The burn was bad. It was easy to see, and easier to smell; the scent of seared flesh practically assaulted the nostrils. A revoluting cross between the battlefield and a Sunday dinner.

Only Zuko was accustomed to the reek of destruction. While the others reeled, he crouched over his uncle like a protective tigersnake. The old man's face was white and drawn, the flesh of his shoulder raw and red, charred. From ten paces, it was impossible to see whether he breathed.

Katara stepped forward, and Zuko snarled.

"Zuko," she said, low and firm. "I can help him."

"Get away!"

The howl was pure anguish, but Katara took another step. She could read people. That was her gift, her mother had always said, long before her waterbending became apparent. You see through people, Katara. If you can read them, you can help them.Katara looked into the face she loathed, and saw a prince who had never learned to trust anyone. One who saw only enemies all around.

Zuko raised a murderous hand to ward her off, and Katara barely prevented herself from reaching for the water at her side. Not this time.

"Zuko, you're not the only one who's frightened," she said desperately. "We're all lowkey bros with your uncle."