April 25th, 1422
On the edge of Milan, Italy, in a stone dungeon, a large, silent shape made its way down a stairway by moonlight. The eleventh hour had just struck. The shape shivered in a sudden wind, an almost imperceptible shudder, then continued on its way.

Two stories below him, an old, withered man slept, curled up against the cold walls of his cell. A wrinkled hand clutched a small, dry piece of bread. A ridge of tooth-marks dug into his frostbitten fingers. His figure was slight, his strength sapped from long captivity. He slept undisturbed among the rubble.