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“Would you look at that?” Snotlout’s voice crackled through the wind, half-disbelief, half-delight. “I think Viggo’s finally losing his touch.”
Below them, the dragon hunters scrambled like ants kicked from their nest—arrows flew wild, nets tangled in their own rigging, and one particularly unlucky man tripped over his own bolas mid-swing. Toothless banked hard, his wings snapping taunt as he dodged a stray crossbow bolt, and Hiccup’s grip on the saddle tightened. “Yeah, well, don’t get cocky,” he shouted back, squinting against the sting of the wind. “Viggo’s got a way of turning—”
The rest of Hiccup’s warning dissolved into a sharp gasp as something heavy and barbed punched through his side. The world tilted—Toothless’s alarmed shriek, the sudden rush of air, the blue of sky and earth swapping places—before pain exploded like a second sun in his ribs. He barely registered Snotlout’s panicked “HIC—“ before Toothless’s frantic dive wrenched them apart, the force snapping the crossbow bolt still embedded in Hiccup’s leathers. He hit the ground rolling, skidding through dirk and bracken until his back slammed into a mossy boulder.
Hiccup’s vision swam with bursts of white and red, the forest around him a smear of green and brown. He could hear Toothless’s panicked screeches overhead, the rustle of wings as Snotlout—bless his occasionally useful impulsiveness—must have grabbed the Night Fury’s reins. Good. That meant Toothless wouldn’t do something stupid like land in the middle of a hunter camp just to get to him.
Hiccup’s fingers clawed at the damp earth beneath him, gritting his teeth as he forced himself onto his knees. The bolt in his side burned like a brand, every movement sending jagged pulses of agony through his ribs. He could already feel warm blood soaking through his tunic, sticking uncomfortably to his skin. Above the canopy, the distant roar of dragons and the faint shouts of his friends tangled with the wind—close enough to taunt him, far enough to be useless.
The forest floor trembled under the weight of approaching boots—too many, too fast. Hiccup pressed his forehead against the cool moss of the boulderm swallowing a groan. Think. Move. He dragged himself backward, boots scraping against roots, fingers digging into the dirt, The bolt shifted inside him, and he bit down on his sleeve to muffle the sound threatening to tear from his throat. Shadows flickered between the trees—hunters fanning out, their voices sharp with orders.
Then, silence. The kind that prickled the back of his neck.
“Where is he?” Astrid’s voice cut through the chaos like an axe through the kindling, sharp enough to make Snotlout flinch mid-air. Hookfang veered sideways as Snotlout twisted in the saddle, his usual bravado cumbling under the weight of five furious glares.
“Uh,” Snotlout started, then swallowed hard whe Astrid’s knuckles whitened around Stormfly’s saddle horn. “He—he got hit. Like, really hit. With a bolt. And then he fell. And then—“
Astrid didn’t wait for Snotlout to finish. “Show me.” The words came out like forged steel—hard, unyielding. Stormfly banked sharply before Snotlout could protest, her wings snapping tight as they dove toward the treeline where Hiccup had vanished. Behind them, Fishlegs and the twins barely kept up, their dragons weaving through the chaotic airspace of arrows and nets.
The forest swallowed them whole—branches scraped at scales and leather, leaves slapped against cheeks still flushed with adrenaline. Astrid’s pulse hammered louder than Stormfly’s wingbeats. Hold on, Hiccup. Just hold on. She could see the broken branches where Toothless had torn through the canopy, the scuffed earth where Hiccup had landed. And then—blood. Dark and wet against the moss.
The cave smelled of damp earth and old stone, the kind of scent that clung to the back of Hiccup’s throat like a bitter aftertaste. He pressed his shoulder harder against the rough wall, trying to steady the way his vision kept doubling—one moment the cave entrance was clear, the next it blurred into a wavering mirage of shadows. His fingers trembled around the hild of his daggerm slick with blood—his own or a hunter’s, he couldn’t tell anymore. Stay awake. Stay awake. He dug the blade;s tip into his thigh, just enough to jolt his nerves back to life. It worked. For about three seconds.
Somewhere outside, the boots crunched over loose rock. Hiccup’s breath hitched, and he strained to listen—was that one set of footsteps, or two? Three? His head felt stuffed with wool, every sound muffled and distant. He tightened his grip on the dagger. Come on. Come close enough. He just needed one clean shot. One good swing. He could—
The voice slithered through the trees before the man did—smooth, amused, calculated. “Alive,” Viggo corrected, and Hiccup’s stomach twisted like a netted eel. “Preferably intact, but I won’t quibble over a few broken fingers.”
Hiccup pressed himself deeper into the cave’s shadows, his ribs screaming as he sucked in a shallow breath. The dagger trembled in his grip—focus, focus—but the edges of his vision were already fraying, darkness creeping in like ink in water. Boots scuffed closer, twigs snapping under foot, and then Viggo’s silhouette filled the cave entrance, backlit by the late afternoon sun. He didn’t step inside. Just tilted his head, studying Hiccup like a chessboard mid-game.
Hiccup’s fingers twitched around the dagger, the metal slick with sweat and blood. Viggo’s shadow stretched across the damp cave floor, the edges sharp as a blade. “You’re looking a bit worse for wear,” Viggo mused, his voice syrup-thick with mock concern. “But then again, you always did have a flair for the dramatic.”
A rustle of movement behind Viggo—hunters, circling like wolves. Hiccup counted three silhouettes, maybe four. His breath hitched as he shifted he weight, biting back the groan that clawed up his throat. The bolt in his side shifted, sending fresh waves of fire through his ribs. Not yet. Wait for it. He forced his grip to steady.
The bolt slid free with a wet, sickening pop, and Hiccup barely had time to clamp his jaw shut before the sound escaped—half-groan, half-gasp. His vision tunneled, the cave walls pulsing in and out like a dying heartbeat. Blood seeped warm and insistent through his fingers where he clutched his side, the fabric of his tunic now a sticky ruin. Breathe. Just breathe. But every inhale felt like shards of glass grinding between his ribs.
Viggo’s smirk deepened, slow and satisfied. “Ah. That looked unpleasant.” He took a single step forward, boots crunching over loose gravel. “Tell me, Hiccup—was it worth it? Leading your friends away, playing the matyr?“ Another step. Closer. ”Or did you simply miscalculate?“
Viggo’s footsteps were deliberate, each one measured like the placement of a chess piece. The gravel beneath his boots shifted with quiet crunches, the sound echoing faintly against the cave walls. Hiccup tried to lift his dagger, but his arm trembled violently, the weapon slipping from his grasp with a dull clatter against the stone. His breath came in ragged bursts, the edges of his vision blurring into a haze of pain and exhaustion.
“Pathetic,” Viggo murmured, though there was an odd flicker in his gaze—something almost like admiration. He crouched beside Hiccup, the leather of his coat creaking softly. “You could have just surrendered. Saved us both the trouble.” His gloved hand brushed Hiccup’s forehead, pushing sweat-damp hair aside with a gentleness that felt incongruous with the situation.
Hiccup jerked his head away, teeth bared in something between a snarl and a grimace. “Wouldn’t—“ He sucked in a sharp breath, his fingers scrabbling for the fallen dagger. ”Wouldn’t be me then, would it?“
Viggo’s chuckle was low, almost warm, if not for the way his fingers tightened in Hiccup’s hair, keeping his head still. “No,” he conceded. “I suppose not.” Behind him, the hunters shifted restlessly, their weapons glinting in the fading light. One—a wiry man with a crossbow slung over his shoulder—stepped forward, his mouth twisted in a leer. “Boss, we got to movement in the trees. Sounds like—“
Hiccup’s vision flickered—once, twice—before dissolving into a murky haze. The world tipped sideways, and suddenly, he was weightless, the cave’s rough ceiling spinning above him like a drunken carousel. Something warm and solid pressed against his back, another beneath his knees, and then he was rising, the ground falling away in a slow, sickening lurch, the faint scent of pine oil and iron—before settling heavily against the crook of Viggo’s shoulder.
“There we go,” Viggo murmured, his voice a low hum against Hiccup’s ear. The words vibrated through his chest, oddly intimate in their proximity. “No use fighting now, is there?”
The first thing Hiccup registered was the scent—salt and old wood, the faint tang of fish oil lamps burning low. Then the pain, dulled now but still present, wrapped tight around his ribs like a second skin. He blinked against the dim light filtering through a porthole, his lashes sticking together with exhaustion. The ceiling above him was curved, the timbers dark with age. A ship. Viggo’s ship.
He tried to sit up, but his wrists jerked against something soft yet unyielding—bandages, thick and snug around his forearms, tied to the bedposts. Not ropes. Not chains. That was almost worse. Viggo had made sure he wouldn’t hurt himself thrashing. The thought sent a cold prickle down his spine.
The door creaked open before Hiccup could test the knots. Viggo’s silhouette filled the frame, backlit by the lanterns in the corridor. He carried a small vial between his fingers, the liquid inside catching the light like honey. “Ah, You’re awake.” He stepped inside, shutting the door with a quiet click. “I was starting to think you’d sleep through all the fun.”
The vial glinted in Viggo’s fingers as he tilted it, watching the thick liquid slide lazily against the glass. Hiccup’s throat tightened—he knew that syrupy sheen, had seen it before in the hands of hunters who’d bragged about ‘taming’ wild dragons. His fingers twitched against the badages, the linen rough against his skin. “Fun,” he rasped, voice scraped raw from disuse. “Is that what you’re calling it now?”
Viggo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Call it what you like” He stepped closer, the floorboards groaning under his weight. “Though I’d save your breath. This tends to go down easier without a struggle.” The vial’s stopper popped free with a soft click, the scent of fermented yarrow and something cloyingly sweet wafting through the cabin. Hiccup recoiled, his shoulders pressing into the lumpy mattress.
The vial pressed against Hiccup’s lips, cold glass digging into the corner of his mouth. He clenched his jaw, twisting his face away, but Viggo’s grip was iron—his fingers tangled in Hiccup’s hair, wrenching his head back until his throat arched taut. “Come now,” Viggo murmured, his breath warm agains Hiccup’s ear. “Don’t make me pour it down your nose.” The liquid sloshed dagerously close to his nostrils, the scent thick and clying like rotting fruit. Hiccup gagged, his body conculsing—then Viggo pinched his nose shut, and instinct forced his mouth open with a gasp. The syrup hit his tongue like spoiled honey, viscous and wrong, coating his throat as he swallowed reflexively.
Hiccup coughed, sputtering, but Viggo held his jaw shut until he felt the covulsive swallow. The effect was immediat—a slow, creeping warmth spreading from his stomach outward, tendrils of heat curling through his veings. His fingers, which had been clawing at Viggo’s wrist, slackened. His vision softened at the edges, the cabin’s shadows melting into a hazy gold. Viggo’s face blurred above him, sharpening and softening like a reflection in disturbed water. “There,” Viggo soothed, thumb brushing Hiccup’s cheekbone. “Not so bad, was it?”
Hiccup’s pulse stuttered—too fast, then too slow. His thoughts unraveled like frayed rope, each strand slipping through his grasp. He tried to focus on Astrid’s face, Toothless’s eyes, the shape of Berk’s cliffs at dawn—but the images dissolved like smoke. “N-no,” he slurred, tongue heavy. His eyelids fluttered, the weight of them unbearable. Viggo’s fingers traced his temple, down the line of his jaw, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
Hiccup’s breath hitched as Viggo’s fingers curled around his jaw, tilting his face upward. The drug pulsed through his veins like molten gold, turning his bones to liquid and his thoughts to honey. Viggo’s lips brushed the shell of his ear, his voice a velvet murmur that seeped into the hallows of Hiccup’s skull. “You’re the only one who ever understood the game,” he whispered, the words slow and deliberate, as if savoring each syllable. “The only one who ever mattered.”
“Hiccup’s fingers twitched weakly against the bandages. His eylids felt weighted, dragging lower with every sluggish blink. Viggo’s thumb traced the curve of his cheekbone, lingering where sweat beaded at his temple. ”You fight so hard,“ he mused, his breath warm against Hiccup’s slackening mouth. ”But why? Your friends left you. Your dragon obeyed my command when I told him to fly away. Even Astrid—she’ll be too late.“ He leaned closer his nose skimming Hiccup’s. ”But I would never leave you. Never. Do you know why?“
The dragonroot tincture wore off in waves—first the taste of copper in his mouth, then the returning ache in his ribs, and finally, the slow unraveling of Viggo’s words from his thoughts like weeds pulled from damp soil. Hiccup blinked at the ceiling of his cell, counting the knots in the wood grain for the third time that hour. Somewhere above deck, boots thudded across planks, and the distant screech of a Gronckle told him Fishlegs was getting creative. Good. That meant the others were close.
A muffled thump shook the hull, followed by the unmistakable sound of Stormfly’s spines embedding themselves in timber. Astrid. Hiccup’s fingers twitched against the bandages still tied loosely around his wrists—Viggo’s idea of mercy, or maybe just another move in whatever game he thought they were playing. The door rattled on its hinges as something heavy slammed into it from the outside.
The door exploded inward with a splintering crash—Astrid’s boot connected with the wood so hard the hinges screamed. She stood silhouetted in the doorway, Stormfly’s spines still quivering in the frame behind her, her axe dripping with something dark and wet. Her chest heaved, wild-eyed and breathless, scanning the room until her gaze locked onto Hiccup.
“There you are,” she growled, storming forward like a hurricane given legs.
The ship groaned like a dying beast beneath them, timber snapping as seawater roared through the shattered hull. Astrid hauled Hiccup upright with one arm, her other hand still gripping her axe—its blade streaked with a mix of pitch and hunter blood. “Move,” she barked, half-dragging him toward the gaping hole where Stormfly’s tail spikes had torn through the ship’s side. Hiccup stumbled, his ribs screaming, but Astrid’s grip was iron—unyielding, just like her glare. Behind them, Viggo’s voice cut through the chaos, smooth as a honed blade: “Leaving so soon?”
Hiccup didn’t turn. Couldn’t. The dragonroot haze still clung to the edges of his vision, turning the world gauzy at the seams. But Astrid’s fingers dug into his wrist, anchoring him as Stormfly’s talons scraped the deck, her wings flaring wide. “Ignore him,” she hissed, shoving Hiccup toward the dragon’s waiting claws. “He’s not worth the air it’d take to spit on him.“
The edge of Berk’s cliffs loomed ahead—a jagged tear in the sky where the world dropped away into nothing. Stormfly’s wings strained against the wing, her talons gripping Hiccup’s shoulders just shy of piercing skin. Below them, the sea churned, white-capped waves clawing at the rocks like desperate hands. Astrid’s arms tightened around Hiccup’s waist, her breath hot against his neck. “Almost there,” she growled, though whether to reassure him or herself, neither could say.
Toothless shot past them in a streak of black, his wingtips grazing Stormfly’s spines as he banked hard toward the cliffside. His warbling cry was equal parts relief and reproach—you idiot, you reckless, brilliant idiot—and Hiccup would’ve laughed if his ribs weren’t knitting themselves back together with every jostle.
Stormfly’s talons scraped against the cliff’s edge just as Toothless barrel-rolled beneath them, his tail fins slicing through the space where Viggo’s last arrow had whistled past. Hiccup hit the ground knees-first, Astrid tumbling after him in a tangle of limbs and curses. For a heartbeat, all he could hear was their ragged breathing and the distant snap of Viggo’s ship sails retreating into the fog—until Ruffnut’s boot appeared in his line of sight, toe prodding his ribs with alarming enthusiasm.
“Still alive?” she asked, peering down at him. “Bummer. I had dibs on your bedroom if you croaked.”