Aside from his voice, which was slight, Larkspur hasn't shown any signs of aggression.
It was as if they were each looking into a distorted mirror. Dark coats, the same flat expression—except his eyes were made of fire and her own a blue that reminded him of a dead-eyed fish. Yet they were nothing alike, nothing at all. She was a child who did not know her place in the world. Larkspur knew his own, and knew it well. Yet her voice, the voice that lacked any and all emotion, told him she belonged here. Or, rather, she had at one point.
His face did not change, but he felt the scar on his face itch. “It ended,” he answered shortly. “Haku no longer rules here.” Though the beast was not dead, certainly not. He was made up of too many parts to die. He still had a purpose, whatever that was. “That all?”
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