They wanted a monster. I’ll give them one

Porcius stumbles into the small home he has claimed since his disgrace, a modest, crumbling abode far from the prestige he once imagined. Stripped of his title, shunned by the legion, and reviled by nobles, he lingers among the common people he despises. Humiliation festers within him like an open wound. Yet he swears he will rise again, his glory restored, his name chanted in reverence, once the city learns of his triumph over the cursed boy. The beast’s death will seal his place in history as Rome’s saviour, and Annabeth’s demise is merely a necessary tool in Syrus’s ruin.

Porcius clenches his fists, recalling his adoptive father’s words. “That boy is but a scapegoat. The emperor allowed him to live because Rome needed someone to hate.”

Even then, Porcius burned with rage. His parents had sacrificed themselves for Syrus, leaving him abandoned and unloved. How could they value that cursed child above their own son? His vision blurs with fury as he strikes the stone wall, splitting his knuckles and smearing blood on the surface. “They chose him,” he mutters bitterly, words choking in his throat. “They chose him over me.”

The wooden door groans as he shuts it behind him. He drags himself toward the meager bedroom. A chill greets him as he enters, unnatural, as if the air recoils. A shiver runs down his spine, heart pounding in warning. He swallows, pride rooting him in place. “There’s nothing here,” he says to himself, scolding his momentary fear.

“Hello, Porcius.”

The voice cuts through the darkness, soft, calm, and disturbingly familiar. A candle flickers to life in a corner, lighting half of the figure seated in his chair. Porcius stiffens, breath catching as recognition dawns.

“Syrus,” he growls, voice thick with venom. Fear blazes into anger, and he clenches his fists, ready to fight. “How did you get in here?!”

Syrus tilts his head, lips curving in a faint smile. Shadows dance over his face, his pale skin nearly translucent, his once hazel eyes a piercing white that faintly glows. “I’m not sure,” he says, tone almost amused. “It’s like… the shadows obey me now. They bend to my will, guide me through places I shouldn’t enter.”

Porcius steps back, resolve faltering as the predator before him stands. In a blink, Syrus is upon him, clawed hand locking around Porcius’s throat with chilling ease. Porcius gasps, his strength worthless against that icy grip. Syrus leans in, his voice calm. “But I don’t need shadows to deal with you.”

A sweet scent consumes Syrus, drowning his senses. Porcius’s heartbeat thuds like a drum, each beat fuelling the ache in Syrus’s fangs. Hunger gnaws at him, driving him to bite, to end this torment, to sink his teeth into soft flesh. Yet he resists, not out of mercy but to savour Porcius’s spreading terror, to watch this once-proud man beg before death claims him.

With measured force, Syrus hurls Porcius onto the cold stone floor. The man crashes down, elbow cracking with a sickening snap. Porcius howls, cradling his shattered arm. For a moment, the instinct to survive dulls the pain, but it’s short-lived. He crawls across the rough floor, only to falter inches from the door. Reality sets in: he’s trapped.

Syrus watches from the doorway, arms folded, posture casual as if he has all night. A slow, cruel smile curls his lips, sending waves of fresh terror through Porcius’s battered body.

Porcius trembles on the ground, tears coursing down his cheeks. He had once imagined a noble death surrounded by mourners, his name spoken with reverence. Now he’s reduced to a broken, pleading figure, tears muffling his last pleas.

Syrus’s gaze locks on the crimson droplets oozing from Porcius’s arm. The intoxicating scent overwhelms him. Hunger, long stifled, roars back, his mind sliding into madness. His fangs throb, his thoughts blurred by primal need. With a growl, he lunges forward, gripping Porcius’s throat as he yanks the injured arm up.

Syrus’s dry tongue brushes the wound, sampling the hot, metallic sweetness. Ecstasy floods him, nerves alight with brutal satisfaction. Every cell tingles, the ravenous hunger briefly calmed by that first taste of blood. He closes his eyes, breathing ragged. The world fades to nothing but that rush.

Porcius’s muffled cries shatter Syrus’s focus. Irritated, he removes his grip on Porcius’s throat only to clamp a clawed hand over the man’s mouth. He squeezes, feeling teeth grind, bone splinter, flesh yield beneath inhuman strength. Porcius’s screams degrade to whimpers, eyes wide and streaming. Syrus’s predatory instincts burn even hotter.

Unbothered by the blood trickling from Porcius’s ruined face, Syrus’s attention snaps to the throbbing vein in his prey’s neck. It pulses just beneath the skin. He snarls low, then plunges down, fangs ripping through flesh with sickening ease. The artery ruptures in a burst, warm life flooding his mouth.

The taste is beyond anything Syrus has known, ambrosial and thick, sliding down his throat in a rush of molten pleasure. He drinks deeply, claws digging into Porcius’s skull and shoulder as he pulls him close. Porcius’s body twitches, life ebbing away with each desperate swallow, until only a faint whimper remains.

Snarling, Syrus tears deeper into the mangled flesh, desperate for every drop. The high is intense, but so is the hunger. Even as he drains Porcius dry, it still growls within him. With a final growl, he flings the lifeless body aside, chest heaving. He wipes his bloodstained mouth with the back of his hand.

The satisfaction is fleeting. A fiery ache explodes inside him, surging through every vein. He doubles over, clutching his chest, the hunger roaring louder than ever. His eyes flick to the door, Rome awaits, its streets teeming with the living. But he halts mid-step when a faint whisper seems to stir the air, accompanied by an unnerving chill.

His gaze returns to Porcius’s crumpled corpse. Though it lies still, the whispering continues, threading through the silence like a malevolent wind. Syrus narrows his eyes as he notes movement near the body: an odd ripple in the shadows, as though the darkness itself shifts to life.

He watches, transfixed, while a clawed hand emerges from the floor beside Porcius, jagged fingers digging into the stone. Slowly, painfully, the rest of the figure follows, a spindly, skeletal form with elongated limbs that spasm, adjusting to existence. Its head is featureless, no eyes, no mouth, no nose, a featureless void where a face should be. Its skin, if it can be called that, pulses in living shadow, twisting as if buffeted by an unseen breeze.

Though it stands across the room, Syrus feels its presence looming right behind him. An icy breath brushes his ear. The whispers intensify, forming an eerie chant. Though the words are unclear, they brim with praise and devotion, for him.

“What are you?”

The shadowy being remains silent, its head bowing low in servitude. Syrus senses its essence pulse softly, mirroring his own. It has no voice, no free will. It exists because of him, its soul a tether he feels tighten inside him. This thing is not an independent force, it’s his, born from his victim’s soul.

The realisation strikes him like thunder. This shade, now linked to him; it is a fragment of Porcius’s very essence, stripped of humanity and memories, twisted into a hollow servant. Syrus shivers, a dark thrill at how this creature is fully his to command. He steps closer, movements measured.

“Can I create more of you?” he asks, curiosity slicing through the lingering rage.

The shadow’s head lifts a fraction, seeming to confirm. An icy wave of understanding engulfs Syrus. Every life he takes, every soul he drains, will spawn another one of these. His enemies won’t merely die; their souls will remain bound to him in perpetual servitude.

Syrus exhales, hunger gnawing again. He turns to the door, steps slow but resolute. This city, this hateful, venomous place, will pay. Blood will stain its streets, forcing Rome to its knees. One by one, their souls will become his, until nothing remains but shadows bound to his will.

The whisper swirl around him, lauding him, urging him onward. The shadow lingers at his side, a silent reflection of his power. Syrus pauses at the threshold, glancing back at Porcius’s corpse. He hums softly, considering the future.

“Let them see what a real monster looks like,” he murmurs, stepping into the night, the loyal spectre trailing him.