Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 155

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 155.
The Voice of the Sealed Land (1)
Snow continued to fall. The path leading to the Town Hall was blanketed with countless footprints, gleaming like freshly caught mink fur.
Daphnen had seen a mink only once during his years on the Continent.
Of course, it had been a dead one—more precisely, a small head dangling from a silver-gray mink fur stole that a certain noblewoman visiting Jineman Manor had worn with great pride.
At least there had been a head, so one could say he had encountered a mink, he thought. He learned the creature’s name and the exorbitant price from Nanny’s lips after the official and his wife had departed.
Among mink furs that could ‘actually’ be obtained, the silver-gray mink was the most precious, or so she had said.
Actually? When he asked in that manner, Nanny explained with a note of complaint.
“They say there are white-furred minks in the distant northern lands. Their fur is tan-colored in other seasons, turning white only in winter, so they must be hunted specifically then. Not only noblewomen but even queens and princesses desire such pelts—they’re said to be more valuable than gold itself. Catching even a single one is enough to change a hunter’s fortune, or so the merchants wandering about claim when they meet with the ladies, spinning such wondrous tales. Of course, this Nanny believes nothing she hasn’t seen with her own eyes. So surely the finest obtainable mink must be the silver-gray variety, yes? But they say that white mink fur is as beautiful as a meadow at dawn covered in pristine snow untouched by any footfall.”
Recalling these words, I understood why the sight of the snowfield had conjured such an odd memory of mink fur.
Daphnen chuckled softly and wondered: had Nanny, who claimed to believe only what she had seen with her own eyes, truly witnessed the phantom—or rather, the monster—of Emera Lake?
Now even her fate remained unknown.
“It is time.”
Feeling a hand tap his shoulder, Daphnen ascended the Town Hall’s steps.
He passed the place where he had once climbed when accepted as a member of The Island, then walked along the rectangular colonnade encircling the Town Hall.
Many islanders followed with measured steps. The procession turned a corner and halted before an arched entrance on the eastern face of the Town Hall.
This entrance was the doorless, open passage Daphnen had seen when he first arrived on The Island and visited the Town Hall. He soon discovered it was not ordinarily used.
Like the entrance to the barrier surrounding the village, it appeared merely open, yet without a spell or gesture serving as a key, one could not pass through.
Since everyone normally used other entrances, most had forgotten this one’s existence.
Now Priestess Despoina stood before that entrance.
The priestess wielded the staff “Rune of the Listener,” adorned with a crescent crystal, once, then chanted an incantation in an unknown tongue.
“Bona dea, trnitos theos, telo exousia.”
As she extended the crescent crystal, which scattered faint light toward the entrance, a transparent veil-like barrier touched and dissolved away. Despoina stepped back, opening the path, and Daphnen passed through the entrance.
Upon entering the Town Hall, priests stood arrayed in two lines. Among them, I glimpsed Nauplion.
As Daphnen halted, the priests arranged themselves in an elongated semicircle around him, all with hands placed upon their sacred objects and eyes closed.
Soon a semi-transparent shimmer materialized before Daphnen. It transformed into an image of the altar—a thick stone disc resting upon an hourglass-shaped pedestal.
The image grew increasingly distinct. Lines were drawn across the altar, then became branches bearing tendrils that extended outward.
At each branch tip and joint, leaves were born. Soon the surroundings became a forest. Gradually, it grew more vivid. Finally, white snow—identical to that falling outside the Town Hall—began to descend upon it.
The snowflakes vanished the moment they touched the ground. All of this was merely a temporary transposition of a distant place. All who watched understood this.
This altar was one of the ruins scattered within the forbidden forest between the coast where the Dock lay and the village.
When islanders ventured to the Continent, they departed the Dock and, upon entering the forest’s edge, traversed the forest via a transfer gate, emerging before the village. Thus, the ruins scattered throughout the forest were accessible only to priests and a select few. Viewing them by image, as today, was an exceptionally rare occurrence.
“Come hither.”
Daphnen approached the semi-transparent forest altar. The priests parted to make way.
Drawing near, he could see what lay upon the altar. Among various artifacts was an object Daphnen recognized at a glance—identical to what he now held in his hand.
A silver skull with only hollow sockets and nasal cavity, its intricately carved teeth gleaming silver even through the falling snow, gazed with an indifferent expression as though new possessors held no interest. The silver skull that had come to The Island a generation prior regarded him thus.
Or rather, it was merely vacant eye sockets.
…
Daphnen raised what he held in his hand high. Then Priestess Despoina’s voice resonated.
“Apprentice Pilgrim who has brought the second Silverskull to Moon Island, the worth of your deed shall endure long alongside the forest altar that holds treasures. And one day, it shall fade away.”
There were no grandiose words of commendation or flowery embellishments. Hearing such plain language, he recalled the ornate phrases the Master of Ceremonies at Pontina Castle had poured forth.
When Daphnen returned to Anomarad anew, it greeted him with the same indifferent demeanor of a wealthy man unbothered by expectation.
“Your Majesty, I beseech you. Watch over us. Protect us.”
As Daphnen approached, his body too gradually became translucent like the altar itself. Standing before the altar, he placed the second Silverskull beside the first.
In that moment, my body existed not here but in a distant forest, and real snow lay thinly upon my shoulders. The sounds of the forest whispered at my ears.
“The Queen, pleased with this humble offering, wishes to bestow upon you a name. From this day forth, you shall be known as ‘Furakan, He Who Prepares,’ one whom the Moon Queen herself has deemed worthy of her regard, and you shall be called by this honored title alongside your Pilgrim name, twice proclaimed.”
A small murmur rippled through the gathering. The title “Furakan” felt as unfamiliar to Daphnen as it did uncomfortable to the Island’s people. Within that name lay duties long forgotten and buried in darkness.
When Daphnen first came to the Island, he had once heard from Enios of the Three Great Duties of the Pilgrims.
Long ago, when these duties were established, leaders called the “Bound” were also elected and given special titles. Among them, the title linked to the third duty—”to prepare for the kingdom’s return”—was precisely “Furakan, He Who Prepares.”
The word Furakan, said to derive from the titles of the Ancient Kingdom, meant “the wind that awaits its time.”
Though the duties themselves had not vanished, their binding force had greatly weakened since the Island’s early settlement. Now it was unclear who had last held those titles.
Then, when the Ilios Priest brought the first Silverskull in his youth, the Island’s people unanimously granted him the title of the first Bound: “Belkandar, He Who Restores.”
They believed his actions had restored even a fragment of the Ancient Kingdom’s glory.
Yet Daphnen, unlike Ilios, was but an apprentice Pilgrim, and moreover, he shared no blood with them.
Whether such a great title should be bestowed upon Daphnen, and if they intended to grant him equal honor as Ilios who had brought the first Silverskull, why had they skipped the second Bound’s title and chosen the third instead—such reasons only the priesthood knew. More precisely, only Priestess Despoina alone knew.
The Island’s people had no family names. Save for aliases used when venturing to the Continent, they bore but a single name for life, and to possess two names was a great honor.
The greatest gift bestowed upon celebrated Achievement was a second name. Among the six priests, not a single soul was called by two names.
Turning from the altar, Daphnen beheld those who gazed upon him. The gathered crowd seemed to him like a frieze carved upon the Town Hall’s wall.

On the night the ceremony ended, Daphnen and Nauplion sat together in quiet repose for the first time in ages.
Upon returning to the Island, they had been consumed with reporting their achievements and preparing the ceremony, leaving neither the priest Nauplion nor the ceremony’s subject Daphnen opportunity to share tales of their travels and ease their longing.
Daphnen and Isolet had returned to the Island late, as winter was beginning, far later than the other children.
The wounds upon his back had not healed as swiftly as hoped, necessitating rest before undertaking the voyage.
The Island’s people had learned of Daphnen’s achievements at Silverskull from the children who had returned earlier, and thus they awaited the arrival of these two.
That night, the joy felt by master and disciple was singular. Nauplion, who understood the value of the title “Furakan” far better than Daphnen, rejoiced more greatly at its bestowal.
Daphnen felt pride in having elevated his master’s honor through the sword. They understood each other’s hearts without need for words.
Outside, snow fell quietly. Winter on the Island often began thus, with snow suddenly pouring down as it did tonight.
“You’ve grown gaunt. The Continent truly is no place to live, is it?”
“While I was away on the Continent, I worried constantly—would my priest eat on time without me? Who would clean? Who would do the laundry? Fretting day and night like that, I wasted away.”
“Don’t go boasting as though you did everything. I managed well enough alone while you were gone.”
“Then what of those shabby clothes you’re wearing now? Before winter came, I should have washed the bedsheets and dried them in the sun, but now the snow has fallen and it’s all too late. And furthermore—”
Perhaps this was simply the way these two conversed with each other. Moments later, they faced one another and smiled softly.
“You’ve returned safely.”
“You’ve been well.”
Before the two lay a plate of roasted hazelnuts, the beloved treat of those who kept winter’s vigil through the night. There was also dried cod, a luxurious delicacy.
Seeing this, Daphnen suddenly rose as though remembering something. He dragged toward him the travel pack he had cast down and left neglected since returning from the Continent.
The pack was remarkably bulging. Nauplion spoke in jest.
“Did you go to the Continent and collect all manner of trinkets like the rest? What use is it for someone who lived on the Continent to do the same foolish thing as the Island’s rustics?”
Daphnen paused in opening his pack and lifted his head with a slight laugh.
“I’ve brought something that only those who lived on the Continent would long for. Well, if you find it unwelcome, I’ll simply eat it myself.”
“Truly, having a disciple who insists on winning every argument makes life troublesome. Go on, take it out and show me.”
What Daphnen withdrew was an oak barrel. Nauplion recognized it at once. As he set it upon the table, a dull thud echoed from within—something shifting against the wooden sides.

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