A/N: Sorry for winding up with that horrible chapter, here's the next half...

Chapter 16:

Blood magic

Kiera

Slowly, I forced myself to recover—that attack had drained me of my reserves of mana, and that was probably the only reason why I remained conscious, for what little mana I had left could not be used against me.

I found myself on the bloodied floor of the tunnel, limbs weak, staring at the figure suspended in mid-air. It was Sten. I bit my lip, willing myself to focus, to stand, to fight. We should have killed the Tevinter mage when we had the chance.

There was only one option left, and I felt that I was moving impossibly slow—too slow, even as I was saw Sten's abdomen torn by invisible things, shallow tears, but damaging nonetheless. I glared up at the mage, his blonde hair infuriatingly messy, matted with blood and other miscellaneous gore. He was enjoying it, I decided, the trickle of drool escaping from his mouth was one of sheer delirium.

The look in his eyes— was one that I have never seen anywhere, it was one of utter hunger, pure sickness, lust and excitement, all combined into a single vacant stare. Nothing intelligent was in those eyes, no purpose— there was no meaning behind his actions that I could see. I removed my gauntlet as quietly as I could, and began inching towards my blade, all the while hoping that Sten was still alive.

Long moments later, I had finally reached my shortblade; it had spun such a distance from me. I grasped it weakly, and I drew it along my arm, opening the vein, and the red liquid that poured from that gash pooled briefly on the dirt floor, its dark trail stark against my ungloved arm. The entire thing rises, flowing upwards, floating, gathering in size, before suddenly winking out of sight. My wound closed immediately, but the pulse that beat against that gash reminded me that more of the power I needed lay within me. And that was all I needed to know.

I struggled upright, but my fingers and feet felt so distant, and I swayed—falling heavily against the wall. Blood loss made one a little light-headed, but that was the least of my problems now. Blighted Tevinters.

His laugh was a cackle, the Tevinter mage's mirth at my impotent attempts to remain conscious were both infuriating and (oddly) motivating. What strength I had left forced my feet to steady, my fingers to obey, and he merely stared as I undid the rest of my heavy platemail. I needed to focus on remaining limber, to reduce as much stamina loss as possible. I needed my breathing to be even for the spell to work.

He was too busy watching me, mildly bored by my movements. He fails to see that the rivulets of blood have materialized around him, as well as around the air that is holding Sten, limp and unconscious. At least he didn't have to watch this. I only heard the thundering in my ears, the sound of my own blood, drawing me straighter, holding my head higher as I gazed upon the man who was about to die. No one touched my friends.

"Breathe in, hold it, and think of rock. Concentrate on the image, and cracks will appear. Crevices that you can exploit."

The blood reappeared, out of the Fade; it was now a faint vapor, swirling around the figure, who had turned his attention back to Sten.

"Focus is key. Do not waver."

He was still smiling, the bugger—he was playing, like a cat with its food. But there was nothing quite so revolting as the man in front of me.

"Destruction that you will wield is in your hands."

I felt the raw power in my flesh, blazing out of my eyes, the feeling of so much might—and I moved my arms, guiding the tiny droplets where I knew they should go.

"Exhale and guide, your breath will devour—his blood is his power, and will soon be yours."

The blood mist slipped into the orifices of the man's face, seeped into his ears, nostrils and filling his lungs. I felt the blood, my blood, drain him, from the inside out. This was what was detailed in the book. Blood magic that when used on others would also feed one's own reserves of power. I felt it. I took in his magic, ripping the very link he had to the Fade—one that all mages had, and infused it with mine.

Devouring—the spell was named, the ultimate source of power that had been known by the Tevinter Wardens of old, once used exclusively to fight darkspawn. The man opened his mouth, and a high keening sound echoed, although this too was cut off soon enough. I had no mercy left.

His knees thudded on the ground, one hand clutched at his throat while another reached for me. The mists of blood were now eating the mage from the inside; but I was already checking on my companion, who had collapsed to the floor so heavily. He, at least, was still breathing. Very faintly. I sealed the wounds on his abdomen—fearing that he could be tainted by the pools of blood that lay around us. But one could not be sure. Not yet.

I felt the slivers of mana return to me, bleeding (in various forms of the word) the man dry, devouring him to the very depths of his soul. I felt no remorse. No more. Everything was for nought, that those that I wished to protect would die to such scum.

Blood magic was only a means to an end, and for that, I was willing to be denied a place at the Maker's side (if the chantry was to be believed).

Grey Wardens had a duty to protect mankind from darkspawn, but I had a duty to defend those around me. Those I held dear.

Those I loved.

But he lived.

P.S.: Will not post for a few days, might take up to a week- mid terms next week yo! MEH.