Third-Person Perspective
The tent flap fluttered.
Then Hiccup stepped out, steam rising faintly off his shoulders, the final scream of the camp's leader still lingering like ash in the air behind him.
He was covered in blood.
It soaked his chest, his arms, his legs. Even the claws at the ends of his hands—those elegant, luminous claws filled with swirling constellations—were painted crimson. The stars within them still pulsed faintly, as if the sky itself had been bathed in blood.
And yet, the moment he appeared, there was no fear from the dragons waiting beyond.
Only reverence.
They had gathered—his flock, his vanguard, his kin. Dragons of all sizes and breeds filled the scorched camp, standing beside the five elite who had followed him into fire without hesitation. The air vibrated with restrained energy, the aftermath of carnage still thick, but Hiccup's presence calmed it all.
Luna was the first to move.
She rushed to him, her expression fierce, possessive, her claws already rising to touch his face—to check for wounds, to ensure that the scent of blood wasn't his own.
But Hiccup lifted a hand gently, halting her.
"Just... give me a moment," he said quietly, voice low and tired, but firm.
She hesitated, then stepped back with a nod—her golden eyes never leaving his face.
He turned to Torrent, who stood near the still-smoldering remains of the supply tent, steam rising from the shallow pool surrounding his body.
"Torrent," Hiccup said, his tone commanding yet familiar. "Wash it off me."
The Scauldron grunted in acknowledgment. With a great intake of breath, he reared back and released a concentrated blast of scalding water—not burning, but hot enough to tear away blood, grime, and ash.
Hiccup stood motionless as the stream struck him.
The blood peeled away in thick streaks, falling to the earth in rivers of red. The water soaked the dirt beneath his feet, staining it black and muddy. When it ended, he exhaled slowly, dripping and silent.
His claws were clean again—constellations shining bright once more, as if the night had reclaimed its place among the stars.
"Thanks," he said quietly, looking to Torrent with a nod of gratitude.
Then he looked around.
Dragons.
So many dragons.
Old ones. Young ones. Wingless, injured, terrified, and defiant. Survivors of a system that tried to break them.
And he saw the damage.
The bandages. The limping steps. The burns and bruises.
Power still buzzed through his veins from the fight. The high of command. The thrill of battle.
But now...
Now it was fading.
He wished—truly—that he had healing in his veins. That he could do more than destroy. That he could mend the bones and soothe the hearts.
But he couldn't.
And that hurt more than any wound.
Before he could say anything, before he could issue a single word of apology or comfort, the air split with a deafening cry.
It started with Fang, who reared his head and roared to the sky.
Then Razorwind joined.
Then Veil.
Then Thrash.
Then Torrent.
Then the freed dragons followed.
A chorus of gratitude.
Of unity.
Of freedom.
They screamed not in pain, but in triumph.
"For the Alpha!"
"For his Queen!"
"For the Night Furies who brought the sky back to us!"
Hiccup stood in the middle of it all—drenched, burned, blood-washed—as the roar of victory echoed across the ruined camp.
But even in the heart of celebration, his eyes moved carefully across the crowd, scanning the faces—scaled and scarred—of the dragons they had freed.
And then he saw them.
Near the far edge of the camp, lingering quietly by a cracked stone wall, stood a small group of Prickleboggles—three of them, sleek and serpentine with long jaws and brilliant, glowing bellies. Their scales shimmered under the rising moonlight. One was deep green, another ocean blue, and the third—a striking crimson marked with purple stripes—watched him closely with wary, intelligent eyes.
The leader.
Knowledge from his past life stirred in his mind.
Healing fireballs.
Prickleboggles were rare, territorial—and nearly impossible to tame. But he knew their secret. They could breathe fire that healed, not harmed. And here, among the wounded and barely conscious, they could be salvation.
He stepped forward slowly.
As he passed through the gathered dragons, they parted for him—some lowering their heads, others bowing fully, wings tucked and bodies trembling in quiet reverence. One after another, they bent in recognition.
Not just of a leader.
But of an Alpha.
Luna walked beside him—graceful, deadly, silent. None dared block her path. Not with the way her eyes glowed in the firelight, or the way the earth seemed to hum with each step she took.
When Hiccup stopped before the Prickleboggles, they bowed without hesitation.
All three.
The red one lowered its head first, the blue and green following a breath later.
"I know what you are," Hiccup said, his voice calm, steady. "And what you can do."
He looked to the wounded again—some barely conscious, others bleeding, clutching torn wings or shattered limbs.
"There are at least forty dragons here," he said, more to himself than them. "Ten hatchlings. Maybe more."
He met the red Prickleboggle's eyes directly.
"I won't command it," he said, "but I will ask. Lend us your gift. Help them."
The red one looked at the others, then stepped forward and let out a melodic, echoing hum.
"We will," it replied in dragon tongue. "It will be done."
Hiccup gave a single nod. "Start with the hatchlings. They take top priority."
The trio bowed again.
"Yes, Alpha."
"But," he added, voice firm, "don't overwork yourselves. You're few, and this will take time. The others can help with whatever you need. From now on..."
He looked up, sweeping his gaze across the camp—across all of them.
"Every dragon here is under my protection."
A wave of emotion rippled through the crowd. Dragons bowed again—some with tears in their eyes, others with quiet hope rising from old, broken places.
And for the first time that night...
Hiccup truly smiled.
It was small. Brief. But real.
The kind of smile that carried both pride and purpose. Because despite the bloodshed, despite the scars they now bore—they were alive.
He watched the Prickleboggles get to work, their glowing fire gently lapping over cuts and bruises. Wherever it touched, wounds began to close, pain began to ease. Hatchlings were treated first—exactly as he'd ordered—and their little bodies twitched as warmth replaced agony. A few even tried to stand.
The sight steadied something inside him.
He turned back, scanning the camp. The other dragons—exhausted, scorched, and sore—were finally settling down. Some leaned against each other. Others laid their heads in the grass and simply breathed.
Thankfully... no deaths.
A miracle, considering what they'd stormed.
But the injuries were still many. The hatchlings had fared better, their wounds light—bruises, shallow burns, wing strain. The adults, however... they would take time. Weeks. Some months.
And all of them were looking to him now.
Waiting.
Hiccup exhaled, rolled his shoulders, and made his way toward the one group that still stood at full attention.
His vanguard.
Razorwind, wings folded like blades.
Veil, still flickering in and out of sight near the edge of the firelight.
Torrent, seated proudly but coiled like a predator at rest.
Thrash, twitching slightly from leftover energy, tail flicking.
Fang, still smoldering with unspent rage.
And Daggermaw, wings half-shielding a group of hatchlings who had begun to doze beside him.
They looked up as Hiccup approached, Luna trailing silently at his side.
"Rest easy," he said first. "You all did your part. Better than I could have asked."
No one spoke. But they straightened, their respect shown not in words—but in how still they became. How quiet. How ready.
Hiccup crossed his arms and let the smile fade.
"I spoke to the one behind the camp," he said, his voice lower now, measured. "The man in charge."
His claws flexed slightly at the memory of the coward buried in gold.
"What I learned is... bothersome."
Luna's eyes narrowed beside him.
The others leaned in.
And the weight of the next hunt began to take shape.