The smoke from the battle still lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the carnage that had unfolded at Sheikh Faris’s camp. The flames that had engulfed the tents were now reduced to smoldering embers, casting an eerie glow over the desert night. Rashid stood at the edge of the battlefield, his eyes scanning the horizon. The stench of blood and burning wood clung to his skin.

His victory was decisive, yet hollow. Sheikh Faris’s betrayal had cost them precious time and resources. Morocco's future was still at risk.

Malik approached, wiping blood from his blade. “It’s done. The camp is ours.”

Rashid nodded, though his expression remained dark. “And Faris?”

“He’s alive, for now. But his tribe has scattered. Without him, they’ll either disband or join the other tribes.”

Safiya joined them, her face grim. “The question is, what do we do with him now?”

Rashid’s jaw clenched. The Eternal Flame still burned within him, urging him to finish what he had started. Yet, something held him back. He had spared Faris once, but the sheikh had proven himself treacherous. Keeping him alive could be a mistake, but executing him might ignite further unrest among the tribes.

“We’ll keep him prisoner for now,” Rashid said, his voice steady. “His fate will be decided later.”

Safiya and Malik exchanged a glance but said nothing. They trusted Rashid’s judgment, even if they questioned his leniency.

The following morning, the Berber forces regrouped and began tending to the wounded. Rashid’s camp was abuzz with activity as warriors prepared for the next phase of their campaign. The battle with Faris’s forces had been won, but there was little time for celebration.

As Rashid surveyed the scene, he felt the weight of leadership press down on him. The victory had come at a cost. Though Faris’s camp had been taken, Rashid knew that the war with Spain was only just beginning.

He found Malik near the center of the camp, overseeing the rebuilding efforts. “What’s the status of the army?” Rashid asked.

Malik looked up, his expression grim. “We took more casualties than expected. Faris’s men fought harder than we thought they would. Some of the tribes are still wary after the betrayal. They fear that others may follow Faris’s path.”

Rashid frowned. “We need to regain their trust. If we’re to have any hope of defeating Spain, the tribes must stand united.”

“And how do you plan to do that?” Malik asked, his voice edged with frustration. “Trust doesn’t come easily after a betrayal like this.”

“We give them victories,” Rashid replied, his eyes flashing with determination. “We take the fight to Spain. When they see that we can defeat a foreign invader, they’ll rally behind us.”

Malik nodded, though doubt flickered in his eyes. “Spain won’t be as easy to defeat as Faris.”

“I know,” Rashid said, his voice low. “But we have something Spain doesn’t. The Eternal Flame.”

Later that evening, Rashid made his way to the tent where Sheikh Faris was being held. The guards stationed outside gave him a nod before stepping aside to allow him entry.

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Inside, Faris sat bound to a chair, his once-proud demeanor now replaced with weary resignation. His face was bruised, and his clothes were torn from the battle. Despite his disheveled appearance, there was still a defiant glint in his eyes.

Rashid stood before him, his arms crossed. “I gave you a chance to return to the alliance, Faris. You refused. Now, you sit here as a prisoner of the very people you betrayed.”

Faris’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “You think you’ve won, Rashid? This is only the beginning. Spain will crush you. Your tribes will fall, just like my tribe has.”

Rashid’s eyes narrowed, the fire within him flaring for a brief moment. “Spain doesn’t care about you. You were a pawn in their game, nothing more.”

Faris’s smile faltered, but his defiance remained. “Perhaps. But at least I was willing to do what was necessary to survive. You’re still young, Rashid. You don’t understand the weight of leadership.”

“I understand it well enough,” Rashid said coldly. “I understand that leadership means sacrifice. It means putting the future of your people above your own desires. Something you’ve clearly forgotten.”

Faris chuckled darkly. “You speak of sacrifice, but you’ve never had to make the hard choices. You’ve never had to betray the ones you love to ensure your survival. One day, you’ll face a choice like that. And when you do, you’ll see that there’s no such thing as a righteous leader. Only those who survive and those who fall.”

Rashid stared at him, his jaw tight. “Your time is over, Faris. The tribes will remember your betrayal, and they’ll remember who stood against Spain.”

With that, Rashid turned and left the tent, leaving Faris to stew in his defeat.

As Rashid walked back toward his tent, the Eternal Flame pulsed within him, whispering dark thoughts. It urged him to strike harder, to take more drastic action. His restraint was seen as weakness, the Flame warned. Only through fire and destruction could he truly unite Morocco under his banner.

Rashid stopped in his tracks, his hand instinctively moving to his chest where the Flame resided. The visions he had seen before flashed before his eyes once again—visions of ruin and conquest, of him standing over a sea of bodies.

“Power comes at a price,” the voice echoed in his mind.

He closed his eyes, struggling to push the visions away. He couldn’t allow the Flame to control him. He had to remain in control, for the sake of his people and the future of Morocco.

But the Flame’s whispers grew louder, tempting him with promises of absolute power.

In the days that followed, Rashid’s army began its preparations for the next phase of the war. Scouts returned with reports that Spain was already moving south, fortifying key positions along the coast. The enemy was well-equipped and well-trained, a formidable opponent that would not be easily defeated.

Rashid gathered his commanders, including Safiya and Malik, to discuss their strategy.

“We need to strike quickly, before Spain has time to fully entrench themselves,” Rashid said, pointing to a map laid out before them. “Their forces are spread thin. If we can hit them where they’re weakest, we can drive them back before they have a chance to regroup.”

Safiya nodded, her eyes scanning the map. “Our best chance is to attack from the west. Their supply lines run through there, and if we can cut them off, we’ll weaken their position.”

Malik frowned. “But that puts us at risk of being surrounded. Spain has reinforcements coming from the north. If they arrive before we’ve secured the coast, we’ll be caught between two armies.”

Rashid considered this, his mind working quickly. “Then we’ll need to move faster than they expect. We hit them hard and pull back before they can respond. We’ll keep them off-balance, force them to spread themselves thin.”

The commanders murmured in agreement, though the tension in the room was palpable. They were about to embark on the most dangerous phase of their campaign yet.

As the meeting adjourned, Rashid stood alone, staring out at the desert. The wind howled around him, carrying with it the scent of impending conflict. The horizon was dark with storm clouds, a fitting metaphor for the war that loomed ahead.

He could feel the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him, but the Flame within him burned brighter than ever. It was a constant reminder that power came with a cost, and he would have to pay that cost if he wanted to save his kingdom.

The war with Spain was far from over, and Rashid knew that the greatest challenges were still to come. But he was ready. He would lead his people to victory, no matter the cost.