I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

233  Atalanta's doubts

Athena's gaze shifted to Aphrodite, whose expression had remained unreadable through the exchange. The goddess of love and beauty had been suspiciously quiet, and Athena couldn't shake the feeling that she knew more than she was letting on.

"I don't care!" Hera snarled, the air around her crackling with her fury. "I will find out who he is!"

Before anyone could respond, Hera's form shimmered and vanished, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and the lingering echo of her anger.

Athena lingered for a moment, her gaze fixed on Heiron. Her sharp blue eyes betrayed a flicker of curiosity, a faint sense of recognition tugging at the corners of her mind. There was something familiar about him—not his face, but an intangible aura, a fleeting memory she couldn't quite grasp. It was like trying to catch a shadow in the fading light, slipping through her thoughts before she could pin it down. Had she truly seen him before, or was this sense of familiarity merely a trick of the mind? She searched her memories, combing through the countless faces and moments etched in her long life, but nothing came. With a soft sigh, she let it go. Perhaps it was nothing more than coincidence.

There was no point dwelling on it now. Her attention shifted downward, to the battlefield below. From her vantage point, she could see the Greeks scattered in disarray, their expressions frozen in shock and despair. They were staring blankly at the cheering Trojans, their gaze sweeping desperately over the jubilant crowd in search of the one responsible for the calamity that had unfolded in their midst. But Nathan was hidden from most of their eyes, obscured by the sea of victorious Trojans who roared his name like a battle cry.

Not that it mattered.

The Greeks were retreating. Their morale was shattered, crushed beneath the weight of Ajax's death and the unrelenting enthusiasm of the Trojan forces. The Trojans, bolstered by their unexpected victory and the deaths of two of Greece's mightiest warriors, were riding high on a surge of adrenaline and pride. The Greeks, by contrast, were drained and disheartened. Fighting under these conditions would only lead to further disaster.

All the Greek commanders, acting as though by some unspoken agreement, ordered a slow and steady retreat. It was not a decision born of strategy but of necessity. The death of Ajax, the mighty King of Salamis, left a gaping void in their ranks. His army was leaderless, their cohesion at risk of crumbling without a steady hand to guide them. Though Ajax's brother, Teucer, might have stepped into his role, his fate was no better. He too had fallen—struck down by the same man who had felled Ajax.

The loss was catastrophic. Without a commander, the Salamis army teetered on the edge of collapse, and their faltering resolve threatened to spread like a disease through the rest of the Greek forces. To stave off disaster, the retreat was inevitable. What remained of their pride demanded they call it a "strategic withdrawal," but in truth, it was little more than a desperate flight from the battlefield.

A crushing defeat. They had lost not just a king, but also their footing in this war.

Athena turned and departed swiftly, her expression unreadable. Whatever plans she harbored, she kept to herself, leaving the Greeks to lick their wounds and the Trojans to revel in their triumph.

Amid the chaos of jubilant Trojans and broken Greeks, Nathan stood at the center of the storm, struggling to catch his breath. The cheers of the Trojans rang in his ears, a deafening cacophony of victory. His skin was pale, his face slick with sweat, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. Ajax had been a powerful opponent, far stronger than Nathan had anticipated. Every blow from the Greek king had been heavy with the might of Zeus's blood coursing through his veins.

And yet, Nathan had prevailed.

Though he masked his emotions behind a calm exterior, a glimmer of satisfaction flickered in his eyes. This was no ordinary victory—it was a personal one. He had killed and humiliated the man who had dared to lay hands on Aisha.

"You've won, Heiron."

Hector's voice carried a warmth rarely seen from the stoic Trojan prince as he approached Nathan, his face lit with a rare smile. He placed a firm, appreciative hand on Nathan's shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie and respect. Today, Hector was more than proud—he was relieved. Relieved to have a friend and ally of Nathan's caliber standing by his side in this grueling war.

Nathan inclined his head in acknowledgment, his pale features betraying none of the turmoil he had endured during the fight. His silent demeanor spoke volumes, and Hector, perceptive as ever, quickly picked up on the unspoken cue.

Raising his hand high above his head, Hector turned to address the jubilant Trojans. "We have won today!" he roared, his deep voice booming across the battlefield. "Let us retreat, rest, and feast! Ajax the Great is dead—slain by Heiron!"

The Trojans erupted in deafening cheers, their voices reverberating through the plains and carrying toward the walls of Troy. The announcement of Ajax's death, a man revered as an unshakable titan of Greece, ignited a fire of triumph among the Trojan ranks. Soldiers embraced one another, clashing their shields in celebration. It was a victory that would be sung for generations.

Forming disciplined ranks, the Trojans began their march back to the safety of Troy, their morale soaring higher than it had in weeks.

"That was an amazing fight, Heiron! I always knew you were strong, but to defeat even Ajax? Incredible!" Aeneas strode up to Nathan with a grin that radiated genuine joy, his excitement bubbling over as if he had been the one to strike the killing blow.

Nathan gave a slight nod, his expression as unreadable as ever, but Aeneas seemed undeterred, basking in the glow of the day's victory.

"I must say…" Penthesilea's voice interrupted, her tone low yet carrying an undercurrent of intrigue. The Amazon queen approached Nathan, her striking eyes glimmering with something between admiration and mischief. "You were… enthralling out there." Her lips curved into a meaningful grin, but she offered no further elaboration, choosing instead to walk ahead.

Atalanta stood nearby, her gaze lingering on Nathan. Unlike the others, she did not rush forward with congratulations or words of praise. Her green eyes bore an uncharacteristic uncertainty. When Nathan's sharp gaze met hers, she quickly looked away, her discomfort clear.

Nathan's expression hardened, though not in anger. He understood why she was troubled.

The moment he had unleashed his Demonic Eye during the battle, the veil of his alias as Heiron had been irreparably torn. Those who had encountered him at Colchis—Jason, Heracles, Orpheus, and Atalanta—had surely pieced it together. The man standing before them was none other than Nathan, the enigmatic and feared Lord Commander of Tenebria. n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Atalanta's thoughts were a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She hadn't cared much about losing the Golden Fleece; her purpose in joining the Argonauts had never been solely tied to that quest. Artemis had sent her to explore the world, to grow and gain wisdom, and in that sense, Atalanta had fulfilled her mission.

But Nathan—no, Heiron—was another matter.

She recalled how he had once mocked her Goddess, his sharp words delivered with deliberate precision, as if to provoke her. At the time, she had bristled with indignation, upset by his apparent disrespect. But months had passed since then, and during their time together at Troy, her relationship with Nathan as Heiron had changed.

Here, he had treated her not as an enemy or a rival but as a comrade, even a friend. There was a warmth to his interactions with her now, a stark contrast to the cold detachment she had felt from him at Colchis.

And now, as the truth unraveled before her, Atalanta realized something surprising: Nathan must have known who she was all along. Yet he had done nothing to exploit that knowledge. Instead, he had treated her with fairness, even kindness, far more so than she had ever expected.

Perhaps, she mused, his aloofness at Colchis had less to do with her and more to do with Jason, whose brash arrogance had a knack for setting people on edge. Here at Troy, Nathan was different—a man who revealed layers of himself she had not thought to find.

The realization left Atalanta conflicted, unsure of what to feel or how to act. She had come to see Heiron as an ally, someone she could trust. But now, knowing who he truly was, she wondered if that trust was misplaced—or if perhaps it was more genuine than ever.

Atalanta couldn't shake the gnawing doubt creeping into her thoughts. Had Nathan been acting this whole time?

The idea unsettled her. If his warmth and camaraderie toward her had been a façade, it would wound her deeply—because for her, none of it had been false.

Nathan was the first man she had ever felt comfortable speaking to. As a devotee of Artemis, she had spent little time around men, and those she did encounter were invariably consumed by their desires. She had seen it in their eyes: the way they ogled her, reducing her to a prize to be claimed.

But Nathan had been different.

His gaze never lingered inappropriately, never carried the weight of expectation or lust. With him, she could speak plainly, without fear of being misunderstood or objectified. It was liberating, and she had come to treasure their conversations more than she realized.

Now, however, uncertainty clouded those memories.

Her steps quickened, as if she could outrun her troubling thoughts, and she soon found herself walking ahead of the group.

Charybdis approached Nathan quietly, her expression calm yet tinged with concern.

She had never doubted Nathan's ability to defeat Ajax. He was a warrior like no other, and she had every confidence in his strength. Yet even so, she couldn't ignore the strain she had seen in him during the fight.

Nathan's body was weakening. She knew it, and he knew it. Apollo's intervention had granted him more time, but it had done nothing to address the root of the issue: his dwindling life force.

Charybdis reached for his hand, her fingers curling around his with gentle insistence. Nathan responded instinctively, grasping her hand in return. As they continued walking, he felt a subtle flow of her mana seep into him, its warmth spreading through his body like a soothing balm.

The tension in his shoulders eased, and his steps regained their steadiness. Charybdis didn't speak—she didn't need to. Her silent support was enough, and Nathan was quietly grateful for it.

"You have to be there for tonight's feast, Heiron," Hector said, his tone apologetic. A rueful smile tugged at his lips. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to bear with it."

Nathan turned his gaze to the Trojan prince, his expression unreadable. He knew Hector understood his distaste for the pomp and noise of celebrations. But today, there was no avoiding it.

"You're the hero of the day," Hector continued, his voice tinged with both pride and regret. "The man who killed Ajax. And after a victory like this, my father will undoubtedly have a reward prepared for you."

"You're the hero of the day," Hector continued, his voice tinged with both pride and regret. "The man who killed Ajax. And after a victory like this, my father will undoubtedly have a reward prepared for you."

Nathan inclined his head slightly, his way of signaling he understood. He didn't protest or grumble. He had accepted this inevitability the moment he chose to kill Ajax on the battlefield—under the watchful eyes of Greeks, Trojans, and, most importantly, the Gods themselves.