Even though Sylas had already glimpsed parts of the creature earlier, when the Watcher in the Water finally revealed its full form, everyone was stunned.

The monster's body stretched nearly fifty meters in length, but its tentacles were several times longer, reaching out nearly one hundred and fifty meters, longer even than Smaug from snout to tail. Its entire hide was plated with hard, scale-like armor. Dwarves loosed arrows at it, but not a single shaft left so much as a scratch.

Without the concealment of the lake, the Watcher writhed uneasily, its tentacles thrashing the air in a desperate attempt to intimidate. But to the eyes of Sylas and the others, the terror it once commanded had been stripped away. Out of water, it was more like a thrashing beast on dry land, dangerous still, but vulnerable.

Sylas raised his wand, slashing through the air. With each flick, one of the writhing tentacles was severed cleanly, ichor spraying into the mud. Panic flickered across the Watcher's monstrous eyes, and it suddenly wheeled upstream, desperate to flee.

The Watcher had been one of Morgoth's twisted creations, a dark water-spirit given flesh. It had once lurked in the subterranean rivers beneath the Misty Mountains. When the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm dug too greedily and awoke the Balrog, they had also disturbed this horror from the deep.

The Watcher had slithered upward, damming the Sirannon to make its lair before the West-gate of Moria. And now, realizing defeat, it sought only to retreat back into the darkness below.

But Sylas was not about to let it escape.

"Smaug, burn it!" he commanded.

The dragon's golden eyes flared with savage glee. With a mighty beat of his wings, Smaug swooped down, unleashing a torrent of blazing fire. The Watcher shrieked as the flames engulfed its hide. Tentacles lashed wildly, the reek of scorched flesh filling the air. At last, the beast spewed a cloud of inky blackness, snuffing out the fire. Its body smoked, its appendages glowed red-hot, and the stench of half-cooked meat drifted across the field.

One hungry dwarf clutched his stomach as it growled loudly. His companions stared at him in disbelief.

"What?!" he muttered defensively, cheeks red. "It… it smells like supper!"

The Watcher tried once more to turn and flee downstream. But lurking in the shadows of the water, Herpo the basilisk had been waiting. With terrifying swiftness, the serpent surged upward, its colossal head breaking the surface. The basilisk's golden eyes locked upon the Watcher's.

For an instant, the monster froze, its vast body shuddering. Then, as if gripped by an invisible hand, its entire form stiffened and turned to stone. The monstrous tentacles froze mid-whip, its gaping maw open in a silent scream. In the space of a breath, the Watcher in the Water was transformed into a titanic, grotesque statue of gray stone.

Sylas frowned, circling closer on his broom.

"That's strange," he muttered. "A basilisk's direct gaze should kill instantly. Why only petrification?"

He swooped nearer, peering into the Watcher's monstrous eyes. At last, he saw it: a thick, translucent nictitating membrane stretched over its eyes, a natural shield.

"Ahh…" Sylas murmured in realization. "So that's it. The basilisk's gaze passed through its protective lid, it was enough to petrify, but not to kill."

Gandalf descended beside him, still perched rather precariously on his own broom. He rapped the petrified tentacle with his staff, the sound rang out like striking solid rock.

Balin hurried over, staring up at the enormous stone creature in astonishment.

"Is it dead?" he asked, his voice uncertain.

"I think not," Gandalf replied gravely. "It is more like a curse of petrification, a very potent one. Would you not agree, Sylas?"

Sylas nodded.

"Gandalf is right. The Watcher was fortunate. Had it looked directly into the basilisk's eyes, it would have died instantly. But a protective membrane covered its eyes, shielding them from the full gaze. That is why it became petrified instead."

He folded his arms and added, "But basilisk petrification is nearly as good as death. It's notoriously difficult to undo. Unless someone brews mandrake restorative draught, the victim remains stone forever."

The dwarves shifted uneasily, whispering among themselves as they eyed the monstrous statue looming by the lakeshore.

Sylas, however, had an entirely different idea. At first, he had only wanted to rid them of the octopus horror barring their way. But now, looking at the frozen giant, inspiration struck.

In the wizarding world, the Black Lake had its own colossal squid, a guardian of sorts. Why shouldn't he have one here too? His mountain fortress at the High Peak had rivers and deep waters, but no guardian to watch beneath the surface. This Watcher would do nicely.

A grin tugged at his lips. "One more for the collection," he murmured. Dragons for the air, basilisks for the land, and now a watcher for the water. All three realms covered. Perfect.

With a flick of his wand, Sylas expanded the basilisk's enchanted trunk with another Traceless Extension Charm, then carefully levitated the petrified Watcher into the case. Herpo gave a disgruntled hiss at the sudden company, but Sylas only chuckled. "Make room, my friend. You'll have to share for now."

Gandalf raised an eyebrow but didn't look surprised. By now, nothing Sylas collected seemed unusual. Balin, on the other hand, looked positively relieved.

"We've not even stepped through Durin's Gate and already faced such a monster. Without you, lad, we'd all be dead or worse."

Sylas bit back a rueful comment. He remembered all too well what fate had originally awaited Balin's doomed expedition: initial victories, the reclaiming of treasures, Balin styling himself Lord of Moria… only for the Orcs to swarm back, slaughtering them to the last dwarf. Oin drowned by the Watcher. Ori cut down in the Chamber of Mazarbul. The Balrog never even confronted. Their bones left for the Fellowship to find years later.

But now things were different. Thorin still reigned under the Mountain, alive and strong, and he had financed this expedition fully. And Sylas himself had tipped the scales further, removing the Watcher before Balin's host even set foot inside Moria. The doomed history was already being rewritten.

With the threat gone, the company advanced to the West-gate itself. Durin's Gate lay hidden in the sheer stone wall, so well blended into the rock that an unknowing eye might never guess it was there at all.

But Gandalf knew. He had walked here before, seeking the lost Thráin II. He paused between two ancient holly trees and raised his staff against the smooth wall.

"Yes… here it is," he murmured. "Durin's Gate, fashioned by Narvi the Dwarf and Celebrimbor the Elf. Its lines are traced in ithildin, silver drawn from mithril itself. The patterns lie invisible by day, but under starlight or moonlight, the doors will reveal themselves."

"So… we must wait for night?" Balin asked, folding his arms impatiently.

"Most likely," Gandalf admitted.

Sylas stepped forward, eyes glinting. "Not necessarily."

He reached into his satchel and drew out a small crystal phial that glowed with soft silver light, the Light of Eärendil, given to Frodo in another strand of fate, now his.

"Would this count as starlight?" he asked with a mischievous smile.

Gandalf's eyes widened, and then he laughed. "Ha! I had nearly forgotten you carried such a treasure. There is no purer starlight than this!"

Sylas lifted the phial and cast its radiance upon the stone. Immediately, silver-white lines shimmered into being: delicate Elven script and ornate designs blooming across the rock face. A crown, a hammer, seven stars, a crescent moon, and a starburst gleamed proudly, the sigil of Durin, wrought in light.

At the very top of the doorway, words shimmered faintly in Sindarin, etched in the delicate strokes of ithildin. Sylas stepped closer, tilting his head as he carefully traced the inscription. Slowly, he sounded it out:

"Ennyn Durin Aran Moria: pedo mellon a minno…"

"The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria: speak, friend, and enter."

Gandalf arched a brow in surprise. "Oh, Sylas! I did not know you could read Sindarin."

Sylas smiled modestly. "I learned from Arwen. Many of the tomes in Rivendell are written in Elvish script, and if I wished to study them properly, I had to understand the language."

"Ah," Gandalf said with approval, "a wise pursuit. It never hurts to read more."

He turned back to the silver etchings, frowning in thought. "The riddle is simple enough. 'Speak, friend, and enter.' Clearly it means that if one is truly a friend, they must say the password… and the door will open."

Balin grunted impatiently. "And what is this password, then?"

"If I knew, Master Balin," Gandalf replied, a little testily, "we wouldn't still be standing here."

Sylas tapped his staff thoughtfully, then said quite clearly, "Mellon."

"What was that?" Gandalf and Balin both turned to him in confusion;

And at once, the doors trembled, the lines of ithildin blazed with white light, and Durin's Gate swung open without a sound.

Balin gasped, his eyes wide in astonishment. The dwarves broke into murmurs of excitement, beards bristling with anticipation. Gandalf, however, only chuckled ruefully.

"Of course! I had been overthinking it. The clue was plain as day. The word itself is the password. 'Say friend, and enter.' And in Elvish, mellon simply means 'friend.'"

As the doors yawned open, the dwarves surged forward eagerly, but Gandalf and Sylas held back. Their eyes lingered on the darkness beyond, both of them sober and cautious.