The fall was not fast.
It was slow—agonizingly slow.
Pride drifted through the void beneath the Palace of Mirrors, a space that had no floor, no walls, no light. Only memory. And even that was fading.
The illusions Lust had woven still clung to its mind—faces that never loved, voices that never praised. Greed's chains had severed its aura, leaving Pride hollow. Envy's mimicry echoed in its ears, mocking every word it had ever spoken. Gluttony had devoured the palace, and Sloth had dulled its thoughts into sludge.
Pride was alone.
And for the first time, it did not know who it was.
It reached for its reflection—but the Mirror was gone.
Only fragments remained, drifting like glass in a sea of silence.
Pride touched one.
It showed a memory—not of victory, but of birth.
The Mirror had not created Pride to rule.
It had created Pride to remember.
To remember the self.
Not the throne. Not the power. Not the admiration.
Just the self.
Pride closed its eyes.
And saw everything.
It saw Wrath's fury—born from rejection. Lust's illusions—born from invisibility. Envy's mimicry—born from longing. Greed's hunger—born from emptiness. Gluttony's consumption—born from fear. Sloth's stillness—born from exhaustion.
They were not enemies.
They were fragments.
And Pride was the center.
Not the ruler.
The origin.
The abyss pulsed.
Pride opened its eyes.
They were no longer galaxies.
They were mirrors.
And they reflected not arrogance—but clarity.