I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

The young woman, with large, luminous blue eyes that seemed to reflect the very skies Apollo ruled over, remained kneeling, hands clasped together in a gesture of prayer. Her voice was low, murmuring words of devotion to her god, completely ignoring Agamemnon’s looming presence.

“Who are you?” Agamemnon’s voice cut through the silence.

She did not answer at first, nor did she turn to face him. For a moment, Agamemnon felt a surge of anger. How dare she ignore him, the King of kings?

But just as he was about to repeat himself, she stopped her prayers and slowly rose to her feet. She stood gracefully, her movements fluid like water. When she finally turned to face him, her blue eyes locked onto his, and for the first time in a long while, Agamemnon felt something akin to hesitation.

“I am Astynome,” she said softly. “The high priestess of Apollo. I offer my prayers to the god, even in these dark times.”

There was no fear in her voice, no trembling in her stance. She stood before him, as resolute as the statue of Apollo towering behind her. Agamemnon found himself both impressed and irritated. She should be trembling, begging for mercy like the others.

“Do you not fear me, girl?” He asked, narrowing his gaze. “Do you not know who I am?”

Astynome met his gaze evenly. “You are Agamemnon, King of Mycenae. But my fear is not for men, no matter how powerful they believe themselves to be.” She glanced briefly at the statue behind her. “I fear only the gods.”

Her words, though spoken calmly, carried a weight that struck Agamemnon more deeply than he would admit. For a moment, the image of his own daughter, Iphigenia, crossed his mind. The sacrifice he had made for the sake of this war. The gods had demanded blood—his blood—and yet they had not spared him from the horrors of this conflict. What had been the purpose of that sacrifice?

“You speak of gods as though they will save you,” Agamemnon said coldly, masking his momentary discomfort with arrogance. “But where are they now, Astynome? Where is your Apollo? He cannot protect you from what is to come. No god will. They are all with us.”

Astynome’s eyes flickered with something—a mixture of sorrow and understanding. She took a step closer.

“The gods watch, even when they seem silent,” she replied. “And they will judge all men, in time. Even you, Agamemnon.”

For a fleeting second, Agamemnon felt an icy shiver crawl up his spine. He quickly dismissed it. She was just a priestess—nothing more. Yet, something about her gaze lingered in his mind, stirring old fears.

“Then they will watch you being defiled by me. You will make for excellent entertainment until I erase you and your kind from existence, Trojans of the world. At least you will have a magnificent view and the honor of sharing the bed of the King of Kings,” Agamemnon declared with a smirk, his voice dripping with arrogance.

He towered over Astynome, a priestess bound to the god Apollo, his eyes gleaming with cruel intent. Yet despite the horrifying words spoken, Astynome did not flinch, did not tremble. Instead, a faint, almost serene smile curved her lips.

Agamemnon’s brow furrowed in confusion. He had expected fear—terror even—but here she was, standing before him, calm and undisturbed, as if his threats meant nothing.

“Why are you smiling?” He asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.

“As Apollo’s priestess, it is my duty to deliver his visions to those who seek his wisdom, to share what the god sees for the fates of others,” Astynome began, her voice soft but steady. “Yet, for the first time since I took this sacred role, I have seen nothing when it comes to my own future.”

Agamemnon let out a harsh laugh, his amusement ringing through the empty temple. “He has abandoned you, and you smile at your misfortune?”

“Whether Apollo has abandoned me or not matters little,” Astynome replied. “I will accept my fate, whatever it may be. But know this—I am certain it will not be at your side, King Agamemnon.”

There was a quiet, unwavering confidence in her words, and it was this confidence that unsettled Agamemnon the most. The certainty with which she spoke, despite the looming uncertainty of her vision, struck a chord of doubt deep within him. She could see nothing of her fate—was it because the god had indeed forsaken her, or was there something even greater at play?

Even in the face of this unknown, Astynome wouldn’t lose her face.

But behind her resolute expression, there was the faintest shadow of doubt. Had Apollo truly turned his gaze from her? Or was the veil of nothingness she saw a sign of something far more mysterious?

Agamemnon’s smirk faded, replaced by simmering anger at the audacity of her defiance. Her refusal to cower, to fear him, was an insult he would not tolerate. He had broken many before her—proud warriors, defiant nobles—but there was something about her calm that made him seethe. His fists clenched, knuckles turning white.

But then he smiled—a dark, twisted expression that promised cruelty. He was eager, oh so eager, to see that calm, beautiful face twisted in anguish, to see her break. He imagined her begging, pleading for his mercy, her pride shattered under the weight of his will. He would take her, night after night, until that confidence melted away, until she became a willing participant in her own degradation.

Without warning, he lunged forward, his grip iron as he seized her arm, fingers digging into her soft skin. Astynome winced, a slight groan of pain escaping her lips, but her expression remained composed. Agamemnon dragged her out of Apollo’s temple.

°°°°°°

“Aren’t you going to do something, brother?” Artemis asked, as she glanced toward her twin.

Apollo, standing beside her, remained still, his gaze fixed on the scene unfolding below.

“I wish I could,” he murmured, his voice heavy with restrained emotion. “But I cannot intervene directly to save someone. Father watches us closely today, perhaps more than ever. If only someone else steps forward to help her… then, maybe, I could bless him to fight Agamemnon.”

Artemis frowned, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the situation below. “What about her father?” she asked, pointing to the heartbreaking sight at the temple’s entrance. Astynome’s father knelt on the ground, his once proud figure now bent low in supplication. His hands trembled as he reached out, his voice choked with tears as he begged Agamemnon to spare his daughter.

“Please, my King,” he sobbed, “take mercy on her. She is innocent, a priestess in service to the gods. Do not take her from Apollo’s temple. I beg of you.”

Agamemnon glanced at the man with contempt, the faintest curl of a sneer twisting his lips. Without a word, he kicked the old man aside, sending him sprawling to the ground, the sound of his body hitting the stone echoing through the sacred space.

“He’s too weak,” Apollo said, shaking his head slowly. “Even if I granted him strength, it would be a waste. He wouldn’t stand a chance against Agamemnon.”

“But she is your priestess, brother. She has served you faithfully,” Artemis said.

“I know,” Apollo replied, his voice low and strained. He did not need reminding. Astynome was one of the few mortals he truly respected, her loyalty and devotion unmatched. “But sometimes, even the gods must let events play out. We cannot always interfere simply because something feels unjust to us.”

His words rang with the ancient truth known among the immortals. Mortals lived and died, their fates often beyond the direct intervention of gods. To meddle without reason could bring wrath from their father, Zeus, and alter the delicate balance between fate and divine will.

“I promise you this, Agamemnon,” Apollo said under his breath, his eyes narrowing as they followed the arrogant king dragging Astynome away. “You will not have a peaceful death.”

Beside them, Aphrodite stood in unusual silence, her expression thoughtful, her lips curved ever so slightly in a smile that neither Apollo nor Artemis could understand.

“You won’t have to worry about your priestess for long, Apollo,” Aphrodite said softly after a moment, her voice carrying an eerie calm. “It seems fate has already set something in motion.”

Both Apollo and Artemis turned to her in confusion.

“What do you mean?” Artemis asked, her brow furrowed. “What do you see?”

Aphrodite’s smile deepened as she gazed at a specific spot near the temple, her eyes gleaming with the certainty of someone who knew far more than she was revealing. Slowly, Apollo and Artemis followed her gaze, their curiosity piqued.

Atop the temple of Apollo, a solitary figure stood, outlined against the sky. His silhouette was sharp, cutting a striking image against the backdrop of the heavens. He gazed down upon the unfolding scene below, with an eerie silence. His cold, ice-blue eyes locked onto Agamemnon and Astynome.