I woke to noise.
Not the sharp, frantic kind that clawed at your nerves on a battlefield, but the steady hum of survival. Voices overlapping. Footsteps crunching against stone. Metal clinking softly against metal. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.
It took me longer than it should have to understand what that meant.
I was still alive.
Light filtered through the thin canvas of the tent, pale and washed out, the kind of daylight that only exists high in the mountains. Cold, clean, unforgiving. My body felt like it had been dragged across stone and stitched back together with thread pulled too tight. Every muscle protested when I shifted, pain radiating outward from my spine, my shoulders, my ribs—deep aches layered over older ones.
I didn't even know how long I was out for.
I pushed myself upright, breath hissing between my teeth as the world tilted slightly, then steadied. My head throbbed. Not sharply—just enough to remind my body I was still healing.
The tent was quiet now. Whoever had been sitting watch was gone. In their place, folded neatly on a low stool beside my bedroll, was a set of clothes.
Air Nation colors.
Soft blues and whites, layered fabrics meant for movement and warmth rather than armor. Clean. Carefully chosen. The edges were worn, not ceremonial. Clothes meant to be lived in.
Tadewi must have gotten someone to leave them there.
The realization settled something restless in my chest. I swung my legs over the side of the bedroll and stood slowly, giving my body time to catch up with my will. My knees wobbled, but they held.
That felt like a victory.
A shallow basin of water sat near the entrance. I knelt, splashed cold water over my hands, then my face. Dried blood flaked away from my knuckles. Soot ran in thin gray rivulets down my wrists. I worked my fingers through my hair carefully, easing out the tangles until it fell loose over my shoulders.
I caught my reflection in the dull metal rim of the basin.
My eyes still glowed faintly—rings of blue light tracing the edges of my irises, like moonlight caught beneath ice.
Not dead, then.
Just… changed.
I pulled on the clothes, grateful for the softness against my skin, and stepped outside.
Skyreach was alive.
Tents stretched across the wide stone terraces carved into the mountain like steps for giants, layered into a city made of canvas, rope, and stubborn refusal to give up. Fires burned in controlled pits. The smell of cooking meat and simmering stew hung in the air. People moved with purpose—hauling water, distributing supplies, checking injuries.
Skyguard patrolled the edges, wings folded tight against their backs, armor dented and scorched but worn with pride. Some leaned on spears. Some sat on the stone catching their breath. All of them looked tired.
Children darted between the tents, laughter ringing sharp and bright in the cold air.
The sound stopped me cold.
Unafraid. Unforced. Alive.
I hadn't realized—until that moment—just how beautiful it was. Pure, innocent joy. The kind that existed only because they were too young to truly understand what was happening to the world around them.
My throat tightened.
I forced myself to breathe and scanned the camp, looking for someone—anyone—who could point me where I needed to go.
A Skyguard passed nearby, helm tucked under their arm. I stepped forward.
"Excuse me," I said.
They stopped, nodded stiffly. Their gaze slid past me, never quite meeting my eyes.
"Where are the healing tents?"
They hesitated, then pointed toward the far right edge of the encampment. "That way," they said, voice neutral.
No judgment. No kindness. Just distance.
I thanked them and turned away before I could think too hard about it.
The healing tents were quieter than the rest of the camp, the air thick with the smells of herbs and clean water and blood scrubbed too late. Healers moved between beds with practiced calm, murmuring reassurances, adjusting bandages, refilling bowls.
I caught the eye of a woman with silver-threaded braids and a healer's sash.
"Muir," I said, breath catching despite myself. "Where is he?"
She stilled.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then she stepped back, lifting one hand and pointing to the tent at the far end of the row.
"There," she said gently.
My feet moved before my mind could catch up.
I pushed through the tent flap—
—and nearly collapsed in relief.
Muir sat propped up against a stack of rolled blankets, shirt discarded, chest wrapped in thick layers of bandages. His skin was pale, but his eyes were bright, and his mouth was curved into the same crooked grin I'd seen a hundred times before.
Revik sat beside him, one arm braced behind Muir's back, the other resting casually on his knee. He looked up as I entered, tension draining visibly from his shoulders.
"Thank the gods," I breathed.
Muir's grin widened. "Fuck the gods."
I blinked. "What?"
"I won't thank the gods," he said cheerfully. "I owe you my life."
Emotion slammed into me all at once—hot and sharp and overwhelming. I stepped forward before I could stop myself.
"Muir—"
"All I did," I said quickly, because if I stopped I might cry, "was channel the power the gods gave me. You don't owe me anything."
He tilted his head, studying me. "Still saved me."
Then, softer: "So I'm thanking you anyway."
My eyes burned.
I swallowed and forced a smile. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore," he admitted. "Like I got trampled by an angry yeti. But I'm alive. Which is new and exciting."
Revik snorted.
He looked at me more closely now, eyes sharp and assessing. "How are you doing?"
I shrugged. "Fine."
His eyebrow lifted.
I sighed. "Okay. I feel like shit."
That earned a faint smirk.
"You were out for two days," Revik said. "I went to check on you. Tadewi was sitting by your bed. Didn't seem wise to interrupt."
"Tadewi?" I repeated.
He nodded. "Didn't leave for hours."
Something warm and strange settled in my chest.
Before I could respond, the tent flap opened again. A Skyguard stepped inside, posture formal.
"Tadewi requests the presence of the Primal Dragon," they said, eyes flicking briefly to me, "the Water Prince, and the Commander."
Revik let out a low chuckle. "Commander, eh?"
Muir rolled his eyes. "Inflated his ego already."
I glanced at Muir. "Can you walk?"
"Oh, absolutely," he said, then immediately grimaced as he swung his legs off the bedding. "See? Graceful."
Revik was at his side instantly, steadying him.
As we stepped out of the tent, Muir reached over and ruffled my hair gently. "Don't worry, Primal," he murmured. "I'll live."
A meeting was already underway when we arrived.
The tent was large, reinforced with thick poles and layered canvas. Inside, people crowded around a central table—elders with lined faces and weathered eyes, younger Skyguard with fire still burning in their expressions, healers, messengers.
No one noticed us at first.
They were too busy arguing.
"…the Air Nation is broken—"
"…the Fire Nation has become the bringer of death—"
"…the Lightning Prince is corrupted—"
"He must be saved—"
"No. He must be stopped—"
My jaw tightened.
Then someone said it.
"The Lightning Prince must die."
The words slammed into me like a physical blow.
Heat surged up my spine, unbidden and furious. Before I could stop myself, I stepped forward and unleashed a blast of hot air that tore through the tent, snapping banners and sending loose papers flying.
"Enough!"
My voice rang sharp and clear.
"If you want to kill him," I said, every word vibrating with power, "you'll have to go through me first."
Silence fell like a blade.
Every face turned toward me.
Some shocked. Some angry. Some afraid.
I stood my ground.
Because I was never one to stay quiet.