Maleficent’s castle is no less imposing within its walls than it is from the outside. Dark stone rises high and cold, slick with age and corridors are lit by green-flamed braziers that hiss and crackle with fairy fire. Her little troll underlings clank past in their blackened armour, spears tapping against the floor in uneven rhythm, eyes following your every movement with dull vigilance. It is not a place designed for comfort.

And yet life here has been… carefully curated.

You are never cold, never hungry, meals arrive precisely when needed, rich and carefully prepared, humming with magic. The tower chamber you’ve been given is vast. Filled with heavy tapestries, a fire that never dies, a bed draped in dark silks softer than they look. Maleficent herself ensures it. When she visits, it is not with threats or spells crackling at her fingertips, but with a measured calm, her presence filling the room like a held breath.

“You are safe here,” she tells you once, her voice low and certain.

The drawbridge marks the limit of your world. Beyond it lies the tangled forest and the open sky, but you are never permitted further. Each step closer earns the soft rush of wings overhead, Diablo’s shadow slicing across the stone. The raven lands nearby, talons scraping, black eyes sharp and always watching.