Wabil's black claws lashed down, cleaving the air with a sharp hiss. The tips of her nails were a mere inch from Dayat's throat. A fraction more, and the Architect's story would have reached its end.
Then, everything froze.
Dola's hand caught Wabil's wrist. There was no visible straining of muscles, yet Wabil felt as though her hand had been shackled by an immovable pillar of steel. This was no ordinary physical strength. Something ancient was clawing its way out from within Dola—something that had long been curled up, silenced by six layers of light that were now beginning to groan, cracking with a subtle yet deafening tring in the spirit's ear.
Wabil turned her head slowly. The smug smile that had adorned her face moments ago vanished completely. "Tsk, you—"
