Then the roots moved.
Not the passive growth consuming victims, but active tendrils that shot toward him with predatory speed. They came from multiple directions, above, from both sides, wrapping around his legs before he could react.
More tendrils secured his arms, binding them against his torso. Within seconds, he was immobilized, held suspended by roots that tightened with each attempt to struggle.
Mimir squawked in alarm, launching from his shoulder before getting caught. The crow circled overhead, clearly agitated but unable to help directly.
Then a voice emerged from the roots, not spoken aloud but transmitted directly into Reinhard's mind. It carried the tone that suggested vast intelligence, patience born from centuries, and something approaching genuine curiosity.
Why do you keep moving? Why do you keep trying?
