I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Deep beneath the surface world, far removed from the light of sun or moon or stars, footsteps echoed through dim and oppressive tunnels carved from ancient rock . The sound reverberated strangely in the confined space, each footfall seeming to repeat itself endlessly as though the stone itself was counting every step taken through its depths .

The only illumination came from torches mounted at irregular intervals along the rough-hewn walls, their flames providing just enough light to navigate by while leaving vast patches of impenetrable shadow between each flickering source . The firelight danced and wavered with air currents that had no obvious source, creating the unsettling impression that the darkness itself was alive and breathing, merely tolerating these small intrusions of light rather than being truly dispelled by them .

The flames cast their warm glow upon a divine figure moving through the tunnels with unhurried confidence, illuminating features far too beautiful to belong in such a desolate place . Long pink hair cascaded down her back in waves that seemed to hold their own luminescence, catching the torchlight and transforming it into something softer, more radiant . Her face was absolutely perfect in its proportions—the kind of beauty that had inspired countless works of art, launched ships, and toppled kingdoms throughout human history. Pink eyes that normally sparkled with mischief and warmth now carried something harder, more satisfied, as they surveyed the path ahead .

It was Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, but the expression she wore belonged more to concepts of justice and retribution than her usual domains .

Her footsteps continued ringing through the oppressive silence for several more minutes, the tunnel gradually widening and the ceiling rising higher as she progressed deeper into this subterranean complex . Finally, she emerged into a larger chamber that somehow managed to feel even more oppressive despite its greater size.

The darkness here was thick and murky, almost tangible in its density, as though it possessed substance beyond the mere absence of light . A single torch mounted on the far wall provided the chamber’s only illumination, its feeble flames barely managing to push back the encroaching shadows that seemed eager to swallow even that small defiance .

Aphrodite’s lips curved upward into a smile that carried notes of vindication and dark satisfaction as her gaze settled on what occupied this chamber.

A prison cell dominated the center of the space, constructed from bars of some black metal that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The bars were thick and closely spaced, leaving no gap wide enough for even a child’s arm to pass through, let alone a grown body attempting escape. Strange symbols had been etched into the metal—protective runes and binding sigils that glowed with faint, sickly light whenever the torchlight touched them directly.

And beyond those ominous bars, enclosed within that carefully constructed prison, a figure lay crumpled on the cold stone floor.

Aphrodite approached closer, her movements still unhurried and confident, and reached out to remove the torch from its wall mounting. She held it aloft, allowing its flickering light to better illuminate the prisoner within the cell, revealing details that the distant flame had left obscured .

The figure was chained at both wrists and ankles, heavy manacles of the same black metal as the bars connecting to short lengths of chain that severely restricted movement . The prisoner could shift position slightly, could move enough to prevent complete muscular atrophy, but anything approaching genuine mobility was impossible.

Her long dark hair, which had always been kept immaculately pristine—styled with divine precision and adorned with golden ornaments befitting her status—now hung in tangled, matted strands around her face and shoulders. Her white gown, once radiantly clean and perfectly draped to emphasize her regal bearing, was now dirty and disheveled, stained with grime from the floor and torn in places from three years of continuous wear without replacement.

It was Hera—Queen of Olympus, wife of Zeus, one of the most powerful goddesses in the Greek pantheon.

After she had been enslaved and captured following her failed conspiracy with Poseidon to murder Nathan, she had been locked in this cell and left to languish. Obviously, though the prison appeared relatively ordinary at first glance—just bars and chains and stone—it was anything but simple in reality. The cell had been reinforced with combined divine power from three goddesses: Khione, Aphrodite, and Amaterasu. Their layered magic made it absolutely impossible for Hera to break free through force or magic, even at full strength.

The chains served an additional purpose beyond mere physical restraint—they actively suppressed and drained her divine powers, preventing her from accessing the abilities that would normally make imprisonment laughable for a being of her status . Without her godly strength, without her magic, without even the enhanced durability that came naturally to immortals, Hera was reduced to something approaching mortal vulnerability.

Hera noticed the approaching presence and raised her head slowly, the movement clearly requiring effort as muscles weakened by disuse and malnutrition struggled to support even that simple action.

When her golden eyes—once so imperious and commanding, capable of making lesser gods tremble with a single glance—caught sight of Aphrodite standing beyond the bars, they turned instantly cold and filled with concentrated hatred. If looks could kill, if sheer force of will could overcome divine enchantments, Aphrodite would have been obliterated on the spot.

But will alone changed nothing, and Hera’s glare was just another impotent gesture from someone who had lost everything.

“You seem to be doing well today, Hera,” Aphrodite said with a smile that dripped false concern and genuine mockery. “Looking healthy and comfortable. Prison life clearly agrees with you.”

“Release me,” Hera demanded, her voice emerging hoarse and raspy from a throat that rarely had cause to speak anymore. The command that she tried to inject into those words fell flat, carrying none of the divine authority that once made reality itself bend to accommodate her desires.

“Not really happening,” Aphrodite replied with cheerful dismissiveness, as though Hera had requested something trivial rather than her freedom . “Sorry, but your accommodations here are permanent. We’ve gone to considerable trouble ensuring your comfort—wouldn’t want to waste all that effort.”

“You are going to pay for this,” Hera said, forcing more strength into her voice as fury gave her temporary energy. “All of you will suffer for what you’ve done. Zeus will find me eventually. The others will come searching. And when they do, your punishment will be legendary.”

Her glare intensified as she delivered the threat, trying desperately to reclaim some fragment of the terrifying presence she once commanded .

“Look at yourself, Hera,” Aphrodite laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the confined chamber. “Really look at what you’ve become. You don’t appear intimidating anymore—you look pathetic. Broken. Defeated. Are you genuinely in any position to be threatening anyone right now? Because from where I’m standing, your threats carry about as much weight as a mortal beggar cursing passing nobility.”

“Zeus and the others will find me,” Hera insisted, though her voice had lost some of its earlier conviction . “They’ll come searching eventually. My absence cannot go unnoticed forever. Someone will grow concerned and investigate.”

Aphrodite’s laughter intensified at that desperate assertion, genuine amusement coloring the mocking sound.

“Dear Hera,” she said once she’d controlled herself enough to speak clearly, “do you honestly believe anyone is concerned about your absence? Have you forgotten the circumstances under which you vanished?”

She crouched down to bring herself closer to eye level with the imprisoned goddess, wanting to ensure Hera could see every detail of her expression as she delivered this particular cruelty.

“After the fit of absolute rage you threw in Olympus following Troy’s victory over the Greeks,” Aphrodite continued with relish, “after you publicly insulted Zeus in front of the entire assembled pantheon, screaming accusations and blame at him for the failure of your schemes—you stormed off in such fury that the entire mountain shook with your passage. You left with so much visible anger, with such dramatic finality, that absolutely no one is expecting you to return anytime soon.”

Hera’s lips pressed together tightly, her jaw clenching as she recognized the truth in Aphrodite’s words.

“The last time you had a serious conflict with Zeus and decided to sulk about it,” Aphrodite reminded her with savage satisfaction, “you disappeared for nearly a hundred years before deigning to return. So believe me when I tell you—everyone in Olympus is absolutely convinced you’re just off somewhere remote, nursing your wounded pride and waiting for your anger to cool. They think you’ll come back when you’re ready, probably in another few decades at minimum. You can only blame yourself for establishing that particular pattern of behavior.”

Hera gritted her teeth audibly, her hands clenching into fists against the cold stone floor as rage and despair warred within her.

She was right, and Hera knew it with soul-crushing certainty.

She had insulted Zeus publicly and catastrophically before attempting something desperate and secret with Poseidon—a conspiracy to eliminate Nathan that only the two of them knew about. She had made absolutely certain it remained secret, telling no one else of their plans, because she couldn’t afford for Zeus or the other Olympians to interfere or forbid the assassination attempt.

And now, with Poseidon dead and unable to reveal what had happened, no one except her captors was aware of the true circumstances of her disappearance.

She had dug her own grave through years of establishing herself as someone who dramatically withdrew from Olympus whenever sufficiently offended

“It’s been three years now since you vanished, you know,” Aphrodite said conversationally, though her smile remained cruelly satisfied. “Three full years, and not a single god has expressed concern about your whereabouts or shown any inclination to search for you. Zeus certainly hasn’t organized any rescue expeditions. Your children haven’t come looking. The other Olympians haven’t even mentioned your absence except in passing, usually with relief that they don’t have to deal with your rages and schemes for a while.”

She leaned in even closer, her pink eyes glittering with malicious pleasure in the torchlight .

“You are utterly forgotten, Hera,” Aphrodite whispered with devastating finality . “Abandoned. Unmissed. And you will remain in this cell, in this darkness, until we decide otherwise—which might very well be never.”

Aphrodite’s laughter—silvery,, and delighted—still lingered in the damp air when a new sound cut through it: slow footsteps echoing down the long stone tunnel.

The goddess of love didn’t even glance back at first. She simply let her smile stretch wider, slow and predatory, as though she had been waiting for this exact moment her entire immortal life. Only then did she step gracefully to the side, turning with the languid motion of someone unveiling a long-prepared gift.

Hera’s gaze lifted past Aphrodite’s shoulder.

And everything inside her darkened.

Boots first—black, polished, ringing softly against the stone with each measured step. Then dark trousers hugging long legs, a fitted tunic of deepest midnight clinging to a torso that had grown broader, more commanding. Pale skin gleamed almost unnaturally under the faint torchlight, like moonlit marble. Higher still, silver-white hair—longer now, pulled back into a low, severe knot that left a few dangerous strands loose around the face.

And finally, the eyes.

Golden. Demonic. And far, far darker than she remembered.

Nathan.

For one treacherous heartbeat, Hera’s glare flickered—shock, disbelief—before she forced it back into pure, searing hatred.

Three years.

Three years since he had forced the Forbidden Seal into her very soul, chaining her divinity to his fragile, ascending mortality. Three years since the boy she had once dismissed as nothing more than a dangerous nuisance had begun his grotesque transformation into… this.

He was taller now, noticeably so. The sharp edges of youth had hardened into something lethal and elegant. Power rolled off him in almost visible waves, dark and thick, pressing against her senses like an approaching storm.

It wasn’t fear obviously since she was a powerful Goddess, but… astonishment at the sheer, unnatural velocity of his ascent.

He walked without hurry until he stopped directly in front of the bars. Towering. Looking down.

Hera rose slowly, chains clinking and scraping against stone like the death rattle of her pride. She bared her teeth.

She had never—not in ten thousand years—felt so utterly, scaldingly humiliated.

To be enslaved. To be caged. To be looked down upon by the very creature who had once trembled at the mere mention of her name.

Nathan tilted his head slightly, studying her the way one might study a once-dangerous animal now safely behind bars.

“Three years,” he said quietly, voice low and smooth, carrying that new, velvet-edged with amusement. “Three years to the day, Hera. Look at you now.”