There was little to be read from Viktor’s face as Mischa attempted to work out just what the warlord meant with his request. That would be for the boy to work out on his own. So he stood like a statue in front of the ocean’s child, carved in granite, the fire’s light licking every notch and crevice that was outlined on the swarthy frame. Much like the rippling flame, his skin rippled over his body, tensing he he saw the action in the boy’s eyes before he even swung his arm out to snap the poi through the air. Only what Viktor saw was a lingering uncertainty of himself.<br/><br/><br/>He did not move from where he stood, feet apart and planted in the sand, except for the rustle of dark hair as the fire kissed the air by his cheek. A shadow of a smile curved the edges of his mouth and a look of approval entered into his eyes. The subtle nod was all Viktor gave to Mischa after that. The next snap of the poi singed his hair as the flames roared past his ear, but still the warlord did not move, nor did he flinch or break his attention away from the boy’s.<br/><br/><br/>Not until that third crack of his arm, anticipated and sluggish still, despite the confidence. It was the confidence that Viktor had wanted to see, where fire began to build in an otherwise watery gaze. Sinuous as a snake on top of the sand, he pivoted his foot behind him and swerved his body at an angle, so that the poi whipped right past him and cracked in the air. Once it had trailed back down to Mischa’s side, Viktor again resumed his position, this time grinning openly.<br/><br/><br/>“Enough playing, boy. Hit me. You had no trouble attempting to strike me before. Now I grant you permission. Strike me. I can see the resentment lingering in your very spirit. Strike me and you may have your way. You may leave. Not be tied to the House, for you will have struck down the House. I am unarmed, wearing no protection against the flames that you wield, and I will not retaliate. So, boy, what are you waiting for? Strike me down. You have the power now.”