Chapter Text
Aloria had made a firm decision: she was never giving birth again.
If she and Soundwave ever wanted more children, they would adopt—end of discussion. No more contractions. No more weeks of swelling and nausea. And absolutely no more newborns that wailed like banshees through the dead of night. Just the thought of going through it all again made her flinch.
It wasn’t that she didn’t love Anteia. Aloria adored her with a kind of devotion that carved itself into bone—feral, fierce, and unconditional. But love wasn’t a substitute for sleep. Not when their daughter, now three months old, had seemingly decided that the concept of rest was beneath her. Every night was a battleground of squeals, wiggles, and wide, curious eyes that refused to close. The royal nursery might as well have been a war zone.
Soundwave, ever the stoic sentinel, managed remarkably well. His gladiator training, altered physiology, and holoform’s reduced need for rest enabled him to endure the sleepless nights with machine-like determination. Aloria, however, wasn’t as fortunate. Her body—a blend of human and Cybertronian—still demanded complete cycles of sleep, and she hadn’t enjoyed a full night’s rest in what felt like an eternity. The dark circles beneath her eyes had become permanent, and her once fluid grace now stumbled under the burden of sheer exhaustion.
The breaking point came during lunch with her siblings. Mid-conversation, as Anakania joked about Arkius's latest skirmish with a Kaon councilman, Aloria’s chin slowly dipped toward her chest. Her eyes fluttered closed, betraying her willpower, and she swayed. Arkius, sensing the shift through the Force, barely had time to nudge her soup bowl away before her head thunked audibly against the table’s edge. She jolted awake with a startled gasp, blinking in confusion as her siblings burst into laughter.
Soundwave was by her side in an instant. His holoform’s arms drew her against his chest as if she were made of glass, glaring at the others with a silent warning. Anakania wheezed from laughing so hard, but even she paused when she saw the look in his eyes—calm, yet laced with steel.
Later that evening, after the palace quieted and Anteia had finally fallen asleep, Soundwave brought up the matter in their private chambers. The lights were dimmed low, with the faint hum of Cybertron's energy grid pulsing beneath the walls.
“You’re burning yourself out,” he said gently. He stood beside her as she sat curled on the edge of the bed, cradling Anteia. “Let the maids take the night shift.”
Aloria barely lifted her head. “No,” she said softly but firmly. “I’m not letting someone else raise her. This is just a rough patch. She’ll adjust eventually.”
“They won’t raise her,” he replied, kneeling so he could meet her eyes. “They’ll watch over her while you rest. That’s all. You need to sleep, Aloria. You’re fading.”
She didn’t argue. Not really. She wanted to. But the weight of her own exhaustion stilled her tongue. When Soundwave brushed a kiss against her temple and gently eased her down onto the mattress, she didn’t resist. Her eyes closed almost instantly, and within seconds, she surrendered to the dark.
For the first time in months, she slept.
Hours later, Aloria stirred from a dreamless slumber to find herself warm, clean, and alone in a sunken marble tub. Steam coiled in lazy spirals above the water, and the fragrance of rose oil and wild Cybertronian mint perfumed the air. Her limbs floated, boneless and weightless, her breath slow and deep. Her hair hung loose, damp against her shoulders. Someone—likely Soundwave—had undressed her and lowered her into the bath without waking her.
She sighed, her eyes closed, savoring the silence. Maybe… maybe she could accept help. Maybe needing rest didn’t mean she loved her daughter any less.
A knock at the bathroom door drew her from her reverie.
Before she could respond, Soundwave’s holoform materialized with a familiar low hum. He stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes sparkled with something unspoken—satisfaction, perhaps. Anticipation.
“She’s asleep,” he murmured, a rare smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And tonight, she’s your sister’s problem.”
Aloria cracked open an eye, suspicion mingling with amusement. “Anakania offered?”
“She insisted,” Soundwave confirmed. “Guilt, I think. After you almost drowned in your soup.”
Aloria chuckled, leaning her head back against the rim of the tub. “I’ve never been more grateful for her sense of guilt.”
“Which means,” he continued, stepping closer, “you and I have tonight. No crying. No council meetings. No interruptions.”
A spark lit in her chest. Her gaze flicked down, then back up to meet his. “And what, exactly, do you plan to do with it?”
Soundwave didn’t respond with words. His holoform shimmered—clothes fading away in digital waves—as he stepped into the tub with fluid ease. The water surged with his weight, sloshing over the sides, but neither of them minded. Aloria sat up slowly, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he gently pulled her into his lap.
His hands found her waist beneath the water, warm and steady. Her fingers traced the hard lines of his chest, feeling the contrast between synthetic perfection and the very real affection beneath it.
“I missed you,” she whispered against his throat, her lips grazing the skin there.
“I never left,” he murmured back, his voice low and reverent. “But I miss you, too.”
Their mouths met—gentle at first, unhurried. This wasn’t about hunger or need; it was about connection, about returning to each other after months of chaos and fatigue. The kiss deepened gradually, building with every breath shared between them, until the outside world faded away.
For the first time since Anteia was born, they were no longer Queen and Consort. They were neither rulers nor parents.
They were simply Aloria and Soundwave—two souls entwined in warmth and steam, finally finding peace in each other’s arms.
Violet’s approach to motherhood was nothing like Aloria’s. While the Queen of Iacon embraced the tenderness of touch, the sleepless nights, and the raw ache of being present for every cry and coo, Violet chose efficiency. Delegation. Power required time, and she had no intention of allowing the strain of motherhood to dull her edge. Kaon’s throne could not be ruled from a rocking chair. Yet, that did not mean she loved her son any less.
Violet quickly learned to trust her staff, surrounding herself with only the most competent nurses, medics, and attendants. They managed Akos’s feeding, his baths, and his wardrobe. They reported every milestone to her—when he first lifted his head, his first giggle, and the exact day his eyes settled into a deep, crystalline amethyst. But there were moments Violet refused to surrender to anyone. Only one pair of arms would carry Prince Akos to bed. Only one voice would sing him to sleep. Hers.
That had never changed. Not since the night he was born.
Violet still remembered it with vivid clarity—the silence that followed his first cries, the heat of his small body resting on her chest, and the overwhelming terror that came with knowing something so fragile was now hers to protect. She hadn’t slept a single minute that night. Instead, she remained seated beside his bassinet in her blood-stained robes, her jaw tight, watching him breathe. Every rise and fall of his chest was a victory. Even months later, that instinct to guard him had not dulled.
The hour was late when a soft knock sounded at her chamber door.
She looked up from where she lounged in her bathrobe across the chaise, a glass of dark energon wine in hand, with Megatron draped beside her, one arm loosely around her waist. His other hand idly toyed with the tie of her robe, but his gaze flicked to the door with an expectant edge.
“Enter,” Violet called coolly.
A young maid stepped in, her eyes politely averted. “My lady… it’s time.”
Violet rose fluidly, her silk robe whispering across the floor as she handed Megatron his wine glass. “Wait for me,” she murmured, brushing a kiss against the corner of his mouth.
He smirked, though his gaze tracked her every movement with quiet calculation. “You spoil him,” he said, voice low and amused. “Even I wasn’t rocked to sleep every night.”
“Perhaps that’s what turned you into such a brute,” she shot back, her tone dripping with wry affection as she swept out of the room.
The path to the nursery was adorned with murals depicting Kaon’s conquests—molten forges, blood-streaked arenas, the rise of the crimson crown. Outside, the hum of the industrial city pulsed like a living heartbeat beneath the palace, with the glow of machinery and fire casting long shadows against the walls.
She entered the nursery with practiced grace.
The nursemaid holding Akos offered a respectful bow and carefully passed the child to Violet without a word. Akos was half-asleep, blinking up at her with bleary eyes, his tiny fingers instinctively curling toward her chest. She inhaled his scent—powder, warmth, and something uniquely his—and smiled, genuine and soft.
Settling into the chair beside the large arched window, she cradled him close, his heartbeat a flutter against her skin. Kaon spread before them like a glittering sea of steel and firelight.
“One day, all of this will be yours,” Violet whispered, her lips brushing his forehead. “But first, you must learn to sleep through the night, little tyrant.”
Akos gurgled, then yawned, and his hand reached blindly for the emerald pendant at her throat. He caught it—as always—and tugged. Violet chuckled and began to hum an old Kaon lullaby, a melody filled with minor notes and quiet defiance.
Behind her, the door clicked softly.
She didn’t need to turn to know it was Megatron. He always came to watch, never speaking or interfering. Just watching. Tonight, he entered fully and moved to stand beside the chair. His presence filled the room like smoke—intimidating to everyone but her.
“You should rest,” he said, his eyes fixed on their son. “Let the nurse put him down.”
“No,” Violet replied, not unkindly. “This is mine.”
A long pause passed between them.
“He looks like you,” Megatron finally muttered. “Same eyes.”
“And he has your mouth,” Violet said, smoothing her thumb along Akos’s cheek. “Already scowls in his sleep.”
Megatron gave a dry huff of amusement as he crouched beside them. His hand reached toward the baby but paused mid-air, hovering without touching. “You’ll raise him to rule,” he said quietly. “But I’ll raise him to conquer.”
Violet tilted her head. “He’ll do both.”
Another yawn, smaller this time. Akos was losing the battle. Violet pressed a kiss to his hairline before slowly rising to place him in the crib. Her hands moved with the practiced precision of a warrior laying down a blade—not too fast, not too loud. The blanket was pulled up. The pendant was gently pried from his grasp.
She lingered for a breath.
Then her voice dropped to a whisper, fierce and unwavering. “You will rise, Akos Crone of Kaon. And the world will kneel.”
She turned to find Megatron watching her with that inscrutable look—the one that always appeared when she spoke of the future with such certainty. It was the look of a man who believed her.
In her chambers, Megatron poured her another glass of wine as she returned to the lounge. The firelight danced over his silver pauldrons as he sat beside her once again.
“He’s strong,” he said.
“He’ll be more than that,” Violet replied. She sipped the wine, eyes smoldering as she leaned against him again, relaxed now that her son slept peacefully in the next room. “He’ll be a legend.”
And Megatron, always the strategist, nodded—because deep down, he believed it too.
The Grand Assembly Hall of Cybertron had never been so crowded.
Silken banners cascaded like waterfalls from the towering ceiling, each displaying the sigils of Kaon and Iacon—one forged in crimson and obsidian, the other in soft white and gold. The two grand thrones had been relocated to the front of the dais, and between them rested a smaller, ornate pedestal lined with velvet, crafted especially for this occasion.
Today was not an ordinary council. It marked the formal naming and presentation of the heirs of Kaon and Iacon—an event rich in tradition, politics, and the watchful gaze of an uneasy world.
Aloria entered first, regal in white and silver, with her crown of crystalline thorns set atop her auburn curls. She held Anteia close against her chest, the infant wrapped in embroidered linen and blinking curiously at the bright lights. Soundwave walked silently at her side, his holoform crisp and sharp in ceremonial dress, his gaze fixed on their daughter.
Behind them came Violet—radiant in emerald and jet, her robe a cascade of scales and silk. She carried Akos himself, to the slight surprise of several council members. The boy was alert in her arms, amethyst eyes scanning the room with unnerving focus for a child just three months old. Megatron followed with a predator’s grace, his crimson cloak flaring behind him, unreadable as always.
The murmurs of the crowd faded the instant the two mothers ascended the dais. At that moment, history shifted.
Anteia squirmed first, letting out a soft squeal. Her little arms wiggled toward the unfamiliar golden banners flanking the seats, tiny hands grasping at air. Akos responded with an indignant grunt from Violet’s arms, and the sound made Anteia turn her head sharply. Their gazes locked.
A silence settled over the assembly.
Then, to everyone's astonishment, Anteia let out a loud giggle .
Akos blinked. Then slowly, solemnly, he offered a wet, gummy smile in return.
The court melted .
Even the High Council couldn’t quite maintain its usual stoicism. General Obsidion gave a subtle twitch of his mustache. Elites from both factions exchanged knowing glances. It was a moment no strategist could have orchestrated—a brief spark of innocence in a room built on suspicion and centuries of war.
“They already recognize each other,” Aloria whispered with a soft smile.
“Of course they do,” Violet said coolly, her eyes fixed on the babies. “The future always knows itself.”
The children were placed on the pedestal together, cradled in matching seats, while the ceremonial scripts were read aloud.
“By the decree of the High Courts of Cybertron,” intoned the Herald, voice echoing through the chamber, “let it be known that this day, Princess Anteia, daughter of Queen Aloria and Lord Soundwave, is named Crown Princess of Iacon.”
The chamber applauded, a mix of reverence and awe.
“And let it be known that Prince Akos, son of Queen Violet and Consort Megatron, is named Crown Prince of Kaon.”
There was a beat, then thunderous applause. Perhaps louder than the first.
Akos, startled by the noise, let out a high-pitched wail.
Anteia, in a show of perfect timing, reached over and grabbed his tiny hand with her own. The wailing stopped immediately. Akos blinked at her, stunned into silence. She tugged his hand. He hiccupped, then let out a pleased little grunt.
The crowd was enraptured.
“I think she just asserted dominance,” Megatron muttered under his breath, deadpan.
Violet didn’t hide her amused smirk. “I’d be worried if she didn’t.”
Aloria let out a soft laugh and leaned against Soundwave, observing their daughter effortlessly commanding attention.
The council continued its discussions, but the day’s true significance had already taken root in every mind present. The children had been introduced. Their names recorded in the histories. In their shared curiosity and the way they looked at one another without fear, hope began to bloom.
For the first time in ages, Cybertron was looking not towards war or conquest, but to the possibility of peace—built not by treaties, but by small hands that grasped instead of fought.
The grand halls of the Citadel had been cleared of dignitaries and pomp, replaced by quiet music, flickering lantern light, and the soft murmur of voices too tired for formality. It was a rare event: a private gathering of the most powerful houses on Cybertron, where robes were swapped for comfort, and titles faded in favor of family.
Aloria was seated on a cushioned chaise in a dimly lit lounge chamber adorned with polished obsidian and gold inlays, Anteia nestled in her lap. The baby had changed into a soft gown of sky-blue silk trimmed with tiny feathers—an Iaconian tradition meant to symbolize freedom of spirit and promise of flight. She babbled happily, reaching for a dangling string of pearls on her mother’s wrist.
Across from her, Violet reclined like a serpent queen on a velvet-backed chaise of Kaonite red, one leg tucked beneath her as she cradled Akos with one arm and a glass of plum wine in the other. The infant prince was drowsy yet alert, dressed in black with green-stitched sigils of Kaon subtly woven across his sleeves. His pale hands were wrapped tightly around one of Violet’s fingers, as if daring anyone to try to take her away.
Megatron stood behind them, arms crossed yet relaxed, his usual rigidity softened by the crackling hearth in the corner. Soundwave stood at Aloria’s side, silent and watchful, a guardian with a holoform still clad in regal silver, but his attention was entirely focused on his daughter.
The two babies had been placed on a large, silk-draped play mat between their mothers—a symbolic space adorned with pillows, toys, and a soft rug that likely cost more than an entire lower district's annual income. But none of that mattered to Anteia and Akos. Their eyes met again as they had in the council chamber, and the world narrowed to just the two of them.
Anteia let out a delighted squeal and crawled with surprising speed toward Akos, reaching for his tiny hand. Akos, slow and deliberate, blinked once and reached back.
The moment their fingers met, everyone in the room stopped speaking.
Akos immediately stuffed her fingers into his mouth.
Violet smirked behind her wineglass. “Ah. A Kaonite gesture of affection. Or perhaps domination.”
Aloria covered her mouth and laughed gently. “Anteia does tend to lead with her hands.”
“She gets that from you,” Soundwave murmured beside her, his tone dry.
“Maybe,” Aloria replied with a glance upward, “but the crawling like a missile part? That’s you.”
Akos lazily gummed her hand, and Anteia stared at him with wide, fascinated eyes. She tugged once, experimentally, as if testing whether he would let go. He didn’t. Instead, he held on tighter. She squealed again—delighted—and leaned forward until she flopped onto his lap, knocking them both over.
From the sidelines, Megatron’s lip twitched. “I believe your daughter just crushed my son.”
“She is heavier than she looks,” Soundwave said without emotion, though the hint of pride flickered in his optics.
“Do you think this is a sign?” Aloria asked suddenly, her tone light yet edged with something more serious. “Of what their generation might be?”
“They’re already more cooperative than half of the council,” Violet said, swirling her wine.
Aloria observed the two infants as they rolled together, giggling and drooling on each other. Akos tugged at a soft, ribboned Iaconian rattle that Anteia refused to relinquish. It turned into a gentle battle of wills—baby grunts, pulls, and a little shriek of protest—before Anteia, pouting, thrust the entire toy against his chest and crawled away in search of something else.
Akos looked baffled. Then, satisfied.
“She’s going to rule you,” Violet murmured to her son with affection, brushing a strand of black hair from his face. “Best get used to it.”
“They might rule side by side,” Aloria offered, resting her chin on her palm as she watched her daughter snatch a feathered ball and present it proudly to Megatron, who remained uncertain about what to do with it.
Megatron gazed down at the toy being presented to him with an expression that could only be described as politely panicked . He accepted it using two fingers.
“Tell me again why we’re doing this,” he muttered under his breath.
“For the future,” Violet said without hesitation.
“For peace,” Aloria added.
“For survival,” Soundwave murmured, patting his old friend on the shoulder.
The room remained quiet for a long time, except for the gurgles and rustling of curious hands against silk. The heirs of Iacon and Kaon were playing together—innocent, pure, and unburdened by war, for now.
But the world would not stay soft for long.
And these two would grow side by side—whether as friends, rivals, or something more, only time would tell.
The first chill of Cybertronian autumn swept through Iacon, carrying winds faintly scented with ozone and crystallized air. Leaves from the synthetic arboretum curled in shades of violet and gold, drifting down as the months went by—months during which the children grew, and the world subtly shifted.
Month One
Akos was learning to sit upright with only a slight wobble; his amethyst eyes were sharper now, more aware. He had developed a fondness for kicking his heels against polished floors and growling at his toys in mimicry of Megatron’s gruff speeches. Servants whispered that he already had a leader’s glare, despite being wrapped in a blanket shaped like a Kaonite lion.
Anteia, meanwhile, had become a little bolt of chaos. She laughed when others cried, cried when others laughed, and loved being held high and spun in circles. She was Soundwave’s shadow when she wasn’t asleep on Aloria’s chest, her tiny fingers always grasping for his collar or tugging at strands of his hair with gleeful force.
And yet—
Aloria stood by the window one evening, holding Anteia close, and felt... off. Her skin tingled, not unpleasantly, but as if it had been brushed by static. The pendant at her neck flickered faintly, even though no one had touched it. She blinked and shook it off.
A coincidence.
Month Two
A snowstorm blanketed the capital spires of Kaon. Violet arrived with Akos bundled in royal furs, his tiny gloved hands gripping the hilt of a decorative, non-lethal blade—already being trained in optics and posture. He sat beside Anteia at the royal banquet, where the two exchanged food like court diplomats. Akos offered his honeyfruit puree; Anteia tossed a roll at him in thanks.
They giggled until Akos hiccupped so hard he startled himself into a nap.
After dinner, as the children were taken away, Aloria stepped into her private chambers and felt her breath catch. The air was thick— charged . Her reflection in the mirror shimmered, not distorted but layered, as if another version of her blinked behind the glass.
Her fingertips crackled softly when she touched the vanity. The gemstone ring on her right hand throbbed like a living creature.
She didn’t mention it.
Month Three
Akos had begun to crawl with determination, bulldozing through toy fortresses and crashing headlong into pillows like a tiny conqueror. Violet beamed with pride every time he found his footing. “He will not ask for space,” she told Megatron. “He will take it.”
Anteia had learned how to climb. No table, shelf, or crate was safe. She would laugh from on high before leaping off, trusting—correctly—that someone would catch her. Soundwave always did. And when he didn’t, she floated just long enough to drift into Aloria’s arms.
Yes. Floated.
Aloria had witnessed it with her own eyes. There had been no time to think—only the sharp beat of panic before instinct took over. Her arms raised. Her daughter didn’t fall, and Aloria hadn’t used the Force to catch her either.
She still hadn’t told Soundwave.
She couldn’t explain the dreams, either.
Dreams of the Well of All Sparks, of light , of voices in a chorus calling her name—but not the name she knew. Something older. Something that echoed through the marrow of her bones.
The light of the setting sun spilled through the high windows of the study, painting the stone floors of Iacon’s palace in shades of gold and crimson. The scent of fresh parchment and ancient incense lingered softly in the air, providing a calm contrast to the storm churning in Aloria’s chest.
“Kani,” she said softly.
Her voice barely rose above the soft crackle of the fireplace, yet it shattered the stillness like a stone tossed into calm water. Aloria sat curled in a window alcove, cradling a lukewarm cup of herbal tea. The steam curled around her face, golden light catching in her auburn hair like strands of flame. Her robes were rumpled, her features weary—but her eyes sparkled with a peculiar intensity.
Across the room, Anakania looked up from her datapad, her posture relaxed yet alert. She raised a curious brow. “Yeah? What is it?”
Aloria hesitated, thumb circling the rim of her cup. “Can you teach me your magic?”
The datapad slipped from Anakania’s hands to her lap with a dull thud. “You want me to what?”
“I’m serious,” Aloria said, setting the cup down on the windowsill. She leaned forward, fingers laced between her knees. “There’s something inside me, Kani. Something I can’t explain. It’s like... a storm gathering in my chest. I can feel it pulsing under my skin—this power, this pressure—but I don’t know how to release it.”
Anakania studied her for a long moment, her usual sharp retorts gradually fading into genuine concern. “Have you talked to anyone about this?”
“Only Alpha Trion,” Aloria admitted, her voice quieter now, as if the name itself demanded reverence. “And what he said… it scared me.”
Anakania stood and crossed the room in three swift strides. She perched on the arm of a nearby couch, brow knitting. “What did he say?”
“That I was born from a fragment of Primus,” Aloria replied, lifting her eyes to meet her sister’s. “And that I might carry a piece of his divinity inside me.”
The silence that followed was both immediate and profound. Even the fire appeared to be still.
Anakania parted her lips slightly before closing them again. She blinked once. “That would make you... a Goddess.”
Aloria gave a tired shrug. “I don’t feel like one.”
Anakania jumped to her feet, suddenly energized, and darted to the shelves lining the far wall. She yanked out an old tome—one she had kept tucked away for years—and flipped it open with practiced ease. “This reminds me of something I found once,” she said, spreading the book on the table between them.
Intricate drawings spilled across the parchment—foreign constellations, ethereal beings, and a depiction of a planet encircled by starlight. “They call it Terra,” Anakania explained, pointing to a labeled orb. “Their mythology has a Goddess named Athena. She was born fully formed from the mind of their king of gods—Zeus. Just—boom—appeared one day, a divine warrior of wisdom and strategy.”
Aloria leaned in, tracing a finger along the image. “Born of thought... I was born of light.”
“Exactly,” Anakania said, snapping her fingers. “It’s not the same, but it’s close. Zeus. Primus. Athena. You.”
Aloria shook her head, smiling faintly. “You’re really trying to make a pantheon out of us?”
“Well,” Anakania teased, “if you’re Athena, then Violet—born from Unicron—has to be your opposite. A literal demon princess. That makes Akos the antichrist baby, I guess.”
Aloria snorted and hurled a pillow at her. “You are the worst.”
Anakania caught it with ease, but the mirth faded from her face. “But seriously... this is bigger than you or me. My magic? It’s Nightsister sorcery. It comes from death, blood, moonlight, and pain. What’s stirring inside you... it’s something else. Something older. Wilder.”
Aloria’s smile faded as well. “I can’t ignore it, Kani. Every day it grows stronger, and I feel like... like something’s coming. Like the world is holding its breath, waiting for me to do something I haven’t figured out yet.”
Anakania stepped forward and gripped her shoulders. “Then you need to speak to Alpha Trion again. You’re not some mage’s apprentice, Aloria. If you really carry Primus’s spark, then you’re not just a queen. You’re a force of nature. And something tells me... your power won’t stay quiet for long.”
Aloria nodded slowly, her gaze returning to the horizon beyond the window. The twin moons of Cybertron were rising—one silver, one rust-red. A sign. A warning. A promise.
Whatever came next, she understood that the storm inside her was only just beginning.
The days following Aloria’s conversation with Anakania were filled with an unshakable tension that sat beneath her skin like static, thrumming louder with each passing hour. Although the palace was calm, her world was not. She drifted through her duties like a shadow of herself—present, poised, and composed, but with her mind light-years away.
The power within her had become impossible to ignore.
It stirred in her veins like fire wrapped in silk, unpredictable and alive. Sometimes it sparked behind her eyes or hummed in her fingertips like a storm waiting to be unleashed. She would wake at night to find the room glowing faintly around her, the light seemingly emanating from her own body. The whispers in her head grew louder too—not voices, not exactly—but impressions like echoes from a time before time, calling her toward something she could not yet name.
She could not keep pretending this was normal.
And so, with a determined breath and a heart full of questions, Aloria made her way to the Hall of Records—the most ancient structure in Iacon, built before the war, before the schism, and even before recorded time. Its spires scraped the clouds, while its lower chambers tunneled into the crust of Cybertron itself. It was here that Alpha Trion, the oldest living archivist of Cybertron, resided.
The guards bowed as she passed, their expressions respectful yet cautious—she had become quieter and more withdrawn lately, and even they could sense the change.
Alpha Trion’s chambers lay buried deep in the heart of the Hall, a sanctuary of wisdom and shadow. Relics from every era of Cybertronian history adorned the shelves: stasis-locked tomes, artifacts forged in the heat of the Allspark’s birth, and crystals still pulsing with residual echoes of Primus’s voice. The scent of time, dust, and sacred energy filled the air like incense.
He looked up as she entered, his figure still regal despite his age, his eyes glowing with a thousand years of wisdom.
“Queen Aloria,” he said, his voice rich and resonant. “You’ve come at last.”
She froze in the doorway. “You were expecting me?”
Alpha Trion gestured for her to sit. “The light around you has been growing. Even the stars are whispering your name.”
Aloria moved slowly to the seat across from him, every step feeling heavier than the last. “I’ve been feeling... something inside me. It’s not just energy. It’s like something ancient is trying to reach out. To awaken.”
He nodded. “You are not imagining it.”
Her breath caught. “You told me once I was born from a piece of Primus. That there was divinity in me. Is this what you meant?”
Alpha Trion rose from his desk and walked to a massive mural carved into the chamber’s rear wall—an engraving older than anything she had ever seen. It depicted two great forces locked in eternal struggle: one of light, rising from the planet’s core, and one of shadow, curling from the void.
“Primus is not a myth, Aloria. He is real. And he sleeps at the very heart of Cybertron. What you feel now is his awakening—because you, child of light, are his vessel. You were not simply born for a throne. You were born to be a key.”
“A key?” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“A conduit,” Alpha Trion said. “Between what Cybertron is, and what it must become. The darkness that once consumed this world is stirring again. The balance is breaking, and it is your destiny to restore it.”
Aloria stood slowly, staring up at the mural. “How?”
“You must begin by returning to the source,” he said gravely. “To the place where Primus rests.”
Her pulse quickened. “The core.”
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “Yes. That is where your first trial begins. You must descend into the heart of this planet and stand before Primus himself.”
A thousand questions tumbled through her mind, but none seemed to matter more than one: “What if I’m not strong enough?”
Alpha Trion’s gaze softened. “You are. But strength does not always come as power. Sometimes, it comes as sacrifice. You must be willing to be unmade to be remade. The core will show you who you truly are—what lies at the center of your spark.”
Her mouth went dry. “And if I fail?”
He said nothing.
The silence told her everything.
Aloria stared at the ancient carvings until her vision blurred, causing the light in the chamber to seem to bend, twist, and fold in on itself. The weight of what she carried—the divine light, the legacy of Primus, the looming threat of Unicron—pressed in on her from every direction.
“I don’t want to lose myself,” she said, barely more than a breath.
Alpha Trion stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You are not alone. You have your family, your court, your people—and you have Primus. But the path ahead will be hard. It will strip you bare. And at the end, you will either rise… or fall.”
Aloria nodded, the decision taking shape inside her like a sword sliding into a sheath.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “Whatever lies beneath—whatever he shows me—I’ll face it.”
As she left the Hall of Records, a strange calm settled over her, like the eye of a storm. The stars above Iacon seemed to burn brighter that night, as if they were watching her. As if they were waiting.
And deep beneath the surface of Cybertron, something ancient stirred.
Something holy.
Something hungry.
The palace of Iacon rested beneath a lavender sky, its towers washed in the soft blush of approaching dawn. The city was quiet, its usual hum of machinery and life reduced to a distant murmur. In these rare hours before sunrise, even the stars appeared to hold their breath.
Aloria moved like a shadow through the marble halls, her robes tucked into practical travel wear beneath a hooded cloak of dark midnight blue. Her boots made no sound on the polished floors—she had trained for silence long before she was ever crowned queen.
She paused only once, outside the door of the nursery.
Her daughter slept peacefully inside, wrapped in soft silks beneath a blanket embroidered with celestial motifs. Aloria didn’t enter—she didn’t trust herself to. One look, one small sound, and she might never go through with it. Instead, she laid a trembling hand on the doorframe, pressing her palm against the carved metal as if that touch could convey everything she didn’t have the strength to say.
Forgive me. I have to know who I am before I can be who you need.
Then she was gone.
She avoided the main corridors, opting for a lesser-used servant’s passage that led down through the palace's old foundation and into the city's understructure. The walls here were older, untouched by the elegance of Iacon’s upper towers. Stone met metal where history fused with progress, and flickering lights buzzed overhead, casting dancing shadows along her path.
She passed by no guards, no advisors, and not even Soundwave. His absence was both a relief and a sharp pain. He would never have let her go without a fight, and she couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on his face when she explained why she had to face this alone.
This wasn’t a queen’s mission.
It was a daughter’s pilgrimage.
Eventually, Aloria arrived at the chamber hidden beneath the city—the same place Alpha Trion once took her when she was very young, too young to grasp the significance of what she witnessed. The great lift embedded in the floor hummed softly, a circular platform adorned with ancient glyphs that pulsed faintly in her presence.
She stepped onto it and knelt.
“I ask to descend,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. “To return to the source. To stand before the One who gave me life.”
The glyphs glowed brighter, responding not only to her words but also to her very essence. Light enveloped the lift, and with a quiet hiss, it began its descent, lower than any map recorded, beneath the deepest energon veins and catacombs, into the slumbering heart of Cybertron.
She did not know what awaited her there.
But she felt it.
Something ancient stirred in the silence below.
And for the first time in her life, Aloria felt a genuine fear.
The morning light was still pale when the palace of Iacon stirred into its routine. Servants moved through the corridors with trays and datapads, unaware that their Queen had vanished. Only when Aloria’s personal attendant found her chambers untouched—her bed pristine, her robes undisturbed—did the quiet order begin to unravel.
When word reached Soundwave, he was in the palace command suite, reviewing encrypted communication protocols in his holoform. The moment the sentence was spoken—“Her Majesty is missing”—the projection froze mid-frame.
Then it shattered.
An electronic screech pierced the still air, and moments later, a presence descended from above.
Soundwave.
His true Cybertronian form landed like a blade to the heart of the palace. Angular and tall, composed of silence and sharp edges, he stood motionless for a breathless moment—then his visor flared.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
A burst of violet static broke the tension, and then—
“Queen—status: offline.”
The voice was hers.
Aloria, from a recording captured during a private moment: calm, amused, completely unaware it would one day be used like this.
Guards scrambled to attention as Soundwave moved. His limbs stretched like blades, folding in and out as he launched himself through the palace halls with precise, inhuman speed. No footfalls echoed. No rumble of engines. Just the faint, low thrum of energy coursing through his systems and the sharp flickers of light tracing along his armor.
He interfaced directly with the security network, his long, spindly fingers extending into ports and panels like needles threading through code. Multiple displays across the control room lit up—holograms unfurling around his towering silhouette.
Security footage, biometric scans, energy trail logs, and lift usage protocols.
The hall dimmed as he flooded the system.
From his visor, another clipped transmission was sent. “Analyzing—restricted access—level omega.”
His visor pulsed. A moment later, a flicker in the surveillance feed revealed a silhouette—small and cloaked—moving through the sub-halls beneath the Queen’s wing. It was one only he would recognize. Her.
And then— the lift. The ancient one, hidden deep beneath the palace archives, sealed by glyphs no longer used by contemporary Cybertronian systems.
A tremor passed through his frame.
Another voice clip—barely a whisper—played from inside him, almost involuntarily:
“If I ever leave without telling you… It’s because I couldn’t bear your reaction.”
He launched into motion without warning. His frame split and folded with a shriek of shifting plates, collapsing into a smooth, blade-winged jet that sliced through the sky above Iacon’s towers in seconds. The city’s citizens looked skyward, startled by the sudden shriek of wind and steel as a violet streak cut through the clouds.
The orders he left behind echoed in cold bursts of static:
“All units—full lockdown protocol. Scan for Queen—energy signature—trace to subterranean. Soundwave—retrieving—Aloria.”
He didn’t stop for questions. He didn’t wait for backup. He only flew—swift and silent, a dagger of sound and vengeance slicing straight toward the planet’s core.
He would find her.
Or nothing on Cybertron would remain standing.
The descent felt endless.
The lift moved with ancient grace—smooth, nearly silent, gliding through the hollow veins of the planet like a whisper through the dark. Aloria stood at its center, her cloak draped around her shoulders, the fabric fluttering gently as the air grew warmer… heavier. The light from above had long since vanished, replaced by a dull, golden glow radiating from the carved walls of the shaft itself—glyphs and lines etched with Primus’s language, pulsing faintly with living light.
Her spark beat in rhythm with it.
Thump. Pulse. Glow.
The deeper she went, the more her senses unraveled. It wasn’t fear—though that, too, lurked at the edges of her thoughts—but something far stranger. She felt like a string being wound tighter and tighter, stretched toward a frequency she didn’t yet comprehend.
And then the voices began.
Faint at first. Like echoes of memories she never lived.
“You are born of light...”
A flash of her birth—energy converging in a storm of creation deep within the heart of the planet. A swirl of golden energy wrapped in circuits and light, forming something new. A spark born whole, not from a forge, not from a womb—but from the will of the world itself.
“You carry the song of the stars.”
Another vision—herself standing in the skies above Cybertron, cloaked in celestial fire, her hair like a comet’s tail, her eyes glowing white-hot. She was both queen and force of nature. Above her, Primus’s radiant face emerged from the heavens, shaped from orbiting rings and shifting plates of light.
“You were made for balance. But all things born of balance must choose.”
The lift slowed.
Aloria gasped, stumbling slightly as her knees buckled under the weight of a sudden surge of energy. It hit her like a stormfront. Her fingertips glowed gold, veins of light flickering beneath her skin, tracing the shape of circuitry and divine language across her forearms. Her sparkbeat roared in her ears—but now it was accompanied by another rhythm. Cybertron’s. A thrum, deep and seismic, like the pulse of a slumbering titan beneath her feet.
“I... I hear you,” she whispered, her voice reverent, breathless. “Primus.”
The lift reached its final level with a low, harmonious chime that resonated through her bones.
Before her, a vast stone archway led into a cathedral of light and metal.
The Core.
She stepped through, her eyes widening. The chamber was vast—so large it defied reason, curving up and away into infinity. The walls were constructed of layered mechanisms and crystalline veins, living metal that moved in slow, deliberate patterns, like the breathing of a world. At its center, suspended in a lattice of golden light and molten circuits, was a radiant, formless shape—a sphere of pure energy, constantly shifting between flame and starlight, light and voice, pattern and vibration.
Primus.
Aloria fell to her knees.
Tears slipped down her cheeks unbidden. Not from pain, not even from fear—but from awe. From the overwhelming rightness of it all.
And then she heard his voice.
It was not a sound so much as a thought that blossomed fully formed within her spark. A voice made of memory and energy, light and truth.
“Daughter.”
She shuddered.
“You are not alone. You have never been.”
Images surged through her—visions of Cybertron’s history, its wars, its victories, and its slow decline. Of Violet, burning with fire and rage. Of their children. Of Soundwave searching, roaring through the sky like a blade launched from her heart. Of what was coming. A darkness—Unicron’s essence—spreading beneath the surface of things, moving through the cracks of peace like poison.
“You must decide, Aloria. Balance cannot remain passive. Light must act.”
She looked up, her voice trembling. “What do I do?”
“You must awaken.”
And as the words echoed within her soul, the light of Primus surged toward her, tendrils of gold wrapping around her body, her spark, her mind.
And in that moment, she began to change.
Cybertron trembled.
It began as a pulse in the planet’s core—a single note, pure and radiant, that rippled outward like a shockwave of light. The golden glow surrounding Aloria expanded suddenly, engulfing the entire chamber. Her body arched backward, her mouth parted in a silent gasp as her spark flared, no longer hidden within her chest but visible to the very world around her.
She hung suspended in light — glowing, shifting, becoming .
Her skin glowed with luminous, circuit-traced veins, divine glyphs etching themselves across her arms, throat, and sternum in radiant silver-gold. Her eyes burst open, awash with starlight, no longer sapphire blue but white , twin miniature novas. Her long auburn hair flowed around her like a halo of embers, lifted by unseen forces. She cried out as the essence of Primus poured through her — not breaking her but remaking her.
She was no longer simply Aloria Thetiskofia, Queen of Iacon.
She was the living conduit of Primus.
And Cybertron felt her ascend.
Above, in the skies of Iacon, Soundwave hurtled toward the planet’s heart in his jet form, a single-minded streak of violet-blue across the darkened sky. Then—
It hit.
A tidal wave of raw energy, blinding and golden, exploded from beneath the surface. Every system in Soundwave’s frame glitched violently as a surge of divine code slammed through his spark.
And then—
Her emotions. Her thoughts. Her transformation.
All of it poured through the bond she had tried to keep closed.
He screamed—silently, violently—as her spark overwhelmed his.
Aloria’s presence flooded through him: awe, agony, power, limitless love . A voice not hers but older and more immense echoed through his processor. The bond shuddered under the strain. He veered sharply in the air, barely avoiding a catastrophic crash as the world blurred around him. His wings locked mid-flight, and gravity yanked him earthward.
With one last desperate push, Soundwave transformed mid-air and slammed into the ground on one knee, his claws digging trenches into the rock as he stabilized himself. His entire frame pulsed with flickers of white light where her divine energy touched his systems.
From within his visor, a voice clip played, static-warped and trembling:
“Aloria—Aloria—Aloria...!”
His bond pulsed with her name repeatedly. Not a call. Not a command. But a prayer .
Far across the planet, deep within Kaon’s obsidian towers, Violet froze in her private chambers as a crystal goblet of energon wine slipped from her fingers and shattered at her feet. Her entire body convulsed with a sudden, blinding pain as the surge of light rolled through her like holy fire.
She screamed—not in awe, but in agony .
The divine light—the essence of Primus— rejected her. It clashed violently with the remnants of Unicron that slumbered in her soul like a coiled shadow. Violet’s eyes flared white for a split second before turning completely black, her vision filled with void. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold obsidian floor.
Power radiated from her body as jagged violet lightning, cracking the walls around her. Maids and guards rushed to the doorway but were thrown back by the sheer magnitude of energy whipping through the air like a storm of cursed starlight.
She gasped, her claws digging into the marble as she struggled to breathe against the pressure of being unmade by the light her soul was never meant to endure.
And through gritted teeth, she hissed:
“ What have you done, Aloria...?”
Back at the core, Aloria finally lowered herself to the ground, trembling, radiant, remade. Her cloak had disappeared. Instead, her body was adorned in a luminous gown that shimmered like stardust and circuitry, and her spark no longer beat within her chest alone — it thrummed beneath her skin, beneath Cybertron itself.
She opened her eyes.
And the world felt her see it.
From Iacon to Kaon. From the lowest energon mine to the spires of the High Council. From Soundwave's trembling knees to Violet’s cracking foundation. The planet had changed.
And Aloria had become its heart.
The Kaon palace was in disarray.
Servants ran through marble halls with wide eyes and shaking limbs, their whispers sharp with panic.
“Call the medics—”
“She’s seizing—”
“No pulse—gods, someone get Lord Megatron!”
But none of them could reach him in time.
Because Violet had locked her doors.
Inside her chambers, the Queen of Kaon lay collapsed on the obsidian floor, her body writhing. Her breathing had become erratic, a choked series of gasps between screams. She clawed at her chest, at her throat, at something inside her that was tearing her apart.
Her skin was burning.
Not with fire—but with darkness.
Thin black veins began spreading like cracks beneath her skin, pulsing with sickly purple light. Her eyes rolled back. Blood—real blood, not synthetic—seeped from her nose and ears, staining the floor beneath her. Her nails split as her body convulsed.
Something was awakening.
Something that recognized Aloria’s divine ascension.
Something that hated it.
Violet let out a guttural scream, her back arching violently off the ground—and then the room exploded in smoke and flame.
Black and violet fire erupted across the floor in a jagged spiral, symbols burning into the stone like ancient glyphs torn from the Void itself. Mirrors cracked. The chandelier above burst into shards. Her scream pitched into a broken sob as her body trembled beneath the force building inside her.
Unicron was answering.
“You will not be eclipsed,” the voice echoed—not aloud, but through the walls, the floor, the very air. “She is light… you are entropy. My child. My chosen.”
And just as Violet’s spine arched once more—the doors burst open.
Megatron stormed inside.
His armor glinted silver in the dim chaos, his expression an unfiltered mixture of fury and fear. Smoke blasted outward from the chamber, slamming into him like a wall, but he pushed forward anyway.
“Violet!”
She was barely visible through the flames now—until they parted.
And he saw her.
Suspended a few feet above the scorched floor, her body twisted in black smoke and violet energy, hair whipping like wild silk behind her, her mouth open in a silent scream as her eyes burned red.
She was changing.
The transformation was violent.
It wasn’t like Aloria’s divine light—gentle and warm.
Violet’s metamorphosis was a rebirth through pain.
Her once-pale skin now shimmered with a faint metallic sheen, darker, laced with marbled black streaks like obsidian cracked through crystal. Her eyes blazed violet, twin infernos that saw everything. Her fingertips dripped shadows. Horns—small, delicate, almost like a crown—began to sprout from her temples, curling upward with molten heat.
And then—suddenly—silence.
The fires died.
The smoke retreated into her lungs with a gasp.
Violet fell.
Megatron lunged forward and caught her before she hit the ground, cradling her tightly in his arms.
She blinked up at him, dazed, tears streaking her now-radiant face. Her lips trembled.
“I couldn’t breathe,” she whispered. “She… she changed. I felt it. All of it. She touched the core. She—” Her voice broke, fingers tightening in his armor. “She became. ”
Megatron looked down at her, his heart pounding like a war drum. “And so did you.”
He pulled her close, pressing her to his chest. Her body still pulsed with unstable energy, but she clung to him like a lifeline.
They stayed like that in the center of the ruined chamber—the budding Warlord and the Demon Queen.
Balanced now against the light.
One born of Primus.
And the other, of Unicron.
The air around Aloria shimmered faintly, still saturated with the golden light of her ascension. Though her body remained calm and composed, standing steady before Soundwave’s towering Cybertronian form, her mind was anything but.
It hit her like a rupture in the fabric of the planet itself.
A scream. Not of voice—but of soul.
Her breath hitched.
She turned her head slowly, eyes going distant. Her glowing skin pulsed—once, then again—flickering like a star overwhelmed by static. The divine harmony she had just settled into twisted suddenly with discord, as if a discordant note had been forced into her symphony.
Something was wrong.
Deeply, cosmically wrong.
“Violet,” Aloria whispered.
Soundwave’s visor flickered. The name triggered a pulse of static from his recorded clips, a confused stutter of:
“Violet… distress signal… Kaon—Vitals spiking… anomaly detected…”
But Aloria was already moving—her eyes wide with realization, her golden glow dimming under the shadow that now clawed at her from across the planet.
She didn’t need a map. She didn’t need a beacon.
She could feel her.
Violet’s transformation wasn’t quiet like hers had been. It was a rupture. A fracture of equilibrium. A cry from the depths of Unicron’s shadow—and Aloria felt every ripple of it cut through her veins like jagged wire.
“I felt her break,” Aloria said, her voice trembling.
Soundwave tilted his head, unreadable but visibly tense as static flickered across his frame. He stepped closer, as if to anchor her, to protect her from whatever unknown tremor had just shaken her divine composure.
Aloria pressed her hand to her chest. “She was never meant to hold that power alone.”
The bond between them—once metaphorical, emotional, and political—was now something greater . Aloria could feel Violet’s sparkbeat thundering like a war drum in her ears, could see flashes of her collapse through a divine tether that hadn’t existed until now.
Violet’s agony. Her awakening. The darkness blooming from her like a storm.
And then, the voice—so faint, so chilling it made Aloria stagger.
“She is mine. You are the balance… but she is the end.”
Aloria’s knees buckled.
Soundwave caught her instinctively, his giant hands gentler than they looked, cradling her without a word. His visor blazed white-blue with streaming security alerts from Kaon—but he didn’t need the footage to know what had happened.
Violet had been claimed.
Not just as a Queen.
But as Unicron’s heir.
And now… Aloria was no longer the only goddess on Cybertron.
She was one half of a celestial war waiting to ignite.
Aloria’s body still trembled from the aftershocks of Violet’s transformation. The divine connection between them buzzed in her bones like a wire pulled too tight—one golden, the other shrouded in violet flame. She could feel Violet even now, screaming without sound, the violent birth of a goddess enveloped in agony and smoke.
She turned away from Soundwave’s towering form, the divine light pulsing through her body shining bright.
“I have to go to her,” she said, her voice laced with urgency. “She’s changing—breaking. If I don’t reach her in time—”
She stepped forward, toward the open air at the edge of the chamber, ready to vanish into light and will herself across the planet.
But Soundwave moved faster.
His massive frame surged into motion with the fluidity of a shadow, one clawed hand crashing down in front of her, blocking her path like a falling wall.
“ Let me go, ” Aloria said, her voice sharpening. “You don’t understand, I felt her. I need to—”
Soundwave didn’t speak.
Instead, he tapped his claw against the side of his visor.
A soft mechanical hum preceded the flickering of his screen.
A holographic image blinked into existence on the surface of his visor—dim and flickering, but unmistakable.
Anteia.
Curled up in her bassinet, fast asleep, a tiny fist was wrapped tightly around the golden pendant Aloria had left with her. Her silver-blue eyes were closed, and her breathing was soft. The gentle sounds of a lullaby—recorded from Aloria’s own voice—filtered faintly from the background.
Aloria froze.
The sight struck her harder than any argument could have.
She could still feel Violet and hear Unicron’s voice in the farthest reaches of her divine mind. But now, she could also sense her daughter—a small, fragile presence calling her back with quiet warmth.
Soundwave’s visor flickered again, shifting to another recording.
Aloria’s voice from weeks ago.
“As long as I live, I will never abandon her.”
She gazed up at him, tears stinging her eyes—not from weakness, but from the unbearable weight of being needed in too many places at once.
“She’s my best friend,” Aloria whispered.
Soundwave tilted his head.
Then, slowly, he extended his other hand—open and steady—not to stop her, but to ground her.
A choice.
Violet or Anteia.
Aloria’s golden light dimmed around her. Not gone—but held back. She took a deep breath and wrapped her arms around herself.
“I won’t let her face this alone,” she murmured, her voice trembling.
Soundwave replayed the soft coo of Anteia’s voice from earlier that morning—just a gentle, happy sound. “ Mama.”
The sound broke Aloria’s determination.
She stepped back, the gold in her eyes flickering and then fading. Her body relaxed as she looked up at him with a mix of pain and gratitude. “I’ll stay.”
Soundwave remained silent. However, the recording halted, and the visor went dark once more.
That was enough.
Violet stirred slowly, the scent of smoke still clinging faintly to her skin.
Her body ached in places she couldn’t name—deep, aching tremors humming through her bones like aftershocks from the transformation. Her first breath felt like breathing embers. However, it was the sudden, small weight on her ribs that pulled her back to consciousness.
A soft giggle.
Tiny fingers curled into the silk of her robe.
She opened her eyes.
“Akos,” she breathed.
Her son clambered over her side, babbling nonsense as his hands patted her chest and shoulders, checking every inch of her to ensure she was real. His amethyst eyes were wide, shimmering with residual tears, yet filled with unmistakable joy. The moment her eyes fully opened, he let out a delighted squeal and flung his little arms around her neck.
Violet caught him with a soft, pained sound—half a laugh, half a sob. Her hands trembled as she held him close.
Across the room, Megatron leaned forward in the armchair by the hearth, his massive frame a dark silhouette against the pale gold light of the morning.
“He wouldn’t stop screaming,” he said flatly. “Not for hours. Not until someone finally brought him here.”
Violet blinked, trying to sit up with Akos nestled to her chest. “He… knew?”
Megatron grunted, eyes narrowing. “Felt it. Same as I did. Same as the whole of Kaon did.” He paused. “He clawed at the palace guards until they gave in.”
She looked down at Akos, who was now settled in her arms with his thumb in his mouth, peacefully satisfied that she was whole again. Her throat tightened.
A moment of silence stretched between them, filled only by the crackle of the fireplace.
Megatron’s gaze was fixed on her—not her body, not her divinity, but her.
He seemed like he wanted to say something. Instead, he stood up suddenly, the motion sharp and heavy. His hands were clenched at his sides.
“You nearly died,” he muttered.
“I didn’t.”
“But you could have.” The edge in his voice was sharper than steel, and he turned to face her fully, the firelight reflecting in his red eyes. “And I had no way of feeling it. No bond. No link. Just raw instinct telling me something was wrong. That’s not good enough.”
Violet arched a brow, even as she pressed a kiss to Akos’s hair. “Is that your way of asking to bond with me?”
“I’m demanding it,” he growled. “For your sake. For his .”
She blinked, stunned by the sheer audacity of it—but even more so by the fear barely hidden beneath his words.
Then came the second blow.
“I also want to be listed as the sire on his record,” Megatron said. “Even if I’m not.”
Violet stared at him.
“If anything ever happens to you,” he continued, voice low, “I want to ensure no one tries to take him from me. From Kaon. I want it written in law that he’s mine. That you chose me.”
He paused, then said quietly, “You don’t have to stop sleeping with whoever you want. You don’t have to love me. But I need this.”
Her spark beat wildly in her chest.
Because this was no longer the careful game they’d both played.
This was real.
The great Megatron—warrior, gladiator, would-be king—was laying down his last remaining armor. And underneath it all, Violet saw it clearly now.
He had fallen for her.
Not in the flowers-and-promises kind of way, but in a way that made him restless when she was hurt, reckless when she was gone, and uncharacteristically protective of something that did not belong to him—until now.
She looked down at Akos, who had drifted back to sleep against her chest. For the first time since she had given birth, she realized that perhaps... perhaps she wasn’t doing this alone after all.
“I’ll consider it,” she said softly.
Megatron didn’t reply. But he didn’t press her, either.
Instead, he sank back into the armchair next to her bed and observed her in silence—like a soldier standing guard.
And for now, that was enough.
The room was silent save for the low hum of the bonding chamber’s inner mechanisms, a sacred place carved deep within the heart of Kaon’s palace. Far from the thrones, far from the whispers of nobles and the weight of expectation, here, only two remained. No audience. No priests. No fanfare.
Just Violet and Megatron.
He stood before her with his helm lowered, stripped of his battle armor and formal plating. His crimson optics were dimmer now, softer in this light, though still burning with restrained intensity. He said nothing, merely awaited her decision, even now unwilling to take what she did not give freely.
Violet’s fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the small, silver stylus.
With a single stroke across the datapad, she signed the final line of the legal decree—naming Megatron as Akos’s sire. Not as a placeholder. Not as a political front. But as a choice. Her choice.
The screen blinked softly, confirming the record.
She looked up at him then, her voice barely above a whisper. “Are you ready?”
Megatron nodded once, stepping forward. Their palms met—his massive hand closing around hers, rough and calloused from years in the gladiator pits. And yet, his grip was careful. Almost reverent.
A low pulse reverberated through the chamber as the old mechanisms responded to their touch. Glowing circuitry in the floor lit beneath them, encircling the pair in luminous crimson and violet.
Violet inhaled sharply as she felt it—the spark within her stirring.
The spark bond ritual began to pull at them, tugging the very essence of who they were into the open.
Energy gathered between their clasped hands, and then, slowly—achingly slowly—their chests began to glow, their sparks rising into view.
Megatron’s spark was deep red and thunderous in color, dense like molten ore. It pulsed steadily, powerfully, like the beat of a war drum. There were ridges of black shadow coiled tightly around its edges—scars, memories, rage. But at the center burned something brighter. A molten gold streak, buried deep, flickering like the first flame of a star refusing to die.
Violet’s spark was a swirling helix of violet and black. It shimmered with divine energy, flecks of obsidian and amethyst dancing around the core like smoke drawn into a spiral. But as she reached for him, her spark pulsed in sync with his—flaring with a sudden, radiant flare of purple flame, as if it had waited its entire existence for this match.
The moment they touched— truly touched—through their exposed sparks, the bond snapped into place.
Pain and ecstasy. Fury and peace. Everything they were—everything they had ever endured—flooded between them in an instant.
Megatron gasped, staggering slightly, not from weakness but the sheer force of it. Of her. Of them.
His spark flared white-hot as it merged with hers, threads of power knitting between them like a tapestry of fire and shadow.
Violet clenched her jaw as tears burned the corners of her eyes. Not from pain. From release. The quiet, searing surrender of walls crumbling that had once held her soul intact.
They stood motionless for what felt like hours.
Bound.
Entwined.
When the energy finally settled, their sparks dimmed—but never returned to their original shape. Each bore the marks of the other now. Megatron’s spark shimmered with a soft violet ring at its edge. And Violet’s spark bore a single, crimson stripe pulsing in rhythm with her own.
They were whole.
Violet let out a slow breath and lowered her gaze from the fading light between them. Megatron said nothing—but his hand did not leave hers.
When he finally spoke, it was low and hoarse, the voice of a warrior who had crossed every battlefield and somehow still stood.
“You are mine now,” he said.
Violet looked up, her expression unreadable.
And then, with an almost cruel smile, she whispered back, “And you are mine.”
The garden had been chosen deliberately—neutral, open, and filled with the scent of blooming steel-petaled flowers that only grew in Kaon’s artificially enhanced soil. There were no courtiers, no guards within earshot, only the wind whistling through the high archways and the distant hum of the city pulsing beneath the cliffs.
Aloria arrived first, radiant in her goddess-given glow, with her golden skin catching the light like dawn incarnate. Her aura pulsed faintly, restrained now, yet never fully dimmed. She stood near the marble bench overlooking the koi pool, where Anteia and Akos played under the watchful eyes of nursemaids positioned just out of sight.
Violet entered a moment later, enveloped in her usual shadow-toned elegance, though something about her seemed different. Her gait remained smooth and confident, but there was a tightness in her shoulders—a tension just beneath the surface. Her transformation had not left her unscathed. The purple-black embers of Unicron’s mark still coiled faintly beneath her skin like smoke behind glass.
The moment their eyes met, the formal air they were expected to uphold cracked.
“I didn’t think you’d come in person,” Violet said coolly, folding her arms as she approached. “I assumed you’d summon me from some divine mountaintop now that you glow.”
“And I assumed you’d bite the head off anyone who tried to keep me from you,” Aloria replied, her voice softer. “We both know subtlety isn’t our strength.”
A dry smile touched Violet’s lips but didn’t reach her eyes.
The conversation paused as both women turned to watch their children. Akos was tugging at Anteia’s braids with all the persistence of a Kaonian prince who had just discovered the concept of “sharing,” and Anteia was not impressed. Violet smirked faintly at the sight, while Aloria sighed like a woman already predicting a thousand future headaches.
“I didn’t ask you here just for them,” Aloria said suddenly, her voice lowering now. “I needed to see you. Alone.”
Violet arched a brow. “Is this about your glow-up? Should I bow?”
But then Aloria stepped forward, transcending etiquette and distance. Her hands found Violet’s arms—not rough, but firm—and pulled her close enough that they shared breath.
“You scare me sometimes,” Aloria whispered, not out of fear, but sorrow. “The weight you carry. The mask you wear. I saw what it did to you. What it almost did. And I swear to Primus—I swear —I will not let you fall into the dark.”
Violet stiffened in her hold.
Her first instinct was to laugh, roll her eyes, or say something flippant. But the words tangled in her throat like thorns.
Instead, she smiled. Wide. Perfect. Poisonous.
“I would never allow that to happen,” she said, and the lie left her mouth so smoothly it almost felt like truth. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m always in control.”
Aloria didn’t challenge her. She just held her a moment longer before letting her go.
They stood silently as their children giggled by the fountain, unaware of the threads being pulled around them.
And far above, the storm clouds of fate began to gather.
The clash of metal against metal reverberated through the reinforced chamber as Soundwave crouched low, narrowly evading Megatron’s strike. Their sparring sessions had become more frequent since the transformation—part distraction, part preparation for whatever war the gods might summon next.
Megatron grunted, recovering his stance. “You’re slower than usual.”
Soundwave didn’t reply, at least not out loud. He never did.
But through their open link, a low-pitched chuckle vibrated throughout the space, followed by a flash of light from Soundwave’s visor as he shifted back into a defensive stance.
And then, softly down the bond , came the message meant only for her :
“For a moment, I thought you were going to kiss her. As if your mate isn't always watching.”
Aloria, halfway through a diplomatic sentence in the garden, faltered slightly. Her fingers twitched. Her breath caught enough to make Violet glance at her curiously.
“Behave,” she thought sharply, sending the heat of a mental glare down the bond.
“No promises.” The faintest echo of memory accompanied Soundwave’s reply—his optics observing her as she pulled Violet close, a hint of jealousy lurking beneath the humor.
Back in the arena, Megatron advanced once more, his strikes now hitting harder. Perhaps he had sensed the shift in the air.
“You’re distracted,” the Warlord said gruffly. “Problems?”
Soundwave ducked beneath a heavy blow, his blades flicking upward to meet Megatron’s arm with a satisfying clang . The shorter mech remained silent, but one word flashed across his visor in response:
“Mated.”
Megatron snorted. “Don’t remind me. One of them already drives me mad.”
As they reset their positions, his spark pulsed sharply, and through his bond with Violet, he sent a surge of emotion.
Not words, but possession. Fear. Frustration. A savage kind of affection he didn’t know how to name.
Violet paused mid-sentence in the garden, her throat tightening. Her spine straightened slightly, a hand drifting to the hollow of her throat. “You’re thinking too loudly,” she murmured down their bond, trying to sound annoyed, but the warmth in her tone betrayed her.
“I’m thinking about how long you left me.” Megatron’s voice growled in her mind like embers beneath iron. “Don’t do it again.”
Violet’s lips parted, her eyes darkening. “It was a week, Megatron.”
“Too long.”
A beat passed. Then another.
Finally, she muttered, “ Possessive brute,” and Megatron only responded with a guttural rumble of satisfaction and something that might’ve been affection—if it weren’t wrapped in so much fire.
The scent of heated metal still lingered as the two warriors sat in silence, the cooling systems hissing faintly while energy crackled off their plating. Soundwave leaned against a reinforced pillar with his blade resting across his back and his visor dimmed. Megatron stood beside a console, polishing his own blade. Neither spoke at first—not with words.
Eventually, Megatron broke the silence.
“Violet’s been... different,” he said, rolling his shoulder. “Since the transformation. Still herself. Still fire. But… deeper. Hungrier.” He paused, lips curling into something half between a sneer and a smile. “She nearly tore my back open last night.”
A flicker crossed Soundwave’s visor—an oscillating wave pattern that conveyed amused static. There was a pause, followed by a slow playback of a past recording of Aloria’s voice, sultry and soft:
“You’re mine, Soundwave. Every inch.”
Megatron gave a low laugh. “So she talks like that too, does she?”
Soundwave tilted his head, his visor flashing a slow, deliberate pulsing line of affirmation. Another voice clip followed, this time distorted, from much earlier in the bond:
“Do that again and I swear I’ll make you beg.”
Megatron chuckled again, shaking his head. “Hard to believe we ended up here. You, bonded to a goddess. Me, pretending I’m only playing consort while my spark howls every time she touches me.”
The warrior glanced at Soundwave, his tone quieter now. “I meant it, you know. When I asked to be marked as Akos’s sire. I didn’t just do that for her. I did that for me .”
Soundwave didn’t respond with sound but with emotion. A pulse traveled through the bond with Aloria— longing . Then another flicker of a moment he’d replayed far too many times: Aloria in his arms, beautiful and breathless, just before their sparks merged. His fingers twitched with restraint.
He hadn’t touched her since the transformation.
Megatron watched him and smirked knowingly. “It’s been too long for you, hasn’t it?”
A beat. Then Soundwave played a deep, warbled sound clip- “Affirmative.”
Megatron barked out a short laugh. “And here I thought you were the patient one.”
Soundwave's visor glowed brightly for a moment before dimming. He finally communicated in his own silent manner—a blend of audio clips and psychic impressions.
“Patience ends tonight.”
Megatron leaned back, a smirk curling across his mouth. “Then I’d suggest reinforcing the bedframe. I’ve already replaced two.”
Soundwave didn’t respond to that. However, the surge of energy that radiated from his frame spoke volumes.
The tower was quiet. Not the silence of absence, but the kind that hummed with sleeping machinery and low starlight filtering through glass-paneled ceilings. Iacon’s upper spires rarely stirred at this hour, and even the energy pulses of the city below seemed distant and muffled—as if the world itself were holding its breath.
Aloria stood by the tall arched window, her robes loose around her shoulders, her hair unbound and spilling down her back like a river of starlit copper. The gold necklace at her throat glowed faintly with her pulse, a remnant of the divine spark that now lived inside her—Primus’s blessing, and her burden.
She had not heard him come closer. She rarely did when he didn’t want her to. But the warmth blooming at her back was unmistakable.
“Soundwave,” she murmured, her voice softer than the shadows. “You’re late.”
“I stayed behind to finish scanning the council’s reports,” he said, his tone low but not distant. She could hear the subtle modulation of his holoform—more breath, more texture, like a man and not a machine.
When she turned, he was already there, leaning against the curved wall beside the door, arms folded, eyes dim. His holoform tonight was simpler than usual—tunic, gloves, loose slacks. Still elegant. Still precise. But something about the way he looked at her was different.
Not reverence. Not awe. Hunger.
“…What is it?” she asked softly, stepping toward him, confused yet calm. “Did something happen while you were sparring?”
“No.” His voice was now rougher, shaped by intention. “Nothing happened. That is the problem.”
She tilted her head, unsure.
And then he crossed the room in three long strides and kissed her.
It wasn’t urgent or demanding, but it was decisive. His gloved hand slid to the curve of her jaw, tilting her face up, his thumb brushing along her cheek. She gasped, but he didn’t pull away; instead, he deepened the kiss, savoring her like he hadn’t in cycles.
When he finally pulled back, her lips parted in stunned breath, and he didn’t give her a chance to speak.
“You’ve changed,” Soundwave said quietly, his voice like static wrapped in silk. “They see a goddess now. A symbol. Untouchable. Holy.”
Her throat bobbed. “I… am, now.”
“Maybe. But you are still mine. ”
Her knees nearly buckled. Not from his words—though those alone would’ve undone her—but from the heat behind them. The choice. The claim.
“You haven’t touched me since I changed,” she whispered, unable to stop herself from reaching for him. “I thought you didn’t want to.”
He caught her hand, raised it, and pressed a kiss into her palm, the touch of his lips both reverent and real.
“I wanted to be sure,” he said. “That you still wanted me. Not for worship. Not out of gratitude. You. ”
Aloria gazed up at him, golden sparks shimmering behind her pupils.
“Then come to bed,” she breathed, her voice shaking. “And stop waiting for permission I already gave you.”
His gaze flickered once—perhaps amusement, perhaps relief—and then he gently, unhurriedly guided her toward the couch beside the window. Not their bed, not yet. Somewhere soft. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere they could see each other.
And for the first time since she had become something more than mortal, Soundwave kissed her like a male reclaiming a piece of his soul.
And Aloria, goddess or not, melted for him.