
Sahara Ashdell Book 1: Threat to Malorsty
Author
Alyson Linker
Reads
17.9K
Chapters
35
Brooklyn grows up believing her life is meant to be small, quiet, and survivable. Orphaned and mistreated, she learns to endure rather than dream. Then the truth shatters everything she knows. She is also Sahara, heir to a hidden elven realm that thrives on magic, secrets, and strict expectations. Royal blood unlocks ancient power, but it also comes wrapped in prophecy, rules, and a future already written by others. As magic stirs and choices narrow, Sahara must decide who she is willing to become. Obedient heir or defiant force? Strength rises where fear once lived, and destiny begins to look less like a promise and more like a challenge she is ready to face.
The Unwanted
The suffocating darkness of the car trunk was not how Brooklyn Craig had imagined spending the eve of her fifteenth birthday. Yet here she was, curled into a tight ball, her tear-streaked face pressed against her knees, her thin arms wrapped around her trembling body.
The cold metal of the trunk scraped against her skin with every jolt of the car, the tire well digging into her side.
It wasnât the dark that gnawed at herâsheâd grown accustomed to shadows in the atticâbut the unknown. Where was she being taken? Why?
The question that cut deepest, though, was one sheâd carried her whole life: Why had no one ever wanted her?
Her unloving family and the events of the day played over in her mind, a relentless loop, as the carâs engine rumbled beneath her.
Charles Craig, her uncle, was the picture of polished power. As Mayor of Canterbury for nearly a decade, he exuded charisma that kept voters loyal.
Tall and lean, he wore tailored black suits, always paired with a green tie that matched his sharp eyes. His glossy black hair was meticulously combed, catching the chandeliersâ gleam as he strode through City Hall. His days were filled with budgets, handshakes, and calculated smiles, each gesture designed to maintain his grip on power.
His wife, Margaret, was his perfect counterpart, ruling the townâs social scene with flawless makeup and designer outfits that never repeated. At her daily country club luncheons, her blonde hair was a cascade of perfection, not a strand out of place.
Their daughter, Trina, sixteen and a mirror of her motherâs beauty, was a local celebrity. Her blonde curls adorned billboards and magazine covers; her face was a fixture in TV commercials. Boys chased her, girls envied her, but Trinaâs haughty smirk dismissed them all, her nose tilted as if the townâs air was beneath her.
At public events, the Craigs were a vision of unity, dazzling in coordinated outfits, their smiles practiced and bright.
They knew they were Canterburyâs elite, but to secure Charlesâs reelection, they played the part of approachable charmers.
Charity, however, was a foreign concept. Their rock-walled mansion, perched on the edge of town beside a private golf course, was a monument to their success.
With eight bedrooms, seven baths, and a five-car garage, it boasted an outdoor pool that glistened under the sun and an indoor twin hidden within.
Trina claimed three bedrooms: one for sleep, one for her designer wardrobe, and one for fitness.
Charles and Margaret maintained separate suites, sharing a third room for exercise equipment.
Another served as Charlesâs home office, its walls lined with awards and photos of handshakes with dignitaries.
The final bedroom overflowed with Margaretâs surplus purchasesâdesigner bags and shoes too precious for the atticâs dust.
In that attic, Brooklyn lived, a frail fourteen-year-old whose fire-red hair marked her as an outsider in the Craigsâ polished world.
Orphaned at two when her parents, Marshall and Bella Craig, died in a car accident, she had known only the atticâs chill and musk.
Forbidden from attending school or appearing in town, her existence was confined to the mansionâs shadows, her days spent serving the Craigsâ endless demands.
She scrubbed floors, polished silver, and mended Trinaâs discarded dresses, her hands calloused from work no one acknowledged.
Tomorrow was her fifteenth birthday, a milestone she knew would pass unnoticed. No cake, no giftsâher only proof of her existence lay in a small wooden box hidden beneath an attic floorboard.
Inside was her birth certificate and a faded photo of her parents cradling her as a baby.
In the image, her dark, curly hair matched her fatherâs, not the straight red strands she now twisted nervously between her fingers.
Her motherâs blonde hair and round face bore no resemblance to her own sharp features.
Charles and Margaret often sneered that Bella was a âtrampâ whoâd cheated, that Brooklynâs red hair proved she wasnât Marshallâs.
Yet the photo told a different storyâher parentsâ smiles radiated love, their arms protective around her.
Why, then, was her hair red now? The question haunted her, as did her longing for a life where she was wanted.
She couldnât help but daydream about what her parents might have done for her birthdayâperhaps a quiet dinner, laughter, a cake with her name in icing.
The Craigs, by contrast, turned Trinaâs birthdays into spectacles: surprises hidden throughout the mansion, parties with hundreds of guests, fireworks lighting the sky, and gifts piled high enough to dwarf the room.
A bellâs sharp ring shattered her thoughts. Brooklyn shoved the box back under the floorboard, replaced the wooden slat, and hurried to the attic door.
Her bare feet padded down the creaking stairs, her heart pounding as she reached the kitchen.
Margaret stood there, hands on her hips, berating Ms. Mabel, the maid, for a smudge on a wine glass.
At Brooklynâs arrival, Margaretâs eyes snapped to her, sharp as knives. âAnd where have you been, you little germ?â she spat, her voice dripping with disdain.
Brooklyn kept her gaze on the floor, knowing words would only fuel her auntâs anger.
Margaretâs tone shifted, a false sweetness curling her lips. âI have good news. Ms. Mabel will take you to live at her brotherâs house,â she said.
Brooklynâs eyes darted up, meeting her auntâs cold stare. âWhat?â Her voice trembled, shock mingling with dread.
âHis wife is ill and needs a housekeeper,â Margaret said, her smile icy. âYouâve been such a burden to us. This will suit everyone.â
Anger flared in Brooklynâs chest, hot and unfamiliar. âA burden? Youâve never cared for me. I do everythingâclean, cook, wait on you hand and foot while youââ
A slap stung her cheek, silencing her.
âHow dare you speak to me like that, you ungrateful spur?â Margaret hissed. âYouâre leaving with Mabel, and weâll never see that awful red hair again.â
Charles appeared in the doorway, his green tie catching the light. âBrilliant, darling,â he said, kissing Margaretâs cheek. âI knew youâd solve our problem.â His gaze turned to Brooklyn, disgust curling his lip.
Brooklyn glanced at Ms. Mabel, searching for an ally, but the maidâs face was unreadable.
âI donât understand,â she whispered, tears pricking her eyes. This was her family, however cruelâhow could they discard her so easily?
âItâs not for you to understand,â Charles barked. âGo gather your things. Now.â
Brooklyn had learned not to cross her uncleâhis temper had left bruises beforeâso she climbed the stairs, her heart heavy with betrayal.
At the landing, she paused, out of sight but close enough to overhear Charlesâs low voice.
âThis house is hidden well, yes?â
âOh, yes, sir,â Mabel replied. âIn the middle of Burgby Forest, miles from any town. The nearest oneâs half abandonedâno phones, no roads out. Completely off the grid.â
âExcellent,â Charles said, satisfaction in his tone. âLetâs see them try to find her there. She must be gone before nightfall, and no one must see you take her.â
Brooklynâs breath caught. Who were they? Why hide her?
Charlesâs next words chilled her further. âAfter she turns fifteen, she can never return. Understand?â
âYes, sir,â Mabel said tightly. âIf she escapes, she wonât survive that forest. No way sheâll make it back.â
Brooklyn reached the attic, her hands trembling as she retrieved her box and wrapped it in an old blanket with her few clothesâa tattered sweater, a pair of worn jeans, a single pair of socks.
She scanned the dusty room, its bare walls and sagging cot a testament to her invisibility.
Heavy footsteps startled her; no one ever came to the attic.
Charles burst through the door, grabbing her shirt collar. âHurry up,â he growled, shoving her toward the stairs.
âWhy donât you want me?â Brooklyn asked, a spark of courage flaring. If they were casting her out, what more could they do?
âWe never wanted you!â Charles snapped, pushing her forward. âMarshall never wanted you. Youâll never get what your dirty motherâsââ He stopped, shaking his head, as if catching himself.
Brooklynâs mind raced. Did her parents leave her something? A will, perhaps, tied to her fifteenth birthday?
âDeserve what?â she pressed, pulling free as they reached the next floor. âWhat donât I deserve?â
He laughed, cold and sharp. âYou donât even know what Iâm talking about.â
âMy parents left me something,â she guessed, her voice steady despite her fear.
Charles froze, his grip spinning her to face him. âThey died penniless,â he snarled. âYou shouldâve died with them. They had nothing.â
âThen what donât I deserve?â she whispered, chin raised.
âTo meet your motherâs family,â Trina cut in, her voice smug from the hallway. âThey want you when you turn fifteen.â
âI have family that wants me?â Brooklyn asked, a flicker of hope igniting.
âNo,â Charles said, shoving her toward the next staircase. âI told them you ran away. They wonât come for you. Now shut up.â
He pushed her to the back door, where Mabel waited beside an old maroon car, its trunk open. âIs it ready?â Charles asked.
âYes, sir,â Mabel said, her smile unsettling.
Brooklyn glanced at the CraigsâCharles, Margaret, Trinaâtheir triumphant smirks a shared victory. Wherever she was going, it couldnât be worse than this.
She stepped forward, placing her bundle in the trunk.
A sudden shove sent her sprawling inside, her back slamming against the tire well. âNo!â she cried, thrashing against Charlesâs strong arms. Pain shot through her as he slammed the trunk lid.
Darkness swallowed her.
The car lurched forward, carrying her into the unknown.




