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“Ok,” I start and push from the window. “Daxeel doesn’t come from an ancient line ofbloodin Mother’s eyes. He comes from an ancient line ofsouls.” I drop onto the bench at the foot of the bed and reach for the stalk. “Souls that came from the true darkness, the Cursed Shadows.”

“Because Mother doesn’t recognize blood,” Eamon decides with a nod of his head, and he hands over the stalk. But the doubtful frown still creases his face—doubt at where I’m taking this.

I pause to take a long puff.

I have another training session with Dare this phase, so I can’t indulge too much, since what he’s teaching me is valuable enough that, hey, it might just save my life. I want to be sharp.

Still, I have a little, then hand it back.

“Listen,” I sigh. “If I’m Daxeel’s evate, that means we are soul bound. We are not merely mates, we are two halves of a whole.”

Eamon chews on my words as if to make sense of them, his jaw flexing, his mouth pursed.

He relents with, “I suppose.”

“If I am half of him and he is half of me… wouldn’t Mother then recognisemysoul?”

The cloud of smoke ribbons from the rolled stalk and shields his face. “What are you saying, Nari?”

“Wouldn’tIbe able to whisper to Mother, too?” Small as a mouse, my voice is softer than the vapours that loosen from Eamon.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Behind his honey eyes, his mind churns like cogs to a machine, and I watch—I wait.

Then, he brings the stalk to his lips.

Silent, he draws in an inhale, long and deep. His chest rises the more he takes in.

He holds his breath.

“Do it,” he says, then releases the smoke in a heavy sigh. His grin turns wicked. “To hell with them—with everyone. If you can speak to Mother, then do it… at least try.”

Tension unravels through me. It’s not until my shoulders slump and a small, curt breath escapes me, that I even knew I was as rigid as a statue.

But I have little more to speak on the matter, because I haven’t gotten any further than this.

What exactly would I say to Mother? What could I offer? What could I sacrifice in all my pleading?

And what in the worlds would I even wish for?

It’s as fanciful an idea as my survival. Yet I fight for the latter, so I’m not quite ready to push aside my hopes.

I lean over the foot of the bed. Resting my head on his torso I gaze up at him. “So what is it you and Ridge will be doing this phase all alone?”

The look he gives me is a mild one, as though afraid of my reaction. “He’s coming with me to look at a place.”

My head would tilt if it wasn’t rested on his chest. “A place?”

“It’s nonsense.” He shakes his head. “Nothing more than a dream.”

“I tell you my dreams,” I say with a glance at the tomes. “So you must tell me yours.”

His smile is wry, like he sees right through me, like he’s amused by my obvious attempt to take his mind off the honour duel and my impending doom in the Sacrament.

In the phases since Ronan delivered the summons, we have still gotten nowhere close to a cease—or a decent second, what with all the obvious candidates tied to the Sacrament.

“Nari’s,” Eamon says with a grin.

I scrunch my face. “Huh?”