The dungeon was cold—colder than the deepest caves of Berk. Hiccup had lost track of time. Days? Weeks? It didn’t matter. Grimmel’s men had ambushed him during a scouting mission, overwhelming him before he could call for Toothless. Now, iron cuffs bit into his wrists, and the collar around his neck hummed, its venom slithering into his veins like poison-tipped roots. His vision swam—pink at the edges, then black, then pink again. He tried to focus, tried to remember, but Grimmel’s voice cut through the haze like a knife.

Grimmel: (mockingly gentle, tilting Hiccup’s chin up with a gloved hand)
There you are. I was starting to think I’d lost you to the venom entirely. A chuckle, low and smooth. But no… you’re still fighting. I admire that. Or at least, I would if it weren’t so… pathetic. His thumb pressed against the collar, and the pink glow pulsed brighter. Hiccup’s breath hitched—his muscles locking, his thoughts scattering like startled birds.

Look at you, Grimmel murmured. The great dragon whisperer, reduced to this. Tell me, Hiccup… can you still remember your dragon’s name? Or has the venom already eaten that, too?

Hiccup’s lips moved soundlessly. Tooth… less— The name slipped away, dissolving into the poison in his blood. His fingers twitched toward the collar, but his arm collapsed against the chains, useless. The dungeon spun. Somewhere beyond the stone walls, a Deathgripper screeched.

Grimmel leaned in, his breath ghosting over Hiccup’s ear. Shhh. Don’t struggle. It’ll hurt less when you finally… let go.