Winter in the Fire Nation didn't howl like the north, but it crept silently and biting — through the narrow alleys and stone courtyards. By nightfall, a thin mist blanketed the town, curling beneath doors and windowpanes. The Emberleaf's lanterns glowed softer this time of year, their warm orange light haloed with steam from the tea kettles within.
Alec had just finished wiping down the low lacquered tables, his fan hanging loosely from his sash. He hadn't needed to use it tonight no disturbances, no soldiers throwing weight around. Just the gentle hush of customers sipping warmth from porcelain.
Then the bell above the door jingled, barely audible.
A man stepped in.
Thick robes, a heavy red cloak, and a smile that sat somewhere between contentment and sorrow. He exhaled slowly, brushing frost from his sleeves. Alec couldn't place him at first — the stranger's posture was too relaxed, too gentle for a noble. But his eyes…
Golden. Kind. Observant.
Alec straightened slightly. There was something about him.
"Welcome to the Ember Leaf," Alec said, voice polite but alert. "Would you like a table near the fire?"
The man chuckled softly, rubbing his palms. "That would be lovely. Cold fingers don't pour good tea."
His voice was smooth, aged like fine oolong. He settled near the hearth, taking in the room as if every tea stain and wall crack meant something. Alec brought him a pot of jasmine, then lingered — not out of suspicion, but curiosity.
"You don't seem like a local," Alec finally said, folding his hands behind his back.
"Neither do you," the man replied without a trace of threat, while glancing at his blindfold on his eyes and silver hair.
They shared a pause. Then both smiled faintly.
"Iroh," he offered, with a slight bow of the head. "A traveler, mostly. Though lately, I find myself drawn to quiet places. Ones that still remember kindness."
"…Alec."
Another pause. Not awkward just the kind of silence tea seemed to fill naturally.
As steam curled between them and the fire popped softly behind the hearth, Iroh poured his first cup, the steady motion of his hand like a practiced meditation.
"Young man... Do you believe," he said at last, "that fire should be loud?"
Alec blinked. "Loud?"
"Booming. Demanding. Grand. I've seen many who treat it that way."
Alec hesitated. "I used to think so. But… no. Not anymore."
Iroh looked at him now not just at him, but through him. Not prying, but reading.
"Oh, You seemed to have touched fire differently," he said. "I can feel it. Not in your hands… but around you."
Alec didn't answer immediately. His instincts urged caution.
"I don't see like others do," Alec said quietly. "But I've learned to feel fire. Follow it, not force it."
Iroh nodded, his eyes softening with what might have been pride. "Good. Most firebenders spend a lifetime learning that. Some never do."
He sipped.
Then, as if speaking to no one in particular, he said, "My nephew thought anger was strength. For a long time. He thought fire would make people respect him. But fire… it doesn't demand. It offers. If we let it."
The way he said "nephew" made Alec's throat tighten.
He knew the story. Or part of it.
"I used to think power would save me," Alec admitted, voice barely above the fire's crackle. "But now… I'm not sure that's what I want anymore."
Iroh set his cup down.
"Then perhaps," he said, "you're finally ready to understand what fire truly is."
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming gently.
"Tell me, Alec... what do you feel when you shape it?"
Alec's answer came slowly.
"…A breath. Like something waiting. Watching. And… willing."
"Good," Iroh whispered. "That means it respects you."
The tea between them steamed higher.
Outside, snow drifted past the windows.
Alec sat quiet, his fingers curled lightly around the edge of the tray. Iroh's words lingered like incense in a quiet shrine not heavy. The kind that returned later, in the middle of the night, when no one else was around.
The old man leaned back, tea cup nearly empty.
"You know," he said with a sly twinkle in his eyes, "my nephew once asked me what the secret to lightning redirection was."
Alec leaned in slightly. "And… did you tell him?"
"I did," Iroh said, nodding solemnly. "I told him to always redirect it into the ground… never into the soup."
There was a pause.
Then Alec blinked and let out an involuntary laugh. Short, startled. Then a little louder.
Iroh chuckled with him, soft at first, then rich and full, like a drum wrapped in velvet.
The fire in the hearth cracked in agreement.
"That's terrible," Alec said, still grinning.
"Terribly true," Iroh replied with mock gravitas. "One time, we had steamed turtle-duck dumplings. Never again."
Alec shook his head, smiling in a way he hadn't in weeks. Not the tired polite smiles he gave customers. A real one. One that reached past the worry and practice and fire.
And for a moment, in that small teahouse tucked between drifting snow and red banners, there was no war, no bending, no hidden system whispering stats in the back of his mind.
Just tea. And warmth. And laughter shared between two men who had seen too much but hadn't let it steal everything.
Outside, the winter wind brushed past.
Inside, the fire kept glowing.
And Iroh raised his cup one last time, to no one in particular.
"To breath," he said. "And to whatever strange winds brought you here."
Alec raised his own in return, soft and steady.
"To not spilling the soup."
As the last curl of steam rose from Iroh's cup, silence returned not heavy this time, but full. Like the quiet between lines of music.
They sat in it, letting the warmth stretch a little longer, before Iroh finally rose with a satisfied sigh. He offered a nod, a smile, and a parting glance that seemed to say more than words ever could.
Alec walked him to the door, and the bell gave its soft farewell jingle as the old man stepped into the snow.
The night pressed close again, but it no longer felt as cold.
Alec moved through the now-empty teahouse like someone walking through memory . Turned the chairs. Blew out the low lanterns. And finally, climbed the creaking stairs to his small room under the sloped roof.
He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes open though they saw no light.
"Redirect it into the ground," he murmured with a grin.
The quiet laugh that followed was soft. Real. The kind that slips out when no one's listening and no mask is needed.
His fan rested by the bedside, still and warm.
And slowly, Alec drifted into sleep.