Khillea’s hand trembled violently, her fingers slick with the warm, crimson essence of life—Nathan’s blood. Her breath hitched as she stared at the glistening scarlet staining her palm, a stark and damning proof of yet another tragedy at the hands of Paris.
First, he had stolen Patroclus from her, wrenching away the one she cherished as a brother. Now, he dared to strike again, this time trying to take Nathan—the only light left in her darkened world, the one tether keeping her from spiraling into despair.
Her vision darkened, rage surging through her veins like a relentless storm. A sinister aura seeped from her form, thick and suffocating, like the weight of impending doom itself. The temperature around her seemed to drop, the air turning frigid with the sheer force of her wrath.
Paris, who had been so sure of his victory, felt an unnatural chill creep up his spine. His instincts screamed at him—danger. With a sharp intake of breath, he yanked his sword free from Nathan’s back, crimson droplets splattering across the battlefield, and swiftly leapt away, creating distance between them. His hands clenched around the hilt of his blade, but even he couldn’t suppress the creeping tendrils of fear that wrapped around his chest.
Khillea’s legs tensed, ready to launch herself at him and tear him apart for what he had done. But before she could make her move, a gentle touch against her hair stopped her in her tracks.
“N…Nathan! Are you okay?! I will call Asclepius! He will heal you!” Khillea’s voice cracked with desperation. Her mind was frantic, the thought of losing Nathan unbearable. She had finally found a reason to live beyond war, beyond vengeance. And if that was ripped from her… she would be lost. Lost to madness, lost to the abyss of despair she had barely climbed out of.
If she had to drag Asclepius to his knees and force him to heal a Trojan warrior, she would. If she had to defy the gods themselves, she would. Nothing mattered anymore except Nathan and the future they could have.
Yet, to her disbelief, Nathan merely smiled—calm, unfazed, as if Paris’s attack had been nothing more than an inconvenience, a fleeting discomfort rather than a fatal blow. His golden eyes shimmered with amusement, tinged with something even deeper—absolute confidence.
Paris’s blade had been no more than a mere mosquito bite to him.
Pain? He had endured agony beyond comprehension. He had suffered wounds far worse than this—tortures that shattered lesser men, trials that should have claimed his life a thousand times over. A stab in the back from Paris? It was nothing. It was laughable.
Even as the Greeks gawked in disbelief, the gaping wound on his back was already closing, flesh knitting itself together at an unnatural speed. The corruption meant to spread through his body dissipated instantly, as if it had never been there.
“I…Impossible!” Paris stammered, his face pale with horror. “This sword was given to me by a Corrupt God! You should be dying!”
His voice trembled, unable to reconcile what was happening before his eyes. That blade had slain heroes, struck down warriors who should have been untouchable. And yet, Nathan stood there, completely unharmed, untouched by the power that had been meant to end him.
Poor Paris. He had no idea.
Nathan’s body had long since become something beyond human limits. The darkness that once threatened to consume him had instead become his strength. And now, with light magic coursing through him as well, there was no force of corruption that could claim him.
With certainty, Nathan gently cupped Khillea’s face, lifting her gaze away from Paris and back to him.
“Look at me, Khillea,” he said, his voice steady, soothing. “The war will be over soon. Leave the rest to me and watch.”
Khillea’s rage melted into something else entirely. Her lips quivered, her breath shallow as she gazed into Nathan’s unwavering eyes—so full of power, of promise.
Overcome, she surrendered to the overwhelming emotions surging within her and threw her arms around him, pulling him into a desperate, passionate kiss.
The battlefield stood still.
The Greeks, already struggling to comprehend what had transpired, were utterly dumbfounded.
Achilles—or rather, Khillea—who was supposed to be the Greeks’ strongest weapon, was now locked in an intimate embrace with their worst enemy, their greatest nightmare—Heiron, the man who had miraculously returned from the dead.
And if that alone wasn’t shocking enough, it seemed Khillea had not only shared her bed with Heiron twice, but they had even borne a daughter together! The realization sent ripples of disbelief through the ranks of the Greek warriors. When had that even happened? How had no one noticed? The revelation left them dumbfounded, struggling to comprehend the gravity of what they had just witnessed.
Yet the absurdity did not end there.
Paris, a Trojan Prince, had just driven his blade into the back of Heiron, a Trojan legend who stood on equal footing with Hector himself. A supposed ally turned traitor in the blink of an eye. Nothing made sense anymore. The war had taken many strange turns, but this was beyond anything they had ever imagined.
It was madness.
And yet, for the gods who observed from their celestial thrones, it was pure, unfiltered entertainment. Many of them reveled in the unfolding chaos, their laughter echoing in the heavens, finding amusement in the mortals’ struggles and betrayals.
Most of those present had no idea why Paris had chosen to stab Heiron, but a select few understood the reasoning behind his treachery—Nathan included. And among those who shared in this knowledge was Helen, whose troubled expression suggested that she had already suspected something like this would occur.
Nathan turned slowly, his piercing gaze locking onto Paris, who stood frozen in place, his hands trembling despite the fury in his eyes. His anger was a thin veil barely concealing the terror coursing through his veins under Nathan’s scrutiny.
“You just stabbed me,” Nathan’s voice was devoid of warmth, his words striking with the precision of a blade. “And you did it in front of your entire family.”
Paris flinched at the cold accusation, his lips parting as if to retort, but nothing came.
Nathan took a step forward, the weight of his presence pressing down on the disgraced prince. “How do you think they look at you right now?”
Paris hesitated, the unspoken question gnawing at his mind. And yet, against his better judgment, his gaze drifted toward the towering walls of Troy, where the very people he had sworn to protect stood watching.
Helen’s expression was a mask of utter disgust. The moment she had seen Nathan stabbed from behind in a cowardly attack, her heart had nearly stopped like for Astynome and Kassandra. But then, as Nathan stood, unscathed her terror had been replaced by something else entirely.
Contempt.
Astynome’s cold, judgmental gaze bore into Paris, mirroring Kassandra’s sharp glare. Neither of them spoke, but their silence was deafening. The message was clear.
A curse upon Troy.
Paris had not only brought war to their doorstep—he had now tried to murder the very man who might have been their salvation.
Andromache, Hector’s wife, had the same look of revulsion etched onto her features. If she had despised Paris before, it was nothing compared to what she felt now. He had always been arrogant, always spoken disrespectfully toward her husband—the man who truly bore the weight of Troy on his shoulders. But now? Now he had crossed an unforgivable line.
He had betrayed the man who had saved Hector’s life.
The man who was, in every sense, Hector’s truest friend.
Priam’s face bore the expression of a father whose hope had finally withered, a man watching his own son succumb irredeemably to disgrace. He stood tall, his regal bearing unwavering, but the disappointment in his gaze was unmistakable. It was not the disappointment of anger, but of resignation. Paris was lost to him.
Beside him, Queen Hecuba’s lips trembled as she fought to contain the pain welling up within her. More than anyone, she suffered in this moment. Her daughter, Kassandra, had foreseen this since childhood. She had warned her, pleaded with her—send him away, never allow him to remain in Troy. He will bring its downfall. And yet, Hecuba had clung to her love as a mother, ignoring the dire prophecy. Now, Troy stood on the precipice of ruin, its survival hanging by a fragile thread, and all because of Paris. Each passing day could be the city’s last, and the near loss of Hector had been yet another wound inflicted upon them by his selfishness.
Now, to make matters worse, Paris had just attempted to strike down the very man who had saved them all—Nathan, wielding magic beyond their understanding, magic powerful enough to rival the wrath of gods themselves.
It wasn’t only Priam and Hecuba who bore the weight of this realization. The entire city of Troy had turned against Paris. Their gazes, once filled with admiration for the prince, now radiated nothing but cold contempt. Among them stood Aeneas, his strong jaw clenched in barely restrained fury. His fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword, itching to end Paris’s disgrace himself, but he knew it was not his place.
Paris, trembling with frustration and desperation, suddenly erupted, his voice hoarse with anger. “Don’t you dare look at me like that!!” he shouted, his body quaking. “I-It’s all because of him! Because of you, Heiron! You should have never come to Troy! You stole Helen! You corrupted her mind with your tricks!”
Nathan tilted his head, his expression a mixture of amusement and pity. “Stole?” he repeated, a mocking lilt in his voice. “She was never yours to begin with.”
Paris’s eyes burned with unbridled rage. Without hesitation, he lunged, his corrupted magic swirling around him like a storm of malevolence. He swung his sword, aiming to sever Nathan’s head from his shoulders.
But Nathan barely moved. With effortless grace, he sidestepped the attack and drove his fist deep into Paris’s abdomen. The breath fled from Paris’s lungs in a strangled gasp, his body doubling over in agony. Before he could recover, Nathan twisted his wrist, disarming him with a swift, brutal efficiency. The corrupted sword flew from Paris’s grasp, landing far beyond his reach.
Now defenseless, Paris staggered, his arms wrapped around his midsection as he groaned in pain. But he refused to yield. The corruption surged through him, forcing his broken body to rise once more.
BADAM!
“Grugh!!”
Nathan with a slap that resounded like a punch sent Paris rolling on the ground pathetically.
Nathan had disgusted gaze. He had no desire to dirty his hands with the blood of such a pathetic guy. Paris wasn’t worth the effort.
“Heiron.”
The deep, steady voice of Hector cut through the tension. The Trojan champion strode forward, his bronze armor gleaming despite the battle-worn dents and scratches marring its surface from the battle of a day ago. Despite the deadly state he was in, he plunged once more in the war right after.
Nathan turned to face him, his expression unreadable.
Hector met his gaze with solemn determination. “Please,” he said, his voice steady. “Let me handle my brother.”
Nathan looked Hector for a long moment before speaking, his tone carrying the weight of an unspoken warning. “Hector, he has gone too deep. You understand what that means, don’t you?”
There was no hesitation in Hector’s response. “I know,” he said, gripping the hilt of his sword with firm resolve. “Don’t worry, Heiron. I will do what must be done.”