Chapter 1

Sparks flew off the grindstone as Hiccup sharpened yet another axe-head. He was sweating with effort, both to hold the metal firmly down, and to work the heavy pedal that rotated the stone. The fresh spring breeze did little to ease the stifling heat of forge in the next room. He had been working quickly, building up a stockpile of weaponry in case there was an attack that evening. A selection of fresh swords and axes were already leaning neatly against the wall, and this was his last one for the day.

"Hiccup, you keep going with those weapons, I'm off to see your father."

"Really… He wants to see you?" Hiccup managed between breaths. "I thought that the great Stoick didn't speak to mere mortal such as us."

"No, just mortals such as you Hiccup" Gobber chuckled back with his thick, deep voice. "It's something about new catapults for the ships, nothing you'd be interested in anyway."

"Not interested, until I end up building them, that is?"

"Aye, well… We all have to do our bit for the good of the tribe, duty and all that. I always found backbreaking labour to be fairly relaxing when it's done in the name of duty. I'm sure one day you'll understand."

"Alright then Gobber, let me know if my loving father can still remember my name."

His mentor laughed deeply as he hobbled out of the workshop. Hiccup couldn't help but smile slightly. The boy had always been a joker, even if it was mostly at his own expense, and Gobber was like a father to him. There were moments when he had to stop himself from calling him "dad" around the shop.

He sighed and got back to work. Normally, axe heads wouldn't take anywhere near this long to sharpen. As far as battles were concerned, it was difficult to penetrate scale armour, even with a sharp blade. Besides, Vikings normally swung the thing so hard that it would break bones, no matter how blunt it was. Sometimes, they didn't even need weapons. His father had ripped the head off a Monstrous Nightmare with nothing but his bare hands, as a baby, whilst still in his cot.

But this was no ordinary axe. This was Angarr Hofferson's family heirloom. With dragon training only a few short months away, Hiccup was convinced that Angarr would gift it to his beloved daughter. A love for Astrid was perhaps the only thing that he and Angarr had in common.

Angarr was well respected amongst the tribe. He was quick, intelligent, and one of the best warriors on the island. Chief Stoick valued his opinion highly, and had been known to occasionally change his mind after conferring with Angarr, a fact which astonished the son of the most stubborn Viking in the Archipelago.

The man was a walking legend, a veteran of countless battles, and the proud father of the most eligible bachelorette in the entire Hooligan tribe. He was a model citizen, and in truth, Hiccup found all of Angarr's success to be a little bit overwhelming. All of Hiccup's imaginary romances with Astrid ended abruptly when he was taken to meet her parents. He was dreading the day when the girl of his dreams stood him in front of her father and…

Calm down Hiccup, you have to get Astrid to actually like you before she takes you to meet her father.

Hiccup sighed again, longer and louder. He would never win over Astrid, not when he was the smallest, weakest, and most pathetic Viking to ever survive childbirth. The fact that he was the son of Stoick the Vast, one of the greatest, strongest and most heroic Vikings ever to become chief was an unhappy miracle. It was almost hopeless. Almost.

After finishing with the head, he oiled and polished the wooden shaft and secured the two together with some strong pins. He laid it carefully to one side, separate from the others, before going to fetch his hammer and chisel from the store room. He felt around under the counter, until his hand closed on a small bundle of cloth. He had not told Gobber about his little project, and he intended to keep it that way, in case he started asking difficult questions.

The dagger was almost finished. The blade was sharp and polished, and the grip had been decorated. Two long serpents curled their way up on either side, each one loving etched into the metal over many weeks. A ring of tiny jewels ran in a ring around the base of the weapon. They were small fragments, chipped off from more valuable jewellery over the years. An odd assortment of shapes and sizes in a bright variety of colours. Nonetheless, the effect was truly something to behold, when they sparkled in the sun at the perfect angle.

It was his present to Astrid, his response to Angarr's axe. He wanted to surprise her with it, and if he timed it exactly right, then maybe, just maybe it would work. She would fall into his arms and they would get married. Then he would then grow another 3 feet and become the greatest warrior on the planet and…

Focus Hiccup, one step at a time.

All that was left was to inscribe the base of the handle with the runes of her initials, A-H. He started with the 'H', as it was the easier of the two. He clamped the blade tightly in a vice, and carefully lined up his chisel. With one eye closed, he gently tapped with his hammer, twisting the chisel round as he did so. Within a minute the first rune had been clearly marked in the soft metal. He reset the chisel for the second rune and readied his hammer.

"Do you always work with your tongue out like that?"

"Ahhh! Ah, Astrid!" He panicked and dropped the hammer on his toe. He put his fist in his mouth to keep from screaming, whilst hopping up and down on one foot. "Ha, Hi, Hello. Hi there!"

"Uh, Hiccup? Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yes." He replied in a high, squeaking voice. "I'm fine, fine are you fine? Of course you're fine I mean, not that you are ever not fine, in like a normal, fine kind of way-"

"I'm just here to pick up my axe." She forced her way into the shop, pushing past the hopping boy. She scanned the row of weapons, running her finger across the top of them as she looked for hers. He was helpless to stop the blond Viking as she turned around, picking her way through the store, appraising everything with a cold, judgemental eye.

"Uh… I though your father was going to pick it up… I mean, isn't it… his?"

She swivelled around to look him in the eye, squaring her shoulders above Hiccup's slender frame. She spoke slowly, pronouncing every word like Hiccup was an idiot.

"It was my uncle's. My father is only looking after it until I come of age, actually."

"So its… yours then?"

"Exactly."

"It's not like a gift or anything, like a traditional…"

She silenced him with a look. She held his gaze for a few seconds, until he looked away. Her eyes began to wander around the room once more, until they came to rest on the dagger in the vice. She pushed past Hiccup for a second time.

"What's this then?"
"Oh, it's nothing really. Just a stupid little project, a small-"

"A knife. Hmm…" She played with it in her hands, peering at the fine details along the grip. Hiccup was rigid with tension, and had forgotten to breathe.

"So… do you like it?"

She let the question hang for an uncomfortably long time as she continued to twist it around in her hands. After a while, she dropped it back on the counter, and smiled at Hiccup.

"I don't use knives. They're for little girls, not nearly enough power. Oh, there's my axe. I think I'll sharpen it this evening. Bye Hiccup."

She didn't look back as she shouldered her axe and strode out of the building. Picking up the shrivelled piece of metal, Hiccups heart sank. He looked at the 'H' on the base of the grip as he wiped off some dirt on the handle. He picked up the chisel, but then thought better of it. Slipping the blade into his back pocket, he dusted off his hands and packed the hammer away.

"Well, I guess she doesn't need it. It looks better with just an 'H' anyway."

He stared after her as she strode back towards the village centre, hips swaying, ignoring the boys as she passed by.

"She's probably dangerous enough not to need any weapons."

He sighed for a third time and got back to work.

It had been the worst raid in history, and Berk was suffering for it.

Only Gothi and a select few elders could remember a time when so many Vikings had died, throats ripped out, skin charred. When so many buildings had been torn down, screaming occupants trapped inside. Normally, the attacks were focused on stealing food, with death and destruction an unfortunate necessity, but tonight was different.

They had approached low and fast from the South, gliding silently just above the waves. The lookouts were the first victims, completely unaware of their impending doom, right up until a pair of talons clamped down around their heads and necks, stifling their screams. Thin moonlight created impossibly dark shadows, covering their swift advance into the centre of the village. By the time somebody found the dismembered bodies of the night guards, it was already too late.

Dragons exploded from their hiding placed throughout the village. The sky was lit up with burning building, as the demons announced their arrival with jets of fire through doors and windows. Villagers were burned in their beds, waking up to a wall of flames and the smell of their own searing flesh. It was chaos. Those who had escaped their houses fled aimlessly in terror, but the dragons were everywhere. There was no organised resistance, only panic, terror and death.

That was, until Stoick the Vast rallied his people with a booming battle cry. Years of training, experience and brutal hardship had made them more than mere fishermen and farmers. They were Vikings, fighting men and women who would do anything for their chief. They grabbed what weapons they could, any fell into formation behind him.

The catapults were long gone, so the fighting had turned to a brutal melee, as the demons risked getting close enough to taste their victim's blood. Thoughts of glory quickly turned to survival as the beasts tore through the streets, an unstoppable scaled fist that levelled buildings and warriors alike. But the Vikings held on, fighting for every inch even as claws and flames battered their shield wall. Time was on their side, as every minute that passed brought them closer to dawn and safety. It was the most crucial point in the battle. If they could survive without breaking for just a little longer, the dragons would be forced to retreat, and the victory would be theirs.

Astrid Hofferson could see that there was no point continuing their fight against the fires, most of the buildings were already beyond hope, and it would be a waste of valuable water to try and save them. She threw her bucket down in anger as the house they had just extinguished collapsed, its supports burned to the core.

She ran back to the well, but it wasn't for more water. Propped up against the old, chipped stones was her most prized possession. The fine steel had developed a level of shine and vibrancy that came with years of polish, sharpening and impeccable care. The shaft had been replaced several times over the years, and was almost as pristine as the metal. The wood had been carved lovingly, and waxed so often that it too glistened as the flames lapped the night sky. She hefted it onto her shoulder, gripping with both hands for stability, taking comfort at its familiar weight. By this time, it was almost an extension of herself. Her grip tightened around her uncle's axe. Her hatred for dragons was unmatched in her peer group, and only on par with her desire to spill their blood. Ever since her Uncle had been taken, all those years ago, she had fought bitterly to regain her family's honour. He did not sit back on fire duty whilst their very way of life was under attack, and neither would she.

She did not hear her friend's warnings as she took off into the village, searching for something, anything to kill. The fighting was thick all over the village, and she quickly came across the site of a recent skirmish. The bodies were still warm. Astrid charged a blood soaked Nadder, perched on the remains of its previous opponent. Axe raised, she rushed forward, screaming a battle cry, every facet of her being focused on ending this demon's life. Her axe made its signature hum as it swung through the air to meet – nothing. The creature had flown off with incredible speed, disappearing into the smoke and darkness the moment she attacked.

A Zippleback had flooded a nearby house with gas, the toxic green mist leaking out through the doors and windows, wisps snaking up towards the night sky. If the gas was lit, the pitiful wooden structure would be utterly destroyed, torn apart from the explosive force. It was somebody's home or livelihood, and she owed it to the village to hack off the dragon's head before another building was lost. She could still save it if she was fast.

There was no cry this time, just cold concentration as she sprung forward, axe held low, ready to chop upwards into its soft throat. But her hopes of dragon kill were cut slashed, as, just like the Nadder, it fled the moment she approached. She watched, livid, as its thin wings beat hard against the thick air, slowly gaining altitude and fading away into the darkness. She screamed her frustration to the Gods as another devil lived to fight another raid. The house was safe, but her victory felt hollow.

But Astrid's prayers were soon answered. Wood splintered and snapped behind her, as a dragon ploughed through a burning and collapsing building. Emerging from the bonfire that had once been a storage barn, a huge Nightmare crawled towards her, its slit eyes fixed to hers. It came slowly, deliberately, sniffing the air for her scent. It was totally focused on her, as if in a trance, deaf and blind to its surroundings. Never had she seen a dragon behave like this before. It was like it was looking into her very being, its gaze was so intense.

She stood her ground, she would not be paralysed by fear. She was the best of her generation, the born warrior, she would be the first to kill a Nightmare, this Nightmare. She was a Hofferson, and she would reclaim her family's honour, even if she had to die with her hands around this devil's throat.

With almost inhuman speed, she flung herself forward, sacrificing balance for surprise. There were no thoughts; no hesitation, no fear. Her father had trained her well. In the heat of battle, there was not enough time to doubt one's actions, or to think carefully about the next move. Hours drilling the same movements, over and over again, made them as quick and effective as reflexes. For a fleeting second, her world was simple and elegant. The Nightmare and the steel axe head were the only things in existence. All of her momentum, her power, her hatred was focused into that engraved blade. Once again it hummed through the air, and lodged deeply into the wooden struts of the house in front of her.

The Nightmare, like the others, had retreated into the sky at the last second, a single, powerful flap propelling it into the air and out of the reach of Astrid's axe. Hovering above her, it threw its head up and roared to its brethren, before disappearing into the night. Ripping her axe from the wood, she screamed again. Why would nothing fight her, it was like they were deliberately avoiding her.

She took to the main street, the smell was overpowering now. She had grown up in constant fear of battles and raids, and was well used to the sour odour of death. This, however, was something else.

The sounds of battle were muffled by the crack and hiss of the burning buildings to either side. As her ears tuned this out, it was eerily quiet, save for the occasional roar or scream. The bodies here were unlike the others. It was just Vikings that littered the street, no dragon blood had been spilled. She would soon change that. The fallen warriors, for they were warriors, had no bite marks or gashes from claws. They were missing chunks of armour, as if it had been blown off by a powerful blast. Those who did have burns were horrific, as a searing heat had stripped their flesh right down to the bone. She looked away every time a shimmer of sickening white caught her eye.

A loud *Crack* made her swivel around to face her next challenge. She could hardly see what it was in the darkness, but the columns of flame reflecting off its glistening black hide gave her a good idea. She had never seen this type of dragon before, but then again, she had a suspicion that no one who had was still alive to tell the tale. She faltered for a second, as she realised that the crack had been the bones of one of the fallen warriors.

The Night Fury stalked towards her in the same way as the Nightmare, and she realised at that point that she was going to die. The slit black pupils and the deep green eyes of the creature met hers. All emotions seemed to melt away. She felt no fear, no pain, just… nothing. It padded irresistibly towards her, gently stepping over the corpses of its latest attack. She froze, unable to move, or even lift up her axe in the face of such an unprecedented terror. She watched transfixed as death slowly walked up to her, closer and closer, until its scales were brushing against her skin. Its breath blew her hair backwards, uncomfortably warm against the chill of the night air, and the cold sweat running down her back. It circled her, sniffing her up and down, confident in its overwhelming supremacy. For a second time, it met her eyes, the stare even deeper than the first. The pupils rounded slightly, in a look that was something akin to… relief. For the briefest of moments, Astrid thought that this dragon, fatal as it was, did not mean her harm.

A cry pierced the air as Vara Hofferson sprinted to the aid of her daughter. Roaring a deafening challenge, the dragon batted the desperate mother aside and into a wall with its powerful tail. Astrid suddenly came back to life as the beast plucked her from the ground with its claws. IN no time at all, it was in the air, flying low and fast towards the mountain and forests on outskirts of Berk. The last thing the Vara saw before she passed out was the unholy offspring of lightning and death, carrying off her only daughter. The screams would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Astrid was still screaming as the Night Fury laid her down in a clearing, standing on top of her, pinning her down with its powerful legs. The pressure on her chest was making it difficult to breath, and she was close to hyperventilating. She was in tears now, all traces of the heroic warrior long gone. She was going to be tortured and eaten by the most hellish creature on the face of the Earth. Her short life would have been pointless. There would be nothing left of her but rags of clothing. She doubted that even those would ever be found.

Closing her eyes, she tried to think of Valhalla, and held her breath, waiting for the inevitable. She hoped, prayed that death would come quickly and cleanly, and she would be allowed a place in the halls of her ancestors. She would not get her wish.

The pressure on her chest was suddenly lifted, and she immediately regretted opening her eyes. The beast was glowing, streaks of blue along its spine and in its chest. It reared up to an impossible height and stature, wisps of blue flame escaping its mouth as it built up an unfathomable amount of energy. Its eyes were slit thinner than she though was possible, and its teeth suddenly appeared from nowhere, sharper than her finely edged axe. It was, without a doubt, the most terrifying thing she had ever seen. Her ears were bombarded, as a high pitched whine began, rising in volume until it became unbearable. Astrid started to writhe in pain.

Just as she felt she could take no more, the creature fell back down and clamped its jaws around her shoulder. It felt like every vein in her body was filled with searing flames, as all of the Demon's power was focused into her small, fragile frame. She tried to scream, but there was no air in her lungs, and only strangled cough escaped her mouth. What happened next was unholy, unnatural, and over so fast that she would barely be able to remember it.

She felt muscles twist and spasm uncontrollably as her insides twisted and warping. The dragon was still biting down hard, even as her shoulders began to broaden beyond all human proportions. There was a sickening crunch as her torso stretched and legs became thick and broad. Her clothes strained and ripped as she changed, leaving her bare and exposed to the still glowing monster. Boney stubs shot out from her back, dark skin flapping loosely from each one as they pushed their way out.

Lights flashed in her eyes as pain racked a body that was no longer her own. A strangled moan escaped her inhuman throat as the Night Fury's power flowed through her, morphing and twisting her form in a likeness of its own. Her spine cracked as a thin tail pushed its way out of her rear, thickening even as it grew. Her skin became hard, and began to peel off in flakes as a coat of black scales pushed out from underneath. Her limbs seized up, as her hands swelled to the size of stubby paws. The Night Fury finally released its hold as Astrid's head deformed, her skull flattening as her face pushed out into a dragon's snout.

With these changes, she passed out, an intense burning in her heart and her head. For the last time the Viking girl let her eyes slide shut.