Ozai strides through the throne room entrance located behind the curtain of flame and closest to the room's namesake already feeling frazzled.

It had taken him longer to scrape together an acceptable topknot than he'd expected. He knew the hand motions necessary to perform the act but that didn't mean his body did. The muscle memory just isn't there. After all, when would his father, surrounded by servants every day since his birth, have deigned to style his own hair? When would he ever have needed to? He wouldn't. That's the answer. Ozai had still managed eventually, but it had taken too many attempts and he'd needed to go slowly to keep the hair neat. (It is yet another thing that will need work. He refuses to be wholly dependent on servants for anything.)

The only thing that keeps him from being considered late to his own meeting is the fact that the Fire Lord, Herald of Agni, who measures the length of the day, cannot be late. If Agni's Herald arrives later than anticipated, it is because it was ordained to happen by the great spirit. At least, that is the traditional reasoning. (Ozai is almost certain that some past Fire Lord made it up to excuse their inability to keep track of time. He hates that he will be relying on that same custom to excuse his own tardiness now.)

The throne room is bare of other people except for the servants, all bowing low as he enters. (There are three runners should messages need to be sent out before the meeting is concluded, two scribes to observe and compare notes on the meeting before an official record is written and submitted to the palace library, a handful of attendants for more mundane tasks, and there will be at least three intelligence officers hidden either among the visible staff or else completely out of sight.) It's no surprise that none of the war council is present yet, of course. It is traditional for meeting attendants and guests to only be allowed into the throne room after the Fire Lord is in place.

Ozai takes a moment to stop and breathe deeply, in part to settle his nerves, as he reaches for the bank of coals and the wall of fire they feed.

White flames shoot up to the high ceiling and it is only the careful metal and stone design of the throne room that prevents the fire from spreading beyond its banking channels in the floor and roof. Several servants gasp. A few of them give voice to quickly stifled screams. For his part, Ozai flinches back only to realize in the next moment that he can feel a furnace at his back and that his eyes have been sealed shut.

"Gently, Fire Lord. There is no need to strain for that which will come to you," Agni advises, voice soft and amused in his ear. One too-warm hand rests on his shoulder and its mate soon covers Ozai's own outstretched hand, guiding it downward and tempering the wild flames into something manageable.

"I thought it was a myth," Ozai admits hoarsely, "the records about the old Fire Lords. What they could do." The white Flames of Agni, hotter even than the rare blue flame that some benders could achieve, wielded by ancient Fire Lords, was but one facet of the old stories. The implications are overwhelming if he thinks about them.

Agni chuckles and settles both hands on his shoulders. "You are the first in generations to hold my full favor as herald, a true Lord of Fire. Just as those you speak of were in their times," Agni tells him, "Flames will leap to do as you bid with enthusiasm. You will find that all fire is eager to serve you, because in serving the herald it serves its master."

Agni doesn't release him, but rather leans around him as if peering over his shoulder. Which is ridiculous, because every time Agni has appeared to him the spirit has been at least a head taller than him. That doesn't change what the shifting sense of heat and pressure tell him, though. "What?" he finally asks.

Agni huffs a laugh under his breath. "Feel," he instructs, "This particular stray flame burns hotly enough that you will be able to find it, even if you are not yet an experienced herald."

And then Agni again vanishes from the mortal world and Ozai opens his eyes with a frown.

The Fire Lord tentatively searches the room for whatever it was that Agni had found and intended to draw to his attention. A light touch of his bending keeps the curtain of flame at the appropriate height for an audience, still burning what should be an impossible white. The wall sconces are all lit but none are out of the ordinary. A few flare and spark white as he ghosts his bending sense over them and Ozai's frown deepens. It's going to take time and effort to regain proper control. He can already tell.

Finished with the obvious fires in the room, Ozai attempts to discover fires he may have somehow overlooked. He nearly collapses in shock when he realizes he can pinpoint every servant in the room by their inner flames.

"My lord?" one of the braver servants finally speaks into the silence, "Do you require something before the generals and sages are brought in?"

Ozai glances back at the servant. "They will wait a moment more."

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"Of course, your majesty," the servant murmurs, falling into another bow.

Had no one else recognized Agni's presence a moment ago? Heard his voice and the instructions he'd passed to his Fire Lord? Then again, no one else seemed to have noticed the Sun Spirit's arrival in the courtyard, either. Only when Agni had built a body of mortal flames in the Fire Lord's chambers had anyone else reacted to the spirit's appearance. Agni's Herald indeed. Regardless, he has not yet puzzled out the great spirit's latest task.

Could Agni have meant a stray inner flame?

He scans over the servants in the room, the two spies hidden in the walls, and even those waiting beyond the doors. One flame draws notice, burning hotter than all the others. The inner flame is tucked low to the ground and behind a particular floor-length banner that he knows as well from the back as he does from the front, conveniently placed to be obscured by the flame wall from the throne and by the open door when an audience enters or leaves.

"Azula!" he bellows, parting the flame wall and stalking across the throne room.

Azula pushes the banner aside and steps forward. "Father," she greets smoothly while bowing, skilled hands effortlessly forming the sign of the flame to high court standards. As always, the girl's actions are precise and perfect.

"Your brother just found himself a participant in an Agni Kai for speaking out of turn during a war meeting," he half-growls the words as he says them. (It had only been after he'd taken the throne himself that he'd realized just how badly he'd misstepped in doing so. If a Fire Lord could not control his own courtroom, then he was weak. Weak Fire Lords were either challenged face-to-face in Agni Kais by the ambitious, or else assassinated in the night because cowards were unworthy of honorable deaths. His father had still been wrong -- dishonorable and cruel -- in his actions six years ago, but the offense of disrupting his court had been very real.) "It is by Agni's mercy that he left the arena unscathed," he continues, "What about that made you think it was a good idea to attend a war meeting uninvited?"

"I sought to learn about the state of our great nation, Father," Azula answers, "As a princess of the Fire Nation, it is my duty to remain informed about anything that affects our country, especially its goals and security, so that I may be ready to aid in guiding it into a future of further glory."

Ozai pinches the bridge of his nose and breathes out steam. He's not entirely sure he believes the reason she's given him, but... The prince and princess are more alike than they realize. They both vie for Ozai's favor, they are equally convinced they are destined to be the next Fire Lord, and they are each entirely too willing to throw themselves into dangerous situations in an effort to prove themselves worthy of both.

"Azula," he grits out, "you are eleven. A war council is no place for a child."

"I wouldn't have made a nuisance of myself," the girl argues, back straight and shoulders square in the proper posture expected in the high court. Or of recruits in the military branches. "I'm not Zuzu."

He's not sure what brings it to his attention, but it's in that moment that he realizes Azula is afraid. She doesn't shift her weight. She doesn't fidget with her hands. She doesn't look away. She keeps herself carefully poised, her breathing steady, and her face haughty. But he knows his sister and Azula is afraid. Something in her voice, something about her eyes, makes it impossible to brush away the gut certainty of the feeling. It takes him another long second to realize that she is afraid of him and why.

She isn't seeing the brother she has always prodded into loud, explosive, ultimately harmless displays of temper. Instead, she sees her father, normally cold and detached, openly angry with her. He doubts Father has ever been obviously angry with Azula before, and the previous Fire Lord had never needed to be openly enraged to be deathly dangerous to anyone who gained his displeasure. Both of their parents had donned porcelain masks more often than not, cold, unfeeling, and beautiful. It's not a skill he's ever mastered. And now Azula has found herself the sole focus of a very emotive and irritated Fire Lord Ozai. Is it any wonder he's scared her? (It scares him, how well she hides her fear when she is still so young, too young for court. It is only their own family she could need to hide from behind her own porcelain mask. His stomach twists but the thought makes too much sense to ignore.)

Ozai feels any anger he held only an instant ago flee in the face of his new understanding. (What does he think he's doing, towering over an eleven-year-old child? This Azula is not his sister.) "We'll discuss this tomorrow," he says with a sigh, "Right now, I have a meeting that has already been postponed too long."

"Yes, Father," Azula says. She glances at the wall of flames he'd released to its natural state of low burning coals. "Are the servants right? Has Agni blessed you with his flames?"

"Yes, but control takes practice." He reaches for the flame wall again and again the fire turns white and leaps high before he gentles his touch. "Come, you'll leave through the back exit so the generals don't notice you." He parts the flames and places a hand between Azula's shoulder blades.

The girl stiffens at the touch but follows without resistance. Moving forward with eyes trained before her, chin held high as is befitting her station as a princess of the nation. Ozai frowns and withdraws his hand. He hadn't meant to frighten her worse than he already has. He had often walked beside Mother, her hand a reassuring support on his back. It seems Azula does not likewise find the contact a comfort.

"Take the princess back to the royal suites," he instructs one of the servants, "Then inform the kitchens that she and Prince Zuko will be taking breakfast with me tomorrow."

"Yes, my lord," the servant responds, "Princess."

Ozai watches them depart for only a second before turning his attention to the war council that has yet to begin and is now degrees late to start. In a snap decision, he snatches up the cushion from the throne, passes through the flame wall for a third time, and makes himself comfortable at the head of the table where he can see the same maps and reports that the generals will be using. He can feel the questioning looks of the gathered servants but none of them dare to offer comment on his odd choice.

"Open the door," Ozai commands, "I've kept my guests waiting long enough."