The flames that curled around Behemoth's claws surged outward, swallowing the hall in violet fire. For an instant, the villagers thought the room was burning—but then the walls dissolved, the roof vanished, and they stood beneath a storm-choked sky.
Lightning split the heavens, revealing a battlefield that stretched to eternity. The ground trembled under the weight of shadows clawing their way from cracks in the sky—horrors that should not exist, writhing and shrieking.
And then they saw him.
A dragon of impossible size towered above them, wings blotting out the stars. His scales shimmered black as obsidian, veined with streaks of molten gold. Two horns curved regally from his head, glowing faint in the stormlight. His eyes blazed violet fire, brighter and deeper than Behemoth's, filled with both fury and sorrow.
"That," Behemoth's voice rumbled through the vision, "is Zephyros. My father. The last true King of Dragons."
The villagers could only gape. Even Stoick, whose face was carved from stone, faltered for a heartbeat at the sight of the monstrous, glorious beast. Astrid's breath caught in her throat, while Hiccup's mind spun with questions, awe outweighing fear.
Zephyros roared, and the world trembled. He unleashed a torrent of black fire—flame so hot and dark it seemed to swallow the light itself. It crashed into the entities pouring from the rifts, their screams tearing the air apart. Their grotesque bodies twisted, melted, dissolved into ash.
But for every one that perished, more came. They clawed and writhed, teeth gnashing, eyes glowing like sickly stars. The rifts widened, spilling endless shadows into the sky.
Zephyros fought like a god of destruction. He soared, tail lashing, wings battering the swarms aside. Fire rained from his jaws, each blast leveling the ground. But with each strike, his movements slowed. Blood ran in molten rivers down his scales, his breaths came heavier.
The villagers felt it—not just saw it, but felt the exhaustion, the despair. The vision was not a mere memory; it was experience.
Hiccup staggered, clutching his chest, as if the weight of the battle pressed directly upon him. Astrid gritted her teeth, sweat forming on her brow. Even Toothless growled, tail lashing, his instincts screaming at him to flee from the impossible terror of the entities.
Then came the final act.
Zephyros rose high into the storm, wings beating like thunder. The entities swarmed beneath him, endless as the tide. His chest glowed, fire gathering—black, gold, violet—until it was a sun of devouring flame.
Behemoth's voice lowered, heavy with reverence. "He gave everything."
With a final roar that split the heavens, Zephyros plunged down. His body collided with the earth—with Berk—and the gathered fire erupted outward in a cataclysmic wave. The entities shrieked as the explosion consumed them, ripping them back into the void.
A golden dome spread across the land, settling like a second sky. It pulsed faintly, shimmering, protective. The shield.
And then silence.
Zephyros lay broken, his colossal body scorched and fading. His breaths came shallow, his eyes dimming. Slowly, the dragon began to dissolve into embers, fading into the necklace that glowed faintly at his chest.
But before he vanished, another figure appeared in the vision—a younger dragon, not yet the titan they knew. Behemoth. Smaller, though still vast, his scales darker, his eyes wide with horror. He stumbled toward his father, claws trembling.
The villagers felt his grief like a blade through the heart. A child's cry echoed, deep and guttural, filled with pain that seemed to tear the soul apart. He pressed his snout against his father, refusing to let go, as the embers sank into the necklace.
And then, with a final whisper, Zephyros spoke—not to them, but to his son. "Live. Endure. Rule."
The vision shattered.
The hall returned in a rush of cold air and torchlight. Villagers gasped, some clutching their chests as though dragged back from drowning. A woman wept openly, trembling. Dragons whimpered low, some pressing against their riders for comfort. Even Stoick stood stiff and silent, jaw clenched tight.
Behemoth sat unmoving, cross-legged before the fire. His horns gleamed faintly, eyes dim, chest rising in slow, controlled breaths. For a moment, he looked less like a king, and more like a son still mourning.
"That was his last gift," Behemoth said quietly, his voice rougher now. "His death forged the shield. His flame gave me the power to endure. But the shield weakens. And without it, the entities will return."
The hall remained in silence, heavier than stone, each villager trapped between awe, fear, and disbelief.
And for the first time, many wondered if the dragon-king's tale was not just truth—but prophecy.