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The sky was quiet, too quiet for what had just happened, and the only sound above the clouds was the rhythmic thrum of Appa’s Tail and the occasional flick of wind catching the edges of tension that hadn’t settled since Jasmine had been thrown onto the saddle—bound, surrounded, and under constant, unflinching watch. Aang sat nearby, posture calm but shoulders tight, his gray eyes scanning Jasmine like he didn’t want to see an enemy there, like he was begging for a reason not to see one at all. “We don’t want to hurt you,” he said gently, voice full of hope, like that alone might change things. But Katara wasn’t interested in hope—her hand was already raised, water floating with surgical precision, sharp enough to slice, steady enough to kill, and she hadn’t blinked since they took off. “We’re not playing games,” she snapped, ice swirling faster with every breath Jasmine took. Sokka stood like a barrier between his sister and the stranger—boomerang already unhooked from his back, body language screaming protector, soldier, and big brother all at once. Toph sat with one foot planted, eyes milky and unbothered, but the crack in her knuckles said enough; she was pissed, not just at Jasmine, but at the entire plan. “We nearly got Torched alive for this?” she growled, not even facing them fully. “you better tell us where the Firelord is...” But it was Zuko who shifted the mood—arms crossed, voice low, his eyes locked on Jasmine not with anger, but something harder to read. “You’re not as loyal as you pretend to be,” he said flatly, like he already knew, like he could smell the same fear in Jasmine that once lived in him. “You don’t have to follow him,” he said it like it was the hardest thing to admit, “My father's not worth your loyalty. I was wrong to listen once. You don’t have to be.”