“Riven, your left!” I scream as a massive root surges behind him.
He spins, blade ready, but he’s not fast enough.
The root catches his sword arm, yanking it back, and his weapon clatters to the ground as more roots wrap around his legs, his waist, and his chest. He struggles against it, trying to free himself, but any attempts at trying to freeze it with his ice magic are futile.
“No!” I blast the roots with a combination of water and air, controlling my magic enough to hit the tree and not Riven.
But they’re unstoppable.
Then, something tightens around my ankle.
A root’s coiling up my leg like a snake, its grip firm and unyielding. I slash at it with my dagger, but before I can land a second strike, another root seizes my wrist, twisting hard enough to make my fingers go numb.
My dagger falls.
More roots surge forward, wrapping around me, pulling me in, squeezing until my breath comes in short, panicked gasps.
I thrash, summoning my magic. But the roots press tighter, their magic sinking into me, like they’re trying to drain the fight from my bones.
I can’t move. Can’t win.
I’m trapped.
But I don’t have tostaytrapped.
I can project. The roots won’t be able to get their grips on me when I’m in my astral form.
My star magic hums in response.
Then, in a heartbeat, I’m standing across the way—out of reach of the roots—watching as my body goes limp in the tree’s grasp.
