Chapter 66
Nirma lifted the glass high beneath the scorching midday light, allowing Konstantinos to see clearly how it had once been shattered and then restored, how the adhesive used was so fragile that the lines of fracture looked like veins ready to burst apart again at any moment.
Her single eye fixed on Konstantinos intently.
There was no anger there, no accusation—only a silent question that spoke far louder than a thousand words.
Then, without warning, without any change in expression, without a single word leaving her lips, Nirma released her grip.
The glass fell.
It fell in a slow motion that felt eternal, spinning once, twice in the air, before finally striking the wooden table where Konstantinos Dalassenos had welcomed them several hours earlier.
The sound of shattering glass broke the silence of the room—not overly loud, yet sharp enough to send chills down the spine—a sound that declared something painstakingly reassembled had now been broken apart once more.
The fragile adhesive Nirma had used worked exactly as she intended.
It could not withstand the impact, even from a fall of merely half a meter, and within seconds the glass returned to scattered fragments spread across the table.
Some pieces fell to the floor with a faint ringing sound.
Some clung briefly to the edge of the table before surrendering to gravity.
Others spun upon the wooden surface like dancers performing their final movement before coming to rest.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Nirma, Arya, and Konstantinos Dalassenos all lowered their gazes to the table now covered in glittering shards beneath the daylight—shards that only seconds earlier had formed a whole glass, though marked by cracks.
Nirma did not explain.
Arya did not add anything.
Konstantinos did not ask.
They simply stood there in a silence more eloquent than thousands of words, witnessing how something once broken—even when pieced together—will ultimately break again if dropped, how no adhesive, no matter how strong, can ever restore something to its flawless original state.
Two seconds passed in that dense silence filled with fragments of glass, and Nirma finally spoke.
Her tone had not changed since she first entered this room hours ago—calm like the surface of a sea untouched by any storm.
"Commander Konstantinos Dalassenos," she said, meeting the man's gaze with her single eye—the eye that had long served as a window for anyone attempting to read her thoughts—"I have voluntarily removed one piece of evidence from the official record of this investigation.
The evidence that recorded how Étienne d'Arques, several hours before his death, had offered a few refreshing drinks to someone who quietly left his room at the kapeleion—someone described by the servant there as a tall man with the posture of a naval soldier, someone who was none other than the Commander himself."
She paused briefly, allowing her words to settle into the air that suddenly felt heavier, then continued in the same tone—neither accusatory nor doubtful.
"I did so not because I fear you, Commander, nor because I wish to side with the Dalassenos family in their rivalry with the Komnenos, but because I seek the best possible outcome for this investigation.
And in return, I expect that you will not attempt to deceive me with all the trivial words you have just uttered.
Rebuttals about harbor soil that could cling to anyone, rebuttals about drinking habits that are no private secret, rebuttals about a resin amphora that anyone could borrow—each carefully arranged, each adjusted to the circumstances in the field, each designed to manipulate our position as investigators and to test the depth of our knowledge about this case."
Konstantinos Dalassenos did not move.
He did not respond.
He simply stood where he was, his eyes still fixed on the shards of glass upon the table, as though those fragments held the answers to questions he had not dared to voice.
Nirma continued, her voice not rising but instead growing softer—a softness sharper than any blade.
"Your rebuttals would sound flawless to ordinary ears.
They would convince anyone listening that you are a victim of circumstance, a victim of palace intrigue, a victim of political rivalry seeking to tarnish the Dalassenos name.
And indeed, if we were ordinary investigators—if we had not conducted inquiries in six locations over several hours, if we had not gathered twenty pieces of evidence before coming here—we might have been swayed by your words.
But unfortunately, Commander, we are not ordinary investigators.
We know that three of the pieces of evidence we carry bear a strong connection to you—a connection that cannot be erased by clever rebuttals.
We know that Étienne d'Arques was indeed at the Harbor of Theodosius that morning, that he met someone in the western warehouse, that this person had the habit of mixing wine with olive oil and wore marine leather gloves.
We know that the small amphora containing pine resin was used for something unrelated to ship maintenance, because there are no records of repairs to the Dalassenos fleet in the past three weeks."
She exhaled slowly, a subtle note of disappointment coloring her next words.
"Unfortunately, Commander, we possess no supernatural evidence capable of proving that you are responsible for the peculiar murder that befell that thirty-four-year-old man.
We have only physical evidence—evidence that can be disputed, evidence whose meaning can be twisted by anyone clever enough.
And Commander, I acknowledge that you are a clever opponent."
Without waiting for a response, without glancing to see whether Konstantinos would defend himself or remain silent, Nirma stepped back.
Arya followed, having silently observed the exchange with heightened vigilance.
They offered a brief salute—the same as when they entered, though this time without smiles, without warmth, merely the formality required before leaving a room that now felt colder than before.
"We take our leave, Commander," Nirma said flatly, then turned and walked toward the large door carved with waves and ships—the boundary between Konstantinos Dalassenos' world and the outside.
Arya followed behind her, adjusting his small bag containing various notes and pieces of evidence, including the twenty items they had never detailed before Konstantinos.
When they reached the door and opened it, when they stepped out of the room, they heard no sound from behind—no call, no explanation, no defense.
Konstantinos Dalassenos remained standing where he was, frozen like a statue, his eyes still fixed upon the shards of glass scattered across the table like fallen stars upon wood—a metaphor that required no explanation, for he had understood it perfectly.
Outside, the Prefect's loyal soldiers who had been waiting from the beginning immediately moved into position as Nirma and Arya emerged from behind the door—dozens of soldiers whose vigilance had never wavered, though they had stood waiting for hours.
To be continued…