Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 41: The Vaelcrest Family(Slave Masters)

Chapter 41: The Vaelcrest Family

...In this place, slavery was the worst burden to carry, and it started out with chains rattling like the laughter of dead men, dragging across the planks of the ship as the slaves were herded onto the port.

The stink of sweat, blood, and sea rot hung thick in the air, only barely masked by the smoking incense that burned in iron braziers atop the wooden watchtowers. Lanterns, their red paper shades bearing the mark of the Somara Empire—(A Golden Crown with seven Jewels) King Solomon’s Sigil—swayed softly with the wind.

As the soldiers guided them down, The taller soldier turned back briefly, searching, his brow furrowed. He squinted at the ship's fore—then stiffened.

Oliver had been right.

Nailed to the curved hull like a grotesque decoration was a man. Naked save for a loincloth soaked in dried blood, flayed from the shoulders downward, but his face was left untouched. Recognition dawned slowly, then violently.

"Martin Vontell…" the soldier muttered, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief. After all, who wouldn't?

Even the workers at the port paused. Murmurs rose from bystanders—traders, officials, and even other soldiers who were meant to be guiding slaves off the ships. Fingers pointed and some gasped.

A noble of the empire had died. But it was not just his death. It was the fact that he had been displayed like beast meat in the summer.

But Oliver wasn’t surprised.

He had expected this.

This was why he’d dared to offer the Contract to the taller soldier earlier—why he’d been bold enough to strike a deal.

Accra, as cunning as ever, hadn’t used Martin Vontell to pass on the trinket. Not because he did not want to, but because he couldn't.

It was also why the noble boy he used had been sweating profusely when he met Oliver. No doubt, he was scared shitless for his life.

Martin Vontell had been used as an example.

Now, while Killing a noble within the walls of the Somara Empire was a crime that could not go unpunished, no one said anything about killing one outside.

That one was more… negotiable.

And Seraphina? She could stomach many things. She knew, even if she never said it aloud, that nobles often visited the slave quarters under the guise of “inspection” late at night. But there were limits—lines even monsters like her would not tolerate being crossed.

Stealing from her was one of them.

That ridiculous 'rubber duck' had once been hers. Not so useful. After all, it had no significant ability, or the like. But its value wasn’t the point.

Martin had taken something that belonged to her. When confronted, he couldn’t deny it. But worse, he couldn’t find the item.

That was all she needed.

Oliver recalled Accra's bitter words about the cost of his request.

He had warned him that it would be expensive. But in the end, it wasn't the trinket that pissed off Seraphina —it was the audacity of theft.

Seraphina had made an example. The kind of example that bled into history. She had flayed Martin from the shoulders to the waist, skin peeled clean like the rind of a fruit, but left his face whole—so the world would know.

Oliver imagined the whispers already spreading. The Vontell family would demand explanations. But within the inner wall, Seraphina’s authority was near divine. At worst, a slap on the wrist. Maybe not even that.

The taller soldier turned his eyes toward Oliver again, now with something new behind them: a greedy glint, as though he'd stumbled upon a vein of pure gold. freewёbnoνel.com

"Make sure you don't die 'boy.' We both have an incredible future ahead."

Oliver gave a light nod, 'you have absolutely no idea.'

A shout snapped through the air. "Move!"

Chains pulled. Feet shuffled.

Some slaves sobbed quietly, their eyes wide and glassy. Others pleaded in broken voices, asking to be returned home. A few simply stumbled forward like broken dolls. Each face bore the same cocktail of fear, dread, and confusion. The hunger that followed was just bonus mark.

Oliver turned his head, letting his gaze sweep across the sprawling port.

It was the largest he'd ever seen—his first time in this life laying eyes upon it. But for those of his kingdom? This was another world entirely.

Wooden piers jutted from the land like teeth, connected by rope bridges. Dozens of ships were anchored, unloading more than just people. Cargo, barrels, weapon crates, and bodies.

Among the other ships, he saw them—beings not of his kind.

Dark Elves, their skin was like polished obsidian, eyes glowing in shades of amber and red. Bone jewelry clung to their necks. Ritual scars ran across their chests and forearms, some shaped like spider webs, others like jagged runes. They walked tall despite their chains, proud even in humiliation. This was trait all Elves had. They always saw themselves as 'greater then thou'. But all that bravado won't stop what is to come.

Oliver knew that they would all break, at least most of them. His eyes instinctively searched for a certain fellow.

He couldn’t find that person, but if he remembered correctly, and he did, that person was brought on the same day as him.

Just when it seemed he would give up on his search, his eyes found her. She was smaller than most Elves, her skin brighter, and not nearly as dark as the others. And one ear shorter, while the other, long like her people. Oliver remembered the reason for her difference.

Oh, how happy he was that she was captured.

To the right of the Dark elves was a small herd of Centaurs—massive, broad-chested creatures with tribal markings scorched into their flanks. Some had war braids and horns tipped with gold. Their eyes were wild with fury, but helpless all the same.

Beyond them, he spotted a pair of Reptilians—scaled beings with forked tongues and spined backs, heads hooded like cobras. Their tails were shackled separately from their legs. Oliver remembered that these race were used particularly because of their Bloodline ability to regenerate fast, even without a healer.

Further more, they were unfortunately used in Alchemic concoctions. It was a sad fate for them—used like salt to sweeten meat. But that did not mean that they were easy to handle. They were naturally very combat driven, a new born had to fight and kill their other siblings for a chance in the world, as their parents only brought back enough food home to feed one. It was either that or go out and survive on their own.

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Bonus mark, they were cannibalistic in nature. Meaning those that managed to leave the nest to hunt for food could become another's light snack.

And finally, a winged race—Feathered Folk, hunched low, their wings broken or clipped. What feathers remained dragged along the wooden floor, plucked and filthy. Their eyes darted nervously, like prey already hearing the predator’s breath.

This race had more enemies than even they could mention. And their timid nature didn't help either.

While the difficulty for the Reptilians was in taming their aggressive nature, in the winged race, it was in making them bolder, stronger.

Then again either process was going to be filled with a lot of pain.

This place… was not a port. This was a market of misery.

Oliver looked around, maybe that was why he did not notice that unlike the others, Velma did not look around the somara empire shores like it was some foreign place—unlike the others. If anything, it was almost as if she was looking at it with too much familiarity.

Then again, in his previous life, she never made it this far. Because of the constant abuse, she had snapped, and one time, tried to attack Sir Fen Bolton, and he had ended up stabbing her in the chest with a spear—Before Oliver’s eyes.

But this life, knowing she had come this far was good.

Meanwhile the Empire’s citizens lined the elevated balconies and pavilions that overlooked the docks. Their clothing was layered in luxurious silks and lacquered armors with pointed shoulder guards and dangling chains. Hair was coiled into buns and twisted with gold pins. And on every single face—disdain.

They watched as if inspecting meat. No pity. No guilt. Just curiosity, annoyance, or open contempt.

Then the wind shifted.

A cold hush fell over the dock.

A beastly screech rang out—hooves on stone. Mist, violet and thick, fumed from the nostrils of two horned horse-beasts, their manes bristling like electric wire. They pulled a white chariot whose wheels made no sound.

Painted in red on its side was the symbol of a slave collar and whip.

The crowd parted instinctively. How couldn’t there? A noble family of the inner wall had arrived.

Oliver clenched his jaw, teeth grinding as he turned toward the chariot in the distance.

He recognized that sigil.

“Vaelcrest…” he muttered with a bitter taste.

Before he could look further, a barked order from a guard rang out:

"Males to my left! Females to my right!"

Chaos.

Children screamed as mothers were torn from them. Men resisted, only to be struck with the flat ends of pikes or clubbed to the ground. Some women clawed at the dirt to stay near their husbands. But none of it mattered. Soldiers enforced the division with brutal efficiency.

"Remember, choose the dungeons. Do not forget!" Oliver whispered to Velma again before he was separated from her forcefully.

As he did, Oliver went to stand in a corner he considered was safest, because of the little chaos and massacre to come.

Then the ones from the chariot stepped down.

Three figures. Their robes were impossibly white, untouched by the dust and blood of the port. They looked angelic—but it was a lie.

This was the Vaelcrest Family.

They were not noble by title alone.

No.

They were noble by necessity. Specialists in breaking minds and bending wills. The trainers of slaves—the ones who prepared them for dungeon raids, political servitude, or aristocratic entertainment. Their family had honed this craft for centuries.

It was said they could break even demons.

No creature, no matter how fierce, lasted long under their tutelage. Some believed their bloodline carried a cursed gift—empathy so potent they could find the exact place to cut… not the body, but the soul and the bloodline.

Even the soldiers stood a little straighter as the Vaelcrests passed.

The man in the middle appeared to be in his late forties. His hair was trimmed into a bowl shape that looked absurd, but not a soul would dare mock it aloud. His eyes were silver-gray, cold and unfeeling. His face had never once smiled in public.

To his right stood a boy, tall and lean, with a narrow nose and narrowed eyes. He had a scar over his mouth—earned, some said, from training a dragonkin who bit his lips off. He didn’t blink often.

To the left, a girl with hair so dark it almost looked like shadows flowing down her skin—even under the sun, it was the same. She had a long thick silver chain with a pendent which was a star in a circle. A symbol of her proud devotion to the church of light. Her steps were graceful, but her expression was blank. Her fingernails were painted black, each one bearing a tiny sigil of the family in red. Rumors said she had trained her first slave at ten years old—broken him—and made him thank her for it.

The girl stepped lightly onto the dock, her white heels making no sound against the blood-stained planks. Her eyes—washed-out grey, like ash mixed in holy water—narrowed at the sky. The sun blazed above, its rays far too loud for her liking.

"Disgusting light," she muttered under her breath.

She reached for the black scarf coiled around her wrist, intending to drape it over her head—but froze mid-motion. Her father had not spoken, but his look said enough.

She lowered her hand.

Thalia Vaelcrest may have loathed the sun, may have loathed the stench of this port, the sobbing of the weak, and the buzzing of flies clinging to half-dead flesh—but more than all that, she loathed the expectations placed upon her.

And yet she obeyed.

The Vaelcrest family did not wear black. Theirs was the sacred role of 'purification.' White was not for purity—it was for dominance.

A slight twitch of disdain ghosted across Thalia’s lips, then disappeared just as quickly. Her fingers brushed the necklace resting against her collarbone.

She let her voice ring out, crisp and monotone.

"These new arrivals…" she said, casting a glance across the huddled slaves. “They reek of godlessness. Not one of them bears the Bloodline of King Solomon. They’re unsaved. Unworthy. They need purification.”

Roderick Vaelcrest, her brother, exhaled sharply through his nose. His long limbs folded lazily as he leaned against the chariot, arms crossed. His own robe, although pristine, was wrinkled from carelessness. He looked at his sister, a trace of irritation behind his cold blue eyes.

“You speak as if King Solomon ever cared for slaves,” he said, tone light, dismissive.

He turned his gaze to the masses—filthy, broken—and smirked faintly. There was no malice in his expression, only detachment. “They’re trash, Thalia. Pretty trash, perhaps. But trash all the same.”

His eyes gleamed. It was not with rage or cruelty—but with the same interest one might show a new puzzle or a wind-up toy. Detached. Intrigued. Disposable.

Thalia didn’t respond, but her jaw tightened. She turned away, the gesture elegant and cold.

Their father stepped forward, unmoved by the exchange.

Cassian Vaelcrest was a man of unimpeachable control. His white robes bore the red-inked crest of the family, showing he was a Master Slaver.

He had never once raised his voice to his children, but no one in the Empire doubted who held the reins.

His voice was flat, surgical.

“Your tongues are rusted from disuse. You’ve been away too long. I forget how training softens the mind.” He looked between them without warmth. “You have not yet earned your badges. You remain acolytes. Your crests are still blue.”

He tapped his chest once with a gloved finger, drawing attention to the red insignia stitched into his robe. “You will speak less and do more.”

Roderick straightened with a smirk, unbothered by the reprimand.

“Then allow me to begin.” His voice dropped, edged in confidence. “I’ll surpass you, Father. Sooner than you think.”

Cassian didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. His reputation was an incredible one. When he was twelve, and only a Blood Initiate, he made a hundred slaves at the third rank of Blood warrior slit their throats while singing his praises—A feat he displayed at 'The Chainmaster Gauntlet' that got him his 'Master slaver' badge during his trial—of course, because of such a stunt, he had been thought to be careless with his idea of 'proving a point,' and lost his opportunity to be promoted to Chain master as punishment, but did he even need it?

After all, some say he once made a dragon believe it was a worm.

Cassian was such a man. His children were already sixteen, yet they did not have their Master Slaver badges—A stain on his honor.

Of course, this was not their fault. Their mother's side of the family had certain bloodline requirements of them, hence the delay.

But all that would soon change.

Before the tension could thicken further, a roar erupted from the far left of the dock.

Chains clanged—then snapped.

A Reptilian slave lunged forward, blood flicking from its body where a tail had detached violently from the rest of its spine—This was an ability their kind had to deceive predators in the wild. Now, it was the aid to its escape. It dove between two guards, rolling low, claws sparking against stone.

It struck with terrifying speed, hurling its weight into a steel gate.

On seeing this, Oliver went low, away from the obvious path of the runaway. From his memories, he already knew how this would end.

Two more Reptilians surged behind it—one with cracked emerald scales and glowing green veins, the other black-skinned with jagged orange markings pulsing like lava beneath its flesh.

Aether ignited, as its bloodline showed skill.

One slammed its claws into the earth. Crystalline spikes jutted upward in a flash, piercing a guard through the leg and pinning another to a crate. The other opened its mouth and spat a corrosive black mist that melted through the side of a wooden pylon.

A third headbutted a soldier mid-shout, shattering his jaw in a burst of teeth and gore.

Panic spread.

Slaves shrieked and scattered, dragging their chains. Whips cracked. Alarms blared. The Empire’s soldiers shouted commands, scrambling to respond. Blood began to pool.

Thalia didn’t flinch.

Roderick, however, began to smile.

Not out of joy.

But anticipation.

He stepped forward slowly, drawing a small white rod from beneath his sleeve—the Vaelcrest discipline wand, forged with blood-binding runes and blessed by Light Priests.

He turned to his father, who offered no instruction.

Then he looked to the chaos and chuckled.

“It would seem,” Roderick said with a devilish grin, “that I can begin my trial now.”