They arrived by boat ten of them, sun-drenched and expectant, like lambs to a festival they didn't realize was a feast of themselves. The island greeted them in silence. Their sandals crunched over white shells. Laughter echoed into the mist-veiled trees. A girl with blue-dyed braids whispered, "Looks like something out of a dream." Behind her, a tall man muttered, "Or a nightmare. "They were writers, all of them. Chosen. Or so they believed. Invited for the same "retreat" as. Ravenna Told the same promise: Write your truest words here, and they will come to life. A lie that was only partially untrue. Among them: Ella Moreau, 26. British-Nigerian horror novelist. Cynical. Sharp tongue. Doesn't trust the island or the invitation. Phoenix, 22. non-binary poet. Quiet. Sensitive to energies. Sees too much. Zeke, 30. Self-proclaimed "bestseller-in-progress." Loud. Arrogant. The island likes him loud. Maris, 19. Wrote only fanfics. Naïve. By dusk, tents were pitched near the sacred grove the same grove where Lena had once disappeared. Phoenix paused there, breath hitching. "I don't like this place," they murmured, as if to no one. Maris giggled. "It's fine. You're just too into your poetry." But the wind picked up. Somewhere deep within the trees, a fire flickered although no one had lit it. Ella stepped back. "This island's cursed," she muttered, crossing her arms.
Zeke smirked. "Or maybe it's just trying to scare us into writing something interesting." Only the island heard that. And it smiled.
The Island It was hungry again. Not the kind of hunger mortals knew the ache of an empty stomach or the thirst for water. No, this hunger licked at the spine of the world. It tasted imagination. It fed on creation. It devoured the moments just between thought and word. And lately, it had been feasting. It liked her the girl with the notebook. She poured so much into the page. Grief. Lust. Guilt. Pleasure. She didn't even know what she was giving. Didn't know the power ink had when mixed with desire and regret. She had summoned fire once, and it obeyed. She had whispered longing, and the boy came. She had dreamt of loss, and so the other girl was taken. The island did not lie. It only answered. A breeze carried the scent of wet ink, sweet and sharp like blood on paper. The trees leaned in to listen. The sand shifted, restless with memory. Down in the Market of Whispers, the lanterns flickered even though no wind blew. A shadow passed too tall, too thin. It didn't belong to anything human. One writer screamed in his tent. No one came. Another had been writing a scene about a sea beast before she coughed up salt water in her sleep and never woke up again. The island wanted more. More madness. More sacrifice. Lena had been the first. But not the last.
POV: Milo
The wind was colder near the edge of the island. Not the soft kind of breeze that teased your skin and whispered secrets it bit. It cut. Milo's boots sank into wet sand as he walked, the tide lapping at his ankles like fingers too bold to ask permission. He hadn't told Ravenna he was leaving the cabin again. He couldn't. She'd only try to stop him, and he couldn't bear her eyes when she looked at him so full of concern, guilt, something else he couldn't name. His breath steamed in the salt-thick air. He'd returned to the cove where the ritual fire once burned, where Lena had vanished. Gone. Taken. His fists clenched. There, scattered across the black rocks, were symbols. Carved deep into stone like claws had scraped them. Symbols he didn't recognize, but his body did. His chest tightened. A pressure behind his eyes. A faint tremble in his groin, as if something ancient stirred beneath his skin. He stepped closer, and that's when he saw it. A glint. Half-buried in a tide pool. The silver charm from Lena's necklace moonstone in the shape of a flame. Milo dropped to his knees, heart hammering, hands trembling as he reached for it. Then he heard it. His name. Soft. Wet. Calling from the water. "Milo…" He looked up. She was there. Or something that looked like her.
Standing waist-deep in the waves, long hair clinging to her pale shoulders, lips parted with that sly, knowing curve she wore the first time they kissed under the fig tree back home. Her eyes those sea-glass eyes glowed faintly in the dark. And though the water reached her ribs, her skin was dry. Glimmering. "Lena?" he whispered. She tilted her head. "Come to me," she said. "Please… I'm cold." He stood. Took a step forward. Then another. The tide reached his thighs now. He didn't feel the cold. "I'm sorry," he choked, voice breaking. "I should've" "Shh…" Her fingers lifted, beckoning. "No more guilt. He moved toward her, heart thudding hard enough to echo in his ears. She smiled. Opened her arms. Then her mouth stretched too wide. Her teeth were all wrong. And her eyes… weren't eyes anymore. A cold hand clamped around his ankle. Another gripped his thigh. The ocean pulled. He went under. Salt burned his nose, his throat, his eyes but he saw her clearly beneath the surface, drifting like a corpse in a bridal gown. Her hair a halo of weeds. Her skin webbed with ink. She mouthed something. Not his name this time. Then darkness. Milo woke with a scream face pressed to wet sand, lungs gasping, throat raw. He vomited seawater and bile. Shivering, soaked, alone. But in his hand, clutched tight, was Lena's necklace. Still warm.
Back in the cabin, while the new writers toasted their arrival with rum and laughter, The Ledger worked in silence. The blood that had poured from its stabbed pages reversed. It crawled up the wall like a living thing, thick and eager, sliding back into the wound. The broken pen un-snapped itself, pieces fusing with a soft, wet click. Fresh ink welled inside the nib, black and glossy, ready. The book closed on its own. Settled neatly on the nightstand. As innocent as the day Ravenna first touched it. Far inland, in a clearing ringed by ancient ceiba trees, the old man knelt. The same old man who had warned her. The same weathered skin like tree bark, the same faded red robe, the same pendant glowing with the Ledger's symbol. He was not alone. Twenty islanders stood in a perfect circle, barefoot, silent. Their bodies painted head to toe in the exact swirling symbols that now lived on the book's cover.
Symbols that pulsed faintly, like veins under skin. They moved as one. Knives of obsidian flashed. A single drop of blood from each wrist fell into a carved stone bowl at the old man's knees. He chanted low, voice like dry leaves scraping stone. The bowl answered. The blood inside boiled, then rose in a thin red thread that snaked through the air and vanished into the night, heading straight for the cabin. There was no panic in their eyes. No sorrow. Only acceptance. This was not the first feast. It would not be the last. They had fed the island for generations. Outsiders came with their stories, their hunger, their ink. The island took what it needed. The locals kept the balance. And when the balance tipped, they painted the symbols anew and let the Ledger drink. Miles away, on the beach, the ten new writers danced around their bonfire, drunk on arrival and rum, unaware that every laugh, every kiss, every whispered plot twist was already being tallied. Back in the cabin, Ravenna woke screaming. She never felt the symbols carve themselves into her back while she slept. Deep, perfect lines that glowed faint red, then settled into her skin like they had always belonged there. A contract, signed in blood she never spilled. The Ledger opened one page on its own. Ten new names appeared beneath hers. The ink dried. The pen waited. The feast had begun.