The Hall of Stolen Crowns was quiet.
Not with reverence—but with imitation.
Each throne that lined the walls was a replica. Each crown, a copy. Each banner, a forgery of glory that Envy had never earned. He sat beneath them, cloaked in Pride's posture, wearing Pride's voice, wrapped in Pride's aura.
But it was not real.
It was never real.
Envy had mimicked Pride for eons—perfected the walk, the tone, the gaze. He had fooled armies, seduced empires, even deceived the Mirror itself. But he had never fooled Pride.
And now, Pride stood before him.
No longer crowned. No longer guarded. No longer mirrored.
Just Pride.
Envy rose, mirrorblade in hand, its edge shimmering with stolen light.
"I am you," Envy said, voice trembling with borrowed conviction.
Pride stepped forward, unarmed.
"No," Pride replied. "You are what I left behind."
Envy lunged.
The blade struck—but did not cut.
It passed through Pride's chest like mist, scattering into fragments.
Envy staggered.
Pride reached out and touched his face—not with judgment, but with sorrow.
"You were never my enemy," Pride whispered. "You were my doubt."
Envy dropped the blade.
The Hall of Stolen Crowns flickered. The thrones collapsed. The crowns dissolved.
Envy fell to his knees.
"I wanted to be seen," he said.
"I see you now."
And with that, Envy faded—not in defeat, but in release.
His mimicry returned to the Egoverse, not as deception, but as understanding.
And Pride walked on.