Astrid's Point of View
I sat alone by the gates, still within the arena, knees drawn to my chest, eyes never leaving him.
Hiccup.
He stood there like a storm given shape, cloaked in shadows and judgment, with his family at his side—the family I didn't know he had. The girl... Freya. The woman... Luna. I didn't know their names until minutes ago.
But I knew this: they were his. And he... was theirs.
I had lost him once.
And that was a mistake I would never make again.
The rage was still sitting heavy in my chest, but it wasn't aimed at him. No, never him. It was aimed at this place. At Berk. At every face behind that cursed chain dome who dared to look at him now as if they hadn't spent years breaking him.
I wanted to run to him. To speak. To scream. To beg.
To confess.
I needed him to know the truth.
That I never hated him. That my father—no, that monster—trained the hatred into me. That I'd been forced to watch from behind a mask as the only person I'd ever truly wanted was torn down day after day.
But now?
Now he had wings again. He had flame. He had a wife—one who looked like she could tear this island in half—and a daughter who glowed like fire when she smiled.
And me?
I was still sitting here.
Watching.
Waiting.
They were preparing to leave.
Hiccup had turned slightly toward the gates, hand brushing Freya's shoulder, his other hand resting against Luna's lower back. They looked whole. Complete.
But I had waited too long.
If I didn't speak now, I might never get the chance again.
I started to rise, heart pounding, mind racing with all the words I'd kept buried for years. I didn't know what I'd say—only that it had to come from the core of me. From the part that still loved him, possessively, obsessively.
But just as I stepped forward—
He stood up.
A man. No—barely a man. Someone whose name I didn't care to remember. Brown hair, flat eyes, face pinched with jealousy and stupidity.
And rage.
He shoved the crowd aside and stepped into the arena like he belonged there.
Hiccup turned to him lazily, unimpressed. Luna stilled. Freya narrowed her eyes.
The crowd murmured.
And then the fool opened his mouth.
"I challenge you, Hiccup Haddock," he said, loud and self-important, "to a duel. To the death."
The world went still.
I stopped breathing.
My vision blurred red.
He what?
He challenged him?
That insect, that lower lifeform, dared to speak those words aloud? To look my beloved in the eye and treat him as anything less than a god?
Fury erupted in my chest so fast I nearly screamed.
You dare.
You dare challenge the man who stood before dragons and made them bow?
You dare speak of death to the man who sings with it in his lungs?
You don't know death.
But I will show it to you.
My fingers curled against the hilt of my axe. My legs moved without thought. My breath was ice.
But just as I was about to move—something shifted.
Freya.
She flinched.
Not from fear.
From pain.
She froze where she stood, eyes wide, hand snapping up to clutch her shoulder—like the man's voice had struck something buried deep inside her. Like some invisible scar had been torn open.
Her small body shook, just once, before going rigid.
My rage collapsed inward like a star.
Oh no.
Oh, no.
She wasn't just angry anymore.
She was hurt.
And I realized with dawning clarity that this pathetic man's voice—this challenge—had brought something back for her. Some echo of the way her father used to be treated. The cruelty. The shame. The violence.
It had triggered her.
And Hiccup saw it.
He didn't speak.
Didn't acknowledge the man at all.
He turned away from him entirely—dismissed him as beneath notice—and walked straight to his daughter.
Freya hadn't moved. Still holding her shoulder. Still blinking fast.
The Zippleback stirred behind her, both heads watching intently. As Hiccup approached, they slithered forward too, quiet, careful. Protective.
No one else moved.
Not Luna.
Not me.
Not even the fool who had dared speak.
Because in that moment—just before Hiccup reached Freya—we all understood something deeper than fear.
You don't challenge a god.
Not without consequences.
And you never, ever threaten what's his.
Freya's Point of View
I heard his voice again.
And I froze.
It wasn't just the challenge. It wasn't the tone.
It was him.
I turned slowly—too slowly—and finally looked at the man.
And I knew him.
I saw his face clearly now, unmasked by the years or the crowd.
The brown hair. The flat, ugly eyes. That sneering mouth.
I staggered a step back.
My shoulder throbbed.
No. Not now. Not here.
But I was already slipping—pulled into the memory I never wanted to see again.
⸻
It was dark that night. Cold.
They'd dragged me behind the forge. I was already bleeding. I don't even remember what started it. Maybe I looked at them wrong. Maybe I existed too loudly.
I thought it was over.
Then he showed up.
I'd thought—for a second—he was coming to stop it. To help.
He looked at me, curled on the ground, bruised and shaking.
And he smiled.
"Look what the worms dragged in," he said. "A worthless little fish bone."
He walked right up to me.
And then he punched me.
Hard.
I heard something snap when he kicked my side. My arm folded wrong when I tried to crawl away.
The others laughed.
They said I screamed like a dying rat.
He told them not to kill me—because I was more fun this way. Because punching bags were supposed to survive long enough for the next round.
Then he spit on me and walked away.
⸻
I came back to the present with my hand clutching my shoulder—tight, trembling, my claws half-shifted.
I couldn't breathe.
But then—
"Freya."
A voice.
Papa.
I blinked.
He was there. In front of me. Kneeling, hands on my arms, holding me gently but firmly.
"Freya, look at me. What is it? What's wrong?"
I swallowed hard.
That man still stood in the arena, arrogant and oblivious.
"That's him," I said quietly.
Hiccup's eyes narrowed. "Who?"
"The man who... who broke my arm."
His fingers tightened slightly.
"The one who called me useless. Pathetic. Said I was only good as a punching bag."
His expression didn't change.
It stopped.
Like time itself.
Behind him, Luna—frozen.
To the side, Astrid—wide-eyed, unmoving.
Something broke in Papa's gaze.
Not rage.
Destruction.
He rose.
Turned toward the man.
The air changed.
"I accept your challenge," he said.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
The kind of calm that made the dragons still. That made the air go dead. That made the crowd hold their breath.
The man puffed his chest like a fool. "Good. Then—"
"You should have never been born," Hiccup said flatly.
The man's words died in his throat.
The entire arena fell silent.
The Zippleback slithered toward me, both heads low, bodies tense.
And then Luna was beside me.
She didn't say a word. She just pulled me close. Her claws brushed my hair back gently.
And then the world changed.
Her killing intent flared—dark and cold and absolute.
Papa's aura ignited beside her.
The Zippleback joined them, their growls rumbling like thunder beneath the ground.
And then—
Astrid.
She stepped to my other side.
Expression pale. Eyes burning.
And her presence matched theirs.
Four forces.
Four killers.
All staring down the fool who thought he understood death.
The air collapsed.
The crowd couldn't speak. Couldn't scream.
Even the dragons outside the arena backed away.
Because the world itself seemed to whisper:
He made a mistake.
And it will be his last.