Sinclair's world twisted in on itself as the portal engulfed him, disorienting his senses with an intertwining sensation of time and space. When the chaotic whirlpool finally released its grip, he found himself in an alien place that felt strangely familiar. It was like walking into a new place, yet he felt as though he had been there before. Knowing he had never set foot here made the feeling no less disconcerting.

Steadying himself, he looked around, finding a roughly forty-foot square chamber on each side. He was standing on a raised dais, and behind him, the glowing portal hummed, its light reflecting in their eyes.

Sinclair shook his head to clear the lingering confusion and quickly reached out through mental communication to check on his companions.

"You two okay? That was bumpier than before."

Chewy and Leia both sent quick affirmations.

Look, Sinclair, over by the door, Leia prompted him.

Two figures stood near the room's only exit, their presence imposing despite their modest height. Clothed in dark leather armor and wearing helmets that gleamed like gold or bronze, their stocky, five-foot build and broad shoulders lent them a robust appearance. Each held a two-handed Lucerne hammer, the heads of which were as large as Sinclair's. Long beards flowed from their chins, interwoven with intricate designs and trinkets braided into the thick strands. Their gruff voices, resonating with something akin to a Scottish accent he had heard on TV, added to their striking and distinctive appearance.

The figure on the right barked a few unintelligible words before Sinclair's language skill translated his speech.

"...right there. Who are you?" the being demanded.

Without waiting for an answer, the other figure turned and sprinted away, presumably to seek help. The departing figure left Sinclair alone with the guard who had spoken. Curiosity piqued, Sinclair triggered Valkyrie's Gaze on the remaining figure.

Name: Thraldurin

Race: Svartálfar

Level: 43

Description: The Svartálfar, or Dark Elves, are an enigmatic race with obsidian-black, faintly luminous skin and hair ranging from ebony to silver-white. Renowned for their mastery of mining, blacksmithing, and magic, they craft exquisite tools and art from the earth's treasures. Their magic, deeply tied to stone and minerals, enables them to shape these elements for both practical and mystical purposes. Reclusive and cautious, the Svartálfar honor their subterranean world through rituals and preserve ancient lore, striving to maintain the balance of the earth and its hidden wonders.

Sinclair raised his hands slowly, palms out, showing he meant no harm. "Sinclair Hagerson here, and I assure you, I mean no harm."

Thraldurin's eyes narrowed, and his grip tightened on his hammer. "That's not possible. No one has come through this portal in over a thousand years," he snapped, not pleased by Sinclair's response.

Careful, Sinclair. He's dangerously wound up, Leia warned, her mental tone cautious.

You can say that again, Sinclair replied, feeling waves of energy rolling off Chewy as he prepared for an attack.

"I understand your caution, but you just saw us do it." Sinclair continued, speaking to the guard. "I assure you, my intentions are peaceful. I come from a place called Earth, and I'm just trying to find a way forward so I can go home. A cave-in blocked my return through the original cavern. Our planet has only recently become part of the System, so this is new to me."

The dark elf's eyes narrowed, and his voice held disbelief. "You call your home 'Dirt'?" he asked, mildly taken aback.

Sinclair attempted to explain. "Oh, I guess you might have known it as Midgard… before it got moved."

Thraldurin's eyes widened at this, showing white around the iris, and his voice rose with incredulity. "Lies. Midgard has been missing for centuries, along with Odin himself."

Chuckling and rubbing the back of his head, Sinclair smiled ruefully. "Yeah, he told me about some of that. I guess we're back." Those last words hung as Sinclair's gaze met the dwarf's. I wonder if it would be offensive to refer to them as dwarves. They are elves, according to the system. But they look so much like what I expected dwarves from LOTR to be… wait, what was he saying?

Thraldurin's eyes remained narrow and untrusting, his voice resolute and stern. "The others will be here soon, and I advise you to rethink your story, Sinclair. You have arrived in a place few outsiders have seen in a long time, and your words thus far have not inspired confidence."

Sinclair's brow furrowed, and he exchanged a glance with his companions. Stay calm, he thought. We're not here to fight if we don't have to.

He could tell neither was willing to back down while the situation was still unknown.

Minutes stretched in tense silence, punctuated only by the distant thumping of boots on stone. The sound grew louder, and a contingent of fifteen more dark elves appeared in a matter of seconds, arrayed in formidable armor and bristling with weapons.

Chewy and Leia both rose, the hair on their necks bristling. They growled deep in their chests, a dire warning to stay clear of their lord. The sound resonated throughout the chamber, a primal challenge that echoed off the stone walls. Several front-line warriors widened their eyes, feeling the menace rolling off the two gigantic wolves.

In the back of the group stood a small cadre of non-armored individuals, most likely nobles, given their location and attire. Their eyes swept over Sinclair and his companions, expressions inscrutable.

The room's atmosphere grew thick with tension. From the rear of the formation, Sinclair discerned fragments of hushed conversation among the well-dressed nobility.

"...it looks human," he heard, the whispered words barely discernible, smothered by the oppressive ambiance of the standoff.

Not content to be the subject of speculation, Sinclair took a measured half-step forward and spoke, "I am right here. Directing your questions to me would be more efficient."

Every weapon in the room shifted at his movement, and the guards angled their weapons into combat-ready positions. The threat hung heavy in the air, but Sinclair remained resolute and stood his ground, maintaining eye contact with the self-important individuals in the rear.

The whispered conversations among the well-dressed figures came to an abrupt halt. Their faces settled into varied expressions of incredulity as they focused on him.

Finally, a figure to Sinclair's left, near the wall, stepped forward and raised his voice to be heard clearly. "We have been apprised of everything said thus far and find it challenging to believe. This gate has not been activated since the calamitous day of the Sundering when we welcomed as many of Midgard's people as possible. Can you swear an oath that you and your companions intend no harm while on our soil so that we may proceed to a more detailed discussion?"

Sinclair nodded thoughtfully, carefully choosing his words to convey his sincerity.

"I swear that my companions and I will not start violence unless provoked. Our intentions are honorable, and we will proceed in peace."

As he uttered these words, a system message materialized before his eyes, just as he expected.

System Message: Sworn Oath

You have sworn an Oath of Peace, committing to refrain from unprovoked violence during your stay. If you break this oath, penalties will apply, including loss of experience and reputation.

Whispers stirred again, quieter this time, laced with curiosity.

"He's only level zero," someone murmured, their voice loud enough for Sinclair to catch. "Could this be a trick? Or maybe a trap?"

Despite the lingering doubt, the room began to quiet, the solemnity of the oath he had taken dulling further dissent. For most, the formal pledge was enough to ease immediate concerns, its binding nature carrying an unspoken assurance.

The noble who had first addressed Sinclair stepped forward, his expression unreadable as he gestured for Sinclair to follow. "Come," he said, his voice steady. "We will retire to a more private chamber. There is a space historically reserved for… sensitive discussions."

Sinclair nodded in agreement, setting off behind the elder and his assembled entourage. "Lead the way," he said. He could respect a healthy level of paranoia after what he had seen from the System so far. Chewy and Leia kept pace beside him, their eyes scanning the hallways with intense curiosity.

As they walked, the intricacy of the architecture became increasingly apparent. Each block of stone, curve, and angle seemed designed with purpose, as though the entire structure were a work of art rather than a mere building. Along the walls were incredibly lifelike statues, frozen in postures of heroism and valor. Each statue was unique, and Sinclair wondered if they represented real individuals immortalizing their deeds in stone. The sculptures appeared at regular intervals—every fifteen feet—bearing silent witnesses to the passage of time.

The elaborate murals etched into the stone walls captured Sinclair's attention most. The intricate chiseling depicted scenes of desperation and escape, showing people of various races running through the gate he'd just passed. The level of detail was staggering. The murals displayed exquisite detail, from the expressions of terror and despair on the faces of the depicted individuals to the disconcerting renditions of what appeared to be dark, malevolent entities chasing after them.

Though he couldn't be sure, Sinclair assumed that this artwork chronicled the events of the Sundering, the calamity that these people spoke of with such gravity. The murals portrayed people escaping from the gate, seeking refuge from an apocalyptic disaster unfolding behind them.

The elder turned back briefly, catching Sinclair's eye. "Please continue this way; should things work out, we will have someone show you around." He gestured, pulling Sinclair's attention away from the haunting scenes on the wall and toward the matter.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

After a ten-minute walk through the winding corridors, they arrived at a secluded chamber off the main thoroughfare. As he stepped inside, the nobles, as he was calling them, motioned for Sinclair to take the chair opposite theirs. Instinctively, he triggered his Valkyrie's Gaze skill, scanning each of them, in turn, from left to right.

Name: Thralkar

Race: Svartálfar

Level: 42

Name: Yliria

Race: Svartálfar

Level: 48

Name: Galdren

Race: Svartálfar

Level: 45

Name: Nifelda

Race: Svartálfar

Level: 47

Name: Vorekth

Race: Myrkálfar

Level: 40

Sinclair noted that four of them appeared to be of the same stout, dwarf-like race as the individuals he had met earlier. Vorekth, however, stood out; he was notably slimmer and darker-skinned than the others. The difference was subtle, but it was enough for Sinclair to categorize him as different, and he wondered what the distinction might signify in this society. His skill responded:

Race: Myrkálfar

Description: The Myrkálfar, or Shadow Elves, are a mystical race with ebon-black skin that absorbs light, cloaking them in mystery. Dwelling in hidden forests, they move in harmony with shadows, manipulating them to traverse unseen. Their culture, steeped in rituals honoring the night, involves offerings of rare artifacts. Although reclusive and cautious, they are not malevolent; they strive to preserve their bond with the shadows and the secrets they guard.

"Please, sit." Thralkar scrutinized Sinclair as he walked in, gesturing toward an empty seat at the table. Sinclair took his seat, with Chewy and Leia positioning themselves on either side of him. Although the atmosphere in the chamber was tense, the information he had gathered so far suggested that these people, despite their initial skepticism, were willing to hear him out.

"Thank you," Sinclair said, settling in. He scanned the faces around the table, noting their expressions—guarded but attentive. Taking this as his cue, he plunged ahead. "I'm sure you all have many questions, and I've got some answers—probably not to everything, but it's a start. How about I walk you through my journey so far, and we can fill in the gaps afterward?"

Galdren nodded, his features easing just a fraction. "That sounds agreeable, Sinclair. Tell us how you came to be here."

Sinclair began, his voice steady, as he recounted his unprecedented and often arduous experiences. He started with his grueling tutorial and the challenges of testing his body and will. He recounted his quests, the fateful meeting with Odin, and the tireless effort he and his family invested in building a new life. He spoke of the Myrkr, the shadowy enemies that had prompted him to seek new solutions and allies. As he spoke, a server discreetly set down a platter of food and a jug of water. Sinclair barely noticed, pausing only to moisten his lips before plunging back into his narrative.

He left out the parts about the world seed in his chest. That was something he should keep close to himself and just a few others for now.

As he drew his account to a close, he noticed his audience was rapt and still in their silence. Throughout his recounting, he had caught them exchanging fleeting glances, but the mention of Odin's return sent a ripple of astonishment and excitement around the room. Their faces had remained composed, but their eyes betrayed a mix of disbelief, intrigue, and perhaps a glimmer of hope.

Nifelda cleared her throat, breaking the silence. "Your story is extraordinary. No one has passed through that gate since the last Midgardian refugees escaped. What reason do we have to believe your account? Is there any proof of your story?" Her tone did not carry any accusation but an eagerness, or so it seemed to him. It was like she needed it to be true.

Overwhelmed with myriad thoughts, Sinclair took a moment to organize his thoughts and plan his response. "Honestly, I'm not sure why you would believe me. But all I can say is I have been truthful and have no reason to deceive you. I would not be here if there were any other options."

Galdren interjected, his eyes probing. "When I analyze you, I see you are level zero, yet there is a palpable aura of power about you. It's an oddity we can all sense. You don't seem to make any effort to control it."

Sinclair didn't feel like his discoveries about not leveling up were much of a secret. He met Galdren's gaze squarely. "I found that if I abstained from allocating my stat points, my natural abilities seemed to develop more rapidly. However, my level never technically rises. As for this 'aura' you're sensing, I'm not consciously projecting it. My family back home hasn't mentioned sensing anything, so this is news to me."

Sinclair leaned back in his chair. It didn't seem like that big of a deal to hoard his points, but there was some murmuring when he mentioned it. Nifelda was the first to break the silence, her voice as steady as her gaze. "If you are keeping your points for leveling, a fact I might add that has never been heard of, what are your actual stats? We need data points for trust; an unknown variable like this does not facilitate that. How have you bypassed the system-assigned skills that most individuals gain every five levels?"

Each elder looked at Sinclair with a mixture of intrigue and skepticism. Sinclair understood that his responses had profound implications, not just for himself but potentially for the fate of Svartálfheim. Surely he hadn't been the first to discover he could increase skill levels and base stats without engaging with the standard System-defined process? Is that unique to our world? The others are doing the same thing. I wonder if Odin had something to do with it. Damn this not knowing.

Puzzled, Sinclair addressed her inquiry. "I wasn't aware of any system-assigned skills gained at five-level increments, but that does make sense. My skills are more... eclectic. The system granted some, some I developed through repeated actions, and some came about by sheer happenstance."

He paused, quickly glancing at his character sheet on his interface. "As for my stats, I'm unwilling to divulge the full details, as trust must go both ways. However, my base stats hover around 1000, and I've accumulated roughly 20 skills."

At this revelation, the council chamber erupted into a cacophony of reactions, ranging from disbelief to accusations of outright deceit. One of the elders even stood, labeling him an impostor and a charlatan. It was a significantly worse response than he had anticipated. Was what he had done indeed so strange? This seemed like an overreaction.

Yliria raised a hand, instantly restoring order with a soft but authoritative voice. Pointing to a gem embedded in the table's center, she reminded the others. "Council members, please refrain from hasty judgments and inappropriate accusations. According to the Stone of Veritas, no being of less than a B Grade can lie in its presence without immediately following up with the truth. He has not been fully transparent, this is true, but he has acknowledged that himself."

Yliria continued to speak. "Sinclair, you claim that Odin has spoken to you about the Sundering. We've had no word from him since he disappeared with Midgard. How do you expect us to believe this claim? Is there any tangible proof you can offer?"

Yliria continued to press; her voice tinged with a grim skepticism that she couldn't entirely mask. "The Stone makes it so that you can not outright lie, even though you freely admit to withholding some information. Your oath keeps you from initiating violence, but there are other ways to start trouble. All that being said, I regret that telling us just those two things is… insufficient."

Sinclair glanced sideways at Leia and Chewy. "Any suggestions?" Leia considered for a moment. If you're unwilling to show the Wolf's Visage, I'm at a loss. It is one of the most unmistakable tokens of Odin's favor.

Sinclair grimaced. I had hoped to avoid revealing that unless absolutely necessary. I guess it doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things. Sighing, he turned back to the assembly.

"I have a skill that proves my story. I did not wish to reveal this so soon, but you would have seen it eventually."

He triggered the Visage of the Wolf with a deep, centering breath. He felt a little silly, almost melodramatic, but he had to admit a second later that he was secretly enjoying it.

The transformation was both immediate and astonishing. Power surged through Sinclair, enveloping him in a radiant aura that flickered like a soaring flame before settling into his form. His face elongated subtly, taking on a lupine quality; his nose sharpened, and his teeth gained a keen feral edge. The skin on his face and exposed arms darkened to a deeper shade, evoking the rich hues of a moonlit forest.

As the shift occurred, Sinclair's already broad shoulders broadened further, and his entire physique swelled in size, each muscle becoming more defined, more potent. The chair beneath him groaned and creaked, strained by his augmented weight, yet held firm, much like the nobles who gazed upon him.

His eyes, a permanent golden yellow, ignited into an even brighter hue, fueled by an unseen fire. Streaks of inky black wove through his irises.

The room fell into stunned silence, and the transformation transfixed the Elders. They witnessed the re-emergence of an ancient saga, a myth made flesh. At this moment, they grasped the gravitas of Sinclair's simple presence. Here stood a testament to a primal might that had been long forgotten but deeply ingrained in their realm's very fabric.

Time seemed to catch up with everyone in the room, as if the world had suddenly unpaused. A cacophony of startled exclamations filled the chamber as the nobles gaped at Sinclair's altered form. The atmosphere was thick with a sense of raw power, both mesmerizing and slightly terrifying. Most of all, it vividly confirmed Sinclair's claims.

The room fell into an electric silence as each Elder processed what they had just witnessed.

There was no room for doubt. Sinclair was a unique figure of significance whose very existence could redefine the future of Svartálfheim—and potentially, worlds beyond.

Thralkar rose from his seat, his eyes wide with awe. "So it is true. Odin has returned, even if only in influence. Only he could appoint more Wolf Lords. Strictly speaking, that wasn't even an attainable class, at least not without his divine touch. But why has he not returned here?"

Sinclair shrugged slightly, his eyes still holding the remnants of his transformation. "I can't say for sure. Odin and I spoke briefly a few times. Mostly, when he was giving me marching orders, he mentioned having to regain his power and that he was working to mend Midgard, which, according to him, had suffered greatly."

Thralkar nodded thoughtfully. "That does make sense. Moving an entire planet and its surviving population across the fabric of time and space is no small feat. Odin will return when it suits him. We will need to prepare for his return at once." The older Dark Elf looked to be lost in thought.

Vorekth shifted in his seat before speaking. "Given your revelations and undeniable authenticity, we must report this to the city leader. I'm sure she'll want to confer with you."

Sinclair could hardly believe the transformation in the room's atmosphere. He had hoped that revealing the Visage of the Wolf would garner some trust, but he hadn't expected it to be this effective. He deactivated the Visage, his features melting back into their original form.

"I'd be honored to meet with your city leader. However, I am not technically a Wolf Lord yet. Instead, I have the class of Ulfhednar, and you just saw me use the skill Visage of the Wolf."

There was a brief silence before Vorketh broke the silence, "Understood. Thank you for clarifying, although anyone who sees that skill will no doubt call you a Wolf Lord regardless. Nevertheless, we appreciate the honesty."

Nodding his head in understanding, Sinclair hoped he would have an opportunity to see some sights. "While I'm waiting, may I explore your city? It's my first time off my home planet, and we have certain requirements… I think they could be met here."

Vorekth smiled. "Certainly. We will arrange for a guide to assist you. However, until our City Lord gives her clearance, you will be accompanied by a small armed escort. I trust you understand the necessity of this precaution, Lord Hagerson."

Sinclair's eyebrows rose at the new title of Lord, but he acknowledged the honor with a respectful nod. "I understand. The precautions are reasonable. Thank you."

The Elders rose, their robes shifting, as they prepared to leave the chamber. "We will send you a guide and escort shortly. Please make yourself comfortable and eat the food we've prepared. It shouldn't be long," Yliria assured him.

Sinclair settled back into his chair and sampled the local cuisine before him. He picked up a piece of dark, crusty bread, tearing it open to reveal the soft, airy center. The bread had a faint, nutty aroma, and he spread it with a rich, creamy butter that instantly melted. Next, he reached for a bowl of hearty stew filled with chunks of tender meat, carrots, and potatoes that had soaked up the savory broth. He took a spoonful, savoring the deep flavors mingling on his tongue—hints of smoky spices and wild herbs.

Nearby was a platter of sliced sausages, their casings glistening from the natural juices. He stabbed a piece with his fork, enjoying the spicy kick balanced by the smoky undertones. A bowl of roasted vegetables seasoned with salt and herbs caught his eye, and he took a few, biting into the crispy edges of golden-brown turnips and carrots. A carafe of dark ale sat beside him, which he poured into a wooden cup, the earthy aroma of hops rising to meet him.

As he continued to eat and feed his companions as well, he engaged in a mental dialogue with Leia and Chewy, the warmth of the meal grounding him even as his mind ventured into the deeper currents of their connection.

Who would have thought the Visage of the Wolf would sway them so dramatically? Sinclair mused through the pack link.

Leia's mental voice was tinged with self-satisfaction. It's a sacred skill tied directly to Odin. It was bound to leave an impression, especially on a council of elders who hadn't witnessed it for centuries.

Chewy, ever the pragmatist, added his perspective. Let's not forget that we're still foreigners here, no matter how impressed they may be. Stay vigilant.

Sinclair nodded, savoring the flavors of an unfamiliar dish as he waited for his guide and escort to arrive. His Svartálfheim adventure had only begun, but it was already shaping into a unique experience.

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