I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

On the back of Drakkias, Nathan flew toward Tenebria with desperate urgency, pushing his dragon to maximum speed without concern for anything except arriving as quickly as physically possible.

He had received an urgent mental message from Medea through their magical connection just as he’d departed from the hidden island sanctuary. The communication had been brief but critical: Helen was going into labor.

Nathan had immediately prompted Drakkias to fly at absolute full speed toward the Tenebrian capital, the dragon responding instantly to his master’s urgent command. Drakkias’s massive wings beat with tremendous power, propelling them through the air faster than they’d ever traveled before, the landscape blurring beneath them into indistinct streaks of color.

The timing couldn’t have been more fortuitous, actually. Nathan had been planning to depart for Kastoria within the next day or two, and he’d been genuinely worried that he might miss Helen’s childbirth during his absence. The thought of not being present for such a monumentally important moment had been weighing heavily on his conscience.

But now, by sheer fortune, he had the opportunity to be there. He absolutely could not miss this.

Within approximately two hours of sustained maximum-speed flight—a journey that would normally require half a day—Nathan arrived at Tenebria’s capital. The city’s distinctive dark architecture came into view, and he directed Drakkias toward the royal castle that dominated the highest point.

Rather than landing and going through normal entry procedures, Nathan simply left Drakkias outside the castle grounds and launched himself directly into the air, flying under his own power toward the upper levels where the royal quarters were located. Time was too critical to waste on formalities.

He entered through an open window with practiced ease, landing softly in one of the castle’s main corridors.

“Where is she?” Nathan demanded immediately upon spotting one of the castle’s maids hurrying past. “Which room? Has she delivered yet?”

The maid, recognizing Nathan instantly, responded quickly despite being startled by his sudden appearance.

“Lady Helen is in her quarters, Lord Samael,” the servant replied respectfully. “But she still hasn’t given birth yet—the labor is ongoing. You haven’t missed it.”

Nathan exhaled with profound relief hearing that confirmation. At least he wasn’t too late. It would have been incredibly frustrating to fail to be present for his child’s birth when he’d literally been only a few hours away when labor began.

Climbing the stairs with supernatural speed, Nathan quickly reached the corridor where Helen’s chambers were located and entered her room without bothering to knock. The urgency of the situation overrode normal courtesy.

The moment he stepped inside, he heard Helen’s cries—sharp sounds of pain and exertion mingled with heavy, labored breathing that spoke of someone enduring tremendous physical strain.

Moving deeper into the chamber, Nathan first noticed Ameriah standing somewhat awkwardly near the wall, her arms crossed as she watched the proceedings with an expression mixing concern and fascination. She clearly didn’t quite know what to do with herself during this intensely intimate family moment.

On the large bed, Helen lay with her legs spread beneath her gown, surrounded by several older women who were clearly experienced midwives. The attendants worked efficiently, offering encouragement and guidance as Helen struggled through the contractions.

Clytemnestra sat immediately beside Helen on the bed’s edge, holding her younger sister’s hand tightly and murmuring words of support and comfort.

“You’re here,” Azariah said with a warm smile, standing near the foot of the bed where she’d been observing. The Demon Queen looked genuinely pleased to see Nathan arrive in time.

Nathan moved further into the room with purpose, approaching the bed where Helen labored.

Clytemnestra, seeing Nathan arrive, immediately stepped back from her position beside Helen, graciously yielding that spot to him without hesitation. She understood that Helen would want Nathan’s hand to hold, not hers, during these final crucial moments.

Nathan quickly sat down beside Helen, taking the position Clytemnestra had just vacated. Helen’s face was drenched with sweat, her normally perfect features contorted with pain and exhaustion, her hair plastered to her forehead and cheeks.

When Helen’s eyes focused on Nathan through her haze of discomfort, she managed to force a tired but genuine smile despite everything she was experiencing.

“I… I really thought you were going to miss it,” she said breathlessly between contractions, her voice weak but carrying immense relief. “I was so worried you’d be gone already.”

“I genuinely thought I would miss it too,” Nathan admitted honestly, grasping her hand firmly in his. “But I’m incredibly glad the timing worked out this way. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He had literally been about to depart for Kastoria—probably would have left tomorrow morning if this hadn’t happened. There couldn’t have been better timing than this fortuitous coincidence.

Helen nodded weakly, drawing strength from his presence, and then the final stage of labor truly began in earnest.

The entire process lasted approximately ten intense minutes as the midwives—all elderly women with decades of experience, personally selected by Azariah because they had also assisted during her own delivery of Azarel—worked with practiced efficiency. They silently coordinated their efforts while constantly encouraging Helen, coaching her breathing, telling her when to push and when to rest.

“Push now, my lady! Big push!” one of the midwives commanded.

“Haa!” Helen screamed with tremendous effort, her entire body straining as she bore down with everything she had, squeezing Nathan’s hand so hard her knuckles went white.

And then finally, one of the oldest and most experienced midwives—her weathered hands positioned beneath Helen’s gown to receive the emerging infant—broke into a delighted smile.

A new sound suddenly filled the chamber: the piercing wail of a newborn baby, that distinctive cry that announced a new life entering the world.

Everyone in the room collectively sighed with profound relief hearing those healthy, angry wails. The birth had been successful.

The lead midwife carefully drew back her hands, now cradling a tiny squirming form. She quickly cut the umbilical cord with practiced movements, then cleaned the infant with swift efficiency before wrapping the baby in soft cloth.

She smiled warmly as she looked toward both Helen and Nathan.

“It’s a beautiful, healthy boy,” she announced with satisfaction. “Strong lungs, good color, perfect in every way.”

Nathan immediately stood and walked to where the midwife held his newborn son. He carefully took the baby into his arms, mindful of supporting the fragile head and tiny body. The infant wailed loudly, his small hands moving wildly through the air, his entire face scrunched up with the outrage of being forced from the warm comfort of the womb into this bright, cold world.

Nathan leaned down and kissed his son’s forehead with infinite tenderness, breathing in that unique newborn scent.

Then he carefully carried the precious bundle toward Helen, who was crying openly now—tears of joy and relief and overwhelming love streaming down her exhausted face. She reached out with trembling hands as Nathan gently transferred their son into her arms, helping her adjust her position slightly so she could hold him securely.

“He’s so beautiful,” Helen said through her tears, her voice breaking with emotion she couldn’t begin to contain. The smile on her face was radiant, expressing happiness on a level she had genuinely never experienced before in her entire life. “He’s absolutely perfect.”

She gazed down at her crying baby with wonder and fierce maternal love already burning in her eyes.

“He’ll definitely look like you when he grows,” Nathan said, gently stroking the baby’s fine golden hair that matched Helen’s legendary coloring exactly. “He’s inherited your beauty already.”

“Archidamus,” Helen murmured softly, the name clearly having been chosen long ago. She leaned down to kiss her son’s tiny forehead, and miraculously, the baby’s wailing began to quiet at his mother’s touch and voice.

“That’s quite an impressively dignified name for such a tiny person,” Azariah commented with an affectionate chuckle from where she stood observing.

“It is the perfect name for Spartan Prince,” Clytemnestra spoke up instead, her voice carrying pride as she approached the bed slowly. “A name with proper weight and history behind it.”

Helen looked up at her older sister with shining eyes, then carefully extended the swaddled infant toward Clytemnestra in silent invitation.

Clytemnestra hesitated visibly, her hands hovering uncertainly. Her expression flickered with complex emotions—longing mixed with fear, desire mixed with pain.

But when Nathan gave her an encouraging nod, silently communicating that it was not only acceptable but important that she hold the baby, Clytemnestra finally reached out with trembling hands. She took little Archidamus into her arms with exquisite care, as though handling something infinitely precious and fragile.

The baby wiggled in this new person’s unfamiliar grip and let out a few more crying sounds, though less intense than before.

Looking down at the tiny face, at the small hands grasping at air, at the new life cradled against her chest, Clytemnestra smiled—a genuine, unguarded expression of pure joy.

And then her lips began trembling uncontrollably. Before she could stop them or even fully process what was happening, tears started streaming down her cheeks in rivers.

They were tears of happiness—joy at witnessing new life, at being trusted to hold her sister’s precious son, at experiencing this profound moment of family connection.

But they were also tears of deep, unhealed sadness. Memories flooded through her unbidden—memories of holding her own daughter Iphigenia exactly like this decades ago, cradling that perfect tiny body and feeling overwhelming love and fierce protectiveness.

Before that innocent child had been torn away and sacrificed. Before Clytemnestra’s world had shattered irreparably.

The juxtaposition of past grief and present joy created an emotional storm too powerful to contain. Clytemnestra wept openly, unable and unwilling to stop the tears as she held her nephew and remembered her daughter, experiencing both profound happiness and devastating loss simultaneously.

Azariah watched Clytemnestra’s breakdown with visible pain etched across her own features, already understanding exactly what memories and emotions were tearing through the woman at this moment.

Over the past two years, she and Clytemnestra had spoken extensively—both being queens navigating complex political landscapes, they had found common ground and gradually developed genuine friendship. During those many conversations, Clytemnestra had eventually shared her greatest grief: the story of her daughter Iphigenia, sacrificed by her tyrant husband Agamemnon for favorable winds and military advantage.

Azariah could never truly imagine how she would feel if something similar happened to her own son Azarel. The mere thought of losing him, of having him torn away and killed for someone else’s ambitions, was so horrifying that her mind instinctively recoiled from even contemplating it. The empathy she felt for Clytemnestra’s endured loss was profound and genuine.

“Sister…” Helen immediately tried to stand up from the bed despite her exhaustion, instinctively wanting to go to Clytemnestra and offer comfort. She knew intimately what emotions were devastating her older sister at this moment—the joy of new life cruelly triggering memories of life lost.

But Nathan gently stopped Helen with a restraining hand on her shoulder, shaking his head. Helen needed to rest after the ordeal of childbirth, and Clytemnestra needed a different kind of support right now than her sister could provide.

Nathan carefully took baby Archidamus from Clytemnestra’s trembling arms before the distraught woman could accidentally drop him in her emotional state.

Azariah quickly approached and accepted the infant from Nathan, cradling little Archidamus securely against her chest. She smiled down at the baby boy with genuine warmth despite the sad circumstances, then moved to sit beside Helen on the bed so the exhausted mother could still see and be near her son.

Clytemnestra, now freed from the responsibility of holding the baby, turned and walked rapidly out of the room. Her shoulders shook with barely suppressed sobs, her usual composed dignity completely shattered by overwhelming emotion.

Nathan immediately followed her without hesitation, his footsteps quick but not hurried as he pursued Clytemnestra into the corridor outside Helen’s chambers.

She had made it perhaps twenty feet down the hallway before Nathan caught up with her. He moved swiftly around to position himself directly in front of her, blocking her path with his presence.

Before Clytemnestra could protest or try to push past him, Nathan wrapped his arms around her and pulled her firmly into his embrace. He hugged her gently but securely, one hand cradling the back of her head against his chest, the other arm wrapped around her back.

He didn’t say anything at all.

Useless words of comfort wouldn’t help a grieving mother—empty platitudes like “it will be okay” or “time heals all wounds” were worse than silence. Such phrases only served to make the speaker feel better about offering comfort while doing nothing to actually ease the sufferer’s pain.

Instead, Nathan simply held Clytemnestra in silence, his embrace steady and warm and present. He was showing her through action rather than words that she wasn’t alone in her grief, that someone understood her pain without needing it explained, that she was allowed to break down without judgment.

For several long moments, Clytemnestra remained rigid in his arms, as though still trying to maintain some semblance of control even now. Her body was tense, fighting against the complete emotional collapse that threatened to overwhelm her.

But Nathan didn’t release her or pull away. He just continued holding her with patient steadiness, his presence an anchor offering safety and acceptance.

And finally, inevitably, Clytemnestra’s remaining defenses crumbled entirely.

She collapsed against Nathan’s chest with a broken sound that was half-sob, half-wail. Her arms came up to clutch desperately at his shirt as though he was the only thing keeping her from drowning in waves of grief that had been held back for far too long.

The tears came in earnest then—not the quiet, controlled weeping from moments before, but deep, wrenching sobs that shook her entire body. Years of suppressed anguish poured out in that darkened corridor, the dam finally breaking after holding back an ocean of pain.

She wept for Iphigenia—for her beautiful daughter who should have lived a long, full life but instead had been murdered before reaching adulthood. She wept for all the moments she would never experience with that beloved child: watching her grow into womanhood, seeing her marry, holding her grandchildren, simply existing together as mother and daughter should.