Blackfoot Forest spit out your pride and lay yourself bare

Her lips curled, but it wasn’t quite a sneer this time. It was something colder, sharper—a blade tempered, not wielded. She tipped her head slightly, her gaze locked on his with a feral steadiness that burned through the distance. "Don't you ever stop complaining?" she echoed.

His growl echoed in her ears, but it didn’t rattle her. Blackfell’s blood lingered on her claws, his scent hanging heavy in the cold air between them. She knew she’d struck deeper than fang or claw could reach. She could see it now in the way he hunched, the ragged edge of his voice. 

For a moment, her gaze softened, though her expression remained hard-edged. She wasn’t cruel enough to twist the knife deeper—not this time. “Whatever kingdom you had, whatever legacy you nearly had—it's gone,” she said quietly, her tone bereft of mockery, but heavy with unvarnished truth.

She took a step toward him then, her paws crunching softly against the snow, deliberate but unthreatening. She didn’t take her eyes off him, not for a second. “You will have to begin again."