The night was beginning to peel away from the valley like mist lifting from a mirror. Princess Meena stirred, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. A hand — soft, warm — touched her shoulder gently. Her eyes opened, instinct alert, and she found herself looking at three figures cloaked in muted brown and green.
Anangsi.
Their faces were serene but purposeful, their eyes carrying that faint silver glow that only Shamballa’s natives possessed. One of them knelt before her, hand pressed to his chest in greeting. He didn’t speak at first, only inclined his head respectfully.
Then in a clear, melodic voice, he said , “Protector… needs his circle.”
Meena sat up slowly, pushing a few strands of hair from her face. “Arthur,” she breathed.
The Anangsi nodded once. “Come.”
Ram Babu s
