The hall glowed dimly with firelight, flickering shadows across stone walls and fearful faces. Behemoth sat cross-legged before the central hearth, purple eyes gleaming like twin lanterns in the gloom. His tail coiled around him like a serpent, and though he sat still, every villager and dragon in the room felt the weight of his presence pressing down on them.
Hiccup shifted uneasily, Toothless's green eyes darting between Behemoth and the villagers. Astrid stood at his side, hand resting on her axe, though her grip wasn't as tight as before. She watched Behemoth with an intensity Hiccup couldn't quite read—half suspicion, half curiosity.
Stoick, however, was unshaken. He planted his feet firmly and folded his arms, voice rumbling. "You said your father died here. You said Berk stands where he fell. Explain yourself, creature."
Behemoth's gaze rose to him, unblinking. The silence stretched, thick enough to choke, before he finally spoke.
"My father was no mere dragon," Behemoth said, his voice deep and smooth, the sound carrying like rolling thunder. "He was a king—Zephyros, Lord of the Black Flame. His power shielded our world from what you cannot even imagine."
The villagers exchanged uneasy glances, some muttering under their breath. Behemoth's eyes narrowed, slitted pupils catching the torchlight like blades.
"He ruled not with cruelty, but with strength. Dragons bowed to him not out of fear, but reverence. And it was his strength alone that held back the entities clawing at the veil of our world. They hunger for dragon life energy, for our flame, our breath, our very essence. But so long as he lived, they did not feast."
The villagers stirred, shifting uneasily. A boy near the back whispered, "Entities?" before being hushed by his mother.
Astrid spoke, her voice steady but edged. "And what happened to him?"
Behemoth's eyes flicked to her, softened for a fleeting heartbeat, then hardened once more. "He died. Here, on this very island. He sacrificed himself to cast a shield across Dragon Island, woven from his blood, his soul, his fire. That shield is the only reason you still draw breath, Viking. It keeps the entities at bay. But it is weakening."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some faces paled, others turned skeptical. Stoick's eyes narrowed. "And you expect us to believe a story told by a monster who only just revealed himself?"
Behemoth leaned forward, resting his clawed hands on his knees. His lips curled faintly, revealing sharp fangs. "I do not care what you believe. The shield fades whether you accept it or not. The storm is coming."
The torches flickered violently as if stirred by an unseen wind. Villagers shifted back, whispers rising louder now. Fear was spreading, fast and raw.
Hiccup stepped forward before Stoick could respond. "If this is true… if your father died here to protect all dragons, then why reveal this now? Why wait until the shield is failing?"
Behemoth studied him, purple eyes glowing faintly brighter. For the first time, his voice lowered, carrying a strange softness. "Because the blood in me is his blood. His last act was not only the shield. It was giving me the strength to endure. To live. To rise when the world would call me fallen."
His hand rose to the crystal necklace at his chest, the faint glow pulsing in time with his words. "This was his gift. And it is why I walk in this form—neither dragon, nor man, but both. It is his will that I survive long enough to finish what he began."
The hall fell silent again. Even Stoick, firm and unyielding, said nothing.
Behemoth leaned back, the firelight dancing across his scars and horns. "You want proof?" His voice grew darker, sharper. "Then I will show you. Not with words. But with memory."
Purple fire licked at his fingers as his claws flexed, and shadows stretched unnaturally long across the walls. The dragons in the hall growled uneasily, their eyes wide with instinctive recognition of power far older than themselves.
Behemoth's eyes flared, and the hall filled with light.