Avatar: The Book Of The Phoenix

The Dragon's Mark

The humid air of the Fire Nation palace hung heavy, thick with the scent of incense and unspoken dread. Young Azula clung to Aarslan, her small hands gripping his robes with the desperation of a drowning child.

"But Father can't banish you!" she cried, her voice cracking. "It wasn't your fault!"

Aarslan, not yet the stoic, calculating warlord he would become, met her gaze. His own eyes, usually bright with mischief, were clouded with sadness. "I know, but it is your father's will, and I must honor that."

Tears welled up in Azula's eyes, a rare display of emotion from the usually unfazed princess. "But you can't leave," she sobbed. "You're... you're the only person here that understands me."

She buried her face in his chest, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline.

Aarslan, his voice shaky, tried to remain strong. "We will see each other again, Azula," he promised. "One day, I'm gonna become the most powerful firebender the world has ever seen. And no one will ever take anything away from me again."

His words, born of anger and a deep-seated fear of abandonment, echoed in the silence of the opulent chamber.

Two burly guards, their faces impassive, stepped forward, interrupting the fragile moment.

"It's time." one of them said, his voice gruff.

Azula looked up at him, her eyes wide with terror. Aarslan gently pulled her away, his heart aching. He held her close one last time, whispering, "I will return. I promise."

Then, with a final, lingering look at the heartbroken girl, he allowed the guards to lead him away. The ship that would carry him into exile waited, a black speck against the fiery orange sky. As he boarded, he glanced back at the palace, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. He would never forget the look of despair in Azula's eyes, a promise that would fuel his ambition for years to come.

Three years later, in a dimly lit tent, the air stung with ink and sweat. Aarslan, now fifteen and hardened by exile, gritted his teeth as a master tattoo artist etched a crimson dragon across his back—a mark of his first raid's brutal success against an Earth Kingdom village. No longer the playful boy, he bore the pain with cold pride, his eyes like flint.

On the training grounds, General Shoka loomed, his towering frame radiating menace. His face, carved with cruel lines, held no trace of fatherly warmth. "You think one raid makes you a warrior?" he roared, voice shaking the earth. "Get up, boy!"

Aarslan, bruised from relentless sparring, scrambled to his feet. Shoka's firebending assaulted him—blasts of searing flame singeing his skin. "Weak!" Shoka spat, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Still mooning over that spoiled princess, Azula? Sentiment is a chain!"

Aarslan's fury ignited at the slight to Azula. "Don't you dare speak of her!" he roared, unleashing a torrent of fire, his movements swift and precise. Flames clashed in a fiery dance, Aarslan's strikes fueled by a fierce need to defend her honor.

But Shoka was a master, his experience overwhelming. He seized Aarslan's arm, twisting it with a sickening crack, and slammed him to the ground.

"I taught you better than that," Shoka hissed, pinning Aarslan down, his grip like iron. "From this day on, you are no longer Aarslan. You are Rokkun—a weapon of the Fire Nation. Your old life is ash."

Rokkun collapsed, pain radiating from his arm, Shoka's words cutting deeper. The general's tutelage was a merciless forge, hammering out softness, leaving only a blade of ambition and rage.

A year later, the training grounds reeked of sweat and scorched earth. Sixteen-year-old Rokkun, chest heaving, gulped cold tea, hands trembling. Shoka sat across, his grim face unyielding.

"You're improving," he said, voice gruff, a rare hint of approval. "Your anger fuels you."

Rokkun stared at the tea, silent. Shoka's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong, boy?"

"What if I don't want to be angry?" Rokkun asked, voice low, daring.

Shoka's face darkened. "Anger is all you have," he snarled. "It burns away weakness, forges a warrior."

"It's not!" Rokkun erupted, slamming the tea down. "All we do is train, brutalize, repeat! You treat me like a tool, not a son!"

Shoka surged to his feet, towering over him. "A son? You'd be soft, spoiled, like those palace brats!" He spat the words. "You were born for war, to avenge our disgrace!"

A fireball roared from his hand, engulfing Rokkun. Rokkun countered with his own flames, but Shoka's barrage overwhelmed him, blasts scorching his arms.

"Insolent child!" Shoka roared, dragging Rokkun into the courtyard. "Kneel!" A fire whip crackled, its flames hissing. With deliberate cruelty, Shoka lashed it across Rokkun's back, the pain searing. Rokkun gritted his teeth, refusing to scream, defiance burning hotter than the whip. This wasn't discipline—it was domination, meant to crush his spirit.

Clinging to memories of his mother's kindness and Azula's trust, Rokkun vowed to endure, to carve his own path, even if it meant defying the monster who called himself father.

The failed siege of Ba Sing Se left the plains a smoldering graveyard, the air thick with smoke and the stench of charred earth. The Fire Nation's assault had faltered, their forces battered by Earth Kingdom defenses. Rokkun, now a hardened warlord, stood amidst the wreckage, his armor splattered with dust and blood. General Shoka strode forward, his crimson cloak untouched, eyes glinting with cold malice. Nearby, General Iroh watched, his face heavy with unease.

Shoka gestured to a group of captured Earth Kingdom villagers—men, women, and children—bound and trembling under Fire Nation guards. "This is defeat's lesson, Rokkun," he said, voice dripping with disdain. "Mercy breeds defiance. We leave no spark of rebellion."

Rokkun's jaw clenched, his gaze flickering to the prisoners. A mother shielded her child, their eyes wide with fear. "They're beaten, Father," he said, voice low. "Let them live."

Shoka's laugh was a vicious bark. "Mercy? It cost us Ba Sing Se!" He turned to his men, voice booming. "Burn them. Show the Earth Kingdom the price of resistance."

Iroh stepped forward, his voice steady but firm. "Shoka, this is too far. These are innocents—women, children. There's no honor in this."

Shoka's eyes narrowed, venomous. "Honor? Your softness lost us this siege, Iroh. Stay out of my way." He raised a hand, flames coiling. The soldiers hesitated, glancing at Rokkun, but Shoka's glare spurred them. Their fire engulfed the prisoners, their screams piercing the air as smoke rose.

The flames were contained, but the terror was palpable, a final insult to the Earth Kingdom.

Rokkun flinched, the cries echoing Azula's tears from years ago. His fists clenched, torn between duty and horror. Iroh moved to his side, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to become him," Iroh murmured, his voice a quiet anchor. "Hold onto who you are."

Shoka's gaze pinned Rokkun, daring defiance. "No mercy," he hissed. "Not for enemies, not for weakness, not for you. Burn that into your soul, or you'll never be Fire Lord."

Rokkun's heart pounded, Iroh's words clashing with Shoka's cruelty. The lesson sank deep: to survive his father, to claim his destiny, he had to embrace ruthlessness—or find a way to defy it.

In the present, aboard the Iron Dragon, Rokkun awoke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The darkness pressed close, the ship's hum a faint drone. Azula stirred beside him, her voice a soft whisper. "What's wrong, my love?"

"Nothing," Rokkun lied, voice rough. "Just a nightmare."
The dream's pain lingered—the fire whip, Shoka's cruel words, the burning prisoners. He saw himself as Aarslan, defending Azula, broken by his father's brutality.

Azula's hand found his, her eyes searching. "Tell me," she urged gently. "Let me help."

Rokkun forced a strained smile. "Just a dream," he said, firmer now. He couldn't burden her with Shoka's ghosts, not with their war looming. Closing his eyes, he tried to banish the memories, but they clung like ash, a reminder of the cruelty that shaped him.