Within the Bardasi hierarchy, teacher was a tiered position, difficult to attain and not lightly bestowed. One did not become a teacher merely by age or experience, but by surviving review. Teachers were evaluated by their students’ later conduct, not by affection or loyalty. Above them stood professors, responsible not for instruction but for doctrine—the articulation of Jantaran commercial philosophy across generations. Above them again were adjudicators, empowered to resolve disputes between Bardasi, students, and foreign authorities alike, often with rulings that carried weight across borders. At the summit stood the civil proclamators, rare figures whose role was not to teach individuals, but to formalize Jantaran position in moments of crisis, transition, or foundational accord.
This structure ensured that the Bardasi did not merely produce clever traders, but shaped minds capable of operating without homeland, without sentiment, and without illusion. The student who completed such an apprenticeship did not return home wiser in the comforting sense. They returned sharper, quieter, and harder to deceive.
That other realms once accepted this transformation—once entrusted their offspring to jackal hands knowing they would not come back the same—is not a curiosity of the past. It is the measure of what Elder Jantara once was.
That such trust no longer exists is not mystery.
It is judgment.