"Your Majesty."
The voice was deep, gruff, carrying the disciplined authority of a soldier. General Rodemir.
Rodrik turned his head slowly. The doors creaked open, revealing the battle-scarred noble standing in the dim torchlight. His armor, dented and scuffed from too many battles, bore the fading insignia of the royal army.
General Rodemir was one of the last true Gothic warlords left in Hispania. A veteran of countless battles, he had once commanded the armies of the south, defending the coastal cities from Byzantine incursions. He was not a man of politics, nor was he a man of diplomacy. He was a warrior, first and foremost, and his loyalty was to the battlefield.
That made him dangerous—but it also made him trustworthy.
"The nobles are waiting," Rodemir said simply
Rodrik exhaled.
Of course they were. Because a kingdom needed a king, and a king was supposed to make decisions.
But how did you rule a kingdom that no longer existed?
How did you lead an army that had already lost?
Rodemir stepped aside, and from the shadows behind him, another figure emerged—Count Oppa, his fine silk robes untouched by the dirt and sweat of exile.
A politician, through and through.
"Your Majesty," Oppa said smoothly, bowing just low enough to be respectful, but not so much that it was humble. "Your council awaits your wisdom."
Wisdom.
The word almost made him laugh.
Rodrik forced himself to rise, feeling the weight of his chainmail settle over his shoulders. The weight of a kingdom that was no longer his own.
He adjusted his cloak, smoothing out the creases with steady hands.
"If we're going to meet them," he muttered, more to himself than to the others, "then let's not keep them waiting."
He stepped forward, out of the chamber, and into the halls of a kingdom that teetered on the edge of oblivion.
The candlelight flickered, casting long shadows upon the stone walls as Aurelius Rodrik stepped forward, his boots echoing against the cold floor.
The corridor beyond the chamber was lined with armored guards—men who had once been knights of the Visigothic court, now reduced to exiles in their own land. Their helmets bore the dents of past battles, their cloaks were threadbare, their swords more rust than steel. Yet their eyes followed him with something more than duty. Something closer to desperation.
They did not see a man.
They saw a name. A title. A banner to rally beneath.
Rodrik clenched his jaw, his fingers curling at his sides. How could they not see it? How could they not understand that he was not their king? That the man they had once known—the true heir of Roderic's bloodline—was gone?
And yet… they needed him.
The realization settled upon him like a weight he had not yet grown used to. They needed a king, and he was the only one left.
The Great Hall of Mérida was a place that had once known feasts and celebrations, where noblemen had once gathered to drink wine and tell tales of battles fought against the Franks and Byzantines. Now, the long wooden tables had been cleared, and the only sound that filled the chamber was the hushed murmurs of men waiting for their fate to be decided.
They stood in small clusters—some draped in the faded finery of exiled lords, others in the dull chainmail of weary warriors. Their faces bore the marks of sleepless nights, of battles lost, of a future uncertain.
At the head of the gathering, beneath the great iron chandelier that still hung from the vaulted ceiling, the council of nobles waited.
Rodrik took his place at the end of the long table, the wooden chair beneath him offering no comfort.
To his right, Rodemir leaned forward, his calloused hands resting upon the table. A soldier through and through, his scars were not merely from war—they were the marks of a man who had spent his life fighting battles both on and off the field. His presence alone was a testament to his loyalty to the old kingdom, and to the idea that perhaps, just perhaps, it could be rebuilt.
To his left sat Count Oppa, his fine silk robes stark against the rough-hewn wood of the table. Where Rodemir exuded the hardened resolve of a warrior, Oppa carried himself with the polished ease of a man who had spent a lifetime navigating the corridors of power. A politician, not a soldier.
And beyond them, the rest of the council—men who had once been lords of cities that no longer belonged to them, men who had once commanded armies that had long since scattered.
Rodrik let his gaze pass over each of them in turn, measuring their faces, searching for something—support, doubt, contempt? He could not yet tell.
Finally, Rodemir spoke.
"We cannot remain here," he said, his voice steady, but firm. "The enemy has already begun scouting the surrounding lands. If we linger too long, we will be trapped in Mérida like rats in a burning house."
A murmur passed through the hall. Some nodded in agreement, others cast uneasy glances toward one another.
"We must leave," Count Theodemir added. A broad-shouldered man with graying hair, he had once ruled a prosperous region near the Ebro River—before the Moors took it from him. "If we go north, we may yet find allies among the highland lords. Asturias is untouched."
"Asturias?" scoffed Bishop Julian, his crimson robes draped like a curtain of blood. The bishop was not merely a religious figure—he was a man of power, a representative of the church's influence in Hispania. "Fleeing to the hills like common brigands? What future does a kingdom have in the caves of the north?"
"The same future it has in the hands of a coward who would surrender before the fight is even begun," Rodemir shot back.
Julian bristled, but said nothing.
Rodrik barely heard them. His mind drifted, not to this world, but to the world he had left behind.
A world where the Visigoths were long gone. Where their kingdom had fallen into legend, its ruins buried beneath centuries of conquest. A world where he had once studied these men—their decisions, their failures—from the safe distance of a textbook.
And now, he was here.
Not reading history. Not analyzing it.
Living it.
Rodrik inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of their gazes upon him.
He had no plan. No grand strategy. No battle map spread before him with neat little markers indicating enemy positions. All he had was the knowledge that this story was supposed to end in failure.
But what if it didn't?
A voice deep within him, quiet but insistent, whispered that he had already altered history just by existing in this body. If the past could be changed, then why not the future?
And wasn't that worth fighting for?
He exhaled, his decision settling into his bones like iron.
" Rodemir is right," he said, his voice cutting through the tension. "We leave at dawn."
The murmurs stopped. The nobles exchanged glances.
Then, slowly, Rodemir nodded.
Rodrik turned to face the others.
"We will not be the last Visigoths. Not while I still draw breath."
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then, one by one, the nobles inclined their heads. Not in full submission, not in unwavering loyalty—but in acceptance.
It was a start.
Outside the fortress, the banners of the fallen kingdom fluttered weakly in the night breeze.
And beyond the walls, in the distant darkness, the fires of war burned ever closer.