The mist clung to their clothes as Arthur Carey and Ram Babu stumbled down the jagged gorge, each step a test of endurance. Their lungs burned with exertion, muscles screamed in protest, yet both men pressed on, driven by urgency. Behind them, the radiant valley of Shamballa faded slowly into the morning haze, as if the miraculous land itself had never existed. The lotus Arthur clutched glowed faintly, its silver-white petals pulsing like a heartbeat, a fragile beacon of hope—Princess Meena’s life depended on it.
Ram Babu sank heavily onto a jagged rock, wiping sweat from his brow. “By Ganesh’s tusk, sahib… my legs are trembling like young calves!”
Arthur allowed himself a small smile, the corners of his mouth twitching. “We cannot rest, Ram. Meena’s life depends on our speed. Shamballa
