By the time Miriael had recovered her balance and looked up, this was the scene that met her eyes.
Behind the Living Saint Lucia, those snow-white wings evoked an angel, yet her face was twisted with fury, her body wreathed in sacred flames that could sear a Warp Daemon's eyes on sight.
A pace behind Lucia strode another Custodian, his entire form encased in resplendent auric terminator armor whose every plate bore intricate honor-scrolls, his charge carrying an almost unbelievable edge of lethality.
"Splendid... simply splendid..."
Miriael murmured, almost entranced.
To witness such rare experts cross blades—such "pleasure"... it filled her with rapture!
The shockwave of their onset sent a gale howling across the Bridge.
In the next instant Lucia reached striking distance; ceramite-shod feet slammed against plasteel with a screech of tortured metal as the holy storm shield rose, thunderous as a storm front.
The blow was swift—far beyond the reach of an ordinary Space Marine—but for a Daemon Prince who had once offered Khorne a Greater Daemon's skull to the lord of pleasure, it was still too slow.
BOOM!
The deafening clang would have burst mortal eardrums; the holy storm shield was stopped dead by Miriael's blade of agony, able to advance no further.
Without hesitation Lucia threw every servo-assisted fibre of her armor into a titanic heave, the actuators groaning, then slammed forward in a brutal shield-bash!
A blow that could have shunted—or even flipped—a Leman Russ Tank.
Wrong!
No resistance met her; Lucia's balance faltered.
She had been dodged!
Miriael's silhouette seemed to vanish, her steps light as she pirouetted along a perfect arc, slipping the charge.
Eyes blazing with delight, she swept the blade of agony toward Lucia's unmarred cheek.
At the last heartbeat Lucia contorted at an impossible angle, wings snapping her into a spin as she whipped the storm shield up to catch the strike.
Miriael's eyes narrowed—she had sensed something—but before she could ponder, the Custodian with the power spear arrived.
A blue-crackling disruptor field carved unerringly for her elbow joint.
At the same instant the snarl of a Chainsword closed in; the two-pronged assault boxed her into peril.
Across the galaxy, only a handful could survive a combined onslaught from a Living Saint and a Custodian Blade-Champion.
Unfortunately, Miriael was one of them.
The Slaanesh Daemon Prince waltzed through the hurricane of guardian spear and Chainsword, weaving a web of steel while counter-striking at inhuman speed.
Three figures blurred together: stamp of boots, clash of blades, whip-crack of displaced air and the staccato bark of bolters.
At last—an eye-blink to common sight, an age to champions—they sprang apart, each to their own side.
Miriael still poised in effortless grace; her Rapturous Armor bore no fresh scars save the plasma scorch from earlier.
Lucia and Leonardo, though two against one, bled from a dozen cuts and drew ragged breaths, their plight plain.
A thin red line crossed Lucia's cheek; her storm shield was a lattice of gouges, gauntleted fingers trembling on the grip.
Leonardo fared worse: his alarius terminator was scarred from crown to greave, the left pauldron split and near shattering.
"Heh, not quite the handful I expected."
Miriael giggled, delight bubbling in every note.
She turned to Lucia first. "My former sister, freshly raised to Living Saint by the corpse emperor, I see. The Cursed One may favor you, yet your habits remain those of a common duelist—nothing but openings."
"As for our Custodian, your technique passes muster, but your physique lags. Several times you lagged a step behind my dance, surviving only on foresight and luck."
"Opponents so flawed are child's play to topple."
Miriael flourished the blade of agony, laughter lilting. "To fell a Living Saint and carve down a Custodian—what a gift for the lord of pleasure!"
The instant the words left her, she closed her eyes in rapture, calling upon every Slaanesh-born gift to taste their hearts.
"Hate me, fear me, rage..."
For a Daemon of Slaanesh, such raw emotion was wine and meat—ecstasy itself.
"Eh? Impossible."
Miriael's eyes snapped open in alarm.
Why did these two foes still stand so calm?
"Tch... irritating." she muttered, irritation edging her tone.
Across the squad's psychic link,
Leonardo: "Lord Adam, how goes it?"
Adam: "The original plan failed, but no matter—it's still part of the plan. Keep her busy."
He remained before the great hatch, choosing not to join Lucia in the melee.
Adam knew his limits: a Level 2 Reality Warper who feared close combat and possessed a baseline physique would only hinder them.
While Miriael was engaged he had been straining at range, twisting reality against the Daemon Prince.
He tried to rupture her body outright, or spawn high-yield explosives within her.
Even marginal success would force the Fallen Sister into a fatal lapse.
Yet the results were dismal.
The Daemon Prince radiated torrents of divinity; by Foundation taxonomy she rated a Black-Type.
Black-Types: entities entangled with apex pluripotent beings—what simpler tongues call gods.
As Slaanesh's beloved, dreaded across the galaxy and worshipped by every pleasure cult, Miriael bore layer upon layer of divine favour and faith-forged wards—more than enough to repel a minor Level 2 Reality Warper like Adam.
"Still, I came prepared."
Adam turned to his side.
Inquisitor Sibylla, who had stood beside him moments ago, had vanished without trace.