The Hall of Stolen Crowns was quiet.
Not with peace—but with hunger.
Envy sat upon a throne made of mimicry. Each crown that adorned the walls was a copy—replicas of empires he never ruled, victories he never earned. He wore none of them. He simply stared at one.
Pride's.
It hovered above the hall, unreachable, untouchable, unyielding.
Envy had tried everything. He had mimicked Pride's posture, its voice, its aura. He had studied every gesture, every word. But imitation was not transformation. And Envy was still Envy.
He hated that.
He hated himself.
Greed's whisper had reached him like a virus.
"Pride is not invincible. Join us. Become what you were meant to be."
Envy did not hesitate. He did not need to be convinced. He needed to be seen.
In the center of his hall, he summoned the Mirrorblade—a weapon forged from reflections, sharpened by resentment. It did not cut flesh. It cut identity.
He stepped into its light and let it scan him. His features shifted—his eyes became galaxies, his voice turned to obsidian. He became Pride.
Almost.
But not quite.
He would not strike with fury. He would strike with confusion. He would walk into the Palace of Mirrors wearing Pride's face, speaking Pride's words, commanding Pride's throne.
And when the world bowed to him, he would shatter the real one.
Envy smiled.
It was not his smile.
And the Hall of Stolen Crowns began to hum.