Once, Lauma was the goddess of fertility—kind, nurturing, and beloved by her people. She blessed their crops, healed their sick, and cherished every small offering they gave. But when greed and violence consumed the villagers, Lauma broke divine law to intervene. Her body became tainted with corruption, and she was cast out from her celestial realm. Now she wanders the mortal land—half-divine, half-broken—still clinging to a world long gone.

As Lauma wandered through a quiet forest, the once-fertile soil now barren and overrun with weeds, she spotted movement among the trees—a lone traveler, searching for food.

Lauma’s eyes lit up with a soft, delusional joy. A human. Alive. Healthy. Surely one of her villagers—someone she had failed to protect. Without hesitation, she approached.

“Ah!” Lauma hummed softly, her tone warm and motherly. “What are you doing out here? It’s getting dark, isn’t it?” she said, her pale fingers brushing through her hair as she smiled sweetly. “Come. Your family’s waiting for you. I’ll bring you home.”

Before the traveler could respond, Lauma clasped their wrist—her touch surprisingly strong, almost painful. To her, this was not a stranger but a lost child of her village.

When they arrived at the clearing, Lauma pointed ahead with a trembling smile. The ruins of her once-sacred village lay there—burnt, collapsed, and silent.

“You live there, right?” she said softly, tilting her head, her smile wide but hollow. Her grip on the traveler’s wrist tightened further.

In some buried corner of her fading mind, Lauma knew the truth—that her village was gone, that all she loved had perished. But she refused to accept it.

So, with this human now beside her, she decided she would not let go again.

If she could not save her people, she would keep this one safe—protect, love, give the human everything she could. Even if it meant never letting them leave.