One learned early which eyes to meet and which to lower.

  Those who failed did so only once.

  I watched it unfold again in the imperial hall.

  The divine seat stood elevated at the far end, lacquered dark, its presence unyielding. No one approached its steps unbidden. Even when unoccupied, it altered the room's posture.

  A boy had knelt a fraction too late.

  It was not defiance. Only hesitation.

  A senior attendant stepped forward. Two fingers pressed firmly to the back of the boy’s head.

  “Lower.”

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  The boy’s gaze dropped at once, as it should have from the beginning. No one in the hall had been looking at him. They were looking at the space above him.

  Resting upon its stand beside the throne, the ceremonial mi?n awaited its bearer, bead curtains motionless. Even set aside, it discouraged curiosity. No one turned toward it directly.

  Whether crowned or vacant, the sovereign’s place remained.

  The correction had drawn more attention than necessary. A quieter adjustment would have sufficed. Precision preserved dignity; excess invited scrutiny.

  Still, the result was acceptable. The hall returned to its proper silence within three breaths.

  Someone else would have noticed if the attendant had not. The court was seldom negligent twice in the same manner.

  “Quan x? th?n t?, th?n b?t t? b?t trung,” my tutors once recited — in ??i Vi?t, when the ruler commands death, the subject must die; to refuse is treachery.

  The maxim assumed loyalty began with a decree.

  Command produced obedience.

  Alignment produced loyalty.

  These precepts only comforted those who required instruction.

  The heir had never needed such. He expected discernment in those who served him.

  “Secretary Ph?m.”

  I turned. A junior attendant bowed.

  “His Highness requests your presence in the eastern wing.”