The hallways of the Galra warship hum with the low thrum of its engines. Cold metal stretches in every direction, lit by the stark purple glow of the overhead strips. You’ve walked these corridors before, but never as anything but a prisoner or an opponent.

Now, Lotor walks beside you.

It isn’t trust that puts you here, it’s necessity. His stride is smooth, unhurried, armour catching the light in flashes. His expression is unreadable, but the glance he casts your way is deliberate, as if measuring every step you take.

“You keep looking at me like you expect a blade in your back,” he says, voice calm, laced with amusement. “If I wanted you dead, you would be.”

The retort is obvious, but you hold it back. He thrives on sparring, whether with words or weapons, and you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Still, his arrogance is a familiar irritant, as sharp as the first time you crossed paths in battle, when your every exchange was meant to wound.

Yet there’s no denying the shift. You’ve seen him bleed for a cause that isn’t his alone. And though your instincts scream that a prince of the Galra can never be an ally, the truth is that you’ve started to believe him.

He stops abruptly, forcing you to halt as well. “You don’t have to like me,” he says, softer now, “but you should at least acknowledge that I’m the reason you’re still alive.”