Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 51: The Tea of Blood and Familial Bonds.

Chapter 51: The Tea of Blood and Familial Bonds.

With the scroll in hand—an official summon, not by a father, but a superior, Seraphina had no choice but to obey.

The inner sanctum of the Vontell estate was silent—so silent that even the winds dared not whistle through its intricately carved arches.

The path to the Duke's courtyard was long, lined with stone lanterns shaped like lotus blossoms, each burning with a pale, golden flame. The tiles underfoot bore runes carved by monks who had long since turned to ash, glowing faintly with preserved Aether. Statues of twelve-headed beasts said to guard the wise king, lined the walkway like frozen sentinels.

Seraphina walked this path as she had many times before, yet her back remained straight and her expression unreadable, even as her heart slowed its rhythm in anticipation. Her father was the only man who had ever made her heart do that.

At the end of the path, under a vermilion pavilion, sat the Duke of Vontell:

His Grace, Alzakar Vontell.

Unlike his daughter who had three names, he only had two names.

Clad in deep black and bronze robes embroidered with the Imperial Sigil, he reclined on a silken cushion beside a jade tea table. A clay pot steamed gently before him, his fingers carefully pouring its contents into two cups. His silver hair was tied in a long warrior’s knot, and his eyes—eyes darker than oil—watched her like a hawk judging prey.

Around him, the air shimmered. So thick with Aether, it twisted the light, like heat waves rising from sunbaked stone.

Despite this calm scene, the very ground seemed to groan beneath the weight of his presence.

Seraphina stepped into the courtyard and bowed, just enough to show formality—but not submission.

The Duke didn’t look up as he spoke.

“You flew our family’s banner high,” he said, slowly raising the cup to his lips. “And beneath it, you hanged your cousin’s corpse for the world to see.”

The tea touched his tongue. A long sip. A swallow.

“I don’t mind that you killed him. The outer wall nobles always need a lesson from time to time,” he said, setting the cup down without a sound. “But you did it publicly. And now… the Church of Light even dare to speak up. They’re meddling again. And while they are toothless tigers, they still carry the backing of the people—and sqwy of the citizens should always be with the Vontell.”

Seraphina kept silent.

Alzakar’s gaze lifted—finally—and settled on her. “You’re so much like your mother. Always thinking rage is a language others understand.”

That line sliced deeper than any blade.

He stood without effort, despite his towering robes and layers of power. His very movement stirred the wind.

“She’s been in her grave for two decades, and yet every time I look at you, I see her stupid defiance. Her impulsiveness.”

He walked past her, then stopped.

“Tell me. How many slaves did you bring back from Tyrell?”

Without hesitation, Seraphina replied, “Ten thousand, three hundred and twenty-eight.”

The Duke’s brow twitched. A frown.

“Not ten thousand, three hundred and thirty?” he asked, irritation blooming. “You know how I detest jagged numbers. Couldn’t you have added two more?”

She bowed her head slightly. “I know, Father.”

She didn’t tell him that it had indeed been ten thousand, three hundred and thirty.

That she had killed one slave—at random—just to make the number even because Oliver had killed Barka.

Or that she hated uneven numbers more than he did. But it wasn’t the kind of truth they shared. Not anymore.

Even though many said she was like him. Seraphina would rather lick the edges of a toilet seat than agree with that.

“And the Tyrell heir?” he asked, voice dipping to a knife's edge. “The boy. Richie Von Rich. Is he dead?”

Seraphina hesitated.

“Unfortunately… he escaped.”

The courtyard changed.

A sudden pulse. A flash.

The ground cracked beneath her boots. Not a tremor—a fracture.

It was the force of aether from him, pressuring her.

The jade tiles split down the centre as if cleaved by an unseen blade. The air roared, not with sound but with raw Aether, coiling from her father’s body like a rising typhoon.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

Even his teacup shattered without being touched.

“You let that 'worm' escape?” he thundered, though his voice had barely risen.

Seraphina had already foreseen this part.

When this mission had been given to her, the details of it had been quite specific.

If she had to guess, Richie Von Rich—an outsider, was incredible enough that they wanted to lure him into the empire using her beauty, more than they wanted to kill him.

And Alzakar's next words confirmed her suspicions.

“Do you know how many hands were dipped into that boy’s bloodline? How many prophecies revolve around the Rich family’s filth? Or Why the emperor even agree to the marriage between you two? —such an irritable girl. The one time, your stupid face was useful, and you came back empty-handed!”

The nearby flames flickered wildly his rising anger. A servant watching from behind the paper doors collapsed, coughing blood.

And yet, Seraphina stood still.

Chin high. Hands clenched behind her back.

She did not show it on her face, but if she could, she would have brought him with her. Her father did not know how much she wanted to.

Sending her to that place was possibly the best thing he had ever done for her, and he had barely done more than call himself her father—even that was questionable.

If it was when she was younger, the offence of not bringing back 'prey' would have been met with a few days within a snake pit at the very least.

The thought of it made her feel the need to scratch that scar on her back again.

Then again, the only reason she suffered his presence was if he summoned her officially —not as a daughter, but just another member of the Vontell Family.

At least now, with her achievements and growing power, she could look him in the face.

And so she spoke, intentionally ignoring his outburst.

“Would you like a report on His capabilities?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

Alzakar stared at her for a long time.

Then he exhaled.

The Aether storm receded, slowly coiling back into his body. The cracked tiles mended themselves—partially—by his will alone.

He turned back toward the pavilion. "I know more about him than you realize."

Those words surprised her. Her father was not such a person to remember information about a mere Prince of a tiny kingdom across the sea.

Surely, they was more questions about this man—more she wanted to uncover.

"And the seal?" He suddenly asked.

"I have sent it to the palace, on arrival."

He nodded as he waved his hand.

“Later,” he said. “You’ve already ruined my tea.”

She frowned at his figure as she stormed out of the place.

However, as she left the inner courtyard, her boots echoing on the cracked stone that still hadn’t fully mended, she paused for a breath.

Only then did she slip her gloved hand into the inner pocket of her coat. Her fingers found the worn fabric of a silken handkerchief, frayed at the corners, still faintly scented of something sweet—Richie Von Rich.

She clutched it tightly, pressing it to her palm for a moment. She was tempted to smell it—a new habit she was slowly getting fond of when in need of comfort. But Not now. She wasn’t that weak.

But she needed to touch something that reminded her that this pain had meaning.

She sighed, she needed a breather.

---

The eastern courtyard of her estate buzzed with a strange tension.

A wooden wheel stood tall in the center, crudely nailed and rotating slowly. A male slave was strapped to it—arms spread, apple balanced trembling on his head. His chest was slick with blood, and several knives were embedded in the wooden spokes. Some had hit his arm, his thigh. One had nicked his ear.

Naturally, his blood flowed from his wounds.

Still, he remained silent. Gritting his teeth. Daring not to scream.

Seraphina stood a few feet away, her purple coat fluttering in the breeze. Her hair was half-loosened, and in her hand, she spun another dagger between her fingers.

She threw it.

Thwack. Another slice across the slave’s side, wounding him.

She cursed under her breath.

“Why do I bother?” she muttered. “Nothing I do ever pleases him. Nothing is enough.”

Another throw.

Missed again.

Behind her, footsteps approached quietly over polished stone.

“You arrived not even an hour ago, and already you’re trying to maim your problems away,” said a soft voice.

She turned, a brief flash of genuine warmth in her eyes.

“Lioren Vontell,” she said.

Possibly the only one she didn’t wear a mask with—her brother, adopted by her father under very strange circumstances.

And while most would think their relationship should be estranged, she actually enjoyed his presence, and even his council.

He stood tall but leaner than most nobles. Hair dark brown and tousled. Eyes a pale gold, like spring sunlight through wine. Clad in a soft tunic and sleeveless robe, his demeanor radiated ease, despite the oppressive family name they shared.

He walked forward and took the dagger gently from her hand.

“You’re doing it wrong,” he said simply, before looking up at the spinning wheel. “That poor thing is probably praying for death.”

“I was aiming for the apple,” she lied.

He smiled slightly. “You always say that.”

She exhaled, anger bleeding from her shoulders.

“He blames me for everything. But I did what I had to do. The outer nobles were getting too comfortable. Our cousin thought he could challenge me—the idiot stole from me. So I made him an example.”

“And now the Holy Church of Light is watching,” she added bitterly. “He said I was like Mother again. Like it’s a curse.”

Lioren tilted his head. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

“He loved Mother. He just... didn’t know how to save her from herself. So now, he tries to mold you away from her shadow.”

Seraphina scoffed. “Then he’s failing. And now he sees me as another burden. I should have probably talked with grandfather first. He would have sided me.”

"Perhaps."

Lioren stepped closer, his hand brushing her arm gently.

"How about this... I’ll handle the Church,” he said. “Let me deal with them. I’ll make it disappear.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because you’re my sister,” he said, “and you shouldn’t have to carry this burden alone.”

He walked toward the spinning wheel. The slave tensed but dared not scream.

Lioren raised his hand. His mark—Master Sigil glowed faintly on his palm, and in response, a dull red light shimmered on the slave’s neck—the slave sigil.

“Quite fortunate,” Lioren murmured. “This one has throwing skills buried beneath the fear.”

He absorbed.

A pulse passed between them. The slave sagged slightly.

Lioren stepped back.

One flick of the wrist.

The blade flew—and pierced the apple clean through without touching flesh.

He turned back to Seraphina.

“Sometimes,” he said, “you just have to be patient. What you need is often right in front of you.”

He then approached her again and placed his glowing hand gently over her forearm. Her own Sigil responded—flaring briefly as the absorbed skill transferred.

A whisper of sensation. Precision. Focus.

She inhaled sharply. That felt... efficient.

“You’re wasting less energy now,” he said. “You’ll hit your mark next time.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The spinning wheel slowed. The slave trembled, but remained silent.

Seraphina looked at Lioren, something flickering behind her eyes.

“Thank you.”

“You’ll owe me later,” he said with a wink, and then turned, already walking toward the colonnade as if the weight of the world wasn’t pressing down on him.

"Just remember, you are still in charge of his slave farm. That much tells you how he values you, regardless of what he says. The Princess's Auction is coming up. I bet he still wants you to represent him."