The Rebirth Of A Dragon

Stoick's Point of View

The wind carried no scent. No storm. Just dread.

We stood outside the Great Hall, our weapons ready, our breaths shallow. Two days had passed since the arena—two days since Hiccup carved a man open like it meant nothing, since he declared us insects and promised to give me what I'd always wanted.

The location of the nest.

And now the time had come.

The warriors lined the stone square with iron in their hands, but not in their hearts. They remembered what we'd seen—the heartless execution, the roaring dragons, and the twisted, terrible form Hiccup revealed that night.

Gobber stood beside me, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His voice was low, quiet enough for only me to hear.

"You think he's really going to show?"

"He always does," I said. "Especially when it hurts the most."

He grunted. "Still doesn't sit right."

"None of it does."

He looked off into the distance, eyes narrow. "That night... when that Nightmare showed up in the village. When Hiccup faced him down..." He trailed off.

I knew what he meant. That wasn't something easily spoken of.

It was still the night of the arena. Hiccup had vanished into the skies with his dragons, and we thought—for a moment—that was the end of it.

But then came the roar.

Not from the cliffs.

From the center of the village.

The Monstrous Nightmare had come to challenge him—scorched, massive, arrogant. And Hiccup? He answered without a word.

And what followed... gods help me.

He changed.

Not into a beast, no. Into something worse. Something that should not exist.

His body warped—his back cracked and swelled with grotesque, pulsing muscle. The armor bent around it like it was being devoured. His posture shifted. He looked human still... but only just.

They call it the Demon Back now.

Some say it was born from the hate we buried in him. Others say it was always there, waiting.

Either way, no one who saw it forgot.

He didn't speak English. He didn't need to. He growled, chirped, hissed—sounds we didn't understand, couldn't translate.

But we understood the meaning.

Every dragon bowed.

Even the rogue ones stepped back.

Even that Nightmare, Charfang, who'd marched into our village breathing fire and confidence—he faltered.

The people were terrified.

Gobber and I... we weren't afraid.

We were mourning.

"He wasn't even angry," Gobber muttered, still staring forward. "That's the part that stuck with me. He wasn't yelling. He wasn't wild. He was... calm. Cold. Like he'd already buried us in his mind."

"Aye."

"And that laugh." Gobber shook his head. "That wasn't the laugh of a boy."

"It wasn't a laugh at all," I said. "It was a warning. And none of us listened."

Gobber's mouth tightened. "The demon back... it's not just power. It's a message. A reminder. That we made him."

He was right.

And I hated that he was right.

The Hiccup I once carried on my shoulders, the one who built machines to impress me, the one who smiled too much and talked too fast—he wasn't real.

That was a mask.

And that night, in the village, the mask finally cracked for good.

That thing we saw, cloaked in muscle and glowing eyes, was not a transformation.

It was a revelation.

The true face of the boy we failed.

Then came the sound that shattered the moment.

Wings.

Big ones.

The sky darkened above the village square, casting a shadow that made grown men flinch.

A shape broke through the clouds—sleek, fast, and utterly black.

A Night Fury.

Gasps broke out across the warriors. Some cursed. Others just stared in disbelief.

For years, the Night Fury had been nothing more than a shadow—a phantom that struck under the cover of darkness, swift and merciless like lightning and death itself. No one had seen it clearly... not until two days ago.

Now, in broad daylight, one was descending upon the heart of Berk.

Calm. Controlled. Obedient.

Riding on its back—Hiccup.

His armor was blacker than night, his presence heavy as iron. He rode the beast like it was second nature.

And beside them, descending on a Deadly Nadder clad in armor marked with strange symbols—Astrid.

She dismounted as well, walking in lockstep with him, her expression unreadable.

But Hiccup didn't stop.

He kept walking.

Toward me.

I stepped down from the platform at the Hall and began walking too.

Ten paces.

Five.

Three.

One.

We stopped.

We stood face to face, surrounded by a wall of warriors who dared not breathe.

I looked into the eyes of the boy I raised—and I didn't see pain. Or confusion. Or even anger.

I saw hate.

Not loud. Not fiery.

But deep. Cold. Final.

And in that gaze, I understood what I had always feared.

The boy I knew was gone.

And the man before me wasn't here for peace.

Hiccup's Point of View

The moment hung still.

Our eyes locked—me and the man who once called himself my father.

He wore the title of Chief like it meant something. Like it still held weight.

But all I saw before me... was an insect clinging to a crumbling crown.

"Stoick," I said coolly, my voice slicing through the quiet.

He flinched slightly, then straightened.

"Hiccup."

Just that. No warmth. No recognition. No lie of fatherhood. Only tension and an old, brittle thread that should've snapped years ago.

His eyes hardened.

"I want to know," he said, voice low and thunderous, "who killed the Hoffersons. And why."

His jaw clenched, voice rising.

"What did they do that warranted execution?! What did they do to deserve being butchered like animals?!"

Ah.

There it was.

That anger. That righteous fury.

Still pretending he had the right to judge me. Still pretending he knew right from wrong.

I didn't answer right away.

Instead, I smiled.

Cold. Sharp. Drenched in bloodlust.

It wasn't a smirk.

It wasn't even human.

It was the kind of smile that made lesser creatures stop breathing.

Then I turned my head slightly, voice carrying like silk dragged across a blade.

"My storm," I purred, "would you mind coming to my side and explaining to this insect in front of me why you killed your so-called parents, my love?"

A murmur swept through the gathered warriors.

Astrid stepped forward without hesitation. Not a flinch. Not a blink. She moved like shadow given form, her expression poised, calm, and entirely too pleased.

When she reached me, I slid my arm around her waist and pulled her close.

Possessively.

Her body tucked into mine like it belonged there.

Because it did.

I stared at Stoick while I spoke again, louder now, for all to hear.

"Tell him, my love," I said, eyes still locked on the man before me. "Tell him why you ended those pathetic insects who dared interfere in my life... and yours."

Astrid turned to face him fully, but didn't pull away from me.

No, she leaned in, just slightly—enough to let the others see she wanted to be here. That this was her place now.

Her eyes gleamed, her voice like frost soaked in venom and honey.

"They were weak," she said simply.

Stoick's mouth tightened. She went on, undeterred.

"My mother was a coward. A spineless creature who stood by while my father bruised, beat, and broke me. She called it discipline. Said it made me strong."

She took a step forward, just out of my arms now, head tilted slightly as she continued.

"But she never looked. Never asked questions. Never protected me. She stood beside a man who plotted to kill your son." She gestured toward me, then back to herself. "Who threatened to slit his throat in front of me just to remind me who I belonged to."

Stoick's face paled.

"She lied to herself," Astrid said, voice rising, trembling now with something that wasn't grief—but twisted pleasure. "She knew he cheated. Knew he came home reeking of other women. And she still opened her arms."

Her lips curled.

"So I opened her throat."

Gasps rippled through the warriors.

"And my father?" she laughed, breathless, almost euphoric. "He thought he'd die like a warrior. On his feet. With pride."

She turned, looking back at me, eyes wild with satisfaction.

"But I nailed him to the floor like a pig."

A pause.

Her voice dropped to a near whisper, still audible in the stunned silence.

"I shattered his spine. Stabbed him through the hands. Then whispered in his ear that monsters don't obey."

She smiled then—blissfully.

Like reliving it was the sweetest memory she owned.

"I watched the light leave his eyes," she said. "And I didn't feel grief."

She looked back to Stoick.

"I felt free."

The crowd was silent.

Stoick looked shaken—not with fear. With fury. Disbelief.

But before he could speak—

I heard her.

Bootsteps behind me.

Soft.

Measured.

And then...

Luna's presence slipped forward.

And the temperature dropped.