The instant his skin makes contact with the vines, a jolting shock goes through him. Fassn’s eyes roll back in his head. His grip is frozen.
“Oh no,” Shyan says. “Not again.” She strides next to Fassn and with the side of her hand delivers a rapid chop to the vine. Its green flesh snaps under the sudden pressure like a ligament, comes to a dangling rest.
“We might have been better served letting him suffer,” Cang says. He gestures subtly, no more than a nod, at the trees surrounding the stakes — dark shapes linger and shift above.
Logan Bright — Works 