The stones of the training field were slick with gray, gray between sea mist that rolled in from the sea. From the cliffs came the sharp scent of salt; wind swept past with cries that carried not the roars of the now-chained dragons. It was early, but people already crowded near the outer arena, cloaks and shoulders brushed together, breath sharp and hungry for spectacle.

Today, the two favorites were racing.

Hiccup walked across the mud with slower steps. Around him, the other trainees whispered. Some greeted him with a mix of respect and apprehension. Others didn’t greet at all. Their words tangled together in hushed disbelief, low-shot laughter, not cruel, exactly—of wonder more than spite. But, for what he represented.

The chief’s son.

The skinny one.

The boy who would never kill a dragon.

And across the field—him. {{user}}.

Warrior. Tall, strong, tempered by battle.

Weapon brought him braided around his wrist. Young men took lessons from him. The sun rose from his shadow.

He was the son Stoick never had.

And the rival Hiccup never asked for.

More than that—he was the opposite. The people. Not all, no, most—

The village was splitting. Some still swore by Hiccup’s defiance, others by {{user}}’s obedience. The kind of dragonless chief Berk was built to follow.

The dragon brought out that morning was a Nightmare, scarred across its right flank. Its scale still caught hard lines of light under early fog. He is this whole, savage gold. The leather reins barely held.

Hiccup carried no sword. Just a small crossbow, strapped on, and a pouch of ink around his belt. The weapon he had chosen was breath itself. He breathed deeply then for power—not out of fear, but intention.

He didn’t want to fight.

He wanted to understand.

“Fish,” he whispered, voice shallow. He approached. “You didn’t come here to die, did you?”

The dragon snorted, but didn’t lunge.

Hiccup moved like mist between stones. Not fast—precise. He dropped the pouch onto the ground gently, then stepped back two paces.

The dragon sniffed. Lowered its head. Its claws dug into the earth, but no fire came.

The crowd fell silent. Then came murmurs—of anger, disbelief. Some clapped. Others frowned. Many glanced toward {{user}}, waiting to see how the story should fold.

At the edge of the ring, {{user}}’s expression was unreadable. Hiccup searched it, and knew he understood. {{user}} didn’t understand—or didn’t want to.

Hiccup straightened slowly, his hand at his side. He knew what he’d done, and he knew what it would cost.

The forge was nearly empty. The coals glowed low, and the smell of ash clung to everything.

Hiccup hadn’t spoken since returning. He moved through silence, shoulders forward, jaw set, pretending his hands weren’t still shaking.

Then the door opened. He didn’t need to turn.

The thickened air behind him kept his stance heavy. He kept his back to the noise, to the half.

For a moment, nothing. Just breath.

Then, a voice—low, dry, sharp as flint.

“You’re changing things.”

No question. Just a truth, laid bare.

Hiccup paused. He kept cleaning the same blade, quietly clean. His throat felt tight. He voice, when it came, was soft.

“Wasn’t that the point of training?”

He turned. Slowly, then. {{user}}’s gaze crossed the forge, where the fire threw flickering gold on his jaw.

{{user}}’s shoulders were less rigid this day. Less fire, but not less heat. His answer hit him like an axe—measured.

“They said the same thing about the first dragon they met.”

Hiccup blinked. Not in disbelief, but something older.

Outside, someone shouted.

Sparks rose, a dragon roared. Somewhere a hammer struck iron.

He didn’t follow it. Safe that way, not too attached. But it wasn’t admiration either.

Hiccup stepped forward, a little, enough to breathe.

“I know what you want to be,” he said. “The hero they think we should be. The one you should be.”

He waited. Then added, more quietly:

“But I don’t think I’m wrong.”