“Shepherd told me that all had settled into their new place. You were the only one having difficulties.” It was a subject that disturbed Nona as much as it troubled Claire. “Did you know he came to speak with me a little over a week ago? Your mate claimed you were withdrawn and demanded I tell him how to end your depression.”

Hearing such a thing, Claire turned green, doubling over to vomit. That was the end of any mention of Shepherd.

Nona was a modicum of comfort, but Claire felt adrift—isolated even in the companionship of her kind. It led her to stand, to wipe her mouth, and to leave the Omegas’ sanctuary without another word.

Though it was obvious she wanted to, the old woman did nothing to stop her.

Just like the last two days, from dawn to dusk Claire wandered Thólos like a wraith.

Her absences were hardly commented upon, but Nona was always there with a portion of rations she pressed Claire to eat. Once she had her dark-haired friend warming by the fire, she would talk nonsense; she would make Claire communicate, until the exhausted Omega forgot to keep answering.

For two nights straight, Corday failed to return.

If Claire noticed, if she was relieved or saddened, she said nothing.

Nona was not even sure her friend had any concept of time passing.

Claire was too beyond herself, too detached. But when she walked, the city seemed to open up to her—every path leading to some new awful landscape. The buildings were hollow because the dead were piled in the street. Marks of violence were everywhere, roving bands of looters still pillaging as if there were treasure to be found in the decay.

That was reality—exposed reality.

Half cognizant, Claire almost found her wandering had taken her right to the Citadel.

The black specks of Followers in the distance startled her out of her stupor. She drew back with such speed, she slipped on an unseen patch of ice. Heart in her throat, Claire fell into the gutter, scampering blindly until she zigzagged through the first open door in her path.

It took almost an hour to snap out of her panic, to look around at the wreck of a stranger’s home and recognize why every frigid draught filled the room with whispers.

It was paper bowing in the wind. Overturned shelves, fallen books scattered over the floor.

Under her hand lay the words:

He who does not know the evils of war cannot appreciate its benefits.

Disgusted, Claire snapped the worn book closed to find Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.