The sun was a low, molten gold over the archipelago. Below, the dragon riders were circling a cluster of jagged rocks, their voices carrying faintly over the roar of the sea. One of them—a wiry figure with a leather tunic and a missing boot—was gesturing wildly at something on the shore.

The Night Fury dipped its head, the rider on its back pointing toward a cave. The other dragons—a Gronckle, a Nadder, a pair of Zipplebacks—hovered nearby, their riders watching with the usual blend of boredom and irritation.

The sound was foreign, guttural yet lilting—a language that rolled off the tongue like water over stones. The riders below didn't catch it. Only the dragons did.

She pulled hard on the reins, her mount—a sleek, dark-scaled dragon with wings that shimmered like oil—banked sharply, cutting a path toward a cliff overlooking the riders.

From this height, she could see them clearly. Hiccup—his dark hair unkempt, his prosthetic glinting as he pointed. Toothless beside him, sniffing the air.