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Chapter Text

Prince Smokescreen sifted through the scrolls and pads on his desk, looking for the notes he’d taken in his meeting with Prowl the previous cycle.

Prowl was busy working with Lord Caelum to organize not one, but two large upcoming celebrations. Ordinarily their carrier would have no problem handling the arrangements himself: organising accommodations for the guests, coordinating fuel and other refreshments, and orchestrating the plans for the celebrations themselves... Not to mention the additional security that would be needed. But now that the borders were open and Praxus was re-establishing diplomatic relationships with its neighbours, they were also expecting an influx of foreign dignitaries to attend the coronation.

Lord Caelum had seemed just slightly overwhelmed by everything that needed to be done, and so Prowl had stepped in to assist him. As a result, a few of Prowl’s duties had fallen back onto Smokescreen, who was doing his best to stay organized.

He didn’t always succeed, though.

Smokescreen grimaced as he steadied a stack of scrolls when it threatened to topple over. He was determined not to complain about the extra work; after all, it had been Smokescreen’s idea to hold Prince Silverstreak’s – err, Bluestreak’s – bonding presentation so close to the coronation. It was the only way he could convince his youngest brother to attend the coronation. And now that Smokescreen knew that Bluestreak still functioned, he couldn’t imagine ascending the Quartz Throne and not having both of his brothers by his side.

Giving a satisfied hum, Smokescreen uncovered the notes he had been looking for just as he heard a soft knock on the door of his study.

The door opened slightly and Smokescreen’s head guard stuck his helm in. “Excuse me, Your Highness,” said Strikeback. “Lord Halfsteel is here to see you.”

“Show him in!” Rising from his chair, Smokescreen walked around his desk and met the noble as he entered the room. He gripped Halfsteel’s forearm in greeting. “Halfsteel! It’s good to see you again.”

Halfsteel dipped his door wings and smiled. “Thank you for inviting me, Your Highness,” he said. He stood in front of the chair that Smokescreen gestured at, and waited until Smokescreen sat before taking his own seat. “I came as soon as I received your invitation.”

Sitting back in his chair, Smokescreen smiled at his friend. “I wanted to tell you personally how much I appreciated your assistance with the reopening of the Tiann energon mine. The amount of product we’ve seen come out of there already is astonishing.”

Ducking his helm modestly, Halfsteel replied, “I have excellent foremen, and the miners are very hard workers. Our success is all due to their diligence.”

“Spoken like a true leader,” Smokescreen said. “But I’ll be sure to pass along your praise to Prowl. We may be able to up their wages if their work is as good as you say.”

“I’m sure the workers would greatly appreciate that, Your Highness,” Halfsteel said with a smile.

Folding his hands in front of him on his desk and leaning forward, Smokescreen said, “But I asked you here to see if you were interested in a different opportunity.”

His optics brightening, Halfsteel said, “I live to serve you, Your Highness, and I will do so in whatever capacity you require of me. I owe you a great debt.”

Smokescreen flicked a door wing, acknowledging Halfsteel’s thanks. It was Smokescreen’s intervention that prevented Halfsteel from being bonded to a mech that he was not suited for, despite the Temple’s plans. Then, when Smokescreen was finally able to bring the Temple’s “cultivation plan” – which was the polite term for their breeding program – to an end, all of the mechs who had not been bonded were freed from their obligations, including Halfsteel. Smokescreen knew that there were many full-framed Praxians, in addition to Halfsteel, who thanked Prince Smokescreen for freeing them from their Temple-mandated bond promises.

Smokescreen had been a little surprised that not many full-framed mechs who had already been bonded sought to have their bonds dissolved after the cultivation plan was halted. Although, picking apart a bond was a tricky and sometimes painful endeavour. So far, the only mechs who had had the process performed so far were ones who were truly not suited to each other.

Nodding, Smokescreen said, “I’d like you to seriously consider my proposal before you agree. It would mean moving away from your principality and living here at the palace.” Smokescreen waited a moment for Halfsteel to absorb this before continuing. “When I take the throne, it will be the first time in almost five hundred vorn that the new King does not have a bond mate. After the King steps down, Lord Caelum will also be retiring from his position, and I need someone to fill his role.”

Halfsteel’s optics widened and his door wings slowly climbed as Smokescreen spoke, until they stood straight over his shoulders. “H-his role, Your Highness?”

Smokescreen waved his hand reassuringly when he saw his friend’s reaction. “I just mean his role in handling all of the household affairs and security. You know, supervising the servants and other staff, making arrangements for guests, organizing celebrations, that kind of thing, as well as managing the palace guards. I had Prowl give me a complete list of duties if you wanted to look it over.” He handed Halfsteel the notes from his meeting with Prowl. “Prowl looked into the archives for me. The title is Majordomo, and even though the position hasn’t been needed in hundreds of vorn, there is a Court-recognized set of laws and customs covering the role. You will be second only to me and Prince Prowl, and you will have jurisdiction over all of the palace’s household affairs.”

An unreadable expression had flashed across Halfsteel’s face as Smokescreen spoke before settling back into a smile. Halfsteel accepted the pad and skimmed it quickly. “It would be my greatest honour, Your Highness,” Halfsteel said, looking back up at Smokescreen with bright optics, and he tipped his door wings forward in deference. “I humbly accept.”

“Good!” Smokescreen clapped his hands. His spark twirled happily when Halfsteel voiced his acceptance. His friend was his first – no, his only choice for the position. If Halfsteel hadn’t accepted Smokescreen would have had to rethink his entire plan. “You are one of my closest friends, Halfsteel, and you were instrumental in helping me convince the Court to approve the succession plan. And...” He leaned forward again, laying a hand on Halfsteel’s arm and regarding him with a serious expression. “With all of the attempts on my life over the past few vorn, I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have managing security in my home.”

Laying his own hand atop Smokescreen’s for just a moment, Halfsteel said, “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“Ah, and about that,” Smokescreen said, holding up a digit. “Around the palace, out of public, please don’t call me by my title all the time. Like I’ve told you before, just Smokescreen is fine. And if it’s just us, or Prowl, Smokey is fine, too.”

“So... Party rules,” Halfsteel said with a slight grin.

Smokescreen laughed. “Yes! Same rules as for one of my parties. You’ve got it.”

Pulling his hands back to his lap, Halfsteel said, “When would you like me to begin? I can begin making arrangements to move my belongings to the palace whenever is convenient for you.”

With a quiet hum, Smokescreen thought for a moment. “I’d like to get you up to speed as soon as possible, and it would be ideal if you could work alongside Lord Caelum... Especially now that he is so busy. Prince Bluestreak’s bonding presentation is scheduled to take place next orbital cycle, and the coronation two deca-cycles after that.” He held out his hand and fanned his digits wide. “So the sooner you can get settled here, the better.”

“Of course, Smokescreen,” Halfsteel said, rising from his chair. “I’ll contact my sire immediately and give him the good news.”

Standing up and walking around the desk again, Smokescreen gripped Halfsteel’s shoulders. “I meant what I said, Steel. Thank you for accepting. You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Halfsteel bowed his helm. “I hope I can live up to the trust you’ve given me.”

“You already have, Steel,” Smokescreen replied. He meant every word.

Chapter Text

For vorn, Bluestreak had pictured how a return to Praxus might go. For most of the intervening time between when he fled Praxus after his lover’s execution and now, his visions had involved himself being returned in chains, flanked by members of the Praxian Temple collection squads who hunted down runaway full-framed Praxians. He knew that if he returned, it was to face his punishment for running: a forced bonding, tied spark-to-spark with a stranger until their sparks merged and a bond formed, and then being imprisoned until one or both of them produced a sparkling.

In other words, the stuff of nightmares.

This homecoming could not be more different from his fears. Instead of being in chains, Bluestreak was driving under his own power. Instead of being the prisoner of a collection squad, he was being escorted by a unit of palace guards. Instead of being whisked into the country under cover of darkness because of the shame he had caused to the King, Bluestreak was being greeted as an Iaconian Ranger, Paladin of the Prime, and veteran of the Battle of the Plurex Flats. Instead of dreading a forced bonding, Bluestreak was returning to Praxus in the company of his chosen bond partner to attend their bonding presentation to the full Praxian Court.

Bluestreak gently felt across the new bond, and felt Hound’s reassuring and affectionate response.

In addition to Hound, he was accompanied on this trip back to Praxus by Blurr and Ultra Magnus. Blurr had been Hound’s patrol partner for vorn in the Iacon Rangers, and had excitedly accepted the invitation to attend their bonding presentation. Ultra Magnus had agreed to attend their bond presentation in lieu of Hound’s creators, who were long deactivated, and would be staying on to represent Iacon for the coronation of Prince Smokescreen.

Bluestreak wavered on his wheels as he drove. The whole situation seemed surreal, still, even though he had had almost a vorn to let it sink in. Him returning to Praxus to celebrate his bonding to an outsider, and his eldest brother being crowned King of Praxus. It seemed far too soon for Smokescreen to take the throne, but their sire’s ill health had forced King Cygnus to abdicate.

And the King... Bluestreak knew he’d have to see his sire eventually. With a quiet growl of his engine, he set that thought aside for the moment.

While Bluestreak was happy to have Blurr and Ultra Magnus along to attend their bonding presentation, he wished that some of their closest friends had also been able to attend - especially Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and Knock Out. But all of the seven Rangers who had faced the construct created by Shockwave were loath to go far from the Matrix. The only reason that Bluestreak and Hound were heading to Praxus at all was that Smokescreen had insisted.

Even now, Bluestreak could feel the discomfort that distance from the Matrix caused him in his spark. At least it no longer gave him any pain, but he still keenly felt that he had left something important behind. The further from Iacon they got, the more Bluestreak felt the urge to turn around and go back home... To Iacon.

Weaving close enough to Bluestreak so that their fenders almost touched, Hound sent a pulse of amusement across the bond. “You’re thinking awfully hard, Blue,” he said. “If you think any harder, smoke’s gonna start pouring from your processor.”

“Sorry,” Bluestreak replied. “It’s just settling in that I’m actually coming back... home?” He thought for a moment and then added, “Although, Iacon seems more like home now than Praxus does.”

“Why is that?” Hound asked. “You haven’t been in Iacon for very long.”

“No, I haven’t,” said Bluestreak. He drifted close enough to Hound so that his fender brushed gently against Hound’s with a metallic chime before pulling away again. “But that’s where I found you.” For a moment he basked in the affection that Hound sent over their bond. Then he blew air from his vents, sending a spray of dust up from the road beneath him. “But also... I can’t stop thinking about the reception I’m going to get.” His engine growled again. “I should never have agreed to this,” he grumbled.

The previous cycle, their procession had been met by a courier from the palace. The messenger had brought a note from Prince Smokescreen for Bluestreak.

Streaks,
I am thrilled that you have arrived in Praxus, and am looking forward to seeing you in the capital soon. But I wanted to warn you that word has gotten around that Prince Silverstreak has returned to Praxus, and some of the citizens are very excited to catch a glimpse of you. I didn’t want you to be surprised if there is some unexpected attention when you arrive.
See you soon!
Prince Smokescreen

Hound gave his engine a quiet rev. “You agreed to come because you knew it would help your brother out,” he reminded Bluestreak.

“I know,” said Bluestreak. He settled lower on his tires in resignation. “I just... I think I was hoping that there wouldn’t be too much attention on me. I guess that was too much to ask for.”

But even Smokescreen’s warning didn’t prepare him for what greeted them when they arrived at the capital.

When they rounded the last turn in the road before the capital, Bluestreak was momentarily overcome by a wave of nostalgia. He’d come around this bend so many times in his youth, and seeing the towering white walls of the city always made his engine sputter a little. And this time, he could feel Hound’s awe at seeing the gleaming walls for the first time, lit by the setting sun. “You’d described this, but seeing it is something else,” Hound murmured.

But even more astonishing were the throngs of mechs gathered alongside the road leading into the capital. These mechs lived outside the city, and were mainly energon famers and lower-class labourers who eked out a hard living in the countryside. Today, though, they lined the road leading to the gates of the city, craning their necks to get glimpse of the procession as they made their way up the hill. Cries of greeting and welcome rang out from the mechs. The one that Bluestreak heard most often also cut most deeply: “Welcome home, Prince Silverstreak!”

The crowds only got thicker when they entered the city, and more cheers went up as they drove slowly past the masses. He caught sight of some mechs holding Praxian flags, waving them above the crowd. Other mechs called out his designation, varying between, “Prince Silverstreak!” and “Prince Bluestreak!” without much differentiation. From the snatches of chatter that he overheard, some of mechs also took note of his new colours. When he had left Praxus twelve vorn before, he had been blue and silver. Now he was grey and red, although he was easy to pick out of the procession due to his pure Praxian frame.

The closer they got to the palace, the more Bluestreak was taken aback by the enthusiasm of the crowds. He’d left these mechs behind when he ran from Praxus, yet they were still welcoming him back joyously.

“I thought you said that regular mechs weren’t too fond of the nobility,” Hound said quietly to Bluestreak.

“They... weren’t,” Bluestreak replied. He sent Hound a small burst of his confusion. “I mean, I volunteered at some of the shelters and fuel halls, but I didn’t think that would warrant a reaction like this. Especially not since I’ve been away for so long.”

They did not have any further chance to discuss the crowds, as they drove slowly through the gates of the palace.

The courtyard past the palace walls was much quieter than the streets, although there was still a relatively large number of staff and guards on hand to welcome them onto the palace grounds. But Bluestreak only had sensors for the group that had just arranged themselves on the stairs leading into the palace. Smokescreen and Prowl stood at the front of the group, watching them drive in.

Bluestreak sped up to the front of the group, transforming and walking the last few steps towards the group gathered on the stairs. “Smokey,” Bluestreak said, mounting the first stair and gripping his eldest brother’s forearm. “It’s great to see you again.”

“I hope you had an uneventful trip,” Smokescreen said, his optics bright and a wide smile on his face.

“We did,” Bluestreak said with a nod. He turned slightly to gesture towards the green mech that stood just slightly behind him. “Smokescreen, you remember my bond partner, Hound.” He turned to his other side, and indicated the other two mechs beside him. “And of course, Commander Ultra Magnus, and Ranger Blurr.”

Smokescreen warmly greeted each mech in turn. “Of course. Welcome to Praxus. It’s good to finally have mechs from other places in Cybertron visiting our country once more.”

Prowl stepped forward and greeted Bluestreak with a smile. “Thank you for coming,” he said quietly as Smokescreen continued chatting with Ultra Magnus. “It really did mean a lot to Smokescreen.”

“I have to admit that I wasn’t really prepared for the crowds,” Bluestreak said, waving vaguely in the direction of the palace gates.

Prowl’s door wings twitched. “Smokescreen has used your bonding with Hound to gain some political capital with the citizens,” he said. “We can discuss that later. But right now, there is someone who has been very eager to see you...” Prowl stepped to the side and lowered his door wings, revealing one of the mechs who had been standing behind the two princes.

When Bluestreak saw the third mech, his optics widened. Even though fourteen long vorn had left their mark on the mech’s face and frame, Bluestreak recognized him immediately, and he took a small step towards him. “Carrier...”

Lord Caelum’s door wings were quivering with tightly-held emotion, and several expressions flickered across his face before he smiled broadly. “My creation,” he finally said, and swept Bluestreak into his arms.

Bluestreak wrapped his arms around Lord Caelum, and let his helm rest on his shoulder. The scent of his carrier’s cleanser momentarily transported him back to when he was small enough to sit on Caelum’s lap, and Bluestreak shuttered his optics. “Carrier,” he murmured. “I missed you so much.”

Lord Caelum’s ventilations hitched slightly, but he pulled back to hold Bluestreak at arm’s length. “Let me look at you,” he said. His optics darted over Bluestreak’s face, taking in his new colours and the Ranger emblems painted on his shoulders and door wings. After a moment Caelum smiled again. “You have matured. Your optics are wiser... And warier.” Caelum brushed a hand down the side of his helm. “You’ve grown into a fine mech, Bluestreak.”

Lifting his wings when his carrier used his new designation, Bluestreak finally relaxed. Maybe this trip wasn’t going to be a disaster after all. “Carrier, let me introduce you to my bond partner.” He gently tugged on Hound’s arm to draw the green mech up next to him on the stair. “Carrier, this is Hound of Nyon. Hound, this is Lord Caelum, my carrier, and the King’s Consort.”

Hound bowed deeply, and Bluestreak held back the smile that wanted to cross his lips. He knew that Hound had been practicing proper bows for several deca-cycles before they left for Praxus. “It is an honour to meet you finally,” Hound said. “Bluestreak has told me a lot about you.”

Caelum took Hound’s hand in his. “Hound. It is so good to meet you. Prowl said that Bluestreak had paired himself with a kind and loyal mech; I can see that he was right.” He smiled and stepped forward to give Hound a quick hug. “Welcome to Praxus.”

Bluestreak’s optics darted over the other two mechs in the group. One of them he recognized as Strikeback, who had been Smokescreen’s head guard since before Bluestreak had left Praxus. The other mech was a silver and green noble whom he didn’t know. The King was nowhere to be seen.

A feeling of relief washed over him and his door wings lowered slightly. At least that was one reunion that could be postponed.

As if reading his thoughts, Caelum stepped closer to him. “Your sire would like to see you,” he murmured. “But it can wait until you are rested from your trip.”

Bluestreak pressed his lips into a thin line. “Of course,” he said flatly.

Placing his hand on Bluestreak’s upper arm, Caelum added, “I know this will be hard for you. But... He is not well. He would like to see you, even just briefly.” Caelum vented air softly. “I think he doesn’t quite believe you really still function. It would do him good to see that you are still alive.”

Bluestreak almost managed to suppress the flare of resentment and anger from flooding his bond with Hound, but some of it leaked through. Hound glanced at him in surprise while Bluestreak collected himself again. “Of course,” Bluestreak repeated. “I will... I will make time.”

“That’s all I ask,” Caelum said with a smile.

Looking away from his carrier, Bluestreak saw that a member of the palace guard was speaking to Smokescreen in low, urgent tones. After a moment, Smokescreen nodded and called for everyone’s attention. Smokescreen’s door wings flicked slightly in an impatient gesture, one that made Bluestreak smile slightly at the memories it suddenly evoked. “Unfortunately, something has just come up that requires my immediate attention. I had hoped to spend some time with you this evening.” Smokescreen looked at the four new arrivals in turn with a slightly pinched look around his optics. “But your escort informed me that you have been driving since sunrise. I assume that fuel and then recharge are what you are really looking forward to,” he said. His smile looked genuine, but Bluestreak could see the tension in his wings.

“That would be appreciated,” Ultra Magnus said.

Nodding, Smokescreen gestured at the unfamiliar noble beside him. “Lord Halfsteel will show Commander Ultra Magnus and Ranger Blurr to their rooms, and we’ll have fuel brought to you there. I will make myself available tomorrow morning on the garden terrace; I know we have several things to discuss, Commander,” he said, looking at Ultra Magnus.

Ultra Magnus nodded. “Of course, Your Highness,” he said. Then he and Blurr followed after Lord Halfsteel into the palace.

Smokescreen turned to Bluestreak and Hound. “I’m sorry that this is so rushed, Streaks,” he said with a grimace. “But there are a lot of things going on right now. Prowl, can I see you in my office after you show them to their rooms?”

Prowl nodded. “I will be there shortly.”

With a curt nod, Smokescreen smiled again at Bluestreak and patted him on the shoulder. “Welcome home, Streaks.” Then he whirled and vanished into the palace, flanked by the guards.

Lord Caelum touched Bluestreak’s shoulder where Smokescreen had and smiled at him, lowering his door wings slightly. “I will see you tomorrow morning. It is good to see you again.” When Bluestreak nodded silently, Caelum followed Smokescreen into the palace.

Prowl looked at Bluestreak and indicated the door. “We have rooms ready for you in the guest wing,” he said. “This way.”

As they climbed the stairs into the guest wing, Bluestreak said, “You know, you could have just told me which room you put us in and I could have found my own way there.” When Prowl looked at him, he said, “It’s been a while, but I did grow up here.”

Prowl’s door wings flicked upwards. “I have a few things I wanted to talk to you about first,” he said quietly. “The political landscape has changed considerably since Smokescreen ejected the Temple priests from the Court. We all have to tread lightly until Smokescreen’s inner Court is sworn in. Many of the noble Houses are... displeased with the direction Smokescreen wants to take the next Court.”

Bluestreak frowned. Each King chose an inner Court, a circle of close advisors from noble Houses who both had the King’s audial, and their concerns were usually heard before those of other members of the Court – mostly issues around trade, infrastructure, and security concerns. King Cygnus’ inner Court was still technically in place, but with the King failing more every day their scope of influence was limited. Bluestreak could imagine the amount of frustration this was causing some of those nobles, especially the ones who were used to getting their own way. "I imagine this all would have been easier if our sire had simply died. Smokescreen could have been crowned almost immediately, and prevented any hard feelings, I guess.” Bluestreak shrugged.

Prowl’s engine growled, and he lifted his door wings in a warning gesture. “Not so loud,” he hissed. Prowl looked around them, so Bluestreak did too. He only saw Prowl’s guards trailing after them. Prowl lowered his voice and leaned his helm towards Bluestreak. “Smokescreen made a misstep a vorn ago, and released more information to the court than he should have.”

Lowering his door wings in understanding, Bluestreak nodded. Smokescreen always had been impulsive, so it wasn’t hard for Bluestreak to imagine him saying something that he shouldn’t have. “All right. So... What did you need to talk to me about?”

Holding up a digit, Prowl said, “One moment.”

A half-dozen mechs bearing House Guard emblems on their shoulders waited outside the door of a guest apartment. The highest-ranking guard saluted them as they approached. “Your Highnesses,” he said, then turned to Hound. “My Lord. I am Lieutenant Barrage.” He indicated the other guards behind him. “We have been assigned as your personal guard while you are here in Praxus.”

Slightly distracted by Hound’s flush of awkwardness at being addressed as a lord, Bluestreak gave Barrage a salute. “Thank you, but...” He looked at Prowl. “Is it really necessary to assign us a guard detail?”

The grim look on Prowl’s face was all the answer Bluestreak needed, but Prowl said, “Let’s discuss this inside.”

The guest room was exactly like the rooms that Bluestreak remembered: a sitting room, a separate berth room, and wide doors that led out to a balcony overlooking the gardens. Hound immediately flew to the balcony, and Bluestreak could sense his delight at the view. Bluestreak waited until the guards had closed the room door, and then said, “All right... What’s going on?”

Prowl suddenly looked very weary, letting his door wings droop. “Smokescreen wants to make sure that you are kept safe,” he said. “There have been some disturbing events, and he wants to do everything he can to keep you safe while you are here.”

“What kind of disturbing events?” Bluestreak asked with a frown.

“There have been seventeen attempts on Smokescreen’s life since the abdication proceedings began,” Prowl said bluntly.

Bluestreak’s door wings shot upwards in shock. “Seventeen?!” he exclaimed. Hound peered back into the room, and Bluestreak could feel his sudden concern at Bluestreak’s shock. Thinking back, Bluestreak could only remember one attempt on King Cyngus’ life that he’d been aware of growing up.

Prowl nodded curtly. “Four poisonings, seven shootings, five stabbings, and one attempt to drive him off a cliff while he was out hunting. Many of the would-be assassins utilized stealth or invisibility charms, and one of them was able to mimic a member of the House Guard in order to gain entry into Smokescreen’s quarters.”

Bluestreak stared at Prowl. Seventeen attempts to kill my brother! he thought. The sense of unreality he’d had earlier returned. “That explains the guard detail,” he said softly.

“And there have been four attempts on my own life.” Prowl grimaced again. “So Smokescreen is very right to be worried for your safety.” He handed Bluestreak a small ornament, designed to attach to a mech’s collar fairing. “This is a protection charm. Please wear it at all times as long as you’re in Praxus. It will grow hot if it detects an imminent threat to you, and it does provide some small protection from injury... But it can only partially protect you from damage before its power is spent. It won’t make you invulnerable. Please heed its warning if you feel become hot.”

“Why is this happening?” Bluestreak asked numbly, taking the charm from Prowl. He felt Hound come up behind him, and gratefully leaned into the mental reassurance that his bond partner offered him.

Drawing a full vent, Prowl pulled a scroll from his compartments. “Smokescreen has already made several changes to the political structure of Praxus, even before taking the throne. You know he threw the Temple out of the Court,” he said. When Bluestreak nodded, Prowl continued. “But after he is crowned, he will seek to allow the mechs of Praxus to choose their own leaders for the Court. No longer will the Court be filled only with nobles, but it will be whomever the mechs of each principality choose to represent them.”

“Sort of... a parliamentary system,” Hound said. He looked from Prowl to Bluestreak and then shrugged. “It’s what Nyon had before Shockwave and his cronies overthrew the government there.”

“Yes,” Prowl said. “Smokescreen will still have final say over most decisions, but he anticipates that within a few generations, even that power will eventually be reduced or removed.” He lifted his helm. “As far as he’s concerned, Praxus does not belong to our House, or to the nobility... It belongs to Praxians, and all Praxians – pure or mixed - should have a say in how it is governed.” Prowl’s face remained an impassive mask, but his door wings quivered slightly. “And I agree with him. I just wish he’d been more circumspect with his words.”

Bluestreak took a moment to soak that in. He knew he had grown up in great privilege, but he’d also know that others had resented him for it. All he’d ever wanted while living in Praxus was to be treated like any other mech. It was why he’d volunteered at the fuel halls, and why he made an effort to become friends with impure mechs. And truthfully, it was part of the reason why he’d found Tempest’s affections so appealing and returned them in kind: it showed him that it was possible for love to flourish between a noble and a commoner.

Giving regular Praxians the chance to choose who governed their principality was a seismic shift in a country that just a few vorn ago had been governed by religious fanatics who emphasized social differences based on frame type. The change Smokescreen wanted to make to Praxus’ political structure would give more power to impure mechs who had always been marginalized... And some Houses could see their power and influence reduced, or removed completely.

Bluestreak pulled a full vent. “It would make sense that the assassination attempts would be coming from someone – a noble House, I guess – who would be losing power as a result of this change,” he said. When Prowl nodded, he asked, “And you haven’t caught them yet?”

Prowl’s door wings fell. “Whoever is responsible is covering their tracks very well,” he said. “It’s easy to guess that the assassination attempts are being ordered by someone in a House that stands to lose influence when Smokescreen is crowned, but...” He looked up at Bluestreak with a worried expression. “We have no proof. No leads. And while there are at least five Houses who are very unhappy at the proposed changes, we haven’t been able to identify a single lead in solving this. We don’t know who among those five Houses might be angry enough to want to see Smokescreen – or any of us - dead. And we’re afraid that you might be on that list, even if you have been removed from the line of succession. Hence...” Prowl gestured towards the door of the room. “We have assigned you a guard detail, and had the alchemists create a protection charm for you. But... There will also be a lot of interest in where you’ve been over the past fourteen vorn,” he said. He held out the scroll. “I have prepared some speaking points for you for when you are asked about your past.”

Bluestreak stared at the scroll in Prowl’s hand morosely for a long moment before taking it. “I’ve only been back in the capital for a groon and I’m already being thrown back into palace politics.” He gave Prowl a wan smile. “Can’t I just say that’s why I left? I couldn’t stand the backstabbing?”

Hound gave a humourless laugh. “That might be a poor choice of words, considering what you’re facing, Blue,” he said quietly.

Prowl lifted his door wings. “I am sorry for having to impose this on you so soon after your arrival. I wish that it wasn’t necessary at all, but I intend to do everything I can to smooth Smokescreen’s ascent to the throne. Making sure that we are all on message,” he said, pointing at the scroll, “will go a long way towards that.”

“I won’t lie about where I’ve been,” Bluestreak said firmly. He knew that the official story circulated after he vanished was that he’d gone hunting and had simply never returned. He glanced at Hound. “And I won’t lie about what I’ve done. Or who I’ve... loved.”

“I know,” Prowl said. He smiled. “There are no lies on that scroll. Just think of it as a way to position why you left, and how it relates to the future of Praxus. It may even help keep you safe.”

There was a soft knock on the door before it opened slightly, and Barrage slipped in. “Your Highnesses. My Lord,” said the guard. “The servants have arrived with Prince Bluestreak and Lord Hound’s evening fuel.”

“Bring it in. We’re finished here,” Prowl said. As a servant came into the room with a tray, bobbing a quick bow, Prowl turned back to Bluestreak. “I’ll let you get some rest. You must be tired. We can talk more tomorrow if you have any questions.”

“Thanks, Prowl,” Bluestreak said. “Have a good night.”

After the door closed behind Prowl and the servant, Hound took the protection charm from Bluestreak’s hand. He turned it over once, and then attached it to Bluestreak’s collar fairing. “At least it’s unobtrusive,” he said. He adjusted it slightly. “It blends in with your colours, too.”

“Master Auger has always had a keen optic for detail,” Bluestreak said. He rolled the scroll through his digits before placing it on the table next to the tray that the servants had brought in.

Hound peered at the items on the tray. “I was just expecting a couple of cubes,” Hound said. He picked up the carafe of energon and poured two glasses, then frowned at the other small bowls arranged on the tray. “Are these all flavourings?”

Bluestreak lifted the lid on one of the bowls. “Yeah, they’re all different additive shavings. If there’s a specific one you want, you can request it and they’ll bring it next time. Or if they notice we didn’t use one, they’ll substitute another.” He lifted another lid and smiled at Hound. “Hey, they brought cobalt.”

Hound’s burst of happiness that came over the bond made Bluestreak laugh. “Cobalt!” Hound reached for the spoon, then hesitated. “Um. Did you want any?”

“I’m good with the copper,” Bluestreak said. He grinned as he watched Hound gleefully empty the bowl of cobalt filings into his glass. “Is the goal to not taste the fuel at all?” he asked.

Hound laughed. “You know I love cobalt!” He took a sip from the glass and hummed in delight. “Oh, that’s good. Do they bring this every evening?”

“Every morning and evening, unless we have plans to fuel elsewhere.” Bluestreak added a few copper shavings to his fuel. “I take it you like the view from the balcony?”

“Yeah! The gardens below us are amazing. Can we check them out sometime?” Hound asked, carrying his glass back towards the balcony.

Following him, Bluestreak stood on the balcony next to his sparkmate. “Absolutely. These are the western gardens. See the track going around it? The eastern gardens on the other side of the palace are a bit more wild; my carrier designed them when I was just a youngling. I think you’ll really like them.” He took a sip of his fuel before continuing. “The upper garden terrace is around the corner of the palace from here, but it overlooks both the east and west gardens. Smokey said he’d meet everyone down there tomorrow morning.”

Hound swirled his glass, watching the light from their room reflect off the sparkling additives in the liquid. “I’m sorry to hear about all the trouble your brothers are in,” he said quietly. “And... I hope like slag that you’re not going to need that charm.” He used his glass to point at the charm on Bluestreak’s collar fairing.

“Me too,” Bluestreak grunted. “But after Prowl explained the whole situation, I’m not surprised.” He drained the rest of his glass. He hadn’t realized how low on fuel he had been. “When you threaten to take power away from mechs who’ve always been in a position of favour, it’s not a stretch to think they’ll react poorly.”

“But losing their power... It’s not a given, right?” Hound asked. He frowned at Bluestreak. “They’ll still be richer than other mechs. And couldn’t they still be chosen to represent their citizens?”

“You’re not wrong,” Bluestreak said. He leaned on the railing of the balcony, watching the shadows play off the crystals in the garden below. “But not all Houses treated the mechs in their principalities well. I suspect that the nobles who are most upset are the ones who know that their mechs won’t choose them to represent them in the Court. A lot of those were nobles who liked the fact that their frametypes alone set them above other mechs.”

The clean fragrance of growing crystals floated up from the gardens. The scent evoked memories in Bluestreak’s processor of running through the gardens with Prowl, of lessons with his shooting instructor, of racing on the track with Smokescreen, and of helping his carrier cleave crystals for a new planting. Memories of a time before Bluestreak was aware of the differences between him and other mechs, or how impure Praxians were treated by the ruling nobility, or how the Temple influenced and manipulated every aspect of Praxian life. Memories created before Bluestreak realized that as the third creation of the King, he was expected to simply support the King and never express his own opinions about things. Memories made before Bluestreak inadvertently challenged his sire simply by loving someone who treated him like he was a normal mech, and not like a problem to be ignored or solved.

“Blue.” Hound nudged Bluestreak’s elbow, breaking him out of his reverie. “If you’re going to fall into recharge, maybe you could do it inside. I saw the berth in there... It’s huge!” Hound grinned at him and tugged lightly on his arm.

Nodding, Bluestreak said, “Sure. I am tired.” As Hound pulled him towards the berth room, he added, “Did you try sitting on the berth? The cushion is this thick.” He held his hands out to show a generous thickness.

He laughed at Hound’s exclamation of delight.

Chapter Text

Prowl hurried down the corridor to Smokescreen’s office, flanked by his guards. He could feel the strain in his door wing hinges as he tried to keep the appendages still. Flapping them about in agitation would not help anything.

When he’d given Bluestreak the scroll and saw the look on his face, Prowl’s spark had twisted in its casing. His younger brother had always resisted the requirements that had been imposed on him simply because of his standing in society. Prowl had never quite understood the resentment; after all, the three princes had never wanted for anything when they were growing up. They had the best fuel, the best schooling, and the best opportunities of any mechs in Praxus. But with those benefits came the duties, both of being full-framed Praxians and royalty. Bluestreak had chafed at almost every single one of those obligations.

It was plain by the expression on Bluestreak’s face when he took the scroll that he still resented the things that set him apart from other mechs.

Prowl shook out his door wings, trying to release the tension. Bluestreak’s wishes were secondary at this point. Prowl’s main goal was to make sure that Smokescreen’s coronation went smoothly.

As he approached Smokescreen’s office, one of the guards outside nodded at him and opened the door. “Prince Smokescreen is waiting for you,” he murmured as Prowl swept into the room.

Inside Smokescreen’s office, Lord Halfsteel and Lord Caelum had their helms together as they pored over a map on a table. Smokescreen stood nearby in deep discussion with his head guard Strikeback. Smokescreen looked up when Prowl entered, and motioned for his guards to close the door behind his brother. As soon as the door was shut, Smokescreen said, “Strikeback had it dead to rights, doing a sweep of the main avenue when Streaks arrived.”

“Just as the Iaconian delegation reached the city gates, the city guard arrested a mech on top of a tower with a sightline to the main avenue,” Strikeback said. “He had a rifle and a full clip of ammunition.”

Prowl’s door wings trembled as he considered what might have happened if Strikeback had not requested doing the sweep, or if the guards had not found the mech. The thought of Bluestreak being injured or deactivated before he’d even reached the palace made Prowl’s engine stall. “Any idea who he was working for yet?” he asked, trying to cover the tremor in his voice.

Strikeback shook his helm. “No, although the interrogation has only just started. But the rifle is not Praxian, and the mech had no identification on him.”

Smokescreen shrugged and waved his hands in a gesture of futility. “By all means, continue the interrogation, but I doubt you’ll get anything more out of him than you have the other mechs you’ve arrested.” Smokescreen paced over to the window and stood looking out with his hands clasped behind his back. Prowl didn’t think his brother realized how much he looked like their sire when he did that. “They all have a contact who has another contact who gets their orders through a shadowy network of mechs that are essentially untraceable.” He whirled on Strikeback, who stood his ground at the Prince’s frustration. “Am I wrong?”

“No, Your Highness,” Strikeback said. “Unfortunately, that is what we are facing. It’s what we have faced since the first attempt on your life. We are no closer to identifying the true source of these attacks than we were then.”

At Strikeback’s quiet stoicism, Smokescreen’s demeanor shifted. “I know you’re doing your best, and I’m eternally grateful for your loyalty through all of this,” he said. “You’ve uncovered more plots and thwarted so many attempts, how could I not be grateful?” Smokescreens door wings drooped slightly. “It just gets tiring, knowing that someone out there wants you dead, and is willing to try over and over again to make it happen.”

“If anyone is to blame, it’s me,” said Lord Caelum. When Smokescreen made a noise of protest, their carrier tutted and held up a hand. “I thought the first attempt was a fluke – someone testing the wind to see what you would do. The same thing happened to your sire before he took the throne.” Caelum leaned on the table, lowering his helm. “I didn’t take it as seriously as I should have.”

“Carrier... No one is blaming you,” Smokescreen said quietly. Caelum’s door wings dropped lower when Smokescreen spoke, and he did not look up.

“I am positive that our main suspect must be within the Inner Court,” Prowl said. “They have the most to lose with the changes you’ve proposed.” Prowl glanced from Smokescreen to Strikeback, knowing that Smokescreen’s head guard held the same opinion as he did. “I would not be surprised if they have a mole inside the palace who is feeding them security information.”

“We’ve already limited security information as much as possible, and Strikeback has been working with the palace guard on vetting all of the palace staff for the third time,” Smokescreen said, frustration seeping into his voice. “I don’t know what else we could do.”

Lifting his door wings, Prowl looked at Smokescreen evenly and voiced something he had been thinking for almost a vorn. “Perhaps it would be best to say that you’ve reconsidered your position on the nobility. Say that you decided to give it some more time, and then wait a vorn or two before enacting the changes. That might calm some of the anger that –“

“No!” Smokescreen’s fist came down on his desk with a bang. “You’ve seen the reports from some of those principalities, Prowl! Even with the removal of the Temple from the Court, even with a new High Priest, even with endless dictates from the King, those same nobles continue to oppress the mechs living under them.” His door wings flared wide and his optics blazed as he stared at his brother. “Sure, they do it in more subtle ways than before, but those principalities may as well be slave dens. Mechs living day to day, depending on the kindness of others for mere survival, while the nobles continue to live richly on the backs of their serfs!”

“I’m not saying to ignore them,” Prowl said, holding up a hand, trying to calm Smokescreen. He’d known his brother would react like this; this wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. “Just delay the changes for a bit until you are more established.”

“If I have the power to improve the lives of all Praxians, how can I not do so as soon as I possibly can?” Smokescreen asked, the fire suddenly gone from his voice. He leaned on his desk, mirroring the posture of their carrier across the room. “No. I can’t delay this. We have to make it work somehow.” He looked around at the other mechs and added, “Give me ideas of what we can do.”

“The bonding presentation for Prince Bluestreak will be a good dry run for any security we want to put in place,” said Lord Halfsteel. The quiet noble’s door wings fluttered slightly when everyone turned to look at him, but he squared his shoulders and continued. “However, we need to keep in mind that the coronation will be on a much larger scale. Plus we will need to coordinate security for the visiting dignitaries.”

Prowl suppressed a groan. This was another one of Smokescreen’s ideas that had sounded good, but was turning into a nightmare to put into practice. To demonstrate Praxus’ newfound connection with its neighbours, the leaders of all of the countries that participated in the Battle of the Plurex Flats were invited to the coronation. All five countries had accepted the invitation, which meant providing sufficient security for all the heads of state plus their entourages.

“Have we discussed using the Cavalry and Infantry to bolster security in the capital?” Caelum asked. He had finally lifted his helm and looked from Smokescreen to Prowl. “I know they were being used in manoeuvers along the Vosian border earlier in the vorn...”

Smokescreen nodded. “Consider it done. I’ll talk to Commander Irridius and get him to draw the troops back to the capital.”

“And if it pleases you, Your Highness,” Strikeback said, his tone carefully deferent. Prowl watched as Smokescreen’s door wings twitched. Strikeback never spoke like that unless he was sure his next statement would upset Smokescreen. The guard mech tipped his helm respectfully. “We should consider resuming identification checks inside the capital. Before the checks were rescinded, they led us to identify three plots against you.”

“I agree with Strikeback,” Prowl said before Smokescreen could say anything. “And this time, the checks should be random.” He kept his door wings low and braced himself for Smokescreen’s reaction.

Smokescreen’s face darkened as he turned to Prowl. “We stopped doing the checks because you said they were not effective,” he said. “Your own statistics said that the ID checks seemed to be more for show than anything.”

“That is when there were set checkpoints,” Prowl said. “If they’re random, there’s no way for someone to route themselves around the checkpoint. Plus, once we have the military assisting us, we’ll have the resources to perform the checks.”

Smokescreen rubbed the side of his helm. “All right, fine,” he said finally. Then he lifted his helm and fixed his gaze on Prowl. “But as soon as the coronation is over, everything goes back to how it was, after we’d rescinded the checks. I will not allow the capital to become a garrison.”

“Of course,” Prowl said, although the tension did not leave his shoulders. Smokescreen must be very worried to make that concession.

Smokescreen nodded. “Strikeback, Prowl... I want a full plan ready for my review by tomorrow afternoon. Work with Steel and Carrier on the details.” Smokescreen rubbed his helm again, and Prowl wondered if he’d started getting the processor aches again that he’d had as a youngling. Prowl made a mental note to mention it to Triage. “Prowl, let me talk to you in private for a moment.”

As the others filed out, Smokescreen collapsed into his chair and covered his optics with his hands. “I know, I know. This is all my fault. Just go ahead and tell me I screwed up,” he muttered. “I know I shouldn’t have tipped my hand about the changes I want to put in place until after the coronation.”

Prowl blew a quiet vent of air. Immediately after returning to Praxus after the battle with Shockwave’s forces, Smokescreen had excitedly told several nobles about his plans. Unfortunately, those nobles told others, who told others... By the time Prowl had returned to Praxus, the Court was in an uproar, and it took almost a full orbital cycle to calm everyone down again. There had been a few attempts on Smokescreen’s life before that, but after Smokescreen’s plans became known, they escalated dramatically.

Quietly, Prowl said, “What’s done is done. And we likely would have run into the same problems later, had you waited to issue your statement after the coronation. All we can do now is do our best, and pray for wisdom and guidance from Primus.”

Smokescreen glanced up at Prowl in surprise at the mention of the deity, then he laughed softly. “Maybe that’s something we should ask Streaks about. They call the Rangers the Paladins of Primus, right? Maybe he’s got some special insight.”

“Perhaps,” Prowl replied, tipping his door wings upwards. Any shadows of disbelief that Prowl secretly harboured about the existence of the gods had been dispelled on the Plurex Flats.

Smokescreen stared off into space for a moment before speaking. “Remember the three of us, sitting in the dark in Streaks’ room, discussing how we could make Praxus better for everyone?” Smokescreen asked.

“Of course.” After Prince Silverstreak had started volunteering at the fuel halls, he brought back daily stories from the mechs he’d met there. Then, after he received his officer’s commission in the Cavalry, he told his brothers stories of the poor living conditions he’d seen all over Praxus. Mechs living on the very edge, with barely enough fuel to keep their systems running, while the nobles who ruled over them feasted and lived in luxury. All three brothers swore that they would do what they could to fix the injustices Silverstreak had seen. “I remember. It was then that you decided that the ruling class either needed to do more for the poorest Praxians, or step out of the way.“

Smokescreen blew a quiet vent of air. “I know in my spark that what I want to do is right. It’s the proper thing to do. It’s what all of the mechs of Praxus deserve.” He looked at Prowl, his face somber and his door wings hanging down over the back of his chair. “But I think my biggest regret is that my mistake might cost you or Streaks your lives,” Smokescreen said quietly. “I don’t think I could bear the thought of one of you being deactivated because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

“There have been far more attempts on your own life,” Prowl replied, shaking his helm. “And of the three of us, your life is the one that matters the most. If you are lost, so is Praxus.”

Smokescreen looked out the window as if he hadn’t heard Prowl. “If anything happens to me,” he said, “you need to carry on what we’re starting here.”

“That won’t happen,” Prowl said firmly. “We will find the source of the attacks, and we will stop them from –“

“Prowl.” Smokescreen looked up at him once more, and his optics were dim. “If something happens to me... You will become King,” he said quietly. “Promise me that you will finish what I started.”

Prowl’s spark stuttered both at the thought of losing Smokescreen, and at being pushed into the role of King. But it was the law of succession: if Prince Smokescreen died without an heir, the crown would fall to the next in line. If Prince Smokescreen fell, the next ruler of Praxus would be Prince Prowl... Regardless of whether he wanted it or felt ready for it.

But Prowl looked at Smokescreen and nodded. “I promise,” he said.

It had been quite a long time since Bluestreak had come out of recharge so disoriented.

Ever since the battle with Shockwave’s forces, Bluestreak had been plagued with nightmares and strange dreams. He often dreamt of the huge construct that Shockwave had created when he called upon the power of Unicron, and relived the horror of seeing it pick up Hound and crush his lover in its tentacle. But he also dreamt of a golden mech with large wings and a kind face, pulling Hound from danger and cradling the two of them in his huge hands. All of the Rangers who had accompanied Hound and the Matrix to the construct had similar dreams. Sunstreaker, ever a devout believer, insisted that the dreams were a sign that Primus had saved them from death, and that the god had more for them to do. Knockout, the skeptic, had ascribed their similarity to the shared trauma of nearly being deactivated in the Matrix’s explosion.

The other Rangers’ explanations did nothing to stop the dreams from continuing, though.

Bluestreak woke suddenly after a dream filled with a strange mix of monsters, Rangers, and Praxian palace staff. The subtle sounds of the palace, the scent of the crystals drifting through the balcony doors, and the nostalgic plushness of the berth left him cycling his optics at the canopy over him, trying to piece together where he was and why.

He realized he was quite warm, and then noticed that Hound was curled up at his side, half sprawled across his frame. With a smile, he brushed his hand down Hound’s back, sensing that the green mech was slowly coming back online. “Morning, Hound,” he said quietly.

Hound nuzzled down into Bluestreak’s shoulder, feeling Bluestreak come to alertness. “Nooo,” he mumbled. “Not morning yet. This is so comfortable.”

Bluestreak laughed quietly. “We’ve got a berth here big enough for three mechs, and yet you’re still recharging half on top of me,” he said. When Hound’s optics cracked open and looked up at him blearily, he kissed the green mech on the top of his helm. “I would have thought that you’d want to take advantage of all the extra space.”

Slowly rolling off of Bluestreak, Hound stretched languidly. “I started off the night on the other side of the berth,” he said. He rolled to his side and propped his helm up on his hand. “I guess I’m just used to curling up with you.”

“I don’t mind,” said Bluestreak, leaning forward to give Hound another quick kiss. “Come on, let’s go see what they left us for morning fuel.”

Hound was surprised to see their evening fuel had been cleared away and a fresh decanter and flavourings were sitting in their place. He was delighted to see that they’d left two bowls of cobalt this time. Shortly after they’d both poured their fuel, Hound discovered that it was possible to add too much cobalt to his fuel.

Bluestreak read over the scroll that Prowl had given him the previous night. His brother had been right that the scroll did not contain any outright lies, but the contents still made him feel uncomfortable. He hoped that no one asked him about any of these topics, although he wasn’t feeling very optimistic.

He lifted his helm to see Hound frowning down at his hand, and he smiled. “If it’s undrinkable, you can just pour another glass,” Bluestreak said. “Just don’t put so much cobalt in it this time.”

Hound’s helm jerked up to stare at Bluestreak, then his optics widened. “Oh, no. It’s not that. It’s...” He focused on his hand again, and his expression shifted to one of extreme concentration.

In the palm of Hound’s hand, a blueish globe of light faded into view. It wavered, then grew larger and brighter.

The explosion of the Matrix, which had nearly killed Bluestreak, Hound, and the other five Rangers, successfully destroyed the Unmaker’s avatar and defeated Shockwave’s forces. But it had other surprising effects as well. Energon mines that had gone long dry were now filled with crystals again. Weather conditions that had decimated harvests on energon farms abated. Oil pools that had gone foul and stagnant were rejuvenated. Mechanimals that were thought long extinct had been sighted again. All over Cybertron, the planet seemed to be reawakening.

But in addition to those changes, mechs who previously had no connection to the magical arts suddenly found themselves exhibiting strange new abilities. Before the Matrix was detonated, the only wielders of magic were alchemists, who were taught the physical aspects of magic, and sorcerers, who were able to tap into the most pure and primitive forces of the arcane. But now, all sorts of mechs found themselves able to do strange things that they couldn’t do before. For example, Ranger Windcharger discovered that he was able to move objects from a distance, just by thinking about it. Perceptor said that was a power the ancients had ascribed to metallurgists, but no mech had been able to perform the magic in hundreds of vorn... Until Windcharger.

Hound, meanwhile, had developed the ability to create images out of thin air, using the power of illusion.

Windcharger had managed to perfect his newfound power fairly quickly. But Hound was not able to wield the control needed over his power to create anything other than vague shapes. He’d worked with Wheeljack extensively, trying various things that the sorcerer suggested. But no matter how closely he followed Wheeljack’s advice, he had made hardly any progress in his skill. Wheeljack gently suggested that perhaps Hound’s power was weak, and that all he’d ever be able to create would be small shapes. But Hound was persistent, and resolved to do something more with his ability.

As Hound focused on the orb in his hand, it grew, changing shape and becoming more defined. A miniature figure of a mech emerged from the flickering light. Door wings appeared behind the mech, then vanished again. A moment later, the tiny mech collapsed back into a glowing ball, which then became dimmer and smaller, until it popped back out of existence.

Hound blew a gust of air from his vents, and Bluestreak felt his intense focus drop. “I know that magic other than alchemy is frowned on in Praxus. But I was just... I was just thinking that if I could figure out how to control this better, I might be able to use it to help protect you... Somehow,” Hound said. He let his hand fall onto the table and looked up at Bluestreak with a furrowed brow ridge. “All that talk yesterday about assassination attempts got me worried.” Bluestreak felt a wave of anxiety swamp their spark bond.

Bluestreak leaned across the table and put his hand on Hound’s. “I promise to wear the protection charm Prowl gave me as long as we’re in Praxus,” he said, opening up their bond as wide as he could so that Hound could feel his sincerity. He tipped his helm towards the door. “And we’re going to have a guard detail the whole time we’re here. I’ll be fine.”

Hound nodded, but Bluestreak could still feel his lingering uneasiness through the bondlink.

They met Blurr on their way down to the terrace. Hound and Blurr excitedly exchanged bits of information they’d gathered about the accommodations: Blurr had discovered the small bar in his guest room, and Hound told Blurr about the track that went around the western gardens.

“A track? I haven’t been on a good track in vorn. The obstacle track at the citadel in Iacon is all right, I suppose, but you can’t really go that fast on it because of all the obstacles,” Blurr said excitedly as they walked out onto the garden terrace. “Do we have to ask to use it, or can anyone drive on it?”

“So long as no one else is using it, I don’t see why you can’t use the track,” Bluestreak said. He looked around the terrace to see Smokescreen deep in conversation with Ultra Magnus. Smokescreen was listening to Iacon’s city commander with an intent expression as the large mech spoke. On the other side of the terrace he saw Lord Caelum looking down into the eastern gardens. When his carrier glanced up and saw him, the King’s Consort lifted his hand to his youngest creation in greeting. Bluestreak waved back, then looked at Blurr and Hound. “You two go ahead. I’ll catch up later.”

Rolling his optics, Hound said, “Oh, great. Leave me to race the fastest Ranger.” He crossed his arms and looked at Blurr, a good-natured smile on his face. “So, what, do you want to see how many times you can lap me?”

Bluestreak left the two Rangers to negotiate the terms of their race and crossed the terrace. “Good morning, carrier,” he said.

Caelum took Bluestreak’s hand for a moment and smiled. “Good morning, Bluestreak. I hope you and Hound recharged well?”

“We did,” Bluestreak said. He looked down at the gardens below the terrace and his optics widened. “You’ve done a lot of work since... since I’ve been gone!”

Smiling as he looked over the gardens, Caelum waved his door wings in delight. “You noticed! Yes, I collected some new specimens from the eastern provinces. I think they’ve made quite a difference.” He glanced at Bluestreak. “Your sire is especially taken with some of the new rhomboids I received.”

His sire. Bluestreak didn’t think that his expression changed, but he knew Caelum was looking at him carefully. Not trusting his vocalizer, Bluestreak simply nodded in response.

“Bluestreak... Your sire would very much like to see you,” Caelum said quietly. When Bluestreak looked at him, he saw that his carrier’s door wings sat low on his back. “I know you are not looking forward to that reunion, but... he only asks for a few kliks of your time.” Caelum looked into Bluestreak’s optics, his own full of sympathy. “You don’t need to say anything. Just listen. He’s not well, and once he’s gone...” Caelum’s engine whined slightly before he silenced it. “Once he’s gone, you won’t have another chance to listen.”

Even despite his years of instruction in etiquette and protocol, Bluestreak could not quite keep the growl from his engine. “I said I would see him,” he replied. “And I will. But forgive me for not looking forward to seeing the mech who had my lover executed, simply because of the frame he was created with.”

They stood in silence for a long moment. Then Caelum touched Bluestreak’s elbow. “Come. Walk with me. I want to show you the new crystals.”

As they descended the stairs into the gardens, Bluestreak shook out his door wings, seeking to alleviate the stress in his frame. He bore no bad feelings towards Caelum; what could his carrier do but stand with his bond mate? And Bluestreak’s spark ached in sympathy at the thought of Caelum watching his bond mate slowly lose himself to the processor degradation that plagued him. Even though Bluestreak dreaded the thought of facing his sire again, he did not want to take his anger out on his carrier.

Bluestreak took a deep vent. “Thank you, Carrier... For using my new designation.” When Caelum looked up at him, Bluestreak shrugged. “I know it’s not the designation you chose for me, but I appreciate you acknowledging that I’ve chosen to walk a different path.”

A soft laugh escaped Caelum. “I think one of the hardest lessons for any originator to learn is that your creations won’t always accept the destiny you thought Primus had laid out for them, or even obediently do what is expected of them.” He smiled at Bluestreak and flicked one door wing in a half shrug. “Your sire and I learned that lesson quickly. Neither you nor your brothers were easy creations to bring up, but you seemed to bring a whole new meaning to the term ‘difficult.’” Caleum shook his helm with a rueful smile. “You have Smokescreen’s brashness, and Prowl’s stubbornness. You have been challenging us since the cycle you emerged.”

Memories of his carrier making empty threats to string him up by his door wings flickered through Bluestreak’s processor, and he smiled. “They say that Primus always makes the unexpected creations the most challenging,” he said. At Caelum’s quizzical look, Bluestreak spread his hands as he tried to explain. “I mean, I know you only had to have two creations: an heir and a seneschal. I was the spare,” he said, giving a self-depreciating laugh.

His carrier stopped in his tracks and stared at him. “Bluestreak. You were never... you were never a ‘spare,’” he said, his tone slightly strained.

Bluestreak waved his hands again, trying to sooth Caelum’s obvious distress. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “It’s just... There’s such a gap between me and Prowl. And...” He worked his intake, cursing having to dredge up the topic of his sire again. “And the King was so much more interested in what Smokey and Prowl were doing than what I did. Until -” Bluestreak’s vocaliser cut out in a sizzle of static and he had to reset it. “Until Tempest,” he finally managed to blurt out.

After looking at Bluestreak for a long moment, Caelum turned and walked to a bench under a grove of tall crystals. He sat down and patted the bench next to him. After Bluestreak sat, Caelum took Bluestreak’s hand in his. “I never told you why we decided to have three creations, instead of just the two required by Praxian law. I’ve never told you why we decided to have you.”

“Decided?” Bluestreak said quietly. He felt a questioning pulse from Hound, who was obviously worrying over the tumble of emotions he was feeling from Bluestreak. He sent a brush of reassurance to Hound and focused on Caelum’s hand on his. “No. You haven’t.”

Nodding, Caelum said, “After Prowl emerged, your sire expressed interest in carrying a creation.” Caelum smiled when Bluestreak’s optics widened slightly and his door wings canted upwards. “He felt how happy carrying made me. The feeling of having another new life so close to your own spark is...“ Caelum shrugged, his smile widening. “Perhaps you’ll experience it yourself someday. But your sire, he wanted to experience that for himself. So we set about trying to get him sparked.”

Bluestreak lifted an optical ridge. “But he didn’t carry me,” he said.

That drew a laugh from Caelum. “That’s right... But not for lack of trying, trust me.” At Bluestreak’s slightly stricken look, Caelum laughed harder. His door wings waved gently behind him in a reassuring gesture. “Don’t worry... I won’t subject you to the details of your originators trying to get sparked.” His expression grew serious. “But we tried for vorn, with no luck. We tried every solution that was presented to us. We consulted medics and alchemists. We asked the High Priest to help us with a special prayer to Primus, asking for a new spark to care for. We even secretly spoke to one of the sorcerers from Nyon to see if there was some arcane magic – anything! – that might help us.” Caelum shook his helm. “Nothing worked. It seems that not every mech is destined to be a carrier.” He sighed. “Such is the will of Primus.”

“But you had me anyway, obviously,” Bluestreak said. “And you carried me. So... Was that intended?” Bluestreak focused on not letting his door wings quiver. This was not the direction he’d expected this conversation to go.

Caelum gripped Bluestreak’s hand tighter and looked at him intensely. “After trying for so long get your sire sparked, the idea of having a third had taken hold. We – both of us – wanted another creation, regardless of which of us carried it. So when I ended up sparked again, your sire was thrilled. And when you emerged... I’ve never seen him that happy. He was happy when your brothers arrived, of course, but when he held you in his arms for the first time...” Caelum closed his optics for a moment, taking a deep vent of air. When he opened his optics again, they were bright with emotion. “This is what I want you to understand. You were wanted. You were so very much wanted, from before you were even sparked. Please don’t ever doubt that.”

Staring at his carrier, Bluestreak tried to imagine his stern sire smiling down at a tiny sparkling – him! – with anything other than a small frown. He knew his sire had been proud when he’d earned his commission in the Cavalry, but Bluestreak had always thought that it was more relief that his youngest had finally made himself useful and found something to keep him out of the fuel halls, rather than any real affection. To Bluestreak, it had always felt as if King Cygnus had held him at arm’s length. Maybe he really had been hiding his true feelings behind his gruff exterior.

But then Bluestreak remembered the terror in Tempest’s optics, and the fury in his sire’s, as Tempest was dragged from his apartments. “I may have been wanted.” His vocalizer felt underpowered as he tried to reply to his carrier. “But that doesn’t change the fact that... that Tempest died because of him,” he finally managed to say.

Lowering his helm, Caelum nodded. “I’m not asking you to forgive him, Bluestreak. I just want you to understand what he was feeling... What he saw.” Caelum turned on the bench so that he faced Bluestreak, and took both of his hands. “He saw an impure mech seeming to take advantage of his youngest creation. He knew that if it got out that you had been contaminated by a mixed-frame mech, it would only mean ruin for you in the Court. He wanted to protect you.”

“Protect me – by ordering the murder of my lover? Over what type of frame he was created with?” Bluestreak blurted, his words fading into static. He felt Hound send another worried pulse at him over the bond, but he couldn’t muster enough positive emotion to send anything back in response. “I don’t know what I’m going to tell him. I know that I can never forgive him, carrier. I’m sorry, but I just... I can’t.”

Caelum’s expression crumpled into one of sorrow, and he brought a hand up to cup Bluestreak’s cheek. “Oh, my sweet creation... I know. I know that, and I will not ask that of you. It was a horrible thing... And he knows that, too.” At Bluestreak’s incredulous look, Caelum nodded. “I’m not expecting you to believe me either, but... Out of all the actions your sire has taken in his life, ordering Tempest’s execution is the one that he regrets the most deeply. He acted out of fear and anger, seeking the easiest way to solve what he saw as a problem... And he has lived with the guilt of that decision every day since he made it.”

Bluestreak’s ventilations hitched, and he bowed his helm. “I don’t know what to say to him,” he repeated.

His carrier’s arms wrapped themselves around him, and Bluestreak leaned into Caelum’s embrace. “Just listen to him, Bluestreak. That’s all I ask. Listen, and if you have nothing to say, leave.” Caelum hugged Bluestreak even tighter for a moment before letting him go, pulling back so he could look into his optics again. “But if you truly cannot bring yourself to do so, I’ll understand,” he said softly.

Bluestreak’s cheeks felt hot, and he wiped the corners of his optics where coolant had pooled. He realized that Caelum’s plea was also for himself, since Caelum would feel everything that Cygnus did. If Cygnus was consumed by guilt, then Caelum would feel that. Having a bond partner of his own made Bluestreak realize that his carrier’s request was as much for him as it was for the King.

Finally, Bluestreak nodded. “I’ll listen to him,” he murmured. “For you.” He gave his helm a small shake, and added, “I can’t promise that if I do have anything to say to him, that it’ll be civil... But I will listen.”

A tiny, relieved smile crossed Caelum’s face. “I’m glad,” he said. Then his optics flicked up the path towards the castle, and Bluestreak heard the sound of a familiar engine. “I hope I haven’t upset your bond partner too much.”

Bluestreak managed to give his carrier a smile. “I think I can smooth things over,” he said, and turned to greet Hound.

Chapter Text

Smokescreen had briefly met Ultra Magnus in Iacon after the battle with Shockwave’s forces. However, the city’s commander had been badly injured, and was sitting every time that Smokescreen met with him.

But now Smokescreen knew that Ultra Magnus was massive. Smokescreen had jokingly called Prince Silverstreak’s head guard Redline a giant, but Ultra Magnus had a good four heads on even him. Even the Vosians, who were much taller than Praxians on average, would be dwarfed by the huge mech.

It was very hard not to feel intimidated by Ultra Magnus. Smokescreen had to keep himself from flaring out his door wings to make himself feel bigger, and he hoped that he wouldn’t get a kink in his neck cables looking up at the commander. He also hoped his fuel processing system behaved; it had been giving him waves of nausea for cycles now. It was important to Smokescreen not to seem weak in front of the leader of Praxus’ new ally.

Praxus needed all of the friends it could get.

“We certainly don’t want him back early,” Smokescreen said. He glanced down at the proposal that Ultra Magnus had presented him. “Barricade was convicted of being complicit in the abduction of one of your Rangers. Whether or not the abducted Ranger was my brother is beside the point,” Smokescreen said with a smile. “That abduction meant he interfered with official diplomatic business that Prince Prowl was conducting. So... We are content to leave him in your custody until he end of his sentence in Iacon.”

“Understood,” said Ultra Magnus, his deep voice resonating inside Smokescreen’s frame. “And how would you like us to handle his release when he has served his sentence?”

Smokescreen skimmed the pad once more. Fortunately, he’d discussed Barricade’s eventual release from Iacon’s prison at length with High Priest Truemark and Prowl, and they were all in agreement. “We would like him to be released into our custody,” he said. He handed the pad back to Ultra Magnus. “Let us know before he’s due to be released, and we will send a contingent to collect him.”

Ultra Magnus accepted the pad, and then fixed Smokescreen with a steady look. Smokescreen firmly suppressed the uneasy flick of his door wings under the huge mech’s gaze. It wouldn’t do to look intimidated. “So you intend to punish him further once Iacon releases him?” Ultra Magnus asked, giving a slight lift to one of his brow ridges.

“Well, that’s still a few vorn in the future,” Smokescreen said. He shrugged. “It depends on what happens here between now and then. Barricade could be... problematic for me, depending on the political climate we have then.” Smokescreen looked up at Ultra Magnus. “He did violate a direct order from King Cygnus. That should be all the justification we’ll need for whatever action we take with him.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the Praxian Temple. “The best case scenario is that he is released and given over to the Temple, and they handle any further consequences they decide he should face.”

“Thank you for clarifying that. It’s good to have an action decided well ahead of time. We will contact you several orbital cycles prior to his scheduled release.” Giving Smokescreen a quick nod, Ultra Magnus pulled another pad from his compartments. “Now, I have one more item of importance that I wished to speak to you about. The Church of Primus in Iacon will be sending formal invitations soon for the selection of a new Matrix bearer. They would like to extend an invitation to Praxus for someone to attend the selection ritual.”

Smokescreen took the second pad and glanced it over. “Yes, Prowl mentioned the... ceremony?” He tipped a door wing up questioningly. “The ritual?” Smokescreen shrugged. “I’m not very clear on why you would want someone from Praxus to help select the next leader of Iacon.”

“The next -? No, you misunderstand.” Ultra Magnus shook his helm. “I am the Commander of Iacon, and I have been for vorn. Optimus Prime is the Matrix bearer. While the Prime currently resides in Iacon, and I work very closely with him and his Rangers, he is not the leader of Iacon. He does, however, have a connection to the Iacon Cathedral and the Church of Primus.”

“Really?” Smokescreen couldn’t suppress the quick flare of his door wings. He briefly wondered whether Prowl had not understood the link between the Prime and Iacon, or whether Smokescreen had just not listened closely enough. Although, knowing Prowl, Smokescreen was the one at fault. “All right. So then... Why would Praxus be involved in selecting the leader of the Iacon Cathedral?”

Ultra Magnus shook his helm again. “Another misunderstanding, I’m afraid. No one selects a Matrix bearer. The Matrix itself selects someone who is worthy enough to carry it. The Primal Ceremony simply provides witnesses to the selection... And makes sure that the mech who is destined to be the next Prime is there. Doctrine states that Primus will ‘change the trajectory of the galaxy’ to ensure that the next intended Prime is in attendance.”

“Wait.” Smokescreen held up his hands. “So you’re asking me to send some mechs to Iacon, so that the Matrix can select who’s going to carry it next, and then that mech will stay in Iacon?” He rubbed his helm as he felt pressure build between his optics. He had been planning on sending Prowl to the ceremony, if only for the diplomatic contacts, and perhaps High Priest Truemark. But he didn’t want to lose either of them to Iacon permanently.

Smokescreen looked up and saw that Ultra Magnus was frowning at him. “Perhaps we ought to have brought a priest from the Cathedral to help explain this. I hadn’t realized that so little of the Primal doctrine had made it across your borders, although I should have anticipated that.” He held up an enormous hand to forestall Smokescreen’s protest. “My apologies. I meant no disrespect.” When Smokescreen nodded in acceptance, Ultra Magnus lowered his hand and continued. “You’ll notice I said Primal doctrine... not Iaconian. The Matrix is carried by a Prime... And it goes where the Prime goes. The Matrix bearer has resided in Iacon for hundreds of vorn. The last three Primes have been Iaconian. But before that, the Matrix was carried by a mech from Altihex... And that’s where the Prime lived. That’s where the Church of Primus was centered. Have you heard of the Altihex Basilica?”

“Yes.” Smokescreen nodded. “I remember seeing drawings of it when I was a youngling. It’s a stunning piece of architecture.”

“That was built when Nova Prime was selected by the Matrix. He lived in Altihex, and decided to remain there. Before him, the Matrix was carried by Zeta Prime, who lived in Damaxus –“

“But that’s on the other side of the planet!” Smokescreen exclaimed. “How did the Matrix get from Zeta Prime to Nova Prime?”

Ultra Magnus shrugged. “I don’t know, although the information might be stored in the Cathedral’s archives. The point is, once a new Matrix bearer – a new Prime - has been selected, the new Prime can choose to go anywhere... And all the followers of Primus will follow.”

“All of the followers? Does that include the Rangers?” Smokescreen asked quickly, keying in on that bit of information.

“Yes,” replied Ultra Magnus. “The Rangers are the Paladins of Primus, and they have sworn an oath to serve the Prime. They would follow the Prime anywhere. So would all of the priests and staff of the Church of Primus, and anyone else who is devoted enough to follow the Prime to a new home.” He tipped his helm to the side. “Do you have any other questions? If I cannot answer them, I can send a courier to Iacon so you can receive more information from the priests directly.”

Smokescreen stared down into the gardens for a moment. Perhaps it was a good idea to send Prowl to the selection ceremony after all. If someone from Praxus was selected as the new Prime, then Bluestreak would come home to Praxus to live, permanently. And if Prowl was somehow selected, then maybe the recalcitrant Houses could be brought into line more easily.

Smokescreen gave his helm a tiny shake. No. First of all, there was no guarantee that the Matrix would choose Prowl. And second... Smokescreen smiled briefly, trying to imagine Prowl being a spiritual leader. Then his smile faded as he remembered how Prowl had gone from being a skeptic of Primus to a firm believer after the Battle of the Plurex Flats.

He wasn’t sure that he wanted to lose two brothers to Primus.

“No, I don’t think it will be necessary to send a courier. I think I understand now,” Smokescreen said finally. He looked up and gave Ultra Magnus what he hoped was a relaxed smile. “I’ll provide you with a list of our attendees before you leave Praxus.”

“Excellent,” Ultra Magnus said. He glanced away and focused on something below them in the East Garden.

Lord Caelum, Bluestreak and Hound were walking up the stairs to the terrace. Their carrier looked tired; Smokescreen hoped that the King wasn’t drawing too much on Caelum’s strength. But then Caelum caught sight of Smokescreen and lifted his arm in greeting, his apparent fatigue evaporating. As they mounted the final stairs, the blue Ranger that had accompanied them – Blurr, Smokescreen remembered – came charging up the stairs from the West Garden with impressive speed.

“Come,” Smokescreen said, turning back to Ultra Magnus. He gritted his dentae against the churn in his tanks as he moved, and was suddenly glad he hadn’t bothered taking any fuel this morning. “I’d like to give you and your Rangers a tour of the palace grounds.”

When Prowl was shown into the High Priest’s study, Truemark stood up from his desk to greet him. “Prince Prowl! Welcome! I was informed you were coming but, really, I could have met you at the palace.” He gestured to a comfortable seating area and waited for Prowl to settle himself in the chair. “It would have gotten me out of the Temple. I have to admit, I’m feeling a little like a hermit with the amount of time I’ve been spending here.”

Prowl smiled and held out the roll of scrolls he’d brought with him. “I wanted to bring this to you personally. It’s the schedule and outline for both Prince Bluestreak’s bonding presentation, and a draft of the schedule for the coronation. I wanted to make sure they’re what you were expecting before we made further plans for security and our guests.”

Truemark nodded and skimmed the scrolls before setting them aside. “I will look at them tonight and let you know tomorrow if I have any suggestions,” he said. Then he grimaced. “And yes... security. I’ve not had to deal with that consideration in my previous posting. Not in any official manner, anyway.” Truemark shook his helm and smiled again. “But surely you didn’t come all the way to the Temple just to drop off some schedules.”

“No,” Prowl said. He handed the two books he’d been carrying to the High Priest. “I also wanted to return these, and thank you for loaning them to me.”

Truemark glanced at the titles again and nodded. As he set the books on the table beside the scrolls, he said, “I have to admit, I am curious as to what exactly you are after. You’ve asked for a rather eclectic mix of texts to study over the past few orbital cycles.” He looked up as an acolyte brought in a tray with energon tea service, and began to pour for both of them. “I absolutely do not want to discourage your new enthusiasm for the faith, but... Is there something in particular that you are looking for?” He handed a mug to Prowl. “I assume this has something to do with what you witnessed in Iacon.”

Prowl lowered his door wings and accepted the mug. “It does,” he said. He suppressed a shudder, remembering the hordes of dead-grey mechs that had made up Shockwave’s army, and the bellowing voice of the construct that Bluestreak and his fellow Rangers had finally taken down. “What I am looking for is some information on what the ancients knew about the Unmaker’s return. And... considering how badly the texts were interpreted by your predecessors, what was it that the ancients actually saw? What were they trying to tell us?”

Truemark sat back in his seat and smiled at Prowl over his mug. “That’s what I like about you, Your Highness. You don’t pull any punches.” He waved a hand to stop Prowl’s apology from leaving his vocalizer. “No, you’re right. The texts were misinterpreted, but that’s easy to see in hindsight. I think what you’re missing is how old these texts are.” He set his mug down and made a circle with one of his hands. “We know that time is a circle. What has happened before will happen again. In all the various faiths and all the many traditions, that is one constant on Cybertron. What was will be, and what will be once was.” With his other hand, he pointed at where his thumb and first digit touched to form the circle. “We also know that the coming of the Unmaker both starts and ends the cycle. So now, it us up to us to do what we can so that future generations know what will happen to their world... And how to stop it.”

“But if the ancients believe the same thing you do, that they had to leave information for us to interpret, why was everything couched in such arcane language?” Prowl asked. “It’s almost as if they were purposefully trying to be opaque with their warnings.”

“Do you know how old those texts are?” Truemark asked, his tone mild. He sipped at his mug.

“Yes. Most of them are about fifteen hundred vorn old. A few are eighteen hundred vorn old,” Prowl replied, uncertain where the High Priest was going with this line of questioning.

“And how long was it between the last coming of the Unmaker, and when those texts were written?” Truemark’s optics were fixed on Prowl’s.

Prowl suspected he was being led towards the answer to his question with more questions, but the Temple priests had always used that as a teaching technique. He frowned. “I am not sure. I assumed they were written shortly after the events they describe.”

Truemark shook his helm and set his mug aside again. “No. Most research points to there being a five- to eight-hundred vorn gap between the last cycle of time’s wheel, and when those texts were written.” He smiled at Prowl’s exclamation of astonishment. “So the stories set forth in the texts were either transcribed from older texts, complete with any errors that the priests made during the transcription, or they were written down from oral accounts. Also... They are incredibly incomplete. You know of the burning of the Temple’s library during the Praxian-Vosian War. Well, even before that, when the capital was situated further down the valley, the old temple was destroyed in the landslide that created Mirror Lake to the east. Many more texts were lost then.” He shrugged. “In both instances, some texts were recreated from the memories of priests who had studied them, while others were lost forever. So we can’t completely fault the ancients for giving us incomplete or misleading information. Time itself played a role in all of Cybertron forgetting what happened.”

Prowl stared down at his mug. He had always considered the ancient texts to be little better than poetry, and he never thought that he would actually witness the horrors they told of unfolding before his optics. He’d never once thought that his own brother would be tasked with bringing down the Unmaker, even if he had not literally become the ‘vessel of Primus’ that they had been taught about as younglings. But now, it seemed as if a riddle had been revealed... And all of Praxus had gotten the answer to the riddle wrong.

“So that leads me back to my question,” Prowl said. “If we believe this will happen again... What can we do to make sure that future generations are better prepared than we were?”

“A noble question, Your Highness,” Truemark said. “Lives are short. Memories are even shorter. There are things that happened just a few vorn ago that have already faded from memory. How do we preserve the story that has just happened? How do you make sure that our story survives the ages to reach those who need it?” Truemark shook his helm again. “I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that. The best way, I think, is to work the information into teachings that are passed down by the Temple. But as we’ve seen, even that method can be subverted by politics and personal agendas.” His door wings twitched as he took another deep drink from his mug. “I’m afraid that even now, even knowing that the more zealous teachings were wholly and completely wrong, there are priests inside the synod who think that Prince Smokescreen is making a huge mistake, and is leading Praxus towards ruin.”

“That sounds familiar,” Prowl muttered, thinking of the houses who were most vocal in protesting the changes that Smokescreen was planning. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if some of the priests who believed in the purity of full-framed Praxians were working with some of the more hostile houses.

Then Prowl cycled his optics and looked up at the High Priest. “These priests you just mentioned, the ones who are unhappy... Could you possibly make a list of them for me? Perhaps also include where they have served, and what principalities they are originally from?” He bowed his helm and lowered his door wings. “I realize that this might be viewed as the Crown becoming involved in the affairs of the Temple, but...”

“But it’s not like the Temple hasn’t been involved in the affairs of the Crown in the past,” Truemark said. Prowl looked up to see the High Priest smiling at him. “I can prepare a list for you, of course. But... May I ask what it is for?”

Prowl set his empty mug on the table. “I am seeking the solution to a problem we’ve been having, and you may have just given me a new place to look for answers.”

The next cycle, Smokescreen had arranged for a tour of the capital for the Rangers. Bluestreak was happy to see that their tour was being kept low-key; rather than being accompanied by an army of guards and attendants, their only escorts were Bluestreak’s guard contingent and Lord Halfsteel. “But don’t worry,” Smokescreen had told him quietly before they departed. “We’ve got guards watching from every angle. You should be perfectly safe on this tour.”

Should be. Bluestreak had noticed Smokescreen’s phrasing, along with the worried dip his brother’s door wings made after he thought Bluestreak wasn’t watching.

As they drove from stop to stop, Bluestreak kept his sensors on the quiet lord that Smokescreen had appointed as his majordomo. Halfsteel was about the same age as Smokescreen, but he only seemed vaguely familiar. As the creation of a noble, Halfsteel surely would have visited the palace on occasion as he was growing up, but Bluestreak simply couldn’t place him.

Then again, the lord was so quiet and soft-spoken that Bluestreak realized he easily could have missed him. The Court had always been a busy place, especially when all the Houses were attending the full Court.

Bluestreak appreciated the tour, even though he was very familiar with many of the locations they visited. Almost every place they stopped at filled him with nostalgia for his youth, but every stop also gave him a twinge of confusion, of things being not quite right. The market in Phoenix Square was just as busy and bustling as it had always been, with vendors attempting to draw customers to their booths with sing-song calls and colourful signs and tents, but the configuration of the booths had changed. Some of the vendors that Bluestreak remembered were gone, and the actual shape of the square itself had changed slightly after some of the surrounding buildings had been added on to. Bluestreak had a persistent feeling of strangeness as though he had been transported into a dream version of the square, where things didn’t line up with reality.

The serene Public Gardens were a vivid contrast to the market’s noise. Here, too, Bluestreak felt an odd disconnect to the place that he’d known growing up. Some of the crystals had been moved to other areas of the garden, while new paths had been created that weren’t there before. But the gardens were just as relaxing as he remembered. They stood for almost a groon listening to the soft chimes of the music crystals that were planted at various places around the garden. When Bluestreak closed his optics the strangeness he felt vanished, and he could almost imagine he was a youngling again, visiting the gardens with his carrier.

Hound especially loved the garden, although he admitted that he preferred the eastern gardens at the palace. “This is nice,” he said quickly after stating his preference, as if not wanting to offend the Praxians in their party. “But the gardens at the palace feel a lot more wild.”

“My carrier would be happy to hear that,” Bluestreak replied, giving Hound a grin. “That’s the feel he was going for when he designed the layout. He said it reminds him a lot of the crystal forests in the south, where he grew up.”

The stop at the Temple, on the other hand, filled Bluestreak with an irrational anxiety. He knew that he no longer had anything to fear from the priests or their power. But as they stepped onto the Temple grounds, Bluestreak couldn’t shake the instinctive fear that he was going to be berated and punished for... well, everything.

After Barricade’s imprisonment in Iacon, a new High Priest had been selected. Smokescreen said that High Priest Truemark was nothing like Barricade; in fact, he had discretely been working to counter some of the teachings coming out of the main Temple. And after the battle with Nyon’s forces, Smokescreen was finally able to remove the Temple’s “advisors” from the Court. Truemark cooperated with the probe into Barricade’s activities, and they had turned up enough evidence to keep Barricade in prison for a very long time. Through Barricade, the Temple had helped Nyon develop the magic needed to power the army of corpses that the Rangers and allied forces had taken down in Iacon. With High Priest Truemark now leading the Temple, they were refocused on the core teachings of the texts, which did not include breeding full-framed Praxians like livestock.

Things were different now, or so Smokescreen kept telling Bluestreak.

But the Temple was also where Bluestreak had spent so many unhappy groons as a youngling, being forced to regurgitate teachings that made no sense to him, and which seemed needlessly divisive. It was at the Temple that Bluestreak was taught that as a full-framed Praxian, he would be required to bond with a mech of the Temple’s choosing. It was at the Temple that he was told his concern for impure Praxians was counter to Primus’ wishes. And it was on the Temple grounds that Tempest was executed by a cloaked Temple priest, supposedly for committing blasphemy. Bluestreak vividly remembered watching from the crowd, hidden under a cloak, as Tempest’s spark was extinguished.

He knew his distress was bleeding over the spark bond to Hound when the green mech slid his arm around Bluestreak’s waist and pulled him close. “Are you all right?” Hound murmured in his audial as Halfsteel explained the significance of the layout of the paths on the temple grounds to Blurr and Ultra Magnus.

Bluestreak nodded. “I’ll be fine. It’s just... a lot of memories here. And not all of them are good ones.”

Bumping his helm against Bluestreak’s, Hound gave him a gentle squeeze. “I understand. I’m sure I’d feel the same if we ever went back to Nyon.”

Smiling at his bond partner, Bluestreak said, “Thank you for being here.” He leaned against Hound and added, “And if we ever do go to Nyon, I hope I can be as strong for you as you are being for me.”

The tour took the better part of the cycle. They began heading to their last stop as the sun was dipping low over the mountains to the west of the city. “There is an overlook just outside the city,” Lord Halfsteel said. “It provides an amazing vantage from which we can watch the sunset. Prince Bluestreak may remember the place?” he asked, a small smile on his lips.

“Lookout Mountain? Yes! I remember it well,” Bluestreak replied. “Prowl and I went up there several times to watch meteor storms with our astronomy tutor.”

Halfsteel nodded. “We’ve arranged to have our evening fuel brought there as well, so we can rest and relax. We’ll head back down to the palace just after the sun sets.”

The view from the overlook was just as stunning as Bluestreak remembered. After oohing and aahing over the scenery for an appropriate amount of time, the party split off into small groups to take their fuel. Ultra Magnus fell deep into conversation with several of the guards, probing them for information on the structure of the palace guard, the Praxian army, and the border patrol. Blurr and Hound were discussing some of the sights they’d seen: Hound was taken with all the different types of crystals he’d seen in the gardens, while Blurr was interested in the energon distillery they’d visited.

Sitting off to one side by himself was Lord Halfsteel. He sipped his fuel slowly, staring down at the city below them. Bluestreak walked up to where he sat, careful to brush his pedes on the ground as he approached so as not to startle the young Lord. “Would you mind if I joined you?” he asked.

Lord Halfsteel looked up quickly, then gestured for Bluestreak to sit beside him. Bluestreak was not sure whether Halfsteel’s apparent surprise was because he had not heard Bluestreak come up, or because someone had asked to sit with him. “I hope I’ve done justice to the city for your companions,” Halfsteel said quietly. “You grew up here, while I only moved here permanently a short while ago. I’m sure you’re much more familiar with the city than I am.”

Bluestreak waved his hand. “You did a great job,” he said. “And to be honest I might have had a hard time finding my way around. I was gone for a while.” He thought about the strangeness he’d felt in the square and the gardens. “It’s like a place that I used to know... But it’s changed, and so have I.” He shrugged and smiled. “You did fine.”

The noble ducked his helm slightly, hiding his expression in his cube of fuel. “Thank you very much, Your Highness.”

Bluestreak watched Halfsteel out of the corner of his optic as he took a sip from his own cube. He still couldn’t place him. “I take it you didn’t visit the Court much when you were younger? Maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize you, Lord Halfsteel.”

Halfsteel gave him a small smile. “I visited the court many times when I was young. I remember you, of course,” he said. “But with so many nobles, I’m not surprised you didn’t take notice of the youngest creation of a northern lord. And please... Just Halfsteel is fine, Your Highness.”

“So, party rules?” Bluestreak grinned at the sudden twitch of Halfsteel’s door wings at the phrase. “And just Bluestreak for me, please.”

“Ah... You know about Prince Smokescreen’s parties... And his rules,” Halfsteel said with a smile, his optics brightening when he mentioned Smokescreen’s designation.

Bluestreak nodded. “He invited me to a few once I was old enough.” He sipped his fuel, remembering the elaborate parties that Smokescreen liked to throw for the smallest reason. “I don’t remember seeing you at any of them, though.”

Halfsteel frowned. “No. The first party I attended was after you... left.” He hesitated, his optics flicking over to Bluestreak as if judging whether he’d taken offense. Bluestreak carefully kept his wings still and gave Halfsteel an encouraging smile. When Halfsteel seemed satisfied that his words hadn’t caused any upset, he looked back down at the city. “Prince Smokescreen and I became friends after that.”

“I had to ask Prowl what a ‘majordomo’ was. I wasn’t familiar with the position.” Bluestreak gave Halfsteel another appraising look. “But it seems to be a role of huge responsibility and authority. Smokey must really trust you.”

Halfsteel’s door wings dipped low, their lower edges brushing the ground behind him. “Your brother has given me an immense honour,” he said solemnly. “Since we’ve become friends, he has done more for me than I could ever have dreamed of, especially as a sixth creation... Someone below notice. What he’s done is more than I can ever thank him for, no matter how long I live. I will serve him to the best of my ability, for as long as he asks me to.” His words were spoken with a deep reverence.

“Did you say that you’re the youngest as well?” Bluestreak asked. When Halfsteel nodded, Bluestreak nudged him gently with his elbow. “Well, we’ve got that in common. Here’s to the youngest creations finally making good for themselves,” he said, and held his cube up to Halfsteel’s in a toast.

Halfsteel’s smile was broad and genuine, and Bluestreak noticed his door wings give an amused flick as he tapped his cube against Bluestreak’s. It was easy to see what Smokescreen saw in the shy Lord. And if he was as loyal and dependable as Smokescreen seemed to believe him to be, he was definitely an asset to have at the King’s side after he took the throne.

They sat in companionable silence for a few kliks, drinking their fuel and watching the sun slowly dip towards the mountains. Then Halfsteel said, “I love the view here; I always have. But you must have seen things even more amazing in your journeys.”

Bluestreak hummed thoughtfully for a moment before answering. “I have seen some truly incredible things,” he said finally. “I’ve seen some really ugly things, too... But I try to remember the good things.”

“Like what?” Halfsteel asked. He had leaned forward slightly, his expression intent. Then he glanced away. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“No, it’s fine,” Bluestreak said. He pointed to their right, away from the setting sun. “That way, over the border with Petrex, are mountain passes and valleys filled with tingrass. The sound they make when the wind blows through them is very soothing.” He pointed to their left. “And the forests of Iacon are dense with tall crystals. Hound loves them, with the way the light refracts through their spires.” He laid his arms across his knees again. “But I would love to get back to Altihex someday. Watching the sun rise over the Rust Sea on a clear morning is something that I will never forget.”

Halfsteel’s door wings quivered slightly as he looked back down at the city. “I thought myself lucky that I saw so much of Praxus while in your brother’s service,” he said. “I thought myself very well-travelled for my station. But you...” He cast a wry grin at Bluestreak. “You’ve seen more of Cybertron than I can ever dream of seeing.”

“Let Smokey know you’d like to travel more,” Bluestreak said. “Now that Praxus’s borders are open, he wants to increase the country’s profile with its neighbours. Prowl’s been handling the diplomatic work, but maybe he could use a hand.” At Halfsteel’s dubious look, Bluestreak shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt to ask.”

“Maybe,” Halfsteel said. He went silent for a full klik as both of them watched the sun graze the mountains as it set. Then Halfsteel smiled at Bluestreak and said, “Tell me more about the Rust Sea.”

Chapter Text

“Your Highness?”

Smokescreen onlined with a start at the voice. He opened his optics to see Strikeback standing at the arm of the couch, looking at Smokescreen with evident concern. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, Smokescreen sat up from where he had been slumped on his couch. “Yes, Strikeback, what is it?” he asked, rubbing the sides of his helm.

Fantastic: on top of everything else, his helmache was back in full force. He’d have to go see Triage for more pain blockers, something that Smokescreen was not especially looking forward to. The doctor would tut at him and tell him that the processor pain was likely due to stress. He would nag Smokescreen again to take some time off, to relax and take his processor off of his duties.

Smokescreen didn’t see how that was possible – not now, anyway. There was too much to do, and too many threads hanging over him to take time off.

“My apologies for waking you, but Prince Prowl and Master Triage are here to see you.”

“What? Why?” Smokescreen asked, frowning. Then before Strikeback could reply, he shook his helm and said, “Never mind. Just show them in.”

As Strikeback turned back to the door of his apartments, Smokescreen leaned forward and closed his optics, suppressing a groan at the discomfort the movement caused in both his helm and his tanks. What did Triage want? And why was Prowl with him? Smokescreen knew that Prowl had been worried about his helmaches, but Triage was looking after him already. There was no need for them to both come to see him.

So Smokescreen knew his expression was not as welcoming as it could have been when his brother and the Royal Doctor entered his apartments. Ignoring the stab of pain between his optics, Smokescreen hauled himself to his pedes. “This is unexpected,” he said flatly, holding his door wings out stiffly behind him.

“Smokescreen,” Prowl said, stepping ahead of Triage. He glanced at the table on the other side of the room pointedly, where a tray of energon sat untouched. “I see you haven’t taken your evening fuel yet.”

Smokescreen’s tanks roiled at the thought of fueling. “I don’t need fuel now,” he said, although the indicator on his HUD was registering a low level of fuel in his tanks. “I had some this morning.”

“Prince Prowl has told me that you’ve continued having helmaches,” Triage said. The doctor was looking at Smokescreen calculatingly, almost as if he could sense the pain that Smokescreen was feeling. Under the doctor’s gaze, Smokescreen stood up a bit taller; maybe his posture was giving him away. “Is that true?”

Smokescreen threw a glare at Prowl before answering. “Yes,” he admitted. “But Prowl needn’t have worried himself. I was going to come see you tomorrow for some more pain blockers.”

“Sit down, Your Highness,” the doctor said, gently taking Smokescreen’s arm and pushing him firmly back onto the couch. Smokescreen sat without protest. After all, it did make him feel better to sit down. Triage took Smokescreen’s face between his hands and looked at him carefully. “Your optics are dim. Did you refuel this morning?”

“Yes,” Smokescreen said truthfully. When Triage continued to stare at him, he sighed and added, “Although only I only had half a cube.”

“And how about yesterday evening?” Triage continued looking into Smokescreen’s optics, as if he could read what he was thinking.

Smokescreen knew that the doctor could just ask the servants whether the crown prince had taken any fuel, so he heaved a sigh and said, “No. I... I didn’t feel up to it. I have a lot going on right now.”

“If you would like for me or Lord Halfsteel to assist with any of your duties, you know that we would be happy to do so,” Prowl said from behind the doctor. He leaned over so he could see Smokescreen around Triage’s shoulder armor. “There’s no need to feel like you have to handle everything on your own.”

Before Smokescreen could snap a retort, Triage let go of Smokescreen’s helm and sat back on his heels. “Why haven’t you been fueling, Your Highness?” He put a cool hand on the side of Smokescreen’s neck, his digits coming to a rest over the supplementary fuel pump just inside his collar fairing. “Have you been forgetting, or is it something else?”

Smokescreen heard Prowl’s quick intake of air through his vents before he saw his brother’s door wings lift. Suddenly realizing where Triage was angling with his question, Smokescreen shook his helm. “I’m not forgetting.” He smiled at Prowl in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, then looked at Triage evenly. “Don’t worry. I’m not succumbing to the same condition that the King has.”

“Then why?” Triage asked gently. “If it’s stress, I would recommend that you take Prince Prowl up on his offer for help.”

With a quick flare of anger, Smokescreen jerked his helm away from Triage’s hand. He stood up quickly, grinding his dentae tightly as his tanks protested the movement, and walked a few steps away from the couch and the doctor. “I’m just not feeling well,” he said. “I’ve simply felt ill, off and on, for the past few orbital cycles or so. Whatever it is, I’m sure it will pass.” He glanced at Triage and lowered his door wings. “My apologies for not mentioning it, but it really didn’t seem important. It’s just an upset tank. Like you said, it’s probably just stress.”

“Your Highness, this is what I am here for,” Triage said, sounding very put-upon. “If it’s just an upset tank, I can run down to my lab now and get a remedy for you. It’s probably something that’s very easy to treat.” He took out a pad and jotted down a few notes. “How exactly do you feel: is it a sharp pain? Or do you feel like purging?”

When Smokescreen hesitated, Prowl said, “I can step outside if you’d prefer to discuss this with Triage in private.”

“No... It’s all right. You can stay,” Smokescreen said. He held up both hands as he tried to come up with words to describe the sensations he’d had for the past half vorn. “It feels like... Like my tanks are full all the time. I know they aren’t, but they feel like I’ve been doing nothing except guzzling mid-grade.” Smokescreen made a face as he felt his tanks lurch again. It was as if describing the sensation made it worse. “And then occasionally there are sharp pains, and a feeling like...” He shrugged, finally throwing aside the last shred of dignity he had in the conversation. “Like my engine needs to backfire or something.”

Triage was nodding as Smokescreen spoke. “Bloating and exhaust issues. I may have something that will help. Of course, if you’d come to me sooner you might have prevented yourself some discomfort,” Triage said, a slight scolding tone in his voice. Smokescreen nodded grudgingly, and Triage turned to leave. “I’ll be back in a few kliks with the remedy, Your Highness.”

When the apartment door had closed, Prowl crossed his arms under his bumper. “Perhaps you ought to be checked out by the alchemist as well,” he said. “There’s the possibility that you’ve been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Smokescreen laughed, then shook his helm when Prowl’s door wings flared out in indignation. “Thank you for your concern, Prowl. But my protection charm hasn’t registered any type of danger, and it’s caught every other poisoning attempt.”

“But what if whoever is trying to assassinate you has developed a new type of poison? One that Master Auger hasn’t encountered yet?” Prowl’s voice wavered slightly and his door wings trembled. “I don’t want to risk your safety for anything.”

“Well, if someone has poisoned me, all they succeeded in doing was giving me a sour tank.” Smokescreen gave Prowl an encouraging smile, but Prowl only lowered his door wings even further. Smokescreen heaved a deep vent. “All right, fine. I’ll go see Master Auger in the morning.” He waggled a digit at Prowl. “But I’m only doing this to make you happy.”

“If I need to guilt you into doing the sensible thing, then I am not above doing so,” Prowl said with a small smile.

They got a lot done over the next few cycles.

They met with High Priest Truemark, who turned out to be far friendlier and more open to change than Bluestreak had even dated to imagine. It’s not that he didn’t trust Smokescreen’s assessment of the priest, but Bluestreak had never considered that a High Priest of the Praxian Temple might be someone with whom he would want to drink a few cubes of high-grade.

After reviewing the plans for the bonding presentation, which seemed to be far less boring and stodgy than Bluestreak feared, he and Hound also went over the plans for the party after the presentation. Hound had some suggestions, which Bluestreak passed on to Prowl and Lord Caelum. Both Rangers were taken slightly aback at the amount of fuel that was going to be served. “This seems really overblown,” Bluestreak said. “Especially since bonding presentations don’t typically have receptions afterwards.”

“It’s the first royal bonding presentation since our originators’,” Prowl explained. “Plus, the unusual nature of your union is drawing lots of attention. There are other celebrations being planned by the citizens all over the city, and we even heard of some out in rural areas.” He set his door wings at an apologetic angle and glanced at Hound. “Smokescreen is encouraging these celebrations as part of his political agenda. He’s hoping to play up the fact that Hound is a commoner. My apologies if that makes you feel uncomfortable.”

“It’s all right,” Hound said with a shrug and a smile. “I just never thought I’d have mechs celebrating my lowly upbringing. It feels a bit weird, but I’m all right with it.”

The fuel, decorations, and music were all approved in turn. Then Bluestreak spent a full morning reviewing the talking points that Prowl had given him, until he could recite them verbatim. After that, Bluestreak showed Hound and Blurr the oversized Primes and Drones game in the palace gardens that they could play with huge pieces. And then he took a bemused Hound on a furtive tour of all the back passages and hiding places in the palace that Bluestreak remembered from when he was a youngling.

But eventually, even Hound called Bluestreak out on his procrastination. “If you don’t want to meet with your sire, just tell your carrier so. Don’t leave him hanging,” he said.

“I’m going to go see him,” Bluestreak said with a flare of his door wings. “I just had other things to do.” But Hound kept looking at him until Bluestreak sighed and let his door wings droop. He couldn’t hide his feelings from his bond partner. “I just... I’m afraid of what he’s going to say... Or how I’m going to react.”

More than anything, Bluestreak wished they were all back in Iacon. Not just because he would be closer to the Matrix, which still pulled on his spark with a constant sensation of loss, but because he would be able to visit the Cathedral.

He was sure that a groon in the Iacon Cathedral, sitting in meditation with the serene Sunstreaker at his side, would give him the calm and strength to listen to what his sire had to say. When he mentioned this to Hound, the green mech smiled. “You could try using my cathedral.” Hound’s smile widened as realization spread across Bluestreak’s face. “I’m sure that we could find a quiet place in the gardens here for you to spend some time sitting in Primus’ presence.”

Hound, of course, was right. The green mech often eschewed the formality of the Iacon Cathedral, and instead sought the calm of the forests around Iacon City. So on a calm evening, as the sun was setting behind the palace, Bluestreak and Hound knelt amongst the crystals of his carrier’s prize garden, and silently sat and listened to the wind humming through the pylons. They could almost imagine they were back in Iacon, except for the discrete but ever-present guard detail, and the heaviness of distance in their sparks because of the their distance from the Matrix.

Bluestreak hadn’t sat in meditation since they’d left Iacon, and he realized how much he had come to depend on the practice. He wasn’t sure what it was about sitting quietly with only the thrum of his own spark to contemplate, but it made him feel centered and rejuvenated. Even when he didn’t ask Primus for anything specific, just the act of emptying his processor and focusing on his ventilations seemed to give him the strength to face anything that his existence threw at him.

Even a meeting with his sire.

He had promised his carrier that he would meet with King Cygnus. Ever since agreeing to come to Praxus, he knew he would need to face the mech who had ordered the execution of his lover. But while sitting in the garden, optics closed and his thoughts focused inward, he realized that he was tired of being angry.

Tempest was dead. The reason for his death – killed because of who he was and who he loved - was horrifying. But nothing was going to change that. Bluestreak had a new life now: a new designation, new responsibilities, new colours, and a new bond partner. Staying angry at the King for Tempest’s death wasn’t going to bring him back. All it did was give the King a space in Bluestreak’s processor and spark that was filled with fury and sadness.

The next morning, Bluestreak and Hound stood at the end of the hallway outside of the King’s apartments. Bluestreak had sent a message to his carrier that he would visit this morning, and he’d received an enthusiastic response. They were waiting.

Promises made. Promises kept.

Hound touched his arm gently. “Did you want me to go in with you?” Hound asked. “Or should I wait out here? Either way, I don’t mind.”

Bluestreak gave Hound a grateful smile. “I think I’d like to see him alone at first,” he said.

“All right. I’ll be right here if you need me,” Hound said, and brushed his digits over Bluestreak’s chest armor, just over his spark. “Remember... If it gets to be too much, you can always leave.”

Bluestreak nodded and sent Hound a pulse of affection through the bond. Then he walked down the hallway and stood outside the door. “I’m here to see the King,” he said to the guard. The guard nodded, and disappeared into the apartment for a moment before reappearing and opening the door wide.

“Bluestreak. Thank you so much for coming.” Lord Caelum swept towards the door as Bluestreak entered. He gestured further into the apartments. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

The King’s apartments were exactly as Bluestreak remembered them. The chairs, the tables, the light fixtures... Even the tapestries hanging on the walls appeared to be the same. Bluestreak had seen his carrier several times over the past few cycles, and had become accustomed to the subtle changes age had brought about in Lord Caelum's appearance. But the King...

Sitting in padded chair, covered with mesh blankets and surrounded by pillows, was an off-coloured mech who seemed to bear little resemblance to the King that Bluestreak remembered. His silver and black colours were muted, lacking almost all of the lustre that they once had. His door wings sat low, resting on the back of the chair, and his armor hung loosely on his protoform. He looked like a mech who was twice again his age.

But his blue optics were bright and sharp as he watched Bluestreak enter his apartments.

“He has good days and bad,” Caelum said quietly, taking his elbow. “Today is a rather good day. He is well-rested, and he was asking about you. But... He tires easily, especially if he gets upset. If I feel him start to falter, I’ll step in.” Caelum drew Bluestreak closer to the chair where the King sat, and raised his voice. “Cygnus, Bluestreak is here to see you.”

Bluestreak bowed. “Your Majesty,” he said stiffly.

When the King nodded silently, Caelum let go of Bluestreak’s arm and stepped away. “I’ll just be in the other room, in case either of you need anything,” he said, looking at them both in turn. Then Caelum slipped away, vanishing into one of the interior rooms and closing the door behind him.

Bluestreak and his sire stared at each other for a moment before King Cygnus said, “Please sit down.” When Bluestreak sat in the proffered seat, he said, “You’re looking well.”

“So are you,” Bluestreak replied automatically.

Cygnus huffed out a laugh, and suddenly it seemed as though the mech sitting in front of Bluestreak was not a decrepit invalid, but his sire. “Liar,” Cygnus said, his lips turning up in a smile. “I look like slag. I’m not blind, and they haven’t hidden all the mirrors from me. And I’m not deaf either. I’ve heard what the doctors and alchemists tell your carrier.” He stared at Bluestreak with a steady look. “But you... You do look well. You’ve grown and matured.”

Bluestreak flicked his door wings. “That’s what Carrier told me,” he said.

The King’s optics narrowed slightly. “So... Bluestreak. You’ve got new colours as well as a new designation,” he said. He made no effort to hide the appraising look he gave Bluestreak. “It’s an interesting choice.”

It would have been so easy for Bluestreak to just sit there, and let the King say what he wanted, and then to get up and leave. It would have been simple to just sit in silence, fulfilling his promise to his carrier, and then leave his sire behind to stew in his growing dementia. But a part of Bluestreak’s spark wanted to hear what the King had to say for himself. He wanted to know whether Cygnus would try to defend his actions from so long ago, or whether Caelum was right... That the King really did regret sending Tempest to his death.

So Bluestreak lifted his chin high, staring right back at his sire, and said, “They’re Tempest’s colours.”

King Cygnus’ door wings shot upwards. Then he said, “Of course. I thought they looked familiar.” His wings slowly drifted back down to rest against the back of the chair, and his shoulders slumped further. “I suppose your carrier told you why I wanted to see you.”

“He just said you wanted to speak with me,” Bluestreak replied, keeping his voice as even as possible. “I assume it is about how you ordered Tempest’s murder.”

The King frowned at Bluestreak’s words, but he did not look away. “There is nothing I can do to fix what I did. There is nothing I can do to bring him back. I... I wish there was,” he said. “You loved him.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes,” Bluestreak said.

His sire seemed to shrink, sinking back into the pillows that surrounded him. “It’s ironic, I suppose. I tried to save you from what I saw as poor decision making on your part. But in doing so, I brought about what I’d hope to avoid... Losing my youngest creation.” His optics were still fixed on Bluestreak, but they had dimmed, their light flickering. “I am so sorry. I tried to do what I thought was best for you, and –“

Bluestreak felt a pain in his hands, and looked down to see his fists clenched so tightly that his digits were denting the mesh of his palms. He opened his fists and set his hands on his knees. “It certainly wasn’t what was best for Tempest.”

The King flinched and looked away. “No,” he murmured. “It wasn’t.”

A soft but constant trickle of love and strength came over the spark bond from Hound, and Bluestreak leaned into it gratefully as he gathered his thoughts. "Ever since I left, I’ve felt like you ripped away a life that I could have had. You ripped Tempest away from me. And I didn’t think that I could ever, ever let that go.” Bluestreak frowned at his sire, noticing the way his optics continued to flicker. “But I’ve realized that I can’t stay mad at you forever. You did something horrible, but... I need to move on with my life.”

King Cygnus lowered his helm, his digits picking at the blanket covering his legs. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness... And I’m not asking for it.” His voice wavered, becoming weaker as he spoke. “But losing you helped me realize what harm was being done to the mechs of Praxus in the name of Primus... And with the tacit approval of the Crown.” He smiled, lifting his gaze to Bluestreak again. “It took Smokescreen practically jamming the facts down my intake before I finally believed but... I did. And I saw, and I...” His gaze dropped once more. “I am sorry.”

Bluestreak frowned. He briefly wondered whether the King’s apology was as spark-felt as it seemed but then he realized it didn’t matter. He had said his piece. And strangely, his spark felt lighter for it. He leaned forward, placing his hand on his sire’s knee, and said, “I’m just glad that Smokescreen finally got you to see.”

The King put his own hand over Bluestreak’s. His touch felt light, almost insubstantial. “I hope that you and your brothers can heal Praxus. Fix the harm that’s been done, and lead its citizens forward.” He looked up at Bluestreak with dim optics. “If anyone can do that, it’s you, Silverstreak.”

Bluestreak hesitantly drew his hand away. “It’s Bluestreak, sire.”

The King nodded absently. “Yes. My sentimental, idealistic creation with a spark of gold. You had things right all along... I just needed to listen to you.” He smiled down at his hands, which had knitted themselves together in his lap. “I’m so happy that you came to your senses and returned to Praxus. You will be an excellent advisor to your brother.”

Shaking his helm, Bluestreak said, “Sire... I won’t be staying. I can’t. I have to go back to Iacon.” When the King looked up at him with a frown, he flared his door wings, displaying the emblem of the Prime which was clearly painted on them where his Praxian Cavalry insignia had once been.

“Iacon?” King Cygnus’s brow ridge furrowed for a moment, confusion written in his expression. His optics drifted away from Bluestreak’s face again. “Do we have business with them?”

Bluestreak turned as he heard a door open, and Lord Caelum walked into the sitting room. He quickly crossed the floor to kneel beside the King. “Cygnus, maybe it’s time for you to rest a bit,” he said, putting his hands over the King’s. Then he looked up at Bluestreak, lowering his door wings. “I didn’t want to interrupt, but...”

“I understand, Carrier,” Bluestreak said, standing up from his chair. He looked at his sire, who now stared up at him in confusion. “Maybe... Maybe I can come back tomorrow.”

Lord Caelum smiled. “That would be wonderful,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”

Bluestreak nodded and turned. As he walked back to the door of the apartments, he heard the King say, “Who was that mech? He carries himself like a soldier. Do I know him?”

Prowl and Smokescreen had almost finished reviewing the ground rules for the identification checks in the capital when Strikeback knocked on the open door of Smokescreen’s office. “Masters Auger and Triage are here to see you, Your Highness.”

Smokescreen made a ‘come in’ gesture with one hand and pushed the pile of pads back to Prowl with the other. “This looks good. I just want to be clear that there is a definite timeline for discontinuing this after the coronation,” he said.

Nodding, Prowl sifted through the pads, looking for the disengagement plan. He knew it was in the stack somewhere. “Yes. I believe it was in section 5.”

“I don’t need to see it. I trust you,” Smokescreen said, then looked towards the door of his office. “What can I do for you both?”

The alchemist and the doctor stood just inside the door. “We’ve come about the results of the tests I ran on you, Your Highness,” Auger said.

“I’ll leave,” Prowl said, starting to stand up. If the Masters were here to give Smokescreen information about whatever ailed him, it should be done in private. If Smokescreen wanted to share something later...

But Smokescreen held out his hand and pulled Prowl back down into his chair. “No. Stay. This was your idea, after all,” Smokescreen said. He gestured to the empty chairs on the other side of the table and then tented his digits together. “Please, sit down and give me the good news,” he said with a smirk.

Master Auger said, “Well, you were right. I could detect no known poisons in your systems.” He glanced at Prowl. “But your brother was also right. Just because I can’t detect them doesn’t mean that there is no poison at all.”

Prowl glanced at Smokescreen and saw his smile fade. Then Smokescreen shrugged, recovering quickly. “Well, if I have been poisoned, and all it’s done is upset my fuel processing, then it isn’t a very good poison.”

“Which is why Auger came to see me,” Triage said. He thumped four small bottles onto the table, one after the other. “We’ve tried all of these remedies. You’ve told me that none of them have worked.” The doctor narrowed his optics at Smokescreen. “So if none of the remedies work, and there is no evidence of poison, then we have to look elsewhere for answers.”

“Look,” Smokescreen said, shifting in his seat. Prowl watched as his brother leaned on the arm of his chair, his door wings going tense. “While I appreciate your efforts, it’s just an upset tank. Exhaust issues. Sure, it’s embarrassing as slag, but it’s nothing dire. With so much else going on right now, I think I’d prefer if we just... I don’t know, set this aside and come back to it after the coronation.”

“Are you all right?” Prowl asked, his optics flicking between Smokescreen’s clenched fists and his stiffly held door wings.

“I’m fine,” Smokescreen said through clenched dentae. “My tanks are just...” He grimaced before finishing his thought.

He certainly didn’t look fine, Prowl thought. Smokescreen looked as though he was in an excruciating amount of pain. “This is why I don’t want to wait until after the coronation,” Prowl said, flicking his door wings. “Could you imagine one of the dissident Houses witnessing this, and spreading rumours that you’re ill and not fit to take the Throne?” When Smokescreen glared at him, Prowl lowered his wings and tried to soften his expression. “I’m sorry for thinking of these things, but it’s true. And you didn’t say it was causing you this much pain!”

Smokescreen shook his helm. “It usually doesn’t,” he said, his voice sounding strained. “And it’s passing. I’ll be fine, Prowl.” Sure enough, the tension slowly bled from Smokescreen’s frame until he sagged back into his chair. Smokescreen cycled air through his vents. “You said you wanted to look elsewhere for answers,” he said to the two Masters. “What did you want to do?”

Master Auger held up a hand. “There is another possibility, but it’s beyond my capabilities to test for it,” he said. “A sorcerer might be able to detect whether there is a new resonance to any arcane energies in your spark. If there were, that might give us a clue as to what is happening.”

Prowl’s own spark felt as if it had skipped a rotation. “His spark?” he asked, his door wings shooting upwards in alarm. He looked at Smokescreen, whose pain seemed to have fully passed, and was struck by a bolt of fear of losing him. He fervently hoped that there was nothing wrong with his brother’s spark. “What does that mean? A new resonance? Arcane energies? Is it dangerous?”

Prowl paused his barrage of questions when he felt Smokescreen’s hand on his arm. “Prowl,” his brother said. “Calm down. I’m sure it’ll be all right.” Smokescreen turned to Auger. “But... What would that mean?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I would want to consult with a sorcerer,” Auger said. “This is outside of my area of expertise.” He leaned towards Smokescreen slightly. “Perhaps that’s something we can discuss after your coronation, Your Highness. It would be very useful, from an academic standpoint, to allow sorcerers back into Praxus.”

Triage scoffed. “They were removed and barred for a reason!” he exclaimed. “After too long working with all manner of energies, they start to go odd. Then they become a danger to themselves and others. It’s better they be kept far away from our borders.”

Tipping his door wings forward, Prowl said, “I don’t think they’re all like that. While I was in Polyhex, I met a sorcerer there, designated Wheeljack. He was... fine.” He was about to say that Wheeljack wasn’t odd, but... Well, he had been a bit odd. He hadn’t seemed at all dangerous, though.

“Give him time,” Triage said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “There’s a crater just over the border in Petrex where there used to be a village. That happened because some sorcerer thought he’d seen a bot-spider. When he was asked about it later, he said ‘Better safe than sorry’.” He crossed his arms and glared at Auger. “The Temple may have been off-target on a lot of things, but banned the use of sorcery inside Praxus was one of the better decisions.”

Auger had started shaking his helm as Triage talked. “Ridiculous superstition,” he said. “Yes, some of them do go insane, but if they’re careful, they are fine. You might just ask well accuse all alchemists of glowing in the dark.”

“Some of you do,” Triage retorted.

“Regardless,” Auger said, turning back to the princes. “There have been reports over the past vorn of mechs developing strange abilities, and it seems to have something to do with their spark resonances. A sorcerer could help identify whether that was indeed the case here.”

“Strange abilities?” Smokescreen asked. “Like what?” Prowl noticed that Smokescreen had made another fist, and had shifted in his chair again.

“It’s quite random, it seems,” Auger said. “One mech is reported to be able to scream loud enough that he puts other mechs into stasis. Another seems to have developed a type of telepathy. But all of the reports that I’ve heard originated outside of Praxus. Western Iacon, eastern Nyon, southern Tarn...”

Prowl pictured the areas Auger listed, laying them out in a mental map. His door wings raised slightly as he realized that they all seemed centered around one area. “In other words, they all originated around the Plurex Flats? And all within the past vorn?”

Frowning, Auger nodded. “Yes, I suppose they did.”

Prowl recalled the battle that had taken place on the Flats, suppressing the shiver that juddered down his spinal strut at the memory of seeing Unicron’s avatar rising from the plains. But he also remembered the flash of brilliant white light that washed over him when Bluestreak detonated the Matrix, bathing him and everyone else there in a warmth and love that he felt to his core. Before leaving Iacon, Prowl had overheard a discussion between the Prime’s alchemist Perceptor and Wheeljack. They were talking about something to do with the energy released from the Matrix... something about it causing unexpected reactions in mechs and in Cybertron itself.

He wished he’d stayed to listen to the conversation.

“I heard that sorcerer I mentioned and the Prime’s alchemist discussing something, before I left Iacon.” Prowl briefly described what he had overheard. “Could these strange powers mechs have developed have something to do with the detonation of the Matrix? After all, Smokescreen was close to the battle as well when the Matrix was destroyed, and the battle happened about one vorn ago.”

“Perhaps?” Auger didn’t sound convinced. Then he shrugged. “But again, without consulting a sorcerer, I can’t be sure.”

Smokescreen held up a digit. He was still sitting stiffly in his chair. Prowl felt uncomfortable just looking at him. “A question,” he said through gritted dentae. “And I think it’s a fair one. What sort of special powers could an upset tank be? Extra loud exhaust? An inability to fuel properly?” He laughed sharply before his face screwed up in pain again. “Because if that’s my new super power, I think I got robbed.”

“In any event, we need to keep this quiet until we know for sure what’s happening,” Prowl said. He looked pointedly at Triage. “The biases against mechs who can wield magical power run rampant in the Court. The sooner we find out exactly what Smokescreen is going through, the better.” Prowl’s processor settled on the memory of Wheeljack once more. “Perhaps I could write to Wheeljack and ask his advice,” he said. “Unless you know of any way to get an answer sooner.”

Auger shook his helm. “No, that’s probably our best bet. I don’t have any contacts for respectable sorcerers. I know the Temple had a few contacts but...” He blew a soft gust of air in resignation. “I think they were all in Nyon. I expect they’ve all been deactivated now.”

The last Prowl had seen Wheeljack, the sorcerer had been in Iacon. However, he was originally from Polyhex. Prowl realized he did not know whether Wheeljack had returned to Polyhex after finishing his business in Iacon... or whether the sorcerer had even planned on returning home.

Prowl decided he would have to send two letters, to make sure that one of them reached the intended recipient. One letter would go to Iacon. The other...

Prowl’s lips lifted in a small smile. He had only recently sent a letter to his friend General Jazz. This would be a perfect excuse to send another. Perhaps Jazz would reply to both. Prowl’s door wings fluttered slightly at the thought.

While Prowl was planning his correspondence, Triage had tipped his chair forward and was peering into Smokescreen’s face. “Your Highness,” he said. “How have you been fueling?”

“The same as before,” Smokescreen snapped. He shifted in his seat again, his wings flicking wildly and tapping against the back of his chair. “I’m keeping my fuel levels above 40% as you advised.”

Triage scowled. He reached out and tipped Smokescreen’s helm upwards so he could look him evenly in the optics. “You realize that fuel level is not ideal, of course, and is not sustainable for any length of time. If we don’t figure out how to get your fuel levels up without you feeling like you need to purge, you could end up with long-lasting effects of fuel system atrophy, power regulation problems, filter issues...”

Prowl watched Smokescreen’s face grow more and more pinched as the doctor berated him. Even though he agreed with everything Triage was saying, Prowl was on the verge of telling him to stand down when Smokescreen’s door wings shot straight out behind him.

Then he let out a loud noise, as if his engine was backfiring, and a cloud of dense black smoke erupted from his helm vents.

Triage yelped and jumped backwards, tipping his chair over and falling to the floor with a clatter. The door to Smokescreen’s office flew open and Strikeback entered with another guard behind him, both of them with weapons drawn.

“Smokescreen!” Prowl grabbed his brother’s arm in alarm. “Are you all right? What was that?”

Smokescreen cycled his optics, then sat up straight. “I... I don’t know. But...” He looked at Prowl with a huge smile. “I feel a lot better.”

Chapter Text

The Court reception had been on the official schedule that Prowl had given him, but Bluestreak had been avoiding thinking about it. He succeeded in not thinking about it until the morning of the reception itself, when Prowl caught up with him in the western garden.

The white and black prince stood beside Bluestreak for several kliks before saying, “Your bond partner is putting on a respectable showing.”

Bluestreak laughed and continued to watch Blurr thoroughly trounce Hound in yet another race. “No, he’s not. He’s only racing to be nice. He knows he’s not very fast. But Blurr’s been so excited about having an actual track to use that he’s begged pretty much everyone here for a race at some point.”

“I know,” Prowl said with a smile. “He asked me yesterday.”

“Did you say yes?” Bluestreak asked, turning to look at Prowl in surprise.

Nodding, Prowl said, “I did. He can be very persuasive. But I told him I only had time for one race.” He glanced at Bluestreak with a smile. “And yes, he beat me.”

Bluestreak looked back down at the track in time to see Hound skid through a turn. He could feel that Hound was tiring, but he was still having fun. “Ultra Magnus said he’d look into having a track built in Iacon, now that he sees how much racing frames enjoy it. Lots of the Rangers are racers.” Bluestreak’s optics followed Hound until he vanished around the next corner. “He wants to wait until after the Primal Ceremony, though, in case the next Prime isn’t from Iacon.”

They stood in silence for a klik before Prowl said, “I know you aren’t looking forward to the Court reception tonight, but it’s very important for Smokescreen. For as much change as Smokescreen wants to make, he also wants to show that he’s willing to uphold traditions that don’t oppress other Praxians. A reception for the inner Court prior to the bonding of a member of the royal family is one of those traditions.”

Bluestreak flicked a wing at Prowl. “I know,” he said. “I just hate the feeling that I’m being used as a pawn.” Then he threw his hands in the air. “And I know that was the whole point of me coming here: so that Smokescreen could show off me and Hound to the citizens of Praxus, to show that he’s bringing about change in the country.” He frowned. “But I’m not sure how traditional of a reception it’ll be, since the King won’t be there.”

Prowl’s engine growled, causing Bluestreak to look up at him in surprise. “The King will be there,” Prowl said. He turned to look at Bluestreak. “But Carrier will not. The King will be using Lord Caelum’s strength to get through the reception. He’s been doing this for all important events, to put up a good show, as it were. Lord Caelum will stay in their apartments under Triage’s watch.”

“What?!” Bluestreak’s door wings lifted in alarm, remembering how quickly the King had faded after their emotional discussion. It was possible to use one’s bond partner like a battery to get through illness, pain, or other mental stress. But doing it to such a degree that the other partner was weakened was frowned on, even being called abuse, since it could cause damage to the partner being used. For the King to get through a whole reception without causing Caelum serious harm seemed unlikely. “But that’s –“

Prowl held up a hand to silence Bluestreak’s objection. “Anything you are about to say has already been expressed by both me and Smokescreen,” he said. “The treatments he was receiving have become almost ineffectual, and the only way he can appear normal is to lean on our carrier through their bond. And it’s with Carrier’s consent.” His lips curled in a grimace. “The King will only be making a brief appearance at the reception, but it’s important that he is seen to greet both you and Hound. He must be seen giving his approval of your bonding in front of the Inner Court. Then he will retire for the evening. The Court already knows he’s not well, and that’s why Smokescreen is taking the Throne. They just don’t know how ill is really is.” Prowl turned to face Bluestreak. “All you need to do is arrive, greet the King, and make some small talk with the nobles who have been invited. Once dinner is served, you and Hound and the others will be safely up with us at the main table.”

Bluestreak shook the tension out of his door wings. He still didn’t like the thought of the King drawing energy from Lord Caelum like that, but their carrier had apparently agreed to the arrangement. He shook his helm. “Yeah, fine. When I agreed to come to Praxus for our bonding presentation, I knew there would be a reception,” he said, rolling his optics. “But you know I’ve always hated stodgy events like this. I’m sure Hound is going to like it even less than I do.” He gave Prowl a small smile and added, “But don’t worry. We’ll be there.”

Prowl nodded and lifted his door wings upwards. “Thank you, Bluestreak. I’ll arrange for Brushtip and his assistants to see you in your apartments in a few groons then. And I will see you tonight.”

Brushtip arrived at their guest apartments later that afternoon, just as Prowl had promised, and Hound seemed a bit perplexed as the aesthetician and his assistants began setting out the supplies they would use to detail them. But he protested when one of the assistants followed him into the wash racks. “It’s all right... You don’t need to –... Look, I can wash myself!”

“My Lord, please. We’ll ensure that all of the grit and dust is removed from your armor, even in the places that you can’t reach,” the assistant said, brandishing a cleaning pick at Hound. “Our only wish is to make you look your best.”

Bluestreak pulled Hound aside for a moment and said, “Just imagine it’s Sunstreaker finally deciding he’s had enough of your rough appearance.” He planted a kiss between Hound’s optics, and then rested his helm against his bond partner’s. “I think you always look fantastic, but they’re really going to make you sparkle.” He nuzzled Hound’s nasal ridge. “Brushtip and his crew do amazing work. I wouldn’t be surprised if you out-shine every other noble at the reception.”

“I’m a truck frame. I’m not supposed to sparkle,” Hound groused, but allowed himself to be led into the wash racks.

It had been... Well, it had been ages since Bluestreak had been detailed. As Brushtip worked his magic on Bluestreak’s ankle joints, he tried to remember when the last time was. Then he realized it had been when he had gotten himself repainted in Altihex, into the colours that he wore now.

How long ago had that been? Five vorn? Six? However long it had been, it was too long. He closed his optics and let his processor drift. Soon, he felt a wave of relaxation and bliss wash over him. It took him a full klik to realize the sensation had come from Hound.

Bluestreak smiled. Someone was enjoying the detailing session, after all.

A groon later, Hound stood in front of the mirror of their suite and spun around, staring at his reflection. “I look... Wow.” Hound turned again to face the mirror directly and placed his fists on his hips. “I look great!”

Pulling Hound into an embrace, Bluestreak kissed him. “You always look great, but now...” He pressed his lips to Hound’s again, savoring the familiar touch. “You look stunning.”

“You look pretty good yourself,” Hound said, smiling at Bluestreak. Then he revved his engine. “If I didn’t think it would scuff up our fresh wax and polish jobs, I’d show you just how good I think you look.”

An attendant came to fetch them before they could do much damage to their finishes. They followed him to the main part of the palace. Music drifted through the corridor ahead of them, along with the bright burble of conversation.

When they reached the ballroom, Bluestreak threaded his arm through Hound’s. “Ready?” he asked as they waited for the attendant to speak to the house guards just inside the room. Beyond the guards was a room full of nobles, chatting and moving from group to group.

“Nope!” said Hound. His tone was cheerful, but Bluestreak could feel Hound’s anxiety bleeding through the bond. Hound cleaved himself a bit tighter to Bluestreak’s side. “But if you’re with me I’ll be all right.”

Bluestreak kissed Hound on the side of his helm, then turned as the herald inside the ballroom raised his voice and called out their designations. “Prince Bluestreak of Praxus, Ranger of Iacon, and Lord Hound of Nyon, Ranger of Iacon!”

The conversation in the room faded, and every set of optics in the room turned to look at them. Beside him, Bluestreak felt Hound go stiff, and his nervousness flooded their connection. “Just smile,” Bluestreak murmured at Hound as he tugged the green mech into the room with him.

A smile appeared on Hound’s face. It almost looked real.

As the echo of the herald’s call faded, a ripple of applause cascaded through the room. Bluestreak smiled and nodded to mechs who caught his optic, and steered Hound towards the center of the room where Smokescreen was standing beside the king. As they reached the king and his heir, the conversation picked up again, and soon almost all of the faces had turned away from them. Hound relaxed incrementally, and loosened the death grip he’d had on Bluestreak’s arm.

Bluestreak faced King Cygnus. He looked far more robust than he had the previous cycle in his quarters: his colours were bright, he was standing tall (albeit leaning slightly on a cane), and he did not have the air of fatigue about him that had permeated their earlier conversation. “Your Majesty,” Bluestreak said, bowing deeply. “Please... Allow me to introduce Hound of Nyon, my chosen bond partner.”

The words had been carefully planned by Prowl and Smokescreen, and Bluestreak made sure to recite them exactly. The message was clear: he had made the choice, of his own free will, to bond himself to a non-Praxian. Bluestreak had been to enough of this sort of reception to know that even a seemingly private conversation would be overheard and repeated amongst the guests, unless someone was using a charm to prevent eavesdropping. However, Bluestreak realized that all of the mechs standing around them had gone silent, and were watching the interaction intently... Just as Prowl had intended.

Hound bowed, having practiced his own part in the display. “Your Majesty,” he said. “It is an honour to meet you.”

King Cygnus nodded at Hound, and then reached out to take his hand. “Lord Hound,” he said. Then he handed his cane to the attendant standing next to him, and reached out to take Bluestreak’s hand. “My creation,” he said, his optics brightening and a smile playing at the corners of his lips. His voice was louder and stronger than it had been when Bluestreak had met with him. Bluestreak wondered exactly how much this was taking from his carrier.

The King placed Hound’s hand in Bluestreak’s, sealing them together with a gentle pat. “You have my blessings on your bond. May your union be long and fruitful.” The King’s optics flicked from one to the other, the shrewd look on his face so reminiscent of the sire that Bluestreak remembered from his youth that his ventilations stalled. Then the King bowed his helm slightly. “I wish I could stay for the dinner, but I tire so easily now.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Bluestreak said with a dip of his door wings. “Thank you very much for your blessing.”

The King nodded absently and his optics visibly dimmed. He then leaned on his attendant and slowly made his way back out of the ballroom, trailed by his guards. Around them, the conversation picked up again, although Bluestreak was still conscious that they were still the center of attention.

“Thanks for this, Streaks.” Smokescreen’s broad smile was genuine, but he tipped his wings forward in apology. “I should have warned you that as a guest of honour you’d be the last to arrive,” he said.

“I had an idea,” Bluestreak said. He looked at Hound. “I knew that if I told you, you’d just worry about it all afternoon. And you seemed to really be enjoying the detailing.”

Hound frowned at Bluestreak for a moment before his expression lightened to a smile. “You’re right. I would have worried about it,” he said. He glanced around, noticing all of the curious looks they were receiving from the other guests. “I don’t suppose that we can just slip back out, now that we’ve made our entrance?”

Smokescreen shook his helm. “I’m afraid not. Several of the guests have been asking about you.” He put his hand on Bluestreak’s arm and gave him a solemn look. Leaning close to Bluestreak, he dropped his voice so that it was almost inaudible. “Please. Speak with them, even if you think they’re going to be hostile. Prowl and I are going to be keeping an optic on you in case it looks like you’re getting ganged up on, but it’s important that you make an effort with them. They might be part of the outgoing inner Court, but they are still very influential. If you can impress even one of them, it could be very beneficial for me.”

Bluestreak nodded, trying not to let his door wings hang down in resignation. “I know. That’s why we’re here,” he said, putting on a bright smile. “I want to see you take the throne with as strong of a Court as possible behind you, Smokey.”

“Thanks,” Smokescreen said, giving Bluestreak’s arm a pat before dropping his hand. Then he turned and gestured at a mech who was standing a short distance away, chatting with another noble. “In the meantime, there is one noble who has been looking forward to seeing both of you.”

Hound recognized the noble before Bluestreak did. “Fireblade!” he exclaimed, and the noble turned to look at them.

“Hello, Hound! And Bluestreak!” Lord Fireblade said, stepping towards them. He gripped Hound’s forearm tightly and pulled him into a hug. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“It’s great to see you, too!” Hound said. “I’m sorry that we didn’t get a chance to spend some more time with you before you left Iacon, but...”

Fireblade nodded, waving his door wings in a gesture of understanding. “No apologies are necessary. I knew that both of you were still healing from your ordeal in the battle. I recall you were spending more time in recharge than being online. Your Highness,” he said, gripping Bluestreak’s forearm before standing back and looking at both of them. “But you’re looking well now. And bonded, too! So I assume the spark damage you received has healed.”

“It’s healed as much as it can, according to Ratchet,” Bluestreak said. His hand absently drifted up to his chest armor, coming to a rest on top of his spark. The ache from being apart from the Matrix was always there, but he could push it out of his processor most of the time. Talking about it meant thinking about it, which always made it hurt a little more. Bluestreak turned towards Hound, and smiled at the little burst of affection that Hound sent him. “But he finally gave us the approval to bond.” He turned back to Fireblade and grinned. “Although, I think he just might have been tired of us asking.”

“Well, my sincerest congratulations to you both,” Fireblade said, inclining his helm towards them. “I am looking forward to your bonding presentation. I wish nothing but happiness for both of you.”

“Thanks, Fireblade,” Hound said. As Fireblade turned to return to the group of mechs he’d been conversing with, Hound leaned in and whispered into Bluestreak’s audial. “Blue... I don’t think I’d mind a drink, to be honest. Something strong.” When Bluestreak lifted an optical ridge at Hound, the green mech added, “I thought I’d be all right with all this attention, but it’s kind of... getting to me, you know?”

Bluestreak glanced around and realized that Hound was right. Some of the reception’s guests were giving them sly looks, carefully timed glances that would appear casual if their optics hadn’t lingered on the Rangers for just a moment too long. Others were just brazenly staring at them, their looks ranging from openly curious to hostile.

After running from Praxus, Bluestreak had spent so long hiding that he used to be overly aware of anyone looking at him. It seemed that his stint as a Ranger in Iacon, as well as returning to the palace where he’d been raised, had settled his protocols. He’d hardly noticed all of the looks they were getting until Hound mentioned it.

He wrapped his arm around Hound protectively and looked around, finding Ultra Magnus on the other side of the room. He seemed to be deep in conversation with one of the other guests. Meanwhile, Blurr was camped out at the bar, asking rapid-fire questions of the bartender about the drinks he was preparing.

Bluestreak snagged two glasses of high-grade from a passing server’s tray, and handed one to Hound. “Prowl said this mingling thing wouldn’t last too long. The dinner is supposed to start within a groon or so,” he said. He held his glass up to Hound’s, and then watched the green mech take a sip. “They’ll still be looking at us, but they’ll also be looking at their own fuel. But if you want, I could take you over to Blurr. If you’re not with me, maybe they won’t stare as much?”

Hound shook his helm. “I’ll be fine,” he said with a wan smile. “I’m just used to blending in, not standing out, you know? I need to reset my expectations of how mechs react to me here.” He took another drink and then stood up straighter. “And after all... I look pretty slagging good tonight, and I’ve got the prettiest Praxian here on my arm. Why wouldn’t they stare at us?” he said, dropping his voice.

Bluestreak threw back his helm in laughter. He could already feel Hound relaxing a bit. He was glad; he didn’t want Hound to spend the entire evening being uncomfortable.

“Your Highness. It’s so good to see you again,” said a silky voice behind him. He turned and saw a light blue femme smiling at him demurely. She held out her hand, clasping Bluestreak’s forearm just above the wrist.

Great, Bluestreak thought, plastering a smile on his face.

Inclining his door wings and helm towards her, Bluestreak said, “Lady Crossflare. It’s been quite a while.” He released her arm and put a hand on Hound’s back. “Let me introduce my bond partner, Lord Hound.”

She turned to Hound, and the brightness of her smile didn’t quite reach her optics. “Oh yes. Lord Hound. The commoner made good.” She lifted her door wings, spreading them wide, but did not reach her hand out to greet Hound like she had with Bluestreak. With a dismissive toss of her helm, she turned back to Bluestreak. “I have simply been dying to talk to you, Prince Silverstreak. You know how I love knowing all the little details. And you left us all with quite the mystery when you... departed?” Her door wings lifted upwards at her question.

Bluestreak glanced around the room, looking for Prowl or Smokescreen. Out of all of the nobles to come talk to him first, why did it have to be Crossflare? He vaguely remembered her from the times he’d attended the Court, but the biggest impression of her was what other mechs had said about her, and what he’d seen with his own optics in her lands. When Bluestreak had visited her principality while on maneuvers with the Praxian Cavalry, he had been shocked at the conditions her citizens were living in. The Emerald Lake principality had some of the poorest mechs in the country, living under strict rationing, sometimes fifteen or twenty mechs to a housing unit. They worked hard, and when their frames gave out, often they weren’t repaired. When their sparks finally gave out from poor maintenance, they were scrapped for spare parts. Meanwhile, the Lady and her family lived in incredible luxury.

In short, Lady Crossflare was one of the most egregious examples of excess that convinced Bluestreak he needed to do more to help the common mechs of Praxus.

Tipping his wings down in a very proper indication of apology, Bluestreak forced himself to at the noble. “I go by Bluestreak now, my Lady,” he said. “I left both my old designation and my title behind when I left Praxus.”

“Ah, yes. My apologies. It’s so easy to forget,” Lady Crossflare purred. “I have to say, Your Highness, that your disappearance caused quite the uproar in the palace. I’m surprised your kin allowed you to just waltz back in like nothing had ever happened.”

Bluestreak tried not to give away his sudden tension, and consciously relaxed his door wing hinges. In the list of ‘speaking points’ that Prowl had prepared for him, Bluestreak’s disappearance from Praxus was one of the main topics. “It wasn’t without consequences,” he said. “As I said, I gave up my title when I left. Prince Smokescreen is graciously allowing me to use it while returning to Praxus to celebrate our bonding and his coronation, but it is in name only. My designation has been removed from the Scroll of Succession, and I have no rights to any land in Praxus.”

“Why did you leave Praxus, Your Highness?” A voice at his elbow made Bluestreak turn suddenly, sloshing a bit of liquid out of his glass and onto his knuckles. The green and black noble standing beside him was peering at him intently. “Lady Crossflare is right. The official story of you getting lost on a hunting trip seemed farfetched, even when it was being told as the truth,” he said. “And now we know that it was not the truth. I wondered whether the new story we’ve been told was an invention as well.”

“Lord Brushviper.” Bluestreak took a half step back, putting some slight distance between him and the noble. He had been so focused on Lady Crossflare that he hadn’t noticed the second noble come up. He looked around again: where were his brothers?! First Crossflare, who thought commoners were merely things to be used by nobles, and now Brushviper. Bluestreak was sure that if Brushviper hadn’t been born into a noble family, he would have become one of the more conservative priests in the Temple. He had been one of High Priest Barricade’s biggest supporters in the Court, and was a vocal proponent of the cultivation plan.

Bluestreak refocused his optics on Brushviper when he couldn’t find either of his brothers in the crowd. Then he felt Hound’s hand come to rest on his back plating, and he leaned into the reassurance that Hound was sending him over their bond. He could feel that Hound was concerned, but Hound also felt confident that Bluestreak would be able to handle both nobles. “I believe that Prince Prowl addressed this question in the last full session of the Court, when it was announced that I still functioned, and was returning to Praxus for our bonding presentation,” Bluestreak said.

“Yes. He did,” Brushviper said, his tone dripping with disbelief. “But there are still so many questions. Let’s assume that what Prince Prowl said is true, that you left as a protest for how impure mechs were being treated in Praxus.” Beside him, Lady Crossflare rolled her optics. “What was the point? How would your leaving improve their lot?” He shook his helm. “It seems so self-serving for you: fleeing the country, but taking none of the impure mechs with you.”

Bluestreak found himself on somewhat even footing now. At least in this, he agreed with Brushviper. “It was self-serving,” he said with a nod. As Brushfire’s optics widened at the admission, Bluestreak lowered his door wings in a show of humility. For this line of questioning, at least, Prowl did not need to coach him; Bluestreak’s feelings were sincere. “I was young and foolish. I was angry and upset. I saw what was being done to Praxians who were not created in what the Temple claimed was a ‘perfect image,’ and I was horrified.” He ignored Crossflare’s sniff of derision, and returned Brushviper’s gaze evenly. “Instead of staying and trying to change Praxus for the better, I left. I abandoned the mechs who needed my help.” He bowed his helm for a moment, the motion being as much for show as to give him time to soak in the strength that Hound was giving him. Then he lifted his helm and door wings again and smiled at Brushviper. “It’s fortunate that my brothers saw the same things I did, but decided to stay and fight for all Praxians, both full-framed and not.”

“Yes,” Brushviper drawled, his optics flicking to Hound. “It was rumoured, even before you left Praxus, that you had an untoward attraction to impure mechs, and that you objected to the Temple’s divine cultivation plan.” He looked at Bluestreak with narrowed optics. “And it’s strange that the same cycle you vanished, an impure mech was executed by the Temple for blasphemy. I don’t suppose that had anything to do with your decision to leave.”

Crossflare smirked. “I also heard that the executed mech was a good friend of yours,” she said. “I’ve always wondered just how close you really were.” A delicate shudder made her door wings tremble, showing what she thought of being so close to an impure Praxian.

Brushviper glanced at Crossflare with a frown, and gave his door wings an impatient flick. Then he looked back to Bluestreak. “Your Highness... I merely want to establish why you really wanted to leave,” he said. “Specifically, whether you believe there was any divine influence on your actions.”

Behind Brushviper, Bluestreak could see Prowl making his way through the crowd towards them, finally. But Bluestreak looked at Brushviper confidently. The words he had to say came straight from his spark. “First of all,” he said, “that execution was an injustice. And secondly...” Bluestreak wrapped his arm around Hound’s waist again and smiled at both of the nobles. “You might not have noticed, but Hound is not Praxian. He’s not even part Praxian. But he has one of the purest sparks of any mech I have ever met. So I suppose you could say that I have a ‘thing’ for impure mechs, but I wouldn’t wish him to be any different from how he is now.” Bluestreak smiled at Hound, who had flushed slightly at Bluestreak’s words. “And thirdly, if it was Primus who led me to Hound, then I am forever grateful. But I believe I acted on my own accord.”

Lady Crossflare looked vaguely ill as Hound leaned his helm on Bluestreak’s shoulder armor. She started slightly when Prowl, who was now standing behind her, said, “I’m glad that you’ve had some time to catch up with my brother.” Prowl leaned towards Crossflare and quietly added, “My Lady, I wanted to tell you that Lord Tagan was looking for you earlier. He mentioned something about a new wax that he’d acquired for you?”

Optics brightening, Crossflare said, “Oh! Thank you.” She smiled coldly at Bluestreak. “It was good to see you, Your Highness.” Her optics flicked silently to Hound before she whirled and stalked off into the crowd.

Prowl turned to Lord Brushviper, who was still looking at Bluestreak through narrowed optics. Before Prowl could say anything, the noble stepped closer to Bluestreak. His expression grew even more intent as he drew his door wings forward. “I have another question, Your Highness, that I’ve wanted to ask ever since your brothers returned from Iacon,” he said, ignoring Prowl’s hovering presence. “I heard the accounts of the officers and soldiers from the Cavalry who were at the Battle of the Plurex Flats, as well as your brothers’ reports of what they witnessed. Their descriptions of the thing that Nyon created are... well, horrifying.” His dour expression softened slightly as a curious glint sparkled in his optics. “Do you believe that it really was... the Unmaker?” His voice dropped until it was barely audible.

Bluestreak gave Brushviper a curt nod. “I truly believe that’s what it was,” he said. He glanced at Hound, who mirrored his nod, then looked back at the noble. “And if we – all of the mechs there – hadn’t stopped it, well...” Bluestreak shrugged. “It wanted the Matrix. It said it would give it power over life and death. But all we knew was that it had to be stopped.”

“The reports said that you carried the Matrix to the beast,” Brushviper said. His optics were firmly fixed on Bluestreak as he spoke. “You saw to its destruction. A creation of Praxus acted as the instrument of Primus in our darkest hour, as the ancient texts foretold.”

“Hound carried the Matrix,” Bluestreak said firmly, holding up a digit. “And all of the Rangers who came with us helped get it there. I was just one of seven.” He shook his helm. “Without the assistance of my fellow Rangers, nothing I did there would have been possible.”

“That may be, Your Highness, but the fact remains that you were instrumental in defeating the Unmaker. And I wonder... How much of what led you to leave Praxus was divine influence.” Before Bluestreak could reply, Brushviper grasped Bluestreak’s free hand and held it to his own chevron. “May Primus guide your steps and protect your spark,” he murmured, then dropped Bluesteak’s hand. He inclined his helm towards Hound. “Lord Hound.” He stood up straight again, his door wings flared out over his shoulders, and looked at Bluestreak with an almost reverent expression. “I’ll let you both get back to your reception.” He nodded at Prowl. “Your Highness.” Then Brushviper turned and walked into the crowd.

Prowl stared after Brushviper with a thoughtful look. “That was unexpected,” he said quietly.

Hound frowned at Prowl, then at Bluestreak. “I think I missed something. What just happened?” he asked.

Bluestreak looked down at the hand that Brushviper had held up to his helm. “He gave me a greeting that is normally only given to a High Priest,” he said, baffled. He looked back up at Prowl. “Why would he do that?”

“I’ve heard some murmurings in the Court about what your role in the destruction of the construct was,” Prowl said. He gave Bluestreak an apologetic look. “A small handful of nobles - especially those who are deeply religious - seem to believe that you were the vessel of Primus from the prophecies... The one that the Temple was attempting to create.” He paused as Bluestreak covered his optics and groaned. “That’s one of the reasons they haven’t put up as big as a fuss about Smokescreen ordering the end of the cultivation plan as we expected. If you were the vessel of Primus, the cultivation program was successful and is no longer needed. Its purpose was fulfilled.” Then Prowl gave him a sly smile. “But don’t worry. I haven’t mentioned that you’d died and came back to life three cycles later.”

“Don’t you start with that!” Bluestreak exclaimed. Hound laughed as Bluestreak cuffed his brother on the shoulder. “It’s bad enough that the townsfolk in Iacon call us the Risen Rangers. I don’t need the Court doing that, too. Our spark signatures were just too weak to be found.”

“That’s what Wheeljack kept telling me,” Prowl said, the laughter leaving his optics. “But I don’t know... General Jazz said they searched very thoroughly. It bothered him that they missed finding you until you came back online.”

Bluestreak shrugged. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. We’re here, and obviously alive.”

“Prince Bluestreak!” Bluestreak suddenly felt a mech cling to his arm, pulling him around to face a smiling red and yellow noble. “Please allow me to give our congratulations on your bonding.”

Bluestreak smiled at the mech on his arm and gently extricated himself from his grasp. “I don’t think we’ve met...” he said, raising a wing towards Prowl.

“Oh, my apologies. Of course. I’m Lord Overcast,” the noble said, bowing with a flourish. “I only took over my carrier’s position in the Court a few vorn ago. I don’t think we’ve had a chance to talk before that.”

Nodding, Bluestreak said, “It’s my pleasure.” He noticed Prowl had wandered off again. Bluestreak hoped that meant Overcast wasn’t a difficult noble to handle. “And this is my bond partner, Lord Hound.”

“I am so thrilled to see you both,” Overcast said enthusiastically after greeting Hound. “It’s been so long since there was a bonding presentation in the royal family. I would have thought that Smokescreen or Prowl would have bonded by now. I know that there were rumours circulating that Prowl had started the initial bonding dinners with Lord Solder, but nothing came of it, obviously.” Overcast’s door wings sagged in disappointment.

Bluestreak suppressed the smile that threatened to cross his face, and nodded seriously instead. He knew that Prowl had not been looking forward to bonding to the Temple’s choice for him, and was relieved that it was no longer necessary. “Yes, well... I’m afraid I can’t give you any insight into when either of my brothers might be bonding,” he said, and lifted his glass to his mouth for a sip.

“So, Your Highness,” said Overcast, attaching himself to Bluestreak’s arm again. “Tell me... Now that you’re bonded, when might we expect to hear of a new sparkling in the royal family?”

Bluestreak choked on his high-grade and had to make several attempts to clear his intake before he could respond. “I’m sorry... A sparkling?” he asked when he was finally able.

“Oh, Overcast, how did I know that you were bothering the Prince about creations?” Another mech appeared at Overcast’s side and smiled at Bluestreak. “My apologies, Your Highness. Overcast is a little sparkling crazy,” he said.

“My consort, Lord Indigo.” Overcast gave the other mech an indulgent look. “And I’m not sparkling crazy.”

Indigo shook his helm and turned to Bluestreak. “We have four already, and he’s already talking about trying for a fifth.”

“You know I just want to try for a femme!” Overcast exclaimed, giving Indigo a playful shove. Then he smiled at Bluestreak. “So, Your Highness, surely you’ve thought about giving the King a grandcreation. I know he’s not well.” Overcast’s expression fell. “Maybe a new sparkling in the palace is what he needs.”

“Uh...” Bluestreak knew his door wings were twitching wildly, but he couldn’t seem to control them at the moment. Sparklings? He and Hound hadn’t even talked about sparklings, not in any serious sense, and he didn’t want to spring anything on Hound –especially not in front of these strangers. “To be honest... We haven’t really discussed it.”

He felt Hound’s hand on his arm, a reassuring weight. “We’re both active duty Rangers,” Hound said smoothly. “We’re still bound by oath to serve the Prime, and that oath carries over to the next Prime, whoever it is.” He gave Bluestreak a quick smile. “If we do decide to have a creation at some point, it would need to wait until we’re no longer in the Rangers.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Overcast, his wings sagging. “I was hoping that we’d get an announcement of a new member of the royal family before too long.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Hound said. “But we need to think of our duty before ourselves, at least for now.”

“We should all consider that a relief,” said a new voice. Standing behind Lord Indigo was another noble, frowning at Overcast. “You realize the elimination of the cultivation plan will mean the eventual elimination of the pure Praxian frame. There’s no need to accelerate the process by encouraging mixed-frame creations,” he said with a sneer, looking directly at Hound.

Bluestreak just barely stopped his engine from snarling at the noble. He saw Smokescreen hurrying through the crowd towards them, evidently having noticed the small group of nobles around him. Bluestreak glared back at the mech, trying to formulate a reply. But before he could think of anything to say, Overcast’s door wings flared outwards. “That’s a terrible thing to say, Lord Dart,” Overcast exclaimed. “The creation of every sparkling should be celebrated, regardless of its origins!”

“My thoughts exactly, Lord Overcast,” said Smokescreen, who’d approached the group while Overcast was speaking. He looked at Lord Dart. “And I intend to improve the lives of all Praxians, regardless of their origin or frametype.”

Lord Dart scoffed. “That’s all fine and good,” he said. “But you can improve living conditions for all Praxians without sentencing the pure Praxian frametype to the annals of history.” He frowned at Bluestreak, then at Hound. “If these mixed bondings continue, our frametype could vanish in a generation or two. We should be encouraging pure Praxians to find mates of their own kind.”

Before either Bluestreak or Smokescreen could reply, Lord Overcast stepped in front of Lord Dart and wagged a digit at him. “Their own kind? You’re disgusting,” he snapped. “We’re all Cybertronians! I’ve heard you had these outrageous ideas about purity and the like, but I had no idea how horrible they really were until I heard you speak.”

Dart looked at the digit being shoved in his face like it was a razorsnake about to bite. “I simply want to ensure that the frametype of my family – and yours! – is preserved. And if the changes Prince Smokescreen are proposing are brought about, we could eventually see our kind becoming an extreme minority, possibly even becoming oppressed and enslaved, and –“

“I think I’ve heard enough of your nonsense,” Smokescreen said. He spread his door wings wide, drawing Dart’s attention. “I’ve warned you before about spreading your messages of hate... And so has the King.”

With a roll of his optics, Dart said, “The King doesn’t even know what cycle it is. It’s clear that you’ve been manipulating him to promote your own agenda designed to destroy the lineage of the pure Praxian frametype.” He waved at Bluestreak and Hound. “A few more generations of this, and our proud heritage will be forgotten.”

Bluestreak gradually became aware that their small circle had become the center of attention. He glanced around, seeing optics focused on them from everywhere in the room. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t tell which side most of the nobles were on... Smokescreen’s, or Dart’s.

Pulling himself to his full height, Smokescreen signaled one of the guards in the room. As the guards made their way through the crowd, Smokescreen said, “What’s clear is that you don’t know how to be civil. My brother has bonded to a non-Praxian, and we are here to celebrate their upcoming presentation. Your ideas of ‘purity’ are what need to be forgotten.” He nodded at the guards, who had taken positions on either side of Dart. “Get him out of here, and off palace grounds.”

The guards started to take Dart’s arms, but he angrily shook them off. “I can see myself out.” But as he turned, his optics swept the crowd. “I hope everyone here can see the heavy-handedness that Prince Smokescreen uses on those who do not agree with his vision of how he wants to reshape Praxus! Remember this!” Then he stormed towards the door of the ballroom.

As Lord Dart left the hall, conversation started to pick up again, and Bluestreak heard the nobles nearby excitedly discussing what they had just witnessed. Smokescreen turned to Strikeback, who had been standing nearby, and said, “Make sure his consort isn’t here, but if he is, get rid of him, too.” As Strikeback nodded and turned to comply, Smokescreen gripped Hound’s hand. “I am so sorry about that, Hound,” he said. “Lord Caelum gave him a stern discussion the last time this came up, when the Temple discontinued the cultivation plan. I thought he’d learned his lesson.” He grimaced. “Apparently he didn’t.”

Hound looked embarrassed, and Bluestreak could feel his discomfort at having been thrust into such a public argument. “It’s all right. I know it’s not your fault,” he said.

Overcast took Hound’s other hand, ignoring the wipe-opticked look that the green mech gave him. “That was just awful, Lord Hound! I hope you understand that his attitudes are not the norm in Praxus!” Overcast’s door wings flicked erratically, betraying his distress.

Bluestreak put his hand on top of Overcast’s, gently pulling the noble’s hand away from Hound. “We know,” Bluestreak said with a smile.

Hound nodded, and Bluestreak could feel that he was a bit more settled already. “I’ve had lots of time here to talk to Praxians,” he said. “I know that his attitude is in the minority.”

Lord Indigo made an exclamation of relief. “That’s good,” he said. He gave Overcast a nudge, getting him to step back and give Hound a bit more space, and then said, “So, as we were discussing before we were so rudely interrupted... Please, tell us about the work you do in the Rangers?”

It took some time to extricate themselves from Lords Overcast and Indigo, but when they finally did, Bluestreak sagged against Hound’s side. “Thank you for dealing with their question about sparklings,” he murmured into Hound’s audial. “I had no idea how to answer his question.”

Hound shrugged. “I don’t care if you are royalty,” he said primly. “It’s none of their business whether we want to have creations someday or not.” He looked at Bluestreak for a moment before adding, “And it’s not a conversation I wanted to have while I’m a little charged up on high-grade.”

Bluestreak laughed. “Thanks. Me neither.” He deposited his glass on a passing server’s tray and said, “And after that run in with Dart... I think that’s enough mingling for one night. Let’s go find Blurr and hang out with him until they serve dinner.”

Once the dinner was served, Bluestreak felt himself relax. Everyone was seated at their tables, and he and Hound were safely placed between Prowl and Blurr. There were no more awkward questions, no more hostile insinuations, and no more prying into his personal affairs.

But even still, Bluestreak felt drained by the time they got back to their apartments. He remembered exactly why he hated these types of events. When he had been living at the palace as Prince Silverstreak, he had made every effort to avoid these fancy balls. He could also see why Smokescreen made a point of throwing much less formal parties, with a focus on having fun rather than politics and networking.

Bluestreak wanted to tell all of this to Hound: to apologize for having dragged him to Praxus, for forcing him to deal with the stuck-up mechs of the Court, and for making him a public spectacle just because of who he’d bonded with. But when he trudged into the berthroom and threw himself on the soft, wide berth, all he could utter was a protracted “Ugh!” He fell onto his back, letting the thick cushion support his door wings, and tossed his arm over his optics.

“It wasn’t that bad,” Hound said. Bluestreak could hear him moving around the room, getting ready for recharge. “I mean, it wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had in an evening, but it was bearable.”

Bluestreak heaved a vent, thinking of all the conversations he’d navigated that evening. Did he mess something up for Smokescreen? Did he say something wrong? Did he end up talking to someone who was responsible for the assassination attempts on Smokescreen? His processor reeled back and forth, assessing and reassessing every interaction he’d had in the past few groons. Getting into recharge was going to be next to impossible at this rate unless he could find something else to think about. “Frag me,” Bluestreak said to the ceiling of the room.

“It really wasn’t that bad, Blue,” Hound repeated. Bluestreak heard him walk by the berth where he was laying.

“You don’t understand,” Bluestreak said, and reached out an arm to snag Hound’s hand. He opened his optics. Hound was smiling at him curiously. “That wasn’t commentary on the evening. That was a request.”

“Oh, really,” Hound said, his smile growing broader. He climbed up onto the berth so that he was straddling Bluestreak’s legs. “Could you be more specific? What exactly do you want?”

“I want you to frag me into this berth and make me forget everything that just happened this evening,” Bluestreak said. He pulled Hound towards him until the green mech was leaning over him, their faces just centimeters away from each other. “Just make all of this go away.”

Hound closed the distance between them and kissed Bluestreak, his lips claiming his partners’ in a deliciously familiar way. “Yes, sir,” Hound murmured as he nuzzled Bluestreak’s nasal ridge. “I will do my very best.”

Bluestreak closed his optics as Hound kissed him again, and proceeded to make Bluestreak forget everything: that his brothers’ lives were in danger, that his sire was dying, and even that he had once been Prince Silverstreak, third in line to the Quartz Throne of Praxus. By the time Hound was through with him, all that Bluestreak remembered was that he was one of the Prime’s Rangers, and bond partner to the most amazing mech on Cybertron.

Chapter Text

After some trial and error, Smokescreen figured out a method for managing his exhaust problem.

Instead of trying to hold in the excess smoke like he had been doing, he found great relief in just releasing it. Of course, he needed to be circumspect about where he did it, so that he didn’t start any rumours. Prowl was very worried about some member of the Inner Court finding out that Smokescreen appeared to have some unusual medical problem, and using it as a reason to delay the coronation.

During the Court reception for Bluestreak and Hound’s bonding, Smokescreen had to slip out twice to vent some exhaust. Fortunately, he’d had the foresight to let Lord Halfsteel know about his condition (illness? power? irritation?) so that he could cover for Smokescreen.

And that conversation hadn’t anywhere near as embarrassing as he’d expected.

“They don’t know what’s causing it. Both Masters Triage and Auger have been looking into it, but haven’t figured out a way to make it stop. Prowl has sent some letters to see if a sorcerer he knows can give us some information,” Smokescreen had told Halfsteel. “But until then, I’m just coping with it. I wanted to let you know, just in case it affects any of your plans.”

He had expected his majordomo to react to his unusual condition with shock, or maybe amusement. Instead, Halfsteel leaned towards him, his door wings quivering anxiously. “Does it hurt?” he asked, his brow ridges creasing with worry. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Smokescreen had shaken his helm. “It only hurts when I hold it in. So long as I make sure to let it out when I feel it building up too much, it’s fine,” he said. He smiled. “Thank you for not laughing.”

Halfsteel had frowned. “It obviously bothers you, Smokescreen,” he said. “And I would never dream of laughing at anything that distresses you.”

Once again, Smokescreen thanked Primus that Halfsteel had agreed to take charge of his security and household affairs. He couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather have at his side through this.

Three cycles before the bonding presentation, Smokescreen was in his office reviewing plans with Halfsteel when the courier arrived from the border. “Your Highness,” said the courier with a bow. “The delegation from Polyhex has arrived for the coronation, and will be at the palace by this evening.”

“What? Already?” Halfsteel asked in disbelief. “But the coronation isn’t for two deca-cycles.” He frantically sifted through the pads that he’d brought to the meeting. “We’ll need to arrange for their accommodations, and of course they’ll want to attend the bonding presentation, and then there’s the matter of the security detail for them, and –“

“Go ahead and take care of that, Steel,” Smokescreen said gently. Halfsteel bobbed a quick bow and bolted from the room even as Smokescreen turned to the courier. “Please let my brothers and Lord Caelum know. I’d like them all to be with me when we greet them.”

By the time the delegation from Polyhex rolled through the palace gates that evening, Halfsteel had arranged a perfectly acceptable greeting for a foreign dignitary. House guards lined the path up to the palace, and Smokescreen and his brothers were waiting on the stairs.

As they watched the mechs transform, Smokescreen puzzled over what Bluestreak had told him as they’d walked out to the palace yard. “Has Prowl mentioned General Jazz to you?” Bluestreak had asked.

“Not in any specific sense,” Smokescreen replied. “I know that they’re friends, and they write to each other often.” He glanced at Bluestreak, who was grinning at him, and Smokescreen tipped a door wing up questioningly. “I met the General briefly in Iacon, but he was rather busy with the recovery efforts. We didn’t get any time to really talk.”

“I wasn’t asking about Jazz,” Bluestreak said. “I asked about Prowl.” When Smokescreen frowned at him in confusion, Bluestreak added, “Watch Prowl’s door wings when he greets the General.”

So even as he was greeting Minister Zodiac, welcoming him to Praxus, Smokescreen kept one optic on Prowl.

Prowl – stoic, purposeful, composed Prowl – stepped forward to grasp the General’s forearm in both hands with a broad smile on his face.

And his door wings were fluttering as if he was trying to take flight.

Smokescreen glanced at Bluestreak, who flashed an optic at him in a wink, before looking back at Prowl and his fluttering door wings.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say that Prowl had a crush on the General.

Surely there’s another explanation, Smokescreen thought.

He refocused his attention on the Polyhexian First Minister and smiled. “I have to admit that we weren’t expecting you this soon,” he said. “It’s no problem, of course. We were just caught unprepared, so please excuse any roughness for your reception.”

The Minister shook his helm and aimed a digit at Jazz. “That would all be the General’s doin’,” he said. “He assured us it would take us a good full deca-cycle to get through the forests in eastern Nyon. It seems like he over-estimated that by quite a bit.”

The General shrugged, giving the Minister an easy smile. “I s’pose it’s better to be early than late,” he said. He turned and smiled at Prowl. “And b’sides, it’ll give me some time to catch up with Prince Prowl here.”

Prowl’s door wings gave another flutter as the General said his designation.

Smokescreen glanced up as Halfsteel arrived on the stairs, looking harried, and announced that the Polyhexians could be shown to their guest apartments now. Smokescreen waited for Minister Zodiac to pass by with his attendants and guards, and then fell into step next to Bluestreak behind Prowl and Jazz.

Prowl walked close to Jazz as they entered the palace. “General, I wrote you a letter a few cycles ago. I had been hoping to catch you before you left Polyhex. I addressed it to you, but I’d asked you to pass it on to Wheeljack. I don’t suppose you received the letter?” Prowl asked.

Jazz shook his helm. “Nope,” he said. “But Jackie’s not in Polyhex. Sounds like he prefers Iacon these days. Somethin’ about the set up that Perceptor has there, and wantin’ to finish his research on the Matrix.”

Prowl nodded. “I suspected that, so I had another letter sent to Iacon, just in case.”

“That’s what I love about ya, Prowler... Always thinking a few steps ahead,” Jazz said with a laugh, and Prowl’s door wings fluttered once more.

Smokescreen looked at Bluestreak in surprise. Prowler? he silently mouthed at his youngest brother.

Bluestreak leaned towards Smokescreen. “I told you,” he said quietly with a laugh. “You might want to keep an eye on those two, or else you might be planning a second royal bonding presentation before too long.”

There were not enough groons in a cycle to finish all the work that Prowl had.

Even though there were two huge celebrations happening in the capital, life went on outside the city’s walls, and the government still needed to function. Briefs needed to be prepared for the Court on energon production and distribution. Petitions from principalities needed to be assessed and prioritized. And there were constant inquiries from nobles all across Praxus that needed to be answered and included in the next court session.

And now that the borders were open and Praxus was engaging with its neighbours again, there were diplomatic issues. Enquiries from various countries around Cybertron came in almost every cycle, some of them from places that Prowl had barely even heard of. Prowl tried to keep up with them all as best he could, and allowed the Court scribe to handle some of the more general questions. But after the coronation, Prowl intended to see if Smokescreen was willing to let some other trusted noble handle the diplomatic issues so that Prowl could get back to his regular work.

He had also been kept appraised by Strikeback and Lords Caelum and Halfsteel on their progress regarding the security issue. Strikeback, working with the house guard and the military’s intelligence officers, had compiled all of the intelligence that they had been able to collect on the suspect noble Houses, and all clues they’d gathered on each assassination attempt. Then Halfsteel had cross-referenced those suspects with the list of disgruntled priests that the High Priest had provided Prowl.

Unfortunately, there seemed to be very little overlap between the two lists. So rather than helping them narrow the list of suspects down, it only made it longer.

At the top of the list was Lady Crossflare. She was the most stridently outspoken noble against the changes that Smokescreen wanted to make in the Court, and it was no wonder: she was very unlikely to retain her place in the Court once elections were held in her principality. She also had the funds to possibly hire mercenaries from outside of Praxus. Her principality Emerald Lake was on the border, which would make it easier for her to slip mechs in and out of the country at will. However, if she was involved in the assassination attempts, she was also very good at covering her tracks. Multiple investigations and ongoing surveillance had turned up nothing that would warrant arresting her or any of her staff.

Second on the list was Lord Dart. He was almost as outspoken as Crossflare, but in a different way. Crossflare was against the changes to how Court representatives were chosen, but Dart was against Smokescreen’s removal of the Temple from the Court. Plus, his extreme views on the purity of the Praxian frametype were straight out of the most conservative teachings of the Temple. The priests that were loyal to Barricade all subscribed to those same beliefs.

It seemed odd that the priest assigned to Dart’s principality wasn’t on the list that Prowl had received from Truemark. Then again, perhaps Truemark had purposefully assigned a priest to the Knife’s Edge principality who wouldn’t encourage Dart’s bigoted views on mixed-frame mechs. Prowl made a mental note to ask Truemark about that.

Then there was Lord Brushviper. Before the reception a few cycles before, Brushviper had been high on the list of suspects. He, too, had loudly protested the removal of the Temple priests as Court advisors, and he also seemed to lean the same way as Dart with regards to bondings between mixed frametypes. But the interaction he’d had with Bluestreak at the reception had been odd. Maybe he wasn’t as hostile as Prowl had originally thought.

But the priest assigned to Brushviper’s principality was on the top of the list of disgruntled priests. Prelate Hitch had been groomed to succeed Barricade, but when Smokescreen ousted the Temple and Truemark was made High Priest, Hitch found himself removed from the synod. Hitch had gone quiet since then, but Truemark suspected he was organizing a challenge to his leadership. Brushviper’s principality of Fathom Valley was huge, though, and Hitch was kept busy driving from one end to the other to serve his fleet of followers. Still, he was considered a threat by Truemark, and so he was now on Prowl’s list.

But in any event, they were no closer to solving where all of the assassination attempts had been originating from. There were no additional leads, no more clues, and only more suspects. It made Prowl tired just thinking about it.

With all of the extra work on his desk, Prowl had found very little time recently to relax and take even a moment for himself. But as soon as Jazz arrived in Praxus, Prowl found himself rushing through his work so that he could take a groon to spend with his friend.

Ever since parting ways in Iacon after defeating Shockwave’s forces, Prowl and Jazz had kept up a constant stream of correspondence. Prowl always dropped everything when one of Jazz’s letters arrived, reading it as quickly as he could, piecing together Jazz’s jagged handwriting. Then, later, he would read it again slowly, savoring it alongside a cup of energon tea. He always replied immediately, responding to any questions that Jazz had asked and continuing the thread of their conversation.

The thought of conversing with his friend without having to wait an orbital cycle for a response was so much of a relief that Prowl actually left some of his work undone. He could get to it in the morning.

“General Jazz! I’m so sorry to keep you waiting.” Prowl took a seat across from Jazz at the table on the eastern terrace. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Jazz waved off Prowl’s apology. “I ain’t been here that long, Your Highness,” he said. He made a gesture to encompass the gardens below them, which were thickly planted with varieties of crystals from all over Praxus. “Besides, I’ve just been enjoying the view.”

Smiling, Prowl glanced out into the gardens. “My carrier designed this garden. He’d be happy to hear you’re enjoying it. I never had his knack for growing crystals, but I always thought it was beautiful.”

He looked back at Jazz to see the Polyhexian’s gaze fixed on him. “There are lots of pretty sights here,” Jazz said, an impish grin on his lips.

Prowl stared at Jazz for a moment, wide-opticked, before remembering himself and ducking his helm. He busied himself by pouring two glasses of the mid-grade the servants had set out on the table.

He’d somehow forgotten what an incorrigible flirt the General was.

After settling his spinning spark again, Prowl handed Jazz a glass and asked, “How have you enjoyed your first cycle in Praxus?”

Finally looking away from Prowl, Jazz took a sip from his glass. “Haven’t seen much so far, but what I have seen is real nice,” he said. “Minister Zodiac is goin’ on a tour of the capital tomorrow, and I’ll be taggin’ along. That majordomo mech who’s takin’ us mentioned somethin’ about a market square… Do ya know if there’s gonna be buskers there?” He leaned forward with an eager expression.

Prowl lifted a door wing questioningly before remembering that Jazz likely wasn’t familiar with the gesture. “A what?” he asked.

“Buskers?” Jazz mimed like he was playing a sithtar. “Ya know, mechs who play on a corner for coins or fuel? Like a travellin’ minstrel, except they mostly pick a spot or two in their town and stay there.”

Prowl knew that his expression was giving away his mystification at what Jazz was talking about. “No, we don’t have anything like that,” he said, shaking his helm.

A look of disappointment crossed Jazz’s face before he shrugged and his smile returned. “Ah well. With yer borders open now, you’ll probably get some comin’ through eventually.” He pulled a vibro-flute from his compartments and spun it between his digits. “Maybe I could even make a few shanix tomorrow!” He flashed half of his visor in a wink.

Prowl lifted his door wings in surprise. “You brought an instrument with you?” he asked. Then he smiled, thinking of the light quick tunes he’d heard Jazz play on it before. “But of course you did. I remember you playing it while we were travelling from Polyhex to Iacon before the battle.”

Jazz lifted the vibro-flute to his lips and played a quick scale. “I never leave home without it!” he said. “This thing’s small enough to keep in my compartments, it doesn’t need tunin’, and it’s cheap, so if I lose it or break it I can just get another one.” He twirled it again. “It’s the first instrument any Polyhexian learns to play, sometimes before they even learn to talk.”

“Would you play something for me now?” Prowl asked. He felt his faceplates flush when Jazz’s attention was directed back to him, but he held Jazz’s gaze as evenly as he could. The blue glow of the General’s visor was rich and vibrant, giving no hint as to whether Jazz was looking directly at him. Visors were practically unknown in Praxus, and Prowl momentarily wished that he could see Jazz’s optics... Just once.

Jazz smiled and nodded. “I actually had somethin’ in mind to play for ya, anyway,” he said. He scooted his chair closer to Prowl’s side of the table and leaned over, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Remember that story ya told me on our last night in Iacon, before ya left to go back home?”

Frowning, Prowl searched his memory. He remembered the night: he and Jazz had stayed at Maccadams until the bar closed, chatting and laughing and simply enjoying each other’s company and their high spirits. Prowl had still been ecstatic that Bluestreak had survived the battle, and had been thrilled to give Smokescreen the good news about their long-lost brother. Jazz had been glad that Nyon would no longer be causing Polyhex grief along their shared border, and was looking forward to some rest for his troops. They had exchanged stories and tales far into the night, even after getting kicked out of the bar.

Prowl remembered the night well. But they’d exchanged so many stories that he couldn’t think what specific story Jazz was referring to.

Jazz smiled at Prowl’s hesitation. “It was the one about you as a youngling, when ya snuck into the alchemy lab to carry out your own little experiment,” Jazz finally said.

“Oh! Yes, that story,” Prowl said. “The time when things didn’t go exactly as I’d planned.” He laughed quietly and glanced at his head guard, who was standing on the edge of the terrace, out of hearing range. “I’m sure Trident remembers that story as well.”

“That’s the one,” said Jazz, lifting the vibro-flute to his lips and blowing a soft note. “I couldn’t get it out of my processor, so I set it to music. I’ve been waitin’ to play it for ya ever since.”

Prowl could not restrain the flutter from his door wings this time. “You... wrote a song for me?”

Jazz nodded and blew another quiet tone. “I did. I hope ya like it.”

The song started out with low, hesitant notes. Prowl remembered the way that Jazz’s visor had glowed brightly as he told his story, of how a young Prince Prowl had snuck out of his apartments, avoided his guards, and crept down to the alchemy lab clutching a formula for a charm he shouldn’t have had. The song Jazz played was slow and careful, as if feeling its way in the dark.

The stealthy notes came faster as young Prowl grew more confident upon reaching the lab and started gathering the materials he needed. Then there was a sharp high whistle as Prowl was startled by Prince Silverstreak, who had also come down to the lab in the middle of the night.

Prowl laughed as he jumped at the sudden change in volume, and he caught the curl of Jazz’s lips as he smiled around the mouthpiece of his instrument.

The melody grew intricate as young Prowl wove the charm, performing the actions and reciting the cantrip to activate the magic. A soft counterpoint trilled in between each melodic phrase, bringing to mind Silverstreak’s chatter and curiosity at what his older brother was doing.

Broad, triumphant notes sounded as the charm worked, but the confidence faltered and the melody grew chaotic as it became obvious that the charm wasn’t working exactly as intended. The melody coursed up and down the octaves as young Prowl tried everything to fix the problem, becoming more and more alarmed as the tempo became faster.

Then came an authoritative march as Master Auger stormed into his lab, demanding to know what was going on. Young Prowl’s resignation at the punishment he would receive was audible as woeful glissandos down the scale, falling into a dirge-like lament as he awaited Auger’s wrath.

Finally, the song ended with a cautious reprise of the confident notes from earlier in the song, as Prowl realized that Auger was not going to mete out a harsh punishment... And promised to teach Prowl where he’d gone wrong with the charm he’d attempted to craft.

Jazz had offlined his visor as he played, but on the final notes it flickered back to full brightness. He lowered the instrument and gave Prowl a smile that might have looked shy if it had been on anyone else’s face.

Jazz was never shy.

“That was wonderful, Jazz,” Prowl said quietly, dropped his door wings down to show his sincerity. “I could follow the story point for point... Almost as if I was telling it alongside your music.” He leaned forward and put his hand on Jazz’s arm. “Thank you so much for that. It was beautiful.”

Jazz placed his hand over Prowl’s, and his smile broadened, once more becoming the self-assured grin that Prowl associated with the General. “I’m glad ya like it, Prowler,” he said. “I’ve been waitin’ to play that for ya ever since we parted ways a vorn ago.”

“But... I have nothing for you,” Prowl said, suddenly realizing that he had not planned on giving Jazz a gift. Here his friend had written him a whole song based on a silly story that Prowl had told him a vorn ago, and Prowl didn’t even have a simple trinket to give Jazz! He glanced out at the gardens below them. Maybe he could ask his carrier for a cutting of a crystal for Jazz to take back to Polyhex? But no, Jazz had never showed an interest in crystal cultivation. Perhaps a selection of Praxian teas...

“Ya don’t have to get me anythin’, Prowler,” Jazz said. He gave Prowl’s hand a quick pat before leaning back in his chair and putting his vibro-flute away. “You’re bein’ a great host, yer puttin’ up with us cycles before ya were expectin’ us, and ya even made room for us at yer brother’s bondin’ ceremony when we weren’t technically invited.” Jazz grinned. “Just bein’ able to spend some time with ya is all the gift I need.”

Prowl glanced away from Jazz and ducked his helm to hide how his faceplates had flushed again.

Incorrigible flirt. Right.

After taking a moment to collect himself, Prowl sought for some way to change the subject. He looked to see Jazz leaning back in his chair, still smiling at him. Prowl shook out his door wings and stood up. “Let me show you around the eastern gardens,” Prowl said, holding a hand out to Jazz. “My carrier would love to hear what you think of it.”

Two cycles before their bonding presentation, Bluestreak was finishing up in the washrack when he felt a burst of surprise and then elation over the spark bond. Then Hound shouted, “Blue! Blue, come quick and look at this! Hurry!”

Rushing out of the rack still dripping with solvent, Bluestreak saw Hound standing near the table in the middle of the sitting room. Hound’s back was to Bluestreak, but he was staring at a grey and red full-framed Praxian with a red chevron.

Bluestreak cycled his optics.

There was a second Bluestreak standing beside the table, facing Hound.

Bluestreak lunged for his rifle. The only thing that Bluestreak could think was that someone had used a charm of illusion to pretend to be him, and got past their guards that way. With all the concern about security, Bluestreak’s only thought was to keep Hound safe from whomever had entered their apartments.

“Blue, wait. Stop!” Hound said as Bluestreak grabbed his rifle. Hound had not turned to Bluestreak, but was focused intently on the false Bluestreak standing across from him. “It’s all right!”

Maybe Hound had been charmed as well, tricked into thinking this was - what, a friend? Someone pretending to be Bluestreak for fun? “Take a step back Hound,” Bluestreak said, removing the safety and bringing his rifle up to his shoulder. He wanted a clear shot and didn’t want to risk hitting Hound.

Finally, Hound turned his helm to look over his right shoulder at Bluestreak. At the same time, the false Bluestreak turned his helm as well, looking over his right shoulder, away from the two mechs. “No, Blue... It’s all right,” Hound repeated. His smile was so broad that his face was nearly split in two, but there was an intent look around his optics, as if he was focusing his concentration on something that Bluestreak couldn’t see. “It’s me. I’m doing it!” He turned back around to face the other Bluestreak, and the Bluestreak turned back, the smile still on his face. “I figured it out!”

Distracted by the delight burbling through the bond, Bluestreak lowered his rifle slowly. “What do you mean?” he asked. Then all the pieces clicked into place: Hound’s joy, the way the other Bluestreak mirrored Hound’s every movement, and the sense that Hound was focusing intently. As realization came across his processor, Bluestreak let his rifle drop to his side. “You’re doing that?”

Hound gestured at the other Bluestreak, and the other Bluestreak mirrored his movement. “I finally got it, Blue. It turns out I’ve been trying too hard.” Hound laughed, and the other Bluestreak silently shook with the same laugher.

Bluestreak slowly walked up to the illusion, and put his hand up to its chest. His door wings shot up as his hand passed straight through the other Bluestreak’s armor. “Hound, this is amazing!” he said, glancing at Hound. “It looks just like me! You even got that weld mark on my thigh right.”

“Well... You’re the mech I think about the most. I can picture you exactly, so it wasn’t hard to get the details right,” Hound said. He lifted his arms in the air, and giggled as the other Bluestreak copied him. Then he danced from pede to pede, doing a little jig, and the illusion bobbled from side to side in unison. “I can’t make him do anything that I’m not doing, but I think I’ll be able to with practice.”

Walking a full circle around the illusion, Bluestreak shook his helm in wonderment. As near as he could tell, it was a perfect copy of him. Then he said, “Can you move the door wings? When you danced they just stuck like sticks on his back, and it looked strange. They should bob naturally, like this...” Bluestreak demonstrated by jumping from pede to pede like Hound had just done.

“Maybe,” Hound said. “Let me try.” Frowning in concentration, Hound stared at the apparition. Slowly, the illusion’s door wings lifted, tilting upwards until they stood over his shoulders. Then, suddenly, they detached from the illusion’s back and floated even higher, drifting above the other Bluestreak’s helm.

“Oh, no!” Hound said, dismay flooding the bond, and the illusion vanished.

Bluestreak had started giggling as soon as the door wings had flown free of the illusion’s back, and he only laughed harder when they disappeared completely. “Oh, Primus,” he gasped between gales of laughter. “That look like it would have hurt,” he said, grabbing Hound into an embrace. His laughter came to an abrupt end as Hound sagged against him. “Are you all right?” he asked, his amusement quickly becoming concern.

“I’m fine,” Hound said, nodding into Bluestreak’s shoulder. Finally he lifted his helm and smiled at his bond partner. “It just took a lot of energy.” His optics brightened as he added, “I guess I need to work on the realism a bit, huh? Unless your wings really can levitate, in which case I want you to show me that right now.”

Laughing once more, Bluestreak led Hound to the chair by the table and let him sit. “No, I promise you that my door wings are very permanently attached.” He knelt by Hound’s knee and leaned on it, smiling up at him. “But that was so neat! How did you manage to do it? I know you’ve been working so hard, trying to figure it out.”

Hound shrugged. “Like I said, I think I was trying too hard.” He held out his palm, and a glowing orb appeared in it immediately. “I’d been so focused on creating something that I wasn’t focusing on what I wanted to create. So pretty much all I was able to make were these little tiny things.” The orb vanished, and he lowered his hand. “I was just thinking that it would be great if I could just think of something and make it appear. I closed my optics, and the first thing that popped into my processor was you.” Hound reached out, stroking his hand down the side of Bluestreak’s helm. “And when I opened my optics... There you were.”

Bluestreak pulled Hound down into another hug and kissed him firmly. “I am so happy for you, that you were able to work that out. Wheeljack’s going to be thrilled. Just one request though...”

“I know,” Hound said, holding up his hand. “Keep it quiet, at least while we’re in Praxus.”

“Well, that, too,” Bluestreak said with a laugh. “But what I wanted to say was: please try not to amputate my wings again.” He leaned up to kiss Hound again as the green mech started to laugh once more.

They’d fallen into a routine while in Praxus, one that gave their guard detail fits, but which let them feel like they weren’t being kept in a cage. Even with his almost daily races with Blurr, Hound felt restless, yearning for dirt under his tires and open sky over his helm. Their first few cycles in Praxus, they explored the eastern gardens, finding the exquisite nooks and hidden places that Lord Caelum had designed into the labyrinthine gardens. But the short walk to the garden did nothing to soothe Hound’s cravings, so soon they were looking outside the palace walls for someplace to explore.

The Public Gardens inside the city were too manicured for Hound’s tastes, so they had begun making a habit of driving up to Lookout Mountain every cycle after they’d had their morning fuel... Provided Prowl hadn’t scheduled them for some activity or meeting. However, today they had nothing scheduled at all. So as soon as they were able, they fled the palace, trailed by their guards.

To Bluestreak, it felt a little like escaping.

“Your Highness,” Lieutenant Barrage called as they wove through the crowded streets of the capital, making their way towards the city gates. “Please, let two of us go ahead of you, at least while we’re in the city.” He softened his tone slightly to add, “Once you get to the mountain we’ll give you some space.”

It made sense, but Bluestreak still found himself chafing at the restrictions. After being on his own for so long, and then in the Rangers where he was the one doing the protecting, being surrounded by guards who were supposed to protect him made Bluestreak feel slightly helpless. But the guards were just doing their duty, and he knew it made sense for them to go first. Bluestreak slowed, nudging Hound with his fender to do the same, and allowed two of the guards to pass.

Bluestreak pondered his reaction to the guards as he followed behind them. He’d grown up surrounded by guards. When he had been a youth, he’d hand-selected his own guards, who were constant presences in his life. And when he’d become an adult, earning his way as High Commander of the Praxian Cavalry, his guards protected both his life and his privacy. He was used to guards. Even though he had become accustomed to being on his own, it should have been easy for him to get used to having someone always trailing after him again.

Then, suddenly, he realized where the irritation he’d been feeling whenever he thought about the guards came from.

He was used to guards... But Hound wasn’t.

Hound had never had personal guards. In Nyon, he survived only by his own wits and luck. When he escaped to Iacon and joined the Rangers, he was only responsible for watching his patrol partners’ backs.

Bluestreak settled on his tires. He and Hound were still navigating what it meant to have their whole being tied to another mech. They knew the basics, of course, but it was one thing to know that they could feel what their partner felt. It was quite another to being able to parse out which emotions were theirs, and which emotions were their partner’s. This wasn’t the first time one of them had gotten their wires crossed over who was feeling what.

He resolved to talk through the guard situation with Hound as soon as they were alone. They had to spend another two deca-cycles in Praxus before the coronation. He didn’t want Hound to feel uncomfortable the entire time they were here.

But when they reached the mountain, Hound had something else he wanted to talk about.

“You want to talk about sparklings now?” Bluestreak asked after they’d transformed and were walking up the path to the overlook.

Hound shrugged. “Now’s just as good a time as any.” He cast a look over his shoulder at the guards behind them. “Unless you don’t want to talk about this with an audience.”

Bluestreak smiled. “They’re far enough back. It’ll be hard for them to hear everything,” he said absently as his processor considered the word again. Sparklings. He flicked his door wings to settle them in place. “So... How do you feel about them?”

“I asked you first,” said Hound with a smile, but then he shook his helm. “But I can feel how uncomfortable you are with this topic, so I’ll give you my take on it.” He fanned out his digits as if he could grab the words he wanted. “In my opinion, sparklings should be a ‘frag, yes!’ decision, or not at all.” He glanced at Bluestreak to see how this was taken, and Bluestreak waved a hand for him to continue. “There’s no halfway. Unless you are just thrilled with the idea of creating, maybe... Maybe it’s a good idea to leave it for someone else.”

That made sense, but it still didn’t tell him how Hound felt. He glanced at Hound. “And do you fall into the ‘frag, yes’ camp, or no?” he asked, not sure what answer he was expecting... Or which he wanted.

“I am ambivalent,” Hound said with a shrug. “So that’s not a ‘frag, yes.’ Which means that I’m not really interested in creating right now.” He glanced at Bluestreak. “All right. Your turn. How do you feel about it?”

Bluestreak let out a slow vent. “I’m... not sure,” he said hesitantly. “I think one of the reasons I’ve been avoiding thinking about it is because it felt like it was a foregone conclusion. In Praxus, once you were bonded, you were just expected to have creations right away... Especially if you were a full-framed Praxian. And if you didn’t, the Temple got involved to find out if something was wrong.” He looked at Hound and grimaced. “I mean, the whole point of being bonded to the mech the Temple chose for you was that you were supposed to produce creations. It was the expected next step. Like at the reception, where Lord Overcast was asking us about when we were going to create. Not if... When. He was just expecting it.”

Hound nodded. “Yeah, I caught that.”

“That’s when I realized that we hadn’t really talked about it. I was sort of putting it off, because...” Bluestreak hooked his arm through Hound’s and pulled him tight against his side. “Well, like you said: I wasn’t super enthusiastic. And I thought that if I brought it up, then we’d have to start planning the ‘when,’ and I wasn’t ready to have that conversation. I never thought that we could instead discuss if we wanted to have them at all... And that it might be okay if the answer was no.” Bluestreak looked at Hound solemnly, hoping the bond could help him express how he felt even if his words couldn’t. “So... Is ‘no’ all right with you?”

“I’m fine with that answer, Blue,” Hound said. He leaned against Bluestreak as they began climbing the hill to the upper overlook. “And we can revisit the decision later, if one of us changes his mind. We can always decide to have a sparkling later. But right now I’m happy with it being just the two of us.”

It was so easy. Bluestreak marveled how simple it really was, just to decide not to create. After living his whole life under the expectation that he would create, having the choice to deviate from that path felt like he was getting away with something.

Bluestreak smiled. “Good! Besides, like you told Overcast, a sparkling wouldn’t fit in well in the Ranger barracks.”

“Ironhide would have a fit if we told him we needed an even bigger room,” Hound said. They both burst into laughter.

The upper overlook was up an overgrown trail, much higher than the one that they had visited with Lord Halfsteel. In all their trips to the park, they hardly ever saw any other mechs on the trails, and they’d never seen anyone on the way up or down from the upper overlook.

Common Praxians didn’t have a lot of time for leisure activities like a stroll in a park.

As they reached the top of the hill, they walked arm-in-arm towards the small bench near the edge of the cliff. Bluestreak glanced back to see the guards were trailing far behind them, giving them enough privacy to continue talking without being overheard. As they settled on the bench, he was about to bring up the matter of the guards with Hound when he felt a burst of heat at his collar.

Bluestreak glanced down in surprise at the protection charm attached to his collar fairing and saw that it was glowing bright red.

Before he could do or say anything, his audials were overwhelmed by a deafening roar, and Bluestreak found himself flying through the air, tumbling helm over pede. His only thought was to hang onto Hound as tightly as he could as they slammed back into the ground.

Then there was only darkness.

Chapter Text

Prowl raced down the hallway to the palace medical bay, his guards barely keeping up. He blared his horn as he drove to clear the way, heedless of the commotion he was causing or who might see his indiscretion.

His processor was consumed with the thought that he might have lost Bluestreak once more. His younger brother, Silverstreak, had ran away and had been missing for so long that he had been declared deactivated. Then Prowl found him living as Bluestreak, serving in a foreign power’s military force, but lost him once more to an evil deity come to life. And then, miraculously, Bluestreak was found one more time, clinging to life in the rubble of the battle that had saved the planet from destruction. Now, Prowl realized he could have lost his brother a third time.

Losing him once was too many times. Three times... Prowl’s engine roared in unresolved fury as he took a corner, narrowly missing a servant.

He transformed and ran the last few steps into the medical bay, conscious that Master Triage had strict rules about noise in his domain. Inside the room, Prowl’s optics immediately found Bluestreak sitting on a berth, wrapped around Hound. His door wings hung low on his back, and he did not look up when Prowl burst into the room.

Triage, on the other hand, did look up from the work he was doing on Hound’s leg. “They’re all right,” he said before Prowl could ask. “They’re shaken up, a bit singed, and they’ve got some scrapes and dents, but otherwise they’ll be fine.” He waved his hand towards the other side of the room and went back to his work. “Lord Halfsteel’s got the rest of the details you’ll want.”

Prowl bristled for a moment: what he wanted was to speak to his brother to reassure himself that he was all right. But he understood Triage’s implicit request to give him room to work, and Bluestreak had not looked up when Prowl had entered the room, or even acknowledged him. So Prowl turned to where the majordomo was standing with the guard detail he had assigned to Bluestreak and Hound.

“Your Highness,” Halfsteel said as Prowl approached. The guards snapped to attention, although Lieutenant Barrage dropped to a knee in front of Prowl.

“I take full responsibility for this, Your Highness,” Barrage said, his helm lowered. “We should have driven ahead and tested the bench before Prince Bluestreak and Lord Hound sat on it. We did so the first few times they went to the overlook, but... We grew lax and complacent. My humblest apologies.”

“Get up,” Prowl growled. As Barrage raised his helm, Prowl turned to Halfsteel. “This was planned. Whoever did this knew they went up to the overlook often. What do we know?”

Halfsteel frowned down at the pad in his hand. “An expert from the infantry is examining the remains of the device right now, but it doesn’t look like a standard military explosive device. Master Auger is going to take a look at it in case there is magic involved. The device was planted under the bench sometime between yesterday afternoon and this morning. The site is far enough away from the more frequented places in the park that it’s unlikely anyone noticed who might have placed the device.” He looked up at Prowl with his door wings set low. “Prince Bluestreak said he felt the protection charm grow hot as soon as they sat on the bench, but the device was apparently planted far enough down that the charm only activated just before the bomb exploded. And they are both very lucky to be alive.” He lowered his voice and glanced at Bluestreak and Hound. “The charm was able to protect them both from more serious damage before it burned itself out... Lord Hound was only protected because he was touching the Prince when the device went off.”

From across the room, Bluestreak said firmly, “Hound needs his own protection charm.” Prowl looked at his brother, who was staring at him with a fierce look. His door wings were spread wide as if to protect the mech who was still wrapped in his arms. “When you replace my charm, give one to Hound too.”

“Of course,” Prowl said immediately. “I will ensure that Master Auger prepares a new charm for each of you.”

Hound finally stirred, lifting his helm from where it had been buried in Bluestreak’s chest, and murmured something to his bond partner that made Bluestreak’s wings relax slightly. Bluestreak closed his optics and lowered his helm to rest against Hound’s.

Prowl slowly approached Bluestreak and Hound, waiting for Triage’s nod before stepping up next to the berth. “Bluestreak,” he said quietly. When his brother opened his optics again, Prowl asked, “I need to ask. Your guards... Do you trust them? Or would you like them to be replaced?”

Bluestreak looked at where Barrage was standing with the other guards, then back at Prowl. “It really wasn’t their fault, Prowl,” he said. “We’d been up there so many times before. And to be honest...” He glanced down at Hound. “Neither of us is used to being followed around everywhere we go. They’ve been giving us as much privacy as they can.” He shrugged. “We sort of brought this on ourselves. Don’t blame them.”

“Besides,” said Hound, his optics still closed as Triage continued to work on his leg. “Shielder is really good at Primes and Drones.”

Bluestreak smiled and nuzzled the top of Hound’s helm.

Nodding, Prowl turned and walked back to Barrage. The guard stood at attention, his optics fixed straight ahead. Prowl stood in front of him, and said, “You received the highest recommendation from Captain Strikeback, Lieutenant. He was confident that you are the best choice for this assignment. You’ve already expressed that you know what went wrong: that you assumed the bench was safe instead of assuring it.” When Barrage nodded crisply, Prowl lifted his door wings. “And Bluestreak still trusts you and your mechs. So I am not removing you from this duty. Not yet, anyway.” He tipped his door wings downwards just slightly and added, “The safety of my younger brother is in your hands. Please do not make me regret this decision.”

Snapping his arm up in a salute, Barrage said, “Thank you, Your Highness!”

The sound of two engines approaching, followed by a transformation sound outside the medical bay, interrupted the conversation. Smokescreen and Ultra Magnus entered, and the Iacon commander immediately walked over to the berth where Bluestreak and Hound were sitting.

Smokescreen’s door wings were held stiffly, and his engine growled as he stalked over to Prowl and Halfsteel. “So now that we’ve got the city and the palace locked down tight, they think they can go after us outside the city walls?” He shook his helm. “I will not be held prisoner inside the city. I will not be cowed into hiding.”

Halfsteel’s optics had grown large as Smokescreen spoke, but Prowl put a hand on his brother’s arm. “Smokescreen, please. Take a vent. Don’t do anything rash.” He recognized the tone of Smokescreen’s voice. When he was this angry, he was liable to make impulsive decisions.

Rolling his optics, Smokescreen shook off Prowl’s hand. “Yes, Prowl. I remember what you told me before,” he said, his tone slightly patronizing. “Don’t make decisions while I’m upset.” His expression softened slightly. “I do listen to you. Sometimes.” A smile curled at his lips for a moment before his expression became serious once more. “But what they’ve done here is intended to be a message, and you know it. Killing Bluestreak wouldn’t stop me from becoming King. They just want us to be afraid: afraid to leave the palace, or afraid to leave the city. Afraid to make decisions that disrupt the status quo.” His door wings flicked once as he put his hands behind his back. “I need to show them that they cannot control my actions with their little games.”

“How do you intend to do that?” Prowl asked, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer.

“I’m not sure yet,” Smokescreen admitted. “And like you told me... I’ll wait until I’m not quite as angry before I decide. But mark my words,” he said, holding up a digit. “I will not be held prisoner by some faceless terrorists.”

Prowl glanced at Halfsteel, who was staring at Smokescreen with a worried expression. As Prowl watched, Halfsteel’s door wings sagged. “Your Highness,” he said quietly. “I know you trusted me with your security, and the security of your home. I have tried my very best to serve you in that capacity. But if you feel that I have failed you in any way –“

Smokescreen whirled to face Halfsteel and put both hands on his majordomo’s shoulders. “Steel, no,” he said. “I do not blame you at all. On the contrary, you’ve done a fantastic job. Since you’ve taken this position, there have been no attempts at all on me, or inside the palace.” Smokescreen gave Halfsteel an encouraging smile. “I have never felt more safe than I have since you’ve been by my side.”

Halfsteel’s golden optics slowly brightened while Smokescreen spoke, until they shone radiantly. When Smokescreen finished speaking, Halfsteel dipped his helm in a brief nod. “Thank you, Your Highness,” he said quietly. “Your confidence means the world to me.”

After giving Halfsteel’s shoulders a brief squeeze, Smokescreen turned back to Prowl. “Now, let’s see what we can do to assure the Commander that his Rangers will be safe here,” he said, glancing at Ultra Magnus. “That’s one ally that I do not want to frag off in any way.”

As he and Hound stood waiting to enter the Temple’s inner sanctum, Bluestreak thought about how different this event was from their bonding ceremony in Iacon.

In Iacon, their ceremony had taken place outside, in the middle of the Prime’s hunting reserve - the very clearing where fate had first thrown them together and set Bluestreak on a new path for his life, in fact. Hound had picked the location, but his selection hadn’t come as a surprise to Bluestreak. He knew that Hound had a soft spot for the place where he’d first laid optics on the Praxian who he’d caught poaching game from the Prime.

At that ceremony, they had been surrounded by their friends: their fellow Rangers, members of the Iacon guard, and mechs from the city whom they had grown to know. Even the Prime had been there, carefully monitored by Ratchet to ensure he did not overtire himself. Their vows had been lightsparked and filled with love and humour, and afterwards they were given good-natured ribbings by their friends as they made their way back to the barracks to complete their spark bond.

A Praxian bonding presentation was so different, rooted in a very different tradition. In Iacon, the bonding ceremony was meant to celebrate two sparks who had found each other to form a bond of friendship and love, before deciding to make that bond tangible. In Praxus, the presentation was meant to affirm that two sparks had been bonded at the behest of the Temple, despite any misgivings or incompatibilities between them.

One was a celebration of love. The other was a mark of duty.

Bluestreak knew that Smokescreen meant for their presentation to upend the Praxian custom, and show the common-created citizens that their new King saw no difference between his frametype and theirs. Bluestreak just wished that coming to Praxus didn’t mean putting Hound in danger.

But... Promises made, and promises kept.

Bluestreak squared his shoulders and glanced at Hound. “Ready?” he asked. His optics took in the fresh paint and polish on Hound’s plating, covering up the damage that the assassination attempt had caused. Then he firmly shoved the memory of that incident down into a secondary processor thread, not wanting to dredge up the incident right now.

Hound gave him a quick smile. “I remember asking you the same thing before I walked you into the Iacon Cathedral to become a Ranger,” he said. He tried to look through the door into the sanctum, but a wall of priests blocked his view. He turned back to Bluestreak. “And like you said then... I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

Laughing quietly, Bluestreak said, “When I become a Ranger? Wow, that seems like it happened ages ago.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Hound replied. “I think we were both different mechs then, in a way.”

Before Bluestreak could respond, a heavy gong tolled inside the sanctum, and the priests blocking their way stepped aside.

They’d talked to the High Priest at length about the tone they wanted to set. Truemark was still new in his role, but he was very open to trying new ideas. “I can’t completely change how the ceremony happens,” he said. “Not yet. But I can change what I say, and how I present myself in it.”

Their procession into the sanctum was solemn, as was traditional. There was no music and no laughing. There never was at a presentation. Not all of the bondings were joyous; in fact, most were not. Some bondings were even painful, and the newly bonded mechs would walk into the presentation with scowls on their faces. So over time it had become a somber event, overly formal and rigidly scripted.

That, at least, Bluestreak intended to change.

He smiled and lifted his door wings high. He was happy to be walking into the sanctum with Hound at his side. He was proud of the mech he had chosen as his bond partner, and he wanted everyone to know it. And at the front of the sanctum, the High Priest echoed his smile.

Bluestreak and Hound climbed the stairs to the dais and knelt before High Priest Truemark, facing each other. Flanking the High Priest on one side was Ultra Magnus, who was standing in for Hound’s creators. On the other side, Lord Caelum stood tall, his optics fixed on Bluestreak. He knew that the King was seated off the dais in the audience, beside Smokescreen and Prowl, and out of sight of the spectators.

Taking a deep vent, Bluestreak lifted his helm and looked into Hound’s optics. Hound smiled at him calmly, although Bluestreak could feel his anxiety churning just below the surface. The silence in the sanctum was putting Hound on edge. Bluestreak sent Hound a pulse of love and encouragement, and felt him relax.

Truemark waited until they were settled, and then he spoke. His voice was magically enhanced so that it carried to every corner of the sanctum, and out to the throngs of citizens listening outside the Temple. “These two sparks have been bonded before Primus. They have set aside their differences, and found new strength between them. They have given of themselves and accepted from the other. Their bond has been confirmed by the Temple. May their union be long and fruitful,” Truemark intoned.

The gathered mechs in the audience repeated the last words tonelessly. “May their union be long and fruitful.”

The words were traditional, even if Bluestreak disliked the meaning behind them. But he knew the next part of Truemark’s sermon would go off script... And hopefully help plant the seeds for the changes that Smokescreen wanted to bring.

Glancing around at the nobles seated in the sanctum, Truemark smiled. “Traditionally, the next words in a bonding presentation for a member of the nobility are assurances that both mechs are pure of frame. The words speak of their door wings and their chevrons, and prayers to Primus that their creations will also be reflections of the image of Primus.” Looking down at Hound, Truemark said, “But the world is changing, and Praxus must change with it. The design of the frames of these two mechs is secondary to what is in their sparks, so that is what I will focus on.” He lifted his helm and looked out over the gathered mechs, who had begun to murmur slightly at the change to the traditional ceremony. “I hope that everyone here will do the same.”

Bluestreak glanced out at the audience. Nobles had their helms together, whispering amongst themselves. But others – a majority of them, it seemed to Bluestreak - were looking up at the dais with broad smiles and high wings.

“These two mechs have chosen each other,” Truemark said, his voice ringing out through the sanctum. “They were not told that they must bond to one another, but instead they decided to do so under their own free will.” He looked down at them both again, his optics lingering on Hound. “They looked beyond the frame and saw into the spark.” He lifted his helm and raised his voice, speaking over the whispers and mutters. “They looked beyond the components of their shells, and saw into what Primus truly created: the core of who they are.” Truemark looked around the sanctum, his optics bright, before looking back down at Bluestreak and Hound with a gentle smile. “May they be a model for what we all must do. Primus, give us guidance.”

The audience lifted their voices to complete the refrain. “Primus, help us navigate in the darkness and light our path.”

Truemark stepped back slightly and said, “Your hands, please.”

The crowd quieted again as the ritual fell back onto familiar ground. Bluestreak and Hound held up their hands and placed them palm to palm. Hound’s hands were larger than Bluestreak’s, black against Bluestreak’s grey.

Bluestreak caught Hound’s gaze again, and for a moment the world consisted of only the two of them.

Then Ultra Magnus was looming over them, holding a white ribbon in his hands. He looped the ribbon around their wrists closest to him before weaving it up and around their joined hands. He tied it off gently before stepping back. Lord Caelum repeated the process, carefully wrapping his gold ribbon over top of the one that Ultra Magnus had used. Before stepping back to his place beside the High Priest, Caelum brushed his digits against Bluestreak’s cheek and then Hound’s, a soft smile on his lips.

Truemark’s voice rang out again. “The ribbons represent their duty, to each other and to Primus. With their sparks now joined, they must work together to overcome any adversity that is placed in their path. The ribbons bind them together as their sparks are now bound to each other for eternity. ” Then he handed them a rope, white twined with gold, and they each took an end of the rope with their free hand. “Meanwhile, this rope represents the care and consideration they must give each other, and they must work together to ensure the rope does not fall to the ground. While the binding of their sparks is a tangible force that keeps them together, they must still work as one even if they disagree. They must not forget to nurture that which also binds them together.”

Truemark spread his hands wide over their helms. “Now... Rise, children of Primus, and go forth as two sparks and two frames, who must now face the world as one.”

Bluestreak and Hound climbed to their pedes, an act made difficult by their bound hands and the rope they needed to hold. But they carefully helped each other, unable to stop from smiling and laughing at their own awkwardness. And as they marched back out of the sanctum, Bluestreak saw smiles on faces everywhere in the crowd. A handful of disapproving looks came from some of the nobles and many of the priests, but he was encouraged that so many mechs seemed to be happy with how the ceremony had gone.

He hoped that Smokescreen felt the same way.

The scene outside the Temple grounds, however, was completely different from the quietly sober presentation before the Court. Per tradition for a royal bonding presentation, the new couple was to walk back to the Palace, their hands still bound and the rope held between them. But like it had been when the Rangers arrived in Praxus, the route was lined with mechs, all trying to get a glimpse of the couple.

And all of them were cheering.

“This is why your brother wanted you to come to Praxus for a bonding presentation, I think,” Hound said, having to press his mouth close to Bluestreak’s audial to be heard over the din of the crowd. He looked around at all of the mechs crowding the guards. “You did a good thing, coming here.”

Bluestreak almost felt giddy. He heard both of their designations being called from the crowd; the cries of ‘Lord Hound’ were just as common as ‘Prince Bluestreak.’ He nodded at Hound’s words. “Yeah,” he said, tilting his helm towards Hound. “Thank you for talking me into this.”

The reception at the palace was the most obvious change that Hound had requested from a conventional bonding presentation. Traditionally, after the presentation had occurred at the Temple, the process was over. In a bonding presentation for two mechs who had been forced together by the Temple, there was usually no reason to celebrate. After the bonding had been confirmed by the priests and the couple returned to the palace, the ritual was complete.

But Hound requested a party. “We’re thrilled we’re bonded,” he’d said. “And we want others to share our joy.” And, of course, Smokescreen was all too happy to help arrange a party in the palace gardens.

There was music and fuel, and the gardens were lit by wisplight orbs that Master Auger had hung on crystals. There was laughter and conversation, and a groon into the reception Bluestreak realized that he felt more at home in that moment than he had the whole time he and Hound been in Praxus together.

Bluestreak was also happy to see that most of the unfriendliest nobles he’d encountered so far didn’t seem to be in attendance at the reception. He knew that they’d all been invited to the party, but they either left early, disgusted by the acceptance of a commoner into their ranks, or hadn’t bothered showing up at all.

In fact, everyone who came up to speak to him and Hound was welcome and open. There had been moments in the past few cycles – notably while he was sitting in the medical bay reassuring himself that Hound was going to be all right – that Bluestreak had questioned his decision to come to Praxus at all. But the way they were greeted at the reception assuaged all of those doubts for him.

Word had gotten around of the explosion that had taken place at the overlook, and that Bluestreak and Hound had been involved. The palace had been keeping all of the assassination attempts secret to prevent any copycat efforts, but mechs had taken notice of the heightened security around the palace over the past vorn. After the explosion on the overlook, the palace was now quietly admitting that someone was out to harm the princes.

So of course most of the questions that Bluestreak and Hound fielded were about the explosion: what exactly had happened, were they all right, and had anyone been caught? Bluestreak answered the questions as best he could, while a quiet voice in the back of his processor reminded him that anyone he spoke to could be the culprit.

One reunion that Bluestreak hadn’t been anticipating happened not too long after the reception started. Bluestreak turned to see a very familiar noble standing with a youngling at his side. “Your Highness,” the noble said with a small bow.

Bluestreak’s optics widened and he rushed forward to clasp the mech’s forearm. “Greenbough!” he exclaimed. “Primus, it’s good to see you. Prowl told me you were doing well, and...” His door wings fell slightly. “I’m sorry that –“

Greenbough shook his helm. “Whatever your reasons for leaving, Your Highness, I do not hold any ill will towards you,” he said with a smile. “Argite and I are a good match.”

Nodding, Bluestreak clapped Greenbough on the shoulder. “I’m glad. And thank you for understanding,” he said. He got Hound’s attention and pulled him to his side. “Greenbough, this is my bond partner, Hound. And Hound... This is Lord Greenbough. He and I were once promised to each other... Before I left Praxus.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Lord Greenbough,” Hound said formally.

Bluestreak dropped to a knee and looked at the youngling who was standing as tall as he could next to Greenbough’s leg. “And who are you?” he asked.

The youngling’s optics went wide at the sudden attention. “My designation is Remix, Your Highness,” he said, and gave Bluestreak a deep bow.

Smiling, Bluestreak said, “Nice to meet you, Lord Remix. I’m Prince Bluestreak. How old are you, my Lord?”

His optics still wide as saucers at being addressed by the prince, Remix said, “I’m seven, Your Highness.”

Grinning, Bluestreak nodded. “I knew your creator here before you emerged. I think we were about your age when we first met.” Bluestreak glanced up at Greenbough, then leaned towards Remix. “You should ask him about the time we climbed the tallest crystal in the gardens here, and got stuck at the top,” he said with a conspiratorial tone. “The palace guards had to get us down.” He pointed at a spire visible in the Eastern Garden. “I’m pretty sure it was that crystal there.”

Remix ogled at the crystal, then looked up at Greenbough with a wide smile plastered on his face. “Is that true, sire?”

Greenbough laughed. “Yes, it’s true.” He shook his helm at Bluestreak. “But I remember that being your idea, Your Highness.”

“Oh, really?” said Bluestreak, still grinning. “I seem to remember that you were the one who wanted to see if you could see all the way to your principality from up there!”

The evening wore on, and Bluestreak finally had to admit that he was having a wonderful time. So were the other Rangers. Blurr was a natural dancer, and seemed to be splitting his time between the dance floor and the bar. Ultra Magnus had found a group of older mechs who specialized in trade, and they had been deep in conversation for groons. And Bluestreak and Hound were constantly being approached by mechs wishing them well.

It was a perfect reception.

“Where are your brothers?” Hound asked at one point.

Bluestreak looked around, scanning the crowd. “I saw Prowl circulating around a while ago,” he said. “I didn’t see him leave, but I know he doesn’t really like parties. His sensor suite is sensitive, and he doesn’t like the noise. He’s probably already gone back to his apartments for the evening. And Smokescreen...” Bluestreak frowned, trying to remember when he’d last seen his brother that evening. “He was here at the start of the reception, but I haven’t seen him since.” He shrugged. “He probably found some mechs to chat with. He’s famous for his parties, but he also seems to just enjoy watching others have a good time.”

“I was just curious,” Hound said, leaning against Bluestreak. He could feel Hound’s fatigue. Between the damage they’d sustained two cycles before, and all of the preparations for the bonding ceremony this morning, they had both had a long day. “When would it be polite for us to get out of here? I think a long soak in that oil bath in our apartments is exactly what I need, followed by a good, long recharge period.”

Bluestreak slung his arm around Hound and planted a kiss on the side of his helm. “I agree. Let’s do one more round of the tables, and then see if we can slip away undetected.”

Chapter Text

Smokescreen leaned on the railing of his balcony, peering down at the gardens below. Glowing lanterns illuminated the knots of mechs, and the sound of cheerful conversation and music drifted up into the night sky.

He twirled his empty glass between his digits for a moment before setting it on the railing beside him. “You know, it’s funny,” he said. “It was just a few vorn ago that we lit the memorial fire for Streaks, to commit his spark to Primus. After the funeral procession, Prowl and I came up here to do the same thing that we are now... Drink and get away from the crowds. We might even be drinking from the same bottle of high grade.” Turning to look at Halfsteel, he smiled. “Even though I’m pretty much doing the same thing now, my mood is almost a complete one-eighty from what it was the last time.”

“Well, there’s a lot to celebrate tonight... For you, your family, and for all of Praxus, even with all of the trouble we’ve seen,” Halfsteel said. “I am extremely impressed with what Lord Caelum and Prince Prowl were able to accomplish. I learned a lot working with them to plan the celebration, and seeing it all come together was amazing. I’ve already made use of a lot of their insight in the plans for your coronation.” Halfsteel’s golden optics gleamed in the darkness as he looked down at the crowds in the garden. “And all of the logistics aside, it is also just a very good party,” he said. He looked up at Smokescreen and returned the Prince’s smile. “But I would have thought that you’d prefer to be down there with everyone, enjoying it.”

Smokescreen shrugged. “If I was down there I’d just end up being the focus of attention. I really want everyone to be looking and thinking about Streaks and Hound, and what their union means for the future of Praxus. I don’t want to distract from that just by being down there.” He picked up his glass and held it up to Halfsteel. “Did you want a refill?”

“Sure. Thank you.” Halfsteel gave him his glass. “I have to tell you... The fact that you’re holding this party at all, celebrating a pure Praxian - your own brother, a prince! - being bonded to a non-Praxian... It’s playing very well. And not just with regular commoners, but with a number of full-framed Praxians as well.”

Smokescreen stepped inside his quarters and poured them both another glass of high-grade. He returned to the railing and handed Halfsteel his glass. “I’m glad to hear it. That was my intention. I want to show that I am serious about change.” He held up his glass and tapped it against Halfsteel’s. “To the future of Praxus, noble and commoner alike.”

Halfsteel nodded. “To Praxus.” After he took a sip from his glass, he looked back down at the party. Laughter bubbled up from a group of mechs near one of the fuel tables. “There’s still the hardliners, of course. The changes you’re pushing through have angered them, since they see their role in Praxus diminishing with every step up you provide to others.” He glanced up at Smokescreen. “Prince Prowl, Lord Caelum, and Strikeback are on the right track, I’m sure of it: someone in the inner Court is behind the attempts on your life, and probably behind the explosion on the mountain. Seeing a member of the royal family bonded to an impure mech... A foreigner, even...” He trailed off, then shook his helm. “For someone out there, you’re committing an unforgivable affront to their way of life. Prince Bluestreak and Lord Hound won over many courtiers at the reception, but for some nobles, there’s nothing you’ll ever be able to do to change their minds.”

“I know.” Smokescreen shrugged. “And I anticipated that. Some mechs are just stubborn. All I can do is try to show everyone else their hypocrisy. They aren’t upset about their station being pushed down... They are upset because others are being lifted up, and they’ll no longer hold all the power.”

They watched the party in companionable silence for a long klik.

Smokescreen’s optics picked out Bluestreak, standing in a group of lesser nobles next to his green bond mate. He noted how people seemed to be drawn to both of them. “Before Streaks left, my sire complained that I’d picked up some of Streaks’s ‘sentimentality.’ He said that I was letting my spark do my thinking for me.” Smokescreen shrugged again, laughing quietly as he recalled the conversation. “But I think Streaks had it right. Still does. Living kindly and working to help others can’t possibly be wrong.”

“Prince Silverstreak was well-loved by the commoners. I think Ranger Bluestreak is loved just as much, if not more so,” Halfsteel said. “Seeing him bonded to a commoner gives all citizens hope for the future.” He swirled the liquid around in his glass thoughtfully. “And nobles, too. I know that other purebreds feel the same as I do. About what you did for all of us,” Halfsteel said quietly. When Smokescreen turned his helm to look at him, he saw that Halfsteel was staring down at the crowds in the garden once more. “They’d resigned themselves to a life that was comfortable but not free. Even the most well-fueled, cared for mech knows they are in a cage if they cannot make choices for themselves.” He looked up at Smokescreen again. “Thank you for opening that cage.”

Smokescreen nodded solemnly. “To be honest, one of the last struts to break on that decision was seeing how unhappy you were after your first official meeting with your promised. I knew I had to do something.”

Halfsteel’s door wings dipped low and he shook his helm. “Flux and I had so little in common. We couldn’t even hold a conversation before falling into the most... uncomfortable silence in just a few kliks.” He flicked his door wings once before resetting them back to a neutral angle. “I can’t imagine what it would have been like to be bonded to him.” He smiled warmly. “Thank you so much for your intervention.”

“Anyone could have seen that you were unhappy with the situation. I just did what I could for my friend,” Smokescreen said. He finished his drink and set the glass on the railing again. “I’m so glad that I was able to help, and then cancel the cultivation plan, before you were forced to do something that would have been painful to undo.”

Halfsteel hummed thoughtfully. “Growing up, I just accepted that I was going to be bonded to whomever the Temple had selected for me. I never even dreamed that I’d be able to bond for love. But then, once I learned about interfacing, and that I couldn’t even...” Halfsteel laughed quietly. “I’m just glad that all my options are open now, and I can choose to bond or interface with whomever I wish.” He paused and rolled his optics. “Or at least bond to someone that my sire approves of, anyway,” he added with a smile.

Smokescreen turned towards Halfsteel and leaned his elbow on the railing of the balcony. “So, what sort of mech would Lord Halfsteel be interested in interfacing with, now that his options are open?” Smokescreen asked with a mischievous look.

Halfsteel let out a single loud laugh before shutting his mouth suddenly. He gave Smokescreen a panicked look. “Ah – I’m not laughing at you, Your High –“ Smokescreen nudged him with his elbow. “...Err, Smokescreen. Just my reaction. To your question. Um.”

His smile broadening, Smokescreen leaned towards Halfsteel. “Oh? So does that mean you have your optic on someone special?”

“No! Well, yes. Not really? I mean, I do, but...” Halfsteel sputtered. “You are special, I mean. Being the crown prince and all.” Then, as if realizing what he had said, Halfsteel’s mouth slammed shut again and he stared down at the garden with wide optics.

It took several moments for Smokescreen to parse out what exactly Halfsteel had said. When he finally untangled it, his spark did a sudden flip, and he looked at Halfsteel in surprise. “...me?” Halfsteel’s digits tightened on the railing. Smokescreen patted his hand, and then let his hand rest on top of Halfsteel’s. “I... I’m not upset, Steel.” When Halfsteel glanced at him out of the corner of his optics, Smokescreen smiled encouragingly. “I’m... flattered, actually. But... Why me?” he asked. “You’re quite handsome, and a wonderful mech. I’m sure you’d have the choice of anyone you wanted.”

Halfsteel’s door wings lifted high on his back, fluttering ever so slightly. “I... Smokescreen, you are the only mech to have ever shown me the kind of friendship that I wanted. That I needed.” He looked down at Smokescreen’s hand on his. “You showed me kindness and respect. You listened to me. You gave me room to think and just be silent when I needed it, rather than forcing me to talk when I didn’t want to. You trusted me. You gave me opportunities that I never dreamt I’d ever have, especially as the sixth creation of a northern lord.” He looked up at Smokescreen, his golden optics gleaming brightly in the darkness of the balcony. “I consider you my best, closest and... You are my only true friend. And...” Halfsteel blew a gust of air from his vents and looked up at the night sky. “Tomorrow I will blame my saying this on the high grade, but... You are very handsome.” His optics returned to Smokescreen’s face before falling back down to the gardens below. “I... Forgive me if I’m being too forward, Your Highness.”

The spin of Smokescreen’s spark had increased as Halfsteel spoke. Giving Halfsteel’s hand a squeeze, he said, “Hey. It’s Smokescreen, remember?” Halfsteel nodded silently without looking up. Smokescreen stepped closer to Halfsteel and put his hand on the other mech’s arm, drawing Halfsteel’s gaze back to him. “And you’re not being too forward. If anything, it’s refreshing being told what you really think of me.” Smokescreen had always considered Halfsteel a good friend... His closest, most trusted friend, in fact. With a start, Smokescreen realized how much of what Halfsteel had said about him applied to how Smokescreen felt about Halfsteel. The noble was a good listener when Smokescreen needed to vent about something, and Halfsteel’s quick, shy smile never failed to cheer Smokescreen up. His optics darted around Halfsteel’s face, taking in the striking lines of his jaw and helm, and the sweep of his nasal ridge that marked him as a mech from a northern province. He was very handsome. “So, thank you. And if it makes you feel any better, I think the same of you.” Curling his digits under Halfsteel’s hand and lifting it up to his chest, Smokescreen added, “On all fronts.”

Halfsteel processed Smokescreen’s words for a moment before his optics widened. Standing this close to the noble, Smokescreen could feel the thrum of Halfsteel’s spark under this chest plating, and heard a subtle shift in the sound of his engine. “Sm-Smokey...” Halfsteel whispered.

Smokescreen lifted a hand to the other mech’s shoulder and smiled. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me Smokey.”

A nervous smile flashed across Halfsteel’s face. “It seemed like the thing to do,” he said quietly, his vocalizer full of static.

Stepping close enough to Halfsteel so that their chest plating touched, Smokescreen ran his thumb over the palm of Halfsteel’s hand. His audials registered the stuttering gasp the motion caused in Halfsteel’s ventilations, but Smokescreen’s attention was locked on Halfsteel’s optics. “I’m going to take a liberty,” he said quietly, leaning towards Halfsteel. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Halfsteel said nothing, and Smokescreen tipped his helm forward and brushed his lips against Halfsteel’s.

Halfsteel’s lips were soft and smooth, and warm. After the first gentle touch, Smokescreen pulled back slightly. Halfsteel’s optics were wide, fixated on Smokescreen’s. Smokescreen whispered, “Is that all right?”

When Halfsteel nodded wordlessly, Smokescreen kissed him again.

This time Halfsteel responded, his lips moving gently against Smokescreen’s. As the kiss deepened, a soft sound escaped Halfsteel’s vocalizer. Smokescreen’s lips pulled at Halfsteel’s, testing their pliancy and strength, and Halfsteel reciprocated. When Halfsteel’s glossa skated delicately over Smokescreen’s lower lip, the Prince made almost the same sound that Halfsteel had made.

It felt as though someone had poured liquid fire into Smokescreen’s lines. He’d read about kissing, in those books the young nobles passed amongst one another in secret. But he’d never thought that it would cause this sensation in all his circuits, like what he was feeling now. He held Halfsteel’s hand tightly to his chest as his other gripped the back of Halfsteel’s helm, while Halfsteel’s free hand rested gently on Smokescreen’s chest. Smokescreen could taste the high-grade on Halfsteel’s lips, and could smell the clean oil scent he had always associated with the young lord.

Smokescreen was dimly aware of his cooling fans clicking on, but he quickly felt the growing heat behind his interface panel. He dropped Halfsteel’s hand and moved his grip to the noble’s side, pulling their hips together, while Halfsteel clung to Smokescreen’s shoulder with his freed hand. Charge buzzed through Smokescreen’s circuits, lighting up relays and sending sparks of sensation through his frame.

Smokescreen’s entire world narrowed down to Halfsteel: how firm his lips were, the way his digits dug into Smokescreen’s armor, the tiny whimpers he was making as Smokescreen held Halfsteel’s frame against his. He felt right in Smokescreen’s arms, like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It felt like this moment could go on forever. It felt like it should go on forever. In that moment, he wanted Halfsteel against him, in him, over him, forever and always.

Smokescreen gradually became aware that Halfsteel was saying something. Halfsteel’s whimpers had become murmurs into Smokescreen’s mouth. “Smokey... Smokey, wait.” Then his murmurs became gasps as Smokescreen’s lips clumsily moved to Halfsteel’s jaw. “Smokescreen, please.” And then the gasps burst into an exclamation that finally made Smokescreen stop. “Your Highness, please! Stop!”

Smokescreen stared at Halfsteel, hearing the whine from their cooling fans and feeling Halfsteel’s grip on his shoulders, still holding them close. Then he stumbled backwards when Halfsteel’s pleas finally registered in his processor. “Oh! Slag, Steel, I’m sorry,” he said, holding up a hand when Halfsteel stepped towards him again. “I just... I wasn’t...” How could he explain that he hadn’t heeded Halfsteel’s request for him to stop because he was too consumed by his friend’s touch to actually hear him? “I shouldn’t have overstepped. I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m so sorry...”

But Halfsteel was shaking his helm and caught Smokescreen’s hand again. “Smokescreen, no,” he said, pulling Smokescreen close to him again, but he was careful to leave a small gap between their chests. He smiled, his door wings fluttering behind him. “It’s all right. It’s just... Asking you to stop was the hardest thing I think I’ve ever had to do.” His words crackled into static, and he paused, dropping his optics to his hand. Smokescreen heard him reset his vocalizer with a click. Halfsteel’s thumb traced a small circle on the palm of Smokescreen’s hand, just like Smokescreen had done to him.

“Then… Why?” Smokescreen asked, searching Halfsteel’s face as if he could read the answer on it.

Halfsteel shook his helm, and then laughed quietly. He lifted his helm and looked at Smokescreen. “I wanted to make sure you thought about this. I wanted to make sure you weren’t making a mistake... You know, interfacing with me. If that’s what you were thinking about?” He shrugged, his gaze dropping to their linked hands once more. “I’m just a minor lord... The sixth creation of my sire. My house has only a small principality. We’re loyal, but we have limited influence.” He pulled a deep vent, his door wings rising and falling with his intake of air, then looked up at Smokescreen again. “I wanted to make sure that interfacing with me wouldn’t cause you problems... politically.”

Smokescreen’s door wings rose in indignation. “I’m going to be the king,” he said sharply. “I should be able to interface with whomever I want.” And that was true, wasn’t it? He’d had the cultivation program ended. Nobles could bond with anyone they wanted now. And even though the Temple still officially frowned on interfacing outside of a bond, mechs could legally interface with anyone they wanted as well. And it wasn’t like interfacing with Halfsteel meant they’d have to bond.

But as soon as he thought this, Smokescreen knew that it wasn’t quite right. Yes, the cultivation program was ended. But the King had always had to consider the political implications of his bond partner. That was why the King was the only full-framed Praxian who’d had the option to refuse a Temple-approved bond partner and request another. The King’s bond partner needed to be someone who made sense politically, either to give him an advantage or to seal an agreement with a noble house.

And if it came out that Smokescreen had interfaced with a noble, someone who he wasn’t bonded to, his enemies in the Court could spin that into a scandal for him… Pitting the King against the Temple with the sole intention of creating the illusion of a crisis.

Smokescreen had enough crises happening right now already. Maybe Halfsteel was right to urge caution.

Even as Smokescreen considered Halfsteel’s words, the noble was shaking his helm again. “I know. You should be able to.” Halfsteel’s door wings quivered slightly. “But just… make sure. Please.” He squeezed Smokescreen’s hand in his. “And then, if you still want this, and there won’t be any repercussions to this for you…” He shuddered, bringing Smokescreen’s hand up to this lips for a moment, his optics still fixed on Smokescreen’s. “Nothing would make be happier, Smokey.”

Shivering with unresolved charge, Smokescreen nodded. “You’re right.” Then he laughed softly, and brought their linked hands up to his own mouth, mirroring the kiss that Halfsteel had placed on his hand. “You’re too good for me, Steel. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Halfsteel’s door wings fell slightly in embarrassment, and he ducked his helm to hide his smile. “You’d do what you always do, Smokescreen... You would do what’s best for Praxus.” Then Halfsteel dropped Smokescreen’s hand and stepped away, sweeping into a formal bow. “I’ll show myself out. A good recharge to you, Your Highness.” He turned and walked swiftly through the door into Smokescreen’s apartments without looking back.

A few moments later, after hearing the door to his apartments close, Smokescreen leaned on the balcony railing and lowered his helm. He realized he was still trembling slightly from the charge running through his frame.

Halfsteel was completely right, of course. Smokescreen couldn’t just think of himself. He had to think of Praxus, and what he wanted to accomplish. He just hoped that he could separate his own desires from what was best for the country.

He also hoped that, in this case, they would be the same.

Prowl tapped his digit on his glass in time to the sonata that the musicians were playing down in the gardens. He was particularly fond of the piece they were playing, and remembered practicing it during his music lessons when he was a youngling.

Even though Smokescreen had been very excited about the idea of throwing an “official” party instead of one of the informal parties he’d become known for when they were younger, he still left the bulk of the details up to Prowl and Halfsteel. However, Smokescreen had provided them with a list of musicians and other entertainers that he’d collected over the vorn. The quartet playing right now was one of the groups on his list.

Smokescreen had fairly good taste, Prowl thought as the song ended and a smattering of applause rippled through the gardens. He set his glass down on the railing and joined in, expressing his appreciation for the music.

Standing next to him, General Jazz applauded as well, then picked up his glass again. “Those musicians are pretty talented,” he said musingly. “I wonder if they’d be up to comin’ to Polyhex for a tour. I know a bunch of mechs who’d really dig that style. And it’s perfect for a nice party like this one.”

Prowl tipped a door wing upwards. “Is this music very different from the music in Polyhex?” he asked.

Jazz shook his helm. “We’ve got quiet music like this, but the cadence is a lot different. This music uses a lot of odd harmonics that I’m not familiar with. But I like it!” He gestured down towards the musicians with his glass. “When their set is done, I might go see if I can take a look at one of their instruments, too. All of ‘em look familiar, except that stringed one on the end.”

Prowl peered down at the musicians. “That’s a synth-harp,” he said, resting a hand on the railing. “You don’t have those in Polyhex? It’s a fairly common instrument in Praxus, if a bit difficult to learn.”

“Nope. But I’ll bet we’ve got instruments that you don’t have, too,” Jazz replied. He smiled. “I seriously thought about bringing my electro-bass with me so I could play a bit for ya, but I was worried ‘bout it getting’ damaged in the trip. So I figured the vibro-flute would have to do.”

Prowl nodded as Jazz talked, reveling in how easy it was to talk to him. They’d only know each other for about a vorn, and most of that time they’d only talked via correspondence. But it almost felt as though they’d been friends forever. Prowl had never had an easy time making friends, so it was strange for him to find someone who he got along with so well in such a short amount of time. It might have seemed even stranger still that he got along so well with someone who wasn’t from Praxus, except that his brief time outside of Praxus’s borders had opened his optics to how much the Temple had lied about outsiders. They weren’t the godless, vulgar heathens that they’d been made out to be.

Far from it.

Recalling the song Jazz had played for him (and wrote for him!) a few cycles before, Prowl asked, “I know you really enjoy music. Is there a reason you joined the Polyhexian army instead of pursuing a career in music?”

Jazz placed his glass on the railing again. “That’d be my sire’s doin’. He wouldn’t have none of it.” Jazz’s posture shifted, from the casual but alert pose he usually had, to one with a stiff back and thrown back shoulders. His voice shifted too, becoming deeper and more serious. “No creation of mine is gonna become a minstrel, beggin’ for scraps and change in waystations and bars! You’re gonna earn your way as a respectable mech, in a manner that suits yer upbringin’!” Another posture shift, and Jazz was back, smiling at Prowl. Jazz picked up his glass again, his digits accidentally brushing against Prowl’s. “So that was that. I ended up enlistin’ in the army, and worked my way up the ranks. I’m doin’ pretty well for myself now... I just wish I had a bit more time to play. I work in in when I can, though.”

“I’d love to hear you play again,” Prowl said with a smile. “Especially on one of the instruments you’ve mentioned that I’m not familiar with.”

“Do you play?” Jazz asked. He pointed down at the musicians again, where the quartet had begun another song. “You said that the whuzzit – synth-harp? – was hard to learn. Have you tried?”

Prowl nodded as he took a sip from his glass. “Music is part of the ‘standard education’ for a Praxian noble, and the royal creations were no different,” he said. “All three of us learned to play several instruments, although none of us really took to it. Smokescreen was probably the best of us on the synth-harp, but he gave it up vorn ago when he didn’t have the time for it anymore.”

“That’s a shame,” Jazz said. He leaned on the railing next to Prowl and gave him a playful little nudge with his shoulder. “And you? What instrument did you lean towards?”

“None,” Prowl said with a laugh. “It turns out that my audials are not at all tuned for tones or harmonics.”

“I find that hard to believe, Prowler,” Jazz said, nudging Prowl again with his shoulder. “Even the most tone-deaf mech can play somethin’ like percussion. Plus, you seem to enjoy music just fine, which tells me you’ve at least got an audial for it.”

Prowl shrugged, aware of the way his shoulder armor rubbed against Jazz’s with the motion. “I preferred my dance classes. I always found moving to the music easier than actually making it.”

At this, Jazz stood up straight and whirled to face Prowl, putting his hand on Prowl’s arm. “Hang on... You dance?!” When Prowl nodded, bemused, Jazz grinned. “You’ve been holdin’ out on me! Come on – show me a dance!”

Prowl ducked his helm. “Oh... No. I can’t. Most of the dances I know are for formal parties and receptions. They require a partner.”

“Prowler.” At the nickname, Prowl looked up to see that Jazz had placed his glass on the railing again, and was standing with his arms spread. “Ya got a partner right here. Show me some moves! And I promise not to step all over yer pedes, too.” He waggled his hands enticingly.

Prowl was about to demur, explaining that he was very out of practice, or that the music currently playing was a fairly complex dance, or that he was too tired. But he wanted to dance with Jazz. The Polyhexian’s smile was open and inviting. Prowl somehow knew that Jazz would never make fun of him if he screwed up some of the steps, and Prowl had a sneaking suspicion that Jazz would be a quick learner.

But more than that, Prowl was having fun tonight, standing on the terrace and chatting with his friend. Prowl enjoyed dancing, and he had had very few chances to practice it in the past few vorn. The idea of sharing something he liked to do with a friend whose company he enjoyed was too good to pass up.

Before he could change his mind, Prowl nodded, set his own glass aside, and stepped close to Jazz. “First, we start like this.” He arranged Jazz’s hands so that one of them rested on Prowl’s shoulder, while the other was held up at helm level, palm out. Prowl placed his hand against Jazz’s open hand, and put his free hand on Jazz’s waist. Then he looked into Jazz’s visor, flushing at the attention that his friend was giving him. “And that’s right – keep optical contact. That’s traditional for this dance. Now, step backwards...” With a gentle nudge, Prowl pushed Jazz backwards into the first step.

Prowl had been exactly right: Jazz picked up the dance very quickly. Even when the complicated portion came, where they switched roles and Jazz had to pick up the lead, Jazz remembered the steps Prowl had shown him exactly. As they whirled through the steps, Prowl reveled in the motion. The terrace spun by and the wisplights from the garden created traces in his vision, but Jazz’s smiling face was a steady constant as they stepped and spun.

When the last notes of the song sounded, Prowl realized that his face had been stuck in a delighted smile the whole time. He also realized that he didn’t care, and that Jazz’s had looked much the same. Prowl dropped Jazz’s hand reluctantly and stepped back, bowing to his dance partner. “Thank you very much, Jazz,” he said as he stood up and reached for his glass again. “You were magnificent! Is that dance similar to one you’ve done before?” That was the only explanation that Prowl could think of for how fast Jazz had learned the steps.

Shaking his helm, Jazz said, “Nope! But it fit together well, and it was fun.” He sipped from his own glass, his visor gleaming brightly as he looked at Prowl over its rim. “Besides, I had an excellent teacher. You broadcasted the steps well, so it was real easy to follow.”

At the praise, Prowl’s door wings fluttered before he could bring them under control. “Thank you,” he said quietly, then buried his face in his drink again. His engine was running hot after the dance, although he knew that his internal temperature had started ramping up the moment he’d set his hand on Jazz’s waist.

Jazz turned to look down into the garden again. “So why’ve ya been hidin’ up here all evenin’?” he asked. “I’d figured you’d be down there, workin’ the crowd. Your wayward brother seems to be havin’ a good time.” He pointed with his glass towards where Bluesteak and Hound were surrounded by a group of mechs. Prowl could see that Bluestreak was telling a story in his usual animated way, with his hands and door wings helping provide emphasis for his words.

“I could ask the same of you,” Prowl said, glad to focus on something other than how fast his cooling fans were running. “But I do not enjoy crowds. I never have. There’s too many voices and too many mechs in my personal space. When combined with the music, my sensor net gets overwhelmed quickly.” He lifted his door wings and swiveled them slightly. “When I was a youngling, the doctors wanted to patch my systems to turn down the sensitivity of my sensors before they burned into their adult configuration. I refused to allow them to do so.” He smiled, remembering the argument he got into with their carrier over it. “I was convinced that leaving the sensitivity as it was would give me an advantage later in life. Something like... magical powers. I knew that I could hear and sense things most mechs couldn’t, and I wanted to retain that advantage.” He shook his helm ruefully. “We finally compromised. They could lower the sensitivity slightly, but only enough so that my processor wouldn’t continually crash when I was overwhelmed with input.”

“But yer all right up here on the terrace?” Jazz asked. “The music’s fine here, so long as you’re not surrounded by other mechs?”

“Exactly right,” Prowl said with a nod. “From here I can see the party, and hear much of the conversations, but I’m not saturated with information.” He flicked his wings, then lowered them slightly. “But even if I was in the middle of the crowd, the patch they gave me back then means I wouldn’t actually crash. Now I just get a helm ache. Painful, but nowhere near as debilitating as a processor crash.”

Jazz tilted his helm and looked at Prowl’s door wings. “They’re pretty things, but I would never have guessed they might cause ya problems like that.” He smiled and focused back on Prowl’s optics. “I have to admit I’ve been a bit fascinated by them since I met ya. They’re expressive like nothin’ else I’ve seen, and I love watchin’ them.”

Prowl hoped that his face didn’t look as flushed as it felt at the compliment Jazz had given his wings. “There’s a whole language and etiquette for wing talk. It becomes a part of your body language, both to express yourself and a way to gather information about how others are feeling. Learning to control your wings’ movements is something that you pick up when you’re very young, and it eventually becomes second-nature.” Prowl paused, listening to the music coming up from the garden and realized there was a dance he could show Jazz that would demonstrate another way he could use his wings, and it would almost fit with the music. “And... We can use them while dancing. Would you like to see?” he asked.

As soon as the words left his vocalizer, though, he suddenly felt shy. He wished he could drag the words back, make them unspoken. The dance he was thinking was surely inappropriate for-

“Absolutely,” Jazz said, leaning back against the railing and giving Prowl his full attention. “I take it ya don’t need a partner for this one?”

“No. It’s meant to be... You dance it for someone,” Prowl said, carefully setting down his glass and stepping away from the railing. He tried to calm the strange thrum he felt in his spark. Why had he suggested this dance? He glanced up at his guards, and he could see Trident’s optics gleaming in the shadows. Prowl suddenly wished his guards weren’t there. He wanted this to be private, but sending his guards away might tip his hand to Jazz as to exactly what kind of dance it was. Prowl took a deep vent cycle to calm himself. Jazz wouldn’t know. As far as Jazz was concerned, Prowl was just showing him a Praxian dance. “This dance is... The dance I’m going to do doesn’t really go with this music, so pardon if it doesn’t seem to fit well.”

And forgive me if I seem terribly nervous while dancing it, Prowl thought, although he wasn’t sure why he would feel nervous. He was just demonstrating a dance. Nothing more.

Deep down, though, Prowl knew that he was telling himself a lie.

After taking a moment to gather himself and find the cadence of the music, Prowl began to move. He felt clumsy and awkward for the first few steps, keenly aware of Jazz’s visor fixed on him. So he offlined his optics and focused on the rhythm, and was able to fall into the familiar steps.

Prowl had always liked this dance, and as a youngling he had wondered why he had never seen anyone dancing it outside of his dance classes. It was an ancient dance, officially called the Twirling Spark, but everyone called it the Courtier’s Dance. Or rather, young Prowl had thought it was called the Courtiers’ Dance. It was only when he was older that he realized it was really called the Courting Dance.

He hadn’t cared much that he’d gotten the name wrong, but he had been disappointed that the dance had a very specific role in the society of Praxian nobles, and that it was unlikely that he’d ever dance it for more than one mech.

Prowl had been taught the dance for when it was time to bond to the partner that the Temple had chosen for him. After the dinners and the casual talks and the agonizing process of getting to know the stranger to whom your very essence would be forever bound, one mech would dance the Twirling Spark for the other. It was meant to be a signal that they were ready to bond... A way to bring up the subject with someone who you were still getting to know. The societal pressures to bond to the mate the Temple had chosen for you were immense, and eventually one mech would perform the dance.

But in ages past, before the cultivation plan, before the Temple had begun trying to breed a mech who was the perfect image of Primus, Praxians used the dance to indicate they were interested in someone. They used the dance to express love, and to indicate that they were interested in courting. It was often danced in private, in stolen moments. Poetry had been written about the dance, romanticizing the moment when a mech fanned their wings before you and started to dance. Praxians without door wings imitated the dance using fans held in their hands, simulating the wing movements. Prowl loved all versions of the dance, danced by mechs with and without door wings, because it looked and felt like flying. It looked and felt like its official name: a twirling spark, caught in the thrall of another.

Prowl had never performed the dance in front of Solder, and Solder had never danced it for him. And now that the cultivation plan had been officially ended and his obligation to bond with Solder was dropped, Prowl was free to perform the dance for whomever he wished... Even if it was for a mech who couldn’t possibly know what the dance was for.

He spun, lifting his wings, then bowed, letting his arms and wings fall to the ground like fluttering shards of mica. He twirled and arched, moving his wings and pedes in the steps that he had practiced alone in his apartments for vorn, simply because he liked the way the movements made him feel.

When the music stopped, it came as a shock to Prowl because the dance was not over. But then he remembered that the music had not been for that dance, so of course it wouldn’t end at the right time. He stopped moving and opened his optics, flicking his door wings back to a neutral angle before turning to face Jazz.

The General’s visor was bright as he watched Prowl slowly walk back towards the railing. “That was amazin’, Prowler,” Jazz murmured. He picked up Prowl’s glass and handed it to him, who took it gratefully. “It was beautiful. I think anyone would be honoured to have that danced for ‘em.” He held his glass up to Prowl’s and gently tapped them together. “I know I sure am. Thank you.”

There was nothing Prowl could do to stop his door wings from shooting up over his shoulders. But before he could stammer out some kind of an explanation (he hadn’t meant anything by it – had he? it was just the first dance that he thought of that involved wings – possibly because of how Jazz was making him feel?), Jazz turned his intense look away from Prowl and looked back down at the gardens. “Now this next dance – I see couples settin’ up in fours for this one. Tell me about this one!”

Prowl took the opportunity to collect himself. He looked where Jazz was pointing, and started to explain the next dance.

He wasn’t sure how long they were standing there on the terrace, chatting and laughing together. After Prowl had calmed down after his dance, he was able to focus on talking with Jazz. The topics of conversation ranged broadly as they did whenever they talked. Music, dancing, favourite fuel additives, the new avenues of trade that had been opened now that Nyon and Praxus were both under new rule, the differences between Praxian and Polyhexian politics, the possibilities that a new Prime would bring to their entire hemisphere... Everything was fair game.

It was only when the music had finally stopped for good, the musicians were packing up, and they both realized that the gardens had mostly emptied of guests that Prowl realized how very late it had become. “I suppose I should return to my apartments for recharge,” he said slowly, reluctant to let the evening end. He smiled at Jazz and tipped his door wings downwards in apology.

Jazz stood up from where he’d been leaning on the railing (and against Prowl, but surely that was just because he was also tired), and stretched. “Yeah, I guess I oughta get some recharge in too. I know Minister Zodiac’s lookin’ to tour a few more energon processing facilities tomorrow and will want me to go with him.” The expression on Jazz’s face made it clear how unexcited he was at the prospects of those visits.

“I am very glad that you managed to make it to Bluestreak’s bonding ceremony,” Prowl said. “Your company made the evening a very enjoyable experience, much more than it already would have been. I wish you good recharge.” He held his hand out to grip Jazz’s forearm.

Jazz glanced at Prowl’s hand, and smiled. “I mighta had an ulterior motive in gettin’ here early for the ceremony. But don’t tell Zodiac,” he said, flashing half of his visor in a wink. Then, before Prowl could reply, Jazz bowed, taking Prowl’s hand and lifting it up to his mouth.

Prowl’s processor froze as Jazz gently kissed the back of Prowl’s hand. For some reason, it didn’t seem real. But Jazz’s smile looked real. The warmth from Jazz’s lips that seemed to flow through Prowl’s lines, straight to his spark, felt real. And the way his fans stuttered slightly as his spark seemed to skip a rotation sounded real. But Prowl’s processor couldn’t seem to accept his sensory data.

It felt like a dream.

Jazz tipped his helm to the side to look up at Prowl through the corner of his visor, then stood up. He slowly let go of Prowl’s hand, and bowed. “A good recharge to you too, Prowler.” Then he spun on his heel and walked towards the palace, vanishing into the shadows that had crept across the terrace as the servants began removing the wisplights.

Prowl stared into the darkness where Jazz had vanished for a whole klik before he realized that he was still standing by the railing with his hand raised, exactly at the level it had been when Jazz had kissed it.

He looked down at his hand for another moment before lowering it to his side. He could still feel the faint impression where the dermal mesh of Jazz’s lips had pressed against the plating on the back of his hand, and his sensors could register the faint trail of Jazz’s passage up the terrace stairs. But even more than that, he could still feel the erratic spin that Jazz’s kiss had caused in his spark.

Prowl had to accept that it had happened, after all.

Chapter Text

In Nyon, it was traditional to donate leftover fuel from a celebration to the less fortunate, and Hound wanted to make that tradition a part of their bonding celebrations. When Bluestreak told Smokescreen about it, his brother was delighted, even going so far as to arrange for palace staff to help carry all of the fuel.

“I’ve set everything up,” Smokescreen said, walking Bluestreak and Hound down to the courtyard the morning after their bonding presentation. He gestured at the small parade of attendants and the formidable array of guards that would accompany them. “The largest fuel hall is expecting you this morning. You remember the place... It’s the one near the western city gate?”

Of course Bluestreak remembered it. That was the fuel hall where he’d first started volunteering after witnessing the huge differences in living conditions between the richest and the poorest mechs. It was the fuel hall where he’d met Tempest. Prowl had told him that their sire had closed the hall after Bluestreak had run from Praxus, but Smokescreen had seen that it was reopened not too long after he started assuming some of the King’s duties. It was a vital lifeline for the poorest mechs who lived inside the city, as well as those scratching out a living just outside its walls.

Bluestreak had been on board with doing this ever since Hound had mentioned it, especially since it meant so much to Hound. “It’s like a way to share our good fortune with others,” Hound had said when trying to explain why the donation was important to him. And now, as they drove to the fuel hall, he could feel the contentment radiating from Hound.

But Bluestreak felt slightly anxious about visiting the hall, and he did what he could to block the feeling from his bond partner. Smokescreen had mentioned the designation of the mech who was running the hall, and it was the same mech who had been running it when Bluestreak had met Tempest. But Tempest was now dead, and Bluestreak was wearing his colours. Although the official story had been that Tempest was executed for blasphemy, anyone who had known the two mechs likely could have guessed the real reason for Tempest’s execution. Before Smokescreen had expelled the Temple from the Court and changed the law, the penalty for an impure mech interfacing with a pure Praxian was death.

Bluestreak had no idea what kind of reception he was going to receive.

As they rolled up to the gate of the hall and transformed, three mechs came out to greet them. The first mech approached them, giving Bluestreak a deep bow. “Prince Bluestreak, Lord Hound,” she said, radiating sincerity. “We are deeply humbled by your donation. And it is good to see you again, Your Highness.”

“It’s good to see you again, too, Melody,” Bluestreak said, smiling as he reached out to grip the femme’s forearm. Perhaps this meeting wouldn’t be as awkward and he had been fearing. He started to turn to introduce Hound when the mech standing behind Melody caught his optic. “Redline!” Bluestreak said, his door wings shooting upwards in surprise.

The large hulking mech met Bluestreak’s optics for a moment, then fell to one knee with a clang, bowing his helm low. “Your Highness,” he rasped, his voice rough with static.

Shocked into momentary silence, Bluestreak stared at the large mech. Upon returning to Praxus, Bluestreak had been expecting to see his carrier, and knew he would need to face his sire. He had also anticipated seeing any number of mechs from his previous life, and he knew that the reunions would range from joyous to hostile. But the mech kneeling before him was one who he had not expected to see at all.

“Blue?” Hound asked quietly.

Hound’s question broke him free of his surprise. Bluestreak turned to Hound and murmured, “Sorry... Can you handle the donation? I need just a klik.” Hound nodded understandingly, and led Melody to where the palace staff was unloading the fuel.

Bluestreak turned his attention back to the mech kneeling before him. “Redline,” he said. “I...” His vocalizer faltered as he realized he didn’t know what he needed to say.

“Your Highness,” Redline said again, staring at the ground and reaching out to place a hand on Bluestreak’s pede. “We held your confidence until... They interrogated us.” Redline’s vocalizer crackled. “We broke under torture, Your Highness. Please... Please forgive us.“

Reflexively, Bluestreak reached out and put his hand on the mech’s shoulder. He was so large that Bluestreak didn’t even have to bend down. When the young Prince had selected his Royal Guards, he’d picked a very young Redline as his head guard even though the mech had no credentials and little training – something that his carrier had pointed out to him as a problem. But young Silverstreak had dug in, sure that the mech’s huge size and intimidating profile would be a benefit. In the end, Redline had proven to be an excellent guard: quick witted, dedicated, willing and incredibly loyal.

He had been loyal to the very end.

“I never doubted your loyalty, Redline,” Bluestreak said, lowering his voice. “But out of all the regrets I have in my life, leaving you and the others behind when I left Praxus... Leaving you to take the brunt of the King’s anger... That is my biggest regret. I am so sorry.” He squeezed Redline’s shoulder. “Please forgive me.”

In his grief and rage, Silverstreak had given little thought to his guards as he fled Praxus. It was only later that he wondered what had happened to them, and hoped that they still functioned. Of course they knew about him and Tempest; his guards managed to keep their romance a secret until the King barged into Prince Silverstreak’s rooms and found his creation deep in a spark merge with the impure mech. Bluestreak remained in the dark about what had happened to his guards until many vorn later, when Prowl told him how Smokescreen had intervened to make sure his guards were spared... Even if they had been banished from the palace.

Redline slowly lifted his helm, his optics meeting Bluestreak’s again. “My Prince,” he said, his voice still rough. “Seeing you again...” He shook his helm slightly. “We’d hoped you’d escaped safely. But when they lit the memorial fire for you at the Temple, we thought the worst.” The barest flicked of a smile lit on his lips. “Then, when we heard you still functioned, and were returning to Praxus, we were overjoyed.”

“We...?” Bluestreak honed in on that one word. “Where are the others?” he asked, looking around. There were only two other volunteers helping unload the fuel, and Bluestreak did not recognize them.

“They are all outside the city,” Redline said. “Working on farms and as labourers.”

“Can you get in contact with them?” Bluestreak asked. “I want to meet with all of you. I want to apologize in person, and do what I can to make this right.”

Redline’s helm dipped again. “Of course, Your Highness,” he said. “I will let them know.”

“And Redline...” Bluestreak pulled again on the large mech’s shoulder. “Please, stand up.” When Redline looked up at him again, Bluestreak smiled. “I am now a Prince in title only, and use that title only at Prince Smokescreen’s insistence. I’ve been removed from the Scroll of Succession, and I am now a Ranger of Iacon.” He lifted his door wings to display the emblems on them. “We should be on equal footing now. If anything, I am in your debt, for your service and your loyalty.”

Redline slowly clambered to his pedes. “You will always be my Prince, Your Highness,” he said with the same intensity that Bluestreak remembered from vorn ago. “No matter your title, your designation, or your colours.”

Bluestreak tilted him helm to look up at the huge mech and smiled. “You’re a good mech, Redline,” he said. “Come on, let me introduce you to my bond partner.”

Smokescreen nodded to Prowl’s head guard Trident as he stepped into his brother’s office. Prowl was busy with his work, but waved for Smokescreen to have a seat. “Good morning, Smokescreen,” he said. “Let me finish this and I’ll be right with you.”

Nodding, Smokescreen sat in the seat across from Prowl. His brother’s optics weren’t bleary and his finish looked immaculate as usual. Smokescreen briefly wondered what time Prowl had gotten up this morning after the reception the previous night. Then again, Smokescreen wouldn’t have been surprised if Prowl had retired early, as soon as he could get away with it. Prowl wasn’t much for parties.

After a few kliks, Prowl set aside the work he’d been doing and looked up at his brother. “Thank you for waiting,” he said. “I was finalizing some of the travel arrangements for our visiting dignitaries.” He smiled slightly. “Did you enjoy the reception last night?”

Smokescreen nodded. “I did,” he said, his thoughts immediately going to the reason he was visiting Prowl in the first place. He didn’t want to make that connection too obvious for Prowl, though, unless it was necessary. “I just finished showing Streaks and Hound off with all the extra fuel from the reception. I think it’ll make a big difference to the fuel hall… There was a lot of leftover fuel.”

Prowl nodded and drew out another scroll. “Yes, I received the numbers this morning. I’m going to pass that information along to Lord Halfsteel to see if we need to revise our estimates for the coronation.”

Just the mention of Halfsteel’s designation brought a smile to Smokescreen’s lips. Then he paused, nodding, trying to think of how to bring up the question. “Good, good,” he said, drumming his digits on his knee.

Prowl’s door wings took on a slight cant as he tipped his helm to the side. “Is there something specific that you needed?” he asked. “Or were you just stopping in to say hello?”

Of course Prowl would want to get right to it. Smokescreen eyed the stacks of scrolls and pads on Prowl’s desk and wondered just how much work Prowl needed to do today. “Um, yeah, I just wanted to pick your processor for a klik,” he said. “About… um, the optics of a specific situation. Or rather, whether you think there might be a problem with a specific action.”

Making a ‘get on with it’ gesture with his hand, Prowl said, “What action? And by whom?”

Smokescreen sat up straight, resolving to just come out and ask. He twisted around in his seat to check that the door to Prowl’s office was closed before facing Prowl again. “Would there be any political repercussions if, um, a noble... Or even a member of the royal family... If, say, one of us interfaced with someone outside of a bond?” he asked, cursing how he was stumbling over his words. He felt his faceplates flush, and he glanced away, not trusting his own expression to stay neutral if he continued looking at his brother. “I mean, I know the Temple isn’t in the Court any longer, but lots of mechs still follow their teachings.” He took a deep vent and looked at Prowl once he was sure he had his expression under control.

Prowl was staring at him with wide optics. His door wings were flat against his back, and his hands were splayed flat against the surface of his desk. When Smokescreen looked at him, he flushed. “W-what makes you ask that?” he stammered.

Frowning at Prowl’s odd reaction, Smokescreen said, “I just need to know if this would cause any problems.” He fanned his digits out as he waved his hand in the air. “I mean, I fragged stuff up once already, blabbing about my plans to members of the Court before I should have. I just wanted to know whether this would cause any more problems if I… you know.”

Prowl’s door wings rose fractionally. “If you… what?” he asked, still looking as though he’d been caught sneaking treats from the palace kitchens.

Heaving a full vent, Smokescreen rubbed the back of his neck. “If I interfaced with… someone,” he said. “Like, now. I mean, not this second, obviously, but now, before I’m bonded to anyone.” He covered his optics, wondering why it had been so easy to talk to Halfsteel about this but so hard to talk to Prowl. “Slag, Prowl, I just want to make sure I’m not going to screw things up worse than I already have.”

Prowl made a small noise, like air had been let out of his tires. Smokescreen looked up at him and saw that Prowl’s door wings had returned to their neutral angle, and a relieved look flickered across Prowl’s face. Before Smokescreen could wonder about that, Prowl’s serious mask was back, and he asked, “It’s Halfsteel, isn’t it?”

Smokescreen was about to reply indignantly; did it really matter who he wanted to interface with? But before he could snap out a retort, he felt all of the fight go out of him. Somehow, Prowl had figured it out. He lowered his door wings and nodded meekly. “How did you know?” he asked.

Prowl smiled and shook his helm. “Halfsteel has carried a torch for you for vorn,” he said. “It seemed logical that you might finally be reciprocating his attraction.”

Smokescreen knew his mouth was hanging open, but he was too distracted to close it. Halfsteel had had a crush on him for how long? How had he not noticed? “I... I really didn’t know,” Smokescreen finally said. “Did he say something to you?”

Shaking his helm again, Prowl frowned. “How could you not have known? It was obvious in the way he looked at you. To be perfectly honest, I sort of thought you’d kept him around just because you liked the attention.”

“He’s my friend... My best friend,” Smokescreen said, emphasizing his words. He stopped and held up a hand. “I mean, now I want to make him more than that, but…” He shook his helm and let his hand fall into his lap. “I honestly didn’t realize,” he said, still slightly dazed at the revelation.

“And now you do realize... and you want to interface with him.” Prowl shrugged. He lowered his helm slightly in thought. “Well, aside from the Temple teachings barring interfacing outside of a spark bond, there isn’t anything about it in the law. It’s obviously not something you’d want to make public knowledge, but so long as there isn’t proof that you’re interfacing, no one in the Court would even know.” Prowl looked back up at Smokescreen. “However, when you decide to bond, your bond partner would obviously know, based on your memories and emotions. But so long as they don’t care, I don’t think that it should be a problem.”

“So you’re saying it’ll be all right?” Smokescreen asked, trying to pull out a simple yes or no answer from Prowl’s reply.

Prowl gave him a wry smile. “If you are asking me whether you should interface with Halfsteel, I am not going to tell you yes. But I’m not telling you no, either,” he said. “That’s a decision that I really don’t want to be involved in. But so long as there isn’t any proof that you have done it, it should be all right.” Prowl held up a hand. “But! That means no blatant public displays of affection, no comments from either of you about what you get up to in your apartments, and no one catching you in the act.” Prowl’s optics dimmed for a moment. “I never did find out how our sire discovered Bluestreak and Tempest were interfacing.” Before Smokescreen could reply, Prowl’s optics brightened again and focused on him intently. “And whatever you do, don’t get sparked up!”

Smokescreen held up his hands. “I’m just asking about interfacing!” he said quickly. “Not spark play. But if we decide to go that far, we’ll make sure we’ve got blocks in place.”

Nodding, Prowl said, “Then you should be fine. And if you do decide to bond with him... Once you’ve got a contract in place, you can be more open with your affections.”

Bonding? Smokescreen frowned, then realized that the idea of bonding to Halfsteel didn’t seem quite as startling as he thought it might. If the Temple had given him Halfsteel’s designation as an approved bonding partner, he would have jumped at the chance. Then again, he had no idea if Halfsteel felt the same. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he finally said.

Prowl rolled his optics and slumped back in his chair. “This is not a conversation I’d expected to have this morning with you.”

“Sorry,” Smokescreen said with a smile. He stood up. “But thanks for the advice. Like I said, I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t about to get mired in a sand pit again because I didn’t think things through.”

“You’re welcome,” Prowl replied. As Smokescreen turned to go, Prowl added, “But Smokescreen? Really... This is the last I need to know about your intimate life. Until you decide on a bond partner, I don’t want any more details about any of that.”

Smokescreen laughed. “Sure thing,” he said. He paused before he reached the door as his processor suddenly provided the most likely reason that Prowl had been acting strangely when he’d first come in. Grinning, he turned back to Prowl. “But if you want to come ask me for any advice about General Jazz, my door is open for you.”

The half-stunned, half-mortified expression that had appeared on Prowl’s face at his words kept Smokescreen amused for the rest of the day.

“I could really get used to this,” Blurr said. He kicked his pedes back onto the stool by his chair and took a sip from his energon tea. “I don’t think I’ve been this relaxed in vorn!”

Bluestreak nodded in agreement. It was very nice, sitting in the warm sun in the palace gardens, drinking one of Bluestreak’s favourite teas (he’d already arranged to take a case of the tea blend back with him to Iacon), and enjoying Hound’s and Blurr’s company. He could feel Hound’s drowsy pleasure, and when Bluestreak managed to blank his processor like he did when he was meditating, he felt a strut-deep contentment settle over himself.

His worries still managed to worm their way back into his processor, though, and Bluestreak did what he could to block his emotions from bothering Hound. First, Bluestreak thought about Redline and his other guards. He’d spoken to Smokescreen about them, and his brother agreed that they would be good additions to the House Guard. After Smokescreen was crowned, he would see that they were offered jobs in the palace again. When Bluestreak had met with them the previous cycle, all of them had been overjoyed that they could leave the menial existence they’d been forced into. “It’s the least I could do for you,” he’d told them. “After what you endured because of the choices I made, I feel that I owe you so much more.”

But after the meeting, Redline had knelt before Bluestreak again and asked to come with him back to Iacon. “I swore my life to yours, Your Highness,” he said. “Please… Let me come with you.”

Bluestreak had glanced at Hound, who smiled. “I believe he would make a good Ranger,” Hound said, and looked down at Redline. “I see the same spark in him that I did in you. And when the new Prime is named, you know that they’ll be looking to build the Rangers’ ranks again.”

Bluestreak had hummed thoughtfully. Optimus Prime had mentioned that Hound had a good feel for who would be accepted by the Prime to be a Ranger. Hopefully that ability would extend to whoever was the next Prime. Bluestreak turned back to Redline and nodded. “All right,” he said. “But on one condition!”

“Anything, Your Highness,” Redline said.

“Stop calling me Your Highness, or Prince, or anything like that. Once we’re both Rangers, we’ll be the same rank.” Bluestreak smiled at Redline. “Call me Bluestreak, or nothing at all.”

“Of course… Bluestreak,” Redline had said with a grateful smile.

So that was one issue sorted, provided that Redline successfully managed the transition from guard to Ranger.

And secondly, Bluestreak was worried about Smokescreen. It was not just the assassination attempts, which had taken on a personal note when Bluestreak and Hound had been targeted by the bomb in the park. The attacks were a constant concern, despite the security that Lord Halfsteel had arranged for all of them. But more than that, Smokescreen had not seemed well ever since they’d arrived in Praxus. There had been several times over the past deca-cycle when Smokescreen had looked like he was in serious discomfort, or had rushed off without explanation.

Bluestreak hoped that it wasn’t anything very serious.

Bluestreak’s attention was brought back to the present when Blurr took another noisy sip from his glass and announced, “This really is the life! Nothing to do except sit back, race when you want, throw parties for any reason at all, have servants bring you whatever you want... I think I could really get used to life as a prince!” He glanced at Bluestreak suddenly and lowered his voice. “I mean, I understand why you left – that whole thing about having to bond with someone you didn’t know very well is slag. I’m just saying that it must have been nice being able to do this all the time.”

Shaking his helm, Bluestreak smiled reassuringly at Blurr. “It’s not all parties and relaxing,” Bluestreak said. “I certainly didn’t get to do this all the time. You’ll notice that neither of my brothers sit around all day. It’s a lot of work running a country. When I was living here, I was in charge of the Cavalry, so I was away from the palace for deca-cycles at a time. And when I was here, I had a lot of administrative work to do.”

Blurr frowned. “That makes sense. It just seems a shame to have all this luxury and not be able to enjoy it.”

“Yeah,” Bluestreak said, thinking of the living conditions that still existed for the mechs living outside the city walls, like his old guards. Then he shook his helm, remembering that Smokescreen was working to change that. “But once in a while, when I did have some downtime, I liked coming out here to relax.” He held up his glass and smiled. “Right now, I’m just calling this a vacation.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Blurr held up his own glass and grinned. “I’ll have to tell the other Rangers about this and what they missed. Although I understand why they would want to stay back in Iacon.” Then he frowned, his emotions shifting just as fast as he spoke. “Are you two doing all right? I knew you were concerned about being away from the Matrix for so long...”

Speaking of the Matrix brought back the ache that Bluestreak had been ignoring for so long. He reflexively put his hand on his chest armor over his spark, but Hound spoke first. “We’re doing all right,” Hound said. “It’s uncomfortable sometimes, but we know we’ll be back in Iacon in a few deca-cycles.” He shrugged. “I think that it helps that we’re bonded. We can sort of lean on each other for comfort if it gets to be too much.”

There was a scrape of a pede on the stone behind them, and Bluestreak turned to see a servant bowing. “Your Highness,” he said, standing up again. “Prince Smokescreen requests your presence, and Lord Hound’s, in his office immediately.” He bowed once more and turned slightly, signaling that he was ready to lead them to the prince.

Setting aside his glass, Bluestreak stood. “Like I was just saying, Blurr… Duty never stops, not even when you’re not in line for the throne anymore!”

Blurr laughed and waved them off. “That’s fine! I’ll either be here or down on the racetrack when you get back.”

On the way to his brother’s office, Bluestreak puzzled over what Smokescreen could want. He hoped that they’d identified the culprit (or culprits!) behind the attacks on the princes. His hopes rose further when they arrived at Smokescreen’s office to find Prowl and Halfsteel with his brother, but he was confused to see Masters Auger and Triage there as well.

Smokescreen stood as soon as they entered. “Thanks for coming so quickly, Streaks,” he said as his guard closed the door behind Bluestreak and Hound.

Bluestreak shrugged and gave his brother a smile. “When the crown prince asks for you to come immediately, you drop everything,” he said.

Smokescreen laughed. “I guess so. I hope I didn’t worry you.” Then he clasped his hands together in front of him, and looked at Bluestreak and Hound with a serious expression. “I need to tell you something in extreme confidence, and then ask Hound for some potentially sensitive information.” He looked directly at Hound. “Hound, if you feel uncomfortable answering anything we ask, please know that you do not need to answer.”

The pulse of utter confusion from Hound would have been amusing had it not been laced with concern. Bluestreak instinctively reached out and put a hand around Hound’s waist as the green mech nodded. “Of course,” Hound said, his brow ridge furrowed. Bluestreak could feel him leaning into the emotional strength Bluestreak was sending him.

Smokescreen glanced at Prowl before continuing. “I haven’t even told Carrier this yet, but... A few orbital cycles ago, I’d started having discomfort in my fuel processing system. I thought it was just an upset tank – perhaps I’d ingested some fuel that was too rich for my systems.” He shook his helm. “But the issue escalated until I started... Well, I started venting a strange black smoke. Master Auger identified magnetic particles in it, and Master Triage helped me figure out that if I released the smoke regularly it wouldn’t back up in my systems and cause discomfort.”

“Smoke?” Bluestreak asked. He smiled. “Living up to your designation, huh?”

Smokescreen stared at Bluestreak for a moment before smiling back at him. “I didn’t think of it like that,” he said. Looking at Lord Halfsteel, he said, “Maybe party rules should apply all the time.”

Lord Halfsteel gave Smokescreen a surprised look before smiling shyly. “I’ll have to remember that,” he said, and his door wings twitched slightly. To Bluestreak, it almost looked as though he was trying to keep them from quivering... Or from fluttering.

Master Auger crossed his arms over his chest. “I suspected this had something to do with the reports of mechs gaining strange new powers, but I couldn’t be sure without consulting a sorcerer. But since we have none here, Prince Prowl wrote to Wheeljack for assistance.” The master alchemist looked pointedly at Prowl.

Prowl handed Hound a letter. “This was Wheeljack’s reply; it arrived today.”

Bluestreak read over Hound’s shoulder as the green mech worked his way slowly through the letter.

Prince Prowl-
Good to hear from you! Yes, that sounds like it might be something like we’ve been seeing around here. Without being there to run some tests myself I’m afraid I can’t give you much insight, but fortunately Perceptor made something that could help. The enclosed charm should be able to identify what sort of magic your brother is affected by. Use the guide on the back of this letter to figure out the school of magic that it’s detecting.
If it turns out that he did gain some special powers, though, the trick is figuring out how to make use of it. For some of the mechs I’ve worked with, it comes naturally. For others it’s been a struggle, first to understand it, and then to control it.
Talk to Hound. He’s one of the mechs who’s been affected. He might be able to give you some insight.
Good luck! And let me know how this turns out! I’ve been fascinated by the whole phenomenon and I’m sorry that I can’t come help you out in person.
Sincerely, Wheeljack

“Oh,” Hound said quietly when he finished reading the letter. He looked up at Smokescreen. “I didn’t think powers like this would be looked on well in Praxus, so I’ve sort of kept it quiet.”

“Times change. Praxus needs to change with them,” said Auger bluntly. He looked at Smokescreen and shrugged. “If you’ve got some kind of powers, you need to know what they are, and how to control them. Then you can decide whether you want to keep them a secret or not.”

Smokescreen had fixated on Hound. “What can you do?” he asked, then held up a hand. “Only if you feel comfortable telling us, of course.”

Hound leaned into Bluestreak’s mental reassurance again before stepping away from his side. “I can create illusions,” he said. “I’m still learning how to control it. But I’ve been getting better and better as time goes by. I’ve worked up to being able to do this.”

Bluestreak could feel Hound’s concentration as his bond partner focused. Several paces in front of him, the air seemed to waver, and suddenly a mirror image of Bluestreak stood before him.

Halfsteel, who was standing the closest to where the illusion manifested, yelped in surprise and stumbled to his side. He half fell into Smokescreen, who steadied him with a hand on his back. Smokescreen smiled first at Halfsteel, then at Hound. “That’s amazing!” he said, taking a step towards the illusion when Halfsteel had regained his footing.

Auger reached the illusion before Smokescreen, and circled it slowly. “Fantastic work!” he exclaimed. “Can it move?”

Hound nodded, and the illusory Bluestreak nodded as well. “It’ll mostly do whatever I do,” he said. “That causes a few problems, though, since I can’t move the door wings. I don’t have any of my own to move, so I can’t... Hmm. I can’t imagine how to move them, I guess? But I’m working on it.” Hound looked at Bluestreak with a smile, and the fake Bluestreak also turned its head and smiled to one side. “Bluestreak’s been helping me with ideas on how to practice some movements, like this.”

Bluestreak felt Hound’s concentration intensify, and the illusion spun around on a pede. It even threw its arms out as if trying to maintain its balance. Aside from the door wings not moving, it looked and moved exactly like a real Praxian. Bluestreak leaned over and murmured into Hound’s audial. “I think that’s your best one yet, love.”

Auger put out a hand and swept it through the illusion. He nodded. “I am impressed,” he said. “Can you do anyone else? Prince Smokescreen, perhaps?”

Hound frowned, and the illusory Bluestreak mimicked him with a downward turn of his lips. “Maybe? I’ve only been creating images of Bluestreak because I know him the best. But I can try.” The illusion wavered again, and reformed into an image of Smokescreen, who immediately broke into a huge smile. “There!” Hound exclaimed, his delight palpable through the bond.

Smokescreen peered at the illusion. “That’s amazing!” he said.

“It’s not quite right,” Halfsteel said, then glanced at Hound with wide optics. “But it’s very good,” he hurried to add, dipping his door wings in an apologetic gesture. “It’s just that his helm vents… They should be a bit more rounded than these…”

Hound’s optics flicked from the real Smokescreen to the illusion. “Oh! I see. I think I can fix that.” He concentrated again, and the illusion’s helm vents shifted, becoming less angular. “Like that?”

“Yes!” said Halfsteel. He took a step back and looked at both Smokescreens, who were now standing beside one another. “If I just saw the illusion, I would think it was actually Smokescreen.” He smiled at the real Smokescreen.

“Can you only do one at a time?” Auger asked. He stepped up close to the illusion and appeared to be examining Smokescreen’s shoulder armor.

Hound glanced at Bluestreak, and Bluestreak felt a curl of coy amusement through the bond. “Blue hasn’t seen it yet, but I’ve been working on creating multiple smaller illusions... Mostly just little balls of light. But the idea should be the same for something larger, so...” His optics narrowed, and Bluestreak could almost see the laser focus pouring off of his bond partner as he concentrated.

Next to the illusory Smokescreen, another Bluestreak appeared.

“Two!” Bluestreak exclaimed. He gaped at both illusions for a moment before turning and sweeping Hound up in an embrace. “I had no idea you could do two at once!”

“It’s something Wheeljack mentioned to me,” Hound said. The illusory princes both flattened their arms against their torsos, mimicking how Hound’s arms were compressed as Bluestreak hugged him. Hound’s voice sounded rough, as if he was exerting himself, and Bluestreak could feel the intense concentration the illusion was requiring of Hound. “He said that skilled sorcerers who were really good at illusions could create a whole army of illusions at once. After I got pretty good at making one, I thought maybe I could try for a second, and –“ Hound’s voice became more and more strained before it fizzled out in a burst of static.

Both illusions suddenly disappeared, and Hound visibly slumped. Bluestreak tightened his grip around his bond partner, holding him up. “Hound! Are you all right?”

For a spark-stopping moment, Hound didn’t respond at all. His optics were closed, and Bluestreak could only sense exhaustion coming from Hound. Finally, Hound nodded slowly. “Yeah. But I think I need to sit down.”

Triage pulled a chair over for Hound, and Bluestreak sat him down in it. Bluestreak knelt in front of Hound and waited for his optics to open again. When they did, they were dim. Hound put a hand up to his helm. “Wow,” he said faintly. “That took a lot out of me.”

Bluestreak smiled up at his bond partner. “Maybe you should try working up to that more slowly.”

“I think you’re right,” Hound murmured to Bluestreak. Then he raised his helm to smile at the other mechs in the room. “So, anyway... That’s my power. I’m still working on it, obviously. And even with one illusion, I can’t keep it up for very long. But I’m able to do it for longer and longer stretches each time. Practice makes perfect, I suppose.”

Triage frowned and rested a hand against the side of Hound’s chest. “So it obviously drains your energy. Does it exhaust your fuel reserves?”

“I haven’t noticed it causing me to use more fuel than normal, but yeah... It does take energy,” Hound replied. “I’m noticeably tired after creating just one. And this time...” He shook his helm. “I’ve never grown so tired so quickly, so I guess each illusion makes the energy drain worse. But I think my endurance is improving for simple illusions. I don’t get as exhausted as I used to be after a practice session.”

“How did you discover that you could do this?” Prowl asked. “You mentioned having to work up to being able to create an illusion like that one, but how did you figure out that you could do it in the first place?”

Hound glanced at Bluestreak and smiled. “It was actually Bluestreak’s fault,” he said. “He snuck up on me and spooked me.”

Bluestreak laughed. “Hang on, I did not sneak. It’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention.”

“Fine. You surprised me, then,” Hound said with a shake of his helm. He looked back at Prowl. “When I jumped, there was this flash of light that appeared between the two of us, like a spotlight coming on full power and then going out immediately. It momentarily blinded both of us.”

“We weren’t sure what had happened,” Bluestreak said. “So, um, I scared him again. On purpose this time, with his permission. It took me a few days, though… It’s amazing how observant someone will get when they know someone’s out to surprise them.” He grinned at Hound, remembering how long it took Hound to finally let his guard down.

“When he finally managed to surprise me again, sure enough, there was another flash of light,” Hound continued. “By this time, we suspected it might have something to do with the power reset – that’s what Perceptor and Wheeljack were calling all these mechs getting special powers. So we went to talk to them to check it out, and after some tests they realized what was going on. I’ve been working on learning to control it ever since.” Hound shrugged again. “Wheeljack’s been talking to someone at the Arcane Academy, since they’re looking into it as well. They’re calling us – mechs with these powers – outliers? Something about us not fitting the standard models for magic users.” Hound smiled. “I can’t say I really understand it all that well.”

Master Auger picked up a small stone from Smokescreen’s desk. “This is the charm that Wheeljack enclosed. It’s a fascinating piece of work: I’ll have to write this Master Perceptor and ask him how he did this. According to the guide that Wheeljack sent with it, the smoke that Prince Smokescreen is producing is based in metallurgy magic.” He frowned and put the stone down. “But that doesn’t get us any closer to figuring out what’s happening with him.”

“Hound,” Smokescreen said, his door wings tipped forward. “I’m at a loss as to how I should be making use of this… power. So I make smoke. So what? What can I do with it?” He held both of his hands out. “Do you have any ideas? Where do I start?”

“I wish I could help you,” Hound said, frowning. “But after we figured out that I was channeling the power of illusion, it was just a matter of learning how to concentrate the right way to use it.” He shrugged. “I don’t know how to figure out what a power is for. You might need a sorcerer for that.”

Auger threw a glare at Triage, who rolled his optics. “That’s what I said earlier.” He looked back to Smokescreen. “Until we get a skilled sorcerer into Praxus, we don’t have a full complement of magic users. And that’s going to put us behind our allies... And our enemies.”

Nodding, Smokescreen looked at Prowl. “Has there been any progress on getting a sorcerer here?” he asked.

Prowl shook his helm. “We’ve contacted the Arcane Academy in Rodion, but haven’t received a reply yet. Considering they’re on the other side of the planet, that’s not surprising.” Prowl tipped his helm to the side in thought. “Although... I believe that a member of Emperor Starscream’s entourage is a sorcerer. Perhaps we can ask him for advice.”

Triage’s optics widened. “Hang on, you’re bringing a Vosian sorcerer here? Is he stable?”

Prowl flicked his door wings. “I met him when I was in Vos on our diplomatic trip. He’s... sane.” Prowl hesitated slightly, as if suddenly unsure about what he was saying, but then shrugged. “I’m sure he must comply with the Academy’s checkups; he has a very high profile in Vos. And the Emperor does not travel anywhere without him. If we refused the Magus, Emperor Starscream would have refused the invitation.”

“And it was important that Vos come to the coronation,” Smokescreen said firmly. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Besides, if he can give us some insight into these powers, all the better.”

Bluestreak was still thinking about the smoke his brother was creating. “Smokey, what if you just tried to create the smoke in different situations… When it’s safe to do so, of course.” He glanced at Hound, then back to Smokescreen. “It might become obvious what it’s for if you do it under the right circumstances.”

“You should also prepare for the possibility that it’s not for anything,” Triage said. He shrugged when everyone turned to look at him. “Why would every power that’s manifested be useful somehow? Unless you think these powers are granted by Primus himself.” Bluestreak remembered that the palace doctor had always been skeptical of the Temple’s teachings. He smiled, thinking how similar Triage was to Ratchet in that respect. He suddenly wondered if they’d known each other before Ratchet had left Praxus to join the Rangers.

Prowl’s door wings tipped upwards at Triage’s insinuation. “You weren’t there when the Matrix was detonated, Master Triage,” he said firmly. “The power that cascaded over everyone on the battlefield is a feeling that I’ll never forget, and I am firmly convinced that Primus was the force behind it.” He looked at Smokescreen. “And if these powers are as a result of that explosion, I also believe that Smokescreen’s powers must have some Primus-given purpose.” Prowl held out his hands as if he could grab the answers he was looking for. “It’s just a matter of figuring out what that purpose is.”

Bluestreak looked at Prowl, then at Smokescreen. He didn’t remember a lot about the moment that he detonated the Matrix, but he did remember a huge surge of power that had surely come from the energy being released. “I think Prowl’s right,” he said finally. “If it came from Primus, then it must have some higher purpose. Maybe you should ask the High Priest for some advice.”

Chapter Text

It had seemed like a long shot when Smokescreen sent the invitation, but both of his brothers seemed convinced that his condition must have something to do with Primus.

So the next morning, Smokescreen found himself sitting in his office, sipping energon tea and looking at High Priest Truemark over the rim of his cup.

It turned out that the High Priest was just about as useful as everyone else had been so far in helping Smokescreen figure out his new ability.

In other words, not useful at all.

Truemark shook his helm. “I agree with Prince Prowl. It does seem likely, given what Master Auger has said about mechs discovering new powers, that your... illness?” He tipped his helm to the side and then continued when Smokescreen shrugged. “...That your new ability may have something to do with the Matrix. And the Church of Iacon believes that the power of Primus himself is contained within the Matrix.”

Smokescreen frowned slightly. “I thought that was a given, considering that detonating it was what destroyed that thing that Chancellor Shockwave had created.”

Truemark took another sip before answering. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it was because a full-framed Praxian is the one who detonated it, thus fulfilling the Praxian prophecy.” He smiled and waved his hand at Smokescreen’s look of disbelief. “I’m not telling you one is right and one is wrong. I’m just saying that the truth might lie in a spectrum, arrayed between several points that we simply haven’t connected.

Perhaps the priests of the Church of Iacon were as wrong about the Matrix as the Praxian Temple was about the importance of creating a mech in the image of Primus. Or perhaps they were both equally important, and the Unmaker would not have been destroyed if your brother and the Matrix had not both been there at the same time.”

“Very interesting,” Smokescreen said, aware that his expression probably gave away that he thought Truemark’s philosophizing was anything but. Theology simply wasn’t his thing. “But this doesn’t help me figure out what – if anything – this ability I’ve developed is for. If Primus gave me this ability, what do I do with it?”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to look inside yourself for the answer,” Truemark said mildly. “If Primus did grant you a special power, you must trust that he’ll reveal its purpose to you in due time.”

Smokescreen drummed his digits against his cup. “No disrespect intended, Your Grace, but that wasn’t what I was expecting when I called you here.” When Truemark lifted a brow ridge at him, Smokescreen added, “When my sire asked High Priest Barricade for advice... Barricade gave it to him clearly... Not phrased in riddles.”

Truemark smiled and set his cup aside. “And that was the difference between the two theories of leading your fleet, Your Highness,” he said. “High Priest Barricade and his supporters believed that they held the only keys to truth. If you had a question or needed advice or wanted direction, they believed that mechs should come to them... And they would provide the answers. In this way, they were the sole arbiters of what was true, and what mechs should believe.”

Sitting back in his seat, Smokescreen stared at the High Priest. “And so they became advisors to the Court... And to the King...”

“That’s how we ended up with the whole situation that you are trying to undo, Your Highness,” Truemark said. He leaned forward and looked at Smokescreen intently. “However, I believe that the Temple acts best as guides. We can lead a mech to the texts, and give them the tools they need to interpret the texts themselves. We can provide insight as to how others have built up their own beliefs, and help a mech find their own truth.” He shook his helm. “So, I am sorry that I cannot give you a direct answer as to what Primus has intended for you. I don’t have the answer to that, unfortunately. But I can help open your mind to the possibilities, so that Primus himself might be able to guide you to the answer.”

It took an effort for Smokescreen to hold his door wings steady. He liked the High Priest, and did not want to alienate him. But this had all seemed like a waste of time. Maybe he should have gotten Prowl to speak to the High Priest on his behalf; his brother might have gotten something out of the conversation that made theoretical or metaphysical or philosophical sense to him. As it was, Smokescreen just felt more confused. He finally managed a smile and said, “Let me know if there’s some texts out there about belching black smoke, all right?”

Fortunately, the High Priest laughed.

Smokescreen had just bid the High Priest farewell and settled back down at his desk when there was another knock on his office door. “Your Highness,” Strikeback said as he entered. “A moment of your time?”

“Of course. Please, sit down,” Smokescreen said, gesturing to the chair across from him. He watched as Strikeback carefully closed the door behind him and hesitated before sitting in the chair. The guard was obviously debating remaining standing. “Did you get down to Phoenix Square like you’d mentioned? I remember you were after some bismuth squares.”

A tiny smile crossed Strikeback’s face, and he finally slid into the chair. Strikeback’s love of sweets was almost as strong as Prowl’s, and he made frequent trips to a vendor in the square that sold his favourites. “I did, Your Highness,” he said. Then the smile quickly faded, replaced by the all-business expression that Smokescreen was so familiar with. “But something happened on my way back to the palace that I thought I should report to you. I’ve already let Lords Caelum and Halfsteel know what happened.”

“Go on,” Smokescreen said, frowning slightly. A worried Strikeback was something to take seriously.

Strikeback sat up straight, mimicking the posture he would have had if he had been standing at attention instead of sitting. “When I was leaving the square, I was approached by a mech who was handing out these flyers.” He handed a slip of parchment to Smokescreen. “As you can see, the content of the flyer is rather incendiary.”

Smokescreen examined the leaflet. A drawing of a full-framed Praxian filled the upper portion of the flyer. His chevron and door wings were exaggerated, making them larger than a typical pure Praxian’s. He was drawn as if he was in flight: door wings spread, pedes together and pointed downwards, and his arms held out from his sides, palms outward. The mech’s face was lifted upwards, and a light shone down on him from above.

The text below the image was in the block script that commoners typically used for its easy readability. Mechs pure of frame and spark have kept us safe for centuries. Don’t let the Crown take that safety from us.

“The city guard are questioning the mech who was handing these out,” Strikeback said.

Smokescreen looked back up at Strikeback, shaking his helm. “While I understand wanting to stop him from handing these out, I don’t think that it’s appropriate for him to be arrested for it,” Smokescreen said. He could just imagine what someone like Lord Dart would say about that.

“He’s not under arrest, Your Highness,” Strikeback said. He frowned and shifted in his seat. “The whole encounter was strange. He approached me as if I was an old friend – embracing me and patting me on the back as if I was someone he hadn’t seen in ages. It was only when I finally got him to let me go that he tried handing me one of the flyers.”

Strikeback’s expression made it clear what he’d thought of that, and Smokescreen did what he could to suppress a smile. Strikeback was not a ‘hugger’. “I take it you didn’t know him?” Smokescreen asked.

Frowning, Strikeback hesitated before answer. “He... seemed familiar. But only slightly. I assumed that I must have seen him around the city a few times.” Strikeback shrugged. “This mech... He’s known to the city guard, and has been hanging around the city for the past vorn or so. They said he’s not quite right in the processor. The city guard are just trying to find out where he got the flyers from. They said it’s unlikely that he made them himself.”

Glancing over the leaflet once more, Smokescreen blew a quiet vent of air. “Do you know if he’d handed many of these out?” he asked.

“I don’t know for sure. But after talking to some of the vendors near where he was standing, it sounds like his flyers weren’t being well-received.” Strikeback ventured another small smile. “In fact, one of the vendors complained that most of the flyers ended up crumped up and tossed on the ground in front of his stall.”

“That’s good to hear, I guess,” Smokescreen said. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if the common mechs in the city seemed receptive to the message on the leaflet.

Strikeback nodded, then stood up. “I’ll be sure to keep Lords Caelum and Halfsteel advised as to what information the city guard gets out of this mech,” he said.

“Thank you.” Smokescreen hesitated as Strikeback turned to go, then added, “Strikeback, wait.”

“Yes, Your Highness?” Strikeback asked.

Smokescreen stood up and walked around the desk to stand in front of his head guard. He put his hand on Strikeback’s arm. “If I haven’t told you so lately... Thank you so much for your hard work and dedication. I count myself very lucky to have you looking after me.” He smiled at Strikeback, thinking of all the times over the past vorn that his guard had placed himself in danger to keep Smokescreen from harm.

Strikeback lowered his helm slightly, casting his optics towards the floor. “My sole purpose is to keep you safe, Your Highness,” he said. He lifted his helm and met Smokescreen’s gaze again. “If anything happened to you, it means that I have failed in my sworn duty.” Then he dropped his gaze once more. “But... Thank you. Your words mean a lot to me.”

Smokescreen smiled and patted Strikeback’s arm. “Go on. I know you had things to attend to.” As Strikeback snapped a salute and strode out of the door, Smokescreen looked down at the leaflet still in his hand, and wondered who was responsible for it.

The easiest thing for Prowl to do was to throw himself back into his work. And there was so much of it to do.

Master Auger hadn’t been able to discern anything useful from the device that had almost killed Bluestreak and Hound. All he had been able to determine was that it had been produced using magic of some kind, but even the charm that Wheeljack had sent couldn’t determine what kind.

“This isn’t an alchemical device,” Auger had said. He had handed the remains of the cylinder that had been found at the site of the explosion to Lord Caelum. “And the experts from the Cavalry said it wasn’t a conventional explosive. So it’s possible that there was a sorcerer involved in this thing’s creation.” He’d looked pointedly at Prowl. “We need to get one here, working for us, and soon! Without one, we’re not going to be able to counter these things.” He gestured around the palace. “For all we know, they’ve snuck arcane devices into the palace!”

Prowl had nodded tiredly. “I know,” he said. “We’re still trying to see about bringing one here. But Praxus’ dislike of higher magics is unfortunately well-known.”

On the other hand, there had been some progress in one of the surveillance projects. Watchers had reported several couriers coming and going from Lady Crossflare’s residence. Several of them had been tailed to the homes of Lord Dart and Lord Brushviper, and other nobles dissatisfied with the prospect of the balance of power shifting in Praxus. Others had been seen crossing the border into Altihex. Whatever Lady Crossflare was up to, it was requiring a lot of discussion.

Prowl hoped that they uncovered what the snooty noble was up to soon.

Add those issues into everything else, and Prowl felt run off his pedes. But he welcomed it, especially in the two cycles since the bonding presentation. If he was thinking about logistics and schedules and security and whatever was going on with Smokescreen, he wasn’t thinking about the General.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to think about Jazz. It was just that he didn’t know what to think about Jazz. But it was obvious that Trident had thought about Jazz. The evening after the reception, Trident had solicitously asked Prowl if he wanted to fuel in his apartments... Or on the terrace with the General.

Prowl had opted to fuel in his apartments, a decision that seemed to surprise his head guard. Prowl hurried to explain that he wanted to catch up on some work, and even brought a stack of scrolls to his apartments to work on. It wasn’t like he didn’t have work to do, after all.

And besides, if he was working, he wasn’t thinking about Jazz. If he was working, his processor wasn’t running in circles asking itself unanswerable questions. So Prowl shunted those thoughts to a secondary thread in his processor and focused on his work. But with Jazz being a guest of the Praxian royal family, Prowl also knew that he couldn’t avoid him forever. And besides, he needed to know where he stood with Jazz. Prowl considered Jazz a friend, but their evening on the terrace during Bluestreak and Hound’s bonding reception seemed far more intimate than what friends would normally do together.

Then again, Prowl had never had many friends. He had always been busy with his studies, and then his work. He closest ally when growing up had been Silverstreak, and after his brother left Praxus, Prowl had thrown himself into his duty to king and country. Jazz’s friendship had been a surprising but welcomed addition to Prowl’s life, and he feared of doing anything to alter it... Or doing anything that could potentially ruin their friendship completely.

His thoughts continually returned to the end of the evening, when Jazz had taken Prowl’s hand. What was that kiss? What did Jazz mean by it? Was it just a friendly gesture? Or had Jazz known what the Praxian dance that Prowl had performed really meant? How could he possibly know? Prowl replayed that memory of that evening over and over, examining Jazz’s facial expression, his posture, the way he’d gently held Prowl’s hand in his so that Prowl could pull it away if he wanted... All of it was reviewed and puzzled over, until Prowl realized his processor was simply spinning in circles again trying to solve it. Worse, Smokescreen’s comments revealed that Prowl’s feelings about Jazz, as conflicted as they were, might be more obvious than Prowl had realized.

He already knew that Trident was aware of what had happened on the terrace. Who else had seen that?

Three cycles after the reception, he was still obsessing over the interaction when he realized he was scheduled to accompany Jazz to view a training session for some of the new Cavalry recruits. The demonstration had been set up before the reception, and cancelling so late would have been rude. So Prowl went.

High Commander Irridus had continued the excellent drill protocols that Prince Silverstreak had developed when he was the High Commander of the Cavalry, and Irridus seemed to take pride in showing off the details to the visiting Polyhexian General. Prowl stood silently next to Jazz during Irridus’s explanations, casting sidelong glances at Jazz out of the corner of his optic. Jazz seemed genuinely interested, and asked insightful questions of the High Commander. His easy smile and relaxed attitude seemed to bleed over to Irridus until they were both laughing at some joke that Jazz had made.

And... slag. Prowl had to admit that he did find the General handsome. Prowl had never really considered the attractiveness of any specific mech before, not even Solder. When he received his adult upgrades, he knew that he didn’t have a choice of bond partner, so any thoughts on how attractive a mech was would have been pointless.

But now... He watched Jazz smile, his lips quirking upwards at the corners before flashing his dentae in a wide grin. His face was finely sculpted, more broad than a Praxian’s, but with a chin guard that wasn’t as pronounced as those Prowl was used to. And his visor glinted in the bright sunlight, giving just the barest hint of the optics underneath.

Prowl wondered what colour his optics were. He wondered if Jazz would show him if he asked.

A minute shiver ran through Prowl’s door wings as he imagined being able to look directly into Jazz’s optics.

Flicking his wings firmly back, Prowl glowered at the recruits running their drills in the field below.

Finally, Irridus left the two of them standing on the hill overlooking the training grounds so that he could receive a report from one of his sergeants. It was the first time that they’d been alone since the reception, aside from Prowl’s guards, who stood a polite distance away. It took a huge effort for Prowl to hold his door wings at a neutral angle, rather than letting them quiver and bob like they wanted to.

Jazz, on the other hand, looked at ease as he continued watching the Cavalry drills. Seemingly unaware of how unsettled Prowl was feeling, he watched as a line of mechs drove an intricate pattern on the field below. “They’ve got some good moves there,” he said. “I’m gonna take some of these ideas back to Polyhex with me and see if we can use them in our artillery units.”

When he went back to Polyhex. Jazz’s offhand comment finally sent a shudder through Prowl’s door wings that he could not suppress. With a surge of resolve, he flicked his door wings to settle them as much as he could, and turned to Jazz. “General Jazz, I have something that I need to discuss with you.”

Jazz looked at Prowl, his brow ridges rising above the top of his visor. “General? So we’re back to being formal, huh?” When Prowl didn’t reply, Jazz shrugged and squared his shoulders. “Very well, Your Highness. What do we need to discuss?”

Prowl balked for a moment, worried that he’d hurt Jazz’s feelings. But he plowed onwards, needing to know the answers to the questions he’d been grappling with for two cycles. “I need to know what your intentions towards me are,” he said brusquely.

He felt a small surge of pride at the look of surprise that crossed Jazz’s face. He rarely managed to startle his friend, so this felt like a small victory. “My... intentions?” Jazz asked. He recovered his composure, but his expression remained serious. “This is about the kiss the other night, ain’t it?” When Prowl nodded, Jazz finally smiled. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who made the first move, Prowler. Maybe I should be askin’ you what your intentions are towards me.”

“What?” Prowl asked, his optics going wide. First move? What was Jazz talking about? But as soon as the confused word left Prowl’s vocalizer, he knew exactly what Jazz meant.

The dance.

As Prowl stared at Jazz, the General smiled wider. “Now, maybe that dance means somethin’ different here in Praxus,” he said. “But I don’t think it does. That’s an ancient dance that’s been done in Polyhex for hundreds of vorn. I’ve seen it in Iacon and Vaporex, and I’m pretty sure I’ve heard of it bein’ danced in Altihex, Kaon, and Tarn, too.” He twirled in place, doing a quick sketch of one of the dance’s moves. “You gave it a different flare with yer door wings, but the steps were almost identical. And when it’s danced in Polyhex, the mech who’s dancin’ does it to show another mech that they’re interested in ‘em.” He tipped his helm to the side. “So, what’s it mean here?”

Prowl knew that his door wings had risen in surprise, but he couldn’t seem to control their motions at the moment. He opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again as he tried to craft a response to Jazz. “The dance... It means...” His door wings finally fell as he said, “I didn’t think you knew what the dance would mean. I didn’t mean that...” Prowl realized he couldn’t finish that sentence, because the denial that rose to his lips wasn’t true. “I mean, I didn’t intend to imply that...” No, still false.

Jazz reached out and took Prowl’s hand, effectively silencing him. “Whatever you meant by it, Prowler, is fine by me. But you asked me what my intentions are towards you.” He waited until Prowl was looking at him steadily, and then said, “My intention is to court you. And, if you’re willin’ and things work out, maybe even bond with ya. But first comes the courtin’. Although, I’m still tryin’ to figure out the etiquette of that, so I might be stumblin’ here. And if I am, I’m sorry, because I want to do right by ya.”

“Court me?” Prowl gaped at Jazz for a moment as his processor caught up with what was happening. “But... I am a Prince of Praxus. I am... That is, I cannot just... How can I bond with an outsider?”

He dropped his gaze, still reeling at the revelation that Jazz... Jazz! Jazz with the gorgeous smile and the Unmaker-may-care attitude and the strong hands and... He reeled at the revelation that Jazz would want to bond to him? It seemed impossible.

Prowl started over. “What I mean is... I am flattered, but the Court would not permit me to... My sire would never approve of...” As he tried to find a sentence he could finish, Prowl realized he didn’t actually know what the Court or his sire would say. Maybe it would be fine. But things were so tenuous with Smokescreen’s position, especially now, that Prowl didn’t want to even think of creating another crisis for him. “You are not a noble, nor are you a member of a recognized Praxian house,” Prowl said.

Yes. Jazz was an outsider, and a not a noble. This would never be approved of.

Jazz frowned at Prowl’s protests. “Your older brother has made a big deal out of gettin’ you full-framed Praxians out of that fraggin’ breedin’ program yer Temple set up,” he said quietly, mindful of mechs walking by just out of audial range. “And your younger brother just bonded to someone who ain’t even Praxian. Now yer tellin’ me that you’re still stuck having your partners approved for ya?” His engine growled. “I thought you were more clever than that, Prowler. You still seem stuck on how things used to be, rather than how they are now.” He paused. “Or is there more goin’ on here than I know about? If there’s someone else who’s got yer spark, I’ll step back. No worries and no foul.”

Prowl shook his helm, trying to sort out the threads running through his processor. “No. There is no one else.” No one but Jazz, that was. No! Stop thinking that! “And you are correct: the cultivation program has been ended, and Bluestreak has bonded to a non-Praxian. But he is no longer in the line for the throne.” I am still in line to the throne. Yes. That is a reason I cannot be courted by you. Prowl’s door wings fell even further as he looked at Jazz’s serious expression. “Just because Smokescreen is attempting to make changes to the country’s political structure doesn’t change the realities of Praxian culture.” Can you imagine the uproar in the Court? Or what mechs like Lord Dart would say? He flattened his door wings against his back so they wouldn’t tremble. “There are many who would never accept a member of the royal family bonding, someone in line for the throne, to an outsider.”

Even as he spoke, Prowl realized he was making excuses, both to Jazz and himself. When he was growing up, he had never, ever once thought he would be able to bond for love. And now that someone was offering to court him... Prowl suddenly identified the feeling in his spark as insecurity. He couldn’t possibly be enough for this wonderful mech. It couldn’t possibly work out. So maybe it was better to just not try.

What if I’m wrong? The thought flickered to life in Prowl’s processor, and he stared at the ground with wide optics. What if it did work out?

What would it be like to be bonded to Jazz? To be... loved by him?

Jazz was still holding Prowl’s hand, and he looked down at it for a moment before replying. “Answer somethin’ for me truthfully, Prowl. I’ve been thinkin’ about this for ages, ever since we said goodbye after Iacon. And when I watched ya dance for me, I thought that I had my answer for whether you felt the same. But...” He looked up at Prowl, looking strangely vulnerable in a way that Prowl had never witnessed on his friend before. “Do ya not want me to do this? Because if you really don’t feel the same, then tell me now. I’ll stop this and we can go back to bein’ friends. Maybe we can even pretend this conversation didn’t happen.” He gave Prowl a half smile. “Because you’re an amazing friend, and I’d hate to lose ya over somethin’ like this, just ‘cuz I misread how ya felt about me.”

Cycling his optics, Prowl stared at Jazz, his door wings slowly rising back to their neutral angle. He thought back to all of the letters they’d exchanged, and the long talks into the night when they were both in Iacon. He remembered the feel of Jazz’s lips on his hand on the night of the reception. He remembered how nervous he had felt performing the Twirling Spark for Jazz, but he also remembered how right it had felt.

Did he want Jazz to court him? Peering through the disquiet in his spark, Prowl realized that he already knew the answer to that question.

Yes. With all my spark. I am so frightened, but yes. I do want this.

With his optics fixed on Jazz’s visor, Prowl nodded slowly. “I... I do want this. Yes.” His door wings fluttered behind him as he voiced what his spark had known for a vorn but his processor had just realized. He felt a small smile curl the corners of his mouth upwards. “I also value your friendship, but I would be open to seeing if it can grow into something more.”

Even just saying those words seemed to make Prowl’s spark sing.

Jazz’s smile broadened, and he let out a gust of air. “Thank Primus. I’d thought I’d fragged things up there.” He straightened, a bit of his cocky posture returning. “And if it helps at all, I am the General of the Polyhexian Infantry, and the first creation of a well-placed family. Surely that counts for somethin’ when you’re tottin’ up who’s allowed to court a prince, even if I’m not Praxian.”

“I honestly don’t know if it does,” Prowl said, his processor still reeling from what he had just admitted to, both to Jazz and to himself. “I’d have to check the histories. It’s been so long since members of the royal family have been able to freely choose their bond partners that I don’t even know what the next steps are.”

“Well,” Jazz said, firming his grasp on Prowl’s hand. “I think my first step is going to ask yer sire and carrier for their permission to court ya, since that’s how it’s done in Polyhex. And if they tell me no... Well then, I’ll just ask your brother after he’s been crowned king.” Jazz flashed half of his visor at Prowl. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Prince Smokescreen won’t say no.”

At this, Prowl laughed, thinking of the conversation he’d had the previous cycle with Smokescreen about Lord Halfsteel. “No, I suspect he won’t.” Then he looked at Jazz and gave his hand a squeeze, unwilling to let go for just another klik. “But I’m hoping that we can make a good case to Lord Caelum. After all,” he said, “a foreign General could make for a valuable ally now that Praxus is trying to re-establish its place in the world.”

Clapping his hand on Prowl’s shoulder armor, Jazz laughed. “That’s what I like about ya, Prowler. Yer always lookin’ for some way for you to get what ya want.”

Smokescreen’s engine rumbled contentedly as they left the protective walls of the city very early in the morning. This excursion wasn’t quite the grand gesture he’d been thinking of when he swore that he would not be cowed by the attacks on him and his brothers, but it was close enough.

He missed going on long hunts. Ever since he’d started taking on more of his sire’s duties, he’d had less and less time to go traipsing off into the forests of Praxus. King Cygnus had had time for leisure trips during his tenure as the country’s ruler, though, so Smokescreen hoped that once his new Court was established he would be able to resume his hobby.

However, the realities of security needs and the tight schedule he was now under ahead of his coronation meant that this hunt wasn’t one of the laid-back, deca-cycle long trips that he used to do. Instead, they would only be gone for a single cycle. And instead of travelling to one of the more wild areas of Praxus to find rare game, they were just going to the Royal Preserve near the capital.

It made sense, Smokescreen thought as the party drove down the paved road to the preserve. The dignitaries from other countries would start arriving soon, so he couldn’t afford to be gone for very long. And even though the Royal Preserve was a huge area, it was also guarded and fenced. He knew that the palace guards had already done a sweep of the preserve before they left this morning, looking for traps and explosive devices like the one that had almost killed Bluestreak and Hound.

And their departure was very low-key, by necessity. A big announcement that the crown prince was going on a hunt would only attract the attention of whoever was responsible for the violence. So even though Smokescreen meant this trip as a gesture, it was still being done somewhat in secret.

It really wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but it would have to do.

He also wished that the party had been larger. But then again, a larger hunting party would have been more difficult to protect. He had invited Minister Zodiac and Commander Ultra Magnus, but they declined the invitation so they could stay behind to discuss trade. Prowl also stayed behind to attend the same meeting, which made more sense than Smokescreen wanted to admit. If anything happened to him, Prowl would need to take the throne.

General Jazz also stayed behind. His stated reason for remaining behind was that he needed to support Minister Zodiac during the trade meetings, but the General had never struck Smokescreen as being all that interested in the administrative decisions involved in running a country. Smokescreen suspected that the General’s desire to stay in the capital had more to do with Prowl than the dry meeting. It was obvious that Prowl was interested in the General, and Smokescreen had heard rumours from the servants that the attraction might also go the other way.

He hummed quietly in amusement as they drove. Perhaps Bluestreak had been right, and he would need to start making plans for another bonding celebration before too long.

The idea of Prowl finding a sparkmate who made him happy brought Smokescreen’s thoughts back to Lord Halfsteel. He’d also stayed behind at the palace to put the last touches on the accommodations for the dignitaries who would be arriving shortly. Smokescreen and Halfsteel had both been so busy the last few cycles that he hadn’t had a chance to talk to the noble about their encounter on his balcony. Smokescreen had debated not doing this trip at all, and instead taking the cycle to sit down with Halfsteel and discussing... Well, that was the problem. Smokescreen wasn’t entirely sure what he would say to his majordomo. He wasn’t even sure that Halfsteel was really interested in him; after all, they had both been drinking that night. It was possible that the lord was relieved that Smokescreen hadn’t immediately pursued him, and that the high-grade had been doing the talking for him. It was possible that Prowl was wrong about Halfsteel’s feelings towards him.

In fact, the morning after the reception Lord Halfsteel had reported to Smokescreen’s office with the Court scribe and the captain of the house guard, as usual. Smokescreen caught Halfsteel giving him odd looks when he thought that the Prince was focused on the reports in front of him or what the captain was saying. But after his conversation with Prowl, Smokescreen didn’t know if Halfsteel had been giving him these looks all along and Smokescreen simply hadn’t noticed, or whether the noble was thinking about the previous night. And when Smokescreen passed the signed documents back to Halfsteel at the end of the meeting, Halfsteel’s digits had lingered for a moment longer than necessary against Smokescreen’s... Or was that his imagination?

But then Halfsteel had fled from the room as if chased by hellhounds. Smokescreen silently cursed at himself for not asking Halfsteel to stay and talk then. But Smokescreen hadn’t yet spoken to Prowl, and he was still trying to sort out his own feelings. And afterwards, Halfsteel seemed to be avoiding speaking to the crown prince.

So as the hunting party was leaving the palace this morning, Smokescreen had pulled Halfsteel aside, still conscious of the attendants bustling around them. Just because it didn’t look like they were listening didn’t mean they weren’t. “Steel,” Smokescreen had said. “When we get back this afternoon, I’d like to talk to you.” He smiled encouragingly. “I spoke to Prowl about... About what we discussed the other night, on my balcony. He gave me some advice, and I wanted to... share it with you. So, meet me in my office, once I’ve returned from the hunt?” Speaking to Halfsteel in his office about their relationship seemed to be the safest option: it would be private, but not have the implied pressure of meeting in his apartments. The last thing he wanted to do was make Halfsteel feel like he was being pressured into anything.

Halfsteel’s door wings had dipped slightly, quivering. “Of course, Your Highness.” His golden optics were fixed on Smokescreen’s, and then he gave Smokescreen a shy smile that made the prince’s spark twirl. “I look forward to it.”

Smokescreen felt his spark twirl again in happy anticipation.

As they entered the preserve, their small group slowed to accommodate the rougher road. Blurr was driving just behind the guards who led the procession. He had been chatting with Bluestreak and Hound the whole way out to the reserve. Smokescreen drove just behind them, flanked by Strikeback and his other guards.

When they reached the cut off for the trail they were going to take, they stopped and transformed. Bluestreak slung his rifle over his shoulder and looked at Smokescreen. Then he laughed as he saw Smokescreen’s weapon. “Are you still using that old thing?” he asked. He examined the rifle that Smokescreen had brought with him. “After all this time, you still haven’t gotten around to replacing it? That thing has to be just as old as I am.”

Smokescreen huffed, but smiled. “It serves its purpose,” he said. He held Bluestreak’s gaze for a moment. “You promised to get me another one... before.” Before he’d fled Praxus, Smokescreen didn’t say.

Bluestreak looked at Smokescreen in surprise before shaking his helm with a smile. “I did, didn’t I?” he said quietly. “Now I guess you’ll have to ask Commander Irridus for one.”

They stood in a small valley in the forest, surrounded by hills on all sides that were covered in tall crystals. The sun was just rising over the hill to the east, and the crystals around them chimed and pinged softly as the first of the morning rays warmed them. Strikeback called quietly for the group’s attention. “Your Highnesses. My Lord. Ranger.” He looked at the members of the group one at a time. “One of the scouts we sent out said the torbuk herd is over that rise,” he said, pointing. “Please be aware that we have guards working a perimeter around us; if you fire, please only aim to the north.”

Blurr nodded, then slung his rifle over his shoulder. “So are we just after one? Or is it a competition to see who can bag the most?”

Bluestreak tipped a door wing towards Smokescreen. “You might need to explain the process to Blurr and Hound,” he said. “Recreational hunts aren’t something that Rangers get to do.”

“Of course.” That made sense. It also brought home, in a way that Bluestreak was very good at, that not every mech had the resources and time to go hunting for fun. “We usually only bring down one on these shorter outings,” he said. “If we do bring down a torbuk today, we can take it back to the capital and have the kitchen staff prepare it for our evening fuel.” He gestured up the hill. “We’ll walk up the hill to see if we can spot the herd. Usually the highest ranking member of the party gets first shot, but...” He smiled. “To be honest, we’re only out here because I wanted to get out of the palace for a bit. If one of you would like to take the first shot, you’re more than welcome to.”

“It doesn’t seem very sporting,” Hound said. When Bluestreak looked at him, the green mech shrugged. “If the torbuk here are anything like the ones in the Prime’s reserve, they’re pretty tame. We could probably walk right up to them.”

“It’s mostly for the camaraderie, rather than the actual hunting,” Bluestreak explained as they started walking up the hill. He glanced at Smokescreen and smiled. “Basically, a hunt is just a different kind of party, right?” he asked.

Smokescreen laughed. “Don’t go telling all my secrets!” he said, and fell in step behind the Rangers.

Silence fell over the group as they walked. Smokescreen lifted his helm and smiled at the feeling of the rising sun warming his door wings and armor. The forest was full of small, quiet sounds: the pinging crystals, small sounds of creatures scurrying unseen in the undergrowth, and the crunch of pebbles under the party’s pedes. Smokescreen closed his optics for a moment and let his processor go blank.

It was peaceful. He was surrounded by friends. Life was good. This is the feeling he wanted to bring to all Praxians.

Smokescreen’s optics flew open when there was a shout off to the left and up the hill. The words were indistinct, but the tone seemed to be one of alarm. The group paused, and Blurr said, “Did someone say ‘get back’?”

Feeling a sharp burst of heat at his collar fairing, Smokescreen clapped a hand to his protection charm and took a reflexive step backwards.

Then a heavy weight struck Smokescreen from behind, and he fell face-first to the forest floor. At the same time, he heard three quick cracks of a rifle followed by a shout of pain. A moment later, the air erupted with the sound of gun fire, and voices began yelling all around him.

Smokescreen tried to look around, but a hand gently pressed his helm back into the ground. “Stay down, Your Highness,” Strikeback said into his audial. Smokescreen turned his helm slightly, and saw that Strikeback’s optics were fixed on the ridge to the west. He had drawn his side arm, and held it ready as he scanned their surroundings.

Suddenly there was another loud barrage of shots, deafening in their volume and frequency. They seemed to come from everywhere, but Strikeback fired up the ridge to the west, his gun sounding over and over. Smokescreen covered his helm with his hands and tried to press himself down into the ground. He heard a sound like shattering glass, and felt a shower of small pebbles or shards fall onto his helm and door wings.

He had never felt so helpless – and so frightened – in his life.

After a moment, the shots stopped. There were more shouts back and forth further up the ridge, and Smokescreen felt Strikeback tap his shoulder. “Move behind that crystal,” his guard said quietly, pointing at a large red crystal that they’d just walked past. “But stay down!”

Smokescreen scooted backwards on his belly like a razorsnake, and Strikeback kept his own frame between the western ridge and the Prince. When they reached the shelter of the crystal, Strikeback whistled urgently at someone across the clearing.

Smokescreen sat up against the crystal and followed Strikeback’s gaze. He immediately knew where the shout of pain had come from, and his spark skipped a rotation. Bluestreak and Hound were lying flat on the ground, with Hound half on top of his sparkmate. Hound’s hand was pressed against one of Bluestreak’s door wings, and Smokescreen could see energon seeping through Hound’s digits. The Praxian’s face was twisted in pain, but his optics were open and staring up the ridge. He shook his helm at something Hound was murmuring to him. Barrage was crouched down behind a short stand of crystals next to the Rangers, and was firing up the ridge at irregular intervals.

Beside Bluestreak and Hound, Blurr had taken cover behind a crystal that had been a few steps ahead of him. When Hound said something to him, Blurr leaned out from behind the crystal and began firing up the ridge. Bluestreak and Hound got to their pedes, still hunched over, and ran to cover behind the same crystal.

Then the air erupted with the sound of gun blasts again, and Smokescreen flattened himself against the crystal he was leaning against.

When the gun fire stopped again, Smokescreen opened his optics. Strikeback was holding Smokescreen against the crystal they were sheltering behind as if to prevent him from going anywhere, and he peered out from behind the crystal. From his position, Smokescreen could see two of the other guards had taken up positions a short distance away behind an outcropping of rock.

“Where are the other guards?” Smokescreen hissed. When Strikeback glanced at him, he added, “There were supposed to be guards all around us. Where are they?”

Strikeback’s optics flicked to something behind Smokescreen before focusing back on the prince. “I think they’re all dead,” he said quietly.

Smokescreen turned to look where Strikeback had glanced. Half hidden behind a crystal, he saw the slumped form of a guard halfway up the hill. He was motionless, his hand sprawled out on the ground as if he’d just tripped. But the growing pool of energon beneath him made it clear that he was not getting up any time soon.

Smokescreen jerked back behind the crystal they were sheltering behind, a sick feeling in his tanks. He wondered whether it was from a buildup of smoke, or from seeing the mech’s fuel leaking from his lines.

He was no soldier. He’d never expected to ever be in a fire fight like this. He was never supposed to be in a fight like this! He and Prowl had been trained to lead a country, through policy and administration and deal making. Smokescreen had been given rudimentary military training, of course. And after the attempts on his life had escalated, Strikeback had insisted on drilling him in some key self-defense techniques. But Smokescreen knew he wasn’t adept in hand-to-hand combat, and he was a middling shot with a rifle, at best. Silverstreak had been the brother trained to be a soldier, and had gone on to lead the Cavalry. Smokescreen knew that as the King, he’d always have guards and a military behind him.

But now he felt completely helpless, knowing that there was nothing he could do to help.

He didn’t even have his rifle. He saw it laying in the middle of the clearing where he’d dropped it.

He suddenly felt relieved that Halfsteel had not come with them. The thought of Halfsteel being injured – or killed – because of him sent a stab of terror right through his spark.

Why, why hadn’t he made time to talk to Halfsteel before coming out here?

Strikeback’s optics were darting around the clearing. “I see... seven guards still up. Plus your brother and the Rangers, and us,” he said quietly. He glanced towards the Rangers. “Your brother’s still a very good shot,” he added, his voice coloured with admiration. “Most of the enemy fire seem to be coming from up on the western ridge, so maybe...”

He was interrupted by another rifle blast. Across the clearing, Barrage yelped and clapped a hand to his shoulder. Then he rolled to face the other direction and fired three shots to the east.

“We’re surrounded!” Bluestreak called from the other side of the clearing. “Get down!”

Smokescreen was pushed into the ground once again, and Strikeback swore in a hiss. As Smokescreen tried to tip his helm up to see what was happening, Strikeback firmly pushed him flat again. “Don’t move, Your Highness.” The words were urgent and tense. “Stay down!”

Then he heard another burst of gun fire, this time coming from every side of them. Smokescreen closed his optics tightly as they were spattered with tiny objects again. He suddenly realized that some of the shots were taking chunks out of the crystals that towered over them, and they were being showered with bits of broken crystal. He wondered how much damage the tall spires could take before one of them shattered completely and fell on them. Distantly, he wondered if it would hurt more to be shot or crushed to death.

Smokescreen heard another shout of pain that ended with a garbled feedback squeal. He hoped it wasn’t Bluestreak getting hit again... Or worse.

There was a loud crack above him, and another shower of crystal pieces fell onto him.

If he didn’t get out of this... Smokescreen hoped with all of his spark that Prowl would make a good King.

Chapter Text

Prowl had met briefly with Lord Halfsteel first thing in the morning, as soon as Smokescreen and the Rangers had left on the hunt. To keep Prowl in the loop of the investigations Halfsteel let him know that the mech who had approached Lieutenant Strikeback couldn’t provide any information about who had given him the flyers to hand out in the market.

The mech was known by the city guard, and they said he was famous for doing odd jobs for a few coin here and there. His memory was faulty, though, and he couldn’t remember most things for more than a few groons at a time. So it wasn’t a surprise that he couldn’t remember who paid him to hand out the flyers . He repeatedly mentioned being visited by a glitchmouse who told him secrets, but nothing about who might have given him the flyers. The mech was obviously not operating on all cores.

Prowl appreciated Lord Halfsteel keeping him appraised of the investigation’s findings. If there was one thing Prowl was not a huge fan of, it was surprises.

And then there was Jazz, who was nothing but surprises. But for some reason, Prowl found that he did not mind Jazz’s surprises at all.

The morning meeting with Minister Zodiac and Commander Ultra Magnus had gone well. As Prowl had suspected, they merely wanted to clarify some details on the trade agreement that all three countries had signed while in Iacon after the battle with Shockwave’s forces. Prowl confirmed Praxus’s positions in the agreement. Both Iacon and Polyhex were interested in the novel alchemy recipes that Praxus had developed, while Praxus was interested in an assortment of energon additives and other goods that the other two countries manufactured.

Jazz had attended the meeting alongside Zodiac. While he had been silent and looked attentive, Prowl noticed that his attention had really been on him for almost the entire meeting. Every time he looked Jazz’s way, the General gave him a saucy smile, and Prowl lost his train of thought.

Jazz was very distracting, but Prowl couldn’t bring himself to mind too much.

After the meeting, Jazz stayed behind in Prowl’s office. “Is this what ya do all day, Prowler?” he asked, tipping his chair back on two legs. “Dull meetings and shufflin’ paper?”

Prowl shrugged and set his notes aside to focus on Jazz. “I am the Seneschal of Praxus and Marshall of the High Court. I oversee the daily administration of the kingdom.” He peered at Jazz’s expression, trying to piece together what the Polyhexian was thinking. “I’m afraid that this is what I do all day.”

“Then I’ve already got plans for ya,” Jazz said. He let his chair fall back down to four legs with a thump, and leaned forward onto Prowl’s desk. “My first goal is to bring a little excitement into yer life.”

Prowl could not stop a smile from crossing his face, and he could feel his door wings flutter slightly behind him. “I think you already have, Jazz,” he said quietly.

“Now,” Jazz said, standing and holding his hand out for Prowl to take. “I think we had a meetin’ with yer creators.” As Prowl stood, Jazz pulled him closer. Mindful of the open office door, he was careful to leave a small gap between the two of them. “I think this is the first meetin’ today that I’ve been lookin’ forward to,” he said with a sparkling laugh.

Prowl let his door wings flutter at the sound of that laugh.

As Prowl walked beside the General towards the king’s apartments, Prowl thought again of the ramifications of being courted by a non-Praxian.

Prowl didn’t think that Lord Caelum would object to General Jazz courting Prowl. But Prowl had no idea how his sire would react to the suggestion that a second of his creations might be bonded to a non-Praxian. The king’s attitudes had shifted in regards to many different things. But having Prowl, who was still in line for the throne, bonded off to a foreigner might be a step too far for King Cygnus.

They were about halfway to the apartments when they heard the blare of a horn, and a servant roared around a corner at a speed far greater than was allowed in the palace. He transformed and quickly knelt before Prowl in one fluid motion. “Your Highness!” he exclaimed, his engine still revving. “There has been an incident on Prince Smokescreen’s hunt. Ranger Blurr has just arrived. Master Triage is meeting him at the palace entrance.”

Prowl’s door wings shot outwards at the servant’s words. “Is Smokescreen all right?” he asked, his spark stuttering in his chest. If anything had happened to Smokescreen...

The servant shook his helm. “I don’t know, Your Highness. I came as soon as –“

But Prowl was already running past the servant, and dropped into his alt mode as soon as he was clear of the mech. He roared off towards the entrance of the palace, Jazz riding right on his bumper.

Prowl thought back to the night Bluestreak had arrived home in Praxus, when Smokescreen made Prowl promise that if anything happened to him, Prowl would need to carry on what Smokescreen had started. Prowl agreed with the changes that Smokescreen was looking to bring to Praxus, of course. He just didn’t think that he was suited to kingship. He was an administrator... Not a leader.

As he drove, Prowl threw a quick, fervent prayer to Primus that Smokescreen was all right.

In the foyer, Blurr was sitting on a chair that had been pulled from another room, and Triage was tending to an injury on his thigh. One of the Cavalry’s lieutenants was speaking to the Ranger, but he stood up and saluted as he saw Prowl approach. “Your Highness! I have already called for Commander Irridus, and a squad is preparing to depart for the Royal Preserve immediately,” the soldier said.

“I’ll take you there,” Blurr said, wincing as Triage worked on his leg. “They’re hidden and you might have trouble finding them.”

“You’re not going anywhere with this hole in your plating,” Triage muttered.

“Tell me what happened,” Prowl said, kneeling close to the Ranger. “Is Smokescreen all right? What about Bluestreak?” He knew his anxiety was bleeding through into his tone, but at the moment he didn’t care.

“Bluestreak’s been shot, but they were both alive when I left to get help,” he said, the words pouring out of him rapidly. “And Hound... He’s not doing well. We’d just reached the preserve when we were attacked by a whole group of mechs with guns. We think they silently took out the guards who had been assigned to form a perimeter around us, and then opened fire on us. They had us surrounded, and had the higher ground. But then Hound was able to create an illu-“ Blurr’s words stopped with a blurt, and he looked around at the mechs listening to him.

“I know what Hound can do,” Prowl said quietly. “Go on.”

Blurr nodded. “Hound created illusions of all of us. You should have seen it, it was incredible! He sent them running up in every direction, making it look like there was a whole army of us. In the confusion we were able to escape back down the hill. We took out a few of the attackers on our way and lost the rest, but we ended up getting trapped against a cliff. Hound was almost in stasis, since the illusion took so much out of him. There are a few crevices in the cliffs to hide in, but –“ He shook his helm. “These mechs that attacked us seemed to be trained and organized, and it won’t take them long to figure out where we went. Smokescreen’s guard asked me to drive to get help; I was the fastest one there,” he said, and then grimaced. “He sent another guard with me. We snuck out until we got to the road. Then I got shot in my fender on the way out... I never saw what happened to the other guard, but he suddenly wasn’t behind me when I looked back.”

While Blurr had been speaking, Commander Irridus had arrived and spoke to his lieutenant off to the side. “Your Highness,” the Commander said to Prowl when Blurr was finished. “We have a squad that’s departing now to bring them back.”

“I’m going with you,” Blurr said, standing up. Triage growled at Blurr’s sudden movement and threw his hands in the air. The Ranger looked down at his thigh and smiled at the medic. “This’ll do. Thank you. You stopped the leak. So long as my engine and tires are fine, that’s all I need for now. The rest can be fixed later.”

“I’m going too,” Jazz said, and reached out to put a hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “I’ll do my best to bring them all back, Prowler,” he said quietly. When Prowl shook his helm, his optics going wide, Jazz gave him a quick smile. “I’m not doin’ this to impress ya. I’m doin’ it because I care for ya. I’m fast, and I’m a good shot. Let me do this.”

Prowl hesitated, his optics drinking in the sight of Jazz’s face as his processor weighed the possible outcomes. Both of his brothers were already in danger, and the thought of sending Jazz off into the same danger made Prowl’s spark falter. He wanted to tell Jazz to stay, to wait at the palace with him, to stay safe until they got word on how his brothers were. The possibility of losing both of his brothers and Jazz in the same cycle sent a jolt of fear straight to Prowl’s core. Plus, Jazz was a visitor. A guest of the palace! To ask him to put his life on the line for his hosts was unthinkable. What would Minister Zodiac think?

But Jazz was volunteering. He was a solider. He was trained to fight. And he knew what he was driving into. With what Blurr had said, they might need all the help they could get. In the end, it was his decision to go.

Pulling a deep vent of air, Prowl placed his own hand over Jazz’s on his shoulder. “Come back safe,” he whispered.

Jazz nodded once, then turned to Blurr and Commander Irridus, snapping a salute. The Cavalry’s commander returned Jazz’s salute. “Let’s roll out!” Irridus said, and the three of them ran to the entrance of the palace.

Prowl rushed to the doors in time to see them pause by the group of soldiers who had assembled outside. Then, as one, they transformed and roared out of the palace courtyard.

As soon as they had driven out of sight, Prowl closed his optics and murmured another quick prayer. “Primus, please bring my brothers and Jazz back safely.” Then he lifted his face to the sky and opened his optics, staring up at cloudless expanse over him. “I’m not ready to be king,” he whispered.

“Prowl?”

Turning, Prowl saw Lord Caelum standing at his side. His carrier’s door wings hung low on his back, and he placed a hand on Prowl’s arm. “A servant came and said that something happened on Smokescreen’s hunt... I came as fast as I could, but...” He gestured at the empty courtyard with a frown.

Somehow, the worry in his carrier’s expression gave Prowl a surge of resolve. There were things happening outside of the city walls that were out of his control, but there were things inside the palace that Prowl could do now. Things that he should do. Things that needed to be done.

“Come to my office and I’ll explain,” Prowl said. He turned to a nearby servant. “Ask Lord Halfsteel to come to my office as well. And find Commander Ultra Magnus and Minister Zodiac.” They would need to know what was happening with their mechs.

No, he didn’t feel that he was ready to be king, but there were things that Prowl knew he could do. Prowl flicked his door wings out, and cleared his processer queue of his doubts. He had a duty to perform.

“Is he going to be all right?” Smokescreen murmured.

Bluestreak looked down Hound. The green mech’s helm was cradled in his lap, his optics closed. “He’s exhausted, but I think he’ll be all right if he gets some rest,” he said quietly.

“I can hear you,” Hound said faintly. His optics opened slightly, and Smokescreen could see that they were dim behind their shutters. “I’m tired, not offline.”

“What you did was incredible, Hound,” Smokescreen said, careful to keep his voice low. “You saved us all.”

Tiredly closing his optics again, Hound smiled. “I’m just glad it worked.”

Bluestreak stroked his hand down the side of Hound’s helm. “Power down for now, love,” he whispered. “You’re going to need all the rest you can get in case we need to move out.”

Smokescreen looked at the jagged hole in Bluestreak’s left door wing. Smokescreen’s tanks lurched again at the sight of the dried energon caking the wing’s plating. “And how about you?” he asked. He gestured at the injured door wing. “Can you transform?”

Bluestreak looked up at Smokescreen, his expression serious. He nodded. “I should be able to,” he said. Bluestreak pulled the protection charm from his collar and spun it in his digits. It was blackened and cracked, a sure sign that the charm had burned itself out. “Thank Primus for this thing, though. The first two shots would have gone through my helm if I hadn’t had this.”

Smokescreen almost took his own protection charm off and handed it to Bluestreak, but he knew Strikeback would have his helm if he did that. He settled for putting his hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “I’m glad it kept your helm safe, anyway,” he said.

Bluestreak nodded and looked around the small gap in the rocks they’d hidden themselves in. “What’s the plan?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Strikeback?” Smokescreen looked over his shoulder at his guard, who was crouched down nearby, peering towards the entrance of the crevice. “Now what?”

Strikeback glanced at him. “Shielder went to see how far back this thing goes,” he said, his deep voice as quiet as he could make it. “Maybe there’s another way out. Meanwhile...” He looked back to the entrance. “We know they outnumber us, and we can hear them working their way up the hill. The terrain is pretty rough, and they don’t seem to know which way we went. But it won’t take them long to figure out that if they just climb to the top of the cliffs, they can look down into each crevice to find us.”

“And then they’d just have to pick us off from above,” Bluestreak whispered. His optics looked skyward.

Following Bluestreak’s gaze, Smokescreen looked up. Less than a hundred meters above them, the sheer walls of the crevice ended, and all he could see was sky and the tops of crystals growing above. He pictured one of the enemy mechs peering down over the edge, aiming his rifle, and -

“We’ll need to move out before that happens, or hope that Blurr comes back with help before then,” Strikeback said. With a look back at Smokescreen, he said, “I’m going to see if Barrage and the others have a bearing on the enemy position. Stay here, Your Highness.”

Smokescreen nodded as Strikeback silently made his way back towards the entrance. Sitting on the ground next to his brother, Smokescreen leaned his helm on the wall of the narrow crevice. He stretched his legs out, and his pedes touched the opposite wall. If he had been claustrophobic, this would be even more of a nightmare than it already was. “I’m so sorry about this, Streaks,” he said. He tried not to let the hopeless feeling in his spark creep into his voice.

“Sorry for what?” Bluestreak asked.

Tilting his helm up again to look up towards the sky, Smokescreen said, “All of this, obviously.” He gestured with his hand around them. “You were almost killed in that explosion. All the slag you’re getting from members of the Court. We’re getting hunted like glitchmice in my own Preserve.” He closed his optics. “I know that you came home because it would help me, but I don’t think it’s worth it at this price. I’m sorry.”

He heard a soft scrape of metal against stone, and Smokescreen turned to see Bluestreak looking at him. As soon as Smokescreen’s optics focused on him, a gentle smile lit Bluestreak’s face. “Do you seriously think I was going to miss seeing my older brother take the throne?” he asked. He cuffed Smokescreen lightly on the shoulder. “Not for all the iron in the Rust Sea.”

For a bright moment it felt like they were both younglings again, sitting in the gardens and sharing a joke. A time when they had no responsibilities except finishing their chores and their lessons, and the only repercussions they received for failing in their tasks was a stern scolding.

But now… Smokescreen looked away to hide his expression from his brother and closed his optics. Silently, he added up how many mechs had died today, for him. There had been at least ten guards working the perimeter; all of them were probably dead. Another five guards had died in the firefight, boldly placing themselves in the line of fire to protect their charges. Among them was one of Smokescreen’s personal guards, Treadline. He was funny, with a quick smile and a dry wit. He liked making little suncatchers using shards of broken crystal, and sometimes gave them to younglings in the market. Just last deca-cycle he’d mentioned that he was thinking of asking his lover to bond with him, and he was so nervous. Smokescreen didn’t know whether he’d actually gone through with the proposal.

But now Treadline was gone.

Smokescreen felt a chill run through his lines. Mechs had died for him today. Sure, Praxus had sustained losses at the Battle of the Plurex Flats, but that hadn’t felt so... personal. This did. If someone wasn’t out to snuff Smokescreen’s spark, none of those mechs would have died today.

He resolved that if he got out of this today, he would speak with each guard’s family, personally. He would make sure they would be taken care of. He didn’t want any more mechs to suffer on his behalf because their loved ones died in his service.

Methodically, Smokescreen started cataloguing the designations of the guards he’d known were in the perimeter detail.

At another soft scraping noise, Smokescreen’s optics flew open. He realized he had fallen into a light recharge, but the light filtering into the tiny canyon had only shifted slightly; he couldn’t have been offline for more than a few kliks. Bluestreak’s helm had fallen back against the rock, and he was staring up at the sky with dim optics. His systems were running so quietly that if his optics had been closed, Smokescreen would have thought he was recharging. Hound was still offline, his helm resting in Bluestreak’s lap.

Strikeback was crouched over Smokescreen, and was looking at him with a worried expression. “Your Highness, are your tanks bothering you again?” Strikeback whispered.

Smokescreen placed his hand on his side, over his auxiliary fuel tank. The bloating had returned, although it wasn’t as bad as it had been in the past. “A little,” he admitted. He looked up at Strikeback. “How did you know?”

Strikeback’s expression didn’t change from the thin-lipped, stern look he was wearing, but his optics softened slightly. “You were muttering in your recharge,” he said. “Just… don’t let your engine backfire, please.”

“Of course,” Smokescreen replied. His tanks had started to bother him, but he didn’t want to release any smoke now. It the wind caught it, it might act as a beacon and draw attention. He sat up from where he’d slouched down in his recharge. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked, hoping that Strikeback could give him some sort of task to keep him from feeling like a burden to the guards protecting him.

“Just be ready to move in a hurry if we have to,” Strikeback said. He glanced down towards the entrance of the crevice. “We think they moved off down the wrong way, but we can’t stay here,” he said, glancing upwards meaningfully.

Smokescreen nodded, and cast his own optics skyward, half expecting to see the muzzle of a rifle emerge over one of the cliff edges.

Bluestreak’s hand landed on his knee, and Smokescreen looked over at his brother. His optics had brightened, and he gave Smokescreen a quick smile. “Don’t worry,” Bluestreak said softly. “I don’t think Primus is done with me or Hound yet, or with you. I think we’re going to get out of this.”

Shifting his wings against the rock wall, Smokescreen tried to decipher his brother’s expression. He looked sincere. When they were growing up, Bluestreak had never been very devout. In fact, he’d seemed to hate the teachings of the Temple, especially since they encouraged the division based on frametypes. But since joining the Rangers he seemed to have picked up a staunch belief in Primus. “Did he tell you that?” Smokescreen asked. He hoped his own disbelief didn’t colour his tone too much.

Bluestreak looked down at Hound. The green mech was still solidly offline. “No,” Bluestreak said. “Not really. But when I meditate, sometimes I get these feelings about things. Almost like Primus is speaking to me through my spark.” He placed his hand on his chest, just over his spark. “When I get them, the feelings are never wrong.” He looked up at Smokescreen again, his optics bright. “I know Primus still has work for you to do.”

“That’s good to hear,” Smokescreen said with a shrug. He glanced at Strikeback who had turned to look deeper into the crevice. “Because I’ve got things I plan on doing.”

Strikeback rose fluidly to his pedes, and aimed his rifle down into the darkened depths of the crevice. Then Smokescreen heard a soft noise just before Shielder emerged from the shadows, and Strikeback relaxed. “What did you find?” Strikeback asked quietly.

“There’s another way out,” Shielder replied. “It’s quite a ways back, and the last part is through a cave, but it comes out near a slope. I could make out the main road near the bottom of the hill.”

With a nod, Strikeback said, “Good work. I’ll get the others.” As he walked towards the entrance of the crevice, he paused by Bluestreak and said, “Rouse Lord Hound, Your Highness. We’re moving out.”

As he stood up, Smokescreen looked at the long scrapes on Shielder’s chest armor. Gouges ran from one side of his chest to the other. Some of them looked rather deep. “Are you all right?” he asked with a frown.

Shielder glanced down at his chest, and then smiled at Smokescreen. “I’m fine, Your Highness. The passage is a bit narrow in spots, but there’s a reason Strikeback sent me to go check it out.” He stood to his full height and added, “I’m the biggest one here.”

By the time Strikeback returned with Barrage and the other guards who had been positioned near the entrance of their hiding place, Bluestreak had Hound on his pedes. The green mech leaned heavily on his bond partner, but his optics were brighter than they’d been. “I’ll be all right,” Hound said when he noticed Smokescreen’s attention fixed on him. “But I’m going to need a good long power-down when we get back to the palace.”

Smokescreen silently appreciated Hound’s optimism.

Quietly, Strikeback organized the group into a single-file line. Shielder led the way, since he’d mentioned there were several turns that led to dead ends. Smokescreen was fourth in line, with a palace guard designated Volley directly in front of him, and Strikeback followed behind him. Then came Hound and Bluestreak, followed by another guard. Barrage brought up the rear.

The floor of the tiny canyon was uneven and covered in loose rocks, which made their progress slow. It grew narrow and then widened again, but the top of the crevice was still open to the sky. They made their way slowly and carefully, trying to avoid making any unnecessary noise.

Although, Smokescreen knew that even the necessary noise might give them away.

They had been walking for almost a groon when Shielder held up a hand. “This is the narrow part,” he said softly, pointing at the rocks ahead. “It narrows down for a few dozen meters, then opens up again inside a cave. Once we get past here it’ll be easier going.”

Smokescreen waited as Shielder turned himself sideways and carefully slipped between the rocks on either side of the crevice. To Smokescreen, it looked like the large mech would never fit through the gap; in fact, he could hear a scraping noise as Shielder carefully slid his wide chest through the opening.

No wonder he’d had those deep gouges on his armor.

They watched Shielder slowly disappear into the gap, followed by the next guard. It would probably take a few kliks for them all to work their way through the cave entrance, although Shielder was by far the largest mech.

As they waited, Smokescreen saw a pebble fall from above them, and bounce off Volley’s shoulder. The guard looked up, and then suddenly shoved Smokescreen backwards into Strikeback’s arms. Smokescreen shouted in surprise as he struggled to keep on his pedes. “Hey!”

Volley opened his mouth to say something... And then his helm exploded in a spray of energon and metal.

The world spun, and Smokescreen found himself face down on the ground. “Above us! They’re above us!” he heard Strikeback yell as he lay on top of Smokescreen. Then anything that Strikeback said was drowned out by the thundering echo of gunfire.

Smokescreen stared at the rocky surface just centimeters from his optics. He could dimly sense that his engine was revving, and his ventilations were coming hard as he tried to process what he had just witnessed. His memory replayed the moment that Volley’s helm disintegrated. He could feel something wet on his face, and he wiped at it. His digits came away from his face covered with energon and bits of metal.

Volley’s energon. Volley's metal.

Smokescreen’s tanks heaved.

The gunfire stopped as suddenly as it had started, and there were shouts from above them. “Down there! Try the other side! I can’t get a clean shot!”

Strikeback rolled off of Smokescreen and hauled him to his pedes. “Go, go!” Strikeback said, shoving Smokescreen towards the gap. “I’ll follow you.” He raised his rifle and fired several shots upwards.

Smokescreen looked up. The walls of the crevice were so close together here that he could only see a sliver of sky. Perhaps that was why he wasn’t already dead. He took a step towards the gap and stumbled over something. He looked down, and realized that Volley’s helmless frame was sprawled out in his way.

“Move, Your Highness!” Strikeback hissed.

Jerking his optics frontwards again, Smokescreen stepped over the dead guard. He murmured an apology, and mentally added Volley’s designation to the list of mechs who died for him today.

Turning sideways, he shoved himself into the narrow gap and began shuffling his way through. As soon as he was fully inside the opening, he heard another round of gunfire from behind him.

Smokescreen paused and tried to look backwards, but the opening was so restricted that he had trouble turning his helm. He stopped trying as soon as Strikeback, who was obviously right behind him, gave him another little shove. “Keep going!”

It felt like he’d crept along for kilometers. He focused on moving himself forward one awkward step at a time, so that he wouldn’t think about the moment that Volley died, right before his optics. But finally he stumbled out into a wider space. It was dark, lit only by Shielder’s and the other guard’s headlights. “Your Highness!” Shielder exclaimed, helping Smokescreen keep his balance as he emerged from the crevice. “Are you all right?” Shielder was peering at his face with concern.

Smokescreen nodded, then suddenly realized why Shielder looked so worried. “It’s not mine,” he muttered, wiping frantically at the energon on his face and chest. He turned in time to see Strikeback emerge from the small opening in the wall of the cave. “Bluestreak? And Hound?”

“They’re right behind me,” Strikeback said, and turned to help Hound struggle through the opening.

The green mech’s optics had dimmed again, and he leaned against the wall heavily. Bluestreak was the next to come through, and he immediately embraced Hound. Finally, Barrage came through the opening. The hole in his shoulder armor that he’d received when they were first attacked had been joined by another hole in his other shoulder. Barrage frowned at Strikeback. “They know where we’ve gone,” he said. “They mentioned a cave, so they probably know where this comes out. I heard them say they need to climb down, so we might have a little bit of a head start... if we hurry.”

“Then let’s go,” Strikeback said, gesturing at Shielder. “Lead the way.”

“It’s this way. Watch for the holes in the floor of the cave,” Shielder said.

The space they were in felt huge. Their pedesteps echoed off a ceiling an unseen distance above them, and Smokescreen only had a vague notion of where the walls were in the cavern.

As they walked, Strikeback explained their next steps. “Getting out of here is going to depend on a lot of hopes,” he said. “First, we hope that it takes them awhile to get to the cave entrance. Shielder said that the main road was close by, so we’ll make straight for that. How’s the terrain between the entrance and the road?”

“It’s sloped but navigable,” Shielder said. “Everyone’s alt mode should be able to handle it.”

Nodding, Strikeback said, “Good. As soon as you get clear of the cave, transform and make for the road, and head south. Drive as fast as you can, and don’t stop for anything.”

“I’m not very fast, even when I’m rested,” Hound said, stumbling along beside Bluestreak. “And I don’t have a lot of energy as it is, not after that trick I pulled earlier. If I burn all my energy on a sprint, I’ll end up dropping into stasis.”

Bluestreak pulled Hound tighter against him. “You know I won’t leave you behind, love,” he said quietly. “I’ll stay with you.”

Strikeback frowned. “Then we might have to split up. It’s imperative that Prince Smokescreen gets to safety before –“

“No!” Smokescreen barked. He stopped and glared at Strikeback, then looked at Bluestreak. “I am not leaving my brother behind. We all stay together.”

“Your Highness, if some of us are slower, it makes sense to split up,” Strikeback started to say in the placating tone he used when Smokescreen was tightening his brakes down over something.

“Smokey, they’re probably after you,” Bluestreak said, but Smokescreen noticed that he’d lowered his punctured door wing so that the injury was out of sight. “And we might even be able to slow them down before they –“

Smokescreen stopped and faced Bluestreak and Strikeback. “No,” he repeated, more quietly, and then lowered his own door wings slightly. “No, Streaks. I can’t leave you behind. Too many have already died for me today... And I don’t want the same thing to happen to you.” He looked up at Strikeback. “We stay together.”

Strikeback pressed his lips together, then nodded. “Your word is law, Your Highness,” he said.

“Not yet, it isn’t,” Smokescreen muttered, and then continued walking.

“If we’re staying together, Prince Smokescreen should be in the middle of the fleet. Is that all right?” Strikeback asked. When Smokescreen nodded, he continued. “All right. So we’ll drive at Lord Hound’s speed. My Lord, just drive at a speed you feel that you can maintain, and we’ll pace you.”

“Works for me,” Hound said. His voice sounded faint.

“So that brings me to the second hope... That Ranger Blurr got help.” Strikeback sidestepped a pothole in the floor of the cave. “If he’s as fast as you claim, help should be on the way by now. If we’re lucky, they’ll meet us enroute.”

Shielder held up a hand. “The exit’s just ahead,” he said softly.

Smokescreen could see the soft gleam of daylight on the rocks, coming from around a bend in their path.

“Is everyone clear on the plan?” Strikeback asked.

“Get out, transform, make for the road, and head south,” Smokescreen said. “And hope there’s help on the way.”

Strikeback gave Smokescreen a quick smile. “That covers it,” he said. He looked around at their small group. “All right. Let’s get moving.”

The sunlight was blinding for the few moments before Smokescreen’s optics adjusted, but when they did he saw they were on a gentle slope covered in crystal growth and sparse tingrass. Shielder pointed down the slope. “There’s the road,” he said, and Smokescreen caught sight of the dark road surface below them.

They transformed and started driving down the hill. The others arranged themselves around Smokescreen as Strikeback had ordered, with Bluestreak and Hound just behind him. There were only five guards left, but they arrayed themselves around the brothers and Hound, with Shielder taking the lead. Strikeback drove at Smokescreen’s side.

They were about halfway down the hill when they heard the shout. “There they are!”

“As fast as you can, Lord Hound!” Strikeback said, his voice filled with urgency.

“Downhill’s easy,” Hound replied, and they bounced and rattled down the rocky surface, dodging crystals.

Smokescreen cast his sensors behind him, and saw sunlight glinting off metal plating through the stands of crystals. Four, maybe five mechs? He couldn’t get an accurate count, but did it really matter?

It would only take one bullet.

They roared over a small embankment and skidded onto the road surface. “Let’s go!” Strikeback said, and revved his engine. “Faster!”

“He’s going as fast as he can,” Bluestreak snapped. He was driving right on Hound’s fender, their plating almost brushing. “He wasn’t built for speed, and he’s exhausted!”

Smokescreen heard tires screeching on pavement behind them, and he saw the other mechs slewing sideways onto the road. They had a bit of a lead on them, but they still seemed disturbingly close.

“I think it’ll be all right,” Smokescreen said, trying to add a touch of optimism to his tone. “They’d have to stop and transform to use their weapons, and –“

The road between Smokescreen and Strikeback exploded in a spray of pavement and fire.

Smokescreen swerved wildly, almost careening into Strikeback. “Strikeback!” Smokescreen yelled, trying to watch where he was going, check on his brother behind him, and watch the mechs behind them at the same time. “What was –“

“Keep driving!” Strikeback ordered sharply.

Smokescreen’s sensors finally refocused on the mechs behind them. One of them was outfitted with a cannon in his alt mode. No – he was a tank former. Smokescreen’s engine whined as he scanned the group behind them again, and realized there were two tank formers. If they had been able to drive at a higher speed, they could easily have left them in the dust; tanks were not renowned for their speed. But having to keep pace with Hound, they were driving at almost the same speed as the tanks.

Almost the same speed. Maybe even a bit slower.

Unless they found a way to lose them, their attackers would catch up with them in just a few kliks.

Smokescreen briefly reconsidered Strikeback’s suggestion that they split up. If they went in two different directions, maybe they would follow the group he was in. Like Bluestreak had said, they were probably after him.

Then Smokescreen remembered the explosion on Lookout Mountain, and how the target had obviously been Bluestreak and Hound.

He settled on his tires and revved his engine. Sticking together – all of them – was the right choice.

The road directly in front of him vaporized in a cloud of smoke and dust, and Smokescreen barely avoided the hole that appeared in the pavement. His tanks lurched again as he skidded, trying to regain his traction.

“Your Highness! We have to move, now. We have to get you out of here!” Strikeback yelled.

“Smokey, go. Go! We’ll be fine. We’ll take off to the side and lose them in the forest,” Bluestreak said.

Hound’s engine made a sickly sound like he’d slipped a gear, and Bluestreak sidled up close to him again.

If only Hound could use his power again to create a distraction, to throw their pursuers off the trail. If only Smokescreen hadn’t decided to ignore the council of his guards and try to send a ‘message’ to those who were trying to silence him. If only help would arrive... If Blurr had made it back to the palace at all.

For the first time since he could remember, Smokescreen sent a sincere prayer to Primus. Please, please, let me and my brother get out of this. I have so much I need to do still. Prowl would probably approve of his prayer. Maybe.

Thinking of Prowl reminded him of what his brother had said just a few cycles before. I believe that Smokescreen’s powers must have some Primus-given purpose.

His powers. His smoke!

“Is there a turn coming up? A fork in the road? Anything?” Smokescreen yelled to Shielder.

“There’s a fork and a turn coming up in about a hundred meters,” Shielder called back.

Strikeback wavered on his wheels. “Your Highness?” Then his horn blared in surprise as Smokescreen braked hard.

Smokescreen skidded left to avoid smashing into Hound, and swerved right just in time to miss Barrage. “Keep going!” he yelled. “Go! I’ll use my smoke to distract them!”

Strikeback had braked when Smokescreen had, his tires squealing on the pavement. “What are you doing?” Strikeback yelled, his voice incredulous.

As soon as he was at the back of the group, Smokescreen released the smoke that had been building in him all morning. When he was in root mode, the smoke flowed from his helm vents in almost painful bursts. But in his vehicle mode, it vented backwards. And instead of feeling strange, like his frame was doing something that it shouldn’t, it felt natural.

Even better, releasing the smoke while in vehicle mode dispersed it in a fan-shaped spray behind him. In moments, the mercenaries vanished in a thick cloud of smoke.

Smokescreen heard the mechs behind them shouting at one another in confusion, then heard a clang of metal hitting metal. He scanned ahead and saw the turn coming up that Shielder had mentioned. At the same time, Strikeback said, “Can you release another burst just as we drive into the turn?”

“Absolutely,” Smokescreen said, and let another burst of smoke go as they came up to the bend in the road.

He heard the boom of one of the tankformers firing his cannon, but the explosion of the missile hitting pavement was off to their left. It sounded like some of the mercenaries had missed the turn.

“Good work, Smokey!” Bluestreak called. “I knew you’d figure it out!”

“Keep moving!” ordered Barrage. “We’re not out of this yet.”

The roar of engines behind them proved him right. Smokescreen couldn’t see anything through the thick black haze he had created, but it sounded like at least two of their pursuers had navigated the turn and were still behind them. And the engines were not the low rumble of tankformers, but the higher pitch of racing frames.

“Hound’s getting tired,” Bluestreak said, his voice full of tension. He wavered on his wheels anxiously, a habit that he apparently hadn’t lost since he was a youngling. “He’s going to have to stop soon.”

“Keep going, for as long as you can, Lord Hound,” Barrage said. Hound said nothing in reply and rolled onwards in silence.

Smokescreen saw three mechs emerge from the smoke cloud behind them.

Smokescreen released another cloud of smoke, and the mechs vanished once more. Then he realized that whatever reserves he’d had were now spent. He’d never wished to feel bloated tanks as much as he did in that moment. “I can’t do it again,” he said to Strikeback, pulling back up alongside Barrage. “I’m out of smoke.”

Suddenly they heard a shout from ahead of them. “Incoming!” Shielder yelled. Then: “It’s Irridus!”

Smokescreen’s spark leapt as he saw a group of mechs approaching them, painted with the white and gold emblems of Praxus. Strikeback pulled out of the group slightly and called to them as they passed. “Five mechs behind us, two tankformers, three racers!”

“Got it!” Commander Irridus yelled as he passed them, tailed by a whole squad of cavalry mechs.

On Irridus’ bumper were two smaller racing frames, not Praxian. Both racers drifted into a u-turn and came up behind Smokescreen.

“As requested, help has arrived!” said Blurr.

“Anyone here got the room and energy for a passenger?” Jazz called out.

Shielder slowed until he was at the back of the group with them, falling even with Jazz. “I do,” Shielder said.

With an acrobatic twist, Jazz transformed, somehow launching himself into the air at the same time, and leapt into Shielder’s cargo bed in one move. He landed facing backwards and pulled out a gun. “Thanks for the lift,” he said, rapping his knuckles against Shielder’s side. “And three racers, ya said?”

“That’s right, General,” said Strikeback.

Jazz aimed his gun and fired twice, and Smokescreen heard a garbled scream behind them. “Make that two.”

Smokescreen felt relief from his front bumper to his rear. They were going to make it. With luck, no more mechs would die for him today. “Thank you for bringing help, Ranger Blurr,” he said. “And for coming with them, General!” he added.

Jazz kept his firearm aimed behind them, but he smiled down at Smokescreen. “Yer brother’s real worried about ya,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure I got to see him smile again.”

Chapter Text

“So, correct me if I have this wrong,” Ultra Magnus said, his engine rumbling in a dangerous counterpoint to his already deep voice. “You are saying that for the second time in a deca-cycle, Rangers Bluestreak and Hound are in danger because of an assassination attempt? And that this time, Ranger Blurr is in the same danger? And that all three of them have been injured in some way?” His intense gaze was fixed firmly on Prowl, making the prince feel even smaller than he was next to the Commander. “And furthermore, do I understand correctly that these attacks have been happening for more than a vorn, and you have yet to make any progress in identifying those responsible?”

It took every bit of concentration that Prowl could muster to keep his door wings from flattening against his back. He carefully folded his hands together and rested them on the surface of his desk so that they wouldn’t tremble and he couldn’t wring them together. “That is correct, Commander.”

Ultra Magnus seemed to have perfected the ability to look both expressionless and disapproving at the same time. “Tell me why I shouldn’t just collect the Prime’s Rangers and drive back to Praxus as soon as they arrive back here... If they’re all still alive.”

Prowl’s door wings twitched. He had no wish to contemplate any of them having died in this attack, so he shoved that idea out of his processor and focused on the Commander’s implicit threat. “I assure you, Commander, that no one is more frustrated by this situation than the Crown.” He glanced at Lord Caelum out of the corner of his optic, aware that he was speaking for the Crown here in Smokescreen’s absence. Caleum gave Prowl an encouraging nod, so Prowl continued. “We have been struggling to resolve these incidents ever since the first one, but unfortunately have made no progress. Not to mention our disadvantage when it comes to the use of magic.” He lowered his wings, but kept optical contact with Ultra Magnus. He hoped that his sincerity was coming through in his tone and posture. “We would, of course, hope that you would stay for the coronation. But if you feel that you must leave, we completely understand.”

This, Prowl knew, was not what Smokescreen would have said. Smokescreen would have done everything he could to assuage Ultra Magnus’s concerns and convince him to stay. Smokescreen felt that Iacon was one of the best and strongest allies that Praxus could have right now, and he would do almost anything to convince Ultra Magnus that everything was fine. Prowl preferred a more direct approach, though. And that meant owning up to the problems that Praxus and the Crown were dealing with. Hopefully Smokescreen would forgive him later if Prowl’s gamble didn’t pay off.

Prowl just hoped that Smokescreen was still alive to forgive him if that happened.

Ultra Magnus vented a quiet gust of air. “Out of curiosity, what does the Praxian Court think of these assassination attempts? Surely this has caused some serious concern.”

Before Prowl could reply, Caelum’s vocalizer clicked. “The Court has not been advised of the situation,” he said smoothly. When Ultra Magnus turned to look at him, he added, “Matters internal to the royal family have always been kept private until it was time to act. For example, King Cygnus’s illness was not revealed to the Court until he was ready to begin the abdication proceedings.”

Frowning, Ultra Magnus said, “But surely everyone has noticed the increased security you mentioned. Has no one asked any questions about that?”

“The Court may ask questions, but if we deem the answers to delve into private matters, we do not answer them,” Caelum said. “This has been the custom for hundreds of vorn.”

Prowl looked at this carrier, trying to tease out the detail in this conversation that was bothering him. Why did they keep such things secret? He remembered High Priest Barricade advising King Cygnus to keep his illness quiet until he was ready to present the abdication plan to the Court. Barricade’s arguments had made sense at the time: they didn’t want to give the King’s opponents a chance to organize themselves before they were ready. But why keep everything quiet?

“Do they not represent you in their principalities? Surely giving them basic information about the challenges you’re facing would be helpful,” Ultra Magnus said. “I’m not talking about the details of any specific attempt, but only that you’re aware that someone is out to harm Prince Smokescreen.”

Caelum shook his helm, although Prowl noticed that he looked less sure than he had a moment before. “We do not share things like that with the Court unless it is necessary. We have followed that guidance since before Cyngus’s creator’s time.”

Prowl’s door wings tipped upwards as he realized that the guidance Caelum was talking about had always come from the Temple. If the Temple had inside knowledge about the royal family’s issues, then they would be able to use that information to their advantage in the Court. High Priest Truemark had expressed no desire to pry into the royal family’s personal affairs, so he had not been given any information about the assassination attempts.

Maybe it was time to kick this custom to the curb along with all the other customs that had originated in the Temple.

Before Prowl could reply, Ultra Magnus bowed his helm slightly. “I do not wish to insinuate myself into the internal affairs of the Praxian government,” he said. “But perhaps, in this case, it would be beneficial to let the Court know about the assassination attempts. Not in any detail, but in general terms.”

“I’ve always found that playin’ it straight is the best way to attack this sorta thing,” Minister Zodiac said. He looked far more relaxed than Commander Ultra Magnus, but Prowl had spent enough time with Jazz to know that the Minister’s visor was hiding an intense look. “We’ve got a sayin’ in Polyhex: ya can’t buff out a missin’ fender. If you’ve got a serious problem, you can’t pretend it’s just an inconvenience.” He nodded at Ultra Magnus. “But like the Commander said, I don’t want to tell ya how to run yer country. I’m sure ya get enough of that from yer own folk as it is.”

“I agree as well,” Prowl said. He lifted his door wings at Lord Caelum’s look of surprise. “It will increase the amount of transparency that Smokescreen wants to bring to the crown. And…” He glanced at Lord Halfsteel, who had been listening intently to the conversation while picking nervously at a seam in his knee. “And maybe one or more of the Court’s members has information that could help us track down the culprit.”

Lord Caelum nodded slowly. “It is an idea worth discussing. But...” He looked at Prowl evenly, his door wings held still. “This is not our decision to make. It is the King’s, and Prince Smokescreen’s.”

Ultra Magnus looked from Caelum to Prowl, and then stood up. “Thank you for keeping me appraised regarding this particular incident,” he said. “But please be aware that I fully intend on speaking to the Prime’s Rangers when they return, and we will be deciding whether to stay for the coronation.”

Prowl stood as well and bowed his helm. “I fully understand your position, Commander,” Prowl said. “I do hope that you stay, but we will also sympathize with you if you feel that you cannot.”

“Thank you,” Ultra Magnus said with a curt nod. He turned to Caelum. “My Lord.” He looked back to Prowl. “Please let me know when they return. I will be in my rooms.” Then he turned and strode out of the office.

Minister Zodiac stood as soon as Ultra Magnus left. “I don’t think I’m as fussed about this as the Commander, there,” he said. “Then again, none of my mechs have been the target of all this trouble. And as for General Jazz...” He shrugged. “I’ll be speakin’ to him about gettin’ involved in things that don’t concern him. I hope him runnin’ off for this doesn’t reflect on Polyhex in any way?”

Prowl did his best to keep his expression neutral. “Of course not, Minister,” he said. He lowered his door wings. “And his assistance was not expected, but it is gratefully appreciated.”

Zodiac made an amused noise. “All right then. Thanks for the info, Your Highness.” And then he, too, left Prowl’s office.

As soon as the door was closed, Prowl slumped back into his seat and tried to collect his thoughts. “They’re right,” he said. “We’ve been keeping the attacks a secret from the Court, since we suspected one of the members might be involved. But we may be overlooking a source of intelligence.”

Caelum cycled his vents slowly, suddenly looking very old. Prowl remembered Bluestreak mentioning how much their carrier seemed to have aged since he’s seen him last. Prowl wasn’t sure what Bluestreak had meant until now. He watched Caelum slowly lift his helm to look at him. “What do you propose we do? How much information should we give them?” Caelum asked.

After thinking for a moment, Prowl sat up. He grabbed a pad from the stack on his desk and started jotting notes on it. “We can start with just the basics: that there have been several attacks, and that we’ve been looking for the culprits. Any tips or information that a member of the Court has would be appreciated.”

“Your sire will have to approve this,” Caleum said quietly. His vocalizer hitched slightly as he added, “And so will Smokescreen.”

Prowl looked up at his carrier. Caelum’s wings were low on his back again, and his optics looked dim. “Of course,” Prowl said. He reached across his desk and put his hand on Caelum’s. When Caelum looked up at him, he said. “Why don’t you go get some rest? I’ll call for you when we get word.”

Caelum hesitated briefly, then nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” He stood up and paused again. “And Prowl... You handled that very well.” Caelum smiled at Prowl. “Your sire would be proud of how you managed them both. I think Smokescreen would, too. You would make a good leader for Praxus, if it ever came to that.”

Fighting to keep his wings and vocalizer steady, Prowl said, “Thank you, carrier.”

As Caelum left his office, Prowl tried to dismiss the thought of losing Smokescreen that Caelum’s words had dredged up again, and looked at Halfsteel. The noble still sat in his chair, staring off into space, his digits digging into a gap in his leg armor. “Lord Halfsteel?” Prowl asked quietly.

Halfsteel jerked as if he’d been kicked. He looked up at Prowl with wide optics for a moment, then scrambled to his pedes. “Your Highness. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t... My attention was...” He glanced around the room, his words fading out. “Oh. I am so sorry. Did you need something?” When Prowl shook his helm, Halfsteel hurriedly bent to gathered his belongings. “My apologies. I’ll... I’ll go.”

Frowning, Prowl put his hand on Halfsteel’s notepad. “Wait.” Prowl remembered the conversation that he and Smokescreen had just a few cycles before, and Prowl realized why Halfsteel might be so uncharacteristically distracted. When Halfsteel looked up at him again, Prowl did his best to smile. “Did Smokescreen talk to you? After the bonding presentation?”

Halfsteel’s door wings fell, then lifted again, then fell once more. He nodded, then shook his helm, and then shrugged. “We’ve been... busy. With work, and preparations for the coronation. We haven’t had much time to... to talk. Prince Smokescreen asked to speak with me when he got back from the hunt today.” His voice crackled into static, and he reset his vocalizer. “I don’t know what he was going to tell me.” Then his voice lowered until it was just barely audible. “I hope he can tell me when he... when he gets back.”

Prowl walked around his desk and put his hand on Halfsteel’s shoulder. Summoning all the strength and confidence he could muster, Prowl said, “Ranger Blurr said that Smokescreen was alive and well when he left them. Until we find out differently, we should assume that he is still fine.” When Halfsteel nodded slowly, Prowl added, “And... I hope you know that he cares for you deeply.”

A shudder went through Halfsteel’s full frame, rattling his door wings against his back. He bowed his helm, and said, “Thank you, Your Highness. For telling me.” He looked up at Prowl again and quietly added, “I hope that Prince Smokescreen will be able to tell me himself.”

“Me too.” Prowl watched Halfsteel gather his belongings. “And... If you’d like to wait here, for word on... for word on how they are, please feel free.” He gestured at the table. “I would appreciate the company, to be honest.”

Halfsteel paused. Then he nodded. “Thank you very much, Your Highness. I think I’d like the company, too.”

The two of them sat in companionable silence for at least two groons; Prowl lost track of time after the first. Prowl got through some of his work that did not require a lot of thinking, while Halfsteel seemed to split his time between doodling on his pad and staring out the window.

Afternoon shadows were starting to slant through Prowl’s office windows when there was a knock on the door, and a servant entered. He bowed and said, “Your Highness, a courier from the city gates arrived to say that Prince Smokescreen and his entourage have entered the city.”

Prowl jumped to his pedes. “Do you know who all is with them?”

“No, Your Highness... Only that one of them is being towed. They asked Master Triage to meet them when they arrive. He has already been summoned.”

“Please let Commander Ultra Magnus know that they have arrived. I’ll meet them at the palace entrance.” Prowl turned to Halfsteel. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

Prowl and Halfsteel didn’t quite race towards the entrance, but Prowl still drove far faster than would normally be expected. Master Triage met them partway, and the three of them arrived at the entrance just moments before the group entered the palace gates.

Transforming, Prowl ran down the steps and watched, his spark stuttering, as Strikeback and Smokescreen drove through first, accompanied by several Cavalry members. Behind them was Bluestreak, driving very close to Hound, who was being towed by Shielder. Barrage and two other guards who had gone with Smokescreen were behind them.

Prowl felt his knees grow weak when he saw Jazz drive through next, beside Ranger Blurr.

Smokescreen was fine. Jazz was fine. Bluestreak was fine. They were safe!

He was vaguely aware of Triage running to Hound, and Smokescreen transforming and walking purposefully towards Halfsteel. But Prowl’s attention was firmly fixed on the white and black Polyhexian who transformed with a flourish and met Prowl’s optics with a grin.

Prowl didn’t know who approached whom, but suddenly he was standing in front of Jazz. He reached out and grasped Jazz’s forearm. He wanted to throw his arms around Jazz, but that wouldn’t be proper, it wasn’t done, he was an outsider and they were not formally courting, and –

Prowl looked into Jazz’s visor and whatever he’d been thinking fizzled into static as Jazz lifted a hand and placed it on Prowl’s shoulder. “I told ya I’d bring ‘em back, Prowler,” Jazz said quietly. He turned his helm slightly, looking over to where Triage was working. “As many as we could.”

Following Jazz’s gaze, Prowl saw Bluestreak kneeling next to Hound, his hand resting on his bond mate’s fender. The green mech was still in his vehicle mode. He was still and silent, and Triage was directing Shielder to tow him into the palace. Looking around the courtyard, Prowl noticed that most of the mechs seemed to be from the Cavalry. “All of the guards who went with them,” he said. He looked back at Jazz. “Where are they?”

“This is all there were.” Jazz’s expression hardened. “We got most of the story on the way back... Ya lost a lot of good mechs today.” He looked at Smokescreen, who was saying something to Halfsteel intently. “Hound, and your brother there... The two of them managed to save the rest.” He gave Prowl a small smile. “Ya didn’t tell me yer brother was a sorcerer.”

“He’s... not.” Prowl looked at Jazz in confusion, then his optics widened. “Smokescreen’s power. He used it?”

Jazz nodded, tipping his helm to the side. “He did. Saved them at the last klik, right before we got to ‘em. Without him, we mighta been too late.” Nodding at Smokescreen, he added, “Commander Irridus took half the squad, and they’re bringin’ back the mercs they captured.”

Prowl stared at Smokescreen. He had his hands on Halfsteel’s shoulders, and the noble was nodding at whatever Smokescreen was saying. Then Prowl looked around the rest of the courtyard. Cavalry members were casting sidelong glances at Smokescreen, murmuring amongst themselves.

“Who knows? About Smokescreen’s power?” Prowl murmured to Jazz.

Jazz shrugged. “All the mechs who came along with us. We saw it as we were drivin’ up: a big cloud of black smoke, obviously comin’ from yer brother there. It was hard to miss.” He grinned again. “If he’s just figurin’ this out now, it’s a good thing it came to him when it did! A power like that is good to have in a chase.”

Prowl frowned again. “Yes,” he said quietly. But Prowl knew that not everyone would see it that way.

Traditionally, Smokescreen should be in the throne room, standing next to Prowl on the raised platform that held the Quartz Throne. As the Court filtered into the throne room, the princes would stand as a symbolic guard over the empty throne until King Cygnus arrived.

But Smokescreen had too much running through his processor at that moment to stand still. Fidgeting while waiting for the Court to be seated would almost be more unforgiveable than not being there. So instead of standing next to his brother, he paced around the antechamber behind the throne room, occasionally glancing out at the throne room’s gallery.

He was so tired. Since they’d arrived back at the palace the previous afternoon, Smokescreen had been going practically non-stop. Considering he needed his wits about him for a session of the Court, perhaps he should have tried to get more rest, but... He couldn’t.

He had too much to do.

After washing off Volley’s energon and the road grime from his armor, he’d spoken with the King’s treasurer, informing him that the family of each fallen guard would continue to receive the guard’s pay for the next ten vorn. Typically, a guard’s family would only be entitled to one vorn of pay. But if Smokescreen hadn’t decided to go traipsing off on a stunt just to make a statement to whomever was trying to kill him, those guards would not be dead now.

Then he’d spent most of the night writing personal letters to every family of every fallen guard, inviting them to the palace. He intended to speak to every single one, and listen to their stories, and offer his condolences. If they wanted rites at the Temple, he would offer to pay for them. If they wanted their loved one’s frame transported someplace else, he would arrange that, too.

It was the very least he could do.

Writing seventeen letters had taken most of the night. Smokescreen had gotten a few groons of recharge before rising again just before the Court was scheduled to assemble, and made his way to the palace medical bay. There, he checked on Bluestreak and Hound.

Hound had come out of stasis in the middle of the night, long enough to transform to root mode and take some fuel. He’d settled back into a deep recharge, and by the time Smokescreen saw him that morning, his colour had improved. Master Triage said that now Hound just needed rest.

Triage had also patched the hole in Bluestreak’s door wing, although even after it healed it was likely to scar. “I’ll have Ratchet look at it when we get back to Iacon,” Bluestreak had said softly, still looking down at his recharging bond mate. “Hopefully it won’t scar badly enough to affect my wing’s sensors. Maybe Ratchet can sand it down a bit when it’s fully healed.”

The mention of Bluestreak returning to Iacon reminded Smokescreen of the briefing Prowl had given him the previous night, and how unhappy Ultra Magnus was with the situation. “Streaks, I am so sorry. For everything,” Smokescreen murmured, gesturing at Hound, and Bluestreak’s door wing. His own door wings fell as he added, “I expect Commander Ultra Magnus will be taking you back to Iacon.”

Bluestreak lips curled up into a small smile at that. “You leave the commander to me,” he replied. “I have no intention of missing your coronation. Not now.” The smile vanished as he looked back down at Hound. “Besides... We need to wait until Hound has his strength back before we can even think about driving that far.”

In the throne room’s antechamber, Smokescreen did another lap of the room. As he passed the doorway, he peered into the throne room. More nobles were arriving, and he could hear the rising volume in conversation as the room filled up. But Smokescreen’s optics were drawn to the back of the throne room, near the entrance, where Lords Caelum and Halfsteel stood, greeting the nobles as they entered.

Halfsteel nodded to another noble, then glanced up towards the opposite end of the throne room. His door wings lifted as his optics met Smokescreen’s, and he smiled.

Smokescreen returned the smile, and lifted his hand in a small wave. He lowered it again when Halfsteel had to look away to greet another arriving member of the Court. Smokescreen returned to pacing the room.

When he had driven through the palace gates the previous afternoon, Smokescreen’s processor had been running at full-speed. He felt distressed that so many lives had been ended that day. He was worried over his brother’s injury, and Hound’s exhaustion-driven lapse into stasis. He was furious at whoever was responsible for the attempts on his life: it was one thing to try to kill him, but the deaths of others was completely unforgivable.

But above all, Smokescreen had one mech that he desperately wanted to speak to. As soon as he drove through the palace gates, his sensors picked out the silver and green noble, and he went to him immediately.

Halfsteel’s expression was the picture of relief. “Your Highness,” he said, grasping Smokescreen’s arm firmly as he stepped close. “I am so glad that you’re safe. Are you all right? Are you injured?” When Smokescreen shook his helm, Halfsteel’s door wings trembled, then fell slightly. “I was so worried. I should have gone with you. I should have sent more guards, or had the military sweep the Preserve before you arrived. I should have–“

Smokescreen held up a hand and stopped Halfsteel’s self-depreciation. “Steel, stop.” When Halfsteel snapped his mouth shut and looked at Smokescreen with wide optics, Smokescreen continued. “I meant what I said before, that there is no mech I’d rather have looking after my safety than you.” He smiled at Halfsteel. “There’s no one that I’d rather have at my side, either... For everything.”

Halfsteel froze, staring at Smokescreen. “Your Highness?” he asked quietly.

Putting his hands on Halfsteel’s shoulders, Smokescreen quietly said, “I talked to Prowl. After... You know. After Streaks’s bonding presentation. I wanted to tell you earlier, but I didn’t know what to say, and... When we were out there today, and I thought I might not make it back, I realized that I might not have another chance to tell you what I wanted to.” He lifted his door wings and lowered his voice even more. “You asked me to make sure that I wasn’t making a mistake, being with you. I can tell you now, with utter certainty, that I want you by my side. Always.” Smokescreen lifted his hand to brush it down the side of Halfsteel’s helm, but stopped himself when he remembered what Prowl had said. No public displays of affection. Instead, he gripped Halfsteel’s arm again. “And I hope you feel the same.”

Halfsteel’s door wings rose with a slight flutter. Then he nodded. “Yes. I do... Smokescreen,” Halfsteel had whispered. His face lit up with a smile. “I was hoping that’s what you were going to tell me.”

Smokescreen smiled back, his spark thrumming in its casing. “If you ever think I need a nudge in a certain direction, please feel free to give it to me,” he said.

Before Halfsteel could reply, Prowl had come up to them, wings lowered in apology, and began to tell Smokescreen of what had transpired while he was away, and explained the plan to speak to the Court.

Standing in the antechamber, Smokescreen still felt that it was slightly inappropriate to be airing the royal family’s problems to the Court. But as Prowl had mentioned, if Smokescreen was assassinated, the problem would be larger than just the family. All of Praxus would be affected.

Prowl didn’t seem to think that he would make a good leader, something that Smokescreen disagreed with. But he quietly agreed to advising the Court of the assassination attempts.

This wouldn’t be a full session of the Court, not on such short notice. Some nobles were still travelling from their principalities to the capital. But all of the inner Court members would attend. And it was only a short time after the announcement of the Court session that an additional topic was added to the agenda: Smokescreen’s magical powers.

So much for secrets.

Prowl’s helm appeared in the doorway of the antechamber. “We’re about to begin,” Prowl said. Smokescreen nodded, adjusted his stole of office, and followed Prowl into the throne room.

Smokescreen stood on the left side of the throne, while Prowl stood on the right and picked up the golden glaive that lay across the arms of the white throne. After waiting for a moment, Prowl thumped the butt of the glaive three times on the floor of the dais.

“To order! To order. Stand and witness.” Prowl waited for the voices in the gallery to quiet, then continued his call. “Respect and obey. Behold: His Majesty, King Cygnus of the Quartz Throne, High Protector of Praxus, Chosen of Primus, revered be his frame, blessed be his spark. May he lead us to the light.”

“May he lead us to the light,” intoned the gathered nobles, turning to watch King Cygnus make his way into the throne room.

Prowl had not wanted to wait to present their problem to the Court, and in his exhaustion Smokescreen had agreed. And since the king was more lucid in the morning when he was well-rested, they needed to hold the Court session first thing. Prowl said he would advise their sire what the session would be about, but Smokescreen did not expect the king to say much. Even when they held sessions in the morning so that he could participate, the king rarely had any input into his decisions.

Smokescreen wasn’t sure whether he liked that or not.

Supported by two attendants and wearing his crown and stole of office, King Cygnus walked up the steps of the dais and took the glaive from Prowl. Then he turned ponderously and nodded to the Court before sitting heavily in the throne. “Let us begin,” he said.

Prowl lifted a scroll and read from it. “The Court is gathered to discuss: first, the clear and present danger to the members of the royal family, specifically the princes. In the past vorn, the Crown Prince Smokescreen has been subjected to-“

“We want to talk about how Prince Smokescreen is wielding arcane powers like a Pit-spawned sorcerer!”

Smokescreen managed to keep his wings still, but he scanned the crowd of nobles as they all began murmuring and looking around at one another. No one stepped forward to claim the words that had been called out.

Typical.

Prowl, fortunately, was his usual unflappable self. “Prince Smokescreen’s newfound power is the second item on the agenda,” he said calmly. “It will be discussed when we get there.” He waited for the Court to settle again, then began reading from the scroll one more. “In the past vorn, the Crown Prince Smokescreen has been subjected to eighteen actual attempts on his life. Another fourteen were discovered before the attempt could be made. I have been subjected to four actual attempts on my life, another three were discovered before the attempt could be made. And since arriving in Praxus a deca-cycle and a half ago, Prince Bluestreak has been subjected to one actual attempt on his life: the explosive device that was placed on Lookout Mountain, which most of you have been made aware of. Another attempt was discovered and thwarted the cycle he arrived in the capital.” Prowl folded the scroll.

King Cygnus slowly raised his helm and looked out over the Court. “If any one here has information that would help us find those responsible for these heinous acts, we would be most grateful.”

“What sort of information are you seeking?” called a voice from the crowd.

“With the open borders, it’s no wonder we’re seeing problems like this now,” yelled another.

There was a murmur of agreement from the gathered Court.

“We are looking for any information at this point,” Prowl replied. Smokescreen watched him scan the Court, obviously looking for whomever had spoken. “The investigation is ongoing. Any information, even something that may seem insignificant, may be of use.”

Lady Crossflare stepped forward and bowed deeply to the king. “Your Majesty. With respect, the changes that Prince Smokescreen wishes to bring to Praxus, and the changes he has already brought to the Court, are causing concern... Both among the members of the Court, and to the citizens of Praxus. Perhaps if the pace of change was slowed, the crown would not be experiencing these difficulties.”

The king’s optics narrowed. “It sounds like you are attempting to shift the blame for these assassination attempts from the assassins, or whomever is hiring them, to my creations.”

The noble lowered her door wings, but raised her chin confidently. “That is not my intention, of course, Your Majesty. I only wish to raise the issue that these societal changes have caused disruption and upset. Mechs react poorly to change.”

The king sat up in the throne. “These changes you speak of... You are aware that beyond the white walls of Praxus, the world has changed. We must change with it, or be run under its wheels.”

Crossflare dipped into another bow. “But perhaps that change need not come so fast, Your Majesty?” She smiled ingratiatingly, and Smokescreen ground his dentae to keep himself from sneering at the noble. “Give Praxians a chance to adapt to the change, a little at a time. All in the interests of peace, of course.”

The king frowned. “When Vos attacked Praxus eight hundred vorn ago, Praxus reacted swiftly to build walls and protect its own. When the Temple’s researchers discovered new texts three hundred vorn ago and they realized the need for a vessel for Primus to inhabit when he returned to Cybertron, the Crown worked with the temple to quickly make the changes they recommended. Sometimes change needs to happen quickly.” In the back of the throne room, Lord Caelum’s hand went to his helm. Smokescreen watched as an attendant asked his carrier something, but was waved away as Caelum seemed to recover. Smokescreen’s attention was drawn back to the king, who had lifted his door wings high. “You trusted me, and my sire, and my grandsire, to lead us through the coming darkness that the Temple warned us of. And you have heard how my youngest creation helped dispel that darkness from the world,” King Cygnus said.

“I... Yes, we have heard the story, as it has been told,” Crossflare said with a frown and a flick of her door wings.

The king nodded. “Then if you trusted me to lead Praxus through that darkness and out the other side, I ask you to trust my eldest creation now. There is a new darkness in Praxus: one of our own making. I was blind to this darkness until I was made to see.” He paused, looking around at the Court. “All around us, Praxians struggle: to find enough fuel, to keep themselves maintained, to find even slivers of time in which to enjoy the existence that Primus has gifted them with. I accept some blame in affairs reaching this state. But Smokescreen has a vision of how to lead us out of this darkness and into the light of a new Praxus, one where all Praxians have a say in how their lives are run, regardless of the purity of their frames.” King Cygnus looked up at Smokescreen, then back out at the Court. “I am not so far gone that I do not hear what you say about me, but know this: even the dullest of mechs can see what is happening around them. I can also see, and I trust Smokescreen to do the right thing, for all Praxians.”

Smokescreen felt a shiver run down his back strut as a good portion of the Court lifted their voices in a muted cheer. He looked at the king in surprise, but King Cygnus had slumped back down into the throne, apparently spent. So Smokescreen looked across their sire’s helm at Prowl, and saw his brother staring back at him in surprise.

Since agreeing to step down from the throne, the king had agreed with what Smokescreen wanted to do. But that agreement had always been slightly tepid. Smokescreen had never been sure whether the king was agreeing just because he was tired of arguing, or because he truly believed in what Smokescreen and Prowl were telling him.

It seemed that the king actually agreed with Smokescreen’s plans after all. Smokescreen smiled, feeling a curl of gratification inside himself. If nothing else came of this Court session, at least he knew that the king actually believed in what Smokescreen was trying to accomplish.

Lady Crossflare glared at the mechs around her who had cheered, and pressed her lips into a thin line as she stepped back into the crowded gallery.

Smokescreen lifted his door wings for attention, and the Court quieted. “Any information you may have would be appreciated. As many of you may have heard, there was another attempt on my life yesterday.” He waited for the murmuring to subside slightly before continuing. “This time, the attack affected many more than just me. Prince Bluestreak was injured, as were Rangers Hound and Blurr, who are our guests in Praxus. And seventeen brave mechs, all royal guards, gave their lives yesterday to protect us. The dead include one of my own personal guards, Treadline.” Smokescreen’s voice hitched at his dead guard’s designation, and he bowed his helm. “Primus, guide their sparks to your side.”

The Court repeated the prayer for the dead in a murmur. “Primus, guide their sparks to your side.”

In the moments of silence after the invocation, Smokescreen quietly pulled a deep vent. He knew the next part of the agenda would be even more difficult.

The Cavalry members who had seen Smokescreen’s smoke had been taken aback by the crown prince’s new ability. They might have kept the information quiet, except that the magnetic particles in the smoke adhered to anything metal that they touched. The mercenaries who had been chasing the hunting group were covered in it. A film of fine black particles coated their plating, their sensors, and had been pulled in through their vents. When they were hauled back to the capital, it didn’t take long for the story of what happened to them to make its way through the Cavalry, to the dungeon guards, to the palace staff, and then to members of the Court.

Even on his way down to the throne room this morning, Smokescreen had seen servants giving him odd looks. He didn’t know if they were looks of curiosity, or if they were wary looks. He hoped that they were not afraid of him; that was not the type of respect that Smokescreen wanted to command, especially from mechs who worked in his own home.

“The next item on the agenda,” said Prowl, his voice flat, ”as requested by Lords Dart, Brushviper, Crossflare, Tailstrike, and Volt, is the question of the use of arcane power by the Crown Prince Smokescreen.”

The throne room erupted with raised voices.

“How long has Prince Smokescreen been using arcane power?”

“Surely the prince is aware of the penalty for using magic?”

“If Prince Smokescreen is banished, how long until Prince Prowl becomes king?”

“Sorcerers were banned from Praxus for a reason!”

“Is it true he can put mechs into stasis with his exhaust?”

It took every bit of energy Smokescreen had to keep his door wings from falling. He had been afraid of this reaction.

The king lifted the heavy glaive and thumped it against the floor, silencing the rabble. “Let Prince Smokescreen speak,” he said, his voice sounding thin and reedy. Smokescreen knew the king would need to retire soon to rest.

Smokescreen pulled another vent of air, then lifted his door wings high. “About four orbital cycles ago, I began feeling ill,” Smokescreen said evenly. “It was not anything very distressing... It only felt like an upset tank. Just recently, with the assistance of Masters Auger and Triage, we determined that the discomfort was because I was producing thick quantities of black magnetic smoke. In root mode, it seemed to serve no purpose. But when I am in vehicle mode, the smoke acts as a concealing cloud behind me. And no... It does not place mechs into stasis.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the murmurs that were rising in the Court gallery. “I used the smoke yesterday to help escape from the attackers.” Smokescreen raised both hands and gestured at his lower abdomen. “The smoke... It just happens. It’s not something I can control, except when I release it. I’m not consciously using arcane energy, nor can I wield any sort of magical power. All the magic seems to do is create the smoke.” He lifted his chin and stared out at the Court, trying to project as much sincerity as he could. “I am no sorcerer.”

“How do we know that this smoke isn’t dangerous?”

Prowl flicked a wing. “The mercenaries that were captured yesterday were covered by the smoke. The material in the smoke seems to merely be a physical barrier, and it washed off easily. Master Triage and Master Auger have both examined the prisoners, and found they are suffering no ill effects from it.”

“What punishment is being levied against the prince for his flaunting of the law?”

The king’s helm turned, seeming to look for whoever had spoken. “Prince Smokescreen would likely not be alive today if he had not used his new power to escape from the mechs who were trying to kill him. I am forgiving him for this infraction.” He waved his free hand. “And in light of the changes being seen all over Cybertron, the law is being reconsidered.”

“With respect, Your Majesty, the law says that-“

Smokescreen saw a flurry of motion in the back of the room as Lord Caelum swayed on his pedes, and then collapsed.

Before Smokescreen could even react, he heard a roar of an engine next to him, and the king surged to his pedes. With his optics blazing, King Cygnus spread his door wings wide and banged the butt of the glaive on the dais floor with a resounding clang.

“My word IS the law!” King Cygnus thundered. He glared around the suddenly silent throne room, his door wings quivering.

Smokescreen stared at his sire, then looked across at Prowl, whose optics were as wide as Smokescreen’s felt. This was a side of their sire that they had not seen in vorn... Not since his illness had started progressing.

King Cygnus’s engine rumbled as he looked around at the Court. “In the past vorn, we have heard from our new allies. The Court has seen these reports. All across this hemisphere, and perhaps beyond, mechs are gaining powers that were once thought lost to time.” The king looked pointedly at several nobles, and Smokescreen wondered if these were the mechs who had been shouting earlier. “If your own creation suddenly began showing the ability to wield some sort of arcane power, what would you do?” he asked. “Banish them, as you are suggesting I do to my creation? Or help them to wield their new ability safely, and in the best way they can?” In the silence that followed his question, the king slowly sat back down in the throne. “Tell them, Prowl,” he murmured, the fire suddenly gone from his voice.

Glancing at the back of the throne room, Smokescreen felt a wave of relief as he saw their carrier being helped into a chair. Halfsteel knelt at his side, patting Caelum’s hand. The King’s Consort’s colour was off, but he was still online, and was looking directly at Smokescreen. Lord Caelum gave Smokescreen a small nod.

Prowl lifted his door wings and audibly reset his vocalizer. “We have asked the Arcane Academy in Rodion for a resident sorcerer, to work alongside Master Auger,” he said. “Magic is a tool to be used, not a weapon to be feared. However, if we do not have a sorcerer here, we are vulnerable to attacks that use magic. We have determined that magic was used to create the object that almost killed Prince Bluestreak and Ranger Hound. We must have a way to counter this.” Quiet murmurs of assent rippled through the Court. “We are also discussing with our new allies how they manage the use of magic in their borders. And in the meantime...” Prowl glanced at Smokescreen. “The Crown Prince Smokescreen has promised to not wield his power, except in self-defense, until the updated law can be put in place.”

Smokescreen nodded, and said, “This I swear.”

He and Prowl had discussed his new ability briefly last night, knowing that it would be an issue with some of the more traditionalist members of the Court. Smokescreen knew that getting agreement with the Court may be an issue, but he was more worried about how the commoners would see it. He hoped that the fact his power was rather benign would make it easier for mechs to accept.

However, the frightened looks he’d received in the palace this morning made him unsure how news of his new power was going to be received by regular Praxians.

King Cygnus looked around the throne room once more, then handed the glaive to Prowl. “We are done here,” he said weakly.

Smokescreen gently helped his sire to his pedes, and then watched as the king’s attendants helped him off the dais and down the aisle. When they reached the back of the throne room, Caelum fell into step behind him, also supported by one of his attendants. As soon as they left the room, Prowl thumped the glaive on the floor once more. “The Court is hereby released.”

Smokescreen slowly let out a long vent of air as he watched the members of the Court begin filtering out of the throne room. Some of the nobles gathered in small groups as they left, casting glances back at the princes. He watched as Lady Crossflare glared up at them, and then pushed her way through the crowd and out of the throne room.

Smokescreen stepped close to Prowl as his brother laid the glaive across the throne again. “That could have gone better,” he said quietly.

“But it could also have gone worse,” Prowl said. His optics focused on Lord Halfsteel, who was wending his way upstream through the nobles who were trying to leave the room. “And I think it might have been worse if Sire hadn’t spoken up like he had.”

“Yeah.” Smokescreen frowned and pulled Halfsteel up onto the dais beside them as soon as he got close. “Steel... How is our carrier?”

Halfsteel’s door wings dipped low. “I think he’ll be fine, Your Highness,” he said. “He recovered quickly. After we got him into a chair, he said that he was just surprised?” He frowned. “I’m not sure what he was talking about.”

Smokescreen looked at Prowl grimly. “We do,” he said softly, then looked back at Halfsteel. “Thank you for sitting with him.”

Halfsteel bobbed his helm in a half bow. “There’s something else, Your Highness,” he said. “I just received word from the border. The contingent from Vos is expected to arrive this evening, as originally scheduled. The original plans called for you to meet them at the palace gates, but I know you’re tired...” Halfsteel trailed off uncertainly.

“Frag,” Smokescreen muttered. “I forgot.” He rubbed his face with both hands and looked at Halfsteel again. “Yeah, I need some recharge before I meet them. Can you have someone come wake me a groon or so before they’re due to arrive?”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Halfsteel said with a deeper bow. “Meanwhile, I’ll complete the preparations for their arrival.”

As Halfsteel turned to go, Smokescreen reached out and gripped Halfsteel’s arm. “And Steel,” he said quietly. He waited until Halfsteel’s optics met his before continuing. “I still want to have that discussion. About us. When we’re both free.”

Halfsteel’s optics brightened. “Sh-shall I ask your scribe to add it to your schedule?” he asked. After the initial stammer, the question sounded just like the meeting would be about what colour tapestries should be installed in a guest apartment, and not about their relationship... And certainly not about interfacing.

Smokescreen laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Yeah, do that,” he said. “That’s probably the only way we’ll find the time to do this. Tomorrow evening?” And maybe it was because he was tired, or because he’d been terrified of dying without letting Halfsteel how he really felt about him, but Smokescreen decided that he didn’t want to wait any longer. He turned slightly and lifted a door wing, slightly shielding his face from Prowl’s gaze. “In my apartments? For the evening.”

Optics wide, Halfsteel stared at Smokescreen for a moment before smiling shyly. “It will be done, Your Highness,” he said, then bowed again. He turned and stepped off the dais, his wings fluttering slightly as he descended into the almost empty throne room.

Smokescreen watched the noble go, and felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. He felt his own door wings give an involuntary twitch.

Ignoring Prowl’s raised brow ridge, Smokescreen rubbed his forehelm. He could feel the beginnings of another helmache coming on. He hoped that recharge would fix that problem, at least. “Prowl, can you please check on Streaks before the Vosians arrive? I’d like him there to greet them, too, but only if he’s feeling up to it.”

Prowl nodded. “Of course.” Prowl turned towards the stairs and inclined his helm. “Hello, Lord Overcast.”

Smokescreen glanced up and saw Overcast standing by the dais. The noble’s hands were clutched together, and his door wings were low on his back. Stepping off the dais, Smokescreen said, “What can we do for you?”

Overcast looked from Smokescreen to Prowl and back, wringing his hands, before seeming to collect himself. “I wanted to thank you, Your Highness, for being so open about your... ability.”

Smokescreen said, “Well, after so many mechs saw me use it yesterday, there wasn’t anything I could do to keep it a secret. And I wanted to be open about what we’ve been facing. That’s why we brought the issue of the assassination attempts to the Court.” He shrugged and gave Overcast a quick smile. “I know that it doesn’t look good... You know, the Crown Prince using unauthorized magic. But there’s honestly nothing I can do to stop the smoke from forming. Not that we’ve found, anyway.”

Overcast began shaking his helm as Smokescreen spoke. “The fact that you’re bringing a sorcerer here, and changing the law...” His door wings shuddered. “It means a lot to me, and Lord Indigo. You see...” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “One of our creations has... We think he’s developed a power, like you.” Overcast gave Smokescreen a look of fear. “And we’re so afraid... He might hurt himself. Or... Or die.” His last word was spit out in a burst of static.

Prowl frowned. “What can he do?” When Overcast covered his face with his hands, Prowl put his hand on the noble’s shoulder. “Take your time,” he murmured.

As Overcast collected himself again, Smokescreen met Prowl’s gaze over Overcast’s helm. More mechs with powers? How many more would there be? Smokescreen pressed his lips together. They needed advice from a real sorcerer, and quickly.

Overcast finally pulled himself together. “Little Gadget... He’s only ten, you know. He’s started... falling through things. Being able to pass through them.” He shrugged. “He can go through walls, and once he fell through the upper floor of our home to the lower level, and banged himself up pretty badly,” Overcast said. He heaved a noisy vent. “It seems to only happen when he’s frightened or angry, but...” Overcast looked at Smokescreen, his optics bright with emotion. “What if he falls and never stops? What if he gets stuck? What if someone sees him do it?” His last words were hissed in fear. “What if he’s banished from Praxus? What would we do then? We need someone to help him. To control it. To understand it. To not hurt himself.” Overcast lowered his helm. “So... Thank you for being open about your ability. I know I’ve seen it in my house. Perhaps others have as well. And... It means a lot to know that we’re not alone, and that you’re looking for help.”

Smokescreen stared at Overcast, dumbfounded. He knew Gadget: the bright youngling often accompanied Overcast and Indigo on their trips to the palace. It hadn’t occurred to him that he hadn’t seen the youngling recently.

Prowl patted Overcast’s shoulder. “As soon as we have a sorcerer here, we will see that Gadget gets the proper training for his new ability,” he said. Prowl smiled encouragingly as Overcast’s door wings slowly lifted. “And in time, I hope that his power will be accepted in Praxus. After all,” Prowl said, looking up at Smokescreen, “even the king will be a magic user.”

Chapter Text

Bluestreak didn’t think that he had ever felt such a spark-deep relief as when Hound had finally come out of recharge, feeling rested and almost back to normal.

Early afternoon, long after Prowl had come to invite Bluestreak to greet the Vosians when they arrived, Hound had come back online. Bluestreak had been sitting next to the medical slab, drifting in and out of recharge himself, when he felt Hound’s presence in his spark slowly brighten as he woke. Bluestreak held Hound’s hand and watched as Hound’s optics slowly opened and focused on him. “Hey there, Blue,” Hound said, his vocalizer rough with recharge, like it always was when he came out of a deep defrag cycle.

“Hey there, love,” Bluestreak whispered. He smiled at Hound, not bothering to dampen the joy he felt at seeing Hound’s optics brighten.

Hound remembered everything that had happened, right up until he’d slipped into stasis on the way back to the palace. Master Triage seemed content at Hound’s recovery, but requested that Hound return to the medical bay the next cycle just to make there were no lasting effects from his exhaustion.

“But one more thing,” Triage had said as Hound was preparing to leave the bay. “I think you should refrain from using your power until you can be sure of your limitations. I think Prince Prowl mentioned you have a sorcerer in Iacon?”

“Yeah, Wheeljack. He’s just visiting, but I think he might be planning to stay for the longer term,” Bluestreak said.

Triage nodded. “See if you can work with him. Let him know what happened. He might have some advice how to stop from overextending yourself again.”

It was good advice, Bluestreak thought. Hound had nodded and agreed to wait until they got back to Iacon before using his powers again.

“But if something happens, I’m not going to hesitate to use them to protect you again,” Hound said as they left the medical bay.

Bluestreak gripped Hound’s hand tightly. “I know that,” he said. “I just hope you won’t have to.”

Earlier that morning, Commander Ultra Magnus had also stopped into the medical bay and asked Bluestreak to come to his guest apartments when Hound came out of stasis “for a discussion.” They made their way to his rooms slowly, as Hound was still feeling a little weak. When they arrived, they found Blurr already there, looking vaguely unhappy.

It wasn’t long before Bluestreak realized what had caused the sour look on Blurr’s face.

“Bluestreak, I advised your brother that I am unimpressed by the fact that you’ve been subjected to the danger of assassination ever since arriving in Praxus,” Ultra Magnus said. “But your special position here almost lets me forgive that. What I can’t forgive, though, is that Hound and Blurr have now been subjected to the same danger.” He crossed his arms and looked at each Ranger in turn. “While I would like to stay and represent Iacon for Prince Smokescreen’s coronation, I believe it might be wise to return to Iacon immediately, in light of the security problems here. However, I am willing to listen to what you all would like to do.”

Bluestreak lifted his door wings and was about to reply, but Blurr spoke up first. “If it’s all the same to you, sir, I’d rather stay here to see the coronation.” When Ultra Magnus turned to look at him, Blurr shrugged. “It’s been nice here! I mean, when I’m not getting shot at, that is, and that’s only happened once. There’s the track, which is fantastic, and the gardens, which are really nice to just sit in and relax. And I’ve picked up a few new drink recipes that I want to try out when we get back to Iacon, mixes that hadn’t occurred to me. Plus, I’ve never seen a coronation, and I doubt I’ll ever get invited to another one, so this seems like a once-in-a-lifetime chance. So... I’d like to stay. Sir.”

Ultra Magnus blinked at Blurr’s rapid fire explanation for why he wanted to stay, then nodded. “Noted,” he said. He turned to Bluestreak and Hound. “Do you have anything to add, Rangers?”

Hound smiled. “I know Bluestreak’s staying, sir. And if he stays, I stay.” He glanced at Bluestreak. “Like Blurr said, I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to see a royal coronation again. And the Praxians really are trying their hardest to keep us safe. They just seem a bit... outclassed by what’s going on.”

Giving Hound a grateful nudge over their bond, Bluestreak nodded at the Commander. “My brothers and carrier are doing their best, sir,” he said. “And I actually feel pretty safe in Praxus. Everything bad that’s happened to us has been outside the city walls. They have the palace and city pretty well in hand.” He lifted his chin. “I’m staying, sir.”

Looking between the three of them, Ultra Magnus grunted. “Very well. Although I can’t say I’m surprised by your decisions.” He waved his hand. “You are dismissed. Thank you for your time.”

As they left Ultra Magnus’s apartments, Blurr let out a dramatic vent of air. “Whew! I thought for sure he was going to send us back to Iacon. I’m having too good of a time here... I really didn’t want to leave!”

Bluestreak nodded. “Me too,” he said. In the Prime’s absence, Ultra Magnus was technically their superior. He was glad that he didn’t have to force the issue of wanting to stay for his brother’s coronation.

Bluestreak and Hound spent the rest of the afternoon in their apartments, resting before the Vosians arrived. Hound sat on the balcony of their room and looked down at the gardens, drowsing off and on, while Bluestreak methodically disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled his rifle. He’d discovered that the ritualized motions of maintaining his weapon was calming, and placed his processor in the same altered state that meditation did.

As Bluestreak felt the gentle peace surround his spark, he quietly gave thanks to Primus that he and Hound made it back to the palace alive, and that Smokescreen had found the purpose behind his power. Even with the assassination attempts, things were going as well as could be expected. As he finished reassembling his rifle, Bluestreak offered up another prayer, for his brothers to remain well and happy, even after he left.

But when Bluestreak set his rifle against the wall and went out to sit with Hound on the balcony, he tried to make sense of the melancholy feeling that had settled over his spark after that final prayer.

The sun had just set when a servant came to fetch Bluestreak. Hound trailed along, eager to see Thundercracker again. The Vosian had come to see them several times when they were recovering in the Iacon citadel after the battle, and had always had a kind word for them. He’d also given Hound several pads with short stories that he’d written, which Bluestreak had read to Hound when they were still confined to their berths. Later, Hound had re-read them on his own, checking with Bluestreak when he ran into a word he couldn’t decipher.

When they arrived at the entrance of the palace, Bluestreak immediately picked up on the change in security from when the Polyhexians arrived. The courtyard was crawling with guards and Cavalry members, and even the walls of the palace grounds seemed to bristle with armed mechs.

“Is all of this necessary?” Bluestreak asked Smokescreen. His brother looked better than he had in the morning; perhaps he’d finally gotten some rest. “They’re supposed to be our friends, remember?” He knew that a lot of Praxians still viewed Vos with some unease, especially since the Vosians were responsible for razing Praxus so long ago. But surely it was time to move on from that.

Smokescreen nodded. “I know,” he said. “But I got into a huge argument with a few Court members a few cycles ago about this and I decided to just give them what they wanted. But don’t worry. It’s just for show.” He looked around at all the armed mechs and leaned closer to his brother. “Commander Irridus and the other Cavalry officers have a lot of respect for what the Vosians did in the battle with Shockwave. Most of this,” he said, gesturing at the armed mechs lining the walls, “is for the Court members who won’t give up their old prejudices.”

The sound of loud, unfamiliar engines in the distance caused every optic in the courtyard to turn skyward. Soon, over the palace wall, eight seekers came into view. Above the empty area in the middle of the courtyard, the mechs transformed and fell the last few meters to land in an almost synchronized motion.

It was a stunning display, especially for mechs who had never even seen a flight frame. Bluestreak noticed that many of the palace guards seemed to be gripping their weapons more tightly than they had before. He hoped that none of them did anything stupid.

Three of the mechs stepped forward, and Bluestreak recognized the one on the left. Thundercracker’s blue paint looked bright and polished, far better than he had the last time he’d seen the seeker. Then again, he supposed that the Vosian had not just finished fighting a huge battle.

Prowl inclined his helm and dipped his door wings at the grey and red seeker in the middle. “Emperor Starscream,” Prowl said, extending his arm to the Vosian. “Welcome to Praxus. I hope your journey was uneventful.”

The Emperor looked at Prowl’s hand for a moment before gripping Prowl’s arm in return. “Thank you. The journey was quick, at least,” he said in a voice that sounded like steel dragging on concrete.

Prowl turned and gestured at Smokescreen, who had also descended the stairs to stand beside him. “Emperor, allow me to introduce Crown Prince Smokescreen. Smokescreen, this is Emperor Starscream, his Sky Commander Thundercracker, and Magus Skywarp.”

As Smokescreen greeted the Vosians, Bluestreak looked at the sorcerer. The black and purple seeker had arcane symbols etched in his armor, much like Wheeljack had. The seeker seemed unsettled. His optics flitted all over the courtyard, looking at the guards, the palace, the carving on the stairs, never seeming to linger in one place for more than a few moments at a time. He paused and narrowed his optics when he looked at Smokescreen, then again at Strikeback, who hovered behind the prince. Then Skywarp’s gaze focused on Bluestreak and Hound, and there it stayed. The sorcerer stared for so long that Bluestreak started to feel uncomfortable.

It felt like he was being sized up for something.

Bluestreak looked away from the sorcerer when Commander Irridus formally greeted Thundercracker. The large blue seeker bowed deeply to Irridus, sincerely thanking him for the aid that Praxus had provided to the allied forces during the Battle of the Plurex Flats. “Without Praxus, we surely all would have been lost,” Thundercracker said, his deep voice resonating through the courtyard. “Thank you for your assistance in the fight.”

Gradually, Bluestreak could feel the tension in the courtyard easing as the Vosians graciously greeted each mech in turn. Hound got a turn as well, thanking Thundercracker for the stories that he’d given him.

“He got you to read his dreck, hmm?” Starscream asked Hound. Starscream’s mouth curved up into a smile and he glanced at Thundercracker. “I didn’t know you’d subjected anyone else to your stories.”

“I loved them!” said Hound enthusiastically. “They were a really good diversion while we recovered.”

Thundercracker seemed to ignore the jibe that Starscream had thrown at him with ease, and his wings waved behind him. “I’m very glad you liked them,” he said. He smiled. “I have a few more I can give you, if you’d like.”

“Oh, yes, please!” Hound said.

Finally, with dusk settling over the courtyard, Lord Halfsteel offered to show the Vosians to their guest apartments. Emperor Starscream and Thundercracker started up the stairs, followed by the guards and attendants who had accompanied them. But Magus Skywarp lingered, staring at Bluestreak and Hound with his helm tilted.

Bluestreak met his gaze, feeling unnerved. He’d heard stories of unstable sorcerers who had gone insane, their processors succumbing to the degradation of the arcane power they wielded. Bluestreak’s interactions with Wheeljack had set his processor at ease in that regard, especially after Wheeljack explained that registered sorcerers had to submit to inspections by the Academy once a vorn. But the fixated look Skywarp was giving them set off all kinds of alarms in Bluestreak’s helm.

Suddenly, Skywarp crossed the space between them, covering the distance quickly on his long legs. He looked down at Bluestreak with bright red optics and an intense expression. “What’s happened to your sparks?” he asked.

Bluestreak gaped up at the Vosian for a moment before recovering. He’d forgotten just how tall Vosians were compared to Praxians. “Our what?” he asked when he recovered.

“Your sparks.” Skywarp pointed a single digit at the center of Bluestreak’s chest armor, right over where his spark was. “Something’s happened to them.” He looked at Hound with the same intense expression. “What was it?”

Hound looked up at Skywarp and smiled. Bluestreak could feel the tension in Hound, but the green mech answered the sorcerer’s question openly. “They were damaged during the battle with the Unmaker. Magus Wheeljack isn’t sure exactly what happened, but it’s mostly healed now.”

“Wheeljack?” Skywarp puffed a dismissive laugh. “He wouldn’t know. He’s all about making things go boom. He wouldn’t pay any attention to the origin of...” He clamped his mouth shut again and glanced around. His wings bobbed around as his optics looked here and there before settling back on Hound. “This whole place is soaked in magic, including a lot of the mechs here.” He gestured randomly around the courtyard, then pointed at Hound. “And you’re oozing with light power. It’s one-toned; I’m guessing you’re one of those new outliers. But your sparks...” He squinted at them both again. “Something has happened to you two. Something I can’t figure out.”

“Skywarp! I’m tired.” Starscream’s voice made Skywarp’s wings jerk. “Let’s go. You can worry about that in the morning.”

Without removing his optics from Bluestreak, Skywarp replied, “Go on. I’ll find you later.”

With an impatient flick of his wings, Starscream put his fists on his hips. “I said no warping here! Come on!”

Skywarp rolled his optics. “Ugh. Fine.” His intense expression suddenly vanished as his face broke into a smile. “Very weird. I’ve never tasted anything like this before,” he said, his digit drifting towards Bluestreak’s chest again. Then he balled his hand into a fist and shrugged. “But duty calls!” He bounded up the stairs in two steps, and joined the group as they entered the palace.

Bluestreak let out the vent of air that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He looked at Hound. “What did you think that was all about?” he asked as they slowly followed the group up the stairs into the palace.

Hound shrugged. “I’m not sure.” He rubbed his own chest above his spark. “But... You know, I’ll be glad when we get back to Iacon. I’m willing to stay for the coronation, of course, but... Maybe I’m just tired, but I think the distance is getting to me finally.”

“No, it’s starting to bother me, too,” Bluestreak said. The old pain in his spark was back, seemingly exacerbated by Skywarp dredging up the memory of the damage they’d received. He slung his arm around Hound’s waist and pulled him close. “We’ll be heading back home in less than a deca-cycle. Not too much longer.”

It wasn’t until later that night that Bluestreak realized he’d referred to Iacon as home.

The breakthrough they were looking for finally came about because of greed. Prowl was not surprised by that in the least.

Upon interrogation, the mercenaries that had been captured in the Royal Preserve quickly gave up the designation of who had hired them: Crossflare. The leader of the group had looked up at the Cavalry captain who was questioning him and snorted. “You want to know who hired us? No problem, I’ll tell you, because we were not getting paid anywhere near enough. If we’d known that we’d be up against a sorcerer, we’d have charged double what we did... And we would have been more prepared.”

Prowl thanked Primus that the mercenaries hadn’t known about Smokescreen’s powers before their attempt on his life.

Crossflare’s involvement was corroborated by the surveillance team who’d had her home staked out for several orbital cycles. The leader of the mercenaries had been seen coming and going from her place at least three times. After discussing it briefly with Smokescreen, Prowl signed the order for her arrest and handed it to Strikeback.

It hadn’t taken them long, however, to discover that she had left the capital shortly after the meeting with the full Court. Prowl hoped that she could be taken into custody at her residence in Emerald Lake without incident. He very much wanted to see her put on trial for the pain she’d put their family through.

A few groons after Prowl signed the arrest order, Lord Caelum came to see him. “Do you have a few kliks?” Caelum asked when he entered Prowl’s office.

Prowl waved his carrier into a comfortable chair by the window. “Should you be up and about? How are you feeling?” he asked. He hovered beside Caelum as the King’s Consort sat down. “Do you want some fuel? Or some tea?”

“I’m fine, Prowl,” Caelum said, patting the chair next to him. As Prowl sat down, Caelum smiled at him. “I just came to talk. I wanted to tell you again how well you handled the emergency with Smokescreen.”

Prowl lowered his optics. He’d never taken praise well; it always made him feel as though the other mech was trying to find good things to say about him. He knew that was silly, but he’d never been able to shake that impression. “I just did what needed to be done,” he said quietly.

“I know, just as you always have,” Caelum said. When Prowl looked up at his carrier, Caelum flicked his wings up encouragingly. “When your Uncle Monsoon deactivated, you stepped up to take his place as Seneschal, even though you’d barely been a vorn into your adult upgrades.” He grabbed Prowl’s hand in his. “You’ve always done what needed to be done... And you’ve done it very well.” He gave Prowl’s hand a gentle shake. “And that’s not just my opinion. Your sire has always thought the same thing, even if he’s never told you so.”

Feeling his face begin to flush, Prowl dropped his optics again and stared at the floor. He wanted his carrier to go on, to tell him exactly what he’d done so well that had earned his sire’s praise, but he also wanted this topic to never be brought up again. Silly, he knew, but Prowl had never had a good handle on his more positive emotions. “Thank you, carrier,” he finally murmured. He reset his vocalizer so that his feelings weren’t given away by static. “Was there something else you needed?”

“Yes,” Caelum said, dropping Prowl’s hand. His expression grew serious. “Halfsteel came to tell me the news about Crossflare.”

Prowl sat up and flicked his wings. Work. He could talk about work. “A squad of trusted soldiers is leaving now to bring her back to the palace,” Prowl said with no small amount of satisfaction. “Hopefully this will all be over soon.”

Caelum’s face remained pensive, and his door wings were low. “I can’t believe it was her,” he said quietly. His optics drifted to the floor. “We were friends, you know. It’s one of the reasons she was a member of the Inner Court.” Caelum looked up at Prowl somberly. “I convinced your sire to give her a seat.”

Prowl could not stop his door wings from flicking upwards in surprise. “You were... friends?” he asked in disbelief. “But she’s so... So...” He hunted for a way to say ‘condescending, self-centered and rude’ but without the negative connotations. He came up empty.

“I know.” Caelum let out a vent of air. “She was always a bit full of herself, and always enjoyed the pretty things in life. I guess I looked past that when we were young because she listened to me.” Caelum shook his helm. “I never, ever thought that one day she would try to kill my creations.” His hands balled into fists in his lap. “Part of me hopes that it’s not true... But if she’s not responsible, that means you and your brothers are still in danger.” He stared down at the ground. “And obviously I don’t want that either.”

Hesitantly, Prowl put his hand on his carrier’s arm, but couldn’t think of what he could say. So he settled for, “I’m so sorry.”

Caelum looked up at Prowl and smiled. “But that’s not the main reason why I’m here,” he said. “I mostly came by because I wanted to ask you what General Jazz wanted to speak to me about... Before all this ugliness happened.” Caelum squinted at Prowl like he used to when Prowl was a youngling, and the carrier had known that his middle creation was up to one of his schemes. “The meeting invitation was very mysterious. It just said ‘To discuss our future arrangements’.”

Prowl sat up straight. Of course: he and Jazz had been on their way to the king’s apartments when they’d heard that Smokescreen’s hunting party had been attacked. He briefly debated demurring, saying that Jazz should be the one to tell Caelum what they’d wanted to discuss. But the chance to ask his carrier’s advice won over his processor.

“The General... Jazz... He wanted to ask your permission to court me,” Prowl said. He was startled by the small nervous laugh that escaped his vocalizer. Actually saying that Jazz wanted to court him made it seem more real, somehow.

Caelum’s optics widened. “He wants to court you?” he asked. He tipped his helm to the side and smiled. “Why does he need our permission?”

That was not the response Prowl had been expecting. He flicked his door wings to resettle them. “Jazz said that’s how it’s done in Polyhex, in the upper classes. Although, he said it’s usually just a formality. But he said he wants to do this right.” Prowl suppressed another nervous laugh. Just thinking about Jazz had sent his spark into a quick, flurried spin. “But I told him... I said I wasn’t sure how things would work now... Now that the cultivation plan was ended. How will the Court react? What if this causes more trouble for Smokescreen? And I don’t know what Sire will say.” Prowl knitted his digits together in his lap, half wanting Caelum to tell him that he was right, and half dreading that answer. He pulled a deep vent. “I think I just need someone to tell me that I’m being anxious for nothing.”

Leaning back in his chair, Caelum smiled. “Oh, Prowl. You’ve heard how well Bluestreak and Hound’s bonding has gone over with the citizens of Praxus. They see themselves in Hound. To be perfectly honest, having another of the princes bonded to an outsider would only help Smokescreen’s cause.” He shrugged. “If you’re really worried, talk to Smokescreen and get his opinion. In just a few cycles, it will be his decision anyway.”

Prowl frowned at the floor, considering his carrier’s words. “And what about Sire?”

Caelum thought for a moment, then shook his helm. “Your sire’s attitudes about many things have changed over the past few vorn. And... He is so pleased that Bluestreak has found someone he cares for so much. Someone to help heal his sparkache.” He held out his hand for Prowl’s, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Tell me about this General Jazz of yours.”

Prowl looked at Caelum in surprise. “You’ve met him,” he said, confused.

“Yes,” Caelum said. He gave Prowl’s hand another squeeze. “But tell me what you see when you look at him. I know you’ve been friends ever since you met. So... Tell me about him.”

Prowl took another deep vent and tried to summarize ‘Jazz.’ “He is an excellent General. He fought admirably at the Battle of the Plurex Flats. His soldiers followed his orders without question. He is brave. Upon hearing about the attack on Smokescreen’s hunt, he immediately volunteered to go with Commander Irridus.” When Caelum nodded encouragingly, Prowl continued. “He is a musician. He plays several instruments. He... wrote me a song, which he played for me after they arrived here. He is an excellent dancer. He is quick-witted. He makes me laugh.” He smiled at his carrier, and let his wings flutter behind him. “He is a good friend.”

“It sounds as if you like him a lot,” Caelum said.

“I very much enjoy the time I spend with him,” Prowl said. As his carrier’s smile widened, Prowl added, “And yes... I do like him.” He ducked his helm to hide the flush he felt growing on his face.

“So when he comes to ask our permission to court you, how would you like us to respond?” Caelum asked.

Prowl lifted his helm slightly and looked at Caelum with a small frown. “Carrier?”

Caelum gave Prowl’s hand a little shake. “Should we tell him no? Or should we tell him that yes... He has our blessing to court you? What would you like us to say?”

Prowl stared at Caelum with wide optics for a moment, then laughed. “I see. You are trying to reinforce that this is my decision.” When Caelum nodded, Prowl pulled another full vent and replied, “I... I would like you to say yes.”

Caelum smiled and leaned forward to plant a kiss on the side of Prowl’s helm. “You’ve always been a stubborn thing, Prowl. I’m glad you finally see that this is your decision now.” His optics were bright as he looked into Prowl’s. “And we will of course tell him that you both have our blessing.”

Dealing with the Vosians was unlike anything Smokescreen had had to do yet in his role as the crown prince.

Fortunately, Prowl had learned some things about the Vosians on his trip to the neighbouring country, and was able to give Smokescreen sufficient warning about how to handle Emperor Starscream. The Emperor was proud and a little vain, but ultimately fair. He was also shrewd, so it behooved Smokescreen to play fair in return. That suited Smokescreen just fine; he didn’t want the new relationship with a former enemy marred by underhanded tricks right from the start.

Prowl had also explained that the emperor almost never went anywhere without his two most trusted friends. The Vosians called them “trine,” and had explained it as something like a family structure. When Prowl had tried to get more information about what a trine entailed, it had been explained as a bond between three mechs. But its importance in Vosian society had made Prowl suspect that there was something more than that.

What little Praxians remembered about Vosians was steeped in mythology and fairy tales. Smokescreen remembered hearing stories as a youngling about what monsters Vosians were. The stories told of huge, towering mechs, with optics of fire and razor sharp fangs. While the Vosians were tall, and had red optics and visible fangs, Smokescreen decided that most those sparkling tales were just exaggeration. But he also realized that getting more information about Vos in general would be useful.

Whatever a trine was, the two mechs who came along with the emperor couldn’t have been more different from one another, as Smokescreen soon learned. Starscream was demanding and loud, while Thundercracker seemed to balance him out as a soothing presence. Meanwhile, Skywarp oscillated between putting a smile on the Emperor’s face with his antics, or drawing exasperated sighs from both of his friends.

Everyone wanted a look at the Vosians. Starscream and Thundercracker took a brief, very scripted tour of the city. Everywhere they went, the streets were lined with commoners craning their necks to get a look at the visitors.

It was no wonder. The Vosians were taller than Praxians, and made for striking figures with their broad wings. They would have been extremely intimidating, but Smokescreen noticed that they seemed to move more slowly in the crowded streets, careful of the mechs around them. They even tucked in their wings to make their profiles smaller. And Thundercracker had made an offhand comment indicating that Skywarp had been left behind at the palace on purpose so he would not alarm mechs. “He can be very... intense,” Thundercracker had said. “For mechs who are already uncertain about sorcerers, his mannerisms may cause some worry.”

It seemed like they wanted this visit to go off well just as much as Smokescreen was anxious for it to.

After the tour, Smokescreen and Prowl joined the Emperor and both of his companions in the garden for energon tea. Starscream seemed especially taken by the tea that was served, stating that they didn’t have this flavour of tea back in Vos.

“We’ll be sure to send some back with you, then,” Smokescreen said. He took a sip of the tea to hide his smile. Their carrier had always said that a lot of friendships could be made over a cup of tea. It seemed like he was right.

“There was a matter that we wanted to discuss with you, regarding magic,” Prowl said in a businesslike tone, looking at Skywarp. The sorcerer had finished his tea and had turned his cup upside down. He was busying himself by examining the bottom of the ceramic tea cup and tapping it with a talon. The tea cup looked comically small in his large hands.

Starscream nudged Skywarp with his elbow, and Skywarp looked up. “Oh! I was wondering when you were going to get to that. This place just reeks of magic, you know.” Skywarp turned his cup right side up and refilled it with tea. “Let me guess: now that you’ve gotten the crankshaft out of your tailpipes about magic, you’ve asked the Academy to send you a sorcerer. But they haven’t responded.”

Prowl’s door wings flicked once. “Yes,” he replied. “But how did you-“

Skywarp leaned forward, rocking his chair forward as he stared at Prowl. “Look, everyone’s asking for sorcerers now. There are mechs gaining powers all over Cybertron, and even countries with healthy attitudes towards magic are blowing gaskets over it. The Academy is just overwhelmed.” He shrugged. “But I wouldn’t worry too much. It’s not like you’ve got sorcerers everywhere now. Most of these outliers have limited powers. None of them are going to go insane.” He pursed his lips for a moment, then added, “Probably.”

“Probably?” Smokescreen glanced at Prowl, and saw his brother’s brows knit themselves together in concern as he looked back at him. All he did was produce smoke; like he’d told the Court, he didn’t know how to make more, or even how to stop it. Surely that meant he wouldn’t go insane like untrained sorcerers did. Then again... How would he even know if he was slowly losing his grip on reality? “Is there any way to tell who will succumb to the madness?”

“Yep! But I can’t.” Skywarp leaned across the table and grabbed a rust stick from the container. “Only Inquisitors are trained to do that. But I honestly don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about with these new powers. There’s some kind of limiting factor on them, or something?” He munched on his rust stick. “To be honest I haven’t been paying much attention to all the discussions about it. It’s kind of boring. I’ll read up on it once they’ve got it figured out.”

“So the limiting factor stops the mech from going insane?” Smokescreen asked, still trying to sooth the anxiety that had formed in his processor.

“Sort of? It’s got more to do with how much arcane power you touch, or are exposed to. They’re pretty sure outliers can only pull power from a very narrow spectrum of the arcane.” Skywarp narrowed his optics at Smokescreen. “You, for instance. You can do something with metallurgy?”

Prowl’s door wings flared outwards at Skywarp’s words. Before Smokescreen could reply, Prowl asked, “How did you know that?”

Skywarp flicked his talons dismissively. “He smells like it. Pretty strong, too. Ok, so you can do something with metallurgy. Don’t tell me what! ...I’m guessing it’s just one, single thing that you can do.” When Smokescreen nodded, he grabbed another rust stick and held it up. “Can you do anything magical with this rust stick? Interacting with it magically should be easy for a sorcerer skilled in metallurgy.”

Smokescreen shook his helm. “I can eat it, but that’s about it.”

Nodding, Skywarp said. “Right. Your power is extremely limited, so much so that even though your outlier skill is in metallurgy, you can’t do even a simple thing with this. But even the least skilled sorcerer can access all spectrums of the arcane. Like, duplicate it.” A second rust stick appeared in Skywarp’s hand. “Make it look like something else.” One of the sticks turned into a crystal, which Skywarp then popped into his mouth. “Or actually turn it into something else.” With a flash of light, the remaining rust stick turned into a little turbofox toy that fit in Skywarp’s hand. “Or bring it to life!” The toy sat up and barked, its voice sounding tinny and shrill.

“Stop showing off, Warp,” Thundercracker said, his engines rumbling.

“Fine.” Skywarp tossed the tiny, yipping turbofox into the air, where it turned back into a rust stick. He caught it again and popped it into his mouth. “Anyway! Unless you can access all of those spectrums to their full extent, it’s really unlikely you’re going to go unstable.”

Ignoring Prowl’s wide-eyed look of horror at Skywarp’s antics, Smokescreen shook his helm. “No. I certainly don’t think I can do all that.” Thinking of Overcast’s plea for help for his youngling, Smokescreen added, “But we have mechs who need help with what powers they do have, though. We don’t want them hurting themselves, or others, before they manage to learn their limits. That’s what we need help with right now, immediately.”

Starscream flared his wings out to the side in an impressive display. “Skywarp is not staying here. He’s my sorcerer, and he will be coming back to Vos with me when we leave.”

Skywarp turned to smile at Starscream, then looked back to Smokescreen and waggled his wings. “He thinks I’m pretty and doesn’t want to let me go,” Skywarp said in a stage whisper. As Starscream rolled his optics, Skywarp shrugged. “To be honest, I wouldn’t be much help for those mechs anyway. I’m no teacher. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll send a note to one of the higher-ups at the Academy and let them know you’re just desperate for help, since you have no sorcerers at all. Would that help?”

Prowl nodded gratefully. “It would. Thank you.” He lowered his door wings. “I was afraid that they would not listen to us because of Praxus’s attitudes towards sorcerers in the past,” he said unhappily.

“You do have a pretty bad reputation in the Academy, I’ll give you that,” Skywarp said. He’d drained his teacup and then bit the edge of it. Sharpened dentae flashed in his mouth as he bore down on the ceramic before he took the cup out of his mouth again and frowned at it. “But if I mention you’re under new management, maybe they’ll reconsider.” He set the cup on the table upside down and leaned back in his chair. “And if there’s anything I can do while I’m here, let me know, and I’ll try.”

Yes, the discussions with the Vosians had gone far better than Smokescreen could have even dreamt. As a result, Smokescreen was in a great mood that evening.

Of course, it was possible that his good mood was caused by the mech who knocked on the door of his apartments just after dusk. The servants had just left after bringing the evening fuel service when Strikeback had stepped into his apartments. “Lord Halfsteel is here, Your Highness,” Strikeback said.

“Smokescreen,” Lord Halfsteel said as he entered the sitting room, his door wings lowered to a deferent angle. His wings twitched as Strikeback closed the door behind him, and he hesitated on the room’s threshold.

Smokescreen felt the crawling doubt that Halfsteel would actually come tonight vanish when he saw the noble’s shy smile. He jumped to his pedes and gestured at the seating area in the room. “Come in! Sit down. Let me get you some fuel.” Smokescreen stepped to the serving tray and began pouring cubes of fuel for them both. “I had the servants bring some bismuth shavings for you, since I remember you liked those. I was going to pour for you before you arrived, but then I realized I wasn’t sure how much bismuth you liked and I didn’t want to add too much.” He set the cubes down on the tray and began turning to face Halfsteel. “So if you wanted to mrrf!”

Halfsteel pressed his lips against Smokescreen’s, silencing him. Smokescreen’s door wings flared out to the side in surprise, and his optics went wide. Halfsteel’s optics were closed, and Smokescreen slowly relaxed into the kiss, closing his optics as well. Instead of tasting like high grade, like he had the last time they’d kissed, Halfsteel’s lips tasted faintly of oral cleanser. But they were just as soft as Smokescreen remembered.

After a few moments, Halfsteel broke off the kiss and pulled back. Smokescreen opened his optics again and saw Halfsteel looking at him with an apologetic tilt to his door wings. “I’m sorry,” Halfsteel said, smiling. “But I was afraid that if you kept talking, you’d never get to that part.” His optics dimmed slightly. “I hope that wasn’t too forward. You did say to give you a nudge if I thought you needed one.”

Smokescreen laughed and grabbed at Halfsteel’s hands. “Yes, I did. And thank you.” He held the noble’s hands tightly and stared at Halfsteel’s optics, which were just centimeters from his. They were clear and bright, and a fierce shade of gold. “So... Prowl said you’ve had a thing for me for a while,” he said. “I’m so sorry that I was utterly oblivious.”

Halfsteel’s optics widened. They were so close that Smokescreen could see the faint plasma lines behind his lenses. “Prince Prowl knew?” he asked. His look of shock quickly faded into a rueful smile and he glanced away. “Oh, Primus. I hope I wasn’t too obvious, making a fool of myself in front of everyone.”

“Well, I’m just glad that you finally told me,” Smokescreen said. He leaned in and kissed Halfsteel again, reacquainting himself with the supple feel of his lips. When they parted once more, Smokescreen leaned his chevron against Halfsteel’s and asked, “How long?”

Lowering his optics, Halfsteel said, “A few vorn.” He looked back up to meet Smokescreen’s gaze. “But you were always a friend first. It was our friendship that drew me to you, I think.”

Then Halfsteel leaned in to kiss him again, and the line of thought in Smokescreen’s processor fizzled into nothing for a few moments.

Smokescreen marveled at how they fit together, helms tilted just so, lips meshing together perfectly. His hands fell to Halfsteel’s waist as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and Halfsteel’s hands pressed into his back, pulling them together gently.

It was when he heard the whir of his cooling fans spinning up to a higher speed that Smokescreen remembered what else he was going to say. He opened his optics and pulled back, waiting until Halfsteel was looking at him again. “Prowl... He said this would be all right, so long as we keep it between ourselves. For now, until we figure out if we want to take it further.” Smokescreen huffed another laugh. “Primus, this was a lot easier to talk about when we’d both been drinking.”

Halfsteel’s optics widened. “I think... I think I’d rather be sober for this.”

“Me too,” Smokescreen said, pulling Halfsteel’s frame against his again. He heard Halfsteel’s cooling fans spin a bit faster, and he smiled. “I suppose this isn’t how those stories go... You know, in the romances.” He tipped a wing up as a question. “Did you ever read any of them?”

Halfsteel laughed. “I’m very familiar with them,” he said. “I can’t think of a noble who isn’t. I think I read every copy my eldest brother got from a friend, who got them from another friend...” He shook his helm. “All I know is that they were well-worn by the time I got my hands on them.”

Smokescreen’s tanks rumbled slightly. As loathe as he was to let go of Halfsteel, he knew he needed to refuel before doing anything energetic... Or at least as energetic as what he hoped he and Halfsteel were about to get up to. He stepped away from Halfsteel and walked over to the serving tray. “I wish I’d known that. We could have been trading novels back and forth this whole time!” He grinned over his shoulder at Halfsteel. “Which was your favourite?” he asked, handing a cube to Halfsteel. “I think the one I read the most was The Thief and the Soldier.”

“Oh, that one,” Halfsteel said, laughing into his cube, his door wings flicking about in the way they did when he was embarrassed. He followed Smokescreen to the couch and sat next to him. “I think I read our copy to shreds. Especially...” He flushed and ducked his helm, sipping at his fuel. “The scene in the armory.”

Smokescreen felt his core temperature tick upwards just thinking about that scene. “Yes! I think I had that scene memorized at one point.” He smiled, remembering the nights spent reading the scandalous romance novel, terrified that he’d be discovered but unable to put the story down. “I might have spent a lot of time trying to figure out exactly how they managed it, since it seemed like it would have been uncomfortable. But maybe I just don’t have a good grasp on...” He waved his hand vaguely between his frame and Halfsteel’s.

Halfsteel laughed again, looking more relaxed than he had a moment before. “Windkeeper – you know, my eldest brother – he found out I’d been reading those books, and he gave me some advice. For when I got bonded, and interfaced for the first time.” Halfsteel finished his cube and set it on the table beside him. “He said that the descriptions of interfacing in those books was unrealistic and that you shouldn’t read them as instruction guides. He said that real interfacing was a lot less graceful.” Halfsteel laughed again and his door wings fluttered. “And he said that, the first time, if one of you doesn’t get a door wing to the face, it’s a miracle.”

Smokescreen grinned, half distracted by how adorable Halfsteel looked when he was flustered. “So, if they aren’t supposed to be instruction guides, I suppose that means we have to figure it out on our own.”

Lifting a brow ridge, Halfsteel slid closer to Smokescreen on the couch. “I do have five older brothers, you know, and four of them are bonded. They talk. So I’ve picked up a few tips, I think.” He leaned forward until his chevron rested again Smokescreen’s. “And I think that between the two of us, we can give ourselves a rudimentary education in interfacing.” He grabbed at Smokescreen’s hand and pulled it up against his chest. Smokescreen could feel Halfsteel’s spark thrumming rapidly behind his plating. “If you want to.”

Smokescreen’s ventilations caught as Halfsteel’s other hand settled on his thigh. “I think I’m ready to see if we can,” Smokescreen said, working hard to keep his voice steady. “If you are.”

Instead of answering him verbally, Halfsteel kissed him for the fourth time that evening. Smokescreen leaned back on the couch and closed his optics, surrendering himself to the sensations that the kiss and Halfsteel’s hands created in his frame, his processor, and his array.

It turned out that Halfsteel was right. It wasn’t like in the romances. It was decidedly awkward, and a lot more messy than Smokescreen had been expecting. But being with someone he trusted as much as he trusted his best friend was also stirring in a way that Smokescreen couldn’t quite put words to.

And in the end, the best part was that they laughed together, at both the parts that went wrong and at the parts that went amazingly, adoringly right.

Chapter Text

It had taken Magus Skywarp all of three kliks to examine the parts of the device that had been recovered on the mountain after the explosion. He poked a talon at the pieces on Master Auger’s workbench, picked up a piece to smell it, and then shrugged. “Yup. This is sorcerer’s work. Pretty basic, too. It was set to go off when it sensed any spark close enough. They didn’t even bother coding it to a specific spark signature.” Skywarp tossed the piece he’d picked up back onto the workbench. “Sloppy, in my opinion. It’s almost as if it was a rushed job.”

“Can you tell who the sorcerer was?” Prowl asked. Master Auger had already determined that a sorcerer had likely assembled the device. Now Prowl was more interested in who that sorcerer was.

“Of course!” Skywarp said, leaning on the workbench. “But not here, and not now. I’m good, but I don’t have the resonances of every single sorcerer stored in my helm. I can tell it wasn’t done by a metallurgy expert, that’s for sure, but I can’t narrow it down beyond that. If you sent the pieces to the Academy they might be able to figure it out.”

As Prowl looked down at the pieces and tried to hide his disappointment, Master Auger voiced exactly what Prowl was thinking. “Phagh! They haven’t even bothered responding to our request for help. What makes you think they’re going to look at some shards of metal for us?” Auger turned to Prowl. “Besides, even if we knew the designation of the sorcerer, that wouldn’t help us find them.”

Prowl nodded, knowing that Auger was right. What was more important was tracking the sorcerer down, and making sure that they didn’t create any more magical traps for Smokescreen or anyone else. Prowl let himself hope that the sorcerer would be arrested alongside Crossflare.

He looked up at Skywarp, and found the sorcerer staring intently at Thundercracker. Their wings were twitching, as if they were having a silent conversation. Prowl’s optics narrowed as he suddenly remembered the stories of seekers being able to communicate telepathically. Then Prowl shook his helm slightly at the thought. Surely that was just a sparkling’s tale.

Suddenly, Skywarp laughed at the same time as Thundercracker rolled his optics. The sorcerer turned to look at Prowl with a triumphant look. “So it’s clear: you’ve just got to get your own sorcerer here. What they’ve done here is a gross violation of our code. But like your alchemist said, knowing who it is won’t help you catch them. Plus, you’re better off letting the Academy arrest them. You’ve got no defenses against a sorcerer who’s trying to defend themselves.” Skywarp tutted when Prowl opened his mouth to reply. “I said I’d send a message to the Academy for you about getting your own sorcerer here. Well, this just advanced that timeline.” He pointed at the scraps of metal on the workbench. “And Thundercracker here was just voluntold to take it there immediately.” Skywarp waved a talon at the blue seeker.

Prowl ignored Skywarp’s odd phrasing, and gaped at him for a moment. “But... The coronation is in four cycles,” he said, trying to calculate the distance between Praxus and Rodion. Surely there was no way the Vosian could make it there and back in that time.

Thundercracker didn’t look very happy about the prospect of carrying the message, but he nodded at Prowl. “It’s possible that I may not be back in time for the coronation,” he said. “But the Emperor has indicated that we owe Praxus a debt for your country’s assistance in the battle,” Thundercracker said. His broad wings flared out to either side of his frame. “After this, Vos will consider the debt paid in full.”

Prowl briefly wondered how they could make that agreement without first speaking to Emperor Starscream, but then he decided it didn’t matter.

Praxus was going to get a sorcerer.

Prowl nodded, and bowed to Thundercracker. “Thank you so much, Sky Commander,” Prowl said, lowering his door wings in gratitude.

“Meanwhile, I’m going to do a sweep through this place for magical devices or anything else that seems off,” Skywarp said. He wrinkled his nasal ridge. “I mean, I can tell you’ve got a magic problem. The least I can do is make sure none of it’s going to blow up in your faces.” He looked at the frown on Thundercracker’s face, and then doubled over in laughter. “I didn’t mean literally, but all right... I can make sure it literally won’t blow up on you!”

Prowl bowed again, this time to Skywarp. “I can’t express how just much we appreciate your assistance, Magus,” he said. “If there is anything we can do for you, please let me know immediately.”

With a thoughtful look, Skywarp said, “Can you have some of those little teacups sent to our guest rooms? About a dozen would be great.” He smiled, sharp fangs glinting just behind his lips. “I love the way they sound.”

After the Vosians left the lab, Prowl remained, still staring at the remains of the device. “What would a sorcerer be doing in Praxus?” he muttered.

Auger crossed his arms and glared at the chunks of metal on his workbench. “They were here before, you know. Before the King made Barricade get rid of them all.” When Prowl looked up at him, Auger met his gaze and then grabbed the box that the device’s pieces were being stored in. “They were from Nyon. They weren’t talked about openly, of course, but I met with a few of them when you were still a youngling.” He swept the pieces into the box and set it aside. “Mostly good folk, or it seemed like they were. But at the time I wasn’t privy to the unsavoriness of what they were working on.” Auger shuddered, then shook his helm. “They all went back to Nyon. We’ve heard that all the Nyonese sorcerers died in the battle but...”

“But what if they didn’t?” Prowl asked, finishing Auger’s thought for him. He drummed his digits against the workbench. “How many of the sorcerers did you know?”

Shrugging, Auger said, “I only met a few, really, and just to teach them some recipes that we’d developed here. They were interested in charms of glamour, blade ward, guidance... But mostly they were interested in energon charms.” His engine growled faintly. “Believe me, if I’d known what their end goal was with their research, I would never have helped them.”

As Prowl made his way back up the stairs to the main level of the palace, he thought about the list of disgruntled priests that Truemark had given him. One of the designations that had stood out was Prelate Hitch. Prowl knew that Hitch had been working side-by-side with Barricade, and Hitch had also been one of the Temple’s premiere researchers. He had a commanding grasp of the texts, and had been one of the priests charged with interpreting the will of Primus through their words.

Prowl wondered if Hitch had also been one of the priests who’d worked closely with the sorcerers from Nyon before they were expelled. He was willing to bet that he was.

As he walked down the hallway towards his office, he heard raised voices coming from Smokescreen’s. When he drew even with the door, he paused when he heard a loud bang and his brother shout, “What do you mean, she’s gone?”

Prowl stopped and stared through the open office door. Smokescreen leaned on his desk, his door wings flared out to his sides. He glared at the other mechs in the room: Strikeback, Commander Irridus, Caelum, and Halfsteel.

Smokescreen had been in an extremely good mood earlier that morning. Prowl’s spark sunk as Smokescreen’s words registered in his processor, and he realized the likely reason for why his brother’s mood had soured so quickly.

Noticing Prowl hovering just outside his office, Smokescreen waved him in with an abrupt gesture. “Get in here. Trident, shut the door.” When Prowl’s guard shut the door behind the prince, Smokescreen leaned on his desk again. “Tell him what you just told me,” Smokescreen growled at Irridus.

Irridus squared his shoulders and turned to face Prowl. “Your Highness. When the squad arrived at Lady Crossflare’s residence, they found that she was gone. Her bond partner and creations are also missing, as are the servants she employed in her home. Her residence had been emptied of her valuables and personal effects.“ He glanced around at the others in the room. “It gave the impression she was not intending to return. I have mechs going through her residence in her principality, as well as her apartments here in the capital, to see if they can find any clues as to her whereabouts.”

“But wasn’t she under surveillance?” Prowl looked from Irridus to Halfsteel, whose door wings were flat against his back. “How could she have gotten away?”

Halfsteel’s voice was unsteady when he replied. “The squad found a lot of alchemy materials at her home,” Halfsteel said. He gestured at some small charms that were sitting on Smokescreen’s desk. “Among them were a large number of glamour charms.”

Irridus’s engine coughed quietly. “We suspect that Lady Crossflare and her family have been making use of the glamour charms for quite a while. That means the surveillance we’ve done on her residence can’t be trusted, since we don’t know who we were actually watching.”

Prowl stared at the square blue charms on the desk. He could feel his own door wings beginning to droop as he considered the implications. With a glamour charm, any mech could appear to be anyone they wanted. The charms were expensive to produce and didn’t last long, but to a noble of Crossflare’s wealth those downsides were probably not a serious issue.

Smokescreen pushed himself up from his desk and started pacing back and forth between it and the window. “This is ridiculous!” he snarled. “She didn’t just up and abandon her home and cart off all her things on a whim. She must have known about the arrest warrant.” He whirled again to face Prowl, his optics blazing. “You signed the order. Who else knew about it?”

In the face of Smokescreen’s anger, Prowl worked his intake before replying. “I signed off on the warrant, and gave it to Strikeback. He took it to Irridus?” Prowl waited for Strikeback’s nod. “Plus you, and...” He looked at the other mechs standing around the desk, and the power faded from his vocalizer.

Smokescreen froze, his optics fixed on Prowl. “So basically, you’re saying that the only mechs to know are the ones in this room right now.” Then he looked at each mech in turn, his expression becoming more and more despairing each time he looked at the next of his most trusted mechs. His door wings slowly wilted until they hung loosely, and he turned away from them all to face the window.

Prowl was fairly sure that he had just witnessed Smokescreen’s spark break.

“Smokescreen, it wasn’t just us,” Prowl said, trying to make his tone as reassuring as possible. “The squad who went to Crossflare’s residence also knew about it, of course. And the interrogators who heard what the mercenaries said... If one of them was working for Crossflare, they could have given her a heads up.”

“We’ve had a leak in the palace for at least a vorn,” Smokescreen said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. “The five of you have been the only constants for each time we knew some information got out.”

“It could also be a... a magical listening device!” Prowl said, scrabbling for any possibility that would remove the despondent tone from Smokescreen’s voice. Then he remembered the conversation he’d just had in Master Auger’s workshop. “Magus Skywarp said there’s magic all over the palace... Maybe something is spying on us! He confirmed that the device used against Bluestreak was created by a sorcerer. It stands to reason that there might be other devices in use, too.”

Smokescreen’s door wings had lifted fractionally as Prowl talked, and he slowly turned back around to face them. “Of course. You’re right. It’s just...” Smokescreen rubbed his forehelm tiredly. “My apologies. This whole ordeal has been wearing.”

“It’s completely understandable, Smokescreen,” said Caelum. His tone was calm, but his optics looked like shards of sapphire as he stared at each mech in the room in turn. “I think anyone would feel the same in this situation.”

“Your Highness, Lords Brushviper and Dart are in the capital,” Irridus said. “We know that there were messengers going between Crossflare’s residence and theirs. Perhaps one of them would know where she might have gone.”

“We’ll interview them right away,” Prowl said. He also decided to ask Truemark about Hitch’s whereabouts. Normally all of the high-ranking priests would be in the capital for an event as large as the coronation, but he hadn’t seen the Prelate yet.

Smokescreen nodded absently. “Do that. And Irridus, please keep us informed if you find anything in her residences that could tell us where she’s gone.”

“She may have gone to Altihex,” Strikeback said. “Her residence is near the border, so that would be the logical place for her to go. We’d also seen messengers traveling to and from her residence across the border. We should send a team to investigate that right away.”

“We can’t send troops into Altihex without advising the governor there,” Prowl said, interrupting Strikeback. “I’ll draft a letter and send it ahead. Perhaps they would be willing to help us look for her.”

Smokescreen’s door wings had almost returned to their natural position, and the brightness had returned to his optics. “Good thinking. Fine. Let’s find her.” He looked around at everyone and gave them all a small smile. “And thank you, all of you, for your loyalty.”

As everyone left the office, Smokescreen gestured for Prowl to stay as he hurried towards the door to catch Halfsteel’s arm. “Steel,” Smokescreen said, almost so softly that Prowl didn’t catch the words. “I just wanted you to know... I know you would never betray me.”

Prowl realized that Halfsteel had remained silent since Smokescreen had half-accused his closest friends and advisors of betrayal. As the others spoke, Halfsteel seemed to shrink, and he had stood with helm bowed, his paperwork clutched in both hands at his waist. Now he looked at Smokescreen with bright optics. “Never,” Halfsteel whispered fiercely. “I would never betray the trust you’ve given me, Smokey.”

Smokescreen’s face broke into a smile that Prowl had never seen on his brother before, yet the expression still seemed familiar. As Smokescreen pulled Halfsteel in against him and hugged him tightly, Prowl glanced away, not wanting to intrude on this moment. As he waited for them to part again, he realized where he’d seen that expression before.

Bluestreak wore it every time he looked at Hound.

Prowl heard the office door close, and looked up to see Smokescreen settling into the chair at his desk. He looked far more calm than he had just a few kliks ago. “All right,” Smokescreen said, gesturing for Prowl to also take a seat. “Now, tell me exactly what the Magus said about sensing magic all over the palace.”

The interview with Lord Dart started off about as well as Prowl had expected. Fortunately, his carrier had agreed to host the meeting in his office, and to act as a buffer between Prowl and Dart.

Prowl had always liked his carrier’s office, with its comfortable sitting area and the pots of crystal cleavings growing on the sunny windowsill. It felt more like a place for chatting with friends than a place of work, which was how Lord Caelum always intended it. He’d always maintained that meetings went best when everyone was at ease.

But today, Prowl watched Lord Dart ignore the tea serving in front of him and glare at them both. “When you told the Court that you were seeking information on the assassination attempts, I didn’t think that I would be standing accused!” he growled.

Caelum took a sip and then carefully set down his cup. “We aren’t accusing you of anything, Dart,” he said. “Yet. If we were, we would have our guards in the room for this conversation.” Caelum gestured at the closed door, and indicated the lack of guards in the room. He looked at Dart with the calm, unflappable air that Prowl remembered in his carrier from when he was a youngling. “We simply want to know what messages you were exchanging with Lady Crossflare. The focus of our investigation is on her actions, not yours.”

Dart sat up, his door wings in a high vee shape behind him. “I only exchanged one message with her,” he said crisply. “She sent me one message, which I answered, and then we had no further correspondence.”

“What did that message say?” Prowl asked. When Dart turned his glare on him, Prowl lowered his door wings. Perhaps he should have left the questions up to his carrier. “We’re simply trying to put together her actions in the past few deca-cycles. Any information you have may be important.”

“It was private correspondence,” Dart snapped in reply.

“If it had anything to do with the assassination attempts on Prince Smokescreen or his brothers, then it is a matter of national security,” Caelum said. “And if it’s a matter of national security, it is no longer private. It would be in your interests to tell us the message’s contents. Did Crossflare want to discuss anything that might be construed as placing any of the princes in danger?” When Dart continued to glare silently at him, Caelum vented quietly and folded his hands in his lap. When he spoke again, the tone of his voice was icy. “And if I believe that you are not being truthful with me, I shall summon Master Auger to apply a truth charm to you.”

Dart’s door wings trembled for a moment as he returned Caelum’s glare. “So much for this not being an interrogation,” he said. His gaze dropped to the table in front of him. “Fine. She asked how serious I was about protecting the pure Praxian frametype. She wanted to know if I was willing to take steps to see the Temple’s advisors allowed back into the Court, and a proper, Primus-fearing ruler installed on the Quartz Throne. She wanted to know if she had my support in returning Praxus to the stability it had before the King’s health began to fail.” He glanced at Caelum, and then let his optics drop back to the table. “I told her I was not interested in a coup, and told her not to contact me again.”

“And you didn’t think this question of hers was worth bringing to me, or to King Cygnus?” Caelum asked in a dangerously calm tone. The King’s Consort spread his door wings, and his optics glowed brightly as he stared at Dart. “You didn’t think that a member of the Inner Court talking about replacing Prince Smokescreen wasn’t something that the King – or even me! – should be made aware of?”

Dart finally looked at Caelum again. “I know what you think of me, Caelum,” he said. “We’ve grown apart since our youth, and you’ve taken up with those who would see our frametype relegated to history.” His door wings trembled again, then fell. “Your own creation calls me bigoted in front of other nobles. He throws me out of receptions simply for speaking my mind. I am berated in front of my peers for fearing for the future of my family. I have practically been cast out of the Court... Not even my old friends will speak with me now.” He sneered at Caelum. “So forgive me for not wanting to associate myself with someone who is seeking to disrupt the exchange of power from King Cygnus to Prince Smokescreen. I knew this would be trouble, and I wanted to stay as far from it as possible.”

A silence fell over the room. Prowl watched his carrier’s hands ball into fists in his lap. Then Caelum spoke, his voice quiet. “She sought to kill my creations, Dart,” he said. “And... she nearly succeeded.”

“I didn’t know, Cay. Not until you brought this to the Court,” Dart said. He glanced at Prowl, then back to Caelum and flattened his wings against his back. “Believe me. I know we’ve grown apart. I know we have our differences now, and... You don’t see things the way I do. But if I’d known Smokescreen, or Prowl... Or, or even Silverstreak was in danger, I would have told you.”

Caelum stared at Dart silently for a moment before saying, “His designation is Bluestreak.” Then he picked up his tea cup and looked across the rim at Prowl as he took a sip. Prowl very clearly saw the flash of hurt in Caeum’s optics.

“Of course. That’s what I meant... Prince Bluestreak,” Dart said, his voice faltering.

Prowl had always seen his carrier as being strong. Because, of course he was. He was the one who had patched their scrapes when they fell, soothed them after nightmares, mediated their fights. He managed the household, oversaw security, raised three headstrong creations, and now provided the King with the strength he needed to get through the last few cycles of his reign. But still, Prowl felt momentarily overcome with awe as he watched Caelum tamp down his own grief, gather himself, and carefully set his cup down again.

“Thank you for your time, Lord Dart,” Caelum said. He picked up his pad and appeared to make some notes, angling himself slightly away from the noble. “Please, ensure you stay in the capital for the time being in case we have any further questions for you.”

Dart stared at Caelum for a moment, then looked at Prowl. When Prowl nodded, Dart rose to his pedes and bowed to Caelum. “Of course, Lord Consort,” he said, before turning stiffly and leaving the office.

As soon as the door closed, Caelum seemed to deflate a little. “I don’t know what happened to him,” he murmured, throwing his pad on the table. Prowl saw that Caelum had only drawn angry short lines on the pad’s surface instead of writing anything. “Or to our friendship.” He shook his helm, then drew a shaky vent. “But I believe he’s telling the truth, both in that he didn’t mean any of you any harm, and that he thought he’d be implicated by association if he brought Crossflare’s message to us.” He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, Prowl. I’m so tired of all of this.”

Prowl was out of his seat and kneeling beside his carrier before he even thought about it. “Carrier, I can meet with Brushviper if you want. I can... I can get Lord Halfsteel to sit with me as a witness if needed. You’ve done enough.”

But Caelum was shaking his helm. He lowered his hands back to his lap and smiled at Prowl. “No. I’ll see this through. Like you said, it’s just information gathering.” He picked up the pad, cleared the marks he’d made, and poured himself a new cup of tea. “Can you please let the guards know we’re ready to see Brushviper when he arrives?”

The meeting with Lord Brushviper was nowhere near as dramatic as the one with Dart had been. “I don’t know what was in the message,” Brushviper said. “It wasn’t addressed to me.”

Prowl frowned. “Then who was it for?”

“Prelate Hitch.” Brushviper shrugged and took a sip from his cup. “I had a servant drop it off at his parish.”

“You didn’t think it was odd that Lady Crossflare was sending a message to your resident priest?” Caelum asked.

Brushviper shook his helm. “Not particularly. Prelate Hitch is often sought after when it comes to interpretations of the texts, or for advice regarding difficult decisions.” Brushviper smiled. “The Temple did me a great honour assigning him to my principality.”

Prowl frowned and looked down at his notes. Hitch had been a researcher under Barricade, who had been working with Nyonese sorcerers to bring about the return of the Unmaker. And now they knew that a sorcerer was working inside Praxus, creating devices to harm Smokescreen. If Crossflare was communicating with Hitch...

Caelum apparently reached the same conclusion Prowl had. “Do you know where Prelate Hitch is now?” he asked, his door wings flicking outwards.

Brushviper shrugged again. “No. He is often away from the principality’s seat, tending to his fleet. He usually checks back in once a deca-cycle or so before heading out again, though.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Although I haven’t been home since the reception for Prince Bluestreak’s bonding presentation... May Primus guide his steps.” The last words were spoken in a hushed tone, with lowered optics.

Before Prowl could remind Brushviper that his brother was not in the priesthood, Caelum asked, “Then do you know if he’s planning on attending the coronation?”

“I would assume so.” Brushviper looked from Caelum to Prowl, and back again. “You think he has something to do with all the attempts on Prince Smokescreen’s life,” he said, his door wings lifting in understanding.

Caelum made a non-committal gesture. “We’re not accusing him of anything yet,” he said. “We simply want to make sure we have all of the facts, to keep Smokescreen and his brothers safe.”

Brushviper thought for a moment, then nodded. “I will send a message back to Fathom Valley, asking him to return to the capital at once,” he said.

“Thank you,” Caelum said with sincerity. “Your assistance is greatly appreciated.”

“Anything to keep Prince Smokescreen safe,” Brushviper replied, and stood. He turned to Prowl. “Your sire’s words in the Court yesterday were correct: your house has kept Praxus safe for generations, and I trust that Prince Smokescreen will do the same. I will support him in all his endeavors.” He bowed. “Give my regards to Prince Bluestreak, please.”

“Of course,” Prowl said, and watched the noble leave the office.

Caelum had slumped back down into his chair, but he looked at Prowl sharply. “You’re thinking the same?” he asked. “Hitch used his connections to hire a sorcerer for Crossflare?”

“That would make sense,” Prowl said. He grimaced. “I’ll need to speak with the High Priest to let him know of our suspicions.”

“Agreed,” his carrier said. “And in the meantime, I think we should send a squad to Fathom Valley and see if they can’t locate Hitch themselves.” Once again, Caelum looked aged. “I have a feeling that he won’t come to the capital on his own power.”

Bluestreak looked at the black and purple Vosian wearily. “I’ve explained this already, several times. Our sparks were damaged when the Matrix exploded.”

Skywarp shook his helm and leaned towards Bluestreak, tipping his chair forward onto two legs. “But how were they damaged?” he asked. “What damaged them? I’ve read the report that Wheeljack submitted to the Academy. (He’s got just atrocious writing, by the way.) The Matrix has the power of creation. It shouldn’t have damaged anything, especially not your sparks.” His optics looked straight at Hound’s chest as if he could see through the armor plating. “Maybe if I could just see...”

“No!” Hound said sharply, instinctively crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m sorry, but we barely know you. There’s no way we’re going to show our sparks to you.” Bluestreak felt Hound mentally gather himself. “Besides, the Matrix did destroy something: the Unmaker. Wheeljack and Perceptor think that it might have been a rebound curse or something.”

Waving his hand dismissively, Skywarp sat back in his chair. “That’s doubtful. I’d be able to tell that.” He slumped down, resting his cheek on his fist, and pouted. “This is going to bug me, now. I hate not knowing things.”

Bluestreak’s hand was pressed to his own chest, right over his spark. He wasn’t even sure when he’d done that; all this talk about their sparks had reignited the pain caused by distance from the Matrix. He massaged a quick circle on his plating before lowering his hand to the arm of his chair.

“I know you can’t tell exactly, but what do you think happened to our sparks?” Hound asked. He glanced at Bluestreak and shrugged. “Just curious.”

Skywarp leaned forward again, his gaze fixed on Hound’s chest. He lifted his helm slightly, as if he was scenting the air, and his upper lip curled slightly to reveal one sharpened fang. “It wasn’t a blanket curse, or even anything accidental,” he said, his voice going soft. “It was purposeful. It was measured. It was consented to.” His optics looked back up at Hound’s face. “And you are certain you don’t remember anything about this?”

Hound laughed, but Bluestreak could feel his unease. “I think I would have remembered letting someone touch my spark and damage it,” he said. “Like we told you: the Matrix exploded, and the next thing we remember was waking up in the remains of the battlefield.”

Bluestreak didn’t like the way the seeker was staring at his bond partner. There was something almost predatory about it. “You said Smokescreen is going to have you look for magic around the palace,” he said, trying to shift the seeker's attention back to him. “Do you think you’ll anything worth reporting?”

“Oh, tons,” Skywarp said, finally looking away from Hound’s chest. He waved his hand dismissively. “I wouldn’t be surprised if most of it’s incidental, though.” He smiled at Bluestreak, flashing those fangs again. “But the strongest magic I’ve sensed in vorn has been coming from the two of you, and whatever happened to your sparks.” He shook his helm thoughtfully. “It’s so interesting. I wish you’d let me...”

Bluestreak crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the seeker.

With a shrug, Skywarp stood up. “All right, fine. Well, thanks for the talk, anyway. Starscream wants to see me.” His wings flared out to his side and Bluestreak could sense something building in the air around them, almost like a static charge.

Then it suddenly dissipated as Skywarp snapped his digits. “Right. No warping. I’m going to have to walk. Ugh!” And with that, he turned and dramatically stomped up the stairs of the terrace.

“He is so weird,” Hound murmured as soon as he thought the sorcerer was out of hearing range. “Are they sure that he’s stable?”

Bluestreak watched the seeker disappear into the palace. “Prowl said his credentials from the Academy are up to date, so he’s been submitting to their inspections.” He smiled at Hound. “Maybe that’s just his personality.”

With just a few cycles left until Smokescreen’s coronation, preparations for the event were in high gear around the palace and in the city. Bluestreak and Hound did what they could to help, but mostly they just tried to stay out of the way.

Bluestreak was asked to assist with the formal greeting for the remaining foreign dignitaries to arrive. Although, when the representatives from Tarn arrived, the honour guard greeting that was prepared seemed like overkill for the three mechs who drove through the palace gates.

“Lord Megatron sends his apologies,” Deadlock said after bowing to Smokescreen. “He had hoped to attend your glorious coronation, but matters in Tarn regrettably needed his personal attention.”

If Smokescreen was offended in any way, he didn’t show it at all. Instead, he gripped Deadlock’s forearm and smiled. “I am sorry that Lord Megatron couldn’t come. But Prowl told me all about Tarn’s assistance in the battle against the Unmaker, and how much it was appreciated.” He lifted his door wings. “Thank you so much for coming.”

The arrival the next day, however, was one that Hound was really interested in. “I might call Iacon home now, but Nyon is where I was sparked,” Hound said as they walked down to the entrance of the palace. He smiled at Bluestreak. “So I have an interest in how it’s being governed.”

The provisional government of Nyon was being represented by the young leader of the Nyonese resistance movement, Hot Rod. He’d reluctantly agreed to lead the country until a new leader could be selected by its residents, and he’d accepted the invitation to Smokescreen’s coronation as the representative for Nyon.

Bluestreak’s optics were on the leader’s flashy red and yellow plating when the Nyonese delegation entered the palace gates. Hot Rod had only brought four other mechs with him, making the eight Vosians who’d arrived seem like an army.

“Chancellor Hot Rod,” Smokescreen said, stepping forward to greet the racer as he transformed. “I hope you had a pleasant trip.”

“It’s Acting Chancellor, please,” Hot Rod said. “I'm just Acting Chancellor until the elections can be held. And yeah, the trip was great, thanks. Glad to finally be here, though.”

Bluestreak turned his helm to look at Hound, who was standing a few stairs above him. The green mech’s curious anticipation had suddenly ratcheted upwards to shock and then delight when the delegation had transformed. Hound was staring down at the group, and Bluestreak could feel him fighting to keep from running down the stairs. “Hound?” Bluestreak asked, sending him a nudge across the bond. The green mech was practically vibrating.

But Bluestreak’s unasked question was answered a moment later, when the large black mech who was standing next to Hot Rod looked up at Hound. His mouth dropped open and his red visor brightened as he ran forward a few steps. “Hound?! Is that really you?”

Hound bolted down the stairs and practically threw himself at the truck frame. “Teebs!” he shouted, laughing as the two mechs collided with a clang of metal and embraced. “You’re alive!”

The large mech lifted Hound into the air and spun them around, laughing with a deep voice. “So are you!” He set Hound down and put his hands on Hound’s shoulders. “But... They took you! They came and took you and –“

Hound shook his helm. “I got away,” he said, his voice going quiet, and Bluestreak could feel a thread of sorrow weaving through Hound’s joy. “Not everyone did. It’s a long story... Maybe later?” He patted the black mech’s hand and smiled up at him again. “I’m just so glad to see you again, after all this time . Where have you been?”

Still grinning, the large black mech jerked a thumb at his companions. “Hot Rod here smuggled a bunch of us out of the camps, and then I joined up with the resistance.” His expression changed to one of satisfaction. “We did a lot of good work, Hound. You’d have been proud of us.”

Giving the other truck a light punch on his lower chest (which was as far up as Hound could reach on the mech), Hound said, “I don’t doubt it for a klik, Teebs.”

“Then, after Shockwave was beaten, I ended up becoming the head of security for the Chancellor,” the other mech said.

“Acting Chancellor,” Hot Rod said firmly.

“Right, right. Acting Chancellor.” The other mech was still shaking his helm at Hound. “But that’s me. What the frag are you doing here, in Praxus of all places? And at the palace, no less?” the black mech asked. His helm tipped to the side as he took another look at Hound. “And... are those Ranger emblems?”

Hound suddenly seemed to remember that they had an audience. He turned and pulled Bluestreak up beside him. “Teebs, I’d like you to meet Prince Bluestreak, my bond partner. Bluestreak, this is Trailbreaker. He’s an old, old friend of mine.” He smiled up at the black mech. “And yeah, we’re both Rangers.”

Bluestreak smiled and extended his arm. “It’s great to meet you, Trailbreaker,” he said.

Trailbreaker stared at Bluestreak open-mouthed for a moment before recovering and gripping his forearm. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Your Highness,” he said, nodding his helm in a bow. Then he grinned at Hound “And... you’re bonded to a prince? I have got to hear this story.”

Chapter Text

They were on their way back to their apartments after having some evening drinks with Trailbreaker and Blurr when Hound asked Bluestreak, “What’s down that hallway?”

Bluestreak glanced down the way Hound was pointing. “Prowl and Smokescreen’s apartments are down at the end of that wing,” he said. He looked at Hound. “Why?”

Hound narrowed his optics slightly, then shrugged. “It’s just that every time we pass that hallway, you look down that way. And I can feel you...” He paused, searching for the right word. “You think really hard when you look down there. Or maybe you’re hoping for something?” Hound looked at Bluestreak. “Did you want to go visit your brothers or something? I don’t have to tag along if you don’t want me to.”

“What? No, I saw them both this morning.” Bluestreak blew a soft vent of air. “That’s not the only thing down that way. My old apartment is down there, too.”

“Oh!” Hound exclaimed. He craned his helm around to look down the hallway they’d just passed. “Did you want to go see it? It’s probably got a lot of memories for you.”

Bluestreak pressed his lips together, thinking of the last time he’d been in his apartments. “Yeah,” he said softly. He felt Hound’s sudden concern at his shift in attitude. “It does.”

He’d been thinking about his old apartments off and on ever since they had arrived. When Prowl was in Iacon, he’d mentioned that their sire had ordered Silverstreak’s study and apartments be locked. Right after Silverstreak had vanished, the king had been positive that there was some clue as to his youngest creation’s whereabouts hidden in one of the rooms, and he didn’t want the evidence disturbed. As time went by and there was no sign of the youngest prince, the rooms remained locked. Servants had been allowed in to dust, but they were under strict orders not to touch any of the items in the rooms.

Essentially, the rooms had become time capsules of Silverstreak’s last days in the palace before he left.

Hound grabbed at Bluestreak’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I didn’t think.”

Shrugging, Bluetreak gave Hound a wan smile. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about asking if it was all right to see them anyway.” He paused while Barrage opened the door to their guest room, and nodded to the guard as he passed through the doorway. “I left in a bit of a hurry, and there are some things in both my apartments and my office that I might want to keep.”

He ended up thinking about it all night, and into the next cycle, before he finally stopped in Prowl’s office to ask him about it. His brother nodded at his request, and opened a drawer in his desk. “I was wondering if you wanted to see them,” he said, “so I already cleared it with Carrier. I don’t think Sire would even remember making the order to have them locked anyway.” Prowl grimaced slightly. “But since you’ve come back and we know where you went, I don’t see the point in keeping them locked up anymore.” He tipped a door wing towards Bluestreak at a slightly deferent angle. “With a new king taking the throne, we may need those rooms anyway for his new staff, especially your study.”

Bluestreak nodded. “That makes sense,” he said, and took the keys that Prowl handed him. “And thanks. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

His study was just down the hallway from Prowl’s. He unlocked the door and turned to Hound, who had been trailing after him. “Come on in,” he said with a smile. “There’s just a few things in here I’m after.”

He’d been prepared for a wave of nostalgia when entering the office, but it just felt vaguely familiar. His time here had always been busy: preparing drill patterns, planning troop movements, and reviewing reports. He was surprised that his desk was still scattered with the reports he’d been reviewing after coming back from his deployment, right before...

Shaking out his door wings, Bluestreak walked past the desk to a display rack against the wall. He pulled down the ceremonial sabre that hung on the hook, and turned to show it to Hound. “I received this when I became the High Commander,” he said. He twisted his wrist, testing the excellent balance in the blade. “It was mostly just used for parades and the like.” Bluestreak shook out the white and gold tassels on the hilt, and then tested the edge with his thumb. He huffed a laugh when he felt how dull it had become. “Pretty, isn’t it? I was thinking about giving it to Sunstreaker.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Hound said, taking the blade from Bluestreak to examine the intricate design on the hilt. “I think he’d really like it. It would be a great gift for him.”

Bluestreak handed Hound the scabbard for the sabre, then opened a drawer in his desk. “And here’s the other thing I’m after,” he said, pulling out a sight glass. He turned to the window and looked through the glass to the gardens outside. The image was just as crisp as he remembered. “Purely functional, but high quality. I wanted to give this to Skids. He’d get more use out of it than I would.”

He turned around, looking at the other items in his office. He paused in front of a large portrait of himself, standing with the ceremonial sabre that Hound was now holding. “Recognize him?” he asked Hound with a smile.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Hound asked. When Bluestreak nodded, Hound looked back up at the portrait. “I can see why mechs said you were a smaller version of Smokescreen when you were growing up.”

Bluestreak flared his door wings in mock annoyance. “What? We looked nothing alike!” Then he laughed and examined the portrait. “Although you can definitely see the similarities.” His old blue paint had been a slightly lighter tint than Smokescreen’s, but the yellow of their chevrons had been the same. The main difference was that where Smokescreen was bright red, Silverstreak was brilliant silver.

Prince Silverstreak, third creation of King Cygnus of Praxus, High Commander of the First Praxian Cavalry Division, and third in line to the Quartz Throne, looked out of the portrait. He smiled proudly, his chin held high and his door wings fanned wide to display the command emblems painted on them. He stood regally, one hand on the back of a chair, and the other on the hilt of the sabre. He looked self-assured and poised, like he was ready to take on the whole world.

He also looked very, very young.

Hound wrapped his arm around Bluestreak’s waist. “You were very handsome,” he said. Then he turned and planted a kiss on Bluestreak’s cheek. “But I think you’re just as handsome now.”

“It was a different me,” Bluestreak said, looking at the confident expression on Silverstreak’s face. Then, unexpectedly, he felt a surge of sorrow for how innocent he had been, not knowing the trials he was about to experience. He clamped down on the emotion before it could bleed through the spark bond, and smiled at Hound. “I’ve got what I came in here for. Let’s head upstairs to my apartments.”

But as they climbed the stairs to the second floor of the palace, Bluestreak could feel the anxiety rising in his spark. It grew, becoming stronger and stronger as they walked down the hallway to his rooms. Finally, a few steps from the door, he staggered to a stop as a wave of dread washed over him.

“Your Highness?” Barrage asked, almost blundering into Bluestreak’s back when he stopped suddenly. “Do you need something?”

Beside him, Hound grabbed at Bluestreak’s hand. “Blue? Are you all right?” he asked, alarm lighting up the bond. He stood in front of Bluestreak, forcing the Praxian to focus on him. “You know that you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. If you want, you could tell me what you’re after and I can go get it. Or we can send one of the guards. Or –“

Bluestreak shook his helm and forced himself to stand up straight. He pulled a draft of cool air through his vents, seeking to calm the spin of his spark and the riot of thoughts in his processor. “I’m all right,” he said. He took another vent and nodded. “I’m all right. It’s just... I’m feeling a lot right now. And it’ll be even more when we go inside.” He closed his optics and took a third full vent, clearing his processor. When he opened his optics again, he felt more steady, if not more calm. It took an effort, but he lifted his door wings and gave Hound a tiny smile. “If you’re with me, I’ll be all right.”

“I’ll be right here with you,” Hound said, holding Bluestreak’s hand to his chest. “And we can wait to go in whenever you’re ready.”

Nodding, Bluestreak stood for another full klik, waiting for his ventilations to settle. Finally he nodded again and pulled the key from his compartments. “Wait out here, please,” he said to the guards. “This might take some time.”

His first impression of his apartments was that they were musty. The foyer and sitting room were both clean and dusted, but the balcony doors had obviously not been opened in vorn.

And everything was exactly as he had left it.

There, near the door, a chair had been knocked over and was still laying on its side. Across the room, the door to the berth room was broken, one door hanging loose from its hinges. The covers on the berth were rumpled and strewn onto the floor.

Bluestreak shied away from the berth room and walked back into the sitting room. He walked past Hound, who was watching him with his hands clasped at his waist, radiating concern, and strode to the desk near the large window overlooking the gardens. He sat in the desk chair and placed his hands on the surface of the desk for a moment, venting slowly. Then he reached under the bottom drawer and pressed the hidden latch.

A small drawer opened in the side of the desk against the wall, and Bluestreak pulled out the sheaf of scrolls that were in the drawer. He stood up and walked back to the middle of the room, looking down at the scrolls in his hand.

“They’re letters and notes,” Bluestreak said quietly as Hound came to stand next to him. “From Tempest.” He glanced up at Hound, then unfolded the first scroll. “We passed notes back and forth for vorn when we couldn’t get any time alone with each other. It was too dangerous to write openly, of course, so we wrote in code.” He skimmed the note he’d opened and smiled. “Tempest loved it because it was like a puzzle to him. He joked that he could tell me about how the fuel hall was doing and how much he –“ Bluestreak’s vocalizer faded into static, and he had to reset it. “And how much he loved me at the same time.” He held the first note up for Hound to read.

Your Highness,
I regret to inform you that the hall will
miss its targets for this orbital cycle. The funds
you informed us about are needed
greatly.
I hope the cash will not be delayed, since we
cannot meet our budget without it. We will
wait for your reply. But the fuel donations
to increase our stores are doing well. I will
see to it that they are distributed. If
you have time, we would be happy to host you
again. Our clients appreciate your help.
Your servant, Tempest

Bluestreak waited until Hound had struggled through the note, and then turned it back around. “This was one of our more simple codes, before Tempest got more intricate with them,” he said with a laugh. “This one is simply the first word of each line. ‘I miss you greatly. I cannot wait to see you again.’” Bluestreak shook his helm. “We were so careful at first. And then we started taking more and more chances.” His vocalizer cut out again as he thought of some of the risks they’d taken, and where it led.

He looked around the apartments, remembering the last time he saw Tempest.

Hound stepped close to Bluestreak and pulled him into a hug. “You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to,” he said. “But if you walk to talk about him, or what happened... I’ll listen.” He leaned back and ran his thumbs across Bluestreak’s cheeks and down his helm vents. “All I know is that you got caught. And... I assume it happened here.”

Bluestreak nodded and looked down at the letters in his hand. “It did,” he whispered. He knew that every time he’d merged with Hound, the memories of Tempest had been there. But he’d pushed those last moments with Tempest so far down into his memory that they’d never surfaced during a merge. The only ones who knew what had happened that night, all of it from its joyful start to its final horrendous end, was him and Tempest... And now it was just him.

Looking up at Hound through blurry optics, Bluestreak said, “We knew it was a risk coming to the palace together, but... We hadn’t seen each other in almost two orbital cycles. We couldn’t wait.” He choked, then corrected himself. “I couldn’t wait. So I brought him here.”

Prince Silverstreak strode through the palace corridors confidently. Or rather, he hoped he looked confident. He was trailed by his contingent of guards, who kept a slight distance behind him.

He knew why they hung back so far. He knew – as did they – that an unseen mech walked immediately behind Silverstreak. The prince wasn’t able to detect the other mech with his wing sensors, but he knew he was there. The charm Silverstreak had made had been foolproof the last few times they’d used it, hiding the mech from optics and sensors completely.

But he also knew that it wouldn’t last long, so they had to hurry.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long to reach Silverstreak’s apartments. And once they were there, they would have all night together, instead of just the few stolen groons here and there that they’d had in the past. Silverstreak’s steps quickened as he thought of the night ahead of him.

Redline opened the door of the prince’s apartments and inclined his helm at Silverstreak. “Have a good night, Your Highness,” he said, his face giving no trace that he knew exactly what the prince was intending to get up to in the privacy of his suite.

Unable to contain his joy, Silverstreak’s door wings fluttered slightly as he smiled at Redline. “Thanks. You too!” He waited a moment to give the unseen mech a chance to get inside the apartments, then entered and let Redline close the door behind him.

Silverstreak unclasped his cloak and flung it over a chair. “We made it! That was a lot easier than I thought it would be,” he announced to the seemingly empty room. “Of course, I don’t know exactly what I was thinking might happen, unless we ran into someone who was using some kind of perception enchantment. I’m not sure why anyone would be doing that now, though. Court’s not in session and there’s no Temple holidays coming up. Even Smokescreen’s away on one of his hunts.” He spun around, looking for any signs of his lover. “So... Are you going to make me play find the mech?” he asked with a grin.

He caught a flicker of motion off to his right, against the wall separating the sitting area from the berth room. A shimmering form gradually coalesced into the shape of a mech: tall and lanky, with a chevron that swept back from his helm. Within moments, Silverstreak was able to clearly see the grey and red mech who was watching him with golden optics.

“Maybe we can do that next time,” Tempest said with a smile, unclasping his own cloak and setting it on top of the prince’s. He stepped closer to Silverstreak and slid his arms around him. “But I didn’t want to delay being able to do this.” He caught Silverstreak’s chin in his digits and held it still, pressing his lips against the prince’s.

Silverstreak closed his optics and leaned against Tempest, filling his olfactory sensors with his lover’s scent. The grey mech opened his mouth, and Silverstreak’s glossa eagerly flicked inward, grazing Tempest’s dentae. Tempest reacted by drawing Silverstreak closer, one hand brushing against the hinge of the prince’s wing.

Arching into the touch, Silverstreak leaned back and grinned at Tempest. “Eager, are you?” he said. He rested his hands on Tempest’s hips for a moment before sliding them back to grip the commoner’s aft. “You don’t even want a drink first? A chance to loosen up your lover’s panels with some high-grade? Or something to take the edge off of our daring rendezvous?”

Tempest shook his helm, his engine growling. He smashed his lips against Silverstreak’s again, his mouth moving as if wanting to devour the prince. When their lips parted again, he rested his chevron against Silverstreak’s and stared into his optics. “Maybe later, Shiny,” he said. “But right now, the only thing that I want is you.” He stroked a hand down the side of Silverstreak’s helm, his thumb tracing the edges of his vents.

Silverstreak brushed his nasal ridge back and forth against Tempest’s. “Well, you know where the berth is. What are you waiting for?” he murmured.

His optics brightening, Tempest pulled Silverstreak into the berth room, and waited while the prince pushed the door shut behind them. As soon as the latch clicked, Tempest grabbed Silverstreak’s helm in both hands and kissed him again, even more deeply than before.

Silverstreak melted into the kiss. He pawed at Tempest’s chest, his digits catching in the gaps in his shoulder armor. “I was thinking about this all deca-cycle,” Silverstreak said in a gasping burst as Tempest’s lips roamed down his jaw to his neck cables. “The entire time we were doing our maneuvers, you were always in the back of my processor. Every night when I laid down in my tent, the last thing I thought of before falling into recharge was you.” Silverstreak whined when Tempest nipped lightly at a cable. “You’re very distracting, love.”

“I’m distracting you?” Tempest asked, smiling as Silverstreak’s lips traced up the edge of his helm. “Well, maybe we should stop doing this. I don’t want to risk a military incident, where the High Commander of the Praxian Calvary can’t focus on his work.”

Lifting his door wings, Silverstreak put on a haughty look. “I can multitask! I can think about you and give orders at the same time.”

“Prove it,” Tempest purred into Silverstreak’s audial.

Silverstreak slid his hand down Tempest’s abdominal armor and rested it against his panel. It was hot to the touch. “Open this,” Silverstreak said with a growl. Then he grinned as Tempest complied immediately. “Well done. Now, I’m going to show you exactly what I was thinking of doing to you the whole time the Cavalry was out on maneuvers.” He gently pushed Tempest backwards onto the berth and climbed atop him, covering his lover with his frame, and revelling in the enthusiastic way that Tempest submitted to his hands, his lips, and his spike.

It was later, when Silverstreak was lying on his back with Tempest curled into his side, after the buzz of their overloads had faded, that Tempest thoughtfully traced the seam that ran down the center of Silverstreak’s chest armor. “When is the first formal dinner with your promised planned for?”

After a brief hesitation, Silverstreak said, “In two orbital cycles. Right before the Lunar Festival.” He pulled Tempest closer against him. “But it’ll be at least a full vorn before we’d even have to think about bonding. And it’ll be five vorn before the Temple starts complaining that we need to get on with it.” He kissed the top of Tempest’s helm. “We still have time.”

“But it’ll still happen,” Tempest said quietly. He tilted his helm to look up at Silverstreak. “And what then? What if he finds out we were together? Will he care? About... this?” He flattened his hand against Silverstreak’s chest armor, right over his spark. “Will he...” Tempest’s whole frame suddenly shuddered, his golden optics bleaching briefly to white with the fear that had tainted their relationship since the beginning.

Silverstreak turned, putting his hand on the side of Tempest’s helm and holding it so that Tempest’s optics looked right into his. “I trust Greenbough. Out of all the mechs the Temple could have chosen for me, Greenbough is one of the best. He’s kind. He’s sympathetic to mixed-frame mechs. He’s even helped out at the fuel hall, remember? I don’t think he will turn you in, love.” He ran his thumb down the side of Tempest’s helm vents. “But if I even get an inkling from him that he’ll report you to the Temple, Redline will get you out of Praxus. Remember when we talked about that?” When Tempest nodded wordlessly, Silverstreak continued. “I talked to Redline about it after the last time we were together, and he’s agreed. He’ll get you across the border, into Petrex, and from there you can get to Vaporex. There’s a group there who helps mechs running from Praxus. You should be safe with them.” Silverstreak tipped his helm forward and rested his chevron against Tempest’s, thinking of all the plans he’d made to keep Tempest safe, and hoping that they wouldn’t be needed. “I will do anything to keep you safe. I will not let anyone harm you.”

Tempest closed his optics. “I wish things were different,” he whispered. “I wish I was pure, or that you weren’t. I wish we lived someplace without these horrible laws. I wish we didn’t have to worry about being caught. I wish we could just be together whenever we wanted, without this sneaking around. I wish we were free.” He opened his optics again and looked into Silverstreak’s, coolant glistening in their corners. “I wish it could be just you and me, together, alone, forever.”

Silverstreak felt a heaviness in his vents, and buried his face in Tempest’s neck to stop his lover from seeing his expression. “I know. I wish that too. But all we can do is try to make the most of what we have, while we have it.”

He leaned back when he heard the distinctive clink of Tempest’s chest armor unlocking. “Please?” Tempest asked, the light from his spark shining through the widening crack in his armor. He smiled. “Every time we merge I feel like I get more of you, and... I want to remember everything, Shiny. I want to know as much as you’ll show me.

Silverstreak was already nodding as Tempest spoke, his own chest armor unlocking. “You already have my spark, love. Even when I’m bonded to Greenbough, I will always have a part of you with me.” He pulled on Tempest, encouraging his lover to roll on top of him. “Come on,” he said as his armor parted completely, baring his spark. “Let me give you as much as you’ll take.”

Tempest nodded, lowering his chest down to Silverstreak’s.

The prince hissed as the leaders of their sparks met, leaping out as both sparks recognized another that they knew and loved. Silverstreak kept his optics locked on Tempest’s as everything they were fell into one another, swirling around each other and becoming one.

The first time they had merged had been a revelation to Silverstreak. They’d been interfacing for almost a vorn, playing a dangerous game where either of them could lose everything if they were caught. But once they admitted to each other that they loved one another, it was Silverstreak who had first suggested that they share sparks.

Before their first merge could happen, though, they both needed ignition blocks installed. That meant finding a medic who could be trusted to keep quiet. Once a medic had been located (and paid handsomely to keep the prince’s secret), Silverstreak booked a room for them at a sketchy inn deep in the slums of the capital.

His guards hated it, of course. Silverstreak took pains to disguise himself when he entered the inn, but having several guards follow him in would blow his cover. So he made them wait several blocks away.

All of it - the expense, the pain of the block installation, the argument with Redline – had been worth it the moment that Silverstreak’s spark touched Tempest’s, and he felt the commoner’s utter love and devotion for him.

Silverstreak had held vague suspicions, based on his own insecurities, that Tempest was only interfacing with him because he liked the danger, or because he got a kick knowing that he was fragging a member of the royal family. Or maybe Tempest was with him for worse reasons. Maybe he was planning to blackmail Silverstreak.

But when they merged for the first time, all of those suspicions were put to rest, and Silverstreak felt awful for harbouring them at all. He knew on that first merge just how much Tempest cared for him. Tempest thought he was kind and generous, and beautiful and funny. Tempest adored the way Silverstreak chattered away when he was trying to think through a problem, and he thought the way Silverstreak tipped his helm to the side when he was listening intently to someone was cute. Tempest daydreamed about how elegantly Silverstreak moved his door wings while he spoke, and his spark spun just a bit faster every time Silverstreak smiled at him.

No, the first time they merged, Silverstreak realized that Tempest loved him just as much as he loved Tempest. It was humbling and delightful at the same time.

Every merge since then, their love was only deepened and reaffirmed. But with each merge came a new tinge of sadness at the knowledge that this couldn’t last forever. They’d thought about running, leaving Praxus behind them, but that was too dangerous for Silverstreak. The Temple would stop at nothing to recover a full-framed mech, especially a member of the royal family, and would hunt them down to the ends of Cybertron to bring Silverstreak back to Praxus.

As Silverstreak felt himself sink into everything that was Tempest, he felt both his lover’s deep love for him and his grief at having to lose him when he was bonded to his promised partner. Silverstreak pushed comfort through the merge to Tempest even as he struggled with his own sorrow: they would still have this moment and these memories. No one could take that away from them. The emotion coming from Tempest slowly shifted to acceptance. Neither of them had gone into this blind as to what would have to happen eventually. As their essences became one, just carefully shy of forming a permanent bond between them, they resolved to set aside their troubles for now and to just enjoy being in each other’s presence.

They were so deep in the merge that the commotion outside the berth room went unnoticed until there was a banging noise, and then a shouted order from a deep voice, just outside the door. “Knock it down!”

Tempest was still straddling him when the door burst open: their chests open, sparks entwined, chevrons pressed together and optics fixed on the other’s. Sluggishly, Silverstreak tried to turn his helm to see what the noise was when Tempest was suddenly gone.

Where Tempest’s presence had been in his spark was now an empty space. His spark shuddered at finding itself suddenly alone, and it flared brightly as it tried to find the spark it had been entangled with just a moment before.

His spark blazed with pain. Silverstreak heard a soft keening noise, and then realized it was coming from his own vocalizer. His consciousness faded into the half-dreamlike state it went into during a soft reboot.

As the burning sensation slowly faded, Silverstreak cycled his optics. He tried to re-engage his processor, forcing it back to full power. He tried to make sense of Tempest’s absence, and the shouting he was now hearing.

“How dare you! How dare you defile my creation, a noble – a prince, even! – in this way! What were you trying to get him to do? How did you get in here?”

Silverstreak’s chest armor had closed and his addled systems had finished their reboot before he was able to take stock of what was happening in his berth room. He sat up, cycling his optics again to clear the static from his visual field, and saw his sire yelling at a mech who was being held by the arms by two guards. The King grabbed the mech by his chin guard and tipped it upwards as he screamed into the mech’s face.

Screamed into Tempest’s face.

Tempest was also just recovering from their merge being ripped apart, his optics flickering as he tried to respond to the accusations being yelled at him. He shook his helm as he realized what was happening and tried to pull free from the guards who were holding him. “I wasn’t... Please, Your Majesty, please, your forgiveness. I meant no harm, truly...”

“Sire!” Silverstreak scrambled off of his berth clumsily, grabbing at the king’s arm. “It’s not his fault. It was my idea. He’s innocent!”

“Innocent?!” King Cygnus whirled on Silverstreak, his face a mask of rage. “I come in here to see my youngest creation being pinned to the berth by a... A wretch from the fuel halls! I knew I should never have let you waste your time in that horrid place.” The king angrily shook off Silverstreak’s hand and gestured at the guards. “Take this thing down to the dungeons and call the High Priest. I want this dealt with immediately and discreetly.”

A cold wash of fear ran through Silverstreak’s lines, knowing the sentence that High Priest Barricade would level against Tempest. The shout that was ripped from Silverstreak’s vocalizer was mirrored by the one of terror from Tempest. “No! Sire! Please listen to me!” He leaped forward, trying to grab the commoner as the guards hauled him out of the berth room.

As he was dragged into the sitting room, Tempest started to struggle, still pleading with the guards and the king. “Your Majesty! Please have mercy!” He kicked a leg out, and his pede knocked over a chair as the guards firmed their grip on his arms. “I’ll do anything. Please! Don’t do this!”

As Tempest begged to be let go, Silverstreak’s optics darted to the open doors of his apartments. His guards must still be outside. Maybe... He ran towards the foyer, calling to his guards. “Redline! Where are you? Stop them!”

He skidded to a stop in the foyer. In the entrance of his apartments, Redline and Silverstreak’s other two guards were face down on the floor. A palace guard knelt beside each of them, pinning them to the ground, while another guard stood over them with a sword drawn. Redline had a second guard kneeling on his legs, holding the huge mech firmly to the floor. Redline’s helm turned at the sound of Silverstreak’s voice, and their optics met. “Your Highness,” he croaked. “Forgive me. They forced their way in. We tried to stop them –“

“Shut him up,” said King Cyngus, and the palace guard shoved Redline’s face down into the flooring. “Take these three as well. Find out what they knew. And locate the prince’s other two guards. I want them all interrogated.” He turned and glared at the guards holding Tempest, and snarled. “What are you waiting for? I gave you an order!”

Tempest cried out as he was yanked towards the door, past the guards on the floor. Silverstreak ran towards him. He didn’t know what he was going to do: stop the guards, free Tempest, and... what? Jump out the window? Fight their way free of the palace? But before he could get more than a step or two, the king’s guards grabbed him by his arms and held him as Tempest was dragged past.

“Tempest!” Silverstreak cried, struggling to pull himself free of the guards’ iron grips. His optics were locked on Tempest’s as the commoner was hauled to the door.

The stark terror in Tempest’s optics cut straight to Silverstreak’s spark. The lingering remnants of their merge – all the love and affection that they had felt for each other – evaporated in the face of Tempest’s fear of knowing what was about to happen. “Shiny!” Tempest screamed, twisting his helm around to look at Silverstreak for as long as he could as he was pulled into the palace hallway. “Help me!”

Then the guards dragged him around the corner, and he was gone.

“Disgusting,” King Cygnus muttered. He whirled to face Silverstreak. “As for you,” he snarled. “You are confined to your apartments. I’ll have Lord Greenbough brought to the palace, and the two of you are going to bond immediately, properly, legally, and in the presence of the Temple. I’m going to select new guards for you, and you are now forbidden from going to that accursed fuel hall.” Cygnus’ door wings flicked once, twice, and a third time as he sought to settle them, but his agitation kept them moving constantly. “And to think that if I hadn’t needed immediate information about our troop movements from you, I wouldn’t have known this was going on. Who knows what might have happened? What if you’d lost control and formed a bond with him?” The king’s door wings visibly shuddered. “You would have been ruined, Silverstreak.”

“Sire, please,” Silverstreak pleaded, coolant pooling in the corners of his optics. His processor whirled, still trying to concoct a plan to save Tempest from the execution that he was surely facing. “Punish me, of course, but please let Tempest go. Banish him, send him to prison, whatever you think is right, but please, please... Don’t kill him!”

King Cygnus’ expression softened, and for a shining moment Silverstreak thought that his sire was going to relent. But then the king put his hand on Silverstreak’s shoulder. “If he’s dead, there will be no temptation for you to go after him,” he said. He lifted his door wings the way he did when he had made up his mind about something. “And once you’re bonded to your promised, there’s nothing that the Court can do to make trouble for you on that front. This is for your own good, Silverstreak.”

Silverstreak’s mouth dropped open as he stared at his sire, and he felt anger flare in his spark. “My own good?” He lunged at the king, but was held back by the hands on his arms. “You’re sentencing one of the kindest sparks I’ve ever known to death for my own good? Sharing sparks was my idea, not his. I was the one who asked him to do it the first time. If you should be putting anyone to death it should be me! There’s no difference between the two of us besides our frames. You’re going to kill him just because of the frame he was created with!”

The king’s door wings fell slightly as Silverstreak spoke, but lifted once more at his last words. “I knew I should have stopped you from hanging out with all those vagrants,” he said. “They’ve made you lose sight of your true duty to Primus and to Praxus.” He poked a digit into Silverstreak’s chest armor as he spoke. “You will learn your place, and you will fulfil your role as a pure Praxian. You have a bright future ahead of yourself, Silverstreak. I will not let you squander it.” Cygnus made a curt gesture at the guards. “Keep him here until I send for him.”

As the king strode out of his apartments, Silverstreak tried to pull himself free of the guards once more. “Please, sire!” he yelled, his vocalizer becoming peppered with static. “Please don’t do this. Please! I love him!”

King Cygnus paused at the doorway and turned back to look at Silverstreak. “That’s why I have to do this, my creation,” he said quietly. “Because you can’t see your own folly.”

As the door closed behind the king, Silverstreak’s knees gave out and he sank down to the floor. The guards let him fall where he was, and he pressed his chevron against the cool floor. His spark ached. He wasn’t sure if it was from the interrupted merge, or from knowing that he would never see Tempest again.

In that moment, though, they felt the same.

Bluestreak leaned against Hound’s chest where they were curled together on the floor. He looked down at the bundle of letters that he held limply in his hand. “I did get to see him once more,” he said softly. His spark seemed to ache just as much as it had the day that Tempest was dragged away from him, and he took a moment to soak in the support that Hound was providing him through their bond. “I still had some of the materials I’d used to make the invisibility charm that Tempest used, and I created a few more for me. I used it to sneak out of my apartments, and stole more materials from Master Auger’s alchemy lab. Then I hid in the Temple square until morning. I stood in the crowd with the other cityfolk, and watched Tempest be executed.”

“Oh, Blue,” Hound murmured, pulling him tighter against his chest. He pressed his lips to the top of Bluestreak’s helm. “I am so sorry that you had to go through all of that.”

Closing his optics, Bluestreak briefly relived the moment Tempest died. His lover had been forced to kneel before the Temple executioner with a hood over his helm. Bluestreak remembered that Tempest made no noise as the executioner’s spear was run through his spark. “I watched until he collapsed to the stage, and then I slipped away, out of the city. I ran for the border with Petrex and didn’t look back.” He shook his helm, burying his face in Hound's chest. "I told him I'd keep him safe, no matter what. And... And I couldn't," he whispered.

“I’m so sorry,” Hound repeated quietly. “I can feel how much you loved him, and how much it hurt seeing him die. I wish you’d never had to go through that.”

Bluestreak clung to Hound’s arm and listened to the thrum of Hound’s spark spinning in his chest. “I was thinking about what Lord Brushviper said at the reception,” he said. “I honestly don’t know if Primus put me on the path that led me to the Rangers, and to you... But I do know that if my sire hadn’t caught me and Tempest together, I probably never would have left Praxus, and I never would have met you. I’d be bonded to Greenbough now, and maybe we would have had a creation or two.” He pulled air in through his vents and tipped his helm back to look up at Hound. “Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m still here, and he’s not. That I’m happy, and he’s...”

“It’s all right to be happy and sad at the same time,” Hound said. “Just like I’m so glad that we met, and fell in love, and bonded... But I’m also so sad for you and him. I don’t think it’s a contradiction for me to feel both.” He hugged Bluestreak tight again. “Tempest helped shape you into the mech that I met in the forest, just like all the horrible things I experienced in Nyon made me into the mech that you met that same day. We’re the sum of our experiences, and who we’ve known and loved.”

Letting his helm fall against Hound’s chest again, Bluestreak gently blew air from his vents. “You always have the right things to say,” he said. He felt a small smile form on his lips as he thought of how many times Hound had comforted him when he had memory purges in the middle of the night. “And you always know the right thing to do. Thank you, love.”

Hound was silent for a moment before saying, “Thank you for trusting the whole story with me, Blue. I know it was hard for you to tell it.”

“I wanted you to know,” Bluestreak replied. He looked up at Hound again, and reached up to touch his cheek. “Like you said, what happened helped turn me into the mech you know now.”

Chapter Text

Before Magus Skywarp had begun his sweep of the palace, Master Auger showed him the charm that Wheeljack had sent them which detected and identified magic. “This charm correctly identified that Prince Smokescreen’s powers were related to metallurgy, but only when he actually produced the smoke,” Auger explained. He held it up to Smokescreen’s chest, showing that it didn’t react at all. “It didn’t show anything when he was just holding it. It only reacted to the smoke.”

Skywarp looked at the charm with disdain for a moment, then held it up to show Emperor Starscream. “Look! They thought they could replace me with a rock!” he exclaimed.

With his arms crossed over his cockpit, Starscream smiled. “I don’t know. Sounds like the rock was doing a pretty good job replacing you. Maybe I should get one.”

Skywarp’s wings flared out to the side, almost hitting Auger in the face. “You wouldn’t!”

“It would be quieter, for one thing,” Starscream said, nonchalantly examining the tips of his talons. Then he smiled at Skywarp.

Smokescreen watched a flicker of... something pass between the two seekers. It was almost as if a silent conversation had happened in the blink of an optic, but when it was over Skywarp was draped on Starscream’s arm and the two of them were exchanging affectionate looks.

Seekers. Such strange mechs. Smokescreen wished he knew more about them.

With a burst of inspiration, he smiled at the Emperor. “Before you leave Praxus, Your Eminence, I’d like to discuss the possibility of a cultural exchange between our two countries.” At Starscream’s look of interest, he added, “Perhaps sending a small group of mechs to live in each other’s capitals for, say, half a vorn would both help us learn about each other, and encourage trust between our citizens.”

Starscream nodded. “That’s an excellent idea,” he said. “Once you have a proposal written up, I’ll take a look at it.” He smiled at Skywarp and then gestured to the Vosian guard who had accompanied him to the alchemy workshop. “I’ll catch up with you later, Warp?” he asked, and then left without waiting for a reply.

Strange indeed.

Smokescreen and Prowl took Skywarp on a tour through the palace, to look for both hostile magics being used against the royal family, and for any mechs who he sensed had developed magical powers. He ended up finding four mechs with power just in that brief walkthrough. One of them, a mixologist who worked in the kitchens, was able to spark fires with just a thought. In fact, he’d been sparking little fires inadvertently when startled or upset, but had been trying to hide the evidence. That apparently explained the random singe marks all over the lower level of the palace that the cleaning staff had been dealing with. Another staff member, one of the housekeepers, healed rapidly when damaged. She apparently didn’t even know about her new ability, and had assumed that the little scrapes and dings she received in the course of her work were just more minor than they’d first seemed. She had no idea that her plating was healing over abnormally fast.

The constant with all four, however, was that they were terrified of being banished as soon as their powers were revealed. They all knew the law: unauthorized use of magic was explicitly forbidden. In fact, the mixologist had thrown himself at Smokescreen’s pedes as soon as Skywarp revealed his power to the crown prince.

“Please, Your Highness, have mercy on me,” the mixologist cried, his frame shaking. “I have two creations. If I am banished, who will support them? I am all they have.”

“Stand up... Brook, is it?” Smokescreen asked, pulling the mech to his pedes. When Brook nodded, Smokescreen smiled encouragingly. “No one is being banished. The law is being changed. You are allowed to stay here, and keep your job.” When the mech burst into sobs, Smokescreen patted him on the shoulder. “And we’re bringing a sorcerer here to make sure you don’t hurt yourself or others.”

The mech had practically collapsed with relief. “Thank you! Thank you, Your Highness!”

“I don’t understand how these mechs developed these powers,” Prowl said after they dismissed the mixologist. “I thought all the mechs developing them were near the detonation of the Matrix at the battle with Shockwave’s forces.”

Skywarp shrugged. “At first, they were,” he said. “But the influence is spreading. Things are happening all over Cybertron.” He shrugged dismissively. “Some of the more scholarly types at the Academy are calling it the birth of a new age, or something flowery like that. But basically, anyone might develop these powers. And that’s why the Academy’s getting stretched thin.”

During the search of the palace, Skywarp only located one magical device, but it was in a most worrying place: right outside Smokescreen’s apartments.

As Skywarp peered at the device in Smokescreen’s office, Smokescreen tried not to look too nervous. He was very sure that he was failing, though. “What does it do?” he asked. “And how did it get there?”

“Obviously someone put it there. It didn’t grow there by itself,” Skywarp said absently as he turned the chunk of metal around in his talons. The device had been designed to exactly mimic one of the decorative pieces of the cornice molding above the apartment door. “Or at least I don’t think it did.” Skywarp licked the device, then shook his helm. “Nope. Someone put it there.”

“Who?” asked Prowl, his door wings practically vibrating.

“No idea,” replied Skywarp.

“What does it do?” Strikeback asked, glaring at the device. “And it still operating?”

“It’s operating still, but it doesn’t know that it’s been moved,” Skywarp said, still peering at the device. “I... put it to sleep? Put it into stasis?” Skywarp waved his talons through the air. “I don’t know how to explain. But it’s safe.” He flopped into one of the chairs and brought the chunk of white metal to his optic. “This is a very sophisticated piece of work. It’s designed to send a... suggestion? A thought? A nudge? to someone.” Skywarp rolled his optics and heaved a vent. “Look, words aren’t my thing. Basically it receives a message, and relays it to someone.”

Strikeback frowned. “It’s an eavesdropping device?”

“Can you tell who was receiving the message?” Prowl asked.

“No,” Skywarp said. “But I can tell that it was created by the same sorcerer who built that explosive device. Whoever they are, they spent a lot more time on this.” He held the device in the air as if it was a fine crystal being appraised. “It’s a very nice piece of work. I can tell that whoever created this is very skilled in processor magic.” He looked up. “Which probably explains why the bomb was so sloppy. Sorcerers generally are only really skilled at one type of magic.”

“It’s a strange place for eavesdropping, though,” Strikeback said. He’d crossed his arms and appeared deep in thought. “All it would see is whoever comes and goes from Prince Smokescreen’s apartments, and who’s standing guard outside.”

Smokescreen immediately thought of Halfsteel, and their rendezvous in his apartments a few nights before. Surely the device wasn’t set up to catch him doing something improper, although he wouldn’t put it past Lord Dart to try to find some reason to catch him in a scandal. Then again, would Lord Dart have the means to hire a sorcerer?

While Smokescreen was pondering the ramifications of something spying on him outside his apartments, Skywarp turned to Strikeback. “And you. You’ve been on the edge of my sensors this whole time. You’ve got something in you,” he murmured, circling the guard. “Something subtle.”

With a startled look, Strikeback stared back at Skywarp. Then he glanced at Smokescreen with wide optics. “I assure you, Your Highness, I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Lowering his door wings placatingly, Smokescreen said, “Maybe you do have a power, and it’s like the housekeeper’s,” he said. “You just aren’t aware of it yet.”

“That’s not it,” Skywarp said. He leaned towards Strikeback until his nasal ride was almost against the guard’s throat, and sniffed deeply. Strikeback was obviously fighting not to lean away from the sorcerer. “It runs deeper. It tastes like...” Skywarp’s optics narrowed, then he stepped back from Strikeback with a smile. “Have you that found you have an easy time convincing someone to do something for you?” When Strikeback shook his helm, Skywarp started circling him again. The guard turned his helm back and forth, tracking the sorcerer. “Or can you force mechs to tell you things they wouldn’t tell others?”

Strikeback looked utterly scandalized. “No!” He turned to face Smokescreen. “Your Highness, please. I have no magic. I can’t do any of those things, believe me,” he said, his tone pleading.

“Magus, thank you for your assistance,” Smokescreen said. When the sorcerer turned his red optics on him, Smokescreen smiled and lowered his door wings in what he hoped was a deferent gesture. He wasn’t sure that seekers used the same type of wing talk, but he figured it couldn’t hurt to try. “I trust my Head Guard unreservedly. If he says he doesn’t know about any special abilities he may have, then he doesn’t.”

Strikeback gave Smokescreen a grateful look.

Skywarp shrugged. “Fine, then. But it’s there on him.” He wrinkled his nasal ridge. “He doesn’t smell the same as the other outliers, though. It’s a lot more subtle, for one thing. It’s almost as if it’s been hidden. If I wasn’t seeing you on a daily basis I might not even have noticed it.”

“Maybe it’s from someone else he interacts with,” Prowl suggested.

With a thoughtful look, Skywarp considered that. Then he shook his helm. “I don’t think so.” He waggled a talon at Strikeback and gave him a smile filled with sharpened dentae. “But now you’ve got me intrigued. Those Rangers won’t let me solve their mystery, so now I just have to solve this one.”

After Skywarp had excused himself to have dinner with Emperor Starscream, Strikeback relaxed perceptibly. Smokescreen had never seen his guard so tense, not even when they were running for their lives in the Preserve. “I believe you,” he told Strikeback.

With a rare smile, Strikeback said, “Thank you, Your Highness. I swear on my spark that I don’t know what he’s talking about. I can’t do any of those things he mentioned.” His smile grew a bit larger. “If I could, my job would be a lot easier.”

“True enough!” Smokescreen laughed. He put his hand on Strikeback’s shoulder. “But if you do have anything to tell me, please... Don’t be afraid to. My door is always open for you, regardless of what you need to tell me.”

A flicker of uncertainty rippled across Strikeback’s face, but he nodded. “Of course, Your Highness. You will be the very first to know if I discover I have any sort of magical ability.”

While they’d been talking, Prowl had been poking at the device that Skywarp had left sitting on Smokescreen’s desk. He looked up at Smokescreen with a hopeful expression. “Does this answer the question about the leak?” he asked, pointing at the device.

“Maybe.” Smokescreen found it disconcerting that he’d passed by the device countless times and never noticed it. And what had it seen or heard? “I’m really not sure how much it would have seen or heard in the hallway outside my apartments, though.”

“Perhaps it was just tracking your activities,” Strikeback said. “Looking for patterns, some repetition to your schedule that could be exploited.” His expression had settled back into the serious one he wore when he was working.

“Fortunately, you’ve trained me out of being too predictable,” Smokescreen said. Switching up Smokescreen’s schedule regularly was part of the security plan Strikeback put into place immediately after the first assassination attempt.

Prowl was still staring at the device. “I wish there was some way to know who was receiving its messages.”

After spending all afternoon with Magus Skywarp, Smokescreen was very interested in finding something to distract himself. So he invited Halfsteel up to his apartments again, and his majordomo happily accepted.

Smokescreen briefly worried about the staff spreading rumours about the two of them, but then reassured himself. All of the palace staff had been vetted and examined and tried, repeatedly. He trusted every single one.

He just hoped that trust wasn’t misplaced.

As they used their mouths and their hands to slowly increase each other’s charge, Smokescreen remembered the feeling he’d had that night on the balcony. He remembered the desire to be at Halfsteel’s mercy, to give up control and let his friend do whatever he wanted to him. He thought again of having Halfsteel over him, pinning him to the berth, and his engine revved suddenly at the image.

Halfsteel’s hands paused in their ministrations to his frame, and he looked at Smokescreen in surprise. “Did I hit a good spot there or something?” he asked.

His fans still running fast at the thought of Halfsteel taking control and using him as he wanted, Smokescreen reset his vocalizer. “I was thinking of another scene from a romance... From Perfection by Fire.” He had to reset his vocalizer again as static had crept in. “Have you read that one?”

His hands resting gently on Smokescreen’s hips, Halfsteel nodded. “Yes. I found the actual plot of the book a little thin, but the interfacing scenes were really good,” he replied with a smile, his face flushing slightly. He leaned forward to rest his chevron against Smokescreen’s. “Which scene were you thinking of?”

Smokescreen held Halfsteel’s gaze, fully aware of the full flush on his own faceplates. “The scene in the field of tingrass.” The speed of his cooling fans ticked upwards again as he dropped his voice to a whisper. “But I want to be the capridon herder.”

Halfsteel’s optics flared brightly for a moment before he pulled Smokescreen’s mouth against his. “Then I’ll be the hunter,” he said between kisses, and his lips seeking to devour Smokescreen’s.

Later, when they slowly rebooted in each other’s arms, Smokescreen found himself a part of a sated, sticky pile. Armor plating ticked softly as it cooled, and the scent of ozone hung in the air. As he stared at the ceiling, Smokescreen absently wondered how much of a mess they’d made of the berth coverings this time. He’d have to talk to his head attendant. Privately.

With a soft sigh, Halfsteel rolled off of Smokescreen and lay next to him, also staring up at the ceiling of the crown prince’s berth room. Then, in a very matter-of-fact tone, he said, “I think our education is coming along splendidly.”

Smokescreen turned his helm to look at Halfsteel. His friend... No, his lover looked back at him with a serious expression.

They simultaneously burst into laughter.

When their laughter quieted, Halfsteel nuzzled his face into the hollow between Smokescreen’s chin and collar. Smokescreen brushed his hand down Halfsteel’s back, his digits lightly tracing the seams and joints in his armor in a way that made the noble’s engine purr. “I thought you said those romances weren’t supposed to be educational texts,” he said.

“They aren’t,” Halfsteel said, his voice sounding relaxed. “But I never said they couldn’t be inspirational.”

Smokescreen smiled and kissed the top of Halfsteel’s helm. “I suppose we’ll have to see if we can find some more textbooks, then. I seem to remember Bluestreak having an impressive collection hidden away in his rooms.”

Halfsteel tipped his helm up to look up at Smokescreen. “I have a whole trunk in my apartments that has nothing but books in it. All the ones on the bottom are romances.” When Smokscreen grinned at him, Halfsteel smiled and glanced away with an embarrassed look. “I did mention that I liked them.”

Smokescreen reached up and tipped Halfsteel’s chin upwards so that the noble was looking at him again. “You did. And I guess we’ll just have to work through them one at a time, then, and find our favourite scenes again,” he said.

Giving Smokescreen a small smile, Halfsteel said, “I’ve already started a list.” Then he caught Smokescreen’s lips in his once more.

Prowl could not say he was very surprised to find out that Prelate Hitch was nowhere to be found.

When they arrived at the Fathom Valley parish, the Cavalry squad discovered that most of the priest’s personal belongings had been removed from the home. A schedule they found in his office showed he had been planning to make several visits to settlements around the principality, but when they went to those towns the mechs there had not seen the priest in some time.

Hitch appeared to have made the same vanishing act that Crossflare had.

“It’s disappointing, to be sure,” High Priest Truemark said. He flipped through the journals and other writings that the squad had brought back to the capital from the parish. “Disappointing, but not surprising. Ever since being removed from the synod, he’d gone quiet. Disturbingly so.” Truemark heaved a quiet vent. “He’d always been very outspoken. I should have taken notice when he stopped being a kink in my cables.”

Prowl frowned as he skimmed through one of the journals. It was written in the coded script that the priests had used during Barricade’s time as High Priest to keep their writings safe from ‘unclean optics.’ He couldn’t decipher a single glyph. “That’s understandable, though,” he said, glancing up at the High Priest. “When a problem stops being a problem, it’s easy to forget about it.”

“Indeed.” Truemark stopped on a page and read the script more closely, his expression growing more concerned. After reading the page a third time, he looked up at Prowl, his mouth twisted into a frown. “And your instincts about seeking him out were correct, Your Highness.” He gestured at the page, then read from it. “Less than a vorn ago, he wrote, ‘Nothing sows fear like chaos. Uncertainty about where to find your fuel, where to find shelter, how to survive cycle to cycle... Uncertainty causes stress which causes fear. Mechs who are frightened seek leadership from above. A stable society has no need for religion, no need for guidance from Primus, except by habit and tradition. A chaotic society, on the other hand, grasps for reassurance wherever it can find it.’.” Truemark glanced up at Prowl, then turned the page and continued reading. “’To bring mechs back to the Temple, one must first remove their stability. Praxus is supported on two legs: the Temple and the Crown. Remove the stability from either of those, and chaos will rain down on the common mechs like shards of glass. To bring mechs back to the Temple, one must shatter the Crown’.”

As Truemark read, it felt as though ice was being poured into Prowl’s lines. When the High Priest finally fell silent, Prowl gaped at him for a moment before saying, “That’s... What he’s written is tantamount to treason.”

Truemark pulled a slow, deep vent and continued paging through the journal. “It seems as though he stopped speaking his mind out loud, but never changed his thoughts.” He shook his helm as he silently read another passage. “It just goes on and on like that.” Looking up at Prowl, he closed the journal and set it on his desk. “My sincerest apologies for not keeping a closer watch on him, Your Highness. I thought that by giving him a larger principality to oversee, he would be kept too busy for making trouble. It appears I was badly mistaken.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” Prowl said. He looked at the stacks of journals for a moment and then asked, “Could you do something for me, though? Can you look through his writings and see if you can see if he has any records of a meeting or other communication with a sorcerer, probably from Nyon? I would be interested in seeing it.”

Truemark’s optics widened. “Of course,” he said, bowing his helm. “It’s the least I could do. I’ll do that now and send anything I find to you immediately.” He pressed his lips into a thin line and added, “And I’ll also take a closer look at Barricade’s other supporters who I’d thought had been handled.”

The fact that they’d all but confirmed who was behind the assassination attempts should have made Prowl happy. Plus, the governor of Altihex had even offered the services of his private bounty hunters to help track Crossflare down, although there had been no arrests yet. But it was possible that an unknown sorcerer was still running around Praxus doing Primus-knew-what. Prowl felt like they hadn’t made any progress at all.

It was a very sobering thought.

That evening, Prowl sat at his desk reviewing the list of sorcerers that Truemark had found in Hitch’s journals. Prowl focused on meetings that appeared to have taken place after the battle with Shockwave’s forces, and found that there were three designations that came up over and over: Deluge, Bombshell, and Oil Slick. The entries in Hitch’s diaries were dense and obtuse, as if he knew that others might be reading them despite the code they’d been written in. Even with Truemark’s translations, Prowl could make any sense of what was discussed or even where they met. For example, six orbital cycles ago, Hitch met with Bombshell. The notes for that meeting read “False light rises earlier and sets earlier. Package delivered.” It was complete nonsense, as far as Prowl could tell.

But even if Prowl could decipher Hitch’s cryptic statements, it wouldn’t help him figure out where these sorcerers were now, or what they were doing. Like Auger had said just a few cycles before, simply knowing someone’s designation wouldn’t help him find them.

Prowl was still trying to tease information out of the translation of Hitch’s journals when there was a knock on his office door. “Your Highness,” Trident said. “General Jazz is here to escort you to the reception.”

Of course! A shock ran through Prowl’s system as he realized he’d completely forgotten that the pre-coronation reception for the foreign visitors was tonight, and that Jazz had asked to accompany him. He jumped to his pedes as Jazz entered the room. “Jazz! I am so sorry. I lost track of time... I meant to escort you to the reception and...” He glanced at the window and realized how dark it had grown outside. “Oh, it’s started already, hasn’t it?” Prowl’s door wings tipped downwards as he looked down at his plating. He hadn’t even had run himself through the washrack. “I forgot. I’m so sorry...”

The smile on Jazz’s face grew even wider, if that was possible. “I know you’ve been really slaggin’ busy the last few cycles, what with all that’s been goin’ on,” he said. He walked around the desk and took Prowl’s arm, gently drawing him towards the door. “So don’t worry about lettin’ a little party slip yer processor. But I’m here to make sure you get at least a few groons away from yer desk.”

“But I haven’t gotten ready,” Prowl protested. He looked at his armor again. It looked mostly clean; all that he’d done that cycle was travel to and from meetings. But still...

“Ya already look gorgeous, Prowler,” Jazz murmured. He smiled. “Now, how about we go have some fun outside, and away from all yer papers?”

Yes. He had promised Jazz to attend the reception with him. He looked down at all the scrolls and notes on his desk, and nodded. “All right.” As Jazz took his arm, Prowl finally allowed himself to be led out of his office and down the hallway towards the conservatory. “And... Thank you,” he said, smiling at Jazz. “I do get pretty wrapped up in my work sometimes.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for the future,” Jazz said. “And I’ll make sure ya take a break once in a while.” He tugged lightly on Prowl’s arm as they exited the conservatory into the gardens, pulling the Praxian closer to him.

Prowl didn’t mind being pulled closer to Jazz at all.

The gardens were lit with the same wisplight orbs that had been used for Bluestreak’s and Hound’s reception, and another quartet was playing music in the corner of the main terrace. But the gardens were nowhere near as crowded or loud as they had been that night. A table of light treats and drinks had been set out on the upper terrace, and the foreign dignitaries and a few select guests milled around, chatting and laughing amiably.

Although it was a smaller group of mechs, the party had Smokescreen’s style stamped all over it. Smokescreen did love his parties.

“Is this crowd manageable for yer sensor suite?” Jazz asked quietly, his visor scanning the mechs around them as they walked to the fuel table and Jazz picked up two glasses of mid-grade for them.

“Yes.” Prowl felt a sudden flush of affection for the Polyhexian: that he remembered Prowl’s dislike for crowds and noise, and for his concern for Prowl’s comfort. He took the glass that Jazz offered him. “This is very manageable.”

“Good!” Jazz exclaimed, and tipped his glass against Prowl’s. “Because I wouldn’t want ya to be uncomfortable on our first event together as an official couple.”

Prowl almost choked on his fuel. “Of course,” he said after recovering.

An official couple! After finally meeting with King Cygnus and Lord Caelum, Jazz hadn’t started acting any differently towards Prowl. He was still friendly, tactile, and an incorrigible flirt. Prowl wasn’t sure what being courted by the Polyhexian would entail.

He also wondered who would notice.

The crowd was small, so it didn’t take Prowl long to scan all of the faces to see who might take notice of whatever Jazz had planned. Smokescreen was standing with Emperor Starscream and Commander Ultra Magnus, with Halfsteel at his side. Magus Skywarp was draped over Starscream’s shoulder as if he was a fashion accessory. They were engaged in what looked like a serious discussion, and Prowl briefly wondered if he should go see what they were talking about. But when he felt Jazz’s hand rest gently on his lower back, Prowl rejected that line of thought.

This was his first night with Jazz by his side, officially. He was going to enjoy himself tonight.

Bluestreak and Hound were seated in a large group of mechs, surrounded by laughter and smiles. Several of the mechs from Nyon were seated with them, along with Blurr and Minister Zodiac. It was an interesting assortment of mechs, but they all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Bluestreak seemed to be in the midst of telling a tale, waving his hands energetically in the air as he did when he got excited about a story.

Deadlock and Hot Rod were off to one side, their optics fixed on each other. Whatever they were discussing seemed to be light in tone, since they were both smiling. They stood close together, almost touching, and they leaned towards each other like old friends.

Other small knots of guests were scattered here and there on the terrace. Prowl looked up towards the palace, and saw his carrier sitting with Lords Overcast and Indigo. Caelum smiled when Prowl caught his optic, and lifted his glass towards Prowl.

“Shanix for yer thoughts,” Jazz murmured. When Prowl looked at Jazz, the General smiled. “I think you’ve given every mech here a very thorough once-over. Are ya lookin’ for someone in particular?”

Prowl shrugged. “Not really. I’m just wondering exactly what is involved in being an official couple,” he said. “You’ve mentioned taking evening fuel together and walks alone, but is that all?”

Jazz grinned. “No. And it’s not like there’s a checklist for us to follow,” he said. “For example, would ya like to join me for a dance?”

“But there’s no one else dancing. And this isn’t a song to dance to,” Prowl said. But when Jazz lifted his hand and waved a digit towards the quartet in the corner of the upper terrace, Prowl heard the music change. His optics widened. “This is...”

“This is that first dance ya taught me a few cycles ago,” Jazz said. He set his glass down and held out his hands for Prowl. “I remember the steps, if ya want to give it a go.”

They would be the only ones dancing, and Prowl felt a surge of self-consciousness. When they started dancing, surely everyone would start watching. But then Jazz waggled his hands like he had the night of the bonding presentation, and Prowl felt his resistance crumble. He remembered how he loved to dance as a youngling, before his duties and responsibilities left him with little time for recreation. He would dance on this very terrace, in front of amused members of the Court, to show off what he’d learned in his dance lessons. He remembered loving that kind of attention.

Prowl pulled a slow vent and smiled. Let them watch.

Setting his glass down, Prowl stepped forward. “Since this was your idea,” Prowl said, placing his hand on Jazz’s shoulder, “I’ll let you lead.”

Jazz rested a hand on Prowl’s waist. It was warm, and somehow it felt as if it belonged there. “Of course, Prowler,” the General said with a smile, and with a nudge of his knee, swept them into the first steps of the dance.

It turned out that Jazz did remember all of the steps to the dance, even the strange switch in the middle when the other partner took the lead. As they twirled and spun under the wisplights, Prowl kept his optics focused on Jazz as was proper for this dance. Jazz’s smile was broad and genuine, and Prowl was sure that a matching smile graced his own face. When the light caught the General’s helm just right, he could see the faintest hint of his optics under the thick blue flexsteel of his visor.

It was entrancing.

When the song ended, far too soon for how much Prowl was enjoying himself, they both stepped backwards and bowed to one another, their fans running fast to cool their taxed systems. Before Prowl could complete his bow, he was startled to hear applause.

Jerking upright, Prowl stared around. Sure enough, they had become the center of attention. On the upper terrace, Lord Overcast had stood and was applauding them. Then he turned, and it looked like he was trying to goad Indigo into joining him for a dance. On the lower terrace, Bluestreak had stood up from his chair, and met Prowl’s optics with a knowing grin and a flick of his door wings. “Well done!” he called.

“It was pretty well done, if I do say so myself,” Jazz said, handing Prowl his glass. As he steered Prowl off to the side of the terrace, he added, “But now I want to know what other dances you’ve got to teach me.”

Even if he’d wanted to, Prowl could not have suppressed the flutter of his door wings at Jazz’s words. “I know lots of dances,” he said, his processor providing him with a list of his favourites. “And I’d be thrilled to teach you all of them.”

They danced to some more songs. Some of them Prowl knew, and taught Jazz, while Jazz returned the favour by showing Prowl two dances that originated in Polyhex. Before too long, they were joined by Bluestreak and Hound, and Hound surprised everyone (except Bluestreak) by demonstrating far more agility than his frametype normally had. Starscream took a turn on the terrace with Skywarp, and they demonstrated a Vosian dance, weaving in and around and over each other as only fliers could do. Lord Overcast pulled a reluctant Indigo up for one dance before Indigo fled back to their seats, his face flushed with embarrassment. And Smokescreen danced a few times with Halfsteel, their movements demonstrating that they’d both had the formal dance training that all nobles received. As Smokescreen and Halfsteel spun past him and Jazz during one dance, Prowl was sure that neither his brother nor the majordomo was aware of anything other than the mech they were dancing with.

The evening whirled away, between dancing, chatting with the other guests, and even playing a game of Primes and Drones on the oversized board on the lower terrace against Ultra Magnus. The Iaconian Commander was an excellent player, and they matched each other evenly for the first two games.

When Prowl saw an opening and made a cunning move to take the third game, Ultra Magnus conceded with grace. “Well played,” he said, tipping over his Prime piece in resignation before bowing to the prince. “I don’t believe anyone has ever matched me at this game as well as you have, Your Highness.”

Prowl dipped his door wings and inclined his helm with a small smile. “Same,” he said. “This was very enjoyable. I would welcome a chance to play again before you leave Praxus.”

After the Commander returned to the table where he had been talking with Smokescreen and Starscream, Jazz threaded his arm through Prowl’s and gave it a little tug. “Let’s head down to your carrier’s gardens for a bit of privacy,” he said.

Prowl’s door wings gave an involuntary flutter at the thought of being alone (well, mostly alone, with Trident following along behind them at a discrete distance) with Jazz. But he allowed himself to be led down the stairs and into the shadows of the gardens.

Wisplight orbs had been set up here, too, casting pools of light at regular intervals along the path. The light refracted through the crystal plantings to create a bokeh of lights everywhere Prowl looked.

“So Minister Zodiac’s attendants got his itinerary all set up for after yer brother’s coronation,” Jazz said, looking up at a tall spire as they strolled past it. “He wants to leave for Polyhex the cycle right afterwards, so we can be home in time for the Equinox celebrations.”

All of the enthusiasm that Prowl had been feeling for spending time with Jazz suddenly flowed out of him. Of course; Jazz would need to return to his home soon. “I see,” he said evenly. “And shall we continue our courting via correspondence?”

The thought of having to wait a deca-cycle for a response to his letters again seemed like torture after having Jazz at his side for the past few cycles.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to ya about,” Jazz said. He stopped under an orb, its light casting his features into sharp relief. “The Minister would be willin’ to stay for an extra cycle or two to give ya time to get ready for the trip, if you want.”

Staring at Jazz in confusion, Prowl tried to decipher what Jazz was talking about. He wasn’t planning on going anywhere, especially not so close to the coronation. Surely he didn’t mean…

When Prowl frowned, Jazz took his hand and smiled at him. “I’d like ya to come to Polyhex with me when we leave. Just for a visit, so you can meet my creators, and my brother. Ya didn’t get a chance to meet ‘em when ya were in Polyhex last. Plus, I want to give my creators the good news about us, but I want them to see what a catch of a mech I’m gettin’.” He leaned a bit closer. “Meetin’ each other’s creators is a part of the courtin’ ritual in Polyhex.”

Prowl’s spark leapt, but then he forcibly calmed himself again. He remembered how long the drive to Polyhex had been, and the logistics of him travelling there were immense. Not to mention he would be even busier after the coronation! He was already shaking his helm when Jazz started speaking again.

“Look, things should be fine here... Yer brother’s majordomo seems to have things pretty well in hand, and after all the hard work you’ve put in, I think ya deserve the break.” Jazz smiled at him, taking both of Prowl’s hands in his. “And it’s just a visit. We can decide where we’re gonna live later. Call it a vacation.”

Prowl stared at Jazz. “But there is still so much for me to do, even after the coronation,” Prowl said. “We’ll be setting up new diplomatic channels, and Smokescreen has a slew of new laws he wants to proclaim as soon as possible. Plus there is the work to prepare for the new Court structure.” He shook his helm. “I don’t see how...”

Jazz held up a single digit and pressed it against Prowl’s lips. It was such a sudden and intimate gesture that it silenced Prowl immediately. “Prowler,” he said, lowered his hand as soon as Prowl had stopped talking. “Maybe I oughta not have done this, but I already mentioned this to yer brother. And he wants you to go.”

“I... you... what?” Prowl stammered. He couldn’t believe that Smokescreen hadn’t said anything to him about this. “When?”

Grinning, Jazz gave a quick shrug. “Earlier this evenin’, before the reception. When ya were still shufflin’ yer papers. Yer brother said you’d probably have a bunch of excuses for why you couldn’t go,” he said. “So he said to give you this.” Jazz pressed a folded note into Prowl’s hand.

Prowl opened it.

Go, you glitch. I’ll be fine. Have fun, and come back home rested.
-SS

Prowl didn’t feel as certain about Smokescreen’s safety as his brother apparently did, especially not with a rogue sorcerer still running loose, and the main suspects for the assassination attempts still at large. But then Prowl glanced up and saw Jazz looking back at him. He’d spent enough time with Jazz now to see that there was a tenseness to his jaw and a stillness to his shoulders that screamed how nervous the General was in this moment, even though his smile looked unchanged.

He didn’t think that Jazz was even capable of being nervous. And yet, here he saw the evidence as plain as day.

“So, Your Highness?” Jazz asked quietly. “What do ya say?”

Prowl smiled. “Who am I to disobey a direct order from the crown prince?” he said. His spark twirled at those words. “I will come to Polyhex with you.” He felt his door wings flutter again.

“I’m glad,” Jazz said softly. He moved even closer to Prowl, until their chest plates were just barely touching. He lifted a hand and stroked his thumb down the side of Prowl’s helm, sending Prowl’s cooling fans spinning again. “Ya remind me of a petromoth when yer wings go all quivery like that.”

“Only to your flame,” Prowl replied just as softly, then cringed when he realized how much those words sounded like they’d been lifted from a bad romance novel.

Fortunately, his mortification lasted only until Jazz tipped his helm to the side and kissed him gently on the lips.

“Master Brushtip did such a good job on your plating that I barely have anything to do, Your Highness.” Cable held up his hands in defeat and set down the buffing cloth. “Shall I get your stole?”

Smokescreen turned slightly to examine the way the light gleamed on his plating. His head attendant was right: Brushtip had done a fantastic job. Smokescreen didn’t think he’d ever looked this shiny. “Yes, please,” Smokescreen said. “I think I’ll skip the cloak, though. It’s warm enough this afternoon that I shouldn’t need it. Have it ready for the reception this evening, though. The weather diviner said it’s supposed to get a bit chilly.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Cable vanished into the closet for a moment and came back out with Smokescreen’s stole of office. Smokescreen watched as Cable arranged it around his shoulders. This was the last time he’d wear this one, marking him as the crown prince. When he was crowned, it would be swapped for his new stole that indicated he was King.

King. It still didn’t seem real.

There was a knock on the door, and Strikeback entered. “Lord Halfsteel is here, Your Highness,” his guard said. Smokescreen noticed a quick flash of a smile on Strikeback’s lips, and he suddenly realized that Strikeback knew exactly how long Halfsteel had spent in his apartments the other night.

“Show him in, Strikeback.” Smokescreen turned to his attendant. “That’ll be all, Cable. Thank you very much.”

Cable bowed. “It’s my pleasure, Your Highness,” he said, and swept out of the room just as Halfsteel entered.

As Strikeback closed the door behind Halfsteel, the noble paused, staring at Smokescreen with bright optics. “Smokescreen,” he said, his voice sounding awed. “You look positively radiant.”

“So do you,” Smokescreen said, crossing the room and pulling Halfsteel into his arms for a kiss. The noble’s armor practically glowed in the light of his apartments.

Halfsteel hummed, submitting to the kiss with his optics closed for a klik before stepping out of Smokescreen’s arms. “Brushtip will be furious if he needs to patch up the finish he just applied to both of us,” he said with a smile.

Smokescreen laughed. “You’re right, of course.” He turned back to the mirror and made sure he hadn’t scuffed the wax on his bumper. “I take it you’re here to tell me the procession is ready to go?”

“I am,” Halfsteel said. “And also... Sky Commander Thundercracker arrived less than a groon ago, and he brought a sorcerer with him.”

Whirling back around, Smokescreen said, “Already? That’s great!” His enthusiasm faltered slightly when he realized the only possible way for them to have arrived back in Praxus so quickly was if they had both flown. “It’s a shame they couldn’t find us a ground frame, though, to blend in better.”

“Oh, they thought of that,” Halfsteel said. When Smokescreen looked at him in confusion, he smiled. “She’s Urayan, so she’s a flight-capable ground frame. The Academy already anticipated your concerns, apparently.” He handed Smokescreen a letter. “He told me to give you this. I’ve already made arrangements for her to attend the coronation alongside Magus Skywarp.”

Curious, Smokescreen broke the seal on the letter and read it.

To whom it may concern,
Magus Skywarp has intervened on your behalf to request the immediate presence of a resident sorcerer in Praxus. He has convinced us of your urgent need for one, and he has reassured us that the sorcerer will be well treated despite your country’s reputation for treating higher magic users poorly.
We trust that Magus Road Rage will suit your pressing need for a sorcerer. She is skilled in detection and identification of magic, and is able to provide elementary training to any mechs who require it.
Please be advised that she was recently inspected and has been found to be of sound mind, and has credentials from the Arcane Academy indicating such.
A representative will visit Praxus in one orbital cycle to ascertain Magus Road Rage’s fitness for this position, and to determine how well she is being treated. I trust the representative will find no issues when they arrive.
Regards, Archmagus Alpha Trion

Smokescreen looked up at Halfsteel and smiled. “This is great news! Now we can start helping the outliers that Magus Skywarp discovered.”

“It will also be a great relief to Prince Prowl, I know,” Halfsteel said. “And to me. Knowing that we’ll be able to detect magic that could harm you will give me a lot of peace.”

Smokescreen stepped close to Halfsteel again. He adjusted the noble’s new stole marking him as the majordomo. “This looks good on you, Steel,” he said, smoothing the mesh against Halfsteel’s plating.

Halfsteel smiled. “Thank you. And it feels good, too. I’m proud to wear this in your service.”

Picking at the edge of the stole, Smokescreen took a slow vent of air. He’d wanted to wait until after the reception tonight to ask Halfsteel the question that was bouncing around his processor, but now seemed like the perfect opportunity. “How would you feel about upgrading it?” he asked quietly. He hoped that Halfsteel couldn’t sense how fast his spark was spinning behind his plating.

“Upgrading it?” Halfsteel frowned, looking down at the stole. “But it’s brand new.”

Smokescreen ran a digit over the thin shards of quartz that were woven into the mesh. “I don’t mean the stole itself,” he said, weaving the digits of his other hand into Halfsteel’s. “I meant upgrade your station. From majordomo... to King’s Consort.”

Halfsteel’s helm snapped up so fast that Smokescreen heard the joints in his neck squeal in protest. His beautiful golden optics darted all over Smokescreen’s face as if trying to make sure he was really standing in front of him. Smokescreen said nothing and just smiled at Halfsteel, waiting for him to answer.

“Are you sure?” Halfsteel asked, his voice falling to a half whisper.

Smokescreen ran a hand down the side of Halfsteel’s helm. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”

Suddenly his arms were full of mech as Halfsteel threw himself at Smokescreen, heedless of their fresh wax and paint. His kiss was ferocious and clumsy, but he was also laughing through it. “Yes. Yes! Absolutely, yes, Smokey, yes!” Halfsteel exclaimed, finally resting his chevron against Smokescreen’s.

Smokescreen laughed with delight and stared into Halfsteel’s optics, seeing only joy reflected there and sensing the same happiness in his own whirling spark. “I’m glad,” he said after kissing Halfsteel once more. Then he smiled, remembering a conversation they’d had not too long ago. “Although, I think you said you could only bond to someone your sire approves of.” He tipped his door wings upwards. “Do you think he’ll approve of me?”

Halfsteel laughed again. “I can’t think of any mech he’d approve of more,” he said.

There was a discrete knock on the door, and the two of them untangled themselves just as Strikeback stepped into the foyer. “Your Highness... My Lord,” he said, a smile flickering across his face as he saw the two of them together. “It’s time to head to the Temple.”

Halfsteel nodded. “Thank you, Strikeback,” he said, and turned to Smokescreen. Halfsteel readjusted Smokescreen’s stole and leaned close. “Shall we go, Your Majesty?” he asked softly.

Smokescreen laughed. “You’ve got a little while yet before you can call me that,” he replied.

“I know,” Halfsteel said. He chastely folded his hands in front of him as they headed for the door. “I just wanted to be the first to say it.”

Chapter Text

The crowds outside the Temple were thick, but the city guard did a good job keeping the main road clear. Mechs were lined up six deep waiting to be let onto the Temple grounds just before the coronation started. They cheered as the royal procession passed, calling out “Long live King Smokescreen!” and “Hail to Prince Prowl!”

Bluestreak also heard his and Hound’s designations being called out by excited mechs. He was amused to hear that most of those who called to him seemed to have figured out that his designation was Bluestreak now. He was also happy that Hound didn’t seem as flustered by all the attention as he had when they’d first arrived in Praxus. He sent a quick burst of happiness to Hound, and received a brush of affection in return. It had only taken three deca-cycles, but Hound was finally settling into the role of Prince’s Consort.

“How come the coronation is held at the Temple?” Hound asked when they transformed upon entering the Temple grounds. “I thought it would be at the palace, in the throne room.”

“Tradition,” Bluestreak said simply with a shrug. When Hound gave him another curious look, Bluestreak added, “For generations, the King was supported by the Temple. Even though Smokey’s removed them from the Court, he decided to maintain the tradition of being crowned inside the Temple, in the presence of Primus. Smokey decided he there wasn’t any good reason to change that tradition.” He smiled at Hound. “They even go to the trouble of hauling the Quartz Throne all the way here. Plus, this way, Smokey can address the citizens immediately after being crowned.” He gestured at the mound beside the Temple where the High Priest often conducted large ceremonies. The hillside below the mound was empty at the moment, but Blustreak knew that as soon as the coronation began, the guards would let mechs in to fill that space. “That was really important to him.”

Smokescreen had always looked forward to the day he would take the throne, and be able to address the citizens of Praxus as their leader. Bluestreak knew his brother wanted to tell mechs how he wanted to improve their lives, and hear from the citizens directly. But until he officially took the throne, speaking on behalf of the Throne would have been seen as inappropriate.

Now, Smokescreen would finally be able to speak to all Praxians as their King.

When they entered the Temple, Bluestreak saw Lord Halfsteel gesturing to him, and he waved back before turning to Hound. “Are you sure you’ll be fine?” Bluestreak asked, giving Hound’s hand a quick squeeze.

“Don’t worry about me,” Hound said with a smile. “I’m feeling a lot better now. And I don’t mind sitting with Teebs.” He gestured at the large black mech beside him. “I’ll catch up with you after the recessional.”

“All right. Have a good time.” Bluestreak kissed Hound, and then made his way to the side room where Halfsteel was waiting for him.

There had been a lot of discussion about exactly what role Bluestreak should play in the coronation. Smokescreen wanted him at his side through the whole ceremony, alongside Prowl. Traditionally, the siblings of the royal being crowned stood at their side, acting as an honour guard and being ready to stand in the King’s place if something happened to him during the ceremony. But some members of the Inner Court protested this because Bluestreak’s designation was no longer on the Scroll of Succession.

So they had settled on a compromise. Bluestreak would walk into the sanctum with his brothers, but would sit with his creators in the front row. Then, after the coronation, Bluestreak would stand with the foreign dignitaries when Smokescreen addressed the citizens outside.

That arrangement suited Bluestreak just fine. He simply wanted to see his brother take the throne. He had little interest in being directly involved in the pomp and pageantry that took place during the coronation.

Brushtip was fussing over some minor scuffs on Smokescreen’s armor when Bluestreak entered the waiting room, but Smokescreen waved him away when he saw his brother come in. “Streaks!” he said, and gripped Bluestreak’s forearm. His optics were bright, and his door wings quivered behind him. “I know I’ve said this before, but... Thank you so much for being here. This cycle really wouldn’t be the same without you.”

“And like I told you, I wouldn’t miss this for all of Cybertron.” Bluestreak pulled Smokescreen into a hug, and then grinned at him. “You’re going to be a great king, Smokey.”

Smokescreen returned the smile. “Thanks, Streaks.” His door wings trembled again as he looked at Prowl beside him. “I have to admit... I’m a little nervous.”

“It’s an important event, so your anxiety is understandable,” Prowl said. He patted Smokescreen on the shoulder. “But just remember the steps from rehearsal. You’ll do fine.”

“Right,” Smokescreen said, pulling a deep vent. “Walk in, don’t trip, and smile. I think I can do that.”

“You’ve got this, Smokey,” Bluestreak said, placing his hand on Smokescreen’s other shoulder. He looked at Prowl, and then both younger brothers smiled at the eldest. “And we’re behind you.”

Smokescreen looked at Prowl, then at Bluestreak. He shook his wings out and grabbed both of his brothers’ hands. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said, and glanced at the attendant who was beckoning them to follow.

Bluestreak stood just behind Smokescreen and to his right, while Prowl stood to his left. Behind them walked Lord Halfsteel. The small procession paused at the entrance to the sanctum, and Bluestreak settled himself with a flick of his door wings. This was it: his brother was finally going to be crowned King.

It seemed a little surreal.

After a pause, blare of horns greeted them, followed by three resonating strikes of a gong. The long nave of the sanctum was filled on either side by mechs: the visiting foreigners, all of the Court members, and every priest and acolyte in Praxus. At the front of the sanctum stood High Priest Truemark, flanked by the members of the Temple’s synod. Behind him was the Quartz Throne, gleaming in the darkness thanks to a carefully aimed light. “Who comes to ask for the blessing of Primus and the Court?” Truemark intoned, his voice amplified by a simple charm.

“I am Smokescreen, first creation of King Cygnus of House Topaz. I have come to take my rightful place as King,” Smokescreen said, his own voice carrying across the length of the sanctum.

“Approach and be witnessed.”

As they slowly began walking up the central aisle to the dais, Bluestreak realized how similar the ceremonies were to be made King and to be made a Ranger. He wondered which tradition had borrowed from which.

At the front of the sanctum, all but hidden in the shadows, a choir of prelates raised their voices in ethereal song. A shiver ran down Bluestreak’s spinal strut at the first strains. He’d forgotten this piece, but hearing it against instantly brought back a flood of memories from when he was younger: memories of confusion, sorrow, and fear, of being told that Primus would always find him wanting, and that he could never do anything right. Instinctively, he reached across the bond with Hound and submersed himself in the love he found there before forcing the negative thoughts from his processor.

That was then, he thought. Focus on the now.

When they reached the front of the sanctum, Bluestreak bowed to Smokescreen before sitting down beside his carrier in the front row. His sire was slumped in the seat next to Caelum, but his optics were still bright and clear. Although his treatments had become less and less effective, Triage had reserved one so that the King could be lucid through his creation’s coronation. Caelum smiled at Bluestreak as he took his seat, and gripped Bluestreak’s hand tightly.

On the dais, Truemark raised his hands as the choir finished the song. “Come forward, Smokescreen, to be seen before Primus.” Smokescreen took two steps up to the dais and knelt. Truemark looked over the mechs gathered in the sanctum. “Members of the Court of Praxus, before me kneels Smokescreen of House Topaz. He has been deemed to be pure of frame, and his lineage is that of kings before him. He claims to be your rightful ruler, in the optics of Primus and mortal mechs. Do you recognize his claim to the Quartz Throne?”

“We do. All hail King Smokescreen!” A hundred voices rose in unison, sending another shiver through Bluestreak’s frame.

“Do you, Smokescreen, first creation of King Cygnus of House Topaz, swear to use the powers granted to you by Primus to protect the citizens of Praxus, to govern them fairly, and to allow Primus to guide your hand in all that you do?”

Smokescreen nodded. “I swear on my spark, be it blessed by Primus, it shall be done.”

Truemark nodded, and stepped backwards. “Then let us proceed.”

Master Brushtip swept forward, armed with a palette and brush, and began working on Smokescreen’s door wings. Bluestreak could see the effort that Smokescreen was exerting to hold his wings perfectly still as Brushtip did his work; it wouldn’t do to have the paint smudged for the coronation.

In only a few kliks, Brushtip finished spraying Smokescreen’s wings with fixative. At his nod, Smokescreen stood and turned to face the audience, spreading his door wings wide to show off the new emblems that had been painted on them.

Two prelates stepped beside Smokescreen and removed his stole, folding it carefully and carrying it away, while two more laid his new stole across his shoulders. Truemark spoke again as the prelates straightened the stole so that it hung evenly. “Receive these marks of office, to be worn until the end of your reign. May they imbue you with the wisdom to follow the guidance of Primus, and wrap you in his protection.”

Another prelate brought forward the golden glaive that normally lay across the seat of the Quartz Throne, placing it in Smokescreen’s right hand. “Receive the Glaive of Mercy. May you wield it to protect the innocent and punish the wicked.”

Bluestreak noticed that Smokescreen’s doors shook slightly as he glanced up at the sharpened blade of the glaive. Bluestreak remembered the stories they had been told as younglings, of how the glaive had been used in battles. The gruesome accounts of the many sparks the glaive had supposedly run through flickered through his processor, and he wondered if that was what Smokescreen was thinking of.

Smokescreen’s hesitation lasted only a moment. He thumped the butt of the glaive on the floor once, and then sat in the Quartz Throne.

Prowl stepped forward, holding a cushion on which sat the gold and white crown. He presented it to the High Priest, who picked up the crown and held it high above Smokescreen’s helm. “Primus, grant this mech your wisdom, your patience, your will, and your power.” And then he lowered the crown to Smokescreen’s helm and stepped back.

A hundred voices were raised into a shout. “All hail the king! All hail the king! All hail the king!”

Smokescreen gazed out over the mechs in the sanctum, his wings spread wide. He looked proud, and nervous, but to Bluestreak he looked every centimeter like the King he knew his elder brother would one day become.

Bluestreak glanced at Caelum as his carrier’s hand tightened around his. Caelum was smiling up at Smokescreen, and coolant glistened in the corners of his optics.

Truemark turned to the audience once more. “King Smokescreen comes before us unbonded, but not alone. He has chosen Lord Halfsteel of House Hematite to be his majordomo, to look after his household affairs.” He waited as Halfsteel walked forward to kneel before Smokescreen. “Lord Halfsteel, do you swear fealty to your king?”

The noble took Smokescreen’s hand and clearly said, “I, Halfsteel, creation of Lightbraid and Lord of Cathedral Peak, swear to become your hands and your optics. I will be true to you, and serve your will. I will protect your life with mine until my duty is discharged, or until Primus calls my spark to his side.”

Smokescreen’s optics were bright as Halfsteel swore his oath. When Halfsteel kissed Smokescreen’s hand, Bluestreak swore that Smokescreen wings fluttered just slightly.

The rest of the coronation ceremony passed in a blur, with the choir singing more praises to Primus, and Truemark exhorting Smokescreen to use his powers wisely. When the gong finally sounded again and Smokescreen was led out of the sanctum by the Temple synod, Bluestreak felt drained. But he also felt as though he had witnessed something important.

His brother was now King.

After the recessional, Bluestreak wove his way through the crowd to find Hound. “Hey, love,” he said, catching the green mech around the waist. “So? What did you think of your first coronation?”

“It was interesting!” Hound said. “I’m assuming that a lot of the ceremony was wrapped up in traditions and history that I don’t really understand. But it was neat seeing how all those little things you’ve told me about came together.” As they walked outside onto the Temple grounds, Hound hesitated when he saw all of the mechs gathered on the hill below them. “Wow. That’s a big crowd.”

The hillside below the Temple was packed with mechs. Some intrepid sparks had clambered up crystals to get a better view, while below them mechs were pressed in shoulder to shoulder. But everywhere that Bluestreak looked, he saw smiles.

Everyone was excited to catch a glimpse of the new King, and to hear his address to the mechs of Praxus.

While Smokescreen paused just inside the Temple to speak to some members of the Court, the foreign dignitaries emerged. Ultra Magnus was speaking to Minister Zodiac, and Jazz trailed behind them. The General looked alert, but kept scanning the crowd. Bluestreak wondered if he was waiting for Prowl to walk out of the Temple. Hot Rod walked beside Trailbreaker and Wheelie, the minibot who had accompanied him to Praxus. Behind them came Starscream and Thundercracker, who appeared to be discussing something in an animated fashion, their wings flicking about erratically.

Trailing behind the Emperor and the Sky Commander was Magus Skywarp. He was wearing a long cloak to hide the arcane symbols etched in his plating; considering the prevailing attitude towards magic in Praxus, Bluestreak thought that was a wise idea. Beside him walked a slim femme who was also draped in a cloak. Bluestreak caught flashes of red and black armor as she walked, and when the wind caught the edge of her cloak he saw that her plating was also etched in gold like Skywarp’s. He’d heard that his brothers had requested a sorcerer from the Arcane Academy, and it looked like one had finally arrived. Skywarp was explaining something to the red femme, using wide hand motions to make his point. The other sorcerer listened intently, nodding occasionally as Skywarp talked.

Attendants ushered Bluestreak, Hound, and the other foreigners into an area to the side of the mound where Smokescreen would be speaking. Bluestreak and Hound ended up standing close to Trailbreaker and Hot Rod. “We should have a pretty good view here,” Bluestreak said, glancing back up towards the entrance of the Temple.

Several horns sounded in unison, and Smokescreen walked out into the sunlight with Halfsteel at his side. Strikeback walked just behind them with two other guards. Prowl took up a position at Smokescreen’s left as they walked up to the mound amid cheers from the throngs below.

As Smokescreen reached the crest of the mound and came into view of the mechs below, the cheers from the crowd grew deafening. Bluestreak saw Strikeback’s posture go stiff, his shoulders rising, and for a brief moment he wondered if the guard had caught sight of some danger in the crowd below.

And then Strikeback swung his rifle up, aimed it at Smokescreen... And fired.

It happened so quickly that Bluestreak didn’t have time to fully process what he’d seen before his processor launched him into motion: Strikeback’s gun firing, the other guards reaching for Strikeback as the gun went off, the screams from the crowd below as they heard the shot, a flurry of movement and chaos of plating and door wings as the guards and attendants on the mound reacted to the sound of the gun going off...

And Smokescreen falling to the ground.

"Smokey!” Bluestreak screamed as he jumped forward. He’d moved all of a meter before he bounced off of something hard and unseen in front of him, and he crumped to the ground with a shout of surprise.

“Sorry!” On the ground, Bluestreak twisted to see Trailbreaker lowering his hands and looking a little sheepish. “That’s me. I just reacted and – sorry!”

Before Bluestreak could ask what he was apologizing for – and what the strange, faintly glowing wall in the air around them was – he was momentarily blinded by a brilliant flash of light, and heard a loud vop noise.

“Gotcha!” Skywarp yelled triumphantly, suddenly hovering in the air above them. The black and purple sorcerer had shed his cloak, and the arcane symbols on his armour gleamed in the bright sun. They looked like they were glowing. He was hauling a mech skyward by an arm, and yellow energy crackled down both of their arms. “You’re in a serious pool of slag, Bombshell!”

“No!” The other mech – a beastformer of some kind, his own armor etched with gold symbols – struggled for a moment, and a battlemask snapped shut over his mouth. Then the yellow lightning cascading down his arm changed to red, reversed direction, and flowed upwards towards Skywarp. “Release me!”

As the energy reached his shoulder, Skywarp screeched in pain. He dropped the other mech to the ground, where he fell in a clatter of armor. Mechs scrambled to get away from the two sorcerers, screaming and running for the edges of the Temple grounds. The Vosian swooped down towards the strange sorcerer, his hands glowing with red fire. “I call you Oathbreaker!” Skywarp yelled, and threw a ball of cracking energy at the other sorcerer. “Yield!”

“Not everyone can make themselves a pet of an emperor, Skywarp,” the other sorcerer yelled back, deflecting the red ball with a wave of his hand. “Some of us haven’t been so lucky. I took a job and did what my employer asked of me to survive. No more, no less.”

In a flash of light, Skywarp vanished, reappearing with another loud vop sound next to the other sorcerer. Grabbing the beastformer by the arm again, he lifted him skywards. “What job?” Skywarp said, his engines whining under the extra load. The other sorcerer squirmed and sent another flare of red electricity cracking up his arm to Skywarp’s. The Vosian screamed when the light reached his arm, but he didn’t drop the other mech.

“It was an easy one. A job that sorcerers used to do before the Academy started meddling,” the other sorcerer snarled. “The King dies, and I get paid.”

The King.

Smokescreen!

Bluestreak tore his optics away from the fight and looked to the mound. Prowl had been pushed to the ground by Trident, who had his weapon out and was alternating his attention between the two sorcerers and the guards who had tackled Strikeback. Triage ran up to the cluster of mechs on top of the hill, and knelt down behind the wall of guards and attendants. Smokescreen must be on the ground, Bluestreak thought.

Smokescreen.

Bluestreak slammed his fists against the invisible wall between him and his brother. “Smokey!” he yelled again, then turned to face Trailbreaker. “What is this? Let me go! I have to get to my brother!”

Trailbreaker shrugged. “I can’t! Or I don’t know how... It’s an automatic thing. Comes in handy for protecting the Chancellor.” He jerked his thumb back towards Hot Rod, who was standing behind Trailbreaker and staring at the sorcerers. Skywarp had grabbed the other sorcerer again and pulled him skyward. “It’ll drop in five kliks or so?” Trailbreaker’s voice sounded uncertain.

Five kliks. Bluestreak turned towards the hill again, and saw Prowl shake himself free from Trident. Prowl ran up the hill, pushing his way through the mechs as his guard ran after him. Before the crowd closed in again, Bluestreak watched Prowl’s door wings fall as he put his hand over his mouth.

Smokescreen.

Five kliks. It would be an eternity.

Hound threaded his digits through his. “What can we do?” Hound asked. He flinched as a ball of yellow light smashed to the ground just a meter away from them, on the other side of the glowing forcefield. “What can I do?” He took a step back as the two sorcerers fell down in a cloud of dust a short distance away, and looked at Bluestreak.

“I don’t know,” Bluestreak said. He hated the way his voice wavered. He hated not being able to run to his brother. He hated not being able to help Skywarp with subduing the other sorcerer. He hated not being able to do something. He hated feeling exactly the same way he’d felt when Tempest was dragged away by the palace guards.

He hated feeling helpless.

Five kliks. It had already felt like five vorn.

He placed a hand against the faintly glowing wall, willing it to disappear, and stared at the knot of mechs just a short distance away at the top of the hill. No matter how he craned his neck, he couldn’t catch any sight of his brother.

Smokescreen.

On the hill below him, the Temple grounds were emptying quickly. Mechs had climbed over the crystal hedges, snapping some off at their bases, in their urgency to escape whatever was happening on top the hill.

“What you did to that guard was impressive,” Skywarp said. He stood a few meters away from the other sorcerer. His wings drooped slightly, and Bluestreak could hear how fast his turbines were spinning as they sucked in cool air. Skywarp bared his fangs and sniffed at the air. “You’ve got a lot of power.”

“So do you. We’re evenly matched, brother,” said the other sorcerer, holding out his hands as more red energy crackled around them. Bluestreak remembered that Skywarp had called him Bombshell. “You’ll never beat me one on one. Let me go, and you’ll never hear from me again.” He swung his arm back and threw a ball of energy at Skywarp.

Skywarp ducked out of the way of the orb, looking unconcerned. “You’re right,” he replied. “I don’t think I can beat you alone.” He circled away from the hill, and Bombshell turned in place to face him. “You’re good, I’ll give you that. But I’ve seen some of what you’ve done. Some of it’s been really sloppy.”

Bombshell sneered. “I’ve spent my time where it was best utilized.”

“No, you haven’t.” Skywarp shrugged, and flicked the talons of one hand out in a dismissive gesture. “Otherwise, you’d know that I wasn’t alone.”

“What do you mean?” Bombshell frowned, then his optics widened. He whirled back to face the Temple just in time to see the femme that Skywarp had been walking with hurl a ball of blazing yellow energy at him. “No!” he shrieked just as the ball struck him.

His frame spasmed, lightning crackling through every joint and seam. His mouth opened and a loud squeal of feedback came from his vocalizer as every limb went stiff and straight. Then he fell backwards to the ground with a rattle of armor, his optics blazing bright white for a moment before going dark.

Bluestreak had started pounding on the invisible barrier even before Bombshell collapsed in a spray of light. “Skywarp! Magus! Get me out of here!” he yelled. He looked up the hill, but still all he could see was a mass of guards and attendants, blocking his view as effectively as a wall.

No one was moving.

Smokescreen!

Skywarp finally turned to look at Bluestreak. He tipped his helm and peered at him – no, peered at the faint shimmer that separated them. With a flash of light and another loud vop noise, Skywarp stood just outside the barrier. “Fascinating,” he murmured, and held out a hand to touch the wall.

“Please!” Bluestreak yelled, banging his fists on the unseen wall again. “Let me out! I have to get to my brother!”

Skywarp’s wings jerked and he focused on Bluestreak as if seeing him for the first time. “Of course,” he said. He waved his hand, and the faint sheen in the air broke apart and fell to the ground like a shattered crystal.

Bluestreak charged up the hill as soon as he was able to move past the barricade. “Smokey!” he called as he ran.

No one on the hill turned to face him.

He shouldered his way through the crowd at the top of the hill. First he saw Strikeback. The guard was on his knees, his expression etched with horror and shock. Smokescreen’s other guards had Strikeback’s arms in a lock behind his back, but the head guard wasn’t struggling at all.

Smokescreen.

Shoving his way past another row of mechs, Bluestreak saw Prowl standing, frozen mid-step. He was staring at what was on the ground in front of him. His door wings lay low against his back, and he still held his hand up to cover his mouth. As Bluestreak pushed past the last mechs between him and the top of the hill, Jazz shoved his way through from the other side, gently putting his hand on Prowl’s shoulder and pulling the Prince against his chest.

Smokescreen.

Bluestreak stumbled as he reached the top of the hill, and the attendants there moved out of his way as they heard him coming. Triage was crouched at Smokescreen’s side, but he stood up as Bluestreak approached, shaking his helm.

Smokescreen was doubled over on the ground, and Bluestreak’s spark stopped its spin for one delicate moment when he saw how still his brother was. But then he looked again, and saw what was real instead of what he’d expected to see.

Smokescreen was kneeling, sprawled out and bent over, his back to Bluestreak. His wings hung loosely at his back, their tips just touching the ground. He rocked, forward and back, holding something in his arms, and Bluestreak could hear his brother’s voice murmuring softly. He seemed to be saying the same thing over and over.

“Smokey?” Bluestreak whispered, reaching out to touch his brother’s shoulder. As he leaned forward, he finally saw his brother’s face, blank and emotionless, staring at what he held in his arms.

Then Bluestreak looked down, and saw that Smokescreen held the silent, greying frame of Lord Halfsteel in his arms.

Chapter Text

When confronted with a situation so overwhelming that it seemed impossible to know where to even start, Prowl fell back on his administrative training. That training was the only thing that kept him from reeling in mute shock.

First, ascertain and prioritize the immediate needs, and have them dealt with quickly. After Triage had made it clear there was nothing to be done for Lord Halfsteel, Prowl asked him to see to Smokescreen, to make sure that he was unhurt and to treat him for the shock he was plainly in. Strikeback was taken down to the dungeon, as was Bombshell. Magi Skywarp and Road Rage had subdued the rogue sorcerer with magic somehow, and they carried him down to a cell between them, refusing help from the guards.

Second, ensure all other pressing issues are handled. The crowds on the Temple grounds were cleared out quickly by the city guard, and medics saw to those who had been injured in the mad rush to get away from the sorcerers’ battle. A curfew was established “for the safety of the citizens,” and it was enforced by Cavalry troops patrolling the city. A statement from the palace was issued to assure everyone that the King was safe, and that the assassin was being dealt with.

The city guards reported that rumours were circulating, based on supposed first-hand accounts, that it had been the foreign sorcerers who had saved King Smokescreen’s life. While that wasn’t exactly what had happened, Prowl decided to let that rumour continue. After all, they did want to change attitudes towards magic in the kingdom. The narrative would have been muddied by explaining that Smokescreen had actually been saved by his majordomo, shoving him out of the way from a gunshot fired by the King’s head guard.

Before he was taken back to the palace by Triage, Smokescreen insisted that Halfsteel’s frame be treated as if he was a member of the royal family. Prowl anticipated some grumblings from lower Court members about that, but those were complaints that could be dealt with later. However, with the city and palace guards busy making sure that the crowds dispersed safely and ensuring that the foreign dignitaries were kept safe, there were no guards left to provide an honour guard. That was when Bluestreak, Hound, and Blurr volunteered to stand guard over the noble’s frame in the Temple until Cavalry officers could be made available for the duty. Their offer was gladly accepted, and the Rangers took up posts at the Temple immediately.

Lord Overcast had swept in as soon as the crowds started clearing, pulling the grieving Lord Lightbraid and his consort aside and making sure they knew where their creation’s frame was going to be taken. He arranged for them to be escorted back to their apartments, and summoned their other creations to come sit with them. Then he placed himself at their disposal, seeing to anything they needed, and acting as a buffer between the grieving family and all the Court members who wanted to immediately offer their condolences. Prowl made a mental note to sincerely thank Overcast for taking on a job that he knew he himself would have been ill-suited for.

Third, mitigate any repercussions from the situation. Prowl met with all of the foreign leaders individually to ensure that they were all right, and to assure them that the situation was under control. He was concerned that Emperor Starscream would take the same kind of offense that Commander Ultra Magnus had when the Rangers had been injured. But the emperor had simply shrugged, and said that allowing Skywarp to deal with “Academy business” was part of their trine arrangement. At least Prowl didn’t need to worry about that.

And of course, the members of the Court needed to be reassured that King Smokescreen was safe. Lord Caelum took care of that for Prowl, calling for an informal meeting in the throne room to let them know what was going on. After the meeting, Caelum informed him that, while there were some mutterings about the dangers of letting sorcerers into Praxus, most of the Court was grateful for the assistance of Skywarp and Road Rage.

After Prowl had determined that nothing else needed his immediate attention, there was one more thing left to do: see to the interrogation of the prisoners.

Skywarp and Road Rage had told the military’s interrogators to leave Bombshell to them, and no one wanted to begin the interrogation of Strikeback without a direct order from Smokescreen. And while Prowl hadn’t heard that Smokescreen had ordered the interrogation to begin, he received a note from the King asking to meet him in the dungeons to question the prisoners directly. Prowl hoped that meant Triage had managed to give Smokescreen something to calm him.

Prowl descended the stairs into the palace dungeon. When Prowl was a youngling, he often played down in the cells with Silverstreak, since there were rarely any prisoners kept there. He flinched when he realized that the last time a mech had been kept in these cells was when Tempest had been caught interfacing with Silverstreak, before he was handed over to the Temple for execution.

When he rounded the corner to the first cell, Prowl nodded with satisfaction at the number of guards he saw standing in front of both cells. Not that he expected either one to escape: Bombshell appeared to have been put into stasis by the other sorcerers, while Strikeback had looked like he was in shock himself immediately after firing his weapon. It was Strikeback who insisted on cuffs, and had walked under his own power to the dungeons, his shoulders slumped.

But first things first.

Prowl turned to face the cell holding the sorcerer, Bombshell. The sorcerer still appeared to be offline, crumpled on the floor in a heap, his optics dark. Skywarp and Road Rage stood just outside the cell, murmuring to each other in quiet tones, ignoring the ring of guards around them.

Skywarp turned when he heard Prowl approach. “Your Highness,” he said.

“You have our thanks again, Magi,” Prowl said with a bow and a dip of his door wings. “I fear to think what might have happened if you’d not been able to subdue him.

Road Rage nodded. The Urayan sorcerer had seemed like a calm, quiet femme when Prowl had spoken with her prior to the coronation, and that serene attitude came through when she spoke. “You are welcome, Your Highness,” she said. “I only wish that my first duty here had not been for something so disruptive and unpleasant.”

Before Prowl could reply, he heard Smokescreen’s voice behind him. “Get him up,” the King said, sweeping into the corridor with his remaining guards behind him. Triage trailed behind, keeping a wary optic on the King. Smokescreen still wore his crown and his stole from the coronation, and Prowl noticed that the ends of the stole were stained with energon. “I want to ask him some questions,” Smokescreen said, his words sharp and clipped.

Prowl had seen Smokescreen angry before, on several occasions. He’d seen him sad, and pensive, and furious. This... This was something else. Smokescreen’s face was an impassive mask, betraying no emotion, and his door wings were held out behind him stiffly as he walked up to the bars of the cell. It was as if he’d somehow shut down his emotions, leaving behind only an icy calm.

Prowl took a step back before he realized he’d even done it.

Skywarp, however, met Smokescreen’s gaze. “Before we do that, Your Majesty, there are two things we need to discuss,” he said, holding two digits in the air. “First, we are sending a message to the Academy, and the Inquisitors should be here within a few cycles. They will conduct an assessment of Bombshell, ascertain the facts of the case, and will render judgement.” He glanced through the bars of the cell at the offline mech inside. “I suggest that you allow them to do this, regardless of your plans for him.”

“And if we do not?” Smokescreen asked, his words sharp and his door wings held stiffly.

Road Rage smiled gently. “You may do with him as you will, but please understand... The Academy does not take kindly to Oathbreakers,” she said. “His punishment at the hands of the Inquisitors will be far greater than anything you would be able to do.”

Smokescreen frowned, then nodded. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said. “What’s the second thing?”

Skywarp pointed at the next cell, where Strikeback was being held. “Your guard is not responsible for what he did. When he fired his gun today, he was fully under Bombshell’s control... Like a puppet.” Skywarp mimed controlling the dangling strings of a sparkling’s string toy. “It was a masterful bit processor magic he did. He covered his influence well. I can’t think of any other sorcerer who could pull that off.”

Road Rage tipped her helm towards Smokescreen. “Magus Skywarp is one of the best sorcerers in the entire Academy at finding and identifying magic,” she said, her voice calm. “If he was unable to identify the enchantment on your guard, no one could have. And he’s right: your guard was not acting on his own accord this afternoon.”

Smokescreen’s optics flicked towards Strikeback’s cell before giving Skywarp a curt nod. “I see. I’ll deal with that later.” Then, with a glower, he gestured at the sorcerer lying on the cell floor. “But right now, I need to speak to him. Can I do that, or do I need the Academy’s permission to do that, too?”

Prowl felt his door wings stiffen at Smokescreen’s clipped barb, and glanced at the sorcerers to see if they’d taken offense.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Ignoring Smokescreen’s sarcasm, Skywarp opened the cell door. Both sorcerers entered the cell, and Skywarp crouched down next to Bombshell. A flash of green sparks flicked from the tips of his talons, and Bombshell’s optics flickered on with a dim red glow. “Wakey, wakey,” Skywarp said, hauling Bombshell to his knees. “You’ve got visitors.”

As soon as the rogue sorcerer was kneeling upright, he glared at Skywarp. “Putting me in stasis is what I would have expected from a sorcerer who’s made himself into a lackey,” he snarled. “Are you too weak to keep me blocked for even a few groons?”

Road Rage was standing at his other shoulder, and she put a hand on the back of his neck. Prowl couldn’t see what she did, but Bombshell suddenly stiffened, and a squeal of feedback came from his vocalizer. “Would you prefer that we simply blinded you now?” she asked mildly.

Bombshell’s optics bleached bright white for a moment. “You wouldn’t,” he said, staring at up Road Rage.

“Try us,” Road Rage said, her voice still dangerously calm.

After taking a moment to collect himself, Bombshell recovered and relaxed slightly. “You wouldn’t dare. There are more of us who still believe in Chancellor Shockwave’s vision than you think. As soon as Liege Maximo finds out what you’ve done to me, you’ll be –“

Skywarp interrupted Bombshell with a raucous laugh, throwing his helm back. “Liege Maximo? How deeply have you been hiding yourself?” he asked. He extended a talon and tipped Bombshell’s helm up to look at him directly. “The Archmagus called Liege Maximo Oathbreaker when it was revealed how he’d cooperated with Shockwave, providing him with sorcerers to work on his filth... Sorcerers like you, hmm?” Skywarp smiled at Bombshell, flashing his fangs at him. “Your friends are all gone. Liege Maximo and all of his followers have been blinded. You and a last few dregs are all that’s left of your sad little twisted movement. And your fate will be the same as Liege Maximo’s. The Inquisitors will come, and deal with you... Oathbreaker.”

Prowl had no idea what Skywarp was talking about, but the effect it had on Bombshell was plain. The beastformer’s optics bleached again, and he began to tremble in Skywarp’s grasp. “No... please. I’ll do anything. Don’t let them blind me!” He turned to look at Smokescreen. “Your Majesty, please, I’ll answer all your questions. I’ll tell you everything you want. Just please... Don’t let them do this!”

Smokescreen’s expression hadn’t changed at all as Bombshell pleaded. Instead, he glanced at Skywarp. “Our alchemist has charms to make sure he’ll only speak the truth. Should I have him summoned, or can you do the same?”

Skywarp looked at Road Rage. “If I hold and block him, can you compel him to answer?” he asked. When a thin whine escaped Bombshell’s vocalizer, Skywarp firmed his grip on the other sorcerer. “It’s not so fun when it’s being done to you, is it?”

“I can do that,” Road Rage said. The strange stubby wings over her shoulders twitched as the hand on the back of Bombshell’s neck tightened, and Prowl saw a flare of yellow light stream from her digits into the rogue sorcerer’s frame. Bombshell’s optics flared to white, his battle mask snapped open, and his jaw dropped to hang slack. Her voice sounding slightly strained, Road Rage said, “Ask him anything you want, and he will answer truthfully and completely.”

Without even waiting a beat, Smokescreen asked, “Who hired you?”

The voice that came from Bombshell’s vocalizer sounded flat and artificial, but it replied immediately. “I was contacted by Prelate Hitch a vorn ago. He asked if I could assist in disrupting the political structure of Praxus.”

“What did this disruption entail?” Smokescreen demanded. His expression remained unchanged.

“Just information gathering, at first. I collected information on the princes’ movements and details about security, and passed that information to Prelate Hitch. Then a few cycles ago, he asked if I could eliminate the crown prince.”

“What were you to get in exchange for doing all of this?”

Bombshell’s optics stared unseeing at the ceiling of the cell. “Hitch had a benefactor who offered to pay me fifty thousand shanix immediately, with another two million upon the successful completion of the contract. I agreed.”

Prowl’s engine faltered. Two million shanix. A contract was taken out to destroy their family for a mere two million shanix. They’d spent more than that on the fuel for Bluestreak’s bonding presentation.

Then Prowl realized that for the bulk of the residents of Praxus, two million shanix would seem like unimaginable riches.

If Smokescreen cared that the contract on his life was purchased for so little, he didn’t show it. “Who is the benefactor who was paying you?”

“The benefactor is Lady Crossflare.”

“Where are Lady Crossflare and Prelate Hitch now?” Smokescreen was barely waiting for a reply before firing the next question at Bombshell.

“I do not know.”

Smokescreen’s wings finally moved, giving an impatient flick. “Then how were you intending to be paid once you completed your job?”

Bombshell’s optics widened, but his toneless voice answered immediately. “An account was established at the Mercantile Bank in Altihex. Once I completed the contract, my payment would be deposited there for me to withdraw.”

Prowl turned to look at Smokescreen. “If we contact the governor in Altihex, perhaps they can help us work with the bank to determine who opened the account,” he said.

Smokescreen nodded, his face still locked into a glare. “Give us the account information.”

Bombshell recited a string of glyphs, which Prowl quickly jotted down on his pad, before looking at Smokescreen. “I’ll send a message as soon as we’re done here.”

Nodding again, Smokescreen looked back to Bombshell. “What did you do to Strikeback?”

A whine escaped Bombshell’s vocalizer. Road Rage grimaced, and Bombshell thrashed for a moment. “He’s resisting because he knows this will be held as evidence when the Inquisitors arrive,” Road Rage said, gritting her dentae. “Give me just a moment...” Then the symbols engraved on her armor began glowing with a soft golden light.

Bombshell’s frame stiffened, his optics wide, before he sagged down as if in defeat. His flat voice answered Smokescreen’s question. “I applied a processor enchantment to the guard, shortly after accepting the contract. When I could see him visually, I could control his actions as if they were my own. When I couldn’t see him, I sent him orders through devices I gave him to hide around the palace. He would perform the order and then return to his normal activities.”

Skywarp frowned. “Processor enchantments, especially ones that involved, don’t last a whole vorn,” he said. “How did you reapply it?”

“It was starting to fade a deca-cycle ago. I met the guard in the market square and was able to reapply the enchantment under my disguise.”

Smokescreen’s door wings sagged slightly. “What disguise?”

“I used a glamour charm to disguise myself as a common Praxian with a low-powered processor, handing out flyers that Lady Crossflare provided to try to destabilize the crown’s position. It was a very effective disguise.”

Prowl suddenly remembered the issue that Strikeback had had with the mech who he’d encountered in the market. The mech had hugged Strikeback tightly, patting him on the back. Was that all it took to apply an enchantment? Prowl’s door wings quivered, and he was doubly glad that they now had Magus Road Rage to assist them.

Smokescreen stared at the next cell for a moment, where Strikeback was being held. Finally he turned back to Bombshell. “Did you enchant any other mechs in Praxus?”

“No.”

“We found a device outside of my apartments. Are there any others that you had placed in the palace or anywhere else in Praxus?”

All of the fight seemed to have gone out of Bombshell. His optics still looked towards the ceiling, but if he hadn’t been held up by the other sorcerers, Prowl was sure he would have collapsed. Still, his vocalizer answered. “Yes. One in the crown prince’s office, under the north window sill. One on the lower terrace under the table where the crown prince takes his morning fuel. One in Prince Prowl’s office, over the door. One in the guard barracks, under Captain Strikeback’s side table. One in Phoenix Square, on top of the western-most lamp post.”

It went on and on. Bombshell listed over twenty devices that had been planted around the palace and the city, all in places that Strikeback frequented. Prowl kept writing them down as the sorcerer spoke, his door wings climbing higher and higher. When Bombshell finally stopped talking, Prowl looked up at Smokescreen to see that his brother’s wings had fallen almost flat against his back. “I’ve got all of these down, Smokescreen,” he said. When Smokescreen didn’t move, Prowl added, “And... I think that’s all we need from him.”

Slowly, Smokescreen nodded. “Agreed.” He looked at Road Rage and waved his hand. “We’re done with him.”

Road Rage visibly relaxed. The glow from the arcane symbols on her armor faded, and the yellow lightning flowing from her digits stopped. When she stood up again, she looked tired. Prowl remembered how exhausted Hound had been from just doing one complex illusion. She looked at the tips of her digits, as if examining them for damage, then dropped her hand to her side. Skywarp also let go of Bombshell, and the beastformer slumped completely to the floor, offline once more.

“Earlier, you said that he would be blinded,” Smokescreen said. His optics were still fixed on the rogue sorcerer. “Is that all? Simply losing his sight doesn’t seem like an adequate punishment for what he’s done.”

“Ah, no. You misunderstand,” Skywarp said. He and Road Rage slipped out of the cell, and the Vosian closed the door behind them. “To blind a sorcerer means to burn out their arcane receptors so that they can’t sense, or touch, or use the arcane energy that we depend on.” His wings rattled, and this time he lifted his upper lip in a grimace. “To be blinded means being unable to feel or interact with the arcane energies that we can see all around us.” He gestured around vaguely.

Road Rage had pulled her own wings in tight. “Every sorcerer is given a taste of what being blinded feels like when we are in training, as a warning of what will happen to us if we break our oaths,” she said. She shivered visibly. “It is... very unpleasant.”

“It’s torturous,” Skywarp said firmly, lifting his lips to bare his fangs again.

Smokescreen finally lifted his optics from Bombshell and looked at Skywarp. “And then what? Will he be imprisoned?”

“After he’s blinded, he’ll be let go,” Road Rage said.

Smokescreen’s door wings flared in outrage. “What?!” he exclaimed. “You’ll just let him go? After what he’s done to me? To... To us?” He flung his arm out to indicate Prowl. Or perhaps he was gesturing towards the Temple across the city, where Lord Halfsteel’s frame was being kept. Prowl wasn’t sure.

“Blinded sorcerers are let go because most of them die by their own hand within a vorn of being blinded, or they simply go insane,” Skywarp said. He glanced at Bombshell. “It is a singularly effective punishment.”

“If you’d prefer to have him incarcerated here, that can be arranged,” Road Rage said. “However... I have no doubt that he will be blinded when the Inquisitors arrive. The Academy makes no exceptions for Oathbreakers. He will not be permitted to use arcane power ever again.”

Prowl could see the war taking place within Smokescreen. His brother had detested the torture used by the old Temple priests when trying to extract information from mechs, like they had done with Prince Silverstreak’s guards. As soon as he’d been in a position to do so, Smokescreen had banned the use of torture. But now, the mech who was responsible for much of the pain and terror that they’d all been through over the past vorn, and for the death of Halfsteel, was going to be put through some kind of painful torture as punishment.

Although, knowing what little he did of how the Academy operated, Prowl wasn’t sure that Smokescreen had any choice in the matter.

Smokescreen apparently had reached the same conclusion. He flicked his door wings and nodded at Road Rage’s explanation. “I’ll make a decision tomorrow,” he said. He looked once more at Bombshell before turning away. “I’m done with him. Thank you again for your assistance in subduing him.”

“Only doing our sworn duty,” Skywarp said. He paused. “And... My condolences on the death of your majordomo, Your Majesty,” he added somberly, his wings pulled in tightly. When Smokescreen nodded, Skywarp bowed and then vanished in a flash of light accompanied by a loud vop noise. Road Rage nodded at Smokescreen and Prowl, then turned and silently left the dungeon.

Prowl followed Smokescreen to the next cell. Smokescreen stood just outside the bars, close enough that he could have rested his helm on the bars, and looked at the mech inside.

Strikeback knelt on the hard floor, his hands bound behind him and his helm bowed. He was motionless until Smokescreen quietly spoke his name. He looked up. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice faint. He lowered his helm again. “I have no way to tell you how... sorry I am,” he said. “I cannot even beg for forgiveness. To be given as much trust and faith as you have given me, only to -” His vocalizer shorted out with a crackle, and he reset it with a click. “Only to have your trust violated like this...” Strikeback shook his helm, still staring at the floor.

Smokescreen’s wings quivered. Prowl could see that his brother was struggling to keep them up at a neutral angle. “Strikeback,” Smokescreen said again. “Look at me, please.” When Strikeback lifted his helm to look at Smokescreen, he continued. “The sorcerers told me that... That you were enchanted. That what happened wasn’t your fault.”

Strikeback’s engine whined, and he started shaking his helm back and forth. “Your Majesty... Smokescreen...” His voice faded out for a moment. “My sole purpose was to protect you, and to keep you safe from harm.” Strikeback’s chin trembled as he looked at Smokescreen. “I failed in that, simply by existing.”

Shaking his own helm, Smokescreen raised his hands and grabbed the bars of the cell. “Tell me what happened, whatever you remember.”

Taking a shuddering vent of air, Strikeback said, “We were walking from the Temple, up to the top of the hill. I remember hearing the crowd start to cheer, and then...” He shook his helm. “I don’t know. It was like I went offline. It was like I was having a memory purge. And then, when I came back online...” He dropped his gaze back to the floor. “I was holding my rifle, and you were on the ground, and –“ Strikeback’s voice dissolved into static and faded out once more.

Prowl watched as Smokescreen’s door wings trembled again, and fell. Smokescreen leaned his helm forward, resting his chevron against the bars of the cell, and closed his optics.

Triage, who had been hovering behind the King since they had arrived, leapt forward. “Your Majesty, perhaps you should –“

“I’m fine!” Smokescreen snapped, his door wings flipping back up over his shoulders. He pulled air through his vents, then turned to look at the doctor. “My apologies. I just need another klik.” Before Triage could reply, Smokescreen looked back into the cell. “Strikeback... Is there anything else you think I should know? Anything else you haven’t told me?” He waited for a moment, then added, “They said you were enchanted almost a vorn ago. Is there anything strange that’s happened to you?”

Nodding slowly, Strikeback said, “The mech in the market, like he said. And...” He looked back up at Smokescreen. “I’d been experiencing missing moments of time... Just a klik here or there. I thought that perhaps I needed more recharge or something. It never interfered with my duties. I didn’t think...” He shook his helm, still staring at the floor. “I didn’t think to tell you. I didn’t want to bother you with my problems. I am so sorry, Your Majesty.”

Clutching his pad against his chest, Prowl watched Smokescreen stare at Strikeback for almost a full klik. Prowl couldn’t begin to imagine what his brother was feeling. The princes had all selected their head guards shortly before receiving their second tier upgrades. Their guards had been their playmates, confidants, disciplinarians, advisors, training partners, and friends. Prowl tried to imagine what he would feel like if Trident killed Jazz, even accidentally, and felt a chill burn through his lines.

Suddenly, he thought he could understand the expression on Smokescreen’s face.

Finally, Smokescreen nodded, and stepped back from the cell and turned to look at Prowl wearily. “I’ll be in my apartments,” he said. “Please ensure that I’m not disturbed.”

Prowl bowed to his brother. “Of course,” he said, and watched as Smokescreen slowly walked away, out of the dungeon.

Prowl looked back into the cell, and saw that Strikeback had returned to the same position he’d first seen him in: helm bowed and frame slumped in sorrow.

Smokescreen was cold.

The sun had set, and the chilled night air was settling into his joints and struts more and more with every moment he stood on the balcony. He knew he should go inside. He knew that he should go in, have some fuel, and crawl into his berth. He knew he should get some recharge.

But he stayed on the balcony, staring down at the darkened gardens below.

He brought the glass to his lips again, and found it was empty. It had been empty the last time he’d brought it to his lips, too, but he’d forgotten. If he went inside to refill it, he would probably stay in there. It was warmer inside. If he stayed inside, he would realize how low his tanks were, and have some proper fuel. He would realize how tired he was, and crawl into his berth.

But Smokescreen knew that he would never be able to fall into recharge. He would never be able to fall into recharge because he kept remembering Halfsteel shouting in surprise and shoving him to the side, the sound of the gunshot, the sickening rattle of armor as Halfsteel fell to the ground. He kept remembering Halfsteel trying to say something, but not being able to understand him. He kept remembering the moment that Halfsteel’s optics flickered, faded, and went out.

Smokescreen shivered in the cool breeze.

He stared at the darkened gardens below, which should have been filled with music and light and laughter. He should have been down in the gardens at this very moment, standing next to his best friend (your promised, his processor whispered), instead of standing on his balcony alone. He should have been trying to figure out how to slug back a shot of high-grade while wearing the crown, instead of not being entirely sure where the crown was.

The crown was somewhere in his apartments, laying wherever he’d tossed it. He thought it might have landed on his desk.

But did it really matter? It was his.

His alone.

He suddenly understood how Silverstreak must have felt when he ran from Praxus. Smokescreen pulled a cold vent of air, considering. If he ran, he could leave this behind. He could leave behind the hurt, and the duty, and the responsibility. He could leave behind the knowledge that, if he traced everything back, Halfsteel was gone because Smokescreen couldn’t keep his mouth shut about his plans. He could leave it all behind him and forget everything.

If only he could forget.

Smokescreen brought his glass to his lips and found it was empty.

He heard a soft noise inside his apartments and tensed. The door had opened and closed.

“I said I wanted to be left alone!” Smokescreen snapped, turning his helm slightly. His spark clenched at the thought that he now also needed to find a new head guard. “Leave me be.”

“Smokescreen.”

Smokescreen’s door wings stiffened at the quiet voice. He turned to see Lord Caelum standing in the doorway to the balcony. “Carrier.” He watched as Caelum came to stand next to him. “My apologies, but... I think I just need some time alone.”

Caelum put his hand on Smokescreen’s arm, then wrapped his arm around his back. His touch was warm, and Smokescreen leaned into it. Caelum frowned. “You’re freezing. Come inside.”

Smokescreen followed. It was easier to follow his carrier’s request than it was to object. Inside his apartments, the air was warm, and Smokescreen shivered again. Caelum led him to the couch and gently guided him to sit. “You haven’t fueled yet, either, have you?” When Smokescreen shook his helm, Caelum busied himself at the service tray that the servants had left, pouring fuel and bringing it over to Smokescreen. “It’s warm. Take it.”

With numb digits, Smokescreen took the cube from his carrier. He stared down at the liquid without seeing it, letting the warmth soak into his hands. “Thank you,” he muttered.

He felt Caelum sit on the couch next to him. “Smokescreen,” Caelum said softly. “I know you and Lord Halfsteel were close. I am so sorry.”

Without lifting his optics, Smokescreen said, “He’s gone because of me, carrier. They were after me, and he’s gone. Just like all those guards.” He brought the cube to his lips, took a sip of fuel, and felt the warm liquid slide down his intake. He stared back down at the cube in his hands. “It shouldn’t have been like this,” he whispered. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.”

“I wish with all my spark that there was something I could do to make this right,” Caelum said. When Smokescreen looked up at him, Caelum reached out and touched the side of Smokescreen’s helm.

As soon as Caelum’s hand touched his helm vent, Smokescreen felt the wall that he’d built between his spark and what had happened crumble away. A sob escaped his vocalizer, then another, and he struggled to regain control of his ventilations. “I don’t know what to do,” he gasped.

Smokescreen felt Caelum pull him down into an embrace, and he clung to his carrier’s plating. “Tonight, all you need to do is drink your fuel, try to get some rest, and miss Halfsteel,” Caelum said. “But tomorrow... You need to be the King of Praxus. No one else can do that for you. The people of Praxus will be looking to you for leadership.”

The thought of going down to his office tomorrow, and just starting his work like normal seemed impossible. The thought of sitting there, and Halfsteel not appearing in his doorway with his morning report overwhelmed Smokescreen’s processor for a moment, fritzing his vision into static and forcing a squeal of feedback from his vocalizer. He shook his helm, burying it further into Caelum’s chest. “I can’t do this, carrier,” he whispered once his vocalizer had reset.

Caelum’s hand stroked gently down the back of Smokescreen’s helm. “Your sire said something to me, after Silverstreak left us,” Caelum said. “He said that the crown was a great gift, a symbol of the trust that the mechs of Praxus have in the king. But he said that the crown was also heavy. All that trust, all those decisions... It weighed heavily on him.” Caelum smoothed his hand down Smokescreen’s back, between his door wings, like he had done when Smokescreen was small. “After it was clear that Silverstreak would not be found, he said he wished he could put the crown down and walk away from it.”

Smokescreen sniffled. “But he didn’t.” Smokescreen could already recite what Caelum was going to tell him: pull yourself together and rule.

But Caelum’s next words were not what Smokescreen was expecting at all.

“No, he didn’t. Because he knew that if he walked away, the crown would fall to you... And he knew you would not have felt ready for it. He knew you needed more time.” Caelum ran his hand down Smokescreen’s back again, and Smokescreen could feel the tension bleeding from his frame even as his spark still stung with the pain of losing his friend. “If you decide you cannot do this, the crown must go to the next in line. It would go to Prowl.”

A memory surfaced of Prowl in his office, of Smokescreen making Prowl promise that if anything happened to him, Prowl needed to continue what Smokescreen was doing for the mechs of Praxus... As their king.

He remembered the look of fear that had lit Prowl’s optics in that moment, and the way his door wings had trembled in distress. But he also remembered that Prowl had nodded, and made the promise to carry on as king... Whether he felt he was ready to handle it or not.

But right now, the crown – its honour, its duty, and its burden - was Smokescreen’s to bear... With or without Halfsteel by his side.

Caelum gently kissed the top of Smokescreen’s helm. “One way or another, there must always be someone to lead Praxus forward. Today, it’s you. But if you decide that you truly cannot do this, you must tell Prowl, and soon, that he must take up the crown.”

Thinking again of the look of terror in Prowl’s optics at the thought of being made King, Smokescreen finally lifted his helm to look at his carrier with coolant-stained cheeks. “I can’t do that to Prowl,” Smokescreen said. He managed a small smile. “He’d never forgive me for that.”

“I think you’d be surprised at what mechs can forgive, or at least stop being angry about,” Caelum said, a distant look in his optics. He focused again on Smokescreen and wiped the coolant from his cheeks with warm digits. “So... What are you going to do?”

Taking another shaky vent, Smokescreen said, “Tomorrow, I have things to do.” Smokescreen’s processor automatically ran through the list: new allies to reassure, citizens to address, a funeral to plan. “I have things to do as the King of Praxus. But... tonight...” Smokescreen felt his lower jaw trembling as he worked to keep his vocalizer steady. “I need to just stay here. With you?” Coolant spilled from his optics again, and he let it stream freely. “Please?” he asked, his voice sounding small to his own audials.

“Of course, my little creation,” Caelum said, pulling Smokescreen tight against his chest.

Smokescreen curled into Caelum’s side, listening to the sound of his carrier’s spark thrumming in his chest, and feeling the emptiness inside his own.

When Bluestreak volunteered to stand as honour guard over Lord Halfsteel’s frame, he hadn’t expected much company.

Hound was a given, of course. The green mech followed Bluestreak into the Temple, and took up watch at Bluestreak’s side. But Blurr was a bit of a surprise. Both of the other Rangers mimicked Bluestreak’s watch stance perfectly, standing alongside him to guard Halfsteel’s frame.

Barely a groon into their watch, Ultra Magnus entered the Temple’s sanctum. He saluted Bluestreak, handed each Ranger their rifles that he’d brought from the palace, and then took up a position opposite the Praxian.

Bluestreak felt a swell of pride in his fellow Rangers, and in the leader of his adopted home. He’d volunteered to stand watch as soon as he’d heard that Smokescreen had requested that Halfsteel be granted the same rites as a member of the royal family, but that no guards were available for the duty. He had been overwhelmed by sorrow for Smokescreen for the loss of his friend, and by helplessness at what had happened before his optics. Volunteering to stand watch gave him something to do, some way to feel like he was helping, even if it seemed like such a small gesture.

When they were finally relieved of duty by Cavalry officers, Bluestreak thought that was the end of it. He felt tired – they’d been standing watch almost all night – but he also felt like he’d helped fight the chaos that had threatened to fall over the city.

He had expected it to end there. He hadn’t expected the personal visit from Lord Halfsteel’s creators in which they thanked him for the honour he’d shown their creation. And he certainly had no idea that they would ask him to do the same at the funeral, standing guard over the memorial fire as it was lit. But he’d immediately accepted.

The evening of the funeral, Bluestreak stood watch alongside members of the palace guard, the city guard, the Cavalry, and the Praxian Infantry. He watched as Halfsteel’s creators and brothers entered the Temple grounds, wearing black mourning stoles and carrying their torches, and he watched as they lit the pyre that held Halfsteel’s remains. He watched as they clung to each other, and Halfsteel’s remaining brothers supported their creators. He watched as Lord Lightbraid accepted the cast of Halfsteel’s spark chamber from the Temple adepts who had prepared his frame for smelting. He watched as Lightbraid presented the cast to Smokescreen. He watched as Smokescreen’s expression slowly disintegrated from stoically mournful to devastated as he looked down at the golden orb in his hand.

As the flames licked up the side of the pyre and the gathered mechs began to sing the Song for the Fallen, Bluestreak reached through their bond and clung to Hound’s presence in his spark.

After the funeral, Bluestreak accepted the invitation to Smokescreen’s apartments. Hound didn’t mind, saying that spending time with Trailbreaker would be a good diversion for him. Bluestreak hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to his brothers since the coronation. With his time in Praxus drawing short, he wanted to make sure that he spent as much time with his brothers as he could.

He only wished it could have been under happier circumstances.

The three brothers had dragged chairs out onto the balcony, and were sitting quietly, sipping high-grade and watching the stars. It reminded Bluestreak a little of his last cycles in Praxus before he left, when he and his brothers would conspire on how to make Praxus a better place.

“We’ve done this before, you know,” Smokescreen said suddenly. His voice was quiet, but free from static. “Me, and Prowl. After we lit the memorial fire for you, we sat out here and drank, and wondered if you were still out there.” Smokescreen tipped his glass up and emptied what was left in it into his mouth. “It’s kind of funny how often I think of that night,” he added quietly.

Bluestreak turned to look at Smokescreen. His brother’s optics were fixed on the sky, his optics dimmed slightly in thought. “Prowl told me about how you lit a fire for me,” he said. “And I’m sorry.” Bluestreak shook his helm. “I wasn’t thinking clearly when I left. My only thought was to get away from... From everything. I didn’t think about how it would affect you, or Prowl, or Carrier.” He looked past Smokescreen to Prowl. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that for me.”

“I’m just glad that you’re here now.” Smokescreen turned his helm to look at Bluestreak. “And I owe you an apology in return, Streaks,” he said.

“What for?” Bluestreak asked with a frown.

“I thought I knew why... I thought I understood why you ran away.” Smokescreen twirled his empty glass between his digits as he spoke. “It seemed simple. You lost someone you loved, and wanted to get away from the pain.” Smokescreen shook his helm, looking back up at the sky. “But I get it now. I understand now how bad it hurts... To have someone you trusted end up killing someone who you loved more than–“ Smokescreen’s voice broke into static, and the glass in his hand stopped moving. There was a click as he reset his vocalizer. “To have someone you trusted with your life take the life of someone you loved.”

Bluestreak shook his helm. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Bluestreak worked his intake as he thought of Tempest, and how empty his spark had felt after watching his lover fall to the executioner’s spear. “I just wish you never had to find out what it felt like.”

“Me too,” Smokescreen muttered. He pulled a full vent and then looked at Prowl. “I didn’t tell you... I was going to tell you later. After the reception.”

“Tell me what?” Prowl asked.

Smokescreen’s digits started twirling the glass again. “Just before the coronation, I asked him if he’d bond with me and be my Consort. He’d said yes.”

“Oh... Smokey,” Bluestreak said, reaching out to put his hand on Smokescreen’s arm. Bluestreak felt Hound reach across their bond to him, sending him love and comfort. He grabbed at the sensation greedily while feeling guilty that his brother didn’t have anyone to give him the same spark-deep support.

Smokescreen nodded. “All through the funeral tonight, all I could think was how he should have been wearing a Consort stole, and not his majordomo stole when he was sent into the smelter.”

Bluestreak looked past Smokescreen to Prowl, who looked as surprised as Bluestreak felt. Then, in a calm, quiet voice, Prowl said, “Smokescreen, if you’d been bonded, the pain...”

“Would have been awful, I know,” Smokescreen said. “I know it would have been even worse than what I’m feeling now.” He tipped his glass up and emptied what was left of it into his mouth. “Knowing that it would have hurt more doesn’t change the fact that I still wish we’d been bonded before he died.” Smokescreen gave a short, curt laugh. “Prowl said we needed to keep it quiet, to keep the scandal-mongers from making trouble for me,” he said, giving Prowl a humourless smile. “That was probably good advice... Although I guess most mechs have figured it out by now. Especially after his sire gave me his–“

Smokescreen’s voice faded out into a choked sob that ended in a squeal of garbled feedback.

“I’m so sorry, Smokey,” Bluestreak said, grabbing for Smokescreen’s hand and holding it tightly.

They sat in silence for another few kliks.

Finally Prowl lurched to his pedes and held his glass up to his brothers. “Would either of you like a refill?” When Bluestreak nodded and Smokescreen just held up his glass, Prowl waved his hand. “Never mind. I’ll just bring out the bottle.”

As Prowl disappeared into his apartments, Smokescreen set his glass down and then pressed the heels of his hands against his optics. He groaned. “Heirs. I’m gonna need heirs.” He dropped his hands back to his lap limply and glared up at the stars. “It’s the law. And if I don’t produce two heirs in ten vorn, the Court is going to be all over me. And I need a Consort for that. Two cycles ago I thought I had that all figured out.”

Bluestreak’s engine growled, remembering the question that Overcast had asked him and Hound at their reception. “Don’t rush into having creations just because of some antiquated law, Smokey,” Bluestreak said. “Update the law. Or explain that you need more time. The reasonable nobles will understand.” When Smokescreen shook his helm slightly, Bluestreak said, “Or just fall back on the Scroll of Succession. Other rulers have gone without heirs, although it’s been a while.”

“Right,” Smokescreen said thoughtfully. “That’s what the Scroll is for. And if I don’t produce heirs, the line falls to any creations of Prowl’s.”

“Any what of mine?” Prowl asked, emerging from the apartments with two bottles of high-grade. “I couldn’t remember which one we were drinking, so I brought both.”

“Give me some of the Northern engex, please.” As Prowl started pouring some into Smokescreen’s glass, Smokescreen said, “I said that if I don’t end up producing any heirs, your creations will technically be next in line for the throne.”

Prowl stared at Smokescreen with wide optics until his brother squawked when the engex began overflowing his glass. “Oh! Sorry!” Prowl quickly put the bottle down but continued to stare at Smokescreen. “What creations?” He flushed. “I mean...”

Smokescreen finally laughed, tipping his helm back and releasing a real peal of laughter. Bluestreak felt the tightness he had been feeling in his spark loosen slightly at the sound. “I’m not trying to push you into anything, Prowl,” Smokescreen said with a smile. “But if things - you know - work out with you and Jazz on your trip, and you end up with creations eventually, they’ll take their place on the Scroll of Succession. I just ask that you don’t get bonded until you come back,” he added with a grin.

Prowl handed the other bottle to Bluestreak and sat down heavily in his chair. “I’m not going to Polyhex,” Prowl said quietly.

Smokescreen’s laughter evaporated as quickly as it had come. “Yes, you are,” he said. “I told you to go.”

“I can’t and I won’t,” Prowl said, his tone making it clear this was not up for debate. Bluestreak recognized the signs indicating that his brother was applying his brakes and refusing to budge on the topic. “I won’t leave you here alone. My duty comes first... My duty to country, and to my King,” Prowl said, his door wings flipping outward as he looked at Smokescreen pointedly.

Bluestreak heard Smokescreen’s engine falter at Prowl’s words before re-engaging. Then Smokescreen nodded in acceptance. “All right,” he said softly. “And thank you.” When Prowl relaxed the set of his wings, Smokescreen asked, “Have you told the General yet?”

Prowl’s door wings fell at the question. “Not yet,” he said quietly. “He’ll just have to understand.”

Smokescreen turned to look at Bluestreak. Even in the dim light on the balcony, Bluestreak could see that his brother’s expression was carefully schooled into neutrality. But the slight twitch of his door wings betrayed the hesitant hope his brother was feeling. “And what about you?” Smokescreen asked.

At Smokescreen’s question, the ache in his spark that he’d been resolutely ignoring for the past few cycles suddenly roared to the forefront of Bluestreak’s processor. He clutched his hand to his chest, keenly aware of the pain.

Oh, Primus, he wanted to stay. Even with everything that had happened, he still wanted to stay. In the past two deca-cycles, the smells and sounds of the palace had become familiar once more. It was so good to see his brothers again, together, after so many vorn away from them. And Carrier... Slag, Carrier looked so much older than he remembered. Bluestreak didn’t want to leave Caelum’s side, afraid that this might be the last time he saw him.

But even as he was already missing his brothers and their carrier and the crystal gardens he’d helped plant as a youngling and the rich coppery tea and the plushest berth cushions he’d slept on in over a decavorn, he knew he couldn’t stay. It wasn’t home. It wasn’t where he belonged now. Iacon had become his home, and that was reinforced by the pull he felt on his spark.

He had to get back home, to Iacon, and soon. And he knew that Hound did, too.

“Smokey, I can’t stay,” Bluestreak said, trying and failing to keep the static from his voice. “I wish I could, but I can’t. I have to go back to Iacon. We both do... Me and Hound.” He realized he was still rubbing his chest, and he lowered his hand with an effort. “I’m sorry.”

Smokescreen nodded immediately. “I understand,” he said, and then the corner of his mouth curled up into a smile. “But... It was so good to see you again, Streaks. I just.. I just wish that things could have turned out differently. I wish that... I wish...”

Then Smokescreen’s smile twisted into a grimace. He turned away from Bluestreak, burying his face in his hands as his door wings shook with silent sobs.

Bluestreak lunged out of his chair to kneel in front of Smokescreen. He circled his arms around his brother, holding him tightly. Prowl had also jumped up, and he stood on the other side of Smokescreen, his arms looped around their elder brother’s shoulders.

They both held onto Smokescreen until his frame stilled and his ventilations became even.

Chapter Text

Smokescreen vented softly and straightened his stole again. Prowl stood nearby, patiently waiting for his brother to begin his walk to the palace gates. Prowl’s hands were folded at his waist and his door wings held at a neutral angle. He was silent, watching as Smokescreen fidgeted and delayed.

Smokescreen made a final adjustment to his stole. He was aware that he was procrastinating.

The citizens were waiting.

Outside the entrance of the palace, Smokescreen could hear the buzz and rumble of the large crowd that had gathered outside of the gates. The guards said that the public square in front of the palace was filled to capacity. Everyone had come to hear the King speak. Everyone wanted to hear what he was going to say.

This was the speech that he was going to give at the Temple on the cycle of the coronation, with a few changes. Smokescreen’s spark tightened in his chest, and he shoved the immediate memories of that event out of his processor. What mattered right now were the words he was going to say. What mattered was the direction he wanted to take Praxus. He needed to focus on the future, not the past.

He was the King, and he had things he wanted to do for the mechs of Praxus.

Smokescreen vented again, slowly, and then nodded at Prowl. “I’m ready,” he said, and made sure that the crown was firmly set on top of his helm.

Prowl returned his nod, then waved at the guards to open the doors of the palace.

The crowd must have seen some sign of his approach, because as Smokescreen walked towards the gates of the palace, the noise from the crowd grew even louder. Smokescreen nodded to Bluestreak, who stood alongside the foreign visitors just inside the gate. His brother smiled at him and gave him an encouraging wave. Then, as Smokescreen climbed the steps of the stage that had been erected just outside the gates, the noise became deafening as the square erupted in cheers.

As Smokescreen looked out over the sea of mechs who had come to hear him speak, he suddenly realized that almost every mech was wearing something black. Some of them wore scraps of tarps or wire around their shoulders, while others had actually painted stripes on their plating, mimicking the black mourning stoles worn by upper-class Praxians for a funeral.

He had been aware that there were crowds gathered on the streets for Halfsteel’s funeral procession, but in his grief he hadn’t paid much mind. The citymechs would often collect in crowds to watch processions, mostly out of curiosity. A royal funeral procession would have attracted a lot of attention.

Smokescreen clenched his jaw as he realized that the gathered commoners were paying homage to a mech who they knew had been important to him.

He lifted his door wings, and waited until the crowd quieted. Then he pulled a deep vent and began to speak, hearing his voice amplified by the charm Master Auger had provided for him.

“Last night, I watched as my best friend’s spark was commended to Primus,” he began. “Lord Halfsteel, youngest creation of Lord Lightbraid of Cathedral Peak, and my best friend, was killed on what should have been one of the happiest cycles of my existence. He was killed because of greed, and of fear, and of prejudice. He was killed because there are mechs who are more interested in keeping themselves elevated above others, than in helping level the road before all of us. He was killed because these mechs wanted to stop me from doing what I believe is right.”

As he felt his spark spinning faster, Smokescreen balled his fists, focusing on the words he’d rehearsed in front of Prowl this morning. This was not the time for his voice to dissolve into unintelligible static. He waited for the surge of anger and sorrow that had risen in his spark to abate before continuing.

“And Lord Halfsteel was not the only one killed by those who seek to stop change from coming to Praxus. A deca-cycle ago, seventeen palace guards were killed for the same reasons.” Smokescreen bowed his helm slightly. “Eighteen mechs have been slaughtered in an attempt to keep the status quo.” He lifted his helm and looked out over the crowd again. “But I believe, with all of my spark, that what I seek to do is the right thing to do.

“You’ve already seen some of these changes, things that I was able to accomplish before taking the throne. Already, you have seen that the borders have been opened, allowing visitors and traders to come to Praxus, and allowing Praxians to travel unimpeded. Already, you have seen more freedom to do business, as you no longer need a permit to trade outside of your designated principality. Already, you have seen that nobles are no longer required to bond to a chosen partner, and that your own bondings no longer need to be approved by a Temple Prelate. Already, you have heard that I have halted the practice of executions for the crime of blasphemy, and I have banned the use of torture to obtain information. And, this is the first vorn in which you are not required to make a tithe to the Temple.”

The crowd erupted with cheers at that last point, and Smokescreen glanced at Prowl out of the corner of his optic. His brother had helped his write this speech, and had suggested placing that item last in his list of accomplishments. Prowl’s expression still looked serious and composed, but Smokescreen knew his brother well enough to see the very slight tilt to his door wings that indicated he was pleased by the response to his suggested change.

Smokescreen waited for the crowd to settle. “You may have also heard that sorcerers helped defend me from the attack at my coronation. That’s true.” Smokescreen let the murmur that ripped through the crowd subside. “For vorn, higher magic has been banned in Praxus. This was done out of fear, and ignorance. But the world is changing, and Praxus must change with it.

“All across Cybertron, mechs are discovering new powers that they did not have before. Most of these are small things, single aspects of the arcane that they are suddenly able to control. This isn’t something that they asked for, or even necessarily something that they want. But it is a part of them now. Maybe you know a mech who has realized they can do something they couldn’t before. Maybe you are one of these mechs.” Smokescreen paused, looking out over the crowd that had suddenly become quiet. “I want you to know that I am one of these mechs. I have developed the ability to create clouds of dark smoke. It isn’t something I asked for... But it’s a part of me now. And I now understand that magic is nothing to fear, if it’s used correctly.” Smokescreen smiled as he waited for the murmurs to settle again, trying to look as sincere as possible. “A wise mech told me that Cybertron is changing, and if we do not change with it, we will be crushed under its wheels. So I am changing the law... Not just to help me, but to help every mech who has suddenly found themselves able to do something new or strange. I’m doing this to help you, your friends, and your creations who suddenly find themselves being able to do something that they can’t explain.”

A chorus of cheers erupted from somewhere in the back of the crowd, but most of the mechs only applauded tepidly. Smokescreen resisted the temptation to lower his door wings in disappointment at the reaction. He knew very well how hard it was for old prejudices to be forgotten.

Pulling a steadying vent of air, he plowed forward. “But I have more things that I want to do... More changes that I want to make to improve this country for all Praxians. Today, you must petition your Lord for permission to move to another principality. I will lift that restriction. Today, you may be forced into working for little to no pay, in the guise of working off a debt to your Lord. I will ban that practice, and will require employers to provide a fair wage for your labour. Today, if there is a dispute between a full-framed Praxian and a mixed-frame Praxian, the word of the full-framed mech is always taken as truth above that of the mixed-frame mech. I will end that practice, and ensure that every mech is given a fair chance to prove their innocence, regardless of the frame they were created with.”

The crowd had grown louder and louder as he spoke, until the cheers crested again. Smokescreen spread his door wings wide, letting the sound crash over him, and allowed himself a small smile. Every single one of the things he had listed were things that he and his brothers had discussed so long ago, before Silverstreak fled Praxus. Smokescreen had sworn to his brothers that he would make these changes as his first acts upon becoming King.

Promises made. Promises kept.

“But the most important change that I plan to make is to give you – all of you – a chance to help choose how Praxus is led,” Smokescreen said when his voice could be heard over the crowd. “In the next vorn, we will be changing how the Court is structured. A representative from each principality will be chosen by the mechs who live there, and that representative will be your voice in the Court. I don’t want mechs who were created with chevrons and door wings to be making decisions for every Praxian anymore. Every mech should get a say in how they are governed.” He spread his arms out, encompassing all of the mechs in the square. “This is the first time that many of you have heard my voice. Now, I want a chance to hear yours. I want to hear what you have to say. Your concerns and your ideas are important to me, and I want to hear them.”

Smokescreen had known that word about his changes to the Court had started circulating, especially after the nobility found out about the plan. He had heard from guards and attendants that Praxians seemed cautiously excited about the plan, encouragement that he’d needed after realizing that the plan had been the cause of all the trouble he and his brothers had experienced.

But hearing the enthusiastic cheers of the crowd now was something that he hadn’t realized he needed to hear so much.

He worked his jaw, trying to focus and keep his composure. Halfsteel had fully supported his plan to reform the Court. He wished with all of his spark that Halfsteel was standing next to him to hear the excitement of the crowd in the square.

He saw Prowl glance his way with concern. Smokescreen lifted his helm and tucked his hands behind his back, steadying himself with a flick of his door wings. He wasn’t quite done yet.

“These are promises that I am making to you, as your King,” Smokescreen said. “Primus has provided me with an opportunity to make these changes, and I do not intend to squander that opportunity. In the coming vorn, I look forward to hearing from you, listening to your ideas, and working together to lead Praxus to a new, bright future.”

As the cheers from the crowd washed over him, Smokescreen closed his optics and finally released the tight rein he’d held on his emotions through his speech.

If anyone noticed the coolant pooling in the corner of his optics when he opened them again, no one said anything.

Jazz threaded his arm through Prowl’s. Their shoulders brushed as they walked, and Prowl noticed that Jazz matched Prowl’s steps perfectly as they wended their way through the Eastern Gardens.

It should have been a perfect evening. The weather had warmed, and the last rays of the sun shone through the crystal spires. Somewhere ahead of them, a glasswren trilled its short call over and over.

It should have been perfect. But Prowl was dreading what he needed to say.

“That was a firestorm of a speech your brother gave today,” Jazz said. “He’s a natural at it.”

Prowl nodded. “It was his first public speech, but he’s been leading Court sessions for vorn,” he said. “So it’s not as though he has no public speaking experience.”

“Well, that experience shows. He knew exactly how to work the crowd,” Jazz said, then fell silent again as they walked on.

Prowl felt the dread rising in his spark. He knew what he had to say. And he knew that he needed to say it tonight. But he was terrified. Would Jazz understand? They hadn’t much time to talk with each other about what they saw in their future, but Prowl felt certain that it didn’t include them spending another vorn apart... Or longer.

Unfortunately, that is what they were likely facing. He hoped with all his spark that they could work through it somehow... But he would completely understand if Jazz didn’t want to wait.

Oh, Primus, he hoped that Jazz would wait.

And how should he bring it up? Should he just announce bluntly that he couldn’t go to Polyhex? Or should he dance around it before saying anything? He didn’t have much time to start dropping hints. And what would Jazz think? How could –

“I talked to Minister Zodiac after the speech today. Yer weather diviner said we should have good winds if we leave early, so we’re aimin’ to roll outta here just after sunrise,” Jazz said, his tone light. A small smile played on his lips as he looked up at a crystal.

Ah. There was his opening.

“I’m not going with you,” Prowl blurted, and then he stopped in his tracks. He looked at Jazz and saw the Polyhexian was looking at him through his inscrutable visor. He felt his words freeze in his vocalizer, so he reset it. “I’m sorry, Jazz, but Smokescreen needs me here, even more than he did before. I can’t go with you.“

Jazz turned, taking both of Prowl’s hands in his. His expression hadn’t changed; he looked relaxed, with the corners of his mouth turned up in just the slightest hint of a smile. “Prowler, I...” he began to say quietly.

But Prowl was already barreling on to the next point that he had laid out in his processor. He wanted to explain. He needed Jazz to understand why he couldn’t go with him. “He’s lost two of the most important mechs in his life. With all of the things he needs to do ahead of him, I simply can’t leave him alone.” Prowl looked down at their hands, noticing how neatly their hands fit together, his white digits contrasting against the black of Jazz’s.

Jazz lifted his hand, drawing Prowl’s optics with it, and placed it on the side of Prowl’s helm. It was warm, and Prowl found himself instinctively pressing his helm vent into Jazz’s hand. “Prowl, I know –“

“And... And I know that you wanted to introduce me to your family, as part of courting me. You’ve met mine, and now I need to meet yours. But I can’t go. Not now.” He turned away from Jazz, unable to look at the General for his next words. “And I would completely understand if you wanted to postpone our courting, or... Or if you wanted to look elsewhere for -“

“Prowl!” Jazz’s hand landed on Prowl’s shoulder and pulled him back around to face him. “Would ya shut up and listen to me?”

As Jazz spun him around, Prowl saw that Jazz’s smile had taken on an exasperated air. Oh slag, Jazz was mad at him. Prowl struggled to keep his door wings canted upwards. “I am listening, Jazz,” Prowl said.

“No, yer not,” Jazz said with a gust of air from his vents, and he reached down to grab Prowl’s hands again. “You’ve been rattlin’ on like a runaway cart.”

Prowl flared his door wings out at the accusation. “No, I haven’t,” he protested, then he paused. True, he hadn’t given Jazz much of a chance to get a word in edgewise, but...

Jazz shook his helm and twisted around. Further up the path, Trident was standing a polite distance away from the couple. Jazz called out to him. “Trident! Tell him.”

Trident looked at Prowl and smiled. It was the same smile that he used when Prowl was being difficult about something, and Prowl’s door wings instinctively dipped when he saw it. “No, General,” Trident said. “He wasn’t listening to you at all.”

“Trident!” Prowl exclaimed. Trident shrugged, crossing his arms, his smile still on his lips.

“Let me say my piece,” Jazz said, drawing Prowl’s attention back to him. “I know ya can’t leave now,” Jazz said. “I know how loyal ya are to yer brother. I respect that, and I understand completely.”

“You do?” Prowl asked, looking into Jazz’s visor. Maybe he had explained himself well, after all. He felt a glimmer of hope in his spark that perhaps they still had a future ahead of them, together.

“Yup,” Jazz said. He smiled at Prowl, his lips turning upwards in the familiar quirk that Prowl adored. “So, that’s why I’ve done some thinkin’, and I’ve had some conversations, and I’ve made other plans.”

Prowl stared at Jazz. “Other plans?” he asked, confused.

Jazz nodded. “After all that happened... After I realized ya weren’t gonna want to leave yer brother, not even for a little while... I chatted up High Commander Irridus. He’s willin’ to give me a spot in the Praxian Cavalry – on a probationary trial, of course – which means movin’ here to train.”

“You’re... You’re moving here?” Prowl asked, not believing what he was hearing.

“Yup. Jazz’s smile grew larger. “And I figure that would solve the next question of where we’d live once we decided to bond... We could both just stay here.” He tightened his grip on Prowl’s hands, as if afraid the Praxian would bolt from his arms. “If you’d like that, of course,” he said. Prowl didn’t know if he was imagining the slight quaver in Jazz’s voice or not.

“But...” Prowl stared at Jazz, still processing what he had just heard. “But wouldn’t you have to give up your commission in the Polyhexian Infantry?” he asked. “And what about your family?” He shook his helm, trying to sort out his emotions. His disbelief that Jazz would give up so much for him warred with his joy that Jazz would consider doing that at all. For him.

“I would have to give up my commission,” Jazz said. He tipped his helm to the side and gave a little shrug. “But like I told ya... Joinin’ the military was just a way of makin’ somethin’ of myself, to prove myself to my sire. It’s not what I really wanted to do.”

“But you’re a very good general,” Prowl said. His processor was shouting at him to be quiet – did he really want to try and talk Jazz out of giving up his rank and title, and stop him from moving to Praxus? But he didn’t want Jazz to give up on something he excelled at, simply for him. “I saw you in action during the battle with Shockwave’s army. You are an exemplary leader. Your mechs followed your orders without question. You command respect from your troops, and with good reason.” He knew his door wings were flicking about, betraying his internal struggle (shut up, you’re only going to convince him to leave!), but he couldn’t stop their movements. “Are you positive that you want to drive away from that?”

Jazz’s smile became rueful. “Just because someone’s good at somethin’ doesn’t mean they like doing it,” he said firmly. “Knowin’ I was sending some of my mechs into certain deactivation twisted somethin’ inside me. I might command a mech’s respect, but I’d rather be their friend.” He shook his helm. “It wears on me. I could be the most highly decorated general in Polyhexian history, but I’d still rather be playin’ music.” He brought his hand up to cup the side of Prowl’s face again. “Hopefully, takin’ a lower-level position here, I’ll have more time for that again.”

Prowl felt his wings flutter at the touch of Jazz’s hand against his helm, but he didn’t care. “And what about your family?” he said.

Jazz lowered his hand and rested it on Prowl’s shoulder. “I’m gonna drive back to Polyhex with Minister Zodiac. I gotta do that anyway, to make sure he’s protected the whole way back home. I’m not abandonin’ my last duty,” he said decisively. “But when I get there, I’ll settle all my affairs, let my family know what I’m doin’, pack up my things, and head on back here.” He tipped his helm forward until his helm crest rested on Prowl’s chevron. Their helms were so close together that Prowl could see the glow of Jazz’s optics through the blue flexsteel of his visor. “I should be back in an orbital cycle or two... Maybe sooner if I’ve got good weather for travellin’.”

“Jazz, I...” Prowl brought a hand up, tracing the lower edge of Jazz’s visor with his thumb. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell him, ‘Thank you’ and ‘I look forward to your return.’ ...Your Highness.”

Prowl’s door wings fanned outward as he turned to stare at his head guard again. “Trident!” he said, more irked than truly upset. He could feel a flush starting on his cheeks.

“Apologies, Your Highness,” Trident said, sketching a small bow. “I’ll give you a bit more privacy. General.” With a nod to Jazz, Trident turned and walked further up the path, staying just close enough to stay within hearing range. Then, he pointedly turned his back.

Prowl turned back to Jazz, who was grinning with great amusement. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Prowl said.

“He’s only got yer best interests at spark, Prowler,” Jazz said quietly. He rested their helms together again. “So. What do ya say? Do ya want me here all the time?”

Prowl couldn’t stop the smile that lit up his face, and he could see the brightness of his own optics reflected in Jazz’s visor. “Absolutely, Jazz,” he said. Then he laughed, and added, “And thank you. I look forward to your return.”

With a musical laugh, Jazz brought his lips to Prowl’s, and the only thing Prowl could think of after that was how wonderful it would be to have this all the time.

The knock on the door was all the warning Smokescreen got before Prowl walked in with a tray of energon. “Good morning,” Prowl said.

Smokescreen blinked at Prowl blearily. “I told you that you don’t have to do this,” he said, sitting on the couch as he waited for his optics to come up to full brightness. “The servants and attendants are more than capable of bringing me my fuel.”

“True,” Prowl said, setting the tray on the serving table and pouring a cube. “But they won’t ask you how you’re feeling. Would you like copper or iron shavings mixed in?”

“Iron, please,” Smokescreen said. He took the cube from Prowl and sipped at it gingerly. He watched as Prowl poured another cube for himself. “And they ask me how I’m doing all the time.”

“But you won’t tell them the truth,” Prowl said, taking a seat across from Smokescreen. “And you didn’t answer me. How are you feeling this morning?”

“I didn’t know you were studying to be a doctor on top of being the Court seneschal,” Smokescreen said, taking another sip before wrinkling his nasal ridge. He had hoped that the iron shavings would help, but his appetite simply wasn’t there. He set the cube down on the table.

Prowl gave his helm a slight shake as he drank from his own cube. “I’m not. I simply have a vested interest in your well-being.” He leaned across the table and nudged the cube back towards Smokescreen. “Drink.”

“All right, all right.” Smokescreen grimaced, but picked up the cube and drank down a gulp of fuel. “And to answer your question, I’m fine.”

“How did you recharge?” Prowl asked mildly, but Smokescreen caught the sharpness in Prowl’s gaze.

There was no use in lying to Prowl; his brother could read him better than anyone alive. His spark clenched as he thought of who else had been good at reading his emotions, and he cancelled that processor thread before it could start spiralling. “Not well,” he admitted, rubbing his helm between his optics. The pressure wasn’t too bad at the moment, but he knew it was only a matter of time before it bloomed into a full-blown helmache.

When he opened his optics again, he saw Prowl frowning at him. “Triage gave you a recharge aid. Why didn’t you use any of it?” he asked.

“Because it makes my processor all muzzy in the morning,” Smokescreen said. He forced down another mouthful of fuel and set the cube down again, hoping that half a cube of energon would satisfy his brother. “I just... couldn’t stop thinking about... I couldn’t stop hearing the screaming,” he said, staring down at the table.

The Inquisitors had arrived in the capital the afternoon after the Polyhexian delegation left.

Smokescreen wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he met the Inquisitors, but it wasn’t the serene-masked mechs who had arrived at the palace. Both were ground frames: one was a racer of some type, while the other was a cargo hauler. But that’s where their differences ended. Both were painted in all white, with arcane symbols etched in black on their armor. And Smokescreen wasn’t sure if they’d had their protoforms modified or were using some kind of enchantment, but their faces were identical. Even their voices sounded the same. And when they introduced themselves, it was only as “brothers of the Academy and Inquisitors for the Archmagus.”

After the Inquisitors collected the evidence from Skywarp and Road Rage and dismissed them, they applied the same truth enchantment to Bombshell that Road Rage had used. Point blank, they asked him if he had done what he was accused of doing. When Bombshell said he had, they turned to Smokescreen.

“The blinding process is not pleasant. But you are welcome to observe if you wish,” the racer had said.

“I want to see,” Smokescreen replied. He had agreed to allow Bombshell to be taken away by the Inquisitors, but a part of him still didn’t believe that this so-called blinding was punishment enough for what the mech had done.

He was so wrong.

The truck frame bent over Bombshell, who had been released from the truth enchantment and was cowering against the wall of his cell. “You had such promise when I assessed you as a youngling,” the Inquisitor said, brushing a hand against the side of Bombshell’s helm. Bombshell flinched away from the touch, but the other Inquisitor was holding him firmly from the other side. “It is so sad how you have strayed. I am so sorry to have to do this.” The Inquisitor’s voice was soothing, almost like a carrier speaking to a sparkling.

“No... Please,” Bombshell whimpered as the Inquisitor’s hand tightened around the side of his helm. “Please. No! Please!”

And then he started screaming.

The rogue sorcerer screamed and screamed, the tone switching from panic to agony to sorrow as the shrieks continued. He screamed for over a groon, the sound becoming more and more garbled as he shredded his vocalizer.

And through it all, the Inquisitors knelt at his side, their hands folded in their laps. They watched him scream and thrash, only moving to stop Bombshell when he started slamming the back of his helm against the wall. They pulled him further out into the cell, released him, and then sat silently by as he continued to shriek in pain and terror.

Smokescreen watched until Bombshell’s vocalizer finally gave out. When the sound finally faded in a tinny gasp of feedback, Smokescreen realized that his door wings were plastered to his back. The palace guards in the dungeon were all staring straight ahead with abject horror, and Smokescreen belatedly realized he probably should have excused them from witnessing the blinding.

As much as he thought that he owed it to Halfsteel to witness the punishment of the mech responsible for his death, Smokescreen wished that he had left the Inquisitors to their business.

In Smokescreen’s apartments, Prowl’s door wings drooped. “I’m sorry, Smokescreen,” he said. “I should have stayed with you, so that you wouldn’t have been alone for that.”

Smokescreen shook his helm. “No sense in both of us having to see that,” he said.

“If not me, then someone else. Maybe Carrier, or Bluestreak. Or even Triage. I shouldn’t have made you face that on your own.” Prowl took another sip from his cube, then leaned forward and nudged Smokescreen’s cube towards him again. “Finish that, please,” he said.

Smokescreen scowled. “My fuel levels are fine,” he protested, but picked up the half-empty cube and sipped at it again.

“Nyon is leaving this morning,” Prowl said, his optics locked on Smokescreen’s. “Are you going to see them off?”

The small bit of appetite that Smokescreen had evaporated. “Right,” Smokescreen said weakly. “I suppose I should.”

Smokescreen had given a personal farewell to all of the delegations who had come to attend the coronation. Polyhex left the morning after Smokescreen’s speech to the citizens of Praxus. While Smokescreen’s attention was on Minister Zodiac, Prowl had given General Jazz a long, drawn-out hug, and had received a languorous kiss in return, before the delegation transformed and drove out of the palace gates. If it hadn’t been common knowledge amongst the palace staff that Prince Prowl was being courted by the Polyhexian, it certainly was after that display.

The Vosians left the afternoon after the Inquisitors had bundled Bombshell up in the cargo hauler’s hold and left. Smokescreen thanked Magus Skywarp again for his assistance in subduing Bombshell and for helping Praxus obtain a resident sorcerer. The Magus had bowed, a smile on his lips, before staring at Bluestreak and Hound, who were standing behind Smokescreen on the stairs of the palace. Skywarp had pointed two digits at his optics, then pointed those same digits at Bluestreak and his bondmate.

Seekers. Very strange.

Emperor Starscream, on the other hand, graciously accepted Smokescreen’s hope for safe travels. “Thank you for hosting us, Your Majesty,” Starscream had said. “I hope that this can be the dawn of a new friendship between our countries, in which we lay old hostilities aside.”

The tiny delegation from Tarn left shortly after the Vosians, and Deadlock apologized once again that Lord Megatron could not have attended. Smokescreen reassured him that there were no hard feelings, but that he hoped to meet Megatron in the future.

Nyon was to leave this morning. While Smokescreen wanted to see the delegation off, doing so meant facing Strikeback one more time.

Strikeback had been the one to insist on being arrested and detained, but Smokescreen realized that he couldn’t be kept in the dungeon forever. And with what the sorcerers had revealed, Smokescreen didn’t feel as though he could – or should – mete any punishment against Strikeback. Jailing him indefinitely would have served no purpose, execution was out of the question, and banishment had seemed too harsh.

But Strikeback still refused to leave the dungeon, stating that he had failed in his main duty to his Prince and King, and deserved to be punished.

When Hot Rod heard how Bombshell had controlled Strikeback and used him as a puppet to fire the fatal shot that killed Halfsteel, he had asked for a chance to speak to Strikeback. Smokescreen saw no reason to refuse, so Hot Rod sat in the dungeon outside of Strikeback’s cell and talked to him.

For almost a full cycle, the acting Nyonese Chancellor sat outside the cell and spoke to Strikeback. Trailbreaker explained that when Shockwave was in power, he had used enchantments on the work camp prisoners that were very similar to the one that Bombshell had used on Strikeback. Regular mechs were essentially turned into drones, patrolling the camps, selecting mechs for the labs, beating those who did not comply with orders, and even killing mechs outright to serve as examples to others. When Shockwave was defeated, these mechs were released from their enchantments... And were horrified at what they had been made to do.

But Hot Rod had spoken with these mechs, listening to them, and telling them that while they had been forced to do evil things, they were not evil themselves. Eventually, most of the mechs who Hot Rod spoke to pulled themselves out of their self-loathing and depression enough to start living their lives again. It was an ongoing battle, but Hot Rod somehow managed to convince them that their lives were worth living, even if they had done horrible things in the past.

He used those same words on Strikeback... And it worked. Within two cycles, Strikeback asked to be permitted to leave Praxus for Nyon, where Hot Rod had offered him a new start.

Smokescreen accepted.

Prowl settled on the couch next to Smokescreen. “You don’t have to, you know,” Prowl said quietly. “No one would blame you if you didn’t want to face him again.”

Smokescreen swirled the fuel around in his cube, then knocked the rest of it back in one gulp, ignoring the churn of his tanks. “No. I should be there,” he said. He handed the empty cube to Prowl. “Let’s go.”

As the morning sun slanted over the palace wall, Smokescreen walked down the stairs of the palace into the courtyard where the Nyonese delegation was getting ready to depart. Off to one side, Hound wrapped his arms around Trailbreaker, and the black truck lifted Hound off the ground and planted a sloppy kiss on the side of Hound’s helm. Hound squealed with laughter as Bluestreak watched with a smile on his lips.

Smokescreen laughed quietly at their antics before stepping forward and gripping Hot Rod’s forearm. “Thank you very much for coming, Chancellor,” Smokescreen said.

“It’s Acting Chancellor,” Hot Rod said, then grinned. “And after the elections are over, I won’t even be that. I can get back to the hooliganism I was up to before all of this started.”

Smokescreen laughed. “If what you’ve done is hooliganism, then the world could use more hooligans,” he said. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Same, Your Majesty,” Hot Rod said.

Then Smokescreen focused his optics on a mech who was standing well behind Hot Rod, doing his best to mimic a mech with an invisibility charm. After taking a slow, deep vent, Smokescreen walked up to his ex-guard. “Strikeback,” he said.

Strikeback finally met Smokescreen’s optics for a moment, then dropped them back to the ground. “Thank you, Your Majesty, for this opportunity you’ve granted me,” he said, his hands clasped together at his waist. “And... I am sorry.” His words were spoken so quietly that they were almost inaudible. “I will always be sorry for what I did... For the pain I caused you.”

“I know,” Smokescreen said. “I wish things could have been different.”

Strikeback – his confidant, his bodyguard, and his friend ever since he got his final upgrades – looked up at him again, his optics bright with emotion in a way that Smokescreen had rarely ever seen. “So do I,” Strikeback said.

Smokescreen reached out and grabbed one of Strikeback’s hands, startling the ex-guard. He squeezed Strikeback’s hand once, firmly, before letting it go again. “May you have smooth roads and clear skies,” he said, smiling and blinking the coolant from his optics. “I hope we can meet again some day.”

Strikeback looked at Smokescreen for a moment. Then, with a silent nod, he stepped backwards and transformed into the bulky alt mode that Smokescreen knew so well. Smokescreen turned and walked up the stairs of the palace before watching the Nyonese contingent drive out of the gates.

He felt Prowl come up beside him. “Are you all right?” Prowl asked.

Smokescreen turned to look at Prowl, then at Bluestreak who had come to stand on his other side. “No,” he said, pulling a deep vent and working his intake to clear it of the static that had started to form. When Prowl frowned at him, Smokescreen gave him a wan smile. “But I will be.” He looped one arm around Prowl’s shoulders, then did the same to Bluestreak and pulled them both in close. “Thank you, both, for being here for me.”

“I guess we didn’t stop to consider exactly how much stuff we were bringing back,” Bluestreak said, staring at the large pile on their berth.

It was an impressive collection of items. Four crates of Praxian tea, smaller containers of the cobalt that Hound loved so much, several bottles of engex from the Northern and Fathom Valley distilleries, and gifts for their friends back in Iacon were laid out on the berth. The items Bluestreak had retrieved from his office lay beside the sheaf of letters from Tempest, as well as three well-loved board games that he’d found in his old apartments. An embarrassingly large stack of his scandalous romance novels was next to those; Bluestreak had promised Hound that he would help him through the novels when they got back to Iacon. And towering over everything was a pile of four plush Praxian pillows that Hound had picked up in the market. He’d fallen in love with the softness of the berth in their guest apartments, and he wanted to bring some of that back home with them.

“We’ll never be able to pack all of this down to fit in our cargo areas,” Bluestreak grumbled, picking up one of the bottles of engex. “Not to mention that some of this is breakable and will need padding.” He surveyed the pile once more. “And the padding will only add to the space we need.”

“Maybe if we squish down the pillows,” Hound said with a small frown.

Bluestreak shook his helm. “You don’t want to compress them that much, because it’ll destroy the comb inside,” he said.

Hound deflated a little. “We could leave the pillows here,” he offered. Over their bond, Bluestreak could feel the thread of disappointment coming from Hound.

Bluestreak flared his door wings out. “No way! That’s practically the only thing you’re bringing back. There must be something else we can do. Worst comes to worst, I can leave some of the tea here, and the games.” He tapped a digit against his lips thoughtfully. “You know... The Commander would have a lot of extra cargo space...” They looked at each other for a moment before laughing, both of them feeling the reluctance to ask Ultra Magnus to carry their souvenirs. “Right. Never mind,” Bluestreak said.

“Would we be able to buy a trailer?” Hound asked. “Even a small one should be big enough to carry all of this. I wouldn’t have any problems hauling it.”

“Are you sure?” Bluestreak asked, still conscious of Hound’s health. When Hound nodded, Bluestreak said, “If I ask nicely, Smokey will probably just give me a trailer... Especially if he can use it as an excuse to get me to come visit again to return it.” He smiled. “Good idea. I’ll ask him tonight.”

Smokescreen was more than happy to give them a small trailer, as well as a tarp to cover it. It turned out to be a bit larger than what they needed, so Hound decided that he could buy four more pillows to take back home, while Bluestreak found room for another crate of tea and a few more bottles of engex. As much as he would like to visit Praxus and his family often, he didn’t know when they would be back.

The evening before they left, Bluestreak paid one more visit to his sire. The last deca-cycle had been especially hard on Lord Cygnus, with all of the events and activities that he had been expected to participate in. He had a few moments of lucidity, gripping Bluestreak’s hand weakly, before lapsing back into a quiet daze.

“His condition deteriorates when he’s tired,” Lord Caelum told Bluestreak as they sat together in his creators’ apartments. Caelum looked at Cyngus sadly as the old King stared out the window at the darkening sky. “The treatments that Triage was giving him have become completely ineffective. He’s just winding down.”

Bluestreak felt a stab of sorrow for his carrier. He didn’t know what he would do if the same thing ever happened to Hound: fading into confusion as his bondmate watched helplessly.

So it was no surprise when the old King did not make an appearance in the palace yard the next morning. Instead, the Iacon delegation was shown off by Bluestreak’s brothers and their carrier. Smokescreen was having a few last words with Commander Ultra Magnus when Lord Caelum walked up to Bluestreak.

“Are you sure you have everything?” Caelum asked, watching as Bluestreak and Hound carefully repacked the trailer, making sure that the breakable items were well-protected.

“Everything, and then some,” Bluestreak said with a laugh. He turned to face his carrier. “It’s been so good to see you... and sire.” He flicked his door wings as his processor tried once more to match the stern disciplinarian from Bluestreak’s memories with the faded mech who sat silently, staring out at nothing.

Caelum pulled Bluestreak in for another hug, then held him out at arm’s length again. “I can’t even tell you how wonderful it has been to have you home again,” Caelum said. Then he frowned and gave Bluestreak’s shoulders a tiny shake. “You will write to us, and often.”

Bluestreak smiled and nodded. “Of course, Carrier,” he said. Then he shrugged. “Before... I just didn’t know how I’d be received, so I was a little reluctant to write,” he admitted.

His carrier’s door wings flicked outwards. “Oh, Bluestreak,” he said. “You will always be welcome here.” He drew Bluestreak in for another hug, and Bluestreak buried his face in his carrier’s neck, inhaling his familiar scent. When they pulled away, Caelum turned and smiled at the mech standing next to Bluestreak. “And you as well, Hound, of course.” He hugged Hound, then looked at the green mech just as sternly as he had Bluestreak a moment before. “You take care of my creation.”

“I will,” Hound promised.

Bluestreak turned to his brothers. “Prowl,” he said, holding out his arm.

Prowl looked at down at his arm, then stepped close enough to hug Bluestreak instead. “I believe it was Primus who brought us together in Iacon,” Prowl said quietly. He smiled. “And I believe he’ll bring us together again.”

“I hope he will,” Bluestreak said, and then turned to Smokescreen. He hesitated, not knowing exactly what to say to his eldest brother... Not after all that had happened and all that they’d been through over the past deca-cycle. “Smokey...” he said hesitantly.

A ripple of complex emotions crossed Smokescreen’s face before he swept Bluestreak into an embrace. “Thank you for being here, Streaks,” Smokescreen whispered into Bluestreak’s audial. “For all of it. Just having you here made me feel stronger.”

Bluestreak nodded into his brother’s shoulder and hugged him tightly. “I’ve always known you were going to do me and Prowl proud,” he said quietly. “Praxus is going to be a better place for everyone when you’re through with it.”

Smokescreen held Bluestreak against him for another moment before patting his back and letting him go. He took a step backwards and gave them all a salute. “Smooth roads and clear skies,” he said.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ultra Magnus said, and folded himself down into his huge alt mode. Blurr and Hound followed, with Hound connecting himself to the trailer.

Bluestreak gave Redline a smile. “Ready to go see Iacon?” he asked.

Redline smiled down at Bluestreak. “Since the moment I first saw you were still functioning, I’ve been ready,” Redline said. He transformed and rolled up next to Hound.

Bluestreak looked back at the palace one last time, his gaze taking in the sweeping white columns of the royal residence, the servants standing up near the doors, and his family on the stairs. His carrier lifted his hand in a wave while Smokescreen leaned on Prowl’s shoulder. Bluestreak felt his intake growing thick as he realized he didn’t know if he’d ever see them all together again.

He felt a gentle brush of concern from Hound, and smiled. Raising his hand in a final wave, Bluestreak transformed and fell into place beside Redline and Hound.

As they drove out of the palace gates for the last time, Hound drifted close to Bluestreak’s fender. “Are you all right?” Hound asked quietly.

“Yeah,” Bluestreak said. “I’m all right.” He settled on his wheels for a moment, letting all of his conflicted emotions wash over him: sadness at leaving his family behind, melancholy knowing he was leaving behind the familiar surroundings of the Praxian capital and the palace, and grief at the realization that he might have seen his sire and carrier for the last time. But he also felt relief that he was going home... Home to Iacon, home to the Matrix, and to the life and he and Hound had built for themselves.

“I’ll be all right,” Bluestreak said again as they drove through the city gates, honking in acknowledgement of the salutes from the city guards. “And I’m ready to go home.”

Chapter Text

King Smokescreen made one more edit to the draft that Prince Prowl had given him, initialed the change, and set the scroll in the pile to be returned to his brother.

He looked around his desk and nodded in satisfaction. That was the last of them. The final drafts of the new laws to restructure the Praxian Court were finished, and would be distributed to everyone at the next full meeting of the Court. While he didn’t need the approval of the Court to make these changes, he wanted everything to be as transparent as possible. The transition to the new system for selecting Court members would flow much smoother if everyone knew what was coming.

With his desk clear and the lengthy To Do list he’d drafted before his coronation almost completed, Smokescreen could finally start looking forward to taking his long-awaited vacation. In just three cycles, he’d be on his way to the royal family’s retreat in the Southern mountains.

Prowl wouldn’t go with him, of course. His brother would insist that he had too much work to do and too little time to complete it in. But Smokescreen knew that the real reason was because Jazz had the next deca-cycle off, finally. When Jazz had arrived in Praxus and taken his place in the Praxian Cavalry, he insisted on starting at the bottom, as a cadet. “I ain’t lookin’ to bump anyone out of their rightful rank. And besides... I know I’m gonna have a lot to learn from ya,” Jazz had said when Irridus gently suggested that Jazz could at least be started as a Squad Leader.

So Cadet Jazz had started at basic training when he’d arrived in Praxus a few orbital cycles ago, and had been training non-stop alongside his new squad mates ever since. And now, there was no way that Prowl was going to miss Jazz’s first free time in ages by going on a trip with his brother.

Smokescreen understood completely. Prowl could accompany him another time.

But their carrier had agreed to go with Smokescreen on the trip, and Smokescreen was glad that Caelum had accepted the invitation. Even though his carrier had kept busy ever since Lord Cygnus’s passing, he’d seemed a little distant. Triage had been preparing Caelum for the dissolution of the spark bond that would happen when Cygnus would inevitably succumb to his illness, but even still... There was no way to fully prepare for the emptiness that a mech felt in their spark when its mate was no longer there.

Triage agreed that getting Caelum out of the palace and into a different setting, even temporarily, would help him heal, so Smokescreen was happy to make sure that his carrier got that opportunity.

There was a knock at his office door, and his Head Guard Barrage looked in. “Lord Overcast is here to see you, Your Majesty,” he said.

“Show him in, Barrage. And leave the door open, I’m done with all this today,” Smokescreen said, straightening the stack of completed documents.

Lord Overcast bustled into the office. “I’m sorry to bother you again, Your Majesty,” his majordomo said. “I know you have a lot of work to do.”

“It’s all right!” Smokescreen said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “I just finished. What do you need?”

Overcast ignored the chair and handed Smokescreen a letter. “This just came, addressed to you,” he said. “It has the seal of the Church of Primus in Iacon. I thought it might be something you’d want to see right away.”

“Oh, yes,” Smokescreen said, slipping a digit under the seal and opening the letter. He skimmed it quickly and nodded. “I was expecting this, actually. Commander Ultra Magnus told me they’d be sending us an invitation to the Primal Ceremony.” He smiled up at Overcast. “But thank you for bringing it right to me.”

“You’re very welcome, Your Majesty,” Overcast said with a bow. He started to turn to go, then stopped and gave another little bow. “Oh! And I forgot to tell you in our meeting this morning: the weavers have arrived to repair the tapestries in the reception hall. They said they should only need a few cycles to do the work.”

“Thank you for the information, Overcast,” Smokescreen said with a smile. “But... I really do trust you to handle these things.” When Overcast’s door wings drooped slightly, Smokescreen pointed firmly at the chair across from him. Overcast finally sat down, looking chastened. “When I made you my majordomo, I said that it meant I was entrusting all of the household duties and decisions to you. And when I said all of them, I meant all of them.” He tipped his door wings up encouragingly. “If there’s something that you think I need to be brought in on, please do... But otherwise I trust you to keep a handle on all of the activities going on around the palace.”

Overcast took a deep vent. “Of course, Your Majesty,” he said with a hesitant nod. “And... I’m sorry to bother you with such trivialities. I just want to make sure I’m not disappointing you. I think that maybe I’m feeling a bit out of my depth with this role. But it’s not that I don’t want it!” he hurried to add. He gave Smokescreen a chagrined smile. “It’s just that Indigo handles all of our household affairs, and I simply haven’t had much practice, I’m afraid. He’s helping me out as much as he can, but I’m still just learning as I go.”

“I think we both are,” Smokescreen said. “And I appreciate the leap of faith you took for this. I know that giving up your Court seat wasn’t easy for your family, but I couldn’t think of anyone else who would be better suited for this role.” He tipped his helm to the side. “Speaking of your family, how is everyone settling into your new apartments?”

“It’s been an adjustment, but we’re coming along,” Overcast said, his demeanor changing immediately as soon as the topic of his creations came up. “All of them love the palace grounds, and having the market so close is fantastic, especially for our older creations. Copper Plains was a fairly rural area, so having so much hustle and bustle nearby all the time is a bit of a change for them... Although I’m sure it’ll become humdrum for them soon enough.” He smiled broadly, his door wings waving behind him in his enthusiasm. “Oh! And Roadkick had been terribly unhappy about moving here – you know, he’s at that age where leaving all of his friends behind is simply the worst disaster that could happen to him.” Overcast shook his helm ruefully. “But the Consort Emeritus started teaching him how to do crystal cleavings, and he’s really taken a keen interest in gardening. Your carrier really is a delight, and so good with younglings. Roadkick hasn’t complained about being in the capital for, oh, almost three whole cycles now,” Overcast said with a laugh.

“I’m glad to hear it!” Smokescreen said. “And how is Gadget doing? I know he came here ahead of your family to start his lessons with Magus Road Rage.”

Overcast’s door wings quivered in relief. “Oh, he’s doing so much better,” Overcast said. “He hasn’t had an accident with his powers even once since starting lessons with her. It’s been night and day. She’s taught him how to control his power so that he doesn’t accidentally phase through things, and has even started training him how to focus it to be useful.” Overcast leaned forward. “Now he’s talking about wanting to train to be a doctor, since he’d be able to fix things without having to remove plating to do it,” Overcast added proudly.

“How clever! That’s a great idea,” Smokescreen said with a smile. “I’m so glad that the training has made a difference for him.”

Overcast bobbed his helm. “While I am very honoured to be your majordomo, Your Majesty, I am even more pleased at how you’ve helped Gadget... And all of the other mechs who’d developed powers over the past vorn.” The smile he gave Smokescreen was sincere. “Thank you, thank you, for all that you’ve done so far, even with all of the resistance you faced.”

“I have a lot more that I want to accomplish,” Smokescreen said with a shrug. “Hopefully I’ll get to finish all of it.”

As Overcast left his office, Smokescreen’s optics settled on the gold orb that sat on his desk, close enough for him to touch it without moving. He lifted his hand and settled it on the cool surface of the spark casing cast. His digits traced the fine lines embossed on the surface of the orb, lines that he’d never seen with his optics, but which had lay next to the spinning spark of the noble who still held part of Smokescreen’s own spark.

Smokescreen felt a tightness in his intake as he thought again of the green and silver noble whose spark had once glowed brightly in the casing from which the cast had been made. He let out a slow vent of air, trying to resurrect the memory of the last time he’d held a smiling Halfsteel in his arms: right before his coronation. It had only been six orbital cycles since that moment... Why did it feel like it had been a hundred vorn?

“I wish you were here, Steel,” he whispered. “I’ve done so much already, and I wish you could see it.”

“Smokescreen?”

Looking up with a start, Smokescreen saw Prowl hovering in the door of his office. A frown flashed over Prowl’s features when he saw Smokescreen’s hand on the spark casing. “Yes?” he asked, taking his hand off the cast. He knew that Prowl would only start worrying if he saw his brother ‘brooding’ over his lover’s death. Smokescreen quickly smiled. “Oh, by the way... I finished all of those draft revisions we’d discussed.” He proudly gestured at the pile of scrolls on his desk.

Prowl’s door wings tipped upwards and his frown disappeared. “Thank you for finishing that so quickly,” he said. “But I came to let you know that the Altihexian bounty hunter just arrived... And he brought Hitch with him.”

“Finally!” Smokescreen shot to his pedes and came around the desk. Crossflare and her bond partner had been captured three orbital cycles ago, and had been promptly tried and put into prison. Hitch, however, had proven to be more elusive, and Praxus had hired additional bounty hunters to track him down. “Where is Hitch now?”

“He was taken directly to the dungeons. If you recall, the High Priest wanted to question him first,” Prowl said. “I’ve already summoned him, and arranged for our interrogators to observe. But I knew you wanted to have a chance to speak with the bounty hunter this time.” He gestured towards the hallway. “He’s waiting in the conservatory.”

“Yes, thank you.” Smokescreen fell into step beside Prowl. When Crossflare had been brought in, Smokescreen was so involved in her initial interrogation that he didn’t get a chance to thank the bounty hunter who had brought her in before he left. “Is it the same mech?”

Prowl shook his helm. “No, this is a different bounty hunter. He’s the one who came so highly recommended by the Altihexian governor, for both his skills at tracking mechs down as well as his discretion.” Prowl’s door wings flicked once. “He’s apparently in high demand. Now that we’ve seen what he’s capable of, we know why. He brought in Hitch less than one orbital cycle after receiving the contract.”

Smokescreen nodded absently, his thoughts already sailing off to how this would be announced to the Court. The fact that a member of the Court and a Temple priest had been responsible for the attempts on Smokescreen’s life – and for the death of Lord Halfsteel – had opened many optics to how deeply the desire to keep the status quo had been woven through upper-class life in Praxus. Having all of the parties responsible for that horror locked up (or, in the case of Bombshell, punished beyond what Smokescreen could imagine) would mean a clean slate for moving forward with the new normal.

“Are you even listening to me?”

Smokescreen looked at Prowl. “I’m sorry,” he said, dipping his door wings. “My processor was a million kilometers away. What were you saying?”

Prowl smiled. “I asked if you wanted to invite the bounty hunter to dinner tonight. He mentioned he’d be spending the night in Praxus before heading back to Altihex.” Prowl’s smile widened. “I was going to have the kitchens prepare something special tonight, since Jazz will finally be free from his training.”

Smokescreen grinned. “Are you sure you want me and a stranger intruding on your first evening together in an orbital cycle?” he asked.

“It was Jazz’s idea to invite you,” Prowl said with a shrug. “You know how gregarious he is; the more mechs he has to talk with, the happier he is. Besides... Jazz and I will have the whole evening afterwards to spend together.” Prowl’s door wings gave a slight flutter as they turned the corner towards the conservatory. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if our guest joined us for dinner.”

Standing in the middle of the conservatory floor was a blue mech. Smokescreen couldn’t immediately identify his alt mode, but he looked to be some kind of flight frame. His posture looked both relaxed and alert at the same time, and his optics focused immediately on Prowl and Smokescreen as they entered the room. He gave off the air of someone who was quite capable of taking care of himself.

Prowl stepped forward between them. “May I present His Royal Majesty, King Smokescreen of Praxus,” Prowl said, gesturing to Smokescreen. As the bounty hunter bowed, Prowl said. “And this is Master Devcon, a bounty hunter under the employ of Governor Hightop of Altihex.”

“Master Devcon, thank you so much for the work you’ve done for us,” Smokescreen said. He held out his arm in greeting, and the bounty hunter grasped it firmly. “The mech that you’ve brought to justice caused us a lot of upset… and sparkache,” he added quietly. “It’ll be good to finally see him behind bars.”

The bounty hunter’s optics had not left Smokescreen’s face since he’d entered the room. He dropped Smokescreen’s arm and smiled. “I never fail a contract, Your Majesty,” Devcon said, and there was not a hint of a boast in his deep voice. He was simply stating a fact. “Bringing in my mark is all part of the job.” He emphasized the last word, and lifted a brow ridge expectantly.

Smokescreen’s optics widened in realization. “Oh, if you’re asking about your pay, I believe that Prowl was having the royal treasurer make the shanix available for you,” he said, glancing at his brother. When Prowl nodded, Smokescreen added, “But in the meantime, Prowl mentioned that you would be staying the night in Praxus?”

“I am, Your Majesty,” Devcon said. “It’s a quick flight back to Altihex, but I’ve been on the move for quite a while.”

“Then let me offer you a guest room in the palace,” Smokescreen said. “It’s the least we could do after the quick work you did for us.”

“I was going to look for lodging in the city, but if you have a room available here, that would be most appreciated.” Devcon bowed his helm and then looked back at Smokescreen, a small smile on his lips.

“Of course,” Smokescreen said, and looked at Prowl.

“I’ll make sure a room is prepared,” Prowl said in reply to Smokescreen’s unspoken request, and swept out of the room.

“In the meantime, please spend your time exploring the public areas of the palace, and the gardens,” Smokescreen said, gesturing towards the conservatory doors. Devcon fell into step beside him, moving like a wirehound on the hunt. His movements reminded Smokescreen a little of how Jazz walked.

“Ah, yes, I was admiring the gardens while I was waiting for you to arrive,” Devcon said. As they paused on the upper terrace over the gardens, he gave the scenery a glance and then looked back at Smokescreen. “They are very beautiful.”

“Also, we were planning on having a little dinner party tonight,” Smokescreen said, tipping his door wings upwards as he made the invitation. He noticed how the bounty hunter’s optics followed the movements of his wings. Smokescreen wondered if his interest was because he was some sort of aerial frame, or some other reason. “Nothing fancy... It will just be me, my brother, and his promised. I’d love to have you attend as well... If you’re interested,” Smokescreen said with a smile.

Devcon thought for a moment, then clasped his hands behind his back. “Thank you very much, Your Majesty,” he said with a nod. “I’d love to attend.” He flashed Smokescreen a quick smile. “I just love parties.”