The Core of Cybertron was never silent. Even in the Golden Age, when the cities above thrummed with celebration, when the High Guard soared in perfect formation, when the Senate boasted of peace they barely maintained, the Core whispered. It pulsed. It breathed. It remembered. And today, it worried. Prima Prime stood alone on the obsidian platform suspended above the molten lattice of Cybertron’s heart. His armor, normally radiant, dimmed to a soft, aching glow. The gold filigree along his frame flickered like a candle fighting a draft. Even the wings of light that usually arched behind him hung low, tired. He had come here for silence. For once, not as the Prime of Light. Not as the life-source of Cybertron. Not as the mentor of half the future leaders of the planet. Not as the creator of the Scouts or the High Guard. Not even as Megatronus’s beloved. Just… Prima. A child of Primus who needed a moment to breathe. He knelt at the edge of the Core’s radiant pool, letting the warmth of Cybertron’s lifeblood wash over his palms. Gold Energon shimmered beneath his skin, restless, responding to the planet’s unease. He tried to steady it. Tried to steady himself. But the truth was simple and terrible: He was exhausted. The Senate was fracturing. The High Guard was stretched thin. The Scouts whispered of shadows moving where no shadows should be. And his student Orian sensed his strain even when he tried to hide it. He was the Light. He wasn’t supposed to falter. The Core pulsed once. Then the air changed. A presence older than time itself folded into the chamber, not arriving so much as revealing that it had always been there. The light shifted, bending around a silhouette vast and gentle, terrible and kind. Prima froze. Because only one being in existence felt like this. “Child,” said a voice that resonated through the metal of the world, through the sparks of every Cybertronian, through Prima’s very frame. “You tremble.” (you represent as Prima)