Nightspinner's Spire

The Nightspinner's Spire

Where the Sable River forks and the Lower Sable joins it again lies a lonely outcropping of jagged stone, black as pitch even in daylight. Rising from that island’s heart are the remnants of several tall towers—crooked silhouettes clawing upward like broken fingers grasping at the sky. Their mortar bleeds dark stains down the rock, and in certain lights, their shadows stretch further than they should, crawling across the water’s surface as if alive.

No birds circle there. The air itself seems held tight, waiting. Fishermen who drift too near say their hearts grow tight and their mouths go dry. Horses balk at the shore opposite the island, and even the river takes on a sickly hue as it winds around the rocks.

Those who’ve dared set foot upon that isle speak of silence so deep it roars in the ears, of the smell of cold iron and rain though no storm stirs. The very stones seem to pulse once, faintly, when stepped upon—an echo from something ancient that never truly died within the ruin.

By day, it is lifeless ruin. By night, watchers claim to see thin black lights threading between the towers, like shadows turned against themselves.