In a cave at the top of Thunder Hill lived a family of dragons. There was Papa, whose fire could roast a whole pumpkin. There was Mama, whose fire glowed the color of honey. There were the twins, Blaze and Cinder, who could make fireworks just by sneezing.
And there was Wick. Wick was the littlest.
Every dragon cub learns to breathe fire, and every evening Wick tried. He took a deep breath. He puffed out his chest. He opened his mouth wide and — poof. Out came one tiny, wobbly puff of warm air. No flame. Not even a spark.
“It will come,” said Mama. “Fire comes when it’s ready.”
But Wick was tired of waiting. Blaze and Cinder had lit the lanterns. Papa had cooked the supper. And all Wick had was a puff.
That night, a storm rolled over Thunder Hill. The wind howled at the cave door. The rain came sideways. And one by one, the cave lanterns flickered… and went out.
The cave went dark. Very dark.
“I can’t see my tail,” whispered Cinder.
“I can’t see anything,” whispered Blaze.
Papa tried to relight the lanterns, but his fire was too big and hot, and it blew them right off the wall. Mama tried, but her honey-fire was too bright, and it made everyone squint and turn away. The twins tried, but their fireworks were too loud, and the baby bats in the corner woke up crying.
And in the dark, little Wick took a deep breath.
He puffed out his chest. He opened his mouth. And out came — poof — one tiny, wobbly puff of warm air.
Only this time, it was not nothing. This time, in the dark, everyone saw it: a small, soft, glowing orange puff, no bigger than a plum, that floated up and hung in the air like a little lantern of its own.
It did not blow anything over. It did not make anyone squint. It did not wake the baby bats. It just glowed — warm and gentle and exactly enough.
“Oh,” said Mama softly. “Wick. That’s a night-light fire.”
Wick puffed again. Another glowing plum floated up. And again, and again, until six little orange puffs bobbed near the ceiling, and the whole cave was filled with a soft, sleepy, cozy light.
The twins yawned. Papa lay his big head down. The baby bats stopped crying and tucked their wings in.
“I thought my fire was too small,” Wick whispered.
“It isn’t small,” said Mama, curling around him. “It’s just the right size for the dark.”
And Wick fell asleep beneath his six little lanterns, warm and proud, while the storm grumbled itself to sleep outside.
If it’s dark in your room right now, imagine one small orange glow floating up near the ceiling. That’s Wick’s fire, keeping watch. It’s just the right size.
🌙 The End 🌙
Sweet dreams, little one.
✨ The Sunday Story Club
A brand-new bedtime story lands every Sunday. Join free — no spam, ever.
