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Chapter Text

The strike hit him out of nowhere. Keith fell onto one knee but quickly recovered and got back onto his feet, using his blade bayard to go through the sentry that had been attacking him. He lunged and stabbed through the next sentry with a swift strike. Keith maneuvered through the sentries with astounding ease, not giving a single one of them mercy.

On the other side of the Galra Hangar was Lance who was taking down all of the sentries with his sniper, shooting left and right. Keith hadn't thought that Lance would be able to hold his own, but Lance was taking down the sentries fast and didn't give them a chance to breathe.

Having Lance and Keith as a distraction while Pidge was downloading the Galra's battle plans had been Keith's idea. He figured that if most of the fight was on the other side of the ship, Pidge would have an easier time hacking into the system without having sentries attacking her. They had been doing this for quite a while now, invading a Galra ship to find any intel, and leave as quick as they came.

"Keith! Lance! I got the intel, now get out of there!" Pidge came in through the comms.

"Copy that." Lance's voice strained while he struggled to hold off the incoming sentries. Keith, sensing the oncoming struggle they were about to face, dodged the sentries and sprinted to Lance making sure he got a few hits in before making his way over.

"Lance!" Keith yelled to Lance, and he immediately turned his head over to Keith. Seeing Keith's serious expression, Lance nodded and together they ran side by side taking out sentry by sentry and making their way out of the Galra ship to the Red Lion on which they had arrived. They ran out of the airlock and before jumping out, Lance shot the keypad to make sure they wouldn't be followed. Out in empty space, they turned on their jetpacks to maneuver their way through the vacuum.

"Pidge, are you out of the ship yet?" Keith asked through the comms.

"Ten steps ahead of you Keith." Keith looked up to see a small green figure in the mouth of the Red Lion. Of course she already made it up there. He grinned. 

Keith and Lance zipped through the quiet void of space, the faint hum of their jetpacks the only sound cutting through the silence. The Red Lion loomed ahead, its metallic surface gleaming against the backdrop of distant stars.

“Hurry up, Lance,” Keith called over the comms, glancing over his shoulder. “We can’t afford to waste time.”

“I am hurrying,” Lance shot back, his voice tinged with irritation. “Not all of us are half-Galra ninja acrobats, okay?”

Keith rolled his eyes. “Just stay close—”

Before he could finish, a streak of purple energy sliced between them, forcing Keith to jolt sideways to avoid it. Lance yelped, twisting mid-flight to dodge another blast.

“What the quiznak?!” Lance shouted, his jetpack sputtering slightly as he overcorrected.

Keith’s gaze snapped toward the source. Emerging from the shadows of a shattered asteroid were three Galra druids, their dark robes flowing ominously as they glided forward. Their hands glowed with crackling violet energy, ready to strike.

“Druids,” Keith growled, drawing his blade. “We need to—”

Another energy blast forced him to break off and swerve. Lance pulled out his bayard, firing off a few desperate shots that fizzled harmlessly against the druids’ protective barriers.

“This is so not fair!” Lance muttered, frantically trying to keep his distance. “Why don’t they ever take a day off?”

Keith didn’t respond, already diving into action. He ignited his blade and charged one of the druids, slashing through their incoming attack with precise movements. The druid countered, summoning a surge of energy that erupted between them, sending Keith tumbling backward.

“Keith!” Lance shouted, his voice tinged with panic. He fired again, this time managing to distract the druids long enough for Keith to stabilize.

“Just get to the lion!” Keith barked, recovering his balance. “We can’t fight them in open space like this!”

But before they could retreat, a sudden surge of energy wrapped around Lance, binding his arms to his sides. He screamed, his jetpack faltering as the glowing tendrils tightened.

“Lance!” Keith surged forward, blade raised, but another druid intercepted him with a blast of energy, forcing him to block. Keith gritted his teeth, pushing against the force, but he was quickly overwhelmed. 

The last thing Keith saw was Lance struggling against his bonds, a druid looming over him. Then a burst of violet light enveloped them both, and the stars blinked out of view.

Chapter Text

Lance

Lance's head was pounding. His body felt stiff, like he'd been folded up and shoved into a shoebox. His fingers twitched against something warm—no, someone warm.

His eyes fluttered open to darkness, but not total. A dim, purplish glow seeped through the cracks of the metal walls around him, just enough to catch the way Keith's face was pressed against his chest. His breathing was slow, steady—he was still out.

Lance swallowed, throat dry. His back was wedged against cold metal, and Keith’s weight was heavy in his arms, his head tucked beneath Lance’s chin like they were crammed into some kind of storage container. It smelled like oil and metal, the air thick and recycled.

Then it hit him. The Galra.

His pulse spiked. He barely remembered what happened before this—just flashes of a fight, a sharp sting at his neck, his limbs going numb. But now, he was awake. And Keith—Keith wasn't .

Lance exhaled slowly, shifting just enough to press his fingers to Keith’s pulse point. Still beating. Still warm. But they were trapped, and judging by the faint hum of movement beneath them, they were being taken somewhere .

“Ah, quiznak,” he whispered, barely more than a breath. His arms instinctively tightened around Keith, like that could somehow keep them both safe.

They needed a way out. Fast.

Lance scanned the space around him. By the feel of it, he could tell that they were being held in a container that…wasn’t quite on the ground. There was no drag as far as Lance could tell, but they were definitely moving. He tried to lift his head to see through the cracks of the box, but his eyes were met with a faint purplish glow and nothing else. 

Shit. Oh god. Think Lance, how do you get out of a Galran territory without getting spotted, with an unconscious Keith, and fight your way out with nothing but your bayard?

Wait a minute.

Lance frantically looked around in the container. No no no no. The Druids had taken away their bayards. Lance felt his pulse quicken as the panic rose up in him. There was no way they were getting out of here, at least not right now. No bayards meant no way to defend themselves, not to mention the amount of Druids who were freaking levitating this container to God knows where. 

But Lance knew they wouldn’t be taken to some sort of puny holding cell on the outskirts of the Empire. They were Paladins of Voltron, the highest bounties in the galaxy. They would be going straight to Zarkon’s ship that looked nothing less than a mutated butterfly where Keith and Lance would have to face Zarkon himself. 

Oh god, Keith.

In all of Lance’s panic, he had forgotten about the obnoxious mullet crammed into this stupidly tiny container with him. He needed to wake up Keith. Lance had no clue where they were or when they were going to be let out, but he needed to have Keith conscious in order to defend himself in case things went sideways. 

“Keith?” His voice came out hoarse, quieter than he meant. “You alive over there?”

Silence. A second stretched too long. Then—

“Unfortunately,” Keith muttered, voice thick with exhaustion.

Relief flooded Lance so fast it nearly made him lightheaded. “Damn. I was hoping I wouldn’t be the only one suffering.”

Keith exhaled sharply—probably as close to a laugh as Lance was going to get—but the sound was short-lived. He could barely make out Keith’s silhouette in the dim light, but he could hear the tension in his breathing.

“You good?” Lance asked, already knowing the answer. 

Keith shifted, and there was a slight hesitation before, “Fine.”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and I’m Altean royalty.”

“No, you’re just loud.”

Lance let out an exaggerated gasp. “Wow. And here I was about to be all heroic and make sure you weren’t concussed. Guess I’ll just sit here and let you—oh, I don’t know—bleed internally or whatever.”

A pause. Then, grudgingly, “Head hurts.”

“Ah-ha! Progress.” Lance reached out, his fingers brushing against Keith’s sleeve. He was tense, coiled like a spring, but his arm was steady. That was something. “We need to focus. We’re about to be hand-delivered to the universe’s worst boss, and I’d rather not find out what he does to prisoners.”

Keith groaned, tipping his head back against the metal wall. “I know.”

“You say you know, but you’re sitting there like we’ve got all the time in the world to kick back and take a nap.”

Keith exhaled through his nose. “What do you want me to do, Lance?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe sit up, shake off the brain fog, and strategize instead of going full ‘brooding anime protagonist waiting to die’ on me?”

Keith let out an irritated sigh, but Lance could hear him shifting, pushing himself upright. “Fine.”

“It’s about time, I was starting to think we’d have to start a campfire in here to get you going.”

Keith glared at him, the confusion fading and being replaced with his usual grump. “What, were you planning on roasting marshmallows on my face, Lance?”

“Hey! I’m just saying, a little action might put some pep in your step. You’ve been snoozing like a hibernating bear. Not very ‘Blade of Marmora,’ if you ask me.”

“You wouldn’t know anything about the Blade of Marmora,” Keith sneered, “You can barely handle a training session without falling over your own feet.”

“Oh, like you’re some kind of graceful gazelle, ‘Oh, I’m so stealthy, I’m so cool,’” Lance mocked, mimicking Keith’s brooding posture. “Last time I checked, your idea of stealth is tripping over your cape.”

Keith’s jaw tightened. “At least I don’t spend my time hitting on every alien creature we meet.”

“I’m a people person! It’s a valuable skill! Besides, somebody has to lighten the mood around here,” Lance shot back, gesturing to their cramped prison.

Despite the bickering, a flicker of understanding passed between them. They were in a dire situation, and even their usual rivalry felt… different. There was an urgency, a shared knowledge that they needed to be on their game, even if they had to insult each other to get there.

“Look, just… try to be awake and ready, okay, Mullet?” Lance said, his tone softening, even if he tried to hide it behind a smirk. “We might need all the brooding, ninja skills you have to offer.”

Keith nodded curtly, his eyes narrowed slightly. “Same goes for you, Sharpshooter. Try to hit something other than the floor this time.”

Lance rolled his eyes, but a small smile played on his lips. “Deal. Now let’s get ready to give Zarkon a headache.”

The metal walls rumbled again, the ship’s engines growing louder. The journey was far from over, but Lance knew, deep down, as much as he hated to admit it, if they were going down, they were going down fighting together, insults and all. And maybe, just maybe, this time they might even manage to make it out on top.

***

The metallic tang of ozone and fear hung thick in the air, a suffocating blanket that clung to Keith and Lance as they were marched deeper into the Galra ship. Each footstep echoed with a hollow, dread-filled clang on the grimy metal floor, a rhythmic counterpoint to the harsh, guttural commands barked by the Galra soldiers flanking them. The corridor was a study in brutal functionality, all sharp angles and cold, black metal. No art, no flourishes, just the stark, unyielding machinery of war with the dim purple glow. 

Keith, his jaw tight and shoulders stiff, kept his eyes trained ahead. Every nerve in his body screamed for him to break free, to lash out, to do something. But he knew, with the cold pragmatism that had become a familiar companion, that it was futile. They were unarmed, outnumbered, and in the heart of enemy territory. His hope rested on finding a weakness, a vulnerability, to exploit. He cataloged the details of their surroundings, each vent, each junction, each flickering light panel, a desperate attempt to find a tactical advantage.

Lance, on the other hand, was doing his best to maintain a semblance of his usual bravado, though the tremor in his hands betrayed his inner turmoil. He tried a shaky grin at the gruff soldier on his left. "So... nice place you got here. A bit... minimalist, don't you think? Needs some paintings, maybe a plant? Perhaps a few throw pillows?"

The soldier responded with a snarl, his crimson eyes narrowed menacingly. Lance swallowed hard and quickly went silent, his grin faltering into a tight-lipped grimace. He glanced at Keith, his usual playful glint replaced with a flicker of apprehension. Keith, ever the stoic and focused one, barely acknowledged him.

The metallic walls were lined with pipes, some hissing with a potent, acrid steam, others pulsating with a deep, disconcerting hum. The air grew increasingly heavy, charged with an unnerving sense of power. Intermittent displays flickered to life, showing strategic battle plans in harsh, red holograms. Lance caught glimpses of planets and star systems, their familiar constellations twisted into menacing patterns by Galra aggression. He felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. This wasn't just a war; it was a methodical, calculated conquest.

"Why do you always make your ships so dark and gloomy? Ever heard of interior design? Maybe a little mood lighting?" Lance said, attempting to show even a semblance of control to the guards escorting them. 

They passed through a checkpoint where two more Galra soldiers stood guard, their energy blades sparking with an ominous blue light. The soldiers flanking Keith and Lance shoved them forward without ceremony, their gloved hands digging painfully into their arms. The doors hissed open with a mechanical groan, revealing a new corridor, wider and more imposing than the last. It was lined with ornate, carved pillars that seemed to drink the available light, casting long, distorted shadows that danced ominously across the floor. This was different. This wasn't a functional corridor; this was designed to intimidate.

A low hum resonated deeper than the ship’s other noises, a steady, throbbing heartbeat that seemed to vibrate in their very bones. The air thinned and took on a different scent, sharp and metallic, mixed with an aroma of something ancient and powerful. The feeling of dread in the pit of their stomachs intensified.

They were led forward, pacing over a long, stark, metallic floor that stretched before them like a runway to the unknown. Each step seemed to echo louder here, amplified by the monumental space. The feeling of unease was almost unbearable, the oppressive atmosphere weighing heavily on them. Lance swallowed again, the acid rising in his throat. Even Keith’s breath seemed to come a little faster; Lance could see the slight movement of his shoulders as he took each measured breath.

Finally, the soldiers stopped before an enormous archway carved into the far end of the hall, the sheer scale of it dwarfing even the impressive hallway they had walked through. The arch was framed by dark, swirling patterns, like a storm captured in metal. A dull, pulsating light emanated from within, casting an eerie glow on the faces of the soldiers.

The two soldiers flanking them pushed them forward, their grip tightening ominously. Keith stumbled, and Lance instinctively reached out a hand to steady him, only to have it slapped away by one of the guards. He winced, but pressed on, his heart hammering against his ribs. This was it. Whatever was beyond that archway was the reason they were here.

With a mechanical groan that seemed to vibrate the very foundations of the ship, the archway slid open, revealing a room that was as breathtaking as it was terrifying. It was vast, easily the size of a hangar, with a high, vaulted ceiling that disappeared into shadows. In the center, raised high on a dais of jagged black stone, sat a figure bathed in a harsh, purple light.

Zarkon.

His eyes, burning like twin embers, swept over them, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. The soldiers gave a sharp salute, their armor gleaming in the dim light. The metallic clanging as blades were sheathed punctuated the heavy silence. Keith and Lance were left standing there, exposed and vulnerable, their breaths caught in their throats.

The throne room was not just a place; it was a statement. A declaration of power, of dominion, and the sheer, unadulterated might of the Galra Empire. Keith and Lance stood at the forefront of it all, their hands shackled and their bodies surrounded by purple-armored sentries. Neither of them was willing to show fear, though Lance’s fists clenched and unclenched nervously at his sides, while Keith’s jaw tightened with barely-contained defiance.

Zarkon loomed on his high throne, his dark form barely visible beneath the eerie purple glow of the throne room. His golden eyes glinted with cruel satisfaction.

“Two of Voltron’s Paladins,” Zarkon began, his deep, guttural voice echoing in the cavernous chamber. “Standing before me, bound and powerless. It’s almost poetic, isn’t it?” He leaned forward, his voice dripping with mock sweetness. “The great Voltron, fractured and weak. Your capture was inevitable.”

Lance clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the cold shiver that ran down his spine. He had always known that if the Galra ever caught him, it wouldn’t be pretty—but standing here, face-to-face with the warlord himself, made that reality hit a little too hard.

Keith, however, stood rigid, his expression carved from stone. “If you think we’re going to tell you anything, you’re wasting your time.”

Keith glared up at him, his violet eyes fiery with determination. “We’re not done yet, Zarkon,” he spat. “You haven’t won.”

Lance, ever the one to mask his nerves with bravado, tilted his chin up. “Yeah, you might have two of us, but Voltron doesn’t need us to take you down. They’ll come for us, and when they do, well…” He made a loud "boom" noise with his mouth and mimed an explosion. “Bye-bye, Zarky.”

“Silence, you insolent fool!” he thundered, his voice reverberating through the walls. “You underestimate my power and the glory of the Galra Empire. I am the rightful Black Paladin, and it is through my vision, my leadership, that the universe will know true order and strength.”

“Order? Strength? All you bring about is terror and oppression. Everything you do is to make yourself feel more powerful.” Keith objected. 

Zarkon narrowed his eyes at Keith, but his amusement seemed to overtake his anger. “Ah, the rebellious one. Always quick to challenge authority. And yet, you wield a Blade of Marmora, the very symbol of Galra strength. You deny your destiny.”

Before Keith could respond, Zarkon shifted his gaze to Lance. “And you,” he sneered. “The sharpshooter. The jokester. The weakest link in Voltron’s chain. I wonder—what makes you worthy of being a Paladin at all?”

Lance blinked, Zarkon’s words a sharp jab at his insecurities. For a moment, he faltered. Keith, sensing it, instinctively stepped closer to him, his shoulder brushing Lance’s. “He’s more of a Paladin than you’ll ever be,” Keith said fiercely.

Lance shot him a quick glance, taken aback. Keith wasn’t the type to dish out compliments, especially not in moments like this. Yet, the sincerity in his voice ignited something in Lance—a reminder of his own value.

Zarkon ignored their exchange, instead rising from his throne. His towering form cast a long shadow as he descended the steps with deliberate menace. “Join me,” he said at last, his voice heavy with authority. “Serve the Galra Empire. Together, we will create a new order. You will no longer be hindered by the limitations of Voltron and its naive ideals.”

Keith barked out a laugh. “Join you? Fat chance.”

Lance mirrored Keith’s defiance, folding his arms. “Yeah, hard pass. Your whole vibe is way too ‘evil dictator.’ It’s not really our thing.”

Zarkon frowned, his patience wearing thin. “You will regret this decision, Paladins.” He motioned to his guards. “Take them to the cells. Separate them.”

The guards grabbed them roughly by the arms, pulling them toward the exit. Keith twisted and struggled, but the Galra guards only tightened their grip. Lance shot a worried look at Keith, but Keith didn’t look back. Instead, he subtly maneuvered his shackled hands toward Lance. The slight of hand was quick, seamless—a testament to his Blade of Marmora training. Before Lance could even register it, Keith had slipped something small and metal into his pocket.

As the guards began to separate them, Keith's gaze lingered on Lance, a slight nod in his direction. "Just keep an eye on your hand," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Lance raised an eyebrow. "What are you—"

Keith’s lips curled into a quick, almost imperceptible smile. "You’ll know when it happens."

Before Lance could question him further, the guards yanked Keith away, leaving Lance wondering what just happened, as his own guards yanked him away. 

The guards shoved them apart, and the last thing Lance saw of Keith was the set look of determination on his face.

***

Hours later, Lance sat huddled in the corner of a dark, damp cell. The Galra had stripped them of their armor and weapons, but they hadn’t bothered to search his pockets. He reached his hand into one and felt the small object Keith had slipped him. It was a ring—simple and metallic, with no obvious markings.

“What the heck…?” Lance murmured, turning it over in his hands.

Unbeknownst to him, Keith sat in his own cell, pressing the necklace on his collarbone—a faint, almost imperceptible light pulsing from it. The ring in Lance’s hand began to respond, glowing faintly.

As Lance stared at the strange device, he could almost hear Keith’s voice in his head, calm and steady: “Hang tight, Lance. I’m coming for you.”

And for the first time since their capture, Lance felt a flicker of hope.

Chapter Text

Lance leaned his head back against the cold wall, exhaling slowly through his nose. The air in the cell was sterile, metallic, and thick with the kind of silence that made his skin crawl. His fingers tapped anxiously against his knee, a nervous rhythm to keep himself from spiraling. He needed to stay sharp, needed to focus.

But his thoughts kept drifting.

Keith.

Was Keith okay? Had they hurt him yet? The thought sent a shiver down Lance's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. He knew the Galra, knew their brutality. They wouldn't be gentle. Keith was a volatile fuse, always ready to ignite, and the Galra would only see that as defiance, as a reason to...

Lance shook his head sharply. No. He couldn’t go there.

His fists clenched at the thought of Keith strapped down somewhere, a cold, unfeeling voice demanding answers, the sharp crack of a shock rod when they didn’t get what they wanted. He imagined Keith’s stubborn glare, his jaw tight, his body tense but unyielding. He wouldn’t break. They’d have to kill him first.

And that scared Lance more than anything.

He pushed off the bench, pacing now, trying to shove down the images clawing their way into his brain. If Keith was in trouble, Lance had to get to him. That was the only thought that mattered. He pressed his palms against the walls again, feeling for anything—a vibration, a weak point, a panel, anything that could give.

Nothing.

He exhaled through his nose. Think, Lance, think. Keith needed him. If he was out there, if he was hurt—

Lance’s jaw tightened. No.

Keith wasn’t broken. Wasn’t dead. Wasn’t gone.

But he couldn’t let that happen. He needed a way out. 

Before that could happen, Lance heard sharp footsteps coming from outside of the cell. He jerked his head back at the sharp hiss of the cell door sliding open. Cold violet light spilled into the cramped space, casting long, eerie shadows against the metallic walls.

Two Galra sentries stood in the doorway, their armor reflecting the dim glow. One gestured sharply with a blaster, the silent demand clear.

Lance swallowed down the instinctive spike of panic and forced himself to smirk, pushing off the bench with deliberate laziness. “What, no room service? I was hoping for at least a glass of water before the grand tour.”

The nearest soldier grabbed his arm in a crushing grip, yanking him forward. Lance barely kept his footing as they hauled him into the hallway, his boots scuffing against the floor. He kept his face neutral, forcing his body to stay loose, compliant—for now.

His eyes did the real work.

The hallway was long, the walls the same sleek, oppressive purple metal as his cell, but now he could see more—junctions branching off to his left and right, doors lining the corridors. Some had reinforced locks, others glowing control panels. Holding cells, maybe? Storage? His gaze flickered up. Vents. Thin, but not impossible. He traced their path as subtly as he could, filing it away in the back of his mind.

Two more guards stood at an intersection ahead, their stance rigid, weapons held close. Important area. Maybe leading toward the bridge, or a security station. If he could get a blaster—

A shove between his shoulders cut off his thoughts.

“Move,” one of the guards growled.

Lance stumbled forward, biting down a sharp remark. He couldn't afford to push them right now. Not yet. Instead, he let himself be led deeper into the ship, his heart hammering, his brain racing through escape routes, weapons caches, weak points.

Because wherever they were taking him, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

***

Lance gritted his teeth as the restraints clamped down around his wrists, forcing him to his knees in the center of the chamber. The air was stale, thick with the scent of burnt ozone and something metallic—blood, maybe. The dim lighting cast long, jagged shadows along the stone walls, each flickering shape making the room feel more like a dungeon than a mere interrogation chamber.

And standing in front of him, draped in darkness, was Haggar.

“You are resilient,” she mused, her golden eyes gleaming with eerie amusement. “But that won’t last.”

Lance swallowed, forcing his breath to remain steady. He’d seen what she could do. Watched as others collapsed under her touch, their willpower stripped away like brittle leaves in a storm. But he wasn’t them. He was a Paladin. And he would not break.

Haggar lifted her hand, fingers curling ever so slightly. The first strike came like lightning—sharp, searing electricity that lanced through his nerves in an instant. The pain was unbearable, as if his very bones were being pried apart from the inside, molten iron poured into his veins. His muscles spasmed violently, his back arching against the restraints, but he bit down hard on his tongue to stop himself from crying out.

“Where is Voltron?”

Lance forced a breathless chuckle, despite the ringing in his ears. “Oh, you know… probably off kicking your boss’s purple ass somewhere.”

The next wave of pain crashed into him without warning. It wasn’t just electricity anymore—it was worse. A deep, aching fire rooted in his spine and spreading outward, tendrils of agony wrapping around every nerve in his body. His vision blurred, his chest tightening as though unseen hands were crushing his ribs.

His body convulsed, his limbs jerking uncontrollably against the restraints, but still—he didn’t scream.

Haggar tilted her head, watching him, studying him. “Foolish,” she murmured. “You think your stubbornness will save you?”

“No,” Lance gasped, his breathing ragged. Sweat dripped down his temple, soaking into his collar. His entire body felt like it had been torn apart and stitched back together wrong, but still, he managed to smirk. “But it’ll buy them time.”

Haggar’s lips curled in displeasure. The air around her grew thick with dark energy, and suddenly, the pain changed. It wasn’t fire anymore. It was ice—freezing, biting cold that seeped into his bones, numbing him from the inside out. Then, without warning, the cold turned to heat, and then back to cold again. His nerves were trapped in an endless cycle of burning and freezing, his body unable to adjust before the sensation shifted once more.

He let out a strangled breath, his fingers twitching against the restraints. His muscles felt like they were being stretched past their limit, tearing apart under the strain of invisible hands. He wanted to move, to shift, to curl into himself—anything to make it stop—but he was locked in place, forced to endure it.

A choked sound escaped his throat. Not quite a scream, but dangerously close. His vision swam, dark spots creeping in at the edges, his lungs screaming for more air. His body begged him to give in, to end the pain with just a few simple words.

But he wouldn’t.

Not if it meant that he was keeping the others safe. He had to hold on, if only it meant that they could make it through.

***

Lance slumped against the cold wall of his cell, his body a wreck of exhaustion and pain after hours of Haggar tearing him apart. Every inch of him ached, his muscles weak and trembling from hours of torture. His wrists were raw from the restraints, and hunger gnawed at his insides, leaving him lightheaded. He could barely keep his eyes open.

He had nothing left to give.

Then, the ring on his finger flickered.

It was faint, just a soft pulse of light in the darkness, but Lance felt it—warmth spreading through his fingers, a hum of energy seeping into his skin. His breath hitched as his mind cleared slightly, a presence brushing against his own.

And then—

"Lance?"

His heart lurched. The voice was quiet, strained, but unmistakable. “Keith?” he rasped, his throat raw.

"Are you okay?"

Lance huffed a weak laugh. “Define ‘okay.’” His fingers twitched as more warmth trickled into him, dulling the worst of his fatigue. “I’ve been better. Haggar’s really into the whole ‘electrocute Lance until he spills his guts’ method.”

Keith exhaled sharply, anger flickering through the connection.

"Do you know what part of the ship you’re on?"

Lance closed his eyes, thinking. The cell was buried deep, cold and damp, the walls humming with distant machinery. He’d been dragged here, barely conscious, after the last round of torture. He had no clue how far he was from Keith.

“Not sure,” he admitted. “Somewhere near the lower levels, I think. The air’s stale—probably not near any hangars or ventilation shafts.” He let out a slow breath. “What about you?”

"Near the command deck, but I’m locked down tight." Keith’s voice was tense, laced with frustration. "They separated us on purpose."

Lance forced another chuckle, though it barely sounded like one. “Figures.”

"We don’t have long," Keith said, voice growing fainter. "This connection drains a lot of energy, and I can’t keep it open forever."

Lance could hear the strain in his voice now, the exhaustion creeping in. Keith was pouring his own strength into this, into him , trying to keep him going despite the cost.

“Keith—”

"I’m coming for you."

The promise hit Lance harder than expected. It wasn’t just words—it was certainty, conviction, like Keith would tear the entire ship apart if it meant getting to him.

"Hold on a little longer," Keith murmured, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I swear, I’ll get us out of here."

Lance swallowed, his grip tightening around the fading glow of the ring. His body was still weak, his pain still there, but something inside him was steadier now. Stronger.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered.

The light flickered once more before fading completely. The silence rushed back in, but it didn’t feel as heavy anymore.

Because Keith was coming for him.

And that was enough.

***

Keith

Keith sat cross-legged in the middle of his cell, his breathing controlled despite the thick, stifling air around him. The Galra hadn’t come for him yet.

It was wrong.

He knew how they operated—divide and conquer, isolate and break. They’d taken Lance first, dragging him off to some unknown part of the ship, and Keith had expected them to return for him soon after. But hours had passed. Maybe more.

And still, nothing.

His fingers curled into fists. It wasn’t mercy. The Galra didn’t do mercy. If they weren’t interrogating him, it meant they had a different plan, something worse.

Something he couldn’t afford to wait around for.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself into a crouch, then a fighting stance. His muscles burned with exhaustion, but he welcomed it. Pain meant he was still in control. He needed to be in control. If they weren’t going to drag him out of here, then he would be ready to fight the second that door opened.

The cell was small—barely enough room to move freely—but he still forced himself through drills. Tight movements. Quick footwork. He had no weapon, but he didn’t need one. The Blade of Marmora had trained him to fight in any condition.

He just had to be patient.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself, but his thoughts kept slipping back to Lance.

Lance, who had been too quiet since he was taken. No taunting remarks, no half-hearted jokes to reassure him, nothing. Keith had tried reaching out through the ring sooner, but the connection had been faint—Lance had been unconscious, or too weak to respond.

When he finally had reached him… Lance’s voice had been wrecked, barely there.

Keith clenched his jaw. The Galra were hurting him.

And Keith was stuck here, doing nothing.

He took a breath, forcing himself to stay grounded. Not nothing . He was waiting . Preparing. They weren’t staying prisoners. This wasn’t how their story ended.

He rolled his shoulders back, glancing down at the ring on his finger. The connection had drained him more than he’d let on, but it had been worth it. Lance was still fighting. He hadn’t given up.

Keith let his head fall back against the cold metal wall, staring at the ceiling as his pulse slowly steadied. His muscles still thrummed from the drills, his body still coiled, waiting for the moment he could act. But the rush of adrenaline was already fading, leaving behind something heavier.

Something worse .

He clenched his jaw, trying to push it down, but it refused to settle. That feeling—that gut-wrenching, stomach-twisting dread —hadn’t left since the moment they took Lance.

Keith had known fear before. He’d been captured before. He’d bled before. But it had always been his pain. His own suffering, his own fights, his own bones breaking, his own skin burning. That was fine. That was manageable .

This? This was unbearable.

Lance was suffering , and Keith could do nothing but sit here and wait .

His fingers curled into fists against his knees. He’d heard it in Lance’s voice, even through the weak connection of the ring—Lance had been trying to keep things light, like he always did, but Keith wasn’t stupid. That raspy edge to his words, the forced exhale, the way he’d hesitated before admitting he didn’t know where he was— that was pain. That was exhaustion. That was the kind of broken Keith never wanted to hear in Lance’s voice.

He let out a sharp breath, willing himself to calm down, but it wasn’t just the pain that got to him. It was the fact that Lance had held on . That no matter how much Haggar had tortured him, no matter how much they’d tried to break him down, Lance hadn’t given them anything .

That was the kind of person Lance was.

And Keith hated it.

Not because it wasn’t admirable—because it was . It was infuriatingly admirable. It was something Keith had always known about Lance, even before he’d let himself admit he knew it. That underneath all the cocky remarks, underneath the big, stupid, charming grin, was someone who cared . Someone who would die before he betrayed the people he loved.

And that was why Keith couldn’t stand this.

Because if Lance was willing to endure that much to protect them, to protect him , then what if it had been too much? What if next time—

Keith cut the thought off before it could form, his chest tightening.

He refused to let it happen.

His hands twitched with the urge to do something , to fight someone , to burn the entire ship down if that was what it took. Because the idea of Lance being hurt— really hurt, beyond some bruises and burns and exhausted quips—was something Keith could not handle .

And it wasn’t because they were teammates. It wasn’t because they were both paladins of Voltron. It wasn’t even because Lance was his friend .

It was because Lance was—

Keith exhaled sharply, dropping his head against his arms.

He couldn’t finish that thought. Not here. Not now.

But deep down, he already knew.

He had known for a long time.

And he would tear apart every Galra in this ship before he let them take his Lance away from him.

Chapter Text

Pidge sat hunched over the control panel in the Castle of Lions, fingers trembling as they flew across the holographic display. Her eyes burned, but she refused to blink, refused to look away from the screen tracking Keith and Lance’s last known coordinates.

She should have followed them. She should have done something.

Pidge dug her nails into her palms, forcing herself to focus. She could still fix this. She had to.

“Pidge.” Shiro’s voice was gentle, but she didn’t turn around. Pidge didn’t have time for this.

“I’m close,” she muttered. “I almost have their location—if I can just—” Her hands clenched into fists. “If I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have to be doing this in the first place.”

She expected Shiro to reassure her, tell her it wasn’t her fault. Instead, he just sighed. “You’re not going to find them if you pass out at your console.”

“I don’t care.”

“Keith and Lance would.”

That made her pause.

“They’re probably sitting in some Galra prison cell, counting on me to come get them.” Her voice was barely above a whisper now. “But I wasn’t fast enough. I left them”

“And because of that, we have a chance to save them. It’s not your fault Pidge, there’s nothing you could’ve done since the ship hyper jumped.” Shiro’s hand rested on her shoulder. “If all three of you had been captured, we wouldn’t have a way to get them back.”

Pidge clenched her jaw, but she let her head drop, exhaustion and guilt weighing her down. She didn’t want to hear logic. She wanted to fix this.

Shiro gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “We’ll get them back, Pidge. You’re not doing this alone.”

***

Keith struggled against the sentries’ grip, but their hold was unyielding, dragging him down the endless, dimly lit corridors of the Galra ship. His arms ached from being restrained for so long, and his legs felt sluggish, but his mind was alert. He counted the turns, the number of steps, anything that could help if—when—he found a way out.

Then, the doors before him parted.

The throne room was massive, its high ceilings swallowed by darkness. A deep, eerie hum filled the space, amplifying the tension in the air. Zarkon sat atop his throne, his golden eyes fixed on Keith, unreadable yet piercing.

Keith clenched his jaw. He had no weapons, no armor—nothing but himself. Still, he glared defiantly.

“You have something that belongs to me,” Zarkon intoned, his voice like distant thunder. His obedience.

Keith didn’t answer.

A figure stepped forward. A towering Galran general, clad in black and violet armor, cracked his knuckles as he sized Keith up.

“You will fight,” Zarkon commanded. “Show me what Voltron’s paladin is capable of.”

The sentries shoved Keith forward. He barely caught himself before stumbling, rolling his shoulders as he straightened. His heart pounded, but he took a steadying breath. If this was a test, he wouldn’t fail.

The general lunged.

Keith dodged, barely, but the force of the attack sent a gust of air against his face. He needed to be smart—one wrong move, and he wouldn’t get a second chance.

And Zarkon watched, waiting.

Keith barely had time to steady himself before the Galran general lunged. The sheer speed of the attack caught him off guard. A massive fist swung toward his head—he ducked, feeling the rush of air as it passed just inches above him. He pivoted to the side, aiming a quick strike at the general’s ribs, but his opponent barely flinched.

The general smirked. “You’ll have to do better than that, Paladin.”

Keith tensed, reading the Galran’s stance. He needed to be faster—smarter. If he tried to match raw strength, he’d lose. The general swung again, this time a brutal downward strike. Keith rolled to the side, but as he came up, a boot caught him in the stomach.

The impact sent him flying. He crashed against the cold, hard floor, his breath leaving him in a sharp gasp. Stars danced in his vision, but he forced himself up just in time to see the general charging again.

Keith twisted, letting the attack graze past him, then countered—his fist slammed into the Galran’s jaw. He followed up with a sharp kick to the knee, making the larger warrior stagger. But it wasn’t enough.

The general growled, grabbing Keith’s arm in an iron grip before slamming him down onto the floor. Pain exploded across Keith’s back, and he barely had time to react before the Galran yanked him up and hurled him across the room.

Keith hit the ground hard, rolling to break the impact. His breaths came in ragged pants. He could hear Zarkon watching, could feel the weight of his gaze. This wasn’t just a fight—it was a demonstration. A reminder of who held the power here.

But Keith wasn’t done yet.

He surged forward, feinting left before striking right. The general blocked, but Keith was already moving, slipping past his guard. He landed a flurry of quick blows—one to the ribs, another to the throat, then a final kick to the side of the head. The general stumbled, but Keith knew better than to assume it was over.

And he was right.

The Galran recovered almost instantly. Faster than Keith expected, he caught Keith’s wrist mid-strike and twisted. Pain shot up Keith’s arm as he was wrenched sideways, off balance. Before he could react, the general slammed a knee into his gut.

Keith gasped, choking on air, but there was no time to recover. A crushing blow struck his back, forcing him to the ground. The cold metal floor met his cheek, and his limbs screamed in protest as he tried to push himself up.

Then he felt it.

A sharp, searing pain in his shoulder.

Keith’s eyes widened as the Galran general drove his blade deep into the muscle, pinning him down. His breath hitched, pain burning through his entire body. Blood trickled down his arm, warm against his skin.

The general loomed over him. “You fought well,” he admitted. “But not well enough.”

Keith clenched his teeth, his vision swimming. Zarkon remained silent, watching. Judging.

The fight was over.

And Keith had lost.

Keith staggered, clutching his bleeding shoulder as the Galran general stepped back. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body aching from the brutal fight. He had given it everything, but it hadn’t been enough.

Above him, Zarkon sat unmoving on his throne, watching. Judging. Then, in a voice that rumbled through the vast chamber, he spoke.

“You have power, young paladin. Strength beyond that of an average human. And yet, you fight against what you are.”

Keith forced himself to stand straighter despite the pain, his glare locked onto Zarkon. “I know what I am,” he ground out. “And I want nothing to do with you or your empire.”

Zarkon’s eyes glowed in the dim light. “You speak as if you have a choice.” He leaned forward, his presence oppressive. “You are Galra by blood. That is not something you can ignore. It is not something you can deny.”

Keith’s hands curled into fists. He had already gone through this struggle—had already spent nights questioning what it meant to be part Galra. He knew now that it didn’t change who he was. It didn’t make him one of them.

But Zarkon wasn’t done.

“You were born for battle,” Zarkon continued. “Look at how you fight, how you survive. You think like a Galra warrior. You act like one. That is why Voltron chose you—because you have the instincts of a true soldier, not a weak-willed diplomat like the Alteans.”

Keith felt his stomach twist, but he didn’t let it show.

Zarkon’s voice turned almost coaxing. “The Paladins of Voltron do not understand you. They never will. They fear your power. But here, you could be more than just their soldier. You could command entire fleets. You could stand at my side.”

Keith scoffed, shaking his head. “I’d rather rot in this cell than serve you.”

Zarkon’s expression remained unreadable, but there was something almost... disappointed in his posture. “A waste,” he said finally. He gestured, and the sentries grabbed Keith’s arms, yanking him toward the exit.

Keith struggled, but the pain in his shoulder made it impossible to fight back. Still, he refused to look away from Zarkon, his defiance clear in his expression.

Zarkon watched him be dragged away in silence. And though Keith wouldn’t admit it, the words lingered in his mind longer than he wanted them to. 

***

Lance barely flinched as the Galra guard yanked him up by the chain binding his wrists. He’d been expecting this. The door to his cell groaned open, metal screeching against metal, and cold air rushed in. The scent of oil and burnt wiring filled his nose. Typical Galra ship atmosphere—oppressive, suffocating, and way too purple.

The guard shoved him forward, and Lance stumbled before catching himself. He bit down on his tongue, stopping himself from making a snarky comment. Now wasn’t the time to get himself punched in the face—again.

He walked in silence, boots scuffing against the grated floor, his mind working at full speed.

They were taking him to the arena. The Galra loved their twisted games, throwing captives into brutal fights for entertainment. But Lance wasn’t about to play along. He wasn’t going to die in some alien gladiator pit.

And more importantly, he wasn’t leaving Keith behind.

His jaw tightened. He had to figure out a way to turn this around. The Galra wanted a show, which meant cameras, a crowd, a distraction. If he could create enough chaos, maybe—just maybe—he could find a way out.

First problem: where was Keith?
The weird Blade of Marmora ring-necklace thing that Keith had given Lance had told him that Keith was somewhere near the command deck, but where exactly was the command deck? Lance guessed it was the way that they had come when they had become Zarkon’s audience. Lance had mapped out the general direction of the area, but he couldn’t be sure that he would have the exact location. He’d just have to find some sort of map later. 

Second problem: weapons.
He was unarmed. But the guards weren’t. That was an opportunity. If he could get close enough, maybe he could—

The guard behind him suddenly shoved him hard, nearly making him trip. "Move faster, paladin," it growled. 

Keeping his mouth shut, Lance just eyed the guards’ stances for now. There were 4 guards escorting him–in different circumstances, he would be really flattered that they had needed 4 guards to restrain Lance–and he could tell that their training was similar to many of the other sentries that he had fought. They kept their shoulders tight and they leaned more forwards rather than backwards. 

He remembered the many rigorous training exercises Shiro and Allura had forced them through. Not only did they have to learn to fight, but they had to learn to analyze . Exactly for situations like these. Lance could tell that if he were to get into a fight with them, he’d have to knock off their balance through their ankles. 

But that was a concern for another time. Right now, Lance’s ears were ringing from the deafening roar of countless voices, a sound so thunderous it sent a chill down his spine. It didn’t take long for him to piece together where he was—there was only one place in the entire empire that could gather this many Galra in one spot.

The Arena.