Page 212 of Psycho Gods

Snores echoed as the rest of the legion slept, and I gasped for air on the narrow bunk as my chest collapsed.

Disintegrated.

The chasm inside my sternum made it hard to move, think, or live. What was once vibrant and colorful was now faded and cold.

The empty feeling had arrived a few days ago. I’d woken up heaving from forgotten nightmares, and it had felt like a piece of my soul was missing.

The new abyss pervaded every moment of my existence.

It wouldn’t leave.

My hand was hanging over the bed holding Aran’s.

I leaned over the edge and took in her peaceful expression. Slowly, with my heart screaming at me to stop, I disentangled our grip.

As soon as her fingers left mine, the feeling of wrongness intensified exponentially. Lately, contact with Aran was the only thing that kept the emptiness at bay.

Minutes passed as I sprawled back on my bed and felt miserable.

Sick of wallowing, I crawled out of my bed and hauled myself up to my twin’s bunk. I acted on instinct.

I laid on top of John and hugged him tight to me.

We barely fit together on the narrow bunk, but I didn’t care, because the worst part of the emptiness was that I wasn’t the only one affected.

I’d promised to protect my younger brother.

Yet we were both suffering.

Neither of us spoke as I held him tight to me. He’d been lying awake in the bed when I’d climbed up, dark eyes glossed over with pain as he, too, struggled with the yawning chasm.

“We need to figure this out today,” I whispered. “It’s time.”

John turned his head to look at me. Expression grim, he nodded.

Yesterday, we’d snuck away to the medical barracks under the guise of getting food, and the doctors had performed dozens of enchanted diagnostics.

They’d found nothing.

There were no more options left.

We couldn’t continue to suffer like this and fight effectively, so there was only one thing left for us to do.

Moving as silent as the spirit of Hesychia—the personification of quiet—we dressed for battle in our all-black uniforms with heavy combat boots. John stretched as he dressed like he was preparing for war.

We placed our prepared note on top of the dresser. We’d kept it vague and short. It stated that we’d return as soon as we could.

John dragged a hand through his messy hair. The circles under his eyes were gray, and his olive skin had an unnatural pallor that matched my own.

We were both sick.

“I hate leaving her,” John whispered as we stood over Aran’s sleeping form. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and traced his fingertip over her scar.

I whispered, “Same.” Nauseousness made my stomach roll. Separation was unacceptable, even if it was temporary.

The chasm in my chest continued to radiate pain.

We had no choice.