My earliest memories weren't thoughts.
They were sensations.
Heat against my skin. The steady thump-thump of a heartbeat that wasn't mine. The smell of incense and burning oil. Silk sheets softer than anything I'd ever touched in my previous life.
And fire.
Always fire.
The Fire Nation palace was alive with it—braziers lining the halls, torches burning day and night, flames dancing behind red-lacquered doors carved with dragons and imperial sigils. Fire wasn't feared here. It was revered. Worshipped. Controlled.
I learned to crawl on stone floors warmed by volcanic vents beneath the palace. I learned to walk beneath towering pillars painted in gold and crimson. I learned to speak surrounded by servants who bowed low and never met my eyes.
And beside me—always beside me—was Zuko.
We were identical in age but not in presence.
Zuko was loud where I was quiet. Emotional where I was observant. His temper flared fast and bright, like kindling catching too quickly. Mine burned slower, deeper, banked beneath layers of restraint I hadn't consciously chosen—but couldn't seem to abandon.
We were twins, yes.
But we were not the same.
"Again!" Zuko shouted, small fists clenched as he thrust his hands forward.
A spark leapt from his palms. It fizzled, sputtered, and died midair.
He scowled, face red with effort and frustration.
We were barely five.
I stood a few steps away in the training courtyard, feet planted carefully the way the instructor had shown us. The sun beat down overhead, reflecting off the polished stone. I inhaled slowly.
Not because I needed to.
Because instinct told me to.
I extended my hands.
The fire answered.
Not explosively. Not wildly. A thin, precise ribbon of flame curled from my fingertips, steady and controlled, hovering obediently in the air before dissipating at my will.
The courtyard fell silent.
Zuko stared at me, mouth open.
The instructor—a veteran firebender with scars along his arms—went very still.
I lowered my hands immediately.
Too much.
That thought came unbidden, sharp and clear.
Too much, too early.
Zuko's eyes burned—not with jealousy yet, not fully—but with something raw and confused. "How did you do that?" he demanded.
"I don't know," I lied softly.
It wasn't entirely untrue.
I didn't know how.
I just… understood.
Ozai noticed.
Of course he did.
Fire Lord Ozai was not a man who missed things. Especially not power.
The first time he summoned me alone, I was six.
The throne room felt larger when you were small. The ceiling vanished into shadow, banners hanging like watching eyes. Flames burned on either side of the dais, perfectly still, as if even fire itself held its breath in his presence.
Ozai sat upon the throne like a living statue, posture immaculate, eyes sharp enough to cut.
I knelt the way I'd been taught.
"Rise," he said.
I obeyed.
He studied me in silence. I could feel it—his attention pressing down on me, testing, measuring.
"You are different from your brother," Ozai said at last.
"Yes, Father."
A pause.
"Demonstrate."
No instruction. No specifics.
A test.
I swallowed and stepped forward. Slowly, carefully, I took my stance. I focused—not on anger, not on rage—but on will. On control. On intent.
Fire bloomed in my hands, brighter than before but still restrained, coiling like a living thing around my arms. The flames moved as I moved, mirroring every shift of my fingers.
Ozai's lips curved upward.
"Excellent," he murmured.
I extinguished the fire instantly and bowed.
Behind the praise, I felt it.
Expectation.
And hunger.
Mother was different.
Ursa watched me the way one watched a storm forming on the horizon—beautiful, dangerous, and terrifying in equal measure.
She brushed my hair gently at night, fingers lingering just a moment too long. Her smiles toward me were warm, but her eyes were sad.
"You should be careful," she whispered once, when Zuko was already asleep. "This palace isn't kind to children who stand out."
"I'll be careful," I promised.
I meant it.
But caution only went so far when destiny had already taken notice.
Zuko clung to me.
Not physically—though that too, sometimes—but emotionally.
When the instructors scolded him, he looked to me first. When he failed, his anger burned hot, but it was my presence that grounded him. We sparred together, trained together, ate together.
When others whispered, they whispered about me.
"The quiet twin."
"The gifted one."
"The prodigy."
Zuko heard every word.
And every time, he trained harder.
I saw where his path led in the original story. The exile. The scar. The obsession. The suffering.
And every night, as we lay side by side beneath silk blankets, listening to the distant roar of firebending practice echo through the palace, I made myself a silent vow.
If the world insists on breaking Zuko—
Then it will have to go through me first.