As the image sharpens, it develops the detail of a figure stood at the rock of obsidian, swamped in a purple robe and hood.

The stranger’s identity is obscured to me, but from this new angle, I notice that Callie’s knife is dripping…not crimson with blood, but a grey slurry, reminiscent of a grotesque gruel, of which Oliver would not be asking for more.

The stranger stands within an ever-increasing pool of this gloop, which appears to be leaking out from the wide purple sleeve of its robe.

Within the pool, lies the claw, instantly recognisable as the one I feel within my jacket.

This entity is wounded. Callie dealt the blow, and a strange tingle of pride runs through me.

Though there is not context enough to surmise all I see, she is my blood, and I am and forever will be on her side.