Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 2

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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 2
The Winter Sword (2)

“Brother, could you get me something to drink? I’ve ridden half the day and my throat is parched.”
Rulken spoke slowly.
“Would you like some dark ale?”
“Ha, after spending so long abroad, my tastes have changed. I’ll just have some ginger ale.”
Ginger ale, a beverage without alcohol, was not something Blado had ever enjoyed. Yet when Rulken gestured to a servant to bring drinks, he was well aware of his younger brother’s true intentions.
Rulken must have considered that Blado would eventually return. And there was no guarantee he hadn’t prepared poison mixed into Blado’s favorite beverages in anticipation.
The left corner of Rulken’s mouth lifted. The graying brother recognized that his counterpart wore a similar expression.
Yes, blood bound them together, that much was certain. But they had opposed each other for more than a decade. Compromise was clearly impossible.
His younger brother had been away from home for five years after being driven out. What card did he hold now that he dared return of his own accord?
The brothers brought their ginger ale glasses to their lips. Even this gesture bore an uncanny resemblance.
“Should I ask your business?”
“Well, to save you the trouble, I’ll explain myself.”
Blado continued, lifting the right corner of his mouth like a mirror image of Rulken.
“You know of Khan Elector, don’t you? I’m sure you haven’t kept your ears entirely closed to news from Longord. This time, I’ve been serving at his side…”
Rulken snorted derisively.
“If you’re going to spout nonsense, leave. Find yourself another nest.”
Unlike before, Blado did not smile. His yellow eyes flashed.
“This nest doesn’t belong to you alone, does it? Longord is an estate our parents left equally to both of us brothers. It seems you’ve forgotten that.”
The moment he bristled, the speech patterns of his youth spilled out. Rulken regarded him coldly.
“Have you forgotten how you forfeited that right? Yenichka, who died so unjustly, must be watching from beneath the earth as you return today.”
Blado chewed his lips and retorted.
“How is it my fault that woman died?”
In that instant, Rulken felt something rise in his throat and slammed his glass down with a sharp crack. Brown droplets scattered across the table.
“If not for your scheming, why would she have gone to Emera Lake alone—she who trembled at mere mention of it since childhood?”
“Ha! Yenichka was still alive when she returned from the lake! You’re the one who had her killed by refusing to treat her properly when she was raving mad, aren’t you?”
“How dare you spew such filthy sophistry!”
The remaining ale splashed down Blado’s face from the glass.
Blado wiped the droplets trailing down his cheek with his sleeve. A low voice emerged from his twisted smile.
“Hmph… how delightful. Do your best, brother. I never expected to hear your opinions anyway. When has a Jineman ever bent their stubborn convictions before a blade reached their throat? Ha, ha, even our parents couldn’t break the stubbornness of their sons, each throwing themselves into different factions. And Yenichka eventually wrote her own name into the Flame Moru Faction’s roster, following the man who would become her husband.”
Blado chuckled softly and continued.
“Was Janine any different? Even now she leads the charge in the March Circle Faction, doesn’t she? Ha, ha, ha, so you think your sons will be different? When they grow a bit older, they might very well abandon the Katcha you worship like a god and insist on joining something completely different—the True Army Faction, perhaps! It’s hardly impossible!”
Rulken’s eyes gleamed. The parlor had grown dark early due to the overcast weather, and not a single candle burned.
“Hehehehe, by that count, there are five factions in one household—five! Or should I say four now, since our parents are dead?”
Rulken made no further reply. He spoke quietly.
“Leave.”
“I’m going.”
Blado rose abruptly. Yet with a sneer still on his face, he spun the finger he pointed at his brother in circles.
“But you’ll regret it, won’t you? Don’t forget that I came today to seek reconciliation with you one last time. Yes, it was your final chance. If you had only handed over that ‘Winterbottom Kit,’ I would have forgotten the past entirely and forgiven you at last. What do you say—won’t you reconsider?”
Yulken muttered as if spitting out the words.
“That thing will never fall into your hands while my head remains whole.”
“Hmph, a fair point. I understand.”
Blado chuckled, the wrinkles on his face deepening as if he had anticipated the response. Then he narrowed his eyes as though savoring the darkened expression on Yulken’s face.
“It’s obvious even to a blind man that Khan Elector will ascend to the chancellorship in this election. Do you truly believe there’s anywhere on this peninsula where you can take root without following him? And with you being a man of the ‘Katcha Faction’—the very faction Khan Elector despises most—what other escape route could possibly exist for you? Once the election ends, you’ll be nothing but a chunk of meat before a tiger. You should have pretended to be persuaded when your younger brother showed mercy. Or was that simply beneath a member of the Jineman Family?”
“I said leave!”
Yulken understood well what Blado meant. It was nothing new to him.
The Khan Elector whom his younger brother had served recently had already secured the backing of half of the fifteen Electors. Only three opposed him—led by Katsuya Elector, whom Blado mockingly called ‘Katcha.’
The rest, though they had not formally declared their support, followed the tide of inevitability.
The election was already lost. Yulken knew this as well.
Yet if one carried even a modicum of distinguished blood from the Jineman Family—or indeed from the Trabaches Republic—then political conviction was treasured like life itself. It was common knowledge that many would abandon life itself to follow their principles.
The Jineman Family held a particular renown in this regard. Perhaps the brothers had been torn apart so brutally because the Electors, valuing this very reputation, had tempted them so relentlessly.
Yes, when had it begun? When did the entire nation, unable even to afford bread in abundance, become entranced and convulsed by talk of conviction and faction? Was it after Trabaches adopted its peculiar system of Electoral selection and republicanism?
No, this is not truly a republic at all. It is nothing but a malevolent distortion of monarchy that divides the entire populace into hundreds of factions, turning parent against child, brother against brother, friend against friend.
Yet it could not be broken. From ancient times in Trabaches, abandoning a master once sworn to serve was regarded as eternal disgrace.
Thus, the factions that numbered merely eight at the founding of the republic have fractured into hundreds today, and the ugly struggle—stained with conflict and assassination—shows no sign of ceasing.
Knowing all this, Yulken too could not follow his father and mother’s faction, could not unite with his younger brother, and could not draw in his sister’s betrothed.
It was not uncommon in Trabaches for families to be torn asunder in this manner by factional division.
The Electors, and the council members aspiring to become Electors in the next election, would employ any means to draw anyone of even modest renown to their side. Then, by scheming to have that person drive out their own blood and seize control of the household, a single vote would materialize.
In this process, it mattered not to them that brothers were divided, husbands and wives became enemies, mothers and sons turned their backs on one another.
For anyone born human in Trabaches, there was but one goal: that their own faction seize power!
His younger brother walked out without even a farewell, smirking to the very last moment.
“If you had listened to me today, the second son would never have inherited the Jineman household. What a shame. Go ahead and cling to everything with all your might until I come to take it from you.”
The door slammed shut.
Left alone, Yulken sat motionless, like a statue.
He was a man who had lived within the maelstrom of political strife. He had grown sick of witnessing how one faction in Trabaches annihilated another. The talk of seeking reconciliation was mere honeyed words; he had truly come to declare war.
Come seeking the Winterbottom Kit? Nonsense!
Blado knew far better than anyone that Yulken would never surrender it willingly.
Of course, Blado had not come alone. Outside the manor, an army surely waited with their assault preparations complete, and he had brought measures to protect himself. He had made his preparations, but he knew they would be useless.
Though it was the place of his birth, the manor was now no different from enemy territory. Blado would not enter it carelessly. By his age, he had rolled through the political arena enough and tasted blood enough to know better.
“Tulk.”
“Yes, master.”
A voice came from behind the curtain drawn across the parlor wall.
“Resistance.”
“Yes, I shall prepare.”
The presence of the person behind the curtain faded away silently. Beyond lay a secret passage leading directly outside.
Yulken gazed down at the spilled ale and the two cups placed beside it, then rose. He pushed open the tall window and looked down. He could see two servants leading their horses away beside Blado as he mounted his steed.
Soon after mounting, he spurred his horse toward the Meadow where the brothers had spent their childhood together.
Yefnen hurried. He refused to let a servant carry him and instead cradled his younger brother in his own arms as he rushed toward the manor. By the time he reached the entrance, the rain had begun to fall in earnest.
“Where is Father?”
“He is on this floor.”
Just moments ago, I had watched Uncle Vlado’s horse disappear beyond the Meadow. Yefnen set down his younger brother, whose body had gone rigid as stone, and asked again.
“Has Tulk come down?”
“Yes. He has already gone out to the training grounds.”
Yefnen nodded.
“Then there is no need to go. Boris, let us return to your room.”
There was no time to change out of the soil-caked boots. Seeds and mud smeared across the pristine floorboards and carpets.
I shoved through the blocking doors with rough haste and ran. Upon reaching the bedchamber, Yefnen spun around, slammed the door shut, and locked it firmly.
After settling Boris on the bed, I immediately opened the wardrobe. I yanked out the neatly folded clothes and hurled them to the floor. When a small steel-hinged box came into view, I drew a key from my pocket and turned it. The lid opened, revealing a thick black key—as wide as two fingers.
“Boris, go to your room and retrieve the brigandine armor Father gave you. Do not forget to bring the sword and boots as well. You understand? You know what to do.”
I felt my younger brother’s eyes sweep across the scattered garments in disarray, but I had nothing more to offer him in words. Boris rose and went to his own room, which adjoined mine.
By the time Boris, with the Nanny’s assistance, had finished arming himself, my own urgent hands had completed their task.
I shoved the heavy wardrobe aside and tore away the camouflaged wooden panel affixed to the rear wall. My fingers found the keyhole of the iron safe concealed within. I inserted the thick key and turned it with force—click—the lock gave way.

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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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