A 26-year-old man slept sprawled out on a mattress on the floor—not because he lacked a bed, but by choice. Around him were a few wine bottles, not all from the night before, probably.
Sunlight struck his face. Not the first rays—they had come and gone. It was already nine in the morning, and he should have been up an hour or two earlier. Still with his eyes closed, he grimaced as the light pressed against his eyelids.
Slowly, reluctantly, the man sat up on the mattress. He yawned and tried to fix his hair—or rather, the mop on his head. He got up and stretched as far as he could. Then he headed to the bathroom to bathe, or at least clean himself up.
"Another morning with no memory of the night before," the man muttered, looking into the mirror.
He smoothed his hair, which wasn't exactly long, but had plenty of volume. A few gray hairs were already showing, but that wasn't strange. His father had gone gray early too. His beard was growing again, but he decided not to shave. He always left for tomorrow what could be done today. That old saying definitely wasn't his motto.
He left the bathroom and dressed quickly, not bothering with neatness. He looked for water—his hangover was fierce that morning. Though really, he was used to it. He ate something light and quick, far less enthusiastically than he had drunk the night before.
He lived in a warm city, full of wide walkways, where grass mingled with market stalls, people talking, making art, sharing life. But there were also colder corners, reminders of a harsher reality.
This man lived in the last bastion of resistance against an enemy nation, located in the far east of the known world—or at least, as far as anyone could go. A kind of abyss surrounded the entire territory, no matter which direction one traveled.
That enemy nation and the man's homeland were separated by a vast archipelago. Half the world was made up of islands—some large, others small, abundant and winding, forming natural trenches. A geographic wall that prevented either nation from easily overwhelming the other. The only certain thing was that a war had been raging for many years, maybe decades.
Somehow, thirty-three years earlier, a tsunami had surged from the east, threatening to destroy everything. Eventually, people managed to rebuild the city, called Lumière, the last city left to them.
There were villages, fields, farms, a few inhabited castles—but Lumière was the nerve center of the nation. From there came the information, the decisions… and of course, the military drafts.
But this man didn't concern himself with any of that. He sat outside the recruitment post eating a piece of cheese, while its imposing presence undercut the supposed joy and peace of the city. Only those who bore a strange power—one that had emerged after the tsunami—could go to war.
It was a kind of magical ability, allowing one to manipulate energy, light, and color. Anyone who had it, man or woman, was required to serve from the age of eighteen.
This man supposedly didn't have that power. Or so he claimed. In truth, he had learned to pretend so convincingly that no one ever drafted him. In Lumière, everyone believed his only real talents were playing the piano and drinking wine like a fish.
That day, he had to work. He was supposed to load provisions and prepare the ships leaving the next day to explore the archipelago and assist allied forces still fighting. Civilians weren't allowed on these missions—only croma users.
He jumped onto the tram with ease, not paying. People were too tired of pulling him off to bother anymore. Soon he reached the docks. He walked quickly and made his way to the warehouse where he was expected to load supplies. Upon entering, a pair of eyes locked onto him. They belonged to a nearly sixty-year-old man, with a thick white beard and a stern expression. Despite his age, he was still strong.
"You finally showed up," said the older man, not making eye contact, his voice edged with irony. "I was about to send a couple of workers to find you. I feared the worst."
"Don't exaggerate, Dad. I'm not going to die from a couple bottles of wine," said the younger man as he approached and hefted a large sack of potatoes onto his shoulder.
"This isn't about that, Clément," the older man replied, tightening the last cords on a small cart full of sacks. "This job keeps us all going. If they don't get their food on time, they go into battle unprepared."
"I know, I know…" Clément muttered, setting the sack down in the cart and adjusting to start pulling it toward the dock. "This is our front too. We're here to support the expeditions."
"The truth is, that shouldn't be your role, kid," Clément's father shot back, clearly irritated. "We both know that if you're not fighting in the war, it's not because you lack power. It's because of your mother."
Clément's mother, Calíope, had died about eight years earlier, just before he was old enough to be drafted. On her deathbed, she had begged her husband, Maximilian, to promise he'd hide their son's ability to wield croma. She said she could only die in peace if she knew her son wouldn't perish amid the horrors of the archipelago.
Maximilian agreed. But Clément was never the same after his mother's death. He wanted to fight for his people. He was ready to sacrifice his life. But hearing her request… something in him shut down. He couldn't go. His mother had asked it—not just of his father, but of him.
And since Clément knew he couldn't convince the people of Lumière that he lacked croma, he chose to sabotage himself. He drank day and night, party after party. He started fights, lost job after job, and only stood out for his extraordinary piano playing—which he did mainly to earn easy money and charm some admirer into his bed.
"You said it yourself, boss," Clément replied, his voice darker. "And now I'm no longer fit to go, even if I wanted to. There's more wine than blood in my veins."
Maximilian said nothing more. He simply followed Clément as he hauled the cart. They spent the entire morning loading one, two, three… up to seven ships. Other teams were working on the rest of the fleet, preparing for its imminent departure.
Every year, more people were drafted, even though the population wasn't growing fast enough to keep up. In this way, a new army was formed annually, composed of several platoons. No one knew exactly why, but this yearly deployment was always called an "expedition."
Likely it was because the battlefield was that overly complex archipelago. This was the year of Expedition 33—the largest force the nation had ever assembled.
There was growing concern, however: the previous squad had gone silent. There had been no contact in some time. Yet communication lines hadn't been cut, and there had been no sign of enemy incursions beyond the archipelago, so it wasn't clear if they'd suffered a defeat. If that were the case, surely the enemy would have shown signs by now, even if they hadn't reached Lumière.
"You'll be saying that every year left in your life," Maximilian said, staring at his son. "But... by the time you finally decide to go, it might be too late. Maybe they'll get here before you make up your mind."
"I suppose you're right. But even if I proved to everyone that I have the ability to go to war, I doubt they'd want to send me anyway."
Maximilian fell silent. He continued his work and let Clément go home early. Clément used the time to stroll around, play the piano, and try to charm a girl—but he wasn't particularly successful. He was distracted, truth be told. His father's words had struck deeper than he wanted to admit. He didn't even meet his usual wine quota that night.
The next morning, Clément was awakened by a forceful pounding at his door. He got up grumbling, but quickly. He rushed to put on his pants. The knocking came again—rapid, insistent. Not a neighbor asking for sugar, not a friendly call. This was demanding, almost hostile.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Clément shouted, hopping toward the door on one leg as he finished pulling on his pants.
Opening the door, he was met by an unexpected sight: the captain of the expeditionary forces. Tall, stern, wearing a purple armband. His build was firm, his long hair tied back in a ponytail. This was no casual visit. That was obvious.
"Clément Beaumont. You've been enlisted."
"What? I... think you've got the wrong guy. I don't—"
"Your father signed the papers. And admitted your condition," said the man. "I'm Geralt. I'll be your commander. Training starts today. Come with me."
The day was long. Clément received his uniform and got a haircut to match the other recruits. He was brought to a preliminary training session—and to everyone's surprise, his technique, speed, and strength were all remarkable. It was hard to believe that the drunk, brawling Clément was this skilled. But these were the echoes of his secret solo training sessions since youth.
There had always been something in Clément that told him he had to fight. He was naturally talented. He could summon a longsword and a dagger, both of which he wielded with elegance, control, and instinct. No one had ever seen this side of him. Only his mother and father had witnessed him use his weapons and his power.
That was what terrified his mother. They would've sent him to war immediately. They would've made him a symbol—a perfect martyr. She couldn't bear the thought.
After the long day, Clément returned to his room. He climbed up to the roof, as he often did with ease. From there, he gazed out at the sea. Far off on the horizon, barely visible at the curve of the world, were the islands of the archipelago. The territory of slaughter. The place where the blood of his people and their enemies had mingled.
A shiver ran through him. It wasn't fear. Nor a thirst for glory. It was something older. Something that didn't belong to the present. It was the thrill of adventure, of the unknown. And, at the same time, a pang of nostalgia.
A primal emotion, as if thousands of sleeping voices stirred in his throat. He didn't know why, but his lips moved on their own. He whispered it to the wind, like someone repeating a forgotten dream:
"Tomorrow comes."
The phrase wasn't his. Or maybe it was. A buried murmur, echoing from some familiar yet foreign place. It was a resonance without an author, carrying him into dreams he used to have—dreams of fantasy, adventure, strange creatures. He didn't know where they came from. Someone had once told him about such things, like those that lived in the archipelago. But the source was unclear.
Clément barely understood where those visions came from. Nor did he grasp the true implications of those dreams. Not just because of what he saw, but because of what they were doing to him. Maybe they didn't belong to a foreign land. Maybe they were part of him.
And probably, the only way to find out… was to set sail.
Being drafted might not have been his choice. But that night, Clément understood something: this had been chasing him all along. He realized it was meant to be. And with his gaze fixed beyond the edge of the sea, he felt a certainty settle deep in his bones:
Someone had written a story about him—and for him.