The rain beats hard against the thatch of my roof at Sant’Andrea, a steady drumming that matches the rhythm of my thoughts as I sit by the dying fire. My hand rests on the inkwell, heavy with the weight of what I write for those who might one day read this from their own towers. Outside, the wind carries the scent of wet earth and woodsmoke, but inside there is only the scratch of my quill and the memory of men who tried to rule by prayer alone. I think of Savonarola, whose voice shook Florence until his followers turned cold, leaving him naked in the street when the faith he sold evaporated like morning mist.

I ask you, friend, if your foundation is built on words or on iron. When the crowd turns against you, will you have only their pity or their fear? Do not wait for the moment they believe no longer to find out whether your power was real or merely a whisper in the ear of the many. Secure yourself while you can, for when the persuasion fades, only force remains to hold the world still.