Chapter 80 : One Warning Only

Hiccup's Point of View

The silence was suffocating.

Not the kind that comes from reverence.

But the kind born of fear.

Stoick's face was unreadable—locked in that fragile place between denial and collapse.

No one spoke.

Not the villagers. Not the teens. Not the elders.

Even the wolves had gone still, eyes trained on him.

And then—

One of Stoick's warriors stepped forward.

One of the ones who had flinched when I revealed myself.

A broad man, axe at his hip, stupid pride in his voice.

"I don't know what kind of trick this is," he muttered loudly enough for everyone to hear, "but I won't stand here and listen to some scarred-up brat threaten the chief. You should be ashamed of yourself, boy."

I didn't move at first.

Didn't blink.

Just slowly reached down... and unclipped the claws from my belt.

The hall tensed.

I slid them over my hands one by one—deliberate, silent.

Each click of metal against skin echoed through the firelit stillness.

The man kept talking—like a fool drunk on his own ignorance.

"You think scars and pets make you some kind of king? You're just a—"

I moved.

Faster than any of them could register.

One heartbeat he was standing. The next?

I was on him.

My clawed hand wrapped around his face, slamming him down to the stone floor with a crack that echoed like thunder.

Gasps rose.

No one moved to stop me.

I crouched beside him, my grip never wavering.

Then I spoke—voice cold enough to chill the flames in the hearth.

"Maybe I should take that tongue of yours," I whispered, "since you seem so eager to use it."

The temperature dropped.

People flinched.

The man struggled beneath my grip, one hand reaching for the hilt of his weapon.

Without hesitation, I turned and snapped his arm with one clean twist—never looking away from Stoick's eyes as I did it.

The scream that followed was pathetic.

Weak.

Unworthy.

He writhed on the ground, sobbing, clutching his broken limb.

"Gothi!" he begged. "Gothi, please—!"

I stood.

Bloodlust humming in my veins like a song.

The claws gleamed, starlight rippling along their black curves.

I turned to the hall—let my voice rise once more, smooth and sharp.

"This," I said, pointing at the trembling warrior, "is your one warning."

I looked around.

At the returning warriors.

At Stoick.

At the insects who still thought they were above the laws of strength.

"You speak against me," I said calmly, "you raise your hand toward me, my wife, or my daughter..."

I took one slow step forward.

"...and I will remove you from this world. Piece by piece. And I will not lose a moment of sleep."

My eyes returned to Stoick.

Dead. Unforgiving.

"Teach your dogs to keep quiet."

Then I turned away from the broken man.

And left him screaming behind me.

The wolves followed.

And so did the silence.

Third person point of view

The doors to the Great Hall remained open long after Hiccup, Luna, Freya, and their beasts vanished into the night.

Their steps echoed down the stone stairs.

And then there was silence.

Save for the sobbing of the broken warrior on the floor, clutching his twisted arm and begging for Gothi between sharp breaths of pain.

No one moved to help him.

Not yet.

Because no one could move.

Least of all Stoick.

He stood at the head of the hall, frozen—his shoulders slack, his hands trembling slightly, jaw clenched in disbelief.

Finally, in a voice hoarse and low, he spoke.

"...What in the Hel... did I just witness?"

No one answered at first.

Then, slowly, Elder Yrsa—the one who had led the council in his absence—stood and faced him. Her eyes were weary. Her expression devoid of comfort.

"You saw what the rest of us already learned, Stoick," she said. "You saw the truth."

He turned on her. "That wasn't the truth! That wasn't Hiccup—my son—he would never... he would never speak to me like that!"

"You lost your son," said Bjarke, the Old Wolf, voice like cracking stone. "Not today. Not tonight. You lost him the day you let him suffer in silence. When you forced him to become a man in the dark... because he had no father to show him how."

Stoick shook his head. "No. No, this is something else. Some dragon—something's gotten into him. Possessed him. That power, those beasts, that woman... they've done something to his mind."

Gothi, standing near the injured warrior, paused her tending to etch a single rune.

It read: "Do not cross him again."

Bjarke looked grim. "She's right. If you challenge him again, Stoick, death will follow. You saw what he did to one of your own with no effort."

"I'm the chief!" Stoick barked suddenly, fists tightening. "And if I say we reclaim my son, then we will! We'll trap him, take out whatever curse those dragons placed on him—whatever darkness that woman Luna has infected him with. And if we have to use her and the girl as hostages..."

The room turned cold.

"...then so be it."

Yrsa's voice cracked like a whip. "You will doom this village."

"I will save my son!" Stoick roared.

"You'll lose him forever!" she shouted back. "You saw his eyes—he doesn't see you as anything but the man who abandoned him!"

Stoick turned away. "No. No, he'll see. Once we get rid of the poison in his blood, once we bring him home—he'll be better. Stronger. We'll fix him."

Bjarke stepped forward. "You cannot fix what you broke for years."

"If any of you stand in my way," Stoick growled, voice shaking, "then you can choke on it. I am the chief of Berk. And this village will obey."

No one responded.

But the elders no longer looked at their chief.

They looked toward the door.

Toward the night.

Toward the boy who no longer bowed to anyone.

⸻

Astrid's Point of View

I stood in the shadows of the hall, unseen, listening.

Every word dug deeper into my heart.

Every delusion that spilled from Stoick's mouth made me want to scream.

He didn't understand.

He couldn't understand.

He lost Hiccup long before tonight.

But now?

Now he was going to try and take him back by force.

He thought threatening Freya and Luna would fix things.

He didn't realize the grave he was digging.

I looked at him—this man I once admired. And then I looked at my own father... the man who raised me with the same brand of cruelty, the same blind loyalty to power and pride.

My fist clenched at my side.

"You'll get what's coming to you," I whispered under my breath. "Tonight won't be the end of it."

But I had a job.

I had to warn my hiccup.

My beloved.

He needed to know what was coming.

And when I passed my mother and father on the way out, I didn't stop.

I just muttered, "And soon... you'll suffer too."

Because no one would touch Hiccup.

Not without going through me.