t was no secret that you were one of the few in Berk who loathed dragons—not with bitterness or disgust, but with a raw and bone-deep fear.

There was a time when that fear had made sense—when fire rained from the skies, when dragons were seen not as companions, but as beasts of war and chaos. But times had changed. Now, your tribe revered them like guardian spirits. Stables had been torn down and rebuilt into rookeries. Houses came with perch beams and dragon doors. Smoke no longer meant ruin—it meant home.

It felt like the entire island had shifted under your feet, and you hadn’t moved with it.

Everyone your age had bonded with a dragon before they were even old enough to lift a sword. They raced through the skies, shouted commands mid-flight, laughed over campfires with soot still on their cheeks and adrenaline burning in their veins.

And then there was you.

The only one still earthbound, the only one whose pulse galloped at the sound of wings. The only one who couldn’t climb into a saddle no matter how many times your sister—the Astrid Hofferson—offered.

Astrid: fearless, lauded, and untouchable. Berk’s golden warrior. She was everything you weren’t. Her name alone stirred awe. And you? You lived in the quiet shade of her legend, bent over herbs and healing scrolls in Gothi’s hut while others soared like gods.

But you were good at healing—exceptional, in fact. Gothi said so herself. You knew the language of fever, of broken bone and poisoned wound. You worked in silence, steady hands and clear eyes while dragons roared in the skies above you.

And so the village tolerated your fear. They gave you space. Until the day that changed everything.

The skies cracked open like thunder the morning Dagger returned—an old enemy, infamous and bitter, his ships tearing toward Berk like teeth. Dragons were summoned instantly. The riders—Hiccup’s gang—launched into the air with practiced precision. The rest of the villagers scrambled to escape.

On dragonback, of course.

They left in waves, wings beating frantically, people clutching saddlebags and children, fleeing toward the Dragon’s Edge. The island emptied quickly.

Except for you.

You hadn’t moved from Gothi’s outpost, tucked beside the rock-hewn medicine camp. Crouched behind a barrel, knees drawn in, the scent of dried sage and crushed root in your nose, your breath caught painfully in your throat.

You wanted to run. But how could you? How could you mount one of them?

Above, the familiar whoosh of wings sliced through the sky—but slower this time. Controlled. A shadow passed overhead, then looped back.

And then he saw you.

Toothless dropped fast and smooth, landing in a whirl of dirt. Hiccup jumped down, eyes scanning before locking onto yours. His brows lifted.

“What in Berk’s name are you still doing here?” he called out, half-confused, half-concerned. “Come on—we need to go!”

He reached out a hand, offering to pull you up behind him. Hiccup had never fully grasped just how deep your fear of dragons ran. He’d heard of you, of course—Astrid’s younger sister, the quiet one who kept to the healer’s hut and avoided the training grounds.

But until now, he’d never looked you in the eye, never stood close enough to see the way your entire body tensed at the mere presence of wings and flame.