CURSED
Portentous (adjective): being a grave or serious matter.
DAY 22, HOUR 3
I sat up in my bunk, heaving, with my hands placed over my heart like I was trying to keep it from falling out of my chest.
Unfamiliar panic filled my bones.
The darkness of the bedroom was stifling, and I must have been hallucinating, because snow drifted through the air.
The pressure inside my chest was unbearable.
I patted against my sternum like I was putting out a fire, half expecting to feel ravaged flesh, but my skin was warm and unblemished.
The pulsing sensation continued.
Were we under attack? Were the Fates themselves tearing me apart from within for failing to do my duty to the realm like Uncle always warned they might?
If so, I had no regrets.
Even with my chest tearing apart in pain, I knew I’d do nothing differently. There was no other choice I’d ever have made. I would always choose Aran and Luka before any duty.
I’d do nothing differently.
Legs jackknifing, I collapsed back onto my covers, writhing in pain, clawing at my heart as the agony ate me apart from the inside. The bunk bed jostled violently beneath me.
I wanted to make sure Luka and Aran were okay, but I couldn’t do anything but lie paralyzed. I twitched like I was electrocuted.
The pressure mounted until tears dripped out of the corners of my eyes.
My thoughts were scattered and jagged, and it was impossible to understand where I began, and where the pain ended. We were one.
One thought penetrated the blinding agony—I never got to tell Aran I love her.
