Ryojiro rode home in the carriage, staring without seeing the streets that stretched beyond the window. The city was as alive as always—the steaming stalls, the bustle of workers, the heat of the air heavy with ash—but he barely registered any of it. He could think only of the folded sheet of paper between his fingers, where his name stood written beside the number twelve.
When the carriage stopped in front of the family residence, Ryojiro stepped down slowly. The manor, with its dark walls and red roofs, rose imposingly before him, and for the first time, it felt as though his own home stood watching him, judging him. He remained still for a few seconds, gripping the paper tightly. Part of him wanted to hide it, perhaps bring it later, when his father's mood might be better. But he knew delaying it would only make things worse.
With a trembling sigh, he crossed the gate.
The interior of the house was silent, broken only by the crackling of coals in the braziers and the distant murmurs of the servants. The air smelled of roasted tea and parchment—the familiar scent of his father's study. Ryojiro walked without pausing, passing the family portraits lining the corridor: generations of Fire Nation men with stern faces and proud, unwavering gazes. He couldn't keep himself from looking away when he passed the portrait of his older brother, Ryota, dressed in a military uniform, posture flawless.
He swallowed hard and stopped before the office door.
He knocked softly.
"Enter," came his father's deep voice.
Ryojiro stepped inside.
General Ryozan was seated on the floor in front of a low table covered in documents. His posture was straight, his hair tied back with precision, his gaze fixed on the reports before him. The room was bathed in firelight, casting long, firm shadows across the walls.
Ryojiro took a step forward, drawing a steadying breath.
"Father… I have my results."
Ryozan lifted his gaze slowly, showing neither surprise nor emotion. He extended his hand, and Ryojiro carefully placed the sheet in it. The general unfolded it, and for several seconds, the only sound in the room was the faint rustle of paper moving between his fingers.
His eyes traveled down the page calmly. Then he lowered it.
"Twelfth place," he murmured. His voice was low, restrained, but it was enough to twist a knot in Ryojiro's stomach.
Ryozan remained silent a moment longer, then spoke in that tone that never needed to rise to exert authority.
"I had hoped you would rank higher. Ryota, at your age, was already among the top."
The words fell heavily—no anger, only disappointment.
"The report states that your academic performance is good… but your physical condition is barely adequate. And your firebending…" he paused briefly, "is lacking."
Ryojiro lowered his head. He did not dare look up.
Ryozan set the sheet down on the table, folding it with careful precision.
"If there is no improvement next term," he said at last, voice flat, unmoved by either fury or sympathy, "there will be consequences."
Silence filled the room again. Ryojiro felt the air grow heavier, and his hands began to shake.
"Yes, Father," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper.
"You may go," was all the general added, already returning to his documents without looking at him again.
Ryojiro bowed and stepped out slowly, closing the door behind him with care. He stood for a moment in the hallway, unmoving, listening to the distant crackle of the fire inside the study. Then he looked down at the sheet he still held: the academy's insignia glowed faintly under the light, just above the number twelve.
He felt that number burn him more deeply than any flame he could ever produce.
............................................................
Ryojiro sat in the central courtyard of the house, right beside the clear-water pond where crimson fish swam in slow, unhurried circles, as if the world had never demanded anything of them. The silence of the afternoon wrapped around him; only the whisper of the wind through the plum tree leaves and the distant creaking of wood in the corridors could be heard.
But to him, everything felt heavy.
His academy uniform, still carrying the smell of smoke, seemed like a weight on his shoulders. And the sheet of paper he held between his fingers… grew more crumpled each time he squeezed it in frustration. He had been reading it over and over, as if staring at it long enough could somehow change what it said.
Twelve out of thirty.
The number struck him like a hammer—dull, final, inescapable.
Barely above average.
Barely enough.
Barely worthy.
His reflection wavered across the pond's surface: a thin boy, amber eyes, and the expression of someone who was already tired of trying to look strong.
A deep sigh escaped him, long and trembling.
At that moment, something moved behind him. An arm swept over his shoulder and, with shamelessly confident precision, snatched the paper out of his hands.
Ryojiro flinched and turned quickly.
Ryota stood behind him, holding the sheet with one hand, as if it were nothing more than a casual note. His expression was relaxed, almost amused, yet his eyes took in every detail with the effortless poise of someone who had never once needed to doubt himself.
"Twelve out of thirty, huh?" he commented, tilting his head slightly. "Not bad, little brother. So… why the long face?"
Ryojiro didn't answer right away. He stood and snatched the paper back, almost like a child caught doing something shameful.
When he spoke, his voice came out low, faint, dull.
"I'm supposed to be among the best…" he murmured. "I'm just… barely above average. How am I supposed to bring honor to the family if I can't even do what's expected of me…?"
The last word broke as it left him.
Tears gathered quickly—hot, unbearable. He lowered his head, trying to hide them, but they fell anyway, silent and clumsy.
Ryota watched him for a few seconds.
Then he let out a long, deep sigh.
He didn't sound irritated. Or disappointed.
He sounded tired. Human. Almost… understanding.
"For the spirits' sake, Jiro," he said at last, somewhere between a scolding and a gentle tease. "You are, without a doubt, the most worried kid in the entire Fire Nation. I don't think even our father, who literally decides who lives and who dies on the border, is as stressed as you are."
Ryojiro looked at him, eyes red and shining, afraid he had crossed some invisible line.
But Ryota held his gaze—steady, reassuring, unshakable as a mountain.
"Don't worry about the family's honor," he said, slowly, like sealing a vow. "I'll carry that. I'll carry all of it. You just… make sure you're alright. That you're happy, if you do that, Jiro… I'll handle the rest."
Ryojiro blinked, surprised. His chest tightened. He wanted to say something— that he should contribute too, that it wasn't fair, that it was his responsibility as well— but the words didn't even form.
Ryota smiled then. A small, tilted smile, with a hint of mischief that took the solemnity out of the moment.
And without warning, a small flame burst from his hand and struck the ground right beside Ryojiro's feet.
Ryojiro jumped back in alarm, slipped on the wet stones, and fell straight into the pond, sending up a massive splash that startled the fish and soaked his uniform completely.
There was one second of silence.
Then Ryota's laughter echoed across the courtyard—clear, loud, unrestrained.
"Well," he said through laughter, "at least your reflexes are excellent, little brother."
Ryota stepped toward the pond's edge and extended his hand. Ryojiro took it immediately, still dripping, trying to push his wet hair away from his face. As he pulled him up, Ryota lifted his other hand and conjured a small, steady flame—warm, controlled—drying the soaked fabric and returning heat to his body.
The flame didn't burn. It was precise, disciplined, gentle.
The kind of fire that comes only from years of mastery and natural talent.
"Listen," Ryota said, still smiling, though his voice grew a shade more serious. "What I said is true. I'll carry whatever I have to carry… but that doesn't mean you're being left behind."
Ryojiro lifted his gaze slightly.
"If you want to get better," Ryota continued, with that calm certainty that always accompanied him, "then I'll help you. I'll teach you what I know. I'll do whatever it takes to clear the path for you."
It was a promise. Not dramatic, not loud.
A promise that felt real.
Ryojiro looked at him with a clean, almost bright joy.
Something inside him loosened.
If his brother—the prodigy, the natural heir, the standard everyone used to measure excellence—believed in him… then perhaps, just perhaps, he could catch up to Hatsuro. And with enough effort… even Zuko.
The thought filled him with energy.
He stepped out of the pond with new determination, ready to begin—
Until a small burst of flame popped beside his feet again.
Ryojiro flinched hard, nearly tripping.
Ryota now smiled openly, the kind of smile that promised trouble.
"First," he said lightly, "we work on your stamina. No point teaching flashy moves if you don't have the foundation to perform them…"
Ryojiro barely had time to open his mouth before Ryota raised his hand again.
"You'd better start running if you don't want to end up singed."
The first fireball flew toward him.
Ryojiro yelped and sprinted across the courtyard, dodging as best he could while Ryota pursued him at an easy pace, never losing step, laughing at every awkward turn and every improvised jump.
The courtyard filled with echoes of laughter, hurried footsteps, and the soft hiss of flames cutting through the air.
From the second-floor corridor, a figure stopped.
Ryozan walked beside a servant holding a folder of military reports. He said nothing—only watched for a brief moment: the elder son, bright and assured, pushing the younger forward in his own way; the younger, soaked, nervous, but running… not stopping.
The servant kept his gaze lowered, silent.
And though nothing changed in the general's rigid posture, one could almost swear that at the corner of his lips appeared a line—thin, subtle, fleeting—that was not entirely stern.
A trace of a smile.
Only then, without a word, Ryozan continued walking.
As if nothing had happened.