True Allegiances

The autumn air was heavy with the scent of damp earth, and though the sun had yet to break through the thick morning clouds, the dim light of dawn cast long shadows across the encampment outside Mérida. A storm was coming—not just in the sky, but within the fragile remnants of the Visigothic court.

Rodrik stood outside his tent, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Sir Egilhard, who remained as composed as ever, his posture as unyielding as the armor he wore. Something had changed between them.

His demeanor had shifted since the previous night, though Rodrik couldn't quite place when it had begun. Was it when he had named Aetius' riders his personal guard? Or was it something deeper—something beyond mere political maneuvering?

Rodrik narrowed his eyes.

"Sir Egilhard, what is your intent?"

The knight did not flinch at the sudden directness of the question. If anything, he seemed to expect it.

"I merely wish to remind Your Majesty," Egilhard said, his voice even, "that a king need not be so wary of his own subjects."

It was an unusual statement—a deliberate one, a challenge wrapped in reassurance.

Rodrik wasn't buying it.

He had spent too much time grasping for shadows, trying to determine who among his supposed allies might turn on him at the first sign of weakness. For all he knew, Egilhard could be one of them.

Would he betray him in the dead of night? Would he deliver Rodrik's severed head to the Moors in exchange for safety?

He had no way of knowing.

And that uncertainty made his skin crawl.

As a man from another time, Rodrik often clung to the few names he recognized from history—names like Count Theodemir, Bishop Julian, and General Rodemir—not just because they were powerful men, but because they represented something familiar.

He knew what they would stand for, at least in broad strokes. They were written into history, their roles already determined.

But Egilhard?

Rodrik had never heard of him.

That, more than anything, made him uneasy.

"Your Majesty need not doubt," Egilhard said.

The knight took a step forward, slow and deliberate, removing his hand from the hilt of his sword. The gesture was not just a sign of respect—it was an offering.

Rodrik said nothing, waiting.

"First," Egilhard continued, "understand that you are the last legitimate heir to this kingdom. No matter how divided the court may seem, Your Majesty's rule is beyond question. None of us—neither Count Oppa, nor Bishop Julian, nor any other noble—has the right to remove you from the throne."

Rodrik remained silent, but he did not look away.

"Second," Egilhard continued, his voice firm, "Visigothic law is clear—final decisions rest with the king. The nobles may conspire, the clergy may plot, but it is Your Majesty who holds the power of decree. The scholars and scribes of the court record your words, the lords follow your command, and the army swears loyalty to you alone. Even I was placed in my position at your predecessor's request. With a single order, you could strip me of rank and send me away."

Rodrik's brow furrowed.

That was true.

He had been so preoccupied with watching for knives in the dark that he had forgotten he was still holding the scepter.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

This was a test.

Egilhard was revealing the vulnerabilities of the ruling elite—their weaknesses, their internal rivalries.

He was offering Rodrik a path to power.

But why?

Rodrik exhaled, turning slightly toward the distant banners of the Red Cross Riders, where Captain Aetius' men were preparing for the day's drills.

"Tell me, Egilhard," he murmured, "is your sudden change of heart simply because I pardoned a few mercenaries and spent the night in their camp?"

Egilhard remained silent for a moment. Then, at last, he spoke.

"You are the king."

Rodrik narrowed his eyes. "That much was true yesterday, yet you said nothing then."

"If Your Majesty insists on an answer," Egilhard said, his voice finally shifting from cold formality to something deeper, more personal, "then I have only two words for you."

Rodrik turned fully to face him. "And what are those?"

Egilhard held his gaze, his expression unreadable.

"Blood and vengeance, my king."

Rodrik's breath caught in his throat.

Blood and vengeance.

The very words he himself had muttered the night before, when speaking to the mercenaries of why he could not—would not—bow to the invaders.

He had meant them as a passing remark. Egilhard had taken them as a vow.

Rodrik stared at him, stunned into silence.

So that was it.

This wasn't about power or politics.

This was about hatred. About the blood price of war.

Rodrik had assumed Egilhard's motivations were purely pragmatic, that he had sided with him out of self-preservation.

But now, he saw something else in the knight's eyes.

A wound that had never healed.

A reckoning yet unpaid.

Rodrik took a slow step forward, studying him.

"You're a soldier from a noble house," he murmured. "The other knights say you come from a family of warriors. That you were raised for war."

Egilhard did not move. "That is correct."

Rodrik exhaled. "I am told that before my fall into river, I knew you well. But the truth is, I do not remember."

"I know, Your Majesty."

Rodrik paused.

"And I know nothing of your past."

Egilhard said nothing.

Rodrik watched him carefully, then finally asked the question that had been forming in his mind.

"Your father was a lord?"

"A governor," Egilhard corrected.

"And your grandfather?"

"A general."

Rodrik stilled.

Egilhard's family was not just a noble house—they had been commanders, leaders of men, protectors of the realm.

And now, all of them were gone.

"Your family…" Rodrik hesitated, then spoke the words. "They fell in the war, didn't they?"

Egilhard nodded once. "My father was slain defending Mérida."

Rodrik inhaled sharply.

Mérida.

The very place they now stood.

The fortress he was now trying to hold.

"And your grandfather?"

Egilhard's voice was calm, steady. "He died with his sword in hand, at the walls of Toledo."

Rodrik exhaled, his mind reeling.

Egilhard had lost everything—his family, his home, his title.

And yet, here he was.

Rodrik stepped back, his voice quieter now. "And you, Sir Egilhard?"

The knight straightened his back. "I lost my name, my house, and my future."

Rodrik let that hang between them.

Then he nodded, as if he finally understood.

He lifted his gaze, and for the first time, when he looked at Egilhard, he did not see a spy or a political operative. Rodrik realized that Egilhard came from a legendary family of generals. Egilhard's grandfather was an important general in the kingdom, and his family was the backbone of the Visigothic army. He is one of the last generals of the kingdom that support war, and now he is willing to work with Rodrik to make great things happen.

He saw a man with nothing left to lose.

A man who had chosen vengeance over surrender.

Rodrik extended his hand.

Egilhard hesitated for only a fraction of a second before taking it.

Their alliance was sealed.