I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC250 Clytemnestra's rage
Nathan's eyes darted back to the woman. Her hands were clenched tightly into fists at her sides, her knuckles white, and the rage in her eyes was almost palpable.
"I will never forgive him," Clytemnestra said, her voice trembling with emotion. "That man—" She broke off, her shoulders shaking with suppressed anger. "He took everything from me. My freedom, my dignity, my happiness...my daughter."
"Daughter."
"Yes," Hector replied, his voice tinged with disgust. "Agamemnon sacrificed his own daughter when the winds did not favor his voyage to Troy." His expression twisted in revulsion, as if merely speaking the words left a foul taste in his mouth.
The thought was abhorrent—unthinkable. How could a man, even one consumed by ambition, offer his own child to the gods for the sake of war? Hector could scarcely fathom it. To him, this act alone stripped Agamemnon of any semblance of humanity. He was no longer a father, no longer a man, but a hollow shell consumed by obsession.
Agamemnon's fixation on Troy had only grown since that horrific sacrifice. It had morphed into a grotesque duty: conquering Troy had become the only way to justify his daughter's death, to assign some twisted sense of purpose to her senseless loss. Yet to Hector, it was nothing more than a madman chasing shadows, desperate to give meaning to his heinous choice.
"She was just a child..." Clytemnestra muttered, her voice trembling as she clenched her fists. Tears gathered in her anguished eyes, threatening to spill. "All that... for his stupid war." Her words dripped with contempt, and her grief was palpable, each syllable a testament to the wound that could never heal.
"It's all my fault, sister," came a soft voice.
The room grew silent as Helen stepped forward. Her beauty, unmatched and renowned across the world, was marred by an expression of overwhelming guilt. She seemed smaller somehow, diminished by the weight of her shame. She had avoided her sister until now, too afraid to face her fury, too certain she would be cursed and disowned.
Instead, Clytemnestra shook her head, her gaze softening as she looked at Helen.
"I know you, Helen. You have always been responsible and cared for others. You would never have left Menelaus willingly, not under normal circumstances. Something happened—something beyond your control." Her voice wavered, but her conviction was firm. "I am certain that bastard Paris did something to you..." Clytemnestra hesitated before turning to Hector. "I apologize for my words, Prince Hector."
Hector shook his head solemnly, his expression shadowed. "My brother is at fault. There is nothing to deny." His voice was steady, but the shame in his tone was evident.
Clytemnestra nodded, then returned her attention to her sister. She placed a hand on Helen's shoulder, a faint smile breaking through her grief. "You are not to blame for Iphigenia's death. That burden lies entirely with Agamemnon."
"Sister..." Helen's voice broke as tears streamed down her face. She threw her arms around Clytemnestra, clutching her tightly. The relief in her embrace was palpable, as though a massive weight had been lifted from her soul.
Nathan's voice cut through the tender moment, his words cold and unyielding. "Your husband has caused more pain than any man has a right to. He is the lowest of scum."
Clytemnestra turned to face him, her eyes narrowing.
"I've seen the Greek camp with my own eyes," Nathan continued, his icy stare unwavering. "It mirrors Agamemnon's soul—cruel, corrupt, and irredeemable. The Greek kings are nothing more than tyrants, and their men are their reflections. None of them deserve mercy."
His tone was sharp, like the edge of a blade, and it sent a chill through the room. Clytemnestra shivered at the intensity of his words but found herself unable to refute them. She understood his meaning all too well.
"Do not expect me to defend Agamemnon," she said, her voice low but steady. "There is no love left for that man in my heart. In truth, I wish for his death more than any Trojan could." Her teeth clenched, and her hands balled into fists as she spoke, the raw venom in her words unmistakable.
"Good," Nathan said, his voice cold as steel. "Because Agamemnon will die, and I won't grant him an easy death." Without another word, he turned and strode away, his movements precise and controlled, but his aura seething with barely contained fury.
The hatred Nathan harbored for Agamemnon was an ever-growing inferno, feeding on the atrocities committed by the Greek king. Each day, that fire burned brighter, consuming Nathan's thoughts with vengeance.
The reasons for his enmity were as clear as they were horrifying. He had seen enough of Agamemnon's vile nature to despise him utterly: sacrificing his own daughter to appease the gods, killing a desperate father who only sought to rescue his child, and attempting to violate that very daughter—a woman who now stood among Nathan's most cherished women.
But it wasn't just Agamemnon's actions that stoked Nathan's ire. The man reminded him far too much of someone he despised even more—his own father.
Agamemnon's treatment of women as mere objects, his arrogance in claiming to be the strongest and most exalted man—every aspect of his character mirrored the figure Nathan loathed above all else. It was as if Agamemnon embodied the very shadow Nathan had hated his entire life.
"Who is he?" Clytemnestra finally asked, her voice tinged with curiosity and a hint of unease. The man's presence was enigmatic, and she couldn't help but wonder who he was and why he burned with such intensity.
"Heiron," Aeneas replied with a smile. "A mercenary... and one of our strongest allies."
Her eyes widened in shock as the realization struck her. "He is the one who killed Ajax?"
The name of Ajax's killer had already spread across the Achaean continent like wildfire. It was whispered in taverns and shouted in war councils—the name of the mercenary Heiron was on every tongue, his deeds already taking on the air of legend.
"Yes," Hector confirmed with a proud smile.
°°°°
Meanwhile, Nathan had left the castle, his feet carrying him toward the training grounds. There was someone he had yet to see—someone he had been eager to find.
The rhythmic clash of swords rang out through the air, sharp and relentless. The sound drew him closer until his gaze fell upon her: Penthesilea.
There she stood, a vision of raw power and grace. Her blond hair clung to her face, dampened with sweat, and her piercing eyes were fixed on her opponents. She moved like a storm, her sword flashing as she fought against a dozen of her Amazon warriors. Each strike was precise, each movement deliberate, her expression one of fierce determination.
Nathan watched her silently for a moment, his eyes tracing the lines of her form, the strength in her stance. She was utterly captivating, a warrior queen in her element.
But then, the Amazons noticed him. One by one, they stopped, their weapons lowering as their eyes turned toward the man who had approached. Penthesilea followed their gazes, and when her eyes met Nathan's, her expression softened instantly.
She let her sword fall to the ground with a clatter and ran to him, closing the distance between them in an instant. Without a word, she threw her arms around him, holding him tightly as if afraid he might vanish. Her body trembled in his embrace, the strength of her earlier stance giving way to vulnerability.
Nathan returned her embrace, wrapping his arms around her securely. One hand rested gently on her head as he stroked her hair with a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the icy anger he had displayed earlier.
The Amazons exchanged surprised glances, their Queen's behavior a stark departure from her usual demeanor. She looked... soft. Feminine. Almost childlike in the way she clung to him.
And yet, as the initial surprise faded, smiles broke out among the warriors. Their Queen, their unyielding leader, had found someone who could bring out this side of her. It was a sight they hadn't expected, but it filled them with a strange pride.
"Looks like she chose well," one Amazon whispered with a grin, earning a chorus of nods and murmured agreement.
As Penthesilea clung to Nathan, the weight of the world seemed to lift from her shoulders, if only for a moment. In his arms, she could allow herself to be vulnerable, to let the warrior's mask slip away. And for Nathan, in her embrace, the flames of his hatred dimmed.
Penthesilea had always carried a quiet but profound worry for Nathan. It was an emotion she hadn't expected, and one she rarely allowed herself to dwell on. Yet, after what had happened on the battlefield, that worry had grown into something overwhelming.
She hadn't been there when it happened. Positioned on another front of the battlefield, she was leading her Amazons in a relentless clash against the Menelaus and the Spartans. By the time she heard the news and saw him again, Nathan had already been struck down, his body teetering on the edge of death.
The sight of him—pale, bloodied, and barely clinging to life—shattered something inside her. She had seen men fall in battle before, comrades and enemies alike, but this was different. For the first time, fear gripped her so tightly she could hardly breathe. She had never felt this kind of terror for another person, never cared so deeply whether someone lived or died.
"I should have been there," Penthesilea said, her voice trembling as her hands clenched into fists.
"No," Nathan replied firmly, his voice steady despite his weakened state. "You have your own fights to fight. I don't need you to cover me."
Penthesilea shook her head, her jaw tightening. "But—"
"Don't worry." Nathan cut her off, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"I'm not going to die," he continued, his voice softer now, but no less certain. "Not yet. I just need to hold on a little longer."
Penthesilea searched his face, her heart aching at the sight of him pushing through his pain with sheer determination. She wanted to argue, to insist that he shouldn't bear this alone, but the quiet confidence in his words stopped her.
Nathan's eyes shifted, looking past her toward the distant horizon. Somewhere out there, the tides of war continued to churn, and his mind was already ahead, calculating and planning.
"Until Apollo comes back," he murmured, almost to himself. "Then, finally, I can end this war."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC251 Helen's thanks
At the graveyard of Troy, Nathan stood silently beside Aeneas and Hector, the three men casting long shadows across the cracked and uneven ground. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and distant wildflowers, mingling with the faint aroma of charred wood—a reminder of the destruction that had gripped the city not long ago.
Before them lay a modest pile of rubble, stones heaped with care yet betraying the tragic weight of their meaning. A small, weathered marker stood out among the debris. Its surface was rough, yet someone had taken the time to carve a name into it with painstaking precision.
Sarpedon.
Nathan's dark eyes lingered on the inscription. His expression was as hard as the stone beneath his feet, but his thoughts churned with emotion.
For Hector and Aeneas, this loss was weeks old, a wound that had begun to scab over. But for Nathan, it was as fresh as yesterday. He closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to feel the full weight of the moment.
"I'll probably never find a friend like him again," Nathan thought, the bitter realization settling over him like a cold shroud.
In the wake of Sarpedon's death, only Hector and Aeneas remained—brothers in arms, the last among men he could truly call friends. He glanced at the two of them, their solemn faces mirroring the unspoken grief they all shared.
Aeneas broke the silence first, his voice steady but tinged with wistfulness. "Knowing Sarpedon, he's probably on the island of the greatest Heroes by now."
He was referring to the legendary resting place reserved for the noblest and most valiant warriors, a realm akin to Heaven but touched with the raw, untamed spirit of those who had lived and died for honor.
"Definitely," Hector replied, his tone resolute. He placed a hand on Nathan's shoulder, offering silent camaraderie before stepping away. Aeneas followed, the two men leaving Nathan alone with his thoughts.
Nathan lingered, the quiet of the graveyard wrapping around him like a heavy cloak. His gaze returned to the rubble, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"You fought well, Sarpedon," he said aloud, his voice low but firm. "Now you can rest. You've earned it. Leave the rest to us."
A gust of wind swept through the graveyard, carrying the scent of salt from the nearby sea. Nathan's black hair stirred in the breeze as he continued, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves. "The Greeks will soon regret stepping on Trojan grounds. I promise you that."
For a long moment, he remained there, the silence broken only by the occasional cry of a distant gull. Finally, he turned and walked toward a weathered bench under a sprawling olive tree. He sank onto it heavily, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.
The wind picked up again, teasing the edges of his tunic as his thoughts spiraled into darker territory.
The war had taken so much, not just from Troy but from him personally. Each loss chipped away at him, and now, for the first time, he found himself wondering if he would even survive long enough to see Apollo return.
"Will I survive before Apollo finds a solution?" he wondered grimly. "And even if he does… will it be enough to save me?"
Apollo, one of the mightiest and most influential gods, had gone to search for answers—an antidote, perhaps, or some divine intervention to stave off Nathan's impending doom. But even Apollo had warned him there were no guarantees.
Nathan exhaled slowly, his breath forming a faint mist in the cool air. He was already bracing himself for the worst. If even Apollo, with all his wisdom and power, failed, then his fate was as good as sealed.
And, strangely, Nathan found himself accepting that possibility. The thought of his own death no longer terrified him as it once had.
"I should think about releasing Khione and Amaterasu while I still can," he mused, the decision forming in his mind like a heavy stone sinking into water.
Khione… she was the woman he loved most in the world. To drag her into his death would be unforgivable.
And Amaterasu—another powerful figure in his life. She had helped him in many ways since then. They formed quite a bond as well though it didn't start good.
"No," Nathan thought resolutely. "I won't take them down with me. I'm not that twisted."
If Nathan was truly going to die, then he would release them. It was a decision he had already made in his heart. Khione, with her serene strength, and Amaterasu, whose wisdom had guided him more times than he could count—they didn't deserve to be bound to a man who might not see another sunrise.
But as his thoughts lingered on his own mortality, another question crept into his mind, unbidden and troubling.
"If I die… where will I go? Heaven or Hell?"
He exhaled sharply, the faintest trace of bitterness curling his lips into a smirk. Most likely Hell, he thought. After everything he'd done—every choice, every compromise—Hell seemed inevitable.
But then again, this world played by different rules. Perhaps fate would show him a shred of mercy. Would he be sent to the same realm as Sarpedon if he fought valiantly in this war?
He doubted it.
"He was a good man."
The words startled him, coming not from his thoughts but from behind him. Nathan turned slightly, his black hair catching the soft light of the setting sun, and his gaze landed on an unexpected figure.
Helen of Sparta.
She stood quietly, her hands clasped in front of her as her gaze rested on Sarpedon's grave. The golden glow of twilight bathed her in an ethereal light, making her appear almost otherworldly. Her beauty was striking, as always, but it was her expression that caught Nathan off guard—a mix of sorrow and quiet determination.
"What are you doing here?" Nathan asked, his voice steady but tinged with curiosity.
Helen didn't meet his eyes. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on the grave, her tone soft yet filled with a weight of guilt. "Every week, I come to this graveyard. It's the least I can do, being responsible for their deaths."
Despite the countless reassurances from others that she wasn't to blame, Helen still carried the burden as if it were hers alone.
Nathan studied her for a moment, his blue eyes narrowing thoughtfully. He understood her guilt but viewed the situation with a broader perspective. From what he had pieced together, the chain of events leading to this war was far more complex than Helen seemed willing to acknowledge.
Aphrodite had given her enchanted belt to Paris as a gift for choosing her over Athena and Hera in their divine beauty contest. But the goddess hadn't anticipated Paris using it to seduce a married woman worse a Queen. Things spiraled out of control after that.
If anyone bore the blame, it was Paris. He had acted selfishly, recklessly, dragging countless lives into ruin for his desires. And the gods? They were no less culpable. Hera and Athena, in particular, had manipulated Agamemnon into believing victory in this war was inevitable, ensuring the conflict would escalate to catastrophic levels.
Nathan's hand clenched into a fist at his side. If his fate was sealed, he would make sure to drag that bastard Agamemnon down with him. The only regret he harbored was that he wouldn't live long enough to take his vengeance on the Divine Knights as well.
"You are responsible, yeah," Nathan said, breaking the silence.
Helen's head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock. She had expected the same tired reassurances, the placating words that people always offered to ease her guilt. But Nathan's blunt response pierced through the facade she had come to anticipate.
Her lips parted as if to speak, but Nathan wasn't finished. He turned his gaze toward her, his expression firm but not unkind.
"But you aren't the one to blame," he continued. "Being the most beautiful woman in the world shouldn't be a curse. It should be a blessing. No one should feel ashamed of something so natural and extraordinary. Feeling sad about it… that would be stupid. A waste."
Helen blinked, his words hitting her with an unexpected force. For so long, her beauty had been a source of pain, a barrier that kept her from forming genuine connections. People saw her as a prize, an object of desire, but rarely as a person. The bonds she forged were often shallow, filled with hypocrisy and ulterior motives.
Yet here was Nathan, speaking plainly, with neither flattery nor malice, but with a sincerity that cut through her defenses.
She fell silent, her gaze dropping to the ground. Her shoulders trembled slightly, and soon, her eyes moistened with unshed tears.
There had been a time when Helen knew happiness, when her days were filled with laughter and the warmth of genuine companionship. But those moments felt as if they belonged to another life, a distant memory buried beneath the weight of centuries. Now, she merely existed—breathing, walking, and talking, but not truly living.
The thought of seeking an end to her pain had crossed her mind countless times, but she knew she could never allow herself that release. Too many lives had already been lost in her name. The least she could do was bear the burden of staying alive, a penance for the countless souls who could no longer do the same.
Nathan's words had stirred something in her, a faint ember of comfort amidst the cold ashes of regret. She glanced at him, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles, a rare and fragile thing.
"Those were kind words," she said softly. "I am grateful. Thank you."
Nathan said nothing in return, only nodding slightly as he observed her. There was a fleeting warmth in her smile, but he also saw the weight she carried. A lifetime of sorrow was etched into her face, hidden behind her grace and poise.
Before the moment could linger, a sharp voice cut through the stillness like a blade.
"Helen?!"
Nathan turned toward the source of the voice and saw Paris rushing toward them, his features twisted in a mix of anger and concern.
"I told you many times not to leave my side!" Paris barked, his tone harsh and commanding. "Stay inside the palace! It's too dangerous for you to be out here!"
The shift in Helen's demeanor was immediate. Her expression, once soft and contemplative, turned cold, her smile fading into a look of quiet annoyance. Nathan noticed how her shoulders tensed, though she maintained her composure.
For a moment, she didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the grave before her. Finally, she turned toward Nathan, her voice steady and composed.
"I wish we could speak further another time," she said, her tone polite but distant.
Nathan nodded once, understanding the unspoken implications. "Whenever you're ready."
Helen turned to leave.
"What?" Paris snapped, noticing her brief exchange with Nathan. His eyes narrowed as he glared at Nathan, his suspicion evident. Without waiting for an explanation, Paris hurried after Helen, his words trailing behind him like the echoes of a storm.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC252 Thetis's desire
Zeus sat alone in his grand chamber, a place of both majesty and solitude. The air around him was heavy, filled with the faint scent of burnt ambrosia and the soft hum of divine energy that never ceased in Olympus. Yet, despite the splendor of his surroundings, his mind was elsewhere—preoccupied by the raging chaos of the Trojan War, a conflict that had begun mere months ago but already felt like an eternity.
The war was far more brutal than he had anticipated for a clash between mortals. The carnage and unrelenting fervor of the Greeks and Trojans alike mirrored battles waged among the gods themselves in ancient times. Once, such a spectacle would have filled him with a fiery excitement. His immortal blood would have boiled like the raging storm clouds he commanded, much like Ares's blood burned now with bloodlust. But the centuries had tempered his spirit, and with the passage of ages, Zeus had come to appreciate the fragile beauty of peace.
That appreciation had deepened in the face of this relentless war. The violence, the cunning manipulations, and the human suffering on display were enough to exhaust even the King of the Gods. Yet, more than the devastation in the mortal realm, what truly unsettled him were the inevitable consequences for Olympus. The delicate balance among the gods was beginning to fracture, and the tension between certain deities was nearing a dangerous breaking point.
His wife, Hera, was ceaselessly clashing with Aphrodite and Artemis—two of the most passionate and headstrong goddesses in the pantheon. Meanwhile, Athena and Ares, his brilliant daughter and war-driven son, could barely contain their hatred for one another. Their venomous disputes were no longer whispered arguments in council but open confrontations that threatened to spill over into chaos.
And as if that were not enough, Poseidon, his older brother and Lord of the Seas, had taken the Greeks' side in the war. It was an act of defiance that gnawed at Zeus's authority. He had explicitly commanded that none of the gods interfere with the war, decreeing that such mortal affairs should remain untouched by divine hands. Yet, his warning had fallen on deaf ears. The gods were meddling regardless, skirting the edges of his decree without fully breaking it—an audacious game that dared him to act.
They thought their King was oblivious, that their actions went unnoticed. But Zeus saw everything. Every whispered influence, every covert blessing or curse sent to the battlefield—it all added to the growing storm of frustration within him. The weight of their defiance brought him constant headaches, and even the skies themselves seemed to mirror his turmoil, darkened with unsettled clouds.
Tonight, however, his thoughts were divided. A guest was expected, one he had not anticipated seeing for many years. Hera's obsessive fixation on the war had worked in his favor, as she was preoccupied enough to be absent tonight. If she had known who was coming, her wrath would have been incandescent.
The visitor was none other than Thetis, the sea nymph and mother of Achilles.
A flicker of something unspoken passed through Zeus's ancient heart at the thought of her. Long ago, there had been a story—one whispered softly in the tides of memory. Zeus had fallen deeply, hopelessly in love with Thetis. She was radiant, her beauty as boundless as the seas from which she came, her presence as soothing and powerful as the waves themselves. Yet their love had been cut short by a prophecy, a warning delivered to him in no uncertain terms. If he were to cross the line with Thetis, she would bear a son destined to dethrone him.
The fear of repeating the cycle of his father, Cronus, and his grandfather, Uranus, had stayed his hand. Though it pained him to sever their bond, he had turned away from Thetis, leaving their love buried in the sands of time. But even now, after so many years, he still held a soft spot for her. Despite all his power, she remained one of the few who could stir something fragile and human within the King of Olympus.
As Zeus waited in his chamber, the faint sound of footsteps echoed down the marble halls. His piercing eyes turned toward the door, his expression unreadable yet tinged with a quiet anticipation.
Soon enough, Thetis entered the chamber.
"I've been waiting for you," Zeus said, his gaze immediately locking onto the stunning goddess.
She was as breathtaking as ever, her beauty untouched by the passage of millennia. Time seemed powerless before her, her ageless perfection a testament to her divine essence. Yet, as Zeus admired her, a shadow of regret flickered across his expression. He dared not act on his desires, knowing the dire consequences. The fear of being dethroned loomed too large.
"You know why I've come," Thetis said, her voice calm but purposeful as she approached. Without hesitation, she settled beside him.
"I do," Zeus replied, his tone steady. He was no fool—far from it. Despite what many might assume, his mind was sharper than even his thunderbolts.
"But I must disappoint you," Zeus continued, his words heavy with authority. "I cannot interfere in the war, nor heed your demand." He was the King of Olympus, bound to set an example, even when it pained him to refuse.
Thetis's eyes softened as she prepared to drop her revelation. "Khillea is pregnant."
Zeus's eyes widened, his composure momentarily faltering. This was news he hadn't foreseen.
Though he was already aware of the truth that Achilles, known as Khillea among the gods, was in fact a woman, he hadn't anticipated this twist. The prophecy about her destiny rang in his mind—a choice between an enduring legacy in the Trojan War or a life cut short, barren of children. He had always known which path she would take.
But this… this changed everything.
"How?" Zeus asked, genuine confusion creasing his brow.
"I don't know either," Thetis admitted, though her smile was radiant with joy. "It seems the Fates themselves have chosen to be lenient with my daughter."
It was unusual, yet not entirely surprising. Khillea was an extraordinary woman, after all—a warrior who had earned even the gods' admiration.
"I am glad for you," Zeus said sincerely. He knew how deeply Thetis had worried since Khillea had chosen to march into the war, fully aware of the mortal peril awaiting her. This reprieve, however brief, must feel like a miracle.
"That's why, Zeus, I am here to plead for your help," Thetis continued, her tone now almost imploring. "My daughter will give birth in a matter of weeks."
For mortals, such rapid progression might have been shocking, but among gods, it was far from unusual. Khillea's divine heritage and Hera's blessing as the goddess of childbirth had hastened the process. In just two months, Khillea had reached what mortals would consider eight months of pregnancy. Protected within Thetis's divine sanctuary and accelerated by Hera's intervention, Khillea's condition had progressed with purpose.
It was clear to all—Hera had ensured this swift pregnancy so Khillea could return to the battlefield and fulfill her destiny: crushing the Trojans once and for all.
"But she's decided to continue the war after giving birth…" Thetis said, her voice taut with frustration as her teeth clenched tightly. Her anger simmered beneath the surface, born from a mother's love and helplessness.
That was her daughter, Khillea—unyielding, headstrong, and entirely consumed by the fire of her destiny. Having given birth to her child, Khillea no longer feared dying without leaving behind her legacy. The prophecy had foretold her greatness, and she was determined to fulfill it, even if it meant marching to her death on the blood-soaked fields of Troy.
Now, she waited, confident that Agamemnon and the other Greek leaders would come crawling back to her, begging her to return to the fight. Khillea knew her worth and the weight her presence carried on the battlefield. The Greeks were floundering without her, and she was certain they would soon swallow their pride and ask for her aid.
But Thetis could not accept this path, no matter how inevitable it seemed.
Khillea's obsession with glory, with ensuring she would never be forgotten, blinded her to the sacrifices she was making. She was willing to leave her newborn child motherless, an orphan raised by others, just to etch her name into the annals of history. It was a cruel irony to Thetis. Her daughter's relentless pursuit of immortality through legend would only sever her ties to the life that truly mattered.
"Please," Thetis said at last, her voice breaking as she gazed at Zeus with pleading eyes. "Let the Trojans win this war."
The plea hung heavy in the room, filled with a desperation only a mother could feel.
"If the Trojans are victorious," she continued, her tone more measured but no less urgent, "Agamemnon will be defeated, and the Greeks will have no choice but to retreat. They will abandon their campaign and leave Trojan lands. Even Khillea will have no reason to fight. She would not sacrifice her child's future to lead an army into a hopeless battle, not when the Greeks have already fallen. She would return home, Zeus. She would raise her child as any mother should."
Her words were heartfelt, each syllable imbued with a yearning for a simpler, peaceful life for her daughter—a life Thetis herself had never truly known. But Zeus sighed deeply, his expression unreadable as his divine gaze shifted away from her.
The sound of his sigh grated against Thetis's nerves, and she clenched her fists, her frustration boiling over.
"Hera, Poseidon, and Athena are openly breaking your decrees," she snapped, her voice rising. "They are doing far more than you allow, helping the Greeks in ways you cannot deny. Why can't you do the same for the Trojans? Or does your word only bind you, and not them?"
Zeus's sharp eyes flicked back to her, his calm demeanor masking the storm brewing within. "Aphrodite, Artemis, and Ares are aiding the Trojans just as much," he countered, his voice even.
"Not as much as Hera and Poseidon, and you know it," Thetis shot back, her eyes blazing with defiance. "They flout your authority, Zeus. Your wife, your brother—they don't care about your words or your decrees. They will break every rule you set until the Trojans are crushed, until Khillea is dead! Are you truly going to stand by and allow this to happen? Will you let them mock your rule while doing nothing?"
Zeus fell silent, her accusations striking a chord. Her words clawed at his pride, his authority, and his conscience all at once. He hated how accurate they were, how vulnerable they made him feel.
His fist clenched tightly on the armrest of his golden throne, his knuckles whitening. The room was filled with an almost oppressive silence as he mulled over her plea, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like the skies he once held. Thetis's gaze remained fixed on him, unwavering in her determination.
Finally, Zeus exhaled slowly, opening his eyes. Lightning flickered faintly in their depths, a reflection of his divine power and resolve. "I will not allow the Trojans to win outright," he said, his voice carrying the authority of Olympus itself. "But I will help them."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC253 Another night with Aisha in Greek camps *
The Greek camp was still bustling with activity, though the energy had dimmed compared to the war's earlier days. When the campaign first began, the air had been electric with the cries of warriors eager for glory, their spirits high with promises of swift victory. Now, as time dragged on, the harsh realities of a prolonged conflict weighed heavily on them, and the once-fiery fervor had dulled to a simmering persistence. The war between the Greeks and Trojans had reached a grueling stalemate, with neither side gaining a decisive advantage in recent weeks.
At one point, it seemed the Greeks had the upper hand, poised to push the Trojans to the brink of defeat. Their commanders had strategized with precision, and their warriors had surged forward with renewed vigor. For a fleeting moment, it appeared as though the long and arduous siege might finally come to an end. Yet fate, as it often does, had other plans, and two events occurred that tilted the balance back in favor of Troy.
The first was the unexpected return of the mercenary Heiron. He had been grievously wounded in a fierce battle against the formidable Diomedes, who had fought with the divine blessing of Poseidon himself. The wound was deep, almost fatal, and for a time, the Greeks had celebrated, believing they had rid themselves of a dangerous foe. But Heiron's recovery was nothing short of miraculous. His presence alone reignited the Trojans' morale, a living symbol of their resilience against impossible odds.
The second shift was more subtle, yet its effects were undeniable. There was a strange and almost eerie change in the Trojans' demeanor. Their soldiers seemed revitalized, their stamina inexhaustible. Where weariness and despair should have taken hold, there was instead an unshakable determination. Their blows landed harder, their shields held firmer, and their eyes burned with a fire that even the longest battles could not extinguish. It was as if some unseen force had swept through their ranks, banishing the exhaustion that had built up over countless months of relentless warfare. Whispers in the Greek camp suggested the involvement of a divine hand, though none could say which god or goddess had favored their enemies so generously.
Despite these setbacks, the Greek camp retained an air of defiance. They had their own divine allies to call upon, none more crucial than Asclepius, the god of medicine. His presence had been a blessing, ensuring that their wounded warriors returned to the battlefield faster than their enemies could anticipate. The Greeks knew they were far from defeated; their pride as the mightiest coalition of Hellenic forces kept their spirits from waning completely.
Amidst the camp's tempered liveliness, one particular tent stood out. Unlike the others, which were filled with the low hum of strategists murmuring over maps or warriors sharpening their blades, this tent seemed to overflow with sexual energy.
°°°°°°°
"Haaan~~yes! Yes!" Aisha's voice broke through the tent, her moans loud, raw, desperate, as my tongue flicked over her pert, rose-colored nipple. Each circle, each playful lap, sent jolts of electric pleasure racing through her. Her back arched instinctively, thrusting her breast closer into my hungry mouth, her body begging for more without words.
My left hand moved with purpose, fingers gliding along the slick heat of her dripping folds, tracing the outer lips in slow, teasing strokes. Her wetness coated my fingers like silk, the sensation drawing a satisfied hum from me. "You're so wet for me, Aisha," I whispered, my voice low, throaty. My other hand cupped her other breast, thumb and forefinger rolling her stiff nipple between them, drawing a sharp gasp from her quivering lips.
"Hmmmnnn... haaaa!❤️~~" she tilted her head back, her black hair spilling over her shoulders like a cascading waterfall, lips parted in bliss as her body writhed under my touch. The soft moans escaped her, punctuated by little whimpers, each sound driving my need higher.
Satisfied with the attention to her breasts, I trailed my tongue further. Every inch of her skin tasted intoxicating, her natural scent mingling with her arousal. My tongue traced a line along her collarbone, up the curve of her throat, lingering on her sensitive neck where I sucked gently. Aisha shuddered, her fingers clutching the ground's carpet as I continued upward, nibbling along her jawline until I reached her lips.
I kissed her deeply, possessively, our mouths molding together as my tongue danced with hers. Her taste was addictive, a sweet blend of her arousal and something uniquely Aisha. Between kisses, I let my tongue glide along her lips, savoring her trembling breaths.
"Open your mouth, Aisha," I growled, a command more than a request. She obeyed immediately, parting her lips, her soft panting making her even more irresistible. I slid two fingers into her mouth, the roughness of the act igniting a fire in both of us. She wrapped her tongue around my fingers, sucking them with a deliberate sensuality that made my cock throb painfully in my pants.
My free hand didn't idle; it ventured back to her soaked pussy, slipping two fingers inside her warm, inviting depths. Her walls clenched around me, a desperate, needy reaction that made her moan loudly. "Haaan!!" she cried out, her body convulsing, thighs trembling as she came hard, her juices coating my hand in her surrender.
I smirked, savoring the sight of her undone, her face flushed, eyes glazed with pleasure. It was everything I'd been waiting for. Standing, I unbuckled my pants, letting them fall to the floor. My cock, hard and throbbing, sprang free, the head already slick with pre-cum. I pressed the tip against her dripping entrance, teasing her, relishing the way her body jerked, how her gaze locked onto me with pleading desperation.
"Please... put it in... I need it..." Her voice was breathless, tinged with a hint of a sob, her need palpable.
I leaned down, brushing my lips against her ear as I whispered, "So horny aren't you?" Then, with a swift thrust, I buried myself inside her, filling her completely in one motion.
"AHANNN!!" she screamed, her back arching, nails digging into my shoulders as I stretched her tight, quivering pussy. I didn't wait; I set a relentless rhythm, each thrust driving me deeper, harder, our bodies colliding with a wet slap that echoed through the room.
"Haan❤️! Haaan❤️! Haaaaaaa! Oh God, yes!" Aisha's cries grew louder, her voice breaking, trembling as her body surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure. Her pussy clenched around me, gripping me tightly as I drove her closer and closer to the edge.
Her moans, her gasps, her cries—each one drove me further into madness. My hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her soft flesh as I pounded into her with abandon. Her body was a canvas of pleasure, her flushed skin, heaving chest, and trembling thighs painting the perfect picture of ecstasy.
Experience tales at empire
"Fuuuuck!" I groaned, the word dragged out, a guttural noise of pure pleasure as Aisha's tight, velvety pussy enveloped my cock completely. The heat, the slickness, the way her walls clung to me—it was maddening. I couldn't hold back, my hips snapping forward as I picked up speed, driving into her with growing intensity.
"Haaan❤️! Nathan! Yes! Yes!!!" Aisha's cries filled the room, her voice trembling with ecstasy, each syllable punctuated by the wet slap of my hips meeting hers. Her hands fisted the sheets, knuckles white, her body arching to meet every thrust. Her small, perky breasts bounced with the rhythm, the sight of them driving me wild.
I reached out, unable to resist, cupping both of her soft, supple breasts in my hands. They felt like heaven under my touch, firm yet yielding, the perfect handfuls. My thumbs brushed over her stiffened nipples, teasing them, drawing a sharp gasp from her parted lips. "God, you feel amazing," I groaned, squeezing her breasts, letting my fingers knead her pliant flesh.
"Haaaaan❤️❤️!" she moaned louder, the sound high-pitched, almost desperate, as I played with her sensitive breasts. My fingers found her right nipple, giving it a firm pinch, twisting slightly. The reaction was immediate—her back arched, her mouth falling open in a silent scream before a louder, wilder moan burst free.
"Nathan! I—I'm cumming!" she wailed, her entire body trembling violently as her orgasm crashed over her. I felt her pussy tighten around me, her juices flooding out, coating my cock, dripping down onto the bed below. Her body quaked beneath me, her cries a symphony of pleasure that spurred me to keep going.
I smirked, watching her come undone, her face flushed, her hair sticking to her sweat-damp skin. "Good girl," I murmured, my voice thick with lust. I didn't stop. Her orgasm was my fuel, my cock plunging into her drenched core with renewed vigor, her tightness sending waves of pleasure coursing through me.
For the next ten minutes, the room was filled with nothing but the sounds of our bodies colliding, wet and rhythmic, the slap of my balls hitting her soaked pussy and round ass cheeks echoing like music in my ears. Aisha's moans were unrelenting, louder with every thrust, her voice raw, hoarse, pleading for more, for everything I could give her.
°°°°°
"Haaa…" I exhaled heavily, collapsing beside Aisha, utterly drained. My muscles ached, and my mind felt like a battlefield of its own after the day's grueling fight. The clash had been brutal, a relentless cycle of blood and chaos, but even amidst the carnage, my thoughts had never strayed far from Aisha. The moment the battle ended, I made my way through the darkness, risking everything to infiltrate the Greek camp just to see her again.
The reunion had been wordless, almost primal. We didn't exchange pleasantries, nor did we waste time with small talk. The weight of separation, worry, and longing spoke louder than any words could. In an instant, we were tangled together, our desperation and relief finding solace in each other's arms. It wasn't just passion; it was a visceral reminder that we were both still alive.
Now, lying beside her, my breathing steadied as I turned my head to look at her. Aisha rested beneath the thin cover, her body still flushed and glistening with sweat. Her dark hair clung to her damp skin, framing her face in a way that made her beauty seem almost otherworldly. She gazed at me with a soft smile, her eyes still carrying traces of worry, even as her lips curled upward.
But then her gaze faltered. She looked down, her fingers gripping the edge of the cover tightly. Her voice, when it came, was a quiet tremor.
"I thought… I thought something had happened to you. I thought I'd lost you again…" Aisha's words were fragile, like a porcelain vase on the verge of shattering.
Without thinking, I reached out and stroked her cheek, my thumb brushing away a bead of sweat. Her skin was warm under my touch, a reminder of her humanity, her vulnerability.
"I won't die that easily," I said softly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of my lips. "You should know that by now."
She nodded, her gaze lifting to meet mine. "Yes… I know," she whispered, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her lingering fear.
It was clear that her worry had consumed her in my absence. When I first saw her again, there had been a wildness in her eyes, a madness born of too many sleepless nights and unanswered prayers. Now, as she lay beside me, that feral intensity had softened, replaced by something far more seductive. Her lips curved into a sly, alluring smile as she leaned closer, her fingers tracing idle patterns across my chest.
"Nathan…" she began, her tone light and teasing at first. Then, as if gathering courage, she took a deep breath and spoke again. "Nathan, I'm pregnant."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC254 Aisha pregnant?
It was clear that her worry had consumed her in my absence. When I first saw her again, there had been a wildness in her eyes, a madness born of too many sleepless nights and unanswered prayers. Now, as she lay beside me, that feral intensity had softened, replaced by something far more seductive. Her lips curved into a sly, alluring smile as she leaned closer, her fingers tracing idle patterns across my chest.
"Nathan…" she began, her tone light and teasing at first. Then, as if gathering courage, she took a deep breath and spoke again. "Nathan, I'm pregnant."
"Pregnant?" I asked, my voice steady but laced with a hint of disbelief. I needed to hear her confirm it, as though the word itself was too momentous to grasp without her affirmation.
"Yes," Aisha nodded, her expression soft yet glowing.
She placed a hand gently over her stomach, her movements tender, as if cradling the very life that now grew within her. "I wasn't sure at first, but now I can feel it," she said, her lips curving into a smile so radiant it could rival the dawn. The joy in her eyes was unmistakable, and it struck me in a way I hadn't anticipated.
I ran a hand through my hair, letting out a slow breath. "You should have told me before we started... you know," I said, shaking my head in mild exasperation.
I gave her a look, but she just laughed, a light, carefree sound that belied the seriousness of the moment. "I mean it, Aisha. Having sex while pregnant could be dangerous," I continued, my tone firm but not unkind.
Her laughter softened, and her expression turned apologetic. "I know," she admitted, her fingers brushing over her belly again. "But when I saw you… I just couldn't hold back."
I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. "And now? You're keeping the baby?"
She looked up at me with unwavering certainty. "Yes. I will." Her words were resolute, her smile unwavering, and for a moment, all the noise of the world seemed to fade away.
But then reality crept back in, heavy and insistent. "What about the war?" I asked, my voice grave. "If you're keeping the baby, I don't want you fighting anymore."
Her smile faltered slightly, and a shadow passed over her face. "Then… I wouldn't be able to see you?"
Her question hit me harder than I expected. The thought of her staying behind, away from the chaos of the battlefield but also away from me, was a bitter pill to swallow. She had just reunited with me after so long, and I knew how much these fleeting moments we spent together meant to her. But I couldn't let her risk everything—not when there was a life growing inside her.
"I know," I said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face. "But that's the price to pay. Do you really want to endanger the baby?"
Her gaze lowered, her hand returning to her stomach. She was silent for a moment, her thoughts unreadable, but then she nodded, her fingers tightening slightly against her abdomen. "Okay," she whispered, her voice steady. "I won't take part in the war anymore."
Relief washed over me, and I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Thank you," I said, my voice sincere.
If she had resisted, I would have had to force her hand, and I didn't like the thought of doing so. But Aisha was not someone consumed by the lust for battle. She had always fought with purpose, not for the thrill of it, and for that, I was grateful.
Still, the reality of her words began to sink in. She was really pregnant. Another life, fragile and full of possibility, had been entrusted to me. Somehow, amidst the chaos and bloodshed that defined my world, the thought filled me with a quiet, unexpected happiness.
This would be my second child. After Sara—the daughter I had with Amelia—this child would become another light in my life, another reason to keep fighting, another soul I needed to protect.
The weight of responsibility pressed down on me, but it was not unwelcome. It was grounding, a reminder of what I was truly fighting for. It wasn't about only getting revenge on the Divine Knights anymore then.
I clenched my fists. I had to become stronger. Strong enough to shield them all from the dangers that loomed like dark clouds on the horizon. The Divine Knights had to be dealt with—eliminated, once and for all. As long as they existed, the Empire of Light would never be safe.
And neither would the people I loved. Amelia, Aisha, Courtney… even my stepsisters. Each one of them was a reason to keep pushing forward, to keep honing my skills, to keep rising above the chaos.
"When are you planning to see Courtney and your sisters?" Aisha's voice broke the silence, her question catching me off guard.
I glanced at her, my thoughts momentarily scattering. "Is it urgent?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.
She shook her head slightly but continued to look at me, her expression inquisitive. I knew she wanted more than a dismissive answer, but the truth was complicated, and I wasn't sure how to explain it in a way she'd fully understand.
I had intervened for Aisha because the situation had been desperate. She had been teetering on the edge of something unthinkable—nearly violated, her spirit seemingly shattered, and her will to resist all but gone. I had stepped in because I couldn't bear to see her like that, because she needed saving when she had stopped caring enough to save herself.
Courtney and my stepsisters, though, were different. Outwardly, they were still functioning, still fighting. They hadn't reached the breaking point Aisha had. Or at least, that's what I told myself. But deep down, I knew that didn't mean they were okay.
I had seen them in the chaos of battle—Courtney, her eyes hollow as she moved like a machine, cutting down Trojans with a cold precision that made my chest tighten. And Sienna, my eldest stepsister, had been no better. There was something mechanical, lifeless, about the way they fought. They were like ghosts of themselves, haunted by whatever they had endured, but too consumed by survival to process it.
"Not urgent, I think," Aisha said, pulling me from my thoughts. "But why are you waiting?"
The question struck a nerve, though I tried not to show it. I hesitated, turning my gaze away from her and focusing on nothing. How could I explain to her the storm brewing inside me?
The truth was, I didn't know if I would still be alive in the next few months. My survival hinged on too many uncertainties—on Apollo's return, on whether he could find a solution to my predicament, on whether fate would even allow me another chance.
And if I died again, for good this time… what would be the point of reuniting with them now? Of giving them hope, only to snatch it away when I was gone for a second time? I didn't think they would recover from that. They had already mourned me once. It was better if they believed I was still dead until I could face them without the shadow of death looming over me.
Aisha had been the exception. I hadn't wanted her to know either, but circumstances had left me no choice. She had seen me, touched me, and I couldn't have hidden the truth from her even if I'd tried. But Courtney, Sienna, and the others… I could keep my distance for their sake, even if I wanted to see them.
"Why?" Aisha pressed, her eyes searching mine.
"When the time comes, I'll tell them," I said at last, my voice firm but quiet. "Until then, keep it secret."
Her brows furrowed, and I could see the confusion in her expression. She didn't understand my reasoning, and thankfully, she didn't push me to explain. Instead, she nodded slowly, accepting my answer even if it didn't satisfy her.
"I really want this war to end," she murmured, her voice tinged with weariness.
"Soon," I promised her, though the word felt hollow on my tongue.
The end of the war wasn't something I could guarantee. Agamemnon's death would bring an end to it—at least in theory—but that man was as cowardly as he was cunning. He stayed far from the frontlines, surrounded by layers of protection, using others to fight and die for his ambitions.
Then there was Odysseus.
Unlike Agamemnon, whose arrogance and greed drove him, Odysseus fought out of a misplaced sense of loyalty. He didn't care for glory or spoils. No, his allegiance was to Agamemnon, twisted as it was, and that made him dangerous. If Agamemnon were to die, Odysseus would have no reason to fight.
But the problem didn't end there.
Odysseus was more than just a soldier. He was a strategist, a manipulator, and above all, the man standing between us and Agamemnon. If we ever hoped to reach the coward hiding at the rear of the battlefield, Odysseus had to be dealt with first. His cunning would otherwise plague us at every turn, and he'd ensure Agamemnon remained untouchable.
Both of them had to die in the end.
And if Achilles had still been in the picture, he too would have been a threat requiring elimination. But, much to my relief, Achilles had withdrawn. Agamemnon's insufferable arrogance had proven too much, even for the mighty warrior, and he had abandoned the fight altogether. A rare stroke of fortune in this gods-forsaken war.
I rose to my feet, and put on my clothes and my stolen Spartan armor thinking this.
"I have to leave before I gather unwanted attention," I told Aisha, my voice low.
She stood as well, her movements slow, her smile tinged with sadness. The weight of our circumstances hung heavy in the air between us. We both knew the truth—our moments together would be fleeting, rare like stolen breaths of peace in a world suffocating with chaos.
I reached for her, pulling her close, and pressed my lips to hers. The kiss deepened, lingering, as if we could pour everything we felt but couldn't say into that single connection. When I finally pulled away, a faint trail of saliva connected us.
"I promise it will be better after this," I said.
Her eyes locked onto mine, filled with a mixture of hope and doubt. "I know," she whispered, but then her expression grew serious, her tone heavier. "But promise me one thing."
"What is it?" I asked, tilting my head slightly.
"Don't die," she said firmly, her gaze unwavering. "Not in this war. Not ever. Promise me."
The intensity of her words struck a chord deep within me. She must have noticed something in my expression, some flicker of hesitation or shadow of doubt, but I couldn't let her see the full truth. I couldn't let her know how precarious my survival truly was.
"I won't be killed that easily," I said simply, a small smile tugging at my lips to mask the storm inside.
It wasn't a promise I could make, not honestly. But it was what she needed to hear.
She studied my face for a moment longer, her fingers brushing against my hand as if reluctant to let go. Then, with a quiet sigh, she nodded.
I nodded and stepped out of the tent.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC255 Patroclus's sadness
Patroclus stood at the edge of the camp, staring out at the flickering fires of the Greek encampment. His heart was heavy, weighed down by emotions he couldn't quite name. Since the beginning, he had dreamed of being part of this war, fighting alongside his comrades, proving himself worthy of the warrior's blood that coursed through his veins.
Perhaps it was his Greek heritage, that innate hunger for battle and glory, that had driven him here. Yet even in the midst of his dreams, he'd harbored no desire to destroy Troy or slaughter its people.
No.
Patroclus had always believed the best outcome would be a swift conquest—taking the city, exacting a ransom so large it would leave Troy humbled but intact, and then departing. There was no honor, in his eyes, in shedding the blood of innocents. That wasn't how he was raised, and it wasn't who he wanted to become.
But now, something far graver consumed his thoughts.
The vision haunted him—a prophecy that spoke of Khillea's fate should she take part in the war. She would die, the vision said, her life ending upon Trojan soil. Patroclus could hardly bear the thought.
Khillea wasn't just his cousin; she was like an elder sister to him. When he had been a fragile, timid boy, it was Khillea who had taken him under her wing. She had trained him, molded him into the man he was today. Her strength, her unwavering determination, had been his guiding star. It had never mattered to him that she was a woman. To Patroclus, she was simply Khillea—formidable, brilliant, and irreplaceable.
The idea of losing her was unbearable.
Yet Patroclus understood her too well. He knew why she had thrown herself into this war despite the prophecy. Khillea had longed to leave an indelible mark on the world, to be remembered not as a shadow of the name "Achilles," but as herself—the strongest woman to ever walk the earth. She wanted to shatter the chains of that borrowed name and carve her own legacy.
For that reason alone, Patroclus had held his tongue, despite the torment it brought him. He couldn't bring himself to speak against her will.
But lately, things had changed for the worse.
The spark in Khillea's eyes had dimmed, her once-unwavering resolve shaken. It all started when Agamemnon, in his arrogance, demanded Briseis—Khillea's prize of war.
Khillea had handed Briseis over. She had no choice. Agamemnon was the self-proclaimed leader of the coalition, and the demands of the other Greek kings, coupled with Athena's insistence, had left her cornered.
Since that day, Khillea had withdrawn from the war entirely. She refused to march, refused to fight. She and her army of Myrmidons remained in the camp, their weapons idle. Khillea herself stayed cloistered in her tent, watching the war unfold from a distance.
Patroclus knew there was more to her withdrawal than what others might assume. Whispers passed through the camp, speculating that she stayed hidden because of her incestuous liaison with her own cousin, Patroclus. But Patroclus knew better.
He knew his cousin.
Khillea wasn't the type to abandon the battlefield, not when glory awaited her. Not when she could be the first Greek woman to step foot inside Troy, an image that would forever etch her name into the annals of history.
Patroclus knew. He had always known. Khillea was not one to let an insult slide without retribution. She wasn't sulking in her tent out of defeat or despair. No, she was waiting—biding her time like a lioness, poised to strike when the Greeks were at their weakest.
She wanted Agamemnon broken.
The arrogant king had wounded her pride deeply when he demanded Briseis, forcing Khillea to submit to his authority. Now, she would make him crawl back, groveling for her return. She wanted him to feel the same humiliation he had inflicted upon her, and she had no intention of rushing her revenge.
Khillea had all the time in the world.
She was pregnant, after all. The child growing inside her was her priority now. Each passing day that Agamemnon refused to beg for her aid only granted her more time to rest and care for her unborn baby. For Khillea, this was a victory in itself.
But for Patroclus, it was torture.
Every day, he wandered through the Greek camps, witnessing the grim reality of their struggle. Soldiers lay dying, their bodies battered and their spirits crushed. The once-proud Greek army was a shadow of its former self, their morale dwindling with each passing hour.
And they hated him for it.
Every glare, every muttered curse aimed at him and the Myrmidons was a dagger to Patroclus's heart. The resentment in their eyes was palpable—an unspoken accusation that he, too, had abandoned them in their time of need.
Patroclus, however, couldn't turn away from their suffering. Though he felt powerless to change Khillea's mind, he refused to stand idly by. Instead, he devoted himself to treating the wounded, offering what solace he could to the dying men. It was a thankless task, but it was all he could do.
Unlike the others, Patroclus was still respected. Even amidst their hatred for the Myrmidons, the Greek soldiers could not ignore his kindness. Patroclus was a warrior, yes, but he was also a healer—a man whose heart remained open despite the bloodshed surrounding him.
It was during one of these moments, as he moved between the injured soldiers, that Patroclus noticed a familiar figure slipping through the shadows.
The man was discreet, keeping his face partially hidden beneath a hood, but Patroclus recognized him immediately.
Nathan.
The Spartan warrior who had done what no one else could—he had given Khillea a child.
At first, Patroclus hadn't believed it. Khillea, a woman who could topple cities, falling for a Spartan of all people? It had seemed absurd. Yet the proof was undeniable. A miracle, some might say.
Still, Nathan remained an enigma. Patroclus had searched for him for months at Thetis's behest. Khillea's mother had been adamant about meeting the man who had fathered her grandchild. She suspected there was something special about him, something beyond mortal understanding.
And yet, Nathan had vanished like smoke in the wind. Even among the Spartans, no one seemed to know of a man by that name. It was as if he didn't exist.
Perhaps it was deliberate. Spartans had always been wary of the Myrmidons after all being a bit similar in their creed. And for a man tied so closely to Khillea, it wasn't surprising that Nathan would prefer to remain hidden.
As a Trojan, Nathan would constantly live on the razor's edge. If his fellow Spartans ever discovered he frequented Achilles' tent—they could brand him a traitor. At best, they'd cast him out. At worst, he'd be killed on the spot, likely by the very men he shared bread and battle formations with, that was Patroclus thoughts.
Yes, all Greeks were allied against Troy, but that alliance was fragile. Each city's army was a world of its own, fueled by rivalry and pride. Spartans, Myrmidons, Athenians—all competed to prove themselves the strongest and most disciplined, their kings the most capable. The tension between the factions was palpable.
This fractured camaraderie worked to Nathan's advantage. Nobody will suspect him as a Trojan mercenary just because he kept distance and avoided myrmidons after all.
"Nathan." With that in his mind, Patroclus called.
Nathan stopped in his tracks, shoulders stiffening at the mention of his real name. There was a beat of silence as he acknowledged the call, weighing his options. Avoiding Patroclus was always the safest route, but tonight that was impossible.
Slowly, Nathan turned. His face was a mask of nonchalance, his tone clipped.
"What?"
Patroclus stepped closer, his familiar warmth masking an undercurrent of purpose.
"You remember me, don't you?"
Nathan arched an eyebrow, his voice laced with sarcasm. "How could I forget Achilles's shadow?"
Patroclus chuckled at the jab, his laugh genuine. "Good. Because finding you wasn't easy. I never imagined anyone would dare give us a fake name."
Nathan's expression didn't falter, though the statement caught him off guard. What was Patroclus implying? He couldn't afford to show any cracks in his facade, so he opted for a calculated reply—one that would play into the existing tension between the Greeks.
"I was told to keep my distance after…everything," Nathan said vaguely, letting the implication hang in the air.
Patroclus nodded knowingly, the ambiguity fitting neatly into the strained relations between the armies. It was the perfect deflection, and Nathan noted the glimmer of understanding in Patroclus's eyes.
"Fair enough," Patroclus said. "But I need you to come with me this time."
Nathan's frown deepened. He crossed his arms, his tone sharp with irritation. "Does Achilles want me to bed another one of his women?"
Patroclus burst into laughter, the sound carrying through the camp. The suggestion, while bold, was so far from the truth that it caught him completely off guard. Nathan, however, remained stone-faced, his patience clearly wearing thin.
"No, no," Patroclus managed between chuckles, wiping at his eyes. "I swear, it's nothing like that. Trust me, you won't face any trouble from the Spartans. This will only take a moment."
Patroclus's honesty was disarming, though Nathan still felt the familiar tug of suspicion. He searched Patroclus's face, looking for any hint of deceit. Finding none, he exhaled slowly and gave a reluctant nod.
"Fine."
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC256 Seeing Khillea again...
"Is that Achilles who wishes to see me?" I asked Patroclus, narrowing my eyes.
The last time Achilles had requested my presence, he hadn't even bothered to show up. Instead, he'd sent me to entertain Khillea. While I couldn't deny she had been a gift worth my time, the peculiar incident still left questions lingering in my mind. Why summon me in the first place if he never intended to meet?
Patroclus shook his head, offering a faint smile as if trying to reassure me. "No... Not Achilles. He's not here, so you don't have to worry."
I nodded my head. "I see. So he's really left Troy, then."
"Not exactly," Patroclus replied with a bitter laugh that hinted at a deeper frustration. "I think he'll come back eventually. He's just waiting for Agamemnon's apologies."
"Agamemnon's apologies?" I echoed, frowning at the absurdity of the thought.
The idea of that proud, arrogant king lowering himself to apologize seemed about as likely as the gods themselves descending to fight this war in our place. Agamemnon was not the kind of man to admit fault, let alone beg forgiveness. Besides, as far as the war was concerned, we were far from desperate.
"It sounds unbelievable, doesn't it?" Patroclus said, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and disillusionment. "But Achilles seems convinced you lot won't win this war against the Trojans without us."
I couldn't entirely argue with that.
Achilles was not wrong to think the tide of this conflict teetered on the edge of balance. As things stood, the Greeks and the Trojans were locked in a stalemate. If Achilles and his Myrmidons were to rejoin the fray, their prowess could tip the scales decisively in favor of the Greeks. That much was undeniable.
But there was an opportunity in their absence.
"Then we'll just have to win before he has a chance to return," I said, my voice firm. "Strike while he's still sulking over Agamemnon's pride."
Patroclus didn't respond immediately. Instead, a strange glint flickered in his eyes. It was only after a brief silence that he spoke again.
"By the way, you did well with Khillea back then," he said casually, as if he were complimenting my skill in battle rather than something far more intimate.
I blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard by the remark. Did well? Did he mean by bedding Achilles' woman? The entire situation had been strange enough, but Patroclus' casual attitude toward it was baffling.
Something was undeniably off about these men.
"I appreciated the gift," I replied cautiously, choosing my words with care. "She's... an impressive woman."
And she was. Beautiful, sharp, and disarmingly perceptive—Khillea had left a lasting impression on me. Despite the odd circumstances of our meeting, I couldn't deny that I had found her company enjoyable, even grounding.
"How is she?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop myself.
"Khillea?" Patroclus tilted his head, his expression softening. "She's happy. Happier than I've seen her in quite some time, that's for certain."
There was something peculiar in his tone, something almost reverent. It made me pause.
"She's important to Achilles, isn't she?" I finally asked, unable to keep the curiosity from my voice.
Patroclus hesitated for a moment before leaning in slightly, lowering his voice as though revealing a sacred secret. "Yes, she is. You could even consider her Achilles' sister, in a way. But don't tell anyone else."
"Achilles' sister?"
The words hit me like a javelin to the chest. That strange familiarity I'd felt when I was with her—it suddenly made sense. She carried herself with the same unshakable confidence, the same sharp, striking presence that Achilles exuded even from a distance.
"I knew there was something about her," I murmured. "She reminded me of him, but I couldn't place it."
Soon, we arrived at the tent.
"Wait inside. I'll be back," Patroclus said, his tone clipped but casual, as if this were just another errand to run.
I nodded silently and stepped through the tent's entrance.
The interior looked just as I remembered it—spartan yet dignified, with a distinct air of familiarity. The faint scent of oils and leather lingered in the air, mingling with the distant hum of activity outside.
"What a surprise," a sweet, melodious voice called out, shattering the quiet.
Startled, I turned toward the sound.
And there she was—Khillea.
She stood with a charming, almost teasing smile, her golden eyes gleaming like sunlight dancing on water. Her presence was magnetic, as always, but my gaze didn't linger on her face for long. It drifted downward, inexorably drawn to the unmistakable swell of her belly.
She was pregnant.
"Could it be...?" I began, my voice faltering as my mind raced.
"Yes, it's our child," Khillea said with a laugh, her voice as light and carefree as if she were speaking of the weather. Her hand came to rest on her rounded stomach, patting it gently.
It really happened, then?
I had been going with the flow that night, caught up in the heat of the moment when we'd lain together. At the time, it hadn't occurred to me that something like this might result. Surely, I thought, she could have taken precautions—something akin to the methods women used in this world to prevent conception.
But she hadn't. She had chosen to keep it.
"How many children am I going to end up with at this rate?" I muttered under my breath, the weight of this new reality settling over me.
This would be my third child. Third.
"It's quite... swollen," I said, gesturing vaguely toward her belly. "Considering it's been barely over a month."
Khillea's smile deepened, her expression practically glowing. "I was blessed by Hera," she explained, her voice tinged with pride. "The pregnancy will progress quickly. It won't be long before I give birth."
"I see," I replied, though the words felt hollow. My mind was still catching up to the situation.
As if sensing my hesitation, Khillea stepped closer, her movements graceful yet deliberate. Her smile never wavered as she reached out to touch the cold metal of my armor, her fingers tracing its contours with a strange intimacy.
"I've been looking for you all this time, you know?" she said softly, her voice carrying a subtle undertone of longing.
"Is that so..." I murmured, unsure how to respond to her sudden closeness.
"Yes," she continued, her golden eyes locking onto mine. "I wanted to properly thank you for what you've done for me."
Her words caught me off guard, and I found myself frowning. "Thank me? For what, exactly?"
Khillea chuckled, a sultry sound that sent a shiver down my spine. "For everything," she said, her gaze never leaving mine. "For giving me something I thought I'd never have."
I hesitated, my thoughts clouded with confusion. "Anyone could have done the same," I said finally, shrugging.
Her eyes narrowed, a spark of mischief lighting within them. "No," she said firmly, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "Not just anyone. You were my first... and the best."
Her words hit me like a bolt of lightning, and before I could react, she reached out, her hand brushing against the bulge beneath my pants.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice strained as I felt my body betray me.
Her touch, her presence—it was intoxicating. This woman had a power over me that was impossible to deny.
"As I said," she murmured, her lips curving into a wickedly seductive smile. "You deserve a reward for what you've given me."
Her hand moved slowly, deliberately, caressing the growing hardness beneath my pants. Each touch sent a jolt of heat coursing through me, making it increasingly difficult to think clearly.
"Khillea," I managed to say, though her name came out more like a plea than a warning.
She leaned in closer, her golden eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and desire. "Relax," she whispered, her breath warm against my skin. "This is my way of showing gratitude. Let me take care of you... as you've taken care of me."
"Patroclus might come back soon," I said, my voice low and steady, though the tension in the air between us was palpable.
Khillea's lips curled into a sly smile, her golden eyes shimmering with a mischievous glint. "True, but not that soon. He's probably gone to find my mother. That will take time... which means we have a little while to ourselves," she murmured, her voice dropping to a sultry whisper as she closed the distance between us.
Before I could respond, her lips found mine.
Soft, warm, and insistent, her kiss was like a spark that ignited something primal within me.
"Hmmmnnnn~~~," she sighed against my lips, the sound both tender and teasing.
I couldn't hold back—I kissed her back, meeting her fervor with my own. Her lips moved against mine, eager and demanding, while her hands roamed across my arms, tracing the contours of my muscles.
"Take this off, Nathan," she whispered breathlessly, her fingers tugging impatiently at the straps of my armor.
Instead of answering, I deepened the kiss, biting her lower lip gently before plunging my tongue into her mouth.
"Hmnnnnnn!" Khillea moaned softly, surrendering to the intensity of the kiss. Her arms wrapped around my neck, pulling me closer as our tongues danced together, our exchange heated and intoxicating. The taste of her was sweet, almost addictive, as we shared each breath, each movement in perfect sync.
My hands moved instinctively to the straps of my armor, the weight of the metal feeling almost oppressive now. With quick, practiced movements, I began to unfasten it.
Khillea pulled back slightly, her golden eyes darkened with desire as they watched me. Her breathing was uneven, her chest rising and falling as she gazed at me with unrestrained want.
The armor hit the ground with a dull thud, the sound barely registering as I focused on her.
"Looks like I'm about to have another memorable moment with you," I said, a smirk tugging at my lips as I reached for her again.
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I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC259 Khillea's remaining hole * (2)
Her body began to move in sync with mine, her hips lifting to meet my thrusts as she gave in completely, surrendering to the exquisite agony of being filled so completely. Her moans grew louder, her cries echoing off the walls as I claimed her ass, each movement sending ripples of ecstasy through us both.
My dick twitched with need as I pulled out, my shaft glistening with her juices and the tight grip of her ass lingering in my mind like a siren's call. Khillea lay beneath me, her body trembling, her lips parted as her breath came in ragged gasps. But I wasn't done. Not even close.
"Turn around," I said, the command leaving no room for argument, my voice thick with lust. Her flushed cheeks and glazed eyes met mine, and without hesitation, she obeyed, rolling onto her stomach carefully since she was pregnant.
"Haaan~"
I watched her perfect ass rise into the air, her hips arching invitingly as she pressed her knees into the mattress, presenting herself to me like a goddess awaiting worship—or conquest.
I took a moment to savor the view, my hands gliding over her trembling thighs and the curve of her ass, red and glowing from our earlier passion. Her anal hole, stretched and glistening, clenched slightly as if reluctant to let go of what it had just taken, while her soaked pussy practically begged for attention, her juices dripping down her inner thighs.
"You're really perfect, " I murmured, my hands spreading her cheeks apart, revealing everything she had to offer. She shivered at the cool air brushing over her sensitive skin, her hips wiggling slightly as if begging for me to hurry.
"Haaan❤️~~ yesss," she whimpered, her voice hoarse with desire and need.
I lined myself up again with her tight hole, sliding the tip of my cock through her wetness, teasing her as her moans grew louder and more desperate. My hands found their way to her hips, gripping her firmly as I pushed forward, the head of my cock breaching her small entrance that was threatening to close back.
"Haaaaaaan❤️!!" She cried out, her back arching as I filled her inch by inch, her walls clenching around me like a vice.
"Damn that's really tight!," I groaned, my fingers digging into her flesh as I bottomed out inside her. Her body trembled beneath me, her walls fluttering as she adjusted to the intrusion. I didn't wait long. Pulling back, I slammed into her again, harder this time, forcing a guttural moan from her lips.
"YES❤️! HAAAH❤️! FUCK ME HARDER, NATHAN!" Khillea screamed, her voice muffled as her face pressed into the mattress. I obliged, my hips snapping forward with relentless force, each thrust sending shockwaves through her body. Her ass bounced against me, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, a symphony of raw, unrestrained passion.
I reached forward, grasping her swaying breasts in my hands. They were soft and full, her nipples stiff against my palms as I squeezed and kneaded them. Her milk began to drip again, wetting my hands and driving me into a frenzy. I pinched her nipples between my fingers, twisting them lightly, eliciting a sharp cry from her lips.
"AAAHHH❤️! YES! PLAY WITH MY TITS! MAKE ME YOURS!" she cried, her voice breaking as her body bucked against mine. Her anal hole clenched tighter around me and I knew she was close. I pulled back, slamming into her with brutal force, my pace quickening as I felt her body tense. My hands squeezed her breasts harder, milking her, as my dick pounded into her with unrelenting rhythm.
"FUCK! I'M… I'M GONNA…!" Khillea screamed, her voice rising to a crescendo. Her body convulsed beneath me as her orgasm tore through her, her anal clenching and releasing in waves.
SQUIRT! SPLASH!
A sudden gush of liquid spilled from her untouched pussy, drenching my thighs and the sheets beneath us.
Looks like her pussy was asking to be fucked as well unfortunately I couldn't so I will spoil even more her ass.
PAH! PAH! PAH!
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"AAAAH❤️! NATHAN! FUCK! HAAAAAH❤️❤️! I CAN'T… I'M CUMMING AGAIN!!!"
Khillea cried, her voice breaking as her second orgasm ripped through her. Her body convulsed, her body arching up but I quickly held her right by gropping her breasts.
Her climax sent me over the edge. With a guttural growl, I buried myself deep inside her, my cock pulsing as I spilled into her, thick ropes of cum filling her anal hole the brim. My hips jerked uncontrollably as I emptied myself inside her last hole.
I collapsed onto her, both of us panting, our bodies slick with sweat and her release. Her body trembled beneath me, her breaths shallow as she tried to recover.
"You… You're… haa… so good… with that… haaaan… Nathan…"
Khillea's voice was a sultry whisper, punctuated by short, breathless gasps as she lay sprawled out on her stomach, propped weakly on her elbows. Her hair, damp from exertion, clung to her flushed skin, framing her face in an almost ethereal glow.
I turned my body with effort, collapsing beside her in exhaustion. The room was filled with the scent of our intimacy, an undeniable testament to the hours we'd spent entwined. Her body, glistening with a faint sheen of sweat, was captivating. My gaze lingered on the mesmerizing sight before me—my semen kept leaking from her anal while her own juices leaked from her pussy. The contrast of her trembling body and the serene expression on her face left me spellbound.
If I had even an ounce of strength left, I'd have been tempted to take her again—to fill her other two holes until neither of us could move. But the sheer intensity of being with both Aisha and now Khillea had drained me entirely. Still, Khillea was… different. She had an allure, a magnetism that left me wanting more, even in my current state.
"You're amazing too," I managed to say with a soft laugh, my chest rising and falling as I struggled to catch my breath.
Khillea smiled, a mischievous glint in her tired eyes. Slowly, she shifted onto her back, her movements languid yet deliberate. She turned her head toward me, her gaze piercing, and then she asked something I hadn't expected.
"How about you stay with me until the war ends?"
Her words hung in the air, striking me like a thunderbolt.
"I thought this would be the last time," I replied, attempting to mask my surprise with a chuckle.
"I changed my mind," she said simply, her lips curving into a sly smile.
"After I fucked your ass?" I teased, though my voice carried a hint of genuine curiosity.
"Yes," she answered without hesitation, her smile widening.
Her candid reply caught me off guard. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it, at her brazenness, but something in her tone, in her gaze, stopped me. It wasn't just a joke. There was something deeper behind her words, a longing that mirrored my own unspoken thoughts.
"I can't," I said after a moment, my voice quieter now. "The war is still ongoing."
I couldn't tell her the full truth—not that I was with the Trojans, nor that my time in Troy was fleeting. After the war, I had plans to leave, to disappear into the shadows of history. And Khillea… she had her own life to return to, her own country.
"What about it?" she pressed, her voice soft but insistent. "You could stay with me here."
Her words made me frown slightly.
"If you're worried about Menelaus or the Spartans' reaction, don't be. I'll make sure nothing happens to you." She paused. "Better yet, you could just join the Myrmidons."
Her suggestion startled me. The conviction in her voice hinted at a deeper connection to the Myrmidons, one I hadn't considered before. My mind raced, piecing together fragments of information.
"You're Achilles's sister, aren't you?" I asked, the realization dawning on me.
The question hung heavily in the air. For a long moment, Khillea said nothing. Her expression shifted, the playful veneer giving way to something more serious, almost vulnerable. She averted her gaze, turning away from me.
What was that reaction?
"You don't want to stay because of that woman, don't you? Aisha, was it?" Khillea's sudden question broke the lingering silence.
Her tone was casual, but the sharpness in her eyes betrayed the undercurrent of something deeper—curiosity, perhaps, or maybe even jealousy. Her words took me by surprise. How did she know about Aisha?
I frowned slightly, the gears in my mind turning. There were only two possibilities. Either she had seen us together during one of those intimate moments or someone had told her about it. Both scenarios seemed equally plausible, but the thought of Aisha being dragged into this unsettled me. Fortunately, it didn't seem like Khillea harbored any ill will toward her.
"Yes," I admitted, my voice steady despite the storm of thoughts swirling in my head. "I love her."
The words felt raw, but they were true. Aisha held a special place in my heart, one I couldn't deny, not even to Khillea.
"Good for you," Khillea replied, though her expression faltered. Her voice carried an edge of bitterness, and for a moment, her usual confident demeanor cracked.
What could I say to her? What should I say?
Her emotions were written plainly on her face—disappointment, perhaps tinged with longing. As I looked at her, sprawled in all her post-coital beauty, I couldn't ignore the pull she had on me. Her fiery spirit, her strength, her vulnerability—it was all intoxicating. I wanted her. That much was undeniable.
And so, instead of overthinking it, I acted on impulse.
"How about you come with me?" I asked, my voice quiet but firm.
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with meaning. I didn't know what answer I expected, or if I even expected one at all. But as Khillea's eyes met mine, her expression softened, and I could see the flicker of surprise—and perhaps something more—in her gaze.
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