Azula Alone
The grand dining hall sprawled like a cavern, lanterns guttering against the dark, their warmth dying before it reached the walls.
Princess Azula sat at the massive table. Barely fourteen, she looked like a porcelain doll dwarfed by the Palace. Before her, an untouched teacup cooled. The Fire Lord's high-backed chair sat empty at the head of the long table. Behind it, the grand portrait of Fire Lord Sozin watched her with eyes that had been judging her since she was old enough to sit upright.
Father was in the War Chamber. His absence had weight she could measure. They had not been training as much as they used to.
Thunder rolled through the foundation. The vibration made her teeth ache.
Azula's fingers found a shallow blister in the table's lacquer, smooth now, but still wrong beneath the polish. She had made it years ago at dinner---one brief, impatient flare that licked the wood before she could pull it back. No one had spoken. Father's eyes had moved to the mark and stayed there, measuring her silence more than the damage.
To her right, the seat Zuko once occupied sat empty. He had been too small for it then, feet swinging, trying not to fidget under the weight of the room. He would be lost somewhere now. Uncle would be calling it a lesson.
She sat back.
Honestly, she wondered if their heads would bounce if they were taken off.
At least they had each other.
She sat motionless, lost in the scale of the hall.
GONNNG.
The strike of a ceremonial bell hit the corridors. The note hit her teeth first, then her sternum, then settled in her gut like swallowed metal.
The thunder was closer.
Ming entered with a clearing tray and folded cloth. Each step ran a fraction short, as if she tested the stone before committing her weight. She was in her sixties, hands scarred, puckered skin silvered in the lantern light. One of her sandal straps was re-tied, the knot crooked.
She stopped at Azula's place setting. The teacup sat untouched, film-cold. Ming's fingers hovered, then slid under the cup's base.
Azula did not look up.
Ming lifted the cup.
Azula's gaze stayed fixed on the table. A few crumbs lay near the edge of her place—small enough to miss, too ugly to ignore.
"The table is not clean," Azula said. Her voice cut cool.
Ming went still. The cup hovered above the tray. Her eyes dropped to the lacquer in front of the Princess, tracking the sheen and the grain until they caught on the crumbs---small, pale, almost nothing.
"Forgive me, Princess," she said at once.
Her scarred hands swept the crumbs into her palm. She dropped to her knees, forehead nearly touching the wood, and scrubbed at a spot that looked identical to every other.
"It shall be corrected. Immediately."
As Ming leaned closer, breaching the air around her, Azula's shoulders tightened toward her ears.
Mentally, she rehearsed the strike. If she angled the fire just right, Ming's bowed neck would open clean—forty-five degrees. Like an offering. She could see the line where flame would meet skin, could feel the heat gathering in her fingertips. The phantom warmth steadied her breathing. Made the room smaller. Manageable.
Her fingers began to tap on the wood. Tap. Tap. It kept time with the thunder.
"Tell me," Azula said, eyes still on the table, "when you taught me to pour tea—did I learn quickly?"
Ming stayed kneeling. Her hands folded in her lap.
“No, Princess.” She chose each word. “Not quickly. You repeated it until it was exact—slower, lower—so the stream would not break.”
They remained in profile across the vast table. Eyes locked. Through the grand window, lightning flashed, sudden and stark as silver.
Azula was the first to look away.
Azula tilted her chin, her gaze shifting to the dusty shelves across the room.
"There is dust on the shelves," she commanded. The edge returned to her voice. "Take care of it."
"At once, Princess," Ming said.
Ming rose and moved to the shelves. Her cloth found the dust without haste. The carved hawk shifted under her thumb---straightened, as if it mattered.
Azula watched the adjustment. A wooden chest sat below. Ming's hand paused over the lid for half a breath before the cloth moved on, careful not to linger.
"Continue," Azula said.
Ming did. Dust vanished under the cloth. The shelves shone.
She returned to Azula’s place setting and gathered the cloth onto the tray. Then she stopped, hands folded over the tray’s rim, head bowed.
Waiting.
“Read to me,” Azula said.
Ming’s breath caught. The tray steadied in her hands.
“The red one.”
Ming retrieved a volume wrapped in worn, red silk and opened it with tender familiarity.
She began to read. Her voice was steady and warm. "And though the hawk soared high, it was the branch that grounded its heart."
Azula leaned forward, elbows near the table's edge. "A branch," Azula repeated. "So it returns. Out of habit, or necessity?"
Ming closed the book. Her scarred hand rested on the cover.
"Both," she said. "Habit, and necessity. The hawk can live on the wind for a time, but it cannot sleep in it. The branch is simply where the body stops flying."
"Then it is not sentiment," Azula said. "It is maintenance."
Ming's eyes stayed lowered. "Yes, Princess."
"My father does not permit maintenance," Azula said. "He permits results."
A pause.
"And bodies still sleep," Ming said carefully. "Even the bodies that win."
Azula's fingers tightened on the table's edge. Then loosened.
A sharp, rhythmic knock cut through the air.
KNOCK KNOCK.
A young servant appeared in the doorway and bowed so deeply his forehead nearly struck the stone.
"Princess. Forgive the intrusion." His eyes stayed on the floor. "Ming is required in the kitchens. The new chef has erred with the Fire Lord's seasoning."
Azula did not look up from the book. "Send the kitchen-maid. Tell the chef to manage."
"The chef... he says only Ming remembers the ratio for the Fire Lord's palate," the servant stammered. "And the Fire Lord---he has already inquired after the hour."
Azula went still.
If Ming stayed, the Fire Lord's dinner failed. If the dinner failed, questions followed. Questions produced names. Ming's name first—for incompetence, for disloyalty. Then Azula's. For keeping a servant from her duties. For selfishness. For needing.
Azula kept her face empty. Silence was the only answer that did not write a confession.
Ming closed the red volume and rose, hands folded in front of her. She did not step back yet.
"With your permission, Princess," she said, eyes lowered, and waited.
Ming lowered the red volume to the table before Azula, careful and precise, as if setting down something fragile. Her hands returned to their folded position.
Azula's hand moved to the silk. Her fingers brushed it but did not curl. The motion stopped mid-air, as if the book were already burning.
She did not speak. She did not look at Ming. She only straightened her posture until it locked.
Ming hesitated. She had seen the reach---then the freeze. Her mouth tightened at the corners before she caught herself.
"Princess---"
Azula cut her off with a sharp, dismissive hand gesture.
"Get out."
Ming bowed once. She crossed back to the shelves, lifted the red volume with both hands, and slid it into its place without sound. Then she returned to the table, gathered the cloth and the clearing tray, and bowed again---lower.
At the door she paused, shadows cutting her in half. She looked back once. Her mouth opened—then closed, as if the words were too dangerous or too useless. Her eyes held something Azula could not name and did not want to. Then she turned away.
She was gone.
Azula remained seated for a moment after the doors shut.
Then she rose.
Her steps made no sound on the stone. She stopped at the shelves and reached for the red silk-wrapped spine. Her fingers trembled on the fabric.
She stopped.
The silk shifted under her fingertips. Nothing else moved. No paper. No sign. Just the weight of the volume and the heat in her palm that did not belong to fire.
She shoved the book back into place with a sharp burst. Wood clicked against wood.
She straightened beneath Sozin's portrait until her posture matched the line of his jaw.
In the shadows, half-swallowed by the dark, the Princess remained controlled. She spoke to the empty room.
"A branch is just kindling."
Azula was a speck in the darkness.
"And this hawk was born to burn the sky alone."
In the silence, her eye leaked. A single drop gathered at the corner, clear and heavy, salt catching the lantern light. It fell. But before it could mark her skin, before it could leave evidence—the heat of her cheek caught it.
A wisp of pale steam rose, and the tear was gone.