Deaglan woke before dawn. For several seconds, he did not recognize the ceiling above him. The room was his own, with its carved dark wood and old Fire Nation patterns painfully familiar, but the throbbing at the back of his skull made the world tilt whenever he tried to move. “Young Master.” His family aide stood beside the bed, pale and rigid. Deaglan forced his eyes fully open. “Riven.” The aide said nothing. Deaglan’s expression sharpened instantly. “Where is he?” “We haven’t found him.” Silence fell so heavily that even the distant sound of the sea seemed to fade. Deaglan forced himself to sit up despite the pain. “What do you mean you haven’t found him?” “We searched the guest wing, gardens, shore path, and outer courtyard. His Air Nomad robes remain in the bathroom, but the clothes prepared for him are missing. There were no signs of forced entry in his room.” Deaglan’s hand tightened around the sheet. “And Pippo?” “In the garden,” the aide replied. “He won’t allow anyone close to the shelter. He hasn't slept since you were discovered.” Deaglan closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the window, the silhouette, the smile, and the pain at the back of his skull. “What else?” he asked. The aide hesitated as Deaglan looked at him. “The private cabinet in your study was opened during the blackout.” The room grew colder. “What was taken?” “Your council seal,” the aide said quietly. “And the access papers for Fire Nation City Hall.” For a long moment, Deaglan did not move. Outside, beyond the windows, dawn began to stain the edge of the sea. “The meeting,” the aide said. Deaglan’s face emptied of everything soft. “No,” he said. “The meeting was never the target.” He threw the blanket aside and stood, unsteady yet furious. “It’s the stage.” The aide lowered his gaze. “Should we inform Fire Nation security?” “No.” The answer came too quickly. Deaglan looked toward the window, where the first light of morning touched Ember Island like a warning. “If we tell them an Air Nomad guest vanished from my residence hours before the Council of Reconciliation, the meeting will collapse before it even begins. The Broken Cycle will exploit that panic before we understand what they’ve already taken.” His voice dropped. “Search quietly. Use only those loyal to this house. No official channels. No rumors.” “And if the Council asks about your guest?” Deaglan looked toward the door. For the first time, the silence felt like a choice. “Tell them nothing.” Deaglan departed before anyone else had a chance to speak. His attention was drawn to Pippo, after which he scanned the shoreline. The path down from the estate was narrow and slick with morning mist. Black volcanic stones lined the beach's edge, slick beneath the pale light of dawn. Every step sent a dull ache through the back of his skull, but he kept moving. The tide had already begun to pull away. He searched the sand first. Nothing. No footprints that had not already been softened by seawater. No torn cloth. No sign of a struggle. No trace of Riven. Only shells, seagrass, and the quiet drag of waves against stone. Deaglan remained standing for a while, gazing at the Mo Ce Sea as if waiting for the water to provide an answer. When nothing happened, he turned to leave, but then something caught the morning sunlight between two dark rocks. Small. Glass. Half-buried in wet sand. Deaglan crouched carefully and picked it up. It was a small bottle, sealed with a dark stopper. Inside, a strange blue water glowed faintly, far too bright to be ordinary seawater. It moved slowly against the glass, luminous and clear, as if it carried moonlight beneath its surface. Deaglan narrowed his eyes. Spirit water or something similar. He glanced back at the cliffs and then to the estate above, noting no one was in pursuit. After a brief pause, he tucked the bottle into the inner fold of his robe—a new secret, added to the silence. When he went back to the garden, Pippo was already waiting in the center of the lawn. The air bison had wandered away from its shelter. Nearby, untouched fresh fruit was visible. Hay was scattered along the stone pathway, but it had not been eaten. His whole body was tense, with his large paws dug into the moist ground and his ears pressed flat against his head. The moment he saw Deaglan, he roared. Servants recoiled. Several dropped what they were carrying. One of them nearly stumbled backward into the fountain. Deaglan raised a hand, though the movement sent pain burning through the back of his skull. “Easy,” he said quietly. Pippo’s rumble deepened. “I know,” Deaglan continued, stepping closer. “You want to tell me something.” The air bison lowered his enormous head, breathing hard, his eyes fixed on Deaglan with an urgency that seemed almost human. Deaglan stopped just within reach. “I don’t understand you the way he does,” he said. “But I’m listening.” Pippo huffed, restless and wounded, then turned toward the open lawn as if ready to launch. “Young Master, you shouldn’t—” Deaglan ignored them. His vision blurred for half a second as he mounted the saddle. Pain flared hot behind his eyes, but he forced it down. There was no time to be careful. No time to wait for permission. For a brief moment, he recalled Riven’s voice from the previous day. Not harsh, but softer. He listens more attentively when you don’t speak to him like a machine. Deaglan tightened his grip on the saddle strap. “Pippo. Yip yip.” Pippo lifted his head at once. The servants shouted in alarm as the air bison launched upward, the wind tearing through the garden and sending lanterns swinging violently into the trees. Within seconds, Ember Island fell away beneath them. Deaglan began his search along the coastline, inspecting the cliffs, the private shore, and the dark rocks near the tide pools. He then explored the old roads behind the estate, including the abandoned summer houses, fishing docks, and the narrow paths carved between volcanic stone and sea grass. Pippo flew close enough for Deaglan to notice movement beneath the trees, then rose higher to survey the island from above. With each turn, the pain at the back of his head intensified. At one point, his vision blurred at the edges, forcing him to lean against Pippo’s fur until everything settled. But he did not stop. “Find him,” Deaglan whispered. Pippo rumbled beneath him, heading back to the cliffs. Two hours went by, followed by another quiet stretch of shoreline. There was no Riven, no signs of a fight, no signal, and no indication of an Air Nomad who should have been impossible to conceal. By the time they returned to the estate, the morning sun had risen higher over the sea. Deaglan dismounted too quickly and nearly lost his balance. A servant gasped. His aide stepped forward at once, but Deaglan raised a hand before anyone could touch him. For a moment, he stood there with one hand braced against Pippo’s saddle, breathing through the pain at the back of his skull. His eyes were still on the sky, still searching and hoping for something impossible to appear between the clouds. But nothing did. “Young Master,” his aide said carefully. Deaglan blinked, as if forcing himself back into the body standing in front of the estate. “The meeting,” he said. The aide straightened immediately. “Has the helicopter been prepared?” A brief hesitation. That was answer enough. Deaglan turned to him. “What happened?” The aide’s expression told him the answer before he even spoke. “The helicopter encountered mechanical issues before departure,” the aide said. “They are still working to send another one.” Deaglan’s jaw tightened. “For how long?” “They don’t know.” A long silence passed. Behind him, Pippo growled low in his chest, restless and still looking toward the sky as if the answer had moved beyond the island. Deaglan looked out at the distant sea, feeling worried and uncertain. Riven was missing, and his council seal was gone. The stolen access papers for Fire Nation City Hall deepened his concerns. Meanwhile, a glowing blue bottle of water was hidden inside his robe, suggesting something mysterious and significant. Whoever had done this had not left him without options. They had left him with too many options.

Roxanne used the first few seconds to silently look at Riven. It was not a silence demanding answers but one measuring damage, learned after weeks of walking through collapsed neighborhoods, crowded shelters, and exhausted families unable to explain their losses. Riven looked like someone carrying something far heavier than grief itself. “You asked for Advisor Zecharias,” she said in a quiet voice. Riven said nothing. “That wasn't a guess. You came here for him.” His eyes briefly met the police chief, a detail Roxanne observed, as did the chief. “I can't help you,” she said carefully, “if you give me nothing.” For a moment, she thought he would stay silent. Then he spoke. “I didn't come here for help.” “No,” Roxanne replied. “You came here to see the ruins, didn’t you?” His gaze shifted. That was enough. Roxanne turned away from him and faced the police chief. “This detainee is no longer a standard trespassing matter.” The chief's expression remained unchanged. “On what grounds?” “Emergency reconstruction authority.” One of the officers near the door glanced uncertainly between them. Roxanne adjusted the folder under her arm and straightened. “The Presidential District remains under crisis-level reconstruction oversight. Any unauthorized entry involving an Air Nomad, the Presidential Palace ruins, or an individual seeking direct contact with National Crisis Affairs must be escalated beyond local patrol authority.” The chief crossed his arms and said, "You're making a significant assumption." “No,” Roxanne said evenly. “I'm following protocol.” She continued before he could interrupt. “He entered a protected reconstruction zone and specifically requested Advisor Zecharias. While he did not cooperate with the patrol officers by sharing information, he did not resist detention, threaten personnel, or try to escape.” Her gaze remained steady. “That makes this a reconstruction security concern, a political security concern, and potentially a matter for National Crisis Affairs.” The room grew quiet as the chief gazed at Roxanne intently. “If I release him and he disappears, the responsibility will fall on me.” “I’m not asking you to release him,” Roxanne replied evenly. “I’m requesting a supervised transfer.” “To Advisor Zecharias?” “Yes.” Silence settled over the room. The chief’s gaze shifted between Roxanne and Riven, and then he exhaled. “Very well.” One of the officers straightened at once. “Prepare the transfer record. Two escorts. No detours.” The officer hurried to comply. Roxanne watched the paperwork only long enough to ensure one detail was included. Possible relevance to Presidential District reconstruction security and to National Crisis Affairs. The chief signed first, and Roxanne signed second. When the document was handed back, the chief folded his hands behind his back once more. “You are taking responsibility for this transfer.” “For the transfer,” Roxanne corrected. “Not for whatever he’s hiding.” The chief’s eyes stayed on Riven, which unsettled him more than anger. A few minutes later, Roxanne opened the door herself, and morning light flooded into the security post. Outside, Republic City was rebuilt as workers crossed cracked streets with supplies, and relief crews moved between shelters. The damaged skyline loomed behind scaffolding and cranes. Beyond the eastern barricades, Pippo let out a low rumble. Riven looked instinctively toward the eastern supply road. “Pippo?” “He stays outside the perimeter for now,” Roxanne said. “I’ll make sure he’s watched over by people who know better than to treat him like cargo.” That seemed to matter more to him than anything else. He nodded once. As they walked, the two officers followed at a distance. Roxanne kept her eyes ahead. “You were right to ask for Deaglan.” Riven glanced at her. “Because whatever this is,” she continued quietly, “it’s already bigger than a trespassing charge.” After that, neither of them spoke. The walk to the temporary National Crisis Affairs office was quieter than Riven had anticipated. They crossed fencing, reconstruction crews, and checkpoints to reach the reinforced government buildings from the ruins of the Presidential District. The two officers assigned to the transfer followed several steps behind, giving Roxanne enough space to lead without making it feel like an interrogation. She finally broke the silence. “Have you seen Ongja?” Riven's steps faltered for the briefest moment. Just enough for her to notice. “He used to disappear to the Air Temples whenever things grew too loud,” she continued, looking ahead rather than at him. “Meditation. Silence. Distance.” Her voice softened slightly. “I thought maybe that's where he went this time.” Riven kept walking. The lie slipped out before he could stop it. “No.” Roxanne finally looked at him. “No?” “He isn't there.” A slight crease gently appeared between her brows as she took a moment to look at him with curiosity. “You know, that’s strange.” Riven forced himself to keep walking. “You didn't ask which temple.” For the first time since leaving the security post, uncertainty crossed his face. Roxanne noticed. “I didn't,” she said quietly. Riven looked away toward the damaged skyline. “He's not at the Northern Air Temple.” The answer came too quickly and too specifically. Roxanne's confusion deepened. “The Northern Air Temple?” Riven's jaw tightened. Many believed Ongja continued to follow Senior Master Cyandra's habits, thinking he would retreat to the Western Air Temple whenever he sought some quiet time. Riven corrected himself before the silence could grow any heavier. “That's where he usually meditated.” Roxanne waited. “Senior Master Cyandra still prefers the Western Air Temple,” he explained softly, his tone more cautious now. “People assume Avatar Ongja does the same.” “But he doesn't?” Riven shook his head. “Not anymore.” The explanation was believable, which made it dangerous. Roxanne nodded slowly, but something about the exchange lingered. Not the answer, but how he gave it—as if the Northern Air Temple were more than a place and saying its name hurt him. The first lie had been spoken. And somehow, it already felt heavier than the truth. Because it was where the lie was born. Ahead of them, the temporary National Crisis Affairs office came into view. National Crisis Affairs had relocated to a temporary coordination office overlooking the damaged palace grounds. Even from the outside, the building felt busy. Riven kept his eyes fixed on the building as they went in. Officials moved constantly through the temporary National Crisis Affairs office, carrying reports, maps, and reconstruction plans from room to room. Couriers hurried down the corridors with urgent messages tucked under their arms. Every available wall had been covered with district assessments, supply routes, casualty estimates, and schedules for ongoing repairs. The entire building seemed as though it had forgotten how to rest. At the far end of the main coordination room, a familiar figure stood beside a large table buried under stacks of documents. Dark circles shadowed Deaglan's eyes. His suit jacket hung open, sleeves rolled slightly past his wrists. One hand rested against the table's edge while the other held a report he had clearly read too often. He looked less like a government advisor and more like a man trying to hold a world together that refused to stop breaking apart. The door opened. Deaglan looked up, first to Roxanne, then Riven, and stopped. For the first time that morning, the room fell completely silent. Riven had rehearsed this moment throughout the entire flight to Republic City. He had imagined the questions, prepared the answers, and chosen his words carefully. Now, standing face-to-face with the man he had come to find, he realized none of them were enough. Slowly, Deaglan set the report on the table. “You asked for me by name.” Riven swallowed. “Yes.” Deaglan studied him for another moment. His eyes lingered on the exhaustion on Riven's face, the tension in his shoulders, and the hesitation he was trying—and failing—to hide. Then his expression hardened. “Where is Avatar Ongja?”

Riven did not turn toward the footsteps. He did not return to the Northern Air Temple. The message from High Elder Jinora stayed with him as he descended the mountain path. Her voice had been calm, but beneath it, Riven could not ignore something. Concern, perhaps. Or a warning. The United Republic Government had begun asking questions. Deaglan wanted confirmation of his whereabouts during the final days of Avatar Ongja’s disappearance. The Guardians were searching as well. Brian was searching. Riven stopped walking. For a moment, the mountain wind moved around him in silence. He reached into his robe and pulled out the small messenger charm High Elder Jinora had given him. It was old Air Nomad craftsmanship, simple in appearance yet far more complicated than it looked. Even Jinora herself had admitted there were parts of it she did not fully understand. It was supposed to carry messages through air currents. At least, that was the theory. Riven turned it over in his hand. “To Air Nomads,” Jinora had once told him. “At least, as far as we know.” As far as we know. That was not reassuring. Riven stared at the charm for a long time. Then, against his better judgment, he pressed two fingers to its surface and let a thin current of air pass through it. Nothing happened. “Of course.” He frowned. He tried again. This time, the charm gently warmed under his fingertips. A faint pale blue glow shimmered along the carved lines on its surface, subtle but unmistakable. Riven went still. The wind around him shifted unnaturally. The air seemed to listen. His eyes narrowed. He did not know whether the charm could reach someone outside the Air Nation. He did not know whether it could carry a message to Republic City. He did not know whether Deaglan would hear anything at all. But the charm was awake. That alone was enough to make him uneasy. He considered speaking into it just once. A simple message, perhaps. A warning. A request for a private audience. Something that would reach Deaglan before official channels swallowed the truth. But the words would not come. How could he explain something he barely understood himself? How could he speak of Ongja without saying too much? How could he send even a piece of the truth into the air and trust it would reach the right person? “No,” Riven’s grip tightened around the charm. If Deaglan needed answers, Riven would give them himself, not through an uncertain relic, not through a message that could be lost, intercepted, or misunderstood. He slipped the charm back into his robe, then looked toward the horizon. Republic City was still wounded, still under repair, and still full of people who hated Ongja, feared him, mourned him, or searched for him. Riven had avoided that city for a month. He could not avoid it anymore. The path down from Laghima’s Peak led toward a wide stone landing where his air bison waited beneath the shadow of the cliffs. The creature lifted its head as Riven approached, giving a low, gentle rumble. Riven rested a hand against its fur. “I know,” he murmured. His air bison, Pippo, blinked slowly. Riven looked back once toward the mountain peak. Somewhere above, Aislie and Yeye were still there, surrounded by prayer banners and by questions they did not yet know how to ask. Aislie had seen something during the disaster. A Fire Nation woman. A stranger moving through rescue teams and evacuation routes. Someone who disappeared whenever anyone tried to name her. Riven did not know what it meant, but he thought it was connected. Somehow, everything was connected now. Ongja’s final days. President Alaric’s death. The Broken Cycle. The rumors. The missing records. The people still searching for a dead Avatar. Riven mounted the saddle. Pippo shifted beneath him, readying itself for flight. For a moment, Riven hesitated. Brian was perhaps in Republic City. Deaglan was likely there too, buried in government work and grief. If Riven went there, he would not be able to hide forever. Someone would ask what he knew. Someone would ask where he had been. Someone would say Ongja’s name, and Riven would have to decide whether to lie again. The wind brushed his face. He closed his eyes. The last dawn returned to him. Ongja’s smile and his fading breath. The terrible peace that followed. Riven opened his eyes. “Pippo. Yip yip.” The air bison leaped from the landing and soared into the sky. Laghima’s Peak fell behind them, slowly swallowed by clouds. Ahead, the road to Republic City stretched across a fractured world still pretending it could heal without knowing the truth. Riven did not know whether he was going there to confess, to investigate, or to disappear again. He only knew one thing: The truth about Avatar Ongja had waited long enough.