The Fire Nation Prince

Chapter 40: A Cruel Dream

The scream echoed from his mouth before his eyes even opened. Victor sat bolt upright in bed, his ribs howled in protest, the torn skin along his back screaming with fire. He clutched at the sheets, drenched in sweat. His chest rose and fell like a drum beaten in panic. For a heartbeat, no, several, he didn’t know where he was.

White walls.

Soft sheets.

Clean scent of sterilized plastic and blooming antiseptic.

A heart monitor chirped gently to his left, and tubes trailed into the bend of his elbow. He blinked once, twice. A skyline loomed in the distance, tall spires of glass and concrete bathed in morning mist.

New York.

The silence was broken by the gentle shuffle of footsteps. A young nurse in blue scrubs entered the room with a clipboard in hand and a warm smile on her face. She didn’t look startled to see him conscious, only relieved.

“You’re awake, Victor,” she said, moving swiftly to check the vitals on the machines. “We were beginning to worry.”

He stared at her like she wasn’t real.

“…Hospital?” His voice was hoarse. It felt too heavy, too old to be his own.

“Yes. You’ve been in a coma for a week,” she answered. “You were struck by a delivery truck downtown. Do you remember any of that?”

Her fingers worked quickly and efficiently. Temperature, pulse, ocular reaction. She made quick notes.

“I…” Victor-Zuko, tried to speak. His throat was dry, words caught in the back like he hadn’t spoken in months. “So it was all just… a dream?”

“A dream?” she asked, pausing to glance at him.

He didn’t answer. How could he?

Aang. Azula. Katara. The siege. The Avatar. Fire and earth clashing like ancient gods.

“Iroh…” he whispered under his breath.

“I’m sorry?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

“You’re lucky, you know,” she said kindly. “Your father’s downstairs. He’s been here every day.”

The words caught in his chest like a knife. “My father…?”

Before he even woke up in the body of Zuko, he hadn’t seen any of his family in 18 months. Usually he saw them twice a year but things had changed. His ambitions and work got him busy and he pushed everyone away. Living him all alone on that fateful day. Losing everything he had worked for.

The nurse didn’t notice the look in his eyes, the utter devastation. She smiled as she finished scribbling her notes.

“I’ll tell the doctor you’re awake. He’ll want to check on you. Try not to move too much, alright? You’re lucky to be alive. Suffering not as much as expected. You’ve got some nasty bruises and a hairline fracture in your ribs.”

She left before he could speak again.

Victor slowly looked at the chair beside the bed.

Worn cushion. A jacket draped lazily across the arm. A half-empty coffee cup. A small plastic bag of snacks.

He could almost feel the presence of someone having been there. Could almost smell his father’s cologne, citrusy and sharp like bitter memory.

You’re alive. You never left. The words tumbled through his mind like broken glass.

His breath caught. Emotion welled in his throat.

The door creaked open again.

“Mr. Claude, we have a surprise for you,” the nurse’s voice called cheerfully from beyond the curtain.

Claude. His father’s name.

Footsteps.

Laughter.

A man’s voice, joking with someone just outside the door. That laugh, deep and tired and so painfully familiar.

Victor turned his head toward the door, his chest tightening like a vice.

His father stepped in.

Or…

He would have.

Because just before the man’s silhouette broke the curtain’s edge…

Zuko gasped and woke up.

For real.

This time, the pain was very real.

Bandages clung to his side, soaked in dried blood. The pillow beneath his head felt damp with sweat. The stone walls were cold, and the candlelight barely flickered across the old Fire Nation architecture of his private quarters.

He stared at the ceiling.

Then, he screamed.

Not in pain.

In anger. In heartbreak. In grief.

“FUCK YOU!” he bellowed, slamming his fist into the mattress. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

Tears welled in his eyes, though he refused to let them fall. His chest heaved. His throat was raw. Rage bled into sorrow like a wound reopened.

“That’s… That’s a cruel fucking joke,” he growled through gritted teeth.

He clawed at his forehead, digging into his scalp as if trying to rip out the dream by force. “A dream?! That was a dream?!”

The memory still lingered. The sound of his father’s voice. The warmth of real sheets. The idea that maybe, just maybe, it had all been fake. All of this madness. Azula. Iroh. The war. Bumi. The Avatar.

And just like that, it was stolen from him.

“Whoever the fuck you are,” he whispered, staring into the darkened ceiling, “whatever sick fuck can do this to people… I will find you. And I will fucking end you.”

He sat upright, grimacing through the pain in his ribs.

The pain helped. It told him he was awake.

He was Zuko.

No, he was Victor.

But this…this life…

This was his now.

Zuko rose from the bed like a soldier standing after being shot. The emotional weight of the nightmare, of Victor’s ghost clinging to his skin, was fading, but the embers of it still burned. He sat there, his feet on the cold stone floor, letting the chill crawl up his bare legs.

His chest still hurt.

His ribs protested.

But he welcomed the pain.

It made everything real again.

Each movement sent a whisper of protest through his nerves, but the fire in his belly drowned it all out. He grabbed the inner robe, then the black and crimson outer layers he typically wore beneath his armor. His fingers worked through the buttons with force. No hesitation. No trembling. No mourning.

He was here. He had things to do.

He stood tall in front of the mirror.

Face still battered.

Neck still bruised.

Eyes sunken from the days of sleep and swelling.

But he looked at himself and saw Zuko again.

“Time to work,” he muttered under his breath. His voice was hoarse but steady.

He fastened the final clasp of his belt and limped out of the chamber. The hallway was quiet at this hour, only the distant sound of waves crashing against the outer wall of the base and the occasional clang of metal boots on stone from patrolling guards.

A soldier saw him, one of the younger ones posted outside his quarters and immediately straightened.

“P-Prince Zuko,” the young man said, eyes wide, clearly startled to see the prince up and walking. “I-I’m glad to see you’re…”

“I’m fine,” Zuko said bluntly, not slowing his pace. “Go back to your duties.”

He didn’t wait for the response.

The air outside was crisper than usual.

Winter wasn’t far now. The northern wind brushed his face, carrying the bite of the coming frost. But the sun was still not out, barely, like a shy girl peeking through a curtain and it was enough. The warmth kissed his skin. A quiet gratitude rose in his chest for the simple blessing of the sun.

He walked along the edge of the harbor walls, his boots echoing against the ancient volcanic stone as he made his way toward the far reaches of the compound, the outer training grounds.

That was where Iroh would be waiting.

No soldiers came this far out unless assigned. It was open to the cliffside, where the stone jutted like a jagged tooth out of the sea. Below, the waves slammed the dark rock with a rhythm older than war. The ocean didn’t care about crowns or fire or conquest.

Zuko stood there for a moment, breathing it in.

He flexed his fingers.

The dream, no, the vision, had shaken him. It had cracked something inside of him he thought was long buried. He had seen the other side again. That cursed hospital room. The skyline. The machines.

His father.

But this was his life now.

This was the world.

He hadn’t chosen it.

And if he was to command it, reshape it, he needed to be stronger. Much stronger.

Stronger than Azula.

Stronger than Kuvak.

Stronger than Iroh.

Stronger than Bumi.

Stronger than the gods of this world if he had to be.

He clenched his fist and let out a slow, burning breath.

His uncle would arrive soon. Today, Iroh would teach him more, show him what true firebending could be. And Zuko-Victor- would absorb every single lesson. Every technique. Every gesture. Every whisper of truth behind the flame.

The sky burned crimson in the east as the sun began to rise but still under the horizon. The light caught in the sea spray like dancing fire.

He stood alone, arms folded behind his back, waiting.

The cold morning air kissed the edges of the base, still wet with dew and strewn with scorched stone and ash from the siege that had nearly turned Nan-Hai into ruin. Zuko stood still at the far edge of the base, overlooking the distant cliffs that dropped into the ocean below.

But instead of pacing or fidgeting like usual, he sat down in silence.

Cross-legged. Spine tall. Hands resting gently on his knees. Fingers relaxed.

He let his eyes close.

The pain that had stabbed through every rib, every tendon, every sinew of his body just hours ago seemed like a whisper now. It wasn’t gone, no. He could feel it if he wanted to. But it no longer commanded his attention.

He took in a slow breath.

The air was clean. Tainted with smoke and the scent of blood, yes but clean in the way only the ocean could be. He could feel it swirl inside of him, feel it draw the Ki from deep within his core and up through the channels of his limbs.

He exhaled. Slowly. With discipline.

The horizon ahead slowly brightened, a sliver of gold rising behind the jagged cliffs. The sun was only just beginning to rise. Its warmth was faint but unmistakable, a familiar pressure against the skin of his arms, his shoulders, the bridge of his nose.

Zuko whispered to himself, “Good morning…”

The Ki in his body responded, as if stirred by the greeting. The moment he acknowledged the warmth of the sun, he felt the movement of energy flow smoother, faster. The tension in his shoulders softened. His heart no longer beat with urgency but with rhythm.

Then it happened.

Without effort, without even a thought, flames began to gather.

They didn’t burst into life with aggression or fury. They rose gently, like they belonged there. Like they had always been there. A soft swirl of fire spiraled up from his seated form and danced around him, shaping itself into a perfect ring of flame.

Then it rose.

Three feet high, rotating around him in a slow, steady vortex. Not wild, not raging. Steady. Controlled. A tornado of warmth and will. The fire cast shadows across the ground, flickering golden against the grey stone beneath him.

He didn’t smile outwardly. But inwardly, he did.

For the first time in days, maybe longer, he didn’t feel the bruises, the cracks, the scabs, or the cuts. All the injuries he had gotten from Fong, then the fight against King Bumi himself.

He didn’t feel the pressure of expectation. He didn’t feel the ghosts of his past lives, his failures, or even the crushing memory of his “dream.”

All he felt was this. The fire. The sun. The Ki. His self.

The fire gently flickered down as he heard footsteps approaching from behind.

“I must say,” Iroh’s warm voice called out. “You do know how to make an entrance, nephew.”

Zuko opened his eyes and turned his head. His uncle approached slowly, hands clasped behind his back, his robes neat and his presence… calming, as always. His face held a small smile, but his eyes saw everything.

“I didn’t know you were watching,” Zuko said, standing up slowly. The flames receded like loyal guards dismissed.

“I always watch over you,” Iroh said.

Zuko looked at him for a long moment. There was a pause. A silence thick with the things unsaid between them.

He finally broke it. “Why did you come?”

Iroh blinked, surprised. “What?”

“To save me. From Bumi,” Zuko said. His voice wasn’t accusing. Just... honest. “After how I left the capital without a word. After how I ignored everything and everyone. The distance that grew between us when we finally returned to the capital. Why did you come?”

Iroh was quiet for a time. Then he stepped forward and gestured toward the cliffs. Zuko followed his gaze but didn’t speak.

“I admit,” Iroh began softly, “when you left the capital that night, I was angry. Not because of the scandal. Or the risk. But because… I thought you didn’t trust me. That you were headed on a path you didn’t want me involved or needed my help.”

Zuko said nothing. The guilt was there in his posture.

“But,” Iroh continued, “watching you now… I think I was wrong to be angry.”

Zuko looked over sharply.

“You have grown, Zuko. You’ve grown into a leader,” Iroh said. “Into something more than what I thought you could be. And perhaps more than what you think you are.”

There was a flicker of shame in Zuko’s eyes. “But I couldn’t beat King Bumi.”

“And one day, you will,” Iroh said.

Zuko exhaled slowly.

“I have watched you since you first left the Fire Nation three years ago,” Iroh continued. “Watched you chase a dream. Watched you lose yourself. But now… now you are building something real. Something powerful. You needed space. I understand that now.”

Zuko finally looked at his uncle. Really looked at him.

“Thank you,” he said, the words soft but honest.

Iroh nodded once, satisfied. “Come. We begin now.”

Zuko squared his shoulders, pain still hiding under the surface, but his eyes sharp and alive.

“What are you going to teach me?” he asked.

Iroh’s smile returned. This one was mischievous.

“Nothing and everything,” he said.

As the sun broke fully over the horizon, bathing the cliffs in warm gold, the two firebenders stood at the edge of the world, master and student, uncle and nephew, ready to begin.

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