Hiccup's Point of View
Time passed, as it always did, indifferent to the suffering it left in its wake.
I played the role they expected of me—the weakling, the outcast, the embarrassment of Berk. I stumbled when they pushed me, flinched when they raised their fists, let them believe I was nothing more than a pathetic waste of space.
And they believed it.
Snotlout, the twins, even Astrid—they all mocked me, insulted me, tore me down with sneers and laughter. They never questioned why I never fought back, why I let them bruise my skin and crush my spirit without resistance.
But that was their mistake.
Because every hit, every taunt, every cruel word they hurled at me only fed the fire inside me.
And that fire burned hotter than they could ever imagine.
They thought I was weak, but they never saw what lay beneath. They never saw the nights I spent in the forge long after Gobber had gone home, hammering metal until my fingers bled. They never saw the way I pushed my body to its limits, running until my legs gave out, training until exhaustion threatened to consume me.
They never saw the weapons I made for myself—hidden away beneath the floorboards of my home.
Claws.
Sharpened and deadly, forged to tear through flesh just as easily as dragon talons. My weapons were not crude Viking steel; they were precise, meant for speed, for efficiency.
I studied them all—the dragons, the people, their movements, their weaknesses.
I memorized the way my father held his axe, the way Astrid adjusted her stance before she swung her weapon, the way Snotlout overextended when he threw a punch. I watched them, learned from them.
And one day, I would use it all against them.
But for now, I was patient.
For now, I let them believe in their delusion.
For now, I endured.
There was only one person in Berk who saw through the mask I wore.
Gothi.
She never spoke much, but she didn't need to. She was always watching, always knowing more than she let on.
She never asked questions when I came to her with fresh bruises or cuts that needed stitching. She never scolded me or offered empty reassurances. She simply patched me up and sent me on my way.
And that meant more to me than she would ever know.
Over time, I came to see her as something close to a grandmother. She was the only one in this cursed village, aside from Gobber, who didn't treat me like I was worthless.
One evening, as she wrapped a bandage around my arm, she finally spoke.
"You're changing," she rasped. "Not just in body. In soul."
I looked at her, my face unreadable.
She placed a wrinkled hand on my shoulder, her expression shadowed with something close to sorrow.
"The fire inside you… it burns too hot. Too bright. Be careful, Hiccup. Do not lose yourself to it."
I lowered my gaze, my fingers tightening around the bandages.
"I know, Gran," I murmured. "But I won't be bound by this village's hate and tradition. I may despise my circumstances—my father, this pathetic excuse for a home—but I will no longer be held back. One day, I will reveal myself, and they will see what they created with their cruelty."
Gothi said nothing. She didn't need to.
Because she knew.
She had always known.
The nights belonged to me.
When the village slept, I trained.
I perfected my technique, moving with the same ruthless efficiency as the dragons I had once admired from afar. They were the true rulers of this world—creatures of instinct and power, unburdened by human weakness.
I would become like them.
Not a warrior. Not a Viking.
Something else.
Something stronger.
One night, beneath the pale glow of the moon, I stood in the forest, my newly forged claws gleaming in the light. My breath was steady, my heart unshaken.
I was ready.
The people of Berk had no idea what was coming.
But soon, they would.
And when they did…
They would finally understand their place.
Beneath me.