The Sovereign's Curse

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The air grew colder with each step, the faint hum of the mansion above fading into silence. The narrow stairwell was lined with smooth metal walls, their surface glinting faintly in the dim light of recessed fixtures.

Xander's footsteps echoed, a rhythm that quickened as he descended deeper into the unknown. His mind raced with questions. Why was this here? What was his father hiding?

Reaching the bottom, he was met with a heavy steel door. It bore no handle, only a faintly glowing panel embedded in the wall beside it. Tentatively, he raised his hand to the panel, his fingers brushing its cold surface.

The light flickered, scanning him with a soft hum. Then, with a hiss of compressed air, the door slid open.

Taking deep, steadying breaths, he wandered through the space, his footsteps hesitant on the dusty floor. The place was ancient, far older than he anticipated, and carried an air of neglect. Yet, beneath the layers of disuse, there was something else—a sense of intimacy, of memories locked in time.

A single hanging bulb flickered above, casting dim light and shifting shadows over cluttered benches and walls. Xander stopped before a corkboard covered with faded photographs and scribbled notes. One picture, its edges curled with age, drew his attention.

It was a snapshot of his parents. Danielle and Victor stood side by side, their faces smudged with grease, grinning like co-conspirators in some grand, mischievous plan.

He reached out, his fingers brushing against the photo's surface.

"This is where it all began," he whispered, his voice breaking the silence.

---

The workshop was more than a workspace—it was a time capsule. Shelves were lined with outdated tools, half-finished prototypes, and forgotten projects. An old record player sat in the corner, its needle broken but its purpose unmistakable. Xander could almost hear the music that must have filled the room during late-night sessions.

On a nearby bench, he noticed another photograph—this one of their family. He was barely five years old, perched on Victor's shoulders while Danielle held his sister, Elaine, in her arms.

Xander's throat tightened. The smiles in the photo felt so far away now, like a life he could hardly remember being part of.

"They were happy here," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else.

Moving deeper into the room, he found a desk cluttered with blueprints and journals. One journal lay open, its handwriting unmistakably his mother's.

"Every invention carries a piece of its creator's soul. Victor and I poured everything we had into this. For them. For the future."

Her words made his chest ache. He closed the journal carefully, as though afraid to disturb her lingering presence.

Then something caught his attention.

Xander's gaze was drawn to a workstation near him, it contained several files that were labeled with cryptic titles: "Project Aeternis," "Hawthorne Initiative,".

Right next to the workstation was a table piled high with forgotten inventions sat an oddly shaped metal box, its surface etched with faint geometric patterns. A soft purple light pulsed from within, steady and rhythmic—like a heartbeat.

Compelled by unshakable curiosity, Xander stepped closer, brushing away a layer of dust from the box. The pulsing sphere inside shimmered as he lifted it, its surface smooth, warm, almost alive.

The moment his fingers closed around it, the sphere thrummed, sending an electric pulse surging through his body.

Suddenly, a low, mechanical voice echoed in the room.

"System activation detected. Who initiated my reactivation?"

Xander froze, his pulse quickening. "I… uh, me?" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

The sphere pulsed brighter, as though processing his response. Then, the voice returned, deeper and steadier.

"Neural integration in progress… establishing link."

Xander staggered, clutching the object as his neural HUD flickered erratically. His vision blurred, distorted lines of code cascading across his augmented display. The sphere's faint purple glow intensified, casting strange patterns on the workshop walls.

When his HUD stabilized, the voice spoke again, sharper yet oddly curious.

"Neural integration complete... You are… quite unremarkable."

"Wait… what did you sa—" Xander began, his indignation rising, but the voice cut him off.

"Physical state: suboptimal. Mental state: overwhelmed. Patterns suggest recurring indecision and lack of purpose."

Xander winced, glaring at the sphere. "Thanks for pointing that out," he muttered sarcastically.

"Emotional state: High levels of detachment detected."

Xander's chest tightened. "Alright, stop, that's enough," he snapped, his voice cracking.

Clang.

A metallic sound echoed from the edge of the room, where the light couldn't penetrate.

"Uh, is someone ther—" Xander froze mid-sentence, the words catching in his throat. He was supposed to be alone.

Clang.

"Nope." Spooked, he stuffed the sphere into his pocket and bolted for the stairwell, leaving the workshop behind.

Clang. Clang.

The sound grew louder, more desperate, like metal tearing against itself in a frantic bid for freedom.

"Shit, shit, shit…" Xander hissed under his breath, his legs moving before his mind could catch up. He bolted up the stairs, the noise hammering at his back, unrelenting.

He reached the doorway to his father's office, frantically shoving the book back into place. As the bookshelf slid slowly shut, he glanced down the stairwell and froze.

Two glowing red dots—like eyes—stared back at him from the shadows below.

A chill ran down his spine, his pulse quickening as the sphere in his pocket buzzed faintly. The hidden passage sealed with a soft click, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

"Xander," a voice snapped.

Xander spun around, heart racing, to see Victor standing in the doorway.

His father's expression was unreadable, but the stern edge in his eyes was enough to make Xander feel like a child caught snooping.

"What are you doing here?" Victor asked, his voice calm but sharp.

"I… I saw the door was open," Xander stammered, gesturing toward the door.

"It's, uh... it's not like you to leave your door open, even slightly," Xander said, still catching his breath after sprinting up the stairwell. "So, I thought I'd check."

Victor raised an eyebrow, his gaze sharp as he took a step forward. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with concern. "You look... startled."

Victor walked into the office, his towering 6'4" frame filling the space with an undeniable presence. Broad shoulders and a sturdy, muscular build added to his imposing stature. His chiseled jawline, framed by a neatly groomed beard, paired with eyes that pierced the room with commanding intensity. He was a big man—in every sense of the word.

Xander rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a faint chuckle. "Yeah, Dad, I'm okay. You just caught me off guard, that's all. Guess that explains why I look so shaken."

Victor studied his son for a moment, his expression unreadable.

"Anyway, I should go," Xander said quickly, avoiding his father's gaze as he moved toward the door.

"Are you planning to be at work today?" Victor asked, casually leaning against the edge of his desk, his piercing eyes following Xander's every move.

Pausing near the door, Xander turned slightly, his posture slumped. "I'm not sure. I didn't get much sleep last night. I'd rather not show up just to drag everyone else down," he explained, his tone quieter, almost hesitant.

Victor nodded, a rare softness flashing in his eyes. "That's fine. Take the day off."

Xander blinked, his surprise evident as he straightened up. "You're not upset?" he asked, a mix of confusion and disbelief in his voice.

"No," Victor replied evenly. His tone was calm, but the weight of his words carried a quiet authority. "But you look like hell. You clearly need the rest. Just make sure you're at work tomorrow."

The unexpected gentleness in Victor's response threw Xander off. His right eyebrow arched as he tilted his head slightly, his lips parting in surprise.

"Uh... okay, yeah. I'll do that. Thanks, Dad." Xander lingered for a second, as if waiting for the usual stern comment or criticism. When none came, he gave a small nod. "See you later," he added, turning to leave.

Victor remained by the desk, his arms crossed over his chest, watching silently as his son exited the room. The door clicked shut, and Victor's gaze shifted to the trail of dusty footprints leading to the hidden doorway.

A slow, almost sinister smirk curled across his face as he muttered to himself, "About time."