The forge was cold.
Not from neglect—but from invitation.
Pride stood before it, the chisel in hand, the gear of purpose ticking softly within the Throne Eternal. Diligence watched from afar—not as judge, but as witness.
There was no blueprint.
No audience.
No applause.
Only raw stone.
And time.
Pride began to carve.
The first strike was uncertain.
The second, steadier.
The third, deliberate.
Each motion etched not just into the stone—but into Pride's soul. He was not sculpting a monument. He was shaping discipline.
Hours passed.
Then days.
Then moments that felt like lifetimes.
The sins stirred again—Sloth's fog crept in, whispering rest. Greed's voice echoed, tempting shortcuts. Even Pride's old self flickered, craving recognition.
But Pride did not stop.
He carved.
He shaped.
He refined.
Not for glory.
For truth.
The forge warmed.
Not from fire.
From effort.
And when the final stroke was made, Pride stepped back.
The sculpture was simple.
A hand—open, reaching, unfinished.
Diligence approached.
She placed her palm against it.
And the forge pulsed.
"You have passed," she said. "Not because you finished. But because you continued."
She turned, leaving behind a single hammer—worn, silent, sacred.
It hung beside the Throne Eternal, not as a weapon, but as a reminder:
Creation is not a moment. It is a rhythm.