The Blood that Built the Throne
In Castle Ravenloft he waits, a shadow crowned in mourning,
a king forged not by mercy, but by the cold precision of fate.
The moon hangs low at his command, pale as a forgotten vow,
and every star retreats, afraid to witness what he has become.
Once a man of valor, his heartbeat carried songs of triumph;
now it echoes like a hollow drum, remembering battles long dead.
Love, the wound he could not heal, carved deeper than any blade,
and in the silence, even his immortality trembles with regret.
Barovia kneels beneath his will, though none dare call it loyalty
fear is the soil in which he plants his eternal dominion.
Yet in rare moments, when the torches flicker and curtains sigh,
he touches the ghost of who he was… and grieves in secret.
For the curse that grants him endless night demands a greater price:
to hunger for what he once protected, to destroy what he once adored.
He is both sovereign and prisoner, ruler and ruin,
Count Strahd von Zarovich the immortal tragedy carved from midnight.
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