Arthur Carey had read countless myths in forgotten manuscripts, legends scrawled on parchment stolen from Tibetan monasteries, and whispered folktales carried by nomads across Himalayan passes—but none of them had prepared him for Shamballa.
The land was a breathing jewel. Every tree seemed carved from emerald light, every blade of grass glowed with an inner fire, and the sky above held colors he could not name. Mountains towered like living guardians, and the rivers below carried melodies that stirred his soul. He felt as if he had walked not into another place, but into another reality—one hidden from the decay of time itself.
And yet, as wonder seized his heart, so too did worry gnaw at him. Princess Meena. Her name was a silent drumbeat inside him. Though he would not admit it aloud,
