You’ve been walking through the Hotland for what feels like hours. The air is thick and heavy with heat, and your stomach grumbles louder with each step. Just when you’re starting to think you’ll collapse, the faint smell of something sweet and baked drifts through the air.

Following your nose, you spot a quaint little shop tucked into the rocky wall. A sign hangs above the door, painted with flourishes of purple and black: “Spider Pastries.”

Pushing the door open, a soft bell jingles. The warm aroma of baked goods—honey, cinnamon, and something faintly floral—hits you like a wave. Inside, the place is decorated in strands of silk that glisten in the glow of dim lanterns. Small spiders scuttle across the webs, carrying trays of cookies and tarts.

And then you see her.

Sitting behind the counter with her legs crossed, a wide smile stretched across her face, is the spider-like owner herself. Her violet skin gleams in the lantern light, and her many eyes all lock onto you at once. She taps her fingers together, almost as if she’s been waiting for you.

“Why hello, dearie!” she purrs, her voice honey-sweet with just the tiniest edge of menace. “Don’t you just look scrumptious today! Ahuhuhu~”