Cat. I don’t want to draw attention to the retreating flier if the venin doesn’t already see her. “There’s no point running,” the dark wielder says, walking forward slowly, as if I’m no more of a threat than a butterfly. “We both know I’ll drain the very ground underneath you, and then this all will have been for nothing.” She throws her arms out, gesturing to the mayhem around us. “Sorrengail!” Cat yells, and I hear the sloshing sound of her running toward me.
