Hiccup's Point of View
I stood over Freya, her small hand still pressed to her shoulder, her eyes wide with that brittle rage just barely hiding a wound I hadn't known still bled.
The man who caused it stood just ten paces away.
No. Not a man.
An insect.
A mistake that had survived too long.
I looked down at her trembling fingers, then back at Luna. Her claws were already flexing. Her eyes burned brighter than flame. But I lifted a hand, palm open.
"Luna," I said quietly, "take Freya. Move to the arena wall."
She didn't argue. Just nodded once and reached for Freya, who hesitated before letting herself be led.
"And you two," I added, turning my head toward the Zippleback and the Nadder—"Stand down. This hunt belongs to me."
Both dragons lowered their heads in understanding.
I turned next to the blonde sitting still as stone by the gate.
"Astrid. Back off."
Her eyes didn't flicker. Not even once.
But she nodded. Slowly. Reluctantly.
Because she knew what this was.
This wasn't a challenge.
This was a death sentence.
And I was the executioner.
I stepped forward, each footfall deliberate.
The boy—no, the parasite—grinned like he'd just bested a god. His chest puffed out, eyes scanning the crowd as if seeking applause.
And I remembered him.
Not just from today.
But from her memories.
The broken arm.
The blood.
The laughter as she cried.
Freya had never told me who it was.
But now I knew.
Now I remembered.
We met in the center of the arena, and for a moment, there was nothing. Just breath. Just silence.
He sneered. "You really think you scare me, Haddock?"
I didn't answer.
He kept going.
"You're just a freak who plays with dragons. You think that makes you strong?"
Still, I said nothing.
Then he looked past me.
And he smiled.
That smug, venomous smile that only cowards wear before they die.
He nodded toward the wall. Toward Luna.
"She's a pretty one. Shame to kill her without using her first."
Everything stopped.
Time. Wind. Sound.
And then—
I let go.
The killing intent poured out of me like a dam had burst.
It wasn't a wave.
It was a tsunami.
The air turned dark, thick, wet—as if soaked in blood. The sky above us dimmed. The very ground seemed to retreat from my feet.
My shadow stretched long and sharp, my eyes glowing bright, unnatural green.
And everywhere that shadow touched—
They felt it.
Children in the stands collapsed without a sound. One man screamed and dropped to his knees, vomiting.
A woman fainted, face ashen white, body twitching.
Even the elders staggered.
Because I wasn't human anymore.
I was the storm they buried.
And now, I was awake.
"You," I said, voice low, echoing across the arena like thunder behind a mountain, "have courted a slow and agonizing death."
The insect's smirk faltered. Just slightly.
I took a step closer.
"And I will give it to you."
But something strange happened.
In the corner of my vision—three things didn't flinch.
Luna.
Freya.
And Astrid.
They stood calmly, eyes locked on me like they'd just come home.
Luna's claws were folded, lips parted in a smile of worship. Freya leaned against her side, her hand no longer clutching her shoulder.
And Astrid—gods—Astrid stood straight, eyes wide but not in fear. Her lips were slightly parted. Her breath slow. Calm.
Like she belonged in this blood-red air.
Like she wanted to be in it.
I hesitated—just for a moment.
Why?
Why was she relaxed?
Why didn't she look away?
She'd never looked at me like that before. Not even back when we were children.
But now... something was different.
She hadn't run.
She hadn't screamed.
She stayed.
A thought flickered in the back of my mind.
Interesting.
Maybe she wasn't beyond saving after all.
Maybe—just maybe—there was a piece of her worth dragging from the fire.
But not now.
Not yet.
Because now?
Now the only thing I wanted was blood.
This insect... this thing that had broken my daughter's bones. That had looked at my wife like she was an object.
He didn't know what he'd done.
He thought he was still breathing because I had mercy.
But he was wrong.
He was breathing because I wanted him to suffer.
I took another step.
He took one back.
Too late.
"You hurt my daughter," I said softly, almost kindly.
"You called her worthless."
I tilted my head.
"And now you speak of my wife like a whore."
The air snapped.
My voice dropped into the lowest whisper imaginable—one that made the ground shake.
"You chose the wrong gods to offend."
And now you will see what it means to die slowly.
He still stood in the middle of the arena, that worthless creature who dared to challenge me—who dared to exist in the same breath as my daughter's pain. His swagger had faded slightly, but his smirk was still there. Weak. Defiant. Predictable.
He had no idea what was coming.
I rolled my neck, slow and deliberate, until I heard the pop of bone and joint. My claws, my weapons—they were at home. It didn't matter.
"I won't be needing steel," I said, stepping forward into the center of the arena.
The fool hesitated.
I stopped just out of reach, relaxed, loose. My voice carried, cold and clear. "You can use your sword. Or your axe. Or both. Doesn't matter."
He blinked.
I smiled.
"Because I'm going to kill you with my hands."
The arena went silent again. The villagers dared not speak. The air itself recoiled.
"I'll break every piece of you, one by one. I'll make sure you choke on your own blood." I tilted my head. "So go on. Attack."
He hesitated again—good.
Then he roared.
Like a good little Viking.
Like a dumb beast charging death with nothing but a stick and a scream.
He lifted his blade—iron, cheap, notched—and brought it down at me in a wide, clumsy arc.
I didn't dodge.
I caught it.
Bare-handed.
The clang of metal against bone echoed like a funeral bell. His eyes widened as I held his blade in place, fingers bleeding slightly—but the grin on my face never broke.
"You're weaker than you look."
And then I moved.
My elbow snapped up, crashing into his nose. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed.
He dropped to the ground with a cry, sword slipping from his hands.
I kicked it toward him, the metal scraping across stone.
"Pick it up."
He groaned.
"Pick. It. Up."
Still groaning.
I walked toward him again, booted the blade closer.
"Come on. Aren't you a warrior?" My voice dropped lower. "A man?"
He snarled and grabbed the hilt.
Charged.
I sidestepped easily. Slammed my fist into his side. He reeled. I stepped forward and dislocated his shoulder with a brutal twist—he screamed.
Then I grabbed it again—and shoved it back into place.
Another scream.
He tried again.
I caught him by the wrist this time. Pulled him in. Slammed my knee into his chest. Once. Twice. Three times.
He collapsed again.
Dropped the blade.
I didn't let him breathe.
I grabbed his arm—twisted the opposite shoulder now—and dislocated it with a pop.
Then reset it.
Then did it again.
The crowd was silent.
Every cry he made was swallowed by the bloodthirst hanging in the air like fog.
And me?
I was smiling.
He dropped the blade for the third time.
I stopped. Tilted my head. Sniffed the air.
My eyes rolled back slightly as the scent hit me.
Then I screamed.
Not in rage.
In ecstasy.
"Don't you just love the smell of fear?"
My shoulders dropped. My grin stretched wide and dark.
"This..." I said, stepping forward again, "is what you chose."
I struck his legs—shattered one knee, then the other. He collapsed, twitching, face a ruined mess of red and bruises.
"No running now."
I stood over him, casting a shadow he'd never escape from.
"But your fate..." I said, voice soft and dangerous, "...is not mine to give."
I turned slowly.
Behind me stood Luna, Freya cradled in her arms.
And Astrid.
All three of them smiling.
Luna's expression gleamed with satisfaction—her claws were twitching in anticipation, eyes burning like emerald fire. Freya leaned into her mother, watching with dark, hungry focus.
And Astrid...
Her smile was not innocent.
It was new.
Wrong.
And familiar.
There was glee in her expression.
She stood just beside the Nadder now, one hand resting gently on its side. It hadn't recoiled.
In fact—it leaned into her.
I frowned.
She hadn't always been like this. Something had changed.
Something I would need to speak with her about later.
But for now—
I looked at Luna. Then at Freya.
I gestured them closer.
"Come," I said. "My Queen. My Valkyrie."
Luna approached with regal grace, Freya still in her arms, eyes bright and unblinking.
I crouched low, leveling my gaze with my daughter's.
"This..." I said, motioning to the broken, gasping mess at our feet, "...is one of the insects that dared to hurt you."
Freya's jaw clenched.
"To call you useless. To threaten to kill you. To treat you like prey."
Her fists balled at her sides.
"And this same filth... looked at your mother as if she were something to be used."
My voice darkened to a whisper only our family could hear.
"So tell me, my little Valkyrie..."
I smiled.
"What do you want to do with him?"