The Rebirth Of A Dragon

Stoick's Point of View

⸻

The sea was cold, but I was colder.

I stood at the prow of Berk's lead vessel, hands tight on the rail, watching the wall of mist ahead creep closer with every stroke of the oars.

Helheim's Gate.

It had many names. The Fog Wall. The Final Veil. The Mouth of the Old Gods. But to us—it had always been the last place before failure.

I had crossed it more times than I could count.

Since I was barely old enough to hold an axe, I'd ridden these waters like every Viking who came of age. Searching. Hoping. Failing. Always returning with fewer men, less faith, and the same bitter story.

The nest was never found.

The fog always won.

But this time...

This time felt different.

Not because I believed the gods had finally smiled on us.

No.

Because the devil had.

Hiccup.

He'd given us a path. A map with no answers, and then, a promise: a dragon would lead us through.

And we'd followed.

Not because we trusted him—but because we had no other choice.

Behind me, the ocean groaned beneath the weight of dozens of Berkian longships, their sails full, their warriors grim. Some gripped their weapons too tight. Others stared straight ahead. Every one of them remembered the stories—the ones where brave men crossed into Helheim's Gate and were never seen again.

Ahead, the wall of mist towered, unmoving and eternal.

Gobber stood beside me, his hand resting on the handle of his axe.

"You sure about this?" he asked.

"No," I answered.

He grunted. "At least you're honest about it."

We were less than a mile now. The fog was beginning to reach out in wisps, brushing across the deck, curling around our boots. The world beyond it was gone—swallowed by the veil.

Then a sound caught my ear. The beat of wings.

At first, faint. Then clearer. Sharper.

A shadow passed high over our heads.

I followed it with my eyes and saw him.

Perched on a solitary stone pillar jutting out from the water near the edge of the mist—he waited.

A Monstrous Nightmare.

One of Hiccup's.

I remembered it well. I'd seen it in the arena. I'd seen it beside him when he turned on us.

This wasn't some wild beast.

It was his vanguard.

His executioner.

Fang.

The dragon sat motionless for several heartbeats, head high, wings tucked in, as if surveying our numbers.

Then, without warning, it leapt.

Wings unfurled with a thunderous whoosh.

I stepped back as it descended—straight toward my ship.

"Hold your ground!" I barked. "Do not attack!"

The warriors nearby hesitated, but obeyed.

Fang's talons hit the deck with a heavy thud. The ship rocked under his weight, and the heat rolling off him was immediate—suffocating. Steam hissed from his nostrils. His gaze passed over every warrior on deck, daring one of them to try something foolish.

No one did.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he turned his head toward the mist.

And pointed.

He did it again.

Then a third time—jerking his chin with enough intent that even a fool could read the message.

"That's our path," I muttered.

Gobber blinked. "He's guiding us."

"Aye."

Fang turned to look directly at me. His eyes were glowing faintly—more intelligent than any beast had a right to be. Then, with a grunt, he moved toward the bow of the ship and leapt off into the air.

He circled once.

Then glided toward the mist.

Waiting.

Leading.

"Follow him!" I roared. "Oars steady! Let the wind carry us in behind him!"

The fleet adjusted quickly. Our ships moved in formation, slow but sure. Every eye was on the Nightmare above as he dipped low and began weaving his way through the curling fingers of the fog.

The Gate loomed ahead—taller than it should've been, like the clouds had built a wall just for us.

The mist swallowed the horizon. The sky. The sea.

And now... us.

As the lead ship neared the threshold, the mist brushed against my face—cold and wet, like the breath of something ancient.

This wasn't natural.

It never had been.

I gripped the railing tighter.

For years we'd blamed dragons.

For the raids. The fire. The fear.

But more than anything—for the unknown.

This place... it was their last stronghold. Their origin.

And if we could destroy it—

We could finally be free.

No more fire in the night.

No more dragons above our fields.

No more of them.

And if it meant following Hiccup's monsters through Helheim itself?

So be it.

The fog thickened.

Ships behind us were already disappearing into it one by one, like candles snuffed out.

Gobber stood tall, eyes hard.

Fang circled back above the mast and let out a single low growl—almost impatient.

"We're going," I muttered. "We're all going."

And for the first time in my life... I believed we might actually find it.

The nest.

The heart of the war.

The cradle of every dragon's flame.

And this time...

We wouldn't leave it standing.

Hiccup's Point of View

⸻

From my perch atop the stone pillar, I watched as the first Berkian longboat scraped against volcanic sand.

The shore here wasn't welcoming. Jagged black rock jutted from the ground like broken fangs, and ash clung to everything like rot. The heat wasn't sunlight—it was breath. The slow, sleeping exhale of the beast that lay beneath.

And still, they came.

Dozens of ships—ragged, weather-worn, each bearing sails tattered with years of salt and stubborn tradition—one after another docked along the narrow coastline. Men leapt down with rope and timber in hand, barked orders echoing across the caldera.

Stoick's ship was the last to anchor. Fitting. The old war dog always liked his grand entrances.

He stood at the bow, cloaked in steel and rage. Bandaged shoulder stiff beneath layers of fur and armor, blood still staining the wrappings I'd given him yesterday. If the pain slowed him, he didn't show it.

But I knew it did.

Good.

As soon as he stepped onto the blackened stone, his voice thundered across the ranks:

"MOVE! Spikes there! I want a line drawn across that cliff edge! Catapults to the ridge! Get those boulders stacked and ready for range!"

Wooden stakes were hammered into volcanic soil, forming a barricade that barely stood against the wind. Men dragged sharpened logs into defensive lines, building a wall as if it could hold back fire and fury. Others rolled massive stones into place, loading them into crude launchers built in haste, their frames creaking under the weight.

Spears. Shields. Oil barrels. Rope ladders.

They were preparing for war.

I should've been impressed.

I wasn't.

"Look at them," I murmured, my voice just loud enough for Luna and Astrid to hear. "Scurrying about like ants—thinking they can dent a mountain with sticks."

Luna didn't answer with words. Just a slow exhale, hot against my side. Her thoughts brushed mine through the bond. Cold. Amused. Disdainful.

They think they can kill her with that?

"They think they can survive," I replied aloud. "They'll learn soon enough."

Astrid leaned on her spear, one foot resting on a protruding stone.

"They're serious about it," she noted. "I'll give them that."

"Seriousness doesn't equal intelligence," I replied dryly.

From above, the entire scene looked pathetic—like a tribe of children reenacting a story they only half understood. Wooden defenses on a living volcano. Flint against fang. Rope nets against fire.

Fang crouched on a higher ridge nearby, his wings folded and tail curled tight. He hadn't moved since returning from guiding the fleet. His crimson eyes stared down at the humans like they were beneath even his contempt. Not once did he snarl. He didn't have to.

The very air judged them.

Stormfly paced behind us, feathers twitching, but not from fear. Anticipation. Even she knew this battle was already over.

They were just too proud to realize it.

Stoick walked among his men now, inspecting their placements. He stopped at one catapult, ran his hand along the stone loaded in its cradle, then turned his head slowly—scanning the volcanic cliffs around him.

Looking for me.

I stepped forward so he'd see me.

No fear. No veil.

Our eyes locked across the distance.

His face didn't change, but I felt it. That flicker of hesitation. Of dread. He remembered what I did to him less than a day ago—and he saw who stood at my side.

The dragon he once called Artemis. The beast he called a mindless monster.

And Astrid.

No longer his golden child. Now mine.

I smiled at him, baring my teeth. Just for a second.

Then I turned away.

Let him stew in it.

Let him think he was ready.

Let him build his barricades and prep his siege.

Because when the fire came—when she rose from the deep and turned the very ground against them—none of it would matter.

And I wanted to see their faces when they realized that.