Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women
Chapter 965

Chapter 965: Chapter 965

They gathered supplies: breads, wines, dried fruits, carved tokens, fresh flowers. Each wife selected a gift for the mountain, a branch of lavender for healing, a braid of riverine willow for gentleness, a stone etched with their family crest, a small leather pouch filled with soil from their own hearth.

Scarlet strapped down a polished river rock, water-smooth, while Serena tucked a vine cord in her belt. Layla placed a shell by her side with the inscription Remember. Emma rolled a scroll of earthen dyes into a leather tube. Lucy bound her own braided hair into a token.

Jude chose the watcher glyph shard and a loaf of honey-bread as his offering. Grace brushed kola-nut powder onto a carved wooden heart. Together they were the mountain’s pledge, tear and renewal, memory and protection.

They stepped through the orchard, watchers drifting alongside but not intruding. The sun climbed steadily, shadows shrinking. As they reached the boundary, where the waterfall once roared and monsters lurked, they paused. The watchers held their positions, silent colleagues.

Jude turned to the wives. "From here, the mountain is its own world. Let’s honor it."

They ascended in pairs, group of eight, rising along the winding stone path. The valley narrowed; trees thickened; rocks shifted underfoot. Every step echoed from the mountain’s center, low vibrations that hummed in the soles of boots. Grace’s grip tightened, eyes bright.

Scarlet frowned. "I feel roots under stone."

"It’s the mountain breathing," Jude said. "Let it rise."

They reached the slope where they’d carved names before. Now, glyph pieces and ribbons had woven into living ivy and moss. The watchers had set each sacrifice into the stroke of growth. Stair after stair, the path before them glowed faintly. The island was responding.

At midday light they reached a broad ledge, flat rock pouring outward like a balcony. Watchers had gathered, spiral forms shimmering silver and blue, spaced like living lanterns around the stone dais.

The wives stepped out, each reaching a different spot on the dais’s base. They placed gifts gently, arranging tokens into a spiral groove carved ages past. The watchers drifted inward, filling the dais’s perimeter.

Jude stepped to the dais’s center, lifted a piece of river bread, held it aloft. "We come again, watchers and mountain. Accept our gifts and our promise, that we remain your memory-keepers, caretakers of story and place."

He placed the bread at the dais’s heart. Grace joined him, laying the heart-carved wood atop. The other wives followed, positioning their tokens: lavender, stone, shell, braid, scroll, kola wooden heart, braided hair, soil pouch.

They stepped back. A hush, then a shift in air. Sunlight fractured through dust and stone, illuminating the dais. Watchers glowed brighter, pulse syncing with the wives’ heartbeat.

No words rose.

Then Jude and Grace began to sing, a slow melody born of all the chants they’d learned, layered with grief, joy, love, and vow. The wives joined one by one, voices held in quiet harmony. Each added a verse: naming roles, stories, promises.

"You named me memory’s keeper," sang Lucy softly.

"You named me root’s guardian," Rose offered.

The watchers pulsated with each voice. The mountain hummed.

After the final verse, Jude lowered his head. Grace echoed softly, "We hold this promise."

They paused.

Then a single watcher drifted forward to the dais, spiraled through the gifts, paused at the wooden heart, touched it. Light flared briefly. The mountain emitted a deep sigh, as if acknowledging the weight and presence of their vow.

The watcher drifted away, others followed. They ascended the path silently, leaving the dais and wreath of gifts in still light.

The wives followed, descending as one body. Each step felt lighter.

Jude paused at the base and gazed up. The mountain looked different. Softer. Watchers dotted its slope like scattered stars.

They returned to the orchard that afternoon, absence of ceremony easing into laughter. The children ran to meet them, scooping them into hugs. The wives let the ritual rest in stories whispered.

By twilight, they lit the firepit again. Fish stewed over coals. Grace handed Jude a cup of honey tea. He lifted it. "To memory," he said.

She toasted. "To story."

They drank, reveling in warmth and presence. The watchers assembled again at edge. They stayed through the night, tracking their voices, their bodies, their laughter.

---

The next dawn brought a low fog, weaving through saplings and surfacing in showers of dew. Jude felt a longing, memory stirring. He sensed watchers watching deeper now, further than the orchard.

He dressed quietly, braid in his hair as Grace knelt at his feet, adjusting ribbon. She looked up, solemn. "Something changes each day."

He nodded. "We grow with the mountain. Let’s grow together."

They stepped out, heading east to gather lucent petals, a ritual marker for caregivers. The orchard smelled like returning promise as watchers drifted among saplings.

During midday, the watchers pulsed, rippling columns of light gliding through mist, swirling before vanishing. Jude followed a single taller watcher near the edge. It paused, then tilted, leading him deeper than he’d walked before.

Grace followed. The watcher moved through the trees until they reached a stone pillar half-swallowed by ivy. Jude knelt, traced a glyph, a spiral that matched tokens at the dais. He pressed his palm to bark, glyph glowed with recognition. The watcher brushed against tree, then paused at Grace’s feet and faded.

Grace brushed its place. "It’s clearing ground," she said softly.

Jude looked around. "This island’s altar extends beyond the mountain."

They returned slowly, marking token–places in soil. The watchers drifted behind, outward.

By evening, the wives had crafted new glyph markers along the orchard’s far edge. A pattern emerged, spiraled circles, each ringing a sapling, like protective sigils, guiding watchers into safety zones.

That night, voices rose again in melody, simple chants of harvesting, sowing, remembering. The watchers advanced into orchard without fear, part of celebration.

Jude and Grace lay beneath the fig-glyph tree afterward, leaves overhead shimmering in moonlight. Their bodies close, they spoke quietly of what was next.