“And what’s that?” Nyktos asked.
“Death.” I jerked my chin at the Primal. “And I’m not talking about you.”
Nektas gave me a small grin at that. “Death is not a foregone conclusion.”
“Is it not?” I started tapping my foot.
“No,” he said.
Pressing my lips together, I shook my head. I had no idea what Nektas was thinking then. If he knew everything, he would know that only the love of the man I had planned to kill—someone actually incapable of love—could save me. He was aware of that.
“There is no reason to deny what’s coming.” I met Nyktos’s stare as he returned to leaning against his desk. “No matter how strong the embers of life are.”
A muscle ticked in Nyktos’s jaw. “We will have to agree to disagree on that.”
“You like to say that, don’t you?”
“And you like to argue, don’t you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well, arguing over this is pointless.” My foot beat a fast tempo now. “So, whatever makes you happy.”
“Nothing about any of this makes me happy,” Nyktos retorted, and I couldn’t fault him for that. “Either way, what Holland said may not have been entirely correct. There could be another option.”
Remembering what he’d said in the Dying Woods about needing five seconds of peace to come up with another way of saving my life, I smirked. “Like what?”
“Like what Kolis did to my father. Remove the embers.”
My jaw practically hit the table. “Is that possible?”
“I don’t see why not.” Nyktos watched me. “Embers are eather, Sera. It’s the essence of a Primal. Kolis found a way to take it from my father without harming him.”
Hope sparked, but I squelched it before it could catch fire and spread. There were far too many what-ifs—too many questions. “But he wasn’t able to take all of it.”
“That’s because Eythos was a Primal,” Nektas interjected. “And you are a Primal born of mortal flesh. Those embers are not fully yours unless you Ascend into a Primal.”
“That really explains nothing to me,” I admitted. “Explain it to me as if I’m Jadis learning how to use a fork.”
Nektas grinned at that.
“What he means is that those embers have fundamentally changed you.” Nyktos clasped the edge of the desk as he stretched out his legs, crossing them loosely at the ankles. “You’re in the Culling. There’s no stopping that. But if we can remove the embers, you should be like any godling entering the Culling.”
Should?“Correct me if I’m wrong, but not all godlings survive the Culling, right?”
“They don’t, but my blood would make sure you survive,” he said. “Ensure that you don’t fail the Ascension.”
Shock blasted through me. Giving me blood to heal wounds seemed vastly different than aiding in my Ascension. “How…how much blood will I need for the Ascension?”
“All but the last drop of your blood would need to be removed,” Nyktos explained. “Then you’d have to replenish your blood with mine.”
“All but the last drop?” I whispered. “That’s a lot.”
“It is.” Nyktos’s gaze held mine. “That is why the Ascension can be so dangerous. You either take too much or not enough, but the alternative is unacceptable.”
Sitting back, I exhaled roughly as thoughts raced past the confusion of why he was still determined to do such a thing, even after the embers were removed. I would be of no real use to him at that point. The breath I took was thin. “What would I become if that worked?”
“You’d be like any godling who survives the Culling,” he answered. “But possibly more. Those embers are powerful. You could Ascend into an actual god.”
Godlings who Ascended weren’t exactly mortal beyond that point. They aged slower—every three decades of mortal life equated to one year of a godling’s. They were susceptible to very few illnesses, and while not as impervious to injury as a god or Primal, they could live for thousands of years—at least, according to Aios.