The Sandman

There are some traditions you can't break. Every evening, a member of the Kasirga clan is assigned to story duty, although it's never actually a chore. While the adults gather for the vigil, the children have their own special time too. It was the same for my great-grandfather and his great-grandmother before him. Yes, you're right: It's glorified babysitting. Marang clings to me while waiting for the story. Some children are already asking for the story of Maya Vastag, while others vote for the one about Niavhe. But I already know which one I want to tell tonight: the story of Chiara Caceres and the Song of One. And for that, I'll call on a special ally. Not Geppetto, because I already used his services for the last performance. No, this time it will be the Sandman, to make sure everyone stays asleep after this evening's little tale...

The Eidolon appears in the dorm in a cloud of golden dust. Outside, night has fallen, and I can already hear the sounds of laughter and dancing. As I start to tell my tale, ghostly figures appear, made from sand and half-formed dreams. I'm the storyteller and narrator, while the Sandman is the director and production designer. A pinch of silica makes palaces appear, including the Asterion, which we're now drifting towards on the path of exile. A dash of dreams brings forth cathedrals of glass and greenery, fields of spears and metal. The wide, fascinated eyes of the little ones gradually begin to droop. As the grains turn into a battlefield, the kids also fight with all their strength to stay awake. But I can already see the first ones starting to fall, their eyelids drifting shut as they lose their battle with the oncoming wave of sleep.