Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 917

Chapter 917: Chapter 917

Dawn whispered its way through the canopy, gilding every leaf and petal with trembling light as the camp stirred quietly to life. Jude stood on the wooden platform of their main dwelling, barefoot and alert, gazing out over the orchard and garden that now stretched across the clearing. Each sapling glowed under the soft illumination of the morning sun, ribbons tied to their trunks dancing in even, welcoming breezes. The watchers, thin blue tendrils of mist, hovered at the tree line, curious yet restrained, as if respecting the boundaries named yesterday at the waterfall.

Grace knelt at the edge of the orchard and cradled a leaf in her hand, then looked up at Jude with bright, hopeful eyes. Lucy and Emma moved through the garden, each tending seedlings, talking in low voices, careful to draw the world into wakefulness. Sophie and Serena carried fresh water from the spring for the saplings that still thirsted. The twins, Laurel and Raven, danced between rows, soft litanies of song drifting with them. Eleven wives, two children, one man, and a fragile promise that this life might be more than survival.

Jude descended the ladder and walked to where Grace had laid out a basket of fresh fruit and porridge. He sat with her as she offered him a bowl. "Morning," she said, her voice tender.

"Morning," he replied, inclining his head. He drew in the orchard’s scent, the loam, the early-blooming flowers, the minerals of root and moss. It smelled of life and possibility.

She watched him carefully. "Are you... ready?"

He glanced around: the orchard and watchers softly stirring at the edge. "More than ready."

Day after day they had planted, named, mapped, protected memory in the heart of this island. They’d faced shapes of watcher mist in caves and mirror pools, calling their names and reclaiming their power. Yesterday, at the waterfall, they achieved something more, offering their children, naming their futures, taking another step toward permanence. Today would not be ritual, but life. But though life meant planting fruit and tending roots, it carried power only if memory held.

He took Grace’s hand. "Let’s go see how they sleep."

They walked to the children’s lean‑to beside the edge of the orchard. Open air, nestled between ferns and trees, soft blankets, and the glow of lanterns. The twins slept peacefully, their cheeks luminous in the dim glow, fingers wrapped in seed pouches and gemstone russets.

Grace watched them, voice soft: "The future we dreamed of."

"Here," Jude agreed. "They’ll grow roots stronger than we can hope for."

They walked back together, carrying bowls now empty, toward the orchard where the wives gathered for a simple morning ceremony, no naming, no vows, just tending care. Each planted a small flowering herb near a sapling: basil, thyme, chamomile, rosemary, each herb holding its own promise. The wives moved with gentle assurance, earth on their hands, gratitude murmured on their voices.

The watchers hovered, but did not sway the daughters nor the daughters sway them. The hush between them felt like truce.

Jude rose as Grace knelt and let the warmth of the morning settle around them. He held Grace’s face in his hands. "We built this."

She nodded, eyes shining. "We did."

He reached out and touched Lucy’s arm; Emma smiled at his glance. A silent circle of souls. Grace sat, booping Laurel’s nose. Jude watched them, his family.

After the herb planting they broke. Water dances around pots, fish drawn from traps, gardened soil turned, laughter drifting.

Jude called them to gather near the arch. They stood among the ribbons and glyphs painted on vertical planks, they’d first made offers here days ago. Children sat in their laps; wives looked at each other. Light filtered like blessing.

He spoke: "We’ve planted orchard, named nodes and children, declared our futures. Now I want to hear what you carry beyond these hands." He glanced at Grace. "Your dreams beyond roots."

Grace exhaled. "I dream of the day the orchard yields fruit. Of sitting with my daughter under its shade, telling stories of names, of mountains, of watchers."

Jude nodded. "Yours, Lucy."

Lucy closed eyes. "I dream of books, books under trees, sharing knowledge of this island with others, maps, words, art, song."

Emma spoke: "I dream of healing. Healing wounds, hearts, maybe even other travelers here."

Sophie: "I dream of building friends."

Zoey: "I dream of laughter. Big laughter echoing off trees."

Serena: "I dream of children who know names before fear."

Stella: "I dream of paintings. Walls of shapes we know as stories."

Scarlett: "I dream of music. Songs born here, whispered across the wood."

Susan: "I dream of courage, to walk beyond the island and bring back truth."

Amelia: "I dream of community, knowing our names won’t be forgotten."

Nefertari: "I dream of legacy, ribboned trees standing long after names change."

As each spoke, the watchers faded a little, drawn into listening, learning. The forest hummed louder.

Then Jude held his hand out. "My dream: that we build a family inside a beacon. That love raised here echoes beyond." He touched Grace and the children. "That memory becomes home."

They all breathed. A collective declaration, voices bound in living threads, in action and hope.

He closed with a vow: "We will grow this. We will teach our children to name, to tend memory and earth. They will know who they are. We belong here, and one day, out there. But here we remain first."

The wives placed their hands on his shoulders, around him, a circle of trust.

Dusk draped the orchard in apricot haze. Lanterns lit. Fire lit for dinner. Children tucked into soft blankets by Grace and Jude’s side as wives worked quietly, a living lullaby of forks and spoons.

After dinner, as shadows stretched wide, Jude led a small ceremony of thanks: each wife lit a candle by a sapling, naming its promise. She made seed offerings in soft tones; firelight glimmered. It felt sacred, unforced, rooted in home more than ritual. The watchers drifted close at the nodal edge but did not enter.

They let night fold over them, inside warmth, growing orchard breathing these nights.

Jude and Grace lay together later, limbs entwined, listening to children’s breaths. He pressed her cheek. "They’ll know roots."

Grace whispered, "We told them names."

He closed eyes. "We built more than we ever knew."

Beyond them, forest exhaled, watchers quiet, orchard alive.

A moment swelled with possibility.

Morning would come again. They would greet it, with names held, promises sewn, memories burning bright.

This was home. This was theirs.