Tomorrow Will Come

11th of Solis, 987 A.D.

The sun blazed high over the golden dunes of Hesca, its light refracting like molten glass across the sprawling new capital the elves had built from stone, sand, and stubborn pride. Music drifted through the air, bright and jubilant, as banners danced in the heat. The Festival had begun, a celebration of survival, of rebirth. For what felt like the first time in centuries, Hiserius Anakiir stood without his helm, feeling the warmth of the desert wind on his weathered face.

Clad in ceremonial white and gold, he weaved his way through the crowds, bowing his head politely when addressed, but smiling faintly, almost absently. For once, the Royal Guard was led not by him but by his successor, a promising young elf who he had trained himself.

Near the great pavilion, Serani Esta awaited him - radiant and composed, her presence as steady as the mountain roots the elves had once called home. Hiserius approached and bowed, more from habit than necessity.

“You look uneasy, old friend,” Esta said warmly, a glass of desert wine in her hand.

“I have never trusted peace,” Hiserius admitted, his voice roughened with age. “It is a stranger to me.”

“It is time you made it a companion instead,” Esta replied, her gaze kind_. “Our people are adjusting. Slowly, stubbornly… but they are. The desert is cruel, yes - but it does not demand more from us than we can give.”_

He nodded, saying nothing for a long moment. Around them, laughter and life filled the air, but a part of him still lingered elsewhere - on battlefields soaked in blood and ash, on memories too vast for words.

Later, alone in his chambers, he stood before the simple armor stand where his gilded plates hung. For so long they had been an extension of himself - forged not only from metal but from the scales and heart of Thirdax, his dragon, his bondmate. The armor gleamed faintly in the dying light, each curve and seam a story of battles endured, oaths sworn, blood spilled.

With slow, deliberate movements, Hiserius removed each piece: the pauldrons, the breastplate, the greaves. As he laid them down, he let the memories come.

Three and a half centuries ago, he had fought against the forces of Vecna. Thirdax had fallen there - slain in a desperate charge to buy their allies time. From Thirdax’s remains, the sacred armor had been wrought, a pact of eternal remembrance.

Forty years ago, he had marched against Garcius, and felt the weight of failure as well as victory. Nearly three decades past, he had crossed blades with demons under a bleeding sky, knowing that even survival was a kind of loss.

And long before even those wars, there had been another path set before him - one he never walked. He and Thirdax were meant to become the next incarnation of Vitrix, but destiny had chosen differently. Thirdax was gone, and Esta, Petir, and the mighty Fenlar had been born, their bond eclipsing his own with a brilliance no one could deny.

It had hurt then - but standing here now, bare-chested, feeling the kiss of the evening breeze on old scars, Hiserius understood. His life had been spent well. Not every sword was destined to become a crown.

With a final, reverent touch, he traced the emblem of Thirdax etched into the breastplate. Then he turned away, leaving the armor behind.

Tomorrow would come. And for once, he would meet it not as a commander, nor as a soldier - but simply as Hiserius.