He barely managed to hide his joy. He had had to wait a long time for this moment. All these countless years, the Chronicler had mistaken him for his son, but he knew better. He was not born to be a Chronicler. No, he was a Dreamer. While his "father" recorded the history of Tirakan as it happened, he looked over his shoulder and dreamed of how it might continue. How amazed he was to find that from time to time one of his sneering little ideas found its way out of his dreams and into Tirakan's world. This happened quite rarely, an outrage here, a demonic pact there - trifles in his eyes. But for him it was a sign of his destiny.
And now, at last, the moment had come. The Chronicler had laid aside the quill that recorded Tirakan's history, closed the thick history book and left the room. As he slowly stepped out of the shadows of the room and walked towards the abandoned lectern, his hand trembled with tension and anticipation. And as he picked up the pen and wrote the first words in the book, he felt himself reinventing himself. No longer was he just the Dreamer. No, he was now the narrator. And the feeling of power that permeated him and flowed from the tip of the pen left no doubt: from now on, not just a few dreams would find their way to Tirakan, but every word, every syllable he wrote would become reality.
He laughed. Yes, it would be an interesting 50 years until the end of the millennium. And after that? Well, he would certainly think of something interesting when the time came....