A Meeting in the Shadows

The pouring autumn rain drummed against the rooftops of the palace, soaking the stone paths of the garden and casting a damp, gloomy pall over the halls of the temporary royal residence. Inside a secluded chamber within the grand complex, four of the most powerful men in the West Gothic kingdom council gathered in hushed secrecy.

This chamber, originally repurposed by the Royal Guards, served as the nerve center for classified correspondence between the court and its military. With the king's unexpected shift in stance, it had also become the primary meeting place for these men—sometimes with Sir Egilhard present, though more often without him.

"Count Oppa, what in God's name is happening to His Majesty?"

Bishop Julian, still visibly shaken from the confrontation earlier in the hall, was the first to break the silence. His hands trembled slightly as he wiped his brow, still damp from the humid air.

The concern was understandable. Until recently, Rodrik had been pliant, compliant—content to let his ministers dictate the affairs of state while he remained largely indifferent to the kingdom's fate. Now, within a single day, he had defied them all, demanded the return of Duke Gundemar and General Rissal, and even dared to challenge their authority outright.

The bishop had reason to be afraid. It was no secret that he had clashed with Duke Gundemar in the past. Should the duke return, it would mean not just the loss of his influence—it could mean exile, or worse.

Count Oppa did not immediately answer. Instead, he turned his gaze to Sir Egilhard.

The knight, ever perceptive, understood the unspoken request. He respectfully inclined his head and began recounting the events of the past night—how the king had taken refuge among the Aetius Riders, how he had given them his personal favor, and how his resolve had hardened in the face of their pleas to stay and fight.

"It would seem," he concluded carefully, "that His Majesty was deeply moved by their devotion. He now believes that the hearts of the southern people are set against fleeing north."

General Rodemir, until now silent, exhaled and nodded. "A natural reaction. No one wishes to abandon their homeland. But surely His Majesty can still be persuaded?"

Oppa remained grim. "That's not the real issue. The real issue is the he has fall into river before several days."

At this, the gathered men exchanged glances.

"You mean the accident of falling off the horse?" asked Count Theodemir.

Oppa nodded, his voice low. "The fall changed him. Since that day, His Majesty has not been the same. He even forgets his own names. He speaks strangely. And now… he wishes to stay and fight."

Bishop Julian visibly paled. "That is dangerous talk, Count. We cannot question His Majesty's divine authority. He, he is the only heir to the kingdom."

"Of course not." Oppa waved a hand dismissively. "But we must face reality. This is not the same Rodrik. Not in spirit. Before, he understood the gravity of our position. He knew we could not fight. We must make peace with the Muslims and go to the northern Territories to rebuild the kingdom. Now, he speaks as if he wishes to lead a war himself."

A heavy silence filled the chamber. The rain outside drummed louder, a rhythmic, relentless pounding.

"What do you propose we do?" asked the bishop finally.

Oppa leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "We must get him to Palencia. There, in the north, he will be beyond the reach of these bellicose southern lords. He will be surrounded by those who understand the necessity of diplomacy. There, we can guide him back to reason."

"Easier said than done," Count Theodemir muttered. "His Majesty is no fool. If we are too forceful, we risk pushing him further into the hands of the war-hungry zealots."

"Which is why we must be patient," Oppa replied. "The key is time. The further we remove him from the frontlines, the more he will see the futility of resistance. But first, we must ensure he does not get the wrong counsel."

A slow understanding dawned in Bishop Julian's eyes. "You mean…"

"We must shape the voices around him," Oppa confirmed. "His call for open discourse is dangerous. We must ensure that those who speak in these upcoming assemblies do not fill his ears with talk of war. Instead, we must remind him of the suffering that will come should we resist. He must see that surrender is not cowardice—it is survival."

The gathered men fell into grim contemplation.

"We will also need a messenger," Count Theodemir said at last. "Someone within the court—trusted, yet pragmatic. Someone who can speak to him and gently steer him back."

"An excellent idea." Oppa nodded approvingly. "We need someone His Majesty sees as impartial, someone he does not suspect."

Bishop Julian frowned. "And who might that be?"

Oppa allowed himself a small, knowing smile. "We will find someone. There is always someone."

With that, the meeting concluded. The conspirators rose, each withdrawing into the rain-drenched corridors of the palace, their expressions heavy with the weight of their decision.

As Oppa stepped out, Sir Egilhard—who had remained silent throughout most of the meeting—moved quickly to his side.

Without a word, the knight raised an arm and shielded the count beneath his cloak, the two walking together under the same cover as the rain continued to pour.

Inside the chamber, the remaining three men sat in silence.

They all understood what had just transpired.

They were not just preparing to counter Rodrik's will.

They were preparing to cage their king.