I stood opposite my trainer, feet planted firmly against the scorched stone floor of the courtyard. Heat lingered in the air, the faint scent of smoke clinging to every breath. The man before me was seasoned for his age, somewhere between thirty and forty; his posture straight yet loose, honed by decades of discipline. Fine crimson and black robes draped his frame, embroidered with subtle flame patterns that shimmered under the afternoon sun.
We faced one another in silence.
His stance was deliberate. Hands spaced wide, torso angled forward, right leg drawn back slightly, balanced and ready. I remained still, body relaxed, arms raised defensively over my chest. My breathing slowed, breathe in, breathe out, controlled and measured.
Then I struck.
A sharp jab snapped forward, fire blooming from my fist like a rattled serpent. The trainer reacted instantly, sidestepping with practiced ease. He spun on his heel, sleeve flaring as he swept his arm through the air. Flames arced outward in a crescent, roaring toward me.
I coiled my legs and launched myself upward just as the fire tore across the ground beneath me. Heat grazed my boots. While airborne, I twisted my torso and expelled another burst of flame, angling it downward and backward. The recoil carried me higher, redirecting my momentum.
I landed lightly, knees bent, absorbing the impact.
The trainer was already moving.
He closed the distance with fluid precision, weaving left and right, breath controlled, eyes sharp. I inhaled deeply and spread my arms wide, mimicking the shape of a bird's wings. The movement was natural, giving birth to living flames, refined through endless days and nights of practice.
His eyes widened.
I clapped my hands forward.
Twin jets of compressed flame exploded outward, not as raw fire but as a force of violent gusts infused with heat. The ground cracked beneath the pressure. The trainer reacted instantly, flipping forward, narrowly avoiding being consumed as the blast tore past where he had stood.
That was the opening.
I pivoted, hands slamming against the stone as I kicked upward, letting my upper body propel me forward. My legs snapped out in a descending arc, a drop kick aimed straight for his guard.
He raised his arms to block, clearly expecting a physical strike.
Fire erupted from beneath my feet.
The explosion caught him off guard. The blast sent him skidding backward across the courtyard, robes singed as he crashed to his knees, breath knocked from his lungs.
Silence followed.
The trainer exhaled slowly, then laughed a deep, genuine sound. He pushed himself upright, brushing any lingering dust from his sleeves before offering me a satisfied smile.
"It seems you've improved considerably, Prince Zuko," he said. "Though I suppose I should not be surprised. Genius runs strong within the royal family."
I straightened, releasing a quiet breath as my muscles relaxed. Perfected posture was expected from the royal family. Disciplined. Controlled.
Inside, I frowned.
Genius?
I was no genius. I was merely a man who had awakened inside the body of a young prince, his memories bleeding into mine, his instincts blending with my own. His pain, his expectations, his burdens. Yet despite all that, I felt no loyalty to the ideals the boy once clung to so desperately.
I would rise regardless.
"Your praise is unnecessary," I replied calmly. "I had an excellent teacher. You should take pride in your own skill rather than attribute my progress to talent."
The man chuckled, waving off the compliment. "Flattery does not suit me either, Your Highness. I only do my duty to ensure all Firebenders may improve themselves. Now, I must take my leave. Prepare for tomorrow."
I dismissed him with a nod and watched as he departed. Turning away, I noticed a small group of servants lingering near the courtyard's edge, maids who had clearly been watching. When our eyes met, they flushed crimson and scattered, giggling like startled birds.
I sighed.
Ignoring them, I walked through the palace halls, my expression carefully neutral. The Fire Nation palace was a monument to power with obsidian pillars, golden accents, walls etched with stories of a line of conquerors. Every step echoed with authority, and an aura of a caged beast.
When I reached the throne room, I knelt without hesitation. Both knees to the floor. Spine straight. Eyes forward.
Impassive.
Fire Lord Ozai regarded his son in silence.
Golden eyes, so similar to his own, studied the boy kneeling before him. His face was composed, yet beneath the surface, thoughts churned. Ozai remembered how Zuko had changed after the disappearance of his mother. How the boy had thrown himself into training, isolating himself, rejecting comfort, ignoring all distractions.
The weakness had burned away.
Zuko no longer flinched under scrutiny. He met commands with unwavering focus and even dared to hold Ozai's gaze when spoken to. That fire pleased him.
From an embarrassment… into something worthy.
If only the same could be said for his daughter.
Ozai scoffed inwardly.
"What is it you wish to discuss," he finally said, voice sharp and commanding, "that you dare enter my presence without summons?"
I did not answer immediately.
The man before me was not my father. He had never been. He was my king...my lord, and I would treat him as such.
"I believe my time within the palace has begun to limit my growth," I said evenly. "If I am to truly serve the Fire Nation, I must expand my strength on the battlefield. I seek to bring glory to our great nation."
I kept my gaze steady, unyielding.
In my mind, I saw him not as a god-king, but as a ruler destined to fall, to lose his throne, his legacy, and eventually his life. He did not know that.
But I did.
Ozai's lips curled upward.
A smile.