The stone of time lay at Pride's feet.
Its surface was smooth, its weight immeasurable. It did not glow. It did not hum. It simply existed—unchanging, unmoved, eternal.
Patience stood beside it, silent.
The Egoverse had stilled. No wind. No pulse. No sin stirred. Even the Throne Eternal had dimmed, as if holding its breath.
Pride sat.
And waited.
At first, the silence was peaceful.
Then it became loud.
Thoughts surged—memories of conquest, echoes of praise, the itch to act, to fix, to rise. Pride clenched its fists. The urge to move was a storm beneath the skin.
But Patience said nothing.
She simply watched.
Time passed.
Moments blurred.
The Mirror flickered.
And Pride saw visions—not of glory, but of growth.
A tree blooming slowly.
A wound healing gently.
A soul learning quietly.
Pride breathed.
And the storm began to fade.
It understood now.
Patience was not delay.
She was trust.
Trust in the rhythm of becoming.
Trust in the silence between notes.
Trust in the space where transformation takes root.
Pride stood.
Not to act.
To continue.
Patience smiled.
"You have passed."
She turned, leaving behind a single thread—woven from waiting, dyed in dusk.
It wrapped around the Throne Eternal, not as a chain, but as a reminder:
The strongest truths arrive slowly.