In the stillness of moonlit nights, when crickets sing their silvery hymns, Askar's voice would rise above the whispering breeze. His stories, woven from the threads of forgotten times, danced like shadows in the light of the waning moon.
One tale spoke of the Keeper of Stars, a solitary figure who wandered the desolate plains, gathering fallen stars in a tattered cloak. "Stars have a song," Askar would say, "and only the Keeper can silence them. Beware the silence, for it carries tales of places untouched by dawn."
The children, eyes wide with the flickering glow of firelight, clung to every pause, every breath. They imagined the Keeper's lonely path, the echo of stars cradled in his arms, and the soft lullabies they might sing of the ephemeral beauty of night.
And then there was the tale of the Moonlit Dancer, a phantom who twirled upon the hilltops under the moon’s gaze. "Her dance is both a blessing and a curse," warned Askar, "for those who watch too long may forget the earth beneath their feet and soar into the night, lost among the stars."
Each fable ended with the same haunting refrain: "The moonlit sky holds secrets no sun can unveil." The children murmured this truth, their dreams laced with the soft sighs of Askar's haunting lullabies.