Chapter 5
Hiccup takes a different route this time. The Kings Gate.
The toll is even higher than before. Of course, it is. Every part of this city has a price, and the deeper you go, the worse the cost. The guard barely looks up as Hiccup drops the coins into his palm, three, this time, though the sign above the checkpoint still lists the toll as two. There’s no use arguing. Not here.
He doesn’t linger. Doesn’t take in the sights or stop to breathe. He moves with purpose, cutting through the streets as the sun dips lower behind the towers, casting the city in long shadows. The heat from earlier still clings to the stone, but the wind has cooled, brushing against his cloak in short, stiff gusts.
But the city doesn’t sleep. Not ever.
The crowd swells with people spilling out from taverns and cramped homes, their faces flushed with ale or exhaustion. The shadows lengthen, curling around alleyways, but they don’t swallow the city whole. Instead, they stretch across bustling markets, flickering torchlight, and the glint of polished steel on guards’ hips.
Down Eel Alley. Left at the Street of Steel.
His boots clack over the uneven stone, armor shifting softly with each step. His feet almost hesitate. He wants to linger—wants to stop and admire the craftsmanship of the weapons, wants to run his fingers over strange blades and wonder how their forging compares to the Berkian forges. It tugs at him. This is his element, metal, fire, design.
But not tonight.
If he got turned away now, if he let the weight of inaction still his hand, then he was no better than the guards who looked the other way. What was the point of surviving in a new world if all it made you do was harden and ignore the dying in the street?
Tom had been failed by everyone. By the guards who killed him. By the nobles who let it happen. By a kingdom that considered his death a matter of convenience. A statistic.
And if Hiccup didn’t act, if he didn’t do something, then he was letting this world change him into something he couldn’t stand to look at.
This wasn’t his world.
But he was still himself.
He presses forward, taking a right up the Muddy Way.
The street is long and narrow, a vein that cuts straight toward the heart of the city. His pace quickens. His helmet is already on, face hidden beneath metal and shadow. He can’t afford to be recognized, not tonight. Not after what he’s about to do.
Twenty minutes pass in tense, steady silence. The thrum of the city fades behind him as he crests the bend toward Rhaenys’s Hill, the towering dome now looming close enough to cast a shadow over the street. On his map, it’s barely marked. No notes. No name.
But standing before it, Hiccup feels it.
There’s something ancient in the stones. Something watching.
The architecture doesn’t match anything from the Archipelago. Not Norse. Not Eastern. It’s too smooth, too polished. Like something built by people who thought they could outlive their own bones.
He lingers.
The pull is almost magnetic. A desire to step closer. To know what lies beneath that domed roof.
But he has a mission.
Ellie.
With effort, he breaks the moment and turns away, eyes scanning the streets as he reorients himself. The city around him is changing again, morphing. The houses grow taller, the walls cleaner. The filth doesn’t vanish, it merely recedes, tucked into the shadows, hidden beneath layers of perfume and polish. Like blood wiped off a blade.
He steps into the richer quarter, and the difference is immediate.
Gold trim along doorframes. Silken banners hanging from windows. The people walk slower here, their clothes dyed in colors too vibrant to have come from honest work. Their perfume is overpowering, thick in the air like rot in disguise. Their laughter sounds rehearsed.
He keeps walking.
They look at him, some curious, others disgusted. The guards stiffen as he passes. Merchants pause their spiels. His armor draws attention, but his height and pace keep most from approaching. Except one.
A jeweler. Older, bearded, perched behind a modest stall tucked between silk vendors and wine sellers.
The man’s display is unusual. No delicate chains or overpriced gems. Just clean, solid pieces. A circlet with braided metalwork catches Hiccup’s eye, faintly reminiscent of the old chief’s crown his father used to wear.
He steps closer.
The merchant straightens slightly. His eyes flick to the guards, then back to Hiccup.
“What can I do for you, ser?”
“I’m looking for a girl. Ellie. From Flea Bottom.”
The man’s eyes dart again. A twitch of fingers against the edge of the counter.
“I’ve heard no such name,” he murmurs. “But if you’re looking for someone… your best chance is the White Worm.”
The name is spoken with reverence. And fear.
“She’s near the Street of Silk. White building. Ask around—but mind your manners. She chooses who she sees.”
Hiccup nods. Drops several coins onto the counter. Before the man can speak, he snatches two circlets and slips them into his pack.
“Appreciate it.”
He’s already moving before the man can respond.
The Street of Silk is a fever dream.
The air is warm and cloying, thick with incense and perfume, swirling through the torchlight like a drug. Music filters out from behind heavy velvet curtains. Women in silk and lace lounge on balconies, their laughter trailing after them like mist. A few in sheer clothing glide through the crowds, men trailing behind them, disappearing into softly lit buildings. At the same time men stumble from doorways with wine-stained lips and empty coin pouches.
The air is thick with incense, wine, and something deeper, something warm and lethargic, like honey left too long in the sun. The scent of filth is still there, lingering beneath the surface. But here, it is masked, woven into the fabric of desire and indulgence.
Desire and rot walk hand in hand here.
Hiccup walks quickly, avoiding the slow, predatory smiles cast in his direction. A few women step toward him, their movements languid, practiced, but he barely acknowledges them. His focus is locked ahead, toward the white building standing out against the red and gold hues of its surroundings.
The White Worm.
He moves past the last of the reaching hands, pushing toward the entrance. The moment he steps closer, the world shifts.
The noise fades. The street quiets.
The working men and women linger in the background, but the tension in the air changes.
Hiccup knocks.
The door opens just enough for a small girl to peek through. She looks up at him, unimpressed. “What do you want?”
“I’m here to see the White Worm.”
The girl hums. Then, without another word, the door shuts in his face.
Hiccup sighs. Turns away, already considering his next plan. Maybe the guards at the Old Gate would know something—
A small hand grabs his wrist.
He doesn’t resist, but he’s immediately wary, following the boy who tugs him along without a word. They cut through the side of the building, into a dimly lit square, empty except for a lone, hooded figure sitting at a table.
The boy vanishes.
Hiccup steps forward.
The figure watches him. He catches a glimpse of brown eyes beneath the hood.
He sits.
“The White Worm?” he asks.
The woman tilts her head slightly, examining him. Then she speaks, her voice smooth, accented in a way he’s never heard before.
“Only my enemies call me the White Worm. And as I do not know you, I cannot see how we are enemies.” A small pause. “But you wear a helm, hiding your face. Perhaps you are an enemy.”
A trap.
Hiccup sees it for what it is. He was going to remove his helmet anyway, but now it’s about control.
He tilts his head. “Same could be said for you. A hood doesn’t exactly inspire trust.”
She exhales sharply through her nose, amusement, maybe, and after a moment, she removes her hood.
She’s striking, tan-skinned with dark brown eyes that hold too much in them. There is no softness there. Only calculation.
He smirks and removes his own helmet, setting it beside him.
“My name is Mysaria,” she says, studying him. “What is it you need?”
He leans forward, voice steady. “I am Hiccup Haddock. I’m looking for a girl named Ellie. She was taken by a guard after her brother was murdered for stealing bread. I want to make sure she’s safe. I heard you could help me.”
Something flickers across her face, so quick he almost misses it.
She watches him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nods.
“Della,” she calls softly.
A girl steps from the shadows. Small, sharp-eyed. Mysaria gestures toward Hiccup.
“Take this man to Ellie, she should be with Madam Sanda.”
The girl holds out her hand.
Hiccup slides his helmet back on, takes the girl’s hand, and glances back at Mysaria.
“I do not wish for payment,” she says simply. “But I will see the truth of your words soon enough.” Her voice lowers. “I hope you do not disappoint me.”
Hiccup doesn’t have time to wonder what she means.
He is already being pulled into the dark.
Hiccup follows Della through the winding back alleys of the Street of Silk.
They don’t take the main road.
It’s faster this way. Quieter.
The night air is warm, thick with the scent of incense and wine, but beneath it all, there is something bitter. Something sour.
Hiccup keeps his hood up, his helmet tucked away in his bag now that Mysaria has deemed him worth trusting. He moves quickly, boots light on the uneven stone as they weave through narrow pathways and slip past dimly lit courtyards.
They stop in front of a building.
He doesn’t need to be told what kind of place it is. The moment he steps closer, the sound of moans and drunken laughter reaches his ears. Candles flicker behind silk-draped windows, casting deep red and gold shadows along the walls.
His stomach churns.
“She’s in there?” His voice is low, controlled.
Della nods once. Then, without another word, she disappears back into the alley.
Hiccup turns toward the door, steels himself, and knocks.
The woman who answers is older, thin, with sharp features and graying hair pulled tightly away from her face. Her eyes sweep over him, assessing. Behind her, younger women hover near the entrance, their gazes half-lidded and expectant, their smiles slow and knowing.
Hiccup barely glances at them. He keeps his focus on the older woman.
“Are you Madam Sanda?”
Her expression shifts. The warmth, false as it was, vanishes. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m looking for a girl,” he says carefully, choosing his words. “She was taken from Flea Bottom by a guard.”
Madam Sanda scoffs, rolling her eyes. The girls behind her sigh, murmuring among themselves as they lose interest and drift away. “You’re too late,” she says, irritation coloring her tone. “The little brat is gone.”
Hiccup tenses. “What do you mean she’s gone?”
“Gone, left, ran—take your pick,” she says, voice sharp with annoyance. “Didn’t have the stomach for the work. Ungrateful little thing. Would’ve made good coin too.” She crosses her arms, gaze raking over him. “You looking to buy her back? Too bad. She didn’t stick around long enough.”
Hiccup stares at her. His jaw clenches, fingers curling into fists.
He was so close.
He turns without another word, the woman's scoff barely registering as he walks back down the street.Hiccup moves through the streets with quick, purposeful strides, his hood drawn low, helmet stowed away in his bag.
The night air is thick with the scent of incense, stale wine, and the lingering stench of the city, though here, in the heart of the Street of Silk, the filth is masked beneath perfumes and candle smoke. The sounds of revelry echo from behind closed doors and open windows, soft laughter, hushed whispers, the occasional moan. Every so often, figures move in and out of the warm glow of lantern light, women in sheer silks leading men into the shadows.
He ignores all of it.
His mind still lingers on Madam Sanda’s words.
The girl ran.
Good. She wasn’t trapped. She wasn’t bound to whatever fate those men had in store for her. That should be a relief.
But where the hell would she go? A child, alone in this city, with nothing but the clothes on her back. No allies. No place to run except deeper into the streets that swallowed people whole.
A slow frustration gnaws at his ribs. It’s not enough to know she’s out there, he has to find her before someone else does..
The thought barely forms before the scream cuts through the air.
Sharp. Terrified.
Hiccup stops, head snapping toward the sound.
No one else reacts.
His heart kicks against his ribs, and then he’s moving, turning back, retracing his steps. Scanning the alleys, his sharp eyes finally land on the back of a man hauling a struggling girl, his grip unyielding as he drags her from the alley and across the street. Hiccup frowns and moves to follow.
Navigating through the dense crowd proves frustrating. Despite his height, he loses sight of them, the press of people making it impossible to track their movements. He exhales sharply, about to abandon the chase when a different idea sparks. His gaze flicks upward to the wooden beams connecting the buildings. Without hesitation, he moves, scaling the structure with practiced ease.
From the rooftops, the city unfolds beneath him in a wash of flickering colors, the Street of Silk sprawling toward the looming form of Rhaenys’s Hill. The towering dome of a grand building catches his eye for only a moment before he refocuses, scanning the streets below.
Movement in the corner of his vision draws his attention, a man dragging a girl into a narrower street, one noticeably quieter than the bustling main roads. Few people linger here, and the ones who do pay no mind. He tracks their path, realizing with a jolt that they’re heading toward the Old Gate.
He moves swiftly, silent across the rooftops, the shadows swallowing him whole. No one looks up. No one notices the dark figure flitting across the beams above them. Thank Thor.
He gains on them, finally halting near a building, coincidentally close to the very place he'd been earlier, where the wealthy flaunted their excess. This street, however, has more guards than most, yet they do nothing. The girl’s cries for help ring out, sharp and desperate, but the stationed guards merely avert their gazes, ignoring her plight as though it’s beneath their concern.
Hiccup’s jaw tightens.
Positioning himself directly above them, he watches, assessing the situation carefully. He can’t afford to be reckless.
He's able to get a clearer look at them now that he's directly above. The man wears a dark cloak embroidered with a sigil of a white lamb holding a golden goblet on a green field. Balding at the top, streaks of gray weave through the remaining brown, marking his age. He is large, like Gobber, but without the strength hidden beneath his friend's frame. Instead, his wide belly strains against a too-tight tunic, making it clear he is no warrior.
The girl wears a tattered gray dress that barely reaches her knees, layered over pants too short for her, the fabric bunching awkwardly above her calves. Her boots are far too big, worn down with holes. Tangled brown hair falls around her thin face, and her posture is rigid with fear, shoulders hunched, back pressed against the wall, one hand raised defensively. But beneath the terror, there is something else in her eyes—anger, sharp and unyielding, a defiance that refuses to be snuffed out.
“Leave me alone or—I’ll kill you!”
The man lurched forward, stumbling on unsteady legs, his breath thick with the stench of ale. “You’ll do nothing,” he slurred, his words heavy with arrogance. “Think you can steal from me, street rat? You’ll pay for that—after I get my trouble’s worth.”
His fingers fumbled at the buttons of his pants as he yanked the girl around, shoving her against the wall with enough force that her head struck the stone with a sickening crack.
That was all the incentive Hiccup needed.
He lands with a solid thud, boots hitting the cobblestone, already moving before the man can react. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t warn, doesn’t waste time with words. He simply rears back and kicks, his boot slamming square into the man’s chest.
The force sends him stumbling back, crashing into the wall behind him, a choked gasp ripping from his throat.
The girl blinks, dazed, eyes wide as she looks between them, her breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.
Hiccup ignores her for now. His gaze locks onto the man, assessing.
Middle-aged. Balding. Expensive, ill-fitting clothes stretched over the bulk of a man who has never known true hunger. The way he moves, the way he holds himself, he’s not a fighter. A noble, then.
A coward.
The man groans, shoving himself upright. His face twists with anger as he reaches for his belt, and Hiccup catches the glint of polished steel as he pulls a short sword from its sheath. The blade is clean, barely used. The kind of weapon carried by someone who has never had to wield it.
“You’ll pay for that,” the man snarls, his sneer cutting toward the girl. “And once I’m done gutting you, I’ll take my time with the girl.”
Hiccup pushes her behind him, muscles tensing as he reads the noble’s stance. The man is gripping the hilt too tightly, his knuckles pale beneath the strain. He’s bracing himself, building false confidence in his own ability.
He’s about to swing.
The noble lunges. The attack is sluggish, predictable, his shoulder pulls back too far, his balance shifting before the blade even moves. Hiccup steps aside with ease, lets the edge skim harmlessly past him, and before the man can recover, he strikes. His forearm slams into the noble’s wrist, the sword clattering to the ground.
The noble barely has time to register what’s happened before Hiccup drives his knee into his gut.
The man crumples, wheezing.
A shout rings out, and Hiccup turns just in time to see a guard rushing toward them, sword raised.
His body moves before he can think. He sidesteps, catching the guard’s wrist and twisting until the blade drops from his grip. The guard grunts in pain, but before he can react, Hiccup strikes, slamming the flat of the fallen sword against the side of his helmet. The impact leaves a dent in the metal, and the man crumples to the ground, out cold.
Hiccup exhales sharply, flipping the sword in his grip, but before he can turn back to the noble, he hears a sharp scrape.
His head snaps up just as the man pushes himself to his feet, a dagger gleaming in his hand. Hiccup braces himself, ready to move—
But before he can, the blade sinks into the noble’s stomach.
The man stiffens, choking on a breath as his eyes go wide, his free hand clutching at the small, bloodied sword now protruding from his gut.
Hiccup doesn’t have to look to know who did it.
The girl’s hand tightens around the hilt, her small fingers gripping so tightly her knuckles turn white. She’s shaking. Her face is pale, eyes fixed on the blood, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
The noble makes a weak sound, something between a gasp and a whimper, before crumpling. The blade clatters from Ellie’s trembling hands, landing in the growing pool of blood.
She stares at it. Her breath comes too fast, shallow and uneven. Her fingers twitch, as if her body hasn’t caught up with what she’s done.
Her face is pale, but her eyes—her eyes are wide and dark, staring at the noble like she’s waiting for him to get back up. Like she doesn’t believe it yet.
Then, all at once, her body gives in. The strength drains from her limbs, and she sways.
Hiccup moves without thinking, catching her before she hits the ground.
She’s too light. Too small. His stomach twists as he shifts her carefully in his arms, he lays her gently on the ground, mindful of her head as he eases her down onto the cold cobblestone. Her breathing is steady, though shallow, her face slack in unconsciousness. For a brief moment, she looks younger, the hardened edge of survival smoothed away in sleep.
Hiccup exhales slowly and pushes himself upright, turning to assess the scene.
The noble’s body lies crumpled against the stone, blood pooling thick beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the alley floor. The stench of it is sharp, mingling with the already foul air of the city. The guard remains where he fell, unconscious, his helmet dented from the strike Hiccup delivered.
He clenches his jaw, rolling his shoulders as he scans the area. There’s no time to linger. He needs to deal with the body before anyone comes looking.
He’ll have to burn the body.
If there was a bog nearby, he would’ve dragged it there and left it to sink into the filth, let the earth swallow it whole. It would’ve been a fitting end for a man like this. But there’s no bog here, and he doesn’t fancy hauling a corpse through the city, leaving a blood trail in his wake.
Fire is cleaner.
Hiccup moves quickly, dragging the body toward the end of the alley. The man is heavy with excess, dead weight slumping against the cobblestone. The blood leaves a dark smear in its path, the metallic tang thick in the damp air.
He draws Inferno. With a flick of his wrist, the blade ignites, fire curling along the metal, casting an eerie glow against the alley walls.
The flames catch fast, devouring the corpse in seconds. The stench of burning flesh rises with the smoke, curling into the night. Hiccup steps back, watching the fire consume everything.
It’s done.
He turns, glancing at the girl. She’s still unconscious, her breathing steady but shallow.
On a whim, he grabs the short sword from where it had fallen, tucking it into his belt before lifting her carefully into his arms. She’s light—too light.
With one last look at the fire flickering in the alley, he disappears into the dark, making his way back to camp..
The sky is a deep, bruised blue, still clinging to the last shadows of night. The fire between them crackles softly, glowing embers sending warmth into the cool morning air. The scent of charred wood and damp earth fills Hiccup’s lungs as he watches the girl sleep.
She’s still out cold, her breathing steady, face slack in rest. She looks younger like this, the tension from the night before smoothed away. But there’s no true peace in the way her fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of the cloak he had draped over her, as if still gripping the sword she had driven into that noble’s gut.
Hiccup isn’t sure how long he’s been watching her, waiting.
Her eyelashes flutter. A faint shift in her breathing. Any second now.
She bolts upright with a sharp inhale, body coiled like a spring as her wide, frantic eyes dart across the unfamiliar camp.
Hiccup doesn’t move. He keeps his posture relaxed, hands resting loosely on his knees as he meets her gaze, offering a small, non-threatening smile. “Morning.”
She doesn’t respond immediately. Her shoulders remain rigid, her gaze flickering between him, the fire, the trees—assessing, calculating.
“I’m Hiccup,” he offers simply.
There’s a beat of hesitation. Then, quieter than before, her voice rough from sleep and something deeper, she whispers, “…My name is Ellie.”
The name doesn’t register at first. He hears it, but it doesn’t sink in. Not immediately.
Then, like a tightening thread, something inside him pulls. A shift, a click, the pieces snapping into place.
Ellie.
Tom’s sister.
The one he had been searching for.
His hands move automatically, grounding himself in the action as he leans forward, reaching for the pot over the fire. He ladles out the food, setting a bowl in front of her before taking his own. The smell of softened dried meat and warm bread fills the air.
She doesn’t touch it right away. She’s still watching him, wary, measuring.
He picks up his own bowl first, taking a slow bite before glancing at her again. “Go on,” he says, voice even, as if this were just any other morning.
Ellie hesitates for only a second longer before finally picking up her bowl.
The clothes she’s wearing, pants that fit, boots without holes, a clean shirt that doesn’t hang off her like rags, are ones he gave her. She hasn’t acknowledged the change, but he sees the way her fingers graze the fabric every so often, almost absently, as if unused to something that isn’t threadbare.
She eats quickly, efficiently, not wasting a single movement.
Hiccup lets her have the silence, finishing his own meal, mind still turning over the realization.
Then, finally, when the fire crackles low and their bowls are empty, he speaks.
“Are you Tom’s sister?”
The shift is almost imperceptible, but he catches it, the way her grip tightens slightly around the wooden bowl, the way her shoulders go rigid for just a moment.
She doesn’t cry. Doesn’t let it show on her face.
She just looks down, fingers flexing. Then, quietly but firmly, she says, “…Yes.”
Hiccup watches her carefully. He wants to say something, he doesn’t know what, but before he can, she inhales sharply, blinking, her head lifting. Something flickers in her eyes. Not grief. Something sharper.
She is looking at something behind him.
Her muscles tense.
Hiccup barely has time to register it before she screams.
“IS THAT A FUCKING DRAGON!!”