Despite all the fire around him, the flames avoided the throne.
They twisted close to it, almost licking at the edges of the wood and vines, but never daring to touch it. It was as if the slightest contact with the throne would extinguish them completely, as if even the fire born from Max's blood understood that this thing was not something it could burn.
Max watched the throne through the pain.
His burning arm extended forward, slowly, painfully, the muscles in his shoulder tightening as his fingers reached for it. The violet flames crawled across his skin, hissing from every wound, but he did not pull back. His hand trembled from the strain, his nails almost grazing the throne's surface.
And then, the moment his fingers were about to touch it, all the flames and darkness vanished at once.
Pure white replaced everything around him.
Gold flashed in his eyes.
