I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 391: Alexandria’s conquered (2)

After striking his tenuous bargain with the goddess Isis, Nathan felt the divine restraints melt away, releasing him from their suffocating grasp. A gentle wind seemed to cradle him as he descended, landing with practiced grace atop the nearest building’s roof—its worn stone tiles still warm from the sun. The heavy air of divine tension dissipated, and with it, the oppressive darkness conjured by Sekhmet unraveled into wisps of smoke, vanishing into the ether as though it had never existed.

Rising to his full height, Nathan’s silver-white hair caught the faint glimmers of firelight, and his sharp gaze swept across the cityscape before him.

Alexandria was in flames.

Smoke twisted upward in furious spirals, illuminated by the reddish-orange glow of buildings devoured by fire. Screams of panic echoed through the narrow stone streets, and chaos reigned below as the once-glorious capital trembled under the weight of war. Nathan’s lips tightened into a grim line. He didn’t believe this carnage had been Cleopatra’s original plan. No… But even if it wasn’t her intent, he knew she wouldn’t mourn the destruction. If the throne was the prize, she would gladly pay the price. Alexandria could be rebuilt—stronger, grander, a phoenix born from its own ashes.

But that wasn’t what held Nathan’s attention.

His eyes moved again, sharper now, scanning the battlefield sprawled across the burning city. What he saw left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Caesar’s forces were overwhelming Alexandria’s defenders with brutal efficiency. The disparity in power was glaring; it was less a battle and more a massacre. Watching it unfold was like witnessing a predator toy with its prey. Blood soaked the marble streets and cries of pain cut through the thick smoke. Soldiers loyal to Ptolemy fell by the dozens, their deaths swift and often meaningless.

And yet—despite the violence—Nathan noticed something telling: many within Alexandria’s own ranks were hesitant to raise their weapons against Cleopatra. That hesitation, that faltering loyalty, spoke volumes. It wasn’t just a war of conquest or politics; it was a war of hearts and allegiances.

Cleopatra was loved.

Not just respected, not merely feared—genuinely loved. And those loyal to her traitorous younger brother, Ptolemy XIII, were now few… and dying swiftly.

The boy-king’s reign was crumbling by the minute. But for Cleopatra to truly take the throne, there was one final necessity—one final blade that needed to fall. Ptolemy had to die. Not just him, but the shadowy web of conspirators that upheld his reign. Only then would Cleopatra’s claim be absolute.

Nathan let out a slow breath, his expression unreadable. He was surprised—truly surprised—by how deeply Cleopatra seemed affected. She was still young, still figuring out how to wear the crown she so desperately sought. And yet, her eyes had carried something deeper… a raw wound of betrayal that her poise barely concealed. Despite the brutal political climate in which she’d grown, the treachery of her own blood seemed to cut her in ways Nathan hadn’t expected.

But she had made her decision. And she had made it swiftly.

She would sacrifice sentiment for sovereignty.

That part of her—ruthless, decisive, regal—Nathan liked.

Yet, even with her resolve, he couldn’t bring himself to trust Caesar.

Yes, the Roman general claimed to be Cleopatra’s ally. Yes, he probably did want Ptolemy dead. But Nathan knew men like Caesar all too well. The same sword that struck down Ptolemy could be wielded as leverage—proof that Caesar had done what Cleopatra could not. It could be a political move. A threat. A noose.

In the worst-case scenario, Caesar might even spare the boy-king, keeping him alive as a tool to control Cleopatra’s ambition.

Nathan would not allow that.

Now that his secret had been revealed to Isis—his true ambition laid bare, the collapse of the Roman Empire’s leadership which would in the same time save Ameriah and Auria.

He knew what had to be done.

And he would make sure nothing made it easy for Caesar.

With a powerful kick, Nathan launched himself off the rooftop, the stone beneath his feet cracking from the sheer force. He shot through the smoke-filled air like a silver streak, his white cloak fluttering behind him as he raced toward the heart of the city—the royal palace of Alexandria.

Something gnawed at him, a sensation creeping along the edge of his mind. A quiet whisper of danger. An instinct honed by battle and betrayal alike. This wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. Ptolemy may have been a fool—a boy clinging to power he didn’t earn, relying on divine intervention to save him—but behind that trembling façade stood a far more dangerous figure.

Pothinus.

The true puppeteer. The one pulling the strings behind the throne.

Nathan’s crimson eyes narrowed, glowing faintly beneath his snow-white bangs. He pushed harder, faster. The wind roared past him as the burning skyline of Alexandria blurred, until at last he landed atop the marble dome of the palace. Without hesitation, he dropped through an opening in the architecture, descending from the heavens like a phantom.

He landed silently on the polished floor below, the noise of his arrival drowned by the clash of steel on steel. The open halls of the palace had become a battlefield. Caesar’s soldiers were locked in vicious combat with what remained of Ptolemy’s loyalists. The scent of blood mingled with incense, and the cries of war echoed through the golden corridors.

As Nathan emerged into the fray, a group of Ptolemy’s guards spotted him. Eyes widening, they immediately raised their weapons, panic turning into aggression.

“It’s Septimius—that traitor!” one of them shouted. “Kill him!”

The first three soldiers charged with reckless fury.

Nathan moved without hesitation. In one fluid motion, he drew his sword in a gleaming arc—its icy blue edge shimmered with runic power. A wave of frost surged outward, and the three attackers froze mid-step, their bodies encased in a coffin of ice before they could even scream.

Only one remained, frozen not by magic, but by terror.

Nathan stepped forward—and in the blink of an eye, he was standing before him.

The soldier barely had time to react before Nathan’s hand was clamped around his throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. His crimson gaze pierced through the man’s soul like a blade.

“Where are Ptolemy and Pothinus?” Nathan asked, his voice low, cold, and devoid of mercy.

“The… the throne room!” the man choked out in panic. “They’re in the throne room!”

Nathan dropped him unceremoniously to the floor just as a booming voice rang out from behind.

“Oh, you’re here, Septimius?”

Nathan turned his head slightly, recognizing the large man approaching. Marcus Antonius—the Roman juggernaut—strode through the hallway with the confidence of a war god. His massive blade swung with ease, carving through enemy soldiers as if they were little more than straw dolls. Each strike was precise, brutal, and final.

But Nathan had no time for banter.

He turned back toward the throne hall and bolted forward, leaving behind only a gust of wind.

“Hey! You after the glory of Ptolemy’s head for yourself?” Marcus roared, laughing as he gave chase. “Ain’t happening! That one’s mine!”

He surged after Nathan, determined to catch him—but no matter how fast he ran, the white-haired warrior was already disappearing ahead, not even breathing heavily.

“What the hell…?” Marcus muttered, genuinely stunned. “He’s that fast?”

Nathan didn’t even glance back. Glory meant nothing to him. Recognition, titles, spoils—none of it mattered.

This wasn’t about vengeance or pride.

It was about control.

And he wasn’t going to let Caesar—or anyone else—keep Ptolemy alive for their political games.

He had reached the end of the hallway now. The grand doors to the throne room stood open, as if inviting him in. As if expecting him.

Slowing to a halt, Nathan stepped cautiously inside, sword held at the ready.

But it wasn’t Ptolemy sitting on the gilded throne.

It was Pothinus.

The bald vizier, draped in royal finery, lounged on the seat with unsettling calm, a smug grin twisting his lips. In his hand, he held a golden scepter, its head shaped like a serpent—ornate, ancient, and faintly glowing with an ominous energy.

He looked down at Nathan like one might regard a passing curiosity.

“Septimius,” Pothinus purred, his voice like venom laced with honey. “So nice of you to join us.”

There was no fear in his eyes at all despite being alone.