Chapter Text
As long as Snowflake can remember, her home has always been the endless sky. With all her soul she loved the taste of moist clouds on her tongue, unobtrusively enveloping the winged creature with its surface. Warm gold of sunlight, softly sliding over white scales and warming to the very bones. A careless, elusive wind that she always eagerly tried to outrun. How the sky took on different colors, be it crimson-red at dawn or mysteriously black with a scattering of white spots at night. It was as if she was an integral part of this amazingly beautiful world - fast, invisible, free.
But in just one moment everything disappeared. Loving family, friendly wind, native sky. The world changed its wonderful smell, which you could breathe deeply. Now it smelled sickening: rust, rotten straw and dried blood. All that remained was suffocating, hopeless darkness. The place where the dragoness was was so cramped that the young fury could not even spread her wings. A nasty dryness appeared in the reptile's mouth. Outside the darkness, the heavy clanking of chains was heard, which with every push of the cart torn sensitive ears, like the thorns of Deadly Nadder into the flesh.
The world has shrunk to the size of a tightly welded iron box. At first, the dragoness tried to find a way out. As soon as the steel door slammed behind her, the animal rushed around in this box, spewing plasma, in the hope of melting the strong bars. But with each new shot, the fire only ricocheted off the dragonproof iron, burning the reptile itself and filling the cramped space with acrid smoke that made the eyes water. The teenage dragon thrashed against the bars until its neat, white scales were covered in abrasions and its muscles began to ache. When her strength was exhausted, the white fury hid in the very corner of her prison, clutching her tail, and trembled finely, non-stop, her rage was replaced by a chilling, primal horror.
Smells reached her through the cracks. Aliens, hostile. And with every minute that passed, one particular scent overwhelmed all the others. It settled on the tongue with bitterness. It was the smell of old blood and absolute, concentrated animal fear. The smell of death.
Hundreds of dragon voices. Whining, hissing, a furious roar merged into a single roar, echoing from the stone walls. But even more terrifying was the sound coming from somewhere above. Smooth, rhythmic, pulsating. The roar of a human crowd.
Suddenly the cart jerked and stopped. The grinding of gears hurt her ears. Someone's rude voices were heard very close, followed by the clanging of bolts being thrown back. The fury instinctively pressed herself to the floor, pressing her ear appendages tightly to her head.
The heavy iron plate crawled upward with a creaking sound.
The light hit her eyes with merciless force. It was not the soft glow of the sun, but the aggressive, yellow glow of fires illuminating a deep stone pit. Arena. Along with the light, a deafening, vibrating noise burst into the cage.
Light fury pressed herself against the far wall of the box, refusing to come out, but long wooden peaks with iron tips immediately stuck through the opened bars. The points stabbed her painfully under the ribs, forcing her to jump out into the open with a frightened cry.
What was under her paws was not the soft moss or wet soil of her native island. It was a dry, hard stone with traces of dried blood on it. She raised her head, looking around frantically. Tall stone walls rose all around, and above, behind a stretched metal chain, a sea of human faces raged. Sculptures of dragon skulls grinned at her from all sides.
The stands around the arena erupted in a deafening roar. Hundreds of human faces were distorted into a grimace hungry for spectacle. The dragoness spun in place. She spread her wings, instinctively soared upward, to where a tiny patch of black night sky could be seen, but only met the thick iron grating of the dome. Pushing off the chain with her paws, the fury turned around and again rushed up, in the other direction, but here the same obstacle awaited her. Landing back, the dragoness's eyes ran chaotically from side to side, looking for a way out, but there was nothing.
She's trapped.
Suddenly the crowd's screams were replaced by a buzz of anticipation. On the opposite side of the arena, heavy iron gates rose with a roar. A pillar of roaring flame burst out of the absolute darkness of the tunnel, bathing the fighting area in heat. A Monstrous Nightmare stepped into the light.
It did not look like its wild relatives. His scales, once leaf green, were covered in ugly scars from the fights and beatings he had endured. Saliva dripped from its mouth, and the snake's eyes glowed with an absolutely insane, perverted hunger - the hunger of a creature that had been starved for weeks in order to now turn into an ideal killing machine.
The crowd in the stands roared with redoubled force, anticipating imminent reprisals against one of the participants.
The white dragon backed away. Light Furies never engaged in open, head-on combat with such giants; doing so was tantamount to suicide. They attacked while hidden from the enemy’s view — striking and vanishing—but here, there was nowhere to vanish, nowhere to hide. Her pale scales made her a perfect target in the torchlight.
In a panic, she fired a plasma blast — her last remaining shot. The blindingly bright charge tore through the air with a crackle but missed its mark. Disoriented, stunned, and blinded by fear, she had missed. The plasma struck the stone wall, catching the Monstrous Nightmare in the resulting shockwave.
That move was a mistake. Enraged, the dragon roared and lunged at the female, spewing a stream of viscous, sticky fire.
The show has begun.
The reptile darted around the arena like a trapped bird. She tried to dodge and leap away, only to realize too late that she was wasting her energy.
The Monstrous Nightmare proved to be cunning. It didn't waste effort trying to chase down the agile white dragon; instead, it simply waited for her to wear herself out.
The Nightmare’s massive tail, studded with jagged spikes, swung in an arc and slammed into her ribs with crushing force.
The blow knocked the wind right out of her. She was sent flying several meters, skidding across the stone before crashing into the wall with a heavy thud.
Her vision began to fade. Pain shot through her entire body, and black spots danced before her eyes. Through the ringing in her ears, she could hear the heavy, approaching footsteps of the Nightmare. Furia tried to rise on trembling legs, but exhaustion from hunger, panic, and pain took its toll. The stones of the arena blurred into a solid gray smear, the roar of the crowd faded to a low hum, and then an impenetrable darkness engulfed her dragon mind.
***
Waking up was a slow and agonizing process. First, the reptile’s sense of smell returned; the dampness, mold, and stale air of the dungeon filled her nostrils, settling somewhere in her chest like an unpleasant film. Then came the pain. Every breath sent a sharp spasm through her battered ribs. Furia struggled to open her eyes. She was surrounded by semi-darkness, broken only by the faint light filtering through a grate high overhead. It was not a cage, but a genuine cave hewn from the rock beneath the arena—a holding pen for gladiators. And merely one of many.
She tried to move but immediately let out a soft, pitiful whimper of pain, curling into a tight white ball in the darkest corner. She was terrified. She was lonely. She longed for her pack, for the warm wind.
Suddenly, a sound from the opposite corner of the dark chamber made the white dragon freeze in alarm. A low, vibrating rasp — like the sound of two blades being scraped against each other. The dilated pupils of her blue eyes peered intently into the darkness. Then, a massive shadow detached itself from the wall.
Chitin gleamed in the faint light. The creature was huge and massive — especially compared to the graceful, lethal female. Three scorpion-like tails, each tipped with a sharp stinger, swayed slowly in the air behind it.
Triple Strike. The arena champion.
He looked at the cowering white female. His cold, red eyes had seen hundreds like her over the years — dragons who ended up here only to die the very next day. Triple Strike’s body was riddled with scars — a chronicle of survival in this hell.
The beast exhaled heavily through his nostrils with a rasping sound and let out a low rumble:
- "Whimper, and tomorrow the tormentors will throw you to Whispering Deaths. No one returns from them." - his voice was grating, like the sound of rusty chains.
Fighting through the pain, the dragoness lifted her head. She hissed, baring her teeth. The Champion didn't even flinch, he regarded the scene with a heavy, almost ancient weariness. The male took a step forward, and the fury pressed herself against the wall, bracing for an attack — but Triple Strike did not strike. He merely settled heavily onto the stone a few meters away, curling his tails into a ring.
- "Try to survive at least until morning, cub," - he replied, closing his eyes and resting his heavy head beside his massive claw. - "That dragon didn't touch you because the crowd jeered at the fight. They have no interest in watching someone get killed if they don't put up a fight. If you want to live, you’ll have to learn to draw blood tomorrow."
He fell silent, drifting into a doze and leaving the young Light Fury alone with the dungeon's chill and the brutal truth of this new world.
***
Days in the arena dungeons were not measured by sunrises and sunsets. They were measured by the clanging of bars, the scent of fresh blood, and the scraps of rotting fish tossed through the grating at the same time each day.
The young fury quickly realized: it wasn't the strong who survived here, but those who knew how to learn.
At first, the scorpian-like dragon merely watched her from his dark corner. After every fight, the female would return to the cage trembling, covered in fresh scrapes, and huddle in the shadows, breathing heavily. Triple Strike saw her fatal error: the white dragon fought as if she were trying to win. But here, the goal was simply to avoid being killed.
One day, after she miraculously dodged the fangs of a furious Whispering Death and returned to the dungeon with a torn shoulder, the Champion could stand it no longer. The moment the bars clanged shut behind the dragoness, he rose to his feet with a low rumble. His massive tail lashed out like a whip, striking the stone just an inch from her snout. She sprang back, hissing.
- "You fight like a blind hatchling."- he rumbled, looming over her. The vertical pupils of his amber eyes narrowed. - "Why do you blast plasma right at his forehead? His hide is tougher than any mountain rock. You’re only making him angry."
- "I wanted to blind him!" - she snapped, tossing her head with an indignant growl.
- "Blind a creature that lives underground?" - The Champion snorted, exhaling a puff of acrid smoke. - "Foolish cub. Your weapon — the weapon of your kind — is speed. Don't try to punch through the armor. Aim for the weak spots. Under the belly. At the wing joints."
That day marked the beginning of their training. The dark, damp chamber became their private arena. Triple Strike showed her no mercy; he used his three tails to mimic the lunges of a wide variety of dragons. He forced the female to dodge until she was utterly exhausted, driving her movements to evolve from chaotic flailing into a deadly, refined dance.
He taught her rules that were impossible to grasp in the wild.
- "Two-legs love a spectacle." - the poison dragon would grumble as she lay catching her breath on the stones after training. - "They want a show. If you simply kill or run away, they won't feed you. Do a flip. Scale the wall. Spin around before you fire. If they’re entertained, the tormentors will toss you a fish instead of a spear."
But the Champion taught her the most important lesson after she inflicted a serious wound on another dragon — a young Deadly Nadder — for the first time. Back in the cage, the fury was devastated. She wanted to survive, yet she had no desire to inflict pain on a fellow captive.
The male settled heavily beside her.
- "Don't you dare blame yourself." - he snapped harshly, noticing her dejected state. "And don't you dare hate *them*. Nadder, Monstrous Nightmare, Gronckle... we’re all just meat here for bloodthirsty monsters. Hate the ones sitting up above. Hate the ones who stole the sky from us and cast us into this grave."
After one particular fight — where she utilized her camouflage, blending into the smoke from her opponent's fire to strike from nowhere — her mentor clattered his tail-spikes in approval.
- "You aren't a fighter," - he said then. - "Fighters die. You are a Ghost. And a ghost cannot be killed."
Over time, their relationship evolved beyond the bounds of strict mentorship. The bone-deep chill and dampness of the dungeon became unbearable at night—especially for dragons accustomed to huddling together for warmth against the cold, a group that included Light Furies. At first, teenage dragon slept a short distance away, shivering from the cold; but one night, unable to bear the fitful tremors racking her body any longer, Ghost cautiously crept — inch by inch — toward the massive form of Triple Strike. A steady, intense heat radiated from his chitinous shell, like the warmth of a furnace.
The Champion cracked open one ruby eye, gazed at the small white bundle pressed against his flank, let out a heavy sigh, and... draped his vast, leathery wing over her.
From then on, it became their ritual. The rugged, scarred gladiator and the graceful, ghostly beauty became inseparable.
When the Triple Strike returned from the dragon fights — battered, bleeding, and with his armor pierced — the female took on the role of caretaker. She never left his side. As older dragon lay on his side, breathing heavily and raggedly, she would gently lick the blood from his wounds, cleaning them. Her rough tongue soothed the pain, while her warm purring drowned out the groans of other dragons beyond the wall.
For the arena veteran, this small white female became the only thing keeping him from plunging into total madness. Thanks to her, he did not forget that he was still alive. And for the fury, this harsh, venomous beast became the most reliable stone wall in a world that sought to tear her apart.
They survived together. And they vowed that one day, they would see the sky together.
***
The storm struck suddenly. Black clouds had blanketed the sky above the arena even before sunset, and by midnight, the elements were battering the island with primal fury. The wind howled through the stone corridors, while peals of thunder made the caged dragons rumble uneasily.
Two dragons lay in their cell, pressed close together. Icy water cascaded down the walls in torrents, flooding the floor. Triple Strike dozed, his flanks heaving heavily, while the white fury listened intently to every crash of the storm. The approaching tempest stirred a surge of anxiety in her, yet also a sense of anticipation. In those sounds, she seemed to hear the voice of the open sky — a sky she had all but forgotten. She felt it deep in her gut: something was about to happen.
Suddenly, a flash of lightning blinded them both. The strike was so powerful that the very rock shook. A deafening crack rang out directly overhead. Champion instantly sprang to his feet, instinctively shielding the white reptile with his massive body, his tails arched menacingly.
As the smoke and the scent of ozone began to clear, the female dragon raised her head. Lightning had struck the iron grate covering the ventilation shaft near the ceiling of their cell. The thick metal bars had turned white-hot, warping and melting in places to form a jagged, twisted gap. Rain lashed through the opening, and beyond it... beyond it lay the churning, stormy sky.
Ghost froze. Her pupils dilated to their limit. A familiar scent — the scent of freedom, cold and damp — rushed into the cell, intoxicating her.
- "Champion..." - her voice wavered. She sprang upward, digging her claws into the rough stone wall, and reached toward the breach. The opening was wide enough. - "We can get out! The sky! We can fly away!"
But Triple Strike did not share the fury's excitement. He looked sadly at the melted bars, then at his own massive, chitin-armored shoulders and broad wings. He had known the truth before he even tried. The opening was perfect for a slender, graceful fury, but a dragon like Champion would simply get stuck.
Outside, in the corridors, shouts were already ringing out. Guards, alarmed by the lightning strike and the potential escape of the dragons, were rushing toward the cells. Bolts clattered; rapid footsteps drew near.
- "Come on! I'll help you! We can melt the rest of the bars together!" - the female dropped from the wall and landed before him. Her ears were pressed desperately against her head.
- "No dragon could melt this grate..." - the male growled resignedly.
The footsteps grew closer. Torchlight danced upon the corridor's wet walls. Champion drew in a deep, heavy breath. His eyes no longer held weariness — only the absolute, icy resolve of an old fighter. He gave the white female a rough nudge with his snout, urging her upward toward the opening.
- "Fly away, Ghost." - he rumbled. His voice merged with another peal of thunder.
- "No! I won't leave you! We swore an oath!" - she whimpered, trying to squeeze beneath his wing — into the place where she had always been safe.
- "FLY!" - the Champion roared, so loudly that she recoiled.
The heavy iron door of their cell began to rise with a clatter. Figures of guards appeared in the opening, crossbows already loaded with bolts tipped in dragon root's poison.
Triple Strike turned to face them. Three scorpion tails whipped up overhead, fanning out wide. He spread his wings, filling the entire cell and becoming a living, impenetrable shield between the guards and the cowering female.
- The fury is escaping! Seize her! - the main of the guard shouted, raising his crossbow.
A bolt whistled through the air and sank into the Champion’s shoulder; he didn't even flinch. Letting out a furious, blood-curdling roar, he lunged forward, crushing the first two guards under his massive weight. His tails swung like giant hammers, shattering shields and breaking bones.
- "I said fly away!" - he growled over the din of clashing metal and human screams, never once looking back at her.
The fury froze. She watched as more bolts sank into her mentor’s back like striking snakes. She watched him take every blow meant for her.
- "Live for both of us! Fly and don't look back!" - that roar held his final request. His command. With a piercing, agony-filled shriek, she gathered all the plasma remaining in her lungs and fired straight into the crowd of guards standing behind the male. A blinding violet flash plunged the dungeon into chaos for a split second.
Seizing the moment of confusion, Ghost pushed off the floor, her powerful hind legs launched her upward. The dragoness squeezed through the jagged breach, tearing her scales against the hot bars; a sharp edge grazed her wing, ripping the membrane, though she could barely feel physical pain at that moment.
The fury burst free. An icy gale slammed into the reptile’s snout, caught her battered body, and swept her upward into the black, roaring sky.
Ghost flew on, piercing the storm clouds until cramps seized her wings from exhaustion and blood loss, yet she kept beating them powerfully, putting ever more distance between herself and that cursed place.
Somewhere far below, Triple Strike was still fighting. Bleeding profusely and pinned against the wall by spears, he lifted his head and gazed up at the gaping hole in the ceiling, through which the rain poured down.
Champion bared his teeth in a bloody yet utterly joyful grin—as much as his dragon snout would allow. Ghost had finally found her freedom.
***
The sun was sinking toward the horizon, bathing the waters around Dragon’s Edge in warm gold. The future chief of Berk and his loyal Night Fury landed smoothly on the central platform. Close behind them, a scorpian-like dragon descended, beating its massive wings heavily.
There was no trace left of the aggressive monster from the arena, he had been saved. Casting a grateful glance at the dragon riders, the gladiator closed his yellow eyes and took a deep, noisy breath of the clean, salty sea air — air no longer tainted by the stench of fear and death. A genuine dragon’s smile spread across his scarred snout — not a snarl, but merely a slightly parted jaw and three relaxed, deadly tails — a gesture expressing immense gratitude to the two-legged ones for allowing him to touch the sky once more.
The riders, buoyed by their victory over the captors, gathered around their new and surprisingly peaceful guest.
Just then, the familiar whistle of air being sliced apart rang out above the treetops. Vilgerd and Snowflake, who had been left to guard the island against intruders, were returning from patrol. The white Fury descended in an elegant dive, preparing to land on the soft grass near the crowd, but the moment her paws touched the ground, the female jerked and froze in her tracks — startling the red-haired girl, who had already dismounted.
- Snowflake? You... - the girl began, placing her palm against the dragon's smooth scales, but she stopped short as she felt her dragon’s entire body go rigid, taut as a bowstring. The wind shifted, causing Snowflake to gasp sharply. The air held scents of forest, fish, and other dragons, but beneath it all lurked *that* specific aroma. Painfully familiar. The smell of old chitin and acrid venom.
Snowflake’s pupils dilated, flooding her irises with blackness. She completely ignored her rider’s words. With a sharp, piercing cry — a sound like the wail of a lost puppy, the likes of which Gerda had never heard from her usually composed fury — she bolted, rapidly closing the distance to the central platform.
The dragon who would one day be named Sleuther heard that sound.
The rescued male was just curiously sniffing at the Edge’s wooden structures when the high-pitched cry made him flinch. The massive dragon spun around sharply.
A couple of dozen meters away, a Light Fury paused, her pale scales gleaming in the sunset light. It was only for a moment, then she darted toward the veteran, forcing the riders to part in astonishment. Vilgerd, who had been following her the whole time, barely had time to shout:
- Snowflake, wait! He isn't..!
Closing the distance in a flash, the fury slammed into him, burying her head right against his broad, chitinous chest — an impact that made Sleuther stagger. The dragon was taken aback for a split second, then lowered his gaze. Standing before him, trembling all over and pressing desperately against his armor, was that very same female dragon. His white shadow. His Ghost.
She had grown. She had become stronger. The wing wound she had sustained on that terrible stormy night had healed into a thin, smooth scar.
- ...dangerous? - the red-haired girl finished her sentence, then continued on her way at a calm pace.
The riders froze in shock as the massive dragon — fresh from the gladiatorial pits — let out a sound: a low, rumbling, vibrating drone that held years of pain, loneliness, and absolutely incredible relief.
Sleuther wrapped his large claw around Snowflake — clumsily, as if afraid he might break her. His massive head lowered to rest right atop the white reptile's head.
- "You're alive..." - he rumbled deep in his throat, holding the fury as close as he dared. Snowflake lifted her head and began frantically — almost feverishly — licking the fresh battle wounds on his snout, as if they were back in that dark, damp cell. She pressed against him, as though afraid he might vanish again or sacrifice himself for her sake.
The people stood in silence, struck by the scene unfolding before them.
- Do... do they know each other? - Snotlout whispered, eyes wide, afraid to break the moment.
Hiccup, watching the dragons in fascination, slowly nodded with a smile. Beside him, Toothless cooed happily at the reunion, and the other dragons soon joined in.
Finally, Vilgerd joined the scene. She had never seen Snowflake... like this. Suddenly, all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. All those nights when the fury woke up whimpering softly, all her fears of enclosed spaces... and her incredible combat skills. That part of the past the dragoness could never have told her friend about — but which would no longer torment her.
The young woman took a few steps forward. Sleuther noticed her movement. Old arena reflexes took over for a split second: he tensed slightly and let out a menacing growl. He already understood that Hiccup and these people had nothing to do with his tormentors, but years spent in constant struggle and isolation had left their mark.
Then, Snowflake gently nudged his chin with her nose and walked over to Gerda. The fury rubbed affectionately against her rider’s shoulder, circling her, then sat down nearby and fixed her blue eyes on Sleuther, letting out a short, affirmative sound.
- "She saved me. She is my pack."
Triple Stryke gazed at the red-haired girl for a long time. He studied her face, watching as she extended an open palm toward him — cautiously, yet confidently. Then he looked at Ghost, she was healthy, strong, and, most importantly, free.
Slowly, with a loud, satisfied exhale, Triple Stryke finally relaxed his muscles. He lowered his head until it was level with Vilgerd’s face, closed his eyes, and allowed the girl to touch his nose. As her warm hand made contact with the tough scales of his snout, Snowflake let out a happy purr. In the rays of the setting sun, the two dragons—who had endured so much pain—were finally together. And this time, there were no bars above them, only a peaceful, open sky.