Prologue

It had all fallen apart so quickly.

The nobility were still wearing white in honor of their prince. The smell of incense still clung to her clothing. She hadn't had enough time to grieve, and now she would have much more to mourn than the loss of her nephew.

She had been to the Fire Lord's chambers only once before, very early in her marriage, and she had been too nervous to remember any of the details. Now, though, each thread of the rug, every scuff on the tile, and every last pattern on the doors burned itself into her memory. She wouldn't be seeing it again, she knew. Tonight, everything ended.

The great doors, guarded as always, barred her way. The soldiers bowed to the princess; one opened the door and disappeared inside. The remaining guard looked past her as if she was part of the decor, his eyes focused insistently on a point on the horizon. She studied the door, its red wood engraved with golden designs depicting all manner of fiery creatures. Her eyes picked out a phoenix and she stared at it. It had always been her husband's favorite bird, and now she found comfort in the golden outlines of its every feather.

The guard reappeared. "Fire Lord Azulon will see you, Princess Ursa." Then he, like his companion, assumed a statuesque stillness.

She stepped forward to push the door open, unsure of what she would find. She knew very little about her father-in-law's habits. Would he be in bed? Would he be alone? The latter question was of the utmost importance.

With a deep breath, Ursa entered and closed the door behind her. The chambers that greeted her were more magnificent than hers and her husband's, filled with ornamentation in all the colors of fire. But the Fire Lord was not to be found in the first room, a sitting room of sorts, and so she carefully moved on to where a door stood ajar.

"Your Majesty?" she tried. Her voice rang out, too loud for comfort, and she wished she'd held the words in. Fear made her hands tremble, but resolution gave her feet the momentum they needed to continue moving forward. She remembered her small son, not yet two years old, and the thought gave her strength. She was doing this for him.

"Yes, in here," came an impatient reply. Ursa moved around the edge of the open door, relieved to discover Azulon sitting up in bed, alone, a scroll set off to one side. Close after relief came her nerves again, for the sight of her Fire Lord in only his bedclothes seemed terribly inappropriate when she had never before seen him in anything but proper garb.

He looked smaller now than he did on the throne. The headboard dwarfed him. Sitting as he was, slightly bent over, his robe open far enough to reveal a pale chest, made him look much more like an old man. For all of her lessons that the Fire Lord was as the sun, as the dragon, fire incarnate, he sat before her only human. And Ursa became even more aware of her inevitable task. She would not be quenching the sun itself or slaying a dragon, but simply stifling the already fading life of a man far past his prime.

"Fire Lord Azulon, I have come to apologize for my prince's ignorance." Ursa sank to her knees, pressing her forehead against the rug. To speak thus about her husband felt wrong, but she quelled the feeling. Soon she would have worse things to regret.

"An apology will not suffice," the old man said. His voice sounded flatter, less intimidating, in his bedchamber. In the throne room it would have echoed. "Ozai deserves a harsh lesson for what he has said today."

"Certainly, my lord father," Ursa murmured. She lifted her body but remained on her knees, keeping her eyes respectfully downcast. "But I wish you to hear of my prince's reaction to your wise decision, in the hopes that you will think better of him."

A lump was forming in her throat. She found herself waylaid by memories of only a few hours ago, though they seemed much farther distant. Ozai had returned to her chambers and told her that Zuko, their small and innocent son, was to suffer for his father's impertinence. She remembered the look on her husband's face, not just because of the remorse and apology, but because she had wondered if there hadn't been relief there as well.

There was a longer silence now. Ursa desperately wanted to glance upward, to see what expression her father-in-law wore, but she wouldn't risk giving any offense. Politeness mattered more than it ever had in the past, for her poor son's life hung in the balance.

"Very well. And stand up."

Her heart pounded. She rose. "...Even the thought of losing his son did not break my lord husband's spirit. Though he grieves, he thinks only of you, Your Majesty, and how best to serve you. This lesson will be well-learned."

Azulon snorted. "I know my son, little princess. He gives me false flattery, wishes only to take the throne for himself. There is no loyalty in him."

"I beg your pardon, but I must protest." Don't raise your voice. Stay calm. Stay soft. "His loyalty for you is greater even than his love for his firstborn son. You have seen the prince Zuko, seen how he resembles and adores his father. Yet my lord husband would please you even if you wish Zuko to die."

Her words were not entirely lies, but they tasted bitter on Ursa's tongue nonetheless. Ozai had been distant from his son from when he was first born, and they had grown no closer. If Zuko adored his father, the feeling was not mutual. Ozai was consumed only with burning envy of his brother. Lu Ten and Iroh, marching into battle together, seemed the perfect pair to inherit the throne. Every mind in the nation would agree. But the second prince sat at home, safe from the dangers of the war and forgotten. His father's expectations did horrible things to Ozai, Ursa knew. Her husband was always at his angriest, his most volatile, after seeing his father. And now, at long last, his envious heart had been his undoing. She was left to pick up the pieces, left to fight for her small son.

A rap sounded on the door outside, sudden enough that Ursa jumped. Her heart sped up. Were they to be interrupted? Had her chance already slipped away?

"Wait," the old man barked, showing some of the command he'd surely possessed in his younger years. Then it was silent again, and before Ursa could feel relief, her Fire Lord's eyes slid back onto her, surrounded by wrinkles but as keen as a hawk's. "You're a sly one too, aren't you?" Azulon said. Ursa felt her stomach drop and hoped desperately that it wasn't over. "Or did Ozai send you and tell you what to say?"

"No, my lord father!" The exclamation came out too loudly. She had to force herself to stop, to breathe. Guile was her only weapon. However frail he looked, Azulon was a master bender, and if she attempted to attack him she would seal her whole family's fate. The only way forward was to win his confidence, make him trust her. "I speak in my prince's defense, but my words are my own. I accept your judgment, and though it pains me, if you wish it I shall give you my son." That sentence was difficult to force out. It felt like a betrayal to Zuko to even speak of allowing his death, however disingenuous she was. "But please, consider my lord husband's honor. He is loyal to you."

There was another long silence. Still Ursa kept her eyes down toward the floor, fearing to meet his eye. She was afraid, so afraid, that she was failing. Had it all been for nothing? And if it had, what was she to do next?

"Is that all?" Azulon asked finally. She felt something heavy and leaden sliding into her stomach, because it was all. She had nothing left to say.

"Yes, my lord father," Ursa whispered.

He made a noncommittal noise and then shouted without warning. "Enter now!" This time Ursa didn't jump, but her heart still sped up such that she feared it would try to beat its way out of her chest. She turned to look at the door.

It was only a maidservant, bearing a tray with kettle and cup. She paused to bow as deeply as she could to both Ursa and Azulon without upsetting the tray, then made her way over to the bedside. With deft, skilled fingers, she poured the Fire Lord a cup of tea and left the tray on the covers beside him. Then, as soon as she'd come, she was gone.

Ursa looked at the steaming cup of tea as Azulon drank. That was her way forward. That was her plan. If only she'd been able to pour it herself. Maybe if she stalled him long enough, she would be able to pour a second, more lethal cup.

"Did your parents ever think you odd, girl?" he asked. The question startled her enough that Ursa's eyes darted his direction for an instant, long enough to see that he was surveying the scroll he'd been reading when she first entered. "A non-bender, granddaughter of the Avatar. Isn't that strange?"

Ursa had no idea where this was going, but every second lent her another opportunity. However loathsome the idea of discussing her history was with this old man, she needed to keep him talking.

"My father was a non-bender too, as I'm sure you know," she said. "If they were disappointed, they hid it well."

"And now that child of yours shows no signs of being a firebender." Oh. That was what he'd been leading into. "My son certainly does not lack in that capacity, which leaves only you. Imagine if I were to give Ozai the throne. Someday little Zuko would sit on it too. A non-bending Fire Lord. What a farce. You see, it's for the best. You're young, and you can bear more children. Give my son a proper heir, and he will have no reason for sorrow."

Revulsion. It was a battle to not let it show on her face. She hated listening to every word that fell carelessly from his wrinkled lips. There was no justification for the murder of a child. And yet it seemed almost as if he, in some horrific, twisted way, was trying to comfort her.

"Two is young still, my lord father. Some firebenders don't discover their skill until they're six. I am sure Zuko burns—would burn with the same fire as his father."

"True." He sounded so jovial. "My Ilah was a late one. She didn't realize she was a bender until her eighth birthday. But you wouldn't have known it from watching her, so skilled was she. When Ozai first brought you to meet me, you reminded me of her."

"...Thank you." Ursa knew what she was expected to say, but still it was hard to force the gratitude out. She knew very little of her mother-in-law, except that Ilah had died soon after giving birth to her second son, ostensibly from complications of a long and difficult labor. But the Fire Lady had been known more for her peculiar fits and rages than for any kindness and care for her nation, and the comparison left Ursa uneasy.

"Only at first, though." He took another drink. Ursa let her eyes wander to the cup. It was less than half full now. "She was more of a fighter than you. Here you are, giving your son to me, groveling and pleading I look favorably upon Ozai. Fah! She would punish him a thousand times more harshly." His voice broke off into a cough.

Ursa's teeth gritted at the insult. Her hand slid into her sleeve, feeling for the packet she had tucked away there. Azulon would discover exactly how willing she was to kill her son. He would suffer and she wouldn't regret a thing. Her fingers found the seam and tore the packet open. She felt the powder underneath her fingers. An instant, that was all she needed. Azulon had ceased coughing, but another opportunity would come. It had to come.

"I wish I could have known her," Ursa murmured.

"She probably wouldn't have let you anywhere near Ozai. Her son, marry a non-bender? She would have seen this coming. I wish she could see her family now. We've fallen so far. My second son, loyal only to himself, and my first without an heir. When did it go wrong?"

The reminder of Lu Ten was an unnecessary one. Ursa hadn't spent much time with her nephew at all before he left for the front, but she had liked him. He was serious, very passionate, but kind. He hadn't deserved to die. Now his uncle was using that death against him. She was complicit in the plan. She had too much already to apologize for.

Azulon's eyes had closed, and remained thus for a long moment. As slowly as she could manage, wondering if he was asleep, Ursa kept a pinch of powder in her fingers and drew her hand from her sleeve. Then he opened them again, and she froze in place.

"Go, daughter-in-law," he said. "I would sleep." His hand stretched for the kettle, conveniently just out of reach.

"Allow me, my lord father," she said, taking up his cup in the hand that was still holding the poison. Her left hand lifted the kettle. She held them above his eye level. Azulon was watching her, as she desperately tried to make the motions seem as natural as possible, as if she wasn't committing the highest form of treason.

The kettle blocked his view enough. Just a brush of her fingers as she poured the water, and the powder dropped into the liquid. It wasn't very much, but she hoped it was enough. Then she was lowering the kettle, putting the cup back on his tray, and trying to slow her breathing. It had all happened too fast, and her heart was racing.

"All right, get out," Azulon said. She bowed and backed away, watching him take the cup in his hand, watching him drink. Then she did as she was ordered.

Ursa barely registered the sight of the guards standing on either side of the door, even as they bowed respectfully as she passed. Her heartbeat was echoing in her ears. She wanted to run, and it was almost impossible to force her footsteps to slow to a proper pace. She had done it. She had done what she had come to do. All she could do was pray that the few crystals were enough to work their lethal magic. And if she did not succeed, then perhaps Azulon would know what she had done, and she would be executed alongside her little son.

It was far past Zuko's bedtime, but Ursa could not resist seeing him a final time. The chambers she shared with her son were dark and quiet. These rooms paled in comparison to her father-in-law's, but she loved them all the more because they were familiar to her. Her life in the palace had been so short, not even three years, but it had been happy. She loved her husband, unpredictable and selfish as he could be. She loved her son, the son she had done all this to save.

Zuko's nurse was nodding off in an adjoining room, the door open lest he cry. Ursa stood beside the crib and looked down at her son. He was so small. She looked at the dark hair bristling on his head, his tiny nose, and the way his breath made his whole torso rise and fall. As she looked at him, she felt the same adoration she had the first time she had held him, the day he was born. But then there had been only happiness. Now there was so much else.

He stirred as she lifted him, his sleepy eyes blinking open, but when she held him his head dropped onto her shoulder and he slept once more. She rubbed his back, rocked him back and forth, and tried not to let her tears drip down onto him.

"I love you so, so much," she whispered into the darkness. "Everything I've done, I've done to protect you. I'm sorry you'll grow up without a mother. I won't deserve to call you son any longer. But I will love you until I die."

She stood and held her son for the last time for what seemed an eternity, though it was not long enough. Over and over again she wished that time would hold its place, that she could remain forever in the moment with Zuko.

Then someone else was in the room, though she hadn't heard him enter. Her husband's arms wrapped about her. She closed her eyes and wished her tears away.

"Is it done?" Ozai whispered. His breath was warm against her neck.

"...Yes."

He leaned forward to kiss her, and her wishing was for naught, because then tears made their way down her cheeks anyway. The kiss tasted of salt, and Ursa could not help but wonder whether her husband was more grateful for his son's life being spared or because of what he intended.

The picture of family held itself together for a few more long minutes, and then it was shattered by light and sound as a servant came running into the suite.

"Prince Ozai! Are you here?"

Zuko awoke in Ursa's arms and let out a cry. His maid, also roused by the yell, moved into the room and reached for the young prince. Ursa let her son go, though he cried again at the separation.

"What is it?" Ozai was quick to leave his son behind. Ursa followed him only after a moment's hesitation. The servant, standing in the anteroom, looked panicked.

"Your father has taken sudden ill! You must hurry, quickly!"

Ozai exclaimed and Ursa gasped, lifting a hand to cover her mouth, as if they hadn't been waiting for this, as if both of them had not planned for an expected this outcome. Had it been enough poison, then? Her heart beat faster once more.

The halls that had been silent so recently were alive and lit now with frenzied activity. As Ursa and Ozai rushed together toward the rooms of the Fire Lord, they passed guards and servants abuzz with harried chatter. Residents and guests alike appeared from their rooms at the noise, everyone from a military general whom Azulon had invited to stay to the wrinkled old archivist of the palace's vast library. There were so many people, but the faces blurred together to Ursa. Were it not for Ozai's hand in her own, she might have fallen by the wayside, but he pulled her along.

There was a physician at Azulon's bedside, and several servants waited close by. Ozai strode across the room to his father's side, but Ursa came more slowly. Her eyes were fixed on an upended tray on the floor. A teacup lay broken into shards, and a dark stain spilled from the kettle out onto the carpet.

Azulon was retching over and over again into a pot too beautifully decorated for its current purpose. The smell of bile filled the room, so overpowering that Ursa had to lift a hand to cover her nose. A servant was offering the Fire Lord water, but he barely had time to breathe, let alone drink, as waves of vomit rose one after the other.

"Father!" Ozai was leaning over the old man, supporting his father's back. "What's wrong with him?! Was it something at dinner-?"

"I'm trying to give him something to slow the vomit, but nothing stays down!" the physician grunted. He was digging through a wooden box full of various herbs and vials. Ursa prayed that he had nothing to counter the poison. She prayed he could do nothing.

The sound of the old man's retching seemed to last forever, as the physician hovered by, issuing periodic instructions, and Ozai refused to move his hands from his father, repeating comforting phrases. Ursa wondered if they only sounded rehearsed because she knew better.

Then, finally, it seemed there was nothing left in Azulon's stomach to come up, and his convulsions ceased. The physician, not wasting a moment, administered his medicine, and Azulon reached for a cup of water.

"Father, are you all right?" Ozai asked. Azulon shook his head sharply, like he was shaking away an irritating fly, and then he looked up. His eyes met Ursa's. She looked away immediately, but not without first feeling a chill go down her spine. Did he know? Did he suspect? It had not been as flawless as it could have been. She'd had no time for subtlety with her son's life on the line. But while Azulon still drew breath, it was dangerous.

"I—" Azulon was interrupted when he retched once more, but nothing came up. It was a horrific thing to watch, this old man bent double, but Ursa could not take her eyes away. Underneath the fear and the revulsion, in some sick way, she enjoyed it. The man who had threatened Zuko's life deserved to suffer like this. She had brought it about.

The bout of nausea seemed to pass, but without warning Azulon was seized by convulsions. His body was bent double, and his arms, unable to hold up any longer, let the jar go. It rolled off the bed and joined the teacup in pieces on the floor. Ursa didn't watch it. She was watching her Fire Lord's eyes roll back in his head, his lips loose, his mouth frothing. Then, just as quickly as it had come, it ended.

Azulon's eyes swung wildly about the room. "My son," he gasped. "My son..."

"I'm here, Father!" Ozai said. He clasped his father's hand in his own. Ursa wanted to laugh, to flare her nostrils, to react at all to the preposterous display before her. She had heard her husband wish death upon his father, and now he had easily taken on the mantle of a son truly upset by his father's suffering. It was all the more egregious when it was obvious that Ozai was not the son whose company Azulon desired.

"Your Majesty, painkillers," the physician interjected, leaning in to offer a second round of medicine. Azulon batted his hand away.

"I don't need those! It doesn't hurt, just the nausea..."

And the convulsions seized him again, and his body did a gruesome dance.

It went on and on and on. To Ursa it felt like ages. She was terrified that the dose had not been lethal, repulsed by watching the man vomit and seize. Each set of convulsions became longer and longer, and Azulon became less and less coherent. Barely a word or two would make its way from his lips, and then his mouth would be foaming once more.

Others entered, nobles who were close to Azulon, and even a room as spacious as it was felt crowded for all the people in it. Ursa stood in the corner, distant from the bed. She was terrified of getting too close. If Azulon saw her, even in his current state, perhaps he would remember her. He could point the finger her way. And so, even as her husband kneeled by his father's side, she stood back, just one among many.

Around an hour after their summons, the physician pulled Ozai and Ursa aside, leaving servants to hold Azulon down as best they could so he did not hurt himself.

"There is little I can do," the man said, looking both grave and tired. "I fear this night will be his last."

"How dare you?" Ozai snarled. He dwarfed the doctor, who did not fail to look alarmed as the prince loomed over him. "You've barely tried anything! You can't just stand by and watch my father die! I'll kill you for it!"

"I fear this is poison, Prince Ozai!" The physician held up his hands in a gesture of useless placation. "I've read of this toxin, and there is no treatment. All we can do is ease his passing."

"No!" Ozai raised a fist as if to strike the man. Ursa grabbed her husband's arm, murmuring soothing platitudes. In the end, it was neither his judgment nor her intervention that stopped him, but rather a croaking cry from the bed.

"Oza...i...Iroh..." The two names blurred into one. In an instant Ozai was back at his father's hand, even as Azulon seized again, even as his eyes rolled into his head.

"My son," he tried again, when the convulsion had passed.

"I'm here, Father!" Ozai repeated.

Azulon's eyes spun, focusing on Ozai for a split second, then losing their way and taking in all the room. "You'll—you'll—take my throne. Don't let your brother...have it—" Then coherency was lost, and the convulsions overtook him once more.

Ursa heard a ringing in her ears. She could see the shock on Ozai's face. Had his plan truly come to fruition so easily? Rather than lies and scheming, what would bring him the throne he so desired was a delusional, dying Azulon?

Ozai was as still as a statue, holding his father's hand. Ursa rested her hands on his back. She could see that his knuckles had gone white. She wondered if he was holding back a smile, a laugh. And all around them, servants and physician alike, had been witness to Azulon's fevered wish. With his father's word, even when Azulon had clearly been out of his mind, Ozai would stake his claim to the throne, she knew. And would Iroh, freshly crushed from the loss of his son, have the strength to resist?

There were mutters among the nobles present, glances exchanged. Ursa watched them all. Surely they were debating the legitimacy of a claim based on the word of a dying man. Maybe they knew, as well as Ozai did, that a clear-headed Azulon would have left the throne to his first son.

Azulon did not speak again. The three stayed like that, the old man's body flailing and contorting into gruesome positions while servants desperately tried to hold him down, his hand in his son's. In half an hour's time, there was no space between the convulsions, and then Azulon's noises became an awful gurgling as it became clear he could not breathe. The physician rushed forward, but it soon became apparent there was nothing he could do. They all stood by, helpless, and watched as the Fire Lord twitched and convulsed into oblivion, the color draining from his face.

For a very long time afterward, the room was silent. The nobles bowed their heads in respect for their fallen leader. Ozai's hand was trembling. Ursa's eyes were fixed, immovably, on Azulon. She had killed him. She had done it. He was the Fire Lord, the ruler of the most powerful nation in the world, the sun incarnate, and she had ended his life. But it was so easy to separate herself from that gruesome fact when her only role had been to drop a white powder into a cup. It wasn't as if she'd stabbed him. It was easier this way, so bloodless, so simple.

After a long while, the physician shifted and cleared his throat. The noise roused Ozai. He stood slowly, his face masklike, and turned to face the doctor.

"You said it was poison."

"Yes, Your Highness." The physician glanced at the bed and then away again. The servants, as if given a silent order, had begun to clean the shards of pottery from the carpet. The muttering began among the nobles once more, but this time the noise seemed a thousand times more insidious to Ursa. "Nothing else would explain such a rapid onset of symptoms."

"Who? Who killed my father?" Ozai rounded on the servants, who stopped in the midst of their work. The prince's anger was terrifying, and in such a situation none of them were safe. Ursa's eyes locked onto one young woman in particular, white-faced and trembling, and recognized her. She had brought Azulon the tea. She had seen them together. "One of you must know something! Who has been in these rooms? Who did my father see this evening?"

"Y-Your Highness..." The maidservant's voice was barely more than a whisper in the wake of Ozai's roar. She glanced at Ursa, and for a second their eyes met, and fear rose in Ursa. She had been prepared for this, but the full magnitude of her crimes still seemed distant.

"What?" Ozai asked of the servant girl. She lowered her eyes to the ground. Even with permission to speak, her voice remained very quiet.

"When I brought Fire Lord Azulon his tea, Princess Ursa was with him." As soon as she spoke, she squeezed her eyes closed, as if fearing immediate retribution. Part of Ursa felt sorry for the girl, but she had no time to waste on pity.

All eyes turned to her. Ursa couldn't breathe. She looked at face after face. No words rose to defend herself. She remembered the packet of poison in her pocket. She was a traitor. She had killed the Fire Lord. And before Zuko, thoughts of her parents came to mind, loyal citizens who had been elated when their daughter had gotten married. What would they say if they knew how it had ended? If they could see her now, would they turn their back on her?

"Ursa," Ozai said. He was quiet now, no longer raging. Their eyes locked together. Ursa remembered that this was a plan, that he was not truly angry, but still she could not help her fear. Once more she was a young woman, sheltered and naive, blushing at the attention of the prince. But this time, he had a sentence to deal that would be far more merciless than marriage. "You—surely not. He was your father too. You wouldn't have done this."

"N-no," she said, unsure of what she was saying. There were so many eyes on her. She didn't want to be standing there. Her eyes kept drifting back to the corpse, stained with his own vomit, spit still trailing from his mouth. She had done that. She had killed the Fire Lord, and there were no excuses to save her. The smell of sick was overwhelming. She wanted to throw up, she had to throw up. She wanted to run. "I—"

The door opened to let in two more men, the guards who stood watch outside Azulon's door. Their arrival shifted some of the attention away from Ursa, but she felt no relief.

"Tell us what happened," Ozai commanded. Because she knew him, Ursa recognized that voice, calm only on the surface, but threatening something far darker and more dangerous. Though they had discussed it, though she thought she could trust him, she couldn't help the fear from threatening at the edges of her mind. She was afraid of her husband.

"Princess Ursa came and stayed a while. The servant brought tea, and then she and the princess left. Around fifteen minutes after that, we heard Fire Lord Azulon shout, and when we came in he was ill, so I sent Zhang to fetch the physician," one of the guards said, nervousness making him speak far faster than necessary.

The nobles were muttering. Even the servants had begun to look askance. Ursa heard a buzzing in her ears. Her hands felt numb. She wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else, a feeling that only intensified when her husband turned on her once more.

"Did you kill my father?" Ozai asked, and the room quieted in response to his voice. He emanated a cold fury, so intense that Ursa wanted to kneel before him, even though she knew it was all a play. It was all planned. He would do as they had agreed, wouldn't he? But now, as she looked upon him, it was as if she didn't know the man at all. He had agreed to kill his father for power. He would have sacrificed his son. Ursa knew he would just as willingly throw aside his brother. And as she looked at him, words frozen on her lips, she didn't know whether she could trust the man she thought she loved. Was she just as disposable? Would he throw aside his word? She didn't know any longer. And that terrified her, and fear stilled her tongue.

"Did you?" Ozai's voice rose. The candles that illuminated the room flared upward in response to their prince's anger, and Ursa's heart beat faster. This wasn't a jest. This wasn't acting. He was angry. Had she dreamed their agreement? Had she deluded herself?

He took a step toward her, then another, then another, until he towered over her. Never before had Ursa felt so afraid. She felt like a little girl, helpless, frozen in place. Ozai put his hands on her shoulders and shook her, hard, so hard she felt she might come apart at the edges like a ragdoll. And a little packet of poison was shaken from its pocket, and it fell upon the carpet for all of them to see. She had no words to defend herself, nothing at all. Ursa looked at the body of the dead man lying on the bed and was sure she was soon to join him.

"Traitor!" Ozai roared. Ursa should have expected it, but the blow came too fast for her to even attempt to dodge. She went reeling, her face feeling as if it were on fire. Mutely she brought up her hands to cover her face. She wanted to cry, but her eyes didn't seem to be working properly. She huddled against the wall and prayed for an end.

Ozai stepped forward, the threat of more violence in his eyes, but then the nobles were there to hold him back.

"Your Highness, this is improper—"

"Get your hands off of me!" Ozai shook them free, but he ceased the advance and merely stared down at Ursa with fire in his eyes. She looked away. She couldn't bear to look up at him any longer. She didn't know what was real and what wasn't anymore. How could she know what her husband's intentions when she no longer knew herself? That morning she had just been a princess, waking up in bed beside the man she loved. Now she was a murderer, a wicked woman who had committed treason of the highest kind. She deserved no defense. "How dare you? How could you? I loved my father! What could you possibly hope to gain? You will burn for this!"

Did any of them suspect the plan? Did any of them suspect the charade? Surely someone among the nobles must have found the arrangement suspicious. But nobody would dare speak up, not against a prince famed for his temper. Iroh, across the sea, was a much less immediate threat.

"Prince Ozai," a man murmured; Ursa didn't look up to see who it was. " There is a funeral to prepare, and a coronation—her execution can be delayed until afterward, surely? It is disrespectful to your father to continue this."

"No!" Ozai barked it as an order, and the man backed away. Ozai's shoulders were shaking, his head bowed. His face was hidden in shadow. "I will not look at her again. I wish her gone from my sight. She has done the deed tonight, and she shall be punished for it tonight!"

Ursa's mind had gone numb. She sent out her last, frantic goodbyes—to her parents, to her beloved son, to the life she had known. Any second, she was sure, Ozai would strike. He would kill her, as she had killed, and she deserved it.

She looked up then, into the face of the man she loved, and their eyes met. Gold and gold. And he stared down at her, and she watched the rage disappear from his face. His features became very cold and still. And after what might have been seconds or years, Ozai turned away. When he next spoke, his voice was trembling.

"She will not die. Death is too kind a punishment for one such as her."

Relief, cold and paralyzing, flooded her.

"Prince Ozai-?! The punishment for traitors is death! Are you allowing your feelings to come before justice for your father?"

"I am your Fire Lord!" Ozai rounded on the unfortunate who had spoken out, and despite her current predicament, Ursa would not have traded places with that man for anything in the world. "You will hear my judgment, and you will accept it, or you will die in her place!"

Silence came very quickly then. Ozai looked back and forth, slow and sinuous, as if daring anybody to speak out against him. His eyes were deadly slits.

"She will live in exile, banished from the Fire Nation on pain of death. Never again will she set foot on the soil of her country. She will grow old and die alone, away from everyone she has ever known. Let her think upon her crime until the day she dies. That is her sentence."

Ursa fell to her knees and pressed her forehead to the ground, as she knew was appropriate. Thanks wouldn't come to her throat, and it would taste too bitter anyway. She sent a last thought out to her son, and then she let them bind her and lead her away, away from her short life as a wife and mother. As she left the room, left the dead man lying in his own vomit, she looked back one last time and made eye contact with the man who had so generously spared her life.

Prince Ozai.

Fire Lord Ozai.

He looked away first.

She was sent away on a cargo ship, and was too relieved to be alive to find it insulting. And near the end of the journey, Ursa discovered her stomach growing rounder, and realized with a fluttering in her heart and throat that perhaps she wasn't destined to loneliness after all.

A/N: A more boring summary is "an exploration of the royal fire family through a slight AU lens." As you might anticipate from having read anything else I've written, this will not be a pleasant fic, but hopefully it will be an interesting one. Next update will probably be sometime next week. After that, updates will be sporadic or nonexistent. As always, your feedback is dearly appreciated.