Page 67 of The Mourning Throne
Lex’s eyes flicked to Morgan, then back to Ollie.
“He’ll do it again,” he said, as if talking about a trained animal. “Won’t you?”
“Y—yes.” More frantic nodding. “I promise.”
The recording stopped with a faintbeep.
Lex popped open the first aid kit again, pulling out a too-long length of bandage. He wrapped it around Ollie’s wrist, white fabric stark against the dark stains of fresh blood.
His gaze met Morgan’s once more. No words—just a grin, bright and smug, like he’d just claimed victory in some silent, twisted war. But Morgan caught the flicker beneath that gleam—the split second where the thrill wavered, the cracks peeking through the bravado.
Morgan slid the knife back into the kit.
Lex was learning—fast,veryfast—but that didn’t change the facts.
There was still so much more work to do.
Chapter 12
Existing where there was no beginning and no end, really wasn’t existing to begin with, was it?
No room. No time to fall back on, clocks ticking steadily away.
Color. Pressure.
Things that didn’t matter to anyone except Morgan.
First came the red.
Not blood red.
Something deeper. Viscous. The kind of red that lays heavy on the tongue. Coats it. Copper and fire and sugar boiled too long. It stretched behind his eyes, rippling in slow waves that pulsed in time with something he couldn’t feel.
Then came yellow.
Not sunlight. Not warmth.
Warmth was too far removed from him.
Sulfur. Hospital corridors and latex gloves that fit wrong. Too many sleepless nights staring at the stained tile as a first-year. A scream compressed into a lightbulb and shattered.
The sound always came last.
A low, dragging note. Cello bow scraping against bone. A body—too heavy, too rigid—being dragged across the ceiling.
But there was no ceiling. Only empty black above him and below.
An absolute void of nothingness, pressing closer each second he stayed here.
But if there really was no time, then how did he know if it passed or not? Did it halt completely? Stretching and falling into the abyss?
Or did it remain intact despite that?
Nothing remained intact in all of that black. Nothing ever did.
He stepped forward. Maybe. There wasn’t ground beneath him, but he moved all the same. Each movement left a smear of red light behind, like dragging a bleeding hand across glass.
Shapes loomed in the dark. Sometimes faces. Sometimes mouths.
