As the ritual’s taken hold, the pain becomes easier and easier for Lambert to shrug off, almost like he’s getting stronger — although he doesn’t dwell on it for long, really, too busy worrying about the magic he can feel in the air. His memories are a confusing swirl of sensation, something that doesn’t entirely make sense in his head, and his steps grow swifter and swifter as urgency mounts, until he’s running past the angels who’ve stopped to survey the scene, shoving past feathers and eyeballs and fuck knows what else to see the ritual with his own eyes.

Chains, ice, and blood. Sora had told Lambert what to expect, but knowing that and seeing it are two different things entirely. The sight of the crow sisters and the Count of Crows standing by the changeling’s body? That summons a white-hot rage that obliterates all uncertainty from Lambert’s mind about what he needs to do.

“You motherfuckers!” As he roars, there’s a pulse of power in the air, something that seems to come almost from underfoot, centered on him — and his voice rises and carries, loud over the howling wind and the flapping wings, echoing around the courtyard. It doesn’t entirely sound like Lambert’s own. It actually doesn’t even sound human at all.

And with that, he’s off, rampaging towards Childermass and the pillar at full speed with no regard for self-preservation, his allies, or much of anyone else really. As the crows descend toward him in a rush of feathers, he waves a hand before him in a sharp, broad arch, and the air above him ripples in a brief shine of golden light, which the birds promptly smash into, but don't seem to immediately break.