At the break of dawn, when the air was crisp and the horizon painted in soft hues of amber and lilac, Harmonia woke in her bedroll, not far from the sleeping area of the general.

                The dampness of the Caledonian mist clung to her skin, a constant reminder of how far she was from the sunlit streets of Rome. The distant chatter of soldiers pulled her from sleep, their voices low but persistent, speaking of orders and preparations. The words carried a weight that she couldn't ignore — Rome would soon call them back.

                Harmonia knew the soldiers were exhausted. The campaign in Caledonia had been grueling. Days turned into weeks of marching through unforgiving terrain, where brambles tore at their armor and endless rain made every step a struggle. The remaining Caledonians had resisted fiercely, using the dense forests to their advantage. Ambushes were a constant threat, and the soldiers had learned to stay alert, even in moments of supposed calm.

                 Despite the hardships, the soldiers pressed on. They bore the cold and the hunger, their spirits fraying but never breaking entirely. Harmonia saw the toll it took on them. Their faces were lined with fatigue, and their laughter, when it came, was fleeting and hollow. Yet, the atrocities of the war are detestable for her — women were violated, children being beheaded and the men of Caledonia were tortured by their own delight.

                 This morning, as she pulled her cloak tighter and moved toward the campfire, she caught pieces of a conversation. Acacius's voice stood out, deep and steady, even in quiet tones. He was speaking to a group of soldiers, his words carrying a mix of determination and longing.

              "Lucilla will be waiting," he said, the name soft but full of emotion. Harmonia paused, her breath catching. She had heard of Lucilla before — Acacius's wife. The soldiers spoke of her often, describing her beauty and kindness in almost reverent terms. Harmonia imagined her as they had described: golden hair, gentle eyes, and a warmth that seemed to radiate from her.

             Acacius continued, his voice quieter now. "By now, the violets will be blooming in the garden. She always loved the first signs of spring."

            Harmonia closed her eyes for a moment, picturing the scene. She could almost see Lucilla in the garden, tending to the flowers, her smile as bright as the Roman sun. It was a vision so far removed from the muddy, battle-scarred world of Caledonia that it felt almost unreal.

           "Do you think she knows how much you miss her?" one of the soldiers asked.

           "She knows," Acacius replied, his voice steady but filled with an aching sincerity.

            Harmonia felt a pang of something she couldn't quite name. It wasn't jealousy, exactly, but a yearning she couldn't shake. She envied Lucilla, not just for her beauty or her place in Acacius's heart, but for the certainty of being loved so deeply. She thought of the life waiting for Lucilla in Rome, untouched by the mud and blood of this campaign, and she couldn't help but wonder what that must feel like.

          The soldiers' conversation turned back to the inevitable return to Rome, the word "Rome" repeated like a mantra. Harmonia knew they all longed for it, the familiar comforts of home and the promise of peace. But she also wondered how much of Caledonia they would carry with them when they returned. Would the memories of this harsh land fade, or would they linger, shaping them in ways they couldn't yet understand?

          Harmonia often found herself watching Acacius when he spoke of Lucilla. There was a light in his eyes then, a softness that contrasted sharply with the hardened soldier he had become.

           It unsettled her in ways she couldn't explain. Part of her admired the devotion he carried for his wife; it was a rare thing to see such unshakable love in a world as brutal as theirs. But another part of her — a quieter, more selfish part — wished she didn't have to see it. She told herself it was foolish, even shameful, to feel conflicted.

           Acacius belonged to Lucilla in every way that mattered, and Harmonia knew she had no place in that story. Still, the pangs of longing lingered, and she buried them beneath layers of practicality and focus. There was no room for such feelings here, no room for anything but survival. And yet, when his voice softened as he spoke of Lucilla, it felt like a wound she couldn't quite close.

            In the quiet sanctuaries of her mind, Harmonia drifted on the haunting lullaby of her mother's wisdom, the voice of Venus resonating like a tender hymn in the chambers of her heart. "Love, my daughter, is never as simple as it seems," Venus had once said, her words weighted with the sorrow of countless lifetimes. 

           "To love a mortal is to cradle the fragility of their soul, to hold in your hands a flame that burns fiercely, yet briefly. Their hearts ignite with passion, but time — that cruel master — always extinguishes them, leaving only ashes where fire once danced."

              At first, those words had seemed distant, a faint whisper from the edges of an unformed dream. But now, as the weight of her longing settled deep in her chest, they unraveled with a piercing clarity, a truth too sharp to ignore. Her yearning for Acacius — for the unwavering devotion he lavished upon Lucilla — felt like a rare and exquisite poison. It was a fire she could never touch, a promise of warmth forever beyond her grasp. She understood, with aching certainty, that for mortals, love was both their highest triumph and their deepest sorrow: a fleeting spark that could never be held, a flame destined to fade far too soon.

             Her mother's voice echoed louder now, like a distant tide drawing closer. "To love them is to dance with the essence of time itself. They burn with an intensity that only the ephemeral can know. But in the end, the fire must die. It always does." Harmonia had once marveled at the depth of this wisdom, but now, standing at the edge of its truth, she felt its weight as never before.

            Mortals loved with a purity untampered by eternity, their hearts fragile yet ferocious, unguarded in the face of the inevitable. It was a beauty so raw it could shatter the heart of a goddess, crack the immortality of her soul.

          She watched Acacius as he spoke of Lucilla, and in his gaze, she saw a tenderness that made him appear more human, more vulnerable, than any mortal she had ever known. His love was steady and unyielding, like the tide pressing softly against the shore, tireless in its devotion. Yet Harmonia's heart ached, not with envy, but with a deeper, more sorrowful yearning — a longing to taste that kind of love, even as she understood it could never be hers.

          To love a mortal was to embrace the inevitability of their end, to hold the fleeting beauty of a moment only to watch it slip away.

           And so, she wondered, in the stillness of her thoughts: could a goddess ever truly belong to a mortal heart? Could she, who had known centuries, learn to love with the fragile immediacy of those who lived and burned within the confines of time?

             Her mother's words lingered, a shadow draped across her soul. "The price of loving a mortal is the certainty of loss — their heart will break, their flame will dim, and you will be left to mourn what once was, no matter how deeply you loved." Yet in that inevitability lay an unexpected grace, a bittersweet beauty that only impermanence could bring.

           What, then, was love, if not the acceptance of its end? What was it, if not the understanding that it must blaze brilliantly, only to fade into embers, leaving behind the ache of its absence? To love a mortal was to stand bathed in the glow of something transient, knowing the shadows would come, yet choosing to linger in the light. It was this paradox — this terrible, wondrous truth — that haunted Harmonia's heart: that in the fragility of love lay its most profound beauty.

          The wounds it left, the ache of its passing, were the price of its magnificence.

           In the silence that followed, Harmonia understood. The love of mortals was a song, brief and exquisite, its melody a fleeting gift. Though she could never hold its notes for long, she would remember them — even when they dissolved into the night.

            Harmonia's gaze lingered once more upon the distant general. Yet, he remained impossibly far but still incredibly close. She sighed heavily.

            Oh how I wish he wound me.