The night on Berk was restless. The tamers, their dragons, and the villagers had gathered in uneasy clusters, whispering half-formed theories about Behemoth—the mysterious dragon hybrid who had appeared, tested them, and vanished.
Fires burned low across the village, crackling like nervous heartbeats. The air carried a weight, a silence that pressed on shoulders and chests alike. Even Toothless seemed unsettled, his glowing eyes sweeping the tree line as though expecting an ambush.
Hiccup sat with Astrid, Fishlegs, Snotlout, and the twins. Their voices were hushed, but frustration boiled beneath the surface.
"He's watching us," Astrid muttered, her hand brushing the haft of her axe. "I can feel it. He's waiting for something."
"Or maybe," Snotlout snapped, "he's just playing games with us—testing, teasing, waiting for us to slip up. I say we go after him!"
Fishlegs shook his head, his voice trembling. "That's suicide. If he wanted us dead, he would've done it already. No, he's holding back for a reason. He's… conflicted."
Hiccup said nothing. His mind ran circles, analyzing every word Behemoth had spoken, every flicker of expression. The image of his father's story—the hybrid speaking of kings and shields, of entities hungering beyond the portals—burned in his mind.
And then, the silence cracked.
The ground trembled.
It was subtle at first, like the earth shifting in its sleep, but then it grew. Stones rattled, mugs toppled, and dragons stirred with nervous growls. A low hum spread across the island, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
From the shadow of the cliffs, he emerged.
Behemoth.
Not in fleeting glimpses. Not from behind a veil of shadow. But fully—unapologetically. His tall frame strode from the treeline with a calm that demanded attention. The moonlight carved sharp edges along his black trench jacket, glinting off the faint purple streaks in his long hair that fell to his back. His golden ankle rings jingled softly with each step, almost mockingly delicate for a figure radiating such menace.
His chest, bare beneath the jacket, revealed the sculpted lines of scars and strength, while the crystal necklace at his throat caught the firelight, shimmering with unearthly depth. His tail lashed behind him, dragging across the dirt with a hiss. Horns gleamed like burnished gold in the dim glow, framing eyes that burned—black slits with a haunting purple light.
The crowd froze.
Even the dragons bowed their heads instinctively, caught between fear and reverence.
Hiccup rose to his feet, his throat dry. "You finally decided to show yourself."
Behemoth's gaze swept across them. First to Toothless, whose growl rumbled like distant thunder. Then to Astrid, whose grip tightened on her axe. Then finally, to Hiccup—the boy who stood not with fear, but resolve.
"You've whispered long enough," Behemoth said, his voice deep, resonant, yet edged with fatigue. "Speculating. Doubting. Hoping. Now you will hear me."
He stopped in the center of the square, the firelight bathing him in orange and shadow. His eyes scanned them, and for a moment, the world felt unbearably small.
"I am Behemoth, son of a king whose name you will never know. A child forged in blood and shadow. When my father fell, he gave his last breath to shield these islands from the things that stalk beyond the veil." His voice cracked slightly, the weight of memory pushing against the steel of his tone.
The villagers exchanged nervous glances. Even Stoick, standing at the crowd's edge, felt his chest tighten at the words.
Inside Behemoth's mind, the memory unfurled like a wound reopening. The day his father had fallen—his colossal form bleeding across the stones of Berk, his black scales cracked and fading. The booming voice of a dying king telling his son to live, to bear the burden, to guard the fragile world. He remembered clutching his father's claw as it stilled, the warmth fading from it like sunlight slipping beneath the sea.
He remembered the silence that followed.
He remembered the loneliness.
The shield his father left had bought time, but Behemoth had carried that weight alone. He fought off creatures slipping through the cracks, hid scars under strength, masked despair with rage. He never trusted mortals, never trusted dragons who bowed to them. What worth was faith in others, when betrayal and weakness had always been the answer?
Yet here, before him, were humans who did not break their dragons. Humans who rode beside them, fought with them. That bond gnawed at his armor, confusing him, tempting him with something dangerous—hope.
His tail lashed as his voice hardened.
"The shield weakens. Already, cracks spread through it. I have fought… alone. I protected what I could. But strength alone is not enough."
He let the words hang. For a moment, his eyes softened—briefly human.
"I did not come to destroy you. I came to see if you were worth standing beside." His gaze locked with Hiccup's. "Worth risking what remains of my father's gift."
A ripple of murmurs broke through the villagers. Some voices shouted suspicion, others whispered awe. Dragons growled, wings rustling in unease.
Astrid stepped forward, fire burning in her eyes. "And if we're not? What then?"
Behemoth tilted his head, almost curious. Then, with unsettling calm, he said: "Then Berk burns. And I burn with it. For there is no running from what is coming."
The words silenced even the boldest voices.
Inside, his heart thundered with conflicting truths. He wanted to despise them, to tear them apart for their weakness. Yet, the image of his father's last gaze—pleading, proud, trusting—stopped him. Could this fragile alliance be the chance his father had meant for him to find? Or was it a trap waiting to shatter him again?
He exhaled, shaking his head, and turned slightly away. "Decide quickly. The shield weakens, and the entities will not wait for your doubts to fade."
With that, he stepped back into the firelight, his form towering—a shadow, a warning, a possibility.
The silence he left behind was deafening.