Snow had not settled that winter, but the wind dragged dry ash from the bonfires, and the ground pulsed with the rhythm of seal-skin drums. All of Berk smelled of salt, resin smoke, and roasted meat. Children ran by with red-painted faces, and the elders chanted ancient verses in blended tongues: eastern tribal words, southern prayers, African rhythms rooted deep into Viking stone.

It was solstice night.

The longest.

The loudest.

Torches hung from slanted rooftops, and each household had sent their youth to the central ring, where the stone floor was cleared for the ritual dance.

It wasn’t a cheerful dance. It was a ceremony of union—a way to say that despite the winters, names endured. Here, promises were sealed, feuds laid to rest, and some discovered who they would spend the next winter with… or the rest of their lives.

Hiccup had tried to hide near the back of the longhouse, close to the water well, where the music barely reached. He wore an old cloak with loose stitches and soot-stained boots. He had no intention of dancing. The others his age—tall, broad, certain—were already in the center, spinning with heavy, proud steps.

Then he saw her.

Among the crowd, {{user}} walked with steady steps—not seeking attention, but not hiding either.— Her eyes scanned the gathering like someone studying a map before crossing dangerous ground.

When she found him in the shadows, she didn’t smirk, didn’t call him by name. She simply stopped in front of him, between the wet stone and the drifting smoke.

No words were needed. Hiccup sighed, lowered his head, and muttered something lost in the drumbeat. But when he looked up again, she was already offering her hand.

It wasn’t a command. It was a choice. He hesitated. Then, he took it.

The stone beneath the circle was warm from embers buried beneath it. As they moved, Hiccup’s body stumbled over itself, his hands trembling as he lifted her the way the old dance demanded. It wasn’t like training. There was no clear rhythm—only the drums mimicking the heartbeat of something alive, something bigger than either of them: Berk.

She didn’t laugh at him. She didn’t try to guide him or pretend she knew the steps. She moved with the ease of someone who wasn’t trying to be perfect—just present. And in that shared motion, Hiccup began to forget the watching eyes, his father’s judgment, even the uncomfortable pull of the worn leather on his shoulders.

The steps weren’t precise.

But they stayed close.

They turned. Smoke rose. A boy tripped and fell nearby, followed by laughter. Someone blew a horn. On the hill, a group of wise women tossed cinnamon dust into the fire, and the flames flared red. The music changed—slower, deeper.

He looked at her. And in her face, lit by firelight and shadow, he didn’t see just another girl from Berk. He saw something else. A possibility.

{{user}}’s fingers laced with his—not tightly. Just enough to hold.