Every evening, just as the sun began to melt into the golden desert, Zoya stood at the outskirts of the village, bare feet, cape streaming, holding her wooden sword tightly.
“Don’t go too far,” Mama would always yell.
“I won’t,” Zoya replied, eyes fixed on the horizon. “I’m just waiting for the dragon-slayer.”
To her, Papa was not a soldier. Papa was Sir Zayan of the Fire Hills – the bravest knight who rode the wind and battled dragons of smoke and stone.
Mama explained to her that he had gone to keep them safe.
But Zoya knew the truth. He had gone to the Land of Roars, where roaring monsters guarded treasure caves with fiery tails. Papa had told her stories, and she added the sparkles in between.
She pictured him in armor of gold, flying on a creature of light. She imagined him saving lost villages, befriending moon-foxes, and writing letters on shooting stars.
“Is he coming today?” she’d ask Mama.
“Perhaps. Soon.”
Zoya would close her eyes, chant a spell she made up, and throw sand into the wind — her own secret magic to bring him home.
One evening, just as the sky had ripened to the color of mangoes and marigolds, she saw a figure in the distance. A silhouette walking steadily. Slow. Tall.
She held her breath.
Her legs began to run before her brain could catch up. The cape flowed behind her like fire, the sword pounding against her leg.
The shadow formed. A man, worn by travel, exhausted. Face creased by the journey, boots caked with sand.
But Zoya didn’t see that.
She saw a hero.
She saw the dragon-slayer.
“Papa!” she cried, throwing herself into his arms.
He dropped his backpack, stooped, and held her tight. The weight of the world slipped from his shoulders in that moment.
“Did you fight them, Papa?” she panted, eyes wide with wonder.
He smiled, his heart full and sore. “Every single one.”
“Were you scared?”
“Only until I remembered you were waiting.”
She traced the lines of his face with her tiny fingers, laughing. “You resemble someone who has been through a sandstorm.”
“Maybe I did.”
He picked her up and inspected her sword. “Keeping Mama safe, were you?”
“Of course. I’m your squire.”
They laughed, the kind of laughter that stitched hearts together. Behind them, the sun set in the distance, kissing the ground farewell for the night.
And the sky in Zoya’s eyes glowed as well, because Papa had brought magic.
“My Papa walks the golden skies,
with dragon fire in his eyes.
He slays the dark, brings home the light,
and hugs me gently every night.”
