Chapter Text
Heeled boots click on the uneven stone. The passage is hewn, rough, haphazard from the rock that surrounds it; a bitter eye might shift and spit and call it no more civilized than a primitive cave. Of course, it's not a cave, though its purpose is equally as grimy. There are dim, crude lamps floating along the hall- the length of it is straight, casting their light more or less efficiently, though the floor makes up for the lack of theatrics in how it rises and falls, striving to trip an unfamiliar visitor. Damp air presses on the lungs and there's a constant dripping from a source only known to the various unseen creatures and things that flinch in the shadows.
Given all of this, it's quite a stark contrast, this clicking of boots.
Sharp taps echo harshly against the rock as the witch breezes past the cells flanking her. They're all identical, both in form and in vacancy, having lain unused and neglected for years, and she pays them nothing but indifference as she navigates the prison. The floor's efforts to catch a toe are in vain; she steps expertly around and over every hidden crack and sudden lip. Expensive gloves are pulled tighter over narrow hands, a desperate attempt to beat back the chill that seems to settle permanently, bone deep, in subterranean structures like these. It doesn't work. If it does, the shards of ice needling in between her ribs make up for it. Warmth in a place like this is unattainable. Its history settles on the shoulders like a blanket of wet snow.
She strides with purpose, purpose, always with purpose, as if she had no objective in the world other than to reach the destination at the end of this stone passage. She is unquestionable, determined, an unstoppable force halted only by her own immovable object, the opening of a particular nondescript cell to her left. The clicking of her heels cut off with an air of expectation.
She regards the figure in front of her cooly, chin held proud and eyes half lidded as she pierces their form. Their face is drawn and gaunt, though from stress, age, or malnourishment it is hard to determine. One seems more likely than the other as she notices the tray of food placed neatly on the floor, untouched. They sit a few feet from the bars, back against the wall and legs drawn up to their chest, head resting sideways on their knees as they gaze up at Amity. It's an unreadable expression that might be something adjacent to smugness or curiosity or some unnatural mixture of the two.
Her brows lower by a hair. She uses the toe of her boot to pull the tray out into the hallway, not breaking eye contact as she does.
"I know who you're associated with."
"And I know you're a lapdog. Your point?" The response comes without an ounce of hesitation, their voice firm and dripping with disdain despite their otherwise pitiful state. Amity clenches her jaw, but remains stoic.
"Relinquish details on the organization, communications, and financial routes of the Emperor's Coven, and your cooperation will be rewarded with a lighter sentence. We want nothing but peace for the Isles." The captive witch in front of her scoffs, pauses, then releases a raspy laugh before fixing her with a gaze that only serves to make her blood run colder than it already is.
"In a way, I wish I could tell you, 'cause your reaction would be priceless. Unfortunately, we're playing a longer game here. Don't worry, princess, you'll find out eventually, but it'll be on our terms when you do." They spit at her, then. It doesn't make it quite to the bars of the cell, much less beyond, but the gesture is still there and Amity wrinkles her nose. She bends down to pick up the tray, then straightens neatly and schools her expression once more.
"Will you consent to a truth spell?"
"Seriously? You're desperate. Get fucked."
"I'll send the watch down with more food. Hope you choke on it." With that, she turns on her heel, walking with a measure of haste that's only slightly more noticeable than the one she had entered with.