Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 913

Chapter 913: Chapter 913

Grace stood nearby, stirring the embers in the fire pit, a book of names open in her lap. Lucy and Emma were already awake, crouched near the fish traps, fingers brushing the water’s surface as they watched for ripples. Sophie and Zoey moved through the garden to check on the new shoots. The world felt soft and fragile, like a memory that might slip from the edges of their fingers if they weren’t careful.

Jude crossed the circle slowly, aware of each heartbeat, each breath, each woman standing by him. Yesterday they had walked beyond the map’s edges, deeper into the caves, naming themselves at the carved stone guardians. They had spoken their names into dark water, into echoing halls. The watcher shape had fled them once more, scattering into mist. They had returned weary, but whole.

Now they stood at the edge of the next Chapter.

He knelt beside the book in Grace’s hands. She looked up at him, hopeful.

"It’s ready," she said. "The map nodes, the names, the dates. Tonight we’ll paint them on the trees, make them permanent."

He smiled and brushed a strand of her hair back. "Then let’s do it."

They rose together. Neil, a nickname he’d given himself under this foreign sky, felt strength in the routine they’d woven. They moved as one toward the garden, gathering bark, crushed pigments, brushes fashioned from twigs and feathers. Each wife picked a color from the horizon, Grace’s green, Lucy’s blue, Emma’s purple, Sophie’s yellow, and so on, to represent each vow strand.

They returned to the iron stake node where their first ritual had begun. Under its runes, they painted spirals and names on the bark of a nearby tree, circling petals to mark each wife’s presence. The color pulsed bold despite the thin sunlight. Memory anchored.

They moved then to the mushroom clearing, painting runes and names on stones at the circle’s edge. Each impact of brush on rock rang in Jude’s mind like a vow. He watched the others paint, their hands firm, faces pale with focus. Each stroke was a promise.

By midday they had painted every node they’d claimed: stake, fungi clearing, dried circle, ridge, palm pool, whisper ring, mirror-pool, cave guardians. Grace and Lucy climbed into the arch and painted the stone there, brushing names in swirling gaunted paint that glowed wet.

They stood back and admired their work. It glowed with intention. The watchers still held away, silent and respectful.

Jude lifted his voice: "This map is ours. Not just a path, but a covenant. We named ourselves at these spots. We brought memory and unity. The island hears. The watchers know. Let it stay thus."

Grace nodded, mouth tight. "Now, we archive inside."

He pointed to the record box. Inside lay bark strips with memories, blackouts, strange dreams. They had promised to add every fragment. Grace added a new one: remembered lullaby. Lucy, root patterns in forest moss. Emma, echoes in water. Others followed.

He closed the book. "Inside we hold our truths. Outside we mark our passage. And together we remain known."

The afternoon light warmed the clearing. Birds returned. The watchers crept closer, but stayed in the half-light. They watched, not intruded.

Then came the first rumble.

Jude paused, feeling the ground beneath his boots vibrate like a pulse. Low and solid. He looked to Grace. She nodded, felt it too.

"Crater pulse," she whispered. "It always reaches us."

He raised his hand. "We stand. Together."

They stayed where they were, hands joined. The pulse continued, soft, steady, like a reminder that this island was alive, vessel and shell, responsive and raw. They closed their eyes, breathed, remembered why they were here. Each name echoed in their bones. Each vow warmed.

The pulse faded.

Jude opened his eyes. The watchers had moved slightly outward, yielding space. They might watch more, but now they watched from respect.

He exhaled. "We’re not intruding. We’re honored. We belong."

They resumed work, tidying garden, cleaning dishes, stacking firewood. Laughter was thin but real. Hope was present in tremors.

As dusk approached, Grace lit small lanterns beside each marked node. They glowed under paint, illuminating names in the gathering dark. Jude handed ribbons to each wife. At the stake node, Grace tied hers. Lucy at fungi clearing. Emma at dried circle. Sophie at whisper ring. Others at ridge, cave, mirror-pool. Each ribbon bright.

Jude tied his at the arch, wrap after wrap. He paused and stepped back. The nodes across the clearing glimmered like protective lights.

He turned to his wives grouping around him.

"Tonight we gather here," he said. "In this circle of lights and ribbons. We share again, our fears, our strengths, our memories. But one more thing, I want us to speak stories of who we are after this. What we want beyond surviving. For each other. For children. For days not haunted."

No one shifted. Their eyes were steady.

"Then tonight we speak," he continued. "After dinner we’ll gather."

They nodded. The pact hung between them like woven threads.

They ate simple soup and roasted tubers. Fire smoke curled around them. The watchers stayed beyond the ribbons, shapes of mist.

Night deepened. The air cooled. They gathered again, beneath lantern lights. The nodes rimmed the clearing. Eleven faces glowed, tired but open.

Jude spoke: "I want to start. When we first came, brutal days, lost time, fear, I knew we’d survive. But now I know something more: we can build. Love. Children. Families. Learning. Maybe return someday. But here, or anywhere, we can shape what comes next. And I want you, every one of you, with me."

He stepped to Grace and took her hand. "I choose you." They embraced. Then Grace raised Lucy’s hand. "And you." They all turned, and one by one, every wife linked hands around the circle and affirmed: "I choose you." Twice, once to Jude, once to each other.

Tears glimmered, laughter trembled free. Hope bubbled.

Then came static.

Not watchers. Not island.