To Prologue or Not To Prologue

The Cut Prologue from Tales & Treasure

Author’s note: I posted this prologue a while ago for paid subscribers only, but I think that everyone should have the opportunity to read it, especially with Tales & Treasure coming out next week. Thanks for reading!

I’ve always been a fan of a good prologue, especially for fantasy stories. They set the stage for the magical world you are about to enter. A good prologue is layered with foreshadowing, telling the reader enough to grab their attention but not enough to give away the plot of the story (or series).

When I outlined Tales & Treasure, I included a prologue. I wanted to set the scene for my world, introduce a pivotal character, and show some magic because the fantastical elements take a while to appear in the novel.

I liked how the prologue turned out. It was concise yet detailed enough to draw the reader in, and I wanted to keep it. But in an effort to reduce the word count, I had to cut everything that was unessential, and unfortunately, the prologue fell into that category.

However, the beauty of this Substack is that I don’t need to worry about word count, and I can tell the story that I want to tell. So here is the first deleted scene.

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Hobbill had one chance to contact the dead. 

The sun was halfway through its descent beyond the barely visible Western Sea. Rays of yellow, orange, and pink vanished from sight through a narrow window near the top of his decaying watchtower. His joints ached as he climbed the spiraling set of stone stairs. His cane knocked softly before straining to support his weight on each step. Eleven more, he thought. The tower had precisely one hundred stairs – a powerful number. He always counted them down as he climbed, an unconscious habit from his more diligent youth. Something about counting down made him feel like he was closer to his goal. He needed to reach the top this evening. 

He rested on the last landing before facing the remaining ten stairs. He looked up, sighed, and began his final ascent. He counted nine, eight, seven, each step more challenging than the last. Six. The edge of the ninety-sixth stair cracked and crumbled, causing his aching, sandal-covered foot to slip. He fell forward, bracing for impact with his right hand while his left simultaneously adjusted his cane, pointing it toward the cold stone beneath him. He stopped falling suddenly as if grabbed by the wind itself. 

"I'm getting slow," he groaned as he eased himself the rest of the way down. He concentrated and rolled onto his back, slowly sitting up, feeling more fatigued. 

He composed himself, his back rested against the frigid outer wall and laid the smooth wooden cane in his lap. He examined it thoroughly, running his coarse hands across the unblemished surface. Then, he brought the object close to his lips and whispered. It glowed a translucent amber responding to its master's words. He quivered as he stood. Seven, he thought, realizing he was back a step after the fall. 

Finally, reaching the top, he sighed. He could still see the sun. There was still time. His wispy hair blew in the wind at the top of the tower; goosebumps popped up along the back of his neck. 

The view from the top of the tower still astounded him. Narrow slits in the chest-high railing cast jagged shadows on the stone floor. He ran his hand along the stone, searching for his mark. His hand lingered in the air between each slit as if it wanted to fly off the tower. He circled once, still rubbing his fingers over the barrier. 

Sprawling fields of corn, turnips, beets, and other vegetables surrounded his humble, two-story farmhouse to the east. Unable to find his mark, he circled again, moving his fingertips to the next row of stones. A small yet dense forest encased the north and west sides. To the northwest sat a gigantic, angled boulder that poked out through the canopy, its tip pointing west toward the shimmering sea on the horizon. He circled yet again, moving his fingers to the last row of stones his hand could reach without crawling. A small mountain range was visible through the pink clouds to the south. His fingers paused on a familiar engraving. 

Kneeling, he searched the railing. His index finger paused, tracing a small triangle at the intersection of three stones. He leaned closer and whispered. A small hole appeared. With a slight adjustment, Hobbill was looking through the triangular hole with one eye trembling from the effort. He reclined and gently blew air through the hole, removing years of dust. He brought himself to his feet and smirked as the sunlight appeared through the hole. 

A fist-sized triangular shape projected through the hole on the opposite railing. The light shined on a stone that appeared normal at first glance, but now it shined a sparkling silver. Hobbill slowly made his way to the projection. He used his cane to help him kneel, hissing as his brittle bones withstood the burden of his weight against the hard stone. He placed his palm in the shape's center, distorting the once-perfect triangle, and pushed. Nothing happened. He cocked his head to one side and tried again - nothing. 

Am I too late? It wasn't possible. He had marked this day for months. He scooted closer to the wall, bent down, his forehead touching the ashen rock above his mark. He pleaded with the silver stone. It cracked open—not a jagged crack that stone usually makes when broken, but a straight, clean break like ancient doors opening for the first time in centuries. 

He breathed deeply, a weight lifting off his chest. 

Hobbill reached into the opening, pulling out a book. He noticed a familiar triangular shape branded in gold on the front cover. He hugged the book like a friend he hadn't seen in years. Then, he looked towards the shadowed farmland to the east and slowly rolled into a sitting position. He used the back of his hand to brush the dust from the book's cover. An intricate gold latch was his last obstacle. 

Do not cut the latch, he remembered. The book would be useless if accessed without carefully unlocking the mechanism first. He paused. What was the first step? He couldn't recall how long ago he had been trained on the book's unlocking. His swollen hands fought through arthritis, remembering the detailed movements, twisting and turning until he heard a gratifying click, and the latch sprang open. He carefully opened the cover, gently handling the brittle canvas pages. The book was blank. 

Page ten is for warnings. The canvas crinkled as he turned to the tenth page. He pulled out a sapphire-colored quill from further in the opening and wrote:

He is close. Prepare. 

The wet, black ink shimmered in the fading sunlight. The words began to disappear as if being eaten by the book itself. Satisfied, Hobbill waited for a response. Seconds passed like hours; minutes passed like days. His arms shook in anticipation. 

A tiny black speck appeared on the page, like the tip of a quill pressed onto the canvas from the other side. The ink paused, contemplating its phrasing. Then quick, precise pen strokes began. 

Two triangles intersected in a star-like symbol – Understood.

He smiled and closed the book, placing it back in the safety of its hidden chest. He laid the sapphire quill on top of the book. The sun finished its rotation. The small stone doors closed as the light disappeared from the sky, camouflaging themselves as an ashen building block once again. He rubbed his hand over the surface of the stone. It's done. Looking towards his farm, he thought of his boys, his duty, and what was to come. He rubbed the back of his neck and began his long descent down the tower. 99, 98, 97.

Tales & Treasure Releases Oct. 1st. Pre-Order Today