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Fire Lord Ozai woke that morning with the satisfaction of a man who ruled half the world. The sun rose at his command—or near enough. Soon his forces would crush the last of the Earth Kingdom's resistance. Ba Sing Se would fall. The Avatar still unaccounted for, presumed dead. Everything else proceeding according to plan.
He swept into his private sitting room, where his morning tea should have been waiting. It was not.
Eye twitched. He pulled the silk cord. A young man appeared almost instantly, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.
"Where," Ozai said with dangerous calm, "is my tea?"
"My lord," the servant stammered, "Master Kenji has taken ill. Food poisoning from the turtle-duck pond incident yesterday—"
"I don't care about Master Kenji's digestive issues. Bring me someone who can make tea."
"We have, my lord. She's brewing it now. It's just... she needs a few more minutes to ensure it's properly steeped. Master Kenji's mother, Lady Mei—she's eighty-four years old, came out of retirement as a personal favor. She actually served your grandfather, Fire Lord Sozin, and—"
Ozai opened his mouth. Stopped. He could already see how this played out: Fire Lord Ozai, in a fit of impatience, struck down Lady Mei, beloved tea master who served three generations of Fire Lords, because she took an extra two minutes to steep his jasmine blend.
Gossip would spread through the palace like wildfire. Servants would whisper it. Nobles would hear. They'd smile and bow and agree that yes, she should have been faster—but behind their fans they'd think him petulant. Small. Unworthy of the throne.
"Fine," he said through his teeth. "Tell Lady Mei to take her time." His twitch returned.
The servant looked so relieved, Ozai wanted to set something on fire just on principle.
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Twenty minutes later, Ozai had his tea. Exquisite, he had to admit. Lady Mei had bowed with the careful stiffness of advanced age and shuffled out, leaving him with his morning briefings.
Barely opened the first scroll when he heard it: a drip.
Then another.
Eyes to the corner of the ceiling. Water stain spreading like an accusation, drop then another, pooling on the stone floor.
He summoned another servant. This one looked nervous before Ozai even spoke.
"My lord, we're aware of the situation. The Master of Works has been summoned—"
"Then why," Ozai said with the kind of quiet that made smart people flee, "is my ceiling still leaking?"
"The pipes are original to the palace, my lord. From Fire Lord Sozin's renovation—over seventy years old, never designed for the heated water system your father installed. The Master of Works says we'd need to replace the entire network—"
"I don't want a history lesson. I want it fixed."
"Yes, my lord. The thing is... the leak is coming from the pipes that run beneath the Hall of Ancestors. To access them, we would need to excavate under the memorial shrine to—"
"Fire Lord Sozin," Ozai finished, closing his eyes.
"Yes, my lord."
He could see this one too: Fire Lord Ozai Orders Desecration of Sozin's Memorial to Fix Ceiling Drip.
Priests would have a field day. Nobles would clutch their pearls. Someone would write a strongly worded letter about respecting tradition.
"Put a bucket under it," Ozai said. "And find me another room."
"Of course, my lord. Might I suggest the East Solar? The morning light is quite—"
"I don't care about the morning light!"
The servant wisely fled.
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By midmorning he'd relocated to the East Solar. Lovely morning light, yes—also a draft that kept guttering the candles. He gave up on the briefings. Decided to hold court early. At least in the throne room, everything was designed to make him look imposing.
Swept in with the appropriate amount of drama, flames whooshing up on either side as he took his seat. Minor nobles, a visiting dignitary from one of the colonies—good. Witnesses.
He settled into the throne. Arranged his robes. Prepared to look appropriately authoritarian.
Then the throne made a sound.
Not a dignified creak. Not the settling of ancient stone. A squeak. Like a mouse. Shift his weight: squeak.
Nobles pretended not to notice. Somehow that made it worse. Ozai sat perfectly still, barely breathing—less an all-powerful monarch now, more a man trying not to annoy a mouse.
"Bring forth the first petitioner," he announced, voice perhaps a touch louder than necessary.
A minor noble stepped forward. "My lord, I come to request an expansion of my territory to include—"
Squeak. Ozai had leaned forward.
"Continue," Ozai said, frozen in place.
"The adjacent farmlands, my lord, which would increase rice production for the military by—"
Squeak, squeak. He'd tried to cross his legs.
The noble paused, eyes flickering toward the throne.
"Go on," Ozai commanded.
After court—during which Ozai approved two petitions, denied one, and sentenced a corrupt official to prison while not moving a single muscle from the neck down—he summoned the palace architect.
"Fix the throne," Ozai ordered.
Wen—palace architect, wizened, been maintaining the place since Ozai's childhood—examined the throne with the careful attention of someone who knew exactly how much trouble he was in.
"My lord," he said carefully, "the throne is hundreds of years old. The stone itself is from the original palace, blessed by Fire Sage Kaja and consecrated with—"
"I don't need its biography. I need it to stop squeaking."
"Yes, my lord. The issue is that the base has settled over the centuries, and to properly repair it, we'd need to dismantle it completely. Given its historical and spiritual significance, this would require approval from the Fire Sages, a blessing ceremony, and a period of ritual fasting—"
"How long?"
"Six weeks, my lord. Perhaps eight."
"Six weeks?"
Six weeks holding court from a temporary throne. Or worse, standing. While people whispered about how he'd broken the sacred throne of his ancestors.
"Oil it," Ozai said.
"My lord?"
"Oil. The. Joints. Make it stop squeaking."
"Ah. Yes. That might help temporarily, though—"
"Do it before the afternoon session."
Wen bowed and shuffled out, probably to consult with the Fire Sages about whether oiling a sacred throne constituted sacrilege.
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Afternoon: the weekly war council. Generals and advisors gathered in the strategy room, maps of the Earth Kingdom covering every wall, tiny ships and soldiers marking their forces' positions.
Ozai took his seat at the head of the table. General Mak was mid-report on the Ba Sing Se campaign when someone's stomach growled.
Loudly.
Room went silent. Mak stopped mid-sentence. Everyone tried to determine whose traitorous digestive system had dared make noise in the Fire Lord's presence.
It happened again.
Ozai's stomach was staging a rebellion.
In all the morning's chaos—the tea delay, the ceiling leak, the squeaking throne—he'd forgotten to eat breakfast. Past noon now, and his body had decided to announce this fact to the entire military leadership of the Fire Nation.
"Continue," Ozai said imperiously, as if his stomach hadn't just gurgled like a volcanic spring.
"Yes, my lord. Our forces have positioned the siege equipment—"
His stomach answered with a sound like a badgermole in distress.
Admiral Chen coughed to cover what might have been a snort. General Mak's eye twitched. General Taoh, who'd never liked Ozai even when he was a prince, looked like he was solving a very difficult math problem—the face a man makes when he's trying extremely hard not to smile.
He could incinerate them all. Right now. Turn the whole room to cinders. That would teach them to smirk at their Fire Lord's basic human functions.
Except then he'd have no generals. The war would grind to a halt. The history books would record: Fire Lord Ozai Immolated His Entire War Council Because He Skipped Breakfast.
"This meeting," Ozai announced, standing abruptly, "will resume after the midday meal. You're all dismissed."
The generals bowed and filed out, faces carefully neutral. He was certain they were going to laugh the moment they cleared the hallway.
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After a late lunch—served by a visibly nervous kitchen staff who'd heard about the morning's tea situation—Ozai decided to check on palace affairs personally. Perhaps if he handled things himself, they'd stop going wrong.
That plan lasted approximately eight minutes. He rounded a corner and nearly collided with his daughter.
Azula looked up at him with those sharp golden eyes that missed nothing. Barely thirteen and already more politically astute than half his advisors. Which, right now, was a problem.
"Father," she said, performing a small bow. "I heard the throne was squeaking this morning."
Of course she'd heard. The girl had informants everywhere.
"A minor structural issue," Ozai said. "Being addressed."
"And the leak in your sitting room?"
"Also being addressed."
"And I heard your war council was cut short because—"
"Azula," Ozai said with the particular tone that made most people reconsider their life choices, "was there something you needed?"
His daughter smiled. Not her cruel smile or her calculating smile. Something else entirely.
"I was going to request access to Grandfather's spyglass. I've been strategizing—seeing what he saw might give me a tactical edge." she said. "But perhaps now isn't the best time."
"You know that spyglass is off-limits to every—"
"...Though, of course a mere spyglass pales in comparison to spending time with my dear father. I'd love to know more about your day." Azula said smoothly.
A trap. Everything with Azula was a trap. But he was tired, hungry despite lunch, throne still squeaking in the back of his mind, and he just wanted this day to be over.
"Approved," he said.
Azula bowed again and walked away. He had the distinct feeling he'd just lost a game he hadn't known he was playing.
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By evening, Ozai had retreated to his private chambers. Ceiling no longer leaked—someone had placed a bucket. Throne had been oiled, though Wen had left a scroll-length warning that this was only a temporary solution. War council had reconvened and completed its business without his stomach offering commentary.
He sat by the window, watching the sun set over his capital city. His son banished and disgraced. His brother, joining him in a fruitless effort. His daughter almost certainly scheming. His palace falling apart around him. His generals laughing about him in private. And he'd spent the entire day unable to punish anyone for any of it without looking like a petulant child.
The door opened. Lady Mei shuffled in with his evening tea, moving with the careful deliberation of the very old. Set down the tray, poured with hands that barely trembled, and bowed.
"Your tea, Fire Lord," she said in a voice like dry leaves.
"Thank you," Ozai said, surprising himself.
She paused at the door. "I served your grandfather, you know. And your father."
"So I heard."
"Will there be anything else, my lord?"
"No. That will be all."
She left. Ozai sat with his perfectly steeped tea, contemplating the fact that apparently being Fire Lord was just as ridiculous as everything else, and always had been.
Tomorrow: approve the funds to replace the pipes. Schedule the throne repair for summer recess. Eat breakfast. Figure out whatever game Azula was playing before she won it.
But tonight, he would drink his tea in peace.
The tea, at least, was perfect.