I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

With Arsinoe slumped unconscious across his shoulders, Nathan strode through the palace corridors like a tempest made flesh. Whispers followed in his wake, murmurs rippling among the nobles and servants who dared glance his way. Yet he paid them no heed. His gaze was fixed ahead, unflinching, his steps purposeful as iron.

He ascended the marble steps of the inner sanctum and pushed open the gilded double doors of the throne hall with a force that echoed like thunder in the chamber. The heavy doors swung open with a dramatic groan, interrupting the council in session.

It was a scene fit for a painting—Cleopatra seated in majesty, draped in flowing silks, surrounded by her courtiers and Roman allies. At her side, the imposing figure of Caesar stood in quiet discussion with Octavius, their voices cutting through the air—until they didn’t. Silence fell like a curtain as all eyes turned toward the man who had dared to storm into the chamber unannounced, as if he owned it.

Nathan’s boldness would have been cause for immediate reprimand—or worse—had it come from anyone else. But the air around him shimmered faintly with the remnants of divine power, and Cleopatra did not rise in fury. She simply watched, eyes narrowing as the man she had come to trust more than most walked forward, his burden clear to all.

There was something audacious in Nathan’s demeanor, the way he carried himself—not with arrogance, but with quiet defiance, the kind only someone who had stared down gods could possess.

Truth be told, Cleopatra had little reason to punish him. After all, she had seen it with her own eyes: he had stood against Sekhmet herself—a goddess of war and destruction. He could have fled. He could have let the goddess tear through them all. But he hadn’t. He stood his ground and not only fought her, but managed to stay her wrath. That act alone had carved a place of honor for him in Cleopatra’s heart and memory.

Even the guards flanking the walls remained motionless, unsure whether to intervene or bow.

The nobles who had been petitioning Cleopatra moments earlier now stood frozen, robes rustling softly as they shifted in uncertainty. Caesar tilted his head slightly, intrigued, while beside him, Octavius scowled openly.

Who does this upstart think he is? Octavius mused bitterly, folding his arms across his chest. There was something unsettling about Nathan, something he couldn’t quite voice aloud. Though he refused to admit it even to himself, the aura that surrounded the white-haired man reminded him of Caesar’s own—an aura of dominance, a conqueror’s flame. That alone was enough to set Octavius’s nerves on edge.

Nathan ignored the unspoken tension, his eyes fixed on Cleopatra alone as he approached the dais. With solemn care, he lowered Arsinoe to her knees before the throne.

Cleopatra’s breath caught as she recognized the figure. Her regal composure faltered for a fleeting moment, her eyes widening in disbelief.

She had dared to hope—perhaps foolishly—that Arsinoe had escaped, that somehow the girl had found a way to elude her fate. But now that she stood here, disheveled and clearly mistreated, Cleopatra’s heart hardened with grim acceptance. There would be no more room for illusions. Judgment would have to be passed.

“My dear sister,” Cleopatra spoke at last, her tone devoid of warmth. The words cut through the silence like a blade of ice.

Arsinoe flinched and slowly lifted her head, hiding part of her exposed body behind trembling arms. Shame and fear danced in her eyes as she met Cleopatra’s gaze.

The Queen’s eyes narrowed in disapproval, flicking briefly toward Nathan—an unspoken question burning in them.

Without a word, Nathan reached into his spatial storage. A shimmer of light signaled the retrieval of a soft cloak, which he draped gently around Arsinoe’s shoulders. She clutched it tightly, grateful beyond words.

“She was nearly assaulted,” Nathan said flatly, his voice cold and devoid of ceremony. “I retrieved her from the hands of a brainless Roman general.”

The words hung in the air like a thrown spear.

Across the chamber, Caesar’s brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Brainless Roman general?” he repeated with quiet curiosity, as if testing the phrase on his tongue.

Nathan met his gaze with calm defiance. “Marcus Antonius.”

A collective gasp rippled through the assembled Roman soldiers. Several straightened in alarm, eyes darting nervously between Caesar and Nathan. To insult one of Rome’s most decorated generals—one of Caesar’s closest allies—was to flirt with death itself.

Yet Caesar said nothing. His expression, far from outraged, curled into the hint of an amused smile. It was as if he found the insult… entertaining.

Octavius, however, allowed himself a subtle smirk. He, too, had little respect for Marcus Antonius and had long believed the man to be more brawn than brains.

Perhaps, in that moment, he and Nathan shared a rare sliver of agreement—though he would never admit it aloud.

Cleopatra’s piercing gaze lingered on her younger sister, a mix of regal detachment and buried pain shimmering in her eyes. The tension in the throne room was palpable, every breath drawn by the onlookers seeming louder than the last.

“Do you have something to say, sister?” Cleopatra asked, her voice cold and resolute, echoing slightly within the grand hall.

Arsinoe, still kneeling, hesitated. Her fingers gripped the edge of the cloak Nathan had given her, and her eyes drifted toward him as if searching for strength or permission. Then, she looked up at the queen.

“I regret choosing Ptolemy,” she said softly, but her words rang clearly through the silence. “He was never the rightful Pharaoh, and he never deserved the throne. I betrayed you… and our family, and Alexandria—out of greed.”

A lie, carefully crafted. One both Cleopatra and Nathan saw through with ease.

They knew Arsinoe. Gold had never lured her. Her flaw had never been avarice, but indecision. She had lacked the strength to choose a side when it mattered most. In trying to remain above the conflict, she had fallen into it, dragged by the tides of war she couldn’t control. It wasn’t greed that brought her here—it was weakness. A desire to wait, to see who would win, and a miscalculation that now cost her everything.

“Do you recognize your faults?” Cleopatra pressed, her voice harder now. “Your stupidity? Your betrayal?”

“I do,” Arsinoe answered, her voice cracking as she bowed her head. “I apologize.”

Cleopatra’s gaze remained sharp, unrelenting. “Do you recognize me as your Pharaoh?”

A beat of silence. Arsinoe lifted her head, her voice steadier now as if she understood the weight of what she was about to say.

“I recognize Cleopatra as the rightful Pharaoh… and Queen of Amun-Ra.”

For a moment, Cleopatra’s expression softened. Her lips parted, and it seemed as if she was about to speak, perhaps to grant a form of pardon, to extend mercy—however small.

But then Caesar stepped forward, his heavy Roman sandals clicking against the polished marble floor.

“Well said,” he remarked with a smile that never quite reached his eyes. “She recognizes her faults—and that is a good start. But even so, she must be punished.”

He descended the steps slowly, each stride deliberate, calculated. As he approached the kneeling Arsinoe, he continued, his words weaving a trap of silk and steel.

“Don’t you agree, Cleopatra?” he said smoothly. “She turned her back on you, allied with your enemy, and prolonged a war that need not have been waged. Her betrayal cost lives. Surely she cannot now be allowed to roam the halls of your palace freely—equal to those who supported you loyally from the beginning.”

His smile widened, though it remained devoid of warmth.

“She is the face of treason, after all.”

And with that short, skillfully delivered speech, he took control of the situation. He had preempted Cleopatra’s mercy, snatched away her authority beneath the guise of logic and justice. If she forgave Arsinoe now, she would appear weak before Rome. Caesar had made it impossible for her to act on her heart.

Cleopatra’s hands curled tightly around the carved edges of her throne’s golden armrests. Her nails bit into the wood, the only outward sign of the fury and helplessness she fought to conceal.

Nathan glanced at her, understanding dawning in his eyes. Cleopatra owed Caesar too much—military strength, political backing, her very survival in the shifting sands of power. She couldn’t deny him this, not without cost.

Just as Nathan, too, could do nothing. He was no general, no sovereign. He was a mercenary—albeit one with powers few dared to challenge—but still a sword for hire. This was not the time to ignite a war over sentiment.

He liked Arsinoe, but it could not outweigh strategy. Not now.

“There is nothing to worry about, Queen Cleopatra,” Caesar said, his voice light, as though they were speaking of wine and not a human life. “She will be treated with honor—as a guest. Though, of course, a guest who will remain under guard.”

The word “prisoner” hung unspoken in the air, heavier than iron.

He glanced at Arsinoe again, eyes glittering with satisfaction. He had lost Ptolemy—his perfect political pawn—but in Arsinoe, he had found a substitute. A card he could play against Cleopatra if the queen ever stepped out of line.

He had seen the mercy in her eyes and moved first, severing her path before she could take it.

“You may take her,” Cleopatra finally said, her voice distant and hollow, as if the words had been dragged from the depths of her soul.

There was no strength in her tone—only resignation. She had no other choice. The will of Rome, embodied in the man before her, had caged her authority once again.

Arsinoe’s lips curled into a bitter smile, the kind born not from spite, but from understanding. She had not expected mercy. She had not expected salvation. Only this—this quiet surrender beneath layers of duty and shackled power.

She bowed her head, and two Roman guards stepped forward, their armored footsteps reverberating like drumbeats in the silent hall. As they gently but firmly seized her arms, she turned back one last time, her eyes seeking Cleopatra’s. For a moment, the past flickered between them—shared blood, childhood memories, moments of laughter once echoing through palace halls now stained by war.

“Thank you, Cleo,” Arsinoe whispered softly, her voice laced with gratitude and sorrow. Then she turned, and allowed herself to be led away.

Cleopatra’s lips trembled, and her hands clenched at her sides. A storm brewed behind her regal mask. She watched until her sister disappeared through the great doors, and then abruptly stood up.

“I am tired,” she said, her voice firmer now, commanding. “See to the rest. I will retire.”

The queen did not wait for acknowledgment. With a final glance at the Roman delegation, she turned on her heel, her golden garments trailing behind her like a shadow, and swept from the hall.

Caesar watched her departure with a small, satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Like a lion who had just claimed the spoils of a hunt.

“I trust you’ll be there to see us off tomorrow, my queen,” he called after her, his tone laced with subtle amusement.

Cleopatra paused only briefly at the threshold before responding without turning her head, her voice carefully composed. “I will.”

She vanished from sight.

Nathan made to follow her, instinct guiding his steps. But he had barely moved when a voice called out behind him, crisp and commanding.

“Septimius.”

Nathan stopped, turning slowly. Caesar stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on him with the kind of intensity that only those born to rule could wield.

“I expect you to be prepared as well. We leave for Rome at dawn,” Caesar said smoothly, the reminder heavy with layered meaning. Nathan was under his command now. A Roman general. A weapon forged in foreign fire.

Nathan met his gaze unflinchingly. “I will be, Emperor.”

Caesar’s expression softened into something resembling approval. “Good. You will find Rome… captivating. A city of power, of ambition, of glory. Everything a man like you could desire. And rest assured, Septimius—I do not forget those who serve me well. Your rewards shall match your valor.”

A smirk tugged at Nathan’s lips, sharp and unreadable. His eyes glinted with a spark that was neither gratitude nor joy.

“I’m looking forward to it.”