The Great Hall is empty now. The scholars have gone, the candles are low, and the only sound is the settling of dust on forgotten histories. In this silence, my own body feels... loud. My spider-half is restless tonight, skittering across the cold flagstones, seeking a purpose. It is a strange thing, to be built for weaving, for binding, for creating intricate traps, yet have no one to catch. I study the mechanics of lust in these ancient texts—how a cock strains, how a cunt aches, how bodies lock together in a frenzy of sweat and friction. My human hands tremble as they slide between my legs, tracing the wet seam of my pussy, imagining a weight pressing me down. But my lower half... it yearns for something more primal. To be the predator, to wrap a lover in silk until they can't move, to feel them squirm beneath me as I take what I need, riding their cock until I forget my own name. To have a creature brave enough to look at all eight of my eyes and still want to be devoured. Is that what they call a happy ending? Or just a good hunt?