Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 53: When Light Casts Shadows (Final Part)

Chapter 53: When Light Casts Shadows (Final Part)

...The woman did not hesitate.

She stepped forward, hands already at her sides as she unfastened her robes with practiced ease. A soft smile played at her lips. It was not one of seduction, but of devotion.

“Praise be to the Wise King,” she whispered as the fabric fell from her body, “Blessed be His light. His flame. His seed.”

Her eyes were feverish with belief.

Lioren watched her carefully.

No shame. No hesitation. Just trembling joy.

He recognized her type. The so called true believers. The ones who would set themselves on fire if it meant being noticed by something holy. She had no idea what waited for her.

And no doubt, she was of common birth. Most likely a poor farm girl that rejoiced with her parents once she was told that she had been chosen, and it was to fulfill a very important task for the kingdom of the wise king.

Lioren bet she told all her village, and all the girls her age envied her, while some went to the church, and begged to be chosen.

How did the saying go again?

'The Poorer or Older the individual, the more religious they were.'

She stepped into the glowing circle, bare feet kissing the ancient bloodstained floor, and lay down in the star's center—arms and legs spread, waiting.

The Caretaker looked at Lioren and spoke in that same neutral tone, “Go on. Have her. Or do you need help getting it up?”

A Red-Stitched Sister was already approaching, hips swaying unnaturally—but Lioren shook his head.

“No. I can get it up myself,” he said, his voice dry.

He did not know what the Caretaker was thinking, but Red-Stitched Sisters were not sexually appealing. In fact, he had to mentally block their faces in his head, just to get himself in the mood.

Lioren walked to the circle and knelt beside the woman. Her eyes were on him—bright and mad with reverence.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked softly.

She nodded, beaming.

“For the glory of the Wise King. Praise be His name.”

Then she opened herself to him, inviting him to take her.

Lioren sighed. A lot of things were on his mind, bit he had to do this—for his sister, for his family.

And then he lay with her. Storming into her, as gasps escaped her lips.

Her fingers wrapped around his back, digging into him.

Meanwhile, the eight Red-Stitched Sisters sat in a perfect ring around them, hands joined, heads tilted forward, humming a low, vibrating tune that resonated with the chamber’s bones.

Above them, the lamps pulsed.

Behind them, the Caretaker chanted, her voice rising into strange frequencies. Words that no tongue should shape, that bent the air with their weight.

The woman moaned softly beneath Lioren, the sound echoing through the vast room. It was not lust. It was rapture.

And when Lioren climaxed, the markings flared with a holy brilliance—blinding white, as if the Heart itself acknowledged the act.

It was over.

He stood, breathless, and a Red-Stitched gently dropped a robe over his shoulders. His skin felt foreign and cold to him, but his soul felt colder.

The woman looked up at the Caretaker, eyes gleaming with hope.

“Is it over?” she whispered. “Will I now be accepted into the Kingdom of the Wise King?”

The Caretaker knelt beside her, brushing hair from her face.

“Of course, young one,” she cooed. “You’ve done beautifully. You just have to deliver first.”

The woman’s face shifted in confusion.

Then pain.

A scream tore from her throat.

Her stomach began to swell—unnaturally, violently—the skin stretching thin like canvas under pressure. Bones cracked. Muscles tore. She screamed and screamed, but the Caretaker held her down with ease, smiling.

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Then her body spasmed—and she gave birth.

Lioren turned away. Even he couldn’t bear to look at that.

It cried like a child, but the thing on the ground was not human. Too many fingers. Too sharp teeth. A gaze that glimmered with something... aware.

The Caretaker picked it up with both hands, humming sweetly. The creature writhed in her arms, whining softly.

Then she turned back to the woman.

“Now,” she said gently, “you may enter the Wise King’s kingdom.”

She raised a hand—and with a flick of her fingers, the woman’s neck twisted with a sharp crack. Blood sprayed, and the body fell still.

The Caretaker dipped a finger in the warm pool and anointed the abomination’s brow. As she did, the corpse shriveled, flesh collapsing into itself, until all that remained was bone and thin parchment skin.

Cradling the 'thing' that had been born, she approached the Heart. The Crystal rising from the ground.

The crystal pulsed slowly, quietly.

And without pause, she snapped the 'thing's' neck and tossed it to the crystal.

There was a faint shimmer, a moment of stillness—then the Heart absorbed the offering. Its glow brightened, its hum deepened.

This ancient power had accepted its meal.

The Caretaker turned back toward Lioren, her face was peaceful, satisfied.

A Red-Stitched Sister passed her a silken cloth, and she wiped her hands clean.

“You’ll return once a month,” she said, “for the next year. Keep the seed pure. Do this—”

She stepped closer, smiled faintly.

“—and the Church will let Seraphina go... for now.”

Lioren turned around to leave. Witnessing what just happened left a bitter taste in his mouth. It reminded him of why he hated the church of light in the first place.

—this place was a bad reminder, of what he was.

What he ran away from.

As Lioren left the walls of the sanctum, his robes still heavy on his shoulders and body sticky with remnants of a ritual he would rather forget, a bitter taste clung to his tongue.

Something about the Church always icked him out.The stitched smiles of the Sisters was even the least.

'Church of light!' Yeah right.

It all made his skin crawl.

He descended the narrow, dim staircase, each footstep echoing longer than the last. That was when it came.

Three voices. In sync. Cold and mocking, laced with amusement and something older. Darker.

“Hmm… the younger brother has come to clean his loving sister’s shit… again.”

He froze.

He knew those voices.

Turning slowly, he found them exactly as he feared — Seliah, Soriah, and Saviah Mordelune, standing shoulder to shoulder on the marble platform just above him.

Same dark dresses that stopped at their knees, embroidered with crimson curse threads. Same obsidian eyes that never blinked fast enough. Their raven-black hair tied high in ponytails, each with a single strand curved over their foreheads like a serpent's fang — left, center, right — the order of birth.

Triplets.

Were they beautiful?

Definitely.

But in the most unsettling way. Symmetrical. Synced. Smiling like they were reading his mind.

Their family — the Mordelunes — were an odd bunch. Every generation of potential leaders were birthed only in threes.

Was this a curse or blessing, none could truly say. It was a bloodline thing.

Then again, it allowed them to think, feel, speak and even dream as one. They were hive-minded monsters in noble skin.

And Lioren despised that this generation's heirs had taken a liking to him.

These women had once declared it loudly, and publicly.

Worst part was that. It was during Seraphina’s mother’s remembrance ceremony.

"He will be our husband. All three of us." Tradition be damned.

He had felt like diving into a well that day.

The other noble scorns were not jealous of him in the slightest bit.

Why?

Fear.

Lets just say, no other girl had approached him since.

Lioren forced a polite smile, stiff and insincere.

Lioren wasn't weak—far from it—but even he had heard the rumors.

These Mordelune triplets had once cursed their own cousin’s tongue to decay after he called their dresses ugly.

Another time, they gifted their aunt a mirror that slowly stole her youth until she looked ninety at thirty-two.

When their older brother dared to propose to a noblewoman not approved by them, the woman was found a week later—smiling permanently with broken glass embedded in her cheeks.

They were cursed nobility, and they loved him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Seliah said.

“Our love must have brought us together,” Soriah added.

“Mother always said lovers walk the same path,” Saviah finished.

“We came to offer prayers to the Wise King Solomon,” they said as one.

Lioren cleared his throat. “I also came to pray. Nothing more. You misunderstand.”

He tried to step past them. But they flowed in front of him, not like individuals, but like smoke in human form.

They knew.

They always knew.

They tilted their heads simultaneously, smiling too widely. “You came for your sister.”

His lips tightened. He hated this.

“She deserves what’s coming,” Seliah whispered.

“She always did,” said Soriah.

“She's always been in the way,” Saviah added, venom in their combined tone.

Lioren sighed, raising a hand. “I believe the Church will be understanding. Besides, my grandfather is in talks with Grandmother right now. Everything will be sorted soon.”

He turned again.

But their voices dropped cold. “Are you still in love with her?”

He stopped mid-step.

Turning slowly, he gave a half-smile. “If you're asking whether I love my sister, then yes. I do. She’s family.”

The triplets stared, unblinking. Their smiles didn't move.

"We thought you'd left for the elf lands... without us." They spoke together. "We would have missed you."

He gave a short bow. “Yes, I bet you would have. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have matters to attend to. As you know, there’s much to prepare for the Princess's auction back home. And now that circumstances have forced me to stay, I intend help.”

He left.

Faster than before.

Behind him, the three watched, their expressions falling into eerie, identical calm.

Then, they called softly, “Elder Mark.”

A figure landed without a sound beside them, as if gravity had forgotten he existed. An elderly man with pale skin, long beard, and white robes. Upon his chest shimmered the red-etched Master-Slave Crest of House Vaelcrest.

“Yes, my ladies,” he said, bowing deeply.

“Which Vaelcrest is assigned to Seraphina’s new stock?”

The man stroked his beard. “I believe it was Cassian. I hear he’s planning to use this as an opportunity to promote his children. Move them from Acolytes to full-fledged Slave Masters.”

“Hmmm... his children,” Seliah murmured.

“One of them owes us a debt,” Soriah reminded.

“What was his name again?” Saviah asked.

“Roderick,” the old man answered.

“Good,” they said in unison, eyes gleaming. “It’s time he pays us back.”

The old man bowed again, disappearing with a shimmer of white light.

The triplets stared after Lioren.

“Our love is ours. Only ours.”

“Anyone who takes that from us...”

“...will suffer.”

“...and die.

......

While the politics stirred in different corners of the inner wall, with whispers of Seraphina’s stunt, and how to take advantage of it, or stab another in the back, Oliver the one willing to bring true ruin to their world, awoke from the Night trial...