athena ⋆˚꩜｡

The wind had softened over the Edge in the weeks since Octavia’s arrival. The sea, once an ever-churning uncertainty beneath her, now felt familiar—constant. Days had fallen into a rhythm: training flights with Duneveil, meals shared in the clubhouse, arguments between the twins echoing across the cliffs, and Hiccup’s voice rising above it all, steady and patient.

Octavia hadn’t realized how much she’d grown used to the sounds of this strange place until they’d become part of her. She still didn’t feel like she belonged—not exactly—but the weight of isolation she’d carried from the moment she left Rome had lessened. Here, she was just Octavia. No titles. No expectations. No war.

“Oi! Blonde girl!” Ruffnut’s voice had cracked through the morning air like a gull’s cry not long ago. “You flying today or just brooding on cliffs again?”

She hadn’t even bristled. Not anymore.

Over time, she had watched the Riders and learned their rhythms. Astrid sparred with unrelenting precision, her axe always at the ready, her eyes sharper than any blade. Fishlegs, with his encyclopedic knowledge of dragons, had found in Duneveil a new obsession—and, oddly, a kind of reverence. Even Snotlout, whom she still found unbearable, had stopped trying to impress her so much… though she suspected that had more to do with Hiccup’s increasingly cold glares than any real self-awareness.

And then there was Hiccup.

He was unlike anyone she had known—certainly unlike any man back in Rome. Clever, thoughtful, patient to a fault. He had a disarming way of asking questions that didn’t feel like prying, and while Octavia didn’t offer much about herself, she found herself speaking more freely around him than she would have expected. He didn’t look at her with suspicion anymore. Or awe. Just curiosity.

It was mid-morning when she found him waiting near the stables, Toothless sprawled in the sun beside him, his tail twitching lazily.

“You’re up early,” Hiccup said with a half-smile as she approached. “Well, early for you, anyway.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow, arms crossed. “If you're going to insult me, at least have the decency to offer breakfast first.”

Hiccup grinned, clearly pleased. “Tempting offer. But I actually had something else in mind.”

She eyed him warily. “What kind of something?”

“A flight.” He glanced toward the horizon. “Astrid and I are going out on a scouting mission today—just a short one. We have to check on some unusual dragon hunter activity. Thought you might want to come.”

“To… scout?” She wasn’t sure if she was surprised or suspicious.

Hiccup nodded. “You’ve been here a while now. You’ve flown the coast, learned our patterns, kept up with training. And Duneveil’s looking stronger every day.” He paused. “It’d be good to have another set of eyes out there.”

Octavia hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go—it was that she hadn’t expected to be asked. “Are you sure?” she said slowly. “I’m not one of you.”

“Maybe not officially,” Hiccup replied, “but you’ve been acting like one of us since the day you helped fight off the hunters. And this isn’t a battle. It’s just a look around.”

He studied her face. “But if you’re not ready—”

“I didn’t say that.” She straightened slightly. “I’ll go. Duneveil will be pleased to stretch his wings properly.”

“Great.” Hiccup’s smile widened. “We leave in an hour. Bring something warm—it gets colder the farther north we fly.”

As he turned to walk away, Toothless rose with a lazy grunt, bumping his head affectionately into Octavia’s side before trotting after his rider.

She watched them for a moment, something unspoken tightening in her chest. She hadn’t said it aloud—not even to herself—but being trusted enough to join them on a mission… it meant more than she’d realized. Duneveil was ready. And maybe, just maybe, so was she.The sea spread out below them like a pane of glass, reflecting the pale morning light. Toothless, Stormfly, and Duneveil flew in a staggered formation, silent but purposeful, their shadows skimming across the ocean surface. High above, gulls circled, their cries distant and hollow.

Octavia leaned forward in Duneveil’s saddle, scanning the rocky coastline as it passed beneath them. She squinted at the terrain — steep cliffs, pine-covered ridges, and jagged inlets only accessible by air or by boat. The kind of terrain you could hide something in.

To her left, Stormfly surged forward, gliding low over a spit of land. Astrid gave a quick, practiced hand signal — a downward sweep — and they began their descent.

The three dragons landed in a wide clearing tucked behind a broken ridge line. From here, the cove below was hidden, but accessible. Octavia dismounted quickly, hand on her dagger by reflex. Duneveil sniffed the wind, his wings twitching.

Hiccup joined her, brushing soot from Toothless’s flank. “We’re close. This is where the traps were reported last week.”

Octavia nodded. “Let’s split up. We can cover more ground.”

“I’ll circle around the ridge,” Astrid said. “Stormfly and I will check the shoreline.”

“I’ll go inland,” Octavia offered. She glanced at Hiccup. “You coming?”

He gave a half-smile. “Thought you’d never ask.”

They moved quietly through the forest, following faint signs: scuffed bark, disturbed ferns, a metal bolt embedded in a tree trunk. Octavia knelt at one point, brushing her fingers through a patch of moss. Beneath it, metal glinted.

“Tripwire,” she muttered.

Hiccup crouched beside her. “Recent?”

She nodded. “Maybe a day old. They’ve been here.”

Toothless padded beside them silently, sniffing the air. Duneveil hung back, alert, head swinging in slow arcs. The deeper they went, the quieter the forest became. No birdsong. No wind. Just the heavy stillness of something watching.

Eventually, they reached a clearing that opened to the southern cove. Octavia froze as she spotted it — a sleek, dark ship anchored just offshore. No sails. No flags. But the hull bore the faint red insignia of the dragon hunters.

“They’re here,” she said under her breath.

Hiccup exhaled slowly. “Yeah. And they’re not just passing through.”

On the deck, several figures moved — carrying crates, dragging nets, working with practiced efficiency. Octavia’s eyes narrowed. One of the crates had iron bars. Another held curved metal spears. And beside them, a stack of dragon-sized manacles.

“I count four,” Hiccup said, ducking behind a fallen log. “Maybe more below deck.”

Octavia stayed low. “That net... it’s singed. Burned through.”

“Someone fought back,” he murmured.

They sat in silence, just watching. Toothless and Duneveil stayed still as statues, low in the brush. Astrid rejoined them moments later, her expression grim.

“There’s another ship pulling in from the east,” she said. “Smaller. Might be a supply vessel.”

“They’re setting up a route,” Hiccup muttered. “Supply chain, maybe even a base. And this close to the Edge…”

Octavia didn’t speak. Her eyes were fixed on one of the hunters now kneeling beside a covered shape — long, narrow, roughly dragon-sized. She couldn’t tell what it was, not from here, but the unease in her gut told her it wasn’t good.

“What do we do?” Astrid asked.

Hiccup was quiet for a long moment. Then: “We pull back. No confrontation. Not yet. If they’re settling in, we need to understand how big this operation is.”

Octavia hesitated. She hated leaving without knowing what was under that tarp. But she knew he was right.

Hiccup turned to her. “You okay?”

She nodded, jaw tight. “Yeah.”

They mounted up quickly. Toothless launched first, followed by Stormfly. Duneveil hesitated a moment, then surged into the sky with powerful beats of his wings. Octavia clung tightly to the saddle, her eyes fixed on the shrinking ship below.

She didn’t speak until they were far above the ridge again.

“They’re not just transporting dragons,” she said into the wind. “They’re testing defenses.”

Hiccup glanced back at her, eyes sharp with understanding. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

They flew in silence the rest of the way, the wind loud in their ears, the sky starting to dim toward afternoon. The threat was real now. And it was closing in.

The sky had begun its descent into twilight by the time the three dragons crested the cliffs of Dragon’s Edge. The ocean wind blew harder now, tossing Octavia’s hair across her eyes as she leaned forward on Duneveil’s saddle. Her heart still pulsed from the sight they had left behind — the hunter ship, the crates, the shadow of something bigger looming out there beyond the cove.

Stormfly touched down first, talons clacking on the wood. Toothless followed, landing with practiced grace beside her. Duneveil circled once before descending, still cautious, but calmer now that he was home.

Octavia dismounted quickly, her boots hitting the wooden grounds of the stables with a thud. She glanced over at Hiccup, who had already removed his flight straps and was staring silently toward the horizon. His expression was unreadable — focused, intense, but with something else beneath it. Worry, maybe. Or guilt.

Astrid was already walking toward the clubhouse. “We need to call the others.”

Hiccup didn’t move right away. Octavia stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on Duneveil’s neck. After a moment, he spoke.

“You okay?”

She blinked, surprised. “I’m fine. It’s not the first time I’ve seen something like that.”

“But it was close,” he said, eyes still on the sky. “Too close.”

Octavia hesitated. “You think they’re setting up something permanent?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said quietly. Then he looked at her. “But I trust your instincts. You saw the trap sites, too.”

That surprised her more than anything—the trust in his voice. Not just polite acknowledgment, but real, quiet faith. It made her chest tighten in a strange, unfamiliar way.

She turned away before she could think too hard about it. “Come on. The others are waiting.”

The clubhouse was already alive with voices when they stepped in. Snotlout was lounging at the table, legs kicked up, lazily tossing a small rock into the air. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you three ran off to build your own island.”

“We found something,” Astrid cut in, dropping a rolled parchment map onto the table with a sharp thud. “Hunter ship. Hidden in a southern cove. Actively loading supplies.”

That wiped the smirk off Snotlout’s face.

Fishlegs leaned forward instantly, his brow furrowed. “Did you engage?”

“No,” Hiccup said, moving beside Astrid. “We observed from above. Looked like they were offloading gear — crates, cages, even netting. No dragons in sight, but there were signs inland. Scorch marks. Traps. A Nadder scale caught in one of them.”

Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who had been arguing about who got the last smoked fish from lunch, suddenly looked up.

“Wait,” Tuffnut said, pointing. “So… hunter ship, near the Edge. Traps. Empty cages. That sounds... familiar.”

“Yeah,” Snotlout agreed. “It’s like Asian fondue, but with more danger.”

Hiccup looked confused, “Snotlout, do you mean déjà vu?”

“That's what I said!”

Ruffnut scoffed. “So what? We go blow it up.”

“We don’t know how many there are yet,” Astrid said, arms crossed. “We only saw one ship, but there could be more nearby. They’re hiding.”

“They’re scouting,” Octavia said. All heads turned toward her. She hadn’t meant to speak, but the thought had been forming the entire ride home. “They’re not just transporting dragons. They’re looking for something. Or someone.”

Fishlegs looked worried. “You think they’re setting up another base?”

Hiccup placed both palms on the table, leaning in. “It’s possible. Which means we need eyes on that cove. A stakeout. If they’re cycling ships in and out, we’ll spot the pattern.”

“I’ll go,” Astrid offered immediately.

“I’ll go with her,” Hiccup said.

There was a short pause. Then, surprisingly, he glanced sideways. “Octavia, I want you with us too.”

That caught her off guard. She opened her mouth, hesitated, then nodded. “Alright.”

Snotlout raised an eyebrow. “Really? Her?”

Hiccup’s voice was firm. “She noticed the inland traps before any of us did. If they’re moving dragons through the forest, we’ll need that kind of attention to detail.”

Octavia felt the warmth creeping into her face, though she masked it behind a slight shrug. She could feel Astrid watching her, though the other girl said nothing.

“I’ll prep Stormfly,” Astrid said shortly, and turned on her heel, exiting the room.

The tension lingered for a moment.

Then Snotlout chimed in. “Do we get to go on the stakeout too?”

“No,” Hiccup said flatly. “You’re on patrol duty.”

“But what if we wear disguises?” Tuffnut said. “Like cloaks and mustaches?”

Fishlegs sighed. “We’ve talked about this.”

Octavia allowed herself a quiet smirk, just barely. As the group dispersed with various mutterings and tasks to complete, Hiccup moved toward the door. Octavia followed, falling into step beside him.

“You didn’t have to pick me,” she said under her breath, once they were out of earshot.

“I didn’t ‘pick’ you,” he replied, though there was a faint smile playing at the edge of his mouth. “I just think you’re useful.”

She gave him a sideways look. “That’s your version of a compliment?”

Hiccup shrugged. “You’ll get used to it.”

For a moment, neither said anything. The wind rolled off the cliffs in slow, measured breaths. In the distance, dragons called to one another as they settled in for the night.

Then, softer, Hiccup added, “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, by the way. Least of all me.”

Octavia blinked. That... struck a nerve. A vulnerable one.

She looked away quickly. “I wasn’t trying to.”

“Good,” he said. Then, after a beat, “But you’re still coming.”

She didn’t smile. But her expression eased just a little. And though she wouldn’t admit it, part of her was already looking forward to the next day.

Going back to the island was not too long of a ride, about three hours. At the island, the group continued their stakeout operation ; observing, hiding, taking notes... 

The three riders were just about to pull back. Toothless hovered above the ridge, his wings holding steady in the updraft as Hiccup glanced down one last time at the cove. Stormfly circled high, sharp eyes scanning the shoreline below. Duneveil followed, loyal and silent beneath Octavia, though his muscles tensed under her as though something was stirring in the air — something wrong.

They had seen enough: two hunter ships, crates of weapons, dragon-trapping equipment. The signs of a more permanent threat establishing itself at the edge of the archipelago. And that was already bad enough.

But then Stormfly shrieked. A short, clipped warning. Below, through the trees, the forest erupted with noise.

Dozens of men emerged — not dragon hunters. They wore armor. Gleaming, bronze-plated armor, shaped with familiar discipline. Shields emblazoned with crimson crests. Tunics of deep red and black, bound by military belts. Glinting helmets with horsehair crests.

Octavia froze. Her heart slammed into her ribs.

No. No, it can’t be—

More emerged. Formations of soldiers, not stumbling about like bandits but moving with strict order. Spears gleamed as rows locked into place. It wasn’t just a camp.

It was a legion.

“Astrid—” Hiccup barked, spinning Toothless in midair. “Do you see this?!”

“I see it!” she yelled, angling Stormfly higher, her face pale. “Who are they?!”

But Octavia wasn’t listening. Her hands had gone numb, her breathing thin and shallow.

She knew that armor.

She had been raised among it. Trained beside it. Fought against it.

The Roman Empire. Here. On the Edge's doorstep.

It made no sense. The Empire had no reason to come this far north, into wild, untamed lands beyond the reach of Roman maps and borders. But here they were — allied with dragon hunters, drilling, arming, preparing.

Duneveil let out a growl — low and rumbling, not of threat, but of warning.

Then Octavia’s world collapsed entirely.

She caught sight of a figure emerging from the center formation — on horseback, armored differently than the others. His cloak was deep crimson, fluttering behind him. A silver-plated pauldron gleamed at one shoulder, the unmistakable mark of command.

Even at this distance, she would know him anywhere.

Tall. Sharp-featured. Stern as stone.

Lucius.

The second-born child of emperor Marcus Aurelius. Her brother.

“No…” she whispered, breath stolen.

Lucius dismounted and walked alongside a hunter captain, gesturing toward the ships with confident precision. Even now, his posture was perfect — sword at his hip, chin lifted, the image of Roman authority. He didn’t notice the dragons circling far above.

But Octavia noticed him.

And her body turned to ice.

Hiccup shouted something, but she didn’t hear him. Her mind was roaring. Duneveil shifted beneath her, sensing her distress, his wings faltering in rhythm.

Lucius. Here.

Her own brother — the very embodiment of the empire she thought she had escaped. The man who had once trained with her, sparred beside her. Who had watched her defy the Empire’s cruelty and did nothing. Or so she had thought.

Now she knew.

He had chosen his side.

And it wasn’t hers.

“Octavia!” Hiccup’s voice finally broke through. He had pulled Toothless alongside her, his brows furrowed in concern. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She couldn’t answer. Her throat closed.

Astrid flew up beside them, her gaze still fixed on the scene below. “This isn’t just a dragon hunter operation,” Octavia said grimly. “It’s a full-scale alliance. That many soldiers, that kind of training — they’re preparing for something huge.”

Hiccup looked to Octavia. “Do you know who they are?”

Silence.

Her voice came out dry. “Yes.”

Both Astrid and Hiccup turned sharply toward her.

“You… you do?” Hiccup asked carefully.

Octavia didn’t meet his eyes. “They’re Romans.”

Hiccup’s eyes widened. “Romans? The Roman Empire?”

Astrid’s expression darkened. “That’s impossible. They don’t even come this far north.”

“They do now,” Octavia said, voice flat.

She turned Duneveil with a quick motion and surged forward, rising fast into the sky, away from the sight below. Hiccup didn’t call after her — not yet. He just watched, troubled and silent, before nudging Toothless to follow.

As the dragons sped across the sea, the truth burned in Octavia’s chest.

She hadn’t escaped the Empire.

It had followed her here.

And the worst part?

Octavia woke with a start.

For a heartbeat, she didn’t know where she was—caught between a dream of flickering firelight and the biting wind of distant cliffs. Her fingers clutched the woolen blanket wrapped around her, her breath shallow in her chest. She sat upright.

Duneveil.

The name struck her like a blade through fog. She hadn’t seen him. Not since the ambush. Not since they’d fallen from the sky in a blur of blood, fire, and bone-rattling impact.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed—Astrid’s bed, she remembered distantly—and stood before the panic fully took hold. The sunlight was already pouring in through the small window, soft and gold, stretching shadows across the wooden floor. Morning on Dragon’s Edge. But her thoughts were already racing through the previous day like a river cutting stone.

Hiccup. Astrid. The others.

They had saved her, welcomed her, questioned her, but in the haze of new faces, strange customs, and cautious trust, she had forgotten him. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Gods,” she whispered.

She hadn’t even asked.

Duneveil—wounded, loyal, hers—left in a strange land, surrounded by unknown dragons, unknown people. What kind of guardian was she?

She pulled on her clothes hastily—the same ones she’d worn through her travels. The outfit was Roman only in its detail—clean lines, tailored cuts—foreign here, among the layered furs and scale-patterned armor of the Vikings. Practical, weather-worn, and entirely her own. Her braid was a mess. She left it. She threw open the door and stepped into the morning light, heart  hammering as she made her way toward the dragon stables.

The wind off the sea was gentler than usual, brushing her cheeks like an old friend, carrying the mingled scents of salt, ash, and moss-covered wood. The Edge was just waking—she caught glimpses of figures moving between huts, heard the scrape of tools, the flapping of canvas sails. But she paid no attention.

Her boots hit the wooden steps of the stable with a hollow thud-thud-thud, breath shallow as she pushed open the side gate.

And there he was.

Duneveil.

He stood in the center of the training ring behind the stables, his lean form low to the ground, wings slightly lifted. His tail flicked playfully at the sand.

Octavia froze.

The black dragon before him—sleek, powerful, and strange—crouched with mirroring grace. It blinked green eyes, head tilted in that almost cat-like curiosity. The two dragons circled each other with surprising ease, exchanging small puffs of breath and low, rumbling sounds that seemed half conversation, half challenge.

Duneveil growled—low, teasing—and leapt sideways, wings flaring but not lifting. The black dragon bounded forward, nipping playfully at Duneveil’s shoulder. In response, Duneveil gave a short, amused snort and nudged the other dragon with his snout.

They weren’t fighting. They were playing.

Octavia pressed a hand to her mouth, stunned. Her chest ached—not with fear, but with relief so overwhelming it nearly knocked her off her feet. Duneveil looked better already—no longer dragging that wounded wing, his scales brushed clean, his stance stronger. The edge of pain was still there, she could see it in the stiffness of his gait, but it no longer ruled his movement.

She stepped forward, quietly, slowly. Not wanting to break the moment.

The dragons both turned at the sound of her approach. Duneveil’s eyes lit up first—those warm, fire-touched amber irises widening with recognition. He let out a soft trill and trotted toward her, pressing his snout into her chest.

“Oh, Duneveil,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face into the coarse, sun-warmed scales. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve—gods, I should’ve come sooner.”

He huffed, a short, almost chiding breath.

She pulled back slightly, running a hand along the edge of his jaw, her voice catching.

“You’re alright.” Her voice was filled with emotions, yet calm and soft.

A rustle behind her. She turned.

Hiccup stood near the stable wall, one hand casually resting on the black dragon’s shoulder. His expression was quiet—not judgmental, not curious—just understanding. The soft wind tugged at his brown hair, and he wore a simple red tunic, leather vest, and the odd shoulder guard Octavia had seen him wear the day before. His stance was relaxed, but alert, like someone used to managing unpredictability.

“I figured you’d want to see him first thing,” he said gently.

Octavia blinked, straightened. Her throat still ached from the rush of emotion.

“I didn’t... thank you. For—well. For looking after him.”

“Of course.” He offered a small, crooked smile. “I know how that feels. Waking up and thinking the worst.”

He stepped forward, hand still resting gently on the sleek black dragon’s neck.

“I realize I never really gave you a proper introduction yesterday,” Hiccup continued, glancing down at the dragon beside him. “This is Toothless. My best friend.”

Toothless tilted his head toward her, his nostrils flaring slightly as he blinked those wide, luminous green eyes. Then, without warning, he stepped closer and bumped his head gently into her side.

Octavia staggered slightly, startled.

“He likes you,” Hiccup said, half amused. “That’s a good sign.”

Octavia looked between the two dragons—Toothless and Duneveil now standing close together, exchanging curious glances, like two old beasts sizing up a new pack dynamic.

“They’re... getting along?” she asked hesitantly.

“Better than I expected, honestly. Toothless can be a bit... defensive, but he’s also a great judge of character.” Hiccup’s gaze flicked toward her. “Both dragon and rider.”

Octavia didn’t quite know what to say to that.

She looked back at Duneveil, brushing his jaw again, then toward the mysterious Night Fury—Toothless—who was now crouched in the sand, watching the horizon with lazy interest.

“I’m glad,” she said softly. “He doesn’t... trust easily.”

“Neither do you, I think,” Hiccup said lightly.

She glanced sharply at him.

He held up a hand in peace. “Just an observation.”

A silence fell between them—not cold, but tentative. Hiccup didn’t push. He merely stood beside her, watching the dragons interact, letting the stillness stretch.

Finally, she broke it.

“I thought I lost him,” she admitted quietly. “Back in the ambush. When we fell... I thought he was going to die.”

“I know that feeling too,” he said. “More times than I’d like.”

She didn’t ask what he meant. Not yet. But something in his voice made her think he was telling the truth.

Hiccup hadn’t moved since introducing Toothless, his hand still resting lightly on the Night Fury’s head. The stables were quiet except for the distant calls of gulls and the occasional creak of wood shifting under the morning breeze.

Octavia remained kneeling beside Duneveil, her hand stroking the smoother scales along his side. The soft rumble under her palm told her he was content—but still alert. The way he kept glancing toward Hiccup wasn’t lost on her.

“You really don’t say much,” Hiccup said suddenly.

Octavia didn’t look up. “Words are cheap.”

“Depends on who’s using them.”

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Trying to get people to talk.”

He shrugged. “Only when I think they have something interesting to say.”

She raised her gaze then, slow and deliberate. “And you think I have something interesting to say?”

“You fought off a dozen dragon hunters alone, came here on the back of a Sand Wraith, the only thing we know about you is your name, and you managed your past, and your home all to yourself for two days straight.” He gave her a sideways smile. “Yeah. I’d say that’s interesting.”

Octavia leaned her weight back slightly, folding her legs beneath her. “Curiosity can be dangerous.”

“So can mystery,” Hiccup countered. “Especially out here.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but he sensed her weighing him—measuring how far she could be pushed. Hiccup wasn’t sure she’d ever been asked questions without consequence.

“I’m not here to interrogate you,” he said, softer now. “But I’d like to know who I invited into my home.”

Octavia exhaled slowly. “You didn’t invite me. You saved me. There’s a difference.”

“Fair point,” he said. “Still—I could’ve dropped you off somewhere. But I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He hesitated. “Because you looked like someone who needed space. Time. Safety.”

She studied him again, this time with something a little less guarded. Still wary—but less sharp.

“I’m not used to people doing things without expecting something in return,” she said at last.

“Then we’re even,” Hiccup replied. “I’m not used to mysterious strangers showing up out of nowhere and not trying to stab me.”

That made her snort, the sound catching her off guard. She covered it with a light cough, but he caught the smile she tried to bury. There was a pause. Longer this time. Hiccup leaned back against a support beam, one hand loosely resting on Toothless’s back. “How are you finding the Edge?”

Octavia tilted her head. “Strange. Loud. The twins are… confusing.”

He laughed. “That’s the most accurate way to describe them.”

“But it doesn’t feel dangerous.”

“No,” he agreed, and his tone softened. “It’s not meant to. Took us a long time to build it this way.”

She traced a pattern on the wooden floor with one finger. “It’s not like any Viking place I imagined.”

“You’ve seen many?”

“No.” She didn’t offer more.

“Well,” Hiccup said, adjusting his seating slightly, “this one’s not like most. We’re not here to conquer or raid. Just… protect. Live. Learn.”

“Unusual goals for Vikings,” she said dryly.

“I’m an unusual Viking,” he replied with a grin.

Octavia looked at him again, more directly now. “Are they all loyal to you?”

“You mean my friends?” He shrugged. “I’d say they’re loyal to the mission. To each other.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He gave a soft laugh. “Alright. Yes. They trust me. Enough to follow me across the sea and into trouble more times than I can count.”

“That kind of loyalty is rare.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But it’s earned. Every day.”

Something about that made her go quiet again. A thought clearly formed behind her eyes, but it never left her lips.

Hiccup didn’t press.

Instead, he stood slowly and dusted off his hands. “You know, we’ve got a big meal later this evening. The group usually gathers. No pressure to join, but I thought I’d mention it.”

She raised a brow. “Will there be more yelling?”

“Almost definitely.”

“Hm.” She didn’t say yes or no.

Hiccup gave a mock bow. “I’ll consider that a maybe.”

Before either of them could say more, a voice echoed from the stable entrance.

“There you are.”

Astrid’s boots thudded against the wooden planks as she approached, arms folded casually across her chest. Her expression was relaxed, but her eyes moved quickly between them and the dragons—ever alert, even when she pretended not to be.

Octavia watched her with silent curiosity. 

Astrid nodded toward Toothless and Duneveil, now lying side by side like old friends. “Looks like they’ve already had their morning meeting.”

“Better than the human version,” Hiccup quipped.

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “Is that what this is? A meeting?”

“Something like that,” he said.

She turned her attention to Octavia. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Octavia replied, polite but neutral.

There was a long pause.

“You sticking around today?” Astrid asked.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

Astrid smiled—not warmly, but not coldly either. “Well. If you’re bored, there’s always something that needs doing.”

“Noted.”

With a small glance toward Hiccup, Astrid added, “Training starts in an hour. Don’t make me drag you.”

“I’ll be there,” he said, amused.

She gave him a light swat on the arm as she passed. “You’d better be.”

With one last glance toward Octavia, Astrid stepped back out into the sunlight.

Hiccup turned back to her. “She means well.”

“I can tell.”

He let the quiet settle again for a moment. “I’ll leave you two alone now. I’m guessing you’ve got some catching up to do.”

He gave her a short nod, then clicked his tongue softly to Toothless, who bounded upright with surprising grace. With a flick of his tail, the dragon trotted off behind Hiccup, the two disappearing into the light beyond the stable door.

Octavia sat still for a long moment after they left, her fingers still resting against Duneveil’s shoulder. The warmth of his scales grounded her, but her thoughts drifted. To loyalty. To leadership. To the kind of person who earns both without demanding either. She was used to people taking power. Not people being given it.

Not like this. Not like him.

The wind swept across Dragon’s Edge like a wild thing, stirring sea-salt through the cliffs and carrying with it the ever-present cries of dragons overhead. Octavia stepped into the midday light with a steady pace, her eyes adjusting to the bright openness after the dim coziness of the hut. Her olive-toned skin welcomed the warmth of the sun, though she was far more interested in the strange, bustling world around her than in the weather.

She wandered the grounds, letting her instincts guide her. For once, there was no map to follow, no orders, no structure. It was freeing—and slightly unsettling. The first interruption to her quiet thoughts came in the form of a very loud crash, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone yelling.

"—Tuffnut, you absolute troll-brained lizard lover, that was my axe!"

Octavia turned just in time to see two figures stumble around the corner—tall, wiry, and entirely chaotic. Ruffnut and Tuffnut.

“Oh-ho! Look who it is,” Tuffnut announced dramatically, holding up a twisted axe like it was a prize, even though it was clearly bent in half. “It’s the mysterious Dragon Lady.”

Ruffnut squinted at Octavia. “You know, I still think she’s some kind of royal. The way she walks? All… poised and mysterious.”

“You think everyone’s royalty,” Tuffnut muttered, then shot Octavia a grin. “Hey, do you have any long-lost twin siblings? Because I swear I’ve had dreams about a twin from a faraway land.”

Octavia blinked, unsure if she was supposed to respond. “No.”

Ruffnut leaned in, utterly ignoring personal space. “Are you sure? Because you could be our cousin. Like, our hot cousin, from the desert region or something.”

“I’m not your cousin,” Octavia said coolly, side-stepping them.

“See, that’s what a cousin would say,” Tuffnut nodded sagely.

“You guys are unbelievable,” she muttered.

As she walked away, she could still hear them arguing—about cousins, axes, and something about dragon fashion. She managed maybe ten paces of peace before another interruption came—this one less loud, but no less irritating.

“Hey hey, sunshine!” Snotlout’s voice slid in like oil over water. “Miss me?”

Octavia didn’t stop walking.

Snotlout, unfortunately, caught up quickly. “You know, I was wondering if I should wear my shoulder armor today… and then I figured—why bother? Let the arms speak for themselves.”

She gave him a flat glance, her olive-green eyes colder than usual. “They’re certainly saying something. Not sure it’s worth listening to.”

He smirked, apparently undeterred. “Ouch. You wound me. But seriously, are you going to the feast tonight?”

“Yes,” she said, because of course she was going. Hiccup had already mentioned it.

“Perfect!” He leaned in slightly. “Then you won’t mind if I sit next to you. You know, so we can get to know each other better. Really talk.”

“I’d rather sit next to a wild boar,” she said without missing a beat.

“Oof. Harsh.” He chuckled like it was a game. “You’ll come around. They always do.”

“No,” she said firmly, stopping to look him dead in the eyes. “They don’t.”

Snotlout paused. For the first time, he actually seemed to register that this wasn’t teasing or mysterious indifference. She meant it. Her voice, her eyes, the stiff line of her jaw—they were steel.

“…Right. Cool,” he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well. See ya around, desert dagger.”

She rolled her eyes and kept walking, not bothering to correct him. The nickname, as stupid as it was, beat having to suffer through more of his ego. She wandered a bit more after that, trying to shake off the feeling Snotlout always left in his wake. Like a sticky film of arrogance. She hated men like him—cocky, smug, convinced the world was theirs. The Empire had been full of them.

As she neared the edge of the main training grounds, she slowed. The rhythmic sound of metal striking wood carried across the field, mingled with soft grunts and the occasional shout.

There, in the open courtyard near the cliffs, Hiccup and Astrid were sparring.

It wasn’t exactly a fight—more like a dance. Hiccup moved with fluid precision, dodging Astrid’s axe strikes, laughing lightly when she nearly clipped his shoulder. Astrid, for her part, was fast and relentless, grinning fiercely every time she landed a touch.

Octavia stood there for a while, unnoticed. Watching.

There was an ease between them—a familiarity that came not only from training but from trust. They moved like they had done this a thousand times before. Like they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses inside out.

When Astrid paused to brush her hair out of her face, Hiccup reached out and tucked the stray strands behind her ear.

Octavia looked away.

It wasn’t jealousy—she didn’t know Hiccup well enough for that, and certainly didn’t want to know him like that. But something about the moment unsettled her. It was too… soft. Too warm.

She thought of Rome, of the cold formality of courtship, of alliances and marriages forged through strategy and obligation. Affection there was rare, and when it existed, it was hidden, weaponized, or broken.

Here, things seemed… different.

She turned and headed back toward her hut, the weight of the day slowly settling on her shoulders.

Tonight, there would be a feast. Tomorrow? Who knew.

But for now, she would let herself rest. And maybe—just maybe—begin to understand this strange new world she had landed in.

At night, the Edge seemed like the same place, but a totally different one at the same time. Torches lined the outpost’s pathways, their flames flickering in the ocean breeze, casting long shadows that danced along the cliffs. The stars above shimmered like scattered silver, and the bonfire at the center of the Edge crackled warmly, the smoke rising in a steady column against the darkening sky.

Octavia hesitated near the edge of the gathering area, the clubhouse, arms folded, watching as the others began settling around the circular table, surrounding the fire. She wasn’t used to gatherings like this—not with such a small, tight-knit group that behaved more like a chaotic family than any military unit or formal gathering she’d known.

And yet, here they were.

Fishlegs had already seated himself with two full plates, nervously adjusting his tunic as he tried to balance a bowl of stew in one hand and what looked like an entire smoked fish in the other. Ruffnut and Tuffnut were arguing—loudly—over who had made the better-looking crown of seagull feathers, while Meatlug snoozed just behind them. Astrid stood near the table, arms crossed but smiling faintly, speaking with Snotlout, who was doing that thing again—leaning back, arms spread like he owned the place, flashing grins that no one was asking for.

And then, of course, Hiccup.

He stood by the table, catching Octavia’s gaze almost immediately. Without saying anything, he gave her a small, inviting wave. It was enough to make her feet move before her mind caught up. She approached slowly, unsure if she should sit or keep standing. Before she could overthink it, Hiccup motioned to the empty seat beside him.

“You came,” he said.

“I was invited,” Octavia replied, voice soft but even.

“I’ve noticed that doesn’t always mean you’ll say yes.”

A small quirk of her lips. “You’re observant.”

She sat down. The bench creaked beneath her, and the heat of the fire warmed her face as she reached for a piece of bread. Despite her instincts to remain cautious, there was something… grounding about this small group. It wasn’t what she’d known. It wasn’t what she’d been taught. But it wasn’t unkind.

“So,” came a familiar, smug voice from across the table. “You finally decided to join us, mystery girl.”

Snotlout leaned forward with a grin, propping his chin in one hand and cocking an eyebrow. “Gotta say, you clean up nice. I mean, you looked fierce before, but now? You’ve got that whole… ‘mysterious warrior from a far-off land’ thing going on. I dig it.”

Octavia’s eyes narrowed. “Is this how you talk to every woman?”

“Only the pretty ones,” he winked.

“Charming,” she muttered, tearing her bread in half with a bit more force than necessary.

Ruffnut snorted from the other end of the table. “Don’t mind him. Snotlout flirts with literally anything that moves. Last week he tried complimenting a thunder drum.”

“In my defense,” Snotlout raised a finger, “it had really nice scales.”

“You screamed when it sneezed on you,” Tuffnut added.

“I screamed in admiration.”

“You ran behind Fishlegs.”

“I was using him as cover! Tactical retreat!”

Fishlegs let out a long, exasperated sigh. “Please leave me out of your flirt-based failures.”

Octavia couldn’t help it—her lips twitched, then curled slightly into a smile.

This was ridiculous. This was nothing like the structured, formal world she had once known. And for some reason, it made her stomach feel… lighter. She bit into the bread, savoring its warmth, letting herself absorb the moment.

Snotlout was mid-story about how he once wrestled a wild boar—Octavia strongly doubted the truth of it—when Ruffnut squinted across the firelight at her and tilted her head dramatically.

“So,” she said, pausing for effect, “you and Hiccup, huh?”

Octavia blinked. “Pardon?”

Ruffnut leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, grinning. “You’ve been talking a lot. He never talks that much to anyone.”

“I talk,” Hiccup protested weakly, nearly dropping his fork.

“Yeah, but like, not without sounding like you’re giving a speech at a dragon funeral,” Tuffnut added helpfully. “You’ve been doing the casual voice. It’s suspicious.”

Octavia arched a brow. “You people are truly strange, you know that?”

“We just notice things,” Tuffnut replied with a sage nod, as if he were imparting ancient wisdom. “It’s a gift. A curse, really.”

Ruffnut elbowed him. “Like how you noticed a tree was ‘winking’ at you last week?”

“It was blinking! I saw it!”

Octavia stifled a laugh behind her cup. The banter was absurd, but oddly comforting. Even after only a couple of days, the twins’ energy was becoming something she could anticipate, if not quite predict.

Hiccup cleared his throat and shifted in his seat beside her. “They’re just being ridiculous. As usual.”

Fishlegs, who had been meticulously organizing the different kinds of roasted vegetables on his plate, looked up. “Well, to be fair, you did choose to sit next to her. You always sit between Astrid and Snotlout.”

Snotlout leaned across the table. “Yeah, and I always sit next to the ladies.” He winked at Octavia. “It’s the rule of the table.”

“I didn’t see any rulebook,” she replied coolly, eyes narrowing. “And if there is one, it could use an update.”

The table burst into laughter, except for Snotlout, who looked mildly wounded.

“I like the rulebook,” he muttered into his mead.

Octavia caught Hiccup trying—and failing—not to smile beside her.

“See?” Ruffnut gestured wildly. “They’re already finishing each other’s—”

“Don’t,” Astrid warned, finally joining in from across the table. “If you say sandwiches, I’m leaving.”

“Wow,” Tuffnut said, looking at his sister. “That’s actually a good one. Write it down.”

“Already did.”

Astrid gave Octavia a faint smile, though there was something unreadable in her eyes—cool, not cold, but definitely watching. Octavia met the gaze calmly, offering a slight nod. Whatever tension there might have been between them earlier, it wasn’t sharp now. But it was there.

The meal carried on with raucous laughter, half-burnt meat, stories that grew wilder with every retelling, and the general chaos that seemed to be this group’s natural state. Octavia, for once, didn’t feel the need to analyze or question it. She simply was—among them but apart, like a traveler resting by someone else’s fire.

And Hiccup? He sat beside her, not saying much, but glancing at her once or twice with quiet curiosity. He didn’t ask questions this time, didn’t press for stories or secrets.

She was grateful for that.

As the feast wound down and the firelight dimmed, Octavia leaned back slightly, watching Duneveil and Toothless curled up together just beyond the edge of the tables. The sight warmed something deep inside her—something that hadn’t quite thawed in weeks.

This place was strange. Loud. Disorganized. And yet… not unwelcoming.

The room was warm. Warmer than it had any right to be, given the bite of northern wind whistling through the cracks in the wood.

Octavia shifted beneath the thick furs, the ache in her ribs blooming as her senses returned—pain, breath, scent. Pine. Salt. Smoke. And something unmistakably dragon. She knew it before she opened her eyes.

The ceiling above her was simple wood, cross-beamed and clean. Not Roman. Not slave barracks, nor merchant stable. She didn’t remember entering the room. She remembered the night dragon's wings beating the sky, Hiccup’s voice steady beside her, the way the world blurred as she bled.

She sat up slowly.

A fire crackled low in the hearth. Her leathers had been removed. She wore a fresh tunic—someone’s spare, coarsely woven but soft. Her wounds were bandaged, clean. Her weapons were gone, but there was a wooden cup on the stool beside the bed, still warm with tea.

She didn’t touch it.

A knock. Brief. Then the door opened.

It was the blonde warrior.

Octavia remembered her—not just from the chaos of the ambush, but before that, in the haze after the fight. The woman who had swung an axe with terrifying grace. The one who had pressed a hand to her side to stop the bleeding. The one who didn’t speak much, but when she did, everyone else listened.

Now, she stood in the doorway, arms folded, gaze sharp.

“You’re awake,” the viking said simply.

Octavia’s reply came slower. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

The blue eyed viking cracked a half-smile. “That’s one way to start a conversation.”

She entered the hut, letting the door swing shut behind her. She didn’t offer her hand, or platitudes, or even her name. Octavia already knew it in the way one fighter recognizes another: not through words, but through instinct.

“I brought you this,” she added, placing a bowl of dried meat and hard bread on the table beside the tea. “I wasn’t sure if you eat fish.”

“I eat whatever doesn’t try to eat me first.”

That earned a laugh—short, quiet. The girl without a name sat down on the edge of a nearby crate. Not too close. Not far. Her posture was relaxed, but Octavia noticed the slight angle of her knees, the way her hand lingered near her belt. Not threatening. Just… prepared.

Good. She was the cautious one.

“You’re the dragon-rider,” she said after a moment. “The one flying the golden-winged beast. Never seen one like that before.”

“Neither had I,” Octavia answered.

She arched a brow. “That so?”

“I didn’t find him. We found each other.”

A silence settled between them. Octavia reached slowly for the tea. Sipped. It was bitter, way bitter then anything she was used to.

“I saw you fight,” the viking said. “Back on the island. You weren’t just surviving. You were… practiced. Trained.”

“You make that sound like an accusation.”

“I don’t mean it as one.” A pause. “But the others are curious. You ride a dragon like someone born to it. You fight like a soldier. And you don’t talk much.”

“I find too many words get people killed.”

The blonde girl leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “That may be true where you’re from. But here, it’s the opposite. We survive by knowing who’s watching our backs.”

Octavia didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze drifted toward the narrow window, where a sliver of the outside sky could be seen—cloud-choked and wind-raked. Somewhere out there, Duneveil would be recovering. Watching. Waiting.

“Where is here?” she asked at last.

The girl blinked. “You don’t know?”

“I didn’t ask. I was bleeding out.”

The other woman nodded. “Fair point.”

She stood and moved toward the door, then paused before opening it.

“You’re on Dragon’s Edge,” she said over her shoulder. “Our outpost. Middle of nowhere. Keeps the dragons safe. Keeps us harder to find. Hiccup leads us. You’ve met him.”

Octavia’s expression didn’t change, but the name still left a small ripple in her thoughts.

The blonde viking's gaze lingered a moment longer. “We’ll give you space. But if you’re staying—even just for a while—people are going to ask questions. You don’t have to tell them everything. Just… maybe don’t keep everything locked behind your teeth.”

She opened the door, and light poured in.

She paused once more. “My name’s Astrid, by the way. In case you cared.”

Then she was gone.

Octavia let the silence close in again.

She leaned back, holding the tea between her palms, and whispered to no one in particular:

“I did care.”

The quiet returned once Astrid left—like a tide receding and revealing the jagged rocks beneath. Octavia exhaled slowly, the air still thick with smoke and salt. She let the warmth of the furs cocoon her a little longer, feeling the sting of bruises beneath her skin, the dull throb of half-healed wounds beneath fresh bandages.

An hour passed like that. She watched the fire burn down to embers and counted the cracks in the ceiling beams. Her thoughts drifted to Duneveil—was he resting somewhere near the cliffs, or already circling high above the island like a ghost? She hoped he hadn’t flown far. He never did without her.

Eventually, the stiffness in her limbs became unbearable.

With a wince, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet touched smooth wood—cold, unfamiliar. She rose slowly, bracing against the post, letting her balance return. Her muscles protested, but she refused to falter. She’d endured worse than pain.

A small trunk rested near the foot of the bed. Her satchel lay beside it, worn and dusty. Her clothes had been neatly folded on top, just as she’d left them—no one had dared rifle through them, it seemed. A small mercy.

She dressed slowly, movements practiced.

First the black wool leggings, thick and close-fitted—stitched by hand in a southern port city, far from Roman influence. Her shirt was slate-grey linen, cross-wrapped and tucked tightly at the waist, fastened by narrow leather cords. Over that, she pulled on her deep burgundy leather tunic, weathered but supple, reinforced at the shoulders and sides with riveted hide. It bore no crest. No symbol. Nothing to betray who she’d once been.

Her belt came last—narrow, double-layered, with faded etchings in old Latin around the edges. She buckled it with a firm tug, securing her dagger at her left hip. Her cloak was gone, lost in the ambush. But she didn’t mourn it.

She stepped out of the hut and into the raw coastal air.

The world struck her at once—wind and light and the sea’s unrelenting song. The outpost was larger than she expected. Built from dark, salt-worn wood and stone, it clung to the jagged cliffside like a fortress of its own making. Platforms connected by bridges, dragons roosting on upper ledges, sails flapping in the breeze, the air filled with movement and life.

And chaos. Mostly chaos.

“—No, I’m telling you, if we replace the saddle straps with eel leather, it’ll be more aerodynamic!”

“Eels are slimy, Tuffnut. Do you want the saddle to smell like fish guts forever?”

“But the flexibility, Ruff! Think of the slither-factor! What if we need to slip between narrow crags at high velocity?”

Octavia blinked. Two figures stood by the railing not ten feet away. Twins. Identical in face, equally wild in spirit. One was currently dangling a dead eel by the tail like it was a prize-winning relic; the other was making exaggerated gestures involving what looked like dragon drool and a bucket of something green.

They hadn't noticed her yet.

“I’m just saying,” Tuffnut went on, “this is how you revolutionize the entire concept of aerial agility. Eel-tech! Mark my words—one day, this place will be the eel capital of the archipelago!”

“Wow,” Ruffnut deadpanned. “Your brain is like a buffet of terrible ideas. Let me guess, next you'll want to make armor out of octopus ink.”

“…Wait, that’s genius.”

Octavia cleared her throat. Both heads turned in unison. Their eyes landed on her. The silence lasted precisely three seconds.

“Ohhhh—HEY!” Ruffnut blurted. “You’re the new person! The stabby one! The one with the shiny dragon and the whole bleeding-but-mysterious vibe!”

Tuffnut leaned dramatically over the railing. “We thought you were unconscious! You looked, like, super dead. But in a cool way.”

“I wasn’t dead,” Octavia said evenly.

Ruffnut nodded, squinting. “Right. Alive. Got it. You’re shorter than I thought. Do you have a name, or do we just call you 'The Stabby Traveler of Mystery and Smoldering Anger’?”

“She does smolder,” Tuffnut agreed. “It’s the cloakless cloak-y vibe.”

Octavia studied them both. They were absurd. Loud. Unfiltered. But there was something… harmless about them, despite the mace the boy carried and the wildness in their eyes.

“Octavia,” she said.

“Ooooh. Ominous. Latin?” Ruffnut asked.

“You know Latin?” Octavia raised a brow.

“No,” Ruffnut replied without missing a beat.

Tuffnut pointed at her belt. “That’s fancy. You fight like a Viking, dress like a pirate, and speak like someone who could command an army.”

“I don’t command anything,” Octavia said. “Not anymore.”

“Whew. Cryptic,” Tuffnut said. “Love it.”

Ruffnut tilted her head. “So, you here to stay or just passing through on your dramatic dragon?”

“Definitely not staying.”

“Cool, cool. No pressure. Unless you like pressure. We’ve got pressure. We’re big fans of dramatic pressure. And eels.”

“I noticed,” Octavia said dryly.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut exchanged a look, then gave her a simultaneous, chaotic thumbs-up.

“Welcome to the Edge,” they said in unison.

Octavia blinked once. This place was going to be strange. But strangely… she didn’t mind that.

As the twins wandered off—arguing about eel armor versus jellyfish-based insulation—Octavia lingered near the wooden railing overlooking the sea. The breeze tugged at her braid, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of pine resin and salt.

Her gaze swept across the outpost again. Ramps wound up toward upper terraces, where dragons perched or soared lazily overhead. For a place with so many moving parts, the Edge had a rhythm to it. A kind of organized chaos. It reminded her—strangely—of the gladiator pits. Not in violence, but in structure. Everyone had a role. Everyone fit.

Well… almost everyone.

She didn’t hear the footsteps until they were nearly on her.

“Hi!”

She turned—and nearly collided with a broad-chested, as a nice way to say fat, young man who looked like he’d sprinted across the entire outpost just to find her. Blond hair framed a plump face, wide-eyed with a mixture of awe and nervous energy. He held a huge leather-bound notebook cradled to his chest like a sacred relic, a charcoal pencil clutched in one hand.

“You’re her, right? The girl who rides the Sand Wraith?” he asked, eyes already darting over her shoulder as if expecting the dragon to appear from the sky right this second.

Octavia blinked. “I—yes. I suppose.”

“Oh wow. Wow. Okay. Hi. Sorry.” He tried to offer a hand, nearly dropped the notebook, then tucked it awkwardly under his arm. “I’m Fishlegs. That’s not a title—it’s just what everyone calls me. I study dragons. Like, a lot. I catalog, I observe, I record behavior, classification, flight patterns, sleep cycles, vocalizations—”

“You’re a scholar,” Octavia said, tilting her head.

Fishlegs blinked, eyes widening in excitement. “Yes! Yes, thank you. That sounds so much more refined than ‘dragon nerd,’ which is what the twins call me.”

She couldn’t help the faint tug at her lips.

“I didn’t know anyone studied dragons in such detail.”

“Oh, it’s not common. At all,” he said eagerly. “But you sort of have to when you live around them every day. Especially when your best friends insist on hurling themselves into mortal danger five times a week.”

He flipped open his notebook with practiced ease and began scribbling furiously as he spoke.

“So. Sand Wraith. I haven’t seen one in person since… well, ever. Mostly legends. Sightings from the desert colonies. But your dragon—he’s huge. Larger than the average Sand Wraith by at least two feet in wingspan, if my estimations are correct—and I think they are. Brown-gold hide, slightly iridescent in direct light, sharp-snout with smooth crest ridges, and those claws—did you see those claws?”

Octavia gave him a long, measured look. “I’ve… ridden with him. For months.”

Fishlegs colored. “Right. Sorry. Of course you’ve seen them. I just—this is incredible. The Sand Wraith was thought to be extinct in the western isles. Most believed they migrated east across the Sea of Sand after the last volcanic shift. But you’ve got one. And it’s bonded. With you!”

He scribbled faster, flipping to a new page and sketching something with furious concentration. “Did he use burrowing tactics during the ambush? Their ability to tunnel through soft terrain is unmatched—they literally swim through the earth. Which is why they’re called ‘sand’ wraiths, obviously, but—”

Octavia raised a hand. “He didn’t. We were on rock. There was nowhere to dig.”

Fishlegs made a noise that sounded like disappointment and excitement at the same time.

“He flew you here though, didn’t he? Did he use sonic disorientation? That’s another rumored Sand Wraith trait—they fly at such speed that the sound of their wings causes momentary dizziness in enemies.”

“…He might have,” Octavia said slowly, thinking back to the sheer force of wind he created when he passed low over the hunters. “But I’ve never noticed it. It’s not something he uses often.”

“Oh! That’s fascinating. So he’s strategic about it. Selective disorientation!”

He made another note, lips moving silently as he wrote.

“Is he aggressive? Loyal? Territorial? What’s his feeding pattern like? Does he prefer warm climates? Is he sensitive to salt air? Can he swim? Have you—”

“Dude,” she said, voice firm but not unkind.

He stopped mid-question, eyes wide again.

“Sorry. I’m being intense. I get that sometimes.”

She looked at the scrawled pages. Small, detailed sketches filled the margins—some of them clearly done from memory, others speculative. One even had a neat label beneath it: Sand Wraith: confirmed alive. Observed bonded behavior with unknown rider.

Octavia touched the corner of the page lightly.

“He’s not a pet.”

Fishlegs blinked. “Oh—I didn’t mean—”

“He chose me. When he could have let me die. That matters.”

Fishlegs’ expression softened. “Of course it does. I didn’t mean to reduce it. Honestly, I think that’s the most fascinating part of all this.”

Octavia let silence stretch between them for a moment. The wind caught the edge of his notes, flapping the pages like impatient wings.

“I don’t know much about dragons,” she admitted. “Actually, I know basically nothing. But I know him. I know when he’s hurt. When he’s restless. I know he gets quiet before storms. That he hums to himself when he sleeps. I know how he trusts—slowly, painfully.”

Fishlegs was quiet now, scribbling slower.

“I’d like to meet him sometime,” he said, voice quieter. “Only if he wants. No drawings. Just… observation.”

Octavia gave a small nod. “If he trusts you. You’ll know.”

Fishlegs beamed, all wide eyes and sun-drenched curiosity. “Thank you. And, uh—welcome, again. To the Edge.”

She watched him go, his notebook hugged tight to his chest, already muttering excitedly to himself about 'wing-structure deviation in rare sub-classes.'

Octavia exhaled slowly, alone again on the path. She had been raised to loathe their kind. In the halls of her father’s villa, surrounded by polished marble and strict tutors, the word Viking had been spat like a curse—synonymous with barbarism, with filth and fury, with people who tore down what civilization built. They were the wild men from the misty north, uncultured raiders, enemies of order. Rome taught her to hate them, to scorn them. And yet here, among timber walls and dragon stables, they laughed, they built, they studied. And for the first time, Octavia found herself questioning everything she had once believed absolute. Every Viking here was strange. But at least one of them seemed to understand what it meant to love a creature most had only heard of in legend.

The sky over Dragon’s Edge had settled into a quiet blue-gray, the kind that promised a calm. Octavia wandered the pathways slowly, still unsure how much of what she’d seen so far was part of a dream brought on by exhaustion. Timber buildings scattered along the cliffs, stables carved into rock, dragons of impossible variety roosting, gliding, snorting smoke with idle indifference—it was a world that defied every scroll she'd read in her father’s library.

And she was alone in it.

Still, the place hummed with energy. She could hear laughter, wings beating in the air, someone yelling about fish. She passed by what seemed like a training ground, a weirdly S shaped house, and a weird pit. No one questioned her presence yet. Perhaps that was a blessing.

She was halfway toward what looked like the common grounds when a voice called out behind her.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here? The new mystery girl, out walking like she owns the place.”

Octavia turned slowly.

The boy standing before her—though "boy" might be generous—was tallish, broad-shouldered, and very sure of himself, and the way he leaned against a beam, arms crossed and smirk firmly in place, was clearly rehearsed. She recognized the type: the kind of fighter who spent more time flexing than practicing.

“I was wondering when we’d meet,” he continued, walking toward her with the confidence of someone who’d never doubted a day in his life. “I’m Snotlout. Dragon-rider, warrior, heartthrob—some say living legend, but I try to stay humble.”

Octavia raised an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

Snotlout’s grin didn’t falter. “Ooh, sharp. I like that. So what’s your name, mystery girl? Or should I just keep calling you 'the beautiful stranger who fell from the sky'?”

“Octavia,” she said flatly, but not without a flicker of amusement. “And I didn’t fall.”

“Right, right. You landed with dramatic flair. I get it. I’ve done it too. Happens to the best of us.”

He leaned in slightly, squinting at her face with mock curiosity. “You know, you’ve got something royal about you. Not like actual royalty, unless... wait. Are you a princess or something? Because—if so—I’m just saying, I clean up pretty well at weddings.”

Her expression stiffened for half a second before she forced her mouth into a flat, polite line.

“I’m no one important.”

That was all she offered.

Snotlout didn’t seem to notice the sudden frost in her tone, or if he did, he barreled past it with the subtlety of a dragon in a pottery shop.

“Well, 'No One Important,' if you’re looking for a guide around the Edge, I happen to know every rock, tree, and beautiful man here.” He winked. “Mostly just me on that last one.”

Octavia crossed her arms, head tilted slightly. “Do you speak this way to all strangers? Or am I just lucky?”

“Only the ones I’m hoping to impress.”

She opened her mouth to respond—what exactly she was going to say, she wasn’t even sure—when a familiar voice cut cleanly through the air behind them.

“Snotlout.”

They both turned. Hiccup stood at the top of the path, arms folded loosely over his chest, Astrid a step behind him, eyebrows already arched with weary expectation.

Snotlout groaned dramatically. “Aw, come on! I was this close to asking if she wanted to see my—”

“Don't,” Astrid interrupted. “Just don’t.”

“Fine.” Snotlout tossed his arms up in defeat, stepping aside with exaggerated flair. “Ruined again by the lovebirds. I’ll be at the arena—if anyone needs me for hero stuff.”

He swaggered off without waiting for a reply, muttering something about “jealousy” and “natural charm.”

Octavia watched him go, then turned to Hiccup and Astrid, unimpressed but clearly amused. “Is he always like that?”

Hiccup sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“But he means well,” Astrid added, though the flatness of her voice made it unclear how true that was.

Hiccup stepped forward, a small, apologetic smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Sorry about him. Snotlout… grows on people. Eventually. Like barnacles.”

“Or fungus,” Astrid said with a shrug.

Octavia let out a low breath, her guard still high but softening. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Hiccup said.

There was something in the way he said it—not patronizing, not even curious. Just... understanding. As if he knew what it meant to carry pasts in silence.

Astrid looked Octavia up and down for a moment, her posture no longer defensive but still sharp. “You settling in okay?”

“As much as one can, waking up in a place like this.” Octavia glanced back toward the direction Snotlout had gone. “And meeting… people like him.”

Hiccup laughed. “Welcome to Dragon’s Edge. If it's not too much to ask you right now, do you think we could have a word?” 

Octavia looked a bit perplexed.

“Huh... yea sure.” She replied.

“Great, follow me.”

Hiccup and Astrid lead the way, towards an undisclosed place, leaving Octavia in the doubt. Could she really trust these vikings, people she barely knew?

The Edge's clubhouse, as Hiccup called it, was unlike anything Octavia had seen in her lifetime. Built into the rise of the cliffs and ringed with wooden balconies, the structure resembled both a war hall and an aviary. The scent of sea salt and pine mixed with smoke and leather, a strangely pleasant perfume of northern survival.

Octavia stood just outside the entrance, unsure whether she was ready for this conversation. Her instinct still screamed caution, her body still half-braced for a threat. But she reminded herself: they had saved her. They hadn’t chained her. Hadn’t interrogated her. They had let her rest.

Hiccup waited for her in the entrance, his expression curious but calm. Astrid stood just behind him, arms folded, eyes watchful as ever. The two of them were clearly a unit—balanced in a way that only came from trust earned in battle and years.

“We figured we should talk,” Hiccup said gently. “You’ve had time to breathe. I’m sure you’ve got questions.”

“Some,” Octavia replied, stepping inside. “But not as many as you think.”

The interior of the clubhouse was warm—lit by lanterns and the glow of a small central hearth. Maps hung on the walls. Drawings. Weapon racks. Parchments pinned in loose rows, many of them curling with age and wind. She took in everything quickly, but with sharp precision—eyes lingering on what looked like a worn-out battle plan sketched in red ink over a depiction of the archipelago.

Hiccup motioned to a table near the fire. Astrid followed, settling into the bench with practiced ease. Octavia remained standing for a moment longer before she sat, placing her hands on the table’s rough surface.

“You ride a dragon,” Hiccup said, not as an accusation but a plain observation. “That’s not something you see every day. Not outside of Berk.”

“Clearly,” Octavia answered.”

Silence fell for a moment. Not hostile—just filled with thought. Hiccup leaned forward slightly, voice softer now.

“We’re part of a group called the Dragon Riders. We protect dragons from hunters and various threats. And we try to help people understand that dragons aren’t monsters.” He paused, then added carefully, “But you probably already knew that—if you’re riding one.”

Octavia nodded slowly. “He saved me. Months ago. After I left…” Her voice caught for the briefest second. “After I left everything behind.”

“Where were you before that?” Astrid asked. The tone wasn’t sharp—but it wasn’t idle curiosity, either.

Octavia weighed her words carefully. Truth had become a rare and dangerous thing in her life. She gave only the edge of it.

“South. Far south. Across the sea and then further still. I lived in a world of walls and rules. People in high towers decided who had value, and who didn’t.” Her eyes darkened. “I stopped wanting to be part of it.”

Hiccup exchanged a glance with Astrid—an unspoken message that passed easily between them. Then he looked back at her.

“And the dragon?” he asked.

“I found him wounded. On the coast. He should have died. But he didn’t.” Her voice softened with something like reverence.

There was a beat of silence. Then, surprisingly, Astrid spoke—her voice lower, more thoughtful now.

“Most people can’t earn a dragon’s trust. Let alone ride one. That says something.”

Octavia gave a small shrug. “I didn’t try to earn it. I just… stayed. Long enough for him to stop flinching.”

Hiccup leaned back, eyes never leaving her. “We’ve seen a lot of dragons, but very few of riders. And certainly none like you.”

“None from where I’m from, either,” Octavia said dryly.

He smiled faintly at that, then asked, “What kind of dragon is he?”

“From what I read, and what the dragon scholar told me, he's a Sand Wraith” she admitted. “No one I met in the south had ever seen one like him, or even ever seen a dragon. He burrows into the sand. He vanishes in flight. He’s faster than anything I’ve ever known.”

“Welp, that does sounds like a Sand Wraith,” Hiccup said immediately. “They’re rare up here—usually more at home in the desert regions. But fast. Stealthy. Incredibly loyal, once they bond.”

Octavia said nothing, but the small flicker in her eyes gave away what that meant to her. A rare thing, that kind of loyalty.

Astrid leaned forward. “You don’t talk like anyone we’ve met. Your words… the way you carry yourself. You’re not just a traveler.”

“I’m not,” Octavia said quietly. “But I’m also not what I used to be.”

There was something final in that.

Hiccup didn’t press further. Instead, he folded his hands together.

“Well, you’re here now. We’re offering you a place to rest. No questions you don’t want to answer. But—” He smiled slightly, eyes bright with curiosity. “—if you do feel like sharing, you’ve got a table. A forge. And a few dragons to keep you company.”

Octavia tilted her head, genuinely surprised by the lack of suspicion. “You’re not worried I’m a threat?”

“We’ve dealt with plenty of threats,” Astrid said. “You don’t feel like one.”

“And Toothless trusts you,” Hiccup added. “He’s not wrong very often.”

The name made her blink. “Toothless?”

He laughed. “Long story.”

She gave a slow nod. “Alright then. I’ll stay. For now. It's not like I have anywhere else to go, and besides, I don't think I can handle behind in the wild alone again for now, not with these injuries...” She touched the injured area, slightly flinching.

Astrid stood first, stretching. “That’s good. You’ll want to get familiar with the Edge. It’s chaotic, but… functional.”

Octavia stood, too. “Seems like chaos is your specialty.”

Astrid left with a faint smirk. Hiccup lingered for a moment longer, then turned toward what Octavia assumed was his hut, built to resemble some sort of forge, with a thoughtful look over his shoulder.

Octavia remained in the clubhouse a while longer, letting the fire warm her bones, her eyes roaming over the strange, wild maps of the north.

She still didn’t know if she belonged here. But for now, no one was asking her to.

The air hit her like a wave as she stepped out of the clubhouse — colder than she remembered, raw with wind and sea. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing away the firelight, the voices, the quiet scrutiny of the others.

Alone again.

The kind of alone she used to crave. The kind she fought for. Now it just felt hollow.

She let her hands rest on the edge of the porch railing, her fingers tightening briefly around the wood. Salt bit at her nose, and she could hear the sea beyond the cliffs — distant but ceaseless. The wind tugged at her braid, chilled the skin at her collar. Somewhere above, she could just barely hear the leathery swoop of wings.

That strange Toothless dragon, maybe. Or Duneveil.

Gods. Duneveil.

She closed her eyes for a moment, grounding herself. He was safe — that's all that mattered. That had to matter. Even after everything. Even after the trap.

She had been the bait. The entire ambush had been for her — no, for Duneveil. Because she dared to trust the sky. Because someone saw them and decided they had the right to take. She had fought. With everything she had. Every instinct, every scar, every lesson burned into her bones in the arena. And still — they would’ve killed her. Would’ve taken him.

If they hadn’t come.

She hadn’t even seen the dragon riders at first. Just wind and flame and chaos breaking the hunter lines like thunder tearing through clouds. Voices she didn’t recognize shouting across the battlefield. Wings in the night. And then the boy — the one with the peg leg and the dragon that barely made a sound when it moved. He’d looked her straight in the eye. Not with pity. Not with authority. Just… recognition.

And then she was here.

Still breathing.

Still broken in all the places no one could see.

She let out a breath and stepped off the porch, slowly heading toward the hut she’d woken up in — Astrid’s, maybe, but no one had corrected her yet. It had been warm and quiet. And tonight, she needed both. The sound of footsteps behind her was soft, careful. She didn’t turn.

“I thought you might want some quiet,” Hiccup said, his voice easy but quiet. “But… also figured you’d get lost. The Edge doesn’t exactly come with maps.”

She glanced over her shoulder. He stood a few steps back, hands at his sides, no weapon, no fancy leather tunic. His eyes weren’t sharp with command, but watchful. Curious. Human.

“I wasn’t lost,” she said.

“Right,” he nodded. “Of course not. Just… brooding mysteriously by moonlight?”

That earned him a flat look.

“I don’t brood,” she said.

He smirked, falling into step beside her anyway. “Sure. Let me guess — you stand quietly and think dramatically. Totally different.”

She didn’t answer.

They walked for a moment in silence, the wind tugging at the edges of their cloaks. The path was uneven, but she didn’t stumble. Even tired, even half-raw, she moved with the grace of someone who learned long ago not to show weakness.

They reached the door of the hut. She stopped, fingers brushing the edge of the frame, but didn’t go inside yet. Her shoulders were stiff, her spine still wound tight.

“You knew they were tracking something,” she said suddenly. “But you didn’t expect me.”

“No,” Hiccup admitted. “We’d been following the hunters for weeks. Thought they were after a rogue nest. We didn’t know they were after a rider.” He looked at her. “Especially not one flying a Sand Wraith.”

She didn’t flinch, but the pause in her breath was obvious.

“You’re not the first to ride a dragon,” he added, gently. “But you are the first I’ve seen who wasn’t trained here. At Berk. You’re… different.” 

And she wasn't just different like that. Hiccup had noticed it almost immediately — the way her face didn’t match any he’d seen growing up in Berk or across the archipelago. Her features were sharper, more sculpted, like something carved rather than grown: a straight, noble nose, plump lips that rarely smiled, and striking olive-green eyes that held too much weight for her age. Her skin carried a sun-warmed glow, deeper than the usual wind-chapped paleness of Viking shores, and her hair — golden blonde and softly waved — caught the light like metal dipped in honey. She stood shorter than most, but there was nothing small about the way she carried herself. Nothing unsure.

She looked away, jaw tightening. “That’s one word for it.”

“I meant it as a good one.”

That gave her pause. A beat passed.

“They would’ve killed me,” she said. It wasn’t a question. Just fact. “If you hadn’t arrived.”

“They almost did,” Hiccup said. “But you didn’t go down easy. You fought like—” He stopped himself.

“Like what?” she asked, voice edged with warning.

“Like someone who wasn’t supposed to survive,” he finished softly.

She turned her head toward him, shadows curling along the edge of her jaw. 

“Maybe I wasn’t.”

That hung in the air between them for a long, long second.

Then he exhaled slowly, like he didn’t quite know what to say to that. Maybe nothing needed to be said.

“I’m not used to this,” she added, quieter now. “This place. These people. It’s…” she struggled. “Strange.”

“Strange can be good,” he offered. “And besides… you won’t always feel like the outsider.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

He hesitated — then smiled, almost shy. “Okay, maybe not with everyone. But Fishlegs already wants to write a book about your dragon. The twins probably think you’re a hallucination. And Snotlout... well, I saw how that went.”

That drew a sound from her — not quite a laugh, but a scoff with an edge of reluctant amusement.

He stepped back from the door, giving her space.

“I’ll let you rest,” he said. “Tomorrow’s a little slower. Less chaos, more introductions. If you feel up to it.”

She gave a short nod, and turned toward the door.

“Octavia,” he added, just as she was about to enter.

She looked back.

“I meant what I said. You saved him. That matters to me.”

She studied him in the dim torchlight, searching for a lie. She didn’t find one.

And for a moment, she believed him.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said.

“I know,” he replied. “But you still did it.”

The door closed softly behind her.

Hiccup stood alone a while longer in the chill night wind, then turned and made his way back toward the clubhouse — slower this time, like something in him had shifted.

Something small.

The north was not like the south.

Octavia had always imagined the edges of the world to be bleak, colorless places, swallowed by mist and forgotten by the gods. But as she and Duneveil flew deeper into the unknown—far past the crumbling outposts of old Roman garrisons and the jagged coastlines etched into her father’s war maps—she discovered something else entirely.

The north breathed differently. Its skies were larger, lower somehow, heavy with grey and blue, but alive with motion. The wind was colder, sharper, scented with pine, salt, and snow. Here, the land was ancient and loud: glaciers cracked in the distance like thunder, forests hissed and whispered in secret tongues, and the sea sang with teeth.

She and Duneveil traveled high above it all, two shadows etched against a cloud-streaked sky. From the air, the earth seemed endless—green fjords cut into mountains like deep wounds, lakes mirrored the heavens in still perfection, and great cliffs rose from black waters like the backs of sleeping titans. Sometimes, she saw other dragons far below—brief shapes that vanished as quickly as they appeared.

But most days, they were alone.

And Octavia liked it that way.

It had been nearly three months since they’d left the southern cliffs. Three months of wind and sky, of sleeping in mossy caves and glacial alcoves, of learning Duneveil’s silent language and the rhythm of the clouds. She had shed more than names out here—she’d left behind Bellona, the arena, the golden chains of her birth. Out here, she was just Octavia. Her body had grown leaner, her skin rougher, her voice quieter. She had learned how to catch snow hares with a spear, how to patch a torn saddle mid-flight, how to sleep with one eye open. Her arms were strong again, not from swinging a gladius but from hauling supplies and bracing herself in flight.

And most of all—she had learned how to trust someone.

Duneveil was no longer just her companion. He was her shield. Her wings. Her one true equal. The bond between them had deepened into something fierce and wordless, forged through storm and hunger and fire. She could now rest her forehead against his and feel peace.

They had not meant to find the island.

It had appeared after two days of flying blind through fog, when even Duneveil’s sharp eyes had failed to see more than shadows. Octavia had clung to his back through the thick mist, wet to the bone, blinking away stinging cold as the world narrowed to nothing but the sound of wind and wings. When the fog finally broke, they saw it—rising from the sea like a broken crown. The island was jagged and narrow, a crescent of volcanic rock fringed by black sand and crowned by a ridge of ancient pines. From the air, it looked like a knife. But it was shelter.

Duneveil landed hard, skidding across loose stone before folding his wings tight to his body and crouching low. He was exhausted. Octavia slid from his back, boots crunching on volcanic gravel, and dropped to her knees beside him.

“Rest,” she whispered, pressing a hand to his flank. “Just for a while.”

He rumbled in response, low and tired.

They set up camp near a cluster of weather-warped trees where the wind broke against the ridge. Octavia built a small fire beneath an overhang of stone and fed Duneveil from her dwindling supply of dried fish. He ate sluggishly, curling around the flame like a great living shield. That night, the sky cleared, and she saw stars she had never seen before—bright and strange, cold and sharp as spear points. The northern lights danced far above, veils of green and violet that flickered like fire seen through water. She lay back on the cold ground, head against the dragon’s side, and felt something swell in her chest. Not joy. Not peace. Something closer to awe.

The next morning, she explored the island.

It was smaller than she’d thought—no more than a few hundred paces across at its widest point. It rose steeply toward the eastern ridge, where the trees thickened into a narrow grove, but otherwise it was bare. No signs of people. No signs of dragons. Just wind and rock and quiet. She liked that. From the ridge, she watched Duneveil sun himself on the beach below, wings half-open, the scars on his left side gleaming faintly. He was healing. Strong again. She smiled, brushing wind-tangled hair from her face. They could stay here a few more days. Rest. Hunt. Map the stars. The cold was bitter, but bearable, and she’d grown used to its bite. She could mend her cloak, maybe finally repair the cracked leather on her riding harness. Duneveil could stretch, fly, without fear of being seen.

She thought it was safe.

She was wrong.

Octavia was crouched by the fire, sharpening the edge of her dagger with rhythmic precision. The scraping of whetstone against steel was the only sound, save for the crackle of burning pine and the distant hush of waves lapping against black sand. Duneveil slept nearby, sprawled along the curve of volcanic rock, wings folded and breath steady. He looked peaceful in sleep—massive and coiled, more mountain than beast. Octavia had braided his harness that morning, a quiet ritual while he basked in the weak sun.

The wind shifted. A shiver traced her spine. She froze mid-stroke, lifting her head. Her eyes scanned the ridge line instinctively. Nothing. But the silence had changed. The gulls had gone. She stood slowly, slipping the blade back into its sheath at her thigh. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her gladius out of habit. Duneveil stirred behind her, sensing her tension, his nostrils twitching.

Then she saw it—a flash of metal. Too high for a natural glint.

Her body moved before her mind finished the thought.

“Up!” she hissed, sprinting toward Duneveil. “Get up, now!”

But it was too late.

The first net flew from the trees like a shadow, hissing through the air. It landed with a cruel snap, tangled weights dragging along the beach before catching on Duneveil’s wing. He roared—a deafening sound that shook the cliffs—and thrashed violently, tearing at the net with his claws. Three figures emerged from the treeline, bows raised, boots crunching on stone.

“Stand down!” one of them barked.

Octavia didn’t. She drew her gladius in a single motion, eyes burning.

“Get away from him.”

The lead hunter stepped forward. He was broad-shouldered and bearded, wearing boiled leather reinforced with metal plates. A dragon scale hung from a chain around his neck. He looked at her with the calm of a man who’d killed often.

“No need to get in the way, girl. That’s a rare beast, haven't seen ”

“I’m warning you,” she said through her teeth. “Leave. Now.”

Another net soared. Duneveil screamed. Octavia ran toward him, slicing at the net mid-air. The weighted line snapped against her arm, stinging like a whip. She staggered back, raising her blade again. More shapes burst from the brush—half a dozen this time. Ten in total. Maybe more. Surrounding them. Steel glinted. Crossbows clicked. Harpoons glistened with barbs.

“Duneveil!” she called, voice raw. “Fly if you can!”

But the dragon was pinned—half of one wing tangled in cord, struggling violently against the snare. Blood streaked his shoulder where a bolt had grazed him. The leader turned to her again, voice flat.

“You know him by name,” he said. “So you ride it. Good. Means you know how to control him.”

She said nothing. He took a step closer.

“Sell him to us. Walk away. We don’t kill riders unless we have to. Could even use you.”

“I’ll gut you first,” she spat.

He raised a brow. “Then you’ll die for a lizard.”

“He’s worth more than your entire bloodline.”

She lunged. Her blade caught the hunter’s vambrace with a hard metallic clang, driving sparks from steel. He swore and reeled back as she ducked low and spun, slicing the leg of another man behind her. He went down with a howl. Two more rushed in. Octavia moved like water—fluid, precise, brutal. Years in the arena had made her something dangerous. She parried a spear thrust, kicked the attacker in the gut, and caught a falling harpoon before hurling it at the archer in the trees. But it wasn’t enough. There were too many. She blocked a sword but missed the punch that followed. It cracked across her jaw, sending her to one knee. Her gladius fell to the sand. She reached for it—

Another net.

It slammed into her from behind, dragging her down like a bear trap. She hit the ground hard, grit in her teeth, air knocked from her lungs.

“Don’t kill her!” the leader shouted. “She’s worth something.”

Duneveil’s roar split the sky. The dragon had broken one of the nets—snapping the line with a violent whip of his neck. His eyes were molten fury, wings half-unfurled despite the injury. He reared back, tail lashing like a viper. Then he breathed. Hardened balls of sand surrounded by fire erupted from his mouth in a wide, arching sweep—hot and uncontrolled. The nearest hunter screamed as fire consumed him. Another dove into the sea.

But Duneveil staggered again—his injured wing dragging, blood soaking into the sand.

Octavia twisted beneath the net, arm stretched toward him.

“No,” she whispered. “Not like this…”

The leader aimed his crossbow.

“No!” she screamed.

A horn sounded. A high, clear note from the sky. The leader froze, lowering his weapon. Shadows passed overhead.

For a heartbeat, the world went still.

Then a black blur dropped from the sky like lightning. A black dragon, as dark as the night sky, hit the beach with a thud that rippled through the ground. His plasma blast detonated beside the lead hunter, sending him sprawling backward, cloak aflame. Another dragon dove behind him—a bird like creature, blue scales like polished stone. Riders in strange saddles, leather armor marked with crests Octavia didn’t know.

One of the dragon hunters tried to flee. A blue dragon with a spiky crown tackled him mid-run, slamming him to the ground with bone-crushing force. Octavia gasped as the net was torn from her. A hand reached down.

She blinked up into a pair of green eyes.

“I’ve got you,” said a calm voice. Male. Young. Steady.

A boy—no, not quite. A man. Slender but solid, with tousled brown hair and soot on his cheeks. His prosthetic leg gleamed faintly, reflecting the light emanating from the fires nearby .

He hauled her to her feet with practiced ease.

“Are you hurt?”

Octavia shook her head. “No—I—he—” She turned toward Duneveil, clearly more worried for the well being of her companion.

But the night dragon was already there, wings spread protectively around the injured dragon, growling low at any hunter that dared move. Duneveil lifted his head weakly, eyes flicking between Octavia and the strange axolotl like reptile. He rumbled, confused but no longer frantic. Octavia staggered forward and pressed a hand to his side. He shuddered under her touch but did not flinch.

“They came from nowhere,” she murmured. “They hunted him. They wanted him for coin.”

“We know,” Hiccup said quietly, stepping beside her. “We’ve been tracking this group for weeks.”

Octavia looked up sharply.

“You’re dragon riders.”

He nodded once. “We are.”

Her hand still rested on Duneveil’s flank. Her pulse was a drumbeat of fury, fear, and relief.

“Thank you,” she said, voice hoarse.

He gave her a tired smile.

“Let’s get you both off this rock first. Then we can talk.”

She looked once more at the burning wreckage of her camp, at the scattered nets and broken weapons. Smoke curled into the sky. The hunters that survived had fled or were tied and groaning in the sand. The wind shifted again—this time carrying the scent of ash and salt. Duneveil grumbled softly, nudging her shoulder.

She exhaled and looked to the boy with the steady eyes.

“I’m Octavia,” she said.

He blinked. “I’m Hiccup.”

Their hands brushed for a moment—brief, accidental. But not insignificant.

She was injured, and so was Duneveil. They were clearly not in a state to defend themselves if the hunters were to come back, so Hiccup and his friend, a blonde haired viking, decided, simply by glancing at each other, to take them back to their camp ; the Edge.

The night was cloaked in silence, broken only by the soft crunch of her worn boots on the gravel road. Above her, the stars glittered cold and distant, indifferent to the flight of a girl who was no longer a princess, no longer Bellona the gladiator—but only Octavia, lost and unbound.

She kept her head low beneath a rough-spun cloak that had once belonged to a merchant from the outskirts of Rome. Its fabric was coarse against her skin, far removed from the silks and linens of her former life. Yet it was a good enough protection against the chill wind that gnawed at her bones as she moved steadily away from the marble and flame of the empire's heart.

Freedom was an elusive shadow, slipping just beyond reach, but she chased it still.

Days blurred into one another, marked only by the changing landscape and the shifting faces of the people she met along the way.

In a small market village nestled between rolling hills and olive groves, Octavia found herself among traders speaking a dozen different tongues. The stalls were crowded with colorful fabrics, pungent herbs, salted meats, and pottery glazed in bright hues. The air was thick with the smell of roasting fish and the acrid smoke of fires burning low.

Her Latin tongue was a faded melody here—only fragments were understood, and even then, hesitation curled in the eyes of those she approached.

She clutched a bronze medallion hidden beneath her tunic, the image of a roaring lion stamped into its surface. It was a token from her past, a symbol of her secret identity as Bellona. She had carried it for luck once. Now, it was currency for survival. At a shaded stall, a wiry man with sun-bleached hair and deep-set eyes examined the medallion with care. His skin was cracked and sunburned, his hands calloused from years of toil.

"You carry a lion's mark," he said in halting Latin, voice rough but tinged with curiosity.

Octavia nodded, fingers tightening around the coin. "I seek food. Grain or dried figs."

The man considered her carefully, then reached beneath his counter and produced a thick woolen cloak, folded and worn. Without a word, he slid it across to her.

She hesitated. This was a gift, not a trade. Her throat tightened.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He shrugged, eyes steady. "A warrior's road is hard. May it shelter you."

That night, Octavia curled near the edge of a campfire where a handful of merchants shared their own tales—tales she drank like water in a desert.

The firelight danced across faces weathered by sun and wind. Some spoke in laughter; others in hushed reverence. One old man told of sea spirits who sang sailors to their deaths; another swore he had glimpsed shadows that flitted on winged feet over the mountains.

And then, a woman wrapped in violet wool, her voice soft and knowing, leaned toward Octavia and whispered in perfect Latin: "The road ahead eats the past. Let it."

Octavia stared into the embers, tasting the weight of those words.

Let go. Move forward. Live.

She left the village before dawn, the woolen cloak wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The hills stretched before her, a mosaic of green and gold under a sky beginning to pale with morning light. The path was treacherous and narrow, winding through thickets of wild thyme and clusters of brittle oak. Every step tested her balance; every breath reminded her of the life she'd left behind. She moved like a ghost through forgotten places, where shepherds' dogs barked at shadows and the wind carried the scent of distant seas. Days passed with little more than her thoughts for company. She pondered the faces of her family, the battles fought under the helmet of Bellona, and the cold fury in her father's eyes the day she fled.

One afternoon, near a crossroads marked by an ancient stone, she encountered a caravan of merchants unloading crates of exotic goods—spices, glass beads, and bolts of silk dyed in brilliant blues and reds. Their leader was a broad-shouldered man with a scar tracing his jawline, eyes sharp and calculating.

He approached Octavia with measured steps.

"You travel alone," he said, voice low and wary.

"I do."

"The road grows dangerous ahead. Bandits, wild beasts... and worse."

She met his gaze, steady. "I am not afraid."

The man studied her, then offered a small pouch of dried herbs. "For healing, if you need it."

Octavia accepted with a nod, tucking the pouch into her cloak.

"May the gods watch over you," he said.

Weeks slipped by like water. The seasons began to shift. Cool rains soaked her clothes, turning the earth beneath her feet to mud. Mornings brought frost that bit her fingers and stung her cheeks. Her body ached from the constant strain—muscles tight and bruised, skin red where her armor had rubbed raw. She learned to listen to the rhythms of the road—the call of birds at dawn, the rustle of leaves, the distant bark of wolves in the twilight. She grew cautious, hiding by day, traveling by night.

And always, the same question echoed in her mind:

Where does freedom lie?

On a morning washed in mist, Octavia found herself standing at the edge of a world unlike any she had known. The path she'd followed twisted down sharply beneath ancient pines and cypress, the scent of salt thick in the air.

Octavia's breath caught in her throat as she stared down from the cliff's ragged edge. Below, the world seemed impossibly vast and still—the sea stretching out to the horizon like a sheet of molten steel, waves pounding the shore in relentless rhythm.

But it was not the ocean that held her gaze. It was the creature sprawled in the sand, broken and battered—a dragon, real and terrifying.

Its scales were dull, the color of sun-bleached sandstone, cracked and streaked with dust and dried blood. One massive wing lay twisted, the membrane torn and stained a deep crimson where it caught the light like liquid fire. The other wing was folded beneath its body, as if guarding what little strength remained.

Octavia's eyes locked with its own—amber and sharp, blazing with pain and wary intelligence. The dragon's breath came ragged, ragged like a storm struggling to break free. A low hiss escaped the creature's throat, smoke curling from flared nostrils. Her hand instinctively tightened around the hilt of her gladius. The instinct to fight, to protect, surged through her veins, but she fought it down. Not yet. Not now.

She found a steep passage within the rocks of the cliff, slowly lowering herself in it, in hopes to reach the beach below her. As she managed to make her way down, it's like fear and excitement were battling in her mind, half of her telling her to flee the dangerous beast, the other screaming at her to approach it. It is in no surprise that the second half of her adventurous mind won this battle. As she made her way towards the sandy reptile, she slowly lowered herself to her knees, careful not to startle the wounded beast. Her cloak pooled quietly on the rocky ground behind her. Every movement was deliberate, calm.

"I am not your enemy," she whispered, voice soft but steady.

The dragon's eyes narrowed, and for a long moment, they simply regarded one another—two wild souls suspended in fragile understanding.

Octavia reached into a pouch at her belt and withdrew a piece of salted fish—dried and tough, but enough to tempt even the most desperate hunger. She laid it on the sand, a careful distance away, and retreated a few steps. The dragon's nostrils twitched, smoke drifting in the cold air. Its head dipped slowly, inching toward the offering. Then it paused, claws digging shallow trenches into the sand, before finally snapping the fish between jagged teeth.Octavia let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

She may not have realized in the heat of the moment, but this was the first crack in the wall.

Hours passed. Octavia remained nearby, sitting as still as the stones beneath her, watching the dragon's slow, uneven breathing. She knew she could not approach again so soon; wounds like those bred fear, pain, and instinctive aggression. The sky shifted from pale morning to golden afternoon, sunlight filtering through restless clouds.

Carefully, she gathered herbs from the scrubby brush—sage, willow bark, and wild thyme—the kind of simple medicines she had learned in the arena's shadowy corners. She crushed leaves between her fingers, the scent sharp and green. With tentative steps, she returned to the cliff edge, lowering a small bowl of fresh water. The dragon's head lifted, eyes locking with hers again, filled with cautious suspicion.

Slowly, it moved toward the water, its tongue flicking out in quick, sharp strokes.

She remembered reading about dragons during her childhood. Dragons were to most a myth, a legend, but the most seasoned travelers, and elders, spoke of the days were they roamed the world freely. One day, as she made her way back to the nearest market to gather supplies, a book caught her eye, one of leather cover, marked with a symbol she recognized instantly ; a dragon. With her current situation, she had to snatch it for herself. As she flipped through the pages, she recognized it immediately; a Sand Wraith, the sandy reptile that was currently occupying most of her mind.

Over the next days, Octavia's visits became ritual.

At first, the dragon watched with narrowed eyes, muscles tensed for flight or fight.

She spoke in low Latin, fragments of lullabies and battle prayers, the only words she could think to offer beyond silence.

"I do not mean to harm you."

"I am here."

Her hands moved carefully, never reaching out, only offering. She cleaned the wounds when the dragon flinched but did not strike. She applied balms made of pine resin and crushed herbs, singing softly through the pain.

Their bond was forged in patience and quiet resilience.

Night fell. The dragon nestled close to her fire, the heat radiating warmth that seeped deep into Octavia's chilled bones.

She leaned against the rocky walls of the cliff's edges, listening to the slow breathing of the lizard-like creature next to her, and the soothing sounds of the sea, a sea that seemed so calm, yet frightening at night.

"I am no longer Bellona, or even a princess" she whispered, voice thick. "But maybe I am more than what I was."

The dragon rumbled—a low, sonorous sound that felt like the first true word of a new language. Under the vast sweep of stars, a fragile trust was born. And the road ahead, once so dark, gleamed with the faintest light of hope.

The days that followed the dragon's acceptance of her presence passed slowly, marked by fragile progress and quiet moments carved out beneath endless skies. The cliffs, wild and lonely, became their sanctuary, a place removed from the empire's shadow and the ghosts of the past. Octavia woke each morning to the muted crash of waves below and the sharp scent of salt carried in the wind. She moved carefully, mindful of the silence that stretched between her and the creature she had named Duneveil — a name that spoke of desert sands and veiling secrets, of strength hidden beneath vulnerability.

At first, every approach was an exercise in patience and restraint. The dragon's amber eyes flickered with wariness, muscles taut and ready to snap at any wrong move. Yet, beneath that armor of fear and pain, Octavia sensed a profound loneliness — a kinship she could not deny.

Each morning, Octavia began by bringing water — fresh and cool from a hidden spring she'd discovered nearby. She placed it in a shallow bowl carved from wood, setting it down at a respectful distance before retreating and watching for the dragon to drink. This simple act became a ritual. It was the first thread woven into their fragile tapestry of trust.

Next came the treatment of wounds.

Her hands, steady from years of gladiatorial discipline, moved slowly and gently. She cleaned torn flesh and applied salves of crushed herbs, pine resin, and lavender — all scents sharp and green, reminders of life beyond blood and battle. The dragon flinched with every touch, nostrils flaring, smoke rising in thin tendrils. Sometimes it hissed; other times, it only watched, muscles coiled like spring steel.

Octavia spoke softly, her voice a low hum beneath the wind's mournful song.

"You are not alone. I will stay."

Days folded into one another like the pages of a worn manuscript, their language made up of glances, gestures, and shared stillness. Octavia learned to read Duneveil's subtle signals — the flick of an ear, the twitch of a tail, the slow narrowing or widening of those molten eyes. She mirrored his breathing, slow and deliberate, grounding herself in the moment. At times, she sat with her back against the dragon's rough flank, feeling the slow beat of life beneath her palms. It was warmth both physical and spiritual — a tether to a world she no longer dared to trust.

On the seventh day, when the sky burned with the first fierce light of dawn, Octavia reached out — not with words, but with a hand. Her fingers trembled as they hovered inches from the dragon's snout. The scales were rough, each one edged like a stone worn by centuries of wind and sand. Duneveil's nostrils flared, smoke curling softly in the cool morning air.

For a moment, the world held its breath.

Then, with the slowest movement, the dragon lowered his head until his snout met her palm. The shock was electric — a pulse of life and pain and fragile hope. Tears pricked at Octavia's eyes, blurring the cliff's sharp edges.

"I see you," she whispered. "And I am here."

From that day, their companionship grew — not in leaps, but in careful, patient steps. Octavia began to share her food. She crushed figs and softened dried bread, offering morsels from her own meager stores. Duneveil accepted them — sometimes hesitantly, sometimes with quiet gratitude. She spoke to him of the world beyond the cliffs: of Rome's marble columns, of the roar of the crowd in the arena, of the weight of a name she no longer bore with pride. In turn, she listened to the silent language of the dragon — the shifting of his weight, the flicker of his eyes, the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart beneath her fingers.

Days passed. Weeks.

The dragon's wing grew stronger, mending slowly beneath the ministrations of salves and rest. Octavia watched with awe as he tested it—stretching and folding the damaged limb with tentative grace. One afternoon, as the sun dipped low, Duneveil lifted his great body, dust swirling in a golden haze. A gust of wind caught him as he rose, wings beating slow but sure. He circled the cliffs once, twice, then descended in a soft, shaking landing near Octavia.

She laughed — a sound like a bird freed from a cage — and reached out, pressing her palm to his chest.

"We are not so different," she said.

At night, the two became shadows intertwined by firelight.

Octavia lay curled beside the dragon's massive form, shielded from cold by the warmth radiating from his body. The sound of his breathing was a lullaby, the slow rising and falling a promise of survival. Sometimes, when the stars wheeled overhead, she whispered stories of her childhood, of her dreams and fears, of the girl who had fought behind a helmet and the woman who now sought something more. Duneveil's rumble was an answer — a deep, resonant sound that spoke of ancient wisdom and newfound friendship.

One morning, as the cliffs glistened with frost, Octavia awoke to find the dragon watching her — alert, calm, almost... trusting. She smiled softly, the weight of the past lifting from her shoulders like morning mist. Together, they stood at the edge of the world, two wounded fires burning against the cold.

The cliff side was alive with the scent of salt and pine, the air sharp and bracing as the wind swept over the jagged rocks. Morning light spilled like molten gold across the landscape, catching the shimmer of waves far below. Octavia stood at the edge, heart pounding not from fear or battle, but from the promise of something new. Beside her, Duneveil stretched his great wings wide, the massive membranes catching the breeze with a fragile grace. The damaged wing, once twisted and torn, had healed remarkably under her care—though still thinner, weaker, vulnerable. He flexed it carefully, testing the strength, muscles trembling beneath his sand-colored scales. Octavia swallowed hard. To fly with a dragon was not a dream she had dared speak aloud, let alone imagine. Yet here, with Duneveil's patient gaze meeting hers, that impossible dream felt close enough to touch.

Their journey to flight began with trust—a bridge built slowly, moment by moment.

She had learned from watching him: how he shifted his weight, how the muscles beneath his wings tensed and relaxed, how the rhythm of his breath aligned with the wind. The dragon was a creature of air and power, but also of delicate balance. Duneveil lowered his massive head, nudging Octavia gently as if to say, "Are you ready?" Her fingers trembled as she reached up to touch the coarse scales at his neck, the warm roughness grounding her.

"I'm ready," she whispered, voice steady despite the flood of nerves.

With deliberate care, she climbed onto his back. The first contact was a shock of heat and weight—a living, breathing mountain beneath her. Her hands found the ridges of his spine, gripping tightly as he shifted beneath her.

At first, the sensation was dizzying. The world lurched and swayed as Duneveil began to move—each step heavy, deliberate, shaking the ground beneath them. Octavia's heart hammered as she struggled to find balance, arms gripping instinctively.

"Relax," came a low rumble from the dragon, almost like a wordless encouragement.

She exhaled slowly, matching her breath to his steady rhythm. Duneveil crouched, muscles coiling like springs. Then, with a powerful thrust of his wings, he leapt into the air. The ground fell away. The cliff's jagged edge slipped beneath them, swallowed by a cloud of spray and wind. Octavia's stomach churned—part fear, part exhilaration. She clung tighter as Duneveil beat his wings slowly, fighting gravity with ancient strength.

For a moment, they hovered, suspended between sea and sky.

Octavia's breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide with wonder and terror. The wind tore at her cloak, whipping her hair into a wild halo. The sun's warmth was distant, replaced by the rush of cold air that stung her cheeks. The dragon banked, wings folding and stretching in graceful arcs. The world tilted beneath her, a swirling canvas of blues and greens. Her heart was a wild drum in her chest.

But flight was not easy.

The first attempts were clumsy and fraught with peril. Duneveil's wings faltered at times—buffeted by sudden gusts, his damaged wing trembling under the strain. Octavia felt herself slip, heart leaping as her hands slid on his scales.

"Hold!" she gasped, tightening her grip.

They spiraled downward briefly, the roar of wind deafening in her ears. The dragon righted himself with a powerful surge, wings beating a desperate rhythm. The cliff's jagged rocks rushed up to meet them, but with a final mighty thrust, they soared back upward. Octavia's scream turned into a breathless laugh.

Each flight lesson was a test of patience and trust. Duneveil learned to trust her balance, her presence, her touch.Octavia learned the rhythms of his breath and wing beats—the subtle shifts that signaled a turn, a dive, a lift. She learned to read the wind, to lean into it, to move with it rather than against it. Slowly, their dance became more certain—less a struggle and more a harmony.

One golden afternoon, after hours, days even, of practice, Duneveil lifted Octavia higher than before. The world below was a sprawling tapestry of earth and sea, tiny and distant. She stretched her arms wide, letting the wind carry her. For a moment, she was weightless—more than free, more than alive. The dragon's rumble beneath her was steady, comforting.

"You fly," she whispered, tears prickling her eyes.

"And you fly with me," came the unspoken reply.

Landing was gentle, almost tender. The cliffs welcomed them back with the familiar scent of salt and pine. Octavia slid from Duneveil's back, legs shaky but heart soaring. She knelt beside him, hands resting on his scales, breathing in the raw power and warmth. They shared a moment of quiet connection—two wounded fires burning brighter together.

No words were needed.

At night, bundled up near the makeshift bond fire, that's when the realization came to Octavia ; they had found freedom not just in flight, but in each other.

The dawn stretched across the cliffs in muted shades of pink and gold, the sea beneath shimmering with the first light of day. Octavia stood at the edge, her breath steady, her heart pounding with anticipation. Beside her, Duneveil flexed his massive wings, the sinews rippling beneath sun-bleached scales. Today was the day.

She slid onto his back, fingers curling tightly around the ridges along his spine, seeking the firm grip that steadied her. The wind caught her cloak, whipping it into a wild banner behind her, as if urging her onward. The cliff loomed beneath them, the jagged edge sharp against the swirling mist. With a powerful push, Duneveil launched into the air. The ground fell away beneath them, cliffs giving way to rolling forests, winding rivers, and distant mountains rising like ancient sentinels. The world unfolded—a vast, untamed expanse, wild and full of secrets. Octavia gasped, her eyes wide with wonder. The wind tore at her hair, kissed her cheeks with icy fingers, but inside, a fierce warmth bloomed—a fire that no cage could smother. Duneveil banked gracefully, wings beating with a steady rhythm. Below, the forests shimmered like emerald waves; the rivers glistened like threads of silver pulled taut by the sun. She stretched her arms wide, feeling the pulse of the wind beneath her palms, the surge of flight lifting her beyond fear and doubt.

With the dragon beneath her, the sky was no longer a limit—it was a beginning.

As they soared higher, Octavia's thoughts drifted to the life she had left behind. The marble halls where her name was both crown and chain; the roar of the Colosseum crowd where she fought to survive beneath a mask; the fury in her father's eyes when he learned of her secret rebellion. But here, above the world, none of that mattered.

With Duneveil, she was free.

Free to be herself—not a princess, not a gladiator, but simply a girl who longed to roam.

She leaned forward, resting her cheek against the warm scales of the dragon's neck, and whispered, "Thank you."

His deep rumble was the only answer she needed.

They flew for hours, tracing the coastline as it twisted like a serpent beneath the sun. They glided over forests thick with ancient trees, their canopies weaving a tapestry of shadow and light. Octavia spotted villages nestled in valleys, their smoke curling skyward like soft invitations to stories she longed to discover. Duneveil's wings beat steadily, powerful and sure. Occasionally, he dipped low, skimming the waves so closely that the spray kissed Octavia's face like salt and freedom. The world stretched wide and wild, and with every mile, her soul expanded, breathing in the boundless possibility of what lay ahead.

At one point, they soared over a vast mountain range, the peaks crowned with snow that sparkled like diamonds. The air was thin and cold, but the view was breathtaking—valleys carved by rivers, cliffs shattered by time, skies so vast they seemed to swallow the sun.

Octavia felt the fierce thrill of discovery surge through her.

"This," she thought, "is what I was born for."

As twilight crept across the sky, painting it in hues of violet and gold, Octavia and Duneveil returned to the cliffs where their journey had begun. The world below was hushed, wrapped in the quiet of coming night. She slid from the dragon's back, knees trembling, heart soaring.

Together, they stood at the edge—two souls bound by scars, by flight, by the fierce hunger for freedom.

Octavia looked up at the stars emerging, infinite and bright, and felt a fierce certainty bloom inside her. No matter what chains the past had tried to bind her with, she was no longer captive.

She was the sky's daughter now—wild, unbroken, and soaring.

With Duneveil beside her, the world was theirs to explore.

The golden halls of the Palatium Augusti shimmered beneath the midday sun, every column gleaming, every mosaic polished to blinding perfection. Statues of stoic gods loomed in the corridors, their marble gazes forever fixed forward. But Octavia Aurelia Domitilla, daughter of Marcus Aurelius, had learned early that no amount of carved grandeur could mask the rot underneath.

She had grown up surrounded by silence—not the comforting stillness of peace, but the suffocating hush of expectation. The kind where women were seen, never heard; where laughter was weighed against propriety, and where one's future was stitched into place with golden thread. From the moment she could walk, Octavia's life had been rehearsed like theater: proper step, proper tone, proper smile. After all, she was woman, not like her brothers, who truly had a chance at life ; emperor, commander, general. Them, at least, could continue her father's bloodline for centuries to come. Her body was hers in name alone; it belonged to Rome, to her father, to the Empire.

But the fire within her belonged to no one.

Octavia had been nine when she first watched a gladiator match. Her tutors had insisted she be shielded from such vulgarity, but the emperor had laughed, waving them off with a hand heavy with rings. "Let her see Rome's strength," he had said. "Let her learn what power truly means."

And she had. But not in the way he expected.

The crowd's roar that day had stirred something inside her—not bloodlust, but freedom. Raw, unfiltered freedom. These were men and women who bled for their lives, who screamed and fought and ran beneath the open sky. They had no silk, no titles, no palaces—but they had movement, choice, strength. Even in chains, they lived louder than she ever had.

She began sneaking out at thirteen, cloaked and veiled, slipping into the lesser arenas at the city's edge. She watched from the shadows, learning the way bodies moved in battle, the rhythm of footwork, the sound of steel splitting air. By fifteen, she had found him: Marius Varro, a one-eyed veteran who trained fighters in a crumbling yard that stank of sweat and rust. His days of glory were gone, but his instinct remained.

He laughed when she approached him. "You're either stupid or suicidal, girl."

"I have gold," she said.

"You have a death wish."

"I have both."

She showed him the weight of her coin, and promised more—his own weight in gold, every month, so long as he trained her and kept her secret. Marius agreed, not because of the money—though it helped—but because when he looked into her eyes, he saw no royalty. He saw a caged wolf, desperate to be something more.

So she became Bellona.

She wore leather armor instead of brocade, wrapped her face beneath a full bronze war helm, and began entering small fights under false names. Her movements were clumsy at first, her body too soft. But she trained like a beast, sparring until her knuckles split, running until her lungs screamed, eating with soldiers and sleeping on stone. She shed her softness like a second skin.

Her first real match was under the moonlight, in a blood-soaked pit surrounded by drunk men and smoke. She won. Barely. The pain thrilled her. The danger made her feel real.

And Bellona rose.

Word spread—of a masked gladiator who moved like fire and struck like vengeance. The crowd loved her. The rich placed bets. The poor cheered her name. No one knew her face, only her fury.

By sixteen, she was a myth. And then the invitation came.

Even standing in the Colosseum’s shadow felt like approaching Olympus. Stone teeth ringed the sky, and inside, fifty thousand Romans screamed, roared, chanted, hungry for spectacle. Today, they would get it.

Octavia stood alone in the underground chamber. Her armor was battle-worn leather reinforced with metal bands. Her helmet reflected the flickering torchlight, expressionless and impassive. Inside, her heart pounded—not with fear, but with focus.

The gates creaked open.

The roar that greeted her nearly broke the air itself. She stepped into the arena, her boots crunching dry sand, the sun immediately hot on her shoulders. Across the expanse stood her opponent: a Thracian behemoth known as Harkon, famed for his brutality and the jagged scars he wore like trophies. His chest was bare save for streaks of red paint, and his weapon—a curved sica—gleamed wickedly in his hand.

He grinned at her.

"Small one," he sneered. "They send me a lamb today."

Octavia said nothing. Her grip on her gladius tightened, her stance already coiled and low.

The horn sounded.

He charged.

He was fast for his size—too fast. His first strike came low, aiming to take out her legs. She leapt back, just enough, and pivoted on her heel. The gladius flashed in her hand, slicing across his bicep. A clean cut. Blood dripped into the dust.

The crowd howled.

Harkon growled and came again, this time swinging in a high arc. She ducked, the blade passing inches above her helmet, and rolled to his flank. Her blade stabbed upward, missing his ribs by a breath as he twisted violently and backhanded her across the helmet.

She stumbled. Pain exploded in her jaw despite the protection. The world wobbled. She spat blood inside her mask.

Harkon came for the kill.

She threw herself sideways, feeling the sica rip through the air where her throat had been. She landed hard, sand in her teeth, but surged up in a blur. Her foot caught his shin. He faltered.

Then she struck.

A flurry of three quick slashes—shoulder, thigh, ribs. He roared and swung blindly. She dodged the first strike, parried the second, and with a savage cry, drove her gladius into the meat of his shoulder.

He fell to his knees, panting. His eyes—once so sure of victory—now stared up at her, stunned, afraid. She pressed her blade to his throat.

Silence fell over the Colosseum.

Then came the voice, clear and commanding, from the imperial dais:

"Bellona," said Emperor Marcus Aurelius, rising. "Finish it."

Octavia froze.

She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. Her father stood high above, framed by banners and senators, a god in flesh. His expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, his arm lifted.

Thumb down.

The will of the people. The will of Rome.

She took a breath. And killed him. It was not cruel. She drove the blade through his heart. His eyes fluttered, then closed. No scream. No theatrics. Only death. The crowd went wild.

"Bellona! Bellona! Bellona!"

But even as they cheered, another voice rose.

"Remove the warrior's helm," the Emperor ordered. "Rome must see the face of its champion."

She hesitated.

Guards approached, forming a respectful semi-circle. One reached for her helm. She raised a hand. Then, slowly, deliberately, Octavia lifted the helmet herself.

Gasps rippled like thunder.

Curls of golden hair spilled out, sweat-matted and tangled. Blood streaked her temple. And beneath the mask—her eyes. Sharp. Defiant. Unmistakably royal. A silence fell so deep it was as if the gods themselves paused to watch.

The Emperor's face contorted in disbelief. "Octavia...?"

"I am your daughter," she said, loud enough for all to hear. "And I am Rome's champion."

Shock. Horror. Awe.

In the stands, nobles dropped their goblets. Senators gaped. The praetorian commander visibly flinched. Commodus, her eldest brother, stood, mouth open. And Marcus Aurelius, philosopher-king of Rome, raged.

His voice boomed across the Colosseum, louder than any trumpet.

"Lock her in the palace! Now! She has shamed the imperial name before the eyes of gods and men!"

"But Father—"

"Silence!" he roared. "Do not speak. Do not think. You are no warrior. You are a disgrace! Rome will not forget this treachery, and neither shall I. You will answer for this—tomorrow."

His command was law. Guards seized her, not roughly, but firmly. The gates swallowed her.

That night, the palace was deathly quiet.

Octavia sat alone in her chambers, still in her armor, her skin sticky with dried blood. The guards had sealed her in, barred the doors, and stationed themselves at every corridor. No food. No bath. No conversation. Only the promise of judgment at dawn. And she knew what that meant.

Exile. Confinement. Or worse—forced marriage to some foreign king as punishment, traded like a coin to restore the empire's dignity. But she had tasted freedom.

She had lived in the arena. In that heat, that danger, she had found the only place where she was not a pawn—but a person. 

She would not surrender that.

She would not go quietly.

So, before the first light breached the Palatine windows, Octavia fled.

Through the servant's passage. Across the sleeping stables. One loyal guard turned his back—whether out of pity or reverence, she never knew. She mounted a stolen mare, her satchel hidden beneath her armor, and rode beneath the gates of Rome before the city had even stirred.

She left behind her name. Her crown. Her prison.