At first, the girl didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary. 

To Toph, watching lazily from the shade of a doorway, far enough removed from the crowd that the vague sense of hysteric anxiety didn't quite touch him, she just seemed like another one of the orphanage girls. Skinny, dark-haired, probably two years younger than him at most, dressed in a conservative smock that made her look far older. She was certainly not the most nervous of the bunch-- there'd been a good few crying incidents, to Antonio's concern and to his vague amusement-- but she clambered onto the left plate of the giant brassy weighing scale with a jerkiness that betrayed at least a hint of worry. 

And who could blame her? Toph had never been Weighed-- such was the privilege accorded to the only son of the King of the Western Provinces--  but he could imagine what it must be like to have thousands of lifetimes' worth of good deeds and bad summed up and broadcast to your entire town. The pressure. The guilt, if you were unlucky enough to dip below equilibrium. The whispers of the crowd, judging you. And based on what? Actions you had no control over? 

(He supposed it would be worse in his case. He remembered it all, and he was still not a particularly good person.) 

The pause before anything happened was always the worst moment. For a second, the entire town square was silent. The girl looked down at the government official checking names off of a long scroll, at the long line of teenagers snaking from the orphanage doors to the pavilion the scales were mounted on, at the captivated crowd, at Toph and Antonio, at the entire province, and the seas surrounding it. And then she rose.

It was painfully slow at first. The scales creaked as the girl, who'd been knocked over and now peered wide-eyed over the lip of the bowl, shot up about a foot into the air. And then she went flying up, faster than anything Toph had seen all day. She rose higher and higher, and conversely, the other bowl, weighed down by the specially-cast gold balls-- weighted based on some complex alchemical formula, Antonio had explained earlier-- sunk lower. The government official stood petrified as the girl, now nearly as high as the scales could go without breaking entirely, screamed out for help. Toph's mouth was open, but the shock had turned his synapses to stone, and he felt just as stupidly powerless as the rest of the commonfolk--

"Take the weights out!" Antonio yelled, then, and it was like the crowd broke from its stupor. The official, as well as a few of the more brave-looking villagers, stepped forward and began lugging the weights out of the other bowl. There was a moment, there, where it seemed like it could go either way: the scales might have tipped too far and broken, the weighted bowl crashing through the pavilion, the orphan girl flung high into the air, and even as they kept unloading the balls, the men stared up at the scales, which let out a sharp, drawn-out creak, like the call of a bird diving for prey. And then the girl came slowly, slowly downwards, and the village cheered. 

Toph glanced wide-eyed at Antonio. "What was that?" he asked, slightly breathless. 

"That," Antonio said, looking even more wonderstruck, "was someone almost completely morally pure." 

Toph didn't have a head for alchemy; the formulae and the materials and the measurements and the hint of magic had never quite come as intuitively to him as it did to Antonio, and yet the significance of what he'd just seen registered deep within him. He didn't see the scales, nor did he notice how, even now, with all the weights gone, the girl still had to be helped out of the bowl that hovered eight feet above ground, but he saw her eyes, wide and open and innocent. And he believed it. 

For a second, she saw him too. He could've sworn it. And then her eyes widened, face contorted in another scream, and a gunshot rang out, deafening her and everyone else. Toph saw it in slow-motion before his brain had time to process what he was doing. A red cloak, the gleam of a musket barrel, a head of dark hair. Toph dove and felt strong muscled flesh connect with his fists. Another shot rang out, and even with the smell of gunpowder choking and dizzying in its headiness, Toph saw that it had missed any living creatures by a comfortable amount and had collided with the dirt path leading up to the pavilion. Propelled by his weight, as the crowd cleared a space around them and the man collapsed under his frame, Toph wrestled for control of the gun and finally pulled it free. 

"Hands off me, royal scum," snarled the man, voice petrifying with hatred, but Toph didn't flinch. He registered Antonio's concerned shout in his periphery, and, confident in his aim, tossed the musket towards him. It was a moment of weakness, still, and he paid for it: the man tossed him to the side and towered over him, and Toph, though he had the knowledge and experience of a thousand lifetimes, was still physically no match for him once the element of surprise had been taken away. The punch landed square in his ribs, and he choked. Another one, in his side. He could feel the blood staining his tunic. The girl was screaming again, screaming his name. So she'd recognized him at last. 

The scream centered him, and he launched forward just as the man went in for another attack. Toph twisted his arm, lunched for his exposed throat, and then it was over. Antonio and some of the beefy townspeople and the bodyguards that had been lurking somewhere in the shadows, stationed in case of situations like this, were lugging the shooter off of him. There was a ringing in his ears. "I am only the first of us," the man said, breath ragged even as his arms were shackled behind his back. His eyes, cold and steely, were fixed only on Toph. "We will rise up. We will be free." 

The king paced rapidly before them. "You should've waited for my men to step in," he said. 

Toph was silent. 

"You are my only child, Christopher. The only one left to inherit this throne when I am gone. You know I cannot afford to lose you." 

He paced faster. Toph saw his jewel-encrusted fingers twist around each other, but did not raise his head to meet the King's eyes. 

"You were stupid. Behaving like a bloodthirsty child, not a responsible man." 

The room felt empty without its usual inhabitants. Antonio would usually be by his side, painfully attentive even when he had a book of some kind to occupy him. The palace guards would be stationed at every corner of the room. The king's advisors would be bustling around, whispering in his ear or dealing with guests. And the king himself would be up on his throne, dealing with everything except the too quiet, too empty son. Weren't they the picture of a perfect father-son duo? Toph had a vague sense of being the king's own blood, but he registered it in the same way that he felt the pain of his injuries after the palace doctors had dosed him up on a blend of herbs that made him lightheaded and off-kilter. "I saved them," he finally said. "I saved lives today, Father." 

"Those people would still have been alive had you let the guards intervene. And you would not be sitting here with bloodstains on your clothes." Sure enough, when Toph looked down at his chest, he saw that the blood had soaked through the bandages and stained the fresh tunic he had put on in his quarters. "Christopher, I need you alive."

"To take over. I know that." Toph's eyes fell on the throne. He'd found it imposing as a child, the elaborate gilded back and the lavish russet cushioning. Now, it only brought back more memories: him, perched on one armrest, a bottle of liquor in each hand, head thrown back laughing. Antonio, looking ridiculously awed when Toph had brought him up to the podium for the first time at night and told him he could sit down. Spilling cream on it when he had just been getting used to gangly legs and too-long arms. They were the good kind of memories, the new kind. It made him braver. "But this country needs a leader who will fight for its people. Die for them, even."

The king stopped. "And you think I wouldn't do that?" he hissed. "You think I don't know or care that my people are being picked off by the day by rebel groups and criminals? That the Hinterlands are, even now, descending into lawlessness?" 

Toph stared at him. 

"Do you ever pay attention to what goes on in here? Because then you'd know that being King is about more than courage. It's petty politics, it's appearances, it's making the better choice out of several terrible ones. And if I have to be the bad guy, have to come down harder on people than I want to-- that's the price I have to pay. That's the price you'll have to pay someday, God forbid."

"And you called me here for a lesson in diplomacy?" Toph asked brazenly. He'd blame it on the concoction turning his brain fuzzy, later, but in that moment he was spurred on by centuries of suppressed anger and pain-- guards tearing her hands from his, pushing him outside the gates, metal slamming against metal, pushing him inside a cell, rats scurrying around his bare feet picking for crumbs in a too-dark room, screaming in another tongue for her, for freedom, for justice-- because, God, if there was anyone who knew what it was like to be the bad guy, to lie and manipulate and scheme, it was him.

"I called you here," said the king, and for the first time his father seemed old to him, "because I need you to leave. A tour of the Provinces to keep the peace, send a message of goodwill, liaise with governors and local elders and alchemists. Antonio will fill you in, no doubt. You'll leave as soon as you recover." 

Toph blinked. "You want me to do that?" 

"Well, who else would I ask?" the king said impatiently. Toph had no answer to that. He let out a long, weary sigh, letting his knuckles knead the lined surface of his forehead. "Go rest, Christopher. You look like you need it." 

"Thank you, father. I'll make you proud," Toph said, suddenly ashamed. 

As he turned to go, the king called out after him: "Her name's Maya, by the way." 

"Who?"

"The girl coming with you on your trip. You know, from earlier today." 

"The girl on the scales?" It was a stupid question. There had been hundreds of girls on the scales. But Toph saw those blown-open brown eyes, aflame with light bouncing off of the brass surrounding her, so clearly in his mind it was like she was right in front of him. "Why her?" 

"Strategic purposes." The king waved a hand dismissively. "Having a girl who's apparently morally perfect, God knows how, as a symbol of the regime is slightly intimidating to even the most obstinate of governors. The alchemy doesn't lie, after all." 

Toph turned around slowly, eyes narrowing. "And she agreed to this? To come along with us?"

"Well," the king said, smiling slightly, "the details don't matter. All that matters is that you succeed in the upcoming months. You know what's at stake, Christopher." 

Did he?