The tile shards hovered mid-air, locked onto the assailants.
Aside from the enigmatic maid—whom Lugh kept a constant eye on—only two enemies remained alive.
The Anchor glanced at the man who had his heart crushed, then gritted his teeth as he turned to his remaining comrade.
"Hold them off. I'll end her."
The "them" in his words referred to the loyal shadows of Isolde. No less than three were visible, and more were likely hiding, cloaked in the gloom, breathing quiet and still as statues.
He rolled his shoulder, gripping his blade, then dashed forward with terrifying speed.
The projectiles shrieked as they came down in a deadly storm of wind and stone. There were far too many to dodge.
He didn't even try. Instead, he charged straight through, deflecting only the lethal ones, letting the rest tear into his flesh.
Blood sprayed as tiles sliced skin and muscle, hiss body was transformed to a canvas of crimson in mere seconds.
But, he had already closed the distance.
