I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

“I…” she began, faltering. Her voice, for once, had lost its usual polish. “I heard from Elin what you did…”

Her words trailed off. She realized then that Nathan didn’t blink, didn’t shift awkwardly like most men did under her gaze. He simply waited—still, focused, impenetrable.

“Heard what exactly?” Nathan asked, his voice even, though a sliver of doubt flickered in his mind. He already had a hunch about what she was referring to—something he had hoped would stay buried in silence.

If it were up to him, Elin would have kept her mouth shut. The incident with the Roman politicians wasn’t something he wanted echoing through the halls of their camp. But it seemed that discretion had slipped through her fingers, and now the consequences stood before him, cloaked in curiosity and suspicion.

“You helped her,” Freja replied, her eyes narrowing slightly. “When they were hurting that girl”

Nathan exhaled slowly through his nose, not in exasperation, but with the calculated patience of a man who couldn’t afford to let misunderstandings grow.

“They had every right to do what they did,” he began coolly, brushing aside any implication of moral heroism. “She was a slave, after all. But I couldn’t stand by and let a Hero of the Amun-Ra Empire get dragged into something so petty and vile. A scandal like that would only strain relations between Rome and your kind. And in the end, Rome would be the one to lose.”

He emphasized the political logic with a shrug, eager to steer her perception away from any noble intentions. The last thing he wanted was to be seen as a sentimental fool, especially by someone like Freja.

She frowned. That much, at least, was progress.

Yet there was a flicker in her eyes—a subtle curiosity, maybe even confusion. She found it strange how he went out of his way to justify himself, as if distancing himself from any shred of decency would make him less suspicious. In doing so, he only made himself more complex.

“Your friend already thanked me,” Nathan said, nodding slightly in Elin’s direction, who was watching them from a distance. When she noticed Nathan’s eyes on her, she quickly turned her gaze away. “There was no need for the whole class to take turns. Did she send you to do it again? Is she scared of me now?”

Freja tilted her head. “Scared?” she echoed, her voice carefully neutral.

“After she learned what I did,” Nathan said, lowering his voice a little, his tone heavier now. “That I killed Ptolemy—the man who summoned you all. The same man who gave you shelter, food, and protection.”

A moment of silence stretched between them before Freja finally replied.

“Ptolemy may have summoned us, yes,” she said, her voice low but firm. “But the ones who truly cared for us were maybe Pothinus… and especially Arsinoe.”

Nathan let out a quiet, humorless chuckle. His lips curled into a knowing smirk as he leaned just slightly closer.

“Then you’re in for a disappointment,” he said. “Pothinus has likely already been tortured by Cleopatra—he may have ended up as food for her pet crocodiles. And Arsinoe? She’s rotting away in a cell, if she’s not dead already.”

Freja’s eyes widened in shock, a subtle tremor running through her expression before she quickly masked it. But Nathan saw it—saw the falter in her resolve, the cracks forming beneath the surface.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper.

“Tell me, Freja. Don’t you feel even the slightest hatred toward the Roman Empire? Toward Caesar himself?”

Her fists clenched by her sides, knuckles whitening. There was something dark in her eyes now—anger, sorrow, and an emotion not yet named.

But she met his gaze squarely and spoke with conviction.

“What I feel doesn’t matter.” Her voice was cold. Steady. “What matters is that my class survives. That we make it out of this alive.”

Nathan didn’t flinch. If anything, her resolve seemed to amuse him.

But before either could say another word, a smooth, deep voice broke the tension.

“Is this mercenary bothering you?”

The interruption came with the scent of perfume and politics. Marcus Antonius approached them with his trademark confident smile—handsome, wide, and filled with intentions Nathan could read all too clearly. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes never left Freja as he stepped between them like a knight arriving just late enough to appear gallant, yet early enough to stake his claim.

Freja wasn’t stupid.

She had long since learned to see through smiles, glances, and the heavy air of hidden intentions. And Marcus Antonius was no exception. Like most men of power and stature, his charm was just a veil—one that barely concealed his real desires.

Her eyes drifted instinctively toward Nathan. He stood with his back turned now, inspecting the trays of exotic food laid out on long tables. He looked disinterested, distant. Different.

Yes… most men, she thought.

“No,” she muttered in response to Marcus’s question, her voice clipped as she turned to leave.

But of course, he followed.

She didn’t have the luxury of pushing him away or snapping at him like she wanted to—not when he carried the weight of Rome’s highest esteem. Rejecting someone of Marcus’s status could ripple far beyond personal consequence. So she bore it, as countless others had before her, while his steps shadowed hers.

Meanwhile, Nathan seemed detached from the world around him. He leaned against a marble pillar slightly removed from the main crowd, a glass of deep crimson wine in his hand. The din of laughter, clinking goblets, and political murmurs echoed around the lavish hall, but he didn’t truly hear any of it.

He simply stared forward, eyes distant and heavy with memory.

The atmosphere reminded him too much of the feasts after Troy’s battles—those evenings when victory echoed louder than the cries of the fallen. In those days, they would celebrate under the blood-orange skies, wine running like rivers and the songs of minstrels drowning out the mourning.

Hector, Aeneas, Troy, beautiful and doomed.

And Kassandra…

She had stayed in Troy for a time, safely away from Tenebria. She was vulnerable, and though Tenebria was likely safe, Nathan couldn’t risk it. Not for her. Not for the life growing within her.

And despite his stoicism, a rare softness crept across his face—a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I should probably visit when I get a chance,” he thought, the smile deepening ever so slightly.

That expression, so rare and so genuine, was reserved only for a precious few, his women to start with and then his very very rare friends, like Hector and Aeneas, and place he felt good inside like the city of Troy itself. Troy had become another home to him, forged in the fires of war but remembered in peace.

Rome, on the other hand…

He glanced around. The air stank of greed cloaked in perfumes and perfumed words. Smiles that hid daggers. Whispers that could kill.

This place was nothing like Troy.

He didn’t trust them. Not the senators in their gilded togas. Not the smiling generals. Not even Crassus, despite the occasional glimmer of reason in his eyes. Trusting a Roman was like shaking hands with a serpent and hoping it wouldn’t bite.

Perhaps that’s why he didn’t bother trying to strike up conversations.

But solitude didn’t last long in a place like this.

A figure approached—graceful, poised. A young woman, clearly of high birth, stepped beside him and filled her glass from a silver jug. Her presence was immediate, striking even. She looked around Nathan’s age, her beauty refined and elegant.

Her long, light brown hair was intricately braided, every strand polished to perfection, cascading like silk. Her blue eyes sparkled under the warm glow of chandelier light, though there was a soft flush on her cheeks—wine-induced, perhaps, or something more subtle.

Nathan glanced at her sideways, sipping his drink without a word.

“You’re just as bored as I am, aren’t you?” she said, raising her glass and taking a delicate sip.

“Was it that obvious?” Nathan replied coolly, his gaze returning to the crowd.

The woman chuckled lightly, the sound soft and clear like wind chimes.

“Very. Anyone looking at you could tell, Septimius.”

Nathan raised a brow, only mildly interested. “And you are?”

“Fulvia,” she answered, tilting her head slightly with a small, knowing smile.

The name meant nothing to him. Likely from some powerful aristocratic family, yet not one he’d been introduced to formally. Still, her confidence was unmistakable.

She then raised her glass, subtly motioning toward the other side of the hall where Marcus Antonius was still eagerly leaning toward Freja, trying to capture her attention with the same polished grin and practiced flattery.

“Look at him,” Fulvia said with an amused scoff. “The great Roman general Marcus Antonius, reduced to groveling for a girl’s attention. Isn’t that just… pathetic?”

Nathan didn’t miss a beat. His voice came low, cold.

“I think that isn’t the only pathetic thing about him.”

The words had barely left his mouth before Fulvia burst into laughter—unrestrained, almost gleeful. She laughed so hard she nearly stumbled, and without thinking, Nathan’s arm darted out, catching her by the waist and steadying her with firm ease.

She blinked up at him, eyes wide with surprise, then softened into something else—curiosity, perhaps… or intrigue.

“Thank you, Septimius. You’re more of a gentleman than I expected,” Fulvia said, laughing as Nathan helped her regain her balance. His arm around her waist was steady and firm, but detached, like he was simply performing a duty rather than engaging in flirtation. He let go as soon as she stood upright.

“Do you hate Marcus Antonius?” Nathan asked, changing the subject abruptly.

“You felt that?”

“I saw it,” Nathan replied plainly, as if it were obvious.

Her expression darkened slightly as her gaze returned to the far end of the banquet hall where Marcus Antonius still stood, basking in his own presence and lavishing Freja with thinly veiled compliments. The general’s laughter echoed from across the room, rich and full of pride, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Fulvia’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “I was supposed to be his fiancée,” she muttered. “But then he left me—for Caesar’s daughter. Just like that. He chose her over me.” She gave a short, humorless snort, one hand tightening around the stem of her wineglass.

Well, it would be more accurate to say he chose Caesar over her since from what Nathan had seen Marcus Antoinus and Julia weren’t in direct intimate relationship yet.

Nathan tilted his head slightly. “Because she’s Caesar’s daughter?”

“What else could it be?” Fulvia spat softly, her voice cutting through the background noise of clinking goblets and noble chatter. “I used to dream of marrying a man with ambition, someone who matched my standing—someone who’d make a name for us both. I thought Marcus was that man. But now? That dream is ash in the wind.”

Nathan’s gaze narrowed, considering her words carefully. He didn’t pity her—but he understood. Status, legacy, family reputation—it was everything in a place like Rome.

“If it’s him,” Nathan said thoughtfully, “he’ll likely take you anyway. As a second wife. The man has more pride than principles.”

Fulvia laughed again and downed another deep gulp of wine. “No. He won’t. My family despises Caesar, and Caesar made it clear he wants nothing to do with us. He sees us as an obstacle. And Marcus? He wouldn’t dare go against Caesar’s will—not when he’s trying to climb the political ladder.”

She tried to add something more, but her words faltered, her breath uneven. Her wineglass swayed slightly in her grip.

Nathan spoke for her, finishing the thought she couldn’t quite get out.”So Marcus Antonius cut all ties with you. For power. For favor. For Caesar.”

Fulvia went quiet. Her eyes glistened—not with tears, but with the dull sheen of realization long since accepted. She gave a shallow nod, saying nothing more.

Nathan studied her closely now, not just her beauty but the raw edges of her current state—vulnerable, disillusioned, isolated in the very heart of Roman power.

Perhaps luck had smiled upon him once again after all.

He didn’t believe in coincidences, only opportunities hidden in chaos.

“Does your family still hold significant influence in Rome—”

“Heeeey!”

A loud voice cut through before he could ask something.

Nathan turned his head slightly, his expression tightening as a young figure pf his age approached with boisterous energy. It was one of the Heroes of the Amun-Ra Empire—Hugo Lindqvist; also blessed with an SSS-Rank Skill.

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