Under layers of rock, its burial seemingly intentional, you find a chest lined with satin. Inside is a crown, glittering gold. Deep inside, you feel compelled to bend down and slip it over your ears. You feel as if it *wanted* you to find it, that this crown was made for you, and that you were destined to wear it. Does this compulsion make you uneasy, or do you give into the crown’s pull?

With a leisurely kick of the hoof, the hinges of the buried chest squealed open. The red satin inside cushioned a gleaming golden crown, much like The Mad Alchemist had left in his home country so many years ago. In fact, the resemblance was uncanny, from the sparkle of the inlaid jewels to the avian motif engraved upon it.

“Well, I'll be,” the old stallion chuckled to its contents. “You look exactly like my own crown.” The Puck chuckled as he dared to touch the crown with a hoof. He knew it to be a trick of some sort, for its emergence from the ground made no logical sense, but he couldn't help but admire the familiar sight while he had the opportunity.

“Tsk. You've even got the bend from the assassination attempt upon Father all those years ago,” he mused, admiring the fault in the crown's golden surface. “You must've been pulled directly from my memories.” He gave a wistful sigh. It was a good fake, perhaps the best the dungeon had tempted him with yet. He desperately wanted to wear it once more, but he knew the false crown was no more than the bait of a monster's snare. Some creature or another – likely some manner of phantom – must of singled him out for his pride and greed. But he had been traveling for decades, and he had grown wise to monsters who hunted through temptation. In a strange way, the vices which made him prey to such creatures also made him immune to their charms, for he knew they could satisfy neither. To let his pride lead him astray in the dungeon would be an undignified death, and the false treasure conjured by illusion was worthless by definition. To entrap him, a monster would have to offer something real, and by nature, they could not.

Ignoring the unnatural pull of the counterfeit crown, he slammed the chest shut. Reaching into beneath his cloak, The Mad Alchemist took a flask in his teeth and poured its contents over the ornate box. The peach colored liquid hissed and gurgled upon contact, then burst into a violent plume of gold and purple flames. As the fire danced over the box, an unearthly scream tore through the air as the phantom bound to it writhed in unseen agony. The shrieks of pain continued for a good three minutes, the chest warping and melting all the while, until the only thing left behind was silence and warped, twisted metal.

The Mad Alchemist's mouth twisted into a wry grin. It was a fate he'd give to anyone or anything who thought he could be bested.