Burning City

Syrus is not the only vampyr in this cursed city. As soon as the first drop of blood spills, those who have lurked in the shadows for decades emerge, revelling in the carnage. Rome’s once-thriving streets become a battlefield of screams and slaughter. Guards fight valiantly under the moon’s pale glow, but they stand no chance against the bloodthirsty horde. Desperate cries echo until dawn, blood soaking the dirt roads, creeping from the slums up to the villas of the elite, and at last into the capital itself.

Other vampyrs worship him like a god, grovelling at his feet with twisted reverence. Their chants of “Our King! He has returned!” grate on his ears. Syrus despises their devotion and the crown they force upon him. He wants no part of leadership, only vengeance. A fire rages in his chest, a singular, consuming purpose. Let the others rot.

Step by step, he climbs the marble staircase of the imperial palace. His claws scrape against stone, crimson eyes aflame with malice. Guard's approach, boots echoing in the grand hall. Some raise their weapons, others charge outright. Syrus lets his claws lengthen further. Before the first sword can strike, he vanishes. The guards reel in confusion for a heartbeat, then collapse, blood staining their mouths and pooling beneath them. Those who witness the slaughter flee, cries of horror reverberating along the corridor.

His footsteps resonate as he nears the massive wooden doors to the throne room. From within, he hears the emperor and the warlock arguing, shouts of blame, panic lacing their voices. A cruel smile curls Syrus’s lips as he savours their desperation.

Before he pushes the doors open, a gravelly voice interrupts the silence.

“So,” the voice says, steady but weary, “the mighty beast finally comes for what it seeks.”

Syrus turns, his glowing red eyes narrowing at the sight of Annabeth’s father. The old general stands at the top of the stairs, sword sheathed by his side. Deep lines etch his face, weariness carved from too many battles. His dented, blood-splattered armour reflects the fights he has waged this night. He knew about the vampyrs lurking in the city, contained, until now.

They stare at each other: hunter and hunted, though neither moves to strike.

“I wonder,” the Legatus begins, his voice low, “what Annabeth would say if she saw you like this.”

Syrus flinches. His predatory stance falters, the crimson glow in his eyes fading for a moment. Memories of Annabeth flood his mind, her laughter, her emerald eyes, the gentle way she placed a hand on his cheek. He swears he can almost hear her voice calling him back from the edge. His claws tremble, shoulders slumping as grief crushes him. Tears gather, sliding down his bloodstained face.

The general watches him with sorrow. He steps closer, resting a hand on Syrus’s shoulder in an unexpected gesture of compassion. His voice softens. “She would still love you. Even now.”

Syrus’s breath catches. That simple statement, offered without malice, pierces his rage. For an instant, he feels human again. He closes his eyes, letting tears fall, his chest heaving in silent sobs.

“I failed her,” he whispers, voice shaking. “I couldn’t protect her.”

The Legatus' gaze hardens, shifting briefly to the wooden doors. “I heard you killed Porcius first.”

Syrus nods, jaw tight.

“Good.” A faint, bitter smile touches the older man’s lips. “That bastard deserved it.”

Silence stretches, laden with unspoken grief. At last, the general steps back, hand sliding off Syrus’s shoulder. He turns away and walks towards the steps. “Give them hell.”

Syrus’s tears dry. The Legatus’ words reignite the fire in his chest, pushing him back into that ruthless stance. He doesn’t need permission, but the old man’s blessing reminds him why he’s here. Without another word, Syrus raises a clawed hand.

With a thunderous crash, the great doors burst inward. The emperor and the warlock freeze, terror lighting their faces as they behold the monster they helped create.

The warlock moves first, chanting as his hands blaze with fire. He hurls a flaming orb at Syrus, who doesn’t flinch. With a flick of his wrist, shadows erupt from the floor, devouring the flames. Shock contorts the warlock’s expression.

“Do you like them?” Syrus taunts. “They’re my creation. They rise when I drain the living dry.”

Two spindly shadow figures climb from the ground, seizing the warlock’s arms and holding him fast. Syrus advances leisurely, relishing the man’s terror.

Seeing no escape, the emperor bolts toward the back of the hall. Syrus sighs, annoyed by the futile attempt. In a blink, he’s in front of the fleeing man, claws cutting flesh and bone with lethal precision. The emperor collapses, lifeless.

Turning back to the warlock, Syrus grins wickedly. Shadows hold the old man tighter as Syrus lifts a clawed hand.

The warlock meets Syrus’s gaze, eyes wide and milky with fear, breath shallow and ragged. Dread crushes him. His lips part, but only a ragged wheeze emerges. Syrus, tall and menacing, says nothing at first, letting the warlock’s terror speak. The shadows coil around him, as if they too hunger for retribution.

At last, the warlock finds his voice. “I, I knew it was you,” he rasps, frail body trembling. “You shouldn’t have lived that day. You… you were never meant to live.”

Syrus’s crimson eyes narrow, his mouth twisting into a snarl. Memories of that night, of his parents’ last stand, surge in his mind. Their last moments sacrificed to save him.

“You,” Syrus hisses. “You set this all in motion, destroying everything I held dear.”

The warlock’s lips quake, but he stands rigid, desperation or madness driving him. “It was fate,” he says, shaking. “You were a curse from the start. The gods themselves decreed it, I only did what had to be done!”

Syrus cocks his head, fangs glinting in his widening grin.

“Fate?” Syrus’ voice echoes. “You cling to fate as if it redeems you. As if it will save you now.”

The warlock fights against the shadows, hands quivering as he fights to conjure magic. A faint glow flickers between his fingers, the last vestige of his once-great power. Syrus takes a measured step forward, each footfall echoing on the marble like a funeral drum.

“You misunderstand, old man,” voice deceptively calm. “Your gods abandoned you long ago. They have no say in what happens here tonight.”

In one last act of defiance, the warlock tries to invoke a spell. “By the will of the divine, I cast you, ”

He never finishes. Syrus moves too fast to see his clawed hand rending the warlock’s lower jaw clean off. The severed bone skitters across the floor with a wet thud, a spray of blood following. The warlock staggers, clutching at his gushing wound, his screams choked in a grisly gurgle.

Syrus stands over him, cold eyes meet the warlocks. “Feel that?” he asks in a deadly whisper. “The pain? The terror? You did this to me. To them.”

The warlock drops to his knees, blood pooling. Syrus crouches, claws piercing the old man’s chest. The warlock’s eyes roll in agony as Syrus speaks again, a voice so quiet it forces the dying man to listen.

“Let’s see what your gods think of you now,” Syrus murmurs.

With a savage jerk, he tears the heart free. Blood gushes, staining the marble in dark rivulets. The warlock convulses once, then collapses, lifeless. Syrus crushes the still-throbbing organ in his hand, warm gore dripping through his fingers, vengeance sealed.

Syrus straightens, surveying the carnage. The emperor is gone, the warlock dead, his thirst for vengeance briefly satisfied. But a hollow ache remains, a reminder of everything stolen from him.

He turns and leaves the blood-soaked throne room. The silent shadows trail him, loyal reminders of the monster he has become.