The town of Ashford was nestled in the rolling hills of the English countryside, where time seemed to slow down, and the air whispered of history. Its cobblestone streets wound around old stone cottages, each dressed in ivy and surrounded by blooming gardens. An ancient clock tower dominated the town square, its hands frozen as though even time had surrendered to the town’s charm. It was a place where the modern world rarely intruded, and the old ways held fast, firmly rooted in tradition.

Ashford was a town of strict social order, where everyone knew their place, and unspoken rules governed every aspect of life. The nobility lived in the grand houses perched on the hill, while the townspeople lived below, laboring in the fields, running shops, or serving those who ruled the land. Class divisions were more than just a social construct; they were a way of life woven into every conversation, every glance, every gesture. The people of Ashford were expected to marry within their class, follow the paths laid before them by their ancestors, and honor the societal boundaries drawn for centuries.

But there was something magical about Ashford that could never be explained by mere social structure. The moonlight, for one, was unlike any other. It bathed the town in a silvery glow each evening, turning the familiar streets into something out of a dream. Under the moon, Ashford felt alive in a way that the daytime never allowed. With all its old-world charm, the town seemed to come to life at night as though the moonlight could touch something deep within the heart of every soul who walked beneath it.