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The rope loosened easily. He took the ostrich horse gently by the reins, careful not to spook it, and edged back into the forest. It was a pitiful thing, really—scrawny legs, balding, head bowed and stooped with age. If it were up to Zuko, he probably would’ve done it a favor and put it out of its misery a long time ago.
Yet—bafflingly—someone obviously still loved it. He noted the saddle, plain but immaculately stitched, leather straps polished to a gleaming shine. An old wooden tag dangling from its harness showcased a single character—Lucky —painted in a child’s wobbling script. For an instant, his heart twisted. The beast must’ve been in Song’s family since she was a little kid.
“Nephew—what are you doing?” Zuko froze. Uncle placed a hand on his elbow, disappointment clear in his touch. “These people have just shown us great kindness.”
His tone was unbearably sad. It made Zuko’s skin feel hot, itchy—any brief flare of guilt scorching away in a wash of rage. He was a prince—he shouldn’t have to explain himself. Not to his doddering, foolish uncle, not to the memory of Song’s kind, trusting face—not to anyone. He was royalty, yet here he was, deliberating over some shitty peasant beast while somewhere out there Azula was commanding a warship.
These people should just count themselves lucky he wasn’t razing their village to the ground.
His fist closed over the reins. “Yeah. And they’re about to show us a little more.”
***
Zuko couldn’t pinpoint when he realized there was something fundamentally wrong with him.
Azula had always known, of course; two steps ahead of him, just like in everything else. And she didn’t hesitate to let him know, either. Poor Zuko, she’d taunt as he stumbled over the same footwork that she flew through effortlessly. So pathetic that even his baby sister can beat him.
Yeah, yeah. But as much as it stung, for a while he was able to shrug it off. He had time. He’d catch up, one day, if he worked a little harder, or trained a little longer, or mastered just one more move.
Besides, Mother liked him best. And to Zuko, that made up for anything.
But Mother was gone. And even years later, Zuko couldn’t picture her face without the stab through the ribs of knowing it was his fault. His fault—his weakness. His mistakes, always his mistakes, creating a mess that inevitably poisoned everyone around him.
And now he’d entangled Uncle—the one remaining person on this Earth that still gave a shit about him (Spirits, he was pathetic). He’d let Uncle waste years by his side at sea. Let him be branded a traitor, chased into enemy territory as a mere refugee. The mighty Dragon of the West—no more than a common street beggar.
And after all that, Zuko had still abandoned him.
(And took the fucking ostrich horse, too—what was wrong with him?)
The beast was haggard after days of travel. Zuko led it to the river, letting it drink for only a few minutes before dragging it away to make camp for the night. Far from the river. It was irrational, he knew, but he couldn’t shake the idea that one day he’d wake up to the water tribe girl waiting to finish him off.
The beast squawked. “Shh,” Zuko hissed, but the stupid thing just got louder, rocking back and forth—oh. He grimaced. The beast’s forelegs were spiked with thorns; he must’ve ridden it through the brambles and not even noticed. Sighing, he unsheathed his knife and got to work, carefully extricating each thorn until the beast was cooing happily and butting its head against Zuko’s shoulder.
“It’s nothing personal,” he told it, pushing it away with a halfhearted shove. “I just don’t have use for broken things.”
***
Zuko was twelve when he first burned himself.
It wasn’t intentional—at least, not at first. The palace was dark, and the training room was gloriously, thoroughly empty. But even with no one watching him, Zuko couldn’t relax.
A bead of sweat trickled down his back as he ran through his forms. He stumbled; his gut wrenched with the sick twist of shame. You dare call that bending? Ozai’s voice haunted him in a cruel whisper, echoes of what he’d said at the exhibition earlier in the day. Your control is weak. Your forms are a mockery. Zuko lunged, but his fire was a sputtering gasp, and his father’s voice only grew louder. If you dishonor me one more time, it’ll be your last.
“No,” Zuko growled, repeating the move again. Again. Again. Sparks and smoke. He could feel the phantom eyes of the crowd like iron shackles on his wrists.
The fire wouldn’t come.
Azula, my dear, why don’t you show these people what my true heir looks like.
His vision whitened. No . Rage swept through him, swift and powerful. He wouldn’t let her, he wouldn’t let her—
This time, the flames roared true. Rage gave way to shock and he lost his balance on the downswing, forearm swinging through the still lingering fire.
He fell on his ass and the fire winked out.
For a moment he just sat there, dark spots blinking in and out of his vision. When the feeling had mostly returned to his tailbone he hauled himself to his feet, wincing as his sleeve fell away to reveal a shiny red burn.
“Fuck,” he breathed. He’d never been burned before; all his training was under careful supervision of the masters, ready to snuff out any fire that grew too dangerous.
Not that Zuko ever produced much to begin with.
He touched it gingerly. The skin was smooth and stung where his fingers brushed it. He was about to give up—call it a night, sneak back to his quarters and find a bandage before anyone noticed—when a realization froze him in place.
It was quiet.
His head. The voices—his father, Azula, the jeering crowd—silent.
He took a breath. The night air felt cooler, lifting the hair from the back of his neck. Jasmine drifted on the breeze from the garden. Somewhere outside the crickets buzzed a low whir. He let it all fall away, focusing on the clean, crisp pain of the burn, and ran through the form one more time.
He executed it flawlessly.
Dawn was breaking by the time Zuko finished training, and he dragged himself to bed before the morning guard could spot him. His muscles ached, his entire body sore, but he felt better than he had in a long while.
He’d done it. He’d mastered the whole set.
The next night he crept out again, finding the haven of his empty practice room. This time he chose his left wrist, holding it against the torch just long enough to shock him into that state of cold clarity. And when the voices fell silent, he practiced.
By the time the next exhibition approached, Zuko was ready. Even his father couldn’t hide his surprise. “Well,” he’d said, eyeing his son with a mix of suspicion and lukewarm pride, “seems like you’ve finally learned something, after all.”
Zuko had said nothing, bowing deeply and retreating to the shadows before his father could change his mind. But he replayed the words over and over, letting the bare hint of approval soothe his injuries like a balm. He could do it. He would make his father proud.
The year passed in a blur. He found excuses for the circles ringing his eyes, found reasons to wear long sleeves even in the summer. His father seemed to warm to him, just a little—just enough that Zuko hungered for more. He set his sights on a command meeting. If he could sit in with the generals, learn from them, hear them speak—his father would have to take him seriously.
And maybe, maybe his father could learn to love him.
***
Later, when the world collapsed around him, when he woke up retching in an unfamiliar room, the floor tilting back and forth with the rocking of the sea, he stumbled to the mirror and ripped off the bandages. He nearly shattered it. The burn consumed half his face, deeper and angrier than anything he’d ever felt. The scars on his wrists were nothing, he realized. This burn was everything.
Finally, the outsides match the in, he could hear Azula say. Damaged. Broken. Weak. His hands caught fire, and he let it spread, catching the sleeping mat, the heavy, ornamental rugs, the tapestries emblazoned with his family crest. Ruined.
When Uncle found him, he was sitting in an island amid an inferno.
But he never burned himself again.
He hadn’t needed to.
***
The ferry was hot and miserably crowded. Children wailed, sticky with sweat, their parents holding them to the railing for a chance at the fetid breeze. They needn’t have bothered—the air was as rotten as the food.
“Fucked up, isn’t it?”
Zuko whirled. A boy—his own age—chewing lazily on a piece of wheat. “And yet the captain’s up there eating like a king, while we’re left to fight over the scraps.” The boy spit in emphasis, his shaggy hair flopping into his eyes.
“So?” Zuko turned back around. He wasn’t here to make small talk with strangers.
“So. Don’t you wanna do something about it?”
Zuko stopped. He turned back to the boy and sized him up. Tanned skin, lanky, arms roped with muscles. Handsome. A pair of rough-hewn hook swords were strapped to his back. From the boy’s stance, Zuko didn’t doubt that he knew how to use them. Farmer turned fighter, if he had to wager.
The boy raised his eyebrows at the inspection, eyes dragging over Zuko in return, then grinned so slowly that Zuko’s cheeks burned. “The name’s Jet. And my crew and I got something planned. Big. You in or out?”
He should say no. It was the only logical decision—keep his head down, make it into Ba Sing Se without incident. Be smart. Be safe. Stay alive.
But something about Jet’s sly grin made him want to do the opposite.
“I’m in,” he heard himself say, and Jet’s answering smile made his palms sweat for reasons entirely unrelated to the weather.
***
Azula sat across from him, dutifully copying the tutor’s lessons in her spiky script. When the old man finally finished speaking, they both stood to bow, then returned to their seats to start their assignments.
Azula waited for the tutor’s footsteps to fade before she pounced.
“So,” she said, in that slow, sweet way that Zuko knew meant trouble.
“Shut up. I just wanna get this done, okay?”
Azula barreled on, ignoring him. “I heard something interesting yesterday.” She waited. “Something about you.”
Despite his better judgment, Zuko took the bait. “What?”
“I heard that somebody likes you,” Azula singsonged. “Like-likes you.”
“Spit it out or shut up, Azula.”
She huffed. “Fine. Mai said she’s gonna try and kiss you at the next Fire Festival.”
“Gross,” Zuko said immediately, but he wasn’t altogether surprised. Now that he was thirteen, he’d started noticing some of Azula’s friends... staring at him, even more so than usual. It made him so deeply uncomfortable that he’d started taking alternate routes around the palace just to avoid them.
Picking up his brush, he ducked his head and resumed focus on his work, signaling the conversation was over.
Azula laughed. “That’s what I told her you’d say. She didn’t believe me, of course, but I always know better.”
“Hm,” Zuko grunted, concentrating on his characters. Dip, paint, dry. Dip, paint—
“I should’ve told her my big brother would never be caught dead kissing a girl.”
Zuko looked up sharply, nearly knocking over his inkwell in the process. Something cruel and meaningful in Azula’s tone made his hands shake. “The hell is that supposed to mean,” he growled.
She gave an innocent smile. “Of course, if it was Jiang who was asking, then I might’ve answered differently.”
His heart dropped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He gripped his brush tightly. “Jiang’s my best friend. What’s he got to do with this?”
“Oh, Zuko,” Azula said sadly. “Always such a terrible liar.”
“I—”
“Did you know,” she cut him off, “that great grandpa Sozin outlawed such deviancy at the very start of his reign? But you probably did. You always cared more about dusty old history than I ever could.”
Zuko said nothing. His eyes flicked to the door, but he couldn’t escape yet, not when Azula was still playing.
He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
“The punishment is death,” she said mildly. Zuko flinched, and Azula smiled, continuing, “but you’re royalty, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Disinheriting, perhaps? Yes, I think that’d be appropriate,” she mused, “and everyone already knows I should be the rightful heir anyway, so no big loss—right, brother?”
Zuko couldn’t answer. He fought the urge to be sick. Azula couldn’t—she wouldn’t—how could she know, when Zuko could barely admit it to himself? She was bluffing. She had to be. She had no proof, just needling to get under his skin—
“Right, brother?” she repeated.
“You’re insane,” he said flatly. She just laughed—laughed , like she’d done all her life, relishing any twist of the knife, any instant he could make him bleed. For a moment, cold rage washed out his fear. “Better be careful, Azula.” His voice was ice. “I heard when General Min’s daughter went mad they shipped her to a care home out in the colonies. Said it’s the best place to store girls whose mouths are too big for their own good. Shame, really, if the same thing happened to you.”
Azula’s face darkened. He waited, watching her jaw work for a few seconds. “Hand me that inkwell,” was all she said.
Zuko passed it wordlessly, the adrenaline leaching out of him as they finished their assignments in silence. Even if Azula kept her mouth shut—did anyone else know? Was he that obvious? Deviant, her voice echoed. Shame roiled in his gut. Did Jiang know? Did—his stomach seized—his father?
No. He could fix this. Beat it, just like he’d mastered bending, just like he’d break down every other faulty piece of himself until he could rebuild it right. He slipped his hand under his sleeve and thumbed the ridges of his scars.
No one else would make him weak.
The next morning he had Jiang sent away. All it took was a single vague excuse about cheating and insults to honor, and his governess had Jiang’s whole family removed from the palace. Any guilt he might’ve harbored evaporated under the memory of Azula’s cruel laughter. Deviant.
At the Fire Festival, he found Mai lounging in the shade. “What do you want,” she said, crossing her arms. He kissed her in response, long and slow, making sure Azula was watching. When it was over, Mai gave him a rare smile that Zuko returned mechanically.
He felt absolutely nothing. But it didn’t matter.
He would fix himself, or die trying.
***
“I think that was one of my best missions yet,” Jet said. They were leaning against the railing, watching the sun sink below the horizon. He cast a sidelong look at Zuko. “What about you, huh? What’d you think?”
“It was…” Chaotic. Foolhardy. These kids had no discipline—they’d been a hairsbreadth from getting caught, from getting tossed off the ship to rot at the bottom of the sea. “...fun,” Zuko finished, surprising himself.
But it had been fun. The rush of danger, the satisfaction of a full stomach. Fighting with a team, for once—others to watch his back, to lighten the mood and share the load. Working with the crew.
Working with Jet.
Jet smiled. “You know, from the moment I saw you I knew exactly who you were.”
Zuko tensed, hackles raising. Stupid—he knew his wanted poster was fluttering across every Earth Kingdom town, yet here he was—
Jet bumped his shoulder against Zuko’s. Left it there. “You’re an outcast, just like me,” he finished.
Oh.
Jet’s shoulder was still pressed to his. Close. Too close. Warning bells started ringing in Zuko’s head. Because Jet was wrong. They weren’t alike, not in the slightest.
And Zuko was far worse.
He shook his head. “You don’t know anything about me,” he said, but the words didn’t come out with the venom he’d intended.
Jet raised an eyebrow. “Don’t I? I have them too, you know.” He nodded at Zuko’s wrists, where the sleeve had fallen to reveal a thin patchwork of scars.
Zuko pulled back immediately. Damaged. “I—”
“It’s okay,” Jet said softly. He turned over his own forearm. For a moment, Zuko wasn’t sure what he was looking at. Then he spotted it, just below the elbow: sharp, orderly lines, faded with time but still stark against Jet’s golden brown skin. “You’re angry,” Jet stated. “It’s bone deep. I can tell, ‘cause I’ve been angry like that too. And a while ago I thought the best way to deal with it was turning it inward. Trying to cure myself with the edge of a blade. Doing my enemies’ work for them.”
Jet’s smile turned rueful, and Zuko itched to escape. He’d already gotten too close, too vulnerable, too exposed—yet something kept him glued in place. “But?” he asked roughly.
Jet’s voice hardened. “But then I learned it was better to make those motherfuckers bleed instead.”
When he kissed Zuko, it was all of that anger distilled. It was a knife blade and the sharp hiss of an exit wound. It was a thousand gallon oil spill and a match. It was thunder on a mountaintop, deafening and brash—almost loud enough to drown out the voices that had begun whispering in his ear from the moment they touched. Deviant. Abomination. Monster.
Almost.
But not quite.
***
“Expecting someone else?”
The bison growled, straining at its chains. Zuko had never quite realized just how massive the thing was. How easily it could crush his skull between its molars, if it wanted to. By the Avatar’s side, he’d always thought of it as docile. Gentle. The goofy animal sidekick.
But as its roar reverberated through the chamber, Zuko saw it clearly for what it was: a dangerous monster.
The door flew open. Zuko spun, swords aloft—
He let them clatter to the ground. “Uncle? What are you doing here?”
Iroh surveyed him with disappointment. “Funny. I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
Zuko turned. “If you’ve come to stop me, don’t bother.” His voice was flint. “I know my own destiny.”
“Is it your own destiny? Or a destiny someone else has tried to force on you?”
Zuko growled, snatching up his swords. “Stop it. Stop talking.” A splitting headache was forming behind his temples, the whispers deafening in his ears. Go on. Run back to Uncle. It’s what you always do when you’re too weak to follow through. Right, brother? “Shut up!” he said aloud, squeezing his eyes shut. His voice shook as he advanced on the bison. “I have to do this.”
“Nephew, I’m begging you.” Iroh’s voice rang like lightning through a storm. Despite himself, Zuko paused. He’d never heard Uncle like this—for the first time, he caught a shadow of why they’d called him Dragon of the West. “It’s time for you to look inward. Start asking yourself the big questions. Who are you—and what do you want.”
The swords wavered in his hands, his breathing heavy. Who was he?
A failure, the voices supplied. Weak. A disgrace for a son.
Deviant.
Broken.
Ruined.
The bison growled again, but this close, Zuko could see through the act. It was terrified. It knew he was going to kill it.
For some reason, he thought of the earth kingdom girl, Song. The decrepit animal he’d stolen. The hand-painted tag that had swung merrily from its halter nonetheless, so much love written in that one syllable.
What did he want? Death, answered the whispers. Kill the beast. Burn away your weakness. You’re sick, but you can fix it. You’re a monster, but you can use it.
The bison's eyes were half closed. Waiting.
It wasn’t a ferocious beast at all, he realized. It was just an animal—scared, lonely, missing the ones that loved it.
Who are you? Uncle had asked.
The chamber swayed. The air was silent, the only sounds the faraway drip of water and three sets of ragged breathing.
He thought of the past three years. Of Uncle, crossing hell by his side, saving him more times than he could count. The Avatar, hovering above him: Do you think—if we’d known each other back then—we could’ve been friends, too? The sunset in Jet’s eyes when he’d kissed him. An old woman at the teashop, eyes crinkling when he poured her tea.
His mother, hazy in the dark of night. Pressing her lips to his forehead one last time. Everything I did, I did because I love you.
He wasn’t broken. Wasn’t ruined.
The swords fell from his hands.
Not a monster.
Just a boy.
He let the bison go.