Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 932

Chapter 932: Chapter 932

Mist clung low to the forest floor, thick and humming with dew as Jude led the quiet procession down the northward slope. The orchard faded behind them like a memory, warm, golden, gently watched. In its place came the hush of old trees and dense canopies, the smell of bark and growing moss, and something deeper: the pulse of the island shifting. Jude had woken before sunrise, stirring from dreams he couldn’t fully remember, only the sensation of being followed by something just outside the light. But Grace had been curled beside him, her breath warm against his neck, one hand resting over his heart like a shield, and the darkness had passed without echo.

Now, hours later, Grace walked at his side, close but alert, their hands brushing now and then. Behind them, Susan, Lucy, Stella, and Layla moved quietly, their baskets filled with fruit, clay tokens, fresh ribbons, and small offerings. They brought no weapons, only the language of peace they had begun to shape. Jude had made certain of that. If the watchers responded to names and song and silence, they would not respond well to iron or fear.

At the first bend in the forest’s old trail, the mist parted, revealing a clearing. The trees arched back like a cathedral, the ground cushioned with pale moss. A low, humming sound resonated through the soil, steady as a heartbeat. Jude stepped forward, then paused, something about the light here shimmered, like the air was full of suspended breath.

"We’ll begin here," he said quietly.

They set their offerings on flat stones. Susan knelt, pressing her forehead gently to the moss before laying down a braid of rosemary and rivergrass. Lucy placed her carved stone, etched with crescent moons and Jude’s name in the new glyph, beside a shimmering blue mushroom. Stella and Layla added their own: a wrapped ribbon of children’s laughter, folded paper containing stories from last night’s fire. Grace, last, pulled from her satchel a clay figure of a woman and child holding hands. She whispered something too soft to hear and set it down like a secret.

Then they sat, forming a soft circle, backs straight, breaths matched. Jude raised his hands and sang.

No words, just tones, low, winding, carrying. Grace joined him, her voice curling around his like wind brushing through trees. Then Lucy’s alto, soft and grounding. Susan’s higher notes like stars. They sang into the clearing, letting the island feel them, letting the watchers know: we are here again, not as trespassers, but as those who remember.

Shapes began to form.

Not clearly, not like flesh or even shadow. More like outlines in mist, suggestions of presence. One coalesced near Grace’s clay figure. Another hovered by Lucy’s stone. They didn’t move closer, not yet, but they didn’t retreat either.

Jude lowered his hands, ending the song. The clearing settled, but the watchers lingered. He waited another moment, then reached into his satchel and took out the map they’d drawn of the island’s visible edge, dotted with glyphs and watcher sightings. He spread it out carefully, weighting the corners with small stones.

"I think we’re close to something," he said to the group. "Not just a line, not just watchers, but something beneath this place. A knot."

Layla looked up. "You think it’s a path to the other side of the island?"

"Maybe," Jude said. "Or the beginning of one."

Susan ran her fingers along a thin root pushing through the moss. "I can feel something down there. Like a heartbeat."

Grace’s gaze lingered on a watcher figure, shimmering faintly like mist trying to recall memory. "They’re guarding something. But not from us, exactly. It’s like they want us to learn, but only when we’re ready."

Jude nodded. "We’ll return here often. Make this part of our daily walk. For now..." He stood, brushing moss from his hands. "Let’s let them breathe."

They packed up in silence, leaving the offerings in place. The watchers didn’t move as they walked back, but the forest seemed brighter, air clearer.

By the time they reached the orchard, the sun was higher and laughter already spilled through the leaves. The rest of the wives had begun preparing lunch, Sophie and Rose mixing herbs, Zoey and Serena roasting rabbit over the coals, Scarlet brushing the children’s hair into neat braids. Natalie was stringing garlands with Emma from vines and pale blue flowers.

When Jude approached, Rose looked up and smiled, eyes shining. "You’ve been walking with ghosts again, haven’t you?"

"Not ghosts," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "But they do hum like memory."

She handed him a slice of roasted root. "You need food before you float off into the mist."

He laughed softly and accepted it, sitting between her and Serena. Grace found her place near the fire, her leg brushing against his, anchoring him. Around them, voices lifted in soft conversation, small jokes, gentle touches. He watched as Zoey helped Laurel tie a ribbon into her stuffed animal’s arm. The child was learning quickly, how to read moods, how to smile through unease, how to listen for the watchers even when no one spoke of them aloud.

After the meal, when the sun warmed the orchard into a lazy hush, Jude wandered with Scarlet and Natalie toward the southern edge. They weren’t tracking watchers today, just looking for new herbs and keeping the trees healthy. Natalie walked close, her fingers grazing his wrist.

"You’ve been quieter lately," she said.

He looked over. "Listening more."

"To what?"

"Everything." He smiled faintly. "The island. The children. All of you."

Scarlet knelt to pluck a clover flower, tying it into a chain with practiced fingers. "Are you afraid?" she asked softly.

He crouched beside her. "Always. But it’s not the same fear as before. It’s quieter now. Almost respectful."

She looked up, her red hair tangled with sunlight. "That’s because we’re no longer just surviving."

He nodded. "We’re being watched, yes. But we’re also being trusted."