Third Person Perspective
The Nadder lunged first, tail slashing through the air like a blade of bone and fire.
Hiccup dodged, cloak whipping behind him as his boots slid effortlessly across the sand. His claws flashed out—two silver arcs—and carved twin lines along the Nadder's flank. Sparks flew. Blood sprayed.
The dragon shrieked in pain—and delight.
Hiccup grinned wide, teeth bared like a wolf finding its rhythm.
Good, he thought, she likes it.
The Nadder came again, spinning mid-air, claws sweeping low. Hiccup ducked, pivoted, and drove his elbow into her shoulder before slashing a line across her wing joint. The impact sent her skidding to the side, wings flaring wide to catch herself.
Another growl.
Another flash of claws.
She charged this time—no tricks, no restraint.
Hiccup danced around her, ducking under a bite, twisting past her tail. His claws scraped along her ribs and thigh, drawing blood with every movement. He was faster. Cleaner. More precise.
She was raw power.
He was control.
And he was loving every second of it.
The crowd had fallen completely silent.
No cheers. No jeers. Just stunned disbelief.
Because this wasn't a boy fighting a dragon.
This was a monster playing with one.
Hiccup's smile widened as the Nadder tried again—fire burst from her mouth, scorching the arena floor—but Hiccup was already in the air, vaulting off a broken pillar. He landed beside her with a roll and carved another shallow gash along her side before flipping away.
The Nadder hissed and whipped around, claws narrowly missing his face.
His boots barely touched ground before he launched forward again.
Slice.
A cut along the shoulder.
Slash.
A deeper line along the haunch.
With each strike, his grin grew wilder. His eyes gleamed with the thrill of blood, of rhythm, of hunt. The more she bled, the more alive he felt.
And to his twisted delight...
So did she.
The Nadder was panting now, eyes locked on him with something that looked like joy. Her crest twitched. Her tail slammed into the earth. The air between them crackled with tension.
She lunged.
Faster than before. Closer.
This time—
Scratch!
Her claw grazed his shoulder.
A clean line. Shallow. Just enough to sting.
He stopped.
So did she.
Their bodies stood several feet apart, breathing hard, eyes locked.
Bloodlust burned between them like wildfire.
Hiccup reached up and touched the scratch with two fingers, examining the red streak that marred his skin.
Then he laughed.
Low. Amused. Dark.
"It's been some time since a dragon of your caliber managed to even scratch me," he said, voice cold but oddly respectful. "You should be proud."
The Nadder shrilled in response—not in rage.
In pleasure.
Her wings flared again. She stomped her front claws, tail wagging like a predator ready for another round.
Hiccup blinked, then raised a brow, amused.
"...Oh. You're a sadist."
He looked up at the bleachers, where Gobber stood near the elders and warriors, watching with wide eyes.
Hiccup raised a hand and called out flatly, "Hey, Gobber!"
Gobber jumped slightly. "Aye?"
Hiccup gestured to the Nadder with his blood-streaked claws. "Where the hell did you find a dragon that gets off on pain?"
The entire arena stiffened.
Gobber didn't answer. Couldn't.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again.
Even Gothi raised a brow.
Hiccup snorted. "Tch. Whatever."
He turned back to the Nadder and met her eyes again—wide, wild, gleaming.
The grin returned.
"Doesn't matter."
He flexed his claws.
"Monsters understand each other."
As he looked at the Nadder in the eyes he smiled predatory.
The sand beneath their feet was streaked with blood.
Not from carnage.
From exhilaration.
Hiccup's shoulder burned, the shallow scratch still fresh. But instead of pain, it filled him with energy. The same way it had filled her.
The Nadder circled, her crest high, wings twitching with anticipation. Her scales shimmered with fresh wounds—thin lines carved by his claws—but her grin, her body language, her eyes—they were eager.
She wasn't slowing down.
Neither was he.
They clashed again. This time faster. Sharper.
Claws met claws. Talon met fang. He ducked under her swiping jaws, rolled across her flank, and left another fresh gash across her shoulder before leaping clear of her snapping teeth. She spun, twisted mid-lunge, tail sweeping for his knees.
He flipped backward and drove his claws down on her snout, earning a shriek—and a delighted tail thump.
They weren't just fighting anymore.
They were dancing.
The pain had invigorated them both. Every blow landed fueled the next. The heat of battle was no longer a fire—it was a storm, and they were both the eye of it.
But then—
The Nadder jumped back, wings flaring, powerful gusts kicking up dirt and blood around her. She landed several feet away, crouched low, eyes locked on him.
Hiccup tilted his head, grinning. "What's wrong?" he asked, voice mockingly sweet.
But he already knew.
He could see it in the way her tail twitched—just once.
Ah, he thought, here it comes.
She wanted to test him.
Perfect.
It was time to test himself.
The Nadder growled.
And then—
Whip-crack!
She flicked her tail forward.
Thunk!
The first tail spike rocketed toward him.
He didn't dodge.
Didn't flinch.
He breathed.
Fluid as water... for water is stronger than stone.
Another spike.
He twisted his torso, barely shifting his weight—whip—it flew past him, missing by a hair.
Then two more.
He raised his right arm, angled his claw upward—clang—one deflected with a screech of metal-on-metal.
Another followed immediately—he sidestepped, spun, caught the breeze of it passing by.
His breaths were slow. Rhythmic. Measured.
Breathing is even. Mind is still. Flow.
More spikes flew.
Left. Right. Left again.
He moved like a stream around rocks, like wind through a reed. Nothing was wasted. No motion abrupt.
The crowd was silent.
Even the Nadder hesitated as the final spike launched—her strongest, fastest shot.
And Hiccup?
He closed his eyes.
Lifted one hand.
And caught it.
Snap.
His clawed fingers wrapped around the spine midair.
Not a graze. Not a graze.
A catch.
He opened his eyes slowly, calmly.
The arena lost its mind.
He turned the spike in his hand like a craftsman inspecting a tool. His expression was neutral. Relaxed.
As if what he'd just done was perfectly normal.
As if that had been expected.
He looked up at the Nadder, who now stood still—flaming eyes gleaming with raw, primal delight.
She hissed.
Excited.
Ready for round two.
⸻
Luna's Point of View
I stopped breathing.
One heartbeat.
Then another.
The moment he caught that spike—eyes closed—something in me snapped.
My pupils dilated until my vision tunneled around him.
The wind tugged at his cloak. His chest rose and fell with perfect calm. The tail spike in his hand still glinted from the force of its impact, and he turned it without fear.
As if pain meant nothing.
As if danger answered to him.
He caught it.
No flinch.
No stagger.
He caught it.
I'd seen dragons bat aside spears. I'd seen alphas shield their young with wings of iron. I had seen fire clash against fire.
But I had never seen that.
Not from a human.
Not even from a dragon.
And the way he moved... gods.
He was water.
He was wind.
He was death wearing skin and steel.
And he was mine.
A low sound escaped my throat—somewhere between a growl and a purr. My claws scraped across the stone beneath me. My wings flexed, aching to move.
I had loved him before.
But now?
Now I craved him.
Because this wasn't just power. This was elegance. Sadism wrapped in serenity. Strength married to control.
My alpha.
My mate.
My future.
No one else could have him.
Not the Nadder. Not this village. Not the past. Not fate.
Only me.
And when this battle ended... when he stood victorious...
I would descend.
And nothing—not dragons, not humans, not the gods—would stop me from taking what was mine.