Nathan slowly opened his eyes, his gaze drifting toward the ornate ceiling above—a ceiling he had grown familiar with in the short time spent in the royal guest quarters. This room, a gift from Priam, was a sanctuary of luxury, yet it felt hollow, like a gilded cage meant to trap rather than protect. He raised his aching body with a low grunt, the weight of fatigue pressing on him. Every movement felt labored, as though the battle still clung to his muscles and bones.
His eyes darted around the room, taking in the fine details of his surroundings—the elegant tapestries draped along the walls, the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. Yet none of it mattered.
What happened?
Nathan’s thoughts churned as fragments of the recent past surfaced. He remembered Diomedes’s devastating attack and the sharp, searing pain that followed. Charybdis had intervened, dragging him away from the battlefield, her urgency palpable. But beyond that, his memory was a blur.
Then it hit him. Poseidon.
A surge of cold fury coursed through him, and his expression hardened into a mask of icy determination. His fists clenched tightly, his nails digging into his palms as anger bubbled to the surface. It wasn’t just hatred for Poseidon—it was anger at himself.
Weakness.
He replayed the moment in his mind, envisioning how differently it could have gone if only he had been stronger. If he had the power, he would have torn Poseidon apart, consequences be damned. The thought burned in his chest, but alongside it came the bitter sting of reality.
Before he could sink further into his thoughts, a sudden presence materialized beside him. His senses sharpened as he turned, only to see Charybdis. Her form shimmered for a brief moment, as if the room itself couldn’t contain her raw energy.
The instant her eyes met his, something broke within her. Without hesitation, she rushed toward him, throwing her arms around him in a fierce embrace.
The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through Nathan’s body, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he wrapped his arms around her, returning the hug. “It’s fine,” he murmured softly, his voice steady despite the throbbing in his chest. “I won’t die.” He rested a hand on her head, gently patting her hair in an effort to calm her storm.
Charybdis trembled against him, her power barely contained, like a tide threatening to surge and drown everything in its path. He could feel her fear—no, her rage. It simmered just beneath the surface, ready to explode into a relentless slaughter if he had not stopped her.
As he stroked her hair, Nathan’s thoughts wandered to the dream that had haunted him earlier—the memories of his past. His father loomed large in his mind, a figure both domineering and cruel, treating the women in his life as possessions. Nathan could still hear his father’s voice echoing in his ears, advising him to act the same way.
For a time, Nathan had been tempted to follow that path. He nearly became the man he despised, especially after the incident with the Spanish siblings. Seeing Sienna, Siara, and even his classmates as trophies—it was a dangerous mindset, one that had crept in before he realized the depths of his folly.
And Khione…
She had suffered the worst of it. He had enslaved her, forced her hand, and used her for his own ends. Did he regret it? No, not entirely. Without such drastic measures, she would never have become his. Yet, as he held Charybdis close, Nathan resolved that he could no longer justify such actions.
From now on, he would choose a different path, one that didn’t mirror his father’s cruelty. The last thing he wanted was to become the very thing he loathed. To lose himself entirely to that darkness was a fate worse than death.
Charybdis’s breathing slowed as his calm voice and steady presence reassured her. Though the fire of her rage had dimmed, it hadn’t been extinguished entirely.
“How long was I out?” Nathan asked, his voice steady but carrying a hint of unease.
“Two weeks,” Charybdis replied softly.
Nathan’s eyes widened in shock. Two weeks? He had thought it was only a matter of days.
“So this is the price for defying death itself,” he murmured, his voice tinged with both awe and bitterness.
He had known there would be consequences for pushing himself beyond mortal limits, but living longer than what fate had allowed exacted a unique toll. Pain coursed through his body like a persistent storm, accompanied by waves of weakness that left him drained. Even now, after two weeks, the aftermath lingered in his muscles and bones.
His gaze hardened as he pushed the discomfort aside. “How is the war? No one died, right?”
A shadow of concern crossed his face as he spoke. Despite his growing detachment from the affairs of mortals, the thought of losing Hector, Aeneas, or Atalanta stirred an uncomfortable guilt.
“No,” Charybdis assured him. “Only Diomedes. Hector killed him after you lost consciousness.”
Nathan’s lips curled into a faint smile. “So, he killed him?”
As expected Hector was really the monster Nathan had seen him as.
Charybdis gave a small nod, her expression calm but watchful.
“But the war is turning in the Greeks’ favor,” she continued, her tone more somber. “Chiron has taken a more active role, and someone new has appeared—Asclepius, the son of Apollo. He has the power to heal even the most grievous wounds.”
Nathan leaned back against the bedframe, his expression darkening. “I see,” he muttered.
The Greeks were not wasting time mourning their losses. First Ajax, then Diomedes, and yet their ranks had been replenished swiftly, as though the gods themselves had a never-ending supply of champions to throw into the fray. It was unsettling.
If things continued like this, the war would never end—or worse, it would end with the Greeks claiming victory. Even with Achilles out of the fight, they were struggling to hold their ground. That alone was a grim sign of how precarious their situation had become.
“I’ve rested enough,” Nathan said, rising from the bed. His movements were slow but deliberate, his resolve pushing him past the lingering ache.
He reached for fresh clothes, pulling them on with a practiced efficiency. As he fastened his tunic, he glanced at Charybdis. “You didn’t tell Medea or Scylla anything, I hope?”
Charybdis shook her head firmly. “No.”
“Good.”
Nathan let out a soft breath of relief. He was certain that if either Medea or Scylla had learned the truth about his condition, they wouldn’t have hesitated to unleash their wrath on the Greeks. The battlefield would have turned into a massacre, one that would only escalate the already endless bloodshed.
Still, he suspected they had grown suspicious. After all, it wasn’t like him to go silent for days, let alone weeks. Twice a day, he typically reached out to them, ensuring they were in the loop. Yet, somehow, Charybdis had managed to provide a convincing excuse for his absence.
His thoughts shifted briefly to Aisha. She must have noticed his absence from the battlefield. Since she hadn’t been nearby during his fight with Diomedes, she likely learned of the events later. Knowing her, she was probably worried—perhaps even angry—about his recklessness.
“I’ll need to see her soon,” Nathan murmured, half to himself.
As he stepped out of the room, the day’s atmosphere greeted him. The castle seemed quieter than usual, almost as if the very walls were holding their breath.
“Today is a rest day,” Charybdis reminded him, her voice soft yet insistent, as though sensing his inclination to dive headfirst back into the fray.
Nathan paused, letting her words settle. Rest, perhaps, was something he desperately needed—but not for his body
“Heiron!”
The sudden sound of a feminine voice broke through Nathan’s thoughts, pulling his attention away from his surroundings. He turned toward the source and saw Astynome rushing toward him, her golden hair trailing behind her like sunlight.
Before he could react, she threw her arms around him, holding him tightly.
“I’ve been so worried!” Astynome murmured, her voice trembling with emotion. Her grip on him tightened, and tears welled up in her eyes. “You can’t die. I know you won’t die, but I was so worried!”
Nathan felt a pang of guilt but gently returned her embrace, his arms wrapping around her in a reassuring gesture.
“Yeah, don’t worry,” he muttered softly. “I can’t die that easily.”
The words were simple, but they carried a quiet determination, a promise unspoken yet understood.
“Heiron?!”
Another voice, deep and familiar, called out to him. Startled, Astynome quickly pulled away, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Nathan turned to see Aeneas striding toward them, his expression a mix of relief and restrained emotion.
Aeneas didn’t hesitate. He closed the distance between them in a few quick strides and engulfed Nathan in a bear hug, slapping him on the shoulder with enough force to make Nathan wince.
“Finally!” Aeneas exclaimed, his voice thick with unspoken relief. “You had us all so worried, man. Don’t ever try to die on us again!”
Nathan chuckled softly, patting Aeneas on the back. “I won’t.”
As he pulled back from the embrace, Nathan’s sharp eyes scanned his friend. Aeneas looked different—hardened. His face bore new lines of resolve, and his body was marked with fresh scars, evidence of battles fought and survived.
“You’ve changed,” Nathan remarked, his tone both impressed and concerned. “You’ve gotten stronger in my absence.”
Aeneas nodded, his smile tinged with bitterness. “I had to. After Sarpedon died… and you almost…” His voice faltered, the weight of the memories pressing down on him. “Something just clicked inside me. There was no choice but to step up.”
Nathan’s expression softened, understanding the unspoken burden Aeneas carried. War had a way of forcing people to grow, often in ways they never anticipated or wanted.
“Come,” Aeneas said, his voice breaking the momentary silence. “Hector and the others will be overjoyed to see you back.” He grinned widely and went ahead.
Nathan nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. Without hesitation, he followed Aeneas through the corridors of the camp.