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I fight those tears I’m not supposed to shed, and I climb into the carriage. I slide into the seat beside Eamon.

He looks at the window, though the curtains are closed.

Tris manages to squeeze in with her hideously puffy dress. She sits opposite me.

The carriages ahead of us are first to move.

And one by one, we leave the ash grounds behind.

We leave Aleana in the past.

The others reach Hemlock House before we do, since their carriages departed ahead of ours.

The delay of our journey being halted in the bustling heart of Kithe costs us the chunk of an hour. But for it, I’m glad. Because when we do reach Hemlock, the others are already inside, gone, and Tris is quick to rush herself up the porch.

Eamon walks alongside me, an unwilling stroll up the path, like we both avoid passing over the threshold and returning to the home without her.

The door creaks ahead, closing itself over, but not all the way.

That split second of privacy strikes me.

I snatch Eamon’s sleeve and yank him to a stop. “Run.”

Thin braids of hair fall over his face.

His lashes flutter as he considers me.

I don’t speak for me. Commands tie me to Daxeel—so it is not my opportunity to flee. It is Eamon’s.

“Run,” I say again, grip on his sleeve tightening. “Flee from the honour duel. Promise me, Eamon. You must flee—tonight.”

His brow starts to knit with a frown. “I cannot.”

“Yes, you can. I know why you stay.” My fingers slip from his arm as my mouth starts to tremble. The strain on my voice turns it wispy, “You want to be in the stands, watching the portals—watching me.”

The truth of it shuts his eyes, tight.

He turns his cheek to me, a hint of guilt flickering over his warm complexion.

“You believe that watching me somehow helps me.” I reach up for him. My hands steal his cheeks and force him to face me. “But to help me, I must not be worried about you while I’m in there. You must go.”

“The laws here—” he starts.

I cut him off, sharp, “You are not of Dorcha, nor of the Midlands, so why must you be brave in their customs? Their ways are not our ways.” My hold on his cheeks is unyielding. “There is no crime in the Midlands for running. So drown them, drown them all, their silly ideals of honour. Your life is worth more than their manipulations—and you know it, too.”

His lips part on words that don’t come.

He has considered it.

I see that in his eyes as he watches me, looks at me like he truly understands in this moment how deeply I know him, how connected we are.

He deflates with the softest of huffs. “That is to be a coward, Nari.”

“Then be a coward,” I scoff. “For me, for yourself, for life. We can be cowards, because what does it cost us? Nothing at all, but we save our lives.”

His eyes soften. “Is that your plan? To hide in the Sacrament?”

To be a coward and survive.