ATLA: Azlua

Late nights

A week Later

Zuko stepped into the entryway of the manor, the salty breeze from the ocean brushing against his skin. The corridors were dimly lit, their flickering oil lamps casting long shadows that swayed with the movement of the flames. The manor wasn't a prison in the traditional sense—it was large, comfortable, even luxurious. But Zuko felt every inch of its confinement. Molten Island's isolation weighed on him like chains, its volcanic landscape a constant reminder that escape was impossible.

Still, the monotony was broken by one thing: Azula. Once a week, they talked. It wasn't his favorite arrangement, but after months of house arrest, he found himself looking forward to the distraction. Their conversations rarely delved into anything meaningful, but they gave him something he desperately needed: human interaction.

Tonight, as he rounded the corner into the lobby, he found her waiting for him.

Azula stood before the large family portrait hanging on the wall—a relic of their shared childhood. Ursa's gentle smile radiated warmth in the painting, a stark contrast to Ozai's cold, imposing presence. Zuko's younger self looked awkward and out of place, standing stiffly beside his father. And then there was Azula, her sly, confident smirk practically leaping from the canvas.

But tonight, she didn't look anything like the girl in the painting.

Her expression was softer, more contemplative. She wasn't wearing her Fire Lord's armor, nor her formal robes. Instead, she wore a simple crimson robe, and her hair was tied loosely, falling over one shoulder. It was a look Zuko hadn't seen since before the war—since before everything fell apart.

"You're late," she said, her voice cutting through the stillness.

Zuko frowned, crossing his arms. "That happens when you drop by without notice, Azula."

Azula gestured toward the door leading outside. "Come. Walk with me."

He hesitated, studying her carefully. Azula didn't summon him to the beach for no reason. She always had a purpose. And yet, her demeanor was different tonight—quieter. Letting out a small sigh, he followed her into the cool night air.

The sky was a deep indigo, scattered with faint stars. The ocean stretched endlessly before them, its dark waves shimmering under the moonlight. The volcanic sand was warm beneath Zuko's feet, and the air smelled of salt and sulfur. Azula walked ahead of him, her pace unhurried, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

"How's life on my little molten paradise?" she asked, her voice breaking the silence.

Zuko shrugged, catching up to walk beside her. "Quiet," he said. "Boring."

"Lonely?" she asked, her tone laced with curiosity rather than mockery.

He glanced at her, trying to gauge her intent. "Sometimes," he admitted, though the word felt like a small concession. "The guards aren't exactly chatty."

Azula smirked faintly. "They're not supposed to be. Their job is to keep you here, not entertain you."

"Thanks for clarifying," Zuko muttered, though there wasn't much venom in his voice. "Is this why you wanted to talk? To remind me I'm stuck here?"

She didn't respond right away. Instead, she turned her gaze to the water, her golden eyes reflecting the faint moonlight. "I had a strange dream last night," she said abruptly. "We were kids again. Sneaking into the Royal Kitchen."

Zuko blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. "You still remember that?"

"Of course I do," she said, a faint smile playing at her lips. "You tripped over the pots and woke up half the palace guard."