Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 138

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————

Chapter 138.
Two Swords, Four Names (22)
As the food began to arrive, the Duchess mentioned that today’s guests had traveled from distant lands, so she had prepared dishes in the Hyacan style.
Since nearly all the nobility maintained villas in Hyacan, they welcomed the mention of Hyacan cuisine with evident approval.
“My, to taste the flavors of home in such a distant place—I cannot express my gratitude for such thoughtfulness. It creates the delightful illusion that I myself have hosted this banquet. Truly, what an exquisite table. As elegant and refined as the courts of Hyacan itself….”
The first to speak offered his praise, yet the self-congratulatory tone of his words drew the attention of those around him.
The voice belonged to one of tomorrow’s competitors—a young man from Hyacan, or rather, a member of the royal family. Whispers circulated that his name was Wolfren and that he was a cousin of the Queen of Hyacan.
He was a handsome youth with a slightly prominent nose and shoulder-length hair swept back neatly from his face.
His jacket glittered with brilliant colored gems, and multiple layers of gold chains adorned his neck. It seemed the rumors that the royal palace of Hyacan was the wealthiest on the Continent were no mere gossip.
Southern flavors dominated the table. Chicken marinated in olive oil and roasted released the aroma of cumin, and when I tasted rice wrapped in grape leaves, a subtle tartness mingled with the flavor.
Following Hyacan custom, which eschewed pork, thick slices of lamb ham were served. Beside seasoned beef grilled with generous portions of tomato and paprika lay thin, crispy flatbread.
Those accustomed to Hyacan cuisine rolled the beef in the flatbread and ate it in one bite. It was a dish that harmonized beautifully with the tangy tomato flavor.
“Indeed! This dish requires the spices to be properly balanced, and the lady of the manor clearly possesses excellent taste. However…the bread could have been baked a touch less. Well, this is not Hyacan, so one cannot expect everything to be identical, can one? Would you not agree?”
The Hyacan youth talked incessantly. Before long, the Anomarad nobility exchanged glances of disapproval and whispered among themselves. In Northern custom, for a guest to openly critique the food presented by the lady of the house was a considerable breach of courtesy.
Yet such matters were the concern of the nobility alone, and did not extend to the commoners Boris, Isolet, and Hector’s company.
Though nominally the guests of honor, the banquet ultimately belonged to the nobility, and the commoners were merely incidental attendants.
Roughly twenty guests had gathered for the feast. Boris, who had been carefully avoiding eye contact, occasionally glancing only at Isolet, suddenly caught a voice that pierced his ears.
It was an unfamiliar voice, yet why it rang so distinctly clear above all others, I could not initially comprehend.
“Truly. How I wish my daughter would grow quickly and become as accomplished a mistress of the household as the Duchess. A manor without its lady is like a desolate tomb.”
A response followed.
“Our Chloe has her shortcomings as well. She is particularly unfamiliar with Southern customs, you understand. As you know, she has spent far too long in the North since childhood. And surely, Count, for your daughter’s sake, you should soon welcome a worthy new mistress to your household.”
Again came the man’s voice—a voice that burrowed into my ears, that lodged itself in my very mind, that scattered recovered memories like spilled glass beads across the floor—and it seized my entire body in an iron grip.
“Oh, but the young lady is renowned as Anomarad’s finest maiden, without flaw. Why such modesty? Should the two girls become friends, there would be much to learn from one another, would there not, Rose?”
“Yes, Father.”
An irresistible impulse surged forth like a phantom, numbing reason itself. Boris’s head snapped up, and I fixed a piercing gaze in that direction.
There he was. The owner of that unforgettable voice, smiling with the lady of the manor, and simultaneously seized by some strange pull, turning his gaze toward me.
A brief exchange of glances pierced across the length of the table.
“!”
Servants’ outstretched arms and hands quickly obscured the view, then revealed it again, then obscured it once more. Servants circulated with skewers of large meat, carving portions for each guest. Visible, then hidden again…. Yet the revelation was like a flash of lightning.
Ganimede da Belnoir.
Count Belnoir.
Isolet gazed at the thick apricot-colored sauce placed before her, thinking she could never grow accustomed to this particular flavor. She recalled how even Boris, who was not particular about food, had shaken his head after taking a single sip of the tart beverage served at the beginning.
The nobles called this yogurt, made from similar ingredients as that beverage, but to Isolet’s taste, it resembled something spoiled. She had reached the conclusion that it was best simply not to eat it.
“…?”
Boris had not simply stopped eating because the sauce displeased him. Though his expression remained unchanged, his entire body had gone rigid as stone. His downcast eyes held no focus.
Rather than speak, Isolet lowered her hand beneath the table and rested it gently upon his knee. After a moment in this state, Boris started slightly and looked toward Isolet.
“….”
Isolet shook her head silently, asking nothing. Boris had regained his senses only because he felt the warmth of her knee beneath his palm.
Boris turned his attention back to his meal. Yet his lips trembled faintly.
“No, indeed. Your continued words of praise make me uncomfortable, and this fine food becomes difficult to swallow.”
“My, is the young Count also feeling nervous about tomorrow’s match? It hardly seemed as though you’d face any formidable opponents.”
“I believe one cannot truly know an opponent’s depth until blades cross.”
Luisan von Kangfir answered with composure as the girls seated on either side continued their questions. Yet his gaze drifted repeatedly toward Boris’s face before withdrawing.
Once the meal concluded, everyone proceeded to the dessert spread arranged in the grand Salon. The room was furnished with chairs upholstered in blue satin, positioned around tables intricately carved from fine glass.
There, Boris found himself tensing once more—this time due to Hector’s brazen approach.
Hector, who had become Clanthi Alistair from Anomarad, greeted him with exaggerated flourishes as though showcasing his theatrical prowess, even offering praise for his skill.
Yet with Count Belnoir’s presence weighing upon him, Boris’s nerves remained wound so tightly that he lacked the composure to engage in such banter.
He caught a glimpse of Rosnis as well, though he knew all too keenly that he could not acknowledge her.
Fragrant tea arrived alongside honey-glazed walnuts and two varieties of crêpes—one with cheese, the other with orange liqueur—followed shortly by Keltika’s specialty: a chocolate cake thickly layered with apricot jam.
Murmurs of admiration rippled through the gathering, yet I could not muster the appetite to taste even a morsel.
Already, I was contemplating whether I must slip away from the Manor tonight. I could only pray that the banquet would end swiftly, allowing me to return to my quarters and think in solitude.
Isolet gazed at the dessert plate before her and spoke softly.
“You’ve encountered someone you know?”
“Yes.”
“Someone unwelcome?”
“Yes.”
“Then. We’ll speak of it later.”
That was all. While I remained lost in thought, Isolet rose to fetch more tea. After taking only a few steps, a familiar voice suddenly blocked her path.
“Ah, the humble young lady who set so many noble hearts aflutter today. Might you grant me the happiness of hearing your lovely name?”
She soon recognized why that voice seemed so familiar—it had been playing like background music throughout the entire banquet.
Before her stood Wolfren, a prince of Hyacan’s royal house, regarding her with a charming smile.
“….”
Isolet was not the sort to respond graciously to such inquiries. She simply resumed walking, but Wolfren blocked her path with an exaggerated gesture and exclaimed.
“No, wait! Do you know who I am, treating me with such disregard? I’ll have you know I am descended from one of the most noble royal houses on the Continent itself. Are you truly suggesting my words hold no value?”
Had she encountered such a commoner elsewhere, she might have cried out in indignation and made a scene. But this was a foreign Duke’s banquet, and the other party was a beautiful young girl, so she saw no reason to escalate matters.
Only then did Isolet lift her gaze, deciding there was no need to provoke him and draw the attention of those around them.
Yet the answer that emerged from her lips was this:
“Is there a purpose to this?”
Wolfren’s face flushed deeply, though it seemed less from anger than from bewilderment. He had assumed that a pretty commoner girl would readily succumb to his genteel advances.
“I… I merely asked your name.”
“Isolet. As I am but a humble commoner, I possess no other name.”
Wolfren, having barely regained his composure, rolled the name around in his mouth before breaking into a satisfied smile. His shifts in demeanor were remarkably swift.
“Isolet. Oh, Isolet. What a splendid name it is. To think a commoner could possess such a gift for naming. I’ve recently acquired a breeding stallion and was thinking of asking someone to name it for me.”
Wolfren was particularly prone to tactless remarks, even for a nobleman. He treated the stallion and the girl with equal regard, entirely oblivious to his transgression.
Yet Isolet was offended for an entirely different reason and shot back immediately.
“My father does not name horses.”
Though the conversation had come full circle, Wolfren, having at last perceived her displeasure, responded with an apologetic yet cloying smile.
“Ah, my apologies—truly, I apologize. Even commoners possess their own honor, it seems. For a girl with such an arrogant countenance as yours, it is a fitting ornament. I should like to elevate your honor further still. Will you grant me the opportunity to do so in tomorrow’s match?”
“I do not grasp your meaning, but one’s honor is earned solely by one’s own blade. How could another possibly bestow honor upon you?”
Upon hearing an answer worthy of a sword-wielding warrior, Wolfren flinched and looked down at Isolet’s face.
After a moment, he reinterpreted what he’d overheard to suit his purposes and made another attempt at flattery.
“Since you claim not to understand, allow me to explain it myself. If you were to give me something of yours—perhaps a fragrant handkerchief or a delicate sleeve—it would become a token of good fortune for me. I would bind it to my sword, fight in the tournament, achieve victory, and thereby elevate your honor. Clearly, as a commoner, you’re unfamiliar with such customs, are you not?”
In truth, such practices belonged to social jousting tournaments among the nobility. Silverskull had no precedent for such behavior.
But Wolfren cared nothing for such distinctions.
“Let me reiterate—to receive such a proposal from one as noble as myself is a grace so profound that even a lifetime of service from someone as beautiful as you could never repay it. Ah, but if you wish, I could grant you such an opportunity. That too would become an honor….”
Isolet was not a woman of slow comprehension.
She grasped the situation at once, caught sight of Boris’s face approaching from beyond Wolfren’s back, and found the words she needed to say.
Isolet stepped back and spoke with a cutting tone—one as arrogant as any nobleman’s, born from an innate pride.
“Your token of good fortune will return to me upon the tip of my brother Boris’s blade, so why trouble yourself?”

—————
This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
—————