I had underestimated one very important fact about being a dragon: gravity is a lot more intimidating when your wingspan is thirty meters.
The first morning after the… well, "transmigration incident" (I had started calling it that to sound official), I woke in the cove, head pressed against the stone like a boulder's more intelligent cousin. My tail had wrapped itself in a way that almost—almost—made sense, except now a jagged rock had left a faint groove across my scales.
My first thought: Ow.My second thought: Did I just wake up as a dragon?My third thought: Ow, seriously, that rock is still pressing into me.
The sun hadn't quite risen yet, but the cove glowed with the kind of pale light that made your eyes feel like they'd been rubbed with sandpaper. I tried to stand. My wings flapped instinctively. Air rushed beneath them… and I tipped sideways, landing on my side with a grunt that would have sounded human if my lungs weren't now scaled, cavernous bellows. My tail swiped a boulder like it was a toothpick, sending stones clattering into the water.
Comedy, it turns out, is very physical when you're 25 meters long from snout to tail tip.
I spent the morning testing everything. Claws, wings, tail, teeth, eyes, ears… the works.
Claws: Sharp. Way too sharp. I nearly punctured a tree branch I tried to use for leverage.
Wings: Massive. The tips scraped the cave ceiling; flapping without care could probably level half of Berk.
Tail: My personal favorite weapon, terrifyingly strong, occasionally self-sabotaging when I forgot it existed.
Scales: Black with faint purple streaks that pulsed whenever I was flustered, nervous, or… thinking hard. Seriously, thinking hard made them glow.
Eyes: Red. Bright. Judging me, apparently. I started to suspect even my reflection was secretly laughing at me.
I discovered early that my human brain didn't translate to dragon coordination. I'd think, Okay, I'll walk down this slope. Instead, my hind legs slipped, tail swung like a wrecking ball, wings flapped unintentionally, and the rocks below became a very personal avalanche.
By the time I managed a relatively graceful (by my standards) landing at the cove entrance, I was exhausted, bruised, and vaguely proud.
"This is… ridiculous," I muttered, tasting the salt in the air. My voice had a new resonance now, a deep rumble that made the cove vibrate slightly. "Why did I even agree to be a dragon?"
Of course, the answer was obvious: I didn't agree. A bus hit me. A movie franchise dragged me into a parallel dimension. A giant purple-black dragon with red eyes didn't ask permission. It just… happened.
Once I settled (temporarily) on a flat rock and tried to catch my breath, I started observing. The sea. The sky. The cliffs. Every detail was sharper, louder, more alive. The smell of saltwater carried currents of fish far beyond what a human nose could detect. Small seabirds wheeled above me, chattering, unaware of the predator that had just discovered flight.
And then I saw him.
A shadow flicked across the waves. A sleek black shape, smaller than me but unmistakably… Toothless.
I froze. Well, as much as a 25-meter dragon can freeze. My wings tucked slightly, tail curling for balance. My eyes locked on him, red glowing faintly, pulsing with curiosity—or panic. I wasn't sure which.
That's Toothless, I thought, heart—or the dragon-equivalent—leaping. From the movies.Alive.
Watching him was mesmerizing. He moved with the kind of effortless grace that made me feel like a novice all over again. My first instinct was to mimic. I flapped awkwardly. Tail swiped rocks. Toothless paused midair, tilted his head, and… stared.
We stared at each other. Red eyes, black scales, violet pulses.
And then he blinked.
Blinking in dragon language, I decided, could mean: Are you friendly? Or: You are absolutely insane. Probably both.
Days passed, and I slowly began learning my body. I discovered a few important facts:
Flying while thinking too hard is dangerous. Very dangerous.
Landing requires precision. Precision I did not yet have.
Tail inertia is lethal. Especially near rocks.
Scale pulsing is involuntary. Especially when I panic.
Red eyes are intimidating to literally everyone. Including Toothless.
The comedy came in layers. One morning I tried to hop from one cliff to another. Calculated distance. Mental math perfect. Reality? I misjudged wind, slipped mid-jump, and tumbled like a rolling log for ten meters before managing a cliff-side landing with dignity somewhere around zero percent. Toothless… watched. And then launched a single, sharp, teasing chirp.
I swear it sounded like laughter.
By the third day, I had discovered the cove's ecosystem. Small birds nested in crevices. Fish leapt out of the water sometimes, giving me the faintest hint of instinctual hunting—though I resisted. My stomach still expected… something. Food. Real food. Preferably fish. Or whatever passed for human food that didn't involve spilling me into the water.
Toothless became a reluctant teacher. He circled, observed, chirped occasionally. I tried a mimic of his flight patterns, flapping once, then twice, then turning abruptly. He tilted, waited. I stumbled again. Over and over.
Maybe dragons are patient, I thought. Or maybe he's just amused.
Night came. The moon rose pale and silver, turning my violet-black scales into shimmering shadows. I curled in the cave, folding wings carefully. My tail pressed along the ground, trying not to crush rocks or plants. Toothless appeared at the mouth of the cove, eyes reflecting the moonlight, and gave a soft, low chuff.
It was like he was saying, Keep going. You'll get there.
I didn't know if it was encouragement or judgment. Either way, it felt… comforting.
I lay there, thinking about my old life. The movies. My apartment. Popcorn and sticky floors. Friends. Family. All gone in a flash, replaced by this… this massive, glowing, terrifyingly beautiful body.
And yet, I didn't hate it. Not completely.
Maybe this is my chance to be someone new. Someone… more.
By the fifth day, I had started to measure myself in human terms versus dragon terms:
Wingspan: ~30 meters. Could block the sun if I tried.
Tail length: ~12 meters. Could knock over a longhouse with a single sweep.
Height at shoulder: ~7 meters. Almost as tall as a tower in Berk.
Teeth: sharp enough to bite through a ship's mast, but I hoped I wouldn't test it.
And my scales… black and violet, pulsing faintly depending on my emotions. Rage or fear made them glow brighter. Curiosity and amusement brought a soft shimmer. I could see Toothless noticing. I suspected he was amused.
The day ended with me attempting a small flight along the cliffs, gliding for maybe ten meters before crashing into the slope of the rock with a grunt that sent a flock of seabirds scattering. Toothless hovered nearby, head cocked. I waved a claw sheepishly.
We'll get there, I muttered. Eventually.
Fishermen started noticing the strange shadow over the cliffs, though I didn't understand them yet. Big dragons, they said. Unusually large. Some speculated it was a rogue Night Fury. Others, an omen. I didn't care yet. I just cared about not dying, not crushing anything important, and not embarrassing myself in front of Toothless again.
By the end of the week, I had learned a few small but crucial truths:
Dragons are patient. Some humans are not.
My body is ridiculous. And ridiculously powerful.
Toothless is terrifyingly clever.
I am, for better or worse, now part of their world.
And somewhere, deep in my chest, I knew the adventure had just begun.