When I was a month old, my mother, barely in her twenties, bundled me up and snuck me and my five siblings out of our village home in Laos and into the jungles of Southeast Asia. For aiding the United States during the Vietnam War, the Hmong were forced to flee the mountains, on foot, and cross the Mekong River into Thailand to escape persecution and death.

After spending several years in a refugee camp, my family immigrated to the US when I was three, and we settled in Wisconsin. While my local Hmong community tried hard to hold on to their customs and traditions, I grew up desperately wanting to fit into our small American town. Like Pahua, I spent a lot of time wishing I could be someone else.

I was raised on Hmong superstitions and folktales; shaman customs and Chinese wuxia movies; fairy godmothers, glass slippers, and happily-ever-afters. But as someone straddling two very different cultures, I felt like I didn’t fit into either one. Everything from books to TV to movies to magazines told me that being who I was meant I couldn’t go on epic adventures or discover magic or ride off into the sunset.

I’ve matured since then, and now I know that representation matters, representation matters, representation matters. Being me is enough and always has been. It’s my hope that Pahua’s story will show all the kids out there wondering if they belong that they do.

They do, and no matter where they come from or what they look like, they can be heroes, too.

I owe a lot to my family for always believing in me and never trying to dissuade me from writing as a (wildly impractical) career choice. My mom and brothers used to tell dab neeg, oral Hmong folktales, when I was young. My brother would scare (and delight) me with stories of poj ntxoog, girls who unknowingly fell in love with ghosts, and water spirits who drowned unsuspecting villagers. These were the first stories that inspired my imagination and made me hungry for more—not just more Hmong mythology, but anything I could find about the supernatural and the fantastical.

While the mythology in this book is inspired by the stories I grew up with and the research I conducted, as Zhong tells Pahua, the tradition of oral storytelling and the lack of historical records means there are a dozen different versions of every tale depending on the storyteller, and nothing presented here should be taken as cultural fact. The Hmong are a varied people spread across China and Southeast Asia (and the world!), with different customs, beliefs, and dialects depending on the region.

Our stories have always been fluid, which used to be frustrating to me when I was figuring out who I was and where I fit. Now I’m incredibly honored to count myself among those storytellers.

Mom, I’m sorry it took me so long to write about our myths and folktales, and I hope I’ve made you proud.

In addition to my family, this story wouldn’t have been possible without a whole host of wonderful people. My deepest thanks go out to:

Suzie Townsend, for being my very own fairy godmother and helping me to chase dreams and pursue the impossible. And to Devin Ross as well for sprinkling her magic over this book and then venturing off on new adventures to spread that magic elsewhere.

Stephanie Lurie, for believing in Pahua’s story and then casting her own brand of editorial magic and making it even better than I could have hoped.

Rick Riordan and Disney Hyperion, for the opportunity to share Pahua’s story with readers. My daughter discovered the Percy Jackson books first many years ago and then introduced me to them. They’ve reshaped how I imagine mythological retellings, and it’s not hyperbole to say Pahua’s story might not exist if not for the way his books have inspired me and so many others.

The copy editors; creative director; production people; marketing, publicity, and sales team; assistants; and every person who leaves their mark on a book but not their name. I see and appreciate you so much.

The parents, booksellers, librarians, and educators who put books into the hands of children and encourage whole new generations of readers and writers.

Every reader who has picked up one of my books and lost themselves for a few hours within its pages.

Shveta Thakrar, who is always a light in dark places.

Mindee Arnett, who’s been with me every step of this wild journey called publishing.

My fellowship—Emily, Audrey, Lyn, Imaan, Myra, Patricia—who’ve been with me since even before that.

And again, my family, for carrying me through a jungle, across a river, and then an ocean, so I could write these words that will never be enough—thank you.