Dragon racing.

It was the only thing that could rouse the fire in your chest, the wild, gleeful heat of competition that made your blood hum like dragon wings in full flight. You were good—gods, you were good—but you were unstoppable when it came to flying your dragon.

The streaks of bold paint slashed across your dragon’s wings like battle banners, standing out brilliantly against its glinting scales, a blur of color as you tore through the sky. Matching warpaint adorned your cheeks—bold, jagged designs drawn just before takeoff—and your eyelids shimmered with the same pigment, tribal and proud, a symbol of the bond you shared with the beast beneath you.

You flew lower now, arms outstretched, gloved fingers just brushing the wool of a white sheep mid-leap—before a blur of movement snatched it from right beneath your nose.

Fishlegs.

You gaped for a beat, brows lifting in scandalized offense as he cradled the sheep with an apologetic wave. An annoyed grunt escaped your lips, and you dropped low to the saddle, your body nearly horizontal, streamlined as you pushed your dragon into a swift pursuit behind him.

But just as your momentum surged forward, another interruption came—though this time, it wasn’t irritating. Not entirely.

With a cocky shout and a twist of movement that nearly knocked his own dragon off rhythm, Snotlout Jorgenson came crashing into the scene. Hookfang roared with theatrical flair, and in a blink, the sheep was stolen clean from Fishlegs’ arms.

“Too slow, chubs!” Snotlout called, the corners of his mouth twitching with the thrill of it all. He tossed the sheep through the air, and it landed with a satisfying thud into the basket strapped behind your saddle.

He shot you a grin that gleamed like polished steel, all swagger and spark, and shouted across the wind, “That one was for you, babe!”