Chapter 51
Arya remained in the same position before her, his body tense, his eyes constantly moving.
Yet he spared Nirma a brief glance—a wordless look that asked a silent question.
Are you all right?
Nirma nodded faintly, just enough for Arya to understand.
Then she leaned toward the front window, toward the driver's seat where two Prefect soldiers sat with unwavering focus, their eyes fixed on the winding road that led farther away from the settlements.
Their hands skillfully controlled the four black horses that continued to run without rest.
"Prefect soldiers," Nirma's voice rang out clearly enough to be heard over the jolting carriage, though not so loud as to sound panicked.
The two soldiers did not turn.
They remained focused ahead as they had for the past hour and a half, yet their ears caught every word she spoke.
"Maintain maximum speed.
Do not slow down.
Do not hesitate.
Do not let anything stop this carriage.
And most importantly, remember what Arya told you earlier.
Do not approach residential areas under any circumstances, no matter how long the detour may be, no matter how late we arrive.
It is better to be late and safe than swift and bring disaster upon thousands of innocents."
She paused briefly, drawing breath, then added in the same firm tone.
"If you see something strange in the sky—something you have never seen before, something that seems… like anything beyond reason—ignore it.
Do not stop. Do not ask questions. Do not stare too long.
Keep moving.
Take us to Psamathia, to Konstantinos Dalassenos—whatever happens around us."
And when one of the Prefect soldiers finally turned his head—only for a fraction of a second to respond to her order—his eyes, accustomed to the sight of two foreign investigators in brown robes and blue-gray stoles, caught something utterly unexpected.
From within the carriage, illuminated by sunlight slipping through the silk curtains, he saw Nirma and Arya clad in garments unlike any he had ever seen in his life—fabric of strange composition reflecting light in unnatural ways.
The attire appeared elegant, yet also terrifying, like something from a nightmare—or perhaps from a future he could not imagine.
For a moment, he froze.
His mouth parted to speak.
His eyes widened in an attempt to comprehend what he had just witnessed.
But before he could utter a sound, before his mind could process the illusion suddenly unveiled before him, a sharp cry from the soldier beside him shattered his concentration.
"Turn right! Quickly! Something's coming from the other side!"
The soldier who had remained focused on driving shouted in panic, his eyes locked onto something in the eastern sky—something moving at impossible speed, leaving behind a white trail of smoke, emitting a shrill whistling sound that grew louder by the second.
The soldier who had just turned immediately swung back, his hands seizing the reins in frantic urgency, trying to steer the carriage right as commanded.
But it was already too late.
The foreign projectile hurtling wildly from the horizon—an object no one in the year 1101 AD would recognize as a rocket—closed the distance with terrifying speed.
The air around it trembled.
The horses shrieked hysterically.
The Prefect soldiers cried out in desperation.
They yanked the reins with all their strength, but their panicked motion only threw the carriage into chaos.
The teakwood wheels lifted from the ground.
For a brief, impossible instant, the carriage spun in midair above the cobbled road of Constantinople.
In the next heartbeat—before the two Prefect soldiers could draw breath, before they could speak, before they could even comprehend what had happened—the rocket struck their carriage with perfect precision.
A thunderous explosion erupted.
And it did not end there.
As smoke billowed and flames devoured the scattered wreckage, as several horses ridden by Prefect soldiers guarding from behind neighed in terror at the horrifying sight before them, more rockets emerged from the same direction.
They streaked forward at speeds no ordinary eye could follow, carving white trails across the once-clear morning sky, forming strange patterns as though someone were painting with cotton upon a blue canvas.
The Prefect soldiers a few meters behind the carriage saw only flashes of light before a deafening shriek consumed the air, before the earth beneath them convulsed with successive merciless detonations.
Their horses screamed—almost like human voices—massive bodies attempting to flee yet powerless against the relentless accuracy of the incoming rockets.
This was no random assault.
It was calculated annihilation, launched by someone—or something—that knew precisely where every target stood.
A third of the Prefect soldiers were thrown from their mounts before they could react.
Their bodies hung briefly in the air before crashing onto stone, dry grass, and spreading debris with sickening force.
When they struck the ground, their bones did not shatter.
They did not crack.
They simply went numb—as though life itself had drained from them in an instant.
Their eyes remained open for a few seconds, staring at a sky now filled with smoke and fire, before their lids closed and consciousness vanished into darkness.
Another third fell alongside their horses.
The unfortunate animals collapsed first, their massive bodies crashing down with thunderous weight, pinning the legs of soldiers who tried to stand.
Within seconds both horse and rider lay unconscious, sprawled in tragic heaps amid a road now scarred by fresh craters.
The final third—those quickest to react—managed to pull their reins free just before impact.
They leapt from their mounts and sought cover behind trees and large stones near the roadside.
They raised shields.
Drew swords.
Strung bows with swift, disciplined motion, preparing to face an enemy they could not even see.
But before a single arrow could be released—before they could even determine where to strike—the shockwave of another explosion struck them with overwhelming force.
Shields were ripped from their grasp.
Swords spun through the air.
Bows snapped in two.
Their bodies were hurled backward like rag dolls flung by a child.
They hit the stones with the same dreadful sound as their comrades.
Their bones fell numb.
Their eyes stared at a sky streaked endlessly with white smoke.
And one by one, they lost consciousness—until nothing remained but silence, broken only by the crackling of flames consuming the shattered remains.
To be continued…