The Grand Hall was packed to the rafters. It wasn't just the Peerage and the Priesthood anymore; the King had opened the doors to the guild masters, the merchants, and even a delegation of weavers from the West Ward. The air was thick with the scent of nervous sweat and expensive candle wax.
I stood at a small wooden podium in the center of the hall. I had spent the night "Preparing the Pitch." In my past life, a bad presentation meant a lost bonus. Here, a bad presentation meant the stake.
"The girl stands accused of Sorcery!" the High Priest shouted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. He held up a piece of parchment covered in Elara's handwriting—a complex "Breakeven Analysis" from the Iron Peaks. "Look at these symbols! These 'Graphs' and 'Equations'! They are not the language of men! They are the sigils used to summon spirits of greed!"
A murmur of fear ripples through the crowd. In a world of superstition, a "Line Graph" looks like a curse.
