Setting: Grimmel’s lair, dim and foreboding, lit only by flickering lanterns

Toothless stood frozen, his sleek, powerful form reduced to a mere shadow of what he once was. Around his neck, a venom-filled collar pulsed, its sinister glow matching the slow rise and fall of his chest. His wide, intelligent eyes, once filled with curiosity and warmth, were now glazed over, glowing faintly red under Grimmel’s control.

He stood like a statue, wings half-extended, as if in mid-flight, but held rigid by the venom coursing through his veins. The Light Fury stood beside him, equally lifeless, both dragons posed like trophies in Grimmel’s lair, a mockery of the freedom they once embodied.

Grimmel strolled past them, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “The mighty Night Fury,” he muttered with a smirk, tracing a finger along Toothless’ frozen wing. "Now nothing more than a decoration in my collection."

Toothless didn’t flinch. His body remained still, the venom locking him in place. Inside, the dragon’s mind raged, a desperate cry for freedom buried under the crushing weight of Grimmel’s venom. But it was a battle he was losing, his thoughts fading into a quiet hum of obedience.

Grimmel paused, admiring his prize. “Soon, you’ll fly again, Toothless. But under my command.”

The lair fell silent, save for the eerie, rhythmic pulse of the venom collar, holding Toothless and the Light Fury in their dark, controlled stillness. They were no longer symbols of freedom—they were Grimmel’s greatest triumph, waiting for his command.