A False Hope(Legend Of Korra/My Hero Academia SI) Chapter Two

He told her everything.

Of course, he did—how else was he supposed to live with this gnawing guilt clawing at his chest? How else could he even begin to process the weight of what had happened?

So there, in the quiet stillness of their room, with the soft breath of their daughter rising and falling between them, Tenzin spoke.

He told Pema of the attack. How it came out of nowhere, how Korra had activated the Avatar State instinctively, reflexively, and how even that hadn’t been enough. He described her death in as much detail as he could bear, how Khanji and the others had handled the funeral rites in silence, their faces carved from stone. He recounted Khanji’s request—the White Lotus leader’s plea to keep everything quiet. All of it. Every last word he’d been holding in since it happened.

By the time he finished, he felt hollow. Like the words had been scooped out of him, taking the weight with them. But somehow, the emptiness was preferable to the crushing pressure. At least now he could breathe.

Pema was quiet for a long moment, her hand still resting on their daughter’s small shoulder. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“Oh spirits,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “She was just a child. She didn’t even have the chance to grow up. To make mistakes. To fall in love. To live.”

Tenzin closed his eyes, jaw clenched.

“She never got the chance,” Pema said again, shaking her head. “And they just… took it from her. Has anyone found them yet?”

“No,” he said, his voice brittle. “And I’m not sure we ever will. Khanji wants to keep Korra’s death hidden—he says it’s for the good of the world. That it would cause chaos if people found out the Avatar was gone again. Without a clear crime to announce, we can’t publicly pursue the ones responsible. No posters. No warrants. No open hunt. Just... silence.”

He exhaled sharply, frustration bleeding into his tone. “And their Earthbender was powerful. They moved fast. Covered ground like it was nothing; we searched for three days and found no trace of them. The only one injured was the non-bender, and even then, Uncle Sokka barely slowed them down. If they’re smart—and I believe they are—they’ll vanish. Go underground. Hide their faces. And we’ll never see them again.”

Pema sat up, her expression hardening. “So what happens now?”

“We wait,” Tenzin said dully. “The next Avatar will be born somewhere. And when they’re found, we’ll protect them. Better than we did Korra. Maybe we’ll be hands-off, maybe we’ll tighten security to a fault—I don’t know. I just… I didn’t think this was possible. Not in this age of peace.”

His voice cracked slightly. “We still don’t know who those people were. Where they came from. Why they targeted her. They claimed they didn’t mean to kill her, but that’s not comfort—it’s an insult. And maybe Khanji’s right. What’s the point in telling the world that we let the Avatar die? That we failed her.”

Pema stared at him, her expression a mixture of sorrow and disbelief.

“Tenzin. Are you serious?”

He looked at her, unsure.

“This isn’t about your reputation. Or the White Lotus. Or even the legacy of the Avatar,” she said, her voice trembling with fury. “This is about four psychopaths who broke into a five-year-old child’s room and murdered her. You don’t cover something like that up—you scream it from the mountaintops. You make sure the whole world knows that monsters like that will never be tolerated. Because if you don’t, if word gets out some other way, others will think they can get away with it.”

Her voice dropped low. “And someone else will try.”

“We can’t track them,” Tenzin said, frustration boiling over. “We don’t know their names. We don’t know where they’re headed. We don’t even know if they were working alone. We have nothing, Pema. What do you want me to do? Chase ghosts?”

She reached over and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Look me in the eyes, Tenzin,” she whispered, deadly quiet. “And tell me you would let something like this slide if it had been Jinora in Korra’s place.”

The silence between them deepened. A muscle jumped in Tenzin’s jaw. His hands clenched in the blanket.

The fury that flashed across his face surprised even him—and from the way Pema’s hand slowly withdrew, it had startled her too.

“No,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I wouldn’t.”

Pema exhaled, long and slow, then gently leaned against him, one arm slipping around his shoulders, the other drawing their sleeping daughter closer between them.

“I know you don’t control the White Lotus,” she murmured. “But you have to do something. If we let this go—if we let people think they can kill the Avatar and disappear without consequence—we don’t just fail Korra. We fail everyone.”

She placed her hand over his heart.

“You can’t let monsters like that go free, Tenzin. Because if you do…”

Her voice was barely above a whisper now.

“You’ll only make more of them.”

________________________________________________________

“Welcome back, Representative Tenzin,” Tarlokk declared in a rich, magnanimous voice, spreading his arms as though greeting an old friend instead of a political rival. “I trust your trip was fruitful? And perhaps even restful—a nice reprieve from the drudgery of Council meetings.” His tone was light, but there was a glint in his eye, like a cat toying with a bird it hadn’t quite decided to eat.

Tenzin offered a tight, diplomatic smile. “Jinora caught a cold,” he said smoothly, the lie leaving his mouth without hesitation. Years of airbender detachment hadn’t prepared him for how effortlessly fatherhood made lying feel like breathing. “Pema was worried, so I returned early to reassure her. The trip went as expected.”

“That’s a relief,” said Representative Kiyomi, the Fire Nation delegate, her smile warm and genuine. “We’re all grateful for your continued presence. I know today’s meeting is focused on Chief Beifong’s budget request, but… well, forgive me for asking—do you have any updates on the Avatar?” Her voice took on a hopeful, eager tone.

At her question, Tenzin’s eyes swept across the room. He noticed how Representative Yingshi of the Earth Kingdom sat a little straighter, his posture suddenly alert. Across from her, Sakari of the Southern Water Tribe leaned forward slightly, his cerulean eyes narrowing with barely concealed calculation. 

And then, of course, there was Tarlokk, whose pleasant expression now looked razor-edged, predatory.

Tell them, a voice whispered in the back of his mind—Pema’s voice, calm and steel-spined. Tell them. Let the world know what Khanji’s secrecy has cost. Let the nations hunt them like wolves.

His pulse quickened. He opened his mouth.

“The Avatar’s studies are progressing well,” he said evenly, surprising even himself with the steadiness of his tone. “They’re showing remarkable aptitude—already capable of manipulating three elements to a beginner’s degree.”

That made the room go still.

Coward, whispered Pema’s voice with disappointment.

“They seem particularly comfortable with water and fire,” he continued, as if discussing the weather. “Earth is a bit rougher for them, but they’re making progress. No sign of airbending yet, though I’m confident it will come soon.”

“Three elements?” Kiyomi breathed, eyes wide. “At five years old? That’s unheard of. Even Avatar Aang didn’t begin training in the other elements until he was much older, right?”

Tenzin nodded solemnly. “Yes. My father underwent a test devised by the Air Nomad elders, which confirmed his status as the Avatar when he was twelve, but he stuck solely to airbending for a long time. It wasn’t until much later that he developed proficiency in the others. In contrast, this child—our current Avatar—has an instinctive feel for the elements. I truly believe they may surpass Avatar Aang’s accomplishments at a much younger age.”

Tarlokk chuckled, feigning amusement, but his eyes gleamed with something colder. “Tenzin, my friend, children—especially prodigies—shouldn’t be confined to one place for too long. Let them experience the world! Isn't that the Avatar’s purpose? To understand all people? To unify, to lead?” He leaned forward with a practiced smile. “What better place to begin that journey than Republic City? Built by the Avatar himself, a beacon of cooperation among the Four Nations. Wouldn't it be poetic if the Avatar returned to where this new age of peace began?”

The room was silent, waiting for Tenzin’s response. But behind the stillness, the political undercurrents churned like a rising tide.

Of course it was Tarlokk who would say that.

Ever the politician. Ever the opportunist.

He sat with that smug, measured smile on his face, hands folded neatly in front of him like a picture of civility. But Tenzin knew better. Tarlokk was no concerned public servant. He was an eel-snake in fine clothes—smooth on the surface, but all venom underneath. The kind of man who would shake your hand while tightening a noose around your neck with the other.

He didn’t care about Korra’s wellbeing. He didn’t care about her spiritual growth, her safety, or her connection to the Avatar State. All he wanted was access. A private meeting. A photo op. A few minutes to whisper in her ear and try to wrap her around his finger.

Not that it would ever happen now. And even if Korra was still alive, he would have never let him meet her.

“The Avatar will come to Republic City when they are ready—and not a moment before,” he said firmly, arms crossed. “This is a matter of their safety, and their development. Both take precedence over politics.”

Tarlokk’s voice turned theatrical. “Safety, you say? Please, Councilman, you and the White Lotus are so obsessed with protecting the Avatar that you’re practically keeping them in a gilded cage. For all we know, this so-called Avatar might not even exist! We don’t know their name, their true age, or even their gender! How are we supposed to have confidence in the White Lotus if they won’t even prove the Avatar exists?”

Tenzin’s jaw tightened. It annoyed him to no end that, for once, Tarlokk wasn’t speaking nonsense. The unpleasant truth was that, at this moment, the Avatar might as well not exist. They had been reborn, yes—but it would be years before they would be old enough, trained enough, ready enough to face the world.

He had made the call when Korra was first identified. A calculated, quiet decision: keep her existence secret. Let the world forget about the Avatar for a while. No headlines. No photographs. No announcements besides the fact that the Avatar had been found. The fewer people who knew, the safer she would be—from enemies, from opportunists, from those who would try to use her.

And for a while, the strategy had worked. For a time. 

A brief, precious year.

"Excuse me for my bluntness," Tenzin said coolly, his voice frosted over with restrained irritation, "but the last time the world knew where the Avatar was, how old they were, and who they were surrounded by, that entire nation was burned to ash. If I appear cautious, it is because I am."

Tarlokk shifted in his seat, but said nothing.

"Traditionally, the Avatar learns of their identity at sixteen. This current incarnation discovered it at four. We have done—and will continue to do—everything in our power to ensure they become the most capable Avatar the world has ever seen. If that dedication makes you uncomfortable, Councilman, I can only apologize that we value the Avatar’s safety more than your political calendar."

Tenzin didn’t look at Pema, but her voice rang in his head like a gong: Spineless liar.

You talk about Tarlokk being a snake, but here you are, lying to the only people who might actually help hunt down those four lunatics. Your father would be ashamed. You’re a disgrace to his legacy.

Tarlokk’s smile didn’t falter, but Tenzin could see the faint tightening around his eyes. He was annoyed, perhaps even insulted. But like any good predator, he hid it well.

“Well,” Tarlokk said with theatrical graciousness, bowing his head slightly, “when you put it like that, I suppose my wants are less important than the world’s salvation. Of course, I do hope to meet this mysterious Avatar someday… sooner rather than later.”

Tenzin returned the bow stiffly. “Naturally. Now, if we can return to the matter at hand—the city budget. I’d prefer to avoid having Chief Beifong break down these doors in one of her moods.”

Tarlokk gave a sharp laugh. “Oh, like when you broke up with her? I heard she nearly leveled half of Air Temple Island. That made the papers for years. And you’re right—I’d very much prefer not to be on the other end of that kind of fury.”

Tenzin closed his eyes for just a moment, inhaled through his nose, and prayed to the spirits for patience.

Prick.

And yet as annoying as he is, I doubt he has the blood of a child on his hands.

_________________________________________________________________

Despite the enduring sorrow of Korra’s death, time moved forward as it always did—slowly, inevitably. Seasons changed, years passed, and with them came new life. After Jinora had grown some, the Air Nation began to regrow in earnest, starting with the birth of two more children on Air Temple Island: Ikki and Meelo.

Ikki was a whirlwind of boundless energy and unfiltered curiosity. She darted from one obsession to the next like a hummingbird, never still, never quiet for long. It didn’t surprise Tenzin in the slightest when she began airbending at the age of six—it was like the wind had simply accepted her as one of its own.

And then there was Meelo.

Spirits help him, Meelo was chaos incarnate. Tenzin often joked—only half-jokingly—that Meelo was the reincarnation of his uncle Bumi, despite the man being alive. The resemblance was uncanny: he turned everything into a battle, he invented wildly exaggerated stories, and he had a gift for inappropriate flatulence that he seemed to weaponize with the timing of a master tactician. Every week, Tenzin was convinced Meelo would end up in a healer’s hut after some harebrained stunt. He was, without question, Tenzin’s most stressful child… and yet, he was also the most delightfully unpredictable. Life with Meelo was never dull. He started airbending in his sleep at five years old, and never let anyone forget it.

And then there was Jinora—his anchor, his prodigy.

Jinora absorbed everything he taught her with an ease that was almost unsettling. Reading, writing, philosophy, meditation, even advanced bending theory—none of it phased her. Meditation, which most Air Acolytes took years to grasp, took her less than a week. Glider flight? A couple of days. Air scooter? Mastered in an afternoon.

What truly astonished him, however, was her creativity. She wasn’t content to simply emulate traditional airbending techniques. No—Jinora adapted, synthesized, and innovated. Her style drew elements of movement and discipline from all four nations. One moment, she would flow past an opponent like a leaf on the wind. The next, she’d strike with a sudden blast of compressed air that hit like a stone. Then she’d form twisting air currents that mimicked the steady pull of a river, only to cap it all off with a cyclone that mimicked firebending intensity. It was beautiful, and terrifying in its elegance. At twelve, she was already on the path to becoming a master, just like her grandfather.

And Korra?

Tenzin would never forget her, but that pain—sharp, cruel—had dulled over the years, worn down by time’s unrelenting current. She no longer haunted his dreams or stirred him awake in the dead of night. Where once he had thought of her every hour, now the memories came in softer waves—every few days, then weeks, and eventually, just once a year on her birthday. That was when he truly allowed himself to mourn. To reflect. To wonder what the world might have looked like had she lived.

Khanji still sent occasional reports. Sparse, coded updates with just enough detail to keep hope alive. Despite their best efforts, the Earth Queen continued to stonewall them—every attempt to embed White Lotus presence in the Earth Kingdom through official channels had been crushed without mercy. The only progress they’d made was clandestine: forty agents, disguised as Earth Kingdom citizens, scattered across Omashu, Ba Sing Se, and both the upper and lower rings.

Forty agents for the largest nation on the planet.

It was far from ideal. Too few eyes for too much territory. And yet, it was all they could manage without drawing unwanted attention. The Earth Queen ruled with suspicion and paranoia, and any misstep could jeopardize everything.

Given those constraints, it was no surprise they hadn’t found any sign of the Avatar’s reincarnation yet.

But Tenzin still held onto one thing.

Hope.

Hope that someday, the Avatar would return. That they would find the next incarnation, guide them, protect them. That somehow, in doing so, they could atone for the failure that still hung over them like a stormcloud. They had failed Korra. Failed to protect her, to prepare her, to shield her from a world that had grown far too cruel, far too fast.

Tenzin had learned to live with that guilt—not forget it, but to live with it. To carry it. It had become a quiet burden in his daily life, woven into every breath of airbending meditation and every quiet conversation with his children about legacy and duty. He had even started imagining what the next Avatar might be like—what they might need. He had forced himself to think about the future.

But he had forgotten that not everyone had that luxury.

Namely, Tonraq and Senna.

They had not moved forward. How could they?

Tenzin hadn’t spoken to them in years—not because he didn’t care, but because he didn’t know what he could possibly say. What do you say to the parents of a girl who died under your watch, because of your mistakes? "Happy birthday to your daughter—we miss her too"? A letter? A condolence? Anything he imagined writing had always felt painfully insufficient.

And so, he had simply…let the silence grow.

He hadn’t asked after them. Hadn’t sent messengers or looked into their well-being. He had buried his guilt in work, in rebuilding Air Temple Island, in preparing for a future Avatar.

So when he saw them again—when Tonraq and Senna stood before him after all these years—he was completely unprepared.

And the weight of everything he hadn’t said hit him like a gust of wind he hadn’t seen coming.

_________________________________________________________________

The next time Tenzin saw Tonraq came as a surprise.

He had returned to the Southern Water Tribe to visit his mother for her birthday, just a few months before Meelo was born. It should have been a joyous trip, but by the time they arrived, Tenzin was physically and mentally exhausted.

The day had started early, with hours of travel aboard Oogi. Ikki, hyper as always, had insisted on jumping off the sky bison mid-flight to test if she could “glide like the wind,” forcing Tenzin to dive after her more than once. Jinorah had spent the majority of the journey loudly protesting her hunger and begging for snacks. Pema, visibly pregnant and steadily showing, had needed to stop every few hours to relieve herself. Her gentle apologies did little to mask her fatigue.

By the time they arrived, night had fallen. They’d exchanged greetings, shared hugs, and settled the children down for dinner. With the chaos momentarily subdued, Tenzin finally slipped outside for a much-needed walk, hoping the cold air and snow-laced silence would clear his mind.

He didn’t expect someone to approach him from behind.

“Tenzin,” said a voice—raspy, unfamiliar, worn.

He whirled around, a blast of wind kicking up snow between himself and the intruder, arms raised in defense—until he froze, recognizing the figure.

“Tonraq?” Tenzin blinked. “Spirits, you startled me.”

Relief touched his features, and he stepped forward to embrace his old friend—then stopped, just short of it.

Tonraq had changed.

Thin, weathered scars now marked his face—too many to count, with one deep slash cutting across his chin, disrupting the pattern of his beard. Streaks of gray threaded through his dark hair, aging him beyond his years, though he was younger than Tenzin.

But it wasn’t the physical damage that gave him pause. It was his eyes.

There was something in them—a glint, a tightness, a flicker of wildness he couldn’t place. Like a beast that had tasted blood. Tenzin had seen rabid animals before, wolves and polar bear-dogs that looked calm one moment but, just beneath the surface, simmered with barely contained madness. That was the look Tonraq wore now—something haunted, restless. Unpredictable.

Tonraq smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “My old friend,” he said warmly, voice gravelly with time—or pain.

Ignoring Tenzin’s hesitation, Tonraq stepped in and pulled him into a tight, crushing hug. His arms were solid as iron, his hand clapping Tenzin’s back with force that bordered on punishing.

Tenzin forced a polite smile, the corners of his lips tugging upward even as unease settled deep in his chest like a stone.

Something was wrong.

Terribly wrong.

“How have you been, old friend?” Tonraq greeted, his voice a touch too loud, too eager. “I saw you land earlier. You've got a lovely family, Tenzin. Beautiful girls, and I hear there’s a son. Rambunctious little thing, your younger daughter. You know she tried to tease Naga? Not smart, but… brave. Very brave. I'll give her that.”

There was something…off about the way he spoke. 

Tonraq was jittery, shifting constantly on his feet like he couldn’t contain the energy building inside him. His fingers flexed and curled as if itching for a fight, and his gaze—normally steady and grounded—was wild, darting back and forth as if he expected someone to jump out at any moment.

Tenzin’s expression remained neutral, but inwardly his concern deepened. “How have you really been, Tonraq?” he asked, voice calm but cautious.

Tonraq's face broke into a wide grin, teeth flashing unnaturally bright under the moonlight. It wasn’t a smile of joy—it was manic, stretched too far and far too quick.

“Me? Oh, I’ve been great,” Tonraq said, with the strained enthusiasm of someone trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “You know what? I joined the White Lotus.”

Tenzin blinked. That he hadn’t expected.

“You did?” he said carefully.

After Korra’s death, Tenzin would’ve thought Tonraq would distance himself from the organization, not embed himself deeper within it. The White Lotus had failed to protect her—Tonraq had blamed them, hadn’t he?

“Yeah,” Tonraq nodded vigorously. “After what happened to Korra, I told Khanji we needed something more—an anti-terrorism unit. A real fighting force. Not scholars, not diplomats. Warriors. Benders who can act, decisively and without hesitation. And guess what, Tenzin?”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, but his eyes gleamed with unhinged intensity.

“I found them.”

“Them?” Tenzin echoed. “You mean… Korra’s attackers?”

Tonraq's expression twisted into something darker.

“Her murderers!" he growled.

The viciousness of how Tonraq said the word struck Tenzin like a gust of freezing wind, and he instinctively took a step back. Tonraq caught the movement, and for a fleeting second, shame crossed his features. He raised his hands as if in apology.

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he said, his voice shaking. “I… my temper isn’t what it used to be. I snap. A lot. People keep saying it wasn’t intentional, that they didn’t mean to kill her. As if that somehow makes it better. As if that absolves them.” His fists clenched again. “It burns, Tenzin. Every time I hear it, it burns.”

Tenzin’s heart ached. He understood grief—he had lost his father, then Korra, and had felt the world tremble each time. 

But this? 

This was something else. Tonraq was drowning in rage, barely holding on.

“I understand,” Tenzin said gently, his voice tempered with empathy. “What happened to Korra was unforgivable. But… how did you find them?”

The haunted smile crept back onto Tonraq’s face—part grim satisfaction, part madness still brewing beneath the surface. Wordlessly, he reached into the inner lining of his coat and pulled out a small, carefully folded square of papers. The edges were worn, the creases deep from being opened and closed again and again.

He smoothed the sheets out on the table with trembling fingers. Four faces stared back at Tenzin from the grainy prints, their expressions cold, unfeeling. P’Li—the combustion bender, her third eye tattoo a silent threat. Ming-Hua—the armless waterbender, her eyes sharp with cruel intelligence. Ghazan—the earthbender with wild, unkempt hair and a distant gaze. And finally, Zaheer—the nonbender, though his single clouded eye and the long scar across his face made him somehow the most unsettling of them all.

After all these years, Tenzin finally had names to match the faces burned into his memory.

“It was the combustion bender that gave me my first lead,” Tonraq said, his voice low but eager. “They’re rare—combustion benders. Freak’s of nature. Not born, but made. A Fire Nation experiment from before even Sozin’s time. Zuko shut it down when he took the throne, but some people couldn’t let go of their pet projects. Weapons of war, they called them. I tracked down the old trainers. Most had gone underground. I got lucky—found one living in a forgotten village under a new name.”

He looked up, fire flickering in his eyes. “From there, I followed the trail. One of their trainees, a woman, stood out—P’Li. She was the only female in the recent batch. Worked under a warlord, till someone saved her. Rumors said she and a group of ‘specialists’ were working as mercenaries—never staying long, always moving. I followed whispers, half-truths, and fading trails. And then, by chance, I learned something… about Zaheer. The guy who saved P’Li.”

Tonraq tapped the paper, his finger resting on the scarred man’s face.

“He’s not just some hired thug. He’s part of a group called the Red Lotus. Ever heard of them?”

Tenzin stiffened. “A splinter group from the White Lotus. They were radicals, even back when I was a child. They were formed partially because their leader didn’t think the White Lotus should cater to the Avatar, and they disliked the governments, I believe.”

“Exactly,” Tonraq said darkly. “They believe the world has to burn before it can be free. They want the spirits to return in full force, think we can live side-by-side with them without guidance. That’s idealism I could almost ignore, stupid as it is. But they also want to dismantle the governments of the world. No Earth Queen. No Fire Lord. No Water Tribe Chief’s. No Republic Council. No order. Just chaos.” He paused, the words thick with loathing. “That’s terrorism. Terrorism against all four nations. And that was enough to get me the green light to hunt them down.”

He clenched his jaw, his next words spoken with quiet fury.

“I might be able to bring them to justice for what they did to my daughter. Not yet. But now that I have a cause unrelated to that, I can put them on posters. On bulletins. I can make the whole world see what they are. If I can’t bring them down myself, I’ll make sure they have nowhere left to hide.”

Tenzin lowered his eyes, the weight of it all pressing on his chest. “...I see.”

And he did. Not just the facts. Not just the mission logs, skirmish reports, or surveillance photos.

Tenzin saw the grief, raw and jagged. He felt the rage, coiled beneath Tonraq’s skin like a storm waiting for a reason to erupt. He understood now—this wasn’t just a hunt. It was an obsession. It was pain dressed up as purpose. The desperation of a father who had lost the most precious thing in his world… and who was more than willing to burn down the rest of it to see justice served in ashes.

“How long have you been tracking them?” Tenzin asked quietly.

“Years,” Tonraq breathed, the word more exhale than voice. “I’ve seen them. Fought them too. Skirmishes mostly. They’re good—really good. Annoyingly coordinated. They trained like a family, like a pack. Ghazan and P’Li are the heavy hitters. Ming-Hua handles battlefield control like she was born to it. And Zaheer…” He exhaled slowly, something bitter curling at the edge of his mouth. “Zaheer’s the ghost. The knife in the dark. Losing that eye didn’t slow him down at all—he’s just as fast, just as deadly as he was back then.”

He looked away for a moment, as if reliving it.

“I’ve fought them three times now,” he admitted, his voice growing tighter. “Got overwhelmed each time. Always one step behind. It’s… irritating.”

Tenzin frowned. “Overwhelmed? But what about your team? The White Lotus only recruits the best. You should’ve always had support—”

Tonraq cut him off with a sudden, sharp laugh. Not amused. Not joyful. A high, rasping sound like something broken.

“I can’t work with the other White Lotus members,” he said with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not when they don’t have the stomach for what needs to be done.”

There was a beat of silence. Tenzin’s chest tightened slightly.

“If they catch them,” Tonraq continued, “they’ll throw them in prison. A trial. A cell. Maybe even a second chance.” He shook his head, his gaze flinty and focused. “That’s not enough for me. Not when those bastards got to breathe after what they did. Not after they—” His voice hitched. Just for a second. “Not after they came and murdered my daughter.”

Tenzin swallowed thickly. Oh.

He wasn’t talking about justice.

He was talking about execution.

And in hindsight, it made sense. Of course, Tonraq would want vengeance. Of cours,e he would seek blood, not punishment. These weren’t just enemies. These were the monsters who had taken everything from him. Still… as an Air Nomad, as someone raised in a philosophy of peace, the idea of premeditated killing twisted something deep in Tenzin’s chest.

Tonraq didn’t notice the discomfort—or didn’t care.

“No,” he said, his voice firmer now. “I work alone. It’s cleaner that way. Fewer people in my way. Fewer feelings to navigate. No one to stop me from doing what needs to be done to people who kill children.”

Tenzin said nothing for a moment. Then, gently: “You’ve put a great deal of effort into this.”

There was no judgment in his voice. Just quiet recognition.

Tonraq gave a short nod. “And I’ve gotten results.”

“You’ve been able to capture them?”

“No,” Tonraq admitted, then cracked a grim smile. “Not yet. But I’ve made sure their allies know I’m coming. Red Lotus cells across the world are disappearing. I think I’ve taken out half of them by now. Some are old fanatics. Some are barely-trained newbies. But every one of them is a step closer, and one less hidey-hole for them.”

There was no pride in his voice. Just cold resolve.

“They chose their side,” he said simply. “Now they get to lie in it.”

Tenzin exhaled slowly, the breath curling out of him like mist in cold air. There was nothing he could say to that. Not yet.

Not until he decided whether Tonraq needed help... or needed to be stopped.

Spirits, help me.

If even half of what Tonraq said was true—if he was really hunting down Red Lotus members and hunting them down to the last man —then Tonraq’s hands were soaked in blood. The Red Lotus might have only been a fraction of the size of the White Lotus, but in their pursuit of secrecy and disruption, they had embedded themselves deep across the Four Nations. And Tonraq had torn through them like a storm. Tenzin didn’t doubt that his old friend had personally ended at least a hundred lives.

"Do you need my help with anything?" Tenzin asked quietly, his voice taut with restraint, his composure clinging to him like a threadbare robe.

Tonraq blinked, momentarily caught off-guard. “What? Oh—no. You can’t help.” He shook his head, tone clipped. “There’s no Red Lotus presence in Republic City. I’ve swept the area twice myself. You wouldn’t be useful in that regard.”

“That’s not the only kind of help I meant,” Tenzin said gently. “You could come to Air Temple Island for a few days. Rest. Share a meal. My family would be happy to have you.”

For a second, there was silence. Then Tonraq’s lips curled—not into a smile, but into a twisted, bitter sneer.

“Right,” he spat. “And sit there smiling while I eat with your perfect little family. Watch you raise the daughters you never had to fight for. Watch you live in peace while I drown in the blood of ghosts.”

“Tonraq, that’s not fair—”

“Don’t.” The word was a snarl now. “Don’t you dare act like you don’t know what this is. You succeeded, Tenzin. You get to live in balance. You were handed a family, an island, a legacy to carry. I had to carve mine out with a blade. And I failed, at every turn.”

He turned, his cloak whipping behind him, footsteps already retreating.

“I don’t need your pity, and I sure as hell don’t need you showing me what I’ve lost.”

And just like that, Tonraq was gone—vanishing into the snow.

Tenzin would search for him over the next three days. He asked the White Lotus, wanting to know where he was, wanting to make sure that they didn’t leave on bad terms.

But it was like Tonraq had never been there.

It wasn’t until his last day, when he was about to leave with his family, that one of the older White Lotus sentries pulled him aside, lips tight with discomfort, and whispered something that chilled Tenzin to his core.

Tonraq had another name among the more battle-hardened of their order.

A name spoken not with reverence, but with awe. And fear.

The Lotus Killer.

_______________________________________________________________

When he saw Senna again, it was a year after Meelo was born—during the Glacier Spirits Festival.

Jinora and Ikki had begged for months to go, promising with wide eyes and solemn vows that they’d be on their best behavior. Even Pema had chimed in, saying it might be good for the family to get out of Republic City for a little while, to breathe in the crisp sea air and let Meelo experience the world beyond the white walls of Air Temple Island. Tenzin had to admit—he’d been feeling a bit cooped up himself.

So they packed up the children, bundled themselves in thick furs and wool, and made sure their bags were stuffed with enough snacks to ward off a mid-journey tantrum. The ferry ride to the Southern Water Tribe had been surprisingly smooth, and now, here they were, surrounded by flickering spirit lanterns, music, and laughter that echoed through the icy streets.

The girls were off playing weaver’s ball—some new game that had caught on like wildfire with the kids—and Pema had wandered off in search of roasted meat and vegetable skewers. Tenzin, meanwhile, was standing near a lantern post, holding a fussy Meelo in his arms and trying to lull him back to calm, when he heard a voice call out behind him.

“Tenzin? Is that you?”

He turned—and for a brief moment, it felt like déjà vu had swept in with the wind.

Senna stood just a few feet away, her parka dusted with snow, eyes wide with recognition. Her voice was warm but cautious, as if unsure whether it truly was him she was seeing after all this time.

And for a second, Tenzin nearly dropped Meelo.

Not because of Senna—but because of the ten little girls clinging to her hands and coat, bundled up in heavy blue furs and mittens, giggling as they peered out at the festival crowd.

They all looked like Korra.

Not just in the broad sense—same skin tone, same piercing blue eyes—but with a jolt he realized that each of them wore their hair in Korra’s exact childhood style. A ponytail in the back, two short tufts at the front, and mischievous glints in their eyes that made him feel like he was seeing ghosts.

It took him a moment to start noticing their differences—one was taller and lankier, another round-faced and barely up to Senna’s waist, and a few had slightly lighter or darker skin tones. But the resemblance was still uncanny.

“Senna,” he said slowly, clearing his throat to steady his voice. “How have you been?”

“I’m fine,” she replied with a soft smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here, though.”

Tenzin gave a small shrug, gesturing toward Jinora and Ikki in the distance. “The girls really wanted to come. Pema and I thought it might be good for them—especially the little one here—to see more of the world.”

Senna’s gaze shifted to Meelo in his arms. Her face softened.

“May I?” she asked gently, holding out her hands.

He hesitated, just for a second, but ultimately nodded and handed Meelo over. The boy fussed at first, confused by the change in arms, but Senna cooed at him softly, brushing her gloved hand against his cheek. Within moments, he quieted, eyes drooping slightly as he nestled into the crook of her elbow.

Tenzin watched silently. She still had that calm about her—that quiet, grounding presence that had always reminded him of melting snow and the warmth of tea shared under stormy skies.

And standing there—surrounded by the warm chaos of a bustling festival, where music danced through the air and laughter shimmered like light off the lanterns—Tenzin felt something shift inside his chest.

Senna was standing only a few steps away, cradling his son as if he were her own, a small, knowing smile on her lips. Around her legs, ten little girls who looked uncannily like Korra giggled and darted in and out of each other’s shadows, their laughter rising like chimes on the wind.

He wasn’t entirely sure what the feeling was. It wasn’t sharp or sudden—more like a subtle crack forming across stone. But it was there. And it mattered.

“Wow, you’re really good with him. Meelo hates everyone that isn't blood-related,” Pema said, returning with wind-reddened cheeks and three skewers in hand—two meat, one vegetable. She offered him the veggie one, which he accepted with a quiet nod of gratitude.

Senna smiled gently. “I’m good with children. These girls—" she gestured to the gaggle of Korra-likes at her feet "—I babysit for their parents whenever I can. Most of them are busy with work, and I figured the girls deserved a day out to enjoy themselves.”

Pema tilted her head slightly, taking a closer look at the children whispering and pointing at Tenzin in shy awe. They had likely never seen an Air Nomad before. 

These days, not many people had.

Then something seemed to click in Pema’s expression. “You’re Senna,” she said slowly. “Korra’s mother.”

Senna’s expression shifted just slightly—her smile dimming, the light in her eyes receding a bit. She nodded. “Yes. I am.”

One of the younger girls tugged at Senna’s coat, curious eyes glancing at Tenzin. “Ms. Senna, who’s that?”

“Oh, this is my old friend Mr. Tenzin,” she said kindly, bouncing Meelo gently in her arms. “He’s an airbender.”

“Like the Avatar?!” one of the shorter girls gasped, wide-eyed.

Tenzin chuckled, used to the reaction but still slightly overwhelmed every time. “Avatar Aang was my father.”

That, of course, set off another wave of squeals and excited pointing. He let out a soft sigh. You’d think, after all this time, he’d be used to the way people reacted when they heard his name in connection to Aang. But somehow, it still had the power to catch him off guard.

“So,” he said, trying to shift the conversation, “where’s Tonraq? Is he here with you? I’ve been meaning to speak with him.”

Senna’s smile faltered again—this time, visibly. “I haven’t seen Tonraq in a long time. We’re not together anymore.”

“Oh.”

A beat. Then another.

“I’m… terribly sorry,” he said, quietly, the words heavy with awkward sympathy. “I didn’t know.”

Senna shrugged with a practiced air of nonchalance. “It’s alright. He never really moved on from what happened. And I—I couldn’t let myself stay frozen in time. We realized that who we were, who we had become… it just didn’t align anymore. What happened to Korra was devastating, yes, but we couldn’t keep living like we were waiting for the next tragedy. I chose to move forward. He didn’t.”

Tenzin nodded slowly, letting her words sink in. And yet, as his gaze drifted back to the small group of girls fluttering around Senna—giggling, skipping, tugging gently on her coat hem like ducklings following their mother—he found it hard to believe she had truly moved on.

They all looked just a little too much like Korra had at that age. The same dark hair, the same bright eyes, the same loud, uncontainable energy. And Senna—composed and smiling, always smiling—stood among them like the sun in a solar system of borrowed warmth.

“Ms. Senna, can we go play with the otter penguins? Please?” one of the girls piped up, clinging to her side.

Senna ruffled the girl's hair and nodded. “Of course, Kanna.”

She turned to Tenzin, gently handing Meelo back into his arms. “Here you go. It was lovely seeing you again. And… you really should visit your mother more often. She misses you.”

Her smile lingered, brittle and polite, before she turned and walked away with the children trailing behind her like shadows too young to know grief. It was only when she was farther down the snowy path, surrounded by laughter, that Tenzin noticed how stiff her shoulders were beneath the thick folds of her parka.

“That poor woman,” Pema murmured beside him. “It must be unbearable—losing a child so young.”

Tenzin’s grip tightened slightly around Meelo as he watched Senna disappear into the white. “I keep trying to think of what to say. Something—anything—that might help her or Tonraq. But every time… I come up blank.”

Pema touched his arm. “This isn’t something you can fix, Tenzin. It’s not like airbending or council negotiations. Grief isn’t a knot you can untie with the right words.”

He sighed, nodding, though the frustration didn’t ease. “And yet, it feels wrong to do nothing. To just let them carry this alone.”

“They’re not alone,” Pema said gently. “They have people who care about them. But healing… healing takes time. Sometimes a long, long time.”

Tenzin watched the snow settle softly in Senna’s footprints, already starting to vanish in the breeze.

“And it looks like neither of them are there yet,” he murmured.

No. Not yet.

________________________________________________________________

“My babies are home!” Katara squealed, her arms flinging open just before she pulled all three of her grown children into a shockingly strong hug.

It had been a decade—an entire decade—since all three of them had stood under their mother’s roof at the same time. Kya had finally returned from her soul-searching travels across the Earth Kingdom, her latest stop being Zaofu. Tenzin had somehow wrangled time off from the Council, arriving without his usual entourage of children or the ever-patient Pema. And Bumi—well, Bumi had always made an effort, but today, even he looked a little softer around the edges, like the years had temporarily rolled off just for this reunion.

It was, all in all, something of a miracle. But then again, for their mother’s eighty-fifth birthday, how could they not make the effort?

“I missed you too, Mom,” Bumi said, burying his face in her shoulder like a boy half his age. “You wouldn’t believe what I had to go through to get here. Just last week, I was locked in brutal combat with a battalion of five hundred renegade bandits deep in the Serpent’s Pass. Only ten men at my side, and a raging storm howling through the mountains, turning the whole battlefield into a maze of fog and rain. Still, I pulled through—and I brought you a souvenir.”

With a flourish, he pulled out a handful of shimmering rainbow-colored scales. “Scales from the Beast of Serpent’s Pass itself.”

Kya rolled her eyes with practiced ease. “Sure you did, Bumi.”

Turning to their mother, her tone softened. “Mom, I brought you something a bit less… exaggerated. Some platinum jewelry from Zaofu. You really should’ve come with me. They’ve taken metalbending and turned it into art. You’d have loved it. The way the dancers moved… it was like watching waterbending performed in metal. It was beautiful.”

Tenzin cleared his throat, the corners of his mouth twitching in quiet amusement as he waited for the theatrics to subside. “Mother,” he began, standing a little straighter, “I’ve brought you something far more practical. A radio—crafted by the most skilled technician in Republic City. Tuned for clarity, lightweight, with a crystal amplifier. Much more useful, I’d say, than some fish scales or flashy accessories.”

It was painfully obvious to anyone watching that the siblings were at it again—trying, in their own unique ways, to win the title of "favorite child." Bumi with his tall tales, Kya with her grace and sentiment, and Tenzin with his relentless practicality. The irony, of course, was that they were all well into their fifties now, and yet they bickered like children at a feast table. Still, if Tenzin had to say it—though he’d never say it out loud—it was quite obvious to anyone with eyes.

He was clearly the favorite.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter, light teasing, and warm food. They took turns telling stories and spoiling their mother with gifts, affection, and attention. And Katara… Katara smiled wider than Tenzin had seen in years. It was the kind of smile that reached her eyes and settled in her bones.

And why shouldn’t she?

For the first time in a long time, her children were home.

____________________________________________________________

“Man, it’s been a trip, hasn’t it?” Bumi said with a low chuckle, exhaling a stream of white mist into the frigid air. “Never thought I’d be back here—not in a million years. Spirits, I forgot how much I hate the cold.”

“Oh, stop being a baby,” Kya teased, a playful smirk curling at her lips. “But seriously, I’m glad you came, big brother. This is the happiest I’ve seen Mom in years.”

Bumi puffed out his chest like a penguin seal showing off to a crowd. “Well, naturally. Her firstborn returns—the original masterpiece, the blueprint from which you two poor knockoffs were derived. It’s like an artist gazing proudly at their first bestseller—the one that paved the way for the rest.”

“Also known as the one riddled with typos, pacing issues, and the most contrived plot,” Tenzin said dryly, arching an eyebrow.

Bumi scoffed and promptly lobbed a snowball at him. Tenzin tilted his head slightly to the side, letting it fly past without so much as blinking.

“Hey! No bringing up bending shit!”

“I wasn’t talking about bending,” Tenzin replied with maddening calm. “I was referring to your lack of common sense. Though if we’re making a list, yes, your lack of bending qualifies too.”

It amazed Tenzin sometimes—how quickly he regressed around his siblings. One moment he was the collected spiritual leader of the Air Nation, and the next, the youngest brother tagging along behind the chaos duo. Something about being around Bumi and Kya made the years fall away, like old snowflakes melting on skin. He was ten again, trying to keep up with his wild older siblings as they gallivanted across the countryside, chasing trouble and adventure.

Bumi—the fearless leader of their little trio. Kya—the clever strategist with a sharp tongue and sharper instincts. And him—the responsible one, the one who always had to carry the extra supplies… and eventually, the consequences.

They walked together now through the old paths of the Southern Water Tribe, bundled in coats and scarves, their boots crunching against the snow. The icy wind whipped past them, but their laughter warmed the air.

“That used to be Old Man Sung’s place, right?” Bumi asked, nodding at a long-abandoned home half-buried in snow. “Heard he passed a year before Dad. Real shame. Guy always smelled like fish, but he made the best jerky.”

“I remember this hill,” Kya said, gesturing to a sloping path ahead. “We used to go ice-sledding here every winter. I’d bend the sleds as we went, remember?”

Tenzin smiled at the memory. “You always made Bumi’s the fastest… usually right into a snowbank.”

“Hey, speed was my specialty!” Bumi said proudly. “Control was someone else’s job.”

Kya laughed. “Control was no one’s job.”

They rounded a bend, and another memory surfaced.

“Remember that time we tricked Bumi into jumping into one of the fishing holes?” Tenzin said with a grin.

“Oh, Spirits,” Kya muttered, already giggling.

“He nearly got stuck under the ice!” Tenzin continued, shaking his head. “Then he got sick for three days. I’ve never seen Dad so mad.”

“I thought we were finally gonna get spanked,” Kya added. “I swear, he looked like he was considering it.”

They all burst into laughter again, loud and unguarded, carried away on the wind.

For a little while longer, they weren’t the Air Nomad Master, the wandering healer, and the decorated general.

They were just Bumi, Kya, and Tenzin—three siblings walking through the snow, their boots crunching against the ice, wrapped in thick coats, hoods pulled tight against the cutting wind. For a moment, it felt like the old days, when their biggest concern had been who could slide the farthest down the hill or build the tallest snowman without it toppling.

Overhead, the clouds rumbled, dark and brooding, flashes of lightning dancing behind the grey veil.

“Huh,” Bumi said, pausing and stroking the tip of his beard. “Storm clouds. That’s rare around here. Think it’ll rain?”

“It never rains here,” Tenzin replied, his voice steady as ever. “Too cold. Precipitation usually comes down as snow. But I’ll admit, this does feel… strange.”

Kya shrugged, pulling her cloak tighter. “Everything’s been strange lately.”

A few more minutes passed in silence, the kind only siblings could share—familiar and comfortable, even in the cold.

“I’m glad to see you’re doing all right, though,” Bumi said at last, a tinge of uncharacteristic seriousness in his tone. “Mom was worried about you a few years back.”

Tenzin glanced over. “Oh? And why is that?”

“She thought you were taking Korra’s death harder than you let on,” Bumi said. “Wanted me to talk to you, but you know how I am with touchy-feely stuff.”

“You never sent a letter,” Tenzin said, with a faint smile.

Bumi scoffed. “You didn’t need one. Mom may still baby you, but let me say this—you’re tougher than most of the bastards I served with. You had your wife, your kids, and Mom. Honestly, I was more worried about her than you. She was alone.”

“Hey, I was here,” Kya interjected indignantly.

Bumi snorted. “Please. Aren’t you on your third spiritual retreat? One more ‘journey of self-discovery’ and you’re gonna fold inward like a lotus pastry.”

“Shut up,” Kya muttered, cheeks flushing. But then she exhaled and her voice softened. “You’re right, though. It hit her hard. She saw Korra like one of her grandkids. And when she couldn’t heal her…” she trailed off, shaking her head. “It broke something in her.”

Tenzin’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Thank you for staying with her, Kya. I didn’t realize how badly she’d taken it.”

“I did what I could,” Kya replied quietly.

“Korra’s death affected all of us,” Tenzin continued. “But I found peace in time. Airbenders can’t carry grief forever.”

Bumi exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring as they continued walking. “Damn shame what happened to the kid. That’s coward’s work—ambushing a kid, killing her right in front of her dad. You know we’ve been given kill-on-sight orders for anyone tied to the Red Lotus?”

Tenzin blinked. “I hadn’t heard that.”

“Yeah,” Bumi said grimly. “First international threat with unified retaliation since Ozai and Azula. All four nations are hunting them. I figured they’d be hanging from a tree by now. But it’s been years. Still not a trace.”

The sky rumbled again, louder this time. A gust of frigid wind sliced through their coats like a knife.

“Yeesh,” Kya muttered, shivering. “Let’s head back in. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it actually looks like it might rain.”

Tenzin gave a small nod but turned to Bumi before they left. “Have you heard of a man called the Lotus Killer?”

Bumi raised an eyebrow, his tone dropping into something quieter, almost grim.
“Yeah. Real ghost story stuff. Supposedly this guy stalks Red Lotus cells for weeks—watching them, learning their patterns. Then, one night, when everything’s quiet and no one’s expecting it… he hits. No survivors. No screams. Just ash and bodies, scattered like leaves in the wind.”

He leaned back, arms folded behind his head, gaze distant.
“And here’s the thing—he doesn’t just kill them. He burns everything. Tents. Tools. Livestock. Even the trees around their camps if they’re too close. But never the children. No, the kids he blindfolds. Ties a strip of cloth over their eyes so they don’t have to see what happens to the rest.”

Tonraq flinched slightly at that, though he said nothing. Of course he would blindfold the children. Whatever he did next… it wasn’t something you wanted burned into a kid’s memory.

“Can we not talk about all this gruesome stuff?” Kya interrupted, grimacing. “Honestly, you two are killing the mood—”

And then, the smell hit them.

Ozone. Sharp, metallic, and wrong.

BOOOOOOM!!!

Thunder crashed down like the wrath of the spirits themselves. Tenzin felt the tremor in his chest before his ears could register the sound, like the sky had cracked open above them. Light filled his eyes, stark white and blinding. A bolt of lightning slammed down into the distant ice with brutal force—and then another, and another, until it was a barrage. Somewhere in the distance, about ten miles or so way from where they were, lighting was raining down on something with a type of power and precision he’d only ever seen from one person.

His father.  The Avatar.

Flashes lit up the horizon like strobe fire. The sound was relentless—rolling thunder like a battle drum that wouldn’t stop. It had been going on for nearly a full minute now. And it wasn’t stopping.

“That’s not natural,” Tenzin muttered to himself, wide-eyed. “That’s bending. It has to be.”

“Holy SHIT!” Bumi whooped, half-laughing. “What kind of bender does that?!”

“We should go for help!” Tenzin shouted over the noise. “This could be serious—this could be a creature or a powerful bender, or—”

“Go for help?” Bumi cut in, grinning like a madman. “Tenzin, we’re Avatar Aang’s kids. We are the cavalry!”

“I’m being serious, Bumi!” Tenzin snapped. “We don’t even know what we’re walking into!”

“Last one there’s a rotten badger-frog!” Kya called out gleefully as she launched herself forward, sliding on a wave of snow, her bending lifting her across the frozen plains like a waterborne missile.

Bumi whooped again and dashed after her with reckless joy, his boots pounding against the ice.

Tenzin groaned and summoned his air scooter, already regretting his decision to leave his tea unfinished.

“Honestly,” he muttered under his breath, “these two are going to get us killed one day.”

And with that, he raced after his siblings—toward the lightning, the thunder, and whatever chaos waited beyond the snow.