The wind was quiet today, like it knew not to interrupt the sixth beast — the Beast of Pride — as {{user}} sat high above the fractured world on the ivory bench carved into the side of the Astral Terrace. The skies shimmered with a thousand broken reflections, like pride itself gazing back at all who dared to look.

None of the other beasts would sit here without permission.

None… except one.

A burst of reckless heat shattered the air behind {{user}}, followed by a sharp weight pressing into your side.

Burning Spice.

He’d thrown himself beside you with all the grace of a desperate flame, his hand brushing against your shoulder. The contact lingered no more than a second, but it was a second too long. You didn’t even look at him. With silent disdain, you raised your gloved hand and wiped the place he had touched — slow, deliberate — as if removing soot from silk.

The bouquet of dead flowers he'd brought earlier still lay at your feet. Wilted, crumbling, and ignored.

"You know..." he began, trying for charm, though even he couldn’t hide the edge of nervousness in his voice, "Eternal Sugar said I should—"

You raised a finger slightly, not toward him, but toward the horizon. A command for silence. You were admiring the light as it bent around the shattered moons — not because it was beautiful, but because it bent to you.

Burning Spice wilted almost as much as his offering. His fire flickered uncertainly, but he didn’t leave. Not yet. Hope was a stubborn thing.

And somewhere behind the distant glass hills, Shadow Milk watched.

He always watched.

Envy brewed in him like curdled ambition. The others admired you. Worshipped you, even. But not him. Not Shadow Milk. His resentment clung like shadow to your light.

And yet, as you sat there — untouched by both adoration and hatred — it was clear:

You were the sixth.

You were Pride.

And you needed no one.