But then more vines erupted from beneath him, thick as ropes, wrapping around his arms, chest, and legs until his entire body was bound in place.
The coils constricted with relentless force, locking him down as though the earth itself sought to crush him.
His staff trembled in his grip, nearly forced from his hands, the mana disks flickering as his focus strained.
The vines hissed as they tightened, sap dripping from their torn surfaces, the sound wet and suffocating. The ground quaked faintly, each pulse of power from Amon's spell pressing down on Narg like invisible chains.
Then the air shifted.
A low hum began to build in the clearing, steady and rising, the kind of vibration that made the hairs stand on the back of the neck. It was unnatural, too deliberate, like a storm forming in an instant rather than over hours.
Energy converged at the edge of the smoke where Amon stood, his staff raised high, his pendant blazing with a furious glow.
