Chapter Text
Moonlight pooled across the Shadow‑Wolves’ island like spilled silver, catching on the treetops and the jagged stone ridges that ringed the camp. The tribe’s huts — half‑buried, half‑grown from the forest itself — glowed faintly with the last embers of dying fires. Dragons shifted in their perches overhead, their silhouettes blending into the canopy as naturally as owls.
Inside one of the larger huts, Olaf Shadowflame sat hunched over a battered wooden table, the Book of Dragons spread open before him. The pages were worn from years of travel, annotated in the margins with his own cramped handwriting. He turned another page, scanning sketches and descriptions with a deepening frown.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Not a whisper. If this dragon exists, it hides better than any creature I’ve ever tracked.” He tapped a finger against a blank corner where he’d once sketched a crude outline — the closest thing he had to a lead. A dragon with a screech that could distort time. A myth even among myths. He closed the book with a frustrated thud.
A sharp knock rattled the hut’s door. Before he could answer, Thora the Cunning pushed it open, her braid swinging over one shoulder, eyes bright with urgency. Behind her loomed Erik the Vulture, tall and tense, the distant growl of his Deathgripper echoing from outside.
“Olaf,” Thora said, breathless. “You need to come. Now.”
Olaf rose instantly, hand drifting toward the dagger at his belt. “Is it another rancid attack by Bludvist’s soldiers?” he demanded. “We’ve had trouble with them since leaving the Mediterranean…”
Thora and Erik exchanged a look — not fear, but something stranger. Confusion. Unease.
“It’s… not soldiers,” Erik said.
That alone was enough to make Olaf follow them without another word. They led him through the trees toward a clearing lit by moonlight. The moment they broke through the underbrush, Olaf understood their urgency.
Chaos. Trio, Thora’s Triple Stryke, was coiled like a spring, all three tails snapping at the air. Toxic, Erik’s Deathgripper, hissed and scraped his claws against the ground, wings half‑unfurled in agitation. Both dragons circled something lying motionless in the dirt. Olaf pushed forward — and stopped dead. A girl lay unconscious at their feet. Her clothing was unlike anything he had ever seen — soft fabrics, strange stitching, colours too refined for Viking dyes. Her hair was dark and neatly tied, her shoes made of materials he couldn’t name. She looked as though she’d stepped out of a world far beyond the archipelago.
Thora folded her arms tightly. “She just… appeared. Dropped from the sky, for all we know.”
Erik nodded. “Trio and Toxic found her like this. They don’t know what to make of her.”
Olaf didn’t either. He stepped forward and gave a sharp, piercing whistle — a command known only to Shadow‑Wolf dragons. Instantly Trio froze mid‑coil, Toxic lowered his stinger. The clearing fell silent. Olaf knelt beside the girl, studying her face, her clothes, the strange stitching on her jacket.
“She’s not from any tribe I know,” Erik murmured.
Thora hesitated. “Or any time we know.”
Olaf’s breath caught. A memory stirred — an oracle’s voice, years ago, speaking in a smoky tent lit by flickering candles: “A day will come when humans and dragons walk separate paths. When the bond breaks, one world will fall into shadow.” He had always feared it meant a dragon uprising. Or human extinction. Or both. But now… staring at this strange girl… he wondered if the future itself was beginning to unravel.
The girl stirred. Her fingers twitched. Her breathing quickened. Then her eyes fluttered open — wide, confused, frightened. She sat up abruptly, taking in the unfamiliar trees, the unfamiliar sky, the unfamiliar people. And then she saw the dragons. Her scream tore through the clearing. Trio and Toxic reacted instantly — wings flaring, tails snapping, instincts triggered by the sudden noise.
“Stand down!” Olaf barked, stepping forward.
But before he could reach her, Trio lunged — not to attack, but to investigate. The girl, trembling, raised a hand instinctively. A warding gesture. A plea for space. Trio stopped. Sniffed. Sniffed again. Then, to everyone’s astonishment, he gently pressed his snout into her palm. The girl hesitated… then stroked him.
Thora whispered, “She calmed a Triple Stryke… without training.”
Olaf’s pulse quickened. This girl was connected to the prophecy. She had to be. He stepped forward, voice steady but firm. “Girl. What is your name?”
She swallowed, still shaking. “Marinette… Marinette Dupain‑Cheng.” The name meant nothing to him — which somehow made it worse.
“Where are you from?” Olaf asked. “How did you—” A deep, rhythmic thump‑thump‑thump echoed across the treetops. Every Shadow‑Wolf dragon lifted its head. Olaf turned toward the sky. A black silhouette streaked overhead — fast, silent, unmistakable. A Night Fury. Olaf exhaled sharply. “Hiccup.” He looked back at Marinette, at the dragons, at the clearing that suddenly felt far too small. “This just became much more complicated.”