I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC211: Apollo's decision
"I want the Greeks to lose in the most humiliating and painful way possible."
Apollo's smile grew broader at Nathan's words, and for once, the god of light knew he was in the presence of a kindred spirit—or perhaps, a formidable ally. He could see it in Nathan's icy gaze, a simmering dislike that edged into something darker. Though that seething hatred seemed especially reserved for Ajax and Agamemnon, Apollo knew it could easily extend to all those Greeks too.
This disdain was genuine; Apollo could sense the truth in it, and he relished the opportunity. With Heiron, he might just have found a trump card against the Greeks, one that not even Athena or Hera had foreseen. But there was still one crucial step left. If he wanted Heiron's full cooperation, Apollo needed to offer him something first, a favor so grand that it would bind the mortal's loyalty to him.
With confidence radiating from his golden form, Apollo's voice resonated with divine authority as he spoke. "For your deeds in Lyrnessus, for bringing back Astynome, I shall reward you. Name anything, and I will grant it to the best of my abilities." His tone was magnanimous, as though he could move mountains with a mere nod.
Nathan's face remained expressionless, and a silence hung between them. Apollo, misinterpreting this as hesitation, leaned closer, his voice persuasive. "Ask for anything—riches beyond measure, a kingdom, even a woman you desire. If there's someone who has caught your eye, I can arrange it." He was confident, almost smug. As the god of light, Apollo believed no woman would dare refuse a match he proposed. Any mortal would surely bend to his will in gratitude.
But none of this interested Nathan. Instead, he lifted his arm and rolled back his sleeve, revealing wounds laced with ominous black lines snaking up his skin.
Apollo's blue eyes widened, his confident smile faltering as he recognized the unmistakable mark of death inching its way through Nathan's body. "This is..." he murmured, trailing off, a look of genuine shock breaking through his godly composure.
"I'm dying," Nathan said calmly, his voice resolute but laced with a weariness that spoke of countless battles waged against this inevitable fate. "At best, I have a week, maybe just a few days."
The silence that followed was thick, laden with unspoken truths. Apollo stared at the dark veins with a mix of intrigue and horror, realizing the mortal's body was all but shattered. The only reason he had endured so long was through sheer willpower and the energy he had drawn from Khione. Recently, enslaving Amaterasu had granted him a few precious days more, but even that was waning. His body was at its limit, fraying at the edges like a candle burned at both ends.
Apollo narrowed his gaze, his mind churning. For thousands of years, he had seen men driven to desperation, and he knew the signs. "You've sacrificed your very life force for something, haven't you?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he pieced together the mystery.
Nathan nodded his head. "I did," he confirmed but offered no further explanation.
Apollo's frown deepened as he studied the dark, intricate marks spiraling up Nathan's arms, their blackened lines twisting like the roots of some ancient curse. He shook his head, his face troubled.
"I may be a god," he said slowly, "but what you're asking me to do would mean defying death and time itself." His voice was unusually cautious, each word weighed as though it might tip some cosmic scale.
Nathan's gaze was unwavering, a cold determination set within his eyes. "Yes," he replied, a hint of challenge in his voice, "but the God of Light I've heard of can do something about that, can't he?"
Nathan's words struck at Apollo's pride, and for a brief moment, a gleam of amusement sparked in the god's eyes. He was one of the most powerful deities in the Greek pantheon, revered and feared, so much so that even Hera and Athena stepped carefully around him. Without him, the Greeks' assured advantage over the Trojans could falter. Aphrodite herself had hinted at Apollo's unique powers when Nathan had sought her counsel, and even Khione had alluded to it.
A slow, almost mocking smile crept onto Apollo's lips. "Perhaps I can do something," he admitted. "But it's not a simple fix, mortal. The kind of power you're asking for would take more than a day, more than a week… it could take months, even years." He let the weight of this sink in, watching as Nathan's brow furrowed.
Nathan's jaw tightened, frustration evident in the taut lines of his face. Time was not a luxury he possessed. At most, he had a few days left, and even that was slipping through his fingers.
"And besides," Apollo continued, now with a faintly apologetic air, "I can't simply abandon Troy for so long. My absence would tip the scales." But before he could finish, a new voice chimed in, its tone warm yet undeniably assertive.
"You won't have to abandon Troy, Apollo." A radiant figure materialized beside him, her presence as captivating as the dawning sun. It was Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, her eyes gleaming with something between amusement and gentle reproach.
Apollo's mouth set into a thin line as he turned to her. "Aphrodite," he said, his voice a touch sharper than before. "What are you doing here?"
Her smile was sweet, though her words carried an edge of gentle chiding. "You're overthinking this, as usual," she said. "And you underestimate Troy. The city won't crumble just because you're absent for a few months." She glanced meaningfully at him, a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes. "Or are you implying that you don't trust me and Artemis to hold the line?"
Apollo stiffened, unable to respond before yet another figure appeared, as though summoned by the sheer force of Aphrodite's words. The newcomer was a vision of youthful beauty, yet she radiated an aura of power and grace that belied her innocent appearance. Silver hair cascaded down her back, and her vivid green eyes glinted as she took in the scene with an arched brow.
"Really, brother?" The voice was smooth yet edged with irritation, and Apollo felt his stomach sink slightly. It was Artemis, goddess of the hunt and his twin sister, her arms crossed as she glared at him. Though seemingly shorter and even younger than Nathan, her presence seemed to fill the space around her.
"Are we really so unreliable?" she continued, her voice taking on a steely note. "Or are you comparing us to Hera and Athena now?" She gave him a look of open defiance, her displeasure clear. For Artemis, there was no greater insult than the implication that she was anything less than capable.
Apollo sighed, a flicker of weariness in his expression. "It's not that I don't trust you," he said, his voice carrying a weight that made both goddesses listen more intently. "But Athena and Hera... they are capable of anything to achieve their aims. And it's not just them. Other gods may rally to their side."
Aphrodite's face softened into a confident smile. "Then I'll bring more gods to ours," she replied smoothly. "Ares will join us soon enough."
Apollo's eyebrows rose in surprise. He hadn't expected that, though upon reflection, it made sense. Ares's well-known disdain for Athena and his affection for Aphrodite made him a likely ally in this scheme.
"You've already seen a glimpse of what he can do," Aphrodite continued, nodding subtly toward Nathan. "And if you're hesitating over a mortal, you must be aware by now of his potential, yes?"
"What do you mean?" Artemis interjected, raising an inquisitive brow as she studied her brother.
Apollo turned his gaze to Nathan, who had been quietly watching this exchange. "I cannot see this man's future," he said, his tone both mystified and cautious.
Artemis's eyes widened in shock. Her brother, an expert in divination who could see even the faintest traces of fate, couldn't discern anything about Nathan? It was unheard of.
"Think about it, Apollo," Aphrodite pressed gently. "He could be the key to winning this war. Are you willing to risk losing such a powerful advantage?"
The air grew still as Apollo considered her words, weighing the risks against the potential. If he left Troy for several months, he would be leaving it exposed. Yet, this mortal might indeed be worth the sacrifice. He hadn't seen talent like this since Achilles, and before that, only Perseus had drawn his attention in such a way.
Finally, his decision made, Apollo stepped forward and appeared in front of Nathan in a flash of golden light.
Nathan tensed, trying to move back, but before he could react, Apollo's hand was already on his head, bathing him in radiant light. A warmth washed through Nathan, and he felt the burning ache in his arms ease as the dark marks receded, retreating from his skin like shadows at dawn.
"What…?" Nathan looked down, astonished to see the blackened wounds fading. He felt stronger, his energy restored as if a great burden had been lifted.
"Five months," Apollo said, his voice steady.
"Five months?" Nathan echoed, scarcely daring to believe it.
"I've granted you five more months, that's the most I can do for you, " Apollo replied. "That should be enough time for me to find a way to help you fully."
A renewed determination filled Nathan, and he clenched his fists, feeling his strength surge. The god's power was real, coursing through him, fortifying him. For now, he had been granted a reprieve.
Apollo's expression grew serious, his piercing gaze locking onto Nathan's. "There is one condition, though," he said firmly. "Hector. He must not die."
Nathan held Apollo's gaze, recognizing the intensity of the command. It was more than a request; it was an order. Apollo was entrusting him with a piece of Troy's survival in his absence.
"Hector is Troy's hope, its will, its reason to fight," Apollo continued, his voice carrying an almost paternal gravity. "Protect him."
Nathan nodded, a silent promise passing between them. "He won't fall. I'll make sure of it."
That was the least he could do in exchange of saving his own life.
Satisfied, Apollo turned to face Aphrodite and Artemis, who awaited his final words.
"I'm leaving Troy in your hands," he said.
Artemis nodded solemnly, her bow held close to her side. "You can count on me," she replied, her tone resolute.
Aphrodite met Apollo's gaze, a hint of worry in her eyes. She knew, perhaps better than the others, where he intended to go and the dangers that awaited him.
"Be careful," she murmured, her voice soft yet tinged with unmistakable concern.
Apollo gave her a reassuring smile, then with a final glance at the others, he vanished, his golden form dissolving into the air, leaving Troy and its fate resting in the hands of his allies.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC212: Trojan War: The Heroes of the Light Empire!
Several hundred meters from the towering gates of Troy, the grand, fortified city-empire, a brutal and unrelenting battle raged. The clash of metal on metal, agonized screams, and frenzied warrior cries filled the air, reaching even the innermost streets of Troy. At first, the thunderous noise had jarred the city's inhabitants, cutting through their peace with violent clarity. But now, after two long, grueling months, the sounds of war had woven into the backdrop of their lives. The war, now entering its third month, seemed to grow more ferocious with each passing day, each dawn signaling a new escalation.
With sunrise came the renewal of this bitter struggle, a vicious cycle that persisted until the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Neither the Greeks nor the Trojans were mere mortals fighting with bare strength alone; each side was fortified by the blessings of their gods, granting them endurance and ferocity beyond ordinary human limits. This divine empowerment only served to make the conflict more relentless, the warriors battling as though in another realm, one where violence was the only law.
"Die, you filthy Greek!" a Trojan would snarl, sword raised high, while his Greek opponent would respond with equal venom, "I'll kill you, damn Trojan!" The battlefield rang with guttural roars, screams of pain, and the heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground. Blood soaked the earth, staining it red and turning it into a ghastly scene unlike anything witnessed before. Even the heroes among them—men of near-mythic strength and skill—found themselves hardened by the brutality, forced to adapt to the unyielding cycle of life and death around them.
Both sides committed only fractions of their full armies, but still, thousands fought each day, locking the battlefield in a continuous dance of death. As each morning dawned, the fallen from the previous day were replaced by fresh soldiers, eager to continue the fight. The Trojans, stationed close to their city, could quickly replenish their ranks. For the Greeks, however, the daily march from their distant camp to the battlefield added to their hardship, a journey they took despite the looming threat of night raids by Trojan forces. At the break of dawn, the Greeks would gather their fallen, carrying them back to camp, and only when they had gone would the Trojans retrieve their own dead before cleaning the blood-soaked earth, preparing it for yet another day's carnage.
For two agonizing months, this macabre ritual had repeated, a grim reminder that peace was nowhere on the horizon. Both sides fought with undiminished ferocity, neither willing to yield, and the bloodshed showed no sign of abating.
The Trojans fought with grim determination, defending their city from the invaders who encroached on their land, striving to protect their families and their way of life. Across the blood-soaked field, the Greeks wielded their swords and shields not only for honor or pride but to reclaim Helen, the fabled Queen of Sparta, and to avenge the bruised pride of Menelaus. But beneath this facade of noble cause lay something far more selfish, a truth as bitter as the battle itself.
Helen's abduction was nothing more than a pretext. The Greek warriors fought for their own desires—glory, riches, and the plunder of Troy. The promises of wealth, fame, and women awaited them beyond Troy's massive gates, and these lures drove them with relentless hunger. Each side harbored its own ambitions, and they clashed with an intensity born not only of loyalty but of personal lusts and dreams of power. Leading these forces were warriors of monstrous skill and brutality, fierce commanders who spurred the chaos to new, bloodier heights.
On a battlefield of this size, sprawling with more than ten thousand soldiers, encounters between commanders were scarce. Even if both sides' leaders yearned to prove themselves by facing each other in combat, the field was simply too vast. Occasionally, a warrior of renown would emerge, sought after by lesser soldiers hoping to claim the glory of a champion's head. These leaders, however, were primary targets, barely given a moment to catch their breath amid the hail of arrows and swinging blades.
"Die!" snarled a Trojan soldier, lunging forward with his sword, his face twisted in fierce determination.
"Siara!" Jason shouted, his voice straining as he blocked the Trojan's blade with a practiced, powerful parry. He spun, only to see three more soldiers charging toward him, their expressions filled with bloodlust. In the two months of battle, the Trojans had taken careful note of the most dangerous individuals in the Greek ranks—those they must either kill or avoid. Jason Spencer, known as the Hero of Light, stood high on that list. Though he wasn't as feared as the mighty Greek kings, he was nonetheless a force to be reckoned with.
"I'm on it!" Siara replied, her voice carrying over the chaos as she raised her staff. With a swift, practiced motion, she summoned two glistening shields of water, their translucent surfaces shimmering in the dim light, enveloping Jason protectively.
"What is this sorcery?!" one Trojan yelled, stumbling back in surprise, only to be met by the unexpected force of Siara's magic. Jets of water sprang forth from the shields, fierce and precise, like serpents striking with deadly intent. The water pierced through armor and flesh, leaving a trail of fallen Trojans, their bodies slumping to the ground as Siara's powers ruthlessly cut through them.
Once, Siara had shied away from the thought of killing. She had been hesitant, her heart heavy with the burden of taking lives. But a year had passed since she'd been summoned to this world, and these two brutal months in the heart of the Trojan War had stripped her of innocence. She now fought not only to survive but to protect her comrades. Resignation had settled over her heart, steeling her against the lingering traces of guilt. If her survival—and that of her friends—meant spilling blood, then she would do what was necessary.
"Gahahah! A bunch of ants!" Aidan's laughter boomed across the battlefield, cutting through the clash of metal and the cries of the fallen. Not far from where Jason and Siara fought, Aidan tore through Trojan ranks like a madman, his massive sword cleaving through one soldier after another. Unlike Siara, Aidan had abandoned any hesitation about killing long ago. His eyes glinted with a feral rage, a thirst for blood fed by more than just the demands of war. The humiliation he'd suffered in Lyrnessus at the hands of its prince still burned within him, festering like a wound. Here, he sought retribution, eager to reclaim his pride by channeling his fury into the Trojans who dared to stand in his path.
But while Aidan's wrath was fierce, others on the battlefield were even more devastating, warriors whose very presence sent chills down the spines of their enemies. Two women, in particular, carved a path of ruin among the Trojan ranks, wielding their power with a precision that struck terror into any who dared to approach.
.net
One of them was a dark-haired figure, her jet-black hair tied in a swift ponytail that swayed behind her like a banner of death. Her movements were like lightning—swift, fluid, and deadly. She danced through the battlefield, her blade flashing in arcs that left trails of blood and severed limbs in her wake. Heads rolled, bodies fell, yet she never paused to witness the destruction she wrought. It was Sienna slicing down every enemy within her reach. Even the hardened Trojan soldiers, men who had fought through countless skirmishes, began to retreat from her, their courage faltering at the sight of her relentless slaughter. It was whispered among them that Sienna was favored by Athena herself, and her presence bore testament to that divine blessing. She was Athena's chosen—her movements were precise, her strength unparalleled. Of all the Heroes of the Empire Light, Sienna stood as the strongest, a true embodiment of Athena's wrath.
Not far from Sienna, another figure burned a path through the battlefield, her power equally fearsome but striking in a different way. This young woman, younger than Sienna and adorned with a mane of long chestnut hair, seemed wreathed in flames, her body glowing with a fiery aura that mirrored the burning intensity of her gaze. Courtney was her name, and her approach was not swift or silent like Sienna's. Instead, she moved like an inferno, leaving destruction in her wake. Where Sienna was swift and lethal, Courtney was deliberate, her kills slower but far more merciless. Trojans fell to her flames, their bodies engulfed, screams ringing out as they were reduced to smoldering ash. Her presence was so dreadful that soldiers, hardened though they were, instinctively recoiled, purposefully avoiding her path. Some attempted magic, sending spells hurtling toward her, but their attacks vanished against the wall of fire that cloaked her. Courtney moved forward with cold eyes, her expression devoid of pity or remorse, a predator focused solely on her prey.
To her, this war was little more than training—a preparation for a far darker vengeance she longed to unleash. The Trojan War, with its endless bloodshed, was merely the first act in her own tale of retribution. Courtney's purpose lay beyond the defeat of the Trojans. She was driven by a promise of vengeance, a desire to make the Divine Knights suffer as she had suffered. They had taken Nathan from her, killing him without mercy, and she was determined to make them pay. One day, she vowed, her flames would consume them, burning their flesh as they had burned her heart.
All of that because they had dared to take Nathan from her.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC213: Trojan War: Courtney, Aisha and Gwen
To her, this war was little more than training—a preparation for a far darker vengeance she longed to unleash. The Trojan War, with its endless bloodshed, was merely the first act in her own tale of retribution. Courtney's purpose lay beyond the defeat of the Trojans. She was driven by a promise of vengeance, a desire to make the Divine Knights suffer as she had suffered. They had taken Nathan from her, killing him without mercy, and she was determined to make them pay. One day, she vowed, her flames would consume them, burning their flesh as they had burned her heart.
All of that because they had dared to take Nathan from her.
None of Courtney's classmates dared to interfere with the brutal onslaught she unleashed. They watched from a distance, their faces a mixture of awe and fear, but none took even a step forward. Fear was their first reason. In the months since Nathan's death, Courtney had grown colder, distant, and terrifyingly intense. Her usual warmth had been replaced by an icy demeanor that made her classmates shudder. Only a few—Sienna, Siara, Aisha, and Amelia—felt comfortable enough to speak with her. These were Nathan's closest companions, the only ones who could withstand the cold steel of her gaze and the raw grief simmering beneath her composure.
But their reluctance wasn't just rooted in fear. No one had the slightest intention of stopping Courtney's rampage. Though her attacks were devastating, she held a clear restraint, careful not to harm any of her allies even amidst the chaos of battle. War was an unforgiving stage, and this particular battlefield was packed with thousands of warriors—both allies and enemies—clashing with brutal intensity. Here, every spell, every sweep of a sword, had to be calculated. Wild, large-scale magic attacks could just as easily strike an ally as an enemy, so most chose to wield their swords, channeling magic only to enhance their blades. This was the unspoken rule of the battlefield: strike with precision or risk disaster.
Nearby, Aisha fought as well, though her approach was a stark contrast to the frenzied power of Sienna or the cold ruthlessness of Courtney. Once, she too might have unleashed her fury with abandon, but not anymore. A profound change had come over her since that fateful encounter with Nathan. Discovering he was alive, sharing an intimate moment that reignited her heart, she felt as though she had been reborn. Happiness, raw and pure, flowed through her with a vigor she had never known. Her purpose here wasn't driven by anger or vengeance but by a quiet loyalty and an inner peace only Nathan could grant.
Discover stories with m,v l'e-NovelBin.net
Aisha knew Nathan was fighting for the Trojans. If he had asked her, she would have abstained from the war entirely, but he'd insisted she maintain her cover, to avoid arousing any suspicion from Liphiel or the others on her side. His only request was that she spare certain key figures—the Trojan commanders, Hector and Aeneas—men who were vital to the Trojan cause. They needed to survive if there was to be any hope of victory.
Their communication was as covert as it was precious. During the frenzy of battle, Nathan would occasionally approach her, seemingly engaging her in combat, though their swords barely touched. In those brief, adrenaline-charged moments, they would exchange whispers, sharing intelligence and words of comfort. These fleeting exchanges were all Aisha needed. Though the moments were rare and hurried, each one lingered in her heart. They would share information on Greek movements, trade knowing glances, and, when the chaos around them permitted, a swift, stolen kiss—fleeting but filled with the passion and reassurance they both craved.
In these brief encounters, Aisha found strength. She fought on not out of duty or bloodlust but for those precious moments with Nathan, for the possibility of a future where they could finally be free from this conflict. For now, she was content to play her part, to keep their secret safe, and to savor the rare glimpses of love in the midst of war.
It was Aisha who had been stealing secret kisses from Nathan, sneaking in moments of affection whenever she could catch him alone. Nathan, on his part, was doing his utmost to conceal their exchanges, glancing over his shoulder and sidestepping around his comrades, all while feigning an air of seriousness. Their circumstances were far from ideal for romance, but the thrill of hiding their connection seemed to draw Aisha closer, and Nathan found himself unable to resist.
Gwen, however, stood further back with Iphlea, both taking a more reserved and defensive position on the battlefield. Ever since their crushing defeat against Heiron, the two had been careful, almost wary. They were well aware of Heiron's allegiance to the Trojans and knew that he was a dangerous opponent, one who could turn the tide against them if they were reckless. Yet despite their vigilance, Gwen had not caught a single glimpse of him, not even a shadow. It was as though Heiron had vanished into thin air.
Who could blame her?
Nathan wasn't a master at concealing his energy just yet, but he had learned enough to trick even Gwen's trained senses. His presence was faint, elusive, making him as difficult to track as a ghost.
"I can't find him…" Iphlea murmured beside Gwen, her eyes narrowing as she tried to trace even the faintest hint of his mana.
"Is he even here?" Gwen asked, dumbfounded, crossing her arms with a growing sense of impatience. Two months had passed without a single trace of him—a fact that both irked and unsettled her.
"No, I'm certain he's somewhere close. I can feel a faint pulse of his mana, but it's like chasing a shadow. I can't pinpoint his exact location," Iphlea replied, her tone tinged with frustration. She squinted, her gaze sweeping over the distant commanders in the Trojan ranks, where a cluster of figures loomed.
"If he's that strong, we should be able to see him—like those warriors," Gwen said, her eyes settling on the intimidating figures far off. Among them stood a striking woman, her skin tanned from sun and battle, radiating an undeniable aura of power. This was Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, her sharp gaze surveying the battlefield with unrestrained confidence.
Penthesilea was dressed in a mix of leather and armor, adorned with a blood-streaked helmet that only seemed to enhance her fierceness. Her armor, scarcely more than battle-worn straps and protective plating, was splattered with the fresh blood of her enemies, gleaming in the sunlight. Each swing of her weapon was a deadly arc, leaving a trail of carnage in her wake.
"Bunch of cowards! Are all Greeks this weak?!" she roared, her voice booming across the battlefield before she swung her sword in a devastating arc, decapitating several Greek soldiers in a single, brutal motion. The blood splashed across her bronze armor, blending with the crimson stains already decorating her skin. Behind her, dozens of Amazons fought with equal ferocity, their loyalty to their queen unwavering.
"Kill them all! Don't you dare lose to these weaklings!" Penthesilea commanded, her voice harsh but commanding, a war cry that spurred her warriors forward with renewed fury.
"Yes, my Queen!" the Amazons responded in unison, their voices a fierce and loyal chorus as they surged ahead, clashing with the Greeks in a whirl of blades and shrieks. They moved like a force of nature, each Amazon fighting with a skill and tenacity that could only come from a lineage said to be blessed by Ares himself, the god of war.
Penthesilea's grin grew wider as she scanned the chaos, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. Yet there was something she sought, someone she desired to challenge above all others.
"Where is Achilles?" she bellowed, her voice dripping with disdain. "Is he hiding, cowering behind his ranks?" A mocking laugh escaped her, loud and fearless.
But despite her taunts, Achilles was nowhere to be found, caught in a different part of the battlefield where the ranks of Trojans surged endlessly. She moved through their numbers as if they were mere obstacles, dispatching soldiers with lethal precision, each strike of her sword an unrelenting storm. It was clear she wasn't yet fighting with her full strength, merely cutting through as if this were some twisted sport, her expression one of amusement as she tore through the Trojan forces.
"Do you wish to meet death so soon, Queen of the Amazons?" The voice was calm but laced with challenge, cutting through the noise of the battlefield. It belonged to none other than Atalanta, the famed huntress. She stood poised, her bow raised high, releasing a relentless torrent of arrows, each one finding its mark with deadly precision, toppling Greek soldiers like dominos.
Penthesilea whipped her head around, her fierce gaze locking onto the huntress. "Do you seek death, Atalanta? I don't care if you're favored by Artemis herself." Her eyes burned with defiance, her lips curling into a mocking smile.
Atalanta met her glare evenly, her voice steady. "It's simply advice. I've crossed paths with Achilles before. He's no ordinary man, and I doubt even Hector would stand a chance against him."
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC214: Trojan War: Atalanta's thinking
Penthesilea whipped her head around, her fierce gaze locking onto the huntress. "Do you seek death, Atalanta? I don't care if you're favored by Artemis herself." Her eyes burned with defiance, her lips curling into a mocking smile.
Atalanta met her glare evenly, her voice steady. "It's simply advice. I've crossed paths with Achilles before. He's no ordinary man, and I doubt even Hector would stand a chance against him." Her words were laced with a rare note of caution, a warning to a fellow commander despite their fierce rivalry.
Penthesilea laughed, undeterred. "I'll kill him, and you can watch me do it, Atalanta," she taunted, undaunted by the warning.
Atalanta said nothing further, her expression unreadable as she shifted her gaze back to the battlefield. It was, after all, just advice, a word of caution from one commander to another. She knew Achilles' strength was unlike any other. Perhaps even with the combined efforts of Hector, Aeneas, Sarpedon, and Penthesilea, they could barely hope to match him. But she understood the value of each of Troy's great leaders and warriors. Losing Penthesilea to Achilles would be a devastating blow to the Trojans, and that was a cost Atalanta couldn't bear to see paid.
In her heart, Atalanta fought for more than just Troy's victory. She fought for Artemis, for the goddess's honor, and for the preservation of what Troy represented. That was why she positioned herself at the rear, eyes constantly scanning the field, ready to provide cover for the commanders. Her keen gaze traced the movements of each critical leader—Hector, Aeneas, Sarpedon, and even Paris, each one engaged in their own brutal battles, rallying their soldiers across different fronts.
Her eyes lingered on Paris for a moment. She had underestimated him, she realized. Though slender and seemingly preoccupied, he wielded his bow with precision and strength that surprised her. But she also saw the personal drive behind his movements, a desperation that left him vulnerable. Paris was motivated not by victory for Troy, but by the fear of losing Helen, the woman he loved. It was both his strength and his weakness, and Atalanta worried it might cloud his judgment when he needed clarity the most.
Yet, amidst the chaos, two others caught Atalanta's sharp eye. They weren't commanders, nor were they of Trojan blood—they were mercenaries, hired swords in the service of Troy.
One of them was a stunning woman with sea-blue hair, a beauty that could rival Atalanta's own. Her movements were graceful yet fierce as she fought beside Aeneas, her blade flashing in deadly arcs to protect him from advancing Greek soldiers. Atalanta recalled her name—Charys. She was skilled, powerful, and there was something almost magnetic in her presence, a calm yet ferocious intensity. It puzzled Atalanta, however, that Charys wasn't fighting alongside her usual partner, Heiron, who was also on the battlefield.
The other mercenary, however, was unmistakable—Heiron himself. He fought near Hector, his blade rising and falling in a rhythm of lethal precision, as if he were some mythical protector sent to shield Hector from harm.
Of course, Charybdis fought beside Aeneas, guarding him fiercely under Nathan's directive, honoring a promise made to Aphrodite to protect her son. Her loyalty was to Nathan, but her true reasons remained hidden from the others on the battlefield. Meanwhile, Nathan, known here as Heiron, held his place at Hector's side, the formidable Prince of Troy and the city's greatest hope. He was more than a prince; he was Troy's strength, its unyielding spirit, and the very heart of its defense. As Apollo had warned, the day Hector fell would be the day Troy itself crumbled.
Since the first wave of the Greek invasion two months prior, Heiron had remained steadfast, a shadow at Hector's side. He moved with precision, ever-watchful and ready to intercept any threat that dared approach the Trojan prince. Atalanta, a seasoned warrior herself, observed Heiron's dedication and felt a rare, unspoken gratitude. She understood Hector's significance to this war, and she could see how Heiron's unflagging vigilance had allowed Hector to fight without reservation, knowing someone had his back.
The bond between Hector and Heiron had deepened over these hard months, forged through countless battles and shared dangers. They had become brothers in arms, and Hector's grin in the heat of battle revealed his trust in Heiron. Hector fought with unmatched ferocity, emboldened by Heiron's presence, his strikes more reckless yet confident, as if he knew nothing could breach his defenses with Heiron nearby. The Greeks, once resolute, had begun to fear the towering figure of Troy's prince, who seemed more powerful than ever. Their morale faltered in the face of his relentless strength, his unwavering resolve, and his deadly prowess, each strike sending shivers through their ranks.
Atalanta watched the scene unfold, a slight smile tugging at her lips. Her own reservations about the war began to fade as she felt a new, simmering excitement. She wanted victory, not just for Artemis, Troy but for her comrades—her fellow commanders who had become like family. It had been two long months of shared battles and camaraderie. To her surprise, she found herself deeply invested in their survival.
In those fleeting moments of peace between skirmishes, the commanders often gathered to feast and talk, sharing stories and laughter. Heiron and Charybdis were no longer mere mercenaries; they had become part of this tight-knit group. Though Charybdis remained quiet, always lingering close to Heiron's side, Heiron himself had begun to open up, his reticence softening in the warmth of Hector's and Aeneas's laughter.
Atalanta herself had shared conversations with him, brief yet intriguing exchanges during their moments of rest. They would talk about the day's battles, the shifting tides of the war, and even—on rare occasions—their lives beyond the blood-soaked plains. In truth, it was mostly Atalanta who spoke, sharing tales of her past and her loyalties to Artemis. Heiron listened quietly, offering few words about his own life, though his rare, measured responses hinted at a depth she was eager to uncover.
For Atalanta, this feeling was strange, almost disorienting. She'd always kept her life bound to her loyalty to Artemis and her fellow hunters, yet even among them, she felt more like an ally than a friend. They were companions, united by purpose and ritual, but friendship? That had always seemed like something for other people, not for a devout huntress like herself.
But here, among the Trojans—Hector, Aeneas, and even the outsiders like Heiron and Charybdis—she felt something she never anticipated: a genuine bond. It wasn't just the camaraderie of warriors who fought side by side; it was something more, something she hadn't felt even during her journeys with the Argonauts, Jason, Heracles, and Orpheus. Back then, she had been a warrior among warriors, nothing more. They respected each other's skill, but there had been no warmth, no connection like what she felt now with these people from a foreign land.
When she thought about potentially facing her former Greek allies in battle, she was surprised by her own indifference. The thought of encountering Jason, Heracles, or Orpheus stirred nothing in her heart. It was simply a matter of duty, but for the Trojans? She found herself genuinely caring about their fate. They weren't fighting for glory or conquest; they fought for their city, their families, their way of life. And despite the simpler path of casting Helen out to appease the Greeks, they chose to shield her within Troy's walls, standing firm on principle and loyalty. They were, in every way, honorable and good.
For the first time in her life, Atalanta felt sure she was on the right side of a conflict. It brought her an unexpected sense of joy, and perhaps, a hope she hadn't dared to nurture—that maybe, this time, everything would end well. After all, Artemis herself was watching over them, surely guiding her steps on this path.
Atalanta turned her gaze to the distant, towering walls of Troy. Her sharp sight, blessed by Artemis, discerned a lone figure sitting atop the battlements, watching over the battlefield with a serene, steady gaze. It was Artemis, her goddess, her protector, calmly observing the bloody dance of war below.
But if Nathan, known here as Heiron, were to look up, he would see not only Artemis but two other divine figures beside her. Aphrodite stood close, her smile soft and bittersweet, eyes fixed lovingly on her son, Aeneas. Next to her, a tall, muscular man with flaming red hair and an eager, fierce grin surveyed the chaos—Ares, god of war, taking in the spectacle of battle with pride and excitement.
.net
Across the battlefield, two other goddesses stood in silent vigil over the Greek forces. Athena, the wise and composed goddess of strategy, watched with a calm, unblinking focus. But beside her, Hera fidgeted, a scowl darkening her face as she observed the growing momentum of Troy's defenders. Her gaze kept falling back to Hector, Troy's unbreakable spirit, as he cut through the Greeks like a force of nature.
Hector was stealing the light, and Hera, ever resentful, could barely contain her displeasure.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC215: Hera's annoyance
Across the battlefield, two other goddesses stood in silent vigil over the Greek forces. Athena, the wise and composed goddess of strategy, watched with a calm, unblinking focus. But beside her, Hera fidgeted, a scowl darkening her face as she observed the growing momentum of Troy's defenders. Her gaze kept falling back to Hector, Troy's unbreakable spirit, as he cut through the Greeks like a force of nature.
Hector was stealing the light, and Hera, ever resentful, could barely contain her displeasure.
It should have been Achilles dominating the battlefield, his prowess and rage unmatched as the Greeks pushed forward. Yet, Achilles seemed indifferent, as though the thrill of bloodshed and glory no longer called to her with the same ferocity—or perhaps she was waiting, biding his time, for reasons only she understood. For now, she stood and fight back.
Khillea reveled seemed alive with the pulse of the battlefield, her every movement filled with a fierce joy. To her, this was more than just war; it was a celebration of life, the peak of her existence, and she intended to savor every moment. She knew all too well that her time was limited, that death loomed closer with each passing day. And so, rather than fight cautiously, she threw herself into battle with a reckless abandon, finding delight in every clash of steel and every surge of strength within her. The thought of her mortality didn't bring fear—it brought freedom.
Moreover, there was the lingering question in her mind: could she be carrying a child? It was a possibility she hadn't fully grappled with, though it floated in the back of her thoughts, a small flicker of uncertainty in her otherwise fearless heart. She wasn't even sure yet if it was true, and so it felt too insubstantial to change her course. If fate had woven such a twist into her life, then she would embrace it. But if not, then she would fight on as she always had, unencumbered by worry. Hera, too, seemed to understand this. The goddess's watchful gaze held no judgment, only respect and perhaps even admiration for Khillea's boldness. Much like Athena, Hera stood in quiet support, recognizing that Khillea was a force to be reckoned with, perhaps the strongest warrior in this entire conflict.
And while Khillea was essential for the Greeks' success, his strength was only half of the equation. Agamemnon's authority, his ability to unite and rally the disparate kings and factions, provided the structure and strategy that bound the Greeks together. Together, they were the heart and the backbone of the Greek forces: Achilles, the raw power, and Agamemnon, the commanding presence, the voice that directed all that fury toward a single goal.
But even as Hera's gaze scanned the battlefield, her attention drifted, drawn almost instinctively to Hector. The Trojan prince fought with honor, his skill unmatched on his side of the conflict, and yet he bore a strange burden. Another figure, a man cloaked in an aura both eerie and protective, clung to him almost like a shadow. Hera's lip curled with annoyance as she observed this unusual companion—Heiron, the odd, persistent figure who stuck to Hector's side like a parasite or, perhaps, a guardian angel. Time and again, Hera had seen this strange man intervene, saving Hector from certain death when the Greek heroes drew dangerously close. Her anger wasn't directed at Hector, though she had no love for the Trojan prince. Instead, it was Heiron who irritated her, with his uncanny knack for appearing at just the right moment, thwarting attacks that might otherwise have ended the prince's life.
There had been so many perfect opportunities to end Hector's life, moments when his defenses were breached, his back exposed. And yet, this Heiron seemed always there, his timing precise, as if he could see fate itself unfolding and knew just when to act to alter it. Hera's frustration simmered. In her eyes, Hector's survival had ceased to be a matter of skill or fortune and had become an inexplicable farce, kept alive by this meddler's interference.
And then, Hera cast her gaze upward to the walls of Troy, where the gods watched the battle unfold like a grand spectacle. Among the divine faces, one was conspicuously absent—Apollo, the god of prophecy, healing, and archery, the patron of Troy. His missing presence was a wound in the Trojan defenses, a gap in the divine support they relied upon. Without his blessing, the Trojans were left vulnerable, struggling to hold their lines under the relentless Greek assault. Yet, despite the absence of Apollo's radiant protection, the Trojans endured, fighting on with a tenacity that bordered on miraculous.
In place of Apollo, Heiron had emerged as Hector's savior. Though he seemed unremarkable at first glance, something about him defied explanation. He wasn't particularly imposing or even visibly powerful, yet his uncanny ability to appear precisely where he was needed left Hera both perplexed and seething. Every time she thought Hector would fall, Heiron would materialize, his arrival so impeccably timed that it defied reason.
For two long months, the stalemate had dragged on, each day filled with grueling combat and tense strategies. The unrelenting clash had left both sides teetering on the edge of exhaustion. Though he didn't seem like an immediate threat, Hera had begun to consider the idea of eliminating Heiron first. In her mind, the move was calculated: Hector appeared deeply reliant on Heiron's presence. Without him, there was a high chance Hector would lose his composure, become reckless, and eventually meet his end more swiftly without his steadfast protector by his side. It was a tempting possibility—one Hera contemplated with an almost casual cruelty.
Alongside Hera stood Athena, a silent sentinel, her presence radiating a calm yet potent confidence that seemed to breathe strength into the Greek forces. Her blessing rippled through the ranks like an unseen force, empowering her warriors with heightened resilience and conviction. In the absence of Apollo, the Greek army should have overwhelmed the Trojans entirely. But Ares, the god of war himself, had thrown his allegiance behind the Trojans, breathing his own war-blessing into their soldiers, turning the conflict into a deadlock that refused to yield.
Athena's icy gaze was fixed not on Ares, but on Aphrodite. The goddess of love had meddled yet again, drawing Ares to the Trojan side with her relentless charms and tantalizing allure. She was as infuriating as ever, a constant thorn in Athena's side. Aphrodite's wiles posed a grave risk, one that Athena couldn't afford to ignore. Left unchecked, she could easily sway more gods to her cause, tipping the delicate balance in the Trojans' favor. She was, after all, a master at manipulation, her allure undeniable and her influence far-reaching—a reality that both goddesses found troubling.
Suddenly, a stirring in the battlefield below captured their attention. A murmur spread like wildfire among the troops, growing louder as soldiers pointed and murmured to one another. All eyes turned to the area where Hector and Heiron fought side by side. A lone figure had stepped forward, striding through the dust and chaos with an unmistakable aura of strength. His gleaming armor marked him as a commander of the Greeks, a figure of considerable power and renown.
Neither Hector nor Nathan recognized the man, yet something about his face stirred a faint sense of familiarity in Nathan. The newcomer's mouth curled into a grin, fierce and unrestrained, as he drew his sword and leveled it at Hector with a fierce determination.
"I am Teucer, son of Telamon of Salamis!" he declared, his voice ringing out over the din of battle.
"Ajax's brother?" Hector responded, raising an eyebrow. Telamon, the former king of Salamis, was known far and wide not only as Teucer's father but as the sire of Ajax the Great himself.
At the mention of his brother, Teucer's face twisted with a flash of anger. His name was Teucer, not merely Ajax's brother! He resented the shadow cast by his sibling, who always seemed to soak up the glory, leaving Teucer to languish in obscurity.
"I will take your head, Hector," Teucer growled, a dangerous glint in his eyes. This was his chance—his opportunity to carve out his own legacy, to prove himself superior to his famed brother.
Hector braced himself to face this new adversary, stepping forward with his weapon raised, only for Heiron to suddenly intercept him.
"Heiron?" Hector called out, momentarily taken aback.
"Leave him to me," Nathan—disguised as Heiron—replied, his expression set with a chilling gaze.
Read latest stories on m_v-l'e|-NovelBin.net
Seeing the cold gaze in his friend's eyes, Hector understood. With a faint smile, he nodded, retreating to watch as Nathan prepared to meet Teucer's challenge.
Teucer's fury only grew as he watched Hector retreat, leaving the fight to his subordinate. His eyes narrowed, lips curling in disgust.
"What does this mean, Hector?! Are you so afraid of me that you send a mere soldier to fight in your place?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt.
Nathan stepped forward calmly, his expression as icy as his words. "Hector doesn't need to waste his time with trash like you to prove his worth," he replied, his tone cold and unwavering.
At this, a ripple of excitement spread among the surrounding soldiers. The battle around them slowed as warriors turned to witness the impending duel between the famed Teucer—the brother of Ajax—and the mysterious mercenary loyal to Hector. A tense hush settled over the crowd, all eyes drawn to the confrontation.
"What did you say?" Teucer's murderous gaze fixed upon Nathan, his face darkening with rage.
"Ah, so you are Ajax's brother," Nathan remarked with a disdainful tone, ignoring Teucer's question entirely. His words cut deep, filled with a cold venom. The title he spoke was not one of respect but of contempt, for Teucer was the sibling of the man who had dared to lay hands on Aisha, even trying to harm her. Nathan's own anger simmered just beneath his calm facade.
Teucer's face twisted in fury, his eyes blazing. "I'll kill you for that!" he spat, his voice raw with hatred.
Without hesitation, Teucer lunged, covering the distance between them in an instant, his sword slicing through the air toward Nathan's head. But in a flash, Nathan was gone, his figure vanishing like a ghost before Teucer's strike could land.
"What?!" Teucer gasped, stunned. He whirled around, his world a blur of spinning colors and chaos. In his disoriented state, he felt a sharp, cold grip on his final moments as blood filled his mouth, the life draining from his body.
He met Nathan's gaze—those cold, unyielding blue eyes staring back at him with merciless precision. Nathan held Teucer's decapitated head by its hair, his arm raised as he hurled it high into the sky. The severed head arced over the battlefield, visible to all with keen enough vision. Greek kings and commanders across the battlefield turned, witnessing the grim trophy as it spun through the air, blood raining down.
But Nathan's aim was clear. He wanted only one man to see it: Ajax.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC216: Heiron's message
He met Nathan's gaze—those cold, unyielding blue eyes staring back at him with merciless precision. Nathan held Teucer's decapitated head by its hair, his arm raised as he hurled it high into the sky. The severed head arced over the battlefield, visible to all with keen enough vision. Greek kings and commanders across the battlefield turned, witnessing the grim trophy as it spun through the air, blood raining down.
But Nathan's aim was clear. He wanted only one man to see it: Ajax.
In that moment, countless eyes turned skyward, watching the grisly spectacle of Teucer's head spinning through the air.
"It's Teucer!" someone gasped.
"Someone killed him!"
"No way!" Find your next read on m_v l|e-NovelBin.net
The murmurs of shock spread rapidly among the Greek soldiers. Teucer, though not as mighty as his renowned brother Ajax, was still celebrated as the son of Telamon. His strength was respected among the Greeks, and his lineage alone commanded a certain reverence. Now, his head had been severed in one clean stroke by a mere mercenary fighting for Troy.
"Look, Ajax! It's your brother's head!" one of Ajax's own men jeered, followed by the chuckles of several others. For them, this was merely another brutal instance of war—a battlefield quip with little thought to Teucer's death. After all, Teucer had always been overshadowed by his brother, often regarded as little more than Ajax's jealous sibling. His passing stirred little sentiment from those who stood alongside the greater hero.
But Ajax himself stared at his half-brother's head as it plummeted to the earth. For a fleeting moment, his face hardened, a mix of irritation and obligation crossing his expression. He had never cared much for Teucer; to him, his brother was a lesser warrior, barely worth acknowledging. And yet, this public display of Teucer's severed head felt pointed, a challenge thrown squarely in Ajax's direction. Though he dismissed Teucer as a weakling, they shared blood, and blood demanded vengeance. Whoever had dared to humiliate the Greeks in such a manner—let alone target his family—had issued a silent call for retribution, and Ajax would answer it. It wasn't for Teucer's sake but for the honor of Salamis and the pride of its king.
Still, Ajax was far from the place where his brother had fallen, too distant to see the face of his killer. He resolved to seek answers among his men, but one thing was certain: whoever was responsible would soon face him in battle, and they would not live long.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, the other Greek kings had also noticed the spectacle. Some watched with mild interest, though most were unfazed. The Trojan forces boasted many formidable fighters—even aside from Hector—so seeing a Greek like Teucer fall wasn't altogether shocking to them.
But Odysseus, ever the shrewd strategist, studied the scene with narrowed eyes. From his position in the rear, he had been observing the battlefield closely, marking the movements of each key figure as he plotted his next steps. He knew the layout of both armies, noting each warrior's place every hour. He was certain Teucer had fallen near Hector's location, but a nagging thought crept into his mind.
This gruesome display didn't feel like Hector's doing. Though he was a fearless warrior, Hector was also honorable. He wouldn't resort to such a calculated act of provocation or public humiliation. This bore the touch of someone else—a presence colder, more ruthless.
Odysseus turned his keen gaze back to the spot where Teucer's head had first flown skyward, thoughts racing as he tried to piece together the mystery. If not Hector, then who? And why this particular act of defiance?
Hera, watching the scene unfold from afar, narrowed her piercing gaze. She hadn't expected to find someone so ruthless and cunning on the Trojan side. Up until now, she'd viewed them as virtuous, almost naïve, a host of warriors bound by honor and tradition. But this man—there was something unmistakably dark about him, a twist in his spirit that set him apart from the others. She observed, intrigued, as his presence cast a shadow over the battlefield, challenging her assumptions.
"OOOOH!!"
The Trojans, who had watched the swift, brutal clash, erupted in wild cheers. The sounds filled the air, surging with exhilaration and pride. One of the Greeks' prominent commanders, a seasoned and fierce fighter, had been brought down in moments. And by one of their own! Pride and awe shimmered in the eyes of every Trojan as they turned to gaze at Heiron, now seeing him in a new light.
He had always been respected, his strength evident by his close association with Hector, the renowned champion of Troy. Yet today, he had proved himself even further. They had watched, amazed, as he took down a Greek commander with disconcerting ease. It was as if they had just witnessed a force of nature, his intensity undeniable, his presence formidable.
And it wasn't just his strength that captivated them; Heiron's boldness, his fiery, unrestrained personality was a fresh wave among them, a stark contrast to the disciplined stoicism they often saw in their leaders. It was clear that Heiron was no ordinary Trojan warrior; he was a mercenary, a man who fought by his own code, untouched by the rigid customs of Troy's noble soldiers.
Hector, standing nearby, watched with a small, approving smile. He was not one to taunt his foes, preferring honor in battle. But he couldn't deny the satisfaction he felt at Heiron's provocations. Heiron's irreverent approach, his raw intensity, it all served to rally the Trojans, lifting their spirits higher than they had been in days.
Suddenly, piercing through the clamor of the battlefield, came a high, keening whistle. The sound echoed from Troy's mighty walls, carried by the metallic ringing of a bell whose distant clangs reached every ear on the field. The signal for retreat.
The sun was sinking below the horizon, casting a deep orange glow across the land. Both Greeks and Trojans knew that fighting in the dark was foolish—night would only heighten the risks, and the fatigue from a full day's battle weighed heavily on all. Weariness hung thick in the air as the warriors braced themselves for a temporary reprieve.
"Retreat!" Hector's voice boomed, cutting through the din as he raised his sword and signaled his men. With an air of command that was both calm and urgent, he led the Trojans in an orderly withdrawal, his voice reaching the furthest ranks.
Across the field, Greek soldiers hesitated, their rage still fresh from the loss of Teucer, one of their commanders. Many glared bitterly at Heiron, memorizing his face, silently vowing vengeance. Yet, even in their anger, they knew better than to disobey the bell. One by one, they too turned away, casting reluctant glances over their shoulders.
This retreat signal had become a ritual over the past two months—a tacit agreement between both armies, marking the end of each day's brutal conflict. As the bell tolled, it was as if an unspoken truce descended upon them, the two sides slipping back to their camps to lick their wounds and gather their strength for the inevitable clashes to come.
Nathan, however, lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting over the retreating Greek lines. Amid the fading figures, he caught sight of someone watching him—a lone figure whose gaze burned through the distance with unsettling intensity. Odysseus, the shrewd King of Ithaca.
Aphrodite had warned Nathan about him. Odysseus was no Achilles or Agamemnon, known for brute strength or bluster. He was different, a man of quiet cunning and unnervingly sharp intelligence. Athena's chosen, a strategist whose mind was a weapon as deadly as any blade. Odysseus held the Greeks together, mending their rifts and cooling their tempers. Even Achilles, the godlike warrior, respected and listened to Odysseus, treating him as an equal, a man with the rare skill to calm him.
"Coming, Heiron?" Hector's voice called him back to the present. He placed a steadying hand on Nathan's shoulder, guiding him away from the lingering thoughts of his enemy.
Nathan cast one last look upwards, almost as though he could glimpse the gazes of Hera and Athena watching from the heavens, each Goddess following the unfolding of the day's events with their own secret intentions. But he resisted the urge and turned back, following Hector's lead.
As the Trojans slipped behind their fortified walls, the Greeks began their solemn task of recovering their fallen, retrieving the bodies of their comrades in the solemn twilight. Once the Greeks retreated, the Trojans would return to the battlefield to reclaim their own, carrying them home to lay them to rest with honor and dignity.
Soon, night fell, blanketing the land in deep shadows.
As the Trojans filed through the gates in disciplined, winding lines, Hector took his place at the very front, leading his soldiers with quiet pride. He wore the marks of the day's brutal clashes—dust-streaked armor, faint lines of sweat, and a resolute, unyielding expression. It was a ritual by now, this triumphant return, designed to remind the people of Troy that their champion had returned alive, unbroken, from another fierce day of battle. It was as much a display for his warriors as for the citizens, a small but essential spark to keep their spirits high amidst the relentless cycle of war.
Nathan walked at Hector's side, his presence equally powerful and striking.
On either side of the path, crowds gathered, their voices swelling into cheers that rolled through the air like thunder. Young children gazed up in awe, their wide eyes following the soldiers with a mixture of admiration and excitement. For them, these warriors were heroes of legend, and each day's return from battle was a moment to celebrate, a reassurance of safety, and a reminder of Troy's strength. This wasn't a victory parade—no land had been won, and no decisive blow struck—but it had become a daily testament to resilience, a steady beat to fortify the hearts of the Trojans.
Nathan exchanged glances with the crowd, feeling their energy as it mixed with his own. He could see in their faces that this daily march, though simple, worked a quiet magic, lifting the spirits of all who watched. Soldiers, too, absorbed the atmosphere, the cheers infusing them with renewed strength to face the uncertainties of the next dawn.
As they made their way further into the city, Aeneas, who had been walking with the column, turned his head toward Heiron, a grin lighting up his face. "Hey, Heiron! Are you coming to the feast of tonight?"
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC217: Trojan feast
Nathan exchanged glances with the crowd, feeling their energy as it mixed with his own. He could see in their faces that this daily march, though simple, worked a quiet magic, lifting the spirits of all who watched. Soldiers, too, absorbed the atmosphere, the cheers infusing them with renewed strength to face the uncertainties of the next dawn.
As they made their way further into the city, Aeneas, who had been walking with the column, turned his head toward Heiron, a grin lighting up his face. "Hey, Heiron! Are you coming to the feast of tonight?"
The feast was an exclusive gathering, a nightly tribute to the finest soldiers of Troy. Only those who had proven their strength and valor against the Greeks were granted entry, and among them were the commanders whose names were already whispered with awe. Heiron, as Nathan was known to the Trojans, had earned his place at these feasts countless times. His performance on the battlefield that day, cutting down a Greek commander with astonishing ease, had once again secured his invitation.
Yet, despite the honor, Nathan felt an exhaustion that went beyond the weariness of battle. In the two months he had been in Troy, he had attended his fair share of these banquets, and the routine of them had begun to wear thin. It wasn't that he disliked the feasts themselves; the food and wine were abundant, the halls filled with laughter and song, and the camaraderie was genuine. But the questions—endless and prying—wore on his patience.
There was always a curious face, eager to know more about this mysterious warrior. People asked about his origins, pressing him for tales of his homeland and family. Others wanted to know where he had fought before, why he was so skilled, or whether the beautiful woman who had once accompanied him was married. Nathan had spun countless tales, weaving layers of fabricated history, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep the lies straight. Details slipped through his memory, and he couldn't remember half the stories he'd told a month prior.
So, he had learned to avoid the feasts whenever he could. But tonight, his presence would be hard to refuse; his recent feat had stirred up a storm of admiration, and he had little choice but to attend, lest he appear suspicious or aloof. Aeneas, now one of Nathan's closest friends in Troy, had extended the invitation personally, and Nathan had declined his requests too many times already. Hector, too, would have appreciated his company, though he never pushed Nathan to attend.
Sensing his reluctance, Aeneas leaned in, his voice low and reassuring. "Don't worry," he said with a conspiratorial grin. "I'll keep the others at bay tonight."
Nathan exhaled, feeling a flicker of gratitude. Aeneas had quickly picked up on his discomfort with all the prying questions, understanding how out of place Nathan felt beneath their scrutiny.
"Fine," Nathan replied, allowing a small smile. "I'll take a bath and be there soon."
He had already sent Charybdis ahead without him, hoping for a quiet evening to himself, but he knew he could not escape tonight's gathering. With a nod to Aeneas, he turned back toward his quarters, hoping this would be one of the quieter nights, free from the ceaseless questions and curious stares. A whole day of battle had already drained his mental reserves, and all he wished for was a moment's peace amidst the feast's lively chaos.
Nathan made his way back to his quarters in the castle. Once inside, he took a long, calming bath, letting the warm water wash away the sweat and blood from his skin, remnants of yet another brutal day of fighting. He sank lower into the bath, savoring the soothing relief it brought to his tired muscles and bruised body. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes, craving the thought of collapsing into bed and surrendering to sleep.
Yet duty called. As much as he wished to rest, he knew he had to make an appearance at the evening feast, if only to pay respect to King Priam. With a resigned sigh, Nathan stepped out of the bath, toweling off before reaching for the fresh set of clothing provided for him. The attire was richly made, finely woven garments befitting a high-ranking nobleman—generous gifts from Aeneas himself, seeing as Nathan had come to Troy with limited belongings. He dressed himself slowly, the weight of the coming evening settling over him.
Just as he buttoned up the top of his tunic, he sensed another presence in the room. Without even turning, Nathan spoke, his tone cool and knowing. "What are you doing here?"
Behind him, the goddess Aphrodite stood with a warm, admiring smile. "You fought well again today," she remarked, her voice filled with a subtle, almost playful pride.
Nathan gave a faint nod, acknowledging her words without letting himself be flattered. "Yes, I did. But I've only three months left," he replied, the reminder of his impending death falling from his lips with a grim finality. Explore more at m,v l'e-NovelBin.net
Aphrodite's smile faded, and her delicate lips formed a slight pout. "You know, you should already be dead," she reminded him, her eyes flickering with a mix of exasperation and sympathy.
Nathan knew the truth of it all too well. By all rights, his life should have ended already, if not for Apollo's intervention. The god had bent the laws of nature, granting Nathan a brief reprieve, a fragile extension that lingered over him like a shadow. And while he was undeniably grateful, the constant reminder of his borrowed time gnawed at him, a reminder that his fate was slipping closer with each passing day.
"Any news from Apollo?" Nathan asked, glancing over his shoulder at the goddess, his gaze probing.
Aphrodite shook her head, her expression turning somber. "He's ventured into a dangerous place for your sake," she murmured. "Not only for you, but for the sake of Troy—and Hector."
Nathan's expression hardened. "Troy won't fall. Hector won't fall. I've promised that," he said, again.
Aphrodite laughed softly, amused by his boldness. Nathan was essentially claiming responsibility for Troy's protection, as though Apollo himself were merely a lesser guardian in comparison. She admired his confidence, however brash it might have been.
"You've done well in guarding Hector up to now," she said, her tone gentle yet cautious. "But be warned—Hera's anger is rising. She might make her move soon, and she'll stop at nothing to see Hector dead. Be on guard."
Nathan's face darkened at the mention of Hera, the troublesome goddess who had opposed him since his arrival in this strange world. To him, she was nothing but an incessant, omnipresent nuisance, constantly stirring trouble from her seat of power.
"That goddess will be dealt with soon enough," he muttered darkly.
Aphrodite's eyes widened slightly, her lips quivering with the urge to laugh. Nathan spoke of Hera as if she were some common adversary, a mere mortal woman who could be dismissed and dealt with at his convenience. Yet Hera was no ordinary foe—she was the Queen of Olympus, wife to the mighty Zeus himself. Still, there was something irresistibly audacious about Nathan's attitude, his willingness to defy even the highest gods.
One thing was certain—Nathan possessed a courage that bordered on reckless, but perhaps, in this world of capricious deities and ancient powers, it was precisely that fearlessness that set him apart.
"How's Khione?" Nathan asked, his voice softening as he brought up the one woman who lingered in his mind, the one he yearned to see most. Memories of their last encounter flooded back—a stolen moment before he'd left for Uteska. She had given him a nice blowjob that day.
It felt like years had passed since that day, the longing sharpening within him.
Aphrodite observed his reaction with an understanding smile. "She's fine, though she still has to stay hidden," she replied. "Poseidon's still hunting her down like a madman." She chuckled lightly, though Nathan's expression only darkened.
The thought of Poseidon pursuing Khione filled Nathan with a cold rage. If he could, he would have killed the sea god already—eliminated the threat that loomed over his woman. But Poseidon was strong, his strength leagues beyond what Nathan could currently handle. For now, he needed patience, a carefully crafted plan. He gritted his teeth. "Make sure she's never found by that bastard."
"I'll do my best." Aphrodite nodded, though her playful pout returned as she stepped closer, her delicate fingers trailing up his arm before settling around his waist. Without warning, she pressed her soft, warm body against his back, her arms wrapped around him in an intimate embrace. She leaned forward, her lips grazing his neck, leaving a series of lingering, featherlight kisses. "Why don't you show the same worry for me, Nate?" she whispered, her breath warm against his skin.
Nathan tensed, feeling the heat of her touch and the intoxicating scent that clung to her. Aphrodite was the goddess of love and beauty, and every part of her was crafted to allure. His body responded immediately, an involuntary reaction to her closeness.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC218: Aphrodite...
"I'll do my best." Aphrodite nodded, though her playful pout returned as she stepped closer, her delicate fingers trailing up his arm before settling around his waist. Without warning, she pressed her soft, warm body against his back, her arms wrapped around him in an intimate embrace. She leaned forward, her lips grazing his neck, leaving a series of lingering, featherlight kisses. "Why don't you show the same worry for me, Nate?" she whispered, her breath warm against his skin.
Nathan tensed, feeling the heat of her touch and the intoxicating scent that clung to her. Aphrodite was the goddess of love and beauty, and every part of her was crafted to allure. His body responded immediately, an involuntary reaction to her closeness. Her scent was sweet and heady, her hair brushing softly against his shoulder, and the faint hint of her perfume filled the air, potent and alluring. For a moment, he almost gave in, tempted to pin her against the bed and make her his, to release the tension that had been building.
But Nathan managed to resist, his willpower honed from countless encounters. "Do I need to?" he replied coolly, his voice masking the struggle within.
Aphrodite gave a soft, frustrated sigh, her pout deepening. "Hera despises me, and Ares is always on my heels, constantly pestering me to sleep with him," she complained, her tone a mixture of irritation and weariness.
Nathan raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you already sleep with him?"
"That was ten thousand years ago," she muttered, a hint of regret in her voice. "I was young, foolish… and a bit too impulsive back then."
"Then refuse him," Nathan said simply, shrugging off the complications with practical indifference.
Aphrodite's expression turned to one of mild frustration, her lips pursing as she searched for the words to explain. "If only it were that simple. I… I made a deal with him. I asked him to step in for Apollo, to lend his war magic to the Trojans so they could counter Athena's influence on the battlefield." She paused, her gaze troubled. "If Ares realizes I've manipulated him, he'll pull his support—and without that, Troy's defenses will weaken. »
"I thought he hated Athena?" Nathan asked, arching an eyebrow. "Wouldn't he help you out just to have the satisfaction of humiliating her?"
Aphrodite sighed, frustration evident in her voice. "He doesn't like her, true. But his obsession with me overshadows everything else. If I don't give him what he wants, he's the kind to make sure he gets it… one way or another."
Nathan's eyes widened. "You're saying he might even switch to the Greeks' side just to force you into bed?" He shook his head in disbelief. Ares' motivations seemed shallow, driven by little more than primal urges.
Didn't he have any ambition beyond satisfying his lust?
He's no better than Poseidon, still hunting for Khione, all just to fuck her.
"It's entirely possible." Aphrodite nodded, a flicker of unease crossing her face. She couldn't gauge how Ares' obsession for her had festered and grown over the millennia, and that unknown threatened to unravel everything.
Nathan watched her, realizing that the weight of this burden went deeper than she let on. There was something somber in her expression, a vulnerability she usually concealed behind her allure and confidence. But then again, Aphrodite had saved him more than once and been his ally here, risking her own standing among the gods. Her favor had been instrumental in keeping him alive.
Yes, he had his reasons for joining the Trojans and earning Apollo's favor to save his own life, but a small part of him knew it wasn't enough to repay her fully. Aphrodite hadn't just set him on this path; in her own way, she had been a lifeline.
He took a breath, steadying his resolve. "What do you want me to do about it? Ares is stronger than me, and I'm already on thin ice with enough of the Olympians," he admitted, though he could sense her distress and was willing to offer what little he could.
Aphrodite looked at him, taken aback. She hadn't expected him to respond so earnestly. Was he truly willing to fight for her? She had always assumed he acted out of duty to Khione or the bond he held with others, and while Khione might hold a special place, Aphrodite's connection to Nathan was far less tangible. He had no reason to go to such lengths for her.
"Did you hear me?" Nathan asked, turning to face her fully, his eyes searching hers.
Aphrodite steadied herself, her mind racing. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, thoughts tumbling in a chaotic whirl. For a fleeting moment, she considered spilling everything, unraveling the tangled web of peril that ensnared her, a trap that even Nathan, with all his impossible luck and reckless charm, would not escape unscathed. The danger she was in went beyond the mortal realm, beyond the understanding of even the bravest souls.
But no, she couldn't. She wouldn't. It was too soon, too dangerous to involve him in a fate so twisted. Because she really loved him.
She smoothed the anxious tremor in her voice and plastered on a teasing smile, her eyes sparkling like stars caught in the flush of twilight. "It's nothing, don't worry about me! I'm just… disappointed you don't pay attention to me anymore," she pouted, her voice a melodic tease, light and airy as if her heart wasn't clenching with fear. She knew how to wield her beauty, knew how to distract and disarm with a single glance, and Nathan was no exception.
Nathan's brow furrowed, confusion clouding his usually carefree expression. But before she could gauge his reaction, before she could prepare herself for whatever words he would hurl her way, he closed the distance between them in a single, swift movement. "Wha—?" she started, but the question died on her lips as his mouth crashed onto hers with a force that stole her breath.
Aphrodite's eyes flew wide, her mind going blank with shock. In all her long, endless life, no one—
no one
—had ever dared to kiss her like this. It was raw, hungry, a claiming rather than a kiss. The kind of kiss that left no room for games or pretense, a kiss that demanded surrender. She had been worshipped, adored, and revered, but never…
Enjoy new stories from m-v l'e|-NovelBin.net
never
had anyone dared to take.
His arms snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she gasped into his mouth as her ample breasts were crushed against his chest, the soft mounds straining against the thin fabric of her dress. Nathan's hands were rough, insistent, his fingers splayed possessively against the curve of her spine. Her nipples stiffened at the contact, hardening into aching peaks that rubbed tantalizingly against the coarse material of his shirt.
Nathan's eyes blazed with a fire that sent shivers cascading down her spine. He looked down at her, eyes drawn to the generous swell of her breasts, the deep valley between them that seemed to promise all sorts of forbidden pleasures. Her dress was a flimsy thing, almost translucent, clinging to her curves, barely containing the soft flesh that threatened to spill free.
His tongue plunged into her mouth, tasting, exploring, ravaging. She tasted sweet, like honeyed ambrosia, like something divine and forbidden, and it drove him wild.
His free hand slipped lower, fingers brushing against her thighs, rough palms caressing the soft, silky skin.
Aphrodite's knees went weak as his hand slid up, up, beneath her dress, and she gasped, her voice a breathless moan that vibrated against his lips. "Hmmmff❤️~~~" Her thighs parted almost instinctively, granting him access, and his fingers found her bare, wet and ready. There were no barriers between them; she hadn't bothered with undergarments, confident in her allure, never expecting someone to take advantage of it so brazenly.
Nathan's fingers teased her slick folds, spreading the wetness that pooled there, and Aphrodite shuddered, her hips bucking involuntarily into his touch. When his thumb found her clitoris, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles, her head fell back, lips parting in a silent cry of pleasure. Her pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and needy, a wet heat that he could feel pulsing against his fingers.
He broke the kiss just long enough to watch her face, the way her pink eyes glazed over with lust, her cheeks flushed a deep, enchanting red. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body quivering like a taut bowstring ready to snap. Nathan smirked, his eyes dark with mischief and triumph. "Such a good girl, cumming so easily for me," he whispered against her lips, and he wasn't disappointed. He could feel it, the way her pussy tightened, a fresh rush of wetness as she came undone around his fingers.
Without breaking eye contact, he brought his fingers to his lips, licking her cum clean, savoring the taste. "Even your cum tastes divine," he murmured, voice low and rough, and the words sent another shiver through her. Aphrodite's knees buckled, and she leaned against him for support, her body still quaking with aftershocks of pleasure.
Nathan pulled away abruptly, leaving her breathless, trembling, her heart racing in her chest. He stepped back, his eyes never leaving hers, that wicked smirk still playing on his lips. "I have a feast to attend," he said, his tone casual, as if he hadn't just turned her world upside down. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left, leaving Aphrodite standing there, her dress rumpled, her body aching for more, her lips tingling from his savage kiss.
As the door closed behind him, Aphrodite pressed her fingers to her swollen lips, her mind a haze of confusion and desire. She was the goddess of love, the embodiment of seduction, and yet… yet she had been the one left wanting, the one who had been taken.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC219: Kassandra's vision
"Finally, you've arrived, Heiron! I was beginning to think you'd escape our company again!" Aeneas's voice rang out, loud and jovial, as he spotted Nathan entering the grand hall. His laughter echoed off the high stone walls, carrying a warmth that softened the hardened edges of the warrior's features.
Nathan offered a faint smile and nodded as Hector, standing nearby, joined in the welcome with a gentle nod and a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "Oh, Heiron, you made it after all."
The Trojans gathered around were still engrossed in their feasting, laughter and chatter weaving through the air like a vibrant tapestry. Many of the soldiers paused briefly, nodding respectfully at Nathan, acknowledging his presence. The esteem in their eyes was unmistakable. He had become someone worthy of respect, a hero among them—especially after the story of how he had slain Teucer, brother to Ajax, had spread like wildfire through the ranks. They had either witnessed the momentous duel themselves or heard of it from those who had.
As Nathan took a seat among them, his gaze swept over the feasting Trojans. Amidst the plates of roasted meats, pitchers of wine, and golden torches casting flickering light across the stone walls, he couldn't help but question the indulgence. "Is it really wise to hold feast after feast, considering we're still surrounded by the Greeks?"
Hector's laughter burst forth, hearty and untroubled. "Ah, perhaps not! But Troy is a prosperous city, blessed with wealth and resources. We've prepared well for this siege. Besides," he added, his tone softening as he looked around at his men, "feasts like these are needed to keep the spirits of our soldiers high. A long war can grind down even the stoutest of hearts."
"Then let's not let it drag on," Nathan replied, his voice steady, a flash of coldness glinting in his eyes. "Let's end this war before the next year dawns."
Both Hector and Aeneas exchanged a startled glance. There was a firmness, almost an audacious confidence, in Nathan's words. Yet, somehow, that confidence felt contagious, stirring something hopeful in those listening.
"That would be a wish come true for all of us," Aeneas said, chuckling, though a shadow passed over his face. "But… I doubt it will happen."
Nathan's brow furrowed. The certainty in Aeneas's words piqued his curiosity. "Why so certain?" he asked, studying Aeneas's expression closely.
Experience tales at m v|l e'-NovelBin.net
Aeneas cast a glance toward Hector, seeking silent permission to speak. Hector's thoughtful gaze lingered on Nathan for a moment, before he gave a slight nod. "You may tell him. Heiron has more than earned our trust."
Nathan inclined his head, appreciating the confidence they placed in him. Aeneas exhaled deeply, his voice dropping to a somber tone. "It's about Kassandra."
"Kassandra… Hector's sister?" Nathan's attention sharpened. He had heard stories of her.
"Yes." Aeneas nodded gravely. "A year ago, Kassandra received a vision. She saw our future—or perhaps, the future of Troy itself. She saw a war that would rage for a decade, a conflict that would culminate in the ruin of our city."
Nathan fell silent settling over his thoughts. Kassandra. The girl blessed and cursed by Apollo. Her gift of prophecy was infallible, yet her curse rendered her visions as words no one would believe. She had once defied the god himself, spurning Apollo's advances, and, in return, she bore a burden that had made her life a lonely, tortured existence. Her prophecies were always accurate… and always ignored.
As he absorbed this, his gaze drifted across the hall, where he caught sight of Kassandra. She was seated apart from the others, cloaked in a sense of solitude despite the revelry around her. Dressed in a rich, deep-red gown befitting a princess, she looked almost otherworldly, her bright red hair cascading over her shoulders, her expression distant, lost in thoughts others could not fathom.
Kassandra sat alone at the far end of the hall, her gaze distant and her posture solitary, an island of quiet amidst the lively revelry. She remained apart not just by choice, but by the distance others kept from her. Her visions—each foretelling some grim fate—were an unwelcome reminder of the dangers looming over Troy, and no one wished to hear her speak of those dark glimpses into the future. She knew too well how her prophecies unsettled them, how even her own family found reasons to disbelieve her. The weight of knowledge she could not share seemed to settle upon her shoulders, lending her an aura of weary resignation.
"She's always saying things that bring us down, so it's best we keep this information to ourselves," Hector muttered quietly, eyes shifting uncomfortably toward his sister. "Who cares about visions, really? It's us, our swords, and our strength that will decide the outcome, not some vision of doom."
But Nathan didn't answer. His silence spoke of thoughts he didn't wish to share—not here, not among those whose pride and valor depended on believing in Troy's invincibility. He, of all people, knew the power of Kassandra's visions. In the tales he remembered, the fall of Troy was a tragic certainty. Despite the courage and strength of its defenders, the city was doomed to fall. How could he ignore that?
Hector, sensing the tension, laughed it off. "Don't worry, Heiron. It's not going to happen. I mean, ten years? Can you imagine? No siege could last that long." He forced a smile, brushing aside any lingering doubts. But there was a flicker in Hector's eyes—a glimmer of uncertainty, one Nathan could almost reach out and touch. And in Aeneas, Nathan saw something different altogether. Aeneas's face, while calm, betrayed a faint shadow of doubt, as though he harbored some quiet belief in Kassandra's vision. Was it because of his divine lineage, his mother being Aphrodite, the goddess who could see beyond the mortal realm? Nathan had to wonder if that divine influence left Aeneas with a keener instinct for what lay ahead.
"Ten years…" Nathan muttered to himself, the sheer length of it weighing on his mind. Could he possibly endure a decade of endless bloodshed, of sieges and clashes? No. He wouldn't allow himself to remain chained to this war for so long. He would end it, one way or another, and far sooner than they expected. In his mind, a single path blazed ahead: they would have to target the Greek leaders. It was the only way to bring a swift end to the conflict. Though the task was formidable, a plan already began forming within him.
As much as he had grown to respect the people of Troy, his heart wasn't bound to this city. Life here was surprisingly kind; the people treated him with warmth and respect, a stark contrast to how he had been received in the Empire of Light. He had found camaraderie, even friendship, among warriors like Hector and Aeneas. Yet, for all its newfound warmth, Troy was not his home. He had his own goals, ambitions that stretched beyond the walls of this embattled city.
"I should speak with Astynome," Nathan thought, glancing once more at Kassandra. Astynome, the daughter of Apollo, shared the god's gifts of foresight and divination. Perhaps she could offer some insight into Kassandra's prophecies, help him understand whether destiny could be bent or broken. The thought of a future carved in stone unsettled him. If the fall of Troy was inevitable, then he would find a way to rewrite it.
"Well, look who decided to show up after all," a familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. Nathan turned to see Atalanta approaching, her features bright with a rare smile.
"Yeah," he replied, a half-smile playing on his lips. Over the past two months, he had come to know Atalanta far better than he ever would have expected. Their initial encounter—when he had made off with the Golden Fleece right under her nose—had not exactly paved the way for friendship. Yet, somehow, through shared battles and fleeting moments of understanding, their relationship had taken a surprising turn. She was quick-witted and fierce, a skilled hunter with a sharp eye for both enemies and allies. In her, he saw a kindred spirit.
He wondered, though, what her reaction would be if she ever learned the truth about him—if she realized he was not the Heiron she believed him to be, but the Lord Commander of Tenebria, the man who had stolen the Golden Fleece they had been looking for months.
Nathan watched the lively hall, feeling a mix of camaraderie and caution among the Trojans. While he was far from his own homeland, the trust and bonds he had built here over the past months grounded him. These were people he respected—especially Hector, Aeneas, and even Atalanta. Though initially wary of her, he had come to see that Atalanta was a strong-hearted woman, driven by a sense of duty and perhaps a bit of pride in earning Artemis's favor. That dedication, however fierce, was something he could understand.
"He's just shy," Aeneas teased, shifting the subject smoothly. They were all aware that rumors of Kassandra's bleak vision could cause an uproar if spread among the people. Nathan realized the wisdom in keeping such news quiet; it would only stoke fear and uncertainty among the Trojans, whose morale was already stretched by the ongoing siege. Nathan was still surprised, though, that they had confided this in him. It was a proof to the depth of their trust, a rare and fragile bond he hadn't expected to form in enemy territory.
He supposed it made sense, given what they'd been through together. Countless battles, ambushes, nights of blood and sweat—they had come to rely on one another in a way that words couldn't quite capture. He trusted them, too, at least as far as one could in wartime. Even Atalanta, with her fierce loyalty and quiet reservations, had proved herself time and again to be a steadfast ally.
As his thoughts wandered, Nathan's gaze landed on Charybdis across the room. She was surrounded by several Trojan men, their laughter and attempts at flirtation filling the air around her. Charybdis, however, seemed uncomfortable, her posture stiff and her smile strained. Nathan could sense her unease—she looked as though she would rather be anywhere else but here, enduring their advances only out of a sense of duty, perhaps because she didn't want to let him down by leaving.
With a quiet sigh, Nathan excused himself from Aeneas and Hector, weaving his way through the crowd toward her. When he reached her side, he didn't bother with formalities, recognizing her discomfort instantly. "Let's talk."
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS