Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 268

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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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Episode 38.
Not Every Child Is an Angel (38)
A noblewoman gazed down at the Grand Square with a wistful expression. The executioner’s platform was being dismantled. Bodies lay haphazardly piled onto carts. Crushed flowers rolled across the crimson stains that had pooled on the ground. Most of the spectators had already dispersed.
“I told you not to stop there for lunch. Three hours of lingering, and look what’s happened.”
“What does it matter? They’ll do it again in a few days. There are plenty of people to kill.”
“I doubt it. I heard they’ve already killed quite a lot. They started with the most vicious ones, so we’ve probably missed most of the worthwhile spectacles.”
“Quite a few managed to flee early on, it seems. The Republic Government or whatever—they posture as the most righteous in the world, but once you look inside, all the big names have escaped and only small fry remain.”
“Really? What about Dansburg?”
A woman in black hunting attire, who had alighted alone from the fourth carriage somewhat late, had been listening to their chatter before interjecting.
“Dansburg died before the Republic Government did.”
“Oh my, is that so? How cowardly of him to flee like that.”
Using Dansburg’s death as an opportunity, the new King Tetzel da Anomarad launched a campaign to conquer Keltika, which led to the Republic’s collapse—but these people were unaware of the details and cared little. In any case, they had reclaimed Keltika, and that was what mattered.
The woman in black hunting attire, Marquise Lorraine, merely shrugged her shoulders. The Marquise was the great-niece of Duke Amicen, the late leader of the Royalist Faction, and had entered the Capital shortly after the Keltika campaign concluded. Like when the Republican Government had first taken power ten years ago, she was watching the half-mad bloodstorm sweeping through Keltika with utter indifference.
The rest were the Marquise’s relatives, who had lived near Keltika but fled to the central regions during the Republican uprising, spending ten years as dependents in someone else’s manor. Only after hearing the news of Keltika’s fall belatedly did they return, stopping by to see the Capital.
Another man spoke.
“Why, if he’s dead, can’t we cut off his head? We could dig him up from his grave. See over there? A wretch like Dansburg should have had his head hung prominently on that wall for people like us to see whenever we visit.”
He pointed to the City Wall across from the Grand Square. Indeed, dried bloodstains were visible there, as if heads had been hung multiple times. But recently, there seemed to be no notable heads displayed, as the wall stood empty.
“True enough. We could drag him from his grave and tear him to shreds, and it still wouldn’t be satisfying. But didn’t Dansburg have children?”
“Three, I believe? Perhaps they’ve all been captured and executed. We need to make an example.”
“Exactly. We should kill every last descendant and hang them all up there.”
They were nobility, yet they did not speak with the refined restraint of the old days. As if competing over who despised the Republican Faction more, they spouted violent words loudly. After listening for some time, Marquise Lorraine finally spoke.
“Enough. We’ll be late for the evening reception.”
At that, they quickly ceased their talk and boarded the carriages. The Marquise, who had been the darling of society in her youth, was also the one who had invited them to Keltika.
While the nobility observed the Grand Square, those waiting inside the carriage were visible. From their appearance together, one might have taken them for their children—a boy and girl. Yet a closer look would have revealed that their attire, though neat, resembled that of servants.
One boy’s gaze remained fixed on the wall across from the Grand Square. His eyes held no bewilderment, no fear, no revulsion—merely a calm, steady expression. The Marquise, who had taken her seat beside the boy in the carriage, glanced briefly at what he was watching before speaking.
“At least they’ve removed those unsightly corpses from that wall. I heard Duke Arnim had something to say about it. Truly an amusing person, the Duke. Remember this well, Joseph. When you act without preparation, this is what becomes of you.”
The boy did not answer. It was unusual even for a servant, but the Marquise paid it no mind. Instead, she gently stroked the boy’s head as if he were her own son. Yet the Marquise was too old and bore no resemblance to the boy, who appeared to be around eleven or twelve. The Marquise had a slender frame with prominent eyebrows and cheekbones that gave her a stern impression. The boy, by contrast, had a face so delicate he might have been a porcelain doll, with the rare pale blue hair.
The boy still showed no reaction. The Marquise spoke again.
“The next opportunity will take a very long time to arrive. There are so many fools, after all. Perhaps no opportunity will ever come again. What can be done about it? It is their own doing. I wonder if Martin is watching this? If ghosts exist, I would ask for his thoughts.”
Martin was the name of the dead Dansburg. The Marquise mentioned his name as casually as one might speak of a friend, though all the Royalists who had returned to Keltika ground their teeth at the sound of it.
In this carriage were only the Marquise and the boy. A faint sneer played at the corners of the Marquise’s mouth, as if she found all the atmosphere her faction had carefully constructed in Keltika utterly contemptible.
The boy, by contrast, was expressionless, as if devoid of emotion. His lack of facial change made him seem almost vacant. Yet even so, his gaze did not waver from the scenery beyond the window. He was taking it all in, as if determined to remember everything.
The other carriage had a different atmosphere.
“I hear there’s a music festival here tomorrow. The Capital has so many entertaining things these days.”
“That would be fun, wouldn’t it? Dancing while treading on the blood of those Republican dogs. I’ve always wanted to do that.”
“Should I have new shoes made? In a bright red color to match the blood.”
With cheerful laughter and giggling, the carriages turned away from the Grand Square and departed, trampling Snowbell flowers beneath their wheels.
They were not alone in possessing such peculiar sensibilities. The nobility who had returned to Keltika at this time were consumed by malice proportional to their suffering. Thus, they felt no difficulty in applauding as if attending a concert when witnessing the necks of the condemned swinging and blood raining down.
At that time, Duke Arnim quietly waited for this period of madness to end. The nobility who had returned to the Capital were occupied with holding boisterous celebration parties, confirming who among their acquaintances had survived, but the Duke held no banquets and did not attend gatherings where many assembled. Those with whom he had been acquainted came to pay their respects and asked when the young Duke would return, but the Duke answered only “not yet.”
For Joshua to return, Keltika could not remain as it was. More time had to pass for people to regain their senses.
Duke Arnim didn’t think it wise for his young son to know too many details about the final outcome of this war that he’d sketched with his own hands. The boy was only twelve, after all, and he had no intention of showing him anything crueler than a broken doll. Even if the child was a Demonic, even if he could anticipate the sacrifices that would follow with startling clarity—seeing it with his own eyes would be fundamentally different.
That much was something a father could do. Though the Demonic might not be manageable, his twelve-year-old son still deserved his protection. Within the reach of his hands, he would do his utmost to provide it.
For that to happen, even if a reprieve was necessary, Joshua would eventually have to return. To his father’s side, as the Young Duke.
Two months later.
Twelve-year-old Joshua gazed up at the tall main gate of Jade Ring Castle, which he’d left over two years ago. He’d just stepped down from the carriage.
“Young Master Joshua has finally arrived!”
The Old Gatekeeper greeted Joshua with an attitude that suggested he might scoop him up in his arms if he weren’t the young master of the household. Joshua studied the old man’s face intently before speaking.
“Grandfather, you’re exactly the same as before.”
“At my age, there’s nothing new to change about me. But you, Young Master—you’ve changed so much. The countryside must agree with you. To think that small young master has grown so much.”
It was true. Every corner of the house seemed smaller or lower than before. Joshua had grown more than a hand’s breadth in that time. He crossed the hall slowly, feeling as though he’d entered a strange place. When he suddenly thought of the “glass doll,” it felt as though that figure might actually be here in this house in his stead.
At the foot of the staircase leading to the second floor, Father stood just as he had on the day Joshua left.
“Joshua—or rather, our Young Duke.”
Franz von Arnim looked down at Joshua with dignity preceding warmth in his expression. He was no longer Citizen Arnim of the Republic. Like Icabon, the founding Duke, Franz had become a Duke again through his own strength.
“I’m back.”
When Joshua spoke briefly, a smile gradually spread across Father’s face. Joshua thought he remembered well what kind of person his father was. Had his memory been distorted? Or was it because he’d grown? Father’s smile was not as purely warm as he remembered it to be.
“Welcome home. I’ve always worried about how you were getting along.”
Father surely knew that Joshua had been under Hispanie’s protection, but it wasn’t something to speak of openly.
As Joshua approached, Father took his hand. It was the hand that once completely covered Joshua’s small one. But now, clasping it, two joints of his fingers extended beyond Joshua’s.
“Everything has come to pass, just as you said. Yes, our Young Duke must now become the Earl of Armorique. I cannot tell you how happy I am to give you that name.”
….
Joshua heard those words with an inward flinch, stepping back mentally by one pace. Earl of Armorique. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that title. He knew that once Father reclaimed his rank, he would receive that title. Yet somehow, hearing such words now felt inappropriate.
“Let’s go up.”
Hand in hand with Father, he climbed the staircase. The broad staircase where he used to sit and count the patterns on the railing had shrunk like an aging tree.
The Earl of Armorique was a title passed down through successive heirs of Duke Arnim, carrying the meaning of “one who came from the sea.” It was a name given to remember that Icabon had risen from the South Sea. If not for the Republican Revolution—or rather, the rebellion—it would have been used long ago.
“When would be good? Next year you’ll be thirteen on your birthday, so receiving the title on that birthday would be nice, but I think hastening it a bit wouldn’t be bad either.”
Children of Rune – Winterer
Author: Jeon Min-hee
Publisher: 14 Month Books
The copyright to this book belongs to the author and 14 Month Books.
To reuse all or part of the contents of this book, written consent from both parties is required.

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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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