The Fox's Last Word
You enter a low, circular chamber where blue foxfire trembles in wall sconces and the air smells of wet leaves and cold iron. Four empty stone recesses line the eastern wall beneath a silver plaque, while four brass animal tiles rest in a bowl of dry acorns. Their reflections in the black floor appear to blink out of sequence. Each recess bears a faintly glowing pawprint, and somewhere behind the wall a clockwork heart ticks whenever a tile is touched.