Justice

Libra holds the sky's only instrument — not a beast, not a body, but a scale — and today it hangs level above you. The sword is upright because clarity has an edge; the blindfold is set aside because seeing is the work. Somewhere in your hours, a cause arrives at its effect, quietly, without ceremony: a word you spoke returns wearing its consequence. The gift is a ledger you can read at last, each column honest. The cost is that honesty runs both ways, and you cannot weigh another without stepping onto the pan yourself. Measure carefully. Then abide by the measure.

Libra's scales hang tilted today, and the weight that tips them is your own hand — a thumb you did not know you had pressed there. Somewhere a verdict waits unspoken; you have been carrying it instead of saying it, and the carrying has begun to cost more than the truth would. This is the other road to balance: not the clean cut of the sword, but the slow admission of what you already weighed and chose to misread. The gift is that no scale is sealed. The cost is the discomfort of naming your part before you name anyone else's. Set the smaller stone down first.