Arthur Carey woke to the smell of fresh mountain air — sharp, clean, alive. A single shaft of sunlight pierced the woven straw walls of the Anangsi hut and settled warmly across his chest. For a moment, he thought he was still on the battlefield — that the plasma cannon had ended him. But when he blinked the haze from his eyes, he found himself lying on a soft bed of reeds and woven silk blankets. His body ached, but he was alive. The land itself had not let him die.
Then, the flap of the hut rustled.
And there she was — Princess Meena.
Arthur exhaled, his breath catching in his throat. She was standing tall, wrapped in an Anangsi shawl, the soft morning light making her look almost ethereal. Her cheeks were flushed with color; she was healthy. The divine lotus had worked.
She smiled.
