The Fire Nation Prince

Chapter 52: Mirrorflame

Azula stood by the tall arched window, arms crossed, her silk robe cascading in molten folds around her ankles. The cold moonlight made the gold embroidery shimmer like living fire. Her hair was loose for once, draping over one shoulder, and her brow furrowed in thought.

She was calculating.

For the past half hour, she had been pacing the room, revisiting a thousand ways she could break Zuko down again. Public humiliation? Subtle sabotage? Perhaps some well-placed whispers through the court’s less loyal tongues? There had to be something, something, that would remind the world he was still the disgrace who once wept at his father’s feet.

Azula clicked her tongue as she turned toward her bed. Her frustration was simmering, and for tonight, it would have to be enough. She pulled back the velvet covers...

Knock. Knock.

She blinked, surprised. It was nearly midnight.

“Come in,” she called, sharp and irritable.

The door creaked open.

In walked Zuko.

He moved with a slight limp, favoring his ribs, but his presence was… centered, his movements deliberate. He wore a deep crimson night robe tied loosely around his waist, his dark hair falling in unbound strands around his neck. There were shadows under his eyes, but they did nothing to dull the glint in them.

Azula’s brow twitched. “What in spirit’s name are you doing here?”

Zuko raised a brow, the corner of his mouth curling with a teasing smirk. “Why? You nervous to see me?”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I’m not in the mood, Zuzu.”

He stepped closer, the barest drag in his gait betraying the damage Zhao had done. “Besides,” she added, cool and condescending, “shouldn’t you be recovering from your little match? Zhao wasn’t exactly a pushover.”

Zuko smiled, and it was the kind that made her skin crawl, not because it was threatening, but because it was so calm. So unlike him.

“I’ve had worse,” he said.

He kept walking until he was just a step away. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face.

Her posture stiffened. “What do you want, Zuko?”

He tilted his head, golden eyes studying her like a puzzle he’d almost solved. “What do you want, Azula?”

The question hit harder than she expected. Her jaw tightened.

“Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not.”

“Then why are you here?” she snapped, backing away a pace. “Don’t tell me you limped all the way here just to bother me.”

He shrugged. “You’re acting like a brat.”

Her nostrils flared. “Careful, brother. You might’ve gotten stronger, but you’re still not me.”

“No,” Zuko agreed, voice low. “You have the talent.”

Then he paused.

“Or… you used to.”

Azula’s eyes narrowed into slits.

Suddenly the entire room changed.

The soft flicker of orange candlelight turned icy blue, all at once. The flames roared higher, dancing wildly in every lantern and sconce, their glow casting stark shadows that cut across the floor like blades. Heat rolled off her in waves, not from anger alone, but from command.

She stepped toward him, her nightrobe trailing behind like a queen’s cloak.

“You think just because you beat filth like Zhao,” she spat, “you can challenge me?”

Zuko didn’t flinch.

“You’ve seen nothing,” he said, voice quiet but sharp. “I’ve fought monsters, real ones. And benders who would’ve turned Zhao into ash with a glance. I’ve risked my life in a dozen nations, facing death for every step I took.”

He took another step, unfazed by the blue fire writhing at the corners of the room.

“While you’ve been here,” he continued, “polished and pampered, molded by Father, kept under his shadow like some delicate weapon he hasn’t drawn yet… I was growing. Learning. Becoming my own person.”

He suddenly reached out, grabbed her shoulders, and turned her toward the ornate mirror that hung above the vanity.

Her reflection stared back, proud, regal, radiant, and yet… carved from ice.

“Look,” Zuko whispered. “Tell me: is that really you? Or is that who Father made you?”

Her hands trembled at her sides.

“Do you even want to be Fire Lord, Azula? Or have you just told yourself that so many times you can’t remember what you wanted before it?”

She shoved him.

Hard.

He stumbled back across the room, colliding with the edge of the chaise lounge. The impact knocked the air from his lungs.

“I’m warning you, Zuko,” she growled.

He pulled himself upright slowly, rubbing his ribs but never taking his eyes off her.

Then he walked forward again, slower this time, careful, but stopped exactly one meter away. Just far enough to show he was listening. Just close enough to show he wasn’t afraid.

“You don’t get to come in here and psychoanalyze me,” she said. “You’re not smarter than me. You’re not stronger than me.”

“Then tell me why you’re shaking,” Zuko said softly.

Azula’s fists clenched, but she said nothing.

“I want to know what you want. Not what Father wants. Not what the court expects. You.”

She glared at him, her breathing uneven, and for a long moment the fire in the room trembled as if caught in a silent breath.

Finally, her voice came out in a hiss.

“I want to be Fire Lord.”

Zuko said nothing.

“I’ve earned it. I’ve studied every law, read every scroll, perfected every technique. I’ve trained for this since before I could walk. I’ve spent my life showing Father I deserve his crown.”

“And I haven’t?” Zuko asked. “You think pain doesn’t count as training?”

She scoffed, but he stepped closer.

“I’ve been training for this too, Azula. I just didn’t do it in a palace.”

Their eyes locked, two twin flames flickering in opposite winds.

“I want to become Fire Lord,” Zuko said, his voice steady, calm, resolute.

Azula scoffed. “You think that makes you special?”

“I’m not finished.”

She rolled her eyes and turned from him. “Well, I don’t care what else you want.”

“You might have to…”

The shift in his tone made her hesitate, just long enough for him to cross the final space between them.

And then…

He kissed her.

Not gentle. Not violent. But direct. Certain. The kind of kiss that carried weight… not just desire, but intention.

Azula went rigid. Her eyes widened, hands frozen mid-motion, breath caught between fury and disbelief.

Then, with a snarl of rage and revulsion, she shoved him.

Hard.

Zuko flew back, slamming into her double doors with a bone-jarring thud. The wood groaned but held. He winced as he hit the floor, his robe twisting around him.

Azula stood over him, chest rising and falling with each seething breath. Her fists were clenched, eyes burning. Her blue flames shrieked across the walls.

“You’re insane,” she hissed.

Zuko pushed himself up slowly, rubbing his ribs, smirking despite the pain.

“I want you, Azula.”

She stared at him like he’d vomited poison in front of her altar.

“What did you just say?”

“I want you… as mine.”

Her entire body tensed, like a string drawn back to its breaking point.

“I’m not a thing you can want,” she snapped. “I’m not something you take, Zuko.”

“No,” he said, rising to his full height, ignoring the bruises blooming across his back. “But you’re something I choose.”

Her expression twisted, sickened.

“Get out.”

Zuko blinked.

“Get out of my room.”

He didn’t move. Not yet.

“Azula…”

“This isn’t a game,” she warned. Her flames surged, the air rippling around her. “You don’t touch me. You don’t kiss me. You don’t want me.”

Zuko’s face darkened, the smirk fading. “This isn’t over, Azula.”

She didn’t reply. Only the blue fire answered for her, snarling against the glass and gold.

He turned toward the door.

“Remember,” he said over his shoulder, “my deal with Father.”

He paused at the threshold, glancing back once.

“Anything I want,” he repeated.

And then he was gone.

The door shut behind him with a low, echoing thud, leaving Azula alone in the room, her breath sharp and her flames still flickering blue.

The door shut behind him with a satisfying thud, and for a moment, Victor Crane, wearing Zuko’s battered, princely skin, just stood there.

His chest was heaving, not from exertion, but from tension. From the fire barely caged inside him.

Each breath scraped against his bruised ribs, his body aching from the earlier duel, but that wasn’t what had him wincing now.

It was the high.

The kind of pulse-pounding, nerve-sparking thrill only risk could deliver.

He clenched his fists and took a long breath through his nose, eyes shut, letting the heat cool just a little.

Then, slowly, his scowl curled into a grin he couldn’t hold back if he tried.

“Almost too easy…” he muttered.

Azula would take him seriously now. He could feel it. Whatever smug, coiled dominance she’d felt toward him, gone. She was rattled. Unsettled. She would start making plans tonight, maybe even reshuffle some of her pawns. She would prepare herself to crush him.

Good.

He wanted her unfocused. Wanted her preoccupied.

Wanted her off balance

.

He had intended to wait. To hold off on his personal cravings until after things with Aang had been handled, after the capital shook beneath the weight of his next move.

But patience had its limits.

And Azula, sharp as she was, could have ruined everything if she stayed focused on him and his actions.

This little curve ball? It bought him time. And instability.

‘She wouldn’t be able to think clearly now.’

Still… he wasn’t blind.

He knew there would be consequences. Azula wasn’t the type to let humiliation or confusion sit quietly in her chest. She would strike back, and she’d aim to make him bleed for it.

But Victor welcomed that.

“As Master Splinter once told Leonardo…” he whispered to himself, his smile widening despite the throb in his ribs. “No plan survives contact with the enemy. It is your adaptability that raises the chances of you getting what you want.”

He exhaled sharply, the pain finally catching up. His smirk dimmed as his hand moved to his side, pressing into the bruises beneath his robe. His teeth clenched, the fire in his chest flaring just briefly before dimming again.

‘Not yet,’ he told himself. ‘Just a few more days.’

He turned down the hallway, his bare feet silent against the polished stone floor.

And he never noticed the eyes that followed him.

A shape shifted from the shadows near one of the tall pillars in the corridor. Silent. Still.

The shadow took a single step into the dim torchlight, just enough for the flame to catch the curve of a gray beard and the glint of thoughtful, narrowed eyes.

Uncle Iroh watched as Zuko vanished down the hall, his brow furrowed, lips a thin line.

His expression was unreadable.

And then he was gone.

[A/N: Can’t wait to see what happens next? Get exclusive early access on .com/saiyanprincenovels.]