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Chapter Text

Prologue

The wind howled as it cut through the Jagged Peaks, sending sheets of snow tumbling across the narrow cliff paths. Lightning crackled in the distance, chased by the dull rumble of thunder echoing across the ridges. These mountains were constantly privy to an onslaught of storms, ancient and unforgiving. Most dragons would prefer to live closer to the ocean’s level, on more enriching and less threatening islands. But for the Skrills, among the most dangerous and reclusive of all dragons, this place was the perfect home — an oasis of isolation, not to mention an almost endless supply of electricity. On the northern westernmost edge of the Barbaric Archipelago, the reclusive Skrills had maintained these sky-reaching peaks as their nest for over a thousand years. The lower world of dragons and men had changed many times, but in places such as this it was both natural and easy to maintain a cohesive nest. Skrills are proud, vicious, and solitary, never bowing to the whims and wishes of others.

But Skrills are not foolish, either, especially when larger threats come knocking.

A pulse of magic burst into the cold air—quiet, but potent. The startled hiss of static followed as two Skrill sentries jerked upright on the ledge near the nest’s entrance, wings flaring in alarm. In a flash of distorted light and sound, space twisted, and the empty air appeared to splinter and fragment into shards of glass. As the Skrills crackled with electricity—nervous but alert—a dark shape stepped through the fractured air, almost as if it had always been there.

None of the Skrills had ever seen a Night Fury before, not for many years, but this dragon could be nothing else. Once more, the beast was massive—larger than any they had seen—and darker than the mountain itself. His obsidian scales were sleek and pure, not a scratch on their surface. Golden glowing eyes locked onto them with unreadable calm, as though the dragon was very much used to appearing out of thin air.

"I trust you will announce to your nest leader that they have a visitor," the Night Fury said, his voice low and resonant. “I won’t enter until I’m invited… although clearly I can, if you were paying attention.”

The guards stared, stunned into silence by his size and aura. One’s tail fell to the ground in shock, its metallic scales scraping against the stones.

The Night Fury didn’t flinch. He waited in silence, his eyes piercing — as though staring directly through them.

Eventually, the younger of the two bolted into the tunnel, stammering something down the stone halls. The older Skrill remained, wings partially outstretched in a mixture of reverence and terror.

By the time the Night Fury was invited into the nest, word had already spread like lightning.

Hundreds of eyes turned to watch as he walked through the ancient ravines and tunnels—etched with lightning-scarred rock and lined with veins of metal. For such a rare dragon to visit, and walk amongst them completely unthreatened, had the entire nest on edge. They stared with a mixture of awe and fear, whispering to each other as he passed beneath the jagged stalagmites of the inner sanctum and approached the high rocks where the elder perched.

The Lord of the Skrills did not rise from his perch. Age hung from his wings like weight, but his posture remained dignified. His skin crackled faintly with built-up charge as his eyes met the Night Fury.

“You must be Taranis,” said the Night Fury. “I heard of you along the way here… I believe I met your great grandfather many years ago.”

The ancient Skrill inclined his head, wary but not cowed. “My father told me stories about the last Night Fury king, the one called Nightshade. He told me he was a warlord, that he died in battle along with his race.”

Nightshade smiled dryly. “He wasn’t wrong—I mean except for the being dead part, obviously.”

Taranis studied him curiously. “I take it then that your race still lives with you? Until you arrived we thought the last Night Fury living was the one that defeated a Bewilderbeast last year.”

The black dragon's ears perked up at his words. “We never died out, simply retreated inwards to deal with… problems. But it's nice that Toothless has kept our reputation alive, however.”

Taranis huffed, static curling up his spines. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a good reputation, unless you think consorting with humans will win you any friends in this nest.”

“Unfortunately, I did not come here with the intention of making everyone happy,” Nightshade said. “I simply have a request for you to hear out.”

The younger Skrills around the chamber stirred uneasily.

“I know your kind are proud. Fierce. But you know as well as I do that the world has changed. Dragons have grown wild, held together in mixed nests ruled by often selfish individuals. Nests like these are now few and far between. And the humans have multiplied in droves — their weapons and tools grow more dangerous every generation. If war comes again—true war—neither of us will survive it.”

Taranis’s gaze sharpened. “So, what… you’d have us bow? To humans?”

“To sense,” Nightshade replied coolly. “Do not provoke them. Do not give them reason to fear. If there’s to be peace, it must be maintained by strength and discipline—not wrath.”

A snarl echoed from behind Taranis.

A younger female Skrill stepped out from behind the rocks, her left side marked with deep violet scars. Lightning crawled across her wings, barely contained. Her voice struck like steel.

“We don’t answer to Night Furies. This has been our nest for centuries… how dare you come here expecting something from us!”

The chamber fell dead silent. Even the wind seemed to stop.

Taranis’s brow creased. “Thora…”

But she wasn’t finished.

“I’m not as versed in old dragon tales as my father, but didn’t you used to make war on humans for fun before you disappeared? So what, you played dead for over a century and now you crawl back, giving orders like a king?”

Nightshade didn’t so much as flinch, but his eyes glowed brighter.

Thora’s spines flared, crackling with indigo arcs. “You’re a hypocrite.”

Nightshade cocked his head, golden eyes narrowing. Then, with terrifying calm, he stepped forward—not fast, not aggressive. Just enough to close the space between them and drop his voice to a low, chilling rasp.

“And you're a child who’s never seen a real war.”

The electricity around her dimmed for a heartbeat. Thora stiffened, her eyes twitching.

Nightshade’s voice dripped with rebuke. “You think power is enough to keep you safe? That pride and lightning will shelter your kin from fire and steel? I’ve buried dragons who thought the same. You would do well to be quiet when your elders speak—if you wish to live long enough to become one.”

He turned back toward Taranis before she could answer, her mouth still searching for a retort. 

“I am not attempting to usurp your authority,” Nightshade stated, his voice returning to calm. “I am simply asking for your restraint, for the good of all dragonkind. I would consider it a meaningful gesture.”

The watching Skrills remained tense, frozen by the confrontation. Taranis had not moved.

Nightshade turned to leave.

“Wait,” the elder said suddenly.

The Night Fury paused.

Taranis’s voice was rough, uncertain. “Is it true, then? That your kind was nearly wiped out… because you discovered magic?”

A long silence.

Nightshade half-turned. His expression had softened, but only slightly.

A sudden pulse of amber light shimmered into view above him. A crystalline orb had appeared out of thin air in a flash—floating like an eyeless sentinel, waves of light flowing from its core. Even with the thundering sky above the gem shone brighter than any bolt of lightning, its presence casting strange shadows across the walls.

Gasps and snarls echoed among the gathered Skrills, and all around were awestruck and afraid.

Nightshade gestured upwards casually. “This is Antaris. Don’t worry, for being nigh-omnipotent he’s quite friendly… if he chooses to be.” He gave Thora a sideways glance. “He does not take kindly to threats against those he considers family.”

A howl pierced the air as a bolt of charged electricity flew from Thora’s jaws, her amethyst eyes alight with manic rage. Tanaris rose from his place to deflect it, but the bolt froze in mid-air a foot from Nightshade’s face. The crowd was in shock, the tension able to be cut with a knife as all eyes turned towards the amber gemstone, then the Night Fury.

Nightshade laughed out loud, his tail stretching out to curiously wave it close to the frozen bolt of lightning. “Tanaris, I don’t mean to insult you, but I do believe your daughter is mad.” 

Thora bared her teeth, lightning jumping across her neck. “Coward! Take the shot like a king instead of hiding behind magi—.”

“ENOUGH!” Tanaris’s voice shook with authority; Thora recoiled, almost like a child being scolded. “I will have no more outbursts from you!”

Nightshade’s eyes glittered with amusement. He spread his wings slowly, letting the firelight dance off his back.

“Just think about what I’ve said, Tanaris,” he said. “I think deep down you understand my concern, and my hopes.”

Then, without another word, the king of Mystholm leapt from the ground and took flight. A single beat of his wings sent a thunderclap rolling through the mountains to join the storm above, scattering loose snow and stirring the storm outside.

Antaris vanished in a blink, and the lightning bolt immediately slammed into the wall, sending shards of stone in every direction. The surrounding Skrills perched above launched into an uproar.

Thora stood trembling, her fury boiling beneath the surface. Taranis lowered himself from his perch, turning to head deeper into the mountain caves. She stalked down the corridors after her father, arcs of residual lightning twitching across her wings. The other Skrills made way as they approached, silent and wide-eyed.

Taranis stood at the mouth of the nest, his old claws splayed on the stone, gazing out into the churning maelstrom outside. His frills drooped—not in fear, but in thought, as he absorbed the energy of the storm.

“You let him humiliate us,” Thora snapped, her voice sharp enough to crack stone. “You let him insult our name, mock our power—”

“SILENCE!”

The command cut through her tirade like a bolt. Taranis didn’t turn around.

“You are young,” he said, “and reckless. You hear thunder and believe it makes you mighty.” Slowly, he turned to face her, the stormlight glinting off the age-scars on his face. “But you have no wisdom! Did you not think that a dragon who can appear out of thin air could clearly kill us all, and yet chose to enter as a guest?!”

Thora recoiled slightly, but defiance still burned in her eyes. “We don’t need him! If anything we should be against him—clearly he cannot be trusted! I mean, that stone… are you really telling me we should just let them have that power?!”

“Yes,” Taranis said icily. “Because I don’t think he just vanished for no reason. And it's always better to watch others try and control unknown things before you do it yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter — you shot a lightning bolt at a dragon king. You should consider yourself lucky that the magic gem didn’t eviscerate you.” Taranis brushed past Thora coldly, turning to head back inside.

“I’m disappointed in you, daughter.”

That was the last thing he ever said to her.

That night, the wind continued to howl over the Jagged Peaks, masking the quiet tap of claw on stone.

Taranis lay still in the deepest chamber of the nest, ringed by splintered stone adorned with centuries of talon marks. He did not stir as his daughter entered—nor as her glowing eyes appeared above him.

She watched him breathe.

Once.

Twice.

And then she lunged, and he breathed no more.

When dawn came, it was Thora who stood before the nest, lightning curling lazily down her spine. She addressed the gathered Skrills, voice cold and clear.

“Our lord has joined the sky.”

None dared ask how. In fact, there were many who did not care. And those who did—who were brave enough to speak their minds—would not last long in the coming days.

“I lead now,” she said. “And I will not kneel to any creature.”

Far above them, the storm still churned—unchanged and unchallenged.

Chapter Text

Chapter 1: A Restless Peace

The sun crested gently over the rooftops of Berk, casting long shadows through the spiny pine trees that lined the hillside. Dew clung to the edges of the thatched roofs, the grass glittering in the light. High above, a lone shape glided easily through the morning sky, cutting wide arcs across the bay.

Toothless circled once more before letting out a satisfied snort and folding his wings. He coasted up to the cliffs overlooking the village below, landing silently on the misted grass. It wasn’t patrol, not really — other dragons did that on the regular. Just a habit. Toothless lowered himself to the ground, flakes of mildew wetting his scales as he set his head in his paws.

Below, the village had already begun to stir. Smoke curled from the chimney of the forge, and the sound of dragons stirring—yawns, clumsy landings, and occasional grumbles—echoed faintly from the pens. Even from all the way up here he could see the warm glow as the braziers of the Great Hall were lit. Toothless watched with silent approval as several young dragonriders set off on their morning routines, checking leathers and flight gear before leaping into the sky.

He still remembered when this had all felt new—when the idea of training other dragons and humans to fly and live seemed so daunting. But now? This was normal life, a peaceful and happy one, and it filled him with contentment. Even the stresses of being Alpha seemed so much lighter now… although he still wished he could steal more time from Hiccup’s day. The chief had been stretched to the limit — not even due to the stresses of running the village, but by his complete inability to predict Astrid’s cravings and mood swings. She was now eight months pregnant, and if Toothless had thought the shield-maiden’s fury was frightening before… Well, he was just grateful he wasn’t in his human’s shoes.

He turned toward the sea, watching the sun rise higher as the pink rays gave way to gold. Ash had left the night before last, teleporting to Aylan and assist with the migration of some Night Furies — evidently they were taking volunteers to settle the other islands again. She usually returned by late afternoon, always with stories and asking if anything interesting had happened. But not yesterday. Toothless wasn’t nervous for her… but something had definitely shifted lately.

She smiled, she laughed — more than she ever had before. She’d grown close to Astrid, oddly enough, and even managed to befriend Stormfly after several awkward meetings. Berk had been good to her, and she loved flying around the village, particularly seeing the young humans. Still, in the past few weeks, Ash’s mood had become strangely unpredictable; snappish one moment, weepy the next. She never gave a reason, and part of Toothless knew her well enough to guess that she might not even know of one. 

Either way, something was clearly wrong. Toothless felt it all the same — the tension in her shoulders, the long silences, the restless flying at night. Even her sleep was off; she thought he was asleep, but he knew all the same that Ash had been unable to rest easily, often lying awake for hours.

He pawed at the dew under his feet and glanced at the village. She’d return soon, and he hoped… maybe today she’d talk about it. But Toothless still had duties to perform, and after a few more minutes, he descended towards the village below.

In a few short hours, Berk had fully roused from its quiet morning. The clang of hammer on steel echoed through the streets as Gobber’s forge fires lit up. Children chased each other through the alleys, their laughter chased by the playful snaps of young dragons as they looked for food or scratches.

Out on the water, the clouds of the horizon gave way to sails. A cry rang out from the eastern watchtower, followed by a chorus of movement as villagers and dockhands gathered near the piers. The recognizable red-and-gold trim of a Velesheim trade ship appeared between two sea stacks, gliding into the harbor under half sail. A crowd gathered at the dock, Vikings of all ages eager to be the first ones on board for the month’s haul of goods.

From higher up the slope, Hiccup made his way down toward the docks, his gait quickened by the cold and the promise of useful goods. His fur-lined cloak flapped in the brine-stiffened wind, boot and prosthetic clanking on the boards of the pier.

He arrived just as the ship docked with a thud of wood against wood. Two sailors tossed lines to the dockhands waiting below. Already crates were being unloaded onto the pier.

“Captain Ivar,” Hiccup called as he approached, smiling even as the bitter autumn breeze picked up. “Back before winter freezes the entire sea over?”

Captain Ivar turned, his face creased by sun and salt. “Chief Haddock,” he greeted with a low bow. “Wasn’t sure the seas would hold. But Berk’s firewine quota waits for no storm.”

“Firewine?” Hiccup raised a brow, accepting the shipping manifest passed down from a dockhand. “Is that supposed to help Astrid’s mood or worsen it?”

Ivar barked a laugh. “Either way, you’ll be warm when she’s yelling.”

Hiccup smirked, scanning the document as cargo rolled past in crates and barrels—cedar, smoked halibut, tanned hides, rare herbs, and dyed linens. “Everything accounted for?”

“Even the extras.” Ivar gave a meaningful nod toward a crate marked with the Berk insignia. “Word has it the southern routes are stable—for now. You’ve made a few friends in Velesheim.”

Hiccup folded the scroll, tucking it into his belt. “Friends and critics both. The other lords still want Ragnar’s head, don’t they?”

“They’re afraid of him,” Ivar said, crossing his arms. “He lost a war and came home more popular than ever. It makes the rest of the Council nervous — you know they tried to publicly arrest him for his failure? Half the city rioted, the fools. They thought dragons would be the end of Velesheim—turns out, you lot are keeping the ports safe and the coffers full on this side of the sea.”

Hiccup glanced up at the ship, watching as Berkian and Velesheim sailors unloaded side by side. “Ragnar deserves credit. He's held that city together in ways they don’t even see.”

“Still…” Ivar lowered his voice, “you’d best watch the skies. Not all dragons are friendly these days. I wish I could say we still didn’t cater to dragon hunters, but you know, sometimes it's useful…”

The chief leaned against the dock post, intrigued. “I take it you’ve heard some rumors lately?”

Ivar’s brow furrowed. “Not exactly, but a lot of ships that hunt on the western side of the Archipelago have been coming up empty. Not for lack of trying, either. It’s almost like the dragon’s up and moved… have you ever seen something like that?”

Hiccup’s jaw tightened faintly. “Migration can have lots of reasons, but I’ll look into it.”

“I’m sure you will.” Ivar clapped him on the back. “I just hope those ‘Night Furies’ don’t have anything to do with it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the number of sailors that made it home… but they’re still dangerous.”

“I don’t disagree,” Hiccup replied, running a hand through his hair. “But they’re so far south it’s unlikely they have anything to do with it. Or care, for that matter.”

Ivar stroked his beard, shoulders raised in indifference. “Oh, well, you're the dragon master after all.” He turned to rejoin the crew, slapping the chief on the back. “Enjoy the goods, chief!”

Hiccup gave a tired but earnest smile. “Smooth sailing, captain.”

He turned toward the central path, the sounds of the village swelling in front of him. His hand unconsciously brushed against the medallion — the necklace from Nightshade hung from his neck, cool against his skin. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if there was more to the traders' information than met the eye. He’d have to ask Toothless about it… and maybe take a trip to find out what was going on.

The central square of Berk had grown busier as the trade ship’s arrival rippled through the village. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the chatter of Vikings and cries of dragons blended into a steady hum. In the midst of it all, Astrid Hofferson stalked through the market stalls like a warrior twice her size, her braided hair bouncing with every determined step.

Her pregnancy was undeniable now — eight months in and she wore it with the same fierce pride she carried into battle. But even the strongest warriors were not immune to aches and mood swings, a fact known well to every villager who dared cross her glare.

“Fish again?” she growled, eyeing the haul piled on wooden carts. “We have salted barrels stacked to the ceiling. Why not trade for proper vegetables for once?”

“Captain Ivar says they’re scarce,” came a timid reply from a vendor. “Southbound traffic is slow this season.”

Astrid narrowed her eyes, then pivoted with a huff and stormed toward the longhouse steps. Stormfly was perched there already, tail twitching in rhythm with her rider’s moods. The Nadder chirped in greeting but wisely stayed put. The crowd parted instinctively for the chieftess, but some offered sympathetic nods. Astrid had always been intimidating — but pregnancy had made her downright dangerous. Most days she helped manage the inventory or train young riders from a seat nearby, but today, she’d been restless from the moment she’d woken. To hell with bedrest.

Stormfly tilted her head and gave a low trill as Astrid sat beside her with a groan. The Deadly Nadder leaned gently against her, her warmth a small comfort against the autumn breeze. Astrid allowed it, resting a hand on her scales.

“You understand,” she muttered. “Everyone’s got advice lately. ‘Don’t train, don’t ride, don’t lift anything heavy.’ As if I’ve gone soft just because I’m swollen.”

Stormfly snorted, and Astrid allowed herself a grin.

“And to top it off, Ash still hasn’t come back yet.”

Her tone wasn’t accusing—just tired. She’d grown fond of the younger Night Fury. Ash had taken to the village well, quickly forming bonds with the dragons and their riders. Astrid appreciated her presence, even if she could be distant at times. There was something comforting about the way Ash always treated her with a subtle, protective reverence — never intrusive, never patronizing. Night Furies were strange even among dragons; she knew that already with Toothless, but to see it in a female as well was nice. And the pair of them were adorable.

“She better come back soon with that creepy emerald,” Astrid grumbled.

The Nadder chirped again.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. I know she’s fine.”

From her spot beside the longhouse, Astrid watched as the bustle of Berk carried on around her: families bartering over pelts, dragonriders unloading crates, children weaving between legs and tails while dragons scurried about, or flew overhead. The wind carried the smell of smoke and cooking, with an undercurrent of salt from the harbor.

She closed her eyes for a moment and let it all settle. It was a beautiful day, and the village was safe, peaceful, and surprisingly calm.

Stormfly perked up suddenly, her blue eyes darting to the path that wound up from the docks. Astrid followed her gaze and smiled faintly as a familiar figure rounded the bend, a long bundle tucked under one arm.

“Your boots are soaked,” she called out before Hiccup could say anything.

“It did in fact rain last night,” he grumbled good-naturedly, trudging up the stairs. “I think the leather’s just given up at this point.”

Astrid smirked as he reached her side. “What’s in the bundle?”

“Nothing fancy,” Hiccup said, sliding down to sit beside her. “Some soft linen from Velesheim, dyed with local herbs. I thought it might make good swaddling clothes.”

Astrid’s expression softened despite herself. “You’re getting sentimental.”

“I’m getting prepared,” he replied. “Which, I’ve learned, is the best defense against you storming into the forge mid-storm and trying to hammer out a cradle by yourself.”

She snorted. “I only did that once.”

“Once was enough,” Hiccup said, smiling as he draped an arm behind her shoulders. “You nearly melted Gobber’s eyebrows off.”

They sat in silence for a while, watching the square slowly wind down as the afternoon approached. A hush was starting to settle over the village—the commotion of trade dying down, and restless dragons taking to the skies.

“Everything good at the docks?” Astrid asked after a moment.

“Better than expected,” Hiccup said. “The Velesheim traders brought more than cloth this time. Wines, linens, some spices I can’t pronounce. Trade’s booming, honestly.”

Astrid gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment.

“Ivar mentioned rumors, and some political drama from Velesheim.”

Astrid moved to sit beside him. “About Ragnar?”

“Yeah. The other lords aren’t thrilled he’s been working so closely with us. Apparently they tried to imprison him and the people almost revolted.”

She exhaled through her nose, jaw tightening. “Cowards. They hated him for losing, then hated him again for surviving.”

“He’s walking a tightrope,” Hiccup said quietly. “But he’s smart, and the people love him. Still, I told Ivar to keep us informed. If something happens to Ragnar, it could damage everything we’ve built.”

Astrid glanced toward the sea, as if expecting a storm to suddenly appear.

“We’ve got dragons on our side, Hiccup,” she said, resting her hand on his knee. “And the best negotiator in the Archipelago.”

Hiccup smiled at her—grateful, tired. “I just hope the dragons stay on our side. Ivar also mentioned western hunters coming up empty lately. Apparently the dragons are moving… no idea where or what for.”

Astrid’s brow furrowed. “That’s odd, what could make them do that? Another Alpha dragon maybe?”

“No idea, but I hope not.” Hiccup sighed. “Not every dragon’s as understanding as ours.”

They both fell quiet again. Stormfly gave a low coo, nestling her head against Astrid’s side. A breeze flowed between them, rustling the strands of fur on Hiccup’s cloak.

“You should probably send out a search party, see what's going on over there.” Astrid said quietly.

Hiccup hesitated, then nodded. “I plan on it, I hope it's nothing. Either way, that's a problem for tomorrow.”

Astrid leaned into his shoulder, and he kissed the top of her head lovingly. The village continued to bustle around them, human and dragon living as one.

Later in the day…

The autumn air was crisp, but Toothless remained unchilled as he glided into the cove. Clouds moved slowly overhead, and the pond reflected them in shifting fragments of slate and silver. He sat at the edge of the water, tail absentmindedly causing ripples in the water.

He had come here every evening that Ash returned from Mystholm, the first place they had met. Usually, she would appear just before the sun set—materializing in a shimmer of light that rippled the air like heat from stone. Sometimes she arrived chatty, filled with news about Holly or Talon. Other times, silent and tired, curling against his side without a word.

But tonight, she was late.

The wind began to pick up, the sky darkening as the first balls of light came to life above. Toothless blinked, then perked his ears at the faint sound of cracking glass— finally .

A flash of refracted light burst beside him, and Ash appeared. Her form flickered for half a second before she steadied, standing with wings half-furled and her chest heaving like she’d flown the entire way instead of teleporting.

She didn’t speak. Just stood there for a moment, teeth clenched, breath steaming.

“You’re late, are you—” Toothless said gently, but was abruptly cut off.

“I know, I know, I don’t need you to remind me!” Ash snapped, her tone uncharacteristically sharp.

Toothless blinked. His head tilted slightly, but he said nothing.

Ash exhaled sharply through her nose and looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

Toothless lowered his gaze. “I know, but… you’ve been saying that a lot lately.”

Ash didn’t answer at first. She sat beside him, her wings tucked in close. The wind picked up again, ruffling her crest.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she admitted at last. Her voice was quiet, vulnerable. “Mystholm is fine. Everyone is fine! Talon’s settling into command. Holly even came to visit me. And I still feel like I was being… crushed. Like I’m being pulled in different directions and none of them are the right one.”

Toothless was silent, letting her speak.

Ash glanced sideways at him. “Sometimes I don’t feel like myself anymore. I love Berk. I love you. But I—” Her throat caught. “I don’t know what I’m becoming. I feel sick.”

Toothless remained silent, letting her unwind as best as she could. Ash’s breathing was shallow, overwhelmed. Slowly, the Alpha nudged the back of her neck, his nose brushing against the clasp that held her collar in place. It fell to the grass quietly, the emerald dragonstone shining dimly as it detached itself from the collar, floating upwards in silence like a watchful guardian. Neither of the dragons paid him any mind.

Ash leaned against Toothless, not saying a word, and her breathing slowly steadied.

They sat in silence for a long while, the wind carrying only the sound of trees around them.

“I hate that I snapped at you,” she whispered.

“I know,” Toothless said, and nuzzled the top of her head gently. “But you’re allowed to be tired. You’re carrying a lot.”

Ash sighed and let her weight rest into his side. “I’m just happy to be back.”

“So am I,” he murmured.

A long stillness fell between them, warm and wordless. The stars began to blink alive overhead, scattering across the sky in faint silver.

Toothless let his eyes drift closed, the side of his face pressed gently to hers.

Even tired, even frayed at the edges, this life was still all he’d wished for.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: Shifting Currents

Morning broke slower than usual over Berk. A pale fog drifted through the village, softening the edges of huts and chimneys as it rolled inland from the sea. The trees along the cliffside stood still in the dim light, their boughs slick with dew. It was the kind of quiet that settled into the bones — uneasy and brittle, like the sky was holding its breath. But it was beautiful nonetheless.

Ash stirred with a groan, her eyes heavy and drooping. She felt like she had slept for days, and yet no rest had been gained from it… Her eyes suddenly widened as a wave of nausea flowed from chest to throat. Careful not to wake Toothless, who slumbered beside her, Ash rose as quickly and quietly as she could; making her way behind a bush, she threw up harshly. Her throat burned as she struggled to catch her breath — why did it hurt so much? Night Furies could regurgitate food almost on command for their young, but to actually vomit was very abnormal. Toothless wasn’t awake to see her scared, afraid that something about her body was not her own.

In between her gasps for air, Ash watched as the emerald dragonstone came to a stop a few feet away, observing quietly. It never spoke to her—at least not in the way Antaris did to Nightshade, apparently—but she always knew what Kemenar was feeling. And she knew he wanted to help, to ease her discomfort with a touch of magic. But as much as Ash had come to rely on the stone, she would not use it as a crutch to make normal life bearable, not unless something was seriously wrong. And right now she had no idea… only that she was incredibly tired. Taking a few gulps from the pond, Ash returned to Toothless’s side, gently pressing her nose into his neck.

“Good morning, love.”

His emerald eyes snapped open, a low grumble escaping from his chest as he returned her touch.

“Did you sleep well?” He asked innocently.

“Better than last night.” Ash’s heart clenched at the lie, but she still felt guilty for snapping at her mate last night. She didn’t want to worry him further. “I wish I could stay longer, but I have to go.”

Toothless’s eyes shined with concern, but he nodded sleepily. “Don’t work yourself too hard.”

Ash gave him one final caress, then turned away, her wings tucked tightly to her sides. The emerald dragonstone hovered in the air before her, softly pulsing, threads of green light curling away from its surface like strands of mist. Her eyes were closed, breath steady.

She focused. Willed the magic forward.

Nothing.

The pulse dimmed, then stuttered. The stone shivered midair — and stopped.

Ash opened her eyes just as the glow faded. The stone dropped to the earth with a flat thud , its smooth facets dull in the morning gloom. She stared at it for a long moment, as if it might apologize. Then she growled low in her throat and batted the gemstone with her paw. It rolled once and stopped again. Silent. Refusing.

“Toothless!” she called, not looking up. “He’s not answering me.”

The Alpha had been watching from the ground, and now stood up with a faint tilt of the head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she muttered, “he’s never done this before.” She pawed at the dragonstone again. “I should’ve been in Mystholm instantly. Something’s wrong.”

Toothless nosed the dragonstone gently, eyes narrowing. “Maybe he needs rest. He’s sent you back and forth a lot lately.”

“Kemenar’s a dragonstone.” Ash sat back on her haunches, tail twitching. “They don’t just ‘get tired.’”

“To be fair,” Toothless said dryly, “neither did you. But here we are.”

Ash gave him a flat look, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

He nudged her shoulder lightly, more comforting now. “Take the day off. Stay. I’m sure he’ll work again soon.”

Ash huffed, but her frustration softened. “I had things to do. Talon wanted help with the migrations, and Holly’s been preparing some sort of coming of age thing for the younger Furies. If this is the other stone's idea of a joke…”

“You’ll get there tomorrow.” Toothless leaned into her side. “For now, let me have you.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she lowered her head, resting her jaw against his. “Ok. But I’m not doing anything useful. I’m going to eat until I can’t fly, I’m starving.”

“I’d hate to be a fish.” Toothless grinned.

Ash rolled her eyes, stretching her wings as the two Night Furies took off to enjoy the morning. Both her collar and the dragonstone lay motionless in the grass beneath them — silent, unmoving, and watching.

As soon as the young dragons were out of sight, Kemenar vanished in a colorful display of light. The environment around him shifted from breezy and wet to rocky and warm in a fraction of a second; with a bang of sound, the emerald dragonstone materialized inside a raging volcano. A thousand miles away from Berk, Nightmare’s Eyrie was rumbling with fury—though not fully erupting, thankfully. 

Indeed, the very mountain was shaking in protest to the actions of the Night Fury who jumped at the sound of the materializing gemstone behind him. Nightshade turned, startled at Kemenar’s sudden entrance. The obelisks of an ancient device were violently spinning in a ring around the obsidian dais; magic runes in an unknown language glowed white, as though having been carved by fire as the Artifact came to life… then the runes faded, and the obelisks stopped spinning, coming to a halt around the central dais.

“Well, nice of you to drop in!” Nightshade greeted sarcastically, turning to the now dormant relic. “You arrived just in time for another failed test.”

The Artifact was now completely inert, its obsidian spires towering motionless over the already large Night Fury standing on the bridge. The quakes of the Eyrie itself died down to a low rumble; the bursts of magma around the Artifact, which until this point were slamming harmlessly against an invisible barrier, settled down into the fissure beneath them. Nightshade sighed as two gemstones detached themselves from their places in the obelisks, Antaris and Herentir coming to rest in front of him.

“Well, what did we learn?” the dragon king grumbled.

It’s now obvious that the gateway uses the power of the natural earth, while our magic serves as the catalyst for breaching the barrier between worlds. Antaris flashed brightly, his thoughts apparent to all around. With the three of us added to the machine, it should work this time.

“That’s all well and good, but I’m not worried about how it uses the volcano for power,” Nightshade growled, pacing. “I need to know that the entire mountain won’t explode when we try to open a gateway! Night Furies live outside, you know.”

That is unlikely. When a true bridge between worlds is established, the power of the eruption will be channeled to stabilize it. When someone has traveled through, the gate will close and the eruption will stop with it. Ironically, we no longer have all of the pieces needed to keep a gateway open for longer than a minute or two… meaning the other two stones. 

Nightshade relaxed, taking a moment to reflect as the faint bubble of magma filled the silence. Nodding in acceptance, he turned to Kemenar, his expression giving way to a warm smile.

“How is Ash?”

Kemenar didn’t speak—but the soft, flickering pulse of his crystal dimmed in what could only be concern.

“I’m glad you forced her to take a day,” Nightshade confessed, discerning his thoughts in words rather than memories. “I told her she doesn’t need to push herself so hard, but she’s always stubborn.”

You cannot fault her for wanting to serve her people to the best of her ability… and she doesn’t want to disappoint Toothless. Or you for that matter. Antaris drifted to center himself in front of Nightshade. She has come to look up to you a great deal.

Nightshade huffed, but he couldn’t deny the dragonstone’s frankness. She did, indeed.

Herentir drifted silently away from the group, coming to a stop in front of the tunnel entrance leading outside as a newcomer entered the chamber. Holly squinted as the rush of heat met her scales, but she smiled brightly as her dragonstone came to hover above her.

“How’s it coming?” She called across the bridge.

Nightshade beamed at the sight of her, but shrugged his shoulders. “Slowly, but maybe that’s for the best.” The great Night Fury strode across the bridge, leaning down to press his forehead to hers. “Am I needed outside, or can I steal you for a flight?”

Holly hummed at his touch. “Talon wants to talk to you about something private… but after that I’m all yours.”

The dragon king grinned, taking one last glance at the silent gateway behind him. It could wait for another time.

While Nightshade was content with his exploration of the unknown for a day, the chief of Berk was just getting started. The wind was strong on the upper cliffs, tugging gently at Hiccup’s cloak as he made his way up the winding trail. Gulls wheeled above the sea, their cries distant but clear, and below him, the whole of Berk spread out—rooftops bright in the sun, smoke curling from chimneys, and dragons dotting the sky in lazy spirals.

He spotted her silhouette before he reached the ledge: Valka, framed by sunlight, her cloak fluttering in the breeze as she stared out toward the horizon. Her arms were stretched out as multiple Terrible Terrors were perched on her, nibbling at each other or simply resting. Cloudjumper loomed nearby, his head low but alert, spines rustling in the wind.

“You’re up early,” Hiccup called as he approached.

Valka didn’t turn right away, only lifted her chin slightly in acknowledgment. “Old habits. The wind speaks loudest in the morning.”

Hiccup came to stand beside her, one arm at his side while the other extended for a Terror to hop on. “And what’s it saying today?”

She smiled faintly. “That the seas are calm, a good sign for approaching winter. Which is more than I can say for half the dragons in the rookery.”

Hiccup chuckled under his breath. “That bad?”

“Oh, let’s just say Stormfly and one of the young Nadders nearly turned the feeding trough into a dueling pit this morning. Ash sorted it out, but…” She gave him a knowing glance. “She’s been a little… prickly, hasn’t she?”

Hiccup raised his brows. “You noticed?”

“I notice everything,” Valka said lightly. “Especially when your dragon flinches at his mate’s shadow.”

They shared a quiet laugh. It was easy, standing here with her. Comfortable.

But the laughter faded quickly, and Hiccup’s smile faltered.

“Something’s bothering me,” he said, voice low. “I spoke to Captain Ivar yesterday morning. He said the western waters are quiet—too quiet. The hunters can’t find any dragons out there. It’s like they’ve just… vanished.”

Valka’s brow furrowed. “Vanished?”

“Moved, maybe. Migrated.” He shook his head. “Or worse… rallied. I’d hope that Velesheim’s efforts to cater less to dragon hunters would have the opposite effect, but I don’t know.”

She was silent for a long moment, her expression thoughtful, eyes fixed on the far horizon.

“I haven’t seen anything strange myself,” she said slowly. “But I wouldn’t dismiss it. Dragons don’t just leave their nests without reason. Not in those numbers.”

“You think they’re being called?” Hiccup asked.

“Maybe.” She turned toward him, her gaze sharp. “Maybe they’re afraid of something. Or maybe something’s organizing them. But if they are moving, then it's not a random shift. Dragons are creatures of instinct and loyalty. If they’re leaving en masse, something big is stirring.”

Hiccup exhaled, brushing wind-swept hair from his brow. “You lived for years with an Alpha, and a huge sea dragon at that. What would make dragons move like that?”

Valka considered. “An Alpha could, definitely. But not every nest has an Alpha, just a powerful dragon that dominates the others. And if enough dragons fall under their wing, that could spell trouble if their intentions aren’t good.”

Hiccup looked down at the waves crashing below, then back at her. “I’m thinking of sending you west. Quietly. Take Cloudjumper, and a few other experienced riders. Scout for nests, abandoned islands… anything out of place.”

Valka smiled. “You want your mother to go poking around in uncharted territory?”

“I want the person I trust most with dragons to figure out what’s going on before we’re blindsided.” He met her eyes. “You’re the only one who’d recognize a threat for what it is. Even if it doesn’t look like one.”

A warmth flickered behind her eyes. “You’re becoming more like your father every day, you know.”

“Please don’t say that,” Hiccup said dryly. “Next I’ll be grumbling about roof repairs and trying to wrestle dragons in my fifties.”

Valka laughed, the sound soft but genuine. “Alright, chief. I’ll go.” she said, Terrors leaping from her shoulders as she embraced her son.

“Be careful,” he said, quieter this time.

“I always am,” she replied, but her expression had turned serious. “If something is out there, I’ll find it. And if not… well, it’ll still be good to stretch my wings.”

Hiccup nodded, but unease lingered in the back of his mind. As the wind swirled around them again, he glanced out toward the western horizon, where the sky seemed just a shade darker than before.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: The Gathering Storm

The sky was overcast as the trio of dragonriders pushed westward, the sea below dark and heaving. Low clouds moved like bruises across the horizon, and the wind carried a salt-tinged chill that nipped at fingers and numbed faces. For nearly a week, the trio had searched—Valka and Cloudjumper, Eret astride Skullcrusher, and Snotlout, of course, on Hookfang, who trailed slightly behind and snorted at the sky like it had personally offended him. They had crossed the last island on Hiccup’s map yesterday, but the number of wild dragons they’d seen had dwindled down to nothing.

“This is our fourth island today,” Snotlout grumbled, ducking as a gull nearly clipped his helmet. “If I see one more empty beach, I swear—”

“Patience,” Valka called over the wind, her voice steady but strained. “Dragons don’t move without reason. They always leave signs.”

“Yeah, emphasis on the leaving, ” Snotlout muttered. But even he didn’t crack another joke — something about the silence felt wrong.

The islands they passed were varied—some jagged and volcanic, others lush and overgrown—but each was eerily the same in one regard: empty. No nests. No fresh tracks. Not a single living dragon. It was as though entire colonies had taken wing all at once, without a sound.

Eret circled lower over a rocky outcrop, scanning the cliffs for signs. “I try not to think like a hunter nowadays,” he said as they landed briefly to regroup. “But when a den goes quiet, you always find something. Leftover kills, shed scales, smells of dung. Here? Nothing, not even leftovers. If there were dragons here, they’ve been gone for months.”

Valka crouched at the edge of a wind blasted ridge, her cloak snapping in the breeze. She picked up a brittle branch and snapped it between gloved fingers, gaze sweeping over the windswept terrain.

“They’re migrating,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But not every species migrates at the same time. They must have gone somewhere specific. All of them.”

Snotlout swung a leg over Hookfang’s back and thudded to the ground. “So what, they’ve all gone on vacation? Without telling us?”

“No,” Valka said, standing again. “They’re not just leaving. They’re gathering. And I don’t think they’re doing it on their own.”

Eret frowned. “You mean someone’s calling them?”

Valka’s eyes narrowed at the horizon, where jagged mountain peaks rose like black teeth in the distance. “Something.”

Eret joined her in gazing toward the distant mountains. “If I was a pack of dragons, I’d want to go somewhere with a lot of space to fly and perch. Those mountains might be a good place to keep looking.”

Valka nodded in agreement, Snotlout shrugging his shoulders in indifference.

They spotted the smoke near midday.

At first it was just a thin black line on the horizon, blending with the storm-streaked clouds above the western sea. But as they drew closer, the line thickened — rising like a scar against the sky. The smell reached them next: burnt pine and scorched hide, carried faintly on the cold wind. It made Eret's nose wrinkle and set Skullcrusher to growling.

The island emerged slowly from the fog, low and craggy, ringed with pale beaches and a fringe of stunted trees. The cliffs along the northern side bore deep gouges, as though something massive had torn through them with claws of stone. A small village nestled near the southern slope—just visible as dark shapes against the ash-covered ground.

“Something’s wrong,” Valka muttered, narrowing her eyes as Cloudjumper banked for descent. Her grip tightened on her staff.

They landed in silence.

No villagers emerged to greet them. No dragons circled. The only sound was the creak of scorched timber and the low hiss of wind through broken rafters.

The ground crunched underfoot as they dismounted, boots cracking through layers of blackened debris and brittle grass. Ash lay in soft waves across the pathways, stirring only when the dragons moved. Melted metal—nails, hinges, horseshoes—shone dully amid the ruin, still faintly warm. There was no sign of life, yet the damage of battle was all around them.

“By Thor…” Snotlout muttered, lifting his goggles and squinting at what had once been a longhouse. The roof had collapsed inward, its beams charred and sagging. Bones lay within—animal or human, it was impossible to tell, consumed by fire.

Eret crouched beside the remains of a watchtower, its upper section shattered and blackened. He picked up a piece of wood, rolling it in his fingers. “Shattered, not burned,” he said grimly. “Either a very strong dragon… or a non-fire type of some kind.”

Valka was already ahead of them, her feet silent on the scorched path. She knelt near a shattered fence, running her gloved hands along the remains of a shattered post. Her fingers stopped on a series of jagged marks—deep, irregular, and lined with traces of scorched bark, but no fire.

“These aren’t flames,” she murmured. “They're lightning marks. The wood split from the inside out.” Her voice lowered, barely audible. “This was done by Skrills.”

Snotlout stiffened. “Skrills? You sure? I mean—sure, they’re scary, but they don’t exactly throw parties like this.”

Valka’s expression was dark as she stood. “No, they don’t. Skrills are solitary and reclusive. They don’t attack villages like this, especially with friends.”

Eret stepped up beside her, jaw tight. “So why here?”

She pointed to the southern edge of the village. “I think you were right, Eret,” she said. “Those mountains definitely have something in them.”

They all turned to look.

Even through the haze of smoke, the mountains were monstrous—rising in sharp, jagged blades into the cloudbank. Lightning flickered there now, crawling across the black sky like cracks in a pane of glass. The thunder that followed came slowly, deep and distant.

“Yup, if I were a dragon preparing for war,” Eret muttered, “that’s where I’d go.”

Hookfang snarled, pacing behind them, clearly sensing the tension. Even Cloudjumper’s usual calm seemed frayed, the dragon’s eyes constantly scanning the sky.

“We shouldn’t stay here,” Valka said suddenly. “We’ve seen enough.”

“What about survivors?” Snotlout asked, though even he didn’t sound hopeful.

“There are none,” she said quietly, already mounting Cloudjumper. “Whatever did this… left no room for mercy.”

Eret followed, and Snotlout swung up onto Hookfang. The three dragons lifted into the darkening sky as the wind rose around them, carrying the ashes of the ruined village out toward the sea.

They turned toward the mountains—toward the Jagged Peaks, where storm clouds gathered and lightning whispered a warning through the sky. The mountains loomed closer with every beat of the dragon’s wings.

As the trio rose higher into the thickening mist, even Snotlout had gone quiet. The storm above the mountains wasn’t natural—Valka knew it in her bones. It wasn’t just thunderclouds and wind, but something older, deeper. The air was heavy with static, thick enough to raise the hair along her arms. Lightning threaded between the clouds in crooked arcs, but never touched the peaks—as if the mountains drank the electricity instead of repelling it. How long has this storm been raging?

“Stay low,” she whispered over the wind, pressing herself tighter to Cloudjumper’s back. “No heroics. No shouting.”

Eret and Snotlout nodded grimly, guiding their dragons to match her angle. They cut beneath a ridge, skimming along the curve of the rock as the wind screamed overhead. Cloudjumper banked wide to avoid a jagged overhang, his wings barely a shadow against the stone. Then they saw it.

Beyond the cliffs, in a bowl-shaped valley cradled between the fangs of the mountains, the dragons were gathering.

Valka’s breath caught in her throat.

There were dozens of them. No—hundreds, maybe thousands. Clusters of different breeds covered the rocky terrain in a slow, methodical sprawl. Gronckles, Nadders, wild Timberjacks, Monstrous Nightmares, even several Stormcutters—dragons that would normally have little tolerance for close company—sat shoulder to shoulder, snarling at each other only occasionally. There were no human riders, no chains, no visible signs of control. And yet… they weren’t fighting. They were waiting.

And high above them, on the sheer cliffs that ringed the valley like broken fangs, were the Skrills.

“Look,” Eret whispered. “Coming from the peak over there.”

Shapes moved from the fog: sleek and dark, wings tight to their sides as they emerged in a fast, eerie procession. Eight… no, nine Skrills descended from the heights in formation. They flew in absolute silence, threading upward into the storm above.

Valka watched with wide eyes as the dragons climbed into the clouds, vanishing into the black—and then, suddenly, lightning struck.

But instead of being scattered or flung aside, the bolts were drawn into them.

The Skrills twisted and rolled through the sky in a graceful spiral, conducting the power like dancers among the heavens. Lightning arced across their wings and down their spines, illuminating the storm in flashes of violet and silver. The Skrills screamed in delight—an echoing, bone-deep cry—and the sky answered in chorus.

It was terrifying.

And beautiful.

Valka’s voice was barely a breath. “They’re feeding for power.”

Eret shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve never seen Skrills cooperate this well. I didn’t even know they could .”

“It’s not just a gathering,” Valka murmured. “This whole mountain—it’s their nest.”

Snotlout blinked. “Wait… all of this? Skrills don’t live in packs. They barely tolerate each other.”

“They didn’t,” Valka said, heart pounding. “Or we just didn’t know what was possible.”

As if summoned by her words, a new figure stepped onto one of the upper ridgelines.

The female Skrill was far larger than the rest, her body lean and muscular, and lightning played constantly across the long metallic spines jutting from her back and head. Jagged violet scars marred one side of her body—old, but still raw-looking. Her amethyst eyes glowed like twin shards of lightning glass, fixed and burning with unnatural focus.

She stood alone, watching her kin spiral in the clouds, and for a moment, the wind dipped—and her head snapped toward them, almost crazed. For a moment, it looked as though she didn’t see them… but their luck had turned foul.

Valka’s stomach dropped. “She sees us.”

A scream split the sky like a rending blade.

Then the clouds erupted as a swarm of wings burst from the cliffs. Dozens of dragons surged into the air, a wall of snarling, screeching forms—Skrills, Nightmares, Nadders all diving in formation, coordinated and deadly.

“Scatter!” Valka shouted, wrenching Cloudjumper into a dive as he lept backwards to turn the way they came.

Hookfang roared, diving after her, with Skullcrusher barreling wide to avoid being caught in the rocks.

Valka’s ears rang as Cloudjumper dove, the cold air ripping past her cheeks in sheets of freezing mist. The dragon’s four wings flexed with precision, dodging a streak of violet bolts that burst from the screeching maw of a Skrill on their tail.

“Break left!” she shouted, but the wind stole her words.

Hookfang dove hard to intercept another Nightmare, leaving a trail of smoke in his wake. Snotlout hollered something Valka couldn’t hear, swinging his leg around to brace for impact. Eret and Skullcrusher spiraled low beneath them, circling wide—trying to pull the Skrills apart with his dragon’s strength and thick hide.

But there were too many. They poured down from the mountains like living thunder. If they stayed but a minute longer.

Cloudjumper banked hard, tucking his wings and slipping through a break in the cliffs. Valka ducked as a Monstrous Nightmare’s claws slashed at her head, barely missing. Sparks rained off the rocks as Nadder spines ricocheted past, flaking against stone.

She clutched the saddle tighter. “We need to get out of here!”

Ahead, she saw Eret—rising fast, weaving through the dragon pack with Skullcrusher’s horns blazing. He headbutted a Gronckle out of the way, clearing a path just long enough for Cloudjumper to surge upward after him.

Then a shriek pierced the storm like shattering glass. Valka turned—and saw her coming.

The female Skrill dove with terrifying speed, lightning arcing around her limbs like whips. Her eyes locked on Valka with something beyond hatred—like wrath given shape, as though the Viking and Stormcutter were an affront to her existence. Cloudjumper screeched, wings angling sharply to evade, but she was fast. Too fast.

The blow hit like a battering ram.

Thora’s claws raked across Cloudjumper’s flank, and Valka felt the saddle jerk violently as the world spun. She was thrown sideways—held only by her harness—as electricity surged through the air. Her body seized as a jolt from Thora’s tail cracked like a whip across her side, the spines shredding her clothing. Pain exploded in her ribs.

Cloudjumper spiraled out of control, shrieking in agony as his hide smoked. They plummeted toward the valley floor, straight toward the jagged edge of a shale outcrop.

“Come on, old friend,” Valka choked.

With a last wrench of strength, Cloudjumper flared his lower wings and managed to pull up—but it wasn’t enough. They hit the slope hard, skidding along the rocks in a flurry of sparks and snow. The world blurred, then stopped as they came to a halt.

Valka’s vision tunneled.

Above her, the sky was still raging. She could hear Cloudjumper’s low moan of pain, feel the tremble of his heart against her side. Her own chest burned, every breath shallow and jagged. Her ribs were broken—maybe more.

But she was alive.

A roar shook the mountain, and a familiar voice screamed through the sky.

“VALKA!”

Snotlout.

Then Skullcrusher came thundering down from the storm clouds, Eret guiding him like a battering ram. With a bellowing roar, the Rumblehorn loosed a volley of fire toward the incoming dragons, buying just enough space for Hookfang to dive.

Snotlout leapt from his saddle the moment they landed, scrambling across the shale.

“Valka—!” he grabbed her arm, wide-eyed. “Gods, you’re bleeding—are you—?”

“I’m fine,” she hissed, even as her breath caught. “Get us out of here. Stay close to the water, the Skrills hate it.”

Hookfang and Skullcrusher moved fast, pushing back the lesser dragons with smoke and fire. Cloudjumper rose slowly, scorched and staggering but still defiant. Valka hauled herself upright with Snotlout’s help and climbed back into the saddle with trembling hands.

They didn’t wait.

The three dragons shot downwards, narrowly avoiding another streak of lightning as they fled the Peaks. No one looked back as they headed for home as fast as their wings would take them, easily outflying the slower dragons. The Skrills tried to pursue, but the crashing waves sent them into a nervous fit, none daring to follow lest they risk being knocked into the sea. Except for the enraged female, who fired a bolt of lightning so strong the entire sea behind the dragonriders roiled with electricity. But it was too late.

Only when the storms faded behind them—and the skies opened up ahead—did they breathe again.

Valka clutched her ribs, jaw tight with pain. The others flew in silence.

They’d found what they were looking for, and it was worse than they feared.

Thora shrieked with rage as they slowly became dots on the horizon; It was a sound that shattered the air—half fury, half frustration. Lightning spat from her jaws and clawed across the mountain rock in wide, erratic streaks. Her wings flared, scattering other dragons from her perch as she rose on her hind legs.

“COWARDS!” she bellowed after them. “HUMAN-TAINTED RATS!”

Her voice echoed against the crags. Behind her, dragons shifted uneasily, murmuring amongst themselves.

Thora dropped to all fours, panting. Her spines arched in jagged ridges, and the crackle of power still danced along her neck. For a long moment, she simply stood, staring toward the sea, claws twitching.

Then her gaze lowered… to the blood on her talons.

The wound on the woman’s side hadn’t been deep, but the scent clung to her skin like an oath. Other Skrills clustered nearby, curious and uncertain as Thora turned to fly back into the canyon, reclaiming her place atop the cliff overlooking the masses of scales below. Dragons of every breed covered the ground—Nadders and Nightmares, Gronckles and even a few Razorwhips—interspersed with her own kin, the Skrills, who circled like sentries at the edges. Most were feral. Untamed. Lurking just beyond the reach of civilization. But all had answered her call, a simple and pure request — bloodshed.

She raised her wings and spoke, her voice amplified with every bolt in her blood.

“See what the humans have done to just a few of our brethren?!” she growled. “They ride them like beasts of burden. The same species that hunts us for sport, yokes us with chains, now tries to tame us like their dogs and horses! They dared to spy on our nest—on our children—and they will return with more.”

The crowd rippled with angry murmurs.

“We Skrills have stood alone for centuries,” she continued. “We have kept to these peaks, to the sky, away from the stink of men. But no more! They bring their diseases here. Their riders. Their slaves.”

A Thunderdrum bellowed from below. Dragons bristled, wings twitching.

Thora raised her bloodstained claws.

“I say no more hiding. No more waiting. If they want to chain us again, let them find us with fangs at their throats. We have all gathered here to answer humankind with fire and blood, dragons of many species, but we fight for the same cause!”

She lowered her claws—and smiled, sharp and cold.

“They will bleed for this intrusion. We will find them all. We will make the humans remember what it means to fear dragons.”

Roars rang out from the cliffs, growing in volume—some unsure, some excited. But the Skrills roared loudest of all, electricity sparking through their ranks like wildfire.

Thora descended to the ground, immersing herself in the horde of dragons. One of the Rumblehorns stepped forward, snorted and dipped its snout to her outstretched claws. It sniffed once, twice—then turned toward the east and loosed a sharp, resonant bark. It had a trail.

Thora watched, and her expression darkened with a manic smile.

“Begin the hunt,” she said.

The storm was coming.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: Seeking an Ally

The iron gate of Berk’s Dragon Arena clanged shut behind the last rider, the old hinges groaning before settling into place. Morning sun filtered through the open stone archways above, casting long streaks of light across the stone pit where wings stirred the dust into dancing coils. Class was in session.

Hiccup still remembered trying to learn how to fight dragons within these walls—or learning how to run away, at least until Toothless came along—but those days were long gone. Now it was a training ground, and today it bustled with movement. A young Gronckle wheezed into the air for the first time, trailing its rider with a wild loop as he screamed. A pair of twin Nadders twisted through a slow spiral overhead, watched keenly from below by their human twins. These were all small dragons still learning how to fly for long periods—and their riders were much smaller—but the best bonds were forged young.

“Gently, Skari! You’re not torching a sheep, it’s a trust dive!” Hiccup’s voice cut cleanly through the noise, firm but encouraging. He stood near the center of the arena, notebook under one arm, signaling with the other as a gangly teenage rider adjusted his stance mid-flight.

The Gronckle wobbled through a smoky turn and landed roughly on the ground, his rider falling out of the saddle. Hiccup sighed — then smiled as the dragon licked its rider affectionately, knocking the boy over with a wet splat.

“Good recovery!” Hiccup called. “But let’s work on not falling next time, yeah?”

Up in the shaded viewing alcove along the arena’s upper edge, Astrid sat with one leg slung over the other, her growing belly unmistakable beneath her fur-trimmed tunic. Her boots were propped on a small barrel and Stormfly lay beside her like a lounging sentinel, tail flicking in time with her rider’s heartbeat. Astrid’s arms were crossed as she watched the training session below, her expression caught somewhere between approval and frustration.

“You know,” she muttered to Stormfly, “if I had a saddle right now, I’d be down there showing them how not to dislocate a shoulder on a takeoff.”

Stormfly tilted her head and warbled skeptically. Astrid rolled her eyes.

“Oh, I know, I know. ‘Bedrest.’” She emphasized the word with air quotes. “I’m resting, see? Spectacular resting. I’m seated and not decapitating anyone.”

The Nadder blinked and chirped what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Astrid’s eyes softened slightly as she glanced down at Hiccup. He looked tired—focused, but carrying the kind of weariness she recognized from years of watching him bear too much. He moved like a man with a thousand worries in his head and no room for rest, even when the skies were quiet. But he was smiling and happy, and that made it worth it.

“Alright!” Hiccup called, clapping his hands and waving toward the perimeter. “Take five. Get some water. Check your saddles before your dragons throw them off with you in it!”

Several young riders groaned with relief and dismounted awkwardly, landing on the stone with various degrees of grace. Hiccup made a quick circuit, offering nods and advice, occasionally helping tighten a strap or correct a saddle buckle. His mind was on the lesson—but not entirely.

Valka’s trio had been gone almost two weeks, and the chief had been waiting with bated breath for their return. His mother was the most experienced dragon rider of them all, but Hiccup couldn’t shake the thought that even she might encounter something unexpected.

He was halfway through adjusting a Nadder’s stirrup when he heard the low, urgent whuff of a full-grown dragon at the entrance to the arena. He turned, seeing a large Nightmare settle onto the ground as its rider—an older, grizzled Viking—dismounted with haste.

“Chief Hiccup,” the man panted, as though he had ran instead of flown. “You need to go to Gothi’s hut right away! Your mother has returned!”

Hiccup’s breath caught in his throat. If they were at Gothi’s hut, that meant…

“Thank you Torstein,” he called, turning fast as his hands went to his mouth. “ASTRID! I NEED STORMFLY!”

Astrid jerked upright at her husband's shout—she knew he couldn’t have received good news. 

“Go on, girl!” 

Stormfly chirped at her rider’s request, quickly circling the arena to land at the gate as Hiccup ran to meet her. Giving the Nadder an affectionate scratch as he leapt onto her back, Hiccup calmly spoke in her ear—though his nerves were alight with concern.

“Can you take me to Gothi’s?”

The Deadly Nadder squawked, Hiccup instinctively wrapping his arms around her neck as she flew into the air. Higher and higher she climbed, the arena and village shrinking beneath them as they approached the top of one of Berk’s peaks. Gothi’s hut had been atop this mountain for many years; as the dragon circled Hiccup could already make out the shapes of Hookfang, Skullcrusher, Cloudjumper… and Toothless, who had scaled the mountain from the other side. Despite the Alpha’s haste, he warbled upwards in greeting at the sight of his human, which brought a faint smile to Hiccup’s face even as they landed.

Stormfly settled to the ground with practiced care, folding her wings tightly to avoid the wind sweeping up the cliffside. Hiccup dismounted quickly, boots crunching against the gravel path as he caught sight of Toothless pacing slowly beside Cloudjumper.

The older Stormcutter stood rigid, his massive wings folded close, one trembling faintly at the edge where a fresh line of gauze had been tightly bound. His hide was singed in several places, deep claw gouges scoring the sleek scales of his flank. His eyes were closed, but his posture—tall, alert, and regal—remained intact.

Toothless nudged Cloudjumper gently, his head bowed in concern. The older dragon returned the gesture, resting his snout briefly against the Alpha’s neck in silent acknowledgement. There was pain, clearly—but no panic. No complaints.

Hiccup's chest tightened. If Cloudjumper looked like this…

He pushed open the wooden door of Gothi’s hut, ducking inside to avoid hanging charms. The air within was thick with the bitter tang of crushed herbs and poultices, mixed with the dry sweetness of burning pine resin. Bundles of medicinal plants hung from the ceiling beams, swaying gently as he made his way through the cramped hut.

Valka lay on a cot draped with furs, her torso carefully bandaged in wide strips of pale cloth. One arm was splinted, her brow glistened with sweat, and every breath she took seemed to hitch just before release. Gothi hovered nearby, hands stained green from salves, arranging clean linens as she prepared another treatment.

Snotlout sat cross-legged on the floor, looking more rattled than Hiccup had seen him in years. He raised a hand in greeting, which Hiccup gladly clasped. Eret leaned against the far wall, arms crossed tightly over his chest, but his eyes never left Valka’s form. Gobber stood near the hearth, stirring something thick and bubbling in a clay pot. His expression was uncharacteristically quiet.

“Mom,” Hiccup said softly.

Valka opened her eyes at his voice. Her lips curled into a faint, pain-laced smile.

“Nice of you to drop by,” she rasped.

Hiccup moved to her side and took her uninjured hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “What happened?”

Gothi motioned sharply with her hands, fingers fluttering in a practiced code. Gobber interpreted for her without turning from his stirring.

“She’s banged up right good. Three cracked ribs, a bruised lung, and a nice tear across her side that took twenty stitches to close. Would’ve been worse if she weren’t strapped in. Your mum hits rocks like a boulder.”

Valka snorted weakly. “A boulder that got thrown out of the sky.”

Gothi glared and flicked a dried leaf into her mouth, chewing it loudly in disapproval.

Snotlout rose, stretching stiffly. “We got out. Barely. But it wasn’t a fight, Hiccup. We weren’t ready.”

Eret nodded. “But we all made it back in one piece, at least. Those Skrills almost fried us all.”

Hiccup blinked. “Wait. Skrills? All of this was because of Skrills?”

Valka's voice cut in, hoarse but insistent. “Hiccup… we found a mountain nest. The dragons are gathering there—hundreds, maybe more. Every kind. But the ones running it… they’re Skrills. Packs of them. And not just tolerating each other. Coordinating.”

Hiccup sat down slowly, the words sinking like stones.

“That’s not possible,” he said, but even as he said it, he knew it was no longer true. “Skrills are solitary. Aggressive. They don’t nest together. They barely tolerate a mate, let alone a pack.”

“We thought that,” Valka said, shifting with a wince. “We were wrong. This nest—it’s ancient. Maybe their natural home. But something’s changed. A large female leads them. Not just the Skrills—the whole gathering. She was the one who struck me. She’s… unhinged.”

“Mad,” Eret clarified. “But smart, if she can gather so many dragons in one place.”

“For war,” Snotlout said grimly.

A silence settled over the hut. Even the bubbling pot seemed to quiet.

Hiccup looked from one face to the next, then down to his mother, whose breath shuddered beneath the bandages.

“All these years,” he whispered. “And I thought I understood them.”

Valka gave him a wan smile. “You do. But nobody knows everything, Hiccup. Dragons have always been older than us, with their own secrets. This Skrill nest—it’s proof. Everything we thought we knew isn’t enough now.”

He stood slowly, the metal of his leg knocking against the leg of the cot.

“Then we need to catch up.”

Snotlout frowned. “With what? Another scout mission? Hiccup, we barely got away last time.”

“No,” Hiccup said, turning towards the door. “This isn’t something we solve with maps or patrols. We need insight. Someone who understands dragons better than anyone alive.”

Eret straightened. “Who, other than you?”

“Nightshade,” Hiccup said to himself. 

Silence throughout the hut.

“Sorry, who?” Snotlout asked, confused.

A hand grasped Hiccup’s tightly. Looking down, he saw Valka smile faintly.

“Tell them.”

Running his hands through his hair, Hiccup sighed. Pulling the necklace out from his flight suit, he let the eye-shaped medallion rest against his palm.

“When Toothless first came back with Ash,” he began. “He came with a letter addressed to me from Nightshade. He called himself king of the Night Furies.”

Snotlout snorted in disbelief, but it was half-hearted. “A dragon king? And he wrote you a letter? A dragon wrote to you?”

Hiccup shot him a sarcastic look, but he couldn’t blame him. “It appears so. He’s an ancient and magical creature, if you believe it. He gave me this if I ever needed his help.”

Gobber turned, pot in hand, his face old and weathered. “Well, I don’t know about you, but it looks like we could use some.”

“Agreed,” Valka whispered. “Go talk to him, son.”

Hiccup tucked the necklace back under his suit, before turning to place a kiss on his mother’s forehead. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.”

The door swung open forcefully as Hiccup exited the hut, his face determined as he approached his dragon. Toothless warbled as he pressed his snout into his chest, rumbling with concern.

“Hi, bud. Mom’s gonna be fine,” Hiccup reassured him. “But I need you and Ash to help me.”

The Night Fury leaned back, his green eyes wide in expectation.

“I need you to take me to Mystholm.”

Toothless blinked once. Then the dragon nodded, gesturing for him to climb on.

Later that day…

The sun was low in the sky by the time Hiccup and Toothless reached the cove.

Even after all these years, the place hadn’t changed. The trees still leaned gently over the water, their leaves rustling in a breeze that smelled of salt and pine. The pool still mirrored the sky like a sheet of glass, unbroken and silent, save for the occasional ripple from a distant seabird. Toothless padded forward slowly and sat by the water’s edge, tail curling around his feet.

Hiccup stood beside him, arms folded, eyes scanning the empty air.

“You’re sure she’ll come here?” he asked softly.

Toothless gave a small nod, but didn’t look at him. His gaze was fixed—unmoving—on a space just beside the bank.

Then the air shimmered.

Hiccup stepped back, startled, as the very air seemed to fracture in front of them. At first it looked like a mirage, then a shiver of green magic twisted the space into spiraling motion. With a sudden crack, a burst of emerald light erupted in a brief halo—and Ash appeared from nothing

She touched the ground softly, her wings tucked tight and her body tense. For a second, she didn’t move, eyes scanning the cove warily—then softened as she saw Toothless. Her gaze slid past him and locked onto Hiccup.

He had seen her before. Flown beside her. Even spoken to her in calm moments.

But this—this was different. This was something beyond natural. She had stepped out of thin air, as if space itself bent to let her through. The emerald stone in her collar was shining brightly, as though the crystal inside possessed a soul of its own. Hiccup looked at it with awe, as though seeing them for the first time. So that’s why she’s gone so much…

Ash’s head tilted, her sapphire eyes narrowing slightly as she regarded him. Not with distrust—just with confusion. Toothless moved first, stepping forward and brushing his snout gently against her shoulder. She rumbled with pleasure at his touch, but then growled as though voicing a question.

A silent conversation passed between them. Hiccup saw something change in her stance—her wings lowered slightly, her head dropped in thought. She turned to Hiccup again, watching. He stepped forward, gently placing a hand on her head.

“Valka’s hurt,” he said. “They found something in the western isles, a huge nest. Hundreds of dragons are gathered there—led by Skrills. There’s a female in charge of them all… she nearly killed my mom, Cloudjumper too.”

Ash’s body stiffened. Her eyes widened slightly—not fear, not quite—but deep concern.

“I don’t know what’s going on out there,” Hiccup continued. “But if the dragons are rallying for war we need help. I need to talk to Nightshade.”

Ash looked away, her tail twitching once in thought. The stone on her neck pulsed like a heartbeat, casting faint green light across her scales. She didn’t move for several long moments.

Then, slowly, she nodded and stepped back.

He didn’t speak—just stepped forward and carefully climbed into Toothless’s saddle. He adjusted under his weight automatically, wings flaring once to test the balance. Hiccup reached forward, gripping the saddle tightly. As he watched with deep curiosity, the gemstone suddenly flared up in a bright beam of light.

Wind rushed upward in a spiral of green light as the air twisted around them. Hiccup shouted involuntarily—not in fear, but sheer disbelief—as the world vanished.

There was no falling. No real motion at all. One moment they were in the cove—and the next, the sky exploded into view.

They emerged high in the air, wind roaring past as Ash leveled her wings and soared, Toothless following with ease. They had emerged over open sea, an oasis of blue calm sparkling in the setting sun. Right in front of them, smoke curled from the vents of a singular mountain that rose like a monolith above the sea. Its peak glowed faintly red, small veins of molten stone lining its black flanks.

And nestled below it, shrouded by mist and ringed with terraces of volcanic stone, was a forest unlike anything Hiccup had seen. The ancient trees twisted throughout the mist, and even from a distance he could make out the faint glow of luminous mushrooms of great size.

Hiccup was speechless. This was Mystholm—he had heard it named only in a letter. But now he was seeing it with his own eyes. Turning his head, he could see the silhouettes of other islands—to the northeast was a tall collection of blasted rock, and to the southwest a lush island with a beautiful, almost unnatural crescent-shaped peak.

Ash banked lower, heading for the ashen beach as the air thickened with warmth and the scent of sulfur. 

She glanced back at Hiccup only once. It wasn’t a question. It was a warning: remember where you are .

He nodded once as Toothless banked to follow her. The two Night Furies landed on the beach with practiced grace, softly kicking up dark grey sand as Hiccup looked upwards at the daunting volcano. The forest air was heavy and warm, the silence occasionally broken by concealed birds as Toothless walked side by side with Ash into the forest. But they didn’t make it far before three shadows emerged from behind trees; all Night Furies, all snarling at the scent of human.

Hiccup’s hands tightened around the reins. These Night Furies were clearly guards, and the chief marvelled at the claw streaks of what appeared to be blood crossing their faces. One of them stepped forward, rumbling towards Ash in confusion. She chirped back, glancing at Hiccup cautiously. For a moment, there was nothing but tension in the air. But then the lead Night Fury growled low, and the other two lowered their guard. Nodding towards them, the trio slunk back into the forest as though they were never present.

Ash rumbled softly, nuzzling Toothless’s jaw before giving Hiccup a warm, fangless grin. They were safe for the moment.

They proceeded through the forest in silence, Hiccup’s head on a swivel as he beheld everything around him. The luminescent fungi were huge and fascinating, shining like faint lanterns amidst the winding oaks. The ground occasionally rumbled beneath them, though Hiccup could no longer see the volcano through the midst. Clearly the dragons were used to it if they called this place home.

Eventually the earth began to twist upwards, the warmth of the trees giving way to loose rock and uneven ground. Ash approached the mouth of a dark cave into the mountain, two more Night Furies standing alert. They also hissed at the sight of Hiccup—but upon seeing Ash they lowered their guard, silently motioning for them to enter. Toothless didn’t make a sound as he trailed his mate, Hiccup’s chest tightening with anticipation as their destination approached.

His resolve quickly gave way to wonder as they entered a cave of striking beauty; the walls and ceiling glittered with gems like a field of starlight, and though there was no visible source of light the room glowed with the glitter of earthly riches. Sliding from the saddle, Hiccup gaped at the sight of a large female Night Fury—a creature of otherworldly grace; her scales were flawless and sparkling, and her amber eyes were full of life. The human simply stood in silence, awestruck. This couldn’t be Nightshade… but his queen.

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise at the sight of them, her head cocked to the side questioningly. Toothless warbled, pushing Hiccup forward with his snout. Crying out in surprise, he steadied himself as the dragon queen towered over him. For a moment she simply stared, her eyes unblinking. Then, she quietly hissed—not in anger, but in command.

A bright flash of light caused Hiccup to cover his eyes in shock. Lowering his arm, his breath caught in his throat. An amber crystal was hovering in the air barely a few feet from him, waves of light ebbing and flowing off of its surface. It was like the emerald one, and yet Hiccup found he couldn’t take his eyes off it. Its insides twisted in waves of magical power—indescribably beautiful, enticing.

His head suddenly seized in a wave of pressure. Clasping his hands to his head in pain, Hiccup gasped as blood rushed to his ears, popped… and then the ache was gone.

“Ouch…” he muttered, eyeing the stone suspiciously. “What gives?”

“He’s just giving you a helping hand.”

Hiccup froze. The Night Fury queen's jaw had moved, and he had heard words. He stepped back frantically—part fear, part denial. But he felt the gentle touch of scales on his back, and another voice whispered in his ear, low and warm.

“It’s not a trick,” Toothless said. “I’ve got your back.”

Hiccup laughed in disbelief, turning to face his dragon. His voice sounded exactly like Hiccup imagined it would, in his dreams. But here they were, and Hiccup could hear him as clear as day.

“You may be the first human to ever set foot on this island,” the queen spoke, her expression soft. “But it's fitting for such a friend of dragons. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Hiccup Haddock.”

He turned, clearing his throat. “Thank you… my lady. Forgive me, this is all so much. I mean, how? And what are those?!” he asked, gesturing to the shining gemstone.

The dragoness laughed softly. “I’m sure Toothless would love to explain it all later… I’m sure you have a lot to share. Thank you, Antaris.” she spoke, her head inclined toward the amber ball of light.

The gemstone vanished in another flash of light, as though it was never there.

“My name is Holly,” the queen spoke as she lowered herself to the ground comfortably, her eyes now at level with the human. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Hiccup rubbed the back of his neck, still adjusting to his current circumstances. “I was hoping I could speak to Nightshade? We have a grave threat up north, and I don’t have the knowledge of dragons I thought I did.”

A low hum escaped Holly’s throat, and her eyes fell.

“I’m afraid my mate is not here, and I don’t know when he will return.”

“I wish I could’ve told you, Hiccup, he left yesterday,” Ash chimed—her voice bright and youthful, though apologetic. “But I think Holly can answer your questions!”

“I appreciate it, Ash. I’ll take any advice I can get.” The human sat down cross legged before the dragon queen.

“We had received rumors that dragons were migrating strangely, abandoning their nests…” he began. “I sent my mother to confirm, and she found a great mountain nest full of Skrills. We think their female leader is gathering an army, and… she made it out, but barely.”

Holly’s tone was warm and sincere. “I pray for your mother’s recovery. This is disturbing news indeed… You must be referring to the Jagged Peaks, of course.”

Hiccup’s eyes widened. “You’ve been there?”

“Not for quite some time,” she admitted. “But the Skrills rarely venture outside of their ancestral territory, so this is a drastic change.”

The chief frowned. “I didn’t even know a Skrill nest was possible… we always thought they were solitary, reclusive.”

“Oh, they are, dear. Very much so.” Holly rested her head on her paws, deep in thought. “But there are still some relics of the old world that remain, Mystholm included. You can’t be blamed for not knowing everything.”

“I don’t follow.”

Holly spoke calmly, as though instructing a patient student. “Your archipelago is home to dragons of many races, most of which are collected in mixed nests. Powerful sea dragons and others naturally attract attention, and offer their protection for obedience. It’s been this way for centuries. But there are some dragons—more intelligent, more territorial—who have claimed nests for their race alone. The Jagged Peaks are one of them, it’s been guarded by the Skrills for almost a thousand years.”

Hiccup stroked his chin. “How many of these nests are there?”

Holly paused, thinking before replying softly. “After assuming the mantle of king, Nightshade set out to see how many remained… including Mystholm, there are less than a dozen, all widespread and secluded. And much smaller than mixed nests, keeping to themselves.”

“Did he visit the Skrills, too?” Toothless interjected.

“He did,” Holly confessed. “Their lord, Tanaris, promised to maintain their secrecy and not provoke humankind. But you said they were led by a female… oh, stars.”

Ash frowned. “What happened?”

“Nightshade was attacked on his visit by Tararis’s daughter Thora… She's a crazed dragon, filled with hatred. I fear Tanaris is dead, and Thora has taken his throne.”

By the gods… Hiccup breathed deeply, the weight of the oncoming threat now fully apparent. “You think she’s raising an army to attack humans?”

Holly’s eyes flashed. “I’m certain of it. Thora’s disturbed, angry. She’s gathering any wild dragon able to be convinced, and they’ll annihilate every village they can find.”

Hiccup’s heart clenched. Their peace was over yet again — this time from the dragon’s side. He stood quickly, his hand resting on Toothless’s head.

“Then we need to return to Berk, prepare for war.” he said calmly, though the words were heavy in his throat.

“Indeed,” Holly nodded. “But you must know they will come for you first. If your mother was injured, surely they have dragons with powerful noses.”

“All the more reason to get back,” Hiccup replied, hoisting himself onto Toothless’s back.

“Wait.”

Holly stood up, her posture regal and composed.

“Stay for the night, rest,” she implored, her eyes shining. “Toothless, you should take Hiccup to find something to eat, show him around. Ash, I need you to visit Talon before you turn in.”

Hiccup’s brow furrowed. “Who’s Talon?”

“One of our fiercest warriors,” Holly declared. “I know Nightshade would want to help you, especially since his visit likely triggered Thora’s ascension… for better or worse. I can’t promise every Night Fury, but I’m sure Talon would be happy to lend some fighters to defend your island.”

Hiccup’s chest loosened at her words, the weight of her words filling him with relief. He bowed his lead low in Holly’s direction.

“Thank you, my lady. I’m in your debt.”

Holly smiled. “Of course. And welcome to Mystholm.”

Ash turned, her tail brushing against Toothless’s side. “I’ll see you in a bit,” she promised, before running out of the cave.

As Toothless turned to leave, his head twisted to look up at his human.

“I have so much to tell you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 5: Lingering Shadows

Ash stepped down from the crystal magic of the dragonstone into a strong mountain wind. The peaks of Seregon loomed like knives above her, their jagged faces catching the moonlight in cruel lines. She stumbled slightly as the magic faded from her limbs, nausea creeping back into her throat like bile. Her paws sank into puddles from recent rain, and she closed her eyes against the spinning in her head.

It passed—slowly. It always did. But this time, she felt wearier than ever.

She still didn’t like this place. The very air was different; thinner, colder, sharper. It tasted like blood and old smoke, as though the mountain remembered every creature that died in it. Ash steadied herself, forcing her wings to tuck in tightly. She’d been here many times, but never intentionally.

But she had to admit, it was more welcoming—she made her way through the ravines as the moon cast long silver paths through the rocks. A few scarred Night Furies stirred in the distance, nodding in respect, a few even calling out in greeting—an unthinkable change from this time last year. Still, every step toward Talon’s grotto felt heavier than the last. Her stomach turned, but she pushed on, climbing the winding slope through towering spires and windswept stone.

The cave mouth glowed faintly with inner fire. Ash recognized the place immediately: Talon’s chosen roost. The last time she’d seen it, it was bathed in blood from Angalon’s many kills. The rocks were still stained black and red, but were clean and cold.

Ash stepped into the chamber, ears folding slightly at the flickering light.

Talon stood near the center of the chamber, broad-shouldered and still visibly scarred. His wings were tucked inwards, having healed nicely, but his single glowing eye painfully reflected the horrors of war. He turned when he heard her, and a broad smile touched his lips.

“Ash,” he said, voice hoarse but kind. “Are you alright? You look like the wind chewed you up and spat you out.”

She smirked in spite of herself. “It’s been a long day.”

“What brings you here? How’s Toothless?”

Ash nodded, drawing a slow breath. “He’s well, but stressed. Berk is under threat, and Holly thought you might be willing to help.”

Talon raised an eyebrow. “Help Berk? The human village?”

There was a flick of movement to Ash’s left, and she jumped to the side. She had been so tired, so focused on Talon’s words that she failed to register the monstrous form that now uncurled itself from a nap. Ancient claws ticked on the stone as fiery red eyes snapped open.

Angalon.

Ash stiffened.

The older Night Fury towered over her, his black scales still as scarred as ever. The hideous eye-brand on his chest gazed at her as though it could see itself. His expression was unreadable, but there was no hatred in his gaze—only a deep weariness that bordered on disdain.

“What a surprise,” Angalon said quietly.

“Didn’t realize you had company, Talon,” Ash muttered, trying to keep her tone neutral. Her nausea hadn’t left—if anything, it now tangled with tension.

Talon, to his credit, didn’t let it fester. “Who threatens you, Ash?”

She turned her head, ignoring the ancient Night Fury to her left. “An army of rogue dragons, led by the Skrills from the Jagged Peaks. We think their nest leader’s going to attack any human settlement she can.”

Talon didn’t reply right away, his tail thumping on the stone.

“Look” he said firmly, “I will obey my queen's command, but I can’t promise all of Seregon. I still have to manage the settlement of the other islands, make sure eggs are moved safely.”

He paused, glancing at the stone between them.

“But Nightshade thinks Berk can serve as an ally, and we should show our good faith. I can give you two hundred Night Furies, but no more.”

Ash blinked. That was faster than expected. “That’s… incredible. Thank you.”

Talon inclined his head. “I’m not done. They’ll need a leader.”

Ash straightened, wings tensing. “You’re not coming yourself?”

“I can’t,” Talon said simply. “I have duties here, and I can’t in good conscience leave while Nightshade is gone.” His eyes slid toward the shadows. “But he can go.”

Ash’s blood turned to ice.

“No,” she said quickly, then recoiled as her voice was mixed with a dark rumble. Angalon had said the same thing, both dragons glaring at one another.

“You can’t be serious!” she accused sharply.

“I am serious,” Talon said. “I’m appointing Angalon as field commander of the Berkian host.”

“No,” Ash repeated, stepping forward. “He hates humans. He hates Toothless . He threatened Holly—”

“And he nearly died because of it,” Talon interrupted. “And he’s obeyed every command I’ve given since. You need someone with experience, who warriors won’t question on the battlefield.”

Angalon’s voice was bitter when he spoke. “You would send me of all people to protect the humans? I’d rather tear out their hearts than keep them beating.”

“I’m not sending you because of your charming demeanor,” Talon quipped. “Didn’t you once lead a campaign against the Skrills before the Cataclysm?”

Angalon’s retort died, the Night Fury snorting smoke from his nostrils. 

“I did,” he replied, as though the truth now angered him.

Talon beamed. “Then your experience will be very useful… and you will not touch a single hair on the human’s heads .”

Angalon’s eyes flashed with a mixture of offense and admiration as he stared down his son and lord. 

Ash started between them, wings flaring slightly. “You can’t trust him with this!”

Talon’s voice was low. Final.

“I can. And I do. Do you want my army or not?”

The silence was thick enough to drown in, the only sound being the faint crackle of claws on stone.

Ash looked at Angalon. He met her gaze without flinching.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But if you betray us again, I swear on Moonlight’s name I’ll tear that overgrown head from your shoulders.”

Angalon’s pupils narrowed, but said nothing.

Talon exhaled slowly, stepping between them. “You can fight till the stars fall for all I care. But I am Seregon’s lord now, and I decide which dragons go and which stay. Either way, Berk will have warriors for the fight.”

Ash nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Talon.”

She didn’t look back as she stepped out of the grotto, nausea curling again in her gut—but whether from fatigue or frustration, she couldn’t say.

She had what she came for — Berk would have its ally. Even if it came with old ghosts in tow.

Angalon’s eyes followed her as the faint glow of magic signalled her departure. “Even given our history, she’s uncharacteristically vicious.”

Talon sighed, shaking his head. “Maybe it’s because she’s island hopping a thousand miles every day.”

Angalon’s chest grumbled with indifference as he returned to his place on the grotto’s edge, his wings covering him like giant shadows in the moonlight. 

“I’m surprised you’re now confident enough to let me leave out of your sight,” he hissed venomously. “Especially since you were so concerned you ran to Nightshade for advice.”

“Father, I—”

Angalon cut him off sharply. “I suppose I should thank you for trying to arrange a good death for me. At least it’ll be nice to taste Skrill blood like old times before my mind goes completely—”

“SHUT UP!” Talon roared. 

Angalon was silent. Talon looked visibly wounded, but quickly gathered what was left of his composure and slunk to the other wall. He curled himself into a ball, his face completely obscured.

A twinge of regret crossed the ancient dragon’s face — Angalon tightened his wings around him, his thoughts weary and fragmented. 

He hated to think that living was now more painful than dying.

Elsewhere…

The surf hissed softly against the black sand, its rhythm slow and deliberate—like the breath of the slumbering volcano looming behind them. Smoke trailed lazily from one of Nightmare’s Eyrie’s upper vents, glowing faintly red in the dark. The moon hung low over the horizon, gilding the waves in silver.

Toothless lay on his side, half-curled near the firepit they’d made from driftwood and broken branches. He was watching the flames with his eyes half-lidded, the glow flickering in his emerald pupils. Hiccup sat beside him, legs stretched out, boots buried in the cool volcanic sand. He absentmindedly poked a stick into the fire.

“…and you’re sure I didn’t actually break anything when I fell off the training perch that day?” Hiccup was saying, smiling faintly. “Because I swear, Toothless, I remember pain. A lot of it.”

Toothless gave a soft, rumbling purr of amusement. “You bounced like a fish. I was more worried about the wooden post than your bones. But you’re much stronger now… still scrawny, though.”

Hiccup laughed, leaning his head back to look up at the stars. “You know, I used to dream about this. Talking to you. Really talking. After everything we’ve been through… I just didn’t think it would take a magical rock and a secret Night Fury kingdom to get here.”

Toothless didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, “Some things are worth the wait.”

The fire cracked between them, and for a while there was only the sound of waves and wind—soft and steady, for once not screaming with urgency. It felt… good. Right.

“We were just kids,” Hiccup said after a moment. “Me trying to impress my father, you trying not to get eaten. We had no idea what the world would ask of us.”

“We still don’t,” Toothless replied. “But we know what we’d give.”

Hiccup turned his head. “What’s that?”

Toothless blinked slowly. “Everything.”

They sat with that for a time—two souls woven across years of silence and flight.

A shimmer of green light flashed in the distance, a sharp vertical ripple like someone tearing open the air. Ash emerged from the magic with an audible grunt, wings shivering as she staggered slightly on landing. She caught herself and immediately grimaced.

Toothless was already on his feet, padding toward her with concern. Hiccup rose too, brushing sand from his legs.

“You alright?” Toothless asked gently, nuzzling her shoulder.

Ash exhaled slowly, her wings folding tight. “I’m fine. Just… more tired than I should be.” Her eyes found Hiccup, and she offered a weary nod. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Never,” Hiccup said sincerely, motioning to the fire. “Come rest.”

She joined them, settling on Toothless’s other side, her tail curling around her paws. The firelight played over her scales, casting soft glints of violet along the edges.

“Here, let me,” Toothless rumbled, his nose moving to undo the clasp on the back of her neck. 

The collar gently fell into the sand, the emerald dragonstone separating itself — Hiccup watched it with wonder as it hovered, then vanished.

“Talon gave us two hundred warriors,” Ash said without preamble.

Hiccup’s eyebrows rose. “That’s… better than I’d hoped.”

Ash nodded. “They’re ready to move when you are. Only one condition—he’s not leading them.” She shifted, clearly uneasy. “He’s staying behind to oversee the resettlements.”

Hiccup blinked. “Then who…?”

“Angalon,” she muttered, spitting the name like a stone thrown into the water. “Talon made the call. I protested. So did Angalon, if you can believe it. But Talon wouldn’t budge.”

The fire crackled sharply between them. Toothless’s ears flattened, and Hiccup’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t understand,” Hiccup said. “Why him? Who is he?”

Toothless stirred beside the flames, his gaze distant. “Talon’s father, the previous lord of Seregon. He’s ancient, and dangerous.”

Hiccup looked at him, startled. “You’ve met him before?”

Ash answered first, her voice quiet but sharp. “Angalon nearly killed him when Velesheim attacked — Toothless tried to stop him from attacking in broad daylight.” Her tone betrayed a hint of admiration as she nuzzled into Toothless’s embrace. “He believes Night Furies should rule through strength — any who didn’t fit that mold is expendable. Especially humans.”

Toothless nodded. “He’s a warlord. But even then, his Night Furies followed him. He’s powerful. Respected, if not loved.”

“And now?” Hiccup asked.

“He’s… suffered disgrace, but still fearsome,” Toothless said. “He loves Talon though, in his own way.”

“He respects him,” Ash countered bitterly. “I think he stopped loving a long time ago.”

Hiccup took this in slowly, processing the weight of it all. “But he’ll lead the forces to defend Berk?”

“He will,” Ash said. “He gave his word, if you trust it. And Talon trusts him. For now, that’s what we have.”

Hiccup let out a long breath. “Then we’ll take it. Even if it means watching our backs the whole way.”

Toothless leaned against Ash, curling his tail around hers. “We will.”

Ash sighed and finally allowed herself to relax. “I just hope it’s enough.”

The three of them sat in silence again, the fire warming their scales and skin, while the sea whispered of what was still to come. Hiccup stifled a yawn.

“How long does this enchantment on my ears last, by the way?”

“Hmmm…” Ash muttered. “... probably until we leave tomorrow. As long as Antaris is floating around here, you’ll hear us. A shame all of Berk can’t, though.”

Hiccup stroked his chin. “Antaris is the amber stone, right? I didn’t realize they had names.”

Toothless hummed, his eyes closed. “Nightshade gave them names. Antaris prefers to use his magic for alteration, change… creative things, I guess.”

“What can you tell me about Nightshade?” Hiccup asked, still poking the fire.

Neither dragon spoke for a moment—not out of nervousness, but thoughtfulness.

“He’s… interesting.” Ash giggled. “Kind of chaotic. Extremely old and very smart.”

“He’s the most powerful creature alive, probably.” Toothless added. “Other than the dragonstones, of course. Nightshade’s a complicated dragon, but one thing’s for sure—if he calls you friend, he’ll go to great lengths for you.”

Hiccup threw the stick into the flames, his free hand reflexively reaching for the eye medallion. It flickered in the flames, as though watching them.

“I hope to meet him when he returns.” Hiccup resolved, before laying down next to Toothless on his free side, his head held up against him.

As the fire waned, the three enjoyed a restful sleep as the waves gently rocked against the island’s edge. 

They were going to need it.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Awakening

The sky glowed red, the rumble of clouds above echoing across the waves. At first, the crews of The Dagger’s Wake and Sea Witch mistook it for the setting sun—a late dusk glinting off high clouds, catching the masts and sails in hues of wine and rust. But the light never faded. The red deepened, thickened. It bled across the horizon like ink in water. And still it clung above them, unmoving.

No one said anything. Sailors knew better than to give a name to an omen.

“Land,” came the lookout’s cry, flat and hesitant. “Unknown coast.”

The captains of both vessels exchanged signals. A storm had carried them much too far east — beyond even the most recent Velesheim charts. But their food was low, and the Dagger’s Wake ’s hull was cracked. They had little choice.

In less than an hour, they made landfall.

The surf here was strangely silent. No gulls cried. No sea foam hissed. The waves rolled in like slow breath, lapping gently at the hulls, as though unwilling to disturb whatever lay beyond. Boots hit the shore with a crunch of white sand and dry shell. Dozens of pirates and scavengers moved inland—shovels, sacks, ropes, all carried like offerings into this unknown shore. Each sailor moved with purpose; scavenge whatever they could find, repair the ships and turn back to civilization. Their torches and lamps lit little, for the sky’s crimson wash bled onto everything: their skin, their blades, the sea.

The beachhead was wide and desolate. Beyond it, the land climbed slowly into a vast plain of dry, cracked earth that stretched to the horizon. No trees. No water. Only the occasional outcropping of black rock, like old teeth poking through the gums of a dying god.

“What is this place?” muttered one sailor, his boots scuffing ash more than soil.

“Not on any map,” another replied, squinting into the haze. “I don’t think anyone’s meant to be here.”

No one wanted to admit it, but the red light was playing tricks on their eyes. Shapes shimmered at the edge of vision—shadows that weren’t cast by anything, for nothing tall grew enough to cast one. Some swore they saw movement in the distance, like figures walking along the ridges, far too tall and too slow. But when they blinked, there was only dust.

They spread out into search parties, but no one found much. Rusted iron hoops, barnacle-ridden barrels, a half-buried sword. Sea glass. And bones. The scavengers found plenty of bones.

Whalebones, mostly. But some… smaller. Human, perhaps. Worn down by time.

It looked like nothing had lived here for centuries, yet the creeping sensation of being observed crawled down the neck of every pirate. Even the most hardened of them kept one hand near their weapons.

Then came the boy — Oryn.

Quiet, pale, barely 16 summers. They had picked him up on their last stop, and offered to pay him a share for hard labor—most of the crew of The Dagger’s Wake had taken a liking to the boy. He wandered further than the others, his sharp eyes drawn toward a shimmering glint caught in the roots of a shallow dune. The wind picked up slightly as he approached, curling dry earth into serpent coils around his boots.

It was a crystal, buried in the sand. Barely the length of his pinkie, brittle, and thin. The shard was blood-red and sharp-edged, like a piece of ruby chipped from a statue.

For a moment, Oryn simply stared at it, unable to believe his good fortune… and then it pulsed faintly with light, like a heart without skin.

Entranced, he reached for it, taking it in his hands gently.

And that’s when he saw it, on the edge of the horizon. His eyes had scanned the ridge line for signs of other items, and in the mirage Oryn saw a figure. Tall and skeletal, its skin blistered black and clinging to the bone. It’s head turned, and he beheld sunken eye sockets—and a pair of white lights where the eyes should be, bright and cold.

Oryn screamed.

He staggered backwards and fell, hands crashing down on the shard. There was a snap —the crystal cracked in half—and both jagged ends drove into the meat of his palms.

He looked up, heart beating fast in his chest—but the figure was gone. Above him, the clouds rolled inward, thick and fast, devouring the sky like smoke turning to blood. The storm was brewing again. Clenching his bleeding hands, Oryn made his way back to the shore.

The wind was picking up as the boy stumbled down the dune and back toward the anchored ships. His hands dripped blood onto the red-tinted sand, the pain pulsing with every heartbeat. But stranger still was the heat—burning, feverish heat—not from the air, but from within. It crawled under his skin, hot as coals, as though the shard had set something smoldering inside him.

He didn’t speak as he reached the others. His face was pale and slick with sweat, but he waved off their questions, mumbling something about falling on the rocks.

A few of the older sailors exchanged uneasy glances.

“The boy’s burning,” one muttered. “Get him below.”

They didn’t ask what he’d seen.

The captains had already begun barking orders. “Raise the sails!” “Turn to catch the starboard wind!” “No more searching—we’ve got what we need!”

But everyone knew that wasn’t why they were leaving. The clouds overhead had thickened into a ceiling of crimson and charcoal, twisting like smoke through the upper sky. No birds had followed them ashore. No sounds echoed but their own voices and the soft moan of wind across sand. They pushed off without ceremony, every sailor preferring the stormy seas to whatever hellscape they had landed on. By the time the last anchor was hauled, the surf had turned black and slow, dragging like oil under the keels.

Oryn was half-carried into the cramped lower quarters of The Dagger’s Wake . He didn’t fight it—just trembled violently as the fever rose. A wiry man named Casker—an old sailor with sun-beaten skin and a crude tattoo of a sea serpent—knelt beside him with a rag and a bottle of rum.

“Easy, lad,” Casker muttered, uncorking the bottle and dousing a length of cloth. “Don’t need pure hands to haul rope. You’ll live.”

Oryn said nothing. His eyes were wide, glassy. When Casker peeled back the makeshift wrappings, he whistled. The wounds were clean, too clean. No swelling. No splintered skin. Just two perfectly symmetrical punctures, one in each palm, still trickling blood that looked too dark, almost purple.

Casker hesitated, then pressed the rum-soaked cloth against the left hand.

Oryn didn’t flinch.

“...You alright, boy?”

Oryn turned his head slowly. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. Not at first. Then—barely audible—he whispered something:

“He’s still dreaming.”

Casker leaned closer. “What did you say?”

Oryn’s eyes flicked toward him. They weren’t glassy anymore—they were bloodshot. Bright veins had begun to spiderweb outward from the corners. His breath hitched, then stopped, then came back in a sudden wheeze.

Casker stepped back, unease prickling up his spine. Outside, thunder rolled over the waves.

The storm broke minutes after they left shore. It didn’t roll in like most storms—no gradual darkening of the sky, no steady drum of rain. It came down like a curtain. One moment the sails flapped in a growing breeze; the next, wind howled with the rage of gods, and the sea rose up in great black hills. Thunder split the sky with the sound of falling trees, and crimson lightning crackled through clouds that churned like boiling blood.

The pirates of The Dagger’s Wake were seasoned men—used to gales, hard swells, and worse. They moved fast and grim, tying down sails, hauling lines, reinforcing the mainsail before it could snap under the force of the wind. Their boots slammed across the slick deck, curses lost beneath the roar of waves crashing over the rail.

“She’s listing!” someone yelled. “Bring buckets!”

“Keep her into the wind!”

Lanterns swung wildly in their casings. Rain poured down in sheets so thick it turned the air to glass. The Sea Witch , barely a hundred yards off their port, rode the waves like a drunk ghost, vanishing between crests.

Below deck, the sea slammed against the hull in rhythmic crashes. The groan of wood and iron reverberated through the bones of the ship. Most of the crew was topside, fighting to keep the vessel alive.

That’s when they heard it—a scream. Short. Sharp. And silenced too quickly.

The few sailors still below froze. It had come from the back cabin—the one where Oryn had been taken to rest.

One of the younger deckhands, named Sellis, bolted toward the door. He shoved it open without thinking, the hinges groaning—and he staggered back, horrified.

Casker was dead. The man lay sprawled across the floor, his throat torn open like wet parchment. Blood soaked the boards, mixing with the sway of seawater underfoot. One hand was still clutching the blood-soaked rag he’d used to clean Oryn’s wounds.

The boy stood above him.

Or rather—what had once been a boy.

Oryn’s eyes burned in the lantern light, two perfect red coals set into a deathly pale face. Blood ran in streaks from his mouth. His fingers twitched in strange, spasmodic gestures—too long now, too jointed—and his spine bent like something learning to stand upright for the first time. He stared at Sellis with no recognition, no emotion. Just hunger.

Sellis didn’t scream.

He tried to slam the door—but Oryn was already moving.

The wood splintered as the boy-thing leapt forward, a blur of tattered clothes and gnashing teeth. Sellis went down in a mess of arms and flailing limbs. The sounds that followed were wet. Terrible. Not like a man dying, but like a deer being gutted alive.

A bell began to clang on the main deck—a sailor from down below had ran to spread the alarm. Footsteps thundered down the stairs. Four men rushed into the lower passage, brandishing knives, axes, anything they could find.

“Sellis!” one of them shouted.

But Sellis was already gone. What remained of him was unrecognizable. 

And Oryn was still there, hunched, crouched, and snarling. Blood coated his face and hands. His arms twitched again—jerking like they were puppeted—and his mouth moved without sound. But his eyes never left them.

Then he screamed.

It wasn’t a voice—it was a noise of raw fury and inhuman hate. The lanterns flickered, one shattering from the force of it. And Oryn lunged again.

He was faster than a child had any right to be. Stronger than any man should be. Flesh tore. Bones cracked. One man managed to land a hatchet blow burying it into his stomach—but he didn’t react, silencing him like a starved predator.

Panic erupted.

“On deck! On deck!”

But the stairwell was narrow, and blood slicked the steps. By the time someone reached the hatch and threw it open, half the below-deck crew was already dead or dying. Screams rang out over the storm, mixing with thunder.

And now both ships were colliding—drawn together by the current, by panic.

From the Sea Witch , men leaned over the rails, shouting for survivors. Lines were tossed. Two figures leapt from the deck of the Dagger’s Wake , swimming madly in the storm.

Behind them, Oryn stood near the shattered hatch. His face was pale and lifeless, yet the body moved. His limbs were crooked and shaking, as though there were worms crawling beneath the skin. Red light poured from his eyes like ruby candles in the dark. He was soaked, steaming, his skin too hot for the rain to touch.

He leapt.

A pirate from the Sea Witch met him mid-air with a cutlass and—miraculously—sliced through his forearm.

Oryn landed hard back on the deck of the Wake , shrieking in rage. The severed limb fell into the sea and vanished beneath the waves.

But as the sailors of the Sea Witch tried to push away, a wave larger than anything yet struck its port side—and flipped the ship entirely.

The Dagger’s Wake drifted into the night, storm-tossed and silent.

And Oryn—bleeding, burning, half-formed—dragged himself below deck again to feed.

The storm raged. The red sky boiled.

Far beneath, the lost arm drifted southward, mixed in with the wreckage and drowning bodies from the Sea Witch . The current carried the remains of the ship for a number of days — long enough for the storm to die, for the crimson sky to slightly fade in color. But eventually, the wreckage all found itself thrown up again on the shore, many leagues south of where the horror began.

The sand was littered with the possessions of the dead ship — shattered planks, splintered masts, scraps of sail tangled like wet parchment in the foam. There still was no sound but the sea. The crimson clouds still covered the sky above—but they were lighter, less suffocating, but no less ominous.

Here, in the furthest southern reaches of the Wastes, the surf sloshed against a narrow, curling beach of grey sand and dark stone. No footprints. No insects. Just silence, deep and ancient, broken only by the whisper of wind over the dunes.

Then something stirred.

A tangle of kelp and broken wood bumped against the shoreline, pushed by the lazy current. Tangled in its mass, a single arm—pale, bloated, half-preserved—thudded against a rock and came to rest on the sand. For a moment, it looked like any drowned man’s limb. Twisted. Dead. Still.

Then the fingers twitched. Once. Twice.

The skin along the palm began to ripple, as though something beneath it were squirming. The fingers flexed all at once, seizing the earth in a vice grip. The wrist bulged. Split. Muscle squelched wetly across raw bone, reknitting with sickening speed. A spiderweb of red veins crawled up the forearm. Skin boiled, then smoothed.

And the arm began to grow.

What followed could barely be called a transformation. It was an eruption of the unnatural.

Flesh sloughed off in sheets before hardening again, bones crackled and stretched like wet driftwood bending under weight. The shoulder grew next, ballooning outward before snapping into place with a wet pop. From there came ribs, muscle, a spine writhing like a serpent beneath the sand. It was like watching a body being sculpted from blood.

Then hair—long and black as night—spilled from a newly-formed scalp.

The sound of the waves masked the low, gurgling breath of something new drawing its first air.

At last, where moments before there had been only drift and rot, a human lay in the sand.

Young, perhaps in his twenties. Tall. Bare-chested, the curve of muscle across his arms and shoulders sharpened like a warrior’s. His skin was smooth and pale, save for red veins that shimmered faintly beneath it. Saltwater slicked his hair into ragged strands, splayed beneath him like a raven’s broken wings.

He gasped.

His whole body convulsed, air tearing into lungs that had not existed moments before.

He rolled onto his side, coughing violently, seawater pouring from his throat. His fingers clawed at the earth, eyes squeezed shut against the world.

When they opened — they burned.

Ruby red and glowing, like twin lanterns glowing in the dusk. And behind the glow, their shape… narrow slits for pupils. Reptilian.

He blinked once. Twice. His breath slowed, but not his panic.

He looked at his hands—whole, unmarred, unfamiliar. He touched his face. His chest. His mouth.

And then, with the cry of a man who had no name to scream, he fell on his back in the wet sand, trembling.

He didn’t know where he was.

He didn’t know what he was. 

He didn’t know anything.

But the storm had passed. And he was alive.

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: The Stranger

The wind scraped across his back like fingernails, curling through the dead grass and battered driftwood. His skin was raw, his throat bone-dry. The water from the sea had receded, but the cold remained. His fingers dug into the damp earth as if grasping for something he didn’t know he’d lost.

He did not know who he was.

Not his name. Not his past. Not why his heart beat faster every time the wind howled, or why his eyes flinched at the color red. He only knew one thing.

He was alone.

He crawled at first, knees biting into gravel, arms trembling beneath a body that had only just learned to exist. Salt clung to every inch of him. The sky above churned with rust-colored clouds, the same sky from the nightmare — he was certain of it, even if he couldn’t say what the nightmare had been.

It didn’t matter.

Survival began not with thought, but with motion.

He found driftwood first, shaped like ribs from a broken leviathan. Beneath one of the larger hull shards, he found a burlap sack bloated with water; inside it was rolled a stained tunic, a pair of threadbare trousers, and half a cracked belt. He dressed in silence, shivering. Every sound—every c reak of timber or whistle of wind—made him flinch. He found a dirty brown cloak, soaked with seawater, yet he draped it over his shoulders as though wrapping a shroud.

Then came the hunger.

He didn’t know why he needed to eat, only that his stomach ached, and his nose detected numerous smells in search of sustenance. He scavenged until he found a torn leather pouch of bread and a half-rotten crate of dried fish. The meat was sour but edible; he ate with his fingers, gagged once, then swallowed. He almost dropped it, almost let the hunger burn longer. But his fingers moved of their own accord. 

When he chewed, his throat rebelled—but his stomach welcomed it with a shudder of greedy warmth. It scared him, how quickly the need overtook him. The thirst was worse, until he found a broken barrel with rainwater pooled in its curve. He drank without dignity.

Among the debris, he found the weapon.

A harpoon. The tip rusted but sharp, its shaft solid and wrapped with a tattered length of rope. It fit in his grip too naturally. He did not remember how he knew how to throw it, but he knew how it would fly. Some ancient muscle memory coiled in his shoulder when he tested the weight. He carried it like a crutch at first, then like a staff.

At some point he began to walk away from the sea. There was nothing else to do.

The Wastes offered no trail, no landmarks, just open desolation. Flat plains of gray dirt and dry stone. The occasional outcrop. Dust like ash coated everything. Days passed—he couldn’t say how many. There was no sun, not really, only the constant red sheen above, dimming and brightening without rhythm. He walked toward nothing. Sometimes toward rock formations, sometimes toward shadows that weren’t there when he arrived.

He didn’t know what he looked like, hadn’t seen his reflection. He could have been young. He could have been a monster. His hands were strong—his body lean—but none of it felt like his. Not truly. He didn’t know if he was good. Or how he even knew what that was.

And he remembered things. Not names, not people, but impressions . The cold metal of chains. The taste of blood. Words in languages he did not know. He muttered sounds to himself when he needed to stay awake, though he never knew what he was saying. Clicks, breaths, patterns that emerged without intent.

And always, the fire within.

A heat burned in his bones. It made him move longer than he should, kept him alive when his feet bled. But it wasn’t constant. Sometimes it flared. Sometimes it vanished and left him empty, exhausted, and aching.

He was strong. Stronger than he should have been. He could leap higher than instinct allowed. Swing the harpoon with speed. But he wasn’t invincible. When he slipped and cut his arm on a jagged stone, the blood was red, bright and fast. The cut closed in a matter of seconds, but the pain was real.

He bled. He hurt. He lived.

Whenever sleep came, it came cruelly. Nightmares tore at his rest; skies split open like wounds, dripping ash. Figures with no faces reached for him with hands made of smoke. A black scaled mouth opening wider than a man’s should, whispering words he couldn’t understand, with rows of pearly pointed teeth. 

And behind it all… a giant shadow.

He—though the man didn’t know how he knew him—stood tall as the trees from a forest a world away. His eyes were golden, glowing like stars in darkness. His voice was a thunderclap split into syllables. And whenever the dream ended, the man woke up screaming, lungs burning, skin wet with sweat.

He didn’t know when he ran out of food. He didn’t notice the water drying up, either. He walked anyway.

His limbs grew heavy. His breath shallower. Still he walked. His will was not stubbornness — it was something older. A survival buried deeper than memory. A voice without words spoke to him, goading him — Move. Get up. Keep going. 

Until his legs buckled.

His knees struck the earth. He tried to rise and fell again. The harpoon slipped from his fingers. His body trembled. The world tilted, the sky bleeding red.

He heard rumbling.

He thought it was another hallucination—one of the many he’d chased across the horizon. But these were real. Horses. The dull clop of hooves over dry earth. The huff of animals breathing heavily. The murmur of voices.

He lifted his head with effort, just enough to see a shadow approaching, tall and deformed.

And then—her.

A woman, mounted on a chestnut horse. Clothed in a tight sleeveless tunic of black wool, with what appeared to be an insignia of a bird stitched to her cloak. Her auburn hair was tied back in a braid, but strands had slipped loose, catching the wind. A long spear was slung over her shoulder, its steel tip gleaming in the crimson light of the clouds. The leather bracers on her wrists were patterned with gold-inked thread, and a curved dagger hung at her belt in a tooled sheath. She wasn’t just passing through—she was a warrior. Her face was young and fierce, shaped by hardship but not hardened by it. Her hazel eyes locked on him with sharp concern.

“By the gods…” she breathed.

The man tried to speak, but nothing came. 

“Meera!” someone called from behind her. “What is it?”

“A man,” she answered, already dismounting. “He’s half-dead—get the water!”

She knelt beside him, placing cool fingers on his wrist to check his pulse. Her touch was firm. Kind. Her voice was quiet, but strong.

“You’re alright. You’re safe. You’ll be alright…”

His eyes widened in fear as he flinched at her touch—it was too gentle, too sincere. Her eyes locked on to his own, their red glow flickering across her hazel irises.

Her shocked face was the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8: Instinct

The first thing he felt was warmth — not comfort, but stifling heat, trapped in fabric that clung to his skin. The air smelled of smoke and cloth and something faintly sweet, like boiled herbs. Beneath him, the ground shifted subtly with movement—furs layered over packed earth.

Then came the voices.

Soft. Muffled. Somewhere outside.

He opened his eyes slowly.

The ceiling above was canvas, dyed a dusty ochre and supported by a frame of bone and wood. Shapes moved beyond its thin walls — shadows of people talking, the flicker of a fire, the murmur of hooves. He tried to sit up and groaned, the motion sparking pain in muscles he didn’t remember using.

A rustle beside him. Someone had been waiting.

“You’re finally awake.”

The voice was low, female—steady. He turned his head, blinking.

She sat beside him, one leg folded beneath the other. Her auburn hair was now loose from its braid, swept over one shoulder in soft waves. She looked different in lamplight—less fierce, more real. A wide scar cut just beneath her left eye, faded but noticeable. Her hazel eyes scanned his face with quiet scrutiny.

“I wasn’t sure you’d live,” Meera said. “You’ve been asleep for two days.”

His mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He tried again. “Wh…where?”

His voice was hoarse, unused. Speaking felt like dragging words from a forgotten well; he knew words, yet they came from nowhere. He coughed, and she immediately offered a waterskin, holding it steady as he drank. Cool, clean water slid down his throat.

“You’re with the Outlanders,” she said, watching him carefully. “You were found west of the Kolgar cliffs, deep in the wasteland. We brought you back to our village.”

The words meant nothing to him.

He swallowed, trying again. “Meera…”

“You remembered my name,” she noted, brows lifting. “That’s a good sign.”

He hesitated. “Don’t… remember yours. Just… heard it. Before sleep.”

Meera smiled faintly, then turned serious. “What’s your name?”

He shook his head.

“Your tribe?”

Another pause. He blinked at her, lost.

She frowned. “Where are you from, then?”

“I… don’t know.”

That stopped her. For the first time since he’d woken, Meera looked genuinely unsettled.

“No tribe?” she echoed, almost to herself. “That’s not possible. No one lives that far north alone. The bone walkers would kill them.”

His voice was barely a whisper. “I’m alone.”

She leaned forward slightly. “Do you know what Nangren is?”

He shook his head.

“You don’t know Nangren. You don’t know your name. You don’t know your tribe. Gods’ breath… What do you know?”

He hesitated, then spoke slowly, like tasting each syllable. “Pain.”

For a moment, Meera just stared at him, as if trying to decide whether he was lying — or mad. But something in his gaze made her pause. There was no deceit there. Just confusion. And fear.

She exhaled and stood. “I need to speak to the others.”

He flinched, backing slightly against the cot.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Meera said, pausing near the flap. “You’re safe here. My people follow me. And I say you’re not a threat… yet.”

With that, she stepped outside.

He sat there, breathing hard, eyes adjusting to the golden shadows cast by the tent’s small hearth lamp. The flicker of fire made her outline linger on the wall as she walked away.

He felt sick. His skin didn’t fit, like he was stitched together wrong. This wasn’t his body — so what was?

The campfire smoke curled low on the ground as Meera stepped outside, the flap falling shut behind her. The evening air was cooler now, stirred by a gentle breeze that rustled the tents like whispering hands. Above, the crimson clouds loomed still—never moving, never fading.

She scanned the camp. To the east, children played in the dust with rough wooden figures. To the west, warriors trained, their movements sharp and deliberate. But there was one group standing motionless in the shadow—half-shrouded behind a storage yurt, crouched like wolves waiting for permission to strike.

Swords unsheathed.

She strode toward them, ducking under a dead tree branch as she went. They straightened as she approached, six in all — all experienced Outlanders, leather-armored and ash-faced, their curved blades glinting dully in the firelight. Most were older than her, hardened by years of hunting and gathering the wilds of Nangren. The one in front—Ravik—had a scar splitting his lip, a permanent sneer etched into his weathered features.

Meera stopped a few feet from them, her voice low but firm.

“Why are your blades drawn?”

Ravik didn’t lower his sword. “You saw his eyes.”

“I saw a man half-dead.”

“A man with red eyes, Meera. That’s not right.”

Her expression didn’t change. “He can’t be a bone walker… those who get bitten by them don’t live long.”

Another warrior, a tall woman named Helin, stepped forward. “What else can he be? His skin is perfect. His eyes are wrong. And no one just wanders out there, not without a tribe. He’s cursed.”

“Or confused,” Meera snapped.

“He can’t even speak,” Ravik said. “Choked on his own breath when you touched him. He may not be a bone walker but he’s still dangerous. He has eyes like a serpent, for god's sake!”

“That’s not your call!”

There was silence—hard, uneasy.

“We wait for the elder’s word,” Meera said. “If she says he’s to die, then I won’t stop it. But until then, keep your blades to yourselves. That’s an order.”

Ravik took a slow step forward, face tightening. “If he turns, we won’t have time to wait for orders.”

Meera didn’t flinch. “If he turns, you’ll get your fight. But I saw no monster, just a man too scared to speak. And we need every man out here.”

Helin spat into the dust. The others backed off, grumbling.

Ravik sheathed his sword at last. “Then you better pray he stays scared.”

She didn’t reply. Turning away, Meera strode down the sloped path toward the elder’s tent.

It was smaller than her own, nestled between two wind-carved rocks at the village’s edge. A curved lantern flickered at the entrance, and a wreath of dried poppy hung over the door.

Inside, the tent smelled of resin and foul herbs.

Elder Surayya sat cross-legged near the small fire, her eyes closed, her skin as wrinkled as weathered leather. She wore no headdress—only a strand of bone beads around her neck, each bead said to mark a storm survived. Her eyes opened slowly at Meera’s approach, dark as coals and ancient.

“He lives?” the elder rasped.

“He does.” she replied.

“He’s not one of ours.”

“No.”

“And his eyes?”

“Like rubies. They glow like fire.”

Surayya leaned back slightly, listening to something in the smoke that Meera could not hear. Then she stood—slowly, carefully—and reached for her staff.

“Show me.”

Together they returned to the tent, silence trailing behind them.

Inside, the man hadn’t moved much. He sat now, curled into the corner like a beaten animal. When the flap opened, he turned fast—too fast—and flinched as though struck.

Meera stepped in first, her hands raised slightly.

“It’s alright,” she said. “This is Elder Surayya. She’s here to help.”

The man said nothing. But his eyes—those burning, red-lit eyes—locked onto the elder with something between terror and curiosity.

Surayya studied him for a long time. She said nothing, did nothing. Just watched. Then she stepped forward, slowly, and crouched with a quiet creak of old joints. One gnarled hand reached out—not to touch him, but to hover near his cheek.

He trembled. But did not recoil.

Surayya’s eyes narrowed.

“He burns,” she whispered. “But not with fever.”

Meera looked at her, anxious. “Well?”

“I don’t know what he is,” the elder said softly. “But he is not dead. Far from it.”

Her hand dropped. She rose, bones creaking like an old tree.

“You’ll watch him?”

Meera nodded.

“Then watch well. His fate will shape more than just your tribe.”

She turned and left without another word.

Meera looked back at the man. He had pressed himself against the wall, but something in his breath had changed. Still afraid. But less alone.

The fire in the brazier had dimmed, casting long shadows along the tent walls. A few embers still crackled in the iron bowl near the man’s feet, and Meera lit a second lantern to stave off the cold. She sat cross-legged near the flap, her spear within reach but untouched, hands resting on her knees.

The man had curled up again, cloaked and half-silent, though his eyes never closed for long. His eyes still burned like coals, but they were calmer, more reflective.

“Do you have a name?” Meera asked gently.

He shook his head. “If I did, I’ve lost it.”

His voice was raw—unused, maybe even unfamiliar to him—but the fear had ebbed from it. Now it just sounded hollow. Searching.

Meera tilted her head. “You speak well, even if you don’t know where the words come from.”

He gave a faint, humorless laugh. “I don’t know much else. Just… scraps. Pieces.”

She nodded slowly. “Then let’s start with something simple.”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t object either.

“I’m Meera. You’re in Nangren. That’s what we call this land now. It used to be different—green, they say. Before the curse.”

His brow furrowed. “The curse?”

Meera poked the lantern with a bit of straw, keeping the flame alive. “They say a century and a half ago, something broke the land. Storms came that never left, the soil died. Water vanished into the earth. Whatever did it… it left this place wounded. Like a limb that never healed.”

The man’s red eyes flicked toward her, glowing faintly in the firelight. “And you stayed?”

“Some did. The northern lands are completely gone, more poisonous and deadly the further you travel. But the southern mountains still hold water, and the land provides if you know how to coax it. Most of the tribes here survive by being clever, by sticking close to each other.” She paused. “And by keeping watch for bone walkers.”

He shivered slightly at the phrase, as if the word itself rang with some memory just beyond reach.

“What are they?” he asked.

“Wandering corpses. They come down from the north during the worst storms—animated by some dark evil. We don’t know what makes them rise.” She gave a grim smile. “We just know they don’t stay down unless you burn them. They used to come in droves… thankfully there’s less of them now.”

The man looked down at his hands. Flexed his fingers. “I heard voices outside… they think I’m one of them.”

“I know.” Meera met his gaze. “But you’re not.”

“How can you be sure?”

“You breathe. You bleed. And you’re afraid.”

He swallowed. “I don’t want you to hurt me.” 

It was less of a statement, more of a confession.

“I won’t.” she promised.

He hesitated, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the cloak. “And I don’t want to hurt you.”

Meera watched him carefully, her face unreadable. “You think you will?”

“I don’t know.” He looked haunted, gaze shifting to the flickering shadows on the tent wall. “There’s something wrong with me… I don’t know what I am, what to do.”

A long silence settled between them.

Then he looked at her again. “You saved me. I want to help. Repay you. But I don’t know how.”

Meera smiled softly. “Then start by getting some sleep. The rest will come later.”

She rose and stretched, her movements fluid and relaxed. “You’re still too weak to walk far. But if you’re up for it, I’ll show you the camp tomorrow. It might help.”

He looked uncertain, but nodded. “Alright.”

Meera laid her spear down beside her bedroll and sat cross-legged again, not far from him. “Try to sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

He leaned back against the tent wall, curling deeper into the cloak. “I keep seeing things when I close my eyes. Faces. Light. A voice I can’t place.”

“You’re safe here,” she said quietly. “Even if the dreams come.”

He nodded, slowly climbing back onto the pile of furs.

Meera watched him get comfortable, realizing she didn’t know what to call him. 

“I think… I’m going to call you Balan, if that’s ok.” 

His face contorted, as though something proud rejected the thought. But it disappeared.

“Balan,” he enunciated. “I don’t mind.”

“It means ‘brave’,” she confessed. “It was my father’s name. Now go to sleep.”

He tried. At first, his breath evened. His shoulders relaxed. But within minutes, his face twitched, and his legs jerked under the cloak. Muffled sounds escaped his throat—whimpers, half-formed names Meera didn’t know. One hand gripped the edge of the blanket tightly, as if warding something off.

Meera stayed where she was, watching. She didn’t wake him—she couldn’t help him.

But she listened—softly, patiently—until his breathing settled again. Her hazel eyes lingered on the stranger curled beneath a patchwork cloak, burning in fevered sleep like a coal dropped into her world. 

She pitied him.

And though she didn’t know why, her heart ached for what had reduced him to this.

Eventually, her eyes drifted closed as well.

Outside, the storm clouds rolled. But inside the tent, the only sound was breath.

The next morning…

The tent flap stirred with a low rustle as the first light of morning seeped through the heavy clouds outside—hazy, but brighter than before. The crimson overcast remained, but it was thinner now, like a fading bruise on the sky. In the stillness of the tent, Meera knelt beside the bedroll.

“Balan,” she said softly.

The man didn’t stir at first. His breathing was steady but shallow, his face slack with sleep. She reached out and touched his shoulder gently.

“Balan. It’s morning.”

Reptilian eyes snapped open. Before she could react, his hand shot out—gripping her wrist with crushing strength. His other hand reached for something that wasn’t there, instinct clawing toward a forgotten weapon. For a heartbeat, Meera saw something unrecognizable in his face: not the man from yesterday, but something older, feral. Fear and fury coiled together in one violent reflex.

“Balan!” she barked.

His breathing hitched, his fingers relaxing. The wildness drained from his eyes as recognition dawned. His grip softened, and he released her wrist like it had burned him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. “I thought—”

“It’s alright.” Meera rubbed her wrist but didn’t step back. “You were dreaming again.”

He nodded, ashamed. His red eyes lowered. 

She offered him a flat piece of bread and a small wooden bowl of dried meat. “Eat. You’ll feel better.”

He took it, still avoiding her gaze, and began to eat without a word.

“Still want that tour?” Meera asked after a moment.

He blinked. “Yes. Please.”

Outside, the air was cold and dry. The red clouds churned above, dimming the sun until only a pale silver light filtered through. But it was still brighter than yesterday. Balan squinted into the haze as Meera led him down a narrow path between canvas tents and makeshift huts of stone and dried wood.

The village wasn’t large—a few hundred people at most—but it was organized. Children gathered water in clay jugs from a singular stream that ran through the center. A woman stirred a stew over an open flame. Two men hauled firewood toward the smithy, while several others guarded the perimeter. Balan noted the spears, the bows. Everyone was armed.

As they passed a tall wooden post marked with black feathers, Balan paused.

“What’s that for?” he asked, pointing to the banner swaying gently in the wind. A crude raven had been painted across a tattered grey cloth, its wings spread wide.

“Our sigil,” Meera said. “The raven watches the sky while we watch the earth. They’re survivors, like us. We’ve trained them to follow bone walkers from above—or track strangers. Like you.”

Balan looked around. “And you trust me?”

“I trust what I see,” Meera replied. “You’re not a corpse. Not yet, anyway.”

He offered a dry smile. It was the first time she’d seen his expression ease, if only a little.

They walked on. She showed him the livestock pens—mostly goats. Then the storage tents, then the southern fence. Beyond the low wall of stacked stone and timber, a rolling plain stretched southward, filled with dead trees that offered no food but plenty of fuel. Dozens of horses grazed there—the grass was faintly green, less dead due to the stream—their heads lifting at the sound of Meera’s voice.

“We breed them here,” she said. “Our greatest strength. Fast and strong. Most tribes have given up trying to cross Nangren without them.”

“They’re beautiful,” Balan said. His eyes lingered on one particularly dark horse, tall and sinewy.

“They like you,” Meera noted. “Or they don’t think you’re a threat.”

“That makes one of us,” came a voice from behind.

Balan turned.

A tall man stood a few paces away, arms folded across his chest. He was lean and wiry, with a long scar over one cheek and a short spear strapped to his back. His eyes—ice grey—were fixed on Balan.

“Ravik,” Meera said, her tone flat.

“Heard you’ve been walking around.” Ravik didn’t look at her. His gaze stayed on Balan. “He looks strong. But we haven’t seen proof.”

Meera stepped between them. “He’s barely alive. He’s not your sparring dummy.”

“I’m not looking for a fight,” Ravik said calmly. “Just a test. He looks fine, doesn’t he? He should be able to hold a stick.”

Balan surprised them both by stepping forward. “I can try.”

Meera turned sharply. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he said. “I… need to know what I can do.”

Something in his voice silenced her protest — he seemed strangely eager.

Ravik smirked. “Alright, stranger. Let’s see what you know.”

He turned and walked toward the sparring ring near the village edge, already drawing the short wooden pole he carried in place of a blade. Meera looked at Balan with equal parts concern and curiosity.

“You’re sure?”

“No,” Balan admitted. “But I feel like I should.”

She handed him a practice staff from a nearby rack. He took it slowly—hands adjusting, testing the weight. His grip was loose, but practiced. Familiar.

He followed Ravik without hesitation.

Meera stood at the edge of the ring, her eyes locked on Balan’s strange, burning ones—wondering just how much fire still slept beneath his skin. 

The ring was little more than a cleared patch of dust and trampled grass, bordered by stones and a few low posts. But the moment Balan stepped into it, he felt something shift—like his breath moving into an old rhythm. His bare feet settled in the grit. His fingers adjusted their grip around the wooden staff.

Ravik twirled his own staff once, casually, then struck out with a jab meant to test balance. Balan blocked without thinking. The two clashed again—then again, faster. Wood cracked against wood as the staves collided.

It was over in a minute.

Ravik lunged, aiming for Balan’s ribs, only to find himself twisting in midair as the stranger sidestepped and swept his leg. He landed hard on his back, dust blooming around him.

A few watchers had gathered already—children, warriors on patrol, a couple of elders drawn by the noise.

Ravik stood with a grunt, rubbing his shoulder.

“Not bad,” he muttered. “Let’s try that again.”

They did—this time Ravik pressed harder. Faster strikes, trick footwork. But Balan matched him move for move, parrying with uncanny precision. He didn’t overstep, didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. His body moved on instincts he didn’t understand, but trusted. He fought not like a brawler, but like a seasoned veteran—fluid, deliberate, and cold.

Ravik’s strikes slowed as he tired, his frustration growing.

More villagers arrived. A few of them muttered. Someone whistled.

Ravik stepped back, spit into the dirt, and tossed aside his staff.

“Alright,” he growled. “You want to impress? Let’s use something real.”

He moved to the weapon rack and selected a broad-headed club—not spiked, but heavy enough to break bone. “Pick one.”

“Ravik,” Meera warned, stepping toward the ring. “That’s enough.”

Balan, breathing steadily, shook his head. “It’s alright.”

His eyes moved across the rack. Knives. Axes. Short swords. He passed them all.

Then his hand closed around a greatsword—long, two-handed, its steel dulled by years of use but balanced perfectly. It was clearly too large for any untrained man. But as Balan lifted it, something ancient clicked into place. The weight, the curve, the hilt—he had wielded this before. Not this exact blade, maybe, but one like it. The greatsword wasn’t just a weapon—it was a memory. And Balan seized it.

Gasps rose from the watchers as he twirled it one handed with ease, letting it fall across his shoulder with an almost casual grace.

Ravik’s eyes narrowed.

“Then let’s dance.”

The clash was thunderous.

Ravik struck hard, fast, and wild, Balan countering with brutal efficiency. The sword moved like an extension of him—blocking low sweeps, parrying overhead strikes, even using the broad side as a shield when Ravik pressed in close.

They moved in a circle of flying dust and stomping feet. Ravik growled with each swing. Balan remained quiet—focused, eyes gleaming. His breathing was steady, his posture perfect. A joyous smile crossed his features, his ruby eyes alight with thrill.

Then he pivoted — drove Ravik back with a sweep of the blade, spun, and caught his opponent’s wrist with the flat of the sword. The club fell from Ravik’s hand. Balan stepped forward and brought the pommel lightly to Ravik’s chest.

A clean end.

Ravik stepped back, breathing hard, then lifted his hand and barked a laugh. “Alright, stranger. You’ve got steel in you.”

The gathered crowd erupted in applause—half stunned, half thrilled.

Meera clapped too, unable to hide the grin tugging at her lips.

Balan looked at the greatsword in his hand and gave it a gentle spin before planting it in the ground. His chest rose and fell, but not from exhaustion. He hadn’t just passed a test—he’d reclaimed something.

Ravik extended his hand.

“Don’t know what you are,” he said, grinning through his bruises, “but you’re no bone walker. You fight like a man who enjoys war.”

Balan took the offered hand, nodding once. “I think I did… once.”

And for the first time since waking in the sand, he felt the smallest whisper of pride.

Chapter Text

Chapter 9: The Walkers

The days passed slowly, but not unkindly.

Balan found himself moving like a ghost through the village — neither welcomed nor shunned, but watched. Always watched. Some villagers still spat in the dirt as he passed, clutching charms or muttering oaths beneath their breath. But others nodded, offered water, even shared meat by the fire. He was no longer the demon. Now he was the red-eyed stranger, which, by tribal standards, was practically a promotion.

He spent most of his time near Meera. Not by request—at least not hers—but simply because he didn’t know where else to be. She moved with quiet command, leading work parties to the fences, checking horse lines, marking maps of distant hills. Wherever she went, knowledge followed, and Balan was hungry for it. He asked questions constantly. Meera answered them patiently, even when she should have been resting.

“There used to be more tribes,” she told him once, as they watched the horses graze in the dry southern paddocks. “Whole nations, even. Trade cities near the rivers, temples, songs… all gone now.”

“What happened to them?” he’d asked.

She’d hesitated, her eyes scanning the empty red sky.

“The curse happened. Before that, this entire place was a land of green. Trees like towers. Birds that sang at dawn. Sometimes—the elders say—you could even see dragons in the distance, black ones like ravens. Perched on mountaintops. Wings bigger than ships, if you believe it.”

Balan had gone quiet then, the image unsettling him. Not because of fear—but longing. Like a part of him had once flown alongside them.

It was on the fifth evening, in the soft dark of Meera’s tent, that her voice finally broke through the stillness to ask him a question.

“Balan… can I ask you something?”

He turned, startled slightly. Her eyes were shadowed by firelight, unreadable.

“Anything,” he said.

She didn’t answer right away. Her hands were busy with something—binding a length of sinew into a makeshift drawstring—but her shoulders had gone still.

“You asked me, back on your first day, if I trusted you.”

He nodded. “You said you did.”

“I wasn’t sure,” she confessed. “And I’m still not. But I need to know.” She finally looked up, her voice low. “Can I really?”

He blinked. “Yes.”

“That’s not enough.”

“I mean it,” he said, leaning forward. “I still don’t know what I am. I don’t know what I was. But I won’t hurt you, I promised. I would never—”

“It’s not just about me.” She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, as if bracing against something cold. “Some of them never wanted me to lead, Balan. Not after my father died. And even fewer thought I was right to bring you in.” A beat passed. “Some of them think I’m soft. Blind. Weak.”

Balan felt something curl in his chest—guilt, maybe. Maybe anger even. 

“You’re the only reason I’m alive. If they think that’s weakness, they don’t know what strength is.”

She studied him for a moment, then looked away. Her fingers trembled faintly. “I’ve led them through drought, sickness, and three bone walker raids. I’m not afraid to bleed for them. But I’m so tired of having to prove that I belong where I am.”

Balan didn’t speak right away. He reached across the space between them and gently placed his hand over hers. He didn’t know why, only that it seemed like a kind thing to do.

“Then let me help you prove it.”

She looked up, surprised.

“I’ll fight for you, Meera. Not because I owe you—which I do—but because I want to. I know who I want to be for now. Someone who protects the people who gave me a chance.”

Her lips parted slightly. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. “You mean that?”

He nodded. And she saw in his ruby eyes something different than terror or wrath. Warmth.

For a moment, they simply sat there—his hand over hers, the fire between them flickering like a heartbeat. She’d never let anyone get so close… but she didn’t pull away.

Then she smiled, faint and fleeting. “We’ll see if you still feel that way when you’re carrying water jugs tomorrow.”

On the seventh day, Balan rose early and went to the forge.

He liked the forge. It was loud, hot, and honest. The blacksmith, a wizened old man named Jesh, was missing three fingers on his left hand—but worked steel with a grace that made it look like a dance. Balan offered to help, and Jesh—grunting at first—let him carry ingots, pump the bellows, hammer out the flat of blades.

There was something about the fire, the iron, the shaping of raw metal into purpose that Balan didn’t understand. But it stirred something in him. Admiration. Jealousy. Familiarity. He watched the smith’s every move hungrily, as though he could learn it by sight alone.

“You take to the rhythm fast,” Jesh had muttered by midday, wiping sweat from his brow with a leather apron. “Like someone who’s seen the work done right.”

“I don’t remember,” Balan had replied. “But… I think I watched someone once. Someone really good.”

The air smelled of scorched hair and coal smoke. The hammer rang out in clean, sure strokes.

Then the ravens interrupted it.

At first, it was just a shadow passing over the forge door. Then a second. Then six. Balan stepped outside as they circled — six, ten, fifteen pairs of black wings wheeling overhead, sweeping across the village in slow, heavy arcs. A lookout’s horn blared, low and grim.

Meera came running from the western pasture, already armed with her spear.

“They’re circling, that means trouble,” she said. “Scouts say a small group. Bone walkers — maybe a dozen.”

Balan’s blood ran cold, though he wasn’t sure why.

The village erupted into motion.

Horns blew across the wind-whipped ridge, and riders sprinted for the stables with weapons in hand. Children were ushered into tents guarded by older warriors, and the smith’s hammer was replaced by the clatter of armor pulled from hooks. Dust kicked up as the southern gate swung open and out poured a vanguard of riders cloaked in raven-black.

Meera was already halfway to her horse when she saw Balan grabbing a sword from the smith’s cart.

“You don’t have to—!” she began, but stopped when she saw the look on his face. No fear. Just need.

“I’m going,” he said, sheathing the blade clumsily and pulling himself into the saddle. He barely got his balance before the beast beneath him gave an impatient whinny.

She hesitated, lips parted. Then nodded, handing him a lit torch. “Stay close.”

And they rode.

Thirty strong, as many that could’ve been readied in a manner of minutes. Hooves thundered across cracked earth, flanked by dust and the beating of raven wings above. Their cloaks billowed behind them like storm-banners, black as the fear pooling in Balan’s gut. The land to the north flattened into a long basin of old riverbed—dry now, scarred with ridges.

And there they were.

Dark shapes walked in single file through the dust. Twelve, maybe more. Their bodies looked like men but moved like puppets—limbs too loose, too fast. Where their eyes should have been, there were only sunken sockets filled with searing white lights.

Balan's breath caught.

He knew those eyes.

A scream, distant and thin, echoed through his memory—his own, or someone else’s. And then the cracking of chains. The tear of flesh being peeled from bone. A tower of screaming black fire reaching to a sky that split open and poured red.

His horse flinched beneath him, sensing his dread.

He clenched the reins harder, trying to drown the images. But they surged like a tide—images he couldn’t place, sounds he’d never heard, names he didn’t know. A shining light in the Abyss…

The wind howled.

Then the riders struck.

Meera and her forward group split into a diamond formation, surrounding the leading walkers and engaging with brutal efficiency. Spears thrust, swords danced in arcs. Bone walkers struck back with impossible strength, shrugging off wounds that would have dropped any man. It took tremendous teamwork — three warriors working in sync to bring one down, striking legs first, then spine, then neck. All their body parts were set aflame.

Balan had gone to the left of the main formation—trying to help surround the corpses—when his horse reared up sharply.

A bone walker had come out of nowhere—massive, clad in rusted iron, its face locked in an eternal snarl. Its greatsword swept beneath the horse with a terrible hiss. The animal screamed as both its front legs were cut clean through.

Balan was thrown from the saddle, both sword and torch torn from his grasp. He hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, and rolled. Dust filled his lungs. The scream of the dying horse blurred into the wind. Pain bloomed in his shoulder and ribs, but instinct rolled him aside just before the walker’s rusted greatsword slammed into the dirt where he’d been. The shockwave sent up a burst of dust and bone fragments.

He scrambled to his feet, half-crawling, fingers scrabbling for a weapon — any weapon.

The thing towered over him.

Its body was massive, but impossibly fast. The armor it wore was fused to its flesh in places, blackened and blistered, etched with dead runes. Its skin—what little was left—hung in strips like burnt parchment. And its eyes… gods, its eyes were wrong .

Twin circles of white light, glaring out of a skeletal, lipless face.

Balan froze.

“It’s not real,” he whispered, though he didn’t know why. “You’re not… real.”

But it was.

The walker came forward without a sound. No battle cry. No breath.

The greatsword rose again.

Balan dove, the blade missing his spine by inches as it bit deep into the rock. He rolled behind it, grabbing a jagged chunk of metal from the ground—maybe a shield rim, maybe not—and swung it wildly.

The impact staggered the walker — but only for a second. It turned with eerie grace, unaffected. The white light of its gaze burned brighter.

Balan felt something stir in him — something old, something angry . His breath caught, his body moving before thought could catch it. He roared and lunged, swinging the makeshift weapon again, this time at the creature’s sword arm.

It caught the blow on its forearm, but Balan didn’t stop. He dropped the scrap and grabbed the walker’s arm with both hands. Muscles strained, veins flared.

The arm snapped like dry wood.

The walker didn’t even flinch.

Balan roared in disbelief, slamming his shoulder into the walker’s chest to knock it back. It didn’t move. It simply reached for him with its remaining hand — clawed fingers raking toward his throat.

A memory flashed; hands—no, paws— large and black, wrapped around his neck, dragging him into water.

He screamed and twisted, dropping into a crouch. His fingers closed around the fallen greatsword.

Heavy. Old. Familiar.

The metal thrummed in his hands.

The walker raised its claw again—but Balan surged upward, swinging the greatsword in a wide, desperate arc.

The blade connected with a crunch.

The walker’s head was severed clean from its shoulders.

But the body did not fall. It took a step forward. Then another.

It swung its arm blindly, the claw carving through air as though nothing had happened. White fire still blazed in the fallen skull in the dirt.

Balan backed away, horrified.

“No,” he whispered. “This isn’t right!”

The skull’s mouth twitched, jaw opening and closing in silence. Light pulsed inside it.

He spotted the smoldering torch, still lying near the crushed remnants of his weapon. Lunging for it, he seized it and turned to the head. The fire was nearly out.

He jammed the torch into the open mouth.

The fire caught .

The white light flared once — and then winked out.

The body froze as it towered above him. A second passed. 

Then it crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.

Balan fell to his knees, panting. The torch dropped from his hand, hissing against the dirt.

He stared at the scorched skull, at the lifeless body.

He didn’t understand what had just happened.

But somewhere, deep in the well of borrowed memory, he recognized it.

This was how they died. With fire — Meera had mentioned that.

But to the head, only to the head.

He stood for a long time over the walker’s remains, his hands trembling at his sides. The smoke from the burning skull still drifted upward in lazy spirals, carrying a smell that made his stomach churn — charred bone and something older, fouler, as though the creature’s death had disturbed more than just its corpse.

The greatsword still lay beside him, slick with gore and too heavy in his hands. But he couldn’t let go. Not yet.

His breath came in shallow pulls. His heart thundered.

What was that thing? Why did I know how to kill it? Why?

The questions clawed at his skull, but no answers came — only fragments. Visions. Fire on a mountaintop. A name whispered by something too large to see. Chains. A broken circle of stones. Golden eyes.

He blinked it away.

The wind shifted, and with it came the cries of the living. Horses snorted. Riders barked orders. Metal rang against metal as weapons were cleaned and sheathed. Victory — but it tasted like ash.

And over it all—

“Balan!”

Her voice cut through the haze like an arrow.

“Balan—!”

It was raw with urgency, rising above the others. No more the calm leader barking orders — this was Meera's voice stripped bare, fraying at the edges.

He turned.

In the near distance, the riders had gathered among the wreckage. Smoke rose from the corpses of the walkers. At least four human bodies lay still, covered in cloaks. Around them, the others milled in anxious circles.

And Meera was moving among them, dismounted, calling out again.

“BALAN!”

He forced his legs into motion.

Step by step, he trudged across the scorched earth, the greatsword dragging behind him. His limbs were sore now. The fire in his chest had dimmed. Every movement reminded him he was still flesh—exhausted flesh.

Someone spotted him first — a young rider near the edge of the group, who let out a gasp.

“There! There he is!”

Heads turned. Weapons lowered. Eyes widened.

Meera whipped around.

When she saw him—bloody, pale, stumbling but whole—her face broke. Relief warred with fury and grief in her expression. She pushed through the others, her braid loose, her cloak flaring behind her.

“Where were you?” she half-demanded, half-cried as she reached him. “I thought—” She stopped, taking in his expression. “What happened to you?”

Balan opened his mouth. No words came. His throat was raw. His hands were shaking.

Meera’s voice softened.

“You’re alright,” she whispered, as if trying to convince herself.

“I killed it,” he rasped.

She blinked. “What?”

“I was alone. It—killed my horse.” His knuckles whitened on the sword’s hilt. “It wouldn’t die. I took its head. Burned it… then it stopped.”

For a moment, she just stared.

And then, behind them, someone called, “He killed one? Alone?”

The word rippled outward like a wave.

A chant began—not loud, not triumphant, but awed.

“Balan…”

“Balan…”

“Balan.”

It grew.

Meera glanced around, stunned. Even the veterans—the scarred, wary ones—were nodding. The chanting swelled until it echoed from the ridgelines.

Balan swayed on his feet, uncertain.

Meera reached out and steadied him, her hand firm on his arm.

He looked at her, but he didn’t see her. Only the filthy greatsword in his hand.

“Let’s go home,” she said, and the party rode back without a single word.

The four fallen were laid to rest before nightfall, their bodies burned atop pyres while the elders recited the old words. The fires of celebration still burned in the central square, where songs had begun to rise — half mourning, half praise. Then came the feasting and the drums, the clatter of bowls and clinking of mugs, laughter mingling with old grief.

But Balan was not among them.

He had accepted the embraces, the words of awe, the gifts of hard-earned bread and strong drink… but he’d not stayed long. His hands had trembled too much. The firelight had flickered too much like the torch pressed to the walker’s skull. And every time he looked down at his hands—he feared what they might still remember. The greatsword never left his grasp, trailing in the dirt wherever he went.

So he had withdrawn, retreating to the shelter he had been given: a simple canvas tent on the edge of the village, quiet and half-shadowed by a nearby outcrop.

Meera found him there long after the firelight had dimmed. She had spent several hours among her people—smiling, sharing stories and raising her cup when her villagers praised him—but her eyes had never stopped watching the edge of the crowd, wondering if he’d return.

He never did.

Now she slipped through the night air with quiet urgency, cloak gathered around her shoulders. The wind tugged gently at the raven sigil stitched near her collarbone. When she reached the tent, she heard movement.

Not waking movement. Thrashing.

She stepped inside without hesitation.

Balan was writhing in his bedroll, slick with sweat, arms twitching. His jaw clenched, his breathing fast and irregular. Meera’s heart clenched as she crossed to him, calling softly, “Balan…?”

But he didn’t wake.

His eyes were clamped shut, his hands balled into fists. And his lips were moving.

“No… don’t… I don’t want to…”

Darkness pressed in around him like the inside of a tomb. Hands—blackened, clawed—held a body splayed out before him on a stone slab. The corpse’s skin had been split open, organs exposed like a map of suffering.

And he knew this wasn’t a vision. It was a memory.

He was the one doing it. The hands were his own.

He didn’t want to. His chest ached with horror, but his hands moved with grim precision. He pulled the rib cage wider. The body convulsed—it was still alive. Eyes rolling back, mouth gasping. And somewhere in the shadows, a dispassionate voice whispered encouragement.

“It must be improved. It is frail, soft. We must change it.”

His hands trembled. Something in him screamed. But he could not stop. He dug deeper.

“Deeper,” the voice hissed.

A name came unbidden to his lips, like bile. He begged it for relief, cried for it to go away.

“NANCARIN!”

The cry split the tent, raw and guttural. Balan bolted upright, eyes wild, body shaking as if he’d been struck by lightning.

Meera was already there, hands on his shoulders. “Balan! It’s alright. You’re safe—it was just a dream—”

His eyes snapped to hers—glowing faintly red in the low light, but filled with terror.

“He hurt me,” he gasped, voice cracking. “He hurt all of them!”

Meera’s brow furrowed. “Wh0? Nancarin—?”

“NO!” he roared, louder than intended. The word came out with a snarl, and Meera reeled — but didn’t move away.

Balan hunched over, hands clawed into his knees. “That name — you can’t say it. It’s something else. Something evil. Something I… I was , maybe. I don’t know. But it isn’t me. Not now.”

Meera waited.

His breathing slowed, though every muscle in his body stayed taut as a drawn bowstring. “I saw… horrible things. Things I did. Or… things I was made to do. I don’t know. But I won’t let it touch me again.”

She knelt in front of him, steady and patient. “I believe you,” she said. “I knew something haunted you the moment I saw you in the sand. But you’ve only shown me kindness, strength, and courage. You saved lives today.”

“I don’t want to become that thing,” Balan said, voice quiet now. “Whatever it was. Whatever it wanted.”

“Then don’t,” she said simply. She didn’t understand, but she didn’t need to. “Be who you choose to be.”

He looked up, locking eyes with her. His own glistened—still rimmed with crimson light, but they were no longer monstrous.

They were uniquely his. Strong. Determined.

“I choose to protect you,” he said. “And this tribe. No matter what’s in my past… whatever it was, I will never become it again.”

Meera stared at him for a long moment.

Then, slowly, she reached forward, and rested her forehead gently against his. The gesture was small. Intimate. A warrior’s vow of trust.

“Sleep,” she whispered. “I’ll be here.”

And though the storm still flickered at the edge of his soul, Balan lay back down, clutching the edge of his blanket—not from fear, but from grounding.

As Meera sat watch beside him, the nightmare faded like smoke, and the ever-red sky outside began to dim.

Chapter Text

Chapter 10: Shadows in the Forest

The wind along the shore of Nightmare’s Eyrie was briny and sharp, carrying the churning of an active sea. The sun had only just broken over the mountain behind them, but Hiccup stood alert on the grey sand, arms folded tight across his chest. Toothless sat beside him like a statue, still and regal, his eyes scanning the horizon. Ash was perched slightly farther back, tail twitching—uneasy, but calm. She’d been this way since sunrise, her ears angled forward in perfect stillness.

Then they came.

First, only a shadow on the wind. Then two. Five. Dozens.

Dark specks appeared against the horizon, flying low and fast over the waves. Two hundred Night Furies in disciplined formation, silent but seething with power, approached the island like a storm front. Their wings cut through the salt air without a sound, their flight unified but not rigid — like shadows given form.

Hiccup took a step back without meaning to.

He’d always found Night Furies beautiful.

And terrifying.

They landed in tight ranks across the beach and ridge, each dragon pausing to scan the terrain, alert and stiff-backed. Their scales gleamed like wet obsidian, and many bore old battle scars—lines of white across muzzles, torn fins, notched tails. These were not the domesticated partners of the archipelago. These were Seregon’s strongest.

Toothless roared once in greeting, lifting his chin. One by one, the lead Furies returned the gesture, heads dipping in solemn respect. The air smelled of soot and wild stone.

Then Angalon arrived.

He did not land with the others. He descended directly for the trio, wings stretched wide, his body casting a jagged shadow over the shoreline. His landing shook the beach, the sand curling beneath his claws. Taller than even Cloudjumper, broader than any medium dragon Hiccup had seen, Angalon moved with the weight of old wars. His scales were chipped in places, blackened and grizzled, and the hideous brand across his chest gave the chief pause.

Toothless declined his head slightly in respect. Ash averted her gaze entirely.

Hiccup swallowed. He had faced dragons his whole life—trained them, loved them. But the aura that rolled off this one was something frightfully old and raw. Barely caged.

“You are the human chief,” Angalon said, his voice as brittle and dark as ever. “The one we’re supposed to protect.”

Hiccup nodded. “Hiccup Haddock. Welcome. We’re grateful for your help.”

Angalon studied him. “I’m not interested in your welcome, scrawny creature. I obey my queen and lord, nothing more.”

Toothless growled — quietly, but with meaning. Angalon’s eyes flicked to him, and for a moment, something like amusement crossed his face. “You look much healthier than the last time we met… a shame I didn’t get to finish the job.”

Before tensions could rise further, a soft wind rippled across the trees. Holly arrived on quiet wings, flanked by the glow of the rising sun. Antaris floated beside her, casting warm pulses through the mist. Even the hardened Seregon dragons shifted uneasily at its approach.

“Are you all ready?” Holly said simply. “Antaris can transport you all at once, but after that it will take a few days before he can assist you further… but Nightshade will be back by then.”

Antaris pulsed once, bright enough to sting the eye — and the air over the water cracked open, revealing a swirling amber mirror against the blue sky.

Angalon narrowed his eyes. “Magic,” he muttered, nearly spitting the word. But he said no more, lowering his head and stepping toward it like a soldier boarding a funeral ship.

Toothless turned to Hiccup. “ When we arrive, let me take them to the forest first. They shouldn’t interact with the village right away. They aren’t… like the dragons of Berk. ”

Hiccup nodded grimly. “We’ll keep them hidden for now.”

Angalon nodded wordlessly — he had heard and agreed, but his eyes remained locked on the amber magic as though waiting for it to burn him.

With a final glance at the sea, Toothless stepped through. One by one, the Night Furies vanished into the light.

They appeared on the other side without fanfare, a great mass of shadows against the bright autumn sky. The portal released them across the high cloudline, just beyond the northern cliffs of Berk. Toothless led the flight, wings flashing in the light as they turned sharply south — diving into the trees like a shower of falling meteors. The forest trembled as shadow after shadow glided beneath the canopy, the only sound the occasional whoosh of displaced air.

Villagers heard the strange rush of wind and looked skyward — not enough to see all of them, but enough to notice a few unfamiliar shadows dive into the forest. 

Toothless gave one final shriek to signal silence, and the Seregon forces melted into the woods like they’d never been.

The Great Hall was crowded by midday, all ears eager to hear of Hiccup’s brief journey. Word had spread fast—as it always did in Berk—that mysterious dragons had entered the forest that morning. Not many had seen it, but enough had caught a glimpse of strange black wings between the trees, or heard the eerie silence that fell just before a gust of wind with no storm behind it. The dragons of the village were restless and fidgety, knowing full well that experienced predators were nearby — lying in wait.

Many villagers had gathered, half nervous, half curious. Hiccup stood at the head of the great stone hearth, flanked by Astrid and Gobber, with Snotlout pacing slowly behind them.

“My friends,” Hiccup began, voice steady, “as of this morning, there are Night Furies in the forests of Berk.”

Murmurs broke out at once—disbelief, awe, even a few gasps. Some of the older dragon trainers exchanged wide-eyed glances.

“They are here to help us,” Hiccup continued. “They’ve come from Mystholm — Ash’s homeland, where they’ve lived in isolation for centuries. Two hundred of them have come as allies… to help protect us from what’s coming.”

Murmurs continued throughout the room. Most still didn’t know what had happened to Valka's expedition, but everyone had seen the tension in Hiccup’s face since her return.

“That said,” he added firmly, “you are not to seek them out.”

The hall fell still.

“They are not like Toothless. Not like Stormfly, or Meatlug, or any of the dragons you’ve lived beside. They’re warriors. Many of them bear the wounds of old wars. They are not here to be ridden. They are not here to be tamed. They are here to fight.”

Someone in the back raised a hand. “But… we can talk to them, right?”

Hiccup gave a tight smile. “Only if they come to you first.”

A chuckle rippled through the hall—but it was half-hearted, nervous.

“Stay away from the woods unless you’ve been given permission. Let Toothless and I coordinate their patrols. Trust me — we want them on our side. But they need space.”

With that, the Vikings began to disperse.

Astrid put a hand on his shoulder. “You should tell your mother about the news. I’m sure she’ll want to hear all about them.”

Hiccup smiled and nodded, heading out the great oak doors to where Toothless waited. Within the matter of minutes, they found themselves atop the mountain, an icy wind cutting through Hiccup’s cloak as he dismounted.

The air inside Gothi’s hut was still thick with herbal smoke. It clung to the ceiling beams, wrapped itself around the carved charms and bone beads hanging from the rafters. Cloudjumper lay just outside the open door, still bandaged but sleeping peacefully.

Valka stirred from the cot as Hiccup entered. He knelt beside her without speaking, placing a warm hand over hers.

She smiled faintly. “I heard them.”

“The Night Furies?”

Valka nodded. “They're silent as shadows, but the trees they dived into aren’t. How many did you bring?”

Hiccup gave a quiet laugh. “Two hundred. And we were right… it's an ancient Skrill nest, it has been for a thousand years.”

A smile creased his mother’s features. “If they weren’t gathering an army, I’d love to study them. There’s still so much to explore.”

Hiccup nodded in agreement, but his face was still conflicted. “I just hope there aren’t any problems — these Night Furies are fighters. And their leader would probably rather eat me than fight for me.”

Valka’s eyes sparkled with interest. “Is he an ancient dragon?”

“He has to be, he makes Toothless look small,” Hiccup admitted. “And he hates humans. But… he’ll do what he’s ordered to. He’s here to fight.”

She looked away. “He’s probably used to it — maybe looks forward to it, even.”

“Definitely,” Hiccup said quietly. “Ash doesn’t trust him, but Toothless does enough. And Nightshade… his queen was the one who helped us get here, so he’s definitely on our side.”

Valka squeezed his hand. “You’ve done well.”

“I don’t know about that,” he muttered. “I’ve just… done what I could. I’m not sure it’s enough.”

“It never feels like enough,” she whispered. “That’s what makes it leadership.”

“You're right.” Hiccup pulled up a stool, leaning on the side of her cot. “But when you get better, you have to come back to Mystholm with me. It’s incredible.”

Outside, Cloudjumper stirred. The faint sound of wings passed through the woods, much less empty than before.

Hiccup sat beside Valka until the sun dipped low behind the mountains, saying little, but feeling—for the first time in days—that they might survive what came next.

But while Hiccup was feeling a semblance of hope, Angalon was in the throws of discomfort. He hated it here.

The air was too clean. The ground was too soft. Even from a distance the village smelled of sweat and mead and human arrogance. He stood apart from the other Night Furies, who perched on the outcroppings and forest ledges, eyes flicking toward the distant village with curiosity.

Angalon felt none.

He felt only containment. Restraint. As though his claws had been dulled simply by breathing in the scent of peace.

Children’s laughter echoed from the village below. A young Nadder flew overhead, trailing behind a giggling boy on a saddle far too large for him. Angalon’s tail curled.

He turned his gaze toward the sea. If he squinted, he could still imagine the Jagged Peaks rising behind the horizon, crackling with lightning. His thoughts harkened back to his youth, leading a great campaign to remind those storm-eating wyrms who was the true power of the world — until he was called to fight a much bigger war. He longed for battle again — not because he desired violence… but because it made sense. War was honest. Simpler than diplomacy. Clearer than hope. It was what he was best at.

Behind him, a group of the younger Night Furies were gathering for a perimeter patrol. Angalon did not join them.

He stood alone, as he always had. But he would fight. Not for Berk. Not for Hiccup. Not even for Talon.

He would fight because nothing would matter soon anyway.

“My lord?” a voice called hesitantly behind him.

The ancient dragon turned, his red eyes trailing over four younger warriors — lean and muscular, less scarred but still battle-tested.

“What is it?”

“We aren’t on patrol today,” the youngest asked, his expression tense. “We request permission to leave the forest.”

Angalon’s eyes flashed. “And why would you want to do that?”

The young Night Fury stepped back, his confidence dried up, but another came to his defense. “We want to see how the humans live, my lord. And how the dragons interact with them without bloodshed.”

Great. Even his own warriors were not all immune to curiosity. But Angalon was indifferent.

“Go, but make sure I don’t hear of any incidents.”

As the rustle of wings sounded behind him, the ancient Night Fury returned to observing the distant village. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to examine their defenses from a distance…

“They’re what , exactly?” Skari asked, arms crossed as she leaned against the post outside the Great Hall.

“Night Fury warriors,” Astrid repeated, tugging her cloak tighter against the wind. “Two hundred of them. They arrived this morning.”

Skari’s mouth twisted. “And they’re just… in the woods?”

Astrid nodded, glancing toward the village's borders. The pine-covered slopes past the edge of the village were quiet — too quiet. “Toothless and Hiccup are working with them. No one’s allowed past the forest edge without a reason.”

“And we’re just supposed to sleep soundly knowing two hundred invisible death shadows are ten minutes from our front doors?”

“Would you sleep better if they weren’t on our side?” Astrid asked.

That shut her up.

Another villager, young Brenna, spoke up from where she sat sharpening a blade. “I heard some of them have been sniffing around the village.”

“Well if they’re not causing any trouble, it's good for them,” Astrid murmured. “I can’t imagine all of them want to.”

“You’ve seen them?” Skari asked, incredulous.

Astrid shook her head. “Not yet.”

But she planned to.

The wind had picked up by the time Astrid made her way up the path from the hall toward home. The nausea had returned in waves, turning every step into a quiet battle between breath and will. Stormfly was off on a perimeter flight. Hiccup was still coordinating with Toothless in the forest. The evening light filtered gold through the trees—but there was a shadow between the trunks that didn’t belong.

She stopped just before the rise near their longhouse, hand resting lightly on her belly.

Something moved—low and slow—through the brush behind the house.

Astrid’s heartbeat quickened. She kept a hand on the handle of her axe, but left it on her shoulder. Slowly, carefully, she stepped around the edge of the clearing, boots muffled in the moss and pine needles.

There.

In the trees, half-swathed in mist and shadow, crouched a beast so massive it seemed carved from the forest itself. His head was low, spines tight against his skull. Not attacking. Watching. His scarred hide glimmered faintly where a beam of light pierced the canopy. His tail, long and torn, barely twitched. Ruby red eyes were fixed on the house — but he didn’t move as his eyes snapped towards her.

Astrid approached.

“You planning to burn down my roof, or are you just admiring the architecture?”

The dragon snarled — not loud, but low and warning.

Astrid didn’t flinch. “Save it. I’ve dealt with worse tempers before breakfast.”

Angalon turned his head. Slowly. His molten eyes narrowed, studying her. The thick scars across his chest shifted as he rose slightly, towering above her, the spines on his back flaring.

She met his gaze with steel.

Not afraid of me? his expression seemed to ask.

No, her stance replied.

She took a cautious step forward, placing a hand on the trunk of a nearby tree to steady herself. “You’re too old to be skulking around like a prowling cat. What are you even watching for?”

He didn’t answer. Just growled low, tail flicking.

Astrid narrowed her eyes. “You don’t like it here, do you?”

He stilled.

“You must hate the green. The noise. You’re probably used to stone and wind and cliffs.” She gestured toward the horizon behind the house. “There are sea stacks on the east side. Big ones. Jagged, sharp. No trees. It’s quieter.”

Angalon’s pupils widened a fraction. He was listening.

Astrid tilted her head. “You’d prefer that, wouldn’t you?”

He huffed, almost indignantly.

Then something shifted in his posture—his gaze swept over her again. Not in threat. In recognition. His eyes fell to her belly.

She straightened. “Yeah. I’m pregnant. And if you’re thinking of causing trouble, just know I can still throw an axe better than anyone on this island.”

There was a long, strange silence.

Angalon didn’t bare his teeth. Didn’t hiss. Instead, he turned. A few heavy steps backward. One slow beat of wings.

And then he lifted into the sky—his wings were immensely powerful, but he moved gingerly.

Astrid watched him ascend above the treeline, lips pressed together. She watched until the Night Fury’s shadow passed into the clouds, wondering not for the first time if Hiccup had just invited more than protection into their lives.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “He’s not just mean,” she muttered. 

“He’s… tired.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 11: The Storm Breaks

The breeze that rolled over Berk that morning were crisp and salt-laced, stirring faint curls of mist off the cliffs as gulls wheeled overhead. The clang of training axes and the laughter of children echoed from the central square, where a handful of young dragon riders-in-training were working with wooden swords beneath Fishlegs’ watchful eye. A blue Nadder snorted nearby, stretching one wing lazily in the sun. Dragons were lifting off from their pens and nests, taking to the seas for the morning hunt.

It was a good day. And for a few precious hours, the island of Berk felt like it usually did — steady, simple, and whole.

Hiccup walked along the winding path just above the training square, one hand tucked in his cloak and the other intertwined with Astrid’s, who walked at his side. She moved slower now, every step measured, her free hand resting protectively on her belly. Stormfly walked behind them, occasionally flicking her tail to herd a pair of curious sheep back down the path.

“They’re not nervous anymore,” Astrid said quietly, watching as a boy tackled his friend in the dirt with a bark of laughter. “Not afraid. That’s something.”

Hiccup nodded. “Give Vikings two days and they’ll treat anything like old news. Even a forest full of ancient, highly-trained Night Furies.”

Astrid smirked faintly. “Even ones that could tear the roof off a house if they sneezed?”

“Especially those,” Hiccup said dryly.

A rustle drew his attention to the western tree line. Just beyond the border of the village, near the edge of the training ground, something moved between the pines. Silent. Black. Watching.

One of the four Night Furies that had ventured down from the forest stood half-shrouded behind a mossy boulder, its lean body coiled like a bow. The light caught a long scar down the right side of its snout, and its eyes—wide, unblinking—followed the children’s movements with unsettling stillness.

Astrid tensed slightly. “That one’s been there all morning.”

“I know,” Hiccup said. “That’s the quietest of the four. Doesn’t even hiss like the others.”

As if sensing it was being discussed, the dragon tilted its head. A red-haired child—Brenna’s son, Haldor—lost control of his toy ball, which bounced toward the treeline. The child froze halfway to retrieve it, clearly uncertain.

The Night Fury stepped forward.

The people hushed.

Its claw reached out. Delicate, almost careful. It tapped the ball gently forward — then gave it one small push.

The ball rolled back into the child’s reach.

Haldor blinked. Then scooped it up and ran. He didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. Just looked back in awe.

The dragon watched him go, then slunk back into the trees.

Around the training square, villagers exchanged glances. Some murmured. One woman whispered a soft prayer under her breath.

Astrid let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “That could’ve gone very differently.”

“It didn’t,” Hiccup said, watching the spot where the Night Fury had stood. “They’re watching us as much as we’re watching them. Learning. Figuring out who we are.”

Astrid glanced sideways. “And what do we do if they decide they don’t like what they see?”

“We make sure they do,” Hiccup said softly.

The two of them stood in silence for a moment, listening to the sounds of village life below — the hammering of the forge, the chatter of fishmongers near the docks, the shrill screech of Stormfly disciplining the sheep again.

Hiccup turned toward the sea, his eyes scanning the horizon. The waves were calm. The wind was steady. Berk was holding its breath.

It felt like the beginning of something.

He just didn’t know what.

The cove was quiet.

Morning light spilled across the mossy stone ledges, catching in the ripples where the pond met the earth. This place—hidden by rock and shielded by forest—still remained a secret. A sanctuary. Even now, it still felt removed from the rest of Berk.

Ash liked it that way.

She lay in the shallows, her wings half-draped in cool water, letting the freshness dull the weight in her chest. Her head rested on a flat stone, eyes half-lidded, watching tiny fish dart beneath the surface. For a moment, she felt at peace.

But her breathing was not easy.

A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach again—sharper than before. She clenched her jaw and shifted slightly, willing it to pass. For the last few days, the symptoms had come and gone in fits: dizziness, aches, a strange weight in her limbs. Toothless kept worrying over her. Holly had asked too many times if she needed rest. Even the dragonstone, of all things, had begun to be more selective with its magic taking her places — though Ash could never be sure if it was her, or something it was up to. 

In any case, her silver collar was empty; the stone had been gone upon her waking this morning, and she could only assume it had gone back to the Eyrie.

But she found she didn’t care. She wanted space. The cove gave her that.

Ash dipped her snout beneath the water, letting it cool her throat. Then, slowly, she rose to her feet. Her legs wobbled—not with weakness, but with unfamiliar heaviness. She spread her wings, breathing in the pine-laced air.

And then she heard it.

A deep thrum—not wind, not thunder. It came from the cliffs beyond the trees. Low, heavy, and wrong.

Ash snapped to attention.

Something moved beyond the ridge. Large. Fast. She caught the flash of a scaled tail vanishing behind the boulders. Then another. Two dragons—wild dragons—but not like the ones she had seen in Berk’s ranks. Their shapes were leaner, hungrier. Worn with travel and scarred by storms. Her blood ran cold—they had to be scouts. And behind them… a dark shape unfurled its wings across the sky.

Her eyes widened.

A Skrill.

Ash took a step backward, snarling.

Then the world exploded.

A bolt of blue lightning arced from the sky and slammed into the ground next to her, turning the earth to dust and fire. Ash was thrown backward by the blast, her body hitting the pool’s edge with a splash. Water flaked her skin as she flailed to her feet, vision ringing with light and pain.

More shapes dove from the sky — dark-winged Skrills trailing thunderbolts behind them like cloaks. She had never encountered them in the wild before — probably for the best. But she wasn’t afraid to fight something new.

Ash growled, wings flaring. Her body screamed in protest, but she pushed through it. Her throat lit with blue fire, and she launched a blast at the first intruder, driving it back with a searing hiss.

Another struck from above. She dodged the first bolt—barely—but stumbled on the second. Her stomach lurched. Her vision swam. She tried to take off—

—only to fall.

Her wings folded mid-leap, and she slammed into the dirt, gasping. The nausea returned full force, twisting her gut into knots. Her legs kicked uselessly. Her breath came in shallow, broken bursts.

A shadow passed overhead.

The last thing she saw was a Skrill descending—its eyes crackling with cruel intelligence. Clawed talons reached for her shoulders.

Then darkness.

The first warning came with a scream.

Not a human voice—but the distant, warbling cry of a dragon sentry, high on Berk’s outer sea stacks. Hiccup looked up from the sketches he’d been discussing with Gobber just in time to see a streak of blue lightning fork across the cloudy sky.

Then came the boom. Not thunder. Impact.

The sentry’s cry turned into a shriek of pain. A shadow fell over the northern cliffs, followed by another lightning bolt that slammed into a pine tree with a sound like shattering stone. It burst into flames immediately.

“Everyone down!” Hiccup roared, instinct already taking control.

Toothless launched from the perch beside him, wings flaring wide as he took to the skies. The other dragons scattered, alarmed but responsive. Berk had trained for attacks before — but nothing had ever come from above so fast.

“Get to your stations!” Hiccup shouted, his voice nearly lost in the rising roar of panic. “Protect the hall, and get the children inside!”

A third bolt crashed into the watchtower near the west wall, blowing apart the timber in a rain of ash and splinters. Screams echoed from the village square as villagers ducked for cover.

Snotlout came barreling down the path from the eastern ridge, already half-saddled. “Skrills! Dozens of ’em—up in the clouds! Sea dragons at the bay!” he bellowed. “Where the Hel did they come from?!”

“I don’t know!” Hiccup called, yanking on his gear as Toothless circled back low. “We have to split the field — sea dragons near the docks, aerials to the ridge. Keep any wild dragon from entering the village’s perimeter. Go!”

The first wave struck before he finished the sentence. A pack of sleek, hissing sea dragons slithered onto the beach with speed and precision, snapping at anything that moved. The Berkian dragons responded instantly—Hookfang dived with a scream of fire, while Stormfly wheeled overhead, spines already firing in precise arcs.

“Keep them off the houses!” Gobber shouted, wielding his axe as he joined the defensive line. “Use the nets! Trip ‘em and drag them back to the water!”

More lightning flashed — closer now. From above, four Skrills descended in formation, raining bolts at the huts on the north slope. Their speed was unmatched, their strikes aimed to scatter. Toothless surged upward, Hiccup clinging tight, wings pumping hard to gain altitude.

“We can’t chase them all!” Hiccup muttered, scanning the sky for patterns. “They’re fighting in formations. Coordinated. They’re not just attacking… they’re trying to herd us!”

He wasn’t wrong. The rogue dragons were focusing their strikes—on homes, on docks, on escape routes. And they were pushing toward the center of the village.

A sick feeling bloomed in Hiccup’s chest. This wasn’t a random strike.

It was a message.

Hiccup’s breath was ragged as Toothless dove again, strafing the treetops near the ridge with a focused burst of plasma. The lightning had set half the forest alight, but Toothless’s efforts helped carve out safe paths for moving villagers. Beneath them, Hookfang and Meatlug were dragging stunned sea-dragons back to the shore, while Stormfly danced midair, unleashing volleys of razor spines at retreating attackers.

“There, bud!” Hiccup shouted, pointing toward a lumbering drake climbing the village wall. “On your left!”

A cluster of young riders swarmed the creature on their smaller dragons, driving it back with coordinated flame strikes. Fishlegs barked orders from above as Meatlug slammed into the monster’s side with surprising force.

“Where’s Astrid?!” Hiccup yelled, voice sharp.

“Helping evacuate the far houses!” Snotlout yelled, barely dodging a bolt of blue lightning as Hookfang twisted into a corkscrew dive. “We’ve got injured—several!”

Toothless growled beneath him, sending another volley into a fair of wild Nightmares. Berk’s nest was quickly rallying to fight with their Alpha, the sounds of fire and claws echoing through the air.

But the Skrills continued to remain undeterred. They flew tightly together, protected by the wayward bolts of their own lightning. A few dragons attempted to break their swarm, but were sent writhing to the ground. One Skrill could be dealt with… but no one had fought them as a pack before.

A shattering roar interrupted him. One of the Skrills broke formation, banking low to strike the village wall. Its wings shimmered with crackling electricity — until a dark blur intercepted it with terrifying speed.

A Night Fury.

Then another. And another.

From the clouds, the sky split open in a hail of black. Dozens of Night Furies dove in unison, their wings folding tight as they hurtled toward the fight like knives. The wind shrieked with their descent, and the air exploded with fire where they landed, scattering the rogue forces in shock.

At their center flew Angalon.

He did not roar. He did not announce himself. He simply dropped like a meteor from the clouds, his body being wracked with stray bolts as Skrills fired upwards in terror—but he ignored every shot as they scraped past.

He struck the lead Skrill in mid-air, dragging it from the sky. A wing went flying, and the spined dragon smashed into the ocean.

And then the true counterattack began.

Toothless let out a sharp signal cry — a command for Berk’s dragons to rally behind him.

“Let them take the Skrills,” Hiccup ordered. “Clear the rest of the sky—NOW!”

The Berkian dragons obeyed, veering wide of the cloudline. From above, the Seregon Night Furies moved like a single organism — hundreds strong, attacking in coordinated waves. They didn’t just attack the Skrills — they overwhelmed them. Drove them down.

A dozen Skrills tried to rise and reform their strike line. Angalon burst through them like thunder, his claws and teeth tearing through the lightning-bearers with ruthless precision. Several careened into the ocean, their wings short-circuiting as sea spray met static. Amidst the chaos of fighting the other wild dragons in the air, Hiccup marveled at the Night Furies strategy — they must have flown wide into the clouds unnoticed, then dropped on the Skrills from above. And the results were apparent.

Practically every Skrill was now flailing in the harbor, their lightning sputtering and dying in the water.

On Angalon’s next pass, his wings flared—and he roared.

The sound wasn’t loud. It was deep. Subsonic. It vibrated through the village like a memory of war.

And with that cry, his warriors opened fire.

Two hundred Night Furies unleashed their breath on the sea. Plasma and flame rained down in a hail of suffering, pinning the lightning dragons to the very water that immobilized them as they perished. The ocean churned as dying Skrills thrashed beneath the waves. Smoke and steam ballooned outwards, clouding the entire bay.

Toothless watched in stunned silence.

“They’re… drowning them all,” Hiccup whispered. 

Toothless didn’t answer. His eyes were locked on Angalon—who hovered now over the smoldering water, his body scarred but steady, his eyes alight with wrath. Flames flickered behind his teeth, not from anger.

But from satisfaction.

It was over in minutes.

The rogue dragons that remained scattered. The few sea-dragons not already bound or injured fled back to the water. Toothless’s wings tightened as he spun to circle the village, Hiccup hastily scanning the damage. A few houses were alight, towers destroyed, but most of everything was intact. Several Vikings and their dragons lay dead or injured, their wounds being treated hastily as villagers now ran about to lessen the destruction. The Great Hall, by the gods, had remained untouched; Astrid opened the great doors with a shove, the children safe and sound.

Landing gently in the village square, Toothless allowed Hiccup to slide off his back — the chief wasted no time racing to coordinate with the village. The Seregon Night Furies were still swarming over the great pool of blood now filling the harbor, like dark vultures circling remnants of death. 

Toothless turned just in time to see Angalon descend through the thinning smoke, his massive form casting a jagged eclipse across the village square. His landing was slow but deliberate. The earth quaked beneath him, dirt and soot scattered beneath his claws.

The crowd parted without needing to be told. Even the most battle-hardened Vikings stepped back, wide-eyed at the sight of the ancient fury. Black as obsidian, scarred and massive, he looked like something pulled from ancient war-tales. His eyes scanned the crowd once — appraising, not hostile. He said nothing of their fear. He didn’t need to.

Toothless approached him cautiously, tail flicking.

Angalon exhaled, smoke curling from his nostrils. “I’ll admit, for a village so peaceful, they fight well,” he rumbled, voice rasping from the flesh and blood still stuck in his mouth. “Even for a village that’s clearly never faced a coordinated Skrill assault. Everyone should know the best weapon against them is water.”

Toothless narrowed his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. “They’ll adapt.”

“We’ll see,” Angalon said, a claw reaching up to absentmindedly pick at his teeth.

Toothless was about to respond—but something shifted. Something cold and sharp gripped his chest. A sudden emptiness where there should’ve been… something.

He turned, slowly, as the realization slid into him like a blade.

“Ash,” he whispered.

Angalon tilted his head. “What is it?”

“She was in the cove this morning.”

Without another word, Toothless leapt into the air, his wings unfurling in a furious snap. He shot past rooftops and broken towers, ascending fast—so fast he left a gust in his wake. Villagers ducked, wreckage scattered, dragons flared their wings in surprise.

Angalon watched him vanish toward the cliffs. He growled low, then gave a short signal to his nearest guards. “Follow me.”

By the time Toothless reached the cove, his panic had given way to desperation as his eyes scanned the area. The ground here appeared untrampled from high up, but the trees were too quiet, the air too still.

He landed in a crouch and began to move at once.

There — scorch marks in the dirt. Claw prints. Blood. Signs of a struggle.

And next to the water…

A silver collar. Delicate. Familiar.

Ash’s.

It lay half-buried in the drift, as though torn off in a hurry.

The dragonstone was gone.

Toothless’s heart stopped. Then restarted with a violent ache.

He stepped forward, barely breathing. When he bent to nudge it with his snout, the scent hit him hard—her scent, mixed with blood, smoke, and something foreign. Skrill.

He snarled. The water ahead of him trembled with the low frequency of his grief.

Behind him, Angalon landed with a gust of wind and a thud. Two of his warriors hovered behind him like wraiths.

He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then he stepped forward.

“A scout party,” he said, voice heavy. “Likely meant to test our defenses. They probably didn’t expect to take anyone. I wouldn’t have expected it to be her.”

The words landed like a hammer to the gut. The Alpha didn’t register that Angalon had actually meant it as a compliment to Ash.

Toothless whipped around, his eyes blazing. “You didn’t expect?” he snarled. “Of course you didn’t. You don’t care.”

Angalon’s expression darkened. “Don’t I?”

“No!” Toothless roared. “You don’t understand! She’s not just a warrior or some Night Fury under your command. She’s mine. She’s… she’s everything.”

The rage pulsed from him in waves. His claws gouged the frozen earth.

“I’m not afraid of them. I’ll fight them. But if they hurt her…” his voice broke, “I don’t even know what I’ll do.”

Angalon’s gaze narrowed—not in anger, but in a strange, hollow understanding. His voice, when it came, was quieter.

“Good,” he said. “That means you love her.”

Toothless stopped.

“You should be grateful ,” Angalon continued. “To have the will and the chance to save your love. You see, not all of us are so lucky.”

He stepped closer, slowly, wings folding in.

“I know what it is to live long enough to be able to do nothing to save your love.”

Toothless’s rage wavered. For the first time, the ancient warrior was looking at him not like a rival or a pest… but as an equal.

“You’re not afraid to fight,” Angalon said. “Clearly, since you were foolish enough to fight me.” His eyes sharpened. “But can you kill your enemy?”

The words settled like iron.

Toothless didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the collar again. At the symbol of her absence.

When he lifted his head, his eyes no longer trembled with fear.

Only resolve.

“Yes,” he said.

Angalon nodded once. And for the first time in their history, he seemed… respectful.

“Then you find her,” he said. “And if you’re too late… then you burn it all down.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 12: The King Returns

The air inside Nightmare’s Eyrie was still — eerily so. Hidden within the cavernous heart of the mountain, the Artifact stood untouched. An ancient ring of black stone obelisks, marked with curling runes and long-forgotten language, encircled the central dais like sentinels. The three dragonstones—emerald, amber, and obsidian—rested silently atop their carved spires, their light long dormant.

Until Antaris began to pulse.

Then Herentir.

Then Kemenar.

The air inside the chamber seemed to inhale.

The runes carved into the ring’s outer rim began to shimmer—first red, then white-hot—igniting like kindling in a pattern too fast to follow. Lines of light snaked between the obelisks, arcing upward like veins of magic rekindled. Slowly, impossibly, the stone pillars began to rotate in a ring around the dais.

First, the obelisks shifted — grinding through centuries of ash and soot as they turned in orbit. Then the dais responded. It rose half a meter, held aloft by forces unseen, the ground trembling in protest. The dragonstones—glowing now with renewed power—remained in their pedestals, the air above them slowly building with magical energy

From the center of the dais, a column of radiant light erupted, so bright it cleaved through stone, ash, and cloud. It flew out of the volcano and pierced the open sky, a white flame roaring into the heavens — visible for miles. Every dragon in Mystholm turned skyward. The mountain rumbled with fury, magma boiling below the Artifact as flame erupted everywhere.

The beam churned, flickering with fractured color—green, gold, silver—and at its core, a shape began to form.

Not energy, but flesh.

He emerged slowly, limbs suspended in the torrent of magic, the tails of his coat flapping violently. A silver greatsword—its edge gleaming like the sun—hung in one hand, its bejeweled handle now traced with golden trim. A bronze staff—a strange thing, with four prongs and a red gem on the top—was strapped across his back like a banner. His boots struck the dais with a heavy clang as he fell to one knee.

Nightshade had returned.

Steam hissed from his shoulders as the magic began to fade. The beam dimmed. The dragonstones—now alight with color—detached themselves from their obelisks, drifting like sentries around the core of the mountain. The dais lowered with a soft tremor, settling once more into the mountain floor. The runes lost their fire, and the Artifact was silent.

Nightshade rose to his feet, breathing hard.

His eyes—still golden beneath the strands of dark hair falling across his brow—surveyed the chamber as though waking from a dream. His normally short and wild hair was now long and matted, his skin was covered in ash and dust, and his clothes were tattered with wear.

“Antaris,” he rasped, voice dry with disuse.

A soft shimmer of light answered his call. The amber dragonstone glowed briefly before lowering into the air beside him.

I’m here… Welcome home, Nightshade.

The king of the Night Furies closed his eyes, allowing his breath and body to feel the air and the ground of home. He rolled his shoulders, readjusting the weight of the greatsword in his hand. Nightshade appeared malnourished, greatly fatigued… yet his eyes were alight with wonder.

“Time?” he asked.

Roughly four days since you entered the gateway. We have been waiting to bring you back since yesterday.

Nightshade coughed in surprise, which quickly evolved into a guttural laugh as he raised his arms in glee. 

“Four days!” he cried, his laughter echoing like wind through a canyon. He spun once, his sword flashing in the firelight. “You were right! Time bends across the realms… there’s still so much to see — so much to do!”

Now that I no longer have to devote my energy to the gateway, I can assist you with any damage to your body and mind that may have occurred… But I’m afraid you have no time to rest.

“What?” Nightshade looked at him, regaining his composure. “Why, has something happened?”

Yes… we were unable to survey the wider world while waiting to bring you back… I can see now… you must travel to Berk at once!

Nightshade growled, an unnatural sound for a human to make — but he could now see all that Antaris knew in his mind; Hiccup’s visit, Angalon’s departure… and the aftermath of a battle, as though seen from far away.

“By the stars…” Nightshade grimaced, his free hand rising to flip the matted hair from in front of his face. “That can’t be good. Does Holly know?”

Only that she sent your warriors to aid them, not that they were already attacked. You should let her know of your return first, then head to Berk. I’m afraid much has transpired.

Nightshade groaned, not out of indifference, but out of fatigue. With a tired breath, he began to jog toward the exit tunnel—he knew the path by memory, each slab of basalt and glowing vein of crystal burned into his bones after years of using the Eyrie as sanctuary.

He didn’t make it twenty paces in.

A gust of wind blasted down the tunnel like a hurricane in miniature, nearly knocking him off his feet. He threw one arm up against the wind—

—and Holly collided with him at full force, wings folding tight as she slammed into his chest like a thunderclap of warmth and momentum.

He staggered back with a sharp laugh, arms instinctively wrapping around her scaled body. Her wings wrapped around them both, smothering Nightshade’s human body like a blanket. For a long moment, the chamber was silent but for the sound of her heartbeat and his ragged breath.

Nightshade exhaled, face buried against her neck.

“Hello to you too,” he murmured.

Her body trembled, not with fear — but with relief. She pulled back slightly, one wing brushing his cheek, her eyes alight with something between wonder and disbelief.

“You’re back,” she whispered.

“I think so,” he said hoarsely. “Feels like it. Mostly.”

They stood there a while longer in silence, the glow of the amber dragonstone floating gently nearby like a watchful spirit. Then Nightshade straightened, brushing a hand along Holly’s chin in a fond gesture before stepping back.

“You saw the light, I take it?”

Holly nodded, wings twitching. “It shot into the clouds, everyone saw it. I came as fast as I could.”

He nodded slowly, gaze momentarily distant. “Antaris says I was only gone four days. But there… in the other world, it was a year.”

Holly’s eyes widened, and she looked at him anew—seeing the wear, the raggedness, the slightly changed edge in his eyes.

“What happened?” she asked aloud, voice soft.

Nightshade patted the bronze staff on his back. “That’s a long story. Suffice it to say, I had to earn my way back out. This—” he unhooked it briefly and held it out with one hand “—is a magic weapon, from a people who could blend magic and smithing. Not sure what it does. But a good souvenir.”

Holly tilted her head, wary. “Does it work on dragons?”

“Oh, probably,” Nightshade said, smirking slightly. “But I broke the trigger mechanism so it can’t be used on anyone accidentally. It’s just a trophy now. Besides, I have better ways of enchanting things.”

Holly’s expression was unreadable for a moment, then softened again. She leaned forward, her snout nudging his shoulder.

“I missed you, my love.”

“I missed me too,” he said, exhaling.

She chuckled, nuzzling him… but the humor quickly faded from her expression.

“I didn’t want to tell you so soon, but… Hiccup came while you were gone. Berk was in danger of attack.”

Nightshade’s brow furrowed. “Antaris showed me… I think they just were yesterday. Who were they fighting?”

“An army of rogue dragons. Led by Thora — the Skrill queen of the Jagged Peaks. She must’ve killed Taranis after you left and seized power. I sent two hundred Night Furies to aid them.”

“Thank you, love,” he said, but his jaw tightened. “I could see Angalon.”

“He leads them, Talon insisted,” Holly’s expression was wracked with concern. “Something is wrong with him… he’s not himself.”

Nightshade’s eyes lowered. “I know, I will look after him… but I need to get to Berk. Now.”

“After you clean up,” Holly said, stepping in front of him firmly. “You smell like the inside of a forge and you look like you got trampled by a herd of wild Gronckles.”

“I did get trampled,” Nightshade muttered, “just… not here.”

She didn’t smile. Not fully. But her eyes betrayed deep affection.

“Are you truly alright?”

He nodded once, more soberly now, and he placed his forehead against hers. “I feel more alive than I have in years… But I’m overjoyed to be back.”

“Then go,” Holly said. Her voice was gentle but strong. “Berk needs you now. And when this is over… I want to hear everything.”

Nightshade closed his eyes, their hearts linked.

“I will.”

The morning after the battle dawned grey and gold. Berk stirred beneath a blanket of soot and ash, the village wrapped in the soft hush of aftermath. Smoke still drifted lazily from the broken watchtower, and the scent of wet embers hung in the air. But there was life again — hammers ringing as timbers were replaced, buckets of seawater tossed onto still-smoldering wreckage, children helping sweep the steps of the Great Hall.

The people moved like they had always moved—slowly, steadily, stubbornly. Berk would endure.

Down by the central square, Valka leaned against a fence post, her movements careful but no longer pained. Her arm, still bandaged from shoulder to wrist, was stiff at her side, but she stood tall. Cloudjumper limped slightly behind her, his side still matted with gauze, but he was alert, eyes scanning the rooftops with silent vigilance. They had insisted on leaving Gothi’s care early — she couldn’t lie in bed while Berk stood on broken bones.

The townsfolk greeted her with quiet nods and murmured words of gratitude. Some even smiled, relief in their eyes at seeing her on her feet. She was about to move toward the forge, thinking to check in on Gobber and the repairs to the fishing boats—

—when the air in the center of the square shimmered.

A strange hum rose, high and crystalline. The air fractured in waves of reflected light, a mirror of broken glass.

And then, with a quiet rush of displaced air, a figure stepped through.

Long black coat swirling around his boots, silver greatsword in one hand, a bronze staff holstered across his shoulder like a banner of conquest. His dark hair had been trimmed and cleaned — but still wild, his face washed, his bearing regal despite the weariness he carried like a cloak. He stood tall, his golden reptilian eyes sweeping over the stunned crowd that had instinctively drawn back.

Cloudjumper let out a low, rumbling breath, recognition flashing in his eyes. Valka took a half-step forward, mouth slightly open. A spark of something—disbelief, awe—danced across her face.

Nightshade turned to her at once.

“Valka,” he said, voice warm and gravel-edged. “I’m glad to see you… you don’t look so good.”

“You’re Nightshade…” Her words came slowly, like someone rediscovering a long-lost name. “You’re — gods above, you’re really here.”

He stepped toward her, resting the large blade on his shoulder gently. “Forgive the dramatic entrance,” he said with a crooked smile. “I figured speed was of the essence.”

Valka’s eyes narrowed with affectionate scrutiny. “You’re thinner than you were.”

Nightshade touched his jaw absently. “It’s been an interesting few days — for everyone, I suppose.”

Cloudjumper tilted his head, blinking slowly. Nightshade reached up without hesitation and placed his hand gently on the Stormcutter’s beak. “Greetings, friend.”

The beast huffed softly and leaned into the touch.

Valka’s expression turned more serious. “How did you know to come here?”

“I have eyes watching.” His voice dropped slightly. “And I see now I am too late — but not too late to turn the tide. Were there many casualties?”

Valka’s gaze lowered. “Not many, but it hurts all the same.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” Nightshade said. “If I had known…”

“No one could have known. But we won, Nightshade. Because of the Night Furies you sent. Because of that large one… he knew exactly how to fight the Skrills.”

Nightshade’s expression darkened, but he said nothing to that.

Instead, he looked up, surveying the village. His gaze lingered on the scorched rooftops, the shattered watchtower, the stunned expressions of the onlookers now daring to inch closer to the man who had fallen from light.

“Berk endures,” he murmured. “But I need to see Hiccup.”

Valka nodded, already turning toward the path that led up the ridge. “Come. He’s in the Great Hall, coordinating repairs and scouting missions.”

Nightshade fell into step beside her, offering his free arm to support her. As they walked, the villagers parted before them like a tide, eyes wide with awe — and hope.

Like the wider village, the Great Hall was alive with motion and tension. Maps covered the central table, weighed down with daggers and cups and stones. Hiccup stood at the head of the table, jaw clenched, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Astrid sat nearby, legs propped on a stool, rubbing slow circles over her abdomen with one hand while sketching a deployment pattern with the other. Snotlout leaned over her shoulder, suggesting scouting routes. Fishlegs nervously scribbled notes on dragon injuries and food stock, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked like it might crack.

“I’m not saying we go after them now,” Hiccup was saying, “but we need to be ready when the next strike comes. Because it will come. There’s no way that was the entire sum of their strength… and the lead Skrill wasn’t among them.”

Astrid nodded. “If we can find and kill her, then they’ll disband, fly back to their islands.”

“Probably,” Hiccup said. “But I also don’t think we’re their only target.”

“If this Skrill wants to attack all humans,” Fishlegs added. “We’re probably not the closest target to them—or the biggest. But they had to test us. The question is where are they going next?”

Before anyone could respond, the great wooden doors groaned open. Heads turned.

Valka stepped into the hall, standing straight despite her bandaged shoulder, Cloudjumper’s silhouette visible just behind her outside. But it wasn’t Valka that froze the room.

It was the man who walked beside her.

Tall, robed in a coat of coal-black with a strange staff slung over one shoulder and a gleaming greatsword at his back. His dark hair had been trimmed neatly behind his ears, revealing a sharp jaw and a warm smile. His boots made no sound on the stone — but it was his eyes that made every dragon rider in the hall go silent.

Golden. Deep. Reptilian. Like a dragon in a man’s skin.

Valka’s voice cut the stillness. “Everyone — this is Nightshade.”

Gasps rippled through the room. Astrid’s eyebrows shot up. Snotlout dropped the charcoal he’d been twirling absently.

Nightshade offered a small, wry smile. “Apologies for dropping in.”

Hiccup stared at him — at the strange sword, at the bronze staff, at the inhuman eyes. He took one cautious step forward. “You’re… Nightshade? The Night Fury king?”

Nightshade extended his hand. “And you’re the one who tried to train a dragon.”

Hiccup shook his hand warily. The grip was firm — warm, but unsettling in its strength.

“I’ve heard much about your skills,” Nightshade added quietly, leaning in. “But I’ll admit, I expected a Viking to be bigger.”

That brought a faint chuckle from Astrid, and a slow, awed grin from Fishlegs. Snotlout just blinked.

“Well,” Hiccup said at last, voice steadying. “I’m glad to finally meet you properly.”

Nightshade nodded. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

He stepped forward, surveying the table, the damage, and the crowd. His voice shifted, becoming firm. Regal. “Valka tells me you were attacked. Not raided — attacked.”

Hiccup nodded. “Skrills. Dozens. Organized in wings, flying in spirals to scatter our defenses. Sea dragons on the beach at the same time. We fended them off with little casualties… but it came at a cost.”

Nightshade’s expression darkened. “What happened?”

Hiccup hesitated. Astrid looked away. It was Fishlegs who finally said it:

“They took someone.”

Nightshade’s eyes locked onto Hiccup. “Who?”

There was no easy way to say it. So Hiccup said it plainly. “Ash.”

The room went still again.

Nightshade closed his eyes for one long moment. When he opened them again, his voice was different — lower, quieter, with a thread of fire beneath the calm. His pupils had thinned dangerously.

“How long?”

“Since yesterday morning,” Astrid said. “She was alone in the cove. She fought, but… something went wrong. She didn’t leave of her own free will.”

“She left behind her collar,” Hiccup added, handing over the silver piece. “And there were signs of a struggle.”

Nightshade took it gently, as if it were fragile. His fingertips brushed over the smooth metal. His expression didn’t change — but his whole body seemed to tense. The glow in his eyes brightened.

“She’ll be found,” he said at last. “I swear that to all of you.”

No one doubted the truth of his words.

“But until then…” He turned, speaking not just to Hiccup but to all those gathered. “The Night Furies of Seregon stand with Berk. You have our claws and fire. You will not fall.”

Murmurs rippled around the table — relief, wonder, even quiet cheers. Hiccup let out a long breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Thank you,” he said, with full sincerity. “But we need to find where they’ll strike next — here or otherwise.”

Nightshade smiled, though there was no warmth in it now. “I’m sure I can find that out soon, but frankly returning Ash is my first priority. Which means I need to speak with Toothless first.”

He stepped back from the table, his greatsword whispering faintly across his coat as he turned. “Where can I find him?”

Hiccup pointed toward the forest. “He’s been out there since the battle. He hasn’t left the cove since they took her. Angalon’s with him.”

Nightshade nodded. “Then I’ll go to him, and I’ll be back… with Ash, and some useful information.”

Giving the humans a respectful nod, he walked from the hall, the doors swinging open again with a gust of cold sea air.

The riders stood in silence.

“He’s not what I expected,” Astrid murmured.

“Me neither,” Hiccup said. “But I think he might be exactly what we need.”

The cove no longer held the peace it once promised. Once a sanctuary of soft moss and quiet water, it now pulsed with the restless energy of war. Dozens of Night Furies moved like shadows through the glade — sharp-eyed, silent, waiting. The very air seemed tense, the scent of ozone still lingering after the previous day’s battle.

Toothless stood at the water’s edge, posture rigid, wings half-drawn like a banner of warning. His voice, when it came, was low and hard.

“You are used to facing solitary Skrills in the wild — they never travel far from the clouds,” Angalon was saying beside him, his massive form casting a jagged silhouette against the forest edge. “But the ones from the Peaks store lightning in great quantity. They rely on their combined charges to deter the enemy… no one wants to get too close to multiple sparking dragons.”

“Intimidation,” Toothless muttered, eyes scanning the skies. “But you and the others flew right at them and didn’t get hurt.”

Angalon huffed. “The electricity on their body is uncomfortable — but not debilitating. If your dragons know that, they’ll fear them less and hurt them more.”

A sudden cry rang out above them—sharp, clear, not an alarm but an announcement.

Toothless turned just as a second sentry echoed the call from the ridge.

All around the cove, the Night Furies stirred. Heads lifted. Wings shifted. Silence fell.

Then the clouds parted—and something vast descended.

A black silhouette glided down through the trees with effortless grace, its wings catching light in bursts of silver. His landing sent a rush of wind through the cove, stirring dust and snow. Golden eyes reflected brightly across the water. Every Night Fury bowed their heads, even Angalon.

Nightshade had returned — giant, armored, and strong. His eyes glowed with something more than power. Determination. Sorrow.

Toothless stiffened.

Nightshade stepped forward, wings folding with quiet solemnity. He met Toothless’s gaze.

“You’re back,” Toothless said, his voice like a growl. “Now.”

Nightshade inclined his head. “Yes.”

The silence between them simmered.

“Where were you?” Toothless demanded, taking a step forward. “Where were you when Ash was taken? Where was the emerald stone?! She wears it — she depends on it. And it was gone!”

“I know,” Nightshade said quietly. “I came back as soon as I could.”

Toothless snarled. “Not fast enough.”

“I didn’t plan it this way,” Nightshade replied. “I never would have left had I known.”

“But you did leave,” Toothless snarled. “You left her vulnerable!”

“You make it sound like I knew they were coming,” Nightshade said, his voice finally rising, not in anger, but regret. “And you make it sound like she can’t handle herself.”

Toothless was breathing hard now, his voice sharp — but his posture had begun to relax, just slightly.

“You know I don’t mean that,” he said. “She’s the strongest dragon I know.”

“I know,” Nightshade said, his tone gentler now. “And I would have traded my wings to stop what happened. But I’m here now. And I’m going to bring her home.”

Toothless’s ears twitched. His claws flexed, and for a long moment, he said nothing. But the fury in his eyes had dimmed.

“She was alone,” he said again, softer this time. “I left her alone.”

“She’ll make it through,” Nightshade promised.

Toothless lowered his head, breathing out slowly. “She will.”

Nightshade stepped closer, eyes flicking toward the cove’s edge, where Ash’s collar had been recovered. His voice dropped.

“I will find her myself.”

Angalon, silent until now, tilted his head. “Then what’s our next move, your grace?”

Nightshade didn’t hesitate. “Berk will recover, and your Night Furies are now well established for any threats.”

He looked at Toothless.

“This is only the beginning.”

Toothless dipped his head. Not a bow. But something close.

“Then we’ll keep planning here. Where will you start looking?”

A sharp crack echoed above them, and the water of the cove was suddenly bathed in amber light. Nightshade smiled, and Toothless saw something in his expression — intelligent, almost wicked, that gave him pause.

“It doesn’t matter… they can’t hide from me.”

Ash awoke to darkness.

Her mind surfaced from the black with a sickening lurch, like being dragged from the bottom of the sea. She couldn’t move — not properly. Pain pulsed through her body in violent waves. Every breath felt like dragging stone through her chest. The cave around her stank of sulfur and burnt air, damp with the scent of rot.

She tried to lift her head.

A bolt of pain lanced through her back, and she cried out, collapsing again into the cold rock.

Her wings — something was wrong.

Twisting her neck with effort, she peered over her shoulder. Her wings were twisted into impossible shapes, membranes torn and dangling like ribbons. Not just broken — ruined . Deliberately. Panic gripped her as realization struck: she had been crippled.

Ash sobbed, trying to will herself to move, but every effort was accompanied with pain. She couldn’t bear to look at her wings — she had no doubt Toothless was coming for her… but could this much damage be reversed, even by magic?

The ground around her was uneven and warm. Occasional flickers of blue lightning crawled over the rock, casting shadows against the far wall. The smell of ozone was stronger now — closer.

She wasn’t alone.

A low voice echoed from the shadows. Calm. Syrupy with mock sweetness.

“You’re awake. Good.”

A figure slithered into the light — sleek, cruel, regal.

Thora.

Her long, jagged wings barely brushed the stone as she moved, and arcs of electricity sparked from her talons with each step. Her horns had grown, twisted now like a crown. Her eyes glowed bright amethyst, mad with purpose.

Ash tried to raise her head, to snarl — but all that came was a weak hiss, laced with pain.

Thora tilted her head.

“Oh, don’t strain yourself. You’re in no condition for dramatics,” she purred, drawing closer. “Besides… I only have a little time before I need to move on.”

Ash narrowed her eyes, chest heaving. “They should have killed me.”

Thora grinned. “Oh, don’t worry, maybe I will... But not yet.”

She circled slowly, watching Ash as if she were prey—or a fascinating insect trapped in a jar.

“You’re famous, you know,” Thora murmured, crouching low beside her. “The new mate of the Alpha himself. The ‘dragon queen’ of Berk. I’ve heard so much.” Her voice was soft, unnervingly maternal. “And I’m just so curious.”

Ash growled, baring her teeth. “Curious enough to do this?”

Thora’s claws traced the edge of Ash’s fractured wing. The Fury winced but didn’t look away.

“Yes,” the Skrill said thoughtfully. “Very curious.”

She turned away briefly, gazing up at the ceiling of the cave where static danced along mineral veins. “You see, I’ve been planning . The domination of our kind will need strategy. Information. Knowledge of the world that hunted us. And you… little queen… know all about the humans, don’t you?”

Ash said nothing.

Thora smiled faintly, then turned, walking around to her other side. Her claws trailed along Ash’s flank—gentle, at first. Almost tender.

“I want to know how they live. Where they live. How their leaders think. What their warriors fear.” She leaned in close, her voice now cold. “And I know you’ve seen all of it.”

“I’ll tell you nothing,” Ash hissed. “Toothless—he’ll come for me. And when he does—”

Thora's laugh sliced the air like a whip. “Toothless? That tame little lapdog? I’ve seen what he’s become. Soft. Clipped. Half the dragon he could be.”

Ash snarled weakly, but Thora only leaned closer.

“I’m not afraid of him. And I’m certainly not afraid of Nightshade.”

That name struck like ice.

Ash blinked through her pain. “You should be. You have no idea what he’s capable of.”

“Oh, I do,” Thora said sweetly. “More than you , I imagine.”

She raked one claw slowly, deliberately across Ash’s shoulder. Not deep. Not meant to maim. Just enough to make her flinch.

Ash winced but didn’t cry out. “He’ll come too.”

Thora tilted her head. “Tell me, dear… did he ever tell you what he was before he became your king? Before he started playing nice with humans?”

Ash said nothing, her breathing ragged.

Thora grinned, wide and cruel. “There are nests—old nests, like mine—that have been around for quite some time. Ones that never forgot the real Nightshade. Do you have any idea how many humans your precious ruler killed before he vanished like a ghost?”

Ash’s expression twisted — not in disbelief, but in grief.

“He changed,” she rasped. “He regrets those years.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Thora sneered. “Right up until he gets angry. Or scared. Or desperate. Then it’ll all come rushing back, and no one will be able to hide.”

She circled Ash now, slow and deliberate, her wings occasionally brushing the damp stone. Lightning cracked faintly along her back.

“I wonder… Is he like a father to you?” she whispered. “Poor thing. He’ll only disappoint you. Now, the other ancient Night Fury…” she paused, a hint of respect in her tone. “... we remember him well too. Angalon — the maelstrom , we call him. A shame I hear his years are fading… I’m sure in a different age, he’d be on my side.”

Ash bared her teeth again. “Maybe, but I hope he kills you either way.”

Thora’s smile didn’t falter. “I’m sure he’ll try.”

With one sharp movement, her claw dug into Ash’s side, raking down through scales and drawing blood. Ash gasped, but bit down the scream.

“Strong,” Thora mused. “But you’re not really worried about pain, are you?”

Her head tilted, just slightly, her gaze flicking downward. Ash didn’t follow it at first — until she felt the pressure.

Thora’s claws slid carefully over Ash’s belly.

Ash froze. Her pupils shrank.

Thora’s voice dropped to a purr. “Ah… so that’s what slowed you.”

Ash flinched violently, the fire in her lungs catching with panic.

“Did you know?” Thora whispered. “I don’t think you did. How sweet.”

Ash tried to twist away, her breath catching in horror.

“No,” she whispered. “No, you’re lying—”

“I can feel them,” Thora breathed. “Tiny sparks. A rhythm. How very inconvenient for you. No wonder you lost.”

Ash cried out as Thora pressed harder — just enough to make her scream.

The sound echoed through the cavern like thunder. Eggs. She was carrying eggs. The words didn’t make sense at first — like someone else’s nightmare. But the pressure in her belly, the haze of nausea over the past days… she hadn’t even stopped to consider. Oh gods, no.

Thora drew back, admiring her handiwork. “Oh, but don’t worry, little queen. I won’t hurt them. Not yet. First, I want to see what you’ll give to keep them safe.”

Ash was trembling now, her tail curled tightly against her side, her entire body coiled in agony and fear.

Thora leaned close one last time, her voice a whisper at Ash’s ear. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Lightning flickered off the walls again, and Ash screamed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 13: A Hunter in the Dark

The wind across the seas of the Barbaric Archipelago was razor-thin, cold as ice. The first snows of winter had yet to fall, but the ground still crunched underfoot like old parchment. Here, between the outer territories of Berk and the other Viking tribes, nothing lived except in isolation.

That suited Nightshade perfectly.

He moved through the air like a shadow. The towering ridges of one blasted island loomed on either side, shaped like broken fangs, and somewhere far below the sea churned against the rocks. Overhead, clouds burned faintly red as they passed the midday sun — but there was no warmth here.

At the base of a jagged incline, two dragons stood resting: wild, feral, lean with famine and distance. Two young Deadly Nadders. Neither probably belonged to Thora’s army — just unlucky scavengers who had seen something they shouldn’t.

They whispered to one another in low, twitching growls, their talons scraping at the rock.

Then the first—red, with specks of blue—stiffened.

The other blinked, confused — until it felt it too.

Silence.

Too complete.

The air had gone still.

Then a flicker—no more than a ripple in the heat haze. One of the shadows on the far wall moved… and stepped forward.

A massive black dragon emerged from the cliffside, tall as the stone pillars around him. His wings were folded close, tail held low, and he made no sound — not in the air, not on the rock, not even in breath. Only his eyes gave him away: bright gold, narrow-slit, and fixed on them with unblinking precision.

The Nadders both took a step back, snarling.

Nightshade didn’t growl.

He simply kept walking.

The first Nadder opened its mouth to speak — but in a blur, the king of the Night Furies was before them.

The second leapt with a scream.

It never landed.

Nightshade’s wing swept upward, silent and fluid, and the blow sent the dragon crumpling into the cliffside with a sickening crunch. The standing Nadder reared in terror, but found itself face to face with eyes that saw through it.

“I want to know where the army went,” Nightshade said — calm, low, clear. “You’ve seen them flying about, haven’t you?”

The Nadder hissed, frilled spines flaring in threat.

Nightshade stepped closer. His body didn’t tense. His breath didn’t quicken.

But his eyes burned brighter.

“I will not ask again.”

A heartbeat passed.

Then the Nadder whimpered — one claw jerking southwest, toward the distant sea.

“Old island,” it rasped, voice cracked with fear. “Volcano. Nesting ground. Abandoned for years—until now. They went there.”

“How many?” Nightshade echoed.

The Nadder lowered its head. “Less than a hundred.”

Nightshade didn’t nod.

He didn’t blink.

He simply turned. “Then they won’t be there for long.”

In a flicker of motion, he vanished—leaping into the sky like a falling star in reverse, wings silent, his dark form eclipsing the red sun above.

The Nadder stared up after him, trembling.

Behind him, the other groaned, trying to lift its ruined body.

Nightshade didn’t look back.

He was already halfway across the sea — eyes alight with wrath.

The skies above Dragon Island were thick with haze.

Smoke curled from the crags of the ancient volcano, its once-roaring heart long since cooled into a dark, stony crown. Nothing lived here. Not anymore. The great corpse of the Red Death still stood, a skeletal forest of ribs and wings that creaked in the wind. The old nesting ground, long abandoned, now thrummed faintly with the sounds of hostile dragons — a temporary respite for them, soon to be abandoned once more.

A pair of wild dragons flew lazy circles above the crater rim — sentries. They didn’t see the shadow beneath the clouds.

They didn’t see the black wing slicing across the ridge until it was too late.

One dropped with a broken neck.

The other screamed once before a bolt of violet flame entered its open mouth.

By the time its body hit the basin, Nightshade was already gone.

He descended along the eastern slope in silence, talons never touching the stone for long. The trail was winding and steep, but he followed it without pause. A half-dozen rogue dragons patrolled the inner ledges — mangy creatures, untrained and sloppily loyal. They were not Skrills. They were nothing like Thora.

They died in near-silence.

A spine-backed Zippleback hissed in warning, its two heads scanning the ledges for movement. One snarled at a scent.

Its other head never saw the claws arc through its neck.

The scream never made it out of its throat.

Nightshade passed through the narrow pass, blood running down his claws.

Inside the volcano, it was damp and dark — long corridors of jagged stone and dripping walls. Old sulfur veins lined the ceiling, and pools of stagnant water glowed faintly green with decay. The old tunnels had become cracked, blocked, barely traversable.

He moved through them like a ghost.

A Whispering Death stirred as he passed. It raised its head — but did not cry out. Some instincts still served it, enough to survive.

Three more guards stood ahead, bloodied brutes shaped more by violence than evolution. They stood between the final tunnel and the inner den.

Nightshade did not slow. His form rippled, shrinking, but no less deadly.

One lunged. Its jaw snapped, never closing again.

The greatsword split it cleanly down the middle—flesh, bone, brain. The second fell back in alarm. Too late. A swipe caught its skull and slammed it against the stone wall with enough force to split the rock. The third turned to run, wings flaring in panic—

—and was impaled through the back by a blade of silver.

It thrashed once before death took hold. Legs locked. Eyes wide. The dragon toppled forward like a falling statue.

Nightshade stepped over its twitching body and reclaimed the greatsword.

No sound echoed. No breath was wasted.

Only stone, blood, and silence.

He reached the final passage. The walls narrowed. The smell changed.

Burnt air. Rot. And static.

He didn’t hesitate, stepping into the darkness.

The cavern floor was slick with moisture. The stink of ozone clung to every stone. Lightning had scorched the rock walls into strange spider web patterns. Pools of brackish water steamed quietly in the corners, disturbed only by the faint breathing of a creature in agony.

Ash lay motionless near the far wall.

Her wings were splayed, twisted at brutal angles. Her scales were smeared with blood and soot, and long, shallow cuts scored her limbs. Her breathing was shallow. One eye remained barely open, flickering in the half-light like a dying star.

Nightshade approached her body like approaching a battlefield’s lone survivor — quiet, careful, reverent. The light from his eyes flashed across Ash’s dark frame, illuminating the ragged tension in every line of her posture.

She stirred faintly, her eye drifting toward the movement.

She could not speak. But she tried.

A single, low whimper escaped her. That was all.

Nightshade made no sound. Setting the greatsword down, he gently got on his knees, his hands delicately brushing her head.

Her breath was so faint he could barely feel it.

The golden fire in his eyes narrowed as Nightshade let his mind stretch outward — not forcefully, not in command, but like an open palm. He cast his thoughts like a net into her frayed edges, seeking the shape of her soul beneath the wreckage.

Ash.

The name was not spoken. It shimmered through her like a ripple in a broken pond.

Ash, it’s me.

Her mind was like shattered glass—fragments spinning in circles, wild and afraid. Pain. Fear. A deep sense of failure. The jagged scream of trauma.

But through it all… the spark was there.

Faint and familiar.

Nightshade?

The word formed in his thoughts like a star breaking through clouds.

He responded not with language, but with memory. Warmth. Aylan’s cove. Her first flight with Toothless. His smile. Talon’s laughter. The scent of pine. The feeling of water. All the moments that grounded her.

Her thoughts steadied, and both of her eyes opened.

“You came,” she sobbed.

“Of course I came.”

He pressed his forehead gently to hers. “I’ve missed you, Ash.”

After a long silence, she tried speaking again.

“My wings… I… I think they’re ruined.”

“They can be healed,” Nightshade replied softly. “And even if they couldn’t… that’s not what makes you strong.”

She closed her eyes again. “You don’t understand… my eggs…”

She stopped.

Nightshade’s eyes flicked wide. He leaned back slightly, as if to get a better look at her.

“You’re carrying?”

She nodded slowly. “I didn’t even know until… until she touched me. There were signs but I… I thought it was just stress!”

His breath caught.

But his thoughts came not with panic—but wonder.

“Then this is a day worth celebrating.”

Ash opened her eyes again, blinking in disbelief. “But what if she… what if they…”

“Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be a mother. And Toothless, a father. Whatever happens next, remember that. Remember what you’re fighting for.”

She sobbed quietly — part joy, part grief. “I thought… I thought you were gone…”

“I was until yesterday,” Nightshade said firmly. “But I won’t be so negligent again. Is Thora close?”

Ash stirred weakly. “She’s gone now. She left me here with one of her lieutenants. But she kept asking me… about humans.”

Nightshade looked into her mind once more.

Ash’s thoughts coalesced into one sharp image: Velesheim. At least, what Ash imagined it to be, and where it lay. The largest human settlement in the north sea… perfect for sacking.

“She’s been building her army from the shadows,” Ash whispered. “But Berk was too strong. Velesheim is where they’ll go next.”

Nightshade absorbed the knowledge in silence. Then he shifted.

From beneath the layers of his coat, he produced something glowing—a soft, golden flicker of amber light. The dragonstone.

Antaris left his palm a second later, hovering mid-air like a guardian spirit.

“She’s hurt , ” Nightshade said aloud now, voice quiet. “You need to take her. Go to Berk, tell Kemenar to meet you there. As gently as you can.”

Antaris pulsed once. Understood.

Ash stirred weakly. “Aren’t… aren’t you coming?”

Nightshade shook his head. “I can’t. Not yet. There’s still something I have to finish.”

“Nightshade—”

He lowered his head. “You need safety. You need healing. And you need to tell Toothless he’s going to be a father.”

Ash let out a trembling laugh through sobs.

He stepped back.

“I’ll see you soon, Ash.”

Antaris hovered lower, casting soft light over Ash’s wounds. The air shimmered.

Ash reached toward him with her snout — just once, grazing his skin.

“I’m glad you're back,” she whispered.

Nightshade did not answer. He only touched her with his forehead.

Then she vanished in a shimmer of light.

And Nightshade turned, the fire in his eyes returning—not soft now, but cold. Focused.

He stepped back into the darkness.

The cove had not known peace since the battle. Ash’s scent still lingered faintly in the air, tinged with lightning scorch and fear. The dragons who patrolled the forest now passed it in silence.

So when the air above the pond began to shimmer, a dozen heads turned.

Seregon sentries perched in the cliff trees jerked upright, their wings flaring with alarm as the space above the water cracked with golden light. An amber vortex spiraled open—quietly, without fire—but the runes dancing around its edge pulsed with staggering power.

Then they appeared.

Ash materialized first, carried gently in a cradle of golden light, her limbs curled weakly, breath shallow but steady. Her wings hung limply at her sides, still battered but intact. Her eyes fluttered open just as she touched the mossy stone, the portal sealing itself behind her.

Antaris hovered above her shoulder like a protective flame.

The Seregon dragons bolted toward the trees.

Moments later, the forest exploded with the sound of wings.

Toothless arrived first. He dove into the cove like a falling star, landing so hard the ground quaked. He saw her and froze — his heart in his throat. His face in horror.

She was bruised. Bloodied. Still trembling.

But she was alive.

“Ash,” he choked out, barely able to breathe the name. He sprinted toward her, nuzzling her cheek, his paws shaking as they brushed her side.

Ash lifted her head, her eyes shining. “Toothless,” she whispered, voice cracked and filled with relief.

Then, she said it.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hit him harder than any strike could have.

He blinked. Stared. His heart felt like it cracked open.

Ash winced, trying to move her wings. “I… I didn’t know. Not until she found it. Thora, she—”

Toothless pressed his head against hers, a tremor in his breath. “You don’t have to say it. You’re here. You’re here.”

Angalon landed next, his massive bulk blotting out half the cove. Several Seregon warriors hovered overhead, bristling with questions. Toothless didn’t even register them.

Angalon scanned the area, his eyes falling on the small amber orb still hovering above Ash.

Then Kemenar appeared. The emerald dragonstone emerged from thin air beside Antaris — pulsing with slow, steady light. He hovered just above Ash’s injured wings, as if inspecting her.

The Seregon dragons drew closer, growls rising as the glowing orbs multiplied.

“Back!” Angalon roared, his voice thunderous. “Give them space!”

The crowd retreated at once, wings folding, heads lowering. Only Toothless remained at Ash’s side, his wing extended protectively over her.

Ash’s breath caught as Kemenar emitted a soft harmonic note. A strange warmth spread from the stone, touching her ribs, her wings, her belly. She winced—but the pain slowly dulled.

Toothless laid his head gently beside hers, not speaking. Ash exhaled a broken, grateful sigh. She leaned into his warmth, her eyes fluttering closed again — not from exhaustion, but from safety. For the first time in days, she felt like the nightmare was ending.

And Toothless? He made a silent vow, then and there.

He would never let her vanish again.

The wind screamed high above Dragon Island’s dormant caldera, but the tunnels within were still as death.

A shadow moved between the columns of ancient stone — slow, measured, deliberate.

The Skrill didn’t hear Nightshade approach.

The commander—a twisted brute with harsh chips in his horns and lightning dancing across his spine—was pacing, his violet eyes narrowed. He had been left behind, loyal to Thora’s cause, to prepare for the next phase of the assault.

He never sensed the creature behind him.

Not until the paralysis struck.

A bright ball of green energy burst from the shadows, striking the back of his skull. The commander froze mid-step, body seizing with a violent twitch. His limbs locked. His throat convulsed — but no sound came out. His wings folded against him like snapped branches.

“Oh… so that’s what it does.”

From the darkness emerged a tall figure.

Human — and yet far from it.

Nightshade.

The staff—alien and gleaming with rune etchings—was still raised in one hand. Its pronged tip sparked once, then went still.

Holstering it back over his shoulder, the dragon king walked toward the immobilized Skrill in silence. No footsteps echoed. No scent betrayed him. He moved like death incarnate—his golden eyes burning cold, his face dispassionately blank.

He knelt in front of the paralyzed dragon.

“I’ve killed dragons like you,” Nightshade said calmly, his voice low. “Too many to count.”

The Skrill couldn’t even tremble, barely able to breathe. His eyes flared with hatred, with fear, with helpless rage.

“But you will not have that honor.”

Nightshade reached out slowly—his fingers resting gently against the base of the dragon’s skull.

“I need to know what she’s planning.”

The dragon’s pupils shrank.

“And unlike her,” Nightshade whispered, “I don’t need to ask.”

He pressed his fingers tighter — and his eyes blazed with inner light.

The Skrill’s mind fractured.

Nightshade entered without resistance. He plunged deep, pulling memories and secrets from the commander’s core: visions of Thora atop a raised cliff, rallying dragons corrupted by her storm; glimpses of the city, Velesheim, teeming with life and unaware of its enduring danger. He could see Thora among her Skrill brethren, feeding the flame of their arrogance… and a recent conversation among her most trusted guards, Thora promising to bring something great and terrible to bear. An image of a great sea dragon, not unlike a furious horseshoe crab with wings…

The Skrill, still frozen, stared at him with blood streaming from his eyes. His body spasmed faintly. What was left of him was not truly conscious anymore.

Nightshade stood. His expression was carved stone.

“So that’s her plan.”

And he walked away without another word.

Behind him, the paralyzed Skrill collapsed, twitching once — then fell utterly still. His mind had been stripped to the bone.

The tunnels swallowed Nightshade once again.

The last echo was the click of his boots—and the dim hiss of the mountain wind.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14: The Seventh Lord 

The city of Velesheim sprawled along the cliffs and ledges of its island like a crown of fire-baked stone and gold, its tiered terraces gleaming beneath the morning sun. From the air, it resembled a stepped citadel carved into the mountain, descending in rings from the royal spires down to the silt-stained harbors where salt and soot mingled on the wind. Gulls circled lazily above the waters, shrieking as fishing boats and warships jostled in and out of the heavy docks, their crews sweating under woven canopies.

The upper terraces glittered with wealth — marble courtyards, sapphire domes, and columns wrapped in flowering vines imported from the southern kingdoms. Down below, where most of the city lived and bled, the scene changed. Cobbled streets twisted between open markets and taverns, overrun with hawkers, jesters, fortune-peddlers, and the scent of roasted meat. Perfumed couriers mingled with barefoot children. Prostitutes offered songs as easily as sin. The banners of merchant guilds flapped against the walls—scarlet for the ironmongers, sea-green for the fisherman, black and gold for the various dragon hunters that still remained.

Velesheim was thriving. Despite everything.

The fleet had returned to the shock, disappointment, and mixed relief of many. Few wept for the thousands of hired dragon hunters that had vanished — but for the soldiers and sailors of Velesheim, there were tears and curses in equal measure. Many of the ships that survived still rested in the harbor, lying in wait for the anticipated increase in dragon hunting that had not yet come. The Endeavour had not moved from its place in Velesheim’s largest dock since the expedition's return; an enduring symbol of their failure, but a reminder of their continuing strength.

But wealth from dragons still poured in — scales, teeth, and claws, sold as charms. Oil from dragon glands, powdered horns, all supplied humanely and in no small quantity by their new Viking partners up north. And yet, for the first time in a generation, the slave pits and dragon arenas at the edges of the city stood half-empty, some still in need of repair from the dragon attack. The once-full chains were beginning to rust.

Not from lack of demand.

But because Lord Ragnar had started to make it so.

On the harbor’s eastern dock, cheers erupted as a heavy-laden merchant ship eased into port, bearing the battered flags of Captain Ivar’s crew. The deck was lined with crates marked with Berk’s seal — Gronckle iron weapons, dragon-shed spines used for stitching armor, treated leather, and northern herbs. Gronckle iron was especially popular among the many smiths of the city, with eager buyers already waiting to discover its secrets. A small delegation of traders waited dockside, but so too did a crowd of citizens — eager for news, trade, and the chance to catch sight of the one nobleman they liked .

They were not disappointed.

As the last rope was cast and sailors began to disembark, a tall figure in worn armor eased his way up the ramp onto the main deck — dark cloak sweeping behind him, shoulders straight beneath layered plates of dull steel. His grey hair had grown silver at the temples, his skin pocked and weathering from age, but Ragnar stood as confidently as ever.

A few sailors cheered as their city’s protector joined them in their work, passing barrels and checking crates. He moved like a man familiar with the deck, familiar with labor — and just unfamiliar enough with politics to be loved by the people and hated by the court.

Captain Ivar stepped down from the helm to join him, his weathered face splitting into a grin. “You don’t make your entrances subtle anymore, my lord.”

“I’m just spending time among the familiar,” Ragnar replied. “And loud entrances make for quiet exits.”

They shook hands like equals. The sailors gave them space, though many watched with quiet respect. It was not every day that a lord stepped onto a galley just to welcome a returning crew.

Ragnar glanced over the deck. “You made it back faster than I expected.”

“The winds were kind. And Berk’s people are always willing to trade generously. I tell you, Vikings may be loud and stubborn, but they barter fair.”

Ragnar nodded. “How were the dragons?”

Ivar hesitated. “Respectful, disciplined. That Alpha of theirs—Toothless—he’s not like the old ones we hunted in our youth. There’s something about those Night Furies… regal, proud. And his mate… she’s young, but sharp. Ash, they call her.”

Ragnar folded his arms. “Did you pass along my concerns?”

“Aye. Hiccup said he’d look into it — don’t know how, but I’m sure we’ll find out.”

They stood for a moment in silence, watching as the crew began to offload goods and signal the dock inspectors. The sun glinted off the sea.

“You’re right though, something’s definitely stirring out there,” Ivar said at last. “I keep seeing dragons on the horizon, flying about the open sea for no particular reason. Peculiar.”

Ragnar’s brow furrowed. “Coming from where?”

“Anywhere I look, all heading northwest. Can’t tell you what for.”

The lord was quiet a moment. Then, softly: “I’ve heard rumors from a few hunters still trying to nail down a profit, seeing burning villages. No ships. No survivors. Just… gone.”

“And the council?” Ivar asked.

Ragnar’s mouth tightened. “Too concerned with profit and pride to notice. They tolerate me because the people do… but I’ve been called to another meeting of the Seven Lords today. They want more answers about our fleet.”

“What’re you going to tell them?”

“I’ll tell them we need to not do anything stupid,” Ragnar said. “Whether they listen or not is up to them.”

A moment passed between the two men. The sound of gulls overhead. The groan of cargo ropes.

Then Ragnar added quietly, “If they don’t listen, then Velesheim will burn. And I will not let that happen again.”

The High Chamber of Velesheim was a cathedral of ivory and gold, suspended in a dome of stained glass and light. Pillars carved with ancient conquests of southern conquerors lined the marble floor—mixed with the tales and songs of Norse gods—and the banners of six noble houses hung above the semi-circular dais like judgmental gods. The air inside was perfumed, dignified—and, to Ragnar, stifling. Every time he entered here, he felt like a foreigner. There was no noble banner for him, only the support of the people who demanded he served.

At the chamber’s center lay a circular stone table, inlaid with a map of the world as it was once believed to be—before dragons rose, before the archipelago to the north filled with so-called barbarians, before Velesheim had come to call itself the northernmost great city of men. Much of it couldn’t even be read; a monument only, with little practical use.

Seven high-backed chairs encircled it. Six were already filled.

Ragnar entered alone.

He wore no crown, no robe. Only a black doublet beneath his dark cloak, fastened with a pin in the shape of a broken fang—a simple sigil. At his hip was Halfdan’s sword, still sheathed in leather that bore scars of claw and flame. He didn’t bow. He didn’t speak until spoken to.

They hated that.

“Lord Ragnar,” intoned Lord Malkar, his purple-gilt rings catching the morning light like claws. “You’re late.”

“I was at the docks,” Ragnar replied. “Some of us still make time for the crews who risk their lives to feed us.”

A few of the lords scoffed. But Lady Veira, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, smirked faintly.

“I saw Captain Ivar returned from Berk,” said Lord Arnulf, rotund and red-faced, his voice like spoiled wine. “With nothing but a few piles of discarded garbage smelling of dragon piss.”

“The crates of the best steel I’ve ever seen aren’t exactly ‘garbage’,” Lady Veira countered, earning a few chuckles from the table. “Not all wealth comes from sweat and slaves, Arnulf.”

Arnulf leaned forward, his chin wagging in anger. “And yet we wouldn’t have to deal with these northern barbarians if our dear Lord Ragnar had simply done his duty.”

“I did my duty,” Ragnar said evenly. “If you mean leading a fleet against an unknown opponent into unknown waters.”

“You mean Mystholm,” interrupted Lord Daelen Fros, his tone clipped. “Where you did nothing as my brother in law was butchered on the deck of your ship.”

The words struck like an arrow, and Ragnar’s jaw clenched. He said nothing.

Daelen smiled venomously. “We’ve all heard the tales by now. Black dragons swarming like angry ants, melting everything in sight. And here you returned tail tucked, preaching restraint.”

“You call it preaching,” said Ragnar, “I call it survival.”

A few voices murmured agreement — but not many.

Lord Valric, the youngest among them, frowned. “And what of this… creature? The one called Nightshade. A true demon, if rumors are true. As a dragon, the size of a ship itself. A shapechanger. He decimated our soldiers. Killed Captain Halfdan.”

The name hung in the air like a funeral bell.

Ragnar met Valric’s gaze. “I was there. I saw what he is. And if you send another fleet—” he paused, eyes scanning the chamber, “—you will not get one back.”

The chamber rippled with murmurs.

“Fear does not suit you, Lord Ragnar,” Daelen spat.

“I’m not afraid,” Ragnar said softly. “I’ve just seen enough war to know what it costs. I’ve fought men and dragons, both the smart and the stupid. The Night Furies of Mystholm don’t flee. They don’t scatter. They hunt . And they’re smarter than we ever gave them credit for.”

“Then all the more reason to strike now,” said Lord Arnulf. “Before they grow bolder.”

“This isn’t about boldness!” Ragnar shouted, slamming a hand on the stone table. “You don’t win wars with arrogance. You win them by understanding your enemy. And what I understand is that we don’t stand a chance against the Night Furies. Not in their territory”

A silence fell.

Then Daelen leaned forward, fingers tapping the carved map. “You carry his sword. Yet you deny me vengeance for his death.”

Ragnar’s eyes burned. “I carry it because no one else here has the sense to wield it.”

That stung.

Valric glanced across the table. “You two can fight a duel for all I care… but this ‘Nightshade’ cannot be allowed to grow unchecked! Even the commoners are speaking of him now, their heads filled with nightmares from the survivors. The Black Demon. The Ghost. The Dragon God… preposterous.”

“He’s not a god,” Ragnar said. “But he’s not just a dragon either.”

Arnulf slammed a hand on the table. “We demand action!”

“Then vote,” Ragnar said. “Let the record show who wants their city decimated for their vengeance.”

There was hesitation.

A few glanced at Lady Veira, who merely raised a brow.

Finally, Lord Geren, old and sunken-eyed, spoke: “There… is not support for such a motion. It must be unanimous.”

Ragnar let out a slow breath.

“And it never will be… not while I live.”

He bowed his head—not in submission, but in acknowledgment. Then turned, cloak sweeping behind him.

“Where are you going?” Daelen called.

Ragnar didn’t stop.

“Back where I belong,” he said. 

And then he was gone. He didn’t say a word as the great doors opened to release him, only half heartedly greeted friendly passersby as he made his way through the winding streets and alleys. His feet did not falter until he made it to a large stone house near the Armories — large and comfortable, but not extravagant. Lord Ragnar made his way up the stone steps like a man beaten down by the world, yet unwilling to break. 

He opened the door to warm light and a comforting fire, the smells of cooking and home lifting his spirit high. Ragnar draped his cloak over a chair as his wife came to embrace him, then made his way to the hearth to join his four year old daughter in play. The burdens of the city couldn’t follow him here.

They spotted her just before dusk.

A black shape adrift on the western current, her sails torn, her mast snapped like a broken finger. She swayed with the rhythm of the sea like a drunkard, utterly silent but stubbornly upright.

Three fishing vessels had seen her — none dared board her alone.

By the time The Dagger’s Wake reached Velesheim’s outer waters, she was tethered between two warships, pulled like a corpse on a gurney towards the docks. Dozens still awake lined the walls above the waterline, watching as the ship floated into view.

She had never stayed in port for long, a sleek and shallow-hulled pirate vessel. But now her figurehead was snapped off by a storm. The deck was warped. The wood was soft with rot and coated in a salty sheen that reeked of black algae. A single sail hung limp, smeared with a long-dried crimson streak.

Blood covered the deck — even the tide could not wash it all away.

“She’s cursed,” one sailor muttered, stepping back.

As soon as the tethering lines had been tightened, soldiers armed in light plate armor boarded with drawn spears and iron lanterns. The planks creaked beneath their boots. A flock of gulls perched high above let out an eerie wail—as if to warn, not welcome.

There was no one alive aboard.

But they found him below decks, in the deepest part of the vessel.

A boy. Or what had once been one.

He lay against the wall, curled inward as though hiding from something. His chest was split open from the inside, ribs shattered outward. No weapon in the world could’ve caused such a wound. His eyes were gone — scraped clean by his own nails. His flesh was streaked with bruises in the shape of fingers too long and hands too wide.

The officers said nothing at first. They simply drew a cloak over the body, whispered a prayer of protection, and called for the local healer.

None of them noticed the sound.

A wet thump.

A mass of flesh—black, spined, writhing with vestigial limbs—slid off the portside hull, hitting the water with the softness of rotted meat. It disappeared under the surface without so much as a ripple.

None of them saw it slip into the harbor drain, oozing into the veins of the city, where all the filth and runoff of Velesheim eventually bled.

The Velesheim sewers were a different kingdom than the majesty above — silent, cold, and utterly without mercy. Narrow brick passages bent in ways that made no sense. Rats moved like the wind. The deeper tunnels stank of damp smoke and things too long buried.

A man crept through them, a lantern raised high. He was old — a limping pauper in a torn grey cloak. One of many forgotten by Velesheim’s gleaming temples and marbled towers. His face was half-wrapped in cloth, his fingers worn raw from scraping at pipes and grates for food. He whispered to himself, muttering half-prayers to gods no longer listening.

He stopped beneath a cracked archway, reaching down to grab what looked like a dropped crate — some discarded shipment from the upper levels.

He never stood back up.

A fleshy tendril burst from the darkness, wrapping around his throat.

Another followed. Then another.

He was yanked backward in a blur of motion, his scream echoing through the tunnel once before being silenced in an unnatural gurgle. The lantern dropped and shattered, flames spilling across the water.

And behind it…

A sound. Wet, deep, and breathing.

The thing hunched over his body—still malformed, still pulsing with need. Its skin bulged with blistering tumors. Its small chest cavity opened and closed like a mouth learning to breathe. Its arms were growing. Its spine cracked as it lengthened.

Its many teeth smiled in the dark.

And as it fed, it began to dream.

Chapter Text

Chapter 15: Ash and Steel

The ashen snow lay thick across the plains that morning, a thin grey sheen stretched over dirt and stone. Though the red clouds were no longer shedding burnt deluge, a dull wind scraped across the land like a knife, muting sound and scent alike. The dying grass bent without complaint, dusted with old snow.

Balan crouched on the edge of the ravine, his breath a pale plume against the cold. Below, two Outlander scouts were dragging what was left of a bone walker toward a fire pit. The creature’s body was broken in half a dozen places, its armor seared and crumbling like clay. It had taken three men to fight it before Balan could take its head. 

He hadn’t slept much the night before. Again.

Meera’s warband had returned from another ambush near the eastern hills, and the bodies they’d brought back were proof of just how bold the bone walkers were becoming. Regular strikes. Constant casualties. More variety among the corpses — extra arms, broken wings, as though some evil was churning them out like clay. They didn’t fight like they used to. They fought like hunters chasing an animal no one else could see.

Balan rose slowly, the wind pressing his coat flat against his body. The sheathed greatsword at his hand still bore soot along the spine from yesterday’s fight, and his knuckles were crusted with dried black blood—none of it his own. He walked back toward the Outlander village in silence.

Despite the more frequent attacks, it had grown over the last five months. The number of hard-packed huts and fire-circles of stone had grown, bolstered by births, comings of age, and wanderers from other tribes. Children ran between the stacks of firewood, laughing as they passed warriors sharpening spears and drying herbs. Smoke rose gently from half a dozen cooking pits. Somewhere, a drum beat slowly — not for celebration, but to count the time for skinning and gutting meat.

They were preparing to stave off the winter — strange, cold, and as rife with danger as any season in Nangren.

But Balan was now one of them. Outlanders nodded to him as he passed — some stiffly, some with the easy respect of comrades. He recognized their names now. Yara, who wielded a scythe instead of a spear. Drek, who cooked better than he fought. Temar, who still flinched at his presence but no longer whispered prayers when they made eye contact.

He had earned the respect of many, even their love. But not all.

“Balan.”

He turned. A boy no older than thirteen stood with a bundle of cloaks under one arm. His voice cracked mid-sentence. “Meera wants you. The elder’s tent.”

Balan thanked him warmly, already moving.

He had never been to Elder Surayya’s tent. A thin curtain of beads marked the entrance, each one carved from bone and dead wood. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cedar and dried sage. Smoke clung to the ceiling. Balan ducked through the entrance and stood quietly.

Surayya sat cross-legged beside the central fire. Her eyes were clouded with age, but her expression was sharp.

Across from her stood Meera.

She wore a thick wool scarf over her shoulders, her braid pinned up with a copper clasp. Her eyes lingered on Balan the moment he entered, but she did not smile.

“We were just talking about you,” the elder said without preamble.

“I assumed,” Balan said, his voice low.

Surayya motioned to the fire. “Sit.”

He did, carefully, the warmth slowly pushing against the cold in his limbs. Meera moved to his side but didn’t touch him, as if afraid he would pull away.

“Meera rightly believes the dreams you suffer may be… more than remnants of pain,” the elder said after a long silence. “That they are echoes.”

“Of what?” Balan asked. His voice was flat, but a tremor worked its way through his jaw. “I don’t know what they mean. The names. The shadows. The hands.”

Surayya’s eyes narrowed. “You spoke about dragons again in your sleep three nights ago. Black ones, dark as shadows.”

Meera tensed.

“I know of them,” the elder said softly. “Old beasts. Creatures of fear, of ages past.”

Balan’s shoulders tightened, but he didn’t speak.

“You dream of things most would flee from, what most have never seen,” Tarek murmured. “And I think with some help, you can learn from them.”

Before more could be said, a second figure burst into the tent. A young warrior, barely old enough to shave, stood panting in the smoke-thick air, sweat glistening on his brow despite the cold.

“Apologies,” he gasped. “There’s a… a man just rode in. From the Red Sand.”

Meera frowned. “What does he want?”

The warrior hesitated. Then: “He wishes to speak to you.”

The silence that followed was worse than any war cry.

Balan didn’t look at Meera. Not right away. But when he did, her face was carved from ice.

“Let him wait,” she said coolly.

“He’s already drawn a crowd,” the boy said.

Surayya sighed. “They will not approve.”

“I don’t care,” Meera said. “Go on.”

Surayya huffed, throwing a handful of herbs into the fire. The pungent smell assaulted Balan’s nostrils, but he did not complain. The elder looked into the fire, seeing something neither of the young Outlanders could perceive — when she looked back up, her wrinkled face contorted into a smile.

“I will give you a potion tonight, Balan. Drink it before bed, and let sleep take you without fear. Tomorrow, tell me what you see.”

Before Balan could even nod, the old woman was already up and about, muttering to herself as she gathered herbs and ingredients without names. A few minutes later, a foul-smelling potion in a waterskin found its way into Balan’s outstretched hands.

“May you have calm dreams tonight,” Surayya declared, before her eyes turned to Meera accusingly. “Out! There’s only so long you can keep a proud man stewing before the pot boils over.”

The wind met them first as Balan and Meera stepped out of the elder’s tent—sharp and dry, full of dust. The cold wasn’t biting, but it scraped against the skin like dry parchment. Around the fire pits, warriors looked up. Conversations paused. A few children scurried off, called inside by wary mothers.

The messenger stood in the center of the village circle, surrounded by a wide berth of silence. His cloak was crimson, too fine for the weather, clasped at the neck with a brooch in the shape of a flaring sun. Gold rings gleamed on each hand. He didn’t carry weapons — but he didn’t need to. The burning sun stitched into his shoulder spoke loudly enough.

The Red Sand.

Balan now recognized the emblem. Everyone did.

Meera didn’t slow. She stepped down into the circle with the easy grace of someone who had fought beside every face watching. A woman of her tribe, not above it.

The messenger smiled politely — too politely. His eyes flicked to Balan with a faint curl of disdain, then returned to Meera.

“Lady Meera,” he said, bowing just enough to imply respect without offering it. “I bring greetings from my master, Lord Arikan of the Red Sand.”

“You’ve brought them before,” Meera replied flatly. “The answer hasn’t changed.”

“Ah, but hope does not wither so easily,” he said smoothly. “You are young, wise, and beautiful. A union with our tribe would secure much for your people. Protection. Prosperity. Grain, iron, gold. Our trade is strong — our forges burn night and day.”

Meera didn’t answer. Her jaw tightened slightly, but her hands remained at her sides.

The messenger stepped forward. “Lord Arikan offers you status. Safety. He knows the burden you carry as war-leader of this tribe. Let him share that weight. We could—”

“No,” Meera said.

The word struck like a thrown spear.

“No, again?” the man repeated, stunned. “Lady, I don’t think you understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” she said. Her voice was not raised, but it carried like frost through the village air. “I understand that Lord Arikan is a proud and cruel man who collects wives like he collects ornaments for his war banners. I understand that he keeps slaves beneath his feast tables and makes laborers of ten-year-olds. I understand that he sends you here, not with respect, but with expectation. And he hasn’t ever seen a bone walker, which makes him less of a man then everyone here… well, except you.”

Balan stepped to her side, silent but watchful. The villagers were gathering now, watching from behind tents and drying racks. Some nodded. Others murmured uneasily.

The messenger flushed. “Lady Meera, think of your people. The Outlanders could benefit greatly from this bond—”

“No,” she said again, sharper. “You don’t get to speak of what my people need. You come from warm baths and slave pens. We fight for our children. You chain yours for coin. Tell your master he can find another bride to warm his bed elsewhere.”

The man’s expression hardened. “He will not take kindly to this refusal.”

Meera leaned forward, her face inches from his. “Then let him take it unkindly. But you will take it to him, and if you return with the same message again my spear will find your back.”

A hush fell. Even the firewood cracked more softly.

The messenger stood frozen for a beat, then straightened his cloak with stiff dignity. “As you wish. But remember — you spurn not just a man, but a power. And powers do not forget.”

“Neither do we,” Meera said.

He turned and walked, quickly now, back toward the narrow path that led through the outer ridge. No one followed. A few young warriors spat as he passed.

When he was gone, Meera stood in the center of the circle for a long moment. Her braid was tight. Her shoulders tense. But she was not shaking.

Some of the elders exchanged looks. A few frowned. A woman near the drying racks muttered to her neighbor, not quite under her breath.

“Their grain could’ve fed twenty families.”

But another woman—a one-eyed weaver named Kael—stood taller.

“She’d rather live proud than on a leash,” she said. “And that’s the leader I follow.”

Still, the silence was uneasy. The tension had teeth.

Meera turned and walked past Balan, giving him the smallest nod. It was the first time she’d spoken to him all day.

“Come,” she said. “Let’s go train. Before I decide I regret not running him through.”

Balan followed without a word, but the faintest smile ghosted across his face.

She hadn’t done what was easy.

She’d done what was right.

The Outlanders training arena had also grown slightly since Balan’s first spar here — raised stones and half-buried shields now served as walls, with enough space to settle disputes, practice spear forms, or work off unwelcome emotion.

That last purpose was why Balan followed Meera there now.

She said nothing as she entered the circle, only pulled her braid tighter and stepped into the center, rolling her shoulders. Her scarf had been discarded, and the fire in her eyes was not the fire of training.

Balan didn’t need to ask what she wanted.

He unslung his coat, tossing it over one of the stone perches, then drew his wooden sparring greatsword from the rack leaning against the boulder wall. Meera had already armed herself — training blade in hand, her stance sharp as the wind.

She didn’t wait.

She lunged at him, no warning, and Balan barely raised his sword in time to block the first blow.

The second was harder. Angled. Fast.

Her strikes came like a storm — shoulder-driven, relentless, teeth clenched. Balan gave ground, keeping his footing light, his own blade mostly defensive. He parried one blow, then another, and ducked under a sweeping strike that would’ve broken a rib had it connected.

Still, he said nothing.

She was testing him. Or venting. Or both.

He let her.

“You should’ve said something,” she hissed between blows. “Before the elder had to drag it out of you. You knew the dreams were getting worse.”

Balan deflected a thrust and stepped back, giving her space. “I didn’t know what to say.”

“You didn’t try ,” she snapped, striking again—this time harder. “And now I’m the one who feels like I broke your trust.”

He caught her blade with his own, sliding the wooden edge along hers until they were nose to nose. He looked into her eyes.

“You didn’t. It’s your duty.”

Her hazel eyes burned with anger, and Balan gulped. That probably wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

She shoved him back, breathing hard. Her next strike was sloppy, driven by fury, and he stepped past it easily, catching her wrist in a light grip.

“You’re not mad at me,” he said gently. “You’re mad at them .”

Meera ripped her wrist free. “I’m mad at everything! ”

The next strike came low and sharp.

This time, Balan misjudged it.

Her blade struck the side of his arm—too hard, too low. The wood cracked skin, slicing deep.

Blood welled at once, dark against his sleeve.

Meera froze.

Her weapon dropped.

Her hand went to her mouth as if to catch the breath she’d lost. “I—I didn’t—”

Balan looked down at the cut which was already healing. Then up at her.

She was trembling. Not from fear — but from guilt, from the weight of the day, from the expectations she couldn’t carry anymore.

“I’ve had to be strong,” she said. “Every day. Since I was ten. And I thought I could handle it, but…” She swallowed hard. “I want to be strong, but today—today I’m just tired .”

She sank to her knees on the hard-packed earth, covering her face.

“I told the elder your dreams weren’t just dreams, like you're just some threat that needs to be watched. And then that gods-damned peacock of a man comes and offers me help —the illusion of it—and I say no because I won’t sell myself like a common whore! And now half the village will whisper that I cost them food and fire and safety, and I can’t even blame them because maybe they’re right!”

Her voice cracked.

“I’m so tired of pretending I don’t feel it!”

Balan knelt slowly beside her, silent.

Then—without asking—he reached out, placed a hand on her shoulder, and said simply:

“Then don’t pretend.”

She looked at him, eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m supposed to be their strength.”

“You are,” he said. “But you’re also allowed to be human.”

Silence hung between them. The sky had begun to darken—ever fiery-red, but with faint traces of gold.

Meera wiped her face with the back of her hand, half-laughing now. “You always know exactly the right thing to say.”

“I don’t,” he said honestly. “I’m just not afraid to say the wrong thing.”

That made her laugh, truly, for the first time that day.

When she stood, she looked steadier. Not fixed—but rooted again.

“Some of the children near the western slope are coughing again,” she said, voice returning to her usual measured tone. “Sick from the last rains. I need to check on them. It’ll give me something to do.”

“I’ll walk you there,” Balan offered.

“No,” she said gently. “You have watch tonight, don’t you?”

He nodded.

She reached out and touched his arm — just for a moment. A flicker. A spark.

“I’ll see you in the morning. Sweet dreams.”

Then she was gone, striding back through the wind, braid swinging, head held high again.

Balan stood in the circle alone, blood slowly drying on his sleeve. Her touch seemed to linger on his arm, a strange feeling blooming in his chest… but he shrugged it off, gathering his things and heading for home.

The wind had dulled by the time Balan returned to his tent. The fires in the village ring crackled low, most reduced to coals, and the night sky was heavy with frost-laced stars. Somewhere in the distance, drums beat out the final watch of the evening.

Inside, the tent was warm from the stones he’d banked in the hearth pit earlier. His bedroll was already laid out across the packed earth, and a thin sheet of hide covered the slit window above the entrance. His coat hung on the post beside his sleeping gear — beside the sword.

It leaned, as always, against the central tent pole.

The same greatsword he’d claimed from the shattered bone walker five months ago.

Even now, it looked like a relic. The blade was old steel, dark with use and patchy with black burn lines that never fully came clean. The grip had been replaced twice. The pommel was nothing but a crudely forged lump of iron. But it held weight. It held balance. It had saved his life more times than he could count. And still… it didn’t feel like his .

Not yet.

He sat cross-legged in front of it and closed his eyes, slowing his breath the way Meera had taught him during morning practice. He let his thoughts spiral outward — past the aches in his shoulders, the scent of ash on his hands, the low hum of wind around the tent.

Then he reached into his pack and retrieved the waterskin Surayya had given him.

The potion smelled foul — bitter and mossy, with a faint aftertaste of burnt herbs. Balan wrinkled his nose but drank it all in one go. A warmth unfurled in his stomach, slow and strange.

He lay back.

And the world faded.

The dream came softly.

No scream. No pain. No blood this time.

Just heat. Crackling, living heat.

Balan stood in the heart of a great volcano, but he felt strangely calm, as though familiar with this place. The lava roiled far below, glowing amber and gold beneath a vast obsidian platform suspended in the air like a god’s anvil. Molten veins pulsed through the stone like living arteries, and across the platform stood a forge unlike any he had ever seen—its bellows the size of wagons, its chimney a spire of light piercing into the sky. Five great obsidian obelisks rested behind it, but Balan paid them no mind.

His eyes were fixed on the man standing at the forge.

Tall. Broad. Shirtless, his toned form apparent for all to see. His hair was black and wild, and every strike of his hammer sent up a ripple of heat and power. Amber lightning coiled around his arms like living vines. His eyes flashed gold when he raised the hammer—then brighter still when it struck the anvil.

Clang.

The sound rang like a war cry, echoing through Balan’s chest.

He watched in awe. In reverence. He didn’t know this man… but somehow, he did.

He felt pride welling in his heart. Not just admiration. Kinship.

The smith turned, his brow glistening with heat. He gestured to the side—where two identical swords lay across a velvet cloth. Greatswords. Twin forges. They were sleek silver, with faintly glowing ruby inlays along the guard and hilt. The runes along the blade shimmered as if alive.

The smith took one and inspected the edge.

Then he held the other out to Balan.

Their eyes met. Ruby upon bright gold.

And in that instant, something clicked—like a key turning in a long-forgotten lock.

Balan reached for the blade.

He woke up with a gasp.

The tent was filled with red morning light.

His skin was warm, his chest calm. No sweat. No scream. Just breath.

And for the first time in recent memory…

He didn’t feel tired.

Balan sat up slowly, rubbing his face. The waterskin lay empty beside his bedroll. The firestones had gone cold.

Then he looked at the sword.

Still resting against the post.

Still old. Still scarred.

But now, somehow, he could see beneath the age.

Fine steel. Patterned lines beneath the grime. A folded edge that had been lost beneath the soot and ash of someone else’s war.

His fingers curled around the grip.

It felt right .

Before he could think, he grabbed the sword, still sheathed, and strapped it across his back. Then he ducked to the side of his bedroll, pulling free a small pouch tucked beneath the folds — a cloth sack filled with tiny, glimmering stones. More than enough to barter.

A month ago, he’d found them on an abandoned trader’s cart in the plains, and taken them for no real reason.

Now he had one.

He shoved the pouch into his satchel, tied his hair back with a strip of cloth, and threw open the tent flap.

The wind hit him in the face like a blessing.

And Balan ran.

Past tents, past cookfires, past startled villagers who called his name as he sprinted through the morning light—toward the forge at the edge of the village, where steel could remember its true shape.

Jesh’s forge was tucked against the slope where the hill broke into a wind-shielded hollow, smoke curling upward into the sky from its squat chimney. The blacksmith himself had barely stoked the morning fire when the tent flap slammed open and Balan stormed in, greatsword slung across his back, face alight with something close to madness.

Jesh turned, half-startled. “Balan?”

“I need your forge,” Balan said, dropping his pack with a thump. “And every scrap of ore you’ve got.”

Jesh blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Iron. Steel. A bit of nickel, if you’ve got it. And any silver you haven’t traded yet. I’ll need leather for the grip, and obsidian grit if you have some.”

The smith raised a hand. “You’re mad. Do you even know how much you're asking for?”

“Yes,” Balan said flatly. “Do you have them?”

Jesh scoffed. “Even if I did, you couldn’t afford—”

The gem pouch hit the table with a jingle like falling stars.

Jesh opened it, and his jaw dropped. Sapphires, onyx, polished quartz, and coin-polished greenstones tumbled out in a cascade of color. Enough wealth to buy a small wagon team, maybe even a marriage price in a smaller tribe — abandoned for more important things, but no longer.

Balan kept back one small velvet bundle. Jesh noticed.

“You’re holding something back.”

“Rubies,” Balan said. “They’re mine.”

Jesh blinked again. Then slowly—warily—he nodded. “I’ll work the bellows.”

The forge blazed to life.

Balan stripped off his coat and outer tunic, his chest wrapped in linen beneath his leather bindings. His eyes—bright ruby—caught the firelight and turned molten. Jesh gave him space after laying out the ore, watching with something between awe and confusion as the young man began sorting through metals, placing ingots and chunks in a particular sequence he hadn’t taught him.

He didn’t need to.

Balan remembered every detail from the dream burned into his blood—how the steel moved, the timing of the hammer, the angle of the first fold. He moved like a smith possessed, the blade in his mind already real.

The raw steel began to take form.

Fold by fold, layer by layer, Balan hammered. His arms trembled with exertion, sweat soaking his brow and streaking the ash on his cheeks. Sparks sprayed with every blow. Jesh tried to offer suggestions—old smithing wisdom—but Balan wasn’t listening. He didn’t need to. The fire was teaching him again.

Word spread.

By midday, the sound of relentless hammering had drawn a small crowd outside the forge. Curious warriors. Children. Old women. Even the gatherers paused mid-hunt to watch from the edge of the path outside.

By the time the sun reached the midpoint, Balan quenched the blade. The hiss was deafening. Steam billowed like smoke from a funeral pyre.

Then came the inlaying of the rubies—set one by one into the crossguard and the pommel, each held with liquid silver, hardened by the chill. Jesh watched in stunned silence as the pieces slid into place as though they’d been waiting centuries for this moment.

The greatsword that emerged from the final polish was a weapon worthy of legend.

Silver steel, layered with a folded core. The blade was sleek but heavy, longer than most, the edges curved with a hunter’s bite. The runes Balan didn’t remember writing were faintly etched in the blade, and the ruby settings caught the forge light like living flame. It shimmered when raised, whistled when swung.

Balan held it in both hands, chest rising with exhausted, exhilarated breaths.

He was filthy. Shirtless. Covered in ash. But the grin on his face… pure triumph.

The tent opened, light spilling inside.

Meera stood on the threshold, one brow raised.

Her eyes widened as she saw the blade—but they didn’t stay there. They drifted to him. The firelight made his skin glow like bronze, made the gleam in his eyes dangerous and wild. His chest was heaving. His hair was slicked back with sweat. His smile—rare and open—was unguarded.

And something in her stomach turned over.

“You did this?” she asked, stepping inside.

Balan turned to her with a proud, sheepish grin. “I… yeah. I don’t know how. But I did.”

Her arms crossed, more to steady herself than anything. “It’s beautiful.”

He held it out. “It feels like it’s mine.”

Meera hesitated. “It looks like it always was.”

They stood there a moment too long. Balan oblivious, still smiling at his new weapon.

Meera looked away first, hiding the faint flush in her cheeks.

Outside, the wind picked up.

But inside the forge, something had changed.

Not just in the sword.

But in him.

And in her.

Chapter Text

Chapter 16: Ill Winter Omens

The firelight inside Surayya’s tent cast long shadows across the bone-beaded walls. Herbs hung in clustered bundles from the support beams, their scents thick in the warm air — sage, juniper, pine smoke, and something bitter Balan didn’t recognize. The warmth inside was a welcome contrast to the creeping cold outside. The ahsen snow had begun to fall again.

He ducked into the tent with slow reverence, one hand resting lightly on the silver-and-ruby greatsword now slung across his shoulder. Its new scabbard gleamed with fresh leather and ornamental knotwork. Even dulled by the tent’s filtered lamplight, the rubies in the hilt caught every flicker of flame.

Surayya sat cross-legged near the hearth, her eyes closed, a pinch of herbs smoldering in the coals. She did not look up.

“You have had a good dream,” she said, as if Balan had spoken already.

He removed the sword and set it beside him on the rug as he knelt. “Yes,” he said softly. “After the potion.”

She opened her eyes — dark and milky with age, but far from blind. “Tell me everything.”

He did. The volcano. The forge. The amber lightning that danced along the hammer. The man — not old, not young, broad in the shoulders with black hair and eyes like molten gold. The sword he forged beside him, identical to Balan’s own. The way it felt… not just like a vision, but a memory.

Surayya listened in silence, her weathered hands folded in her lap.

When Balan finished, she spoke carefully. “This was not a dream born from herbs. Nor from the gods.”

“Then what was it?”

“A thread,” she said. “One that winds backward through fog and blood. A thread that leads to a life you do not yet remember.”

Balan’s brows furrowed. “Why don’t I remember?”

She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she reached for a pouch beside her and scattered a few pebbles into the flames. They snapped and sparked with a brief green light.

“Sometimes our pain is so great we do not wish to,” she murmured. “Not just of the body. The mind suffers as well… sometimes more.”

“Why me?” he asked. “What could I have done? What am I?”

“I cannot say… but something is waking in you,” she said. “And something is waking in the world.”

She studied him long and hard. “You wish to know more.”

“Yes.”

Surayya was quiet for a time.

“You are strong, Balan,” she said. “Stronger than many believed. But knowledge is not always a gift. Sometimes it devours the soul before time ever does.”

He clenched his jaw. “Even if I wanted to forget… the dreams keep coming.”

“And so we walk gently,” she said, nodding. “Give it a few days. Let the sword rest. Let you rest. Then, I will give you another draught… one that may carry you farther.”

He nodded once, then stood, slinging the blade over his shoulder with careful weight.

As he left the tent, the wind nipped his skin like a warning. The red sky was dim, and the snow had begun to fall harder.

The snow had thickened by morning.

It clung to the rooftops and hung in dead trees like old grey silk. Though the crimson clouds were pierced by small sun beams shimmering across the ridges, no warmth came with them. The village was quieter than usual, the smoke rising from hearths thinner, less merry.

Balan walked alone. His greatsword rested against his side in its new scabbard, the leather still creaking with fresh oil. He passed the training post, empty. A broken spear leaned against one of its supports — unusual. Meera would never leave the field in disorder.

He scanned the yard once more, then turned toward the food stores and armory sheds. Children milled about in small groups, slower than usual. A woman sat beside her hut, coughing into her sleeve.

A cold sensation settled in Balan’s chest.

He spotted Ravik walking with a belt of carving knives, waving to a pair of hunters. Balan approached quickly.

“Ravik,” he called.

The warrior turned, then grinned. “There you are. I was beginning to think you were sleeping through the daylight now.”

“I’m looking for Meera.”

Ravik frowned. “Haven’t seen her. Not since yesterday. She mentioned going to her tent to rest.”

“She didn’t join the morning training?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Didn’t think much of it. She’s been—well… tired.”

Balan’s eyes narrowed. “She’s never missed training.”

Without another word, they moved as one.

Meera’s tent stood just beyond the second fire ring, the hide flap sealed against the wind. No prints in the snow. But smoke from within.

Balan reached the flap and called, “Meera?”

No answer.

He pushed aside the curtain of fur and stepped into a wall of heat.

Inside, the air was thick with dying coals and bitter-smelling herbs. The lantern flickered beside the bedroll. And Meera lay under a heap of furs, pale and clammy, her breathing shallow.

She was trying to sit up.

Her arm shook as she pushed herself upward, growling softly under her breath. When she noticed Balan, her eyes flared.

“I’m not dying,” she rasped, glaring at him like a cornered wolf. “So don’t look at me like I am.”

Balan crossed to her side. “You have no color. You’re sweating through wool.”

She tried to swing her legs over the edge. “I have drills to run. If I don’t—”

He gently but firmly placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back down. “The drills can wait.”

She looked like she might punch him. Instead, her fingers clutched at the blankets.

“I don’t have time to be sick,” she whispered, voice raw. “The younger ones need instruction. Yara’s spear form is still crooked. And I was supposed to visit—”

“Ravik,” Balan said over his shoulder, “get Surayya.”

Already halfway to the door, Ravik nodded and vanished into the snow.

Meera coughed once, sharp and dry. “You know what they’ll say,” she muttered bitterly. “The chief is weakening. She’ll rot before spring.” Her voice cracked, and her hands clenched the edge of the furs like they might keep her anchored.

Balan crouched beside her.

“I’ve fought beside you for months,” he said. “No one will blame you for getting sick.”

She shut her eyes.

“Then they’ll think I’m getting what I deserve.”

He didn’t argue.

A moment passed in silence.

Then: “You were right,” she murmured. “About me overextending. Pushing past exhaustion. I didn’t listen. I thought… if I stopped, everything would fall apart.”

“It didn’t,” Balan said. “It won’t.”

The curtain parted again. Surayya ducked inside, followed by two young apprentices bearing bundles of wrapped leaves and clay pots.

One look at Meera and her face turned to stone. “Get water. Hot, not boiling. And bring the iron pot.” She didn’t even glance at Balan. “You. Help her sit up.”

He obeyed gently, letting Meera lean into him. Her body felt heavier than it should — not in weight, but in wear. She was breathing hard by the time she was propped against the tent’s low wall, her skin cold.

Surayya worked quickly, checking her eyes, tongue, and pulse. “Fever’s just begun. Her lungs are still clear, thank the spirits. But it’s coming. You’ll see more cases before dusk.”

“More?” Balan asked.

“It spreads with the cold,” Surayya said grimly. “From the lungs to the blood. If the frost doesn’t kill us, this might.”

Balan’s jaw tightened. “What can I do?”

The elder looked up, truly looking at him this time. “You can stay standing. The sickness doesn’t touch you.”

“You’re sure?” Meera murmured.

Surayya nodded. “You’re marked, boy. Whether by fate or fire, I don’t know. But you’re definitely immune. And that makes you my apprentice.”

For the first time, Balan looked unsure. “I’ve never healed anything.”

“Then you’ll learn. You’ve got strong hands. That’s enough.”

The rest of the day blurred.

By evening, three more had fallen ill: two children, one elder. By the second morning, it was ten. Over the next few days, more followed. Coughing, fevers, shivering fits. A lull in the raids meant fewer warriors on the front, but the illness was more insidious than blades.

And Balan became the center of it.

He ferried hot water, delivered doses of boiled pine bark and hollowroot, cradled children as they seized, and cleaned sweat-drenched bedding with hands that didn’t shake. Surayya gave him no praise, but didn’t need to. She kept him moving, and he moved.

And every night, he returned to Meera’s tent. She recovered slowly — one of the first afflicted, but not one of the worst. Still, she never let him see her fully broken.

“You stink of roots and boiled herbs,” she rasped once, her eyes fluttering open in the middle of the night.

Balan smiled. “Good. Means I’m still trying.”

She was silent for a moment. Then a cold hand reached out of the covers to grab his own. “Thank you. For not leaving.”

He sat beside her, watching the brazier glow. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Night had fallen over the Outlander village like a lid over a simmering pot. The fires were low. Wind howled across the empty plains beyond the huts, scraping snow across the stones. And within one of the older storage lodges—long since cleared and half-collapsed—a different kind of heat simmered.

Seven figures sat in a rough circle beneath the rafters. Shadows flickered across their faces, cast by the single lantern lit between them. Smoke curled from a hastily-lit bundle of dried herbs in the center, masking their voices and scent. No one wanted to be overheard. Not tonight.

Helin sat at the center, legs crossed, cloak drawn tight around her shoulders. Her dark hair was tied back in a utilitarian braid, and her sharp-featured face wore a look of absolute disdain. She hadn’t spoken yet, letting the others fidget and whisper amongst themselves. She wanted them uneasy. She wanted them ready.

“She sent him away,” muttered one of the older men — Jorah, a hunter who still carried a limp from one of the bone walker raids. “Didn’t even consider the offer. Red Sand’s been good to us before. Gifts, trade—”

“She didn’t even listen,” spat another, a woman with a jagged scar along her jaw. “Second offer in a year. She spits on alliance like it’s filth.”

“She thinks she’s better than us,” someone else said. “Stronger. Like her pride matters more than our food, our future—”

Helin raised a hand. The group fell quiet instantly.

“She is weak,” Helin said coldly. “She thinks denying Lord Arikan makes her noble. It makes her stupid. Selfish. And now the village will pay for her pride. She lies there in her tent, sick and useless, while others suffer.”

There were a few uncomfortable shifts in the circle. One of the men cleared his throat.

“Some still admire her. She’s brave—led the raids, kept the peace—”

“She’s a child playing war queen,” Helin snapped. “And she’s made us enemies. Do you think Arikan will offer a third proposal? He won’t. He’ll take what he wants—and this time, we’ll have no say in it.”

A hush settled. The weight of her words dropped like frost.

Helin leaned forward, voice low. “We cannot wait for him to come with an army. We deliver her to him — on our terms. She disappears during the sickness. A tragedy. A mystery. He’ll reward us — secure trade, protection. And the village survives.”

A man to her left frowned. “You mean sell her?”

Helin didn’t blink. “He wants her as a bride, not a corpse, fool. And we could use his favor.”

A beat of silence.

Then someone asked what they’d all been thinking.

“What about Balan?”

That name turned the air bitter.

“He’s always near her,” muttered Jorah. “Watching over her like a dog. And half the village treats him like a hero.”

Helin’s lips curled. “He’s not one of us. He never will be. Mark my words—he’s dangerous.”

“Too dangerous,” another man agreed. “You saw what he did to that bone walker last moon. Split it in half before burning the head.”

“He’ll never let her go,” someone whispered.

“Then we separate them,” Helin said. “Wait for the next attack. When the walkers come again—and they will—he’ll go to the front lines. He won’t ignore duty. And while he’s gone…”

She let the sentence hang.

There were nods. Slowly. Uneasily. But they nodded.

“And after?” asked the scarred woman. “You know he’ll try to find whoever took her.”

Helin’s voice was like ice. “Then we make sure by then… he has no one left to defend him.”

Another silence.

Then Jorah nodded. “We’ll spread doubt. Quietly. Let the others wonder where he came from. Why he never gets sick. What he dreams about. Maybe he took Meera for himself.”

“Whispers,” said the woman. “That he’s cursed.”

“Demon-marked,” added another.

“Eventually,” Helin said, “he’ll lose their love. Then we cut him down.”

“And the girl?”

“She goes to Arikan,” Helin finished. “And we take what we’re owed.”

The group fell quiet again. Somewhere outside, the wind scraped against the eaves like claws.

Helin stood, casting a long shadow on the wall behind her. “We meet again in three days. Be ready. If the sickness spreads, the walkers won’t be far behind. And Balan will march out like the feral dog he is.”

A few gave her uncertain looks, but no one challenged her. Not tonight.

One by one, the conspirators filed out into the snow, their cloaks drawn tight against the cold.

And Helin remained, watching the smoke twist above the firepit.

“You had your chance, Meera,” she whispered. “Mine begins now.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 17: The Arbiter

The afternoon broke fast and cold over the ash-strewn valley. Crimson light crawled across the Outlander village like a thing unsure of its welcome — thinning through old canvas, sliding over brittle thatch and snow-crusted hide. Smoke rose lazily from a dozen tents, thinner than it had been in weeks. The fires still burned low, but the scent had changed — from sickness and rot to breath and steam.

The worst of the plague had passed.

Balan stood at the edge of the central clearing, arms folded tight across his chest. His breath came in clouds that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. He had not slept in two days. He didn’t feel the cold anymore.

Behind him, the village stirred with the slow motions of recovery. An old woman bent at a hearth, mumbling to herself as she stirred herbs into a simmering pot. Children padded between tents, thinner than they had been weeks ago but upright, eyes bright. A boy laughed quietly as he chased a goat through the muddy snow, and no one told him to stop.

From a distance, the sound might have been mistaken for peace.

But Balan’s eyes remained fixed on the large tent.

He entered quietly.

The heavy flap of cloth was drawn aside with a whisper. Inside, warmth pressed in heavy waves — smoke, herbs, the sour-sweet stink of illness. A low cough greeted him as he set his greatsword against a stool. Meera lay near the central fire — pale, fever-glossed, but alive. Her lips were cracked, eyes sunken. But when she saw him, her mouth twitched in something that could have been a smile.

“I told you,” she rasped, her voice brittle as old bark, “that I wouldn’t die.”

“You’ll have to try harder,” Balan said quietly.

He knelt beside her, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders. She shifted slightly to reach for his arm, but the motion was weak. Still, her grip found him — trembling but stubborn.

“I hate this,” she murmured. “Lying here while the world moves.”

“You’re allowed to hate it.”

“Not when I should be standing.”

She tried again to sit. Balan gently pushed her back down.

Outside, wind rasped against the tent like claws on a hide. Then — something new.

A fluttering sound.

Then the cawing of birds, rising from a whisper into a shout.

Ravens.

Balan rose at once, sticking his head out of the tent.

A cry echoed from beyond the square. Then another. Heavy footfalls in the snow. A warrior burst into the square, breath hissing through clenched teeth.

“Riders on the northern slope see movement,” he said. “The birds brought the word — bone walkers. Hundreds.”

Silence. Even the sick turned their heads.

“More than we’ve seen in years.”

Balan’s face didn’t change.

He turned to Meera. Her lips parted to speak, but she couldn’t find the strength. Her hand clutched his again.

He gave it a squeeze, then seized his weapon and made his way outside.

“Get every able-bodied man and woman ready,” Balan said to the messenger. “All three groups. We do this the way we practiced.”

“Yes, sir.”

Balan didn’t correct him, heading for the horse pastures

Behind him, Meera whispered something no one could hear.

And the village began to prepare for battle.

The wind tore across the ice plains like a blade. It howled through broken ravines and twisted trees, carrying with it the stench of frost-bitten rot and the metallic scent of old blood. Ash snow drifted in strange, whispering eddies around the hooves of the Outlander warhorses, and above them, the crimson sky roiled with darkened clouds.

The warband rode in silence.

Dozens strong, the Outlander riders surged northward in teams of three — loose and disciplined, each armed with heated weapons, oil-soaked nets, and bundles of pitch-oil tied in clay pots. Their armor clanked, patched together from scavenged steel, cured hides, and bone, but their faces were hard. Each man and woman knew their role.

And at the head of them all strode a figure on foot.

Balan ran ahead of the cavalry, not from stubbornness—but because he had outgrown the need for a mount.

He moved like a beast forged for the cold—his leather coat pressed flat to his body, the greatsword strapped across his back humming with weight. Steam curled from his skin as he ran, not from the cold but from the fury coiled within him.

He had trained them for this.

In the months since his arrival, Balan had studied the bone walkers, learned their movements, their formations, and their fatal flaw. They did not feel pain. They did not flinch. But this made their reaction time slow, their footing clumsy in terrain, and fragile where it mattered most.

Their heads.

One couldn’t kill a walker with fire alone. The rot inside them didn’t burn fast enough. A warrior had to take the skull—separate it from the spine—and then ignite it. Oil made the job easier. Bolas and triplines gave you the angle. Spears and axes set the stage.

But only flame and steel could finish the work.

The scouts had not exaggerated. When the warband crested the edge of the ridge, the wasteland yawned wide—and there they were.

Hundreds.

An army of the dead, shambling across the broken snow, some crawling, some dragging malformed limbs like loose cargo. They did not speak, but the clicking of their jaws and the scrape of bone against ice made a noise that grated like chains against stone.

Some had tusks. Some had black ichor leaking from shattered masks. One walked on all fours like a beast, its ribs exposed like a cage.

Ravik, riding close behind, muttered a curse. “They’ve never come in numbers like this. Or in such a variety.”

“They’ve changed,” Balan said. “Maybe they’re testing us. They want to see if we’ve grown soft.”

The first horn sounded. A shrill cry of defiance. Then two more answered—warrior teams signaling their positions.

Balan drew his greatsword.

The silver steel caught the cold light like a beacon. Blood from the last fight had long since been scrubbed from its edge, but its hunger remained. He turned, meeting the eyes of every rider around him.

“Split into your teams. Engage in threes. Bolas to trip. Spears to pin. Fire to finish.”

“And you?” Ravik asked, his warhorse snorting beneath him.

Balan’s jaw tightened. “I’ll keep them busy.”

With that, he turned and ran into the sea of the dead.

The first bone walker lunged. Balan ducked beneath the blow, his boot slamming into its knee joint. It crumpled—and in the same motion, he brought his blade up in a sharp arc, cleaving its skull clean from its shoulders. The head bounced across the snow like a dying drumbeat.

He kicked it into a pit of fire where another team waited with torches.

The corpse collapsed. Burnt. Done.

Another walker charged him, swinging a jagged war-pick. Balan rolled low, slicing the creature across the shins. As it fell, he pivoted on his heel, swept its head off with a flat spinning strike, and sent it skidding across the ice.

A clay pot hit the ground behind him, shattering. Fire bloomed, engulfing three more walkers caught in the trap.

To his left, Outlanders flanked the horde with crackling nets and sling-thrown bolas, toppling the larger bone brutes and pinning their limbs. Riders swept past with spears dipped in oil and ash, stabbing into ribs and hips — wounding, not to kill, but to control.

A scream went up — a signal that the Outlanders had all the walkers occupied.

Balan surged toward the masses, skidding between two walkers, his greatsword carving upward through the ribcage of a malformed giant with two extra arms. He separated the neck with a grunt and kicked the body down the slope toward the next team of riders.

“Now!” he roared.

Fire arced through the air. Torches. Pots on slings. Burning spears.

The plains became a funeral pyre.

Black smoke spiraled upward, mixing with ashen snow and the scent of burnt meat.

And Balan never slowed.

His coat was torn. His arms streaked with ash and congealed blood. But his grip never faltered. His movements grew smoother — less like a man and more like the memory of something old, something born for war. Every instinct locked into place. He dodged swipes before they landed, predicted patterns before they moved.

Walkers fell. Again and again, and again.

By the time the last bone walker was decapitated and sent into the fire, half the plain was scorched to charcoal. Men knelt on their knees, catching breath. Riders gathered the wounded. Spears stuck in the dirt like grave markers.

But the dead had stopped moving. The field was quiet.

Balan stood among them, the steam rising from his skin like smoke off a forge.

Ravik joined him, dismounting with a groan. His face was singed. His left gauntlet cracked.

“That’s the worst of it I’ve ever seen,” he panted. “But we held them. Those fire tricks worked like a charm.”

“Fire and steel,” Balan muttered, wiping blood from his brow. “That’s all they understand.”

“Gods,” someone breathed behind them, “we might actually live to defeat them.”

Balan didn’t speak. His eyes were distant, scanning the horizon beyond the field of bodies. He breathed deep—his nose twitching at something strange. A wrongness. A silence deeper than the one that followed victory.

But not yet. Not yet.

“Burn every scrap,” he ordered. “Make sure nothing’s left.”

And slowly, the Outlanders began the long, soot-choked work of burning the dead.

Meera’s tent was quiet beneath the weight of sickness and dusk.

A low wind rustled the hides, carrying with it the smell of ash and herbs from the fire circles. Smoke and sickness still clung to the camp, but for the first time in a week, no new coughing fits echoed in the night. The plague had broken.

And Meera, wrapped in wool blankets and sweating through her fever, was dreaming of thunder and horses.

The dagger beneath her pillow was cold.

Outside, the village was resting, the old and sick hunkered down in their tents and stone huts. A great light was beginning to illuminate the northern horizon, but no one was outside to see it. The air was thick with fatigue and the smell of burnt rot. No one noticed that a handful of familiar warriors had not gone out with the war band. No one noticed that five figures broke from the southern slope near the horse pens, weaving between the outer tents with practiced stealth.

Helin led them.

Cloaked in fur, her narrow face hidden beneath a travel scarf, she moved like someone on the edge of purpose and madness. Her eyes burned with certainty, sharp with old jealousy and the taste of power too long denied. Beside her stalked Dhami and Jorah, both thick with sweat and soot despite avoiding the battle. Two others followed — silent, their eyes wary, but not unwilling.

“She’s alone,” Helin whispered. “Do it quickly. Silence her as fast as you can.”

They pulled back the flap.

Meera awoke the moment cold air touched her skin.

Her body was too slow.

She reached under her pillow with one trembling arm — just as a shape lunged for her. Fingers grabbed her wrist. Another tried to pin her shoulder—

But Meera moved like a trapped wolf.

The dagger came free with a hiss of leather. She stabbed the first attacker in the neck — a man she recognized, whose name she would never say again. He gurgled and fell backward, clutching at the crimson spray as Helin swore and drove forward with a rope in her hands.

“Stop her!” she hissed.

Meera kicked, bit, slashed. She scored a cut across Jorah’s cheek before her strength gave out.

Her body folded inward, her lungs heaving. The fever was still burning in her veins, her limbs shaking like dry reeds. She struck one last time — grazing Dhami’s shoulder — before a second set of hands forced the dagger from her grip. A rough hand covered her lips before she could bite it.

They bound her quickly. Arms first. Then legs. Then a cloth gag across her mouth, tied so tightly her jaw throbbed.

She still snarled, hazel eyes wild with rage.

Helin crouched beside her, brushing hair from her face like a mother mocking her child.

“You should’ve taken the proposal,” she said softly.

Meera growled through the gag.

“You think this was your village alone?” Helin continued. “Your people? You’ve led them into plague, war, starvation — and now you spit on alliances that could’ve saved us all.”

Jorah spat blood, glaring at the dead conspirator still twitching in the corner. “She’s more trouble than she’s worth. We should’ve just killed her.”

“No,” Helin snapped. “She’s worth more alive. And Lord Arikan wants her untouched.”

She leaned closer, her breath sickly sweet. “Though, after the way you fought… maybe he’ll prefer you broken in.”

Meera’s eyes flared.

“Get her up.”

They lifted her like a sack of grain, tossing a heavy cloak over her bindings. Her muffled screams were lost in the sound of wind, distant fires and faint cheering. They passed one of the outer guards with a nod — he said nothing, one of the original seven.

Behind them, the blood in the tent slowly soaked into the rugs.

The seventh man had gathered a few horses — they unceremoniously threw Meera atop one, then galloped south as fast as the wind would take them. They were halfway to the hills when Meera saw it: the outline of a caravan beyond the trees. Ten camels. Two wagons. Southern guards in crimson armor with yellow sashes. And at their head, the same messenger who had brought the proposal.

He had drawn his weapon at their approach, but his alertness gave way to surprise when he saw her.

“Well, what do we have here?” he exclaimed, watching Meera struggle faintly as the Outlanders lifted her down. “Perhaps someone among you was willing to see sense, after all.”

Helin stepped forward, offering a hand. “I trust Lord Arikan would reward us handsomely for this gesture — a token of the Outlander’s appreciation for his offer of aid.”

The messenger chuckled, sheathing his sword before grasping Helin’s forearm. “Indeed… and reward he will. In great abundance, I’m sure.”

He signaled the guards. “Bind her well. She belongs to Lord Arikan now.”

Meera screamed into her gag, bucking violently — but the guards held her fast.

She was hauled into the back of a wagon, chained to the corner. The messenger gave Helin a nod of thanks. One of the other conspirators asked quietly, “What about the warband?”

Helin didn’t look back. “Let them wonder. We’ll be long gone before they know what happened.”

The wind shifted as the riders crossed back over the northern ridge. Ashes still danced in the air behind them, the wreckage of the bone walkers’ assault slowly cooling into smoke and scattered limbs.

Balan rode at the head of the column, his greatsword sheathed at his back, his face unreadable.

They had won. That much was clear. The field behind them was littered with shattered corpses, sprung traps, fire-pits burned to the coals. The warriors rode heavy in the saddle, tired but proud. They had survived the worst attack in recent memory… in dominant fashion.

And yet…

A tension pressed at Balan’s spine.

Something was wrong.

The campfire smoke was too thin. The lookout torches were dimmer than usual. A creeping silence hung over the village like a held breath.

Ravik pulled alongside him. “Odd,” he muttered. “Where are the others?”

Balan scanned the tents. “We left over a dozen guards.”

“I only count five,” Ravik said grimly.

A few riders began peeling off, dismounting near the healing circles to check on their families. Some moved to the forges and cookfires, calling out names. But answers came slowly. Balan’s pulse quickened.

He turned his mount toward Meera’s tent.

The flap was drawn closed, as it had been when he left. But even from a distance, the air smelled wrong — too much iron. Too much silence.

He was halfway there when a shout rose from a young boy stumbling back from the entrance.

“Blood! Someone’s inside—”

Balan was already moving.

He didn’t bother drawing the flap. He tore it from the pegs.

The interior of the tent was dim, the blankets tangled. The scent of herbs still lingered faintly — but underneath it was blood. Fresh, and a lot of it. One body lay slumped near the edge of the rugs, neck torn open, eyes wide in death.

A bloody dagger lay on the floor — Meera’s.

Balan stepped in slowly, his ruby eyes darting across every surface. No sign of Meera. No indication she’d left by choice. He knelt by the corpse, gently pulling the man’s cloak back to reveal his face.

One of the guards.

One of the few who hadn’t been at the battle.

Ravik arrived at the entrance a breath later. “What is it?” he asked, then stopped short at the sight.

Balan stood slowly.

“She’s gone,” he said.

Ravik’s face twisted. “No. Gods—is she—?”

“They didn’t kill her,” Balan said grimly. “They took her.”

Behind him, more warriors were gathering — grim-faced, battered from battle but still ready to ride.

“We’ll go with you,” one said. “You shouldn’t do this alone.”

But Balan shook his head.

“I need you here,” he said. “If more walkers return, the village will fall without you. This was planned. Coordinated. They waited until I was gone.”

Ravik stepped forward, hesitant. “Then let us ride with you for half a day—”

“No,” Balan growled. His eyes were shining unnaturally bright, the pupils thin as a needle, unsettling all who looked upon them.

They shimmered with more than fury now.

“I will find her,” he said. “I don’t need help.”

He turned toward the ridge, his pace already accelerating. As he passed through the edge of the camp, the villagers stepped back instinctively — not out of fear, but awe. Something in his presence had changed. He moved like the edge of a blade unsheathed for the first time.

At the edge of the forest, he stopped.

Closed his eyes.

Breathed.

His senses stretched outward — farther than they should have. He could hear the wind against distant tents. Smell the sweat on leather two ridges away. Taste the faint bitterness of fear on the trail ahead.

He opened his eyes and ran.

Each stride was faster than the last, his boots barely touching the ground. His limbs moved like memory — not just strength, but certainty. His heart beat like a drum of war, echoing through his ribcage.

He could see the trail, even in darkness. Hoofprints. Heavy-wheeled wagons. The reek of Red Sand perfume and silk soaked in oil. The scent of Meera, faint and fading.

The bones in his hands ached — not from fatigue, but from something ancient unfurling within him. He didn’t notice his fingernails extending like claws.

Only that he was desperate.

The wind continued to howl across the plain like ghosts in mourning, tearing against the thin canvas of the caravan tents. The sky was pitch, the moon veiled behind streaks of angry red clouds. Ashen snow fell all around, floating like charred petals on the wind.

The Red Sand caravan had set camp beside a hollowed ridge, fires built low against the bitter cold. Horses were tethered, guards posted, and silk-draped wagons circled inward for warmth. The banners of Lord Arikan fluttered proudly—red with a golden sun—above the commander’s tent, larger and warmer than the rest.

Inside, it stank of oil, perfume, and hunger.

Meera lay bound on a thick mat, hands tied above her head with golden rope. Her ankles were shackled loosely—more a suggestion than a restraint, but her illness and exertion had already done their work. The cold air had only made her condition worse. Her cheeks were hollow, her skin clammy, and every breath left her aching.

But her eyes still burned.

“You’re lucky, you know,” said the messenger as he loomed above her, his silken robes parted to the waist. “Many women would give their lives to be favored by the Lord Arikan. And even after you spurn him, he still desires you… pure and untouched.”

She snarled into her gag, trying to kick him despite the shackles.

He chuckled. “Still defiant? I was told your spirit might need breaking. I don’t mind that.”

He leaned down. Fingers brushed her chin, then her collarbone. She recoiled as much as she could. Her shirt had already been pulled open at the neck, exposing her shoulder.

“My lord will have the best of you,” he promised, mouth close to her ear. “But I can still enjoy myself while I have the chance.”

But he never reached her.

The tent flap exploded inward.

A gust of frigid air followed the figure inside—tall, wild, glowing with heat that should not exist. His cloak had been lost in the wind. His eyes glowed molten ruby, hair wind-swept and streaked with soot. The silver greatsword in his hand shimmered with frost and blood.

Balan.

The messenger turned, mouth open in protest.

It became a gargle.

Balan crossed the distance in two strides. His hand closed around the man’s throat, lifting him bodily from the ground. The man kicked, clawed, eyes bulging — but Balan’s grip didn’t waver.

“You touched her,” Balan said. Not a question.

The man made a sound like a whimper. His feet scraped the air, flailing helplessly.

Outside, the camp had become a nightmare. Screams echoed through the darkness. Horses fled in panic. Men had died by the dozen—thrown, carved, broken. Balan had torn through the Red Sand camp like a tempest of steel and wrath, ignoring arrows, fire, even blades. None had slowed him. Nothing had survived.

Inside the tent, Balan’s reptilian eyes flickered once to Meera.

Then he clenched.

The messenger’s spine snapped with a sickening crack. His body crumpled. Balan let it drop like a bag of waste.

Meera stared up at him, breathing hard, chest heaving. He quickly knelt at her side, undoing the knotted cloth around her mouth as she coughed.

“I knew,” she whispered hoarsely. “I knew you’d come.”

Balan’s hands moved instantly, tearing the ropes and shackles with a single movement. He wrapped his arms around her, gently pulling her into his chest. Her head fell against his shoulder, exhausted. The warmth of him—his heartbeat, his scent, his presence—broke her.

She wept quietly. Not out of weakness. But relief.

“Can you walk?” he asked softly.

She nodded. “Not fast. But I can try.”

He helped her rise. Her knees wobbled, but he caught her easily. The wind outside still screamed, but it no longer mattered. She was safe. He had come.

Chaos and death greeted them outside. But as they neared the edge of the camp, Meera suddenly stopped.

“No,” she breathed. “Wait.”

Balan turned, alarmed.

“I need to finish this.”

He didn’t stop her.

They found Helin crawling through the snow, dragging herself away from the smoldering ruins of a collapsed wagon Balan had thrown on its side. Her left leg was broken—twisted beneath her. Her eyes were wild with fear, mouth flecked with blood.

She saw them — and her voice became a shriek.

“No! No, wait—please! Meera, listen to me, you don’t understand—”

Meera didn’t respond. She stepped forward, slowly, steadily.

She took a spear from a dead Red Sand guard, hands shaking with effort — but her aim was steady.

“You…,” she said, voice ragged, “... wanted to sell me like an animal? Like a piece of livestock to be passed around. Then die like one.”

“Wait!” Helin screamed, crawling faster now. “I did it for the tribe—”

Meera’s arm tensed.

Then she threw.

The spear struck with a wet crunch, pinning Helin’s body to the snow through the neck. Helin choked once. Then she was still.

The wind swallowed the silence that followed.

Balan didn’t say anything. He only came to her side as she swayed, letting her fall into his arms gently.

They mounted an abandoned horse together, Meera curled against his chest, eyes half-closed. As they rode into the night, her fingers found the edge of his cloak and clutched it tight.

Behind them, the camp burned.

The ashes were all that remained.

Chapter Text

Chapter 18: Something Like Home

The gates of the Outlander village loomed just ahead, torches blazing high in the pre-dawn dark. Snow still fell in ash-laced flurries, and smoke from last night’s fires lingered in the sky like bruises. The crimson sky still faintly burned above, but the land was cold and quiet. But as they rode closer, the silence gave way to sound.

Balan heard the roar before he saw the crowd.

A thunder of boots. The clapping of hands. The pounding of weapons against shields like a war-song born of thunder. The entire village—warriors, gatherers, children, and the sick alike—was gathered at the edge of the northern path. Men, women, children, all waiting.

And when Balan’s horse came into view—its rider bloody, scorched, but upright—they erupted.

They chanted his name and the name of their chieftess in a hundred variations. Some beat their hands to their chests. Others slammed spears against the earth. The roar rose like a tidal wave, sweeping through every throat and every stone.

But Balan didn’t raise his arms. He didn’t smile.

He held Meera close, her limp form wrapped tight in his cloak, her fevered cheek resting against his collarbone. She was awake—barely—but didn’t stir at the sound of the cheers. Only gripped his tunic with one hand and clung to the rhythm of his heart.

The people surged forward, but Ravik and a few others held them back with raised hands. Someone tried to ask what had happened—where the conspirators had gone—but Balan didn’t stop. He walked through the crowd like a ghost, his face unreadable, his arms firm.

He didn’t go to the elder’s tent.

He went home.

The small fire crackled low in the pit, casting orange light across the stitched hide walls as the smoke filtered out the top vent. The tent smelled of cedar ash and smoked furs. Balan moved quietly through the small space, mindful of every sound. Meera lay bundled beneath the thickest layers he owned, her skin flushed but no longer burning, her eyes open and distant.

He knelt beside the bedroll, brushing a damp strand of auburn hair from her brow. Her gaze followed his movement, and though her breath was still shallow, a whisper of ease had returned to her posture.

“I cleaned what I could,” he said softly. “I’ll leave you to rest. You’ll be safe now.”

She didn’t respond at first. Then, as he stood, her fingers reached out from beneath the blankets and brushed his wrist.

“Don’t go,” she said quietly.

Balan froze.

“I can’t,” she added. “Not tonight. I’ll wake up every time the wind shifts and think they’re coming back.”

Her voice was raw, stripped of pride or poise — only the truth of her fear remained. It was a tone he hadn’t heard from her before. He slowly turned around.

“I’ll stay,” he murmured.

She offered a faint smile — then her eyes flickered toward the wall, where he was setting up an extra bedroll.

But her voice came again, softer still: “Not over there.”

He hesitated. “Meera…”

“I just want to feel safe. Please.”

She lifted the edge of the fur, not commanding, not seducing — only begging.

He stared at her, uncertain. The lines on his face were unreadable. He wasn’t afraid of her, not of her scars or pain, but of something else. Something closer.

“I don’t know if I can…” he began.

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said. “Just be here. That’s all I need.”

A long pause.

Then he slipped off his coat and laid his sword gently beside the bed. He moved carefully, lowering himself under the furs like one approaching sacred ground. She turned slightly, facing him, but left a respectful distance between their bodies.

“I can hear your heart,” he said after a while, voice low. “It’s loud.”

“Is that bad?”

“No. It reminds me that you're here. That I made it in time.”

She turned her head against the pillow. “I didn’t know it would hurt like that… not just the fear, or the cold, but the shame. How they looked at me… how they spoke.”

His brow furrowed. “They were cowards.”

“But I was still bound.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve led people into battle, Balan. I’ve stood before monsters and men, and I’ll never feel as small as I did in that wagon.”

She clenched her jaw. Her fingers dug into the furs.

“I didn’t cry in front of them,” she said. “I bit my tongue. I fought when I needed to. But I can’t pretend anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“Then let me feel this.”

He turned slightly toward her, unsure. “Feel what?”

She looked up at him.

“You.”

The distance closed in an instant. Her hand touched his cheek — strong, callused, familiar. Her eyes burned with everything she couldn’t name: fear, fury, longing, exhaustion, love. She pulled him toward her slowly, giving him time to draw back.

He didn’t.

Their lips met, and the world became quiet.

It wasn’t a perfect kiss. There was no practiced rhythm, no sweeping gesture. It was uneven, trembling, hot with the weight of unspoken truths. But it held.

When they pulled apart, Balan looked dazed — as if the world had shifted slightly beneath him. His pupils shuttered, then opened wide — dark pearls trimmed with ruby light.

Meera leaned her forehead against his. “I’ve never felt this way around anyone else. You…”

Her thoughts died, but not their warmth.

“Lost for words?” he asked.

She managed a giggle. “Maybe — you’re a complicated man to describe.”

He smiled. A real one — small, uneven, but warm.

“I’m not like other men,” he said softly. “I don’t think I am one, really.”

“I know,” she replied. “That’s why I want you.”

She curled against him. Her fingers wove into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself. He held her, not like a warrior guarding his chief, but like a man who had learned—finally—that it was all right to let someone in.

Her body warmed quickly. Eventually, her eyes began to close.

He whispered, “Sleep. I’ll be here.”

Her voice came through the dark like wind through cedar: “You’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay.”

They lay together in silence for a while, breath syncing. Then Balan reached over to the small clay vial he’d stashed earlier.

“I still have the potion from Surayya. The dream draught.”

Meera blinked slowly. “You’re going to take it again?”

He looked at her. “If you trust me.”

She smiled, faint but fierce. 

“I would follow you into any fire.”

Balan kissed her forehead, then drank the potion. He gagged as the warmth of it spread quickly down his throat.

They held each other in silence.

And sleep came like a slow tide.

He stood on a high stone ledge overlooking a great basin carved into the side of a mountain. It wasn’t snow that blanketed the earth here, but chipped minerals and blood. Jagged spires of rock rose all around, bare and dead. The crater walls were tiered like a malformed arena, and ringed with dragons. Hundreds of them — massive and graceful, wings folded, scales black as the void.

He could see them clearly for the first time. They were beautiful.

A ceremonial gathering. He knew that somehow, even if he didn’t know why.

The crowd parted in waves of quiet anticipation. Two dragons stepped forward into the center ring: one large and proud, old wounds mapped across his flanks, spinal scales curling like old nails. The other was younger, leaner, his posture a blend of coiled nerves and fiery confidence. Both of their eyes gleamed ruby.

A coming-of-age duel.

Father and son.

The older one bowed his head — not in affection, but in ritual.

The duel began with a thunderous clash. Sonic blasts cracked the air, tails lashed, and fire hissed in arcs of blue and violet. The young dragon fought beautifully — not with grace, but with fury. Every mistake became fuel. Every blow taken made him stronger.

He is becoming something fierce, Balan thought.

Somewhere beside him, another voice murmured — sly and fond:

“He’s almost fast enough to land one on me. Maybe next year.”

Balan turned.

The dragon beside him was darker than coal, his eyes gleaming with golden light. A  grin crossed his features — sly, arrogant, but not disrespectful.

There was teasing in his voice. Pride hidden in the shape of it.

And standing tall on his other side, regal and utterly still, was a dragon larger than all others. The king. Crowned not in jewels but in silence and shadow. His eyes were pale gold. Sharp. Distant.

The older dragon’s voice cut through the air like a blade drawn in frost:

“He fights with passion. But passion does not earn a crown. Discipline does.”

The darker dragon beside Balan shifted slightly. “He’s not fighting for a crown. He’s fighting for his honor.”

The king’s next words stung bitterly. “He is a creature of duty nonetheless… a lesson I wish you would go back to learn.”

The golden-eyed dragon flinched, looking away. Balan — whoever he was here — felt something stir. A knot in his throat. But he couldn’t look away from the fight. Couldn’t stop the sense of warmth that bloomed in his chest when the younger dragon finally landed a staggering hit, driving his father to his knees.

The crowd roared.

The king did not.

The dark-scaled dragon beside Balan let out a low, rumbling laugh. “He’ll surpass all of us one day. Maybe even you.”

“Maybe,” Balan found himself saying aloud, the voice strange and dark in his mouth. “But not while I breathe.”

The darker dragon grinned. “Spoken like a true mentor.”

But Balan never turned to look at him again. He was staring at the younger dragon — the victor — as he lowered his head in quiet, reverent deference to the father who bowed back. The pride Balan felt was overwhelming. But it was mingled with confusion.

He tried to lower his gaze to himself…

He woke with a soft gasp, the darkness of the tent rushing back in. The air was warm. Meera’s breath rose and fell slowly beside him, her face pressed to his shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

He lay still for a long time, staring into the dim orange glow of dying coals.

The dream faded slowly… but the feeling lingered.

Pride. Sorrow. Brotherhood.

Love.

He didn't know the names. Not yet. But part of him didn't want to. Not tonight. Not while Meera lay safe in his arms, her cheek warm against his skin.

His hand found hers under the furs. Held it gently.

And for now, he had everything he needed.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19: The First Step

The morning broke soft and cold.

Ash snow drifted outside the tent in thin, lazy spirals. Somewhere nearby, a horse snorted and pawed the frozen earth. But inside, the furs were warm. The fire was out, but crimson rays of light danced along the canvas, and Meera's breath rose steady against Balan’s bare chest.

He hadn’t moved in hours. He didn’t want to.

For the first time in weeks, he’d slept soundly. Not the broken, half-guarded sleep of nightmares and fear — but a deep rest, dream-heavy and warm. The images still shimmered at the edge of his thoughts: mountains, fire, black wings… the sound of a brother’s voice.

He felt Meera stir, her fingers flexing lightly against his ribs. Then her voice, quiet and rough:

“Are you awake?”

“Yes.”

A pause. Then:

“You stayed.”

“I told you I would.”

She didn’t respond at first. Her free hand found his beneath the furs, their fingers intertwining.

“I wasn’t sure you would,” she murmured, “after everything. After what they did… what almost happened.”

Balan turned slightly to face her. “What they did doesn’t define you.”

Her throat worked. “I know that. I just… I don’t want it to be how you see me.”

“I also saw you kill her,” Balan reminded her. “You made the choice. You ended it.”

Her jaw tightened. She nodded — but her eyes were clouded with something else. Not shame. Not grief. But purpose.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said slowly, drawing the furs up around her shoulders. “About what comes next.”

He watched her, silent.

“I can’t stay in one village and pretend the rest of this land doesn’t burn any more. I can’t let the Red Sand violate someone else, by their hand or by influence. Or let the bone walkers haunt us for all time.” 

Her voice grew stronger. “I want to bring the tribes together. All of them. East, west, nomads, stonemen. We’ve lived divided too long.”

“You want to unite Nangren?” Balan asked.

She met his gaze without flinching. “Yes. Not as a warrior. Not even as a chieftess. As something more.”

“You’ll have to fight. Again.”

“I know. That’s why I want you with me.”

His breath caught faintly.

“Meera…”

She smiled — tired, but fierce. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… be here. That’s enough.”

Balan searched her face. “I won’t let anything hurt you again.”

Her fingers traced the edge of his jaw. “I know. That’s why I asked.”

They stayed like that for a while — quiet, calm, full of the kind of stillness that comes after storms.

Eventually, Balan stood. He gathered his shirt, his blade, and the heavy coat waiting near the tent flap.

“Where are you going?” Meera asked, half-smiling.

“To find Surayya,” he said. “If I’m to walk this path with you, I want to know more of what I’m becoming.”

Meera’s eyes glimmered with warmth. “Then I’ll be waiting.”

The ash-crusted snow crunched beneath Balan’s boots as he stepped into the pale morning light. The cold bit less today, or perhaps he no longer felt it the way he once did.

The village was alive.

Outlanders gathered around cooking pits, mending gear, tending animals. Children ran past him with gleeful shrieks, their shadows long in the slanted dawn. Several warriors raised hands in greeting — not stiff salutes this time, but open-palmed respect. A few villagers stepped aside to let him pass, and even those who had once eyed him with mistrust now watched him with a mixture of awe and whispered admiration.

He was one of them.

And yet, part of him still wasn’t.

Balan nodded to them all, quietly acknowledging their deference. He felt a little pride in it — but mostly a growing weight.

He passed the forge, where Jesh stood with a blackened apron and bandaged hand, barking orders to a younger apprentice. The smith caught Balan’s eye and gave a short, approving nod — not for the sword, not even for the rescue — but for something deeper. Earned.

At the edge of the village, the elder’s tent sat beneath a cluster of low-hanging branches, thick with frost.

He entered without ceremony.

Surayya sat hunched over her fire pit, feeding it slivers of bark and dried berries. The smoke was sweet and sharp, like bruised cedar. Her eyes didn’t open, but her voice rasped from the shadows.

“Still alive, then.”

Balan knelt across from her. “Indeed.”

“You’ve returned from worse.”

He studied the fire for a moment. “I had another dream.”

Surayya opened her eyes now — clouded, ancient, but alert.

“Tell me.”

Balan spoke quietly. Of the cracked mountains. The dragons. The duel. The laughter. The unease. He described the shapes of the black dragons, the majesty of the king, the teasing fondness of the dark one beside him. He told her how he’d spoken in the dream without knowing why — how he tried to look down, but woke up before he had answers.

Surayya said nothing for a long time.

Then, softly: “You remember more every time.”

“I don’t know what I remember,” Balan said. “I don’t know their names. Not really. But I know what I felt.”

“Pride.”

He nodded.

“Sorrow.”

He nodded again.

“Family.”

This time, he hesitated. Then: “Yes.”

Surayya leaned forward, tracing something in the dirt beside the fire — a spiral, incomplete. “You said the king was cold?”

“He seemed… indifferent. Unloving, even toward his son.”

“An unfortunate truth,” she murmured. “For many kings.”

“His son—he felt so familiar. He was youthful… and arrogant. Like he was my best friend.”

“Maybe he was.”

Balan looked up.

Surayya’s eyes glittered in the firelight.

“Each dream gives you a powerful piece, though the puzzle is far from complete. But you must understand: these memories are not just yours. They could belong to others still living…” She reached toward the flame, letting it flicker along her fingers. “… and that may be dangerous.”

“But I can’t see the danger. No one has seen a dragon in centuries. They might not even exist.”

“Perhaps not,” she said grimly. “But you will find out. If you continue down this path. You and the woman you love.”

The words struck him like a drumbeat.

Surayya leaned back again, sighing through her teeth. “You cannot deny it — you’re discovering your truth. The answers to your unhumanity. The fire that sleeps inside you… it wakes. And it will not sleep again.”

Balan looked down at his hands.

“What am I?” he whispered.

The elder’s gaze turned faraway. “Broken… but being born again.”

The fire crackled.

After a long silence, Balan said, “I don’t want this to be about me. Meera… She wants to unite the tribes. And I’ll stand by her. I need to stand by her.”

Surayya nodded, lips pressed thin. “Then do what you think is right. But be ready, Balan. The dream was not just a memory. It was a warning.”

“A warning?”

“Not all brothers stay brothers forever.”

Balan tensed.

But Surayya’s voice softened again. “Be with Meera. While the chance is still yours. There will come a day soon where there is no time for firelight or furs. And I fear when that day comes… you will need to remember who you choose to be.”

The wind had softened by the time Balan returned to Meera’s tent.

She was sitting upright on the furs, a half-eaten bowl of stew in her lap, her cheeks still pale but now touched with life. She turned at the sound of his footsteps, and a faint but true smile lifted her face.

“Gone long enough,” she said.

Balan smiled back, crouching beside her. “You needed rest.”

“I’ve had enough rest to last the winter.”

He held something behind his back.

“What is it?” she asked.

Without a word, he brought it forward.

Meera’s spear.

Freshly cleaned. Wrapped in leather at the grip. The head had been sharpened, the shaft oiled until it gleamed a deep, burnished brown. It shined — ready to be reclaimed.

She reached for it slowly, and Balan helped her rise.

She leaned on it — first for balance, then with purpose.

When she stepped outside, the village seemed to freeze.

Smoke curled from the central fires. Children paused mid-step. Warriors sharpening blades turned, eyes widening. One by one, Outlanders stopped what they were doing—not because she ordered it, but because she was up. And she was alive.

A slow cheer rose, like thunder rolling down from the hills.

It built into a chorus of whoops, the clatter of weapons against shields, laughter, whistles. A hundred voices echoing across the clearing. Balan stepped back slightly as Meera straightened, her posture tall despite the slight tremble in her legs.

She raised her spear, and the cheering doubled.

Later, once the fires had burned low and the drums had gone quiet, Meera called them to a meeting tent. Only her closest.

Balan sat to her right, his greatsword beside him. Surraya sat on her woven mat, picking at the hem of her sleeve, her eyes hawkish. Ravik leaned back against a pile of hides, arms crossed, still scraped from the last fight. A few others sat in the round as well: Jasa, lean and sharp-eyed; Jesh, still soot laden and grumbling; and Old Naki, a respected hunter and warrior.

They sat in a loose ring around a brazier, the firelight crackling across their tired faces.

“I won’t waste time,” Meera said, her voice low but clear. “The plague didn’t break us. The walkers didn’t break us. And the traitors who sold me off to the Red Sand didn’t finish what they started.”

A few heads bowed. Others stiffened in guilt. Meera blamed none, but some still took her abduction personally.

“I’m alive. And so are we. But survival isn’t enough anymore.”

She looked to Balan, then back to the circle.

“The bone walkers are massing in numbers we haven’t seen in years. The Red Sand will return — they have to, to save face. And if we wait here, we’ll die one campfire at a time.”

Ravik grunted. “So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying we make the tribes answer to us ,” Meera replied. “We stop being the edge of the world — we serve as its shield, why not serve as its leader?”

A silence followed. Then Jasa muttered, “The other tribes won’t follow. Especially not the Sand.”

“Some might,” Surraya said softly. “Others can be persuaded. But that’s not the right question.”

Jesh frowned. “Then what is?”

Surraya’s gaze swept the firelight. “ Should we?”

Another silence.

“Unification means war,” Ravik muttered. “Maybe not now. But later. Once you hold that kind of power, it has to be defended.”

“And some will see it as conquest,” said Naki for the first time, his voice like cracking bark.

“We’re not looking to rule,” Meera said. “We’re looking to survive.”

“That line gets thin,” Ravik said. “Especially when banners start flying.”

Balan had said nothing.

Now Meera looked at him. “Well?”

He met her gaze. Steady. Quiet. Then turned to the others.

“I don’t know what’s coming. I don’t think any of us do. But I’ve seen too much not to believe something is coming — the walkers are growing bolder, more dangerous. And if we wait… they’ll kill us all.”

He paused.

“But I do know one thing.”

Everyone watched him now. Even the fire had gone quieter.

“I believe in her. I’d die for her. Not just because she’s strong. But because she won’t use that strength to rule through fear.”

Meera lowered her eyes, just briefly.

“I’m not a king,” Balan finished. “But if war comes, I’ll be your blade.”

The fire cracked, and the silence hung heavy.

Then Ravik let out a slow breath. “Well. Can’t argue with that.”

“I’ll ride when the call comes,” Jasa said.

“I’ll forge for it,” Jesh added.

Even Naki gave a solemn nod.

Only Surraya didn’t speak, but the look she gave Meera was permission enough.

Meera sat back slightly, her chest rising with something more than breath.

Resolve.

They had a long road ahead.

But now… it had a name.

Nangren.

Chapter Text

Chapter 20: The Calm Before the Tempest

The doors of the Great Hall groaned open as the wind howled through the frost-covered village. Every voice inside fell silent. Dust and firelight danced across the long stone table, where the dragon riders of Berk had gathered — Hiccup at its head, Valka and Astrid close beside him, her axe resting across the tabletop like an heirloom between debates. 

Nightshade entered like a shadow made flesh. He wore his human form — tall, pale, and shrouded in sable black — but his presence still darkened the room, as though the cold followed him in. The scent of ash clung to his clothes. The golden eyes that scanned them all were sharper than ever, touched with something unsettled .

“Ash is safe,” he said, before anyone could speak.

The breath released from the room was near-audible. Toothless, crouched beside the hearth with his wings wrapped tightly around him, stirred at last and let out a low rumble in gratitude.

“She was found in one of the old tunnels on Dragon Island,” Nightshade continued. “Weakened, injured, but alive.” He looked at Hiccup. “She is healing now… in your cove.”

“And the others?” Astrid asked quickly. “The dragons who took her?”

“Gone,” Nightshade said. “Scattered. I left their commander broken.”

He paused, then added, more quietly: “He will not recover.”

The room stilled again. Not with fear — but with understanding.

Nightshade didn’t sit. He stood at the edge of the hearth, letting the warmth reach his hands without drawing it in. For a moment, none of them spoke — not until Hiccup leaned forward.

“What did you learn?”

Nightshade exhaled. His voice was colder now, like a blade remembering how to cut.

“Thora’s forces are almost ready. The dragons she’s gathered number in the hundreds. Skrills, Stormcutters. Wild breeds of every kind. She’s targeting more than Berk.” His gaze rose. “She’s targeting all of the Archipelago.”

Murmurs broke out around the table.

Nightshade silenced them with a glance.

“Velesheim’s her next target,” he said. “They’re completely unaware that they’re in danger, and the city’s filled with innocents. But it’s only the beginning.”

Hiccup’s brow furrowed. “What else?”

Nightshade let the silence hang for a moment.

“She has a weapon.”

He turned toward the fire. “A great sea dragon. The old name is long lost, but I believe your kind call them Shellfires.”

Valka’s lips parted in shock. “A Shellfire? But that dragon’s extremely rare.”

“We met one in the North,” Hiccup said grimly. “When we used to live at Dragon’s Edge. It nearly destroyed an island by itself. Enormous. Armored. Can swim faster than any normal dragon.” He met Nightshade’s gaze. “If she has one of those under her command…”

“She does,” Nightshade confirmed. “Or she thinks she does.”

Toothless growled low, and Astrid leaned forward. “Then we’ll have to face it before she unleashes it.”

“That’s where we differ,” Nightshade said. “She believes it will bring her victory. I believe it’s just feeding her arrogance. Shellfires are powerful, but also very passive and wise — even if she did convince one to strike, I think persuading it to leave is just as possible.”

He stepped to the center of the table, voice shifting — warmer, steadier. More measured now.

“We can’t defend every island. That would stretch us too thin. But she’s maniacally obsessed with you humans — it dulls her intelligence, makes her predictable. I have a plan.”

Everyone leaned in. Nightshade’s finger traced along the map, around the human tribes to their north — the Outcasts, Berserkers, and others.

“The Night Furies will cut through the northern skies — quiet, agile, and aggressive. If they encounter any wild dragons on their way to attack these tribes, they will respond. Swiftly.”

He turned to Astrid and Hiccup. “You’ll rally your dragons. Gather whatever warriors you have, and hit the Jagged Peaks before she can move the entire army. The Night Furies will join you there after their loop north—and if they meet the army on the move, they’ll cause enough damage to force them to retreat. Where you’ll be waiting for them.”

“Why the Peaks?” Astrid asked.

“It’s her staging ground,” Nightshade said. “And even if the army’s no longer there, it’s still the Skrill’s ancient home. If you take it, she’ll lose her grip before the campaign begins.”

Hiccup folded his hands. “And you?”

Nightshade looked back toward the fire.

“I’m going to Velesheim.”

A ripple of unease passed across the room.

“You think they’ll listen to you?” Valka asked softly.

“No,” Nightshade said. “But they’ll listen to fear. If Thora sends the Shellfire there, someone has to talk to it… or kill it.”

“You’ll face it alone?” Astrid said, incredulous.

Nightshade gave her the faintest smile — dry and bitter.

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve fought a sea dragon.”

With that, the King of the Night Furies departed. The Hall doors opened with a groan, and cold wind met warm stone.

Nightshade stood framed by the threshold, his coat fluttering like dark silk around him. The storm had passed, but the sky remained heavy with low-hanging clouds. A faint pink glow lingered near the horizon — dawn or dusk, it hardly mattered.

Toothless appeared beside him in silence.

“I need air,” Nightshade said. “A long flight… if you care to join me.”

Toothless’s ear flicked once, as if pretending to hesitate. Then he nodded.

Together, they stepped down the Great Hall stairs.

The villagers who still lingered outside — guards, riders, and late-working smiths — turned at the sound of footsteps. Many stiffened. A few dragons, curled along the eaves or beside the watchtowers, lifted their heads with cautious interest.

Then Nightshade shifted.

It was slower than usual — not the rippling flicker of shadows he used in battle, but a controlled, deliberate morphing of flesh and form. His cloak dissolved into smoke. His frame elongated, lean muscle and coal-black scales unfurling like petals of night. Wings bloomed from his back. When the transformation finished, the full silhouette of the Night Fury king stood before them, towering over Toothless, his golden eyes gleaming like twin stars.

Gasps rippled through the courtyard. Some dragons recoiled. A few humans reached instinctively for weapons, then relaxed — slowly — when Toothless didn’t move.

Nightshade looked up. Then took to the air in a single bound.

Toothless was a breath behind.

Together, the two Night Furies carved through the sky like twin comets — smoke trailing behind Nightshade as they climbed, higher and higher, until the lights of Berk became a scattering of fireflies beneath a quilt of dark cloud.

They flew in silence for a time, until only the wind dared speak between them.

Then Toothless spoke softly.

“I wasn’t… fair to you. At the cove.”

Nightshade banked slightly to his left. “You had no obligation to be.”

Toothless followed. “Still.”

There was a pause. Then Nightshade said:

“I broke a dragon’s mind, Toothless. I didn’t just kill him for that information. I undid him. And no matter how necessary it was… Ash suffered while I was gone. Because I was gone.”

He paused. “I made you a promise once that I’d take care of her… and I failed. You had every right to hate me for that.”

“I couldn’t hate you,” Toothless said quietly. “Of course I was angry. But not anymore.”

The clouds parted briefly, and moonlight spilled over the tips of their wings. They flew shoulder to shoulder now — separate, but close enough to share breath.

“When this ends,” Toothless said at last, “You’re going to tell us where you went. Everything. No more riddles.”

Nightshade glanced at him. “I promised Ash. And I will.”

Toothless said nothing for a time. The stars wheeled above them, and the ocean glittered far below — an ancient mirror reflecting their black forms.

“Does she like it here?” Nightshade asked suddenly.

Toothless smiled. “She does. She’s still adjusting… we both are. But she loves the forest. The water. The way the wind smells after it snows.” A pause. “She’s… much more open than me. But fiercer, too.”

Nightshade’s eyes softened. “She’ll make a fine mother.”

“She already has,” Toothless said with pride. “Even before we knew.”

The conversation drifted for a moment. They dipped lower, gliding over the whitecaps of the sea. Distant islands dotted the horizon like teeth breaking through water.

Then Toothless said, “Angalon’s been acting strange.”

Nightshade’s wings flared slightly, but he didn’t turn.

“To me, I mean,” Toothless added. “Not in battle. He’s still powerful. But lately he’s… quieter. Reserved. Almost respectful.”

He snorted. “If that’s what you call it.”

Nightshade hummed — neither confirmation nor denial. “Maybe he’s just impressed with you. You fight well. Lead even better.”

Toothless looked skeptical. “He’s not the type to hand out compliments.”

“No,” Nightshade murmured. “He isn’t.”

They flew in silence a while longer. Below them, the cliffs of Berk reemerged — spiked and familiar.

They began their descent, curling downward in slow spirals.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Nightshade said.

Toothless dipped his head. “Anytime.”

The Alpha landed, his wings folding like a cloak. He stood there a moment longer—watching the moonlight ripple across the bay—as he watched the great Night Fury vanished into the darkness.

The fire crackled low in the hearth.

Outside, the wind sighed through the cliffs of Berk, whistling between timber beams and walls. Snow flurried in slow, twisting spirals beneath the moonlight, painting the village in pale silver. Dragons slumbered in the high-roosts, curled and breathing deep. Everything was still.

Inside the house at the top of the hill, Hiccup sat beside the fire, one hand resting absently on a mug that had long gone cold.

He hadn’t moved in an hour.

Maps lay scattered across the table. Letters from allies, sketches of the Jagged Peaks, and scrawled notes on the Shellfire that he hadn’t looked at in years. His mind was swimming with contingencies, but none of them came with a guarantee. But though Hiccup was worn down by the oncoming battle, a faint smile still crossed his features as his notes brought old memories to bear — Dragon’s Edge was a faint, but fond memory, even with all the trials and tribulations that seem pale compared to the threat he now faced.

And somewhere behind him, Astrid stirred.

She stepped out of the bedroom quietly, her braid loose over one shoulder, the swell of her stomach silhouetted by firelight. She wore one of Hiccup’s tunics over her nightclothes, slightly too large for her now — but warm. Always warm.

“You’re thinking too loud again,” she murmured.

Hiccup didn’t look up. “I’m trying not to.”

Astrid walked over and sat beside him, folding her legs beneath her. Her fingers found his free hand without hesitation.

“They’ll be ready,” she said softly. “We’ve done everything we can. Berk will hold.”

“It’s not just Berk I’m worried about,” he replied. “It’s the whole archipelago. The dragons. The sea. This isn’t just another skirmish, Astrid. Thora’s ready to move. And she’s not looking for victory.” He glanced down at the notes. “She’s looking to reshape the world… change it back to an older one.”

“Then we’ll meet her with the new one,” Astrid said, voice calm and certain. “You’ve built something real, Hiccup. We all have. People trust you. Dragons trust you.”

Hiccup closed his eyes for a moment. “I don’t know if that’s enough.”

Astrid leaned her head against his shoulder, and after a pause, said, “It has to be.”

They sat in silence for a while. The fire popped gently. The wind cried softly against the glass.

Then Astrid added, “You know you don’t carry it alone.”

Hiccup turned his head to look at her. There was something raw in her expression — not fear, but weariness. The kind that only comes from years of standing beside someone who always tries to bear the weight first.

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I don’t know how not to try.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, her palm rough with callus, warm with love.

“Then let me carry it with you,” she whispered. “Just for tonight.”

He kissed her then — slow, reverent. Not the frantic kiss of youth, but the kind earned through years of fire and frost. Her hand curled behind his neck. His slipped to her belly.

“Little one’s been kicking,” Astrid murmured against his mouth.

“They’ll be strong, just like their mother,” Hiccup smiled.

“Then we’re in trouble.”

They both laughed, soft and tired.

And for a while, there was no war, no sea monsters, no mountain armies.

Only firelight, warmth, and the sound of her heartbeat beneath his palm.

Tomorrow, they would rise.

But tonight… They were home.

The Jagged Peaks howled with the voices of dragons.

The wind carried their cries high above the broken stone crags, where talons clutched frostbitten ledges and wings beat a steady rhythm against the clouds. The sky itself had turned to slate, split by the ever present storm. Below, nestled in the shadows of the mountain basin, the Dragon Army had gathered — Whispering Deaths, Nadders, Timberjacks. They moved in layered ranks and silent formation, eyes gleaming, breath smoking in unison.

Above them all stood Thora.

Her metallic spines drunk the lightning from the air hungrily, framing her like a storm-goddess etched into the mountainside. Her scales shimmered with power, framed by the shadow of the mountain behind her — the heart of the summit’s command.

A low thrum pulsed behind her.

She turned.

A Skrill messenger hovered a few lengths away, wings quivering with barely-concealed reverence.

“My Queen,” he said, bowing low with head and wings. “He is near.”

Thora’s lips curled in satisfaction. “So the sea rouses.”

“He comes from the northern trench,” the Skrill murmured. “Alone. The sea parts for him, and the smaller dragons retreat in silence.”

Thora’s smile deepened. “As it should be.”

She stepped forward, her claws clicking softly on the volcanic stone, and spread her wings. “Clear the seaside rise. I will greet our guest alone.”

The Skrill hesitated, then bowed again and shot away into the clouds.

It was nearly dusk when Thora reached the cliffs that faced the sea.

The sky was a roiling curtain of clouds, lit by veins of amber and violet as thunder rumbled over the mountain range. Far below, the ocean foamed and surged against the jagged rocks, a thousand feet down.

And rising from its depths came a shape so vast the waves fled its passage.

The Shellfire emerged like a mountain pulled from the core of the world — barnacle-crusted, shell-armored, crowned with spines and coral. Its great eyes gleamed like molten gold beneath its bony helm. The water fell from its back in sheets. Its voice, when it spoke, did not come from a throat, but from the tremor in the sea itself.

“WHO CALLS ME FROM THE DEEP?”

Thora bowed her head — not in submission, but in honor.

“I am Thora,” she said, her voice carrying like a crack of lightning. “Queen of the Jagged Peaks. I call you not for conquest, but for justice.”

The Shellfire was still. Only the tide moved.

“THE LAND-DWELLERS HAVE LONG HUNTED US, BUT NEVER HAVE I BEEN CALLED.”

“I know,” Thora replied, stepping to the cliff’s edge. “Because they fear you. Because they’ve forgotten the power of the old ones. Forgotten that the sea was always theirs.”

The Shellfire loomed.

“YOU ARE SMALL. AND YET… YOU STINK OF WAR.”

“Only because the humans force it upon us,” Thora said, her voice calm. “Look to the waters south. You will find nets where there should be whales. Smoke where there should be foam. Their hovels dump waste into your hunting grounds, their ships carve lines through your feeding lanes. Have you not grown tired of ships mistaking you for an island, ramming their wooden cages onto your back?”

A pause.

Then Thora added, softly:

“I have weeped… as your brethren have disappeared from the waters.”

The Shellfire stirred. Salt crashed against the rocks in great waves.

“I don’t ask you to join my war,” Thora said. “Only to right a wrong. There is a city to the south. Velesheim. A filthy place, an eyesore of human barbarity. Burn it. Cleanse it from the ocean’s edge, and I will defend the seas for you. Forever.”

“YOU WOULD DESTROY THE HUMAN SHIPS FOR ME? WHY NOT CLAIM THE SEAS FOR YOURSELF?.”

“I have no interest in ruling what I do not love,” Thora replied. “And clearly I have no love of water. But I will destroy what pollutes the tide. After this… the oceans will be yours again.”

The Shellfire was silent for a long time.

Then, deep and slow:

“I REMEMBER VELESHEIM.”

He raised his head, and the mist parted as though cowed.

“THEIR SHIPS STRUCK ME ONCE, WHEN I WAS YOUNG. WITH IRON. THEY LAUGHED.”

Thora’s smile returned, but it was sharp as ice. “Then remind them of the power of the sea dragons.”

A low sound rumbled across the cliff — the Shellfire’s roar, like an underwater quake. It did not crackle with rage, but with awakening. With memory. With decision.

“ONE CITY… THEN I RETURN TO THE DEEP.”

Thora bowed once more. “That is all I ask.”

The Shellfire turned slowly, his massive form slipping beneath the surface until only the spines of his carapace remained — a moving island gliding toward the south. Not with haste, but with purpose.

Thora stood on the cliff edge, the wind curling around her horns like fire-smoke, her eyes blazing.

At last, she whispered: “Let the age of humans be drowned in ash.”

And behind her, the dragon army stirred.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21: Three Paths to War

The forest was pale with mist as dawn crept in over the cliffs. Thin strands of gold touched the canopy like fingers of fire, and the cove below still lay in quiet slumber, rimmed in fog and glowing embers from the previous night’s watch fires.

Ash stirred beneath the tree under which she and Toothless had slept. His wing was still curled around her protectively, his breathing deep and slow — but she was wide awake. Her legs twitched with restless energy. Her muscles ached, but less so than the day before. She felt whole again, though her wings still trembled when she flexed them.

“I’m gonna stretch my legs, just a little,” she whispered, nuzzling her snout against Toothless’s neck.

He nodded faintly in his sleep, but didn’t stir.

Carefully, Ash slid out from under his wing, padding softly across the ground. Her claws made only the faintest taps. She paused at the entrance of the cove, watching as the wind swept low through the trees and stirred the frost from the leaves.

A pair of sentries stood nearby — young Seregon Night Furies, sharp-eyed and alert. One blinked at her, the other simply nodded, both clearly watching her movements with the subtle attentiveness of dragons assigned by Toothless himself.

Ash smiled faintly, dipped her head in greeting, then leapt lightly up the slope and began the careful climb into the trees.

Her body protested at first. Her side still throbbed. Her shoulders still stung from old bruises and sleepless fear. But the air was fresh, and the movement warmed her blood.

The world was green again.

She passed between crooked roots and tall stone outcroppings, picking her way down an old path marked by moss and the faint glimmer of claw-gouges from various animals.

Then she saw him.

Nightshade stood alone beneath a red pine, silent and still, as if carved from shadow. He faced the rising sun through the trees, but his eyes were far away, gold gleaming under the low light. There was a strange stillness to him — not restful, but held together through force of will.

He didn’t turn when she approached.

“You never sleep, do you?” Ash asked.

His voice was low. “Not well. Not often.”

“You should,” she said, padding closer until she stood beside him. “I’m told it’s good for the nerves.”

He managed the faintest smile. “I don’t need it as much as others.”

She studied him in silence, then gave him a nudge with her snout. “I thought you'd be off plotting on some mountain peak with Antaris. Didn’t expect to find you here.”

“I needed the calm,” he said. “And to think.”

Ash tilted her head. “About?”

He hesitated. “Everything I’ve done. Everything I shouldn't have done.”

“Stop.” Her voice was gentle but firm.

Nightshade blinked.

“You’ve done more than anyone else would have. You saved me. You fought when no one asked you to. So don’t waste breath apologizing again. I’m not interested.”

He looked at her — really looked — and the corners of his eyes softened.

Ash beamed. “Besides, I’m safe now. I’m warm. And…” She shifted, placing a paw over her belly. “There’s a lot to look forward to.”

“You’ll be a wonderful mother,” Nightshade said.

Ash blinked. “You think so?”

“I do,” he said without hesitation. “You’re bright, fierce, loyal… and brave enough to smile after what you’ve endured. That’s more than enough.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then:

“Did you ever think about it?”

“Think about what?”

“Having eggs,” she said. “Now that you’re not alone. You and Holly… I mean.”

The warmth in Nightshade’s expression faltered.

He looked away, golden eyes narrowing. “That was once her dream.”

Ash froze. “Was?”

Nightshade’s shoulders tensed. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then:

“She can’t bear them anymore.”

Ash’s heart sank. “Oh… Nightshade, I didn’t know.”

He shook his head slowly. “No one does. She doesn’t talk about it. But I won’t lie to you.”

She waited, silent and steady.

“It was Runar,” he said at last.

The name fell like a stone into water.

“He wanted to break us,” Nightshade continued, voice low and flat. “All of us. Not just with death. With despair. He knew what we loved… what made us whole. And he took those things from us first.”

Ash stepped closer, quiet as snowfall.

“He destroyed Nangren to shatter Cinder, who lived for the wild places of nature. His fall alone was enough to destroy Angalon — even before he killed their entire family. And he struck Holly with magic that withered her womb.”

Nightshade’s claws dug lightly into the soil.

“And me… he saved for last. He beat me. Left me alive long enough to watch him kill the ones I’d sworn to protect. At least until a dragonstone blew up in our faces.”

Ash stood in stunned silence. The wind moved gently around them, cold but light.

“I still don’t know if it was really Runar,” Nightshade admitted. “Or Nancarin. Or some twisted mix of both. It doesn’t matter. They’re gone now.”

Ash’s voice was barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

Nightshade exhaled. It was a long, tired sound — but not defeated.

“I have Holly,” he said. “And we have you, Toothless, and others. The new generation. That’s enough.”

Ash looked up at him. “Even after all that… you still believe it’s worth it? Bringing hatchlings into this world?”

His gaze met hers.

“Yes,” he said. “Because this world needs hope. Hatchlings are hope made flesh.”

A long silence passed between them. Ash looked down at her belly again, then smiled faintly.

“Thank you.”

Nightshade turned his head toward the rising sun.

“I can’t change the past,” he said. “But I can help make a better world than the one you inherited. You will too.”

They stood together in the forest, beneath the rising light, as the frost slowly melted from the leaves and the first birds began to sing.

Nightshade gave Ash a final nudge before turning back toward the deeper forest.

“Go on,” he said gently. “You should enjoy the morning with Toothless… while there’s still peace to be had.”

She dipped her head with a smile, then added, “Don’t brood too much, ok?”

Ash bounded up the ridge path, her tail curling briefly in farewell before she vanished among the frost-laced pines. Nightshade stood in the hush that followed, the smile fading from his face. Slowly, he turned westward, his golden eyes growing dim.

The path he took led higher, deeper into the forest, where the trees thinned and stone jutted through the moss like fractured ribs. After several minutes of climbing, he reached the mouth of a shallow cave tucked beneath an outcrop of black basalt. Two Night Fury sentries stood at attention — older, vigilant, and tense at his approach.

They bowed at once, wings folding across their chests.

Nightshade nodded to them. “Take a walk. I won’t be long.”

They hesitated only a moment before slipping away into the woods, vanishing with soft wingbeats. Nightshade entered the cave.

The air inside was dry and cool. Near the back, curled in a hollow of smoothed stone, lay Angalon.

He stirred at the sound of footsteps. One eye cracked open — red, weary, and already annoyed.

“If you’ve come to relay that you're going to steal the sea dragon kill for yourself, save your breath,” he growled. “I already know.”

Nightshade snorted quietly, stepping closer. “You know why I’m going to Velesheim.”

“Oh yes, the great peacekeeper returns,” Angalon muttered, stretching with a groan. “While the rest of us wrestle an army of wings and fire, you get to dance with poetry and politics. Unless the Shellfire does get violent, I suppose.”

“I’d rather face the army,” Nightshade replied.

“Liar.”

There was a long silence.

Angalon sat up slowly, bones cracking faintly. His tattered wings dragged behind him like heavy robes, and his eyes looked duller than they had in decades. But there was still strength in his posture — pride clinging to the ancient frame.

“I asked the sentries to give us privacy,” Nightshade said.

“Of course you did.” Angalon snorted again. “Don’t want them hearing the King of the Night Furies checking in on a dying dragon.”

“I’m not here to—”

“Oh, spare me,” Angalon snapped. “Don’t pretend. You think I don’t know Talon went to you?”

Nightshade stiffened. “…He only wanted to help.”

“He wanted to preserve my pride,” Angalon said bitterly. “By arranging one last glorious battle before I start rotting away like a deadwood stump.”

“That’s not true.”

Angalon laughed dryly. “Oh, it is. And you went along with it. You always did play the part of the shadowed conscience.”

Nightshade’s voice dropped. “I don’t know how long you have. I thought it would bring you peace.”

“Peace?” Angalon scoffed. “What peace is there in losing everything that made me who I was? I was Lord of Seregon, the Maelstrom. Dragons of every race fled when the skies burned and the ground shattered beneath my claws. I had a family. A mate. A legacy.” His voice caught, just briefly. “Now look at me… withering. ”

Nightshade stood still as stone, jaw tight. He looked at Angalon with something halfway between pity and defiance.

“I’ve never wanted this for you,” he said.

“No?” Angalon’s voice was sharp, almost mocking. “Then why is it I’ve outlived almost everyone I loved and I’m stuck with you — still perfect, still untouchable, still righteous ?”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s true,” Angalon snarled. “And you know it. You endure and I decay… I suppose neither of us got what we really wanted.”

Nightshade swallowed hard, saying nothing. His golden eyes flickered.

For a long moment, the cave was silent again, broken only by the slow drip of condensation and the low rasp of Angalon’s breathing.

Then Nightshade spoke, barely above a whisper.

“…Are we still friends?”

Angalon didn’t answer immediately. His shoulders sagged slightly, the rage sloughing off like mud after rain.

“I don’t hate you,” he said at last. “Not completely.”

“But?”

“But it won’t matter in a few years.” Angalon looked at him — really looked, for the first time. His ruby eyes were clouded, bloodshot but lucid. “Assuming I survive this next battle. Which, for the first time in my life… I hope I don’t. I don’t want to linger for another decade or two as I lose my mind before my body finally gives out.”

Nightshade flinched, as if struck.

Angalon let the words hang, the bitterness leaching out of them like old venom. “Better to go out as I was. In flames. In battle. Better that then become some brittle relic that dragons pity and whisper about when I limp by.”

“You’re not that yet,” Nightshade said quietly.

“But I will be,” Angalon said. “And you’ll still be here. Watching. Forever.”

“Tell me,” he asked suddenly, voice like dry stone, “do you still hear his voice? When the nights get long?”

Nightshade’s jaw tensed, and that was answer enough.

Angalon leaned back, weary again. “Yes, Nightshade. We’re still friends. But we’re not what we were. Not after him. Not after everything.”

Nightshade lowered his head. “I would take it back. All of it. If I could.”

“I know,” Angalon murmured. “That’s the difference between us. You still believe in redemption.” He closed his eyes. “I gave up the search a long time ago.”

The cave was still.

“I’ll see you soon,” Nightshade said quietly, turning to leave.

“If I’m lucky,” Angalon muttered, “you won’t.”

The sun had just begun to crest the cliffs when Ash returned to the cove . The light spilled over the treetops in soft gold, glinting off the snow-dusted rocks and casting long, gentle shadows across the earth. Frost clung to the moss and the edges of the stream, still untouched by the day’s warmth. And there, under the trees by the water, Toothless was waiting.

He sat in the clearing, wings tucked tightly against his sides, his eyes half-lidded in thought. The moment he sensed her, he turned — and his expression broke into a quiet, open joy.

Ash smiled as she crawled toward him. “Didn’t mean to sneak off.”

“I know,” Toothless chuffed. “You wouldn’t get far.”

She laughed, soft and warm, and leaned into his shoulder. “I can still outrun you.”

Toothless nuzzled her gently. “Liar.”

They stood there a while, pressed together as the wind curled through the trees. For once, there was no tension in Ash’s limbs — just peace, fragile and precious.

“I saw Nightshade,” she murmured. “He looks tired. But still trying.”

“So are we,” Toothless said.

Ash nodded. Her paw moved to rest against her belly. “I want them to be born in a world that’s more than war. More than pain.”

“They will be,” Toothless said firmly. “Because you’re here. Because we’re here.”

A pause.

Ash closed her eyes. “Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“Swear to me you’ll come home.”

Toothless tensed. “Ash—”

She turned to face him, eyes steady despite the tremble in her voice. “Promise.”

He stared at her for a long moment, then pressed his forehead to hers.

“I promise.”

Ash leaned into him, breath shaking just slightly.

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“So am I,” he said. “But I have you. That’s enough.”

A soft rustle echoed from the trees — wings, moving in unison. The first of the Night Furies were assembling.

Ash looked up. “Time?”

Toothless exhaled slowly. “Time.”

They stepped back, wings brushing one last time.

And together, they walked toward the gathering storm.

The wind stirred early in the morning Berk went to war.

Frost lay in lazy, drifting sheets, dusting rooftops and clinging to cloaks and scales alike. The sky had cleared only slightly—pale light bleeding through ragged clouds—but already the village square was alive with motion.

Fires blazed in the forges. Armor clinked. Saddles creaked. Dragons shifted restlessly in the snow-packed clearing, their eyes bright, their breath steaming in the cold.

Everywhere, people moved with a strange quiet: not fear, exactly, but gravity. The kind that came from knowing the world was about to change.

Hiccup stood at the front steps of the Great Hall, the wind tugging at his armor. Astrid stood beside him, her hand on the curve of her belly, axe strapped across her back. Behind them stood Valka, stoic and still. Beside her, Antaris floated eerily — few paid the dragonstone any mind, but the fear of it had faded.

Both the ground and the air were divided into three camps. On the ground and rooftops, the dragon riders of Berk had gathered — Eret tightening the harness on Skullcrusher, Fishlegs fussing with scrolls of maps and traps, Snotlout checking his reflection in the back of his hammer before getting a growl from Hookfang. Ruff and Tuff were already mid-argument about who had more explosive barrels strapped to Barf and Belch’s saddles.

The Night Furies swarmed above the village like ghosts — all of them, sleek shadows ringed with frost, lined in formation around Angalon. He hovered at their head like a mountain of dark metal, silent and regal. Around him, black wings fluttered, tails flicked, and eyes gleamed.

To the far side of the village square stood Nightshade — alone.

He had arrived minutes before, clad again in his human form, coat gleaming with frost. His greatsword rested in a scabbard that he held in his right hand. Nightshade watched the others from beneath a house’s ledge, standing silent as if already mourning the days to come.

Toothless emerged from the alley between the huts, Ash at his side. She still walked stiffly, but her wings were folded with pride. Whispers followed her as she passed. One or two dragons dipped their heads in respect — not just for her title, but for what she’d endured.

She and Nightshade exchanged glances — and a faint nod passed between them.

Then Hiccup raised his voice.

“Today,” he called, “we do more than defend a village. We defend our future. One where dragons and humans don’t have to fear each other. One where tyrants don’t get to burn the world just because they hate what’s new.”

He turned toward the Night Furies.

“I know you don’t like fighting for humans. That’s never been what this was about. But if you fight beside us now — if we stand together — then maybe we’ll have a chance to shape what comes after.”

No one spoke.

Angalon took that as a sign to leave.

“Form ranks,” he growled, though only the dragons could hear him. “We fly north.”

The Night Furies rose like a thunderclap, wings stretching to block out the pale sun. Frost spiraled from rooftops, driven by the sudden downdraft. Shadows rolled over the village as one by one, the Furies shot into the sky — black streaks cutting a path toward the northern horizon.

Ash stepped beside Toothless, resting her head briefly against him.

“Be safe,” she whispered.

Toothless curled his tail briefly around hers, then came to stand by Hiccup.

Hiccup turned to his riders. “Mount up.”

The Berkian riders scrambled to saddles and wings — dragons launching, roaring, shaking the snow from their backs.

Valka placed a hand briefly on Hiccup’s arm. “We’re with you, son.”

Astrid kissed him once, fiercely. “Bring them home.”

Then she stepped back as Cloudjumper spread his wings behind her.

Hiccup mounted Toothless’s saddle, his gaze sweeping the village one last time.

“To the Jagged Peaks, bud,” he said. “Let’s finish this.”

Toothless and the dragonriders soared into the sky after the Night Furies — a colorful storm of wings and fire, both swarms slowly fading into the horizon.

Only Nightshade and Antaris remained.

Are you ready?

Nightshade looked southward.

“To Velesheim,” he said. “Before the Shellfire gets there.”

And if none of them listen?

Nightshade’s smile was grim.

“Then I’ll do what I must.”

Antaris flared with light.

And Nightshade vanished in a burst of amber color.

Chapter Text

Chapter 22: The Ghost and the Tide

A pulse of amber light split the shadows of a narrow alley, leaving behind the smell of scorched air and a scattering of frost across cobblestones.

Nightshade stepped forward into the dim, damp corridor between two shuttered taverns. Steam curled from the cobblestone cracks, rising into the pale morning light. His coat flared slightly as he walked, boots soundless on the stone. One hand slipped into his pocket, feeling Antaris’s smooth crystal.

Something about this city is… sticky. Shrouded.

“I’m not surprised,” Nightshade murmured aloud, scanning the narrow street. “It’s large, cramped, and full of vice.”

Indeed. All marble above, and all rot below.

Nightshade stepped into the street, keeping his gaze lowered as he merged into the steady flow of humans on the move. The city opened before him — a rising cascade of plazas and bridges, market stalls layered like a quilt of noise and color. Sunlight glinted off gold-trimmed balconies and mist-draped archways. Beyond it all, terraced spires rose like spears of silver glass, slashing the skyline with elegance and threat alike.

Velesheim.

It smelled of fruits, copper, and perfume. The air was rich with sound — clatter, laughter, coin. Dozens of voices mingled in the street: merchants crying deals in clipped southern dialects, travelers swearing at donkey carts, children darting between carved columns.

Nightshade walked unnoticed amongst the masses. To the untrained eye, he looked like a nobleman's mercenary — lean, quiet, dressed in black. But his golden eyes caught the sun wrong. A few children glanced at him curiously before being pulled away by distracted parents.

I could cloak your eyes, y ou know… if you’re trying not to look like a cursed demigod.

“I prefer honesty,” Nightshade replied, brushing past a spice vendor. “Besides… this city is too noisy to notice one shadow for too long.”

He passed under a bone-white arch, stopping near a stone fountain carved in the shape of a phoenix. Water trickled from its wings, catching firelight from a hundred brass lanterns overhead.

A young man in a courier’s sash leaned nearby, chewing dates from a folded pouch.

“Excuse me,” Nightshade said.

The courier turned, mouth still full. “Yeah?”

“I’m looking for where the Seven Lords meet.”

The courier blinked, then pointed to a high marble building far above the rest of the city. “The High Chamber? There. Upper terrace, east side of the Spire Quarter. Just follow the banners.”

“Thank you.”

The courier squinted. “Hey—are you—”

But Nightshade was already gone, disappearing into the flowing crowd like smoke into wind.

Smooth. So much for “subtle.”

“I said honest, not invisible,” Nightshade murmured.

He moved onward, ascending through layers of the city like peeling scales — from artisan quarters to merchant plazas, each more elaborate than the last. As he passed beneath gold-leafed archways and velvet-draped balconies, he took in every detail. Children running barefoot along sandstone gutters. A jeweler arguing over flawed rubies. A priestess ringing a bell above a temple doorway. It was life — loud, flawed, dazzling. Mortals going about their days, unaware of how close they were to fire.

They have no idea what’s coming.

“No,” Nightshade said. “They never do. Perhaps that’s for the better.”

Above him, the spires of Velesheim gleamed — tall, proud, fragile. And somewhere near their peak, seven lords gathered in ignorance.

The High Chamber of Velesheim shimmered with wealth as the sun poured into the windows. An image of splendor — masking the enduring conflict around the table in the center of the chamber.

“You’re out of your mind,” Lord Arnulf snapped, jabbing a ringed finger toward Ragnar. “Shutting down another dock? You’ve already halved the yields on the southern exports!”

“Those yields were men, not goods,” Ragnar growled back. His dark tunic was plain compared to the others, his hands folded and plain rather than jeweled. “And yet, I hear no protest about our missing citizens. Dozens of them, gone.”

“Gone where?” scoffed Lord Daelen. “The void? Or maybe they’re just tired of your moral crusade and left.”

“I think,” said Lady Veira, her voice calm but sharp as cut glass, “we might be ignoring a real issue. This city has more disappearances in a month than we had in all of last year, and every time Lord Ragnar raises it, you talk about tariffs instead.”

“I’m not ignoring the issue,” Lord Daelen said. “I’m just questioning the source.”

Before Ragnar could retort, the doors creaked.

And then groaned.

And then slammed open.

The guards turned first — two men in polished breastplates, leaning lazily on their spears. The moment the shadow crossed the threshold, both straightened with alarm. 

He walked as though he owned the place, boots clicking on marble. The long greatsword on his back was sheathed but ready, yet his hands rested comfortably in his pockets. Most chilling of all were his eyes — golden, slit-pupiled, dragon eyes.

“Hold!” barked one of the guards, spear leveled.

Nightshade turned slightly. Just enough for the nearest guard to catch the full, inhuman weight of his gaze. The man stepped back with a strangled noise and fled. The other wavered, then followed without a word.

The Lords leapt to their feet.

“What madness is this?”

“Who is this dog?”

“Guards!”

Only Ragnar remained seated. His eyes had gone wide, then narrowed — not in fear, but in recognition. He slowly folded his hands in front of him, and said nothing.

Nightshade came to a halt at the edge of the great table.

“Apologies for the interruption,” he said, tone dry as parchment. “But I thought your little council might want to hear about what's swimming toward your city.”

Lord Arnulf rose, face red. “We do not answer to mercenaries or madmen! Who let you in?”

Nightshade ignored him. His gaze slid to Veira, whose hand had gone to a hidden knife beneath her sleeve — more out of instinct than fear.

Lady Veira narrowed her eyes. “You are… not a man.”

“Correct.”

“You all wanted answers,” Ragnar said. “Well, here he is. You certainly need no introduction… Nightshade.”

A stunned silence followed.

“You lie,” spat Valric. “A dragon can’t hide in a human’s body, fool.”

“And yet,” Lady Veira said quietly, eyes narrowed, “he doesn’t deny it.”

“What do you want?” Lord Daelen growled, his own hands clasped around the hilt of a sword.

“I came to offer a warning,” Nightshade replied. “And a choice.”

He stepped closer to them, casting a long shadow against the table.

“A dragon army is on the move. They will not attack this city, but they have eyes on every human settlement in the Archipelago. And your fleets have already been crippled. You are not ready.”

“More threats,” Arnulf said, rising. “Enough of this farce. Guards—”

“Stop,” Ragnar said, voice low. “Hear him.”

Nightshade’s gaze shifted to Ragnar. “At least I can count on you to hear me out, even if they don’t.”

“What’s in it for you?” Valric demanded.

“Why warn us at all?” Lady Veira asked, arching one brow. “Surely you’re not here out of kindness.”

Nightshade’s face was unreadable. “I warned you because your city, for all its past cruelty, could still choose peace. Could still become more than it is.”

“Peace?” Lord Daelen barked. “From a beast who burned our armories and shattered our ports?”

“My Night Furies burned your chains,” Nightshade snapped, eyes glowing. “Not your homes. Not your children. That was restraint — more than the dragon army will give.”

The room boiled with rage. Several of the lords surged to their feet.

“You DARE—” Malkar began.

“ Be quiet ,” Nightshade interrupted, voice sharp as steel. “A Shellfire — a sea dragon the size of a small mountain — is already swimming for your harbor. It was sent to destroy you. But I’ll stop it for you.”

Laughter broke from the lords like a snapped cord.

“You think we’d trust you ?” Daelen snarled.

“You think we’d let a dragon in human skin walk our streets as some self-styled protector?” Arnulf hissed.

“I think,” Nightshade said, his voice cold and final, “that if you want your city to still exist by sundown, you’ll listen.”

Lady Veira raised a hand, quieting the others. “Suppose we did listen. Suppose we allowed you to stop this beast. What do you want in return?”

“I want nothing — except your understanding, your inclination toward peace,” Nightshade said. “I don’t need to tell you that there’s abundant ways to make wealth… but I expect dragons to not be involved.”

“And if we don’t give it?” Geren asked flatly.

Nightshade looked at him without blinking. “Then I hope you can all swim, cause you’ll never kill that dragon without me.”

Another explosion of protest erupted — but Nightshade had already begun to turn away.

“I’ll find you later, Ragnar,” he said over his shoulder. “If you want to defend this city the smart way.”

He walked toward the doors as the guards parted before him, every one too afraid to raise their weapon. Even those who had once hunted dragons felt the weight of something older, deeper, and far beyond their reckoning.

No one tried to stop him.

You certainly know how to make an entrance, O King.  

“Not an entrance,” Nightshade replied silently. “A deadline.”

He vanished into the daylight, letting the doors clang shut behind him.

Ragnar raced alone through the winding streets of Velesheim, the dying sunlight casting long slashes of orange through the narrow alleys. The high towers of the city loomed above him, stone and smoke stretching into the golden sky. The cobbled path beneath his boots echoed with every step, but his mind was still back in the High Chamber — boiling with voices, dripping with arrogance. The other lords had mocked him again, dismissed him, belittled his warnings. Except for Lady Veira.

He’d almost laughed when Nightshade arrived. Almost.

He turned a corner near the upper docks, mind racing with contingencies. How many archers did they have stationed along the sea wall? Would the harpoons even dent a dragon that size? Could—

“Evening!” a voice called cheerfully from the shadows.

Ragnar stopped mid-step.

There, lounging beside the crumbling alley wall like he belonged there, was Nightshade. Still in human form, arms crossed, posture casual. His black coat fluttered slightly in the breeze, and his golden eyes gleamed in the dimming light. His hand was raised, almost like greeting a long-lost friend.

Ragnar narrowed his gaze. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

Nightshade shrugged. “I find subtlety overrated.”

Ragnar approached slowly. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. Walking into the Chamber like that? Half of them wanted your head on a spike.”

“I noticed,” Nightshade said, smiling faintly. “Though you looked like you were enjoying it.”

“More than I should have,” Ragnar admitted. “Most of them are jackals. Self-obsessed and blind.”

“But not you,” Nightshade said. “I’m glad to see you’re still alive. And still stubborn.”

Ragnar crossed his arms. “I’m not your ally, dragon. I’m just the only one in that room who thought listening might be better than dying… except for Veira, but I’m the one in charge of defending the city.”

Nightshade inclined his head. “I’ll take what I can get.”

There was a brief silence, broken only by the gulls overhead and the distant calls from the harbor.

Then Ragnar asked, “Do you really think you can stop it? The Shellfire?”

“I don’t want to kill it,” Nightshade said, voice quieter now. “I want to convince it. They’re not mindless creatures — just ancient and tired. But if persuasion fails… I’ll end it. For the city’s sake.”

Ragnar studied him. There was no bravado in Nightshade’s tone. Just the truth, heavy and resolute.

“Do you have a plan?” Ragnar asked.

A wicked smile crossed Nightshade’s face. “I want to borrow the Endeavor .”

Ragnar blinked. “You what?”

“The Shellfire will come for the city. But if it sees a ship on open water, one armed and strong, it might divert. If I can draw it away from the harbor, I can confront it before it hits your walls.”

“Are you insane?” Ragnar asked flatly. “That ship is Velesheim’s best line of defense. And you expect me to just hand it over so a single dragon—or man, or whatever you are—can wave his arms and talk a sea monster into going home?”

Nightshade’s expression was almost childlike in his excitement. “Yes.”

Ragnar rubbed the bridge of his nose. “And if it capsizes us before you get a chance? If it just crushes the ship with its weight?”

“You won’t be alone,” Nightshade said. “I’ll be with you.”

“How reassuring,” Ragnar muttered.

Nightshade stepped forward, his gaze more serious now. “I need it, Ragnar. The city’s defenses won’t hold. Not against something that size. But if you lure it out into open waters, I can stop it — one way or another. Trust me.”

Ragnar looked him in the eye for a long time. There was power in Nightshade — yes. But something else too. A gravity that pulled the truth to the surface. He didn’t seem like a liar. Just a creature who had run out of time.

“Fine,” Ragnar said at last. “But on one condition.”

Nightshade tilted his head.

“I’m the one who sails her,” Ragnar said. “And the moment I think the tide turns against us—the moment I think your pleas are not working—I take my ship home, and you fight it alone.”

Nightshade nodded. “Agreed.”

Ragnar held out his hand.

Nightshade took it without hesitation — firm grip, dragonfire barely contained in the strength behind it.

“We sail at dawn,” Ragnar said.

Nightshade’s grin was faint, but real. “I’ll try to keep up.”

Then, like a shadow peeling from the wall, he vanished into the night.

Ragnar exhaled through his nose and turned toward home.

“Madman,” he muttered. 

The morning broke like a blade through fog.

Cold mist still clung to the high terraces of Velesheim, the stone buildings veiled in silence, their windows watching like empty eyes. But down at the harbor, all was motion.

The Endeavor creaked against her moorings, sails furled tight, ropes snapping as Ragnar’s best sailors prepared her for departure. New ballistae were spread along her flanks, heavy chains coiled like sleeping serpents. Great harpoon launchers stood ready at the prow, steel bolts gleaming in the pale dawn light.

And at the wheel stood Ragnar. Bundled in a thick coat of storm-grey hide, his hands gripped the weather-worn handles with a practiced familiarity. He barked a few final orders, his voice carrying easily across the deck. The crew responded in swift precision — seasoned sailors all, loyal to him above all others.

“I thought dragons flew,” he said dryly, without turning.

Nightshade leaned beside the wheel, his hair and coat billowing in the sea wind like the torn sail of some mythic ship. His golden eyes caught the sun, lips curled in the faintest smile.

“I’ve always liked sailing,” he said. “Something about the wind, the sway of the deck. It’s different than flying — more grounded. More deliberate.”

“You’re telling me the King of the Night Furies,” Ragnar said, casting him a skeptical glance, “likes bobbing on wood when he could ride the clouds?”

Nightshade shrugged. “What? I like boats.”

Ragnar rolled his eyes and shouted to the lookout. “Raise anchor! Let’s see if the sea swallows us before breakfast.”

The Endeavor pulled away from the docks, her dark sails catching the morning gusts. She slid through the outer harbor like a blade through still water, her shadow long in the wake of the rising sun. Seagulls cried overhead. The crew settled into rhythm — shields out, harpoons locked, rigging checked.

Silence stretched for several long minutes as the ship crossed the harbor’s edge and reached the open sea. The city behind them began to vanish into the haze, tall towers fading like ghosts in the mist.

Nightshade moved to the port rail and closed his eyes. He didn’t speak. Didn’t gesture.

But Ragnar noticed the faintest flicker of amber light from within his coat pocket.

A few seconds later, the wind shifted. Then it hit them; a wall of stench — unmistakable, unrelenting.

Ragnar recoiled, covering his nose. “By the gods—what is that?”

Nightshade gave him a sideways glance. “Old fish. Maybe some krill.”

The stench intensified — not just a few barrels’ worth, but tons . It soaked the sails, curled around the ropes, seeped into every crevice of the ship like invisible ink drawn by arcane hands. It was unnatural, like the breath of an ocean graveyard.

“You… cursed my ship?” Ragnar growled, trying not to throw up.

“Consider it bait,” Nightshade said calmly. “Shellfires are ancient sea-dragons, yes. But they still favor what they know. And nothing smells better to one than a nice big reef full of bloated fish.”

“Fantastic,” Ragnar muttered, still holding his sleeve to his nose. “So now we smell like a dead whale in summer.”

Nightshade tilted his head slightly toward the horizon. “You’ll thank me when he follows us instead of the city.”

Ragnar shook his head. “You’re either brilliant or insane.”

Nightshade grinned. “Yes.”

They sailed on, the sea calm but ominous, the horizon wide and waiting. The Endeavor groaned as it carved through silver-gray swells, sails taut, the sea churning beneath her. Mist rose in long curtains across the water, and even the seasoned crew had fallen quiet.

Something was out there.

The air had thickened — not with storm, but with pressure. The wind carried a strange tension, the scent of salt sharpened to a blade’s edge. Gulls had vanished. Even the waves seemed to roll more carefully, as if the ocean itself feared waking what lurked below.

Ragnar stood at the helm, one hand clenched on the wheel, the other resting on the pommel of Halfdan’s sword. “Eyes sharp,” he barked. “And hold steady. If it surfaces—”

He didn’t finish.

Because the water exploded.

A mountain surged from beneath the waves, barnacle-plated and massive — the Shellfire. It rose with terrifying grace, a rolling mass of coral-streaked armor and spiny protrusions, like the risen carcass of a sunken fortress. Two long horns stretched the entire width of the ship, its huge eyes roze from the surf like rising suns.

“Gods…” someone whispered.

A wave the size of a house slammed against the Endeavor 's port side, sending sailors sprawling. The hull creaked as though about to snap in half, ropes snapping like whips. Water cascaded over the deck, dousing the forward ballistae and sweeping one of the deck crew into the rail. Another sailor grabbed his arm just in time.

“Steady her!” Ragnar bellowed.

They cut two of the outer anchor weights, and the Endeavor righted with a sickening lurch — just in time for the Shellfire to dive again.

It vanished in a whirlpool of foam.

Nightshade appeared beside Ragnar at the wheel, soaked and calm. “That was the warning.”

“That was restraint? ” Ragnar shouted, hair dripping, cloak clinging to his shoulders.

“It could’ve split us in two… Well, I guess we’ll see how strong this metal plating is.”

As if to punctuate his point, the Shellfire returned — faster this time, breaching the waves with an angry cry that sent flocks of seabirds scattering from the clouds. Its massive shell smashed into the Endeavor 's starboard side — the armor plating rang out like a gong. Wood cracked beneath it. Steel screamed.

“Brace—!” someone shouted.

The ship didn’t capsize — the Endeavor had been built for battle, its frame too deep and too stubborn to roll. But the impact threw half the crew off their feet and sent barrels careening across the slick deck. One mast shivered violently.

The Shellfire’s voice echoed, not in sound, but vibration — a low thrum that passed through water and bone alike. The dragon shuddered as the Endeavor’s bow ran up on the beast’s wing joint.

“It's stuck,” Ragnar muttered. “We’ve pinned it.”

Nightshade stepped forward, frowning. “It won’t stay that way.”

And it didn’t.

With a titanic wrench, the Shellfire twisted. The impact shook the Endeavor down to its keel. Saltwater geysered over the deck as the dragon thrashed free, sending a wall of sea spray smashing into the crew.

Ragnar dragged himself upright, coughing.

“Harpoons ready!” he bellowed. “Target the eyes!”

But before the orders could be followed, Nightshade turned sharply. “ Wait. ”

Ragnar turned. “Are you mad?! That thing nearly tore the ship apart!”

Nightshade’s coat was dripping, his golden eyes narrow with focus. “It knows the metal is strong, so it’ll try fire next. We’ve got one chance to stop this without blood.”

And then he was moving.

With no hesitation, Nightshade sprinted to the starboard rail.

“Where are you going?!” Ragnar shouted.

Nightshade didn’t stop.

He leapt.

For a moment, he vanished over the side — then, in a burst of dark smoke and light, he shifted midair. Wings exploded from his back. His limbs warped and stretched. In a heartbeat, the King of the Night Furies soared above the ship — larger than any Fury the sailors had ever seen, its size blocking out the sun.

Gasps echoed across the deck. Someone whispered a prayer.

Nightshade climbed skyward in a sharp spiral and turned away — wings spread wide in full display, golden eyes gleaming, placing himself directly between the Endeavor and the Shellfire.

The sea-dragon reared its head from the waves.

It was massive — its face ringed in coral ridges, its eyes lit with bioluminescent fire. From its gaping maw, plasma projectiles gathered — blue energy swirling like a storm contained behind bone.

And then it fired.

Three boulders of charged plasma shot through the air, trailing arcs of crackling electricity.

Meant for the ship, they struck Nightshade head-on instead.

The explosion blinded half the crew. A cloud of steam and smoke mushroomed in the air, rolling with heat and static.

Ragnar cursed and stepped forward. “Shit! Ready harpoons!”

Silence followed.

Then… wind.

The smoke parted.

Nightshade hovered there precariously, wings still extended as he corrected himself. Scorched air curled around him, but he was unharmed.

His eyes glowed gold.

The Shellfire paused.

It blinked.

Recognition stirred behind its gaze. As if something ancient in its bones whispered a name it had not heard in an age.

Nightshade held his place, unmoving.

The Endeavor bobbed gently in the aftermath of fury, seawater still pooling across the deck. Sailors clung to rigging and railing, wide-eyed, watching the black dragon hover — suspended like a god between sky and sea.

And before him loomed the Shellfire.

The ancient sea dragon drifted just beneath the waves, its crown of bone and coral rising like a reef forged in war. Its eyes—huge and molten—locked onto Nightshade with a gaze as deep as the trenches it called home.

A low rumble pulsed through the air. Not a growl. Not a threat.

“GHOST.”

The voice echoed in Nightshade’s ears — a name spoken not in reverence, but in accusation .

Nightshade bowed his head slightly.

“That name… I no longer claim it,” he said aloud, though no human could hear this exchange. “But yes. I am the one you remember.”

A great ripple passed beneath the surface.

“NIGHT FURIES DISAPPEARED. WE DID NOT KNOW IF THEY HID OR HAD PERISHED.”

Nightshade did not flinch. “We came close.”

“WHERE WERE YOU?” the Shellfire demanded. “WHEN THE HUNTERS TOOK TO THE SEAS? WHEN OUR BRETHREN WERE DRAGGED FROM THE DEPTHS IN CHAINS? WHEN MY KIND BEGAN TO VANISH, THEIR SONGS DYING?”

The accusation hung like a storm about to break.

Nightshade hovered lower, wings spread wide but unthreatening. “Gone,” he said. “We fought a war, and we lost. I ran away. I left everything behind.”

“YOU WERE LOVED… NEEDED.”

A mournful shudder passed through the Shellfire’s spine, casting small whirlpools across the water’s surface.

“I know,” Nightshade repeated, quieter now. “I can’t undo it. I live with it. Every day.”

Silence.

The Shellfire turned slightly, the waves shifting with him. His head raised — towering, crowned in twisted coral and rust-stained scars.

“AND NOW YOU COME TO LECTURE ME?” he asked bitterly. “TO TELL ME NOT TO STRIKE DOWN A CITY THAT POLLUTES MY WATERS? THAT FEEDS ITS FIRES WITH DRAGON OIL AND BLEACHES THE SHORES WITH BONE?”

“Not to lecture, to plead,” Nightshade said. “I came to ask why you would help her. Thora. She doesn’t want justice — she wants death. She’ll burn every tribe in the Archipelago, dragon or human, if it doesn’t bow to her vision of purity.”

The Shellfire’s breath misted the waves in long, shimmering ribbons.

“THEN I WILL ONLY BURN ONE CITY. NOT FOR HER. FOR THE OCEAN.”

“But what comes after?” Nightshade asked. “What lesson do you teach the humans if you become the terror they fear? They already hunted us. You’ll only feed the fire.”

“FEAR KEEPS THEM AFLOAT. IT REMINDS THEM WHO RULED THESE SEAS BEFORE THEIR SAILS.”

Nightshade hovered closer now, unafraid.

“You’re right that they’ve wronged us. You’re right that they’ve hunted, poisoned, killed. But some of them… some of them have changed. ”

The Shellfire made a deep, groaning sound — somewhere between amusement and sorrow.

“WHAT GUARANTEE DO YOU OFFER, GHOST? WHAT WORDS COULD CHANGE THE TIDE?”

“None,” Nightshade said. “Only faith.”

He looked toward the horizon — where Berk was on the move, dragons and humans readying themselves not to conquer, but to defend .

“I’ve seen humans die beside dragons, not against. I’ve seen children who call hatchlings their friends. I’ve seen men fight their own kind to do what’s right for us. It’s not a promise… But there’s a chance. Let that be enough.”

Inside his mind, Antaris stirred.

If he tries again, I’ll make it quick and painless.

Nightshade ignored the voice.

Instead, he lifted his gaze and said: “If you need space… I know where you can go. Southwest of Berk. The waters near Mystholm are empty. Open ocean — no ships, no nets. No hunters. No one will trouble you there.”

A pause.

The wind turned.

The waves began to calm.

The Shellfire’s eyes narrowed, glowing dimly. And then… he spoke.

“I WILL SPARE THE CITY.”

His head turned toward the west.

“BUT IF YOU ARE WRONG, NO SEA DRAGON WILL TRUST YOU AGAIN. AND YOU WILL LIVE WITH THE COSTS OF YOUR WORDS FOREVER.”

Nightshade’s expression tightened.

“I know.”

The Shellfire turned. Slowly, he submerged — the coral ridges of his back sliding beneath the sea like an island swallowed whole. The waters grew still again. The scent of fire and plasma faded.

And then… he was gone.

The Endeavor drifted in the silence.

Nightshade descended gently onto the deck. His wings folded. His form shimmered — and he shifted, becoming human once more. Damp, quiet, golden-eyed.

The sailors stared at him like they might a ghost.

Ragnar stepped forward, soaked to the bone, cloak clinging to his legs. “Well?”

Nightshade looked to the sea.

“He’s not our enemy. Not today.”

Ragnar stared at him. “You convinced a sea god to go home. ”

Nightshade gave a small smile. “I hope forever… I guess we’ll see.”

Ragnar turned back to the wheel. “Let’s go home.”

The Endeavor sliced through calmer waters, sails billowing with a steady breeze. The sun broke the clouds overhead, casting golden light over the iron-studded hull. Seabirds called overhead again. Life had returned.

Ragnar stood at the wheel, hands relaxed for the first time in days. Beside him, Nightshade leaned against the rail, cloak rippling in the wind.

“You did it,” Ragnar said quietly. “You actually did it.”

“Surprised?” Nightshade asked, half a smirk curling his mouth.

Ragnar gave a short laugh. “More that I didn’t have to pick your charred body out of the ocean.”

Nightshade leaned back, watching the sea foam curl along the hull. “I always liked sailing, you know.”

“This again? You have wings,” Ragnar muttered. “The whole point of wings is that you don’t have to sail.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” Nightshade replied.

A moment passed.

Then Ragnar added, “I suppose I’m in your debt. Again.”

Nightshade shrugged. “It’s my pleasure. You’re doing good work in this city, even if the others don’t see it.”

“Oh, they see it,” Ragnar muttered. “They just hate that it brings less coin instead of more.” He glanced at Nightshade. “Your little stunt in the Chamber didn’t help.”

“I was being honest,” Nightshade said.

“You were insulting. Good reasons or no, they’ll remember that.”

Another pause. The coast of Velesheim was coming into view now — white towers rising through mist, the harbor still bustling despite the threat they never even saw.

Ragnar folded his arms. “I suppose, after avoiding that catastrophe, my mess seems much smaller now.”

“What mess?” Nightshade asked.

Ragnar’s expression turned grim. “Disappearances. Dozens. Sometimes in the dead of night. Sometimes just… gone. But whatever takes them doesn’t leave anything you’d want to find.”

Nightshade’s eyes narrowed. “Is it a dragon?”

“I hope it’s a dragon,” Ragnar muttered. “Because if it’s not… I don’t know.”

Nightshade tilted his head, something thoughtful stirring behind his eyes. But then he simply said, “If I had time, I’d stay. But I have faith you’ll handle it.”

“Kind of you to say.”

They clasped hands — one callused, one pale and cold. A handshake between a man and a king. Between enemies turned not friends… but something else.

“Until next time,” Nightshade said.

“Next time, let me know you're coming. And don’t mess with my ship.”

Nightshade smirked.

Then, with a flicker of amber light, he vanished — wind curling in the space he left behind.

And Ragnar turned back toward the shore, relieved… but already thinking of what shadows might still be hiding in Velesheim.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23: The Last Storm

The stars were out, but none dared to shine too brightly. The Jagged Peaks loomed ahead like a broken crown rising from the sea, their craggy ridges casting deep shadows across the snow-flecked valley. A frigid wind howled between the cliffs, threading through the trees like a whisper of death. Beneath the thundering sky, the armies of Berk waited.

Hiccup stood at the edge of a rocky outcropping, peering up toward the mountain range. He imagined hundreds of wild dragons waiting on the other side, feral and vicious. The dragonriders had settled into formation, their dragons crouched low among the rocks and trees. Hookfang and Meatlug shifted restlessly. Skullcrusher let out a low, rumbling breath, while Barf and Belch bickered quietly with the twins perched on their saddles. All was still save for the cold wind and the flashes of lightning above their heads. 

Waiting.

A week of hard travel had brought them here. A week of planning, hoping. Now, the final breath before battle.

Hiccup’s fingers curled tightly around the handle of his shield, Inferno’s handle resting comfortably strapped to his side.

A low chuff behind him made him turn. Toothless stood nearby, wings furled and eyes glowing softly in the moonlight. He was staring at the mountains. Hiccup followed his gaze, turning north.

The stars were vanishing.

One by one, the pinpricks of light disappeared as a vast black curtain blotted out the heavens, growing larger by the second — not a storm cloud, but a shadow, silent and immense.

Then the wind shifted, and the silence broke.

Night Furies. Hundreds of them.

They descended upon the Jagged Peaks like a storm of black knives. The first volley struck hard, sonic blasts ripping through the nests Thora’s dragons had built. Screams erupted from the cliffs as Timberjacks and Zipplebacks were thrown from their perches. The wild dragons reeled in chaos.

And then Berk surged upwards.

Hiccup gave the signal, and dragons launched skyward. Flame roared from jaws. As soon as the horde of dragons made it over the mountain into the valley on the other side, the clash was immediate and brutal. Lightning crackled through the clouds as Skrills took to the sky. Nightmares shrieked in defiance. Night Furies struck from above, swift and near invisible in the gloom, strafing the wild dragons with precision.

Valka flew past as Cloudjumper shrieked, her staff held high, arm free of its bandages. Snotlout shouted some half-intelligible war cry before diving with Hookfang into the fray. Hiccup held fast to Toothless’s saddle, heart hammering.

The battle had begun.

It was chaos.

The ground shook as dragons slammed into rock, throwing and shooting each other out of the sky in piles of tails and wings. Firelight flickered across cliffs as dragons fell in flames or thundered overhead in pursuit. Through the madness, Hiccup and Toothless carved a path, darting through enemy lines, plasma shots ringing out to stun attackers. Above, Angalon led his Night Furies with ruthless efficiency, striking targets in synchronized bursts.

Then she came.

A bolt of purple lightning split the sky. Thora.

She slammed into Toothless mid-flight, claws raking, wings buffeting. Hiccup barely held on as they spun through the air. They broke apart, but Thora came again, shrieking.

“Well, look at you,” she sneered. “Playing pet to a man. Have you no shame?”

Toothless snarled, diving toward her.

Hiccup held tight as they clashed — wings snapping, claws raking. Thora loosed another arc of electricity, but Toothless countered with a plasma blast, the shockwave echoing across the peaks. They tumbled through the clouds, trading blows and roars.

She laughed as they fought.

“Is your little mate worrying about you from afar? How’s dear Ash? I hope you enjoyed looking at my work.”

They crashed together again, fangs bared, wings locked. Thora was a tempest, her rage unrelenting. Hiccup shouted, trying to guide Toothless, but she struck him with her tail — and Hiccup went flying, his harness snapping with force.

He slammed into a ledge, gasping. His shield held. Just barely.

Toothless screamed, veering to protect him — but Thora struck again. A burst of lightning singed his flank. He whined in pain as he turned, landing to shroud Hiccup with a wing as the chief climbed to his feet.

“Even as you fight here humans are being fed to the flames!” Thora screamed, lightning dancing around her in triumph. “Velesheim burns, and so will you!”

Grabbing Toothless’s side, Hiccup grimaced with effort as additional shrieks sounded above them. Skrills by the dozens were descending from the mountains, bolts of electricity raining down on Berks forces.

Then the sky turned amber.

Nightshade appeared in midair, teleporting in a burst of magic. Every dragon paused. Every eye turned.

The lead Skrill was moving too fast… straight into the ancient Night Fury’s jaws, who tore a wing from the body like paper.

Terror spread like fire.

Nightshade moved like death incarnate — a blur in the storm, his wings casting long shadows. Wild dragons fled before him, the foolish ones finding their claws breaking against his hide as they perished. The tide began to turn.

Thora shrieked with rage, diving at Hiccup again — but he was ready. From the shelter of Toothless’s wing, he quickly loaded a bola into his Gronckle iron shield, aimed, and fired. The ropes erupted from the core, wrapping around Thora’s wing midair.

Thora’s body struck the earth with a thunderous crash, kicking up snow and stone as she snarled and clawed her way back upright. Lightning crackled along her spines, casting her skeletal frame in pulses of blue. She shook off the bola wrapped around her limbs, tearing free with a snap of her spined tail.

Toothless landed hard in front of her, skidding to a halt, his wings flaring in challenge. His breath steamed in the night air. Behind him, the mountains burned with the chaos of the wider battle — firelight on stone, cries and thunder echoing from above. But here, on the cliff’s edge, it was just the two of them. Hiccup raced to climb his way down, but the Alpha had eyes only for the Skrill queen.

“Thora,” Toothless growled, stepping forward. “Stop.”

She laughed — a ragged, high-pitched sound, blood-tinged and furious.

“Still begging, Alpha?” she spat, limping slightly. “After everything?”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“You should . I’d respect you more.”

Toothless didn’t move. “You’ve seen what humans and dragons can do together. You’ve seen Ash. You’ve seen peace.”

“I saw spears tear through my sister’s wings,” Thora hissed. “I watched her drown. They almost drowned me too.” Her eyes gleamed like amethyst coals. “You think peace erases that?”

“I know it doesn’t!” Toothless said, stepping closer. “But it doesn’t have to go on.”

Thora shrieked and charged, lightning wreathing her horns.

Toothless met her head-on.

They collided with a sound like thunder splitting stone. Claws scraped scale, teeth snapped, tails lashed. Thora was less mobile but lightning still arched around her, her movements wild and unpredictable. She slammed into Toothless’s side, throwing him against a boulder. He roared in pain, plasma charging in his mouth — but she struck again before he could fire, knocking him to the ground.

“Soft,” she hissed. “Weak. Just like the rest of them.”

She lunged again — but Toothless twisted, blasting a plasma shot at her feet. The explosion threw her backward, and he scrambled up just as a familiar voice echoed from the cliff edge.

“Toothless!”

Hiccup.

He was climbing down the slope, one arm bleeding from a gash above the elbow, Inferno glowing in his other hand. As Thora turned to face him, he ducked under her sweeping tail and sliced into the joint of her wing. 

Thora screamed — and Toothless struck.

A plasma blast shot hit her square in the chest, sending her staggering back. Her claws dug furrows in the stone as she reeled, stunned, and backed closer to the cliff’s edge. A wing lay dangling, the cut searing from the fire on Hiccup’s blade.

Toothless advanced, wings flexed, plasma charged.

“Go on,” Thora rasped, eyes wild. “Do it. Kill me. You’ve won your pretty little battle.”

She raised her head, defiant despite the wounds streaking her body. “But you’ll never have peace. Not from everyone. Not from everywhere. The world’s too cruel. You don’t have the stomach to do what’s necessary.”

“I do now,” Toothless said — quietly.

Behind him, Hiccup hesitated, his face drawn and pale. His hand was clenched tight around Inferno, but he said nothing. He could see it — Toothless was going to do it.

Thora laughed bitterly, the wind catching her frayed wings.

“Go on then. Prove to all the dragons here whose side your—”

A great shadow rose behind her.

“So the Alpha does have what it takes.”

Thora froze.

Her mouth opened, a flicker of fear finally surfacing in her eyes as she turned, just as talons tore into her injured wing.

“You should’ve listened to him, Skrill .” Angalon growled, his voice like an avalanche of steel and hatred.

Thora’s eyes widened — and then she screamed.

Toothless leapt back as Angalon tore into her, black wings flaring as he dragged her into the air. Thora twisted, claws raking across his chest, scoring deep gouges — and one last time, she struck.

Her spines sliced into his shoulder — and with a sickening snap, Angalon’s right forepaw bent the wrong way.

But the Maelstrom didn’t falter.

He ripped her head from her shoulders, a thunderous roar shaking the cliffside as Thora’s body fell to the ground below. Skrills screamed in horror as wild dragons scattered in panic. Lightning broke in the distance like a warning bell.

Angalon hovered just over the cliff side, giant and bloodied — triumphant.

And then he fell.

Hiccup shouted as he saw his wings falter, his body plummet towards the earth — but Angalon twisted mid-air, wings catching the wind in a faltering glide. He crashed into the lower ledge far below, disappearing behind smoke and snow.

Silence followed.

Then the dragons cried out — not in rage, but surrender.

The battle was over.

Toothless stood, breath ragged, as Hiccup placed a hand on his side. “It’s done.”

Toothless didn’t react. His eyes were fixed, wide with shock, on the place where the lord of Seregon had vanished.

The smoke had only just begun to clear.

Ash-scorched snow twisted down in ragged spirals, covering broken stone and broken bodies alike. Wind screamed through the crags of the Jagged Peaks, carrying with it the faint, fading echoes of war cries and dragonfire. The battle was over. The army was broken. The wild dragons, what few remained, had scattered or bowed. The storm still raged overhead, never ending, but peace had settled.