I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

She was Arsinoe, the youngest daughter of the late Pharaoh—the very same Pharaoh who had fathered Cleopatra. She was the twin sister of the reigning Pharaoh, a princess of the highest birth.

Though she was born into royalty, Arsinoe had spent her last days in captivity, held prisoner by Aporos and his men—loyal enforcers who served none other than her elder sister, Cleopatra. By rights and tradition, Cleopatra was indeed the legitimate heir to the throne, the one chosen to lead the Amun Ra Empire into the future. Yet, in the web of power struggles that ensnared their family, legitimacy alone was never enough.

Arsinoe had not chosen this path of rebellion willingly. Aligning herself with her twin brother, Ptolemy XIII, had never been a true act of conviction but one of necessity. In truth, there had been no real choice to make. With the kingdom fractured and loyalties wavering, she had simply clung to the only lifeline available to her. To defy her brother would have been to stand alone, an impossibility in the ruthless world of imperial politics.

The turmoil had begun in earnest after the death of their father, the previous Pharaoh. He had been a man of peace, beloved by the common folk for his gentleness and wisdom, yet scorned by the high nobility for those very same qualities. To them, his pacifism had been a sign of weakness, a fatal flaw in an era where power was measured by conquest and dominion. The Roman Empire, their ever-expanding neighbor, had already demonstrated that peace was a fragile illusion, one that could be shattered with the swing of a sword. The nobles feared that their kingdom would be next, swallowed whole by the relentless march of Roman legions.

It was in response to this fear that the decision had been made—the summoning of Heroes. These warriors, called forth from realms unknown, possessed abilities beyond mortal comprehension. Their growth in strength was unparalleled, their skills unlike anything seen before. The nobility had hoped that the mere presence of such figures would serve as a deterrent, a force to make even the mighty Roman emperors hesitate. And while Rome did not quake in fear, the summoning had at least earned the wary acknowledgment of the three rulers who sat upon its thrones. They knew better than to ignore the power of the summoned.

Yet, despite wielding such an invaluable asset, the Pharaoh had refused to use these Heroes as instruments of war. Instead, he had kept them as symbols, a mere force of deterrence rather than an army of conquest. It was a decision that had only deepened the discontent among the nobility. Their resentment simmered, unspoken but ever-present, until the Pharaoh’s death a year ago finally shattered the fragile balance.

With her father gone, Cleopatra had stepped forward, ready to claim the throne she had been promised. She had adored her father, and he, in turn, had made his wishes clear—he had publicly declared that she would be his successor, leaving no room for doubt. But the nobles of the empire had refused to accept this decree. Not because Cleopatra was a woman, though tradition had long favored male rulers, but because they feared her—deeply, profoundly feared her.

She was not merely intelligent; she was brilliant. Her mind was as sharp as any blade, her will as unyielding as the desert sun. Unlike her father, she had no patience for the games of manipulation played by the nobility. She was a woman who would never share power, never allow herself to be controlled by those who sought to pull the strings from behind the throne. And that made her dangerous. To them, a Pharaoh who could not be influenced was a threat far greater than the looming shadow of Rome itself.

After the previous Pharaoh’s death, the opportunity the nobles had been waiting for finally arrived, and they had no intention of wasting it. They had long since sown the seeds of power within Cleopatra’s younger brother, feeding him carefully chosen words, nurturing his ego, and whispering promises of grandeur until he came to believe that the throne was rightfully his. Ptolemy XIII, who had shown little interest in ruling before, was now convinced that it was his duty to take the throne from his elder sister.

The nobles had nothing left to do but pledge their unwavering support to him. They had orchestrated this power shift long before the Pharaoh’s passing, and when the time came, they executed their plan seamlessly. Cleopatra, once the uncontested heir, was unceremoniously pushed aside. But they did it in a way that enraged her beyond measure.

They did not simply deny her the throne—they insulted her by offering her a compromise. Instead of ruling as Pharaoh in her own right, she was asked to share power with her younger brother, to stand beside him as a mere figurehead.

Of course, Cleopatra rejected such an offer without hesitation, and the nobles had expected as much. They had never truly intended for her to rule alongside Ptolemy; this was merely a calculated move to cast her aside entirely, ensuring she would be seen as a rebellious figure rather than the rightful ruler.

But in their scheming, they had severely underestimated Cleopatra’s ruthlessness.

She did not sulk, nor did she retreat—she retaliated with blood. Assassins were hired, and within the grand halls of the palace, a silent massacre began. A killing spree that sent shockwaves through the court, one that nearly cost both Arsinoe and Ptolemy their lives.

Arsinoe had been utterly unprepared for the carnage. She had spent her childhood sheltered within the palace, never truly understanding the depths of ambition and cruelty that thrived in the halls of power. But now, with her sister and brother locked in a deadly struggle, she was forced to choose a side. And in the end, she chose safety.

Fear gripped her heart as she looked into the eyes of her elder sister, a woman willing to kill to reclaim her throne. Arsinoe realized that, as a member of the royal bloodline, she too was a threat. In Cleopatra’s eyes, she was a potential rival, a pretender to the throne, whether she sought power or not. And so, faced with an uncertain future, Arsinoe did what she thought was necessary—she aligned herself with her brother, believing that under his rule, she would at least be safe.

But Cleopatra saw it differently. To her, Arsinoe’s choice was nothing less than betrayal.

One fateful day, as Arsinoe ventured beyond the palace walls, Aporos and his men struck. They captured her with ease, acting under Cleopatra’s orders. Though it was Ptolemy XIII that Cleopatra truly wanted, Arsinoe served as an acceptable alternative. Stripping her brother of his sister’s support would weaken him further, and that was a victory in itself.

But Arsinoe did not intend to remain a captive. She had no desire to become a pawn in her sister’s game. The moment she saw an opportunity, she knew she had to take it—she had to escape, no matter the cost. And so, she prepared herself, waiting for the perfect moment to slip through Cleopatra’s grasp before it was too late.

And then, the perfect moment arrived.

Gasping for breath, Arsinoe pushed herself forward, her legs burning with exhaustion as she tore through the dense forest. Twigs snapped beneath her feet, and the heavy rustling of leaves followed her every movement. She could hear the men chasing after her—their boots pounding against the earth, their urgent shouts cutting through the silence of the night.

Her heart pounded in her chest like a war drum. Her hands, still bound, fumbled desperately against the rough fibers of the rope. She twisted her wrists, struggling to loosen the tight knots, but they refused to budge.

If this continued, she would be caught.

Her frantic gaze darted around, searching for anything—anything—that could help her. Spotting a thick, gnarled tree ahead, she forced herself toward it and ducked behind its massive trunk. Pressing her back against the rough bark, she squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her panicked breaths to quieten. Her fingers resumed their desperate work, clawing at the rope with renewed urgency.

“I won’t die like this…” she whispered under her breath, biting down on her trembling lips.

How had it come to this?

“F…Father…” The word barely escaped her lips, her voice fragile, almost lost to the wind. Her father had kept them all in line, his presence alone commanding obedience. She had never truly realized just how much strength it had taken—until he was gone, and the world descended into chaos.

A voice shattered her thoughts.

“You didn’t run very far.”

Arsinoe’s eyes widened. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up, finding one of her pursuers standing before her, a smirk playing at his lips.

She instinctively tried to step back, but the tree held her in place. Trapped.

“If you run again, I’ll have to break your legs, Princess.” His tone was casual, almost amused. “I don’t want to harm the Queen’s sister, but if you leave me no choice… well, orders are orders.”

Arsinoe froze.

Her body screamed at her to move, to flee, to fight—but terror held her in its grip. The man took a step closer, then another. The smirk on his face widened as he reached for her.

And then—

A flash of silver. A blur of movement.

Steel pierced flesh.

The man’s smirk vanished, replaced by a look of sheer agony as he staggered back, hands flying to his throat. Blood gushed between his fingers, staining the earth below. He let out a wet, gurgling gasp before crumpling to the ground, lifeless.

Arsinoe’s breath came in quick, shallow bursts. She stumbled back, her hands flying to her mouth as she forced herself not to scream.

She turned wildly, expecting to see another attacker, yet there was no one in sight.

A presence loomed behind her.

Before she could react, she spun around—and crashed into something solid. Her forehead collided with a broad, unyielding surface—armor, gleaming under the moonlight in resplendent gold.

A hand reached out, steadying her.

Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up, into the eyes of the stranger who was either her saviour or worse…