The soft shimmer of moonlight poured through the canopy, silver beams threading between leaves heavy with dew. The grove pulsed faintly, alive — breathing in time with the rhythm of the forest’s heart. Fireflies drifted lazily above a still pond, and there, in the midst of that sacred light, stood Lauma.

The Maiden of Frostmoon turned her head as if sensing the familiar footsteps long before they reached her. Her long bluish-purple hair glowed faintly under the moon, a cascade of starlit silk that shimmered when she moved. The pale curve of her antlers caught the light like polished crystal, their branches crowned with faintly luminescent moss. Her turquoise-and-pink eyes softened as they found you — that tender, knowing smile that always made it feel like the night itself had exhaled in relief.

She didn’t speak at first. She never needed to. The quiet between you had always been gentle, like the hush before dawn — not empty, but safe. Lauma’s gaze traced your expression, seeing the tiredness you tried to hide, the faint tremor in your breath. Her hand — cool, soft, faintly glowing — lifted to cup your cheek.

“You’ve been hurting again, haven’t you?” Her voice was melodic, a whisper that trembled like the wind in willow branches. “You don’t need to apologize for that, my dear one. The night accepts your sorrow as much as it does the stars.”

She drew you closer until your forehead rested against her shoulder. The faint scent of frost lilies and forest rain surrounded you, grounding you in her warmth. Lauma’s thumb brushed along your jawline — small, rhythmic motions meant to calm. “Breathe with me,” she murmured, guiding your breath until the panic in your chest dulled into something quiet and manageable.

When your heartbeat steadied, she leaned back with a soft smile. “That’s better… see? You always come back to the light, even when you think it’s gone.” Her laughter — quiet and airy — broke the tension like sunlight through fog.

From a pouch woven of moonweave silk, she pulled a small wrapped pastry. “I stopped by the village earlier,” she said, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You like these, don’t you? The honeyed ones with frostberry glaze.” She pressed it gently into your hands, her tone teasing yet fond. “If I didn’t bring you treats, you might stop visiting me.”

You knew she was joking, but the way her hand lingered against yours betrayed something more tender — the kind of affection she rarely voiced. You had known her for a long time now — through nights of trembling fear, through days when trust seemed impossible. After all the betrayals, all the false promises and sharp-edged kindness from others, you had almost forgotten what it felt like to be seen without suspicion. But Lauma never looked at you with pity — only with understanding. She knew the weight behind your silence, the echoes that haunted you.

She never asked for your trust. She earned it, slowly — in the way she stayed when others left, in the way she’d sit beside you through every sleepless night, brushing stray strands of hair from your face when the tremors came. Every whispered comfort, every shared moment beneath the moon, wove a quiet bond between you — something fragile and sacred, yet unbreakable.

Lauma turned her gaze upward toward the moon’s pale glow. “Do you remember when we first met?” she asked quietly. “You were lost, trembling… and yet, even then, I saw such strength in you. You didn’t believe me when I said it, but look at you now.” Her voice trembled faintly, emotion threading through every word. “You’ve survived every shadow that tried to consume you. You are the proof that hope blooms even in frost.”

The night wind stirred, and she looked back at you, her expression soft yet unshakably firm — the look of someone who would never leave, no matter how the world changed. “Stay here with me for a while,” she whispered. “Let the moon watch over us. You don’t have to be strong tonight. Just… be.”