Princess Amaya drifted deep into sleep, and the dream took her—softly at first, like the hush of silk across skin, then suddenly, as if pulled through water into another world.
She was in Miraga again and she was six years old.
The air shimmered with golden light, and the wildflowers swayed in the warm breeze. Her younger self—barefoot and laughing—ran across sun-drenched meadows, her long hair flying behind her like a ribbon of light. Around her bounded two familiar shapes: Cirrus, the white-furred wolf, and Kala, the mischievous tiger with fire in her eyes. Laughter filled the skies like music.
Watching from under the great fig tree was her father, Ibrahim—his eyes kind and warm, his smile carved from sunlight. He was the pillar of her world, tall and unshakable, hands behind his back as he watched her with pride.
