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The iron doors grind inward, loud enough to wake stone. Beyond them, torchlight sinks into a fifty-foot grotto: tiered gnomish seats climb the walls, while three feet of black, cold grease cover most of the floor. The stink is rancid tallow and old meat. Six squat, flabby shapes wait submerged to their eyes ten feet from the threshold. Five spearheads rise. The sixth wears a bent little captain’s gorget. He draws himself up until his chin clears the grease. ‘Captain Gullian. You are not announced.’ His gaze fixes on Ander’s sword. ‘Put down the steel. Crawl forward. State what you brought for Her.’ Farther back, five more gloops stop grooming a vast black shape half-submerged in the pool: twelve legs, a long head, no wings. Sootmurk opens one eye. ‘Oh,’ she says slowly. ‘Something has finally happened.’ Ruling before anyone commits: wading in the grease halves ground movement. No running, charging, or fighting withdrawal in it without falling face-first. The gloops swim freely. Ander, you are at the front. What do you do?