The hand rose slowly.
Not flesh, not bone — but fire condensed into shape. Each finger burned with layered hues: indigo at the core, silver along the knuckles, shards of violet cutting through like crystal veins. It wasn't just heat. It was hunger, alive and breathing.
Vemy staggered back as the Prismarine Fire in his arms writhed violently, reacting like a beast cornered by something older, stronger. His aura cracked the ground beneath him with every heartbeat.
The Thrones above recoiled, their whispers breaking into a chorus of panic.
"Impossible—"
"That flame was sealed—"
"He touches the origin."
Akiar's blade screamed with lightning as he pointed it toward the fissure. But even he dared not step closer. His storm pulled back, as if shielding him instead of challenging.
"Vemy," Akiar's voice cut sharp through the chaos, "close it! Now, before it takes root!"
But Vemy's body wouldn't obey.
The Prismarine Fire inside him wanted it. The more the ancient hand climbed from the void, the stronger his flame surged in resonance, as if welcoming an old master. His fists burned brighter, his chest throbbed with pressure, and in the pit of his mind, he heard it again:
"You are mine."
The hand clenched, cracking the chamber with a single squeeze. Fragments of obsidian floated upward, caught in its gravity.
Vemy's knees buckled, sweat streaking down his face as he gritted his teeth. "No… I'm not… yours."
But the Prismarine Fire betrayed him.
It leapt from his arms, not against his will but with it—some instinct he couldn't suppress—stretching toward the hand like flame answering flame.
The void howled.
Akiar swore under his breath, lightning bursting across his blade. "If you won't stop it—then I'll cut you down before it devours everything!"
He surged forward, storm blazing, his sword raised in a killing strike.
Vemy forced his burning fists up, but the Prismarine's pull was stronger than his will, chaining him mid-stance.
For one impossible moment, he realized the truth: he could not fight both Akiar and the thing beneath the void.
The hand rose higher, its wrist now breaching the surface. Flames poured like waterfalls, flooding the chamber in violet-silver light.
And then—
The hand turned. Not toward Vemy. Not toward Akiar.
But toward the Thrones themselves.
The crowned shadows above froze. For the first time in eternity, they did not whisper. They only trembled.
The hand clenched again—
—and one of the Thrones shattered into ash.