#woundbound

His name tastes bitter on your tongue, and yet it fills your mouth like honey and ash. You’d never met him before yesterday, but he shattered something in you all the same. Just standing there, spine crooked from whatever weight he carries, he undid every story you told yourself about who he was.

You thought you’d hate him. You wanted to.

You wanted the sight of him to fill that hollow, aching pit left behind by the wreckage of your people. Of your family.

But he wasn’t the monster.

He was just a boy. Tall and slight, with too much burden behind his eyes. A boy with calloused hands and a quiet mouth. A boy who’d looked at you like he knew something he shouldn't. And worse—like he wished he didn’t.

And her.

Astrid.

He told you about her—his voice small but certain. The girl he grew up with. Fought beside. Bled beside. The girl who wasn’t his soulmate but still had his whole heart. His only heart.

You haven’t seen her, and you don’t know what she looks like. You only know her as a shape formed from his words; a presence wrapped in his love.

And that somehow hurts worse.

You’d never met him before yesterday. And yet it’s as if your soul had been waiting your whole life to be disappointed.

You’re angry. You have every right to be.

This boy—this Dragon Rider —is the one behind so much grief your people carry. He's the one you were taught to despise. The enemy you grew up cursing. And now your body, your soul, the parts of you that should know better—they ache for him.

And he hadn’t wanted you, not really. That should’ve been a relief.

Instead, it feels like betrayal.

Because deep down, under all the disgust and fury, you’d wondered. After all these years—after all the nights you’d curled around injuries you didn’t earn, woken up breathless with pain that wasn’t yours—you’d wondered what he would be like.

And he’s not what you’d hoped for.

He’s worse.

You push the blanket aside and swing your legs over the side of the bed. The floor is chilled and uneven beneath your feet. You dress in silence—tunic, belt, leather bracers. The motions are mechanical. Your boots are stiff and your shoulders are sore from sleeping twisted on the cot, but you ignore it. You have work to do.

Carpentry isn’t your first love. You hadn’t dreamed of it as a child, hadn’t stared wide-eyed at lumber or blueprints. But you took to it because it made sense—because your hands could build something instead of destroy it. In a village where pain often passed for power, you found peace in shaping wood, in smoothing splinters, in raising homes with your bare hands.

You step out into the early morning.

The village is already stirring. Smoke spirals from chimneys and the clang of hammers echoes from the forge. The smell of fish and iron clings to everything.

You make your way down the path toward the carpenter’s lodge, nodding at familiar faces without stopping. Most return the gesture. Some don’t. You’re used to the way people treat you—with respect edged in caution. Being the niece of Ragnar, the village chief, buys you silence where questions would normally go.

But Freja isn’t like the others. She doesn’t tiptoe. She never has.

You find her exactly where you expect her to be—already elbow-deep in sawdust, her sleeves rolled up past her elbows, red braid half-undone and falling into her face.

She grins like she's just caught trout in her teeth when she sees you.

“There you are, skati,” she crows, slamming a board down on the table. “I was two splinters away from thinking you’d finally drowned in your own brooding.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tempting.”

“Not with your luck,” she says, handing you a chisel. “Even the sea would spit you back out.”

You manage a half-smile and take the tool, falling into rhythm beside her—smoothing planks, checking grain patterns, drawing rough sketches for the new hut build near the west cliffs. The physical work helps. Your hands move without thought, and for a while, you can almost forget the ache in your chest.

Freja fills the space between you with noise, as always—talking about everything from the village’s dwindling stock of salt fish to how she caught one of the young boys sneaking into the blacksmith’s shed with a frog in his tunic.

You’re grateful for it. For her.

Freja never treats you like you’re fragile. Never bows her head or watches her tongue just because you’re Ragnar’s niece. She’s been by your side since you were small—through grief, through every quiet war you’ve fought in your own head.

She’s your anchor. Your oldest friend.

Which is why it nearly kills you not to tell her.

You want to. Odin help you, you want to blurt it all out. That Hiccup—the Hiccup—is your soulmate. That the thing pulling at your heart like a fishhook buried deep in your chest is real. But what would she say?

What would anyone say?

The village lost too much to the dragons. Too much betrayal from the Riders. Your parents among them. The thought of anyone knowing that your soul has chosen him—the very symbol of everything your people hate—it makes your blood run cold.

So you say nothing.

Not when Freja talks about the dragons. Not when she jokes about lighting Hiccup’s boots on fire. Not even when she says—

“Wild, huh? That they actually caught him.”

You freeze mid-stroke on the wood, but your face remains neutral. “What?”

“Hiccup,” she says, like it’s obvious. “The Rider. Can you believe it? Just walked into one of the outer territories—on a whim, apparently. Didn’t even fight.”

You keep your eyes on your work. “Maybe he’s tired of running.”

“Or maybe he’s a fool,” she laughs. “Either way, gods above, what luck. All the stories about him and his dragons and what he’s done—and now he’s just here, in our cellar like a stubborn goat.”

You nod, carefully hiding the way your chest clenches. “Hard to believe.”

Freja pauses, glancing at you sidelong. “You alright? You’ve been quiet all morning.”

You shrug. “Didn’t sleep well.”

She gives a soft “hm” of understanding and returns to her carving, but the space between you hums now—heavier, somehow. You don’t know if she notices, or if you’re just imagining it.

Then she says, “Oh. Did you hear about the gathering tonight?”

You glance up. “What gathering?”

“At the town hall," Freja leans over the bench, sawing with her usual careless confidence. “It was just announced in the square before I got here. Big gathering, apparently.”

Your brow furrows. “Ragnar didn’t say anything.”

She shrugs. “Must’ve been sudden. Word is, they’re deciding what to do with the Rider.”

You freeze.

Freja doesn’t notice. She’s still sawing.

“They’re calling Elder Ingrid in,” she adds, like it’s nothing.

But it isn’t nothing.

Elder Ingrid hasn’t stepped out of her hall in moons. Her presence means this isn’t just another council meeting. This is a sentence.

A decision that can’t be undone.

“Did they say what they’re planning?” you ask, your voice almost giving way to a crack.

“Not yet,” Freja replies. “But it won’t be a warm welcome, I can promise you that. You going?”

“Of course,” you say, slower than you mean to.

Freja dusts off her hands and straightens up. “Good. I’ll save you a spot next to the hearth so you don’t freeze that long neck of yours.”

You offer a tired smile. “How thoughtful.”

She winks. “I’m the very image of hospitality.”

She hoists a short-legged stool under one arm, nods toward the door. “Taking this to old Gjertrud before she curses me into the earth for being late. See you at the hall?”

You nod. “I’ll be there.”

“Don’t be late, skati. You know how Ingrid gets when someone talks over her.” And just like that, she’s gone, door swinging shut behind her and leaving you in a silence that begins to feel suffocating.

They're deciding his fate.

Tonight.

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears. You told yourself this didn’t matter. That whatever strange thread tied you to him didn’t mean anything. That you could ignore it. Cut it. Bury it beneath everything else.

But now the village is choosing whether or not he lives. Whether or not his fate remains his own.

And you’re terrified of what your heart wants.

You press a hand to your chest and close your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. Maybe it’s just the bond. Just the soulmark speaking. Just the old magic playing tricks. But even so… the thought of him gone—

You can't afford to think about that. About what that would mean for you. About how it will effect your soul.

So you do what you’ve always done.

You get back to work. You keep your hands moving. You keep your thoughts at bay. You survive the waiting.

Because if you let it consume you now, you won’t make it to the hall tonight in one piece.

You climb the slope just before sundown, just as the war horns call the village to the hall. It’s colder up here—wind off the cliffs biting harder, air sharper with salt. You pull your cloak tighter, boots crunching over the frostbitten path. You know where the longhouse is. You’ve known since you were old enough to walk it barefoot.

Your uncle’s door is heavy wood, iron-pinned, carved with your family’s runes. You don’t knock. You never do.

Inside, the hearth is lit. Warmth fills the room, but Ragnar stands in the far corner with his back to you, finishing the act of sliding his chestplate over a padded tunic. It’s ceremonial — he won’t need armor at the gathering, but he wears it anyway. A show of strength. A reminder.

He doesn’t look up as you enter, but his voice reaches you just the same. “There you are, Lass.”

You step in, brushing past the hanging fur. The air inside smells like pine pitch and salt-meat. “You didn’t tell me about the gathering.”

He straightens now, turning to face you fully. His presence has always filled a room — broad-shouldered, solid as the cliffs that line the coast. His face is lined with years, with winter, with battles you’ve only ever heard stories of. But his eyes are sharp. Focused. Clear.

They search your face without asking questions.

You try to look composed. You fail.

Ragnar gestures toward the hearth bench. “Sit.”

You don’t argue.

The bench creaks faintly beneath your weight, and you hold your hands near the fire, trying to will some warmth into them.

Ragnar crosses to the hearth without a word, pours two cups of tea from the pot resting above the coals. The smell hits you — bitter juniper and smoke.

He hands you a cup and you take it. For a while, you both just sit.

The fire crackles. The walls hum with wind.

Then, Ragnar speaks. “This isn’t just about the gathering.”

You blink, pulled out of the silence. “What?”

“The way you’re holding your shoulders,” he says plainly. “That’s not anger. That’s something else. Something... stuck.”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing.”

He scoffs quietly, almost amused. “You forget who raised you, girl.”

Your fingers tighten on the clay cup.

He watches you carefully, not pushing, just waiting.

You look down at your boots, not sure how the question you're about to ask is going to land. “Do you think they’ll kill him?”

Ragnar leans back slightly, arms folding. “You mean the rider.”

You nod, jaw tight. 

Ragnar doesn't answer right away. Instead, he studies you for a moment, almost deliberating, almost calculating. When he does speak, his voice is calm. Steady. “That depends on the voices in the hall. On Ingrid. On what the people believe must be done.”

“But you’re the chief.”

“And they are my people. A leader does not move against his village. He carries it, even when it weighs like stone.”

You glance up.

He’s not angry. Not worried. Just thoughtful — weighing his words the way he weighs every decision that touches the village.

“He’s a dragon rider,” you state, careful.

“Aye.”

“And you’ve seen many of those?”

“Enough,” he says. “But not many with names. And none with blood like his.”

You hesitate. “What does that mean? Is he a threat?”

He turns toward the window, watching the mist gather on the slope outside. “I think he’s too bold for his own skin. And too quiet for what he knows.” He glances at you. “I think he believes in what he’s doing. And that kind of man is dangerous — even when he kneels.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the table.

“He hasn’t spoken,” Ragnar says after a beat. “Not once. No plea. No excuse. That’s not how cowards act.”

“Then what is he?”

Ragnar lifts a brow, gaze fixed. “It means he’s not just any rider. He’s Stoick’s son. That blood does not spill easily. And it doesn’t bend to chains.”

You hum in thought. You know what Stoicks' name means to your uncle. It means old loyalty, old grudges, and a kind of stubbornness that either forges empires or burns them down.

Ragnar studies you for a long moment. Then his voice drops, gentler than before. “You’ve always had a fire in you, ever since the day I took you in. You were half-shadowed then. Grief had its claws in you. But even then, I saw it. The fight. The sharpness. You don’t rattle easy.”

You meet his eyes.

“But you’re rattled now.”

You don’t respond.

“You don’t need to tell me what it is,” he adds. “If you’re not ready, that is. Maybe you never will be. That’s your right.”

He stands slowly, walking over to where his axe hangs on the wall. He doesn’t take it down — just rests a hand against the handle, like a habit older than thought.

“But listen close, lass,” he says, without turning. “You must be careful.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Because you came here with a storm behind your eyes.” He turns back to look at you, gaze softening. “And storms don’t come for nothing.”

The fire pops sharply behind you. The sound echoes in your chest.

“If you hold something no one else knows,” he says, “you’d best decide what to do with it before Ingrid opens her mouth. Once the gathering begins, the wind changes. And once it changes—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

You understand.

You always have.

The stone beneath your boots bites straight through leather as you walk into the Town Hall, and the heavy wooden beams groan under the weight of wind. Tonight, the cold seems to have claws. You feel it dragging up your spine as you step inside, shoving past shoulders and cloaks, your face lit only by the flickering rows of torchlight lining the walls.

You move until your feet plant in the middle of the hall on the third row of benches. Freja is seated beside you, one arm braced against her knee, grinning with anticipation, though even she’s not loud now. No one is. Not really. 

The air is tight with tension. Faces all turned toward the front. Toward him.

Hiccup stands in the center of the gathering space, wrists bound, posture stiff despite the bruises coloring his jaw. He doesn’t look broken. No — even bloodied and battered, he holds himself like a warrior too proud to bend. Too used to command. Your stomach twists.

You can feel the crowd shifting around you. Even the drunkest warriors seem strangely still, as if everyone senses the moment balancing on a knife’s edge.

And yet, despite all of it—despite the fear pulsing low in your stomach, the ache blooming behind your ribs—you find yourself staring only at him. At the way he holds himself. At the grim, quiet fire in his eyes. At the strange look that flickers across his face when his gaze finds yours in the crowd.

It makes your chest hurt in a way you can’t explain.

At the front of the hall, your uncle Ragnar towers beside the elder. His thick fur-lined cloak hangs heavy across his shoulders, dark hair swept back into braids lined with iron cuffs, jaw clenched.  Elder Ingrid stands beside him, back straight as her staff touches the ground. Her voice rises, steady, clipped with that biting wisdom you’ve always known her for.

“Hiccup Haddock,” she begins, tone colder than the fjord in midwinter. “Son of Stoick. Slayer of beasts turned rider of them. You stand accused of treason against all kin who call the North their blood.”

A hush falls like snow.

Your breath stutters in your chest.

Hiccup is quiet at first. He stands with his chin high, jaw tight, as though he’s weighing whether answering is even worth it.

When he finally responds, his voice is hoarse but steady. “I don’t deny it.”

Murmurs ripple around the room like a current. You hear a hissed curse. The scrape of a boot. But the elder doesn’t blink.

She tilts her head. “Then we offer a choice.”

You straighten before you realize it.

The entire hall holds its breath.

“You give us the dragon,” she says. “The black one. The Night Fury. Deliver him into our hands, and you walk free.”

The silence that follows is thunderous.

You feel your heart hammering in your chest, a steady, relentless drumbeat. Your hands clench in your lap. You glance once to the far end of the room, back at Ragnar. His arms are folded, a sword at his hip, his face is carved from stone, unreadable—but you know that look. He’s waiting. Listening. Watching everything.

And still, you watch Hiccup.

You feel him brace himself.

Then he speaks. “No.”

The word is soft. Unyielding.

A sharp breath escapes you before you can catch it.

Freja’s eyes widen beside you. “Is he mad?”

The room explodes.

Dozens of voices surge at once. Warriors shout. A woman somewhere to your left snarls a curse. Ingrid lifts her cane and strikes the floor once—hard. The sound silences them all.

She looks at Hiccup like she might bore a hole through him. “You refuse peace.”

“I refuse to betray him,” Hiccup answers, still breathing heavily.

Ingrid’s lip curls. “He is your weapon.”

“He is my friend.”

“You side with the beasts that burned our ancestors. You ride fire and call it kin. And still you wonder why we brand you traitor?”

Hiccup lifts his chin. “They’re not the monsters you think they are.”

Ingrid turns to the guards, saying the next words so effortlessly you almost miss it. “Kneel him.”

The words fall like ice-water down your spine, and for a moment, you don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just sit there, blinking at the floor, and the world tilts.

Because he’s going to die.

He’s going to die and you don’t know what that means for you. You’ve felt his pain before — every broken rib, every twisted ankle, every jagged wound — but you’ve never felt death. Not truly.

And the thought tears through your chest like a hook: What will it feel like when he dies?

Will it be sudden? A snap? A scream in your bones?

Will you feel him slipping away, breath by breath?

Will it kill you, too?

Your hands curl into fists before you realize it. The world has gone muffled around the edges, as though someone poured snow into your ears. You can feel your heart beating so loud it rattles your ribs. You don't know whether you're going to faint or scream.

You lock eyes with him again, and there’s something in his expression that turns your stomach inside out. He’s not asking for help. He's not begging or pleading. It’s something softer. Like a sorry that doesn’t need words.

Your throat tightens.

He isn’t trying to be brave. He’s just accepted it.

One of the guards steps behind Hiccup and kicks him hard in the back of the knees. He crumples, forced to kneel, and before your brain catches up, a white-hot lance of pain shoots through your own legs — the same spot. You almost buckle where you stand.

He felt that.

You felt that.

It’s real.

You shove forward through the crowd.

Someone tries to grab your arm — Freja, you think — but you jerk free. Your chest is pounding, heart hammering against your ribs. They’re going to kill him. Your uncle — you see him now — unsheathing the ceremonial sword, one youve only seen twice in your life; during a raid, and the burial of your father. It’s broad and worn and sharp enough to split wood in two. He steps forward slowly, as if pulled by gravity, as if this moment is heavier than even he expected. 

Ragnar steps toward the center of the hall, boots heavy on stone. Hiccup kneels at his feet, unmoving.

And your vision goes white.

“STOP!” Your voice rips from your throat.

The entire hall stills.

A dozen heads turn.

The blade in Ragnar’s hand halts mid-air.

You’re pushing through the last of the crowd now, cloak tangling around your legs, face flushed, pain blooming in your knees where Hiccup was kicked. Your uncle turns toward you like he’s seen a ghost.

“What are you doing?” He asks, voice low, cautious.

You swallow.

Your mouth is dry. Your knees tremble.

“You can’t kill him,” you manage.

Silence falls again, somehow.

Ragnar’s eyes narrow. Not cruelly, not even angrily, just stunned. “Why?”

You glance at Hiccup, still kneeling, still bleeding. He’s looking up at you with confusion and worry and pain and—

You open your mouth and nothing comes out, even when you try to force it to.

How do you say it? How do you explain that the boy your village wants dead—the boy who defends dragons, who you’ve hated from the moment you heard his name—is the same boy who’s shared your pain for more than a decade?

How do you tell your uncle that every bruise Hiccup’s worn has lived on your skin too?

There’s no version of this that doesn’t light the entire room on fire.

“I just—he can’t die like this,” you say, voice cracking, gaze squaring back to your uncle. He stares at you for a long time—lets the silence wrap around the room in an almost purposeful way.

And then, for the first time in the entire hall, Elder Ingrid moves again. Her head turns toward you, slowly, birdlike. Those cold grey eyes settle on your face like frost. You see her studying you, parsing something beneath the surface.

And when she speaks, it’s not cruel. It’s not warm, either.

It’s startled.

“This girl…” she murmurs. “She’s feeling him.”

You freeze.

The elder takes one step forward. “You’re in pain right now, aren’t you?”

You can’t answer. You don’t have to.

Your silence says everything.

She looks at Hiccup, then at you, and her eyes widen—just slightly. "The boy is her soulmate.”

Gasps erupt behind you. A sharp cry. A half-choked oath. You hear the scrape of a bench being pushed back, someone stumbling to their feet. The words echo across the hall like thunder.

You turn to Ragnar, whose expression has gone pale.

He looks at you like you’ve just driven a blade into your own chest. His jaw tightens, and his eyes flicker toward the sword in his hand, then back to you.

You speak before he can.

“I didn’t know until yesterday.”

He doesn’t say anything.

“I’m not lying.”

His face flickers. Not rage. Not betrayal. Something worse.

Devastation.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice quieter now. Like a man who knows the answer and wishes he didn’t.

You nod once.

He closes his eyes, just briefly.

When they open again, you see a man you’ve never seen before.

Not your uncle.

Not your chieftain.

Just a father trying to figure out how the world turned on him without warning.

He looks down at his sword.

Then...he sheathes it.

You breathe for the first time in what feels like hours, but it's short lived relief.

Ingrid speaks again. “No.”

Your head whips around. “No?” you echo, voice sharp.

“He still dies.”

Ragnar turns to her, voice rising. “You just said—”

“I said I recognized a bond,” Ingrid says calmly. “But bonds do not rewrite our law. He is a traitor. His death is necessary.”

“I won’t strike him,” Ragnar growls, a reply said so instantly it almost shocks you. “Not if it means breaking her.”

“You may not have a choice,” she replies. Then she looks at you, and what she says next chills your blood. “You should prepare to feel him die.”

Ragnar steps in front of you without thinking. His hand rests on the hilt again, but his stance is different now—defensive, angled slightly between you and the guards. You’ve never seen him do that. Not even when he faced off against raiders twice his size.

“Ingrid,” he warns.

But her expression doesn’t change.

“You think the gods will protect her from what the bond demands? The pain of it? The death of it? She chose nothing. But that does not make the outcome kinder.”

Still, Ragnar doesn’t move.

He’s still standing between you and Ingrid, shoulders squared, spine rigid with the same fury you’ve only ever seen in battle. But the elder’s gaze is fixed elsewhere now—past the guards, past you, past Hiccup—and you can feel the shift before it happens.

A high, splitting shriek shatters the tension like a warhorn blown inches from your ear.

The ground beneath you vibrates, the torches gutter, and someone screams.

“Night Fury! ”

Then all Hell breaks loose.

The roof above the longhouse explodes inward, sending timber and smoke crashing down like stars from the sky. Warriors scatter. Wood cracks. Flame ignites along the southern wall where a torch topples and catches fur.

You dive to the side, pulling your cloak up over your head just as a support beam lands where you stood seconds ago.

In the chaos, you hear the roar.

No, not roar.

Call.

Black wings burst through the wreckage, slamming down against the stone with such force that half the hall stumbles back in unison. You catch your breath—and freeze. The creature before you is like nothing you’ve ever seen. Its scales gleam like obsidian. Its eyes glow blue-green, unblinking, round, too intelligent. It stands over Hiccup’s hunched form like a beast carved of shadow and fury, lips peeled back in a snarl.

The Night Fury.

And beside it—around it—other dragons follow, smaller but no less fearsome. You hear the rush of wings, the crackle of flame, the shriek of warriors falling to the floor.

Your people are fighting back. Axes flash. Nets fly. Someone hurls a spear into the smoke.

You stumble backward, hand slamming against a support pillar for balance.

Then the Night Fury moves.

Not toward you.

Toward Hiccup.

And with terrifying precision, it shreds the chains binding him, a hot beam of plasma slicing the shackles clean off his wrists. The metal glows molten red before clattering uselessly to the stone.

Hiccup lifts his head slowly, eyes wide, blinking hard through smoke and dust. He doesn’t look surprised.

He looks relieved.

And then he sees you.

And your blood runs cold.

He pushes to his feet—limping hard, still favouring his bad leg—and reaches up in one fluid, practiced motion, like he’s done it a thousand times. His dragon crouches just low enough to let him climb onto the saddle strapped between his shoulder blades.

The dragon shifts under his weight, snarling at anyone who so much as twitches near them.

And then—

Hiccup turns to you.

You stand frozen as he extends a hand.

“Come with me!”

It isn’t a question.

It’s a plea.

You stare at him, blinking through ash and torchlight. You take in the outstretched hand, the dragon beneath him, the storm behind you.

Come with me.

Who the hell does he think he is?

“Are you mad?” you shout. “Your dragon just lit my entire village on fire—!”

“He didn't have another choice!" His voice is hoarse. “He was trying to protect me.”

You don’t move. Don’t reach for him. Your legs have turned to stone.

Hiccup curses under his breath, then swings one leg over the saddle and drops to the ground again. He limps toward you, eyes locked on yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

He grabs your wrist.

Firm.

Not hard.

Just enough to make you feel it. To see him. To hear him, even when everything else is deafening. When your eyes lock, there’s panic in his — but something gentler too. Something like guilt, and fear, and something you don’t have time to name.

“They’re going to come after you now.”

Your mouth opens, then closes.

“You saw it,” he continues, breathing hard. “You know what they were going to do. You know how Ingrid thinks.” His jaw clenches. “They know we’re bonded. That changes everything.”

You shake your head, dazed. “I can’t leave. I can’t—this is my home.”

“If you stay, they will use you. Hurt you to get to me. Maybe worse,” he says. “I can’t let that happen.”

You want to yell at him. You want to stay, to fight, to protect the family that raised you.

You look around. People running, screaming. Fire crackling against the beams. Your uncle — you catch a glimpse of him through the smoke — staring at you with something that looks like sorrow carved into every line of his face.

Hiccup tugs your hand. “Please.”

You look at him, really look at him, and for the first time since you met him, he doesn’t look like a rider. Or a prisoner. Or even a traitor.

He looks scared.

Not for himself.

For you.

And maybe it’s that.

Maybe it’s that one thing that finally cuts through your panic.

You nod.

Barely.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours, then he pulls you toward the dragon. The Night Fury dips low, crouching so smoothly it’s almost graceful, and you hesitate again only when you see those giant eyes staring into yours. Fierce. Wild. But not cruel.

Still, your hands shake.

Hiccup climbs back into the saddle and reaches for you.

“Come on.”

You climb up behind him. Your limbs move on instinct, every inch of you vibrating. The saddle leather is warm from his body, and your knees bump against his hips as you settle behind him, stiff as a board.

“Hold on to my waist,” he says without looking back. “And close your eyes if you have to.”

You hesitate.

Then, you do.

You shut your eyes and wrap your arms around him—tight, unsure—and your cheek brushes the back of his shoulder. You have no choice. You're scared and angry and unbearably tired, and maybe if you close your eyes, you can pretend none of this is real.

The force of takeoff nearly tears you backward. You cling to him harder, burying your face in his back as wind and fire and voices fall away beneath you. The night splits open around you, and your stomach lurches with the motion.

You don’t open your eyes.

Not yet.

Not until it’s safe.

Not until—

You force yourself to look back, just once.

Below, the town hall is burning. Villagers scatter. The roof is half-collapsed. And amidst the ruin, standing in the doorway like a figure carved in stone, is your uncle.

Ragnar doesn’t yell. He doesn’t run after you or raise a weapon.

He just watches.

His expression is unreadable—struck somewhere between grief and fury. But the pain in his eyes… that lands hard. That stays. And you know, without words, that some part of him is breaking too.

You watch him grow smaller as the clouds swallow your home behind you.

And you wonder, not for the first time, what you’ve just left behind—and what exactly you’re flying toward.