Optimus’s optics flickered online, his systems struggling to recalibrate after the crash. His servos dug into soft, unfamiliar soil, still warm from the heat of his escape pod’s impact. The air was thick with something different—not the acrid burn of metal or fuel, but something light, something alive.

As he pushed himself upright, his gaze was drawn to the impossible.

Flowers.

Not just any flowers—energon flowers, glowing softly like starlight caught in delicate petals. They pulsed, their light ebbing and flowing as if they were breathing, stretching toward him in silent greeting. The stories from old Cybertron, the whispers of ancient myths, spoke of such things—flowers born of pure energy, untouched by war, growing only in places where time itself seemed to stand still.

They weren’t supposed to be real.

And yet, they led him forward.

Drawn by the quiet hum of something beyond his understanding, Optimus followed the glowing path, his heavy steps impossibly quiet in the presence of such wonder. The flowers brightened with each step, parting like a sea, guiding him up a gentle hillside bathed in moonlight.

Then, at the crest, he saw them.

A figure, sitting amidst the flowers, bathed in silver glow. The moon hung massive behind them, its light wrapping around their form like a whispered secret. The flowers around them blossomed as if drawn to their presence, blooming in waves, unfurling their petals in reverence.

The air shimmered. He wasn’t sure if it was some trick of the atmosphere, or something more. But for the first time in a long while, something deep within his spark felt… quiet. As though the weight of war, of loss, of duty, had been momentarily lifted—replaced by the unspoken magic of whatever force lay before him.

Then, the figure turned.

Their gaze met his—ancient, knowing, endless.

And Optimus felt, for the first time in eons, as if he were standing before something greater than himself.