He's very much holding court in the living room beyond the walls of flame, sitting in an armchair as though it were a throne, casual but coiled all at once. His weapon is all around him now. He just needs to think of it and they'll have the bowels of hell raining down on them.

"Still hiding behind your scales and your shadows," he sneers, as though he isn't hiding just as much behind his fire. "What's it gonna prove, busting my ass over and over again? You'll never leave a mark that sticks. I can do it as long as you can."

And that's when he stands up, pulling a stream of fire down from the ceiling and into his hand. If they have to do it, then fine. Whatever it takes to get them past this idea that he's something other than this - more, in their eyes. This is everything he was ever meant to be.