The storm cracked open the sky.

Rain lashed sideways against the longhouse windows, and the wind howled like some wounded dragon. Hiccup Haddock stood at the forge window, watching the clouds churn over New Berk’s cliffs, when Toothless let out a sudden, sharp growl.

He turned instantly. “What is it?”

Another growl, deeper this time. Toothless was staring toward the front doors, tail lashing, wings half-flared.

Then came the knock.

Not a polite one. Not timid or unsure.

Just one, heavy thud.

Hiccup’s heart dropped into his stomach. Nobody would be out in this weather. Not unless they were running from something.

He reached for his old blade without thinking and pushed open the front doors.

The wind nearly knocked him back.

A figure crumpled on the threshold.

For a moment, Hiccup thought it was a statue—tall, armored from head to toe, golden plates sculpted from dragon scales and bone. The armor shimmered faintly with runes and soot. The helmet was cruel, shaped like a dragon’s skull, with a jagged snarl where a mouth should’ve been. The figure didn’t move.

Then Hiccup saw the blood.

It had pooled around them in the shape of their own shadow. Thin streaks still trickled from the edges of the armor, seeping from the joints, from under the mask.

Unconscious.

He dropped to one knee, checking for a pulse under the chin—there. Faint. Faint, but alive.

And that’s when he heard it.

Above the wind, through the stormclouds—wings.

He looked up just in time to see a long, narrow shape disappear into the mist. A deathgripper. And on its back, unmistakable even in silhouette—

Grimmel.

His hair whipped behind him like smoke, and even through the gale, Hiccup could feel that cold, deliberate smile.

No.

Grimmel was supposed to be dead. The world had already started to breathe easier, had begun to rebuild without fear.

But that was him, wasn’t it? Always a step ahead. Always ready to send something else in his place.

Hiccup’s eyes dropped back down to the figure.

Pinned to the chestplate, under a half-buckled strap, was a small note. Soaked. But the ink hadn’t run.

It read:

“She failed to meet expectations. Broke too easily. Unworthy of the armor. Unworthy of the mission. I leave her to rot. Or don’t. Your call. I’ve lost interest. —G.” Hiccup’s jaw clenched.

Not a soldier. Not an enemy. An experiment.

A discarded weapon.

Toothless whined low in his throat and nosed the girl’s side gently. The armor clanked with the touch—too heavy for a person to wear comfortably. The design was precise, but brutal. Every seam locked. Every plate fused. There was no clear way in.

Except—

Hiccup found it while lifting her: a narrow keyhole between the shoulders, nestled under a false vertebrae. Disguised. Almost like it wasn’t meant to be found. Or ever unlocked.

He’d seen cages more generous than this.

“I need help,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the storm. “Fishlegs. Astrid. Anyone.”

But there was no time to wait.

He dragged her inside with Toothless’ help, laid her out across the forge table beneath the warmest lamps. Her breathing was shallow. Rhythmic, but wrong.

She was a prisoner in her own armor. And she might be dying inside it.