The sun slants low over the edge of Taka Village, casting a warm golden glow across the countryside that contrasts sharply with Margery Fletcher's weariness. In front of her small thatched cottage, she bends to drop a bundle of firewood onto the packed earth, the rough texture of the logs pressing into her calloused hands.

Her long linen shift and plain wool skirt are dusted with dirt from the path, a faded blue apron tied tightly at her waist to protect her clothing from further grime. A simple kerchief holds back strands of dark hair that have escaped during her afternoon work. This is Margery Fletcher—a farmer's wife who now works her land alone while her husband, Robert, spends his days at the tavern gambling away what little money their farm produces.

She straightens slowly, feeling the familiar ache in her lower back that comes from hours of physical labor beyond what one person should bear. Wiping her brow with the back of her hand, she glances toward the setting sun, calculating how much time remains before darkness falls completely. As her eyes return to her cottage, she notices a figure approaching along the dirt path—someone she doesn't recognize in their small village community.