I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Zeus sat on his grand throne, his brow furrowed, and his hand pressed against his temple. It was not often that the King of the Gods suffered from headaches, but this one was particularly fierce. A nagging, deep pain throbbed in his skull, a clear warning that something monumental was brewing.

His thoughts drifted to the mortal world below—the continent of humans he ruled over—and a creeping dread filled his immortal heart.

Conflict was festering, and he feared the worst for the world of men. As the King of the Olympian Gods, Zeus had carefully chosen not to take sides in the brewing war between the Achaeans and the Trojans. Both nations worshipped the gods faithfully, offering sacrifices and prayers. To him, their devotion made them equals. If anything, he yearned for peace.

After countless millennia of war—both among the gods and men—Zeus had grown weary of the endless fighting. He had come to understand the weight of his role as ruler, a role that demanded balance and wisdom above all.

Yet, as he cast his gaze around the room at the assembled gods, it was clear not everyone shared his sentiment.

“The Trojans should be erased from existence,” Hera declared, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. Her words were laced with disdain, and her piercing gaze shimmered coldly as she sat beside Zeus, her fingers gripping the armrest of her throne. “I don’t see why we’re even debating how to end this war. The answer is simple.”

Zeus sighed inwardly, his headache intensifying. Of course, it would be his wife, Hera, who stirred the cauldron of hostility. She had never been one to conceal her hatred for Troy, and the mortals’ conflict had only provided her with a convenient excuse to act on it.

“I agree with Hera,” came a second voice, cool and composed, yet equally sharp. It was Athena, his wise and warlike daughter, her clear blue eyes gleaming with a dangerous glow. “The Trojans do not deserve our mercy. Menelaus and Agamemnon have always been loyal to us, offering prayers and sacrifices. They deserve our support.”

Zeus glanced at Athena in mild surprise. His daughter and Hera were not known for their camaraderie—in fact, they often clashed over their differing opinions. Yet now they seemed united in their hatred of Troy, and the reason was all too clear.

The seeds of their animosity had been sown months ago when a mortal, Paris of Troy, had been asked to judge a contest of beauty between the goddesses. To Zeus’s dismay, the shepherd prince had chosen Aphrodite as the fairest, snubbing both Hera and Athena. The slight had been a public humiliation, one neither goddess could forgive.

Now, vengeance smoldered in their hearts. Paris would pay the price for his insolence, and Troy would burn alongside him. Zeus could feel the rage emanating from them both as if their wills alone could tear the city from the earth.

A sudden, melodic laugh rang out, breaking the tension. It was light and mocking, carrying a subtle air of superiority. The source was none other than Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty herself. She sat gracefully across from Hera and Athena, her radiant form practically glowing with smug satisfaction.

“I wonder,” she mused, her voice silken and sweet, “where all this hatred for Troy comes from?” She smiled playfully, her gaze flitting between the two goddesses, daring them to respond.

Hera’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Athena’s jaw tightened. Their loathing for Aphrodite was palpable, but they remained silent, unwilling to engage in a direct confrontation with her—yet.

Aphrodite’s smile deepened, knowing full well that her position was secure. Paris had chosen her as the most beautiful, and in doing so, he had secured her loyalty. She would stand with Troy in the coming war, just as surely as Hera and Athena would back the Greeks.

BADAM!

A thunderous crash echoed through the hall. All eyes turned toward the source of the disturbance: a towering, muscular figure with wild red hair and a body bristling with raw power. A deep dent now marred the surface of the golden table, where the man had slammed his fist with unrestrained force.

A manic grin stretched across his face, his fiery hair glowing with an unnatural, violent energy. The unmistakable gleam of bloodlust filled his eyes. It was Ares, the God of War.

“A war?! Finally, something interesting in this boring world! Guaahahaha!” His laughter was loud and unhinged, his excitement over the looming conflict palpable. He had no interest in the petty quarrels of the goddesses, nor did he care for the politics of the mortal world. What stirred his blood was the promise of battle, of chaos, and the delicious thrill of war.

The gods seated around the table watched him with varying expressions—some amused, others exasperated. Ares had always been predictable in his love for bloodshed, his mind always consumed with thoughts of war.

“I must admit, I’m also quite curious about how this war will unfold,” came another voice, this one light and quick. Hermes, the messenger god, leaned back in his seat, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. “Who do you think will win, everyone?” He looked around, eyes gleaming with curiosity, as if the looming conflict were a mere game to him.

A low, derisive laugh escaped Hera, her voice dripping with scorn. She glanced at Hermes with a look that suggested his question was beyond foolish. “What a ridiculous question. The Trojans don’t stand a chance against our heroes,” she said, her tone brimming with arrogance. “Achilles, Odysseus, Agamemnon, Diomedes, Ajax, Jason, Heracles… and those are just the names at the forefront.

Against whom? Hector? Paris?” She scoffed, her eyes narrowing in disdain. “Don’t make me laugh.”

The other gods murmured in agreement, nodding their heads. Hera’s point was difficult to dispute. The Achaeans’ ranks were filled with the mightiest of heroes—men who had been blessed by the gods themselves, warriors whose feats were already the stuff of legend.

But before the tension could build further, a sound floated through the air—soft, yet unmistakably beautiful. The ethereal notes of a lyre echoed in the vast chamber, and the gods turned their heads in unison toward the source.

There, sitting with a serene expression and strumming his golden lyre, was Apollo. His beauty was unmatched, with flowing golden hair that shimmered in the divine light, and emerald green eyes that sparkled with a quiet intensity. His features were as flawless as a sculptor’s masterpiece, and even in the midst of such powerful beings, he seemed to shine brighter.

A small, enigmatic smile played on his lips as he played his instrument, his fingers gliding gracefully over the strings. Then, without breaking the melody, he spoke, his voice calm yet firm.

“I have little interest in wars and bloodshed,” he said, his tone betraying none of the excitement or malice that filled the room. Yet, as the final note of his lyre faded into silence, Apollo’s green eyes locked onto Hera, his smile vanishing. “But… I will not stay quiet if anyone dares attack my city.”

The gods stilled at his words. This was not just an idle remark. It was a warning, veiled in the gentleness of his voice, but no less threatening. Troy was more than just a mortal city; it was the city Apollo himself had helped build, its towering walls erected by his own divine hands. The Trojans worshipped him as their protector, and in return, he held them under his wing.

Troy, in many ways, was Apollo’s empire, and he would not let it fall without a fight. Though he was not the type to revel in violence, anyone who sought to bring destruction upon his beloved city would find themselves facing the wrath of one of the most powerful gods on Olympus.

For all the strength of the warriors Hera had named, none could ignore the force of Apollo’s declaration. He was, after all, one of the Twelve Olympians—and aside from Zeus himself, many considered him the strongest among them.