Arthur sat cross-legged beneath the ancient tree at the edge of the Anangsi village, the air around him unnaturally still. Mist clung to the roots like a silken veil, and the leaves above swayed even though there was no wind. The staff rested across his knees - alive, humming, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
He could hear the land breathing.
He could feel the pain of the captured scout like a distant tremor running through the earth — not loud, but persistent. A thread pulling at the edges of his mind. It made every muscle in his body tense. He wanted to stand. He wanted to fight.
But a hand touched his shoulder. Meena.
“Arthur,” she said softly, crouching beside him. “I know what you’re feeling. We all do. But this isn’t your fight. Not yet.”
Arthur opened his eyes.
