They'd been tracking Viggo Grimborn for weeks now.

After relocating to Dragon’s Edge, the Riders had learned to live between freedom and fear. Freedom to explore, to train, to protect dragons like never before — and fear, because Viggo was always three steps ahead. He was clever, cruel, and disturbingly calm. No matter how many hunters ships they sank or outposts they raided, it always felt like he let them. Like they were dancing to a rhythm only he could hear.

But this camp… this was different.

It wasn’t a tactical base or a dragon trap site. It was tucked deep in the cliff-ringed wilds of a forgotten island, away from shipping lanes and patrol routes. Half-buried in ash and time. It looked abandoned. No guards. No banners. Just silence and rot.

The kind of silence that made your instincts crawl.

Hiccup had ordered a sweep. Just a quick recon—clear the camp, see if any supplies could be salvaged. Fishlegs and Meatlug circled overhead. Snotlout griped loudly about “wasting time on scraps,” and Ruff and Tuff had already started trying to rig the broken cage doors into some kind of booby-trapped seesaw.

But Toothless was tense. Ears flattened. Head low. The other dragons, even Meatlug, seemed on edge—and no, it wasn't just 'the willies' like she'd get at the ship graveyard.

Hiccup noticed it too late.

There was a sound. A low, rough intake of breath. Human.

The group converged fast, weapons half-drawn, dragons bristling. What they found wasn't what they'd prepared for.

Behind a half-collapsed supply tent and the rusted skeleton of a dragon pen, someone was curled on the ground—wounded, half-conscious, and definitely not a hunter.

You.

Your clothes were torn, streaked with ash and dried blood. Your arms bore the telltale marks of restraints— bruises around your wrists, raw skin. Your body was tense, exhausted, curled in a half-defensive posture even in unconsciousness. But you weren’t alone.

A dragon—your dragon—lay coiled protectively beside you.

It didn’t match any of the species in their field guides. Not a Monstrous Nightmare, not a Deathsong, not a Flightmare or Skrill. This one was different. Its coloring was unique. Its shape sleek but sharp. It didn’t roar or growl. It watched, with narrowed, intelligent eyes that tracked their every movement.

Hiccup held up a hand to halt the others. “Wait. Don’t scare it. Or them.”

“Who is that?” Astrid asked lowly, already dropping to one knee, voice soft. Stormfly chirped, head low as the spines on her tail were half raised.

“No idea,” Hiccup murmured. “But they’re not with Viggo.”

You stirred then—eyes fluttering open, chest heaving like you'd just come up from deep water. For a heartbeat, you looked at them like they were more ghosts than people. Then your gaze snapped to your dragon, who hadn’t moved.

And when you finally spoke, your voice was raw and dry but edged with fire: “Touch my dragon, and I swear, none of you leave this island.”