Lord Dracula of Lviv, Chapter #7: Kateryna’s Awakening

Winter had hardened its grip upon Lviv. The Poltva lay frozen beneath the streets, and the city’s bells tolled through air so cold it seemed to crack. Yet the frost did not touch Kateryna.

She awoke one morning to find her father’s shop still, the air heavy with the scent of old paper and extinguished candles. Her hands trembled as she reached for a book she had left open the night before, only to see that the words upon its pages had faded—entire lines gone, as though the story itself had slipped into the mist. She looked towards the window and saw, through the veil of frost, the spires of the city blurred like distant dreams.

Something was missing. The silence was too complete.

She went to the door, stepping into the street where the snow fell soundlessly. The people of Lviv moved like phantoms—faces pale, voices subdued. Their eyes no longer met hers. Even the wind seemed to avoid her.

And yet she felt him—his presence within the very heartbeat of the city. Lord Dracula. But it was changed. The sense of watchful stillness that had once encircled her now lay fragmented, like a mirror shattered in the snow.

That night she dreamt of the hill. Vysokyi Zamok loomed in her sleep, the ruins shining faintly with frost. She saw Stefan there, his lantern guttering, his breath visible in the dark. He was calling her name. And behind him, a shadow rose—vast, sorrowful, beautiful—its form woven from the mists of centuries.

She awoke with tears upon her cheeks. The city’s bells were ringing without cause.

By the second night, the dreams had turned to voices. Each time the wind passed through the narrow streets, it carried whispers. Some were prayers; others lamentations. Beneath them all, one voice endured—the voice that had once enthralled her, now weak, almost pleading.

“Kateryna,” it murmured, “come.”

She knew then that he was fading.

The snow had begun to fall again when she made her way to the foot of Vysokyi Zamok. The climb was slow, the lantern she carried trembling with every gust. Yet her steps were steady. She no longer feared the night.

At the summit, she found only silence. The fortress lay buried under drifts of snow, the old stones glistening beneath the moonlight. She called his name once, twice—then knelt, pressing her palm to the frozen earth.

“Where are you?” she whispered.

And then she felt it—a faint warmth beneath the ice, like the echo of a pulse. The ground seemed to breathe, exhaling mist.

“Stefan set you free,” she said softly. “But the city still remembers you. And so do I.”

The wind rose, carrying with it a low sigh that seemed to ripple through the snow. The spires below flickered in the fog, and for a brief instant, she saw him—Lord Dracula—standing among them. Not as the dark prince she had followed, but as a man serene and sorrowful, his gaze turned towards her.

He lifted a hand, not in summons but in farewell.

The air shimmered, and the vision dissolved.

Kateryna fell to her knees, her tears freezing where they fell. Yet even as grief overwhelmed her, she understood: the curse had been broken, and with it, the bond between the living and the eternal.

When dawn came, she descended the hill. The snow had stopped. The bells were silent. The first light of morning fell upon Lviv’s rooftops, and for the first time in her memory, the city breathed as if it had been sleeping too long and now awoke to life.

Kateryna walked among its streets, unnoticed and unremarked, a single pale figure beneath the rising sun. But as she passed each church and spire, she felt a quiet presence, not haunting her but walking beside her, unseen.

And when she reached the Market Square, she paused before the statue of the archangel, whose wings caught the morning light. For just an instant, she thought she saw a shadow pass across its face—a familiar silhouette, half-smile lingering in the air.

Then it was gone, and the day began.