I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Morning crept slowly into the chamber, the first pale strands of sunlight slipping past the curtains and casting a soft glow across the room. Nathan stirred awake, feeling the warmth of Servilia’s sleeping form beside him before awareness returned fully to his body.

Then the pain hit.

A sharp groan escaped him as the familiar torment of the curses surged back into his veins like molten iron. His body tensed, arching involuntarily; he writhed against the sheets as waves of agony pulsed through him with vindictive persistence.

For a moment he clenched his teeth, fighting a low growl of frustration.

He had managed to sleep last night—miraculously, almost impossibly—despite the constant pressure of the curses. Perhaps exhaustion had finally caught up to him; the last few days had pushed him far beyond his limits. And the sex with Elin and Freja had helped lull his mind into rare stillness, easing him into rest he desperately needed.

But now the reprieve was gone.

Breathing unevenly, Nathan pushed himself upright and buried his face in his hand, fingers pressing hard against his forehead as he tried to steady himself. A deep frown etched across his features. Rage clawed within him—hot, irrational, wild. He wanted to tear something apart, to unleash the fury born from endless pain and helplessness.

But he stopped himself.

He knew better. Losing control meant letting the curses tighten their hold on him, letting them twist his emotions the way Pandora once had. He refused to fall into that abyss.

“You’re awake?”

Servilia’s voice drifted toward him, warm and gentle. When he looked her way, she smiled softly—a sight that carried a strangely soothing effect, as if her presence alone could dissolve some fraction of his suffering. She looked more rested than he had ever seen her; perhaps she couldn’t remember the last night she had slept so peacefully.

Nathan gave her a faint nod.

“You seem to be in pain,” she observed, her brow dipping slightly in concern as she watched him struggle to control his breathing.

“As always,” Nathan answered, his tone dry, resigned.

Servilia’s expression softened. There were no words she could offer that wouldn’t feel hollow. Instead, she simply reached out and touched his back, her gesture quiet but heartfelt.

Nathan exhaled slowly.

“You should get ready. The meeting with Crassus will start soon.”

She straightened at once. Today’s discussions—with Crassus, Fulvius, and the Pope of Athena’s Church—were not trivial matters. Servilia nodded firmly and slipped out of bed, heading toward the bath chamber to prepare herself with the dignity and composure the occasion required.

Left alone, Nathan focused inward. He forced himself to face the curses, to grasp whatever fragment of control he could salvage. It had to become routine—an everyday battle—otherwise he risked losing ground.

Time trickled by. Sweat pooled across his skin as he fought in silence. When at last he opened his eyes again, his muscles were trembling from exertion and half an hour had vanished. The pain was still there, vicious and unyielding, but he had dulled the edge of it. A small victory.

He rose from the bed, steadier now, and left the chamber.

Outside, a servant was passing through the hallway. Nathan stopped her with a quiet call.

“The two women who stayed in Servilia’s room—are they gone?”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied, bowing her head. “They left about an hour ago. Rather hurriedly, if I may say.”

Hurriedly… of course.

Nathan’s lips curled faintly in amusement.

He doubted they had any real urgent business. After the previous night—and the way their moans had echoed through the house, filled with breathless intensity and the abandon of first-time courage—it was far more likely they simply couldn’t bring themselves to face him yet. They were shy, overwhelmed, and uncertain how to act in the daylight after having given themselves to him so boldly together.

He didn’t blame them for that.

If anything, he was surprised they had gathered the courage to come to him together to give themselves to him.

Nathan decided to head to the bath as well, though he deliberately chose a different chamber from Servilia’s. He knew himself too well—if they entered the same steaming pool together, their morning would veer in a very different direction and they might head late to the place.

The moment he slipped into the warm water, exhaustion seeped from his limbs. He let the heat envelop him, easing the tension that had knotted through his muscles from battling the curses. The sweat that had drenched him earlier washed away, replaced by a cleaner, calmer stillness. He inhaled deeply, letting the vapor clear his mind, steadying himself for the day ahead.

When he finished, he stepped out and retrieved a fresh set of clothing from his spatial storage—simple, clean, elegant, befitting the presence he needed to project before Rome’s most influential men.

As he fastened the last clasp and stepped back into the corridor, he found Servilia already waiting.

She was breathtaking.

Her Roman stola draped beautifully around her figure, the folds cascading with the natural grace of a noblewoman born. A scarf of fine cloth was wrapped elegantly around her shoulders, subtly embroidered, soft in color yet striking in design. She looked regal—dignified, composed, radiant. One would never guess she was the mother of a teenage son; she looked more queen than matron.

Nathan allowed a smile to tug at his lips.”Such expensive clothes. Trying to impress these old men that badly?”

Servilia giggled softly as she approached, her eyes gleaming.”I only need to impress one man.”

“I’m impressed, then,” Nathan murmured.

He gently lifted her chin with his fingers and brushed his lips against hers in a soft, unhurried kiss. Several servants nearby turned away, faces reddening at the public display of affection, but neither Nathan nor Servilia spared them a thought. Their world, in that moment, contained only each other.

When they parted, calm and steady, they headed out together.

A Roman carriage had been prepared outside, finely crafted and polished for the occasion. Nathan could have easily flown Servilia through the air—he was more than capable—but today appearance mattered. Etiquette mattered. And if he were being honest, showing off a little didn’t hurt either. Arriving formally, by carriage, was the right choice for the Theatre of Pompey.

As the horses began moving, the city unfolded before them.

Nathan watched Rome pass by the window: streets humming with life, citizens hauling construction materials, artisans shouting prices, merchants displaying wares. There was no despair—no gloom from Caesar’s fall. Instead, the people carried themselves with purpose, smiles bright beneath the morning sun.

Crassus and Fulvius, it seemed, were doing their work well. Hope had returned to the people.

Nearly half an hour later, the carriage rolled to a halt before the Senate’s grand complex. Nathan stepped out first, offering a steady hand to Servilia as she descended beside him.

The Roman soldiers guarding the entrance straightened instantly. Upon recognizing Nathan—Septimius, the prodigy, the terrifyingly powerful mage—they rushed to open the gates. Their eyes flicked toward Servilia, surprised to see her walking at his side, close and familiar.

It was an unexpected pair, one they had never imagined, yet somehow it made perfect sense. Together, they were a striking vision—power and grace intertwined.

Any trace of wariness they might have shown toward Servilia vanished with Nathan present. His mere presence silenced every doubt.

The couple advanced through the hallway and were soon escorted to a private chamber deeper inside the complex. A soldier knocked once on the door, waited for Crassus’s voice from within, then swung it open.

Nathan and Servilia entered.

The door closed behind them with a soft thud, sealing them in the spacious room.

The arrangement inside was deliberate.

A rectangular table dominated the center. On one side sat three men: Crassus, Fulvius, and the Pope of Athena’s Church. The fourth seat next to them remained empty—clearly reserved for Servilia.

The message was unmistakable.

They were placing her among Rome’s highest authorities, an equal at the table, a voice beside theirs rather than beneath them.

Nathan felt a quiet satisfaction seeing that.

They had listened.

They understood his intentions.

And they respected them.

Servilia would stand at the top of Rome’s power, just as he wished.

And this meeting would decide how the city—and perhaps all of Rome—would follow their new path.

“Servilia.”

Crassus was the first to speak, inclining his head in a gesture that was both respectful and warm.

“Crassus,” Servilia returned with a gentle smile.

Their history was long and strangely harmonious. Even during her time beside Caesar, she had never shared Caesar’s resentment toward Crassus. She had understood—far better than most—that Crassus was not a man driven by ambition for conquest or domination. His desires were simpler, grounded: the safety of his family, the stability of Rome, and the quiet prosperity that came with both. She respected him for that.

They had always maintained a cordial, almost friendly relationship.

Fulvius, however, was another story entirely.

“You seem to be in excellent health, Servilia,” Fulvius remarked with a derisive scoff. “I was under the impression Caesar’s fall would have devastated you most.”

His tone dripped venom. Fulvius’s contempt for her was no secret; he had long believed Servilia to be nothing more than a parasite clinging to Caesar for influence. It was an insult rooted in ignorance. Servilia, daughter of one of the wealthiest Houses of Rome, had every resource she needed. Power for power’s sake had never enticed her—not even the title of Empress had been enough to warp her desires.

Servilia’s eyes sharpened, but her smile never wavered.

“Fulvius, every day you grow older… and every day you still live,” she said sweetly, her voice silk over steel.

Fulvius’s jaw tightened, but before he could retort, the Pope of Athena’s Church lifted a hand, exasperation clear on his face.

“Enough, both of you. We are not gathered to trade insults.”

It was far from the first time he had witnessed those two clash. Their rivalry was practically tradition at this point.

Servilia inclined her head politely.

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

With that, she moved to the open seat—the fourth chair on the side of Crassus, Fulvius, and the Pope. Its placement was intentional, symbolic. It set her among them as an equal, not as a guest, not as an accessory. Her presence beside them confirmed Nathan’s influence: Servilia stood at the top of Rome’s future.

Nathan took the solitary seat positioned across from them, clearly arranged with him in mind. It marked him as the central figure in the discussion, the one whose decisions and intentions they all awaited.

It was a silent acknowledgment of power—one none of the Roman leaders dared dispute.

Nathan lowered himself into the chair, calm and steady.

“Then let’s begin.”