The Fire Nation Prince

Chapter 65: The Fire Beneath Flesh

The late afternoon sun cast a coppery hue through the narrow windows high along the volcanic corridor. The light did not reach the inner dungeon, but its presence gave a lingering warmth to the upper air, mocking the chill that clung to the stone chamber below.

Zuko descended the winding steps, the flickering torches barely touching his shadowed face. He could already hear it, Aang’s ragged breathing echoing through the cavernous cell, broken by occasional murmurs, incoherent and trembling. The Prince’s boots rang sharply against the floor, silencing the whispers between the sages until he stepped into the room.

“Prince Zuko,” said Elder Yoroku solemnly, bowing lightly with the other four sages in sequence- Renji, Meitou, Duan and Varra. The five had changed robes, now clad in dark red anb black silks stained with traces of oil, ash, and herbal tinctures. A wooden table to the side bore scrolls, pestles, blood-dark bowls, and small phials that shimmered green and silver.

“He’s still conscious?” Zuko asked as he approached the iron-wrought cage where Aang hung limply in spirit-wrought chains, his wrists and ankles suspended just high enough to prevent rest. His tunic was soaked through with sweat; he looked pale, his lips chapped and cracked. But his eyes were open, half-lidded, fevered, and locked on Zuko the moment he stepped close.

“Zuko…” Aang rasped. “Please… let me go…”

Zuko did not reply at first. Instead, he turned to the sages. “You’re sure these procedures won’t trigger the Avatar State?”

“We are not sure of anything,” Yoroku said. “But we are cautious. These techniques are designed to agitate the bond between the mortal vessel and the spiritual force within. Without severing it. We hope to learn how far the Spirit has fused with the boy, whether he is merely the vessel… or something more.”

Zuko’s face remained unreadable, but his voice cut sharp through the stale air. “If you trigger the State, if it breaks through, the chains won’t hold him. This cell won’t protect you. I’ve seen what the Avatar can do when pushed. I’ve seen what he did when I tried to kill him.”

He glanced at Aang again, eyes sunken, yet gleaming with a dim, smoldering light. “And if he becomes that again… none of you will survive.”

The sages exchanged tense glances. Then Meitou nodded. “Then we shall proceed with caution. Renji will begin.”

Renji, the youngest of the group, stepped forward, cradling a rounded glass vial filled with a shimmering, milky substance. “The White Ember Draft,” he explained. “Distilled from the heartwood of the Ember Lotus. This potion is a sacred relic of ancient spirit-seers. When consumed, it forces the soul into a state of rejection, spirit disjointed from flesh. If the Avatar’s soul is foreign, it will try to eject it. If it is fused… the reaction will be violent.”

Aang’s head lifted slightly. “Please… don’t…”

Renji said nothing. He uncorked the vial and approached. Two sages held Aang still as Renji poured the thick liquid down his throat. Aang gagged, struggling as the substance burned down into his core. For a moment, nothing happened. Then he screamed.

It began as a cry of pain, but quickly twisted into something raw and unnatural, the pitch breaking and warping. His body spasmed violently, shoulders wrenching against his bonds as his eyes rolled upward.

“His spirit’s rejecting it,” Renji murmured. “Watch…”

Suddenly, Aang’s chest heaved. A thick, glowing vapor erupted from his mouth and nostrils, like luminous breath, but unnatural in color, pale-blue and veined with gold. It hovered in the air for a moment before condensing and hissing against the stone like acid.

His chains strained, creaking with tension. The tattoos along his arms flickered, not with the light of the Avatar State, but with a dull, chaotic pulse, like a heart off-beat.

Zuko stepped forward instinctively. “End it.”

Renji hesitated. “He must expel it fully or the backlash…”

“End it!” Zuko barked.

Meitou moved fast, plunging a silver needle into Aang’s neck. The reaction was instant. Aang slumped, unconscious again. The mist vanished in an instant, drawn back into his body or the void.

The sages were quiet for a long moment. Finally, Renji turned to the others. “He expelled it… but not entirely. That spirit… it didn’t reject the boy. It fought to remain.”

Zuko folded his arms. “He didn’t just survive it. He resisted it. This wasn’t a test. It was a declaration. The spirit chose him.”

Yoroku’s face grew grim. “Then the second test may bring us closer to the truth. And closer to danger.”

---

The sages were silent. The final ritual had failed. Not violently, not dramatically, just… completely. No reaction. No rejection. No visible change. Raava was buried too deep, or too well-bound. The Avatar boy had neither awakened nor resisted.

“This proves nothing,” Shuun muttered, pacing.

“It proves everything,” Zuko replied coolly. “You couldn’t reach deeper because he’s not something you reach. He is him. You’ve been prodding a spirit that doesn’t want to be separated.”

Before Renji could respond, the heavy doors at the edge of the chamber burst open. The guards stiffened. Boots clanged in unison down the stone steps. Zuko turned sharply to see a familiar face leading the procession, Commander Zhao, his beard thick and eyes sharp with contempt.

“Prince Zuko,” Zhao said, stopping halfway down the steps. “Elder Sage. I bring orders directly from the Fire Lord.”

He held up a sealed scroll. Yoroku walked forward and broke it open. Zuko didn’t bother to read it. He knew what it meant the moment Zhao’s smug face entered the dungeon.

“Effective immediately,” Zhao announced, “I and my personal division will serve as the Avatar’s protection detail. The Fire Lord himself has commanded that no one, not even the Prince, shall interact with or remove the Avatar without express permission. We are to remain with him at all times for the next forty-eight hours.”

Two dozen soldiers in blood-red and jet-black armor filed in behind Zhao, their formation precise and overwhelming in the dim torchlight. The chamber, once echoing with the quiet crackle of fire and whispering sages, now filled with the sound of armor clinking and feet thudding in rhythm. They spread out like a net, encircling the cell, the sages, even Zuko.

Zhao looked at him then, not with malice, but challenge. His eyes gleamed like hot coals. Try something, they seemed to say. I dare you.

Zuko’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed even. “Go ahead, Zhao,” he said with forced calm, his eyes narrowing. “If you don’t mind, the sages and I should make like a tree and leave.”

“Gladly,” Zhao said. “Leave the rest to us.”

Zuko turned.

As he did, something changed.

The air around him shimmered faintly. Heat poured from his body in silent waves, not flame, not smoke, but pressure. It was a suffocating, invisible presence that made even the armored soldiers back away half a step. The torches closest to him flickered violently. One went out.

Renji flinched. Even Yoroku faltered. And Zhao, despite the thick wall of steel behind him, clenched his jaw and instinctively braced.

Zuko didn’t look back. He walked, slowly and deliberately, toward the stairs—his footsteps leaving warm prints behind on the stone, his fists clenched at his sides.

He climbed.

Steps. Checkpoint.

More steps. Another checkpoint. Then more stairs.

And another checkpoint.

Guards saluted but didn’t speak. None dared make eye contact. Every checkpoint was a pocket of silence, a fleeting pause in the furnace-like atmosphere Zuko carried with him like a second skin.

Finally, after the last checkpoint and final flight of stairs, he stepped into the palace hallway. The chill of the polished stone floors greeted him like a breeze. His aura faded with it—no longer fire, but control. No longer fury, but focus.

He exhaled once. Then he smiled.

“Bunch of idiots,” he muttered, the corners of his mouth twitching with dark satisfaction.

Down the corridor, the last light of day filtered through the palace windows. The sun was kissing the horizon, casting golden rays along the tiled floors. Dinner was nearing. The scent of roasted duck, garlic rice, and ginger broth drifted faintly down the long hallway.

Zuko’s stomach growled.

He hadn’t eaten all day.

Turning on his heel, he made his way to the dining hall, silent, composed, but already preparing the next move.

***

The moon hung like a ghostly eye in the heavens, veiled by thin wisps of cloud that drifted lazily across the night sky. Down below, the Fire Nation docks lay in near silence. The sea lapped gently against the iron hulls of moored ships, their black silhouettes swaying ever so slightly in rhythm with the tide. The air was still, heavy with the scent of oil, salt, and smoke.

On one of the smallest ships anchored farthest from the main fortress, the personal vessel of Prince Zuko, two cloaked figures moved across the deck with purposeful strides. Their boots landed softly on the metal floor, each step carefully placed to avoid drawing attention. A distant torch flared somewhere along the pier, and the faint shuffle of a patrolling guard echoed across the dock, then faded.

The pair descended a narrow ramp at the stern and crossed a small gangplank leading to the outer hold. Before them stood a thick metal door, featureless, save for a single viewing slot.

The shorter of the two reached out and knocked, tap tap… tap… tap tap tap… tap. A pause. Then tap.

From inside came a muffled voice: “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and a wall of warmth greeted them, dry, stinging heat that would’ve singed the brows of anyone not used to fire. Inside, a single torch flared on a wall sconce, its flames dancing high and hot. The soldier beneath it held a hand to the wall, his firebending subtly keeping the torch burning like a miniature inferno.

The pair lowered their hoods.

Lieutenant Jee’s stern face caught the torchlight, sharp shadows falling across his cheekbones. Beside him was a younger soldier, no more than seventeen, with dark eyes and a cautious expression.

“Is the bison ready?” the younger one asked quietly, glancing behind as if afraid someone might overhear even in the dead of night.

Jee stepped forward. “Prince Zuko says everything is in place to go down. We just need the bison now.”

The firebender by the torch nodded. “Everything is in order, Lieutenant. The Water Tribe boy… he taught us how to command the creature. It responds to voice and motion. We’ve trained quietly, as ordered.”

Jee exhaled, folding his arms. “Unfortunately, the prince was right to only move him during the dead of night.”

The soldier by the torch chuckled lightly, more from nerves than humor. “With his size? I also agree that it was the right choice.”

The torch crackled louder, sparks dancing up the wall. The three men stood in silence for a moment, the only sound the distant creak of the tide rocking the hull.

Outside, the clouds thinned just enough to let the moonlight spill across the deck in silver strands.

And somewhere, deep in the ship’s cargo bay, a faint groan vibrated through the metal, the ancient, sleepy breath of a sky bison waiting in the shadows.

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