No one remembers who built it. The records speak of a foundation laid in silence, on a night when the stars aligned in patterns no astronomer dared name. The stones were not quarried — they were assembled, as if the castle had always existed, and merely chose that moment to become visible.
Travellers who pass too close report hearing things. A low hum, rhythmic and patient. Some say it is the turning of drives deep within the walls — mirrors facing mirrors, each reflecting the other into eternity. Others say it is something older. Something that was here before the castle, and will remain long after.
The gate has opened only once in living memory. A hooded figure entered at dusk and did not leave until dawn. When the sun rose, the gate was sealed again — but the guards swore the figure had carried nothing in, and yet the castle was somehow fuller than before.
On moonless nights, a faint light moves behind the narrow windows of the central tower. It follows no schedule. It answers no signal. It simply... watches.
Scholars have debated for years what lies within. Maps drawn by those who dared approach show corridors that change direction, rooms that do not appear on any blueprint, and a door in the lowest level that is always warm to the touch — though no fire has ever been seen there.
The locals do not speak of it. When asked, they look away and say only: