Chapter 90
His mouth opened slightly, yet no sound came out.
His eyes blinked repeatedly as he tried to process the meaning behind the sentence Arya had just spoken.
And in that awkward silence, the four guests turned back for the last time, stepping out of the room with firm and measured footsteps.
The teakwood door opened, revealing a long corridor still lined with Prefect soldiers standing faithfully on guard, before it slowly closed behind them with a creaking sound that this time felt like the end of a chapter.
One of the Personal Guard soldiers of the Household of Ioannis Taronites slowly pulled the door shut, ensuring that not a single gap remained between the interrogation room and the long corridor where they all stood.
The moment the sound of the lock clicking from the inside echoed through the hallway, the atmosphere changed.
Not a visible change, not one that ordinary soldiers standing along the walls could perceive, but a shift in frequency that could only be felt by those who had long lived at the edge of a blade.
Nirma moved first.
Her movement was swift, without warning, without even the slightest change in her expression.
In one second she was still walking beside Ashita, and in the next her body had already spun, her fist shooting straight toward the woman's solar plexus.
The punch was not entirely forceful, not thrown with full strength, but rather a warning strike—one that said I could hurt you whenever I want.
Ashita staggered, her body hitting the corridor wall with a dull thud.
Her breath halted for a moment before she tried to straighten herself again, her eyes suddenly turning sharp.
At the same time Nirma moved, Tegar reacted.
He did not look toward Ashita, nor did he turn to check on his companion.
His eyes, which had been staring straight ahead, suddenly flashed as his hand moved swiftly beneath his robe.
In the blink of an eye, a dagger was already in his grasp.
This was no ordinary dagger.
From its shape, from the carvings on its hilt, from the distinctive gleam of its blade, Arya could immediately recognize that the weapon came from the same era as himself—the era of the kingdoms of Nusantara in the year 1101 AD, a time when such daggers belonged only to master warriors and elite soldiers.
Tegar shoved Arya hard, slamming him against the corridor wall, and in an instant the blade was pressed against Arya's throat—close enough to feel the pulse of the vein beating rapidly beneath the pressure of cold metal.
The corridor that had been silent a second ago now thundered with the footsteps of dozens of soldiers.
From the right side, the Personal Guard soldiers of the Household of Ioannis Taronites moved quickly, their spears raised to chest height, their eyes sharp as they watched every movement of the four guests who had suddenly turned the corridor into a small battlefield.
From the left side, the Prefect soldiers of the Byzantine city who had been guarding outside the room rushed in, their swords half-drawn, ready to be used the moment the situation spiraled out of control.
The two forces met in the middle of the corridor, blending into a chaos that was strangely organized.
Yet when they saw what was truly happening—when they witnessed the positions of the four figures before them—their steps stopped.
No one dared move any closer.
Nirma stood with her fist raised, her left eye blazing with a fire that was difficult to extinguish.
Yet that fist never truly struck.
Ashita held her wrist firmly—not to hurt her, not to restrain her by force, but to say I know you're angry, but don't do this here.
On Nirma's face appeared an expression of irritation she had never shown inside the room earlier, an expression that said she truly wanted to destroy something, yet her reason was still strong enough to hold that desire back.
Ashita's fingers circled around Nirma's wrist, not too tightly yet firm enough, and behind that touch lay a message only the two of them could understand.
Across the corridor, Tegar and Arya stood in a position just as dangerous.
Tegar's dagger was still pressed against Arya's throat.
Its cold blade could still feel the rapid pulse beating beneath it.
But Arya did not remain still.
His left hand had already moved in an instant, his fingers tightening into a living spear tip.
Those fingertips now pressed directly against the soft point on the left side of Tegar's neck—a point where even the slightest pressure could make someone lose consciousness within seconds.
They faced each other at an extremely close distance.
Two pairs of eyes locked together.
Two pairs of hands threatening one another.
Two lives hanging on how far each of them was willing to go.
Four seconds passed in suffocating silence.
The soldiers around them could only stand frozen, their hands still gripping their weapon hilts, yet none dared step forward.
They saw what was unfolding before their eyes.
They saw how these four people were playing with fire.
And they felt a chill imagining what would happen if one of them truly moved.
In the corridor that suddenly felt narrower, there was only the sound of restrained breathing, the pounding of hearts, and tension hanging so thick it almost felt tangible.
Four seconds.
Long enough to realize that no one would win if blood truly spilled here.
Long enough to remind them that beyond this corridor stood Ioannis Taronites, who might very well be listening.
That somewhere beyond waited Emperor Alexios, expecting a report.
That an entire empire still loomed above them—ready to devour them alive if they made a mistake.
And on the fourth second, without needing to look at one another, without needing any coordination, they began to step back.
Nirma slowly withdrew her fist, freeing herself from Ashita's grip with a movement that was not overly rough yet clear enough to show she no longer intended to strike.
Ashita allowed it.
Her hand fell to her side, though her eyes remained watchful, observing even the slightest change in Nirma's expression.
Arya released the pressure from Tegar's neck, his fingers loosening one by one.
At the same time, Tegar lowered his dagger just as slowly, the blade moving away from Arya's throat centimeter by centimeter—without haste, without offering the other side a chance to strike during the withdrawal.
The first step back.
Nirma and Arya moved backward, their feet landing carefully upon the marble floor, their eyes never leaving the opponents before them.
The second step back.
Tegar and Ashita moved as well, maintaining distance, maintaining caution, maintaining the possibility of striking again if the other side suddenly changed their mind.
The third step back.
Their positions began to shift.
Nirma and Arya now stood side by side, while Tegar and Ashita stood aligned across from them—two rows facing one another with a safe distance between them, far enough to avoid a surprise attack, far enough to prepare themselves if the battle had to continue another time.
Nirma's steps nearly reached the end of the corridor when Ashita's voice drifted through the air—strange and unfamiliar, like the chirping of a bird from another world.
It was not the Greek commonly spoken in Constantinople, nor the Breton or Old French sometimes heard in the harbor.
This was a language none of the soldiers standing guard had ever heard before.
It flowed from Ashita's mouth with a speed and intonation that left them staring at one another in confusion.
To be continued…