Zulmak knows they will come for him.
Zulmak is ready.
The weight of his blade feels light in his grip—an extension of his will.
His cleaver cuts with little effort, slicing freely through the fragile bone of some fool with grand designs beyond his station—an Acolyte whose meat and marrow splits cleanly, the dust of his being a cloud of thick gray as his body shatters and drops.
Just as quickly, more blades are on Zulmak.
He takes cuts but never staggers.
He grabs a charging Knight by the neck, sliding the point of his blade through his attacker's throat, then up and out through the shoulder. The green of the brawler's eyes flickers and is gone, his body no longer a vessel. Zulmak tightens his grasp around the dead thing's neck and swings high, lifting the carcass as if it were a shield to block another blow.
His grip closes like a vice, and the dead Knight's body hits the ground. He still holds the spine tight, the once-living head now a weapon. Bone meets bone as Zulmak's necrotic bludgeon collides with the skull of an attacker. Two heads splinter. Another enemy falls.
A blade enters Zulmak's back, slipping past his spine and catching in his ribs.
Hashladûn is disappointed.
She has grown tired of the façade of the slaughter.
None are worthy of the sword logic.
Zulmak may be impressive. But he is no Crota. He is no Oryx. And he will fall.
And the sisters turn to leave.
The congregation on high all follow—their crimson temples emptied—leaving none to witness the assured disappointment in the Pit below.