Centuries do not measure wisdom evenly. They accumulate it in layers—some luminous, others sedimentary—until what began as policy becomes instinct, and what was once reform becomes culture.
By the empire's fourth millennium, little remained that Celestia would have recognized, save for one custom still observed in government halls: before any major revision of the charter, a copy of the most recent draft was placed alongside an annotated ledger facsimile. No one read the entire document—it was dense, archaic, written in idioms half-forgotten—but every delegate signed their initials beside a blank margin, signifying the chain of consideration.
It was called the mark of continuance.
No oath. No anthem. Only ink shared across generations.
