Where Are My Loyal Men?

Sir Egilhard's sudden arrival put young Aurelius Rodrik on high alert. The constant, unrelenting gaze of his so-called protectors was suffocating. Sir Egilhard's sudden arrival put young Aurelius Rodrik on high alert. The feeling of being watched constantly was unbearable.

He ordered that the dessert Princess Ildamira (his/Aurelius's wife)had personally prepared for him—some thickened milk custard—be given to the Red Cross Riders. Then, to the shock of everyone, he insisted on spending the night in their camp!

The reaction was immediate. Count Oppa sent messengers three times to urge his return, but each one was turned away. Even Sir Egilhard, who had arrived early but chose to remain silent, knelt beside Captain Lucius Aetius outside the tent, both pleading for the king to reconsider.

But his decision was final.

That night, autumn winds howled through the camp. The torches flickered, throwing jagged shadows against the canvas of his tent.

Then, deep in the night, something shattered the uneasy stillness.

Shouting.

Rodrik stirred, blinking against the dim glow of firelight seeping through the tent walls. The sharp clang of metal rang out—steel drawn from scabbards, armor shifting, heavy boots striking packed earth.

He sat up abruptly.

"What's happening?"

Just as he was about to push aside the tent flap, he saw a familiar silhouette, stark against the flickering flames outside. Instead of stepping out, he hesitated.

"Do not trouble yourself, Your Majesty," came Sir Egilhard's calm voice from beyond the tent. "A few of the Red Cross Riders seem to have misunderstood Your Majesty's earlier words. They feared that the Moors were approaching and… sought to ensure their survival."

Rodrik frowned.

"They intended to seize Your Majesty and offer you to the enemy."

There was a long pause.

"But worry not," Egilhard continued, his tone unchanging. "The majority of the men still remember Your Majesty's generosity, and Captain Lucius Aetius holds their trust. The traitors barely had time to conspire before their own comrades bound them in chains."

Rodrik exhaled, sinking back onto the rough bedding. "I'm not worried," he muttered. "I just don't know where our future lies."

"If Your Majesty truly does not wish to flee into the northern mountains, then perhaps the council should convene again to discuss alternatives," Egilhard suggested after a long pause.

Rodrik said nothing. The tent fell into silence once more.

Rodrik was not angry. Nor was he afraid.

That was the truly absurd part—he should have been furious. Betrayal should have ignited some deep rage within him, but it didn't. He has been friendly enough to these soldiers, brought them adequate provisions, and treated them equally, but he has received not loyalty, but betrayal.

Because this world still felt unreal to him.

Despite the weight of the crown, despite the eyes that watched his every move, despite the war unfolding around him—he did not feel like a king.

He felt like a stranger wearing someone else's skin.

And the worst part? He still did not know what he was supposed to do.

A man in his position—a king, a ruler—should resist.

The logic was simple. The kingdom had been invaded. Its people were suffering. If he ran, history would brand him a coward.

Even if he wanted to avoid bloodshed, surrender was not an option. The Moors were conquerors, and conquerors did not honor peace for long. Even if the real Roderic had secured a truce in history, wasn't that only possible because his generals fought the enemy to a standstill?

Even from a superstitious perspective, he should fight.

Would the gods—if they even existed—have sent him to this world just so he could kneel before the invaders sooner?

No.

Rodrik had already decided. He would resist.

The problem was how.

What forces did he have left?

The once-proud armies of the Visigoths had been ground into dust.

The kingdom's elite warriors, Armed knights with fine armor and plenty of horses, had been obliterated at Guadalete.The reinforcements marching to Corduba had been ambushed by Muslim light cavalry and been massacred before they could reach the battlefield.The capital, Toledo, had fallen

Now, the only surviving organized force was General Rissal's army in the Pyrenees and several forts near Toledo, but they were cut off by the Moorish general Tariq ibn Ziyad.

The kingdom's treasury? Empty.

The noble estates? Pillaged.The merchant cities? Looted or under siege.

And yet… the council's solution was to keep running to northern.

Rodrik clenched his jaw.

How was he supposed to fight with nothing?

Who could he even trust?

"Your Majesty," Egilhard's voice called again. "Captain Lucius Aetius is outside. He requests permission to apologize."

Rodrik sighed. "It was not his fault."

After a pause, he added, "Release the traitors. If they wish to leave, let them go. We will not keep them against their will."

There was a rustle of movement, a quiet murmur, and then footsteps fading into the night.

But Egilhard did not leave.

Through the thin fabric of the tent, Rodrik saw his shadow against the firelight—still, unmoving.

Then, at last, Egilhard spoke.

"Your Majesty… Earlier, you asked about Alaric of Tarraco, did you not?"

Rodrik sat up again. "You know him?"

"A man of Hebrew descent. From Tarraco. Served under General Rissal. Known for his skill in battle and archery," Egilhard replied smoothly. "I once drank with him in the war camp."

Rodrik's heart quickened. "Where is he now?"

"Two months ago, after the former king disapear, then Your Majesty's coronation in Toledo," Egilhard said, "the council urged Your Majesty to retreat to the northern. Alaric disagreed. He violated protocol and sent a direct petition to Your Majesty, urging resistance."

Rodrik exhaled sharply. "And?"

"He was stripped of his command and expelled from the army."

Silence.

Rodrik pinched the bridge of his nose. A capable warrior, fiercely loyal, exiled for telling the truth.

"I just wanted to find someone I could trust," he muttered.

Egilhard hesitated.

"Your Majesty… do you truly mean to stay and fight?"

Rodrik let out a bitter laugh.

"A king resisting invasion—is that not expected?"

The night wind howled through the camp, rustling the banners. The eastern sky was beginning to pale.

But no one answered him.