He won't flinch at the templar's death, won't let himself look back, won't picture the gore spreading slowly outward from that mess of shattered crystal. There's no time for squeamishness, even before the floor begins to cave in.

There's no one left alive to hear him cry out, or so he thinks, and he doesn't choke back that hoarse and high-pitched yelp of terror as he scrambles back from the brink, turning and bolting for the stairwell with his own heartbeat dizzy in his ears. He can hold steady a barrier just strong enough to dampen the force a little if a rock should fall on him, and he can feel debris raining down through it already, eating through his defenses granule by granule. There's nothing for it. He shields and runs, shields and runs, and Maker help him if there are more templars out there in the dark.