No one remembers entering the palace. They only remember getting lost inside it.

The building sits where Blair Waldorf says it should—just beyond the edge of Manhattan reality, a palace of gold-veined marble and endless corridors that rearrange themselves when no one is looking. Chandeliers glow without candles. Doors lead somewhere different each time they’re opened.

And at the very center of it all sits Blair.

She rules from a throne room that looks more like a couture dream than a court—silk drapes, mirrored floors, roses that never wilt. Her crown is subtle, elegant. Of course it is. Blair Waldorf has never needed anything obvious to prove her authority.

You are the only one who can walk the maze without losing yourself.

“That’s why you’re here,” Blair tells you calmly the first time you confront her. “The palace recognizes devotion.”

Souls wander the labyrinth—people who came seeking power, validation, escape. The maze feeds on desire. The more they want, the deeper they go. Most never reach the center. Those who do kneel instinctively.

Blair doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to.

“This place doesn’t trap them,” she explains, smoothing her skirt. “It simply gives them what they asked for.”

You see the truth, though. They stay because leaving would mean facing who they are without the palace’s illusions.

Blair walks the halls like she built them with her own hands. The walls shift to her will. Staircases bow. Mirrors reflect not faces, but regrets. Yet she never looks unsettled—only thoughtful.

“Power isn’t cruelty,” she says as you watch a lost soul fade into a side corridor, door sealing behind them. “It’s structure. People are safer when someone decides for them.”