Chapter Text
The sky above Berk was a grey, restless ocean of clouds, the kind that pressed down heavy and low, making the world feel smaller, more confined, it choked Snotlout with a kind of claustrophobia. The wind tugged at the sails of the longships moored along the rugged coastline, tossing them with an impatience that mirrored Snotlout’s own restless spirit. He stood at the prow of one such ship, the worn wood creaking beneath his boots, eyes narrowed against the chill sea air.
It had been years since the Red Death had fallen, yet the memory of that day lingered like a wound that never fully healed.
Snotlout’s gaze drifted past the rolling waves to the cliffs where the village nestled—a cluster of stone and timber homes, their smoke-streaked chimneys marking the steady heartbeat of life continuing in spite of loss.
Loss.
The word felt hollow.
He thought back to the chaos of that day: the Red Death’s thunderous roar echoing through the island, shaking the earth beneath their feet. Flames danced in a frenzied, hungry swirl, consuming everything in their path. Men and dragons alike fought with desperate fury, but in the maelstrom, one boy and one dragon had vanished—Hiccup, the strange lad none truly understood and his Night Fury.
Everyone had seen him and the offspring of lightning and death himself fall. But no one had seen them fly out again.
Only silence.
Snotlout’s fingers curled around the ship’s railing, knuckles whitening. The weight of the unspoken hung in the air between him and those who still remembered, or pretended to.
Stoick.
The name alone made Snotlout’s stomach knot.
The chief had not been a man of many words, but when he finally spoke of Hiccup, it was with a bitterness that echoed through the hall of memories.
“He was a strange lad, I never understood him an’ now I never will.”
The words weren’t spoken at a funeral or memorial, they were spoken over the top of a beer jug, eyes cold and unfeeling. There was no grand ceremony. Just a simple burial for a body that was not there. At the cliff’s edge where the sea claimed the earth below, and the wind carried the truth away like a whispered secret no one dared to hold.
Snotlout could still remember the silence that filled the great hall after Stoick’s statement. No tears, no laments, just a slow acceptance that the boy was gone, and life would carry on.
The village had moved on.
Dragons were still hunted, sails still cut through the cold air, and the longships still returned laden with trophies and trophies alone.
Snotlout shifted his weight, eyes tracing the jagged coastline where the sea bit at the cliffs, and a cold salt spray stung his face. The day stretched grey and muted, the kind of day that held its breath, as if waiting for something no one dared to name.
He glanced to the side where Astrid stood, her axe sheathed at her hip, gaze fixed on the distant horizon. There was a steel in her stance, but her eyes flickered with something softer—something Snotlout knew too well: the ghost of memories better left unspoken.
A sudden shriek cut through the chill air—a piercing, unnatural cry that sent a shudder through the bones of the ship. Snotlout’s breath caught in his throat. He spun, searching the skies, his body and mind reacting with the primal fear of an animal hunted for thousands of years. With an instinct only felt by those that were born of Berk, where dragons meant death long before they meant anything else.
At first, it was a shadow—a dark blur against the storm-grey clouds. Then two, then three, wingbeats slicing the wind like knives.
Dragons.
Too many, and they were coming straight for them.
Chaos erupted.
The crew scrambled, shouts mounting to be heard over the rising roar of beating wings. Snotlout’s heart slammed as he barked orders, gripping the nearest spear, ready to defend Stormbreaker. The first dragon—sleek, scales like sand, eyes glowing like hot coals—dove toward the ship’s side, talons raking the wood. A spray of splinters and screams followed as men fell, their bodies lost to the churning sea below.
A fireball bloomed near the prow on the port side, searing ropes and sending plumes of smoke curling into the sky. The acrid scent of burning wood stung Snotlout’s nostrils. More dragons closed in, fierce, snarling beasts with jagged scales and rows of snapping teeth. Their wings beat thunderous rhythms, their snarls a savage chorus.
Astrid was a whirlwind of fury, swinging her axe with deadly precision, cutting down two dragons that dared come too close. Yet even she could not hold back the tide. Men screamed, the clang of metal on scale and the crack of arrows mingling with roars and the crash of waves. Snotlout saw Jarl, the youngest of the crew, swept off the deck by a dragon’s claw, his horrified scream swallowed by the sea.
The ship lurched violently as another beast slammed into the mast, the wooden timbers splintering like dry twigs. Snotlout staggered, barely catching himself before falling into the bloodied water. He felt rage and helplessness crash through him.The dragons were relentless.
One by one, they tore into the crew, breaking bodies and spirits alike. The Stormbreaker limped under the assault, sails shredded, steering faltering. The battle stretched on, brutal and merciless. When the last dragon had finally withdrawn—wings beating a retreat into the murky sky—twelve fewer souls remained aboard.
Twelve fewer hearts.
Twelve fewer futures.
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The journey home was sombre and slow.
No songs were sung.
No tales told.
Only the quiet, broken breaths of those left behind.
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Back in Berk, the air was heavy with smoke and salt. The harbor was sombre, empty of the usual bustling crowds who knew grief too well. Snotlout’s footsteps echoed hollow as he stepped ashore. His gaze swept the village, the same walls that had once seemed so strong now felt brittle, fragile against the threats that loomed.
He sat by the water’s edge that evening, the crimson glow of the setting sun staining the sea with blood. The weight of command pressed on his shoulders like the cold stone beneath him. He knew it was no longer enough to simply chase and kill. These attacks would not stop on their own.The dragons had learned.
They were organised, fierce, and now they came to hunt Berk itself. If he did not find a way to end this...
Berk would fall.
And with it, everything.
Snotlout’s jaw clenched as he stared into the darkening water. For my people, he thought grimly, I have to find a way. The burden of leadership had never felt heavier.