Children of the Rune – Winterer - Chapter 61

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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 61.
The Island of the Survivors (3)

The old year had finally passed.
It was the first time I had welcomed a new year so quietly. There were no celebratory feasts, no fireworks, no all-night parties. The day dawned like any other.
On the evening of January 1st, Isildor San and Boris sat facing a campfire, gnawing on dry bread.
Boris, who was not particular about food, consumed all the bread without complaint despite the meager New Year’s feast, and drank the warmed millet porridge.
Isildor San caught a glimpse of the boy’s face, flickering in the firelight, and noticed hollows had formed in various places.
The boy had certainly grown leaner. The baby fat in his cheeks had vanished, and his features had become more defined, more masculine.
“A toast to the new year.”
The two clinked their bowls of fresh millet porridge together. Boris thought this New Year’s Day felt lighter than any before. Family troubles, survival concerns—none of it weighed on his heart today.
He felt he had grown more composed than last year. It seemed he could manage well in the days ahead.
The journey had continued northward throughout. There was no particular destination in mind—or so Boris believed.
But it was Isildor San who had decided their direction all along, and he had never revealed his reasons. Boris had not pressed him on it either.
There was only one occasion when the two had discussed their destination. It was around November, when they reached the foot of Morider Mountain, where the Drakenz Mountain Range split apart.
From there, heading north led to the Nim Peninsula, crossing the mountain range to the west would take them to the Orlanne Duchy, and going straight east would lead to Eltibo, the capital of Lemme.
Boris had shown interest at the mention of Eltibo.
Eltibo was the second-largest metropolis on the Continent and a port renowned for its distinctive northern culture. Every resident there possessed a small sailboat, the way people in other regions owned a horse or an ox.
In the bay where such sailboats were anchored, white triangular sails were said to flutter across the entire coastline.
Hearing this, Boris’s heart had stirred, and he expressed a desire to visit. But Isildor San had shaken his head.
Eltibo, an ancient port, was a place where the spirit of Lemme—the essence of northern sailors—seemed ready to burst forth. It was a land where the popularity of Princess Jinapa, who wielded a flail, reached the heavens.
The capital was typically a place where various cultures converged, making it tolerant of outsiders’ peculiar customs. But Eltibo was different.
More precisely, it was sharply divided into tolerant and intolerant classes.
The king and nobility who had chosen the centuries-old port of Eltibo as their capital and relocated there, along with the descendants of migrants who followed them, were generous yet indifferent. The native sailors, however, were sharp and mischievous.
“Eltibo is not a place for people like us to visit without an invitation. You need connections to avoid trouble and live comfortably there.”
Having abandoned the idea of going to Eltibo, the two continued northward, passing through villages scattered along the mountainside.
They had effectively taken an overland detour around Tibow Bay, nestled in the embrace of the Nim Peninsula. By late February, the first city they reached was Narnissa. Like most major cities in Lemme, Narnissa was a port.
Having traversed Lemme directly, I gained fresh understanding: the people of Lemme had no choice but to cling to the sea. The land was either ice or mountains.
Narnissa was also the name of a promontory, positioned to directly overlook Elbe Island. This was why it mattered.
Elbe Island was the largest island on the Continent, situated in Tibow Bay. Nearly all ships bound for it departed from Narnissa.
It was also the departure point for merchant vessels making the rounds of smaller ports surrounding Tibow Bay. It was the best location to catch the Tibow Bay current as it curved westward.
Of course, Isildor San and Boris had no plans to trade, nor any intention of going to Elbe Island.
Boris only learned that night why they had come this far without seeking winter quarters even during the cold season.
The two did not have abundant funds. After searching through back alleys, they discovered a shabby but relatively quiet inn.
Climbing three creaking steps, Isildor San pushed through the outer door and inner door that blocked the cold, then approached the lodging desk and asked for only one room.
An elderly man around sixty, who had been dozing, suddenly awakened and wrote down his name as Isildor San called it out.
As the old man slowly came to his senses while waiting, he glanced at Boris and asked casually.
“Is he your son?”
Isildor San answered without hesitation.
“Yes, he is.”
“Doesn’t he look like you?”
“Tch, don’t poke at other people’s sore spots. Just show us to a room.”
Isildor San mimicked the Lemme dialect with practiced ease. Though his foreign origins were difficult to hide given his appearance, it was still better to maintain the pretense of having spent considerable time in Lemme, wherever he went.
The old man chuckled as he removed a key and handed it over.
“Well, that’s how you keep a wife in line, you see.”
Rather than anger, Isildor San spoke with a sigh.
“When a senile old fool who can’t even manage his own words tries to offer advice to a young man, I can’t help but despair.”
Just then, someone spoke from behind them.
“My, so Elder Brother has a wife and a son? I never knew that until now.”
Boris, who had been rolling his eyes in confusion at who was joining in on this theatrical performance, turned to look behind him.
A white-haired man nearly as tall as Isildor San caught his attention.
Isildor San turned as well. But instead of continuing his jest, his expression changed.
The old man grumbled at Isildor San’s impertinent remark and patted his arm repeatedly, but Isildor San remained motionless, his gaze fixed on the newly arrived man.
Beneath a worn leather vest, white linen showed through, and in the man’s hands was a thick fur coat he had just removed.
His broad shoulders and arms, his face darkened and hardened by the cold, suggested a life of hardship, yet the pale skin visible at the nape of his neck indicated his natural complexion was fair. Despite his disheveled white hair, he appeared to be in his early thirties.
“It’s been a long time, Elder Brother.”
The white-haired man extended his hand, and Isildor San reciprocated, the two shaking hands.
But Boris sensed that Isildor San’s demeanor had stiffened.
“It has been, younger brother.”
The old man grumbled from behind.
“A son, a wife, and now a younger brother?”
The white-haired man glanced at the old man.
“Old man, give me a room as well. Right next to my Elder Brother’s, if you would. Is that acceptable?”
“Very well, then.”
Recognizing that the two men, sturdy as northern spruces, were genuinely close, the old man seemed to lose interest in further banter.
The white-haired man glanced at Boris once more.
“Let’s catch up on old times. But tell me—who is this child, really? A hidden son, as you say?”

Before me sat a cup half-filled with liquor. Isildor San seized it and drained it in one breath.
As the cup emptied, the other’s hand reached over to refill it. Isildor San gazed quietly at the shimmering amber liquid.
“You depart tomorrow?”
“….”
I had come knowing this meeting would occur, yet I couldn’t fathom why my heart felt so unsettled.
I hadn’t known who would come as the messenger, but hadn’t I already anticipated what message they would bring, regardless?
White hair was said to herald parting. The Island sends a white-haired messenger to summon me once more—The Island from which I wished to depart forever.
The night had grown deep, and the first floor hall lay silent. It seemed only two souls remained awake.
A lamp sat beside the dimly lit staircase. A single candle rested upon the table. That was the extent of the light.
Both flames flickered in unison.
“Do you hesitate?”
Isildor San’s hand grasped the wooden cup once more.
As it rose, another cup approached and clinked against it lightly before passing. The arm stilled, yet the liquor continued to slosh within.
“You seem to be drinking alone far too much. Is something troubling your heart?”
Isildor San simply set down his cup. The other set theirs down as well and asked.
“That child from earlier?”
A brief silence fell. Isildor San gazed into his cup again. Nothing was reflected there.
“Eni… No, what is his name in this place?”
“Dansen.”
“Yes, Dansen.”
This man too, like Isildor San, bore a new name in this foreign land. Soon Isildor San regarded him with grave eyes.
“Must I truly return?”
“Why do you ask? Don’t you understand better than anyone that the time has come? Knowing this, didn’t you come here?”
“Knowing and doing are different things.”
Dansen shook his head.
“Your place awaits there. Duties remain unfulfilled. Children train day and night, waiting only for you. The Chilwon Ceremony, held once every ten years, requires your presence—there can be no further delay….”
“Are such things truly so important?”
The white-haired Dansen’s eyes widened as he replied.
“If not these, then what could possibly matter?”
Isildor San lowered his gaze, his voice uncertain as he murmured.
“My own life matters to me.”
Dansen nodded, then shook his head. It meant he understood, but could not accept.
“How could I not know of your troubles? Not only I, but the elders were aware—that is why they said nothing of your remaining on the Continent all this time.”
Isildor San did not respond. Dansen continued.
“Yet even setting aside the Chilwon Ceremony, you cannot live this way forever. Thus far, no particular symptoms have manifested. The elders now wish for you to settle and fulfill your sacred duties….”
“I have found one remedy.”
Dansen’s expression brightened as he asked.
“Oh? What remedy is this?”
Isildor San replied, his voice dropping lower.
“That child.”
“….”
Silence fell between them. It was Dansen who broke it first.
“I cannot fathom you, Elder Brother. The Island is filled with countless young ones who revere and follow only you, who wish to receive your teachings and serve you all their lives—yet why fixate on an outsider’s child? Why cling to such a one? Does this child possess some remarkable talent? Were you searching for a genius?”
Dansen’s words carried an accusatory edge, tinged with the implication: ‘Have you turned away from sincere children because you sought to educate a genius?’
Isildor San let out a bitter laugh.
“A genius, ha—a genius. Think about it. Was I a genius? No, quite the opposite. I was a fool who couldn’t even grasp fortune within arm’s reach. A madman who rejected the golden future of becoming a disciple of Ilios and fled to serve a wretched old hermit. Don’t speak to me of genius. I despise such creatures.”
“Dust caught in a low threshold lingers long in memory, Elder Brother.”
It was the way their kind spoke—a maxim woven through layers of metaphor, meaning simply: ‘Guard your tongue.’
Speaking true names of their people in foreign lands was forbidden, even the names of the already dead.
“You’re right. Waves within a cup never truly still. I was careless.”
Words of the same meaning. Isildor San clicked his tongue at his own mistake, born of drink, and hunched his shoulders.
Though in truth, it was not the drink but an inescapable feeling that had seized him.
“Good. Then before I believe you neglect your duties for an outsider’s concerns, I suggest you retract what you’ve just said.”
“That child is….”
The words began before the other’s sentence had fully faded. Yet what followed came slowly.
“…seeking to gain nothing from me.”

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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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