Gobber pulled me away from the Gronckle when it became clear I wasn't letting up. I went willingly, albeit reluctantly, because I understood the need to keep it alive for future classes.

That doesn't mean I wasn't tempted to end the pitiful thing prematurely.

Now I'm in the Great Hall, my ears being chattered off by the other trainees, save for Astrid and Snotlout. Each are in awe of Astrid and I's clever maneuvering during the combat training (in hindsight it was pretty simple, but typical Vikings, as I've previously stated, aren't endeared to any other method aside from hit-it-until-it-stops-moving). I'm a little lost as to how to speak to any of them, especially outside of class, and Astrid's quiet but distinct presence beside me doesn't help my tongue remember how to form words.

"You really showed it," Ruffnut crows, leaning across the table with glee, giving her features a vulpine curve. "I haven't seen a dragon bleed up close before. Blood, everywhere!"

Her twin nods empathetically. "It was awesome."

Snotlout interjects loudly as everyone's attention focuses on Astrid and I. "I mean, yeah, that's cool and all, but if it hadn't caught me off-guard I would have lopped its head off. You guys know that, right?"

"Lopped its head off with what?" Tuffnut scoffs at Snotlout's frankly sad pitch to recover face from his failing. "In case you forgot, you had a hammer, not an axe."

"Well—see—what I meant was—I would have bashed its head so hard it would have come straight off!"

"That doesn't sound physically possible," Fighlegs hesitantly begins, nipping at the lamb-cop on his plate. "The best you could do is probably turn its head to mush after hitting it so much."

"Yeah. what he said," Tuffnut goads, thumbing his nose at Snotlout. Ruffnut cackles. Myself, I'm trying not to laugh, still hesitant that I won't get hurt for doing so, especially when it's at Snotlout's expense.

My cousin, for his part, looks quite put-out by the lack of faith. Snotlout folds his arms and pouts. "Oh, shut up, know-it-all, no one asked you."

Fishlegs looks down at his lamb, biting his lip anxiously.

"Face it, you're just mad you didn't do half as good as Hiccup and I." Astrid finally says from beside me, coming to Fishlegs' defense. Her firm voice allows me some modicum of relief; her silence had worried me (she's mad at me, my heart woefully informs me, mad at me for doing better than her, my brain replies rebelliously).

Astrid leans closer, bumping her defined bicep against my fishbone thin arms. I swallow nervously at the contact as I glance at her. We're the same age—how could she already have such nice muscles when I have none? It isn't fair how I've just got the body of a burnt twig when she walked around looking like a veritable Viking goddess.

"Isn't that right, Hiccup?" she asks me, drawing me from my rueful (flustered) thoughts. She's focusing on my eye and not the space where one used to be.

Slowly, with the tips of my ears beginning to burn at her attention, I nod.

Astrid frees me from her gaze to pin Snotlout with a cocky smirk. "See? Even Hiccup knows."

Snotlout gapes at her. I absently frown at the phrasing while my fingers pluck at the tail of my braid, waiting for the explosion when he looks at me. Surprisingly, he seems to hold back the urge to strangle me now that Astrid's in my corner.

"Traitor," Snotlout spits out; the jest in it seems forced. "You're supposed to be my blood, not hers."

My expression must be a sight because Ruffnut renews her laughter with gusto. The idea that Snotlout has any claim over me, even familial, makes me vaguely ill and it's obviously showing on my face. I can't help but deadpan, "Snotlout, look at Ruff and Tuff and you'll see how much blood is worth."

There's surprised tittering at my dry remark when Snotlout's brows shoot up. He looks to the twins who leer back, Tuff winking. Snotlout cringes before turning back and stuffing his face to avoid further conversation.

He should be glad I didn't mention our history instead—a far better example of what sharing blood is worth, since he carelessly drew mine time and time again. But I don't want to sour my celebratory mood despite my own misgivings for his turnabout attitude towards me. There's no point in reminding everyone of the misery Snotlout's put me through just for a bright moment of satisfaction followed by awkward silence, not to mention what the twins have done. Even Astrid and Fishlegs, though bystanders, were complicit in my previous treatment by never speaking against the others.

What's the point of saying anything?

On that note, sitting at the table with all of them levels me with the mental image of a black sheep grazing among wolves who'd just eaten. They're not hungry right now, but who knows when they'll turn on me. I tell myself to just enjoy this while it lasts, though I'm not stupid enough to think anyone here actually likes me.

And the reminder is coming up soon.

"Seriously, thought, I gotta know: where have you been hiding all that dragon slaying skill 'til now?" Ruffnut asks in a conspiratorial whisper that's not nearly quiet enough. "Because you definitely didn't seem to have it before."

Everyone looks at me, ears primed, even though Astrid seems to be the most subtle about it by keeping it at a glance before refocusing on eating. Snotlout, in particular, is almost glaring, probably hoping his stare can drill a hole into my head so he can dig out the answers for himself. They all want to know how someone like me, who they thought would amount to nothing, knocked out a dragon and speared another.

But I'm not sure if even I know the answer. I twirl the spoon in my bowl of porridge, considering. I had half-given up on ever fighting dragons when the Night Fury burned half my face off, until the Nightmare just—made me angry. And then with the Gronckle assuming Astrid was the bigger threat. But was being overcome with Viking rage really a good enough excuse to explain away my sudden deadliness?

"I dunno," I decide, shrugging, "guess I just got tired of being underestimated."

No one really seems satisfied with that answer.

"What, so you're saying no one trained you?" Tuffnut presses, brow furrowing in disbelief.

I give him a dry look. "Come on, Tuffnut, don't tell me you actually think anyone cared enough to waste their time on me. No one wanted to train me when they didn't think I'd last two seconds outside of the forge."

"Okay, you have a point there." Tuffnut concedes, not quite apologetically. "But not even your dad?"

"Nope," I reply suddenly.

"That's harsh," Ruffnut offers. She kicks up her boots, a chunk of dirt dislodging and crumbling on the table as she leans her back on a disgruntled Snotlout. Tuffnut lets it go, them, but Snotlout doesn't seem quite as ready to let the topic rest.

"No, I can't accept that. There's no way," he says, thumping his hand on the table, "that you could have managed all of that without something. Come on, tell us the truth, Hiccup. Who's training you on the side? Someone must have taken pity on you."

His tone . . . I don't know what about it that does it, but it gets my hackles rising.

"You can't stand the idea of me being better than you at anything, can you?" I ask pointedly, the illusion of calm fluctuating in my voice, giving cracks in my tone giving rise to a heated volume. "What are you going to do this time? There's no pictures for you to tear up. Nothing for you to break. And I don't think you want to try and pull your usual on me around so many people. What are you going to do?"

Snotlout's eyes narrow. "Don't test me, nerd. Some shiny new scars aren't going to make me feel sorry for you. I can still break you as easy as I did a few months ago."

More cracks in my facade. Something peeking through, cold-blooded and hungry for blood. Breathe.

It feels like fire.

"Hey!" someone says, but it's hard to tell who when my sense of hearing narrows down to just Snotlout, whose expression is a facsimile of a grin that, when accompanied by wide, angry eyes and a scathing tone, becomes more of mockery of a smile than anything else.

"No, Astrid, don't 'hey' me. Think about it! Just a bit ago Hiccup couldn't even handle a sword without poking herself. You're trying to tell me she just, what, got fed up and decided 'oh, let me go beat up a dragon' and did it? She's making all of us who actually train for this look bad! I mean, come on, just a few weeks ago she was still called Hiccup the Useless! Just a few weeks ago none of you wanted to even be around her? Don't tell me you all forgot that?"

It gets quiet.

Everyone, save for Snotlout and Astrid, look away. I can't tell Astrid's face beside me, too busy staring at Snotlout blankly.

Then, in the silence, I grab my water, downing it in one go in an effort to douse the wildfire spreading through my ribs. Snotlout blinks, expression abruptly dropping into something that edges on discomfort but not quite as I calmly—forcefully—put the mug down. His eyes flicker down at the abrupt noise breaking the lapse that had fallen over us, before back to me.

I hold my breath, count to three, then exhale. I'm still seething. "Thanks for the reminder, cousin, but I promise you I didn't need it. I've never forgotten what you've all done. But, it's nice to know that sons do take after their fathers, while daughters don't."

Snotlout chokes at the implication. A million emotions cross his face, but before it can settle on just one the twins grab him, Ruffnut clapping a hand over his mouth to stop him from saying anything else.

I can't tell if it's a good or bad thing for Snotlout that Gobber isn't here. On one hand, if he was, I can say for certain that Snotlout would be writhing like a fish once Gobber was done with him—but then I'd also be in trouble for my admittedly personal attack on Snotlout. On the other—

Snotlout isn't a dragon, I remind myself, standing to the sound of gasps. I shake off the hand Astrid tries to place on my arm. Calm down, I tell myself, as I fight to step away.

Snotlout's eyes glare at me from over Ruffnut's hand.

Blood is rushing into my ears, making the calls of my name distant and my body thrum with sudden energy, but—

Snotlout isn't a dragon.

He isn't an outlet for me anger. I can't bury a spear in his gut and call it a day. I can't crack open his skull just because I'm mad, though maybe proper Vikings would. That's how Vikings solve things, right?

With violence.

I walk past the table to head to the exit of the Great Hall. It feels like there's fire in my throat as I clamp my mouth shut.

I don't let myself say, Think of what I did to the dragons, Snotlout. Think of what I did when they made me mad.

I don't say, You're part of the problem, you're underestimating me, or, You really think I can't hurt you?

Because I can. With a surety I don't know the origins of, I know I can hurt him.

And my hands shake, my fingernails digging in like hooks into my palms, when I choose not to. I know I'd enjoy it in the way I'm not supposed to, and I don't want to compromise who I am just because I'm mad.

Save it for the dragons, I chide myself. Save it for something worthy of killing.

Pushing the large, heavy doors open, I walk out into a great downpour, thunder muting the sound of the doors slamming shut behind me. I'm almost disappointed—heavy rain means no raid, and no raid means I don't have anything living to vent my anger on. Even dragons are smart enough to realize rain makes it harder to keep things on fire.

Maybe I should take a step back. I used to not think so violently, and in no world should I wish for something to befall my village just to selfishly take care of my frustrations. What did I use to do when I was mad? I remember, I'd draw landscapes, sketch out more blueprints to try and catch—

The memory, the flash of blue-white-black, an inversion of normal dragon fire, overtakes my vision in time with Thor's fury striking the sea with split-second blinding judgement in the distance.

I flinch, but instead of being scorched I'm just soaked.

It takes me a minute to process. Eventually shaking my head and scowling, I stubbornly blink the raindrops from my lashes. Despite the chill, I still feel that phantom burn underneath my skin, making me lips curl and my face wrinkle in a way that pulls at the scar tissue.

Drenched, cold, and still furious, I feel like a storm all on my own as I make my way home along the muddy paths. I stride up the steps, yank open the door, and have to take a second to remember that the Chief departed on another hunt for the nest when I question why the fire isn't burning in the pit.

Of course, it's not like he would stay to hear about my rare accomplishment now that I'm well enough to handle dragon training, I think mutinously. Guess he's so used to me disappointing him he can't bother to stick around after the one time I make him proud, too afraid it's just a one-off. Typical Chief Stoick right there.

I stomp my way up the stairs to my room, fighting back the stupid urge to cry, and plop face-first into my bed after kicking off my boots. I have to resist the urge to scratch at the burn scars. Some areas are still flaking with scabs, and it hurts, but I haven't got any salve left. High of the adrenaline from class today, I didn't even think to go to Gothi's to restock, which just makes me more miserable.

Wriggling around, I discard my clothing until I'm left in my undergarments. Everything irritates my damaged skin now, the coarseness of my clothes especially. I let out a frustrated yet relieved sigh once I'm free before burying my myself into my blankets.

Just sleep it off, I urge myself, as I so often do. Leave the misery with yesterday.

It takes a while with me stewing in the dark, picturing Snotlout in numerous states of agony, but even the worst of flames die out when not fed. I'm lulled into a troubled sleep, the rain thudding rhythmically against the roof's shingles.

If the storm makes the perch outside my window creak when there's a pause in the thunder, well, it's just harder than usual.

I'm in the sky.

Clouds extend in every direction below me, great and luminous like endless ocean froth. Above me a band of stars form a crescent river, glittering, which by its current I coast along. And ahead of me, the moon glows brightly, distantly observing everything like the eye of an owl.

Even under the moon's watchful gaze, I feel free. I've no shackles of responsibility, no social norms to heed, soaring through the clouds against gravity itself.

Yet, I am alone.

How do I know that?

Suddenly, something feels off. I don't get the chance to gain my bearings as I realize I am not what I'm meant to be. Far off, I hear it; a flutter in my ear, a croon, a warning.

It's Her call.

Who?

It doesn't matter. We must answer.

I bank. I am the shadow of a star falling. I breach the abyssal clouds, falling for so long that I fear I will never break free—but a larger part of me is not afraid, knows the skies and the clouds by heart.

Soon, that courageous yet resigned part of me is rewarded. I burst from the clouds, and the isle is before me, seen from a bird's eye view.

Berk.

It's my home. . .?

No. I don't feel home. Have I ever felt home?

. . . Once, maybe. I can't remember.

Who are you? Who—what—what am I?

As if in answer, I glance up.

Unseen before now, shadows lighter than myself depart form the clouds. I hear them split the wind with their limbs, loud and unpracticed in stealth.

Those are dragons—dragons everywhere!

My kin—enemies—surround me.

The uncertain part of me, in equal measures both frightened and furious, nearly has me balk at the sight. The great spined head of a bright blue Deadly Nadder cocks itself at me when it draws level with my own—what the Hel am I, this has to be a dream—and croons in question.

I respond with a short folded-lipped growl.

I . . . I can understand you, but—no—no, don't!

The shadows fall in unison.

The rush is unlike any other, a seamless mass of scales and horns and claws descending all at once.

We are a swarm.

They hear us before they see us. Grunts and yowls, burly echoes of rage as we set about our task. I watch from above, waiting as I circle our hunting grounds.

Stop, stop! What are you doing?! That's our food!

This is survival. We have no choice.

Then, the alpha of the fleshy things, redhaired and loud, commands the stone-thrower to be fired. A command I've learned by heart, and a command I know to undermine when possible.

A whistle begins as I prepare—

No—no—no, this can't be—I'm not—

"Night Fury! Get down!"

I blast the weapon to splinters, its ammo reduced to rubble.

. . . This can't be happening.

I circle again, blotting out the stars though I'm so embraced by the pitch of night that I am never noticed against the winking lights.

We have no choice, I remind that trembling part of me. We must.

Why? Why?! What makes this okay?!

I don't answer—I see then the weapon-maker leaving his nest. A nest, I've noticed in previous raids, that supplies the angry fleshlings their long-claws and talons and makeshift tails, and the large scales they adorn on their arms.

No. Please.

I wait, pausing as I let the gas inside me build—

But the scrawny thing that typically accompanies the wooden-limbed fleshling's entrance into battle does not follow.

This . . . is this that night?

A few seconds more, just to be sure. Perhaps the scrawny thing is inside, but struggling with one of those big clumsy weapons.

Stop. STOP.

It has been long enough. I push aside any sentiment I have for the fleshy hatchling that always falls behind the rest of its kin, and breathe. The whistle reaches its highest pitch.

Oh, Gods—

A shot like lightning hollows out the inside of the weapons nest.

A scream resounds, it is mine, as I roar—shriek in pain—in reply, and—

I fall back into my pillows as though seizing.

I'm on fire, pain like a phantom licking over my scars with a tongue of flame. When I breathe it's like I can't get enough air, like I'm choking on smoke, acrid and harsh and dark as the Night Fury when the sun's not out. My frenzied gaze searches the room as I cough, clawing at my throat and the burns there—and I catch two huge pale-green opals reflecting like mirrors from outside my window.

Before I can look too closely, a flash of lightning has them blink away into the night, but I feel it in my bones, in my body ravaged by fire—

The Night Fury is watching me.