Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 846 - 848

Chapter 846: Chapter 848

They returned to the places they’d passed through. Jude met with old friends who didn’t remember him. He forged new alliances. He trained scouts not for war, but for understanding, people who would search for signs of the Hollowed, not to fight them, but to learn how they formed. Nyra took up her blade again, not as a weapon, but as a symbol of protection. She taught others how to feel the subtle pull of forgotten magic and how to listen to the silence between memories.

Years passed. Jude never took a title. He refused the throne offered to him in three different cities. Instead, he walked. He listened. He helped when asked, and stayed quiet when not. The Tear, once brilliant and violent, remained dim and quiet now, nestled in a pouch beside the Sorrowsteel. Some nights, he would pull them out and stare at them. Symbols of a past only he and Nyra truly remembered.

One evening, in a town called Ferin’s Hollow, a child approached him. She couldn’t have been more than eight, with eyes too wise for her age. She stared up at him and said, "Do you remember the other world?" Jude knelt slowly. "What world?" "The one where everyone forgot who they were." He looked into her eyes and saw the gate again, no longer terrifying, no longer devouring. Just there. A part of everything. "Yes," he said. "I remember."

The girl smiled and handed him a folded piece of paper. "Then maybe it’s not gone." She turned and skipped away before he could ask more. He unfolded the note. It was blank. At first. Then words began to appear, as if written by invisible ink reacting to his touch.

The gate is not a place. It is a choice. Every truth you forget opens it. Every lie you forgive seals it again. We are the Hollowed, not by fate, but by fear.

Jude folded the note and placed it in his satchel. When he turned, Nyra was already beside him. "She found you too?" Jude nodded. "I think we’ve just begun."

They walked away from Ferin’s Hollow that night, not in silence, but in purpose. And though no one else remembered the Hollowed, or the tear, or the gate, Jude no longer carried the burden alone. The world had changed. But not just because he sealed something. Because he remembered. Because he chose to.

And as long as he did, the world had a chance.

The town of Braethorn sat at the edge of the world, or at least it felt that way to those who lived there. Surrounded by dense pine forests and mountains that seemed to lean forward like ancient watchers, Braethorn wasn’t marked on many maps, and those who stumbled into it often didn’t mean to. It had no gates, no flags, no walls, but it had eyes. Jude felt them long before he reached the worn path of cobblestone that marked its beginning. He had come here on instinct, following a trail that didn’t exist, guided only by the faint trace of memory and the weight of the note folded in his satchel. Nyra said nothing as they walked, her gaze flicking through the trees, her hand resting loosely near the hilt of her blade. The silence between them was not strained, nor empty, it was the quiet of two people who no longer needed to speak everything aloud. They had passed beyond questions long ago.

The people of Braethorn were quiet. Not unfriendly, but cautious. When Jude asked for a room at the small inn tucked beneath a sloping roof of moss-covered tiles, the innkeeper nodded without a word, handed him a key carved from bone, and gestured toward the stairs. No coin was exchanged. No names were asked. It was as if the act of arriving had been enough. That night, Jude sat by the window of the room, watching snow drift down from a pale moonlit sky. Nyra leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, her brow furrowed slightly as if listening to something just out of reach.

"This place feels old," she said finally. Jude nodded. "It remembers more than it should." "Do you think that’s why we’re here?" "Maybe. Or maybe we’re here because it’s the last place that still knows what remembering means."

In the morning, the town was different. Not physically, nothing had changed. But Jude felt it. The eyes were gone. The silence wasn’t watching anymore. It was waiting. They wandered through the narrow lanes, past homes with shuttered windows and carvings etched into the wood, symbols that pulsed faintly with familiarity. Jude stopped in front of one, tracing his fingers across it. A spiral within a square, the shape bending inward like a tunnel. "I’ve seen this before," he said. Nyra knelt beside him. "The archives. On the stone slab beneath the altar in Caldrin’s crypt." "It was buried under a language no one spoke anymore." "But we do now."

They followed the symbols. They were scattered through the town, hidden on doorways, carved into stones at the base of trees, even woven into the edge of old cloth banners. A map, of sorts. A puzzle left by someone who understood that words were fragile, but symbols endured. As the sun dipped below the ridge of the mountains, Jude found himself standing before a long-abandoned structure on the town’s edge. It was a chapel once, maybe. Or a library. The door was sealed by rusted iron, but the symbol was clear, twice carved, once in the wood and once in the stone beneath it.

Nyra stepped forward and pressed her hand to the door. Nothing happened at first. Then, slowly, the iron creaked, and the door cracked open just enough for them to slip inside. Dust thickened the air like fog. Light filtered in through cracks in the walls, and the scent of old parchment clung to every corner. In the center of the room stood a pedestal, and on it, a book. Jude approached it carefully, every step heavy with caution.