Crown of Discipline

 

Crown of Discipline

The hall was silent. Orderly. A hundred eyes fixed forward, unblinking, waiting. The air smelled of polished boots, cold steel, and the faint trace of lavender soap. The woman at the podium stood motionless for a long moment, letting the silence stretch, letting them feel it.

Then, with slow precision, she lifted a hand and gathered the long, gleaming strands of her hair into her fist.

It was perfect. Thick, shining, disciplined. It obeyed under her grip, twisting into a flawless coil as she secured it at the nape of her neck. Not a single strand out of place. Not a single flaw in its presentation.

She exhaled through her nose.

“To control the world,” she said, her voice sharp as the edge of a blade, “one must first control oneself.”

She walked forward, boots striking the marble floor in an unbroken rhythm, the only sound in the vast hall.

“I have seen what happens when weakness is allowed to grow unchecked.” She looked down at them all, each one sitting straight-backed, chins lifted, waiting for permission to breathe. “Decay. Chaos. The indulgence of those who let themselves soften.”

Her fingers traced over her hair, smoothed it once more, a reminder that this was order. This was control.

“Strength is in discipline. In uniformity. In mastery over the self.”

She leaned forward, and though she whispered, the words carried like a thunderclap.

“If you cannot command even the strands on your own head, tell me—how will you command anything?”

Silence. Absolute.

A slow, satisfied smile curled her lips.

She had them.