I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

A woman was there.

A strikingly beautiful young woman, lying on a bed, her frail body leaning against the headboard for support. Her pallor betrayed a sickened countenance, her breath labored and shallow. Each cough wracked her fragile frame, a fresh crimson stain blooming on the handkerchief she clutched. Yet, through the pain, she managed to keep a soft, loving smile as she extended a trembling hand toward a boy standing hesitantly at the entrance of the room.

Her voice, though weak, carried warmth.

"Who is this?"

Nathan, who had been silently observing the tender yet sorrowful scene, turned at the sound of the voice. His gaze shifted to another figure standing behind him.

She was unlike anyone he had ever seen.

This woman, who had appeared out of nowhere, was breathtaking in a way that defied mortal comprehension. Her beauty surpassed that of every goddess, even Aphrodite herself. Her long, silken black hair cascaded down her back like an endless river of shadow. Her eyes, deep pools of midnight, bore no emotion—neither sorrow nor joy—only an unnerving stillness as they locked onto Nathan.

Her presence demanded attention, yet she exuded an air of otherworldly detachment, as if she were both part of the world and entirely removed from it.

Nathan tore his eyes away from her, his heart heavy, and turned back toward the boy who had rushed into the room.

The boy had flung himself into the arms of the sick woman, tears streaming freely down his cheeks. Her fragile arms encircled him in a weak but loving embrace. She held him as though he were her entire world, her reason to endure.

"It's me," Nathan whispered softly, his voice trembling with emotion. He watched the scene unfold, his heart twisting painfully. The boy crying in his mother's embrace was him—a memory etched deeply into his soul.

Nathan would never forget those last, precious days he had spent with his mother before her untimely death.

"Why did she die?" the mysterious woman asked, her voice calm and unyielding, as if the answer were merely a piece of a puzzle she sought to understand.

"I don't know," Nathan replied, his eyes fixated on his mother's gentle smile in the memory. But as he spoke, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

No, that wasn't true. Deep down, he might have known why.

He had always suspected. And he knew his father had never forgiven him for it.

"After I was born, her health only worsened," Nathan admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The words carried a heavy weight, like a confession he had long buried within himself. "I've always blamed myself for that… more than my father ever did."

"Was it truly your fault?" the woman asked, her tone devoid of judgment, yet piercing.

Nathan let out a bitter laugh, though there was no humor in it.

"If I hadn't been born, she would still be alive… healthy, happy," he replied. "It was my birth that condemned her."

The woman's gaze remained fixed on him for a long moment before she turned her attention back to the memory, which shifted like a reflection in rippling water.

The room faded, replaced by another scene.

It was brighter now, warmer—a memory from months before Nathan's birth.

"You're pregnant?" a tall, handsome man asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Nathan recognized him instantly. It was his father, though much younger, his features softer, less hardened by time and grief. Yet, despite his youth, the man's expression was far from joyful. His brows knit together in a mixture of worry and conflict, his voice trembling with unspoken fears.

"I'm going to keep it," Nathan's mother said firmly, her tone resolute despite her frailty.

"No, you can't," his father replied, shaking his head vehemently. "It's too dangerous. Not with your health."

Nathan could see the desperation in his father's eyes, the fear of losing the woman he loved. But his mother stood unwavering, her hand resting gently on her stomach, a small smile gracing her lips.

"I've already made my decision," she said softly. "This child… our child… is a miracle. I'll do whatever it takes to protect him."

Nathan gazed at his mother's face, her gentle smile etched with a quiet strength, his own expression hardening as he took in the moment.

"Just promise me," his mother said, her voice steady but urgent, "if you ever have to choose between us… you will choose my baby."

Her eyes, unwavering yet filled with both love and desperation, bore into his father's. Her tone left no room for misinterpretation; this was not a mere request—it was a plea born of a mother's love.

His father stood silent, his jaw tightening as he stared at her, conflicted.

"Promise me, my dear, please," she asked again, her voice trembling slightly but no less resolute.

Nathan could see the weight of the decision pressing on his father's shoulders. Finally, with a sigh heavy enough to fill the room, his father relented.

"I promise," he murmured, his tone reluctant, almost hollow.

The scene blurred, dissolving into shadows before reforming into something colder, darker.

A burial.

Nathan found himself standing at the edge of a gravesite, staring at the coffin that now held his mother in her eternal rest. The wooden box was adorned with simple yet elegant carvings, the only adornments to a woman who had sacrificed so much.

His younger self stood there, his small body trembling with grief as tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks. He wiped at them in vain, only for fresh ones to take their place. His sobs echoed in the somber air, raw and unrelenting.

His father stood motionless before the grave, his face devoid of any visible emotion. Not a word escaped his lips, not a tear left his eyes. He was a statue, cold and unyielding in his mourning.

Nathan's gaze shifted, and he saw her—a little girl standing beside him.

Phoebe.

He recognized her immediately. Even as a child, she radiated a quiet warmth, her hand reaching out to grasp his. She pulled him into a hug, her small arms wrapping tightly around him as if shielding him from the world's cruelty.

"It's okay, Nate," Phoebe whispered softly, her voice trembling but resolute. "I'll be here for you. Always. I will never leave you."

Nathan, broken by grief, collapsed into her embrace, clutching her as though she were his lifeline.

"I will never leave you," she had said.

"She must have been your first love," came the calm, measured voice of the dark-haired woman who had been silently observing with him.

"She was," Nathan replied, his tone bittersweet, the past tense deliberate and weighted.

Phoebe had been his first love, a beacon of hope in the darkness that followed his mother's death. He had loved her fiercely, with every fiber of his being, second only to his mother. But she had left him, just as his mother had. The difference was that Phoebe had chosen to leave.

Her absence had marked the beginning of something else. Something darker.

The scene shifted once more, now to a memory that Nathan wished he could forget.

BADAM!

The sound of a fist striking flesh reverberated through the air.

Nathan, barely five years old, was sent sprawling to the ground, his small frame crumpling under the force of the blow. He gasped for breath, clutching his cheek as tears welled in his eyes.

"Stand."

His father's voice cut through the air like a blade. It was sharp, commanding, and devoid of compassion.

Nathan struggled to push himself up, his tiny arms trembling under the effort. His legs wobbled as he tried to rise, but they buckled beneath him, and he collapsed back onto the ground.

"I said stand!" his father barked, his tone growing colder, harsher. "Are you going to shame the life your mother gave you?"

The words struck Nathan harder than any blow could. Gritting his teeth, he forced his battered body to rise, swaying on unsteady legs but refusing to fall again.

"Attack me now," his father commanded.

Nathan clenched his fists, his small fingers curling into trembling balls. With a cry of determination, he rushed forward, aiming for his father with all the strength his tiny body could muster.

BADAAAAM!

This time, a powerful kick landed squarely in Nathan's stomach, sending him flying backward. He crashed into the wall with a sickening thud, the impact knocking the wind out of him. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his stomach, gasping in pain.
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"Pathetic," his father growled, his voice filled with disdain. "Your mother didn't sacrifice her life for such a weak, useless boy."

Those words might have been the spark—the trigger that ignited something deep within Nathan.

"Your mother didn't sacrifice her life for such a weak, useless boy."

Since then, Nathan had trained relentlessly, pouring every ounce of his being into meeting his father's expectations. It wasn't just about intelligence or strategy; his father's focus was strength—both physical and mental.

"Only the strong survive," his father would often say, his voice devoid of warmth. "And the only thing that weakens a man is a woman."