She stands where cliffs kiss cloud and sky,
a crown of stone where eagles cry.
Her windows weep. Her stairways wind—
a fortress with a haunted mind.
The walls are cold, but not with age;
they hum like something in a cage.
A breath, a voice, a hunger kept—
a vow the mountain never slept.
They speak of Vlad, of blood and war,
of iron teeth and oaths he swore.
But myths grow fat where truth grows thin,
and legends love the dark they’re in.
I touched the doors. I walked the floor.
A draft slipped in beneath the door.
And something whispered not quite yet,
like I was one it won't forget.
The views were vast, the dusk was red.
I left before the day was dead.
Some castles guard, some castles crave—
and Bran is halfway to a grave.