Chapter 20
Those people came to the Mireland, then vanished as if they had never existed.
Amid the thoughts that kept circling endlessly in her mind, Nirmala wrote a short sentence in the corner of the leaflet, then carefully drew a circle around it.
"What is that Abnormal truly seeking?"
The words were etched in metallic blue ink, glinting faintly in the glow of the oil lamp that illuminated the room.
She stared at the question for a long time, as though hoping the paper could answer her, as though the circle she had drawn would transform into a portal leading to the understanding that had long eluded her search.
For that was where the problem lay.
Every abnormal she had ever hunted always had a motive, always had a purpose, always sought something.
Some searched for a home they could never return to, some searched for identities swallowed by assimilation, some searched for a way to end suffering without end.
But this five-headed creature with its sanity-ripping liturgy carved across its body… what was it seeking by hiding in the Mireland?
What was it waiting for as it swallowed dozens of pilgrims and merchants without leaving a trace?
The door creaked softly, opening just wide enough for a figure to slip inside before quickly closing it again.
Arya turned, secured the door with the heavy wooden bar, then faced Nirmala with the mischievous smile she knew all too well.
That smile always appeared when Arya felt he had uncovered something important, or when he was about to deliver news that would make Nirmala let out a long sigh.
His clothes were still the same as when he had left earlier—dark brown chiton, chlamys fastened with a bronze brooch, leather boots now dust-covered—but in his eyes gleamed a light that could not be hidden, the gleam of someone who had just managed to slip into places no ordinary person should be able to enter.
"Good news and bad news," Arya said as he approached, his voice a whisper yet brimming with excitement.
He dropped down to sit on the floor in front of Nirmala, leaning his back against the cold stone wall.
"Which one do you want to hear first?"
Nirmala exhaled, carefully folding the leaflet before tucking it into the folds of her stole.
"The good news. Now."
Arya's smile widened, revealing a row of white teeth against a face now shadowed by the beginnings of a thin beard.
"The crusaders will depart within seven to eight days.
I obtained it from three different sources.
A priest who drank too much wine last night, a commander overwhelmed with logistics, and a major merchant whose contract was signed today.
They all agree.
Between seven and eight days from now, between thirty-five to seventy thousand people will leave Constantinople for the Holy Land."
He paused for a moment, savoring the anticipation in Nirmala's single eye, then continued in a slightly more serious tone.
"And I also learned the route they'll take. This is the interesting part, Nirma."
Arya grabbed a piece of charcoal from the corner of the room and began drawing simple lines on the hardened dirt floor.
"They'll depart from Constantinople, cross the Bosporus here," he sketched a line representing the strait, "then move through Nicaea, take the central Anatolian route, and eventually pass through the region around Heraclea Cybistra."
Arya's finger stopped at the final point of his drawing, and he looked at Nirmala with meaning in his gaze. "Heraclea Cybistra, Nirma. That's not far from the region merchants call the Mireland."
Nirmala smiled faintly, a smile born of quiet satisfaction rather than overflowing joy.
"History does not change," she murmured, almost inaudible, her eye studying the charcoal lines on the floor.
"At least, not yet. We are here, in an era we were never meant to visit, doing things we were never meant to do, and history continues to move as it was written."
There was admiration in her voice—admiration for how fragile yet resilient reality was, how easily time could be twisted and yet how stubbornly it struggled to return to its original shape.
"Perhaps this is what they call a fixed point in history.
Or perhaps we were always meant to be here, to do this, to become part of something greater than a mere chase with the Temporal Cross-Police."
Arya nodded, but something flickered in his eyes—a shadow that suggested the morning was not yet finished.
"Nirma," he said, his voice suddenly heavier, "there's bad news you need to hear."
Nirmala looked at him, one brow lifting slightly.
Confusion greeted her, followed by a slow-rising unease in her chest.
The primary objective of this mission had already been achieved—the crusaders' departure route within seven to eight days had been verified, drawn on the floor in charcoal, stored neatly in her memory alongside the coordinates of the Mireland in Central Anatolia.
So what bad news could possibly outweigh that?
What could Arya have discovered out there that was just as urgent as the information he had just delivered?
Arya drew a long breath, his eyes fixed on Nirmala with a look difficult to decipher.
"A murder has occurred," he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper in the silent room.
"The victim was a crusader. Found a few hours ago near the docks, before sunrise. The problem is…."
But Arya never finished his sentence.
Mid-word, his mouth froze, as though he had turned into a statue that had lost the ability to speak.
His eyes widened—not in fear, but in the instinctive alertness of a hunter who had stood at the edge of danger thousands of times.
Nirmala felt it too—the faint tremor beneath the dirt floor, the sound of footsteps too numerous and too synchronized to belong to mere passersby outside the house.
BANG!!!
The wooden door that had just been secured with the heavy bar burst open in a single violent blow.
Splinters of wood flew into the room, followed by large armored bodies flooding inside with drawn swords and raised shields.
Byzantine Imperial soldiers filled the narrow space within seconds, their eyes scanning every corner, every shadow, every possible sign of resistance.
Nirmala and Arya remained still, unmoving, only their eyes darting swiftly as they calculated the number of opponents and possible escape routes.
Heavy footsteps sounded from outside, different from those of ordinary soldiers—steadier, more confident, more authoritative.
The crowd of soldiers at the doorway parted, and two figures in finer cloaks, brighter armor, and insignias of authority pinned upon their chests stepped into the house now crammed with military presence.
Byzantine Imperial Captains.
Two of them.
Their eyes immediately fixed upon Nirmala and Arya seated on the floor, upon the unfinished charcoal drawing, upon the silence that had suddenly grown so heavy it could almost be touched.
Nirmala did not move.
Not a single muscle in her face twitched, not a shift in her breathing that the surrounding soldiers could detect.
She sat calmly upon the dirt floor, her hands neatly folded upon her lap, her single eye staring straight at the Byzantine captains with an expression impossible to interpret—neither fear, nor anger, nor submission.
To be continued…