The mage sensed them before the wards failed.
It was not mana. Mana had texture, rhythm, a temperature the mind could grasp. This presence had none of that. It was an absence shaped like intent—an intrusion that did not announce itself, because it did not believe it needed permission.
The ley lines recoiled.
Sigils along the shelter's outer wall flickered once, twice, then dimmed, not shattered but discouraged, as if the world itself had decided resistance was no longer worth the effort.
The mage closed his eyes.
"So," he whispered, fingers tightening around his staff, "you finally send them."
His first thought was not fear.
It was relief.
He's already gone.
The air collapsed inward.
Not torn. Not broken.
Accepted.
Seven figures manifested where the barrier folded, their arrival bending space subtly, like a wound that had always existed finally reopening. The temperature dropped, then steadied, then ceased to matter entirely.
They did not stand together.
They occupied the space, each presence asserting itself in a different, incompatible way, as though reality were being forced to host seven contradictory truths at once.
The mage opened his eyes.
And recognized them.
Pride
He stood at the center without effort.
Tall, broad-shouldered, draped in robes of dull gold that caught no light yet reflected authority. His hair fell straight and immaculate, the color of aged metal rather than youth. His eyes were red—not glowing, not burning, but absolute, like sealed vaults that had never once been opened.
The air bent subtly toward him.
Not pulled.
Acknowledged.
Even without moving, he established hierarchy. Stone creaked beneath invisible pressure. The mage felt his spine protest—not from force, but from instinct, as if his body remembered kneeling before kings long dead.
Pride smiled faintly.
Lust
She stood slightly behind him, leaning just enough to be noticed.
Her form was flawless in a way that felt intentional, sculpted rather than born. Dark hair cascaded loosely over bare shoulders, skin pale and unblemished, eyes a deep, inviting violet that never fully focused on any one thing.
When she spoke, the mage felt his thoughts hesitate—just for an instant.
Not controlled.
Invited.
Her presence did not dominate the space. It softened it. Boundaries felt negotiable near her, definitions less rigid, convictions easier to abandon.
She smiled.
Greed
Greed moved constantly.
Not pacing, but circling, fingers twitching, eyes never still. His body was lean, almost gaunt, wrapped in layered garments stitched with symbols meant to store, bind, and claim. His eyes shone with a sharp, calculating light, pupils dilated as though the world itself were something to be appraised and taken apart.
Where his gaze lingered, mana thinned.
Not drained violently.
Measured.
Accounted for.
Wrath
Wrath did not wait.
He was tall, heavily built, his body marked with scars that were not the result of battle, but of endurance. His skin bore the faint, unnatural redness of something perpetually heated just below the surface. Veins stood out prominently, pulsing with barely restrained violence.
His hands were clenched even at rest.
The ground beneath his feet was cracked.
He grinned widely, teeth bared, eyes alight with anticipation.
Sloth
Sloth stood apart.
He leaned slightly, posture relaxed, eyes half-lidded, expression bored. His frame was tall but loose, as though his body were only partially invested in existing. His garments hung from him without care, muted in color, frayed at the edges.
Around him, time felt thicker.
Sigils near his presence dimmed faster. Stone aged imperceptibly. The shelter felt tired.
He yawned.
Envy
Envy was wrong.
His face shifted subtly when unobserved—features rearranging themselves between heartbeats. At times, he resembled the mage. At others, a fallen hero. At others still, someone the mage could not quite remember but felt certain he should.
His eyes were mismatched.
One bright with hunger.
The other hollow with resentment.
He smiled often, but never at the same thing twice.
Gluttony
Gluttony was massive.
Not obese, but dense, his form thick and heavy, as though gravity favored him. His skin bore faint cracks, glowing dimly from within, like something overfilled and barely contained. His mouth was too wide, his teeth uneven.
He inhaled deeply.
And the shelter groaned.
Mana vanished around him—not redirected, not absorbed properly, but eaten, leaving behind a hollow ache in the world itself.
The mage planted his staff against the stone floor.
"The Seven Sins," he said calmly.
Pride inclined his head a fraction.
"So the keeper remembers," he replied.
"You are not the heroes," the mage said.
Lust laughed softly. "Those are dead."
"The seal still holds," the mage continued. "You are early."
"For now," Pride agreed. "But humanity weakens it for us. One failure at a time."
The mage raised his staff.
"You will not have the cards."
Wrath laughed loudly. "You misunderstand."
The shelter began to decay.
Not violently.
Patiently.
Sloth's presence smothered urgency itself. Defensive arrays forgot their purpose. Barriers dulled. Stone aged decades in seconds.
Greed stepped closer, eyes gleaming. "You built salvation from the future," he said. "How generous."
Envy leaned in, voice whispering. "Did you ever wonder if the future wanted to be saved?"
The mage coughed blood.
Still, he stood.
Magecraft ignited—layered, stubborn, ancient.
Runes burned themselves into the walls. Containment fields activated. For a moment—just a moment—the Seven halted.
Gluttony growled.
Mana vanished.
Ley lines collapsed.
The mage staggered, blood dripping from his lips.
"You cannot stop hunger," Gluttony said.
The mage smiled faintly.
"I don't intend to."
He turned to the sealed vault.
Spoke the final command.
The frame collapsed inward—removed, not destroyed. Every path severed. Every connection erased.
Far away, a boy screamed.
Pride stepped forward.
"You chose him," Pride said. "A witness."
"I chose," the mage replied weakly, "someone the future cannot erase."
Wrath struck.
The world shattered.
The mage fell.
Lust bound him in place, forcing awareness to linger. Greed tore open the vault, revealing the Seven Class Cards, still dormant, pulsing faintly.
"They sleep," Greed said.
"Wake them," Pride replied.
"They will destroy you," the mage whispered.
"All power," Pride said calmly, "belongs to its taker."
Wrath ended it.
The moment the mage died—
The cards recognized intent.
Seven sigils burned into the air. Time trembled. The future screamed.
One by one, the Seven reached out.
And claimed what was never meant to be stolen.
Pandora's Box stood open.