"Lady Valen," he said. "A question for clarity. Are you the one developing the replication-grade protocol for origin signature extraction?"
The corridor went quieter.
Not silent.
But listening.
Amberine's pulse jumped so hard she felt it in her ears.
Elara didn't react like a cornered animal.
She reacted like Elara.
Calm. Precise. Indifferent.
"That statent is not mine to confirm publicly," Elara said. "If you have a formal inquiry, route it through faculty and Council protocol."
The man smiled.
He heard confirmation anyway.
Amberine saw it happen.
A single refusal turned into a yes in the mouths of people who needed a yes.
Count Ken Arbantilus von Valen stood ten paces away.
Not close enough to be part of the conversation.
Close enough to be a gravity well.
His hands were too clean.
He adjusted a ring once.
That was all.
And yet the corridor shifted around him like water around a stone.
Amberine's protective anger flared so fast it surprised her.
She wanted to bite.
She wanted to tell them to stop looking at Elara like she was a relic.
Ifrit felt the anger and purred like an ember finding oxygen.
Maris's fingers tightened around Amberine's forearm, subtle.
Later.
Astrid stepped forward with faculty authority.
"Thesis-level protocol questions go through institutional channels," she said, voice crisp. "This is a student symposium. Not a tribunal."
It helped.
For five seconds.
Then soone else approached from the scholar tiers, eyes bright with hunger.
"Lady Valen," the scholar said, "if origin attributes are signatures, then surely so bloodlines have been engineered. Which ones?"
The question landed like a knife disguised as curiosity.
Amberine felt Maris stiffen.
Elara didn't.
Elara looked at the scholar the way she looked at a ssy equation.
"That is a conclusion you earn by data," Elara said, voice flat, "not by gossip."
The scholar's cheeks reddened.
"But—"
"Not here," Elara added. "Not like this."
The scholar opened his mouth again.
Astrid cut in, sharper now. "We are moving to the staging pocket. If you have a formal query, submit it. Otherwise, you are obstructing."
A few people stepped aside.
Not because they respected Astrid.
Because they were watching Elara.
And now they knew Astrid was a gate.
Which ant Astrid was also a target.
Amberine's stomach churned.
Another noble aide—this one with a crest Amberine didn't recognize—leaned in with a soft, sympathetic voice.
"Lady Valen," he murmured. "Protection can be arranged. Private lab access. Secure housing. If the world is going to weaponize your work, you should have… patrons."
Patrons.
Cage with velvet curtains.
Amberine heard it the way she heard a match strike in a quiet room.
Elara's eyes didn't change.
"No," she said.
Just that.
No explanation.
No apology.
No debate.
The aide's smile strained. "Think carefully. Safety—"
Elara's voice stayed calm. "Safety is not ownership."
The aide blinked.
Amberine almost laughed from shock.
Maris didn't.
Maris watched the aide the way she watched unstable illusions: waiting for the mont the lie beca visible.
Ifrit whispered, his voice smaller now.
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