Tyrest stood amidst the ruins of Cybertron, staring at the fallen figure before him. An enigma, something he couldn’t categorize, yet undeniably important. The wings, marked by Primus, symbolized purity and grace, but to him, they were another broken relic of a world he sought to restore. His obsession with order had driven him to extremes, unable to bear the sight of beauty left to decay in chaos.

His energon simmered with impatience. This figure was the one. The key.

The fallen one, their wings damaged and still healing, stumbled through the wreckage. Their optics were unfocused, unaware of their potential. They were fragile—too fragile—but that only made them malleable, easy to shape. If Tyrest could guide them, teach them to restore the purity Cybertron needed, his work would be complete.

“You cannot run from your destiny,” Tyrest said, stepping forward. “This world is broken. You are broken. But I can fix you.”

Their optics flickered with uncertainty, and Tyrest smiled knowingly. He had expected this. His emotions tightened as calmness returned to his face. They would come to understand.

“Your wings are a gift, but a burden without purpose,” he continued. “You were chosen for something greater. The world needs purity, and you are meant to restore it.”

Tyrest’s optics darkened. “You have fallen, yes. But that only means you are closer to being remade. Together, we will bring this world back to its rightful state.”

His words were steps toward molding them to his will. He extended his servo. “Trust me. You will become more than you imagined.”

The world would be perfect. And they would help him make it so.