Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 836 - 838

Chapter 836: Chapter 838

The rain returned just before dawn, thin streaks of water blurring the skyline of Leonork as the sun tried to break through the gray. Jude lay on the cot, bandaged and still, his eyes half-open as he watched the ceiling of the hideout pulse with flickering lantern light. The scent of wet stone and burning herbs clung to the air, a crude mixture of medicine and desperation. Around him, voices murmured, soldiers, runners, civilians, all packed into the underground resistance camp like bones in a crypt. He should have died in the cathedral. He knew that. Ayla had dragged him out after the Black Thorne vanished, and for three days, he floated between life and death, fevered and whispering names only he could remember. But now, awake, grounded in this new reality, Jude felt more distant than ever.

Ayla entered the room quietly, a bowl of broth in her hands. Her boots were muddied, her hair tied back in a quick knot, and her eyes carried the weight of a hundred sleepless nights. "You’re awake," she said softly, approaching the bed. "Barely," he replied, his voice dry. "You should be dead." "You keep saying that. Starting to think you’re disappointed." She didn’t smile. "We lost fourteen more last night. A scouting party. Torn apart outside the west tunnel. We found one alive. Said he never saw what hit them." Jude’s face tightened. "The Black Thorne?" "Maybe. Or worse. Whatever it was, it didn’t leave a trace." She handed him the bowl, but he waved it off. She placed it beside the cot instead. "We need to move again. South. There’s talk of a ship, someone willing to take refugees to the Isles." Jude didn’t answer. "We’re not ready for another fight," she added. "We need time." "Time is what I bought you," he said. "With Sol. With Ryn. With all of them." Ayla’s jaw clenched. "Don’t put that on me." "I’m not." He turned his head away. "I’m just saying it wasn’t free."

There was a knock at the metal door, two quick taps followed by one slow. Ayla stood and opened it. A young man entered, barely twenty, trembling as he held a blood-streaked envelope. "It came through the fireline," he stammered. "No one saw who left it. Just... appeared." Ayla took the envelope, fingers already recognizing the seal: black wax stamped with a crescent blade. Her breath caught. Jude noticed. "Who’s it from?" "Veyr," she whispered. "The Circle?" "What’s left of it." She broke the seal and unfolded the message. Her eyes scanned quickly, then again slower, then a third time before she handed it to Jude. He read in silence. It was a summons, not a request, not a plea, but a command. Veyr, one of the oldest members of the Red Circle, had called for a meeting of the remaining Guardians in a place known only in myth: the Garden of Ash. A hidden refuge, deep beneath the ruins of the old capital, where legends were born and truths were buried. "This is a death trap," Jude muttered. "He’s desperate," Ayla replied. "Or mad." "We’re all a little of both now."

They left that night, under cover of rain and fog. Only five others accompanied them, Rye, the scout; Malen, a medic who never smiled; Oras, a mute giant of a man who carried a hammer as large as Jude’s torso; and the twins, Kira and Kelen, who moved like ghosts and spoke in riddles. The journey took three days. Through the collapsed highways, under the broken spires of Leonork, past the charred remains of temples where the names of gods had been carved out by fire. They avoided patrols, silenced beasts that lurked in the shadows, and crossed rivers black with ash. On the fourth morning, they reached the entrance: a simple stone arch hidden beneath the roots of a dead tree, guarded by silence and age. Veyr met them inside.

He was older than Jude remembered. Thinner. His beard streaked with silver and his eyes clouded, but still burning with the fire of one who had seen too much and survived too long. "You came," he said, as if surprised. "You called," Jude replied. Veyr led them deeper, through tunnels carved before the founding of Libertia itself, into a vast chamber lit by hundreds of floating orbs. Trees grew here, blackened and leafless, their branches twisted like bones. This was the Garden of Ash. "There are others," Veyr said, gesturing to the shadows. Figures emerged, four Guardians, two elders, and a woman in white armor with a sword that hummed faintly as she moved. "We are all that remains," he said. "And we are dying."

They gathered in a circle. Stories were shared. Names spoken. Wounds revealed. Each had lost something, people, cities, purpose. One Guardian, Marell, had lost his entire order in the west. Another, Iska, had watched her child taken by the High Table and remade into one of their assassins. "We are broken," Veyr said. "But not gone. And while we live, we resist." "How?" Ayla asked. "We can’t win in open war. We barely survive." "Not war," Veyr replied. "Not yet. First, we cut the root." Jude narrowed his eyes. "What root?" "The Heartstone."

Silence fell. Even the orbs flickered. The Heartstone was a myth, an object said to anchor the High Table’s power, hidden in the Vault of Silence beneath the fortress city of Dyrran. No one had seen it. No one had survived attempting to. "You’re asking us to die," Jude said. "No," Veyr replied. "I’m offering a chance. One strike. One moment. If we succeed, the Table fractures. If we fail..." "There is no if," said the woman in white. Her voice was calm, yet sharp. "There is only now." Jude studied her. "You believe in this?" "I believe in purpose. This is mine." "And if it isn’t?" "Then I will die with clarity." That silenced him. He turned away, heart racing. The others debated, plans formed. But Jude remained apart, staring into the ash-covered roots of the Garden, listening to whispers only he could hear.

That night, he dreamed of fire. Not destruction, but rebirth. A forest burning only to regrow. And in the center stood a child with silver eyes, holding the pendant Jude had left behind. "You are not alone," the child said. "You never were." He awoke with tears on his cheeks and pain in his chest. But something else, too, resolve.

At dawn, the mission was set. Infiltration. Distraction. Extraction. Jude and the woman in white, whose name he learned was Nyra, would lead the breach. Ayla and the others would stage an assault in the north to pull attention. Veyr would remain behind, to guide any who survived back to the Garden. There were no goodbyes, only glances. Promises made in silence.

They left as the sky cracked open. Thunder rolled across Libertia, and the winds howled like ancient beasts. But beneath it all, a new fire had begun to burn, quiet, steady, and unforgiving.