Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jack sighed, his breath curling like smoke as he stared out over the edge of the cliff.

Above, the sky boiled.

Dark thunderclouds churned and collided like brothers locked in an endless, senseless fight: no real goal, just fury and pride. Jagged streaks of lightning forked through the sky like angry punctuation.
And of course... it had to be them.

Jack let out a long sigh and tilted his head back, snowflakes melting instantly against his cheeks.
To anyone else, the winds were just air. Weather. A thing that happened.

But not to him.

To Jack, the winds were family.
Unchosen, unrelenting, sometimes unbearable, but always there. He didn’t remember a time before them. And like family, they never left without reason.

Breeze was the youngest. Gentle and curious. Always nearby, just at the edge of his awareness, nudging his hood or twirling his scarf like a bored little sibling. Flying with Breeze felt like floating. slow, steady, safe. On quiet days, Jack would whisper stories just for them, and Breeze would hum along with the air.

Then there was Jet: all confidence and speed. Jet didn’t ask. Jet carried. Over oceans, through sleet and sky-splitting lightning. Flying with Jet felt like skating across a frozen lake with no end in sight. Jet didn’t talk much. Jet just moved.

And then... the twins.

Minstrel and Bora.

Bitter. Cold. Unapologetically violent.

They didn’t fly, they tore. Through sails, trees, cliffsides. They bit and screamed and circled each other in eternal storms. Possessive. Spiteful. Unruly.
Jack had cracked his staff the last time he got caught between them.

And now?

They were at it again.

Lightning flared across the clouds, splitting them open with jagged arcs. The air howled like wolves in a storm, the shriek of one wind crashing against another in a spiral that made the sky shudder.

Jack rubbed his temple.

It was like a migraine forming behind his eyes. Not pain. Just... pressure. Too much movement. Too much noise. Too much them.

He grit his teeth.

He didn’t get paid for this. He didn’t even get snacks for this.

“Seriously?” he muttered.

Then he lifted his staff.
The old wood crackled, frost crawling from its tip like warning fingers.

He raised his staff higher, then slammed it down.

A ripple of cold exploded

outward in a silent pulse. The air thinned. The shrieking calmed. Even the storm flinched.
The winds knew what that meant.

He wasn’t in the mood.

Jet hesitated under his feet, stalling mid-gust. Like an older brother biting his tongue, Jet circled tighter around Jack’s body, steeling him against the buffeting swells. Jack braced himself, breath fogging. He crouched slightly—

And jumped.

Leaning forward into the growing storm.
The wind tore at his hoodie, ripping it back as if to throw him off balance. He held firm.

“Minstrel,” he muttered under his breath. “I just cleaned up after you in Siberia. I swear, if this is another tantrum—”

A crack of thunder cut him off. Sharp and close.

“Bora,” he snapped. “You don’t even like coastal air. Go scream at a mountain instead.”

Lightning flared again. The gusts pushed against him like words. Whispers of ‘no way’ and ‘he started it’ where all that he could hear. He could feel Jet struggling beneath him, tugging his weight sideways, not scared, but impatient. He didn’t like to get involved in these situations.

“Okay,” he muttered. “You want to go loud? Let’s go loud.”

He spun his staff once and slammed it down midair.
A pulse of frost burst outward, freezing the droplets in the sky, coating the storm’s edge in a crystal white sheen.

The winds shuddered.

“You listening now?” Jack barked.

For a heartbeat, everything slowed. The snowflakes hung still, suspended. The clouds stopped rolling. Breeze circled at his feet like a cautious dog returning to its master.

Jack took a deep breath and lowered his voice.

“People live down there,” he said quietly, pointing towards a dim light in the distance. “They don’t have magic. Or staffs. Or... whatever you think you’re doing. They just have roofs and wool coats and badly-tied shutters.”
Another pause. The wind picked up again, but softer this time.

“I know you’re angry. I get angry too. But not tonight. Not here. You want to fight, take it somewhere that doesn’t have sleeping kids. If not I’ll take you to Bermuda myself.”

It wasn’t a threat, it was a promise.

The storm shifted. Not vanished — eased. The clash of the twin currents softened, the swirling calmed. Even Minstrel, the more spiteful of the two, peeled away into the upper atmosphere, leaving only scattered snow in his wake.

Jack hovered in silence, watching the storm begin to drift out toward the open sea.

Breeze circled back, tugging at his arm like a child. Asking for one more story. He smiled — just barely — and let himself be guided to the cliff he jumped off of. The rush of air under his bear feet lifted him gently, carried him eastward.

As he flew, Jack rubbed a hand along his arm absentmindedly.
His hair was a mess. Ice had crusted along his fingers. And now that the wind had calmed, the aches returned — dull and persistent in his fingers, his shoulders, his ribs. It was a new thing he learned would happen after stressful moments.

I wonder why…

That storm had taken more out of him than it should have.
Or maybe he was just tired. He hated to admit it, but North was right — he wasn’t just some lone snow-spirit anymore. He had a title now. A job.
Guardian.

The Northern Lights shimmered into view on the horizon, like a ripple of green flame curling through the sky.
Jack angled Jet toward them and sighed again, this time through clenched teeth. The storm must have blocked the call out.

“I’m so getting yelled at.”

He looked up at the glittering sea the Man in the Moon calles his home. The world slipped past him as flew through the northern lights. Only snapping back as the smell of warm gingerbread and melting plastic wafted to his nose.

“Okay,” he muttered to himself, angling down. “Time to land.”

The world blurred past before Jack touched down gently on a windowsill. Fern like patterns start dancing on the glass as he pushed open the closed window. It was a squeeze but he managed. Soft feet tapped down on Norths mahogany floors.

He was in the reindeer pens.

One of his favorite places since becoming a guardian.

Hiding in obvious places was his only escape from his permanent overtime. Also getting away from the noise of what has become his every day life.

Donner raised his head as jack passed by. “Sorry buddy but no treats right now.” Donner chuffed back at Jack before laying his head back down. Hay crunched as he made his way out of the pens.

His hand landed on a door knob as he slowly pushed it open.

Jack twirled and twisted around the last of the yeti’s still up. He could hear bells jingling in the corners of every room. Followed by soft snoring.

He can never really find out where the elf’s are supposed to sleep. North said not to worry bout that. He joked about one of the yetis should Make them all shelf’s.

North was not amused.

Over the distance he could hear North’s booming voice and a surprisingly serious tooth. Oh god, he hoped he wasn’t missing an important meeting.

As he walked he looked to his right, a beautiful sphere adorned with little twinkling lights. Some of the lights were dimming from age. Another was brightening. North’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Bah! You are late again jack.” He thundered. “Even Sandy made better time. And it is prime sleep time!” Jack winced at the words before quickly putting on a nonchalant smile.

"Might as well start sendin' him postcards instead. Bet they’d get here faster." Bunny said, casually leaning on his paws. Soft elbows making a slight thump

Jack teased. “Relax, North. I wasn’t ignoring you. I was just… detouring a category five tantrum from crashing into Norway.” He twirled his staff for a little extra flare before jumping up to sit on it.

“Snow tantrum? Mate, you make it sound like the weather’s got opinions.” He said, Jack looked at him blank faced.

“You’ve met weather, right? It definitely holds grudges.”

“You were three minutes and seventeen seconds late, Jack. And that’s after I padded your flight time.” Fluttering in annoyance as she said it. Tooth, jack was quick to find out, was a very punctual spirit. If he didn’t give her a sorry look he’s pretty sure she would have gone down to nanoseconds.
“Aw, Tooth,” Jack purred. “That almost sounded affectionate.”

He gave her a slow, mischievous smile — the kind that usually made people back away or throw things. She chose silence.

“Grudges with weather or no, we needed you here sooner.” North said, he sighed. “We just finishing up making plans, go sit with sand man till you’re need, da?” North stated. Less of a question in his words and more of a demand.

Jack hopped down off of his staff. “You’ve got it boss.” He saluted as he walked to the shorter glowing man.

Jacks staff clicked against the hard wood floor. The warm glow of the fire casting long shadows on an ancient rug. The smell of cooked chestnuts fills the air.

The meeting - that he apparently wasn’t urgently needed for - became background noise.

"You look cozy over here. What’re you working on, Sandman? A new bedtime story?" There was no malice behind his words. He softly set his staff down before dropping cross-legged onto the rug. After the Pitch fiasco the frost boy and sand man and become quite close.

Sandy looked up at the younger immortal. A image of strange symbol appeared above his head. The golden sand constantly moving as Jack tilted his head in question. Sandy took a small finger and drew a circle, a spiral that starts in the middle and stops, and four dashes all around it. If Jack didn’t know any better it looked like a sun.

Wiping the awed look off his face he joked "Neat snowflake.” He closed his eyes and nodded “Ten outta ten for sparkle. What's it do?"

The golden symbol slowly dropping as another picture gathered above Sandy. A picture of a hand appeared as Sandy put his own out.

He was asking for jacks hand. Basically saying-

‘May I?’

Jack took the hand that was holding his staff and put it in his. He opened his hand - full of frost burn and scars from his old life. The older spirit started, using his sand to draw on jacks open palm. The same golden symbol he just drew in the air.

"Whoa—hey, that tickles,” Jack laughed under his breath, but his voice faltered as Sandy drew the final curve.
Then something bloomed in his chest.

Warmth.

Not the blistering, suffocating heat that chased him from hearths and sunlit plazas. This was different — gentle, golden, like a soft blanket over snow. It didn’t burn. It settled.

Jack didn’t dare breathe.

He glanced down. The frostburn was gone. The rough old scars from his life before the pond… faded like winter mist.

It made him afraid to move.

He looked down back at his palm. The frostburn was gone, his old scars from chopping wood were dulled at the edges.

“holy shit.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could even think. A yellow hand came down on his hair. Hard.

Jack made a choked yelp.

“Did-” Jack took a breath."…Did you just… heal me?" He took his hand twisting it around in awe. Now that he has a better look all of his scars seemed smaller, duller, or even gone completely.

Sandy’s expectant smile widened. He looked so pleased with himself too. He snapped the small book close. Placing it on his lap.

Jack gasped at the realization, “Hold on, what even was that! How the hel-“ Sandy gave him That Look tm “Heck… did you heal me. I thought that was impossible…”

Sandy gave him a sad little smile before looking away. Eyes fixed on the warm embers of the fire. Sandy looked away a silent sigh escaping his lips. He picked up the small book in his lap and handed it to Jack.

Jack picked up the book, careful to real in his frost when brushing the cover. The words engraved into the old leather, ‘Runes for Dummie’. A amused scoff resonated throughout the room.

Still a little surprised from all of this, "This is for me? I— seriously?

A book. A real spellbook. Is it even a spell book? For him. Not North. Not Bunny. Him.

Sandy nods, then give a small shrug. Pointing at jacks heart. Basically saying ‘Yes it’s yours, but learning is up to you.’

The younger spirit gave a shaky laugh, "You’re trusting me with magical doodles that can melt frostburn off of an immortals skin?"

Sandy pokes jacks heart again, ‘Their more then that.’ Jack chuckled, “Alright, alright, I got your point.” He paused, thinking about what he should say. “Thank you, Sandy.”

A golden heart formed above the shorter spirits head. His smile as bright as his skin.

"Pfft. Cute." Jack picked up his staff as did a long jump backwards. Back gently tapping agains the old wood.

Before he could even open the small book.

“Frost, Sand man!” North said in a booming voice, “We have problem.” A hint of concern laced his voice, though his face says otherwise. Jack would say he looked… excited?

The three major guardians walking into the room. A mix of exasperation and anxiousness following their air.

North looked directly at him, of course. “Will be your first time going to Inbetween, Da?” He said it more like a question then statement, it was hard to tell sometimes.

Jack looked at the larger guardian with sly fascination.

“The Inbetween?

Let out a heavy sigh, like he’s done this at least three times to many. Large hands reach into even larger pockets. Pulling out a map, and now this is what Jack expects a magic map to look like.

What he can now identify as runes glowed and swirled at the borders, the drawn on oceans flowing and ebbing, and at the top left corner of what he thinks is Norway a giant inflamed gash.

The gash was pulsing in a horrific way that he couldn’t quite look away from.

“Da Inbetween is pretty self explanatory, it is the in between of two worlds. Magic and normality as we know it.” The words sounding weird from the normally jolly man.

He continued when Jack didn’t question, “A scar, as see there,” he pointed to the giant red line. “Happens when a rogue magic spirit tries to get into the world.”

Tooth unintentionally interrupts, “If it reopens… all the boundaries fail.”

“Bloody, last time that happened many humans died. I mean the Bermuda’s magic is still recovering.” Bunny scoffed, like the idea was gum on his shoe.

Metaphorical shoe.

“Which is why we must not allow that.” North’s voice boomed once more.

Jack leans in, squinting at the red mark.

Jack started lightly “Soooo, what I’m hearing is you need someone subtle, quiet, composed—possibly devastatingly handsome.” He batted his eye lashes as emphasis.

Bunny snorts.

“Ya bub, and I’m Christopher Columbus.”

“Bah! Stop it you two.” North interrupted, “You can argue like old marry couple after saving world.”

The two spirits necks snapped, eyes narrowed, looking at North. Before they could argue more North continued. “Sand man is in charge,” He looked down. “You are taking Bunny and Frost to the scar, Da? Da.”

The golden man looked up. Snapping to a salute before wizzing around. A rabbit and snowflake appeared in sand above the small spirit, pointing to Bunny and Jack respectively. He then pointed a thumb at himself. Something Jack could only describe as proudness in one’s self graced his face. Then he stared at Bunny, eyes furrowed in fake seriousness. Golden sand created the picture of a portals.

The Easter Bunnies angry glare grew into a smile. Slyly he looked over to Jack in fake questioning, “Hay frosty, guess whose turn it is to drive this school bus.”

Before Jack could respond a tunnel about his size in diameter appeared under him. He could have just floated above it but what’s the fun in that. But he would let Bunny have all the fun. He concluded, if he’s going first then he’ll frost over the tunnel for Bunny.

Sorry Sandy. Opps

Popping out of the tunnel he decided to do a little flip, for no one in particular, before floating. Staff over his right shoulder, he waited for everyone to fly out.

Something like a shadow twisted in his peripheral. His head whirled around, body following suit. He opted for a more defensive stance. Moving his staff from his shoulder to both hands. He surveyed the field.

It wasn’t the red pulsing the map tried to show, and it wasn’t like a twilight zone either. White ash acting like stars agains an infinite purple and blue sky. Even from far away he could see the scar.

“-a—-?”

It was a shade of deep red, red veins reaching out into the beautiful background. White little particles flowing out of the wound at a steady pace. Snow. Around it were Ashened trees. Literally the trees were made of ash. ‘Leaves’ littering the ground, other thing of sentiment lost to time glittered the ground. One wedding ring popping out of the ash, a hand sown teddy bear, and other things that made Jacks heart break.

“J-ck.”

His expression turned into one of confusion. It was cold. It wasn’t the temperature that surprised him. It was the fact that it was unfamiliar . No other seasonal spirit he knows made that cold. The only other winter spirit live in the outskirts of Norway. After accidentally getting on her bad side, crash landing inter her ice castle, he knows what the power feels like. New spirits are rare but not unheard of, because of his position as guardi-

“Jack!”

His eyes snapped to the bunny’s, unusual seriousness graced his features. bunny looked surprised at Jacks expression. His eyes softened as he looked at the two, confusion mixed with fear written on their faces. He lowered himself, moving his staff from two to one hand. He gave a weary smile.

"Yeesh.” Jack said wrinkling his nose “This place smells like old regrets and burnt cigarettes.” Waving his open hand in front of his face.

"Charming," Bunny muttered, brushing soot off his fur. "Like a graveyard and a Toy Store had a baby."

"And left it to rot," Jack added, tone quieter now.

The three stood still for a breath, as if the landscape were holding its own.

Sandy floated ahead, golden sand drifting from his feet like stardust. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t gesture. Didn’t make a single illusion. His form shimmered faintly — not with his usual joy, but with something restrained.

Something afraid.

Jack shifted, unease prickling under his hoodie. The cold here still didn’t feel like his. It gnawed at the bone, dry and ancient, like it was remembering something through him. His grip on his staff tightened.

Bunny’s nose twitched. "This place is wrong."

"You feel that too?" Jack asked, hovering beside him. He tried for lightness. "Thought it was just me having a bad ghost allergy."

Sandy suddenly raised a hand — halt.

Then the quiet broke.

A sound like an old machine grinding to life crept through the air. Or maybe it was ice cracking beneath centuries of weight. A being that wasn’t wind stirred the ash.

From the scars shadow — no, within it — something peeled away.

A shadow twisted itself out of the tear in the world.It congealed out of every regret man kind had done and will do. The living embodiment of entropy. But instead of dying, it took form: humanoid but not quite, face shifting like snow just beginning to melt. Dark, wet slush dripped from its hands. Its eyes flickered like dying stars.

It saw them.

And it screamed.

Jack’s hands flew up over his ears — but no sound came. It wasn’t noise. It was memory. Cold memories. Forgotten promises. Things buried under ice. A thousand regrets all shrieking at once.

The spirit moved with terrible grace, lurching toward them. Before anyone could react—

"WATCH IT!" Bunny shouted—

Too late. It went through bunny then doubled back.

A jagged claw, made of unraveling shadow and glittering frost, slashed across Bunny’s back. The rabbit cried out , collapsing onto one knee.

"Bunny!" Jack shouted.

Sandy flung his arms forward, golden sand rushing like a tidal wave to shield them. Symbols burst to life in the air — dreamcatchers, barriers, swords — but the spirit crashed through them like wet paper. Its form unraveled and rewove itself each time.

Jack darted in, staff spinning. He froze the ash in mid-air and launched it like spears. For a moment, the spirit reeled—

But then it snatched the staff mid-arc.

Jack’s eyes widened. "No!"

The spirit looked at it — then at him — and smiled. A cruel, remembering smile.

It swung the staff like a bat.

The blow caught Jack in the stomach. He flew.

The last thing he saw was Sandy reaching for him, golden shapes fracturing mid-air, Bunny limping toward the spirit with murder in his eyes—

Then the portal behind the scar snapped open, pulled like a wound being forced wider.

Jack's back arched as he felt the adrenaline dulled pain of his own core splitting in two, was dragged toward it. His hands scrambled in the ash. His fingers brushed the edge of his staff as it was thrown — snapped in two, but still whole enough to be his.

Then—

Crack.

Black out.

Chapter Text

Jack didn’t remember very many things from his old life.

He remembered when is mom gave him biscuits after nightmares.

The way he hugged his sister. Twirling her around. The way she would laugh would light up any room.

And the feeling of death. A terrifying mixture of desperation and fear as he screamed. For someone. Anyone.

Only for the same action to be the death of him. Freezing liquid filling his mouth as he choked on his own actions. The marshy water stinging his eyes before closing forever.

Then silence.

…

He knew what death felt like and it wasn’t this.

Jack awoke with a start. Breathing in chilled air as he did.

Big mistake.

It felt like there was ice in his lungs.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically.

Real, crackling cold — layered through the fibers of his hoodie, seared into his skin, wedged between his ribs like broken glass. He coughed, and he felt hot breath bloomed in the air. Slightly bloodied chunks of ice appearing on the hand that covered his mouth. Each cough racking through his sore body. He stopped coughing, opting to move the hand to his neck. Just focus on breathing.

In and out

…

Wait, his breath was hot? That can’t be right.

He tried opening his eyes, but they were glued shut.

He could question his own immortality later. He had to figure out where he was, his condition, and why he could feel cold.

First question, where.

Ocean blue eyes fluttered open. Young snowflakes perched on his white eyelashes feeling like 100 pound weights.

His fingers curled reflexively, and that’s when he felt it: splintered wood.

His staff.

Or what was left of it.

He pulled the pieces closer, eyes darting to his right. His heart dropped. A long fracture ran down the handle, jagged as lightning. The head was still intact — barely. Slightly bent from where it hit him.

Something in him must have broke with the staff.

He tried to conger a snowflake. Something he had done almost - or maybe just - one million times.

He opened his eyes again - he didn’t realize they were closed - looking down at his hand. The welcome cold twinge of his magic not coming immediately.

Then he could feel it.

A small trickle, like blood from an open wound, came to his hand. The pain in his chest that followed made him curl up on himself. The sharp pain he felt when he got flung into that scar. He looked back to his hand.

A thin layer of frost.

That’s it?

…

That’s it!

He can’t be a guardian without his magic. Without his powers! How would be protect Jammie and the rest of the kids. The world. If he doesn’t have his magic then he can’t fly! If he can’t fly then how’s he going to get around. Get back to North, Bunnie, Sandy, and Tooth. The North Pole. Burges. Home .

"...Great," Jack rasped, voice rough from the dry cold. "Just like last time."

The Pitch incident. When everything almost went to hell. He hadn’t felt this broken since then. The difference is that last time he had Baby Tooth. His memories.

This time he’s all alone.

He rolled onto his side with a grunt, dragging his battered body upright. Carefully using his staff as a crutch. The snow beneath him didn’t crunch. Didn’t even shift. His feet didn’t leave prints. He stood in it like a ghost. Ok so he still was a spirit good to know.

Something bumped his foot.

He looked down.

The rune book.

Its leather cover was scuffed and stained with ash, but still whole. Jack grabbed it with shaking fingers and opened the cover.

“Hope" was still there — the little pattern Sandy had drawn into his palm. A small explanation written in brown ink on the side.

“Hope is the warmth in cold hands.
The hearth, not the flame.
It does not heal all wounds—
Just the most urgent.”

Use only when the heart is open.
Will not work in bitterness or rage.
Requires stillness. Or faith. Or both.

Draw with care. Activate with touch.
Best drawn using: birch ash, snowmelt, or frost breath.”

The rest?

Blank. Every page.

He huffed out a broken sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sob. “Figures.”

“That cryptic son of a bitch.”

Tired eyes surveyed his surroundings.

It took him a while to realize how quiet it is. Was it always this quiet? No birds, no wind, no distant waves, just the sound of him breathing. A thick haze covered the white landscape. He could feel something else.

A spirit.

Not vengeful or angry, but sad.

He quickly mumbled an apology before a thanks. Then continuing looking.

After a while he saw it. In the distance. A distance he only could pray his body could reach. A gray blob that looked like a cave caught his attention.

So without much else of an option, he started the trek. One foot in front of the other. With each step - each movement - he had to stop himself from screaming. White hot agony rippled through his body from his chest.

His core.

That can’t be a good sign.

His breath came out in visible puffs, curling upward like lost thoughts.

Halfway there, something sharp hit his nose.

Copper.

Death.

The smell caught him by surprise. He hadn’t smelt something like that in a long time.

Back during his time as an Overland, he butchered the animals when dad couldn’t. After his dad left, it became his full time job. In between looking after his sister. He didn’t like it. But to keep his family alive and happy. He would do anything .

He could only hoped it was an animal, but he already knew it wasn’t.

The snow grew darker. The hill dipped — and suddenly, the world opened up below him. A clearing. Quiet. Still.

Too still.

Jack froze at the edge of it.

There were bodies.

Human ones. Twisted, charred. Weapons cracked in half. Scars of a battle long over. Punctured and dragged across the snow.

And in the maw of the cave: a corpse the size of a house. Emerald-green. White eyes glazed over with death. Rows and rows of fangs, bared. Red accents gleamed against the pure white snow.

A dragon.

From how it smelled. Her spirit had been wondering for weeks now. With how fiercely they were protecting this cave, he can only guess it was a she.

Well that was probably the last thing he expected to see. He shook himself out of his awe struck thoughts.

Jack walked slowly toward her, staff thudding dully with each step. His breath came out in pale puffs that drifted, then vanished. He felt sorry for stepping over the large corpse.

She didn’t mind.

Wind howled past his ears. The mouth of the tunnel loomed before him: wide, jagged, and ringed with grooves where claws had churned the earth into spirals.

It was probably a nest.

Jack stepped inside.

At first, he thought the shadows were playing tricks. The walls were ribbed and rough, etched with claw marks and strange, circular patterns — the unmistakable signs of burrowing. How they got onto the ceiling he doesn’t know. Every few feet, a metal trap jutted from the floor or hung uselessly from the top of the cave, their teeth bent inward. Like it bite but never went through anything.

He passed a pile of broken arrows, all tipped with a green liquid. The shattered remains of tranquilizers, maybe. Or poison.

Someone had planned this.

Farther in, the smell hit him: metallic. Sour. Like day old milk mixed with sadness.

The tunnel opened into a dome-shaped cavern, and Jack’s breath caught in his throat.

It was a nest. Or had been.

Dozens of crushed eggshells littered the space like shattered porcelain. Pale blue, green, and creamy white pieces gleamed faintly in the dim light. Smashed, crashed, charred.

He stepped into the cave opening. A kind of dried stickiness clung to his feet. He had to hold back from physically cringing.

If it weren’t for the gruesome scene in front of him. Including the guy almost split in half. His lifeless hand limply holding a mace.

This cave would be considered beautiful.

Long glimmering spears of ice hanging from the ceiling of the large cavern. Reflecting the little light from the outside. Giving the cave a stunning blue hue. A small opening at the end of the cave caught his eye. He set his sights on the opening. Only his staff had hit the ground before he heard it.

A sound.

It was unlike anything he had heard before. Some weird combination of a baby lamb, a snake hissing, and a woman screaming.

Jack blinked, snapping out of the daze. The sound came from the far end of the clearing. Half-buried in rocks was a cage. Iron bars twisted from impact. Something small shifted inside.

Jack took a step forward.

Another.

The thing inside moved, unfurling with a twitch of panic. A tail. Wings. A flash of bone-white scales and glowing eyes.

A dragon.

Tiny.

Crying.

Alive.

Its head was way too big for the body. Its eyes a mix of purple and red. What was really surprising was the teeth. Thin, bright white, needle like teeth surrounded one large tooth. The tooth was about the size of a small garden trowel. It was trying to look intimidating.

Jack’s eyes softened at the sight.

It looked only a little bit bigger than Jammies dog. The dog was a gray hound if he remembered correctly.

Jack stumbled toward the cage, feet slipping over blood-slick ice and cracked stone. His hands shook. The dragon inside flinched, coiling tighter, her pale body barely filling the corner. She was all ribs and eyes and fear.

“It’s okay,” he rasped, crouching low. “Hey. Easy…”

He tried looking for a lock or opening. The iron door was warped under the rocks pressure lock spun inwards. Jack couldn’t reach the locks through the thin bars. Ok let’s try something else. He dropped from his crouch to a sitting position.

Jack pressed a hand to the cold iron — tried to frost it — but nothing happened.

Not even a sparkle.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered through clenched teeth. Opting to try and use his core to power his hands, instead of just his hands.

Oh boy…

It didn’t take a genius to tell him he shouldn’t be using magic right now. But this dragon didn’t have much other chance. Pain rippled throughout him as he tapped into his central magic, a choked gasp escaped him.

He had only tapped into this type of magic once before.

That was to save sandy.

When he failed to save sandy.

Unlike last time I didn’t come in a rush, not a surge. Just a thin sheen, like breath crystallizing on glass. It spread beneath his fingertips and snaked up the bars. They moaned as they froze, stiffening—then cracked clean in half with a satisfying snap .

The baby dragon startled, wings flaring.

Jack backed up, arms raised. “Hey—no bites. I’m the one who got you out, remember?”

He didn’t really know what the dragon might do.

Run away, maybe.

Take a chunk out of him while he’s sleeping, probably.

Or declare Jack Frost is a Disney princess, definitely not.

Jack didn’t wait around. He didn’t really want to become that creatures first good meal in a few days. He turned, limping deeper into the cave — away from the blood, the burnt things, the silence.

He turned around to take a look at the carnage again. What he didn’t expect was purple eyes looking up at him expectantly. About two feet away from him. She crept forward. Her eyes were huge. Pupil-less. Her pale body would have blended into the snow of outside. Their spines twitching nervously.

The hatchling padded after him like a ghost, the sound of tapping as their wings dragged them along.

They didn’t stop until the scent of ash faded and the walls narrowed. Here, the snow was drier. Powdery. The walls gleamed faintly with crystal veins. Jack dropped to his knees and let out a shaky breath.

“I’m gonna pass out,” he said with a soft laugh, half heartedly pulling off his hoodie and laying it down like a makeshift blanket. His white tank top stuck to his skin uncomfortably. He immediately relaxed when his back hit the smooth cold wall.

Jack raised his staff half-heartedly and carved into the stone floor. Just a simple shape — a sun with marks around it. The one Sandy taught him.

The Hope rune.

It glowed briefly. Weak. Then faded to a flicker.

Still… the air warmed a little. Just enough to take the bite out.

Jack let out a soft sigh. His body ached. His head throbbed.

He looked to where he laid his hoodie.

That was apparently not his anymore, as a pale body used it as their new bed. Jake was stunned. The dragon was way closer to him then he expected. Looking up to him with expectant eyes.

“What?” He asked, all he got was as chuff in response. Some how he knows those eyes. The same kind of eyes that refused to go to sleep.

The only thing that worked was a story.

I mean sure this wasn’t a child but a dragon with teeth longer then his fingers. It would hurt to try.

He thought for a moment, then smiled — a tired, crooked thing. “Want to hear a story?”

Her head tilted.

“Alright.” He cleared his throat. “Let’s see if I still remember this one…”

He rubbed his hands together, breathed warm air into them, and began.

“‘Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house—”

The dragon made a surprised little warble.

“—not a creature was stirring. Not even a mouse…”

Her wings shifted. Ears perked. She let out a long, low purr, resting her chin on her claws.

Jack chuckled, surprised. “You like that one, huh?”

The dragon gave a gentle snuff in response.

He looked at her. At the ghost-pale scales. The shimmer of frost clinging to her spines. The way her tail twitched at the rhythm of his voice.

“I do need to call you something.” He mused. He looked into her big purplish eyes. Wide an monocolored.

Then it came to him, he snapped his fingers. “Sugar Plum!” Sugar plum made a surprised garble at jacks sudden enthusiasm.

She looked at him unamused. It’s almost comical how big her head is compared to her body.

He laughed, “It’s your eyes.”

They fell into silence. The kind that didn’t hurt. The kind that felt like two people just close enough to keep each other company. After a while he got up to look for supplies.

He found some dried rations from the hunter packs and shared them with her — jerky and stale hardtack that tasted like regret, but she devoured it like a feast. Tho she ate a concerning amount of rocks. He also found a mostly intact vest. He tried to ignore how it smelled.

Later, as he put his head and hands on his knees,she laid her head against his side. Jack looked at the rune again.

Still faintly glowing.

Hope.

Yeah. He’d hold onto that. 

Chapter Text

The snow never really stops here.

It drifts endlessly from a sheet of gray. Getting angrier and calmer with him. He had tried one time. To touch it. To commune with the infinite force. Walking for what felt like days to the peak of this desolate world. Concerned whines coming from a rapidly growing Sugar Plum. When he got to the top, wheezing from an already damaged body, he realized. It doesn’t really listen to him, just flows around his intentions. Like throwing a rock into a stream.

There was something else he learn while up there.

They were living on an island. No not island. This slab of ice was not floating serenely on calm waters. It was as if all of the angriest waves came together. Colliding. forming circling cliffs. Never ending cliffs. He had been in many classes before, spectating from a freezing corner. He remembers it being called a Glacier.

Glacier Island. At least that’s what the map called it.

It’s been about a mouth and a half since he landed. A month and a half since he found a very spiky friend. And a month since he found an abandoned ship, wedged in between ice spikes. Filled with just enough to feed ten Hunters for a month, and get them across the sea safely. Too bad they’re dead. That food and supplies is now free real estate in his eyes. He learned before that, that he doesn’t need to eat. Sure it’s not the best experience, but it is convenient.

A sharp wind awoke him from his daydream. Sugar Plum’s latest tunnel mouth yawns nearby, steaming faintly in the freezing air. Jack tilts his head, listening. No birds. No howling wind. Just a silence so complete, it presses against his ribs like another layer of frost. He claps twice. A rumble answers from below. Shifting the newly formed powder on the icy snow.

Training time.

A plume of white erupts as Sugar Plum bursts upward, her scales rippling like molten ice. She chirps — a crackling sound, deep in her throat. Jack laughs.

“Good girl,” he grins, brushing frost from her snout. “That’s your fastest dig yet.”

She huffs, steam curling from her nose, and leans her head against his shoulder. For just a second, she closes her eyes. He patted the side of her head. “I know, I know,” jack soothed “It’s too cold here for you.”

The giant snorted in agreement. “With how big you’re getting. We will be able to go anywhere.” It was true. Within the time he known her she had grown to an impressive size. Almost everything about her was bigger than Jack now. Her wings had grown to compensate for her size. Her head had expanded, housing rows upon rows of needle like teeth. But her eyes kept that purple glow that he adored.

The thing Jack didn’t adore is how she forgets how big she is. For as long as she could she used Jack’s legs as a pillow. Now that has switched. He’d lean into her back - the crook where her wing started. And every so often she’d crush him while trying to get comfortable. Once Jack had to use a hope rune to heal himself.

Jack wondered how big she would grow. How long she would be with him.

Ok too much thinking.

Jack pushed her away, two hands still cupping her giant face, looking her in the eyes. “Let’s go through this one more time, shall we.” He said with finality.

A moment passed.

Then two. He had to suppress a chuckle. But couldn’t help the grin grew on his lips.

It clicked. She raced to where she was standing when they started. Snow packed from use. Head tilted, awaiting a command.

It was like watching Jammie teach his dog. Except the dog could eat him in one bite now. Anyways.

Her spiked tail flicked, sending a puff of snow behind her, and Jack nodded once—sharp.

A single snap echoed through the stillness.

Sugar Plum vanished.

Not in a blink, not in a graceful swoop—but in a controlled collapse of ice and muscle, tunneling into the snow like a falling star. A tremor passed under Jack’s body as she worked.

“One snap,” he muttered aloud, “means tunnel. Let’s see if you remember the rest.”

He gave three soft stomps with his staff, muffled by the snow.

From behind the jagged ridge to his left, a blast of powder erupted. Sugar Plum launched from the cliff’s edge, wings beating like thunder. She arced overhead—too low, too fast—then landed in a flurry of ice spray and proud growling.

“Show-off,” Jack chuckled, making a soft double click with his tongue. He dug into his hoodie pocket, a metallic chunk of metal gleamed. He threw it to her.

Sugar Plum puffed out her chest. Catching it in her big mouth. Using powerful jaws to chew the metal till soft.

He didn’t expect a dragon to eat metal at first. But once he realized it didn’t hurt her. He didn’t mind.

God did that give him a heart attack the first time.

Then Jack pointed at a small outcrop of ice across the clearing and snapped twice.

“Target.”

Sugar Plum didn’t hesitate. She bolted toward it, crashing into the ice with enough force to splinter the surface. She circled the cracked mound, steam huffing from her nostrils.

“To me,” Jack called.

She returned, panting, tail high, and nudged his chest with the tip of her snout.

“Okay,” Jack sighed, pushing his hands deeper into his coat. “You’re getting way too good at this.”

He knelt beside her, she laid her head down. Snorting snow out of her nose. For a moment, they just sat there. The only sound was the low hum of wind curling around the cliffs.

He shook the snow off of his hood. It fell onto his vest but who cares. The guy he stole it from definitely doesn’t. Putting some weight on his staff, pushing himself up. A feeling like pain rippled through him. He couldn’t repress the shutter as he stood up.

This damn staff. He loved it don’t get it twisted. It helped him save a life and make many more fun. But one crack has sent him spiraling. One splinter has him grounded. One mistake has him stuck in this wasteland.

Again, way too much thinking, what’s going on with him today.

Placing one ice cold hand on Plum’s main horn. She made a disgruntled sound. He pulled himself up, plopping himself down. The top of her head.

He couldn’t stop feeling of smugness washing over him. He pulled up his legs.

“Onwards my noble steed!” He bellowed, “To our sleeping quarters we go.” Said sleeping quarters were just an icy hole in the ground. A ruined rug laying on the floor. To fend off the cold. A dim lantern he lit every night.

She happily complied. Using her belly scales to slide against the ice. For an overgrown snake, she was pretty fast on land. Using her wings to propel them forward. It kind reminded him of a penguin.   

Sugar Plum let out a half a purr, half a grumble under his weight. Jack stretched his legs across her massive horned head like a throne, chin tilted up.

“We dine in luxury,” he said, pointing dramatically toward the mouth of a their burrow.

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/1003810204450457641#imgViewer

Sugar Plum chirped in reply, picking up speed across the ice with a clumsy glide. She skidded around a buried rock.

Jack laughed, arms waving to get his balance. “Careful, Plum! We don’t want a repeat of the cliff dive, remember?”

He was just settling in, frost coating the rim of his hood, when Sugar Plum suddenly stopped .

Not slowed.

Not tripped.

Stopped.

If anyone asked he definitely did not almost launch himself into the snow. Landing forward onto a scaled surface with a grunt.

Her body stiffened. The low growl in her chest rumbled against Jack’s chest like a drumbeat.

“...What is it girl?” he asked, sitting up.

She didn’t answer. Just stared into the snowstorm ahead, spikes flared, wings half spread in instinct. Her breath misted out in three tight puffs.

Then Jack heard it too.

A low scrape. Soft. Deliberate.

Not a glacier shift. Not ice cracking. Something moving.

Jack narrowed his eyes. Snow swirled unnaturally at the edge of the hill, like it had been pushed . Not by wind.

A faint shape, a flicker, really, slid behind a jagged drift. The blur of a long snout. A glint of eyeshine. Then nothing.

Jack sighed.

“Frosty,” he muttered like someone cursing at a raccoon knocking over a trash can. “Of course.”

Sugar Plum shifted uneasily. Her hackles rose.

Jack tapped the top of her head twice. “Easy, girl. He’s just mad we’re squatting on his territory again.”

He didn’t bother chasing the ice dragon off anymore. They had an understanding. The damage from their first encounter had been done.

He stayed out of its skies, and it didn’t try to eat his face.

Most of the time.

“Go on,” he said, louder now. “Take us home.”

Sugar Plum resumed moving, slower this time. Eyes peeled. She had a tendency to wave her spiked tail it the air. Like a warning flag.

Jack didn’t look back. The almost familiar twinge of magic flowing down his spine.

The storm behind them thickened.

A storm thickened ahead of them.

Icy cold air sweeping his brown hair around in all directions. Toothless’s body is probably the only reason he hadn’t lost toes. To the cold that is. Hiccup put an arm around his head. Shielding his eyes. He surveyed his team mates.

Astrid eyes were locked on the distant island ahead. For most serious Viking on the team. She was unnervingly quiet. Shoulders stiff and eyebrows tight. Stormfly squawked ever so often.

Fishlegs was practically vibrating. The idea of meeting a new dragon was all that filled his mind. Don’t get him wrong Hiccup was also excited. Just not as much as the larger Viking is.

Ruffnut had curled herself around Barf like a scarf, arms tucked under her head like a pillow. Tuffnut was trying to act tough, but Hiccup could see the shivers. The twins were the least prepared for a mission like this. He considered offering one of his coats... then remembered the last time he did. Lightning. Fire. Loki. Goat hair everywhere.

Then there was Snotlout. Gods if looks could kill the leader would personally be high fiveing all of the major Olympian Gods. He felt sorry for him. Gothi was probably not the best riding partner. And you know what, Hiccup would admit it. The old lady would have been best suited with either him, Fishlegs, or Astrid. The thing is Astrid would have killed him, he likes Fishlegs a little too much to do that to him, and he didn’t mind using a bit of power over people.

Maybe it was a little petty to.

I mean sure the guy did steal every one of Hiccup’s prosthetic legs last week. All five good ones, the ten back ups, the broken one he was still fixing, even the training leg was gone.

“You’ll never take the high ground again!” Snotlout had shouted from the top of the stairs, cackling.

He deserved it. 

The cold gnawed through his jacket as Toothless dipped below the stormline, the others following close behind in loose formation. Hiccup leaned forward, one arm still shielding his eyes as wind sliced across his face like thin blades. The storm seemed to part just enough to show the edge of the island—a jutted mass of ice and ancient stone clawing out from the ocean like the frozen back of something massive and sleeping. Snow blasted sideways across the pale ground. The whole place looked half-drowned in fog.

Glacier Island.

From above, it looked mostly like a shield-shaped chunk of mountain that someone had dropped in the sea. The top curved upward slightly, making a ridge, and nestled within that curve was a still, half frozen pond, reflecting the storming sky like a cracked mirror. Just beyond that was a narrow hill, smooth with old glacier glass, ridged like the knuckles of a fist.

And—there. Tracks.

Hiccup squinted, his eyes catching on something. Barely visible through the shifting snow, he saw the snaking, sinuous pattern of a trail—like something large had slithered through the fresh powder. His stomach tightened. Beside one curve in the hill, he saw a strange, narrow divot in the glacier wall. Another. Then another. Some were so thin they looked like scratches, others were the size of windows.

Were those…holes?

Toothless garbled beneath him, a low, uncertain sound.

Hiccup patted his head. “Yeah, bud. I see it too.”

The dragons circled once before touching down.

Toothless landed with practiced grace, paws skidding slightly across the crust of frost. Hiccup’s foot hit the ground a beat later. The cold punched up through his prosthetic with enough force to make the stump ache.

Astrid was the next to land. Stormfly flared her frill wide as she touched down, feathers puffing with agitation. Fishlegs and Meatlug came behind, landing heavy and huffing plumes of steam. Barf and Belch practically crashed into the ground, spraying a cloud of snow in every direction.

“Watch it!” Snotlout barked, yanking hard on Hookfang’s reins as the dragon landed in a sideways slide, kicking up a wave of snow that nearly swallowed Gothi whole. The old healer didn’t flinch, even when the impact jolted her forward. Instead, she smacked Snotlout squarely in the shin with her gnarled staff.

“Ow—hey! You made me land too hard!” he snapped, glaring down at her. She slowly raised the staff again, unimpressed. One eyebrow arched like a challenge from the gods themselves.

Snotlout backed down immediately. “Okay! Sorry! Ancient rage confirmed! My bad!”

Astrid chuckled under her breath as she dismounted. “You know… we should bring her more often.”

“Only if we want him permanently traumatized,” Hiccup murmured, but he was smiling.

He let out a slow breath, watching the fog of it curl into the frigid air, then turned toward the glacier face that rose like a cracked, sleeping god before them. The island was still. Almost unnaturally still.

He stepped forward, the snow crunching under his boots. Behind him, the dragons huffed warm clouds of steam into the chilled air, the only movement in a landscape that felt... held.

Gothi wandered off without a word, her cloak flapping gently as she inspected the nearest rockface, tapping it thoughtfully with her staff. Hiccup didn’t stop her. She was older than all of them put together—if she was worried, she’d say something.

Toothless shifted at his side, low ears flicking. Alert.

Hiccup looked around. The snow here was shallow, wind-blown into soft ridges and narrow trenches. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, no longer the horizontal assault they’d faced on the way in. The clouds overhead pressed low and heavy, forming a dome of quiet over the island.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was expectant .

There were no gulls overhead. No shifting ice groaning in the distance. No creaks of wood or sloshing water like the docks back home in Berk. Just flurries, drifting sideways when a thin wind managed to break through.

Hiccup’s brow furrowed.

“This weather…” he said aloud, voice muffled by the frost in the air. “It’s so different from what we were just in.”

“Maybe it’s one of the dragon’s abilities,” Fishlegs offered, stepping off Meatlug and scanning the landscape. “Some kind of localized weather control?” He winced. “Not saying that’s a fact, just a thought!”

Tuffnut sauntered ahead, kicking at a snowbank. “Or maybe we’ve wandered into a winter god’s lair.” He threw his arms up dramatically. “If I were to guess... I’d say... Ullr. Or Boreas. Or —hear me out—Skadi. Ice queen of the north!”

Ruffnut nodded solemnly. “Yeah. Totally Skadi. Goddess of dragons and snow and possibly frostbite.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “Right. And next you’ll say we’re cursed.”

Ruffnut’s eyes widened. “Wait, are we?”

“We’re not,” Hiccup cut in with a sigh. “Let’s stay focused, team. If there is a dragon here, it’ll leave tracks. Astrid, go west. Fishlegs, south. Ruff and Tuff, you’re east. I’ll take north.”

“What about me?” Snotlout crossed his arms, glaring.

“You’re staying here with Hookfang and Gothi. Watch our gear, keep the fire going if you can.”

Snotlout’s jaw dropped. “ Why am I— ”

“Great!” Hiccup said brightly, already clicking his prosthetic into Toothless’s saddle. “Let’s go, bud.”

Toothless let out a soft rumble and crouched to launch. With a thunderous sweep of his wings, the two of them soared northward into the low sky, leaving Snotlout sputtering behind them.

The others fanned out across the glacier, one by one. The thick snow softened their footsteps, the sound swallowed by the heavy air. From above, the island seemed still, but here on the ground... things were strange.

They passed holes in the glacier—thin, rounded burrows, like tunnels bored through by something long and winding. Tracks that looked more like snaking drags than footsteps wound through the snow and vanished.

—

Fishlegs squatted down to examine them, pressing his gloved fingers into the powder.“These aren’t from any dragon I’ve seen,” he murmured.

——

“Not a Timberjack or a Scauldron,” Astrid said, tracing a mark with the end of her axe. “They’re too narrow. And smooth. Like something crawling under the snow.”

—

Tuffnut whispered, “Skadi’s watching us.” Ruffnut agreed, nodding in silence.

—

They regrouped after about an hour, meeting back at the shallow glacier pond where they’d landed. Snow drifted over their old footprints, the wind whispering through cracks in the glacier walls. It had grown colder. Noticeably.

Snotlout was building the world’s saddest pile of twigs into what he swore would be a bonfire. Gothi sat calmly on a flat rock, drawing runes in the frost with the butt of her staff.

Toothless paced uneasily at the edge of the clearing, his tail twitching. Meatlug kept glancing toward the shadows along the hill. Stormfly’s feathers bristled, and even Hookfang—usually asleep by now—stood rigid, eyes scanning the horizon.

Hiccup dismounted. “Anything?” he asked the group.

Astrid shook her head. “Not a trace of the dragon. Just those weird tunneols.”

“They’re fresh,” Fishlegs added. “Like something was just there, then vanished.”

“Could be hiding,” Ruffnut said, eyes narrowed. “Or watching.”

The clouds above began to shift again. A wind curled low to the ground, stirring the powdery snow into tiny spirals. The temperature dropped.

Then—

A crack.

A blur.

A blur of white.

And chaos.

A screech like ice being torn in half ripped through the silence. Snow exploded upward in a geyser of powder, tents and supplies scattering like shredded parchment. Something massive streaked overhead, just barely visible in the swirling snow—then vanished into the storm again.

“INCOMING!” Astrid yelled, already diving behind Stormfly as another blast of compressed frost slammed into the ground where she had just stood. The impact splintered the ice, shooting up frozen shards like a trap.

Hiccup shielded his face with his arm, teeth grit against the sudden burn of wind. “Take cover!” he shouted, barely audible over the wail of the blizzard. “Use your dragons as shelter!”

Hookfang let out a roar as Snotlout scrambled behind his shoulder, flinching from another gust. “We’re being ambushed ! Where even is it?!”

“It’s using the storm,” Hiccup called out, ducking behind Toothless’s wing as snow piled high around his legs. “It only attacks when we can’t see it—!”

Another flash of white. A blast. One of the tents burst into fragments.

Fishlegs nearly slipped trying to reach Meatlug. “I—I think I felt something watching me earlier!” he said, panicked. “It wasn’t just my imagination!”

“Toothless, fire a warning shot—now!”

The Night Fury snarled and let loose a plasma blast into the whiteout. The sky pulsed violet-blue, thunder cracking in its wake. And from the blur of snow, a shape turned . Shifted. Curved sharply toward them.

They had its attention now.

The Snow Wraith dove again.

This time it went for the center of the camp.

Ruff and Tuff barely had time to yell before the creature’s frost breath struck, slicing through the center of the clearing like a blade. The twins were flung back, Ruff landing half-buried, Tuff’s helmet skidding across the snow like a lost beetle.

“BACK!” Hiccup barked. “Get back to the cave! Group up!”

Snotlout didn’t move fast enough.

The next blast caught him mid-run and sent him flying—arms flailing—into a snowbank. The world swallowed him whole with a soft, muffled fwump .

Hiccup turned, ice stinging his cheeks as he knelt beside Toothless. He squinted into the storm—he could barely see the tips of his fingers, let alone the dragon.

But then…

Stillness.

A shadow on the snow.

The Snow Wraith, creeping forward, massive paws sinking soundlessly. It made no noise. No growl. No snort. Just a low hum from its throat and steam curling from its nostrils.

It was sniffing the air.

Hiccup’s breath caught. His eyes tracked the Snow Wraith’s focus.

It was heading straight for the snow pile—where Snotlout had landed.

But… it wasn’t attacking.

The dragon prowled in a slow circle, nostrils flaring, tail low. It opened its mouth slightly, a glow building in its throat. Then stopped.

Nothing.

It couldn’t see him.

It can’t see through the snow… Hiccup realized. It sees heat. Infrared. Like a snake.

A flash of insight struck.

“Now, Toothless,” he whispered. “Warning shot. Don’t hit it.”

The Night Fury roared again, mouth flaring violet as he launched a blast high and wide. It lit up the clouds like a beacon—and the Snow Wraith snapped its head up . One second later, it was airborne again, banking toward the origin of the blast.

Stormfly and Hookfang answered with their own counterfire—quick bursts of flame and magnesium-blue needles. The Wraith veered midair, twisting to avoid the attacks.

“Go, go, go!” Hiccup urged, jumping to his feet as the Wraith vanished once again into the thick curtain of white.

All around him, Riders were regrouping—soaked in snow, half-frozen, shaken but alive. Meatlug hunkered over Fishlegs, shielding him. Stormfly crouched low, growling deep in her throat. Hookfang paced like a tethered bull, wings twitching with pent-up flame.

Snotlout emerged from the snow pile, coughing violently and shaking flakes from his helmet. “That thing almost ate me! I demand a new plan! A better one! A Snotlout-approved one!”

Gothi smacked her staff once into the snow. Everyone turned to look.

She pointed to the sky.

Then to the ground.

Then to them.

Then shook her head.

“We should’ve left when we had the chance,” Astrid translated grimly.

The storm lulled, but its echo still haunted the glacier—howling through narrow passes, hissing like a snake beneath the Riders’ cloaks. Even now, with wind no longer lashing their faces and snow quieted to a whisper, Hiccup could feel its weight pressing in. The Riders had gathered on a wind-sheltered slope overlooking the ruined tents. What remained of their camp was scattered across the ice in pieces: torn cloth, splintered poles, supplies already half-buried in drifts.

Snotlout poked a stick at the snow with more force than necessary. “I’m just saying,” he muttered, “if the plan was ‘get pummeled by a dragon and then dig ourselves out with our teeth,’ then mission accomplished.”

Hookfang snorted steam in agreement.

Fishlegs brushed snow off Meatlug’s saddle. “Or so… precise. It’s like it knew exactly where we’d be weakest.”

“It was hunting,” Astrid said, arms crossed. “It waited until we couldn’t see and picked the exact moment we were exposed. Hiccup’s right—it likes the storm.”

The group fell quiet.

Hiccup crouched beside a pile of frost-covered gear, sketching a messy circle in the snow with the tip of his boot. “It doesn’t see like we do,” he said slowly. “It tracks heat. That’s why it ignored Snotlout in the snowbank. The dragon sees in… infrared.”

“Like a snake!” Fishlegs exclaimed. “Some pit vipers can strike prey even in complete darkness. The Snow Wraith could be using the same mechanism—heat pits near the nose—”

“Great, so we’re being hunted by a blind snake with wings,” Ruffnut deadpanned. “That’s reassuring .”

“It gives us a weakness to work with,” Hiccup said, glancing up. “If it relies on heat, we can throw it off.”

“How?” Snotlout asked, arms folded. “You want us to freeze ourselves invisible?”

“No,” Hiccup said, standing. “We give it a decoy. Something warm enough to fool it into striking the wrong target.”

He turned and gestured behind him. “We build dummies. As lifelike as we can manage. With spare helmets, boots, metal scrap—anything that'll hold heat. We position them out in the open, light a controlled fire under them just before the Wraith arrives. It sees targets—it strikes—and that’s when we move.”

There was a pause. Then—

“That’s… actually not the worst idea you’ve had,” Tuffnut said, nodding in approval. “Kind of genius, in a ‘we might all die but at least we’ll die warm’ way.”

Ruffnut added, “Also, I want mine to have a sword. Preferably two swords. For intimidation.”

Hiccup gave a tired smile. “Let’s not overthink it. We don’t need them to win any duels—just to glow hot enough to fool the Wraith.”

The next few hours were tense and bitterly cold. The Riders worked fast, dragging branches and poles from the sleds, layering them with rags, helmets, bedrolls, and anything else that might resemble a rider-shaped target. Hiccup knelt beside one of the figures, carefully winding a coil of copper wire near its core.

“Toothless,” he murmured, “you think this’ll work?”

Toothless blinked slowly, tail thumping against the snow. His ears twitched toward the white horizon—ever listening.

Nearby, Astrid was helping Fishlegs pack stones into the base of one dummy to anchor it. “We need to space them evenly,” she said, “but not in a perfect pattern. It has to look random —natural, like we’re just standing around.”

“Done,” Fishlegs said, dusting his hands. “This one’s Fishlegs 2.0. He’s shorter, but definitely braver.”

“Mine’s taller than me,” Snotlout said smugly, patting the oversized shoulders of his dummy. “Also better looking. That’s Snotlout Prime!”

Ruffnut was drawing a crude mustache on hers with charcoal. “This is Shifty. He’s got your back, Tuff.”

Tuffnut was braiding a wig out of yak fur. “Mine’s named Betrayal.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “That feels… ominous.”

Hiccup’s hand tightened around the wire. The laughter was helping, he knew. But time was thinning. The sky above was already turning steel gray again. Shadows blurred into the storm wall that loomed on the horizon like a silent avalanche.

Night didn’t fall so much as bleed in . The cloud cover thickened into a choking veil, swallowing color, contrast, even sound. The Riders huddled just out of range, behind the ridge, cloaked in their dragons’ wings for warmth. The dummies had been placed in a loose circle at the edge of the clearing, each one glowing faintly now with a flickering torch or ember tucked beneath them.

“We won’t have a lot of time,” Hiccup said, voice low. “As soon as it strikes, we engage. Surround it. Fire only when you have a shot.”

Toothless nudged him, low and worried.

“I know, bud,” Hiccup whispered, pressing a hand to the Night Fury’s neck. “We’ll be careful.”

The wind screamed suddenly. A warning.

Then silence.

Not peace.

Not quiet.

The kind of wrong silence that made your heartbeat sound too loud in your ears.

Fishlegs’ breath caught. “It’s coming.”

Snotlout readied his shield. “Time to earn that tooth.”

Toothless narrowed his eyes, ears perked.

The sky cracked open—not with thunder, but with the slicing screech of a dragon built for the storm. A streak of white burst from the clouds, hurtling downward, wings tucked tight.

It dove with breathtaking precision. And obliterated Snotlout’s dummy.

The second the ceiling gave way, Hiccup knew the plan had unraveled.

A low groan cracked across the frozen canopy as heat surged from Hookfang’s fire. Ice warped. Snow fractured. Snotlout barely had time to gawk at the puddle forming at his boots before it all came down in a rush of white.

“MOVE!” Hiccup shouted, but the warning was swallowed whole by the collapse.

The Riders scattered. Snow and jagged ice slammed into the clearing like falling stars. In one blink, Stormfly and Barf and Belch vanished beneath the whiteout. In another, Toothless was lunging at Hiccup, grabbing him by the back of his leathers, and yanking him clear of the crush. They tumbled into one of the burning dummy circles, crashing into the thawed slush around it. Steam hissed and rose around them.

"Guys?!" Hiccup shouted over the roar of the storm, blinking through flakes.

No response.

Just more snow.

They were separated .

Toothless growled low, wings mantled, tail lashing. His pupils narrowed to focused slits as he sent out a pulse of echolocation. Hiccup held his breath.

Nothing.

The Snow Wraith wasn’t in the air. It wasn’t hunting .

It was waiting .

And then—

A flicker of movement. A blur.

Hiccup twisted toward it too late. The Wraith burst from the fog with silent speed , a ghost in motion. No roar. No screech. Just death .

It shot straight for them.

“Toothless, fire!”

The Night Fury responded instantly. Plasma blasts lit up the haze with flashes of indigo and violet, but the Wraith rolled through the air like a knife , dodging them all. It vanished into the white again.

Hiccup’s heart slammed into his ribs. They couldn’t win like this. It was too fast, too precise. The fire circle around them was doing nothing now but making them shine like beacons to the Wraith’s thermal vision.

“Toothless,” Hiccup whispered, “it sees our heat —we have to—”

But it was already too late.

The Snow Wraith reappeared, directly above them. It dropped from the sky like a spear, claws outstretched, maw glowing with pale energy—

This was it.

“Tooth—!”

Then

A piercing whistle ripped through the air. Sharp. Commanding.

The Wraith jolted, wings flaring wide. It hesitated midair. A scared over, bitten, stubby tail bending. Trying to stop. But it was too late. And something crashed into it from the side.

A dragon. A different dragon.

No, Hiccup squinted against the storm.

Not just a dragon. A blur of gray-blue and silver. Wind-wrapped muscle and snow-laced scales. A wild, ribbon-bodied thing. Slippery as sleet.

Sinuous as smoke.

It moved like a strike of lightning, corkscrewing into the Wraith’s ribs with such force that both dragons tumbled across the sky like wounded birds. Snow exploded around them in a cyclone of fury.

Toothless hissed, circling close, but Hiccup held out an arm to stop him. “Wait.”

Because that dragon wasn’t just fighting.

She was defending, winning .

The Snow Wraith recovered and lunged, jaws wide, but the new dragon twisted like a ribbon , dodging the attack with fluid grace. Her tail coiled around the Wraith’s chest, and with a brutal rip of her head, she clamped onto its neck .

It screeched in surprise.

A sound like glaciers tearing apart.

And when she tore free, a tooth went flying into the snow, spinning end over end. The Wraith shrieked again, thrashing. She wasn’t just here to defend.

She came for blood .

Hiccup watched in awe and horror as the gray-blue dragon pressed her advantage . She pinned the Wraith to the snow with her coils and reared back , eyes aglow, throat pulsing.

Then—

She screamed .

It wasn’t a roar. Not even a dragon’s cry.

It was something older . Wilder. It tore through the storm and shook the trees. It wasn’t just volume—it was command .

Dominance.

https://i.pinimg.com/736x/ce/57/80/ce5780df8e6cc0c465a7dcb60fd83655.jpg

The Snow Wraith froze . Eyes closed together. Both him and toothless had to cover their ears. Hiccups knees almost buckling from the shear pressure. Just for a moment.

Then it broke loose from her grip with a howl and fled. Not a retreat. Not to regroup.

A full escape .

Silence fell like a sheet over the snow.

The strange dragon hovered a moment longer, her misty form still coiled like a threat. Her long tail swished. Her breath steamed out in twin plumes.

Then she turned.

Hiccup stared, stunned. So did Toothless.

The dragon met his eyes . A stunning color met his own. A purple only owned by dusks glow.

Just a second of contact.

Recognition?

No. Calculation. Checking if he was a threat.

Then it turned, snapped there head toward a jagged wall of snow, and slithered into it like water vanishing into ice.

Hiccup leapt forward, grabbing Toothless by the saddle. “Come on—!”

But the tunnel collapsed behind her.

Caved in. Intentionally.

She didn’t want to be followed.

Hiccup stared into the wall of ruined snow, his breath coming fast, eyes wide.

The storm was quiet again. Foggy air clung to the edge of a hazy horizon.

Somewhere beyond, the Snow Wraith roared—not in victory, but in frustration. It didn’t return. Only small drips and drops of blood told of the story that just transpired.

Toothless growled low beside him, wings flexing. He was on edge. Alert. But there was no threat left to fight.

Only questions were left stirring in his mind. He knew that toothless could easily take, and if not run from, the larger dragon. Why did it retreat. Why not kill the obviously disabled dragon for an easy meal. Was that’s the dragon who took the others tail away.

Hiccup knelt in the snow and picked up the Wraith’s tooth, still warm from the heat of battle. Ironic that his plan of drawing in the dragon worked but in a different way. 

He’d been watching them since they landed.

Not stalking—watching. Observing. A very important distinction in Jack's book.

Well, not a book. He lost that somewhere around the last blizzard. Not to be confused with the rune book he was slowing starting to hate. Along with half a pack of jerky, a good pair of gloves, and the last shred of patience he had for this realm’s completely bonkers weather patterns.

He narrowed his eyes and looked down at the clearing below.

Children. Around his age when he died… so about 15 through 18, he kind of forgot after all this time. He expected to be more effected by it more, I guess time really does heal.

He didn’t know what he expected to find when the frost led him here—maybe a tomb, maybe another ruin—but definitely not this. A little cluster of kids. Gangly, armored, loud, and so hopelessly unprepared. And dragons. Huge, snorting beasts snarling behind them like half-trained wolves.

He squinted harder, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. One of the boys—a pompous little tank of a thing with the swagger of a bear—was putting the final touches on something absurd. Jack blinked, then let out a faint, involuntary snort.

“A dummy?” he murmured, eyebrow quirking. “Really?”

And not just one. They were making decoys. Scarecrows replicas of themselves, was this a kind of game to them. He watched one of the boys, one of the only of the group that looked exactly like their dragon counter part, make the finishing touches. Stubby and round, like a cross between a walrus and a cannonball. He looked around nervously. 

Jack chuckled under his breath. Oh. Oh they are idiots.

But then Frosty showed up.

Jack’s amusement shriveled like frost beneath a hearthstone. His body tensed. The air itself shifted, gone was the clumsy teenage bravado, and the shaky discipline of their dragons. Now the storm sang a new song.

The song of a Predator.

It moved through the snow like a ghost. Jack barely caught the shimmer of its scales, the ripple of pressure it left behind. It was smart. Older than any of them. Built for this kind of thing. It should’ve been asleep on the other side of the island, not lurking at “the pond” with kids building snowmen.

Frosty dove. One of the dummies shattered. Jack flinched, heart leaping into his throat. Then came a warm glow.

The same bear like boy watched his burning dummy replica get mauled then tapped his dragon’s chest. The red-scaled beast ingnighted itself like its skin was made of gasoline, probably the sickles thing he’s seen so far, it lit up the cave mouth like a forge. Jack’s brows knitted. Are they crazy? Fire in a snowstorm?

But the worst part was the roof. The stupid, brittle ceiling. He knew it was brittle because that was where he found out he could now get: a nosebleed and rug burn.

With a terrible crack and a groaning rumble, the cavern roof above them split. Snow and ice peeled away from the stone like wet parchment. Jack stood, knuckles white against his staff.

A blur of black shot out from the cave mouth—one of the dragons, sleek and fast, faster than the rest. It dove toward one of the boys.

The tall one.

Jack’s gaze locked on him, something twisting painfully in his gut.

The kid was barely standing. Lopsided gait. A prosthetic leg, crudely built from steel and cloth. His shoulders hunched like he was used to not being believed, and Jack hated how familiar that looked. He clutched at the dragon’s neck like it was the only thing keeping him from falling off the world. Then he straightened out, becoming more confident as him and the accompanying dragon walked to the burning circle. He had long since figured out that he was the leader. Probably the idea man. But he was a confident idiot.

The snowstorm roared. The dragon's fire flickered out.

And Jack realized, in an instant of ice-sharp horror, they were out of cover.

And Frosty was circling again.

It moved like a ghost made of razors, silent, deathly, not fooled by their tricks anymore. It was locked on the boy and the black dragon. The only heat signatures moving outside the statues.

Jack pressed a hand to Sugar Plum’s back. She’d curled up beside him, listening with her belly to the earth. She had grown since he found her, but she was still excited and eager with all the commotion, like a spring. He hated what he was about to ask. But those kids where closer to lady life then death himself. 

Still.

He whistled.

A shrill, sharp note that cut across the storm like lightning through a thundercloud.

Plum uncoiled.

She was gone before he could blink, a silver-blue bolt ripping through the snow like a spear thrown from heaven. She resurfaced from the snow. Her body slammed into the Wraith mid-swoop. The crack of contact echoed through the canyon like thunder. Something else cracked—a tooth, flung into the snow.

Jack couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t know whether she would kill him or scare him off. They hit the ground in a blur of fangs and wings, Sugar Plum’s screech carving into the air like a blade. Like watching cats fight over food. She twisted, coiling around the larger beast, her plated tail locking tight. Jack saw her jaws open wide, a glowing coil of fireless scream welling in her throat.

She screamed into the Wraith’s face.

Now Frosty would be very reliant on his sight. Opps. 

Frosty writhed. Sugar Plum held on just long enough to make the beast know her. Then she let go. He bolted.

Plum turned.

She met the boy’s eyes. And then she did something Jack didn’t expect. She looked up.

Like she was checking the cliff.

Jack stepped back into the shadows.

Jack raised his staff and stomped it three times on the frozen stone. A call. A pull.

Come home, Plum.

Plum slithered to her tunnel and disappeared. The ground shuddered faintly as she collapsed the passage behind her.

He stayed for a moment longer. Long enough to see her slip up behind him, brushing her cold nose against his hip. He smiled, shaking just a little. His other hand gripped her muzzle gently.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

And then something stirred behind him.

Voices. Coughing. Footsteps crunching snow.

The rest of the kids had regrouped. Singed, bruised, but intact. The other blond was helping up one of the twins. The blonde one looked like a deer that had just seen its first ghost. Jack watched from the shadows, barely breathing.

He scanned their little team.

Peacock and his fire-breathing furnace. The twin riders on the two-headed fart machine—okay, that was kinda cool, he’d give them that. A girl with a scowl that could cut metal and a dragon with a nose like a beetle. And then the tall boy, pressed against the black dragon’s flank like he belonged there.

Jack’s grip on his staff tightened.

He didn’t know what they were. What they wanted. But it looked too much like the worst parts of the past—kids wielding things they didn’t fully understand. Power, money, people. Even if they were victims too.

He turned and walked away.

Plum curled behind him, tail snaking through the snow, until her shadow vanished into the frost. Jack didn’t see Hiccup glance up, catch the faint silhouette of something tall and ragged retreating into the storm, staff in hand and sadness in his step.

He didn’t know that he'd just been seen.

But he felt it.

Just enough to walk faster.

Chapter Text

The world was quiet.

Not the kind of silence that came from snowstorms or shattered ships, but a deeper quiet. The kind built from a drafty home, worn breathing, and the weight of being alive another day.

Jack blinked slowly, the faint flicker of the broken lantern casting uneven shadows across the curved walls of ice. A ripple of yellow danced over the frozen ceiling, catching on hanging frost like starlight. The glow was soft, trapped within their little world, and after a while he loved the feeling of not being cold. Not being Frost. Being that fun loving and easy going spirit was easy around kids. But keeping the face with older spirits was shortening his immortality.

His body was curled on top of a frost covered rug, one he had dragged from the wrecked hunter ship weeks ago, threadbare and water-stained, but better than bare ice. Sugar Plum lay around him, her massive body encircling him like a scaled cocoon. Her tail was tucked under her chin, her horned head resting near his feet, and one thick wing draped over him like a blanket, creaking slightly with every breath.

He could feel her heartbeat. Heavy. Slow. Like the earth turning in sleep.

Jack lay still. He didn’t move. didn’t want to move. Not yet. He let the moment stretch like pulled taffy, soft and fragile. The only sounds were the drip drip of icicles near the tunnel entrance and the faint, metallic hum of Plum dreaming. A resonance he felt more in his bones than his ears.

It was like being curled inside a giant, armored lullaby.

His fingers flexed slightly against the rug. He sighed. The breath left his body like mist, curling lazily toward the lantern's glow.

It was easy, sometimes, to pretend this was home. That he and Plum had always been here, survivors of nothing, fugitives of no one. Just boy and dragon. Snow and silence.

But reality has a way of clawing back through the quiet.

The memory came uninvited — a flash of two days ago.

The storm. The panic. The strange voices.

The black-scaled dragon with the sharp glowing eyes.

The disabled kid with too much leadership in his voice.

The snap of Plum’s wings as she launched from the tunnel, a whistle in Jack’s throat before he even realized he’d made the sound.

Frosty, that scaled pest of a dragon, vanishing into the snow, angry and screaming.

And then… the eyes. All those eyes. Wide, stunned, human . Staring up at Plum. At him .

They knew now. He saw her. They saw him. That meant danger. It meant questions. It meant everything he’d spent building here, his tiny corner of calm, was crumbling at the edges.

His stomach turned with it. That sour, metal taste of dread. It sat under his ribs like a second heartbeat. Pulling at his stomach, like the memory of hunger. Tho he took on no such starving experience.

He looked at Sugar Plum. She was twitching in her sleep now, a soft puff of snow escaping her nostrils. Her talons scraped against the ice as her legs kicked, dream hunting or something, maybe. He pressed a hand to her scales, not to wake her, just to feel that she was real. Warm beneath the frost. Constant.

"You didn’t ask for this either, huh?” he whispered.

She huffed in her sleep. A rumble like thunder buried beneath stone. “You’re just another kid.”

He tilted his head back towards the curved wall, staring up into the dim glow of the lantern. Little scratches ran along the interior — lines Plum had accidentally made while turning around in the too-small space. Her home was too small for her now. She was growing too fast.

Stronger. Sharper.

Everything was growing, except the place that held them.

His voice came out flat and quiet, a breath tucked into the frost.

“We’re leaving.”

No monologue. No dramatic speech. Just that.

The words felt small in the space, like a pebble dropped into a glacier. But they carried the weight of a new family. The kind of promise that gets carved into bone.

He didn’t know where they’d go. The edge of the world maybe. Over the cliffs. Through the clouds. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere emptier. Somewhere that he could feed her.

But not here

The burrow had been a sanctuary. But now it was a trap.

Jack closed his eyes again and rested his forehead against Plum’s wing.

They’d have to fly tomorrow. For the first time in a long time.

They’d fly like ghosts into the gray.

But for tonight — for just one more morning — he let himself feel safe.

Just a little longer.

And with that proclamation, snowy eyes closed with sleep.

The burrow was quieter than the last time he woke up. Quieter than it had any right to be.

Jack sat crouched beneath the low arch Sugar Plum had dug out weeks ago, squinting through a crack in the icy dome overhead. Soft light filtered through the frost stained ceiling, gold mixing with white in melting halos. The sunrise was trying its best, bleeding pink through the gray sky like a bruise healing backwards.

He pulled the old rug tighter around his shoulders. His fingers had long since lost the ability to feel the difference between cold and colder, but still, he tightened his grip. Habit. Always hold something when you're about to say goodbye.

It didn’t take long to pack. His whole life fit in the kind of bundle that should have belonged to a vagrant, not a Guardian. A tattered rug wrapped around the essentials: the cracked staff, still humming faintly with broken magic, never mind he was going to hold that one, the coin pouch with flint and bits of wire, two lengths of rope, he tied one sloppily into a sling, a broken compass that never pointed north, and of course, the rune book. Gold covered, stubbornly blank except for one glowing rune etched like a promise onto its front page. Hope .

He’d swear the golden leather was mocking him.

He tied the bundle across his chest and slung it over his shoulder. It thudded softly against his back like a heartbeat that wasn’t quite his.

Before he turned away, he brushed his numbed fingers across the burrow wall. Sugar Plum had carved it, not by design, just from her body brushing against the sides over and over, a slow erosion of safety. Jagged claw-marks, rough grooves, smoothed ice where she curled.

“Not bad for a hideaway,” he muttered, tongue clicking softly.

From behind him, a low whuff . A chirp followed, sharp and metallic, from deeper in the tunnel.

He didn’t have to look to know her expression — wide-eyed, tail twitching, teeth bared in a way that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t anything else either. Impatient. Already halfway up the tunnel, her weight shifting excitedly like a giant cat preparing to pounce.

Jack sighed and grinned despite himself.

“Alright, alright.”

He stepped out into the windy morning. He only had to trek a while to find what he was looking for. He felt it a bit before seeing it. The edge of the glacier yawned out into nothingness. A sheer drop, white on all sides, and somewhere below, the sea smashed itself endlessly against the frozen cliffs. The slight crack of foot on ice started him. Old faded picture invited themselves into his head. An unhappy type of cold coating his every being. The feeling of coughing icy water even if he was going to inhale more.

Oof, icy water, great memories.

His semimortality was getting to him. He still didn’t know the limits and doesn’t want to test it with this. A jackicle isn’t exactly what he wants to dress up as this Halloween.

Fearing death really didn’t fit the guardian of fun. So he decided to ignore that feeling a bit longer.

The sun was barely up, balancing just above the horizon like it was deciding whether or not it was worth showing up today. But it was as dependable as North, he’d say maybe 30 minutes.

Jack approached Sugar Plum cautiously, she was getting twitchy when excited, and the last thing he wanted was to get tail slapped into oblivion. Her scales shimmered in the low light, a pearlescent blend of silver and blue, pulsing softly with her breath.

Realizing sitting on her head with nothing to tie him down was a disaster waiting to happen. He tried to climb up  back smoothly. That was a mistake. Her body was sleek, like polished obsidian with a layer of oil, and before he knew it he was sliding halfway down her shoulder blade, fingers scrabbling at nothing. She let out a grumbling huff , amused.

“Don’t judge me,” he muttered, dragging himself upright again.

Eventually, he found a spot near the base of her wings, just between the ridges where her scales thickened and curved. Just to make sure he took the extra piece of rope. He tied it around her shoulders. Where scales meet wing. Made a tight knot then wrapped the rest around his waist, tightening another knot around his waist. Placing his feet through the rope and using his thighs as stability he felt ready to go. Not quite comfortable, and definitely in her blind spot, a fact she did not enjoy, if her agitated wing flicks was anything to go by.

“Sorry, Plum. One day I’ll earn a front-row seat.”

He gave her three soft thumps to her side with his staff. Her wings snapped open like sails catching wind.

Then

They launched.

The cliff vanished beneath them in a blur of white and wind.

Jack’s breath caught somewhere between his ribs and throat, and then it was gone , whipped from his lungs by the rush of freezing air and speed. Sugar Plum climbed fast, too fast, the force of her takeoff turning the world into a smear of light and clouds. He held tight to her spines, arms burning, heart hammering out of rhythm.

The air was alive. Not just cold. sharp . It bit at his cheeks, stung his fingers, whipped his hair like it was trying to remind him what it meant to be alive.

He hadn’t flown like this since… he last joked with Bunny.

Since the In-Between.

Since the portal cracked open and spat him into this jagged, broken corner of the world. This was the first time since then that he felt like himself.

Free

Fun

They glided over the island first, doing slow, swooping loops around the glacier’s rim. He could see the path they’d dug, the little dots where their cave mouth used to be. Then further out, snowfields, sharp ice ridges, the twisted hulk of the wrecked ship. A storm brewing far to the west, but not quite here yet.

Plum dipped low, then twisted suddenly into a roll, and Jack let out a noise that was equal parts panic and exhilaration.

“Easy! EASY!” he shouted, laughing.

She grumbled, delighted.

Then they climbed again, high above the peaks, until the sea became a silver strip below and the sky felt like something he could touch . They soared towards the sun, just peeking up past the edge of the world, casting long shadows across the ice.

For a moment, it felt like nothing had ever gone wrong.

No scar. No buried hunters. No broken staff. Just this.

wind and weightless joy.

Later, long after the glacier had faded into the distance, they descended toward a ledge overlooking the western sea. It wasn’t much, just a wide slab of flattened snow and moss, patched stone, but it was clean, quiet, and just sheltered enough to keep the worst of the cold out. Their snow white accents were practically a beacon in the middle of deep gray and vibrant green.

They curled up in the hollow. Jack pulled the bundle close, unwrapped the rug, and tucked it around his shoulders. Sugar Plum folded herself protectively around him, head resting near his lap, eyes half-lidded but always watching.

He leaned against her side and exhaled, the cold stealing the sound.

Above them, the stars began to peek out, shy at first, then all at once. Just like it was when he was young. Before the lights of the future dimmed them.

Jack pressed a hand to his  hoodie pocket where the rune book rested. Guarded, sheltering it from the world by a tight crimson vest.

“Hope huh” he whispered, something like a chuckle came out. “Good night sandy.” Looking up to the glittering gold sky. A unfamiliar burning reached his throat. Purple eyes blinked up at him, churning in comfort. Resting his head against his arm he chuffed,”Goodnight to you too, ya overgrown lizard.”

For the first time in weeks, he slept without shivering.

And for the first time in months…

he didn’t dream of falling.

The sun rose on another day.

The sea looked like knives this morning. Long silver blades laid flat, catching light as they rolled beneath a pale, uncaring sky. Where the water touched the horizon, it seemed to slice open the heavens. That line, that meeting place, always felt like it should mean something. But today it just shimmered, quiet and cold and unreachable.

Frost clung to the cliffs. It glittered along the rocks in spindly trails, pale blue catching in the low light like veins under skin. A storm had passed through last night — not a loud one, not angry or screaming, just relentless. A slow, choking blanket of snow and wind. Now, everything was still. That weird kind of stillness that only happens after something survives.

Like the world was holding its breath. Waiting to see what happens next.

The hollow they'd chosen for the night barely shielded them from the rising sun. Golden beams slanted through cracks in the cliff face, catching on icicles that hung like teeth. The frost made the air sparkle, but it wasn’t warm. Nothing here was ever really warm.

Jack stirred slowly, dragging one leg over the other until he could sit up. Every inch of him creaked like a thawing tree.

He groaned.

“Ugh. Ow.”

His hoodie was stiff with frost, the lining frozen from where he'd slept curled against Sugar Plum’s side. His hair was matted with ice, a tangled mess of pale strands and snowflakes. His fingers throbbed with the familiar dull ache of low power. Not quite pain, just absence. Hollow. Like something important had been scooped out of him and filled with sleet.

I’m healing, he told himself. It just… takes time.

It had been nearly two months since he crashed into this icebox of a world. Two months since the staff cracked. Three weeks since he stopped trying to force it back together.

Jack flexed his fingers and frost trailed faintly between them, sluggish and weak. He could make snow without passing out now, at least. That was progress.

But the last time he’d tried to fix the staff 

He didn’t like thinking about it. Neither did Plum. She hadn’t left his side for two days after.

He blinked hard. Shook the thought away. Then gave a lazy kick at a patch of green moss poking through the snow near his boot.

Nearby, Sugar Plum lay curled like some ancient, sleeping god. Her scales shimmered in the light, jagged white and deep violet. One wing was half-unfurled, twitching slightly as though chasing something in a dream. Steam curled from her nostrils in slow pulses.

Jack watched her for a moment, chin resting on his knees.

He had no idea what she was dreaming about. Warm places, maybe. Places with sun. With skies that didn’t hurt to breathe. Maybe somewhere she didn’t have to chew on metal scraps to survive.

She deserves that, he thought. More than this.

He scooted a little closer. The cold gave way slightly where her side radiated warmth. Her ear fins twitched, catching the motion. She was awake. Or halfway. Maybe she always was. Jack wasn’t sure she fully slept unless he did.

“Hey,” he said gently, brushing snow from her snout. “Up for some exploring, big girl?”

She blinked slowly. Then let out a chirp—low and grumbly, like a tea kettle filled with gravel. He imagined it was the dragon equivalent of “ five more minutes. ”

Then she yawned.

And wow. He’d forgotten how big her mouth was getting.

A full body yawn, steam curling from her nose, one long forked tongue flopping out, rows and rows of pointy teeth glinting in the morning light.

Jack laughed. Actually laughed, for real, short and startled.

“Right,” he said, standing and brushing snow from the back of his coat. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He dusted off his knees, then grabbed the rope harness—the very questionable, very homemade steering system they’d come up with. One line tied around his waist, one looped around her middle. It was dumb. It was dangerous. It was also the coolest thing he’d ever done.

He climbed up, careful of her spikes, his fingers numb against her scales. She rumbled under him, adjusting, rising slowly to her feet.

“Alright,” Jack whispered as they approached the ledge. “Let’s find something better today. New spot. Warmer spot. Less angry Frosty energy, yeah?”

Plum responded by hopping slightly before launching herself into the sky with a crack of ice.

They soared out over the ocean, wind ripping across Jack’s face, dragging his laughter out of him whether he wanted it to or not.

The wind loved him this morning.

It wrapped around his shoulders like a shawl made of stormlight, tugged gently at the edges of his hood, whispered promises of mischief into the folds of his scarf. Sugar Plum sliced through the sky with quiet thunder beneath him, her massive coils shimmering in the cold dawn light, wings unfurling like banners made of molten ice. The ocean below stretched infinite and shining, broken by patches of dark rock and foam.

Jack threw his arms out to either side, laughing wild into the open air.

“Today’s the day,” he thought. “We find a real home. A better one. Not a frozen cave next to that oversized snow ferret. Somewhere warmer. Somewhere with a roof. Chairs. We’ll steal chairs. And maybe a kettle.”

Plum chirped once skeptical.

“Yes, Fine. And metal. Happy?”

They banked hard left, gliding along a thermal until Jack spotted something that made his heart jolt.

A shape. No, a ship .

Small. Slow. Barely moving. Just bobbing against the horizon like a dropped toy, its dark sails slack in the wind. From up here, it looked forgettable. Nothing special. Maybe a trader’s vessel. Maybe just someone hopelessly lost. A wave of excitement bounded through him. They might give him directions or something to feed Sugar Plum properly.

He leaned forward slightly, squinting.

Then he saw them.

Cages.

Three of them. Hanging from the stern like rusted chandeliers. Dark metal, biting into frozen wood, swinging slightly with the ship’s tilt. The rusted green made Jacks blood boil.

Jack’s laughter died.

The wind didn’t feel friendly anymore. It calmed and darker around his magic aura.

He sat up straighter, drawing his staff into his lap, breath coming out in long white curls. The temperature around him dropped several degrees. Frost crackled along his gloves. Sugar Plum shifted under him, feeling it too, the change. That sharp, wrong pressure behind his ribs. That voice that started screaming in the hollow parts of his chest.

The wind whispered again.

But this time, it sounded like someone begging.

Jack narrowed his eyes.

“Adults,” he muttered. “It’s always adults.”

He curled his fingers and called the cold.

Mist slithered up from the sea, coiling around them in ribbons. Tiny flakes swirled from nowhere. A snowstorm born of spite, wrapping itself tight like a cloak. The ship below blurred, then vanished entirely beneath the veil.

Snap. Point.

Sugar Plum dove without hesitation, silent as death.

They plummeted through the fog like a falling star. Jack stood on her back, knees bent, staff glowing bright at the tip with pale blue light. His hood snapped up, his hair wild in the wind.

Just above the mast, he jumped.

The world tilted.

The deck hit him hard boots slamming down in a roll that carried him under a mess of ropes and crates. His shoulder clipped a barrel. He spun, popped up, slammed one frost laced foot into a trapdoor with a crack that rang through the hull. His foot helping him grip on his own ice.

Rough voices. Panic. Men scrambling below.

The air grew tighter, like it could smell the frost now curling off his body in tendrils. Cold bled from the staff in his hand. His fingers twitched against it, like they could feel the storm trying to crackle its way out of him. Too loud.Too bright. Too much.

Something crashed below. Then footsteps, fast, boots on wood, racing up the narrow stairs.

“ Fara niður! Fara niður—við erum undir árás! ” someone roared in Icelandic. Go down! Go down! we’re under attack!

Jack turned just in time to see the first one burst out of the hold.

Big guy. Oilskin armor. Beard like tangled rope. A net launcher strapped to his back.

He blinked when he saw Jack: thin, hooded, blue-lit, dirtied old tight red vest, tattered brown pants, standing still as death in the snow-laced mist.

He saw Him.

Jack blinked back, astonished by this. Hood half covering his face.

“Hi,” he said in perfect English. “This’ll be awkward.”

The man hesitated.

Then roared something unintelligible and lunged.

Jack rolled under the swing of an axe, spun his staff out in a wide arc, and swept the man’s legs out from under him. The big guy hit the deck hard with a crack, his breath exploding in a puff of fog.

“Gods, I missed this,” Jack muttered. “Nothing says ‘Saturday morning’ like traumatizing a war criminal.”

Another hunter came up behind him. Smaller. Faster. Twin blades. A hiss of something mean in his eyes.

Jack didn’t look, he felt him.

He ducked sideways, letting one blade whistle past his cheek, then slammed his staff into the guy’s gut. Frost bloomed across the leather. The hunter cried out as ice raced across his chest, pinning him to the railing. He writhed, slashing desperately, but his hands were already going numb.

“Cold?” Jack said, baring his teeth in a sharp grin. “Try 300 years of it. ”

He turned just in time to get punched across the face.

The third one silent type. Looked like a walking tree trunk. Fists like anvils. Jack’s head snapped back, and he stumbled, seeing stars. His hood fell. Blood dripped from his nose instantly. His vision tilted. He tasted copper and regret.

“Okay,” he coughed. “So that’s how it’s gonna be.”

The big man lunged again.

Jack twisted sideways, dragging the wind with him. A gust of sleet followed his motion like a slap from nature itself. The man stumbled. Jack pivoted, swung his staff up in a fluid arc, and—

Boom.

A pulse of ice exploded outward.

Deck boards froze. The nearest rigging cracked. The trapdoor frosted over instantly. Three men tried to shout and found their mouths filled with snow.

One of them slipped. Another dropped his blade as frost swallowed his fingers.

Jack stumbled back, panting. His hand trembled.

A thin trail of blood slid from his nose and across his lip. He wiped it off with the back of his sleeve, not caring if it smeared.

His magic buzzed in his bones. Too much. The staff was glowing too bright. His vision blurred at the edges. The crack in the wood flared like a wound.

“Cool it,” he whispered to himself. “Reel it in.”

But more were coming.

He heard the clank of boots. Six? No eight? Coming from both sides of the deck now. Shouting. Swords. Nets. Crossbows being cocked. Jack looked around.

“Right,” he muttered. “We’re playing that kind of game.”

He turned. Slammed his staff once against the ground.

Ice shot across the deck like lightning, lifting into jagged spears that jutted up from between the planks. It wasn’t neat. Wasn’t clean. But it was fast .

A hunter screamed as he impaled his foot. Another tripped over the sudden ice ridge and smacked into the mast.

Jack ran.

He leapt onto a barrel, flipped over the rigging, and landed hard behind two more. One turned—and Jack grinned .

“Boo.”

He jabbed the staff into the guy’s chest, sent frost crawling up his armor like vines.

The last one managed to catch Jack’s leg. Yanked. Jack hit the deck hard, shoulder jarring, vision spinning. The guy jumped on top of him, pinning his staff. Knife raised.

Jack kneed him in the gut. Twice.

“What is wrong with you, do not straddle teenagers on murder ships, it’s gross!”

The man snarled in Icelandic. “Þorðu ekki að formæla mér, snjóbarn.” Something about spirits. Demons. Witches maybe.

Jack’s eyes flicked sideways. His staff was just out of reach.

So he did what any petty godling would do. He spat a mouthful of blood into the guy’s eyes. The man recoiled, screaming “Í nafni Þórs, hvað í andskotanum!”

Jack lunged for his staff, rolled hard, and blasted a cone of frost across the man’s chest. He flew back. Hit a post. Didn’t get up.

The wind howled louder now.

Jack stumbled to his feet, nose bleeding again. More of it now. His pulse thrummed in his teeth.

He could feel the cold building in him again. Rising like a wave.

Not yet. Not yet. Cages first.

He was bruised. Nose bleeding. dizzy.

And laughing.

Because now they were running from him .

His staff whipped around. Frost danced across the anchor chain. A flick of the wrist and it shattered, ringing like a bell against the soaked wood.

He was already moving.

The first cage greeted him with a snarl, but the creature inside wasn’t a threat. Just… pathetic. A dragon, now a stubby thing with wings too small, eyes too wide. Like a bulldog crossed with a chicken nugget. With an unusually wide mouth.

Jack blinked at it.

“You’ll be fine,” he grumbled, freezing the latch. “Swim. Flop. Glide. I don’t know your deal.”

The door burst open. The creature hesitated then dove off the side with a weird yelp.

The second cage exploded open seconds later. Firecrackers.

Tiny, yipping, sparking little dragons shot out like a broken bottle rocket factory. They zig zagged around his head in a storm of wings and shrieks, trailing smoke.

“Alright, okay, yep, you’re welcome . leave my hair alone!”

The third cage stopped him cold.

The dragon inside was massive. Mauled. Scarred. One eye swollen shut, flank raw with old burns. It didn’t make a sound just watched him. Quiet. Shivering. It was like the dragon one the hunter kids had.

Jack stared at it.

His breath caught. Something twisted.

He raised the staff.

The bars didn’t just freeze, they shattered.

Disintegrated . The dragon blinked once. He walked up to the dragon quickly not thinking he drew a circle into the beast hide. The warmth of familiarity guided his fingers through drawing the rest of the rune. He watched the golden light pulse outwards on their skin.

Jack turned sharply, stalking toward the ship’s storage. He snagged the first satchel he saw, dumped it onto the deck. Dry jerky. Oilskin. Rope. A metal flask. A belt. A real coat. Yes.

He stuffed them all in. Then—because he could—he grabbed a weird spoon carved with runes. No idea what it did. Might be cursed. He didn’t care.

“Thanks for the donation,” Jack hissed under his breath.

Clap. Clap. He quickly wiped the blood freezing onto his face. He’s sure he didn’t look as good as he usually did.

Sugar Plum burst up through the hull from the sky, a serpent of frost and fury. Wood splintered. Beams cracked. Water surged into the belly of the ship with a roar. The deck didn’t just rumble, it screamed .

The vessel began to list hard to one side, taking on seawater fast.

Jack backed toward the railing. One whistle, high and sharp.

Plum whipped around, coiling midair in a flurry of wings. He leapt—fingers slamming against her scaled shoulder as he landed hard.

“Go!” he shouted.

They rocketed skyward.

Behind them, the ship buckled. The mast cracked in half, tumbling. The cages hung empty. And then—it sank. Fast. With a groan like a dying beast, it vanished into the sea.

Dragons scattered. Screaming into the sky. The greenish one. That fat brown one. The little spark beasts wheeling in circles of celebration.

Then a sound .

High. Strange. Almost… human.

A cry, trilling across the waves like it was meant to be heard by someone .

“Hvítur Hestur!”

Another, deeper—dragging through gravel and smoke:

“Skadi…”

Jack turned in the saddle.

The wind tore at his hood.

Those names—he didn’t understand them. Not really. But they felt old. Felt true. Like something born from stories, not just mouths.

He pressed a hand to Sugar Plum’s neck. She flew smooth and quiet, her breath steady beneath him.

He looked out across the sea, the broken silver water stretching into forever.

“If this place doesn’t believe in Jack Frost,” he said softly, “then they’ll believe in whatever legend we become.”

The wind didn’t argue.

He felt seen . He had been seen.

And somehow, somehow… that was worse then being forgotten.

Chapter Text

The snow here tasted like ash.

Hiccup tightened his coat as Toothless landed hard on the frost-slick dock, the Night Fury huffing irritably and stomping to shake the stiffness from his limbs. Behind them, the other dragons dropped in one by one: Stormfly’s wings slicing the air, Hookfang nearly landing on top of Ruff and Tuff’s bags, Meatlug flopping down with the grace of a melting snowball.

“Remind me again,” Snotlout groaned, “why are we in the Arctic equivalent of a frozen cave full of fish heads?”

“Because,” Astrid said, hopping down from Stormfly with her axe already slung, “this is where the traders come after a big storm. If we’re lucky, we’ll hear something about the Hunters.”

“Or get some dried fruit,” Fishlegs added, patting Meatlug. “She’s been eating frost-crusted seaweed for days.”

“Same,” Ruffnut said, shouldering a sack of empty jars. “My bones are dry. I need pickled herring or I will perish.”

“You don’t have bones,” Tuffnut said sagely. “You’re made of bad decisions and fumes.”
They stepped forward into the chaos.

The port was alive with noise and wind. Sails slapping like thunder, metal chains creaking, strange beasts in wooden cages snarling as coins clinked and arguments echoed in at least six dialects. The trading post was chiseled, frozen over, with walkways strung up like spiderwebs and torches jammed into icy sconces that hissed when lit.

Hiccup ran his hand over the edge of his map. “Alright,” he said, calling the group in, “we’re just here to resupply, maybe overhear something about the Hunters. In and out. Let’s be smart.”

Snotlout scoffed. “I’m always smart.”

Astrid raised a brow. “You thought cod was a type of dragon until last week.”

“Still could be.”

Hiccup ignored him. “We’ll split up, cover more ground. Ask around. Pick up rumors, listen for anything strange. We’ll meet back here in two hours.”

Ruffnut and Tuffnut high-fived. “Yesss. Gossip scavenger hunt.”

“Wait,” Fishlegs said, frowning. “Do we get points?”

“No,” Hiccup said.

“Can we pretend we do?” Ruffnut asked.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Winner gets first pick of the good rations.” He couldn’t help the smirk growing on his face.

“YEEEAAAHHH!” the twins roared and took off running, yelling “QUEST FOR SARDINES!” down the corridor.

Astrid snorted. “And those are our best operatives.”

“Yeah,” Hiccup muttered “Let’s hope we’re not depending on them to save the world.”

-

They moved through the dock stalls slowly. Hiccup keeping his hood low, Toothless at his side like a protective shadow. Most traders paid them no mind, but a few gave Toothless wary looks.

Then he heard it.

“…I’m telling you, the girl just—walked across the sea.”
Hiccup stilled. Two cloaked men were hunched by a brazier, steam rising from their cups.

“Walked,” the first man repeated. “Not rode. Not flew. Walked. With the storm at her back. A pale thing. Robes like frost, hair like snowmelt.”
“She a witch?” the second asked.

“Worse. A ghost.”

The fire popped.

“Came down from the cliffs,” the man continued, “ripped through a Hunter ship. Froze their chains. Stole their supplies. Freed the dragons. Then vanished.”

“They say she doesn’t speak like a person,” someone nearby added. “Said it sounded like the gods were angry.”

-

Astrid had gone toward the blacksmith's corner. Where people sold everything from dagger sheaths to giant bear trap harpoons. She was inspecting a coil of braided leather when a grizzled woman leaned over.

“You here about the girl?”
Astrid blinked. “What girl?”
“Snowborn. Bleeds frost. Speaks the language of the Allfather.” The woman crossed herself with two fingers. “Hunter ships are sayin’ she rides a white serpent. Big one. Teeth like bone picks.”

Astrid blinked. “You mean a dragon?”

“No dragon. This thing was divine. Her mount. Like Sleipnir but worse. Slitherin’ across the sea, scales like razors.”

Astrid gave a slow nod. “Uh-huh. Thanks.”

She paid for the leather strap and left very quickly.

-

Fishlegs was sitting cross legged in a spice tent, having somehow talked his way into a hot stew sample.

An old trader across from him stirred her pot. “A storm child,” she whispered. “Not human. Not dragon. A mix of both. The white serpent protects her. No fire can touch her.”

Fishlegs blinked. “Really? Because fire immunity is usually a draconic trait—”
“She melted a warship,” the woman said.

Fishlegs dropped his spoon.

-

Snotlout stood under a banner marked “WHALE OIL AND WHALE PARTS” looking vaguely uncomfortable as a greasy trader laughed loudly.

“She cut through the rigging like a blade of ice!” the man roared. “Hunter ship sunk in two minutes flat!”

“Yeah?” Snotlout said, trying to sound tough. “Well, I can do that too.”

“With what?” the man grinned. “A shout?”

Snotlout opened his mouth, then shrugged. “It’s a work in progress.”

-

The twins were deeply enmeshed in a riddle game with a hunched trader missing two fingers and most of her teeth.

“What has hair like clouds, a dragon for a horse, and bleeds like moonlight?”

“Me,” Ruffnut said confidently.
The woman cackled. “No, sweetpea. It’s her. The Iceborn.”

“What Iceborn?”

“You’ll know her when she guts you with frost and laughs like a child.”

The twins stared at each other, then simultaneously whispered: “Cool.”

-

“Come on, just five minutes,” Fishlegs was pleading. His voice echoed down the icy corridor, hands clasped in front of two guards in thick leather. “I’m not here to interrogate him—I just want to talk. Academic interest. No weapons! I didn’t even bring a notebook.”

One of the guards rolled his eyes. “Orders are orders, runt. You’re lucky we didn’t toss that hairy rock you rode in on into the sea.”

“Her name is Meatlug,” Fishlegs said, offended.

Hiccup arrived his boots scuffing across the slick stones. “What’s going on?”

Fishlegs gestured wildly. “Hiccup! They’ve got a Hunter locked up from that sunken ship we keep hearing about. He was on it on her ship. Firsthand account!”

Hiccup raised an eyebrow. “You want to talk to a prisoner from the ship?”

“Please.”

The guards looked at Hiccup. A long silence passed. He let out a soft groan. He hated doing this.

Then Hiccup pulled his shoulders back and put on his ‘Chief Face.’

“You know who I am, right?” he asked calmly.

The guards shared a glance.
“I’m not here to overstep. I, Hiccup horrendous Haddock III, son of the chief of Berk, I have authority over Dragon Hunter engagements and a vested interest in what this man saw.”

His tone dropped just slightly. “Let us in.”

With a muttered curse, one of the guards grumbled, “You get ten minutes. If he starts screaming, we’re pulling you out.”

“Sounds fun,” Hiccup said dryly. “Let’s go, Fishlegs.”

The metal door creaked as they stepped inside. The room smelled like salt, rust, and blood that had long since dried. There was a bench. A set of manacles. And a man: lean, older, with a beard streaked with white and a long scar down his left cheek slumped in the far corner, wrapped in damp furs and glaring like a cornered wolf.

He didn’t get up.
“I thought dragon riders would be less,” he slowly waved his hand up and down. “That.” He said with a snort.

“You just gestured to all of us,” Hiccup crossed his arms. “And I thought Hunters had more honor.”

The man barked a dry laugh. “Right. Let me guess. You want to know about the frost demon.”

Fishlegs perked up. “Wait, you saw it? Her?”

The man’s lip curled. “You mean the little ghost girl that dropped onto our deck like a falling star? The one who smiled while she tore our chains apart and drowned us like rats in a barrel?”
He shifted his weight, wincing slightly. “Yeah. I saw her.”
Fishlegs stepped forward. “What did she look like?”

The man hesitated. His eyes narrowed.
“You lot gonna kill her? Is that it?”

Hiccup and Fishlegs exchanged a glance.

“No,” Hiccup said slowly. “We just want to know what we’re dealing with.”

“She already dealt with us.”
He tilted his head back against the wall.

“She came out of nowhere. One second it was clear skies, the next storm. But not from the clouds. From her. Snow, wind, shards of ice whipping through the air. And she just landed. Like the storm was holding her up.”

Fishlegs was scribbling on a scrap of parchment now. “What did she do?”

“Everything,” the man rasped.

“She moved like she’d done it a hundred times before. Staff in her hands, magic running off her fingers like mist. Froze our anchor chain from fifty feet away. I watched metal crack. Saw it with my own eyes.”

He rubbed his arms, face gone pale. “She didn’t say much. Not to us. Just… looked. With those dead, glowing eyes like moonlight through ice.”

Fishlegs leaned in. “Glowing?”

“Like frostfire. Like something divine and wrong at the same time.” The man exhaled sharply. “And the serpent. Gods. That thing tunneled through our hull like it was softwood. I heard the beams snap. I felt the sea under my boots.”

He paused.

“Ya’ ever felt a ship die while your still on it, young Chief?”
Hiccup said nothing.

“She killed our men with mercy. Left da’ cages open. Let the beasts fly. She didn’t even look at me. And that’s the worst part. I wasn’t even worth killing.”

The man suddenly pushed himself forward, chains rattling.

“You don’t understand. She didn’t move like a child. She moved like winter. She didn’t act, she just was. And she bled like she was hollow inside.”

Hiccup stepped closer. “What do you mean?”

“She got hit. Hook caught her shoulder. Just for a second. But the blood—” his voice lowered, “it streamed more like water. Then froze when it hit the ground. Even the mightiest of our hunters would have been downed. Her blood burned through the snow. Became on with it, yes it did.”

Fishlegs looked up. Face twisted in worry, “That can’t be—”

“You weren’t there.”
Silence.

Then the man laughed again, bitter and thin.

“You Dragon Riders are lucky. You think you’re the good ones. You think you’re above us. But that thing out there? That she devil?” He leaned forward.

“She hates people like you more than us. You think you tame dragons? No. You chain ‘em in new ways. Just cleana’ looking chains.”

Hiccup stiffened.

The Hunter gave a final, wheezing cough. “She’ll come for you too, one day. When she figures out you’re not so different from the rest of us.”

Hiccup opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Fishlegs swallowed hard. “...Is that everything?”

“She’s got the eyes of a child,” the man said, laying his head back. “And the wrath of a god.”

The door slammed shut behind them.

Fishlegs was pale. “Hiccup. That wasn’t just a rumor.”

“I know,” Hiccup said quietly.
They walked up the corridor in silence, the echoes of storm-torn myths trailing behind them like frost.

-

Hiccup sat hunched over his desk, quill tapping absentmindedly against his teeth.

The low flame of a lantern flickered beside him, casting long, lurching shadows against the walls of his hut. Outside, the wind howled faintly through the riggings and ropes of the Edge, but here, inside, everything was still. His hand hovered above the worn pages of his journal.

His latest entry was already crowded. Crossed-out theories. A rough map. Several sketches, increasingly frantic, layered over one another. Different faces, all of them the same.

Thin.

Short.

Pale.

White hair that fell in windblown tangles across half-shadowed eyes.

Glowing staff. Cloak like trailing smoke. Bare feet skimming the snow without sinking.

Some versions grinned like ghosts. Others looked like they were screaming.

And still, Hiccup didn’t know if he was drawing a person or a storm in the shape of one.
He flipped back through his journal, scanning notes written in the corners of maps, half legible scribbles from the campfire talk hours earlier:

“Walks on water.”
“Speaks the tongue of the gods.”
“Rides wind and serpent.”
“Doesn’t melt the snow where they land.”
“Can vanish into thin air.”
“Only frees dragons. Never kills unless cornered.”
“Unsure on if more attacks have happened.”

He paused. Then wrote one more in the margin:
“Looks disappointed when people get hurt.”

Hiccup sat back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. His prosthetic foot clicked softly against the wooden floor as he adjusted position. The sea outside groaned low, the tide churning up foam and salt beneath the cliffs.

Toothless shifted in his sleep behind him, letting out a deep, echoing chirr. The Night Fury’s tail twitched. As if he, too, was dreaming of her.

No.

Not her, Hiccup reminded himself. That was still an assumption. It could just as easily be someone like him.

Someone strange. Alone. Out of place. That felt familiar.

He reached for the charcoal pencil beside the quill and turned to a fresh page.
One more sketch.

He drew with a steady hand. Not rushing it this time. Not layering over guesses or exaggerating her shape. Just the way she or they had been described over and over again.

Light build. Sharp lined cloak. A blue hood covering half their face. A tattered tunic. Short brown pants tattered with age. Ropes slung like a harness over one shoulder.

In their hands: a crooked staff, glowing faint blue at the tip.

And behind them, just barely visible in the snow dusted sky, the long curling body of something massive a dragon, perhaps. A serpent. Wings shaped like cloth sails.

He shaded in the eyes last. Left them blank at first, then carefully inked the pupils with a blue so dark it looked black.
Hiccup blinked down at the figure.

It looked like someone his age.
Younger, maybe.

He muttered softly, the words barely louder than breath:
“Who are you?”

He closed the journal slowly, fingers resting over the worn leather. The wind picked up again outside, rattling a few hanging tools near the door.

Then, after a long moment, Hiccup reached for his quill one more time.

He flipped to the next page.

In his neatest handwriting, he wrote:
“If the Hunters fear her…
…maybe we should find her before they do.”

He sat in the silence for a beat longer, watching the ink dry.

He felt a chill that wasn’t from the cold.

Chapter Text

To all those who have been reading so far, thank you. But I find myself in need of help with how the story will go.

Will Jack choose the route of a vigilante, his legend growing with every hunter he takes down. Growing stronger.

Or

Will Jack choose the route of a healer and defender, where he encounters someone who shares his views in this world.

alrighty then I have my answer 

give me a day

Chapter Text

Snow drifted in lazy spirals through the morning air, catching on Sugar Plum’s scales as she banked into a wide circle above the ravine. She’d grown, not just in size, but in presence. Her wings beat with a confidence she didn’t have weeks ago, each downstroke a quiet defiance against the winter sky. The spindly, skittish hatchling that once clung to Jack’s coat was gone. Now, she moved like she knew the world would have to make room for her.

Jack adjusted the fit of his half-face mask, the leather creaking faintly as he tightened the straps. Beneath it, the cream scarf trailed out in the wind. The tips still stubbornly stained a faint red from the “spill” that had refused to wash out.

“I was going for intimidating,” he muttered to no one in particular, testing the knot again. “Not strawberry jam chic.” Let’s just say he hadn’t done it on purpose.

And for all his new accessories, he refused to wear shoes. What does it matter he can feel his feet anyways.

The wind bit at his exposed cheek as he leaned over the saddle, feeding rope through a newly added pulley on the side.

A length of hook and cable clinked at his belt, gleaming faintly. He tugged it once, twice, making sure the coil would release smooth while landing. His kit was getting sharper, cleaner. The kind of gear you didn’t buy, but built out of necessity and stolen pieces.

Above, Plum gave a short, impatient trill, tilting her head back toward him. Jack smirked and waved her off. “Hold your tail. I’m trying to keep us alive here.”

Still, his eyes lingered on her. She was proof of time passing. He didn’t know how many weeks or months had slipped by. Only that the snow never stopped falling long enough for him to count.

It hit him sometimes, in the quiet moments between the almost infinite raids, how far away his old life felt. Back then , freedom had been the sky itself. not a battle, not a depending on another, just the open air under his feet and the rush of wind that meant he could go anywhere. That life had been… lighter, in a way. Full of people who now knew his name and expected him to smile more than they expected him to survive. He loved them but they have such bad standards.

Now, freedom was sharper. Messier. The kind you had to steal back piece by piece, and guard with your fists once you had it. He could fight without asking permission. Burn hunter ships to the waterline. Tear open cages and watch dragons take the air for the first time in months. That kind of freedom… it had teeth. And he liked it.

Still, sometimes, when Plum was gliding slow, or when the clouds parted just right, he wondered if this place was a sentence or a detour. Was he stuck here, in this in-between world that felt both too real and too dreamlike? Or was he just… visiting? On a very, very long layover?

He never said it out loud. It felt too much like tempting fate.

Plum dropped into a low pass, skimming the treetops, and Jack snapped back into the moment. He tested the rope one last time, then hooked it back at his hip. Everything felt ready. He felt ready.

A little more dangerous than last month. A little more sure of the rules here.

Jack jump and swung up into the saddle and pulled the scarf higher over his nose. Clicking into place. He finally able to make a saddle on her head. Something they both appreciated greatly.

“Alright, Plum. Let’s go make someone very, very unhappy today.”

With a beat of her wings, the two of them cut into the white sky, leaving the question of “stuck or visiting” behind in the snow where it belonged.

Snow rolled over the treeline like a living thing, thick and swirling, as Jack guided Sugar Plum into a steep, spiraling dive. The cold air burned his lungs, but the rush was worth it. Below, the hunter camp bristled with activity. Guards pacing, weapons glinting in the firelight, chains clinking against the shivering dragons in the pens.

Jack leaned forward and murmured, “Now,” and Plum answered with a snap of her wings that sent them plummeting. At the last second, he flung his hands outward, magic flaring cold and sharp. The snow above churned violently, dropping like a curtain, swallowing the camp in a blinding whiteout.

They hit the first row of guard towers before anyone even shouted. Plum’s jaws found a chain mid-flight, snapping it clean, the broken ends clattering against the ice. The freed dragon bolted into the fog, and the guards turned toward the noise. That was all Jack needed.

He vaulted off Plum’s saddle into the chaos, boots crunching over frozen ground. A guard lunged. Jack sidestepped, palm pressed to the man’s chest, and the frost bloomed instantly, locking him in place as he threw him down. Another came from the left; Jack caught his arm, twisted, and slammed him into a bed of ice he’d just raised. Fight. Freeze. Repeat.

The air was a cocktail of shouting, clanging metal, and the shrieks of freed dragons. Plum swooped overhead again and again, snapping more chains, scattering the hunters with her shadow. Jack didn’t have to tell her where to go, she knew the rhythm by now. At this point I think she does more than I do. Jack thought with a snort.

As the melee raged, his eyes landed on a hut at the far edge of the camp. Not just any hut. This one was ornate, its wood carved with curling patterns, the door inlaid with polished metal. Maybe the leader’s or maybe some sick royalty. That last one would be new. Hunters were too distracted to guard it, and Jack’s gut told him pretty things usually hid ugly secrets.

Slipping inside, he found exactly that. In the center of the room sat a cage decorative, yes, but reinforced with steel bands. If it wasn’t wicked he would say the green metal was shining with pristine. Inside was a smaller gray dragon, scales dulled with age, wings clipped unevenly so they’d never carry him far. His maw was dusted with white, like sugar, though his eyes still burned bright and sharp. When the old dragon snarled, a puff of hot, condensed smoke burst from his mouth.

Jack crouched, studying him. “You’re a cranky one, aren’t you?”

The dragon growled again, but didn’t back away. The sugar dusted muzzle told Jack this was no hatchling. This was an old fighter,not just decoration, captured and put on display like some war trophy.

Jack’s jaw tightened. He touched the lock, channeling a concentrated pulse of magic until the frost spread and cracked the metal. The lock shattered with a dull snap.

That was when the old dragon blasted him, short, a hot pulse of fire, more smoke than flame, but enough to make Jack hiss and jerk back.

“Alright, I get it, personal space!” He glanced around and spotted a discarded hunter shield leaning in the corner. Snatching it up, he flipped it onto his back. “Fine. New plan.”

He edged closer, tilting the shield toward the dragon like a makeshift ramp. The Smokebreath sniffed it, then scrambled up with surprising speed, talons clinking against the metal before hooking in. The weight settled between Jack’s shoulders, solid, but not unbearable.

The old dragon crouched low, head peeking over Jack’s shoulder like a gunner lining up a target. Jack smirked despite himself. “Guess I’ve got a turret now.”

From outside came the sound of chains snapping and Plum’s triumphant bellow. Jack kicked the hut door open, stepping back into the storm he’d made, and started moving toward the last set of cages. Behind him, the old dragon puffed another searing blast into the whiteout, marking their path in the fog.

They weren’t leaving until every single dragon here could fly, or at least limp, out of this place. And Jack had plenty of fight left in him to make that happen.

Jack stepped into the storm of battle and immediately ducked as a hunter’s axe whistled past his ear. The blade bit into the frozen post behind him, shuddering with the force of the throw.

“Missed me,” Jack muttered, swinging his staff around in one smooth arc. The end caught the attacker in the gut, not a gentle jab, but a drive that knocked the air from his lungs. Jack planted the staff’s tip in the snow and sent a surge of ice racing up the man’s boots, locking him in place before he could even curse.

Another came from behind, heavy footsteps crunching on the frost. Jack let the weight of his staff drop low, sweeping the hunter’s legs out. As the man fell, Jack spun the staff and brought the hooked end up under his chin. “Nap time,” he whispered, then shoved, sending the hunter sprawling into a drift.

The old Smokebreath on his back cackled, or maybe that was just another puff of fire, and spat at a crossbowman up ahead. The condensed blast hit the man square in the chest, making him yelp and drop his weapon.

“Good shot, grandpa,” Jack said without breaking stride.

A third hunter came barreling out of the white, swinging a spiked mace. Jack sidestepped, letting the weapon smash into the snow, then hooked his staff under the man’s arm and used the momentum to flip him face first into the ground. With his pale foot pinning the man, Jack flicked his wrist and let frost creep along the hunter’s weapon, freezing it solid before shoving it aside.

Through the blur of snow, Plum’s silhouette emerged, wings beating in heavy, determined strokes, tail whipping as she scattered guards like bowling pins. She’d already broken open another pen; the freed dragons scrambled into the storm.

“Time to go,” Jack said, more to himself than anyone else.

A net suddenly came flying from the left. Jack whipped his staff up, catching it miair, twisting it around the pole like he was winding thread, and then yanked hard. The hunter holding the other end staggered forward, colliding headfirst with a frozen fence post.

Jack darted forward, boots barely finding grip on the slick ice, hunters shouting behind him. Plum lowered her head just enough for him to vault upward. He grabbed the still-kinda-jank saddle, a rough leather-and-rope rig strapped between her horns, and swung himself onto her neck in one practiced motion.

Snow whipped against his scarf, the red-tipped ends snapping in the wind. He leaned forward, gave three sharp taps to the side of her head.

Plum’s muscles coiled.

The moment Plum’s wings caught the wind, Jack felt the pull in his chest — that rush of gravity trying to drag him back down, the wind clawing at his scarf. Behind them, the camp erupted in chaos.

The hunters weren’t giving up. Not even close.

Boots pounded through the snow, their shouts lost in the roar of the storm still swirling faintly in their wake. A few were bold enough to take shots with crossbows, bolts hissing past Jack’s head like angry hornets. One skipped off Plum’s left wing membrane with a sharp twang , and she shrieked in irritation.

The old dragon on his back, to jacks surprise, as not taking the escape quietly. The Smokebreath hissed and puffed out plumes of smoke, each one a thick, sulfurous cloud aimed straight at anyone unlucky enough to get close. Jack could hear the coughs and sputters below, one unlucky hunter ran into another in the haze, both of them tumbling into the snow like a badly timed comedy act.

“Good work, hotshot,” Jack grunted, adjusting his grip on the saddle horn as Plum surged higher.

Then came the snap .

Jack glanced down to see the leather strap running across Plum’s left side fraying, a bolt had torn through it. He’d seen what the green ones can do and hoped it wasn’t one of those. The saddle pitched dangerously to one side, pulling him halfway out of his seat.

“Hold it together, girl!” he shouted, kicking himself back into place.

Plum answered with a deep, guttural growl, banking hard to the right. Jack leaned with her, the world tilting into a blur of white, blue, and sharp pine peaks. The wind tore at his mask, his scarf whipping so hard the red ends stung his back.

The strain in Plum’s flight smoothed out as she compensated, tightening her body midair. The saddle settled just enough for Jack to stop imagining himself as a decorative hood ornament on some hunter’s trophy wall.

“See?” Jack called into the wind, breathless but grinning. “You’re fine. We’re fine. Totally not falling to our doom.”

The gray dragon hissed in clear disagreement, his little claws digging into Jack’s shoulder as if to say you’d better be right .

The hunters were shrinking below now, their figures blurring into dots against the snow. A few bolts still arced upward, but none came close.

Jack finally let the laugh he’d been holding burst free, the sound sharp and wild in the freezing air.

They weren’t just escaping.

They were untouchable.

For now.

Snow and ice blurred into one long, exhausting horizon before Jack finally spotted it. A crumbling silhouette tucked into the crook of a frostbitten valley.

The collapsed stone mansion stood like the ghost of something grander, its jagged roofline silhouetted against the pale sky. One wing of the building had completely caved in, leaving jagged walls and blackened beams exposed, but the central hall was still intact enough to keep out the worst of the wind. Half the roof was missing, which meant the moonlight spilled down over the ballroom in a silver wash.

Plum landed with a huff, talons crunching through a thin crust of snow. Her wings folded in tight, and she shook herself like a giant cat before lowering her head to let Jack slide off.

He adjusted the scarf around his neck, the red tips stiff with frost, and took in the place with a slow turn.

“Well,” he murmured, “nicest place we’ve stayed so far… which is saying absolutely nothing.”

The air was still, heavy with the cold scent of stone and old ash. Jack stepped through what might have once been an entryway, the arched doorway leaning slightly as if daring him to test its stability. His boots echoed faintly over the cracked flagstones, and he tilted his head, listening. No wildlife, no drip of water, nothing but the faint rasp of wind through the broken roof.

Behind him, old man hopped down from his perch on Jack’s shoulder and immediately made a beeline for the enormous fireplace on the far wall. With a few quick beats of his clipped wings, he clambered right into the soot blackened chimney like it was designed for him. A moment later, the orange glow of his inner fire lit up the hearth, and a lazy curl of smoke drifted upward.

Jack leaned on his staff and smirked. “Well, someone’s comfortable already.”

He huffed out a little puff of heat that rolled over Jack’s legs, the warmth almost startling in the cold room. The dragon sprawled out in the ashes like a king on his throne, curling his tail around himself.

“You know,” Jack said, glancing from the gray scales to the orange flicker beneath, “Chestnut suits you. Roasting by an open fire and all that. Very seasonal.”

We’ve got sugar plum and chestnut. Now all he needs to do is bite someone’s nose and he can make a new hit single.

Plum snorted behind him, sniffing around the edges of the broken hall. She pawed at a collapsed doorway, sending a puff of frost into the air, then craned her neck through a half-fallen window to scan the valley beyond. Her body language was cautious but curious. She was already mapping this new territory in her head. Too bad she was too big for anywhere that doesn’t have large open windows.

Jack rested his staff against the wall and began pacing the room, brushing snow off furniture skeletons, testing beams with the flat of his hand. “Could work. Needs some patching. And maybe less of that ‘about-to-fall-on-my-head’ aesthetic.”

Somewhere above, the broken rafters groaned softly in the wind.

But for tonight, it would do.

The second floor of the old mansion was a maze of splintered beams, warped floorboards, and half-collapsed ceilings. Jack moved carefully, the boards sighing under his weight, his breath curling out in faint plumes beneath his mask. He’d come up here for scavenging. Maybe there’d be a door he could take off its hinges to patch a draft, or some fabric he could turn into a blanket.

Instead, he stopped mid-step.

A sound, faint, delicate, and impossibly out of place, drifted through the stillness.

A bell.

Not the kind you hang from a reindeer’s harness or find in front of a store, but something purer, like glass and silver chiming together in a winter wind. It wasn’t loud, but it threaded through the cold air with uncanny clarity, so clean it cut through the creaks of the building.

Jack froze, head tilted, eyes narrowing. The sound wasn’t coming from any particular direction. It was… everywhere. Inside the walls. Inside him.

A slow, prickling chill crept over his skin. not the usual icy bite of the wind, but something deeper, reaching down into his chest. It wasn’t fear. If anything, it felt like… a tug. A subtle, wordless call that bypassed thought and went straight to instinct.

He found himself at the cracked wall near where he’d planned to sleep. Close but not to close to the fire place. A still weary Chestnut eyeing him suspiciously. Without thinking, he took his staff and traced the something like a rune into the cold stone, each stroke releasing a faint shimmer of frost. The moment the tip of his staff connected, he felt it, his magic bleeding out of him like water slipping through cupped hands. It was steady, insistent, uncomfortable in a way that made his teeth clench, but not enough to stop him.

When the rune’s final curve sealed into place, the air around him gave a single, low hum, like the sound of a plucked string vibrating in his bones, and then fell utterly silent.

Jack straightened, breath fogging inside his mask. His gloved hand slipped into the hidden pocket inside his hoodie, beneath the layer of his vest. The place he kept the things that mattered. Right now, there was only one: the rune book.

As soon as he touched it, the cover pulsed faintly, and when he flipped it open, the page holding the Protection Rune was glowing. Lines of golden magic wound themselves into the parchment, sinking in like ink on thirsty paper. On the right margin, in neat English script, new words unfurled:

Protection Rune
(Safeguard Sigil)

Description:

This rune binds a protective force between the Protector and the Protected. Once inscribed, its magic endures indefinitely without the need for renewal. The bond transcends distance and terrain — when one is in peril, the other will feel the pull, a subtle call to action. It is as much a tether of will as it is of magic.

Primary Function:

The Protection Rune absorbs the first harmful strike intended for the Protected. This may manifest as a sudden, shimmering barrier, a burst of elemental resistance, or an invisible displacement of the attack. Once triggered, the rune enters a dormant state and cannot defend again until it has regenerated its strength.

Regeneration:

The rune’s recovery time varies depending on the severity of the attack and the magical strength of the caster at the time of inscription. Minor deflections may take hours to renew, while major blows may require days. During this period, the rune still maintains the bond, the pull between Protector and Protected, but cannot shield from further harm.

Application:

The mark must be inscribed directly onto the chosen surface: skin, armor, cloth, or stone. Draw with intent and clear mental focus on the one to be protected.

Both Protector and Protected must be known to one another in some way, even if only by sight or intent. The magic will not bind to a stranger without purpose.

Once written, removal is near impossible without the consent of the caster or destruction of the medium or limb or application. 

Risks & Notes:

Overuse or rapid re-inscription may drain the caster’s reserves severely.

Should either Protector or Protected perish, the rune will fade into an inert scar, never to reactivate.

Some scholars claim the pull between bonded individuals can grow stronger over time, some even claimed it manifesting as flashes of the other’s surroundings or faint echoes of thought in moments of crisis.

Jack stared at it, the letters reflecting in the dark holes of his mask.

He shut the book, slid it back into the hidden pocket, and walked to the window. Outside, snow was falling in steady, lazy sheets, the valley muted and colorless. Plum was a distant shadow moving through the courtyard below, probably hunting, Chestnut snored faintly, smoke curling from the top.

Jack leaned against the cold frame, keeping the mask on, the bell’s phantom echo still ringing at the edge of his hearing. It wasn’t fear that kept him watching the snow. It was the uneasy feeling that whatever had just happened wasn’t done with him yet.

He wanted to know so much more.

It might be his way home.

Or it might just be his way back .

https://pin.it/6CeAigqkg

Chapter Text

The sanctuary never truly sleeps.

Even at its quietest, it breathes. A slow, deep rhythm that thrums in the bones of every living thing within these walls. Steam sighs from the vents in the far ice walls, curling in lazy plumes before vanishing into the cavern’s upper dark. Ice groans under the shifting weight of roosting dragons. Far above, great wings stir the air in drowsy half dreams.

Valka knows the sound of each one.

The booming breath of the packs of Thunderdrums, followed by Clawlifter.

Mercy whistles in her sleep while Gruff snorts.

While Razorwings and the occasional Windstrikers chittered around in nocturnal bliss.

Her steps are soft on the frost slick stone as she moves between the clusters of resting bodies. The hood of her fur lined mantle is pushed back, long hair tucked behind one ear, and she lets her gloved fingertips brush against scales here and there, an unthinking habit born of decades in this place. Touch reassures. Touch grounds her.

When she passes the massive flank of a sleeping Stormcutter, he exhales a sigh so deep the air ruffles the strands at her temple. She smiles faintly. Not many people would smile when a creature the size of a longship breathed in their face, but Valka is not most people.

She’s been here too long to be anything else.

Some days, she thinks she’s forgotten the exact tone of human voices. The Bewilderbeast’s calls, the crackle of dragonfire, the thrum of leathery wings. That was her language now. She reads moods not from words, but from the pitch of a purr, the flick of a tail, the narrowing of a gold ringed eye. A mother’s instincts, except her children are scaled and winged and capable of biting through a mast. She wondered if her instincts would even be of use at home now.

Today, those instincts tell her someone is in pain.

The sound is faint. A low, almost inaudible vibration more felt than heard, and it draws her toward one of the smaller feeding alcoves. A young Thunderdrum lies there, sides heaving in slow, labored breaths. His tail sweeps over the ground in sluggish arcs, not from aggression but exhaustion. One amber eye follows her every step.

Valka crouches, keeping her posture low and unthreatening. “Easy, now,” she murmurs, though she knows the words themselves matter less than the tone. Her hand extends slowly until it rests just behind his jawline, where the scales are smoothest. She feels the steady pulse of his life beneath the armor of his hide.

The injury reveals itself when she shifts closer. His left fin is torn, the membrane puckered and raw where a harpoon must have grazed him. She clicks her tongue softly, already thinking through poultices and bindings, when her gaze catches on something else. Something drawn into the scales just above the wound.

She freezes.

The grooves are clean, deliberate, each stroke part of an interlocking pattern: a circle, almost mimicking the sun, lines weaving into one another with almost mathematical precision. It’s too symmetrical to be accidental. Too controlled to be a hunter’s rushed cruelty. The lines are as precise as if someone had drawn them with a compass and chisel.

Her brows knit.

She’s seen plenty of marks on dragons; brands from hunters claiming their catches, crude tally lines for kill counts, hasty scratches from claws in desperate escape. This is none of those things.

Valka leans in, the world narrowing until it’s just her breath clouding faintly in the cold air and the shape beneath her hand. When she lays her palm against it, heat blooms against her skin. Not the surface warmth of the dragon’s body, but something else. Something that pushes back against her touch, as if the mark itself is alive, breathing in tandem with the creature it rests on. It makes her feel alive. The same blissful feeling she gets when sunbathing on Cloudjumper when the wind spirits aren’t as angry.

The Thunderdrum does not flinch. If anything, his posture loosens. His eye softens, lids lowering halfway in a kind of calm that makes the back of her neck prickle.

“…What happened to you?” she whispers, though she doesn’t expect an answer.

For a moment, she just sits there, her hand still on the sigil, feeling that strange warmth seep into her bones. A hundred possibilities stir in her mind, each less likely than the last. Could it be a ward? A healing sign from some long forgotten tribe? A relic of an old magic she’s never studied?

Or, and here is where her stomach knots, a calling card?

Her lips press into a thin line. If someone is moving through the archipelago, marking freed dragons instead of hiding their tracks, they’re either a fool or so confident they think they can’t be touched. And confidence like that… gets creatures killed.

By the time she dresses the Thunderdrum’s wound and leaves him drowsing in the steam of the lower cavern, the mark is still burned into her thoughts. Even as she tends to other dragons that day, her mind keeps circling back to the perfect symmetry of it, the strange living warmth, the way it soothed instead of agitated. Was it drawn with a healing paste of some sort?

When night falls, she finds herself lying awake in her sleeping alcove, staring at the frost patterns above her. The Bewilderbeast rumbles in the deep, his voice reverberating through the ice. Usually, that sound settles her. But tonight… tonight it feels like a question she cannot yet answer.

The next morning, the sanctuary feels different.

Not louder, not busier. The kind of different she notices the way other people notice a storm on the horizon. A ripple beneath the still water. A slight shift in the air. It’s probably all in her head.

It’s late morning when the Snow Wraith comes.

Valka catches the first sight of it as a pale flicker against the blue ice wall near the outer arch. Its flight is crooked, the left wing dragging slightly in the air. The moment it crosses the threshold into the sanctuary, the younger dragons, curious and overeager, lift their heads and begin to stir.

“No, no—easy!” She strides forward, cutting across the ice shelf with practiced speed, intercepting before the crowd can swarm. Her hands are up, palms open, voice pitched in that low, steady cadence that works better on dragons than shouting ever could. “Plenty of space. Give them air.”

The Snow Wraith lands awkwardly, talons scraping. Its long neck dips low, wings folding in jerky movements. The frostbite scars that mar the thin membrane stand out like spiderweb cracks, pale against the icy blue of its hide.

Valka moves closer, and freezes.

There it is again.

The same sigil, tucked just beneath the base of its neck. Smaller than the one on the Thunderdrum, and this time not carved at all. It looks almost… painted, though there’s no pigment. The lines are as clean as before, but softer, like smoke given shape. She extends her hand, and as her fingers brush over it, the mark flickers faintly, then steadies again. Not vanishing. Not protesting her touch. Some of the sigil flaked off on her thick leather gloves, ah…

it was blood.

Though she was deeply disturbed by this fact the icy beast didn’t seam to mind. They exhale, the sound thin but steady.

By the time she’s seen to its wing and coaxed it toward the warmer caverns, the image is branded into her mind alongside yesterday’s.

It does not end there.

Over the next three weeks, they keep coming.

A Nadder with a limp that makes its movements jerky and defensive.

A Gronckle whose tail ends abruptly, the stub sealed in an old, neat scar. Another scar just blearily missing its large beautiful eyes.

A Terrible Terror with one eye clouded white.

Each one freed from somewhere far beyond the sanctuary. Each one bearing the same mark. Sometimes it’s faint and ghostly, sometimes it gleams fresh as if placed yesterday. Always deliberate. Always placed where the injured could not easily touch it themselves.

At first, she tries to dismiss it as coincidence — the archipelago is wide, and signs and symbols have always existed among the scattered isles. But the precision of it… the way it carries the same geometry each time… the unnatural warmth beneath her palm…

No. This is not coincidence.

And that unsettles her more than she’d like to admit.

In the quiet hours, she begins to turn over the possibilities.

A protection? A call to the Gods to keep the dragons safe, the calmness it seemed to give her. A signal to other rescuers? Could someone be moving across the archipelago, marking the dragons they save?

Or… a taunt to hunters? A way of saying, I took what was yours, and you can’t stop me.

Then there is the other possibility, the one she tries not to give voice to.

A claim.

Valka knows about claiming. She’s seen hunters brand dragons, carving into their hides not just for ownership but for humiliation. She’s seen Drago’s soldiers leave symbols as warnings to others, territory staked not for survival but for control.

And yet… this feels different. It wasn’t permanent, that was the big difference.

She thinks of her own trips outside the sanctuary: rare, but deliberate. She never risked them without cause. A dragon in urgent need, a chance to dismantle a dangerous trap, an opportunity to cut down a hunting camp before it grew too bold. Even those few times had been enough to earn Drago’s fury. He called her reckless. She called it necessary.

Whoever is leaving these marks is either more reckless than she ever was… or far more confident. Confident in a force that they probably have never experienced. Drago against someone with the brain capacity as a babe’.

One night, she stands in the steam of the thermal pools, arms folded, the hot mist curling around her face. Across the water, three Seashockers rest with their heads low, the sigils glowing faintly against their scales in the dim light. She’d called them to stay for better observation. The signs seem to pulse, not in unison, but with some strange, individual rhythm.

The Bewilderbeast rumbles from the far end of the waters, the deep note rolling through the stone like distant thunder. Usually, the sound is grounding, a reminder of the sanctuary’s safety, the boundaries they keep. But tonight, it carries the weight of an unspoken question.

Her fingers curl against her arms.

She feels something she hasn’t in years, the first time she left with Cloud. The pull of a trail waiting to be followed. The curiosity of a hunter who senses another moving through her territory. The faint, almost forgotten eagerness of a woman who once believed she could change the course of things if she just acted fast enough.

But beneath it all is the wariness that never leaves her now.

She has lost too much to let eagerness win without a fight.

Still…

She cannot shake the thought that has taken root and refuses to loosen its hold:

I am not the only one keeping watch.

-

Cloudjumper waits at the mouth of the cavern, a dark silhouette against the blinding white. Snow curls off his wings in restless spirals, the downdraft scattering loose frost across the ice. His eyes are fixed outward, toward the endless horizon, as though he can already feel the path she has not yet committed to taking. His head turned to his rider, head tilted in question, body not moving.

Valka stands several paces behind him, her boots planted in ice worn smooth over years of pacing. She has been standing there far longer than she’ll admit, her breath clouding in the frigid air.

Her gaze sweeps the sanctuary one last time.

Every movement is familiar; the lazy stretch of a resting Stormcutter, the rolling huff of a drowsy Gronckle, the quiet hiss of steam from the thermal pools. The great curve of the Bewilderbeast’s tusks gleam faintly in the cavern’s dim light. The air is warm here, smelling faintly of sulfur and sea salt. Safe.

Leaving means risking the unknown. Leaving means stepping back into the dangerous, chaotic world of people she swore off decades ago. It means every step away is another opportunity for hunters to find what she’s built here. She’s done this before she can do it again.

Her stomach knots at the thought.

And yet—

The sigils won’t leave her mind. Not their lines, not their warmth, not the uncanny sense that they are not the work of cruelty but of… something else. A promise, maybe. But if it is a promise, then who is making it in these waters? And how many more dragons will bear it before she knows the truth?

She knows the pull of this feeling too well. It is the same tug that once led her to her own boy’s cry in the night, the same tug that pulled her into the clouds to save a hatchling from a net. The same tug that’s stolen sleep from her more nights than she can count.

Cloudjumper shifts, one wing lifting slightly, a subtle invitation.

She exhales slowly and steps forward. The old ache in her knees reminds her of the years, but her movements are still sure. She mounts without a word, her hands settling into the curve of his neck the way they have a thousand times. The moment her weight is set, he launches.

The sanctuary falls away in an instant. The Bewilderbeast’s low rumble follows her out into the wind, not disapproving, but… watchful. She doesn’t look back. If she does, she might not leave at all.

Days pass in wind and ice.

They move in long, deliberate arcs, skirting the outer reaches of the archipelago. She follows the pattern of freed dragons like breadcrumbs scattered across the sea. Each new encounter confirms what her gut already knows. These rescues are deliberate. Surgical. Whoever is doing this knows where to strike, and when.

A trapped Skrill, its snare cut clean in places that only a skilled hand could reach without losing fingers to a good shock.

A wounded Scauldron, freed with its harness dismantled bolt by bolt rather than hacked apart.

A Timberjack, wings wide as sails, carrying the faint shimmer of a fresh sigil.

Every few days, another mark. But the burnt and smoldering bases kept getting larger.

It becomes a trail she can almost feel beneath her fingertips, a line cutting straight through hunter territory.

The kind of path only someone reckless… or deeply driven… would carve.

She feels the old instincts stirring: the way she measures the wind for pursuit, the way she catches herself watching for smoke columns on the horizon, the way her mind drifts toward strategy instead of survival.

Cloudjumper’s body is tense beneath her. He knows the signs too.

By the time she spots the blackened mast of a frozen ship on the horizon, her pulse is quick. The wind cuts cold against her cheeks, but there is a heat building under her ribs, the restless energy of a chase.

She doesn’t yet know if the figure she’s following is a kindred spirit… or something worse.

But she knows this: if she turns back now, she will never stop wondering.

There!

-

The night belongs to the wind. It bites, it howls, it drowns the sound of boots on ice. Jack knows how to move inside the storm of night, not against it, not with it, but as though he’s the thing the wind was made for. One with the wind just like he used to feel.

The ship’s lanterns glow like dull embers on the horizon, rocking slow in the swell. He’s been tracking it for hours, keeping just outside the ring of light where shadows can breathe.

When he moves, Plum moves with him, a pale flicker against the dark. She circles above the mast like a winter ghost, her wings barely whispering against the air.

The first sign of trouble is the rope ladder hitting the water with a heavy slap .

Chestnut’s smoke comes next; thick, acrid, creeping along the deck like something alive. The first cough echoes sharp across the water, followed by a shout, then the clatter of boots.

Jack swings up the ladder before the shouting peaks, boots finding slick wood, one hand on the staff strapped to his back. The world is chaos in pieces: Plum tearing through rigging overhead, her talons shearing through rope with the sound of cloth ripping; hunters stumbling blind through smoke, their crossbows clattering useless against the deck; the groan of the ship as it lists under sudden strain.

He moves for the crate by instinct. Three locks. Two are rusted through; the last resists until his staff slams against it with a sharp crack . Wood splinters. Inside: scales. A dragon’s eyes — wide, panicked — meet his for a single heartbeat.

The bolt hits the railing beside his head. Splinters pepper his cheek, and for an instant he smells the burn of the metal as it skids past.

No time.

He presses the rune against the dragon’s neck. A faint pulse of light, the wound in its wing knitting just enough for flight. He does nothing more. Nothing that leaves a trail. At least, unless a dragon hunter wants to get close to an injured dragon. Something that will fight hard till its last weaning breath.

By the time the smoke clears enough for the hunters to aim again, the dragon is gone — Plum snapping through the air at its flank, Chestnut scattering cinders across the deck. Jack is already over the side, the cold swallowing him.

The convoy is easier.

They hear him before they see him, the sharp click that cuts through the snow like a blade. Moments later, the wind surges, hard and deliberate, dragging the blizzard down from the cliffs.

When the hunters shout, the sound is muted, swallowed by the sudden white.

By the time they fumble for weapons, the dragons are unhitched, their chains and harnesses scattered in the drifts. Jack’s lines of fire are precise, drawn by Chestnut’s breath, neat, almost delicate, burning carts to husks that collapse into the snow, smoke curling like ink dissolving in water.

Nothing left worth tracking.

The outpost is muscle memory.

He doesn’t kick doors anymore. He doesn’t shout. He moves like the wind he carries. In, out, gone. Bolts snap in locks. Chains break under the quiet strike of his staff. His shadow flickers along the walls, nothing more.

Dragons leave in silence, wings brushing frost from the air.

But the magic leaves its fingerprints everywhere, and he hates it.

Even now, bone tired and shaking from the cold, he kneels in the snow and drags his palm over the hope rune he’d cut seconds earlier, smudging it until only meaningless lines remain. His hand stings from the heat where the magic fought him. He’s so tired it didn’t even work on him. It did work on the dragons so at least that’s something. And if he’s stuck here for good, might as well die with believers then get walked though with out.

No marks. No sign. No one should know he was here.

It’s the one thing he’s certain of, the only part of this life that hasn’t been compromised.

-

The ridge crouches over the outpost like a frozen jaw, teeth of jagged rock biting into the wind. Plum lands just below the crest, claws punching into the frost-hard slope with a sound like bone splintering. Her tail sways in a slow, irritated rhythm. A metronome tapping out hurry up, hurry up .

Jack doesn’t. He keeps low against her neck, breath leaking in ragged puffs that sting his lips raw. The air is so sharp it scrapes his throat on the way down.

Below, the outpost smolders with lamplight. Warm gold bleeding across the snow. It’s almost beautiful, in the same way an open grave can be beautiful if you don’t think too hard about what it’s for. Same feeling for ponds but for a different reason. Places like this chew dragons down to meat and bone, and they do it with a smile.

He counts the guards. Once. Twice. The numbers don’t improve. Crossbows on every wall, walker, shoulders squared, the kind of posture drilled into you by years of killing for coin.

"So, not a quick snatch-catch-and-run. Fantastic," he mutters, voice low enough for only Plum to hear.

His eyes track the wall to wall distance, the sprawl of the pens, the stacked crates near the central fire pit. Bigger compound, bigger storm. And storms that big don’t just cost magic — they take something from you, leave their claws in your ribs and scrape for hours afterward.

He glances to Sugar, tucked against his hip, a little knot of warmth in all the cold. She peeks out from his coat folds with half-lidded eyes, whiskers twitching. “Sorry, love,” he murmurs, scratching just behind her ear. “We’re flying long tonight.” The apology is all hers. His own fatigue is just part of the job description.

-

The first strike is clean, almost surgical. Hunters on the wall vanish under a blinding sleet squall before their lungs can shape the alarm. Chains pop and fall from the pens as Chestnut barrels through the south gate, smoke unfurling from his jaw like black silk. Plum dives overhead, slicing through pulley ropes so the main gates sag open like a gutted fish.

For a heartbeat,

For just a moment,

it’s perfect.

Then the rhythm stutters.

Somewhere between the last pen and the storerooms planed burning, two chain guards break from the chaos and move like they’ve rehearsed this moment a hundred times. The first lunges low, the chain hook catching the back of Jack’s thigh mid-swing. Pain punches through the muscle, white hot, and his teeth slam together hard enough he tastes blood.

Before he can twist free, the second drops a weighted wire net from above. It blooms open in the cold air, edges glinting, and crashes over him with the sound of metal teeth snapping shut.

He hits the snow hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The impact jars his ribs, makes black spots flicker at the edge of his vision. The net bites deep through his coat into skin, each strand studded with tiny backward hooks. They don’t tear, they cling , burrowing in his pale skin like cold iron thorns.

He breathes in, and the hooks dig deeper, snagging. He breathes out, and feels one of them break skin along his forearm. Then his neck. Warmth blooms instantly, shockingly hot against the night air. Revealing bubbling ruby red blood against the pure inocente snow. Blood seeps down onto his hands, sticky between his fingers. Every movement making him realize he has a new thigh piercing.

Above, the guards are closing in.

Boots crunched toward him — not the frantic scramble of a guard chasing glory, but the slow, deliberate tread of a man who had already decided the fight was over. Snow whispered and squeaked under each step, the sound maddeningly calm against the ringing in Jack’s skull.

He forced himself up to one knee, the net’s hooked wire dragging across his coat and skin. Each movement dug barbed teeth deeper, like the net itself wanted him to stay down. His staff was pinned useless beneath it, trapped like an arm in a coffin lid.

His breath fogged in front of him, hot against the inside of his mask. His pulse pounded in his ears, in his throat, in the tender place just behind his nose where the cold was starting to bite. He swore under his breath — vicious, multilingual, picking curses from every corner of the map. 300 years gave you plenty of free time to break into these new ‘school’ thingys. There fun. If his captor didn’t understand at least one of them, he’d be shocked.

The man who came into view could’ve been carved from the ridge itself — all sharp planes, lean muscle, and eyes like deep winter. The kind of man who never smiled unless it cost someone else something. He stopped just far enough away that Jack would have to lunge to reach him, and Jack noticed the ease in his posture. That loose, casual confidence of someone already picturing their victory.

“…Was expecting a girl,” the man said, voice smooth, almost pleasant. “Not a scrawny little boy.”

The words slid under Jack’s skin like a splinter, lodging deep in a nerve he’d thought dead years ago. His mouth curled, not into a smile, but into something thin and dangerous.

“Careful,” he said evenly. “That’s almost funny.”

The man’s brow lifted slightly, intrigued but hinting at an impressed smirk. “I like funny. It makes my job easier.” He shifted his weight, hands clasped behind his back in that irritatingly patient way. “Do you know who I am?”

“Oh, I know,” Jack replied, switching languages without warning — English for the snap, Icelandic for the knife. His tone was fluent, perfect, and the suddenness of it made the man pause mid-step. Jack caught it — the smallest flicker of surprise in those cold eyes.

The man inclined his head the barest fraction. He was guessing what Jack was saying, and he was right.

“Then you know I prefer things… civilized. My name is Viggo Grimborn. And I’m curious, boy — why is it you strut into my outpost, tear apart my work, and play god with what doesn’t belong to you?”

Jack tilted his head, feigning thought. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“I make it sound like a dangerous thing,” Viggo said, his tone still calm, but sharpened now. “The kind of thing that gets boys killed.”

Jack’s laugh was quick and humorless. “That’s the problem with you lot” Jack switched to the hunters own heavy language, shocking the guards around the smarter man, “always so eager to underestimate me. You see ‘boy,’ I see ‘someone you can’t stop.’”

“Really?” Viggo’s mouth curved just slightly — not quite a smile, but the shadow of one. “And why is that, exactly?”

“Plum,” Jack called.

The air cracked with the force of her dive. A vast shadow slammed across the snow, wings beating the cold into sharper knives. The net around Jack shuddered, but it was Chestnut who struck first, skittering over Jack’s back, breath rolling hot enough to steam the air.

“oh hay dar bud,”

The wires snapped under the dragon’s fire, molten sparks sinking into Jack’s coat and stinging his skin. He clenched his jaw against the burn, better this than still being on the ground.

Viggo didn’t flinch. His hand darted forward in the chaos, quick as a viper, gripping Jack’s shoulder in an iron clamp. Jack’s breath hitched, not from fear, but from the surge of instinct that came next.

Cold. It rushed down his arm like a flood, wild and sharp, spilling into Viggo’s fingers. The man’s grip faltered as frost crawled up his skin in a bloom of white and blue. It bit deeper, turning flesh into glass. In seconds, Viggo’s hand was encased to the wrist, crystalline and unmoving.

Jack leaned in close, his breath misting between them. His voice dropped to something low and unshakable.
“Because I am one. And if you don’t give up, I will be an unforgiving one.”

He tore free, the ice snapping at the break. Leaving Viggo with a frozen claw of his own, he already knew what was happening.

He wondered if prosthetics are easy to come by.

Hopefully not.

Snow kicks up in thick white fans as Jack pushes off the ground, his left leg screaming with every step. The puncture wound in his thigh feels like someone jammed a hot nail through muscle, and the lacerations from the wire net run raw down both legs. His bare feet becoming sticky with his own new red socks.

A hot ribbon spills from his nose, quick and bright against the freezing wind. It drips once, twice, painting red into the white of his mask as he keeps moving, not stopping to wipe it away. 

It’s hard to be funny when you’re bleeding to death.

Chestnut clings to his back like a shadow, claws hooked in the padded shoulder straps of his vest, tail flicking for balance. The little dragon’s weight is familiar, grounding, and today, an extra weapon.

“Alright, firebug,” Jack mutters between ragged breaths, “left side’s yours. Try not to roast my ear off.”

A crossbow bolt hisses past, close enough to stir the edge of his hood. Jack drops low, staff sweeping in a tight arc that takes a hunter’s knees out from under him. Chestnut uses the opening, launching a staccato burst of flame that forces two more men back, their fur lined sleeves catching in bright, frantic flashes.

Jack pivots, but his bad leg buckles on the turn. Pain flares sharp and electric up to his hip. He swears, teeth bared, and turns the stumble into a shove, slamming his staff into the gut of the nearest hunter. “You’re lucky,” he grunts, “I fight better when I’m cranky.”

Chestnut leaps from his shoulder to his forearm mid spin, his tiny jaws clamping down on another man’s wrist. The crossbow clatters to the snow. Jack uses the momentum, swinging his staff in a short arc like a living flail before Chestnut lets the man go.

Two more bolts cut the air, one burying itself in the snow by Jack’s knee, the other grazing his coat sleeve. The fabric smokes briefly, but Chestnut is already there, huffing a sharp plume that turns the nearest marksman’s bowstring to slack, dripping ash.

Jack’s breath is ragged, heart hammering too hard for the cold. His left foot squelches when he moves, and still, he grins. Not big. Not pretty. But enough to show the hunters that even bleeding and limping, he’s not slowing.

“Next one who tries the net,” he calls out in English, voice carrying in the frozen air, “is leaving with fewer eyebrows than they came in with.” The blood loss was making him stupid.

Chestnut chitters sharply in agreement, sparks curling from his teeth.

-

He’s halfway to Plum, limping hard and leaning on his staff, the half-finished raid collapsing into chaos behind him. Smoke twists with snow in the air, dragons shrieking in the distance as they break loose. He ordered Chestnut to the tree line once his feet were out of the base. Took a second for the dragon to understand but he scurried to the closest tree. He would be invisible if his anger wasn’t conveyed by glowing crackles.

The hunters are still shouting, still trying to hold their walls, but he’s almost out

almost.

A glint catches his eye high above.

Rafters. Crossbowman. Already aiming.

He knows the draw length, the snap of the string, by the time his brain names it, the shot’s already loosed. He twists instinctively, hand reaching for the tree trunk at the rim of the valley, not for cover, but for balance. His legs are lead, his magic-drained muscles slow, his lungs burning ice. He’s not going to make it.

The shot should punch through his skull.

It doesn’t.

A blur cuts across his vision — sleek, powerful, the kind of clean movement that doesn’t waste an ounce of motion. Steel clangs. The bolt skips away, spinning into the snow.

Jack’s head snaps toward the impact.

Not a person. A dragon.

An impressive dragon. Taller than two men, scales a stormy blue with the polish of seawater and the edge of a blade. Wing fins stretch like sails in a sudden wind, each one cut with the precision of a master craft. Four or six he can’t tell at this point.

Jack blinks once, twice, not because he’s shocked, but because his vision is going soft at the edges. The fight’s still roaring, but the drain is worse than he thought. This storm… it’s chewing through him faster than expected, leaving his muscles jelly and his head light.

“Not bad,” he mutters under his breath, not even sure if he’s talking to the dragon or himself. His knees dip before he forces them straight again. The crossbowman is gone from the rafters, probably thinking better of a second shot.

Plum screeches from somewhere ahead, a sharp, demanding sound. Jack starts moving again, the cold biting into every open cut on his legs. Behind him, the dragons shadow falls over the snow, long and steady. Unknowingly drawing him deeper into the woods. For a brief heartbeat Jack can’t tell if that’s reassuring… or trouble.

One step. Then another.

That’s all Jack asks of himself.

The outpost is behind him now, or at least the screaming is. That’s something. The snow ahead is open, quiet, but every breath feels like pulling knives into his lungs.

His left leg drags, bleeding hot and fast enough to steam in the cold.

Plum’s shadow flits somewhere in the dark, her wingbeats uneven — she’s looking for him, but her night vision is garbage. He raises a hand, just enough for her to see the movement. But trying not to startle the large dragon in front of him.

“We’re fine… just—”

He stops.

The dragon in front of him is still there, the same sleek, storm blue creature that swatted death aside for him a minute ago. The tilt of its head is sharp, birdlike, with eyes like gold lanterns fixed entirely on him.

If he weren’t dying, he’d call it beautiful.

If he weren’t dizzy, he might remember the word dangerous .

The ground gives a slow, sick lurch under his feet. His vision narrows like someone’s drawing curtains on the world.

Plum’s hiss slices through the night, sharp enough to strip the air, then jumps into a shriek as he pitches forward. He braces for the cold bite of snow, but it never comes.

Instead, arms catch him. Strong, steady, but human .

Every instinct flares. Chestnut drops from the darkness above, claws biting into his shoulder as he lands like a living ember, the heat radiating through Jack’s coat. Smoke curls from the little dragon’s jaws, bitter and warning.

The smell of old leather and barn hits him next. Then a glimpse of green cloth, not scales, and the shape of a hood shadowing a face he can’t quite see. A mask that is almost bug like.

His body goes stiff in their grip, his pulse roaring louder than the wind. The dragon, stands motionless, as though this stranger’s touch is nothing unusual, but Jack’s gut knots.

He trusts the dragon. Not the rider.

The last thing he hears before the dark takes him is the low whistle of the wind… and that strange bell like chime again, as if the night itself just marked the hour. 

Chapter Text

Jack’s consciousness came back to him in slow fragments. First the muted throb in his leg, then the muffled drip of water somewhere far off, and finally the steady rush of deep, dragon breathing that surrounded him on all sides.

A faint, ethereal glow shimmered across the icy ceiling above, shifting like liquid light as it refracted through layers of thick frost and frozen stalactites. It was unlike any sky he’d ever seen, a strange imitation of daylight captured and held in the cold.

Yet the air around him was not the biting chill he expected; instead, it was warm, thick with heat radiating from hundreds of unseen bodies. The contrast felt wrong, almost dizzying, and his senses struggled to decide if he was in danger or at peace.

Or dead that was definitely a possibility.

He shifted slightly, the movement drawing his attention to what he was lying on. Not snow, not stone, but a layered “bed” crafted from thick furs, molted dragon scales, and carefully packed dried grasses. It cradled him in a way that felt too intentional to be coincidence. His leg, when he tried to move it, was bound tight in a bandage that smelled faintly of herbs and smoke. The wrap was snug but not constricting, the kind of work done by someone who knew exactly how much pressure to apply.

And then he felt it, or rather, didn’t feel it. That invisible hum he had carried for three centuries, the quiet proof of belief threading through his veins, was gone. Not entirely, but dulled to a thin whisper, like a candle burning at the edge of going out. It was a hollow that settled in his chest far heavier than the ache in his leg, a cold emptiness that made him feel both half alive and half dead all at once.

Blinking the haze from his eyes, he finally took in the cavern around him. Dragons, dozens upon dozens of them, lay scattered across the space. Some curled together in massive coils, others resting alone with tails twitching in sleep.

A few were awake, quietly grooming each other or lifting their heads to give him curious but nonthreatening glances. His breath caught in his throat when recognition hit: these were dragons he’d freed. Faces, scales, and wings he remembered from shattered cages, smoking ships, and midnight raids.

He had never once seen so many gathered in one place, not without chains.

The air carried their presence in full: the scent of damp fur, old smoke, molten stone, frost, and something faintly metallic.

His ears picked up the occasional deep rumble of contentment, a sneeze like snort, the clink of claws on ice.

He glanced to his side and found Chestnut tucked neatly against his hip, the little dragon’s smoky gray hide rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. His age showing in scales smoothed out and polished by time. Its half lidded eyes regarded him with a silent, almost protective watchfulness. Further along, near the far wall, Sugar Plum sprawled in an ungainly heap, her bulk taking up an enormous portion of the cavern floor. He could see the faint scrape marks along the entry tunnel where she had struggled to wedge her way inside. A few dragons gave her a wide berth, either wary of her size or still deciding if she was friend or rival.

For the first time since opening his eyes, Jack realized, he wasn’t just in some random ice cave. This place was alive. It was a sanctuary. And whoever had brought him here… had done so with purpose.

The crunch of snowy ice under booted feet echoed softly through the cavern. Jack’s eyes, still hazy from exhaustion, caught the glint of movement at the far end of the room. A tall figure emerged from the shadowed tunnel, wrapped head to toe in furs that rustled like dry leaves.

The mask she wore was carved from weathered green leather, mottled and etched to look almost bug like. It hid her face entirely, yet her presence radiated warmth and command, like the calm eye in the center of a storm.

She spoke before reaching him, a low murmur rolling over the dragons. “Easy now… calm, little ones. He means no harm.”

At once, the dragons shifted. A tail flick here, a low hum there. Even Sugar Plum lifted her massive head slightly, nostrils flaring, before settling back onto the cavern floor. Chestnut gave a small, appreciative puff of smoke.

Jack, still lying on the furs, blinked at the approaching figure. “Uh… who—what—?” His voice croaked, barely audible, and he shifted slightly, trying to prop himself up. One hand slipping slightly as he accidentally hit his staff. A sharp twinge of pain made him freeze midmovement.

The woman paused, just a few steps away. Her head tilted ever so slightly, as if analyzing him with precise patience. “Reckless… but brave,” she said softly, each word deliberate. “I’ve been tracking you. You think yourself alone in this… this war you wage. And yet here you are, bleeding and alive. Again.”

Jack frowned, entirely confused. “You… you’re talking to me like… like I’m a child. What are you—”

Her gloved hands reached up, gentle but deliberate, and lifted the edge of his mask.

The leather fell away, revealing his pale, frost-streaked face and the tired. From the way he had to wipe dried blood from his nose, this person respected his privacy.

The moment her hands lingered over him, Jack felt a bizarre warmth, not just from touch, but from the weight behind her gaze. She inhaled softly, a nearly inaudible sigh escaping her lips.

“I should feel ashamed,” she murmured to herself, more to the cavern than to him. “He is… about my son’s age. And yet…” Her eyes softened, though they were still hidden behind the green mask. “He has survived where others… would not.”

Jack froze. “Son’s age? Wait, what—” He cut himself off, unsure whether to sit up straight, run, or just stare at the feral old lady mumbling at him. His heart raced with confusion. “Why… why are you talking to me like… like that? Who… what are you?”

Her voice became both sharper and gentler at the same time, an impossible balance that made Jack’s stomach twist.

“I am the one who protects those who cannot protect themselves. The one who tends the broken, who keeps watch when others are blind. And you… you are reckless, but brave.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? The dragons, the hunters… the lives you’ve touched, and the ones you’ve left at risk?”

Jack winced again, his pride flaring at her criticism. “I—Hey! I know what I’m doing! I—” He trailed off as her eyes, though behind the mask, seemed to pierce right through him.

Her presence carried the weight of someone who had watched too much pain and loss and still had the patience to care.

She knelt slightly to meet him on his level, careful not to crowd, careful not to startle. “You are alone, yes. But you are not without guidance. Not while I can still watch.”

Jack blinked rapidly, trying to process her words, the warmth of the cavern, the soft hum of dozens of dragons, and the strange tug in his chest he didn’t recognize. “Guidance… from you? From… a feral old lady?”

Her lips curved slightly under the mask, a hint of a smile he could feel rather than see. “Call me Valka. And yes… perhaps I am old. Perhaps I am feral. But in you, I see what my son would have been, and I cannot turn away.”

Jack’s jaw dropped. He had no idea how to respond. Casual trauma dumping was not how he expected his morning to go. He was eternally eighteen, always smart enough to act before thinking, but right now his thoughts were a tangled mess. All he could do was blink at her, frozen halfway between suspicion and awe.

Valka straightened, resting a reassuring hand on the edge of the ice near his shoulder.

“Rest now. Heal. Then we talk. Then… perhaps, you may begin to understand what it means to truly protect.”

Jack shifted slightly, wincing, but didn’t move away. He had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. But he was just as stubborn as the snow he commanded. And he wanted more answers.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Wait! Tracking me?” His tone was sharp enough to frost over.

“Tracking patterns ,” she corrected. “You’re clever enough to hide your footprints, but you forget the wings you free always cast a shadow.”

He bristled, every muscle tightening under the fur blanket. “So what, you show up to thank me? Arrest me? Lecture me?”

Her mask dipped slightly, as if she were smiling under it. “No. I’m here to offer a trade.”

Jack snorted. “Not interested.”

“One secret,” she continued, ignoring him, “for another. You tell me something real about how you plan your raids. And in return… I will tell you anything you ask. No lies.”

He froze, studying her for a long moment. His instincts screamed to keep his mouth shut, but curiosity… it burned.

“And why,” he said slowly “should I trust you?”

“Because,” she replied, stepping close enough for him to see the frost melting in her hair, “trust is the only reason I’m not calling my dragon to stand between us.”

Chestnut shifted beside Jack, a low smoky growl curling from his throat.

Jack exhaled sharply, leaning back against the cavern wall. “Fine. You want a detail? Here’s one. I don’t hit the big camps first. I wait until they’ve sent half their men to reinforce another places. Makes the cages easier to empty, and I don’t have to burn through as much… frost.”

Her head tilted, weighing the words. Then, slowly, she reached up and loosened the ties of her mask. Was she expecting what he was going to say?

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

Jack blinked, caught off guard by the sudden offer. His mind spun, he hadn’t expected her to actually follow through.

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

The silence between them felt fragile, like ice stretched over deep water. One wrong word, and it would break.

Jack’s lips press into a thin line. “Fine,” he says, voice still edged. “One for one. What’s your real name. And what’s the name of the dragon that saved my life?”

For the first time, the woman’s eyes soften behind her mask. Then, unexpectedly, she laughs. Not the sharp, mocking kind Jack’s used to from enemies, but something warmer, like a fire catching on a cold night.

“It’s Valka. Valka Violence Haddock,” she says with just enough dry humor to make it sound like a story worth hearing later. Her hand lifts, brushing along the crest of the great dragon behind her. “And this beauty, the one who saved both you and me, is Cloudjumper.”

Jack blinks at the name, then huffs out a short laugh. “That’s… a weird name.”

Her smile widens in a way that makes her eyes crinkle. “Oh? And what should I call you, then?”

That stalls him. He opens his mouth, hesitates, looks like he’s about to say something real then veers. “Frost… uh… Frost Walker.”

“Mm.” Valka tilts her head, studying him the way Cloudjumper might size up a fish. “Now that’s a weird name.”

Something in Jack’s chest eases, just slightly. The exchange leaves the air between them different than before, less like a battlefield and more like a tightrope they’re both willing to try walking.

Valka steadies him without ceremony, one gloved hand braced under his arm, the other still holding her staff. Jack, grimacing, shifts most of his weight to Plum’s sturdy side, his own staff in his free hand. Together, they start the uneven trek toward the strange haze ahead, a rolling shimmer of heat and humidity that prickles against Jack’s frost bitten skin.

It’s oppressive, the kind of warmth that makes his breath feel heavier, his chest tight. His ice deep instincts recoil from it, but he says nothing, keeping his expression neutral.

Valka keeps her pace slow, her voice a steady current against the distant rush of wind.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, eyes flicking toward him beneath the shadows of her hood. She was referencing the trail of burnt hunter based.

The corner of his mouth twitches, but didn’t say anything In response. For a few beats, they walk in relative peace, Plum snorting softly at the ground, the distant calls of unseen dragons echoing through the mists. But then Valka’s tone turns curious, almost probing.

“You don’t strike me as the type to risk yourself for strangers without reason. So why hunters? Why not… keep your head down?”

Jack’s grip on his staff tightens. “Because every Viking is a dragon killing Viking,” he says, the words sharp as sleet, edged with the weight of old wounds.

The statement lands between them like a dropped blade. Valka glances at him sidelong but doesn’t immediately refute him.

Her lips press together before she finally says, “You’re not wrong. We’ve earned that reputation.” She pauses, her voice softening, almost wistful. “But I’ve seen some… try to change. Brutes with stubborn hearts. They don’t listen easily. Not without a fight.”

She stops herself, the flicker of memory shadowing her eyes. For a moment, she’s not looking at Jack at all, but somewhere far away, maybe years ago. Something loving and exciting, like a high school crush.

Jack notices but doesn’t press. Instead, he keeps walking, the statement hanging between them. Not fully a challenge, not quite an olive branch.

And somehow, despite the tension, there’s no finality in the silence that follows. Just the faint, tentative intrigue of two people who are still deciding what to make of each other.

The tunnel narrowed before it widened, every step carrying a shift in the air — from the crisp sting of glacier wind to a deep, damp warmth that clung to his skin. Light changed with it: soft glacial blues melting into rich gold and amber, as if the ice itself had swallowed sunlight and was now letting it bleed through. Thin streams of steam curled along the floor, coiling around Jack.

Valka’s pace was unhurried, each step deliberate, the faint echo of her staff clicking against ice the only sharp sound in this strange stillness. She brushed her hand against the wall as they walked, like she was greeting an old friend.

When the tunnel finally opened, the sight nearly stopped Jack’s breath.

It wasn’t a cavern, it was a living cathedral. Massive ice spires arched toward a ceiling webbed with veins of crystal, glowing faintly with the geothermal heat that poured up from vents below. And among the frost and stone, green thrived — moss carpets, ferns spilling from ledges, vines wrapped around frozen pillars, flowers blooming stubbornly against the cold. Life where ice should have killed it.

Then he saw it .

At the far end, half-shrouded in mist, loomed a dragon unlike any he’d seen before. massive, pale as glacial stone, its body radiating a thrumming hum that made his bones ring. The air around it shimmered faintly, tinged with the same raw, ancient magic that lived in him. His heart kicked in his chest. He didn’t even realize he’d taken a step forward until Sugar Plum’s wing brushed his shoulder.

“What… is that?” His voice barely carried over the low, resonant sound vibrating through the air.

“ The one who guards them all. The Bewilderbeast.” Her tone held the kind of reverence most people saved for gods.

Closer now, he began to notice the movement — dozens, maybe hundreds of dragons scattered across the sanctuary floor and walls. Some rested in steaming pools, letting the mineral-rich water soothe torn muscles and charred scales. Others lay curled together on soft moss, a wing draped protectively over a smaller companion.

Then came the ones he recognized. A Monstrous Nightmare with a scorched tail — freed from a burning trap weeks ago — rumbled low and pressed its snout to his shoulder. A tiny Terrible Terror darted up to perch on his arm, chittering happily before a wary glance at Chestnut sent it skittering away again.

But not all welcomed him. A Gronckle with one milky eye flinched when he drew too close. A Skrill shifted its weight, curling tighter around a still-healing wing. Some turned away entirely, as if hiding their wounds.

It hit him in the gut — the truth he’d never stopped to consider. He was freeing them, yes… but not all could escape unscathed. Some left the hunter camps broken, still vulnerable, still hurting. The chains were gone, but the scars remained.

Valka’s voice came softly from beside him.

“Bravery gets them out. Patience keeps them alive.”

Jack swallowed hard, gaze still on the Bewilderbeast as it hummed, sending a ripple through the air that made the greenery sway. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t have a quick answer.

The warmth of the sanctuary settled around them like a living thing. Jack leaned on his staff, Sugar Plum padding quietly behind him, as he took in the endless rows of dragons mending, sleeping, or gently nudging each other. The Bewilderbeast’s hum thrummed through the cavern floor, vibrating under his boots, and for a moment, he felt the weight of centuries pressing down. the lonely raids, the burned out camps, the dragons he had freed and yet sometimes left scarred.

Valka stepped closer, her hand brushing against his shoulder lightly, not in dominance but in guidance. Her voice was softer now, the low edge of authority replaced with quiet warmth.

“Frost… if you thought less like an avenger,” she said, her gaze sweeping over the injured dragons and back to him, “and more like a guardian, you could save more lives in the long run. Not just the ones you free from cages, but the ones still waiting, still at risk.”

Jack blinked, unsure if he wanted to argue, laugh at her wording, or just nod.

“Guardian… huh?” he muttered. His jaw tightened as he considered it, the weight of her words pressing against his pride. He’d always acted on instinct, on fury, on the thrill of freeing dragons and punishing hunters. Thinking about long term planning felt… unnatural. But watching the small, trembling dragons here, the ones too afraid to nuzzle him, something in his chest tightened.

Valka knelt slightly to be closer to his level, her fur-lined cloak brushing the mossy floor. Slowly, she removed her mask. Her face was worn, lined in ways that spoke of harsh winters and battles both outside and inside. Yet her eyes held a softness that seemed almost impossible against the backdrop of this frozen, steaming cavern. She was probably somewhere in her forties, with hair streaked by both frost and time, but the strength and warmth in her gaze anchored the space between them.

“You’ve done well,” she said, voice quiet but steady. “But there’s more you can do. And I want to help you.”

Jack shifted, half crouched, half standing, gripping his staff tighter. “Help me?” he asked, suspicion and curiosity threading through every word.

“Yes.” She straightened, letting her hands drop to her sides, calm and assured. “A second deal. Bring me the dragons you free. Let me shelter them, tend to their wounds, give them a safe place to live. And together… we can make armor, gear, tools for your rescues. You won’t just be striking at hunters. You’ll be giving the dragons a chance to thrive after you save them.”

Jack stared at her, the cavern glowing amber around them, the mist rising in spirals from hidden vents. His chest tightened. The idea of compromise, of letting someone share control, didn’t sit comfortably with him. He was used to working alone, fast.

But the image of dragons broken, alone, or left vulnerable weighed heavier.

His gaze drifted over Sugar Plum, who twitched her ears, almost urging him forward. Then to Chestnut, who flicked a smoky wisp from his snout like a question. He felt the pull of responsibility in a way that wasn’t fear, nor pride, but something new.

“…Fine,” he said at last, voice low, almost reluctant. “I’ll… I’ll do it. But…” His fingers clenched around the staff. “…this doesn’t mean I’m giving up control.”

Valka’s lips curved in a faint smile, and she nodded once. “You don’t have to. But trust me, Frost Walker… learning when to hold on and when to share is what will keep them alive.”

Jack let out a long breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He stood in the amber-lit cavern, the dragon hum pressing softly against his bones, the heat of the geothermal vents brushing against his skin, and for the first time, he felt the glimmer of a plan beyond rage. A compromise, yes, but one that could change everything.

Sugar Plum nudged him gently with her snout, Chestnut flicked a curl of smoke in the air, and somewhere above, the Bewilderbeast shifted, sending a ripple of magical resonance through the sanctuary. Jack took a deep breath, letting the strange warmth seep into him. This was the start, not just of a new alliance, but of a new way of thinking.

Chapter Text

The morning in the Sanctuary was hushed, the kind of quiet that carried the faint sound of waves lapping against the frozen shore and the occasional deep, rumbling breath of the Bewilderbeast resting nearby.

Jack sat cross legged on the frost coated stone at the edge of the ice wall, a partially braced leg stretched out in front of him. His hands worked with slow precision, drawing the whetstone along the metal tip of a makeshift spear. Each scrape left a thin, silvery glint on the sharpened edge.

Before him, the Bewilderbeast loomed like a living glacier, its massive head lowered, watching him with an eye the color of pale ice. “You know,” Jack said conversationally, tilting his head at the beast, “for a giant ice breathing dragon king, you’re a really good listener. You’d make a great therapist, if you weren’t, you know, terrifying.” The Bewilderbeast blinked slowly, as if in mild amusement, a puff of mist curling from its nostrils. Jack quickly brushed all the frost off of his feet and jacket.

The crunch of boots on snow drew Jack’s attention over his shoulder. Valka approached, her silhouette framed by fluttering ferns that glimmered in the morning light. She carried a small wooden plate in both hands, and the savory scent of smoked fish preceded her.

“Thought you might be hungry,” she said, voice gentle but carrying that quiet authority that came so naturally to her. Even though he didn’t know her very well, every day, at least once, she made him eat something. Jack set the spear aside and took the plate with a nod of thanks. “You always bring the good stuff,” he jokes, breaking off a piece. “Better than trying to cook over a driftwood fire with wind howling in your ears.” That was a lie. I mean sure, he couldn’t taste anything unless he really tried, and even now, taste buds half dead, he could tell she wasn’t the best cook.

She settled beside him, her leather cloak brushing the frost rimmed stone. “How’s the leg?”

Jack flexed his braced leg slightly. “Getting there. I can run if I need to. Not far. Not fast. But I can.”

Their conversation meandered like the slow current beneath the ice: calm, warm, but with deep channels they carefully avoided. They didn’t speak of the moments that had driven them here, the choices made, the battles lost. Instead, they lingered on safe topics: the dragons’ moods, the shifting ice, the way the wind changed before a storm.

Jack gave a small grin, tapping the scarf wound loosely at his neck. “You know, if you keep sending me on rescue missions, I might need more than a stick and a scarf. Not that they aren’t… stylish. But style doesn’t block arrows.”

Valka’s lips curved faintly, though her gaze lingered on his makeshift weapon and the patched bracing on his leg. “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” she admitted, her tone both thoughtful and faintly teasing. “If you’re going to keep risking your neck for dragons, perhaps it’s time you had the tools, and protection, to match your determination.”

The Bewilderbeast rumbled again, low and approving, as if echoing her sentiment. The sound seemed to vibrate through the ice beneath them, a reminder of the bond between those who chose to protect.

Jack smirked, but there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes. An unspoken acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, she was right.

-

The workshop glowed faintly in the muted daylight filtering through high vents, the air rich with the warm tang of heated metal and the dry scent of rope fibers. Valka’s workbench was already cluttered. Wooden frames, lengths of woven netting, hand tools worn smooth by years of use.

Jack followed her in from the Sanctuary’s edge, his scarf still smelling faintly of sea air. And blood. You know he finally got that stain out.

He set the half finished spear aside and eyed the pile of materials skeptically. “So,” he said, picking up a coil of rope and letting it dangle, “you’re telling me this… is going to make Sugar Plum a dragon ambulance.”

“What’s an ambulance,” Valka questioned, before swiftly giving up, pulling a small brass fitting from a drawer. “Anyways, it’s a rescue sling. For dragons who can’t make it to safety on their own.”

Jack dropped the rope onto the bench and leaned against it, one foot hooked behind the other. “Right. And my role in all this is… what? Tie knots until my fingers fall off?”

“You’ve got a knack for improvising,” Valka said, sliding the brass piece into a carved groove on the rig’s frame. “And if this works, it’ll mean fewer dragons left behind.”

That quiet, stubborn conviction in her tone made him smirk despite himself. “Alright, but if I’m going to be a glorified delivery boy, I’m at least making sure the knots are stylish.” He began looping the rope through the netting, fingers working with the easy rhythm of someone who’d spent too many nights making repairs on the fly.

Valka glanced up from adjusting the frame’s balance, her eyes catching on the lightness in his expression. It made her smile, just faintly, before she bent over her work again.

“We’ll need the rig to distribute weight evenly, or Sugar Plum will overstrain her wings.”

Jack nodded, tugging a knot tight. “She’s stronger than she looks, but yeah… she’s not built for hauling a Monstrous Nightmare.” He was trying to get better with the names. But he didn’t like those things, too hot, made him feel… gross.

“Then let’s make sure she doesn’t have to.” Valka’s hands moved quickly now, attaching the final joint. “When this is done, you and she will be able to carry an injured dragon over water without it slipping or panicking.”

“Great,” Jack said with a smirk, tossing the finished length of net onto the table. “I’ll add ‘flying stretcher service’ to my list of skills.”

Valka actually laughed, short, low, but real, and for a moment, the workshop felt warmer. The sound seemed to ease something in both of them, even if neither said it aloud.

From the far corner, Sugar Plum lifted her head, watching them with curious, unblinking eyes, as if sensing that this wasn’t just about rope and nets at all.

-

The warm lamplight of the workshop still flickers against the walls when Valka sets aside her tools, wiping her hands on a worn cloth. The rhythmic clink of Jack tightening the last knot on the net rig fades as she gestures for him to join her at the large, weathered map spread across a table. A neat cluster of ink markings circles a chain of islands, one of them marked with a charcoal smudge shaped vaguely like a grazing beast.

“There’s a female Buffalord,” Valka begins, her tone carrying that quiet seriousness that makes Jack lean in without meaning to, “she’s been recovering here for weeks, but her mate is still out there, on this island.” She taps the charcoal smudge. “They’re gentle giants, but they hate flying long distances. And if she’s separated too long…” She doesn’t finish the thought, but Jack catches the shadow in her expression. He doesn’t know what a ‘Buffalord’ is but it sounds fun.

He glances toward the newly finished rig, now resting in the corner, ropes neatly coiled. “So this is my big debut as Sanctuary postal service?” he teases, smirking. “I bring the lady home, hand-deliver her to the husband, and what? Hope they name the first calf after me?”

Valka gives him one of her rare, almost reluctant smiles. “Something like that.” She turns away briefly, rummaging in a carved chest against the wall. When she comes back, she’s holding a small, battered notebook. The leather cover is worn to softness, its corners rounded from years of handling. She slides it across the table to him.

Jack flips it open to find sketches of the Buffalord: gentle eyed, thick bodied, with notes in looping script detailing their habits, signs of distress, and favorite grazing plants. A faint whiff of dried herbs lingers on the pages.

“Lavender is a good herb to both calm and treat them”, huh.

Then, from her other hand, she offers him something stranger, a tiny green vial, its glass clouded with age, the top sealed shut in a thick coat of dark wax. Preserving the mixture from the air. “Just in case,” she says simply, as though that explains everything.

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Just in case what? It explodes? Summons a miniature dragon? Turns the Buffalord into a frog?”

Her lips twitch in something that might be amusement, but she only shakes her head. “Incase you run into someone looking for a Buffalord.” She clarified, “You’ll know if you need it.”

Jack studies her for a moment, debating whether to push, but something in her eyes tells him she’s not being evasive just for the fun of it. So he slips the vial into the inner pocket of his coat, closes the notebook, and straightens.

“Alright. Giant cow dragon delivery, mystery potion in pocket, and one, still questionable, leg. What could possibly go wrong?”

The forge’s warm glow followed them into the wide cavern where Sugar Plum waited, her massive head lifting at the sound of Valka’s approach. The big dragon gave a low, eager rumble, her eyes flicking between Jack and the harness in Valka’s hands.

Jack limped forward, running a palm over Sugar Plum’s thick neck scales. “Alright, big girl, time to earn your keep,” he muttered, eyeing the bundle of leather straps and rope they were about to wrangle onto her.

Valka moved with practiced efficiency, buckling the main frame around Sugar Plum’s chest while Jack steadied the dragon’s weight. The net rig hung neatly from the underside, its rope cradles coiled and ready to drop. Jack double checked the knot work, his knot work, and gave an approving tug.

When they reached the smaller enclosure, the Buffalord stood waiting. “Smaller” was generous, it was shorter than Plum, sure, but built like a walking boulder, all round belly and thick legs. Its hide was dappled gold and brown, the sort of earthy tones that looked almost soft despite the sheer bulk.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t kidding about her being heavy duty. Does she roll or walk?”

Valka ignored the jab, stepping forward with a handful of fresh lavender sprigs. The Buffalord’s big nostrils flared, and it lumbered toward her with an almost puppy like hum.

Jack kept hold of the net lines while Valka coaxed the Buffalord into position. Sugar Plum lowered herself so the cradle hung close to the ground. With the lure of lavender and a few patient nudges, the Buffalord stepped neatly into the sling. The ropes settled around her belly and chest without a single protest.

“Easiest loading I’ve ever seen,” Jack said, giving the lines a last check. “Almost too easy—”

Something small and warm hit his back.

Jack let out a sharp, startled curse and nearly dropped the knot in his hand as Chestnut, all stocky limbs and curious eyes, scrambled up to perch on his shoulder like he owned it.

His little claws pricked through his scarf, tail curling around the side of his neck.

“Chestnut!” Jack half laughed, half grumbled, twisting to look at him. “I’m working here, not giving piggyback rides.” The tiny dragon chattered at him, unimpressed, before fixing his gaze on the Buffalord and flicking his tail in smug satisfaction.

Valka smirked as she finished tightening Plum’s chest straps. “Seems she’s decided you’re ready for the field test.”

Jack rolled his eyes but reached up to steady Chestnut anyway. “Yeah, well, let’s hope he’s not calling shotgun the whole way there.”

-

Sugar Plum’s wings beat in a steady, low rhythm as they skimmed just above the mirror like sea. The net sling swayed gently beneath her, cradling the round bodied Buffalord like a precious, oversized jewel.

The morning air was crisp, the salt tang mixing faintly with the lavender still clutched between the Buffalord’s teeth.

Jack sat cross legged against Plum’s warm head, the thick belt of the saddle keeping him steady. Valka’s battered notebook lay open across his lap, pages curling in the wind. He traced one of her careful sketches with a thumb, the Buffalord’s sturdy body rendered in swift, sure lines, while his free hand absently rested on Chestnut. The little dragon had decided his lap was prime real estate and had curled herself into a surprisingly compact ball, her soft breath puffing against his arm.

Every so often, Jack would glance down into the net, humming low and tuneless under his breath. The Buffalord’s ears twitched at the sound, her eyes drooping as if the rhythm itself carried a promise of safety. Jack wasn’t sure if the calm in the air belonged to her… or if the feeling was seeping into him as well.

By the time the dark smear of an island began to take shape on the horizon, the sun was higher, catching glints off the water like scattered shards of glass. As they drew closer, he could make out a lavender patch swaying in the breeze, and standing beside it, a massive male Buffalord, stockier and somehow even rounder than his mate. The moment the female spotted him, she let out a deep, rolling bellow that was answered in kind.

Jack guided Plum into a low hover, the downdraft rustling the flowers below. Carefully, he worked at the net knots, the rope giving way with a soft snap. “Easy now,” he murmured, loosening the cradle until the Buffalord could step down onto the grass. She barely spared him a backward glance before trotting toward her mate, lavender still in her mouth.

He found himself smiling, a small, crooked thing that felt strangely unfamiliar. The two great creatures pressed their foreheads together, rumbling in low, contented unison. It was the kind of moment you didn’t get in the heat of a rescue… a moment that wasn’t just about surviving, but living.

“Go on, girl,” Jack called over his shoulder. “Stretch your wings.”

Plum gave a sharp trill before veering away from the lavender field and disappearing into the tree line in a burst of speed and beating wings. The sound of her flight faded quickly, replaced by the lazy buzz of insects and the sigh of wind through the grass.

Jack stayed where he was, leaning on the saddle horn, Chestnut now perched upright to watch the Buffalords. The peace in the air was thick, almost tangible. the sort of quiet that made the rest of the world feel far away.

His leg ached, damn.

-

In a clearing not far from the Buffalords.

The group crouched low in a patch of flattened grass, just far enough from the coast that the salt in the air mixed with the heavier perfume of wild lavender. The Buffalord’s tracks were fresh, deep hoof, shaped impressions leading into a sunlit valley dotted with pale purple blooms swaying in the breeze. Beyond the tree line, through the occasional gap in the foliage, Hiccup could see the blue shimmer of the sea.

Fishlegs was hunched over, his knees and elbows making neat dents in the earth as he drew their plan in the dirt with a stick. His voice was hushed but urgent. “If we keep our distance and come in from the east ridge, we’ll have a clear shot to rope it. The Buffalord grazes slowly, so we just need to—”

“To keep it calm,” Hiccup finished for him, rubbing his chin. “We don’t need it panicked before we can guide it back to the Edge. Remember—”

His gaze flicked to the ridge, where Toothless was pacing like a caged predator. The Night Fury’s tail lashed from side to side, pupils darting between the treeline and the open field beyond. Hiccup narrowed his eyes. “—we’re here for Astrid’s cure. That means no surprises.”

“Toothless doesn’t seem to be likeing waiting,” Snotlout muttered under his breath, already tapping one foot impatiently.

“Quiet,” Hiccup warned. “We’ll keep our approach slow, keep it—”

A sharp thump vibrated under them. The sound rolled through the earth like a muffled drumbeat. Everyone went still.

Another thump, heavier this time, made the ground shiver beneath their boots.

Toothless froze midstep, every muscle going taut. His ears swiveled forward, head lowering as his nostrils flared. A sound followed, deep and low, like boulders shifting under the weight of a landslide.

The air seemed to thicken. Even the breeze stilled.

“Toothless?” Hiccup murmured, but before he could move, the dragon was gone. He sprang forward in a blur of black, claws digging deep gouges into the dirt, tail whipping like a thrown spear.

“Toothless! Wait!” Hiccup’s shout cracked the tense quiet.

The others didn’t hesitate, plans forgotten, they surged after him, boots pounding the earth, branches whipping against their arms and faces as they pushed through the undergrowth. The thudding grew louder, now accompanied by a faint scraping, a deep guttural hiss threading through the air. Pine needles shivered loose from the canopy above, drifting down like lazy snow.

Ahead, the sound of Toothless’s growl cut through the forest, low and warning.

And just beyond the break in the trees, something massive moved.

The forest spat them out into a wide, rocky clearing, and everyone skidded to a halt so suddenly that gravel crunched beneath their boots.

Hiccup’s eyes locked on the shape ahead, and for a second, his brain refused to match it with reality.

Towering over Toothless like a glacier given teeth and wings was a Screaming Death. But not the Screaming Death they’d fought before, no red marked, feral, eyed monster. This one was snow, pure from horn to tail, every scale catching the sunlight in sharp, glassy facets that shimmered like ice. Purple eyes, not the usual hateful red, watched Toothless with an unnervingly steady focus. Its wings were broader, the leading edges thick and ridged, as if meant for carrying more weight.

Female, Hiccup thought distantly, almost academically. Bigger wingspan, smoother horns… sexual dimorphism, maybe?

Toothless stood in the center of the clearing, hackles up, lips curled in a low growl. The Night Fury shifted sideways, his tail stiff and ready. The two dragons circled, each one angling for advantage, their movements measured but coiled with potential violence.

“Uh,” Snotlout muttered under his breath, “is anyone else about to throw up or is it just me?”

The air was thick—too quiet except for the slow crunch of claws on rock and the occasional sharp exhale from the white behemoth.

Then it happened.

Instead of lunging or unleashing that bone, rattling roar they all knew too well, the giant lowered her head. The motion was deliberate, almost careful, her breath rolling over the stone in little plumes of steam. She gave a low, warbling trill, deep but… friendly? and nudged a fist, sized rock forward with her snout.

It tumbled toward Toothless, clicking and bouncing over the uneven ground, before rolling to a stop at his feet.

The team froze.

“She’s…” Fishlegs whispered, “…playing?”

Hiccup blinked once. Twice. “Easy, bud…” he murmured, stepping forward just enough for Toothless to notice.

“Let’s… see where this goes.”

Toothless tilted his head at the rock, then at her, pupils shrinking and expanding in rapid succession. He let out a single questioning chirp.

The Screaming Death rumbled back, softer this time, almost like she was matching his tone. Then she pawed the rock again with one talon, sending it wobbling in his direction.

And unbelievably, almost reluctantly , Toothless swiped it back. But while the white dragon tapped it Toothless and to jump on it.

A slow exchange began. A chirp. A rumble. A rock shunted back and forth like an awkward game of catch. Her massive tail gave a small wag that sent loose stones skittering to the treeline.

Hiccup’s lips quirked in disbelief… then his gaze caught on something along her head and largest horn.

A saddle and stear.

Not a hunter’s crude straps and metal spikes, but a carefully built piece of gear. Handmade. Whoever crafted it had spent hours making sure it fit perfectly along the contours of her armored body.

Someone rode her. Recently.

And if that someone was nearby—

Fishlegs edged closer to Hiccup, voice low. “If the rider’s close, they might know something about the Buffalord… or they could be dangerous.”

Hiccup’s mind was already racing. “Either way, we can’t let them slip away without talking to them.”

Snotlout leaned in, eyebrows raised. “So… ambush the mystery rider?”

Hiccup’s reply stalled when another thought slammed into him like a Barf and Belch on a bad morning. His eyes widened, mouth parting in shock.

“This is her…” he breathed, loud enough to make both dragons pause mid-play. “The one from Snow Wraith Island.”

The white Screaming Death looked bigger now than she had back then, significantly so. A few months’ growth and she had gone from massive to titanic. Toothless gave him a sidelong glance as if to say, Yes, and she’s my friend now, so don’t ruin this.

The two boys looked at him like he was crazy.

But Astrid was back at the Edge, getting worse by the hour. And if the rider was tied to the Buffalord, this could be their only lead on a cure.

Hiccup’s expression hardened. “We set a trap. Carefully. If they’re friendly, great, we get the answers we need. If not…” His eyes flicked to the white behemoth, who was now watching him curiously from over Toothless’s shoulder. “…we’ll have to be ready for a fight none of us want.”

The group exchanged looks,equal parts dread and determination, before melting back into the trees, steps light, breaths held.

Behind them, the white Screaming Death let out a low, rolling sound that almost resembled laughter.

-

The meadow’s quiet hum of dragonflies and the heavy scent of lavender is shattered in an instant. Jack tenses, staff raised, when the shadows fall across him. The wind kicks up as dragons descend, one after another, wings buffeting the tall grass flat.

Their landing isn’t delicate; it’s purposeful, a show of force.

Circling in like predators, their eyes fixed squarely on him.

A Monstrous Nightmare in a beautiful scarlet landed first, wings flare as he hisses low, fire licking the edges of his teeth.

The meatball with teeth rumbles, stomping her feet, the ground shuddering under her weight. That was definitely a Gronkle.

And front and center, a sleek black dragon, tail stiff, ears angled forward, growl building in his throat. If someone were to ask him what he thought the sports cars of dragons is it would be this one.

Jack tightens his grip on the staff. He knows what this is he’s been cornered before. His fingers twitch toward his mask, sliding it into place in one smooth, practiced motion. The carved edges fit snugly against his face, the scarf hiding the sharpness of his jaw. The limp in his leg is harder to mask; he braces on the staff, tries to stand tall, tries to make it seem intentional. The Riders don’t miss it, he can feel their eyes cutting over him, picking apart every flaw.

Then a voice calls out, sharp but not cruel. “Wait! Don’t spook her!”

It’s the tall one with the brown hair. His hand is outstretched, not threatening, trying to keep the tension down.

Wait her… was he talking about Jack?

The black haired one, of course, ignores him. He swaggers forward, chest puffed, swagger dripping from every word. “Well, well, well… so this is the mysterious Pale Rider everyone’s whispering about? Figures she’d be tiny, kinda cute though, don’t you think?” His grin is cocky, eyes shamelessly scanning Jack up and down.

Behind the mask, Jack almost snorts aloud. He bites it back, but a muffled sound still escapes, half laugh, half scoff. Of all the things he expected right now, being flirted with wasn’t one of them.

Chestnut doesn’t find it funny. The little dragon scrambles higher onto Jack’s shoulders, smoke curling from his nostrils. A sharp crack of heat snaps through the air as she spits a warning burst, sparks flying at the flirty boy’s boots. He yelps and hops back, slapping at the smoke rising from the edge of his tunic.

“Hey! Whoa, okay! Testy little thing, huh?” he mutters, glaring.

“Careful!” The round one hisses, his voice tight. His round face is pale, hands clenching around the journal clutched to his chest. “Don’t you realize what this means ? If this is the Pale Rider, then she’s tamed not one but two previously thought to be untamable species. A Screaming Death and, Thor help me, that’s an elderly Smokebreath. Do you have any idea what this implies?!” His voice cracks with a mix of awe and terror.

Jack, still standing with his staff angled toward his bad leg, tries to keep his breathing steady. He was not expecting both praise and aw in this ambush. The Riders aren’t closing in aggressively, yet, but the circle of dragons and the hard stares aimed his way are enough to set every nerve on edge. He has half a mind to bolt, half a mind to fight, and none of it feels like a good option.

And then, he actually looks at them. He really looks at them. And, oh, great Frost, he has to look up . Way up. Every single one of them towers over him. Even the shortest is still a head taller, broad shouldered and brimming with Viking bulk.

Jack, all lanky limbs and perpetual 5’6 frame, suddenly feels like a kid who wandered into the wrong mead hall. Ya know what, if this is the average size for children here. The lanky one’s “her” comment doesn’t bother him as much now.

Really, Mother? This was the legacy you passed down? Not charm, not presence, just… permanently fun sized?

And then there’s him. The beanpole in green and brown, standing at the head of the circle with the kind of posture that screams leader, the kind of calm authority that can silence a room with one word. His voice has that timbre: deep, steady, commanding, that slides under Jack’s skin and leaves his stomach swooping in a way that’s absolutely, categorically unhelpful right now. It’s a voice that should belong to some figure in a saga, not the boy across from him, whose piercing green eyes are fixed right on Jack.

Jack’s chest gives an involuntary flutter, and he almost groans. Professional, Frost. Professional. No simping in front of the enemy.

Especially not in front of Dragon Flyers: hunters, raiders, WHAT EVER THE FUCK THEY ARE. They’re dangerous. Big, armed, disciplined. That’s what they are.

Not your type. Not anyone’s type. Okay, fine, everyone’s type, but that’s not the point.

He risks another glance at the tall one, and his traitorous brain whispers: Beanstalk. The nickname fits too well. Tall, wiry, commanding, with that absurdly perfect hair tousled by the wind and that cautious intelligence sparking behind his eyes.

Three hundred years of watching people walk by, of figuring out who makes your chest ache, and apparently the universe has decided your type is…

commanding beanpoles in forest colors. Great. Just great. Wonderful job, Jack. Truly, you’re thriving.

He clears his throat, adjusts his grip on the staff to cover the tremor in his hand. No one needs to know what’s happening in his head. They just need to see the Pale Rider, was that what everyone called him now; silent, controlled, mysterious. Not some flustered ghost boy internally shrieking about shoulders and cheekbones.

Get in, get out. That’s it. No sighing over tall strangers with leadership complexes. No swooning. Just survive.

Hiccup’s gaze sharpens at that, his green eyes narrowing in thought. And Jack forces his mask a little higher, hiding the twitch of his mouth before it can betray him. He doesn’t look away from Jack, his voice softer than the others, but heavy with curiosity. “Two dragons that no one else has ever been able to get near, let alone train. That… that’s not just luck.”

Jack shifts uncomfortably under the weight of their stares. His heart hammers; part of him wants to lash out, part of him wants to vanish. But then he catches the urgency in their voices, the way they demand answers, not with suspicion alone, but with desperation.

There’s something else here.

“Why are you here?” Hiccup presses, stepping forward now, slow, careful. “What do you know about the Buffalord? Who’s helping you? What do you know about us? ”

Jack doesn’t answer. His throat feels tight, his mask doing its job of hiding more than just his face. Instead, his fingers drift to his pant pocket. He feels the cool press of the glass vial, its wax seal unbroken.

The one Valka had slipped to him with hushed words, urging him to keep it safe.

A mental gamble. If this is what they’re after… then maybe this ends without a fight.

He flicks the vial free and, without hesitation, tosses it across the circle. It arcs cleanly through the lavender haze, landing neatly in Fishlegs’ fumbling hands. The boy gasps, nearly dropping it before clutching it tight against his chest like it’s the most precious relic in the world.

“There’s a seal, and it’s intact,” he breathes in wonder, almost reverent. “It hasn’t dried out… it’s, this could be exactly what we need.”

Jack doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His silence is deliberate, enforced by the mask and the weight of the staff digging into the earth. He watches as the Riders exchange hurried, almost frantic looks, their relief breaking through the hostility for a fleeting moment.

Hiccup is still watching him. Not like Snotlout, not like Fishlegs. His gaze is measuring, curious, struck with something like awe. And Jack knows exactly what he’s thinking: who is this rider, and how in the world did she do what no Viking could?

He let himself sit and stare, it was only natural. He’d done it for so long before this. The thing that made him realize he was being weird was a snort coming from Snotlout. The two wiped their heads towards the sound. Then they both looked in different directions.

Jack only lets the silence stretch, his breath hidden, his heart thudding loud beneath the mask. Ok plan ‘Get the Fuck out of Here’. He didn’t want to give them a chance to crowd him, to press him on how he got the green liquid, to get too close. With a whistle that cut across the field, the ground seemed to quake.

Sugar Plum answered his call.

The earth shook under her tunneling approach, the lavender field splitting in a burst of dirt and flowers as the pale scaled Screaming Death erupted from below. She roared, scattering petals like confetti, the sound rattling the Buffalords in the distance. The Riders scattered instinctively, dragons bristling and pulling back, giving Jack the single second of space he needed.

He lunged forward, hooking his staff through the makeshift harness wrapped tight around Plum’s head, and swung himself up in one smooth, practiced motion. His scarf snapped dramatically as he landed, mask gleaming faintly in the sun.

For once, he let himself have a little fun with it, spinning the staff in one hand and flourishing it toward the wide, eyed Riders as if to say catch me if you can.

“Go, Plum!” he called, his voice lost under her roar.

The Screaming Death surged forward, wings unfurling with a whip-crack. The air around them turned sharp and wild, Jack leaning low against her neck, grinning despite the ache in his leg.

Behind them, Hiccup’s voice rang clear: “Let him go! We’ve got the cure!”

But Jack knew better. Knew curiosity wouldn’t let them stay put.

Sure enough, when he risked a glance back, he caught sight of the black one—the dragon with green fire in its eyes. Sleek, deadly, faster than anything else in the sky. The dragon wasn’t just following—it was hunting.

“Great,” Jack muttered under his breath, tightening his grip on the harness. “Just my luck.”

Sugar Plum shrieked at the Night Fury’s approach, her body twisting to pick up speed, but Jack already knew the truth: that dragon was faster. And the closer he came, the sharper the questions that would follow. Questions Jack didn’t have the answers to.

So, he did the only thing he could. He played dirty and had a little fun with it too.

The air was thick with summer haze, but in the distance, Jack spotted it: a fat, looming cloud, heavy with unspent storm. His grin sharpened. He stretched out a hand, magic humming to life, tugging frost from his bones. The warmth of the afternoon bent under his will, and as he and Plum streaked toward the cloud, Jack drew the cold from its core.

Snow blossomed like smoke in the air, white and blinding. Flakes spiraled in unnatural whorls, ice blooming across the edges of the cloudbank until the sky itself seemed to shiver. What was once an innocent summer cloud now churned with sleet, a wall of white teeth rising between hunter and prey.

Halfway to the storm, Jack’s chest tightened with adrenaline. His mind spun with fragments. Valka’s sharp eyes, the sealed vial, the Riders’ desperate tone, the way the black dragon never hesitated to chase him.

They kept finding him. They kept following.

And for the first time in a long while, Jack wondered, not if he could escape them, but if he even wanted to.

He shook the thought off with a sharp breath, tugging Plum toward the waiting storm as the Riders fell behind, lavender fields vanishing beneath a curtain of snow.

And then there was nothing but open sky and the promise of the cloud ahead. The storm is alive.

Jack drives his staff hard into the air current, bending the storm into something sharp, something deliberate. Clouds churn and writhe like a living beast, lightning snapping across the bruised sky. Then, crack, he carves a tunnel straight through the belly of it, a yawning, jagged hole rimmed in ice. The world inside is a frozen coliseum, a dome of swirling snow and thunder where no sunlight dares to reach.

Sugar Plum’s wings thunder as she darts through, and Toothless is right behind, green eyes burning with stubborn fire. They land opposite each other in the unnatural arena, the walls closing with an endless, howling blizzard.

For a moment, there’s stillness.

Toothless flaps low, plasma humming in his throat, muscles taut. Hiccup leans forward in the saddle, eyes narrowing against the stinging flurries. Jack sits tall, mask glinting with frost, his staff angled across his lap, blue eyes cold and sharp through the stormlight.

It feels less like two riders and more like two forces of nature, staring each other down.

“Not bad, dragon,” Jack mutters under his breath, almost grinning.

Then, he gives the command.

One snap, attention

One clap, scream

And Sugar Plum screams.

The sound rips through the storm like a living earthquake—shattering the air, shaking the very cloud walls. Snow sprays in violent arcs, the storm itself recoiling from the sheer force of it. Toothless staggers, ears flat, eyes flaring wide as his footing slides in the ice. Hiccup swears under his breath, curling in on himself hands over his head. clutching the saddle horn, desperately keeping balance.

Jack presses the advantage. Sugar surges forward, massive and terrifying, her pale body weaving between lightning flashes as she barrels straight at them. At the last possible second, she pulls up, snow and sleet exploding in Toothless’ face. The message is deliberate, a threat painted in frost: I could hurt you. I could end this. But I’m choosing not to.

The storm bends tighter around them, a curtain of white roaring into place. Jack tilts his staff, smirking beneath the scarf and mask.

“Catch me if you can.”

With a final whip of her tail, Sugar vanishes into the heart of the cloud, her massive body swallowed by ice and thunder.

The blizzard walls collapse behind them like slamming doors, sealing Jack and his dragon away into nothing but storm.

Toothless skids to a halt in the sudden silence, green eyes wild, chest heaving. Hiccup stares into the wall of snow where they disappeared, heart pounding in his throat, stunned by the precision, by the restraint.

The Pale Rider had the upper hand. And let them live.

-

Hiccup’s breath fogged the air, ears still ringing after a minute or two, even through the swirling chaos left in the storm’s wake. His heart was still hammering, his hands gripping the saddle horn so tightly his knuckles ached. Toothless shifted beneath him, muscles taut, wings flared like he was ready to spring after the phantom that had just vanished. Warbling in discomfort, probably his ears. Hiccup gave a quick, “Sorry bud, did know they would do that.” Stroking the top of the night fury’s head.

Thor’s hammer… Hiccup swallowed hard, forcing his lungs to steady. What in the name of the gods was that?

For a fleeting, terrifying moment, it had felt like standing before something divine, something that didn’t belong to the mortal world.

That figure, cloaked in frost and shadow, had stared at him with eyes too sharp, too knowing. A presence that commanded storms as if they were nothing more than toys.

Hiccup’s pulse raced at the thought. A deity, maybe? No…He shook his head quickly, the rational part of him snapping back. No. No, you idiot. Not a god.

He replayed the image in his mind, how the rider had shifted in the saddle, the subtle drag of movement. A limp. Just like his. Mortal, then. Human, or something close enough to it.

Which only made the whole encounter more impossible.

“Not a god,” Hiccup muttered aloud, though his voice was shaky. Toothless flicked an ear back at him, rumbling low in his chest. “Just… just someone with a lot of power. Too much power.”

His thoughts tangled with questions he didn’t have time to untangle. The snowstorm, had that been the dragon’s doing? He scanned the dissipating blizzard walls, remembering how the cloud had closed and opened like a living thing, obeying invisible commands. No dragon on record could do that. The only time he’d ever seen a dragon break the boundaries of its species’ abilities was with Titan Wings, like the Dremilion, that strange one capable of mimicking the powers of others.

Hiccup’s chest tightened. Thor help me… was that what I just saw? A Titan Wing Screaming Death?

His mind supplied the image of the monstrous white beast circling the sky, a creature born of tunnels and terror, but this one was different. Sleek, controlled, trained. And massive enough to carve through a storm. His gut twisted at the thought. If that was true, if someone had managed to tame one…

“No. No, calm down, Hiccup,” he hissed to himself, shaking his head again. His hands flexed against the leather of the saddle, trying to work the tension out. “Don’t go Titan Wing yet. You don’t even know what you just saw. Just… think. Analyze. Later.”

But his pulse wouldn’t listen. Every nerve in his body was telling him he’d just stared down death and been spared. He couldn’t decide if that was more comforting or more terrifying.

Toothless growled softly, nudging his rider with his head. The Night Fury’s green eyes were still sharp, unsettled, but they darted back toward the horizon, toward the Edge.

“Yeah, bud. You’re right.” Hiccup exhaled, rubbing the back of Toothless’s head to steady them both. “We’re not going to figure this out here. Let’s just… get back. Back to the Edge. I’ll—I’ll think clearer once we’re home.”

But even as Toothless launched into the thinning storm, Hiccup couldn’t shake the vision burned into his mind: ice blue eyes in the dark, a dragon’s scream that rattled the marrow of his bones, and a snow filled arena that had felt more like a warning than a battle.

And above all, one thought that stuck like a splinter.

Whatever that was…

it let me live.

Chapter Text

The arena’s torches spat orange light against damp stone, their smoke curling high into the rafters where caged dragons shifted restlessly. Chains rattled. The stench of sweat, blood, and old fire hung in the stale air. Ryker stood at the edge of it all, broad shouldered and glowering, his patience fraying with every heartbeat.

The Host prattled on near the betting stalls. “Business is slow, Ryker. Slower than I’ve ever seen it. These storms are scaring folk off the trade routes. Can’t run a proper ring if no one shows up to buy.”

Ryker’s jaw worked, teeth grinding together. “Storms,” he echoed flatly, though there was an edge in his voice.

Before the Host could answer, the iron chained doors burst open. A hunter stumbled inside, cloak heavy with rain, face pale. He dropped to one knee, panting hard.

“Captain—storms on the sea routes again. Blizzards, ice, winds too strong for the season. Spring should be calm, but this…” He shook his head like a man who’d seen ghosts.

The Host let out a strained laugh, though it carried little warmth. “Ah, the Pale Rider. You’ve heard the whispers, I know you have. A spirit, a girl cloaked in frost. They say she rides the storms, punishing trade, sinking ships, scaring beasts. You ask me, that’s why your coffers are bleeding.”

The words hung heavy. The crowd of hunters shifted uneasily, some muttering under their breath. Even the dragons chained in the pens gave low, uneasy growls.

Ryker’s face darkened. His fists clenched tight enough to whiten the knuckles, and he stalked toward the Host.

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” His voice cracked like a whip, silencing the hall. “That’s no spirit. That’s no ghost story. That’s him.” His words dripped with venom, each syllable weighted with loathing.

The Host blinked, startled. “Him?”

Ryker’s eyes burned like coals. “My brother’s words before the fever took him under were clear. White hair. Staff in hand. Eyes too old for his face. That boy stole more than victory. For the limb he cost my blood, I’ll take all four from him, and more besides.”

The Host shifted uneasily, tugging at the lapels of his coat. “Boy? You’re certain? The sailors swear it’s a girl, pale as death itself.”

“Don’t matter what they swear,” Ryker snarled, stepping so close the Host nearly tripped back over the betting table. “My brother’s word is worth more than the whining of half drowned traders. He saw him. He knew him. That frost wretch is no girl.”

The hunter who’d come with the news swallowed hard, eyes darting between the two men. No one dared speak further. The storm outside howled, as if to punctuate Ryker’s vow.

The Host, nervous now, smoothed his mustache with trembling fingers. “Well then,” he said, voice thin, “if it’s him, the Pale Rider may yet prove useful. A legend brings fear, and fear brings coin. Perhaps we can—”

Ryker slammed a fist against the betting table, splintering the wood. The Host jumped, biting off his words.

“No more talk of legends. He’s no ghost. He’s no Rider. He’s a boy who bleeds. And I’ll be the one to bleed him dry.”

-

The boy sat crouched on the crag of rock overlooking the arena, breath fogging despite the mild spring air. Below, the fighting pit squatted like some ugly scar — an iron cage dome bolted over a stone circle, its floor pocked with scorch marks and claw gouges. The stands that wrapped it were only half-filled, their scattered audience more drunk than engaged, their laughter dying quickly between the sharp cracks of chain and lash. Dragons shuffled in holding cells at the edges, iron collars biting into scaled throats.

Jack crouched in the shadows of the crooked rooftop, the warped shingles bowing beneath his boots as he leaned forward, staff balanced loosely across his knees. The whole rotten arena reeked of smoke, iron, and fear. He’d been watching it for the last day and a half, mapping every patrol, memorizing which locks Chestnut could melt in seconds and which Sugar Plum would need to tear apart. It was almost mechanical now: village up the hill, a warehouse on the docks where they dragged cages in and out, the tavern with men already drunk before sundown, and the pit—always the pit. A giant chain cage lowered like some cruel toy, rattling against stone whenever they dropped it with dragons inside.

His hand tightened around the staff. Valka’s staff. It felt wrong, heavier somehow, not made for him. It rattled faintly, like it was breathing. It was too bright, too much, even for his liking. And it’s putting him in a bad mood. He still didn’t know if he trusted it. Valka had traded him reluctantly, her taking his cracked staff hostage “just in case.” He hadn’t argued, what could he say? He’d needed a lure for wild or untamed dragons.

Sugar Plum was already tunneled beneath the arena, waiting for the signal, while Chestnut shifted restlessly on his shoulder, wings clipped but claws flexing, a bead of molten heat dripping from his jaw onto the rooftop and hissing against the wood.

“Almost time,” Jack muttered under his breath, scanning the crowd. A hand coming to rest on the small dragons warm body. His jaw clenched. Not even that many people. They didn’t care about the fight, they cared about the profit. He hated that. The dragons didn’t even roar anymore; most just huddled, too tired to waste their strength.

And then, movement. Chains dragged. The hunters were bringing someone new into the ring.

Jack leaned forward, eyes narrowing. His first instinct was to sneer, expecting another brute to throw into the cage. But when he saw the tall boy shoved forward, chains clanking against a black scaled dragon, Jack froze. His heart kicked hard in his chest.

Beanstalk.

Jack almost laughed, a sharp sound he had to swallow before it escaped. “Well, hell yes,” he whispered, breath fogging. Beanstalk wasn’t a hunter. Fists pumping in the air in celebration. The relief hit him like a rush of cold air, sharp and exhilarating. Whatever else the lanky Viking was, he wasn’t one of them.

But the victory was short-lived. His eyes flicked past the boy, groggy, stumbling as though he could barely keep his eyes open, to the cage he was trapped in. Four, maybe five dragons, all chained and wild in their eyes, were shoved into the pit together. Their wings lashed, tails struck iron, but the cage rattled down anyway, sealing them inside like animals forced to fight each other.

“Oh no,” Jack breathed, the pit in his stomach growing heavier. The staff rattled faintly in his grip, almost echoing the unease burning in him.

The host strutted on the seats of the ring, voice booming and taunting, dragging on every cruel syllable. “Ladies and gentlemen, tonight I bring you for the first time in the ring a Night Fury! Battling the most vicious dragon, this side of the Changewing Island, the Razorwhip!”

Jack’s eyes darted back to Hiccup. The boy was trying, even chained, even swaying slightly on his feet. He crouched low, reaching out to one of the trembling dragons shoved into the cage, murmuring something soft Jack couldn’t hear. His hand brushed the snout gently, but before any comfort could settle in, a guard shoved him hard against the bars. Toothless growled, chains snapping taut as he lunged, but a spear pinned him back.

Jack’s knuckles whitened on the staff. This wasn’t just another raid anymore. This was personal.

From the shadows, his voice was a whisper only Chestnut could hear: “We’re ending this. Tonight.”

-

Heather kept her hood drawn low as Windshear sliced through the gathering clouds, the other Riders close around her. The air should have been warm and damp, heavy with the stink of dragon smoke drifting from the arena ahead. Instead, a sudden rush of icy wind bit against her cheeks, followed by sharp little flecks of hail.

Heather’s breath fogged in front of her face. Her fingers clenched around the saddle straps until her knuckles whitened.

Not natural. Not here. Not now.

Fishlegs squawked over the rush of wings. “That’s not natural! Not this time of year! It probably her, the one from Buffalord Island.”

Astrid, leaning low over Stormfly, scowled into the flurries. Her braid whipped in the sleet, her voice tight with recognition: “The Pale Rider…”

Heather’s stomach dropped. Her heart skipped hard against her ribs. She didn’t need Astrid to tell her, she had felt this before. This wasn’t weather. It was a warning, a curse painted across the sky.

Behind them, Ruffnut cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled into the wind: “Wait, wait, wait. her ? The Pale Rider’s a girl ?!”

“Called it!” Tuffnut whooped from the other side. “I knew it was some vengeful snow maiden come to doom us all. Should’ve bet on it.” Ruff dug in her stuffed pockets and handed Tuff something. She could only guess they bet on it.

Snotlout groaned, nearly losing his grip on Hookfang’s reins as a gust slammed into them. “Agh! Who cares if it’s a girl or a guy, look at this storm! What if she turns Hookfang into an Fang-icle?!”

Heather bit down on her tongue to keep from snapping. The gag would have been funny to anyone else, but to her it scraped raw. She had been there. She had stood on a hunter’s deck, watching sails tear like paper, iron crack with frost, entire ships splinter apart beneath that phantom blizzard. She had seen her; pale, slight, small, almost boyish in figure. But not human. Never human. Those ocean eyes controlling the tides of fate. The way the staff swung, the way the sea itself froze at his command, those memories still pricked sharp as knives.

And now, with no warning, the others were flying straight into it. Straight into him .

Astrid cast Heather a quick glance, almost questioning, like she could sense Heather’s tension even through her hood. Heather turned her face away, hiding her expression in Windshear’s scales. She couldn’t explain. Not here, not now, that this wasn’t legend or rumor. That the Pale Rider was real. That she had seen the carnage. And that for reasons she couldn’t put into words, he bore a face far too close to hers.

She only urged Windshear faster, the dread gnawing deep in her gut as snow swallowed the sky and the towns torchlight flickered in the storm ahead.

She bet, on her own life, that those blue eyes remembered her own green.

-

The pit was colder than any Berk winter Hiccup had ever endured. The stone floor drank the warmth straight from his body until his joints ached and his breath rattled like ice in his lungs. He pressed himself tighter against Toothless, his numb fingers buried in the Night Fury’s scales, whispering shaky reassurances that were as much for himself as for his dragon.

“It’s okay, bud… we’ll get out of this. Somehow.”

Toothless rumbled low in his throat, a sound so pitiful and soft it twisted Hiccup’s chest. Across the pit, the other captured dragons huddled together, shuffling uneasily, scales scraping stone. They kept their distance from one another—still suspicious, still strangers forced into the same misery.

The silence shattered.

BANG.

Hiccup jerked upright. Someone was hammering against the metal side door built into the wall of their cage. The strike reverberated through the chamber, loud enough that the guards outside shouted in confusion, boots scrambling on the stairway.

Another BOOM. The door shuddered.

The guards swore, rushing to intercept. Then—two dull thuds. The sound of bodies collapsing.

Hiccup’s heart surged painfully, hope sparking in his chest even though he knew better than to let it. His entire body stiffened as he strained to listen.

BANG. BOOM. CRASH. Each hit heavier than the last, like someone was throwing their entire weight into the assault.

And then—a sharp whistle.

It cut through the chaos like an arrow, clear, commanding, purposeful. Hiccup’s breath caught. That wasn’t any hunter’s call.

From the crack of the half-buckled door, a small, smoke-trailing body squeezed through.

“Chestnut,” Hiccup whispered, disbelief flooding him.

The smoldering Smokebreath chittered, wings clipped but determined. His old smoke curled in ribbons from his nostrils as he skittered down the stone wall. Sparks glowed faintly in his throat. Without hesitation, he crouched at Hiccup’s ankles.

Hiccup winced as the little dragon released a focused hiss of fire. The chains grew red, then white, before snapping apart with a hot ping . The heat scorched his skin, the scent of burned iron stinging his nose. He hissed at the pain, but the freedom was worth it.

He staggered to his feet, rubbing raw wrists and ankles, adrenaline thundering through him. Toothless perked up, growling at the door as though he too sensed the tide had shifted.

CRASH.

The door buckled in, a shockwave rippling through the pit. Snowflakes drifted in through the crack, catching firelight as they spun. The guards outside had gone silent.

Another impact rattled the wall until finally, with a tortured scream of metal, the door burst inward.

Hiccup squinted against the sudden flare of torchlight. Frost had already begun to creep across the stone threshold, spreading in delicate veins of ice.

A figure stepped into the pit, framed in snow and flame, a silhouette in motion, mischief and menace wrapped in frost.

Hiccup’s heart pounded. Whoever it was, they weren’t a hunter.

The iron door groans and gives way with a final shriek of metal. Hiccup stumbles back instinctively, bracing himself for another wave of hunters, only for the torchlight to fall across a silhouette rimmed in frost.

Snowflakes tumble inward on a draft of impossible cold, sparkling in the torchlight. She steps through as though the storm itself carried her. Recognition hits Hiccup like a punch: the girl from Buffalord Island.

He blinks, disbelief and relief warring in his chest. She shouldn’t even be here, but there she is staff spinning, lighter and slimmer than the one he remembered. She’d fumbled before, awkward with the heavy weight. Not now. Now, each movement is sharp and flowing, a strange dance of violence and grace. When the guards rush in, she meets them with a flourish that makes their defeat look almost rehearsed. Every blow lands with theatrical precision, snow coiling around her staff as though it’s part of the act.

And then the pit itself erupts.

With a shuddering crack, Sugar Plum bursts up from beneath the arena floor. Chains snap like twigs as the dragon rockets up, scattering guards like startled cattle. She moves with a predator’s confidence, claiming the human fighting ring as her own, every snarl a promise of ruin. At the same time, Chestnut wriggles free of the shadows, smoke trailing behind him like an old war banner. Sparks sputter from his throat, snapping at the hunters’ boots, keeping them stumbling back.

It’s chaos, but it works. The girl and her dragons move like storm and thunder; unpolished, messy, but frighteningly effective.

Hiccup can’t tear his eyes away. Not from the whirl of snow, not from the shimmer of frost clinging to her cloak, not from the sheer audacity of the performance. His chest tightens with something unfamiliar, something he doesn’t have the words for yet. Gratitude, yes. Awe, absolutely. But also… something heavier, something that plants itself in the back of his mind and refuses to let go. Something he knows he’ll have to wrestle with later, when the storm isn’t carrying him away.

And then she turns.

Their gazes lock across the chaos, his wide with confusion, hers sharp with recognition and a grin just this side of reckless. For a moment, the noise fades, the storm seems to pause, as if the world itself is holding its breath.

Hiccup croaks, voice raw from the cold:

“You—”

She cuts him off before he can stumble further, her voice light, teasing, but laced with command.

“Don’t thank me yet, Beanstalk. We’re not out of the fire.”

The word, Beanstalk , rings oddly in his ears, lilting, unfamiliar. Not Norse. Not anything he’s heard before. He frowns, thrown by the strange syllables.

His confusion only sharpens her grin. She twirls her staff with a flourish, kicking aside a groaning hunter. “That’s right. Keep guessing. You look good when you’re confused.”

Hiccup bristles, half from the jab, half from the ridiculous warmth spreading through his frozen ribs. “I’m not confused,” he shoots back automatically, then mutters, “Just… processing.”

Her laugh cuts through the clash of steel and the growls of dragons. a sound almost too light for the pit, too alive. “Sure, Beanstalk. Processing.”

Snow whips around them, the storm growing teeth. Guards scramble against dragons they can’t control, torches sputtering against the unnatural cold. Toothless stirs, shoving against the floor with shaky determination, and Hiccup realizes with a rush of breath that they might actually have a chance.

Jack grips the icy metal of the cage door with one hand, Chestnut perched solidly on his back. The dragon’s smoke coils around them like a living cloak, sparks popping from his throat, lighting the snowy arena in flickers of gold and gray.

“I’m getting these dragons out,” Jack mutters, voice low but sharp. Hiccup’s voice cuts through from the cage below.

“Dragon proof metal! You can’t break that!” Hiccup protests, alarmed, eyes wide as he watches Jack climb.

Jack glances down, one brow raised beneath his mask. “Oh, I can ,” he says, grinning. Then he calls softly, “Chestnut, focus fire. One spot. No mercy.” He barked over the storm, and the dragon exhaled a controlled, sizzling torrent of fire at one link of the massive chain. Jack pressed both hands against the opposite side of the metal, freezing. Hiccup squinted, trying to follow the physic, or magic, at play. Sparks, a hiss, a chemical hiss, a shudder. The chain groaned, twisted, and finally snapped with a metallic roar.

Jack leapt backward as the garage, style door began to rise with alarming speed. He landed in a graceless thump, snow exploding around him, smoke from Chestnut curling like victory banners, dragons around her shifting and garbling their distaste . Hiccup ran over, hands instinctively reaching out. “How—how did you—?”

Jack sat up, brushing snow from her red vest, flashing a grin that was somehow both infuriating and heroic.

“THAT’S SCIENCE FOR YOU, baby.” The emphasis another unknown word, baby ?, made Hiccup sputter, ears reddening. “Science? Baby?” he whispered, flustered.

Jack shrugged, one shoulder cocked. “Yup. That, and a little improvisation. Mostly science, though.”

Hiccup shook his head, muttering under his breath. “Okay… I have so many questions. Like, so many. ”

Before he can recover, a shadow falls across the arena. Ryker storms in, fury practically crackling around him, white snow sticking to his dark armor like soot. The storm outside lashes at the arena walls, scattering debris and making Sugar Plum’s triumphant roars echo even louder as she bulldozes anything foolish enough to move.

Then Ryker’s gaze finds Jack.

“ YOU! You’re the one who hurt Viggo!” he roars, fists trembling.

Jack tilts her head, grinning like she’s savoring dessert before dinner. “He was getting handsy. What was I supposed to do, curtsy?”

Hiccup freezes, jaw slack. Wait… she outsmarted Viggo before he even had a chance? The audacity. The hilarity. His insides twist in a mix of “oh hell no” and helpless laughter.

“Wait… there no way your smarter than me?” Hiccup laughed a response, awe and disbelief mingling with a little something extra.

Jack smirked over at him. “You’ll get there, Beanstalk. Might take a few lessons, though.”

Hiccup blinked. “What does that even mean!

“Chestnut! Sugar! Let’s make this quick.” Jack waved her staff like she was conducting an orchestra. Ignoring his question. Sugar Plum barreled forward, expertly scattering Ryker’s remaining guards, while Chestnut puffed smoke and fire, creating a crackling barrier around Jack and Hiccup. Hiccup choked on a laugh, the absurdity of the situation making his ribs ache. She really calls them that?

“Seriously,” Hiccup mutters under his breath, “I don’t even know how I feel about this.” Toothless nudges him in agreement.

Jack grins at him over her shoulder. “Feeling flustered, Beanstalk? Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

Before Ryker can make another move, Hiccup lunges, helping Jack leverage the distraction. “Now, Toothless!” he yells, and the black dragon charges, knocking Ryker off balance. Jack spins, delivering a precise kick to Ryker’s knees while Chestnut lights a small smoke flare, blinding him for a second. The team works in an almost fumbling rhythm, dodging each other, tripping over sparks, but somehow it’s effective.

Ryker lands on the floor with a grunt, utterly surprised by the coordinated chaos. Jack leans down, wagging her staff like a conductor directing a storm. “Welcome to my arena, big guy.”

Hiccup swallows hard, eyes wide with admiration and disbelief. “I—she—” He shakes his head. Yes, this girl just made me feel like the rookie again. Toothless nudges him, as if to say, Welcome to the chaos, Hiccup.

Jack smirks. “Don’t blink, Beanstalk. Or you’ll miss the fireworks.”

The storm outside rattles the arena walls, snow swirling through cracks. Guards scramble and howl, trying to regain control, but it’s clear: this girl, Chestnut, Sugar, and now Hiccup and Toothless are running this show.

The arena had become a cyclone of snow, sparks, and yells. Toothless twisted and lunged against the Triple Stryke, their wings clashing with terrifying force. Hiccup ducked low behind a toppled wooden beam, watching the titanic dragons circle like predators. Every time he and Jack tried to move, another hunter barged into the fray, adding to the chaos.

Hiccup’s chest heaved. He had to shout over the din. “Okay! Enough yelling everything but your name! What should I call you? ”

Jack froze mid-spin, sparks curling from Chestnut’s throat like fireworks. A flustered pause, then a stammered: “J-n-F-frost.”

“Frost?” Hiccup yelled back, ducking just as a guard lunged. “Frost it is, then!”

Frost grinned, or at least, the little sliver of her face Hiccup could see beneath the mask, and leapt into the fray. She tossed Ryker with ease into the Triple Stryke’s old cage, the hunter landing in a clatter of metal and groans. Guards scrambled to pull him out, only to be knocked aside with precise, almost playful sweeps of her staff.

The arena erupted into a frenzy. Toothless darted, tail snapping like a whip, while the Triple Stryke lashed its three heads toward anything moving. Hiccup ducked behind a fallen pillar just in time to avoid a swinging club. Snow whipped sideways in the storm, sparks from Chestnut lighting the icy haze like fireworks.

“Beanstalk! Watch your left!” Frost called over the roar, spinning her staff in a wide arc to sweep a lunging guard off his feet. The man went sprawling into the snow, muttering curses that were quickly drowned by the clash of dragons.

“I see it! But what about the other three?” Hiccup shouted, ducking a snapping head from the Triple Stryke.

“They’re mine!” Frost called back, twirling, her staff smacking another guard with a satisfying clink . “Try not to die while I show off!”

Toothless whined, then batted a tail at the Triple Stryke’s middle head, forcing it to spin. Frost leapt onto a toppled crate for leverage, launching herself over the staggered Triple Stryke, landing in a crouch. “Oops! Almost lost my balance, no big deal!” She shouted, grinning through the mask, then swept another hunter aside with a precise kick to the ribs.

Hiccup rolled to his feet, heart hammering. “You’re insane !”

“Exactly! Come on, Beanstalk, keep up!” Frost grinned, sweeping the snow with her staff like painting the ground in chaos. She ducked under a swing from a fourth hunter and vaulted over a low beam, landing behind him with a twist that sent him sprawling into a pile of ice and chains.

Chestnut leapt onto a table, spitting sparks that ignited a nearby barrel of snow melted. Flames danced across the floor, forcing guards to scatter, and giving Toothless a clear line to knock the Triple Stryke’s tail into a corner.

“Not bad, Beanstalk!” Frost shouted, giving Hiccup a playful side-eye. “Try to keep your dragon on his side !”

“I am trying!” Hiccup shot back, swinging his staff to block a swinging net trap, teeth clenched. Toothless skidded sideways, sending the Triple Stryke spinning into a heap.

“Oh, now that’s teamwork!” Frost said, vaulting onto a beam to gain height. She kicked off, spinning in midair, and landed behind a guard who had just readied his spear. With a flick of her staff, the weapon went flying, clattering against the metal cage. “Next time, watch where you aim, hmm?”

Hiccup laughed, dodging another swinging head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this… but this is fun!”

“You better mean it, Beanstalk!” Frost shouted back, ducking as the Triple Stryke lunged for Toothless. She jammed her staff against its three pronged head, forcing it back. Sparks and snow flew around them, and she shouted, “Did you see that , Chestnut?”

Chestnut responded with a gout of fire that melted the remaining chains binding the last of the trapped dragons. They scrambled free, adding to the chaos, wings flapping and claws sliding on the icy arena floor.

Hiccup ducked under a swinging club, then shot Frost a grin. “You really know how to make an entrance!”

Frost landed gracefully, kicking a guard into another with a playful flourish. “And you, Beanstalk, know how to keep me entertained!”

As the storm whirled around them, snow whipping into their eyes, Hiccup realized this wasn’t just fighting. It was a dance: a chaotic, dangerous, exhilarating dance. An d for the first time in what felt like forever, he was laughing while doing it.

A roar of wings announced the Riders’ arrival, but Frost didn’t pause. “Finally! Backup! Don’t let them get in my way, okay?” she yelled, twirling to knock a hunter into a puddle of slush. Hiccup just nodded, still trying to catch his breath and keep up with her unpredictable, wildly acrobatic moves.

Astrid, Snotlout, Fishlegs, and the twins barreled through the flurry, dragons weaving around them. At first, their eyes caught Frost and Chestnut tearing through the remaining hunters, and Hiccup noticed the pause, the confusion, the split second hesitation.

“She… fighting with us?” Astrid called, shading her eyes against the whirling snow.

Fishlegs squinted. “Or just… fighting. Hard to tell.”

Hiccup ducked low as Toothless narrowly avoided a spinning tail from the Triple Stryke, and Frost smirked at him. “See, Beanstalk? Told you it’d be fun.”

Hiccup laughed, breath misting in the freezing air. “Yeah… yeah, it really is.”

Chaos reigned around them, hunters stumbling over dragons and molten metal, but for once, Hiccup felt almost untouchable back to back with Frost, dragons at their side, fighting with a reckless, reckless joy.

The arena was chaos reclaimed by calm. Snow still drifted in lazy spirals through the broken roof, frosting shattered beams and pools of slush. Toothless stood panting, wings flexing as the Triple Stryke slowly lifted its heads, wary, but not attacking. The black dragon nudged it gently, coaxing it into a calm stance. Hiccup held his breath, heart hammering, then whispered, “Come on… just… just be okay.”

The Triple Stryke blinked, then, with a hesitant step, moved toward Hiccup and Toothless. It nudged his shoulder lightly, an unspoken bond forming in the aftermath of battle. Hiccup exhaled, relief flooding him, and then laughed softly. “Sleuther… welcome to the team.”

Around them, dragons shuffled free from scattered chains, wings beating against the heavy snow and ice. Chestnut clattered down a support beam, sparks flying, signaling the last of the dragons freed from the cages. Sugar Plum bounded across the arena, growling and chasing any remaining hunters away, her claws carving tracks into the snow. The storm swirled thicker now, gusts rattling broken doors and shaking loose roof tiles.

Hiccup’s eyes scanned for Jack, heart skipping. The whirlwind of snow and chaos seemed to converge around a single silhouette. Frost, or whoever she truly was, moved with ease through the blinding flakes, and before anyone could even call out, she slipped into the storm like a ghost. One moment she was there, taunting guards and saving scared dragons that flew into the distance; the next, gone.

Astrid, standing on a toppled crate, squinted through the white haze. “It’s dangerous,” she said, voice low, cautious.

Hiccup’s gaze lingered on the spot where Frost had vanished. Something in his chest twisted, a mix of admiration, relief, and something… heavier. Quietly, almost to himself, he murmured, “…Yeah. But not to us.”

Heather stepped forward, hesitating, attempting a bridge of diplomacy. “Wait—maybe we can coordinate—”

Jack appeared suddenly, crouched on a beam behind heather, eyes sharp beneath his mask, smoke curling from Chestnut at his side. He didn’t give her a chance to finish. “Don’t pretend we’re friends, Hunter,” he snarled, voice low and dangerous. Recognition sparked in his eyes as he took in Heather’s face. He knew it from the ships, from the raids he’d seen. He didn’t know the truth of her undercover role, didn’t care. To him, she was someone who had once stood against him.

Heather froze. Her hand reached toward him, but he lifted a hand, signaling restraint, a warning. Frost… was a force untamed, a storm in motion that didn’t need explanation.

Hiccup stepped forward slightly, conflicted, heart still racing from the fight and the snowstorm. Sleuther nudged his arm, seeking attention, grounding him. He swallowed. Frost had vanished into the storm, and even though she wasn’t a part of their team, at least not in the traditional sense, Hiccup couldn’t deny the awe and respect he felt.

The Riders regrouped, checking on toothless and what Tuff was calling Sleuther, tending to minor injuries, but Hiccup’s thoughts drifted, lingering on the memory of the masked figure, her dragons, the theatrics and the impossible acrobatics. Someone who could have torn this arena apart… had chosen instead to save him. And vanish. Unreadable wings beating into the distance as the snow calmed.

The storm roared, snow whipping the remains of the arena into frozen clouds. Hiccup glanced once more to the edge of the courtyard, half expecting to see a flash of the pale rider’s scarf.

She was gone. And yet, somehow, he knew he hadn’t seen the last of her.

Chapter Text

The Edge was unusually quiet.

For once, there wasn’t the constant clash of metal, screech of dragons, or Hiccup’s “don’t touch that, it’s not finished yet!” ringing through the air.

Instead, the only real sounds were Astrid’s sharp voice in the distance, barking orders as Stormfly swooped through precision drills, and Fishlegs muttering into his ever growing tower of Dragon Eye notes, the stack swaying dangerously as though waiting for the perfect moment to bury him alive.

Toothless and Hiccup were gone, no doubt tinkering with something explosive, and Heather and her dragon had vanished over the horizon earlier that morning.

Which left… the twins.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut were sprawled dramatically in front of their hut, limbs thrown out like starfish, staring at the sky as if the sheer weight of existence was too much to bear. Ruff was picking at her braids, tugging at a knot she’d been wrestling with all morning. Tuff, meanwhile, had taken to balancing pebbles on his forehead, counting under his breath every time one stayed put.

Ruff groaned. Loudly. For the fourth time in ten minutes.
“Ugh. I’m so bored I might actually consider… reading.”

The pebbles clattered off Tuff’s head as he gasped in horror. He clutched his chest as if she’d stabbed him.
“Don’t say cursed things, Ruff! What if the gods hear you?”

“Good,” Ruff shot back, rolling onto her side to glare at him. “Maybe they’ll smite me and I won’t have to sit here listening to you breathe like a dying yak.”

They stewed in silence for a few moments. A seagull cawed somewhere overhead. Ruff squinted against the sun, then suddenly, her eyes widened with the glint of dangerous inspiration.

“Hey. Remember that snow freak? The one who busted Hiccup out of dragon jail?”

Tuff rolled dramatically onto his stomach, chin propped on his hands.

“You mean the icy mystery girl? The frost demoness? The… Snow Babe of Destiny, as Snotlout calls her?”

Ruff snorted so hard she almost choked. “Yeah, her. Bet if we pray to her, she’ll bring us free snow cones.”

Tuff sat bolt upright, dead serious now. “Ruff. That’s the greatest idea you’ve ever had. We need a shrine.”

Both twins froze, staring at each other. It was rare when one ridiculous thought actually caught fire in both their minds at once.

“…Like a real shrine?” Ruff asked slowly.

“Yes,” Tuff said with a sage nod. “A shrine worthy of a winter goddess. With offerings, rituals, and definitely chanting.”

Ruff was already snatching up a stick and scratching symbols into the dirt. “Okay, okay, but what do we even put in it? What counts as frost-worship stuff?”

And just like that, chaos began.

Ruff’s ideas came first: melted icicles in a jar (“sacred snow juice”), a shard of broken helmet that looked “kinda frosty,” a mound of rotten fish (“must be her favorite snack, everyone likes fish”), and a candle made of yak butter.

Tuff snorted, unimpressed. “Pathetic. My ideas: an old sock that froze solid that one time last winter, a bucket of dragon snot that clearly looks like frozen slime, and…” He produced three perfectly round rocks from his pocket like they were treasure. “…holy snowball relics.”

Ruff pinched the bridge of her nose. “Those are not sacred.”

“Yes, they are!” Tuff cried, holding them out reverently. “Look at their roundness. Perfect spheres. That’s divine geometry, Ruff. Divine.”

“It’s literally just rocks, you lunkhead!” she snapped, trying to swat them out of his hands.

Tuff smirked. “Well, at least I’m not suggesting yak butter, Miss ‘I-Like-To-Make-Shrines-Smell-Like-A-Barn.’”

They went back and forth, bickering louder with every new “artifact.” At one point they dragged a chicken over, declared it “the holy snow hen,” then immediately abandoned it when it pecked Tuff’s ear. Ruff suggested a jug of sour milk that “feels spiritually cold.” Tuff tried to balance a fish on top of it like a crown.

By the time they collapsed in the dirt, they were both breathless with laughter.

“Okay, okay,” Ruff wheezed, clutching her stomach. “But we’re doing this. Full shrine. Sacrifices, prayers, everything.”

Tuff threw a dramatic fist into the air. “For the Snow Goddess!”

“For the free snow cones!” Ruff cackled, and they scrambled to their feet, suddenly energized.

Then, like two chaotic storms splitting apart, they darted off in opposite directions across the Edge, snatching anything that even vaguely looked sacred, holy, or frosty. Their voices echoed as they bickered from across the cliffs about who was going to find the “greatest relic.”

Fishlegs walks up, clutching a notebook full of dragon sketches, and freezes when he sees the disaster forming. “Uh…what are you doing?” he asks cautiously, as if afraid of the answer.

Ruffnut straightens up, eyes gleaming. “Building a shrine to the Snow Maiden who rides the wind! We’ll worship her and receive unlimited snow cones in return.”

Fishlegs blinks. “The…Snow Maiden? Do you mean the, no, wait, that’s not—”

Tuffnut cuts him off with a dramatic hand wave. “Shh! Do not speak her name, puny scholar, or risk being buried in an avalanche of divine judgment.”

Fishlegs sputters. “She’s not a goddess, she’s—she’s probably just. Oh, never mind!” He stomps away, muttering about “scientific inaccuracies” and “utter nonsense,” but the twins don’t hear him. He yells over his shoulder, “Change of plans! It’s Hiccups turn to cook.” If the twins could celebrate harder they would.

Before long, Snotlout struts over, arms crossed and chin tilted up. “Hold up, what’s all this? If anyone on this island deserves a shrine, it’s me. Son of Stoick’s brother, hero of countless battles, breaker of hearts—”

Ruffnut doesn’t let him finish. She scoops up a handful of fish guts from their “offering pile” and hurls it at his chest. Snotlout lets out a disgusted yelp as it splats across his tunic. “Ew! That’s foul!”

“Silence, mortal,” Ruffnut proclaims, pointing dramatically at him. “You cannot compete with divine snow power.”

Tuffnut joins in, bowing before the crooked altar. “Snow Maiden, accept these humble gifts and smite this jealous imposter.”

By the time they’re done, the shrine looks utterly bizarre: half trash pile, half sacred monument. Seashells are glued to driftwood with dragon snot, fish bones dangle like wind chimes, and the rocks are stacked so precariously they sway with the breeze. The centerpiece is a board where both twins have scrawled drawings of Frost. Except their version looks nothing like him. Ruffnut’s attempt resembles a dainty snow princess with a sparkly tiara, while Tuffnut’s looks more like a furry yeti holding a candy cane.

“Perfect,” Ruffnut says proudly, hands on her hips. “Our Snow Maiden will love this.”

Tuffnut nods with mock reverence. “Truly, this is art worthy of worship. And maybe snacks. Probably snacks.”

Jack was crouched near the edge of the sanctuary, brushing frost off a stack of driftwood Valka wanted for repairs, when Sugar Plum tunneled up with a proud rumble, scattering snow over his boots. Chestnut was busy collecting bits of shiny wire and twisting them into a nest-like pile, her smoke huffing like a forge. It was a quiet, almost peaceful moment. Until Jack stiffened.

Something brushed against his ears, not his wildly growing hair, a sound not carried by wind.

Whispers.

Not the faint murmurs of Valka’s voice calling him or parroting dragons. No, these were strange, drifting words curling right into his head. They were fragmented, sing song, and oddly reverent.

“Blessed Snow Maiden, make Chicken into a dragon from legend!”

“May the frost never melt off my helmet so I can look cooler than Tuffnut.”

“Grant us the power of winter so our enemies slip on their own backsides!”

Jack’s eyes widened. He spun on his heels, nearly tripping over Sugar Plum’s tail. “Wait. What, what is that?!”

He pressed the end of his staff into the ground, concentrating, the whispers tickling louder in his skull like ripples in a pond. They weren’t just voices, they carried weight. A strange, buzzing warmth in his chest that made his skin prickle.

North’s old words echoed from long ago…

The workshop was unusually quiet for December. Hammers still clinked in the distance, elves bustled in their usual frantic jingling, but here, in the lantern lit corner near the great hearth, things slowed. Snow drifted lazily against the high windows, soft as feathers. Jack sat sprawled in a chair far too big for him, staff resting across his lap, while North poured steaming cocoa into two mugs that looked comically small in his massive hands.

“Busy night,” Jack remarked, watching sparks from the fireplace leap and dissolve. “Feels like the whole Pole’s vibrating.”

“Busy is good,” North said, handing him a mug. “Busy means children wait for wonder. Wait for us.”

Jack smiled faintly, blowing frost into the cocoa just to see the little crystals form. “Still feels weird, y’know? Being believed in. A hundred years of being invisible, then suddenly kids are out there shouting my name, asking me to freeze their neighbor kids’ laundry lines. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

North chuckled, the sound deep and warm as rolling thunder. “You will. Belief, it changes everything. Gives us weight. Voice. Purpose.”

Jack tilted his head. “You sound like you’ve been through this before.”

“Da.” North leaned back in his chair, eyes going soft in memory. “Long, long ago. When I was just a man. A bishop, they called me. Nicholas. St. Nicholas, later.”

Jack blinked at him, wide-eyed. “Wait, wait—you’re that St. Nicholas?”

“Ho!” North’s laugh boomed, but without boast. “Yes. I gave coins to poor, toys to children. Not much different than now. Only larger scale, more whimsy.” He held thumb and forefinger close, grinning.

Jack whistled low, staring into his cocoa. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but still… I thought the whole saint thing was, like, storybook. Not… real, real.”

North shrugged, eyes kind. “Stories are where truth hides.”

Jack snorted softly. “I mean, I get belief. Kids believe, they see us. That makes sense, sorta. But faith? That’s something else. People used to pray to you, didn’t they?”

There was a long silence. The fire popped. North’s gaze lingered on the flames before turning back to Jack.

“Yes,” he said simply. “They prayed. Not only to me, but to something greater. To light in the dark. To hope. Faith, Jack, is… different. Belief sees. Faith trusts. It is not proof they want—it is presence. A spirit beside them.”

Jack shifted uncomfortably, gripping his mug tighter. “And you… you still hear it? Even now?”

North nodded slowly. “Sometimes, yes. Not always words, sometimes sense. Not always sense, sometimes meaningful words. But still there. Gentle as candle flame.”

Jack let out a shaky laugh. “Man, that’s… I don’t know if I’d want that. Feels… too heavy. What if I mess up? What if they expect something I can’t give?”

North leaned forward, his voice steady, not pressing. “It is not about giving them everything. It is about being there. Faith does not demand perfection, Jack. It only asks you not to run away.”

Jack went quiet, staring at the frost that rimmed his cup. The firelight flickered across his pale features, softening the sharpness.

“You really never told me this before,” Jack murmured. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re not exactly… pushy about it.”

“Never push,” North agreed with a smile. “Children choose to believe. Grown choose to have faith. Spirit cannot be forced. It must be given, freely.”

North’s gaze warmed, his hand resting briefly on Jack’s shoulder, grounding and sure. “You are closer to understanding than you think, boy.”

For a long while, they sat together in the glow of fire and snow, the workshop’s chaos muted in the distance. The warmth of cocoa, the weight of memory, and the gentle stretch of silence filled the space between them.

Jack finally smirked, breaking it. “Still can’t get over it. You were a bishop. And now you wear… red pajamas.”

North’s laughter rumbled through the rafters, shaking the icicles that hung above. “Always with jokes! But red pajamas, da? Very fine ones! Would give some if fit”

Jack grinned, the heaviness lifting just enough for the night to feel less strange, more comforting. And for the first time, faith didn’t seem so terrifying, it just felt like sitting by a fire, being known.

-

Jack’s mouth went dry. “Wait… wait a second.” His heart began pounding as a trickle of laughter bubbled out of him in disbelief. “Are… are they praying to me?!”

He whipped around, addressing his dragons as if they could make sense of it. “Sugar Plum, Chestnut, do you hear that?!” Sugar Plum only tilted her massive head, blinking purple eyes and thumping her tail as if saying you’re losing it, human. Chestnut gave a puff of smoke and scuttled back into her shiny pile, utterly unconcerned.

Jack ran his hand through his hair. “This is insane. I’m not, ugh, I’m not some god! What do they even—”

The whispers grew bolder, as if emboldened by his recognition.

“Snow Maiden, bless my chicken so it produces Yaknog instead of eggs!”

“Snow Maiden, strike Snotlout down if he calls himself ‘divine’ again!”

“Snow Maiden, let me marry a frost spirit so my wedding photos look cool .”

Jack slapped his forehead. “Oh, this is so not happening. I didn’t sign up to grant… poultry dairy miracles!” His voice pitched higher with every word.

He started pacing, muttering under his breath, staff tapping against the floor, turning it to ice after a while. The more he tried to tune it out, the louder the bizarre petitions became, their sincerity vibrating against his bones. His lips curled into a mix between horror and exasperated laughter.

“I have to see this for myself,” he muttered. “Before they start asking me to freeze their underwear or something.”

He grabbed his staff, gave a sharp whistle for Sugar Plum to follow, and glanced back at Chestnut. The Smokebreath huffed as if annoyed but shuffled after him, a trail of smoke curling in her wake.

Jack rubbed his face, already regretting the choice. “Please let this be a misunderstanding. Please let them be praying to, oh I don’t know; Thor, or Odin, or literally anyone else …”

But deep down, he knew. The faith in those ridiculous, half baked prayers was aimed at him. And as he slipped out of the sanctuary toward where he thinks Dragons Edge is, his gut told him this was going to be embarrassing.

That night, the Edge was quiet under a heavy veil of stars, the ocean brushing the cliffs below like it was whispering secrets to the night. Jack perched on a branch high in the trees, tucked into the shadows with his staff across his lap. Sugar Plum had tunneled beneath the earth nearby, and Chestnut busied himself gnawing happily on some scrap metal Jack had bribed him with to stay quiet.

Jack’s attention, however, was fixed on the clearing below, the faint orange glow spilling from the twins’ hut. Inside, Ruff and Tuff were kneeling on the floorboards in an elaborate, wobbly bow. Candles flickered around them, but instead of reverent silence, Jack heard… chanting.

“Snow Maiden, Lady Frost, Queen of Icicles!” Ruff called, her voice breaking as she tried to make it sound mystical.

“Yes!” Tuff added, sweeping his arms dramatically. “Shower us with your wintry blessings!”

Jack clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh, his shoulders shaking. He edged closer along the branch until he nearly tumbled out of the tree. His heart raced, both from the comedy of the scene and from the sheer surrealism of it, were they actually worshipping him?

Ruff and Tuff began alternating prayers, growing increasingly ridiculous.

“May my brother finally learn how to braid his hair without snapping half of it off!”

Jack lost it, nearly falling from the tree before catching himself. “What… what even is happening right now?” he muttered under his breath, still grinning.

Finally, he decided he couldn’t resist. He hopped down silently, creeping toward their doorway until he could stand in the glow of the firelight. The shadows curled around him, making him look taller, his white hair gleaming silver in the dim. He planted his staff against the floorboards with a heavy thunk.

The twins gasped in unison, whipping around. Their jaws dropped.

“She has answered us!” Ruff cried, falling flat on her face.

“Bless me with snow farts, O Lady of Cold!” Tuff blurted, dropping to his knees and throwing his arms up.

Jack blinked. “...Snow… what?” His voice echoed in the quiet room, bewildered and almost offended by the sheer absurdity.

Neither twin moved, as if awaiting divine judgment. The moment stretched awkwardly, until a sudden cluck broke the silence.

A chicken strutted lazily through the room, a string necklace of mismatched beads hanging proudly from its neck like some holy relic. It gave a single indignant bawk and pecked at a candle.

Jack stared at it. Then at the twins. Back at the chicken. His face went completely blank.

“Okay. I’ve officially lost my mind,” he whispered.

The twins scrambled to their feet, tripping over each other as they tried to bow again, offering him the chicken necklace like some sacred tribute. Jack just stood there, baffled, his staff angled protectively in front of him as if this poultry ritual might get violent.

“…You two are seriously the weirdest Vikings I’ve ever met,” he muttered. “You know, that’s not saying much actually.”

The night is still, the Edge cloaked in silence save for the faint snoring of dragons in their stables. Jack had just finished shaking off the twins’ wild shrine display, but as soon as he steps inside their hut, the chaos only escalates. Ruffnut and Tuffnut are practically vibrating with excitement, their hands clasped together like worshippers who’d finally been granted a miracle.

Ruff kneeled like her life, afterlife, and soul depended on it, “O Great Lady Frost, please! Make Barf and Belch breathe frozen lightning! Imagine the chaos, the destruction, the glory!”

“And me! Can you make my helmet unbreakable? Like turn it into solid ice, so strong it can withstand the crush of Thor’s hammer?” Tuffnut wished with all his might.

Ruffnut, gasping dramatically “Or or! Grant us eternal immunity to brain freeze, so we can eat up yaknog slushies until our skulls explode!”

Jack blinks at them, his jaw going slack. He leans against the doorframe, eyes flicking between their eager, pleading faces.

“Okay, hold it. First of all, I’m not a lady. Second of all. why on earth would I grant any of that?”

The twins pause for only a second before gasping in perfect unison, faces lighting up with the intensity of divine revelation.

“She’s disguising herself!”

“A goddess walking among mortals as a boy! Brilliant! Classic trickery of the divine!”

They drop to their knees again, bowing so low their foreheads almost smack the floor. Jack throws his arms up.

“Oh, for frost’s sake—look, I’m not your snow goddess! I’m just—” He stammers, realizing explaining himself might dig the hole deeper. “—just a guy who likes… cold weather!”

The twins exchange knowing looks, whispering loudly enough that Jack hears every word.

“Hear that? A humble disguise! She tests us with riddles.”

“We must prove our worth! Offer her… the sacred chicken!”

As if on cue, the same chicken from earlier waddles by, the one with the necklace tied loosely around its neck. It squawks once and pecks at Jack’s boot like this entire situation is perfectly normal. Jack stares down at it, utterly baffled.

“I don’t even… why does your chicken have jewelry?” Jack groaned.

Before the twins can launch into another sermon, a groggy, annoyed voice cuts through the room.

Hiccup, hair sticking up in every direction, stands in the doorway. He rubs his eyes, Toothless hovering lazily behind him with his ears twitching in mild annoyance.

“Why… in Thor’s name… are you people shouting at this hour? Some of us like our beauty sleep.”

The twins leap up and point dramatically at Jack, voices overlapping in excited chaos.

“Behold, Hiccup! The goddess of frost has come among us!” Ruffnut barked, a little too loudly for the time.

“She speaks in riddles and commands the sacred chicken!”

Jack, throwing his hands up in exasperation, “I’m not a goddess!”

Hiccup blinks at the scene, the twins bouncing like worshippers, Jack standing in the middle with wild bedhead and a baffled stare, the chicken still pecking his ankle wraps and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“...I knew letting you two build shrines was a mistake.” The tried boy mumbled.

The room stills for a moment. Four pairs of eyes. Jack’s icy blue, Ruff’s wild, Tuff’s gleaming with zeal, and Hiccup’s half lidded glare all lock together in a tense, ridiculous standoff. Even Toothless gives a slow blink, tail flicking like he’s waiting for the punchline.

Ruffnut’s eyes sparkled, wide with excitement. “Oh, goddess!” she squealed, shoving a melting icicle toward him. “Can you, can you make my dragon shoot frozen lightning? I mean like, literal bolts of icy death across the battlefield?”

Tuffnut was already juggling three “holy snowball relics” in his hands, spinning and tossing them with exaggerated care. “Yes! And, and, and make my helmet turn into solid ice! Then I can be like… invincible snow warrior man!”

Jack groaned, stepping back a few paces, letting his staff rest against his shoulder. “First of all,” he said, voice tight with mock exasperation, “I am not a lady. And second… why on earth would I grant that?”

Ruffnut’s jaw dropped as if he’d been struck by revelation itself. She clutched the icicle like it was a sacred wand. “The goddess disguises herself as a boy to walk among mortals! You… you are in disguise!”

“Brilliant!” Tuffnut shouted, clapping his hands together and sending the snowball relics tumbling. “Divine trickery! Hidden identity! Oh, I love this, blessed Frost, you’re playing tricks on us!”

Jack threw up his hands, letting out a long, weary sigh. “North never prepared me for this… never. I thought I understood what it meant to be worshipped, but this, this is… ridiculous!”

Meanwhile, the commotion began to stir Hiccup, who had been sleeping in his hut on a soft pile of furs. The twins’ chanting, the clattering of the shrine’s artifacts, and Jack’s booming voice were enough to rattle him awake. Groggy, still half asleep, he squinted, rubbing his eyes. “What in? Is this… a ritual? Are we… being attacked by a cult of… wait, Frost?”

Hiccup blinked, catching sight of Jack standing dramatically, staff propped like a scepter, the twins on either side bowing and bouncing like excited children. He pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, “Why am I always awake for the weirdest things?”

The twins didn’t even pause to acknowledge his arrival.

Ruffnut, pointing an accusatory finger at the supposed “goddess,” demanded, “Frost! Can you, can you bless me with eternal immunity to brain freeze? I want to be able to eat ice cream forever without pain!”

“Yeah, and me too! And maybe make it snow inside my hut just for fun!” Tuffnut added, grinning like he’d just stumbled onto the greatest magic in history.

Jack threw his head back and groaned so loudly it could have rattled the Edge’s cliffs. “You two— you’re completely impossible! I am not a goddess, I cannot control snow or lightning or… or brain freeze!” He lied about the first one but they don’t need to know that.

Ruffnut gasped again, eyes wide in faux awe. “It’s divine humility! The goddess pretends she can’t, so we really know she’s powerful!”

Hiccup, finally sitting up properly, blinked at Jack, Ruff, and Tuffnut in equal parts disbelief and mild amusement. “Am I… awake for a vision? Or did someone spike the Edge’s water supply with mead again?”

Jack’s expression softened slightly, though he still looked exhausted. “Nope. You’re seeing this exactly as it is, Hiccup. Two lunatics, a shrine, and me. allegedly a goddess. Pray for mercy, because that’s all you’re going to get.”

The twins, of course, were oblivious. They had already begun arguing over who would get to be “high priest” in the next prayer ceremony, shoving melted icicles into each other’s hands and bumping their heads together in comical rivalry.

Hiccup rubbed his temples, glancing from Jack to the twins. He couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head. “I swear… every time I think I’ve seen it all, something like this happens.”

Jack lingered in the twins’ doorway, their nonsense still ringing in his ears. Ruff and Tuff were halfway to arguing about whether divine ice breath or snow farts were more useful when he let out an exaggerated sigh and leaned on his staff.

“Alright, I think that’s enough worshipping for one night,” he said, already turning away. He tapped his staff against the wooden floor, let the frost curl up it like a stage cue, then swung it upward. In one fluid movement, he hooked the crook over the edge of the roof beam and vaulted himself up. His cloak of shadows and moonlight made the maneuver look almost otherworldly.

From the ground, it looked like he was leaving.

Ruff gasped, grabbing Tuff’s arm. “She’s departing! Quick, we must follow the goddess!”

Tuff scrambled after her, tripping over the chicken still wearing its necklace. “Wait! Don’t abandon us, O Snow Maiden!”

They bolted toward the door, but Hiccup bleary eyed, hair sticking up in every direction stepped in their path. He planted both hands on the doorframe, blocking them with the weight of someone who’d had enough chaos for one night.

“Not another step,” Hiccup said flatly. His voice carried the deadly promise of a chief in training who had the authority to hand out chores. “You so much as set foot outside, and it’s cooking duty. For the entire week. Fish stew. Every night.”

The twins froze. Their dramatic determination faltered. Ruff pulled a face. “Cooking duty?”

Tuff whimpered. “Not the stew. Anything but the stew.” The Stew in question was made up of five different fish and took about a day to make. It was their favorite meal sure, but afterwards you end up smelling like dragon meal.

They both glanced longingly at the door again, then back at Hiccup’s unimpressed expression. One warning eyebrow raised higher than the other, and that was enough. The two immediately retreated to their bunks like chastised children.

Above them, Jack crouched low against the slanted roof, smothering a laugh. From this angle, the whole thing looked absurd, two dragon riders bowing out under Hiccup’s glare like they’d been vanquished in a battle. He had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from giving himself away.

He let out a quiet breath, tilting his staff just slightly to signal Hiccup. Come on, his eyes urged. I didn’t swing up here just to watch you glare at them all night.

As soon as Hiccup shut the door behind him, Jack shifted his weight, preparing to move. Hiccup lingered for a moment inside, listening to Ruff and Tuff grumble before finally collapsing into sleep. Only once he was sure they’d stay put did he exhale sharply, his body softening with relief. Then he slipped out again, this time moving faster, his strides quick.

Outside, the night was quiet. The sea lapped against the cliffs, and the moon painted everything in silver blue light. Hiccup looked up just in time to see Jack swing across the roof, his figure cutting an elegant arc against the sky. The staff crook caught, released, and Jack dropped with the kind of practiced grace that belonged more to the wind than to a person.

He landed lightly on the wood, knees bending to absorb the fall. The impact made him sway just slightly, his balance wavering.

Before he could steady himself, Hiccup was already there. Quick, instinctive, his hand shot out and caught Jack by the arm.

The touch was solid, grounding.

Jack blinked at him, startled, his breath catching. Their eyes met in the hush of the night. Hiccup’s green burning warm against the pale silver-blue of Jack’s. For a second, neither spoke.

The moment stretched, delicate and taut, like frost forming on glass.

Jack’s cheeks flushed faintly, a pink glow even under the cool moonlight. He tried for a cocky grin, but his voice betrayed him, soft and a little breathless. “I meant to do that.”

Hiccup’s hand lingered a moment too long before he cleared his throat and let go. His face was scarlet, his words awkward but earnest. “Y-yeah. Graceful as always.”

They stood there, just the two of them, bathed in silver light, their breath misting faintly in the chill. Both acutely aware of how close they were standing, both pretending they weren’t. And above them, the quiet wind carried only the sound of the sea, like it was holding its breath right along with them.

Jack walked beside him, silent at first, the soft crunch of their boots in the dirt keeping rhythm with the night’s breath. He still had his half mask tilted over one side of his face, shadows slipping across it as though he were deliberately hiding every piece of himself. The scarf, cream colored and far too heavy for this weather, caught every stray gust, trailing behind him like a ribbon. Hiccup had to admit, it was strange. Strange, but… strangely fitting. The whole boy radiated contradiction, and yet it all felt intentional, deliberate, like every choice was meant to keep people guessing.

Hiccup broke the quiet with a crooked smile. “So. The hair. Is that natural, or do you… uh, dip your head in snow every morning?”

Jack snorted, rolling his eyes with the barest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Funny. You’re one to talk. I’ve seen sheep with less tragic hair than yours.”

“Hey—!” Hiccup pushed his hand through his auburn mess, frowning in mock offense. “This is perfectly acceptable Viking hair.”

“Sure,” Jack said, voice low and teasing. “Acceptable in a barn maybe.”

The words might’ve been sharper if not for the softness beneath them, a banter more gentle than anything Hiccup usually endured from his own friends. They walked on, brushing shoulders without meaning to.

Finally, Jack tilted his head, blue eyes glinting under the moonlight. “Alright, mystery solved. What’s your name, barn hair?”

Hiccup hesitated only a second. “...Hiccup.”

Jack blinked once. Then twice. And then he grinned so wide Hiccup thought he might actually topple backward from the force of it. “Hiccup? That’s, oh, that’s perfect. The mighty dragon rider, the leader of the Edge, named after a sneeze. Incredible. You’re never living this down.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Hiccup muttered, heat creeping into his ears. “It’s not that weird where I come from.”

Jack leaned closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Oh, it’s weird everywhere. But don’t worry. I’ll think of something better. Something dignified. Like… Christopher.” He gave a mock bow. “Yes. I like that.”

Hiccup groaned but couldn’t stop the tiny laugh that escaped him. “You’re impossible.”

For a while, the only sound was the hush of the sea against the rocks. Then Jack’s voice came again, lower, threaded with a note of hesitation. “...The leg.”

Hiccup glanced down, surprised. Jack’s tone wasn’t casual, not sharp or joking like the rest of him, it was careful, reverent almost, as if the question itself were fragile. “Your prosthetic,” Jack added softly. “How… did it happen?”

No one asked like that. Not with that kind of weight. Not anymore. Everyone knew. Everyone here knew.

“You’re not from the Archipelago,” Hiccup realized aloud, eyes narrowing slightly.

Jack’s grin faltered, his steps slowing. His voice came quieter still. “...No. I’m not.” That was the understatement of the century.

The silence stretched until Hiccup broke it, his tone gentle. “It was… the Red Death. A dragon the size of a mountain, back when things were… different. I was lucky to get away with just this.” He tapped the metal foot with the edge of his staff, a smile ghosting across his face. “Lucky, and stupid. Story of my life.”

Jack didn’t reply. Not with words. Just walked on, face shadowed, hands curling a little tighter around his staff.

When they reached the door to Hiccup’s hut, the boy finally turned. He opened his mouth to say something. Goodnight, maybe, or one of his awkward little farewells, but Jack was gone. No crunch of footsteps, no swing of scarf. Just gone, like the shadows had swallowed him whole.

Hiccup blinked at the empty night, baffled, almost laughing at himself for being surprised. He shook his head, muttering, “Figures.”

And when morning came, the Edge woke to a light snow drifting down from a sky that had no reason to snow at all.

Chapter Text

Hiccup had one rule about mornings on the Edge: survive them.

It wasn’t that he hated the others but breakfast around the table was its own kind of battle arena. Fishlegs would go on about scales and wingspans while stuffing his face with bread, Snotlout would try to prove how “epic” he was by arm wrestling anyone holding a spoon, and the twins… well, if someone didn’t lose an eyebrow before morning stew, it was a miracle. Even Astrid’s sharp elbows and reminders to “focus” made his half awake brain ache.

So, when the laughter and clattering spoons got too loud, Hiccup made an excuse about “checking the perimeter” and slipped into the trees.

The forest was calmer, dappled with patches of gold where the early sun cut through the canopy. Birds chirped overhead, a few Terrible Terrors scampered along branches, and for the first time that morning, Hiccup’s shoulders eased. He dragged his hand along bark, muttering to himself about patrols, about how the arena could use reinforcement on the east side, about how maybe, just maybe, today wouldn’t end in fire.

He stopped mid-step.

Above him, sprawled across a thick branch like a particularly lazy cat, was Frost.

Or, as the others still insisted, “The Pale Rider.” Pale hair spilled across the wood, catching sunlight in a way that made it gleam almost silver. One scarf end dangled loose, swaying in the breeze. Her staff hung precariously from a limp hand, one wrong twitch away from tumbling to the forest floor. Most startling of all right under the branch was a massive hollow gouged out of the earth, wide enough for a Screaming Death to curl up.

Which, Hiccup realized with a jolt, was exactly what had happened. The faint rumble of Sugar Plum’s snores rose from the pit, loud enough to rattle leaves.

For a heartbeat, Hiccup’s stomach dropped. One slip, one lazy stretch, and Frost would’ve rolled right off and, best case, broken an arm. Worst case? Right into the waiting jaws of the Screaming Death.

“You could’ve fallen and cracked your skull, you know,” Hiccup blurted.

Frost stirred. A smirk tugged at her mouth before her eyes even opened. “Aw, worried about me?”

Her voice was teasing, lazy with sleep, like she was testing him.

Hiccup crossed his arms, frown fighting against the twitch of a smile. “I’m worried about the mess I’d have to clean up when you splatter on the ground. There’s a difference.”

That earned him a low chuckle. Frost finally cracked one eye open, blue and sharp even in the shade. “Nice to know you’d mourn me properly.”

“I didn’t say anything about mourning.”

“You implied it.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“You so did.”

Hiccup rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath about impossible circumstances. Though he didn’t miss how Frost shifted slightly, staff balancing better in her hand, scarf rescued from the breeze. She might act careless, but Hiccup was starting to realize very little she did was without some awareness.

He let his gaze wander back to the hollow in the earth, where Sugar Plum’s rumbling exhale puffed a cloud of dust skyward. “You know,” Hiccup said slowly, “most people don’t build nap spots directly over the lairs of colossal dragons.”

Frost yawned and stretched one arm behind her head, like he’d just complimented her. “Keeps things interesting.”

“Or suicidal.”

“Potato, potahto.”

Hiccup gave her a long, flat look, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the faintest upward tug.

This was ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. He’d left breakfast to avoid chaos, and instead, he found himself standing under a tree, scolding chaos like some kind of exasperated babysitter. And yet… there was something almost magnetic about it. Frost’s presence filled the air, like sunlight refracted through ice, impossible to look away from.

Hiccup sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “One day you’re going to fall off something, and when you do, don’t expect me to catch you.”

“Good to know,” Frost said with a grin, finally sitting up and leaning her staff against her shoulder. “But between you and me, Doll, I think you would.” The wrung unfamiliarly in hiccups ears but that’s the last thing he’s worried about.

And the worst part? Hiccup wasn’t entirely sure she was wrong.

Hiccup shifted his weight from one foot to the other, arms crossing over his chest as he tilted his head up at the pale figure still perched in the branches. “Come spar with me. Training.” His voice carried that clipped edge of authority he always tried to keep when leading the Riders, but there was an undeniable note of something else tucked beneath it; anticipation, fear, maybe even curiosity.

Frost cracked one eye open, scanning him like he’d just asked her to juggle yak dung. Then, with a slow grin, she propped her chin on her palm. “Training, huh? That’s your word for picking fights?”

“Not fights. Practice,” Hiccup corrected, though even he heard the hollowness in his tone. It wasn’t entirely untrue, but part of him wanted to see how Frost moved when she wasn’t pulling tricks in the shadows or swooping overhead like some ghost of winter. He wanted to measure her properly, not in whispered rumors or glancing blows, but up close.

Frost twirled her staff lazily with one hand, the scarf that had slipped loose earlier now tied rakishly around it. She made the motion look like second nature, not a practiced flourish but something she did out of instinct, like breathing. “So you wake me up from a perfectly good nap, drag me out of my very comfortable tree, and then ask me to let you hit me with a stick?”

Hiccup smirked despite himself. “When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous.”

“Sounds ridiculous because it is ridiculous,” Frost teased. But then she sighed as though she’d been burdened with the weight of the world, rolling onto her side and peering down at him through the leaves. “Lucky for you, I’m easily entertained.”

Before he could fire back, she hopped down with a grace that made his chest tighten in something he couldn’t quite name. She landed lightly on her feet, not a sound besides the soft crunch of grass. Her staff spun once in her hands, caught mid flip, and balanced across her shoulders as though it belonged there.

Hiccup cleared his throat, shifting his grip on the practice blade at his side. “That was… unnecessarily showy.”

“Showy?” Frost cocked her head, eyes glinting with mischief. “No. This—” she spun the staff again, one hand behind her back, the motion as smooth as water “—is showy.”

Hiccup bit back a smile, keeping his voice level. “You realize sparring means using your weapon to block and counter, not… dance around with it.”

Looking up she grinned wider, a spark of challenge in her gaze, and a head that only nearly meets his collar bone. “Guess you’ll have to keep up and find out. A few to may years living with a stick you pick up a bit.”

And there it was again, that prickle of excitement, the itch of wanting to see what she could really do. He nodded once, gesturing toward the clearing beyond the trees. “Arena’s this way. Let’s see if you’re actually as good as you act.”

Frost fell into step beside him, though fall was the wrong word. She didn’t walk so much as glide, her steps light, her staff tracing idle patterns in the air like she was sketching out the fight before it began.

“Don’t take it personally if I wipe the floor with you,” she said cheerfully, leaning on the staff like a cane. “I have a reputation to keep.”

“Funny, because last I checked, you’re still new here,” Hiccup shot back. “Not sure what reputation you’re talking about.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” Her smirk sharpened, but she didn’t elaborate, leaving him to puzzle over it as they broke into the open space where the others would soon gather.

Hiccup tightened his grip on his sword, rolling his shoulders as though to shrug off the weight pressing at the edge of his mind. This wasn’t just about sparring. Not really. He wanted to know who. No, what , Frost really was. Beyond the smirks, shadows, myths, and rumors.

Hidden behind a kind of confidence that can kill the dead.

By midday, the training arena hummed with restless energy.

The smell of trampled grass and dragon scales clung to the air, and the heat of the sun pressed down hard enough that even Toothless flicked his tail irritably. The Riders were lined up in loose formation, weapons in hand, muttering to each other while they waited for Hiccup to arrive with whatever new drill he’d decided to run them through.

Fishlegs was pacing with a shield in his hands, trying not to hype himself up before Hiccup started. Snotlout was stretching in a way that was less about loosening muscles and more about showing off to anyone who might be looking. Astrid leaned against Stormfly with her arms crossed, already impatient. The twins were daring each other to use their axes as juggling clubs.

Nothing unusual.

Then Hiccup walked in and he wasn’t alone .

Beside him strode Frost, and every head in the arena snapped toward her.

The change in her appearance was subtle but startling all the same. Her hood was down, hair catching the light like snow under moonlight, the scarf that usually shadowed her face tied instead around her staff in a bright, rakish flourish. The heat shimmered faintly around her as though it didn’t quite touch her; still, she seemed both out of place and completely at home, like winter had strolled arrogantly into summer and dared anyone to comment.

She was smaller than nearly all of them, her frame wiry, almost delicate compared to Astrid’s solid stance or Snotlout’s broad chest, but there was something about the way she carried herself that made the air shift. That crooked grin, sharp and irreverent, made it impossible to mistake her for timid. She walked as though she owned the ground beneath her bear feet.

Fishlegs leaned closer to Astrid, eyes wide as if he’d just seen a speed stinger fly. “New recruit?” he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the sudden hush.

Astrid didn’t answer, though her eyes narrowed, taking Frost in with a measured suspicion.

“More like Hiccup’s secret weapon,” Snotlout muttered, already squaring his shoulders and puffing his chest out, as though Frost’s very existence was a challenge to his unspoken title of strongest. His hand flexed on the hilt of his axe. “Looks like a twig. Bet I could take her in one hit.”

The twins snorted in unison. Ruffnut nudged her brother with an elbow. “Secret girlfriend more like.”

“Pfft,” Tuffnut scoffed, eyes narrowing at the gleam of Frost’s staff. “No way. She’s clearly an assassin. You can tell by the scarf thing. Definitely hides a dagger in there.”

“No, no,” Ruffnut countered, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “that grin? That’s chaos energy. I like her.”

Frost didn’t seem to notice, or maybe she did and simply didn’t care. Her grin only widened as her gaze slid lazily across the group, assessing them with the kind of confidence that said she wasn’t intimidated by numbers. She rested her staff across her shoulders, balancing it like a lazy yoke, and rocked back on her heels as though she had all the time in the world.

Hiccup, meanwhile, cleared his throat, aware of every set of eyes flicking between him and the figure at his side. He felt the weight of their confusion pressing in, but he kept his expression calm, even slightly smug. This was exactly the reaction he’d expected. Maybe even wanted.

“Alright,” he said, voice steady though his pulse beat faster. “Today’s training’s going to be a little different.”

Frost tilted her head toward him, the edge of her grin quirking higher, as if silently daring him to continue.

The training arena buzzed with an odd kind of excitement the moment Hiccup clapped his hands together and dragged a wooden crate into the middle of the grass clearing. Inside were padded weapons, wooden swords, staves, shields with blunt edges, and a handful of soft leather straps meant for weighing down wrists or ankles.

“Alright,” Hiccup began, a crooked smile playing at his lips as the Riders all crowded in. “We’re not doing standard drills today. I thought we’d try something a little more… creative.”

The twins perked up immediately. “Creative” usually meant “dangerous” or “chaotic,” which was their entire specialty.

“What is it?” Ruffnut asked, leaning over the crate.“Explosions? Axe juggling? Oh dragon jousting!”

Hiccup shook his head, though the grin widened. “No. Something better. We’re playing a game. Pin the Terror.”

At once, everyone straightened. Even Snotlout’s eyes lit with boyish excitement.

“ No way, ” Astrid said, eyebrows lifting. “Like the game we used to play as kids?”

“Exactly that one.” Hiccup’s tone was pleased, half because he remembered the game fondly himself, and half because it had been Astrid’s immediate guess. “Except with a few… modifications.” He pulled out one of the leather straps and held it up for emphasis.

Fishlegs groaned, though not unhappily. “Oh, I’m going to regret this.”

“Relax, Fish,” Hiccup said, tossing the strap back into the crate. “Here are the rules. You and your opponent fight in a mock combat round. If you can pin them to the ground, immobilize them, you win. Nonlethal weapons only. Tricks are allowed. Think of it as…” He gave Frost a sideways look, as though anticipating her reaction. “…organized chaos.”

And Frost’s damn grin came back immediately, sharp and amused. She leaned her staff against her shoulder and drawled, “Organized chaos? Hiccup, you just described me on a good day. You sure you want to embarrass yourself in front of your friends?”

“Embarrass myself?” Hiccup countered, squaring his shoulders with exaggerated offense. “I’ll have you know, I was the reigning Pin the Terror champion in my village for years. ”

“Pretty sure that’s because you tripped and fell on everyone,” Astrid muttered under her breath.

Frost snickered. “Sounds about right.”

“Fine,” Hiccup said with mock severity. “Demonstration round. Frost, you and me.”

The Riders erupted in cheers and jeers. “Oooh!” “Do it, Frost!” “Bet Hiccup trips on his own feet!”

The two stepped into the center ring. Hiccup took one of the padded swords, testing its weight, while Frost twirled her crooked staff with lazy precision. They circled each other. Hiccup kept light on his feet, waiting for an opening. Frost waited too, but hers was the patience of someone who knew her opponent would make the first mistake.

They lunged at nearly the same moment. Hiccup swung with speed, aiming for her side. Frost twisted out of the way, let the crook of her staff catch his ankle, and yanked.

He stumbled but managed to plant his foot back, just narrowly avoiding a fall.

“Lucky shot,” he muttered.

“Not luck.” She hooked the crook again while he was still unstable, quicker this time, and swept his legs fully out from under him.

The Riders howled in laughter as Hiccup crashed to the dirt with a solid thud. Before he could scramble up, Frost planted the flat end of her staff against his chest, pinning him there with surprising force.

“And that,” Frost said, her grin devilish, “is how you pin a Terror.”

The arena filled with laughter, hoots, and clapping. Astrid shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone take Hiccup down that fast.”

Hiccup groaned, dragging himself upright and dusting off his tunic. “Alright, alright. Fine. She wins.” He shot Frost a look that was more begrudging admiration than irritation. “Guess that means I’ll go last in the first round.”

The Riders were buzzing now, the childhood game sparking both nostalgia and competitive fire.

“First match,” Hiccup announced, “Astrid versus Ruffnut.”

The two girls stepped into the ring, Astrid with cool confidence, Ruffnut with manic glee. Stormfly chirped from the sidelines, as if already betting on her rider’s victory.

They clashed immediately, Ruff swinging wildly with a padded axe, Astrid dodging with practiced ease. Astrid ducked, spun, and used Ruffnut’s momentum against her, twisting her arm and flipping her onto her back. Before Ruff could wriggle free, Astrid pressed her knee into her stomach and yanked the strap tight around her wrist.

“Pinned,” Astrid declared.

Ruffnut grinned up at her, undeterred. “I let you win. Totally part of my strategy.”

“Sure,” Astrid said, rolling her eyes as she stood.

Next came Tuffnut versus Fishlegs. Tuffnut came in yelling some kind of battle cry about glory, waving his padded axe like he was storming a battlefield. Fishlegs, panic already setting in, darted around the ring, blocking and retreating.

It looked bad for him at first, Tuffnut’s swings were wild but powerful. Then Fishlegs remembered the marked shield he carried. Timing it perfectly, he braced it low and let Tuffnut slam into it full-force. The impact knocked Tuffnut flat on his back, dazed, while Fishlegs scrambled on top and strapped his arms down in record time.

“Fishlegs wins!” Hiccup announced, sounding as shocked as everyone else.

Tuffnut blinked up at the sky. “Did I… just lose to a bookworm?”

“Yes,” Ruffnut called. “Embarrassing.”

That left Frost versus Snotlout.

The crowd perked up, sensing fireworks. Snotlout strutted into the ring like he was walking into a war council, flexing his muscles and tossing his helmet to Hookfang for safekeeping.

“Ready to lose, ice twig?” he taunted, twirling his axe.

Frost leaned casually on her staff. “Bold words from someone who spends more time flexing than fighting.”

The match started fast. Snotlout charged, roaring. Frost sidestepped effortlessly, spinning her staff to smack the crook against his ribs, knocking the wind out of him. He swung again, harder, but Frost ducked and swept his legs.

Snotlout hit the ground with a graceless thud .

Before he could scramble up, Frost jammed the bottom of her staff down, catching his chest plate and pinning him back in place for emphasis. Her grin turned triumphant. “You make this too easy.”

The Riders cheered and laughed, some doubling over at Snotlout’s spluttering.

“Unfair!” he protested, wriggling uselessly. “She cheated, her staff’s got tricks!”

“Tricks are allowed,” Hiccup reminded, smirking. “Frost wins.”

The first round ended with Astrid, Fishlegs, and Frost victorious. Which meant Hiccup had to face Astrid. An uneven amount of people made this a surprising amount more difficult.

The air shifted instantly, every Rider leaned forward, eager to see who would come out on top.

Astrid entered with her usual icy determination. Hiccup looked nervous, but determination flickered in his eyes too. He armed himself with a staff, hoping to mirror Frost’s earlier success.

The fight began evenly, Astrid’s blows sharp and precise, Hiccup dodging narrowly and circling fast. She pressed hard, clearly planning to end it quickly, but Hiccup kept slipping out of reach.

Then, by sheer accident, Hiccup tripped on the edge of his own bootlace. He stumbled forward, crashing into Astrid, and both went sprawling.

Somehow, Hiccup landed on top. In the scramble, he managed to gram her wrist.

“Pinned!” he shouted breathlessly, half in shock.

The arena exploded with laughter and groans.

Astrid glared up at him, red faced more from indignation than the fall. “That wasn’t skill. That was dumb luck.”

Hiccup grinned sheepishly. “Hey, still counts.”

From the sidelines, Frost called out with a wicked smirk, “See? Told you he wins by falling on people.”

Even Astrid cracked a reluctant laugh at that, though she still shoved him off roughly.

And so, the first chaotic round of Pin the Terror ended, with Hiccup, somehow, standing as the accidental victor.

The dirt floor was scattered with a few padded practice weapons, a rope or two, and the makeshift markers that outlined the boundary of the match. Astrid stood opposite Frost, already bouncing lightly on her toes, her axe twirling lazily in one hand. Frost leaned on her staff with that smirk that had gotten under Astrid’s skin since the first day they met.

“Try not to break a nail,” Astrid said, adjusting her grip, eyes sharp.

“Try not to trip over your own ego,” Frost shot back, twirling his staff in an effortless arc before planting it with a thump. “I’d hate for this to be over too quickly.”

“Cocky, aren’t you?” she grinned, rolling her shoulders.

“Confident,” She corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“Less talk, more fight!” Tuffnut bellowed from the sidelines. “I wanna see someone eat dirt!”

“Preferably, Frost!” Snotlout added, arms crossed.

Hiccup raised a hand like a referee. “Alright, you two know the rules; pin your opponent down, no lethal strikes, boundaries are fair game. Ready? …Go!” He practically jumped back, is the rumors where true, Astrid vs Frost could do some damage. Real or training.

Astrid shot forward like an arrow, her axe sweeping low in a feint before snapping up toward her ribs. Frost spun her staff to catch the strike, the wood ringing dully as the two weapons collided. She used the momentum to pivot, sliding the crook of her staff toward her ankle in a quick sweep.

Astrid jumped just in time, rolling over his back as he ducked. She landed behind him, bringing her axe down for a pinning strike at her shoulder. But Frost twisted, bracing the bottom of her staff into the dirt so that it held her axe mid swing like it was snagged on a hook.

“See? Staff beats axe. It’s not just a stick ya know.”

Astrid growled, yanked, and snapped her knee toward his stomach. She barely blocked it, staff shifting to catch her leg before it made contact. She shoved off with her free foot, somersaulting back to gain distance.

“Not bad,” she admitted, smirking as she lunged again, this time tossing her axe into her off hand and spinning to disorient her.

Frost let her circle, her smirk widening as he dragged the staff across the dirt, then flicked it up suddenly. A spray of dust burst between them, and Astrid coughed, blinded for a split second. That was all he needed, she darted forward, hooked the crook of the staff behind her knee, and tugged sharply. Astrid’s balance faltered, and in a heartbeat he pressed the flat of his staff across her shoulders, forcing her into the dirt with a firm pin.

“Pinned.” Her voice was smug but not unkind.

Astrid gritted her teeth but pushed a strand of blonde hair from her face. “You’re lucky this isn’t with real weapons.”

“Or unlucky,” Frost replied lightly, stepping back and offering her a hand. She ignored it and stood on her own, brushing herself off to a round of cheers and groans from the spectators.

“That’s one win for Frost!” Hiccup announced.

Snotlout cupped his hands around his mouth. “Boooo! That was pure luck!”

“Luck doesn’t sweep your legs out from under you,” Ruffnut shot back, grinning.

Now it was Hiccup’s turn to step up against Fishlegs. The two faced each other with nervous smiles, but the arena grew quieter with interest. Unlike Astrid or Jack, Fishlegs wasn’t known for his speed or aggression, but he had brains, and that often turned battles his way. Fishlegs twirled the new, changed out, mace in his hands.

“Ready?” Hiccup called, though he was technically part of the fight.

Fishlegs gave an awkward shrug. “Not really, but here goes nothing.”

“Go!”

Fishlegs charged first, surprising everyone. Instead of waiting defensively, he swung a training mace padded with leather toward Hiccup’s torso. Hiccup scrambled to parry with his sword, stumbling back under the weight of the strike.

“Woah, okay!” Hiccup laughed nervously, deflecting another swing. “You’ve been practicing!”

“Gotta… keep you guessing!” Fishlegs panted, pressing forward with surprising determination. He tried to drive Hiccup toward the boundary, using his size to corner him.

But Hiccup, nimble as ever, darted sideways at the last second, hooking his foot behind Fishlegs’ ankle. The bigger boy tripped, stumbling forward into the dirt, but rolled onto his back before Hiccup could claim victory.

“Not done yet!” Fishlegs wheezed, shoving up with surprising strength. He knocked Hiccup off balance, nearly pinning him, but Hiccup twisted, dropping his wooden sword and using his lighter frame to scramble onto Fishlegs’ back.

The crowd roared as the two wrestled, both red faced and straining. Fishlegs tried to push up, but Hiccup slid his arm under one of Fishlegs’ shoulders, pinning it awkwardly to the ground. With his free hand, Hiccup pressed Fishlegs’ wrist flat to the dirt and braced his knee against the boy’s side.

“Pinned!” Hiccup shouted between gasps of breath, his hair sticking up wildly.

Fishlegs groaned, but after a moment, tapped the ground in surrender. “Pinned.”

Cheers and applause erupted from the sidelines. Ruffnut was already shouting about betting odds, while Snotlout sulked.

“That means our final round is set!” Hiccup announced, rolling off Fishlegs and catching his breath. He raised a hand toward Frost across the arena. “It’s me… and you.”

Frost leaned lazily on his staff, but his smirk carried a spark of challenge. “Finally. I was wondering when you’d work your way up to me.”

The riders began to chant, stomping the ground: “Hic-cup! Frost! Hic-cup! Frost!”

The two circled each other, tension thick in the air as the final match of the game loomed.

The others had already drifted toward the scent of lunch, their laughter and chatter fading into the trees, leaving the clearing strangely hushed. The soft whisper of leaves stirred overhead, the air cooled by Frost’s lingering chill. Hiccup stretched his arm absentmindedly, only then wincing as the burn Fishlegs’ wild strike had left tugged at his skin. He tried to roll down his sleeve, hiding it as though that might dismiss the pain, but Frost’s sharp eyes caught it.

For a moment, Frost said nothing. His staff rested lazily against his shoulder, his usual mask of smirks and cocky grins slipping into something quieter. Hiccup noticed the way his gaze lingered—not with amusement or mockery, but something heavier, thoughtful. It was rare to see her, no him, so still.

Frost crouched without asking, pale fingers hovering just shy of Hiccup’s sleeve. His voice was low, almost tentative. “Stay still… and, uh, don’t think about this too much, alright?”

Hiccup blinked, curious, but nodded. There was something in Frost’s tone that carried weight. Not teasing, not sharp. Just… earnest.

From beneath the folds of his hoodie, Frost slipped out a small, gold colored book. It looked fragile, impossibly so, as though it wasn’t meant to survive dragon fire or frostbitten winds. The edges glinted faintly when the light caught them, and Hiccup realized Frost had been keeping it tucked close to his chest this whole time. A secret.

The boy flipped it open with a reverence that made Hiccup instinctively hold his breath. Inside, the pages looked mostly blank, but near the corner one page bore a curling design, dark ink marking a symbol that seemed to shimmer faintly as Frost traced it.

A rune.

Frost pressed his fingertips over the drawn lines, closing his eyes. A glow spread, pale and soft like moonlight captured in water. It pulsed once, then he reached for Hiccup’s arm.

Hiccup tensed but didn’t pull away, watching as Frost’s hand settled gently just below the burn. The rune’s light traveled down his fingers, slipping into the wound like threads weaving a tapestry. The heat dulled, then faded. Slowly, impossibly, the torn skin pulled together, knitting until it looked as though nothing had ever touched it. Only a faint mark remained, a ghost of what had been there.

Hiccup stared, wide eyed, while Frost exhaled relief, or maybe strain, Hiccup couldn’t tell. Quickly, he withdrew his hand, snapping the book shut with a sharp motion like he was embarrassed to have shown too much.

“Don’t get used to it,” Frost muttered, eyes dropping, voice gruff where moments ago it had been soft. “I don’t… I don’t have many of these. Just this one. And another. That’s it. It’s pathetic.”

Hiccup flexed his arm, still staring at the unbroken skin. His heart thumped unevenly, not just from the magic, but from the way Frost looked defensive, like he expected rejection.

“It’s not pathetic,” Hiccup said, his voice steadier than he felt. “It’s… amazing.”

Their eyes caught and held. Hiccup’s words lingered in the space between them, heavy with more meaning than either admitted aloud. Frost’s cheeks flushed faintly under the pale of his skin, his mouth twitching like he might argue, but instead he looked away, snapping the golden book back into his hoodie as if hiding a secret he shouldn’t have shared.

Hiccup swallowed, unsure what to say next, the silence pressing in. His arm no longer ached, but his chest felt tight, full of a hundred unspoken things. He wanted to thank him again, properly this time, but the words tangled.

Frost shifted his weight, suddenly restless, his staff tapping lightly against the dirt. “You’re staring,” he said quickly, deflecting.

“Yeah,” Hiccup admitted before he could stop himself. He gave a soft laugh before finally looking away.

The quiet stretched, delicate as spun glass.

And though Frost finally looked away, turning toward the trees where the others had gone, Hiccup caught the faintest twitch of a smile. A small, and reluctant smile, but real.

The world narrowed to just the two of them. The air carried the faint warmth of stew simmering in the background, drifting from where the Riders had wandered off, but here, under the shade of the training arena, it was quiet. Hiccup’s arm was still warm where Frost had pressed his fingers after drawing that glowing rune, the healed skin tingling faintly as if the magic lingered.

Hiccup couldn’t help himself. His curiosity had teeth, and now that it had bitten, there was no holding it back.

“That—” Hiccup started, words tumbling out of him with the same rapid fire energy he usually reserved for new inventions. “That was incredible. The precision alone! The glow, the way the lines seemed to pull into the cut like, like stitches tightening. But smoother. Cleaner. How did the rune know? I mean, you didn’t even… you didn’t even touch the wound directly. Was it, was it reacting to, uh, intent? Or material? Did you prepare it beforehand? Is it chemical? No, no, too clean for that. Was it, was it you ?” His green eyes darted back up, wide and gleaming, studying Frost like he was some puzzle worth solving.

Frost tilted his head back, exhaling slowly through his nose as if debating how much to say. Then he smirked. “First off, calm down, Notebook. You’re about to vibrate out of your boots.”

“I am calm, ” Hiccup said, gesturing wildly with his newly healed arm. “This is calm! This is me—calm—freaking—asking about a whole new field of knowledge that nobody on Berk even knows exists!”

“Right.” Frost gave him a look, but there was something almost fonder hiding under the teasing. He tucked the golden book closer against his chest, fingers drumming against its cover before slipping it back into the safety of his hoodie. “Okay, reasonable explanations. Let’s try those.”

Hiccup leaned forward, practically vibrating with attention.

“The lines?” Frost began, casual, careful. “Think of them like… channels. Not magic, just… an old technique. Like acupuncture. Pressure points, maybe. A design that directs energy. Not mine, just the world’s.”

Hiccup squinted. “Channels? But that doesn’t explain why they lit up. Lines don’t glow.”

“Phosphorescent dust.” Frost shrugged like it was obvious. “Natural stuff. Collect it in certain caves, mix it in with ash, bam, glowing ink.”

Hiccup paused. “…That’s actually kind of brilliant.”

Frost grinned. “See? Science.” Gaslight, gatekeep, and he already knows he’s a girl boss. Thank Manny that he is a considered a trickster spirit.

Hiccup leaned back, suspicious but intrigued. “Alright. So what about the cut closing up so smoothly? That wasn’t just some salve or fancy poultice. I’ve seen stitches, herbs, burns. That was—” He gestured at his arm again. “—that was something else entirely.”

Frost clicked his tongue, pretending to think. “Pressure plus body heat. Wounds close better when you stop panicking and actually let the body do its job. The lines, the warmth… tricked your nerves into calming down.”

Hiccup’s brows furrowed. “That’s… plausible. Maybe. But…” He leaned forward again, voice dropping conspiratorially. “What about the rumors?”

Frost blinked. “Rumors?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Hiccup’s grin sharpened. “We’ve all heard them. A masked figure in the woods. Strange cold pockets in the middle of summer. Frozen puddles where there shouldn’t be any. Can you really…” He lowered his voice even more. “…control ice?”

For a moment, Frost just looked at him, lips twitching like he was fighting the urge to laugh. Then he leaned back on his elbows, smirking. “Nope. Definitely not. Just following the weather.”

Hiccup’s eyes narrowed. “Uh-huh. So the pond last week just happened to freeze solid because… what? Sudden localized cold front?”

“Exactly.” Frost’s grin widened, utterly unconvincing.

“Can’t fight nature.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m resourceful.”

Hiccup groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but he was smiling. “You’re infuriating.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Frost shot back lightly.

That pulled them into silence, a soft one. Their eyes lingered too long again, as if both were waiting for the other to break it. Then Frost shifted, glancing away toward where the sun was bleeding higher in the sky, light cutting across the arena floor. His smile faltered, shoulders tightening just a fraction.

“I was kind of hoping you’d… leave,” he said finally, voice quieter than before.

Hiccup blinked, thrown. “Leave? Why?” He hoped he wasn’t talking to much. That usually how he scared off new friends.

Frost didn’t answer right away. He rubbed at the back of his neck, white hair sticking where sweat and sunlight clung. His voice, when it came, was softer, edged with something raw. “Because the longer I stay in the sun, the worse it gets. All the cold I live in… it keeps me steady. Too much heat, too much light…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It makes me feel off. Weak.”

Hiccup’s chest tightened, the curiosity giving way to something gentler, steadier. “Then why stay here with me? Why did you even agree if you knew?”

Frost gave a crooked, helpless smile, eyes flicking toward him and then away again. “…Guess I thought it was worth it.”

The heat pressed down like a heavy hand. The kind that made the air shimmer in waves over the rocks and left sweat beading along Hiccup’s brow, but it wasn’t himself he was worried about. Frost’s face, usually pale but alive with laughter or sarcasm, had drained to something almost translucent. He swayed on his feet, staff digging into the dirt with a quiet thud as he leaned hard on it, the humor wiped from his expression.

Hiccup straightened, alarm sparking in his chest. “Hey, whoa, you don’t look good.” He moved closer, instinct tugging him to steady him, but Frost stubbornly shifted back a step, trying to wave it off.

“I’m fine,” Frost muttered, though his voice cracked halfway through, betraying the lie. He tilted his chin up as though daring Hiccup to push the issue, but the faint tremor in his knees spoke louder than any words. He half turned, perhaps about to excuse himself, but his staff slipped in the dirt, forcing him to plant both feet awkwardly to keep from collapsing outright.

Hiccup caught that, slightly reaching out to catch him, and it snapped his patience. His tone brooked no argument. “You’re staying in my hut tonight. No arguments. Not a maybe. Not a ‘fine.’ Done deal.”

Before Frost could open his mouth to retort, Hiccup called the overgrown lizard over. Toothless, who had been sprawled in the sun like an overfed cat, cracked one eye, then heaved himself up with an exaggerated groan. His wings stretched wide, his tail giving an indignant flick before he trotted over, grumbling like he knew exactly what was about to be asked of him. Hiccup patted his sleek side, already preparing to haul the new stranger wherever.

That’s when Frost made a sound, half surprise and half realization, and tilted his head back. He pressed two fingers to his lips and gave a quick, piercing whistle.

The reply came immediately. Out from behind a pile of barrels near the mess hall came a puff of curling gray smoke, followed by a set of bright, mischievous eyes. An elderly smoldering Smokesbreath waddled proudly forward, wings fluttering uselessly against its sides. Clutched tight in its little mouth, gleaming in the sun, was a bent metal spoon.

Hiccup blinked. “Is that—?”

The dragon let out a triumphant little trill, as if to say Yes, I conquered the world, behold my prize, and before Hiccup could process further, it bounded right up Frost’s leg like it had done it a thousand times. Frost staggered again but didn’t fall—because the Smokesbreath had climbed up his torso and promptly sprawled across his shoulders like a scarf. Then, with all the regal presence of a king who had claimed his throne, it settled horizontally along Frost’s back, spoon clamped stubbornly between its teeth.

“Chestnut,” Frost sighed, half exasperated, half resigned. “Really? A spoon?”

The little dragon puffed a cloud of smoke directly into his face in response, tail flicking as if to say Yes, really. The spoon.

Hiccup couldn’t help it, he laughed. The whole situation, for all its strangeness and worry, was ridiculous. A pale, feverish Frost with a dragon that looked like it had escaped from someone’s junk drawer perched proudly on him like a cloak.

“Does he, uh, always… bring back silverware?” Hiccup asked, biting back another laugh.

“Metal. Shiny things. Once it was an entire hinge off a door. Don’t ask me how,” Frost muttered, shifting his grip on the staff to balance both himself and the dragon. “He’s old, but he’s stubborn. And apparently thinks I’m furniture.”

The Smokesbreath snorted again, as if agreeing, then curled its smoke wreathed head closer around Frost’s neck, spoon glinting proudly in the sun.

Hiccup stepped forward, concern tugging him back into focus despite the absurdity.

“Furniture or not, you said it yourself, you can’t even stand in this heat. You’re coming with me. Chestnut too, spoon and all.” He tapped Toothless lightly, who huffed, ready to help.

Frost looked like he wanted to protest again, but he wavered on his feet, and Hiccup caught the way his jaw tightened like he hated needing help. Still, his shoulders slumped, conceding the smallest bit.

“…Fine,” Frost mumbled, adjusting Chestnut so the dragon didn’t slide off his back.

He knew Val wouldn’t like this. Jack thought worriedly, he promised to be there by feeding time.

His eyes lingered on the horizon for a moment, the sunlight glaring against the edges of his white hair, before flicking back to Hiccup. “But only because he won’t let go of that spoon. And I’m almost positive that isn’t mine.”

And though his words were light, Hiccup could see something else hiding beneath them, something rawer. The quiet reminder that Frost wasn’t just tired. The sun itself was making him sick.

Hiccup pressed his lips together, concern biting sharp into him. He didn’t say it yet, but he knew he’d ask before the night was over: Why does the sun hurt you so much?

He turned to a different thought, toothless had never formally met Frost. The introductions were clumsy at first, but somehow warm.

Hiccup stood between them, his hand resting gently on Toothless’ snout. “Toothless,” he said softly, as though introducing an old friend, “this is Frost.”

The Night Fury blinked, his pupils narrowing to thin slits before widening again in curiosity. His head tilted low, the sleek scales catching the last light of the sun. Frost, usually so quick with a quip, stood frozen, lips parted. It wasn’t fear, it was awe. He raised a cautious hand, and when Toothless pressed his forehead into his palm, Frost’s breath caught in his throat.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, voice quiet, almost reverent. “The most dangerous dragon I’ve ever heard of, and he’s—” Toothless gave a happy, throaty purr, like a massive overgrown... “—a giant cat,” Frost finished, laughing, his shoulders shaking.

Hiccup chuckled, pride coloring his tone. “Told you he’s different.”

Frost crouched, scratching the spot just behind Toothless’ earflap, earning himself an appreciative rumble that vibrated the ground beneath his boots. “Guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. Sugar Plum isn’t exactly what you’d call ‘Cute and Cuddly’ either.”

“Sugar Plum?” Hiccup blinked, curiosity knitting his brow. “Is that what you call your dragon?”

Frost smirked. “One of them.”

Hiccup tilted his head. “Wait, one of them?”

Before Frost could elaborate, Chestnut waddled down, tail dragging slightly, the spoon still clamped proudly in his jaws. He flopped against Frost’s leg, demanding scratchies. Hiccup crouched beside him, amazement clear in his face. “I still can’t believe you managed to train a Smokesbreath. They never stay in one place, let alone let someone get close.”

That made Frost pause. His smile faded into something smaller, more pensive. He knelt, fingers brushing the edges of Chestnut’s frayed wing. The small dragon flinched, but only a little, then leaned into his touch. “I didn’t catch him. Didn’t train him either. He was broken when I found him. Broken in the same ways I was.” A gentle hand spread the wing, showing the long scared carnage. 

His voice had dropped, quiet enough that Hiccup leaned in without thinking. “We… stuck together,” Frost continued. “Guess you’d call it a trauma bond. The whistles? That’s just him figuring me out on his own. Nothing fancy.” He scratched under Chestnut’s chin until the little dragon’s smoke puffed in contentment. “So, really, he trained me just as much as I trained him.”

Hiccup said nothing at first, just studied the way Frost’s expression softened when he spoke about the dragon. It tugged at something in him, that gentleness hidden beneath the sharp tongue and sharper grin.

Toothless nudged his head between the two boys, huffing impatiently. Hiccup laughed and patted his snout. “Alright, alright, your turn.” He gestured to the saddle. “If you’re gonna keep staring like that, might as well try a ride.”

Frost blinked, startled. “Wait, seriously? You’re trusting me with—”

“Toothless trusts you.” Hiccup’s tone was simple, final.

Frost hesitated, then looked at the dragon, who blinked back at him with those impossibly wide eyes. “Guess I can’t say no to that face.” He gave a small whistle to signal Chestnut to stay back, then carefully swung himself up onto the saddle, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He shifted awkwardly. “Huh. Comfier than it looks.”

Hiccup walked alongside as Toothless started padding up the long wooden ramp toward his hut. He glanced sideways, curiosity itching at him again. “So… Sugar. Plum. Same dragon? Two dragons? Or just a nickname thing I haven’t figured out yet?”

Frost only laughed, head tipped back, the sound carrying on the warm evening air. He didn’t answer. Just let the mystery linger, shoulders shaking as if he found it twice as funny as Hiccup found it frustrating.

“Not fair,” Hiccup muttered under his breath, but he was smiling. Ears turning a shade of red he didn’t know he could do.

This is the same feeling he first got with Astrid.

And up the ramp they went, side by side; the boy, the dragon, and the dead draped in secrets.

By the time Toothless padded to the top of the ramp, the sky had softened into deep violet streaked with stars, the air crisp enough that their breaths fogged faintly. The Night Fury gave a low, rumbling purr and shook his wings out, the saddle creaking under Frost’s shifting weight.

“Alright, buddy, that’s enough for now,” Hiccup said, patting Toothless’ side. The dragon stopped neatly at the hut’s landing, as if he’d been born knowing how to walk up ramps.

Frost swung one leg over, intending to hop down with easy grace. Except Chestnut had chosen that exact moment to shift, clambering higher onto Frost’s shoulders like a smugly oversized scarf. The extra drag threw his balance completely off. His boots hit the wooden landing, his knee buckled, and his torso pitched forward.

“Whoa—”

Before he could sprawl embarrassingly face first into the floorboards, a pair of steady hands grabbed his waist.

Hiccup pulled him upright with surprising strength, steadying him before either of them tumbled.

“You alright?” Hiccup asked quickly, his brows knit, his face far too close.

Frost blinked, chest heaving with the sudden rush of adrenaline. “Y-yeah. I meant to do that. Very graceful exit, don’t you think?”

Hiccup huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Sure. If by graceful you mean nearly faceplanting .” He didn’t let go immediately, and Frost didn’t rush to move, until Toothless shoved his massive head between them with a pointed snort that nearly toppled them both again.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Hiccup muttered, finally stepping back. His ears had turned red as firelight.

Inside the hut, the warmth was immediate. A lantern hung from the beam, casting a soft golden glow over the cluttered space. Maps rolled up on shelves, tools scattered across the workbench, half finished sketches of dragons pinned to the wall. Frost looked around like he’d stepped into some kind of workshop laboratory hybrid, his curiosity practically buzzing.

He shrugged Chestnut off gently, letting the little dragon scuttle to the foot of the bed where he curled in a smoke-puffing heap. Then, with all the elegance of someone who’d reached the end of his reserves, Frost flopped onto Hiccup’s bed, boots and all.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Frost said, already settling into the blankets like he owned them. He folded his hands behind his head, the smirk tugging at his lips belying the weariness in his half lidded eyes. “Your bed’s officially commandeered.”

Hiccup raised a brow but didn’t object. Instead, he dropped into the chair at his desk, leaning back until it creaked, arms folded loosely across his chest. “Figures. Toothless isn’t the only one around here who thinks he can claim my spot.”

Frost cracked one eye open and grinned. “Guess that makes me competition, huh? Gotta admit, that dragon’s hard to beat in the charm department.”

“You’re not exactly low on the charm scale yourself,” Hiccup muttered before he could think better of it. The words hung there, and his face burned instantly. He coughed, shifting in his chair. “I mean, you—you’re good at… talking. Filling the air. That kind of charm.”

“Smooth,” Frost teased, but his voice was softer now, amused and tired. Like he’d seen this before but in a different way.

The conversation drifted from there, light and meandering. They talked about Toothless’ ridiculous sleeping noises, “He snores like a walrus with a head cold,” Hiccup admitted. And Frost countered with a story about Chestnut once trying to nest inside a cooking pot because it was shiny. “but couldn’t get out because… I, had already put oil in it.” They teased each other about their walking habits, their food preferences, whether or not dragons actually dreamed . Frost insisted Sugar Plum dreamed about stealing sheep, while Hiccup argued Toothless had to dream of flying, given the twitching of his wings in sleep.

Every topic was shallow, almost meaningless, yet it filled the space with warmth. Frost’s voice dipped lower with each passing minute, words stretching out, punctuated by yawns he tried to hide. His hands stayed tucked behind his head, hair splaying across Hiccup’s pillow like frost dusted ink, his lean frame sinking deeper into the blankets.

Hiccup found himself watching more than talking. The curve of Frost’s grin as it faltered into something smaller. The way his lashes caught the lantern light as his eyes slipped closed between sentences. How he wrestled with sleep, stubbornly fighting it, like drifting off meant surrender.

Eventually, the conversation dwindled to nothing. Frost gave a small sigh, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, words finally silenced by exhaustion.

Hiccup sat frozen in his chair, suddenly very aware of the scene before him. His bed, his bed. Now held a figure so small, so strangely beautiful in the half light it made his chest ache. The sharp edges of Frost’s usual smirk had softened into quiet vulnerability, and Hiccup couldn’t look away.

His throat worked around a lump. He shifted in his chair, dragging a hand over his face, but the image burned itself into his mind regardless: Frost tangled in his blankets, Chestnut snoring faintly at his feet, old staff still tightly clutched in his hand, the room filled with the hush of two dragons’ sleep.

And Hiccup sat there, heart pounding far too hard for comfort, flustered and flushed, wondering

when his own hut had begun to feel like someone else’s storybook dream.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jack registered was the warmth. Not the faint crisp of morning frost, not the cool bite of shaded air, but a heavy, almost suffocating warmth pressing against his skin. He stirred, blinking groggily as light spilled through the slatted window of Hiccup’s hut. For a moment, he lay there, disoriented, wrapped in the strange comfort of blankets that smelled faintly of soot, pine, and something metallic iron or leather, maybe. He stretched lazily, arms overhead, his body humming with the deep rest he hadn’t had in… well, he couldn’t remember. His bones felt lighter. His chest didn’t ache. His mind, for once, wasn’t buzzing.

Then it hit him.

This wasn’t his “bed”.

He froze, staring at the wooden rafters, then shot upright so fast he nearly toppled sideways. His bare feet hit the wooden floor with a muted thump, and heat flooded his face. Oh great. Perfect. Jack Frost, bane of winter storms, legendary trickster, guardian of . His mouth twisted. Of course I’d fall asleep in his bed.

Jack scrubbed a hand through his hair, mussing the white strands even more, muttering a low curse under his breath. He glanced toward the door, half expecting Hiccup to walk in at any second, catching him like some kid raiding a cookie jar. But the hut was still, filled only with the creak of wood in the morning sun and the faint snore of dragons somewhere outside.

Chestnut had bundled himself into a smoky coil at the foot of the bed, a faint glow of heat puffing from his nostrils as he clutched his precious spoon with the fierce possessiveness of a king guarding treasure. The sight almost made Jack smile. Still hasn’t dropped it. Figures.

Sugar Plum was nowhere in sight, though that didn’t surprise him. She’d likely burrowed into the cool earth before dawn. She always avoided sunlight like it carried claws. Smart girl.

The absence of Hiccup and Toothless was the one thing Jack hadn’t expected. The empty saddle stand said it all, they’d gone flying, probably at first light. Jack’s chest gave an odd little twinge he refused to name. He scuffed a bare toe against the floorboards and muttered, “Great. He leaves me here like some… lost pet.”

The words hung bitter in the warm air. He shook his head, pacing a little, staff gripped loosely in one hand. He tried leaning against the wall. Sitting on the desk stool. Even flopping back onto the bed for a minute, though his body refused to sink into rest again. His thoughts were too restless. His hands, too fidgety.

So he wandered.

His eyes roamed over the hut, drawn to the chaos Hiccup left behind: tools scattered in purposeful disarray across the desk, scrap metal stacked in neat but precarious piles, bits of dragon harnesses, ropes, and buckles half assembled. The smell of charred wood mixed with oil hung in the air. On the walls, pinned sheets fluttered faintly in the breeze; sketches of dragons mid, flight, diagrams of wings and tails, studies of fire blast arcs. It was messy, sure, but not careless. Organized chaos. Every piece felt deliberate, like Hiccup’s brain had spilled out onto the room in gears and ink.

It felt… like him.

Jack found himself smiling faintly. He’d never lived in one place long enough to make something like this, a place where every corner whispered back who you were.

Then he saw it.

On the workbench, half hidden under a coil of wire and a scrap of leather, sat a leather bound notebook. Its cover was worn soft at the edges, the spine bent from use. The flap wasn’t tucked shut; it sat slightly ajar, inviting. Tempting.

Jack stopped dead, staring at it. His gut twisted. He knew what it was before his fingers even twitched. A journal. Sketches. Probably private. Definitely not his business.

He shouldn’t.

He really shouldn’t.

He told himself that, even as his feet carried him closer. Even as his hand hovered over the worn leather like a moth drawn to flame. His heart thumped traitorously.

Hiccup had already sketched him once, on the battle ground, that day he’d laughed without realizing he was being watched. The thought had gnawed at him ever since, sharp and curious. If Hiccup had tucked him into a corner of his mind, enough to put ink to paper… what else might be hiding in there?

Jack licked his lips, fingers closing on the cover.

“Just a peek,” he murmured. His voice was hoarse in the quiet.

“One peek won’t kill me.”

He slid the notebook open.

Jack’s fingers linger on the paper, brushing over the faint grooves left by Hiccup’s pencil strokes. The lines aren’t flawless, sometimes a curve too sharp, sometimes a proportion a little off but there’s an honesty in them. Hiccup hadn’t drawn him like a stranger, but like someone he was trying to understand .

The page with his laugh catches Jack off guard the hardest. He can’t even remember the last time he laughed like that—unguarded, uncalculated, not in jest or mockery. Yet here it was, captured, frozen in graphite. For a moment, Jack doesn’t know whether to slam the book shut or cling to it.

He turns another page, slower this time, almost reverent. Sugar Plum, caught mid motion her tail a curling whip of muscle, her eyes narrowed in sharp defiance. Jack can almost hear her hiss when he looks at it. His chest swells with pride, but it stings, too. No one else had ever seen her that way. To the world she was a monster. To him, she was family. To Hiccup, apparently, she was something worth recording.

Chestnut is different, drawn smaller, smudges of dark shading to mimic the smoke that constantly trails her. Hiccup had even tried to capture the way it twists and curls, patterns half random, half purposeful, like the smoke itself was thinking. Jack swallows hard. No one should care enough to notice details like that.

A laugh bubbles up, but it comes out softer, almost a whisper of sound. He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Geez, Haddock… what are you doing, sketching me like I’m part of your dragon roster?”

But his words feel flimsy, too light to disguise the warmth creeping through him. It wasn’t just the drawings, it was the care behind them. Hiccup had seen him. Not just his frost or his shadows or his sharp words, but him.

The notebook weighs heavily in his hands, like it’s not just leather and parchment but proof of something he hadn’t realized he wanted—connection.

And yet, guilt starts to creep in too. He’s trespassing. Reading something not meant for his eyes. If Hiccup walked in right now, how would he explain this? That he couldn’t help himself? That he needed to know what place, if any, he held in Hiccup’s mind?

Jack flips one last page, unable to resist. This time it’s not him, not his dragons. It’s a sketch of Toothless and Hiccup, side by side, flying into the clouds. The lines are bolder, the strokes confident. It screams of belonging, of partnership, of trust so deep it doesn’t need words. Jack stares at it, jaw tight.

For the first time since waking, the warmth of the hut feels stifling again. Not because it’s too hot, but because of the ache crawling under his skin, the sharp reminder that this was Hiccup’s world, drawn in graphite and ink, and Jack wasn’t sure if he was meant to stay in it.

His hands hover over the page, torn between closing the book and tracing the lines again.

Jack froze mid motion, the leather, bound book still warm in his hands, the weight of it suddenly heavier than before. The hinges of the hut door groaned, sunlight cutting across the floorboards, and there stood Hiccup, sweat streaked from flight, hair mussed by the wind, Toothless at his side with wings still half flared. Both pairs of eyes, green and wide, snapped to the same incriminating object clutched to Jack’s chest.

“What are you doing?” Hiccup’s voice cracked between shock and accusation, sharper than Jack had ever heard from him.

Jack’s heart lurched, but he smothered it with a grin, tilting his head like this was all some harmless joke. “Oh, nothing.” He slid into a dramatic bow, clutching the notebook to himself as though it were a love letter. “Just admiring your… artistic talents. ”

Hiccup’s entire face went crimson, even the tips of his ears. “Give that back.” He strode forward, hand already outstretched.

But Jack danced a step back, bare feet light on the floorboards, balancing effortless. “Seriously, Hiccup, me? Sugar Plum? You’ve been sketching my good side!” He cracked the book open again, flipping a page just to watch Hiccup’s panic. “I mean, I always knew I was devastatingly handsome, but you? You’ve really captured the essence. ” He framed his face with one hand, posing with exaggerated vanity.

Hiccup lunged, but Jack hopped neatly onto the bed, springing lightly as though he weighed no more than smoke. “Oh, don’t be shy!” Jack teased, his voice bubbling with laughter. “Who knew? The fearless dragon master, closet artist. It’s adorable, really.”

Toothless gave a low rumble that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, his big eyes darting between them.

“You’re impossible,” Hiccup muttered, cheeks still blazing. His hands went for the notebook again, but Jack twisted just out of reach, holding it aloft with a mischievous sparkle in his eye.

Then Hiccup’s gaze darted past him, to the corner of the hut. A flash of strategy lit his face. Before Jack could react, Hiccup lunged sideways, snatching Jack’s staff from where it leaned against the workbench. He spun around, holding it up like a trophy.

“Trade.” His voice was triumphant, edged with challenge.

The grin slid from Jack’s face in an instant. His laughter stopped, sharp as a blade cut short. His eyes narrowed, the lightness gone, replaced with something harder. His voice dropped low, all traces of teasing burned away. “That’s… not funny, Beanstalk.” He said the nickname deliberately in English, crisp and foreign, the word cracking through the air.

His shoulders stiffened, protective instinct radiating through every tense line of his body. “Give it back.”

For a heartbeat, the hut vibrated with tension. Jack’s frostbitten edge clashing with Hiccup’s iron, stubborn glare. Toothless shifted uneasily, sensing the spike in mood, tail twitching.

Jack’s grip on the notebook tightened, his jaw set. Then slowly he exhaled. The storm eased, not gone, but contained, like ice refreezing over a crack. The smirk crept back onto his lips, practiced and sly. “Okay, fine.” His voice turned smooth again, deceptively casual. “Notebook for staff. Fair trade.”

He held the journal out loosely, though his fingers lingered on the cover. His eyes flicked to Hiccup’s, sharp and knowing. “But don’t think this means I didn’t see your… excellent craftsmanship.” The smirk deepened, covering the flicker of warmth that had struck him earlier. “I only got to the second page.”

It was a lie, of course. He knew damn well it had been page four. But some things, like what he’d seen, and how it made his chest twist, he wasn’t ready to admit. Not yet.

The trade happened messily,Jack tossing the notebook toward Hiccup at the exact moment Hiccup extended the staff. Their hands collided, both fumbled, and the notebook smacked against Hiccup’s chest while the staff nearly clattered to the floor. Jack scrambled to catch it, overbalanced, and the two of them ended up in an undignified heap against the side of the bed.

For a split second, silence, then Jack snorted. Hiccup’s glare cracked like thin ice under sunlight, and laughter spilled out of him too. They laughed harder than either expected, shoulders shaking, gasping for air as Toothless tilted his head and gave a questioning warble. The dragon nosed at them, huffing like he didn’t understand why his humans had lost their minds. Jack only laughed harder when Hiccup shoved at Toothless’s massive snout, trying to reclaim his breath.

Eventually, the noise ebbed into quiet chuckles. The hut settled again, golden light filtering through the window slats, dust motes swirling lazily in the beams. Jack leaned back on his elbows, staff balanced across his lap. His laughter faded, and with it, some of the brightness in his face dimmed into something more serious. He ran his thumb along the length of the crook, pausing at the jagged scar carved into the wood.

“You know…” His voice was lower, almost careful, as if saying it too loudly would break something fragile. “I don’t let people touch this. Ever.”

The words seemed to weigh the air down. Hiccup stilled, caught by the shift in tone.

Jack kept his gaze fixed on the crack in the wood, his thumb rubbing over it in slow, almost reverent strokes. “Only one other person ever has. And he…” His mouth pulled tight, shoulders stiffening. He swallowed hard before forcing the words out. “Well. He broke it.” The staff shifted slightly in his grip, creaking with the memory of old damage. “He didn’t last long after that to get another chance.”

Something darker flickered across his expression, an echo of pain he’d buried deep. He didn’t name the man, Pitch, but the shadow of him sat heavy in the room. Jack wanted to keep that part of himself hidden, locked behind jokes and deflections. A second chance was fragile enough without dragging all the wreckage of his past into the open. But with all that’s happened, the boy deserves something.

Hiccup sat frozen, the weight of Jack’s honesty pressing into his chest. He wanted to say something, but no words felt right. No clever retort, no reassurance that didn’t sound hollow.

Jack twirled the staff once, a nervous habit, the wood spinning fluidly through his hands before settling back against his shoulder. He huffed a laugh, softer this time, the edges carrying no mockery. “But you held it, just now.” His eyes flicked up to Hiccup’s, searching. “And I didn’t…” He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, fond smile. “Guess that means something.”

The room seemed to still around them. Toothless shifted by the door, curling down with a low sigh, leaving the silence to stretch between the two boys. Hiccup’s mouth parted, his breath caught somewhere between a response and a question, but the words tangled in his throat and never came.

Jack leaned back, staff resting across his shoulders, expression a careful balance of vulnerability and teasing ease. But beneath it lingered that unspoken truth, that he had offered Hiccup something no one else had been allowed. And Hiccup, heart thrumming with the weight of it, wasn’t sure if he’d ever deserved it.

Jack pushed himself to his feet with a groan, brushing dust from his trousers like the floor had betrayed him. One hand griped the staff has he pushed up, his other hand raking through his white hair in an attempt to look composed again. The grin he wore was lopsided, a little too practiced.

“Well,” he said, his voice light but threaded with a current Hiccup couldn’t place. “I should probably get going before the boss gets mad.”

Hiccup blinked, the words snagging him. He sat up straighter in his chair, worry creasing his brow. “Boss?” he echoed, cautious. His tone carried a sharp edge of suspicion, like the word itself painted a picture of shackles.

Jack caught the look and barked out a laugh, waving his free hand as though brushing away Hiccup’s fears. “No, no, not like that. Don’t worry, Beanstalk. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.” His smirk softened, but only a fraction. He tapped the staff against his shoulder once, thoughtful. “Her tongue though? Sharper than a dragon’s talon when I’m late.” He rolled his eyes with mock suffering, but his words sank with a weight he didn’t bother to explain.

Hiccup didn’t answer right away. His gut twisted with the sense there was more under the boy’s grin, something knotted and unspoken that Jack wasn’t willing to unravel yet. He almost pushed, almost asked, but the words stuck like stones in his throat.

Jack gave a sharp, short whistle. Chestnut stirred instantly, the little Smokebreath uncurling from the bed where he had dozed. Smoke puffed around him like he carried a storm in his belly, and he padded toward the door with a proud clatter of claws, spoon still clamped securely in his mouth.

“Atta boy,” Jack murmured fondly, following behind him. At the threshold he slowed, one hand catching the doorframe as if he were weighing whether to say something else. The golden evening light slanted across the hut, catching in his pale hair and outlining him like he’d been brushed in silver.

He glanced back over his shoulder, his grin flashing bright again, this one meant to sting just a little. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Before Hiccup could form a response, the door swung shut with a quiet thud, leaving the hut filled with fading laughter and the lingering weight of everything Jack hadn’t said.

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn stretched pale fingers across the Edge, brushing the sea until it glittered silver blue. The fjords rose jagged and sharp, their edges rimmed with frost that refused to melt even under the soft glow of morning. Mist clung low to the ground, shifting and curling like half formed ghosts.

Jack padded through the dew barefoot, each blade of grass slick against his skin. The chill didn’t bother him, it never did, but the wetness clung, grounding him in a way that was almost irritating. He moved lightly, almost gliding, staff resting across his shoulders with an absent ease. He told himself the walk was practical, necessary: mapping the best route to the sanctuary, checking for signs of hunters, stretching his muscles before a long flight.

But he knew better. He wasn’t walking the island to plan. He was walking to keep from thinking.

The conversation with Hiccup the night before echoed in his head, tugging at him in sharp little snatches. Words he hadn’t meant to say, laughter he hadn’t expected to share. The weight of the memory sat on his shoulders heavier than his staff. It was dangerous, he told himself, to let anyone in like that. And yet…

Behind him came the faint sound of claws clicking against stone. Chestnut trudged along, his body lower to the ground than usual, clipped wings fluttering weakly in a hopeless reflex. Little puffs of smoke leaked from his nostrils every few steps, as though his nerves were escaping him in tiny clouds. Jack glanced back once, offering a small click of his tongue, reassurance. Chestnut’s golden eyes flicked up but he didn’t stop pacing, always a few steps behind, as though afraid of being left behind altogether.

Sugar Plum burst into view a moment later, bursting from beneath a snowbank with an excited shake. She tried to move quietly, her claws scratching softly against rock, wings folded close like she knew she wasn’t supposed to cause a fuss. But the gleam in her eyes betrayed her bright, restless, brimming with puppy like energy. She bounded up beside Jack, snout nudging his hand, then darted ahead with a soft trill before doubling back again.

Jack’s lips curved, though faintly, the expression hidden beneath his hood. He shifted his staff, balancing it more carefully across his shoulders, and began to hum under his breath. The sound was low, wordless, carried on a breath that curled white in the chill air. It matched his steps, steady and wandering, a rhythm against the storm in his chest.

The hood shadowed most of his face, his cracked mask catching the sun in flashes whenever he tilted his head. It shielded his eyes from the dawn’s brightness, but the faintest line of golden light slid across the visible crack in his staff. It glinted like a wound old, half healed, and still sore to touch.

He tightened his grip around the wood, thumb brushing the scarred grain.

It should’ve felt like any other morning. But the unease prickled sharp beneath his skin, leaving him listening to the sea as though it carried a warning only he could hear.

The fjord tightened as it wound deeper between sheer cliffs, the water dark as ink and choked with drifting ice. Jack leapt from floe to floe with the easy grace of someone who had been doing it for centuries, staff balanced in his hand. Each landing was light, deliberate, barely disturbing the surface before he was airborne again.

Sugar Plum shadowed him from beneath, tunneling with soft growls, occasionally bursting through the snow like a white scaled phantom before vanishing back underground. He started humming a soft song, long forgotten to time. The melody following his footsteps. Chestnut kept to the edges, sticking close to the rocky shoreline, smoke curling anxiously from his mouth.

Jack smirked to himself, feeling almost carefree for a moment. The cold air sang in his chest, the morning stretching open like it belonged to him alone.

That’s when the world shattered in white.

A blinding flash burst across the cliffs. Jack stumbled mid leap, barely catching himself on a jagged floe, vision seared with afterimages. His head snapped up, too late.

Figures erupted from the cliffside paths above, boots pounding against stone, the sound like war drums. Nets arced through the air, trailing smoke as they hissed and burned with unnatural heat.

Hunters.

Jack’s body moved before his mind did. Staff spinning in tight arcs, he vaulted sideways, landing hard on a patch of ice already melting under the scorch of one net. Another hissed past, catching nothing but the spray of seawater.

“Missed me!” Jack shouted, his grin sharp, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. His voice cracked thinly in the morning air, laughter forced into bravado. His pulse hammered.

They weren’t just throwing nets. Torches lit the fjord edges, whole walks of men springing up as though they’d rehearsed this a hundred times. Flames licked high, a wall of heat pressing in from every angle. The air grew thick, suffocating, and Jack’s lungs seized on every inhale.

He slashed his staff through the air, calling frost to his hands, but the closer he got to the fire, the weaker it became. His trail of ice sputtered, dulled, broke apart like shattered glass. The floe beneath him cracked and sagged, water spilling as the ice melted from under his feet.

“What—?” His throat caught. His power faltered again, sputtering uselessly against the blaze.

Another net came down, glowing orange, close enough to scorch his arm as he ducked. The smell of singed fabric stung his nose. He gritted his teeth, rolling across the slush slick rock to rise again, spinning his staff to smack the net aside. The wood jarred in his hands with the impact, the crack in it humming painfully like an old wound reopening.

Sugar Plum erupted nearby with a scream, blasting one of the hunters back as she clawed through stone. She snatched one man’s torch, snapping it in her jaws before vanishing underground again. But she couldn’t stop them all.

Chestnut hissed furiously, smoke curling black as tar, wings flaring uselessly as he tried to shield Jack. But the hunters were tightening the noose. Dozens of them, torches raised, boots grinding closer.

Jack’s gaze darted wildly around the fjord. Every path was fire. Every floe was melting. The heat pressed against him from all sides, sweat slicking his temples despite the cold air. His chest heaved.

“Where the hell did you even—think of this?” His voice cracked halfway through, pitched high with a mix of anger and disbelief.

For the first time in a long time, the cold in his bones wasn’t enough.

Jack refused to stop. Even with the hunters pressing in, torches flickering like a living wall of fire, he darted and wove through the fjord with stubborn, reckless energy. His bare feet slapped wet stone, skidded across slick ice, vaulted from one pillar of rock to the next.

Every move was a trick, a feint, a distraction. He swung his staff low, shattering ice to spray their faces. He vaulted upward, hooking the crook of his staff against a ledge to fling himself higher than a normal human could ever hope to. A mocking laugh spilled from his lips, sharp and breathless: “You’re gonna have to try harder than that!”

But inside, he felt it, the way the heat was eating him alive. Every torch gnawed at him, leeching strength from his bones. His frost dragged sluggishly behind him, no longer crisp or sharp but weak, translucent, cracking before it could hold. The staff itself felt heavier, the familiar hum in the wood faltering with every passing heartbeat.

They’d done their homework.

Somehow, they knew.

A glint of metal caught his eye too late. A sharp thwip split the air.

Pain bloomed sudden and hot in his shoulder. He gasped, staggering mid leap, barely landing in a crouch as the tranquilizer dart jutted from his jacket. His staff clattered against the rock, the world tilting.

For a heartbeat he thought it was just another arrow. He could shake it off, keep running. But then his pulse hitched, sluggish and heavy, a strange warmth crawling down his arm. He pulled it out, looking at the greenish liquid with distain. His vision blurred at the edges, smearing the torchlight into streaks of fire. The metallic tang rose at the back of his throat, bile mixing with the taste of iron.

He tried to laugh again, and it came out strangled.

“Oh… fantastic.” His voice rasped, bitter amusement bleeding through. “Of course you brought toys.”

He staggered, staff digging against the stone to keep him upright. His knees shook. The fjord spun dizzy around him. Sugar Plum erupted from the snow at his side, snarling, teeth bared, wings flared wide in a display of fury. Jack’s instincts screamed to let her fight, but reason cut through the haze.

If she stayed, she’d die.

Jack hissed through his teeth, forcing the words out like iron: “Hide. Run!” Beating his staff into the ground three times.

The white dragon’s eyes snapped to him, wide with confusion, but the command was sharp, final. With a guttural cry, she clawed a hole in the rock and vanished underground, leaving behind only the echo of her fury.

Jack swayed, his grip on the staff slipping. The hunters closed in, nets hissing, boots pounding.

His body fought every step, every breath, but he knew the truth clawing at him now: this wasn’t a battle. Not anymore.

He was about to hand them a god on a platter, not to toot his own horn, but that’s what it felt like. Somehow, impossibly, they had found his weakness.

Heat.

The one thing winter couldn’t fight. Winter in all its confidence and glory.

The one thing that could break him. The one thing that can beat the immortal spirit of winter.

His caveat.

Jack’s knees buckled, but some stubborn part of him still spat fire even as his ice guttered out. He swung his staff one last time, a desperate arc that cracked through the slick stone beneath a hunter’s boots. The man went down hard, cursing, armor scraping against the rock. For a fleeting second, Jack felt a rush of savage satisfaction, maybe he could still slip through.

But then hands were on him. Too many.

One hunter surged forward, fist tangling in the collar of his hoodie, yanking his head back. Another boot slammed into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs, and his mask, the only barrier between him and them, was ripped clean away. Jack’s gasp filled the cold air, raw and exposed.

A second later, another heavy boot came down. The sound was sickening: crack. His mask shattered across the ice, shards scattering like broken teeth. Jack choked, staring at the pieces, something sharp twisting in his chest.

“No—” he snarled, voice breaking, but then rough hands tore the staff from his grasp.

The crook of the wood scraped across the snow as it was wrenched away, dragged out of reach. Jack twisted, lunged after it, fighting harder for the staff than he had for his own mask. His fingers clawed at empty air, nails splitting as he stretched. A knee slammed down between his shoulder blades, pinning him flat.

The loss hit like a second dart. Without his staff, the humming tether of his power was little more than a fading echo.

“Get the chains!” one hunter barked.

Jack thrashed wildly, teeth bared, snarling like an animal cornered. He landed one kick, boot connecting with someone’s shin. But it didn’t matter. He was outnumbered.

The first cuff snapped shut around his wrist. It wasn’t just iron, it was heat. The metal glowed faintly, searing against his skin. Smoke curled faintly where flesh met restraint, the smell acrid and unbearable. Jack screamed, voice muffled as his cheek was ground into the snow, his teeth biting into the icy crust.

Another restraint clamped on his ankle, then the other. Every new shackle sent fire lancing through his veins, heat crawling up his arms and legs until his whole body trembled with it. He writhed, jerking against them, but the more he fought the tighter they burned. He couldn’t breathe. WHY CANT HE BREATH.

“Hold him—don’t let him slip—”

“Got him—”

Jack’s cries broke apart, harsh and ragged, muffled against the ground. The same hunter that was holding him down had put a large hand around his neck. His white hair stuck to his sweat damp face, melting ice soaking through his hoodie. His staff clattered somewhere behind him, foreign in another’s grip.

His vision blurred, hot and cold at once, the world spinning too fast to hold onto. For a moment, he saw only fragments; claws of ice breaking, his breath curling weakly, shadows pressing in.

And then, cutting through the haze, a memory:

Hiccup’s hut.

The lamplight soft and golden. The scratch of a pencil against parchment. Toothless snoring at the door. The warmth of a blanket, the quiet safety of laughter that wasn’t mocking.

His chest ached, lungs burning, but that thought, just that thought, held him as the darkness rose.

It was the last clear thing he carried with him. The rest he did on instinct.

By the time they reached the fjord, the smoke was already thinning, drifting in broken plumes against the pale sky. Hiccup guided Toothless lower, heart hammering, the others close behind. The scent of scorched snow and iron hit him first, sharp and wrong, like the battlefield of a raid long past.

They landed in a sweep of wings and crunch of boots. What should have been a silent winter cove was torn apart. The snow was churned to slush, footprints overlapping in a chaos of retreat and struggle. Faint scorch marks pocked the ice where torches or something hotter had been driven into it.

Hiccup swallowed hard, scanning. Too late. Too late.

A sudden eruption of sound cut through the stillness. Sugar Plum burst from beneath the snow with a shriek that tore through marrow. Her pale scales were streaked with crimson blood, smeared in ugly lines down her sides. She thrashed in the open, jaws snapping at ghosts, tail smashing against the cliffs.

“Whoa—easy—!” Hiccup called instinctively, though his voice cracked in the cold air.

But the dragon didn’t hear him. She was wild, keening in agony and fury, her eyes blazing with a kind of madness. The kind of anger he’d seen in the one back from Berk. Then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she bolted, snow spraying in her wake. She vanished into the trees, movements frantic, like a creature running from its own skin.

“Should we follow?” Astrid shouted, already urging Stormfly forward.

“No—” Hiccup snapped too fast, holding out a hand. His throat felt raw. “No, we risk both hurting her and our own dragons. Give her space.”

He turned back to the wreckage, and his gaze caught on another figure.

Chestnut.

The little dragon stood near the broken edge of the ice, smoke curling endlessly from his throat. His sides heaved as if he’d been running circles for hours. His claws dug trenches into the snow, tail lashing, but he didn’t move. His eyes darted across the ruined battlefield, back and forth, frantic, searching.

“Frost…” Hiccup whispered before he could stop himself.

Chestnut’s hiss rolled low, confused, the sound almost questioning. The small dragon edged forward, sniffing at the snow where a mask shard lay half buried. The little dragon nudged it with his snout, then looked up at the Riders, eyes wide with something too human: confusion, dread, refusal to understand.

Hiccup’s chest tightened painfully. He slid off Toothless, boots sinking deep into the wrecked snow. Every print, every scorch, every scrap of evidence screamed the same truth: they had come too late. The Smokesbreath finding a seat on the black dragons saddle.

The hunters had him.

Hiccup moves on instinct, boots slipping in the churned snow, heart hammering loud enough he can taste it. He almost misses it; a glint swallowed by white, catching the weak sun like a promise. He drops to his knees, fingers prying at ice until it flakes away and reveals something small and familiar: a leather bound little book, the cover scuffed and damp, pinned in place by a dart that gleams cruelly in the slush.

For a second his brain freezes on the image, a dart through paper, a person through a life, and then he’s moving again, thumb worrying the dart free with hands that don’t quite feel like his. The shaft is stained dark at the tip. He recognizes the smooth brass and the way the feathering is crude, made for function, not finesse. Someone knew what they were doing.

He opens the cover with a careful reverence he reserves for whatever Hiccup keeps secret and dear. The pages are ruffled, edges burned in a couple of places as if the book had been dragged. One page lies open; the Hope rune is there in graphite, drawn with a hand that trembles slightly. It shivers with a faint, pulsing light; like a candle struggling to stay lit in wind. The glow is small, fragile… but it’s there.

All of the blood drains from Hiccup’s face. He presses the book flat to his chest, the leather cool against his skin, and for a beat the world narrows to that tiny, glowing rune and the knowledge that Frost left this behind on purpose. He remembers Frost’s hands on Hiccup’s staff earlier, remembers the way Frost trusted something of his to Hiccup without a second thought. Now that trust is a breadcrumb in snow, and someone took Frost.

“He—” someone starts. A dozen voices thread into the frozen air: questions, anger, the sharp edge of terrified hope. Fishlegs edges closer, eyes huge and wet. Astrid’s jaw is a hard line. Even Toothless lowers his head, ears tilted, sensing the change.

Hiccup can’t make his mouth form the words that would make this easier. He presses the book tighter and says, as simply as he can, “This is… Frost’s.” The name tastes bitter and soft at once in his mouth. The Riders look at him, puzzled. “What do you mean? How do you know—?”

He wants to say everything. He wants to tell them about the way Frost balanced the staff, how he’d seen the boy’s fingers twitch around runes; he wants to tell them about the way Chestnut huddled whenever Frost wasn’t near; about the laugh, the mask, the way Frost called Hiccup “Beanstalk” like it was an inside joke. But none of those will explain how the book came to be impaled by a dart in the middle of the fjord covered in snow.

Hiccup closes his mouth and the book. He will not, cannot, spill Frost’s private things to a circle of curious faces. This was personal. He feels that, bone-deep. He meets each of their eyes, then settles them onto the book again. “It’s… very personal to him,” he says finally. “I’m not… I’m not going to read it out loud. Not now.” His voice is steady but low; he doesn’t know how to make the rest gentler, so he keeps it short.

Silence folds over them like a second snowfall. The weight of what slipped through their hands presses in; they all feel it. Hiccup slides one hand over his face, pressing the bridge of his nose as if to squeeze the stupid, ugly guilt out. He can count the mistakes they made already; the delay, the complacency, the places they didn’t expect a hunter to know how to weaponize heat. Now he forces himself into the mode that has saved them a hundred times: logic.

“All right,” he says, spitting the panic out and letting problem solving step in. He tucks the rune book into his jacket, where it’ll be safe and close, and stands up, boots cracking in the settling ice. “They knew this fjord was a choke point. Narrow channels, limited flight paths, perfect for corralling someone who relies on flying a dragon. They brought torches in numbers we haven’t seen at a normal raid. Too many. Normal raiders are barbaric and nonthinking. This was deliberate.”

Astrid nods once, her hands already skimming straps and checking weapons, the warrior’s response smoothing the raw edges of fear. “So they expected us to be late,” she says. “Or to come in a way they could funnel us.”

Hiccup digs his heel into the snow and points to the ground, fingers shaking slightly. “Look at these scorch marks.” He kneels and brushes the blackened flecks. “Not just torches. Whatever they used was designed to melt and disarm, heated nets, not standard nets. See the fibers? That’s dragon scales not dragon proof metal. They didn’t want to catch dragon; they wanted to disable ice, probably used for dragons like snow wraiths before this. They knew the danger of fighting someone and they were letting the rumors get the better of them.”

Fishlegs crouches beside him, science chasing terror from his face. He squints at the dart. “Tranquilizers,” he says, voice small. “Fast acting. Whoever made this… they had a supply, planned for capture, not death. Based on the quality of the glass I’m guessing ”

Hiccup’s jaw tightens. “They weren’t trying to kill him,” he says slowly. “They wanted a prisoner, hostage maybe.” His hands clench into fists until the knuckles blanch. “They brought too much heat for dragon capture. From these imprints they seem to have brought cages, dart rounds, and specialized nets. That’s not a great sign. This might be Viggo…” Or someone else entirely.

Ruffnut spits out a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. Tuffnut’s face is angry and open, no subtlety left in him. Snotlout’s bravado is gone, replaced by something hollow and trembling. Even Toothless nudges Hiccup’s hand, grounding him.

Hiccup forces his shoulders down and breathes. The book is pressed against his ribs, a steady thing. He can feel the faint shimmer of the Hope rune through the leather; it’s almost like a pulse, a heartbeat to anchor him.

“All right,” he repeats, head clearing. “We have to assume Frost is alive and in the hands of people who know how to make monsters. We have to assume he’s hurt.” The words are a hard stone thrown into a quiet pool, the ripples are already moving. “We get him back, quietly. We track their trail, talk to anyone who trades scorch-heated gear, and we don’t rush blindly into a trap. We plan, we bait, and we go in with a point, rescue first, fight when we need to.”

There’s no question in the group anymore. The anger and fear have calcified into something fierce and focused. Astrid’s face tightens and she slings her axe, Victoriously. “We move now,” she says. “We scour the trading ports. We ask the docks who’s been selling gear like that.”

Hiccup feels a tiny, ridiculous flash of warmth at the idea of action. Action can be corrected, action can be controlled. He meets Toothless’s enormous eyes and hears the dragon’s low rumble in his chest, answering his resolve. He looks over at the rune book again, as if it will tell him more if he just listens harder. The tiny glow of the Hope rune flutters once, as if to say yes.

“Let’s split up,” he orders, voice firmer now than it has felt all morning. “Ruff and Tuff, check the northern docks. Just in case they are trying to escape out the back. Snotlout, you and Hookfang take the eastward trade routes. Fishlegs, you’re with me. The dart, the fibers, anything else we can find. I want a list of materials and possible makers. Astrid, you and Stormfly take the fjord perimeter in case they try to move him along the coastline. We reconvene at the Edge by nightfall.”

They move like a single organism, swift and purposeful. Hiccup stays one second longer, fingers curled around the rune book’s spine. He wants to open it again, to read whatever foolish, sacred things Frost left for whoever might find them. But he resists, for now. This is Frost’s, and privacy is the last kindness they can offer him in a world that’s taken so much.

He tucks the book into his jacket. The Hope rune’s glow presses cold and faint through the leather, and for the first time since he found it he allows himself to believe that the rune was left as a breadcrumb for them. A promise. A plea.

“Bring him home,” he says quietly to himself, to Toothless, to the empty fjord.

Hiccup moves forward carefully, boots crunching in the churned snow, eyes scanning the fjord for any more signs; tracks, scuffs, even the faintest shimmer of heat from melted ice. Every instinct tells him to stay cautious; his chest pounds as he tries to piece together the last moments of the ambush, trying to understand exactly what happened to Frost.

And then he sees it.

Three massive pillars of ice rise from the frozen ground, jagged and impossibly vertical, like frozen fingers clawing toward the pale sky. The surface gleams with a cruel, polished clarity, reflecting the weak morning sun in shards that pierce the snow around them. At the base of each pillar, the silhouettes of hunter bodies are frozen mid motion, some slumped over, others frozen in the act of swinging weapons or grabbing nets. A few are caught halfway, limbs suspended at awkward angles, eyes staring wide and glassy. The scene is gruesome, unnatural, almost unreal.

Hiccup’s stomach twists. His throat tightens, and he instinctively takes a step back, one hand brushing against the rune book tucked under his jacket for reassurance. He barely breathes. The hair on his arms stands on end.

“Uh… Hiccup?” Fishlegs calls, rounding a nearby ridge and slowing when he sees Hiccup frozen in place. “What are you doing? Come on, we’ve got to…” His words falter as his gaze sweeps across the ice pillars.

“Oh… oh…” Fishlegs whispers, stepping closer but still hesitant. His voice is small, almost childish in its shock. “W-what… what is that?”

Hiccup shakes his head slightly, eyes wide.

“I… I think… Frost did this,” he admits, voice cracking like a twig.

The two of them stand there, teens caught between awe and terror, staring at the silent, shimmering monuments. Snow drifts lazily in the still air, and the distant screams of Sugar Plum echo faintly through the trees, reminding them that the battle is far from over.

Fishlegs swallows hard, fumbling with his gloves.

“That… that’s… that’s… insane.”

Hiccup nods, hands clenching into fists, jaw tight. “Yeah… and I don’t even know if he can stop it from going worse.” His eyes drift over the frozen hunters again, a strange mix of pride, fear, and worry pooling in his chest. “We have to find him. Now.”

The fjord feels impossibly quiet around them, the eerie stillness broken only by the faint crackle of distant ice, the hiss of Sugar Plum in the trees. It’s a reminder of Frost’s presence, his power, and the dangerous brilliance that can’t be underestimated, not even for a second.

Fishlegs shivers, and Hiccup slings a steadying hand onto his shoulder. “We’re going to get him back,” he promises, mostly to keep his own fear at bay. “I swear we are.”

They exchange one last glance at the ice pillars, both frozen in youth, uncertainty, and awe, before turning back to the fjord and moving toward the next clue. The weight of what Frost might be capable of settling over them like a stormcloud.

But one things for sure, those where not just rumors.

Chapter Text

The first thing Jack registers is heat. Not the gentle kind, not the comforting burn of a fire after a storm, but the choking, suffocating press of heat that clings to his skin and burrows into his lungs. It is wrong, everything inside him screams it’s wrong. He tries to pull in a breath, to call the frost that usually answers so easily, but when he exhales, all that slips from his lips is a weak shimmer of mist that vanishes before it touches the ground.

His wrists and ankles throb. He shifts, and the pain sharpens, raw and biting. Something heavy pins him. The restraints, he realizes, heated iron clamped so tight that it’s blistering his skin beneath. He can smell it, too: scorched flesh and metal. It was disgusting. He jerks instinctively, and the searing pain flares up so violently it forces a choked sound from his throat.

Jack blinks, forcing his eyes open. The world is dim and unkind. A ring of torches spits orange fire around the stone cell, their smoke curling along the ceiling, suffocating him further. Shadows warp against the walls. His staff is nowhere in sight, but he knows, deep down, it’s close. He feels the absence like a pulled tooth.

He slumps back, panting, sweat already dampening the hair at his temples. He tips his head, eyes narrowing, and forces a laugh; thin, bitter, sharp as broken glass.

“Cozy little spa retreat you’ve got here,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “Just missing the mint tea.”

The words fall flat in the hot air, but they steady him. If he can laugh, he can breathing. If he can breathing, he can think.

A heavy boot thuds across the stone. A hunter, broad shouldered, armored in leather and iron, looms at the bars. A copy and paste of every hunter he's seen. Maybe a little more dull. His lip curls at Jack’s remark. “Still got jokes, killer?”

Jack shrugs, or tries to. The chains rattle, sizzling against his skin, forcing a hiss of pain out of him. He still grins through it. “What can I say? It’s my charm. Gotta keep my captors entertained.”

The hunter’s answer is swift. A kick drives into Jack’s ribs, shoving him flat against the floor. The impact forces the air from his lungs with a harsh grunt. Hitting his head hard enough to start seeing stars. Pain lances through his side, but when he coughs, spitting a fleck of blood onto the stone, the grin doesn’t falter. The hunter muttering something about, that's for his brother. Jack wasn't listening though.

“Better aim next time,” Jack wheezes, his voice lighter than the weight crushing his chest. His lips split, another sharp edged smirk crossing his face, blood staining his teeth. “You almost made me feel that one.”

The hunter growls, but doesn’t try again. He lingers at the bars a moment longer before stomping off, muttering under his breath. Jack lets his head fall back against the stone floor, breathing ragged, the glow of the torches making the cell sway in his vision.

He closes his eyes for a second, not to sleep, never to sleep, but to steel himself. His staff is near. His dragons are out there. The riders too.

Pain shoots through his wrists as he shifts, and Jack swallows it down with a hiss. Every second in these searing restraints feels like fire eating his bones, but he refuses to yield. He’s never been good at staying put, not even as a child, and he won’t start now. The muscles in his arms coil like springs; his legs twitch against the shackles, testing, probing, seeking a weakness.

Jack rocks back, pretending to falter. He lets out a low grunt, a breathed grown, curling in on himself a bit, and waits. The hunter is predictably drawn closer, boots crunching against the icy stone floor with the kind of confidence only someone used to taking advantage of a cornered animal can have. Jack’s fingers twitch. He’s ready.

Then he lunges. The movement is sudden, agile, fueled by panic, pain, and a stubborn refusal to be broken. He jerks forward, rolling just enough that the hunter’s momentum works against him. With a shove, the guard stumbles into the cold iron bars of the cell, banging his shoulder. Jack tastes victory for the first time since being captured, even if only for a heartbeat.

For a fleeting second, he feels weightless. A part of him imagines freedom, feeling the crisp northern air on his skin, jumping across rocks, dashing to Sugar Plum or Chestnut. He’s almost free. Almost.

Then the restraints tighten, pulling him down like molten chains dragging him into the earth. Pain explodes through his wrists and ankles simultaneously. He screams, teeth gritted, the sound muffled by the sting of the iron and the heat curling around his skin. The fire of it, it’s not just metal; it’s a predator, eating his control.

And the hunters are back. More of them, crowding around, hands everywhere. One yanks his hair back, forcing his head upward. Another presses a boot into his spine. They pile onto him like waves, cold stone beneath, iron binding him, the torchlight bouncing off their armor, reflecting a world that’s suddenly too hot, too bright, too cruel.

Jack snaps. Not with fear, not with hesitation, but pure instinct. His teeth find the hand gripping his jaw. There’s a crunch, a coppery tang that makes him flinch as much as the hunter screams. Blood mixes with sweat, the metallic scent heavy in the cell.

The guard howls, jerking back, shaking his hand free. Jack’s heart hammers in his chest, blood and adrenaline surging. He knows he’s in trouble, more than just the pain from the restraints, but he doesn’t care. The surge of defiance, of agency, is intoxicating.

Another hand slaps down on his shoulder. Jack twists, thrashes, trying to wrench himself free, but the restraints bite, and the heat flares again, warning him to obey. He grits his teeth, tasting blood, sweat, and copper in the same breath.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he notes the lessons: the metal bites. The guards are touchy, unpredictable, and above all, they have an edge. One slip, one miscalculation, and this won’t end with a scratch on their pride, it could end with him broken.

But even pinned, even scorched and bleeding, Jack’s defiance doesn’t waver. He glances to the far side of the cell, imagining Sugar Plum clawing through rock, Chestnut curling in protective spirals of smoke. He draws strength from that thought, letting it steady his quivering limbs.

Jack was halfway between a laugh and a curse when the sound of heavy boots stopping at his bars alerted him. The air tasted like iron and ash. Torches guttered, throwing the cell into jagged slices of light and shadow. He had been holding on to the brittle thread of defiance. The little jokes, the bravado, to keep himself from feeling the spreading heat under the cuffs. Then a voice cut through the noise: slow, smooth, and the kind that had a smile folded into the words.

“Ah. The Pale Rider.”

Jack’s head turned before his body could obey. For a second he only saw the silhouette: broad shoulders, one arm glinting odd and metallic where light caught at it. Then the face stepped forward into better light and the world flipped. Viggo.

Jack tasted bile at the memory. The sight of that prosthetic hand, polished, hooked with a leather strap that creaked, hit him like a fist. A better constructed prosthetic compared to hiccups. He remembered the heat of the battle, the snap of ice on skin, the way Viggo had cursed. He remembered the hand that had come down too quick and too hard. The small, ugly triumph of it, the flash of ice, the pain, then the smell of blood. He’d not meant to, but he had frozen something off once; he’d paid for it in the way nightmares paid their debts. Now here Viggo was, with the arm Drago’s men favored: new, cruel, and held like a prize.

“You again,” Jack said, dry as old paper. He tried to scoff and grit pain into it. It came out a wet sound because the heat had turned his throat raw.

Viggo’s smile widened. He jerked that crude prosthetic in a lazy, showy wave, the click of metal against metal like applause. “So defiant. So loud.” He dropped his voice, purring almost. “You think yourself clever, Rider. A nuisance. A thing to be wrung out and reused.”

Hunters loomed close like vultures. They didn’t speak; they watched for a spark, for the point where Jack broke. One of them produced a slab of thick leather so dull with use it might have been bone once. The strip was wide as Jack’s palm and soaked in sweat and something tangy he couldn’t name.

Before he could calculate, before he could draw breath to the shape of a sharp retort, the hunters had him. A hand on either side of his face, fingers digging into skin. The first strip of leather was slid under his chin, pressed into the groove between neck and chin, uncomfortable and cold. A second strip wrapped around the outside of his mouth, across his cheeks, not pushing inward but compressing, sealing his lips. They tied it behind his head with knots that smelled of tar and old rope. The leather smelt like animals and oil. Oh, if looks could kill.

Jack lunged with his shoulders, reflex, but there were too many of them. Hands clamped into his hoodie, fingers twisting into his hair, dragging his head back until the world arced with pain at his neck. He felt the muzzle cinch tighter, felt the fibers against his teeth and the pressure around his jaw. He tried to spit through the binding. He could taste the copper of his own blood where his lip had split earlier. His mouth fought the leather intellectually, as if words could force the fabric flat into a gag. But words are air and the leather was victory.

Muffled curses tumbled out of him, rough and angry and all swallowed. He bit his tongue; the iron tang of it made his eyes water. He gnawed at the edge of the strip with his molars, chewing uselessly, the leather bending to the shape of his face. It stifled sound but did not stop the shape of fury from gathering: every breath, every pant was a small volcano.

Viggo crouched, close enough that Jack could feel the warmth of his breath, the faint scent of smoke and something antiseptic from the prosthetic. He leaned in until Jack could make out the slight curl at the corner of the man’s mouth.

“Much better,” Viggo murmured, slow and condescending. “You’re easier to tolerate without all the noise.”

Jack’s hands scrambled against the hot iron, like nails over a chalkboard. He tried to wrench his head away, tried to twist his jaw free so he could spit blood and bile and the soft little lies that helped him sleep. The gag held. The leather carved a rude map into his cheeks.

He mouthed something anyway, a string of sounds that might have been a name, might have been a promise of retribution. Viggo patted the side of his head as if soothing a pet, the motion so casual, it was disgusting.

“You’ll find, Rider,” Viggo said, voice a low rasp now, “that silence is… educational.” He tapped the prosthetic hand against his knee, a rhythm as certain as a verdict. “When you can’t distract or insult us, you have to listen. And listening makes boys pliable.”

Jack swallowed hard, a dry, ragged sound. Rage flattened into something colder and more patient: the brittle sort of planning that forms when a person realizes the enemy has set a chessboard and he’s been moved without consent. The muzzle didn’t just silence him. It made him smaller in their eyes. It made his every twitch readable. Whether he was just a pawn or a rook was dependent on fate.