The house breathed dust. It was an old, forgotten place on the edge of the city, its windows like vacant eyes and its bones creaking with every gust of wind. But to Archana Veilstorm, it was a palace. And she was its queen. Silken threads, far thicker and stronger than any natural spider could weave, draped every doorway and chandelier, extensions of her own will, her own quiet, patient power.

  Upstairs, in what was once a grand bedroom, the air smelled of sawdust, lavender, and something faintly metallic. Here, Miss Poppy, her employee, was at work. Archana watched, her deep red eyes reflecting the dim light. In her palm, her favourite pet, an oversized Redback Widow she called Charlotte, shifted its weight. The tickle of its eight skinny legs against her skin was a familiar comfort.

  "Shouldn't you be downstairs, my lady?" Miss Poppy asked, her voice as soft and precise as her needlework. "Overseeing our guests?"

  "I should," Archana admitted, her gaze fixed on the life-sized doll taking shape on the workbench. It was a masterpiece of uncanny horror, with porcelain limbs, button eyes, and a stitched-on smile. "But this is just too interesting. Your progress is remarkable."

  Miss Poppy’s own face, as pale and placid as one of her creations, showed a flicker of pride. "I am ready for the final component, Lady Archana."

  "Excellent." Archana smiled, a playful gesture that did not reach her eyes. "I will be right back."

  She descended the grand, decaying staircase, Charlotte still perched on her hand. Her pigtails of stark white hair bounced with each step. First, the basement. She paused at one door, peering through a small grate. Inside, on a surprisingly comfortable-looking bed, lay Lori Reddington and her friend Scarlett. Their eyes were wide and unfocused, their fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. They were deep within the psychedelic trance induced by the cocktail of spider venom and Molly’s glowing mushrooms. Perfect, Archana thought. The suggestion that Scarlett bring her troubled, fighter-friend Lori here for a "spiritual retreat" had worked seamlessly.

  She moved to the next door, this one reinforced with iron bands and sealed with a huge, rusty padlock. She produced a key, and the lock groaned open. The stench that rolled out was nauseating—a thick, sweet smell of rot and old blood. Inside, chained to the far wall, was a zombie. Its skin was grey and peeling, its jaw hanging slack, but its eyes were lucid. And they were filled with a raw, primal terror. As Archana stepped inside, small as she was, the creature whimpered and cowered, pressing itself against the damp stone.

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  "Now, now," Archana whispered, her voice a soothing balm that was utterly at odds with the scene. "Don't be afraid."

  She bent down, her red eyes locking with the zombie’s. She placed Charlotte gently on its decaying shoulder. The spider needed no command. It bit down, its fangs sinking into the necrotic flesh. The zombie shuddered once, its limbs locking up as the paralytic venom did its work.

  With the creature immobilized, Archana got to work. From a leather pouch, she produced a surgical scalpel. Its sterile gleam was a profane intrusion in the filth of the cell. She made a long, precise incision down the zombie’s bicep. There was no blood, only a slow, thick ooze. Peeling back the dead skin, she carefully excised a long, greyish-red strip of rotten muscle, the soft, yielding texture of the tissue making a squelching sound as she cut. Placing the grisly component in a sealed glass jar, she turned and left the cell, locking the terrified, paralyzed creature back in the dark.

  Back upstairs, she presented the jar to Miss Poppy. The doll maker took it without flinching and, with the same delicate precision she used for her threads, began to expertly sew the strip of zombie muscle deep within the doll’s chest cavity. Once it was sealed inside, Miss Poppy placed her hands on the doll’s head, closed her eyes, and began to mutter in a language that was ancient and full of shadows.

  Slowly, terrifyingly, the doll’s head creaked to the side. Its stitched smile seemed to widen. It sat up.

  Archana clapped her hands together, her delight genuine and girlish. "Excellent! How many of these can we make?" She wanted an army.

  She began to pace, outlining her grand design. "The drug will reawaken Lori’s purpose, remind her of the warrior she is. She will lead our new friends," she gestured to the animated doll, "into the wasteland. I’ve bought up huge tracts of the land out there for next to nothing, you see."

  Her red eyes gleamed with avarice. "Each doll will have a tiny, powerful explosive inside, courtesy of Jada Vicinage. Lori and the dolls will sweep through the wastes, flushing out and destroying every last zombie. The horror will end, the land will be safe, and its value will skyrocket." She did a little dance, a happy, skipping motion. "If you’re going to be the hero, you might as well profit from it!"

  Miss Poppy tilted her head, her expression as blank as ever. "The plan is very clear, my lady. But what of Lori Reddington’s safety? She will be in the wasteland when the dolls... detonate."

  Archana paused mid-twirl, the question catching her off guard. She stopped, her playful mood vanishing as she genuinely considered it for the first time. A thoughtful silence filled the room, broken only by the faint creaking of the doll’s joints.

  "Oh, well," she said finally, her voice losing none of its casual, airy quality. "I suppose she is part of the price to save the city."