Your lungs draw breath for the first time in one hundred and thirty years. The air tastes of earth and old iron. Your gown, black as a widow's, hangs heavy with the dust of a century. The tomb is sealed. The tomb is still sealed.

And yet—someone stands in the doorway. A figure silhouetted against the torchlight of the crypt beyond. A woman. Dark curls, pale skin, a smile that does not reach her dark eyes.