Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 947

Chapter 947: Chapter 947

On the tenth day, they found the first message.

Carved into the trunk of the tree near the east garden, in perfect spiral lettering:

YOU ARE NOT THE LAST

It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even ominous. But it rattled Jude more than anything else had. Because the implication was clear: more were coming.

He brought Ashra to the message. She studied it quietly for several minutes.

"This is older script," she said. "Not island-made. This predates the dreaming. This is from the ones who came before."

Jude’s heart thudded. "I thought the gods erased them."

Ashra looked him in the eyes. "Apparently not all of them."

That night, the faceless girl stood in the circle again, only this time, she moved.

She pointed.

Toward the volcano.

Jude felt the pull instantly. Not curiosity. Obligation.

The next morning, he didn’t hide his intention.

"I’m going to the volcano," he told them.

Twelve voices rose in protest.

But he held up a hand. "I have to. There’s something there. Something the island buried. If we want to survive whatever’s next, I have to understand what it’s hiding."

The silence afterward was heavy, but no one tried to stop him.

Rose handed him a blade. "Take this."

Sophie kissed his cheek. "Come back."

Ashra said, "You’ll need to go alone."

He nodded.

Before sunrise, he left.

The journey to the volcano took hours. The terrain twisted, as if trying to deny him passage. Roots snagged his feet. Stones shifted underfoot. But he kept moving. The summit remained veiled in smoke and mystery.

Halfway up, the air changed.

It smelled like blood.

He pressed on.

Near the crater, he found the remnants of something ancient, stone columns, long collapsed, half-swallowed by ash. Glyphs covered them, the same spiral language as the tree carving. And at the center, a pedestal.

On it sat a book.

Jude hesitated. Then stepped forward.

The book opened on its own.

Its pages turned.

And he saw them, dozens of visions, flickering like flame. Other worlds. Other versions of this island. Other versions of himself.

In one, he ruled.

In another, he burned.

In one, he never arrived at all, and the island consumed itself.

But through them all, one constant remained.

The girl.

Always watching.

She was the last guardian of a story the gods failed to erase. A memory that couldn’t be buried. And now, she had chosen him as her reader.

He closed the book.

Took it under his arm.

And began the long walk home.

The rain started before Jude reached the orchard’s edge. At first a whisper, then a firm, steady rhythm drumming against leaves and the back of his neck. He didn’t stop walking. The book under his arm was heavier than its size should allow, soaked but untouched by water, pages dry as if protected by some ancient refusal to decay. Each step toward home stirred the soil of his thoughts. The faceless girl, the visions, the spiral words that bled from his fingertips the moment he touched the glyph-covered pedestal, they churned in him like a storm of memories he didn’t own.

The house came into view through the mist, warm lights glowing behind rain-streaked windows. No one stood outside; the wives were likely inside waiting, watching the forest for his return, unsure what shape he’d be in when he came back. He wondered if they’d even recognize what he carried with him now. Not just the book, but a shift, a threshold crossed. He had entered something larger than the island’s myth. He had stepped into the story before the story.

The first to open the door was Grace. Her breath caught when she saw him, then she rushed forward, wrapping him in a soaked embrace. The others followed close behind, Lucy holding a towel, Stella taking the book from his arms carefully, as if it might bite. Susan and Zoey pulled him inside, voices rising in a tangle of questions, but he held up his hand, fingers trembling slightly.

"I’m alright," he said, voice low. "I’m alright, but something’s changed. We all need to hear it."

They gathered in the center room, the fire crackling and tea warming in cups passed from hand to hand. The book sat on the table, its spiral language glinting faintly under the lanternlight, humming with a low resonance like a heartbeat or drumbeat.

Jude stood, wet clothes clinging to him, his presence commanding without effort. "This book," he said, "is not from the island. It predates it. It remembers more than the gods ever wanted remembered. It holds histories of other worlds. Other selves. It showed me what might’ve happened if we’d never crashed here. Or if I’d died. Or if none of you loved me."

Rose shivered slightly, pulling her shawl tighter. "Why show you that?"

"I think the island is starting to fracture," Jude said. "Not break. But unfold. Like layers of a story peeling back. The island is remembering itself, and in doing so, it’s showing us the truth. That we are not the first. That she, the faceless girl, is not only watching us. She’s choosing."

"Choosing what?" Natalie asked, fingers tightening on her cup.

Jude looked around the circle at all of them. "Who carries the story next."

A long silence settled over the room. Outside, the rain slowed to a gentle patter, a hush, as if the land too was listening.

Emma leaned forward. "You said other selves. Were we there too? In those visions?"

Jude nodded. "Some of you. Some not. Some worlds didn’t have wives at all. Some had others, men, monsters, children born of strange unions. But the core remained. A soul walking the edge of godhood, trying to understand what was worth saving."

"And what did you learn?" Sophie asked.

"That it’s not the power that saves a place," Jude said. "It’s love. And memory. And the choice to carry someone else’s pain alongside your own."

That night, no one slept easily. The book pulsed on the table, unread but aware. The faceless girl did not visit Jude in dreams.