ENDLAND'S TALES: BLOOD AND QUARTZ

PROLOGUE

"I don't deserve it."

Young Prince Halo whispered these words to himself over and over as he walked the crimson carpet stretching toward the stage. A thousand thoughts crossed his mind, each heavier than the last, and each step felt like a climb up a mountain. At the far end, the Grand Priest waited with a crown in hand-a crown that would make Halo the new Sage, ruler of the five duchies and strongest person in endland. Lords and high-ranking dignitaries from across the realm filled the hall, watching him, judging him. Not long ago, his brother Argon, the original heir, had been killed in battle by the ruis-savages from the southern darklands. Once a people who roamed the island freely, the ruis were forced south by the arrival of more advanced settlers to endland from the continent of Solomis seven centuries ago. Only a week ago, Halo's father, Sage Durrandon, was assassinated, his killer unknown. Now, Halo was all that remained.

"I'm not my brother," he murmured now, repeating it like a chant.

He was no one's choice to rule-not his father's, not his people's, perhaps not even his own. Growing up, his only companion was an 80-year-old nursemaid. His father had doted on Argon, who was handsome, charismatic, and skilled in combat. But Halo? Halo was small, no taller than five feet, with sharp, pointed features-ears and a nose that drew more sneers than sympathy. His father had barely looked at him, blaming him for his mother's death in childbirth, and others whispered rumors about a darkness that tainted Halo's blood, a secret he himself was unaware of.

As he moved down the aisle, the voices in his mind grew louder-or perhaps they were coming from the crowd.

"He looks hideous."
"He's nothing like his brother."
"He should have died, not Argon."
"Look at him, he can't even walk straight."

Halo's legs began to tremble. He wore the fine green silk robe of the Crise royal family and elegant heels for the first time; though high heels were common attire in noble houses, the unfamiliar shoes made his steps unsteady, and he felt as if all eyes were fixed on his every misstep.

"They'll see me fall..." he whispered repeatedly.

Then it happened. He stumbled, lost his balance, and fell forward onto the carpet. Laughter rippled through the crowd, sharp and scornful. He scrambled to his feet, but no sooner had he risen than he fell again, the laughter rising in waves. His heart raced, his breath quickened. Desperate to block out the mocking sounds, he clutched his hands over his ears.

A firm hand gripped his shoulder, lifting him. It was his uncle, Boron, a battle-worn knight with a rough voice.

"Get your act together, Hal." Boron's tone was stern, but there was a warmth in his eyes. "I know what you're thinking. Yes, you're ugly, and yes, you're not your brother. But those things don't matter. A ruler doesn't need charm or looks-he needs strength, resilience, and vision. These people don't need a handsome ruler; they need one they can trust, one they can respect. Argon and your father had their chance to prove themselves, but now it's yours. You're a Crise, Hal. Ruling is in your blood. You're not your father, and you're not Argon. You're you. Show them what that means."

The shaking in Halo's legs stilled, and the crowd's taunts faded like echoes from a dream. He looked around, noticing how grand the hall was-though he'd been there for some time, this was the first time he really saw it. He saw faces filled with hope and expectation, rather than scorn and doubt. Straightening his back, Halo continued his walk to the stage.

The ceremony took place in the temple of Aemedis, one of the most beautiful structure in endland, a vast cylindrical hall surrounded by towering spires, all made of lime-crystalled quartz. The walls seemed to glow faintly in the light, and the air was filled with a sense of ancient reverence.

When he reached the Grand Priest, Halo knelt as the old man began chanting in the ancient Kalsyrian language. Halo closed his eyes, breathing deeply. When the priest placed the crown upon his head, Halo opened his eyes again, no longer a prince but the Sage of the five great duchies, ruler of the Crise Sagedom.

As he accepted the crown, deep beneath the earth, another force stirred.

In the Harkenen duchy, miners worked day and night in the vast quartz mines, the tunnels echoing with the rhythmic clinks of pickaxes. Quartz was one of the most valuable resources in the Sagedom, and the overseers rarely allowed them more than a few moments' rest. When the time finally came for a break, the workers poured out of the mine, their faces coated in dust-except for one man who stumbled in the darkness and fell into a hidden crevice. He tumbled down into icy depths and landed with a splash in a shallow pool.

Struggling to his feet, the miner gasped, raising his torch to survey his surroundings. But what he saw made his blood turn cold. This was no pool of water-it was blood, thick and viscous, coating his legs. A low groan echoed in the cavern, and he spun around, his torchlight trembling.

There, at the far end of the chamber, sat a massive green egg. Its shell was translucent, pulsing faintly, revealing the outline of something within-a creature, human-shaped but twisted, with dark wings folded around it. The miner's breath caught in his throat as a hairline crack split the egg's surface, and he heard a faint scratching from within.

        To be continued....