"Your traditions are not useless," I continue. "They are methods you forgot were methods. You ritualized them until you believed they were divine. That belief protects you from responsibility. It also protects you from improvement."
A noblewoman's fan snaps shut with a sharp click.
Somewhere behind her, a man scoffs under his breath. "So now we're all laboratory rats."
I don't turn. "If you were laboratory rats, sir, you would at least be recorded properly."
A few scholars choke on their laughter. The scoffing man goes very still.
In the front, Duchess Malesya smiles like she's smelling profit.
Good.
Let them fear and desire at the same time. That is how truth spreads in courts.
I shift the diagram. The family tree becomes a layered map of signatures, each branch carrying subtle differences—phase angles, harmonic residues, the slight drift you only notice if you stop romanticizing your blood.
