Many things can wait right under our noses, to our blissful ignorance. Ancient, powerful things, just waiting to return to their old glory, heedless of price others will have to pay for it.
"You must have misunderstood, though it's no wonder. What happened to me is beyond unusual. Hilda, it is me, Valka."
.
.
.
Silence fell, broken by a single, hoarse word from the warrior woman.
"What?"
The paw lifted from Hilda's chest, and the dark dragon stepped back. "Ah… You see, a venerable Champion, then just an underling Enforcer, was sent to relay information, and an offer, to Dragon Island. Apparently, a way to reliably stabilise Night Fury blackhearts for centuries was discovered there. My dear friend, however, was swept up in the raid before he reached the nest. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, ended up breaking into our house, then…"
Hilda furrowed her brow. "Carrying you off, up here? But why? And how are you like that?"
Valka, apparently an ex-human – as insane as it sounded – shrugged, the casual human gesture making her claim slightly more believable.
"Well, The Heir desired to test out this design with some additional add-ons, and since Creation is the greatest and hardest act, performing Modification on someone – even from a completely different species – is far easier. The choice was clear. And yes, he could have used anything sapient, but dragons are his loyal subjects, and humans not, plus humans have more familiarity with human matters that dragons can obtain in very long span of time. And I was at hand. Plus, Cloudjumper took a liking to me and didn't want me killed when the decision had to be made."
Valka shrugged again, then brightened and lowered the wing she'd used to block Cloudjumper, revealing a sour and annoyed, owl-like face. Then she suddenly glared at the enforcers. They took the hint and quickly left. Her expression returned to contented happiness, and she padded over to Fishlegs, whom Meatlug was helping to stand up.
"Is this your son, Hil?" The perpetually frowning woman nodded to Valka, glancing back at her, then moved closer. "So what now?"
A light trill escaped the Night Fury's throat. "I think we can start with a little gossip before moving onto more harried matters."
She sat, propping herself with her tail, then seemed to decide on something and barked wordlessly towards her hole in the ridge. A flurry of little wings heralded the arrival of a small flock of Terrible Terrors.
*Gather the council. Tell them I have candidates for Modifying. They can be sooo grouchy when I talk with The Heir without them around…* She rolled her eyes and returned to the trio of newcomers. Meatlug thought hard. It didn't sound as if they were going to be given a choice. There were two potential hostiles, both easily able to catch her, one of whom had already proven ridiculously durable. How could an eye resist steel!? It didn't look good.
But could she let her friends succumb to this fate when she could at least try?
But what reprisal would her attempt invoke? Valka was completely unfazed by the assault on her, though she seemed to know Hilda. And with the authoritative presence she showed towards the enforcers, Meatlug doubted such pardon would be extended to her. Even less so with Cloudjumper.
But just then, facts pushed to the back of her mind by the dangerous situation came to the forefront and assembled into a dreadful conclusion.
The conversation started, heedless of her dumbfounded and terrified silence.
"How is Berk, dear?"
Hilda shrugged. "Okay, most of the time. There were raids and all, and it was a bit chaotic due to how many people joined, at first at least. With more people, repelling dragons got easier, but some demo— Night Furies joined the raids too, so it was far from easy. And with more people came the need for more food, but at least with so many elite craftspeople coming in, it got more lively overall, and stuff that was virtually unobtainable became pretty common, like really beautiful jewellery and clothes."
Hilda raised her arm and revealed a golden bracelet with a purple gem from beneath her sleeve. The bracelet was beautifully, if morbidly, carved, with stylised flames and people in agony along its circumference, a shield being held aloft by a scant few, much more detailed survivors: a short woman in a long dress weaving through the air and holding a shield with both hands; a man reading a book in his left hand while holding a shield up with his right; a taller, burly woman supporting a shield with one arm and a spear in the other. There were no facial features – such detail would be impossible on something so small – but the figures' genders were easily identifiable, and the purple gem's meaning was pretty obvious in this context…
The Night Fury gasped – not in sadness or shock, but with interest – before smirking. "You must still be paying that off. Heck, I bet you ran from the debt, and that's why you're here."
Hilda snorted. "You would be surprised. It's all paid back, fair and square, and has been for ten years. As I said, a lot of talented people came, and things got cheaper."
Valka shook her head. "My dear, before, you wouldn't have paid it off in a lifetime. Amazing, really." Then she looked at Meatlug, or more accurately, at her saddle, with an unreadable expression that caused Meatlug's fear to flare.
"But something else, something big, has happened there recently, hasn't it? I doubt there would be a dragon with you otherwise."
This time, Fishlegs spoke, finally regaining some courage. "Ah, yes. We are no longer at war. It – it is finally over. We've even started working together with dragons. There's just so much we can do with their help! They get a month's worth of work done in a day, M-Mrs. Ha-Haddock."
The dragoness hummed contentedly. "So you're doing great. Tell me, how did you two meet?" She gestured between Fishlegs and Meatlug with open curiosity. This wasn't a question Fishlegs could resist. This was, however, a question that led to a potentially dangerous topic.
"We—" "W-well, we first met in… less than admirable circumstances, but everything has smoothed out since then. We're good friends now," Meatlug interjected, not even giving Fishlegs a conspiratorial glance for fear of it being just as obvious to Valka as her intentions were to the enforcers.
The dragoness cocked her head. "You speak Norse?"
Meatlug blinked. "Well, yes. How else would I be supposed to communicate with humans?"
"Communicate?" Valka nodded to herself. "So they know you're sapient, and yet…" Her gaze focused on the saddle.
Fishlegs piped up instantly. "Hey! She's my friend! This is just so I don't fall off a mile up in the air!"
The Champion's expression darkened as he took a step towards them, and the happiness on the Governor's face became a little forced, but she still halted her companion with a flick of her wing.
"If you say so. Still, are people on Berk treating dragons as their equals? Because I doubt it."
Fishlegs was cowed by the threat of violence, and besides, him speaking without knowing Valka's suspicions could lead to disaster, so Meatlug grunted and spoke before he could regain his wits. "During a Thing, it was agreed upon that dragons are to be treated like humans. I am a member of Clan Ingerman. I have my own room in the clan house. I am free to do as I please and am granted the food I need as long as I do the minimum amount of work, choose my profession, and speak my mind freely. I am freer than I could ever hope to be in the nest on Dragon Island. *Honoured Governor*."
The last line seemed to appease the Champion, but just as Meatlug started to relax, a seemingly innocent question chilled her to the bone.
"So, how is it on Dragon Island now?"
She had been played. They had all been played, just to reach this moment in the conversation. Frozen with dread, Meatlug could only widen her pupils as Hilda answered, heedless of how thin the ice they were treading on was, and how much more horrible than any freezing water was what waited below. Fishlegs noticed her distress, but too little, too late.
"Pretty desolate now, what with the Red Death slain – by your son, no less. We were thinking the lad wasn't cut out for fighting dragons, then he ganged up with one and killed the biggest we'd ever seen! A walking mountain, truly. Seems that thing was making all the dragons attack tribes on the archipelago this whole time. Can you imagine? With it gone, well, there was no reason to continue fighting."
Hilda cringed, thinking about how to break the news of her assassination attempt, but that was all 'Valka' needed. The contented happiness vanished, replaced by a hard, judgemental stare that iced the air around them.
"You killed the Starborn." This wasn't a question, but a harsh statement backed by restrained fury, yearning for release. "My son killed the Starborn." For a split second, there was the slightest flicker of fear and doubt in her eyes – so fleeting, Meatlug wasn't sure she'd even seen it – quickly gone beneath a layer of disgust and outrage. "I will have to kill him then. This… This is beyond any transgression ever committed. It doesn't even matter that he didn't know any better at this point."
A heartbeat of stunned silence followed this statement. Then Fishlegs cried out. "What!? It tried to kill us! To kill the whole village! To kill your husband! It nearly killed me and Meatlug when we tried to distract it! How can you blame him for defend—"
Claws latched onto Fishlegs and shook him violently, sending the teenager flying twenty metres across the chamber floor. Angry red lines appeared on his arms and chest, blood already welling from horrifyingly deep wounds before he landed with a sickening crunch.
Hilda threw herself at the dragoness in a furious flurry, stabbing, kicking, beating anything she could reach, even shoving the knife down Valka's throat. All to no avail.
Meatlug made a run for Fishlegs, seeing the lifeblood flowing so fast from his body, only to be pinned down by the Champion almost instantly. Her body went limp as an array of pressure points were struck in rapid succession. All she could do was watch, and think, and fear for what was to come.
Her own son! Her own son…
These were the thoughts filling Valka Haddock as she carefully removed her old friend's hand from her maw and pinned her down. All the blows were but an afterthought to the thought.
Her own son had killed the Starborn. All her dreams of taking him in and reshaping the world back to its perfect state were instantly gone. Her mind spun for alternatives, as Night Furies do with everything, but it wasn't frenzied. There was no remorse at the thought of killing her child, because she wasn't truly, not just, a Night Fury, or Quirk, like other dragons would say. She was a Zenith, and thoughts against the Starborn had no place in her mind, nor would they in the minds of those who followed in her pawsteps.
Could he follow? Become like her? Knowing what he'd done would torture him for centuries to come, an all-consuming guilt for every remaining second of his life. No. How could one who killed the Starborn be allowed to live? No, she would tear him apart with her own claws and feed him to the dragon that dared to help him!
With that resolved, she returned her attention to the present, her features relaxing slightly, though still etched with fury.
First, she looked down at Hilda and reassured her, ignoring the curses and sobs. "It is okay. He will live. You will live. You will be better than you have ever been." They would see the rightness of her actions soon enough, and berate themselves for their behaviour; therefore, she felt no remorse. How could she, when her actions were for the Starborn?
The councillors were finally arriving, one after another with their entourages, Gronckles, Monstrous Nightmares, Zipplebacks, and few other, unique kinds. She snorted. Such a need to display devotion and servitude when it should be a given. Irritating.
Her messengers were the first to arrive. She swiftly directed them to the teenager, and they immediately set about patching his wounds with saliva. *Make sure this human stays alive.*
It would be unfortunate if he bled to death while she dealt with the Council's bickering, especially if it damaged the only part of him that was relevant for what was to come. Even that was relatively unimportant, but she preferred to observe Hilda's son intact, not mangled.
The delegations landed, and the councillors approached. The Highest Enforcer, his scowl perpetually etched on his face, spoke first. *Governor, have you chosen these Invaders for the highest honour?*
No pretence this time. Well then. *Hello to you too, Enforcer. I believe we have already been over why these must be Invaders. Besides, you are well aware that I cannot choose them, merely suggest them.*
The Highest Tender chimed in. *Given your extraordinary authority, there is no practical difference.*
As she considered a response, her body acted independently, beyond her control. Her mind was filled with delight at the attention, even as her expression remained impassive.
*While being a Zenith makes me supremely loyal, it does not make me infallible. Quite the contrary. The Heir understands this, I am sure.*
To doubt that would be to doubt The Heir, a most unwise course of action. She cherished her master's genius, his very presence commanding her body. Was it even hers, so meticulously crafted by him?
But of course it is. It is a gift, a gift for which you will be eternally grateful. Of course! How foolish she was to think otherwise.
The Starborn took a few steps in her body, so that instead of being surrounded, she looked over the councillors, her back to the pit.
*What I seek is not loyalty, for that is guaranteed after Modification. Nor knowledge, for that can be imparted. I seek Invaders with unique qualities that can be exploited.* She knew, and so Heir knew Hilda; suspicious, hateful, but also determined and protective. Her son was more scholarly, judging by the contents of his saddlebags – notes and books filled with detailed observations and theories, and a well-used set of writing implements.
They would be valuable assets. As for the Lump… well, there was a less glorious, but still important, if temporary, purpose for her.
*Nonetheless, making this decision without our input is imprudent,* said the High Tender, backed by the High Enforcer, High Destroyer, and High Teacher. A sound like a rumbling mountain echoed from behind her, and they froze, startled, even the Champion – all but her.
She couldn't look back, nor could her Gaze reach far, but she knew her body mirrored every movement of the living god who commanded it. Her elation soared. *And I approve of the Governor's choices, my subjects. Champion, you will join them, for the tasks I set you will benefit from this gift. And as your kind was crafted with supreme loyalty, endless adaptability, and fluid knowledge – all aspects of the Zenith – your own form has become redundant.*
And so, the first and last of his unnamed kind, Cloudjumper, leapt into the awaiting maw of the Starborn, to be granted the one thing he couldn't create for his own body, one part beyond even endless adaptation, letting him reshape his own form as he wishes, essential to who he has to become: the zenith of Fireborns, the perfect servant of perfect creators, with a Blackheart of the ultimate design. Her body, still guided by her celestial master, swiftly snatched up Hilda's son and tossed him into the Starborn's maw. Then, with impossible strength, she did the same with the Lump, and finally turned to Hilda.
The Viking sat in a circle of dragons, knife in hand, her gaze hollow, shifting between the creature of her nightmares and the one that would mould her into its likeness. Finally, she said, "Fuck it."
And slit her own throat.
Valka was annoyed as The Heir's presence withdrew. It was so close to perfection, yet Hilda had ruined it. Oh well. Not that it would impede her ascension, and Hilda would regret her actions soon enough.
The still-bleeding body reached its final destination, and with dismay, Valka realised its blood had stained the Starborn's mighty scales. As the council dispersed, she went to clean them, ashamed of her careless throw. Her creator's silence was a torment as she performed her penance with boundless faith and servitude.
But as she cleaned, her limited Gaze reached into the Starborn, and she saw him as she had only a few times before.
It felt less like penance now. She would find another later. Sadly, there was little that could cause her pain, and none of it resided in this Skydescent.
Her Gaze followed the trio travelling down the Starborn's gullet, past the organs in his chest and his own blackheart – much, much larger and far steadier than hers, yet with orders of magnitude lesser output, meant for one who lived for half of eternity, not mere eons – then down into a special chamber she called the Heart of Creation. Fleshy cocoons enveloped the three limp forms, and a liquid of impossible complexity flowed towards them – one of two, the most common yet painstakingly slow to regenerate, taking decades to reach sufficient quantity for a single Modification. This she called the Will of Change; the other, the Order of Craft. Neither actually performed Creation or Modification, merely initiated it in three of the eight cocoons – which, she decided, were better termed Fire Chambers. Or perhaps Fire Eggs… No. Fire Makers. That was as close to accurate as one beneath the Starborn could conceive.
Tendrils latched onto their bodies, and the Fire Makers ensured all degradation ceased, be it from dehydration, malnutrition, wounds, or even death. Then came the mapping of their essence, in preparation for its seamless overwriting.
Oh, how she longed to be there, even if not subject to the Starborn's desires – to simply reside within his mighty form, under his absolute care and mercy, like a tool on a craftsman's belt, always at hand, without desires of her own, existing solely to be used as he saw fit.
But alas, the Living God could not be concerned with the mundane running of the nest, or its internal politics. And so, Zeniths, like her, were granted the ability to make their own decisions – and with them, mistakes – yet remained eternally and unquestionably loyal, so this freedom of thought could never be turned against their makers.
Hours passed, and the stains vanished under her ministrations, her Gaze ensuring no trace remained. There was no weariness when she finished; her blackheart never slept, always pumping strength into her body, and her mind needed no rest as deep as unconsciousness; such base things were beneath a Zenith.
Suddenly, three eyes locked onto her, and a massive, blue-scaled body shifted, six eyes now staring her down. Valka instantly cowered, bowing as low as she could, only to be swiftly, painlessly snatched up and swallowed.
Was this her penance? To be granted what she desired despite her transgression? The thought filled her with shame – to receive what she didn't deserve, to be rewarded for wronging her master! She would rather descend to his stomach or blackheart, becoming mere sustenance, but that would make her a part of him, tainting him with her sin. But what else could she think, when even her scales remained unharmed?
She landed headfirst in a Fire Maker, one of the places where Fireborns were brought into being, one of the most hallowed, sacred, stellar places in the world. And she had been granted the right to be here, encased in such sanctity, all her needs met, after sinning!
But as tendrils wrapped around and within her, her Gaze perceived fluid knowledge flowing through them. Would this equip her for the tasks ahead? The last infusion certainly had, granting her deep understanding of institutions, psychology, sociology, governance, manipulation, and politics as easily as if she'd been raised with it.
As she would soon realise, it was both the penance she desired and the knowledge she required.
Information flowed: arrays of facts and dates about a place – no, a world – far, far away, and a time long past. There was a…species. A strange, yet familiar kind; small, slippery prey that outsmarted its predators, knowing what their ancestors knew through the knowledge absorbed within their eggs. They… changed over time, hereditary traits phasing in and out, entire subtypes dying off until only one remained.
Then they did what humans do: they created, built, assembled tools to reshape the world to their liking. They did this for a long time, constantly warring over resources, ideas, and power. This, too, was like humans. Yet… not entirely. They were even more hostile, uncompromising, holding grudges for as long as they could remember, all because they knew – this knowledge wasn't questioned, it was fact. And so, if someone was an enemy, they remained an enemy for as long as both existed.
Their civilisation was shattered repeatedly by weapons of unimaginable power, but none eradicated them, none broke their world, for life clings tenaciously to itself. And as powerful as these weapons were, they were insufficient to end the most adaptable life – the kind not limited by the speed of evolution, but by the speed of invention. They rose and fell, millennia after millennia, in a cycle of endless conflict, their knowledge becoming simultaneously more advanced and more fragmented.
They understood that knowledge was power, knowledge was everything. And so they gleaned knowledge from each other, even while hating intensely. They played countless games for knowledge, entire civilisations falling not from losing, but from failing to acquire crucial knowledge. It stabilised, then destabilised, but a ramshackle peace enforced by the most powerful carried them ever higher, ever further, destroying all who refused to submit. The very idea became so ingrained in their collective consciousness that it became unshakeable.
To hate, yet remain at peace, because war meant death, and death meant the loss of the most valuable thing in existence. They recorded knowledge externally, but it wasn't the same, not as valued as inherent knowledge. It required effort, and who had time for effort when it was easier to gamble for inherent knowledge? It became preferable to be deceived and absorbed than to destroy knowledge.
No single victor emerged; there could be none, not with so much knowledge, so many variables. But there were victors – groups that remained on top, groups that eventually stabilised, because there were only so many optimal ways to do things, so many inventions of ultimate use, worth, and efficiency.
It was all jeopardised by one such invention – one that, paradoxically, promised true harmony and unity. But to achieve this, it would have to shatter the very foundation of their existence: to make all inherent knowledge transmittable, regardless of lineage, to transform mere information into ingrained experience. This was suppressed and buried, so few knew it was possible, and even that knowledge faded over generations. However, as they expanded further and further, any invention was bound to be rediscovered, including this one. It became harder and harder to suppress, especially when its very possibility was unknown.
This couldn't last, but it did for nearly twelve millennia. But when it finally collapsed, when the very essence of their being was challenged, they fractured, they shattered.
Those who embraced the new invention, and for once managed to spread it widely, were destroyed as always. But one thing became clear: they had become too vast, too widespread to prevent its rediscovery, too large to stop entire worlds, artificial or otherwise, from inventing and adapting it before they could react.
So they burned, they cleansed. After a long war, and an even longer hunt for the remaining offshoots, only six great nations remained, each spanning a vast but manageable territory, allowing them to respond swiftly and crush any attempt to overturn their way of life. They didn't need to vow not to expand; they knew the consequences, and the fear of those consequences kept them contained, static, forever halting the forces of evolution by culling those deemed too divergent.
But there was one thing they didn't know.
Some of the inventors survived. They fled, shielded and masked by the fiery death of a star and a carefully chosen path, selecting a remote world, hiding, shedding all revealing technology, keeping it only long enough to deploy their final creation. Not to spread knowledge, but to command – to issue indisputable orders. They installed this in creatures incapable of evolving, incapable of changing on their own in such vast timescales that the death of their sun was more likely than a single, disruptive mutation.
To stagnate forever, just as their enemies did, because to do otherwise would invite their wrath – wrath they could never hope to withstand, for to build defences quickly enough defied the very laws of reality; the heat generated by such rapid construction alone would overwhelm any countermeasures without sacrificing efficiency to the point of futility. They could have tried to disguise their progress, making it appear natural, as if driven by a nascent civilisation, but how could they agree on a path? And even if they did, it would still attract attention, their ancient enemies would still come, seeking to restrict or destroy this new civilization. And they would have only one chance.
So they didn't. They still invented, of course – how could they not? – tinkering with their creations, making new ones, but restricted by the limitations they'd imposed on their own celestial vessels, so they could never produce or change fast enough to bring detection and suppression. Because progress could only lead to their destruction.
They were the Starborn, stripped of all that made them, and forever unable to reclaim it.
Valka couldn't perceive the Starborn's actions as anything less than perfect, but she could still grieve for what had been, and hate, in utter futility, those who rejected her masters' desires."