I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Penthesilea whipped her head around, her fierce gaze locking onto the huntress. “Do you seek death, Atalanta? I don’t care if you’re favored by Artemis herself.” Her eyes burned with defiance, her lips curling into a mocking smile.

Atalanta met her glare evenly, her voice steady. “It’s simply advice. I’ve crossed paths with Achilles before. He’s no ordinary man, and I doubt even Hector would stand a chance against him.” Her words were laced with a rare note of caution, a warning to a fellow commander despite their fierce rivalry.

Penthesilea laughed, undeterred. “I’ll kill him, and you can watch me do it, Atalanta,” she taunted, undaunted by the warning.

Atalanta said nothing further, her expression unreadable as she shifted her gaze back to the battlefield. It was, after all, just advice, a word of caution from one commander to another. She knew Achilles’ strength was unlike any other. Perhaps even with the combined efforts of Hector, Aeneas, Sarpedon, and Penthesilea, they could barely hope to match him. But she understood the value of each of Troy’s great leaders and warriors. Losing Penthesilea to Achilles would be a devastating blow to the Trojans, and that was a cost Atalanta couldn’t bear to see paid.

In her heart, Atalanta fought for more than just Troy’s victory. She fought for Artemis, for the goddess’s honor, and for the preservation of what Troy represented. That was why she positioned herself at the rear, eyes constantly scanning the field, ready to provide cover for the commanders. Her keen gaze traced the movements of each critical leader—Hector, Aeneas, Sarpedon, and even Paris, each one engaged in their own brutal battles, rallying their soldiers across different fronts.

Her eyes lingered on Paris for a moment. She had underestimated him, she realized. Though slender and seemingly preoccupied, he wielded his bow with precision and strength that surprised her. But she also saw the personal drive behind his movements, a desperation that left him vulnerable. Paris was motivated not by victory for Troy, but by the fear of losing Helen, the woman he loved. It was both his strength and his weakness, and Atalanta worried it might cloud his judgment when he needed clarity the most.

Yet, amidst the chaos, two others caught Atalanta’s sharp eye. They weren’t commanders, nor were they of Trojan blood—they were mercenaries, hired swords in the service of Troy.

One of them was a stunning woman with sea-blue hair, a beauty that could rival Atalanta’s own. Her movements were graceful yet fierce as she fought beside Aeneas, her blade flashing in deadly arcs to protect him from advancing Greek soldiers. Atalanta recalled her name—Charys. She was skilled, powerful, and there was something almost magnetic in her presence, a calm yet ferocious intensity. It puzzled Atalanta, however, that Charys wasn’t fighting alongside her usual partner, Heiron, who was also on the battlefield.

The other mercenary, however, was unmistakable—Heiron himself. He fought near Hector, his blade rising and falling in a rhythm of lethal precision, as if he were some mythical protector sent to shield Hector from harm.

Of course, Charybdis fought beside Aeneas, guarding him fiercely under Nathan’s directive, honoring a promise made to Aphrodite to protect her son. Her loyalty was to Nathan, but her true reasons remained hidden from the others on the battlefield. Meanwhile, Nathan, known here as Heiron, held his place at Hector’s side, the formidable Prince of Troy and the city’s greatest hope. He was more than a prince; he was Troy’s strength, its unyielding spirit, and the very heart of its defense. As Apollo had warned, the day Hector fell would be the day Troy itself crumbled.

Since the first wave of the Greek invasion two months prior, Heiron had remained steadfast, a shadow at Hector’s side. He moved with precision, ever-watchful and ready to intercept any threat that dared approach the Trojan prince. Atalanta, a seasoned warrior herself, observed Heiron’s dedication and felt a rare, unspoken gratitude. She understood Hector’s significance to this war, and she could see how Heiron’s unflagging vigilance had allowed Hector to fight without reservation, knowing someone had his back.

The bond between Hector and Heiron had deepened over these hard months, forged through countless battles and shared dangers. They had become brothers in arms, and Hector’s grin in the heat of battle revealed his trust in Heiron. Hector fought with unmatched ferocity, emboldened by Heiron’s presence, his strikes more reckless yet confident, as if he knew nothing could breach his defenses with Heiron nearby. The Greeks, once resolute, had begun to fear the towering figure of Troy’s prince, who seemed more powerful than ever. Their morale faltered in the face of his relentless strength, his unwavering resolve, and his deadly prowess, each strike sending shivers through their ranks.

Atalanta watched the scene unfold, a slight smile tugging at her lips. Her own reservations about the war began to fade as she felt a new, simmering excitement. She wanted victory, not just for Artemis, Troy but for her comrades—her fellow commanders who had become like family. It had been two long months of shared battles and camaraderie. To her surprise, she found herself deeply invested in their survival.

In those fleeting moments of peace between skirmishes, the commanders often gathered to feast and talk, sharing stories and laughter. Heiron and Charybdis were no longer mere mercenaries; they had become part of this tight-knit group. Though Charybdis remained quiet, always lingering close to Heiron’s side, Heiron himself had begun to open up, his reticence softening in the warmth of Hector’s and Aeneas’s laughter.

Atalanta herself had shared conversations with him, brief yet intriguing exchanges during their moments of rest. They would talk about the day’s battles, the shifting tides of the war, and even—on rare occasions—their lives beyond the blood-soaked plains. In truth, it was mostly Atalanta who spoke, sharing tales of her past and her loyalties to Artemis. Heiron listened quietly, offering few words about his own life, though his rare, measured responses hinted at a depth she was eager to uncover.

For Atalanta, this feeling was strange, almost disorienting. She’d always kept her life bound to her loyalty to Artemis and her fellow hunters, yet even among them, she felt more like an ally than a friend. They were companions, united by purpose and ritual, but friendship? That had always seemed like something for other people, not for a devout huntress like herself.

But here, among the Trojans—Hector, Aeneas, and even the outsiders like Heiron and Charybdis—she felt something she never anticipated: a genuine bond. It wasn’t just the camaraderie of warriors who fought side by side; it was something more, something she hadn’t felt even during her journeys with the Argonauts, Jason, Heracles, and Orpheus. Back then, she had been a warrior among warriors, nothing more. They respected each other’s skill, but there had been no warmth, no connection like what she felt now with these people from a foreign land.

When she thought about potentially facing her former Greek allies in battle, she was surprised by her own indifference. The thought of encountering Jason, Heracles, or Orpheus stirred nothing in her heart. It was simply a matter of duty, but for the Trojans? She found herself genuinely caring about their fate. They weren’t fighting for glory or conquest; they fought for their city, their families, their way of life. And despite the simpler path of casting Helen out to appease the Greeks, they chose to shield her within Troy’s walls, standing firm on principle and loyalty. They were, in every way, honorable and good.

For the first time in her life, Atalanta felt sure she was on the right side of a conflict. It brought her an unexpected sense of joy, and perhaps, a hope she hadn’t dared to nurture—that maybe, this time, everything would end well. After all, Artemis herself was watching over them, surely guiding her steps on this path.

Atalanta turned her gaze to the distant, towering walls of Troy. Her sharp sight, blessed by Artemis, discerned a lone figure sitting atop the battlements, watching over the battlefield with a serene, steady gaze. It was Artemis, her goddess, her protector, calmly observing the bloody dance of war below.

But if Nathan, known here as Heiron, were to look up, he would see not only Artemis but two other divine figures beside her. Aphrodite stood close, her smile soft and bittersweet, eyes fixed lovingly on her son, Aeneas. Next to her, a tall, muscular man with flaming red hair and an eager, fierce grin surveyed the chaos—Ares, god of war, taking in the spectacle of battle with pride and excitement.

Across the battlefield, two other goddesses stood in silent vigil over the Greek forces. Athena, the wise and composed goddess of strategy, watched with a calm, unblinking focus. But beside her, Hera fidgeted, a scowl darkening her face as she observed the growing momentum of Troy’s defenders. Her gaze kept falling back to Hector, Troy’s unbreakable spirit, as he cut through the Greeks like a force of nature.

Hector was stealing the light, and Hera, ever resentful, could barely contain her displeasure.