The City

Annabeth leads Syrus from the forest, her hand firmly gripping his smaller one as they step onto the dirt road. Late afternoon Sol casts long shadows across the rutted path, and the air feels thick with the scent of dry earth and wildflowers. Syrus’s heart pounds as his eyes lock on the distant city, its towering gates looming like a beast poised to devour him.

Unwanted memories surge into his mind, screams of terror, choking smoke, and blood turning the streets crimson. His chest tightens, his breaths growing quick and shallow. Just outside the gates, his feet refuse to move.

“Syrus?” Annabeth’s voice is soft, brimming with concern. She turns, startled by his sudden halt. His wide eyes dart from her to the gates, but his legs stay rooted in place.

His small body trembles, knees weak, hands balled into fists. He staggers back a step, nausea rising in his throat.

Annabeth squeezes his hand, her tone gentler now. “It is all right. We need not go further.”

Syrus nods desperately, clutching her hand as if it is a lifeline. Without another word, he pulls her back toward the safety of the forest, his slight frame tense with fear.

They don’t make it far.

“I wonder what hole you crawl out from.”

The sneering voice freezes Syrus mid-step. His back goes rigid, and his grip on Annabeth’s hand wavers.

Annabeth frowns, spotting a group of older boys lounging under an olive tree. Their leader, Porcius, leans against the trunk with a smug grin. “Syrus,” he says, drawing out the name like an insult. “I think you’ve finally disappeared. Too bad I am wrong.”

Syrus stays put, shoulders shaking. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak.

“What do you want?” Annabeth asks, lifting her chin defiantly as she faces them.

Porcius laughs and pushes off the tree. “Oh, look at this! He’s got himself a little protector now. How pathetic.” His gaze slides back to Syrus, his smile turning cruel. “Letting a girl fight your battles? What kind of creature are you?”

Syrus turns his head slightly, exchanging a tense glance with Annabeth, who looks confused. His stomach roils at Porcius’s mocking tone.

“You do not know, do you?” Porcius says, voice dripping mock surprise. “He’s not like us. He’s the reason all those children die. He’s a, ”

“Enough!” Syrus’s voice cracks, fists tightening at his sides.

Annabeth steps in front of him, her stance protective. “He is human!” she snaps, fierce despite her size. “How can you blame him for something he does not do?”

Porcius’s laughter cuts the air. “You are lying,” he sneers. “He’s a vampyr! A murderer!”

The word hits Syrus like a blade. His head lowers, dark eyes on the ground as Porcius’s accusation echoes. Vampyr. Though he doesn’t fully understand it, he recognises the fear and disgust inherent in the word.

Annabeth stays firm. “Syrus is no monster. He is kind, and he is my friend.”

Porcius’s grin twists cruelly. He steps closer, voice dripping disdain. “You are as pathetic as he is.”

Before Syrus can react, Annabeth’s small fist connects with Porcius’s face. The older boy stumbles back, his friends gasping as silence falls over the grove.

Time seems to freeze. Then fury contorts Porcius’s features, and he lashes out. His larger hand slams into Annabeth, sending her tumbling to the dirt.

Syrus’s world narrows to Annabeth lying on the ground, blood trickling from her lip. Anger erupts, obliterating his fear. He approaches Porcius with steady steps, fists clenched.

“What will you do?” Porcius sneers, regaining his confidence as Syrus draws nearer.

Syrus doesn’t reply. He sidesteps Porcius’s wild swing, locks onto his arm, and twists it with surprising strength. Porcius cries out, and Syrus strikes him hard across the face. The crack of bone echoes ominously.

Porcius staggers back, clutching his bleeding nose, eyes wide with terror. Syrus advances, a quiet ferocity burning behind his gaze, far too intense for a seven-year-old child.

“Leave,” Syrus says, voice low and steady. Something in his tone makes Porcius’s lackeys bolt without hesitation. Porcius scrambles upright, hands shaking as he flees, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

“Syrus,” comes Annabeth’s soft voice, pulling him back to reality.

He spins around, his anger melting as he hurries to her side. “Are you harmed?” he asks, voice trembling now.

Annabeth touches her bleeding lip and nods. “I am fine. Are you?”

Syrus can’t answer. His mind whirls, the rush of adrenaline fading, replaced by a cold, sickening weight. He helps her stand, gripping her hand tightly. Together, they turn toward the Cottage, the forest eerily still.

A hush blankets the trees as Syrus leads Annabeth back. Her lip bleeds slightly, but she manages to keep pace, brushing off his attempts to check on her again.

“Syrus,” she says softly, swallowing her frustration. “I am fine. You do not need to, ”

“Yes, I do,” he cuts in, his voice sharper than usual. Glancing back at her, he let out a regretful sigh. “He hurt you. I must make sure you’re safe.”

She rolls her eyes but lets him guide her. “I am not some delicate vase, Syrus,” she mutters, though her feet fall into step with his.

The path widens into the Cottage’s Garden. Alexandros is there, crouched over a row of vines, broad back turned.

“Alexandros!” Syrus calls, voice tight.

He stands at once, noticing Annabeth’s bruised lip and dishevelled clothes. His expression darkens. “What happens?”

Syrus’s jaw clenches. “There was a fight. Porcius, he and his friends.”

Alexandros gestures to a stone bench. “Come,” he says. “Sit.”

Annabeth obeys reluctantly, fidgeting as Alexandros takes a basin of water, wetting a cloth and gently pressing it to her lip.

“You ought to be more careful,” he mutters, though his tone is more worry than scolding.

“She doesn’t do anything wrong,” Syrus insists, stepping closer.

Annabeth winces, but shrugs him off. “I strike Porcius first,” she admits, defiant. “He deserved it.”

Alexandros raises an eyebrow, almost smiling. “A bold claim for a girl outnumbered.”

“I can handle myself,” Annabeth shoots back, eyes flashing.

“She shouldn’t have to fight,” Syrus says, voice shaking. “If I was stronger, ”

“Enough,” Alexandros cuts in, pinning him with a stern stare. “This is not your fault.”

“But it is,” Syrus argues. “He only attacked her because of me. He said things, he called me…” His voice trails off; fists curl tight.

Alexandros’s expression softens. “Syrus, the words of fools carry no weight unless you let them. You cannot shield Annabeth from every insult, but you can stand by her. And that is enough.”

“It does not feel like enough.”

“It rarely does,” Alexandros replies quietly. He turns back to Annabeth, offering her the damp cloth. “Hold this against your lip. It will help with the swelling.”

She takes it, dabbing at her mouth as she stands. “Thank you,” she breathes.

“Why does he call Syrus a monster? What’s a vampyr?” Annabeth asks, her questions tumbling out.

Alexandros folds his arms. He studies them both for a long moment, as though weighing the burden of truth. Finally, he exhales heavily.

“You are owed the truth,” he begins in a low voice, pacing. “And perhaps it is long overdue.” His jaw tightens. “Years ago, the Senate decrees war on the Vampyr kind. These creatures once roam freely, united under a single king. When that king falls, they scatter. The Senate sees a chance to destroy them, to wipe them out entirely.”

Annabeth leans forward, curls shifting. “And yet, they are not gone.”

“No,” Alexandros confirms. “Some still whisper of a return. They claim another king will rise to unite them again. Fear of that possibility twists the hearts of men.”

He glances at Syrus, his gaze grim. “There’s a mad warlock in the emperor’s court,” he goes on. “Years ago, he claims to wield Decay magic, dark sorcery that thrives on life. He slaughters countless people, desperate for knowledge. The emperor encourages him.”

Annabeth frowns, lowering the cloth from her mouth. “The emperor allowed this?” she asks incredulously.

“Allowed it?” Alexandros lets out a harsh laugh. “He embraced it. This warlock gives the emperor nothing more than a year, a day, some vague prophecy. Yet the emperor treats it like divine law.” His face hardens. “He foretells a child born in that year, destined to be the new Vampyr King. Consumed by fear, the emperor orders every child born that year to be exterminated. He unleashes a massacre in the name of ‘preservation.’”

Annabeth’s eyes widen. “The massacre,” she whispers. “That’s why it happened.”

Syrus’s hands shake in his lap, breath catching in his throat. “Why me?” he asks quietly, voice trembling. “I have done nothing.”

Alexandros’s nod is grim. “Syrus is the only child who survives from the foretold year. And because of that, people blame him. They curse him to the gods, calling him the Vampyr King. It’s madness. If anyone deserves blame, it’s the warlock.”

“That is madness,” Annabeth says, anger sparking in her voice. “Syrus is no king. He is no monster.”

Alexandros regards her with a faint, sorrowful smile. “Madness reigns where fear rules. They call him ‘vampyr’ because they cannot accept that any normal child escapes their purge.”

Syrus’s vision swims with memories: soldiers’ shouts, the stench of burning, his parents’ still forms in pools of blood, and the echo of his brother’s cries as the guards take him. He closes his eyes, willing the horror away.

“This is unjust,” Annabeth says fiercely, rising from the bench. “Syrus has done nothing to earn their hatred. They have no right to call him a monster.”

Syrus gazes up at her, moved by the conviction in her tone. Apart from Alexandros, no one has spoken for him like this. A warmth spreads through his chest, colliding with the deep ache of his grief.

“Whether they have the right or not means little,” Alexandros says, resignation tainting his voice. “They see Syrus as a threat, not for what he has done, but for what they fear he might become.”

“I am not like them,” Syrus whispers, tears threatening to spill. Annabeth and Alexandros turn to him as he forces himself to speak. “I am not a vampyr. Not this king, they claim, I am human. Nothing more.”

Annabeth steps closer, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You are Syrus,” she says firmly. “That is all that matters.”

He stares at her, tears finally escaping. Her words feel like a thin but vital shield, something he hasn’t realised he needs so badly. He nods, unable to speak past the lump in his throat.

Alexandros exhales, his features softening. “The world will not be so kind, Annabeth,” he warns. “Your loyalty is well-placed.” His gaze shifts to Syrus. “If you are to survive, you must learn to use their fear against them. You have the strength and the mind. If you train them both, you may yet carve out a place in this harsh world.”

Annabeth steps back, looking from Alexandros to Syrus. “You’ll have me,” she says, voice steady. “No matter what they say, I’ll stand by you.”

Alexandros gives a faint smile, though his eyes stay sombre. “The gods willing, Annabeth, that loyalty will never falter.”

They stand in the courtyard’s fading light, the air weighted with unspoken worries and a fragile sense of hope. Syrus swallows hard, his heart raw with pain but steadied by those who see him for what he is, not what others fear.

Alexandros turns to Annabeth. “Does your father know where you are?”

Annabeth’s spine straightens. “Not exactly,” she admits, gaze shifting away.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should not leave without telling someone. The daughter of a Legatus cannot roam as she pleases.”

“I do not ask for an escort,” Annabeth retorts, bristling at his tone.

“No,” Alexandros says calmly, “but you have one now.” He picks up his cloak. “You are staying here,” he adds, pointing at Syrus.

The boy’s frustration flickers, but he lowers his gaze, nodding reluctantly. “Fine,” he mutters, stepping back.

“You will only cause more trouble if you go wandering into the city with her.” Syrus nods again without argument. Annabeth, surprised, does not protest when Alexandros gestures for her to follow. He glances over his shoulder at Syrus. “We will talk more when I return. For now, rest.”

Morning’s first light spills over the horizon, bathing the Cottage courtyard in a golden glow. Alexandros stands in the open yard, tunic damp with sweat as he drives a hoe into the soil. Each swing is methodical, clumps of dirt breaking free with a dull thud. He pauses, leaning on the handle to mop his brow, when he notices a tiny figure approaching.

Syrus stands at the courtyard’s edge, fists clenched at his sides, dark eyes unwavering. He steps into the light, voice firm. “Teach me to fight.”

Alexandros arches an eyebrow, straightening. “You,” he says slowly, lifting the hoe, “want me,” another swing strikes the ground, “to teach you,” he releases the handle with a slight flourish, “how to fight?”

Resting his arms on the hoe, he studies Syrus’s determined posture. The boy’s jaw sets, shoulders rigid. Alexandros sighs, raising the hoe again. “You avoid violence at every turn, Syrus. You despise it as much as I despise politics. So, what has changed?”

Syrus hesitates, glancing down, then locks eyes with Alexandros again. “Annabeth,” he says, voice quiet but resolute.

Alexandros freezes mid-swing before letting the hoe drop with a thump. Folding his arms over his chest, he frowns. “Annabeth?”

“She was hurt because of me.” Guilt weighing on every word. “Porcius and his friends attacked her because of who I am. I can’t stop them, not before she…” His voice trails off, fists squeezing tight. Her safety is my priority, and I will prevent her from being hurt again. I want to protect her.”

Alexandros tilts his head, gauging the boy. “And you think this new fire in your chest, this urge to fight, will keep her safe? Does it keep you safe?”

Syrus doesn’t blink. “I don’t care about me. I care about her. No one will hurt her again.”

A faint smirk tugs at Alexandros’s lips. He leaves the hoe against the wall and steps closer. “You believe learning to fight gives you the strength you need?”

“Yes,” Syrus says firmly.

Alexandros watches him, unreadable. “Strength isn’t just about throwing punches or wielding blades. It’s about restraint, too, knowing when to strike and when to stay your hand. Can you learn that? Can you master yourself before you try to master others?”

Syrus inhales, his balled fists relaxing a fraction. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he whispers, with conviction.

Alexandros exhales a long sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “You’ve got the spark, boy. But fire can destroy as easily as protect. Are you certain this is your path?”

Syrus nods, determination burning in his dark eyes.

A rough chuckle escapes Alexandros as he ruffles Syrus’s hair. “You’re hopeless, you know?”

Syrus scowls, brushing Alexandros’s hand away. “Does that mean you’ll teach me?”

Alexandros’s smile dims, replaced by calm seriousness. “We begin at dawn.”

Relief lights Syrus’s face, stirring with fierce resolve. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Alexandros warns, picking up the hoe once more. “You’ll hate me by the time we’re finished.”

A faint smirk curves Syrus’s lips as he turns to go, the burden on his shoulders feeling a little lighter.

Watching the boy’s retreating form, Alexandros shakes his head, muttering under his breath, “That fire of yours, Syrus… Let’s see if it burns bright enough to survive.”