Viktor curved in on himself, bowed over his knees as he shook.  His eyes were trained on the bead of blood trembling at the end of the knife.  It stretched away from the knife tip, the thin thread of blood that held it to the metal elongating and thinning until it snapped and the blood droplet fell to the ground.  Viktor's eyes followed it the whole way, then lost focus as he stared at the earth.

Mikhail knew then that Viktor was broken, and he sighed.  He'd shown such promise.  Such strength in his convictions, however utterly misguided they were.  Another effort wasted.

Well, not wasted.  It had been intriguing while it lasted.

"You were right," Viktor whispered.  "I'm no better than them.  No better than you."

It was true, of course.  But half the fun was the stubborn, righteous indignation of a man who blindly believed he was better than his enemies -- better than Mikhail, who appeared to sell his services to anyone who could afford it.  Watching the trembling, shrunken mess of a man at the center of the spell form drawn in his own blood, well, Mikhail knew it was over.

Such a shame.

* * *

"You're pleased with yourself, aren't you."

It wasn't how Mikhail was used to being greeted, but he'd had stranger petitioners.  Self-righteous and self-absorbed, the lot of them.  Aleksander was an echo of Viktor physically; he was likely to share his brother's attitudes as well.  But though Mikhail had seen Aleksander at his brother's side before -- briefly, when Viktor first came to him -- he didn't remember much about him.  Strange, considering the presence he commanded now.  "Should I be pleased?"

Aleksander gave half a smile in response.  "My brother is useless now, thanks to you."

"I wouldn't presume to take credit for Viktor's fall.  He spent years lifting himself to such a height that the fall would break him, after all."

Aleksander watched Mikhail, his gaze focused.  His eyes were black, impossible to tell where the pupil ended and the iris began, but it added intensity to his stare.  Mikhail found himself distracted by the loose lock of black hair that brushed the man's cheek.  "Viktor was far from perfect, but the resistance needed his strength."

"I told your brother nothing but the truth," Mikhail said.  "He left the path he'd meant to follow months ago, long before he met me.  He just didn't notice how lost he'd gotten."  He smiled and leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist as he studied Aleksander.  "You noticed, though.  Did it not disturb you?  The means your brother was increasingly willing to use to achieve the goals of your revolution?  The way his actions began to mirror those of the people you've been fighting?"

Aleksander shook his head, but it wasn't a denial.  He seemed almost... amused.  "I could almost believe you care.  But it's not the means Viktor used that you care about.  If it were, you wouldn't have helped him.  No...."  He paused, watching Mikhail.  There was something about his focus that felt strange to Mikhail.  He didn't move but to breathe, but he wasn't rigid.  His body was relaxed.  "You enjoy watching them fall."

"Them?" Mikhail asked.

"I told Viktor not to come here.  I looked into your past clients" -- the emphasis he put on the word was venomous -- "and noticed that, sure, they got what they asked for.  But none of them were the same afterward.  They were weak.  Uncertain of themselves."

Mikhail shrugged one shoulder and found himself smiling--a genuine smile, one that crossed his face before he could contain it.  "I am a last resort," he said.  "Men come to me when they need things done that are so dark they can find no one else willing to help them, let alone able.  And yet most are men who think of themselves as saviors, as protectors.  Wouldn't you be more worried if they did not realize the depths to which they've gone to accomplish their goals?"

"Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire," Aleksander said.  It wasn't defensive.  It was matter-of-fact.  I'm going to enjoy this, Mikhail thought.  Aleksander presented a challenge the likes of which Mikhail had never seen before.  He'd already seen the depths his brother sank to in order to help their revolution.  The blood of the Darian royal family -- every single member, even the children -- was on Viktor's hands, as surely as his own blood still stained Mikhail's floor in the spell form.  But Aleksander was firm, unwavering in his conviction.

"When you're willing to commit the same atrocities as your enemies to defeat them, what separates you from them?" Mikhail asked.

"The end," Aleksander replied.  "When we win, and we rule fairly.  Even over those who oppressed us.  But sometimes it takes some spilled blood to get to that point."

Mikhail leaned back in his seat, watching Aleksander for a moment.  The man was like a statue cast in bronze.  The likeness of a god, perfect in form.  Well, except for the scar that broke his smooth skin from chin to just under his ear.  He stood like a fighter.  How had he earned that scar?  "I suppose time will tell if what you say is true," he said.  "In the mean time, what have you come to ask of me?"

For the first time, Aleksander hesitated.  But it was brief.  Had Mikhail blinked, he might have missed it.  "You have the power to switch the souls of two men.  Correct?"  He took Mikhail's silence for affirmation.  "You will switch my brother and my souls."

Mikhail felt the twitch of his lips that betrayed his confusion.  "What do you hope to accomplish?"

"You have made Viktor weak and uncertain, but our resistance needs a strong leader.  They will not take guidance from me.  But in my brother's body...."

The intensity of Mikhail's curiosity burned, but he merely nodded.  "It can be done."

"Name your price."

Mikhail's answering smile was hungry.