Chapter Text
The forest was screaming.
Admiral Zhao had never been a man of subtlety. To flush out one "traitor," he was willing to burn an entire province. The air was a bruised purple against the night, choked with the black soot of ancient trees turning to ash.
Zuko stumbled through the undergrowth, his boots skidding on slick pine needles. He was alone. In the chaos of the coastal ambush, he had set his ostrich horse free since it couldn’t run in the thick forest; it would only burn. The prince felt a pinch in his chest; that animal had been his loyal companion for nearly half a year now, traveling around the Earth Kingdom with him. But survival meant heading into the deep timber where Zhao’s soldiers couldn’t pinpoint him and the Yuyan archers had too many obstacles for a clear shot.
The prince collapsed behind a stone statue, gasping for air. As he tried to even out his breathing, he took a closer look at his surroundings. He was crouched behind a bear statue, maybe a panda. One tall statue stood on its hind legs, surrounded by several others carved in various states of bowing. It was clearly a sacred place, a grove for a forest spirit. And now the forest was burning because of Zhao, because of him fleeing. Zuko didn’t have time to feel bad about that; he had to get going. The shouts were coming closer; he had to maintain the distance.
Zuko recoiled to get up, wincing as a flare of agony shot through his torso. His hand flew instinctively to his side, where the tattered fabric of his tunic was already clinging to raw flesh. Zhao had landed a lucky strike while Zuko was occupied deflecting a hail of arrows and fending off the surrounding soldiers. He knew the danger—if he didn't reach safety soon, the wound would infect. In the wilderness, infection was a slow death sentence.
"He’s wounded! Spread out!" the admiral shouted, his voice echoing.
Zuko pushed himself away from the panda statues, nearly stumbling over the roots of ancient trees that were beginning to groan and crack in the heat. He didn't know where he was going—only that the direction behind him wasn’t an option.
His vision was blurred. Every time his heart hammered against his ribs, the burn on his side flared white-hot—an erratic lightning bolt of pain that threatened to buckle his knees. He was running on nothing but spite and the lingering terror of Zhao’s voice echoing through the woods. He had managed to get quite far; Zhao hadn't even bothered to spread the fire anymore.
He broke into a small, natural clearing where the trees had been thinned by a previous season's storm. He stopped, chest heaving, his hand clutching the trunk of a silver-barked birch for support. An arrow buried itself into the bark just an inch from his ear. Zuko didn't even have the strength to yell. He spun, his feet tangling in the undergrowth, and fell hard onto his wounded side. A strangled cry escaped his throat as the world went gray for a terrifying second. When his vision cleared, he wasn't alone. His dao swords lay beside him.
The Yuyan archers didn't step out of the shadows; they were the shadows, dropping from the branches above to form a perfect, silent circle around him. They didn't speak. Their bows were drawn, the notched arrows pointed squarely at his limbs—not his heart. They weren't looking to kill him yet.
"There you are," a voice purred.
Zuko tried to bolt, but an arrow hissed past his ear, pinning the fabric of his sleeve to the silver birch beside his face. He jerked his arm, but the wood held firm. He was trapped. Admiral Zhao stepped into the moonlight, looking immaculate in his gold-trimmed armor—a sharp, cruel contrast to Zuko’s soot-stained rags. He didn't look like a soldier; he looked like a collector who had finally found a missing piece.
"Zhao!" Zuko hissed, dropping into a defensive stance as far as his pinned arm would allow. His knees shook with fatigue.
"Prince Zuko," Zhao said, his voice dripping with a mock reverence that made Zuko’s stomach turn. "You’ve led me on quite a chase. But even a wounded animal eventually runs out of strength."
"You’re a coward, Zhao!" Zuko yelled, his voice cracking with raw, desperate fury. "You hide behind archers and fire! You don't have the honor to face me yourself!"
Zhao only chuckled, a low, dry sound. He motioned with a lazy hand. "Archers. Secure his other side."
Another arrow whistled through the air, catching Zuko’s left sleeve. He thrashed, his heels digging into the dirt as he tried to tear the fabric. He was pinned against the bark, gasping, completely vulnerable.
"Coward!" Zuko screamed, his golden eyes blazing. "Release me and fight me like a man! Or are you too afraid to lose another Agni Kai? You’re a disgrace to the uniform!"
Zhao’s smile didn't reach his eyes. He stepped closer, the heat of the distant forest fire reflecting in his pupils. "Honor?" Zhao echoed, the word coming out as a soft, mocking breath. "It’s a pity, Prince Zuko. Truly. You speak of Agni Kais and uniforms as if you are still a member of the Fire Lord’s court. But look at you."
He gestured vaguely at Zuko’s blood-soaked side and tattered clothes, then leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I am not a coward for using archers, Zuko. I am a strategist. The history books won't remember how many arrows were fired tonight. They will only record that Admiral Zhao captured the fallen prince."
He turned his back on Zuko—the ultimate gesture of disrespect.
The older man signaled with a dismissive, lazy hand for the soldiers and archers to fall back. "Get back to the ship. It won’t take me long to follow with the prince," he commanded, his eyes never leaving Zuko’s, darkening with a thick, oily anticipation. "I wish to personally verify the traitor’s story before we begin the journey back to the capital." The soldiers hesitated, but one look at the admiral’s face sent them scurrying into the lingering smoke. Zuko was alone with him.
Zhao reached out. He didn't strike. Instead, he ran a finger along the edge of Zuko’s scar—a slow, agonizingly deliberate caress that felt like a hot iron against the boy’s trembling skin. Zuko flinched violently, his breath hitching in a sob of pure revulsion.
"Get your hands off me!" Zuko yelled, his voice echoing through the forest.
"Such a waste," Zhao whispered, leaning in until Zuko could smell the expensive, oppressive spice of his cologne. He breathed in deeply, savoring the salt of Zuko’s sweat. "Your father threw you away like trash. But I see the value in discarded things. In this 'lawless' Earth Kingdom, no one will hear you scream, Zuko. No one will care if a ghost prince disappears into my private collection."
"I am not a thing!" Zuko shrieked, his animalistic panic finally breaking through. He tried to kick out, but Zhao slammed his knee into Zuko’s thigh, pinning the boy’s legs with his own and leaning his full weight against Zuko’s injured side. The pressure forced the burn on Zuko's ribs to flare white-hot. Zuko let out a choked, broken cry, the air strained from his lungs.
"You're exhausted," Zhao murmured, his voice dropping into a register of perverse intimacy as he leaned down. He moved his hand to Zuko’s throat, his thumb pressing into the pulse point with enough force to make Zuko’s breath rattle. "Stop struggling. You're sixteen. You're a traitor. You're nothing. Your uncle isn’t here to save you. You should be grateful for the attention of a real admiral."
"I'd... rather... die..." Zuko choked. He tried to summon his fire, a desperate spark flickering in his eyes, but his chi was completely spent. With no power left, he lunged forward, baring his teeth to bite at the hand crushing his windpipe.
Zhao backhanded him—a stark, violent crack that snapped Zuko’s head to the side. The boy's vision blurred, a metallic taste filling his mouth.
"I said," Zhao hissed, his thumb tightening on Zuko’s throat until the world began to spark and dim, his other hand moving to pull Zuko’s waist flush against him, "stop fighting."
Zuko's head lolled back against the tree as Zhao took a long, disgusting lick along the boy’s scarred cheek. "Don’t..." he whispered, the word slipping out against his will. The lick was the final violation. Zuko’s skin crawled, a wave of nausea rolling through him that was more sickening than the pain of his burn. His eyes drifted shut, the world spinning into a hazy grey as he felt Zhao’s breath hot against his ear, murmuring something.
Suddenly, the air was cut by a piercing, metallic whirr.
A hook sword flew from the tree canopy with the speed of a striking snake. The curved blade snagged the heavy gold-trimmed silk of Zhao’s cape and the edge of his shoulder armor, yanking him backward with such violent force that the admiral was ripped away from Zuko’s body.
Zhao let out a strangled shout of surprise, stumbling over the uneven roots as he was tossed across the dirt.
Zuko slumped against the tree, chin dropping to his chest. He wheezed, his lungs burning as they finally pulled in air that wasn't flavored by Zhao’s cologne. Through the blur of his vision, he saw a figure drop from the branches of the silver birch.
"I think the admiral has stayed past his welcome," a new voice rasped—low, gritty, and vibrating with a lethal, protective rage.
The stranger landed in a low, predatory crouch between Zuko and the admiral. He stood up slowly, and the firelight caught the wild, unruly dark brown hair. His skin was tanned a deep, rugged bronze, highlighting the sharp angles of his face and his strong, defiant jawline.
He was dressed in the distinct layers of a forest rebel: a dark, midnight-blue undershirt peeking out from beneath a short-sleeved, clay-red wrap tunic. The garment was fastened with a dark belt, and over his right shoulder sat an asymmetrical metal pauldron. For added protection, a matching set of segmented metal plates sat over his right hip, clicking softly as he shifted.
His forearms had similar metallic plates. White wraps spiraled around his lower legs, tucked into simple, ankle-high brown boots. A stalk of wheat sat in the corner of his mouth, shifting as he bared his teeth. But it was his eyes that felt most unwavering—a brown that looked like polished mahogany, dark and impenetrable, narrowed with a cold, focused loathing for the man in the red armor.
He held his twin hook swords with a casual, expert grip. The long blades curved to hooks while crescent guards protected his knuckles. Standing there, he was a flurry of raw earth tones and lethal steel—the perfect, messy antithesis to Zhao’s rigid, gold-trimmed authority.
"Who are you?! How dare you raise your hand against me! I’m the great Admiral Zhao!" Zhao roared, scrambling to his feet, his face twisted in a mask of manic fury. His hands ignited, the flames ragged and unstable. "This is Fire Nation business! Step aside, or I'll burn you with the rest of the trash!"
The stranger didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the fire in Zhao’s hands. He shifted his weight, his armor clicking as he spoke in a voice that was dangerously calm.
"I don't care about your business, admiral," the boy said, his eyes flicking back for a fraction of a second to Zuko’s trembling, pinned form. He saw the bruise forming on the prince's jaw and the wet streak on his scarred cheek. His grip tightened on his hilts until his knuckles turned white. "But I’ve spent my whole life hunting ashmakers," the boy growled, stepping forward into Zhao’s space. "And I think I just found the one who deserves to bleed the most! What kind of adult man goes around trying to assault teenage boys!?"
Zhao lunged, a massive arc of fire tearing through the air, but the stranger wasn't there. He hooked a branch to swing himself upward before dropping back down behind the admiral.
"You made a mistake when you ordered your men away!" he shouted and let out a piercing whistle that echoed through the forest.
Whistling arrows and smoke bombs began to rain from the trees, turning the clearing into a chaotic, whiteout fog. Zuko’s golden eyes were wide and glassy. He only knew that for the first time in his life, someone other than his mother or uncle had stepped between him and the fire.
“You insolent peasants! You will all turn to ashes!” Zhao howled, shooting flames blindly. Because Zhao had been so arrogant—so eager to isolate Zuko—his men had retreated far beyond the range of a human voice. Zhao was truly alone. He was the prey now.
"Yuyan! To me!" Zhao screamed, but the forest only answered with the mocking thwack of arrows. The warrior didn't give Zhao a second to breathe. He moved like a phantom through the smoke, his hook swords a blur of silver.
Zhao lashed out with a wide-arced fire kick, trying to clear the space around him. The warrior didn't retreat. He used the curve of his right blade to snag a low-hanging branch, swinging his entire body weight over the flames. He came down like a hammer. His boots slammed into the center of Zhao’s gilded chest plate, the force of the kick sending a hollow clang echoing.
Zhao staggered backward, but the stranger was already moving again. He landed light on his feet, his forearm plates catching the sparks of a desperate backhand fire-swipe. With a sharp twist of his wrists, the two swords were locked together by the hooks, forming a single, long chain of steel. He whipped the weapon out, sharp crescent guards whistling as they sliced through the air, forcing Zhao to dive into the mud to avoid being decapitated.
"You move like a boar-q-pine, admiral," the stranger taunted, his voice appearing from a different direction every time he spoke as he uncoupled his blades. "Heavy. Loud. Predictable."
Zhao roared, throwing a dual-handed blast toward the sound. Suddenly, a fast figure blurred through the smoke. Another fighter slid between Zhao’s legs, her short daggers biting into the leather of his boots before she vanished back into the shroud. The admiral yelled in pain as he felt the warm blood gush into his boot.
"Over here, 'Sir'!" she mocked from the left, her voice light and biting.
"They can't hear you," the warrior’s voice rasped directly behind Zhao’s ear, cold as a winter grave. "You sent them away, remember? You wanted to be alone with the boy."
A hook sword caught the collar of Zhao’s gold-trimmed armor. With a brutal yank, he slammed the admiral face-first into the silver birch—the very tree where Zuko was pinned. The impact made the tree shudder. Zuko flinched, his eyes unfocused, watching the man who had just been a god of terror get handled like a common brawler.
The warrior stepped into the light, a cold, crooked smirk on his face. As Zhao tried to scramble up, gasping for air, the boy delivered a heavy, mud-caked boot to the admiral's chest, pinning him against the tree.
"This is Earth Kingdom soil," he hissed, leaning down, his face inches from Zhao’s. "And you're just another piece of filth we're going to bury in it."
Terrified and stripped of his dignity, Zhao blasted a fireball and ran as fast as he could. He scrambled into the brush, stumbling over his own heavy boots as he fled toward the distant sound of the fire, leaving his "collection" behind.
The warrior didn't chase him; his archers went after the admiral to finish the job. The lethal hunter in the stranger's face vanished, replaced by a strange, flickering concern as he turned toward the silver birch.
Zuko was still pinned against the bark, his head lolling to the side. The adrenaline was gone, leaving only the raw, shivering reality of what had almost happened. His silken but messy, moonless night-dark hair that reached his jaw clung to his forehead with sweat and grime. Brown Earth Kingdom tunic’s sleeves torn at the edges and hanging off his frame. His boots were tattered, the leather worn thin from miles of desperate flight.
The warrior sheathed his hook swords and stepped toward the boy. Up close, the stranger’s gaze drifted to the burnt landscape of Zuko’s scar, a permanent mark of fire. He didn't look away with the usual disgust or pity; instead, his jaw tightened, a silent recognition of a shared enemy.
As his eyes swept over the prince, he couldn't help but notice the sharp, aristocratic lines of Zuko’s face beneath the soot and bruises. Despite the hollows of his cheeks and the shadow of the scar, the boy was strikingly handsome, possessing a refined beauty that the forest hadn't been able to wash away. But it was a fragile beauty; the warrior could see with a single glance that the boy was too thin to be healthy, his collarbones standing out sharply against the rough fabric of his tunic. He looked like he hadn't had a real meal in months.
The stranger reached out slowly. He looked at the other boy, whose golden eyes were wide and blown out with shock, his breath coming in tiny, hitching gasps that shook his narrow frame.
"Hey," he said, voice surprisingly soft, losing the gravelly edge it had used on the admiral. "He's gone. You're okay."
As the stranger approached, Zuko let out a broken, involuntary whimper and tried to shrink into the wood, his eyes fixed on the hand with a haunting, shattered look—as if he still felt the phantom sensation of Zhao's tongue against his cheek.
“It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m Jet, and these are my Freedom Fighters. You are safe now,” Jet assured and pulled a small, sharp knife from his belt. "Easy, easy," he murmured, but as he reached up to slice the arrows pinning Zuko’s sleeves, the boy’s eyes flared with a terrifying, wild vacancy.
The moment the tension in the fabric gave way, Zuko didn’t fall—he fought. To Zuko, the world was still smoke, gold armor, and the feeling of being touched. When Jet’s hand brushed his arm to steady him, Zuko let out a raw scream of pure animal terror.
"Don't touch me! GET OFF ME!"
Zuko lunged away from the tree, his legs shaking. He swung an unsteady fist at Jet’s face, his movements desperate and uncoordinated. He wasn't fighting like a prince or a bender; he was fighting like someone trying to claw his way out of a grave. He scrambled backward through the dirt, his hands scraping over his own fallen dao swords, but he couldn't even find the strength to grip the hilts.
"I know you are scared, but we won’t do anything to you," Jet said, keeping his hands visible and open.
Zuko didn't hear him. He was hyperventilating, his chest heaving so violently it looked like his ribs might snap. He backed away, his eyes darting frantically. "No... no, stay back..." he pleaded, his voice breaking.
The frantic burst of adrenaline was the last thing Zuko’s body had to give. As he tried to stand, his wounded side flared with a white-hot agony that finally overcame his will. His vision swirled, the orange firelight turning to a suffocating black. His knees buckled. Zuko tilted forward and hit the dirt before Jet could reach him.
"Hey!" Jet dropped to his knees beside him, his earlier bravado completely gone.
He rolled the boy onto his back. Zuko was wounded on his side, his skin pale beneath the soot and blood. His breathing was shallow. Jet’s hands hovered for a second, hesitating, before he firmly pulled Zuko into his lap, tucking the boy’s head against his shoulder.
"Bee! Get the medical kit!" Jet barked over his shoulder. "We’re heading to the high-canopy hideout. Now!"
Jet didn't wait for a reply. He slid one arm under Zuko’s knees and the other behind his back, hoisting him up. He expected the weight of a farm boy, but Zuko was so light it sent a jolt of alarm through Jet’s chest. The boy’s head fell back against Jet’s shoulder, his raven-black hair brushing against Jet’s neck.
As they hurried towards their camp the forest floor dropped away, replaced by the cool air of the upper branches. Jet kept his eyes on the boy in his arms. Even unconscious, Zuko’s face was tight with pain, the lines of his eyes jumping with every small tremor.
He’s beautiful, Jet thought, the realization hitting him with a sudden, unwanted force. Even beneath the soot and the blood, there was a refined, striking quality to the boy's face—like a piece of fine porcelain that had been shattered and glued back together. It was a tragic kind of beauty, something that had been burned but refused to turn to ash.
"Jet," a voice whispered nearby. It was the girl with the daggers, keeping pace as they moved across a narrow suspension bridge. She looked at the tattered Earth Kingdom tunic and the thin, shaking frame. "What was an admiral doing with a kid like this? He’s just a stray. Why would the Fire Nation go to all that trouble for one Earth Kingdom boy?"
"Because they're monsters, Bee," Jet grunted, adjusting his grip as Zuko let out a soft, pained moan. "Look at him. He’s dressed like a refugee, but he’s got the face of a noble. Maybe he saw something he wasn't supposed to. Or maybe Zhao just likes breaking things that look like they're worth something."
She bit her lip, looking at Zuko’s thin, bruised neck. "He looks like he’s one foot in the grave. If Zhao wants him back, he's going to send the whole division into these woods."
Jet didn't answer. He looked over at the silent archer, Longshot, who was moving like a ghost on their flank. Longshot’s eyes flicked to the boy, then to the dual dao swords hanging from Jet’s belt—the blades Jet had scavenged from the dirt. Longshot tilted his head, a silent question in the set of his brow: Why this one? Why are we risking the hideout for a stranger?
Jet understood the look immediately. "He’s worth it," Jet said, his voice dropping to a low, determined rasp. "Did you see the way he fought? Even when he couldn't stand, he was trying to claw his way back up. I’ve seen soldiers give up for less. I want to know who has that much fight in them."
Longshot looked at the boy’s scar—a permanent, violent signature of the Fire Nation—then back to Jet. He didn't nod, but his expression softened into a grim understanding. To them, that scar was proof enough: this boy was a victim of the same fire that had taken everything from them. He was one of them.
They reached the central hideout, a sprawling network of huts tucked into the oldest, sturdiest branches of the forest. Jet stepped into his own hut. He laid Zuko down on a soft pallet of furs with a gentleness that surprised even himself.
"Get the bandages ready," Jet ordered, his eyes never leaving Zuko’s face. "And someone get some broth going. When he wakes up, I want him to know he’s with friends."
----
Hours later, the roar of the forest fire was a distant, muffled orange glow beneath the thick canopy of the Freedom Fighters' camp. They were lucky it hadn’t spread any further. Inside Jet’s private hut, the air was cool and smelled of crushed herbs and damp wood.
Zuko was stripped to the waist, his tattered tunic discarded on the floor. They had cleaned the boy’s burn wound and used a soothing salve before bandaging him. Jet sat beside him, a bowl of cool water and a clean cloth in his hands.
The silence was heavy as Jet looked at the boy properly for the first time. The burn on Zuko's ribs was angry and weeping, but it was the other marks that made Jet’s stomach turn. The bruise on his jaw from the backhand was turning a deep, sickly purple, as was his throat. The worst to look at was the old burn scar that covered the other boy’s left eye and much of the face on that side.
It looked like the boy had gone a long time without food. His cheeks were sunken, and he had clearly lost a lot of muscle mass—classic signs of malnutrition. Jet’s face darkened when he saw the way Zuko’s ribs protruded with every shallow breath, but that wasn't what stopped his heart.
As he moved the damp cloth to clean a smear of soot from the boy’s side, the fur blanket slipped lower. There, harrowing against the pale, porcelain skin of Zuko’s hip, was a blossoming cluster of bruises—the distinct, dark shape of a man’s handprint, where someone had gripped him with enough force to leave a mark of ownership.
Jet’s breath hitched. He had seen the horrors of war; the intimate cruelty of that mark made his blood run cold.
Jet dipped the cloth in the water and began to wipe Zuko's face. When he reached the scarred cheek, he paused. He remembered the look on Zhao's face—the hunger, the way he had leaned in. With his jaw set in a hard, grim line, Jet began to scrub that specific spot with a gentle but thorough insistence, as if he could wash the admiral’s existence off Zuko’s skin.
Zuko stirred, a soft, pained moan escaping his lips. His eyes didn't open, but his hand reached out, blindly catching Jet’s wrist. His grip was weak, fingers trembling.
"Don't..." Zuko whispered, his voice small and shattered.
Jet didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his hand within Zuko’s grip, lacing their fingers together and pressing their hands down onto the furs.
"It's just me," Jet whispered, leaning close so Zuko could hear him. "Just Jet. You're in the trees. You're high up where the fire can't reach you, and that bastard is never touching you again. I promise."
Zuko’s breathing hitched, then slowly, agonizingly, began to level out. He didn't let go of Jet's hand as he drifted back into sleep. Jet sat patiently, waiting.
The curtain flap of the hut moved silently as Longshot stepped inside. He didn't make a sound, his boots practiced in the art of ghosting over wooden planks. He stopped a few feet away, his eyes traveling from Jet’s weary face down to where their fingers were still laced together on the furs.
Jet didn't look up, but he knew who it was. "He’s stable," Jet murmured, his voice barely audible. "For now."
Longshot remained silent, but his gaze lingered on the raw, purple handprint on the boy’s hip and the way Zuko’s hand clung to Jet’s like a lifeline. He saw the way Jet’s thumb was absentmindedly stroking the back of the prince's knuckles—a gesture of comfort Jet probably didn't even realize he was making.
Jet nodded slowly, as if responding to a long explanation. "I know, Longshot," Jet said softly, finally looking up. "You're right. We need to know why he was targeted like that."
Longshot slowly reached into his quiver and pulled out a small, dried bundle of lavender and sage. He stepped forward and placed it on the small table near the pallet, a silent offering to help with the nightmares and the smell of the smoke.
Jet let out a small smile, meeting his friend's steady eyes. "Thanks, Longshot."
Longshot gave a single, solemn nod. He looked at the sleeping boy one last time, a flicker of something—pity, perhaps—crossing his features before he turned and vanished back into the dappled light of the camp.
----
The sun filtered through the dense canopy in dappled streaks of gold. The rhythmic creak of the hanging bridges outside and distant chatter were the only sounds beside nature.
Zuko’s eyes snapped open. For a terrifying second, he saw the silver birch and felt the phantom pressure on his windpipe. He surged upward, a strangled gasp catching in his throat, but a hand immediately landed on his shoulder—firm, but not crushing.
"Whoa, easy. You're going to tear that burn wound," the boy said.
Zuko flinched away from the touch, his back hitting the wooden wall of the hut. His golden eyes darted around the room until they landed on the boy sitting on a low stool beside him. It was the one with the hook swords.
"Where am I?" Zuko croaked, his voice raw from screaming and smoke.
"My home," Jet said, leaning back and crossing his arms. He looked Zuko over with a calculated intensity. "High enough that the Fire Nation won't find us. I'm Jet. I believe you were too agitated to remember when I told you earlier."
Zuko stayed silent, his breath hitching as he felt the heavy bandages wrapped around his ribs. He felt exposed, stripped of his dao swords and his outer layers.
"You got a name?" Jet asked, tilting his head.
Zuko hesitated. He swallowed hard, the metallic taste of blood still lingering. "Lee," he finally muttered. "My name is Lee."
Jet chewed on a wheat stalk, his eyes narrowing. "Lee. Simple enough."
Zuko looked down at his hands. They were clean, the soot scrubbed away. He remembered the feeling of Zhao’s hand on his throat—and then the other feeling. The wet, hot trail on his cheek. His hand flew to his face, fingers frantically rubbing the scarred skin.
"I cleaned it," Jet said quietly. The lethal edge returned to his voice. "All of it. He’s gone, Lee. We drove him back to the coast. It’s a shame Longshot didn’t get a chance to end him."
Zuko’s hand dropped, but he didn't look up. "Why did you help me? I'm just a refugee."
"You didn't look like just another refugee back there," Jet interrupted, his elbows on his knees. This was the question that had been eating at him all night. "I’ve seen the Fire Nation raid villages. I’ve seen them take prisoners for work camps. But I’ve never seen a high-ranking admiral leave his men behind just to corner one boy in the woods."
Jet’s gaze was like a knife, searching for the truth. "Why was an admiral—not a scout, not a commander, but an admiral—so obsessed with catching a peasant? What did you do to make him that hungry for you?"
Zuko felt the walls closing in. He was a bad liar, and his golden eyes were darting too much. He had to stay as close to the truth as possible while keeping his identity buried. He swallowed hard, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp.
"We were at the North Pole when the siege happened," Zuko muttered, twisting the fabric of the furs in his hands. "In some form, the information about what happened there must have spread across the world by now."
Jet’s eyes stayed on Zuko, his frown deepening. "The North Pole? That's a long trek for a peasant, Lee. Why would an admiral drag you all the way to the ice?"
Zuko looked at his hands and thought about the Earth Kingdom laborers he had seen on the ships. "My uncle and I were just numbers for labor..." That was the best lie he could think of.
Jet’s expression softened, his suspicion replaced by a cold, familiar anger. "Typical," Jet spat. "They use our people as pack animals and then discard them when the job is done." He shook his head, his posture relaxing as his hatred for the Fire Nation validated Zuko’s story.
Zuko looked at the floor, his jaw tightening as he integrated the truth of the North Pole disaster. "The siege was a nightmare. Everything was falling apart. My... my uncle. He saw the admiral try to kill the Moon Spirit, Tui. He fought against him and I helped. We helped the Avatar’s team defeat Zhao."
Jet went still. The wheat in his mouth stopped moving as he leaned in closer, his eyes blown wide. "The Avatar? You’re telling me you were there? You saw him?" He reached out, his hand hovering near Zuko’s arm before he caught himself and pulled back, remembering how Zuko had flinched earlier. "And the Moon Spirit... that explains why that one night felt like the world slipped into the Spirit World. Everyone talked about that. You're saying it was true? That Zhao actually tried to kill a spirit?"
Jet stood up and began to pace the small hut, his boots thudding rhythmically against the wood. "If you saw that—if you helped the Avatar humiliate Zhao—then you’re not just a refugee, Lee. You’re a hero of the resistance." He stopped and looked at Zuko, a dangerous, excited spark in his eyes. "What did he look like? The Avatar. Is it true he’s just a kid?"
Zuko looked away, his expression hardening into a mask of feigned indifference. "He was just a kid," Zuko muttered, his voice flat. "Maybe twelve or thirteen. A few years younger than us. I didn't get close enough to talk to him—I was too busy trying to keep my uncle from being executed."
Jet watched him for a long beat, the stalk in his mouth twitching as he processed the information. He seemed to be weighing whether to push for more, but then he let out a short, sharp breath and leaned back against the wall.
"A kid," Jet mused, his eyes tracking a stray beam of light hitting the floor. "The world is resting on the shoulders of a twelve-year-old. No wonder the Earth Kingdom is in such a mess." He shrugged, letting the matter of the Avatar drop for now. It wasn't like he was ever going to cross paths with a legend like that in the middle of a forest anyway.
"Anyway," Jet said, his voice losing its sharp edge and softening into something more personal. "You’re the one here now. And if Zhao wants you dead because you saw him fail, then you’re exactly the kind of person the Freedom Fighters protect."
Zuko jolted. He felt awful for lying about who he was, but he was weak and hurt. He had to keep himself alive so he could leave and return to his uncle eventually. “I did nothing worthy at the North Pole," he muttered. "I’m just a nobody…”
In fact, Zuko had switched sides and fought against Zhao with the Gaang when they had found out Zhao's manic plan. Even Zuko understood that the balance of the world would be destroyed if the Moon Spirit was killed. He and Iroh had become traitors the moment they attacked Zhao, a high-ranking military officer during a high-stakes invasion. That was high treason.
Jet didn't press the matter. He could see the tension in the boy’s shoulders and the way he looked at the floor, as if he didn't feel worthy of being called a hero. Instead, Jet reached for a wooden bowl of steaming broth and held it out.
"Eat," Jet commanded gently. "You have been through some serious shit; you need to eat." He waited for Zuko to take the bowl before leaning back. "Look, Lee, you can stay with us until you’re healed. After that, if you want to move on, that’s your choice. But for now, you’re safe. Zhao might be an admiral, but he doesn't know these woods, and he definitely doesn't know where our hideout is. We’re invisible here."
Zuko took the bowl, the warmth of the wood seeping into his cold fingers. He didn't say thank you—the word felt like it would choke him—but he nodded once, a sharp, jerky movement. He took a sip of the broth, the first real nourishment he’d had in days. The world had turned upside down at the North Pole and he was tired. For the first time in weeks, the constant weight of being hunted felt just a little bit lighter, even if he was resting in the heart of the “enemy's” camp.