The Ashworth mansion felt like a tomb. Shadows stretched along the hallways as I knelt beside Michael Ashworth's body. Isabelle stood nearby, her eyes red-rimmed from hours of weeping.
"Is there really hope?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
I nodded, examining the faint flicker of divine energy still pulsing around Michael's forehead. "His divine sense remains. If we move quickly, there's a chance."
Behind us, Corbin paced impatiently. "This is ridiculous. We should be preparing a proper funeral, not indulging in mystical nonsense."
I ignored him, focusing instead on the task at hand. Michael's complexion had gone ashen, but the subtle glow only I could see told me everything I needed to know. Time was running out.
Suddenly, servants entered carrying an ornate coffin. I frowned, turning to Corbin. "What is this?"
