I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Nathan turned his head slightly, his expression tightening as a young figure of his age approached with boisterous energy. It was one of the Heroes of the Amun-Ra Empire—Hugo Lindqvist; also blessed with an SSS-Rank Skill.

“I was hoping to speak with Septimius,” Hugo began, his voice laced with casual cheer as he approached, “but it seems he’s rather occupied with a stunning companion.”

His words, clearly intended to charm, were accompanied by a pointed smile directed at Fulvia. Yet she offered no reaction—no flicker of amusement or acknowledgement. Her expression remained as composed and indifferent as a marble statue, her gaze resting distantly on the rim of her goblet.

Nathan, seated beside her, mirrored that same disinterest. He barely looked at Hugo, his thoughts far more preoccupied with the woman at his side. He wasn’t sure if Fulvia had brought him here for a reason, or if she simply wanted company, but either way, he was content to be the one sitting next to her. He also saw in her a potential ally—or at least a valuable source of information. Fulvia’s family name carried weight, and in Nathan’s ever-growing plot to challenge Caesar, every ounce of influence counted.

Hugo cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “You could at least say something,” he muttered, frustration creeping into his voice as he glanced between the two.

“Say whatever you came to say,” Nathan answered coolly, speaking for both himself and Fulvia. His tone was clipped, dismissive. He had no patience for Hugo’s posturing.

Fulvia didn’t even blink at the exchange. She raised her glass again, sipping in silence, her thoughts veiled behind her aloof gaze. Whether she was disinterested or simply indulging in her own contemplations, Nathan couldn’t tell—but she certainly wasn’t paying Hugo any mind.

Hugo, clearly thrown by the cold reception, finally forced out the reason for his approach. “Fine,” he said, feigning indifference. “I just wanted to ask… is Arsinoe alright?”

Nathan raised an eyebrow at the name, his attention shifting.

“Arsinoe?” he echoed.

“Yes, you know, the sister of Ptolemy and Cleopatra,” Hugo said with a nod, a smile tugging at his lips as though the mere mention of her brought him joy. “I heard she was in the palace… held by her sister. But now that I’m here, I’ll make sure she’s free. She deserves better.”

There was a spark of genuine sentiment in Hugo’s voice—his affections for Arsinoe were apparent, almost boyish. Whether Arsinoe returned those feelings, Nathan seriously doubted. Still, the sincerity in Hugo’s words couldn’t be denied.

“Arsinoe was taken by Caesar,” Nathan said, his voice lower now, edged with solemnity. “She’s imprisoned in Rome. A political prisoner.”

The color drained from Hugo’s face. “W-What?” he stammered, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“It’s the truth, Hero,” Nathan replied, his words carrying a sharper weight than before.

Before Hugo could process the revelation further, another presence approached, interrupting the tense moment.

Nathan turned, already feeling his patience thin, only to find himself staring at a tall man with well-groomed blond hair and the proud bearing of nobility. He wore fine Roman garments, the kind that clung to political privilege and whispered of old money. Many nearby turned to look at him with a mixture of curiosity and recognition. Whoever he was, he held influence.

The man smiled amiably. “Ah, I see I’m not recognized. Allow me,” he said, extending a hand with noble ease. “Lucius Antoinus. My elder brother is Marcus Antoinus.”

Nathan blinked. Now he saw it—the resemblance in the bone structure, the confident smile, the Roman arrogance that Marcus wore like a second skin. But unlike his infamous brother, Lucius seemed more composed, less intoxicated by the theatrics of war and power.

As Lucius turned toward Fulvia, his smile softened, though a hint of chastisement glimmered in his eyes.

“Fulvia,” he said, his tone warm yet firm, “you really shouldn’t drink so much. It doesn’t suit you.”

Fulvia cast him a brief glance—annoyed but not surprised. She didn’t answer.

Nathan watched the interaction closely. This Lucius was different—more controlled than Marcus, more calculating. The kind of man who knew when to speak and when to listen.

Fulvia slowly lifted her gaze, her blue eyes narrowing at the man who had just spoken. She studied Lucius Antoinus with faint amusement dancing in her drunken expression, her wine-stained lips curling into a half-smile.

“I drink when I please, Lucius,” she said coolly, raising her goblet in a mock toast before taking another languid sip. “And it’s hardly any of your concern.”

Lucius didn’t flinch at her sharp reply. His voice remained calm, gentle even, as if he had prepared for this very reaction. “I’m only concerned for your well-being, Fulvia. You are the daughter of the Fulvii—one of the most distinguished houses in Rome. People are watching you. It doesn’t serve you to be seen like this.”

Fulvia’s smile thinned, turning into something far more brittle. Her eyes, however, gleamed with a cold edge. “And why should you care, Lucius Antoinus?” she asked, her tone clipped. “The engagement between your brother and me is finished. You have no obligation to act like you’re still family.”

Whether it was the wine making her bold or simply her nature laid bare, Nathan couldn’t tell. But there was no denying her words were cutting, laced with pride and years of unresolved tension.

Lucius’s lips tightened slightly, though he held onto his composed demeanor. “Perhaps the engagement has ended,” he said carefully, “but an alliance between our families is not beyond reach. Marcus may have had other… responsibilities, but I don’t. I’m free to make my own choices.”

Nathan leaned back slightly, observing them both. And now he saw the full picture with disturbing clarity.

Lucius Antoinus didn’t just approach Fulvia out of brotherly concern—he wanted her. Whether it was genuine affection, ambition for political advancement, or some blend of both, the desire was clear in his tone. And from the way he subtly smiled as he mentioned Marcus, it almost seemed as if Lucius was glad his brother had let her go.

But Fulvia had no such intentions.

“Nothing will happen between us,” she said flatly, her voice sharp as a blade. “My father has lost every last shred of trust in your family—and so have I.”

Her words hung in the air like a guillotine’s blade just before the fall.

Lucius opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Hugo—who had been quietly fidgeting nearby—suddenly stepped forward.

“Wait a moment—Lucius Antoinus, was it?” he interjected, his voice more urgent than polite. “Tell me… do you know anything about Arsinoe?”

Lucius’s expression cooled instantly, though he forced a courteous smile as he turned toward Hugo. “She is, as I said, a political prisoner,” he replied smoothly. “If you wish to see her, you’ll need to go through Caesar himself. The Emperor does not allow free visits to such important captives.”

“I will,” Hugo said, without hesitation. He spun on his heel and walked off with purpose, clearly intending to act on his bold declaration.

Lucius turned back to Fulvia, now noticeably more serious. “Fulvia,” he said quietly, his voice gentling again. “I understand how betrayed you must feel. What my brother did was inexcusable—he should have honored you. Respected you. But his failure only proves that you deserve more.”

Fulvia gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Are you trying to suggest you could give me more?” she asked, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Please, Lucius. Don’t make me laugh.”

There was a pause—brief but thick with tension. Lucius stepped a little closer, his gaze now unwavering.

“Do you not trust me?” he asked. “I will prove myself to you, Fulvia. I can show you I’m different from him. And when I do—will you accept me?”

Fulvia blinked slowly, the alcohol clearly beginning to take its toll. Her posture swayed slightly, and her eyes lost their focus. “Do whatever you want,” she murmured, her words slurred just slightly before her body tilted forward, her balance slipping.

Lucius Antoinus instinctively reached out—but before he could touch her, Nathan moved swiftly, catching Fulvia with one arm, steadying her before she could fall.

“I’ll take her back to her apartments,” Nathan said, his voice firm, almost protective.

Lucius’s expression darkened in an instant. His earlier civility vanished like smoke in the wind. “What?” he hissed, eyes narrowing. “Do you believe you have any right to lay a finger on the heiress of the Fulvii family?”

Nathan paused, holding Fulvia securely at his side. Then, slowly, he turned his head, his eyes locking onto Lucius’s with an intensity that made the air seem to grow colder.

His gaze was like a storm frozen in ice—quiet, deadly, unflinching.

“I said I will take her back to her apartments,” Nathan repeated, each word crisp and cold.

Lucius Antoinus froze in place, startled. No one—no senator, no soldier, no noble—had ever looked at him like that before. The sheer disregard, the quiet in Nathan’s eyes, was like being struck by a blade wrapped in winter.

For the first time, Lucius found himself without words.

Nathan didn’t wait for a reply. He turned, guiding Fulvia gently but firmly through the crowd, ignoring the stares, the murmurs, and especially the man left behind in stunned silence.

He held her carefully, making sure she didn’t stumble—his touch protective, not possessive. She leaned against him without resistance, her pride subdued by the weight of her own thoughts and the wine swimming in her veins.

Fulvia stumbled slightly, her steps unsteady as they made their way through the arched halls. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath sweet with wine, and her golden hair had begun to loosen from its once-elegant styling. As they exited the hall into the quieter corridor beyond, she let out a hiccup and, without meaning to, let her glass slip from her fingers.

The fine crystal goblet struck the marble floor and shattered, fragments scattering like fallen stars.

“Thank you…” she murmured, her voice thick with both alcohol and emotion. “For getting me out of that hell, Sheptimus…” she said, slurring his name slightly as she bit her tongue.

Nathan didn’t respond immediately. He steadied her with a hand at her back as he walked beside her.

“If it was that hellish, you shouldn’t have gone in the first place.”

The words weren’t meant to wound, but there was truth in them—and she knew it.

“I… I don’t know why,” Fulvia admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe I just… wanted to see him again. That miserable man.”

She didn’t need to say his name. Nathan knew exactly who she meant—Marcus Antoinus. The same man who had once been promised to her, only to cast her aside for greater political advantage.

“I’m stupid, aren’t I?” she said with a hollow laugh. “The great heiress of the Fulvii family—mooning like a girl over some brute who threw her away.”

Nathan glanced at her, surprised not by her words but by her vulnerability. Despite the strong, icy exterior she showed to the world, there was still a woman beneath all that pride—wounded, angry, and clinging to the ghost of something she should have left behind.

“You’re not stupid,” he said at last, his voice low and honest. “The stupid one is him—for throwing away someone like you just to become a glorified second fiddle. If you’re as ambitious as you seem, then you should’ve never wasted your time on a man who bends the knee to another.”

Fulvia turned to look at him, her balance wavering slightly. Even in her intoxicated state, there was clarity in her eyes—a flicker of something raw and unguarded.

She blinked, almost surprised by his words, as if no one had dared speak to her so plainly before.

They continued walking in silence, her arm occasionally brushing against his. Fulvia, despite her noble status, gave him clear instructions through the winding staircases and long stone corridors of the Senate Castle. Her private quarters were far above the rest, nestled deep in one of the uppermost towers—a place reserved only for the highest of Rome’s elite.

It took nearly ten minutes to reach it. By the time they arrived, Fulvia was leaning more heavily on Nathan, her earlier confidence dulled by weariness.

He opened the large oak doors to her chambers, a grand room draped in crimson and gold, lit only by the soft flickering of oil lamps and moonlight filtering through the balcony curtains. Nathan gently helped her toward the enormous feathered bed at the center of the chamber.

She sank onto it with a sigh, the silks whispering beneath her as she lay back.

Nathan straightened, preparing to turn away and leave quietly, but before he could step back, a soft hand caught his wrist.

“Wait,” Fulvia whispered.

He paused, surprised by the grip. Though her touch was light, it carried more weight than she perhaps intended.

“Stay.” She said.