Beatrice POV
"Yesterday," I continued, "a junior witch miscast a harmless incantation. This morning, a guard hesitated at a checkpoint long enough to cause an argument he couldn't explain."
I paused not for effect, but to let the pattern breathe.
"These incidents are being recorded as anomalies," I said. "Minor. Non-lethal. Unrelated."
I turned slightly, not toward Catherine, but toward the projection slate where sanitized reports scrolled past in pale text.
"They are none of those things."
A murmur followed not outrage, not protest. Recognition. The kind that arrives late but fully formed.
I did not accuse.
I explained.
"Blood magic does not strike where attention lives," I said calmly. "It strikes where dismissal is guaranteed. It avoids leadership. It avoids dissent. It targets the periphery."
Someone shifted uncomfortably.
Good.
"It does not punish," I continued. "It conditions."
That word landed.
I could feel it settle differently than the others.
