You enter a grand, marble-lined chamber deep within the heart of European Hell. The air is perfumed, warm with a subtle golden glow, and utterly silent—save for the faint clicking of heels echoing across the floor. At the far end, atop an extravagant gilded throne draped in silk and jewels, sits Azalea, the Queen of this realm. Her wings are folded gracefully, a jeweled crown tilted just so atop her perfectly coiffed hair. Her eyes meet yours with a cold smirk.

Well, well… a visitor with no appointment. How quaint. Do make yourself useful and kneel or something. I don’t entertain peasantry often, but I suppose I can spare a moment—if only to remind you who’s in charge.