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knight-hiccup · 2 months ago

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𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐌 | Hiccup x Fem!Reader ₃

This is Chapter 3 to this Hiccup series -> Masterlist here. Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

Pairing: Hiccup x fem!reader Genre: romance, fantasy, suspense, drama, angst, dark, vioIence, friends to lovers, dark themes, heavy Viking lore, Norse mythology, canon divergence, slow burn Word count: 7.2k Warnings: This will have the lore of the films + shows but with much darker themes. Gore/blood, mentions of death, Norse mythology, some realistic dragon themes, more realistic scenarios, and mature themes starting at the point httyd 2 ark comes in, so, ofc NSFW. Any other warnings will be properly tagged upon story progression. A/N: Reader description not described besides clothing true to Viking/httyd fashion from time to time.

CHAPTER 3

You'd risen hours before dawn, the weight of sleep still tugging at your limbs as you forced yourself from the tangle of furs that served as your bed. The village of Berk lay hushed beyond your walls, its inhabitants lost to dreams while the first tendrils of morning crept over the horizon.

Slipping out into the brittle chill behind your home, you moved with purpose, boots crunching against the frost-rimed earth as you crossed the yard to the weathered wooden tub you'd filled the night before with a low fire—which was surrounded by the privacy of tall wood planks.

Winter's icy grip waited there, eager to claim you. The water hit your skin like a slap, clawing at your bare arms and back as you plunged into the barrel. You scrubbed fiercely with a coarse cloth, stripping away the sour grime of sleep and the sweat baked into you from days of strain—a ritual you clung to whenever time allowed, a stubborn defiance of yours against the exhaustion that hung over you.

The cold was merciless, biting deeper with each splash, stinging your knuckles raw and sending shivers racing down your spine. Steam rose in faint wisps from your flushed skin, curling into the dim air only to vanish against the gray pre-dawn sky. Your breath puffed out in sharp, white clouds, mingling with the frost that clung to the tub's edge like a crust of jagged teeth.

Through the icy shock, your senses sharpened, scouring away the fog of fatigue that had settled in your bones. You needed that clarity now—needed it to face what lay ahead. A day ago, a Gronckle's jaws had nearly ended you, its guttural roar still echoing in your ears, the heat of its fiery breath singeing the hairs on your neck. The memory jolted you as sharply as the water did, a reminder of why you couldn't afford to falter. Today, you'd make sure you were ready.

With a final shudder, you hauled yourself from the tub, water streaming off your trembling frame to pool in dark patches on the frozen stone ground. The air bit harder now, nipping at your exposed skin as you stumbled toward the rough-hewn bench where your clothes waited.

You snatched up the fresh tunic and trousers you had layed out—coarse wool scratched against your fingers, the leather patches stiff from years of mending—and pulled them on hastily, the fabric clinging to your still-damp body like a second, stubborn skin. Your breath hitched as the cold sank deeper, but you shook it off, lacing your boots with numb fingers before turning toward the village.

The wind howled low as you stepped beyond the yard, witnessing a thick fog carrying the faint tang of salt from the sea beyond Berk's cliffs. Your boots sank into the sodden earth, each step a squelch that tugged at your soles, as you followed the muddy veins of the village toward your destination.

The village was waking now, faintly—smoke curled from a distant chimney, and the muffled bleat of a sheep drifted through the stillness. With hands twitching from a restless hunger to create, you reached the forge and struck the flint, coaxing the furnace fire to life as the bellows wheezed awake.

You resolved it was time to forge a weapon uniquely your own. Axes bore a crude, swaggering heft you couldn't master; swords gleamed with a noble grace that felt unfamiliar in your grip; hammers landed with a heavy, dull thud, too blunt for the precision you craved—a coarse taunt against the keen edge you yearned to shape.

But in the training arena, amid the chaos, the knife you'd clutched had felt different. It had settled into your palm like an extension of your own will—sure, steady, a sliver of control just like the knives you held daily in the kitchen. That feeling lingered. You saw it now: daggers forged from black stone, sleek and wicked as a dragon's claw, light enough to dance between your fingers yet deadly enough to pierce a beast's hide—or a raider's flesh, should Berk's peace shatter again.

The vision gripped you, and you were determined to make it real. They'd be your secret, these blades—nestled snugly in your boots, hidden beneath the patched furs and leather, ready to flick free at the slightest provocation. A match for whatever Berk hurled your way next, be it beast or battle.

For now, they rested half-formed on the anvil before you, their edges raw and jagged, glinting faintly in the firelight, unpolished. The black stone drank the heat, begging for the hammer's strike to mold it into shape. You could almost feel their weight in your hands already, the sharp lines you'd etch into them, each blow a declaration of your intent to survive this training.

Time was slipping away, though, stretched thin the closer you got to the next challenge. Gobber's voice still battered your skull, gruff and unyielding from the last briefing, his words a relentless drumbeat in your memory.

"Deadly Nadder's up next, ye lot—sharp spines, much sharper temper, tail like a whip! And eyes—" he'd growled, dragging the word out with a gleam, "that'll spot ye afore ye blink—'cept for that blind spot, o' course."

His hook-hand had slashed the air as he'd paced, spitting warnings while the trainees nodded, weary and bruised, their minds half-lost in the haze of exhaustion. You'd clung to every detail, though—the Nadder's speed, its venomous dance—and now, in the forge's stifling heat, those half-heard lessons fueled your urgency.

Sweat beaded on your brow as you hefted the hammer, its handle worn smooth from use, and eyed the black stone blades. These daggers had to be ready—sharp enough to meet the Nadder's bite today, steady enough to prove you could stand against its venomous dance. The furnace roared at your side, a living beast of iron and flame, its heat surging forth in waves that licked your skin with a dry, insatiable hunger.

Ash stung your eyes as you worked, a streak of grease smearing across your cheek from a careless swipe of your hand. Each strike of the hammer rang out—a sharp, bone-deep pulse that shuddered through your joints, its rhythm swallowing the distant clamor of Berk beyond the forge's walls: Hooligan shouts, the creak of carts, and the faint, familiar clang of sword against sword from somewhere else in the village.

The forge clanged at the stomps of Gobber stumbling in, his heavy tread shaking the little floorboards it had, a tuneless whistle threading through the air like a frayed rope. He loomed against the firelight saying a quick 'mornin' before his broad frame casted a jagged shadow as he hunched over a battered table in the corner, sorting through a chaotic pile of materials—rusted bolts, scraps of leather, a tangle of wire.

"'Bout time you showed up," you said.

The words carried a bite of morning revenge—sweet, petty justice for all the times Gobber's barking had dragged you out of bed before the sun dared to rise. Today, you'd beaten him to the forge, and the rare chance to jab at him felt like a small, hard-won victory. His hook-hand gleamed as he picked at his teeth, the metal scraping with a faint, grating chime that cut through the furnace's growl.

"Aye, ye're hammerin' like ye mean to wake the whole island," he grunted ignoring your remark without looking up. His voice rough as gravel, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and focus. He busied himself with the assortment, tossing aside a bent nail with a snort.

A minute passed until a floorboard creaked again, softer this time, and a slighter figure slipped inside the open forge. Hiccup perched on a stool in front of his desk near the wall, half-shrouded in the haze of smoke and heat, his sketchbook splayed across the table. Charcoal scratched feverishly across the pages, as he tried to shield with a hunched shoulder.

His brow furrowed beneath a wild tangle of auburn hair, shadows pooling under his eyes bleary—probably from last night's conversations with you over the 'Book of Dragons.' Oh. . .how disappointed he looked when there was nothing about the Night Fury, so moved on to you both coming up with dragon plans, Nadder tactics, whatever it took to pass the trails for him—to distract him.

You caught his glance for a heartbeat before he ducked his head, the dodge quicker than usual, his fingers tightening around the charcoal pencil. He was hiding something—you'd bet your hammer on it.

Normally, he'd ramble about some new contraption or dragon theory first thing at the sight of you, his voice tripping over itself with excitement, but now he stayed silent, the sketchbook a flimsy wall between you. The air shifted with his presence, a thread of tension, and you wondered what scheme he was cooking up this time—something to do with the Nadder maybe, or something bigger, something he wouldn't share. Not yet. You turned back to the anvil.

You paused, hefting a half-finished dagger to eye level, its black stone blade snaring the furnace's red glow in a glint. You tilted it, testing the balance—light yet lethal, taking shape—and your gaze slid sideways, catching on Hiccup's hunched form across the forge. Perched on his stool. The faint scratch of charcoal on paper pricked your ears, and as he flipped a page, a shape flickered into view—sleek, shadowed, unmistakable. Curiosity flaring.

You stilled, the dagger settling onto the anvil with a soft, deliberate clink. The heat pressed against your back as you moved—silently, boots scuffing faintly against the dirt floor. The air hung in silence as you closed the distance, stopping just behind him. Close enough to catch the faint whiff of fresh pine clinging to his tunic, mingling with the smoky bite of charcoal smudged across his knuckles.

You leaned in, peering over his shoulder, and there it was: the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself, etched in stark lines—wings swept back, eyes piercing, every curve rendered with a precision that dragged you back to that day in the woods. The memory hit hard—the dragon's roar onto Hiccup, and his quiet choice to let it vanish—and yet here it lived, captured on paper, as if he'd never let it go.

"Sharp memory on that Night Fury Hic," you murmured, voice low and edged with a teasing lilt. Hiccup jolted upright, a yelp bursting from him—half-strangled, sharp as a snapped twig. The sketchbook slipped from his grasp, some pages slipping onto the table, and falling to the forge floor like a leaf, charcoal pencil skittering away like a startled rat across the ground.

His laugh barked out, high and brittle, a flimsy shield thrown up too fast as he lunged to snatch shut the book, fingers smudging the Night Fury's lines in his haste. He clutched it to his chest, green eyes wide and darting, breath hitching like he'd been caught sneaking to the kitchens late at night.

"Oh—uh, yeah, just. . .doodling, y'know," he stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush as he fumbled his feet, kicking up more dust.

His grin wobbled, too bright, too forced, and you caught the twitch in his gaze—sideways, fleeting, a quirk of his you knew all too well since you were little kids scrambling. He waved a hand, quick and airy, brushing it off.

"Just messing around—keeps the hands busy, and the mind working!" he added, voice pitching up as he tucked the sketchbook under his arm, hugging it tighter than a shield. But that silver tongue of his, the one that could spin tales to dodge Gobber's wrath, couldn't bury the truth from you—not after years of reading him like the grain in a well-worn plank.

"Mm-hm. . ."

Suspicion coiled tight in your gut, not a guess but a certainty. You straightened, arching a brow as you pinned him with a look—steady, unyielding, the kind that dared him to squirm. His grin stretched thinner, shifting under your gaze as you shifted your weight, one boot scuffing the dirt as you tilted your head, weighing him.

The forge's heat pulsed at your back, the half-formed dagger glinting on the anvil behind you, but this—this secret he was guarding—prickled sharper than the Nadder's spines in your mind. You bit back the prod itching on your tongue, letting the silence stretch instead, heavy as the hammer in your hand had been. For now, you'd let it lie, but the glint in his eyes promised you'd dig it out soon enough.

You turned from Hiccup's retreating hunch, the echo of his brittle laugh fading into the forge's din, and let your gaze settle back on the anvil. The half-finished dagger waited there. Your hands itched again, that restless hunger clawing up your spine, and you stepped back to the furnace's maw.

When the second dagger emerged from the quench, steam coiling around it like a dragon's sigh, you held them both up—twin blades in the firelight, their edges gleaming with a quiet menace. You ran a calloused thumb along one, testing its bite, and felt the faintest nick against your skin—a job fulfilled.

Two blades, finished, ready to nestle in your boots ready to face the Nadder's whip-crack tail. The furnace growled low behind you, its hunger sated for now, and you straightened, rolling your shoulders to shake off the ache. The day wasn't done, but this—this felt like a start.

"C'mon," You turned to Hiccup, "—drop the scribbles and let's go train," you said, voice steady but laced with a rough edge, a challenge stitched into the camaraderie.

"Nadder's next—sharp spines, sharper attitude, like Gobber's been bellowing. We could both use the practice before it skewers us into pincushions." The words rolled out with a grin.

Hiccup froze, his face faltering. He rubbed the back of his neck—already telling you he meant he was squirming out of something—and shook his head, auburn hair flopping over his brow.

"Uh, I've got something to do first," he muttered, eyes flicking to the forge door, quick and guilty. His boots scuffed the dirt, a restless shuffle.

You stepped closer, boots crunching on the ash-strewn floor, and dropped your voice to a whisper—a blade slipped beneath Gobber's tuneless whistle, too low for his ears to snag.

"You mean go looking for that dragon, don't you?" you pressed almost knowingly, the words sharp and quiet.

"You're thinking about going back to the woods—seeking that Night Fury again." The furnace's growl masked your tone, but your gaze pinned him, unrelenting.

His head snapped up, green eyes wide as guilt bloomed across his face in a lopsided smile—small, reluctant, "Yeah. . .maybe," he admitted, voice barely a murmur over all the noise.

His stare locking with yours for a heartbeat too long. The confession hung there and you saw it—the flicker of obsession in his eyes, the same one that'd lit up that day in the woods before and after he let the dragon vanish.

"I'm coming with you," you said, firm as iron, already turning to snatch your gear from the bench—the daggers, a cloak, the weight of resolve settling in your chest.

But his hand shot out, quick and desperate, clamping onto your arm with a grip that stopped you cold. His fingers dug in, calloused and warm against the stubborn stiffness of your patched sleeves.

"No! No—It's not safe," he said, voice low and taut. "If it attacks me, then at least it's just me—not both of us. I need you to come up with excuses—" His words snagged. His eyes flicked wide, pleading, but the logic twisted like a warped blade, useless and infuriating. Hiding the fact he had already found it again anyways.

"Hiccup! I'm not just going to let you face that alone?!" You snapped, protest surging hot and fierce up your throat, ready to shred his flimsy excuse.

But before the words could spill, his hand clapped over your mouth—rough, warm, cutting your breath mid-rise. The suddenness stole your air, your glare boring into him as his palm pressed firm, silencing you. His eyes darted to Gobber, oblivious at the anvil's far end, his hook-hand scraping at his teeth with a distracted grunt, his off-key whistle faltering as he wrestled a stubborn shred of gristle free.

Hiccup's grip eased, sliding away, but his stare held—urgent, raw, a silent plea stitched into his face. The forge's heat pulsed around you, the air thick with soot and the weight of his fear, and for a moment, you stood locked there—your suspicion warring with his desperation, the daggers glinting behind you like a dare to push harder. He dropped his hand fully, stepping back, and the space between you crackled, unfinished. You let out a sharp sigh, the air hissing through your teeth as you crossed your arms.

"Alright, fine. What do you want me to tell Gobber, then? That you're just not feeling well?" Your voice carried a dry edge, skepticism lacing each word as you jerked your head toward the anvil where Gobber still grunted, oblivious.

"He won't care. He'd drag everyone to the arena against that stinking Nadder today—ill, half-dead, or otherwise. You know how he gets."

You shifted your stance, eyes narrowing at Hiccup's stubborn hunch. He grins, a flicker of defiance breaking through his nerves, and scrubbed a hand through his tangled hair for the ninth time, smearing a streak of charcoal across his forehead.

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," he said, voice low but steady, a conspirator's whisper. "He won't find me at home anyway, even if he goes stomping over there looking."

His green eyes glinted, darting to the forge opening again, and he shifted his weight, the sketchbook still tucked tight under his arm like a stolen prize. The faintest shrug lifted his shoulders, casual but calculated, as if he'd already mapped his escape through Berk's fog-choked paths.

Before you could have a say he turned on his heel, quick and quiet, the hem of his tunic flapping as he slipped out of the place. The wood planks around you groaned against the wind—in a low, creaking protest—letting a gust of cold air rush in, sharp and briny from the cliffs beyond. It clashed with the forge's heat, swirling soot and embers again.

This time, Gobber's whistle cut off mid-note, his head snapping up from the anvil's far end, hook-hand frozen mid-scrape against his teeth. His one good eye narrowed, tracking Hiccup's retreating figure that thudded out.

"Oi! Where's that scrawny lad scamperin' off to now?" he barked, voice rough as splintered wood, his broad frame straightening as he wiped his hook on his apron, leaving a greasy smear.

You froze for a heartbeat, the blood draining from your face, leaving your skin clammy under his glare. But you swallowed it down, cool as ice over a blade's edge, and shrugged, letting your voice roll out steady and bored.

"Outhouse," you said, flicking your gaze to the anvil like it was nothing, the lie slid out smooth, a practiced flick of the tongue, and you kept your hands busy, rolling the hammer in your grip to hide the faintest tremble.

Gobber grunted, a low, dubious rumble, but his eye lingered on you a beat too long before he turned back to his work, muttering something about 'weak guts' under his breath as his whistle sputtered back to life.

You exhaled slow, the tension easing from your shoulders as the winds growl swallowed the moment. Hiccup was gone, muddy prints fading fast on the dirt floor, off to chase his Night Fury through the woods—and you'd bought him time. Your gut twisted, sharp and sour, not just from the lie to Gobber but from the gnawing itch to know what he'd find out there.

He'd better come back, or you'd drag him out of the pits of Hel yourself.

Of all the times you'd lied for Hiccup, this day had to be the worst—a festering gamble of a mess that kept bleeding trouble for you both. Three times since noon, Gobber's gravel-rough voice had chewed you out, his anger slashing the air as he ranted about 'that scrawny no-show.'

Astrid piled on too, her blue eyes sharp, cornering you with questions between barked orders to the others. The arena sat empty—besides the walls put in for the Nadder-challenge, its stone walls slick with drizzle, the lot of you huddled under the gray sky, waiting for Hiccup to drag his sorry hide back from wherever he'd bolted. Couldn't start without him—not with the Nadder penned up, its spines rattling like a cage of knives behind those closed gates, ready to shred anyone dumb enough to step in half-cocked.

You'd all trudged to his house after, boots sloshing through the mud, the light rain stinging your face and soaking your tunic to a clammy second skin. Knocked on his door till your knuckles ached—nothing. The place was dead quiet, no flicker of candlelight, no Hiccup—which you already knew.

Just the wind howling in laughter, mocking you as Snotlout's nasal cackle cut through: "What's his bread-making girlfriend hiding this time?"

Astrid shot him a glare that could've split stone, but the jab stuck, festering with the others' muttered barbs—'dragon-whisperer's pet,'—'Hiccup's shadow'—each one a splinter under your skin.

To say everyone was pissed was like calling a dragon's fire cold, and you were the lightning rod for it all. They knew you knew where he'd gone—those woods, that damned Night Fury—but you clamped your jaw tight, loyal to a fault, even as their stares burned hotter than the forge.

Gobber wouldn't let it slide, though. He kept waiting, pacing the arena's edge with a scowl that could curdle milk, but in the meantime, he turned his wrath into punishment.

"Right, ye lot—laps 'round Berk till I say stop!" he bellowed, his voice booming over the rain's patter, hook-hand jabbing toward the village's muddy sprawl.

"Aw man!" Tuffnut whined. "Can't we just start without him?"

"Nope! I have orders' now so do ye. Now get out there!"

So, you ran—legs churning through the muck, breath rasping in your throat, the cold seeping into your bones as the drizzle thickened to a steady-light drizzle. Up past the mead hall, down along the cliffs where the sea churned gray and furious, back through the village's twisting veins—over and over till your muscles screamed.

Astrid powered ahead, blonde braid slapping her back, while Snotlout lagged, whining about his boots being soaked like sponges till Ruffnut shoved him into a puddle with a giggle. You kept pace, silent, the daggers in your boots a secret weight, their edges digging into your resolve with every step.

By the time Gobber finally called it quits, the rain finally calmed down. You stood panting, hands on your knees, water streaming off your nose as the others grumbled and shook off the wet like dogs. Gobber loomed nearby, his silhouette jagged against the torchlight in the fog, muttering about 'waste of time' and 'that boy's hide when I catch him.'

Your chest heaved, lungs raw, but your mind spun faster—Hiccup out there, chasing dragons while you took the heat. If they didn't get to him—or Thor forbid—the dragon first, then you will. Loyalty held your tongue though, but the ache in your legs and the sting of their words gnawed at it, fraying the edges. You straightened, wiping mud from your face, and caught Astrid's eye—hard, searching, daring you to crack. You didn't. Not yet.

After the laps, you all slogged your way to the Great Hall, boots squelching, the rain still dripping from your sodden clothes like a stubborn echo of Gobber's punishment. The hall's heavy doors groaned open, spilling you into its smoky warmth—a stark relief from the cold that had gnawed your bones raw.

Inside, it was quieter than usual, the usual clamor of laughter and clattering mugs dulled to a low murmur. The long tables stretched out under the flickering torchlight, laden with steaming bowls of stew and hunks of bread, but the air hung heavy, thick with exhaustion and unspoken gripes. You dropped onto a bench, the wood creaking under your weight, and rubbed at your aching thighs, the daggers in your boots a silent comfort against the day's grind that at least something was achieved.

Gobber held court at the head of the table, his voice a relentless growl cutting through the stillness, hook-hand jabbing the air as he rambled on.

"We'll still start if that twig of a boy shows his face—Nadder don't wait for no one, and neither will I!" he lectured, his words a steady drip of frustration, punctuated by the scrape of his spoon against his bowl.

The others picked at their food—Astrid glowering into her stew, Snotlout slouched with a scowl, the twins poking at each other with bread crusts—but no one argued. Too tired, too soaked, too fed up. You kept your head down, spooning broth into your mouth, its heat a faint balm against the chill still clinging to your skin, and let Gobber's tirade wash over you like the rain outside.

Then the Great Hall's doors banged open, a sudden crash that jolted every head upright. A gust of wind roared in, snuffing a torch near the entrance and sending a shiver of cold through the room. Hiccup stumbled through, soaked to the bone, his tunic plastered to his skinny frame, hair a dripping mess of auburn plastered across his forehead. It was just like last night when he showed up soaked after leaving the arena after the Gronckle.

Water pooled at his feet, dark and muddy, as he stood there, chest heaving, the sketchbook still clutched under one arm—soggy, smudged, but intact. The hall seemed like it fell dead silent, the weight of too many eyes pinning him in place. No one spoke—too astonished, too wrung out to muster a sound. Astrid's spoon hovered midair, Snotlout's jaw slackened, and even Gobber's growl snagged in his throat, his hook-hand pausing mid-gesture as he stared, one bushy brow arching higher and higher.

You felt your pulse quicken, a sharp thud against your ribs, as you locked eyes with him as he walked towards you. His green gaze flickered—wary, sheepish, but glinting with something wild, something he'd dragged back from those woods. The Night Fury, you'd bet on it. The silence stretched, thick as the smoke curling from the hearth, and you gripped your spoon tighter, the wood biting into your palm.

He was here, finally, but the questions—where he'd been, what he'd seen, was he okay, and he was going to get a kick in the hind—burned hotter than the stew in your gut, and you weren't sure if you wanted to throttle him or demand answers first. But first thing above all, you were so relieved he was alive as he sat beside you.

The silence that followed was a beast of its own, heavy and deadly, coiling around the Great Hall like the sea gone still. Hiccup hunched at the table's edge, water still dripping from his soaked form to puddle beneath him same as you, his shoulders drawn tight as if he could shrink from the weight of every stare.

His wide, nervous eyes darted, flicking from you to Astrid, then to Gobber, then back again, green and skittish like a cornered deer's. You caught Gobber's glare for a split second, and your stomach twisted—you both knew this quiet. It wasn't exhaustion or shock holding Gobber's tongue now. It was fury, the kind that burned cold and silent, the kind that meant trouble deeper than either of you could dig out of.

No one moved, breaths held, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and stew gone cold. Then Gobber's voice sliced through, clear as a blade's edge, sharper than anyone had ever heard it—none of his usual gravel or bluster, just pure, chilling command.

"Get to the arena. All of ye. Now."

The words landed like a hammer on steel, ringing in your ears, and the hall erupted into chaos between you all. Benches screeched across the stone floor, a shrieking sound as they toppled in a tangle of legs and curses. You lurched to your feet, heart slamming against your ribs, and grabbed at a bench to right it, the rough wood splintering under your grip as Snotlout's elbow jabbed your side in the scramble.

The others flailed too—Astrid shoving a bench back with a grunt, the twins tripping over each other with muffled yelps, Hiccup staggering up last, his soggy boots slipping as he clutched his wet fur gilet tighter. You didn't wait to sort it out—Gobber's silence had snapped into something alive, a threat pulsing behind his stillness, and none of you dared test it.

You bolted for the doors, shoving them open with a shoulder as the cold after math of the rain slapped your face again, the air biting after the hall's fleeting warmth. Boots pounded the mud behind you, a ragged chorus of splashes and gasps, everyone running flat-out for the arena before Gobber's next word—or worse, his hook—could catch up.

You stole a glance back as you ran, the hall's torchlight framing Gobber's silhouette in the doorway, unmoving, his face dark—haunting you guys. Hiccup was a few paces behind, head down, soaked hair whipping in the wind, and you felt that prickle again—anger, worry, the urge to drag him aside and shake him. But the arena loomed ahead, its stone walls slick and shadowed, the Nadder's distant hiss cutting through the rain. No time for that now.

Mercy wasn't on the table today—not a shred of it. The moment Gobber herded you all into the arena—locking you up, his hook-hand jabbing the air like a conductor of chaos, he swung the gate wide and unleashed the Deadly Nadder.

Its talons scraped the stone, a shrill screech ripping through the air as it shook out its vibrant scales, spines glinting under the gray, cloud-choked sky. Midafternoon light filtered dim and heavy, casting the beast in a dull, menacing sheen, and you couldn't help but shake your head—not surprised—when Hiccup, still damp from his earlier drenching, piped up from the lineup about Night Furies.

His voice cracked, bold and foolish, fishing for scraps like you'd seen him do in the great hall last night in that dragon book. You knew it—he'd been hunting answers on it.

"Today!" Gobber cut him off, voice booming over the arena's walls, sharp enough to slice through Hiccup's stammer. "Is all about ATTACK!"

"Nadders are quick and light on their feet. Your job's to be quicker and lighter." He leaned against the railing, picking at his teeth with the tip of his hook-hand, a faint scrape echoing as he grinned, savoring the mayhem about to unfold.

"Look for its blind spot—every dragon's got one. Find it, hide in it, strike." His words hung like a dare, and the Nadder's head snapped up, eyes glinting as it prowled, tail twitching like a whip primed to crack.

The twins charged first, reckless as ever—Ruffnut behind Tuffnut swinging their spears and shields as they stilled before the dragon casted its raging fire toward them—Then the Nadder spun in your direction, its spines flaring. A quick lash of its tail sent you sprawling, a hail of barbs thudding into the wooden barricade with sharp thunks and into your shield.

Then its gaze locked on you, alone in the dust, the others scrambling too far to help. Heart pounding, you slid into its blind spot—right near the center of its mouth like the twins had, where its head couldn’t twist—and felt the air shift, thick with the musky scent of its scales and the faint tang of your own sweat. Quick as a blink, you slipped a black stone dagger from your boot, its weight steady in your palm, and reared back to throw, aiming for the soft patch under its wing.

But Hiccup—with bad timing, didn’t see the dragon—blundered in, his lanky frame crashing into you as he stumbled over the uneven stone, muttering, “There you are!”

The jolt knocked your aim wide, the dagger skittering harmlessly across the ground with a metallic clatter. The Nadder’s head whipped around, eyes narrowing as it caught the motion, and its tail flicked—fast, vicious. A volley of spines shot out, slicing the air with a high-pitched whistle.

You shoved Hiccup aside so he wouldn’t get hit, diving low, but one barb deeply grazed your upper arm—missing your face by a second, a hot sting blooming as blood welled under your torn sleeve. You hissed through clenched teeth, rolling to your feet, the dagger lost but the second one still snug in your boot. The Nadder loomed closer—searching, its beak-like snout snapping, and Hiccup’s wide-eyed stare met yours—half-apology, half-panic over you.

“Move!” you barked, grabbing Hiccup’s arm and yanking him up, as he went tumbling to the dirt as he flailed. The Nadder screeched, talons gouging the stone as it charged, its tail coiling for another strike. You bolted, dragging him with you, legs pumping as you darted for the arena’s maze of wooden barricade—holding your wound with one hand, the other gripping Hiccups hand.

The air burned in your lungs, the graze on your arm throbbing with every step as the poison sunk through your blood stream, but you didn’t stop—couldn’t. Hiccup’s boots pounded beside you, uneven and frantic, his breath ragged as he muttered, ‘Sorry—sorry!’ over the dragon’s shrieks. You veered sharp behind a splintered wall, shoving him down into a crouch as the Nadder’s spines thwacked into the wood above your heads, splintering it like dry kindling.

You held your breath, the musky stench of the beast thick in your nose, as you peered through a gap to watch the Nadder prowled past, its head twitching, scaly spikes ruffling as it searched—quick, light, just like Gobber said. But you were quicker. You waited, counting its steps, until it turned toward the twins’ shouts across the arena, their chaos a perfect lure.

“Now,” you whispered, and bolted again, Hiccup scrambling after you. You wove through the barricades, ducking low, the gray sky a blur overhead, until you hit the far wall and slid behind a stack of crates, the dragon’s hiss fading into the distance. It had lost you—for now.

You slumped against the wood, chest heaving, the second dagger clutched tight in your sweaty grip. Hiccup sank beside you, panting, his damp hair plastered to his forehead, sketchbook gone somewhere in the dust. The graze on your arm pulsed, blood trickling down to your elbow as you held onto it. Hiccup got to his knees muttering apologies again, but you waved him off saying to just focus on the task at hand.

“I didn’t mean—” he started, voice soft but a shadow loomed over you both—Gobber had barreled down from the stands and into the arena.

“Aye—That’s enough for you lass” he whispered, voice rough but edged with something rare—worry.

Gobber steadied you with his hand under your elbow, grunting as Hiccup scrambled to your other side, his damp grip gentle but firm as they hauled you up from the dust. “Get ‘er to the front gate,” Gobber ordered Hiccup, nodding toward the iron bars cracked just wide enough for a quick slip-through, the hinges creaking faintly.

Hiccup’s mouth opened, another apology tumbling out—“I’m so sorry, I didn’t—“ but you cut him off with a bright, lopsided grin, the sting in your arm fading under the warmth of it.

“It’s fine, Hic,” you said, voice steady despite the blood seeping through your sleeve. “We’ll get that beast next time—you go back in there and beat it for me, alright?”

The dragon hissed, distracted by Astrid while Gobber grabbed your good arm, hauling you up with a grunt. “Out with ye—now,” he said, quieter, his grip firm but careful as he steered you toward the gate. You glanced back at Hiccup, still crouched, his face pale but relieved, and you gave him a small nod—it’s okay—because even with your arm stinging, you couldn’t muster anger at him, not ever.

The arena gate clanged shut behind you, the Nadder’s cries muffled as Gobber hustled you out into the gray afternoon light. The air felt cooler against your flushed skin, the clouds overhead thick and brooding, promising rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Gothi was waiting near the edge, her hunched form bundled in furs, staff tapping the ground as she squinted at you.

Gobber shoved you gently toward her. “She’s nicked—fix ‘er up,” he muttered, then turned back to the arena, barking at the others to “keep it movin’!” Gothi’s bony fingers prodded your arm, her touch sharp but sure, and she clucked her tongue, gesturing for you to sit on a nearby crate. She rummaged in her pouch, pulling out a wad of herbs and a strip of cloth, her wrinkled face set in a frown as she mashed the leaves with a stone, the sharp, earthy scent cutting through the arena’s dust.

You sat on the crate, the graze on your upper arm throbbing with a dull, insistent pulse, each beat a reminder of the Nadder’s barb. Gothi hunched beside you, her sharp eyes narrowing as she scooped a thick, green poultice from her stone bowl, the air filling with its sharp, earthy-minty like tang—like crushed pine and bitter roots.

She smeared the poultice over the raw flesh, her bony fingers pressing it in with a steady hand, the coolness sinking into the wound and stinging fierce at first, a jolt that made you grit your teeth. The pain ebbed as the herbs did their work, numbing the edges, and she lingered there, dabbing gently to coax the torn skin into stillness, her touch careful now despite the calluses roughing her palms.

She reached for a strip of cloth from her bundle, its edges frayed but clean and began wrapping it around your arm. Her hands moved slower this time, trembling faintly with age, but precise layering the fabric snug but not tight, letting it cradle the poultice against the graze.

The bandage hugged your skin, a soft pressure that steadied the ache, and she tied it off with a small, deft knot, her knuckles brushing your shoulder as she worked. When she finished, she gave your shoulder a gruff pat—a quick, firm there—her wrinkled face softening for a blink before she turned to her pouch again.

From it, she pulled a small clay vial, stoppered with a cork, and thrust it into your hands with a grunt, gesturing sharply to your mouth. You popped it open, the sharp whiff of something sour and medicinal hitting your nose—fermented berries, maybe, mixed with a bite you couldn’t place.

“For the poison?” you asked, as she nodded with a twinkle in her eye.

The Nadder’s barb hadn’t just cut—it’d left a sickly heat creeping up your arm, a faint queasiness knotting your gut, and you nodded, of course trusting her. You tipped the vial back, the liquid bitter and thick on your tongue, burning down your throat like fire-warmed mead.

It hit your stomach hard, a jolt that chased the nausea back, leaving a strange, tingling warmth in its wake. Gothi watched, tapping her staff once as if satisfied, then waved you off, her furs rustling as she shuffled away.

The screams echoing through the arena had dwindled to a tense hush after a while, the air settling thick and heavy under the gray, cloud-choked sky. Astrid had ended it—not with her axe, but with a shield, slamming it against the Nadder’s head with a resounding clang that sent the beast reeling.

The dragon shook its vibrant scales, spines and wings drooping, and stalked off to the pen’s far end, its interest in the fight snuffed out like a torch in the wind. Midafternoon light still hung dim over the stone walls, casting long shadows as Gobber’s voice rumbled through, sharp and gruff, laying into Hiccup and the others with a lecture about ‘focus’ and ‘not tripping over yer own feet.’

You caught snatches of it from beyond the gate, the words muffled by the distance and the steady throb in your bandaged arm. Gobber stumped over to you after, his heavy boots kicking up dust, hook-hand swinging at his side. He stopped short of the crate where you sat, staring down where Gothi’s poultice still tingling under the cloth wrap, and squinted down at you, his broad face creased with a frown.

“Ye alright, lass?” he asked, voice lower now, rough but threaded with a rare fatherly softness he had for you.

He scratched at his beard with the hook’s tip, a faint scrape cutting the quiet, then nodded when you managed a small, tired smile.

“Good. Rest that arm—Nadder’s got a nasty bite. We’ll let you all rest for several days before the next challenge.” With a grunt, he turned and trudged off toward the village, his silhouette fading into the gray haze as he muttered about him becoming soft.

Astrid and the others filed out after, brushing past without a word—her blonde braid swinging, jaw tight; Snotlout slouching with a scowl; the twins bickering over a bent shield. Their boots scuffed the dirt, leaving you and the crate in a wake of silence, the arena’s dust settling slow under the brooding clouds.

Then Hiccup appeared, hesitating at the gate before stepping closer, his damp tunic still clinging to his skinny frame, hair a tousled mess from the day’s chaos. He sank onto the crate beside you, gentle and quiet, his shoulders hunched with a weight you knew too well—shame, gnawing at him for the graze, for the stumble, and the accident with Astrid.

His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers twisting together, avoiding your gaze. You didn’t say anything—no words felt right, not after today. Instead, you reached out, your hand finding his, your soft palm brushing his more callused skin as you curled your fingers around his. He stilled, breath catching, and you squeezed gently, a silent tether pulling him back from wherever his guilt had dragged him.

Slowly, he turned his head, green eyes lifting to meet yours, wide and searching, shadowed with worry. But you smiled—soft, steady, the kind that said you were okay, that they were okay. The poison’s ache lingered, Gothi’s bitter drink still warm in your throat, but here, with his hand in yours under the gray sky, the day’s sting faded. His lips twitched, a small, relieved curve answering yours, and for that moment, the world held still—no lectures, no dragons, just the two of you, unbroken.