Stoick's Point of View
He hadn't expected it to go like this.
Not exactly like this.
Yes, he knew his son had changed. He knew Hiccup had grown into something... different. Stronger. Wilder. Hateful. But what was unfolding in the arena below—it wasn't just different.
It was feral.
Stoick stood at the highest point of the spectator ledge, overlooking the arena, his arms folded tight across his chest.
Hiccup didn't fight like a chief.
Didn't fight like a Viking.
He fought like a weapon that had taught itself to move, cut, and kill.
And yet, Stoick couldn't look away.
He watched as Hiccup darted, twisted, and danced around the Monstrous Nightmare's claws with a fluidity he had never seen—not in men. Not in dragons. Something in between. Too fast. Too calculating. Every dodge was a hair's breadth from death... and every strike had intention behind it.
He's magnificent, Stoick thought, mouth slightly open.
Not that he would admit that out loud.
But the brutal truth was there. Plain as day.
That wasn't the Hiccup he had known.
That wasn't the weak, awkward boy who fumbled in weapons training, who refused to kill, who talked about peace like it was a battle plan.
This Hiccup was violence personified.
And part of Stoick—an ancient, prideful part—liked it.
If this... curse could just be lifted. If they could free him from whatever hold these dragons or that Luna girl had placed on him...
Then maybe—just maybe—he'd finally have the son he'd always wanted.
A son the other tribes would respect.
Not the laughing stock of the archipelago.
Not the punchline of chiefs' banter.
A future chief of power.
A chief worthy of Berk.
He felt a rush of something unfamiliar.
Hope.
But beside him, a low grunt snapped him back.
Gothi.
She tapped her staff once, firmly, and gave him a long, disapproving glare.
"What now?" he muttered.
Gobber leaned forward slightly, reading her signs and gestures before sighing. "She says... your blindness will be the death of you. Of all of us."
Stoick scowled. "That so?"
Gothi nodded again. Sharp. Certain.
He waved it off. "She's just old. She doesn't see what I see."
Gobber frowned. "She sees too much, Stoick."
"She sees a boy lost to madness," Stoick growled. "I see the man he's becoming."
He turned back to the arena.
"I see a son I can finally be proud of."
But even as he said it, something shifted below.
The Nightmare's tail flicked faster than any eye could follow.
Hiccup was mid-dodge, halfway through a pivot.
Too slow.
The impact was deafening.
Stoick's breath hitched as he watched Hiccup's body get launched—a black blur against the dusty air—straight into the far arena wall.
CRACK.
The sound echoed across the stadium like thunder.
The stone shattered.
And Hiccup stuck.
Embedded in the wall like a broken sword jammed into a rock.
Dust rained from the ceiling.
The crowd gasped.
Even the Monstrous Nightmare paused.
And for the first time since the fight began...
Stoick felt a cold pit in his stomach.
"Hiccup..." he breathed.
Gothi didn't say a word.
She didn't have to.
Because Stoick wasn't smiling anymore.
Vanguard Point of View
(Collective Dragon Perspective)
The moment his body struck the wall, we knew.
We felt it in our scales.
In our teeth.
In the beat of the earth beneath our claws.
He didn't cry out.
He didn't fall.
He hung there.
Like a blade waiting to be drawn.
And we—the Vanguard—watched with reverent silence from the forest's edge above the arena.
Razorwind's wings twitched first, the massive Timberjack's membranes shivering against the wind. His tail carved a shallow groove into the rock where he perched, his yellow eyes narrowing.
"...He's waking up," Razorwind murmured. His voice was like cut stone.
Fang, massive and burning with coiled restraint, rumbled beside him—his own body tense, wings furled tight against his sides.
"The last time he woke mid-fight," Fang growled low, "he fought me."
Thrash snorted, his Speed Stinger body shifting impatiently between them, a blur of gold and black pacing along the ledge.
"And he won." Thrash bared his fangs, half annoyed, half admiring. "Dropped you in six moves."
"It was five," Fang corrected.
Torrent—the Scauldron—let out a bubbling laugh from the stream that curled near the ledge. "You were unconscious. He could've told you it was ten."
Fang huffed steam through his nostrils. "I remember the first five. The sixth one was unnecessary."
Daggermaw, perched silently beside Razorwind, flicked his tail once. The sharp gleam of his Nadder spines shimmered under the sun.
"He let us all live," he said softly. "Could've killed us."
"He made us bow," Razorwind agreed. "Not with dominance. But with presence."
"He showed us what it meant to follow," Torrent added. "What it meant to belong to a king."
They all turned back to the arena together.
To the dust slowly settling.
To the cracked stone where his body hung.
Still motionless.
But not lifeless.
Gathering.
We could feel it now. The hum in the air. The quiet before a storm made of claw and fury. The part of him that enjoyed battle... the side of him that thrived in it.
Fang growled, voice like burning oil. "I warned them."
Razorwind's wings flexed again. "They never listened."
Daggermaw clicked his spines. "And now they'll learn."
Thrash let out a low hiss, wings tucked tight.
"The king is waking up."
Third Person Perspective
Silence reigned in the arena.
The dust had begun to settle, and with it, the crowd dared to breathe again.
Hiccup was still embedded in the arena wall.
Cracks spiderwebbed around his body. Debris littered the sand beneath him. The blow should have broken bones, shattered ribs, left him limp or unconscious.
But then—
It began.
A sound.
Low.
Distorted.
Laughter.
At first, it was faint—like the growl of a beast buried under stone.
Then it grew.
Deeper.
Darker.
The kind of laughter that didn't belong to a man.
The kind that echoed.
It bounced off the stone.
It pierced the silence.
It rattled the air.
Hiccup's head tilted forward slightly. From the shadows of his tangled hair, a grin spread across his face—too wide, too still, too unhinged.
His lips curled back, and gleaming fangs caught the light, brighter than fire, sharper than steel.
The Nightmare, across the pit, froze mid-step.
Its fire dimmed.
Its eyes widened.
And then, for the first time in the battle—it stepped back.
Gasps spread through the crowd.
But not from the dragons.
Because to the dragons... that grin was sacred.
The primal instinct buried deep in their blood howled as one.
A single thought, burned into their minds:
Hunter.
King.
Death.
Fang and the rest of the Vanguard, watching from above, lowered their heads—not in fear.
In reverence.
The Alpha was no longer holding back.
He was awake.
Freya, sitting safely between Luna and Astrid, suddenly giggled.
No fear.
No confusion.
Just pure, innocent delight.
"He's laughing!" she beamed. "Papa's having fun!"
Astrid, still pressed into Luna's lap, stopped trembling.
That laughter—cold and wild—should've terrified her.
But instead... she relaxed.
Her body melted into Luna's arms.
Because that was his laugh.
Her Alpha's.
And Luna?
She was smiling now.
Eyes gleaming silver, lips curling in pure anticipation.
"Oh yes," she whispered, stroking Astrid's hair again. "Now it begins..."
Down below, the Monstrous Nightmare's claws shuffled against the sand, heat curling nervously from its scales.
The villagers dared not move.
The teens sat rigid, pale, silent.
Even Stoick could not look away.
And still—
The laughter continued.
Rising.
Stretching.
Devouring the tension in the air like flame devours oxygen.
Until the only thing left in the cratered wall...
Was a smile.
Fanged.
Savage.
Still embedded in stone.