Chapter 63: Beneath Smoke and Ice
["Love does not erase the scars of war."]
Katara sat by the window long after Zuko's breathing had settled into the slow, heavy rhythm of exhausted sleep.
The moon hung high over the capital, silvering the tiled rooftops and bathing the palace gardens in ghost-light. Far below, the city's pulse slowed; the music dulled, the laughter faded, the fire lanterns guttered into ash.
But her thoughts refused to quiet.
What is he really planning?
Zuko, no, Prince Zuko, had manipulated and calculated from the moment she met him. He had threatened, cajoled, blackmailed, and protected with equal measure. He had stood between her and death more than once, and yet he wore cruelty like armor, as easily as he wore those crimson robes.
'I have feelings for him.'
The thought came unbidden, raw and humiliating. But it was true.
It clung to her skin even now, a heat she couldn't shake.
Still, no amount of confusion could drown out the other truth, the older, deeper one.
'I hate him. I hate them.'
The Fire Nation had taken everything.
Her mother's laughter, silenced by a raid. Her father, forced to leave their battered village behind to fight in a war they hadn't asked for. The Southern Water Tribe, reduced to a handful of huts, a skeleton of a once-proud civilization.
Whole forests razed to ash. Whole cities turned into ruins. Generations of peace stolen under the iron heel of Fire Nation ambition.
And yet here she was.
Curling beneath the sheets of a Fire Nation bed. Sharing warmth, comfort, with a prince born from the very dynasty that had destroyed her world.
She slid carefully into the bed beside him, the mattress dipping with her slight weight. Zuko shifted slightly but didn't wake. His breathing remained deep, even.
Katara lay stiffly, her body close to his out of necessity, not choice, or so she told herself.
The heat between them was tangible, oppressive.
Her thoughts churned.
'What if this "proposal" of his is just another game?Another ploy to manipulate me, like he's manipulated everyone else.
Zuko had a thousand plans. A thousand faces. She had seen only glimpses of the real him, and even those glimpses left her doubting what was real and what was performance.
She remembered the way he smiled at her sometimes, almost shy. The way he leaned closer, voice dropping to something softer, almost tender. The way his hand brushed hers when he thought she wasn't paying attention.
None of it could be trusted.
None of it changed what he was.
A prince of conquest.
A liar.
A manipulator.
A product of blood and ambition.
'I still don't know what he truly wants.'
He claimed he wanted the Fire Lord's crown, but Katara knew now, with a cold certainty, that Zuko's ambitions didn't end with a throne.
There was something larger behind his eyes.
Something terrifying.
She glanced sideways at him in the dimness.
Even in sleep, he looked guarded.
As if he was dreaming of strategies and battles and betrayals.
'What if getting me to care was just another piece on his board? Another pawn?'
And yet...
And yet Aang trusted him.
Despite everything, despite the chains, despite the threats, Aang trusted Zuko in a way she couldn't fully explain.
Maybe it's because they know something we don't.
Maybe that was why Zuko was risking so much to get Aang away from the capital. Why he played this dangerous game while smiling at generals and sages and servants.
Katara pulled the blankets higher, trying to wrap herself in warmth not born of Fire Nation silk.
The thoughts blurred at the edges of her mind as exhaustion finally pulled her downward, into a restless sleep.
But even in dreams, the battle raged on.
***
Morning light seeped gently through the embroidered curtains, streaking the polished wood floors with pale gold.
Katara stirred first, blinking against the light. She shifted, feeling the familiar weight of the blanket, the subtle heat radiating from the body beside her.
For a few moments, neither of them moved. The memory of the night before hung heavy between them.
But Zuko, when he finally opened his eyes, simply pushed the covers back and rose without a word. His movements were casual, practiced, almost indifferent. As if nothing had happened. As if the storm raging between them hadn't even stirred the surface.
Katara sat up slowly, drawing her knees to her chest beneath the blanket.
The awkwardness between them was a living thing, thick in the air, buzzing just under the surface of every breath.
Zuko stretched his arms overhead with a grunt and cracked his neck.
He turned toward her, voice calm and even.
"You should go speak with Sokka."
Katara blinked, caught off guard.
"He's already been informed of his role in the plan," Zuko continued. "But it would be better if you checked in with him personally. I won't have much time today."
She swallowed, masking her emotions behind a nod. "Alright."
Zuko moved toward the side door leading to his private bath, stripping off his sleeping robes as he went.
"The final hour approaches," he said, almost absently.
"For now... I'll take a bath. Then meet with Jee about the other preparations."
He disappeared through the door, leaving her sitting there in the bed, feeling vaguely abandoned, and irrationally angry at herself for feeling that way.
---
It was nearly half an hour before the door swung open again.
Katara glanced up automatically.
And froze.
There he stood, Zuko, fully dressed in his Fire Nation exile armor, the very same she had first seen when he descended upon her village like an omen of death.
The same black and deep crimson tunic, layered and edged in harsh angular cuts. The heavy, broad-shouldered armored mantle draped over him, outlined with dark red piping. His belt was a thick, square-buckled strip of dark leather, cinching the armored skirt that split in the front for movement. His pants were a muted brown, tucked neatly into shin-high, black and red armored boots.
His arms were braced with long wrist guards, the crimson pattern etched like claw marks over burnished bronze. And from his crown, his black hair, tied tightly into a topknot, fell into a sharp, severe tail.
Even the golden trim along his collar gleamed faintly under the morning sun.
Katara's stomach twisted painfully.
The memory crashed into her unbidden, the terror of seeing that very armor standing at the prow of a Fire Nation ship, fire roaring behind him, eyes like molten coals as he demanded the Avatar surrender or her village would burn.
She had hated him then. Feared him.
And now, standing in the same armor, he didn't seem like the boy who had bared his soul to her. He looked again like the enemy.
Like the nightmare.
How much has changed... and how much hasn't.
Her throat felt dry as she forced herself to speak.
"You haven't worn that since we got here," she said, voice tighter than she intended.
Zuko finished adjusting the gloves at his wrists and gave her a faint, unreadable smile.
"Today is a day of action, Katara," he said. "This outfit... is an outfit of action."
She stared at him, heart hammering.
He tilted his head slightly, his gold eyes hard, focused.
"Today," he continued, "I finally start putting the riskier parts into motion.
If things don't go as planned... I could be leaving the Fire Nation before the day even ends."
Katara opened her mouth, to ask, to protest, to beg him for answers, but he was already moving.
He walked past her without hesitation, his boots clicking softly against the polished floor.
The door swung open.
And he was gone.
Leaving her alone, with nothing but the memories, and the terrible, trembling question of what would happen next.
---
The palace was alive with motion.
Servants scurried through the marbled halls, their arms laden with bundles of crimson and gold cloth. Banners bearing the blazing emblem of the Fire Nation were being hoisted from the balconies, fluttering in the morning breeze like living flames.
Courtiers and ministers hurried past in clusters, their conversations a constant murmur of ceremony, security, and spectacle.
Zuko strode through it all, his steps unhurried, his head high.
The Exiled Prince's armor gleamed under the rising sun, every sharp line and layer a deliberate echo of the man he had been, and the man he was becoming.
People noticed.
Everywhere he passed, heads turned.
"Prince Zuko!" cried an older steward, bowing low, his voice quivering with pride. "You honor us with your presence, and in such… fitting attire."
Zuko nodded casually. "Thank you. Carry on."
Two guards stationed at the inner gates straightened visibly as he approached.
"Your Highness," one said, thumping his chest in salute. "It's good to see you dressed as a true warrior again."
Zuko gave them a brief, approving glance. "It's a day for action," he said simply.
A group of palace maids carrying flower arrangements froze when they spotted him, whispering behind their hands.
"He looks… so fierce," one murmured.
"Like the stories," another said.
Zuko caught the words and allowed himself the faintest smirk as he passed by.
Further along, a young courier boy, no older than twelve, nearly stumbled over his own feet trying to bow.
"Forgive me, Prince Zuko! I, You look just like the legends from the old songs!"
Zuko placed a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Walk carefully," he said. "It's going to be a long day."
The boy nodded vigorously, cheeks burning red.
Even the senior palace ministers standing by a towering pillar took note as he approached.
One, a thin man with wispy mustaches, whispered to another, "Exile no longer. Look at him, an heir the people can believe in."
Zuko passed them without acknowledgment, but the words stoked a quiet fire in his chest.
The armor mattered.
It wasn't just for show.
It reminded everyone, himself included, of what had been fought for. What had been suffered. What was still left to do.
He made his way through the palace grounds, the scent of fresh lacquer and burning incense thick in the air, toward the training yards tucked behind the western courtyard.
Here, the atmosphere was different.
Less celebratory. More purposeful.
Soldiers drilled in ordered lines, barked orders ringing out into the cool morning. Blades clashed. Flames roared.
And standing at the edge of one of the smaller sparring rings, arms crossed, was Lieutenant Jee.
His old second-in-command.
Jee wore simple battle armor, his sleeves rolled up, a sheathed short sword at his side. The man looked exactly as Zuko remembered him during their exile at sea, hard-eyed, quietly loyal, carrying scars that no parade could polish away.
Zuko's boots thudded softly against the packed earth as he crossed the yard.
Jee looked up, and smiled that familiar, grim smile.
"Well," Jee said, voice rough like stone, "if it isn't the Prince of the Fire Nation... back in his armor."
Zuko smirked. "Miss it?"
"Not even a little," Jee said. But the warmth in his eyes betrayed the lie.
Zuko clapped his shoulder firmly.
They stood there a moment, two warriors, two survivors of exile, sharing a silence heavier and truer than most words.
But what neither noticed… was the shadowy figure watching them from the far side of the yard, half-hidden behind a column.
Silent. Calculating.
Waiting.
[A/N: Can't wait to see what happens next? Get exclusive early access on patreon.com/saiyanprincenovels. If you enjoyed this chapter and want to see more, don't forget to drop a power stone! Your support helps this story reach more readers!]