The descent from the Atlas Mountains was quicker than the journey up, but it was far from easy. Each step closer to Marrakesh brought with it an increasing sense of urgency. Rashid could feel the weight of the Eternal Flame thrumming inside him like an untamed storm. The power was intoxicating, but the warning from the mystics echoed in his mind: Power comes with a price.

General Hassan and the men noticed a change in their prince. Rashid’s aura had shifted; he carried himself differently, with an unspoken authority that seemed to ripple through the air around him. His eyes, once filled with uncertainty, now gleamed with an inner fire.

But behind the prince's newfound confidence lurked the shadow of doubt. How long could he control this power without letting it consume him?

As they approached Marrakesh, the horizon was filled with smoke. Rashid’s heart tightened as he saw the distant flames licking the sky. The once-glorious capital of Morocco had fallen even further since he left, its streets now under the boot of Spanish and French occupiers.

His scouts returned with grim news. The invaders had tightened their grip, and local warlords were allying themselves with the foreign powers, each seeking to carve out a piece of the fallen empire for themselves. Civilian resistance was being crushed brutally, and starvation had begun to set in.

“We must act quickly,” General Hassan said, his voice steady despite the somber tone of his words. “Every day that passes is another blow to our people.”

Rashid nodded. The power of the Eternal Flame pulsed in his chest, urging him to act, to unleash its full fury upon his enemies. But he knew that rushing in without a plan would be suicide, no matter how strong he had become.

“We need allies,” Rashid said after a moment. “The warlords may be opportunists, but they are also pragmatic. If we can show them that Morocco still has strength—still has a future—they may turn on the invaders.”

“And if they don’t?” Hassan asked, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“Then we’ll crush them all,” Rashid replied, the edge in his voice sharper than he intended. He could feel the power clawing at him, begging to be unleashed. But he took a deep breath, reigning it in. “But first, we’ll give them a chance.”

Rashid sent envoys to the warlords occupying the outer territories, inviting them to a secret gathering. Some refused outright, suspicious of Rashid’s claims of renewed strength. Others saw it as an opportunity to gain favor with the prince—or, at the very least, to gauge the situation before choosing a side.

The gathering took place in the ruins of an old fortress, once a proud outpost of the Moroccan Empire but now little more than crumbling stone. Rashid and his men arrived first, setting up their camp under the cover of night.

The warlords arrived cautiously, each with their own retinue of soldiers. There was Hassan ibn Tariq, a former general who had turned his back on the kingdom after Marrakesh fell, now ruling a band of desert raiders. Safiya al-Mansur, a ruthless leader of the southern tribes, her reputation for cunning and cruelty well-known. And finally, Ibrahim the Vulture, a warlord who had grown rich by trading with the invaders, his loyalty as fickle as the desert wind.

The tension was palpable as the warlords sat around the fire, their eyes narrowing at Rashid. They were not fools. They knew that if they played their cards right, this could be a turning point in their fortunes—but they also knew that trusting Rashid could be their downfall.

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“You’ve called us here, boy,” Safiya said, her voice dripping with disdain. “But I don’t see why we should listen to a prince whose kingdom is in ruins.”

Rashid met her gaze calmly. “Because, Safiya, you know as well as I do that the invaders will not stop until all of Morocco is under their heel. They’ll take your lands, your people, your very lives. You can fight each other for scraps, or you can fight with me and reclaim the kingdom.”

Hassan ibn Tariq snorted. “And what do you have to offer us, Rashid? The Spanish and French have armies, cannons, and ships. What do you have?”

Rashid stood, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The firelight flickered across his face as he spoke, his voice calm but filled with a quiet intensity.

“I have the Eternal Flame.”

For a moment, there was silence. The warlords exchanged glances, unsure whether to laugh or take him seriously.

“And what good is a legend against cannons and muskets?” Ibrahim the Vulture sneered.

Without a word, Rashid extended his hand toward the fire. The flames danced and then, with a simple gesture, leapt from the pit and formed into a spiraling orb, hovering above his palm. The warlords gasped, their eyes widening in shock as the flames twisted and coiled in the air, bending to Rashid’s will.

“This is not legend,” Rashid said, his voice low and deadly. “This is power. Power that can burn cities to the ground—or restore them.”

He let the fire fall back into the pit, and the warlords sat in stunned silence.

“You all have a choice,” Rashid continued. “You can side with the invaders, and be their slaves when they decide they no longer need you. Or you can stand with me, and together, we will drive them from our lands.”

Hassan ibn Tariq was the first to speak. “And what do you ask in return?”

“I ask for your loyalty,” Rashid said. “Fight for me, and when we reclaim Morocco, you will have your place in the new empire.”

The warlords hesitated. They were men and women who had thrived in chaos, used to taking what they wanted and trusting no one. But the display of power they had just witnessed was undeniable. Rashid was no longer the boy-prince they had dismissed. He was something far more dangerous.

After a long moment, Safiya al-Mansur stood. “I will join you, Prince Rashid. If you are as strong as you claim, then I would rather stand beside you than against you.”

One by one, the other warlords followed, pledging their forces to Rashid’s cause. But even as they swore their loyalty, Rashid could see the suspicion in their eyes. They would follow him, but only as long as he remained the stronger force. The moment they saw weakness, they would turn on him.

That was the way of the desert.

With the warlords' armies united under his banner, Rashid wasted no time in preparing for the siege of Marrakesh. The city had become a fortress for the Spanish and French, their flags flying over its walls. But Rashid had no intention of launching a direct assault. That would be suicide, even with the power of the Eternal Flame.

Instead, he chose to strike where the enemy was weakest: their supply lines. Using the knowledge from his previous life as Samuel, he devised a series of guerrilla-style attacks, ambushing caravans, sabotaging fortifications, and cutting off reinforcements.

His modern tactics, combined with the raw strength of the Flame, gave him the edge. The invaders, unprepared for such unconventional warfare, began to lose ground.

But the victory was far from certain. As Rashid’s forces grew stronger, so did the enemy’s desperation. The Spanish and French commanders were ruthless, ordering mass executions of any civilians suspected of aiding the rebels. The streets of Marrakesh ran red with blood, and the city became a living nightmare.

Rashid stood on a hill overlooking the city one night, the flickering flames of torches and fires casting eerie shadows across the landscape. General Hassan approached, his face grim.

“The people are suffering, Your Highness. If we don’t act soon, there won’t be a city left to save.”

Rashid clenched his fists, the power of the Flame burning hot within him. He wanted to unleash it, to sweep through Marrakesh like a storm and burn the invaders to ash. But he knew that if he lost control, he would become no different from the tyrants he fought against.

“We will save them,” Rashid said, his voice low. “But we will do it wisely. Tomorrow, we make our move.”