Jude moved to the center, standing tall beneath the glowing spire above. His chest burned - not with pain, but with the certainty of purpose. He was the pulse now. The seed-bearer. The lover chosen not just by the island, but by the sacred rhythm that had shaped it.
One by one, the women moved around him. Lucy first, placing her hand on his heart. Then Sophie, her lips pressing to his spine. Emma, Zoey, Grace, Stella, Susan, Natalie, Scarlet, Layla, and finally Rose - all touched him, kissed him, whispered to him. Their voices became a hum, a chant, a song not made of words but of need and surrender and promise.
The moss rose like a living bed beneath Jude's feet, curling and lifting until he stood elevated among them. A golden thread stretched from his chest, invisible yet tangible, connecting to each of the women in turn. And when Rose stepped forward and kissed him - slow, deep, eternal - the thread pulsed and thickened with light.
