Hiccup's Point of View
The days that followed the arena reveal passed in a strange, almost dreamlike haze.
Luna and I spent nearly every hour together in the cove—our place, far from the rotting stench of Berk's hypocrisy. Here, with the trees whispering above and the water singing against the stones, the weight of years of hatred and dismissal couldn't reach me. Here, I wasn't a weakling. I wasn't a disappointment.
Here, I was me.
Not human.
Not dragon.
Something better. Something that had survived.
Luna remained close, her body brushing against mine often, sometimes just to remind herself that I was still there. Her presence grounded me, sharpened me, drew out the sides of me that no one else had ever bothered to look for.
We grew closer. Closer than I thought possible.
Closer than I had ever dared hope.
⸻
Luna's Likes and Dislikes
It didn't take long to learn the little things that made Luna... Luna.
Her humor was dark, predatory—she found amusement in watching weakness expose itself, in seeing strength bloom where no one expected it. No flaw escaped her. No lie passed unnoticed.
She loved the moonlight on water, the way the trees creaked when the wind prowled through them, and the peace that only the wild could bring. She hated noise without purpose. Crowds. The hollow posturing of men who mistook loudness for strength.
But most of all... she loved watching me fight.
"You belong to me when you're in battle," she whispered one evening, her claw trailing lightly down my arm. Her voice was thick with a possessive hunger that made my blood stir. "Every strike, every breath... you're carving a place in the world. Our place. And it's mine to witness. Mine to claim."
Her words ignited something deep in my chest—a fire that hadn't burned this brightly in years.
I leaned closer, brushing my claws against her jawline with slow, deliberate reverence. "And you belong to me, Luna. Every growl. Every beat of your wings. Every beautiful ounce of your strength... mine. Just as much as I'm yours."
She rumbled with pleased satisfaction, her body sliding against mine as we curled together beneath the stars.
In our hybrid forms, tangled together, I felt something I hadn't felt since I was a small child.
Safe.
Whole.
⸻
On Humans
She didn't bother hiding her disgust for humans.
"They destroy what they touch," she growled one afternoon, her tail lashing violently behind her. "They fear what they don't control. They hate what they envy."
I ran my claws through the soft grass, staring at the still waters of the cove. "You're not wrong," I muttered, bitterness rising in my throat. "I lived it. Mocked. Beaten. Neglected."
I thought of the years I spent pretending not to hear the laughter. The kicks. The cruel whispers behind my back.
"I could have killed them," I realized aloud, voice flat. "Even as a boy. I could have struck back. Broken bones. Ended lives."
I flexed my claws, feeling the strength that had always been there, hidden just beneath the surface.
"But I didn't," I said quietly. "I played their game. Wore their chains. Because I wanted... I wanted them to prove me wrong."
Luna pressed closer to me, her warmth seeping into my bones.
"They never did," she whispered.
"No," I agreed. "They never did."
⸻
The Village's Fear
When I finally returned to Berk to retrieve supplies, I didn't bother hiding who I was.
I walked openly through the streets, hybrid form concealed beneath simple clothes—but the gauntlet claws were visible, gleaming black against the dim morning light, etched with constellations that seemed almost to move when I shifted.
The change was immediate.
Where once there had been sneering, dismissive glances, there was now fear. Unease.
Adults flinched away. Mothers pulled their children behind them, eyes wide and terrified. Some of the older villagers whispered prayers under their breath as I passed, as if I were a plague walking among them.
I ignored them.
Their rejection didn't sting.
Not anymore.
Their opinions were as worthless as their loyalty had always been.
Only one group met my gaze without cowering—the warriors.
Bjarke stood among them, his weathered face grim.
One of the younger veterans, perhaps desperate to earn some scrap of dignity, stepped forward.
"We... wish to challenge you," he said cautiously. "As apology. For doubting you."
I stared at him for a long, slow moment.
"You think a fight will erase years of mockery?" I asked, my voice soft but cutting. "You think a few bruises can buy forgiveness?"
The man faltered, shifting uncomfortably.
I smiled coldly. "You've already lost. You just don't know it yet."
I turned away without another word, leaving them in the dust of their own cowardice.
⸻
The Children's Fear
The children were no different.
Their laughter fell silent whenever I neared. Tiny bodies shrank behind walls and fences, peeking out with wide, fearful eyes. Their parents clutched them tightly, shielding them as if I were some monster waiting to devour them whole.
I didn't care.
Their fear was honest, at least.
But as I walked past the market square, something made me pause.
Among the sea of terror-stricken faces, one small figure stood still.
A little girl, no more than six or seven winters old, stared up at me. Not with hatred. Not even with fear.
But with wonder.
Her tiny hands clutched a worn cloth doll, her wide eyes reflecting the faintest glimmer of... admiration.
I met her gaze.
And for a fleeting heartbeat, I saw something pure—something I thought Berk had long since buried.
Not all of them had been broken.
Not yet.
I gave her the faintest nod before continuing on.
And if her mother dragged her away a moment later, casting me fearful glances, it didn't matter.
Because I had seen it.
A spark.
A reminder.
Not everything in this rotten place deserved to burn.
Location past the Misty Archipelago
Stoick's Point of View
The mist coiled thick around the prow of the ship, a suffocating, damp blanket that blotted out the stars and swallowed the moonlight whole.
Stoick stood firm at the bow, arms crossed over his massive chest, his eyes straining into the endless gray. The ship rocked gently beneath him, the creaking of the wood and the soft splash of waves the only sounds in the world.
And yet, beneath the familiar noises of the sea, there was something else.
A tension.
A feeling he couldn't shake.
Stoick scowled, shifting his stance uneasily.
He was a man who trusted his instincts. They had saved his life countless times in battle, in storms, in desperate hunts. And now, those instincts gnawed at the back of his mind like hungry wolves.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
He couldn't name it. Couldn't see it. But the weight pressing against his chest was undeniable.
His thoughts—unbidden, unwanted—turned to Berk.
Turned to him.
To Hiccup.
The scowl deepened into a grimace.
No. He shook his head, gritting his teeth against the cold. Hiccup wouldn't cause trouble. Wouldn't have the guts.
He was too soft. Too weak. Too pathetic to ever truly defy the village, or his father.
Stoick growled under his breath, the anger bubbling hotter than the ocean spray chilling his face.
It infuriated him that he even had to think about it. Infuriated him that, somewhere in his gut, the thought of Hiccup doing anything filled him with unease.
He had tried to make the boy strong. Gods knew he had tried. Stern words. Hard lessons. Tough love. What else could he have done? You couldn't forge steel from rotten wood. Some boys just weren't meant for the hammer and anvil of Viking life.
And Hiccup, for all his smarts and clever tongue, had been born wrong.
Thin. Sickly. More brain than brawn. Always dreaming instead of doing.
Stoick squeezed the railing so tightly his knuckles cracked.
He would not waste his energy worrying about a boy who had never lived up to his name.
There were real threats to face.
The Dragon Nest.
That was the true enemy. The true mission. The reason he had left Berk under watchful eyes. The reason he had pushed forward despite every sailor's superstition about the cursed mists.
He turned his back on the bow, facing his crew with a barked order to adjust the sails.
If he noticed how even the sea seemed colder now, how the fog seemed to whisper at the edges of hearing... he ignored it.
There was no room for doubt.
There was no room for weakness.
Berk would be fine without him.
And Hiccup? Hiccup would stay in his place, just like he always had.
Stoick's boots thudded heavily across the deck as he returned to the helm, his mind full of dragons and war.
He never noticed how the mist behind him thickened.
How the horizon darkened.
How far the storm had already begun to spread.