Holding her breath, the archaeologist eases herself carefully down the fragile wooden steps.
Her torchlight dances with thick dust and cobwebs.
It’s like a tomb.
Then she sees it – crouched at the bottom of the stairs.
The silhouette of an old machine. Her heart thuds.
The strange contraption is vastly different from the other relics that survived the Third Dark Age.
It is large. Wooden. It appears to have no practical use.
There is a row of pale rectangles – like teeth.
Unable to resist, she presses one, lightly.
A deep, hollow sound echoes around the abandoned basement.
Written by Alanah Andrews