I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me

Chapter 216: Heiron's message

He met Nathan's gaze—those cold, unyielding blue eyes staring back at him with merciless precision. Nathan held Teucer's decapitated head by its hair, his arm raised as he hurled it high into the sky. The severed head arced over the battlefield, visible to all with keen enough vision. Greek kings and commanders across the battlefield turned, witnessing the grim trophy as it spun through the air, blood raining down.

But Nathan's aim was clear. He wanted only one man to see it: Ajax.

In that moment, countless eyes turned skyward, watching the grisly spectacle of Teucer's head spinning through the air.

"It's Teucer!" someone gasped.

"Someone killed him!"

"No way!" Find your next read on m_v l|e-NovelBin.net

The murmurs of shock spread rapidly among the Greek soldiers. Teucer, though not as mighty as his renowned brother Ajax, was still celebrated as the son of Telamon. His strength was respected among the Greeks, and his lineage alone commanded a certain reverence. Now, his head had been severed in one clean stroke by a mere mercenary fighting for Troy.

"Look, Ajax! It's your brother's head!" one of Ajax's own men jeered, followed by the chuckles of several others. For them, this was merely another brutal instance of war—a battlefield quip with little thought to Teucer's death. After all, Teucer had always been overshadowed by his brother, often regarded as little more than Ajax's jealous sibling. His passing stirred little sentiment from those who stood alongside the greater hero.

But Ajax himself stared at his half-brother's head as it plummeted to the earth. For a fleeting moment, his face hardened, a mix of irritation and obligation crossing his expression. He had never cared much for Teucer; to him, his brother was a lesser warrior, barely worth acknowledging. And yet, this public display of Teucer's severed head felt pointed, a challenge thrown squarely in Ajax's direction. Though he dismissed Teucer as a weakling, they shared blood, and blood demanded vengeance. Whoever had dared to humiliate the Greeks in such a manner—let alone target his family—had issued a silent call for retribution, and Ajax would answer it. It wasn't for Teucer's sake but for the honor of Salamis and the pride of its king.

Still, Ajax was far from the place where his brother had fallen, too distant to see the face of his killer. He resolved to seek answers among his men, but one thing was certain: whoever was responsible would soon face him in battle, and they would not live long.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, the other Greek kings had also noticed the spectacle. Some watched with mild interest, though most were unfazed. The Trojan forces boasted many formidable fighters—even aside from Hector—so seeing a Greek like Teucer fall wasn't altogether shocking to them.

But Odysseus, ever the shrewd strategist, studied the scene with narrowed eyes. From his position in the rear, he had been observing the battlefield closely, marking the movements of each key figure as he plotted his next steps. He knew the layout of both armies, noting each warrior's place every hour. He was certain Teucer had fallen near Hector's location, but a nagging thought crept into his mind.

This gruesome display didn't feel like Hector's doing. Though he was a fearless warrior, Hector was also honorable. He wouldn't resort to such a calculated act of provocation or public humiliation. This bore the touch of someone else—a presence colder, more ruthless.

Odysseus turned his keen gaze back to the spot where Teucer's head had first flown skyward, thoughts racing as he tried to piece together the mystery. If not Hector, then who? And why this particular act of defiance?

Hera, watching the scene unfold from afar, narrowed her piercing gaze. She hadn't expected to find someone so ruthless and cunning on the Trojan side. Up until now, she'd viewed them as virtuous, almost naïve, a host of warriors bound by honor and tradition. But this man—there was something unmistakably dark about him, a twist in his spirit that set him apart from the others. She observed, intrigued, as his presence cast a shadow over the battlefield, challenging her assumptions.

"OOOOH!!"

The Trojans, who had watched the swift, brutal clash, erupted in wild cheers. The sounds filled the air, surging with exhilaration and pride. One of the Greeks' prominent commanders, a seasoned and fierce fighter, had been brought down in moments. And by one of their own! Pride and awe shimmered in the eyes of every Trojan as they turned to gaze at Heiron, now seeing him in a new light.

He had always been respected, his strength evident by his close association with Hector, the renowned champion of Troy. Yet today, he had proved himself even further. They had watched, amazed, as he took down a Greek commander with disconcerting ease. It was as if they had just witnessed a force of nature, his intensity undeniable, his presence formidable.

And it wasn't just his strength that captivated them; Heiron's boldness, his fiery, unrestrained personality was a fresh wave among them, a stark contrast to the disciplined stoicism they often saw in their leaders. It was clear that Heiron was no ordinary Trojan warrior; he was a mercenary, a man who fought by his own code, untouched by the rigid customs of Troy's noble soldiers.

Hector, standing nearby, watched with a small, approving smile. He was not one to taunt his foes, preferring honor in battle. But he couldn't deny the satisfaction he felt at Heiron's provocations. Heiron's irreverent approach, his raw intensity, it all served to rally the Trojans, lifting their spirits higher than they had been in days.

Suddenly, piercing through the clamor of the battlefield, came a high, keening whistle. The sound echoed from Troy's mighty walls, carried by the metallic ringing of a bell whose distant clangs reached every ear on the field. The signal for retreat.

The sun was sinking below the horizon, casting a deep orange glow across the land. Both Greeks and Trojans knew that fighting in the dark was foolish—night would only heighten the risks, and the fatigue from a full day's battle weighed heavily on all. Weariness hung thick in the air as the warriors braced themselves for a temporary reprieve.

"Retreat!" Hector's voice boomed, cutting through the din as he raised his sword and signaled his men. With an air of command that was both calm and urgent, he led the Trojans in an orderly withdrawal, his voice reaching the furthest ranks.

Across the field, Greek soldiers hesitated, their rage still fresh from the loss of Teucer, one of their commanders. Many glared bitterly at Heiron, memorizing his face, silently vowing vengeance. Yet, even in their anger, they knew better than to disobey the bell. One by one, they too turned away, casting reluctant glances over their shoulders.

This retreat signal had become a ritual over the past two months—a tacit agreement between both armies, marking the end of each day's brutal conflict. As the bell tolled, it was as if an unspoken truce descended upon them, the two sides slipping back to their camps to lick their wounds and gather their strength for the inevitable clashes to come.

Nathan, however, lingered a moment longer, his gaze drifting over the retreating Greek lines. Amid the fading figures, he caught sight of someone watching him—a lone figure whose gaze burned through the distance with unsettling intensity. Odysseus, the shrewd King of Ithaca.

Aphrodite had warned Nathan about him. Odysseus was no Achilles or Agamemnon, known for brute strength or bluster. He was different, a man of quiet cunning and unnervingly sharp intelligence. Athena's chosen, a strategist whose mind was a weapon as deadly as any blade. Odysseus held the Greeks together, mending their rifts and cooling their tempers. Even Achilles, the godlike warrior, respected and listened to Odysseus, treating him as an equal, a man with the rare skill to calm him.

"Coming, Heiron?" Hector's voice called him back to the present. He placed a steadying hand on Nathan's shoulder, guiding him away from the lingering thoughts of his enemy.

Nathan cast one last look upwards, almost as though he could glimpse the gazes of Hera and Athena watching from the heavens, each Goddess following the unfolding of the day's events with their own secret intentions. But he resisted the urge and turned back, following Hector's lead.

As the Trojans slipped behind their fortified walls, the Greeks began their solemn task of recovering their fallen, retrieving the bodies of their comrades in the solemn twilight. Once the Greeks retreated, the Trojans would return to the battlefield to reclaim their own, carrying them home to lay them to rest with honor and dignity.

Soon, night fell, blanketing the land in deep shadows.

As the Trojans filed through the gates in disciplined, winding lines, Hector took his place at the very front, leading his soldiers with quiet pride. He wore the marks of the day's brutal clashes—dust-streaked armor, faint lines of sweat, and a resolute, unyielding expression. It was a ritual by now, this triumphant return, designed to remind the people of Troy that their champion had returned alive, unbroken, from another fierce day of battle. It was as much a display for his warriors as for the citizens, a small but essential spark to keep their spirits high amidst the relentless cycle of war.

Nathan walked at Hector's side, his presence equally powerful and striking.

On either side of the path, crowds gathered, their voices swelling into cheers that rolled through the air like thunder. Young children gazed up in awe, their wide eyes following the soldiers with a mixture of admiration and excitement. For them, these warriors were heroes of legend, and each day's return from battle was a moment to celebrate, a reassurance of safety, and a reminder of Troy's strength. This wasn't a victory parade—no land had been won, and no decisive blow struck—but it had become a daily testament to resilience, a steady beat to fortify the hearts of the Trojans.

Nathan exchanged glances with the crowd, feeling their energy as it mixed with his own. He could see in their faces that this daily march, though simple, worked a quiet magic, lifting the spirits of all who watched. Soldiers, too, absorbed the atmosphere, the cheers infusing them with renewed strength to face the uncertainties of the next dawn.

As they made their way further into the city, Aeneas, who had been walking with the column, turned his head toward Heiron, a grin lighting up his face. "Hey, Heiron! Are you coming to the feast of tonight?"