Suspicion
The ring smelled like scorched earth and sweat. Ash still clung to the fence posts. A patch of dried blood stained the dirt near the center. No one asked whose it was.
"Listen up!" Gobber barked, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "If you thought dragons were scary before—good! You should be scared. It'll keep you alive."
We stood in a rough half-circle: Hiccup, Fishlegs, the twins, Snotlout, and I. All of us still bruised from the raid. All of us quieter than usual. The silence between us was heavier than any armor.
Gobber hobbled to the edge of the ring, hoisting a battered board smeared with soot and scratched with rough sketches. "There are seven species you'll train with—if you're lucky. Fewer if you're not."
He pointed to the smudged drawings: Nadder, Gronckle, Nightmare, Zippleback... and three others I didn't recognize. One was limbless, like a snake with eyes that stared too long. Another had six legs and no wings. The third looked almost unfinished—just a silhouette with no name.
"These aren't pets. These aren't friends. They're weapons," Gobber said, his voice grim. "If you slip, if you hesitate—" He lobbed a charred boot into the ring. "That's all we'll find of you."
No one laughed.
Snotlout crossed his arms, chest puffed. "I've fought more than half of these already. This'll be cake."
Gobber didn't blink. "Good. Then you can go first."
Snotlout's smirk faltered.
From behind the iron gate, something growled.
A Nadder. The same kind that nearly ripped me in half during the raid. It strutted out, scales burning like liquid bronze, talons slicing the dirt with every step. Its eyes locked on Snotlout, unblinking.
Snotlout swallowed hard.
"Shield only," Gobber said. "No weapons. You're not fighting. You're surviving."
Snotlout raised his shield. "Easy," he muttered, though his voice shook slightly.
The Nadder screamed.
He lasted nine seconds.
My turn came third. The gate groaned. A Gronckle this time—fat, angry, already grinding rocks between its jagged teeth.
"Don't let it pin you," Gobber warned.
I didn't. I kept low. Shield raised. Watched the tail, counted its breaths. It lunged—I rolled, jammed the shield between its teeth, and dove behind the training post. Not to hide. To bait it. It bit. Wood exploded. I moved again. My body remembered what pain had taught it.
Thirty-two seconds.
Gobber nodded. "Decent."
I turned to Hiccup. He wasn't watching me. He was watching the Gronckle—his gaze steady, not afraid. Not angry. Just… curious. Like he was studying it. Listening to it.
When Gobber called his name, he hesitated. Then stepped forward.
No shield. No armor.
Gobber squinted. "You forget something, lad?"
Hiccup didn't answer. He walked into the ring like it was a quiet room, not a war zone.
The Zippleback slithered out next—two heads, four eyes, one cloud of gas already misting the air.
Hiccup didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
He crouched slowly. Held out an empty hand. "Hey," he whispered. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The dragon blinked. Its heads twitched. Gas hissed. Sparks lit.
And then—
Nothing.
They stared at each other. Fifteen full seconds.
Then Gobber hurled a hammer against the fence with a clang. The Zippleback roared, lunging in a burst of fire and teeth. Hiccup dove, rolled, and sprinted clear before the flames landed.
The others erupted—laughing, yelling, cursing.
But I just watched him.
At first, I thought he was restless. All of us were. The raids, the training, the constant weight of death above our heads—it frayed the nerves. But Hiccup... was different. Always had been. And lately, it was like he was wearing the wrong skin—like his thoughts were too big, his feelings too loud for the quiet life he was forced to live.
So I started noticing. The way he left early. Came back late. Covered in soot some mornings, soaked to the knees in seawater others. Like he'd been crawling through tide pools. Or chimneys.
Once, I found a broken pulley in the old cove. Frayed rope. Marks in the mud leading into the cliffs. The trail ended halfway up a sheer wall—too steep for anyone full-grown. Exactly Hiccup-sized.
"Where were you last night?" I asked casually, picking at stale bread during breakfast.
He blinked. "Nowhere."
"Nowhere's cold this time of year."
He shrugged. "Just walking."
His voice didn't crack. His eyes didn't waver. But his hands—ink-stained, oil-slicked—trembled slightly against the table. Not blacksmith soot. It was too fine. Too deliberate.
Two nights later, I saw him slip past curfew. I didn't call out. Just followed. The moon was a pale coin, washing the cliffs in silver and shadow. He moved fast, faster than someone with arms like kindling had any right to. Down through the trees. Past the old fish racks. Into the hollow behind the forge, where the ground cracked open like an old scar.
I waited.
Ten minutes. Then twenty.
Then—I heard it.
A low huff. Not wind. Not waves.
Breath. Thick. Wet. Alive.
I crept forward, sword drawn. A gust of warm air hit me—reeking of sulfur and damp stone.
Then Hiccup's voice. Barely a whisper.
And claws. Scraping stone.
I froze.
When I peeked over the ridge—he was gone. No sound. No footprints. Just a single, perfect scorch mark in the snow. Circular. Still steaming.
The next morning, he looked like hell. Eyes sunken. Movements sluggish. But beneath the exhaustion, something new. Something sharp. Focused. Dangerous.
When the Nightmare charged during training, he didn't blink. Just stepped aside, calm, calculated. Like he'd predicted the exact second it would move.
Gobber clapped. "Not bad, lad!"
But Hiccup didn't smile. His eyes drifted back to the cliffs.
That night, I broke into the forge. It was empty. Cold.
Until I reached the workbench.
Blueprints. Levers. Hinges. Coils. And something else—metal frames shaped like wings. Foldable. Mechanical. Carefully drawn schematics, more complex than anything a village apprentice should be able to build.
In the corner, written in messy, slanted script:
"Retractable Tail Fin — Prototype 4. For… Toothless?"
I stared at the name, throat tight.
Who was Toothless?
And more importantly—
What was Hiccup doing?
I couldn't do much. Father had left in search of the Dragons' Nest, chasing legends with fire in his eyes and a sword in his hand. That left the village—and all the expectations—in mine. Between training, chores, and keeping things from falling apart, I didn't have time for secrets or mysteries. So I put it on hold. Whatever Hiccup was doing... I looked the other way.
It's been weeks, and dragon training has finally come to an end. During training, I focused on overpowering the dragons—brute strength, precision, dominance. That was what being a Viking meant, wasn't it?
But Hiccup... he did things differently. He moved around the dragons like he was dancing with them, always watching, always waiting. He didn't overpower them. He understood them. At first, I didn't get it. I thought he was just being clever—too clever. But maybe it was more than that. Maybe he knew something I didn't. Something I was afraid to learn.
In the end, we tied for first place. Hiccup earned it through ingenuity and speed. I earned it with blood and bruises. We were both granted the honor of slaying a dragon in front of the village. A rite of passage. A tradition.
Father returned from the hunt the day before the ceremony. The ships came crawling into the harbor, torn and beaten. The air at the docks was thick with silence, broken only by the groan of wood and the hiss of wind.
Then Gobber arrived, booming with laughter and pride. "Berk's got two new legends! The heirs of Stoick the Vast!" he shouted, waving his arms.
Every Viking turned. Faces lined with soot and weariness lit up with hope as Gobber continued, "Erik, with his fists, crushed every dragon he faced! And Hiccup—Hiccup used his wits, his speed! Took 'em down like he was born to do it!"
For the first time in days, my father laughed. Not the usual bellowing pride he wore like armor. No—this was different. Softer. Real.
"Tell me more, Gobber," he said, eyes brightening like the sun breaking through storm clouds.
Later that night, I returned from training and started making dinner. Hiccup was in his room, quiet as usual. I heard the front door creak open, followed by my father's voice shaking the walls. He came in, eyes wide, laughter spilling from his chest. Gobber waved goodbye from outside as the door closed.
Then Father turned to me. Without warning, he scooped me up, spun me in the air like I was a child again, and grinned so wide it almost looked painful.
"You and Hiccup," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. "You're my greatest treasures. My pride and joy."
Hiccup peeked from his doorway. Father didn't hesitate—he yanked him into the same bone-crushing hug.
For a moment, it felt like everything was finally right. Like maybe we could stay like this forever.
But during dinner, while Father and I talked and laughed, Hiccup stayed quiet. He pushed food around his plate, his eyes flicking up toward us now and then. When our father said something especially proud about the fight tomorrow, Hiccup smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes.
I should've asked. I should've known.
The next day, the arena was packed. The whole village buzzed with energy—chants, drums, excitement crackling in the air like lightning before a storm.
I went first. Sword at my side. Shield on my arm. Knife at my belt. My armor was polished. My nerves coiled.
The gates slammed shut behind me.
Across the ring, another gate groaned open. A Monstrous Nightmare stormed out—fire trailing in its wake, jaws wide, eyes blazing. The heat hit me like a wave. I froze. Not in fear. In awe.
Then it roared, and I moved.
A system message popped up, but I ignored it.
Shield up. Fire struck like a hammer. Wood splintered. My arm burned. I didn't stop. It lunged. I dodged. Swung. My blade bounced off its hide like a toy. It roared again, tail lashing out.
Crack.
I flew. The wall caught me. Pain exploded in my ribs. The world tilted.
And then—
[Skill Activated: Battle Trance]
Everything shifted.
The pain dulled. My vision sharpened. The beast wasn't just a blur of fire and teeth anymore—it was a map of weak points. A pattern of breath, muscle, and movement. A dance I suddenly knew the steps to.
I rose.
The crowd chanted my name, but they were ghosts. All that existed was me and the dragon.
It charged.
I moved like water.
Slash—wing joint. Blood.
Roll—under claw.
Strike—neck.
I climbed, fire brushing past me, my skin blistering but my grip firm. I saw it all so clearly. The place where the skull met the spine. Where even a monster could bleed.
"For Berk!" I screamed.
"For my brother. For my father."
And I struck. The dagger sank deep. The Nightmare gave one last cry—fierce, defiant—and collapsed.
Thunderous silence.
Then:
"ERIK! ERIK! ERIK!"
They screamed my name. They praised me like a god. I stood atop the corpse, smoke rising, my chest heaving.
But the trance faded.
Pain returned. My legs trembled. My arm hung limp. Blood dripped from my side.
And for the first time—I saw the dragon. Its body. Its eyes. Its fire, now just smoke. It hadn't been evil. It had just been fighting for its life.
I turned, heart pounding, and searched the crowd. Father stood tall, beaming with pride. Shouting my name.
Then I saw Hiccup.
He wasn't smiling. He wasn't cheering.
He looked like he was mourning.
I left the ring confused, my body aching and my thoughts even more tangled than my wounds. As the crowd roared and the arena was swarmed by villagers to clean the aftermath, I wandered toward Hiccup. I had questions—so many questions. I opened my mouth to ask him something, anything...
But before I could, Father pulled me in—lifting me off the ground like I was still a boy and bellowing loud enough to shake the skies.
"This!" he roared. "This is the son of Stoick the Vast! The next Chief of Berk!"
The villagers cheered.
"You'll carve your name into legend!" he shouted, gripping my shoulders with pride glowing in his eyes. "Just like me. No—greater than me!"
The crowd clapped and whistled. I glanced back at Hiccup. He was silent. I decided to ask him later.
After the ring was cleared, it was Hiccup's turn.
He walked into the arena slowly. No shield. No helmet. No sword.
Nothing.
Just Hiccup.
Whispers rippled through the stands.
"What's he doing?"
"Is he mad?"
The gate on the far side creaked open. Another Monstrous Nightmare came barreling out, flames already dancing along its back.
And Hiccup didn't move.
He stood there, small and fragile against the monster's fury. But he didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his hands to defend himself.
Instead... he started talking.
"It's okay," he said softly, voice barely carrying through the arena. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The Nightmare snarled, smoke curling from its nostrils.
"They're not mindless," Hiccup said louder now, looking up at the stands. "They're not beasts. They feel. They hurt. They fear. They think. We've been fighting them for so long that we've forgotten to ask—why?"
Gasps. Shouts of confusion.
Someone laughed. Others jeered.
But Hiccup kept going.
"We could come to an understanding," he said. "We don't have to kill them."
The Nightmare slowly lowered its head, confused, cautious. It didn't attack. Not yet.
Then Father stood, face red, fists clenched.
"Stop this madness!" he shouted.
Hiccup didn't stop.
Father slammed his fist against the metal railing surrounding the ring with a sharp clang.
That one sound shattered everything.
The Nightmare shrieked and snapped back into a frenzy, roaring and lashing out, fire bursting from its mouth.
Chaos.
It attacked everything—sand, stone, air, nothing was safe.
Father and I ran toward the ring to help, weapons drawn, but before I could reach the gate, a strange, shrill sound rang out behind me.
Boom!
Smoke erupted—thick and sudden, swallowing the arena's edge. I stumbled back, coughing, blinking through the haze.
When the smoke cleared...
There was a hole in the side of the ring wall.
And a dragon stood in front of Hiccup—sleek, black, with gleaming green eyes and a stance ready to fight.
It stood between him and the Nightmare. Protective. Defiant.
I froze.
A Night Fury.
A myth. A ghost. The deadliest dragon of all.
And it was protecting my brother.
Hiccup didn't look scared.
He looked relieved.
Father didn't wait.
"Get it down!" he shouted. "Now!"
Vikings surged in with nets and ropes. The Nightmare was finally cornered and wrangled back into its cage, thrashing all the way.
The Night Fury tried to run. It fought hard—but there were too many of them. Too many nets. Too many chains. It fell with a cry that sounded more like sorrow than rage.
Hiccup rushed to it, arms out. "Stop! Stop! He's not dangerous! He's my friend!"
Friend?
"This is Toothless!" Hiccup shouted. "He's not like the others. He wouldn't hurt anyone!"
The crowd stared. Silent. Conflicted.
Toothless?
My mind spun.
I thought back—back to the sketches, the strange tailfin drawings Hiccup had been hiding. I thought he was just doodling, just wasting time.
But it wasn't just art.
He built something. For this dragon.
And now I understand.
Why the tailfin was so important.
Why he kept slipping away during training.
Why he refused to kill.
But I didn't understand something else—something deeper:
Why?
Why would he defend a dragon?
Why risk his life for one of them?
Why stand between us and the very creatures that had taken so much from us—our homes, our people...
Our mother?