Chapter Text
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Approx. 11,800,760 years ago…
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"I need you all to be on your best behavior, understand?" Polera said, addressing her two little sparklings, Novastride and Hexavolt. In just a cycle or two, they would reach their fifth cycle of existence and officially be considered adults.
"We're here at the Prime Citadel to oversee the proceedings of the Matrix Championships. This will be your first time witnessing the event, so I expect you all to conduct yourselves accordingly."
"Yes, Caer," both newsparks answered in unison.
Polera’s gaze then shifted to the youngest among them—not her own, but one her conjunx had no choice but to take in. The half-forged glitch.
"And you, Duskion? Do you understand what is being asked of you? I do not want to hear a single peep from you."
Duskion was only two years old, barely out of his forging. His original carrier had died in delivery, leaving him to exist in a world that barely acknowledged him.
"Y-yes, Caer..." he replied hesitantly. He wasn't very confident and remained rather shy, still struggling with others due to his lack of self-assurance.
Polera cringed in disgust at being called Caer, but she said nothing, merely turning away and striding forward.
Novastride snickered before shoving Duskion, sending him tumbling to the ground. With a giggle, he darted after his Carrier, unbothered by the act.
Hexavolt lingered behind, kneeling to help Duskion back onto his pedes. "Come on, Dusk. You're okay," he murmured, patting the smaller bot's helm. Though his voice was gentle, sadness flickered in his optics.
"Want to hold servos?" he asked, extending his own in quiet reassurance.
Dusk grunted as he hit the floor, stifling a sob. He didn’t like Nova much, but he was too little to do anything about it. At least he was kind to him.
"Y-yes, t-thank you, H-Hexa..." he murmured.
Hexa smiled as he gently took his little brother’s servo and pulled him along, his grip firm yet comforting.
They soon arrived at the private VIP seats overlooking the grand stadium. Below them, the oval-shaped arena stretched wide, a battleground where warriors from across Cybertron had gathered. Each combatant bore a sash in distinct colors, representing the nation they hailed from.
For Duskion’s family, their colors marked them as citizens of Polyhex.
"Look, Dusk. Over there," Hexa said, pointing toward the higher seats across the stadium. A group of mechs sat together, clad in pristine white with gold embellishments. Their presence alone radiated authority and reverence.
"That's the Tranquil Spire," Hexa explained. "They protect the Matrix of Leadership. You’ve heard of it from your tutors, right?" He glanced down at his younger brother, his tone expectant yet patient.
Dusk was amazed, almost overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the event. It was massive—bigger than anything he had ever seen before. He followed Hexa’s gaze and spotted the members of the Tranquil Spire, his breath hitching in awe.
“Y-yeah, I remember them… Wow… Just like in the story…” he murmured, taking in every detail.
Whoever holds the Matrix becomes Primus' chosen leader of Cybertron.
That was the law upheld across the realms, an unshaken truth woven into Cybertronian history.
The Matrix Championships were held once every mega-cycle to determine seven worthy mechs—warriors who would stand before the Matrix in hopes of being chosen. Even if the same ones returned each time, the test remained: only Primus could decide.
The last to claim the title had been Amalgamous Prime, Supreme Pontiff of the Tranquil Spire. Over 50,000 cycles had passed since his death.
And still, Cybertron remained without a new Prime.
"Oh, look! Down there—it's Umbra of Tarn!" Hexavolt said excitedly, pointing toward the warriors clad in silver and purple sashes.
Novastride, who had been listening, wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Gross. A Tarnian? You do know that place is nothing but dirt and grime, right? A bunch of uneducated brutes, just like Kaon."
Hexa huffed, his optics narrowing. "You just don’t appreciate warframes. And for your information, Umbra secured one of the seven spots last cycle. A rookie at that!"
Dusk was riveted, his focus locked onto the action below as the combatants took the field. Part of him longed to be down there among them when he was older, but another part was deeply afraid of the very idea.
Was that something he truly wanted?
"Hey," Novastride spoke up, his optics narrowing as he glared down at Duskion. Without warning, he reached over and flicked one of Duskion’s audial finials, making the smaller mech flinch.
"I don’t know what you’re thinking," he sneered, "but you’re not worthy to compete down there—especially since I will be the one representing our family. Your carrier was a low-born service femme. What makes you think you’d ever qualify to stand in that arena, hmm?" His vocoder dropped into a cold whisper, venom laced between his words.
Hexavolt immediately pulled Duskion beside him, shielding him from Novastride’s reach. "That’s enough, 'Stride. Dusk is just two. He’s innocent of his creation. If you’ve got a problem with him, take it up with our Sire—if you’re not such a cow—"
"I dare you to finish that sentence, Hexa," Stride snarled, his vents releasing a sharp hiss of heated air.
"Enough."
Polera’s voice cracked through the tension like a whip. Both Stride and Hexa stiffened, immediately bowing their heads.
"Apologies, Matriarch," they murmured in unison.
Polera huffed, her vents releasing a sharp exhale before her gaze dropped to Duskion. Disdain flickered in her optics, cold and unwavering.
"You’re nothing but a mistake."
The words were quiet, but they struck like a hammer. She didn’t wait for a reaction—didn’t care for one—before turning away, dismissing him.
Treating him like nothing.
Her cold words echoed in his helm, each syllable slicing deeper than any wound ever could.
A sob tore from his larynx unit, raw and helpless. Before Hexa could stop him, Duskion broke free and ran—away from the stadium, away from the suffocating presence of his so-called family.
He didn’t stop until he found a dark, empty corner, far from the grandeur of the Prime Citadel. Curling up, he pulled his knees close, pressing his helm against them as quiet, gasping sobs wracked his small frame.
"What did I ever do?" he whimpered to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.
Why wasn’t I enough?
Duskion’s true carrier had been what the older mechs called a pleasure-unit. She was cold-constructed, considered little more than a droid by Cybertronian standards. The only true Cybertronians were those forged from two sparks and carried for the full gestation term. While Duskion was technically forged, his lineage was tainted by his carrier’s status—ruining any chance he might have had, despite his Sire being a mech of higher standing.
The best he could do was endure until his fifth mega-cycle. And then…
Then what?
Flee? Adopt his carrier’s designation?
Where could he even go…?
"Well, well… what is a young sprocket like yourself doing here…?"
The deep, gravelly voice sent a shiver down Duskion’s frame. Slowly, he lifted his helm, his optics wide and tear-streaked.
Before him stood a dark red mech, looming yet careful—not too close, as if aware of how fragile the moment was. His frame was broad and worn with time, and the lines across his faceplates spoke of long cycles lived, battles fought, and wisdom earned.
Despite his imposing presence, there was no hostility in his gaze. Only curiosity.
"Do you have a name, little sprocket?" the mech asked, his tone softened just enough to be inviting.
Duskion flinched at the sudden presence of the mech, his frame tensing instinctively. But as he studied the stranger—his calm demeanor, his lack of hostility—some of the fear ebbed away.
"D-Duskion," he managed to say, trying to keep his voice steady. "My name’s Duskion…" He repeated.
The mech hummed in thought, his optics gleaming with something unreadable. "Duskion… The closing of a day," he mused aloud. Then, to Dusk’s surprise, he smiled warmly.
"Tell me, little sprocket, why are you so sad?" the mech asked, his voice gentle but steady. "Today is a glorious day, after all, we have the largest gathering of warriors and leaders, each proving their worth in the arena for the chance to be one of the chosen seven. And yet, here you are, just a floor below the Hall of Records, tucked away in the dark."
His optics softened. "Surely there’s a reason?"
Duskion's frame trembled as he tried to speak, his vents hitching between words.
"I—I don't know why..." he whispered, his voice cracking. "My… Ma-Matriarch hates me… ‘Stride hates me… They call me worthless… a m-miss-take…"
His fists clenched against his knees as he fought against the sobs rising in his throat. His optics burned, but he refused to let the tears fall again.
"Don't know wah-what I… did…" he stammered, his entire frame curling inward as if trying to make himself disappear.
The old mech seemed taken aback by Duskion’s words. His optics dimmed for a moment, a flicker of sorrow crossing his worn features.
"Oh dear… the ‘nobles’ can be quite cruel in these times, and they even make sure to pass down such bad habits to their sparklings," he murmured, disappointed with the world. He let out a quiet sigh before meeting Duskion’s gaze with an unwavering kindness.
"But let me tell you something, little one. No matter what they say, your creation is never a mistake. You were born because Primus wills it. Your existence has worth. You are worthy. You are just too young to see it yet… or to understand what that means."
He paused, letting his words sink in. Then, after a moment, he smiled, warm and inviting.
"Instead of sitting here in this dreary corner, how about I take you around the Prime Citadel? There's more to see than just the Stadium. We have the Hall of Records, Cybertron’s Relicarium, the Royal Barracks, the Citadel Court… much better views than this place, don’t you think?"
His tone was light, as if he were offering an adventure rather than just a distraction.
Duskion calmed himself a bit then nodded and got up to his pedes.
"O-Okay, I-I think I'd like that...." He replied ready to follow the older Mech.
The old mech bowed his head with a grace that seemed almost knightly, like the ones in service of Duskion’s Sire. Lowering himself onto one knee, he extended his large servo toward the small, trembling sprocket.
"My name is Alpha Trion," he introduced himself. "May I have permission to hold you?"
Duskion hesitated for only a moment before placing his small servo into the massive one before him. The warmth of the old mech’s touch was unfamiliar—steady, reassuring.
"Ye-yes," he murmured, barely above a whisper.
As Alpha Trion carefully lifted him, holding him with an almost fatherly gentleness, Duskion let his frame relax just a little. The name lingered in his mind, and he repeated it softly, as if trying to commit it to memory.
"Alpha… Trion…"
The name felt important. Safe.
He didn’t remember ever being held this way before. Maybe his Sire had, once, but the memories were faint—like echoes lost in the vastness of time. Had anyone ever treated him with such care? He wasn't sure. It didn’t help that his family had always kept him isolated, limiting his contact with anyone outside their household. It was as if they wanted to hide him—tuck away their shame where no one could see.
So, Duskion held on to this feeling of care.
With practiced ease, Alpha Trion removed his servo only to carefully grasp Duskion by the waist, lifting him up effortlessly. Before the youngling could fully process what was happening, he was placed securely on Trion’s broad shoulder.
The moment the old mech stood to his full height, Duskion's optics widened. He was at least 30-40 feet off the ground!
‘He's huge...’ Duskion realized with awe. Alpha Trion was easily taller than his own Sire—by at least ten feet, if not more.
Yet, despite the dizzying height, he felt… safe. Trion’s large servo remained gently but firmly against him, ensuring he wouldn’t fall.
"Now, off we go, little sprocket," Alpha Trion declared, his voice carrying a quiet amusement. "Let’s see… You’ve already been to the stadium. Then it’s only fitting I take you through the Hall of Records next."
Excitement rushed through him as Duskion held tightly with bated vents.
Alpha Trion guided Duskion through the Prime Citadel with a patience and wonder-storytelling that made every step feel like a grand journey. Through the Hall of Records, he showed him towering databanks filled with ancient histories, recounting the legacies of Primes and heroes long past.
In the Citadel Court, Duskion marveled at the grand halls where Cybertron’s greatest leaders once stood, the polished floors reflecting the soft glow of the overhead luminescence.
At the Relicarium, Trion spoke of legendary artifacts—each one carrying stories of war, peace, and the will of Primus himself, especially those crafted by Solus Prime.
Lastly, they arrived at the Royal Barracks, where a handful of warriors still lingered, either training to keep their skills sharp or choosing quiet solitude over the spectacle of the stadium.
"Hey, Old Mech! Who do you have there?"
An older mech—though not as old as Alpha Trion—approached, curiosity evident as he eyed the sprocket sitting atop Trion’s shoulder.
"Sir Vortigrax," he acknowledged with a nod. Then, with a glance toward Duskion, he asked, "This here is Duskion of…umm…hmmmm… hey, little sprocket, who is your sire? And what city do you hail from again?"
Vortigrax’s optics widened.
"No way. Did you just steal someone else’s sparkling?" He looked between Trion and the youngling, his expression caught between amusement and disbelief.
Duskion shrank back slightly, hiding behind Alpha Trion’s head as his small frame tensed. The sudden attention made his spark race.
"M-My Sire is S-Solvarion... A-Archduke of P-Polyhex..." he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
Vortigrax raised a brow, but before he could respond, another voice joined in, laced with muted curiosity.
"Archduke Solvarion has three children?" He questioned.
Duskion moved closer to Alpha Trion, who murmured softly to him. “That’s just Sir Klarion. He’s kind.”
Meanwhile, Vortigrax choked, his vents stuttering as he tried to clear them.
"Primus, Trion, you stole a sparkling from an Archduke?!" he sputtered, his optics darting between Trion and Duskion in disbelief.
Alpha Trion, in contrast, remained entirely unbothered, his expression thoughtful as he sifted through his vast memory banks.
"Solvarion, Solvarion… Ah, yes. Wasn’t he that bewildered noble who lost in the first round of the Matrix Championships about two hundred mega-cycles ago?"
Duskion felt his intakes dropping at hearing that.
Vortigrax just gave Trion a look. "Seriously, how old are you, Trion? And how in the Pits do you even remember that?"
Alpha Trion merely shrugged, entirely unconcerned. With care, he reached up and lifted Duskion from his shoulder, gently setting him down onto the floor in front of the knights.
"Alright, Sprocket. Stand tall now. Show them that you’re tough," he encouraged, his voice warm but firm.
Duskion swallowed nervously, his optics flickering between the towering giants before him. They were massive, their frames imposing, showing off experience. Still, he straightened up as best as he could, doing his best to hold his ground despite the way his spark fluttered in his chassis.
Klarion hummed, tilting his helm as he examined the youngling. "Hmm, a bit scrawny… Though, I suppose I haven’t seen many sparklings since I was one myself… Maybe that’s normal."
"It’s a given since he wasn’t forged to be a warrior. Hardly anyone is, unless they’re from Tarn or Kaon," Vortigrax pointed out with a dismissive wave of his servo. He gave Duskion another once-over. "Though, yeah… still scrawny."
"But he is tall for his age," Alpha Trion interjected, his tone carrying a subtle note of pride. "He’s only two."
Vortigrax’s optics flickered with surprise. "Oh? I thought he was three or four already and just really skinny." He chuckled, crossing his arms. "Huh. Guess there’s some decent frame-building in his lineage after all."
He paused a moment, before asking, “Hey, Klar, do we have any lightweight blades for his frame lying about?"
"For someone as small as he is? Not really... Maybe I can find a metal pick somewhere," Klarion mused as he wandered over to the weapon racks, his optics scanning the various armaments.
He rummaged through the collection, his servos briefly hovering over a few options before settling on something. "They’re not really blades, but maybe I can—"
CRACK!
A sharp crack echoed as he snapped off a couple of long, slender spikes from an older weapon. Then another. The pieces were sturdy but light, perfectly sized for small servos.
Klarion turned back to Duskion, holding them out. "Here, can you hold one of these?"
Duskion blinked, startled but intrigued. He reached out and carefully took them, his small servos wrapping around the metal as he grasped one carefully.
"Ohhh, he can hold them," Vortigrax noted with amusement, watching.
Then, with a confident smirk, he drew his own blade, the metal humming faintly as it cut through the air.
"Here, watch me and see if you can follow, young master Duskion," he instructed, stepping into a battle stance. His movements were fluid but strong, each shift of his frame purposeful, like a warrior who had done this a thousand times over.
He held his blade steady, waiting for Duskion to observe. "It’s all about balance and control. Don’t grip too tightly, let the weapon feel like an extension of yourself."
Duskion watched Sir Vortigrax with uncertainty, his small frame tense as he tried to mimic the warrior’s movements. He stepped into a stance, but his motions were stiff, unsure—his joints locking up as he overthought each shift and angle.
"Loosen up. You won’t get anywhere moving like that," Klarion commented from the sidelines, arms crossed as he observed. "Relax."
Duskion took a shaky vent in and tried again, this time focusing on loosening his grip just a little, letting the weight of the spike guide his movements rather than forcing them.
It wasn’t perfect—not even close—but it was better. His steps became less rigid, his movements more fluid, if only slightly. For the first time, it felt a little less like fumbling and more like learning.
Joors passed in playful sparring, with the knights turning Duskion’s lesson into a game. They exaggerated their reactions, letting out dramatic shouts whenever he landed a "hit," making sure to encourage him. More knights joined in, entertained by the rare sight of a sparkling in their midst. Soon, mock battles broke out, staged purely for Duskion’s amusement, their laughter and the clash of blades filling the barracks, punctuated by corny comebacks and exaggerated theatrics.
All the while, Alpha Trion remained nearby, keeping a watchful optic on the sprocket. His expression was unreadable, but there was something almost fond in the way he observed.
For the first time in his short life, Duskion wasn’t being hidden. He wasn’t being shunned.
It felt like he had found a place where he might finally belong.
“Duskion!! There you are!”
The knights halted, their jovial sparring cut short as Duskion immediately dropped his weapon. His optics widened in alarm when he recognized one of the two mechs striding toward him—his Sire.
Archduke Solvarion of Polyhex.
The lividness on his Sire’s faceplates was impossible to hide.
Alpha Trion stepped forward, his presence calm but firm. A careful servo reached down to pat Duskion’s helm, a silent gesture of reassurance as he gently guided him to his side. The simple motion was enough to slow Solvarion’s enraged march.
“High Teyrn Paxorion. Archduke Solvarion,” Alpha Trion greeted with a measured bow.
“You!!” Solvarion snarled, jabbing a servo-index toward him. “What gives you the right to take someone else’s sparkling?”
Then his optics dropped to Duskion, cold and sharp.
“And you! What did I say about running off? Your disappearance brought humiliation upon me when I introduced the Crowned Prince of Jhiaxus to our family! Low and behold—you were nowhere to be found!”
Duskion shrank back, his frame trembling. “I-I’m sorry—”
“Calm yourself, Archduke. Your son is safe. That’s all that matters,” High Teyrn Paxorion—a white and black mech with gold embellishments and purple optics—drawled, his tone laced with irritation as he addressed Solvarion before turning his gaze to Alpha Trion. His expression softened, and he offered a polite bow. “Apologies for the noise, but you did cause me quite a bit of trouble, sending only me a message that you’ve taken someone else’s sparkling and gave them a grand tour of the Prime Citadel, Alpha Trion.”
Immediately, Solvarion reeled back, his optics wide with shock. “A-Al… Alpha Trion…!?”
Duskion pursed his intakes, somewhat stunned. He had never seen his Sire look so… pale.
Alpha Trion. Was he someone very important?
“I am always ever so grateful to count on you, Paxorion,” Alpha Trion said with a warm smile.
Paxorion sighed, shifting his gaze to the small newspark before offering a gentle smile of his own.
“I’m sorry. Alpha Trion must have been quite a handful. Despite his old age, he acts like a sparkling himself,” he said with a wry grin. “And apparently, I’m his caretaker.”
Behind Alpha Trion, the knights snickered, struggling to contain their amusement. The ancient mech’s shoulders sank slightly as he sputtered, “P-Pax, don’t tell him that!”
At that, Duskion couldn’t help but giggle. The idea of a younger mech caretaking for someone as old and revered as Alpha Trion was downright ludicrous.
“F-Forgive me, Alpha Trion!!” Solvarion suddenly blurted, still trying to grasp the situation. “My son has troubled you!”
Alpha Trion waved a servo dismissively. “I’ll forgive you if you forgive me for taking him,” he said lightly, then added with measured intent, “but I also have a favor to ask.”
He turned his gaze back to Duskion.
“I’d like to train the young sprocket.”
Solvarion took a step back, his audial receptors unable to accept what he was hearing while Duskion’s intakes dropped.
“R…Really?” he rasped.
Alpha Trion nodded. “Yes, sprocket. If you are willing, I would like to personally train you. I will even come to Polyhex myself to oversee your progress.”
Duskion’s spark nearly stalled. His optics widened, his frame trembling with disbelief.
“Y-you’re serious?” His voice barely held together. “You’d really train me?”
Paxorion chuckled, folding his arms as he turned to the stunned newspark. “Duskion, you do realize what an honor this is, don’t you?” He gestured toward Alpha Trion. “This mech isn’t just some old, retired, sketchy, scary, empty-space network—"
“Paxorion…” Alpha Trion chided quietly, looking a bit hurt.
“—Grumpy ancient warrior. He was the Knight Commander of the previous Prime’s guard. He trained some of the greatest Knights in Cybertronian history.”
Duskion gawked, his vents hitching.
“W-what…?” His processor struggled to keep up. This couldn’t be real.
Things like this didn’t happen to him.
Solvarion, still reeling, narrowed his optics in thought before straightening. “Well, if that’s the case, then I have a counteroffer.”
Alpha Trion arched an optic ridge. “Oh?”
“If you train Duskion, then you must also train two of my other sons,” Solvarion said smoothly. “Otherwise, they might get jealous, and I do try to treat my sons equally.”
Duskion bit the inside of his cheek-plate to keep himself from reacting. That was a lie. A bold, blatant one. Solvarion had never treated him the same as his other sons. But he said nothing.
Alpha Trion regarded the Archduke for a long moment before giving a slow nod. “Very well. I will train all three.”
Solvarion exhaled, relieved. “Good. Then it’s settled.”
Duskion, still struggling to process what had just unfolded, could only stare. This is real. This is really happening.
For the first time in his life, someone had chosen him and actually wanted him.
Unaware of the future throne that awaited him.
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A/N: This fic will not be finished. I will just post chapters of it, especially leading up from Duskion becoming Liege Maximus, and him meeting Starsaber, to…well, the eventuality.
So I guess this would be a collection of one-shots pertaining Liege. 😊
Hope you enjoyed the read and the lore!