He flees into the darkness, heart pounding, back aflame, sick and wounded, half-starved and more terrified than he can ever remember being in his life. The rain drenches him to the skin in minutes, ice-cold as it plasters his hair to his head and his thin shirt to his skin. He doesn't know if it's blood or rainwater running down his back.
Shouts from behind; they've discovered him gone already, templars spilling out of the doors into the rain and the night. He doesn't have time. He knows he won't get far in this state.
He slips on the rain-slick steps of the Chantry, plummeting headlong down, unable to check his fall. He sprawls upon the cold, hard stones, dazed; he rolls to his feet, bleeding and unsteady. The sound of armoured men pounding down the steps high above spurs him into movement; staggering a little, he picks a direction at random and runs.
He's free, but he has no idea where he is. Town houses, some of them mansions, loom out of the darkness on either side of the street. T