"This is Berk," he narrated to himself with a weary sort of humor. "Twelve days north of Hopeless, a few degrees south of Freezing to Death. Smack in the middle of the Meridian of Misery. My village. In a word… sturdy."
His boots thudded across the worn wooden floor as he swung open the heavy door of his house. "It's been here for seven generations, but every single building is new. We've got fishing, hunting, and a great view of sunsets. Sounds nice, right?"
The door groaned on its hinges—and Hiccup froze.
Inside the hall, crouched like a demon made of molten scales, was a Monstrous Nightmare. Its serpentine body shifted, wings scraping the rafters, its burning gaze narrowing on the boy. A low hiss rattled from its throat, and then—fwump—a jet of fire roared toward him.
Hiccup slammed the door shut just in time, the heat searing his face.
He let out a short, almost resigned laugh. "The only problem are the pests. Most places have mice or mosquitoes. We have… dragons."
The village was chaos. Roofs burned, sparks flying skyward. Nadders wheeled overhead, their spined tails snapping like whips. Gronckles barreled through fences, smashing barrels and wagons. Vikings rushed to meet them, axes, hammers, and nets in hand, shouting war cries that echoed across the cliffs.
And in the middle of this storm, Hiccup darted from house to house, dodging the thunder of combat. "Dragons. Most people would leave. Not us. We're Vikings. We have stubbornness issues."
He ducked a falling beam, nearly colliding with a burly warrior. The man shoved him aside with a barked order to get back inside. Hiccup ignored it—mostly because the man was already too busy wrestling with a Deadly Nadder to notice the Monstrous Nightmare bearing down on the scrawny boy.
Its chest glowed, flames building in its throat.
Hiccup squeezed his eyes shut—
And then he was yanked bodily aside, his collar nearly choking him. A shadow loomed, and with a grunt like rolling thunder, a stone hammer crashed into the Nightmare's jaw, sending sparks and scales flying.
When Hiccup opened his eyes, he saw his father.
Stoick the Vast. Viking chief. Dragon-slayer. Mountain in human form. And right now, furious father.
"You shouldn't be out here, Hiccup," Stoick barked, his voice carrying over the chaos as naturally as the crash of waves on stone. "I gave strict orders you were to stay home, where it's safe."
"Safe?" Hiccup squeaked, brushing soot off his tunic. "Dad, Jinx hunted a dragon when he was ten—ten!—and that was before he got Silence and Midnight."
The excuse tumbled out of his mouth too easily. Using Jinx as a shield was a habit he couldn't break, much to Jinx's irritation.
Stoick's expression darkened. "We both know that boy was blessed with strength not of men but of Thor himself. Not even I could match it. And don't forget the Sculpture. Strange man, strange training. Not something you should aspire to."
Hiccup's mouth opened again, words scrambling for an escape. "But—"
"No buts!" Stoick cut him off. "You'll either stay in the forge where Gobber can keep you useful, or you'll stay inside where you can stay alive." His massive hand clapped Hiccup's shoulder, steady but unyielding. "Now off with you."
Turning away, Stoick lifted his hammer, calling over the din. "Gobber! What have we got?"
From somewhere among the fighting, a stocky Viking shouted, "Gronckles, Nadders, Zipplebacks! And Hoark swears he saw a Monstrous Nightmare!"
Stoick's eyes scanned the skies, ever the war-chief. "Any Night Furies? Or skrills?"
A warrior named Starkard, his beard singed by dragonfire, shook his head. "None so far."
A burning ember landed on Stoick's broad shoulder. He brushed it away with the same indifference one might swat at a fly.
"Good," he rumbled, gripping his hammer.
And with that, the chief of Berk strode into the storm, leaving his son in the swirling firelight—torn between duty, fear, and a longing to prove himself.
"Hoist the torches!" a Viking roared.
Two massive braziers flared to life, flames surging high enough to paint the night sky in orange. The dragons wheeled and screeched overhead, drawn to the light like moths to a fire, their shadows clawing across the smoking rooftops of Berk.
Hiccup darted into the blacksmith's shop, yanking a leather apron over his narrow shoulders. The air was thick with smoke and the tang of hot iron, and already Gobber was hammering away at a bent axe head.
"Ah! Nice of you to join the party!" Gobber bellowed without looking up. "Thought you'd been carried off!"
"What, me?" Hiccup replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "No way. I'm waaay too muscular for their taste." He gestured to his lanky frame, barely filling the apron. "They wouldn't know what to do with all this."
Gobber snorted, sparks flying from his hammer. "Well, they need toothpicks, don't they?"
Hiccup groaned. In voiceover, his wry tone continued: "The meathead with attitude and interchangeable hands is Gobber. I've been his apprentice ever since I was little. Well… littler."
Outside, the village shuddered with the sounds of battle—roars, clashing steel, and the crash of another roof caving under dragon fire.
Up on the watchtower, Stoick the Vast stood like an immovable mountain, his voice booming across the din. "We move to the lower defenses! Counter-attack with the catapults!"
A dragon swooped past, flames spilling from its jaws and igniting yet another thatched rooftop.
Hiccup's voiceover cut in dryly: "See? Old village. Lots and lots of new houses."
"FIRE!" a Viking shouted.
"Alright, let's go!" Astrid's sharp voice cut through the chaos as she and the other Viking teens rushed by, buckets of water sloshing in their arms.
"Oh, and that's Fishlegs, Snotlout, the Twins—Ruffnut and Tuffnut—and… Astrid," Hiccup narrated dreamily. "Their job is so much cooler than mine." A slow-motion shot seemed to live in his mind's eye as the teens marched past an explosion, framed like heroes out of legend.
Hiccup leaned out the forge window for a better look. His eyes shone with longing. But Gobber wasn't having it. With a grunt, he lifted the boy by the back of his apron and plopped him unceremoniously back inside.
"Oh, come on!" Hiccup pleaded. "Let me out, please? I need to make my mark!"
Gobber snorted, rummaging through spare blades. "Oh, you've made plenty of marks—all in the wrong places."
"Two minutes," Hiccup begged. "That's all I need! I'll kill a dragon, my life will get infinitely better, and hey—might even get a date."
Gobber rolled his eyes. "You can't lift a hammer, you can't swing an axe, and you can't even throw one of these!" He held up a bola.
As if to prove the point, a burly Viking snatched the weapon from Gobber's hand, spun it once, and hurled it. The bola whistled through the air, tangling the wings of a Gronckle, which slammed into the dirt with a howl.
But triumph was short-lived.
From behind the smoke and fire, a Monstrous Nightmare lunged, jaws glowing with gathering flame. The Viking barely had time to turn.
And then—schwip!
A blade cut the night. A weathered scythe, its edge dull from years of use yet impossibly sharp, swept through the Nightmare's neck in one clean motion. The dragon's head hit the ground before its body collapsed in a smoking heap.
The weapon embedded itself upright in the earth, humming faintly with the impact.
A heartbeat later, a figure descended—graceful, almost ethereal. A boy, slight of frame yet radiating dangerous strength, crouched on the shaft of the scythe as though it were an extension of himself. His silhouette burned against the firelit sky, hair wild, eyes alive with playful mischief.
Hiccup's voiceover picked up again, tinged with reluctant admiration: "And that… is my best friend, Jinx Jorgenson. Son of Spitelout Jorgenson, twin brother to Snotlout—though you wouldn't guess it by looking at him. With those delicate features and almost too-perfect face, most people mistake him for a girl. But Gothi claims that's because of Freyja's blessing—the goddess herself gave him beauty and strength to rival even my father's. And with that strength, Jinx became the youngest ever to sit on the village council. Not that he minds the confusion—he actually loves it. Especially when it drives me crazy."
Jinx balanced easily on the scythe, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "Looks like you're getting rusty, Gobber," he teased, his voice lilting with mock innocence. "Keep this up, and I might just take your spot as right-hand man."
Gobber snorted, waving a metal hook dismissively. "Quit your yabbering, boy. I've still got a few more years left in me."
Jinx's sharp gaze flicked to Hiccup, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well, hello there, mini-chief. What are you doing out here?"
Hiccup crossed his arms, feigning nonchalance. "Oh, you know… taking in the sights. And maybe taking you up on your moonbathing offer."
Jinx raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. With casual grace, he hopped down, gripping the scythe. With one powerful motion, he launched it skyward, caught it cleanly mid-fall, and rested it against his shoulder.
"Whatever you say, Hic." His grin turned wolfish. "But I've got to go—your dad and I have a bet on who can capture more dragons tonight. See ya, short stack."
He dashed off into the blaze, his scythe glinting with firelight, leaving only a trail of awe and exasperation in his wake.
Hiccup sighed, muttering under his breath. At nearly six feet tall, Jinx never let him forget how much taller he was. And Hiccup, barely scraping five feet, could only grit his teeth and bear the nickname short stack.
"Yep," he thought with weary resignation. "Best friend in the world."
Hiccup crossed his arms, trying to sound confident. "Okay, fine, but this—" he patted the side of a strange wooden contraption—"this will throw it for me."
The machine creaked, gears shifting as it snapped open and hurled a bola into the night. Instead of soaring toward a dragon, however, it veered wildly off course and wrapped itself neatly around a Viking hauling buckets of water.
"ARGHH!" the man bellowed as he toppled into the dirt.
Gobber threw up his hands. "See? Now this right here is what I'm talking about!"
"Mild calibration issue—" Hiccup began, but Gobber's glare cut him off.
"Don't you—no. Hiccup." The smith's tone was firm, weary in the way only Gobber could be. "If you ever want to get out there and fight dragons, you need to stop all… this."
Hiccup blinked, confused. "But… you just pointed to all of me!"
"Yes!" Gobber shouted. "That's it! Stop being all of you!"
Hiccup groaned theatrically. "Ohhhh."
"Ohhhh, yes." Gobber jabbed a metal hook in his direction.
"You, sir, are playing a dangerous game," Hiccup said with mock gravity. "Keeping this much, raw… Viking-ness… contained? There will be consequences."
"I'll take my chances. Sword. Sharpen. Now."
Hiccup sighed, sliding the blade onto the grinding wheel. His voice dropped into a wry narration.
"One day, I'll get out there. Because killing a dragon is everything around here."
The world outside raged with fire and wings. Dragons of every shape and size swept across Berk. Deadly Nadders swooped into pens, their spiked tails scattering sheep in a frenzy. Fat-bellied Gronckles waddled off with entire racks of fish clamped in their jaws. A two-headed Zippleback slithered between huts, one head belching gas, the other sparking it alight, turning houses into fireballs.
A Nadder head? That would get me noticed, Hiccup thought. A Gronckle—tough, sure. Take one down, and I'd definitely get a girlfriend. A Zippleback? Exotic. Two heads, twice the status.
"Catapult crews!" a voice rang out.
"They've found the sheep!" a man cried.
Stoick's booming roar followed instantly. "Concentrate fire over the lower bank!"
"Fire!"
Stones and flaming pitch hurtled skyward. The roar of battle seemed endless.
But then came the sound that froze even hardened Vikings—the guttural growl of a Monstrous Nightmare.
The beast rose through the flames, its scales glinting like embers. With a hiss, its entire body ignited, wreathed in fire until it looked like a living inferno. It crawled up the side of a catapult, snapping at the men operating it.
"Reload!" Stoick barked. His massive hammer swung down, slamming into the dragon's snout. The Nightmare roared but didn't yield, swatting the weapon aside with a wing.
Stoick squared his shoulders. With no weapon, he did the unthinkable—he boxed the dragon. His fists slammed into its jaw, his forearms bracing against snapping fangs. Blow for blow, man and beast clashed until, with a furious shriek, the Nightmare recoiled and retreated into the skies.
Hiccup's voice lingered in awe: "But the ultimate prize is the dragon no one has ever seen. We call it the—"
A piercing whistle cut through the chaos. Every Viking froze.
"NIGHT FURY!" someone screamed.
"GET DOWN!" another cried.
From the darkness above, an explosion ripped through the catapult, scattering wood and men alike.
"JUMP!" Stoick ordered, dragging two Vikings to safety as flaming debris rained down.
Hiccup's voice whispered over the devastation: "This thing never steals food, never shows itself, and never misses. No one has ever killed a Night Fury. That's why I'm going to be the first."
But the night had more horrors to give.
A rumble like thunder rolled across the clouds. Dragons shrieked and broke formation, scattering in every direction. Vikings lowered their weapons, confusion turning to dread.
Then the heavens split.
Scarlet lightning slashed across the sky, illuminating every terrified face. A beam of red fire and thunder crashed down into Berk, ripping through homes and streets in a trail of devastation. Vikings screamed, clutching their children, calling for the gods. Dragons fled in terror, wings beating furiously to escape the storm. The air itself burned, fire trailing the lightning's path as scarlet embers rained from the clouds.
The ground trembled until the storm ceased as suddenly as it began, leaving only smoke and ruin in its wake.
Hiccup's voice was hushed, almost reverent: "That… was a Skrill's handiwork. Not just any Skrill. While a normal one wields blue lightning, this one carried red—a lightning that not only shocked but burned, fire hotter than Muspelheim's flames. The old tales say it was no ordinary dragon, but the offspring of Surtur himself—the bringer of destruction, the one who will herald Ragnarök. And when that day comes, this Skrill will be at his side. No one who's ever seen it… has lived."
The village lay silent, smoldering. Vikings clutched their weapons, their prayers, their fear. Somewhere above, unseen, the storm's master circled.
"Man the fort, Hiccup! They need me out there!" Gobber barked, snapping an axe into the iron cuff that served as his forearm. He stomped toward the doorway, but turned back at the last second, squinting suspiciously at the boy.
"Stay. Put. There. You know what I mean," he growled before disappearing into the storm of wings and fire outside.
The moment the door shut, Hiccup yanked off his apron and bolted for the exit, his bolas launcher clutched tight in his arms.
"Where are you going?!" a Viking shouted, dragging a shield toward the front line.
"Come back here!" another barked, but Hiccup only flashed a manic grin as he rushed past.
"Yeah, I know! Be right back!" he called, pushing a small cart with his half-finished contraption rattling atop it.
The night was chaos incarnate. Stoick, his massive frame a pillar against the flames, hurled a net over three Deadly Nadders. The beasts screeched, thrashing as he wrestled them into the dirt. One twisted free and spat a plume of fire at his face.
"Mind yourselves!" Stoick thundered, dragging another Viking clear of the blast. "The devils still have some juice in them!"
Hiccup, meanwhile, scrambled up a bare hill on the edge of the village, his breath ragged. He shoved the launcher into position, eyes flicking desperately over the sky.
"Come on… gimme something to shoot at. Gimme something to shoot at," he muttered, hands shaking with anticipation.
The camera of the heavens panned slowly. Stars shimmered against the black—until a shape cut across them, a living void blotting out the night.
A hiss split the air. Then came the whistle.
An explosion tore through a tower in the village below, bathing the hillside in orange firelight. For an instant, the silhouette of the beast was revealed—sleek, dark, terrible.
Hiccup didn't hesitate. He yanked the trigger.
Thwip!
The bolas shot skyward, vanishing into the night. A heartbeat later, a shrill cry answered. The shadow staggered, spiraling down, and crashed into the forest with a thunderous crack of splintering trees.
Hiccup's jaw dropped. "Oh, I hit it… YES! I HIT IT!" He leapt into the air, fists pumping. "Did anybody see that?!"
But his triumph was cut short. A Monstrous Nightmare landed with an earth-shaking crash, its flaming body towering over him. With a casual sweep of its claws, it crushed the launcher into splinters.
"…Except for you," Hiccup muttered.
The dragon's shriek echoed across the battlefield. Stoick's head snapped toward the sound. His heart lurched.
"HICCUP!"
The Nightmare lunged, fire spilling from its jaws as Hiccup dove behind the charred base of a torch pole. Flames curled around the wood, licking dangerously close. The boy peeked out, terror locking him in place as the beast's massive jaws snapped toward him.
Then, like a storm given flesh, Stoick slammed into the fray. His fist crashed into the dragon's jaw, forcing it back. The Nightmare roared and reared, belching a sputter of flame—but nothing more than sparks and drops of molten fire escaped.
Stoick's lips curled into a grim smile. "You're all out."
He tore free his heavy cape, letting it drop into the dirt. Shoulders squared, fists clenched, the Viking chief stood bare against the burning night.
The Nightmare struck. Stoick met it head-on, his fists hammering like boulders. Haymakers cracked across scale and bone, each one driving the beast backward. With a final, guttural roar, the dragon shrank from the blows and took to the skies, flames guttering out as it fled.
The battlefield went silent for a moment—save for the heavy breath of Stoick the Vast, standing tall, unbroken, and furious.
Oh, and there's one more thing you need to know…
The torch pole groaned, then toppled with a crash. Its massive flame rolled like a fiery wheel through the village, scattering Vikings and sending sparks flying in its wake.
"Sorry, Dad," Hiccup winced.
The blazing torch slammed into the net Stoick had thrown earlier, burning through the ropes. The Deadly Nadders trapped inside burst free with screeches of triumph, taking flight and hauling away half of Berk's winter food supply in their talons. Goats and sheep vanished into the night. Fish racks splintered.
By the time the last wingbeats faded, the raid was over. The village smoldered, livestock gone, food vanished. Slowly, every eye turned toward Hiccup. It felt as though the entire island was staring at him.
"Okay…" he said sheepishly, lifting a hand. "But I hit a Night Fury."
A hand like a vice clamped the back of his shirt. Stoick dragged his son through the ashes, his expression thunderous.
"It's not like the last few times, Dad!" Hiccup protested. "I really actually hit it! You guys were busy, and I had a clear shot. It went down—just off Raven Point. Let's get a search party out there before it—"
"STOP!" Stoick's roar silenced him. "Just… stop. Every time you step outside, disaster follows. Can you not see that I have bigger problems? Winter's almost here, and I have an entire village to feed!"
Hiccup muttered under his breath, "Between you and me, the village could do with a little less feeding, don't you think?"
A large Viking at the back of the crowd rubbed his stomach, affronted. "...Was he calling me fat?"
"This isn't a JOKE, Hiccup!" Stoick thundered. "Why can't you follow the simplest orders?"
"I can't help it," Hiccup said earnestly. "I see a dragon and I have to just… kill it, you know? It's who I am, Dad."
Stoick's shoulders slumped, his voice dropping heavy with disappointment. "Oh, dear. You are many things, Hiccup. But a dragon killer is not one of them." He turned to Gobber, voice clipped. "Get him home. Make sure he stays there. I've got his mess to clean up."
Before Gobber could reply, a scream tore through the night.
"WHAT THE FUCK!" Jinx's voice rang out.
Every Viking's head snapped toward the sound. There, silhouetted against the burning wreckage of a half-collapsed house, Jinx thrashed in the talons of a dragon none of them dared name.
The Scarlet Skrill.
Its wings crackled with crimson lightning, each beat splitting the air like thunder. Fire trailed its scales like molten veins. It was a living storm, and in its claws was Spitelout's youngest son.
"JINX!" Snotlout and Spitelout cried together, their voices raw with terror.
Stoick's vision blurred. For the briefest instant, it wasn't Jinx he saw—it was Valka. His wife, torn from him by a dragon's claws all those years ago. The memory stabbed deep, reopening wounds that never healed.
But Jinx was no ordinary boy.
With a desperate twist, he wrenched himself free of the talons and clambered onto the Skrill's back, straddling the spines. The beast shrieked in fury, wings beating harder, carrying them higher, faster. Jinx clung with all his strength, raining punches against the dragon's head as they vanished into the storm clouds.
The villagers stood frozen, their courage faltering at the sight.
"Does anyone see him?!" Spitelout roared, his voice cracking.
Then the sky split apart.
Red lightning carved jagged lines through the clouds, lighting them from within like cracks in the heavens themselves. The thunder was deafening, a roar that rattled bones. Screams rose from the villagers, mothers clutching children, warriors gripping weapons with white-knuckled hands.
And then, through the fiery storm, a figure plummeted.
Jinx.
His body tumbled from the clouds, swallowed by the dark forest below.
"EVERYONE SPREAD OUT AND FIND HIM—NOW!" Stoick roared, his voice a command and a prayer all at once.
The Vikings scattered, torches flaring as they poured into the trees.
But the storm above still burned, red lightning coiling like the wrath of gods.
Jinx's POV
The air burned in my lungs as the Skrill dragged me higher and higher. Its talons dug into my arms and chest like iron hooks, every beat of its wings jolting through me.
"What the fuck!" I screamed, twisting, kicking, trying to pry myself loose. My fingers found purchase, my body writhing like a hooked fish until finally—by Thor's own mercy—I slipped free.
But falling wasn't freedom.
I slammed against the creature's spines, clinging desperately. Sparks crawled along its hide, red lightning crackling like veins of fire. It shrieked, a sound that split my skull, and then dove into the storm clouds with me plastered against its back.
Rain slashed my face, cold and stinging. My fists rose and fell, hammering its skull, but it was like trying to punch a thunderstorm into submission. My knuckles split. My arms ached. Still, I struck. Anything to make it slow, to make it stop.
And then the world went white.
Lightning surged through me. Every nerve burned as if my blood had turned molten. For a heartbeat, I thought the goddess had come to claim me.
Then I was falling.
The trees tore at me, snapping like kindling. The impact came like a mountain landing on my chest. Everything went dark.
When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a shallow crater. The earth was scorched around me, steaming where lightning had kissed it. My body screamed in pain—ribs cracked, cuts burning, blood running sticky and warm. But there was something strange.
Flowers.
The crater was filled with them, crushed under me in a perfumed grave. Their scent was thick, cloying, mixing with the copper tang of blood. Some were pale violet, glowing faintly in the moonlight. Others were poisonous blossoms I half-remembered from Gothi's herb charts—Oleander. Purple and blue both, their petals broken, their juices smeared into my wounds.
I groaned, rolling weakly to my side. The flowers clung to me, their oils soaking into gashes across my chest and arms. My skin prickled, hot then cold, a strange fire spreading from every cut.
"Damn it…" I wheezed. "Not how I thought I'd go out."
The world swam, visions dancing at the edges of my sight. Shadows flickered like spirits. My heartbeat roared in my ears, and the flowers' scent grew stronger, intoxicating. My fists twitched, still clenched as though the Skrill's skull were beneath them.
And then, through the haze, I saw a hunched figure approach. The clack of a staff. The scrape of wood on stone.
"Gothi…" I whispered. My lips barely moved.
The old crone's silhouette loomed above me. She didn't gasp, didn't cry out—just studied me with those ancient, knowing eyes. Her hands brushed the crushed blossoms, the Oleander mixed with those strange purple blooms I had never seen before. She frowned.
The last thing I remember before the dark swallowed me whole was her leaning closer, pressing her palm to my forehead, as though listening to something deep inside me.
Stoick's POV
The forest swallowed the light of their torches, but Stoick did not slow. His chest heaved, legs pounding the earth with relentless fury.
"Fan out!" he roared, voice carrying through the trees. "Check every clearing, every hollow, every gods-damned shadow! FIND HIM!"
He could still see it—Jinx's body torn from the sky, red lightning blazing above him like Ragnarök itself. He had seen that moment before. Long ago.
Valka.
The image stabbed into his chest like a spear. His wife, vanishing into the storm in the claws of a beast. Her voice ripped from him, her touch stolen forever. And now… now Spitelout's son, Snotlout's brother, the boy who'd been a second son to the tribe—gone in the same way.
No. Not gone. Not yet.
Stoick would not let the gods take another.
Branches whipped across his face, but he pressed on, his hammer heavy in his grip. Around him, Vikings called Jinx's name, their voices frayed with fear. Spitelout shouted until he was hoarse. Snotlout stumbled, refusing to stop even as tears streaked the soot on his cheeks.
Then a sound cut through the woods. The creak of a staff.
Stoick followed it, crashing through the brush until he reached a clearing. And there, in the center, lay the boy.
Jinx's body was twisted in the dirt, bruised, bloodied, surrounded by crushed blossoms that glowed faintly in the dark. The air was heavy with their perfume—sweet, poisonous, cloying. Purple petals clung to his skin. Oleander, blue and violet, mingled with other flowers Stoick did not recognize. Their juices seeped into his wounds, staining him with unnatural colors.
And at his side, Gothi knelt.
The old woman's hands were steady, her eyes unreadable as she pressed her fingers to the boy's pulse. She did not look up at Stoick, did not speak.
For once, Stoick did not demand answers. He only dropped to one knee, breath heavy, heart pounding. His massive hand hovered over Jinx's shoulder, too afraid to touch, too afraid to find him cold.
"By the gods…" Stoick whispered. His voice cracked. "Don't take him. Not this one."
The boy stirred faintly, a groan escaping his lips. The Vikings gasped as one. Relief, raw and sharp, rippled through them.
Stoick's jaw clenched. He turned his gaze skyward, toward the storm still crackling with scarlet lightning above.
"This isn't over," he vowed.
Branches snapped like thunder as Spitelout came crashing through the treeline. His chest heaved, his eyes wild with fear. He had run harder than he had ever run in his life, driven by nothing but the sound of his son's name echoing through the forest.
And then he saw the clearing.
The flowers were the first thing that struck him—unnatural, glowing faintly purple beneath the moonlight, mingled with shattered Oleander blooms. They grew thick around a crater of scorched earth, their perfume cloying, sickly sweet. And in the middle of it all lay Jinx, his youngest.
Spitelout froze. His heart clenched in his chest so violently it was as though Thor's hammer had struck him. For one breathless moment, the world stopped.
If it had been any other warrior lying there, he would have called it a good death. A warrior's end—fallen from the sky, wreathed in flowers, body broken in battle against a beast. Worthy of Valhalla. Worthy of song.
But this wasn't another warrior. This wasn't some nameless shield-brother or rival. This was his son.
And no parent worth their salt ever wants to see their child go before them.
"Jinx…" The name tore from his throat like a broken prayer. His knees buckled, crashing to the earth beside the crater. His hands trembled as they reached out, but he dared not touch the boy, dared not confirm what his eyes already told him.
Stoick, kneeling on the other side, lowered his head. His massive hand brushed Jinx's blood-matted hair aside, pressing an ear to his chest. For an endless moment, there was nothing but silence—the crackle of torches, the rasp of Spitelout's breath, the soft rustle of Gothi's staff.
And then—faint. Barely there. A whisper against the silence.
A heartbeat.
Stoick's eyes flew wide.
"He lives!" he roared, the words a bolt of lightning through the despair. His voice shook the trees themselves. "His heart still beats! There is a chance yet!"
Spitelout's own heart lurched. Hope—fragile, desperate—surged through him. Without hesitation, he turned and seized Gothi by the arm, his grip surprisingly gentle despite the urgency.
"Come," he rasped. "Come now."
Stoick slid his arms beneath Jinx, lifting the boy as though he weighed nothing. The child's head lolled against his chest, his face pale, lips blue. Stoick's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding. He would not let this one be taken. Not again.
"MOVE!" Stoick bellowed, rising to his full height with Jinx's limp form in his arms. "Back to the village—NOW!"
The Vikings didn't hesitate. Torches flared as they spread into a column, cutting a path through the forest like a river of light. The air stank of fear and sweat, but no one faltered.
Spitelout ran at Stoick's side, his axe forgotten, his eyes never leaving his son's still form. Every stumble of the boy's head, every faint flutter of his breath was a dagger in his chest. Snotlout trailed behind, face streaked with tears, shouting his brother's name as if sheer volume might call him back to the living.
The forest seemed endless, branches whipping across their faces, roots clawing at their boots. Stoick ran as though possessed, each step shaking the earth, each breath a vow. Valka had been torn from him. He would not allow Spitelout to feel that same hollow wound. Not while there was still hope.
The gates of Berk loomed at last, glowing with the light of the watch fires. Villagers gasped and cried out as they saw the chief return, cradling the battered form of the boy.
"Clear the way!" Stoick thundered. His voice was iron, unyielding. "Gothi's hut. NOW!"
They surged through the village, past smoking wrecks of homes, past the faces of mothers clutching their children, past warriors who knew that even victory over dragons meant little if their own kin could not be saved.
The old healer's hut stood at the far end of the square, its roof patched with moss, its walls leaning with age. The smell of herbs and smoke clung to the air.
Stoick pushed through the door, lowering Jinx gently onto the furs in the center of the room. His massive hands, always so steady in war, trembled as he pulled back, as though the boy might shatter if touched too hard.
Gothi was already there. She moved swiftly, her staff clacking as she set aside bundles of herbs and bowls of strange powders. Her eyes flicked to the crushed blossoms still clinging to Jinx's wounds—the strange purple flowers, the Oleander—and for the first time that night, a shadow of worry crossed her face.
Spitelout fell to his knees at his son's side, his hand gripping Jinx's limp fingers. "Hold on, boy," he whispered hoarsely. "Hold on."
Stoick stood at the doorway, a wall of iron, watching the healer work. His chest rose and fell like the tide, his eyes burning with a vow only he could hear:
By the gods, I will not lose another.
The air inside the hut was thick with smoke and herbs, the walls lined with jars of roots, dried flowers, and powders. Jinx lay pale and unmoving on the furs, his chest rising only faintly, each breath shallow and weak. The bruises along his ribs were angry purple, his cuts raw and weeping.
Gothi worked quickly, muttering under her breath, grinding herbs into a paste and pressing it into his wounds. She sprinkled powders across his chest, smudged salves into his skin, and lit bundles of dried sage to drive away fever spirits.
Nothing.
His breathing grew shallower, his pulse weaker.
Spitelout hovered over her shoulder, his hands balled into fists, teeth grinding so loud it sounded like stone cracking. Every time Gothi tried another treatment and Jinx failed to stir, Spitelout's face darkened further.
"Do something!" he barked, voice raw with grief. "Don't sit there with your powders and your smoke—FIX HIM!"
Gothi froze, then turned slowly. The old woman's eyes were sharp as an eagle's, her gnarled hand gripping her staff. Without a word, she jabbed the butt of it into Spitelout's chest and shoved him back toward the door. The warriors nearby gasped as Spitelout—Spitelout, one of Berk's fiercest—was forced stumbling outside by a woman barely half his size.
"You… you can't—!" Spitelout began, but one look at her face silenced him. It wasn't rage there, nor scorn—it was patience fraying to its edge.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Inside, Gothi stood over Jinx, her hands hovering. Her eyes fell to the crushed petals still stuck to his chest and arms. Purple blossoms smeared their strange juices into his cuts, glowing faintly in the firelight. The Oleander mixed with them, blue and violet streaks marking his skin like war paint.
She frowned, leaned closer. Slowly, she brushed away the excess paste she had applied and pressed her palm to the boy's wound. Her eyes widened.
The bleeding slowed. The flesh knit—just a little, but enough to see.
The strange flowers. They weren't killing him. They were holding him.
Gothi leaned back, her old hands trembling for the first time. She knew what had to be done.
Outside the Hut
The door creaked open. Every Viking waiting outside straightened. Stoick stood tall, his face grim but unyielding. Spitelout paced like a wolf near the door, his eyes red from fury and fear, while Snotlout clutched the haft of his weapon as though it were the only thing anchoring him.
Gothi stepped out into the torchlight. She said nothing, as always, only shuffled to the packed earth at the center of the crowd and crouched low. With the tip of her staff, she scratched words into the dirt.
The letters were rough, crooked, but clear.
Gobber leaned over, squinting in the firelight. "Erm… says we… need them flowers from the crater. All of 'em. Especially the bright violet ones. Priority. Most important. Must bring as much as possible."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
Stoick stepped forward, his voice a war-drum. "You heard her! Twenty men, two carts. Move! I want those flowers back here before dawn!"
The chosen warriors didn't hesitate. They grabbed torches, spears, and the carts, their boots pounding the ground as they vanished into the night toward the crater.
Stoick turned back to Gothi. "Do what you can to delay death until they return."
The old healer nodded once, then vanished back into her hut, the door shutting firmly behind her.
The villagers were left in tense silence, the only sounds the crackle of torches and Spitelout's ragged breathing. His gaze never left that door, never strayed from the boy lying beyond it.
Stoick laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. "He lives yet. Hold to that."
But Spitelout said nothing. His jaw was clenched too tightly, his heart caught between hope and despair.
And above them, the storm clouds still growled with red lightning.
The crater still smoldered when they returned. The air was heavy with the scent of scorched earth and the sickly-sweet perfume of crushed blossoms. Torches flickered in the night, casting uneasy shadows as the Vikings spread out around the strange flowers that had all but swallowed the impact site.
The Oleander was easy to recognize—blue and purple, their petals luminous in the moonlight like something touched by Hel's hand. But scattered among them were the stranger blooms, bright violet with a faint inner glow. These had never been seen on Berk, not in gardens, not in forests, not even in Gothi's vast herb-lore. They were foreign. Otherworldly.
The warriors muttered uneasily as they began to gather them, their calloused hands reluctant.
"Cursed things."
"Never seen flowers grow like this."
"Mark me, it's a bad omen."
But none dared disobey Stoick's order.
Among them, Hiccup bent low, carefully picking each blossom. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something else. He noticed what no one else did. Where Jinx's blood had spilled into the soil, the Oleander and the violet blossoms had mingled in a strange, almost deliberate ratio. Roughly two parts purple flower to one part Oleander. The mixture had seeped into the dirt, and when he touched it with a ragged cloth, it shimmered in the torchlight—a strange violet-pink substance that seemed to pulse faintly, alive.
He said nothing. Not yet. Not until he was sure. Instead, he worked harder than anyone, gathering blossom after blossom until his sack was overflowing. Of course it made sense—this was Jinx. His best friend. The one person who believed in him when nobody else did. If there was even a chance these flowers could save him, Hiccup would not stop.
By the time the moon crested high above the treeline, both carts were overflowing, heaped with violet blossoms and Oleander. The warriors lashed the bundles down and began the hurried march back to the village.
The carts rolled into the square just as Gothi emerged from her hut, her staff clacking sharply against the earth. Jinx's condition inside had not improved. If anything, the boy was slipping further away, his breaths shallow, his skin ashen. The healer's eyes were tight with urgency.
Stoick stepped forward to give the order, but before he could speak, Hiccup's voice rang out:
"Wait!"
Every head turned. The boy stood awkwardly at the front of the crowd, clutching a ragged cloth stained violet-pink. His face was pale, but his voice carried with surprising strength.
"If these flowers are what's keeping Jinx alive… then it has to be in a ratio. Two parts of the purple blossoms to one part Oleander. That's what I saw at the crater. His blood mixed with them, and this—" he held up the cloth, the strange shimmering mixture catching the firelight—"this is what it became. Violet-pink. It reacted. It healed him, even if just a little."
The crowd muttered, some scoffing outright.
"What nonsense is this?" one Viking barked.
"We don't have time for games, boy!" another snapped.
But before the anger could rise further, Gothi raised a hand. Silence fell instantly. Her eyes fixed on Hiccup, sharp and thoughtful. She motioned with her staff for him to continue.
Hiccup swallowed hard but pushed on. "It wasn't random. The flowers were crushed into his wounds in that ratio. That's why he's still breathing. If we get it wrong… it might kill him. But if we get it right—" his voice cracked—"we might save him."
Gothi stepped forward, her eyes narrowing as she studied the cloth in his hands. Slowly, she dipped a finger into the substance, rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, then pressed it to her chin in thought.
A long silence passed. Then, with sudden clarity, she turned and pointed her staff toward a large cauldron simmering over a small hearth. She shook her head, then tapped it sharply twice, and pointed again.
"She needs a bigger one," Gobber translated quickly. "Biggest we've got. Large enough to hold the whole mix."
Stoick's jaw tightened. His gaze swept the square. "Where?"
Gobber scratched his beard. "Main hall. The feast cauldron. Big as a horse trough."
Before Stoick could even bark the order, Spitelout had already surged forward. "On it!" he growled, sprinting toward the hall with half a dozen warriors at his heels. The sound of boots thundered across the square as they went to retrieve it.
Stoick turned to the rest of the gathered villagers, his voice cutting like steel. "Fishlegs. Snotlout. Ruffnut, Tuffnut. Astrid. Hiccup. You'll follow Gothi's measure. Two parts violet to one part Oleander. Separate every blossom we have."
The named teens immediately stepped forward. Even the twins, who opened their mouths to complain, were silenced when Stoick's stern glare burned into them. They grumbled, but bent to the task.
Dozens of other Vikings joined in, spreading the flowers across furs, separating them into piles. Hiccup guided them, hands moving swiftly, eyes sharp with focus. For once, no one laughed at his oddness, no one mocked his words. Not when his best friend's life was the weight on the scales.
And as the cauldron from the main hall was hauled into the square, massive and blackened from countless feasts, Gothi's staff struck the earth once, hard.
The race to keep Jinx alive had begun.
The ground trembled beneath heavy boots as Spitelout and his group returned, hauling between them a cauldron so massive it took six men to carry. Normally it sat in the Great Hall, brimming with mead or stew during feast days. Tonight, it was empty, blackened with smoke and iron-hard, a vessel repurposed for something far stranger than food.
They lowered it beside the bundled heaps of flowers, the cauldron groaning as it settled into the earth. Torches flickered against its dark surface, and the air seemed to hold its breath.
Gothi hobbled forward, her staff scratching into the dirt. Slowly, deliberately, she wrote:
"Flowers must be crushed. Made liquid."
The message was rough, but clear enough. Gobber leaned over and read it aloud, his voice carrying across the square. "She says they've got to be smashed up. Turned into a liquid first, 'fore she can do her part."
Several Vikings with hammers stepped forward, their grips firm, their faces grim. They went to work, pounding the flowers into pulp while water was added from buckets to help the process along. The work was brutal, petals bursting under iron strikes, perfume thickening the air until it was nearly suffocating.
Hours seemed to blur as three piles of violet and Oleander were turned into wet, pulpy liquid. With careful hands, and under Gothi's sharp gestures, the mixtures were lifted and poured into the great cauldron. Steam rose faintly as the concoctions mingled, swirling together until the liquid took on a deep purplish-violet sheen.
But confusion rippled through the crowd.
"That's not right…" one Viking muttered.
"The boy's cloth—it was pink," another pointed out.
"Why isn't it pink?"
Hiccup swallowed hard. He didn't answer. Not yet.
The question hung until Spitelout's eyes widened with realization. Without a word, he turned and strode into Gothi's hut. Murmurs followed him, the crowd bristling with unease. Moments later, he re-emerged.
And in his arms, he carried Jinx.
The boy's body was limp, his skin as pale as the moonlight. His chest rose shallowly, a breath here and there, but weak. His head lolled against Spitelout's arm as though he were already halfway to Valhalla.
Stoick stepped forward, fury flashing in his eyes. "HAVE YOU GONE MAD?!" he thundered. "Move him now and you'll kill him for certain!"
But Spitelout's voice was calm, steady, almost frightening in its clarity. "Hiccup said the color only changed when his blood was involved." His gaze swept the crowd, daring anyone to contradict him. "If this mixture is to work, his blood must be part of it. There is no other way."
The crowd fell silent. Even Stoick's voice faltered.
With slow, reverent care, Spitelout lowered his son into the cauldron. The liquid lapped against Jinx's wounds, seeping into them.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then Jinx's eyes snapped open.
He screamed.
Not the cry of a wounded boy, but the full-bodied, soul-ripping wail of someone being burned from the inside out. The sound cut through every Viking like a blade. Women clutched their children. Men winced and turned away, their stomachs twisting.
The liquid surged into his wounds, drawn as though his body were a sponge. His back arched violently, muscles spasming.
"Hold him!" Stoick bellowed.
Spitelout, Snotlout, Hiccup, Astrid, Gobber, and even Stoick himself rushed forward, pinning Jinx's flailing limbs against the cauldron's rim. The boy bucked and twisted with a strength that made their arms ache, screaming so loud the torches seemed to flicker in fear.
And then the tears came.
Violet.
They streamed from his eyes, staining his cheeks as though his very soul was weeping out the poison of the flowers. His rare purple eyes—eyes that had always been his mark, his blessing from Freyja—shifted before their horrified gaze. The purple deepened, fractured, and finally burned into a strange, unnatural violet-pink.
Spitelout's heart shattered. He couldn't bear it. He turned his face away, tears wetting his beard. "Gods forgive me…" he whispered, voice breaking. "Gods forgive me for letting him suffer this."
Still, the liquid poured into him. Every ounce, pulled into his body with visible force. His veins lit faintly beneath his skin, glowing like streaks of lightning as the concoction surged through him. His screams grew weaker, raspier, until finally… silence.
The cauldron was empty.
The silence was unbearable.
Then, slowly, the wounds began to close. Cuts sealed, bruises faded. The ugly burns across his ribs smoothed to unbroken skin. His chest rose and fell with steadier rhythm, his breath no longer rattling but strong, firm.
The villagers gasped, some crying, others falling to their knees. They had seen wounds heal before—salves, stitches, time—but never like this. This was no medicine. This was a miracle.
Gothi stepped forward, her staff tapping the ground. She crouched by the boy, her fingers brushing his wrist. She closed her eyes, lips pressing into a thin line. Then she straightened, hobbled to the dirt, and scratched out her words.
"He must rest. Leave him."
Gobber squinted and read it aloud. "Says he needs to rest now. Nothin' else we can do but wait."
A heavy sigh rippled through the crowd. Relief, exhaustion, and fear all tangled together.
Spitelout collapsed to his knees beside the cauldron, his hands clutching the rim. His son lived. For now.
Stoick's gaze swept the villagers, his voice iron. "No word of this leaves the square. Until we know what this means, this stays here, with us. Do I make myself clear?"
The Vikings nodded, silent, subdued.
And in the cauldron, Jinx slept, his eyes closed, faint violet tears still drying on his cheeks.