The sky split open. Not with light, not with fire, but with the unrelenting force of wind and storm, as if the heavens themselves were calling his name. Hiccup clung to the warmth of the dragon beneath him, his fingers digging into the worn leather of the saddle, his breath stolen by the rushing air. The world around him blurred as clouds streaked past in wisps of silver and white, the vastness of the sky swallowing him whole.
And in front of him, leading the way as she always did, was his mother.
Valka flew like she belonged in the sky, like she had been sculpted from the same winds that carried them. Her dragon, Cloudjumper, moved with a grace no ship could mimic, no warrior could tame. She had told him once that dragons did not fly through the air—they became it.
She rode the sky as though it were a part of her, her hair wild in the wind, her body moving in perfect harmony with the great beast beneath her. She did not need to check if Hiccup was still there—she knew he would follow. And so, he did. Because she was all he had, the only tether in a world that had never quite known what to do with him.
Below them, the world they had known was burning.
Smoke still clung to the edges of the horizon, curling like fingers grasping for something that was no longer there. The echoes of war—clashing steel, dying screams, the roars of dragons both wild and chained—had not yet faded from his ears. Their home was lost, their people scattered. They had barely escaped the chaos, the sky their only refuge.
His mother had not looked back. Neither had he.
He had spent his earliest years in the hush of hidden coves, where the sea met the sky, and dragons spoke in tongues older than men. He had learned their songs, their ways, the silent language of wingbeats and fire. He had learned that they were not beasts to be conquered but kin to be understood.
But understanding did not make the burden lighter.
His mother had given him freedom, had lifted him high above the reach of the world that would have crushed him before he had a chance to rise. But with freedom came responsibility, and with knowledge came a weight that pressed upon his young shoulders, whispering of duty, of destiny.
And the wind carried him. Not just through the skies, where great wings sliced through the clouds like knives through silk, but through time itself. It cradled him, whispered secrets only the heavens knew, and hummed lullabies older than the world.
Hiccup's small hands barely grasped the reins. The sky stretched vast and endless before him, rolling waves of mist and gold where the sun met the horizon. Below, the sea shimmered like a dream, its surface barely touched by the dragon's shadow.
His mother did not slow.
"Keep your weight forward, Hiccup," she called over the rush of wind, her voice clear but gentle. "Feel the movement beneath you. Don't fight it—become it."
He tried. He truly did.
But he was small, and the dragon beneath him was vast despite its age, and though the fire in his blood knew this was where he belonged, his body still fought to understand.
Toothless glanced back with his concerned gaze. He had been patient with him, had never let him fall. Even now, with the wind howling and the sea sprawling like a waiting abyss, the dragon moved as if he could sense the boy's every uncertainty, adjusting with silent care.
Hiccup gritted his teeth, trying to mimic his mother's stance, trying to listen to the air the way she did.
But he wasn't her.
She had found her place among dragons, had learned their ways, had become something neither fully human nor fully beast.
He wasn't there yet.
Maybe he never would be.
But then, the storm came.
It didn't announce itself in thunder or great sweeping winds. No, it came quietly.
Like a held breath.
Like a secret about to be spoken.
The sky, once so golden and vast, darkened to an eerie shade of blue, and the sea, restless and knowing, churned beneath them.
Cloudjumper slowed. Toothless tensed.
His mother turned, her eyes narrowing as she searched the skies, sensing something before he could.
And then he felt it.
A pull.
Not of wind, nor gravity. Not even of fear.
It was something deeper, something ancient.
His mother's dragon let out a low, uneasy rumble.
"Hiccup," Valka said carefully, glancing at him. "Stay close."
He had no intention of doing otherwise.
Something was here.
Something watching.
And in that moment, for the first time in his young life, Hiccup felt fire pulse through his veins—not warm and welcoming, but warning.
Far away, beneath a sky untouched by storms, Elsa danced in the snow of her own creation.
She had always loved the way the frost responded to her, the way the wind curled around her shoulders like a mother's embrace. The spirits watched, unseen but ever-present, their whispers threading through the air like strands of an unfinished melody.
She was never alone.
The fire spirit danced in the distance, flickering restlessly between the trees. It never liked it when she extinguishes its flames with her growing frost. Not truly. But it tolerated her presence because the others did.
The wind spirit adored her, carried her laughter across the valley.
The earth rumbled beneath her feet, steady and unshaken, a silent guardian she never had to ask for.
And the water—
The water had always been the kindest.
She knelt by the river, dipping her fingers into the icy current, watching as frost spiraled out from her touch. The water did not fight her. It never had.
Unlike people.
She was too much.
Too much magic, too much ice, too much of something unshaped and uncertain. Even as a child, the snowflakes would come unbidden when she laughed, and the frost would creep when she wept.
Her father had watched her warily. Not unkindly—never unkindly—but there was always something in his eyes, a shadowed thing.
Worry.
"The spirits in this forest have chosen you," her mother would say, pressing a gentle kiss to her brow. "You are meant to be here."
But Elsa wasn't sure she wanted to be chosen.
She wanted to see beyond the trees. To feel the sky without the barrier of magic above her. To go somewhere. Beyond the mist that bound her parents in this forest. To be more than this girl of frost and whispers, confined to a world that was not quite a cage but not quite free.
So, she pushed.
The ice answered.
It had always been this way—the more she tried to shape it, the more it fought against her hands, twisting and growing and becoming in ways she had not meant. She wanted control. She wanted stillness. She wanted the certainty of knowing her own strength.
Instead, she got storms.
"Enough, Elsa."
Her father's voice was quiet but firm.
She stood by the river's edge, fingers curled, breath heaving as the ice spread out in sharp, jagged lines across the surface.
She swallowed hard.
"I wasn't—"
His gaze softened, but only slightly. "I know."
That was the worst part.
He did know. He always did. And still, there was nothing he could do, no lesson he could teach, no rule he could place upon her to keep the frost from rising.
It was not his to understand.
Only hers.
Anna burst through the trees, oblivious to the weight in the air.
"Elsa, come on!" she called, her grin wide and wild. "You promised you'd race me to the end of the river!"
For a moment, Elsa allowed it.
For a moment, she let herself believe she could be just this—a girl, a sister, a daughter running through the trees with the wind at her back.
But when her fingers brushed against Anna's, her sister shivered.
And Elsa knew.
She would never just be a girl.
The ice had always known her name. She had not been taught to summon it, nor had she ever needed to call for it. It simply was, as much a part of her as breath and heartbeat, spilling from her fingertips in fractals and frost, dancing at her heels in every step.
Yet today, something stirred.
A shift in the wind, a presence that did not belong. Apart from her. She stilled, turning her gaze upward, scanning the vast, open sky.
For the briefest moment, she thought she saw something. A shadow against the clouds, too small to be a storm, too fast to be a bird. It vanished before she could be sure.
The wind coiled around her shoulders, tugging at her hair, whispering something she could not understand.
She shivered, though not from the cold.
Somewhere, far beyond the horizon, she knew someone else had felt it too.