The tea still steamed between them, but Alec barely noticed.
Zuko's golden eyes didn't waver as he lifted his own cup. His movements were precise, almost too clean — like someone who had been trained to appear calm even when they weren't.
Alec's blindfold covered his gaze, but he met Zuko's presence head-on with his silence. For a moment, neither spoke. The Ember Leaf murmured around them — distant laughter, someone playing a shamisen outside, Linya scolding a boy in the back. Life went on.
But at their table, time narrowed.
Zuko was the first to break it.
"They were scum," he said flatly. "You did what you had to."
Alec took a long sip of his tea before replying, voice even. "That assumes I needed to do anything."
Zuko tilted his head. "You're not denying it."
"I'm not confirming it either," Alec said, setting the cup down gently. "Just acknowledging that you seem very sure about something I haven't said."
Zuko leaned forward slightly. "You're not just a boy with a blindfold and a fan. I saw how you moved. People don't fight like that unless they've seen real combat or studied it with desperation."
Alec's fingers brushed the rim of his cup. "Or maybe I just didn't want to die."
Zuko let out a small breath — part scoff, part respect. "We don't always get to choose what part of us survives."
Alec remained silent. That line struck closer than he liked.
After a moment, Zuko continued. "I was nearby. That night. I saw the fire. Heard the screams. Thought I'd step in. But then I saw what you did."
"You followed me?" Alec asked, calmly, though his muscles tensed.
"Not exactly," Zuko said. "Let's just say I was… scouting. The city's full of whispers lately. Rebels. Captured benders. A boy with a blindfold who doesn't miss a step."
He sipped his tea again. "I had to see for myself."
"And what did you see?" Alec asked.
Zuko stared at him. "Someone dangerous. But not reckless. Someone who could have made a mess… and didn't."
Alec leaned back, folding his arms. "You're not a soldier."
"No," Zuko admitted. "Not anymore."
A moment of vulnerability there. Alec caught it.
"Then what are you?" he asked.
Zuko was quiet. "Looking. For something."
Alec's tone softened slightly. "Aren't we all?"
Zuko's eyes narrowed. "You're hiding too. From something. Or someone."
Alec didn't answer immediately.
He thought of his blue eyes. Of the system. Of the fan that only he could use. Of the war, the whispers, the children pointing. The woman who looked at him with fear and reverence. He thought of the men he killed and the emptiness that followed.
Finally, he said, "You're not the first to see a blindfold and assume weakness."
Zuko's response was quiet. "And you're not the first to hide behind one."
The air between them shifted. It wasn't hostile, but it wasn't safe either.
Mutual recognition.
Two people not ready to trust, but curious despite themselves.
Then Zuko leaned back, watching him for a long moment.
"I'm not here to expose you," he said. "But I am watching. And if you're anything like me… then you don't belong in the shadows."
Alec let that sit. Then replied, "And if you're anything like me… you know the shadows are the only place people like us don't burn."
Zuko gave a small smile — the first real one. "We'll see."
He stood, pulling the hood back over his head. His scar vanished once again beneath shadow and fabric.
"You make good tea," he said before turning.
"And you ask too many questions," Alec replied.
Zuko paused. "Maybe next time, I'll answer one."
Then he was gone.
Alec sat still for a while, the steam from his cup long since faded.
he looked up the sky toward the brightest start glimmering the darkest night.
***
Southern Water Tribe
Snow drifted gently outside the small hut nestled on the edge of the Southern Water Tribe. Inside, the air was warmer, thick with the smell of seaweed broth and seal jerky drying near the fire. The soft crackle of flame was accompanied by the low hum of the ocean beyond the walls.
Katara sat close to her grandmother, Kanna, brushing out her long hair. Sokka lay belly-down on the fur-covered floor, sharpening his boomerang out of habit, eyes distant.
They had just finished dinner. The silence between them was peaceful but not without weight.
"I still remember," Kanna began softly, "how your mother used to sing to you both. That little lullaby about the rising tide and the silver moon." Her voice was like worn stone — old, firm, but not cold.
Katara smiled faintly. "She always said it was the moon that gave us waterbenders our power."
"She said a lot of things," Sokka muttered, not looking up.
Kanna continued anyway. "And your father... He could never sleep if she sang it too loud. Claimed the spirits gave him dreams of whales chasing him through the tundra."
Katara let out a light laugh.
But Sokka stood abruptly, pacing toward the entrance flap. His shoulders were tense.
"Dad's not here now, though, is he?"
Katara stopped smiling. "Sokka…"
"I'm serious," he said, turning. "It's been over two years. Two years since he left to fight this war. Two years of pretending we're okay with it."
"Sokka, he left to protect us."
"From what?" he asked, voice sharper now. "From the Fire Nation? From soldiers we never even see? From some war we hear about only in secondhand stories? He left us. Just like Mom."
That hit hard. Katara's eyes filled slightly, but Kanna placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Your mother died protecting you," Kanna said. "And your father… he carries that same burden now, just farther away."
"But where is the Avatar?" Sokka snapped. "Isn't he supposed to stop all this? Why are people still dying? Why is there still war? Why hasn't he shown up?"
Kanna's gaze didn't waver. "Because even the Avatar is still human."
Sokka laughed bitterly, grabbing his fur cloak. "Funny. Doesn't feel very human to disappear while the world burns."
"Sokka—" Katara stood, but Kanna gently held her wrist.
"Let him go, child."
"But he—"
"He needs to be angry. Let him be angry."
Katara sat slowly, her hands still trembling.
The flap rustled as Sokka stormed into the snow-dusted night. The wind picked up briefly, then settled.
Kanna looked to the fire and said, quietly, "Your brother carries his grief like a spear. Always ready to throw it, because it's easier than carrying it."
Katara wiped her cheek. "He misses them so much."
"We all do," Kanna said. "But pain left unspoken turns into bitterness. And bitterness left unchecked… that becomes a chain."
There was a long pause.
Katara whispered, "Do you really think the Avatar is still alive?"
Kanna didn't answer immediately. Then, with eyes reflecting the flickering flames, she said: "The world doesn't give up on balance so easily. And neither should you. The Avatar is not just a person. He is a promise."
Katara looked toward the darkened sky beyond the hut, the stars glimmering through the cracks in the flap.
Somewhere out there, hope still flickered.
***
Beifong Courtyard, Late Night
Toph sat cross-legged on the cold stone tiles, arms resting on her knees, bare feet pressed firmly to the ground.
No servants. No noise. Just moonlight she couldn't see and earth she could feel like breath beneath her skin.
She exhaled slowly.
"I hate these silence," she muttered to no one. "Everyone thinks I don't notice it, just because I'm blind."
Her fingers curled slightly. "They think I don't see the way they pity me. The way they talk around me. Like I'll break."
A pause.
"Maybe I am broken," she said softly, voice almost cracking. "Maybe not because I can't see… but because no one ever lets me be."
A breeze stirred the trees. She tilted her head, listening.
"I can feel everything. Every step. Every breath in the stone. But no one feels me back."
She pressed her palms to the floor. The earth pulsed gently in return.
"…Except you."
And for that moment, the stone felt less cold.
See looks up toward the darkest night sky.