The autumn wind howled through the ravaged land, sweeping dust and dying leaves through the broken streets of Mérida, a once-proud bastion of Visigothic rule. The sun, heavy and golden, hung low on the horizon, casting jagged shadows over the fortress walls. Somewhere beyond those walls, in the open plains where the wind carried the scent of smoke and distant bloodshed, the invaders waited.
Once, Mérida had been a city of prosperity, a fortress of stone and faith. Its grand cathedral, built upon the ruins of a Roman temple, had stood as a testament to the endurance of the Visigothic kingdom. Its streets had bustled with traders, artisans, and scholars, while its noble families lived in the sprawling villas that still bore the mosaics of their Roman ancestors.
But that was before.
Before the Moors crossed the sea. Before the banners of the crescent moon unfurled over Toledo. Before the kingdom that had ruled Hispania for three centuries was shattered in a single battle.
Now, Mérida was a refugee camp disguised as a fortress, its courtyards filled with the wounded and the desperate, its halls echoing with whispered prayers and quiet weeping.
And yet, in the highest chamber of the keep, beneath the flickering glow of torches, the last embers of the Visigothic kingdom still smoldered.
The candlelight flickered over the worn banners that lined the stone walls, their golden crosses barely visible against the blackened fabric.
At the far end of the chamber, seated upon a high-backed wooden chair that barely deserved to be called a throne, was Aurelius Rodrik—the man they called the last King of the Visigoths.
Or so they claimed.
He did not feel like a king.
He barely even felt like himself.
The name Aurelius Rodrik should have meant something to him. It should have resonated in his bones, stirred memories of childhood lessons, of courtly ceremonies, of a father's approving nods and a mother's whispered prayers.
But it didn't.
Because he wasn't Aurelius Rodrik.
Not really.
Rodrik—the real Rodrik—had been born as the bastard son of King Roderic, the last ruler of the Visigothic kingdom. His father, desperate for an heir, had granted him legitimacy in the final years of his reign, a hollow gesture made only because there was no one else. No brothers. No cousins of royal blood. No legitimate son to carry on his name.
The real Aurelius Rodrik had been on the run when he fell off his horse on a bridge and drowned. This body now contains the soul of a young man from 1,300 years later. By the time the kingdom fell, he had been the last heir of a dead dynasty.
Three days ago, he had been someone else entirely. A man from another world, another time. A world where history had already written the fate of the Visigoths, where their kingdom had been nothing more than a footnote in the annals of time. A world of steel and glass, of reason and science, where the notion of kings and conquests belonged to stories and textbooks, not reality.
And then—he had fallen.
Or drowned. Or died. Or something. The memory was blurred, distant, like trying to recall the details of a dream just after waking. But when he had opened his eyes, it had been this world that had greeted him.
This body.
This life.
This kingdom, dying in his hands.
Three centuries ago, the Visigoths had ruled Hispania as undisputed kings.
Their ancestors had once been mere mercenaries in the service of Rome, hired swords who had marched beneath the imperial banners and fought in wars that were not their own. But when Rome had crumbled beneath its own weight, when the legions had abandoned the West to the chaos of invading tribes and warring emperors, the Visigoths had remained.
They had taken Hispania as their own. They had built a kingdom upon its soil, mixing with the Roman nobility, adopting their language, their customs, even their faith. They had fought against the Franks in Gaul, against the Byzantines in the south, against the Suebi in the west—and they had won.
For three hundred years, they had ruled as kings.
And then, in one summer, it had all come undone.
Rodrik exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the wooden armrest of the throne.
The Moors had come from the sea, their armies led by Tariq ibn Ziyad, a Berber general who had crossed the straits with an army of warriors hardened by decades of desert warfare. They had moved swiftly, striking at the heart of the kingdom with a precision that no one had expected.
And at Guadalete, the kingdom had died.
The battle had been a disaster before it even began. King Roderic, desperate to crush the invaders before they could gain a foothold, had gathered every man he could muster—a force of Gothic nobles, hastily assembled militias, and whatever levies could be pulled from the countryside.
He had marched south to meet the enemy.
He had never returned.
There were conflicting stories about his fate. Some claimed he had been slain in battle, his body lost in the carnage. Others whispered that he had fled, abandoning his kingdom to save his own life. The truth no longer mattered.
To the Moors, he was the last king of Hispania.
To the survivors, he was a name on a battlefield, a ghost of a fallen empire.
And to Aurelius Rodrik, he was nothing more than a stranger.
A sharp knock at the door shattered his thoughts.