The midday sun was shrouded behind a thick veil of storm clouds, casting a dim light over the encampment in Mérida. The air was heavy, damp with the first autumn rain, and the scent of wet earth mixed with the lingering smoke from the cookfires.
Rodrik strode into the council chamber with a new sense of purpose, his boots echoing against the stone floor as the assembled nobles and officers turned to face him.
Outside, the banners of the Red Cross Riders fluttered in the wind, a reminder of the growing force at his back. A dozen of Lucius Aetius' cavalrymen had accompanied him inside, their presence a subtle but unmistakable signal—Rodrik was no longer merely a figurehead.
Seated at the long wooden table were Bishop Julian, Count Oppa, Count Theodemir, and General Rodemir, the men who had shaped the remnants of the Visigothic kingdom since the fall of Toledo.
Rodrik didn't hesitate.
"I am recalling Duke Gundemar."
The words struck the room like a thunderclap.
A sharp intake of breath from Bishop Julian.
A twitch of the hand from Count Oppa.
A deepening frown from Count Theodemir.
Even the battle-hardened General Rodemir looked up in surprise.
Who is Count Gundemar? He was the first nobleman to stand up against peace talks with Muslims. He had strong military power and prestige in the army. During the escape from Toledo a few months ago, he was the supreme commander of the army guarding the exiled government.
However, due to his repeated failures in blocking the Muslim army, he had been deprived of his command and exiled from the council by nobles including Bishop Julian and Count Oppa. Because he was a staunch advocate of war, he advocated gathering the collapsed and scattered army and trying to regain lost territory instead of fleeing to the north.
It was Count Oppa who reacted first, his voice smooth but laced with warning.
"Your Majesty," he said, rising to his feet with a calculated bow, "Duke Gundemar was removed from court for a reason. To overturn that decision now would undermine our stability."
Rodrik barely concealed his disdain.
"Our kingdom has already fallen, Count. What stability remains?"
A murmur rippled through the chamber. The bishop and counts exchanged uneasy glances, but before any could object, Rodrik pressed on.
"The Duke was not exiled for treason," he said, "nor for incompetence. He was cast out because he refused to surrender. That is not a crime—it is loyalty."
He let the words settle, watching them squirm under the weight of their own hypocrisy.
Count Oppa forced a smile. "Your Majesty, there is no precedent for such a reversal."
Rodrik leaned forward, his expression unyielding. "And was there precedent for a Moorish army taking our capital? For our king falling in battle? For half our nobles surrendering without a fight?"
A silence stretched across the chamber. Rain pattered against the windows, a soft but insistent reminder of time slipping away.
Bishop Julian exhaled slowly, choosing his words with care. "Your Majesty, I must remind you that Duke Gundemar is… uncompromising. His methods are extreme, his rhetoric dangerous. If he returns, he will call for open war against the Moors, no matter the cost."
Rodrik's voice was like steel. "Then he is precisely the man I need."
The tension in the room thickened. General Rodemir, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke, his voice gruff.
"If the Duke returns, it will divide the court."
Rodrik turned to him, unfazed. "Good. A divided court is better than a broken one."
Rodemir studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod.
Rodrik knew what that meant. Rodemir was a soldier, not a politician. He would serve, so long as there was a king to command him.
But Count Oppa was not so easily won over.
The old noble placed both hands on the table, his fingers tapping against the wood. "Your Majesty," he said carefully, "Duke Gundemar is one man. Even if he returns, what army will he command? What fortress will he hold? The Moors march north even as we speak."
Rodrik smiled—a sharp, knowing smile.
"Then we shall recall General Rissal as well."
The chamber erupted into protest.
Bishop Julian nearly rose from his seat. "This is madness!" he exclaimed. "General Rissal commands the last remnants of the elite army. If he marches north, the fortresses he holds will fall! The northern lords will never accept such a risk!"
Rodrik let him finish, then simply asked, "Are we fighting to save the kingdom, or to carve out petty fiefdoms?"
The bishop's lips thinned. He had no answer to that.
Rodrik pressed his advantage.
"General Rissal has held out against the Moors for months, with no aid from us. While we sat in council, he gathered the remnants of our scattered armies and rebuilt a force in the Pyrenees mountains. He fights for the kingdom, not for his own land. That is more than I can say for many at this table."
A pointed glance at Count Oppa made the meaning clear.
The noble stiffened.
Rodrik stepped away from the table, letting the storm he had summoned rage around him.
He knew what he was doing.
By summoning both Duke Gundemar and General Rissal, he was forcing a decision.
The nobles could either stand with him and fight, or reveal their true intentions by opposing him outright.
He did not need them all to be loyal—he only needed to know who would betray him.
Finally, after a long silence, Count Theodemir spoke.
"Your Majesty," he said quietly, "if this is your will, then what do you wish from us?"
Rodrik turned, studying him.
Then he gave the final order.
"All members of the court—no matter their rank—will submit a written proposal for our kingdom's future. Tell me you wish to flee, negotiate or continue your resistance."
A pause.
"I want to see where everyone stands."
The weight of his words filled the chamber.
For the first time since he had taken the throne, Rodrik was not merely responding to events—he was controlling them.
The council bowed their heads in reluctant agreement.
And with that, Rodrik left the chamber—not as a king held captive by his court, but as a ruler who had begun to take the reins.