Lord Dracula of Lviv, Chapter #5: The Records of the Empire

The first snow of winter fell over Lviv, veiling her rooftops in silence. The air was sharp, and the bells of St George’s Cathedral tolled through the wind like distant cries. Professor Stefan Hrytsko walked briskly through the drifting flakes, his coat drawn tight, a bundle of old keys clinking in his pocket. He was bound for the archives.

The University of Lviv’s Central Record Hall stood half-forgotten beneath the hill, an austere relic of Habsburg bureaucracy. Its stone façade was cracked and stained by time, its corridors lined with ledgers so ancient that dust rose like incense when their covers were lifted. The place smelled of paper and decay—an aroma Stefan found intoxicating. For if truth existed anywhere, it would be here, buried beneath centuries of ink and neglect.

He lit the lantern that hung by the archivist’s desk. The flame flickered upon the brass nameplates of drawers and cabinets, each marked with an empire’s forgotten order: Land Records, 1795–1848; Citizens of the Galician Nobility; Foreign Estates and Titles.

He began with the noble registers, searching for any trace of the name “Dracula”. None appeared. He tried variations—Drakul, Dragulia, even Trakl—but still nothing. He scoured baptismal ledgers, military rolls, tax receipts. At last, weary and half-frozen, he found a peculiar entry in the Register of Honourable Residents, 1789.

The script was faint, written in iron gall ink that had turned the parchment a dusky brown:

“Lucian Draguly, Count of Vysokyi Zamok, resident within the jurisdiction of the Imperial Crown of Galicia and Lodomeria. Granted perpetual exemption from civil service by decree of Emperor Joseph II, on account of distinguished services rendered to the Imperial Court in matters unspecified.”

The entry bore no death date. Only a faint annotation in another hand, added decades later: “Deceased presumed—no successor recorded.”

Stefan’s heart quickened. Vysokyi Zamok—High Castle Hill—was now a ruin, its fortress stones long scattered, yet the place was woven deep into the city’s memory. He turned to the adjacent pages, tracing the lineage of Lucian Draguly. There were none. The name vanished as abruptly as it had appeared, like a shadow absorbed by night.

He took the ledger to the archivist’s desk, brushing away dust. In the dim light, he noticed something strange: the ink shimmered faintly when the lantern flame wavered, as though the name itself resisted erasure.

From a separate drawer, he drew the Register of the Faculty of Theology, 1790. Among the benefactors of the Latin Cathedral, he found again the signature—Lucian Draguly—written with the same meticulous hand. The annotation beside it chilled him: “Gift of relics, origin unrecorded. Donor departed city without farewell.”

The clock struck midnight. The echo reverberated through the archive halls. Stefan started; he thought he heard footsteps—soft, deliberate—somewhere between the shelves.

“Who’s there?” he called, but the silence swallowed his voice.

Then came a faint whisper, like breath through parchment. “Scholar… you awaken ghosts you cannot catalogue.”

He turned, the lantern trembling in his grasp. A tall shadow stood at the far end of the corridor, indistinct yet unmistakable. The air grew heavy, the light dimmed.

“Count Draguly,” Stefan whispered, “you were real.”

“I am memory,” the voice answered, resonant and sorrowful. “And memory does not die.”

The lantern flickered violently. The books along the walls began to stir, their pages fluttering like wings. Stefan staggered back, shielding his face from the rush of dust and paper. When he dared to look again, the corridor was empty—but upon the desk before him lay a single, newly opened ledger.

In its centre was an inscription, written in crimson ink not yet dry:

“Lviv’s heart beats in her dead. And I am her pulse eternal.”

The flame extinguished itself. Stefan was left in darkness, the snow outside pressing against the stained-glass windows like a shroud.