They were several corridors away from the interrogation rooms when something rolled through the Sanctuary's wards. Solomon looked up at them with a frown. He'd never seen them do that before. The wave had come with a hollow, bell-like chime which Solomon was fairly sure, by Dexter's lack of reaction, was magical and not physical in nature.

"Something's wrong," he said, slowing, still looking toward the ceiling. Something else rolled across his vision. A shadow, almost; the arc of a razor-sharp blade. It wasn't like shattered glass; it was too refined for that. It was more like mercury, still malleable but shaped right now to be deadly. Solomon's back prickled.

"What--" Dexter started to ask, on an instant high alert, but Solomon was already turning toward the presence at his other side, all his fingers reaching for the lifestream. Something brushed his wrist and agony erupted in his cane-hand. With a strangled cry of pain he jerked away, away from the edge of that sharp quicksilver soul, and the hand on Dexter's shoulder snapped out with a searing bolt of golden light meant to disorient its target. He'd been practising. He'd be grateful for that fact, later.

In nearly the same instant he felt Dexter's magic surge behind him, and then one of the Adept's shields slammed up in-between them and that killer's soul.