Derek knew he had been conspicuous. Someone was bound to question why he'd want to go to DragonIsland when there was a dead man walking there, but he had to. Someone, anyone, had to try to find out what Haggard wanted. Upon arriving on DragonIsland, he told Jack to stay out of sight and to listen if Derek shouted. Derek kept his hand on the hilt of his dagger until he spotted Haggard's camp through the foliage.

There were about five tents set up around a large bonfire. The men were sitting around the bonfire, roasting some kind of birds and loudly boasting about how many lives they'd each taken that day. Many were spouting tales of gore and severed limbs, of pleas for mercy that went unanswered. Derek took a deep breath and stepped out from the foliage. The attention of all of the men instantly shifted from the tales and food to him. Only a few drew their weapons. The rest broke into crooked grins. Derek's hand rested uncertainly on his sword hilt, unsure of what would happen next.

"Well, well, well," said one of the tanned, scarred men, setting down his food and standing. The men sheathed their weapons as recognition flickered across their faces. The man gave a sly grin and began to circle Derek. "If it ain't the little runt who ran away! How have things been? Where have you been hiding? Heard any news from your mum?"

"No. No, I haven't," said Derek, standing nearly statuesque. His jaw gave the slightest clench at the mention of his mother. He knew better than to show weakness around Haggard's men, but a lump formed in his throat anyways. He didn't swallow or clear his throat, he simply relaxed. The lump vanished seconds later. "Listen, I didn't come for banter. I need to speak with Haggard."

"You? Speak with Haggard?" asked the man. The throng of men burst into uproarious laughter. Derek clenched his hand around the hilt of his sword. It was as close to clenching his fist as he could get without becoming a target. "Boy, Haggard hasn't wanted to speak with you since you was a small fry. What makes you think he'd listen to you? More likely, he'd gut you alive before you got the chance to say a word."

"Because," said Derek, rolling up the sleeve of his wool shirt. He held his forearm out and showed the man the small dragon skull and crossed sword emblem scarred onto it. "I'm still and Outlander. I'm still part of Haggard's personal guard."

"You? You lost that title when you went and ran off with our flock of sheep!" exclaimed the man, drawing his sword. He glowered down at Derek. "Maybe we ought to save Haggard the trouble and kill you now."

"Try it," dared Derek, drawing his own weapon. "I've been taking lessons from the finest swordsman in all the land."

"Now, now," said a rough, deep voice, from behind Derek. He cringed before realizing that he hadn't shouted. Haggard the Cruel loved to shout. Derek turned around to face the tall, muscular man. Oddly, he wasn't as scarred or tanned or grimy as the men. Most women were almost instantly smitten with him, with his strong jawline, messy black hair, and sensible stubble. He radiated dark charisma, with the fire of hatred burning behind his brown eyes. "I think I'd rather handle this one myself, Modoc."

"Yes, sir," said Modoc, sheathing his weapon and backing away. He shot Derek a crocodile grin, like the idea of watching Haggard destroy him was more fun than having the privilege himself.

"Well, fancy seeing you here," said Haggard, crossing his muscular arms across his chest. "Odd as well, since most people still believe me to be dead. How did you know I was here?"

"I've been looking for you. When I heard that that wretched cur of a chief tried to kill you, I came searching," lied Derek. The moment the words had left his mouth, he realized how flimsy the story sounded. Just as Haggard was likely about to ask why Derek had even bothered looking, Derek spoke. "I just wanted to return home."

"Home. Home, he says," said Haggard, placing his hands on his hips, throwing back his head, and letting out peals of laughter. The other men followed suit, mostly out of fear. Haggard sobered, looked Derek up and down, and then slammed him against the trunk of the nearest tree. He held a dagger to Derek's throat and sneered. "Outland hasn't been your home since I cut your mother's heart from her chest while you watched. Don't lie to me! I know you've been on Berk all these years. I know all about your new life. I know all about that snivelling whore you love so tenderly."

"She's not a snivelling whore. She has more honor and bravery than you'll ever have," growled Derek. He tensed seconds before Haggard's meaty fist slammed into his stomach. Haggard lifted Derek by the front of his shirt and tossed him inches from the bonfire. Derek tried to use the momentum of the fall to return to his feet, but two sweaty men grabbed onto his arms. Haggard landed a blow on his jaw. Haggard laid a hand on Derek's chest, pushing him back slowly until the flames of the bonfire were mere millimetres from his back. Derek spat blood from his mouth and glared daggers. "Go on then. Kill me! Kill me just like you killed my mother!"

"Oh, I would. You make it so tempting, you know," said Haggard. He cackled evilly, and removed his hand from Derek's chest. The two men righted him on his feet and pushed him onto his chest, smearing blood and pine needles across his face. Derek rose to his haunches before Haggard grabbed a fistful of his hair at the scruff of his neck, forcing Derek to look at him. "Sadly, you're all I have left. You're the only member of my family that I haven't killed yet. I so rarely show mercy. You should consider yourself lucky that you're my son."