I felt it before it happened.
A shift—not in chi, not in spirit—but in presence. The dragon egg had always been warm, always faintly aware, but that morning its rhythm changed. No longer dormant. No longer waiting.
Becoming.
I dismissed everyone.
This was not a moment for witnesses.
The chamber beneath Ba Sing Se was sealed, layered with earth, metal, and spiritual wards of my own design. I sat cross-legged before the egg, hands resting loosely on my knees, breathing slow and steady.
The shell cracked.
Once.
Twice.
Then split cleanly down the center.
Fire did not explode outward.
It unfolded.
A small head emerged first, crowned with ridged horns still soft and faintly translucent. Scales followed—deep crimson, almost metallic, catching the light like polished embers. Smoke curled gently from its nostrils as it drew its first breath.
A dragon.
Not ancient.
Not yet powerful.
But unmistakably pure.
It looked at me.
And did not fear.
I smiled.
"Fang," I said quietly.
The name settled immediately, as if it had always been waiting for it.
The bond formed without ritual.
Without force.
The moment my hand brushed its scales, I felt the connection—fire recognizing fire, spirit aligning with spirit. Fang chirped softly, a low, resonant sound that vibrated through my chest.
Hunger followed quickly.
I fed it carefully—nutrient-rich meat, water warmed by controlled fire, and something else besides.
My flames.
They had changed.
Not suddenly—but inevitably.
What once burned blue had deepened further, collapsing inward on itself until light vanished entirely. My fire no longer flickered or roared.
It consumed silence.
Jet-black flames flowed from my palm, compact and controlled, radiating heat so intense the air itself distorted. They did not spread. They did not waver.
They endured.
Fang leaned instinctively toward them, absorbing the heat without harm, scales glowing faintly as the energy settled into its core. The fire did not burn it.
It nourished it.
These flames were no longer mere combustion.
They were will made manifest.
Inextinguishable.
Relentless.
Refining rather than destroying.
They reduced matter to nothing—not ash, but absence. Even other fire recoiled from them, overwhelmed and erased.
I extinguished them with a thought.
The chamber remained intact.
Because I allowed it to.
Fang curled beside me afterward, warm and steady, tail flicking lazily as it slept. I rested a hand against its side, feeling the slow, powerful heartbeat within.
This dragon would not be a relic.
It would not be hunted.
It would not be hidden.
It would grow alongside a world already bending under change.
Somewhere far away, in the Spirit World, ancient eyes opened.
Something new had entered the cycle.
Not an Avatar.
Not a weapon.
But a legacy.
And when the world finally caught up to me—when the Avatar returned and history resumed its march—it would do so beneath black fire and crimson wings.
Not in chaos.
But in design.