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“You’ve got something that I want, ice witch,” Sylvie says, grin as cutting as the edge of her blade, held at the ready, for all this tall, cold, black haired woman - too much like a Jotun for her comfort, really - seems to care, or even notice.
“Ah, your brother, yes?” the White Witch says, tilting her head, something like a smile on her red, red lips. “I’m afraid he’s been…detained, and you will never see him released without-”
“-My brother’s not here,” Sylvie says, tired of talk, ducking under the witch’s pathetic excuse for a guard, slicing her throat before the woman can speak another word, “and I think I can handle whatever silly little petrification enchantment you’ve put on Loki, thanks.”