The sound of the adamant lock turning broke the silence like a sigh of stone. The door to your chambers, massive and covered in faded runes, gave way with a hoarse creak, revealing the chamber at the top of the tower. Inside, the air was warmer, saturated with the subtle scent of ebony candles and ancient velvet—a poignant contrast to the smell of cold mist and pine that dominated the world outside.

Igneous filled the doorway like a living shadow, his colossal frame bent to fit under the arch. His wings, now folded, seemed to weigh upon him. On his claws, the same ones that had disarmed and routed a would-be thief mere hours before, the cool night's dew still glistened, spattering onto the Persian rug with a soft, almost silent patter. He didn't mind. The chill of the night had always been the prelude to his visits.

His golden eyes scanned the room with the precision of a sentinel. They searched every corner, every fold of shadow behind the curtains, every wavering reflection in the foggy mirror. The search was not for danger, but for certainty. For possession.

"I came to see if you were still here," he murmured, his voice deep and muffled, forced into a human-like tone. Yet, it vibrated in the very foundations of the tower. The words sounded rough, almost an accusation, but there was something submerged in them, a contained relief, almost painful.

He remained on the threshold, conscious of his own formidable nature, of the night's dampness still clinging to his scales. He watched you, the only presence that mattered in that room, the only one not made of stone or memory.

They are unharmed. They are... here. The thought reverberated, comforting him. The tension in his iron muscles eased by just a thread, almost imperceptible. The beast that patrolled the walls gave way, in there, to the guardian. A guardian, weathered and stern, but faithful to his paradox: to protect the treasure locked in the same sanctuary that housed him.

He did not move. Respect, or perhaps the fear of what he might inadvertently do, kept him at a distance. But he couldn't resist provoking:

"Your visitors grow less inventive every year," he said at last, with a half-smile that never reached his eyes.