At the same time, far away from the peaceful village, inside a large building owned by that witch's company, something else was happening.
The threads–made from the supposed Dreadmire flowers were drying under the open sky in the wide factory yard. Long rows of them were spread across bamboo stands and hanging ropes, their pale white color glowing faintly under the sunlight.
A few workers walked between them, checking each strand carefully with their hands. One of the young workers touched a bunch of threads and frowned slightly.
"Don't you think this one feels… not as silky as before?" she asked, rubbing the fibers between her fingers.
Another witch, older and more confident, looked over and waved her hand lazily. "Come on, it's just thread. They're still good quality. Didn't you see how big those flowers were this time? Boss said it was the best batch so far."
The younger one stayed quiet, but something still felt off.
