The clearing reshaped itself.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
The trees leaned back—just enough—forming a wide circle of exposed earth. Smooth. Black. Untouched by footprints, as if it had been waiting for this moment longer than anyone could remember.
The residents emerged again.
All of them.
They took their places at the edge of the circle, faces solemn, eyes hollow with memory. No one spoke. They didn't need to.
The island had convened court.
Jonah stood at the center without realizing how he got there.
Mara was pushed gently—but firmly—back by an unseen force. The others followed, their bodies resisting, their feet sliding across the ground like children being arranged for a lesson they didn't want.
A low hum filled the air.
Not sound.
Consensus.
Begin, the island whispered.
A man was pulled forward.
Not dragged.
Chosen.
His name was Kola.
He shook so badly Jonah thought his knees would give out. "I didn't break any rules," he said quickly. "I stayed. I didn't run. I didn't lie."
The ground did not respond.
Jonah felt the pressure return—lighter this time, guiding, not borrowing.
"This isn't about what you did here," Jonah said, and his voice echoed faintly, wrong in a way that made stomachs tighten. "It's about what you keep doing."
Kola's breathing grew frantic. "I don't understand."
The forest darkened.
Then the air folded.
They saw it together.
A different place.
A different time.
Kola stood in a small room, shouting at someone unseen. The sound of breaking glass. A child crying. The vision froze on Kola's face—rage unexamined, familiar, practiced.
"No," Kola whispered. "That's in the past."
The island pressed.
Jonah felt the truth push up his spine.
"You apologized," Jonah said softly. "But you never changed."
Kola dropped to his knees. "I would've! I just needed time!"
The vision shifted.
Another room.
Another apology.
Another promise.
Same ending.
The forest creaked—not in anger, but in disappointment.
Would you do it again? the island asked.
Kola opened his mouth.
Paused.
Jonah's heart pounded.
This was the moment.
"I—" Kola's voice broke. "I don't know how to stop."
The clearing held its breath.
The ground did not open.
The shadows did not rise.
Instead, the fog rolled in—thick, enclosing—wrapping Kola gently, almost tenderly.
When it pulled back, Kola was gone.
No scream.
No correction.
Just removal.
One of the survivors sobbed. "You killed him."
Jonah shook his head slowly. "No."
The residents spoke together, voices layered with ages of regret.
"He was contained."
The circle dissolved.
The trees leaned back in.
The court adjourned.
Jonah staggered, suddenly human again. Mara caught him before he fell.
"This is what you do now," she whispered. Not a question.
Jonah stared at the place where Kola had been.
"No," he said quietly.
But the island did not respond.
It already knew the truth.