The air in the great hall was so thick with silence it felt alive. Villagers pressed themselves against the walls, torches sputtering as if afraid of what stood before them. Dragons hissed low, their wings twitching in agitation. Even Toothless, usually calm, growled with unease.
And then—Behemoth moved.
The air cracked like lightning, purple sparks crawling across his body. His massive dragon form shimmered, scales rippling as if reality itself was struggling to contain him. Bones shifted, wings folded in on themselves, and with a sound like grinding stone, the king of dragons stepped forward on two legs.
Where the colossal dragon had stood, now walked something new. A hybrid.
He stood tall—taller than any man, at least six and a half feet, his shadow stretching across the firelit floor. Black hair, streaked with faint strands of purple, fell down to his back. Two golden horns curved upward from his head, gleaming like molten sunlight. His eyes—slitted, glowing purple—pierced the hall like twin blades.
He wore a long black trench coat open at the chest, the firelight glinting off a sculpted frame of scars and strength. A crystal necklace rested against his chest, faintly pulsing with otherworldly energy. His pants hung loose like joggers, practical yet strange, tucked into anklets of solid gold that glowed faintly with every step. From behind swayed a scaled dragon's tail, its movements silent, dangerous.
The villagers gasped, some dropping to their knees, others fumbling for weapons.
Stoick's jaw tightened, hand gripping the axe at his belt. "What… are you?"
Behemoth tilted his head, expression unreadable. His voice when he spoke was low, deep, a growl woven with authority. "What I am… is not for you to decide. What I choose to be, depends on how you treat me."
The hall trembled under his words. Hiccup swallowed hard, glancing between his father and the towering figure. Astrid's hand hovered near her axe, her eyes flicking with both caution and fascination. Toothless pressed against Hiccup's leg, growling low, protective.
"You were a dragon," one villager muttered, voice shaking. "Now you're… this."
Behemoth's lips curled faintly, a sharpness of fangs showing. "A form given to me by blood and fire. By my father's last gift." His gaze swept the room, heavy and unyielding. "I did not take this shape to blend with you. I took it to speak."
Dragons rumbled, wings folding tighter. Behemoth's eyes softened for the briefest moment as he looked toward them. "I am not your enemy. I would not be standing here if I wished to see you burn. But test me…" His claws flexed, scraping lightly against the stone floor, "…and you will learn why I am called Behemoth."
Silence followed, broken only by the crackle of torches.
Stoick straightened, his voice rough but steady. "If you mean no harm, then why reveal yourself now?"
Behemoth turned, purple flame flickering at the edge of his gaze. "Because the storm that took my father is not gone. It waits. Watching. And your island… is where he gave his life to keep it at bay."
Murmurs rippled through the villagers. Some whispered of curses, others of gods. Hiccup leaned forward, heart pounding, sensing there was more—so much more.
Behemoth stepped closer, the faint tap of golden anklets echoing. "I am not here to conquer you. I am here because survival demands it. You think you've tamed dragons, that you've made peace. But peace…" His eyes narrowed, voice dropping into something darker, "…peace is fragile when predators from beyond your skies hunger for your blood."
Astrid exhaled slowly, tension tight in her shoulders. "And you expect us to just take your word for it?"
Behemoth studied her for a long moment, then gave a faint smirk. "No. I expect you to listen. And to live long enough to see I am right."
The torches flickered, shadows stretching across his towering form. He spread his arms slightly, claws catching the light. "Do you wish to know the truth? Then sit. Because what I tell you tonight will change everything you thought you knew of dragons… and of me."
The hall, trembling with fear and awe, obeyed.
Behemoth's gaze lingered on them all—humans, dragons, warriors, doubters—and then he sat cross-legged before the fire like a shadowed god in mortal skin. His tail curled behind him, golden horns gleaming in the dim light.
And with a voice heavy with memory, he began to speak.