Diana leans back against the rough, cool wall, the dull brown illumination giving the room a feeling of timelessness, of ancient memories ground deep into the stones that surround her, resting heavily in the earth—memories waiting to be shared, voices wanting to be heard. She can almost hear the screams coming from inside the tomb before her, echoes of a dark history that will never see the light, along with an artifact bequeathed to her like a curse, a trap disguised as an heirloom. The altar. An unholy grail dripping with the blood of her family name.
