I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

He lowered his blade, the edge of Alexander’s sword gleaming with silent menace, and spoke in a voice that was calm, yet cold enough to freeze the marrow in one’s bones.

“Now,” Nathan said, his tone like iron. “Tell me where Ptolemy is.”

Pothinus looked up, teeth clenched in agony, blood staining his robes and pooling at his knees. But in Nathan’s eyes, there was no flicker of mercy—only the promise of further pain if the answer did not come quickly.

But then, through the haze of pain clouding his vision, Pothinus clenched his teeth and forced a smile, cracked and desperate like a mask on the verge of shattering. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, yet he found enough strength to raise his trembling voice.

“J…Join me, Septimius!” he rasped, eyes wide with feverish hope. “Kill these traitors! Kill Cleopatra for me! Once I sit on the throne as Pharaoh, I will grant you everything—wealth, women, land—anything your heart desires!”

His voice rang through the chamber, echoing off the stone walls like a dying man’s final gamble.

But Nathan didn’t flinch.

He merely stared at the battered man kneeling before him—his icy gaze devoid of sympathy, his upper lip curling slightly in revulsion. It was the look one might give a rotting carcass or a particularly repulsive insect. A look that made it clear: Pothinus was already dead in his eyes.

“I won’t repeat myself,” Nathan said coldly, his voice a dagger laced in frost. “Where is Ptolemy?”

The room seemed to still around him, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Pothinus’s forced bravado crumbled. His body shook violently, and panic bloomed in his eyes like wildfire. He gulped and fell to his knees, hands clasped together in supplication.

“H…He’s heading for the port!” he stammered, nearly choking on his words. “There’s a ship waiting for him! He plans to flee Alexandria before the sun sets! Please… please… spare me!”

Nathan exhaled slowly, as if even the air Pothinus breathed was offensive to him. Without another word, he reached down, grabbed the man by his robes, and lifted him as effortlessly as a rag doll. Then, with a casual flick of his arm, he hurled Pothinus across the room.

The man’s body slammed into the marble floor at Apollodorus’s feet, skidding with a sickening thud before coming to a stop. He groaned in pain, trying to rise, but his limbs betrayed him.

Nathan brushed invisible dust from his coat.

“My gift to Cleopatra,” he said flatly.

Apollodorus gave a curt nod, lips curling into a quiet smile, his fingers already twitching with anticipation. Marcus Antonius, however, looked slightly perturbed. His brows furrowed, and he folded his arms—frustration simmering behind his sharp gaze. He had hesitated for too long, and now the chance to act had slipped through his fingers.

Pothinus, realizing what awaited him—realizing that he would be delivered alive to the very woman he had betrayed—began to tremble violently. Cold sweat drenched his body, and his lips moved rapidly in desperate pleas. He begged Apollodorus, Marcus Antonius, even the guards, tears streaming down his face. But no one listened. No one pitied him.

“What of Ptolemy?” Apollodorus asked, his voice as calm as ever, but with a steel edge beneath the words.

Nathan’s gaze never wavered.

“I’ll handle him,” he said.

Then, without warning, his figure blurred. In the blink of an eye, he vanished through the nearby arched window—like a shadow fleeing into the wind.

“W–Wait! Where is he going?!” Marcus Antonius shouted, dashing to the window to give chase.

Apollodorus didn’t answer. He only stared at the open air where Nathan had stood moments ago, the wind blowing gently through the opening. He turned his head slightly toward Pothinus, who was still sobbing pitifully on the ground.

“Kill him,” Apollodorus whispered, though he knew Nathan was already too far away to hear.

But he didn’t need to. Nathan understood.

Pothinus could not be allowed to live.

With that, Apollodorus seized the terrified man by the collar and began dragging him away. Screams echoed through the halls as Pothinus kicked and clawed the floor in desperation. But it was all in vain.

Cleopatra would have her prize. The man who had schemed against her for years—who had tainted her reign with poison and lies—was finally within her grasp.

And she would make him suffer.

Meanwhile, outside the palace, Nathan surged forward with supernatural speed, his cloak billowing like wings behind him. The streets of Alexandria blurred beneath his feet as he moved with silent purpose, weaving past startled guards and scattering civilians in his wake.

He cast a glance over his shoulder. Marcus Antonius was giving chase, huffing and straining to keep up, but far slower.

“What a bother,” Nathan muttered to himself with irritation.

With a single, effortless leap, he launched himself skyward—soaring into the air like an arrow loosed from a divine bow. His boots struck the rooftop of the tallest nearby structure with a soft thud, and he stood tall, scanning the cityscape.

The sprawling beauty of Alexandria lay beneath him, its majestic harbor gleaming in the golden afternoon sun was unfortunately burning as well. Dozens of ships bobbed gently in the water, their sails catching the breeze.

Nathan narrowed his eyes.

Artemis’s skill surged through his blood, enhancing his vision beyond mortal limits. Every detail sharpened—the sway of a feather on a guard’s helmet, the shimmer of sunlight on steel.

Then he saw him.

Ptolemy.

The boy-king was at the port, his fine garments fluttering as he hurried across the planks toward a grand vessel waiting to cast off. He was surrounded by a small retinue of loyal guards, shouting at them to move faster—panic evident in his movements.

Nathan’s gaze darkened.

“There you are,” he whispered.

Ptolemy had already scrambled aboard the vessel, his breath ragged with desperation. He barked frantic orders at the few soldiers who had accompanied him, his voice cracking under pressure.

“Push off! Now—now, damn you! Set sail!”

The soldiers obeyed with haste, untying the ropes and casting off into the open water of Alexandria’s harbor. The small boat—a sleek, inconspicuous vessel—began drifting away from the docks, its sails catching the sea breeze. There were no banners, no golden trimmings, nothing to mark it as royal. It was designed for stealth, not ceremony. A smart decision—small enough to avoid suspicion, fast enough to outrun pursuit.

But Ptolemy had forgotten one thing.

He was being hunted.

Far above, perched atop a towering building like a silent wraith, Nathan stood watching. His white hair fluttered gently in the wind, eyes narrowed with precision and calm detachment. He could see every movement on the ship, every expression on Ptolemy’s face—even the way his shoulders tensed as the boat pulled away.

“You made your choice, Ptolemy,” Nathan murmured. “And now… you’ll face the consequences.”

With a slow breath, he raised one hand toward the sky.

Magic surged from his body like a rising tide. The air shimmered with sudden cold, the temperature dropping rapidly as a swirl of frost and snow began to gather around his outstretched arm. Light danced in ethereal patterns as he summoned his power—an ancient, majestic force.

A Celestial-rank magic.

From the coalescing mist, a beautiful lance of pure ice formed in his grip. Elegant, crystalline, and deadly. It pulsed with frigid energy, its surface glowing with runic patterns too old to name.

Nathan’s fingers clenched tightly around the shaft of the weapon, his golden eyes locking on the fleeing ship. Not an inch of hesitation crossed his face.

With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the lance into the sky.

It soared like a divine javelin, whistling sharply through the air. A trail of sparkling frost followed in its wake, carving a silver arc across the heavens as it hurtled toward its target. The world seemed to hold its breath.

On the deck of the boat, Ptolemy turned—perhaps sensing the shift in the wind, or the approach of something final.

He looked up just in time.

BAAADOOM!

An earth-shattering explosion erupted as the icy lance struck.

The boat didn’t just splinter—it ceased to exist.

A brilliant column of water exploded into the sky, hundreds of feet high, raining down in cold sheets over the harbor. The shockwave rippled through the bay, shaking nearby ships and sending birds screaming into the sky. The once-hidden escape vessel had become nothing more than floating debris and drifting splinters. Blood and fire mixed with ice and seawater, staining the waves.

Where Ptolemy had stood, there was only ruin.

Limbs and flesh bobbed lifelessly amidst the wreckage—what remained of the young Pharaoh. One particularly grotesque piece, a pale arm still adorned with golden rings, floated momentarily before being dragged beneath the surface by the hungry jaws of crocodiles, their scales gleaming as they feasted.

Ptolemy XIII, boy-king of Egypt, was no more.

From the building’s rooftop, Nathan watched in silence.

Behind him, Marcus Antonius arrived, breathless and wide-eyed. He stood frozen, mouth agape at the destruction before him, unable to comprehend the sight.

“You… You killed him!” he cried, pointing an accusing finger. “What have you done?!”

Nathan leapt down, landing gracefully on the stone path like a specter descending from the heavens. He turned his head slightly toward Marcus, his expression calm and almost bored.

“I killed him,” Nathan said simply, brushing dust from his shoulder.

“Caesar wanted him alive!” Marcus shouted, his voice strained with disbelief. “Alive! Do you understand what you’ve done?!”

Nathan tilted his head, his voice still cool and measured. “He never said that to me. Cleopatra wanted him dead. And if she is to take the throne without future interference… Ptolemy had to die.”

“You’re supposed to obey Caesar,” Marcus growled, taking a step closer, fists clenched. “Not that overpainted Queen who thinks herself Isis reborn!”

At that, Nathan stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he turned to face Marcus fully, and the air around them seemed to grow heavier.

Nathan’s eyes, cold and endless, met Marcus’s with a gaze that could freeze fire.

“I obey no one,” he said. “Not Caesar. Not Cleopatra. Not your Senate. And not your gods.”

His tone was final. Absolute.

Marcus flinched. For a moment, he saw not a man but something far older—something that walked in the space between myth and nightmare.

“You’ll have to answer for this,” Marcus hissed. “To Caesar. He would’ve paraded that brat through Rome. Used him to cement his legacy—keep Cleopatra in check if she grew too bold. You’ve destroyed that leverage.”

Nathan didn’t answer.

He simply turned his gaze skyward.

Above them, Alexandria’s skyline shimmered in the waning afternoon sun. The once distant rumble of battle had faded into silence. No more shouting. No more clashing steel. The fires of rebellion were dying, reduced to smoke and cinder.

The city had fallen.

The siege was over.

Alexandria was conquered.