The Teens' Point of View
The arena was nearly empty now.
Only blood remained.
Blood—and silence.
None of us moved. None of us could.
We stood in the stands where moments ago Hiccup had ripped out a man's heart with the same ease one might pull a weed from the earth. No hesitation. No remorse. Just a quiet, cold act of execution.
And Freya... Freya, that tiny girl with her emerald eyes and innocent laugh... had cheered.
We couldn't look at each other.
No one wanted to say what we were all thinking.
But the images wouldn't leave us.
Hiccup, standing over a broken man, blood dripping from his claws. Luna smiling like she owned the world. Astrid... not resisting, not running—just there. Relaxed. Accepting. Claimed.
And Freya, the little girl we once thought strange, twisted with bruises and fear, now laughing as death unfolded around her like a bedtime story.
What had we helped create?
"Gods," Snotlout muttered under his breath. "He really did it..."
No one answered.
Ruffnut shifted uncomfortably beside Tuffnut, her arms crossed tightly. "Astrid's... different now. It's like she doesn't even care."
"She doesn't," Fishlegs said quietly.
That was the first time he had spoken since the execution. His voice was hoarse.
"She's gone. Or maybe... she was always like that. And we just didn't see it."
I couldn't say who 'I' was anymore. It felt like we were all thinking the same thing. Each of us staring into the pool of blood and seeing the reflection of what we had done.
"Do you think he's cursed?" Ruffnut asked weakly.
"No," Fishlegs said again, louder this time. "He's not cursed."
We all turned to him.
"He's hurt." His hands were trembling. "We did this. Us. You, me... everyone here. We let it happen."
He looked at the center of the arena where Hiccup had once stood.
"I remember when he tried to tell us about dragons not being monsters. And what did we do?" His voice cracked. "We beat him. Over and over."
No one interrupted.
"Every time he tried to talk, we mocked him. Every time he tried to help, we broke him. I was there. I didn't swing fists... but I didn't stop you either."
Snotlout looked away. "We were kids."
"We were monsters," Fishlegs said, tears in his eyes. "He was just a scrawny boy trying to belong, and we made sure he never would."
Tuffnut snorted, but there was no humor. "Guess he found a new way to belong. A dragon king with a queen and a daughter who laughs at murder."
"And Astrid," Ruffnut whispered. "She always told us to push him harder. That he'd 'learn' eventually. Now look at her."
No one spoke.
We were scared.
But we were also guilty.
We didn't just witness a monster rise—we helped shape him. With every bruise. Every cruel word. Every time we turned our backs or laughed at his pain.
We pushed him into the wild.
We left him alone.
And now?
Now the boy we bullied was a creature of nightmares.
The heavy doors to the arena groaned open.
We turned in unison.
Stoick entered.
And the sight of him silenced every breath.
He looked... old.
Older than we had ever seen him. Worn down. His steps were heavy, his shoulders slumped. But his eyes burned—not with the pride of a chief—but with something deeper.
Anger.
And grief.
He looked at us.
And for a moment... just a moment... we saw it.
Hatred.
Then he blinked, and the mask returned. The stern chief. The man carved from stone. But that moment—we all saw it.
He blamed us too.
"I have an order," he said roughly. His voice was raw, scraped down to its edges. "You're to find Astrid's parents. Bring them to the Great Hall."
There was silence.
He looked at us—each one of us—and we saw the tremble in his jaw. The sorrow he refused to show.
"We're preparing for the nest," he said. "The war we've been chasing for generations. And I'll need them."
Still, no one moved.
"Now!" he barked, and we jolted into motion, muscles moving before our minds could.
But as we stepped away from the bloodstained arena, none of us felt like warriors.
We felt like failures.
We felt like the children who once beat down a broken boy and laughed while he cried.
And as we left, I think all of us wondered the same thing:
If we had shown him kindness—just once—would we have ever seen the rise of the monster we now fear?
Would there even be a war?
We continued on as we walked in silence.
The path to Astrid's house had never felt this long.
It was like the whole village held its breath, watching us. Judging us. Or maybe... maybe we were just hearing our own guilt echo back at us with every step.
None of us wanted to speak. Not after what we saw. Not after what we remembered.
We reached her home at the edge of the village.
The door stood slightly ajar.
And that's when we smelled it.
Ruffnut was the first to wrinkle her nose. "Ugh... what is that?"
It hit us like a wall. Foul. Rotting. The unmistakable stench of something dead.
All of us stopped.
No one moved closer.
Tuffnut coughed and held his sleeve to his face. "You think maybe a raccoon died in there?"
"No," Fishlegs whispered, pale already. "That's not an animal."
We looked at each other.
No one wanted to go inside.
No one even wanted to look.
"Okay," Ruffnut said slowly, voice tight. "We do this the fair way."
"Agreed," said Snotlout. "Rock, paper, scissors."
We formed a circle.
Three counts.
Fists flew.
And Fishlegs lost.
His face turned a shade whiter than fresh snow.
"I—no—guys, can't we—"
"You lost," Tuffnut said gleefully. "Be brave, bookworm."
"Maybe it is a raccoon!" Ruffnut added, not sounding convinced.
Fishlegs took a breath. One shaky step at a time, he approached the door.
We watched from behind.
The moment he stepped inside—he froze.
Not like he was startled.
No.
He locked.
Like his soul had just shattered.
His hands trembled. His eyes widened.
He didn't say a word.
Didn't move.
Tuffnut groaned. "Oh come on, he's being dramatic—"
He stepped forward, rolled his eyes, and marched in after him.
Then he froze.
The color drained from his face.
His knees buckled, and he slammed a hand against the wall to steady himself. "Oh gods..."
"What?" Ruffnut called, annoyed. "What's in there?!"
Then she pushed forward with Snotlout right behind her.
And that's when they screamed.
High. Piercing. Real.
Not dramatic.
Not exaggerated.
Real horror.
Ruffnut staggered back out, hand over her mouth, eyes wide in horror.
Snotlout followed, stumbling like he couldn't find his legs. "What—what is this?!"
Fishlegs backed out next, his face blank and distant. Tuffnut leaned against the doorframe, shaking his head, trying to comprehend what they'd just walked into.
Ruffnut finally whispered it.
"There's... bodies."
She looked sick.
"One of them's a woman. Astrid's mother, I think. Her—her head's gone. Just... gone. Blood's everywhere."
Fishlegs spoke next, hollow and distant. "And her father... he's... gods. His back's broken. Arms twisted. His body's... mangled. Like someone played with it."
No one said a word for a long moment.
Even the wind stopped blowing.
Then Tuffnut muttered, "What the hell did she do?"
No one answered him.
Because we all knew.
There was only one person Astrid would let into that house.
And she didn't do this alone.