Sahara Ashdell Book 2: Son of Evil
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Alyson Linker
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Something dark stirs inside Sahara, and it refuses to stay quiet. Power hums beneath her skin, thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. As enemies rise and trust begins to crack, she struggles to hold onto the life and people she has grown to love. Temptation whispers that giving in would be easier, stronger, faster. Sahara balances courage with fear, desire with restraint, and hope with doubt. In a world where magic shapes fate, she must decide who she wants to be when the line between hero and villain starts to blur.
Nightmares
BOOK 2: SON OF EVIL
“Kill him!”
An orange haze bled through the trees, swallowing the woods around Sahara. The air tasted like metal, sharp, electric. A faceless ellon shadow stood in front of her, and to her right an ellon with dark hair laughed, low and cruel.
The ground shook beneath her feet. Anger rushed through her like fire, trembling in her veins. Above her, dark clouds churned in tight circles, and the trees bent as if bowing away from her power.
“Kill him,” the ellon at her side ordered again. His voice scraped like broken glass.
Lightning erupted from the clouds, white and violent, and crashed into the shadowy figure with a flick of her hand. Sahara’s vision glowed orange, then deepened to a furious red. The heat of her rage pressed against her ribs.
“Sahara?” the shadow pleaded, voice trembling. “What are you doing?”
Her fist tightened. The electrical currents obeyed, wrapping around him like living chains. She felt the power answering her call, crackling through the air. The ellon jerked once and collapsed.
Still. Lifeless.
Sahara gasped. Sweat clung to her skin as she shot upright in bed. The dream again. The same nightmare she had all summer. The same death. The same voice telling her to kill him.
“I would never actually do that,” she whispered, forcing the words out like a spell meant to steady her breath, even though the dream felt terrifyingly easy, like the power waited for permission.
Needing light, something real, something normal, she moved to the window and swept open the drapes. Warm sunlight flooded the room, washing away the lingering shadows. Outside, Kinderton hummed awake: carts rattling over stone, vendors calling out, the quiet rhythm of a city beginning its day.
Then she saw it: the carriage rolling toward her home, ready to take her to Malorsty Academy, followed overhead by the two guardian dragons.
She grew comfortable here over the summer, when she wasn’t having a nightmare. Kinderton was the first place that truly felt like home. But Malorsty was where she felt safe. Where she didn’t feel lonely. Where she didn’t have nightmares. She missed her friends more than she realized.
A smile broke through the fear. Excitement chased away the last of the nightmare.
Sahara spun from the window and rushed to get ready. Today, her second year at Malorsty began.
***
The moment Sahara’s foot touched the cobblestone, a soft clack echoed beneath her, grounding her in the familiar courtyard of Malorsty Academy. Cool air brushed her cheeks as she inhaled deeply.
The academy rose before her: tall stone towers, banners snapping in the colors of the tri-kingdoms, students pouring through archways in bursts of laughter and chatter. After a long, lonely summer, the sight warmed her chest.
She had waited for this day for months.
And yet, she spent nearly all of them buried in Kinderton, drowning herself in coursework. She finished every second-year class, except one. Her effort forced her into a third-year schedule…and, unfortunately, into every class with Brystol Treegan.
Aran Rayterbay confirmed as much during last night’s telicall with him and Tari Nathila. They checked on her constantly: calling, visiting, reminding her to rest.
She didn’t listen.
“Sahara!”
Mecca’s voice rang out, bright and familiar. Sahara barely had time to shift before Mecca barreled down the steps, arms wide.
“Mecca!” Sahara laughed, her chest loosening for the first time in weeks.
Phylan followed behind her, offering a lazy grin and a wave. “If you hadn’t been such a bookworm all summer,” Phylan teased, “maybe you wouldn’t have had to miss us.”
“I know,” she said with a sheepish smile.
Her fingers brushed the blue gem at her chest, a habit she barely noticed anymore, and the ring on her right hand caught the sunlight. The bracelet hidden beneath her sleeve stayed tucked safely out of sight.
She would never admit it, but she wore the bracelet Brystol gifted her for her birthday daily with her mother’s ring.
“Forewarning,” Mecca began, lowering her voice, “Waizlynn is—”
“Sahara!”
Carol and Marol stood at the top of the main stairs, waving like overexcited children. Sahara’s face lit up as she hurried toward them, nearly tripping on the last step before pulling them both into a hug.
“We have so much to tell you!” Marol burst out.
“Brystol is here,” Carol added with a dreamy sigh, “looking amazing as always.”
Sahara groaned. “Gross. Please don’t start.”
“Oh!” Phylan called from behind. “Speaking of him—how was your punishment week? Rumor says you two fought nonstop.”
“Rumor?” Sahara laughed, though her stomach tightened. The memory of that week, Brystol tutoring her, Waizlynn appearing uninvited five out of seven days, still left a sour taste. “We didn’t fight the whole time,” she said. “Waizlynn came to visit, so I’m guessing she started that.”
“Waizlynn came to visit you?” Marol blinked.
“No—Brystol. She came to see him.” Sahara’s jaw tightened. “And we only fought after she showed up acting like the Tari of Kinderton.”
“How unlike her,” Carol said dryly.
“She was telling my maids what to cook, ordering elves around like it was her castle. And Brystol didn’t say a word.” Sahara’s pulse ticked faster, not with jealousy, but with something colder.
Displacement.
“Not one word. Just let her play Tari in my home.” The thought scraped at her ribs. “Further confirmation that I have to break this betrothal. I refuse to live with Waizlynn as his mistress.”
The word mistress left a bitter aftertaste.
“Anyway. I’m done thinking about it and her,” she finished.
“Well…,” Mecca said with a wince, “you might not be done with her. She’s been telling everyone that you and Slagwart are together.”
“What?” Sahara froze. “Who is Slagwart?”
Mecca pointed to an ellon leaning against the academy wall. He wore an orange third-year shirt and a scowl that seemed permanently etched into his face.
“He’s half-drow,” Mecca whispered, “and absolutely the last ellon with whom an elleth should be rumored.”
“He doesn’t look familiar,” Sahara said, squinting.
“That’s because he wasn’t here last year,” Mecca murmured. “He got kicked out.”
“When he was a first-year,” Phylan added in a conspiratorial hush, “he was caught in a compromising situation with an elleth named Arlentine. Out by the plorksol field.”
“Who’s Arlentine? I don’t recall her from last year.” Marol frowned.
“Because she wasn’t here,” Mecca said sharply. “Her parents moved her out of the tri-kingdoms from embarrassment.”
“And rumor says she had a youngling not long after,” Phylan added.
All four elleths turned to look at Slagwart at the same time. He noticed. They all looked away instantly.
“Maybe we should go inside,” Sahara said, heat creeping into her cheeks.
Their group headed toward the second-year entrance, excitement bubbling as they reached the archway.
“We get the second floor this year!” Carol said proudly.
“It feels good not being at the bottom anymore,” Phylan agreed.
“And knowing where to go,” Marol added.
“That is definitely nice,” Sahara said. Last year, she was more lost than any of them, both geographically and in the elvan world itself.
As they stepped closer, Sahara spotted Bularia slipping through the entrance. “Hey!” Sahara called with a broad smile.
“Hi,” Bularia said, returning a smile as she walked over.
“Where have you been hiding?” Marol asked.
Bularia rolled her eyes. “Waizlynn made me unpack her trunk.”
“Uh, no,” Sahara said flatly. “You tell her no.”
“When did you become her maid?” Carol asked.
“She stayed at my house all summer,” Bularia sighed. “So she could be close to Brystol.”
Sahara’s eyes rolled so hard it almost hurt.
“She bet me she could sneak into Holestroy Castle without getting caught. And she did. Apparently, she’d done it before, which made the whole thing unfair. Anyway, my punishment—”
“Wait.” Sahara’s stomach dropped. A memory surfaced: Christmas break. A shadow outside the window. The feeling of being watched. “You said she snuck in before. Was she at your house over Christmas holiday?”
“Yes,” Bularia said casually. “We always spend it together.”
Sahara’s breath caught.
So it had been Waizlynn that night. Watching her. Watching Brystol. Or sneaking out after being with him.
“Sahara?” Marol asked softly. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Sahara said quickly. “So how long are you her servant?”
“The first two weeks,” Bularia muttered.
“Have fun with that,” Sahara deadpanned.
“What’s taking—oh.” Phylan reappeared from inside the wall, spotting Bularia with a knowing smirk. “Hi.”
“Hi,” she said softly.
“We have seats saved,” Phylan said, stepping back through the wall. The others followed, but when Sahara stepped forward and spoke her name, the wall remained solid. The sign above didn’t glow. She pressed her palm against the surface. Stone. She tried again. Nothing.
“What is happening?” she whispered. Heat crept up her neck as elves behind her shifted and muttered. Another ellon stepped forward, said his name, and passed through effortlessly.
Her pulse ticked faster. She tried again. Still nothing.
“Having issues, Aranel?” a voice echoed. Sahara looked up to see Headoreon Shawdlortur halfway up the spiral staircase to the third floor.
“The wall won’t let me in,” she said, irritation sharp in her voice.
“Yes,” he said calmly. “Because you’re on the wrong level.”
“No,” she groaned, already knowing what he meant.
“You are enrolled in five third-year courses,” he reminded her. “Surely you didn’t expect to stay with the second-years.”
Her shoulders sagged as she turned toward the stairs, the familiar comfort of her friends suddenly feeling farther away than the third floor.
“You have a third-year gown waiting in your room,” he added.
“I still get my same roommates, right?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes. They were selected carefully, and you will remain with them.”
“Well, at least I have that,” she muttered.
“You’ll be fine, Aranel.” He patted her shoulder. “But I suggest you hurry. The third-years may not appreciate a yellow gown in their ranks.”
“That’s all I need,” Sahara groaned. “More harassment. Wasteland hasn’t even seen me yet, and she’s already started rumors.”
“Make it fast,” he said, descending the stairs.
Sahara exhaled sharply. The stairwell was empty, so she teleported directly to her dorm, Joust Hall, room J4.
The instant she arrived, a suffocating wave of violet perfume slammed into her.
“Ugh.” She fanned the air instinctively. Carol had clearly beaten her here. The familiar room made her smile anyway. She was back and away from her nightmare.
The orange Malorsty gown hung neatly in her closet. With a groan, she lifted it, holding the fabric up against her hair. Too close. Not identical, but close enough to make her scowl.
Just when I thought you couldn’t look any redder. Brystol’s voice echoed faintly in her head, uninvited.
She changed quickly. The assembly had already begun; no one would be lingering in the halls. Teleporting would be fastest.
She focused, teleported, and immediately collided with someone, knocking them both flat onto the floor. Pain flared, followed instantly by humiliation: the same sting she’d felt that first day last year, the run-in with Brystol that gained her the name Pukey.
