"What is a king without his throne? What am I without one?" Max muttered to himself, his body no longer able to move as lightning continued to pound him from above. His flesh was almost fully charred from the constant torment, smoke rising from his skin as every breath scraped through his throat like ash.
He tried to remember exactly what his journey had felt like, how he had risen, how he had claimed the title of king in the first place.
As far as he could remember, he did not even own an official throne yet. For all the time he had been called king, he had only used Agnia's throne. But did that mean he was not truly a ruler?
No.
A throne had never determined whether he was king or not. The throne never meant anything to him.
People followed him because he had power. Because he had a voice. Because when he stood before them, they believed he could drag them somewhere higher, or crush them if they refused.
Not because he sat on a useless piece of wood.
