The ropes bite deeper as Teorin stirs, dragged awake by the scrape of boots and the low mutter of voices. Ones he doesn’t recognize.

  The fire has burned down to coals. His captor is slumped against a tree, one hand near his swords but slack with sleep.

  Teorin listens, not sure if he should call out or stay silent. What if they are friendly? What if they’re worse?

  Light flickers through the trees, perhaps from some sort of lantern. A shadow crouches beside Teorin, rough hands tugging at the folded frame of his jacket. Teorin freezes.

  “Strange, but it looks like some sort of metal,” a rough voice mutters. “Could be worth a fortune.”

  Silence for a moment. Teorin wishes he could twist to see the man.

  “Go check the other one,” the voice says.

  The bandit’s knife flashes as he saws at the ropes around Teorin’s wrists. Is this good? Teorin relaxes slightly. The knife cuts too close to his skin, and he jerks. These people don’t care about him.

  “Hold still,” the man jeers. The ropes fall. “I’ll let you go free. Just want the coat in return.”

  No. It’s the only thing he has from home. A physical piece of his identity. Teorin thrashes, raw panic tearing through his exhaustion. “No! Don’t—don’t touch it!” His voice cracks as he shoves back from the hands reaching for him, dizzy from hunger and dehydration. “Get off me!”

  The bandit just laughs, tugging harder at the wingframe folded inside. “Kid’s acting like we’re skinning him alive, instead of freeing him.”

  Teorin draws a breath. The man reaches again, and Teorin blasts his hand back with pressure.

  Everyone freezes.

  “Did you see that? Was that—” someone starts.

  “Airbending,” another whispers, reverent.

  Then the air explodes in flames.

  A jet of fire sears the ground at the bandit’s feet. He stumbles back with a curse. The golden-eyed boy is already there, eyes blazing. He doesn’t hesitate—one strike, then another—fire curling into a wall that drives the others away.

  “He’s mine. Touch him again,” his captor snarls, voice low and dangerous, “and you’ll burn for it.”

  The bandits scatter under the weight of his fury. Smoke and scorched pine sting the air.

  It’s suddenly quiet again, save for Teorin’s ragged breathing. They are probably lucky the forest isn’t burning. The ropes lie in the dirt, shredded. His hands twitch uselessly against his lap, too weak to rise, too weak to run.

  Bursts, he wants to run. Instead, he just tries not to fall over.

  His captor stands over him, fists clenched by his sides. His jaw is tight, breath heaving, like he hasn’t decided whether he’s furious at the bandits or at himself.

  Teorin swallows, throat raw. His voice is hoarse but steady. “Guess I should thank you for saving my coat.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The boy’s mouth twists. “I didn’t do it for you.”

  Teorin leans back against the tree, too exhausted to argue, but his eyes linger on the boy’s scar in the moonlight. “Maybe not, but you still did it.”

  The words hang there, uncomfortably true.

  His captor snatches up the rope and stalks closer. For a moment, Teorin braces, expecting to be bound again. Instead, the boy’s hands brush the cut on his wrist, where blood beads. Teorin tries to hold back a whimper, but it escapes anyway.

  The boy freezes. “Don’t move.”

  Teorin huffs a laugh. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  The Firebender turns away, rummages in his bag, and comes back with a strip of cloth. He wraps Teorin’s wrist, movements brisk but careful. Teorin watches, wide-eyed.

  “I’m preventing infection,” the boy mutters. “That’s it.”

  Teorin nods, unconvinced.

  When the boy snatches the rope again, Teorin flinches, but this time he ties them loose. Tight enough to keep Teorin contained, but not biting into his raw wrists.

  He doesn’t meet Teorin’s eyes, just stalks back to the other side of the fire to gather his things. “We have to move.”

  “Can’t,” Teorin mutters.

  “We aren’t going far.” His captor’s tone hardens. “We just can’t stay here.”

  Teorin winces as the boy hauls him upright. The darkness feels like it’s swallowing them whole. He stumbles, dizzy.

  The boy catches his arm and drags him forward. Fortunately, they haven’t even walked for five minutes when his captor shoves him down again, tying him to another tree.

  Teorin trembles, hating that dehydration can make him this weak, that he almost feels grateful to be tied again, because then he doesn’t have to walk. Still…

  Teorin exhales, then says quietly. “If I asked your name, would you tell me?”

  The boy’s jaw works. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I think it does,” he says softly. “Mine’s Teorin.”

  “It doesn’t.” The wind hisses through the trees. Then, after a pause: “How old are you?”

  “Nineteen. You?”

  Silence.

  Teorin shifts against the tree, and Cat appears again, settling himself down on Teorin’s lap. Teorin sighs. The conversation isn’t going anywhere. He closes his eyes.

  In the darkness, Zuko’s eyes stay open. The number sticks in his head: nineteen. Older, but not by much, yet it feels like a gulf. Old enough to stay calm, even tied and starving. Old enough to offer peace on a night like this. Old enough that Zuko’s temper feels childish beside him.

  He clenches his fists, the scar tugging tight across his face. Sixteen. Still just a boy, his father had said—unworthy, unready. And here he is, proving him right. Burning someone older, someone who should’ve looked down on him with disdain. Instead, Teorin looked at him like… like he was trying.

  Zuko’s throat tightens. He stares into the darkness of the forest until his eyes sting and tells himself it doesn’t matter. Age, names, trust—none of it matters. He only needs the Avatar. He only needs his honor back.

  But the words won’t leave him:

  Nineteen.

  Mine’s Teorin.

  Zuko curls tighter against the tree, forcing his eyes shut. If he dreams, he doesn’t want it to be of fire.

  The forest reeks of smoke and sweat. A handful of bandits stumble down the game trail, still muttering about the Firebender who attacked them.

  “This wasn’t worth it. Half my haul’s scorched,” one grumbles.

  Another snorts. “I’ve heard the rumors. The Avatar is supposed to be some kid. The one tied up? He was no kid. He was taller than me, but if that wasn’t airbending, I’ll sleep in the snake owl’s nest. He was bending the air, I swear it.”

  Blue fire erupts at their feet. The men shriek, scattering back as Azula steps from the trees, golden eyes gleaming.

  “Now,” she says sweetly, her flame still hissing against the dirt. “Why don’t you tell me that story again?”

  The bandits freeze. One swallows hard. “We—we saw a Firebender, scarred. He had a man with him. Young, maybe twenty? Blasted us away with air. Had to be an Airbender.”

  Azula’s smile sharpens, thin as a blade. “Scarred, you say? And this man… he wasn’t the Avatar?”

  The bandit stammers. “Didn’t think so. Rumors said the Avatar is a kid, but—”

  Azula cuts him off with a flick of her wrist, a crack of blue fire scorching a tree trunk an inch from his ear. “Not the Avatar, yet bending the air. Interesting.”

  She turns, voice cool and measured. “Mai. Ty Lee. Stay on the Avatar’s trail. Someone around here must’ve seen him.”

  Mai sighs. “Babysitting duty. Lovely.”

  Ty Lee beams, bouncing lightly on her toes. “Don’t worry, we’ll catch them!”

  Azula’s gaze returns to the bandits, who quail under the weight of her smirk. “As for me… a runaway prince and his mysterious prisoner? That sounds far too fun to pass up.”

  She steps into the shadows, and the bandits don’t dare follow. Azula’s smirk widens, cruel and satisfied. “Dear Zuzu,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “you finally caught something worth my time. Let’s see how long you can keep it.”