The next day
The ring smelled like scorched earth and sweat.
Ash still clung to the fence posts. A patch of dried blood stained the dirt near the center. No one asked whose it was.
"Listen up!" Gobber barked. "If you thought dragons were scary before—good! You should be scared. It'll keep you alive."
We stood in a rough half-circle. Hiccup, Fishlegs, the twins, Snotlout, me. All of us still bruised from the raid. All of us are quieter than usual. The silence between us was heavier than any armor.
Gobber hobbled to the edge of the ring, hoisting a battered board smeared with soot and scratched with rough sketches. "There are seven species you'll train with—if you're lucky. Fewer if you're not."
He pointed to the smudged drawings: Nadder, Gronckle, Nightmare, Zippleback... and three others I didn't recognize. One was limbless, like a snake with eyes that stared too long. Another had six legs and no wings. The third looked almost unfinished—just a silhouette with no name.
"These aren't pets. These aren't friends. They're weapons," Gobber said. "If you slip, if you hesitate—" He lobbed a charred boot into the ring. "That's all we'll find of you."
No one laughed.
Snotlout crossed his arms, chest puffed. "I've fought more than half of these already. This'll be cake."
Gobber didn't blink. "Good. Then you can go first."
Snotlout's smirk faltered.
From behind the iron gate, something growled.
A Nadder.
The same kind that nearly ripped me in half during the raid. It strutted out, scales burning like liquid bronze, talons slicing the dirt with every step. Its eyes locked on Snotlout, unblinking.
Snotlout swallowed hard.
"Shield only," Gobber said. "No weapons. You're not fighting. You're surviving."
Snotlout raised his shield. "Easy," he muttered.
The Nadder screamed.
He lasted nine seconds.
My turn came third.
The gate groaned.
A Gronckle this time—fat, angry, already grinding rocks between its jagged teeth.
"Don't let it pin you," Gobber warned.
I didn't.
I kept low. Shield raised. Watched the tail, counted its breaths. It lunged—I rolled, jammed the shield between its teeth, and dove behind the training post. Not to hide. To bait it.
It bit. Wood exploded. I moved again.
My body remembered what pain had taught it.
Thirty-two seconds.
Gobber nodded. "Decent."
I turned to Hiccup.
He wasn't watching me. He was watching the Gronckle—his gaze steady, not afraid. Not angry. Just… curious. Like he was studying it. Listening to it.
When Gobber called his name, he hesitated. Then stepped forward.
No shield. No armor.
Gobber squinted. "You forget something, lad?"
Hiccup didn't answer. He walked into the ring like it was a quiet room, not a war zone.
The Zippleback slithered out next—two heads, four eyes, one cloud of gas already misting the air.
Hiccup didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He crouched slowly. Held out an empty hand.
"Hey," he whispered. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The dragon blinked. Its heads twitched. Gas hissed. Sparks lit.
And then—
Nothing.
They stared at each other.
Fifteen full seconds.
Then Gobber hurled a hammer against the fence with a clang.
The Zippleback roared, lunging in a burst of fire and teeth.
Hiccup dove, rolled, and sprinted clear before the flames landed.
The others erupted—laughing, yelling, cursing.
But I just watched him.
At first, I thought he was restless. All of us were. The raids, the training, the constant weight of death above our heads—it frayed the nerves.
But Hiccup... was different. Always had been. And lately, it was like he was wearing the wrong skin—like his thoughts were too big, his feelings too loud for the quiet life he was forced to live.
So I started noticing.
The way he left early. Came back late. Covered in soot some mornings, soaked to the knees in seawater others. Like he'd been crawling through tide pools. Or chimneys.
Once, I found a broken pulley in the old cove. Frayed rope. Marks in the mud leading into the cliffs. The trail ended halfway up a sheer wall—too steep for anyone full-grown.
Exactly Hiccup-sized.
"Where were you last night?" I asked casually, picking at stale bread.
He blinked. "Nowhere."
"Nowhere's cold this time of year."
He shrugged. "Just walking."
His voice didn't crack. His eyes didn't waver. But his hands—ink-stained, oil-slicked—trembled slightly against the table.
Not a blacksmith soot. It was too fine. Too deliberate.
Two nights later, I saw him slip past curfew.
I didn't call out. Just followed.
The moon was a pale coin, washing the cliffs in silver and shadow. He moved fast, faster than someone with arms like kindling had any right to. Down through the trees. Past the old fish racks. Into the hollow behind the forge, where the ground cracked open like an old scar.
I waited.
Ten minutes. Then twenty.
Then—I heard it.
A low huff. Not wind. Not waves.
Breath. Thick. Wet. Alive.
I crept forward, sword drawn. A gust of warm air hit me—reeking of sulfur and damp stone.
Then Hiccup's voice. Barely a whisper.
And claws. Scraping stone.
I froze.
When I peeked over the ridge—he was gone.
No sound. No footprints. Just a single, perfect scorch mark in the snow. Circular. Still steaming.
The next morning, he looked like hell.
Eyes sunken. Movements sluggish. But beneath the exhaustion, something new.
Something sharp. Focused. Dangerous.
When the Nightmare charged during training, he didn't blink. Just stepped aside, calm, calculated. Like he'd predicted the exact second it would move.
Gobber clapped. "Not bad, lad!"
But Hiccup didn't smile.
His eyes drifted back to the cliffs.
That night, I broke into the forge.
It was empty. Cold.
Until I reached the workbench.
Blueprints. Levers. Hinges. Coils. And something else—metal frames shaped like wings. Foldable. Mechanical. Carefully drawn schematics, more complex than anything a village apprentice should be able to build.
In the corner, written in messy, slanted script:
"Retractable Tail Fin — Prototype 4. For… Toothless?"
I stared at the name, throat tight.
Who was Toothless?
And more importantly—
What was Hiccup doing?
I couldn't do much. Father had left in search of the Dragons' Nest, chasing legends with fire in his eyes and a sword in his hand. That left the village—and all the expectations—in mine. Between training, chores, and keeping things from falling apart, I didn't have time for secrets or mysteries. So I put it on hold. Whatever Hiccup was doing... I looked the other way.