I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

"Do you really think it's over, Nate?"

The voice that echoed through the abyss was sultry and laced with an almost teasing amusement. The Dark Goddess stood before Nathan, her lips curled into a knowing smile, her piercing eyes gleaming with mischief and something else—something unreadable. In the void where Nathan now found himself, time and space felt warped, stretched thin like fragile silk. The sensation was eerie, yet strangely familiar.

"It is," Nathan murmured, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "My body is gone—reduced to nothing but ashes. I pushed myself beyond my limits. Khione and Aphrodite both warned me, yet I ignored them. I did it anyway."

The Dark Goddess tilted her head, her dark tresses cascading over her shoulder like a curtain of midnight. "You lost your temper."

Nathan's jaw tightened. "What else was I supposed to do? Hera and Athena have interfered time and time again in the conflicts of mortals. Poseidon wasn't even subtle about it—he openly used his divine power to hunt us down, to slaughter us like insects. How could I not be angry?" His voice was cold, the fury in his chest still simmering, refusing to be extinguished.

The goddess chuckled softly, her laughter as delicate as it was haunting. "I think your anger was less about Poseidon's interference and more about the fact that he was chasing after Khione," she mused, her voice dripping with amusement.

Nathan stiffened at her words, a flicker of something unspoken flashing across his eyes. He exhaled sharply. "Maybe. But does it even matter anymore?" His fingers curled into fists, his knuckles white. "She's dead."

A sharp silence settled between them. Nathan's certainty was unwavering. He had no doubts—if he was dead, then Khione and Amaterasu were gone too. That was the rule. That was how the Forbidden Seal worked.

But then, the goddess tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "She isn't dead, though."

Nathan's breath hitched. His gaze snapped to hers, eyes wide with confusion. "What?"

The Dark Goddess grinned. "Khione and Amaterasu aren't dead. Why would they be?"

Nathan felt his chest tighten. "That's impossible," he said, shaking his head. "I used the Forbidden Seal on both of them. The contract is absolute. If I die, they die. That is the law of the seal."

The goddess took a step closer, her presence cold and suffocating. "But you aren't dead yet, are you?"

Nathan faltered. His pulse—if he even had one anymore—pounded in his ears. "I'm dead. My body turned to dust. Nothing can surpass death. Even Apollo—the god of healing himself—couldn't find a way to defy it." He turned his gaze toward the god in question, who stood in the distance, his golden aura dim, his eyes filled with the agony of watching his people fight a losing battle.

Nathan's voice softened. "He tried. For five months, he searched for a way to save me. He sacrificed his people, burned through his divinity, and yet… I still died." He let out a hollow laugh. "That's all there is to it."

The goddess leaned in, her breath ghosting against his ear. "Apollo did find a way, Nate."

His body went rigid.

"That's the reason I'm here with you," she whispered. And before he could react, she pressed her lips to his.

A violent shudder ran down his spine. Cold. A frigid, deathly cold that seeped into his very soul. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced, an unnatural chill that coiled around his very essence. And yet, despite his lack of a physical body, he felt it—felt himself tremble beneath her touch.

As she pulled away, a wicked smile adorned her lips, a gleam of something dark and ancient flickering in her eyes.

Nathan swallowed hard, his breath unsteady. "Who… who are you?"

The goddess licked her lips, savoring his reaction. Her grin widened, eerie and captivating all at once.

"My name is Thanatos," she purred, her voice a siren's call.

Nathan felt the weight of the name settle over him like a death sentence.

"You can call me Thana, Nathan."

"Thana?" Nathan's voice wavered as he spoke, his mind struggling to grasp the presence before him.

Thana tilted her head, her lips curling into an enigmatic smile. "Do you wish to live again, Nathan? Or will you accept true death?" Her voice was neither cruel nor kind—just an undeniable force that demanded an answer.

"I want to live," Nathan replied without hesitation, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment.

Her smile widened, revealing sharp, gleaming teeth. "Then, you must give me your soul."

Nathan stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. **"My soul?"**

"Yes," she affirmed, her voice dripping with an eerie certainty. "Do you accept? Give me your soul, and I will grant you life once more."

Nathan did not answer immediately. His gaze drifted downward, beyond the void, toward the battlefield below.

Hector and Khillea had been fighting for what felt like an eternity. The clash of their blades reverberated through the air, an unrelenting storm of steel and fury. Hector's body was drenched in blood, his breathing ragged, his once-proud stance faltering under exhaustion. Wounds covered him—deep gashes across his arms, burns seared into his flesh. And yet, he stood. He fought. For his wife, his son, his people. For Troy.

Khillea, in contrast, remained almost untouched. Her armor glistened beneath the fading sunlight, her blade unyielding, her movements relentless. She was a force of nature, an unstoppable tempest of destruction. But beneath her merciless assault, there was something unsettling in her eyes—a hollow emptiness, as if death no longer held meaning for her.

They were both important to Nathan.

He refused to let this battle end with one of them lost.

Nathan clenched my fists and turned back to Thana, meeting her gaze without fear. "Take my soul. But I will live."*

Her grin widened, darkness swirling around her like a living entity. Nathan's vision blurred, the world twisting into nothingness.

°°°°

The sun hung low over the Trojan plains, casting long, weary shadows over the battlefield. The sky was painted with hues of crimson and gold, as if the very heavens bled for the warriors below. Darkness crept along the horizon, a silent harbinger of the night to come.

And still, the battle raged.

Though countless warriors fought and perished, all eyes remained fixed on one clash—the brutal struggle between Hector, the prince of Troy, and Khillea, the relentless warrior of the Greeks.

To those watching, they were no longer human. They were monsters. Gods of war, locked in a dance of death with no end in sight.

Hector swayed on his feet, his breathing labored, his grip on his sword trembling from sheer exhaustion. Blood dripped from his wounds, staining the earth beneath him, yet he refused to fall. Even as pain wracked his body, he stood for his people.

Khillea, on the other hand, showed no such strain. Her stance was unwavering, her every strike precise and merciless. And yet, behind that unwavering strength, there was something unsettling—an absence of desire to win, as if the battle itself was the only thing that kept her tethered to the world.

The Trojans held their breath, their hearts heavy with the inevitable. Silent tears traced the faces of Hector's family, for they had seen the truth long ago.

The battle had been decided within the first hour.

It continued only because Hector refused to fall.

But now, it was only a matter of minutes.

Hector could barely stand, his body battered and broken, his strength dwindling like the last embers of a dying fire. And yet, he held his sword firm, refusing to kneel, refusing to surrender.

Aeneas and Atalanta stood at the edge of the battlefield, their hands clenching into fists. Every instinct screamed at them to intervene, to throw themselves between Hector and Khillea—to stop this madness before it reached its tragic conclusion. But they did not move.

This was a battle between warriors, and they understood better than anyone that Hector would never accept outside help. Khillea had challenged him alone, and he would fight her alone. To step in now would be an insult, a dishonor to his name. If he died here, it would be as a warrior—one who earned his place among the honored dead in the fabled Isles of Heroes.

BADAM!

Just as Hector steadied himself for another attack, a sudden impact shattered the air. Khillea's fist crashed into his jaw with the force of a divine hammer, sending him flying. His body slammed into the blood-soaked earth, carving a deep trench in the dirt before coming to a halt.

Pain exploded through his body as he struggled to move. His vision blurred, his mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

A shadow loomed over him.

Khillea.

She had moved at an inhuman speed, closing the distance in an instant. Her golden armor glowed in the dimming sunlight, her flaming sword raised high—an executioner delivering the final stroke.

Hector gritted his teeth and forced his arms to move. He tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him, refusing to support his weight.

The blade came down.

Instinct alone saved him. He raised his sword just in time, catching the strike before it split him in two. But he could not stop it entirely. A wave of searing heat erupted as Khillea's flaming sword cut across his stomach, carving a deep, smoking wound.

"Gahh!" Hector coughed violently, blood spilling from his lips. His strength drained away, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. His body screamed for rest, for release. But even as his consciousness threatened to slip, he forced his arm to move.

A final, desperate swing of his sword.

But Khillea was faster.

She leapt back, avoiding the strike with ease, landing gracefully on her feet. Her golden eyes bore down on him, watching as his trembling fingers lost their grip on his weapon. His sword slipped from his grasp, falling to the ground with a dull, final thud.

Khillea exhaled, lowering her own weapon. "It's over." Her voice was calm, almost… solemn. She lifted her sword once more, preparing for the final strike. "You were strong, Hector of Troy."

And then, she swung down to end it.

But in that instant—

Everything froze.

A stillness fell upon the battlefield, unnatural and absolute. The air grew heavy, thick with an overwhelming presence. A silence so profound it seemed to smother even the sound of breathing.

A chill—sharp and piercing—spread across the field, creeping into the bones of every warrior. It slithered through the air like an invisible specter, sending shivers down the spines of all who stood witness. Even Khillea felt it.
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For the first time, she hesitated.

Something was coming.

Something terrifying.

Her instincts screamed at her to react. She shifted instantly, raising her golden shield just as an explosion echoed through the battlefield.

Impact.

An unseen force crashed into her shield with terrifying speed, the sheer force sending shockwaves rippling through her body. Her arm trembled under the impact, her fingers numb from the force that rattled her bones. And then—

She was sent flying.

The mighty Khillea, the warrior who had dominated this battle without pause, was blown backward.

The earth trembled beneath the explosion of power. Then, a second detonation roared through the air.

Out of nowhere, a wall of ice erupted from the ground. Jagged, unyielding, impenetrable. The frozen monolith carved a divide between the Greeks and Hector's wounded body, shielding him from all harm.

The battlefield was stunned into silence.

Hera's eyes widened in disbelief. She stepped forward, gazing upon the impossible sight before her. "What is this…?"

Athena moved beside her, her expression unreadable. But her sharp gaze flickered toward the figure standing amidst the icy aura beyond the barrier.

A presence.

A being hidden within the freezing mist, its form barely visible, its power undeniable.

Both goddesses narrowed their eyes.

And then—

The figure vanished and Hector's body wasn't there anymore.