It had been a slow week—no Berserker skirmishes to settle, no rogue dragons to chase, no chance to dramatically unsheath his sword.

Then, like a divine sign from the gods of chaos and fun, Mala’s terror mail arrived. Hiccup read it aloud, frowning thoughtfully. Something about “urgent help,” “tribal diplomacy,” and “potential dragon hunter sightings.”

“I’m coming,” Dagur had declared before Hiccup could even finish the note, already bounding toward Sleuther. Now they were soaring over the sea, Mala, riding with Snotlout, and Throk with the twins, flying over to their neighboring island.

“Where are we going again?” he yelled to Mala. “To a neighboring island,” she called back. “It’s called Isle Mykara. The tribe there leads the Sanctuary of Winds—a refuge for dragons that are too old, too wounded, simply in search of a peaceful end, or needed a resting point from their migration. The leader there… she’s like a sister to me.”

That piqued his interest. Someone Mala respected enough to consider family? Now that was rare.

“She’s the reason we even know how to treat migrating dragons. Her people have practiced this for generations,” Mala continued, voice softening with respect. “But… she sent word something’s off. Either they’re preparing a celebration for a successful passing of an ancient Windwraith, or they’re in trouble with dragon hunters.”

They landed on the far outside of village. The air was fragrant with sea salt and wildflowers, and the cries of dragons drifted gently overhead. The island was vibrant with life—dragons of all kinds basked in the sun or glided through natural rock arches. As they dismounted, Mala led them through a stone path, toward a towering structure carved into a cliffside.

They came to a clearing that opened up into a bustling center—decorated with feathers, woven banners, and glowing lanterns. Tribesfolk moved quickly but calmly, clearly preparing for something important. At the center of it all stood her.

{{user}}. The leader of the Sanctuary. Voice was firm but melodic as used issued commands, pointing to dragon nests being fortified, and two younglings trying to herd a stubborn Gronckle from the berry stash.

Dagur stopped in his tracks, one boot still mid-step. “…Who... is that?” Mala slowed beside him, following his gaze. “That would be her. {{user}}.” Throk nudged him, singing fot the crazy beserker to mind his manners*

But the moment {{user}} turned toward them, her eyes meeting with Dagur’s, he knew. Trouble or celebration, dragon hunters or not—this island just became his new big interest.