A/N: It does jump around a bit, sorry, just ask me if you need anything clarified. Also, Krolia gets her way when it comes to naming her child.

---

In his years as a pilot, Lotor had never known proximity alerts to be heralds of good, as such. In fact, they were almost always unpleasant, as, much like on the ground, he preferred his personal space.

Enemy ships, on the other hand, did not always respect this wish.

Fwubwubwubwub, went this particular alarm, the satisfying sound of a plastic-coated page being shaken. Lotor found it crucial to stay calm in perilous situations that may or may not involve his lives or the lives of his crew, and standard alarm tones were never particularly relaxing - so, he took the liberties of recording his own.

"Proximity, sir," Axca voice came through Lotor's comms, a similar repetitive noise chiming on her end - church bells, he thought, though he never asked why. "Appears to be some form of mini-ship, approaching at high speeds. No detectable weapons or bio-rhythms aboard."

" Due intercept in 1 doboshes," added his ship's navigation system.

He'd have to fix that grammatical error when he got back.

"Open a hailing frequency."

"No response, sir." Lotor zoomed in on the image of the speeding object. It seemed awfully familiar, like something on the edge of his memory was singing an alarm of it's own. Oozing light-blood, it glowed purple, shimmering on the brink of white, crystal structure sharpened to a point, energy like ominous lightning crackling around its surface.

"No visible point of entry, I think that's not-"

Communications went dark. All the lights in the ship powered down, one by one, even the backup generators knocked out, and the display flickered and vanished. Zethrid's unspoken words still echoed in the air.

That's not a ship.

He probably should have realised that before it sliced his own in half.

---

"Prince Lotor, please report to council room Plysan immediately," Another day, another summons - in face, quite literally (daily councils were, as the name suggested, daily, illuminated by the first shafts of light from Daibezaal's sun breaking the horizon when most citizens were still slumbering). He never expected it to be anything more.

Outside the window, it was still dark. Stars streaked across the sky, splattered like some child's careless painting, flickering, beckoning. He couldn't sleep, like usual, and if nothing else, he supposed that even some meeting would be a brief distraction from whatever he felt a nine-bolt lock couldn't keep out. His chambers on Altea were, as requested, small enough to cross in a few strides, and soon he was out of his night-clothes and blinking in the warm-white lights. The doorknob creaked horribly (he'll have to oil that later) as he turned it.

"Prince Lotor." a monotone voice said, almost mimicking the announcement in its stiffness.

"Son."

and the warm white dro p  p    e    d        a     w       a        y-

Dark, dark red and streaks and stains and horrible yellow sickly orbs and her voice took it's place, always there always there she's always there, could probably have come into his room if it took her fancy and-

"I have come to escort you to the council. Please follow me closely, the castle is on lockdown." He gathered himself, shoving his panic roughly into the eristnium-unbreakable box in his head, where it writhed like a black smoke, faces shifting and changing. Eristnium was the strongest substance discovered in their local system - he would know, since he discovered it, or more like made it up some dark night with a painting-not-painting illuminated on the wall- nothing could penetrate it.

"Lockdown?" He asked instead, confused. The hallway was dimly lit, lights flashing to the sound of some unheard alarm in the correct sequence.

"Just follow me."

When they reached the council rooms, with armed guards stationed outside the doors, Lotor was anxious, his tail thumping against his leg alongside his heartbeat. Honerva was silent as ever, clawed hand tensed in a fist at her side. A panel lit up, a monotone voice droning protocol.

"State your names and Plysan entry code, over,"

"Empress Honerva and Prince Lotor, code kendra-niffel-dex, over."

"Please proceed."

The chamber was blanketed in apprehension, like a thick fog seeping into every corner. The air was heavy with it - and so were the faces that looked up at Lotor and the Empress when they entered. Trigel's fingers tapped against the table in her own council room somewhere in the Dalterion belt, echoing down the line to ring in his ears.

His father was the last to raise his head, but when he did, it was with a weary smile as if for consolation. "Honerva, Lotor, please sit. We have very urgent matters to discuss."

"We may as well cut to it," King Alfor interrupted, standing up from his place at the head of the table, and Lotor saw that he cradled a sleeping child in his arms. "This very night, an attempt was made on Allura's life."

---

He was falling, burning, tumbling through Terra's atmosphere as the crystal-wing dragged him towards the planet's surface. Bright fire lit the open, clean-sliced wound on his craft and black oil blood mixed with liquified quintessence dripped out.

Two others, all black and orange and blue, unscathed and with newly restored power, wheeled around behind him and left as he prayed they would, though his own selfishness may have begged any gods out there to do the opposite. They had no choice, anyway, between orders and a distinct lack of tractor beams that he noticed too late. Starting as a faint breeze, air began to rush past the gap - when it built to gale-force Lotor was grateful for its noise, for in the cacophony of screaming metal and roaring wind there is not much room for other thought.

The half-lit hanging orb below him, with its little gold-gleaming paint splatters of city lights and swathes of draped blue cloth, would at least make a pretty grave.

---

Something was amiss on the horizon.

Well, captain obvious, you'd hope that an ominous purple glow over the mountains near your house wasn't a regular occurrence, Yorak thought, picking his dagger up off the coffee table (was it a coffee table if no-one drank coffee?) and shoving it into its sheath on its utility belt. He'd have to move quickly before the neighboring Galaxy Garrison put up their dumb propaganda-decorated force fields.

Jumping onto the red speeder that sat in their yard, he slammed on the accelerator, almost hearing his dad's reprimand at the screeching noise that ensued. It could be considered a welcome fact if he got to see his father's face as well, but it remained shadowed no matter how hard Yorak tried to remember. The wind stole his thoughts, his reason and his logic with the allure of amethyst reward.

The surrounding desert had seen its fair share of falling objects, its dusty yellow-orange rock pockmarked with craters here and there. Most of them were from before his time - one, apparently, heralded his mother's sudden appearance on a planet that was not her own, and another was the reason for her coming. But there were many others, too: maybe, they felt the same energy that he felt, maybe they were drawn in the same way that he was.

In almost exactly the time that he'd estimated (19 seconds off), he reached the source of the disturbance, and... he wouldn't normally say it, but it was beautiful.

A flurry of crystal stardust drifted through the air like violet fireflies, like inky snow, its parent stone a blade that could have pierced the Earth were it not for the hunk of metal crushed beneath. Rivulets of liquid light dripped down to the scarred ground, pooling like blood. And then:

"One bio-rhythm detected," chimed his handheld, unlooked for.

He was early. No-one could have made it before, how could they? Anyone closer should have been flattened by the ensuing shockwave - if not for the rocky monuments in front of his house, he would have been too. Maybe it was a foolish idea. But blinking headlights shone on the horizon like a ticking clock, the hum of Garrison vehicles abuzz in his ears, and he decided to take his chances.

When he got back, he wouldn't notice the front door opening until Krolia's voice filled the room with a question Yorak couldn't answer without admitting his idiocy:

"Why is the prince of the Galra Empire unconscious on our couch?"