Preamble: October 1226

The Portiuncula chapel, town of Santa Maria degli Angeli, near Assisi, Italy.

The chill of the earth wrapped around Brother Giovanni di Pietro di Bernardone as he descended the spiral staircase. The dim flickering light of his single candle played upon the ancient stone walls, casting long wavering shadows that danced like silent sentinels. Each step he took was deliberate, his sandalled feet brushing against the cold, uneven steps worn smooth by the passage of centuries. The scent of damp stone and old wax filled the narrow staircase, mingling with the faint trace of incense that seemed to cling to his robe.

The winding stair ended in a heavy oak plank door, its surface darkened with age. Rusted iron bands secured the planks. A large cross was etched deeply into its center, the edges rounded from the reverent touch of hands over generations. Giovanni paused, drawing a deep breath, his gnarled hand trembling slightly as he reached for the iron key hanging from a leather cord around his neck.

The key slid into the lock with a dull clink, and the door groaned as it swung inward, revealing a low, narrow passage. The small and steady flames of oil lamps cast a dim golden glow along the corridor, illuminating the rough-hewn walls. The friar walked slowly, his robes brushing the stone floor with a faint rustle, blending with the soft drip of water in the distance.

At the end of the corridor lay a hidden chamber deep beneath the earth. Its air was heavy, yet the space exuded a reverence that seemed to transcend time. The arched ceiling, supported by thick, squat pillars, gave the room an air of quiet strength. The stone walls bore faint traces of long-forgotten frescoes, their pigments all but faded into the shadows of history.

In the far corner of the chamber stood the object of his pilgrimage—the staff. Encased in glass and standing atop a simple stone pedestal, it seemed to emit a faint otherworldly light that bathed the room in a gentle glow. Crafted of pure gold, the staff was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, its surface engraved with scenes of divine creation and mortal devotion. At its head, a circlet of flawless diamonds crowned a single azure gem, brilliant as the ocean under a summer sky.

Brother Giovanni approached slowly, his heart heavy yet calm. His breathing was steady, his resolve firm, for he had long prepared for this moment. Kneeling before the staff with his brown robe pooled around him, the friar bowed his head.