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Heather was sharpening her knife when Hiccup found her. The rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone stopped mid-stroke as she glanced up, her dark eyes narrowing. He was standing there like a man waiting for a lightning strike—tense, hesitant, like he expected her to throw the knife at him any second.
“You look like you’re about to ask me to set something on fire,” she said flatly.
“Close,” Hiccup admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need you to lie for me.”
Heather’s eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline. She set the knife down carefully, the blade catching the afternoon light. “You want me to—what, exactly?”
Hiccup exhaled sharply, as if he’d been holding his breath since he walked in. “I’m going undercover with Ryker’s hunters.” The words hung between them like smoke—thick, unavoidable. Heather’s fingers twitched toward her knife again, but she didn’t pick it up. Instead, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees.
“You’re joking,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. She’d seen that look on his face before—right before he did something catastrophically stupid.
Hiccup crouched in front of her, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against his knee. “I need them—Astrid, Fishlegs, all of them—to believe I’ve turned. Ryker’s hunters have to think I’m really on their side. If they suspect for even a second—”
“—you’ll be fish bait before sunrise,” Heather finished. She studied him, her gaze sharp enough to flay skin. “And you want me to sell this? To tell everyone you’re the traitor?” She laughed, a brittle sound. “Astrid might actually murder me.”
Hiccup’s fingers stilled against his knee. “I know what I’m asking,” he said, quietly. “But Astrid—all of them—they’d never let me do this if they knew the truth. And if the act like they know, Ryker will sniff it out in seconds. You’ve seen how he operates.” His voice dropped lower, rough with urgency. “Heather, I need this to work. We’re losing dragons every day. If I can get close—”
“—you’re gambling with your life,” Heather snapped, shoving to her feet. The whetstone clattered to the ground. “Ryker isn’t some half-witted raider. He’ll gut you the moment you slip up.” She paced, her boots scuffing the dirt. “And Viggo? You think he won’t see through you? The man plays chess with people’s lives!”
Hiccup rose slowly, his shadow stretching long and thin across the packed earth floor. “I slip up every day,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. “And yet here I am.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a rolled scrap of parchment—the edges singed black. Heather recognized the markings instantly: Ryker’s personal seal, broken.
Heather snatched it from him, her fingers brushing against something sticky beneath the wax. Blood. Her stomach lurched. “You’ve already been there,” she breathed.
Hiccup’s smile was all teeth—sharp and humorless. “Three days,” he admitted. Heather’s grip tightened on the parchment, her knuckles whitening. “Ryker’s got a hunting party leaving at dawn. I’m assighned to it.” He hesitated, then added, quieter, “There’s a Skrill in the shipment.”
Heather swore under her breath, crushing the parchment in her fist. “You idiot,” she hissed, stepping to close her brain lashed against his shoulder. “You walked into Ryker’s camp alone? What if they’d recognized you?”
“They didn’t,” Hiccup said, shrugging with a casualness that made Heather’s pulse spike. “Ryker’s hunters are like sheep—they only look where their master points. And right now, he’s pointing at a new recruit named Havard.” He tapped the hilt of his dagger—a crude, hunter-issued thing that looked wrong in his hands. “I even got the accent right. Mostly.”
Heather exhaled through her nose, forcing her fingers to uncurl fromt eh crumpled parchment. “Fine. I’ll tell them you betrayed us.” The words tasted like ash. “But if you get caught—if Viggo so much as looks at you funny—I’m breaking my promise. I’m telling the riders everything, and we’re dragging your skinny as out of there, whether you want us to or not.”
Hiccup’s smile softened at the edges—just for a second—before he nodded once. “Deal.” He turned to leave, but Heather caught his wrist. Her grip wasn’t gentle.
“You’re forgetting something,” she said, and pressed the crumpled parchment back into his palm. His fingers closed around it automatically, but his gaze flickered—something unreadable darting behind his eyes. Heather didn’t let go. “If I’m selling this, I need details. What’s Havard’s story? Where’s he from? What’s his tell?”
The fire popped between them, spitting embers onto the damp earth. Heather clenched her fists, the riders’ faces flickering orange in the firelight—Astrid’s jaw tight, Fishlegs’ brow furrowed, the twins exchanging a glance that meant trouble.
“Harvard’s from the Northern Markets,” Heather said, forcing her voice steady. “Ryker picked him up after he got caught smuggling Gronckle iron past the blockade.” She tuffged her sleeve down over her wrist, where Hiccup’s grip had left faint bruises earlier. “He’s got a scar—here—” she traced a line from her temple to her chin, “—from a dragon claw. Says it taugh him loyalty only goes one way.”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Heather watched the riders’ reactions play out like a slow-motion shipwreck—Astrid’s fingers twitching toward her axe, Fishlegs’ lips moving soundlessly as he counted facts in his head, Snotlout’s face cycling through five different shades of red before settling on purple. Tuffnut was the first to break it.
“Okay, but which Northern Markets?” he demanded, leaning so far forward he nearly toppled off his perch. “Because if it’s the ones by the fjords, I call bullshit. Those guys wouldn’t know Gronckle iron if it—”
Astrid’s axe hit the ground with a thunk that silenced Tuffnut mid-sentence. The blade buried itself inches from his boot, and he yelped, scrambling backward. Astrid didn’t even glance at him. Her gaze was locked on Heather, blue eyes burning like ice in sunlight. “Enough,” she said, voice low and lethal. “Where’s Hiccup?”
Heather swallowed. This was it—the moment she’d been dreading. She could still see the way Hiccup’s fingers had trembled when he handed her that damned parchment, the way his voice had cracked on Tell them I chose this. She straightened her shoulders and let her voice go flat, lifeless—just like Hiccup had coached her. “He’s with Ryker. Has been for days.”
The firelight in Ryker’s war tent threw jagged shadows across Hiccup’s face as he knelt beside the map table, his fingers tracing the inked lines of Dragon’s Edge with deliberate slowness. The knife at his belt—crude hunter steel, not his own—felt like a dead weight. Across from him, Viggo lounged in his chair, idly rolling a carved dragon figurine between his fingers. The man hadn’t spoken in three minutes. Hiccup counted each heartbeat like a prisoner marking days on a cell wall.
“You’re quiet, Havard,” Viggo mused, flipping the figurine onto the map, It landed directly over Berk. “Most new recruites babble like brooks when I’m this close.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then again, most new recruits don’t have your… particular skills.”
Hiccup kept his breathing steady, fingers hovering above the map. The dragon figurine stared up at him—Viggo’s favorite piece, carved from Night Fury scale. A test. Always a test. “Skills are relative,” he said, voice rough with Havard’s market-town rasp. “Ryker said you needed a tracker who could read dragon migrations. That’s all I am.”
Viggo’s chuckle was soft, almost affectionate. He leaned forward, the firelight catching he silver in his beard. “Oh, Havard. You wound me.” His fingers brushed the map where Hiccup’s hand had been moments before—too close, deliberate. “Ryker’s men can’t tell a Terrible Terror from a Timberjack. But you?” He tapped the figurine. “You marked the Night Fury’s last known positon without hesitation. That’s not market-town knowledge.”
Hiccup’s pulse hammered against his ribs, but his fingers didn’t flinch. He nudged the figurine aside with a calloused fingertip—Havard’s hands, rough from years of smuggling, not his own. “Northern hunters pay well for Fury sightings,” he muttered, jerking his chin toward the map’s edge where he’d marked the false trail. “You learn quick when coin’s involved.”
Viggo’s smile widened, slow as a spreading stain. He reached across the table and pulcked a dagger from his belt—Hiccup’s own, the one he’d “lost” during his staged defection. The blade caugh the firelight as Viggo spun it lazily between his fingers. “And what else have you learned, I wonder?” he murmured, tapping the dagger’s pommel agaisnt the map. Right over Berk. Again.
Hiccup’s breath caught—just for a fraction of a second—before he forced his shoulders into a shrug. “Stolen goods,” he said, keeping his voice deliberately bored. “Found it in a rider’s saddlebag after a raid. Figured it was worth keeping.” He tilted his head toward the blade, careful to keep his gaze just slightly unfocused, like Harvard would—a man who saw weapons as tools, not keepsakes.
Viggo’s fingers tilled on the dagger. “How interesting,” he murmured, turning the blade so the firelight licked along the edge. “Because Ryker’s men reported this was pried from the hands of a rider who fought like a cornered dragon.” His thumb brushed the worn leather of the grip—the same place Hiccup’s fingers had molded it over years of use. “Yet you didn’t mention that part.”
Astrid’s knuckles turned white around her axe handle. The firelight flickered across her face, casting sharp shadows that made her expression unreadable—except for the way her jaw flexed, one, twice, like she was chewing htrough steel. “Bullshit,” she said finally, voice low and frayed at the edges. “Hiccup wouldn’t—” She stopped, inhaled sharply through her nose, and yanked her axe from the ground. “Prove it.”
Heather didn’t flinch. She’d expected this—prepared for it. She reached into her belt pouch and tossed a small, twisted scrap of metal onto the ground between them. It landed with a dull clink: the remains of Hiccup’s tailfin pin, the one Astrid had forged for him years ago, now bent and blackened as if ripped free in a struggle. Fishlegs made a wounded noise in his throat.
Astrid’s fingers hovered over the mangled pin, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The firelight made the charred metal gleam like a wound. “No,” she whispered, but her hand curled into a fist around it anyway. Heather watched the denial flicker and die in Astrid’s eyes—replaced by something colder, sharper. Something dangerous.
Fishlegs shoved to his feet, knocking over his stool. “There’s no way Hiccup would just—just leave us like that!” His voice cracked, high and desperate. He whirled on Heather. “You’re lying! He wouldn’t—”
The firelight danced across Fishlegs’ face, highlighting the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes. Heather watched his hands tremble—the scholar who always had an answer, now wordless with betrayal.
“He did,” Heather said, softer this time. She reached into her tunic and pulled out a folded piece of parchment—the edges singed, the wax seal broken. Seh didn’t mention the faint rust-colored smears along the creases. “Ryker’s orders. Hiccup’s signature.” She held it ut, watching Astrid’s fingers twitch. “He knew what he was doing.”
Snotlout was the first to break—which surprised Heather more than anything else. His face crumpled like parchment in a fist, and he lunged forward, grabbing her shoulders with hands that shook. “What did he say to you?” His voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Did he—did he even care?” Tears streaked down his cheeks, catching in the firelight like molten copper.
Tuffnut and Ruffnut crowded in behind him, their usual chaotic energy replaced by something brittle and sharp. Ruffnut’s fingers dug into Heather’s wrist hard enough to bruise. “Tell us,” she hissed, voice wobbling. “Every damn word.” Tuffnut just stared, uncharacteristically silent, his jaw clenched so tight Heather could see the muscle twitching.
Astrid snatched the parchment from Heather’s hand, her fingers trembling as she unfolded it. The firelight caught on Hiccup’s jagged signature—too precise, too controlled, nothing like his usual messy scrawl. Beneath it, Ryker’s seal glared up at them, a dragon’s skull stamped in blood-red wax. Astrid’s breath hitched. “This isn’t—” She stopped, swallowed hard, then tried again. “He wouldn’t just sign something like this. Not unless—”
Fishlegs grabbed the parchment, his eyes darting across the lines. “Unless they made him,” he finished hoarsely. His thumb brushed over a smudged word near the bottom—alive. The ink was blurred, as if something wet had dripped onto it.
Astrid’s hand shot out, grabbing Fishlegs’ wrsit hard enough to make him wince. “Read it again,” she demanded, her voice like flint striking steel. “Slowly.”
Fishelgs swallowed audibly, his fingers trembling as he smoothed the crumpled parchment against his thigh. The firelight flickered, casting jagged shadows across the inked words. “By order of Ryker Grimborn,” he recided, voice cracking, “all dragon riders are hereby declared enemies of the—” He stopped abruptly, his breath hitching.
“—enemies of the Dragon Hunters,” Heather finished, her voice flat as a whetstone. Seh didn’t blink, didn’t flinch—just let the lie hang there like a noose. Fishlegs’ fingers crumpled the parchment’s edge, his face draining of color. The twins exchanged a look Heather couldn’t decipher—something raw and jagged beneath their usual chaos.
Astrid’s axe was in her hands before Heather could blink, the blade hovering inches from Heather’s throat. Firelight licked the steel, casting dancing shadows across Astrid’s clenched jaw. “You’re lying,” Astrid whispered, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. The axe tip dipped—just slightly—befoe she steadied it. “Hiccup wouldn’t. Not like this.”
Heather didn’t flinch from the axe’s edge. “Well,” she said, voice colder than the fjords in deep winter, “Hiccup did do it like this.” She tapped the parchment still clutched in Fishlegs’ shaking hands. “His signature. Hsi knife handed over. His choices.” The last word cracked like ice underfoot.
Astrid’s grip on her axe tightened until the leather wrapping creaked. “You’re wrong.” Her voice was barely audible.
The dragon figurine rolled slightly under Hiccup’s fingertip—Viggo’s fingers had left it tilted, unbalanced. Just like this conversation. Hiccup resisted the urge to right it. Havard wouldn’t care about symmetry.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Viggo murmured, spinning Hiccup’s dagger between his fingers with lazy precision. The firelight caught the notches in the blade—the onces Hiccup had put there defending Toothless from a Trapper’s net two winters ago. “What else have you learned, Havard?”
The dagger in Viggo’s hand spun once more before stopping abruptly, its tip pointing directly at Hiccup’s chest. Hiccup didn’t move, didn’t breathe—just let his gaze linger on the blade with the detached intrest of a man who’d seen better steel. Inside, his pulse roared in his ears.
“Learned that hunters talked too much,” Hiccup grunted, forcing Havard’s rasp deeper. He leaned back on his heels, deliberately breaking the tension. And that Ryker pays double for live Furies.“ He jerked his chin toward the map where he’d marked the false trail. ”Your brother’s got a temper, but he’s not stupid. Figured I’d rather work for the one who thinks before he swings.“
Viggo’s finers tilled on the dagger’s hilt. The firelight deepened the hollows of his face, turning his smile into something skeletal. “How remarkably pragmatic of you,” he murmured, His thumb traced the worn leather grip—Hiccup’s thumb had worn that same groove over years of flight. “Tell me, Havard… does Ryker know you’re this clever?”
Hiccup forced a shrug, his shoulder muscles tight as bowstrings. “Clever’s bad for business in the markets. Gets you knifed.” He let his gaze flick to the dagger—casual, disinterested—before returning to the map. “Ryker pays for results, not chatter.”
Viggo chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that set Hiccup’s teeth on edge—and finally set the dagger down. The blade landed with a soft click against the map, its point skewering to inked outline of Dragon’s Edge. “How fortunate for me,” he mused, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. The firelight carved shadows between his knuckles. “Ryker’s never appreciated… nuance.”
Hiccup kept his breathing even, his fingers loose at his sides. He’d seen this gambit before—Viggo offering just enough rope to see if you’d hang yourself with it. He scratched idly at his jaw, letting Havard’s rough nails catch on the fake scar Heather had helped him pain that morning. “Nuance doesn’t fill cages,” he muttered, deliberately coarse.
The dagger’s point quivered slightly where it pierced Dragon’s Edge—a deliberate tremor, like a spider testing its web. Hiccup watched it instead of Viggo’s face. A hunter would stare at the blade, not the man. A smart hunter would watch both.
“Ryker fills cages,” Viggo murmured, leaning forward until his shadow swallowed the map. Hsi breath smelled of ironweed tea—bitter, medicinal. “I fill minds.” He tapped the dragonfigurine still lying crooked near Berk. “Tell me, Havard… what do you think of our little game?”
The dragon figurine’s carved wings cast jagged shadows across the map—Hiccup counted them like a prisoner marking days. Eleven. Always eleven. Viggo knew. He had to. The way his fingers lingered near the dagger’s hilt, the way his gaze flicked to Hiccup’s left shoulder where Toothless’ claws had once torn through his tunic in a botched landing. Details no market smuggler would notice. Details Viggo shouldn’t know.
“Game’s rigged,” Hiccup muttered, scratching at his fake scar. The paint was starting to itch. “Hunters win. Dragons lose. Only question’s how long it takes.” He nudged the figurine with his boot—too hard, too careless. Havard wouldn’t treat Viggo’s toys with care. The wooden dragon toppled, rolling off the map’s edge.
The figurine hit the packed earth floor with a dull thud. Viggo didn’t blink. The fire popped between them, casting embers that died before they reached the ground. Eleven shadows flickered across the map—always eleven. Hiccup counted them again.
“You’ve got a tell,” Viggo said suddenly, tapping the side of his nose. His voice was light, conversational, like discussing the weather. “Every time you lie, you scratch that scar.” He leaned forward, the dagger still pinning Dragon’s Edge to the table. “Funny thing about scars—real ones don’t itch.”
The firelight in Ryker’s war tent guttered suddenly as a gust of wind slipped through the seams, casting jagged shadows taht made Viggo’s smile look like a knife wound. Hiccup kept his hand frozen near his jaw—halfway through scratching the fake scar—then forced it to drop casually to his side. His fingers brushed the hunter’s dagger at his belt, its unfamiliar weight a constant reminder of the role he had to play.
“Northern winters leave marks that never heal right,” Hiccup said, letting Havard’s voice roughen with something like nostalgia. He nudged the fallen dragon figurine with his boot againm sending it skiittering father into the shadows. “Ask Ryker. He’s got a claw mark from a Monstrous Nightmare that still bleeds when it storms.”
Viggo’s fingers stilled on the map, tracing an idle circle around Berk. “You know, Hiccup,” he said, voice smooth as oiled leather, “most men would flinch when you call them by the wrong name.”
Hiccup’s breath locked in his chest. His fingers, which had been toying with the edge of the map, froze mid-motion. The tent’s air thickened, every sound sharpening—the crackle of the fire, the distant shouts of hunters outside, the slow, deliberate scrape of Viggo’s daggera s he dragged it across the parchment.
The dagger’s tip carved a slow, deliberate line across Dragon’s Edge—Hiccup could almost har the parchment screaming. Viggo’s fingers curled around the hilt with the ease of a man who’d done this a thousand times before.
“Most men,” Viggo continued, voice dripping like honey from a poisoned comb, “would correct me. Tell me they’e Havard, not Hiccup. But you…” His smile widened, revealing teeth too white, too sharp. “You didn’t even blink.”
Hiccup’s pulse roared in his ears—a deafening rush of blood that drowned out the crackling fire, the distant shouts of hunters, even the whisper of his own breath. His fingers twitched toward his belt where his dagger should have been, but his hand closed around the unfamiliar hunter’s blade instead. Too heavy. Too blunt. Wrong.
Viggo’s smile didn’t waver. He leaned back in his chair, the dagger still pinning Dragon’s Edge to the table. “Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he murmured, plucking the dragon fifurine from the floor and setting it upright with exaggerated care. “You left breadcrumbs, Hiccup. I merely followed them.”
Hiccup exhaled—slow, deliberate—like letting air out of a punctured waterskin. His fingers uncurled from the hunter’s dagger. “And here I thought I was being subtle,” he said, voice stripped of Havard’s rasp. The change was instantaneous—shoulders straightening, chin lifting—like shedding a second skin.
Viggo’s smile sharpened. “Oh, you were,” he conceded, flicking the dragon figurine with his thumbnail. It spun in place before toppling. “But subtlety is my trade, Hiccup. You left cracks in your performance. That scar, for one—you kept touching it like it pained you.” His gaze flicked to Hiccup’s left shoulder. “Real scars don’t itch. They remember.”
The fire spat another ember onto the map—right where Viggo’s dagger had gouged through the parchment—and Hiccup watched it smolder for a heartbeat before grinding it out with his boot heel. The smell of charred vellum filled the tent, sharp and acrid. “Fine,” he said, lifting his chin. “You caught me.” His fingers flexed at his sides, aching for the weight of his own blade. “Now what?”
Viggo chuckled, the sound rich and warm like he’d just heard an excellent joke. He steepled his fingers beneath his chin, studying Hiccup with the pleased intensity of a chess master who’d just checkmated his oppenent. “Now?” He tilted his head. “Now we talk, Hiccup. Like civilized men.” He nudged the toppled dragon figurine with one finger—deliberately careless. “Tell me, what did you hope to accomplish here? Aside from getting yourself killed, of course.”
Heather’s fingers tightened around the edge of her cloak as Astrid’s axe clattered to the ground. The firelight caught the horror dawning in Astrid’s widened eyes—a slow, spreading realization like ice cracking underfoot.
“He wouldn’t,” Astrid whispered again, but this time it sounded like she was trying to convince herself. Her fingers trembled where they hovered over the mangled tailifn pin—the one she’d forged for Hiccup in the dead of winter three years ago, when his hands were too numb from cold to do it himself.
Astrid’s fingers closed around the twisted metal pin with a sudden, jerky motion—like she couldn’t decide whether to crush it or cradle it. The firelight caught the fresh scrape along her knuckles where she’s bitten her own skin. “This proves nothing,” she hissed, but her voice lacked its usual edge. It sounded hollow, like an echo in a cavern.
Fishlegs made a strangled noise behind her. He was saring at the parchment with an expression Heather had never seen before—something between heartbreak and calculation. His fingers traced the blurred word at the bottom again. “Alive,” he whispered. “He wrote that differently. The ‘A’ is all wrong—it’s got that little hook he always—” His breath hitched. “Oh gods. It’s a message.”
Heather froze—not because of Astrid’s white-knuckled grip on the tailfin pin, nor Fishlegs’ whispered realization about the hooked ‘A’. She froze because the parchment in Fishlegs’ trembling hands wasn’t Hiccup’s handwriting at all.
The realization hit her like a kick to the ribs: the loops were too precise, the spacing too even. Hiccup wrote like a left-handed man who’d been forced to learn right—his letters always slanted slightly, smudged at the edges from dragging his wrist across fresh ink. This was pristine. Controlled.
Heather snatched the parchmetn from Fishlegs’ hands so fast the paper tore. The riders flinched—all except Astrid, who lunged forward with a snarl, her fingers clamping around Heather’s wrist like iron manacles. “What are you—”
“Shut up and listen,” Heather hissed, twisting free. She thrust the torn parchment into the firelight, pointing at the hooked ‘A’ with a shaking finger. “This isn’t his writing.” Her voice cracked like thin ice. “Hiccup couldn’t forge his way out of a wet paper bag—you think he could fake this clean of a signature? Look at the spacing!” She jabbed at the letters, her nail leaving crescent moons in the parchment. “Ryker made him sign it. Probably had a knife to his throat.”
The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks spiraling upward as Heather pressed the parchment closer to Astrid’s face. “See this?” Her finger stabbed at the looping ‘H’ in Hiccup’s name. “Too smooth. Too practiced. Hiccup writes like he’s fighting the paper—this looks like it was copied by someone who’s watched him for years.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, venomous. “Someone like Viggo.”
Fishlegs made a stangled noise, his fingers twitching toward the parchment like he wanted to snatch it back. “That’s—that’s impossible. Forgery that precise would take—”
“—weeks of study,” Heather finished grimly. She turned the parchment over, revealing the smudged wax seal where Ryker’s mark had been hastily pressed. “But Viggo’s had months. Years, even.” Her thumb brushed the rust-colored smear along the edge—too dark to be ink. “He’s been collecting Hiccup’s notes. Letters. Maps. Probably had a scribe practicing his hand until it was perfect.”
Astrid’s breath hitched audibly. She snatched the parchment back, her eyes scanning the lines with frantic intensity. The firelight caught the way her pupils dilated—panic and fury warring behind them. “Then why—” Her voice cracked. “Why stage this? Why make us think Hiccup betrayed us?”
Heather’s fingers curled into fists. The firelight flickered across her face, casting shadows that made her expression unradable—except for the tightness around her eyes, the slight tremor in her jaw. “Because,” she said slowly, “Hiccup knew Viggo would catch him.” She swallowed hard, like the words were cutting her throat on the way out. “He planned for it.”
Astrid recoiled as if struck. The parchment crumpled in her grip. “That’s insande,” she breathed, but Heather could see the moment the pieces clicked—Astrid’s sharp inhale, the way her finges spasmed around the torn paper. “Oh gods. He’s bait.”
The dragon figurine lay sideways on the map, its carved wings casting jagged shadows across Berk—eleven shadows, Hiccup counted again. Always eleven. Viggo’s fingers drummed a slow rhythm against the tabletop, each tap landing precisely between Hiccup’s measured breaths.
“You’re wondering how I knew,” Viggo mused, flipping Hiccup’s dagger into the air and catching it by the blade. The firelight licked along the edge, highlighting the notch where Toothless had once bitten the steel. “Was it the scar? The way you touched your shoulder when Ryker mentioned Night Furies?” He leaned forward, the dagger’s tip tracing an idle circle around Hiccup’s throat on the map. “Or perhaps it was the way you didn’t react when I called you by your real name.”
Hiccup exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate—the way he’d taught himself to breathe when Toothless stalled midair and the ground rushed up to meet them. His fingers twitched toward his belt again, but this time he didn’t reach for the hunter’s blade. Instead, he let his hand drop loosely to his side, fingers uncurling. “’You left out the part where I dramatically rip off my disguise,” he said, voice dry as tinder. “I’m a little disappointed, honestly.”
Viggo laughed—a genuine, rolling sound that made Hiccup’s skin crawl. He tossed the dagger onto the table between them, blade quivering as it stuck point-first into the wood. “Oh, I do enjoy you,” he murmured, steepling his fingers. “Most men beg at this point. Or bluster. You?” His smile widened. “You make jokes.”
The dagger vibrated between them like a living thing, its hilt casting a long, wavering shadow that split the map in two. Hiccup watched it instead of Viggo’s face—a hunter would stare at the blade, not the man. A smart hunter would count the seconds between each wobble.
“Begging’s bad for business,” Hiccup said, scratching idly at his fake scar. The paint had started to flake. “And bluster gets you knifed.” He nudged the dragon figurine with his boot, sending it rolling toward Viggo’s side of the table. “Figured I’d skip to the part where you tell me what you actually want.”
The fire cracklec between them, casting Viggo’s shadow large against the tent wall—a looming specter with fingers steepled like a spider’s legs. “What I want?” Viggo mused, tapping the dagger’s hilt with one nail. “Oh, Hiccup. I want what you’ve always wanted.” His smile curled at the edges, slow and deliberate. “Peace.”
Hiccup’s fingers twitched. Havard wouldn’t react to that word—but Hiccup did. Viggo’s grin widened, teeth glinting in the firelight. “Ah. There it is.” He leaned forward, the map crinkling under his elbows. “You see, I’ve studied your little alliance with the dragons. Fascinating, really. But unsustainable.” His thumb brushed the notch in the dagger’s blade. “You can’t outrun hunters forever.”
The dagger’s shadow trembled between them—three wobbles before settling. Hiccup counted them like heartbeats. “Peace,” he repeated, tasting the word like unfamiliar ale. Too sweet. Too bitter. “Your version of peace looks a lot like slaughterhouses and iron cages.”
Viggo chuckled, plucking the dagger free with a flick of his wrist. “And yours looks like starvation and stolen moments.” He traced the blade’s tip along the map’s inked coastline—slow, deliberate—stopping just shy of Dragon’s Edge. “Tell me, how many dragons have you lost this winter? How many fled south when the fish ran thin?” His smile was a blade of its own. “You can’t feed them, Hiccup. But I can.”
Astrid’s boot kicked the table—firelight catching the panic in her widened pupils. Heather watched her hands shake where they clutched the crumpled parchment, the torn edges fluttering like wounded wings.
“He planned this?” Astrid’s voice splintered on the last word. She whirled toward the twins, who stood frozen in uncharacteristic silence. “Saddle the dragons. Now.”
The twins didn’t move—just stood there blinking like startled owls caught in torchlight. Ruffnut was the first to break the silence with a sharp jab to Tuffnut’s ribs. “Did she just give us an order?”
Astrid’s axe was back in her hands before Ruffnut finished speaking, the blade flashing as she spun it in a tight, controlled arc. The movement wasn’t threatening—just restless. The way Toothless’ tail twitched before a dive. “Heather,” Astrid said, too calmly, “tell me exactly where they’re keeping him.”
The firelight caught the whites of Astrid’s eyes as she leaned forward—something feral in the way her fingers flexed around her axe handle. Heather hesitated for half a heartbeat before dragging her dagger across the drit floor, sketching Ryker’s war camp layout with quick, jagged strokes. “Main tent’s here,” she muttered, jabbing at the central circle. “Guards change at moonset. But Viggo—”
Her blade snapped against a rock mid-stroke. Heather exhaled sharply through her nose. “Viggo doesn’t follow schedules.”
The dragon figurine rolled off the map’s edge again—this time deliberately kicked by Viggo’s boot. It clattered against Hiccup’s foot, a silent dare. Eleven shadows flickered between them in the firelight. Always eleven.
“You’re wondering why I haven’t killed you yet,” Viggo murmured, tracing the dagger’s edge along his own palm without breaking skin. The motion was practiced—theatrical. “Or perhaps you’ve already guessed.” His smile widened as Hiccup’s gaze flicked to the tent flap where Ryker’s shadow loomed. “Ah. There it is. You think this is about him.”
Hiccup watched Viggo’s fingers hover over the dagger’s hilt—too close to be casual, too far to be a threat. The firelight caught the silver band on Viggo’s ring finger, the one engraved with interlocking dragon wings. A gift, Hiccup realized abruptly. From Ryker. The realization slithered down his spine like ice water.
“You’re not going to kill me,” Hiccup said, voice steadier than he felt. He nudged the fallen dragon figurine with his toe, sending it skittering toward Viggo’s boots. “Because dead men can’t play games.”
The dagger quivered between them, its point embedded in the map where Dragon’s Edge should have been. Viggo’s fingers hovered above the hilt, twitching like spider legs testing silk. “Dead men,: he murmured, ”make excellent pawns.“ His thumb brushed the dragon-wing engraving on his ring—a slow, deliberate stroke. ”But you’re right. I’d much prefer you… animated.“
Hiccup forced himself to breathe evenly, counting the notches on the dagger’s blade—eighteen, one for each dragon he’d freed from Ryker’s cages last winter. The firelight made the shadows dance across Viggo’s face, twisting his smile into something grotesque. “So what’s the move, then?” Hiccup asked, rolling his shoulders in a show of nonchalance. “Torture? Threats? Or are we skipping straight to the part where you monologue about your master plan?”
The dagger’s shadow flickered across Viggo’s throat—a deliberate motion, like a snake testing the air. His fingers curled around the hilt without lifting it, his thumb tracing the notch Toothless had left in the steel. “Torture is so unimaginative,” he murmured. “And threats? They lose their savor when your prey already knows they’re caught.” His smile widened, slow as a glacier carving stone. “No, Hiccup. I want something far more interesting from you.”
Hiccup’s pulse throbbed in his temples, but he kept his breathing steady—the way he did when Toothless stalled midair and the ground rushed up to meet them. Count the seconds. Watch the blade. Don’t blink. “And what’s that?”
Viggo’s fingers closed around the dagger hilt at last, lifting it in a slow, ceremonial arc. The firelight licked along the blade’s edge—Hiccup’s blade, the one Toothless had once pinned against a tree during their first disastrous flight attempt. The notch in the steel gleamed like a winking eye.
“Conviction,” Viggo said softly. He tilted the dagger, letting shadows pool in its hollows. “You see, Hiccup, men will die for many things—gold, pride, fear.” The blade tip traced an idle cirlce above the map’s inked archipelago. “But only the rarest will die for an idea.” His gaze flicked up, sudden as a striking serpent. “You’re here because you believe dragons deserve freedom. I want to know why.”
The dagger’s edge glinted inches from Hiccup’s throat—close enough that he could see the microscopic fractures in the steel where Toothless had once clamped down mid-tumble. Viggo’s hand didn’t tremble. Neither did Hiccup’s voice when he finally spoke. “You first.”
Viggo’s eyebrow arched, the firelight carving shadows beneath his brow. “Oh?”
“Tell me why a man who collects dragon skulls like trophies suddenly cares about their freedom.” Hiccup leaned forward deliberately, letting the blade kiss his Adam’s apple. A hunter would flinch. Havard wouldn’t. “Unless this is another game.”
The dagger withdrew with a whisper of steel. Viggo flipped it casually, catching it by the blade to offer Hiccup the hilt—a move so calculated it made Hiccup’s teeth ache. “Games require two players, Hiccup. You’ve been moving pieces against yourself.” He tapped the map where Ryker’s war camp was inked. “My brother thinks you’re here to spy. My hunters think you’re Havard the smuggler.” His thumb brushed the dragon figurine’s wing. “But you? You’re playing a third game entirely.”
Outside, a dragon screeched—the raw, metallic sound of a Monstrous Nightmare in chains. Hiccup’s fingers twitched. Viggo smiled. “Ah. There it is.” He nudged the figurine toward Hiccup. “Every time you hear them, you count. How many cages, how many guards. You can’t help it.” His voice dropped, conspiratirial. “Neither can I.”
Heather’s fingers dug into her cloak as Astrid paced like a caged Thunderdrum, her bootsteps kicking up puffs of dirt that caught the firelight. The twins had finally saddled theri dragons, but Fishlegs stood frozen, staring at the torn parchment like it might rearrange itself into a different truth.
“He knew,” Fishlegs whispered suddenly, his voice cracking. His fingers traced the hooked ‘A’ again—the one Hiccup always used in secret messages. “He knew Viggo would catch him. That’s why he left this.” He looked up, eyes wide. “He’s counting on us to—”
Astrid’s axe thudded into the dirt between them before Fishlegs could finish. “Then we don’t disappoint him,” she said, voice low and rough as she yanked the blade free. Firelight glinted off the freshly sharpened edge—the same edge she’d honed for three hours straight after Heather first delivered Hiccup’s “betrayal.” Now it trembled slightyly in her grip, betraying the storm beneath her calm.
Heather watched Astrid’s knuckled whiten around the axe handle. She’d seen that look before—on Hiccup’s face when he’d shoved Toothless’ saddle into her hands the night he left for Ryker’s camp. The same desperate, furious certainty. “Astrid,” Heather began, reaching for her wrist, “if we charge in there—”
The tent flap snapped open without warning, sending a gust of wind that made the firelight gutter violently. Ryker’s silhouette filled the entrance, his axe already drawn. Hiccup didn’t flinch—Havard wouldn’t—but his fingers curled instinctively around the hunter’s dagger at his belt. Too heavy. Wrong.
“Well?” Ryker growled, stepping forward until his shadow swalloed the map whole. His gaze flicked between Viggo’s relaxed posture and Hiccup’s deliberately slouched form. “You done playing with your food?”
Viggo’s fingers didn’t pause as they traced the dragon figurine’s wings—eleven shadows, always eleven—but his smile gained a new enge when Ryker’s axehead caught the firelight. “Brother,” he chided lightly, “you’re interrupting our guest’s epiphany.” His boot nudged the fallen dragon carving toward Hiccup’s foot. “He was just realizing how very outnumbered he is.”
Hiccup kept his breathing even—three counts in, four counts out—the rhythm Toothless used when calming panicked hatchlings. His fingers itched for the familiar weight of his own dagger, but he forced them to relax around the hunter’s blade instead. Too blunt. Too balanced for throwing. Wrong. “Outnumbered implies I came here alone,” he said, scratching his fake scar with deliberate clumsiness. Havard wouldn’t notice Viggo’s tell.
The dragon figurine skittered across the dirt floor as Ryker’s boot connected with the table—firelight catching the way Hiccup deliberately didn’t flinch when splinters sprayed his forearms. Viggo sighed like a tutor disappointed by a dull student, plucking the carved dragon from the ground with fastidious fingers.
“Brother,” Viggo murmured, rotating the figurine to examine its chipped wing, “you’re missing the aristry here.” His thumb brushed the notch in Hiccup’s discarded dagger—the one matching Toothless’ bite. “Our guest didn’t come for spies or sabotage.” He smiled at Hiccup over the blade. “He came to be caught.”
The dagger’s shadow trembled across Ryker’s throat like a noose tightening. Hiccup watched the way Viggo’s fingers curled around the hilt—too loose for a strike, too deliberate for idleness. A chess move, not a killing blow.
“You’re joking,” Ryker said flatly. His axe twitched toward Hiccup, the blade catching firelight in jagged streaks. “He walked into our camp wanting to get caught?”
Hiccup exhaled through his nose—slow, deliberate—the way Toothless did when testing unfamiliar winds. “Depends,” he said, tilting his head toward Viggo without breaking Ryker’s glare. “Is your brother ever not joking?”
The axe twitched again. Ryker’s knuckled whitened around the haft. “You think this is funny?”
The dagger’s edge flashed as Viggo spun it lazily between his fingers—once, twice—before letting it clatter onto the table between them. “Oh, I think it’s hilarious,” he murmured, his gaze never leaving Hiccup’s face. “You see, brother, our young heir here didn’t just walk into our camp. He marched in wearing Havard’s face like a child’s festival mask.” His boot nudged the dragon figurine upright with mocking precision. “And the punchline? He knew we’d see through it.”
Hiccup’s fingers twitched toward his missing blade—an old habit, one he couldn’t quite suppress. The movement was slight, but Viggo’s smile sharpened like a whetstone on steel. “Ah,” he breathed, delighted. “There’s the tell. You always reach for that dagger when you’re lying.” He leaned forward, the firelight carving shadows beneath his cheekbones. “Tell me, Hiccup—did you really think we wouldn’t recognize Toothless’ bite marks?”
The dagger’s edge flashed as Viggo twisted it between his fingers—once, twice—before letting it clatter onto the table between them. Hiccup watched the blade wobble, counting the rotations. Three. Always three.
Ryker’s shadow loomed larger as he stepped forward, his boot crushing the dragon figurine into the dirt. “Enough games,” he growled, axe twitching toward Hiccup’s throat. “If he wanted to get caught, let’s give him what he came for.”
The dagger spun one final time before clattering to a stop—blade pointiing directly at Hiccup’s throat on the map. Ryker’s knuckles cracked around his axe haft, but Viggo merely sighed, plucking the blade up by its tip. “Patience, brother. Our guest hasn’t finished his performance.” His thumb brushed the notch in the steel—deliberately slow—before flipping it hilt-first toward Hiccup. “Catch.”
Hiccup snatched the dagger midair without thinking—left-handed, the way Astrid had taught him after his right shoulder was dislocated during a storm. The movement was too fluid, too instinctive. Ryker’s axe twitched. Viggo’s smile widened.
Hiccup’s fingers closed around the dagger’s hilt—too late to pretend he couldn’t catch it, too late to hide the way his thumb instinctively found the worn groove where Toothless’ teeth had left their mark. The firelight caught Ryker’s widening eyes, the sudden tension in his axe arm.
“Left-handed,” Ryker breathed, like he’d just solved a riddle. His boot ground the shattered dragon figurine into the dirt. “Havard was right-handed.”
Ryker’s axe swung before Hiccup could breathe—steel flashing toward his neck with the brutal effciency of a headsman’s strike. Hiccup twisted left, instinctively raising the dagger in a desperate parry that sent sparks skittering across the tent as the axehead glanced off the blade. His shoulder screamed at the impact, but he barely registered the pain. Viggo hadn’t moved, still lounging in his chair with that infuriating half-smile, fingers steepled as if watching a mildly interesting play.
Hiccup’s rings burned where Ryker’s axe had grazed him, the scent of charred leather and sweat thick in the tent’s stale air. He barely had time to register the pain before an arm hooked around his throat from behind—not choking, just restraining. The sudden warmth at his back made his skin crawl.
“Careful, brother,” Viggo murmured, his breath disturbingly even against Hiccup’s ear. The dagger Hiccup still sclutched trembled in his grip as Viggo’s other hand closed over his wrist, guiding the blade away from Ryker with infuriating gentleness. “Our guests are arriving.”
Hiccup’s pulse hammered against Viggo’s forearm where it pressed against his throat—too fast to feign calm, too steady to be pure panic. He counted the breaths whistling past his ear. Five. Six. Ryker’s axe hovered inches from his face, trembling with barely leashed violence. The blade’s edge reflected twin points of firelight whee Hiccup’s eyes should be.
“Guests?” Ryker spat, knuckles whitening around the axe haft. His gaze flicked to the tent flap, where distant shouts and the unmistakable shriek of a Monstrous Nightmare echoed through the camp. “You knew they were coming?”
The dagger’s point dug into Hiccup’s palm where Viggo’s grip tightened—not enough to break skin, just enough to remind him who held the blade now. Outside, the camp erupted into chaos—dragon screeches mingling witht eh metallic clang of swords, but Viggo’s breath remained steady against Hiccup’s temple. “Of course I knew,” Viggo murmured, so close Hiccup could smell the iron-gall ink on his fingers. “You left breadcrumbs. Eleven, wasn’t it?”
Hiccup’s stomach dropped, The hooked ‘A’ in the forged letter—the exact number of strokes he’d taugh Fishlegs to count in emergencies.
Hiccup’s breath hitched—eleven strokes in the forged signature, eleven shadows cast by the dragon figurine. Viggo’s thumb pressed harder against his pulse point as if counting each frantic beat. The dagger twisted in Hiccup’s grip, its blade catching the firelight just as the tent flap whipped open, revealing Astrid silhouetted against the chaos outside, her axe already mid-swing.
Ryker barely raised his own weapon in time to block the blow. The impact sent him staggering back into the map table, scattering carved figurines like wounded dragons. Astrid didn’t pause—she pivoted on her heel, her boot crushing a wooden Nightmare underfoot as she lunged for Viggo.
“FREEZE!” Heather’s voice cracked through the tent like a whip, sharp enough to make Astrid’s axe halt mid-swing. The blade hovered inches from Viggo’s throat—close enough that Hiccup could see his own reflection in the polished steel. Astrid’s eyes flicked to Heather, her nostrils flaring with unchecked fury, but Heather wasn’t looking at her. She was staring at the space just behind Hiccup’s left ear, where Viggo’s forearm pressed against his windpipe with casual precision.
Astrid’s gaze dropped. Saw. Understood.
The dagger’s edge kissed Hiccup’s pulse point—not deep enough to draw blood, just enough to feel the steel’s bite. Viggo’s breath against his ear was warm, amused. “Ah,” he murmured, watching Astrid’s axe tremble midair. “And here I thought you’d bring the Night Fury.”
Astrid’s knucked whitened around her axe handle. “Funny,” she spat, her gaze locked on the blade at Hiccup’s throat. “I thought you’d be taller.”
The dagger’s edge pressed cold against Hiccup’s throat as Viggo chuckled—a sound like ice cracking over dark water. “Height is relative, my dear,” he mused, twisting the blade just enough to make Hiccup’s breath hitch. “Much like loyalty.” His free hand gestured toward the scattered dragon figurines, their broken wings catching firelight. “Tell me, Astrid—how many of your flock will break formation to save their shepherd?”
Outside, a Monstrous Nightmare shrieked—too close. The tent flap billowed with the heat of its flames, revealing flashes of Fishlegs wrestling a hunter off Meatlug’s saddle while the twins dove through chaos on Barf-and-Belch. Heather’s boot crunched over shattered wood as she edged left, her own dagger drawn but held low. Calculating.
The dagger’s edge bit deeper—not enough to draw blood, just enough to make Hiccup swallow hard against the steel. Astrid’s gaze flicked to the movement, her fingers tightening around her axe handle. Heather saw the exact moment Astrid registered the notch in the blade—the one Toothless had left during their first disastrous flight.
“Drop it,” Astrid growled, shifting her weight onto her back foot—the stance she used right before lunging.
Heather’s dagger twitched—not toward Viggo, but sideways, catching Astrid’s peripheral vision like a flare. “Wait,” she hissed, low enough that only Astrid and Hiccup would hear. Her eyes flicked to Viggo’s face, then back, sharp with silent calculation. “Let him talk.”
Astrid’s axe didn’t waver. “Like hel I will—”
The dagger’s edge trembled against Hiccup’s throat—not from Viggo’s hand, but from the distant impact of a Monstrous Nightmare slamming into the outer palisade. The tent shuddered, sending shadows leaping like panicked dragons. Astrid didn’t flinch. Her axe remained steady, its edge reflecting the wildfire in her pupils.
Viggo’s sigh brushed Hiccup’s ear—warm, theatrical. “Really, Astrid. Must we do this now? The theatrics are so… predictable.” His fingers flexed around the dagger hilt, the motion casual as a chess player adjusting a pawn.
The dagger’s edge pressed deeper—Hiccup felt the skin break, a thin line of warmth trickling down his throat. Astrid’s eyes tracked the movement with predator intensity, her knuckled bone-white around the axe handle.
Heather’s boot scuffed against the dirt floor—deliberate. A signal. Hiccup’s fingers twitched in response, tapping twice against his thigh where only Heather could see. Her nostrils flared in silent acknowledgement. Viggo’s grip tightened infinitesimally—had he noticed?
The firelight caught the tremor in Astrid’s axe—not fear, but the kind of white-hot fury that made her grip shake. Hiccup watched her pupils dilate, tracking the blood beading along Viggo’s blade. His own fingers twitched again—three taps this time, the signal for distraction. Heather’s dagger hand flexed almost imperceptibly in response.
Viggo’s chuckle vibrated agaisnt Hiccup’s spine. “You’re counting,” he murmured, lips brushing Hiccup’s ear. “Fourteen seconds since the Monstrous Nightmare hit the palisade. Waiting for the next explosion?” His thumb pressed harder against Hiccup’s pulse. “Sloppy. You taught them to strike in odd-numbered intervals.”
Hiccup twisted sharply to the left—not enough to break Viggo’s hold, just enough to make the dagger bite deeper into his throat. A thin line of warmth trickled down his collarbone. Astrid’s eyes tracked the movement like a dragon sighting prey, her axe hand twitching toward a killing stroke. Heather’s boot scuffed dirt—don’t—but Hiccup had already shifted his weight onto his right foot, deliberately telegraphing his next move.
“Stop it,” Heather hissed through clenched teeth, her dagger angled low but ready. Her gaze flicked to the pulse jumping in Hiccup’s throat—not fear, but furious calculation. “You knew this would happen.”
The dagger’s edge bit deeper—a hot sting that made Hiccup’s breath hitch. Astrid’s axe twitched, but Heather’s hand shot out, gripping her forearm with enough force to leave bruises. “Wait,” Heather hissed, her voice razor-edged. “Let him talk.” Her gaze flicked to Viggo’s face, then down to Hiccup’s throat where blood welled around the blade. “You love hearing yourself speak, don’t you?”
Viggo’s chuckled vibrated against Hiccup’s spine. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he murmured, but his grip loosened—just enough to let Hiccup swallow. The blade stayed put. “Though I must say, you’re cutting into my dramatic reveal—”
Ryker groaned from the floor where Astrid’s elbow had sent him sprawling moments before. His fingers scrabbled for his axe, his face a mask of blood and dirt. Astrid didn’t wait for him to stand—she pivoted, her boot slamming down on his wrist with a crack that made even Fishlegs wince from the doorway. “Stay down,” she snarled, her axe hovering at Ryker’s throat.
Viggo sighed, long-suffering. “Must you interrupt, brother?” His fingers flexed around the dagger hilt—casual, almost bored—as Ryker spat curses through broken teeth. “Astrid, really. Must we resort to such… brutish methods?”
Hiccup jerked his elbow back sharply—just enough to make Viggo’s dagger nick his collarbone, sending a fresh rivulet of blood snaking beneath his tunic collar. Astrid’s pupils dilated at the movement, her knuckles blanching around her axe handle in silent fury.
Viggo’s breath hitched—not in pain, but in something dangerously close to amusement—as he tightened his grip, pressing the blade deeper into Hiccup’s throat. “My dear Hiccup,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Hiccup’s ear in a mockery of intamacy, “are you seriously trying to get yourself killed today?”
Hiccup exhaled sharply through his nose—three counts, the way Toothless did when calming hatchlings—as Viggo’s dagger pressed cold against his windpipe. The blade trembled with each breath, catching firelight in jagged streaks across Ryker’s furious face. Astrid’s boot ground Ryker’s wrist deeper into the dirt, her axe edge kissing his jugular with practiced precision. Heather’s dagger hadn’t moved, still angled low toward Viggo’s thigh where arteries pulsed close to the surface. The tent stank of sweat and iron.
“You’re stalling,” Hiccup rasped, deliberately flexing his throat against the blade. A fresh bead of blood welled up, tracing the line of his Adam’s apple. Viggo’s fingers twitched—not recoiling, but adjusting his grip like a sculptor perfecting a clay figure. “Waiting for my riders to walk into another trap?”
Viggo’s chuckle curled through the smoke-thick air, rich with amusement as the tent flap tore open behine Heather---revealing three hunters already lunging, their axes glinting like teeth in the firelight. Astrid spun toward the threat, her own blade flashing up to parry the first strike with a metallic screech that setn sparks cascading over the scattered dragon carvings. Heather ducked low, her dagger slicing across the second hunter’s thigh before he could complete his swing. Blood spattereed the dirt floor, dark as ink.
“Oh, this is delicious,” Viggo murmured against Hiccup’s ear, hsi breath warm where the dagger pressed cold. His thumb stroked Hiccup’s pulse point almost affectionately as chaos erupted around them—the third hunter stumbling over Ryker’s prone form, Fishlegs bellowing Meatlug’s name from outside, the distant shriek of a Gronckle in distress. “Watch closely, Hiccup. This is what happens when ideals meet reality.”
The tent flap ripped open with a metallic shriek as Snotlout barreled in, Hookfang’s tail spikes catching firelight like a dozen daggers. He skidded to a halt, his boots kicking up a spray of dirt that dusted Ryker’s snarling face. “Whoa—awkward timing!” Snotlout yelped, barely ducking as Astrid’s axe whirled past his ear to embed itself in a hunter’s shoulder.
Viggo’s grip on Hiccup tightened, the dagger’s edge biting deeper as he began dragging him backward toward a slit in the tent canvas—too deliberate to be an escape route, too hidden to be chance. Hiccup’s boots scrabbled against the dirt, his heels leaving twin furrows as he threw his weight sideways. The movement tore the blade across his throat in a hot stripe, but Viggo only laughed, low an delighted, as blood pattered onto the scattered dragon figurines.
Viggo’s lips brushed the shell of Hiccup’s ear—a mockery of intimacy as the dagger trembled against his throat. The scent of iron and smoke thickened between them. “Did you know,” Viggo murmured, his voice barely audible over the chaos erupting around them, “before I became chiefm I studied to be a healer?” His breath hitched with something dangerously close to nostalgia. “Twelve years old, stitching up hunter’s wounds with catgut in the torchlight. The blood never bothered me.”
Hiccup’s pulse stuttered against the blade—not from fear, but from the jarring wrongness of the confession. Viggo’s thumb traced the bleeding line on his throat with clinical precision. “You’re lying,” Hiccup rasped, feeling the blade shift with each syllable.
The dagger’s edge flickered in the firelight as Viggo exhaled—a slow, deliberate breath that stirred Hiccup’s hair, “Am I?” He turned the blade just enough to catch Astrid’s enraged reflection in the polished steel. “Tell me, Hiccup—when you stitch a wound, do you count the stitches?” His free hand gestured toward the tent flap where Fishlegs was wrestling a hunter off Meatlug’s back. “Odd numbers for veins, even for arteries. A healer’s trick.”
Astrid’s axe thudded into the dirt between them, quivering with the force of her throw. “Enough!” Her brain whipped as she lunged, but Heather was faster—her dagger arcing up to block Astrid’s path with a metallic screech.
The dagger’s tip traced a lazy circle against Hiccup’s jugular as Viggo exhaled—warm breath ghosting over the fresh blood welling along the blade’s path. “Eleven stitches,” he murmured, as casual as if discussing the weather. “That’s how many it took to close Ryker’s thigh after your Monstrous Nightmare got creative last winter.” His grip shifted, angling the steel to catch the firelight dancing in Astrid’s widened pupils. “Odd number. Lucky for him.”
Viggo’s fingers locked around Hiccup’s wrsit like iron manacles—the same grip Hiccup had once used to steady Toothless during a storm. The realization came a heartbeat too late. Firelight glinted off the dagger’s edge as Viggo drove it upward in one fluid motion, the blade sinking into the soft hollow beneath Hiccup’s jaw.
The pain came in delayed waves—first the cold kiss of steel, then the hot spill of blood down his collarbone, and finally the impossible pressure as Viggo twisted the blade sideways, stretching the wound open like a second mouth. Hiccup’s gasp lodged in his ruined throat, emerging as a wet, guttural sound that made Astrid freeze mid-lunge.
The world narrowed to the dagger’s slow twist—cold steel scraping bone as Viggo sighed against Hiccup’s temple. “Such a waste,” he murmured, fingers splayed across Hiccup’s shuddering chest like a lover’s caress. Blood welled between them, hot and insistent, soaking through leather and linen alike. Hiccup’s vision flickered—firelight danced across Viggo’s face in jagged streaks, casting his satisfied smile into something grotesque.
Astrid’s scream tore through the tent like a dragon’s death cry. She lunged, but Heather’s arms locked around her waist with desperate strength. “No!” Heather hissed, her dagger already flying toward Viggo’s exposed wrist. The blade grazed his sleeve before embedding itself in the tent post behind him—a distraction, nothing more.
The dagger slid free with a wet sound Hiccup felt more than heard—a sickening squelch that made Fishlegs retch into the dirt. Viggo stepped back, dragging Ryker’s limp form by the collar, his boots leaving dark smears across the scattered dragon carvings. “Do send my regards to Toothless,” he murmured, tossing Hiccup’s own blade into the dirt between them. It landed point-down, quivering like a compass needle seeking north.
Astrid’s axe hit the ground with a thud. She was on her knees before Hiccup’s body even crumpled, her hands pressing against the ruin of his throat as if she could stitch the wound shut by sheer will. Blood welled between her fingers, impossibly red in the firelight.
The ship’s hull scraped against the pyre’s edge with a sound like a dragon’s dying breath. Astrid’s fingers dug into the wood grain of the longship’s prow, her knuckles blanching against the dark stain of Hiccup’s blood still smeared across the carvings. The flames reflected in her unblinking stare made it look like her eyes were burning.
Stoick’s axe trembled in his grip—not from grief, but from the effort of not cleaving the ship in half whre it sat tethered to the dock. His beard caught sparks from the pyre, glowing embers nestiling in the gray like tiny, dying stars. Gobber’s prosthetic arm closed around his shoulder with a creak of leather and metal. “Not yet,” the blacksmith murmured, though his voice cracked like heated iron punged into water.
The twins stood unnaturally still for once, their usual manic energy replaced by something far worse—a synchronized tension that made their shoulders hunch identically. Ruffnut’s fingers kept twitching toward her belt knife, her gaze locked on the distant silhouette of Viggo’s retreating saild. Tuffnut’s lips moved silently, forming words too sharp to be a prayer.
Fishlegs’ hands shook as he adjusted Meatlug’s saddle straps, hsi fingers slipping twice on the buckles. The Gronckle whined low in her throat, nuzzling his shoulder with a force that nearly toppled him. He didn’t seem to notice.
Snotlout kicked a loose plank into the pyre, sending up a shower of sparks that illuminated the raw, red skin around his eyes. Hookfang’s tail lashed once, twice, before curling protectively around his rider’s legs. “Stupid,” Snotlout mutterd to the flames, his voice thick. “So damn stupid.”