The Fire Nation looked different from the sky.
From the ground, it was ash and stone, discipline and steel—cities carved into cliffs, banners rising from volcano-fed forges. From above, it was a living furnace, veins of magma glowing faintly beneath the skin of the land.
It was here that fire was not merely an element.
It was identity.
I did not enter openly. I did not announce myself. I let instinct guide me—chi, vast and ancient, pulsing faintly at the edge of perception. Most signatures were small: soldiers, towns, minor masters clinging to half-understood forms.
But then I felt it.
Old.
Pure.
Fire that did not consume—but endured.
I followed it south, past broken ridges and forgotten temples, until stone gave way to a hidden valley untouched by conquest or time.
The Sun Warriors.
They watched me long before I landed.
I felt their eyes, steady and unafraid, as I descended from the sky and touched the earth without sound. Spears lifted—not in threat, but caution. Their leader stepped forward, face painted in traditional markings, eyes sharp with centuries of inherited memory.
"I walk with the Avatar," I said calmly.
It was not a lie.
Silence followed.
Then—recognition.
Not of my face. Of my presence.
They felt it too. Fire responding instinctively, bowing inward rather than flaring outward. The Sun Warriors did not kneel, but they did not challenge me either.
Words were exchanged. Histories recited. Tests proposed.
I accepted them all.
The path to the dragons was not one of strength—but truth.
The ancient murals did not judge power. They judged intent. When the stone guardians rose and fire roared around me, I did not dominate it.
I listened.
Fire was not rage.Not destruction.Not conquest.
Fire was life given motion.
When the test ended, the chamber fell silent.
And then the mountain moved.
Two colossal forms emerged from the darkness—Ran and Shaw—scales shimmering like living embers, eyes older than nations. Their presence pressed down on the world itself, not with fear, but gravity.
I did not bow.
I did not challenge.
I stepped forward—and began the dance.
The dragon dance was not choreography. It was conversation.
Every movement spoke of restraint and release, of heat that warms and heat that annihilates. Fire spiraled around me, not wild, not violent—joyful. It answered my steps instinctively, mirroring my will with terrifying precision.
I felt Vaatu stir—but I held him steady.
This was not domination.
This was harmony through understanding.
When the dance ended, the fire did not fade.
It settled.
The dragons regarded me for a long time.
Then Ran lowered his massive head.
Shaw followed.
Approval.
The gift came after.
I did not expect it.
From a chamber deep beneath the mountain, Shaw revealed it—cradled in stone and warmth, wrapped in spiritual flame so gentle it barely glowed.
A dragon egg.
My breath stilled for the first time in months.
"You are the last," I said quietly. "This should remain with you."
The dragons disagreed.
Not in words—but in certainty.
The egg resonated with me. Not fire alone, but spirit. Balance twisted into something new—potential. A future not bound by Raava's cycle or the Fire Nation's decline.
A dragon born into a world that would soon change.
Reluctantly, I accepted it.
The moment my hands touched the shell, I felt the connection form—not ownership, not dominance—but recognition.
The egg pulsed once.
Then settled.
When I left the Sun Warriors, I did not fly immediately.
I walked.
The weight in my arms was not physical—but symbolic. Fire had chosen me not as a weapon, but as a keeper.
A Dark Avatar.
A dragon bearer.
A being outside the old stories.
Above me, the volcanoes continued to burn.
Below me, the world remained blissfully unaware.
But somewhere deep within the shell, a heartbeat began to form.
And with it—
A new age.