A Young Princess's Guide to Usurping The Throne | Chapter 8 (Patreon)

History. During Tanya's time in this world, she neglected one important thing: to read and understand its history. Many questions lingered in her mind. From her basic understanding, this world resembled ancient China, but with significant differences.

So, with that thinking in mind, she entered her uncle's Royal Study. She already had a general idea that Iroh invested more in history than any other of the royal family.

You don't become wise just from experiences alone.

The greatest of men and women cataloged their successes but also wrote down their downfalls, leaving behind words for their future offspring to learn from.

She allowed the silence to claim her, with only the soft crackle of lamp oil, and the occasional whisper of wind slipping through the high windows. Shelves of lacquered wood lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each one packed with scrolls, ledgers, histories, treatises, and records so old that some of the ink had faded into brown ghosts of words. The room smelled of paper, cedar, and smoke from the braziers that kept the chill away.

Tanya sat at the long central table with a pile of scrolls arranged around her in a careful semicircle. Her posture was straight, her expression intent, and her eyes moved with sharp focus. A brush rested near her right hand, ready to mark notes in the margins of the parchment before her. She had been there for hours.

Most children her age would have found the work unbearable. Most nobles, too, if they were honest. The histories of the Fire Sages, they were a group of religious men who held more authority within the Fire Nation than she first thought. Their studies basically were summed up to guarding a template that would be best used as a checkpoint for merchants or any incoming ships. Even with that thought, she truly had no issue with them. They weren't fanatics and generally held themselves in a more tamed nature. Weddings, funerals, and recording history.

The old records of the Sun Tribes, surprisingly enough, caught her interest more than anything else; the fragmented accounts of the first benders portrayed them as a group who truly understood the essence of firebending, with their close relationship with dragons.

The Sun Tribes were mentioned in older records as people who had lived harmonizing with the world before the nations hardened into borders and armies. Some texts treated them as mythic ancestors, others as a real people whose customs had been absorbed, distorted, or erased over time. Their connection to fire, to the sun, and to the first forms of bending was described in reverent language in one source and dismissed as superstition in another.

She turned another page and frowned.

The Avatar.

It appeared in the oldest records with a kind of reverence that made Tanya’s skin itch. The Avatar was described as the bridge between worlds, the one who could speak for balance, the one who was meant to preserve harmony among the nations. The language was always grand, always absolute, always certain in a way that made her distrust it immediately.

She read one passage twice, then a third time, her expression flattening with each line.

A single person, chosen by the world, destined to maintain balance for everyone.

A Messiah.

Tanya leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

Then she let out a short, humorless laugh.

“That is absurd,” she said to the empty room.

She looked back down at the page, eyes narrowing.

The world expected one person, one mortal, one body, one mind, to somehow carry the burden of peace across nations, cultures, generations, and conflicts that had been building for centuries? To correct every injustice, soothe every grievance, and somehow remain impartial while everyone else projected their hopes, fears, and demands onto them?

'How foolish.'

It reeked of a religion, no more closely related to a cult.

A very effective one, perhaps. A useful one. A belief system designed to make people accept a convenient symbol instead of demanding real systems, real institutions, and real accountability.

Tanya’s mouth twisted in distaste.

“Brainwashed,” she muttered. “Most of the world, probably.”

She made another note, this one sharper than the last.

If she ever met the Avatar, she'd tread carefully. Such a figure could prove influential even within her own nation. She wouldn't buy into dramatic entrances, or whatever mystical nonsense the people had decided to attach to the title. If the Avatar turned out to be a threat, then the Avatar would be treated like any other threat.

Preferably buried six feet under.

Or, if circumstances allowed, introduced to artillery.

A soft chuckle interrupted her thoughts.

Tanya’s head snapped up.

Standing in the doorway of the Royal Study was her uncle, Iroh, his hands folded behind his back and his expression warm with amusement. He wore his usual robes, though today they seemed a little less formal. His beard framed a face that always seemed to carry both kindness and sorrow, and his eyes, as ever, missed nothing.

“Azula,” he said gently. “I had hoped I might find you here.”

She blinked once, then rose from her seat with proper decorum. “Uncle.”

Iroh stepped into the room and glanced at the spread of books and scrolls across the table. His brows lifted slightly as he took in the titles.

“Studying the origins of bending?” he asked. “That is a rather ambitious subject.”

Tanya’s cheeks warmed almost immediately, though she tried not to show it. Praise from Iroh always had that effect on her, which was irritating in its own way. She disliked being made aware of her own embarrassment.

“I wanted to understand how it came to be,” she said, gesturing toward the books. “The histories are inconsistent. The sources contradict one another. And the more I read, the more it seems that much of what people believe is built on tradition rather than fact.”

Iroh’s smile deepened. He moved closer, resting one hand lightly on the edge of the table as he looked over her notes.

“That is a rare thing in the young,” he said. “Most are content to accept what they are told. Few are willing to ask why.”

Tanya looked down, suddenly aware of the heat in her face. “I tend not to believe everything I am told, while there are different accounts for how things work and how things went.”

“A wise way of thinking,” Iroh said, and there was no mockery in his voice, no patronizing amusement. Only sincerity. “And I am proud to have such a wise and thoughtful niece.”

Tanya’s blush deepened despite her best efforts. She turned her gaze back to the books as if they had suddenly become the most fascinating objects in the world.

“That is… kind of you to say.”

“It is also true,” Iroh replied.

For a moment, the room settled again into quiet. The lamps flickered. Somewhere far away, a servant’s footsteps echoed briefly through the corridor and then faded.

Iroh’s eyes drifted to the open text on the Avatar. “I see you have reached the more controversial sections.”

Tanya gave a small, dry snort. “Controversial is one word for it.”

“And what is your opinion?”

She hesitated only a moment before answering. “That the whole thing is nonsense.”

Iroh raised an eyebrow, though his expression remained more curious than offended.

Tanya folded her hands behind her back and began to pace slowly beside the table, gathering her thoughts as she spoke. “The idea that one person can be responsible for maintaining balance across the entire world is ridiculous. It places an impossible burden on a single individual and lets everyone else pretend that their own actions do not matter. If peace depends on one chosen figure, then what incentive do the rest of the world’s leaders have to govern responsibly?”

Iroh listened without interruption.

Tanya continued, her voice growing more animated as she found her footing. “It also creates a convenient excuse. If things go wrong, people can say the Avatar failed. If things go right, they can claim the Avatar blessed them. Either way, the system itself is never held accountable. It becomes a story people tell themselves so they do not have to confront the actual causes of war, poverty, corruption, or fear.”

She stopped pacing and looked directly at him. “That is not balance. That is abdication.”

Iroh’s expression softened with something like admiration. “You speak with great conviction.”

“I have thought about it,” Tanya said. “A great deal.”

“I can see that.”

She glanced back at the open scroll. “It feels like a religion. Or at least a belief structure built to keep people obedient. The Avatar becomes a symbol, and symbols are easier to worship than systems are to fix.”

Iroh was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was calm, but there was a weight beneath it.

“You are not entirely wrong.”

Tanya looked at him sharply.

He folded his hands behind his back and turned toward one of the tall windows, gazing out at the palace gardens beyond. The late afternoon light painted the leaves gold, and the distant sound of water from a fountain drifted faintly into the room.

“The world does place too much hope in one person,” Iroh said. “And too much blame, as well. The Avatar is expected to be wise beyond measure, just, compassionate, powerful, and unshaken by the failings of others. It is a burden no mortal should carry alone.”

Tanya studied him carefully. “Then why does everyone keep pretending it is reasonable?”

Iroh gave a small, tired smile. “Because people are frightened. Fear makes them cling to stories that promise order. It is easier to believe in a chosen guardian than to accept that peace must be built, maintained, and defended by ordinary people every day.”

Tanya crossed her arms. “Exactly.”

Iroh turned back to her. “And yet, even if the stories are imperfect, they are not always meaningless.”

She waited.

He continued, “Sometimes a symbol can inspire people to act better than they otherwise would. Sometimes a legend can remind a nation of what it has forgotten. The danger lies not in the symbol itself, but in the refusal to see beyond it.”

Tanya considered that. She did not like the answer, but she could not dismiss it either. Iroh had a way of speaking that made simple things complicated and complicated things clearer.

Still, one question had been bothering her for some time, and now that he was here, she intended to ask it.

“Then why are we at war?” she said.

Iroh’s eyes shifted to her, and the warmth in them dimmed slightly.

Tanya did not look away. “I understand the argument for expansion,” she said carefully. “I understand the value of trade, infrastructure, and sharing advancements. The Fire Nation has knowledge, industry, and organization that could improve lives if used properly. But war?” She shook her head. “The casualties alone are staggering. Every soldier lost is one less worker, one less teacher, one less historian, one less craftsman, one less person who could have contributed to a stable and prosperous society.”

Her voice sharpened with frustration. “We are destroying our own future in the name of progress.”

Iroh closed his eyes briefly, as if the words had struck somewhere deep.

When he opened them again, there was no anger there. Only weariness.

“That is a question I have asked myself many times,” he admitted.

Tanya’s expression softened a fraction. She had expected evasion, or a polished answer, or perhaps one of the usual speeches about duty and destiny. Instead, Iroh sounded like a man speaking from a wound that had never fully healed.

He moved to one of the chairs and sat down slowly, the motion deliberate. For a moment he looked older than he had a minute before.

“I do not fight because I desire honor,” he said. “Nor because I seek merit. I do not even wish for the throne.”

Tanya remained silent, listening.

Iroh rested one hand on the arm of the chair and stared at the floor as he spoke. “For a long time, I told myself I was doing what was expected of me. That I was serving my nation. That I was fulfilling my role. But after a while…” He paused, and when he continued, his voice was quieter. “After a while, my mind kept returning to the same thought. That this is the one thing I am good at. So I kept doing it.”

Tanya frowned. “That is not a good reason.”

A faint, rueful smile touched his mouth. “No. It is not.”

She stepped closer, her tone firm but not unkind. “Being good at something does not mean it is the right thing for you to do. People accept what is familiar because it feels safe, not because it is best. They stay in roles, habits, and systems that harm them simply because they have grown used to them.”

Iroh looked up at her, and something in his expression shifted.

Tanya continued, “If someone is only ever praised for one thing, they may begin to believe that is all they are worth. But that is not truth. It is conditioning. There are always other paths, even if they are harder to see.”

She folded her arms. “A person can be competent at a destructive thing and still be miserable doing it. Or worse, they can become so accustomed to it that they stop questioning whether it should be done at all.”

Iroh was silent for a long moment.

Then, very softly, he said, “You speak as though you have seen this before.”

Tanya’s gaze flickered away for the briefest instant.

“History paints a very realistic image,” she said.

The answer was not a lie, though it was not the whole truth either. Tanya had lived long enough, in one life or another, to know how easily people became trapped by expectation. She had seen institutions reward obedience and punish thought. She had seen capable people waste themselves in roles they hated because they had been told there was no other way. She had seen entire nations march toward disaster while insisting they were being practical.

The pattern was always the same.

And it was always stupid.

Iroh studied her for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “You are right, of course.”

Tanya blinked. She had not expected agreement so readily.

He smiled faintly at her surprise. “It is good that I speak of these things with you. Too often, people mistake silence for strength. They believe that if they do not voice their doubts, then their doubts will not exist. But unspoken questions have a way of growing heavier.”

Tanya looked down at the table, at the books and notes and half-finished theories. “Then why does no one else ask them?”

“Some do,” Iroh said. “But not enough. And many are afraid of the answers.”

She let out a quiet breath. “That seems like a poor way to run a nation.”

“It is,” Iroh agreed.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The study remained wrapped in its hush, but the silence between them was no longer empty. It felt thoughtful, almost companionable. Tanya returned to the table and rested one hand on the edge of the open scroll about the Avatar, though she did not look at it.

Iroh watched her with a mixture of affection and concern.

He had always worried about her, though he was careful never to make that worry feel like a cage. Tanya knew that. She was not blind to the way his gaze lingered on her when he thought she was not looking, or the way his voice softened whenever she spoke with unusual intensity. He saw too much, perhaps. Or perhaps he simply understood too well what it meant to carry fire in the blood and thought in the mind.

He worried because she was sharp.

He worried because she was curious.

He worried because she was not content to accept the world as it was presented to her.

And he worried because those qualities, in the wrong hands, could become dangerous.

But as he looked at her now, standing in the Royal Study with ink on her fingers and conviction in her voice, he could not help but feel a reluctant pride.

His brother could not change the fire in her.

No one could.

Not the court, not the generals, not even the weight of the throne waiting somewhere in the future. Azula's will was too strong, too deliberate, too hungry for understanding. She wanted to know how the world worked, why it worked that way, and whether it could be improved. That desire would keep her grounded, if she allowed it to. It would also make her formidable.

Iroh had no doubt of that.