[Tension runs along Dimitri’s spine when other turns around, eyes fastened onto that two-handed blade with the practiced instinct of a young man trained for war. It isn’t enough for him to transition into proper aggression or offense, because restraint, too, has been hammered into him up to a certain point, but his step halts, and his tone of voice skews wary.

He has never seen another man like him, gangly-tall with horns protruding from his head — it reminds him of a dragon’s facade, similar to that told in the old tales, or painted softly across the planes of a hallowed mural. Dimitri cannot comprehend why his mind would conjure this imagery up, beyond merely gathering what he knows into an odd amalgamation of ideas, as dreams often do.

Yet the other looks just as surprised to see him as he does, and there’s a lucidity to his tone that calls into question his place in this dreamscape. The young prince’s brows pinch and he doesn’t move forward again, boots planted to the hard ground, but he offers an introduction all the same.]

My name is Dimitri. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you appear lost — more so than is to be expected in a dream based on such a familiar place.