The lich, surprised, tried to wrestle itself free, thrashing with undead vigor, spells flickering at its fingertips in desperate bursts.
But all his attempts ended in futility before Aaron, the grip unyielding and absolute, like chains forged from the heart of oblivion itself.
Not even the abilities of the lich could free it from Aaron's grip.
No surge of necrotic energy, no desperate spell woven from ancient runes, no frantic pulse of mana could loosen the fingers wrapped around its jaw like forged obsidian.
The lich's skeletal frame trembled in silent protest, its green-flamed eyes flickering wildly with the dawning realization of helplessness.
"You deserve death for going against me," Aaron said coldly, his eyes fixed on the lich. The words carried no heat, no rage, only an icy finality that seemed to drain the remaining warmth from the already frigid hall.
The lich's eyes widened, the chilly cold voice of Aaron compounding the fear it already was feeling.
