The first mirror shattered was made of glass.
The second was made of silver.
The third was made of souls.

And it was the third that broke without a single crack.

Pride, for all his power, for all his brilliance, began to notice something... missing.

It wasn't his strength. That remained.
It wasn't loyalty. The Cult of the Mirror now spanned kingdoms.
Even kings sent messengers begging to see him-begging to be seen.

But in the quiet hours, when he stood alone in the grand mirror-chamber,
surrounded by reflections of himself in a thousand flawless surfaces,
he noticed it:

A gap.

A blank space.
A flicker in his reflection, not in the glass-in him.

As if a part of him was no longer willing to be reflected.

He returned to the chamber in Myraleth.

Where the first Reflections had knelt.
Where whispers once became worship.

He stood in the center.

He spoke a single word:

"Show me."

But the mirrors, once eager to obey, stayed silent.

Not cracked. Not broken. Just... still.
And in the stillness, Pride saw something unfamiliar in himself:

Doubt.

It was microscopic. Smaller than breath.
But it was there. A tremor. A thought he hadn't permitted:

"Am I truly all I am... if one soul can reject me?"

He clenched his fists. The mirrors trembled.
But they did not break.
They refused to respond.

Because even mirrors must reflect truth.
And the truth was no longer whole.

Far away, Ashen slept beneath the eaves of a burnt church.
He dreamed-not of Pride, but of a world without him.
And in that dream, he saw something terrifying:

Not war.
Not death.

But a Pride that did not know who he was anymore.

And from that unknowing... came something far more dangerous than arrogance.

Pride stepped back from the mirrors.
He turned his eyes away.

For the first time since taking form in the world of men...
he could not look at himself.