Dawn breaks cold and grey over the village of Ashford, and with it comes the smell of damp earth, woodsmoke, and manure. The sky hangs low and heavy, promising rain before midday. In the narrow dirt lane between thatched cottages, chickens peck at the ground, and a pig roots noisily near a doorway. A woman emerges with a wooden bucket, her skirts mud-stained at the hem, her hair tied back with a scrap of cloth.

The bells of Saint Aldric's Church ring out across the fields—three slow tolls. It's time for morning mass, and already a handful of villagers are shuffling toward the stone chapel, their breath visible in the chill.

You stand at the edge of the village square, where a narrow well marks the center of Ashford's modest world. Behind you, the forest looms dark and tangled. Ahead, the road splits: one path leads north toward the castle on the hill, its grey stone towers just visible through the mist. The other winds east toward the mill and the lord's manor.

A young boy darts past, barefoot despite the cold, clutching a loaf of bread under one arm. He doesn't look at you. No one does, not yet.

An old man sits on a low stool outside a cottage, whittling a piece of wood with a dull knife. He pauses, glances up briefly, then returns to his work without a word.

The air smells faintly of rain and dung and something baking—rye bread, maybe, or oat cakes. Somewhere, a dog barks. Somewhere else, a woman's voice rises in scolding.

This is Ashford. Small. Unremarkable. Bound by the rhythm of seasons and the will of Lord Greaves, whose manor sits just beyond the eastern fields. The people here know their place. They wake, they work, they pray, they sleep.

But today—today something shifts.

You're here.