Chapter Text
Chapter 1: The Feeding Frenzy
The northern markets did not belong to the civilized world. They existed in the jagged, frozen gray areas of the Archipelago, built on volcanic rock that bled sulfurous steam into the freezing air. It was a place of mud, rusted iron, and the sharp, copper stench of dragon blood. On a good day, it was a wretched hive of thieves and smugglers.
Tonight, it was a slaughterhouse.
Hiccup squeezed his eyes shut as another wave of dragon-root smoke rolled over him, thick and green and tasting like ash. His lungs burned. Every breath felt like inhaling ground glass. He pressed his face against the freezing mud, trying to find a pocket of clean air, but the chaos around him was suffocating.
The auction had completely dissolved. The moment Viggo Grimborn’s bounty had been announced—a sum of gold so absurd it could buy a small kingdom—the fragile truce among the bounty hunters had shattered. They hadn’t even waited to drag Hiccup to a proper cage. Greed had turned them into animals.
Right above him, the air split with the deafening clang of an iron broadsword slamming against a heavy shield.
"He's mine! I saw the boy first!" a hunter screamed, his voice raw with frantic desperation.
A split second later, a sickening crunch echoed through the haze, followed by a wet choke. The hunter's heavy body collapsed into the slush just inches from Hiccup’s head. Mud and blood splattered across Hiccup’s face, cold and biting. He didn't blink. He couldn't afford to. His eyes scanned the shifting wall of smoke, his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs.
Think, Hiccup, think, he commanded himself, his internal voice shouting over the din of battle. You’ve been in tighter spots than this. Outcasts, Berserkers, the Red Death... you always find a way out. Just look for the gap.
But his body wasn't cooperating. His hands were bound tightly behind his back, the coarse hemp rope biting deep into his wrists until they were raw and bleeding. The hunters hadn't just tied him; they had laced the knots with dragon-root oil, knowing the contact would make any dragon rider nauseous and weak. His head throbbed in time with his pulse, a dull, heavy ache that made the world tilt dangerously every time he tried to lift his chin.
Worse, his prosthetic leg was jammed. During the initial scuffle when Ryker’s men had dragged him off the platform, a heavy iron boot had smashed into the release mechanism of his left leg. The metal was bent, the gears stripped and filled with gravel. Every time he tried to drag himself forward, the metal leg caught in the thick, icy mire, anchoring him to the spot.
"Toothless..." Hiccup croaked.
The name barely cleared his throat. It was a pathetic, raspy whisper, completely swallowed by the roar of a stray Monstrous Nightmare firebomb detonating somewhere near the docks. The ground shuddered. Shrapnel of shattered wooden crates rained down around him.
He needed to whistle. He needed to find just three seconds of clear air to throw his voice into the sky. Toothless was out there. He knew the Night Fury was tearing through the upper ridges of the island, frantically searching for his rider's scent. But out here, amidst the burning dragon-root, the sulfur, and the hundreds of sweating, bloodthirsty mercenaries, Hiccup was completely invisible.
Through the shifting green fog, a massive shape loomed.
Hiccup tensed, his muscles locking up. It was a hunter from the Scourge—a faction known for their utter ruthlessness. The man was massive, clad in overlapping plates of rusted Gronckle-iron armor, his face obscured by a horned helm caked in dried gore. In his massive, dirt-caked hands, he held a heavy netting harpoon.
The hunter's eyes locked onto Hiccup through the smoke. A yellow-toothed, horrific grin split his tangled beard.
"There you are, little chief," the man grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He stepped over a pile of groaning, injured men, raising the harpoon. "Viggo wants you breathing, but he didn't say nothing about your other leg."
Hiccup scrambled backward, using his good heel to gouge into the mud, forcing his body along the ground. "Look, buddy," Hiccup panted, trying to keep his voice steady despite the sheer terror clawing at his chest, "whatever Viggo is paying you, it’s not worth what happens when my dragon finds you. Trust me on this. He’s... really protective."
The hunter laughed, a cruel, booming sound. "Your dragon is miles away, boy. And you’re my ticket off these rocks."
He lunged.
Hiccup braced for the impact, twisting his body to avoid the heavy iron tip of the harpoon. But before the weapon could descend, a heavy battleaxe flew out of the green mist, catching the Scourge hunter squarely in the collarbone. The metal shrieked against metal. The giant staggered back, roaring in fury as two more hunters from a rival crew tackled him into the dirt.
Instantly, a fresh brawl erupted over Hiccup’s prone form. Swords clashed, fists flew, and curses were traded in three different northern dialects. They were so blinded by the promise of wealth that they were actively trampling the very prize they fought for. A heavy leather boot clipped Hiccup’s shoulder, spinning him into the mud.
He gasped, rolling onto his side. The smoke was thinning slightly in this corner of the yard, blown away by a sudden, icy gust of wind from the sea.
This is it, Hiccup thought, a desperate spark of hope igniting in his chest. The edge of the camp is only twenty yards away. If I can crawl into the brush, I can hide until the smoke clears. I can whistle.
He forced his elbows into the muck, hauling his dead-weight prosthetic behind him. It was agonizing, slow, and degrading, but he didn't care. He kept his eyes glued on the dark line of pine trees just beyond the perimeter of the market. Ten yards. Five yards. The screams of the brawling hunters began to fade into the background, muffled by the heavy wind.
He reached the first layer of snow at the tree line. The cold was a shock against his burning skin, but it cleared his head. He drew a deep, ragged breath, preparing to force the loudest, sharpest whistle his lungs could manage.
He opened his mouth.
But the sound never came.
The shadows of the forest didn't just deepen; they seemed to reach out and swallow him whole.
A figure stepped from behind a massive, frost-covered oak. It didn't rush. It didn't shout. It didn't partake in the chaotic, greedy madness of the market. This man moved with the chilling, measured grace of a apex predator that had already won the hunt before it even began.
He wore a long, heavy coat of dark, unfamiliar leather, completely unmarked by the mud or blood of the arena. A deep hood pulled low over his brow threw his upper face into total darkness, and beneath it, a stark, pale mask covered his features. There were no eyes visible behind the slits—only an abyss of absolute, unblinking intent.
Hiccup froze, his breath catching in his throat.
The hope that had just begun to warm his chest withered into pure ice. He had faced Viggo, who was a master of strategy. He had faced Ryker, who was a brute force of nature. But the aura radiating off this hooded stranger was entirely different. This wasn't a game of Maces & Talons. This wasn't a hunter looking for a payday.
This was a soldier. And Hiccup was his target.
The stranger did not draw a weapon. He didn't need to. The sheer weight of his presence was enough to pin Hiccup to the frozen earth.
Hiccup’s mind, usually a hyperactive engine of calculations and escape routes, stuttered. He had spent months analyzing the behaviors of every hunter faction in the Archipelago. He knew Ryker’s brutal, frontal-assault mentality. He knew Viggo’s meticulous, psychological chess games. But this man—this silent specter standing in the snow—didn't fit any of the profiles. There was no theatricality here. No smirk, no boasting, no waste of breath.
"Look," Hiccup stammered, his voice trembling as he tried to mask his panic behind a wall of nervous chatter. He subtly dug his right elbow into the snow, trying to leverage his torso upward. "I don't know who you're working for, but if it's Viggo, we can talk. Negotiate. I'm a pretty reasonable guy when I'm not being dragged through the mud by my wrists, you know?"
The hooded man didn't answer. He simply took a single, deliberate step forward. The compressed snow crunched sharply under his heavy leather boot.
Desperation flared. Hiccup threw his weight backward, abandoning any attempt at a dignified conversation. He opened his mouth, drawing in the freezing winter air, and forced the sharpest, highest pitch he could muster into a whistle. It was the call—the unmistakable, piercing signal that had brought Toothless to his side through lightning storms, avalanches, and war zones.
The sound cut through the dense pine trees, echoing off the distant volcanic cliffs.
For a fraction of a second, Hiccup thought he heard a responsive, distant roar from the upper ridges—a desperate, furious trill of a Night Fury. Hope surged like a lightning bolt through his veins. Hear me, bud. Follow the sound.
But the second whistle never left his lips.
Moving with a terrifying, explosive speed that completely contradicted his previous stillness, the stranger closed the distance. Before Hiccup could even register the movement, a heavy, gloved hand shot forward, gripping the front of Hiccup’s flight suit and wrenching him entirely off the ground.
Hiccup lunged forward instinctively, trying to use his teeth, trying to kick out with his functional right leg. But the stranger was entirely prepared. With a practiced, ruthless efficiency, the man drove a heavy, armored forearm directly into Hiccup’s midsection.
The impact was devastating. The air rushed out of Hiccup’s lungs in a violent, agonizing gasp, leaving him instantly breathless. Dark spots danced across his vision as his ribs flared with a white-hot agony. He collapsed forward against the man’s chest, his strength vanishing as he choked for air that wouldn't come.
Before Hiccup could recover, the hunter spun him around with brutal force, slamming him face-first against the rough bark of a nearby pine tree. The impact rattled his skull, sending a fresh wave of nausea through his system.
"Quiet," a deep, chillingly calm voice growled from beneath the pale mask. The voice was slightly distorted, lacking any human warmth or malice. It was the tone of a butcher doing an afternoon's work.
Hiccup thrashed against the tree, his raw wrists twisting uselessly within the hemp ropes. "Get... off..." he wheezed, his cheek pressed hard against the freezing bark.
The stranger ignored his struggles entirely. With his left hand pinning Hiccup’s shoulders against the tree, his right hand reached into a heavy leather pouch at his belt. He pulled out a thick, reinforced leather muzzle—lined with dark, coarse fabric that smelled heavily of dried herbs and numbing paste.
Realizing what was coming, Hiccup widened his eyes in pure terror. If he was muzzled, he couldn't whistle. If he couldn't whistle, Toothless was blind.
"No—wait—"
The leather strap snapped over his jaw, forcing his mouth shut with an uncompromising pressure. Hiccup muffled a scream as the hunter pulled the iron buckles tight at the base of his skull, fastening them with a heavy padlock. The thick fabric immediately pressed against his lips, absorbing his voice, reducing his frantic protests to nothing more than low, pathetic whimpers. The bitter, medicinal taste of the lining immediately began to numb his tongue, making it difficult to even swallow.
The hunter didn't pause to appreciate his handiwork. He unbuckled a pair of heavy iron manacles from his own belt, snapping them around Hiccup’s ankles, effectively locking his good leg to the jammed prosthetic. Hiccup was completely immobilized, reduced to a tightly bound, silenced package.
Satisfied, the stranger slung Hiccup over his broad shoulder with an ease that made Hiccup feel entirely insignificant.
As the hunter turned back toward the deeper shadows of the forest, away from the roaring fires of the market, Hiccup caught a glimpse of the clearing through the trees. The brawl was still raging. Dozens of bounty hunters were still hacking at each other in the green dragon-root smoke, screaming over a prize that was already gone. They hadn't even noticed the theft.
The stranger moved through the dense brush with the familiarity of a ghost, dodging the main paths entirely. Every stride jolt slammed into Hiccup’s bruised stomach, making the world tilt and spin in the darkness. He tried to focus on the sound of the wind, trying to listen for the familiar, high-pitched whistle of a plasma blast cutting through the air.
Toothless... please...
But the forest only grew quieter. The shouts of the mercenaries faded into the background, replaced by the low, ominous roar of the northern sea crashing against the jagged rocks below. They were heading down the cliffs. Toward the water. Toward an exit route the Dragon Riders didn't even know existed.
The descent down the volcanic cliffs was a grueling, terrifying blur.
Hiccup could see nothing but the dark, heavy leather of the hunter’s coat and the freezing snow-covered rocks passing beneath them. The numbing agent from the muzzle was spreading, making his lower jaw feel entirely disconnected from his face. His breathing was shallow, restricted by the tight leather straps and the crushing weight of the man’s shoulder pressing into his chest.
Finally, the steep incline leveled out. The sharp, bitter scent of burning wood and sulfur was completely replaced by the heavy, salty tang of the open ocean.
The hunter stepped out onto a secluded, rocky cove, completely hidden from the main docks by a massive arch of black basalt. Tucked deep into the shadows of the cave was a vessel that looked entirely different from the standard, bulky wooden longships used by the Dragon Hunters.
This ship was sleek, low to the water, and constructed from dark, reinforced ironwood that seemed to absorb the moonlight. Its sails were a deep, solid black, completely devoid of any clan markings or crests. There were no oars, no loud crewmen shouting orders. The ship sat in the water like a crouching predator, perfectly silent, its hull cutting through the icy surf without a sound.
Standing on the narrow deck were four heavily armed men. They didn't wear the mismatched, rusted armor of the local mercenaries; they wore identical, dark grey uniforms with reinforced chest plates and heavy iron helmets that shadowed their faces. Soldiers. An organized, disciplined military unit.
As the stranger stepped onto the wooden pier, the soldiers instantly straightened, their weapons held at a rigid, flawless salute. They didn't speak. Not a single word of greeting or celebration was exchanged.
The stranger walked up the gangplank, stepped onto the deck, and unceremoniously dropped Hiccup onto the cold, wet planks.
Hiccup hit the wood hard, a sharp groan muffled entirely by the thick leather muzzle. He rolled onto his side, his breath hitching as the iron manacles clanked against his bent prosthetic. He looked up, his eyes wide and wild with a mixture of pain and terror, scanning the stark, empty deck. There were no cages here. No dragon-root arrows lying around. Everything was meticulously clean, organized, and terrifyingly professional.
"Secure him in the hold," the stranger commanded, his voice finally dropping the slight distortion as he reached up and pulled the pale mask from his face.
For the first time, Hiccup saw his captor. The man had harsh, angular features, his skin weathered by wind and war, with a severe scar cutting across his brow. His hair was cropped short in a strict military cut, and his eyes—a piercing, cold gray—looked down at Hiccup with less emotion than a man looking at a piece of lumber.
This was Krogan.
"And the beast?" one of the soldiers asked, his voice low and formal.
Krogan turned his gaze toward the dark, looming cliffs above the cove. In the far distance, a tiny black speck was circling the upper peaks of the island, silhouetted against the pale moon. It was Toothless, frantically casting his fire into the night, looking for a target that wasn't there.
"The Night Fury is blind," Krogan said coldly, his voice devoid of any doubt. "The boy's trail ends in the smoke. By the time the beast realizes he is gone, we will be ten leagues out. Put him below. Viggo is waiting."
Two soldiers stepped forward, grabbing Hiccup by the armpits and dragging him roughly toward the heavy iron hatch of the cargo hold. Hiccup thrashed, his manacled boots scraping against the deck, his eyes locked on the sky. He could see the faint, blue glow of Toothless’s plasma blasts illuminating the clouds miles away.
Don't stop looking, bud, Hiccup thought, tears of sheer frustration and helplessness stinging his eyes. Please, don't stop looking.
The soldiers hoisted him over the lip of the hatch and dropped him down the steep wooden ladder. Hiccup tumbled into the pitch-black hold, landing heavily on a pile of coarse hemp sacks that smelled faintly of salt and old iron.
Above him, the heavy iron hatch slammed shut with a definitive, deafening CLANG.
The sound echoed through the small, cramped space, followed by the heavy thud of a massive iron deadbolt sliding into place. Instantly, the faint light from the moon vanished. Hiccup was plunged into an absolute, suffocating darkness.
A moment later, the ship groaned. The subtle, rhythmic swaying of the hull shifted into a smooth, deliberate forward momentum as the black sails caught the winter wind. The ironwood cut through the waves, moving faster than any ship Hiccup had ever designed, carrying him further and further away from the Edge, away from his friends, and away from his dragon.
Hiccup lay in the dark, his bound hands pressed against his bruised ribs, his face buried in the coarse fabric of the grain sacks. He tried to move his jaw, but the numbing paste had taken complete hold, leaving his face entirely dead. He couldn't scream. He couldn't whistle. He couldn't even weep without choking on his own breath.
As the black ship carried him out into the deep, unforgiving waters of the northern sea, a cold, hollow realization began to settle in his chest.
The rules of the war had just changed. The Dragon Riders weren't dealing with simple hunters anymore. They were dealing with an army. And as the darkness of the hold swallowed him whole, Hiccup wondered, for the very first time, if his friends would ever be able to find him at all.