[ He grits his teeth and grunts out a noise of pain as she slams him back against the wall, because she’s right. Here in these roots, he’s rendered mortal (enough, at least), and so he can’t retreat to pieces of his real form that don’t feel pain so acutely. He’s stuck in a mortal shell, even if it doesn’t require every function a human does. But it doesn’t matter. He feels only satisfaction that his sharp words found their mark, and it’s quiet in the fierceness of her anger, but still present even when a spear’s tip comes close to his eye. He doesn’t so much as flinch.

He's a demon, after all. He’s received and given far worse. It’s what it means to attain the sort of prestige he’d had in his Hell.

That vicious smile softens, and he removes one hand from guarding his neck. She can stop it, but it’s only placed gently on her strong forearm. As much as he’d like to fight back, and as much as there’s something dark and violent underneath that current of calm—It doesn’t serve his purposes. ]

You killed me once by tearing my throat beneath your teeth. You may not count it, but I do, for I felt every agony of such a death. Were it reversed, you would count it double, would you not? You call it honor. I call it being spiteful, for I considered a murder—however temporary you see it—a fair enough price for a single eye. You have also had every opportunity to right the injury in the eight months since. And yet, you have not. Am I to blame for your own impotence?

[ Assuming the touch was permitted, his hand slides down her arm towards her wrist. Mockingly. Daringly. ]

Or is it simply the cruel words that hurt you so? How laughable for such a proud warrior.