Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 37: The Scent of Power

Oliver swallowed. He’d once watched a man lose half an arm trying to secure just one in his previous life. As far as he knew, these were never easy to get.

And the greater the shard grade, the greater the risk.

No doubt, these two had walked through death and returned with trophies. Guards like that weren’t stationed just anywhere.

Then his eyes landed on the doors.

The dark mahogany wood was etched with silver trim, and at the very center, engraved in deep, graceful lines, was the sigil of the Vontell family. A twin phoenix, wings curled around a blood-red star.

His heart skipped.

No one—not even the branch families—dared to display that symbol so boldly. It was sacred. Reserved for the true Vontell noble bloodline. The noble among nobles.

There was only one person aboard this ship who bore such entitlement.

Seraphina.

Oliver’s breath hitched.

Suddenly, the corridor felt tighter, the air too thin to fill his lungs. His body went still, even as the soldier gestured for him to move forward. His feet wouldn’t budge. A cold sweat dripped down his back.

Why now? What does she want? Is it because of the demon? No—it can’t be. But what if she knows? What if she remembers? What if I’ve already failed—

His vision blurred slightly as his thoughts twisted on themselves.

Does she know I came back? Does she suspect anything?

What if she’s still the same? What if she’s worse?

What if this is the moment it all goes wrong—

He didn’t fall. He didn’t collapse. But inside, he was a storm of chaos barely holding itself together. His legs trembled, not from weakness, but from too much remembering the sick things this woman had done to him and other slaves in his former life. Her sadistic smile at chaos.

Then, a voice broke the spiral.

“Oh, for the love of the Empire. What is that smell?”

A figure stepped forward from behind the guards, pressing a silken handkerchief against his nostrils as if warding off disease. His robe was an eye-straining swirl of deep greens and violets, lined with gold thread and too many unnecessary clasps. Bald, with a polished dome that reflected the lantern light, and small, sharp eyes behind jewel-rimmed glasses.

Viscount Hadrian Voss.

He stared at Oliver like one might regard a leaky chamber pot.

“Are you mad?” the viscount barked at the soldier. “You brought this… creature to her door? Do you have a death wish, boy?”

The soldier stiffened.

“L-Lady Seraphina requested—”

“I don’t care what she requested. Look at him! He reeks! Can’t you see she’s been on edge since we left Tyrell? Or are your senses as broken as your nose?”

He turned toward Oliver, his lip curled in disgust.

“Honestly. Get him cleaned up. Drenched, if you must. Use perfume. Or burn something near him.”

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The viscount waved them off with a flourish of his bejeweled hand, as though dismissing a foul vision.

The soldier bowed quickly and tugged Oliver by the arm, leading him away. Only once they’d turned a corner did Oliver realize he was breathing again. The tension in his chest had loosened, just slightly. He wasn't entirely sure if it was the distance from Seraphina’s door, or the relief of not collapsing in front of it.

They reached a narrow chamber a few corridors down. No warmth. No candles. Just stone basins and buckets lined up in a row.

“Strip,” the soldier said, voice flat.

Oliver did.

Then came the cold.

Buckets of frigid water slammed into his skin, stealing his breath in sharp bursts. He barely had time to shiver before a stiff-bristled brush—he was certain it had once cleaned toilets—scraped against his back, his arms, even his neck. It wasn’t cleaning. It was scouring.

He clenched his teeth and endured it. Grit. That’s all he had.

But even as the water drenched him and the soap made his healing cuts sting, Oliver’s mind remained somewhere else—behind those doors.

What does she want with me?

No answer came. And no plan formed.

He tried. Gods, he tried to think of a way to dodge the meeting, to disappear into the ship’s maze, to play dead if he had to—but nothing came. No exits. No options.

When the scrubbing was done, they gave him new clothes—simple but clean—and marched him back to that same corridor.

To those same doors.

And this time, as he stood before them again…

He didn’t feel like falling.

Maybe it was the biting cold.

Maybe it was something else. But then he pinched himself in the thigh. 'Why I'm even scared of her?'

This question seemed to embolden him.

Truly, he shouldn't, at least not yet.

Also, it was not like she was a Bellied Desert Bloody Scorpion.

Oliver had subconsciously started to use those terrifying beasts from the night trial as a standard. It was the same thing with Barka, and it had worked.

If he could even face them, then he could do this.

The door creaked open.

As Oliver stepped inside, the first thing that greeted him was a scent. Sharp, delicate, and floral—it slipped into his nose like a whisper. Lavender. A soft, clean aroma that seemed out of place on a ship, almost holy compared to the places he'd just left. The smell wrapped around him like silk, so calming it made his skin tingle.

Then came the silence.

No voices. No footsteps. Just the low hum of the ship’s heart beating in the distance.

He took a step in–not voluntarily, but because of the soldier behind.

The room was breathtaking. Every corner was pristine, balanced (almost) with a deliberate elegance that spoke of wealth and restraint. The floors were smooth, polished wood, dark and rich, giving off a subtle reflection of the lanterns above. A low table stood near the center of the room, surrounded by cushioned seats with legs carved from a dark, red-stained wood. Each piece was made with care, smooth as bone and carved with subtle patterns that hinted at old traditions. By the far wall stood a bed—not on the floor like the seats suggested, but elevated, as if to separate rest from the dirt of the world.

Scrolls of silk and paper, painted with deep black calligraphy and vibrant inks, hung on the walls, each one bordered with the Vontell family’s symbol. A sigil that should have inspired awe, yet here, it only made Oliver’s stomach tighten.

Yet, with all this, one object stood out like a sore thumb. In either color, position or even kind. It was a single chair with deep crimson cushions draped with a velvet cloak embroidered with a different family crest in silver thread— isn’t that my Richie's...?

He thought, but suddenly, a distraction.

The lavender scent stopped.

Like a sudden tide, it changed.

A new smell crept into the room. It was faint, but undeniable—iron and rot. The kind of smell Oliver knew too well. Blood. A lot of it. And not fresh.

He froze.

Slowly, as if against his own will, he turned his head to the right.

It was like peeling back the illusion of peace.

There, on the floor, blood had trickled across the wooden panels, dark and syrupy, making thin trails like fingers reaching toward him. His eyes followed the path until they stopped—at the wall.

At it.

A man—no, a corpse—was nailed to the wall, both arms were outstretched in a grotesque imitation of flight.

Iron stakes pinned his hands and feet directly into the wooden frame. His body hung limp, twitching slightly as if caught in a gentle breeze. But it was his skin… or lack of it.

His skin was STRIPPED. Peeled away like fruit.

Red muscle, raw and pulsing in parts, was exposed to the open air. His face had been left mostly intact, mouth frozen open in a silent scream. His eyes—milky and still open—stared directly at Oliver.

He couldn’t move.

His breath caught in his throat, stuck somewhere between horror and disbelief. A thousand thoughts clashed inside his head.

But on top it all was an answer to his question before the doors opened.

This was it. This was the reason he had been so scared of her.

One time in his former life, Seraphina, in her mood swings, had skinned a hundred slaves in a week, just because a dress she loved had accidentally torn because her tailor got her chest size wrong by two inches.

Yes, this was the kind of woman she was.

When she was in a foul mood, everyone around her felt it. But those that suffered it—were her toys.

If he remembered correctly, and he did, Accra had said that she was in a foul mood because of her meeting with Richie Von Rich, his father.

Oliver, clenched his fists, nails biting into his palm. His heart had begun to race again, and though his body didn’t collapse, his knees threatened to. He could feel the air around the corpse—tainted, heavier than the rest of the room, as though the body still wept pain into the world.

And through the wooden wall, from beyond the bedchamber, he could feel a presence. Calm. Unshaken. Watching.

She was close.

Seraphina.

She spoke up from within the purple veil, light, tender, and inviting. But Oliver did not think so.

"Ten thousand, three hundred and thirty slaves. All accounted for every penny. But because of you—taking a life, I have to go through the books again...I hate going through the books again. It makes my mood... FOUL."

From the bedchamber, a leg emerged. It was smooth, toned, almost ethereal in its elegance. The silk hem of a kimono slipped over skin like water, teasing the edge of modesty. It wasn’t just her leg coming out, bit in a way, it was a statement. Beautiful. Seductive. Perfectly sculpted to disarm.

Then came the second, just as graceful, followed by her full form rising with slow, deliberate poise. Her kimono hung loose, open just enough to reveal hints of pale, flawless skin and the curve of her collarbone. A sliver of cleavage peaked from the parted folds, subtle but intentional. Her lips, still adorned in that unnatural shade of purple, seemed to shimmer under the lantern’s dim glow—mysterious, captivating.

But Oliver wasn’t captivated. Not in the way a man might be. Heavens forbid it. He did not even dare to raise his head to her.

He didn’t think of her body or her beauty. His mind was flooded with one thing: Escape this room. Escape her. Escape her grip.

She approached him, every step delicate yet firm, like a dancer’s on a battlefield. Her presence sucked the air from the room.

She stopped a mere breath away from him, her violet gaze piercing through him. Then, with one elegant brow raised, she looked over Oliver’s shoulder to the soldier behind him.

And then, she turned.

There, at the door of the chamber was Viscount Hadrian Voss.

He too didn’t dare lift his head. His gaze remained fixed to the floor, it was of just out of respect, but out of raw, primal fear.

On a normal day, when she was fully dressed, he might have dared, but this noble knew his own lust, and he loved life a bit more.

She spoke up. Her tone was suddenly dry, “Really? This is the slave that killed the other one? A child?”

Hadrian nodded stiffly. “Yes, my lady.”

A deep, sour displeasure washed over her face as she waved her hand dismissively.

She had thought she would maybe have another toy to play with, to even the numbers of the slave on board.

But oliver was just ten. He barely had enough meat to play with.

What was she supposed to do to him? Skin him?

But then there would be nothing to admire or hang on her wall, but his bones.

She hissed at this and turned away.

“Just cut off his head. Place it in the lower decks… as a warning to the rest.”

Oliver’s breath caught in his throat.

She had spoken it so simply, so easily. It was a different kind of shock.