I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

"It's Poseidon," Demeter said, her voice quick and troubled. "Some of our people have reported finding traces of him… in Tartarus."

Nathan froze on the spot hearing that.

Poseidon.

He was dead.

Nathan was the one who killed him with Thanatos's Skill.

Yet the death of a god was never so simple. Immortality was a chain, and divine essence clung stubbornly to existence even when the body perished. Nathan knew this better than anyone.

It was Thanatos who had ensured the deed remained buried in silence. The god of death had locked Poseidon away in the lowest, most merciless abyss of Tartarus—so deep that even the other Olympians dared not cast their gaze there. Down in those fathomless pits, there would be no escape, no witnesses, no chance of resurrection. No one would hear Poseidon's voice recounting what had happened that day, when Nathan's hand ended his reign.

And more than that—Poseidon had been the last to see Hera alive. He alone might have whispered her fate. He had glimpsed Khione, the snow goddess thought lost, alongside Aphrodite and even Amaterasu herself. Too many secrets bound to one god's survival. Thanatos had sealed him away only for Nathan.

Yet now… rumors drifted like smoke from the depths of Tartarus. Whispers. A faint stirring of Poseidon's essence.

Nathan frowned. He didn't think Thanatos was a sloppy woman. If Poseidon's presence had been felt, then it was no accident. Somehow, the sea god had forced his existence to the surface, if only for an instant, before Thanatos smothered it again in the shadows.

"Are you certain of this?" Athena's voice broke the uneasy silence. Surprise laced her words, though she masked it quickly.

"Yes," Demeter confirmed, her tone grave. "But the moment we sensed it, his presence vanished again. Snuffed out."

"Perhaps," Hestia murmured, thoughtful and calm, "he was searching for Khione. If he scoured the realms and found no trace of her, maybe he turned his gaze to Tartarus itself."

Demeter nodded slowly. "It is possible. Still… strange. If he wandered, if he searched so desperately, how is it that no one saw him? It feels less like he vanished and more as if someone—something—erased him altogether."

"You think he was attacked?" Athena's eyes sharpened. "That would be bold beyond reason. Even reckless. Few in existence would dare lay a hand on Poseidon. My father would be enraged if he learned of it."

Demeter gave a low laugh, though it carried little warmth. "Perhaps it is nothing so dire. Perhaps he is merely sulking, frustrated that he has not found Khione. Gods are no strangers to obsession."

The name hung heavy in the air. Khione.

"I pity her." Hestia's voice was uncharacteristically sharp, the hearth goddess frowning deeply. "She should not have to hide, to flee across realms, simply because Poseidon refuses to let her go. His obsession poisons her freedom. It is… shameful."

Her tone was rare, almost biting. Clearly, her patience for Poseidon was thinner than most.

Athena's expression hardened, her eyes flashing like tempered steel. "This is not the first time he has committed such acts. That man once violated one of my priestesses—defiled her—in my own temple." Her words dripped with venom, her composure cracking to reveal the fury beneath.

Nathan looked at her. In that moment, he glimpsed the Athena he had seen months ago, during the Trojan War, revealing a goddess who hated Poseidon not only as a rival but as a man who had crossed unforgivable lines.

"Poor Khione indeed," Demeter sighed, shaking her head. "It is precisely why I keep my daughter away from the wandering eyes of my brothers and the other gods. Persephone must never fall into their grasp."

Hestia inclined her head, her voice softening. "Wise. Guard her well, Demeter. Too many of our kin take what they desire without thought for the ruin they leave behind."

Athena's gaze drifted to them both. "Does my father know of this?" she asked, her voice low but edged with concern.

"Perhaps," Demeter replied with uncertainty. "He sees much, though whether he acts… is another matter."

Hestia's eyes narrowed, her tone crisp. "We waste time worrying over a man chasing a woman. There are greater threats at hand."

"Yes." Athena exhaled slowly, regaining her composure. "I agree. Our focus must return to Pandora."

"Exactly." Demeter gave a faint smile, her features softening. "It is why Zeus entrusted the matter of Pandora to you, Athena. Not to us. We trust you to guide us through this."

The warrior goddess blinked at the praise, then allowed herself a small, shy smile—an expression rare upon her proud face. "Then I will not fail you. I swear it."

"We know that already, Athena," Demeter said softly, her voice carrying that patient, maternal calm that seemed to soothe the air itself. "You have been working tirelessly since the beginning. The Trojan War was never meant to end like this, but I am certain—given time—we will find a way forward."

Athena inclined her head, her lips pressed together as if weighed down by thoughts she would not speak aloud. "Yes…" she murmured.

Nathan, listening quietly, stiffened at the mention of the Trojan War. His brow furrowed ever so slightly. Why bring that up now? He wanted to ask, but instinct told him to keep silent. Some things were better observed than questioned—at least for now.

Then Demeter's attention shifted. Her eyes, the color of ripened grain, settled on him. "Athena seems to be relying on you. Septimius, was it?"

"Yes," Nathan answered simply, his voice calm.

"Then we will place our hopes in you as well." Demeter offered him a gentle smile, though beneath it lingered a shadow of concern. "Pandora is dangerous. Be cautious when you face her."

Nathan's eyes sharpened. "Do you know how to win her over?"

The question slipped out more abruptly than he intended, and the room stilled for a heartbeat. He wasn't speaking of seduction, nor of flattering the woman who had already shaken the balance of gods and mortals alike. What he wanted was a method—an anchor, something that might calm Pandora, something that might restrain her without violence. If he understood her better, perhaps he could stop her from becoming a threat that endangered the world itself.

Demeter folded her hands thoughtfully. "I cannot say I know her well. Athena? She shares your blood, does she not? Surely you must have some insight."

Athena's face softened, her gaze lowering as she considered. "It is difficult to say. What I do know is that she yearns for freedom… always. She despises cages of any kind. And she has… a fondness for flowers."

"Flowers?" Nathan echoed, skeptical but intrigued.

Demeter brightened faintly. "Then perhaps I can help. Persephone and I tend to a garden—one of peace, untouched by corruption. If you wish, you may bring Pandora there. A place where blossoms thrive may ease her heart, if only a little. Tell me when you are to meet, and I will open it to you."

Athena nodded slowly. "A peaceful place… yes. That would make for a good beginning."

Nathan gave a quiet nod, though inwardly he felt indifferent. A garden, no matter how serene, meant little to him. But if it worked to calm Pandora, it was a lead worth considering.

"Then tomorrow will be your first meeting with her," Athena said, her tone steady but carrying an undertone of warning. "Is that acceptable to you? The next round of the tournament begins in two days, does it not?"

"Yes," Nathan replied firmly. "I will be ready."

"Good." Athena straightened, her poise returning in full. "I will return you to the Senate Castle, then."

Demeter lifted her hand in a small wave. "Until next time, Septimius. May fortune favor you."

Hestia, ever reserved, offered him only a curt nod. Then the chamber dissolved into a haze of light, Nathan's vision blurring as Athena whisked him back across realms.

When the light cleared, the sun was already dipping in the Roman sky. Afternoon painted the city in gold, though the air carried the weight of countless sins.

As they hovered above the capital, Athena's voice broke the silence. "What do you think of Rome?"

The suddenness of the question caught Nathan off guard. "A beautiful city—"

"You can be honest with me." Her words cut him off sharply, as though she'd been waiting for the pretense.

Nathan's gaze dropped to the sprawling streets below. From this height, the marble temples and bustling avenues looked almost divine. But Nathan saw past the surface.

"A terrible city," he said flatly. "One rotted with corruption. The Senators who rule it are nothing but perverts who seize innocent women and keep them as slaves. Greed, indulgence, debauchery—while the poor starve and suffer in the filth of the lower districts."

His tone carried no hesitation, only dry truth.

Athena's lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes dimmed with a shadowed sorrow. She gave a small nod. "I know. I bear responsibility for its state. But changing a culture so deeply rooted in its vices is… difficult. Even for a god. The system of the Three Emperors has held stability for now, but it feeds the same corruption I wish to uproot. I had hoped to inspire them with my church, to plant new seeds of thought. But faith twists in mortal hands. The message warps, and the old ways remain."

Her voice trembled, not with weakness, but with the burden of a goddess who had tried and failed.

Nathan regarded her quietly. For once, Athena spoke not as a strategist, not as a warrior, but as a weary guardian who had given her heart to a people who betrayed it again and again. Perhaps it was because she thought Nathan was Roman-born. Or perhaps it was his calm, steady presence—his refusal to flatter or scorn—that drew out her honesty. Whatever the reason, she revealed a rare truth, and even Athena herself seemed startled by how easily she had spoken.

"I wish Rome looked more like Athens," she admitted softly.

It became clear to Nathan that Athena had already done as much as she could to guide Rome. Even as a goddess, her influence was not limitless. Mortals clung stubbornly to their vices, twisting divine teachings into excuses for their greed and cruelty. Even if Athena forced her will upon them, what then? Gods could shape fate, but they could not uproot the corruption festering in every human heart.

The only true solution would be a radical one—a purge. To sweep away the decadent nobles, the perverse Senators, the corrupt emperors who bled the people dry. But such an act would leave Rome leaderless, plunging the empire into chaos. A city without hierarchy, without structure, would devour itself long before it could rebuild.

Nathan could understand her predicament. It was the burden of power without freedom, of wisdom without easy answers. For a brief moment, he even felt pity for her.

Then a thought struck him. He broke the silence.

"What about the Emperor—Caesar?" His voice was calm, but his eyes searched her face for a flicker of truth.

Athena's expression hardened almost instantly. A shadow crossed her gaze. "He is… too ambitious for his own good." Her words were measured, but the faint tension in her tone betrayed something deeper—disappointment, perhaps, or even resentment. She shook her head, dismissing the subject with finality. "Enough of this. I should leave now. You need rest."

Nathan studied her a moment longer, then gave a small nod. "Thanks," he said simply. The word slipped out quietly, but he meant it.

Athena blinked, then her stern features softened into a rare smile.

"I should be the one thanking you, Septimius," she replied, her voice gentler than before.

And then, with a shimmer of divine light, she vanished back to Olympus, leaving Nathan alone with the fading sun and the heavy silence of Rome.