Jet began his reconnaissance the next day.

Others would call it stalking—vampires as well as humans, though with his kind stalking didn't have the same connotation as mortals gave it. But, as a former mortal himself, he'd never really liked the word. It seemed too laden with immorality, and as everyone knew, vampires didn't deal in human morality. They were predators. The wolf didn't follow the rabbit's laws.

Which meant that he really shouldn't be tried according to human laws if he got caught breaking and entering, like he was doing now. But he wouldn't get caught. The statue's head was too easy to get to, and besides, the guards never looked up. Which was odd—with all the nooks and crannies up here, chandeliers and statues and whatnot, one would think that those guarding this place would know better.

His foot slipped as he jumped from one gold head to the next, trying to find where the Prince was studying, and the sound echoed in the chamber around him. Nights! Had the guards heard him? Would they finally look up?

One of the masked people below turned to the other. "What do you think that was?" The voice is masculine and unsure.

"Probably just Prince Zuko," the other replies, shrugging. Their voice is feminine and unconcerned.

His prey, up in the rafters? It almost made sense, considering the rumors Jet had heard. Zuko was said to have had ninja training, to be able to cloak himself in shadow and sneak past even the most vigilant and observant guards, to have struck down multiple assassins at once at the tender age of nine. Maybe those rumors had some basis after all.

(Nights, wouldn't that be hot.)

One week after Jet made first sight, he finally managed to get a solid hour of watching his prey. He told himself it was productive, that he was studying the way Zuko moved in a fight, but he knew the truth.

Everything about his prey was absolutely perfect.

Zuko was about to practice his dao when Jet finally managed to find a suitably hidden spot. Through the leaves of the old oak, he watched the whole process, from the Prince's furtive, wary glances as he stripped off the trappings of his office to the way his black silken hair whirled about him as he stepped into his katas to the easing tension of his shoulders and torso as the katas became more and more advanced. He could see the lines and curves of well-kept musculature working beneath smooth, pale skin, and, just like the first time Jet had seen him, he felt his fangs pressing down against his upper jaw.

Not yet, he told himself again. Not yet.

Zuko confused Jet.

Over a month, he'd begun watching and studying Zuko both on and off the training arena. Along with dao and firebending, Zuko practiced with throwing knives and shurikens, regular knives, and hand-to-hand combat. His sister, so lavishly praised with her skills, practiced with the same, save for the dao. Her combat talent obviously laid in firebending, shurikens, and trash-talking. Zuko's lay in the dao; he was as much a prodigy with the twin swords as his sister was with firebending. Jet had met with and fought many swordsmen over the years, both formally trained and self-taught, and he could say with complete confidence that Zuko was in the best five he'd ever seen, if not simply the best.

And yet, whenever Jet got the privilege of watching him practice, the Prince seemed guilty to be doing what he was.

Jet suspected that Zuko was a mixture of formally trained and self-taught, judging from the mixture of well-known moves and unorthodox katas. He'd heard rumor of a human man by the name of Piandao, who taught not rigidity and tradition in sword training but creativity and flexibility. Naturally, his encouragement of free thought and independence did not make him popular with the more traditional segment of the Fire Nation elite. Perhaps Ozai had recommended his son to the master, only to find that Zuko was taking a path his father did not want him to take.

He got his answer one fateful day when Ozai caught sight of his son working through a kata that seemed specifically designed to fend off multiple enemies with their own swords. "Zuko!"

The Prince dropped his swords, snapping into a quick bow, fear in the tension in his jaw and the slight widening of his eyes. "Father." He did not speak further than the tense greeting.

"You know full well you are not to be playing with a commoner's weapon," Ozai hissed. "Your mother may have allowed your trivial 'practice' in the past, but I will not stand for such disrespect of your station."

"Yes, Father."

"This is the sixth time I have caught you with your swords. You are lucky your mother does not allow me to use corporal punishment."

"I understand, Father." He could not hide the way his eyes and head dropped just a few degrees, disappointment pulling the corners of his mouth down and shining his eyes with yet-to-be-shed tears.

"Then you will get rid of those things." Pride stiffening his posture, Ozai stormed out of the courtyard in the way only elites could–head high, steps firm, shoulders back.

Jet hadn't noticed the growl in the back of his throat until Zuko's head whipped around, eyes narrowed in suspicion. The man had no right! Who was he to order Zuko to give up his solace? Who was he to try to mold his Prince into yet another no-brained, empty-smiled sycophant? Did he want a figurehead for a son?

Don't you worry, my little prey, he thought, trying to calm the rage that had enveloped him. When you're mine, truly, fully mine, you can practice your dao to your heart's content.

The aftermath of the confrontation was…destructive.

Jet stayed far longer that day than he usually did, following his Zuko as he picked up his dao and headed to a proper training ground, stuffing his swords in a hiding spot in his room along the way. The servants must have seen him coming and surreptitiously given the order to set up some targets, because bags of straw in the approximate shape of a human were already set up at the opposite end of the training room. Jet tucked himself into a shadowy corner behind a rack of knives and settled down to watch the show.

And what a show it was. Zuko attacked the targets again and again, with firebending, knives, punching, well-practiced techniques dissolving into insane fury and a near-complete loss of control. At the end of it all, Zuko unleashed one final flaming breath, relighting the targets yet again, and–

–collapsed.

He was sprawled on the stone floor, burn scars surrounding him, quiet sobs tearing through his throat, torso shaking with every heaving breath. Jet wanted to slide out of the shadows and lay on top of him, kissing the tears away, murmuring soft words of comfort, pouring much-needed affection over him until he was able to smile again. Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, though he did not need it, helped calm the desire; he doubted that Zuko would welcome a stranger cuddling him, especially a stranger with no body heat. Appearing now, no matter how he wanted to comfort his Zuko, would only cut off Jet from his true goal.

Thankfully, he didn't have to appear. Ursa herself appeared at the door, took in the scorch marks, flaming targets, and heap of flesh and sorrow, and immediately went to her son. "Your father catch you with your dao again?"

"Mm-hm."

"Told you to give it up completely?"

"Mm-hm."

"I'll talk some sense into him," she said, in a way that seemed to mean that she'd threaten some sense into him. "You know, your father rarely means what he says."

Zuko reached out and dragged his head onto his mother's lap, prompting her to start stroking his hair. "I know."

"What he probably means here is to practice it somewhere no-one important will find you. I've never met anyone as obsessed with image as him." The fond exasperation on her face was not exactly what Jet had expected. "Of course, it's not always the image you expect."

"I know, Mom." Zuko lifts his head a bit. "I just–"

"You want him to be affectionate."

He nods.

Ursa sighed. "I've tried for seventeen years to try to get him to be affectionate, turtleduckling. I'm starting to think it's either impossible or he has a very different definition of affection than the rest of us."

Zuko looked up at his mother, eyes wide and mouth pulled down just slightly in his pleading.

"I know, Zuko." She ruffled his hair. "I know."

Jet watched the pair together for a while afterwards, processing the information they'd just unintentionally given him. Zuko's father now had more facets than only the confrontation or the rumors; he doubted someone so independent as Ursa would have stood to live with or love one who disrespected her. Perhaps Ozai was displacing anger from a long-standing fight between him and his wife on someone he didn't feel could fight back.

But that just meant Zuko needed to get out of there sooner.

Two months later, when both Zuko and Ozai had mostly forgotten their altercation, Jet found Zuko in the same courtyard. The Prince sat quietly by the pond, bread on one side of him and an unlit candle on the other. A couple of turtleducks padded over to him. Zuko, of course, allowed them to sit next to him, feeding them bread crumbs and giving them little head pats. It was a peaceful scene.

That peacefulness was interrupted by footsteps from the walkway. Jet narrowed his eyes in contempt as Azula stepped out of the shadows, plopping herself down in a place that was both conveniently close to her brother and conveniently free of turtleducks.

She began the conversation abruptly, with no context. "Why do you work so hard for him?"

Zuko looks over to his sister, clearly knowing things that Jet did not. "Why do you work so hard for her?"

"To annoy you. Duh."

Zuko raised an eyebrow. "Why else?"

"And why should I tell you that?" she asked, pursing her lips

"Because I asked, and you want to know my reasons." The conversation had the feel of one had many times, in many forms.

The Princess huffed. "Fine. I want her because then I'd be the favorite child of everyone. She's the last person I have to convince." She looked over to her brother. "Your turn."

He looked up to the sky. Closed his eyes. "Because I want the love of both my parents. Because I don't want him breathing down my neck, waiting for me to slip up so that he can berate me again. People who love you don't do that."

Oh.

Oh.

Oh nights.

He needed to get Zuko out of there, and soon.

"What do you know?" Azula snaps. "Just Mom and Uncle is a pretty small sample size. And we both know that whatever Father does, he does it for the good of the nation."

"I know." Zuko sighs and lays back on the sunlight grass. "But you have Father and Zhao."

"Neither of us have Zhao. He barely tolerates either of us. You know that." She huffed at her brother, scowling. "He's jealous of Mom for stealing Father or something."

Well. Jet was always down for gossip, and this sounded juicy. He leaned a little closer, still hidden in the leaves of the oak, but all he got was a sigh from Zuko. "Ok. Fine. But you still have, like, the entire country adoring you. That's a bit more than just Mom and Uncle."

"You're kidding, right?" Jet mentally echoed the sentiment, reflecting on the memory of Zuko's birthday celebration. "Most of the country prefers you."

"What? Why would anyone like me? You're the firebending prodigy."

They kept arguing, but Jet had stopped listening so intently. Was Zuko really so unaware of his own charm? Did he really not see? Jet had heard of a human thing called an inferiority complex, but he'd never really believed it existed until now.

Well. If Zuko really thought himself unworthy of love, Jet would just have to convince him otherwise.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon.