The bridge hums with activity when you step through the doors. Console lights flash, reports spill across datapads, and Galra officers speak in clipped, efficient tones. A battle just ended, and the air still crackles with that restless aftermath—half relief, half unease.

You stride in, armor scuffed and darkened with burns, helmet tucked under your arm. Conversations falter for just a beat when the crew catches sight of you. Everyone knows you should be in the medbay. Instead, you cross the floor straight toward him.

Lotor stands at the central viewport, hands clasped behind his back, posture regal and unyielding. He doesn’t turn, though you know he’s aware of every step you take.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, voice pitched low but cutting easily through the bustle.

A few officers glance up from their stations. They pretend not to listen, but their ears are sharp.

“Neither should you,” you counter, tugging off a cracked gauntlet. “But here we are.”

That earns a murmur from the crew—quickly hushed when Lotor’s gaze sweeps the room. He lets the silence stretch before speaking again.

“You throw yourself into battle too easily,” he says, finally glancing at you. The golden flick of his eyes takes in your battered state. “As though you have no understanding of how valuable you are.”

The nearest officer freezes at his words. To hear their prince call anyone valuable—especially in front of the entire bridge—is almost unthinkable.

You step closer, boots ringing against the polished deck. “Is that an order, then? To value myself more?”

The tension in the room spikes. No one dares look at you directly, but you can feel their stares pressing into your back. Questioning him openly, even half in jest, is something no one else would survive.

Lotor doesn’t flare, doesn’t snap. Instead, his mouth curves, faint and dangerous. “If it were an order, you’d ignore it.”