The plan was simple in theory: fix the broken narrative of Prince Zuko.
Alex stood before the bronze mirror, staring into the golden eyes of an eight-year-old boy. He then took a deep breath, watching the small chest rise and fall. "My name is Zuko..."
Alex—no, Zuko—soon stepped away from the mirror. He needed to calibrate, knowing the lore better than the people living it.
The Fire Nation, under the influence of Sozin and now Azulon, believed that firebending came from rage. They fueled their power with anger, creating a volatile, explosive force. It was effective, but it was dirty fuel. It was like running a high-performance engine on crude oil.
The ancient Sun Warriors and Iroh understood its true source: the sun. Now, Zuko understood this too.
In the original story, Zuko struggled because his emotions were a chaotic storm. He was a boy desperate for love in a place that only respected power. But now, he didn't need Ozai's love. Neither did he care about the approval of a tyrant; he only cared about the mechanics of the system.
So he walked over to a decorative alcove where unlit candles sat in a golden holder. He picked one up and held it in his right hand. Then he widened his stance, grounding his feet against the wooden floor. He inhaled slowly through his nose, feeling the heat in his gut—the chi—and let it flow up his spine, through his shoulder, then down his arm.
He exhaled.
Whoosh.
A perfect, teardrop flame blossomed from the wick. It didn't flicker violently. Neither did it explode. It just burned a vibrant orange with a blue base.
"Too easy," Zuko smirked.
It was almost disappointing. The physical sensation was like moving a limb he hadn't used in years—stiff, but responsive.
The mental block that had plagued the original Zuko simply didn't exist anymore. He had the discipline of a man who knew that emotion was the enemy of precision.
As such, he spent the next hour testing his limits. He made the flame grow to the size of an apple, then shrink to the size of a pea. He also managed to move the flame from the candle to his fingertip, letting it dance across his knuckles. It didn't burn him. It felt like holding a warm cup of coffee. He was in total control.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound shattered his concentration as he extinguished the flame instantly.
When the door creaked open, a small face peered in. It was a girl with sharp features and a topknot that was pulled just a little too tight. She was roughly seven years old, but the malice was already there.
'Azula...'
"Zuzu, it's time to eat, and you're late. Mother and father sent me to come get you."
In the show, Zuko would have panicked, stammering an apology or yelling at her to get out. "Tell them I'm not hungry..."
Azula blinked. She wasn't used to dismissal by anyone other than her parents. So she stepped into the room to invade his space.
"What's wrong? Are you sick?"
Her tone suggested she was hoping for a yes since weakness was her favorite scent.
"No..." Zuko said, breaking eye contact. "I'm busy. Now leave."
The indifference stung her more than a shout would have. His response made her face scrunch up, for she didn't have a retort prepared for apathy.
"Fine," she huffed.
She then stuck her tongue out at him—a childish gesture that reminded Zuko she was, in fact, just a seven-year-old girl. After she spun on her heel and marched out of the room, the door clicked shut.
"Annoying..." Zuko muttered.
He could feel her potential, though. Even just standing in the doorway, her presence felt like static electricity before a storm. She was naturally gifted. If he didn't widen the gap between them now, she would crush him later.
So he went back to the candle. Focus. Breath. Heat.
Thirty minutes later, the door opened again. This time, the knock was more gentle. It was Ursa' she slipped inside as she carried a tray of fruit and tea.
"Zuko?" she whispered. "Azula said you weren't eating. Are you feeling alright?"
He looked at the woman who was supposed to be his mother. She was beautiful and kind, the moral compass of the original story. But to him, she was a variable he couldn't afford to miscalculate.
"I'm fine, mother," he lied, allowing a touch of weariness to creep into his voice. He then sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples. "Just… a headache, is all."
Ursa's shoulders dropped in relief. She set the tray down and sat beside him before placing a cool hand on his forehead. "You should rest more then."
"I will," he said. Then, he seized the opening. "But… Mother? I've been thinking."
"About what?"
"My firebending... I feel like I'm falling behind. Could we perhaps make my lessons harder?"
Ursa's expression shifted from concern to surprise. Zuko usually dreaded his lessons. He usually begged to feed the turtle-ducks rather than practice forms.
"You want… extra training?" she asked.
"I want a reputable teacher," he corrected. "Someone who can push me beyond my limits."
Ursa hesitated for a moment, not expecting to hear this request. She hated the pressure the royal family placed on him—but she nodded. "If that is what you truly want, Zuko. I'll speak to your father."
"Thank you... mother."
As she left, closing the door softly, Zuko dropped the act. He grabbed a slice of melon from the tray and took a bite. It was sweet, far better than the synthetic stuff back in his real apartment.
✟
The next week was a blur of repetition and refinement.
The new tutor Ursa procured was a stern military man named Captain Li. He expected Zuko to be clumsy, emotional, and slow. Yet Zuko shattered those expectations on day one.
He treated bending forms like he treated his fencing matches back in the real world: minimize wasted movement, maximize impact. He didn't scream or grunt like the other firebenders.
When instructed to create a fire shield, he both blocked and angled the flames to deflect the heat back at the attacker.
By the fifth day, Captain Li was sweating during their sparring sessions.
"Excellent form, Prince Zuko," Li panted, wiping soot from his forehead. "Your… aggression has tempered. You fight like a veteran."
"I'm just focused," Zuko replied, bowing formally.
He knew Li would report this to Ozai. In the Fire Nation, competence was the only currency that mattered. If Zuko were suddenly competent, Ozai would pay attention.
And he did.
Two days later, a summons arrived from Ozai, requesting Zuko's presence in his office.
The office itself was a cavernous hall dominated by the family's emblems. Ozai sat against a simple chair like a figure always hungry for power.