Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 55: The Price of Defiance

Chapter 55: The Price of Defiance

“No,” a voice rang out—firm, pained.

Roderick paused mid-step, turning toward the sound.

A Centaur, bloodied and kneeling with effort, rose slowly despite the gash across his flank. His breaths were heavy. In his arms lay a younger Centaur, barely breathing, clearly dying.

“I said no,” the Centaur repeated, eyes locked on Roderick.

This Centaur was not just refusing the Imperial Slave Value System. But was also refusing Roderick.

It was clear.

Refusing a edgy teenager like Roderick was a very very stupid move.

Roderick’s expression suddenly darkened. With a flick of his wrist, his wand appeared in his palm, crackling with red light. He raised it, preparing to strike the insolent creature down.

But then, he hesitated.

Through the high glass panels above, Cassian Vaelcrest stood watching. His expression was cold, unreadable. Only his eyes revealed the truth: disappointment. Judgment.

After all, the goal was not to punish but to produce obedience and loyalty through the Vaelcrest way.

The Centaur below flinched, expecting the blow. He had seen Roderick kill before—many had. Yet, somehow, this Centaur seemed ready for death. Maybe he even welcomed it. A rebel spirit lived in him. He couldn't be more than eighteen. But what Oliver saw in his gaze wasn’t youthful rebellion.

It was a death wish.

Oliver had carried that look himself once, long ago. In another life.

Roderick, who had paused, chuckled suddenly. “Of course. Centaurs. The House of Vontell has already prepared something for your kind.”

He waved a hand, and the heavy chamber doors creaked open.

In walked a procession of slaves—docile, obedient. Each bore a silver tray, and atop them lay glimmering blue vials. The air shifted. Even the scent felt cleaner.

These were Healing potions.

Oliver recognized them instantly. These things weren’t just rare—they were priceless.

Unless in the land of the light elves, where they were made through alchemy, these things could only be acquired through the dungeons.

Then again, a vial was more valuable than a full team of dungeon-trained slaves. And these Centaurs hadn’t even touched a dungeon yet.

Oliver knew the Vontell family was wealthy. But this was extravagant. Wasteful, even.

In his past life, at this point, the Centaurs had been healed by priests from the Holy Church of Light—not potions like these.

Something had changed.

Oliver sighed again in his heart. He had seen the strain between Grandmother and Seraphina. No doubt, his stunt with Accra must’ve broken something—perhaps the bond between the Vontells and the Church had become more fragile than he’d imagined.

And the Vontells? That family would sooner burn through treasure than kneel for help.

Roderick approached the nearest tray and picked up a vial, admiring it like a rare gem. “A healing potion,” he said smoothly. “Not easily made. Sometimes found in dungeons. A gift from the world itself. But a privilege only the Somara Empire has been blessed with.”

He turned suddenly and seized an old, injured slave by the neck. With casual cruelty, he uncorked the vial and poured its contents over the man’s head.

The man, fearful for his life, had panicked. But then it happened.

A gasp echoed across the room.

Skin stitched itself. Muscle mended. The man stood, wide-eyed, whole.

Whispers rippled across the slaves and Centaurs alike. Even the injured young Centaur’s eyelids fluttered faintly in hope.

Roderick turned to the rebellious Centaur.

“You were saying something about refusing the Imperial Slave Value System?” he asked, voice low and surgical.

Though the Centaur stood taller than him, Roderick radiated dominance. He pointed at the younger Centaur, who lay motionless, barely clinging to life.

“Get on your knees. Recite the Imperial Slave Value System,” Roderick said. “And I’ll consider giving this to him.”

No one spoke. The other Centaurs behind, stared at their brethren. Pleading without words.

Centaurs were not like other species like the Reptilians. They did not betray kin. Every loss for them was personal. The dying one was family.

Teeth clenched, eyes burning, the Centaur who had spoken up lowered himself to his knees.

He began to recite.

But Roderick clicked his tongue. “No, no. I said knees. Not pride.”

The Centaur sank lower, until his head was bowed to the earth, and he began again.

Roderick smiled.

“Good.”

He walked over and poured a second potion over the dying Centaur. Muscles spasmed. Bones reknit. The youth gasped sharply—alive.

A few of the others murmured in awe. To them, it was A Miracle.

Then again, the things the Somara empire were capable of had been viewed to be miraculous time and time again—things that should be normalised.

Then again, things were far from being done.

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. He knew Roderick too well.

This wasn’t generosity.

Roderick turned again, wand in hand. The Centaur who had spoken out flinched.

“There are benefits to obedience,” Roderick said with a twisted grin. “And... 'blessings' for disobedience.”

He raised his wand.

“Sympathetic Wounds.”

A red pulse flowed from the wand, spidering like veins into every Centaur.

Oliver’s stomach sank.

He recognized it instantly.

This wasn’t just a spell—it was a bloodline curse. A Vaelcrest trademark.

When one slave suffers, all feel the pain. It was a mind game.

The goal was simply to shatter unity and sever trust. Natutally, this would make them turn on each other to survive.

Even Oliver knew—this spell alone would be enough to break the Centaurs.

It was punishment enough.

But Roderick wasn’t done.

With a wicked smile, he whispered again. “Echo Seal.”

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Oliver flinched.

That was cruel even by a Vaelcrest's standards.

Echo Seal worked differently.

It was not shared pain. It was reflected pain. Random. Delayed. Unpredictable. When the disobedient slave suffered, it echoed back through the minds of the others—over and over again.

This was Trauma, recycled. Terror weaponized.

And then after the bloodline spells had been used, Roderick waved his hand in a commanding gesture.

The rebellious Centaur didn’t even have time to react before the Box of Blessing appeared behind him. Its gears ground open.

He was immediately sucked inside.

SLAM.

The chamber fell silent. And then the screams began.

Agonized. Echoing. Endless.

The other Centaurs fell to the ground, convulsing, their screams mingling with his in the box of blessings. Their legs buckled. Their hearts raced. Blood vessels burst in their eyes. Some vomited. Others clawed their own skin, trying to escape the pain that wasn’t theirs but felt entirely real.

Two bloodline spells had been used. The first one made them all share the pain of one, and the second one echoed that pain, again and again.

They weren’t just breaking physically.

Their minds were splintering. But of course, they would not die. But wishing for it would be a servant prayer through out the process.

And through it all, Roderick turned his gaze upward—seeking praise from his father.

But Cassian gave none.

Only silence.

His eyes gave only disappointment.

He turned and walked away, vanishing beyond the glass without a word.

Roderick’s smile vanished. His jaw clenched.

And for the first time in that hall, the one suffering most… was him.

Oliver on the other hand simply observed. Oh, he did not like what he was seeing.

But step up and defend?

Now that was divine foolishness. The best he could do was look away from the suffering. After all, the worse was still yet to come.

They were allowed to go about their businesses, familiarising themselves with the Imperial Slave Value System. After all, they had to recite it a thousand times, and the day was mostly gone.

Throughout the night, the male slaves recited the Imperial Slave Value System, the horrific screams of the Centaurs, a constant reminder of what would befall them if they did not.

Naturally, Thalia had to perform a similar display of subjugation on the slaves she handled. Of course, it was not as wild, forceful or sadistic as her brother's.

Most women were easier to deal with, especially when they were away from their men.

Only those prideful royal and noble women needed extra attention.

Some of them, exciting the others even had the guts to even demand hot water for their baths instead of the usual that even the males had been grateful for—thinking Thalia would be easier to handle, away from Cassian and her madder twin.

Oh, how wrong they were.

Even though she was not brutal, she was definitely effective and exceedly creative with taming their 'kind.'

Warm water to bath?.... hmmm...

.....

Steam rose like a gentle mist over the elegant marble floor. Gold-veined pillars held the ceilings high, and the scent of jasmine hung in the air. The room was lit with softly glowing crystals embedded in the walls—ethereal, like a dream. A massive, ornate bath sat in the center, filled with gently steaming water that shimmered like starlight.

The rebellious female slaves, a few dozen in total, stood hesitantly at the edge of the room. Many of them had been defiant just hours earlier, demanding warm water, refusing to recite the Imperial Slave Value System, and then complaining about the chill that crept into their bones as the night fell.

They had whispered and grumbled among themselves, emboldening one another.

Now they were speechless.

Thalia had taken them from the warehouse they were supposed to sleep to this beautiful place because they requested warm water for their baths instead of the usual.

“This…” one of the girls breathed. “This must be a reward.”

Silken-robed attendants, girls, moved quietly along the edge of the pool, placing folded towels, robes, and trays of scented oils. A warm haze wrapped around everything.

Then she entered.

Thalia Vaelcrest.

She didn’t walk in—she arrived.

Draped in sleek black satin, a dress style her father would definitely approve of. However, it glinted with subtle crimson accents, her black hair was pinned in a crown-like twist. Her necklace of the Holy Church of Light still rested on her chest.

Her eyes were calm, sharp like a scalpel in velvet gloves.

A soft smile tugged at her lips.

"Oh sweethearts...You didn't get any warm water? You deserve comfort. No one showed you all any kindness?” She spoke like a caring mother. This was a well practised demeanor—the right face for the job needed.

A Vaelcrest could adapt very fast.

The girls looked at each other. Some nodded slowly. One, a taller woman with fierce look in her eyes, stepped forward and muttered, “We’re not livestock. All we asked for was dignity. I also treated my slaves in a good manner as their mistress. I would also like to be given the same treatment.” She spoke like it was her right to request such. Then again, a sense of place was something these women displayed any opportunity they got.

Many were still Delusional.

Thalia knew this. 'Women—always in need of delulu to breath air.' She tilted her head knowingly.

Thalia's voice still rang sweet.

“Of course. You’re absolutely right. But Dignity… is earned. And warm water?" Her voice went cold, "Will only be a luxury for the deserving.”

She gestured around the room.

“This is the Bath of Grace. And you may all experience it. You see, the Somara Empire is far kinder than you would believe. The wise kings light shines here.”

They didn’t know what to say. Some dared to smile.

Thalia clapped her hands lightly. An attendant brought in a lacquered box of blackwood with a golden latch. When opened, inside were dozens of slates and many pieces of white chalk.

The atmosphere shifted.

“But there is one little rule. This place comes with a cost. Dont worry, it is not expensive. Just one...”

The tension thickened.

“Each of you will write a name—any name from among you. One of you must be punished. Publicly. Painfully. You choose who. The one with the most votes will be taken to the lower pits. The rest... will bathe.”

The women stiffened.

“If you refuse to choose… or if you write your own name… you will not bathe. And I cannot promise your safety.”

She let the silence bloom for a moment, her smile unwavering.

“Ten minutes. Then I'll return.”

For the slaves, their names had changed. They were all given letters and numbers.

But Thalia knew something. When it came to women, they always talked—in pain most especially.

—rarely the third redeeming reason they ever banded together, the first being the prospect of gain only gotten if they banded as one, and the second, to challenge men.

They always talked.

And then the pain from the day saw that they attempted to find unity in one another, and definitely shared their new names with each other, regardless of race.

Thalia turned and left the room with the same graceful poise she entered, her long robe sweeping the polished floor behind her.

---

As the door clicked shut, the room was no longer luxurious. One might say that it became a kind of battlefield.

A human noblewoman now turned slave, stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. B444.

“Let’s be clear. Some of us carry bloodlines that matter. I refuse to be sacrificed for the unwashed masses.”

A centaur woman another one of royal bloodline, A222 barked a laugh. “You mean the same noble blood that brought you here in chains?”

“Don’t speak to me, beast. I had a court before this. What did you have? A stable?”

The centaur lunged forward, but a dark elf intervened with a sly grin. “She’s right, you know. Nobility is a fragrance easily masked by shit.”

“Says the one who sold her own cousin for a seat beside a prince,” muttered another dark elf from the back. Obviously, this particular Centaur had a history that had reached places. And the Dark elf recognized her. “We all know what your kind calls 'loyalty.'”

Then came the blaming.

“Write the elf’s name—she’s the most dangerous.

“No, the centaur. She’s stronger. That’s a threat.”

“You think they’ll punish the elf? They’ll spare her to make a point. They want us to target the humans.”

“No one ever punishes the humans. They always turn it on us.”

Then came the whispers.

They didn’t scream. They sabotaged. Manipulated. Planted lies with elegance. Eyes darted. Loyalties cracked. Royal girls clung to one another, whispering alliances. Elven sisters exchanged tense looks. Centaurs circled their own, forming their own herd-like cluster.

And then the writing began.

Meanwhile, a few people exempted themselves from all this. Most were scared commoners with little to no courage, and some much smarter women.

When Thalia returned, the silence was the kind that swallowed sound.

She moved between the women, picking up slates. Reading. Smiling.

She stopped at one.

“Ah B444. Twenty one votes.”

Thalia could only imagine how hated this one was to have so much.

The noble's eyes widened. “No—no, this isn’t possible. I—I'm a Von Elstan! My house is—”

“Your house is dust,” Thalia said softly. “But your lesson will be written in flesh. Also, let me remind you all. Your old names and houses are gone. By the grace of the wise king. Never mention them again. ”

B444 screamed as two guards entered and dragged her away. The humans turned their eyes. One elf smirked.

Thalia turned to the rest. “Those who wrote names… step into the water.”

They did.

With trembling legs and tight jaws, they stepped into the lavish bath.

And shrieked.

It was freezing.

Shockingly cold. The kind that pierced bone and cracked teeth. With ice dancing within it.

“What—?!”

“The steam—”

“It was an illusion!”

Thalia chuckled, lifting one hand. The bath shimmered. The illusion flickered off.

“Warmth, like loyalty, is earned.”

She then turned to the seven who had refused to write any name—a half dark elf with a scar across her cheek, a young centaur with haunted eyes, and five others. One of whom was Velma.

“And you,” she said, “you fascinate me.”

Her smile deepened.

“Take them to the conditioning chambers. They’ll be tested further. I suspect there’s… potential.”

The rest were left to shiver in their ice bath of shame as they recited the Imperial Slave Value System.

Thalia didn’t beat them. Didn’t scream. Didn’t curse. Yet now, every girl in that room was marked. Some would become loyal. Others broken. And a few like B444, might become more dangerous than ever.

But more than that, her training was exploiting something deeper.

While developing loyalty to the Somara empire was fundamental, and pain was a strong method the Vaelcrest used, it was simply a means to an end. ƒгeewёbnovel.com

Roderick would use humiliation and physical pain to break the men only because that was the language men easily understood.

Physical Violence was a man's language.

This was a good method. The only problem was that Roderick allowed his ego into the mix.

On the other hand, Thalia simply did her work as she should.

Women expressed violence much differently. Their's was not physical unless they had no other choice.

It was more subtle. Backstabbing, isolation, Victimisation, Manipulation, Blackmail, Sabotage.

These were the languages women understood. It was even more consistent if she was a royal or noble woman—their fangs were sharper.

Thalia was simply speaking their language, but at the same time, breaking fragile bonds, while carefully selecting useful characters that existed beyond survival.

Thalia was forging them, while still picking the useful ones.

Cassian was pleased, but as he left, he did not know that Thalia had just come across something.

Something unexpected.

One of the women for conditioning. It was Drawn in blood on a wall, and kneeling before this crimson symbol was Velma...