[Dimitri follows, his bootsteps a soft and steady tempo against the burnished stone of the monastery’s bridge, a familiar structure which eventually transitions into the soil of the Steppe. Normally, he would find it difficult to keep his eyes wrenched away from the stars hanging above, or the faraway cut of the mountains beyond, but Oz steals away all of his attention without trying. His assessment is pinned to him, noting every small change in his features as he begins to give context to this place — this dream, born of memory.

The explanation brings up the only parallel in his mind, perhaps colored brightly in recollection due to how recently it transpired: the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, stretched across Gronder’s Field. Each house pitted against the other to see which would be victorious, which banner might snap in the wind with pride while the others bore their defeat. But Dimitri has enough sense to avoid saying as much, knowing that was only a mock battle; tradition, yes, and an important day in the minds of young students looking to quell a bit of competition in their hearts. But nothing sacred, nothing that would determine leadership or in which direction the scales of influence would tip.]

Strength and numbers are often all that it takes to win a battle, especially if every side is of the same mind. [Brute force, charging forward with heat and determination. Dimitri can appreciate it in his own way; his fingers flex.] Did you participate, too?