Year 2001 - Valcaryn Secondary Estate, Family Living Room
The Valcaryn family had maintained its position among Volthar's most powerful lineages for generations, not through wealth alone, but through discipline - systematic, deliberate, and instilled early enough that it felt natural rather than imposed.
From childhood, every Valcaryn was taught consistency before ambition, restraint before expression, and awareness before action. Games were designed to teach competition. Lessons were framed as habits. Even play carried an undercurrent of evaluation.
Yet discipline alone did not sustain a family of this size.
Equally important were bonds.
Young Valcaryns were encouraged to measure themselves against one another, openly and often. Rivalry was not discouraged; it was cultivated. But there was a rule that sat beneath all others, reinforced quietly and without exception: when the family itself was threatened, competition ceased. Individual priorities dissolved. Every Valcaryn moved as one.
It was this unity - predictable, rehearsed, absolute- that made the name carry weight across Volthar. Even families with greater resources hesitated before provoking them. Conflict with a Valcaryn was never contained. It spread.
Still, even children raised under such expectations required reprieve.
Sunday afternoons provided it.
Every week, without fail, the living room of the secondary estate was converted into a temporary theatre. Furniture was rearranged with methodical efficiency. Curtains were drawn partway to dim the afternoon sun. Caretakers positioned themselves along the walls, present but unobtrusive. A handful of adults joined them - not to supervise, but to observe.
Some weekends, the children were taken into the city. Other times, to adventure parks or estates belonging to allied families. This particular Sunday, they were staying in.
A new science-fiction film had been released; one of the first to fully incorporate experimental three-dimensional projection. The subject matter was invasion. The movie depicted an alien invasion set on a planet called Earth - a familiar world rendered strange. No one commented on the choice of name, or why the filmmakers had avoided using their own planet's name, Eryndor, as if distance made destruction easier to consume.
Christine Valcaryn had suggested to watch this movie.
That fact alone explained the choice.
She sat comfortably on the main sofa beside her older brother Marcus, legs folded beneath her, attention already claimed by the dormant projection system. Christine had always possessed particular tastes. Intense, unapologetic, and occasionally inconvenient for everyone else.
She looked delicate at first glance. Slim, striking, effortlessly composed. The kind of woman people underestimated until they learned better. Her appetite for food, for experiences, for influence - was legendary within the family. Outside it, her temper was less frequently survived.
Christine enjoyed fiction in all its forms: films, novels, illustrated serials, games. She attended conventions, funded studios, and held controlling interests in several broadcasting and entertainment ventures. Her investments had quietly accelerated the development of immersive projection technology years ahead of public adoption.
Today's movie was one of those investments.
The children gathered loosely at first, energy spilling unchecked as cousins jostled, argued, and laughed. Christine silenced them with a look sharp enough to end the noise instantly. Even Marcus, who despised sitting still indoors, remained quiet. He had learned long ago that testing Christine's patience was never worth the outcome.
Earlier, Silas the youngest of adults and Alaric's favourite uncle had attempted to initiate a tickling contest involving Alaric and two of the younger cousins. Christine had ended it with a single stare which could not be ignored.
Now, the room settled.
Alaric sat on the floor near the centre, legs folded awkwardly beneath him. He scanned the room, smiling and laughing along with the others, though he couldn't later recall what he found amusing. His attention drifted briefly before snapping back as he noticed Christine watching him.
He stretched his arms toward her without thinking.
Christine smiled faintly and gestured for him to sit properly. He obeyed.
She handed out the viewing glasses herself; odd-looking things, one lens tinted red, the other blue. When Alaric realized he was wearing a pair, he didn't question it. If Christine had put them there, they were correct.
He reached for the popcorn bucket and settled in.
The movie began.
From the first moments, it was loud, kinetic, unapologetically excessive. Cities rose in layered depth. Skies split open. Objects seemed to move beyond the projected space, their scale and distance rendered convincingly enough to draw involuntary reactions from the audience.
Some adults shifted uncomfortably. A caretaker muttered something about age ratings and immediately fell silent.
No one challenged Christine.
The invasion unfolded with relentless momentum. Alien constructs descended without ceremony. Military responses were swift, dramatic, and ultimately futile. Explosions rippled outward in convincing depth, forcing some of the children to flinch.
Alaric leaned forward.
The technology fascinated him.
At first, he was aware of everything - the room, the people, the sound of popcorn being eaten beside him. But gradually, his focus narrowed. The layered visuals drew his attention inward, the sense of depth no longer confined to the projection.
It felt less like watching something and more like standing near it.
He didn't panic.
If anything, he enjoyed the sensation.
The colors felt sharper. The sound seemed directional, as though he could tell where explosions were occurring without seeing them. The heat in the room felt uneven, brushing too close to his skin.
He inhaled.
Something felt wrong.
Not frightening. Just… incorrect.
His chest felt tight, as though his breathing lagged behind intention. He tried to swallow and noticed the faintest metallic taste at the back of his tongue. It didn't belong there.
"Alaric."
The voice came from behind him.
He turned his head a fraction too slowly.
"Yes," he said, after a pause no one remarked upon.
A hand brushed his shoulder casually - someone passing, someone grounding him without realizing it. The room reasserted itself in fragments. Murmured commentary. Shifting bodies. The steady hum of machinery supporting the projection.
The movie continued.
Onscreen, Earth fell.
The final act abandoned heroics altogether. Civilizations collapsed under methodical pressure. Resistance dissolved into noise. The last images showed cities in ruin, skies occupied by shapes that no longer bothered to hide.
The credits rolled.
No one spoke at first.
If anyone had been watching the room instead of the screen, they might have noticed that no one moved - not the children, not the adults, not the caretakers. Food sat untouched. Glasses remained full.
Most of all, they might have noticed Alaric.
He sat completely still.
He wasn't blinking.
He wasn't breathing.
For a moment - just a moment - it was possible to believe he had simply been mesmerized.
Then he gasped.
The sound was sharp and sudden. His chest rose violently as he dragged in air, breath uneven and erratic. His hand clenched reflexively, crushing popcorn between his fingers inches from his mouth.
Sweat darkened his clothes.
Christine was on her feet instantly.
"What happened?" she asked, already kneeling beside him.
Caretakers rushed forward. Someone checked his throat, another his pulse. Marcus hovered nearby, frowning.
"Did he choke?"
"Was it the movie?"
"Too intense for his age?"
Alaric couldn't answer.
He was breathing now - fast, shallow, desperate. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs. Panic flickered across his face, brief but unmistakable.
Whatever they suspected, they were wrong.
Whatever they believed, it missed the truth entirely.
The movie had ended.
But something else had begun.