They collapsed against the stone and her head went against Alistair’s shoulder, a small metallic sound from her earring as it struck his pauldron.

His head tipped over to look at her, his old sister-in-arms, and his eyes painted her clearly in the shadows—white streaks in her hair, her eyes glazed and half-shut. His belly always full now in hunger, a clawing that made him retch sometimes, his mind flashed to the ache of his youth, her flame-bright hair and a smile held like a knife in her teeth.

He pulled a gauntlet from his hand and turned her face up, his own black blood dirtying her pointed ear. Her eyes opened only a little more and then his mouth was on hers.

Grit on their skin, her tongue flickered out with a clean heat that seared him. He was twenty, he was the templar who loved a mage, he was not dying. He feasted on her, and in the small curves of her lips he found where he was still a human, not a ghoul and never a darkspawn.

He broke from her; she was looking at him with placid eyes. He pulled her up as he stood, and on they went in darkness that was not black anymore.