Night had poured across the sky like ink, staining the horizon with a heaviness that matched the weight pressing on Brendon's chest. The coastline of Lagooncrest Isle shimmered faintly under the crescent moon, a jagged silhouette in the distance, outlined by the dancing reflection of the ocean waves. Mist clung to the waters, rolling in and out with each breath of the sea. And in the stillness of that lonely stretch of dark ocean, a modest ship rocked silently against the tide.
It was Captain Mordell's vessel—a worn but sturdy old thing made of weathered metal and reinforced wood. Its hull bore the scars of storms and time, its deck creaked with every gentle sway. The ship's lanterns were dimmed low, as if it too were holding its breath, trying not to be seen.
Brendon stood alone at the edge of the deck, his arms folded against the biting sea breeze. His fur fluttered gently in the wind, the tips of his ears twitching at every whisper from the island ahead. Lagooncrest Isle loomed before him, vast and brooding—its forests looked deeper than he remembered, its shoreline darker, its secrets heavier.
He exhaled slowly and murmured to himself, "I will surely uncover the truth."
The silence behind him broke.
"Hey man," came a familiar voice, relaxed but tinged with a farewell tone. "Looks like your stay has come to an end. Eh?"
Brendon turned to see Kellan leaning on the rail beside him, arms draped casually over the wood, but his eyes held sincerity. He was a scrappy lynx anthro with a light laugh and a darker past—a smuggler turned sympathizer in a war that wasn't his to fight, but still chose a side.
"Yeah," Brendon nodded. "Certainly. But thanks for everything so far."
He reached out, and the two shook hands firmly. A silent exchange passed between them—trust, gratitude, and perhaps the quiet understanding that not everyone made it out of this kind of thing. Brendon turned and gave the same gesture to the hulking figure looming nearby—Captain Mordell. "You too cap."
The walrus anthro towered over them both, his thick arms crossed over a woolen vest, his weathered tusks catching the faint light. Despite his gruff nature and salty tongue, Mordell's presence had always felt like a harbor in a storm.
"I ain't doin' this outta charity," the captain rumbled, voice like gravel dragged across stone. "I'm doin' this 'cause I want this madness to end—and I believe you might be the one stubborn enough to see it through."
He glanced toward the misty outline of the island. "So go. Swim to that cursed place. Dig through the dirt and rot. Find out what's been stealing our children. And don't come back 'til you've got answers."
Brendon gave a firm nod, but before he could leap over the edge, Kellan stepped forward again, reaching into his jacket.
"Hey. One more thing before you go."
He held out a small object—a simple metal keychain. Rusted, old, shaped like a miniature boat anchor with initials carved in: T.K.
"My dad gave me this when I was five," Kellan said, voice quieter now. "He used to say it would keep me anchored—no matter how bad the storm. He's buried on that island. If this whole mess ends... place this on his grave for me, yeah?"
Brendon looked at the keychain, then into Kellan's eyes, and took it without a word. He patted Kellan's shoulder—a rare gesture for someone who usually kept his distance.
"Okay. I will."
The moment lingered, heavy but honest.
Then, without fanfare, Brendon stepped onto the railing, looked once more at the looming Isle, and dove into the cold, moonlit water.
---
The sea embraced him instantly—frigid and alive. The surface above was slick with moonlight, and the world below, murky and quiet. But Brendon was no regular anthro. As a wolf of stronger breed, his body cut through the water with power and grace, limbs slicing and pulling in rhythmic precision. Each stroke brought him closer to the island—one hundred yards of salt and shadow, and closing fast.
The swim should have been grueling, but Brendon was trained for moments like this. His breaths were measured, his mind calm despite the rising sense of purpose inside him. He didn't have the full picture yet, but he had enough to know that every moment he wasted was another opportunity for more lives to disappear.
Fifty yards.
The tide pulled against him. He pushed harder.
Twenty-five yards.
The wind howled faintly above the water now, and he could begin to hear the soft crunch of the waves brushing the pebbled shore.
Finally, paws scraped sand. He emerged from the water in a low crouch, fur soaked, breath heavy but focused.
He was back.
---
There was no time to rest.
The coastline wasn't empty tonight. Lanterns in the distance flickered through the trees. Voices occasionally drifted through the air—faint, cautious, speaking in clipped tones. Patrols? Survivors? Or something else?
Brendon didn't plan to find out.
He moved quickly, staying low, his soaked clothes clinging to his lean frame. He darted between jagged rocks and overgrowth, keeping to the shadows. Every step was calculated, every pause intentional. Twice, he ducked behind broken ruins—old watchposts long since overrun by vegetation. A third time, he nearly froze at the sound of footsteps crunching too close to the path.
He waited, breath shallow, until the danger passed.
Then he pressed on.
His destination was clear: the western side woods. He knew the terrain well—had studied it during his last visit. There was an old hollow near the dense tree clusters that offered cover and a narrow trail leading toward the Duckinghum Caves. From there, he could begin again.
This time, he wouldn't miss anything.
---
By the time Brendon reached the woods, the moon had shifted higher in the sky, illuminating the trees in a pale silver glow. The western forest groaned softly with wind and time, branches creaking overhead, leaves rustling like whispers. He crouched behind a fallen log, ears flicking at the smallest sounds, then waited ten full minutes before moving again.
Eventually, the land sloped down. Roots twisted across the path like skeletal hands. He followed the incline until the thick scent of moss and damp stone reached him.
There—hidden by overgrowth and jagged rock formations—was the yawning mouth of Duckinghum Caves.
He stepped forward.
The last time he came here, he was in a hurry—half-blind with adrenaline and fear, trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. But now? He had names. Places. Motives. Leads. Captain Mordell's memories of a hidden facility, experiments on anthros, unnatural lights in the trees. Somewhere above ground, near these caves, something had to be hiding.
The network might've tried to erase its tracks.
But Brendon had returned to find the ones that remained.
He reached into his jacket, clicked on a red-filtered flashlight, and adjusted his gloves. These are the things he have gathered from that ship. "I hope they won't mind my little act of theft. Will they?" He asks himself.
His breath misted in the cold air as he stepped closer to the stone entrance.
"Now," he muttered under his breath, "let's go inside it."
And with that, he disappeared into the dark once more.