Sunset

Syrus stares at the burning city, its flames licking the sky in defiance of approaching night. The cries of vampyrs, begging their so-called king for salvation, fade behind him as he walks away. Their shrieks, raw and desperate, mean nothing to him now. Let them perish. Let their arrogance and lust for blood devour them. He cares nothing about their fate or the title they thrust upon him. King. The word rings hollow. He detests it.

He settles outside the city walls, on a small patch of grass touched by the setting Sol. The sky’s golden rays cast long shadows across the smouldering ruins behind him. Rome’s marble structures collapse into ash, but the horizon burns with a gentler glow, Sol’s final offering of beauty before night claims the world. Syrus finds the sight cruelly ironic, for how can such beauty exist in this broken moment?

His hands, human yet stained crimson, tremble as he places one on Annabeth’s grave, a hastily mounded earth topped with the wild roses she would have loved. The contrast between his bloodstained fingers and those delicate petals almost crushes him.

"I'm sorry I turned out this way," Syrus whispers; the breeze carries his hollow words away. He fixes his gaze on the grave, as though expecting her to rise and scold him, to hold him, to save him again. “I wonder what you would say if you saw me like this.” He forces a bitter laugh, but it does nothing to ease the ache in his chest. “Would you be disgusted? Would you run in terror? Or… would you forgive me?”

The sunset reflects in his red eyes, mocking him with its splendour. He hates it, yet he can’t look away. Annabeth adored when Sol set into the earth, dragging him outdoors to watch the day surrender to night. He almost hears her voice, teasing him in that gentle tone.

“It’s beautiful, Syrus,” she’d say, emerald eyes shining. “Even when Sol sets, there’s a promise he will rise again.”

He remembers rolling his eyes, pretending not to care, but she knew he was drawn to the horizon. She always made the world feel less dark, made him believe there was something worth holding onto. But now, Sol setting to slumber feels like a cruel finality, no promise of dawn to follow.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Annabeth. It should have been me. It should have always been me.”

He curls into himself, tears racking his body as he clings to the only piece of her he has left. Thoughts of eternity stretch before him like a cruel jest: a world without her, a life he no longer wants. He barely registers the sound of footsteps. Danger, fear, it all seems irrelevant. He only yearns for an end.

“I’m sorry, Syrus.” Alexandros’s weathered voice breaks the hush, raspy with sorrow. The older man settles onto the grass beside him, knees creaking under his age.

Syrus doesn’t look up. Tears muffle his voice. “Please, Alexandros,” he begs, words trembling. “End me. I don’t want to live in a world without her. I don’t want to be this, this thing.” He hugs his knees, body shaking. “I never asked for this. I never wanted this. Just… please.”

Alexandros observes the young man he raised, grief etched on his own face. No hatred is in his eyes, only pity, only pain. He sighs heavily, the weight of his years pressing down on him. “You made a choice, boy,” Alexandros says, tone firm yet not unkind. “You had a chance to be better, a chance to walk away.”

Syrus flinches at the truth. He knows Alexandros is right. He chose revenge, and now he lives with the outcome.

“This is your punishment, Syrus,” Alexandros continues, voice gentler, as though speaking to a wounded child. “I won’t kill you. Life will be your punishment.”

Those words settle over Syrus like a shroud. He closes his eyes, fingers digging into the soil as he fights the urge to scream, to argue, to plead, to damn the gods, but no words come. He has no strength left. Alexandros’s verdict weighs on him: Life will be your punishment.

“Enjoy your eternity of misery, Syrus,” Alexandros says, rising with a slow effort. He glances down at the young man who was once like a son, his gaze filled with sorrow too deep to name. He waits a moment, as if hoping Syrus will speak or beg him to stay. But Syrus remains curled on the ground, silent sobs shaking his shoulders.

At last, Alexandros sighs and walks away, footsteps fading. Syrus doesn’t watch him go. He doesn’t move or speak. The Sol slips below the horizon, throwing the burning city into shadow. Darkness spreads over the field, cocooning him in its icy embrace.

The shadows whisper to him, offering power, vengeance, salvation. He ignores them. They hold nothing he wants. Nothing but the impossible, her.

Syrus presses his forehead against the dirt, tears soaking into the earth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers one last time, voice so faint. “I’m so sorry, Annabeth.”

And as the last light of Sol vanishes, leaving only the consuming blackness of night, Syrus knows he will carry the weight of setting sol forever.