The massive gates of the mountain groaned as they opened.
Stone scraped against stone, a deep grinding echo that rolled through the canyon like distant thunder. Dust drifted from the seams of the ancient structure, catching the sunlight as it spilled into the darkness beyond.
For a moment, no one moved.
Not the elves.
Not the dwarves.
Not even John.
The elder dwarf stood at the threshold, one hand resting on the haft of his war axe, his eyes never leaving the massive black dragon before him.
"…You enter," he said slowly, his voice still carrying that strange mix of caution and reverence, "as a guest."
Lythriel leaned slightly toward John.
"That sounds like there are conditions."
John murmured back,
"There are always conditions."
The elder's gaze flicked briefly toward her, then returned to John.
"…Guest," he repeated, more firmly this time. "Not conqueror."
