I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

225  Thetis

In Achilles's tent, the atmosphere was starkly different from the tense and brooding mood in Agamemnon's quarters. Here, a peculiar sense of calm prevailed, even an air of contentment, as if the weight of the ongoing Trojan War had no place within these canvas walls. It wasn't just peaceful—it was almost too good, a haven insulated from the struggles that gripped the battlefield.

Though the Greeks faltered in their campaign against the Trojans, Khillea seemed utterly indifferent. Her strikingly confident demeanor reflected someone who knew her own worth. If she truly desired, she could shift the tide of battle with ease. Hector of Troy, revered as the mightiest defender of the city, might prove a challenge for others, but Khillea believed herself capable of defeating him. Yet, she chose to remain in the shadows for now, leaving the glory and struggles to the kings and generals clamoring for recognition. She was waiting, not out of fear or doubt, but with purpose.

Her mother, Thetis, had foreseen her fate. If Khillea claimed the spotlight and led the Greeks to victory, she would become a living legend—admired, immortalized in stories, and forever etched in history. But such glory came at a steep cost: her life would be forfeit shortly after. To die young and legendary, or to live longer in obscurity—this was the choice Thetis had laid bare. Khillea, ever proud and calculating, was patient. She would seize the perfect moment to emerge, ensuring her name echoed through eternity. But until that moment arrived, she intended to savor what time she had left, enjoying life on her terms.

At the moment, this enjoyment took the form of music. Khillea sat on the edge of her simple bed, a lyre resting in her lap. Her crimson hair, tied back in a loose ponytail, glinted like fire in the soft light of the tent. Dressed in masculine garb—practical yet stylish—she cut a figure of relaxed confidence. As her fingers danced across the strings of the lyre, a melody resonated through the air, clear and beautiful. The music didn't just stay confined to the tent; it spilled outside, a serene contrast to the clamor of war preparations.

Briseis, her only companion in the tent, had grown accustomed to this sight. Over the past two months, she had transitioned from captive to servant, but Khillea's treatment of her was anything but harsh. In fact, Briseis had begun to feel at ease in her presence, a rare comfort amidst the chaos of war. Khillea never belittled or mistreated her; instead, she seemed to relish their conversations, as if Briseis provided something unique: the chance to speak with another woman freely, without pretenses or barriers.

Briseis sat nearby, her own lyre in hand, though her attempts to play it were clumsy at best. She watched Khillea's fluid movements with a mixture of awe and resignation, smiling softly.

"You're incredible at this," Briseis said, her tone warm but tinged with a hint of envy.

Khillea's lips curled into a smirk, her gold eyes sparkling with quiet pride. "It's just practice," she replied lightly, her fingers never pausing on the strings.

But Briseis knew better. It wasn't just practice; it was Khillea herself—a woman of boundless talent and charisma, whose every action seemed to embody effortless mastery. As the music continued to flow, Briseis found herself relaxing, momentarily forgetting the war outside and the precariousness of their situation.

At that moment, the tent's entrance flung open, letting in a gust of warm air and a figure Khillea and Briseis both recognized instantly. It was Patroclus. His casual stride reflected his comfort in the space, his familiarity with its occupants evident in the easy smile tugging at his lips. He had grown accustomed to seeing Khillea and Briseis together—two unlikely companions finding solace in each other's company. Truthfully, he was glad for it.

For the longest time, Patroclus had been the sole confidant in his cousin's life, the one she turned to when loneliness pressed too hard on her. He had witnessed the rare cracks in her otherwise invincible façade, the moments when even someone as resilient as Khillea longed for meaningful companionship.

"My dear cousin!" Khillea's grin was as bright as the sun, her voice brimming with cheer as she set her lyre aside.

Patroclus chuckled but raised an eyebrow at her nonchalance. "You're far too relaxed for someone in the middle of a war. Agamemnon is still fuming in his tent, you know."

At this, Khillea threw her head back and laughed—a boisterous, unrestrained sound that echoed through the tent. "Ahaha! Let him stew! The old man got humiliated by an elder, robbed his woman by a Trojan, and had his precious ships set ablaze! Truly, it breaks my heart that I didn't get to witness the look on his face!" Her sarcasm dripped like venom, and the sheer glee in her voice was impossible to miss.

Her disdain for Agamemnon was well known, and this turn of events delighted her beyond measure. She hated him for countless reasons, not the least of which was his monstrous decision to sacrifice his own daughter for the sake of fleeting glory. Khillea, too, desired glory—it was in her nature, her destiny—but never would she pay such a price. The thought of sacrificing someone like Patroclus, her beloved cousin and closest friend, was unthinkable.

Patroclus sighed, shaking his head in mock exasperation. "You're incorrigible," he said, though the faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed his amusement. While he shared her disdain for Agamemnon, his feelings were more complicated. Agamemnon's despair might have been satisfying to witness, but it weighed heavily on the Greek forces, threatening to drag them all into deeper turmoil.

Before Patroclus could linger on those thoughts, he took a step to the side and gestured toward the entrance. "Anyway, I've brought a guest for you, Khillea." His smile widened, and there was a hint of mischief in his eyes.

Khillea's own smile faltered slightly, her curiosity piqued. But the moment she laid eyes on the figure stepping into the tent, her expression shifted entirely. Her breath hitched, and for a brief moment, she seemed utterly still.

The woman who entered was nothing short of extraordinary. Her presence commanded attention, her ethereal beauty radiating an aura of otherworldly grace. Long waves of red hair cascaded down her back, glinting like molten gold in the dim light, and her ocean-blue eyes sparkled with wisdom and warmth. Despite her regal bearing, there was something familial about her—she looked more like Khillea's elder sister than her mother.

It was Thetis, Achilles/ Khillea's mother.

"Mother!" Khillea's reaction was instant and unrestrained. She vanished from where she stood, closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. Throwing her arms around Thetis, she embraced her tightly, her usual bravado melting into a rare display of vulnerability.

"My dear daughter," Thetis murmured, her voice a soothing melody as she wrapped her arms around Khillea. The affection in her tone was unmistakable, and for a moment, the chaos of the war seemed to fade away.

With a graceful motion, Thetis raised a hand, and a shimmering barrier enveloped the tent. The divine energy it radiated was palpable, creating a sanctuary where no prying eyes or ears could intrude.

Briseis, who had been watching silently, felt her knees give way beneath her. She dropped to the ground, bowing low in awe and reverence. She could feel the goddess's power, a presence so overwhelming it left no doubt in her mind. This was no mere mortal before her—this was truly a goddess.

Khillea, still holding onto her mother, seemed to pay no mind to Briseis's reaction. For her, this moment was deeply personal, a reunion she had longed for. Thetis stroked her daughter's hair gently, her expression a mixture of pride and sorrow, as though she knew this embrace was both a comfort and a reminder of the fate that loomed over them.

"Come, my child," Thetis said softly, her gaze flickering to Patroclus and Briseis briefly before returning to Khillea. "We have much to discuss."

Khillea nodded and reluctantly pulled back, though her hand lingered on her mother's arm for a moment longer. The warmth and comfort of Thetis's presence felt too fleeting, and she was reluctant to let go entirely.

Thetis's attention turned toward Briseis, her gaze softening. "Oh, you must be Briseis," she said with a gentle smile that seemed to light up the entire tent. "Patroclus has told me so much about you. I must thank you for being here for my daughter. She's always longed for a girlfriend she could truly speak to, someone who understands her."

Briseis flushed, her face turning a deep shade of red. The glow of Thetis's divine presence made the compliment feel even more overwhelming. She bowed her head slightly, her voice trembling with humility. "I… I didn't do anything, really. It's Khillea who's helped me more than I can ever repay."

Khillea waved off the praise with a huff, clearly embarrassed. "Don't say nonsense, Mother!" she grumbled, crossing her arms. Despite her tone, a small smile tugged at her lips, betraying how much the sentiment meant to her. "But… yeah, I guess I've always wanted a girl I could actually talk to."

Thetis laughed softly, a melodic sound that seemed to momentarily banish all worries from the tent. Seeing her daughter in such high spirits brought a warmth to her heart. For a brief moment, it was easy to imagine that everything was as it should be, that there was no war raging outside, and that Khillea's fate wasn't etched in stone.

But the illusion didn't last long. Thetis's smile faltered, her eyes clouding with sorrow as an unspoken thought took root in her mind. If only her daughter could always be this happy. If only she didn't have to die in the end…

Her gaze darkened, the weight of inevitability pressing heavily upon her. She clenched her hands slightly, her nails digging into her palms as the bitterness of prophecy reared its head.

Then, suddenly, her focus shifted. Thetis's divine senses sharpened, her attention drawn inexplicably to Khillea. More specifically, her gaze fell upon her daughter's abdomen, as if something there demanded her immediate attention.

Her eyes widened in shock, and she took an involuntary step closer, her hand flying to her mouth. "I… Impossible!!" n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om