They left Lythandar at dawn.
Sylnara provided an escort—twelve elven rangers under Master Warden Thaelan's command. The dwarves trusted elves about as much as they trusted dragons. Having witnesses who had fought beside the party might make negotiations easier.
Thaelan wasn't happy about it.
"I'm a warden, not a diplomat," he said as they climbed into the foothills. "If Borin throws you out, don't expect me to smooth things over."
"Noted," Owen said.
The mountains rose ahead. Gray stone, hard lines, the bones of the earth exposed to sky. Everything about them felt ancient in a way different from Lythandar's living beauty—older, more patient, more stubborn.
They reached the dwarf hold by nightfall.
Khazad-Vorn squatted against a mountainside like a fist driven into stone. Massive gates of carved granite. Towers that were really just extensions of the mountain itself. Smoke rose from a hundred forges, painting the sunset with industrial colors.
