The temperature plummeted. The torches flickered wildly before dimming, as though something had stolen their warmth.
Then—the frost moved.
It twisted, condensed, and began to take form.
A silhouette emerged, standing amidst the swirling ice.
A man.
As the icy aura gradually began to dissipate, a figure slowly emerged from the swirling frost. The once-blinding mist faded, revealing the contours of a man whose very presence exuded an otherworldly magnificence.
His hair, pure as freshly fallen snow, cascaded freely behind him, each silken strand catching the dim light and shimmering with an ethereal glow. He was clad in a pair of obsidian-black pants that contrasted sharply with the pristine white tunic adorning his torso. A simple yet elegantly crafted belt cinched the fabric at his waist, accentuating his tall and imposing form. His skin was impossibly pale—no, not merely pale, but luminescent, like polished marble untouched by the imperfections of mortality. It was the kind of pallor that spoke not of frailty but of divinity itself.
Then, as the last remnants of mist dissolved into nothingness, his face came into full view. His lips, perfectly sculpted, held a quiet, unreadable expression. His nose was straight, noble in its structure, and then there were his eyes—glistening pools of molten gold. But it was not their color alone that sent shivers down the spines of all who beheld him. At the center of each radiant iris was a thin, demonic slit, a stark contrast to the mesmerizing beauty that surrounded it. The unnatural pupils exuded a quiet menace, an authority so profound that even seasoned warriors found themselves frozen in place, unable to tear their gaze away.
It was as if a god had descended upon them.
“Who… are you?” King Priam finally asked, his voice cautious, laced with the weight of uncertainty.
It was clear that neither he nor the others recognized the figure standing before them. How could they? This was not Heiron, at least not as they had known him. The man they saw now was a vision transformed, his disguise peeling away to reveal something far greater—something incomprehensibly different. This was Nathan’s true form, the form he had taken after absorbing the divine energies of Khione and Amaterasu. Not a single soul present had ever witnessed him in this state before, and the drastic change in his appearance left them reeling.
“H… Heiron?”
The first to break the stunned silence was Astynome. Her voice trembled as she took an unsteady step forward, her breath hitching in disbelief.
Since Heiron’s supposed death, Astynome had buried her emotions beneath an unyielding mask, feigning indifference even as grief clawed at her insides. The agony of loss had driven her to the precipice of despair more times than she could count. She had toyed with the idea of surrendering to oblivion, allowing herself to be consumed by the void, but something—some unshakable instinct—had kept her tethered to existence.
She had never truly believed he was gone.
Perhaps it was the blood of her father, Apollo, coursing through her veins, granting her a sixth sense that defied reason. She had seen Heiron vanish before her very eyes, yet deep within, something told her he was not lost—not completely.
Astynome’s whispered utterance sent a ripple of shock through those gathered.
The ones who reacted stronger were Atalanta, Kassandra and Helen.
Every eye darted between her and the figure before them, searching for even the faintest trace of the man they had known.
But they found nothing.
His expression, calm and distant, bore only the slightest echo of the Heiron they remembered. Yet beyond that, there was no resemblance—no tangible proof that this was truly the same person. He was no longer the man they had mourned. He was something else entirely.
Then, before anyone could react further, a blur of movement shattered the uneasy stillness. A lone figure surged forward, heedless of the stunned onlookers, and threw herself into Nathan’s embrace.
Kassandra.
Her arms wrapped around him with desperate fervor, as though she feared he might disappear once more if she did not hold on tightly enough. Her body trembled against his, the sheer intensity of emotion overwhelming her. The others could only watch in silence, their own thoughts tangled in uncertainty and disbelief, as the veil of mystery surrounding Nathan deepened further.
She may be the only one besides Astynome who recognized Heiron.
Tears streamed silently down Kassandra’s face as she gasped for breath, her cheek pressed against Nathan’s chest. Her body trembled, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of emotions she could barely contain.
Queen Hecuba, still reeling from shock, attempted to call out to Kassandra, but the words died in her throat the moment she saw Nathan move. Slowly, gently, he reached out and wrapped his arms around Kassandra, enveloping her in a reassuring embrace.
“!”
Kassandra’s entire body shivered at the mere contact, a visible tremor running through her frame as if a jolt of energy had coursed through her. For a moment, it was almost comical how her form seemed to tremble uncontrollably against his, but as Nathan’s hand found its way to her back, offering a firm yet soothing pat, everything stilled. The tension melted away, replaced by a profound sense of relief.
Nathan then lifted his gaze, his devil golden eyes meeting those of the others, who continued to stare at him in utter disbelief.
“I am Heiron,” Nathan declared, his voice calm but resolute. “But my true name is Nathan. I am also known as Samael, the Lord Commander of Tenebria.”
“Tenebria? Lord Commander?” Aeneas repeated, his voice thick with shock. The name of Tenebria was well-known, but to associate it with the man before them—Heiron—was beyond their comprehension.
“I came here because Aphrodite asked me to aid the Trojans against the Greeks,” Nathan continued, his words sending yet another wave of astonishment through the gathered onlookers.
A sudden, mocking laugh shattered the heavy silence. Paris scoffed. “Aphrodite? Is that a joke?”
Nathan did not even spare him a glance. His expression remained impassive, unwavering in its seriousness. His sheer presence, combined with the fact that he had seemingly risen from the ashes before their very eyes, left little room for doubt. Whether they wanted to believe it or not, the truth was undeniable.
“Aphrodite sent you… but why hide your identity?” Queen Hecuba finally found her voice, her expression torn between curiosity and unease.
“Because I am the Lord Commander of Tenebria, a nation that has nothing to do with Troy,” Nathan explained simply.
The weight of his words settled upon them like a heavy shroud. Tenebria was already viewed with hostility by many, and if word spread that its Lord Commander had taken the side of the Trojans, it would undoubtedly provoke the wrath of numerous gods and kingdoms alike. But this was not the only reason for his secrecy. Nathan had no intention of exposing himself—not as Samael, not as Nathan—to the gods who watched and schemed from the shadows.
Aeneas took an unsteady step forward, his voice trembling with disbelief as his eyes remained locked onto Nathan.
“Heiron… is that truly you?” he asked, his tone a mixture of shock, hope, and lingering sorrow. His breath hitched, as if he feared that speaking would shatter the apparition before him. “How? We saw you… dying… I saw you dying…” His voice cracked, and despite his efforts to maintain composure, a few stray tears welled in his eyes, threatening to fall.
Nathan exhaled, knowing that the truth was far too convoluted to explain. Instead, he gave them a version that was close enough.
“A lot has happened,” he admitted, his expression unreadable. “My death was orchestrated by the gods who support the Greeks. They weren’t supposed to interfere in the war to begin with, yet they did so shamelessly—ensuring my demise.” He let his words settle, watching the stunned expressions before continuing. “But the Trojan gods retaliated. They would not let such treachery go unanswered. They intervened… and brought me back.”
A collective silence fell upon the group, as if the very weight of his words had crushed their ability to respond.
Atalanta, who had remained quiet up until now, finally spoke. Her usually sharp eyes were wide with emotion, and though she had been moved to tears, she had swiftly wiped them away, unwilling to show vulnerability.
“The gods… brought you back?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper, as if saying it aloud would somehow make it less real.
Nathan met her gaze and gave a single nod. “They did.”
This only deepened the shock gripping the others.
They had all heard countless stories of gods favoring mortals, bestowing blessings, lending their strength, and whispering prophecies… but this? This was beyond mere favoritism. The gods had not just supported him—they had defied the natural order, pulling him from the clutches of death itself. Such an act was unheard of, even among the greatest of heroes.
Still, Nathan had no intention of dwelling on their reactions. He turned away from the stunned onlookers and directed his attention to Hector, whose unconscious form lay on the ground. His gaze softened as he looked at the battered warrior.
“How is he?” he asked, his voice laced with concern as he turned to Andromache.
Andromache, still trembling with relief, clutched Hector’s hand as if afraid to let go. Tears streaked her cheeks, yet her lips curled into a faint smile as she nodded.
“A-Alive… Heiron, he’s alive… Thank you… Thank you so much…” Her voice wavered, filled with boundless gratitude as she lowered her head in a deep bow, her shoulders trembling.
Nathan frowned slightly and shook his head. “I wouldn’t let one of my few true friends die,” he said, his tone firm. “There’s no need to thank me for that.”
Andromache lifted her head, her teary eyes brimming with appreciation. Even in the chaos of war, Hector had a true friend who would fight for him, and for that, she would forever be grateful.
Aeneas, still processing everything, let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head in amazement. Though the reality of Nathan’s return still felt surreal, his words—his unwavering loyalty—felt undeniably real.
However, not everyone shared their relief.
Paris stood a short distance away, his hands clenched into tight fists, his jaw set in rigid anger. His entire body trembled, his expression twisted with barely restrained frustration.
His gaze flickered toward Helen. She had not taken her eyes off Nathan—not even for a moment. The intensity of her focus, the silent awe in her gaze, made Paris’s blood boil.
He turned away sharply, letting out a harsh scoff.
“Must be quite convenient… to have gods on your side,” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom.
Without waiting for a response, he spun on his heel and stormed off, his rage barely contained.
Nathan, however, remained utterly indifferent, as though Paris had never spoken at all. Whether he had truly acknowledged Paris’s presence or simply deemed him irrelevant was a question left unanswered.