Hiccup's Point of View
The morning air bit at my skin with the sharpness of winter's whisper, even though spring was already clawing its way through the cold. Smoke from yesterday's fires still curled faintly in the wind, the scent of scorched wood and burnt meat drifting over the rooftops like a ghost refusing to leave.
Berk was waking up. And I—well, I had never truly slept.
I lay in bed long before dawn, watching the ceiling beams stretch like skeletal fingers across the thatched roof, waiting. Waiting for my father's heavy footsteps to vanish beyond the door. Waiting for the village to forget me again.
They always did.
But not today.
Today, I would no longer be the afterthought. Today, I would take the first step in reshaping this world of stone-headed warriors and fire-fearing fools.
I dressed in silence. My hands moved on muscle memory, but my mind was sharp. Focused. I chose the same clothes I'd worn for years—loose, ill-fitting, forgettable. A final performance for the audience that never saw past my skin.
Let them look down on me.
They wouldn't be looking down for long.
As I stepped outside, the morning light was muted and pale, casting long shadows between the buildings. No one spared me more than a glance. They were too busy patching holes in their homes or bragging about their bravery during the last raid.
Fools. All of them.
The dragon training arena lay beyond the village, nestled in a rocky basin shaped by wind and time. A natural amphitheater, its cliffs wrapped around the arena floor like the ribs of some long-dead beast. From the upper rim stretched a wooden platform for observers and instructors. Below it, hidden beneath the boards like secrets no one wanted to face, were cages and pens—thick iron bars, rusting chains, and the acrid scent of blood.
A net arched overhead, taut and ugly, meant to trap any dragon foolish enough to test it. It wasn't safety. It was control.
And control, I had learned, was only ever an illusion.
Gobber stood at the edge of the platform, his metal prosthetic shifting as he adjusted his stance. His hammer-hand rested against the railing, and his real eye—still sharp, still watching—narrowed when he saw me arrive.
He didn't wave. He didn't smile.
But he noticed.
The others didn't.
Astrid stood in a quiet storm of readiness, her axe balanced with casual ease. Snotlout puffed up his chest, tossing jokes and jabs like they made him stronger. The twins were loud and already elbowing each other with reckless glee. Fishlegs clutched his notebook like a shield, eyes darting from the net overhead to the cages below.
They didn't see me. Not really.
Not yet.
"All right, listen up!" Gobber's voice cracked through the arena like lightning. "Today's the start of your dragon training. First lesson—don't get eaten. Second lesson—learn fast, or your next lesson'll be your last."
The twins laughed. Astrid rolled her shoulders. Fishlegs paled.
Gobber turned toward the cages and knocked the butt of his hammer against the bars.
"You'll meet five dragons in this course. Monstrous Nightmare, Deadly Nadder, Hideous Zippleback, Terrible Terror, and today…" The cage door groaned as he slammed it open, stepping back with a grin.
"…the Gronckle."
She thundered into the arena, claws carving into the dirt, wings flaring as she bellowed a challenge.
The Gronckle was massive, her body squat and powerful, her scales dulled by captivity and scarred from mistreatment. But I saw through it all. Her fire hadn't dimmed. Not truly.
I knew her.
Meatlug.
The rage that twisted in my chest was sudden and sharp. What had they done to her?
But I swallowed it. Buried it.
Let the rage become ice. Not fire.
Astrid moved first, her boots pounding against the dirt as she sprinted toward the dragon with all the conviction of someone who didn't know better.
She swung hard. Meatlug hit harder.
Astrid flew backward and skidded across the arena floor with a grunt.
Snotlout bellowed and charged, yelling something about glory and battle songs. He lasted two seconds longer than Astrid before he slammed face-first into a wall.
The twins attacked together, yelling, kicking, laughing—and were tossed aside like kindling.
Fishlegs didn't even try. He froze, whispering numbers and species facts as if they would shield him.
It was almost poetic.
The dragon stood amidst them, heaving, growling, turning toward the next target.
I stepped forward.
Slowly.
"Enough."
The word echoed like a command.
Meatlug stopped. The teens froze. Even Gobber stiffened.
"Hiccup, what are you—?" Astrid's voice cracked.
I didn't respond. I reached for the laces of my tunic and pulled them loose. The fabric fell away.
Gasps broke the silence.
My chest and arms were lean and cut with muscle—earned in silence, forged through pain. Scars crisscrossed my skin like a map of battles they couldn't even imagine.
They stared.
They didn't understand.
Good.
I drew my swords. The steel rang out, a clean sound that sliced through disbelief.
"Drop them," I said to Meatlug, motioning to the others. "They're not worth your time."
She growled, uncertain.
I took another step forward, blades gleaming.
"Come at me."
And she did.
The ground shook as she lunged. Her teeth snapped. Her wings slammed downward.
I moved.
Spinning, sidestepping, blades flashing—not to maim, not to wound, but to guide. Her attacks met air and resistance in the form of redirection. Every time she struck, I used her force against her, using angles and rhythm to steer her into the next motion.
We danced.
It was not a battle.
It was a conversation.
Her tail lashed at me. I ducked, let it whip past, then struck with the flat of my blade against her side. A nudge. A signal.
She roared again, but it was different this time. Not fury. Not fear.
Fascination.
I twisted beneath her next strike, blades crossing before me as I turned her momentum into a sidestep. Sand flew. The teens stumbled backward to avoid the wake.
She reared, wings wide.
I stepped close—closer than anyone should—and looked into her eyes.
The fight drained out of her slowly, like heat from cooling metal.
Recognition passed between us.
And then… she stepped back.
Quiet.
Watching.
She turned away on her own and lumbered toward the open cage.
No command.
No chains.
Only understanding.
I sheathed my swords.
Turned.
And let the silence fall.
They all stared at me. Gobber's expression was a mask of disbelief. The teens looked like they'd just seen a ghost.
Perfect.
"Any questions?" I asked lightly, my voice carrying a casualness that felt almost cruel.
No one spoke.
For the first time, they didn't see the weakling.
For the first time, they saw the predator that had been in hiding all this time.