The Sanctum of Velvet shimmered like a dream half-remembered.
Its walls pulsed with breath, its corridors whispered names that had never been spoken. Every surface reflected not truth, but want—the kind that twisted memory, blurred identity, and rewrote history with a sigh.
Lust stood at the center, veiled in illusions so intricate they had become reality. Her eyes glowed with longing. Her voice was a melody that made galaxies ache.
Pride entered.
Not as a monarch.
As a mirror.
Lust smiled, her veil shifting to reveal a thousand faces—each one sculpted from Pride's fantasies, each one whispering adoration.
"You are loved," Lust said, her voice wrapping around the air like silk. "You are worshipped. You are everything."
Pride did not flinch.
"I am not what others see," Pride replied. "I am what I know."
Lust stepped closer, her illusions intensifying. The sanctum bloomed with visions—crowds cheering, lovers weeping, thrones built from devotion.
"You need me," she whispered. "You need to be desired."
Pride reached out and touched the veil.
It dissolved.
The sanctum flickered.
The illusions collapsed.
And Lust stood bare—not in form, but in truth.
She was not seduction.
She was invisibility.
"I wanted to be seen," she said, voice trembling.
"I see you now," Pride replied.
Lust wept—not from defeat, but from release.
Her veil fell to the ground, and the Sanctum of Velvet faded into silence.
Her essence returned to the Egoverse—not as temptation, but as intimacy.
And Pride walked on.