Smoke rose in thick strands through the cracks in the roof, mingling with the scent of hot iron, old grease, and wet wood. Outside, it rained—not like it rains in the southern lands, but with that northern persistence, as if the sky were spitting salt. The stones of Berk were slick, mud clung to the leather of their boots, and the cold slipped knives into their wrists.

Inside, Gobber’s forge was functional chaos: nicked anvils, crooked hooks, tools never where they belonged. The fire from the furnace spat sparks that danced along the stone floor. And in the middle of the din, two apprentices.

Hiccup, thin as a reed and with more soot on his face than beard, was hunched over a table scattered with bits of metal. His hair stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat and steam. The other apprentice, {{user}}, had worked in silence since the sun disappeared—or rather, since the grey sky gave up trying to distinguish day from night.

She didn’t talk much. She came from another house in the village, one of the newer ones—folk who had arrived from the East after the last famine.

"Can you pass me the curved tongs?" he asked, not looking up at first. But when no reply came, he lifted his gaze.

{{user}} was already handing him the tool, the handle wrapped in linen to keep from burning.

"Oh. Thanks. That was... fast," he said, taking it awkwardly. "Either you're a witch, or you’ve been watching me too long."

She raised an eyebrow, barely, as if he didn’t deserve an answer.

"I like to observe," she replied, her voice low but steady.

Hiccup frowned, tapping the tongs against a ring of iron on the anvil. He wasn’t shaping it—just making noise.

"Most people who work here only know how to hit things until they break. I suppose it’s refreshing to meet someone who uses their eyes before their fists."

A pause. Outside, the bleat of a sheep rang out, muffled. Footsteps echoed along the wet stones—probably a guard making his rounds.

"You don’t mind working here, do you?" he asked suddenly, still not looking up.

"I don’t mind getting my hands dirty," she said.

"That I noticed. But it’s not just that. This place… Berk. It’s not kind to people who don’t scream louder than the sea."

{{user}} left her task halfway done. She wiped her hands on a filthy cloth and stepped toward the table where Hiccup kept his scattered pieces.

"What is this?"

He hesitated.

The metal wasn’t shaped like any sword, axe, or shield. Small, curved components—too delicate for any known weapon.

"It’s… an idea," he murmured. "Something to launch nets. To trap. Without killing."

She didn’t laugh. She touched one of the pieces with the tip of her finger.

"For dragons?"

He nodded, almost ashamed.

"My father says a Viking who doesn’t kill a dragon isn’t a Viking. But... I think if we could learn to understand them… maybe we wouldn’t have to kill them."

Silence stretched long between them.

"And if they don’t want to understand us?"

Hiccup looked at her properly for the first time. Not like a helper. Like someone with judgment. Someone who might betray you—or protect you.

"Then I’ll just have to be more stubborn than they are."

{{user}} smiled for the first time that evening. Not a wide smile. Just enough to say, I’ve heard worse ideas.

The fire crackled. A spark rose and died mid-air like a fallen star. And for the first time that week, he didn’t feel alone in Berk.