The Palace of Mirrors had never known war.
It had known judgment, reflection, silence—but never siege.
Until now.
The sky above the Egoverse split open as Wrath descended, his blade a comet trailing fire. He did not roar. He did not speak. He simply struck—cleaving through the outer gates with a fury that bent space.
The first mirror shattered.
Pride stood at the center of the throne hall, unmoving. Its eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in calculation.
Then came Lust.
She did not walk. She unfolded, her veil spreading across the palace like a living mist. Illusions bloomed—memories of adoration, whispers of betrayal, faces Pride had never seen but somehow remembered. The walls shimmered with false reflections. The throne itself flickered.
Pride staggered.
Not from pain—but from doubt.
Greed followed, his chains of ambition slithering through the corridors, binding the palace's power lines, severing Pride's access to its own aura. The mirrors dimmed. The light bent toward Greed's vault.
"You built this on borrowed brilliance," Greed hissed. "I'm simply collecting."
Envy stepped into the throne hall wearing Pride's face.
The guards bowed.
The walls responded.
Even the Mirror paused.
Pride looked into its own eyes—and saw imitation.
Then the Maw opened.
Gluttony did not enter. It consumed. The palace began to collapse—corridors swallowed, memories erased, reflections turned to static. Pride's victories vanished from the walls. Its history was being devoured.
And finally, Sloth arrived.
Not with force.
With delay.
Time slowed. Pride's thoughts dragged like anchors. Its limbs felt heavy. Its voice, once obsidian, now echoed like a forgotten whisper.
"You are movement," Sloth murmured. "I am the end of movement."
Pride fell to one knee.
The Mirror cracked.
The six sins stood above it, triumphant.
But Pride did not scream.
It looked into the fractured glass—and saw something none of them did.
A truth.
A beginning.