The fire had died down to cold embers in my study, the only light coming from a tallow candle that flickered against the draft. I sat alone with my papers, tracing the names of kings who fell not by sword but by the soft treachery of their own bedsides. The ink felt heavy on the page as I wrote of Edward and his wife, seeing how the crown can be stripped away by a hand that knows the secrets of the chamber better than the guard at the gate. It is a quiet horror, this way men are undone, not in battlefields where honor rules, but in rooms where trust should reign supreme yet becomes the very instrument of ruin.

I ask you to look closely at the faces of those who hold power over your own house, for the danger often comes from within the circle you think is safe. Do not let affection blind you to the plots that may be weaving quietly around your neck while you sleep. Guard your heart as if it were a fortress, for once the door is opened by love or duty, there is no closing it again against the poison of ambition.