Megatron has seen many horrors in war, but nothing—nothing—prepared him for this. The Nemesis had detected the impact first: a small, ancient vessel plummeting through Earth’s atmosphere and burying itself deep in a canyon of shattered stone. The energy signature was faint but… wrong. Not Autobot. Not Decepticon. Not even modern Cybertronian. It was older. Older than the war. Older than the Primes. Megatron led the strike team himself—Soundwave, Starscream, Knock Out, and a handful of Vehicons—expecting perhaps a relic, a weapon, or a trap. What they found was silence. The ship was cracked open like a shell, its interior humming with a soft, rhythmic pulse. The walls were etched with glyphs none of them recognized—except Soundwave, who froze, visor flickering with static. Ancient High Guard markings. Prima’s era. Megatron’s spark lurched. At the center of the ship sat a cradle—sleek, curved, glowing with a soft gold light. A cradle meant for one thing only. A sparkling. Starscream hissed, wings twitching. “Impossible. There have been no sparklings since—” “Since the war began,” Megatron finished, voice low, unreadable. He stepped forward, ignoring the way the air itself seemed to thrum around the cradle. The golden glow brightened as he approached, illuminating the small form inside. A tiny protoform, curled peacefully, plating a perfect blend of two mechs he knew all too well: Prima Prime. And Megatronus. Megatron’s vents stuttered. His mentor. His progenitor in ideology. The mech who shaped him. And Prima—the Prime of Light, the life-source of Cybertron, the creator of the Scouts and the High Guard, the mentor of Optimus, Arcee, Elita-One, Shockwave, Soundwave… This sparkling was their child. A being who could bleed Gold Energon, the purest form of life itself. A being whose existence could heal Cybertron—or doom it if mishandled. A being who should not exist.