I pulled my cloak closer about myself. “Good. Let’s get moving.”

Isaak took one last bite of his kebab and tossed the skewer into the wastebin, glancing at the ball players before moving to follow us. Something about his expression made my stomach twist into uneasy knots.

I wanted nothing more than to forget that this conversation ever took place. But for some reason, it felt burned indelibly into my brain.

◦ • ◦

The air inside the insula was cool, but it tasted stale. The strong, pungent scent of dried herbs hung heavy in the stagnant air. The interior walls of the dim corridor were made of glass, but unlike those of the hospital building, they were frosted, allowing light to filter through without sacrificing privacy.

It was so quiet after the cacophony of the marketplace, it made my ears ring. The only signs of life were the artificial lights that shone through the walls of the apartments and the occasional movement of a shadowy silhouette on the other side of the glass.

Gitrin’s apartment was dark. I knocked on the sliding door, but there was no answer.

“Looks like no one’s home,” Isaak said.

I swallowed, unsure of what to do next. “Where could she be?”

Ceilos pushed past me, shoving the door open.

“What are you doing?” I hissed.

“We’re never going to learn the truth if we just hover outside waiting for permission,” he said. Isaak grinned and followed him inside.

I glanced over my shoulder. One of the silhouettes behind the glass wall moved slightly. I knew, rationally, that they couldn’t see me, but I felt jittery nonetheless. I shook it off and hurried into Gitrin’s apartment.

And stopped short just inside the door.

Gitrin’s apartment was a shambles. Furniture was upended, her antique woven-grass chairs torn to shreds. Ceilos knelt beside a small bronze chest lying on its side. Gitrin’s clothing spilled out of it, strewn in a crumpled mess across the room.

“What happened here?” Isaak asked.

“I don’t know.” I could barely manage the words. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. “Gitrin?” I called. There was no reply.

On the far wall, the smooth reddish-brown clay was etched with writing. I moved closer to get a better look. It was the old-fashioned hieratic that had been in use before the Progression. I struggled to remember the strange syllables from my studies. Haltingly, I read, “N’elytherios tou shenos.”

“In the name of freedom,” Ceilos repeated.

“What does that mean?” said Isaak.

“I’m almost afraid to find out,” Ceilos said, turning to look around the rest of the apartment.

Isaak trailed after him into the bedroom. “Do you think it’s that Liberator guy?”

I stared at the etched writing once more, running my hand over the carvings. Isaak had suggested that before, but I hadn’t believed him. What could they possibly want with Gitrin?