Chapter Text
Basgiath War College admits only those aged 15 or older, who are eligible for military service and passed both the written and physical entrance examinations. Applicants may select their preferred division; however, assignments may be made at random depending on the applicant ratio for that year. As an exception, due to its specialized nature, the Rider Quadrant consists solely of volunteers, and even conscripts are not subject to reassignment.
For further details, please refer to the additional provisions below.
_Navarre Conscription Notice, Article Two, Section Four
In the cavernous forge, where only two figures remained, the clash of metal shattered the air—loud, jagged, relentless. Tools, ripped from a worn leather pack, struck the stone floor in a violent scatter. The one-armed blacksmith said nothing. He only watched as his apprentice flipped the bag upside down, spilling the rest in a chaotic rush—watched the boy’s hand tremble around the strap, shaking, not from fear, but from fury barely held in check. There was only one reason for that look.
“…Stoick told you to join the Rider Quadrant.” It wasn’t asked lightly—wasn’t asked at all, really. The weight at the end of the sentence dragged it down, heavy, final. He already knew.
“Of course he did.” Hiccup let out a bitter, breathless laugh. “Do you know what he said? ‘You get your wish. Join Rider's Quadrants. You start in the morning.’ That’s it. So I told him no—and then he asks me like 'Come on. Yes, you do. It's what you’ve always wanted.'”
He choked on the next breath, swallowing it down like it burned. “All this time—he’s the one who decided I’d never be able to ride a dragon. He’s the one who shoved me in here, under you. And now?” His voice sharpened, splintered. His grip tightened. “Now it’s like, ‘It's Time, Hiccup.’”
“I asked him if he remember—if he remember he was the one who told me I couldn’t. That I should stay here. He didn’t even listen.” The words came faster now, tripping over each other, cutting deeper with each breath. “I told him I’d be behind—everyone else has trained for this their entire lives—but all he says is, ‘But you can, and you will.’”
“That was it. As always, very one-sided conversation. Just him—deciding. Like I don’t get a say at all.” A hollow, disbelieving laugh. His jaw clenched. “I’m not even sure he can hear me.” He kept going—too fast, too sharp—mocking Stoick’s voice, twisting it into something crueler, until the words collapsed under their own weight. His face flushed, anger simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to spill.
Gobber exhaled slowly. Once, it hadn’t been like this. Once, the space between father and son hadn’t felt like a battlefield. That changed the year Stoick gave up—gave up watching his son come home bruised, bloodied, stubbornly unbroken in all the wrong ways. The year he looked at that too-thin body, all bone and grit, and decided it would never survive a dragon’s back.
So he sent him here. Back then, Hiccup had still been like the others—reckless, hopeful, desperate to fly. After that… every encounter turned to friction, to silence, to something colder than either. Stoick hadn’t fought him. Not really. He’d simply stopped listening—waiting, instead, for the boy to break. To bend. To choose safety on his own.
He miscalculated. Because Hiccup did not bend. Years passed like that—quiet, stubborn war. Gobber had tried, once, to wedge himself between them, to force something resembling peace—but Stoick’s resolve had been iron, unyielding.
“You’ve got it wrong,” Gobber said at last, voice rougher than he intended. “What your father couldn’t stand wasn’t you—it was everything you kept throwing yourself into—” “My everything?” Hiccup cut in, sharp as a blade. “That’s reassuring. Thank you for summing that up.”
The words landed wrong. Poisoned. Gobber’s next sentence died before it could form. He saw it then—the tremor in the boy’s hands, the shine at the edge of his eyes as he shoved a small notebook and pencil into his bag, movements too quick, too tight.
Nothing would reach him now. Since coming to the forge, Hiccup had outstripped every apprentice—faster, sharper, better. Younger than all of them, and still ahead. But he’d never stopped hammering himself against the wall his father built, never stopped trying to break through. Lately, though—he’d gone quieter. Not calmer. Just… contained.
The kind of silence that comes before something shatters. Maybe it was youth—that refusal to be bent by someone else’s will. Maybe it was the slow, grinding grief of giving up what he’d always wanted. Or maybe it was worse—that he’d finally been given permission… and it came too late to feel like anything but another kind of loss.
Either way, pushing him now would only make it explode. And Gobber—missing an arm, a leg, and any illusion that he still had control over this—knew better than to try. The decision had already been made. Hiccup’s name would be on that list.
With a quiet, resigned breath, Gobber reached out and slipped a small, sheathed knife into the boy’s bag. No ceremony. No explanation. Just something that might keep him alive.
He helped repack in silence—stripping away excess, leaving only what mattered. His voice returned in fragments, dragging up what little he could offer. “You’re light—watch the wind on the parapets. It’ll take you right off if you’re not careful. And don’t trust the rules—attacking a cadet in their sleep might be punishable, but that won’t stop them from trying.”
“…I’m not an idiot,” Hiccup muttered, biting his lip, the words automatic—familiar. “Yeah,” Gobber said, reaching out, ruffling his hair with a roughness that lingered a second too long. “I know.” A pause. “Just don’t stand out more than you have to.” His voice dropped. “And come back alive.”
Hiccup slung the bag over his shoulder, stood—then hesitated. His gaze swept the forge. For a year, this had been everything. The noise, the heat, the rhythm—it had become something steady, something known. Something safe. And now— Now it was a place he might return to. Or not.
The thought twisted in his chest, sharp and hollow all at once. Anger, frustration, and something dangerously close to fear churned together, heavy and unreal. He swallowed and forced himself to step forward. His boots, meant for mountain paths rather than forge floors, felt as though they dragged against the ground, each step heavier than the last.
Outside, the courtyard roared with life. Other candidates moved with purpose, with certainty, cutting through the crowd like they belonged there. Hiccup didn’t. Not yet. Not even close.
Before he could take another step, Gobber grabbed him—pulled him into a tight, unyielding embrace. This boy—his best, brightest apprentice—felt far too fragile in his grip. “You’ll make it,” Gobber muttered. “You have to.”
“Gods—Gobber, you reek—at least wash once in a while—” Hiccup gagged, twisting away as soon as he was released. A breath. A moment. Then Gobber let him go. Really let him go.
Would he survive it? The Rider Quadrant didn’t train riders. It culled them. Forged what remained. Gobber had known Hiccup since the beginning—since the day he was born too early, too small, too fragile for the world that waited for him. He’d watched him grow—first steps, scraped hands, reckless climbs—and always, always that same stubborn dream: To ride. And then—watched it stall. Break. Warp into something quieter, something buried under duty and denial. Until now.
Gobber shifted his weight—what remained of him aching in the old, familiar ways. A griffin had taken his arm. Another had taken his leg. The sky had taken the rest. And now it might take the boy too. He stood there, unmoving, as the crowd swallowed Hiccup whole—watched until there was nothing left to see.