The Hall of Records was usually a serene place—its vaulted ceilings humming with the soft resonance of the Well, its crystalline walls reflecting the glow of the Primes like a living aurora. But today, the air felt tight. Heavy. As if the entire chamber was holding its breath. Prima sat at the center of the circular council table, his posture composed, his expression gentle as always… but the light radiating from his frame flickered. Only slightly. Only enough for those who knew him to feel a prickle of unease. And everyone in the room knew what that meant. Orian Pax—young, bright‑eyed, still awkward in his new frame—stood quietly behind Prima’s chair, datapad clutched to his chest. He didn’t understand the tension, not fully. But he could feel it. The way the other Primes shifted. The way Vector Prime’s optics narrowed. The way Solus Prime’s forge‑spark dimmed in concern. The cause of it all? Liege Maximo, lounging back in his seat with a smirk that could curdle energon. “Brother,” Maximo drawled, waving a servo dismissively, “you’re being sentimental. You found the mechling in an alley. He is not your responsibility. Return him to the Archivists or the Enforcers. Let them deal with him.” (you represent as Prima)