The journey to the Atlas Mountains was as relentless as it was dangerous. The harsh sun beat down on the group, its unforgiving rays bouncing off the rocky terrain. Each step closer to their destination brought Prince Rashid deeper into his thoughts, where the memories of another life haunted him like shadows clinging to the edges of his consciousness.

As the party moved along the narrow, winding paths, Rashid rode in silence, his hands gripping the reins of his horse as though he was holding onto the thin threads of his reality. He wasn’t just Rashid Al-Fihri, the last hope of the Moroccan Empire; he was also Samuel, a modern-day military strategist who had once lived a very different life. His reincarnation into this medieval world of kingdoms, swords, and sorcery still baffled him.

The weight of his two identities pulled at him.

"Your Highness, we should rest soon," General Hassan said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady but tinged with concern. The general had noticed the change in Rashid, his young prince seeming more distant and contemplative with each passing day.

Rashid nodded but didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he gazed out toward the distant peaks of the Atlas Mountains. Somewhere in those mountains lay the Eternal Flame, an artifact of immense power that could restore his crumbling empire—but also a symbol of the immense burden he now carried.

As the group made camp in a sheltered canyon, Rashid dismounted and walked away from the others, seeking solitude. His mind wandered, back to a time when he had been Samuel—back to the night of his death.

In his previous life, Samuel had been a highly respected strategist, working for a private military corporation. His last mission had taken place in the Middle East, during a covert operation to eliminate a dangerous warlord. Everything had been going according to plan until a betrayal from within his team led to a bloody ambush. Samuel had fought valiantly, but in the end, a bullet had ended his life.

The moment he had felt the life drain from his body, he hadn’t expected to open his eyes again—let alone in another world, in another body.

Rashid blinked away the memory, but it lingered, a painful reminder of the person he used to be. He remembered the sharp crack of gunfire, the smell of blood, and the sense of overwhelming betrayal. The sense of helplessness he had felt then wasn’t too different from how he felt now—except that this time, he had a chance to rewrite his fate.

The memories of his past life were both a curse and a gift. They gave him knowledge, strategies, and ideas that no one in this world could possibly comprehend. But they also made him feel like an outsider, detached from the people he was supposed to lead. His court, his soldiers, even his closest allies—they could never know the truth of who he really was.

Night had fallen by the time Rashid returned to the camp. The fire crackled in the center, and his men huddled around it, sharing stories of home. General Hassan sat quietly nearby, his sword resting against his knee. Rashid sat beside him, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

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"Do you ever wonder what your purpose is, General?" Rashid asked, his voice low.

Hassan glanced at him, his brow furrowing. "I serve my kingdom and my prince. That is purpose enough."

Rashid nodded, though the answer didn’t bring him much comfort. He envied Hassan’s simplicity—his unwavering loyalty, his unshakable sense of duty. For Hassan, there was no question of identity. He was a soldier, and his purpose was clear. But Rashid’s purpose felt fragmented, torn between the prince he was born as and the man he had once been.

"Your Highness," Hassan began, his voice gentle, "you’ve changed since the fall of Marrakesh. You speak less, and when you do, it’s as if you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders."

"I do," Rashid said quietly. "There is more at stake than you know."

Hassan stared at him for a moment, then turned his gaze toward the fire. "You don’t have to carry it alone."

But Rashid wasn’t sure that was true. How could anyone share the burden of knowing you were living a life not meant for you? How could he explain to his loyal soldiers and allies that their prince was not just a reincarnated soul but a man from a future so alien it would seem like sorcery to them?

The following morning, the group pressed on, their pace quickening as they drew nearer to the Atlas Mountains. But as they approached a narrow pass, trouble found them once again. A group of horsemen appeared from the east, their banners marked with the sigils of local warlords who had taken advantage of Morocco’s weakened state.

The leader of the horsemen, a scarred man with a cruel sneer, rode forward.

"You travel through our lands without permission," the man said, his voice a low growl. "That’ll cost you."

Rashid’s grip tightened on his sword, but he didn’t draw it. This was a delicate moment. His men were outnumbered, and a fight here would cost them dearly, but Rashid knew that showing weakness would be even more costly in the long run.

He dismounted slowly, stepping forward to meet the warlord’s gaze.

"I am Prince Rashid Al-Fihri of Morocco, heir to the throne," Rashid said, his voice steady. "You would do well to let us pass, for soon these lands will belong to me once more."

The warlord laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Prince Rashid? I’ve heard of you. Word is, you’re little more than a boy playing at being king. Your kingdom is in ruins, and your people are scattered. What makes you think you can reclaim what’s lost?"

Rashid didn’t flinch. "What’s lost can be rebuilt. And when it is, you’ll either kneel or be crushed beneath my feet."

The warlord’s laughter died in his throat, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. Rashid had spoken with the confidence of a man who had seen wars far worse than any this world could imagine. The modern military strategist within him had taken over, his mind already calculating the odds, assessing the terrain, and devising a plan for every possible outcome.

The warlord spat on the ground. "We’ll see about that. But for now, you may pass."

Rashid didn’t break eye contact until the warlord and his men turned and rode away.

As Rashid remounted his horse, General Hassan looked at him with newfound respect. "You handled that well, Your Highness."

Rashid allowed himself a small smile. "We’ll need more than words to win this war, General. But for now, words will have to do."

As they continued their journey, Rashid began to come to terms with his dual identity. The memories of his past life, painful though they were, were also a gift. Samuel had been a strategist, a warrior, a man who had known betrayal and defeat—but he had also known how to survive. And now, as Rashid, he had a chance to use that knowledge to shape the future of Morocco.

He wasn’t just a prince. He was a reborn leader, with the power of both worlds at his fingertips.

But even as he accepted this, the warnings from his dreams echoed in his mind.

Power comes at a cost.

And Rashid knew that the true price had yet to be revealed.