And yet, beneath the celebrations, beneath the lanterns strung between rooftops and the laughter drifting from taverns, the old shadows still breathed.

On the palace rooftop, a figure moved like ink across stone. Silent. Precise. Every step placed with the kind of discipline that came from years of being someone else's weapon.

The assassin's hand drifted to the blade at her hip. Then paused.

Something was wrong.

The guards on the eastern parapet had changed their patrol pattern. Not the usual rotation. A deliberate shift. Like they were expecting someone.

The figure's eyes narrowed beneath the hood A trap. Or a coincidence. Either way, the window of opportunity was closing.

Below, the Fire Lord stopped at his desk. He poured himself a cup of tea. He didn't look up.

But the assassin could have sworn—just for a moment—that he knew.