Where the day went is a mystery to me. It feels like it was only a few hours ago that we were saying goodbye to our comrades, and yet, by Simon's fobwatch it is now approaching midnight. They left in the early afternoon. I spent some time sitting on the beach with Dorian while he showed me his rough sketches of a plan for the cabin we would build. I spent the rest of my time half-asleep in the company of Simon and Elian who, eventually, put themselves to sleep with their inability to string sentences together after their night out.

Now, all awake and refreshed after our late day naps, we carefully balance on a stone ridge high over a beach. The moon has shrunk to nearly a half of its full glory and hangs lazily in a bed of silver clouds. Dorian scampers at my heels, slinking easily over the rocks on all fours with a spine as flexible as rope. He has stopped me from falling a few times now, embarrassingly, keeping a sharp eye.

I must focus on the severed end of my crutch to assure its safe lodging on rocks that won't wobble and crannies that it fits to keep from throwing out my balance and toppling down to the beach.

Simon leads, his nose stuck in the painting. Elian sticks to his side with the map, holding it open for the professor to glance at every now and again.

"Again, Teach," Dorian rasps, scampering over a boulder. "You can forget the map and the painting. I can show you where you want to go."

"Yes, thank you," Simon sneers, eyes unmoving from his painting. "But, no thank you. It is straightforward enough and I can find it myself."

"I can tell you what the treasure is, too," the fox adds, sniggering.

"Better yet, you can behave like a regular fox and simply not speak." Simon stops and looks back. "I apologize, that was rude. But, I would like to investigate myself—without a guide to tell me what I will or won't find or where to find it. So, I will lead, and you will make sure Walter does not further injure himself. Thank you."

Dorian rolls his eyes and spits.

I frown. "Well, hey. It's not my fault I was shot."

"It is your fault that you ran on the injury to the point that you passed out and twisted your ankle," Simon returns pointedly. "That is very much on you."

"Prick, eh," mutters Dorian. He picks up a rock and throws it, skipping it across the bumpy ridge. He snickers and rolls forward onto his paws again, slinking onwards.

I grumble to myself, "Why did I even come along?"

"Oh, don't be sour," Simon moans, his head rolling—likely with the eyes I cannot see. At least he's combed the back of his head now so it isn't as sore a sight as it had been. "We are almost there. Just at the end of this ridge, we'll step into the grass, and be right where the painting says we should be."

"What?" Elian asks loudly.

Simon speaks clearly into his good ear, "Almost there."

I pick up my crutch and lodge it in the next little crevice, test its hold, and swing. Broken stones skitter down the steep face of the ridge and disappear into clouds of disturbed sand. The tide is coming in, leaving only a sliver of the beach; a thin strip of white separates the dark grey of the rocks from the deep blue of the lagoon. Wisps flit over the water, never going further than a few yards from the shore. They touch the white crests of the waves as they curl inwards and stretch out across the beach. The blue lights pull back with the water and ride in over and over again, glowing brighter at different moments for each.

The air is fresh and crisp and in constant motion, salted with sea breeze and spiced with a trace of bitter pine. A mist kisses my skin where my new clothing does not cover. When so many of the people left earlier today, local foxes gathered their forgotten belongings in carts and dumped them in a building to be scrapped, picked from, or reused. While Simon took a pair of scissors and all the books he could carry, and Elian found a comfortable new blouse, I replaced close to my whole attire. After all, the clothing the doctor had once given me were ruined; my bandanna and one stocking lost who knows where and my breeches and blouse deeply imbued with filth. I found a new bandana, a green one, to tie around my neck, my small mineral firm in its knot, and I now wear longer sleeves and breeches in which I have much room to grow. I took an old Praedoran naval coat and it does well to keep the cold moisture off my skin. In it, I blend into the night sky.

Simon circles in the overgrown thicket ahead, trampling the smallest of the shrubs as he steps, gaze flicking from the map to the moon to the land to the lagoon. His lips pinch tightly together. Dorian dives into the bush and disappears. Elian looks back at me.

"All right, Walt?" he calls.

I lower myself carefully to sit on the overhang, touching the end of my crutch in the firm dirt concealed beneath the greens below. It feels so far to jump on one leg. Before I can give a good answer—an answer at least better than my immediate, wary thoughts—Elian's hand grabs onto mine. I exhale with relief. He kindly helps me down.

"Keep your lame leg out of the vegetation, Walter," Simon quips, stepping further into the thicket.

"Mind your own business, Simon," I return, scowling. Sharp twigs and brittle leaves attack my injuries, but I bear it stubbornly.

Simon plants his feet and looks all around, head swiveling like an owl's and craning like a wolf's. He adjusts his glasses and rolls up the painting, holding it out at his side expectantly. "This is the spot. Trade me the map, won't you, El?"

Elian continues to help me through the thick, stinging grass and gnarled shrubs. They scrape against my breeches and my bandages, small and hardy branches clawing at my legs and holding me back like an undertow.

"Elian!" Simon shouts.

Elian blinks and looks up. "Did you say something?"

Simon waves his scroll and points to Elian's map. "Trade."

Elian leaves me to fight the bushes myself and stumbles through to his friend. He takes the painting and hands over the map and Simon throws his arms around him before he can step back again. Simon gives him a moment of his time that I am sure that he would spare for no other and murmurs closely into Elian's one ear. In the quiet of the lonely night, I am just able to hear, "It will get better. We will figure it out."

Dorian leaps from the shrubs below them in a flash of fluttering tunic and fur, soaring between them and splitting them apart, sending each in a different direction in surprise. They both cry out. Simon falls over while Elian regains his balance and holds his freshly bandaged earhole protectively.

The fox resurfaces, snickering, just as Simon blinks away the shock of it and turns from white as sheets to red as roses. He raises his fist to the fox, whose shoulders at his full height barely pass the top of the thicket. Hank's wisp glows bright under his scruffy chin, illuminating his bared, grinning teeth.

"You are foul. You are an amoeba, you are a nuisance and a trickster," Simon rattles, pushing himself up. He pats himself down and smooths out the wrinkles in his clothes, then picks his way back to where he had stood before, shaking his head all the while. "The map says ten paces forward and twenty-one paces right, so let's get on with it."

"Yeah, let's get on with it," Dorian mimics snidely. He sticks out his tongue and flattens his ears and dives back under the thicket once more, disappearing with stealthy movement. His tail bobs over the brush, moving quickly away.

Simon, lips pursed sourly, steps forward ten long paces. Elian, rubbing the back of his neck, follows. Then they turn and pace in a different direction, as given in the map's instructions.

I sigh and wearily lift my crutch to vault along with them, unable to keep up and resigned to it. Ahead, Dorian feigns sleep on a marvelous bridge of white stone. It gleams in the moonlight, sparkling through a layer of mist. Each near-square stone of the bridge's base is carved with intricate patterns, all different. The broad railings display swirling patterns of their own.

Dorian yawns, stretching out his feet as Simon crouches beside him.

"This is spectacular," the professor breathes. "I have never seen anything quite like it." He turns around brightly to Elian, close behind him. "At your university, they have a world-renowned architecture department, do they not? This would blow them away."

"I suppose."

Simon runs his hand over the stone. "Absolutely spectacular." He peers at Dorian. "Are there more structures like this?"

"All over the place, mostly buried." Dorian stands up and leans over the rail, built to his height rather than ours. "It's our heritage. You can study it later. The Elders are probably waiting."

"Elders?"

Just as I reach the bridge, they are sliding under it. I sit on top of it for a moment to catch my breath, tracing my fingers over the patterns. They are more than just patterns. I frown, squinting and leaning nearer. The bridge is like a tapestry, running a history from one end of the narrow ravine to the other. Small and simplified fox forms are etched permanently in the white stone, interacting beside markings that could only be words.

"Walter!"

I lean forward to squint into the abyss below. Elian holds his hand out to me, leaning against one mossy cliffside. The gap is only two of his shoulder-widths wide, filled with vegetation in mild teal and lime colors, washed pale with bright wisp lights. They dance through the ravine, filling black spaces and revealing vibrant plant-life in the darkness.

"Are we sure this is the right place?" I ask. "Can you see the bottom?"

"The map says to go down," Elian replies. "And Dorian seems to know the place. We'll find the bottom eventually. Come on. Can you climb on my back?"

I push air through my teeth and rub my jaw. I leave my crutch on the bridge and carefully swing my legs through the gaps in the stone rails. Elian grips the cliff face, awaiting me. My heart flutters at the drop, but I take the jump. My arms fling around his shoulders desperately and we skid down the crumbling crevice unchecked.

***

The light of the wisps greys our skin and flashes eerily off Simon's spectacles. At the bottom of the ravine, thick and spongy growths of moss sprout from the rocky walls, hugging our skin and soaking moisture through our clothes. I hang on Elian's shoulder, scarcely breathing in the overwhelming damp of the air. The knot of my bandana glows. The crumbs of the same mineral light Simon's breast pocket and lead a breathtaking trail through a small cave built in the floor of the crevice.

Dorian bows his head, clutching Hank's vial and muttering to himself in his own guttural tongue. The cave is the right size for him to pad through on all fours; a low tunnel lined with the glowing mineral, reminiscent of the blue worms of the treacherous cave we spent such a length in.

Simon gets onto his knees without a word, so drawn in his pursuit for knowledge that he would abandon the integrity of his trousers, the shine of his shoes, and his dignity without hesitation. He crawls into the cramped space on his elbows, shoulders scraping on the arched ceiling.

Dorian slinks after him, hissing with impatience behind the man's pace.

"You might want to stay out here," Elian says, eyeing the crawlspace.

"No." I gesture, "You go, I'll follow."

He slips out from under my shoulder. "Are you sure?"

I nod.

He nods and smiles in return, then crouches down. He pokes his head into the cave, curls billowing over the roof, and tries to fold himself into the space with a grunt. Larger than our bony bookworm friend, his shoulders bunch and twist to try and fit. He gets lower, lying on his belly, and his broad shoulders scrape the walls.

"Maybe you shouldn't," I suggest at the palpitation of my heart. His clothing scrapes against the rocks with a scuffling like sand over shells. "Elian! It's too small. Maybe you—"

"What?" he calls back. His voice echoes through the tunnel, and Dorian's harsh voice snaps at him to be silent. Deaf to it, he starts wriggling backwards. "I don't think I'll chance this."

His curls shake out as he resurfaces, clouding the thick air with dust. He blinks and rubs his eyes, then shuffles away from the opening. He gestures to me, and I carefully kneel. To my advantage, I am a little smaller than the professor and a little larger than the fox, so I fit in the cave with some room to spare. Unlike Simon, I am able to crawl with my knees under me, rather than dragged behind like a soldier through grass. My shoulders scuff the minerals jutting from the cave walls, but the space suits me fine.

A thud startles me and I curl quickly in a ball, making myself small enough that I can turn around. Elian sits at the entrance, blinking back at me and rubbing his bum.

"Sorry." He waves. "I'll just wait here. Tell Simon."

"Yeah," I breathe, combing my fingers through my hair. "I will."

I continue on my hands and knees through the tunnel. My skin appears blanched under the growing brightness of the minerals. The further I pull myself, the more distinct their vibrance becomes, until I turn a sharp corner and see the very brightest of light on either side of a stone at the end of the tunnel. Squinting, I wriggle towards it. On either side of this stone is the same room of light and white-washed walls. I lean right and drag myself up, standing in the open cave and blinking in the brightness.

The floor is one large, carved circle, etched with histories and legends in the same way that the bridge was. The simple foxes and engraved dialects cover the entirety of the cave, every space on the bumpy white walls filled.

"Wow," I murmur, taking it all in. The white mineral is piled high around the curve of the far end of the cavern, and on top of it sit three beings. Gasping, I trip over myself and fall back against the wall. Three white foxes, elegant and groomed with piercing blue eyes. I can see through them as their chests raise. They shimmer with every motion, like mirages, revealing blurry glimpses of the carvings at their backs.

"Walter," Dorian hisses.

He and Simon are kneeling, heads bowed towards the ghosts. Simon's arm sticks out and sharply gestures for me to get down. With an involuntary squeak, I scrabble to kneel and throw my head down, clutching one hand at my chest in comfort, feeling the bones of my ribcage rise and fall.

"Rise, Speaker," a female voice washes over the cave. It seems to come from all directions, or none, as if only in my head—as if projected there, rather than spoken by the poised creatures before us.

Dorian slowly pushes to stand, unfurling to his full height on his hind legs. He lowers to his hocks for balance, his head still bowed.

The largest white fox appears in the corner of my vision, padding past me, around Dorian. I lift my head slightly to look, to watch its bushy tail caress the dwarfed young carpenter.

"Come the full moon, my Speaker," comes the voice, though no lips move, "Astiza will reach out to you, and you will restore our isles to balance. We await your coronation eagerly."

"Can you show me what I am supposed to do?" Dorian squeaks. He rubs his knuckles under his eyes. "I don't know. I left so long ago."

"The last Speaker passed in the night of the last full moon." It is a new voice, a much higher female voice from the smallest of the white foxes as it slinks down from its mineral perch. "Her spirit remains with us, and like that which you hold, will communicate when the moon is full, and no sooner. She will guide your hand."

Dorian lifts his vial, brows tense with hope. "Hank will communicate?"

"This human gained favor from Astiza in his actions, twice saving our people. His spirit will be strong. Stronger, with his pup so near."

The small white fox sits in front of me, her tail curling around her paws. I swallow and look up, feeling suddenly cold in her icy gaze.

"What brings the pup of Henry Avery to our sacred home?"

I open my mouth and choke on the air. With a grimace, I clear my throat. "I... I don't know." What did I expect, coming here? Gold, silver, emeralds. I expected I would be poking through riches I had no use for while listening to the scribble of Simon's quill in his notebook and the muttering of his expanding mind. What am I to say to a trio of ghosts? Are they even ghosts? Spirits? Hallucinations?

The middle-sized fox, with a middle-pitched voice, circles Simon. "And, you, Simon Woods the Second? I sense much curiosity."

"Then you have me pegged." Simon lifts his head. The light on his lenses masks his eyes. He speaks slowly and quietly, but with certainty that I envy. "I wonder of your mineral. I was not sure what I would find following this trail, told of treasure, but this is much greater than I had imagined. I heard that this mineral could cure werewolfism, and I should like to determine how, and how to harness it. I should like to study it, and with it, these markings, carvings, and runes, if you would indulge me."

"You kneel at the source of what you call 'werefolfism'," the small fox says. "It changes a human and blesses a fox. It is an instrument of peace that was never meant to leave our land."

"The mineral connects the living world to the spirits," the middle fox adds. "It connects us to our god and allows us to see the spirits that choose to stay with us before they move on. It changes man to our form and grants them peace with it to walk among us as equals, should they have the hearts to be accepted among our kind. Hearts as courageous as Henry Avery's, or as brave as Increas Langley's, or as compassionate as Leslie Keller's. Hearts that forsake human greed for the wellbeing of others—these hearts are welcomed and may find peace and control with the guidance of the mineral."

"It comes from Astiza herself," the large fox finishes. "Our isles, called Riven by Henry Avery—though we go by many names and few in your tongue—began many eons ago, when a piece of the moon fell to this world. You look to the sky, and you will see the craters in her form where she has spread many pieces of herself. Only one piece lives on this world, and it is here."

Simon pulls out his notebook and a bottle of ink and his quill and looks between the foxes with wide eyes. "This is fascinating. Please, may I return here? May I study this place? I seek only knowledge."

The middle fox tilts her head. "In returning, you will be infected faster. You have a good heart, and we will allow you. There are many mysteries here that have been lost even to us, which you may uncover. But, know, you will take our form within months."

"Permanently?"

"You have witnessed it in other men," the fox returns. "You will change at will, as long as you carry some of Astiza with you."

He frowns and studies the floor. With a sigh and a deep breath, he meets her gaze once more. "So be it. The most effective way to study a disease and its cure is to experience it, therefore, I will. Thank you."

Her head bows. The three foxes then look to me, to Dorry, and they smile. Close-lipped, their grey jowls draw back creases beneath their glinting blue eyes.

"Two sons of leaders, both with family taken," says the large fox. "You would do well to lead together."

"Lead?" I ask.

"Together?" he asks.

They dip their heads low. "The Isles have lost much and are without direction. The Speaker has rights to the Moon Spire and influence over the people, but he has no guidance, and will need help. It is wise to lead with a friend, to consult when direction is unclear."

Dorian grabs at his muzzle. He rubs at his whiskers, then looks back at me with big, wet eyes. "But neither of us have lived here long enough to know what... to know what to do."

"Guidance will always be given from us," says the small fox.

"And from your people," adds the middle fox. "Should you ask for it."

Dorian nods. "Okay." He turns around and peers to me. My hands are shaking, my head is light. The fox holds out his paw, his chest filling with a deep breath. Hank's wisp flutters in its vial. "Are you... Are willing?"

Am I willing? Scarcely thinking on it, I reach for his paw. Hank's wisp brightens and bounces faster off the glass. The glow reaches my hand as we touch. He would have led well, he always had. And I? I will do my best to do the same, or better.

"I am," I say, so firm and bold that I surprise myself. I set my jaw and nod. "I am willing."