Chapter Text
The sea stretched out like a bruised sheet of glass, shimmering in shades of steel and ink beneath the waning daylight. Waves rolled and broke against the wooden hull of the ship, spraying cold mist that clung to skin and lashes like ghostly fingerprints. Rowyn stood near the edge of the vessel, gloved hands curled loosely around the worn railing as her gaze trailed the restless horizon. She didn't flinch when the wind bit at her cheeks or when it hissed sharp against her ears—she welcomed the sting. There was something about the vast, open water that made the tension in her chest ease, something about its unpredictability that mirrored her own hopes.
She'd never seen Berk, not with her own eyes, but she'd memorized its place on the map, learned of its dragons and storms and stubborn people. For most in her tribe, Vorkhaldr, it was a distant name drowned in fire and myth. To her, it was a promise.
Behind her, boots thudded against the damp boards, heavy and certain. Evric's voice followed a breath later, low and edged in concern. "You're quiet."
Rowyn didn't turn immediately. She breathed in deep, letting the salt air fill her lungs before exhaling in a soft stream. "I'm thinking."
Evric came to stand beside her, arms crossed over his chest, dark eyes squinting against the setting sun. His silhouette was tall and broad, the kind of presence that made people step aside without being asked. "Still sure about this?" he asked, not accusing—just weary. "About Berk. About dragons."
Rowyn glanced at him then, a wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Evric, we're a few days out. If I wasn't sure, I'd have jumped ship by now."
He snorted, but the sound didn't hide the way his jaw tensed. "You're the reason they agreed to this," he muttered. "You gave them hope when they didn't want it. Now you're walking straight into a village full of fire-breathers, and they expect you to what? Befriend them?"
She tilted her head, amusement softening her features. "Isn't that the point?"
"I think the point was to keep the dragons from tearing our people to shreds," he said, though not unkindly. "And to learn how Berk managed it. Not to get yourself killed trying."
Rowyn leaned a little farther over the edge, her reflection rippling across the sea's surface. Her voice turned quieter, more thoughtful. "You've seen what they're capable of. Not just destruction. Not just war. There's something more to them... something no one in our tribe ever cared to look for."
Evric looked at her, really looked at her, like he always did when she started talking about dragons. That strange reverence in her voice, the fire behind her calm—it made his chest ache. "You're not like them," he said finally.
"I know," she said softly. "That's why they sent me."
He fell quiet, lips pressing into a thin line. Then, after a beat, he added, "Still think they're going to listen to one girl with no dragon?"
Rowyn smiled faintly, teasing this time. "You're staring at me again."
Evric blinked. "Am not."
"You are."
He looked away, jaw clenching as a touch of color crept up his neck. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're obvious," she replied, nudging his elbow lightly with hers. "Don't worry. I like that about you."
For a moment, the sea felt warmer. Evric sighed and leaned his elbows on the railing beside her, his posture relaxing in a way that only happened around her. "Just promise me something."
Rowyn raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Don't trust them too quickly."
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes scanned the endless water ahead, the wind teasing strands of pale blonde hair free from her braid. "I won't," she said at last. "But I'll give them a chance."
Evric nodded, though the knot in his chest didn't loosen. He'd follow her anywhere—even here, even into a village known for taming the things his people once called monsters. Because she asked. Because she believed.
And because he couldn't bear to see her walk into danger without him close enough to stop it.
The ship rocked gently beneath them as gulls cried overhead, the sky bleeding into hues of copper and deep indigo. Sailors moved around the deck with practiced ease, tightening ropes, checking provisions, adjusting course. No one spoke much about their destination. No one had to. Berk loomed in their future like a living myth—and Rowyn, the girl who should have feared dragons more than anyone, seemed to welcome it.
She didn't wear fear like the others. She wore purpose.
Night crept in slow. Lanterns flickered to life along the deck, and the ship's mast swayed like a skeleton against the stars. Below deck, the cabins were tight and filled with the scent of sea brine, leather, and candle wax. Rowyn didn't sleep. She sat upright on her cot, sketching in the notebook she'd hidden from the others. Her pages were filled with dragons—not the ones from the old stories of fire and ruin, but ones she'd dreamed of. Gentle-eyed serpents and sky-dwellers made of mist. She didn't know what they were, only that they were real somewhere.
She just had to find them.
Evric watched her from across the room, pretending to sleep but failing. Her hair caught the dim light in silvery threads, her hand moving steadily across the paper as though the world inside her mind needed to spill onto the page before she could rest. He didn't understand her fascination, not fully. Not the way her eyes softened when she spoke of fire-breathers, or how she sketched their wings with the same reverence others reserved for gods. But he trusted it. And maybe that scared him more than dragons ever could.
Because what if they changed her? What if this place—this Berk—unraveled her in ways he couldn't stop?
Berk was only days away now. They'd dock soon, meet the chief and his riders. Rowyn would step onto foreign soil with only her name and her heart in her hands—and Evric would walk behind her like a shadow.
Because someone had to be there if things went wrong.
Because someone had to remind her who she was, if she ever forgot.
Because if anyone tried to take her from him—if someone tried to make her theirs—he wasn't sure he'd be able to let them.
Not now.
Not after coming this far.
Not after loving her for so long in silence.
His fingers curled in the blankets as he stared into the dark, heart thudding with a slow, heavy rhythm. He'd always known her brightness could draw others in, like fire in a frozen night. But now that they were so close, now that he'd have to watch her walk into the jaws of a world she'd only ever dreamed of... he wondered if he'd have the strength to watch her walk out again—changed. Different. Touched by something he couldn't compete with.
He closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come. Only the sound of her pencil scratching paper. Only the quiet rustle of her breath. Only the unshakable truth that she wouldn't belong to just him anymore.
And that realization burned worse than dragonfire ever could.