Pastry Cookie, her phyllo veil rustling softly, stepped through a patch of overgrown lavender, holding some uncertainty as she scanned the dilapidated stone archway before her. A potential haven for impurity, her mind echoed the Order's teachings.

"Book of Butter, 14:11," she murmured in an hesitant prayer, "'Cookies shall confess their true flavors to the Witches.'" Her Fork of Judgment felt heavier than usual in her grasp. Was every flavor truly meant for the Witches' scrutiny? And what of those whose flavors were simply… misplaced?