[ Dimitri’s gaze snaps from horns to a pair of eyes the color of blood, each with a luminous ring around the deep red iris, vibrant against sclera the color of night. An inhuman gaze if there ever was one, but there is intelligence there, curiosity, and perhaps, something a little like loneliness.

As the prince moves closer, Oz straightens, moving to sling his blade across his back – presumably where he keeps it sheathed, though it simply dissolves away into the nothing as which it began. There’s a strange effect when he moves sometimes, like an afterimage. A deep shadow, formless and featureless save for holding the same basic shape as Oz, almost as if there is two of him instead of one. It’s only there for a second every now and again, difficult to catch if one is not looking for it. ]

I’m nobody’s figment.

[ He seems almost indignant at the implication, a frown tugging at lips that seem to be made exclusively for frowning. ]

I thought this was my dream, but now I don’t think it is. I think it’s yours. I don’t know how I got here.