Chapter 105
Arya did not answer immediately.
The hand holding the reins tightened slightly, then relaxed again, and for several seconds only the sound of hooves striking stone and the soldiers' quiet chatter behind them could be heard.
In the distance, a stray dog crossed between two buildings, vanishing into the darkness of a narrow alley before it could be clearly seen.
"Among all the possible suspects," Arya began, his voice soft but clear enough for Nirma, who sat only a few inches behind him, "Adrianos is indeed the strangest. Leontios has six pieces of evidence against him, yet he can explain all of them reasonably. He went to the Kapeleion to collect a debt, not to kill. The strap of his apron burned because of an accident in his workshop two days earlier. The charcoal and resin he carried were for survival outside the city if he had to wait too long. His hair was left at the monastery because he confessed his sins before going to the Kapeleion, not afterward. Even the broken stylus with the inscription ΛΕΩΝ…"
Arya paused for a moment, lowering his head before continuing in a heavier tone.
"Maybe he's right. Maybe Étienne really didn't have time to write his full name. Or maybe it's another name, another place—something that has nothing to do with Leontios at all."
Behind Arya, Nirma nodded slowly, a movement so subtle that only her chin brushed lightly against the back of Arya's robe.
"Meanwhile Adrianos," she continued, taking over the conversation in the same quiet, steady voice—calm like the surface of a lake untouched by wind, "only has four pieces of evidence. But look at how he reacted when we visited him. His hands were sweating even though the room was cold. His eyes could never stay still, always darting here and there, searching for an escape, searching for something he could cling to in order to calm himself.
He spoke about the impossibility of him being a murderer. He spoke about his position as Megas Domestikos. He spoke about how the people would be outraged if he were accused without sufficient evidence. But he never once looked into my eyes, Arya. Not once."
Nirma stopped speaking, letting her words sink into the silence that had suddenly grown heavy between them.
"And you surely still remember what appeared on his face when I said he was innocent.
His expression seemed to say, 'I do not understand your accusation, Madam. There is not a single reason that would make me look ridiculous before foreign investigators.'
Yet every human being has a motive, Arya. Even the monks of Pantokrator who live in prayer harbor hidden desires—envy of those considered holier, resentment toward those more beloved by the faithful.
But Adrianos behaved as though he were sterile of motive. That is absurd. As absurd as denying heat in fire, wetness in water, or darkness in the night."
The horse suddenly halted for a moment, as if sensing the tension that had begun to fill the air around them.
Arya gently patted the horse's neck, whispering something in a language Nirma did not recognize, and the horse resumed walking at the same slow pace as before.
Behind them, the soldiers' chatter also quieted, as if they sensed that something important was being discussed ahead—something they were not meant to hear.
"Leontios," Arya finally said, breaking the silence that had begun to feel suffocating, "may be guilty, or he may not be. But one thing is certain—he is human.
He is afraid, he is angry, he is disappointed, he harbors resentment, and he showed all those feelings honestly before us.
He cried when speaking about his past as a slave. He trembled when speaking about his fear of being accused of something he did not do. He was not even ashamed to admit that he went to the monastery to confess his sins before collecting the debt because he feared his anger might explode. Meanwhile Adrianos…"
Arya shook his head slightly, the motion almost invisible in the darkness.
"Adrianos is like a wax statue left too long in the heat. The shape still resembles a human, but inside everything has melted, liquefied, lost its original form.
He speaks, but his words have no blood. He moves, but his movements have no soul.
He is afraid—that much is obvious—but his fear is not the fear of an innocent man. His fear is the fear of someone hiding something, someone desperately trying to cover the hole in his garment with the grand cloak of his rank."
Something warm began to grow in Nirma's chest, a feeling she had not recognized since a series of previous cases had ended in dead ends—since she had spent minute after minute chasing faint traces that had never been resolved by the Linear Time Police and were later buried within their official records.
A smile bloomed on her lips, a small smile almost invisible in the darkness of the night, yet clear enough to her own facial muscles that she was happy, that she was enjoying this moment—the moment when, after so long groping through darkness, they had finally found a light at the end of the tunnel.
Adrianos Komnenos—the Megas Domestikos with four pieces of evidence he could not explain, with cold sweat constantly running down his face in a cool room, with repeated questions that were unnatural for someone claiming innocence—he would become their next quarry.
And Nirma could already imagine how it would feel to place shackles on the nobleman's wrists, how it would feel to hear his confession under pressure in the interrogation chamber, how it would feel to close this case with victory in hand.
She lightly tapped Arya's shoulder twice, as she often did when pleased, and said in an almost cheerful tone,
"Arya, you cannot imagine how beautiful tonight will be. We will fetch a Megas Domestikos from his own house, and we will bring him to the Prefecture with all the pride he has built over the years shattered before the eyes of his own servants."
Arya did not answer.
His back, which had been relaxed moments ago, stiffened again—more rigid than before.
Nirma felt the change through the tips of her fingers still resting on his shoulder, felt how the muscles beneath the thin robe hardened like stone freshly carved by a sculptor.
She frowned and leaned slightly to the side, trying to see Arya's face from the corner of her eye.
What she saw slowly made her smile fade, like a candle extinguished by the wind.
Under the faint moonlight hidden behind thick clouds, Arya's expression looked grim—heavy, like someone carrying a burden invisible to ordinary eyes.
His brows lowered into an inverted V above the bridge of his nose, his lips pressed together so tightly they were almost a single line, and his eyes—those eyes usually calm and calculating—now stared straight ahead with an empty gaze.
Like someone looking at something he did not wish to see.
Or perhaps not seeing anything at all, lost entirely within the dark and winding corridors of his own thoughts.
"Arya?" Nirma called softly, her tone shifting from cheerful to cautious, like someone who had just realized she was walking on thin ice.
"Arya, did you hear what I said? We're going to arrest Adrianos soon. We're going to end all of this. Why are you silent?"
Arya exhaled slowly, a breath leaving his chest like wind escaping from a deep cavern.
For several seconds he did not speak, letting his horse continue walking at the same slow pace, letting the rhythm of hooves and the whisper of the wind become the only sounds filling the emptiness between them.
To be continued…