They walked slowly through the city.

The streets of Highspire were waking—vendors setting up, steam rising from corner stalls, people too busy to notice two strangers with very different reasons for being awake.

Marek sniffed the morning air. “Smells like fresh bread and regret.”

Oswald nodded. “That’s about right.”

They passed a fountain. Marek stared at the water. “So. Paths. You said there were more?”

Oswald nodded again. “War. Peace. Chaos. Creation. Knowledge, of course. Dozens of smaller paths beneath them. Cooking. Gambling. Dancing. Alchemy. Woodcarving.”

“Woodcarving is a path?”

“Every action shapes you. Every path reflects it.”

“And what’s mine?”

Oswald looked at him. “Maybe you found it but forget or you find it in the future.”

They reached the market by midmorning. Marek looked tired. Not physically—mentally. Like someone trying to scroll through a phone with a cracked screen.

“Alright,” Marek said. “Let’s find me a cigarette substitute before I start yelling at birds.”

They searched. There were pipes—beautiful ones, carved bone, polished wood, some with silver caps.

Each one cost more than Marek’s total self-worth.

Oswald shook his head. “Not worth it. Even if they were cheaper, I wouldn’t sponsor bad lungs.”

Marek sighed. “You’re the worst sponsor I’ve had.”

Eventually, they found it.

A crooked little shop in an alley that didn’t seem to exist until they turned into it. The windows were dusty. The door creaked. Inside, everything smelled like old incense and some strange spieces you might find in an asian shop.

Behind the counter stood a man who looked like he’d fallen out of a book and hit every strange chapter on the way down.

“Looking for something... cursed?” he asked without smiling.

“No,” Marek said. “Just a pipe.”

The man gestured to a shelf. One pipe sat alone. Plain. Dark wood. Very cursed. Strange carvings. It pulsed slightly.

Oswald frowned immediately. “That thing reeks of imbalance.”

The shopkeeper nodded. “It’s been bought. Returned. Bought again and returned again. Every owner goes a little mad. But it smokes well.”

Marek picked it up. The wood felt warm. Heavy. A bit like a Cigar.

“Well,” he said, turning it over in his hand, “it’s the only one I can afford. Unless you offer credit?”

The shopkeeper laughed once. “Not for people like you.”