I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

To her, this war was little more than training—a preparation for a far darker vengeance she longed to unleash. The Trojan War, with its endless bloodshed, was merely the first act in her own tale of retribution. Courtney’s purpose lay beyond the defeat of the Trojans. She was driven by a promise of vengeance, a desire to make the Divine Knights suffer as she had suffered. They had taken Nathan from her, killing him without mercy, and she was determined to make them pay. One day, she vowed, her flames would consume them, burning their flesh as they had burned her heart.

All of that because they had dared to take Nathan from her.

None of Courtney’s classmates dared to interfere with the brutal onslaught she unleashed. They watched from a distance, their faces a mixture of awe and fear, but none took even a step forward. Fear was their first reason. In the months since Nathan’s death, Courtney had grown colder, distant, and terrifyingly intense. Her usual warmth had been replaced by an icy demeanor that made her classmates shudder. Only a few—Sienna, Siara, Aisha, and Amelia—felt comfortable enough to speak with her. These were Nathan’s closest companions, the only ones who could withstand the cold steel of her gaze and the raw grief simmering beneath her composure.

But their reluctance wasn’t just rooted in fear. No one had the slightest intention of stopping Courtney’s rampage. Though her attacks were devastating, she held a clear restraint, careful not to harm any of her allies even amidst the chaos of battle. War was an unforgiving stage, and this particular battlefield was packed with thousands of warriors—both allies and enemies—clashing with brutal intensity. Here, every spell, every sweep of a sword, had to be calculated. Wild, large-scale magic attacks could just as easily strike an ally as an enemy, so most chose to wield their swords, channeling magic only to enhance their blades. This was the unspoken rule of the battlefield: strike with precision or risk disaster.

Nearby, Aisha fought as well, though her approach was a stark contrast to the frenzied power of Sienna or the cold ruthlessness of Courtney. Once, she too might have unleashed her fury with abandon, but not anymore. A profound change had come over her since that fateful encounter with Nathan. Discovering he was alive, sharing an intimate moment that reignited her heart, she felt as though she had been reborn. Happiness, raw and pure, flowed through her with a vigor she had never known. Her purpose here wasn’t driven by anger or vengeance but by a quiet loyalty and an inner peace only Nathan could grant.

Aisha knew Nathan was fighting for the Trojans. If he had asked her, she would have abstained from the war entirely, but he’d insisted she maintain her cover, to avoid arousing any suspicion from Liphiel or the others on her side. His only request was that she spare certain key figures—the Trojan commanders, Hector and Aeneas—men who were vital to the Trojan cause. They needed to survive if there was to be any hope of victory.

Their communication was as covert as it was precious. During the frenzy of battle, Nathan would occasionally approach her, seemingly engaging her in combat, though their swords barely touched. In those brief, adrenaline-charged moments, they would exchange whispers, sharing intelligence and words of comfort. These fleeting exchanges were all Aisha needed. Though the moments were rare and hurried, each one lingered in her heart. They would share information on Greek movements, trade knowing glances, and, when the chaos around them permitted, a swift, stolen kiss—fleeting but filled with the passion and reassurance they both craved.

In these brief encounters, Aisha found strength. She fought on not out of duty or bloodlust but for those precious moments with Nathan, for the possibility of a future where they could finally be free from this conflict. For now, she was content to play her part, to keep their secret safe, and to savor the rare glimpses of love in the midst of war.

It was Aisha who had been stealing secret kisses from Nathan, sneaking in moments of affection whenever she could catch him alone. Nathan, on his part, was doing his utmost to conceal their exchanges, glancing over his shoulder and sidestepping around his comrades, all while feigning an air of seriousness. Their circumstances were far from ideal for romance, but the thrill of hiding their connection seemed to draw Aisha closer, and Nathan found himself unable to resist.

Gwen, however, stood further back with Iphlea, both taking a more reserved and defensive position on the battlefield. Ever since their crushing defeat against Heiron, the two had been careful, almost wary. They were well aware of Heiron’s allegiance to the Trojans and knew that he was a dangerous opponent, one who could turn the tide against them if they were reckless. Yet despite their vigilance, Gwen had not caught a single glimpse of him, not even a shadow. It was as though Heiron had vanished into thin air.

Who could blame her?

Nathan wasn’t a master at concealing his energy just yet, but he had learned enough to trick even Gwen’s trained senses. His presence was faint, elusive, making him as difficult to track as a ghost.

“I can’t find him…” Iphlea murmured beside Gwen, her eyes narrowing as she tried to trace even the faintest hint of his mana.

“Is he even here?” Gwen asked, dumbfounded, crossing her arms with a growing sense of impatience. Two months had passed without a single trace of him—a fact that both irked and unsettled her.

“No, I’m certain he’s somewhere close. I can feel a faint pulse of his mana, but it’s like chasing a shadow. I can’t pinpoint his exact location,” Iphlea replied, her tone tinged with frustration. She squinted, her gaze sweeping over the distant commanders in the Trojan ranks, where a cluster of figures loomed.

“If he’s that strong, we should be able to see him—like those warriors,” Gwen said, her eyes settling on the intimidating figures far off. Among them stood a striking woman, her skin tanned from sun and battle, radiating an undeniable aura of power. This was Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, her sharp gaze surveying the battlefield with unrestrained confidence.

Penthesilea was dressed in a mix of leather and armor, adorned with a blood-streaked helmet that only seemed to enhance her fierceness. Her armor, scarcely more than battle-worn straps and protective plating, was splattered with the fresh blood of her enemies, gleaming in the sunlight. Each swing of her weapon was a deadly arc, leaving a trail of carnage in her wake.

“Bunch of cowards! Are all Greeks this weak?!” she roared, her voice booming across the battlefield before she swung her sword in a devastating arc, decapitating several Greek soldiers in a single, brutal motion. The blood splashed across her bronze armor, blending with the crimson stains already decorating her skin. Behind her, dozens of Amazons fought with equal ferocity, their loyalty to their queen unwavering.

“Kill them all! Don’t you dare lose to these weaklings!” Penthesilea commanded, her voice harsh but commanding, a war cry that spurred her warriors forward with renewed fury.

“Yes, my Queen!” the Amazons responded in unison, their voices a fierce and loyal chorus as they surged ahead, clashing with the Greeks in a whirl of blades and shrieks. They moved like a force of nature, each Amazon fighting with a skill and tenacity that could only come from a lineage said to be blessed by Ares himself, the god of war.

Penthesilea’s grin grew wider as she scanned the chaos, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. Yet there was something she sought, someone she desired to challenge above all others.

“Where is Achilles?” she bellowed, her voice dripping with disdain. “Is he hiding, cowering behind his ranks?” A mocking laugh escaped her, loud and fearless.

But despite her taunts, Achilles was nowhere to be found, caught in a different part of the battlefield where the ranks of Trojans surged endlessly. She moved through their numbers as if they were mere obstacles, dispatching soldiers with lethal precision, each strike of her sword an unrelenting storm. It was clear she wasn’t yet fighting with her full strength, merely cutting through as if this were some twisted sport, her expression one of amusement as she tore through the Trojan forces.

“Do you wish to meet death so soon, Queen of the Amazons?” The voice was calm but laced with challenge, cutting through the noise of the battlefield. It belonged to none other than Atalanta, the famed huntress. She stood poised, her bow raised high, releasing a relentless torrent of arrows, each one finding its mark with deadly precision, toppling Greek soldiers like dominos.

Penthesilea whipped her head around, her fierce gaze locking onto the huntress. “Do you seek death, Atalanta? I don’t care if you’re favored by Artemis herself.” Her eyes burned with defiance, her lips curling into a mocking smile.

Atalanta met her glare evenly, her voice steady. “It’s simply advice. I’ve crossed paths with Achilles before. He’s no ordinary man, and I doubt even Hector would stand a chance against him.”