He no longer used the name.
Not out of shame.
But because it no longer answered back.

“Pride” had become a title with no weight.
A crown no longer worn.
A mirror cracked too finely to show even a ghost of a face.

He walked the broken halls of the Citadel barefoot.
No robes.
No throne.
Only the distant sound of wind through empty corridors—
a kingdom abandoned not by war,
but by irrelevance.

Each room still whispered memories.

One chamber still held a thousand shattered masks.
Another was lined with silent scrolls—
sermons once spoken to millions,
now gathering dust like myths with no mouths to retell them.

In the deepest chamber,
there was a mirror untouched by rebellion.

But it no longer showed his form.
Only the space where he used to stand.

For days, he said nothing.
He did not try to reclaim.
He did not try to rage.

Because even his rage had lost its echo.

On the seventh night,
a voice came—not from above,
but from behind him.

“You’re still here?”

He turned.
It was Ashen.

Worn, older, no longer a boy—but his gaze still steady.
Still clear.

“Why?” Ashen asked.
“They’ve moved on. You know that.”

Pride—no, the one who used to be Pride—
looked around the empty halls and answered:

“I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Ashen didn’t flinch.
Didn’t comfort.
He only said:

“Then it’s time to learn.”

And in that moment,
the god who had once demanded all eyes,
took his first step unseen.

Not as Pride.

But as something else.

Something unnamed.

Something free.