The mist slithered across the forest floor like a living thing, wrapping around twisted roots and low-hanging branches. The Dutchman stumbled forward, panting heavily, his boots caked in mud and blood. He had been running for what felt like hours, deeper into a place that seemed endless—a maze that moved and breathed with the rhythm of something ancient.
The land of Shamballa was no longer a battleground. It had become a labyrinth.
He gritted his teeth. “Where… is the damn exit.”
His once immaculate uniform hung in tatters, the silver buttons dull with soot, his gloves smeared in the blood of his own men. Around him, the thick fog refused to lift. It was as if the land itself conspired to keep him lost.
He turned, raising his pistol into the mist, half-expecting Arthur to appear like a
