A handful of starving wolves was nothing worth mentioning.
Even if they'd been bigger than elephants, Rowan wouldn't have taken them seriously.
"Come back."
He curled his fingers. The iron spear tore free from the tree with a shriek of metal and bark, spinning once through the air before streaking forward again. It pierced through the remaining wolves mid-leap, pinning their bodies in a brutal line before they even hit the ground.
The First Age was dangerous, yes. But unless he ran into beings on the level of Morgoth, Sauron, or a Balrog, there was little here that truly concerned him.
With the forest quiet again, Rowan let his thoughts wander.
What came next?
Every incarnation he possessed shared the same purpose. Grow stronger. This world was no exception.
The fastest path to absolute power here was obvious. Valinor. The realm of the gods. If he could obtain their teachings directly, everything else would pale in comparison.
But as a nameless mortal with no achievements, that door was firmly shut. Sneaking in would only earn him divine punishment and decades of confinement. A waste of time.
Unless he helped defeat Morgoth.
Or played a decisive role in that war.
Only then might the gods even consider listening.
That path was… ambitious. He set it aside for now.
If the gods were unreachable, then the elves were the next best teachers.
Elven magic in this world wasn't highly systematized, and much of it revolved around enchantment and craftsmanship. The Noldor had learned extensively from the divine smith who created the dwarves, so their greatest achievements lay in forged wonders rather than battlefield sorcery.
In battle, elves relied on blades, bows, and raw skill. Even Gandalf, one of the Istari, preferred light spells and close combat over overwhelming magic.
Still, Rowan was certain there was value here. Even fragments of elven knowledge could refine his own power.
And if that proved insufficient, then accelerating Morgoth's defeat might become necessary.
"For now," he said quietly, "back to the tribe."
This human clan lived in the lands of Hithlum, under the protection of the Noldor princes Angrod and Aegnor, brothers of Galadriel. The people were ruled by the House of Bëor, whose ties with the elves were unusually close.
That alone made this place valuable.
If Rowan wanted access to elves and their magic, this was the ideal starting point.
Of course, he couldn't remain an anonymous hunter. Influence mattered. Reputation mattered.
Fortunately, building those things was trivial for him.
As he walked, a name surfaced in his memory. Bëor's current leader was Bregolas. His younger brother was Barahir.
That name echoed far into the future.
The Ring of Barahir, a royal heirloom carried by Aragorn himself, would one day symbolize the ancient bond between elves and men. It had been a gift from Finrod Felagund, Galadriel's elder brother, given in gratitude after Barahir saved his life.
Which meant this tribe wasn't just any tribe.
They were ancestors of kings.
The forest grew denser as Rowan moved, the air clean and heavy with life. Energy saturated the land. Even simple meditation here would be several times more effective than in his other worlds.
Not long after, he caught up to the two hunters who had fled earlier.
"Al! Apa!"
Rowan waved and shouted with practiced enthusiasm.
The two young men froze, then turned in disbelief. When they recognized him, they dropped their weapons and ran toward him, shouting with joy.
"By the gods, Evan! You're alive!"
"We thought the wolves killed you!"
"I got knocked down," Rowan said smoothly. "Hit my head on a rock and blacked out. When I woke up, you and the wolves were gone."
It was a simpler explanation than describing a snapped neck and a stolen body.
Al and Apa didn't question it for a moment. They clasped his shoulders, offering fervent thanks to every god they could name.
The three of them returned together.
When the forest thinned, a breathtaking sight emerged.
A grand elven city rose ahead, woven seamlessly into greenery and stone. Towers shimmered beneath living canopies. This was Hithlum's elven stronghold, home to more than ten thousand Noldor.
Elves were immortal. Barring violence or rare calamity, they did not die. Even in death, their spirits endured, traveling to the Halls of Mandos in the West, where they would one day be reborn.
Nearby, distinctly separate in style, lay a much smaller settlement. The city of the House of Bëor. More town than city, housing roughly three thousand humans.
Without elven guidance, humanity could never have developed so quickly. Their lives were short. A century at most. Yet unlike elves, they were unbound by the world.
When humans died, their souls departed beyond the world itself, to a destination unknown even to the gods.
They were not prisoners of fate.
They were possibility.
Al gazed longingly at the elven city. "I wish I could see it up close someday. All those beautiful elves…"
Apa snorted. "What, planning to marry one? Even our chieftain wouldn't dare dream that big."
The elves were kind to humans, generous even, but most still regarded themselves as higher beings. And even those who didn't hesitated, knowing what it meant to outlive a human by countless ages.
"Come on," Rowan said, breaking the moment. "Night's coming."
He took one last look at the glowing city in the distance.
A place of beauty.
A place of power.
And perhaps, one day, a place that would know his name.