Hey everyone, I know it's been awhile. I apologize for that. I didn't forget about this story, I still plan on finishing it lol. Just had to brainstorm for the story's direction. Also been working on some others stories too. This story's been on my mind recently so now I'm back to it.
Before we start chapter 4... just want your opinion on something real quick:
Who should Jinora, Ikki, and Asami end up with?
For Ikki, who's the best option?
Shallot
Daikon
Tarro
Giblet
For Jinora, who is the best option?
Giblet
Shallot
Daikon
Tarro
Who should Asami be with?
Mako
Giblet
Shallot
Daikon
Tarro
Should Bolin stay with Opal?
Yes
No
*If your answer is no, who should Bolin be with?
Winter
Scarlett (another time patroller)
Aiko (T.P. who's Scarlett's half sister)
*Who should opal be with if your answer is no to the Bolin poll?
Giblet
Tarro
Shallot
Daikon
Anyways that's it for the polls, be sure to pick an option and maybe explain why the fit works. * denotes an option dependant on your answer to the Bolin poll. Onto the story!
I don't own Legend of Korra, Dragon Ball Xenoverse/ Dragon Ball Legends or any of their characters those belong to their respective creators. I only own the Oc's.
Chapter IV: Voice in the Night
The moon slipped through Korra's bedroom window the way it always did on clear, biting nights over the bay—clean, pale, and entirely indifferent. It cast a sharp silver rectangle across the wooden floorboards, shifting imperceptibly with the hours like a slow, midnight tide.
A sudden gust of wind ruffled the linen curtains.
And in the dream, she heard them before she saw them.
The sound of footsteps—unsettlingly precise, flawlessly synchronized, the kind of movement drilled into muscle memory until it becomes automatic. Then, the window was suddenly open in a way it hadn't been a second before, the curtains billowing violently for an entirely different reason, and her bedroom was abruptly full of masked figures in pitch-black garb moving through the moonlight like living shadows that had no business being made of flesh and bone.
She was on her feet and striking before she was even fully awake.
Fire came first—rushing from her palms as pure instinct before thought, orange, hot, and immediate. But the intruders were already shifting, anticipating the angle, adjusting their footing. Every searing stream of flame she lashed out with found nothing but empty air where a target had been half a second prior. They were terrifyingly fast. Unnaturally patient. They moved like operators who had performed this exact breach a thousand times in their sleep—because they had. Because that was the terrifying reality of Amon's chi-blockers: individuals who had dedicated every waking hour to mastering the art of making a bender feel utterly, hopelessly alone and powerless in their own skin.
The operative who finally breached her defense came from behind.
She didn't see him coming. She only felt it—two hardened fingers driving viciously into the precise nerve cluster at the back of her neck with the cold certainty of a mathematician completing an equation. Instantly, her legs stopped responding, her strength evaporated, and she collapsed hard onto her knees on the freezing floor.
The room went dead, suffocatingly quiet.
Footsteps.
Slow, heavy ones this time. The unhurried pace of someone who possessed all the time in the world.
He emerged from the deep shadows the way the terrifying concept of him always materialized out of the dark—the smooth white porcelain mask first, stark, expressionless, and absolute, framed by a heavy dark hood, projecting the absolute, chilling stillness of a man who had orchestrated every variable so that he never, under any circumstances, needed to rush.
Amon crouched down directly in front of her.
"Once I permanently strip your bending away, Avatar," he murmured, his voice carrying the calm, emotionless cadence of someone stating a universal law that was neither cruel nor kind—simply, inevitably true—"you will be nothing."
His gloved hand lifted.
His thumb reached forward toward her forehead.
She tried desperately to wrench her muscles away.
She couldn't move a single inch.
Korra bolted upright in bed with a violent gasp, her chest heaving. Naga, who had been sleeping soundly with her massive head resting heavily across Korra's legs, startled awake instantly, scrambling upright with a low, anxious whine. For a terrifying, disorienting moment, the bedroom was nothing but pitch blackness, the deafening thunder of her own heartbeat, and the freezing cold sweat plastering the hair to the back of her neck.
Then—the window was just a window. The curtains were just cotton. The moon was just the moon.
She dragged in a massive, ragged breath.
Naga's wet snout found Korra's trembling hand in the dark, pressing against her palm with warm, insistent pressure.
"It's okay, girl," Korra whispered, her voice cracking and coming out significantly smaller than she had intended. She pressed her palm firmly into the polar bear-dog's broad, furry head, soaking in the steady, undeniable grounding weight of an animal who had stood by her since childhood and intended to keep doing so no matter what. "It was just a nightmare."
Just a nightmare.
She lay back down, staring up at the dark ceiling.
She did not fall back asleep for a very long time.
Morning arrived on Air Temple Island the way it always did—heralded by the sound of someone already hard at work.
The sprawling training courtyard caught the early morning light in long, brilliant stripes of gold stretching across the ancient stone slabs. Tohra was moving through the center of the yard entirely alone—no sparring partner, no verbal commentary, just the quiet, mesmerizing rhythm of hand-to-hand combat drills executed with the focused, utter self-sufficiency of a warrior who had trained in solitude since long before he ever had anyone to share the path with.
Korra stood quietly at the edge of the courtyard holding a steaming mug of tea, simply watching him.
He was fundamentally different when training without an opponent. When he worked alongside Winter, his movements possessed the dynamic call-and-response quality of two people speaking a fluent, shared dialect—every combination a complete sentence, every pivot a rhetorical rejoinder. Training alone, he was something entirely different: deeply internal, hyper-precise, every single strike standing complete unto itself rather than serving as the setup for an exchange. He wasn't putting on a performance. He wasn't even strictly "practicing." He was simply... moving. The way a deep river flows. The way natural breathing happens. As if stopping entirely would require exponentially more physical effort than simply continuing.
He really is fascinating, she thought, not for the first time.
She set her mug down and stepped across the stone courtyard.
He stopped.
She hadn't made a sound—she was reasonably confident of that, given her years of stealth training—yet he halted mid-strike anyway, freezing instantly in a balanced stance. He turned his head to look at her, one dark eyebrow arching upward in the precise, inquisitive manner of someone who had already mapped her approach and was calmly waiting to see what she wanted.
"Hey there, big guy," Korra greeted casually, lifting a hand in a loose wave. "Mind if I join you?"
He observed her for a long, silent moment—not with wariness or suspicion, but with the careful, respectful attention of someone who took incoming questions seriously and refused to rush his answer.
"Korra... want to train with me?" He pointed a massive finger directly at his own chest—a gesture she had gradually come to realize wasn't born of confusion, but rather his mental habit of double-checking his own comprehension, making certain the spoken sentence matched the reality of the situation.
"Yeah," she smiled, stepping closer and rolling her shoulders. "Do you mind, Tohra?"
He went quiet for a brief beat, and she instantly recognized the specific, distant quality of that silence—the distinct look he got whenever he was pulling up a memory rather than calculating the present.
She'll never understand you if you don't tell her what you're thinking.
She couldn't possibly have heard the phantom words, but she had grown familiar with their visible aftermath: the slight softening of his rigid posture, the internal decision quietly reached.
"No," he said simply, his voice low and steady. "I don't mind."
"Thanks, big g—" She caught herself mid-word, flushing slightly. "—Tohra."
Something tiny and warm shifted across his features—a quiet, unforced expression of mild amusement—and he smoothly dropped back into his opening stance.
Korra matched him, slipping into hers.
And together, they moved.
Sparring with Tohra was, Korra was rapidly discovering, a uniquely educational brand of humbling.
"So—no Winter today?" she asked, ducking sharply beneath a fluid combination and snapping back with a burst of flame.
He slipped past the heat with the unhurried, effortless grace of someone to whom her blinding speed presented roughly zero obstacle. "Sis said she had other business to attend to. We train later, she said."
How, Korra thought—not for the first time, and certainly not for the last—does someone built like that move with that kind of speed? He wasn't overwhelmingly towering compared to her, but the sheer physical density of him—the heavy, undeniable reality of a warrior who had been hardened by combat since before he could even form independent opinions—defied all laws of physics. Mass was always supposed to cost you speed. Tohra, apparently, had never been informed of this universal rule.
She tried a classic feint—firing high with fire, dropping low with earth, the exact rapid-fire combination she had been successfully landing on skilled opponents since she was fourteen years old.
Before she could even execute the second half of the strike, her leading foot was cleanly swept out from under her with surgical precision.
The stone courtyard rushed up to meet her.
She lay flat on her back for a long second, staring up at the bright blue sky, mentally recalibrating.
Then Tohra's face drifted into her field of vision, hovering above her. A massive hand extended downward, his expression caught somewhere between mild politeness and genuine concern.
"Are you okay, Korra?"
"Yeah!" She sat up instantly, bouncing back with the defiant energy of someone desperately trying to manage her own pride. "Just—you're fast. I keep forgetting."
"I know." He gripped her arm and hauled her upright in a single fluid motion, with the casual, breezy ease of someone lifting a sack of grain. "You are surprised often."
"I'll get used to it," she muttered, brushing off her trousers and quickly shifting her tactical approach. Don't fight the way you normally fight. He already knows every rhythm you have. She cracked her knuckles. "Okay. Let's go again."
Tohra tilted his head slightly, studying her. "Korra should learn to fight better in close quarters. I can teach you."
"Yeah?" She raised an eyebrow, a grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "You'd really do that?"
"Of course." He shifted smoothly back into his ready stance. "Korra is my friend." He paused briefly, working through his next sentence with the slow, deliberate care of someone who wanted to ensure his words carried their exact intended weight. "I help Korra. That is what friends do."
The words came out slightly halting, carefully constructed piece by piece—and yet they landed with an emotional sincerity far more absolute than if they had rolled off his tongue with practiced fluency. She looked at him for a quiet moment, this towering, soft-spoken warrior who had been a fixture in her life for only three weeks, yet had somehow woven himself into the fabric of her days in a way she never could have anticipated.
Just behind the low stone wall at the edge of the courtyard, Jinora and Ikki were crouched down, watching the scene unfold with the intensely focused concentration of two people who firmly believed they were performing master-level, undetectable espionage.
"He really likes her," Jinora whispered, her tone carrying the analytical certainty of someone who had been reading human dynamics for years and trusted her instincts.
Ikki nodded vigorously, her eyes wide with excitement. "They're totally adorable."
The two airbender girls immediately scrambled backward and scurried toward the safety of the kitchens—long before Tohra's preternatural hearing could betray them. Of course, his sensitive ears had actually picked up their whispering forty seconds ago, but Tohra had quietly decided that some things were simply much better left unacknowledged.
Breakfast in the Tenzin household possessed a pleasant, practiced warmth—the quiet, comfortable rhythm of a family that broke bread together entirely on purpose.
Tohra sat quietly near the end of the long wooden table, observing the morning chaos the way he watched things he genuinely valued: without commentary, without interjecting himself, simply present and deeply attentive. Tenzin's children buzzed around each other with the easy, frictionless familiarity of people who had shared the same table their entire lives. Pema passed platters of food with the unhurried authority of a woman who ran her household on her own absolute terms. Tenzin valiantly attempted to eat his morning bowl with dignified composure while Meelo deployed a stray dumpling as an improvised ballistic projectile, and Ikki fired off seventeen rapid-fire questions before anyone had even finished their first cup of tea.
Tohra watched all of this, feeling deep within the quiet center of himself a complex sensation that wasn't quite homesickness, yet wasn't quite its opposite either.
This is what families look like when they are safe, he thought softly. When nobody is being forced to stand ready for a war.
Across the table, Korra looked up and caught his eye. She offered a quick, unguarded smile—not the bright, performed grin she sometimes flashed when she was acutely aware of being watched, but something genuine.
He smiled quietly back.
And then, beneath the cozy warmth of the moment, that feeling stirred again—the strange, ominous current she had sensed from him since the very first day, humming low and constant beneath his calm gentleness like the deep, heavy thrum of something massive moving far beneath a dark ocean surface. She still couldn't name it. She couldn't trace its boundaries or define its shape. But it was undeniably there, vast and ancient, standing in stark contrast to the gentle, polite man currently accepting a second steamed dumpling from Pema with a courteous nod.
How can both of those things possibly be true at the same time? she wondered, a flicker of unease crossing her mind. How can something that dark live inside someone so fundamentally kind?
She filed the thought away.
Again.
She was becoming frustratingly good at filing it away.
That evening, the nightmare returned.
It always returned.
She woke up once more with Naga's wet nose pressed gently into her palm, cold sweat plastering the hair to the back of her neck, and the phantom pressure of Amon's thumb reaching threateningly toward her forehead. This time, she didn't bother trying to force her eyes shut or pretend she was going to drift back to sleep. She simply lay in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, letting the quiet misery of it sit with her.
When morning broke, Tohra was already out in the training courtyard.
She could tell he had been there for quite a while—the steady, even cadence of his breathing, the profound, rhythmic focus of his movements indicating he had long since passed the mechanical warm-up phase and was deep into that internal state of training where physical form gave way to pure, disciplined meditation. Instead of walking straight up to him as she usually did, she quietly crossed the stone yard and sat down on the edge of the steps, simply watching.
After a few quiet minutes, he stopped. He turned his head and looked directly at her, recognizing her presence the way he always did, without needing to glance around.
"Korra is afraid," he stated simply.
She opened her mouth, an instinctive denial already forming on her tongue.
"It is okay," he said gently, cutting off the protest before she could speak. "To be afraid."
He walked over and sat down on the stone steps right beside her—all of him, the massive, overwhelming physical reality of a warrior, folding down onto the step with the deliberate, careful gentleness of something immensely powerful that had learned to tread lightly.
"Fear is like an opponent," he continued, his low voice calm and steady. "You cannot beat it by running away. You must face it." He tapped his chest lightly with two fingers. "Here."
"How?" she asked.
The word slipped out stripped of all the stubborn armor and practiced performance she usually wrapped around her vulnerability. It was just a raw question, flat and honest.
He went quiet for a moment, adopting that familiar, thoughtful stillness whenever he was carefully building a sentence that truly mattered.
"The same way you train," he said. "Little by little. Step by step." He shifted his posture slightly to face her. "First step: stop thinking about winning. Think only about learning."
"And what happens when thinking about learning stops working?"
He weighed the question honestly, giving it the genuine, unhurried consideration he afforded to everything. "Then you remember why you fight. Not for yourself." He turned his gaze outward, looking across the bay toward the glowing, sprawling skyline of Republic City. "For others. Because..." He paused, searching for the exact phrasing. "Because that is when you are strongest. When you forget about yourself."
She studied his profile in the pale morning light—the clean, dark lines of his face, the profound stillness of a person who had spent a lifetime contemplating power, loss, and duty, arriving at a quiet wisdom she was only just beginning to grasp.
"What does Avatar Korra fight for?" he asked quietly.
She didn't have an immediate answer.
She wasn't entirely certain she knew yet.
But the question lingered—following her through the grueling morning sparring sessions, echoing through the long hours of afternoon meditation, and resting heavily upon her during the quiet stillness of the evening on Air Temple Island. It drifted through her mind like a heavy stone dropped into a still pond, the ripples of its impact spreading outward long after it hit the water.
What do I fight for?
The following morning brought Tarrlok.
He arrived completely uninvited and with impeccable timing, operating with the effortless confidence of a man who had long since mastered the art of showing up at the exact moment when his presence was the most difficult to politely refuse.
Tenzin's face performed a rapid, impressive sequence of complex emotional contractions upon seeing the councilman ascending the dock path with the practiced, elegant stride of someone who considered himself a welcome guest virtually anywhere he went. Tenzin ultimately settled on a carefully controlled mask of profound displeasure and held it firmly in place.
"Councilman."
"Tenzin." Tarrlok's smile possessed the manufactured quality of something engineered to very close tolerances. "I do hope I'm not intruding. I happened to be in the neighborhood." His eyes swept over the assembled breakfast table—the family, the food, Korra, and Tohra—with the appreciative gaze of a man cataloguing available resources. "And I must say, I'm famished. Surely Air Nomad hospitality wouldn't turn away an unexpected guest?"
Tenzin's expression was that of a man who had officially lost an argument before he even had a chance to open his mouth.
Pema turned slowly from the kitchen doorway, fixing her husband with the specific, evaluating look of a woman who was genuinely curious whether he intended to handle this social hostage situation himself or if she needed to go inside and add another place setting.
Tenzin gave a slight, helpless shrug—the universal surrender of a man bound by strict traditional hospitality principles and equipped with precisely zero leverage in the current social ecosystem.
The extra place setting was added.
Ikki materialized instantly beside the councilman with the relentless investigative energy of a small, hyperactive scientist presented with a completely novel specimen. "Why do you have three separate ponytails? And why do you smell like a fancy lady? You're kind of weird."
Tarrlok absorbed the blunt critique with the pained, icy dignity of a politician who had been called far worse things in his career and had officially decided to consider all of them beneath his notice.
"Well, aren't you just... precocious."
His sharp eyes shifted away from Ikki, sliding over to the large, dark-skinned teenager sitting quietly beside Korra. There was a sudden, subtle flicker in Tarrlok's expression—the lightning-fast mental recalculation of a man forced to adjust a complex set of plans he had walked into the room with.
"Forgive me—who is this young man, Avatar?"
Korra's expression instantly brightened with the warm, proud satisfaction of someone introducing a person they deeply valued. "This is Tohra. He saved me and some of my friends from Amon's chi-blockers. He's remarkably strong."
Tarrlok stared at Tohra.
Tohra stared calmly back at Tarrlok.
The councilman's practiced smile remained firmly fixed. Tohra's dark gaze remained profoundly patient. The silence between them lasted only a brief beat, yet that brief vacuum spoke volumes.
"Remarkable," Tarrlok murmured smoothly. "I've been reading quite a bit about your recent exploits in the papers, Avatar. Infiltrating Amon's private rally—that took genuine initiative. Republic City is profoundly lucky to have you."
"Thanks." Korra rubbed the back of her neck, caught somewhere between genuine pleased validation and deep-seated wariness. "Honestly, I think you might be the first city official who's actually glad I'm here."
Tohra's brow furrowed very slightly—the distinct crease of someone running an internal, intuitive calculation that had nothing to do with numbers or politics.
"Enough with the hollow flattery, Tarrlok," Tenzin interjected, setting down his teacup with a sharp clink. "State your business. What do you actually want?"
"Patience, Tenzin." Tarrlok reached casually for the water jug, helping himself with the arrogant ease of a man claiming territory in a space he had unilaterally decided belonged to him. "I am getting to it." He pivoted back to Korra, adopting the persuasive expression of a man unveiling what he considered an unmissable, career-defining offer.
"I am officially assembling a specialized task force," Tarrlok announced, leaning forward slightly. "A dedicated unit designed to strike directly at the heart of the Equalist terror. I need someone strong. Someone utterly fearless. Someone whose mere presence on the front lines will send an unshakeable message to every terrified citizen in this metropolis." He paused for dramatic effect, timing it like a rehearsed speech. "That person is you, Avatar Korra."
The table went completely still.
Tarrlok's expression radiated the confident expectation of a man who assumed his offer would be instantly accepted.
Tenzin's expression radiated the quiet dread of a man who also expected that exact answer, but fervently wished for a different one.
Korra slowly set down her teacup.
"I can't," she said flatly. "I'm sorry."
Both men stared at her.
The sudden silence carried an entirely different texture than the one preceding it.
"I must admit," Tarrlok said, recovering with his characteristic, oily smoothness, "I expected rather more enthusiasm from you, Avatar. I thought you would leap at the historic chance to lead the charge."
"So did I," Tenzin murmured, and he genuinely meant it, his tone carrying real, protective concern rather than judgment.
Korra drew in a deep, measured breath. "I came here specifically to finish my Avatar training. Right now, that has to be my absolute priority." She glanced sideways, her eyes softening as they rested briefly on Tohra beside her. "Training with Tohra has made it painfully clear just how much more I still need to learn before I'm ready for something as massive as what you're describing."
Tarrlok's sharp gaze darted back to Tohra, assessing the towering warrior with the precise, calculating eyes of a strategist who had just discovered a major, unaccounted-for variable on the board. "Is this young man truly so formidable that even the Avatar herself feels she has more to learn?"
"If you honestly can't see how strong Tohra is," Korra said, a sudden, quiet sharpness cutting through her voice that genuinely surprised even her, "then you seriously need to get your eyes checked."
Tenzin decisively pushed his teacup aside, the ceramic meeting the wood with a sharp, final sound. "Korra has given you her definitive answer, Councilman. I believe it is time for you to leave."
Tarrlok rose smoothly from the table with the graceful, unbothered acceptance of a man who knew precisely when to cut his political losses for the day without ever truly conceding defeat. "Of course. But this is certainly not the end of our conversation, Avatar." His smile stayed locked precisely where he had placed it upon arrival. "You will be hearing from me again very soon."
"BYE BYE, PONYTAIL MAN!" Ikki called out cheerfully, vigorously waving both hands in farewell.
Tarrlok descended the stone dock path with his political dignity largely intact—which was roughly the absolute best-case scenario available to him given the hostile room.
Tenzin watched his retreating figure disappear down the path, remaining silent for a long moment.
Then, quietly, he asked: "Korra. What is really stopping you?"
She didn't answer him.
Instead, her hand drifted down to grip her teacup, and the slight, involuntary tremor in her fingers had absolutely nothing to do with the physical weight of the ceramic.
The gifts started arriving the very next morning.
A sleek, luxury Satomobile appeared unceremoniously on the dock, gleaming in the morning sun with the distinct, impractical arrogance of items gifted to people who lived on an island without roads. It was promptly sent back. Two days later, an enormous, overly elaborate gift basket was delivered, containing a bizarre assortment of items that strongly suggested Tarrlok had consulted someone regarding Water Tribe customs and received wildly inaccurate information. That went back, too. Then came exclusive restaurant vouchers, a hand-delivered personal note printed on crisp council letterhead, and a set of formal accessories that were, by all objective metrics, exceptionally fine.
Every single piece of it was returned.
Tenzin finally tracked her down on the upper meditation pavilion at sunset, finding her sitting with her knees pulled up to her chest, watching the glittering expanse of Republic City across the bay with an expression she hadn't let anyone else witness yet.
He sat down quietly beside her without any preamble.
"My father once told me," Tenzin said, adopting the measured, deliberate tone he reserved for things of profound importance, "that being the Avatar does not mean you are expected to carry the world's burdens entirely alone." He turned his gaze to her profile, silhouetted in the dying orange light. "I want you to know that I am here for you, Korra. Whatever you are going through. Whatever it is that you are secretly afraid of... you can talk to me."
She kept her eyes locked steadily on the distant horizon.
"I know, Tenzin," she murmured softly. "I just... I need time."
He gave a slow, understanding nod.
He didn't push her.
That was the enduring quality about Tenzin that she occasionally forgot—especially on the days when he was relentlessly pushing her to master airbending: he always knew precisely when to pull back and simply be there.
Two mornings later, she returned to the training courtyard.
Tohra was already there, occupying the space as he always did in the early morning stillness, and they dropped straight into their usual sparring drills—though she noticed almost immediately after the third exchange that he was moving differently. Slower. Far more deliberate. He was intentionally pacing and setting up each combination in a way that granted her a fraction of breathing room she wouldn't normally have been given.
After her tenth blocked or deflected strike, she dropped her hands and stopped entirely.
"Why are you going easy on me?" she demanded, a note of frustration in her voice.
He paused, tilting his head with that characteristic, considering air.
"Korra is afraid," he stated simply.
"I'm not—"
He raised a single, massive hand. Not dismissively—it was the quiet gesture of a man asking for the simple space to finish a thought. "It is okay," he said softly. "To be afraid." A brief, measured pause. "But hiding your fear... that is weakness. Fear itself is not weakness." He fixed his dark eyes directly on hers, a directness he used rarely enough that she had long since learned to take it completely seriously. "You must face it. Not for the sake of the fear itself. But for what lives on the other side of it."
"How?" she asked. Just that single word.
"The exact same way you train," he answered. "Little by little. Step by step." He shifted his weight, easing back into his ready stance. "First step: stop thinking about winning. Think only about learning."
"And what do you do when thinking about learning is the hardest part?"
He paused, thinking carefully through the weight of her question with absolute sincerity. "Then..." He hesitated, choosing his words with care. "-you remember why you fight. When I fight—" a brief, shadowed pause as old memories flickered behind his eyes, "—I do not think about myself. I think about others. What I am protecting. Why it matters." He looked intently at her. "What does Avatar Korra protect?"
She didn't answer right away.
He didn't press her for a reply.
The question was offered as a gift, never a demand. He delivered it quietly, setting it down between them in the cool morning air, leaving it entirely up to her to pick up in her own time.
They resumed their sparring in the golden morning light, and it felt fundamentally different from the days before—not easier, not softer, but somehow profoundly more honest. It was less about wrestling with what she was terrified of, and much more about what she was training toward.
That night, she dreamed differently.
It wasn't Amon. Or at least, it wasn't only Amon.
She found herself standing in a vast, echoing space lit from beneath by an eerie, shifting green luminescence. At the absolute center of it stood Tohra—but not the calm, steady sparring partner of the morning courtyard. The Tohra of her dream was engulfed by something monstrous, something massive and volatile that swirled around him like a raging storm around a mountain peak. And the expression etched across his face was one she had never seen on him before.
It was sheer, unadulterated terror.
Not terror of external enemies.
Terror of himself.
She watched the brilliant green energy surge and fracture around him—vast, dark, and alive with the primal fury of a force of nature. And echoing through her mind, clear and distinct without any spoken words, she heard the frantic internal monologue running beneath the surface of everything he was:
Too much. Too much power. Must hold it back. Must stay gentle. Must not let it out. Could hurt everyone. Could destroy everything. Must keep control.
In that heavy, suffocating moment, she understood with the piercing, uninvited clarity of Avatar perception what she had been sensing beneath his quiet exterior since the very first day. It wasn't malice or cruelty. It was sheer weight—the staggering, bone-deep burden of a power he had carried for so long that managing it had become entirely inseparable from his very identity.
And suddenly, she understood the profound parallel between them that she hadn't yet been able to articulate. He lived in constant dread of what his power might do to the people around him. She lived in constant dread of what dangerous enemies might do to her. Both of them were standing precariously at the edge of something terrifyingly vast, desperately trying to figure out how to remain the people they actually wanted to be when their inherent power made that identity infinitely complicated.
In the dream, she desperately wanted to reach out and steady him.
She thought she actually tried.
Then the green light fractured, blindingly bright.
She jolted awake.
The morning of the gala invitation had arrived.
It was delivered on heavy, cream-colored stationery embossed with a striking gold seal, carrying the unavoidable formal gravity of an event engineered to be virtually impossible to decline. Korra stood rigidly by her bedroom window, holding the heavy paper in both hands, while Naga nudged her elbow with the gentle, persistent curiosity of an animal who didn't understand the words on the paper but instantly recognized they were causing her distress.
She didn't waste time hesitating. She went straight to find Tohra.
He was exactly where he always was at that hour.
She walked out onto the stone courtyard, sat quietly on the low steps, and held the invitation out toward him without a single word of preamble.
He took the thick paper in his massive fingers and read through it—slowly, thoroughly, applying the same meticulous care he gave to everything in his life.
"Tarrlok is hosting a grand gala," she explained, her voice tight. "Purportedly in my honor. But I can't send this one back like the others. It's far too public." She turned her gaze outward, staring across the glittering expanse of the bay toward the city. "I know exactly what this is—just another transparent attempt to put me on display and bully me into joining his task force." She paused, swallowing hard. "And if I refuse to go, it'll look like the Avatar is hiding."
"Why must you go?" he asked simply, lowering the paper.
"Because I'm the Avatar. Because people have expectations of me." She pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on her arms. "What would you do?"
He went quiet—not with the hesitation of someone searching for polite words, but with the profound stillness of someone genuinely thinking through a moral choice.
"Sometimes," he finally said, his deep voice steady, "you must face the crowd in order to face yourself." He turned his dark eyes toward the city skyline. "People want the Avatar. But the Avatar is Korra first."
"What if they see that I'm terrified?"
"Maybe they will," he answered without missing a beat. He never cushioned reality to make it more comfortable; he spoke plainly to make it honest. "That is okay. If you go as Korra—if you are entirely honest—maybe you will surprise yourself."
She looked down at her own hands, wringing them slightly.
"Will you come with me?" she asked quietly, the question slipping out before she could overthink it. "Not as a bodyguard or anything. Just... as a friend."
He fell silent for a beat that stretched just a fraction longer than usual.
"I will come," he rumbled softly. "I will watch Korra be strong in her own way."
The heavy, suffocating knot of tension in her shoulders instantly unspooled, easing the way tension always does when someone gives you the exact answer you desperately needed to hear, even if they didn't know you were waiting for it.
"You know," she said, a faint, genuine smile breaking through her worry as a wave of deep gratitude washed over her, "for a guy who doesn't use many words, you give remarkably good advice."
The corner of his mouth twitched upward into the barest hint of a grin.
"I learn from my sister," he replied. "She tells me: 'Tohra, sometimes the fewest words carry the deepest meaning.'"
Korra let out a real, honest laugh—short, sharp, and thoroughly surprised—before standing up and offering him her hand.
"One more thing," she said as he took her hand and pulled her effortlessly to her feet. "Do you think you can help me practice some formal, high-society movement drills? I have a strong feeling I'll need to dodge a lot more than just chi-blockers at this party."
Tohra let out a low, rumbling laugh—a rare sound that made it feel all the more significant when it occurred. They smoothly transitioned back into their training stances on the ancient stone, and for a long while, the morning practice took on a dual purpose: acting simultaneously as rigorous preparation and its own quiet reward.
City Hall wore its gala lighting with the specific, self-satisfied glow of a building that knew it was currently the center of attention.
Korra mounted the grand stone steps in her formal Water Tribe attire and discovered, to her genuine surprise, that she felt significantly steadier than she had anticipated. Tenzin's family flanked her—Pema warm and composed, Jinora observing everything with quiet intelligence, Ikki already cataloguing the most interesting details, and Meelo restlessly scanning the room for things he shouldn't touch. Right beside her stood Tohra, dressed in formal wear that bore Winter's unmistakable fingerprints: dark, impeccably tailored, and making him look like a monument to a formal occasion that had somehow been convinced to stand still for a photograph.
She stole a sideways glance at him.
He's actually been practicing.
"You look nervous," he observed. The words came out clearly—far more smoothly than when they had first met, the direct product of deliberate, dedicated effort over the past several days. She had noticed the steady improvement, that particular kind of acute noticing that happens entirely involuntarily.
"Yeah," she admitted softly. "Remember what we practiced?"
"Face it step by step," he recited, his voice steady. "Just like training."
The quiet warmth that washed through her chest at hearing his clear, carefully assembled voice felt entirely new. It was different from the simple warmth of gratitude or the comfortable warmth of friendship, though it sat in close proximity to both. She didn't try to give it a label. She simply mentally filed it away next to all the other things she was piling up, telling herself there would be plenty of time to unpack it later.
"I'm glad you came with me," she said as they drew near the massive entrance doors.
"What kind of friend would I be," he replied, carrying the distinct satisfaction of a complex sentence successfully executed, "if I let you face Tarrlok's political schemes all by yourself?"
She had to work remarkably hard to suppress a wide grin.
Whatever lies inside, she thought, I can handle it.
Inside turned out to be Winter, which instantly elevated Korra's overall assessment of the entire evening.
"Well, look at that. My brother actually cleaned up nicely," Winter remarked, stepping forward to adjust Tohra's collar with the practiced, effortless authority of someone who had been performing that exact sibling duty for a lifetime. "Though I can only imagine how much convincing it took."
"Your doing," Tohra confirmed.
"Obviously." Winter turned her sharp eyes to Korra. "You look wonderful."
"So do you," Korra answered honestly. Winter in formal evening wear was a striking, formidable phenomenon—the silver dress seemed to flow like liquid moonlight, designed for a woman who was also a walking weapon, while a delicate ruby necklace caught the chandelier light with every subtle movement. Nearby, Mako stood stiffly, having apparently resolved the awkward social dilemma of where to look by staring intently at a point slightly to the left of everyone while trying very hard to look like he wasn't staring at anything at all.
Asami rounded out the circle, radiating the welcoming warmth of someone who had decided, somewhere between meeting Winter and the present moment, that she liked her immensely and intended to remain in her orbit.
"Avatar Korra," a smooth, cultured voice greeted from behind her. "I've been looking forward to meeting you properly."
She pivoted.
Hiroshi Sato was a man who had built an industrial empire and wore that undeniable fact the way all self-made titans do—comfortably, without ever needing to aggressively announce it. He extended his hand with the practiced ease of someone who had shaken thousands of important hands and genuinely considered this one worth his time.
"Sir," Korra said, shaking it firmly.
Hiroshi's gaze drifted over to Tohra. "And this must be the young man I've been hearing so much about—the one who helped protect my sponsored Pro-Bending team."
Tohra gave a fractional, precise bow—the kind that denoted genuine, unforced respect rather than performative politeness. "I only did what was necessary, sir."
Hiroshi studied him for a long, calculating beat with the sharp, evaluating eyes of a man who spent his life assessing true value. Whatever internal calculus he ran, it evidently concluded heavily in Tohra's favor.
"Chief Bei Fong," another voice cut in smoothly.
Lin Beifong arrived the way she always did: as if the entire room had always belonged to her and she had simply chosen to grace a particular corner of it with her presence. Her gaze swept over the group with the professional precision of a veteran law enforcement officer who mapped rooms instinctively. Her eyes landed on Tohra and held there with a heavy, evaluating weight.
"Your people inform me that the intervention at the Equalist rally was quite a spectacle," Lin stated coolly.
"I helped my friends," Tohra replied evenly. "That is all."
"Hmm." Lin's expression remained entirely unreadable in that frustrating way highly competent people managed so well. "Just make sure that particular level of intervention stays strictly on the right side of the law."
"My brother knows perfectly well how to control his strength," Winter interjected, her voice carrying the quiet, defensive edge of a sibling protecting something non-negotiable.
Lin glanced at Winter for a second. "Indeed." Then, dropping her voice slightly: "Speaking of control—Councilman Tarrlok is heading this way. Good luck, Avatar."
She swept away with the unhurried, efficient stride of a woman who had delivered her intel and had zero interest in sticking around for the social fallout.
Tarrlok arrived right on cue.
He was impeccably dressed, perfectly timed, and radiating the smooth, practiced warmth of a man who had spent a lifelong career being precisely whatever he needed to be in any given room. His eyes shifted from Korra to Tohra, performing that exact mental recalculation Tohra had learned to recognize as Tarrlok's hallmark: the rapid re-mapping of a political strategy around an unexpected variable.
"Avatar Korra," Tarrlok beamed. "I am so delighted you decided to attend. And you—" He extended a hand toward Tohra. "Your recent actions have become quite the hot topic at council meetings."
Tohra firmly shook his hand. And said absolutely nothing. He let the ensuing silence do the heavy lifting.
"A young man of your extraordinary abilities," Tarrlok continued, seamlessly addressing the small circle as if he were holding court, "could do a tremendous amount of public good with the proper institutional platform. The task force could certainly benefit from—"
"I was under the impression the council didn't recruit unaffiliated civilians," Winter murmured. Her tone was mild, precise, and dropped precisely into the conversation to disrupt Tarrlok's momentum without ever appearing rude.
Tarrlok's smile absorbed the hit without flinching. "Exceptional individuals occasionally demand exceptional measures. In this case, I firmly believe both the Avatar and her companion would be—"
"I believe," Hiroshi Sato interrupted smoothly, stepping forward, "that heavy business matters can comfortably wait for another evening." He offered his arm to Asami with the practiced authority of a man accustomed to redirecting rooms. "If you'll excuse us, I believe my daughter promised me the first dance."
Asami offered the group a brief, knowing glance as she took her father's arm—the look of someone who had thoroughly read the social board and orchestrated a well-timed exit.
Mako turned his attention toward Winter. Something in his posture carried the hesitant weight of a question he had finally decided to just ask instead of overthinking an excuse.
"Would you care to dance?"
Winter studied him for a quiet moment.
Then, she looped her hand through his arm with the composed grace of someone who had weighed her options and decided not to second-guess herself tonight.
Out on the grand dance floor—which possessed the vast, brightly lit cavernous quality typical of City Hall galas, crowded with people who spent most of their time watching other people watch them—Winter and Mako moved through the opening steps of a formal waltz. To her quiet surprise, she found that he was significantly better at this than his rough-around-the-edges demeanor suggested.
She glanced across the floor and caught Asami's eye.
A silent, wordless communication passed between them—the shared understanding of two independent women who understood each other instantly without needing explicit explanations. Asami's expression carried nothing but warm, quiet encouragement.
Winter felt a lingering, stubborn knot of tension in her chest finally dissolve.
"Is everything all right?" Mako asked softly. He had noticed. She was steadily discovering that Mako noticed far more than he ever let on, a surprisingly sharp trait for a street-wise bender.
"Yes," she answered honestly. "Just keeping an eye on my brother."
Mako glanced over his shoulder. Tohra and Korra had drifted toward the edge of the floor, awkwardly attempting a dance that was technically a dance in the exact same way a sudden gale is technically a gentle breeze—earnest, slightly chaotic, and undeniably earnest. Tohra wore the deeply furrowed brow of a warrior applying hyper-focused combat concentration to a completely foreign physical problem.
"He's trying really hard," Mako observed with a faint smile.
"He always tries hard," Winter replied, a fond, protective warmth softening her voice. "He's just rarely entirely sure what he's trying at."
"Korra has that specific effect on people," Mako murmured. "She tends to drag people into things they aren't sure they're ready for."
"She does." Winter looked up at him. "You do too, you know. People tend to try things when you're around."
The faint, genuine flush that crept up his neck was deeply satisfying in a way she deliberately chose not to analyze.
A minute later, the song shifted, and she smoothly stepped back.
"Thank you for the dance," she said, dipping her head slightly in the formal gesture she reserved for things she genuinely meant.
He blinked, looking mildly caught off guard. "Oh, you're—"
She tilted her head toward the edge of the floor, where Asami had just finished a brief conversation with a dignitary and was drifting their way with the unhurried grace of a woman who always went precisely where she wanted to be.
Mako followed her line of sight.
Winter gave him the lightest, most encouraging nudge in the right direction, caught Asami's eye with a quiet, knowing smile as they passed each other, and smoothly stepped off the floor.
She had barely found a quiet spot against a marble pillar when a dry voice murmured right beside her ear.
"Quite the little diplomat, aren't you?"
Winter turned to find Lin Beifong standing there, arms crossed, staring out at the room from seemingly out of nowhere.
Winter kept her expression meticulously neutral. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean, Chief Beifong."
"Hmm." Lin's eyes flicked across the ballroom—taking in Mako and Asami, Korra and Tohra, and the intricate social chess match Tarrlok was currently playing. "I'll just say this—it's refreshing to know there are people looking out for the Avatar who aren't on a government payroll."
Before Winter could formulate a witty reply, Lin pushed off the pillar and melted back into the crowd.
Winter watched her vanish, filing the interaction away for later consideration.
She was still mulling it over when she caught sight of the cousins approaching.
Across the crowded ballroom—drifting past three distinct clusters of Republic City's formally dressed elite, past an elaborate canapé table, and past a minor council member loudly debating himself—two familiar figures stood chatting amiably with Bolin. Bolin was gesturing wildly, fully immersed in telling a combat story with the unbridled enthusiasm of someone recounting an exploit he found genuinely awe-inspiring.
Winter went completely still.
Then, she marched straight across the room.
Jinjer had always worn mischief the way other people wore fine accessories—as a subtle accent that complemented everything else without ever overwhelming it. Dressed in formal wear with her short dark hair styled into a sleek cut that worked far better than it had any right to, she looked precisely like a woman who had dressed for the occasion while quietly deciding whether she actually intended to enjoy it or manipulate it. Her dark eyes found Winter's across the remaining distance with the instant, unquestioning recognition of family members who had been actively searching for each other without ever needing to broadcast it.
Eleryc, standing right beside her, possessed the profound stillness that only came from a lifetime of rigorous martial training. It wasn't passivity; it was the calculated economy of a body that had learned never to expend a single muscle movement unless it carried a distinct purpose. His eyes swept across the room in the exact same pattern Winter used—a shared tactical habit that had always made them natural allies.
"—and seriously, you should see the way Tohra handles chi-blockers!" Bolin was passionately declaring, completely caught up in his own narrative. "It's insane—the guy doesn't even flinch—" He cut himself off mid-sentence as he registered Winter approaching. "Oh! Hey! Do you guys happen to know them? They just told me they were new in town and—"
"They're family," Winter stated flatly.
Bolin's eyes bulged in surprise. "Wait, seriously? That is incredible! Now that you mention it, you can totally see the resemblance around the—" He caught the gentle, meaningful look Jinjer gave him and wisely aborted his sentence. "Right, yeah! Family reunion moment. I should probably go check on Mako." He pointed two finger-guns at Eleryc. "But I am definitely holding you to that conversation about combat techniques later!"
He vanished smoothly in the direction of the dance floor.
Winter lowered her voice to a register that carried only about three feet as she confronted her cousins.
"What on earth are you two doing here?"
"What, a couple of people can't enjoy a high-society gala?" Jinjer's tone was breezy, light in the specific, guarded way that meant it was entirely anything but light. Her dark eyes drifted past Winter to briefly land on Tohra and Korra on the opposite side of the floor. "We felt the energy shifting in this city long before the official reports reached the outer provinces. Something massive is building right here, cousin. And it isn't just political unrest."
"Tohra's energy output at the rally," Eleryc added quietly, his voice low and surgically precise. "We registered the spike clear across the bay before the morning papers even hit the stands."
"How did you two even get past security?" Winter demanded.
Jinjer offered a smile that was the very definition of charmingly evasive. "We have our methods."
"Of course you do." Winter let out a long, weary sigh. "And I take it nobody else knows you're currently standing in City Hall?"
"No."
"Are you planning on staying?"
The cousins exchanged a single, lightning-fast glance—the complete, wordless communication of people who had survived combat together for so long that verbal language was an unnecessary luxury.
"We think it would be unwise not to," Eleryc answered.
Across the room, Tohra had already noticed their presence. Winter could read the subtle shift in his attention, the nearly imperceptible adjustment of his posture. He was gracefully wrapping up his awkward dance with Korra, executing it with the hyper-focused determination of a warrior completing a task correctly before moving on to the next objective—which was entirely on-brand.
"All right," Winter muttered, keeping a sharp eye on Tarrlok's current position near the council tables—he was occupied for the moment, but drifting. "For the next few hours, try to act like approximately normal Republic City citizens. We will talk properly once this is over."
"Normal citizens," Eleryc repeated, a microscopic trace of dry amusement touching his lips. "In a metropolis where ordinary people throw gouts of fire and manipulate stone with their bare hands?"
"You know what I mean."
"We know," Jinjer said softly, the playful lightness completely draining from her voice. What remained was something infinitely older, heavier, and more honest. "We're here because of what's coming, Winter. And it goes far beyond Amon." Her gaze flicked back toward Tohra. "There are dark currents waking up in this city. The Avatar is going to need people around her who actually understand what real power looks like."
Winter didn't offer a reply.
She didn't need to.
Because she had been wrestling with that exact terrifying realization ever since the night of the rally—ever since she watched Amon stand atop that stage and declare with chilling, fanatical conviction that the spirits themselves had chosen him.
Something catastrophic was coming.
And right across the ballroom, at the exact micro-second Tarrlok concluded his conversation with the council members, Tohra and Korra stepped off the dance floor.
Tarrlok moved.
Tarrlok intersected them before they could take three steps away from the floor.
He moved with the practiced grace of a seasoned politician, closing the distance with a smile that was carefully calibrated to look warm while remaining entirely professional. His eyes swept over Korra first, acknowledging her presence with the deference due the Avatar, before shifting smoothly to Tohra.
"Avatar Korra," Tarrlok said, his voice carrying just enough volume to project authority without dominating the space around them. "And young Tohra. I was hoping we might have a proper moment to speak away from the commotion."
Korra's posture subtly shifted, the easy, relaxed openness she had carried off the dance floor tightening into something guarded. "Councilman. We were just heading over to see some friends."
"Of course, of course," Tarrlok conceded smoothly, waving a dismissive hand as if minor social engagements were trivial compared to the grand matters he dealt with daily. "I won't keep you long. But the council met earlier this evening, and the consensus regarding the Equalist threat grows more urgent by the hour. We are finalizing the operational details of the task force tomorrow morning."
He looked directly at Tohra now, his gaze sharp and calculating.
"I am officially extending an invitation to you as well," Tarrlok continued, the velvet tone masking the iron behind it. "A man of your unique capabilities should not remain on the sidelines while Republic City faces its greatest trial. Think of what we could accomplish together—restoring order, protecting the innocent."
Tohra met the councilman's gaze with absolute, unblinking stillness. He didn't shift his weight, and he didn't offer the easy politeness he had shown Hiroshi Sato. The silence stretched between them for a long, heavy beat—the kind of quiet that made nearby dignitaries subtly adjust their focus elsewhere.
"I protect what is in front of me," Tohra said quietly. His voice was low, carrying no anger, only a flat, absolute certainty. "I do not belong to a council."
Tarrlok's smile flickered for a fraction of a second—just long enough for anyone watching closely to notice the friction—before he smoothly recovered.
"A noble sentiment," the councilman replied, though his eyes hardened slightly. "Independence is a virtue, young man. But in times of crisis, independent elements often find themselves standing alone against a tide they cannot stop."
He let the implication hang in the air for a moment, sharp and deliberate, before turning back to Korra with a warm, grandfatherly reassurance.
"I will leave you to your evening, Avatar. But the offer remains open. Both of you."
With a polite inclination of his head, Tarrlok turned away, gliding effortlessly through the crowd toward a cluster of foreign delegates, leaving behind a wake of carefully cultivated influence.
Korra exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping an inch as the immediate pressure receded. She looked up at Tohra, her expression a mix of frustration and quiet solidarity.
"He doesn't give up, does he?"
"He wants control," Tohra answered, watching the councilman's retreating back. "Control is easy to seek. Hard to keep."
Across the room, near the marble pillar, Winter stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her newly arrived cousins, watching the exchange conclude with eyes that missed nothing.
The gala continued around them with all its bright lights and empty laughter, but the air in the room had shifted. The pieces were moving into place, and the quiet space they had found for themselves was rapidly shrinking.
He was exceptionally skilled at arriving at a position with casual precision—the effortless drift of a man who invariably ended up precisely where he had calculated he needed to be, his polite smile already securely in place.
"What a lovely evening," Tarrlok purred, sliding seamlessly into their small circle. His eyes swept from face to face with the smooth, high-speed efficiency of a man running a mental diagnostic on a room. They finally landed, with deliberate weight, on Korra. "And I am so extraordinarily pleased you could attend, Avatar. I do hope you've been enjoying the festivities."
"It's been fine," Korra replied, adopting the flat, carefully guarded neutrality of someone who had resolved not to hand her opponents a single inch of ground.
"I couldn't help noticing," Tarrlok continued, his tone carrying the practiced warmth of an observational aside rather than a heavy-handed argument, "that both you and your... companion here have managed to draw quite a considerable amount of attention tonight." His eyes flicked back toward Tohra. "The citizens of Republic City are inherently fascinated by the Avatar, of course. And by those who orbit her." He paused, letting his gaze anchor on Tohra. "You have made quite an impression, young man. The council would very much like to discuss how we might formalize the contributions you have already been making to the safety of our streets."
Tohra remained entirely silent.
The quiet he maintained was heavy, sharp, and had distinctly visible edges.
"And Korra," Tarrlok smoothly pivoted, zeroing back in with surgical precision, "when you consider everything you've already accomplished—infiltrating the rally, your success with the Fire Ferrets, and the ever-growing Equalist threat—I genuinely believe the people of this city are ready to see their Avatar step forward into leadership. Don't you?"
Korra felt the rigid architectural framework of the moment being constructed around her in real-time. It was the classic Tarrlok method: building a narrative piece by carefully manipulated piece until the only logical, socially acceptable course of action left to you was the exact path he had mapped out in advance.
"Actually," Tohra said.
Tarrlok froze.
The physical room around them hadn't shifted an inch, but the atmospheric quality of its attention instantly altered—that strange, sudden stillness that occurs when someone who rarely speaks chooses to say something unexpected.
"If Korra joins your task force," Tohra stated, his voice carrying the calm, deliberate weight of a man who had thoroughly weighed every consequence, "then I am joining as well."
Tarrlok's smile adjusted, tightening just a fraction at the edges. "While your civilian assistance has certainly been appreciated, the task force requires a very specific—"
"Then neither of us is joining," Korra interrupted, her voice ringing clear and steady. She stepped forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Tohra, a movement so natural and absolute it needed no theatrical announcement to carry its full impact. "Those are my terms, Councilman. We both join, or neither of us does."
The pack of reporters who had been circling the periphery of the room all evening converged at that exact micro-second, flashing cameras raised with the predatory instinct of political correspondents who instantly recognized the unmistakable scent of breaking news.
Tarrlok absorbed the sudden twist. Processed it in a heartbeat. And, true to form, instantly incorporated it into his broader tactical calculus—treating a public corner not as a defeat, but simply as a new set of variables to exploit.
"Of course," he said, his public-facing smile locking back into place with terrifying perfection. "The task force would be deeply honored to welcome you both."
The cameras flashed.
Winter, watching from across the room, stood very still.
Beside her, Eleryc said nothing for a moment.
Then: "He agreed too quickly."
"I know," Winter said.
"He wanted this outcome."
"I know."
"Then the question is-"
"Why," Winter said. "The question is why."
She looked at Tarrlok, smiling for the cameras with the Avatar on one side of him and the city's newest tactical asset on the other, and she felt, in the specific deep register of intuition trained sharp by years of learning to read things that didn't want to be read, the shape of a shape that she couldn't quite see yet.
Still water, Tohra had said. Hiding deep currents.
She looked at her cousins.
"Stay in the city," she said.
Jinjer nodded.
Eleryc nodded.
The cameras flashed again.
Republic City glittered below the gala's high windows, electric and ongoing, indifferent to what had just been decided inside.
And somewhere in it, in the dark between the lights, something was already adjusting its plans.
END OF CHAPTER IV
Next time: Chapter V - Voice in the Night, Part II