The Curse of Nightspinner’s Spire

The Curse of Nightspinner’s Spire

Ain’t no fisherman worth his salt goes near that island where the two rivers meet. Folks call it Nightspinner’s Spire, though none can tell you who first gave it the name. You can see the towers plain as day from the south bank—black stone rising out of the water like rotten teeth. Look long enough and you’ll swear they move when clouds pass over.

The old settlers say the Spire’s older than dirt—older than Blood Ax, older than the tribes before ‘em. Some claim it was built by river spirits, others say it’s the grave of a fallen angel, but everyone agrees it’s cursed as winter death.

Men who’ve set foot on that island don’t stay right after. One prospector went over to chip stormglass from the ruins; he came back two days later with a smile that didn’t fit his face. Never spoke again—just stared at the river till he walked into it. Another fool tried to camp there, said he heard whispering from the stones, like a woman asking questions he couldn’t answer. His horse broke its neck trying to swim away.

They say a watcher lives under those towers—a shadow that don’t cast one of its own. Some call it the Web-Witch, others the Dark Spinner, but whatever it is, it hates to be lonely. Folks reckon it weaves a snare from fear and pride, catches anybody fool enough to think they’re braver than they are.

If the river runs quiet and the moon floods the water silver, you can see the Spire’s shadow stretching upstream, against the current. That’s how you know it’s awake—when shadows start disobeying the river.

So if you ride the east trail and hear the water hush like it’s holding its breath, keep your eyes on the far shore and don’t look toward the island. Don’t whistle, don’t speak, and for the love of your soul, don’t step foot on its stones.

Because once you do, the Nightspinner knows your name—and the river won’t stop whispering it till you’re gone.