Avatar: The Book Of The Phoenix

The Second Meeting

The back chamber of Xanadu's main hall was dim and torch-lit, hidden behind a false wall of stacked crates and draped hides. The air was thick with cedar smoke and the faint metallic tang of old weapons oil. A single low brazier burned in the center, its flames low and steady, casting long shadows that seemed to cling to the stone.

General Shoka sat on a low stool, back straight as a blade, hands resting on his knees. His face was lined with age and old scars, but his eyes were still sharp — cold amber, stripped of warmth, calculating every flicker of light. Now he waited in silence, patient as stone.

The door creaked open. Taijuk stepped inside, hair still damp from the stream, clothes hastily smoothed, eyes wary. He bowed awkwardly.

"General."

Shoka studied him for a long moment, expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost gentle, but the menace beneath it was unmistakable — every word precise, every pause deliberate.

"Have you found anything for me?"

Taijuk exhaled through his nose. "Nothing you'll like."

Shoka's fingers drummed once on his knee — the only sign of impatience. "Speak plainly."

Taijuk shifted his weight. "The men respect her. Some fear her. More than a few admire her. She's been in the thick of every raid since she arrived. She fights like a demon and gives orders like she was born to. They see her as... one of us now."

Shoka's eyes narrowed. "And Rokkun?"

Taijuk looked away. "He listens to her. More than he ever listened to anyone else. When she speaks, he stops. When she disagrees, he considers it. It's not weakness — it's... trust. Real trust."

Shoka leaned forward slightly. "Trust is a weakness when it blinds you."

Taijuk said nothing.

Shoka's voice dropped lower, colder. "She has an obvious weakness, boy."

Taijuk's brow furrowed. "What weakness?"

Shoka's gaze was unblinking. "Her children."

The words landed like a stone in still water. Taijuk blinked, confused.

Shoka continued, calm and precise. "Sozin and Viszla. She protects them like they're made of glass. She'd burn the world for them. Rokkun would too. That's the leverage."

Taijuk's face tightened. "You're talking about the boys."

"I'm talking about control," Shoka said. "Rokkun is becoming distracted. He's starting to think like a father instead of a conqueror. Azula's influence is turning him soft. We cannot allow that."

Taijuk shifted again, uneasy. "What do you want me to do?"

Shoka reached into his cloak and pulled out another leather pouch. It was heavier than the last one.

He tossed it to Taijuk.

Taijuk caught it, felt the weight — gold coins, more than before. His fingers tightened around it.

"My scouts report a regiment of Earth Kingdom soldiers and Dai Li remnants camped in a village to the north," Shoka said. "At least thirty men, lightly guarded. You will go to them tomorrow. Offer them this gold. Tell them to wait until dark, then slip through the tunnels beneath Xanadu. They will take the children."

Taijuk's stomach dropped. "Take the boys?"

"No harm comes to them," Shoka said sharply. "They are my grandsons. They are to be taken care of. Fed. Kept safe. That is non-negotiable."

Taijuk stared at the pouch. "And the point?"

Shoka's voice was cold. "The point is that Rokkun will be enraged. He will blame the Earth Kingdom. He will reignite the war with Xuo. He will stop listening to Azula's whispers of peace and start burning again — the way he was meant to. The way I taught him."

Taijuk swallowed. "And if he finds out it was me?"

Shoka's eyes were hard. "He won't. Not if you're careful. And if he does..." He leaned forward. "You will face my wrath. Not his."

Taijuk looked down at the gold. The pouch felt heavier than it should.

Shoka stood, cloak rustling. "Go. Bring me the boys. Bring me my son's rage."

Taijuk nodded once, jaw tight.

He turned and left the chamber, the pouch clutched in his fist.

Outside, the camp hummed with life — laughter, clanging metal, the crackle of cookfires.

The weight of gold was heavy in his hand.

But the weight of betrayal was heavier.