Chapter 1: Léo
Chapter Text
He couldn’t scream anymore.
Not because it didn’t hurt—his body was on fire, inside and out—but because he didn’t have the breath to do it. It had already been torn out of him when the dragon’s claws slammed into his leg, yanked him backwards, and dragged him across the scorched stone path of the village square.
He’d heard the bone break. Felt it snap like a stick of driftwood.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was the burning. Not from the flames that licked the walls of every hut, but from the acid the dragon had released before it grabbed him—poison, thick and green and sizzling through his skin like oil through snow. It had landed in a splatter across his calf, but it didn’t stop there. It hissed and chewed its way down into the muscle, the tendon, the bone.
He didn’t understand. Not at first. He thought it was just blood. Or adrenaline.
But when his leg started to bubble, he knew.
He clawed at the dirt, tried to brace against something—anything—but the dragon hauled him like he weighed nothing. The ground blurred beneath him. Somewhere in the smoke and shrieking and crackling, someone shouted his name. It might’ve been his mother. Might’ve been no one. He couldn’t tell anymore.
And then—suddenly—the dragon stopped.
A creak. A groan.
The sound of something huge straining under its own weight.
He turned his head just enough to see the flames curling through the last standing beams of the meeting hall. The roof was collapsing. The fire had eaten the support columns clean through, and now the entire structure was folding inward, warping like a dying animal.
It came down with a roar.
He didn’t move fast enough.
Didn’t move at all.
The debris struck like a tidal wave of heat and wood and stone. Smoke exploded around him. The dragon’s grip vanished in an instant—whether from fear or injury, he’d never know.
Then everything went black.
He woke coughing, his throat raw and blistered. The air still tasted like fire. It was quiet around him.
The world stank of smoke and meat.
It was hard to tell what kind.
His leg…
Something was wrong.
He blinked hard, trying to sit up, but the movement jarred everything—his ribs, his head, his shoulder—and a wet gasp escaped his throat. He dragged himself from under the slanted wreckage of the fallen building, coughing and swatting at the hanging pieces of scorched linen and splintered wood.
And then he saw it.
His leg—what was left of it—was rotting.
Purple and black veins snaked their way up from the ragged mess of his calf, thick and unnatural, pulsing faintly beneath the burned skin. They crept past the worst of the damage, curling just shy of his knee like something alive was moving beneath the surface.
He choked on air.
The memory hit like a wave—the hiss, the cold wetness, the smoke rising from his skin. Not fire. Not blood.
Acid.
His heart thudded, loud and frantic, and panic surged in his throat. Poison. He’d heard the stories. Of venom that crept through the bloodstream, that stopped hearts and shut down lungs. That killed even strong men before morning.
He wasn’t strong.
Not anymore.
Without thinking, he grabbed the torn edge of his pants—already shredded from the dragging—and yanked them further, tearing a long strip free with shaking hands. He looped it around his thigh, just above the creeping dark, and twisted it tight. Too tight. Had to be tight.
A makeshift tourniquet.
He winced as the pressure surged, but the flow slowed.
The veins stopped.
Still there. Still spreading. But not fast.
Not yet.
His fingers trembled. His pulse roared in his ears.
He had time.
Maybe.
But not much.
He dragged himself upright with a groan, leaning on a jagged spear handle he'd scavenged from the wreckage. It was bent and brittle from the heat, but it would hold—for now. The bottom of his leg throbbed with every movement, and sweat blurred his vision, but he forced himself forward.
The square was unrecognizable.
The central well had collapsed in on itself. The forge was nothing but twisted iron and melted slag. Boats along the dock had burned down to black skeletons, half-sunk into the tide.
He limped through it all like a ghost.
No voices.
No survivors.
Just ash and flies.
His stomach cramped painfully. He hadn't eaten since... before. Days? Hours? It was impossible to tell. The adrenaline was fading now, and the fog of hunger was setting in—dull and mean and insistent.
He headed for the shoreline.
The tide had come in, lapping gently against the soot-stained sand. A few overturned baskets from the fishing huts were strewn across the beach. One was full of spoiled crab, maggot-riddled and baking in the sun.
He kept moving.
Further down the rocks, he found a line—someone’s abandoned hand net caught between driftwood. There were scraps of seaweed tangled in it. A single silver fish. Tiny. Barely alive.
He snatched it with both hands before it could wriggle free and crushed it against a flat stone.
It wasn’t enough. Not even close.
But it was something.
He sank to the sand, breath shaking, and began pulling apart the net with clumsy fingers, gathering what pieces he could use to weave into something stronger. If he could get into the shallow surf before the tide shifted, he might—
A sound.
Ragged. Wet.
He froze.
Not human.
He turned toward the village.
Across the square—half-shadowed by the broken arch of the old temple—a shape moved.
Massive.
Dark.
Alive.
A dragon.
Léo’s breath caught.
Not like the others. Not bloated with armor or iron rings. Not snarling.
It was slumped half-buried under a beam of scorched wood, wings folded wrong. One of them had a gaping hole in it—clean through, with the edges curled and blackened.
Its chest rose and fell like it was breathing through crushed lungs.
And it was staring at him.
Not moving.
Not snarling.
Just watching.
He gripped his spear.
It didn’t lunge.
Didn’t even growl.
They stared at each other across the ash and silence.
Neither moved.
Léo’s heart pounded. His hand tightened on the wood.
The dragon blinked—slow and oddly calm.
Its eyes weren’t like the others’. They weren’t cruel.
Just tired.
Wounded.
And very, very still.
Léo's eyes scanned the space between them—ten paces, maybe twelve. The broken fishing frame he’d spotted earlier lay just beyond the dragon’s tail, along with a bundle of twisted netting and a length of cord that hadn’t burned.
He needed that net.
And the dragon—whatever it was, whoever it had been with—wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
It’s too hurt to lunge. Maybe too tired to care.
That didn’t mean it wouldn’t try.
Léo shifted the spear slowly in his grip, lowering the tip to the ash. Then he stepped sideways. One foot at a time. Wide arc. Slow breath.
The dragon’s head tracked him, eyes narrowed.
Not aggressive. Not friendly either.
Just… waiting.
Every few steps, he paused. Watched it watch him. His heart pounded like it wanted out of his ribs.
He imagined what would happen if it lunged now. If its tail swept wide. If those too-long teeth found his throat. He’d have no chance.
But it didn’t move.
He kept circling.
When he finally reached the bundle, he crouched—not too low—and yanked it toward him with the tip of the spear. The net came loose in a ragged tangle, threads burned through in some places, clumped with ash in others.
He didn’t stop to untangle it there. He didn’t even look back.
He backed away the same way he came—slow, careful, measured.
The dragon let him go.
He limped down to the shoreline, dragging the net behind him and blinking through the sting of wind and salt. The tide was calmer now. Clearer. Smoke no longer hung thick over the beach. The water looked cleaner than anything else left in the world.
He sat at the edge of the rocks and started picking through the netting. Half of it was useless. Melted cord. Charred ropes. But some of it—he could work with some of it. He used his teeth and hands to knot together a usable portion, tightening it around a forked stick to cast into the shallow surf.
And he waited.
The wind whistled gently past his ears, and for the first time in days, it wasn’t carrying screams.
Just silence.
And in that silence… memory.
His hands moved on instinct, but his mind was already drifting—back to voices that would never speak again.
His mother’s, sharp and steady. Always humming while she mended tunics or ran her fingers through his hair when he couldn’t sleep.
His father’s, low and warm, always telling stories in front of the fire, even when the others said it was childish.
And his sister.
Liora.
She was everything. Smarter than him. Braver, too. Always first into the sea and last out of an argument. She was meant to be Chieftess one day—everyone knew it. Even the old men respected her, which was saying something. She could shoot better than half the warriors and speak three dialects fluently. She once wrestled a gull from a hawk’s mouth and won.
And now she was gone.
Burned. Taken. Lost in the smoke, like everything else.
Léo blinked hard. Swallowed the ache in his throat.
Don’t cry. Not now.
The net jerked.
He snapped back to himself and yanked it in, catching two wriggling silverfish and something crabbish with too many legs.
He stared at the catch. He could eat all of it. Probably should.
But when he looked back up toward the square…
He thought of the dragon.
Still wounded. Still curled like it was too afraid to sleep. Not from pain, but from being seen in pain.
Just like him.
He let out a quiet breath. “Stupid idea,” he muttered.
He tossed one fish onto the rock beside him and speared the other with a blackened skewer, holding it carefully over a fire he rekindled from smoldering driftwood. It was barely enough heat, but it cooked through—just enough to be safe.
He chewed slowly. Tasted nothing.
Then, with stiff fingers, he took the second fish, wiped the sand from its belly, and picked his way back toward the dragon.
It saw him coming.
It always did.
But this time, it didn’t tense as much.
He didn’t go too close. Just close enough to be heard.
“I know you’re not gonna say thanks,” he said, tossing the fish lightly into the ash near its feet, “but you’ll eat. Or you won’t. Doesn’t matter to me.”
He lowered himself onto a stone about six paces away, close enough to see the way its breathing caught, the way its eyes narrowed—not at the food, but at him.
He picked at the crab while it stared.
Eventually, when he looked away to watch the tide… he heard the faintest crunch of bones.
He smiled. Bitter. Tired.
It didn’t eat like it trusted him.
Didn’t eat like it was grateful.
Just like it had to. Like survival demanded it.
That was fine.
He felt the same way.
The dragon didn’t eat again that day—not while he watched, anyway.
Léo stayed by the shore longer than usual, sorting through bits of half-charred rope and picking barnacles off a piece of broken paddle. His leg throbbed with every movement. The tourniquet had slowed the spread of the dark veins, but the pain was getting meaner—deep and chewing and steady. If he looked at it too long, he got dizzy.
So he didn’t.
Instead, he watched the dragon.
It was still lying half-shadowed in the wreckage of the temple’s archway, its crumpled wing stretched just slightly across the ash. The other wing—the ruined one—remained folded, guarded, twitching now and then like it ached constantly.
That hole. That gaping wound.
Léo couldn’t stop seeing it.
The first time he saw a wing membrane tear like that, it had belonged to a sea-screamer caught in a storm. The beast spiraled out of the sky, helpless, crashed into the cove cliffs and bled out before it hit the water.
If this dragon couldn’t fly, it wouldn’t survive.
Just like him.
He waited until dusk. When the light faded and the dragon’s breathing slowed.
Then he gathered his patch scraps—leather torn from saddle bags, sinew cords salvaged from nets, and a small needle he'd sharpened from a charred fishhook.
He approached slowly.
The dragon was awake.
It didn’t lift its head as he drew closer, but its eyes were open. Luminous in the dusk.
“I’m not gonna touch you,” he muttered. “I just… need a look. That’s it.”
He took a cautious step around her tail, staying clear of the wingspan’s arc, and lowered himself to a crouch.
He didn’t reach out yet. Just observed.
The tear was clean but brutal—jagged along one edge like the membrane had caught on something sharp. The skin was blistered and curling in places. Healing poorly. Infection was setting in.
He shifted slightly, reaching for a better angle.
A breath caught in the dragon’s chest.
Léo froze.
“I’m just looking,” he said again. “I can help, but—”
The dragon whipped its head around without warning.
He didn’t even have time to flinch.
She slammed her snout into his side—not hard enough to break anything, but enough to knock him straight into the ash with a rough, painful grunt.
He hit the ground hard, wheezing, dust choking his throat.
He didn’t get back up.
Didn’t try to scramble or swing.
Just… lay there.
Breathing.
Staring up at her as she loomed overhead, chest heaving. Not snarling. Not baring teeth.
Just scared.
And angry.
And vulnerable.
“Okay,” he rasped. “Not ready. I get it.”
The dragon backed off a step. Her tail flicked once in the dust.
Then she turned away again.
That night, he waited until she was sleeping.
Not dozing. Not pretending.
Sleeping.
Her breath had evened out. Her tail curled against her flank. The lashes around her eyes didn’t twitch.
Léo limped over with his arms full.
The leather had been cleaned and soaked in seawater, softened as much as possible. He’d punched small holes through the edges with a sharpened splinter of bone and threaded them with cord. It wasn’t enough to heal the wing. But it might let her fly again.
Maybe.
He knelt beside the torn edge of the membrane.
She didn’t move.
Gently, he laid the leather across the hole. It didn’t cover the whole wound—he didn’t have that much material—but it covered the worst of it.
He began lashing it in place. Not through skin. Just around the structure, the thinner bits of cartilage where the membrane joined the limb. Every tie was slow, shaking, quiet.
Halfway through, she shifted.
Léo flinched so hard he nearly dropped the patch.
But she didn’t wake.
Just breathed.
He finished it with his hands slick from sweat and blood.
It wasn’t pretty.
But it held.
He slept on the beach that night.
It was safer.
Warmer.
Farther from her.
When dawn broke, he was already awake, sitting upright and chewing a strip of dried kelp.
The dragon stirred just after sunrise.
She stood slowly, legs trembling from disuse. Her left wing lifted first, twitchy but stable. The right—patched and tense—extended last.
She hesitated.
Then stretched it.
The leather held.
Léo sat completely still, breath caught in his chest.
Then, without warning, she moved.
Not a step. Not a limp.
She ran.
Across the square, through the smoke, past the ruins—
And leapt.
The wind caught her unevenly. Her wings wobbled, struggling to compensate for the patch.
But she rose.
Higher.
Farther.
Léo watched, mouth dry, heart heavy.
And when she was just a speck against the sky, he looked down at his hands—blistered, cracked, half-bloodied—and whispered, “Figures.”
He turned back toward the shore.
Then the shadow passed over him.
She landed behind him with a thunderous crash, stumbled, adjusted, then crouched low.
One wing extended again.
This time… in invitation.
Léo stared.
“…You forgot your baggage,” he realized, and spoke hoarsely.
She huffed.
He smiled. Just a little.
Chapter 2: Léo
Chapter Text
The Dragon crouched low in the sand, wing muscles trembling with the effort.
Her back was broader than he expected. Scars twisted along her sides—old ones, jagged and faded beneath her storm-dark scales. The patch on her wing creaked faintly as it shifted in the wind, tension pulling against the leather and cord Léo had sewn by hand.
She was ready.
He wasn’t sure he was.
“Not yet,” he croaked.
She blinked slowly.
Then settled in, like she understood.
The village was quieter than ever.
It wasn’t just silence—it was emptiness. A kind of stillness that swallowed sound before it could echo. No birds. No crackling fire. No footsteps but his own, dragging unevenly through ash and dust and ruin.
Léo moved like a ghost through the wreckage. One good leg, the other bound tight and useless. He used a fire-hardened stick as a crutch, splintered on one end, worn smooth on the other. Every step jarred through his body like a warning. His balance tilted dangerously with each shift of weight. The tourniquet on his thigh had started to loosen, the knots sticky with blood and sweat.
He didn’t tighten it.
Didn’t want to know how far the veins had spread.
His head was buzzing. A soft, wet kind of pressure in his temples. He couldn’t tell if it was fever, dehydration, or hunger clawing its way up his throat again.
Maybe all three.
He kept going.
Not for comfort.
Just to prepare.
He made his way to the ruined forge first.
What was left of it, anyway.
The roof had collapsed in, but the stones still held some shape. The bellows were crushed, the furnace blackened and split. Charcoal covered everything like snow. He dug through the rubble with his bare hands, ignoring the way the edges bit into his skin.
He found a cleaver beneath the smith’s anvil.
Half-melted, but still sharp along the inner curve.
It had belonged to Mavrik—the whale-gutter. The man with the sea-thick beard and the voice like a drum who used to gut fish on the docks while singing old stories backwards just to make children laugh. Léo had loved that sound.
He remembered him saying once, “I’ll live long enough to see the stars fall.”
He hadn’t.
Léo stared at the blade for a long time. Then tucked it into his belt and kept moving.
From the temple ruins, he gathered strips of leather from the wall hangings. Most were half-charred, curling with soot, but a few still held the faint smell of cedar and oil. They were prayer-bindings—ribbons once meant to carry offerings into the wind. His mother had woven them every equinox.
He pulled them down with shaking fingers and rolled them tight.
He didn’t know what they meant anymore.
But they were strong. And they would hold.
His home… wasn’t.
The back wall had caved in. The bed platform was broken in half. The low table where his father carved spoons had been burned to black splinters. The walls that still stood were claw-marked and scorched and sagging inward like they were ready to give up too.
He didn’t go inside.
He just stood in the doorway for a long time.
His father’s tools were gone. His mother’s dye pots shattered.
But his sister’s blanket—Liora’s—was still hanging beside the frame. Woven in blues and greens, the threads kissed with shell powder that shimmered faintly when they caught the light.
It looked untouched.
Too soft. Too clean for this place.
Léo reached out.
Then pulled his hand back.
He didn’t take it.
Didn’t deserve it.
Not yet.
Not until he could walk.
He chose the cliffside to unwrap the bandage.
It was quiet there. Windy. The smell of rot and blood might get carried away before it turned his own stomach. The rock was smooth and cool beneath him, curved like a natural seat. The ocean spread out below, calm for once.
His fingers worked slowly, untying the soaked cloth from his thigh.
What he saw made his breath stop.
The veins had spread.
They'd crept past the stump, past the knee. Twisting vines of infection, black and purple, blooming beneath the skin like bruises left by acid and rot. The skin had split open in places. Yellow pus oozed in slow beads along the raw edges. The flesh was no longer leg—it was death waiting to settle in.
He clenched his jaw.
He hadn’t wanted to look. Hadn’t wanted to know. But now he did.
And it left him no choice.
If he waited any longer, it would reach his core. Shut down his organs. Take his breath. He wouldn’t even make it into the sky.
The dragon would be flying with a corpse.
And she deserved better than that.
So did Liora’s memory.
So did he.
He built the fire tall and hot, using dried kelp, driftwood, and the leather prayer strips. They curled and popped in the flames like they were trying to scream.
The cleaver went into the heart of it.
He didn’t look away as it turned red.
He braced his leg against a flat slab of stone. He wrapped one prayer-strip around his thigh and another around his teeth. His mouth was already bleeding from grinding too hard. His stomach roiled.
This was going to hurt.
It had to.
He couldn’t afford the luxury of waiting for numbness or passing out.
He had to do it.
Now.
While he still had strength.
He grabbed the cleaver.
And cut.
He remembered the sound more than the pain.
The slicing—wet and gristly and deep. The bone resisting. Then snapping.
His scream came like it wasn’t his own—high and animal and echoing through the cliffs.
The blade slipped at one point. Bit into the wrong spot. He almost blacked out.
But he finished.
He dropped the limb into the ash. It landed with a dull, horrible weight.
And then, with one final breath, he pressed the glowing blade to the open wound.
The sizzle. The smoke. The sound of his body trying to survive itself.
The whole world went white.
He woke at dusk.
Shivering.
Breath catching in gasps.
He didn’t rest long.
Sleep wasn’t safe, not in a body like this, not in a place like this. The fever still licked the back of his skull like a whisper of the fire that had taken everything else. If he stayed still too long, the weight of it all would settle into his chest and never leave.
He had to move.
He had to build.
He went back to the forge ruins, teeth clenched hard enough to hurt. Not for a blade this time, but for scraps. Anything solid. Anything strong. Anything that didn’t crumble to ash under pressure.
He found it in the bones of what used to be the chieftain’s hall—twisted iron brackets, rusted from salt and heat, once used to hold banners and shields. Now they lay scattered in the rubble, warped from the fire, black with soot and old blood. He pulled one loose with both hands, cut his palm on the edge, and didn’t stop.
From the same hall, he found a length of solid board—charred at the corners, but strong in the middle. Floor support, maybe. It had once held weight. It would again.
He laid everything out in the sand: wood, rusted brackets, a handful of bent, nail-thin iron pegs scavenged from the temple doorframe. A ceremonial post hole offered a loop of corded leather, half-burned but intact. He didn’t think about what it once held.
He hammered the metal into the board with a broken brick, steady and brutal. There was no finesse. Only force. He drilled the rusted nails in at angles, reinforcing the base, wrapping the ends in torn cloth to keep them from biting into his thigh. A single piece of leather anchored the whole thing to his leg—high on the thigh, where the blood was starting to dry.
It creaked.
It shifted.
It barely held.
But it was his.
And it would get him to the edge of the world.
When he tested it, he fell again.
Hard.
The stump slammed against the sand. Pain sparked up his spine.
He lay there for a moment, panting, lips pressed into the grit.
And then—slowly—he got up.
He limped to his old home one last time. The roof had caved in further. The floorboards were warped. But the sun hit Liora’s blanket just right as it shifted in the wind, and this time… this time he reached for it.
He took it down.
Folded it carefully. Pressed it to his chest.
He found an old satchel that hadn’t burned through entirely. Stuffed the last of the dried fish inside. A waterskin that still held a few gulps. A tiny shell pendant he didn’t remember putting in his pocket—probably his mother’s. It stayed.
There was nothing else left to carry.
So he walked.
Limping.
Creaking.
Bleeding.
But walking.
The dragon was waiting.
She stood just past the edge of the fire pit, eyes on the sea, tail shifting in the wind. Her wings stretched, tested, adjusted for the weather.
When she heard him, she turned—not fast, not surprised.
Just… acknowledging.
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to.
He reached her side.
His leg gave out.
She stepped under him without hesitation.
Held him up.
And when he found his balance again, she crouched low into the ash, her patched wing opening like a sail.
The silence was almost holy.
He slung the satchel over his shoulder, tied Liora’s blanket across his back, and placed one hand on her shoulder.
Then he climbed.
And they didn’t look back.
They flew through clouds so thick they could’ve been sky-wrapped oceans.
Days blurred into sky and mist. Hunger into silence. Wind into memory.
And still, they flew.
She adjusted her wings carefully with every shift in current. Her patched side creaked sometimes, a soft leather groan that barely registered beneath the rhythmic beat of her flight. Léo stayed curled against her spine, one hand clutching the strap across his thigh, the other buried into the jagged edge of her neck ridge for warmth.
The world below had disappeared. The world behind didn’t exist anymore.
And ahead?
There was only air.
At first, he didn’t speak much.
Only when his head got too heavy, or when the cold reached a part of him that couldn’t be warmed by blankets or dragon heat.
But then—slowly—he started telling her things.
Not because he expected her to understand.
But because he needed someone to remember.
He told her everything.
Piece by piece.
His mother’s voice—low and strong and always singing when she worked. She used to stir fish stew with her sleeves rolled up and scold the gulls like they were children.
His father—quiet but unshakable. The kind of man who never raised his voice but never had to. Léo remembered sitting on his shoulders during market day, picking out shells and dried fruit while his father bartered down prices with a glance.
And Liora. His sister. Gods, Liora.
“She was going to be Chieftess,” he said, his voice cracking. “Already ran council meetings better than the elders. She spoke with her hands—like she was weaving the air. She laughed with her whole chest. Loud. Unashamed.”
He paused. Closed his eyes. Felt the ache build like pressure behind his ribs.
“She would’ve known what to do.”
The dragon made a soft chuffing sound beneath him. Her breath came warmer. Her hum changed—not in pitch, but shape. More rounded, more… aware. He didn’t know how he knew. But he felt it.
So he kept going.
He told her about his best friend, Delmar, from the Angler Class—how he once fell into a tide pool and got his pants eaten off by baby krill. How they used to sneak out to climb the cliffs and race fishhooks from the edge, betting their pocket knives on who snagged more.
He told her about the Candle Procession at midwinter, when everyone carried floating flames through the cove. About how the air glowed gold, and even the dragons watched in silence.
He told her about the Harvest Ring, and the wild drums, and the night he and Liora got caught sneaking fermented mangoes and laughed so hard they couldn’t breathe.
The dragon made sounds, always when he least expected them.
A hum when he paused.
A low whirring note when his voice broke.
Sometimes, a deep, rattling growl when he mentioned something violent—the fire, the mercenaries, the dragons they rode like weapons. He wasn’t sure if she was angry for him, or just remembering pain of her own.
But she listened.
She learned him.
And he learned from her in return.
He started to know the difference between her tired croon and her alert one. The sound she made when they caught a strong draft. The rough trill in her throat when he slumped too far forward. The heavy sigh she gave when he was quiet too long.
They were two shapes in the fog now.
One scarred boy. One dragon of mist and silence.
Bound not by reins, or training, or control—but by stories, and hunger, and the need to be known before the end.
“Dragon…”
His voice cracked, barely a whisper over the wind. “Did you ever have a home?”
The dragon didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. Her hum shifted, low and distant, and Léo imagined it meant maybe. Or not anymore.
He closed his eyes.
“My home was Mireval.”
The name tasted like salt on his tongue. Sharp. Sacred.
“We were a cliffside village—built into the rock like a part of it. Whitewashed walls. Rope bridges between houses. The wind never stopped, but it carried music when we needed it most. Always smelled like salt and smoke and citrus.”
He rested his chin against her neck, eyes half-lidded as fog rolled by.
“The elders called it the Valley of Mist, but it wasn’t a valley, not really. Just… the way the cliffs sloped inward and held the sea close. When the tide came in, it echoed through the bay like thunder. That’s how we knew a storm was near—the water got louder before the clouds even showed.”
The dragon trilled—a thoughtful sound, somewhere between a warble and a groan.
He smiled weakly. “You would’ve hated it. Too many gulls.”
“Our people were… quiet. Proud. Not like the mainlanders with their painted sails and chieftain tattoos. We didn’t hunt dragons. We didn’t tame them, either. We watched. We listened. Some said they watched back.”
His fingers curled into her scales.
“My father was the village blacksmith. Not for weapons—he made hinges, fishhooks, the little clasps that held weather bells to the eaves. His forge never smelled like blood. Just saltwater and steel and orange oil.”
He paused.
“My mother was the keeper of traditions. Every solstice, she’d climb the cliffs before dawn and hang shell chimes so the wind would sing us awake. She taught songs to children who hadn’t even learned to walk yet. She stitched our family’s story into her skirts—every milestone, every passing. They said you could read the whole village just by watching her move.”
The sky around them turned amber. The sun, hiding somewhere behind the clouds, bled warm light into the mist.
He kept talking.
“We had five festivals a year. The Sea Gifting was my favorite. We’d gather driftwood and carve it into shapes—boats, fish, stars—and set them adrift at twilight. Not for gods or dragons. Just… to say thank you. For surviving the winter. For not losing anyone else.”
He blinked slowly.
“And the Skyburn. That one was loud. Bonfires on the cliffs, drums echoing through the rock. We painted our faces with ash and citrus dye, danced in circles until we collapsed. It was supposed to scare away the spirits of grief.”
The dragon let out a low sound. Her wings dipped slightly, the wind changing beneath them.
“I don’t know if it worked,” he added. “But it felt good. To burn things you didn’t want to carry anymore.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“When I was ten,” he said finally, “I got in trouble for climbing the northern rise to see a dragon’s nesting cliff. Everyone said it was cursed, that dragons didn’t nest there anymore because of something the ancestors did. But I didn’t believe it.”
He reached back and tugged the edge of his ragged cloak tighter.
“Liora followed me. Even though she was older. Even though she was smarter. I fell and cracked my wrist and cried like a baby. She carried me the whole way down on her back and told everyone she had fallen, not me. She said I slipped chasing her. Said it was her fault.”
His throat tightened. “It wasn’t.”
The dragon rumbled—low, nearly inaudible.
He pulled in a breath that stung from the cold.
“I talk like this because if I don’t… then I’ll forget it. All of it. And if I forget, it means Mireval really is gone.”
He swallowed.
“And if I die… no one else will remember.”
The dragon shifted beneath him—not jarring, not impatient. Just… present. Listening.
“And you, you strange, smoky storm thing…” he murmured, “you’re the only one here who might carry it.”
The dragon didn’t respond with words.
But the fog around her curled tighter.
And her wings stayed steady.
And in the silence that followed, Léo allowed himself—just for a moment—to believe that his story had been heard.
It happened late on what might have been the fifth day.
The light dimmed again—sunset, maybe. Or just the way clouds turned gold when the sky gave up pretending. Léo blinked grit from his eyes, too tired to sit fully upright, his arm limp across the dragon's neck.
Her wings flared wider. She rose slightly.
And something in the light caught.
Léo lifted his head.
She vanished.
Not entirely. Just—nearly.
The mist curled around her scales. Her body blended with the sky like ink dissolving in water. Her colors changed without changing—shifting from storm gray to soft smoke to nothing at all. The only thing that remained was the faint gleam of her eyes and the whisper of her wings.
He stared.
“You look like fog, but made real,” he whispered. “Like the wind tried to remember something it lost.”
She didn’t answer.
Just flew.
He smiled faintly.
“…Wisp.”
A pause.
She hummed—long and low and slow.
Not in question.
Not in refusal.
But like something heard and held.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s you.”
Léo couldn’t feel his toes.
Not that he needed them—not since the amputation. But even the remaining foot, curled against Wisp’s side for warmth, felt more like stone than skin. Numb. Distant. Like the rest of him.
They drifted.
Too low.
The clouds weren’t clouds anymore. Just thick mist and brine, the kind that crawled into your lungs and whispered you should lie down, just for a second, and rest.
Wisp’s wings beat slower now. Every flap was a labor. The steady rhythm that once carried them over oceans had turned jerky, uneven—wounded bird gliding on will alone.
And still she flew.
Léo laid across her back, cheek pressed into the line of her spine. His hands ached from gripping too long, but he didn’t have the strength to let go, even if he wanted to.
He tried to speak.
His throat was too dry.
Still, he rasped out, “Did I ever tell you about the time my father carved my name into the bottom of his forge hammer?”
Wisp let out a faint, gravelly hum.
“I was six,” he murmured, eyes closed, lips cracked. “Said it meant I’d always have a place… no matter how heavy the work got.”
The wind whipped past them. Cold. Slicing.
“I think I’ve told that before. Sorry.” He smiled weakly. “I think I’m repeating myself.”
Wisp didn’t mind.
She never did.
He told her about his sister again. How she once stood on the table at the Harvest Ring and declared the sea itself would kneel if she ever became Chieftess. How everyone laughed. How no one doubted her.
He told it slower this time. Skipping parts. Forgetting names. The memories stuttered like dying embers.
And then… he stopped.
Words didn’t come anymore.
Even breathing hurt.
The rocks came first.
Just shadows at first—jagged silhouettes rising from the sea like broken ribs. They’d seen others like them. Had landed on some. Rested on one for nearly a full day once, curled together under the faint shelter of Wisp’s wings.
But this time, there were more.
Clusters. Patterns. Ridges too smooth to be natural.
And then—houses.
He blinked once.
Twice.
It didn’t go away.
Smoke curled from a chimney.
Figures moved in the haze. Faint. Blurry.
Real.
Léo jerked upright. His muscles screamed. His head spun. But he moved.
“By Hell... Wisp—Wisp!” he croaked, breath catching. “There’s land! Look—look!”
She didn’t need convincing.
Her ears flicked. She twisted midair with the last of her strength and aimed down.
He pressed his face to the side of her neck, half-laughing, half-weeping. “You did it—you brilliant girl—you did it!”
He found the spot behind her ear where she liked to be scratched and rubbed it clumsily with his knuckles. “I’m so proud of you. We’re okay. We’re okay. We made it.”
Wisp didn’t answer with a sound.
She poured every last ounce of herself into her wings.
Faster. Lower. Her body was trembling beneath him.
The island drew closer. Sharp cliffs blurred into gentle hills. And just beyond—grass. A field of wild, windblown, living grass.
Léo sat taller.
The clouds thinned, finally pulling back—
—and something moved.
Out of the corner of his eye, something black streaked against the horizon. Fast. Low. Almost like—
A dragon.
Another one.
Léo’s heart thudded. His vision swam.
He blinked, but the blur was gone.
Just grass now. Trees. Wind.
Hallucinations, he told himself. Just exhaustion playing tricks. He hadn’t seen another living creature—human or dragon—in days.
Wisp faltered beneath him.
Her wings dipped. Her whole body quaked.
They were going down.
Not a fall.
Not quite.
A collapse.
The earth rushed up. Grass bowed beneath them, soft and tall and shockingly green.
Léo didn’t even brace for impact.
His head hit her shoulder as she tucked her wings tight.
The last thing he felt was her heartbeat against his palms.
The last thing he saw… was light—real light—breaking through the mist.
Then everything went still.
Chapter 3: Hiccup
Chapter Text
The sea stretched endlessly below them, quiet and silver-blue. From the edge of the cliff, Berk looked peaceful—green hills rolling out like waves frozen in motion, the village humming faintly in the distance. Just behind them, Stormfly snorted and shook her spines, pecking at the grass. Toothless lay on his back, legs in the air, sunning his belly like a spoiled cat.
Hiccup laughed under his breath. “You’d think we didn’t just repair half the docks this morning.”
Astrid leaned back on her elbows beside him, blonde hair caught in the breeze. “He’s earned it. We all have.”
“Still…” He gestured vaguely at Toothless. “Dignity. Just a bit.”
“He’s a dragon, Hiccup, not a diplomat.”
“To some people, he’s both.”
“To you, everyone is both.”
He shot her a mock glare, and she grinned.
They sat in silence for a bit, trading quiet glances and comfortable stillness. It was rare—these moments without fires to put out or councils to mediate or young riders to wrangle. Just them. Just sky. Just the wind.
Eventually, Astrid stood and brushed grass from her leggings. “One loop around the ridge?”
Hiccup stood too, stretching his shoulder with a groan. “Just one. No racing.”
“No promises.”
They took to the sky like they belonged there.
Stormfly spiraled ahead, wings outstretched, while Toothless kept to a gliding pace, letting the thermals carry them. The clouds were light, the wind steady. It was the kind of flight that made you forget the world below—slow, soaring, effortless.
Hiccup relaxed into it.
Toothless let out a low, lazy chirp.
Until—
He jolted.
His whole body stiffened under Hiccup’s seat, muscles going taut. Then—jerk.
Left.
Sudden.
Hard.
Hiccup’s hand went to the saddle instinctively. “Whoa—bud, what is it?”
But Toothless didn’t answer.
He stared straight into the mist bank forming over the eastern ridge.
Stormfly circled back, Astrid raising a brow. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Hiccup said, frowning. “Toothless saw something.”
A moment later, so did he.
Out of the fog came a shape—dark and fast, wings chopping through the haze like it was water.
It wasn’t a Night Fury.
Or a Deadly Nadder.
Or anything he recognized.
The dragon looked… wrong. Sloped in strange ways, longer than a Monstrous Nightmare, but somehow thinner. Its wings shimmered oddly when they caught the sun, a violet-storm hue wrapped in mist. Something dragged behind it—a patch? No—leather. A crude repair. Stitched.
There was a rider.
Slumped forward.
Hiccup’s stomach twisted. “They’re not okay.”
Astrid narrowed her eyes. “Is that—blood on the dragon’s back?”
The closer they came, the worse it looked.
The rider—young, from what Hiccup could tell—was nearly unconscious. His arms hung too loose, his grip slack. The dragon wobbled in its descent, wings sagging. Its head tilted now and then like it was fighting sleep—or worse.
“I’ve never seen a dragon fly like that,” Astrid said quietly. “Like it’s… spent.”
The light flared across the wing patch again.
Hand-stitched.
Burned leather.
Something about it made Hiccup go cold.
He looked at Astrid—and she was already looking back, nodding.
Go.
Toothless dove.
Stormfly followed, faster.
The strangers tilted, lost height—then plummeted too fast, crashing into the tall grasses east of the cliff.
They disappeared into green.
Hiccup didn’t hesitate.
He and Astrid dove after them, already shouting.
They found the crash site in a ripple of flattened grass, the wind still rustling over the bent stalks like it hadn’t noticed the violence.
Toothless landed first, kicking up dirt with a rough skid. Stormfly wasn’t far behind. Astrid leapt down before Hiccup could say anything.
The dragon lay still.
Not dead—but not far from it.
Astrid’s breath caught.
It was unlike any dragon she’d ever seen—not just in form, but in feel. The light bent strangely around it, its violet-black scales veiled in a glimmering haze like sea fog caught in moonlight. Its wings—massive and semi-transparent—splayed unevenly across the grass, freckled with white-silver flecks that shimmered like constellations. One wing bore a jagged leather patch, stitched with singed hide and curling vine. Crude. Desperate.
The dragon’s chest rose and fell in shallow rhythm. A faint, fractured hum trembled from deep in its throat.
Beside it—curled against its ribs, limp and folded in—was the boy.
Hiccup was already at his side, heart racing.
The boy didn’t look older than sixteen. Thin, sunken. Not from malnourishment alone, but exhaustion. The kind you didn’t sleep off. His clothes hung loose and torn over his frame, stained with salt and smoke. His arms were scraped and bruised. One leg ended just above the knee, wrapped in soot-stained leather and rough cloth. A jagged wooden prosthetic was strapped in its place—no balance to it, just a carved slat of weathered plank, crookedly reinforced with bent nails and part of what looked like a hinge. Metal. Salvaged from something important.
Freckles dusted every inch of exposed skin—dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands—like someone had pressed him full of stars.
And his hair—gods—his hair was fire. A halo of damp, bright red curls clung to his forehead, curling around his ears and temples like smoke left behind.
He looked like a boy carved from flame and forgotten by the sea.
“Hey,” Hiccup murmured, lowering to his knees, brushing a soot-streaked curl from the boy’s cheek. “Can you hear me?”
No stir. No sound. But breath still moved faintly from his nose, catching the grass in soft rhythm.
Alive.
Just barely.
“They’re breathing,” Hiccup said.
Astrid exhaled—relief, but not much. “But they won’t be for long.”
“I need you to ride back. Get Gothi. A stretcher. Maybe two. Tell them we’ve got an unknown species—wing damage, extreme fatigue. And the rider…” He paused, eyes drifting down again. “He’s worse.”
Astrid nodded, giving the dragon one last uneasy look. “I’m on it.”
She vaulted onto Stormfly and vanished skyward.
When they were alone, Hiccup let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Toothless crept forward, his nose brushing the boy’s shoulder. The dragon’s ear twitched again, barely, but didn’t lift its head. Still conscious. Still protective.
But too far gone to fight.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Hiccup said gently, brushing a hand over the boy’s ribs to check for injury. “You’re safe now. I promise.”
His gaze returned to the leg.
Or what was left of it.
He didn’t know why the prosthetic caught him so hard in the chest—maybe because it looked so close to his own first attempt. A desperate imitation of function. The kind of thing you make because you have to move, not because it’ll work. It was strapped on with brittle cords and scorched bands of fabric. Barely holding.
But it had held.
The kid had flown with this. Who knew how far.
Hiccup’s fingers hovered near the straps.
He hesitated—not for permission, exactly, but for the weight of it. He knew what it meant to touch something that personal. Something that had replaced a piece of you.
Still, gently, he undid the ties.
The prosthetic came away with a damp tug, stiff with dried sweat and seawater. Hiccup turned it in his hands. Rusted iron, an old cabinet bracket, and broken shipboard. A whole story told in parts.
“You’re stubborn,” he whispered. “I get that.”
He set it aside and examined the stump. The wound was new. Angry. The skin tight and inflamed, blistered around the edge where scabbing hadn’t fully taken. A fine scar pressed into the upper thigh where a cord had bit deep. A tourniquet.
Not long healed.
The boy had done this himself. He hadn’t had a choice.
Hiccup’s hand went instinctively to his own knee, thumb brushing the edge of his prosthetic’s joint. He didn’t press hard. Didn’t need to.
He remembered.
He remembered the pain. The fury. The helplessness.
He remembered the moment you knew something had to go—or you wouldn’t make it.
He didn’t envy that choice.
But he understood it.
His chest ached.
With care, he slid his flight cloak from his shoulders and draped it over the boy’s chest, then took a folded cloth from his belt pouch and eased it beneath the stump so it wouldn’t rub against the damp grass.
“If it were me,” he murmured, “I’d want someone to treat it right.”
The wind whispered low across the field.
Toothless stepped closer, bumping Hiccup gently with his snout.
He nodded.
“I know.”
The strange dragon shifted faintly. Her head didn’t rise, but one eye slid open—white and glassy, like stormlight caught in stone. For a moment, it fixed on Hiccup.
Not aggressive.
Not afraid.
Just… watching.
And then it closed again.
Hiccup looked back at the boy—freckled, fierce even in unconsciousness.
He brushed the boy’s hair back a little more. “We’ll take care of you,” he said softly.
Then, quieter still: “I promise.”
And above them, the wind carried the promise out to sea.
The sound of wings returned before the figures did—low and rhythmic, stirring the mist like a drumbeat on the sea.
Astrid touched down first, Stormfly’s talons cutting smooth arcs into the flattened grass. The Nadder crooned softly as she landed, already sensing the tension in the air. Astrid swung down and jogged over without waiting, breath sharp in her chest.
Behind her came a strange little parade—each rider familiar, each dragon distinct. Valka soared down on Cloudjumper, her four wings shifting like sails as they banked hard and landed with precision. Gobber followed on a jittery Nadder, one prosthetic leg hanging off the saddle in a crooked arc, his dragon looking just as annoyed with his riding style as he was. Snotlout barely managed to hold on as the Gronckle he’d borrowed made a lazy descent, huffing grumpily at the effort. Last came Stoick, massive and unmoving atop Skullcrusher, his face carved in stone.
They weren’t a war party.
But they could be.
Each of them carried something: packs of supplies, field gear, and between Stoick and Valka, lashed between their dragons with weatherworn harnesses, were two stretchers. One wide. One narrow. One for a dragon. One for a boy.
When they hit the ground, the wind caught again—stirring the grass, lifting the ends of cloaks and hair and leather. Everyone dismounted in sync, save for Snotlout, who stumbled down with a loud grunt and a complaint half-formed in his mouth.
He didn’t finish it.
Not when he saw what lay in the hollow.
The dragon looked like it had been poured from moonlight and soaked in storm. Violet-black shimmer curled across her sides in a wet sheen, and her chest rose in faint, ragged breaths. Her wings—longer than any of them were used to—lay slack in the grass, one still freckled with a patch of stitched leather and frayed vines. She didn’t move. Not even to twitch her tail.
“Thor’s beard,” Gobber muttered, his voice low. “That ain’t like anything in the Book.”
“No,” Hiccup said. “She’s not in the Book. Neither of them are.”
He was crouched beside the boy—no, the kid—again. Lean, young, almost ethereal in how still he lay. A map of dark freckles stretched across his face and arms like constellations. His fiery red curls clung damp to his brow, and his frame, already too thin, looked skeletal beneath the tattered layers of fabric and ash-stained wrappings.
And then there was the leg.
Gobber leaned in, eyes narrowing as he spotted the lump of wood still strapped to the boy’s thigh with makeshift leather. “What in Helheim is that?”
“He made it himself,” Hiccup said. He lifted it slightly, careful as he showed them. “It’s… rough. Scrap wood. Rusted nails. Looks like a broken rafter spike at the base. But it worked. At least long enough to get him here.”
He looked to Valka. “He cut the leg off himself. Tourniquet scarring. Recent.”
Valka’s eyes flicked from the leg to her son, full of something like recognition. “Then he’s already survived more than most ever will.”
Stoick stepped closer, his shadow long over the grass. “We don’t know him. Or what this dragon is. For all we know, they brought trouble with them.”
“They brought pain with them,” Hiccup replied, not confrontational—just resolute. “They didn’t cause it.”
Stoick stared him down for a moment. But Hiccup didn’t flinch.
Astrid cleared her throat from beside the dragon. “She’s alive. But barely. Looks like she fought hard before she even got in the sky. Her whole system’s strained—like she’s been running on empty.”
“She probably has,” Hiccup murmured. “They’ve been in the air for days.”
Valka moved beside the dragon, lowering herself to one knee. Her hand reached out—slow, practiced, like she was greeting a wounded friend. Her palm hovered just inches above the shimmering scales.
The breath that answered her was weak. But it was there.
“She’s listening,” Valka whispered.
“She’s scared,” Hiccup corrected.
The dragon’s one eye opened again—a glint of pale silver beneath the lashes. Just a sliver. It met Hiccup’s gaze briefly… and closed again.
Stoick exhaled through his nose. “Let the elders decide what to make of this. For now… we carry them home.”
And so they did.
Gobber and Snotlout grunted and swore as they and Valka gently secured the dragon to the larger stretcher. Every movement was deliberate. Stormfly hovered close to offer warmth, while Cloudjumper adjusted the harnesses to balance the weight. Even Skullcrusher stood quiet, as if sensing something sacred about this rescue.
The boy was easier to move—but no less careful.
Hiccup wrapped the salvaged blanket tighter around him, lifting him with Gobber’s help and easing him onto the smaller stretcher. His head lolled, curls shifting against the fabric. A low groan left his throat—barely there, but enough to make Hiccup bend closer.
“Hey,” he whispered. “You’re safe. We’ve got you.”
The boy didn’t open his eyes. But his fingers twitched again.
“See that?” Hiccup looked at Stoick and Valka. “He’s still fighting.”
Valka’s voice was soft. “He reminds me of someone.”
Snotlout gave a grunt. “Reminds me of a twig in the wind.”
“Shut it and carry, lad,” Gobber snapped, elbowing him.
As they turned back toward the village, Hiccup walked alongside the stretchers. He spoke the whole time—softly, carefully—to both dragon and rider.
“Almost there,” he said. “Just a bit longer.”
“Toothless is nearby. He’s safe. You’re safe.”
“We’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
Behind him, Stoick and Valka followed at a slower pace, watching the boy speak with a kind of steady, instinctive compassion that neither had taught him—but both recognized.
“He’s grown,” Valka murmured, half to herself.
“He’s his mother’s son,” Stoick replied, voice quiet.
“And yours.”
They walked on.
Toward the forgehouse, toward the waiting healers, toward whatever the future would make of the strange boy and his fog-wrapped dragon.
But whatever lay ahead…
Hiccup had already decided:
They were not letting go.
Chapter 4: Hiccup
Chapter Text
The village was alive with a kind of restless wonder.
News had spread faster than any storm: a dragon, unknown and ancient, had crashed into the eastern fields with a rider on its back. People poured out from their homes, market stalls abandoned mid-trade, hearths left untended. Boots thudded on stone and dirt, voices called for healers, food, water, blankets. Curious eyes lined the walkways and fences, trying to glimpse the strangers as they were gently carried into the heart of Berk.
Fishlegs arrived late, tripping over his own boots, breathless, a handful of scrolls and a jar of ink clutched in one arm. But the moment his eyes landed on the dragon being carefully lowered into the recovery pen, everything fell from his hands.
"No. No way. That's not... it can't be—"
Astrid blinked at him. "You okay?"
Fishlegs shook his head, mouth agape. "That's a Nébulex."
That got everyone's attention.
Gobber, hauling a basin of water toward the pen, paused mid-step. "A what-now?"
Fishlegs was already pacing, hands flying. "The Nébulex! A Strike Class dragon—the ghost of the Strike Class, actually. It's supposed to be extinct. Or fictional. Or both!"
Hiccup stepped forward, frowning. "I thought it was a legend. One of the old skaldic sagas."
"It is! But it isn't!" Fishlegs gestured wildly at the dragon. "Look at the wings—semi-translucent, etched with constellation patterns. The mist clinging to her body. The eyes, Hiccup, they're glowing white. This... this is her!"
He looked like he might cry.
"The Nébulex bonds once. If it bonds at all. It’s solitary, almost never seen. The sagas say it was born when night was still young. No one—no one alive has ever claimed to see one and proved it."
Astrid raised a brow. "So you're saying this kid—some boy from who-knows-where—bonded with a living myth?"
Fishlegs nodded like his head was about to fall off. "Exactly. It’s said to descend from the primordial Fury line. It moves through storms like a ghost. Breathes fog, ignites it with a spark, vanishes into cloud like starlight. They call it the 'heartbeat of the void.' And he—he—" he pointed to the boy unconscious in the healer's hut, "is bonded to her."
Valka, quiet beside the pen, watched the dragon with awe. "And she’s letting herself be helped. That alone tells us something."
The dragon—Wisp—lay curled in the straw, eyes closed, chest rising in steadier rhythm than before. Gothi had prepared a damp, calming paste to soothe the membrane on her damaged wing. It shimmered under the torchlight, the star-freckled patches of her body glittering like the night sky.
Inside the healer's hut, the boy was laid out on a padded table, thin and trembling but alive. Gothi sat beside him, spooning a warm broth into his mouth with patient precision. With each swallow, color returned to his cheeks. His breathing deepened. His lashes twitched, then stilled.
She hummed softly, a sound somewhere between a lullaby and a charm. Then, with a pointed nod at the others, she waved them off with her staff, making her intentions clear.
"That means get out," Gobber translated helpfully. "She wants peace and quiet."
One by one, the crowd trickled away, some in wonder, some in silence, some whispering of omens and blessings. Fishlegs stayed only long enough to leave a wrapped scroll beside the door before hurrying off to write more.
Hiccup stayed.
He settled into a chair near the boy, watching the flickering candlelight dance over his features. The kid looked young. Fifteen, maybe. His skin was pale, but not lifeless anymore. Just... resting. Recovering.
The village had slowly quieted after the commotion. The dragon was resting in the pen nearby, the faint shimmer of her constellation-wings flickering under the moonlight. Gothi had long since left, her silent instructions still lingering in the hush of the hut. Everyone else had followed, save for one.
Hiccup sat in the wooden chair beside the low cot, elbows resting on his knees, hands loose in front of him. The boy on the bed hadn’t stirred in some time, but his breathing was stronger now. Color had returned to his cheeks. His face, still pale and freckled, looked less like a ghost and more like someone on the mend.
Hiccup found himself watching him longer than he meant to. There was something about the kid—something that pulled at him. Maybe it was the stump of his leg, still wrapped in salve-soaked bandages. Maybe it was the way he looked so young, too young to have carried himself through whatever storm had brought him here. Or maybe, Hiccup admitted silently, it was because he saw something familiar in the boy’s stillness. That quiet fight to keep going.
So he started talking.
“You know,” Hiccup said quietly, leaning back in the chair, “when I was around your age, I was a pretty terrible Viking.”
He huffed a breath of laughter. “I mean, really. I was scrawny. Smart-mouthed. I couldn’t lift an axe without dropping it. And dragons? We were still at war with them back then. I built a machine to shoot one down, and it actually worked. Hit a Night Fury. Didn’t know what to do with that kind of success.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, remembering. “But I went looking for it—wanted to prove I could finish what I started. Found him in the woods. Tangled. Hurt. Could’ve killed him.”
Hiccup’s voice softened. “But I didn’t.”
He looked toward the window, where the faint hum of the sea echoed beyond the cliffs.
“I set him free. And I came back every day after that. Toothless—that’s what I named him. You’ll meet him. He’s probably outside right now, pretending he doesn’t care about any of this. But he’s the reason I’m alive. The reason any of us are.”
He smiled faintly, eyes drifting to the boy’s still form. “Berk didn’t understand at first. My dad… he didn’t understand. That’s Stoick the Vast, by the way. My father. Big guy. Beard like a bear. Probably grunting in the village square right now, wondering what we brought home and if it’s going to curse the crops.”
Hiccup chuckled, then sighed. “He means well. Always has. But he’s stubborn. Like boulder-stubborn. When I was little, he didn’t really know how to… well. Be a dad, I guess. Not the way I needed. But he tried. He tried so hard. And when I lost my leg—after the Red Death—he was there. Carried me when I couldn’t walk. Sat next to me when they fitted the prosthetic. Didn’t say anything, just… stayed.”
He glanced down at his own metal foot, flexing it idly.
“My mom… she left when I was a baby. Everyone thought she died in a raid. But she didn’t. She was taken. Chose to live with dragons instead. For twenty years. I found her by accident, years later, in the middle of nowhere, feeding a pack of baby Hobblegrunts.”
He shook his head fondly. “She’s… amazing. Wild. Kind of terrifying. She talks to dragons like they’re family—and they talk back. When I brought her home, it felt like something impossible had been returned to me. She and Dad—they fight a lot, but they love each other. Even if they can’t always say it.”
Hiccup reached over and adjusted the blanket over the boy’s chest.
“And Astrid—she’s my… uh. Partner. Love of my life, depending who you ask. Fierce. She can swing a battle axe harder than anyone I know. And she’s always been honest with me. Even when I didn’t want to hear it. Especially then, actually.”
He leaned back with a tired grin. “And then there’s the others. Ruffnut and Tuffnut—twins. Total chaos in human form. You never want to be in a room alone with both of them. Or just one of them, actually. If they ask if you want to see something ‘cool,’ run.”
He rubbed his temple. “Snotlout. Gods help us all. Thinks he’s Thor’s gift to the world. He’s got an ego the size of a Skrill, and the self-preservation of a turnip. But he’s loyal. He comes when I call, and I can count on him. Even today.”
Hiccup’s smile turned softer. “And Fishlegs. Big guy, soft heart. Dragon nerd. Knows everything. And I mean everything. The second he saw your dragon, he almost passed out. Called it a Nébulex. Said they were extinct—or myths. He looked like he’d seen a star fall.”
The candle flame danced gently, flickering over the boy’s cheek.
“You’re not alone, you know,” Hiccup said, voice quieter now. “Whatever you came through… however far you flew. You made it. And you're not alone.”
He paused. Let the silence breathe.
Then, as he reached for his mug, something shifted.
A flicker of movement. Barely perceptible.
Hiccup froze. Slowly, he turned his head.
The boy’s eyes were open.
Wide. Still. Glinting faintly in the candlelight.
He was staring straight at him—unmoving, unblinking, almost as if he was afraid that if he made a sound, everything would disappear.
Hiccup sat very still.
He kept his voice low. “Hey. It’s okay.”
No answer.
“You’re safe. You’re in Berk. I’m Hiccup. You came in on a dragon, remember?”
Still nothing. The boy’s fingers twitched faintly beneath the blanket.
Hiccup nodded, keeping his tone steady. “I know it’s a lot. You’ve been through a lot. But we’re going to help. Your dragon’s safe, too. She’s just outside.”
He didn’t expect a response.
But he saw something flicker behind the boy’s wide eyes.
Recognition? Fear? He wasn’t sure.
But the boy was awake.
And that was enough for now.
Hiccup slowly stood, careful not to startle him. He crossed the room and poured a cup of water, the tin cup clinking gently as it filled. He returned and set it carefully on the small table beside the bed.
"If you’re thirsty, it’s here," he said. "Take it slow. Gothi’s broth does more than it looks like, but it’ll still hit you like a hammer if you rush it. Trust me, I’ve done it. Not pretty."
He lingered a moment, eyes sweeping the boy’s face, then the low beams of the ceiling above. The flicker in those eyes… it hadn’t been fear. Not entirely. There had been understanding there. Something aware, sharp, locked in place by shock.
Hiccup’s voice softened. "I’m in the big stone house, just up the main path. If you need anything. Just… knock. Or shout. Or throw something. I’ll hear."
He hesitated, then added with a crooked smile, "Or, you know, if you’re not the yelling type, Toothless is pretty good at fetch. Just toss a rock at the door. He’ll find me."
He tried for a laugh, short and unsure. "Here’s hoping we speak the same language. Or… close enough. Wouldn’t be the weirdest communication gap I’ve had to bridge, but it might be the most important."
As he turned and stepped into the doorway, he glanced back one last time.
The boy was still staring, still silent.
But there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Not just recognition. Not just confusion.
A trace of something else.
Safety.
Hiccup stepped out into the cool night air, the scent of damp wood and sea salt brushing over him as the door closed gently behind him. He rubbed a hand through his hair and shook his head lightly.
"Would’ve been nice to know I was signing up for this," he muttered to himself. "A myth, a storm, and a kid who looks like he’s seen the end of the world."
He sighed, almost fondly. "But hey—beats council meetings."
There was no regret in his voice. Only a flicker of something warmer.
Inside the hut, Leo lay still.
He hadn’t spoken. Not yet.
But his thoughts spun like wind.
He had understood every word. Every sentence.
And somehow, that made everything harder.
He hadn’t expected kindness. Not like that.
Not from a stranger. Not from anyone.
He stared at the ceiling, the soft candlelight pooling across the wood above.
"I don’t know what I got myself into," he whispered, his voice dry, almost hoarse from days of silence.
But for the first time in days, the words didn’t feel like a curse.
They felt like the start of something.
Chapter 5: Léo
Chapter Text
Léo hadn’t expected to wake up at all. Certainly not in a soft bed, surrounded by the smell of woodsmoke and sea air. He blinked against the thin golden light seeping through the window slats, breathing slow and shallow.
The hut was quiet. Too quiet. Not in a threatening way, but in the kind of way that made every thought feel too loud.
His body felt… odd. Not like it did during the worst days. The pain had dulled to a persistent ache, a reminder rather than a punishment. He felt stronger than he had in days—but also unsteady, like a newborn fawn standing for the first time.
His thoughts, however, were sharp. Cutting. Dangerous.
Where was Wisp?
He could remember, barely, hearing someone—maybe that Viking man—say she was nearby. But the memory blurred, like everything else. Panic stirred in his chest.
They could be lying.
What if she was gone?
He sat up too fast. The room spun. He reached for the edge of the bed, sucking in a breath. Then, slowly, he shifted his hips and swung his legs down—
And fell.
Hard.
The wooden floor slammed into his shoulder. His right side hit awkwardly, and his hands scraped along the planks as he instinctively reached for balance that wasn’t there.
The leg was gone.
He knew that. Gods, he knew that. He remembered it far too well—remembered the blood, the fire, the ocean wind mixing with the smell of charred flesh and burnt leather. But his prosthetic—the one he’d spent days shaping from broken wood and canvas and hope—it was gone too.
The door creaked.
There was a chirp, low and curious. And then the sound of claws on wood.
A dragon’s head poked into view—sleek and black, with wide, green eyes that glowed like sea-glass.
Léo froze.
Toothless blinked once, snorted gently, then stepped aside.
The man from the night before entered next—Hiccup. He had a bowl in one hand and a slightly frazzled look on his face.
“Woah, hey—hang on!” Hiccup said, setting the bowl down and rushing forward. “You alright? That looked… unpleasant.”
Léo grunted, still braced awkwardly with one arm. “I… fell.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” Hiccup replied, crouching beside him with a smile that was kind, not pitying. “Not your fault. Gothi was pretty adamant we take your old prosthetic off—said it looked like it’d give out mid-step anyway.”
He offered a steady hand. Léo hesitated, then took it.
“I brought soup,” Hiccup added as he helped him sit up against the bed. “It’s not fancy, but Gothi swears by it. Magical herbs or secret algae or… something. Anyway, you’ll feel better.”
Léo glanced at the steaming bowl. “Thank you.”
Hiccup blinked.
“You… understood me.”
“Yes.” Léo's voice was rough but certain. “I did last night too. Just… couldn’t talk. My head—was loud.”
A beat of silence.
Then Hiccup let out a breathy, relieved laugh. “Thank Thor. I was ready to start drawing pictograms in the dirt. You do not want to see me try to draw a dragon. They always look like angry sheep.”
Léo gave the tiniest, strangled laugh.
“I am Léo,” he said, softer now.
“Léo,” Hiccup repeated. “I like it.”
Léo shifted again, glancing at the empty space below his right thigh. “Um. My leg?”
“Oh!” Hiccup stood, startled. “Right—yeah, sorry. That’s on me. I, uh—made you a new one.”
He crossed the room, rummaged beside a table, and pulled out a freshly carved and assembled prosthetic. It was carved with care, reinforced with smooth steel bands along the sides, and fitted with sturdy leather straps. The ankle joint featured a coiled spring mechanism—similar to Hiccup’s own design—meant to cushion impact and give a slight push forward with each step. It looked sturdier than anything Léo had built.
“I hope it fits,” Hiccup said, crouching again. “That old one of yours… it wasn’t safe. Functional, sure, but barely. I made you this instead. Might still need some adjustment, but it’s better than falling on your face again,” he added with a small smile.
He knelt beside Léo, adjusting the top strap around his thigh. “I’ll be honest—I’ve never built one with a working knee joint before. So this is... new territory. Let me know if anything feels off, alright? Too tight, weird tilt, any pinching—you say something and I’ll tweak it. We’ll get it just right. Alright, this strap goes here, just like this-”
Léo let him work.
And that’s when he noticed it.
The silver glint beneath Hiccup’s pants. The slight clink when he shifted his weight.
“You too?” Léo asked, eyes locked on the leg.
Hiccup followed his gaze and gave a lopsided grin. “Yup. Lost mine fighting a dragon. Or saving one, depending who you ask. Toothless here took the fall with me.”
Toothless chirped, almost smugly.
“We’re just two peas in a pod, huh?” Hiccup added, lightly touching their prosthetics together. “Well—me, you, and Gobber. But Gobber’s… optional. He’s kind of a lot. And smelly. And loud. And probably trying to break into your dragon pen right now with a bucket of yak jerky.”
Léo chuckled under his breath. A real one, this time. Tired, but real.
Hiccup handed him the soup bowl. “Go slow. If you pass out again, I will be the one stuck explaining to Gothi.”
Léo took the bowl, fingers brushing the rim. “Thank you.”
Hiccup leaned back on his heels. “You’re welcome, Léo. Really. You’re safe here.”
Léo looked down at the prosthetic, then at the soup, and finally—at Hiccup.
“Still not sure what I got myself into,” he murmured.
Hiccup laughed again, standing. “Welcome to Berk.”
Once the prosthetic was in place and adjusted, Hiccup let Léo take his time with the soup, not pushing him to talk or move too quickly. Léo ate slowly, spoon by spoon, his shoulders hunched as if expecting the warmth to vanish if he moved too fast.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Hiccup said gently, watching from his spot near the hearth. “I thought you might want to see your dragon. She’s just outside, in the healing pen.”
Léo nodded and carefully shifted forward. When he stood, he wobbled, the new prosthetic not yet fully familiar. Hiccup reached out, steadying him with a hand under his elbow.
“Easy,” he said. “Is anything rubbing? Pinching? Just say the word.”
Léo hesitated, testing his weight. “It’s fine. Just different.”
Hiccup gave a small nod but his voice softened. “When I got my first prosthetic, I didn’t tell anyone it didn’t fit right. I didn’t want to be a burden. Thought I could tough it out. Ended up with pain so bad I couldn’t sleep for days. Still flares up when it’s cold or I push too hard.”
Léo looked up, quietly taking that in. “Thank you,” he said. “But it's fine for now. Really.”
Hiccup smiled lightly. “Alright. Just don’t be a hero. Trust me, it’s overrated.”
Together, they stepped out into the morning sun, the light soft and golden as it filtered over the rooftops and warmed the misty air. They followed a narrow path behind the forgehouse, where the healing pens had been built into the hillside.
Wisp was there.
She lay coiled in the straw, her shimmering body catching the sun in slow pulses of light. The leather patch was still secured to her wing, but the torn membrane beneath it looked cleaner now, the surrounding scales tinged with healthy iridescence.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Wisp stirred. Her head lifted. Her gaze locked onto Léo—and her posture changed. Alert, but calm.
She didn’t move away when he stepped closer.
Léo crossed the space between them, dropping to his knees with a faint grunt. He placed a gentle hand on her cheek, just below her glowing eye.
They didn’t speak.
But they didn’t need to.
Their silence said it all.
I don’t know where we are.
I don’t know what comes next.
But we have each other.
Hiccup watched from a respectful distance, Toothless by his side.
After a moment, he stepped forward. “If you don’t mind me asking... what happened to you two?”
Léo didn’t look up. His fingers ran softly along Wisp’s jaw.
He was silent for a long moment.
Then, in a low voice, he said, “Mercenaries. Paid ones. With dragons. Ones that used to protect us. But something changed.”
Hiccup didn’t interrupt.
“They turned on us. Set fire to the village. Melted the stone. There was acid. I was dragged, and I got hurt. My leg was broken. I was caught under timber. I had to…”
He swallowed.
“I made a tourniquet. Found an axe. There was no one left. I had no help, but I had to stop the venom from moving.”
His voice wavered. “So I cut it off.”
He drew a shaky breath, still not meeting Hiccup’s eyes. “My homeland’s gone. What’s left of it isn’t safe.”
Silence stretched.
Then a new voice, calm and kind, broke in.
“You’ve come far. And you’ve done the impossible.”
Léo turned.
A woman stood beside Hiccup now, tall and elegant, her long cape whispering against the grass. Her smile was soft.
“I’m Valka,” she said. “Hiccup’s mother.”
Léo nodded slowly. “Hello.”
Valka stepped closer, eyes drawn to Wisp. “She is beautiful. Truly.”
“She’s rare,” Hiccup added. “Very rare. Fishlegs nearly passed out identifying her.”
Valka nodded. “A Nébulex. Born from the first stormclouds of night. Thought to be extinct. If she’s bonded to you, then that means something.”
Léo looked between them. “She’s Wisp. That’s all. My Wisp. I would not be here without her.”
Toothless huffed quietly. Hiccup glanced at him with a small smile. “Yeah. I get that.”
Valka’s expression turned gentle again. “As much as I’d love to stay here all morning, the Elders have asked to meet you. When you’re ready.”
Léo looked back at Wisp.
Then he stood.
“Alright.”
He was ready.
-----
The Great Hall was filled with the low murmur of voices, thick with smoke and incense. Elders lined the stone table at the far end, draped in layers of fur and faded cloth. Runes etched into bone dangled from their necks or were tucked into belts and sleeves, old symbols inked into their skin and garments alike.
Léo stood at the center of it all, his shoulders taut, hands clasped tightly behind his back.
People filled the room—Vikings of all sizes, leaning in from every angle, whispering, watching. Their eyes were curious, some skeptical, others wary. Stoick stood near the front, a mountain of a man with arms crossed over his chest. His thick fur cloak made him look even larger, the braided ends of his beard twitching as he studied Léo with narrowed eyes.
The first elder, a hunched woman named Skarla, raised a handful of painted bones and let them fall onto the table. They clattered against the wood like dice, spinning and settling in strange patterns. Another elder muttered something under his breath, his fingers tracing the runes.
“This child is not cursed,” Skarla intoned at last, voice like old gravel. “But neither is his arrival without meaning.”
A third elder nodded solemnly. “There are patterns forming. Shadows rising. The storm does not come without a tide.”
Léo swallowed, his throat dry. The smoke made it hard to breathe, and the bones—so many bones—felt like they were watching him just as closely as the villagers.
Then another elder, older than the rest, with eyes milky from age, lifted her staff and spoke in a tone that silenced the room.
“There is an old tale,” she said. “One whispered in skaldic rhymes, long forgotten.”
Her staff thudded once on the stone.
“A time of fire. A time of acid. Mercenaries who ride beasts not their own. Dragons poisoned in mind, stripped of will. A leader born without mercy, without kin. Who seeks only gold and fear. Who burns the map to redraw it in ash.”
A hush fell across the hall.
She looked at Léo then.
“You did not bring them here,” she said softly. “But you have seen them. And you have survived.”
The runes were turned, one by one.
The reading, ultimately, was inconclusive.
Not cursed. Not blessed.
But important.
“Someone must take him into their home,” Skarla declared. “He cannot remain in the healer’s hut. To leave him in limbo would anger the threads.”
Before anyone could speak, Hiccup stepped forward.
“He can stay with me,” he said. “My house has more than enough space.”
There was a pause.
Stoick’s eyebrows lifted.
But no one argued.
—
Later, they walked side by side through the winding paths of Berk, the midday sun just beginning to break through the grey.
“See?” Hiccup said lightly, hands in his pockets. “That wasn’t too bad. I mean, inconclusive is better than conclusive—if it concludes badly.”
Léo huffed. “The bones. They stared.”
“Yeah, they do that.” Hiccup grinned. “Skarla once told me they could smell guilt. I didn’t sleep for a week.”
Léo let a small smile tug at his lips, but it vanished as quickly as it came.
A shout rang out from ahead.
“Hey, Carrot.”
Léo turned. The girl from earlier—the one with the braid like a battle rope and the sharp eyes—was standing a few paces away, arms crossed, a half-smirk on her face. Her voice had been teasing, but there was something familiar about it. Something that tugged.
Hiccup groaned good-naturedly. “Seriously? You’re doing this now?”
“I didn’t get to earlier,” she said, stepping closer, her eyes flicking toward Léo. “Besides, you’re not the only one who gets to meet the mysterious stranger with the mythical dragon.”
She stopped in front of Léo and held out a hand, chin tilted. “I’m Astrid. You’ve probably heard Hiccup talk about me. I’m the terrifying one with the axe and the excellent braid.”
Léo blinked at her for a moment, then carefully took her hand. “Léo,” he said. “With an accent.”
“I noticed,” she said, smile widening. “Nice to meet you, Léo-with-an-accent.”
He gave a small, crooked smile in return. “You are… with Hiccup?”
Astrid glanced sideways at Hiccup, who tried to look innocent.
“Sort of,” she said, teasing. “He likes to make things complicated.”
“I do not!” Hiccup protested.
“You once tried to apologize to me by baking a fishcake.”
“It was a symbolic gesture!”
Astrid laughed, and something in the sound eased a small knot in Léo’s chest. It wasn’t Liora’s laugh, but it was real. Alive. Grounded in something good.
“Well,” Astrid said, looking back at him, a little softer now, “it’s good you’re here. Weird circumstances, yeah. But… good. And if you ever need anything—and Hiccup’s being a pest—you can come find me.”
Léo nodded, unsure of what else to say. Her presence reminded him of someone he’d lost, and for a moment, all he could do was stand still, memories tugging at the corners of his mind.
Astrid didn’t press.
She just gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder and added, “Your dragon’s amazing, by the way. Wisp, right?”
“Oui,” Léo said quietly. “She is.”
“Take care of her,” Astrid said. “And let Hiccup take care of you. He’s annoyingly good at it.”
With that, she turned and walked off down the path, braid swinging, boots crunching through gravel.
Léo watched her go. Then turned to Hiccup.
“She reminds me of someone,” he said, voice low. “It hurts.”
Hiccup nodded. “Yeah. She does that.”
They didn’t get much further from the village before Hiccup veered off the main path without a word, leading them through knee-high grass that rustled softly in the wind. A gentle rise in the land offered a view of the sea curling beyond the cliffs, and the village below felt far away, just low roofs and smoke trails, nothing urgent.
Léo didn’t protest. He was grateful for the pause.
When they reached a smooth patch of earth, Hiccup dropped down into the grass and patted the spot beside him. Léo followed, settling slowly. His right leg stuck out stiffly, the new prosthetic digging in on the backside of his thigh.
They sat in comfortable silence for a minute. The breeze carried the scent of salt and sun-warmed grass, and the sky stretched cloudless above them, impossibly wide.
Then Hiccup said, without looking at him, “So… how’s it fitting?”
Léo exhaled through his nose. “You noticed.”
“You’ve got a little limp,” Hiccup said, finally glancing over. “Not bad. I know you're learning, still adjusting. It's just a bit more pronounced than it was this morning. I don't think most would even clock it. But I’ve been there.”
Léo ran a hand along the side of the socket. “It’s not bad. Just… maybe something with the joint. A little tight.”
“I figured,” Hiccup said, already reaching into the small toolkit he always kept strapped to his belt. “It’s the knee, right? Never worked with a proper flex-joint for anyone else before. You’re my first.”
Léo gave a faint huff. “Lucky me.”
“Yeah, well—don’t brag about it,” Hiccup grinned. “Let me take a look when we get back. Shouldn’t take much. Maybe just loosen the upper band, shift the weight distribution.”
Léo nodded, then went quiet. The wind rustled the grass around them.
“I’d like to see her again,” he said after a beat.
Hiccup turned to him. “Wisp?”
Léo nodded. “Not just see. Maybe… take her out. Walk. Not far. We won't leave, but I don't think she likes cages.”
“She’s not caged,” Hiccup said gently. “But I get what you mean.”
Léo stared down the hill toward the direction of the pens. “She kept going for me. Even when I couldn’t move. Even when I was bleeding. If she hadn’t flown… we wouldn’t be here. I just want her to feel free again.”
Hiccup’s expression softened. “She trusts you. That’s rare, with dragons like her.”
“I know,” Léo said quietly. “But… I think I need to show her she can still trust me. Even now.”
There was a long silence.
“I think,” Hiccup said, “she already knows. But if a walk helps, I’ll come with you. Toothless probably wants to stretch his wings anyway.”
Léo gave a slight smile. “I’d like that.”
They didn’t move yet. Just sat in the golden quiet for a while longer, letting the wind pass through the grass around them, letting the sun warm the edges of something in them both that still ached—but not as sharply as before.
imdeadtiredTM on Chapter 5 Sun 03 Aug 2025 03:08PM UTC
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imdeadtiredTM on Chapter 5 Sun 03 Aug 2025 03:14PM UTC
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Moondrako on Chapter 5 Sun 03 Aug 2025 06:28PM UTC
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