Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 43: The Red - Stitched Sisters

Chapter 43: The Red–Stitched Sisters

A sharp Ding! Echoed in Oliver’s mind.

[Do you wish to erase the Slave Interface—Beta Sigil?]

He froze.

It was the Nightmare Sigil—its blood-red glyphs glowing faintly in the dark corner of his consciousness, just beneath the newly etched blue chains of the Slave Interface.

The two were already clashing. He could feel it—like two foreign instincts fighting inside the same skin.

And worse, the Beta Sigil had activated its report function. He could see the tag glowing now:

[Report: Pending Overseer Sync...]

No. Not now. Not like this...

Panic flared. Oliver's thoughts raced.

The Alchemist's Seal that gifted the Nightmare Sigil was created specifically to counter Solomon’s Seal. It was strong enough to go against the original thing. These copies never stood a chance.

Erase it?

No—too risky. These copies were all part of a network, and that system would notice a missing Sigil.

He clenched his jaw and sent the command to the Nightmare Sigil: Don't erase it. Just hold steady.

[Command acknowledged. Holding.]

But when he tried to send a mental order to the Beta Sigil—

Stop the report. Cancel it.

[Command denied. Access insufficient.]

Of course.

The Slave Sigil wasn’t made to listen to him. It was made to obey them—The Masters.

And that’s when Cassian stepped forward.

“Roderick. Thalia. Begin.”

His son and daughter moved in unison—Roderick to the males, and Thalia to the females.

They pulled out their wands.

Roderick had to wipe the blood off on the part of his clothes that was not stained with blood.

Without hesitation, both bit into their fingers and began drawing blood runes on the tips.

Oliver’s breath caught.

'No—no, no—'

The moment that rune was completed, it would link their authority to the Slave Sigils. They’d see everything. Every name. Every number. Every skill. Including his.

He could already feel the heat building behind his neck where the Sigil had been burned in. The interface hovered in his mind, flickering.

It was going to report him.

The chains curled around the corners of the screen like a cruel ornament.

The report tag still glowed.

He reached inside himself again—deeper this time. Not toward the Sigils, but toward the bloodline will

Come on you Red bubbling abomination, I need you.

Silence.

Then—something shifted. Like a curtain pulling back in his chest.

There was a crackle in the air. His body tensed a bit. A hot pulse pushed through him like a current—and then, in the corner of the Beta Sigil: freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

[Report Tag Removed]

Oliver gasped—barely keeping himself upright.

The Nightmare Sigil had done it.

Just in time.

Across the dock, Roderick’s wand lit up. Names and stats streamed into the air in front of him, all pulled from the slaves nearby.

Oliver saw him pause.

There was a flicker—a static—right before Roderick reached the name: A666.

A brief distortion, and then it cleared.

Roderick frowned slightly, like he’d caught something out of the corner of his eye but couldn’t place it. He tilted his head—but before he could take a closer look, a smooth voice cut across the tension.

“Cassian.”

Everyone turned.

She stood at the top of the ramp from the ship, sunlight hitting her like a spotlight, though a soldier shaded her with a fine, velvet umbrella.

Lady Seraphina.

Draped in a dark purple travelling cloak, she descended with slow grace, not rushing for anyone. Behind her followed Viscount Hadrian and Viscount Cedric, two outer nobles who now walked two steps behind her, quiet and respectful.

Cassian straightened and bowed.

“My lady,” he said, voice smooth. “It’s always a pleasure to serve the Empire—and shape the next generation of slaves into something useful.”

Seraphina smiled faintly. “Useful? Hm. I’d prefer valuable.”

Seraphina was a successful businesswoman, in the most successful business of the Somara Empire—Slave Trade.

Her eyes suddenly scanned the row of slaves… then paused.

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On him.

Oliver felt it. That gaze.

Soft, curious. Almost fond.

That day, he had left her room when she had been sleeping peacefully. At the time, he had only barely dodged her death sentence.

He had assumed she had forgotten about him as she needed to take care of Martin Vontell. But this 'accursed' woman still remembered.

While favour was a good thing. Who wanted to have the favour of a woman who broke her toys regularly?

Oliver was fast— he quickly looked down, ducking his head behind the boy next to him, teeth gritted.

Not now. Not here. Damn her.

Cassian, noticing the pause, cleared his throat and gestured to his children. “If it pleases you, I’ve allowed Roderick and Thalia to use this camp to earn their Master Slaver badges.”

Seraphina waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t mind. Let them have their fun.” Her gaze didn’t leave Oliver. “But make sure they don’t damage my spoil. I’d hate to have to replace something so… precious.”

Cassian blinked.

Roderick’s eyes narrowed, gaze flicking in Oliver’s direction.

Oliver didn’t dare look up.

She saw me. Again.

And somehow… she seemed to be getting pleasure from this. However, there was nothing good about her insistence on him.

An attachment to a noble?

That was an extra torture warrant.

To Seraphina, was even worse. They could report that he died during the training and that would be it.

The Vaelcrest did not allow such attachments to blossom. There had been such issues in the past where nobles fell in love with slaves and did very foolish things against the interest of the empire.

While touring the idea out of the noble was not possible, there were many ways to make the slave 'undesirable.'

Just then, from the opposite side of the ship, the body of a noble was being brought down by soldiers. Even before Oliver could fully see it, he knew it wasn’t just any corpse.

The cloth used to wrap it was red — but it shimmered with silver-stitched threads forming the Empire’s insignia. A mark of noble blood. Soldiers and commoners were buried with plain red. Nobles, with silver. Royalty? Gold.

That silver insignia told him all he needed to know: someone of status had died on Seraphina’s expedition.

Cassian’s gaze followed the movement. He gave a respectful, moderate bow toward the corpse as the family stepped forward — a simple gesture, yet telling. He already knew who it was.

The Bolton family.

Outer-wall nobles. Oliver remembered their insignia — a curved blade within a tower, wrapped in black ivy. The grieving group wore black robes adorned with the same symbol. An elderly woman wept at the front, clutching her chest with both hands, as though willing her heart not to break.

Beside her stood a girl, no older than Velma, and a young man whose face mirrored the dead man’s far too closely.

Crane Bolton.

The younger brother. Now the heir.

Before them walked a priest of the Church of Light, dressed in pristine white, with sun-yellow starbursts embroidered along his sleeves. A thick chain bearing the church’s emblem — a star within a sun — gleamed on his chest as he swung an incense burner in slow, deliberate arcs. The smoke curled like the mourning sighs of a god.

Oliver watched silently from afar. He did not pity this family.

Their loss of a son was his gain of a sister. If he had to do it again, he would, a million times over and some more.

He couldn’t hear what was said, but he didn’t need to. The way Crane placed a firm hand on his mother’s shoulder, the fierce promise in his eyes, told Oliver everything:

“I’ll find who did this. I’ll bring them to justice.”

This claim was a bold one. But Oliver could understand why Crane did not just dismiss the matter.

Nobles of the empire were very valued. So valued that even an expedition just like this one had been accounted for in every step so that their lives could be secured.

The entire idea to weaken their Aether during the banquet was a part of this.

And yet, a noble—not weak, like the other punks, had died.

Crane could guess that something was not right.

Oliver felt a cold bead of sweat roll down his spine. But it was not from fear, but a slight anticipation. At the same time, he made a mental note to eradicate the entire family if need be.

As the chariot carrying the noble’s body rolled away, another presence arrived.

A new carriage — white, polished, and marked with the blazing symbol of the Church of Light — pulled up to the shore.

Seraphina immediately turned at the sight of it and sighed.

“Here comes the scolding,” she muttered, already attempting to slip away.

She made it two steps before a voice called out. Not loud. Not soft. Just... final.

“Seraphina Damaris Vontell.”

Her full name. Spoken like a sentence.

Seraphina paused, her shoulders stiffening with visible frustration. She turned slowly, fixing a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

Walking toward them was a woman clad entirely in white robes, lined with golden threads shaped like rays of light. Around her neck hung a thick golden chain — but at its centre sat a pendant unlike any other: a star carved from crimson ruby. Not glass. Not crystal. Aetherstone, harvested from deep within dungeon cores.

Her hair was snow-white, her steps deliberate. Yet every movement carried weight — not fragility, but command.

Flanking her were figures that made the skin crawl.

They wore the same white robes, but theirs were stained with threads of silver. Their mouths and eyes were sewn shut with white string, and embedded in the centres of their foreheads were blood-red rubies. They walked in perfect unison. No sound. No stumbling. As if they could see — or worse, feel — everything.

The red—Stitched Sisters

Oliver had seen them before, but that didn’t dull the horror. Something about them made the air... wrong. Like the world bent slightly around them. They were the Church’s enforcers. Silent. Devoted. Unnatural.

They were those that surrendered themselves to such a cruel fate by choice, and they were those that were forced into it, as a means to make penance.

Either way, the turning process to suffer as one was rumoured to be very very hellish.

Oliver remembered that a part of it required the eyes to be removed and boiled in molten Aether, and then replaced into the socket, still wet and hot, before the sewing.

Again—This was just one of its many steps.

But with sacrifice, came the opportunity for glory. It was said that a Red—Stitched Sister was guaranteed a throne of luxury and love, as a wife of king Solomon, at his second coming.

Cassian bowed deeply the moment he saw the old woman. His children followed without hesitation.

If any looked well, they would have noticed Thalia’s excitedness to see the Red—Stitched Sisters. She practically had stars in her eyes.

Every soldier around dropped to a knee. Even Roderick sent a pulse through the Beta Sigils, forcing the slaves to slam their foreheads to the earth.

Oliver felt it too. An instinct. A pressure. Something primordial.

As she walked forward, the Aether itself seemed to hum, almost like it was worshipping her.

Oliver glanced up — just a peek — and his eyes stung instantly. The Aether around her wasn’t just dense. It was condensed, compressed into something that vibrated across his skull like a scream. She hadn’t even released her power. Not truly.

And yet, some slaves nearby had already fainted.

She looked like she wouldn’t live another day. But Oliver knew that was a lie.

This was the Pope of the Holy Church of Light. Her words could make even the emperor lose sleep.

But what was she doing here?

In his past life, she had never come to the shores. She never left the cathedral — unless...

Oliver slowly turned his gaze to the corpse nailed to the ship’s mast.

Of course, he thought. It’s because of that.

The noble's corpse.

The Church's true concern was always in the legacy of King Solomon. Nobles of the empire were seen as such, and Seraphina had ended a noble.

Seraphina finally stepped forward again, her voice sweet but strained.

“Good day, Grandmother. What brings the Pope of the Holy Church of Light from her cathedral... to these filthy shores?”

The woman said nothing at first.

“Grandmother” wasn’t her real name, but it was what everyone called her. A term of reverence. Of fear.

She moved past Seraphina without looking at her.

The entire place had fallen silent.

She stopped before the ship — the corpse of the noble still nailed to the mast, arms spread like wings, head hanging low. Blood, long since dried, had darkened the wood beneath him.

The Pope of Light — Grandmother — closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.

Even the wind stopped to listen.

No one dared move. Not the nobles. Not the soldiers. Not even Seraphina.

Oliver felt it in his bones.

Something was changing.

And then it happened. Grandmother turned to Seraphina, "You killed a descendant of the light." Her voice was aged, but somehow still Comforting to listen to.

Seraphina frowned, "he stole from me. I'm I to allow such insubordination go unpunished?"

Grandmother did not entertain Seraphina’s words. "You killed a descendant of the light." She spoke again, this time around, her words had a finality to them. As if to say that Seraphina’s excuse did not cut it.

Then again, Seraphina knew.

After all, there were a million other punishments for stealing. She just used the most effective one, as her Will, Laziness, and reputation demanded.

"You will need to make penance. " Grandmother spoke up. "I have sent a petition to the Emperor..." she turned, "for you to become a Red—Stitched Sister."

Those words fell like a bomb.