Lord Dracula of Lviv, Chapter #6: The Ruins of Vysokyi Zamok

The city lay beneath a shroud of snow, her spires half-buried in whiteness, her streets muffled and still. But above her, upon the hill of Vysokyi Zamok, the wind was alive. It tore through the skeletal trees, whistled through broken masonry, and scattered the crows that haunted the fortress ruins. There was no place lonelier than that hilltop, and yet, for Professor Stefan Hrytsko, it was the only place left to go.

He had followed the trail from the archives, each revelation drawing him deeper into the labyrinth of the city’s past until all paths pointed to this summit. If Lucian Draguly—Count Dracula—had ever truly walked among men, his beginning and his end lay here. The old fortress had once guarded Lviv’s heart; now it stood like a wound that refused to heal.

As Stefan ascended the steep path, the snow thickened, the lantern in his hand flickering against the gusts. The city below glimmered faintly, a constellation of lights seen through mist, like the reflection of heaven upon earth. Yet there was nothing heavenly in the hill’s silence. Each step echoed too loudly, and though no prints but his marked the snow, he felt eyes upon him.

When he reached the crest, he found the ruins barely visible—crumbled stone, shards of walls, and the dark mouth of what had once been a cellar or cistern, half-sealed by ice. He knelt beside it, scraping away frost until a chill breath exhaled from the opening. It was not the wind. It was deeper, slower—like the sigh of something that had been asleep for centuries.

He lowered the lantern, peering into the darkness. The descent was steep but passable. Taking a final breath, he clutched his notebook to his chest and climbed down.

The air grew damp, metallic. The passage twisted beneath the hill, its walls lined with stone blocks slick with moss. Strange carvings appeared—crosses inverted, Latin inscriptions half-erased, symbols older still: the marks of ancient Galicia, of pagan memory.

After a while he found steps descending further, and at their end, a chamber. The lantern’s glow revealed a vaulted ceiling, its stones blackened by age, and at the centre, upon a low altar, a stone sarcophagus covered in frost. Its surface bore the same name he had found in the records: Lucian Draguly.

His heart pounded. Trembling, he brushed the snow from the lid and read the rest of the inscription:

“Here lies he who loved the city beyond life itself. Let none disturb his vigil, for her peace is his chain.”

Stefan set down his notebook, struck by the terrible beauty of the words. Could it be that Dracula had not been a monster, but a guardian of the city’s forgotten soul?

He leaned closer, the lantern flame trembling. A single drop of water fell from the ceiling onto the stone, spreading like a stain. Then another, and another. The air grew colder still. The light dimmed.

A whisper rose, barely audible: “You should not have come.”

The voice was the same he had heard in the archives, ancient and sorrowful.

“I seek the truth,” Stefan answered, his voice faltering. “Who are you? What are you to this city?”

The darkness stirred. The frost upon the sarcophagus cracked, releasing a faint hiss. “I am her memory,” came the reply, echoing like breath through hollow stone. “And memory is pain. The living wish to forget; the dead do not permit it. You would unchain what should remain bound.”

“Then you are her curse,” Stefan said.

“I am her love,” whispered the darkness. “And love never dies—it merely changes form.”

The lid of the sarcophagus shifted. A hand—white as marble and veined with shadow—rose slowly into the lantern light. Stefan stumbled back, heart hammering, but he could not flee. The air itself held him. The hand opened, palm upward, as though offering something unseen.

“Write what you will,” said the voice, now closer, almost tender. “Tell them I was a monster, or tell them I was a man. Either way, I remain. Every stone of this city bears my name.”

The lantern guttered and went out.

When dawn came, the hill was silent. The snow had covered all traces of his ascent. Yet when the city awoke, the bells of every church rang once—unbidden, in unison. And in the University archives, the archivist found a new entry written in Stefan’s notebook, though the ink was dry as if decades old:

“Lord Dracula of Lviv: protector, prisoner, and pulse of the eternal city.”

Stefan Hrytsko was never seen again.