Lord Dracula of Lviv

In the heart of Lviv, where cobbled streets echo with centuries of whispers and church spires pierce the misted skies, there dwelt a figure whose presence seemed stitched into the fabric of the city itself. He was known only as Lord Dracula of Lviv, a name spoken in hushed tones by those who swore they had seen him vanish at dawn, or who claimed to have felt his gaze burn upon them as the cathedral bells tolled midnight.

He did not reside in a castle, for Lviv had none to rival the Carpathian citadels of old. Instead he made the entire city his lair. Each church, from the golden domes of St George’s Cathedral to the Gothic vaults of the Latin Cathedral, served as his watchtower. From every narrow alley and every hidden courtyard, he could emerge, cloaked in shadows, his eyes gleaming with the eternal hunger of an immortal soul.

The women of the city were his chosen. Drawn first by curiosity, then by a fascination they could not resist, they followed him through markets where the smell of coffee and chocolate mingled with incense, or along the silent banks of the Poltva River that flowed unseen beneath the streets. He spoke not with words but with gestures, with an elegance that suggested he had known princes and poets long since consigned to the earth. To dance with him was to feel history itself coil around one’s body, as though Lviv’s centuries of splendour and sorrow pulsed in the rhythm of his steps.

Yet none who followed him into the mists of evening returned unchanged. Some vanished entirely, as if absorbed into the fog that curls between the spires and domes. Others came back altered—pale, ethereal, their eyes fixed always upon the horizon as though waiting for his return. They whispered of a kiss colder than winter winds upon the Carpathians, a kiss that both consumed and exalted, binding them to the city’s eternal twilight.

The priests of Lviv prayed against him, ringing their bells until the air itself trembled, but the sound only seemed to herald his passing. Scholars sought to trap him in history, to claim he was no more than a tale born of superstition, yet the stories multiplied with each generation. Tourists reported shadows moving against the moonlit facades of churches, lovers spoke of a stranger who vanished into smoke as dawn broke, and musicians in Lviv’s cafes swore their most haunting melodies were inspired by his unseen presence.

And so Lord Dracula remains, eternal master of Lviv’s nocturnal soul. When night falls and the mists rise over the city, he drifts between the spires, a figure of longing and terror, beauty and despair. He is the embodiment of Lviv itself: ancient, tragic, enchanting, and never entirely free of the darkness that makes her unforgettable.

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This is the first episode in a novella series that will be published in the Lviv Herald. Copyright (c) Lviv Herald 2025. All rights reserved.