Burning Winds

Notes: Rated T for the time being. I will try to keep the chapters short and quick.

It was the perfect weather to crush a rebellion. Rain turned the earth into mud. The sky hung gray over Ozai's head. He made himself as comfortable as possible on his simple stool, legs splayed wide and a fist under his chin. He contemplated the town resting on the hillside a few leagues away. Soon the little rebellious town would be gone, its inhabitants slain by metal and fire. Killing one's own subjects was a terrible waste indeed, but Utum had stopped being his subject the moment its ruling noble decided to not pay his tribute and beheaded the fire lord's collectors instead. Oda had advised him against leaving the palace and taking care of the situation himself, but this time the call for blood was too enticing to ignore, especially when it was more than a decade since he had fought and felt the breath of death on the back of his neck. No, he had told his adviser, the people had forgotten the consequences of disobedience. As their lord it was his duty to remind them. But of course Oda knew the real reason. He was one of the old dragons.

Azula commanded the capital for the time being, but she knew the actual power rested in Oda's hands. Ozai had made sure of that. She was the one who was concealed behind a curtain of fire, but her word had no weight unless the royal adviser approved. She had protested, of course, but she had no leverage. Oda was a war veteran who had fought beside Ozai when he had looked for the Avatar in his teenage years; he had been there with his every decision. His counsel was invaluable. She was an inexperienced princess of thirteen, a girl who had never set foot outside the palace her whole life. She was to know her place. And Azula indeed knew her station. She was obedient. Sometimes too obedient, even.

It started to rain. Drops tapped on the scaled leather on his arms. If one ignored the future of the town in the distance and the cacophony of the five hundred men preparing behind his grand tent, the vista was a sight to behold, a painting capturing the very essence of the start of spring.

His peace was disturbed by heavy splashing footfalls approaching him. The captain stopped a few paces in front of him. He saluted with forming the flame with his hands, bowing as much as his armor allowed. Ozai took his hand off his chin and straightened his back. "Are the men ready?"

The captain, the youngest of the five company leaders, maintained his painful bow. "They are, my lord."

Ozai crossed his arms over his chest. The tip of his tongue danced on the insides of his cheeks. Finally. "What is your assessment of the situation?" How many will die this morning?

The captain swallowed loudly. Rain hammered away at his helmet. His hesitation told Ozai he knew the implications under the question. "The mud will slow us down, my lord. We have to march uphill through the forest before reaching the town. There will certainly be an ambush waiting for us."

"Do you think we should wait for the weather to calm, then?"

"If we give the rebels time, they may bolster their numbers. They may think we are not attacking because we are afraid. We will lose many good men, my lord, but we must strike now."

Ozai nodded, pleased with the answer. He rose from his stool, and the captain bowed once more. "Go to your station," he told the man. "And tell the other captains to keep their men quiet. I want absolute silence."

"Yes, my lord." He quickly saluted, and then jogged away. Ozai took one last look at the insolent town of Utum. He thought about the screams that would fill its streets at the end of the day. He remembered the days when he ran on blood soaked earth, the smell of burning flesh in his nose and bleeding cuts on his arms, skewering men with fire so powerful it tore through their bodies and emerged from their backs. He turned away and strode inside his private quarters.

When he emerged from the other side of the tent a sea of men greeted him. They did not cheer. As far as Ozai could see, they didn't even move or bat an eye. They were not men; they were the Sword of Agni—sheer discipline and a life of battle had made them a solid, single mass. This was the personal army of the son of the fire spirits. Let the rabble fight for the infertile dust hills of the Earth Kingdom, let them steal fish from pathetic Water Tribe women—when the security and prestige of the mainland was threatened, these five companies were all a lord needed.

A few paces away a komodo rhino awaited him, and behind were lined the five captains, each riding their own personal ostrich horses. Ozai hopped onto his saddle without skipping a beat, and smirked at the decorated masks of the company leaders. "Are you ready for battle, gentlemen?"

"My lord," one of the captains spoke. "Your life is too valuable to waste. Let us lead your army."

"The old kings led their armies to victory; they did not follow them like my ancestors," Ozai said. "They were ready to die for their cause. It's been too long since a fire lord marched in front of his people. Am I not just an impostor if I send my men to fight, and not once fight among them?"

The man had nothing else to say. He bowed his head in defeat. "I understand, my lord."

Ozai looked at his captains. He ran a hand through his doused, loose hair. He had left his crown at his tent. He was fifteen again. A smile crept up his face. "Let's ride."