I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC312 End of the Trojan War
Hera's fingers trembled before she clenched her fists, her breath shallow.
"Is this… a dream…?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
She didn't even have the strength to be angry anymore.
Athena turned her gaze toward Hera.
The Queen of the Olympus Gods looked utterly broken. Her once proud and commanding presence had withered into silence, her expression frozen in disbelief. The goddess who once dictated the fates of battles, who pulled the strings of heroes and kings alike, now sat motionless, powerless against the events unfolding before her.
But Athena was no different.
For the first time in her existence, she—Athena, the Goddess of Victory—was forced to accept the impossible.
Every war she had ever blessed, every side she had ever chosen, had always emerged victorious. It was not arrogance that made her believe in her own invincibility—it was simply fact. A fact that had remained unbroken for eons.
And yet, this time, she would lose.
This time, her blessing, her wisdom, her divine might—none of it would be enough.
The source of her defeat stood below, cutting through fate itself with every step.
The man who had returned from the abyss, whose very existence defied the gods themselves.
Heiron. Samael.
No…
His true name.
Nathan.
Athena slowly lifted her gaze, her piercing gray eyes narrowing as they fell upon Aphrodite.
Aphrodite had been the first among them to realize what Nathan was.
No, that wasn't quite right.
The first to know had been Khione—the goddess who had once been declared dead, vanished even from the sight of the divine.
Regardless of how it had come to be, one truth remained absolute.
"This is the end," Athena muttered, her voice a whisper of finality.
She had lost.
Below, the battlefield raged on.
Nathan toyed with Agamemnon, his movements effortless, weaving around the Greek king's furious attacks as if he were dancing rather than fighting.
Meanwhile, Hector was unleashing his fury upon Paris.
"You betrayed your own family!!" Hector roared, his fist crashing into Paris's cheek with the force of a thunderclap.
The younger prince was sent sprawling across the blood-soaked earth, his body bouncing off the ground before coming to a painful halt.
For a moment, Paris lay still, his breath ragged. Then, with a grunt, he forced himself up, staggering to his feet. His fingers trembled as he reached for his bow, summoning it with what little strength he had left.
His body ached. His vision blurred.
But none of that mattered.
With one final desperate act, he drew an arrow, pouring every ounce of his remaining power into its tip. The corrupt god who had granted him strength had long abandoned him, yet the twisted energy still lingered, coiling around the arrowhead like venomous smoke.
Paris narrowed his eyes and loosed the arrow.
It flew straight toward Hector's head, slicing through the air like a bolt of divine judgment.
But Hector had already seen it coming.
His golden-bladed sword flashed, cutting through the incoming arrow with a single stroke. The projectile detonated upon impact, its explosive force sending shockwaves across the battlefield.
Yet Hector stood firm, his stance unshaken.
Paris's eyes widened in horror.
"You bastard!! I will kill you!!!" he screamed, his voice laced with hysteria.
He lunged forward, abandoning his bow, his fist swinging wildly in desperation.
But Hector caught his hand with ease.
For a single moment, the two brothers locked eyes.
And then Hector's knee crashed into Paris's stomach.
"GARK—!"
Paris's body convulsed as the air was forced from his lungs. He staggered backward, his knees buckling, before collapsing onto all fours. His fingers clawed at the dirt, his body wracked with pain as bile and blood spilled from his lips.
Hector loomed over him, his expression dark with sorrowful resolve.
"You gave me no choice, brother," he murmured.
"E-Eh?"
Paris lifted his gaze, his breath shallow, his body trembling.
His brother stood over him, his sword gleaming under the blood-red sky. The look in Hector's eyes sent a chill down his spine—cold, merciless, devoid of hesitation.
No.
No, this wasn't happening.
There was no way.
"W....Wait! What are you doing?!" Paris shouted, his voice rising in panic as he scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the dirt.
Hector stepped forward, his boots crushing the ground with slow, deliberate force.
"You have crossed every line, Paris," he said, his voice like steel. "You have even killed our own people. Did you even notice?"
"I-I… I have fought for Troy all this time!" Paris stammered, his body shaking as he desperately tried to justify himself. "Just as much as you! When you were injured, I defended the city! I killed Menelaus!"
Hector did not falter. His gaze remained piercing, his judgment absolute.
"You did it for yourself," he said. "You would have slaughtered all of us if it meant keeping Helen by your side." Continue reading at My Virtual Library Empire
Paris's lips trembled. His mind raced for an escape, an excuse—anything.
"Y...you can't kill me!" he gasped. "I am a Prince of Troy!"
"Only in name," Hector answered.
Paris's breath hitched.
He was losing.
He was losing everything.
"W…wait! Let me speak!" Paris pleaded, his hands raised.
Hector hesitated.
For just a moment.
Paris's mind sharpened. He had one last chance.
"I-I… I'm sorry…" he muttered, lowering his gaze, letting his voice waver with emotion. "I never wanted this… I… I…"
His fingers curled into the dirt.
His heart pounded.
Then—
With a sudden, wicked grin, he flung a handful of sand straight at Hector's eyes.
Hector flinched, instinctively turning his head.
Now!
Paris lunged, snatching a fallen sword from the ground and driving it toward Hector's chest.
But before the blade could reach its mark—
The weapon was struck clean from Paris's grasp, spinning through the air before clattering onto the battlefield.
An arrow had pierced its hilt with perfect precision.
Paris's breath hitched as he turned his gaze.
Far in the distance, Atalanta stood with her bow still raised, her green hair flowing in the wind, her expression like carved ice.
Hector wiped the dust from his eyes and looked at Paris.
There was no anger. No hatred.
Only sorrow.
Paris had really tried to kill him. Again.
All hesitation, all lingering brotherly love—gone.
"Y…You can't!!" Paris shrieked.
His last vestiges of composure shattered, his body turned toward the towering walls of Troy, where his family stood watching.
His voice cracked.
"Father! Mother!"
But Priam's expression was grave, his eyes heavy with the weight of his decision. His son had gone too far.
Hecuba's lips quivered. She did not speak. She simply buried her face into Priam's shoulder, muffling the sound of her silent sobs.
Even now, he was still her son.
But even she could not save him.
Paris turned frantically, his gaze darting between his siblings.
Kassandra's expression was cold, unreadable.
Polyxena, however, looked stricken, her hands clasped over her mouth, unable to bear the sight of one brother killing another.
Paris's blood ran cold.
No one spoke for him.
No one would save him.
He turned to Hector one last time.
His lips trembled. His voice came out in a broken whisper.
"…Brother."
Hector exhaled softly, his grip tightening around his sword.
"Sorry."
The blade plunged into Paris's heart, swift and final.
Paris let out a strangled cry, his body seizing as blood poured from the wound. His eyes widened in shock, as if he still couldn't believe what had happened.
Then, his body slumped forward, his form going limp.
The battlefield was silent.
The Prince of Troy had fallen.
Hector stood motionless, his gaze fixed upon the lifeless body of his brother. His heart pounded within his chest, but he forced himself to remain composed. There was no time for grief—not yet. He had done his part. Now, it was Nathan's turn to finish what had been started.
A chilling silence hung in the air before it was shattered by a deafening roar.
"I WILL RIP YOU APART!!!"
Agamemnon's voice thundered across the battlefield, raw with fury and madness. He raised his massive sword high, his bloodshot eyes burning with uncontained rage.
Then, the sky darkened.
From the depths of the void, a colossal black sphere manifested—an abyss of pure malevolence, writhing with shadowy tendrils. The monstrous appendages lashed out in all directions, snatching up warriors—both Greek and Trojan—dragging them into the swirling darkness. Their screams filled the air, terror-stricken voices pleading for salvation.
"GRYAA!!"
"SAVE ME!!"
"STOP!!"
Yet Agamemnon did not flinch. He did not care. Instead, he laughed—a mad, unhinged sound that echoed like the cackling of a demon. His wild eyes remained locked onto Nathan, who stood still, unbothered, gazing at him with an unsettling calm.
Nathan slowly lifted his sword.
At that moment, a golden radiance erupted from his blade, illuminating the battlefield like a second sun. The divine light surged forward, cutting through the thick darkness, shimmering with an overwhelming power that sent shivers down the spines of gods and mortals alike.
"A…Apollo's Light?!" Hera's voice trembled with disbelief.
Even Athena, ever composed, could not hide her astonishment. Her sharp gaze darted toward Apollo, who merely watched in silence, his lips curving into the barest hint of a smile.
Had the Apollo lost his mind? Bestowing such power upon someone like Nathan—someone so unpredictable, so unyielding—was nothing short of madness.
Nathan's smirk widened as he harnessed the divine radiance. The light surged, crackling with unrestrained force, before he swung his sword downward.
The heavens trembled.
BADOOOOOM!!!!
In an instant, Agamemnon's monstrous black sphere shattered, the void of darkness vanishing as if it had never existed.
Agamemnon stumbled back, his expression frozen in stunned horror.
"Wh…What…." The words barely escaped his lips, his mind failing to comprehend what had just occurred.
Nathan did not grant him the time to understand.
With another effortless swing of his sword, a blinding arc of light carved through the air.
A wet, sickening shick echoed across the battlefield.
Agamemnon's left arm was severed, spinning through the air before landing with a lifeless thud.
"GARGHHH!!" Agamemnon let out an agonized shriek, his body writhing as unnatural energy surged through him, attempting to mend his lost limb. The pain was unbearable, yet before he could even process it...
His right arm followed.
"AARFHHHH!!" He howled, crimson blood gushing from the open wounds, drenching the ground beneath him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling violently.
For the first time in his life, Agamemnon knew true fear.
Nathan's cold, piercing eyes bore into him, the gaze of an executioner looking upon his next victim.
Panic seized Agamemnon's limbs. His body moved on instinct—he turned, attempting to flee.
But mercy was an illusion.
Another swing.
With a nauseating noise his right leg was cleaved away.
"GYAHH!!" Agamemnon let out a choked scream as he collapsed onto the blood-soaked earth. His fingers dug into the dirt, desperation overtaking his senses.
He lifted his gaze, scanning the battlefield, looking for his men—his loyal soldiers, his warriors.
They were still there. But none moved.
Only horror filled their eyes.
"HELP ME!!" he shrieked. "KILL HIM! SAVE YOUR KING!!!"
Silence answered him.
Not a single Greek soldier stepped forward.
The battlefield had fallen into a suffocating silence.
The Greek soldiers—those who had once fought so fiercely for their king—now stood motionless, their weapons lowered, their eyes filled with the cold weight of inevitability. They all knew the truth. Their king was no longer the ruler they once followed with unwavering loyalty. He was nothing more than a pathetic man, reduced to a quivering wreck, begging for his life in the dirt.
And Nathan… Nathan was an executioner standing above him, merciless and unshaken.
None dared to move. None dared to challenge him.
Even Odysseus, the last true commander of the Greek forces, averted his gaze. He had always been a man of reason, of wit. And reason told him that this battle—no, this war was lost. There was no sense in throwing away the lives of his men in a futile struggle. No fight remained. No victory could be salvaged.
This was the end.
Agamemnon turned his wide, desperate eyes toward Nathan, his bloodied hands reaching forward in supplication.
"N-No…!! I—I will give you anything!!" His voice was raw with terror, cracking as he scrambled for a chance to survive. "Ask me! Name your price!"
Nathan gazed down at him, his expression void of sympathy. There was no hesitation in his voice as he uttered his only demand:
"I want you to die."
With a swift, brutal thrust, Nathan plunged his sword straight through Agamemnon's open mouth.
The blade pierced through flesh and bone, driving deep into his throat. Agamemnon let out a strangled, inaudible gurgle, his body convulsing as agony tore through him like wildfire. His eyes bulged, hands clawing uselessly at the sword impaling him, but it was futile.
Then, Nathan spoke again.
"Swallow him."
A suffocating darkness bled from his sword, writhing like living shadows.
"UGHHJNNNNNN—!!!"
Agamemnon's screams were inhuman, distorted by pure suffering as the abyssal magic devoured him from the inside out. His flesh blackened, rotting away before their eyes, as the unholy force consumed him whole. His limbs flailed, his body twisted unnaturally, his agony stretching into an eternity of horror.
The watching soldiers—Greek and Trojan alike—shuddered as the bloodcurdling wails of their once-mighty king echoed across the battlefield. Some turned away, unable to bear the sight. Others simply stood frozen, fear gripping them in an iron vice.
And then, silence.
When it was over, nothing remained.
No corpse. No armor. Not even the bones.
Only his blood, staining the earth.
Nathan let out a slow breath, his golden eyes shifting toward Odysseus.
"T...The Greeks will retreat. We concede out defeat," Odysseus quickly spoke up in fear as well.
With that, he lifted his sword before tossing it to the ground. The weapon struck with a heavy, resonating sound that seemed to mark the end of an era.
The Greek soldiers, one by one, began dropping to their knees. Not in reverence, but in surrender.
Odysseus closed his eyes for a moment, before exhaling deeply. He had no words. Only resignation.
"Good," Nathan murmured.
Turning away, he cast a glance toward Hector.
Their eyes met, and Hector gave a solemn nod.
Nathan understood.
There would be no massacre of the Greeks—not today. Their humiliation was absolute, their defeat undeniable. There was no need to stain the battlefield further with unnecessary bloodshed. They would leave. And they would never dare to challenge Troy again.
Of course, there would be consequences—reparations would need to be made. But that was for Priam to decide.
Nathan then dismissed his magic. The swirling darkness dissipated, fading into nothingness.
And as he turned his back to the battlefield, he spoke the final words that would mark this moment in history as the beginning of living Legend in the whole Greek Continent also in the world...
"The Trojan War is over."
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC313 The Triumph of Troy
The Trojan War had come to an unexpected and historic conclusion—the day Heiron returned, alive and victorious.
For the first time in history, Troy had not only withstood the might of Greece but had emerged triumphant. The invincible coalition of kings and warriors who once boasted of their impending conquest had been shattered. The Greeks had lost.
And yet, they did not leave immediately.
Among those who lingered was Odysseus, ever the tactician, who remained behind to discuss the aftermath of the war with King Priam. Though the Greeks had waged war, it was they who had been defeated, and with defeat came consequences. Troy would not let them retreat without exacting a price for the destruction they had brought upon its lands. Read latest stories on My Virtual Library Empire
The surviving Greek soldiers, battle-worn and exhausted, carried the weight of crushing defeat upon their shoulders. The war that was meant to cement their glory had instead left them in disgrace. But they could do nothing—fate had been cruel, and history would remember them not as victors but as failures.
For the Trojans, however, it was a time of unparalleled celebration.
Euphoria coursed through the veins of every citizen, from the highest noble to the humblest craftsman. The entire city roared with jubilation, its streets filled with music, laughter, and cheers. Men, women, and children flooded the avenues, their joy spilling forth like a river that had long been dammed.
At the heart of their exultation were two names that would forever be carved into legend: Hector and Heiron.
These two warriors had defied the might of Greece, shattered their greatest warriors, and brought about an unimaginable victory. Statues were already being sculpted in their honor, their likenesses immortalized in stone as living gods of war. Songs were being composed in their name, ballads that would echo through the ages, recounting their heroics on the battlefield.
Yet the greatest cause for celebration was the death of Agamemnon himself.
The so-called "King of Kings," the tyrant who had waged this war out of arrogance and greed, had fallen. Heiron had finally slain the man who had long sought Troy's destruction, and with his death, the city could finally breathe in relief.
For years, doubt had lingered in the hearts of the Trojans.
The Greeks had come in overwhelming numbers, their warriors unmatched in skill. They had the blessings of mighty gods—Hera, Queen of Olympus, and Athena, the very Goddess of Victory, had both opposed Troy. By all accounts, the city should have fallen.
And yet, it had not.
It was a miracle. A defiance of fate itself.
And miracles deserved to be celebrated.
Troy reveled in its newfound glory. Tables overflowed with the finest food and wine, laughter and song filled the air, and performances reenacting the war's greatest moments took place in every plaza. Bards and poets were already composing epics of Heiron's duels—his battles against Ajax, against Heracles, and Hector's legendary clash against the centaur Chiron.
Soon, these stories would spread beyond the walls of Troy.
Within a month, they would reach the far corners of the world.
And in the annals of history, the victory of Troy—the impossible triumph—would be remembered for eternity.
Within the mighty palace of Troy, the usual banquet hall—where countless feasts had been held in times of peace—stood eerily empty. Tonight, it could not contain the scale of the celebration that the Trojans demanded.
A far greater hall within the palace had been chosen instead, one vast enough to accommodate a victory of this magnitude.
It was here that the heart of the celebration pulsed with life.
Laughter and cheers echoed against the grand marble walls, the clinking of goblets and the rhythmic beat of music filling the space with an infectious energy. The hall was packed to its very limits, and even outside, the festivities continued, the streets flooded with those eager to revel in Troy's moment of triumph.
Yet within these golden halls, only the greatest figures of the Trojan War were seated—the warriors, leaders, and legends who had fought and bled for this city.
At the center of it all stood Aeneas, his voice carrying above the cacophony as he raised his cup high into the air.
"Let us cheer for the greatest heroes of Troy! Hector of Troy and Heiron!!"
His words were met with an immediate uproar.
"HECTOR AND HEIRON!!"
The entire hall thundered as countless goblets were raised in unison, a chorus of admiration and gratitude washing over the two warriors.
Seated among them was Heiron, dressed in formal Trojan attire, his usual battlefield presence replaced with an air of regal composure. Beside him sat Hector, his ever-loyal companion, along with two formidable women—Atalanta and Penthesilea, the latter now fully recovered from her wounds.
Penthesilea had been utterly shocked upon waking to discover Heiron alive.
The moment she had regained consciousness, she had nearly tackled him, filled with an overwhelming mix of relief and desire. If not for Nathan stepping in to calm her down, the situation might have escalated further and they would have fucked in public. Since that moment, she had barely left his side, relentlessly questioning everyone about what had transpired on the final day of battle.
Yet no matter how many answers she received, she remained disappointed.
She had wanted to witness the climax of the war herself, to stand at Heiron's side as history was written. But despite her frustration, she made up for it in the only way she knew—by drinking and celebrating as fiercely as she fought.
She laughed boisterously, downing cup after cup of wine, her wild energy drawing others into her revelry. At one point, she attempted to pull Atalanta into her drinking spree, grinning mischievously as she tried to pass her a full goblet.
Atalanta, however, wanted no part in it.
The huntress skillfully evaded Penthesilea, darting behind Nathan in an attempt to escape. "I'd rather not get drunk," she muttered, her expression slightly awkward as she peeked over his shoulder.
Penthesilea merely smirked before turning back to her Amazonian sisters, raising yet another cup to the heavens.
Hector, watching the spectacle unfold, chuckled heartily before standing and lifting his own goblet high.
"I believe we should have a personal cheer for Heiron—the greatest hero of the Trojan War!"
Another wave of cheers erupted through the hall, even louder than before. Goblets clashed, wine spilled, and voices rang out in unanimous praise.
Nathan simply smiled at their enthusiasm. Compliments were not something he was used to receiving so openly, so sincerely. And yet, for once, he allowed himself to enjoy them. It was… pleasing.
Beside him, Atalanta leaned in slightly, her sharp eyes glancing toward him with mild concern. "Have you recovered from your injury?"
Nathan let out a small laugh, his fingers brushing the spot where Paris had stabbed him in the back.
"That? It was nothing."
Indeed, the wound had long since healed, a mere afterthought compared to all he had endured.
Atalanta's expression remained unimpressed as she watched Nathan dismiss his injuries with a smirk and a laugh. It wasn't the first time he had shrugged off wounds like they were nothing, but that didn't mean she had to like it.
Nathan, noticing her concern, let amusement flicker in his golden eyes. Without hesitation, he reached out, his fingers gently brushing against the curve of her slender waist. His touch was teasing, deliberate.
"If you're that worried," he murmured, leaning in slightly, "you can check for yourself later."
A soft flush crept onto Atalanta's face as she quickly slipped out of his grasp, her movements graceful yet hurried. She cast a nervous glance around, her voice hushed but urgent.
"Artemis might be watching us," she whispered in a panic.
Nathan merely chuckled, swirling the wine in his cup before taking a slow sip. "Artemis, yeah…" he muttered, his tone thoughtful yet indifferent.
Hera. Athena. And now Artemis.
His list of goddesses to deal with was only growing longer.
But unlike the other two, Artemis was a unique problem. She had always been fiercely protective of her 'daughters,' especially Atalanta. If she ever found out what had happened between them, the consequences would be… troublesome.
Nathan exhaled, tilting his head back slightly. He would have to do something about Artemis eventually—not just for his own sake, but for Atalanta's. He had no intention of hiding their relationship forever, and she deserved the freedom to stop worrying, to stop glancing over her shoulder every time she was with him.
Unfortunately, it seemed that moment wouldn't come soon.
"I'm leaving today," Atalanta announced suddenly.
Nathan's gaze snapped toward her. "Already?"
She nodded, crossing her arms as if to steady herself. "Artemis has called all of her daughters back." There was disappointment in her voice, a reluctance she didn't bother to hide.
Nathan frowned. He had expected this, but not so soon. "Are you safe?" he asked, his voice lowering. His greatest concern wasn't just that she was leaving—it was Artemis discovering the truth.
Atalanta sighed but offered him a small reassuring smile. "Aphrodite gave me something to conceal it. It should be fine."
Nathan relaxed slightly, though his gratitude toward Aphrodite only deepened.
She had done more for him than she likely realized. After his death, she had been the one to prevent disaster—keeping Charybdis, Scylla, and Medea from unleashing a massacre upon Troy. Instead of letting them descend into grief-driven destruction, she had promised them that he would return. And they had believed her.
He owed her.
And once he left Troy, he would have to face them. Charybdis. Scylla. Medea. They were waiting for him back in Tenebria, expecting his return.
His time in Troy was nearing its end.
There was nothing left for him to do here. He had accomplished his goals, fulfilled his purpose.
All that remained was for him to take a breath—to let himself rest for a little while longer in the city that had welcomed him as its hero.
But soon, he would resume his role as Lord Commander of Tenebria.
And soon, his plan against the Light Empire would resume.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS
I ENSLAVED THE GODDESS WHO SUMMONED MEC314 Speaking with Clytemnestra
Hector's voice pulled me from my thoughts as he approached once again, his expression warm yet tinged with a certain reluctance.
"When exactly are you leaving Heiron?" he asked, his deep voice carrying both curiosity and a hint of regret.
I glanced at him briefly before turning my gaze back to the horizon. The evening sun bathed the city of Troy in golden hues, casting long shadows across the sturdy stone walls that had withstood countless sieges.
"In a few days... maybe a week," I answered, my tone nonchalant. "I need some rest before I move on."
I didn't elaborate further, and Hector, perceptive as ever, didn't push. Instead, he let out a hearty laugh and clapped a firm hand on my shoulder, his strength evident even in the casual gesture.
"You know, you don't have to leave so soon, brother," he said, grinning. "You're always welcome here. You could even settle down in Heiron if you wished. The city would be honored to have you."
His words carried genuine warmth, an offer extended from the heart, but I shook my head with a small smile.
"It's a good place to rest, I'll admit that. Troy has been kind to me," I said. "But there are still too many things I need to do… things I have yet to accomplish. My path doesn't end here."
For a fleeting moment, I considered it. A life of peace in a city where people respected me—not like in the Light Empire, where my very existence was met with disdain and scheming. But no matter how welcoming Troy was, it wasn't where my future lay.
Hector exhaled, shaking his head with an amused smile. "A shame. We're going to miss you."
There was an underlying sincerity in his words, and I found myself appreciating the bond we had forged.
"Congratulations, by the way," I said after a moment. "For your child."
At that, Hector's face lit up with unrestrained joy, and he scratched his cheek, unable to hide his happiness.
"Ah, thank you," he said, his voice brimming with pride. Then, his lips curled into a teasing smirk. "But you should be congratulated too. You've got a child with none other than the great Achilles herself. Who knows? Maybe at three years old, she'll already be strong enough to kill gods."
He chuckled, clearly half-joking, but I found myself laughing softly along with him.
"Maybe," I admitted, though my thoughts soon drifted elsewhere.
Kyra.
I didn't care whether she grew up strong enough to challenge the gods themselves. What mattered was that she grew up happy, with the love of good parents. I wanted to be the father she deserved—the kind I never had.
But my reality wasn't so simple.
Because of my current situation, with the attention I had drawn—even from the gods themselves—it was far too dangerous for her to remain by my side. That was why she was with Khillea, in her homeland, far from the chaos that surrounded me.
Khillea had wanted to come with me immediately, insisting that she could fight alongside me, that she didn't need protection. But I had stopped her. I convinced her that, with my dragon, I could visit whenever she wished. She reluctantly agreed, though I knew she hated the idea of waiting while I walked this treacherous path alone.
For now, Kyra was safest where she was.
I had no choice but to keep moving forward, to carve a future where neither she nor Khillea would have to live in fear. And to do that, I had to reach the level of the gods themselves.
Once I reached that point—once I stood among them—I would decide how to handle everything else. My future, my women, the wars yet to come.
But that was a matter for another time.
For now, I could only take the next step forward.
A soft pout formed on Penthesilea's lips as she clung to my arm, her grip firm despite the haze of drunkenness clouding her emerald eyes. "Why don't you want me to accompany you?" she whined, pressing closer as if her warmth alone could sway my resolve.
I let out a sigh, though a small smile tugged at the corner of my lips. She could be stubborn when she wanted to be.
"Because you are the Queen of the Amazons," I reminded her gently, brushing a stray lock of her wild, dark hair behind her ear. "You have a duty to your people. Don't throw away your status for me."
But Penthesilea was never one to let go so easily. Her eyes gleamed with determination as she leaned in, her voice carrying the fierce conviction of a warrior.
"And I can be the Queen of the Amazons near you," she insisted, a sultry smile playing on her lips.
I chuckled softly at her persistence before raising a hand to her cheek, my thumb brushing lightly against her smooth skin.
"I'm working on it," I assured her, my voice quieter now, more intimate. "Just be patient."
For now, my path was set. As the Lord Commander of Tenebria, my focus was on the fall of the Light Empire. Only when that was done—when both Tenebria and my ambitions were secure—could I finally allow myself to think about the future beyond war. A future where I could carve out a place for myself and the women who had tied their fates to mine.
But that time had not yet come.
Penthesilea exhaled, a heavy sigh of frustration escaping her lips before she was abruptly pulled away by the other Amazons, their laughter ringing through the halls as they dragged their intoxicated queen from my side. Her protests quickly faded into the revelry of the feast, the flickering torchlight casting her retreating figure in a golden glow.
I watched her disappear into the crowd before a voice, smooth and composed, cut through the air behind me. Your next chapter is on My Virtual Library Empire
"You are quite loved, Hero of Troy."
I turned to find Clytemnestra approaching, her elegant gait unhurried yet purposeful. The former queen carried herself with the regal poise of a woman who had known both power and ruin, her sharp gaze fixed on me with an unreadable expression.
"I prefer to be called by my name," I replied, my tone cool but not unkind. The title—Hero of Troy...felt strange, detached, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.
Clytemnestra's lips curled into a small, knowing smile, but she didn't push the matter. Instead, silence stretched between us, filled only by the distant sounds of revelry.
Then, finally, she spoke.
"Thank you for killing Agamemnon."
Her voice was calm, almost casual, but there was something deeper beneath the surface—relief, perhaps. Or maybe something darker.
I met her gaze. "I didn't do it for you." My words were simple, matter-of-fact. "There's no need to thank me."
Clytemnestra let out a breath, her smile fading slightly. "Perhaps not. But still, that man…" She paused, as if weighing her words. "He killed my child. I spent years dreaming of his death, and now that it has finally come, I wonder if I can turn over a new leaf… or if it's too late for me."
Her voice grew softer, more vulnerable. "I don't know where to go from here. Returning to Mycenae is out of the question. They would kill me the moment I stepped foot in that city."
I nodded, understanding her predicament. Mycenae had been Agamemnon's stronghold, his kingdom. Now that he was dead, the people would undoubtedly seek vengeance on the woman who had conspired against him.
"What about Sparta?" I asked after a moment.
It was her homeland, after all. Before Menelaus took the throne, her father had been the rightful king. If there was any place that might accept her, it would be there.
But Clytemnestra shook her head, a humorless chuckle escaping her lips. "That's not possible either. My distant uncle has already taken control of Sparta, and his rule is absolute. He does not tolerate traitors—or anyone who abandoned the Spartan way."
Her gaze darkened as she added, "I may not have betrayed Sparta, but I am sure he knows I supported Troy. That alone would be enough to mark me as an enemy. The same goes for Helen. She cannot return there either."
I took a slow sip from my cup, the rich taste of wine lingering on my tongue as I gathered my thoughts. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows across the grand hall, where the remnants of the feast carried on in hushed conversations and occasional bursts of laughter.
Finally, I spoke, my voice steady but firm.
"Helen is coming with me to Tenebria." I set my cup down, my gaze meeting Clytemnestra's. "She will live there, with me."
Clytemnestra's brows lifted in surprise, her lips parting slightly before she managed a quiet, "Oh."
She hadn't expected that answer.
I leaned forward slightly, watching her reaction as I asked the next question.
"Do you want to come as well?"
That time, she looked utterly taken aback. Her sharp, calculating mind seemed to stall for a moment as she processed my words. "Come?" she echoed, as if uncertain she had heard me correctly.
I nodded.
"You are her sister, and you have nowhere else to go. Come to Tenebria. Helen will be there, and under my protection, no one will dare lay a hand on either of you. My status there is second only to the Queen herself."
A deep silence stretched between us, thick with the weight of my offer. Clytemnestra stared at me, and for the first time since our conversation began, the poised, regal mask she wore faltered.
"Do… you truly mean it?" Her voice was quieter now, hesitant, yet laced with something fragile—hope.
She had lost everything. Her home, her power, her child. And despite all her strength, she was now a woman cast adrift, with nowhere to call her own.
And yet, even after all of it, she deserved more than just exile and solitude.
I smiled at her, the kind of smile that left no room for doubt. "I don't lie about such things."
Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but the words never came. I didn't press her. Instead, I simply continued, my tone light but certain.
"You should start gathering your belongings. I'll let you know when we leave."
Clytemnestra gave a small nod, but it was clear she was still overwhelmed. Her fingers twitched slightly at her sides, as though she wanted to find a way to thank me but couldn't quite bring herself to say it aloud.
Gratitude was a rare thing for a woman like her—someone who had spent most of her life surrounded by betrayal, cruelty, and survival.
But I wasn't going to force her into anything.
Leaning back in my chair, I took another sip of my wine before adding, "Astynome and Briseis will be coming with us as well, so you won't feel alone."
That startled her even more. Her breath hitched, and her eyes widened slightly. "They… are coming too?"
She wasn't the only one caught in the ruins of Troy's fall. Astynome and Briseis had both suffered under Greek rule, just as Helen had. Bringing them to Tenebria wasn't just an act of kindness—it was the least I could do.
For a while, Clytemnestra said nothing. Her gaze drifted across the hall before settling on Kassandra, who sat at a distance with an expression far brighter than I had ever seen on her. The cursed prophetess, always haunted by visions of despair, looked almost… at peace.
Clytemnestra watched her for a moment before speaking again. "She's coming as well, isn't she?"
I hesitated before answering. "I'd like that… but I haven't asked yet Priam about it."
Before our conversation could continue, a commanding voice rang through the hall.
"Silence, please."
I turned my head as King Priam rose from his seat, his aged but powerful presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room.
The feast stilled. The murmurs ceased.
And in the heavy silence that followed, I knew something important was about to be said.
Finally.
It was time for me to ask Kassandra's hand.
REMOVE ADS FROM $1
Report chapter CommentsContact - ToS