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Ursa hated what her life had become. She hated her silk fineries that restricted her, the endless ceremony. She hated the Caldera with its stifling heat, and the palace, with its thick walls that kept her enclosed like a fire moth caterpillar in a cocoon–only she would never grow wings.
She hated Ozai.
Sometimes, she pretended she was still playing a part. She was the lost princess from The Dreams of the Sun, who would be rescued by her One True Love.
Except if Ikem came for her, Ozai would have him killed.
So she pretended instead she was the crone from White Chrysanthemum, brewing poison into perfume and paint for women who wished to escape their marriages.
Ozai largely left her alone when she was in the gardens, as if being outside was particularly repulsive. The flowers were largely managed by the palace’s Master Gardener, Hinza. She was nearly as old as Li and Lo but slighter of build. Her face was smooth, creased only by laugh lines and crow’s feet. This, she attributed to the large hat she always wore, and the balms of her own making. She moved sprightly and had sharp golden eyes. The only true mark of her ages was her knurled fingers, which she rubbed in stinging nettle daily.
“Master Hinza, would you mind if I planted some flowers from my home of Hira’a? I will have my sister send some cultivars, if it would not hinder the balance of your garden greatly.”
“Oh, ha! Fire Princess Ursa, I’m just an old and simple gardener. You don’t have to use high court to speak with me.”
Ursa bowed. “My great husband says I should speak it as much as I can, so that I don’t sound like such a ‘country cinder.’” She kept the curl of disdain off her lips.
The gardener bowed. “I would be honored if you were to fill this space as your own.”
In the weeks and months that followed, Ursa slowly began receiving plants from home and soon the garden around the turtle duck pond was full of the flowers not found elsewhere on the grounds.
In the evenings, moonflowers opened, closing again with the sun. Belladonna drank the dappled shade beneath the nyan tree. A ratti vine climbed the trellis, heavy with red-seeded pods. Broad leaves of the tangtan-tang spread overhead, casting a shifting canopy of shade.
“What unique plants,” Master Hinza said, studying the lacey white flowers of Emberbane. “These all come from Hira’a? I thought this one grew only in the Earth Kingdom.”
“Hm,” Ursa said. “That is true, but my parents have been growing it for years. It is such a unique plant, and the flowers are so delicate.”
“But Lady’s Ember Lace looks much the same, without the…. properties of Emberbane.”
Ursa simply smiled. “I like to remind myself that even deadly things can be beautiful.”
The gardener looked around the garden–all beautiful but deadly plants–and wondered if the rumors of Fire Prince Ozai’s treatment of the princess were true. Prince Ozai had always been cold as a boy, with none of his older brother’s charisma.
Hinza knew that Princess Ursa’s marriage was not one of love. There were a great many girls who dreamed to be whisked out of obscurity by a prince, bringing great honor (and wealth) to their families.
But Hinza wondered if those girls knew they would end up as pretty birds in gilded cages.
A year passed, and the garden flourished. A family of turtle ducks took up residence in the pond. The Fire Princess spent much of her time when not in court attending to her garden. She went to the Royal family’s herbalist. Jin came from the most famous herbalist family in the nation, but was the first in his family to serve the Royal Family.
Ursa found the young man bent over a mortar and pestle, grinding seeds into a fine powder. “Healer Jin.”
The man did not look up. “I will be with you in a moment.”
Jin finished, then looked up. His honey gold eyes widened, the blood draining from his face. “Princess Ursa!” He gasped, folding himself into a deep bow. “I apologize for my rudeness.”
“It is no matter, Herbalist Jin. It was important work.” In the past year, she had nearly perfected use of High Court, but she’d also learned when to use certain common words that let the servants and workers know she was not angry.
Jin’s shoulders sagged. “How may I assist you?”
“I have been growing some plants in my garden, I was wondering if I may impose” and here she used the common word, “upon your services and might make my own medicines and perfumes.”
“Um—yes of course, Princess.” His cheeks flushed. “Have I wronged you? Are you unhappy with my services?”
“Of course not. My mother was an herbalist. I may never see her again, but the garden and the apothecary bring me close to her.”
The creases around Jin’s eyes lessened, compassion replacing his unease. He bowed. “It would be my greatest honor.”
The months passed, and Ursa found–if not friendship–at least companionship–in Herbalist Jin and Master Hinza.
“I have heard,” Ozai said over dinner, “That you have been busy consorting with the help.”
Ursa looked down at her hands. She’d cleaned the dirt from under her nails but the tips of her fingers were stained purple from the berries of the bone-joining tree–whose decoctions and poultices could be used for bruising and swelling.
A poultice hid beneath her sleeve, where Ozai had seized her days before.
“I am working with Herbalist Jin and Master Hinza to develop a concoction to help with a child,” she said quietly, keeping her eyes lowered.
“Your bloodline is the only reason I married you. If you are unable to produce an heir, you’re worth less than the ground you walk on.”
“Yes, my lord.”
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
She missed her monthly in the fourth month. She had always been timely, but now she prayed that stress had delayed her cycle. If she was with child, it would be born in the twelfth month—the time of spirits, when the sun was weakest. It was an ill omen. Ozai would not take it kindly.
After a week had passed and she still had not blooded, a grief born of fear swallowed her.
She found it almost impossible to get out of bed. She felt as if she was moving through mud. Each step felt heavy. The air itself seemed thick.
She made her way to her garden. Many of the plants here could end a pregnancy. It would be easy to make a tea. If Ozai ever found out, he would kill her.
She could not imagine bringing a child into this world.
She could not imagine carrying Ozai’s child.
She sat in the shade of the suicide tree. She could end both their lives and free them. Agni would understand.
Footsteps broke her indecision.“Fire Lord Azulon!” She exclaimed, pulling herself upright and bowing low.
“None of that, Princess Ursa,” Azulon said. “May I join you?”
She nodded.
Azulon settled beside her in the shade. A warm breeze from the west rippled the grass. “Some tea. Chrysanthemum, please.”
One of the attendants nodded, running off. Azulon made a hand motion and the rest of the attendants slipped away, giving the perception of solitude.
Ursa knew better.
“You look quite unwell.”
“I am fine, my lord. Some nausea, nothing more. I think the heat is getting to me.”
Azulon nodded, allowing the attendant, already returned, to set up a tea platter and pour their tea before scampering off.
“I have heard you missed your monthly.”
Ursa’s breath caught. Her hands trembled as she set the cup down.
“It is late,” she whispered.
Azulon nodded. “And here you sit, beneath the Nyan tree. One of its seeds can kill a person in hours.”
Ursa’s lips were bloodless. “Oh, I couldn’t say, my lord. I just think it’s pretty.”
They sat in silence beneath the tree while Azulon slowly drank his tea. At length, he said, “It is a pity what happened to Ilah. My son Iroh is a better man than his brother—compassionate, despite the war.”
Ursa tried to hide the confusion on her face. She had only met Iroh a handful of times–once at their wedding, and on his occasional returns from the front. Lu Ten spent most of his days either at Fire Lord Azulon’s side, learning how to run the nation, or studying with his tutors or trainers. From all accounts, he was a nice boy, smart and studious.
“The Fire Sages say the lines of Sozin and the line of Roku will change the world.”
Ursa nodded. She knew the prophecy. It was why she had been scooped out of her home to become a brood mare for Ozai’s ambitions.
Azulon leaned in. “If I believed that nonsense, you would have married Iroh, not Ozai.”
Ursa fought the urge to twist her hands in her lap. Instead, she clasped her hands around the tea cup, its contents now cool, and sipped the tea.
“I have frightened you,” Azulon said gently. “It was not my intent.”
“I’m afraid that although I have been here many sunrises now, I am still just a provincial girl at heart and still find myself awed to be in the presence of Agni’s chosen.”
Azulon waived his hand dismissively and said in common, “I had hoped a wife might temper my son. I am sorry to see he is unchanged—and I am sorry to you.”
Ursa stared at Azulon, speechless.
“But perhaps this child you carry will bring you love. You are trapped here. You can choose to die,” he motioned to the tree above her, “or you can choose to hope.”
“But what if the baby ends up like Ozai?” The words spilled from her before she could call them back.
Azulon nodded. “All parents live in fear,” Azulon said. “You will carry that for the rest of your life.”
Azulon moved to stand. “What you decide to do is up to you. “If you choose the tree, you will be honored. If you choose to live, I will be on the southern veranda this evening.”
“Does—does Ozai know?”
“No,” Azulon said, “You have had all your choices taken from you. I will not take this one. If you choose to stay, I would enjoy having tea with you. I have been remiss in not inviting you. Sometimes I get so busy listening to chamberlains and lords and news from the front, that I forget my familial duties.”
With a motion of his hand, the servants plucked the tea service up, leaving Ursa alone in her garden once more.
She put a hand on her stomach, over the tiny life inside her, and stood.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
That evening at dinner, Ursa said, “I have missed my monthly.”
Ozai’s eyes snapped to hers. “You are with child?”
She inclined her head. Ozai smiled.
It did not reach his eyes.
She took tea on the southern veranda with Azulon that evening. His mouth faintly. “I am glad you have come, child. My master tea-maker has prepared a tonic for you.
It was a ritual that became weekly.
Ozai began to attend to her more closely.
Not with tenderness—he had none—but with a careful, deliberate restraint. He no longer seized her by the arm or spoke sharply in the presence of others. He offered his hand when she rose, corrected the servants when they were slow, and saw that her meals were brought promptly and to her liking.
He spoke often of the child.
Not to her, but over her—as though she were a vessel that might crack if handled too roughly.
“Our son will be strong,” he said once, watching her across the table. “He will not be like my brother’s boy—soft, sentimental. He will understand what is required of him.”
Ursa inclined her head.
“Yes, my lord.”
Ozai’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, assessing. Then he nodded, satisfied.
In the months that followed, he did not strike her.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not touch her unless it was necessary.
And somehow, that frightened her more.
One evening when her belly was swollen with child and she needed help in kneeling for tea she said to Azulon,
“There is a story from Hira’a.”
Azulon raised a brow.
She continued, “One day, a childless couple finds a babe in the mountains. They think it is a blessing from the spirits and bring it home. But the child does not cry, or laugh, or do the things babies do. It is an Unkindled: a creature without a soul. The parents give everything they have to the child but it is not satisfied. Slowly, they grow thin. By winters end, they are dead. The babe has grown.”
Azulon sipped his tea.
Ursa continued, “The Unkindled roamed. Wherever it went, it consumed. It became a man, leaving death in its wake. One day a great dragon came and breathed its great fire and at last, the Unkindled was warm, and it was destroyed.”
Azulon considered his cup. At last he asked, “Do you believe my son to be an Unkindled?”
She met his gaze, his mouth turned sad. “It doesn't matter. There are no dragons left, my Lord.”
Azulon quirked a brow. “I have met no greater dragon than a protective mother,” he said.
Her ninth month came, and Ozai’s temper worsened as the days shortened. He spoke often of omens—of weak suns and weaker children—and of what it meant to be born in a month claimed by water.
Ursa said nothing.
Her water broke the night before the winter solstice.
There was no worse omen than a child of fire born on the sun’s shortest day.
Jin was at her side. So were the midwives, the attendants, the silent watchers who never left the royal chambers. The air was thick with heat and incense, with whispered prayers to Agni that did not reach her.
She labored for hours. She wished for her mother. She wished for it to end.
Time lost meaning. There was only pain, and breath, and the steady, unrelenting demand to continue.
And then, when she thought she could push no more—it was over.
Midnight had come and gone. It was the longest night.
Silence filled the room.
Ursa did not understand it at first.
“Why isn’t he crying?” she whispered.
No one answered.
Jin had the child in his arms. He rubbed the boy’s back, once, twice—harder—then drew a breath and bent close, breathing warmth into him, coaxing, urging.
“Come on,” he murmured. “Come on.”
For a moment—too long a moment—the room held its breath with him.
The lamps flickered.
Ursa felt something cold claw up her spine. “Save my child!” She screamed, her voice already hoarse from hours of pain.
A sharp, ragged inhale—then a thin cry, growing louder. Angry and insistent and alive.
Ursa broke.
She reached for him, sobbing as they placed the child in her arms. He was small, slick with birth, furious at the world—and warm.
She pressed him to her chest as if she could anchor him there.
Ozai stared down at them. The boy’s eyes were gold—but flat, like his mother’s. Not like his.
“He has no spark,” Ozai said.
“He was born without breath, Prince Ozai,” Jin said quickly, “It can take time. I am sure he will find his spark soon. It is hard coming into the world!”
“He is weak. I want nothing to do with him. Have him cast out; he is nothing to me.”
“No!” Ursa cried.
“Prince Ozai,” the attending fire sage sputtered, “Give him time.”
“I will not,” Ozai said. “I want the child gone. How long until my wife is fit to try again?”
The fire sage paled. “Six weeks, Prince Ozai.”
“Very well. Then–”
“Fire Lord Azulon,” the fire sage said. He bowed deeply as the Fire Lord entered. Ozai turned.
“Father.”
“I heard my grandson has been born,” Azulon said. “I have come to give my blessing.”
He brushed past his son and to Ursa’s side. He took a seat at her side. “Ah,” he said softly. “There you are.”
“He has no spark,” Ozai said.
Azulon did not look up. “Neither did you.”
Ozai’s jaw tightened.
Azulon continued, “You did not bend until you were four. Sozin’s father at eight. Some fires take longer to catch.”
Only then did he lift his eyes.
“Or had you forgotten?”
Ozai scowled. Azulon turned back to the child.
“And what is his name?”
“Zuko,” Ursa said.
“A strong name,” Azulon said. He rested a hand lightly against the child’s blanket. “For a boy who has chosen to live.” He met her eyes. “He takes after his mother.”
He rose.
“I will expect you both for tea when you have recovered.”
0o0o0o0ooo0o0o0o0o0o
Prince Zuko would not be his father.
The fear that had shadowed her pregnancy eased as the boy grew. He was quiet, but not empty. When he laughed, it came easily. When he was hurt, he cried without shame. He reached for her without hesitation, as though it had never occurred to him that love might not be returned.
When she became pregnant again, she did not fear what she carried.
The girl was born on the summer solstice.
Her eyes burned gold from the first moment, bright and unyielding. Ozai took her from Ursa’s arms before she had finished catching her breath.
“Finally,” he said. “Something worthy of me.”
The old fear returned. That her husband would take the humanity out of her children, unable to keep his ambitions fed.
Azula’s flame came early.
She laughed the first time she burned something.
Zuko’s came late.
But it came.
When Azula was four, he still could not make more than a flicker. He would come to Ursa in the evenings with small burns along his arms, trying to hide them.
“Azula is still learning,” he said, as though that explained everything.
Ursa said nothing. She only took Jin’s balm and spread it gently over the marks.
Ozai did not hide his preference. He praised Azula openly. Corrected her, sharpened her, honed her.
As Azula grew stronger, Ozai’s derision of Zuko deepened. He became openly scornful of his son, even in court with his father.
Azulon raised it one evening over tea.
“Ozai’s contempt for my grandson grows tiresome.”
Ursa lowered her gaze. “He has found his fire,” she said quietly. “But I fear it will never be enough.”
Azulon exhaled slowly.
“My son mistakes cruelty for strength,” he said. “And compassion for weakness.”
He set his cup aside.
“Zuko will never satisfy him. That is not the boy’s failing.”
His gaze hardened.
“It is my son’s.”
0o00oo0o0o0o0o
Lu Ten was dead.
Iroh’s line was dead.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
Her children ran to her. Zuko buried himself in her arms, his face crumpled, breath hitching.
Azula followed, bright-eyed.
“Grandfather told Dad to kill Zuko,” she said.
“What?”
“Dad said he should be Fire Lord now,” Azula continued. “That Uncle Iroh is old and useless. Grandfather said he should know what it’s like to lose his firstborn.”
Zuko’s grip tightened around her.
“Azula,” she said sharply, “go practice your forms.”
“I didn’t—”
“Now.”
Azula huffed, but she went.
Ursa took Zuko’s hand. “Come.”
They stopped by her quarters on their way to the southern veranda. From a bentwood box hidden in her bureau, she drew a small vial and tucked it into her sleeve.
Azulon was on the veranda overlooking the caldera, a cup in his hands.
Ursa was struck by how very old and sad he looked.
“Princess Ursa,” he said. “The hour is late.”
“Is it true?”
Azulon studied her before his eyes fell on the tear streaked face of his grandson.
“What have you heard?”
“That you ordered my son killed.”
Azulon straightened. “I would hope you know me better than that.”
“Azula heard you,” she pressed. “Ozai made a bid for the throne.”
Azulon exhaled, long and tired.
“He did.”
His gaze flicked to Zuko.
“I told him he should understand the cost of losing a firstborn.”
“Why? Why do you want Zuko dead?”
Azulon’s eyes squinted in confusion. “I did not tell him to kill your son.”
She paused, uncertain.
“I told him,” Azulon said, “that he is unfit to inherit.” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Zuko and Azula will be removed from his line and given to Iroh.”
Ursa sagged. The vial in her sleeve clattered to the floor.
“Come here, my child.” Azulon held his arms open, and Ursa fell to her knees before him, resting her head in his lap. She sobbed.
Zuko hovered at her side, uncertain.
Azulon beckoned.
“Come.”
Zuko stepped forward.
“Would you like to stay here,” Azulon asked, “and become Fire Lord one day?”
Zuko blinked. “I—I’m not very good at firebending.”
Azulon’s mouth curved faintly.
“That can be taught.”
His eyes lifted, sharper now.
“Character cannot. Roku’s way would suit you better.”
“Avatar Roku?” Zuko echoed.
Azulon laughed. “Your mother’s grandfather.”
Zuko looked at his mother. “You’re related to the Avatar?”
“Ozai,” Ursa managed, her voice raw. “What will become of him?”
Azulon said, “Banished. Stripped of rank and title. He leaves at dawn.”
The old man looked out over the ocean, a glittering line under the moon.
“He will not return.”
Some days later, Ursa returned to her garden. The air was softer now.
Zuko knelt beside the pond, watching the turtle-ducks paddle through the water. One of them dipped its head beneath the surface and vanished for a moment before reemerging, shaking droplets from its beak.
Zuko laughed—soft, surprised, as if the sound had startled him.
“Mom!” He said, noticing her. She opened her arms as he came running over.
She settled beside him in her garden of death. The moonflowers opened at dusk. Belladonna drank the shade. Emberbane stirred in the wind—delicate as ever. In the years since she had started it, It had filled every corner of the space—her refuge against the palace walls.
She caught movement out of the corner of her eyes. “Azula!” She called. The girl strode out from around the trunk of the suicide tree. She did not walk with the same confidence she’d had before Ozai’s banishment.
“Where’s dad?” She asked, crossing her arms, then uncrossing them.
“Banished,” Ursa said, her heart lifting with the word. “You will stay here. Both of you. It is very important, children, that you look after one another.”
Azula made a face. “Dad said Zuko’s weak. That he should’ve gotten rid of him when he had the chance.”
Ursa shook her head. “Ozai was wrong. You are both strong—in different ways.”
“I’m not bad at anything,” Azula said primly.
“You’re bad at being nice,” Zuko pointed out.
“I don’t have to be nice. That’s for the weak.”
“Azula, have I ever shown you my garden?”
“I’ve been here a thousand times, mother.”
Ursa nodded. “Yes, and did you know every plant in here can kill a man?”
Azula’s gaze shot to her mother. “They’re plants,” she said, but she began looking around her with renewed interest.
Ursa reached out, stained fingers plucking a black berry. “Do you see this one, Azula?”
“What about it?,” She sniffed.
“Two of these berries can kill a child. That one,” she nodded to a vine with delicate leaves, seed pods hanging from it, “I used the seeds to make your rattles. But one of them can kill a man in days. The royal physicians would call it a ‘sudden chill of the spirit.’ They would find nothing.”
Azula stilled. Her sharp golden eyes flickered from the berries to her mother’s face. She looked for the softness her father had always mocked, but she found only the calm, steady gaze of a woman who had been walking through a minefield for years and knew exactly where every spark was buried.
“This one,” Ursa whispered, pointing to the tall, hollow-stalked plant with its umbrella of white stars. “Your father walked past it a thousand times, thinking it a weed. His robes brushed against its leaves.”
Azula reached out a finger, but Ursa caught her wrist.
“Do not touch the sap. It starts at the feet—a cold numbness. It climbs the legs, then the spine. You stay awake, Azula. You stay perfectly conscious as your lungs simply... forget how to move.”
Azula stared at the purple-spotted stem. “Father said you were weak. You can’t even bend.”
“I don’t have to,” Ursa said, a cold, sharp smile finally touching her lips. “I was just waiting for the right season to bloom.”
Azula shifted her weight.
“Why didn’t you kill him?" Her voice was full of bravado, but she looked very small.
“Because,” Ursa said, holding her arm open for her daughter to join her at her side, “I didn’t have to. He did that all on his own.”
“Hm,” Azula said. “What is it you wanted to tell us?”
Ursa smiled.
“My story.”
Azula sat. “I’m not a baby,” she spat.
“But I am a mother. And I want to hold my daughter.”
Something shifted in Azula’s eyes. She didn’t settle in Ursa’s arms, but she didn’t lean away, either.
Ursa glanced out across the garden—to the poison trees, the climbing vines, the flowers that hid death beneath beauty.
To the place where she had once sat and chosen not to die.
And she told her children all the things she never had.