Roughspun rope, thick and abrasive, bit into Leonotis's wrists, digging deeper with each frustrated twitch and pull.
The bounty hunters, smelling of stale sweat, cheap ale, and something metallic he didn't want to identify, had trussed him like a particularly troublesome wild pig, his arms yanked painfully behind his back.
He strained against the bonds, his nascent green magic thrumming urgently beneath his skin, a desperate, almost frantic urge to unleash a crippling tangle of binding vines, to turn the very earth against his captors.
Nothing happened; his root-sword, his conduit, his focus, had been sent flying during the initial struggle, lost somewhere in the muddy chaos.
Without it, he realized with a fresh wave of despair, he couldn't channel the green power, not with any precision. He was a mage without his staff, a warrior without his blade.
He stretched out his bound palms as much as the ropes allowed, pressing them against the damp, gritty earth, hoping to find even a stray twig, a fallen leaf, anything to connect with.
"Trying something special, little sprout?" A gruff voice chuckled nearby, laced with a knowing cruelty.
The bounty hunter who had first accosted them, the burly one with the scarred face and the dead eye, sauntered closer. A flickering, malevolent orange glow, like captive fireflies, danced in his calloused palm.
"Heard you green mages like to sprout roots from your fingertips. Can't have you getting any bright ideas before we collect our coin, now can we?"
Before Leonotis could react, could even fully process the threat, the hunter lashed out with his magically ignited hand.
A searing wave of intense heat washed over Leonotis's outstretched, vulnerable palms.
He cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound of pure agony, the acrid smell of burnt flesh and singed hair filling the air.
The fire, though mercifully brief, had done its devastating work. A raw, agonizing throb pulsed through both his hands, the delicate skin blistered and blackened.
The intricate, unseen channels through which his magic flowed felt scorched, seared, useless. The vital connection to the green energy within him felt severed, muffled by an impenetrable wall of fiery pain.
Despair, absolute and crushing, threatened to engulf him. He was helpless, utterly at their mercy.
But even beneath the overwhelming waves of pain and fear, a tiny, desperate spark of cunning, of Gethii's and Low's ingrained survival instincts, somehow ignited.
He might not be able to wield his magic directly, not anymore, but perhaps… perhaps there was another way to fight back, a more subtle method.
His teeth clamped down hard on his lower lip, the sharp, grounding pain a welcome, albeit grim, distraction from the screaming agony in his hands.
He bit harder, tasting the familiar, metallic tang of blood as it welled up, warm and slick.
Keeping his face as passive as he could manage, contorting his agony into what he hoped looked like stoic resignation, he subtly shifted his weight, allowing small, almost invisible droplets of his blood to escape his lip, to fall silently, one by one, onto the dusty, leaf-strewn ground beneath him.
He remembered Low's uncanny ability to track him in Anansi's Forest. He could only pray that his blood, too, carried a scent unique enough, strong enough, for her strange, heightened senses to discern.
The pain in his hands was a constant, blinding, agonizing reminder of his helplessness, but these tiny crimson droplets, seeping unseen into the unforgiving earth, were now his only fragile hope.