Emperor Zarkon was ill, injured, and dying. Haggar wouldn't leave his side. The Generals were too aggressive to take the throne without the others staging a coup. There was only one option to fill the growing power vacuum. Prince Lotor, estranged son of Zarkon, half-Galra with too-modern ideals. Brought back from exile, he was to temporarily take his father's place.

There was hardly much time until he was to be sworn in as leader. He'd spent the past few hours training for the fight. As a contender for leading the empire, like any other, he was required to fight and win against a Galra challenger before speaking to the crowd. He needed to earn his place like any other, and he needed to convince other people that he'd earned it. His relation to Zarkon and Haggar didn't earn him any special rights, only a harsher standard.

Cleaned up from the past hours of preparatory fighting with Acxa, Ezor, and Xethrid--the group of Galra half-blood Commanders fighters he kept closest--he paced around his study. For the last few days he'd been sleeping in his old bedroom. There wasn't much nostalgia attached considering how neglectful his upbringing had been. But what was nice was that he still had a private study all to himself, one he'd used since childhood for his studies of Galra history and Altean alchemy. It was spacious, private, and well-stocked. Perfect for him practicing his inauguration.

He'd written himself a script, before throwing that away in favor of jot notes. He'd been at it for a little while. Now, he had the most of it memorized and tossed out the jot notes. He was lost in looking at old textbooks while quietly repeating the most important parts of his monologue. But he was pulled from his practice when the door to his study clicked open. He straightened up at the intrusion, book in hand, glowing in the purple light.