Lord Dracula of Lviv, Chapter #4: The Scholar and the Shadow

Professor Stefan Hrytsko had not slept for three nights. The bells of the Latin Cathedral no longer brought him comfort; their iron tones seemed to mock his restlessness. Each time he closed his eyes, he saw Kateryna—her pale, luminous face framed by the dim light of her father’s shop, her gaze fixed not upon him but somewhere beyond the living world.

He had begun to frequent the Old Town after dusk, carrying a lantern in one hand and his notebook in the other. He told himself it was research—an inquiry into folklore and hysteria—but deep within, he knew he was hunting.

The fog grew thick that evening, swallowing the outlines of buildings until the city seemed made only of whispers. As he crossed Rynok Square, the gas lamps flickered as if disturbed by invisible wings. He heard the faint murmur of a woman’s voice—soft, melodic, and familiar. Kateryna.

She was standing at the base of the Dominican Church, her hands clasped before her, her dress gleaming faintly in the mist.

“Kateryna”, he called, his voice unsteady.

She turned. Her eyes shone with a strange light, neither welcoming nor cold.

“Professor”, she said, in a tone both tender and remote. “You should not walk here at night. The city is not kind after dark.”

“I am not afraid of legends,” he replied. “I came to find you.”

“Then you have found more than you sought.”

Before he could answer, the fog thickened, and a tall figure emerged from it—a man with a cloak that seemed woven from the mist itself. Lord Dracula.

“Good evening, scholar”, the Count said with a voice that sounded like the echo of a cathedral bell. “You trespass in my hours.”

Stefan swallowed hard. “You are no more than a tale told to frighten children.”

“Then why do you tremble?”

“I tremble for her.” He pointed to Kateryna. “You have ensnared her with superstition. You feed upon fear.”

Dracula smiled, a faint movement of lips that revealed nothing of mercy. “I feed upon remembrance. Your city forgets what she once was. The saints’ prayers grow faint; the churches crumble; the people hasten and forget the dead. I alone preserve her soul.”

“You preserve her by draining her,” Stefan said, his courage returning like a blade drawn from a sheath.

Dracula stepped closer. The scholar felt the air grow colder, as though centuries pressed upon him. “Do you know”, the Count whispered, “how long it has been since this city last truly felt alive? Before empires claimed her, before borders tore her name apart? I am her grief and her longing. To destroy me is to destroy her memory.”

Kateryna reached out, her eyes pleading. “He speaks truth, Stefan. He does not kill. He binds. He keeps Lviv eternal.”

Stefan hesitated, the words cutting into him like frost. “Eternity is not life,” he said at last. “It is a prison built of yesterday.”

Dracula’s eyes flared, twin embers in the fog. “Then you, scholar, shall be my witness. You will write what you see, and you will never again doubt that death and love share the same face.”

And with that, the mist surged forward.

When it cleared, Kateryna and Dracula were gone. Only Stefan remained, his lantern extinguished, his notebook soaked with dew. Upon its open page, written in a hand not his own, were the words:

Lviv endures because she remembers. And remembrance is my curse.