Alistair is jostled and rearranged and lost-looking, blinking at the chaos and periodically twisting up his face like he's on the verge of some helpful thought but not quite able to reach it because he's just. Very tired. But he's not depleted. He's still holding himself up, for what it's worth, when Teren is wrenched away and crushed by a fist of stone—and what it's worth is one single burst of Templary Templarness, apparently, because the snapping sound of her hip makes him snap, too, and instinctively cleanse what is hopefully not too much space. Not all of the mages in the room are awful.

But that was it. That's all he had left. Now he's depleted, and no longer holding himself up. He sinks down to the ground and can't quite manage to feel sorry for it. He tried. Good luck. Good night.