Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 38: A Handkerchief for a Head

The Rich family crest.

The chair didn’t belong in this room. When he first entered, he had briefly wondered why it was here. But now, with death breathing down his neck, the memories surged. He had seen that chair before—sat in it to play 'ruler' even—back in his father’s study.

And Seraphina... He remembered that this woman, she had always been relentless in her obsessions.

In his past life, Oliver had been too young, too focused on survival and enduring pain to see the truth behind her actions. But now? Now he remembered. Stories whispered in the noble courts. Rumors of her expeditions to the far eastern barbarian lands. Her cold brutality. Her strange fixations. When she had her mind on something, she would pursue to the very end.

And her fixation on Richie Von Rich was no different.

It was a dangerous, unreciprocated longing.

She had ransacked his father's estate as she brought the entire kingdom to its knees. And the she collected remnants of the man she couldn't have. This chair was one of them.

Oliver opened his mouth, and the words fell out in a breathless rush, spoken in the common tongue of Tyrell—not Somaran—a mistake he made with the dumb soldiers from before, but won't repeat again.

“It’s under the chair. Just within the slits.”

The soldier pulling him paused, his grip tightening but not moving. Seraphina, already halfway to her bed, stopped.

She turned slowly, her expression unreadable. “What did you say?” Her voice was calm, but the undercurrent of danger was sharp enough to cut stone. “Speak, nameless slave.”

Oliver lifted his head. “Under the chair… Richie Von Rich’s handkerchief is there.”

A silence stretched thin between them. Then, Seraphina’s eyes widened, a flicker of something gleaming beneath her lashes—surprise? Hope? Obsession?

With sweeping steps, she stormed across the room to the chair that now stood like a relic at the center of attention. Her purple Aether pulsed into her hands, and with a casual flick, the chair flipped into the air and hovered upside down.

She moved in close, her breath sharp, her gaze locked onto the base.

There, nestled within the slits of the frame—was a folded red handkerchief.

The Rich family crest embroidered in golden thread was still visible.

She extended her hand and let her Aether brush across the cloth. A faint hum answered back.

She had felt it before, held his hand, basked in his presence. She had felt it strongest when he released that storm of Aether in their fight, of course, she knew it was really.

Traces of Richie Von Rich’s Aether still clung to this handkerchief.

A soft gasp escaped her lips.

Then—shockingly—she giggled. A soft, almost girlish laugh, bubbling with disbelief and joy. Her fingers trembled as she brought the cloth closer to her face and inhaled it. A deep breath, full of memory, longing, and madness.

But when she turned back to Oliver, the softness vanished. Her face returned to a composed mask, but he could see it clearly now–she was pleased. And trying not to show it.

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Her voice was low, controlled. “How did you know it was there?”

Oliver swallowed. This was a dangerous question.

But the true question was—How won't he know?

Oliver remembered in his former life that he had sneaked into his father's study many times, even though Richie never wanted him there.

However, he was a child that lost his mother, but mostly craved his father's attention. And when he could not get it one way, he used another.

Oliver would change the location of certain items in the study. It was all because he expected his father would send for him, and he could have the opportunity to see him more often. A pen here, a paper there. He would shift their locations—hide them around the place.

This handkerchief had been one of them.

Who could have known that a childish prank would save his life.

Oliver could just lie. But her eyes—they seemed to pierce through half-truths. He didn’t know if she possessed a truth-seeking Shard, but if she or Viscount Hadrian did, he would be in trouble.

Then again, he did want to hide his identity. But who was he kidding. Once they arrived at the Somaran empire, all the slaves would be tested for bloodline quality. At the very least, he still had royal bloodline.

No. He had to take a risk.

"I'm his son," Oliver said, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest.

The words hung in the air like lightning.

Viscount Hadrian stiffened.

For a moment, Oliver thought Seraphina would lash out, furious at the idea of her beloved laying with another woman.

But instead... her lips curved.

“Hadrian,” she said smoothly, eyes still locked on Oliver, “you’ve done well. Your Aether stone reserves might just be increased when we return.”

The old man lit up like a lantern, bowing repeatedly in thanks. “Thank you, my Lady! Thank you, thank you!” He had been really looking forward to having her favor, trying different means to out do Viscount Cedric Elmann. Who could have known a slave would bring him favor.

If he had known this, he would have brought Oliver here, days ago.

He continued to thank her, but she had no interest in his groveling.

She flicked her fingers. “Leave us.”

Hadrian and the soldier obeyed at once, the heavy doors shutting behind them.

And then there were two.

Only Oliver.

And Seraphina.

Alone.

The soft scent of perfume mixed with blood still lingered in the room. Her fingers still gripped the cloth. But worse of all, her expression was unreadable.

And Oliver?

He had no idea whether he had just saved his life, or signed his own death warrant.

However, the room was silent now, safe for the slow, rasping breaths of the man still nailed to the wall. His suffering hung in the air like a scent. It was unseen but impossible to ignore.

Oliver stood there, stiff and unsure, until Seraphina suddenly stepped toward him. Her purple eyes locked onto his, radiant with a curiosity that felt far too personal. He held his breath as her sweet, violet-scented perfume tried to invade his lungs.

Without warning, her fingers threaded through his hair, gripping tightly.

"White-haired?" she murmured, her voice soft but sharp. "Are you really sure you are his child?"

Oliver gave the slightest nod. He wanted to explain that his hair came from his mother’s bloodline, but instinct screamed at him to stay silent. He just had a feeling that any and all unnecessary words might make him become neighbours with the man on the wall.

Her hand moved, covering his hair with her palm. Then her eyes brightened, gleaming with something far too dangerous. Without hesitation, she leaned in and licked his face.

As she did this, Oliver could only imagine what she would do if she knew that he had been scrubbed with a toilet brush before he was brought here. Another thing his mouth would never open to talk about.

Seraphina stepped back, satisfied. She nodded.

"Good. Now tell me." She spun and collapsed onto his father’s chair, curling into it like a content cat, still clutching Richie’s handkerchief to her nose. “Tell me everything about him. His favorite food. What he likes to wear. Favorite color. Shoe size. Has he ever been to a dungeon? What’s his training routine? Do you think he likes spicy food—?”

The questions came like a flood.

Oliver blinked, momentarily stunned by her childlike obsession. And yet, for some strange reason, he answered. Perhaps because it felt like the closest thing to mercy he’d been offered since waking up in this house of horrors. Perhaps because—for once—his connection to a father he’d barely known was working in his favor.

So, he answered. And once he started, he couldn’t stop.

He spoke of the way Richie walked, the meals he never finished, the books he pretended not to read but always did. He talked until his voice ran dry, and still she asked.

Of course, he knew a lot of things about his father. He had stalked the man in his previous life, but his obsession then had been the search for favor.

Eventually, her words slowed–Thank the gods. Her lashes drooped. A yawn escaped her lips. With a soft smile, she sank deeper into the chair—and fell asleep.

Oliver on the other hand, remained standing. Frozen. The room now felt too still. The only sounds were her steady breathing and the wet, slow gurgle from the man still dying on the wall.

He turned to look at her. Peaceful. Vulnerable. As if there wasn’t a corpse bleeding on her wall.

How can she sleep so easily?

But even as he wondered, another thought rose—darker, sharper.

She’s asleep now.

This chance may never come again.

A flame flickered inside him as his eyes fell on her pale neck. The memories flooded in like a crashing wave: her words, her cruelty, the times she smiled while he screamed. The whippings. The blood extractions. The times she’d referred to him not by name—but as 'it.' All the times a mood swing starved him for days. Those like him that he watched fall like flies.

And then the flame inside him roared.

It was a fire that had never gone out. It was the desire for revenge. The hatred that brought him back in time. And as that hatred surged, something deep and ancient stirred with it.

The Blood of Asmodeus.

It responded to his desire for revenge very fast.

It whispered to him—no, screamed. Dark thoughts pressed against the edge of his mind.

'Kill her.'

'Now.'

'Strike while she sleeps. Rip her throat out. Drown her in her own blood.'

It was like the hiss of a snake, seductive, and it felt right.

His fingers trembled, but it wasn’t fear. It was hunger. His eyes burned faintly, glowing red beneath his lashes. Even he did not notice his demon bloodline was now responding physically.

Slowly, deliberately, he stepped toward the desk.

There, a pen sat beside a neat stack of papers.

Each step felt like an oath.

Seraphina stirred slightly, her fingers tightening around the handkerchief. Oliver’s heartbeat pounded. This did not mean that he panicked, rather, he was in pure, visceral anticipation. His fingers wrapped around the pen. It felt so small. So insignificant for what he intended, bit I would be enough.

He approached her.

This was it. The beginning of his vengeance. The fall of the empire could start here—with her.

He raised the pen high, eyes locked on her throat.

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Then he struck.

But before the pen could pierce flesh, a hand shot up—her hand.

Her purple eyes blazed open, cold and cruel.

“Got you,” she said softly. “You little trash.”

Before he could recoil, she flicked her wrist—and pain exploded from his neck. Blood splashed across the room.

The world blurred....