This was the second time he was being born, even if he wasn't exactly awake for the first one. The first time was in a world with no elemental control or spirits, a place where his body never really felt like his own. He was a sick kid, weak from day one, with lungs that never took a painless breath and a heart that beat like every pump was its last. He learned to measure time not by the sun, but by the pill count in a bottle; he knew the faces of doctors better than the kids at school; he lived with the quiet certainty that his life would be short and full of nothing but pain. And that’s exactly how it went down. He died without any drama, no heroism. Just one random morning at fifteen, he simply stopped breathing. No one blamed him; no one was gonna remember him for long. Just another child the world left behind—no family to give a damn, no friends since he didn't last long in school, nobody around to acknowledge he existed as anything more than a patient.
When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he felt was power. His body was small, sure, but it wasn't fragile. His breathing was steady, painless; his muscles moved before he even thought about it; his blood burned with some energy he didn't recognize. The second thing he noticed was that he wasn't alone: a woman with a proud look and a fighter's build held him in her arms, like she’d been waiting for him her whole life. That was his first rebirth. His first gift. And, pretty soon, his first loss.
Years go by, and life with them. For the first few years, he just lived like a normal person, even though he knew he was in a different world. But life isn't just about being happy; death and tragedy are inevitable in any world, and he figured that out on the fateful day the death that changed his destiny went down. He was four when his mom "died." A training accident, the elite officers said. An unfortunate fall, the servants said. A badly woven lie, Ren thought. He’d seen enough in his past life to recognize the stink of political convenience. His mom wasn't important, but she was powerful; way too powerful to just be ignored. And him, her son, carried a fire so intense that the instructors were already whispering about him with unease. It didn't suit anyone for a warrior that capable to exist outside the direct control of power. So, she disappeared. Her body was returned wrapped in red silk. Ren didn't cry. Not because he wasn't hurting, but because he understood immediately what was expected of him: silence, obedience… usefulness.
The first run-in with the Fire Lord happened exactly as he expected. Not long after his mom’s tragic death, Ozai called him to the palace with one clear goal in mind: to control his future. The place was huge, intimidating, and cold. The walls gleamed with gold, but they smelled like smoke, discipline, and danger. Ren was brought before Ozai like you’d present a freshly forged weapon. The Fire Lord looked at him with the same expression a general uses when studying a map: looking for weak points, estimating value, calculating the future.
—"You are the son of a skilled warrior," Ozai said, keeping his distance. "And I’ve been told your fire woke up before most others." Ren looked up, but didn't bow completely. Not out of rebellion, but because something inside him—something old, something foreign—refused to show submission for free. Ozai noticed. And he smirked, just a little. —"You will be raised here," he announced. "You will learn to be useful." He didn't say "welcome." He didn't say "son." Just useful. Ren understood the deal right then and there: Ozai would keep him as long as his potential made it worth it… and would toss him aside without a second thought if he stopped being useful.
And that’s how his childhood at the palace began. Growing up in the shadow of the throne.
Ren didn't have a childhood. He had training, tests, evaluations, and silence. But he had something else: memories. He remembered the history of the world he now lived in; he remembered the heroes, the villains, the war to come, the arrival of the Avatar. He remembered how it was all supposed to happen. Which meant he knew how to use all of it. When he was five, Ursa gave birth to her first son: Zuko. Ren watched from the distance of a brother who wasn't supposed to exist, the kid never mentioned at family gatherings, the family member with no right to want anything more than to serve his nation and the Fire Lord as his loyal weapon. Zuko cried a lot, feared everything, and rarely smiled. Ren didn't see him as a rival or an ally; he saw him as a fragile, moldable, predictable piece. In time, he learned to treat him like a proper brother: not too cold to raise suspicion, but not too affectionate to create bonds he didn't need. Zuko grew up craving his approval without knowing why, and Ren made sure that need never faded. A prime example of that was that one time...
The sun was barely coming through the windows of the palace's north hall when Zuko ran after his older brother. His steps were small and clumsy; the echo bounced off the columns, giving him away completely. —"Ren! Ren! Wait!" the boy shouted. Ren didn't need to turn around to know it was him. Zuko always announced his arrival like he was desperate; his breathing ragged, hands reaching out, like he was scared he'd lose the person he was following. Ren stopped slowly, just enough to seem patient, but not nice. Zuko crashed into his stomach, looking up with wide, expectant eyes. —"Are you gonna train?" asked Zuko, with that mix of excitement and fear that was so typical of him. Ren nodded slightly. —"Yeah. I want to work on my attack stance." Zuko swallowed, nervous. —"Can I watch?" There was the opening. No need to force anything. Just… steer him a little. —"If you want," Ren answered, walking off without waiting for Zuko to catch up. "But don't get too close. I need space." The boy nodded so hard he almost lost his balance, and trotted after him to the small practice yard. It was a circle of polished stone surrounded by a perfect garden. The air smelled of burnt coal and warm flowers. Ren stood in the center, dropping into the basic stance with a fluid, elegant move. Zuko watched with pure fascination.
Ren threw a series of slow, controlled strikes, not to train… but so Zuko would admire them. Every move had the silent intent of looking untouchable, almost natural, absolutely worth imitating. When he finished, Zuko applauded shyly. —"You're amazing," he said, with a clumsy but sincere smile. Ren didn't smile back or look him in the eye; he kept a distant coolness that confused Zuko but pulled him in at the same time. —"It's not amazing," Ren corrected, his voice soft. "It's discipline." Zuko's smile dropped, like he’d failed a test he didn't know he was taking. —"Discipline?" Ren sat on his knees, looking at him with a seriousness no kid should have. —"Wanting to be good is useless if you don't work for it. Most people don't get that." Zuko lowered his head, ashamed. —"I… I want to be good…" Ren paused, calculating. He didn't speak right away. He let Zuko sit with the discomfort of his own desire. Then, with a measured move, he held a hand out to him. —"Then sit. Watch quietly. Learn." Zuko knelt in front of him instantly, back straight, eyes wide. He wanted to get it right. He wanted Ren's approval.
Ren got back into position, knowing exactly what he was creating: a habit, an emotional dependency. Zuko watched every move, biting his lip, fighting the urge to speak. When Ren finished the set, the boy leaned forward slightly. —"How was I? Did I do good?" Zuko asked, without moving from his spot, thinking his silence was part of the test.
Ren looked at him for just a second, with an expression that wasn't affection, but wasn't rejection either. It was perfectly calculated: neutral, demanding, soft… and powerful. —"You were better than yesterday," Ren said. Zuko lit up. That simple recognition—small, almost insignificant—was enough for the kid to feel like he’d achieved something huge. Exactly what Ren wanted. —"Can I come watch tomorrow too?" Zuko asked, hopeful. Ren walked toward the exit. —"If you wake up early," he answered without looking back. Zuko ran after him, like always. And Ren smiled to himself, just for a second, where no one could see it. The first thread was tied.
After a whole year of Ren using Zuko's admiration to make him get attached and feel like he belonged, it finally happened: Ursa had Azula. And for the first time, Ren felt real interest. He’d seen Azula as an adult in his past life: the unmatched prodigy, the brilliant mind broken by loneliness and a lack of love. But the girl in front of him was different: a creature, a blue fire that didn't know yet if she wanted to hug the world or burn it down. She looked at him the day they met with something no other family member had shown him: curiosity. —"Who are you?" she asked, all of three years old, with no fear, no respect, no barriers. Ren smiled, soft and patient. —"I'm your big brother," he answered. "And if you want, I can teach you how to understand everyone here." Azula didn't fully get it, but she nodded, taking the offer like it was a secret. That was the beginning. The first seeds of manipulation.
With Zuko, it was simple: cold justice, discipline, reasonable expectations. Zuko grew up believing Ren was what he was supposed to be: strong, balanced, reliable… untouchable. Ren never humiliated him. Never hit him. Never comforted him. He was just a distant ideal that Zuko wanted to reach but never could. With Azula, though, Ren used a totally different method. She was brilliant, cruel, powerful… but deeply, desperately needy. She needed attention, approval, affection that Ozai would never give her. Ren filled that void with surgical precision. He cheered for her when no one else did. He corrected her without being harsh, but without being soft. He taught her that the world obeyed the strong, sure… but that even the strong needed invisible allies. Azula started seeing him as the only person who wasn't intimidated by her, who didn't treat her like a monster or a little girl. As someone who actually got her. And Ren knew it. Every word from him was a thread. Every piece of advice, a knot. Every gesture, a permanent mark. Soon, Azula stopped looking for Ozai's approval… and started looking for Ren's. That was Ren's second rebirth: the day he stopped being a kid adopted by royalty… and became the silent architect of the future he was going to rewrite himself.
With all that swirling in his head, he remembered that afternoon when Zuko had fallen right into the palm of his hand...
The throne room was burning with a heat that didn't come from the fire, but from the presence of the man sitting at the top. Ozai was standing in front of a military instructor, who kept his head down in shame. —"Prince Zuko disobeyed orders again, my Lord," the man reported. "He interfered in a combat exercise and almost got hurt." Zuko was next to the instructor, small, shaking, hands clenched at his sides. Azula watched from afar with an amused smile. Ren, on the other hand, stood a few steps back, calculating the scene, second by second.