Chapter 105: The Boy Behind the Bars
The number of children shrank.
The salon fell silent.
And before long, Jircniv was the only one left.
The only child still imprisoned.
Jircniv’s grandfather, Count Dunrossil, was a stubborn man.
Even at the age of five, Jircniv had understood that clearly.
For better or worse, once his grandfather made a decision, he never changed his mind.
He was extremely contrary like that.
There was no way someone like him could get along with the current government.
Even if the other nobles had bowed their heads, he alone was still resisting.
Now that things had come this far, there was no chance his grandfather would back down out of pride.
Up until now, the government hadn’t been able to easily remove Count Dunrossil, thanks to his powerful influence and the military strength of his private knight order.
Holding Jircniv as a hostage had been just barely enough to keep them satisfied.
However, soon, that patience would surely run out.
After all, Count Dunrossil was the biggest thorn in their side.
Every day, Jircniv listened nervously, wondering if the sound of military boots would echo down the hallway.
If they came for his head, he was sure they would march straight to Count Dunrossil’s domain right after.
Step, step, step.
The sound of thick-soled shoes approached quietly.
Come to think of it, today was cleaning day.
Jircniv hated this day more than any other.
Clatter. Clank. Click. Creeeak, slam!
"Excuse me."
She only called out after stepping into the room.
Jircniv didn’t respond.
He stayed seated on the chair in front of the desk by the window. Beside him, she started scrubbing the floor roughly with a mop, moving as if he didn’t even exist.
If she spotted even the smallest speck of dirt, she would click her tongue loudly and complain in a voice clearly meant for him to hear.
"Look at this mess again! Honestly, you’re more trouble than a baby. And to think you’re supposed to be a noble!"
When she cleaned under the table and chairs, she made a point of putting them back out of place on purpose.
The water pitcher by the bedside, the tea set on the table—everything was deliberately moved out of place. But the final blow was always the same: placing the trash bin right in front of the door to the washroom.
Jircniv always kept his eyes closed. His grandfather had strictly commanded him to do so whenever someone was present. According to everyone, Jircniv was supposed to be blind.
He had inherited his appearance from his mother, including his pale lavender hair. Even as a child, he had been self-conscious, thinking it made him look too feminine.
That’s why he never missed a day of strength training inside the room—whatever could be done indoors.
Maybe because of those efforts, his height had grown steadily and now at twenty years old, he hoped his body finally looked a bit more masculine.
His skin that was untouched by sunlight, was unusually pale, but that couldn’t be helped. He also thought the shape of his jaw had begun to resemble that of his stubborn grandfather.
His appearance clearly carried the traits of the Dunrossil family. But there was one thing that didn’t match the bloodline. His eyes.
It was often said that children—especially boys—tend to inherit their father’s eye color. Jircniv’s eyes were red. The color of his father. The color of the royal family of Dalmasca.
The maids who were assigned to care for Jircniv had changed a few times over the years, but every single one of them had been rough and unkind.
It was obvious that the government had purposely chosen women with that kind of personality.
Their goal was to inflict psychological distress on him.
That’s why the maids constantly acted cruelly toward him. Perhaps they had been ordered to do so. Any maid who showed the slightest kindness was immediately replaced.
When Jircniv was younger—still a weak, blind child—he had often been shoved, tripped, and made to fall. He would hit his head or face against the bed or table. Some maids even pinched him under the excuse of discipline. He had bruises on his body all the time.
Now that he was older, that kind of physical abuse had stopped. But the petty cruelty still continued—through words, tone, and behavior.
How mean women could be. Jircniv couldn’t help but believe that.
Even the soldiers standing guard outside, and the man who brought his meals—everyone in the castle who came into contact with Jircniv was cold, never saying a single word to him.
They were probably hoping he’d break down and beg to be sent back to his grandfather. That kind of pressure, that kind of treatment, he had endured for fifteen long years. Perhaps he was just as stubborn as his grandfather. Maybe that was proof of the Dunrossil blood in him.
The only person Jircniv could call a connection to the outside world—the only one who came from his grandfather regularly—was Argyll, he was a doctor and tutor.
When Jircniv had first been brought to the castle, one of the republic’s high officials—one of its leading rulers—had checked his eyes to see if he was truly blind. What he saw was a pair of eyes clouded white, raw with infection.
The man had recoiled in fear. He never touched Jircniv again.
That was thanks to Argyll, who had secretly put a chemical solution into Jircniv’s eyes.
It hurt terribly. So much so that Jircniv had honestly believed he might really lose his sight. Later, Argyll had washed the solution away and applied medicine, but the pain had lasted for a week. Still, that pain had been worth it. Because of it, he had managed to deceive the government for fifteen years.
Under the excuse of being weak and in need of constant treatment, Argyll was allowed to be in charge of Jircniv.
Of course, before every visit, Argyll was carefully checked. But during those visits, he taught Jircniv everything—how to govern, how to think like a ruler and all sorts of broad knowledge.