Crystalline Dragons Saga Bundle - Signed Paperback

Suddenly thrust into a journey towards an unknown fate, he must navigate the perils of a world he barely remembers, all while grappling with an awakening power within him that he doesn't understand.

As Dusk uncovers long-buried secrets and forges unexpected alliances, he begins to realize that his quest for freedom may hold the key to something far greater.

In this breathtaking gay fantasy adventure, the line between slave and savior blurs as Dusk races to unlock the secrets of his past and the power of the dragon's legacy.

Chapter One
There was a sharp crack in the air and a searing pain across the back of his legs. He gritted his teeth, determined not to cry out. That always earned anyone another lash. A guard stood nearby with a cruel smile on his face.
“Pick up the pace!” he snapped, spitting on the dirty man covered in salt and grime in front of him. He watched for any sign that the man was going to wipe it away, but when he didn’t, the guard clicked his tongue and walked off in search of another victim.
Ignoring the saliva seeping into his ratty clothes, he turned back to the wall, swinging the pickaxe to break the salt away from the stone. Dusk was what the foreman had named him as if he were a harbinger of impending darkness. Too many beatings across too many years had taken his original name away, not that he had any use for it anyway. The solid sandstone walls of the mines and the clang of metal against stone were his only companions, and they had no use for names. They simply stared back in the darkness, glinting in the lamplight, constantly and silently observing as faces came and went through the years.
Unlike many of the other enslaved men, Dusk enjoyed his time in the mines. There, he wasn’t under constant surveillance from the guards. The roughly forged shackles that he had to sleep in each night were removed from his wrists and ankles so he could work. He’d only ever tried to escape once long ago, at dusk, which won him shackles for life whenever he was outside of the caverns. He was only a boy when he’d tried, still hopeful there was freedom just beyond the edge of the woods. He’d fled at nightfall, earning the name Dusk when he was dragged back bloody and beaten. There was only one way in or out of the mines now, guarded heavily by men too eager to quench their blades in the blood of those considered less than human. Sometimes, Dusk wondered if he should try again, even though he’d never make it out alive. But maybe that was the point. There was no possibility of freedom once you were captured. You either died working or died escaping. That was simply the way of it. Sometimes, he wondered why he didn’t shorten the sentence and get it over with.
Dusk shook the dark thoughts away as he heard his name called in the dark.
“Dusk!” the gruff voice of Foreman Maxon called out. The sound echoed through the tunnels, making the other men bristle with fear. Maxon was always ruthless when it came to punishments. Just the sound of his voice made Dusk’s back ache and his skin prickle.
“Dusk! There you are. I thought maybe you tried to run off again, but I guess it’s too early in the day for that,” he said, laughing at his own joke, smacking a meaty hand on Dusk’s shoulder. He always feigned a friendly familiarity with all the slaves. “I’ve got a job for you to do.”
“Yes sir,” Dusk replied weakly, keeping his eyes turned downward. Maxon didn’t like the slaves looking him in the eye. He said it was disrespectful to the natural order of things, and those who didn’t learn went to the post.
“We’ve got a new volunteer, and I need you to show him the ropes. Make sure he knows what to do. And if there is any mischief,” he hissed as he slipped a grimy hand around Dusk’s shoulders, “I’ll know who to blame.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I knew you’d understand, Dusk. You’re always so cooperative.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That reminds me, it’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?”
The foreman always referred to the day someone was purchased as their ‘birthday.’ It was a small remark, but he never missed an opportunity to belittle them and highlight their station in life, reminding them how much their lives weren’t their own.
“It’s been ten years, hasn’t it? You’re not going to be with us much longer then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a shame. You’re a good worker, but rules are rules. Make sure you train the new kid well; he’s your replacement. We can’t have a decrease in productivity.”
“Yes, sir.”
With one more heavy pat on the shoulder, Maxon turned his back and lumbered up the mineshaft towards the sliver of light in the distance. Dusk, still holding the pickaxe in both of his hands, felt the sudden urge to give it a swing to crush the skull of the man who so stupidly put his back to him. But his hands didn’t move. They didn’t even shake with anger. Instead, he turned back to the wall, knowing he wouldn’t have much more time with the mine, his silent friend who had kept him company during all the waking hours of the day.
As he began to swing the pickaxe again, Dusk found himself once more lost in his thoughts. The dull clang of the metal against the stone created a hypnotizing rhythm. He couldn’t believe it had been ten years. At first, it had seemed as if each day were a month. But slowly, as time went on, they began to meld together. His life turned into one long, neverending night. Before dawn, he was in the mines, searching for the red salt the nobles sold all over Ditania and beyond. By the time he stepped out after the day's work, it was dark again. And so, with nothing but sleep to pass the marking of the days, they began to run together. He only realized a year had passed when he was called into Maxon’s quarters to receive his mark. It was a crudely tattooed line on his forearm, one line for each year in service. Each tick brought him closer to leaving the mines. Soon, he’d be receiving mark number ten, the last one anyone got before getting sold.
Slaves were always sold off after ten years. It was a common practice to discourage camaraderie and mutiny. Either way, he didn’t know where he was going to end up, but he wasn’t sure if he cared. The long years in the tunnels and the constant beatings had taken away most of the spirit within him. Here and there, he had flashes of it, like his sudden urge to kill Maxon, but they were always fleeting, like a candle flame in a stiff breeze. Long ago, he had accepted his fate, and even now, staring into the unknown of being sold into another life, he couldn’t find the will to do anything more than keep swinging his pickaxe. That was all he knew how to do and all he had the willpower to do.
Approaching footsteps caused him to pause once more and turn, expecting to see Maxon had returned. Instead, standing in the darkness that his eyes had become accustomed to was a young boy no more than fifteen. He was gangly with locks of curling hair framing his face, although, in the dark, Dusk wasn’t sure what color it was. He knew immediately that the boy was fresh off the streets from his demeanor and the way he placed both his hands on his hips as he stared. There was an air of cockiness radiating from him and a glint in his eye that could only mean mischief. It seemed he was already sporting a black eye and a small cut on his forehead. It was easy to see the fire of life burning inside him, something that hadn’t been snuffed out by years of servitude. Yet.
The boy stood there, waiting for Dusk to speak. When it became obvious that Dusk wasn’t going to speak first, he gave a loud sigh. Crossing his arms over his chest, the boy shifted his weight to one leg, grinding the leather sole of the opposite foot against the loose gravel.
“So, who are you?” the boy heaved as if it took more effort than he could possibly muster.
“Dusk,” he replied quietly, not really wanting to speak at all. “That's what they call me here.”
“What's your real name? It can't be that.”
“It–it doesn't matter. They won't let you keep it anyway. What are they calling you?”
The boy sighed again, shaking his head as he uncrossed his arms and held his hands up. Even in the dim light, Dusk could see he was missing the ring finger on his right hand. It wasn't freshly severed, but it looked recent enough, maybe within the past year.
“That buffoon that sent me in here is calling me Nine.”
“Don't say things like that—”
“You're probably wondering how I got this,” the boy continued, ignoring his warning. “I got caught stealing scraps of food from a vendor in Malkekna. The stallkeeper thought himself a real saint when he only took my finger instead of my whole hand. He said I still had time to learn the difference between right and wrong.”