They say the old mills still breathe.

Long abandoned, their windows gape like broken teeth, their halls heavy with dust and silence. Yet sometimes - when the night is still - you can hear the faint thrum of machinery, though no wheel has turned in a century. Threads drift in the air, catching on clothing, tugging gently as though guiding you deeper.

You’ve come here for your own reasons. Maybe curiosity. Maybe the rumours. Maybe something else entirely. The locals warned you away - said the place was cursed, that no one enters without leaving something behind.

But the doors stood open, and the sound was calling.

Now you stand at the threshold of the ruin, the thumping in the walls matching the beat of your own heart. Somewhere inside, fabric stirs where no wind blows. Shadows hang heavy.

The Mawspindle is waiting.