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As night fell, Isabel sorted through experimental records piled into small mountains by candlelight.
They were filled with knowledge of immense value—yet she wished with all her heart that she could forget every word. The records were simply too horrifying.
Isabel had once believed that her lich master was an unusually benevolent being. The documents before her shattered that illusion.
A lich was still a lich.
The undead had no morals. There was nothing they would not do.
Her hands trembled as she worked, but she dared not stop. She feared that if she did, she might become one of those experimental reports herself.
Tears welled up in her reddening eyes, yet she had no one to confide in. Her brother Raul had long since become a devout follower of the lich, obeying every order without question.
If she told him how she felt, he might even scold her harshly for it.
The only person Isabel could think of was her alchemy master, the castle's ever-elusive ghost.
Perhaps only he could offer her a shred of comfort.
"Master… please save your poor student. I think I'm...
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