Ah— “dreaming, too?” [Dimitri, for a moment, looks equally struck, unprepared for the rhetoric that throws the entirety of this dream into a different context. Suddenly, this isn't a space that belongs to him alone; a sort of self-consciousness blooms in his chest, recognizing the situation in all its oddity (and perhaps accepting it only as one in dream might), that this might be a shared experience.

Would that explain why the ghosts have not come to haunt him as he wandered the monastery’s halls? Why fire doesn’t burn beyond the panes of tall glass, why his academy uniform is spotless, unstained by blood and ash? Perhaps so, but how—? And why?

Compelled, he steps forward. The young man is a strangely magnetizing presence, a pivot point in which he feels drawn to, like the space between them is too vast for these curious revelations unfurling between them.]

This is Garreg Mach Monastery, or some bastardization of it. And you… you are supposed to be a figment of my own mind. I thought that you were. Are you saying that isn't the case?

[His eyes linger on the horns, before snapping back to his face, remembering himself.]