I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

After a long and surprisingly engaging walk through the shining avenues of Olympus—the fabled City of the Gods—Nathan finally found himself being guided by Athena toward a quiet haven that felt very different from the grand marble streets and towering temples they had just left behind. The Garden of Demeter was a place of gentle life, a sanctuary filled with fragrant blossoms, golden wheat swaying under an eternal sun, and the soft trickle of clear streams running through stone channels and also all kind of flowers. It was a slice of peace in the heart of Olympus, where the divine seemed almost… approachable.

Athena stopped before a path lined with blooming pomegranates and turned to him, her expression carefully measured.

“I hope it wasn’t boring for you, Septimius,” she said, her voice calm yet carrying a subtle weight—as if she feared his answer more than she wished to admit.

Nathan gave her a small smile. “Not at all. I actually learned a lot from you today. And now…I think I understand better why you despise Aphrodite so much.”

The words slipped from him naturally, but the effect was immediate.

Athena’s blue eyes widened, and for a moment her composure cracked. “I…I didn’t want you to remember that part,” she murmured, her tone still controlled but the faintest trace of sulking pulling at her lips. “And it has nothing to do with Paris choosing her over me.”

The denial was firm, but Nathan could tell from the slight stiffness in her shoulders that the subject struck deeper than she wanted him to see.

“I apologize, then, for misunderstanding,” he said gently.

Her gaze faltered, and for a heartbeat the goddess who was known for wisdom and unwavering poise seemed hesitant, almost… human. She shifted her lance in her hand, then finally asked, almost too quickly:

“No, that’s not it. But tell me—if you had been in Paris’s place, who would you have chosen?”

The question hung between them, fragile and dangerous, like an arrow loosed without thought.

Nathan blinked in surprise, turning his eyes fully on her. Athena, however, was already looking away, her face angled just enough to hide her uncertainty.

“Actually,” she said hurriedly, almost stumbling over her words, “forget I asked. It’s irrelevant.”

But Nathan didn’t forget. He thought about it.

Who would he have chosen? Between Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite, the choice was no simple matter. All of them were radiant, divine in ways mortals could never dream of being. Beauty in the realm of gods was not measured by simple comparison; it was like weighing sunlight against moonlight, or fire against ice—each perfect in its own domain.

Still, Nathan’s mind began to sort through what he had seen, who he had met. Some goddesses stood apart in his memory, not only dazzling but unforgettable. Khione, with her serene and glacial presence. Aphrodite, with her intoxicating allure that seemed to seize his will whenever she appeared. Thanatos, whose beauty was unexpected, almost otherworldly. And Isis, regal and timeless.

And then there was Athena.

He studied her from the corner of his eye, standing beside him among Demeter’s blossoms. Her beauty was not loud or overwhelming—it was balanced, restrained, yet utterly undeniable. A divine radiance tempered by dignity, sharpened by wisdom. She was the kind of beauty that didn’t scream to be noticed but could silence a room simply by existing. A beauty pursued by gods, yet never owned. And beyond that, there was something more: a purity, a calm strength that made her feel different from the rest.

Yes. She belonged among the highest tier of goddesses, without question.

But to choose between her and Aphrodite? That seemed impossible. They embodied two different kinds of perfection. Aphrodite was desire incarnate—the goddess who pulled hearts and bodies toward her like gravity itself. Athena was something else altogether, something purer. She was the beauty of the unshaken mountain, of a star that burned without flickering.

“I couldn’t blame Paris for choosing Aphrodite,” Nathan said at last, breaking the silence.

The reaction was subtle, but he caught it—the slight stiffening of Athena’s stance, the way her fingers curled just a little too tightly around the shaft of her lance. She hadn’t expected him to say that, and she clearly didn’t like it. Even she seemed surprised at the flicker of disappointment crossing her face.

“But,” Nathan continued, his tone shifting, “there’s a nuance, I think. If the question was who is the more… charming goddess—the one who embodies beauty in its most tempting, irresistible form—then yes, I would say Aphrodite. But if the question was who is the most beautiful in the purest sense of the word, then without hesitation, I would have chosen you, Goddess Athena.”

He glanced at her as he spoke, his honesty laid bare.

What he didn’t say—what he couldn’t—was that Aphrodite’s beauty always struck him with a raw physical urge, not mere lust but an overwhelming compulsion, as if her presence alone demanded intimacy. She was the sexiest goddess he had ever seen, though he wisely replaced the word with “charming.” Athena, on the other hand, carried a beauty untouched by lust, one that inspired reverence rather than hunger.

And then there was Khione. Cold, distant, yet the most radiant to his heart—his personal ideal, the icy star no one could replace. Khione’s beauty would always stand above others for Nathan, because it was tied not only to her appearance but to what she meant to him.

Still, he had been truthful about Athena and Aphrodite. Each in their own right stood at the pinnacle of beauty.

As for Hera? Nathan nearly scoffed at the thought. Whatever divine perfection she possessed was overshadowed by the countless times she had tried—so very creatively—to have him killed. No matter how radiant she might appear, his view of her beauty was irreparably poisoned. In his eyes, Hera was nothing more than a venomous queen cloaked in grace, at least for now…

And so, his words to Athena carried weight, because they were spoken with sincerity, free of flattery.

“I see…” Athena replied softly, her tone outwardly calm. Yet Nathan caught the subtle shift in her posture—her shoulders squared, her back straightened, and her lips curved ever so slightly. She wasn’t one to gush or reveal her feelings openly, but there was no mistaking it: his answer had pleased her more than she wanted to admit.

At that moment, a gentle voice carried through the garden.

“Oh, Athena, Septimius—you are finally here. We have been waiting for you.”

It was Demeter. The goddess of harvest walked toward them with her characteristic grace. There was a warmth to her presence, the kind of motherly radiance that made everything around her feel alive.

Athena gave a curt nod. “Yes. I will bring Pandora.” With that, she dissolved into divine light, vanishing before Nathan’s eyes.

Demeter turned to him, smiling. “Here, Septimius. The same house as before.”

Nathan nodded and followed her down the garden path. The air smelled of lavender and pomegranates, a fragrance both soothing and heavy with memory.

“I heard a little about you,” Demeter said as they walked, her tone casual but curious. “It seems you achieved something quite remarkable in that tournament. Was it held in Rome?”

“Yes,” Nathan confirmed.

Demeter gave a small hum of thought. “Humans… they have such a strange conception of entertainment.”

“That is not wrong,” Nathan admitted with a faint smile.

“Yet you still chose to take part in it?” she asked, glancing at him with mild curiosity.

“They offered a good amount of money,” Nathan replied simply.

“Ah.” Demeter’s expression softened into a knowing smile. “The concept of money…” She said it as though speaking of a curiosity rather than a necessity. To a goddess who could conjure harvests, feasts, and riches at a whim, wealth was a trivial matter, an invention of mortals. She mused on it quietly, her expression far away.

Nathan’s gaze drifted past her, drawn once more to the garden’s heart. There, among beds of lilies and violets, stood Persephone. The goddess of spring knelt among the blossoms, her delicate hands brushing over petals as though the flowers bloomed brighter just for her touch. She wore a serene smile, one that lit her face with gentle joy.

It was almost unfair. Even surrounded by nature’s splendor, Persephone seemed like the rarest flower of them all. When she noticed Nathan watching, she lifted her hand and waved softly before returning to her task with tranquil grace.

The sight left him momentarily breathless.

And yet, something tugged at the back of his mind. A memory. A myth.

“When will Goddess Persephone go back?” Nathan asked without thinking.

Demeter paused mid-step, turning to him with a puzzled expression. “Go back? Go back where?”

Nathan raised a brow, surprised.

“To… the Underworld?” he thought inwardly.

In the stories he knew, Hades had abducted her, forcing her into his realm. Surely, that must have already happened?

But Demeter only chuckled softly. “Persephone is living here with me, you know.”

“Right…” Nathan nodded, masking his confusion. So either the abduction had never happened, or the myth was yet to unfold. For now, he kept his thoughts to himself.

They arrived at the familiar house, a charming residence nestled among flowers that never wilted. Nathan stepped inside and, out of habit, took the same seat at the small table for two. He noticed that the vase at its center now held different blooms from last time—roses and irises in shades that seemed chosen with care.

The minutes stretched in a still hush until the door finally creaked open.

Nathan raised his gaze, only to feel it falter, his eyes widening in astonishment.

Pandora entered. But this time, she wore no veil.

The sight struck him like a divine revelation. Now he understood why mortals and gods alike whispered of her as the most beautiful woman ever created, a beauty no one could surpass.

Her long silver hair spilled down to her waist, catching the light like threads of moonlight woven into silk. Her eyes—deep, mesmerizing purple—seemed to look through him rather than at him. She wore a flowing white dress that bared her shoulders, its simplicity only emphasizing the perfection of her form. Her face… it was as though the gods themselves had carved it, a flawless sculpture brought to life.

And Nathan felt it.

A pull.

Not the ordinary spark of attraction, nor even the raw hunger Aphrodite’s presence inspired. This was something else, something frightening. His very being leaned toward her, as though the space between them was meant to collapse, as though she was gravity and he nothing but a star drawn into orbit.

He couldn’t explain it. It was instinctual, primal, irresistible.

And then he remembered.

Pandora was no ordinary woman. She had been shaped by the gods, pieced together from fragments of divinity itself. The blood and blessings of goddesses had birthed her: Aphrodite’s allure, Athena’s wisdom and grace, Hera’s majesty, and more. She was created to be perfection, the first woman, the ideal human, and perhaps the most dangerous temptation in existence.

Looking at her now, Nathan realized—he wasn’t just seeing Pandora. He was staring into the combined essence of the goddesses themselves.

“Pandora! Why did you remove your veil?!”

Athena’s usually steady voice rang with sudden panic. Her composure cracked like glass, her blue eyes wide in genuine alarm as if Pandora’s unveiled face was more dangerous than any weapon.

Pandora, however, did not flinch. She only smiled—a soft, disarming curve of lips so flawless it seemed crafted to melt resistance. “It is fine,” she said gently, her tone as smooth as silk. “He is holding it well enough.”

Her gaze shifted briefly toward Nathan, as if testing the weight of her own words.

Athena’s eyes followed.

Nathan wasn’t looking directly at Pandora; he knew better. His head was slightly bowed, his gaze fixed anywhere but on her, yet the strain was plain on his face. Veins stood out at his temples, his jaw clenched hard as if grinding against invisible chains. It was a battle not of steel, but of will.

“I am fine…” he forced out, his voice calm but taut, offering Athena the reassurance she sought.

The goddess of wisdom lingered, still troubled. Her fingers tightened around her lance, her lips pressed thin as if she warred with herself whether to stay. At last, with visible reluctance, she turned and departed, her golden aura vanishing through the door.

The silence that followed was heavier than stone.

Pandora moved with unhurried grace, her white dress trailing softly as she crossed the room. She sat opposite him, folding one long leg over the other, the motion effortless, natural—yet Nathan felt it like a strike against his defenses. Her presence filled the room the way a fragrance lingers in every breath, impossible to escape.

“You kept your promise,” she said at last, her voice low, lilting, sweet in a way that was almost imperceptible but undeniably there. “I indeed witnessed a beautiful spectacle during the second round.”

Nathan forced his fists to unclench, to appear composed though every nerve screamed at him. “Good that you liked it,” he replied curtly.

Even as he spoke, his thoughts raced. Was this what they meant when they spoke of the Box? That dangerous, inexplicable pull that threatened to erode the will of whoever faced her?

Pandora tilted her head slightly, watching him as though studying the cracks in his armor. “Tell me, who are you exactly, Septimius?”

Her tone was not demanding. It was soft, coaxing, a melody that might slip past reason if he let it.

Nathan drew a steady breath, forcing his eyes to the table rather than her. “Just a man who doesn’t want the world to end.” His answer came out firm, stripped of poetry, heavy with truth.

For a heartbeat, the silence deepened. Then—she smiled again.

Graceful as a shadow, Pandora rose from her chair. The air seemed to shift with her, the scent of her drawing close before he even dared turn his head. She stepped behind him, and he felt it—the pull magnifying, wrapping around his body like invisible chains. His muscles tensed, his teeth ground together, and still he refused to yield.

Her hands, cool and impossibly delicate, came to rest on his shoulders. The touch sent a shiver down his spine, not of cold but of danger. She leaned closer, her lips nearly brushing his ear.

“I will be supporting you,” she whispered.

The words lingered like honey laced with venom. Before he could react, her hands slipped away. Her footsteps retreated softly toward the door. She did not speak again, did not look back.

The door closed behind her, and the spell broke.

Nathan exhaled shakily, only then realizing the copper taste flooding his mouth. A thin line of blood trickled down his lips. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, his body trembling from the exertion of resisting what should have been irresistible.

And yet—he smiled faintly.

“You won’t get me this easily, Pandora.”