HTTYD: Biologist's Dream

I nod—just once. Slow. Heavy.

Then Gobber steps away, clinking down the boat's side with the weight of his prosthetic leg, trading places with one of the rowers. His back is broad, and the storm rolls behind him like a curtain of fate. I stand there, alone for a moment, the sky roaring above, and I let the storm cleanse me.

"I will tell him," I whisper to myself.

"Before it's too late."

—---------------------

(Erik's POV)

"I need to fight something, Stormbolt." My voice is low, almost a growl, as I reach forward and rest my hand on the smooth curve of Stormbolt's neck. His scales hum faintly beneath my touch, crackling with pent-up voltage—just like me. The storm isn't calming us. If anything, it's stoking the fire. Feeding the fury.

"Change of plans," I say, pulling myself upright in the saddle. The wind rips past us, carrying the smell of ozone and coming rain. "We'll go to Berk after we blow off some steam. Let's head home. It's time we paid a visit to the nightmares and Nadders."

Stormbolt lets out a jagged trill of delight, the sound spiking with static like a thunderclap. He surges forward, cutting through the storm like a bullet loosed from the gods themselves. The skies tear open behind us, the path home once four hours shrivels to two beneath the wrath of the wind and our lightning-born speed. And still, the storm follows. As if the skies themselves want to witness the carnage.

"You take the Nadders, I'll deal with the nightmares," I bark over the wind, unbuckling my harness. "You're faster. Dodge better. Leave the brutes to me."

Stormbolt roars in affirmation, then banks left as I leap. I drop like a meteor, slamming into the earth hard enough to crack stone and send a shockwave of dirt and sparks rippling outward. But the storm's blessing shields me from the force. I hit the ground without so much as a bruise.

My glaive sings as I summon it from my inventory, the weapon humming with power. Silver steel arcs with faint blue energy, the ribbon near the blade snapping wildly in the gale.

"I may ride dragons…" I mutter, stalking into the forest. "But none are safe from my steel."

Lightning crashes behind me, illuminating the tangled canopy in violent flashes. Shadows dance across bark and stone as I move like a specter, slipping into the twisted territory of the monstrous nightmares.

The first one doesn't even roar. It never gets the chance. My glaive drives clean through its skull, a wet crack echoing off the cave walls as flame sputters from its throat and dies. The kill is effortless. My strength—surging near 160 with the storm's aid—turns hardened scale to little more than parchment.

The body vanishes into my inventory as I sprint into the woods, feral, wild, a one-man storm with glaive in hand and lightning in his blood. Each strike is precise, brutal, and final. Another nightmare falls. Then another. Flame roars and dies. Screeches echo and cut off mid-cry.

By the time I reach the peak of their nesting mountain, the forest behind me is littered with death. The nightmares' numbers are broken. Their roars have turned to whimpers. And atop the peak?

A wave of heat surges forward—then the fire.

The mouth of the cave ignites, the unmistakable roar of a Titan Wing Nightmare tearing through the night as it emerges, its entire body sheathed in fire.

"Let's see if the big bastard's home," I grin.

It charges. A wall of teeth and flame. But I've already moved. I slip beneath the stream of fire and drive my glaive upward. The edge carves through one of its wings like molten butter, severing it at the joint.

The Titan Wing roars, a sound of primal agony, and stumbles. Its balance gone.

I don't give it a chance to recover.

I leap. Drive my boot into its skull. The ground craters beneath us from the impact, the beast's head collapsing with a sickening crunch as the Titan Wing's body spasms—then goes still.

Lightning cracks above me, louder than before. I look up to see Stormbolt descend like a god of war. His scales are drenched in blood, his teeth bared in satisfaction. No scratches. No bruises. Just pure, unholy triumph.

'A good haul,' I think, though the memory of that cavern still claws at the back of my mind like a ghost.

Another nightmare lunges from the treeline.

Quickly turning, I hurl my glaive.

The spear spins through the air and slams through its chest with a meaty thud. Blood sprays in a fan behind it as lightning crashes in unison, illuminating the impaled beast before the blade exits cleanly through the other side—still humming.

'I've got a lot of work to do later.' The thought echoes as I open my inventory, the contents flickering into view—seventeen nightmare carcasses neatly stacked in temporal stasis, about to become eighteen. My hand reaching out to grab the impaled nightmare and my glaive.

Stormbolt lands beside me, the impact sending a ripple through the wet soil. Rain hisses as it pelts his scales, streaked crimson from his slaughter. He shakes slightly, a low, satisfied trill rumbling from his chest as a bolt of lightning splits the sky overhead—thunder following close behind like a war drum. Oddly enough, the sound soothes us both.

"Let's go collect the Nadders," I mutter, stowing the fresh nightmare kill and my glaive into my inventory. The steel vanishes in a pulse of energy as I vault up onto Stormbolt's back.

We shoot forward, trees whipping past. Several trunks are riddled with Nadder spikes—some embedded so deep they pulse faintly, like dying embers. We slow only as the scent of blood thickens the air.

fourteen.

Fourteen Nadder corpses in total, some splayed out in twisted bundles like upended quivers, others neatly felled in pairs. Their scales shimmer in varied hues—turquoise, sky-blue, green-gold—glinting wet beneath the stormlight.

'Stormbolt's getting efficient.' I can't help but feel a flicker of pride, already wondering what I'll craft from these bodies and what knowledge I can pass to Lumenweep.

"Back to the cave. Let's see how Runa and Ragnar are doing," I say, tapping Stormbolt's side.

He answers with a trill of agreement, wings tucking slightly as we glide low across the trees, mist spiraling beneath us. The storm trails behind, quieting to a steady downpour as we descend toward the familiar mouth of our cliffside cave.

The moment our feet touch down, I hear it—Ragnar's laughter, loud and unfiltered, echoing from within.

"We're back!" I shout as I hop down. Within seconds, Ragnar and Runa come jogging out to meet us, their dragons not far behind—Muzzlemaw bounding like an overgrown puppy, Duskrattle walking close with gleaming eyes.

Ragnar's already firing off questions: "So? Did you talk to Hiccup? What about Stoick the Vast? Did they freak out when you showed up?" He bounces in place like an eager child.

Runa casually smacks the back of his head with a flick of her hand, raising a brow at me.

"Ow! Runa, what the hel—" She gives him that look. The one that says, "You already know the answer." And honestly? He probably does.

"Alright, alright," I laugh, waving them toward the fire. "Let's sit first. I'll tell you everything."

They follow me back to the hearth at the center of the cave, the flames burning low and warm. Sparks rise as we gather close, dragons curling up beside their riders, their bellies rising and falling with rhythmic calm. Stormbolt settles across from me, nuzzling Duskrattle and Muzzlemaw in turn like the rowdy older cousin.

"Ugh, fine—but make it quick. I'm dying of boredom," Ragnar groans dramatically, flopping down like a dying fish. Runa snickers, already expecting his nonsense.

And so I tell them.

From following the dragon riders, to the Red Death's reveal, to the moment I yelled into the storm, daring Thor himself to strike me down—and how the god answered with lightning. How I walked away unburned while the Red Death burned alive. I leave nothing out.

At first, they look at me like I'm weaving one of Gobber's insane tavern tales.

Until I describe the moment—the exact instant—the lightning hit. The light, the silence, the power.

Their jaws drop.

"How the fuck does that even work?!" Ragnar shouts, mouth agape. "What are you made of—dragonhide?!" He jabs me with a stick, as if I'll shatter or melt.

I burst out laughing, full-throated and genuine, the tension of the day bleeding out into the warmth of the fire and the company of people I trust. Ragnar and Runa glance at each other, then back at me—half in awe, half convinced I've lost my mind.

—---------------------

(Runa's POV)

'This man just keeps getting wilder and wilder, doesn't he?' I think as I glance between Erik—soaked to the bone, grinning like a madman—and my brother Ragnar, whose mouth is hanging open like a fish tossed on a dock. Again.

"What are you going to do next—drag the world serpent out of the sea and make it your bitch?" Ragnar blurts, eyes wide with disbelief.

To my dismay—and faint amusement—Erik actually pauses, thumb and forefinger brushing over his damp beard in genuine thought.

He's considering it.

Ragnar's jaw drops even lower, and I can't help but sigh, shaking my head at the two of them. These are the men I choose to surround myself with, I muse. And despite the chaos, despite the absurdity… I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Still, it'd be nice if they matured past the age of twelve.

'Can anything even kill this man?' I wonder, watching Erik in the flickering firelight. His clothes cling to his skin, heavy with rainwater, outlining lean muscle that doesn't boast—but proves itself when needed. I'm used to seeing him like this by now, waterlogged and grinning, as though he'd wrestled the sea itself and came out laughing.

But I remember the first time we saw him.

When he found us clinging to a shattered plank, the tide dragging us toward the rocks. I remember how he hauled both me and my brother from the surf as if we weighed nothing—one on each shoulder—and carried us to shelter. Ragnar had hissed like a wild cat, convinced we were being taken as prisoners or food.

Instead, he gave us fire. Food. Safety.

He gave us dragons.

I glance at Muzzlemaw, coiled near the fire, her sleek black scales nearly indistinguishable from the shadows. A hybrid—Night Fury and Whispering Death—dead silent despite her size, her presence commanding but calm. She mirrors me in so many ways it's eerie.

Ragnar's dragon, meanwhile, is a cackling, loud-mouthed brute who fits him like a second skin. Duskrattle hasn't stopped chattering or snapping since the moment we arrived—perfect for my loud, impulsive brother.

Erik's voice cuts through my thoughts like a breeze.

"You still with us, Runa?" he chuckles, eyes bright beneath the curtain of wet hair.

I blink and give a small nod.

He doesn't press. He never does. Never questions the silence. Never asks why words don't leave my mouth, even when they sit heavy in my chest. Somehow, that means more than if he did.

He just returns to joking with Ragnar, laughter mixing with the crackle of the fire.

'He'd make a good husband.'

The thought surprises me, though it's not new. It's just the first time I've admitted it to myself.

'And for once… it'd be someone Ragnar might actually approve of.' The smile touches my lips before I realize it, soft and fleeting.

But then the truth settles in my chest like a stone in calm water.

'Too bad I'm not his type… and he's not really mine.'

I let my eyes wander back to him anyway. His hair sticks to his face in dark strands, water trailing down his cheek, his beard clinging to his jaw like moss on river stone. But his eyes—the color of clear sky after a storm—still shine, alive with laughter and too much energy for someone who'd just asked a thunder god to strike him down.

I've seen those hands rip a Nadder from the sky and pin it to the ground like it was nothing. I've seen what he hides beneath that quiet confidence—raw strength, barely concealed.

And yet here he is, joking with my brother as though he's not the strongest, most unpredictable man I've ever met.

'He's chaos made flesh. Lightning with a heartbeat.'

And somehow… that makes me feel safer than I'd ever admit.

—---------------------

(Erik's POV)

"Back to the grind, Stormbolt," I mutter with a smirk, swinging myself into the saddle and tightening the straps across my chest. Below, Ragnar gives a booming laugh, already missing the action, while Runa shakes her head with that quiet smile of hers—equal parts amusement and exasperation. I give them both a theatrical bow from atop Stormbolt's back, like I'm the final act in a play, before tapping my heels lightly against his sides.

With a powerful surge of muscle and lightning, Stormbolt leaps into the sky, wings tearing against the air in rhythmic, thunderous beats. The storm that had howled through the night has since passed, leaving the morning sky a crisp blue, with the wind cool and clean on my face.

'Now, how do I reintroduce myself?' I think as we rise into the open sky, clouds parting around us like curtains. I've already made a hell of a first impression—riding lightning and turning the Red Death into charbroiled fish food. But now the real trick is choosing the tone. Do I keep up the god-struck dramatics? Or just… be me?

"Stormbolt," I call out, giving his neck a pat, "I need you to do something important."

He lets out a curious trill, head craning slightly as if to say 'This better be good.'

"Pick a number between one and five."

Stormbolt halts mid-wingbeat and turns his head slowly, giving me a look that can only be described as utter betrayal. Then, with an exasperated snort, he lets out three quick trills.

"Three, huh? Of course you pick the most basic answer," I say with a chuckle—just before he tucks in his wings and dives.

The sky screams past us as we plummet, wind battering against my face like a wall of icy knives. My laughter is torn from my lungs as I cling to the saddle, my body lifting slightly with the force of the drop.

"Alright, alright! I admit I deserved that!" I shout, the thrill making my heart pound as Stormbolt suddenly flares his wings, yanking us upward with a jolt that punches the breath from my chest. The sky tilts and twists, clouds whirling around us as we rise again like a bolt fired from a ballista.

As we level out high above the sea, I take a steadying breath and exhale into the cool air. 'So, looks like I'm going in as myself. Damn. Should've made it an even number.'

"Well, Stormbolt," I say, patting the leather just behind his neck, "I believe in your ability to fly without me micro-managing."

He responds with a long, dramatic roar—dripping with sarcasm—that I can practically hear translated as, 'Oh no, how will I ever cope without your divine guidance?'

I chuckle, shaking my head, and pull the dragon manual from my inventory—its once-pristine cover now dog-eared and scuffed from constant use. I flip it open, scanning through the entries I've already committed to memory, brushing over the inked illustrations of dragons from the Mystery and Fear classes. Despite the new alliance, not all dragons were welcomed. The Flightmare still terrified villagers. The Hideous Zippleback, with its dual heads and eerie silence, still stirred suspicion.

We drift in silence, the wind whistling over Stormbolt's wings, until the coastline of Berk rises in the distance. I spot the familiar smoke curling from chimneys, the odd glint of a dragon's wing catching the sunlight, and… people. Vikings still flinch when dragons draw too close. Some reach for weapons out of instinct, others stay their hands—but the tension is unmistakable. Old wounds don't close overnight.

"Maybe… I shouldn't have taken Hiccup's moment," I murmur, watching from above as a Gronckle snorts down at a wary fisherman. Stormbolt grumbles quietly in agreement, but neither of us are truly sure. This world turns the same way—with or without theatrics. And Hiccup still helped save Berk.

'All is well. Everything can be amended with time.' The thought is comforting, in a way.

Then, movement catches my eye.

A blur of shadow and scale, slicing through the sky—Toothless. The black Night Fury gliding with that signature smoothness, his rider leaning with practiced ease. Hiccup.

"Seems the boy and his dragon are taking a flight," I say with a grin. "Should we join them?"

I don't get an answer—not verbally, anyway. Stormbolt lets out an eager trill and dives, lightning crackling faintly along his spines, the wind howling once more around us as we descend toward the sea-chased silhouette of the most famous dragon duo in the archipelago.

We closed in on their side with the subtle grace of a passing thundercloud, the air around Stormbolt humming faintly with residual energy. I caught Hiccup's wide-eyed look of shock as we pulled alongside him and Toothless, flashing him a quick grin and a casual flick of my wrist that wordlessly said, "Keep up."

Then, in the blink of an eye, Stormbolt and I plummeted.

We dropped like a lightning bolt loosed from the sky—cutting out of their view with sudden violence—our descent tight, controlled, but furious. Toothless reacted instantly, his instincts sharp as ever, tucking in his wings and diving with us before Hiccup could even shout. A heartbeat later, Hiccup adjusted, his foot flying to the tail fin control, syncing his movements with Toothless in perfect rhythm.

"Come, young Haddock!" I called out, twisting mid-flight to toss him a wild grin, the wind ripping past my face.

The idea of keeping it low-key? Gone. This was infinitely more fun.

Stormbolt roared in challenge, then pulled into a hard ascent, weaving between jagged seastacks like a bolt of living lightning. His body curved fluidly with each motion, skimming so close to stone and sea that the water hissed in his wake.

Toothless followed, agile and relentless—but never quite catching us. His shadow was always a few lengths behind, his wings slicing through the air with determined force. Hiccup leaned low over the saddle, his foot deftly adjusting Toothless's prosthetic tailfin, every minute twitch translating into an aerial correction. He had slipped into a state of pure focus—completely attuned to the dragon beneath him.

"You truly are a dragon rider!" I shouted back, my voice almost lost to the rushing wind. My laughter echoed across the cliffside as I flattened myself against Stormbolt's back.

I tapped his neck and side—our silent signal—and in response, he surged forward, a blast of crackling electricity snapping along his spines and into the air around us. The jolt danced across my skin like the touch of a storm god's fingertip. We banked up and around the cliffs of Berk, launching above the village, the rooftops a blur below us.

People below looked up—mouths agape, eyes wide—as they watched the spectacle unfold. Two dragons, one cloaked in shadow and silence, the other in thunder and light. Two riders locked in a dance across the skies.

Stormbolt twisted, rolled, dove again—turning the flight into an aerial ballet of daring sweeps around the terrain. Toothless and Hiccup never faltered, keeping up through sheer will and instinct, their bond intensifying with every sharp turn, every synchronized maneuver. I could see it in Hiccup's face: his grin, his narrowed eyes. He wasn't thinking anymore—he was flying.

"Show me your skill, young Haddock—and you too, Fury!" I roared, raising my hand briefly in salute before Stormbolt pulled us into another drop.

We fell like meteors, the ocean rising up to meet us. At the last moment, I pressed tighter to Stormbolt's back, and we snapped upward, the G-force yanking at my bones, my stomach left somewhere below. Behind us, Toothless mirrored the move flawlessly, skimming the water and rising, water trailing off his wings in gleaming arcs.

'Seems I won't need to help much,' I thought, grinning to myself.

We slipped behind a seastack, vanishing from sight—and Stormbolt plunged into the water with barely a splash. We vanished beneath the surface, the cold surrounding us like a cloak. Silent. Hidden.

A moment passed. Then we burst forth again—surfacing just as Toothless and Hiccup rocketed by overhead, unaware.

Stormbolt bellowed a thunderous greeting, wings flaring wide as we angled toward the shore. The two above us turned, startled by our sudden reappearance, but we were already gone—racing toward the cove. Their cove. The quiet place where a unwanted boy met a broken dragon, and something new was born.

We soared high above the cove, the sky wide and open around us, the treetops below reduced to a swaying sea of green. Toothless and Hiccup followed close behind, their shadows flickering across the canopy, but Stormbolt and I climbed even higher—until the clouds were nearly within reach.

The air thinned and chilled, but that only made the stunt I was about to pull more exhilarating.

Without hesitation, I unclipped my harness, shifting my weight, and then pushed off Stormbolt's back.

The world tilted.

The wind screamed in my ears as I dropped like a stone, the air tearing past me, whipping my hair around wildly. For a moment, I was suspended between sky and sea, the wind alone holding me up. As I fell past Hiccup and Toothless, I gave them a casual wave and a grin, like I'd just stepped off a ledge instead of hurtled through open sky.

Their faces were priceless—Hiccup's eyes wide with disbelief, Toothless twisting mid-air to track me.

Stormbolt tucked his wings and dived after me a second later, the space between us closing fast. As the world blurred around me, I turned in freefall, realigning with his body just as he caught up, then locked back into the saddle with practiced ease. My hands clipped the harness with a click, and I tapped his neck and side—our signal.

He surged upward, and together we pulled up hard, arcing over the cove before descending with thunderous force. Dust and wind blasted out around us as Stormbolt landed heavily, claws digging into the earth, wings flaring wide in a dramatic finish.

I exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the rush of adrenaline. My blood sang in my veins, and a sharp grin tugged at my lips.

A moment later, Toothless glided into view, landing beside us with a lightness that contrasted Stormbolt's sheer power. Hiccup dismounted, legs wobbling slightly as they touched the ground, clearly still processing what just happened.

"What are your thoughts, young Haddock?" I asked with a mock bow, pitching my voice low and gravelly in an attempt to mimic Kratos. The beard and mustache helped, though the long hair probably broke the illusion.

"You could have died doing that stunt," Hiccup snapped, incredulous.

I smirked and shrugged as I slid down from Stormbolt's back. "Then I would've deserved such a fate."

Hiccup stared at me for a moment, clearly weighing whether I was joking or just completely unhinged, before shaking his head and shifting gears.

"How did you know where the Red Death's nest was?"

My expression darkened slightly, memories brushing at the edge of my thoughts. "I was tracking a horde of dragons—drawn toward the nest like they were being pulled by instinct." The truth was close enough, and it aligned with his own experience.

He nodded slowly. "And how long have you been a dragon rider?"

"A few years now. Ever since I found Stormbolt," I lied smoothly, though in truth, Stormbolt had only been large enough to carry me for a few months. Hiccup didn't need to know that though.

"Then how have we never heard of you?" he asked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "No rumors, no sightings. Nothing."

"A good rider knows how to stay hidden," I said simply. "And even more so, how to hide their dragon—especially when the world still wants them dead."

Hiccup's lips tightened, not fully satisfied, but not able to argue either. The wariness in his eyes lingered.

"Any more questions?" I asked lightly, running my hand along Stormbolt's scaled head, feeling the warm pulse of electricity still crackling faintly beneath his skin.

"Oh, definitely. But I'm guessing you'll only answer a few," Hiccup replied, his voice laced with dry humor.

That earned a chuckle from me. "Aye, you really are a Haddock."

My gaze drifted across the cove—the claw marks gouged into the walls, the worn ground where Toothless had once crashed, trying to fly again without balance. My expression softened.

"Why here?" Hiccup asked next, his tone careful.

I looked him in the eyes before turning back to the silent echoes of that place. "Because it's far enough from the village for peace. And still close enough that if you thought me a threat, your people could act." My voice lowered.

I could tell he was still skeptical—still weighing the odds. From his view, I was a phantom rider who'd appeared from nowhere, helped slay a titan, and claimed a storm-breathing dragon unlike anything they'd seen. He had every reason to question it.

But I wasn't here to convince him with words.

"It's time I met your chief. Stoick the Vast—and the rest of your people."

Hiccup looked me over, uncertain, but nodded.

"I'll answer more questions once we're there," I added, climbing back into Stormbolt's saddle and locking myself in. I patted his side with a heel tap, and Stormbolt growled low before lifting into the sky once more.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Toothless watching us—not with suspicion, but something more primal. Recognition. As if he felt a kinship with Stormbolt that couldn't be explained with words.

'He's more prideful than I expected.' The thought lingers as I glance toward Hiccup. Not the sheepish, awkward boy I imagined, but someone sharper—measured. There's steel beneath the hesitation, a spine straightened by what he's survived. 'Smart too. Knows I could be a threat if not handled right.' That earns him a grin from me.

The cliffs of Berk fade behind us as Stormbolt and I descend, the village stretching out below in rough-hewn beauty—smoke curling from chimneys, thatched rooftops slick with last night's rain. We spiral downward toward the central square, a wide stone-paved space just a stone's throw from the Great Hall.

Stormbolt lands with a resonant thud, claws scraping against the stone, sparks crackling faintly from his limbs as static discharges into the air. I sit tall in the saddle, watching as every eye in the village snaps to us.

And just as expected—when a dragon no one's ever seen before, carrying a rider that isn't Hiccup or one of his crew, drops from the sky—Vikings do what Vikings do best.

Axes are raised. Clubs are drawn. A half-circle of steel forms around us with practiced efficiency, a few warriors growling under their breath. Eyes wide, muscles tense. Stormbolt huffs, lightning flickering along his spine like a storm about to break.

Then—

"Stand down!" The voice crashes through the square like a wave hitting stone.

Stoick the Vast steps into view, towering and broad-shouldered, beard braided, eyes like twin hammers striking truth into the air. He looks like a mountain dressed in fur and iron—and one of the very few men I wouldn't bet against in a brawl.

The weapons lower, slowly but not relaxed. Every man and woman is still ready to act on a moment's breath. From Stoick's side, Gobber appears, hobbling with that confident limp, his prosthetic hand already replaced with a hammer.

They're not here to fight. They're here to judge.

"Dragon rider," Stoick booms, voice like rolling thunder, "join us in our Great Hall."

Not a command. A request—clever man. He knows better than to push someone whose presence alone has stirred the entire village.

"Gladly," I reply with a half-smile. "Though, I believe we should wait for your son."

Almost on cue, the wind shifts. Toothless lands just behind the chief with a soft rumble, Hiccup dismounting quickly beside him. The two step up to the edge of the square, eyes flicking between me and Stoick.

"Perfect timing, I must say," I chuckle, unclipping from Stormbolt and dropping down to the ground. The crowd shifts like waves parting around a ship as I walk, our boots echoing as we follow Stoick toward the looming Great Hall.

'If only my mother could see me now,' I think wryly. 'About to play politician in a mead-soaked hall of warriors.'

Vikings pour in after us—families gathering, warriors squeezing into the wooden benches, every one of them whispering rumors, retellings, and wild exaggerations of the storm-wrapped battle. They make room in the center, a wide circle left open—for me to speak… or for them to strike, if I so much as twitch wrong. How considerate.

The Great Hall rises around us like the ribs of some ancient beast—firelight flickering across towering beams and carved shields. Stoick takes his place upon the throne-like seat at the end of the room, Gobber to his right, Hiccup to his left. Across the benches, I spot the other teens seated with their families, watching me closely.

"Quiet!" Stoick bellows, and the room settles like a storm finally listening to the sea.

"As you all know," he begins, voice thick with weight and memory, "we have slain the Red Death and ended the terror that's plagued us—and our ancestors—for generations."

Murmurs rise, but Stoick raises a hand. The silence returns.

"But we did not do it alone. Nor did we do it the way we thought we would. We had help… from dragons."

A few gasps. Some uneasy shifting. Others nodding, having already begun the slow, difficult journey of accepting this truth.

"My son—my own son—showed me what I could not see. And I believe him." He glances at Hiccup, pride softening the corners of his stern expression.

Then, Stoick's gaze lowers to me.

"But the one who dealt the final blow… the one who mounted the Red Death and screamed to the heavens—was not me. Not Hiccup. Not any dragon. But this man who stands before us."

He steps forward, voice growing louder, stronger. "He called out to Thor himself, asked the god of thunder to strike him down—and the god answered."

A ripple of awe surges through the crowd.

"Lightning rained from the sky—wrapping around him like chains of divine judgment. It scorched the beast beneath him to ash. And yet he stood—untouched." Stoick raises a fist. "The man before us is no mere rider. He is Thor's champion!"

The hall erupts. Shouts of disbelief, cries of wonder, arguments breaking out in hushed tones between those who were there and those who weren't. Some stare at me with reverence. Others with fear.

"SILENCE!" Stoick roars, and like a falling boulder, the noise dies.

"We will ask our questions—but first, we must listen to this man. To Thor's chosen. And learn what his presence truly means."

All eyes fall on me.

I breathe in deeply, my hand brushing Stormbolt's horned brow as he stands silently behind me—lightning dancing along his ridged back, mirroring the crackle beneath my own skin.

"Hmph."

I take a step forward, my voice steady but not raised. It doesn't need to be. The crowd is deathly silent—every eye locked on me, some filled with awe, others suspicion. A few narrow with doubt, and I welcome it.

"You all stand here, looking at me as though I were some divine messenger, a chosen warrior anointed by Thor himself. And while that may hold truth… I did not strike down the Red Death by divine will alone."

I glance toward Stormbolt, who watches quietly by the hearth, his armored scales faintly glowing with residual static. My voice deepens, more firm.

"I had help—from my companion Stormbolt, and from the chief's heir, Hiccup Haddock… and his Night Fury, Toothless. I was not the sole victor."

The villagers shift, some exchanging glances, others visibly unsettled by my refusal to bask in the glory handed to me.

"I am a dragon rider, yes. Like young Haddock. But I am nowhere near his equal. Had I not been there, Hiccup and Toothless would still have slain the Red Death. All I did was help reduce the toll of lives lost that day."

I let those words hang in the air, heavy with humility and truth. Then I speak again, voice stronger.

"I am not here to demand reverence. I'm here to help—to aid in the integration between dragons and Vikings. To guide those willing to listen, learn, and rise."

I scan the crowd slowly, eyes locking with Astrid, then Snotlout, Fishlegs, and the twins. The younger generation—the ones who will shape the future of this tribe more than any elder could.

"With the blessing of your chief, and the support of his heir, I offer my knowledge. Your village could see advancements never thought possible. Food shortages? Solved. Hauling lumber, stone? Made effortless. Trade routes? Expanded across the archipelago. This is more than survival—this is growth."

A hush falls deeper as I turn toward Hiccup, voice lowering with a more personal edge.

"You might even find those you've lost… those you thought gone forever."

Finally, my gaze settles on Stoick. His face is stern, carved from the same stone as his leadership—but I catch it. The faintest flicker in his expression. A crack in the wall. A father hearing hope.

"I stand before you not as a god's puppet, but as Thor's chosen… offering my strength to those who have endured. You fought for every breath. You survived despite loss, hunger, and fear. Now, I offer to help you rise beyond it."

I take a breath, grounding myself.

"I will answer your questions, as many as you see fit to ask. But I ask one thing in return—see dragons not as beasts, but as kin. They are not mindless monsters. They feel. They think. They fight for those they bond with."

I turn, gently stroking Stormbolt's crested head. Toothless watches me with those curious eyes, not hostile, just thoughtful.

Then—chaos.

The hall erupts into noise. Hands shoot up. Voices clash over one another.

Some ask the same things again and again. Can dragons still be hunted? Are they edible? What if one turns on us? I answer what I can, skipping the redundant, focusing on those with purpose. A few ask about feeding them, training, how to treat injuries—they're the ones who understand, or are starting to.

With each thoughtful question, I feel the weight of the room shift. Little by little, the fear gives way to curiosity.

Still, the hour grows late.

"I believe I've answered enough questions for today," I say, raising my voice slightly. A few groan in protest. Others yell out half-formed questions, already asked a dozen times.

"Quiet!" Stoick commands, his deep voice silencing the room like a slammed shield.

He turns toward me, nodding with respect.

"Erik may take his leave. He's done more than was asked."

I return the nod, grateful for the timing. I step back, Stormbolt falling in beside me.

But I'm not halfway to the doors before I hear chairs scraping. I glance over my shoulder. The younger riders are rising to follow—eyes full of questions they didn't get to ask, excitement simmering just beneath the surface.

I smirk—but then pause.

From the corner of my eye, I see Stoick lay a firm hand on Hiccup's shoulder. No words are spoken aloud, but the message is clear: wait.

A similar scene unfolds beside Astrid, her parents pulling her back with barely a whisper. Fishlegs sees the pattern and quietly returns to his seat. Snotlout, of course, does the opposite—sticking close to Astrid like a persistent fly, oblivious to her annoyance.

The twins? They couldn't care less. They break away with wild grins and unbothered shrugs, weaving through the crowd toward me, curiosity burning in their eyes.

'This should be entertaining.' I think with an amused smirk as Stormbolt and I step out into the chill air, the thick wooden doors of the great hall creaking closed behind us. It doesn't take long for the thunder of mismatched footsteps and bickering to close in.

The twins.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut sprint after us with the enthusiasm of children chasing after a loose chicken, their chaotic energy impossible to miss.

"See, Ruff! I told you he saw us!" Tuffnut crows, punching his sister square in the shoulder.

"Shut up, Tuff!" Ruffnut fires back, elbowing him hard enough that he stumbles.

I arch an eyebrow at the two as they skid to a halt in front of me, disheveled, wild-eyed, and practically vibrating with barely-contained questions.

"Do you two actually have something to ask, or are you just running laps for fun?" I say, chuckling at their whirlwind antics.

Ruffnut straightens up with exaggerated elegance, brushing imaginary dust from her armor and clasping her hands behind her back like a noble from a far-off court.

"Yes, I would like to inquire about your expertise in the majestic… and slightly suspicious… behavior of Zipplebacks," she says, adopting a lofty tone and accent far too polished for a Berk-born Viking.

I grin—this is going to be fun.

Before she can say more, Tuffnut shoves her aside with a dramatic grunt. "You should help us prank the village!" he blurts, beaming like a madman who just invented fire.

Ruffnut retaliates with a fist to his gut, sending him sprawling into the dirt with a wheeze.

Stormbolt snorts at the sight, amused, and I can't help but laugh. Physical pain might not be everyone's idea of comedy, but with these two? It's practically a form of sibling affection.

"Alright, Ruff, I'll indulge your curiosity about Zipplebacks," I say, deliberately pretending not to know their names beyond what they call each other.

The scuffle halts mid-blow, both heads snapping toward me like startled nadders. Ruffnut grins victoriously. Tuffnut groans.

"Wait—what about my question?" Tuffnut whines, still flat on his back in the dirt.

"No, Tuff," I say with a mock sigh. "I will not help you prank the village. I'm trying to win hearts, not explode them."

He groans even louder, dragging himself to his feet with the dramatic despair of a man denied ale on a feast day.

"Well… I guess I'll just suffer through learning then," he says, dramatically wiping invisible tears from his face and standing beside his sister.

I start walking toward the edge of the square, confident they'll follow. Sure enough, they fall in step—one on either side—like a pair of misbehaving shoulder devils.

"So, what do you want to know, Ruff?" I ask without looking back.

"Everything, my good sir," she says, once again slipping into her absurd aristocratic role. "Though, more specifically… the dubious potential they hold."

Her fingers steeple together with cartoonish precision, and I can feel Tuffnut's eyes widen beside me.

"Yes! The dubious!" Tuffnut echoes, leaning in with wild intensity. "Teach us their wicked ways!"

I snort. "Well," I say casually, "your dragon can douse itself in gas and roll like a wheel—becoming a literal flaming circle of destruction. Think flaming wagon wheel... only angrier."

They stop walking.

Their eyes lock with each other. Twin grins stretch across their faces like battle paint.

"…What else?" Ruffnut says, voice low and hungry.

I grin wider. "Zipplebacks can slam their heads down on heated metal to flatten it out. If you're creative enough, you could forge thin metal disks—flat enough to fly, solid enough to knock someone's teeth out. Not fatal… probably."

The twins gasp—in harmony—and their devilish smiles stretch into full-blown insanity. I can already see the visions forming behind their eyes: flaming zipplebacks, flying death frisbees, chaos beyond reckoning.

"That's… so beautiful," Tuffnut whispers reverently.

"There's more," I add, "but I think that's enough weaponized mischief for one day."

They nod, eyes still glittering with violent glee, fingers tapping together like scheming warlords. Then, without another word, they bolt—scampering off toward wherever they keep Barf and Belch, already whispering what I know will be the beginnings of a flaming, spinning disaster.

I sigh with a chuckle, shaking my head as I glance down at Stormbolt. He gives me a dry, sidelong look before snorting.

"I know. I may have just doomed the village."

I mount up, giving his neck a fond pat.

"Let's find a place to rest before we're blamed for what they're about to do." With a beat of his wings, Stormbolt launches us skyward—away from the square.

—---------------------

(Hiccup's POV)

'He said me and Toothless could've taken down the Red Death…'

The words repeat in my mind, circling like gulls above a shipwreck. I stare down at the table in my hut, my fingers absently drumming against the wooden surface, my other hand propping up my head.

He didn't know us. Not really. And yet he said it. Said it with conviction.

As if it was fact.

As if he believed it more than I did.

My foot taps faster beneath the table. I can't stop thinking about the way he stood in the great hall, tall and confident, his voice steady as he told my people—my father—that I could've done it. That I would've done it.

'But… how could he know that?' I barely believed it myself. Back then, when the world was fire and wings and screaming dragons… I was just trying to survive. I wasn't thinking about saving anyone. Not really. Just Toothless. Just me.

My brow furrows. I reach for my journal and flip to a blank page, pencil already in hand. I start sketching. Not dragons this time—him. Erik. And his dragon.

Stormbolt.

The pencil dances awkwardly at first, lines too sharp, proportions off. I erase and try again. This time, his silhouette takes shape, that thick braid of hair over his shoulder, the layered leather, the storm-scarred armor. My lines grow more confident.

'Stormbolt…'

That dragon is too similar to Toothless.

Sleek black scales. Streamlined body. Bolt-like speed.

But it's not just that.

The spikes. The electricity.

The Skrill.

My heart stutters. My pencil stops.

'No. No way. He couldn't be—'

And then it hits me.

"It's a hybrid." The words tumble from my mouth in a whisper, disbelief coloring my tone. Toothless perks up from the rug near the fire, lifting his head and tilting it in confusion.

I'm already moving, nearly knocking over the chair as I leap to my feet, journal in hand.

"Toothless, come on!" I shout, bolting out the door. He scrambles after me with a surprised grunt, wings brushing the frame as we barrel out into the village streets.

The wind whips my hair as I sprint, boots slapping against wet stone. The doors to the great hall loom ahead, massive and shadowed by the clouds above. I don't slow—I push them open with a strength I didn't know I had, the wood groaning as they swing wide and slam against the inside walls with a boom.

Villagers flinch. Eyes turn.

But I'm already moving, dashing toward the long table near the hearth—where the dragon manual is always kept. I slide onto the bench, breath ragged, flipping through pages with frantic fingers until I find the one I need.

The Skrill.

My pencil's already moving again, tracing the outline of the creature. I glance at Toothless, who's now beside me, resting his chin on the edge of the table. His eyes are worried, following the movements of my hand as if trying to understand what's happening.

"Everything's fine, bud," I mutter, though my tone makes it sound like anything but.

I turn the page, sketching Toothless next. Side-by-side—Skrill and Night Fury. Similar shapes, different traits. Wings. Spines. Tail structure.

Now Stormbolt.

I start layering pieces of both over a new form. My lines slow down. They become more precise, more confident.

Sleek body, but with electric-tipped spines down the back. A Night Fury's silhouette, yes—but crackling with the charged aggression of a Skrill. A dragon born of shadow and storm.

When I finish the sketch, I sit back and stare.

It's him.

Stormbolt.

"It is a hybrid…" I murmur aloud, my voice cracking in awe and disbelief.

Around me, murmurs stir. A few villagers have gathered, their curiosity drawn by my dramatic entrance, their confusion growing with each word they overhear.

"Hybrid?" one whispers.

"What's he saying?" another asks.

I barely hear them.

All I can think is:

Who is Erik? And how the hell did he end up with a dragon that should be impossible?

Toothless gently nudges my hand again, eyes locked on the sketch—on Stormbolt—with an almost knowing look.

"Yeah, bud…" I whisper. "Something tells me we haven't even scratched the surface."

—---------------------

A/N: Hello everyone, First off, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I know it's been a while—sorry for the delay. Life got in the way, I got distracted by a bunch of things (and let's be honest, procrastination played its part), and I wasn't quite sure how to end the chapter for a bit. But hey, it's here now—and I've finally got a solid idea of where I want to take the next part, so I'm excited to dive in.

I also want to clarify something: Hiccup is not dumb. If anyone thinks his realization in this chapter was a sudden leap, I respectfully disagree. Hiccup's always been more brains than brawn, and this kind of deduction fits his character perfectly. He's observant, he questions things, and he's always looking for the why behind what he sees—that's one of the reasons I love writing him.

Also, quick shoutout: The twins are easily my favorite characters. I will never get over how they suddenly start talking like Shakespearean nobles in Race to the Edge—it's chaotic, weirdly fitting, and absolutely hilarious. I'm definitely keeping that energy in this story. And yes, I fully plan on carrying over the character growth they all go through in the shows into the movie-era events. I want the characters to feel right, and ignoring all that development just wouldn't sit well with me.

As always, if you enjoyed the chapter, I'd really appreciate a quick review or some powerstones! It helps more readers find the story and keeps me motivated to write more, since this fanfic is pretty much my main creative outlet right now.

Oh—and I've been toying with the idea of doing a sort of fanfic concept sampler, where I drop a first chapter of a new idea and see how people respond before deciding whether to continue it. Let me know if you'd be interested in that!

I'll see you all on Wednesday (or Thursday if something comes up), and I hope you have a fantastic week!

[Status]

Name: Erik

Race: Human

Gacha Tickets: 630

Strength: 80

Vitality: 85

Intelligence: 74

Dexterity: 73