~Morgan's Point Of View~
The stone of the dungeon floor is biting and cold, but Morgan doesn't feel it. He is beyond the reach of simple temperature, feeling nothing except the oily, rhythmic pulse of the Demon Core thrumming behind his ribs. It hums a lullaby of extinction, a low vibration whispering for more—always more. It wants his brothers. It wants the God-Wolf. It wants to stand atop a mountain of Bellamy skulls and howl at a moon that no longer recognizes him as its child.
He leans his head back against the damp stone wall and closes his eyes, savoring the memory of the dungeon floor from two nights ago.
In his mind's eye, he sees the guards protecting his father again. They didn't even have time to scream before his violet fire turned their lungs to ash. He remembers the heavy groan of the iron door as he melted the lock, stepping into the darkness as if he were finally coming home.
