Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 945

Chapter 945: Chapter 945

Jude stepped to the edge and peered in. The water didn’t reflect the sky. It showed the house. Then it shifted, showing the circle they had built. Then the throne, now buried. Then it showed him. Not a reflection. A version. Dressed in black, alone.

Rose whispered, "It’s showing futures."

"No," Jude murmured. "It’s offering them."

The robe clung tighter to his skin. The spiral around them vibrated. Jude touched the water.

It didn’t feel wet.

It felt like thought.

And it spoke, not in words, but in hunger. It didn’t want worship. It didn’t want blood. It wanted coherence. A story that didn’t change. A purpose it could believe in.

Jude stepped back. "This is a choice."

Serena looked at him. "What happens if you go in?"

"I become one of its stories."

Rose’s voice was cold. "And if you don’t?"

"It keeps writing."

They returned in silence, the path behind them gone by the time they looked back. The storm followed them home, hammering the roof, shaking the windows. The house groaned under its weight, but held.

That night, Jude sat at the center of the circle alone. The robe lay beside him on the stone. Above, clouds churned in slow spirals, as if echoing the shape from the forest. He didn’t meditate. Didn’t summon glyphs. He just waited.

Ashra appeared at midnight, stepping lightly across the soaked earth. Her face was pale, lips tight.

"You saw it."

He nodded.

She sat beside him. "It won’t stop."

"I know."

"It’s adapting too quickly now. You slowed it before. Redirected it. But you didn’t weaken it."

Jude ran a hand over his face. "Then I need to stop guiding. I need to confront."

Ashra turned to face him fully. "That pool is not a door. It’s a trap. A mirror that demands an answer so it can rewrite you."

"I’m not afraid of being rewritten."

"You should be."

Jude looked up at the swirling sky. "It already rewrote this world once. Whatever came before... it erased it. But it failed to erase us."

Ashra leaned closer. "Then you need to show it why."

He stood without a word and returned to the house, dripping and cold. Inside, several of the wives were waiting, Emma, Scarlet, Grace, and Stella. They’d lit the fireplace, and the warmth hit him instantly. None of them spoke. They just looked at him, waiting. Accepting.

He sat beside the hearth.

Scarlet said softly, "You’re going back, aren’t you?"

Jude nodded. "At dawn."

Stella placed a blanket over his shoulders and curled up beside him without asking. Emma handed him a cup of warm broth. Grace leaned on his knee, her hand curled in his. They didn’t stop him. They didn’t question. But their silence was not surrender. It was love.

He didn’t sleep.

At first light, the storm broke. A silence stretched over the trees so heavy it made their ears ring. Jude rose, took the robe, and stepped out into a still world.

All twelve wives were waiting for him by the edge of the forest.

Ashra too.

He didn’t say goodbye.

They followed.

The spiral had changed. It no longer circled in. It circled out. Where the mouth had been, now a stairwell descended into the earth, narrow, slick, and shivering with wet light.

Jude descended alone.

The steps went down longer than they should have. The walls were pulsing bark and woven roots, and at the bottom, a vast chamber opened, round, endless, lit by glowing moss and floating orbs that whispered without words.

In the center stood a figure.

Not a person. A suggestion. It had Jude’s shape. His height. His eyes. But it shimmered like smoke in wind.

It spoke, and the sound hurt.

"You could have been ending. You chose delay."

Jude stepped forward. "You want permanence. But you build from fear."

"You fracture my story."

"You never had a whole one."

The figure moved like water, bending around him.

"You wear my robe."

Jude touched it. "It fits me better than it fits you."

"You are not origin. You are afterthought."

"I am resistance," Jude said. "I am the part of the story that can’t be simplified."

"You are many."

Jude stepped into the shimmer. "We are stronger together."

The walls pulsed.

The light dimmed.

The voice grew sharp. "You bring entropy. Emotion. Multiplicity. You cannot be sustained."

Jude’s voice was steady. "You’re wrong. I am what comes after the gods. I am the reason they failed."

Silence.

Then, slowly, the chamber around him began to shift. Roots withdrew. Lights dimmed to a soft violet. The shimmer stilled.

The figure turned to him, and for the first time, bowed.

"Then show me your ending."

Jude reached forward, touched the center of its chest.

And the robe burned.

Not with flame, but with memory. Twelve faces. Twelve hands. Laughter in dark caves. Blood on blades. Smoke in lungs. Healing. Kisses. Tears. Choices.

The shimmer broke.

The chamber collapsed inward, not destruction, but retreat. The island inhaled.

Jude was flung upward, not through tunnels, but through time. Through light.

And then he was back in the circle.

Dawn had truly come now. Clear skies. Warm earth.

The wives rushed to him.

He was unconscious, heart slowing, but breathing.

Ashra knelt beside him and whispered, "You did it."

And from the trees, faint voices echoed, children laughing. Somewhere distant, a bird called that hadn’t been heard in years.

The story had changed again.

But this time, it was theirs.

Jude awoke to the smell of ash and damp earth. The ground beneath him was cold, the stone of the circle still humming faintly from whatever had passed the night before. Above him, a smear of pale blue sky peeked through a tangle of clouds, the first real color he’d seen since the storm began. Birds were singing again, tentatively, as if unsure they were allowed.

He sat up slowly, his head ringing, muscles stiff and sore. The robe was gone, reduced to a pile of dust at the base of the central stone.