The night air of Shamballa was clear and cool, the kind that whispered ancient things if one was still enough to hear it. Inside a wide, low hut woven from reeds and branches, Arthur Carey sat surrounded by the people who time had forgotten. Their faces glowed faintly in the soft lantern light — not from magic, but from something far older: harmony with the land itself.
The Anangsi Elder, a tall figure with silver-streaked hair and eyes like still water, sat opposite Arthur. Around them, a circle of men and women listened in reverent silence. No one fidgeted. No one hurried. This was a people who had measured their lives in centuries, not days.
The elder’s voice was calm, deep, and steady.
“We have lived here for thousands of years, Protector. Long before kingdoms, long before empires,
