The Lost King’s Legacy

The afternoon sun hung low over Berk, casting warm golden light across the village as the riders descended from the sky. The familiar bustle of villagers slowed as people noticed the group's somber expressions, the usual cheer of dragon landings replaced with a palpable tension. Toothless touched down first, his sleek black form almost blending into the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings. Hiccup dismounted smoothly, his hand resting briefly on Toothless's neck as though grounding himself.

The rest of the dragons landed in staggered formation, their riders sliding off with uncharacteristic silence. Even Ruffnut and Tuffnut, who normally leapt to the ground with exaggerated flair, moved with an air of subdued unease. Lexy's crystal-like scales shimmered faintly as she landed beside Toothless, her powerful wings folding neatly against her sides. Lyra dismounted gracefully, her green eyes scanning the village as if still on alert.

It wasn't long before Stoick and Valka emerged from the main square, the chief's towering frame unmistakable as he strode toward the group. His keen eyes swept over the riders, quickly registering the tension etched on their faces. Beside him, Valka moved with a quiet urgency, her expression a mix of concern and curiosity.

"Hiccup," Stoick called, his deep voice cutting through the stillness like a blade. "What happened?"

Hiccup turned to meet his father's gaze, his own eyes shadowed by the weight of the encounter. There was no hesitation in his voice, only the calm resolve of someone who knew the gravity of what he was about to say. "We encountered a ship on the way back," he began. "They captured Ruffnut and Tuffnut's dragon with some kind of net launcher. Their leader called himself Eret… but that's not the problem."

Stoick's expression darkened instantly, his jaw tightening. "What's the problem, then?"

Hiccup's voice dropped slightly, his tone measured but firm as he locked eyes with his father. "Eret mentioned someone else. Drago Bludvist."

The name struck like a thunderclap. Stoick's broad shoulders stiffened, his entire demeanor shifting from concern to something heavier—an unspoken shadow of dread that seemed to settle over him like a weight. Beside him, Valka's eyes narrowed sharply, her hand instinctively tightening on Cloudjumper's reins.

"Stoick?" Valka asked, her voice steady but tinged with unease.

For a moment, Stoick said nothing. His gaze was distant, his memories seemingly pulling him away from the present. Then he exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with the burden of old wounds. He turned toward the Great Hall, motioning for the group to follow.

"This isn't a name to take lightly," he said gravely. His tone brooked no argument.

The riders exchanged uneasy glances before trailing after him, their dragons moving to rest nearby. Lexy's head tilted slightly, her sharp blue eyes watching Stoick with quiet intensity before she settled beside Toothless.

Inside the Great Hall, the crackling firepit cast long shadows across the room, the warm glow doing little to dispel the heavy atmosphere. Stoick stood at the head of the long table, his hands gripping its edge with such force that his knuckles whitened. The riders gathered around, their expressions ranging from confusion to apprehension as they waited for him to speak.

Hiccup finally broke the silence. "Who is Drago Bludvist?"

Stoick's gaze lifted, his eyes heavy with the weight of the past. "Years ago, before peace with the dragons, Drago came to a gathering of chiefs," he began, his voice deep and measured, as though every word carried the weight of a memory he would rather not recall. "He promised protection from the dragons—claimed he could keep them at bay. All he wanted in return…" His tone hardened, a bitter edge creeping into his words. "…was loyalty. Our loyalty. Our men. Our dragons."

Astrid leaned forward slightly, her arms crossed as her piercing gaze remained fixed on Stoick. "What happened?"

"He wanted an army," Stoick continued, his voice lowering. "When the chiefs refused, he unleashed his dragons. Burned their ships. Killed every last chief who defied him."

The room fell into a stunned silence. The fire crackled softly, the only sound in the weighty stillness. Hiccup's jaw tightened, his mind racing to process the revelation.

"And you escaped?" Fishlegs asked hesitantly, his voice breaking the quiet. The tremor in his tone betrayed his unease.

Stoick nodded grimly. "By some miracle, yes. But many others didn't." He turned to Hiccup, his voice firm with conviction. "Drago isn't someone you can reason with, son. He's ruthless, and he won't stop until he has everything he wants."

"But what if we can convince him?" Hiccup stepped forward, his voice carrying a mix of urgency and determination. "What if we show him that dragons and humans can live together peacefully? That they're not just weapons or tools—"

"Hiccup, no," Stoick interrupted sharply, his voice rising as he slammed a fist onto the table. The sound echoed through the hall, startling everyone. "You don't understand. Drago doesn't care about peace. He doesn't care about reason. To him, dragons are power. And power is all that matters."

"Exactly," Valka added, stepping closer to Hiccup. Her voice was calm but carried an undertone of warning. Her pale blue eyes searched his face, her expression a mix of concern and authority. "Drago has built his entire existence on control and domination. If you go to him, you won't change his mind. You'll only put yourself and everyone else in danger."

Hiccup shook his head, frustration simmering beneath his otherwise calm exterior. "We can't just sit here and do nothing," he argued. "If we wait, he'll come to us, and we'll be caught off guard. I need to try."

Valka placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch firm yet gentle. Her voice softened, but her conviction remained unshaken. "Hiccup, you've done amazing things. You've brought people and dragons together in ways no one else could. But there are battles you can't win with words alone. This is one of them."

Hiccup opened his mouth to protest, his eyes flicking between his parents, but before he could form a response, a distant roar interrupted the tense discussion.

The sound was faint but unmistakable—a dragon's call carried on the wind. Stoick's gaze shifted sharply toward the door, his jaw tightening as though bracing for what was to come.

"If Drago's name has surfaced again," he said, his voice steeling with resolve, "we need to prepare."

Elsewhere, on the Open Sea…

Eret's ship creaked and groaned as it navigated the choppy waves, the salty spray of seawater splashing over its weathered deck. The crew moved with practiced efficiency, their boots thudding against the planks as they secured ropes and adjusted sails. The wind was biting, carrying with it a sense of unease that only deepened as the towering silhouette of Drago Bludvist's warship loomed into view.

The ship itself was a menacing sight, a monstrous amalgamation of wood and iron bristling with weapons and reinforced with steel plating. Jagged spines jutted from its sides like the teeth of some ancient beast, and dark banners bearing Drago's sigil flapped in the wind. It moved like a predator across the waves, its presence a stark declaration of power and fear.

At the helm of his own ship, Eret stood rigid, his jaw clenched as he watched the larger vessel grow closer. The confidence that usually radiated from him had dimmed, replaced by a nervous energy he couldn't quite suppress. His crew, usually boisterous and cocky, were unusually quiet, their faces pale as they prepared to dock alongside Drago's warship.

The sound of heavy chains clinking and water sloshing filled the air as Eret's ship was secured. The gangplank lowered with a creak, and Eret disembarked with measured steps, his boots echoing against the metal of Drago's deck. The air seemed heavier here, the tension palpable as the crew of Drago's ship watched silently, their expressions grim.

Then, from the shadows of the towering main mast, Drago Bludvist appeared.

He was an imposing figure, towering over everyone on the deck, his broad shoulders draped in a fur-lined cloak that seemed to ripple like a stormcloud. His weathered armor bore the scars of countless battles, and the thick staff he carried tapped rhythmically against the deck as he approached, each sound like the toll of a bell.

His face was a study in menace—dark eyes that burned with intensity, a twisted scar running down his cheek, and a jaw set in grim determination. He exuded control and danger, the kind of man who didn't need to shout to command absolute obedience.

"Eret, son of Eret," Drago said, his deep voice cutting through the tense silence like a blade. There was no warmth in his tone, only a quiet, simmering menace. "What news do you bring me?"

Eret hesitated, forcing himself to stand tall under Drago's piercing gaze. "We… we encountered a group of riders, sir. Dragon riders."

Drago's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the staff. "Dragon riders?" His voice dropped, each word carrying the weight of a storm about to break.

Eret nodded quickly, trying to maintain his composure. "Yes. They were skilled—more skilled than I've ever seen. They had dragons unlike any I've encountered before. Powerful ones."

Drago stepped closer, his boots heavy against the deck. The air around him seemed to grow colder, as though his very presence leeched the warmth from the world. "And you failed to bring them to me," he said, his voice low and deadly, like the growl of a cornered predator.

Eret's throat tightened, his confidence faltering under Drago's unrelenting stare. "They… they fought back," he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. "One of them had a Night Fury."

The mention of the rare dragon made Drago pause. His dark eyes narrowed further, his scar twisting as his lips pulled back into a snarl. "You had a Night Fury in your grasp," he said slowly, each word dripping with contempt, "and you let it slip away?"

Eret raised his hands defensively, the heat rising in his face as he felt the eyes of both crews on him. "It wasn't my fault!" he said, his voice rising in desperation. "They had the upper hand. Their leader… he knew what he was doing. He's dangerous."

Drago studied Eret for a long, agonizing moment. His silence was more unnerving than any shout or threat, the weight of his disappointment settling over Eret like a shroud. Then, with a dismissive snort, Drago turned away, his cloak billowing behind him as he strode toward the edge of the deck.

"You disappoint me, Eret," Drago said, his tone cold and final.

Eret's shoulders sagged, the breath rushing from his lungs. He had failed, and the weight of that failure hung heavily over him. But before he could retreat, Drago stopped and turned his head slightly, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "But perhaps their dragons will serve me better than you."

Drago raised his staff high, and the waters around the ship began to churn violently. The sound was deafening—waves crashing against the hull, chains rattling, and a deep, guttural roar that seemed to rise from the depths of the ocean itself.

The water split apart, revealing a massive, glacial-white form rising from the depths. The Bewilderbeast emerged with a roar that shook the air, its colossal body towering over the ship like a living mountain. Its icy breath misted in the air, freezing the waves around it into jagged formations.

The crew staggered back, their eyes wide with awe and terror. Eret himself was frozen in place, his breath catching as he took in the sheer size and power of the Alpha.

Drago turned fully now, a dark smile curling across his lips as he gazed at the Bewilderbeast with unshakable authority. He reached out a hand, and the great beast lowered its head slightly, its deep blue eyes locking onto its master.

Drago's voice carried across the deck, filled with a chilling promise. "We'll pay these riders a visit soon enough. If they have dragons… they'll join my army. Whether they want to or not."

Eret swallowed hard, his mind racing. He knew better than to argue with Drago. The man's word was law, and his army—especially the Alpha—was a force that no one could hope to defy.

As the Bewilderbeast let out another bone-rattling roar, the ship turned to chart its course toward Berk. Drago stood at the bow, his cloak whipping in the wind and his eyes fixed on the horizon.

His laughter echoed across the waves, cold and unforgiving, as the Bewilderbeast's icy breath froze the sea in its wake. It was a sound that promised destruction, a herald of the storm that was coming.