Chapter 2
two
. . .
Zera
The plan was simple.
Infiltrate the outer villages of the Rhea Kingdom.
Check for signs of Harmonian rebels who were easy enough to spot with their blazing red hair and insufferable arrogance.
After the Harmonians’ sad attempt at rebelling against the Vulcanians, some fled to the Rhea Kingdom, hoping to avoid being captured.
Zera had no problem dragging them back to Vulcan territory for questioning. What she minded was having to pretend she gave a shit about soil.
She scowled as she looked out over the landscape. Green. So much gods-damned green.
Everywhere she looked, it bloomed … vines were climbing up trees heavy with fruit, wildflowers bursting between cobblestones. The air was wet and warm, clinging to her skin like a second layer of clothes.
Zera was a soldier. A weapon. Made for the battlefield. Her place was among smoke and sweat, bruises and blood, not surrounded by fluttering petals and fucking butterflies.
She hated missions like this. The Rhea Kingdom was too hot, too humid, too damn alive. Give her the cracked lava rivers and black rock cliffs of Vulcan any day. Give her the volcano’s roar over birdsong and the distinctive sound of a small frog who wouldn’t stop.
Still… she had to admit that Rhea was beautiful in her own way.
She exhaled hard, adjusting her grip on her hatchet just as the wagon jerked to a stop.
“Zera, this is your village,” barked the higher-ranking warrior beside her, slapping her shoulder. Zera grunted and leapt down from the wagon, boots thudding against the packed dirt road. She squinted down the path that led into the village.
The homes were small and sturdy, made of weathered stone and warm clay, their roofs tiled or thatched with palm and reed.
Bright linen curtains fluttered in open windows.
Chickens clucked freely between fences, and lines of laundry swayed in the breeze with white petticoats, lace-trimmed shirts, woven skirts dyed in rich earth tones.
In the village square, men with sun-browned skin wore straw hats, linen shirts rolled up at the sleeves, and trousers tucked into boots still muddy from the fields.
Women wore cotton skirts that brushed their ankles, blouses with ruffled necklines, and patterned scarves tied around their heads.
Some had baskets balanced on their hips or flowers tucked behind their ears.
Children kicked a leather ball between cobbled paths. Old women sat in a shaded circle, laughing as they passed around a single fat cigar.
Family. Joy. Cozy.
Things Zera had never known. Things that had no place in the life of a Vulcanian warrior. She was used to war. Destruction. Command and conquer. Not … warmth. Not this. It was unfamiliar. And it was … nice.
Her fingers curled around the handle of her hatchet as she glanced down at herself.
She looked like an axe-slinging death bringer dropped into the Elysian Fields …
Her clothes were made of thick, blackened leather and fur, which were practical for battle, but entirely out of place here.
The bracers on her arms were battered from years of use.
Her boots were steel-tipped, her knees scuffed.
Barbarian paint striped her face in jagged lines of dark ash, and soot clung to her skin like armor.
She let out an irritated growl. She looked like she’d come to burn the place down.
If she was supposed to gain these people's trust, she probably shouldn’t look like she was ten seconds from raiding their fruit stands.
Well … at least she wasn’t bloody.
“Vulcanian!”
Zera’s neck nearly snapped as she turned toward the voice, hand flying instinctively to her hatchet.
Between the thick greenery at the village’s edge stood a Rhean woman adorned in woven flower crowns, golden bracelets stacked up both arms, and a matching necklace that gleamed in the morning light.
A well-worn machete hung from her hip. Behind her, two more women stood—both just as armed, just as sharp-eyed.
Zera recognized her as the chief immediately. The stance. The presence. The way the others followed her like wind behind a blade.
Zera straightened, pounded her fist once over her chest, and bowed low in formal salute.
“Zera Halvorsdottir,” she said.
The woman lifted her chin. “Jefa Soledad. Welcome to Ganymede. I am the chief.”
Of course, she was.
“Come with me, Zera.” She understood very little of the Rhea tongue, Florensi, but enough not to make her look like a fool. Speaking it aloud, with her thick Arevulcan accent, turned every soft vowel into a growl.
Zera’s grip on her hatchet tightened, but she obeyed. She fell in step behind the chief and her guards, trailing through the heart of the village past laughing children and watchful elders, until they reached the center square.
There, a middle-aged woman waited beneath the shadow of a mango tree. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back in a yellow bandana, and her deep brown skin gleamed with sweat. She didn’t smile, but her expression wasn’t unfriendly either. She regarded Zera with assessing eyes.
Jefa Soledad stepped beside her and touched her shoulder.
“Amara, this is Zera Halvorsdottir. She is the Vulcanian appointee. She will be with us for the time being, getting a feel for the land, and learning from us.”
Zera remained silent, stiff and towering beside the two women, her soot-covered frame looking wildly out of place between their linen and sunlight. She could already feel eyes on her from all directions. She hated it.
“Do you want to clean up?” Amara asked, giving her a once-over with a look that fell somewhere between concern and disapproval.
Zera frowned and shook her head.
Amara scoffed, then grabbed her forearm, tugging for her complete attention. She pointed toward a large structure on the west side of the village.
“Let’s go to the greenhouse. My daughter, Calla, is there. She’s the best agriculturist in the village. She’ll be the one to help you.”
Zera nodded, catching a few familiar words: greenhouse, daughter, agriculturist.
Not that it mattered. What mattered was the mission: keep watch, find any hidden Harmonians, and don’t get distracted.
As they walked toward the greenhouse, Zera’s gaze swept the surroundings, alert. But everything appeared normal. People went about their business, children laughed, and smoke curled from cooking fires. If rebels were hiding here, the villagers were good at pretending otherwise.
Amara spoke the whole way, waving her hands as she explained how the village worked, how they grew harvests year-round, how the soil was blessed or some nonsense like that.
She didn’t seem thrilled about Zera’s presence, and Zera didn’t care.
She wasn’t here to be liked. She was here until her superiors told her otherwise.
They neared the greenhouse, a long, rounded structure with arched windows of sun-faded glass and moss-covered frames. Inside, rows of flowering plants reached toward the ceiling. Zera could see movement inside.
“Wait here, nena,” Amara said, then made her way to the entrance.
From where she stood, Zera could see the person working in the greenhouse.
A young woman with dark brown skin and curly hair tied back beneath a scrap of cloth. She was focused, her brow furrowed as her hands disappeared into the dirt.
“Calla! Ven ‘a ‘cá!”
Calla.
Zera shifted, her weight leaning into her right foot as her eyes tracked the woman inside. Her throat tightened.
She was… radiant. Messy, barefoot, covered in soil, and yet breathtaking.
Calla moved toward the door, looking to her mother with sweet curiosity. She wiped her hands on a muddy cloth as Amara gestured toward Zera. Then, Calla turned. She ducked under a vine and narrowed her eyes towards Zera.
She smiled.
White teeth, black skin, dimples that made Zera’s stomach turn violently inside her.
Calla opened the greenhouse door and let her mother step out. As she got close, Zera saw it all. The wide hips, the soft curve of her waist, the thick thighs, the ample chest, barely contained by her simple linen top. Her feet were bare, but clean and cared for.
Zera’s eyes snapped back to those hips, and suddenly her hands twitched with the urge to grab. To grip. To pull. To bite.
She nearly whimpered.
“Zera,” Amara called, snapping her out of it.
She blinked, trying to hide the heat rising to her face.
“My daughter, Calla. Calla, this is the Vulcanian, Zera Halvorsdottir.”
Calla stepped beside her mother, standing directly in front of Zera.
Their eyes locked. Calla’s eyes were the deepest brown she’d ever seen. And in them, Zera saw everything she didn’t know she was missing.
And then there was a spark, the knowing, the holiest of connections, and the ultimate realization …
This woman, a gardener from the Rhea Kingdom, was Zera’s soulmate.