The spell hits him like a blast of cold water, taking the breath straight out of his lungs, and the shackles, never fully fastened around his wrists again, clatter to the floor at his feet. He's winded, but still clear-headed; one doesn't spend a lifetime as a somniari without developing impressive resistance to magics intended to affect the mind.

Still. He's a mage--a glass cannon--and the grip Wren gets on him isn't one he can wrestle himself out of easily, especially with her arm crushing his wrists against his throat. Atticus chokes on a gasp of air and staggers backward in her grip; the knife poised so close to his eye has already sliced through part of his eyebrow, spilling blood into his vision.

Instinct forces him to put up a token amount of resistance before he wills himself to stillness, his eyes closed as he reaches for (and finds) a measure of calm.