He only tries once to right himself, but the hand on him stops him from advancing far. Immediately he's down again and he feels his breath threatening to hitch into something less controlled. There is still part of him screaming that he has to fight, but that threat is ever present. Not death but whatever this is, prolonged and still terrible, worse, and he is afraid.

His arm is taken and twisted out. He can't let go of more than a hiss of pain. No more. Not another plea. Let it be death because anything else he can imagine is too much to comprehend in the moment.

Because reality might be too much.

The Dark Urge behind him, his hand on him, and Enver doesn't know if Bhaal's altar would ever be used for that but with aspirants watching on, the eyes of the massive effigy above, he's trembling at the possibility.