I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Nathan entered the chamber with Athena leading confidently at his side, her steps echoing faintly against the stone floor. The air was thick with the scent of molten metal and burning oil, a heat that clung to the skin and made the room feel more like a furnace than a workshop. Sparks occasionally flared across the dim-lit forge, crackling like miniature stars before fading into the gloom.

Ahead, bent over his anvil, was a burly man whose very presence seemed carved from steel itself. He wore a soot-stained tunic that bore the marks of long hours at the forge, his hands hidden within scarred leather gloves blackened by years of labor. His hair was a coarse brown, his eyes of the same earthy shade, though dulled by exhaustion and burn scars. His face was smeared with ash, streaked with the black residue of fire and smoke. In one hand, he gripped a heavy hammer, and with every strike against the glowing metal before him, the room shuddered faintly.

“Hephaestus,” Athena’s clear voice rang out, firm yet gentle.

At once the hammering ceased. The god of the forge turned, a smile spreading across his rugged face as though the fire itself had softened. His eyes lit up, not with the glow of embers but with genuine warmth.

“Athena,” he greeted, his voice deep and gravelly, resonating like iron struck upon stone. “It has been far too long. I have been waiting for you.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, stepping forward with an eagerness that seemed almost uncharacteristic of the stoic smith.

Athena inclined her head, her calm poise unbroken. “Yes. I left you to your work—the ten artifacts we requested.”

“For Pandora,” he said knowingly. “I did not delay, not when it was you who asked it of me.” Hephaestus moved toward a shadowed corner of the workshop, his broad frame brushing past racks of half-forged blades and pieces of armor. From the clutter, he retrieved a small object—a necklace, elegant in its simplicity, yet radiating an ominous weight. Its chain glimmered faintly in the light of the forge, but all attention was drawn to the gem at its center: a smooth black stone that seemed to drink in the surrounding glow, swallowing light instead of reflecting it.

“You did it…” Athena whispered, her gaze fixed upon the artifact. Even without touching it, she could sense the terrible potential bound within, the way it seemed to pulse faintly with something alive—something dark.

“Yes,” Hephaestus confirmed with quiet pride. “Forged with Pandora’s own blood and steeped in the darkness of her accursed Box. Theoretically, it can withstand the torrent of her emotions, hold them at bay for a time… but it must be worn with care. This is no trinket for mortals. Even gods who lack discipline could lose themselves to it.”

Nathan’s eyes narrowed as he studied the necklace. Just looking at it made his chest tighten, as though the stone whispered to him in a voice he could not hear but only feel—a warning of power that could both save and destroy. Dangerous, yet necessary. A weapon meant not to slay but to endure.

Athena extended her hand, her fingers steady as she reached for the necklace. But before she could take it, Hephaestus pulled it back abruptly. Athena’s brows knit in surprise, her composure cracking for the briefest instant.

“I labored without rest for this, Athena,” Hephaestus said, his tone heavier now, almost accusatory. His broad shoulders tensed as if to emphasize the weight of his effort. “Sleepless nights, endless fire, all because you asked it of me.” His lips curled into a half-smile, and with a sweep of his arm, he motioned toward another section of the forge. There, laid out across stone tables, was an array of weapons—swords, spears, shields, each radiating divine craftsmanship. The edges gleamed like trapped lightning, their forms elegant yet lethal, works that even the Olympians themselves might envy.

Athena’s eyes widened slightly, betraying her surprise. “You… forged all of this as well? Hephaestus, this is beyond what I requested.” Her voice softened, carrying genuine gratitude. “I thank you for your devotion and your skill.”

Hephaestus chuckled, though the sound carried a weight beneath it, like embers stirring under ash. “Then grant me one thing in return. Accompany me… for a day.”

The request hung in the air. Athena blinked, her expression caught between confusion and caution. “Do you require my presence for something specific? If so, tell me now, Hephaestus.”

But he only smiled, the corners of his scarred lips curling with a hint of amusement—or perhaps something more. “No. I prefer to be ready when the moment comes.”

From where he stood, Nathan caught the shift in Hephaestus’s eyes. There was a hunger there, poorly masked behind the mask of a craftsman’s smile. It was not the hunger for glory, nor for war, but a more intimate longing. A lust. Athena, ever focused on duty, seemed oblivious to it, taking his request at face value. Nathan exhaled quietly, shaking his head at her innocence.

“I accept,” Athena replied evenly. “If that is what you wish, then I will grant it. And once more—I thank you for all you have done, Hephaestus.”

The smith’s wrinkled face stretched into a grin, his laughter echoing warmly off the forge walls. Yet beneath it, Nathan sensed something else—an eagerness, a hidden fire he didn’t know.

It was actually Poseidon who riled up Hephaestus with that stupid belief telling him that Athena was secretly loving him. Hephaestus as naive as ever in love believed it at face value and was doing his best to become strong toward Athena.

Finally, Hephaestus extended the necklace to Athena, placing it carefully in her hand as though it were both treasure and curse. Only then did his eyes shift, narrowing as they landed on Nathan for the first time.

“And who is this?” he asked, suspicion sharpening his voice.

Athena glanced at Nathan with measured calm. “He may be capable of withstanding Pandora. Of controlling her.”

Hephaestus’s gaze hardened, scrutinizing Nathan with the weight of a god’s judgment. His frown deepened. “You believe? Hmph. He looks weak to me.”

“Perhaps,” Athena said, her tone calm yet unwavering, “yes—compared to us gods, he is weaker. But I chose him for other qualities, ones that cannot be measured merely by strength of arm or divine might. He is composed, collected, and resilient. Among mortals, his strength has already reached the realm of a Demigod. More importantly, he carries within him confidence. That is a trait even gods falter without, and it will be indispensable when facing Pandora.” A faint smile touched her lips as she spoke, the kind of expression that blended pride with trust.

Nathan glanced sideways at her, unsettled. The words should have warmed him, should have stirred something like gratitude, but instead a strange unease crept into his chest. Athena… praising him? It did not sit comfortably in his mind. Perhaps because, deep down, he remembered her past intentions—that she had once wished for his death. Not out of personal hatred, not like Hera, but because his survival had meant the protection of Troy, and Troy’s fall was her desire.

And yet, now… now that he stood not as an enemy of Olympus but as someone walking a line between neutrality and reluctant ally, she revealed another side of herself. He saw it, clearer than ever: Athena was not a goddess consumed by blind hatred. She was a protector—of her people, of humanity itself. Pragmatic, yes, but not cruel. This, perhaps, was her truest self.

Hephaestus, however, did not share her sentiment. His scarred jaw tightened, and his thick brows furrowed as her praise lingered in the air. His hammer hand twitched slightly, as though resisting the urge to strike something—not metal, but the fragile pride of the mortal standing before him.

“I see…” he rumbled, his voice low, heavy as falling stone. “But mortals remain mortals. If he is to wear that necklace, then you should prepare him for what awaits. He will likely die.”

The words were blunt, without malice yet mercilessly honest, and they struck like a hammer to the chest.

Athena’s expression shifted, the faint smile fading. Her eyes clouded with something caught between sadness and resignation. She could not deny his logic, no matter how much she wished to. Slowly, she turned her gaze to Nathan, and there it was—that complicated look, as if she bore the weight of every possibility she could not speak aloud.

She said nothing more. Instead, she inclined her head politely to Hephaestus, then turned sharply, leading Nathan out of the forge.

As they stepped into the cooler corridor, Athena finally spoke again, her voice lower, more solemn. “Septimius… there is truth in what he said. If you take this necklace and face Pandora, there is indeed a chance you may die. That is why I told you—I will not force you. The decision must be yours.”

Nathan studied her, white hair catching the faint glow of the torches lining the hall. “Do you believe I will die?” he asked quietly.

Athena paused, considering her words. Her eyes softened, though her voice retained its steel. “There is a possibility. I will protect you, of that I give my word. But even so… in the case you fall, I can promise you this—I will bring you back alive.”

Alive.

The word echoed in Nathan’s mind, but it rang hollow, a cold echo that filled him with dread rather than comfort. To be brought back alive… that would mean losing his power.

But since he would die it would also mean Khione and Amaterasu dying since he had enslaved them. Googlᴇ search novel(ꜰ)ire.net

No.

He had no intention of dying anyway.

“I will do it,” Nathan said at last.

Athena’s lips curved into the faintest nod of satisfaction, but Nathan did not miss the flicker in her eyes. Almost guilt. Almost regret. She handed him the necklace, its weight heavy even before it touched his palm.

“Here. You may wear it only when facing Pandora,” she instructed. “Before that… we will start with a small conversation with her. I will remain close at your side. Have no fear.”

Nathan accepted the necklace, tucking it away with care. “Understood.”

They walked onward, their footsteps echoing softly in tandem. Yet as they stepped into the open hall, they found two figures already waiting—Demeter and Hestia, locked in quiet discussion. The air felt lighter here, scented faintly with wheat and hearth-fire, a stark contrast to the forge’s suffocating heat.

Demeter turned first, her eyes bright with urgency. “Athena! At last—you’ve come.” She strode forward, skirts brushing the marble floor.

Athena tilted her head. “What is it, Demeter?”

“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.