Nathan's feet touched soft earth, the air around him instantly shifting from the cool Roman breeze to the warm, fertile breath of Demeter's domain.

The scent of blooming wheat and wildflowers filled his lungs, so different from the marble-and-dust air of the Empire.

So Athena had brought him back here, despite everything she now knew about him. Despite the revelations that could have easily turned her hand against him.

That, in itself, was a good sign.

Nathan exhaled softly, surveying the boundless garden — the fruit trees heavy with gold-tinted pears, the distant fountain of clear water shaped like a goddess's open palms. The place radiated abundance and peace, yet the calm did nothing to quiet the wary hum at the back of his mind.

Should he credit his silver tongue for this favor? Or was it simply his absurdly underrated Luck stat pulling its invisible strings again?

He gave a small, humorless smile. Whatever the reason, he thought, it worked.

The only thing that mattered now was that Athena still trusted him — enough to grant him another meeting with Pandora.

He turned toward her, studying her unreadable expression. "Aren't you wary," he asked quietly, "that I might try something with Pandora?"

Athena met his gaze evenly. "I was," she admitted, her voice calm and unhurried. "I was suspicious of everything — and everyone. Even now, I can't claim I trust you entirely."

Her eyes softened slightly, though her tone remained composed. "But I trust that you've taken your role seriously — that you truly intend to guide Pandora… and manage her emotions when they spiral."

Nathan let out a quiet breath, almost a scoff. "I'd have preferred to never approach someone dangerous like her in the first place," he said. "But delaying it would only make things worse. She's unstable — her love, her fury, her grief — they all blur together. And I can tell she thinks I belong to her."

He glanced toward the rows of trees, where sunlight bent through the branches in uneasy brilliance. "That kind of story," he murmured, "never ends well."

Then his eyes cut back to Athena, sharp and searching. "In that case… will you protect me when that time comes? Or use the opportunity to get rid of me?"

Athena blinked — startled by the bluntness in his tone. "I...I am not that shrewd!" She blurted, her composure cracking for the first time.

The goddess's cheeks tinged faintly pink at her own outburst. She straightened, forcing her usual serenity back into place with a controlled breath. Nathan almost smiled at the sight; few would ever believe the ever-poised Athena could be flustered.

After a pause, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing. "We'll need to find a solution," she said softly, "one that satisfies all parties — especially Pandora. If we fail to, her emotions could consume her and everything around her."

Her blue eyes lifted to meet his. "In that case… will you accept the task of tending to her when the time comes? Of soothing her heart, even if it turns against the gods themselves?"

Nathan halted mid-step.

Athena's brows furrowed slightly. "What's wrong?" she asked, her tone cautious.

He looked at her for a long moment, the silence stretching like a drawn blade between them. His eyes, once neutral, darkened — not with anger, but with suspicion.

"It's strange," he said finally. "You're being far too accepting toward me. You let me near Pandora again, even though I deceived you before. You're calm — almost forgiving. It doesn't add up."

He took a step closer, his voice low but firm. "I tricked you, Athena. I hid behind a false identity. You're not the kind of goddess who forgets something like that easily. And yet here you are, treating me like an ally. I find it hard to believe."

Athena opened her mouth — then stopped. For the first time, her usual calm faltered.

How could she explain? That Aphrodite had shown her his life — the pain, the cruelty, the fire he'd endured at Liphiel's hands but also his life on Earth? That she'd seen the boy who'd been broken, reshaped, and still somehow learned to stand upright? That she'd felt pity, admiration, and an unspoken guilt that was hard to explain?

She couldn't say any of that aloud. Not to him. Not when she herself barely understood why his presence affected her this way.

Her eyes lowered. "You hurt me," she admitted softly.

Nathan raised a brow, surprised by the rawness in her tone.

"I rarely — never — lower my guard," she went on. "Not to mortals. Not to gods. But for a moment… just a split of a moment, when you appeared, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time. Relief."

She drew in a quiet breath. "Relief that someone capable of handling Pandora had finally appeared." Her gaze flickered toward him, distant and uncertain. "But then… I learned what you were truly after."

Athena's face, usually composed and serene as marble, now held a flicker of something raw — genuine hurt, fragile and almost human.

Seeing that expression, Nathan felt something tighten in his chest. He couldn't stay silent.

He took a slow step toward her, the soft earth of Demeter's garden muffling his movement. The faint hum of divine energy in the air seemed to fade until only his voice remained.

"I told you," he began quietly, "at the beginning, yes… I wanted to hurt you. But I didn't understand you back then."

Athena's eyes did not meet his. Instead, they drifted toward a cluster of unusual flowers blooming nearby — their petals pale gold, shaped like delicate shields, swaying as though they too were listening. Her voice was low when she answered.

"Perhaps," she said. "But my image of Septimius was shattered that day. I felt like a fool — deceived by you, and by Aphrodite."

Her words struck with a precision only she could manage — direct, factual, yet filled with quiet emotion beneath their surface. Nathan couldn't deny them. She was right. That had been his intention at the start.

A faint, self-mocking smile curved her lips as she went on. "It's laughable, isn't it? That I — the Goddess of Wisdom — could be tricked so easily. If I hadn't told you my reasons during the Trojan War, who knows what would have happened to me at your hands… and Aphrodite's."

Her voice thinned slightly at the end, the implication hanging heavily between them.

Enslaved.

That had been his goal. To make her bow. To use her.

Nathan's throat tightened as the realization echoed in his mind — the memory of his former intentions now a bitter taste. He was relieved, deeply, that he had not followed through. That he had learned who Athena truly was before he could destroy something so sacred.

"Nothing would have happened," he said softly, his eyes steady on her.

Athena's brows drew together slightly, uncertain.

"In one way or another," Nathan continued, "I would've found out the truth — that you're a goddess who actually cares. One who protects humanity, who'd sacrifice her own peace, her own emotions, just to hold the world together."

A faint flush colored her cheeks, and she turned her face away, trying to mask it beneath cool dismissal. "Y...You're exaggerating," she murmured, almost stammering. "As gods, it's our duty to guide mortals. That's all."

Nathan took another step closer. "No. Not all gods do that. And you weren't forced to bear what you have — Pandora, Gaia's prophecy, all of it." His gaze softened but didn't waver. "You chose it."

Athena fell silent.

She could not argue that truth. She had chosen to carry those burdens — because someone had to. Because if she didn't, no one else would at least until it would be too late.

Nathan moved closer still, and Athena — the unshakable strategist, the paragon of self-control — found herself stepping back without thinking. The hem of her white robes brushed the grass, the scent of wheat and wildflowers rising around them.

He wasn't using his power to seduce her — she could feel that much. But the air around him still shimmered faintly, a ripple of divine resonance that made his words pulse with truth. It was Aphrodite's Divine Passive Skill, yes, but wielded differently — used not for charm, but sincerity. Every syllable vibrated with the quiet honesty of a man who meant every word.

"I'm not asking you to trust me forever," Nathan said, his voice low, steady. "I'm asking you to trust me for now — while I'm in Rome."

He reached forward, gently taking her hand. Her fingers were cold, delicate, yet there was strength in them, the strength of a being who had lifted civilizations and guided heroes for millennia.

"I won't do anything against you," he said. "Or against your city."

Then, without another word, Nathan summoned the shield — her shield. The one she had once bestowed upon him in faith. Its golden surface caught the sunlight, throwing soft reflections across her face.

Athena's eyes widened slightly. "This…"

"This gift," Nathan said quietly, "was meant for Septimius — for the man you trusted. It shouldn't belong to me."

He extended it toward her, the gesture simple but heavy with meaning. "I don't want to carry something tied to a lie."

Athena's lips parted as if to speak, but no words came.

Nathan placed the shield at her feet and walked past her, the motion unhurried yet final, his cloak brushing against the grass as he moved deeper into the garden.

For a long moment, Athena remained still. She stared at the shield, her reflection faint upon its gleaming surface — her face torn between confusion, sadness, and something she refused to name.

What is this feeling? She wondered.

Why did his words shake her? Why did his sincerity sting more than deceit ever had?

She was the Goddess of Wisdom. She had guided kings, heroes, and gods alike — yet before this mortal, she felt utterly disarmed.

Completely confused.

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