Behemoth sat cross-legged in the hall, his glowing violet eyes dimmed, his broad shoulders rising and falling with steady breaths. To the villagers and dragons before him, he was the terrifying King of Dragons made flesh. But inside his head, a storm churned.
Human skin… it's still so damn fragile, he thought bitterly, flexing the claws at the end of his hands. His trench coat hung loose against his chest, the crystal necklace warm over his scarred skin. But if this form is what it takes for them to listen, then so be it. I will wear my father's burden in any shape.
He glanced at the villagers. Some still trembled from the vision of Zephyros. Others watched him like hawks, ready to strike if he so much as twitched wrong. His lips curled faintly—not in mockery, but in something far heavier.
Sympathy.
His kind had been hunted, chained, broken for centuries. He had felt the whimpers of hatchlings dragged from nests, heard the last cries of dragons slaughtered for glory. He had lived it. It was the reason his flames had no mercy, the reason he would burn the sky itself if anyone threatened those he loved.
And yet… here sat humans who dared to bond with dragons, not as tools, but as partners. That contradiction gnawed at him. It was why he had chosen this form, why he revealed his father's story. They had to understand. If not, all of them—dragon and man—would be nothing but ash beneath the entities' hunger.
His father's face lingered in his mind. Zephyros, titanic and glorious, wings like mountains, eyes like suns. And then Zephyros as he fell, his body burning away into embers, gifting his son both his necklace and his final words: Live. Endure. Rule.
Behemoth's jaw clenched, claws digging into his knees. He hated remembering. The pain never dulled, not even after all these years. But he forced the words out, voice steady though his chest burned.
"My father died for this world. His body became the shield that protects the islands from the entities. Without it, you would all already be dust. And don't mistake me—my strength is vast, yes. I have protected certain islands, burned fleets to ash, slaughtered threats before they reached your shores. But even I cannot stand against eternity alone."
The room was silent. Even the whispers had died away, everyone leaning forward as if his words were fire itself.
"That," he continued, eyes narrowing, "is why I seek alliances. Not for dominance. Not for chains. But survival. If the shield collapses, not even I can hold back what waits beyond the veil."
Hiccup's throat tightened. He had been staring at Behemoth since the vision, and now he finally spoke, his voice unsteady but firm. "You showed us your father's sacrifice… but why reveal yourself now? Why take… that form?"
Behemoth's violet eyes flicked toward him. For a heartbeat, something almost human flashed in them—pain, maybe even vulnerability.
"Because," he said slowly, "dragons fear what they cannot touch. And humans fear what they cannot understand. This form bridges both. I carry his horns, his fire, his blood—but I can walk among you. Speak your tongue. If that makes even one of you listen, then the sacrifice is worth it."
A humorless laugh rumbled from his chest. "Besides, it's easier to drink mead with hands than claws."
A few nervous chuckles slipped from the villagers. Astrid rolled her eyes, muttering, "At least he's not all doom and gloom."
Behemoth smirked faintly. "Don't test me, girl. I can be both."
The flicker of comedy broke the tension for only a moment, but it was enough to ease the hall. Still, Behemoth's tone sharpened once more.
"You saw my father's sacrifice. But you didn't see what came after. For years, I wandered, fighting to hold back the entities when they tested the shield's edge. My flames carved oceans red. My claws split mountains. And yet, I could only defend fragments—certain islands, scattered havens. The rest I could not save."
His eyes darkened. "That shame is mine. That failure is why I am here."
The villagers shifted uneasily, realizing this dragon-king spoke not as an untouchable god, but as someone who bled, who carried wounds heavier than their own.
Behemoth inhaled, then let his next words fall heavy. "But there is more you must understand. Dragon tamers—those of you foolish enough to bond with our kind—you carry something you do not yet realize. Power."
The word sparked murmurs.
Behemoth leaned forward, his claws glinting in the torchlight. "The bond between dragon and tamer is not just leash and collar. It is fire shared. Will entwined. And if forged strong enough, that bond can awaken abilities you do not yet grasp. Strength. Flame. Even wings, perhaps."
Eyes widened across the room. Hiccup froze, Toothless staring up at him with his wide green eyes. Stoick grunted, skeptical but troubled. Astrid's grip on her axe tightened, as if imagining what such a bond might unlock.
"Do not think yourselves useless," Behemoth growled. "If you are to fight beside me, then bleed beside me. That is the only way this world survives."
The silence that followed was heavy with possibility.
Behemoth rose to his full height—towering, his trench coat sweeping like a shadow, horns catching the torchlight. His tail flicked once, gold anklets gleaming faintly as if echoing his father's fire.
"The shield weakens. The entities hunger. My father's sacrifice bought you centuries. But if you wish to survive the next century…" His eyes flashed, purple fire blazing in their depths. "…then you will fight with me. Or you will burn without me."
The hall erupted—arguments, curses, pledges, doubts—all crashing like waves against stone.
Behemoth stood silent amid the storm, the necklace at his chest pulsing faintly, like the heartbeat of a god long dead.
And in his mind, only one thought burned: This is just the beginning.