Home/I confined you, but I have no ill will/ch 50

50.

The knight acting as second declared.

"The duel will now begin. On the right, Lord Kite of House Gracias; on the left, young Lord Rundt of House Hiese."

Before the words finished, Rundt raised his sword. He was still trembling, fear evident—it seemed terror had overtaken anger.

Kite, by contrast, lazily raised his sword and smiled at Ibelin.

"Under fair witness, begin!"

The moment the knight shouted, Rundt screamed.

"Aaaargh!"

He charged and swung wildly—it was a mess.

"Young Lord Rundt is usually better than this."

Draven commented casually.

"You're making a fool of him."

After pushing him into hell, that was all he had to say? Ibelin forgot to play the delicate fiancée—she nearly cursed, biting her tongue to stop herself.

"Didn't you encourage this, Duke Draven?"

You helped him.

"No—I only wanted Lord Rundt to release the anger and fear he'd been holding."

"Against the Empire's finest swordsman?"

Did he think that was possible? If so, she'd seriously question if Draven had a brain—or if he just wanted Rundt dead.

"Still, you never know—some awaken when fighting the strong."

Awaken? That only happened in stories—and even then, only to those who trained hard.

Though Rundt looked adult, he bore no knightly title—he wasn't a knight.

Noble houses generally practiced primogeniture; without that rule, brothers often fought over titles, costing many lives. The Empire deemed that a loss of talent—which was why the talented Kite had been exiled north.

So younger siblings had to find their own path—through knighthood, hoping for a title, or becoming a civil servant for stability.

So Lord Rundt lacks physical talent.

Yet Draven was spouting nonsense about awakening.

The duel was quickly spiraling. Rundt howled and swung without rules; Kite parried with a bored expression, each deflection sending Rundt staggering.

He's going to fall.

Her prediction came true—Rundt hit the ground, and Kite approached. At his advancing figure, Rundt began to cry.

"Pathetic."

Someone muttered. But if they were in Rundt's place, would they say the same? Ibelin was sure she'd be weeping.

"Which shall I break this time? Leg? Arm?"

"P-please spare me!"

Rundt nearly prostrated himself, begging.

"This time, I'll let you choose."

At Kite's languid words, Rundt scrambled back, shaking his head.

"Aren't you going to stop him?"

At her question, Draven nodded.

"It's the result of a duel he sought—I can't interfere unless he surrenders."

Rundt, panicking, had forgotten to surrender. Should she step in? As she hesitated, Draven leaned toward her—she flinched—but he whispered.

"Lady Ibelin—do you trust that man?"

What was he trying to say?

"He's dangerous beyond measure—do you believe you're safe by his side?"

She blinked slowly.

"You don't know how dangerous Kite truly is."

I know better than anyone. Though she hadn't experienced it firsthand, she'd learned everything while investigating him for the abduction. Of course, that was only surface-level—and she'd never been hurt by him.

So maybe she didn't fully know.

Still.

She knew he was better than Draven beside her. Kite's madness had reasons—he didn't harm the innocent. Take Rundt—she'd wondered why he was targeted for a bump, but it turned out he was close to Draven.

Draven may have planned to harm the Emperor at the banquet—she'd seen Unknown with him. So was Rundt truly blameless?

No.

She smiled softly and moved away from Draven.

"Lord Kite!"

Rushing to him, she hugged him from behind—ignoring the onlookers' wide-eyed shock. She pressed her forehead to his back.

"Congratulations on your victory."

Kite, about to move, stiffened. Slowly, he turned.

"Ibelin?"

"Yes?"

She smiled as brightly and sweetly as she could.

"You—"

"I'm hungry now."

She decided to stop playing the fragile fiancée—Rundt wouldn't leave unscathed otherwise. She didn't care about him, but she didn't want Kite's reputation to worsen.

So she'd be an oblivious fiancée.

"Let's go eat!"

Kite stared at her in disbelief, then laughed—his rigid expression softening.

"Since my lovely fiancée asks, I must oblige."

Sheathing his sword, he turned to the seconds.

"The winner is Lord Kite!"

The second quickly declared, and some onlookers sighed in relief—glad they didn't have to witness bloodshed.

The manager hurried over.

"We'll prepare your meal immediately."

Ibelin linked her arm with Kite's.

"Let's go."

He silently followed.

Led to a small room on the second floor, they saw a set table.

"We'll serve you the finest meal."

The manager promised and left. Only then did Ibelin release his arm.

"You could have held on longer."

He said teasingly.

"That's enough."

She fanned her face, flushed with embarrassment—she'd done something she never had before.

Sitting, she drank some water. Throughout, Kite watched her intently—so embarrassing she blurted out.

"Congratulations on your win."

"Of course."

"I suppose so."

The skill gap was too wide.

"But being congratulated isn't bad."

Across from her, Kite rested his chin on his hand and gazed only at her.

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