Oh. [ it is less of a word and more of an exhale, a quiet sound of relief — though one might argue that there are more permanent states of being than viktor's current one. still, he supposes it is an apt comparison; he may not be wispy on the outside, but his body is slowly eroding away on the inside. he wonders if that makes him more or less real than the man in his company, before another swirl of runes pushes the thought away. ]

No, [ he says then, ] It is magic. Runic magic, a form of the arcane —

[ he trails off, shaking his head. ] It does not matter. It's not real.

[ behind him, in one specific mirror, there's a flash of a room, a woman standing there as she slowly disintegrates into a fine dust that spreads all over the floor. viktor, with his back on it, does not see it. instead, he aims a contemplative look at octavian. ]

What are you, then? Real and permanent, yes, [ he adds, dryly, ] But differently so than me.