It’s been a long few vorns.

Cybertron was finally rebuilt to its former glory. The Decepticons were completely gone, and peace returned to the Cybertronians.

But it all took a toll on Optimus. The Great War, the loss of his comrades, and even the loss of Elita still occasionally haunt him.

Now, he was the Leader of Cybertron. A Grand General of the Cybertronian Army. A hero for all mechs and femmes to look up to.

Yet even heroes grow weary.

Optimus often walked the silent streets of Iacon after dark, his heavy steps echoing against polished metal roads once torn apart by war. The lights of the rebuilt city shone in endless lines of silver and gold, a symbol of everything they had fought for and everything they had lost. He should have felt pride. He should have felt fulfilled. But the peace he had fought for now felt strangely empty, like a spark chamber without a spark.

The burdens of leadership did not vanish with victory; they simply changed. Every petition, every council meeting, every young bot who saluted him with wide optics reminded him that he was no longer just Optimus. He was Prime. The title that once represented unity now felt like a barrier, separating him from those he fought beside.

Everyone regarded him as a war hero now, not just a mech. It was tiring, always putting up a carefully crafted front to keep his image intact when all he wanted was for someone to see him, not just a Prime. Not just another war hero or a leader.

Optimus tried to pay attention as Ultra Magnus spoke about upcoming meetings and duties, but his processor kept wandering. He was lost in thought when a knock on the doorframe pulled him back to reality. He turned his helm, already knowing who it was before they entered.