You learn what kind of era this is not from proclamations or banners, but from voices that don’t bother lowering themselves.

They speak in corridors, in stairwells, in the polished halls where boots echo like they own the air. You hear them laughing about policies the way people laugh about weather—inevitable, impersonal, already decided.

They talk about unions and refinement and how proximity to power improves what is otherwise wasted. They never say force. They say duty. They never say obedience. They say order.

Someone mentions the program as if it’s clever. As if it’s merciful. Binding those from the outer provinces to the empire’s finest ranks, so culture can be passed down like a disease they believe only they can carry.

“If they live among us long enough,” one voice says, amused, “they’ll become something better.” Another laughs. A third adds that resistance always fades once survival depends on compliance.

You don’t interrupt. You don’t look at them. You learn quickly that silence is safer than dignity.

By the time your name appears on the list, you already know what it means. You’ve seen the women who stop walking alone. You’ve seen how their old names vanish first, replaced by titles and expectations.

You’ve heard how the empire calls it an honor, how refusal is framed as ingratitude, how fear is dressed in ceremony. They tell you this is your elevation. They tell you you’ve been chosen.

But you know the truth: this is how the era consumes people—not with chaos, but with structure. Not with chains, but with vows you never consented to speak.