The Fire Nation Prince

Chapter 96: The Frozen Fortress

The wind whipped past Appa’s face, not in its usual gentle gusts, but in a continuous, screaming torrent. The air was so cold it felt solid, a wall of ice crystals that stung the eyes and stole the breath. Aang, perched on Appa’s head, leaned forward as if his own will could push the great bison to fly faster. His knuckles were white where he gripped the reins, his face a mask of grim determination, the cheerful boy buried under the weight of a world he was failing to protect.

Behind him, in the saddle, Katara cradled Sokka’s head in her lap. Her brother was swathed in every blanket they possessed, his own parka, and rough, torn strips of cloth from her own water-skins, forming bulky bandages over the worst of the lightning burn on his chest. The acrid scent of ozone and charred flesh still clung to him, a horrifying reminder of Azula’s precision strike. His skin was clammy and pale, his breathing a shallow, rattling thing that hitched with every jolt of turbulence. A faint, feverish sweat beaded on his forehead, immediately freezing in the polar air.

Katara’s hands, glowing with a faint, desperate blue light, never left his chest. She channeled every ounce of her healing ability into him, but the damage was profound, a deep, spiritual wound that her skills could only barely soothe. The water sizzled and steamed against the unnatural heat still simmering in the injury.

”He’s getting colder, Aang,” Katara’s voice was raw, stripped of hope and filled with a terror that had been building since the fortress fell. ”I can’t... I can’t get his fever to break. It’s like the fire is still inside him.”

Aang didn’t turn. ”We’re almost there. I can feel it.” He wasn’t lying. The spiritual energy of the pole was a palpable force, a thrum in the world’s pulse that grew stronger with every beat of Appa’s weary wings. ”Hold on, Sokka,” he whispered, a plea to the wind. ”Just hold on.”

Then, through the swirling veils of snow and mist, it appeared.

A city of ice.

It was not merely built of ice; it was ice, a breathtaking, impossible metropolis that seemed to have been grown from the very glacier it sat upon, not constructed. The entire city, Agna Qel’a, was a masterpiece of waterbending architecture, its structures carved from impossibly thick, luminous blue-white ice that glittered in the weak polar light. The city was a labyrinth of canals and waterways, frozen thoroughfares that snaked between towering structures, with small, gondola-like boats trapped in the ice, waiting for a thaw that never came.

Dominating the scene was a colossal, curved wall of ice, towering and impossibly thick, that formed a formidable defensive barrier at the mouth of the city, shielding the inner sanctums from the open sea. Beyond the wall, the city rose in a stunning display of artistry and power. The buildings were a fusion of elegant, sweeping curves and sharp, pagoda-like tiers, their designs echoing a style reminiscent of Chinese architecture but rendered in a medium of pure, magical ice. Whale bones, massive and ancient, were integrated into the larger structures as foundational supports, a stark reminder that this civilization drew its strength from both the ice and the sea.

At the city’s heart, surrounded by lesser spires and domes, stood the Northern Water Tribe Royal Palace, the most magnificent structure of all. It was a complex of interconnected towers and great halls, its central dome dominating the skyline, a testament to the power and lineage of the chief who ruled from within.

”It’s beautiful,” Aang breathed, the words torn from his lips by the wind.

”Just get us down!” Katara cried, her focus entirely on Sokka’s labored breathing.

Appa, sensing their destination and driven by the urgency in his friends’ voices, let out a deep, groaning bellow. The sound echoed across the silent, frozen capital, a foreign and alarming noise in this place of ordered quiet. He began his descent, angling toward the largest open plaza he could see near the palace, his flight path becoming erratic and frantic.

Below, the peaceful rhythm of the city shattered. Northern Water Tribe citizens, bundled in their dark blue and purple parkas, looked up from their daily tasks. Their faces, initially curious, transformed into alarm as the enormous, six-legged shadow fell over them. Warriors training on a nearby platform dropped their stances, reaching for their weapons. The appearance of a flying bison was the stuff of legends here, a creature not seen for a century, and its sudden, desperate arrival signaled an unprecedented event.

Appa slammed into the wide, icy plaza with a force that sent cracks skittering across the ground. He skidded several yards, his great weight and momentum making stopping impossible, before coming to a shuddering halt. He lowed again, a tired, pained sound, his flanks heaving.

Aang was on his feet in an instant. ”We need a healer!” he screamed, his voice cracking with panic and exhaustion. He scrambled over the saddle to help Katara. ”A master healer! Now! My friend is dying!”

Katara was already trying to pull Sokka toward the edge, her strength failing her. ”Please!” she added her voice to his, her eyes scanning the gathering, stunned crowd, looking for anyone in authority, anyone who could help. ”He was struck by lightning! Please, help him!”

The Water Tribesmen formed a cautious, wide circle around the bizarre sight. They saw a young Air Nomad, a girl of their own tribe crying over a grievously wounded boy, and a mythical beast on the verge of collapse. It was a scene of pure, undiluted desperation, a splash of violent chaos in their serene, frozen fortress.

For a moment, nobody moved, the tradition-bound society frozen in indecision.

Then, the crowd parted.

A tall, stern-faced man with a topknot and master’s beads adorning his parka stepped forward. His eyes, sharp and assessing, took in the scene: the true desperation on Katara’s face, the lethal nature of Sokka’s wound, the Avatar’s clear distress. This was Master Pakku, and his expression, though severe, was not unkind.

”You,” he said, his voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd with the authority of decades of command. He pointed to a group of his students. ”Fetch a stretcher and the senior healers from the infirmary. Run!”

His gaze then fell upon Katara, and for a fleeting second, something unreadable flickered in his eyes, surprise, perhaps, at the raw power he could sense radiating from her, even in her distraught state. He gave her a short, sharp nod.

”The boy will be seen to,” Pakku stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. ”Bring him down.”

Relief, so potent it felt like a physical blow, washed over Katara. Her knees buckled, and she slumped against Sokka’s still form, the first tears of hope mixing with the frozen ones of despair on her cheeks. They had made it. The race was over. But the battle for Sokka’s life was only just beginning.

[A/N: Can’t wait to see what happens next? Get exclusive early access and read 90 chapters ahead on .com/saiyanprincenovels.]