Hiccup's POV
The morning on Berk smelled of smoke and salt. The forge was already hot, and my hands were covered in soot when Astrid burst in.
"Hiccup!" Her voice carried urgency. "You need to see this."
I looked up from my hammer, irritation flickering for a moment before I noticed the fear in her eyes. She wasn't just worried—she was terrified.
I followed her out to the cliffs where the villagers had gathered, pointing toward the distant sea. At first, I thought it was a storm. The sky was dark, clouds swirling unnaturally, and the air seemed heavy, pressing down on my chest.
Then Toothless growled beside me. A deep, guttural growl that I had only heard when he faced death itself. His pupils narrowed into thin slits as he stared at the horizon.
"What is it, bud?" I asked softly, though my own voice shook.
The water churned violently, the tide dragging back as if something enormous was displacing it. My heart dropped. This wasn't a storm.
It was something coming.
Toothless's POV
The air tasted wrong. Bitter. Heavy. Like ash.
I could feel it before I could see it. A presence too large, too ancient, pressing against my instincts like a predator's gaze. My wings twitched, my spines rattled.
The villagers around me smelled of fear, their heartbeats pounding fast, loud, too loud.
I growled and bared my teeth. This was no ordinary dragon. Not even the Red Death had felt like this. This… thing… was older, darker.
Hiccup placed a hand on my neck, steadying me. His touch grounded me, but it couldn't erase the truth.
The King of Dragons was awake.
And he was coming.
Villagers' POV
"Another dragon raid?" someone muttered nervously.
"No… no dragon flies with wings that dark…"
The villagers shifted restlessly, gripping axes, spears, anything that could be held as a weapon. But even as they prepared, most knew the truth: nothing they carried would matter.
The black silhouette grew larger with each passing heartbeat. Wings blotted out the sun, spreading across the sky like a storm. Its scales shimmered black, streaked with violet and gold, and fire flickered from its jaws—not orange, not red, but black, consuming light itself.
An elder whispered, "The gods have cursed us…"
But deep down, every villager knew.
This was no curse.
This was a king.
Behemoth's POV
The wind split before my wings. The ocean parted beneath my shadow.
For too long, I had watched from the mountains, listening to whispers of men who dared call themselves "dragon tamers." They sat on our backs, chained us, made us pets and weapons. They had forgotten who ruled the skies.
I was not Red Death, bloated and blind with hunger.
I was not Bewilderbeast, drowned in ice and arrogance.
I was Behemoth.
The last king. The black flame that devoured even gods.
And these mortals… these children… thought they could bend dragons to their will?
Pathetic.
My wings beat once, and the horizon trembled. I could already hear them screaming in their village. Their fear fed me, sweet and sharp. Yet, in my chest, there was no hatred—only inevitability.
I had no need to slaughter without reason. I had no need to crown myself a tyrant. But the truth was simple:
Either they remembered their place…
Or I would burn Berk until it was nothing but ash on the sea.
Still, as the village drew closer, a flicker of curiosity stirred within me. The black Night Fury at the boy's side—Toothless, the villagers called him—was different. Strong, unbroken. A dragon not fully chained.
Perhaps, before I tore down their illusions of power, I would test him.
And then, perhaps, I would decide if he was worthy to stand beside me… or burn with the rest.