I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

After receiving his gift from Eurynome—thanks entirely to Athena’s request, and after that unexpected and slightly unsettling encounter with Aphrodite—Nathan continued his journey at the goddess’s side.

Before they departed, he had taken the time to bow his head and once more thank Eurynome for the shield. It wasn’t in Nathan’s nature to use one; his entire fighting style leaned toward offense, speed, and overwhelming pressure. Athena, however, knew this better than anyone else—she had personally watched him fight in the gladiatorial tournament, had seen the way his blade moved like an extension of his will, reckless yet precise. That was why Nathan couldn’t help but wonder if she had chosen a shield deliberately, not because it matched him, but because it was the one gift she felt he did not yet possess.

A weapon? He already carried one of immeasurable worth—the golden sword of Alexander the Great, a relic that radiated history and power. To craft something that could rival it, let alone surpass it, would take time, care, and divine craftsmanship beyond what even a goddess could simply summon in an instant. No, Athena must have thought differently. A shield, a complement rather than a replacement, a symbol of protection rather than destruction. She had turned to Eurynome for that, and Eurynome had answered.

Nathan understood all this, and while he knew he would never wield a shield as naturally as his sword, he was not foolish enough to be ungrateful. Receiving a divine artifact was never a disappointment, regardless of whether or not it fit seamlessly into his style. And more importantly—it had come from Athena’s thoughtfulness. That alone made it precious.

He was grateful. Deeply, honestly grateful.

And yet, as warmth grew within his chest at the thought of her kindness, another colder current wound its way through his heart. The closer he felt to Athena, the more he dreaded the inevitable moment when she would learn who he truly was. His identity was a shadow that followed him relentlessly.

How would she react when she discovered it?

Would her calm, noble face twist with shock? Would her eyes harden with betrayal? Would the trust she had offered him so freely collapse into dust at her feet? He could already imagine her expression, the devastation of a goddess who had been tricked. That thought did not please him—it filled him with a displeasing feeling.

His gaze drifted toward her, studying her profile as she walked beside him.

“Goddess Athena,” he said quietly.

She turned her head toward him, humming softly. “Hm?”

Her mood was lighter now, far better than it had been earlier. The sting of Aphrodite’s and Ishtar’s barbed words still lingered, but she seemed soothed by Nathan’s presence. Both goddesses had dismissed her—coldly, almost mockingly—as a woman who knew nothing of love, who was boring and useless in matters of the heart. The remarks had left her unsettled, though she had hidden it behind that familiar mask of composure. Yet now, with Nathan addressing her, her eyes softened and her lips curved faintly upward. She was delighted to be spoken to—not as a goddess above mortals, but as a companion.

“I was curious about the Trojan War,” Nathan said carefully, testing the waters. “The one that ended nearly a year ago.”

The smile on Athena’s lips faltered, dimming like a candle guttering in the wind.

“The Trojan War…” she repeated, almost to herself, her voice a low murmur laced with something that sounded like regret.

Nathan pressed on, though gently. “I had once been summoned to fight for Troy as a mercenary. Circumstances kept me from arriving in time, but still—I have often wondered what it was truly like. Legends fought there. Heroes who will be remembered for centuries. At times, I regret not having been part of it.”

“No.” Athena’s reply came immediately, firm enough to cut off his thought. “No, I am glad you did not fight in that war.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “Because I refused Troy’s invitation?”

Her eyes widened slightly, surprised by the sharpness of his question. For a moment, she seemed to search his face, as if weighing whether he meant something more.

Realizing too late that his words might have sounded probing, Nathan quickly forced a smile and added, “I mean… it makes sense. You are the goddess of wisdom, but also of the Athenian Kingdom. Naturally, you would have desired a Greek victory.”

“Indeed,” Athena replied at last, but there was something in her voice—a softness, a bitter undertone that betrayed her smile.

Silence lingered between them, the kind that carried weight. Her eyes seemed distant, her thoughts far away, until finally she spoke again, her voice quieter, almost reverent.

“Do you know why I took part in that war, Septimius? Do you know why the war began at all?”

Nathan paused, gathering his thoughts before answering. His knowledge of the Trojan War was pieced together from fragments of stories, hearsay, and myths—but enough to form a picture.

From what he remembered, it had all begun because of Helen. Paris, the Trojan prince, had taken her away—kidnapped her, depending on which tale one chose to believe. Supposedly, he had done so with Aphrodite’s blessing, though in truth the matter seemed far more complicated. Aphrodite, from what Nathan understood, had never intended for such chaos to unfold. She had granted Paris an artifact, a divine charm meant to sway the heart of a beautiful woman, but she had not expected him to set his sights on Helen of Troy—who had been just wed to Menelaus, King of Sparta.

That one reckless choice sparked a chain reaction. Menelaus, insulted and dishonored, had sought out his brother Agamemnon, and together they raised an army that would drag nearly all of the continent into bloodshed. A domino effect of alliances and obligations, each one pushing the war into inevitability. Yet, beneath it all, there was always the whisper of divine hands steering the course. Athena. Hera. And Aphrodite.

Nathan exhaled slowly before speaking. “I think… it was said that Paris named Aphrodite the most beautiful of all goddesses. And you, Goddess Athena—along with Goddess Hera—did not take kindly to being overlooked.”

Athena stopped walking for half a heartbeat, her head turning toward him sharply. Her eyes widened, stunned, and a flush of crimson rushed across her cheeks.

“W…what?” she stammered, staring at him as though he had spoken blasphemy. Her composure, always so unshakable, cracked in the most uncharacteristic way.

Nathan blinked at her, then nearly chuckled. It was rare—almost impossible—to see Athena flustered, yet here she was, blushing with embarrassment and shock. The sight was unexpectedly… cute.

“D…do you really believe I would throw myself into a war simply because of such a stupid reason, Septimius?” she demanded, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and indignation.

“N…no, of course not,” Nathan replied quickly. Outwardly, his expression was earnest. Inwardly, however, he couldn’t deny it—that had been exactly what he had thought in the past. That Athena and Hera, for all their divine wisdom and power, had been as petty as mortals, willing to plunge nations into ruin over pride, over beauty, over wounded egos.

Athena let out a breath, shoulders easing ever so slightly. Relief flickered across her face. “O…of course, it stung. I will not deny that much. But it was never about that,” she admitted at last, her words softening.

Her eyes, deep and blue as the sapphire gems, glimmered faintly with a melancholy light. “There was more to it, Septimius. Something very few gods were ever allowed to know. We received a vision. Gaia herself whispered it to me. Only a handful of us were entrusted with it, and we chose to keep it hidden. Perhaps… perhaps that silly tale of jealousy between Hera, Aphrodite, and myself became a useful cover. A way to keep the truth buried, so the other gods would not pry. For if they knew… the balance of the mortal world might have shattered.”

Nathan’s thoughts sharpened. So it was true—Athena had not fought merely out of spite or wounded pride. The Greeks’ patron goddess had not been driven by jealousy. There was another reason, deeper, darker.

A vision.

His brows furrowed as he asked, “A vision?”

Athena nodded solemnly. “The Greek world—the Achaean kingdoms, all of them—stand at the edge of a great danger. A shadow looms in the near future, something far beyond the squabbles of mortals and the vanity of gods. That is why I stood with them. That is why Troy had to fall.”

Nathan’s eyes narrowed, the words digging deep into him. His interest flared instantly. The Greek world… the Achaean kingdoms…

Because in that same world lay Troy. And Troy was not some distant, faceless name to him. It was a place of faces, of people, of bonds. A place he had ties to.

Kassandra was there—Kassandra, and his son, Laios. Hector, too, the warrior prince who had once clasped his hand in trust. King Priam, wise and burdened. Queen Hecuba, regal and enduring. Aeneas, fierce and steadfast. And countless others who had carved a place in his memory.

But Nathan knew it was not only Troy that mattered. The shadow Athena spoke of would not stop at those walls. His thoughts shifted immediately to Phthia. There, Queen Khillea ruled, and beside her stood their daughter, Kyra. Both were names he could not ignore, both ties that bound him closer to the fate of this looming danger.

Athena’s voice drew him back. “Troy is the wall, Septimius. The wall that stands between that threat and the Achaean world.”

Nathan’s brow furrowed, his tone sharpening. “Then why would you want to destroy that wall?”

Athena did not flinch, though her expression grew heavier. Her eyes—those endless, divine eyes—dimmed with the weight of memory.

“I never sought to destroy Troy,” she said at last, her words measured and low, almost bitter. “What I wished… was for the Greeks to conquer it. To claim it. To strengthen it. Because left as it was, Troy’s gates and its harbors would one day open willingly to the enemy. Sooner or later, the Trojan War was inevitable. Agamemnon had long nursed his ambition to seize Troy, to see its walls fall beneath his banners. All we did was hasten that storm. We forced it upon them—before Priam could look beyond Greece for allies.”

Nathan tilted his head, his frown deepening. “Allies? You mean… Priam was preparing to seek the help of another empire?”

Athena’s lips tightened, her silence speaking volumes. For a moment, her gaze flickered, as though she weighed the wisdom of telling him more. But then she shook her head ever so slightly. “There are truths mortals cannot carry,” she murmured.

Nathan understood the deflection. Or rather—he understood that there was something there, something vast and dangerous, that she would not share with him. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Still, the seed of suspicion was planted in his mind. Another empire. Another hand waiting to move against the Greeks.

“Regardless,” Athena said, her tone shifting, resignation bleeding into her words, “the Trojans were victorious. Troy stands. All I can hope now is that they never allow those people—the ones I spoke of—to cross their threshold into the Achaean world.”

Her words hung between them like mist, heavy and unsettling.

Nathan studied her face. He wanted to believe her. He wanted to fit together the puzzle she laid before him, but the pieces didn’t align. He could accept that Priam might have been desperate enough to turn to some unknown empire for aid, and that Athena had sought to prevent it by dragging war into the open sooner than fate had planned. But the war had ended differently. Troy endured. And so did the threat.

That—he realized—was what unsettled her even now. Athena, the goddess of wisdom, feared not what had passed but what was yet to come.

And yet Nathan could not shake his own conclusions. Athena may have had her justifications, but Hera… Hera was another matter entirely. He could see it even in fragments of memory. The queen of the gods had despised Paris, despised Troy, despised everything that smelled of Aphrodite’s favor. To her, vengeance was personal. Pride, unyielding. Hatred, sharp and blinding. And it had not helped that Apollo and Artemis had stood firmly with Troy, their arrows and blessings tipping the balance.

Athena sighed softly, almost wistfully, as though to close the subject. “Let us hope, then, that all will unfold for the best.”

Nathan wanted to say something but in the end kept silence.