A whole procession, elegant and disciplined, advanced toward the ship—with Princess Azula at its helm.
Their pace was slow, deliberate, practically ceremonial.
Because when you're royalty, your very presence is a spectacle. Let the masses drink it in: Princess Azula in the flesh.
Not a single wrinkle dared show itself on her regal outfit—tailored to fit her like destiny itself.
Every surface gleamed, her hair was sculpted with militant precision, and those amber eyes carried enough arrogance to ignite dry grass.
One glance at her face, and you'd remember it for life: nobility made flesh.
She ascended the ramp, where her personal assistant awaited.
The Fire Lord—her father, the man whose very name made generals sweat—had sent her here with a mission soaked in danger and ambition: to complete what her disgraced uncle failed to achieve.
Take Ba Sing Se.
To some, this sounded impossible. Insane. But that's what made them them, and her Azula.
Who else could pull it off? Trained by the greatest masters, gifted with the rare and terrifying Blue Fire, and destined for the throne—she was the obvious choice.
And this time, she wasn't going alone. She had a weapon in human form. A man cloaked in myth and blood. Code name: Raizo.
A borrowed term from some obscure foreign tongue meaning "killer." Simple. Clean. Effective.
The name didn't originate from the Fire Nation military—it was stolen from the pirates, whispered across decks, passed around in fear and awe.
The dossier said it clung to him like smoke to a battlefield. And the truth was, a name like that sticks only when it's earned.
Otherwise, every other soldier would call themselves The Reaper or Godslayer or some equally ridiculous nonsense.
But Raizo was different. He'd earned the name. And what intrigued the Fire Lord the most was that he, too, wielded a blue flame—one eerily similar to Azula's own. That alone earned him a place at her side.
And Azula didn't protest. In fact, strategically, it made sense. She was no fool. The mission was difficult, and in difficult missions, you use every damn tool in the box—even if it talks back.
She'd read his dossier in full. Twice. It was fascinating, she'd admit. But paper wasn't people. You don't trust ink—you trust instincts.
And Azula would wait to see Raizo for herself before making any real judgments.
There was no time for formal evaluations. She'd have to make her call almost instantly. If she found him worthwhile, then they'd hash out the finer mission details en route.
And her first impression?
Mixed.
And so far? He was off to a rough start.
She was greeted not by Raizo himself, but by the ship's captain.
Polite, overcompensating, fake-smiling.
"Let's go, Princess. Raizo's on deck," he said, gesturing awkwardly. "I mean, sir—"
"I understand," Azula cut in, her voice dipped in mild irritation.
So the rumors were true. "Raizo" wasn't just a name—it was his name now. No one called him anything else.
Whether it was respect or fear was hard to tell.
To Azula, they were often the same thing.
The ship's side ramp led them aboard without much fuss.
No clumsy cargo lifts or messy deck work—Fire Nation engineering at its peak.
She barked a quick order to her attendants to start settling in, then strode forward on her own.
She realized, with faint surprise, that she was actually… curious. That alone pissed her off a little.
The last door opened.
And there he was.
Raizo stood with his back to her, hands braced against the railing, eyes lost in the sea's endless gray.
No greeting.
No bow.
Not even a glance.
Azula's sharp eyes immediately swept over him.
The dossier had painted an image, but reality always had more texture. Fire Nation armor.
Over it, a dark blue cloak with a high collar fluttered just enough to make him look like he belonged on a propaganda poster.
A strange, thin, long sword hung from his left side—almost elegant, with an unusual hilt and guard designed for speed and precision, not brute force.
Azula had studied countless weapons.
She could identify their uses, their weaknesses.
This one? She had never seen before. That intrigued her more than she'd like to admit.
He wore white gloves tucked into his belt—decorative at first glance, but flagged as important in the file. No one knew their purpose.
Just as no one knew why he snapped his fingers before unleashing blue flame.
"I told you not to disturb me until the Princess arrived," Raizo said, without turning.
Azula blinked.
Was he serious?
"I'M ALREADY HERE," she snapped, barely restraining the urge to immolate something.
Just breathe. He's an asset. A valuable one.
Raizo turned.
Or rather, the mask turned.
It looked like a skull—mechanical, angular, with one massive lens and three smaller ones on the other side that twitched like a camera iris.
Tubes coiled around it, and a hood cast deep shadows across his face.
Azula wasn't easily rattled, but something about it made her skin crawl.
"Damn. Already eleven?" he muttered, almost to himself. Then he shifted into an obviously rehearsed speech. "Please forgive me, Princess Azula. Welcome aboard. It is an honor to have you here—"
"Did you memorize that?" she asked, tilting her head, her voice dipped in mockery.
"…Yes," he admitted, shoulders relaxing.
"I'm completely useless with nobility, so the captain helped me out."
Azula smirked, the mockery sharpening like a blade. "They didn't teach you how to talk to royalty when you were young, Kira?"
"They did," he said easily. "But my master dug out that part of me and burned it."
She recognized the name of the master from the dossier.
The comment made sense now. This one wouldn't grovel.
He wouldn't even pretend. Respect would have to be earned.
And Azula hated that.
I have to prove myself? Me? The thought scorched through her like a wildfire.
But she shoved it behind a wall of icy logic. He wasn't wrong.
Her father sat on the throne.
Not her.
Yet.
Raizo looked at her. "Something wrong, Princess?"
His tone was light—too light. Like he was asking if she liked the weather.
"Maybe you could observe the bare minimum decorum and take off your mask in front of a crowned royal?" Her voice was a glacier dipped in acid.