Stoick's Point of View
The war table was littered with maps, notes, and decades of blood-soaked history—but none of it prepared me for what was placed on it next.
A soaked cloth.
Dripping.
Red.
Snotlout dropped it onto the table with hands that weren't shaking from cold—but from something far worse.
Fear.
He didn't say a word. Neither did Ruffnut or Tuffnut. Even Fishlegs... he looked broken. Pale. Hollow.
I stared at them. "What is this?"
Snotlout slowly pulled the cloth back.
The room fell deathly quiet.
It was an axe.
Thick oak handle. Dull steel head. The carvings on the grip were unmistakable.
"Astrid's father," I muttered.
Fishlegs nodded once. "We... we went to their house. Like you ordered. But..."
His voice cracked.
"They're dead."
The words hung like poison in the air.
Ruffnut took over, her voice flat. "We smelled it before we even got inside. Her mom was... her head was gone."
Tuffnut, for once, didn't smirk. "And her dad? Looked like his spine was snapped. Like someone enjoyed it."
They had seen battle. Seen blood.
But not this.
This wasn't a raid. This wasn't war.
This was personal.
I swallowed back the rising sickness in my throat and clenched the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white.
That girl. That storm of a warrior. Astrid Hofferson. I had once thought...
No. Hoped.
And before I could stop myself, I spoke the words aloud.
"I was going to name her my heir."
The room gasped.
Eyes turned to me—some confused, some outraged.
Gobber looked at me like I'd just stabbed someone.
"She had the heart," I said, quickly trying to cover it. "The strength. The will. But... clearly, that path is gone now."
Silence followed.
They all knew what this meant.
Astrid hadn't just abandoned Berk.
She had embraced Hiccup's side.
And she was no longer the girl they remembered.
"She did this," Ruffnut said. "And she didn't even try to hide it. There was no sign of a break-in. No struggle."
"She wanted us to find them," Fishlegs added, his voice barely above a whisper. "She wanted you to know what she'd become."
I looked down at the axe again.
The blood had begun to seep into the grain of the wood.
"I sent them to be retrieved," I muttered. "Not buried."
No one had anything to say to that.
Because what could you say?
One of our own had become a killer. And not just a killer.
A symbol.
Of how far Hiccup's corruption had spread.
Then someone in the back of the hall spoke.
"Was it his order?"
I looked up.
The question hung in the air.
"No," I said.
And I meant it.
Hiccup's cruelty was calculated. Controlled. He didn't waste violence. He didn't leave messages in blood.
He didn't need to.
But this... this had emotion behind it. Hunger.
"This wasn't his hand," I said. "It was hers. Maybe Luna's too."
Astrid's parents had been obstacles. Shackles. Ghosts of her past life. And now, she had burned the bridge that once tied her to us.
She was his.
And there was no going back.
Before I could say more, the doors to the hall burst open again.
A soldier—young, breathless, armor only half-buckled—stood in the doorway, eyes wide with panic.
"Chief!"
I turned. "What is it?"
He nearly tripped over his words. "There's movement on the cliffs. Dragons. A group—fifteen, maybe twenty! Closing in fast!"
My gut clenched.
"His dragons?" someone behind me asked.
The soldier shook his head. "No. They don't match any of the ones we saw before. They're different. Wilder."
My heart sank.
This wasn't part of the plan.
This wasn't Hiccup's opening move.
This was something else.
I stepped forward, barking orders.
"To arms! Sound the horns. Man the towers and get the ballistae in place!"
The warriors around me surged into motion, grabbing axes, helmets, and shields.
But in the back of my mind, one terrible truth took root.
We didn't know what waited in that nest.
We didn't even know what waited outside of it.
And if Hiccup wasn't sending these dragons...
Then who was?
The village stood ready.
Axes sharpened. Shields braced. Arrows drawn and ballistae angled skyward. The war horns had long since faded, replaced by the dull thud of boots, the clang of metal, the hiss of wary breaths.
We were prepared to face dragons.
But the dragons didn't come crashing down.
They circled above.
Dozens of them.
Watching.
Waiting.
It made the hair on the back of my neck rise.
"Why aren't they attacking?" someone whispered behind me.
"I don't like this," Gobber muttered at my side. "This isn't a raid. This is a damn show of force."
And then it came.
A roar tore across the sky—not just any roar, but the furious bellow of the largest Monstrous Nightmare any of us had ever seen. Fire burst from its jaws like a beacon, and the very skies seemed to crack beneath its fury.
But it was what followed that made my blood freeze.
That sound.
High. Piercing. Unnatural.
A Night Fury's cry.
The sound that had haunted Berk for over a decade.
A sound we all remembered from the last raid—the same unholy shriek that had signaled death before flame and claw.
Only this time...
We couldn't see where it came from.
It echoed across the cliffs. Behind us. Above us. Within us.
Men faltered. Some looked skyward. Others turned around.
"Where is it?"
"I don't see it!"
"It's not with the others!"
I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to remain composed. It wasn't the roar that terrified me. It was the certainty of who was behind it.
Not the dragons.
Not the beast above.
Hiccup.
The boy I raised. The boy I failed. The man—the Alpha—he'd become.
I no longer feared dragons.
I feared him.
Because while the dragons circled, he was nowhere in sight.
He didn't need to be.
The fear, the tension, the uncertainty—that was his weapon now.
I stepped forward and raised a fist. "Hold your ground! We don't fire unless they do!"
The warriors hesitated... but obeyed.
The Nightmare still circled.
The shriek of the Night Fury still rang in our minds.
And the skies still waited.
Watching.
A storm was coming.
Not of wind.
Not of flame.
But of judgment.
And this time... I didn't know if we could survive it.