Every great story has a beginning.

But what if the beginning hadn’t been chosen yet?

Welcome to Prologue War — a battle for the soul of a story that hasn’t fully been born yet. Two prologues exist in the world of The Last Sundancer. Both are real. Both are canon. Both matter to everything that follows. But only one will open the novel, and that decision belongs to you.

The first is a heartbreak set at the end of the world — a mother, a dying tree, a baby whose fire must be hidden to keep him alive, and a group of warriors who know that sending him away may be the last meaningful thing they ever do.

The second is a cosmic origin story told in a cave at the beginning of time — an ancient being who just performed what he believed was his greatest act, and the thing he accidentally unleashed that will haunt two worlds for thousands of years.

One is intimate. One is eternal.

Both will change how you read everything that follows.

Watch both videos below. Then cast your vote — reply directly to the newsletter email that brought you here, or drop your choice in the comments of whichever video moved you most. Either way your voice counts and I genuinely want to hear it.

The war is on. Choose your prologue.

Prologue One

Prefer to read? The full text is below the videos.

Prologue Two

Prefer to Read? The full text is below the videos.

Cast Your Vote

You’ve read them. You’ve heard them. Now tell me which one opens the book.

Reply to the newsletter email that brought you here with your choice — or head to the comments on either YouTube video and leave your vote there. Every comment, every reply, every voice shapes what comes next.

The results — and what happens next — will land in your inbox.

The Last Sundancer is coming. You just helped decide how it begins.

Prologue One

The sun was a weeping wound on the horizon.

It did not move. It did not sink into the embrace of the eastern peaks, nor did it climb toward its zenith to bless the valleys of Eldonia. The sun simply hung there, sickly orange, as if the clockwork of the universe had finally ground to a halt. The light it cast was stagnant—a thin, anemic glow that failed to reach the deep hollows of the world. For nine months, the realm had lived in this perpetual twilight, a long, agonizing dawn or dusk (no one remembered anymore) that felt less like a time of day and more like a sentence.

High above the canopy of trees ringing the meadow, a lone Emberwing struggled against the thickening air. In the years with a sun, these birds were living jewels, streaks of liquid gold and orange flames that ignited the sky with every beat of their wings. Now, the bird’s fire was guttering. Its plumage, once vibrant enough to hurt the eyes, was the color of cooling embers. Each heavy stroke of its wings left a thin, wispy trail of grey smoke that hung in the air long after the bird had passed—a smudge of soot against the fading indigo sky. It flew lower than it should, its internal flame too weak to provide the lift it needed to soar.

Below the bird’s fading path, in the center of the field, stood the Glitter Tree.

It breathed the heartbeat of Eldonia, a massive, sprawling sentinel of sapphire shadows and emerald glow. Its leaves usually hummed with a low, melodic vibration that could be felt in the soles of one’s feet. But today, the hum had turned into a mournful, discordant rasp. The top third of the magnificent tree was already dead. The once-shimmering branches were now skeletal, blackened husks that clawed at the air like the fingers of a buried giant. This wasn’t a natural rot; the darkness was drinking the life out of the wood, moving downward with a slow, predatory patience.

At the base of the trunk, tucked between two massive, glowing roots that were still fighting to stay blue, sat a young woman. 

She looked small against the scale of the tree. Her midnight black hair was matted with the dust of the road, and her eyes, brilliant purple, were rimmed with an exhaustion that went deeper than bone. In her arms, she held a bundle of fine, silver-threaded silk. She clutched it with a ferocity that suggested she expected the very air to snatch it away.

“The temperature is dropping again,” Julz whispered.

Julz stood a few paces away, her hand resting on the handle of her walking stick. Her usual bright energy had been filed down to a sharp, nervous edge. She watched the tree line, her eyes darting between the shifting shadows of the yews and the dying crown of the Glitter Tree. “The top branches… the blackness moved another foot down since the ‘sun’ last twitched.”

The young woman didn’t look up. She was staring at the infant in her arms. “He’s so warm, Julz. It doesn’t make sense. The world is turning to ash and ice, but he feels like a hearth fire.”

“He is a Sundancer,” Julz said softly, moving closer to rest a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “He’s the only hearth we have left.”

A low, rhythmic thudding echoed from the forest path. Not the sound of monsters, but the heavy, disciplined march of boots on moss.

A moment later, a band of warriors emerged from the grey mist. They weren’t the gleaming palace guard of the south. These were men who had been living in the dirt and the dark. Their leather armor was notched and stained, and their cloaks were frayed at the hems. But they moved with a grim, purposeful unity.

At their head was Mac.

He was a thin man who walked with the attitude of an unmovable mountain, as if his shoulders were broad enough to carry the weight of the failing sun. He carried a heavy heater shield strapped to his forearm—a thick slab of reinforced wood and iron. Painted across its center was a giant, golden emblem of the sun. It wasn’t magical; it didn’t glow or pulse. It was just paint and defiance, scarred by blade-marks and scorched by Shadow-fire, but the symbol was unmistakable. Where once his lute was strung across his back, now hung a sword, dirty with tales of battle.

Mac halted the group with a sharp gesture. He signaled his men to form a perimeter around the Glitter Tree, their sun-emblems facing outward into the gloom. He stepped forward to her, the metal of his greaves clanking.

“The eastern pass is gone,” Mac said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in his chest. He didn’t offer a greeting. “The Shadows are moving faster than we expected.” He shook his head. “There are so many. They aren’t just hunting us now. They’re erasing the path behind them.”

The young woman looked up, her eyes meeting his. “And the others?”

“Scattered, if they’re lucky,” Mac replied, his jaw tightening. “We’re all that’s left of the Vanguard within five leagues. We can hold this meadow for an hour, maybe less if he sends the robed ones.”

He looked down at the bundle. For a brief second, the hardness in Mac’s face cracked, revealing a well of love and agony. He reached out a calloused, trembling hand and gently brushed the baby’s cheek with a single knuckle. The dancing flame in the baby’s eyes acknowledged the touch. The breeze tousled his glowing hair.

“Is he ready?” Mac asked, his voice cracking.

“He’s just a baby, Mac,” she whispered, a single tear tracing a path through the dust on her cheek. “He’s not a weapon. He’s not a king. He’s just my son.”

“No, he’s more than that. He is hope. He is our only hope,” a new voice rasped, sounding like dry leaves skittering over stone.

The warriors of the Vanguard didn’t draw their swords, but they shifted their weight, a ripple of unease passing through the line. From the deepest shadow of the Glitter Tree, a figure stepped forward.

The One.

He looked as though he had been carved from the very mountains of Eldonia and then left to weather for a thousand years. His robes were grey and tattered, blending into the gloom, and his skin was a map of ancient wrinkles and scars. He leaned on a gnarled staff of weirwood, but his eyes—bright, piercing, and terrifyingly old—showed no sign of frailty. He had been “The One” since before the Glitter Tree had sprouted, and today, he looked every bit the part of a man about to commit a necessary atrocity.

“The portal is anchored,” The One said, his gaze fixed on the infant. “But the boy cannot go as he is. His light is a beacon. If I take him across the veil with his fire burning this bright, Void will sense our trail before he takes his first step on the other side. He will be hunted through the streets of a world that has no magic to protect him.”

The One stepped closer, the air around him shimmering with a faint, cold distortion. “To save the light, we must first make him believe it was never there.”

The One moved with a deliberate, haunting slowness. He did not reach for the child with the frantic energy of a man in a hurry, despite the sounds of the Vanguard’s perimeter tightening and the distant, wet crunch of Shadow-steel hitting wood. He reached out as if he were handling a piece of the sun itself.

“The Shroud is not just a mask,” The One murmured, his voice barely audible over the discordant hum of the dying Glitter Tree. “It is a lock. It will hold his potential deep within the marrow of his bones. He will grow up feeling… different. Heavy. Like he is waiting for a storm that never breaks. But he will be invisible to the ‌dark. Even if Void knows where we went, he cannot discern who he is.”

The mother’s knuckles were white where she gripped the silk. “And when he is ready? When he is of age?”

“Then the lock will fail, his power will not be constrained,” The One said, his eyes flashing with a brief, terrifying silver brilliance. “And his fire will either save him, or consume him, a fate we will share.”

The One hovered his hand over the infant’s brow. A low, resonant thrum began to vibrate from the air itself. The baby, who had been watching the flickering sapphire leaves of the tree with wide, flame-touched eyes, went still.

As The One’s palm descended, the brilliant flame-touched gold of the baby’s hair didn’t just fade—it seemed to be sucked inward. The vibrant living light retreated, sinking beneath the skin until the locks turned a flat, mundane blonde, the color of dry wheat. The tiny flickers of orange fire in the boy’s irises were pushed back, hidden behind a veil of deep, ordinary blue.

The warmth that had radiated from the child vanished, and her arms, still trembling, suddenly felt the full weight of what remained. The boy felt heavier in her grasp, the weight of a normal human life replacing the buoyancy of a Sundancer.

“It is done,” The One whispered.

Mac stepped forward, his heavy sun-shield clanking against his leg. He looked at the Sundancer—now a boy who looked like any other—and reached into a small leather pouch at his belt. He pulled out a small, circular disc of smooth, white stone, no larger than a coin. Carved in its center was a simple, elegant sunburst. He leaned forward and kissed the boy’s forehead.

“A piece of the foundation stone,” Mac said, his voice thick, looking into the young woman’s eyes. He tucked the stone into the folds of the baby’s blanket, pinning it deep where it wouldn’t be easily lost. “So our boy always has a piece of home, even if he doesn’t know what it is.”

“He will think it is a lucky charm,” Julz said, her voice watery as she tried to smile. “A bit of junk from a dream.”

“He is close.” Mac turned to Julz, a memory of a smile crossing his face. “Get her out of here — keep my lute safe.”

The One turned, the air behind him beginning to ripple and tear. The rift didn’t look like a doorway; it looked like a wound in the very air, revealing a glimpse of a world that felt cold, damp, and impossibly grey.

The One reached out, his long, weathered fingers trembling slightly as they prepared to take the child. The young woman flinched, pulling the bundle back against her sternum with a sharp, ragged gasp. Her knuckles, already white, seemed to merge with the silver threads of the silk. She didn’t just hold him; she tried to pull him back into her own body, a futile attempt to shield him from a destiny that had already begun to turn him cold in her arms. A low, keening sound, barely human, vibrated in her throat—the sound of a heart physically breaking.

A heavy, gauntleted hand settled on her shoulder. Mac didn’t pull her away; he simply anchored her. When she finally looked up, she didn’t find the hardened commander of the Vanguard, but a man drowning in the same grief. His eyes were glassy, reflecting the sickly orange light of the unmoving sun, pleading with her through a silent, shared agony. Let him go, the look said, so that he might live to remember us. Her resistance crumbled like dry ash. With a slow, shuddering exhale that seemed to drain the last of her strength, she loosened her grip. She didn’t hand the baby over so much as allow Mac to gently slide the child from her numb arms. Mac took the boy, his own jaw set in a hard, pained line, and transferred the small, heavy bundle to The One.

With a final, silent nod to Mac, The One stepped into the rift. The air screamed as the portal collapsed, snapping shut with a sound like a thunderclap that shook the very roots of the Glitter Tree.

The young woman stood there, no tears left, the warmth in her arms, gone. 

Prologue Two

The One lies twisted on the cave floor, ribs caged in agony and head swimming with a tangle of pain and relief so raw he can barely tell one from the other. Sweat has pooled in the hollows of his collarbones, cooling with each moment, cold against the sickly heat lacing his skin. He is a cut net, every line of him slack and unraveling. For a time—minutes, hours, he cannot say—he does not move at all. He is aware only of the aftertaste of the split, the way something once rooted deep inside him has been ripped out, leaving a vacancy so pure it aches.

He rolls over and groans. His limbs obey, but only with protest; his legs feel filled with molten ore, heavy and foreign, and the fine bones of his wrists tremble with the effort of even this meager movement. The ache in his chest differs from the pain he expected: it is not hunger or thirst or even weariness, but a hollow, echoing absence, as though some vital cord has been untethered and what remains is a cavity as empty as the moment before breath.

There is a moment—a flicker—where The One believes he may simply fade. For the briefest of seconds, the edge of his vision grays and flickers, and the urge to simply yield, to let the darkness claim him, is almost beautiful in its simplicity. But outside the mouth of the cave, Eldonia waits. He can see its brilliance even from where he sprawls, can hear the river below—unchanged, untainted, as if the violence of his work was nothing but a stone tossed into its ancient current.

He drags himself upright, vertebrae protesting, jaw clamped tight as he forces his focus outward. It helps, marginally. The fire in the center of the cave has now been reduced to coals, but it still throws a comfortless, stubborn light. His gaze lingers on the cave’s entrance, just wide enough for a man but now—finally—free from shadows. Beyond, dawn is breaking, the soft rose of a new world just cresting the rim of the valley. For the first time in uncounted iterations, The One feels a possibility so profound it makes his heart quicken: perhaps, in this world, perfection is possible. Perhaps this time he can build it right.

He allows himself a smile. It is a small, crooked thing, barely worthy of the name, but it is honest. His hands, stained with soot and old blood, are still shaking as he lifts them to his face. He is alive. He is alone, and the beast inside is finally—finally—gone.

A sound, soft as a lover’s whisper, slides across the stone behind him.

Hello brother.

The smile is gone. The One freezes, muscles taut, the smile withering in its cradle. He holds his breath, but the voice is not an echo in his head; it is in the cave, curling in the spaces between the stones and the old bones scattered near the wall.

He waits. The world outside is unchanged, the hush of river and wind unbroken. He tells himself he is tired, that the ritual has left his mind raw and porous. He wills the voice away. For a moment, it works—he is back in his body, breathing, feeling the prickle of the fire’s last heat on his cheek.

The voice returns, this time with a crack of amusement.

Hello, brother.

He jerks upright, and the movement sends a spear of agony down his left side. He ignores it. The cave is small, but in the blue hour before dawn, the corners still seethe with unlit shapes. He squints, eyes adjusting, but sees only the familiar: the fire, the chalk ring, the charred remnants of the symbols he drew in feverish haste before the splitting. There is no one. There cannot be.

Still, his hands grope for the stick he carved—he thinks of it as a walking stick, though in truth it has always served as a crutch, a defense, a measure of certainty against the world’s chaos. He feels for it, but his palm meets nothing but coarse earth and moss. He scans the cave again. The stick is gone, or perhaps he left it outside. The absence makes him feel naked, a child in the woods without a lantern.

He listens, holding perfectly still. A bead of sweat, fat and cold, rolls from his temple down to his jaw. The fire pops, sending a clutch of sparks toward the entrance, but the only sound is the river’s distant lull and his own breathing, fast and uneven.

He tries again: “Show yourself.” His voice is meant to be steady and commanding, but it wobbles and falls flat, echoing off the stone in a tone that makes him wince. He hates the fear in it.

The darkness answers. This time, it is unmistakable: a shifting, a deepening of shadow in the far corner of the cave, right where the firelight is weakest. The air there is thicker, less a shadow than a shape, and as The One’s eyes adjust, he sees that it is moving—slowly, imperceptibly at first, but soon with the deliberate grace of something learning how to be.

He holds his ground, though every part of him wants to crawl away.

The shadow forms itself into a figure. Not all at once; it is as though the dark is kneading itself into the rough dimensions of a man, stretching and thinning, shoulders first, then arms, then the suggestion of a head. The One watches, paralyzed.

The shape’s face emerges last, the features at first indistinct, then sharpening with each pulse of the dying firelight. The smile comes before the eyes do—a broad, easy smile that splits the face with genuine pleasure. When the eyes arrive, they are bottomless, but they shine with a familiar, terrible warmth.

The One can feel his pulse thumping in his ears. He wants to shout, to curse, but his mouth is full of cotton. Instead, he can only stare.

“You look drained, brother. You did everything right, you know. Your ritual was flawless. Oddly so, for you.”

The One looks away, down at the char and dust on the floor. The chalk ring has been smudged, a single break in its circle—a flaw so slight it might have been made by a passing insect. He wonders if it matters.

He closes his eyes, and for a moment, there is only darkness and the sound of the other’s breathing.

“You always overthink things,” the shape says, suddenly closer. It is next to the fire now, seated cross-legged with an ease that is almost childlike. “Just like on Earth, do you remember? All those years wasted—agonizing, calculating, hoping for a clean solution. You never found one. Yet, when I offered one, you pushed it aside.”

The One does not answer. His thoughts are a scrambled tangle, flashes of memory and dread in equal measure. He forces himself to meet the shadow’s gaze.

The smile never wavers. “I want what you want. A perfect world. But this time, we do it together.”

He wants to say no. He wants to deny it, to call out for the light and see the shape vanish. But something inside him knows there is always a cost; nothing is ever truly removed, only transitioned. 

The One sits in silence, feeling the echo of the ritual still throbbing in his chest. Outside, the sky has gone from rose to gold, and the promise of a new day is everywhere. But here, in this cave, two brothers watch each other, and everything he has ever built or destroyed is balanced on the rim of a single, trembling moment.

The shape laughs, easy and genuine. “It really is good to see you, brother.”

The One watches the last of the fire die, something in him mirroring it. He isn’t sure what.

Minutes stretch between them, filled only with the dying fire’s occasional pop and hiss. 

The One forces his breathing to even, forces his limbs to obey. He searches again for his walking stick. He still feels naked without it in his hand. Where is my stick. . .

“You left it by the entrance, leaning there, against the side of the cave,” it says.

The One isn’t sure if it is the cold warmth of the voice or the fact that it seems to know his thoughts, but a shiver echoes through his mind.

He glances over at his stick, alone, against the wall. Then he glances at his brother sitting between him and his crutch.

The One feels a cold sweat bloom down his back. Then it turns to ice.

His brother hums. 

“You’re worried we’ll fight?”

The One shrugs.

The shape leans forward, elbows on its knees, eyes glittering with delight. “You always underestimate us, brother,” it says, the word carrying gentle mockery, but also an affection that is more unnerving than outright malice. “We both seek perfection, our visions just don’t always align.”

A flush of anger colors The One’s cheeks, but he breathes it down. He remembers a few thousand years ago, on Earth. “Perfection is not possible,” he says, voice flat.

The shadow leans back, perfectly at ease. “That’s where you’re wrong, brother. You never tried it my way.” It spreads its hands. “You always wanted to fix everything, to save everyone. There is a cost to perfection, one that I am willing to pay, and, sadly, you are not.”

The words sting, but The One doesn’t flinch. He thinks of the other worlds, of the endless cycles of birth and death, love and cruelty, and the steady drumbeat of disappointment. “No. I chose right.”

He rises, wobbling slightly, and walks to the cave’s entrance. His hand wraps around his stick, and he stands a little straighter. The light outside is blinding at first, but his eyes adjust. The world is there, just as he imagined: perfect, unspoiled, brimming with possibility, birds with wings of fire…

Behind him, the shadow laughs. “We’ll make a good team, you and I.”

The One’s fingernails dig into the stick. He tells himself he can handle this situation.

“I just want to help, brother,” it says. “My strengths complement your weaknesses.”

The words settle into him like a brand still burning. He wants to scream, to deny, to spit in the thing’s face, but he is still.

“When will the others arrive?” the shadow asks. “How will you introduce me?”

“Introduce you?” The One’s mind races through scenarios. He had been alone for a few years now, observing, cataloging, calculating. More Eternals would arrive soon. He could only hope his usual group would be sent. “I don’t suppose you have a name?”

“A name?” Something resembling concentration appears on the dark face. “Well, I suppose if you are The One, then I must be The Void.” It pauses, and that tiny smirk appears. “Yes, The Void. Wait, no, just Void. Simple, more poetic, I think. Adding ‘The’ in front of it just sounds so pretentious, don’t you think?”

The One’s knuckles turn white around his staff.

“Brother, let’s go. We have a world to build.” The corner of Void’s mouth turns up ever so slightly. “Except this time, I think I will be in charge.”

The One stands at the mouth of the cave. The world before him is beautiful in unimaginable ways. The cold sweat on his spine once again icy. What had he done?

Cast Your Vote

You’ve read them. You’ve heard them. Now tell me which one opens the book.

Reply to the newsletter email that brought you here with your choice — or head to the comments on either YouTube video and leave your vote there. Every comment, every reply, every voice shapes what comes next.

The results — and what happens next — will land in your inbox.

The Last Sundancer is coming. You just helped decide how it begins.