Blackfoot Forest starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters

his eyes twitches and her emerald ones do not leave his. she does not remember a time at his side when she was anything but beneath him; a time when some part of her was aware that he held fast to the reins and she gained not an inch more than what he allowed. and she did not realize it, took every little inch and thought it a victory. 

she did not answer his question, but her chin lifted an inch to better survey the man before her. she owes no explanation. she does not seek to tell him that she sought death in an icy grave, thought feeling there too. that once she ran she understood what had been stolen. the green fire that ebbed and flowed in her gaze during her time in the wood is gone, replaced something unmoving, unchanging. it does not flicker when he offers his threat, and her voice is not long in reply. "you should try." not could, a taunt. but should, for he should try to rip out her throat and see just how successful he'd be. just how successful her father would be. the absence of the wood on his pelt speaks enough for itself, and she continues after a beat. "but without your throne, who will you enlist to lick your wounds?"  the scar around her throat burns, a target, just a little deeper than her father had gone as she would bleed out in the summer-burned grass.