~Morgan's Point Of View~
The demon core burns like a second heart.
Morgan doesn't clutch and cradle it as if it were sacred. He lets it hover just above his palm, suspended by threads of dark magic that curl and flex like living veins. The thing pulses once… then twice… each beat slowly syncing itself to him.
Luke doesn't fight it. That's the first sign this is right.
The room now smells like iron, scorched stone, and rot-deep like blood soaked into old soil and forgotten. The lights dim without him touching them. Shadows thicken in the corners, stretching longer than geometry allows, bending toward him like obedient hounds.
Morgan grins. "Yeah," he murmurs. "You feel it too, don't you?"
The demon core answers with a low hum that rattles in his bones. Power seeps into him, not violently, not explosively, but smoothly and seductively. It slides beneath his skin like warm oil, sinking into muscle and marrow, into the very architecture of his soul.
