Stuck in an Island with Twelve Beautiful Women

Chapter 888: Chapter 890

Then he sensed it: breath that wasn’t his own, drifting around him but only around him. He froze, arms against a great rock, tree roots below whispering. The island exhaled.

Where earlier had been mist, now stood shimmering trails that bent like smoke, gathering among the trees farther up. He pushed forward, feeling the lifetime of memories swelling in his mind. He recognized the crackle in the air, electric, like static; he smelled something cleaner, a memory of washed linen; he heard low promise in the air.

About ninety paces up, a figure waited by a fallen pillar, another relic, its weight covered in moss. And with the blur of motion he knew well, a flicker of blue, like stained-glass under water, it rose into view.

It’s not forming. It’s unraveling, shifting. A silhouette that, as he approached, flickered from animalistic shape to humanoid form, regal stance, too tall to be human, limbs ropy, head horned with vines. Its surface flickered like light through leaves.

”Jude,” it said. Not like wind, or with mouth, but inside.

He swallowed down the urge to flinch. ”Show me.”

He lifted the clay flask, then shook his head. He’d filled it with clear water, but his fingers only felt slip. He thought of burning it. Purifying it. But he pressed it to his forehead instead, as though asking mercy.

There, a flicker of remembrance. Then nothing.

The shape advanced. Leaves drifted. A spiral of blue dust rose from its chest. It paused, head tilted, like a curious child. Then it was beside him, its shoulder brushing his. He felt pleasant familiarity under the impulse of his own skin, safety, protection, trust in warmth. And the warning: no, no, no.

He raised the clay pot and smashed it on the stone. The flask broke. Water spilled. It hissed when it touched the shape, evaporated. The silhouette reared back.

”I forgive you,” the shape said. ”Because I am you.”

He backed away, glancing down at his hands. The clay was slick beneath his knuckles, red with earth, soul-wet ingredients.

The shape moved closer. It didn’t make attempt to touch him. Instead, it exuded ancient sorrow. He could feel lifetimes of blood, his own blood, his own murder, his own lessons about power over life and death. Roses and acrid resin, a blending of life and rot.

”I did not begin,” it said. ”But I healed. I saved. And now I want you to heal us.”

He lifted his knife. The shape shifted away. In the sky overhead, thunder rolled low and distant. It exhaled again.

”Healing with me brings peace,” it whispered. ”Healing with me brings perfection.”

”Peace is not perfection,” Jude said.

Its head bowed. ”I’m a fragment. A whisper. But together, ”

He lunged.

The knife aimed for its chest, but it closed on the wrist of a father hugging a daughter. A husband’s laughter. A mother’s first breath. He drew the blade across memory and skin, a litany of birth and exodus, and blood spilled. But the shape didn’t collapse. Instead, its form shivered, as though struck by wind, and then reorganized. Grooved bark turned to dry scales, fur became ash, feathers dark ash, an evaporation of identity.

He stepped back, stunned.

”I am the dream,” it said. ”And I belong to you.”

He raised his voice. ”This dream kills us!”

It paused. Its edges wavered. ”I sustain us. I made this island.”

He stared. The rain came then, at first as drips on leaves, then as sheets. The wind carried both to his shoulders, to his bones. The world cracked open.

The voice quieted. ”Then become me.”

The last syllable brushed his mind as he stumbled back, chest heaving, and sprinted down the slope. He collapsed near the water’s edge, cold soaking his skin, breath sputtering, heart splitting.

”Jude!” came Lucy’s voice. Then others. Their lanterns spun, beams loose, searching. He stumbled up and saw Emma and Serena leaning over him, eyes wide in torchlight.

He looked at them. Wet clay on his hands. His knife’s tip broken. He leaned forward and vomited into the mud.

”Did you hurt him?” Lucy asked Emma, gripping her elbow.

”No. He just... he was with something.”

Grace arrived then, Serena whispered up to her. She knelt in the rain beside him. Quiet.

”I thought...” Jude stopped, thought for breath, ”I thought I could kill it.”

”And you didn’t,” Grace said softly, cold rain curling her hair around her cheek.

His breath hurt. ”It’s part of the island. It’s part of us. I... I tried.”

Grace cupped his face. ”You did what you had to.”

The rain dropped heavier as they stood, leaning toward camp, leaning toward shelter, away from everything the sky had cracked open.

The island was changing. Not just in whispers. Not just shadow. But water, wind, earth. And the shape, they had seen it, wasn’t a visitor. It was a remaining part of them. Of the shell. Of the secret.

They moved in darkness back toward the fire. The fire had died. Bits of embers steamed like weak ghosts. They looked at each other and said nothing. Because they knew.

They’d followed. They’d found. They’d made a choice.

Now they had to decide who they would become.

The rain had soaked the island into stillness. In its aftermath, the jungle sat heavy and silent, every leaf dripping and every branch bowed. Jude emerged onto the clearing’s muddy floor, his boots sinking. The air felt charged, as though the forest was holding its breath. He saw the treehouse platforms, still steaming from the heat of the coals, and knew the others would be gathering there soon for breakfast. But he couldn’t face them yet. Not today. He needed space, alone under the open sky, to think.

He followed the narrow path toward the heart of the camp where the great fig tree stood. Its enormous trunk was slick with rain, its roots twisting across the ground like living serpents. He sat on one, pulled off his wet shirt, and tried to wipe water from his face, his skin was raw from grappling with the shape in the forest last night.