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Erzsébet before her mirror stood,

Black vines in gold around it wound.

Her maid with trembling hands of pale,

In shadow’s grip did softly wail.

One errant tug, one sharp rebuke,

A strike that cut with cruel look.

The blood a crimson trail did trace,

Transfixed, Erzsébet touched her face.

Her cheek aglow with life anew,

In blood’s warm touch, her youth she drew.

The mirror showed a younger sight,

Her beauty fierce, her eyes alight.

But gone too soon, the moment fled,

The face she saw was old and dead.

Dismissed the maid, her heart afire,

Consumed by dark and vain desire.

Each night she summoned girls with dread,

A drop of blood on her cheek spread.

With each young maid’s terrorized face,

Her beauty grew in blood’s embrace.

The whispers rose, the village told,

Of maids gone lost and beauty bold.

They spoke of deals with spirits dire,

A pact with blood her heart’s desire.

Yet all that mattered was the sight,

In mirror’s depths, her face alight.

In blood she bathed, her youth regained,

Each drop of life in crimson stained.

One night, alone, her mirror changed,

Her face in horror rearranged.

A gaunt reflection stared in dread,

Her youthful beauty twisted, dead.

The creature grinned with ghastly glee,

In hollowed cheeks, death’s mockery.

“You’ve tasted youth, but madness drinks,”

The whisper hissed as darkness sinks.

The castle lay in silence grim,

Her beauty lost, her soul grew dim.

The mirror now a tomb of screams,

Where blood-stained youth had died in dreams.