The settlement of Stonestep buzzed softly with the rhythms of simple life. The smell of wood smoke and freshly baked bread lingered in the air as villagers moved about, casting the occasional glance at the stranger at their edge.

Marek finally stepped forward, his legs moving more out of habit than conscious thought. His stomach growled, reminding him of just how long it had been since he’d eaten—or, at least, since this body had.

The middle-aged man who had called out earlier was waiting for him just past the road, leaning casually against the frame of a wooden sign. Up close, he looked even more peculiar. His grizzled beard framed a face that was both weathered and sharp, with intelligent eyes that seemed to glimmer with amusement at some private joke.

“Oswald,” the man said simply, extending a hand.

Marek hesitated, then took it. The grip was firm but not overbearing.

“Marek,” he replied.

“Well met, Marek,” Oswald said, releasing his hand. “Now, let’s get you something to eat before your stomach growls the entire village awake.”

The tavern was warm and inviting, its low beams and flickering hearth casting the room in a cozy glow. Marek followed Oswald to a corner table, sinking into a sturdy chair as the older man signaled for drinks and food.

“So,” Oswald began, leaning back comfortably, “what brings you to Stonestep?”

Marek shrugged, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “The road brought me here,” he said simply, “while I got hit by a stone. More than once. Or twice.”

Oswald raised an eyebrow, his expression teetering between amusement and curiosity. “That seems... odd.”

“Tell me about it,” Marek muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I’m starting to think the stone has a grudge.”

Oswald chuckled softly, his eyes glinting with intrigue. “Perhaps the stone merely knows its purpose better than you know yours.”

Marek frowned, unsure whether he was being mocked or philosophized at.

The beers arrived, frothy and golden, and Marek took a long sip. It was better than he’d expected—smooth and just bitter enough to remind him he was still alive.

Oswald reached into his cloak, producing a small pouch. With a deft hand, he pulled out six polished wooden dice and rolled them across the table. They clattered softly, stopping with a satisfying randomness that caught Marek’s attention.

“Care for a game?” Oswald asked, gesturing to the dice.

Marek eyed him skeptically. “What’s the game?”

“Simple,” Oswald replied. “Roll for the highest value. Best of three. The winner... well, the winner gets the glory.”

Marek snorted. “Glory doesn’t sound edible.”

“Ah, but it pairs well with beer,” Oswald said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Come on. What’s the harm?”

With a shrug, Marek took up the dice. The first round passed quickly—Oswald’s roll outpaced his by a mile. The second was closer, but Marek’s dice finally showed promise: three of a kind, beating Oswald’s two pairs.

“Nice roll,” Oswald said simply, raising his mug in a mock toast.

Marek smirked, scooping up the dice for the next round.

The stew arrived, rich and steaming, and Marek didn’t waste a moment before digging in. Oswald watched him for a moment, a faint smile playing at his lips.

“So,” Oswald began casually, “what path are you walking?”

Marek paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. “The path of a guy who got hit on the head with a stone,” he replied dryly. “Maybe it knocked some sense out of me. Or in. Hard to say.”

Oswald chuckled, taking a sip of his beer. “A curious answer. You seem awfully calm for someone in your position.”

Marek shrugged, resuming his meal. “Maybe that’s just the stone’s fault, too. Hit me hard enough, and now I’m too dumb to panic.”

Oswald’s laugh was warm, but his eyes remained thoughtful. “Hmm. Curious indeed.”

For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, the sounds of the tavern filling the space. Marek didn’t mind it. For a man who had “died” and been “reborn” all in the same day, the stew tasted better than it had any right to.