Inspired by selections from the full score for The Nutcracker ballet by Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky.

I also take inspiration from a smattering of other sources and unidentified prompts I have come across in recent years. If anything that appears in this work is your creation and you wish to be acknowledged or the content removed/altered, please message me and I will make modifications as necessary.


A Royal Encounter

Chapter 1

It was a frigid, winter evening in Praxus. The chilled air swirled and swelled with the periodic bursts of penetratingly icy wind, carrying the delicate snow crystals in a whirling dance amongst the city's glimmering lights and gleaming crystals as thousands of flakes cascaded toward and blanketed the immaculate streets and walkways. Yet, in contrast to the freezing temperatures and accompanying quiet and stillness, a thrum of excitement, joy, and warmth infused the energy of the beautiful city-state in anticipation of the upcoming Celebration of New Light.

This was precisely so in a particular, small family apartment in a cozy, residential district which primarily housed artists, musicians, dancers, and other creatives who had secured support and stability in one of Cybertron's centers of such pursuits.

Bright peals of laughter, cherry chatter, and exuberant outbursts of delight followed two younglings who shadowed their older sibling as he merrily danced to and sang with the festive music playing from the living area's media system while decoratively arranging of warm, white lights, glowing crystal pieces of varying but coordinating colors, and even some organic elements gifted by a neighbor. A slim, deceptively dainty femme of primarily white and jade with black and chrome accents observed her second eldest creation - by half a breem only, as her twins constantly interjected - entertaining her younglings with a soft smile as she rested her crossed forearms on the bar ledge of the kitchen, reveling in the reprieve of warmth, entertainment, and amusement.

Prompted by the sound of soft shifting, Arabesque momentarily turned away from the ongoing scene to verify that her youngest, Coda, a very young sparkling who was taking after her sire's coloration of silver and white and soon to be a vorn old, was still settled in recharge in the specialized, tabletop seat next to her. Satisfied with the sparkling's restfulness and lack of need for her immediate attention, her attention was redirected at the uptick in high-pitched squeals across the room, causing her doorwings to twitch and flick at the grating sensation. The cause seemed to be some ambitious attempt by her recently come-of-age creation who was now sprawled on the floor, quivering with his own laughter and loosely tangled in the strands of lights which he carried in loops over his arms.

"Be careful, Jazz," she admonished. "I don't want to be spending the holidays at the medical center."

Grinning sheepishly, Jazz untangle himself (mostly) with some assistance from his siblings. Effortlessly leaping to his peds, he dipped into a bow with excessively extravagant flourishes. "Of course, madam, 't would be a shame, a disgrace, an ignominy, nay, a scandal!" Cheeky grin in place, he dimmed half of his visor in a wink at his siblings, who giggled uncontrollably at the jesting, repetitive pretension.

Before Jazz could continue with even more, increasingly ostentatious forms of apology, Arabesque rolled her optics and huffed as she spun around and focused on her task. Internally, she whispered an exasperated, pleading - and always reverent - prayer to Primus for strength and sanity to make it to the end of the metacycle and the new vorn.

Jazz chuckled at the deliberate dip, upward swing, and flare of his carrier's doorwings in indignation, as well as her muttering of what sounded like "smart-aft." He delighted in identifying ways to get a rise out of his too serious carrier, and it had become a bit of a game with his siblings.

Brushing invisible dust from his plating, Jazz resumed his interrupted activity of decorating their home and channeling his love and skills with music into entertaining his siblings.

The music transitioned to a light and bright, lyric-less piece that was perfect for incorporating and practicing some of his classical performance and formal-social dance styles. Jazz's spark lightened with pleasure and thrill as he flowed from toned-down leaps to pirouettes and arabesques into either part of generic or specifically arranged waltzes, quicksteps, or gavottes.

As he danced, taking momentary pauses to place a crystal here and affix a segment of lights there, Jazz noticed Minuet and Mezzo attempting to copy him, so he also guided them through the simpler steps, even a few lifts to their delights, and acted as their partner. At their prompting, he would occasionally step back and execute some complex movement, to which they would cheer and applaud. Glee, amusement, and warm contentment in the lively yet simple evening was palpable.

"My turn," exclaimed Mezzo, the second youngest, as the music built in another slight crescendo and Jazz completed a quick twirl.

Securing the unstrung segment of lights draped over his shoulder, Jazz lifted and swept Mezzo through the air, resettled him on the floor, and then lightly held one servo and lifted their joined arms for Minuet to twirl under. Infectious laughter and a beaming smile exuded from Mezzo as Minuet clapped and rushed forward for his turn, mimicking Jazz's earlier formality and what the youngling had passively watched in Jazz's lessons with their sire with a bow.

Mirroring his brother with amusement, Jazz extended is servo, palm up. "May I have the pleasure of this dance, monsieur?" Minuet eagerly nodded, and they were off.

Back in the kitchen, Arabesque admired the inherent grace and effortless elegance Jazz possessed, even in the simplest movements, whimsical and playful actions, and less-refined styles. While individual practice with their immensely talented sire obviously contributed to, refined, and broadened Jazz's prowess, and while Jazz definitely had further to go if he intended to also pursue a life in music of some form, she knew Jazz had a natural talent that could one day rival and, perhaps, exceed that of both his genitors. It warmed her spark to know that at least one of her creations so obviously inherited such aspects of herself. Much of his personality may reflect his sire, and both genitors could claim the inherent talent, but of all her creations, Jazz most clearly reflected his carrier in frame, the way he carried himself, and his notably, yet often masked, sharp processor.

The front door of the apartment slid open and closed with a distinctive sound, interrupting her musings and halting the frolicking and merry cacophony in the living area as all helms swiveled to see a mostly silver mech of a lithe, athletic build saunter into the room from the short hallway that led to the entrance.

"Sire!"

A flurry of motion and the light pounding of two sets of small peds accompanied blurs of navy and white racing to greet the newcomer with embraces and simultaneous, detailed babble as the silver mech lifted both younglings with some effort.

Parsing through the bedlam, Silverstream grinned and merely listened, glancing and nodding in greeting and intrigue to Jazz, who was still in the middle of the living area, struggling to detangle himself from the remaining lights.

"Sounds like a busy orn," Silverstream said when he caught a pause in the storytelling stream. He shifted his gaze between the younglings in his arm with a knowing yet questioning look, optics shining with barely-masked amusement which Jazz caught as he removed the last, clinging strand from his plating and tossed the it on the sofa before stepping over to the media system and lowering the volume. "Hopefully you didn't drive your carrier too much up the wall..."

Silence. Another pointed, amber gaze directed at the two younglings before shifting piercingly to Silverstream's light blue gaze. Subtly shared, conspiring glances passed between the two younglings as the blue visor of their older brother watched on in amusement, recalling the myriad of similar scenes in which he and his twin were under scrutiny. Cackles suddenly broke the silence, Minuet and Mezzo failing to suppress their mirth at their carrier's peeved expression before quickly covering the slip with contrite looks as Silverstream raised a brow.

Silverstream hummed with an amused smirk. "I thought so." Glancing at his mate before leaning closer with a stern expression, dropping his voice to a stage whisper, he added conspiringly with a slight grin, "Did my idea work?"

"Silver!" Arabesque indignantly shouted. All their creations laughed at their sire as he contritely met his mate's annoyed visage.

Silverstream set Minuet and Mezzo down with a wink, which prompted their giggling, before striding over to Arabesque, who stood with servos on hips, slim doorwings flared. He kissed the slightly shorter femme, whispering an apology and waited tensely.

After a moment, shaking her helm in exasperated acceptance, Arabesque gave her mate a quick peck before turning to finish assembling dinner with her mate while inquiring about his rehearsal, doorwings twitching occasionally in contentment and attention.

Jazz smiled softly as he watched his creators while Minuet and Mezzo ran off down the hallway toward the berthrooms, admiring Silverstream and Arabesque's relationship not for the first time. His sire was very laidback, full of energy, upbeat, and he adored his family. However, Silverstream could be serious in a sparkbeat when a situation warranted it, such as a prank gone too far and becoming dangerous, seriously offending the subject, purposeful conversations with his oldest creations in determining futures and teaching important lessons or complex issues, and his mate. Silverstream enjoyed his occupation and relative success, and he was truly exceptional considering his fortune in having the Grand Duke of Praxus as his patron. However, as he admitted to Jazz while discussing Jazz's aspirations, he found the most pleasure and fulfillment in his bonded and five children.

Although different considering circumstances, Arabesque echoed the sentiment when Jazz later inquired on the same topic.

Listening to the quiet music, the intermittent clanking and quiet murmuring of his creators in the kitchen, and the muffled sounds of his siblings playing in one of the berthrooms, Jazz absently fingered the empty, white sigil set inconspicuously into the plating of his inner, left forearm, shaped like a shield and bordered with silver. Every Cybertronian in existence had the same sigil on one of their forearms, and it would remain blank until they came into physical contact with their sparkmate. At least, that was what all evidence, experts, and legend indicated. All Jazz knew was that his was blank, and he was not sure if he was ready for it to suddenly fill with colors, patterns, or glyphs.

Already, only a few vorns since reaching their majority of 300 vorns, a few of his friends wore saturated shields. Just a couple decaorns ago, Jazz almost literally ran into his childhood best friend, who drifted apart when he went directly on to university while Jazz took time off to determine what he wanted to do and save enough to pay tuition. Jazz had chosen to walk the short distance back home after working his shift at a nearby, popular café. Exuding encompassing bliss and joy, his friend had promptly thrust his arm toward Jazz where the sigil, filled with twining lines of each mech's dominant colors forming a calligraphy glyph for longevity, acted like a beacon to proclaim his engagement to the tall, successful looking mech who's arm was wrapped with his own. Shocked but happy for his friend, and after adequately admiring the sigil enough to satisfy his friend's desire for such attention, Jazz congratulated both mechs before hurrying onward, quelling a surprisingly vicious flare of jealousy he felt at the juxtaposition of his blank sigil with his friend's completed one.

Checking that his creators were not finished or needing his help, Jazz slid into the built-in window nook in the corner of the living area furthest from the kitchen, protruding slightly over the street below. Curling up into the nook comfortably, Jazz admired the warm glow cast by the lights from other windows and the additional, illuminated crystal accents for the New Light celebration on the existing streetlights over the otherwise typically dark and bare street. Mecha bundled under grey and black cloaks ambled along the sidewalk as they chatted on their way home, light traffic carefully drove by, an Enforcer further down the street finished logging a citation, and the odd couple, clustered together for warmth in the cold night, set off for an evening out. He focused on the couple, their happy expressions, the subtle brushes against each other, the loving way they looked at each other even as they bantered or even argued, the way the stronger appearing of the two - an aerial, in fact - gently tugged his standard Praxian companion closer in protection when a mecha in vehicle format whizzed by too fast or when three mecha on the opposite side of the street, who were clearly not from the artisan district, seemed to shout something suggestive at them.

Pressing his cheek against the window, shuttering his optics at the coolness, Jazz contemplated the conflicting contentment and dissatisfaction he felt at this time every vorn. He fancied himself an island, able to take on the strongest storms with howling gales and relentless, crushing waves alone. However, watching the couple, recalling his peers' engagements and bondings, and even noting his creators' current playfulness as his carrier fussed over finishing touches while his sire "assisted" made him keenly aware of a part deep within his spark which yearned for lasting companionship, completion, and unwavering love which his family could not fill.

He sighed in annoyance with himself and continued to watch the snow accumulate at the edges of the window and the street below, rapidly erasing the indentations left by passing peds. He loved this holiday, but Primus, it made him feel lonely and unbearably sappy. Hence, he preferred to remain active throughout the celebration, entertaining his siblings, working extra shifts at the café, maybe even composing a new piece of music if inspiration struck.

As the young, mostly Polyhexian ruminated, he noticed an unfamiliar mech in a white cloak trimmed in gold and azure, and with an emblem embroidered in gold in the center that Jazz glimpsed when a particularly strong gust of wind blasted through the street. He was accompanied by two large, clearly warframe mecha. The three strangers strode purposefully along the side of the street Jazz's family's apartment was on, reading each address plate carefully. Straightening, the ever-curious Jazz focused as closely as he could, attempting to make out any identifying markings while hoping for another gust of wind to twist the smaller mech's cloak so that he could have a better look at the emblem it displayed. However, to his disappointment, the placement of his perch, along with the blurring smears of melting then refreezing snow on the window, placed him just too high to indisputably discern what looked like a noble House crest.

"Jazz," Arabesque called from across the room where the rest of his family was settling into their seats at the barely large enough table, shattering his focus. He had been so focused, he did not even hear or sense them moving to and gathering there. "Come on, it's time to fuel."

"Coming. Sorry!"

Jazz took one last glance out the window, dismayed as he realized the three mechs had disappeared before he could identify from where they came. Resigned to the frustration of an unsolved mystery, he stood and jogged over to the table, taking his usual seat to his sire's left, who sat at the head of the table. The seat to his right with conspicuously unoccupied.

Each member had a standard cube of mid-grade placed before them, though each contained different additives based on nutrient requirements, in the case of Mezzo and Minuet, or preference. Arrayed on plates and trays along the length of the table were a small selection of homemade treats.

Jazz picked up the cube before him and took a slow sip, savoring the lightly sweetened fuel, before placing the cube next to the small plate and perusing the confection selection. He ultimately decided on one his favorite puff wafers of his carrier's own creation.

"Only one tonight," Arabesque chided, intervening as Minuet reached to grab one of the larger gels in addition to the rust-dusted silicon wafer and a miniature copper cake, beautifully decorated with a glaze and pyrite crystals arranged on top, already populating his plate.

Much protest ensued. Carrier's rule stood.

Just as Jazz snuck a second of his favorite copper-dipped, chocotar puff wafers, a sharp knock on the front door caused everyone to pause. A moment passed, and then a second, more insistent rap followed.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Arabesque asked, first looking at Silverstream and then Jazz. Both shook their helms, and then Silverstream stood to answer the door. Curious, Jazz stood and followed as his carrier kept the two younglings from also following.

Halting at the end of the entrance hallway and peering around the corner, Jazz was surprised to see the very three mechs he had observed earlier conversing with his sire, who clearly knew and recognized them.

The two warframed Praxians were intimidating in size and in their stern expressions as they flanked their smaller companion. They did not seem to faze Silverstream, however, who easily inquired about specific, unique aspects about each mech's life. Jazz belatedly recognized them as guards of the House of the Crystal Saber, their uniform coloration, attentive optics and looming, motionless doorwings, and overall demeanor a characteristic giveaway. He remembered when he was very young, about half Mezzo's age, when he accompanied his sire to the Royal Palaise for a couple of decaorns while his carrier was away for some reason; he had watched the guards train and even encountered them once when he had wandered off to explore (he had also received quite the lecture that evening too). He also remembered a more recent time as a mechling, soon after his ability to transform activated, when he nearly collided with a guarded procession while chasing after his twin, Ricochet, for swiping a datapad containing a special note to a mech he liked. That had been a fun one to explain to his thoroughly embarrassed and irate creators, an unamused captain of the Praxian Royal Guard, and a displeased yet forgiving prince.

Jazz carefully avoided optic contact with these two guards now.

He did not recognize the other Praxian mech, though his sire seemed more familiar with him. He was a little taller than Jazz, who was tallest in the family, and his plating was primarily navy and grey with accents of yellow, of which two thin lines ran the length of his broad doorwings along the upper third of the expanses, and a white chevron. He spoke cordially, though his frame language was all business, formal, and noticeably tense.

The smaller mech - Solarlight, he overheard - withdrew a silver envelope covered in an ornate, embossed calligraphy design around its border from his subspace, extending it to his sire. "On behalf of his royal highness, Lord Apollo of the House of the Crystal Saber, I present an invitation to the Royal Gala."

Jazz could have sworn that, around his astonishment, he saw a flash of disdain cross Solarlight's face as his sire delicately accepted the fine envelope. Perhaps it was merely a trick of the light as the expression was fleeting.

Jazz could not see his sire's face. If he could, he would have seen a tumultuous array of confusion, curiosity, contemplation, and consternation. Optics riveted to the elegant script denoting the intended recipients of the invitation, he absently nodded. "Thank you, Solarlight. I'll have the response to Deltawave tomorrow or the next orn."

With a curt nod, Solarlight and his guards turned and left without another word or any diversions.

Pressing a tab next to the door to override the block on its automated closing function, Silverstream walked past Jazz and back to the table, retaking his seat and placing the envelope on the table before him. Jazz followed and hovered at his sire's shoulder, leaning against the raised back of the seat.

"Well?" Arabesque asked, taking the seat next to her mate while Minuet and Mezzo shifted their attention from sire to carrier to Jazz, and then repeating. Jazz glanced at Silverstream, uncertain whether he should share the news before his sire but itching to reveal the, in his opinion, exceedingly exciting honor. He unquestionably spotted his designation on that envelope.

Carefully, Silverstream broke the pristine seal on the flap and removed the matching silver insert. Jazz eagerly read over the silver Polyhexian's shoulder.

Lord Apollo, Sovereign Grand Duke of Praxus and its territories,

and the House of the Crystal Saber

cordially invite

Sir Silverstream, Bt., and his bonded Lady Arabesque,

and Messrs. Jazz and Ricochet,

to the

Royal Gala at the Royal Palaise of Praxus

during the Celebration of New Light.

Beneath the invitation was included the specific date, time, expected formality, and other pertinent details which did not register in Jazz's processor above his elation and bewilderment. He, the second oldest (by half a breem) of two notable but not famous dancers, albeit recipients of the highest ranked patron in the city-state, received an invitation to the premiere, elite, formal event of the vorn. The excitement he felt had him discernably quivering.

His processor immediately constructed hundreds of fantastical scenarios surrounding his attendance: astounding the nobility with his dancing, musical, and even intellectual prowess; dining on succulent, lavish cuisine amongst royals; exploring the esteemed, massive Palaise and its gardens; forming valuable connections through socializing; maybe even sharing a dance with a particularly attractive, intriguing mech or femme. Sure, he was realistic enough to realize that even if he attended, there would likely be stratification, of which he would be most subject to restriction. Although, the Grand Duke was renowned for his belief in fairness, justice, and responsibility while upholding traditions, expectations, and order...

However, one obstacle occluded this particular dream: the two crearors before him who were clearly discussing the invitation extended to their eldest creations over the privacy of their bond. Squeezing the upper edge of his sire's chair as he struggled to stay his swelling exhilaration, Jazz resisted the urge to plead. He came by his stubbornness honestly, and it would be a serious disadvantage to display any lack of maturity at this stage.

After what felt like an eternity but was really only about a breem, dual contemplative, scrutinizing optics fixed on him. Visor gleaming in tempered hopefulness as he met their scrutiny, barely resisting the urge to squirm, Jazz awaited their verdict.

It was Mezzo's sweet voice which broke the impromptu stare-off. "What's it?" Midnight blue servos grasped for the sliver sheet that Silverstream and Arabesque held contemplatively between them. At the same time, Minuet scrambled to his peds on top of Jazz's vacated chair, precariously stretching his small, white and crimson-accented frame over the table and balancing his weight on a single servo planted on the tabletop in an attempt to read the insert.

"Jazz and Rico get to go to the Gala?" Minuet exclaimed with a gasp. "No fair!"

The pall was broken.

Silverstream gave Jazz a look that clearly said, we'll talk about it later, before he turned to humor his younger creations with descriptions and stories from past galas during which he had performed. Evidently still preoccupied yet radiating pride and her own wonder at the honor the invitation symbolized, Arabesque fussed at Minuet to get off the table and sit properly, as well as for both younglings to finish their meal.

Taking the cue and avidly listening to his sire's words, Jazz settled Minuet back into his seat, and then he reoccupied his own. All the while, Jazz reveled in the lack of an immediate refusal and continued his day-dreaming, as well as beginning to plan. Immaculately detailed guests, banquet tables filled with the highest quality of seasonal delights, and joors filled with the attention and appreciation of the affluent, noble, and respected of Praxus - and perhaps other regions of Cybertron too - awaited him. He would need to be equally prepared to meet expectations, from the shine of his plating to the grace of his movements in the standard set of Praxian social dances to his ability to converse intelligently and respectably with the nobility. He wanted to stand out, but not because of his inadequacies or social faux pas.

Listening to his sire and his siblings' questions and imaginations, and despite knowing the dedicated work he would need to apply in order to present himself in the way he - and likely his creators - envisioned, Jazz could only think of how much he could not wait for the end of the next two decaorns.

~o~

Ordered, hushed chaos aptly described the state of the Royal Palaise of Praxus with only a decaorn remaining until it would host the Royal Gala, and preparations were in full-swing. Servants and additional, hired hands hastened through the halls, wings, and multitude of rooms, going about purposefully and many carrying a myriad of items from seasonal décor, to stacks of the selected dishes for polishing and placement, to furniture pieces, and to simple messages across the massive estate. Everyone moved with orchestrated purpose according to the timeline and diligent coordination of the Master of the House, the head of all servants, in accordance with the House Lord, the Grand Duke. Outside, dedicated experts tended to and manicured the vast gardens and park to perfection, grooming pathways to immaculate neatness, pruning where needed, cultivating any new crystal growths, ensuring the flow and function of the numerous fountains and streams was adequate, and maintaining the world-renowned Helix Gardens, which were a part of the grounds and partly gifted to the public by an early ruler.

It was late in the afternoon as Prowl stood in the center of the principal ballroom, the Vitreus Hall, admiring the elegant and tastefully applied lighting, carefully grown and cultivated crystals of various hues, resonances, and species, and the inherently impressive, ornate and classical aesthetic of the room itself. Interior walls covered in rows of mirrors stretching to the high, illustrated ceiling reflected the golden hue of the setting sunlight entering from the directly opposite and parallel, massive windows and regularly interspersed, transparent-crystal doors, the latter of which opened onto an expansive balcony overlooking the closest gardens.

Amidst the bustle of the ongoing preparations, the young prince felt an encompassing sense of dread, which capitulated on his preexisting distaste for overly social occasions, particularly when the especially sycophantic and irritatingly posturing members of high society were involved. Consequently, this was also smothering his general enjoyment of the New Light festivities.

"There you are."

Prowl visibly startled at the rich, resonant voice that echoed across the massive room. Doorwings upright and flared, Prowl whirled around to see his sire leaning against the elevated, double door entrance which separated the State Apartments and the site of the official running of Praxus from the grand ballroom.

Lord Apollo, the Grand Duke of Praxus, appeared as regal and stately as expected. The royal Praxian possessed a large and powerful frame, elegantly detailed in white, red, silver, and gold. As he stepped into the hall and descended the short, marble steps, Apollo moved with an effortless grace that was uncharacteristic in mechanisms of his stature. Immensely intelligent, warm golden optics kindly scrutinized the black and white prince, who bowed his helm respectfully as the larger mech approached.

"How may I be of service, my lord?" Prowl inquired formally.

The elder royal tisked at the formality. "Always so formal," he sighed amusedly. A servo resting on his second creation's shoulder gently prompted Prowl to gaze upward into the amused face of his sire. "I wish to speak with my creation, as my creation."

A subtle quirk of his lips softened Prowl's otherwise austere, sharp features before it quickly disappeared, though the affection, humor, and easiness remained in their brushing fields. "Of course. What is it, sire?"

Apollo stepped around Prowl, surveying the progress on preparing the hall for the gala. "This all seems to be coming along excellently."

Prowl followed his sire's inspection, unmoving and silent from his spot until the Grand Duke gestured for Prowl to follow as the larger mech strolled toward one of the towering windows. The two royals stood beside each other, one attentive and patient while the other seemed to undergo an internal struggle.

"I know you prefer directness, so I won't delay." The Grand Duke turned to face his creation. "As you know, while it is a celebration of our city-state and a reminder of the significance of the New Light season, the Gala presents opportunities across many domains by gathering the majority of our nobility together, potentially advantageous or detrimental."

Prowl nodded, unclear as to the purpose of this reminder yet. "You know I know this."

He had seen many political bondings secured, trading deals closed, conflicts and feuds incited or resolved, and scandals revealed during the course of a single night. How a mere holiday celebration could have such drastic outcomes, from the clambering for gain on the social ladder by the nobility to the maneuvers for power weaving through the subtlest gesture or single word, gave Prowl the worst processor-aches and the most stress when it came to his attendance and behavior at official appearances. Despite his reserved nature and ingrained sense of propriety, it was exhausting, and it was especially unpleasant since his coming of age and the up-tick in a specific kind of attention he now received.

Apollo turned his gaze to once again look out over the beautiful gardens dusted in snow, though Prowl noted tension in those massive doorwings and the set of the dignified mech's jaw. "You might also recall that your brother discovered his bonded here as well." He paused as the implication sank in.

Prowl did not need the highly advanced features of his unique processor to figure it out. He hummed contemplatively in acknowledgement as he evaluated the implication, though.

Nearly a two and a half centuries previously, at one of Prowl's first gala's where he was allowed to stay up late and watch the dancing and socializing following the banquet from the safety and seclusion of a hidden balcony overlooking the Vitreus Hall, Prowl recalled watching as his older brother danced, spoke, and otherwise became enthralled with a beautiful noble from Crystal City. Ever a socialite, highly amiable in personality, and carrying the promise of substantial rank as he was now the current heir, Crossflare was highly sought after by potential suitors, which he had often bemoaned as he never felt appreciated or desired for himself rather than the perks. However, it was to the surprise of everyone present when Crossflare and the unfamiliar noble from Crystal City's sigils glowed and burst into color as their dance ended. Both sets of creators, and then the other guests flocked to the young mechs, and the ball had transformed into an entirely different kind of celebration. By the end of the next vorn, after extensive planning and negotiations, and after the intended bondmates fulfilled the necessary, physical assessments prior to bonding, his brother was happily bonded.

Was his sire merely reminding him that a similar situation could happen to him? It seemed needlessly extraneous, and in some ways fruitless considering the blank sigil and his slight history of unfulfilling or failed relationships perpetually mocking him. More likely, the Grand Duke may have been approached by another noble family concerning a bonding contract based on compatibility searches. As Prowl surreptitiously observed his sire's unease and sensed the inner turmoil when he slightly extended his field to brush against that of his sire, he was further convinced of his conclusion.

It was no secret and no source of conflict among the immediate royal family that Apollo intended to officially designate Prowl as his successor. Prowl possessed the superior skill and processor set, as well as disposition and drive, to successfully rule Praxus, while Crossflare was better suited to managing its nobility, the social aspects of running the city-state, and fostering strong and favorable relationships and alliances within Praxus and beyond. However, in order for Apollo to choose Prowl over his first creation who was already bonded and, if the veiled hint in his most recent call was true, expecting his first creation, Prowl would need to bond before he could officially be designated as the heir.

Resettling his plating and shifting to relieve the tension he did not recognize had been building, dipping his doorwings respectfully, Prowl angled himself so that he faced his sire more squarely, full attention on the elder mech. Frowning, he hesitated before venturing on cautiously. "Do you mean to inform me that there is an acceptable, proposed contract?"

Apollo glanced at Prowl, a mixture of pride, reluctance, and resignation flashing across his face with a slight, mirthless smile. Reaching into subspace, the Grand Duke wordlessly extracted an official datapad and presented it to Prowl.

Accepting the datapad and pressing the button to online the screen, Prowl read through its contents shrewdly. Indeed, the datapad contained a proposed bonding contract. It included an image of the foreign noble, self-inputted descriptions of the mech's personality, biographical information, the spark compatibility rating, a section detailing the initial, agreeable terms of the bonding, and an additional section containing analyses by his sire - and some snippets he recognized as his own, unwitting work - of the bonding's benefits and potential ramifications to the House and Praxus separately.

Lowering the datapad from his perusal after a breem, Prowl thought a moment, during which Apollo continued to stare out over the Palaise's grounds, stealing occasional, assessing glances at Prowl.

"Based on this information," Prowl said contemplatively, "I see no reason not to consider the proposal. I only ask for the stipulation of meeting face to face before agreeing to the contract, with the right to refuse the proposal after meeting preserved." He gestured nonspecifically at the splendid room behind them. "I assume an invitation was sent?"

Apollo nodded, turning to match Prowl's angle. "Yes, and their attendance is confirmed." Both servos, firm yet gentle, moved to rest on Prowl's shoulders. Prowl noted the sternness in Apollo's expression. "While I am admittedly eager to smooth out my affairs, I do not wish you to rush into bonding. You are young, and it is one of the most important decisions you will make, even a political bonding." He smiled affectionately, insistent and imploring. "Your feelings and contentment matter as much as, if not more than, any privilege or advantage that may result from a bonding."

Prowl stared at the unbending, lovingly concerned expression his sire wore, both sets of optics set in determination. Apollo, as well as Prowl's carrier, Solstice, were aware and understanding of Prowl's penchant for placing duty, tradition, and logic over his desires and intuition.

"I understand," Prowl replied.

Even as he spoke, and even though he would do his best to honor his sire's will to the furthest, feasible extent, Prowl held no disillusion about the reality of his position and its implications on his future bonding. If circumstances required him to choose between his personal desire and the continued strength, sanctity, and thriving of his House and domain, he was determined to protect and prioritize the latter. He held no belief that it would be easy, but he was resolved, and this unconsciously translated into his posture.

A stiff silence settled as Apollo contemplated the resolute stance of his creation, standing tall with doorwings nobly perched in a display of confidence and challenge, though still conveying respectfulness. Albeit slightly vexed, he reflected that he could hardly be prouder.

Nodding definitively, the larger Praxian turned and stepped forward to once again appraise the beautiful hall, exquisitely decorated to accentuate its inherent beauty and create the desired, warm atmosphere for the gala. Prowl also shifted, watching his sire with interest as the regal yet unpretentious mech nodded again in satisfaction.

"Also," Apollo added, glancing over a shoulder and relaxed doorwing at Prowl, who's optics shown with cautious inquisitiveness. "You will perform the Offering of Beneficence." The Grand Duke chuckled at Prowl's evident surprise and veneration at the honor, as well as the brief, sour expression when Prowl considered the spotlight the experience would place on him.

The evening of the Royal Gala was certainly shaping up to be quite a pivotal occasion, and Prowl was uncertain whether to feel more eager or apprehensive as he departed from the hall after his sire and set off for his suite and a necessary call to his older brother.