The Rebirth Of A Dragon

Hiccup's Point of View

The wind was gentle tonight, curling through the trees like silk across skin. The island had gone quiet, resting after the day's flight and the arrival of so many wounded souls finally given freedom.

My cove-our cove-was full. Dragons slept beneath the trees. Hatchlings curled in mossy hollows. Lyra's group of healers moved through the injured like warm lights in a cold cave. Luna stood at my side on the overlook, watching the sky as stars blinked to life.

Then I felt it.

A flutter of wings.

Tiny claws.

The telltale rhythm of my personal scout-a Terrible Terror, sleek and quick, small enough to slip through any crack in any wall. It landed silently on the ledge beside me, chest heaving with exertion.

"Speak," I said, not turning yet.

The little dragon chirped, sending its message through our bond-images, impressions, a replay of all it had seen.

Berk's docks. Stoick's face, rough and frustrated. Gobber's forced smile. The warriors returning empty-handed. Astrid watching, her eyes narrowed, arms crossed. The horn blast.

The knowledge settled over me like snow on stone.

So... he's back.

I turned slowly to face the Terror and let out a low exhale, hand brushing down its back in approval.

"You've done well," I murmured.

The little one purred and darted away, vanishing into the canopy.

Behind me, Luna tilted her head. "He returned?"

I nodded. "Yes. Stoick is back in Berk."

A beat passed.

"And Astrid... tried to inform me."

There was warmth in that thought-just enough to make the corner of my mouth twitch upward.

"She had no way to reach me, but she wanted to. That's all I need to know."

She hasn't betrayed me.

Not yet.

Not ever, if she values her life.

I looked to Luna-her emerald green eyes glinting like wildfire in the dark. She was waiting. Expectant. Hungry.

I stepped closer, lifting a hand to her cheek, my thumb grazing her jawline. Then I leaned in, letting the words spill softly from my lips like poison made of silk.

"The final piece is in place."

Luna's pupils narrowed.

"Stoick returns to a village rotting beneath the weight of my shadow. He'll eat, drink, and sit among cowards who flinch at my name. He'll hear how I slaughtered the man who dared touch my daughter. How the arena no longer belongs to him-but to the Alpha."

Her breath hitched in delight.

And I grinned.

"Soon, Berk will fall. And when it does, the screams of its people will echo in the heavens. Their panic will be a lullaby. Their deaths, a gift."

Luna purred low in her throat, pressing herself to my side. "My love~"

I closed my eyes.

The stage was set.

Every piece in its place.

I had loyal generals, an expanding territory, the love of a queen, and a daughter who would grow up as dragonkind's princess.

And now?

Now I had my enemy where I wanted him.

"From here on out," I said, pulling back and gazing over the distant shoreline, "it's just a game."

Nothing can stop me now.

Not a sword.

Not a scream.

Not even him.

⸻

I stood tall, the stars reflecting off the steel claws at my side.

"It's almost dinner," I said, stretching my shoulders. "Time for the villagers to pretend their lives still have meaning."

I turned to Luna, grinning as her expression flickered with excited pride.

"It's time," I said, "to visit that pathetic little village once more. To see how far they've truly fallen."

Luna arched a brow. "Alone?"

"No," I replied. "We'll walk the shadows. Observe first. Let them feel the weight of our approach before I burn it into their hearts."

Then I looked to the horizon.

And laughed softly.

"Besides... I think Stoick deserves to see me. The real me. Not the boy he neglected and ignored most of my life. But the man I've become."

My voice dropped lower.

"He should know that I have something he never will."

Luna tilted her head. "A flock?"

I shook my head, gaze sharpening.

"A family and people I can rely on."

And with that, I turned away from the cliff, claws glinting, and walked into the dark.

-------------------------

Stoick's Point of View

The meat on my plate had gone cold.

Not that I had touched it.

I sat at the long table in the Great Hall, surrounded by elders whose faces looked older than they had two weeks ago. Their eyes didn't meet mine. Their hands fidgeted. Their words stumbled.

And the more they spoke...

The angrier I became.

"He's not the same," Goldie said, her tone cautious. "He returned to the arena... changed."

"Scarred," muttered one of the elder warriors, staring down into his mug. "Covered in them. Across his chest. Arms. Even his neck."

"Every one earned in silence," Gothi added through her carvings.

"He's not the boy who you left behind, Stoick," Gobber said quietly beside me. "He's become... something else."

I leaned back in my seat, unimpressed. "So he got a little bolder? Grew some callouses? That's what this is about?"

They all looked at each other.

Then Goldie pressed on, hesitant. "He's no longer matched in battle. He... he defeated a fully grown Deadly Nadder in combat. No human weapons like a sword or ax. Just claws. Speed. Strategy. And It bowed to him afterward."

That did it.

I scoffed.

Actually laughed.

"You're telling me Hiccup-my scrawny, soft-spoken, limping son-fought a Nadder and won?" I shook my head, waving it off. "You've all gone mad in my absence."

"Stoick-"

"No," I cut in, slamming my mug down. "He couldn't kill a fish without flinching! You expect me to believe he killed a man in the arena and tamed a Nadder like some kind of warrior king?"

Silence met my voice.

A long, hard silence.

I let out a sharp breath and was about to speak again-when the hall changed.

The warmth drained from the air.

The fire in the hearth cracked once, then dimmed.

And then...

Thunk.

A heavy footstep.

Then another.

And another.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

Heads turned toward the massive doors at the back of the hall.

Then came the sound of claws-four, eight, twelve. Heavier than any wolf, quieter than any man.

The doors didn't swing open dramatically.

They pushed open slowly-as if something strong, massive, and silent had forced them aside without urgency.

Two wolves entered first.

One black as night, its eyes gleaming like polished onyx.

The other white and silver, tall and lean, with a scar across its snout that looked too clean to be natural.

Then a third.

They fanned out in perfect formation, stalking forward, heads low, golden eyes scanning the hall.

Gasps rang out.

Benches scraped.

A few warriors instinctively reached for their blades-then stopped, realizing how outmatched they were.

Then came the final beast.

The bear.

Not just a bear.

The bear.

Bigger than any I'd seen in my years north or south. Its fur was thick and dark, its claws the length of my hand. A strip of metal armor ran along its shoulders like a war harness, and its breath rumbled like a forge.

It stepped into the hall like it owned it.

The floor trembled.

No words. No growls.

Just... footsteps.

Footsteps that got louder.

Closer.

My hand drifted toward my axe-but I didn't draw it.

I stared instead.

What in the name of the gods is this...?

And just as I opened my mouth to speak-

Footsteps.

Human ones.

Slow. Measured.

And they were getting closer.

Hiccup's Point of View

I stepped fully into the Great Hall.

The hearth's fire cast its glow across the stone floor, throwing my shadow far and wide—taller, darker, sharper than the boy this place once knew.

The wolves—Fen, Onyx, and Sira—were already fanned out ahead of me, silent sentinels with their golden eyes sweeping the room. Erza stood beside the hearth, towering over the flames like a living statue of war. The bear's breath steamed in the firelight.

They had all entered first.

Set the tone.

Now I stepped into the light.

And let them see.

Let them feel it.

The villagers didn't gasp. Nor did the teens. Nor the elders. No—those who had remained in Berk had already seen this.

They had witnessed what I had become.

But the ones who had left?

The warriors who had followed Stoick on his pathetic two-week quest?

They were the ones who gasped.

They stared at me as if I were some monster that had crawled out of a cave—wearing my face but not me.

Good.

They were right.

⸻

I came to a halt in the center of the hall, cloak still drawn tight, hood pulled over my face.

And then, I raised my head.

Slowly.

The firelight struck my face, revealing sharp lines, sun-darkened skin, and a pair of eyes that no longer flinched under pressure—but created it.

Eyes that stared through people like glass.

Eyes that no longer recognized anyone in this village as kin.

I let them stare for a heartbeat longer.

Then I spoke.

"I haven't been in Berk for just four days," I said, letting the disdain bleed freely into my voice. "And already things have taken an interesting turn."

My gaze slid to the far side of the hall.

And there he was.

Stoick the Vast.

Bigger than most men, still carrying that overfed pride in his stance.

"It seems the great Stoick has finally returned," I said with a sharp smile, "from his glorious wild goose chase."

I tilted my head mockingly. "Tell me—did it go well?"

No one laughed.

Especially not him.

His expression darkened instantly. "Watch your tone, boy. And your sarcasm."

I chuckled.

Low. Cold. Real.

"Why should I care?"

I stepped forward once.

Letting each footfall echo across the stone.

"For all I care, your words mean less than the dirt on my claws. I don't take orders from you. Or from this pathetic village full of insects pretending they matter."

My voice dropped.

Low.

Rough.

Laced with the kind of contempt that tastes like blood and iron.

"So let me give you some advice," I said, pulling at the clasp of my cloak. "Keep your tongue to yourself—"

Click.

The fabric fell.

"—because I find your voice, and your presence, beneath me."

It hit the floor in a pool of black.

And the gasps that followed weren't from the weak.

They were from warriors.

Stoick's warriors.

Men who had fought beside him.

Who had mocked me, ignored me, dismissed me.

Now they stood slack-jawed and wide-eyed.

Not at my words.

But at the reality.

My torso, bare beneath the cloak, was carved with the history of every war I had survived. Scars ran like rivers across muscle—scars from claws, from fangs, from fire. The kind of marks that told stories of survival not just through skill, but through choice.

Because I fought.

And I won.

From my belt hung my claws—black, curved like talons, shimmering with starlight as if the night sky itself had melted into their form.

The villagers had already seen.

They didn't need to gasp.

But Stoick's men?

They stared.

And Stoick?

He went silent.

I saw the truth land behind his eyes.

He wasn't seeing his son.

He was seeing a stranger.

A predator.

An Alpha.

⸻

I took one more step forward.

"The boy you knew?" I said calmly. "He was a mask. A lie I wore to make your fragile leadership comfortable."

I paused.

Then smirked.

"I stopped pretending two weeks ago. The day dragon training began."

"The day you left."

I watched his jaw tighten.

"While you were out chasing phantoms, I shed the disguise. I didn't need it anymore. You just never noticed—because you never really looked at me."

I gestured to my chest, my arms, my scars.

"You saw the baggy clothes, and you thought I was still your little failure. Your 'twig of a son.'"

I leaned in slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch.

"You didn't raise me."

"I forged myself.".