I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“King Agamemnon!” the soldier shouted, skidding to a halt before the two kings.

Agamemnon’s brow furrowed in irritation. “What is it?” he demanded, his tone sharp and impatient.

The soldier swallowed hard before speaking. “It’s… it’s the old man, my lord. The father of the woman you captured. He has come to the camp.”

“What?” Agamemnon’s frown deepened, his face darkening with confusion. He hadn’t expected this. The father of the priestess? Here? He had known about Chryses, of course—everyone knew of the old priest of Apollo. But what fool would walk into the lion’s den, unarmed and alone, to beg for the release of his daughter?

Agamemnon vividly recalled the day Chryses, the priest of Apollo, had first come to him, begging for the release of his daughter. He had been furious then, rejecting the old man’s pleas with cruel words, and had even ordered his men to beat him before sending him away. He had thought that would be the last he’d hear from Chryses—certain that the old man would be too broken to return.

Yet here he was, at the edge of the Greek camp, having walked miles in his desperation, crying out for mercy. Agamemnon’s lips curled into a sneer as he followed the soldier, Odysseus trailing behind him.

“He came all the way for his daughter. That’s admirable,” Odysseus remarked softly, his voice tinged with respect for the old man’s persistence.

Agamemnon, however, was unmoved. “He’s only seeking death,” he snarled, his eyes darkening.

Odysseus glanced sideways at him and hesitated before saying, “Wouldn’t you do the same for your daughter, King Agamemnon?”

The moment the words left his mouth, Odysseus realized his mistake. He immediately regretted speaking, for he remembered the bitter truth of Agamemnon’s past. This was the man who had sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia, to appease the goddess Artemis and ensure smooth winds for the fleet to sail to Troy.

“I apologize,” Odysseus added quickly, feeling Agamemnon’s murderous glare pierce through him.

Agamemnon said nothing in response but stormed forward, ignoring Odysseus entirely. His soldier led the way through the camp, the wailing of Chryses growing louder with every step.

Soon, they reached the entrance of the camp, where Chryses was kneeling in the dirt, his face wet with tears and his voice hoarse from pleading. Agamemnon’s men had formed a barrier around the old priest, refusing him entry.

“Please! Release my daughter! I will give you anything you want! I beg you!” Chryses cried out, his frail body shaking with desperation.

“Move aside,” Agamemnon barked, his voice carrying the weight of command.

The soldiers stepped back, revealing the pitiful figure of Chryses, who immediately fell to his knees before Agamemnon, hands clutching at the ground in a posture of submission. His old, trembling fingers dug into the sand as he spoke, his voice quivering.

“Great King Agamemnon,” Chryses began, his tone thick with desperation, “I humbly beg you to release my daughter. Here… here is all the treasure I have gathered from Apollo’s temple.”

With shaking hands, Chryses opened the chest behind him, revealing its contents. Gold and gleaming jewels spilled out, catching the firelight and casting a golden glow that danced across the faces of Agamemnon’s men. Their eyes widened in astonishment at the sheer amount of wealth displayed before them.

Chryses’s heart was heavy with guilt. The riches in that chest had been offerings to Apollo, gifts from the people of Lyrnessus, sacred to the god. But in his desperation, he had taken everything he could, knowing it would be plundered by the Greeks eventually. If it meant saving his daughter, he would sacrifice even the gods’ treasures.

Agamemnon stared at the treasure for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered the pitiful figure before him. Slowly, a cruel smirk crept across his face, and then, without warning, he began to laugh—a deep, mocking guffaw that echoed through the camp.

“Guahahaha!!” Agamemnon’s laughter roared through the air, drawing the attention of nearby soldiers who watched in confusion.

Chryses looked up at him, bewildered, his tear-filled eyes searching Agamemnon’s face for any sign of mercy. But there was none.

Agamemnon’s laughter died down after several moments, leaving only a dark, twisted smile on his lips. He looked down at the old man, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he spoke.

“In addition to giving me your beautiful daughter, you come bearing such a treasure?” Agamemnon’s smirk widened. “I can only be grateful to you, priest. Truly, what more could I ask for?”

Chryses’s heart sank. He had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that this treasure might soften Agamemnon’s heart, that the King of Kings might relent and show mercy. But there was no mercy in Agamemnon, only greed and cruelty.

Agamemnon stepped forward, kicking the chest closed with his boot, the clink of gold and jewels muffled as the lid slammed shut.

“Take everything,” Agamemnon commanded, his voice harsh and unyielding.

A chorus of cheers erupted from his soldiers, eager and wild. “Yeeahhh!!” They surged forward, descending upon the chest overflowing with treasures, their eyes gleaming with greed. The chest, heavy with spoils, represented the wealth and power that came with victory in war—plunder, as was their right.

Among them, an old man stumbled forward, his trembling hands clutching the chest in desperation. Chryses, the priest, fell to his knees, his face a mask of anguish. His voice cracked with sorrow as he pleaded. “NOOOO! PLEASE! Give me back my daughter! DON’T HARM HER!! PLEASE!!” His fingers dug into the wood of the chest, as if holding onto it could somehow save what he loved most.

Agamemnon halted and turned back, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. His gaze was icy, devoid of any sympathy. “I will thoroughly enjoy your daughter tonight,” he sneered, his words sharp as daggers. “And if she survives and doesn’t break, you may recover what remains of her body.”

Chryses’ breath caught in his throat, his face draining of color as the weight of Agamemnon’s words settled upon him like a stone. The horror in his eyes was unmistakable.

“Leave it, old man!” one of the soldiers barked as they descended upon Chryses, their hands grabbing him roughly. Their fists slammed into his frail body, blows that sent him reeling. The old priest tried to resist, his arms wrapping around the chest in one last desperate act, but his strength, diminished by age and sorrow, failed him. The soldiers threw him aside, his body crumpling on the hard ground like a broken doll.

Agamemnon chuckled darkly, turning on his heel. He had more important matters to attend to—namely, Astynome, the daughter of Chryses, his prize. He was already relishing the thought, the sick pleasure evident in his predatory steps. But as he began to walk away, something stopped him—a voice.

“CURSE YOU, AGAMEMNON!!!” Chryses’ voice was hoarse but filled with a fierce, unrelenting rage. His cry pierced the air, loud and commanding. The entire camp fell silent, the sounds of raucous soldiers fading as all eyes turned to the old priest.

Agamemnon froze, his jaw clenching as he turned to face the defiant man. Chryses was no longer the begging, broken figure he had been moments before. Now, he stood, his frail frame trembling with the fury of a man wronged beyond forgiveness. His eyes burned with hatred.

“I SWEAR IT!! BE THE GODS WITNESS! YOU WILL MEET YOUR END ON TROJAN GROUND!!” Chryses shouted, his voice rising, filled with divine wrath. “YOU WILL SUFFER THE MOST PAINFUL DEATH THAT EVEN THE GODS THEMSELVES WOULDN’T DARE TO GIVE YOU! SOMEONE WILL MAKE YOU PAY! I SWEAR IT!! YOU WILL BEG FOR YOUR LIFE, AND NO ONE WILL SAVE YOU! REMEMBER MY WORDS AND TREMBLE EVERY NIGHT UNTIL YOUR END COMES!”

His words echoed through the camp like a divine curse, the bitterness in his tone reverberating in the minds of those who heard him. Agamemnon’s face darkened, his blood boiling with rage. He had been humiliated—by a mere priest! And yet, as those words hung in the air, an uneasy chill crawled down his spine.

Why did he feel fear? Why did the old man’s curse leave a lingering sense of dread?

Agamemnon narrowed his eyes, his voice cold and sharp as steel. “Kill him,” he ordered, not bothering to mask his fury.

The soldiers needed no further encouragement. They seized Chryses, who remained motionless, his eyes still burning with defiance as he was dragged to his knees. Agamemnon watched, his heart pounding with both anger and something else—something he refused to name.

Chryses, breathing heavily, lifted his gaze toward the sky. The stars twinkled above him, distant and untouchable. His lips moved, but he didn’t pray to the gods—not those who had abandoned him. Instead, he prayed to anything that could hear him. Anything that could defy the gods.

“Please… save my daughter,” he whispered, the words barely audible. He prayed for a miracle. For someone to change the course of fate.

His prayer was interrupted by a sharp pain in his chest. A soldier’s blade plunged into his heart. Chryses gasped, his eyes wide as the warmth of life drained from him. His gaze drifted upward, fixed on the night sky, where the stars continued to shimmer, indifferent to the suffering below.

But just before his vision blurred, just before darkness claimed him, Chryses saw something—or someone. In the distance, beyond the campfires, a figure stood. A man with black hair, his ice-blue eyes glowing faintly in the dark. He watched Chryses with a gaze that held neither pity nor judgment, merely quiet contemplation but somehow in his eyes there was a bit of empathy?

Chryses didn’t know who he was, but a smile tugged at the corners of his lips. In his final moments, he believed that maybe, just maybe, his prayer had been heard.