The Fire Nation Prince

Chapter 22: Aftermath and Regroup

The battlefield was quiet.

Not silent, no… never that but the cries of the dying had faded. The screaming had stopped. The tremors of battle had ebbed. All that remained were the moans of the wounded, the groaning of broken stone, and the constant hiss of burning wreckage, still licking the edges of shattered supply carts and splintered dock pylons.

Zuko was limping.

His right leg dragged just slightly, armor buckled and scorched around the thigh. His left shoulder bore a fresh dressing, hastily tied by a field medic who’d trembled under his gaze. Blood was still crusted along his jawline. The side of his face was bruised, and his knuckles ached.

But his spine remained straight. His gait was steady. And when the soldiers saluted him as he passed, they did so with a kind of wary awe.

Not as a prince.

But as a survivor of something far greater than them.

The healer’s tent was raised quickly, tucked into the shadow of the cliffside fortification behind the harbor. Fire Nation standards hung limp over the canopy, their edges blackened by soot. Inside, the scent of herbs and blood mingled with antiseptic smoke.

Zuko sat on a padded mat, shirt peeled off, the air cool on the fresh bruising across his ribs. A healer, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and deft hands inspected the edge of a second-degree burn along his side.

“You’re lucky he didn’t rupture a lung,” she muttered as she ran a thin salve along the wound.

“He wasn’t aiming for a lung,” Zuko replied quietly. “He was aiming for my spine.”

The flap of the tent pulled aside.

General Rulo stepped inside, his silhouette outlined by the orange haze of sunset still staining the harbor.

Without his helmet, Rulo’s hair was visible, salt-and-pepper tied into a clean topknot, with streaks of grey at the temples giving him the look of a man who had seen one war too many and didn’t plan to miss the next one either. His crimson armor gleamed faintly in the lantern light, but it bore no decorative crests. Only the black steel trim of command.

He stood a moment at the entrance, then nodded once.

“Prince Zuko.”

Zuko didn’t stand but inclined his head slightly.

“General Rulo.”

“I apologize for arriving late,” Rulo said as he stepped closer, arms behind his back. “We received the dispatches after the second assault. By then, half the runners were missing, and the others had been intercepted. A symptom of fragmented territory and leadership. A condition I suspect you’re here to remedy.”

Zuko’s eyes narrowed faintly. “I’m here to win.”

A brief smile touched Rulo’s lips. “Same goal, fewer words.”

The healer finished tying a fresh wrap over Zuko’s ribs and moved away without a word. Rulo remained standing.

“How bad?” Zuko asked.

Before Rulo could answer, Lieutenant Commander Donji entered through the tent flap, arms tight behind his back. His armor had been cleaned, but his face still bore the soot lines of command in chaos.

“Report,” Rulo prompted.

Donji cleared his throat. “Preliminary casualty lists are incomplete, but early estimates put the number at sixty-five dead, one hundred and forty-two wounded, most from the first day’s ambush at the west end of the port. We’re still pulling men out from the collapsed watch tower.”

Zuko exhaled sharply through his nose. “Reinforcements?”

“Three platoons from the Second Naval Battalion are en route. Should arrive by morning.”

“And the Earthbenders?”

Donji shifted. “Retreated through the jungle path west of the river gorge. Scouts say they’re regrouping two klicks out, possibly more. They moved fast back to the other side of Nan Hai.”

“They didn’t expect Rulo,” Zuko said flatly.

“No,” Rulo replied, “but they’ll adjust. Fong’s not a coward. He retreated because he saw no reason to waste his men while your ship’s catapults were within range.”

Zuko looked up at him, eyes narrowed. “You’ve fought him before?”

Rulo nodded once. “At the Eastern Barricade two years ago. He cracked our siege line using nothing but six benders and a dam. He’s reckless. Brutal. And dangerous.”

Zuko’s jaw clenched. “I noticed.”

Rulo took one step forward, then another, until he was beside the healer’s table. He looked down at Zuko, not with condescension, but with the quiet scrutiny of one soldier to another.

“You held your own,” he said. “I expected a prince. I saw a fighter.”

Zuko didn’t answer.

The tent shifted again as a junior officer entered with fresh papers. Donji moved to receive them.

“Early reconstruction estimates will take at least two weeks. Ammunition losses are minor, we saved the coastal stockpile. But the inner grain reserves…” He grimaced. “Gone. Burned during the fighting.”

“We’ll ration and reroute,” Rulo said.

“I’ll have requisitions drawn up,” Donji nodded, then paused. “Sir… the men. They’re talking about the prince.”

Zuko looked over at him.

Donji straightened. “They’re saying… you fought General Fong to a standstill. They’re saying you forced him to retreat.”

Zuko’s lip curled faintly not in arrogance, but in fatigue.

“Let them talk,” he said. “It’ll make the next fight easier.”

“Or harder,” Rulo said under his breath. “They’ll expect you to bleed lightning next.”

Zuko finally stood slowly, one foot at a time, gritting his teeth as his bandaged ribs pulled under the strain.

He reached for his coat and slung it over his shoulder.

“We’ll let them believe what they want. But I’m not done bleeding yet.”

The healer had told him to rest.

Zuko ignored her.

He stepped beyond the tent’s canopy and into the waning light of evening, the last golden threads of the sun flickering through plumes of rising smoke. The battlefield was still warm, both in temperature and memory. Broken carts lay strewn across scorched stone. Torn banners drooped from shattered pylons. Ash drifted with the breeze like dark snow.

His boots crunched across charred debris and scattered shrapnel, pieces of flame-shot stone, scorched spears, shattered helmets. The blood on the ground was already drying, caked into the grit like old rust.

Around him, soldiers worked in quiet clusters, stacking the dead, sorting salvage, patching barricades with the grim rhythm of men who knew this wouldn’t be the last time.

And then came the whispers.

“He’s still walking...”

“That’s him? He fought Fong and walked away?”

“Did you see the blue fire? I thought that was just a myth.”

Zuko didn’t slow.

He didn’t glance at them.

He moved through the battlefield like a ghost in red and black. His coat hung open at the collar, bandages barely hidden beneath the heavy fabric. His hair had fallen loose from the high knot, strands matted to the sweat still clinging to his brow.

The whispers faded behind him.

Ahead, the harbor opened once more.

Or what was left of it.

Half the main pier was scorched through. Two smaller skiffs lay overturned in the surf, their hulls split by earlier barrages. One of the mangonels, a massive, two-wheeled catapult used to hurl fire-laced stone, was shattered in place, its arm still smoldering where Zuko’s ship had returned fire during the peak of the siege.

And there, at the edge of the repaired dock, his ship waited.

Still intact. Still proud.

But not untouched.

A fresh black burn stained the side of its hull. A gash of deep scoring ran along the port rail. Sailors were already tightening ropes and resecuring supplies along the gangway.

And on the dock, standing quietly in the orange evening light...

Rin.

His arms were crossed over his chest, eyes tracking Zuko’s every step as the prince approached.

Beside him, standing just slightly apart, were Lee and Hinaro.

Lee looked more composed than he had any right to be, hands behind his back, posture stiff. His armor was clean, his eyes alert but Zuko caught the faint twitch of nerves in his fingers as they clenched and unclenched behind him.

Hinaro stood with her arms folded tightly, her weight shifted to one side, expression guarded. She’d changed into standard-issue Fire Nation attire, form-fitting red over black but it was clear she still hated every inch of it. Her hair was tied into a rough knot, and her mouth was drawn into a line.

As Zuko’s boots thudded softly onto the dock’s wooden planks, Rin was the first to speak.

“You look like shit.”

Zuko stopped.

“Thank you,” he said flatly.

Rin smirked. “Heard the first three minutes of your fight shook the entire port. Heard the last three minutes nearly broke it in half.”

“It felt longer,” Zuko muttered.

Lee stepped forward slightly, brows creased. “My prince... are you injured beyond what we observed?”

Zuko shook his head once. “Just sore.”

Lee studied his gait. “Possibly fractured left scapula. Bruising on the ribcage. Two shallow cuts across the temple and forearm. Fatigue. You require sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when we win.”

“Statistically, that is not a…”

“Let it go, Lee,” Rin muttered.

Zuko looked past them, toward the ship.

“Anything from Azula or Kuvak?” he asked.

Rin shook his head. “No message. No courier. They’re still two days out, if the storm held them.”

Zuko nodded once.

Then his eyes flicked to Hinaro.

She met his gaze. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t bow.

But she didn’t look away either.

“Welcome to Nan-Hai,” he said quietly.

Her jaw tightened.

“Your hospitality is overwhelming.”

Zuko didn’t smile. He didn’t expect her to either.

He stepped past them and ascended the gangway slowly, his shoulders heavy with the weight of too many eyes watching from the wreckage. As he reached the mid-deck, he turned back.

“Full briefing at dawn. Rest until then. Eat. Clean your gear.”

They saluted.

Zuko turned and vanished below deck.

And the wind carried ash across the harbor once more.

The creak of old timber followed him down the narrow hallway of the ship’s interior. The air inside was cooler than the dock, laced with the scent of salt, metal polish, and lingering smoke from the lower forges. Zuko passed two guards standing by the door to his quarters both saluted without a word and entered.

“Rin,” he called over his shoulder, “with me.”

Rin followed silently, the door swinging shut behind them.

Zuko’s quarters were spartan. The ship had been designed for war, not comfort. A single lacquered desk in the far corner, bolted to the floor. Scroll racks lined the upper walls. A small cot with red-black Fire Nation silk tucked into military creases sat along the far wall. A war map of Nan-Hai’s coastline, now dog-eared and soot-streaked hung pinned to a corkboard between two oil-lamps.

Zuko sat down slowly, the bandages at his ribs stretching as he adjusted his coat.

Rin remained standing.

“So here’s the full situation,” Zuko began.

Rin folded his arms, face serious. “The base is under more strain than we calculated. Fresh water stores are adequate, but food’s another matter. The Earth Kingdom raiders took most of the portside grain silos on the first day. If we don’t start rationing by morning, we’ll be dry within the week.”

Zuko stared at the corner of the desk, then exhaled. “According to the General’s plan, we will begin drawing up schedules. Prioritize the wounded and those on perimeter rotations.”

Rin nodded. “And morale?”

Zuko’s mouth pulled into a thin line. “That’s your department.”

Rin cracked a faint grin. “Oh good. I love talking to hungry soldiers with swords.”

Zuko’s eyes shifted to the map behind him. “You saw the cliffs. The jungle to the north. The far river forks. Fong has us boxed in.”

Rin followed his gaze. “If we try to send word by land, they’ll intercept. They’ve likely overrun the old couriers’ ridge by now.”

Zuko nodded slowly. “Which means reinforcements aren’t coming.”

“Unless,” Rin added, “we make reinforcements come to us.”

Zuko looked up.

They locked eyes.

“You’re thinking of a counter-offensive?” Rin asked.

“No,” Zuko said. “Not yet. Not with these numbers.”

He stood and walked to the map, finger trailing the coastline. “But if we bait them… let them think they’ve won more ground than they have. Give them a false gap.”

Rin crossed his arms again. “It’s a risk. You’re betting on Fong’s arrogance.”

“I’m betting on his pride,” Zuko muttered.

They stood in silence a moment longer.

Then Rin asked, quietly: “And what about him?”

Zuko didn’t need clarification. His eyes slid to the window port on the far side of the room.

He knew what Rin meant.

Captain Tsu.

Zuko could still feel the pirate’s scorched blade pressing to his throat. Still hear the distant creak of Tsu’s ship moored in a hidden inlet just beyond the bay’s reach. Like a specter with sails.

“He won’t move yet,” Zuko said.

Rin raised a brow. “You’re sure?”

“He’s waiting. Watching. Looking for the one moment where we lose balance.”

“You make him sound like a vulture.”

Zuko turned from the window. “No. Vultures feed on the dead. Tsu kills his meals himself.”

Rin’s jaw twitched. “What do you want done?”

Zuko crossed back to his desk and pulled open the middle drawer.

“Send every hawk we have to Kuvak. Not one message. Not three. All of them. If even one breaks through, we’ll get extra supplies within maybe a few hours.”

“Isn’t that...”

“Yes,” Zuko said sharply. “I know it risks exposing our need. But we don’t have a choice. Fong’s intercepting our runners inland. Somehow.”

Rin’s gaze hardened. “Yes, my prince.”

He turned, saluted, and left the cabin with no further words.

When the door clicked shut, silence fell.

Zuko exhaled.

He leaned back against the edge of the desk and let the stillness wrap around him. His shoulders ached. His ribs throbbed. His left arm was swollen beneath the dressing. And his head…

He closed his eyes.

Fong had been stronger than expected.

Not just skilled. Not just dangerous.

Dominant.

The general fought like a man born from stone, indestructible, unyielding, ancient. Zuko had given everything in that fight. Every move he’d learned from training, from experience, from the knowledge of his previous life.

And yet he barely walked away.

He gritted his teeth.

The world had changed.

Because of him.

But maybe not in the way he’d thought.

If Fong could fight like that, what about others?

What would it be like to face Toph?

Or Bumi?

His brow tightened as he straightened and reached slowly for the side shelf.

A jug of tea sat cooling on a tray.

He poured one cup with his unburned hand.

Brought it to his lips.

And let the bitter warmth burn his tongue.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

[A/N: Read 15 to 20 chapters ahead available right now on .com/saiyanprincenovels.com.]