Azula's crown feels heavy and her throne uncomfortable. What is a throne when you've no subjects? Azula thinks about this a lot.
She can't stop herself.
She wonders, if she had done something different, would she have some subjects to rule?
She knows the answer. She knows that no matter how she handled things, the outcome would have been exactly the same or similar. She could have lead the military out into defense positions, but they'd only have been desecrated earlier on in the game. She could have helped lead the evacuation party, but the warning had come so short that even with her aid, only a small band of people would have made it out—the rest left to be swallowed by the lava.
No, her mistake was cowardice. Azula had been out on the outskirts of the capital. She had seen the thickening smoke and tasted the sulfur in the air. But she did not go home. Part of her knows that she, on foot, wouldn't have made it anyhow. The citizens likely know it as well, but they need some scapegoat or another and Azula is just that. But she still tears herself apart over it, knowing that she didn't even try to get home and go honorably down with her nation. But the truth is, she was afraid. She can fight people, she can conquer fire, but she can't face a volcano. Not even Roku was able. So she didn't even try.
This is why they do not listen to her.
Why they no longer respect her leadership.
She is weak and they know it. She knows it.
So now she doubts herself as a leader.
After all, she'd only become one by default. Unlike herself, Zuko had been there; fighting until the smoldering and bitter end. She wants to weep, but doesn't want to look weaker than she already does to the few people still alive in the Fire Nation. Truth be told, she misses Zuko and all of the ways he had pissed her off. Azula looks down at her palms, she hasn't done much bending since that day. Her time on the throne leaves her with lots of time to think.
None of the thoughts are pleasant.
One of her first thoughts was a realization. A realization the Fire Nation had ironically died in the very fire they prided themselves on having mastered.
That she prided herself on mastering.
Yet even their combined forces couldn't bring the volcano down.
So Azula can't bring herself to bend it anymore.
She isn't alone in this; most of the survivors have come to the same conclusion.
Azula knows she is a mess. All of this thinking and isolation is not good for her. Since no one will listen to her speeches and announcements, she stopped calling for gatherings. And since there are no more gatherings, she has no reason to comb her hair and change her clothes. She still does it, but not as regularly as she should.
Her power is a façade. She is the Fire Lord of a nation living on life support.
She has grown to hate the throne and what it's done to her.
She had spent so much time longing for it to be hers.
Now that she has it, it has become her worst enemy.
A thing that mocks her daily.
Azula looks around the throne room. No one is in it, no one but her.
For the first time in ages, Azula sees her blue flames. They rise on her palms and fall to the floor. It catches and spreads.
She watches the room burn.
Watches her throne burn.