Frankish Empire, Cologne, 556 Common Era

It has been centuries since Syrus last walked the streets of Cologne. The city thrives now, built on the ruins of what his homeland used to own. He can’t help finding bitter amusement in Rome’s collapse, its empire rotted beneath greed and corruption, then crumbled into dust. When news of Rome’s fall reached him, Syrus marked the occasion with a rare feast. But such indulgences have been few. Mostly, he resists the call of blood, letting hunger devour him until his body almost fails. A Vampyr cannot starve to death; instead, they slip into a deep slumber, minds retreating into a dark void untouched by hunger or grief. Syrus has often sought that oblivion, longing for the silence of sleep.

Yet fate, and his shadows, always intervenes. Whenever he teeters on the brink, something or someone hauls him back. Be it a wandering mortal, a hunter threatening him, or the shadows themselves bringing him live prey, he’s never allowed to fade. Another cruel jest from the gods, he thinks. But as time crawled on, even his old gods vanished from human memory, replaced by new gods since Rome fell. Now he wonders who truly pulls the strings of destiny.

And so, five centuries after Annabeth’s death, Syrus wanders the earth as a ghost of his former self. He adapts, enduring the hunger, pushing this unnatural body to see how long he can resist. A walking corpse, forever starving, forever denying that craving.

The weight of eternity bears down on him, the years stretching out as though a divine punishment. He has no interest in vampyrs who praise him as their king or in humans who tremble at his name.

Tonight, in Cologne, quiet streets lie blanketed in darkness, the scent of spilled blood lingering in the air. Syrus notices the distant blaze of a fire, its heat casting eerie shapes on the walls. He ignores the gnawing urge to investigate, though hunger claws at him to follow that smell. The shadows murmur among themselves, a constant undercurrent in his mind, only a few daring to address him. One such whisper arrives tonight, telling of something the hunters do in this city, a method for managing their feral vampyrs. Intrigued enough to chase the scent, Syrus lets his curiosity override his apathy.

Concealed by shadows, he watches a group of hunters piling feral bodies into a pyre. The flames crackle, consuming the twisted remains. The hunters move with practiced efficiency. Syrus, however, notices something else: a boy, barely fifteen, slumps from a wooden post, his body battered and limp. The hunters cut him down carelessly, leaving him to hit the ground with a sickening thump.

Syrus freezes. A low growl rumbles in his chest. The boy’s heartbeat is faint, his breaths shallow. Blood pools beneath him from a long slash across his abdomen. His clothes are filthy rags, his face smeared with dirt. The hunters laugh as they leave, not caring that he’s dying on the street.

How dare they? Syrus’s fangs press into his lower lip as rage bubbles up. He wants to tear the hunters apart for their cruelty, but they’re already gone. His anger recedes, replaced by a sorrowful pity as he looks at the boy again. He’s so young, so fragile.

He steps forward, each movement deliberate. The boy stirs, half-lidded eyes meeting Syrus’s own ghostly gaze. Despite his injuries, a spark of defiance flickers there, a stubborn will Syrus recognises from his own past. He can’t help seeing himself in this dying child, abandoned and clinging stubbornly to life.

Syrus kneels, examining the cut with a practiced eye. It’s not deep enough for immediate death, and designed to lure feral vampyrs. The boy’s blood, sugar-sweet, tugs at Syrus like a siren’s call. He swallows his craving. The shadows whisper, goading him to drink, but he ignores them.

The boy’s lips move as though to speak. Syrus hesitates, mind awash in conflicting emotions. The boy’s defiance mirrors Syrus’s old self, the same raw tenacity he once showed as a child left to die.

“I can save you.”