Sahara Ashdell: Rebirth of Patreek (Book 3)

“They have her,” Sahara whispered, her voice trembling as tears blurred her fuzzy sight.

The Kingdom of Darkuth stretched beneath her from the hilltop gazebo—its scattered candle lights flickering like dying stars in an ocean of shadow.

“They have her!” she cried, louder this time, panic cracking through every word.

Her legs gave out, and she hit the stone ground.

“Are you alright?” Brystol was suddenly there, his hands gripping her shoulders, trying to pull her focus to him.

Sahara shoved him back with more force than necessary.

“Did you hear me?” she demanded, her voice rising, frantic. “They have her! We have to do something!”

Brystol recoiled slightly, confusion flashing across his face.

“What are you talking about?” he snapped. “You were just floating in the air with…” He paused, swallowing hard, looking scared. “Your eyes. They were completely white. You looked like you were…” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Like you weren’t even here.”

“I was there,” Sahara insisted, clutching her head as a sharp, searing pain tore through it. “I saw them.”

Hexaria stilled as Sahara reeled back through what she had just seen.

***

A scream tore from Patreek’s throat—raw, animal-like, wrong—echoing through the stone chamber.

Liquid boiling in a cauldron beside him was an unnatural red, thick as blood and bubbling as though it breathed. Each burst released a sickly, metallic scent that clung to the air. A ladle dipped slowly into the churning surface, lifting the substance with eerie precision before pouring it into a square-cut glass. The liquid slithered against the sides, reluctant to settle.

A soft, wicked laugh followed as the elleth handed it to Patreek. “It is perfect, Master.”

Sahara couldn’t see the elleth’s face, but when she spoke, she sounded familiar.

The glass struck Patreek’s lips, and he drank

.

When the liquid was gone, the vessel slipped from his grasp, shattering against the stone floor as his body convulsed. His scream rose higher, splintering into something inhuman as his skin blistered and bubbled—stretching, warping—as though something beneath it struggled to escape.

“Fear not, Master,” the elleth said calmly, watching him writhe. “It will only hurt for a moment.”

Then—

She turned, and her eyes locked onto Sahara. It was Bularia

.

***

“They have Bularia.” Sahara said, tears filled her eyes.

“A vision,” Hexaria said, her voice quieter now. It was laced with both concern and intrigue. “Do you have them often?”

“My head—” Sahara gasped.

The pain surged, overwhelming loud and buzzing, relentlessly. It filled her skull like a swarm she couldn’t escape. A broken sound escaped her as she doubled over, pressing her hands to her temples before collapsing forward into Brystol.

“What is happening to her?” he demanded, his voice tight as he steadied her against him.

“It is not unusual for powerful elves,” Hexaria said quickly, already moving. She darted toward a cluttered shelf lined with strange bottles, her fingers brushing over glass and cork. “Visions often begin after an elf’s seventeenth birthday, if they are powerful enough to have them.”

She paused—then brightened.

“Ah!”

A large purple jar hovered toward her with a flick of her pixie magic. The lid popped free with a soft plop, releasing a thick, lumpy substance that sloshed as she poured it into a glass.

“Here,” Hexaria said, wobbling slightly beneath the glass’s weight as she carried it toward Sahara. At only six inches tall, the glass was nearly as large as she was. “This is Grutagah, it should help with your headache.”

Brystol took the glass from Hexaria, eyeing the thick, uneven liquid inside with open suspicion before passing it to Sahara.

“I think this might be for you,” he said.

He had spent the entire summer traveling beside her through distant kingdoms, learning their customs, their magic, their strange and intricate rules—but the pixies remained utterly incomprehensible to him.

Sahara didn’t hesitate. She raised the glass and swallowed.

For half a heartbeat, the pounding eased. Then agony exploded through her skull far worse than before.

The glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the stone as a scream tore from her throat. She clutched her head, doubling over, the pain raw and unrestrained.

“Do something!” Brystol snapped, panic breaking through as he turned on Hexaria.

The pixie only stared, her expression caught somewhere between fascination and confusion.

“I—I don’t—”

“Her magic is growing stronger.” The calm voice of Verdiwild cut cleanly through the chaos.

He stepped into the gazebo as though he had always been there, his presence immediate. His sharp gaze swept over Sahara before he extended a hand.

“Jresturo.”

A slender, intricate metal instrument appeared in his palm with a faint shimmer. He crouched beside her without hesitation.

“Hold her still,” he demanded.

Brystol obeyed instantly, pushing Sahara’s hair back from her face. As he did, his hand faltered—just briefly at her ear. The tip of her ear had begun to sharpen into a faint, unmistakable point.

Verdiwild pressed the cool metal tool gently against Sahara’s forehead. It emitted a soft, chiming ting as he murmured something low and fluid in the ancient elven tongue, the words curling through the air like a spell half-forgotten by time.

The crushing pressure inside Sahara’s skull unraveled, dissolving as quickly as it had come. The relentless buzzing fell silent, and her breathing steadied. Relief washed through her so quickly her knees nearly gave way.

Verdiwild withdrew the instrument. “That should help.”

For a moment, Sahara remained still, as though afraid the pain might return if she moved too quickly. Then, slowly, she pushed herself upright, slipping free from Brystol’s grasp.

“Thank you, Verdiwild,” she said, her voice quiet.

He studied her carefully, his expression unreadable before asking, “How long have you been having these headaches?”

Sahara hesitated just a fraction too long.

“It isn’t a big deal,” she said, brushing it off with a weak shrug. “I’ve only had a couple.”

“A couple?” Brystol scoffed, folding his arms as he shot her a look. “Try a couple a day for the past two months. Though none have been as bad as this one.”

Sahara shot him a glare, but it lacked its usual force.

Verdiwild said nothing for a moment. Then, he extended the metal instrument toward her.

“Take it,” he said.

She did, turning it carefully in her hands. Up close, it was even stranger. It was etched with shifting elvan markings that seemed to move when she wasn’t looking directly at them.

“Sleep with it beneath your pillow,” Verdiwild continued. “It will counteract the headaches.”

“I have never seen an elf suffer headaches from their magic that Grutagah didn’t cure,” Hexaria said, her wings buzzing softly as she drifted closer to Sahara. “Unless…”

She trailed off.

Sahara frowned, waiting. But Hexaria did not finish.

Instead, her gaze dropped, sharp and deliberate, to the chain resting against Sahara’s collarbone.

For a fleeting moment, something unreadable flickered across the pixie’s face before she glanced quickly toward Verdiwild.

“Unless what?” Sahara pressed, speaking to Hexaria in pixie language, which Verdiwild could not understand.

Hexaria hesitated.

Then, more quietly, “What is that you wear around your neck? I do not think I have ever seen you without it.”

Sahara’s hand instinctively rose, fingers brushing the chain. She shifted slightly, ensuring the gem remained hidden beneath the fabric of her clothing.

“It was a gift,” she said carefully. “From Verdiwild when I arrived. He said it would protect me.”

“Ah.”

Hexaria drifted backward at once, her tone light—but her eyes lingered. Again and again, her eyes flicked to the chain, as though drawn to it by something she could not ignore.

Sahara’s unease deepened.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No,” Hexaria replied quickly—too quickly.

Her wings faltered for half a second as she cast another brief, almost nervous glance toward Verdiwild, whose expression shifted. Not in surprise but in a scolding manner.

Hexaria forced a small smile. “Nothing is wrong.” The words were light.

But the silence that followed them wasn’t.

Sahara’s fingers drifted back to the chain at her neck, brushing the hidden gem beneath her clothing. It felt… warmer than before.

Or maybe that was just her imagination.

Hexaria didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Her gaze lingered on the necklace, no longer curious.

Almost afraid.

Sahara’s pulse quickened.

“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked, quieter this time. Though she wasn’t sure why. No one else understood their words.

Hexaria opened her mouth—

Then stopped.

Verdiwild shifted behind them.

And just like that, the moment shattered.

Hexaria straightened, her expression smoothing into something bright and harmless once more.

“Nothing,” she said.

But Sahara didn’t believe her. Not even a little.

Sahara’s fingers tightened around the chain.

She had worn the necklace for almost a year. It had been for protection, exactly as Verdiwild promised. Right?

But why was Hexaria’s reaction so confusing?

Sahara looked toward the pixie, but Hexaria refused to meet her eyes.

What exactly is the necklace protecting—and what does Hexaria know about it?

Find Book 1 on Galatea Now and Book 2 releases on September 30th on Galatea!