Chapter 24
"Victim's biography, testimony of the first witness, report from the physician who examined the body, and several other pieces of information that may prove useful.
The Emperor advises that you read this during the journey, for time waits for no one, and every passing second may mean the disappearance of the vile perpetrator's trail."
Nirma received the document with both hands, a gesture of respect she had learned from the customs of earlier centuries, then tucked it into the folds of her stole until they were inside a safe and enclosed vehicle.
Now, within the enclosed carriage swaying gently in rhythm with the steps of the four black horses, Nirma opened her eyes and looked at Arya.
"I have read all of these files," she said, her voice level yet unable to conceal a note of seriousness.
"The victim's background, the chronology of the body's discovery, the physician's report, even the small notes about connections he may have formed during his stay in Constantinople.
Everything is here, Arya, and the more I read, the more I feel that this case is not as simple as an ordinary murder committed by a robber or a lurking enemy in the dark."
She unfolded the uppermost parchment and pointed to a paragraph written in deep black ink, a special ink used only for important imperial documents.
Inside the enclosed carriage, which had now come to a complete stop, with the faint jingle of harnesses fading and the horses' hoofbeats reduced to heavy breaths beyond the silk curtains, Arya smiled faintly.
That smile was not born of joy, but of an old habit rooted within him after years of wandering through time's corridors, a habit of easing tension with something light even when the situation stood at its most critical point.
"Nirma," he whispered, his voice barely audible in the silence that suddenly enveloped them after the luxurious vehicle halted, "how severe were the victim's wounds that he could die instantly from the attack.
Was his neck severed, or his heart torn out, or perhaps his head separated from his body like the horror tales we often hear from the Middle Ages?"
His eyes looked at Nirma with genuine curiosity, the curiosity of an investigator who had witnessed death in countless forms yet never ceased questioning, never ceased seeking the pattern behind every tragedy he encountered.
But Nirma did not answer with words.
She shook her head once, slowly, a motion that only deepened Arya's confusion.
Then, without warning, her index finger moved, rising and falling in a clear gesture, one they had performed thousands of times in dire situations in the past, a gesture that meant "come closer, now, and do not ask."
Arya obeyed without hesitation, his upright body leaning down, bringing his head closer until his left ear nearly touched Nirma's slightly parted lips.
In that intimate proximity, Arya could smell the faint scent of dried flowers that always lingered on Nirma's stole, the same scent he had known for decades, a scent that calmed him amid the chaos that perpetually surrounded them.
He could feel the warmth of her breath against his ear, could hear the rhythm of her heartbeat beating faster than usual, a rhythm he only ever heard when Nirma stood at the brink of a great discovery or looming danger.
When Nirma finally whispered, her voice was so soft it was nearly like wind slipping through window cracks, yet each word fell with tremendous weight, like stones cast into a tranquil lake.
"This victim, Arya, is the eighteenth."
She paused, allowing the words to sink in, allowing Arya to process what he had just heard.
"Not the first, not the second, but the eighteenth victim of the same series of murders.
And that is why this case is so alarming, that is why the Emperor granted us special permission to interrogate anyone, including the City Prefect, that is why the document you read earlier contains only the victim's biography without mentioning at all that this is a repeated killing that has been ongoing for months."
Nirma's breath faltered slightly, yet her whisper remained controlled, clear, falling one by one like droplets of water inside a silent cave.
Arya leaned back, straightening his head, and within the quiet carriage his eyes fixed upon Nirma with an intensity that nearly burned.
"Does this have anything to do with the crusader army's departure that will pass through Central Anatolia?" he whispered, his voice heavy yet restrained, like someone too accustomed to standing on the brink of great discoveries to lose composure.
Within Nirma's heart, the meaning of Arya's words was crystal clear, as clear as mountain spring water, as bright as torchlight in the depth of night.
Arya was not asking about political or strategic connections between the murders and the war plans.
He was asking something deeper, more fundamental, closer to the core of their true mission.
He was asking whether these eighteen murders were connected to the Abnormal they were pursuing, the five-headed Abnormal who, according to all predictions, should be hiding in the Mireland, waiting for tens of thousands of crusaders to pass before launching an attack that would alter history forever.
He was asking whether the trail they had been seeking all this time was not in Central Anatolia, but here, in Constantinople, amid the bustle of markets, the splendor of palaces, and the whispered fears of soldiers soon marching toward their deaths.
Unfortunately, for the second time that morning, Nirma shook her head.
The motion was slow yet certain, a gesture that left Arya's chest suddenly hollow, extinguishing the hope that had just begun to grow within him that they had finally found tangible evidence of the Abnormal's presence.
"It is not mentioned in the data that this is connected to the crusaders' departure," Nirma said, her voice flat yet unable to fully conceal the disappointment woven within it.
"Even reports regarding the Abnormal around the Mireland are entirely absent from any document given to me.
There is no mention of a five-headed creature, no record of sanity-ripping liturgy, nothing that we can directly connect to our primary mission in this era."
She paused briefly, observing how Arya's expression shifted, how his shoulders lowered slightly, how his breath stalled before escaping in a long sigh of frustration.
Nirma knew Arya too well not to sense what he was feeling at that moment, disappointment born from hope that had risen too quickly, the same disappointment they had felt thousands of times throughout their long journey across time's corridors.
But before Arya could sink into that disappointment, before the irritation creeping into his chest transformed into genuine despair, Nirma moved her hand.
From the stack of documents neatly stored within the folds of her stole, she withdrew a single parchment, not the topmost, not the thickest, but one slipped at the very bottom, one she had deliberately kept from Arya's view for the past few minutes.
"Read this," she whispered, handing it over carefully, her single eye fixed upon Arya with a gaze difficult to interpret, a mixture of hope and caution, of conviction and doubt.
To be continued…