chapter 6
(Aegis POV)
The sky was wrong.
I felt it before I saw it—before Toothless banked too sharply, before the wind shifted and carried the metallic scent of blood. Something in the air pulled, a quiet wrongness that made the violet veins beneath my scales pulse faintly.
Toothless faltered.
It was subtle. Anyone else might have missed it. A stutter in the beat of his wings. A fraction too much weight thrown to the left.
I narrowed my eyes.
There.
His tail fin—what should have cut cleanly through the air—dragged unevenly, torn and ragged where it should have been whole.
Just like the story.
My chest tightened.
So it had happened. Or it was happening now. The bolt, the fall, the injury that changed everything. The moment that turned a god of the sky into something hunted.
Toothless hissed in frustration and climbed again, stubborn, refusing to acknowledge the betrayal of his own body.
I surged forward instinctively—then stopped myself.
No.
Not yet.
I pulled alongside him, my shadow swallowing his smaller form for a brief heartbeat. He startled, snapping his head toward me, green eyes sharp and defensive.
I dipped my head once.
Down.
He snarled softly, pride bristling.
Another uneven beat of his wings.
This time, he felt it too.
The violet glow beneath my scales brightened just a shade—not power, not threat, but focus. I angled my wings, slowing, forcing the pace to drop. Wind roared past us as the world tilted downward, the jagged rocks below rising to meet us.
Toothless hesitated.
Then, reluctantly, he followed.
We landed hard among stone and scrub, the cove yawning open before us like a secret the world had forgotten. Salt and wet rock filled the air, the sea breathing slowly at the mouth of the cavern.
Toothless stumbled.
Only once—but it was enough.
He hissed, wings flaring, trying to mask it, trying to be bigger than the pain.
I stepped in front of him before he could lash out at the world.
Slowly, deliberately, I lowered myself, folding my wings, making my massive form still. The glow along my spine dimmed until I was little more than shadow broken by faint violet embers.
You are safe.
I didn't know if he understood the words—but dragons understood presence.
Toothless paced, agitated, then finally collapsed onto his haunches with a sharp exhale. He twisted awkwardly, trying to groom the torn fin, failing as pain lanced through him.
I watched.
Every instinct screamed to fix it—to intervene, to tear the future open and reshape it.
But this wound mattered.
This pain mattered.
Without it, there would be no bond. No bridge between worlds. No boy who dared to see dragons differently.
So I stayed still.
The tide rolled in and out.
The light shifted.
Eventually, Toothless stilled too.
His breathing slowed.
Only then did I move.
I rose and retreated deeper into the shadows of the cove, pressing myself against stone until I was part of it. The glow beneath my scales faded almost entirely, leaving me indistinguishable from the dark.
Watcher, not savior.
Guardian, not god.
Time passed strangely after that.
The sky dimmed, then brightened again. The world turned on its axis, indifferent to pain or prophecy. Toothless slept fitfully, waking with sharp hisses when his tail twitched the wrong way.
I did not sleep.
I listened.
Footsteps came eventually—hesitant, uneven, human.
My focus sharpened instantly.
He stood at the edge of the cove, silhouetted against the light, too thin, too small for the weight he carried. His heart hammered loud enough that I could hear it from where I lay hidden.
Hiccup.
He froze when he saw Toothless.
So did Toothless.
The moment stretched—dragon and boy locked in a fragile equilibrium that could shatter with a single wrong breath.
I felt the future coil tight.
This was the moment.
The knife.
The choice.
The line the story could never cross.
I shifted minutely, just enough that the stone beneath my claws whispered.
Toothless's ears flicked back.
He glanced toward the darkness—toward me.
I lowered my head imperceptibly.
Wait.
The glow beneath my scales stirred faintly, a pulse like a heartbeat held in check.
Hiccup raised the knife.
His hand shook.
I felt something twist in my chest that had nothing to do with dragon instinct.
Please, I thought, a word I hadn't used in a long time.
The knife fell.
Clattered harmlessly against stone.
The world exhaled.
I did not move as Hiccup fled.
I did not move as he returned.
I watched as days passed and patterns formed—small offerings of fish, cautious steps forward, retreats measured in heartbeats. Toothless watched the boy with suspicion sharpened by pain, but hunger gnawed louder.
Trust was not built in moments.
It was built in repetition.
I remained the constant absence.
Sometimes Toothless would glance into the shadows, eyes narrowing, as if sensing something vast just beyond his sight.
I let him.
Sometimes Hiccup would pause, brow furrowed, feeling watched.
I let him feel that too.
I was not part of this bond.
Not yet.
When Toothless finally allowed the boy close enough to touch him, the glow beneath my scales flared—just once—before dimming again.
Not power.
Pride.
The future bent, fragile but intact.
And I stayed hidden, ancient and still, a shadow guarding the moment that would change the world.