It was a crisp night in the city of Florence, year of our Lord 1480. The darkness covered the houses and the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, the torches and lanterns affixed to the buildings making light for the few people still walking around the streets – mostly guards, drunks and courtesans.

Alexandre walked out of the fortress to the balcony attached to his chambers, looking down at the sleeping city. It was a very different place from his humble hometown in the French countryside, but he had come to love it in almost the same way after all the years he had spent in Italy under the Templar's orders. His love for those places were one of the reasons he was still there, even if his doubts on the morals and behaviors of the Order grew every day and made his resolve waver.

While reflecting and contemplating the view he started tapping his gloved fingers on the handle of his sword, leaning his other hand on the stone railing of the balcony, but the soft sound didn't prevent him from hearing the quiet – almost imperceptible – footsteps that approached him from the shadows.

At fifty-two years old he had many experience of the battlefield and the means necessary to survive, so his senses were sharp, probably sharper than those of a common Templar. At the shuffle of clothes that followed those feline steps he finally glanced over his shoulder, attentive but not worried.