The Horrible Truth

The 23rd of Janus is meant to be a day of union and celebration, but it becomes a day of mourning, a stark reminder of loss. Sol shines in a mockingly clear sky, birds sing jubilant tunes, and a light breeze sways through the streets. To the world, it’s a perfect day. To Syrus, it is a cruel joke. The warmth once filling his heart is gone, extinguished with Annabeth’s final breath.

He locks himself away in his chamber, blocking the door with his drafting table. His eyes, bloodshot from sleepless nights, stare blankly at the stone floor. He neither eats nor speaks, and even when exhaustion claims him, he finds no sanctuary in rest. Horrors, vivid dreams of Annabeth’s death, or worse, of her decaying body clawing at him, ravage his sleep. He wakes in cold sweats, gasping for air, only to realise the nightmare persists in her absence.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Alexandros’s voice calls through the heavy wooden door, muffled but insistent. For days, the old man has tried coaxing him out, offering food, solace, and company. Syrus refuses it all.

“It is my fault,” Syrus croaks, voice raw from disuse, sounding foreign to his own ears. “I promised her father I would protect her.” His chest tightens as he speaks, that broken oath crushing him. “I promised her…” His voice cracks under the strain. “And I failed.”

He remembers carrying Annabeth’s body back, her blood still on his hands. He pleads for forgiveness, but her father’s words echo in his mind, harsh and unyielding: “I never want to see your face again.”

“You did protect her,” Alexandros says, firm. “She died because she chose to save you. That was her decision, not yours. Her love for you is not something you should carry as guilt.”

But Syrus shakes his head, frustration boiling under his numb exterior. He wants to scream, to tear the world apart, but has no strength left. “I swore to protect her,” he whispers, the words bitter as ash. “I swore it.”

Alexandros sighs, grief of his own edging his voice. “It gets easier,” he says, though his tone betrays doubt. “No matter how much you want to join them, you find another reason to go on.”

Syrus’s throat tightens at those words. “Her father doesn’t see it that way,” he whispers.

Alexandros falls silent for a moment, then speaks through the door again, voice weighted by sorrow. “He’s grieving. In time, perhaps he’ll see reason. But even if he doesn’t, I see you for who you are, a man who loved and lost, just as I did. Do not let his pain decide your worth.”

Syrus clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. Continue living? Why? The whispers in his mind surge again, insidious as serpents: You bring death to all who love you. You’re cursed. She died because of you.

He chokes on his tears, letting them flow unchecked. Alexandros, hearing those broken sobs, can only wait outside, powerless. He wants to open the door, but the fortress of grief around Syrus remains unbreachable.

Eventually, Syrus moves. Maybe it’s his stomach’s aching emptiness, or the restless ache in his chest. His body feels weighed down by chains. He shoves himself off the floor, limbs dragging, and steps unsteadily toward the bed.

Then the pain strikes.

It hits like a lightning bolt, tearing through his chest. It begins as a searing ember in his ribcage, then spreads like wildfire, devouring him from within. His veins feel filled with molten iron, each heartbeat sending fresh agony to every nerve. He gasps, hands clawing at his chest as though he can rip the fire out, but it only intensifies. His knees buckle, and he collapses onto the cold stone floor with a sickening thud.

A shockwave of torment courses through him on impact, bones groaning under the strain. He curls up, nails scraping the stones. The world blurs, the edges of his vision darkening as shadows creep in. Breathing turns into a battle, each breath a ragged fight for air.

It burns. Gods, it burns. Please… make it stop.

Every nerve screams. His skin feels on the brink of ripping itself apart, muscles convulsing in waves. His teeth ache with a piercing pain, as though needles are stabbing his gums. He cries out, voice ragged, yet almost no sound emerges. His jaw locks, throat sealing off any chance for a full scream.

His skull throbs, splitting at the seams, temples pounding. A grinding ache spreads through his jaw, as if his teeth are forcing themselves to grow. His lungs burn like they’re aflame, each gasp more desperate than the last, as if he’s drowning in this agonizing inferno.

Make it stop. Someone… anyone…

His body convulses violently, back arching. He releases a guttural cry that echoes off the walls. The fire in his chest flares, sending a last surge of pain through him before the world dissolves into blackness.

“Syrus! Syrus!” Alexandros’s voice sounds distant, as if echoing from a deep cavern. Syrus tries to respond, to plead for help, but the fire stole his voice. Darkness closes in, and the last thing he feels is the silent scream echoing in his mind.

When Syrus wakes, the world feels twisted and wrong. Broken, somehow.

Hungry. The thought roars through him, raw and primal. His stomach twists with an emptiness so vast it might devour him whole. It’s not hunger for bread or meat, this is darker, deeper. A maddening ache weaves through his every cell, whispering that relief lies in surrender.

Everything hurts. His body feels unfamiliar, as if it no longer belongs to him. The agony of that transformation lingers like a ghost, every breath stilted, unnatural. He inhales sharply, but the air brings no comfort, only a scent. Sweet, intoxicating, overwhelming. It claws at his senses, forcing him from his haze.

His eyes snap open.

It isn’t daylight through the windows, but darkness. Yet it’s not the kind that hides. He can see every detail, from the faint cracks in the far wall to the fraying edges of his blanket, dust motes hovering in the dimness. The world has changed, and so has he.

Syrus’s tongue brushes his teeth, seeking the source of a dull ache in his gums. His heart plummets when he feels the sharp points of fangs. Dread pools in his stomach, icy and crushing, as a dreadful realisation settles over him. They were right. The words slam into him, robbing the air from his hollow lungs.

“No,” he whispers, tears sliding down his cheeks. “No, no, no. It can’t be. It can’t.” His voice cracks, each word trembling with despair. He curls into himself, arms around his shaking frame, praying this is just a nightmare.

But the hunger gnaws relentlessly. That scent returns with savage force, coiling around him like a vice. It demands action, tempting him with the promise of relief. Syrus buries his face in his hands, pleading for it to stop, begging the gods for mercy.

“Annabeth,” he gasps, voice catching in his chest. Her name is a fragile plea. Grief overwhelms him, and tears burn hot down his face. “It should have been me. Always me.”

He hears a rhythmic thud of footsteps pulling him from his spiral. Each step thunders in his ears. Syrus freezes, tears momentarily forgotten as the scent intensifies, unbearable now. His mouth goes dry, fangs throbbing with the need to feed.

“Syrus? Are you awake?” Alexandros’s voice calls, jarring Syrus from the haze. His hands tremble as he forces himself upright. Every muscle scream in protest, but he staggers to the door.

He grips the handle, but it crushes under his hand like soft clay. Syrus stares at the ruined metal, stunned, before tugging the door open. The hinges groan as it falls from its frame. He stands there, chest heaving, facing Alexandros.

The older man’s face is grim, one hand on his sword. There’s no fear in his eyes, only a resigned sorrow. “Syrus,” Alexandros’ says calmly.

Syrus forces speech past his elongated teeth, jaw aching. “A deal is a deal,” he rasps. “You said you would do it. So, do it.” His arms tremble at his sides, the hunger howling for release. Yet he stands firm, even as his will flickers.

Tears glisten in Alexandros’s eyes. His grip tightens on the sword, but he doesn’t draw it. “I can’t,” he whispers, voice thick. “This city… this cursed city. If anyone here is the monster, it’s them.”

“Look at me!” Syrus shouts, raw pain fuelling his words. “They were right, Alexandros. I am a monster, a beast! The very thing they said I’d become.” His body shakes, desperation etched in every line. He holds up his hands, claws emerging beneath his skin. “Kill me before it’s too late.”

Alexandros lets his sword drop, the blade clattering on the floor. He falls to his knees, shoulders quaking with sobs.

“You’re not a monster,” his voice trembling. “You endured their hate, found love, stood for justice. The only monsters are those who condemned you for existing.”

Syrus’s chest constricts as he remembers Annabeth, her radiant smile, her laughter, her final, saving act. She was his light, and they took her away. The hunger claws at him, feral and merciless, urging him toward violence, to become the very nightmare he fears.

“Maybe I should be a monster,” he murmurs hollowly, turning toward the doorway. The sweet, maddening scent assaults him, nearly impossible to resist.

“Don’t do this,” Alexandros pleads, desperation in his voice. “If you go out there, you’ll prove them right. Be better than them, Syrus. Prove them wrong.”

Syrus pauses, gripping the doorframe. He glances back at Alexandros. “They wanted a monster,” he says quietly, “allow me to give them one.”

With that, he steps into the night, guided by a hunger that refuses to be denied.