I Enslaved The Goddess Who Summoned Me
Chapter 180: Glory for Death

"A good, hot bath after plunging into the chaos of battle, with the stench of blood still clinging to me, is truly the best thing in this world," Khillea murmured, her lips curling into a satisfied smirk as she sank deeper into the steaming water.

Her cheeks were flushed, though whether from the heat of the bath or some deeper, strange pleasure brought on by the thought of war, it was impossible to tell.

The air around her was thick with the scent of the herbs that floated in the water, meant to cleanse and soothe, but for Khillea, they were mere afterthoughts. What she reveled in wasn't the calm of the bath, but the thrill of the battle that had led to this moment of respite. There was no denying it: Khillea loved war.

Loved the clash of blades, the cries of fallen foes, and the rush of knowing she had survived another day on the battlefield.

She tilted her head back, letting her damp, dark hair spill over the edge of the bath as her servant, Briseis, dutifully finished washing it. Khillea's eyes gleamed with something wild, untamed.

"Don't you agree, Briseis?" she asked, turning her head slightly to glance at the girl who stood behind her, hands trembling as she worked.

Briseis hesitated, her lips pressing together before she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I don't know. I've never fought. I don't know what it feels like."

Khillea's laugh was low, almost indulgent, as if Briseis's innocence amused her. She raised one leg out of the water, admiring the way the droplets clung to her pale, well-sculpted limb, embellished with thin, intricate scars that told their own tales of battle.

"You should learn," Khillea said, her voice light but carrying an edge of seriousness beneath it. "There's no feeling quite like it. It reminds you that you're truly alive. When your blood is pumping, your heart racing, and death is just a breath away... that's when you know what living really is."

Briseis remained silent, her hands moving to wring out the washcloth, trying to hide the slight tremble in her fingers.

"Why are you attacking us?"

The question lingered in the steamy air for a moment, and Khillea's smirk deepened as she leaned back against the smooth stone of the bath. "Why do you ask?" she replied, the amusement still playing in her tone, though her eyes had grown sharper.

Briseis swallowed, but pressed on, her voice gaining a bit of strength. "Is it for Agamemnon? His brother... the one who lost Queen Helen?"

At the mention of Agamemnon, Khillea's expression changed, darkening into something almost contemptuous. The playful spark in her eyes dulled, replaced by irritation as she scoffed.

"Agamemnon? Ha! What a joke. I couldn't care less about him or his pitiful, cuckolded brother," she spat, her annoyance palpable. "I am here on my own volition, not because of some ridiculous feud over a stolen woman."

Briseis's brows furrowed in confusion, though she tried to keep her voice steady. "Then... are you attacking us for pleasure? For the sake of taking innocent lives?"

Khillea threw her head back and laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. There was no anger in her laugh, only amusement, as if Briseis's question was the most absurd thing she had ever heard.

"I take pleasure in battle, not in mindless destruction like the beasts I am forced to fight alongside," Khillea corrected, her voice sharp but laced with pride. "You see, in this war, I am destined for greatness. I will carve my name into history, become a legend that people will sing about for generations to come. Long after I am gone, they will remember me."

"A... legend?" Briseis echoed, the word unfamiliar on her lips as she tried to grasp the magnitude of what Khillea was saying.

Khillea's expression softened, just a little, as if speaking of her destiny stirred something deeper within her. "Yes. A year ago, my mother—wise and knowing as she is—told me that if I joined this war against the Trojans, I would become a legend. It is my fate."

"Is that... why you're here?" Briseis asked.

"Yes," Khillea replied, her tone almost reverent now, as though speaking of something sacred. "But it seems my fate holds something else as well. I am destined to die once I have achieved that immortality of name and deed."

Briseis's eyes widened in shock. She hadn't expected that. "Die? But... why?"

Khillea shrugged, almost nonchalantly, as though the thought of her own death was inconsequential. "Honor. Immortal glory. What is a short life, so long as my name lives on for thousands of years? That doesn't sound so bad, does it?"

But to Briseis, it sounded utterly mad. The more Khillea spoke, the more it became clear to her that this woman was driven by something beyond reason, beyond sanity. She was willing to give up everything—her life, her future, her very soul—for the sake of glory, for a place in the stories told by bards and poets.

And for Briseis, that was incomprehensible.

"And what if you stayed?" Briseis asked, her voice quiet but steady, cutting through the ambient warmth of the tent. Her question was simple, almost naive, yet laced with a deeper understanding of the choices Khillea had made. After all, anyone would have chosen to stay behind, to avoid the horrors of war and live a longer, peaceful life.

Khillea, who had been basking in the fading heat of the bath, turned her gaze upward. Her eyes seemed distant as she stared at the fabric of the tent ceiling, the lines of her face softening in the flickering torchlight. For a fleeting moment, Briseis saw her not as the fierce, battle-hardened warrior, but as a young woman—a girl—lost in thought.

"Love, children, family..." Khillea murmured, almost to herself, her voice tinged with an emotion she rarely let slip. Desire. She couldn't completely hide the yearning that slipped through her mask, though she quickly caught herself.

Briseis blinked, surprised. Could it be that Khillea, the woman who reveled in battle, who sought immortal glory, actually wanted something so simple, so human? "Do you want them?" Briseis asked softly, her voice carrying a strange mix of curiosity and empathy.

Khillea remained silent for a long moment, weighing the question in her mind. Then, with a sharp, almost defiant exhale, she shook her head and recovered her usual confident smirk, turning to rest her arms on the edge of the basin, the water lapping at her elbows.

"It's either immortal glory or that," she said, her smirk widening, though her eyes still held that distant gleam. "I made my decision the day I left my homeland, my territory. But..." Her voice lowered slightly, and the smirk faltered for a brief second. "I'm not going to give up just because my mother said I can only have one of them."

Briseis tilted her head, confused by the contradiction in her words. "Wh... what do you mean?" she asked, furrowing her brows.

Khillea's smile returned in full force, more predatory now, as if she had some secret plan brewing in her mind. "I want to leave behind an immortal legacy of my prowess, yes, but I also want to leave behind a personal one."

Briseis's eyes widened slightly, the meaning behind Khillea's words dawning on her. "A child? But your mother said..."

"Yes, yes, yes," Khillea interrupted, sulking as she turned away again, splashing water in frustration. "I know what my mother said. She's told me time and again—if I choose to take part in this war, I forfeit any chance of children. But that doesn't mean I'm just going to lie down and do nothing about it. Or not even try?" She scoffed, her tone dripping with disdain. "That would be pathetic."

Briseis nodded slowly, though inwardly, she couldn't help but feel that no matter how much Khillea tried, she would not be able to escape the fate foretold by Thetis, a goddess. Prophecies, especially those from divine lips, were rarely wrong. If stepping foot in Troy meant that Khillea would never have children and would ultimately die, then surely it was a fate that could not be avoided.

Still, Briseis hesitated to voice this, sensing that Khillea wouldn't take kindly to being reminded of the harshness of her destiny. Instead, she offered a more practical response. "There are plenty of men, so I suppose you have a wide choice," she said cautiously, keeping her true thoughts to herself.

Khillea burst out laughing, her mirth echoing off the tent walls, though there was a bitter edge to her laughter. "Are you joking?" she asked, amusement lighting up her face. "Have you seen those men? Most of them are nothing more than brutes, driven by their own base desires and lust for battle. They're hardly the kind of men I'd want to leave a legacy with."

She shook her head, her laughter fading as she considered her options more seriously. Khillea wanted a child, something more than just the immortal glory she had been promised—a living legacy that would carry on her name and bloodline. She would sleep with a stranger, if necessary, to make it happen. But the real question was who? NovelFire-original-content

None of the Greek kings, that much she was certain of. Khillea despised most of them, seeing them as weak or foolish men driven by petty squabbles and personal ambition. Agamemnon, in particular, filled her with disdain. The thought of bearing a child with a man like him made her skin crawl.

Then there was Menelaus—pathetic in his obsession over Helen, as if his lost queen was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Maybe Odysseus, she mused for a brief moment. He was cunning and intelligent, traits Khillea could respect. But even that idea quickly died. Odysseus was utterly devoted to his wife, Penelope. His loyalty to her was renowned, and Khillea knew that trying to seduce a man like him would be pointless.

"There will be definitely someone worthy of you." Briseis said but didn't think really that. Her thoughts about the Greek men were really not good. For her they were all trashes after she had witnessed what they had done to her city and to the women...

"Maybe..." Khillea mumbled not believing herself that she will ever replace someone worthy of her.

As expected she will just have to sleep with the first stranger who seemed somewhat good enough.