The sun glares down upon the dark altar of the Fright Zone, a small orange eye lowering into obscurity. The woman now called Shadow Weaver stands where the light of the sinking sun cannot touch her. She observes it from her slat of darkness, slit eyes glittering and empty. She is still there when something very small and very fast bounds around the adjacent corner, chasing something she cannot see. Her eyes do not change as she watches the small something go oblique and skid clumsily on its uncut claws. It falls onto the sunboiled asphalt. Shadow Weaver blinks very slowly. Then, stepping flush into the light:
“ You would do well, Child, ” she withdraws a hand from her robes, skeletal fingers arched like writhing larvae “ to watch your step. ” She is offering her palm to the small something, which is a thing now called Catra. “ Have you hurt yourself? ”
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