The Legend of Crna Kraljica

Introduction

High on the southern slopes of Medvedgrad, ancient stones whisper under night’s breath. A chill drifted through the pine needles like a raven’s wing, carrying the faint scent of moss and old bones. Locals still murmur, “Bolje vrabac u ruci nego golub na grani,” warning that a small blessing is safer than a distant promise—yet none claim to have escaped empty-handed from these woods. A distant owl hoot fractured the hush, as silent as the fog creeping above castle ruins where the Black Queen first ruled.

They say she was born in blood, to roditi se u magli—a haze of power and ambition. Noble, proud Egidia once held court with laughter like shards of glass, her gaze cutting like winter winds. The people trembled beneath her velvet robes, imagining that each jeer carried the crack of leather scourges. She filled the treasury with gold but starved their hope, hoarding wealth as tightly as one would clutch a dying ember.

Then came the blood moon, a red crown hung low in the sky. She drank from a chalice of life and death, forging her soul into something neither woman nor beast. The wind changed that night, like a curse slipping into the earth’s veins, and from that hour forward, her footsteps left no shadow but a hunger for mortal warmth.

Now the woods around Medvedgrad bear her name in trembling whispers. Travelers report a shape drifting between trunks, cloak trailing like a black waterfall, pale hand beckoning. Torchlight reveals only eyes burning with sorrow and malice. They warn: no brave heart should seek her treasure. Yet who can resist the pull of forgotten gold under a haunted roof?

Rise of the Black Queen

Countess Egidia of Medvedgrad once embodied noble grace, riding through misty forest paths on a stallion as white as mountain snow. Her smile could warp stone hearts into gratitude, yet her temper roared like thunder in the silent chapel. Villagers claimed her court glittered with fortune—silks dyed deeper than peacock feathers, coins that rang like church bells called from distant towers. Under her rule, wheat fields grew thick as summer dreams, but her taxes bled their harvest dry.

Her hall echoed with the clink of gold and the wail of broken families. She convened midnight suppers in candlelit gloom, where she tasted exotic wines spiced with cinnamon and clove, each sip laced with whispered threats. Her counselors, once men of honour, bent like reeds before her will, the flicker of fear glowing in their eyes like embers in ash.

When a caravan failed to pay tribute, she summoned them to the great hall. Their wagon wheels creaked like phantom wings as they bowed and offered skins of silver coins. Egidia’s laughter cracked the vaulted roof in shards of glass, and she spared none the sting of her rebuke. That night she walked the ramparts, her cloak billowing like a storm cloud volleying lightning. The heavens themselves trembled, and some believe she swore an oath beneath thunder and ash, sealing her fate with shadows older than the earth itself.

Curse of the Blood Moon

On a night when the full moon glowed red as spilled wine, Egidia summoned a clandestine conclave of sorcerers. They gathered around a fountain encrusted with moss, its water shimmering like quicksilver. The air tasted of brimstone and wilted roses. She offered her soul in exchange for eternal dominion—her laughter like caged ravens as arcane runes flared at her fingertips.

As the pact sealed, the sky tore open, and lightning forked across the moon in a savage dance. The ground shuddered. Egidia’s flesh grew cold beneath her silken cloak, her eyes hollowed like forgotten caves. She rose anew, pale as a swan’s wing under frost, fangs glimmering like polished ivory. Her voice, once honeyed, now dripped with night’s venom.

From that moment, she became Crna Kraljica, the Witch Queen, cursed to roam the woodland corridors. She commanded wolves dripping with shadow and vines that writhed like serpents through broken walls. Each victim drained left only husks of despair, the chill of death lingering like wet silk on stone. The peasants whispered that even the bravest knights turned upon themselves in madness when they glimpsed her silhouette gliding between twisted trunks.

Whispering Woods and Hidden Treasure

Generations later, the forest around Medvedgrad whispers her name in every rustle of leaves. The mossy ground is littered with coins tarnished to green, and shards of broken chalices glint like fallen stars. Travelers speak of a vault hidden beneath roots, doors carved with runes that pulse like a heartbeat.

Many have ventured with lanterns swaying, their breath visible as white ghosts in the chill air. Some claim they hear soft humming—her lullaby of despair—or feel a pale hand brush their shoulder before discovering empty pockets and dwindling hope. The scent of pine and damp earth clings to their cloaks, and distant owl hoots sound like warnings.

Local legend offers two roads: pay homage and walk away empty, or defy her curse and face the hunger in her gaze. Only those as cunning as foxes and as fearless as mountain hawks stand a chance. They leave an offering of silver trinkets and recite old prayers, hoping the Witch Queen spares their souls long enough to glimpse her hoard. Yet legend insists she guards her treasure with the ferocity of a mother protecting her brood, and none have carried more than a single golden coin back to the living world.

Conclusion

Today, Medvedgrad stands as a silhouette of memory and shadows. Tourists clutch guidebooks as they climb narrow paths, pausing to touch cool stone walls and inhale the pine-scented air—as if the castle itself breathes. They recall the warning: to covet the Black Queen’s treasure invites her hunger. Lantern light dances on moss, and only the bravest, or most foolish, dare whisper her name.

Yet even skeptics admit unexplained chills and distant laughter echoing through empty halls. They speak of coins turning cold in their palms and shadows that cling with more than dew. Some leave humble offerings at the forest’s edge: a silver medallion, a sprig of rosemary, a whispered prayer. Rumour persists that on still nights one may glimpse her pale form drifting among pines, longing and wrath intertwined like vines around a forgotten tomb.

Crna Kraljica’s legend endures, a tale woven into Croatia’s wild heart, beckoning souls to test their courage. Her hidden hoard remains veiled by ancient magics, guarded by hunger that never sleeps. Under the watchful gaze of the blood moon, the Black Queen reigns eternal, her legacy etched in stone and dream alike—inviting each new pilgrim to decide if some treasures are better left undisturbed.