The moment Margit's words fell, Lucian drew his two blades and prepared to charge.
But someone was faster.
Nepheli, having already judged Margit's landing point, lunged the instant his feet struck stone. Though her position had been further back, forcing her to wait until he had finished speaking, she reached him with a furious leap. Both her axes came down with a mountain-cleaving strike.
Margit met it with a single arm. The heavy staff in his grip intercepted the blow without yielding an inch.
At the same time, his free hand conjured forth a phantom dagger of golden light, parrying another Tarnished who sought to strike from behind. With a heave of strength, Margit flung both assailants aside.
By then, Lucian had already surged forward, borne aloft on winds of storm. His two blades slashed in a wide arc—yet Margit leapt back, suffering only the faintest graze. In the same breath, he hurled his spectral dagger.
The single blade split into three mid-flight. Lucian raised a storm-wall and shattered them. But in the next instant, Margit's great legs snapped forward in a brutal kick, his tail bracing against the stone for leverage.
Steel met flesh as Lucian countered, hacking at Margit's heels. Yet the Fell Omen clamped both legs upon his blades, muscles coiling with monstrous power. With a twist of his waist, he hurled Lucian skyward, swords and all.
A lesser warrior would have been flung screaming into the abyss. The narrow bridge leading to Stormveil was a deathtrap, suspended over bottomless dark. Any fall meant certain doom.
But Lucian was not so easily undone. The storm steadied him, letting him adjust his fall and land upon solid stone once more.
Margit's eyes narrowed in faint surprise, but pursuit was denied him. The others had moved.
In the brief clash, the six Tarnished allies had already encircled him. Blades, axes, and sorceries rushed in from every side.
He abandoned his chase of Lucian, for Elyssa's curved sword now slashed at his chest. Cold radiated from its edge before it even struck, freezing the very air.
From above, Rogier's sorceries sealed the sky, leaving Margit no space to leap.
Yet the Omen was unfazed. His left hand formed the phantom of a colossal hammer, smashing aside Elyssa's strike. Three blades struck his hide, but his ragged fur cloak blunted the worst of their force.
With a sudden spin, Margit lashed out. Staff, hammer, and tail swept in a whirlwind of violence. The Tarnished staggered back under the storm of blows.
One heavy-armored knight was too slow. The phantom hammer crashed into his chest and hurled him aside, breastplate crumpled inward. He lay unmoving, his fate uncertain.
Nepheli seized the opening, hurling one of her axes toward Margit's legs. A desperate gambit; if it struck true, his balance might falter. If not, she would lose her weapon forever.
The Omen's eyes caught the glint mid-spin. With a subtle shift, he let the axe sail past, whirling away into the abyss.
But Elyssa had waited for just such a moment. She stomped hard upon the stone, and from beneath her feet burst jagged spires of ice, racing toward Margit.
He might normally have leapt clear—but in the instant of dodging Nepheli's axe, he had no time. His phantom hammer vanished, and he slammed his left foot down to steady himself.
Ice speared through his sole, staining it crimson. With the wound came an explosion of frost, searing his flesh further and leaving the bridge slick with rime.
Margit stumbled, knees buckling. A heavy hammer crashed into his waist from behind, nearly driving him to the ground.
The Tarnished swarmed, strikes raining from every angle. Lucian himself rejoined the fray, blades sweeping from the front.
Even Margit, with his monstrous hide, could not withstand such a storm forever. Yet upon his face came a smile of grim triumph.
Only Lucian, standing before him, saw it.
"Fall back!" Lucian shouted, fumbling for the shattered relic of Margit's Shackle. Too late.
The Omen's left hand birthed a phantom straight-sword and plunged it into the ground.
Above, golden blades bloomed like a deadly raincloud. An army of spectral swords hung suspended, their glow filled with killing intent.
The Tarnished recoiled, realization dawning. But they had pressed too close, too deep. Escape was impossible.
"Die beneath this rain of blades," Margit declared, "and know pride in such an end."
Lucian answered, voice ringing like thunder, "You will not kill them. Not while I stand."
The storm roared forth, enfolding all—foe and ally alike—beneath its furious winds.
Down came the golden swords. Yet each was caught, slowed, and unraveled within the raging tempest.
Lucian's brow furrowed. The cost in sorcery was immense. He could not maintain it long. At this rate, when his strength waned, the rain of blades would still fall and carve his allies apart.
Then—an idea. Why resist the storm?
He shifted its flow, no longer fighting the blades, but bending them. The rain of swords was caught and swept upward, spiraling within the gale.
A storm of swords, drawn into the tempest, turning in endless whorls of steel and gold.
The drain on his magic lessened. Lucian exhaled in relief.
"Look," he told Margit, calm amid the fury. "You cannot kill them."