Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 24

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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 24
The Winter Sword (24)

The Count’s expression softened slightly.
“I’ve heard that the Jineman Family has been renowned for swordsmanship across generations. You’re still young and haven’t received extensive training, but you surely possess inherited talent, don’t you? And to be honest, when I saw the sword you carry, that’s when I began to conceive this plan in earnest. A household possessing such a blade must certainly have descendants of quality.”
Boris spoke in a cold tone.
“I don’t know whether I possess talent or not.”
“Is that so? Then we’ll test it, and if not, I’ll simply cast you out. The contract will merely end a few months early.”
His words held merit. The Count continued.
“There’s another reason I chose you—the fact that you’re of noble birth, yet have nowhere to return. I could easily find ten or twenty commoner boys. But finding a boy your age who has been educated in noble ways since childhood is not simple. When you go to Anomarad, you’ll need to act as my adopted son, and I haven’t the leisure to teach such things to a commoner ignorant of honor and propriety.”
The Count paused, then spoke again with emphasis.
“Therefore, I hope you’ll make no mistakes that might embarrass me or Rosnis.”
It was half warning. With that, the Count had finished his explanation.
Boris fell into thought. Countless thoughts arose and faded. Among them was a distinct weight of the promises I had made to Tonya and the Blacksmith Bunin.
Until yesterday, I had no place to belong, let alone plan for the future. Now I found myself at a crossroads, forced to choose.
On one hand, it seemed absurd. How could one prepare for the future when life was in such a state? Was such a thing even possible?
Anomarad was a distant land to me. Not merely in physical distance, but a place that had held no meaning in my life until now.
The new life the Count proposed was filled with challenge and trial. If I succeeded, there would be reward in kind. If I failed, I could only blame my own lack of ability.
By contrast, a life as a blacksmith’s apprentice seemed to promise a quieter existence, far removed from further turbulence.
Having endured so many unwanted trials of late, I was drawn to such a life to some degree. If I hid away in such a place, there would be no new pain. No new sacrifice.
Yet Boris was only twelve years old. Too young to bury the possibilities of life.
My nature was not inclined toward curiosity about new things or longing for distant lands. It was not such things that moved my heart. Only one fact did.
Leaving Trabaches.
Departing this land, not needing to return for some time.
“Please… take me with you.”
First, I could escape Uncle Blado’s pursuit. Beyond that, I sought independence of spirit. This was the land where my father died, where my brother died. A land where such death permeated every corner of the earth. Now, and forever.
I wanted to turn my back on that land.
I had no intention of forgetting my father’s and brother’s deaths. But like them, the suggestion that I too would eventually meet such an end seemed to follow one step behind, filling me with dread and trembling.
It was a kind of rage. Frustration and injustice. Must those born in Trabaches live only thus?
How much had I lost, swept up by nothing more than being born in this land? From an aunt whose face I never knew, to Yefnen Jineman—the person I had loved most since my birth until now.
I wanted to escape.
Later, would I be able to say I had decided well? Could I live without regret?
“You’ve decided wisely. Now go rest….”
The Count drew out his words slightly, then added.
“If you wish, you may go to that blacksmith’s shop and bid farewell.”
Boris rose, bowed deeply to the Count and his daughter, and departed.

Blue hills unfolded in gentle undulations, following endlessly. This was Anomarad.
The Katuna Mountain Range that encircled the Shell Peninsula had determined Trabaches’ climate and way of life. Escaping from that humid grasp, I had ventured beneath the Panojarae Mountains, which cut across the blessed verdant lands.
Beneath the Panojarae Mountains, which cradled countless springs and valleys, scattered territories dotted the landscape—all blessed by the region’s temperate southern climate.
Ask which was the most beautiful among them, and opinions split sharply into exactly two camps.
Arajon of white wine, with its picturesque river and sweeping plains that stretched to the horizon.
Belcruze of truffles, winding around the steep eastern ridges and concealing a thousand different vistas within its embrace.
Having two supreme contenders was always problematic. The pride of both regions ran so deep that carelessly broaching this topic before their inhabitants often left one worse for wear.
Yet as a visitor, the inability to choose between either landscape was pure delight. And the residents themselves were satisfied only when guests gasped in wonder with mouths agape.
By that measure, Boris had already disqualified himself as a proper guest.
From the moment the carriage entered Belcruze, Rosnis had watched Boris intently, waiting for him to express admiration—but to no avail.
The boy’s indifferent eyes remained fixed on the window, yet his face showed not a trace of surprise, and not a single word of praise escaped his lips.
“Tch.”
How tedious. Teasing Camia would be far more entertaining.
Though brief, I had never had a younger sister or older brother before, and this one showed not the slightest promise of amusement.
“Hey, look at me.”
Boris turned only his eyes toward Rosnis.
Rosnis sat with the prim composure of a twenty-year-old lady, dressed in an ivory gown with pink ribbons along the shoulders, waist, and hem—only Camia noticed that the young mistress was bored and at her wit’s end.
“You said you were twelve, right? Well, I’m twelve too. So which one of us becomes the younger sibling?”
Rosnis had anticipated this would become an amusing debate. He would insist on being the older brother, then she would propose comparing birth months, and if that failed, she would argue that she had been in this household first.
If he said that made no sense? Then she would claim: you’re adopted, and I’m the legitimate daughter!
But Boris spoke simply.
“Whatever you prefer. If you want to be my older sister, I’ll call you that.”
“Eh….”
Rosnis loved to construct elaborate plans based on her own predictions, savoring the moment each piece fell into place. The servants who knew the young mistress’s tastes would deliberately provide the answers she desired, one after another, to please her. Of course, Rosnis herself remained oblivious to this arrangement.
In any case, such an anticlimactic conclusion suited her preferences not at all. Rosnis furrowed her brow slightly, then smoothed it, resolving to push forward with her plan regardless.
“When is your birthday? Mine is April 8th.”
“July 12th.”
How could this be? Once again, Rosnis’s carefully laid plan had become useless.
Camia glanced across at the young mistress and stifled a quiet giggle. Her face betrayed plainly that this was not the progression she had hoped for.
Rosnis made a small groaning sound and, unable to restrain herself, spoke again.
“Besides, birthdays don’t really matter, do they? We’re not even real siblings. What matters is that we….”
At that moment, Boris, who had been gazing at the beautiful almond trees appearing beyond the carriage window, turned his head and spoke.
“Right, I understand. Then let’s say I’m your older brother and you’re my younger sister.”
Rosnis’s expression changed entirely. She had realized what she had just done.
“That is….”
“Pffhahaha….”
Camia burst into uncontrollable laughter, though she would pay for it afterward with countless pinches from the young mistress.
Count Belnoir, riding on horseback with his knights, heard the laughter emanating from the carriage and spoke to his secretary.
“It seems the children are getting along well.”
“So it appears, my lord.”
“How fortunate.”
As the Count and his secretary harbored their misunderstanding, the carriage continued its journey, eventually crossing a small stone bridge.
The Belnoir Family crest—a Marguerite flower—was carved into the bridge’s railing. Beyond the crossing, the stream ran parallel to the road. Autumn leaves, half-submerged in the water, spun lazily in the current.
The water, wet with sunlight, gleamed gold. Light shimmered and danced not only across the stream but also upon the thick, glossy leaves of the bay laurel and the slender leaves of the magnolia.
“Ride ahead and announce our arrival!”
At Hugh’s command, two knights galloped toward the castle.
Besides the four-horse carriage carrying Rosnis, the remaining carriages, each drawn by two horses, were laden with specialty goods and gifts purchased in Trabaches.
As the carriage rounded the final corner, Belnoir Castle came into full view—one wall draped entirely in wisteria vines.
Four circular towers stood at the cardinal points along the ivory-hued walls. The conical roofs were a deep brown. It was a colossal fortress: twenty-five rooms, three grand halls with soaring ceilings, and stables capable of housing two hundred horses.
A castle of such magnitude was said to be difficult to find without traveling to the capital itself. It stood as tangible proof of the wealth possessed by Belcruze, the primary source region of truffles—that black gold.
Because the knight had ridden ahead to announce their arrival, some ten servants stood waiting before the main gate. The lady of the castle stood among them as well, attended by two handmaidens.
The Count dismounted, and the servants opened the carriage door. The moment Rosnis stepped out, she rushed toward her mother.
Boris, following behind, caught sight of a woman in a narrow dress with a green shawl draped across her shoulders before he could even fully appreciate the castle’s grandeur. She was speaking to her husband at that very moment.
“So that child is…?”
When the Count answered in a low voice, the Countess fixed her gaze upon Boris with an intensity that was disconcertingly unguarded.
Fortunately, I was spared the awkwardness of greeting her immediately. The Countess was busy scolding Rosnis for running in her dress. Rosnis, aware that her mother would not indulge her tantrums, stood quietly with her head bowed.
Soon after, the party entered the castle.

Countess Belnoir proved difficult to approach based on first impressions alone.
She had a lean frame and was beautiful, yet her brows were unusually narrow and her lips thin. Her voice was clipped, and she rarely smiled. Even the handmaidens seemed to take particular care with their movements in her presence.
The only resemblance between this austere Countess and the exuberant, carefree Rosnis was their bright lemon-colored hair.
After being shown to a room by a servant, Boris was summoned again before he could properly rest. The place he was led to was a spacious and ornate reception room.
The Count, Countess, and Rosnis were all seated, having changed into indoor clothes. I alone remained in my traveling attire. An awkwardness was apparent from the start.
Not a single servant or handmaid was present. Though I had taken a seat, an indescribable unease hung in the air. Tea and pastries sat cooling on the table.
The Countess opened her mouth.
“I received advance notice and have heard the general circumstances. During your stay here, consider this your own home and make yourself comfortable.”
Yet her tone conveyed no such sentiment. It felt less like a formal courtesy and more like words spoken from the outset without any warmth behind them.

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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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