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Chapter Text

The land of Kaon shined beneath the golden glow of the Cybertronian heavens, and the castle that stood tall and mighty gleamed under the radiant light. Inside, loyal subjects moved through its vast halls, serving the ruler of this powerful land — the king seated upon his throne, bathed in daylight that shimmered like flowing diamonds against the skin of his deep black and royal purple frame. His piercing silver and the depth of his shining crimson optics gleamed as he sat in his throne of dominance and power. At his sides stood his loyal lieutenant generals, silent and unwavering, their red optics mirroring the king of the mighty utopian land.

Scourge stood beside his king, his large silver-white wings folded behind him, his gaze blank of emotion. To the other side stood the king’s general and mate, Cyclonus — his armor a pale lavender hue, his eyes reflecting the same silent strength that filled the grand throne room.

The king sat tall and proud, and all before him — loyal subjects and envious rivals alike — showed nothing but undying devotion. Many longed to have such a ruler, to be near him, to earn his favor, and perhaps, his spark. But only one mech had ever earned that privilege. Only one had melted the cold fortress of his spark.

Oh, how many had tried — and how many had failed. For only Cyclonus resided within his spark. Only Cyclonus would ever reside within his spark.

The massive doors creaked open, and a sly smile played upon the king’s face as the Vehicon guards entered, walking in unison, their frames tall and movements precise.

The king’s voice rumbled low. “What have you brought me, my pets?” he pondered.

One of the Vehicons bowed deeply. “Lord Galvatronus, we have another”

The guards stepped aside, revealing a mech from a distant land. He walked forward slowly, his helm bowed in submission. Galvatronus, his lieutenants, and the Vehicons could already smell the faint, sweet scent of fear wafting from the trembling mech with the smell of his energon, the metallic tang of dread flowing through his lines.

The king’s lips curled into a deep purr. “Mmm...your energon smells divine, weakling,” he snarled. The trembling mech froze under his voice. “Do tell...why have you come here?”

The mech’s vents hitched, his armor trembling as though he stood before Unicron himself. Yet, with great effort, he lifted his gaze just enough to face the king of Kaon. “Your...your majesty...I have a favor...to ask of you”

The king tilted his crowned helm, the corner of his mouth curving into a mock of satisfaction. “And what is that, weakling?”

The guest shuddered, gathering the last fragments of courage left in his trembling spark. “I...I wish...to have your power,” he murmured, his voice quivering in desperation. “I wish for you to...have me in your fangs and grant me your immortal strength”

The throne room fell silent. 

The king’s smirk widened slowly, wickedly. His generals and Vehicons stood motionless as the mech knelt before him, pleading with optics wide and filled with delirious longing — for power, for eternity, for glory.

Galvatronus extended his silver servo, the daggered tips of his claws glinting in the dim light. He curled one digit, beckoning. “Approach me”

The trembling mech inhaled shakily and obeyed, his steps unsteady until he dropped to his knees before the throne. His optics were wide, unfocused — consumed by awe and terror.

The king rose slowly from his throne, his long stride predatory and graceful. 

The mech’s voice cracked as he whispered, “Please...please...give me your power...I will be loyal...please...I’ll do anything...my lord...please...I’ll do anything...I am loyal...I will be loyal...”

Galvatronus’s smirk darkened. “Silence your words,” he commanded.

The trembling mech obeyed instantly.

The king leaned forward, studying him as though he were a creature under glass. His optics glowed brighter, head tilting from side to side in slow, measured fascination — a predator studying its prey. Then, with deliberate grace, his silver claws trailed along the mech’s cheekplates, cold and sharp.

“Have no fear of me,” the king cooed, his tone suddenly gentle — deceitfully so. “For you are safe...and you will serve me well”

The mech exhaled shakily, a fragile smile forming as relief washed through him. “Thank you...” he whispered, his frame beginning to relax.

And then, in the space of a breath—

Fangs extended.

A hiss filled the air.

And the king struck.

With no warning, his fangs sank deep into the mech’s neck cables, piercing through his core feedlines. The victim gasped, his vents locking, frame convulsing as energon burst in a glowing stream, drawn swiftly into the king’s hungry mouth.

Galvatronus growled, savoring the metallic sweetness, draining until the final pulse slowed beneath his fangs. Then, with a soft sigh of satisfaction, he pulled back — his lips and fangs stained pink with fresh energon.

He smiled — dark, triumphant, radiant in his cruelty and dropped the drained mech to the floor. The victim spasmed, gasping weakly, his vents clogged, his optics flickering dim until stillness claimed him.

The guards did not flinch.

The king purred, licking his fangs slowly, crimson optics glowing like molten glass. He turned his gaze to the fallen mech. “There is the gift you wished for,” he murmured, voice low and darkly melodic. “You best show your gratitude well...and do not make me regret it”

Then, turning to the Vehicons, he ordered, “Remove him.”

“Yes, Lord Galvatronus,” they replied in unison. They each grabbed the mech’s arms and dragged his lifeless frame away into the cold shadows beyond the grand throne room.

Cyclonus watched his mate leave the throne room and turned to the mech being dragged away by the two Vehicons. He stood still for a moment, his optics following them before lowering his helm.

He had wished for this many times — but Galvatronus always told him to wait.

Wait, he says. Always wait. Until finally it can happen. But when? He wanted it now. He wanted one now.

He then heard footsteps, and there beside him stood Scourge — his wings of pure silver-white glinting, his armor painted with hues of blue and steel, and his optics unchanged, forever steady before their king.

“Try,” Scourge spoke simply.

Cyclonus stared at the tracker, then turned his gaze to where his king had departed. He inhaled a deep vent, gathering courage.

He wished to have one — with his king.

So he stepped forward and followed. He walked through the long, dim halls until he found Galvatronus standing on the grand balcony with another of his generals. Beyond them stretched the wide fields of his kingdom, glimmering beneath the golden light of the Cybertronian sky.

Cyclonus paused, hesitation flickering within him. He longed to have his mate — his king — by his side again, as he once had. But ever since the king’s rise, he had felt the distance growing, as if Galvatronus were drifting further away, buried beneath the weight of power and the crown they both once dreamed of sharing.

He shook his helm and stepped forward.

Galvatronus was speaking with Straxus, their voices low, until Straxus noticed the approaching shadow behind his sire-king. He halted his words, and Galvatronus turned his helm slightly over his shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked, his tone edged and feral.

Cyclonus emerged fully into the light, and the king’s glare of irritation softened as he saw who it was. The sword-general stepped forward, his optics locked on his mate. “Straxus...I wish to have my mate back and a moment with him,” he commanded firmly, stepping onto the balcony, never breaking his gaze. “Alone”

Straxus looked between them, then gave a silent nod before stepping back into the shadows. There, Scourge and Strika waited — Strika’s frame still and her slit optics narrowed upon the two who remained. The three generals stood in silence, watching, before Straxus turned and left, followed by Strika, though Scourge lingered.

Galvatronus faced his mate again, his tone softening into something gentler, more familiar. “What is it, Cyclonus?”

Cyclonus walked closer, his optics bright, his tone trembling between longing and defiance. “Why you ask of what you already know?”

Galvatronus’s expression hardened, a faint snarl forming — but Cyclonus stepped closer still.

“Galvatronus...all I wish from you is to bear—”

Galvatronus turned away sharply, a deeper snarl rumbling through his vents, but Cyclonus’s voice burst out, fierce and desperate. “—a sparkling, Galvatronus!”

He exhaled, placing his servos against the marble balustrade, staring out at the horizon. “And I am not wishing to have this conversation that will only lead us to argue again, Cyclonus. Now is not the time”

Cyclonus glared, his helm lowering.

The king glanced back at him, his expression unreadable, then sighed and turned once more toward his kingdom. “Why so desperate?” he asked quietly. “Why do you wish for one so soon? We have all the time in the world for such a request”

“I know,” Cyclonus replied stubbornly, his voice thick with longing. “But I wish to have one now — with you, Galvatronus”

Galvatronus’s tone grew strict. “We have eternity, Cyclonus. All you need is patience, and when the time comes, we will have one. But now is not the time. The best choice is to wait”

Cyclonus’s optics flared, anger burning through his spark. “You speak to me just like my own creators did when I was their prince — not their son,” he barked. “Back when I was their prince, they treated me as a title, not as a soul. They kept me locked in the palace for ‘protection,’ never letting me take one step beyond its walls. They would not let me speak unless spoken to, forced me to meet those they arranged, to play the role they carved for me. They never let me be free!” His tone grew colder, eyes hardened. “I am not that same prince anymore. I no longer have a throne — only a sword as my true calling. I am not a prince anymore. Have I not proven that enough?”

Galvatronus turned slowly and rested his large servo against Cyclonus’s cheek, his tone soft. “You are as beautiful as the day I met you,” he murmured. “And you are far more than I ever thought you to be”

Cyclonus’s glare softened, a faint smile flickering as he placed his servo atop his mate’s and lowered his gaze. “I...I just wish to have a little one with you,” he confessed quietly. “To have something that crowns our love for one another. I love you, as you love me...and I want something to show it”

Galvatronus stared at him, unsure what to say, his spark weighed with unspoken thoughts.

Cyclonus watched him — his silence, his distance — and bowed his helm, voice trembling. “Or perhaps...now that you have all the power, and everything else...” he hesitated, the words breaking. “...you have finally grown tired of me.”

Galvatronus reached forward, gripping both his shoulders, his voice steady and solemn. “Cyclonus, I love you. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing,” he vowed.

Cyclonus lifted his gaze, his optics meeting the deep crimson glow of his king’s.

Galvatronus’s tone softened again as he leaned forward, their forehelms pressing gently together. “Do not dare believe such things. I love you — and I wish to have one with you. But right now, I must focus on my kingdom. I must ensure Cybertron itself bends to our reign. And when that day comes, we will have our heir — one who will inherit all of Cybertron, and all the power that will belong to him. Someday we will have one, my love...and I know it will be as beautiful and as strong...” he smiled faintly, “...and just as headstrong as you”

“Hmph,” Cyclonus scoffed lightly. “And I am sure our little one will be as fierce as you”

Galvatronus smirked. “And that is what will make our little one beautiful, mighty, and fair in this land”

They leaned close, and their lips pressed — a silent promise beneath the dim golden glow that bathed the balcony.

In the shadows, the general tracker still watched, who lingered a moment longer, watching the two in quiet secrecy, his spark filled with a silent devotion he could never voice. Then, at last, he turned and departed into the dark.

***

The chamber fell to silence, and Galvatronus’ crimson optics dimmed to a dull glow. His once-unyielding frame, the symbol of Kaon’s might and pride, trembled. Static spiraled through his vision, and his helm turned weakly as faint echoes clawed at his processor. He could no longer hear the frantic call of his mate beyond the haze.

“Cyc…lo…nus…”

What was happening? He felt so…spent. His own frame suddenly grew heavy, burdened by a weight he could not name. Every servo, every joint, ached as if drained of all energy. He felt hollow, emptied, as though his spark had been bled dry. He needed to…to rest, to let himself sink into the shadows, to drift where the currents of stillness might cradle him, even if only for a fleeting moment.

In an instant, the curse of the god of chaos sank its claws into him. His spark convulsed—and the great king collapsed, his body striking the floor before being caught by his mate.

“Galvatronus? Galvatronus? Galvatron!” Cyclonus cried out, his voice shaking as he pulled him close. “My love! My love, what has happened?! What’s wrong?!” he roared, shaking him as panic rose in his vents. “Galvatronus! Galvatron! Answer me! I command you! Wake up!”

Only moments ago he had stood tall—alive, fierce, untouchable. Now he lay still in Cyclonus’ arms, silent as death. His spark was fading, sinking into a pit of darkness too deep to reach.

Scourge arrived at the sound of his cries, optics wide with dread as he beheld his general kneeling, clutching the fallen king. “Cyclonus, what happened?!” he rasped, dropping to his knees.

“My love, please!” Cyclonus begged. “Galvatron, wake up! Wake up!”

Scourge joined his plea, his voice trembling. “My king! King Galvatronus! Can you hear us? Wake up!”

But there was nothing. No movement, no breath, no light. His optics—once burning with red flame—were black as ash, his mighty frame now heavy and lifeless.

Cyclonus clutched him tighter, shaking him violently, his voice cracking. “Galvatron! Please wake up!” he screamed. “Guards! Guards, help! Guards!”

Yet no one answered.

Scourge turned, searching for aid, but what he saw froze his spark—across the hall, the guards and servants fell where they stood. One by one, like metal statues crumbling into dust, they dropped to the floor.

A low hum rippled through Kaon—an ancient, eerie vibration, like the dying breath of a world. It spread through the streets like a plague, consuming every spark in its path. Mechs and femmes collapsed mid-step, their optics dimming, their sparks flickering out like dying embers.

Scourge could only stare, his frame rigid with terror, his voice lost as he whispered, “Primus...what is happening…?”

From the far halls, Straxus ran in, shouting, “Scourge! What is happening?! What’s happened to Lord Galvatronus?!” But even his roar was swallowed by the stillness.

Strika, elsewhere in the citadel, turned a corner to find her world collapsing. Her warriors—her kin—were falling all around her, and she ran toward the one spark she could not lose. She found him kneeling, his armor pale, his optics flickering weakly.

“St...” he murmured, voice frail as static. “...Strika...”

She dropped beside him, taking his servo of his skeletal digits in trembling hand. “My dear one,” she whispered.

Obsidian’s voice was faint, fading with every word. “My...love...what...is...happening...to me...? I...I feel...tired...I’ve never...felt this before...I can’t...feel you...I can’t...see you...”

Strika pressed herself against him, clutching him close. “My love, I’m here. I’m right here. Can you feel me now? Can you feel me touching you?”

“No...”

Her spark shattered. “You must fight this,” she pleaded softly, her words trembling like glass. “Please...stay with me...”

He smiled faintly, his optics dimming to gray. “Everything...is...blurry...I...feel so...tired...I think...I will... rest...for a while...” His helm fell against her shoulder, his spark flickering out into silence.

“My...love?” she whispered, but no answer came.

Cyclonus, still holding his mate, only rocked him close. Then, with trembling optics, he noticed his spark—silent, unmoving, as though it no longer beat. “My love...I love you...Come back” he whispered, voice breaking, and without looking at the dim glow of his fallen king, he pressed his lips deep against Galvatronus’. 

But there was nothing—no warmth, no life, no pulse. 

He pulled away, pressing his face to the broad chestplate that once rose with life, power, and pride. “My...love, please...come back...Galvatronus, please come back…”

Yes…Yell...scream...do all you please,” it whispered. “For none of your kingdom will ever hear your cries. You shall suffer, and watch your world decay into dust and grave. Your king’s spark—like your own—is now mine. In my grasp shall all of Kaon wither...and fall.

The echo lingered long after all else had stilled—the very voice of Unicron, the dark god of endings.

Kaon—once the city of steel and fire—now has fallen asleep. The forges went dark, the lights went cold, and what had been a kingdom of power became a mausoleum of ash and silence.

***

Long after the sparks of the kingdom had dimmed under the hand of the god of chaos, and many moons and suns had passed while the kingdom lay stilled in silence and slumber, the world itself seemed caught in a frozen breath.

Under the pale gaze of the moon, an army moved silently, ghostlike, their frames gleaming faintly in the silver light. Metal pedes clanked softly against the cracked black ground, a brittle symphony beneath the churning clouds, the ever-watchful stars, and the scent of emptiness that lingered in the air.

The leader, armor shining even in the dim, halted. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face as he pointed his sword toward a distant glow. “There it is,” he said.

“The entrance to the sleeping kingdom of Kaon,” he sneered. “To the sleeping war king of Kaon…and his kingdom and power…is ours. Mine”

“My lord…are you sure?” a soldier whispered, optics flickering nervously. “The land itself…it is cursed by Unicron’s dark magic. The land hungers for sparks…and—”

The general’s gaze hardened. He sneered, mocking the fear. “Bah! Coward! Stories for weaklings like you! We shall claim Kaon for our own! Forward!”

He stepped first, daring to move ahead.

The army’s cores shivered, but they followed, slowly, gripping weapons and visions of conquest burning in their sparks. The shards of dark purple crystals, jagged and pulsing faintly, jutted from the ground like frozen claws, thrumming with the lifeblood of the god-bringer of chaos. Each shard seemed alive, calling, begging for sparks to devour.

They dared not touch.

Their optics swept every shadow, every corner of the dark garden, and the acrid scent of decay and burnt ozone filled the air. The glow of the shards intensified as if they were watching, judging, waiting.

“Steady,” murmured the general. “We are near victory”

The air shifted suddenly, tense and heavy. A figure stood before them, bathed in the moonlight. Silver wings stretched wide behind him, optics gleaming red, his frame impossibly tall, radiating a predatory, unnatural stillness.

The soldiers froze.

The general barked. “Who are you?”

The winged figure remained silent, his presence pressing down like a living shadow. 

“Turn back…and perhaps you will live to see the dawn,” he hissed, each word vibrating through the ground beneath them.

The general barked a laugh, sharp and defiant. “Coward! You dare order me to turn back? You are alone, and I have an army to tear you apart! Move aside!”

A slow sneer curved the winged figure’s face. His vents echoed with a low, resonant laugh, cold and unyielding, and even the general shivered. Then the laugh dropped into silence, replaced by a menacing snarl. “Then…you have met your tomb”

Then, as his words ended, the ground beneath their pedes began to shake. The flowing glow of the purple crystals flared, shining with a brilliance that rivaled both sun and moon. The tremors deepened, rumbling like the wrath of the old gods, and the army faltered. Yet the winged one only sneered—and in mere seconds—

A serrated, gnarled servo erupted from the hollow ground. The army cried out in alarm as another broke free, then another, until the whole garden of dark energon quaked. Cracks split wide as more burst forth from the depths.

Jagged claws tore their way out of the soil. The army froze, optics wide, frames locked, their sparks heavy with dread—no longer feeling, no longer even alive.

Twisted shapes rose before them, malformed and horrific. Armor was fused with the sickly glow of dark energon; spines and blades gleamed with corruption. Their optics were blank—void of life—reflecting only the purple gleam of the cursed crystals. Denta gnashed in eternal malice, their hunger boundless, endless.

The army could not move. Could not breathe. Could only stare. The will to fight, to conquer, to seize the legend—they all withered into dust.

From among the risen, one staggered forward. With a trembling hiss, it raised its helm. Its torn mouth split into a gnarled snarl. 

“Need...Energon” With an eerie screech, its optics flared wide, its jaw unhinged, and from within lashed a long, writhing tentacle. In a heartbeat, the many charged.

The general leader shouted, “Attack! Attack! Attack! Fire! Fire!”

Some soldiers screamed and fled; others were seized mid-transformation. The general turned—horror twisting his features—as he saw his warriors dragged into the dark by the dead. Their screams echoed through the crystalline shadows. Weapons fired but sputtered uselessly, the corrupted ground swallowing the energy. The creatures lumbered forward, relentless.

“Energon! Need...Energon! Want Energon!”

One soldier fell, pinned beneath a Terrorcon’s weight. He screamed as small, sharp tendrils pierced his armor, draining him. His energon seeped away in glowing streams—until he was limp, lifeless, and still.

Another turned to fire, but his comrade struck first—now one of the unliving. “Energon!” the once-soldier howled, and soon he too would rise, hollow and damned.

The shadows kept moving, swift and merciless. The army tried to regroup, to retreat—but the land betrayed them, devouring them all.

Crystals impaled. Limbs tore. Unholy roars filled the air. From the cliffs of glowing energon, the winged horrors descended—silent, precise, pitiless. Their crimson optics cut through the darkness as they struck and tore with lethal grace.

Under the twin moons, the screams echoed, then faded into silence.

The general leader lay broken, specked with energon. His arm torn away, energon pooling beneath him, optics wide and blank. He crawled feebly—then froze as a shadow loomed above. A cold servo gripped his neck and lifted him into the air.

The figure before him—sword in one servo, blade stained in energon—was regal and dreadful. His optics glowed crimson, colder than winter’s heart. Behind him, his generals stood in stillness, while the Terrorcons feasted on the fallen, feeding the curse that bound them all.

“Many believed they could take our home. Take our land. Take my mate’s legacy, and the world he created...for yourself,” he snarled. “But you were all wrong—fools, every one of you”

“Please...please...” the general stammered, trembling. “I’ll leave...I’ll never return...I promise...please, let me live...please...I won’t come back...please...”

Cyclonus glared down at him, his fangs glinting in the dim. “No one escapes”

He sank his fangs deep into the mech’s neck. The general’s scream died swiftly. The other generals of the King of Kaon stood silent, their plates and blades dripping fresh pink energon.

In the castle, the halls were covered in dust and decay. Mechs and femmes lay where they had fallen—silent, motionless, trapped in eternal slumber. And in the far tower, beneath the moonlight’s cold glow, the king slept within a coffin of glass.

Beside the coffin, a small, hunched green mech jittered and shivered, optics wide and fevered. “Wake...wake...wake, Lord Galvatronus...” he murmured, twitching madly. “Wake my Lord...wake...wake...” 

But the king did not stir. Not once. 

The doors creaked open. The hunchback turned, chittering madly. “My masters! My masters! Invading army...ended! My masters! Kingdom saved! Lord Galvatronus saved!”

They ignored him. The one who walked nearest to the coffin turned to the drone and cooed softly. “Ah...yes, my little friend. Our kingdom remains untouched by invaders”

Igor giggled maniacally as Scourge, Strika, and Straxus moved past him. They alone had been spared by the Chaos Bringer—to live and suffer, forever watching their kingdom and king bound in endless slumber.

Cyclonus approached the coffin. His cold optics softened as he gazed upon his mate. He leaned close, placing his servo against the glass, brushing it slowly, lovingly. His helm bowed, and his voice fell to a whisper. 

“My love...I hope you are dreaming well…and dreaming of me”

Scourge stepped forward and laid a wing gently over Cyclonus’s frame while he leaned against the glass beside him. The others stood in silence.

The tower slept. The castle slept. The cursed kingdom slept—under the silent glow of the dark energon.

And far beneath the earth, the unliving waited—silent and patient—for another to trespass. For another to feed the curse.

***

Still, after countless cycles and many moons and suns had passed—by the turning of countless stars and orbits—time drifted beyond memory. In the far lands, not Kaon but a land distant and hidden, there stood a tall, mysterious tower castle. It was encircled by mighty mountains and deep forests, and within its walls lingered a secret—something royal, something thought long lost, yet still alive with quiet life.

“Hah!” a young and lively voice exclaimed, swinging his makeshift sword. “Take that! And that! And that! Yah!”

The young mech, a sparkling of grey and crimson plating, held his crafted weapon high with pride. 

“I am the champion for all of Cybertron to remember my name!” he proclaimed triumphantly. “All of Cybertron will hear this name! For I am—”

Then—a stern voice echoed. “Megatronus!”

The young mech jolted. “Yikes!” he yelped, stumbling backward as his sword flew from his servo—only to be caught midair by her hand.

Lying on the floor, he looked up at her, optics wide, then quickly stood straight, hiding his servos behind his back with an innocent smile. “Oh, Strika, I was just...I was just...I was just doing more of my playing” He shook his helm. “I—I mean my training”

Strika’s optics narrowed as she replied, “I believe even the King of Kaon never let surprises make him stumble or lose his weapon. He was stealth and might itself—his enemies never saw him coming. Yet you,” she said firmly while holding the sword, “let yourself be caught off guard and lost your only weapon for defense, young one”

Megatronus only grinned, a mischievous giggle escaping him. 

Strika, though forged of iron and war, felt her spark soften as she had countless times since raising this young mech—the heir of her fallen king and general. Dearly, as her own. Seeing him as her own…and her dear consort one. 

“And I believe,” she added, “you should be in recharge”

Megatronus pouted, stubbornly crossing his arms. “But Strika...I don’t want to go to recharge. I’m old enough! I bet King Galvatronus never let anyone tell him to go to recharge when he was my cycling age!”

Strika’s helm tilted slightly—if she could, she might have smiled. “Yes. That may be true,” she replied, “but even one as mighty as he—and as you will be—must rest, young one”

Megatronus lifted his chin proudly. “Well, someday I’ll be just like the King of Kaon! Someday everyone will remember the name—Megatronus!”

Strika approached him, her heavy frame softening as she leaned down and drew him into her arms. “I’m sure you will, young one”

Their forehelms touched, and Megatronus smiled as she murmured gently, “I’m sure you will. And I am certain your creators would be proud of the strong mech you are becoming”

His smile faltered slightly. “Are you sure they love me? Are you sure they will come and I can finally meet them? Be with them? Are you sure...someday I’ll meet them?”

She looked at him quietly for a long moment before nodding. “I’m sure...”

He yawned softly, optics dimming as she held him closer.

“I’m sure someday you will...my prince” she whispered. “I wish they were both here to meet you, my young prince” 

Chapter Text

As they lay in the garden, optics one of silver that once mirrored the blue sky and one that glowed a familiar crimson, they remained like this, as if forever, uncaring of anything but each other, frames pressed close, smiles gracing their visages. Their vents breathed slowly, drawing in the fresh air and the delicate scent of roses.

It was their usual state, this quiet intimacy, a rhythm they had perfected together. Since Megatron had lost his former mate, this was indeed his new path—a beginning—and he felt his iron-cold spark melting in the warmth of his new mate. 

Tarn remained in memory, a half of him forever tethered to the past, yet Orion was his true half, the one who completed him.

Their aura scents merged as one, a silent comfort to those haunted by visions in slumber that one could scarcely comprehend, the violent death of a mate by his own weapon. Even the Decepticons had understood the danger of his former mate; even Megatron had felt the peril, and yet, now, that loss was only a shadow compared to the light before him.

The garden remained still, a pulsing silence beneath the vast expanse of empty blue sky, clouds drifting lazily across it.

Orion sighed blissfully and turned to face Megatron, eyes reflecting the sky. “You’ve been quiet lately”

Megatron turned his helm toward him. “Thinking. About many things”

“About what?” Orion asked.

Megatron leaned close, drawing him near, inhaling the richness of Orion’s spark. Orion leaned into him in return, their frames melding in subtle comfort.

“Just everything that is just nothing. Except you that is everything,” he murmured.

Orion smiled, savoring the words, feeling their weight and truth. How he loved Megatron—no one else could compare. No one else mattered. All the horrors of his past—days in Iacon, the imprisonment, the threats of death, the abductions, even Tarn—were gone, faded into memory. In this moment, he had found a home.

Their cores gleamed as they leaned closer, lips beginning a tender dance, the grass beneath them brushing softly as their embrace deepened.

Once, under the full moon, they had danced in a grand ballroom, light reflecting off their plated frames, shimmering and glowing, each reassured by the other’s presence, their scents mingling, frames pressed together. They had felt invincible.

Now, the past was nothing but a shadow; they were shielded in each other’s presence, like armor forged from trust and love, unbreakable.

They parted lips only slightly, holding each other closer, the garden silent around them. Orion shivered at the sheer strength and will of Megatron, hearing deep purrs vibrate through his frame, feeling arms wrapped around him like a sanctuary.

Oh, how he loved him. And the thought of it all—the escape from the lands of his origin, the distance from all that had hurt him—was a blessed peace, a gift to hold and cherish, far from where he had once been.

***

So beautiful and so strong he had grown to be—mighty as the mountains themselves, steadfast and radiant with promise and fair beauty. 

He had grown indeed. His scent was enchanting—so hauntingly wonderful that even from afar, he could still sense it.

The scent was stronger now, as potent and commanding as his frame had become. The lingering trace of his former mate had long since faded, replaced by the sacred fragrance of the one he now held dear.

His new mate looked so pure, so innocent—and seeing him thus filled his spark with contentment, a rare peace he had not known in countless cycles. 

Oh, how he wished they were here…to hold him close once more, to thank the new bond for bringing such calm to one who had long wandered in shadow.

The forest lay cloaked in dusk, the light of the dying sun veiled behind towering pines. His frame was hidden in the shadowed undergrowth, yet even there, a faint smile curved his lips as his optics remained fixed upon the pair.

He watched as the mech of crimson and cobalt brought laughter to the one of silver and scarlet—a sound like light itself breaking through an ancient storm. Such tenderness was a rare sight among warriors.

He waited. Patient, silent, still—waiting for the right moment to emerge from the dark.

Oh, if only they both were here indeed, to see how he had evolved, how he had become.

But he must wait. The time had not yet come.

His smile deepened.

At last, after so many eternal cycles lost to the void of memory and distance, he would see him again.

***

Inside, resting his helm upon his lap, his servo doing nothing but receiving his recharging mate’s gentle strokes, Orion kept his smile ever so tender upon him. His optics lingered softly on Megatron’s slumbering visage, listening to the faint rumbles that escaped the warlord’s vocalizer—low, purring sounds that told him Megatron could still feel his touch. He only hoped this simple act might soothe him.

Megatron’s dreams—and the weight they carried—had long taken their toll upon his stasis systems. He had confessed that his dreams were sometimes the same, yet at other times different, filled with fragments both remembered and forgotten within the haze of his exhausted processor.

Orion hoped this act might ease the burden. Day after day, as he always had, he remained near. He had been near ever since that terrible night—the abduction by Tarn and his small coven of the DJD, who vanished into shadow after witnessing their sire struck through the spark by their own grandsire. 

Tarn’s death had scarred Megatron for a brief cycle, yet healing requires time—time to adjust, time to accept the future that still unfolds. And through it all, Megatron loves his new mate—perhaps, in a thousand unspoken ways, far more deeply than he had ever loved Tarn.

He had been so long lost in the endless pursuit of conquest, the dream of ruling Cybertron and commanding his vast army of covens. But that dream had shattered, his legions scattered into millions of fragments—some vanished entirely, abandoning their sire and brethren, while others chose through their own logic to remain. He had dreamed of power, of sensory dominion, and yet those visions had withered into dust—abandoned dreams of conquest, wasted time that could never return.

And yet, after countless stellar cycles, a reward had come—a spark so pure, as if water itself had calmed the fury of his own burning fire.

But now…he only needed rest. Having Orion near brought him a fragile peace, a momentary quiet amid the storm. Perhaps it would still the endless visions that haunted his recharge cycle—the strange, recurring dreams that came and came again, as the seasons turn through each day. 

Surely they must mean something, as they are buried deep within his spark. 

But what? And why? And what meaning could such endless echoes hold?

For now, all that remained was the need to rest—only rest—beneath the gentle touch of the one who had brought him back from the cold silence of eternity.

Smiling still, his spark and entire frame from top to bottom were flooding with heat through his wires, cables, and core—his spark aflame at the sight of a rare peace upon his slumbering sire. Orion was about to slip away, to leave his mate in quiet rest, hoping that the dreams which so often interrupted Megatron’s recharge would, for once, not return to torment him.

But soon, a voice called, halting him.

“Is Lord Megatron recharging?”

Orion immediately turned, seeing only Blitzwing and Starscream, who both rammed their servos against the mouth of Lugnut. 

“Shh!” the Decepticons Knockout and Breakdown hissed in unison—joined by Orion’s older brother and friends, along with the other Decepticons who had chosen, for reasons of logic or perhaps undying loyalty, to remain. Perhaps it was just admiration that clouded even fear. Their sparks shivered at the towering sight of the one who had given them his dark power. Some, whose devotion knew no end and whose loyalty was unbreakable, had chosen to stay.

Orion let out a quiet, gentle giggle. They indeed did not want to disturb Megatron’s low power mode. He only twitched, tilting his helm slightly with a soft purr before falling silent again.

“Lugnut, keep it down!” Blitzwing hissed.

Lugnut mumbled something under the servos of his mate and coven members, his words still muffled and captive. Only Shockwave and Soundwave stood distant and silent.

Ultra Magnus, with a smirk, walked toward his brother as the others slowed to join. 

One of them asked, “How is your tall and dark and handsome doing?” Bumblebee smirked.

“I am doing fine, why thank you,” Starscream said proudly.

First who reacted suddenly and most were the Decepticons glared at the seeker, while Orion raised a ridge with a smirk of his own and the others stared at Starscream who quickly backpedaled. “Oh—Lord Megatron! Of course! How is Master, Orion?”

Orion smiled softly, giggling under his breath as he looked back down at Megatron and resumed his gentle brushes along his helm. “He is well now. Just resting”

Elita stepped forward, her face shadowed by concern. “He still doesn’t look good”

The Decepticons hesitated not even for a cycle. Shockwave and Soundwave approached first, their steps deliberate and measured. The rest followed, stepping closer one by one, optics fixed on their dark sire, leader, and savior. The same expression crossed each faceplate. Many times before, they had trembled when standing before him—hearing his voice, feeling his presence, and remembering what it meant to become a Decepticon under his command. That old reverence and fear, born of his power and charisma, had never truly faded. It lingered still, unbroken and eternal.

A mild frown crossed Orion’s features, soft and thoughtful. Still, he brushed his mate’s helm gently, tracing each scar line of his face. 

Megatron did not reply a moment from his touch, but there was an enchantment in that touch that Orion felt through his servo. There was a tremor—faint, like a flicker—and after a few cycle-seconds, his vents shuddered. Orion leaned close as the grand room fell into silence; the many optics of his loyal Decepticons remained fixed upon their sire. Their sparks pulsed faster, channeled with growing rhythm as they watched him. Some gazes were cold as ice, others stone-hard with restraint, yet beneath all of it, loyalty lingered—silent and heavy as the air itself.

Orion kept his arms around him, helm leaning close, when he heard a low sound escape Megatron—a sound barely heard by any but his mate. It was half a growl, half a plea.

Orion smiled faintly, his servo lifting to stroke his face, tracing slowly along the scarred lines until the tension eased. Megatron exhaled a low sound of release, freed momentarily from the vision only he could see.

Orion smiled again and continued to stroke every inch of his face, admiring his feared and enthralling might. Then he leaned in gently, pressing his lips against the center of Megatron’s helm. A faint purr escaped Megatron when Orion pulled back—he wanted him to feel that he was there, that all was well.

They all stared, and Orion murmured softly, “Do not fear, my love. I am here for you.”

Megatron made a faint, indistinct mumble. His optics flickered for a moment, static crossing his vision. The first thing he saw upon clarity’s return was not the dream, but the familiar presence of Orion—his tender smile, that quiet radiance that carried with it a consuming, distant comfort, a gift that soothed his war-forged spark.

It was remarkable for one such as him—whose spark had once been cold as ice, driven by the hunger for power and dominion—to love another so deeply. To love again, after Tarn. Damus...no. The past was the past. There were no words for it anymore.

The others departed in silence within moments, leaving only the two of them in the vast chamber.

Their smiles met and mirrored. Their optics locked. Orion leaned closer, his lips and glossa meeting Megatron’s. The sound of their joined purrs was muffled by the warmth of their mouths, and Orion’s servos moved, stroking the crown of Megatron’s helm with reverence.

Both bound by devotion, their sparks and energon resonated in unison, their scents merging—a bond, a price of bliss known only to those who had found their true mate.

The fog of the dream began to fade from Megatron’s mind, as it always did, erased by the steady, grounding presence of his bonded spark.

Their lips parted slowly. Orion pressed his lips once more to the center of Megatron’s helm before pulling back. Megatron’s vision steadied, the world clearing around him as the familiar scent of Orion clung to his armor like solar radiation—warm, luminous, and pure.

“You feeling alright?”

Megatron gave a slow, almost unnoticeable nod. “I am fine,” he breathed.

Orion accepted this quietly, though Elita had been right—he did not look as he once did. These dreams were wearing on him. Orion knew it. They were doing something to his dear sire-mate—the one he adored, the one he had once feared, the one who had saved him and granted him life anew, a life unlike the one before.

He felt Megatron’s servo rise, pressing gently to his cheek and gliding upward to trace the length of his antenna.

They stared into one another’s optics for a long, still moment. Then, with a faint tug, Megatron pulled him close once more—until their lips met again.

***

He found himself awakened within his berth chamber, staring into the abyssal dark that seemed to swallow everything whole. He turned to his side—only to see the empty space where Orion once lay beside him. The warmth that had lingered there was gone. That tender comfort...vanished completely. For one such as him, even through the cold weight of his own armor, the absence was almost unbearable to feel.

Then, a voice called to him.

He froze, listening. It was not Orion’s voice, nor that of the one who had once raised him. This voice was different—distant, hollow, yet strangely familiar. His optics shifted toward the darkness ahead as if it might answer him. Slowly, he lifted himself from the berth, but as soon as he stood, the berth dissolved into shadow, disappearing beneath his pedes.

Before him, shards of crystal burst through the void—spiraling upward, forming a staircase of jagged glass and purple light. The voice echoed again, softer this time, beckoning from the top.

A shiver ran through his frame. He hesitated, optics flickering, but that voice...

It was so haunting. So alluring. So—known.

With measured steps, he began to ascend. The air around him thickened, every cycle heavier than the last. The darkness pulsed and coiled, pulling at his frame as if trying to swallow him again. Yet still he climbed.

At the final step, the black veil before him parted—and there, within the heart of that abyss, lay a glass coffin. Shards of violet energy glimmered around it, humming faintly, as if alive.

He approached, drawn forward by that same voice, now whispering from within the coffin itself.

When his optics fell upon the form inside, his spark stuttered. The mech resting there was adorned in armor of regal cut and dark majesty—beautiful, powerful, commanding. A reflection of what Megatron was... and what he once longed to be.

And yet—he looked exactly like him.

“You have come”

Megatron’s optics widened, his frame stiffening at the sudden voice. He turned sharply—and before him stood several figures, their faces softened with knowing smiles. Their presence radiated warmth and something older...something eternal.

The one whose smile was the purest stepped forward. “I have been waiting for you...for so long,” he purred, voice smooth as liquid metal.

Megatron said nothing, his spark thrumming in confusion and awe.

“We all have been waiting for you,” the figure murmured again, voices joining his in ghostly unison.

“Mega...”

***

His optics burst awake, vents begging for release—to draw in the air and soothe his racing systems, his trembling spark, still burning from the dream that seized him. Megatron stirred, scanning the darkened room, until his optics caught the faint glow of the smaller frame beside him—Orion, still in recharge, peaceful and unmoved.

With a low, weighted exhale, Megatron shifted his frame and rose. Quietly, he departed, leaving Orion to his own dreams—dreams that were gentle and calm, unlike his own, which came in storms and shadows without end.

His steps echoed faintly through the corridor, long and hollow. The cold air met him, sliding over his armor like a spectral touch. He passed the greenhouse—the roses within glimmering faintly through the glass—but even they no longer offered the solace they once did.

He stopped before the lake. The still water reflected him back—a knight of silver and crimson, an armor forged of pride and power. Yet as he stared, that proud reflection dimmed, rippled, fell apart beneath the weight of memory.

He remembered the one he used to be.

The warlord. The conqueror. The master of a coven of warriors shaped to obey, to destroy, to kill without hesitation.

And within his spark, the fire of regret flared like cold metal meeting flame.

He thought of his former mate.

His helm dipped low, optics fixed on the dark mirror below. The water shimmered softly, holding the reflection of a mech who had drowned in his own history.

Water remembers, he thought—currents carrying memories that never die, only swirl, only pull him deeper.

On face of it all before him, Megatron thought and thought and thought — so many thoughts flooding, drowning him beneath too many reflections.

He was at first well aware of his power and the quest of his past to achieve it, yet soon it all faded when he saw what Tarn had turned into. Seeing his beloved killing so much, too much, he knew he had to end it — to never deceive anyone again.

His optics sharpened, opening slowly as he caught a familiar aura. He heard pedesteps approaching, and the scent that reached him was rich, comforting — so known and dear to him. In seconds, he welcomed the one who embraced him, feeling as if a raft had come to save him from the vast current of memories and regrets.

Back at the castle, Orion sensed his mate’s absence and immediately grew alert. Without hesitation, he began his quest to find him — for he already knew where Megatron would be. And he found him with no struggle, no difficulty at all. Seeing his mate’s towering and mighty height, the one who had always shielded him, he felt now that he must be the shield instead. The sight of him stirred a need deep within to protect his sire.

“I admire how you seem to soothe all the things I have done — and done to my Decepticons...” Megatron murmured, a fractured but content smile soon touching upon his lips.

A soft smile touched Orion’s face as he gently squeezed his waist. “I admire your strength and will that always seem to make me feel safe.”

Megatron’s own spark echoed with his words. He placed his servo upon the smaller frame before him, stroking the arms that held his center, and he heard Orion release a quiet, soft purr.

“I feel as if, somehow, after all the things I have done, Pax — all the lives I have taken, and all I have done to those who were corrupted by me...” His voice faded to a whisper. “...I don’t deserve to have someone as pure as you. And after what I have done to you...I just feel I shouldn’t have you”

Orion lifted his helm, frowning softly as he pulled him close, placing his servo against the insignia of Megatron’s coven — the place where his spark pulsed within.

Megatron looked down at his reflection in Orion’s gaze, then turned, letting Orion’s grip release. Their optics met — and soon their lips danced, both their arms encircling one another.

You deserve to have me. And I deserve to have you. And I will never regret anything. Nothing, Orion said in his thoughts.

And he felt Megatron hold him closer — as if he could almost read those thought-words and anchor himself within them.

The silent air that had first been calm and comforting suddenly shifted.

Orion gasped as Megatron pulled back abruptly, his optics fixed on the shadowed land before them, the garden around them swallowed in darkness.

Orion asked, “Megatron? What...?”

“Shh!” he shushed him, pulling him close behind his frame as he stared ahead, a low snarl rumbling from deep within.

Orion inhaled sharply, sensing the presence Megatron had detected, but like his mate, he could not see the source of the invading scent.

It was a stranger. Clearly an intruder, trespassing upon Megatron’s land. The scent pulsed stronger and stronger, shifting subtly, moving through the shadows. Their instincts proved true. The trees trembled, the air whooshed. Again, from another angle, another sharp gust of wind.

Orion’s optics widened, tracking the speed of the unseen threat. Even Megatron’s optics sharpened, scanning the darkness. A tree creaked violently, as though struck by some unseen blade.

The source seemed to toy with them. Testing. Mocking. Driving a shiver into their sparks.

Megatron’s roar split the night. “Whoever you are, come forth and face me!” His voice thundered again. “Now! Show yourself, coward!”

Yet even as he spoke, the scent—unlike anything he had ever known—washed over him. It carried a presence that rivaled his own might, a conquest that could not be measured.

A deep, cold chuckle echoed from within the shadows. Orion shivered, and Megatron tensed, cannon raising as he prepared to strike. Then, with a sudden surge, the branches of the trees above shattered and rained down around them. Leaves, splintered wood, and shards of bark fell as Megatron moved instinctively to shield Orion.

Before them stood a figure.

A being of immense presence, wings spreading wide, glimmering like molten silver. Its form rivaled Megatron’s own armored frame. Deep blue panels gleamed against the silver, optics brighter, piercing even through the darkness that shrouded them.

The figure towered, unstoppable, its very aura predatory and commanding. Its lips curved into a small, cold smile—sharp enough to send a shiver racing down Orion’s spark.

Megatron stared at the mysterious invader, the curve of his smile sending a shiver down his own spark.

The winged invader purred deeply, his smile widening. “As you wish”