Home/I confined you, but I have no ill will/ch 69

69.

Ibelin and Kite returned to Kahn's tribe.

"I'd like you to meet someone."

Kahn said.

"Someone?"

"Our tribe's shaman—she has keen eyes."

What did "keen eyes" mean? When he introduced her, she understood.

"Greetings, great bloodline."

The shaman, Iranna, bowed to Ibelin—not Kite.

"N-no—the great bloodline is here!"

She pushed Kite, but Iranna shook her head.

"No—I respect the Empire's rank system, but the one I see as great is not Lord Kite—it's you, Lady Ibelin."

Confused, Kite pushed her forward.

"I'll stay with Kahn—talk to her, great bloodline."

Even now, he teased her. She glared at him and followed the shaman.

Iranna's ger felt different from Kahn's—not just in size or decoration. Inside, her mind felt clearer.

"That's from burning herbs."

Iranna showed her a small metal urn—white smoke curling from its lid.

"It clears the mind and relaxes the body."

After explanation, she recognized the herb—her grandfather had taught her about it. It was rare outside the North.

"I know that herb."

"It's rare—you're very knowledgeable."

The praise made her chest tingle. Iranna had been overly friendly from the start.

"May I know your name, great bloodline?"

She already knew—but Iranna smiled.

"Secondhand names aren't enough—we value introducing ourselves directly."

Ibelin nodded and sat where directed.

"Hello, Iranna—I'm Ibelin El Frillie."

"Frillie—I've heard that name. The one at the northern fortress?"

Was her grandfather that famous? She smiled awkwardly—if he was, it might be for bad reasons. Iranna nodded reassuringly.

"I understand the times—both we and the Empire were desperate. There are wounds that won't heal, but we must move forward, I believe. Not forgetting the past or abandoning regret, though."

"I see—thank you."

"Thank you—I never thought I'd meet a seer's bloodline."

She handed Ibelin a wooden cup of tea—she nearly dropped it.

"A seer?"

Iranna pointed to her own eyes.

"My eyes are keen."

"That's what you meant?"

"Yes—but I don't see the future. Only fragments of someone's past—like intuition."

Ibelin's grandfather had also had keen intuition.

"It's a fading ability—I'm the strongest shaman in our lineage, so I can read character a little better."

"Read character?"

"As people grow, they accumulate karma from their environment and deeds. That karma determines who they are."

"Bad deeds pile up bad karma—we call them evil."

"I see."

Ibelin expected Iranna to say something important—but she didn't. She just explained her ability and spoke of her love for the tribe, then took her outside.

"Look at the young warriors."

Children with wooden sticks fought—not with anger, but joy and spirit. Crude sticks in hand.

"Training hard?"

More like playing—but training too.

"They look happy."

Ibelin commented, and Iranna smiled.

"When they grow older, they'll learn more. For now, this is enough."

Imperial nobles educated children systematically from even younger ages—to groom them as knights and officials. But this environment didn't seem bad—Ibelin's childhood had been closer to those children's play, learning through games.

Though the things she'd learned were odd—something she realized only in the capital. Ordinary children didn't fight bears, learn weaponry, or survive in forests on knowledge alone.

She'd also learned noble etiquette, but her grandfather wanted her to experience many things. Learning was fun, and his praise made it better.

Watching the children, she recalled a word.

"Nordin."

Children of Nordin—descendants of the sky, blood of the North.

Once, the barbarians had been called that. "Barbarian" was just a slur—never their name. Why were they called that?

A dark-skinned man spoke.

"This is our sin."

A story from when the Deadlands were still a forest, before the age of magic ended.

The Nordin tribe in the North promised humanity: they would stop and kill the demons coming from this direction. Humanity promised in turn: they would remember Nordin's honor and protect other races from demons.

God heard—and it became an unbreakable oath. But some Nordin, weary of endless war, broke it.

It was said the barbarians were cursed by demon remnants—but that wasn't true. This was a curse from God—the price of breaking the oath.

Someone whispered in Ibelin's ear.

"But times have changed—God's age is waning. Now it's time to forgive them. So tell them."

That you are not barbarians—you are the great Nordin clan.

Ibelin slowly opened her eyes. After glimpsing the future, she always felt odd—but today it was the past.

Yes—they were Nordin.

As she spoke, Iranna sank to the ground and wept.

"Ah—at last I remember—we are Nordin!"

The past sin was forgiven, but only Iranna, the shaman, recalled it. The children stopped playing, confused by her tears—the largest approached.

"Shaman—why are you crying? Are you hurt?"

The innocent question made her laugh through tears.

"No—I'm crying from joy."

Why from joy? The child's face showed his confusion.

"Do you know, Ritan?"

She said to him.

"We are the Nordin—we carry great blood."

"Nordin."

The child echoed.

A new day was beginning.

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