The valley of Shamballa lay silent under a golden sky. The air was still, as though the land itself was holding its breath. Wildflowers swayed lazily in the soft breeze, and the silver river curved like a living thread between the rolling meadows. But that peace — that perfect stillness — was about to break.
Across the valley, the Dutchman’s army advanced. Rows of mercenaries marched in iron rhythm, boots pressing into the sacred soil with a sound that felt like an insult. Their cannons creaked and groaned as they rolled over the soft grass. Rifles glinted like rows of polished fangs. The black tide moved toward the heart of Shamballa, toward its most sacred ruins...
And then, like a lone wall standing against a storm, Arthur Carey stepped into their path.
The wind stirred his robes gen
