Chapter 104
Leontios paused for a moment and drew a long breath. For an instant, he looked very tired, very vulnerable—so different from the sturdy man who had greeted them at the doorway a few hours earlier with a wide smile and amusing stories about a fish-stealing cat.
He lowered his head, staring at his rough, burn-scarred hands—hands that had created hundreds of swords, thousands of knives, tens of thousands of nails and tools during four decades of working with fire and metal.
"I am finished speaking, Sir and Madam," he whispered, his voice barely audible, like dry leaves falling to the ground in autumn.
"I have said everything that was in my heart, everything I have kept buried, everything that has kept me from sleeping peacefully for the past week. Now it is up to you. Whether you believe me or not—that is your right. Take me to prison or release me—that is your decision.
But remember one thing, Sir and Madam.
Remember that I am a human being, just like you. I have feelings, I have dignity, and I have the right to justice—even if I am only a former slave who cannot read or write very well."
Silence settled between them for ten minutes that felt like ten centuries. Nirma's fingers moved swiftly over her wax tablet, pressing the stylus into the soft surface with short, precise strokes that never lost their rhythm even as her single eye remained fixed on Leontios.
Beside her, Arya did the same, occasionally lifting his gaze to ensure no detail was missed before lowering his head again to continue writing.
There was no sound except the faint scratching of styluses on wax, the steady breathing of Leontios as his emotional storm began to settle, and far away, the howling of stray dogs wandering around the Forum Tauri, searching for scraps of food among the piles of garbage left by the long-closed market.
Nirma felt the wax on her tablet beginning to harden, capturing every word spoken by the old blacksmith—his confession about the debt, the fears of a former slave, his habit of confessing sins before committing them, and the gray hairs he left on the monastery comb not after the murder, but before dawn.
And between those lines, without Leontios realizing it, Nirma also recorded the things he did not say.
The way he clasped his own fingers when speaking about his past in Antioch, the tremor at the corner of his jaw whenever Étienne's name was mentioned, and most importantly, the way his tear-filled eyes remained fixed straight ahead—never evasive, never turning away—even when the words leaving his mouth were the most humiliating ones.
Arya set his stylus down first.
The movement was slow, almost soundless, but Nirma—sitting beside him—immediately sensed the change. Her partner had finished writing; now Arya was looking at her, waiting, giving her the space to lead, because that was how they had always worked together.
Nirma did not raise her head immediately.
She let her eye reread the final lines she had just written, letting Leontios's words sink into her mind once more, allowing every possibility—guilt or innocence, deliberate murder or cruel accident—to swirl through her thoughts like the currents of the Bosporus Strait.
Then slowly, she placed her stylus beside the wax tablet, straightened the edge of her robe that had become slightly wrinkled from sitting too long, and lifted her face.
Her left eye met Arya's, and in the silence that lasted no more than two seconds, they exchanged something that did not need to be spoken.
An understanding that they had obtained what they needed. That there was no point in lingering in this workshop any longer. That it was time to withdraw, reflect, and decide their next move in a place safer, more neutral, and far from Leontios's hopeful gaze.
Nirma nodded. Arya nodded back.
Two brief nods, almost imperceptible, yet enough to signal that the meeting was over.
Nirma stood first, her movement flowing soundlessly like water seeking the lowest ground, and Arya followed at once, slipping his wax tablet into the cloth pouch hanging from his belt.
Leontios still sat frozen on his bench, staring at them with eyes that suddenly looked very old, very weary, very fragile beneath the dimming light of the oil lamp.
"Sir and Madam… are you leaving?" he asked, his hoarse voice emerging like a whisper, like someone who had just realized that his confession might not be enough—that it might change nothing—that it might become only another entry on a wax tablet soon to be erased and replaced with notes from other cases.
Nirma turned slightly toward him, half facing him. For a moment she wanted to say something—wanted to offer a spark of hope, to say they would consider everything carefully—but the words stopped in her throat.
What came out instead was simply, "We take our leave, Master Leontios. Thank you for your time and your honesty."
Then without waiting for an answer, without turning back again, she stepped out of the workshop. Arya followed her, pausing briefly at the doorway to look at Leontios with an expression difficult to interpret—perhaps sympathy, perhaps doubt, perhaps something between the two—before finally walking away as well, leaving the old blacksmith alone in his silent workshop in the deepening night of Constantinople.
The horse Arya rode moved forward with long, unhurried strides, as if sensitive to the quiet change of time drifting through the air.
Dusk had just tilted westward, and the remaining golden light faded among the stone walls of Constantinople, leaving a thin orange glow above the domes and towers.
The air was shifting from the warmth of late afternoon toward the gentle chill of evening, brushing the horse's coat with a soft whisper that promised the arrival of night.
Nirma sat behind him, her hands resting lightly on Arya's waist. Her single eye stared straight ahead, piercing the dimness that slowly thickened, piercing the thin mist descending over the Forum Tauri like a pale shawl cast down from the sky.
Behind them, dozens of the Prefect's soldiers rode in a semicircular formation, maintaining a respectful distance but close enough to ensure that no one could approach the two investigators without passing through them first.
The sound of hooves striking the massive stones of the Via Egnatia echoed like an endless rhythm, like the long song of a city that never slept. Between those beats, the soldiers behind them began talking quietly among themselves—discussing wives who were expecting children, complaining about the rising price of bread in the Neorion market, remarking how unusually cold the air felt even for the month of November.
Nirma felt Arya's body tense slightly in front of her, a sign that the young investigator had heard the soldiers' conversation—or perhaps that he was thinking the same thing she was: that only ten minutes ago they had left an old man behind with six pieces of evidence on his table—six wounds that could not be healed, six truths that could not be denied—yet the man had spoken with eyes that never wavered, with a voice that never faltered even as tears ran down his cheeks.
Nirma took a deep breath, inhaling the night air mixed with the smell of smoke from thousands of hearths along the streets they passed. Then without changing her seat, and in a voice no louder than a whisper, she asked, "Arya, do you agree that we arrest Megas Domestikos Adrianos Komnenos tonight?"
To be continued…