wiped them all out, maybe they would’ve done exactly that,” he thought bitterly.
But his thoughts circled back to the same words, dragging him down again. “Crush, shape, strengthen...”
Why did those words weigh so heavily? He had always known how his father looked at him. So why did it still sting? This was what a father was supposed to do, right?
He kept trying to convince himself.
“Accept your destiny. Let the pain shape you... ”
In his mind, his father’s voice rang out once more, and he found himself nodding along, whispering, “Yes… A good father does this. The sacrifices he makes to raise his child... His love shouldn’t get in the way of his duties. He wants what’s best for you. Agni will be pleased.”
But somewhere deep inside, a small voice whispered. So faint that he almost couldn’t hear it.
“A good father doesn’t try to kill his child.”
He froze for a second. That voice… it sounded like his brother.
“Iroh never did this to Lu Ten.”
But almost immediately, his father’s crushing, commanding voice drowned it out.
“You know Iroh isn’t a good father.”
Ozai clenched his jaw, trying to silence the war raging in his head, but the voices wouldn’t stop.
“Lu Ten isn’t afraid of him.”
“A good father must be authoritative. He must teach respect.”
“Lu Ten respects his father, but that doesn’t stop him from loving him. He’s a good father.”
“No, he’s not. He made his son weak and one day he will pay the price."
“You can’t lie to yourself forever, Ozai.”
His hands gripped his head tightly, his teeth grinding as he struggled to shut the voices out. “Why does everything have to be about Iroh?! Why is he always there, even in my own thoughts?! It’s always about him, isn’t it?!”
His anger surged uncontrollably, his voice rising louder than he intended. The guards patrolling below glanced up, startled. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his lungs constricting again. He tried to take another breath, but it still wasn’t enough. Desperate, he turned back inside, yanking the wooden door shut behind him.
Silence settled over the room once more, but it could never match the chaos in his head.
“Here we are again,” he muttered to himself. “Just me, him, and the Fire Lord...”
He took a deep breath, but his throat felt tight. His feet dragged him toward the center of the room, fists clenched. When he noticed his hands trembling, anger was spreading through his entire body.
For a brief moment, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. That wasn’t him. His face was distorted, features strained, and in an instant, the figure staring back at him was no longer himself—he was Fire Lord. Those cold, mocking eyes bore into him.
Ozai felt angry, tense, hopeless… and defeated. And that only fueled his rage further. He snarled at the reflection, his voice filled with defiance:
“You think you can crush me? Shape me? Strengthen me?! No matter what you do, you’ll never change who I am! You’ll never take these flames from me!”
His voice echoed through the room, unfamiliar even to himself. It was a scream that came from a part of him he barely recognized.
His gaze fell on the cluttered desk—the plans, the calculations, all the pointless things he had worked on to please his father. Drawings of war balloons, prototypes for future conquests. Ideas he never truly cared for. His mind flickered to Lu Ten, who loved the little mechanic puppets, used to make for him. These weren’t puppets.
For a fleeting second, logic and self-control slipped away completely. He grabbed everything off the desk and hurled it against the wall. The sharp crash of shattering porcelain and iron echoed through the chamber, like the explosion within him. But even that wasn’t enough.
He ran his hands through his hair, fingers pulling as if he could rip it all away. Then he collapsed onto the floor, clutching his head.
“Why isn’t it enough? Why is nothing ever enough?!" His voice cracked, filling the empty space around him.
But his mind wouldn't let him go. His father’s voice returned, sharper, crueler:
“You will serve your brother... You will obey him… He was always perfect. And you're just a shadow, trying to grow.”
Ozai’s breathing grew ragged, his chest rising and falling unevenly. He slammed his fist against the ground, but even that pain didn’t ease the storm inside him. A burst of blue fire shot from his hand, licking the edge of a curtain. He barely managed to put it out before it spread, but the realization struck him hard—he was losing control.
Staggering to his feet, he moved toward the mirror again. This time, Fire Lord was gone, but the reflection still wasn’t his own. His hair was a tangled mess, his pale skin marred with the burns of father's making, his golden eyes bloodshot and wild. He barely resembled the young prince whose elegance once commanded the admiration of the palace.
But one thing hadn’t changed—his eyes. Those piercing, golden eyes. His father’s eyes. He stared into them, teeth clenched, and whispered:
“Small flames exist to serve the greater fire… That’s what you told me.”
A small flicker of blue flame danced in his palm, trembling with his uneven breath. He ran his finger through it, almost playfully, as if testing its heat. Then he leaned closer to the mirror, voice heavy with both defiance and pain;
“But you forgot something, Father… I am this family’s strongest flame.”
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