Stoick's Point of View
The fire in the war hall crackled, but it did little to warm the cold silence settling over the room.
Ten warriors sat with him—his most loyal, his strongest, his most trusted. Or so he thought.
They didn't speak much anymore.
Not when Hiccup was involved.
Their eyes had changed.
Not the same bravado from the old days. Not even the wary discipline of hardened fighters.
It was fear now.
Quiet. Deep. Lingering.
They didn't say it aloud, but Stoick could feel it—dripping off them like sweat beneath their furs.
They were scared of his son.
And that alone made his hands curl into fists.
He slammed one onto the long table, rattling mugs and scrolls. "You've seen him," he said, voice a low growl. "You've seen how he walks through fire like it's nothing. That isn't my boy. That's a puppet."
No one spoke.
He leaned forward, eyes hard. "Something has its claws in him. A curse. A dragon's mind. Maybe worse. And if we don't free him soon, we lose him."
Still silence.
Only the sound of crackling wood and shifting armor.
One of the younger warriors finally cleared his throat. "With all respect, Chief... what if there's nothing to free?"
Stoick turned his head slowly.
The man visibly paled. "I-I mean... if whatever's controlling him is him now?"
Another voice—an older one—spoke next. "We've seen what he can do, Stoick. He fought a Gronckle barehanded. Tossed it to the ground like it weighed nothing. That's not normal strength."
"He didn't even breathe hard," someone muttered.
"He smiled when he pinned it."
A murmur spread.
Stoick's jaw tightened.
"We do not kill him," he said firmly. "That's not the mission."
"And if he tries to kill us?" a warrior asked, voice tight.
Stoick's voice rose, harsh and final. "Then you fight back."
But even he heard the crack in his command.
The uncertainty.
The fear.
They didn't believe in the old ways anymore.
Not against Hiccup.
He forced his breathing steady. "We don't go after him directly. Not yet. Tomorrow, during his fight with the Nightmare... he'll be distracted. Focused. We use that."
He unrolled a crude map of Berk, marking key locations. "We know Luna and the girl—Freya—are always close to him. She protects the child like a dragon with its egg. We separate them. Subdue them. Then use them to make Hiccup surrender."
One of the men leaned in cautiously. "We're... kidnapping his wife and daughter?"
"It's not kidnapping," Stoick snapped. "It's leverage. Once he sees we're not trying to harm them—just remove the influence—they'll understand. He'll understand."
"If we live long enough," someone muttered.
A beat passed.
Stoick didn't acknowledge it.
"They don't know we're coming. They don't know we're watching. And they don't know what we'll do to save him."
The plan was laid.
Divide. Capture. Contain.
Simple.
Clean.
Necessary.
And in Stoick's eyes?
It was mercy.
But to his warriors... it felt like the first step into a grave they would never crawl back out of.
Golden Fang's Point of View
From the rafters of the old war hall, nestled between dusty beams and a thick cobweb that definitely didn't belong to him, Golden Fang crouched with all the stillness of a coiled scale.
Tiny.
Silent.
Completely invisible to the fools below.
The warriors muttered beneath him, their heavy boots shifting, the table creaking under maps and cups. The chief—Stoick, growly as ever—was pacing like a territorial boar. Golden Fang flicked his tail once.
Too loud. Too heavy. Not sneaky. Bad dragon habits for a human.
He'd been up here a long time now.
Bored? A little.
Hungry? Definitely.
But patient? Oh yes.
Because Alpha told him to.
Before Alpha—Hiccup the Shadowfang, Winged Fire and King of Claws—left Berk, he looked Golden Fang dead in the eyes and said:
"Keep your wings out and your teeth sharp. Listen. Watch. And when they speak their truth, fly home. A shiny thing waits if you do."
And that was all he needed.
Shiny?
SHINY!?
No force in the nine realms could match that kind of promise.
So he stayed. He waited. He listened.
And finally—
The fools below started speaking truths.
Horrible ones.
Big ones.
Stupid ones.
They wanted to take Alpha's mate. Alpha's hatchling.
Golden Fang's wings twitched with fury. His tail flicked like a whip.
Touch the Alpha's hatchling? Bad idea. Very bad.
He bared his little golden teeth and considered spitting down on one of them.
Just one drop of fire. Nothing fatal. Just symbolic.
But no.
Not yet.
The chief was still talking. Loud. Prideful. Dumb.
He didn't know.
Didn't know that while his "warriors" sat in fear, the shadows above already belonged to Hiccup.
Didn't know that a pair of tiny eyes were watching every plan fall apart before it began.
Golden Fang memorized everything.
The timing.
The target.
The path.
Every word like prey scent in the wind.
Then, once the fools began to drift into silence and tension, he inched backward—slowly, silently—and slipped through the smallest crack in the stone.
The cold air outside kissed his scales.
And he jumped.
Wings spread wide, body low and fast, he dove into the shadows of the night.
Straight for the trees.
Straight for the forest.
Straight for Alpha.
Because if Golden Fang moved fast—
He'd make it home before the fools even finished sharpening their spears.
And Alpha?
Alpha would have plans.
And Golden Fang?
He would have his shiny.
Hiccup's Point of View
The forest was quiet.
Too quiet.
The kind of silence I'd come to understand not as peace—but as a warning.
Luna lay against a moss-covered rock nearby, eyes half-closed, one leg draped over Astrid's lap as Freya continued weaving flowers into a crown on the Scauldron's nose. Astrid was pretending to be annoyed but hadn't tried to move for the last ten minutes. The rest of the Vanguard lounged in the glade, relaxed yet ready—always ready.
Still, something stirred in my chest. A whisper. A signal.
And then—I felt him.
The rustle of leaves. The flutter of tiny wings.
A streak of gold and green dropped from the canopy like a dart and landed on my shoulder with perfect precision.
"Golden Fang," I murmured with a faint grin.
He puffed his chest proudly and hissed his report straight into my ear in rapid bursts of high-dragonic squeaks.
I closed my eyes, listening. Every word. Every detail. Stoick's voice. The warriors' fear. The foolish plan to take Luna and Freya during the fight tomorrow.
To use them.
To threaten them.
I said nothing for a moment.
Golden Fang finished, then sat back on my shoulder, expectant.
I reached into my belt pouch, pulled out a thin metal pendant—smooth, circular, inscribed with a sigil in old draconic—and flicked it to him.
He caught it mid-air, clutched it like treasure, and cooed with pure joy.
"Good work," I whispered.
He vanished into the trees a second later, treasure in tow.
And I rose to my feet.
Luna opened one eye. "That look on your face..." she murmured.
I turned toward her, eyes narrowing, fire flickering behind them.
"They're coming," I said softly. "Tomorrow. During the Nightmare fight."
Astrid looked up. Freya paused.
"They plan to separate you and Freya. Use you as bait to get to me."
Luna's eyes sharpened. "Do they now."
"They think they're being clever," I said, a small smirk tugging at the edge of my lips. "They think I'm alone. That I only have you. That Freya is just a child."
Astrid stood slowly. "So... what now?"
I looked up at the fading sky, the stars beginning to pierce the dark.
"Now?" I said.
Now I let them try.
And then I'll remind Berk—one final time—why I never needed to raise a sword to destroy them.
Because I am the sword.
And tomorrow, it falls.