The cabin rocked gently as the horses dragged them down the rutted road. It wasn’t fast, but it was steady. Marek called it acceptable, which was the highest rating he gave anything that didn’t explode.

He puffed on his pipe—today it tasted like burnt rosemary and regret.

“You’re telling me,” Marek began, voice muffled by smoke, “there’s no faster way to travel? No magic... platform thing? Floating boat? Giant bird?”

Oswald didn’t look up from his notebook. “Of course there are. Dozens. Path of Travel has options I’ve only read about. But the faster it is, the more it costs.” He glanced at Marek. “And your beer-saving lifestyle can’t afford it.”

Marek grunted.

Oswald added, without looking up, “Also, no smoking in here.”

Marek opened the window and continued smoking slightly outside the window.

They rolled on. Trees passed slowly, like they were pretending not to stare.

“How’s your path coming?” Oswald asked, absently.

Marek scratched his chest. “Feels like... something’s moving. Can’t say what. Like walking with rocks in your shoe and only realizing one’s missing.” He took another puff. “Less memory fog. Fewer stone resets.”

Oswald raised an eyebrow. “With your drinking, I expected more stone resets.”

“Maybe the beer’s buffering the crashes or maybe the stone scrambled my brain in the right direction.”

Oswald didn’t laugh, but his eyes flicked with enlightment.

Than Oswald tapped the notebook. “Your wielding leans into Creation. Your way of life—pure Chaos. Your brain’s still fractured Knowledge. And the way you exist quietly without breaking things? That’s Peace. Mixed with... something I haven’t seen yet.”

Marek nodded. “Could be indigestion.”

Oswald smiled. “Normally, people commit. One path. One doctrine. They follow rules. Discipline. Knights live by honour. Scholars by insight. Builders by pattern.”

“I live by beer and sleep by beer.”

“And somehow, your path still grows.”

They rocked in silence for a while, the wood creaking under the rhythm of the road.

“You know” Oswald said without hesitation. “Paths respond to movement. Or birth. Or breaking.” He paused. “Or maybe you were already broken before the path ever found you.”

Marek didn’t answer. He stared out the window, watching trees pass like quiet memories and muttered in low voice. “Feels like something’s sprouting. In me. Like bitter green lemonade—sharp, unwanted, but real.”

Oswald returned to his notebook, smiling faintly. His path was growing. Slowly. Gently. Just by sitting next to Marek.

Strange man. Or maybe a cracked soul that still sees light.