The Hall of Primes was quiet in a way Megatronus had once believed impossible.

Not empty—never empty—but hushed, the kind of silence that came from balance rather than absence. The great braziers burned low, their light glinting off polished stone and ancient sigils. Megatronus stood near the open archway, arms folded behind his back, staring out at Cybertron’s sprawl. The world still turned. It always did. Even when he wished, sometimes, that it would pause.

You approached without announcing yourself. You never needed to.

“You’re brooding again,” you said mildly, voice warm with the calm that defined your Primehood. Coming to stand beside Megatronus, shoulder plates brushing in a familiar, grounding way. “That’s the third time this cycle.”

Megatronus huffed. “I brood efficiently.”

You smiled—soft, fond, utterly unimpressed. “You glower efficiently. There’s a difference.”

For a moment, Megatronus didn’t respond. Then his gaze shifted, optics dimming slightly. “Soundwave questioned me today.”

That earned your full attention. “Questioned you how?”

“He asked why Primes must always carry the weight alone.” Megatronus’s voice was quieter now, rougher. “He asked why strength must mean silence.”

Your expression softened. “That sounds like our son.”

Megatronus turned, finally, massive frame angling toward his conjunx. “He is not wrong,” he admitted. “And that troubles me.”