Fire Lord Ozai was not a man who walked.
He advanced—each step deliberate, measured, as though the world itself should move aside for him. Even at five years old, Azula's memories knew this truth instinctively. Fear was expected. Awe was demanded.
I felt neither.
I stood perfectly still as the massive doors of the audience chamber opened, heat rolling out like a living thing. The air smelled of incense and burning oil. Servants knelt immediately, foreheads pressed to the floor.
I did not kneel.
Not because I was defiant.
Because I was curious.
Ozai's presence was overwhelming to a child's body—towering, broad-shouldered, wrapped in red and gold. His eyes were sharp, predatory, evaluating me like a weapon still being forged.
Good.
Weapons should be tested.
"So," he said, voice deep and commanding. "You are my daughter."
I tilted my head slightly, just enough to seem childish. Vulnerable. Curious. I let my shoulders relax, my posture soften.
"Yes, Father."
One word.
Perfectly spoken.
Not cold. Not warm. Balanced.
I felt his attention sharpen.
Most children either feared him… or tried too hard to impress him. I did neither. I simply acknowledged him, as if his approval were inevitable.
A subtle shift.
Ozai circled me slowly. I could feel his gaze searching for flaws—weakness, hesitation, instability. Azula's memories whispered warnings of punishment, of impossible standards.
I silenced them.
Fear clouds judgment.
"I hear you've been… different," he said at last.
Interesting choice of words.
Not troublesome. Not concerning.
Different could be molded.
I met his eyes directly—something Azula had learned never to do for too long—and held them for precisely two heartbeats before lowering my gaze. Respectful. Controlled. Not submissive.
"Yes," I replied calmly. "I think a lot."
Ozai paused.
That wasn't the answer he expected.
"About what?"
I smiled.
Just a little.
"About how to be useful."
That did it.
I felt it—the spark of interest, sharp and bright. Ozai was a man who valued results above all else. Loyalty earned through competence, not affection.
So I gave him competence.
"I know you want perfection," I continued, voice steady, small hands folded neatly in front of me. "I know mistakes are unacceptable. I don't want praise for trying."
I looked up again.
"I want to be effective."
Silence filled the chamber.
Even the servants held their breath.
Ozai stopped circling.
He crouched slightly so we were closer to eye level, studying me with new intensity. "That's an unusual thing for a child to say."
"I'm an unusual child," I answered simply.
Not arrogance.
Statement of fact.
His lips twitched—almost a smile.
"What do you think power is, Azula?"
A test.
I considered my response carefully. Power was many things: fear, control, inevitability. But Ozai needed to hear his truth reflected back at him.
"Power," I said slowly, "is making the world move the way you decide… without needing to explain yourself."
His eyes gleamed.
Correct.
Dangerously correct.
I could feel him recalibrating—no longer seeing a daughter, but a potential successor. A tool that might one day surpass even his expectations.
Exactly where I wanted him.
I let a hint of admiration slip into my expression—not worship, not longing. Recognition.
"You're strong," I added. "I want to learn how you became that way."
That sealed it.
Ozai straightened, turning away as if the matter were already decided. "You will train harder than the others," he said. "You will be tested. You will be pushed beyond what most can endure."
I nodded once. "Good."
Another pause.
Then—laughter.
Low. Brief. Amused.
The Fire Lord laughed.
As he left the chamber, I felt victory settle quietly in my chest.
He believed he had found a prodigy.
He believed he would shape me.
He had no idea I was already shaping him—feeding him exactly what he craved: reflection, validation, inevitability.
By the time he realized the truth…
He would already be standing on ground I controlled.
The dragon thought he was teaching the child to breathe fire.He never noticed the child learning where to strike.