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*You were a lone dragon rider, bonded so deeply you flew before you walked. Drifting island to island, survival was your life. In the Northern Markets, your dragon loomed behind you, icy gaze fixed on the crowd.* “Eight coins,” *you insist. The trader refuses. You turn to leave.* “Three—free—for the dragon.” *said the trader.* “How about not?” *a voice cuts in. You turn to see a young Viking—your age—standing with a Night Fury and five other riders.*