Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 52: When Light Casts Shadows

Chapter 52 : When Light Casts Shadows

Lioren was not kidding. He would face the church of light for his loving sister.

He was not one that wasted time. When he made up his mind on a subject matter, he took it.

The great cathedral of the Church of Light stood like a monument of judgment before Lioren, its towers piercing the gold-streaked sky. He halted at the base of its vast marble steps, and with a wave of his hand, ordered his carriage and servants to remain behind.

“Wait here. I’ll return shortly.”

The high walls shimmered faintly in the setting sun, stained glass catching the light and throwing holy specters across the stone ground. At the fire-lit front, armored figures stood rigid with discipline—Holy Knights, their gleaming breastplates stamped with the sacred emblem: a star within a circle. Their silence was not just for show. These ones were watchers and executioners, bound by vow and fire.

But even more unnerving than the knights was the figure seated silently at the highest point of the cathedral.

She wore the blood-red robes of the Red-Stitched Sisters, her head bowed, her eyes sewn shut with black thread, as was her mouth. A Ruby on her forehead that glowed softly in the dusk.

They was always one of them on the cathedral. They never moved. Not when it rained. Not when snow fell. Not even when lightning struck. Always present. Always watching—even without eyes.

Even now, with her stitched eyes, Lioren felt her presence on him. Not just him. Everyone who dared approach this place.

He climbed the high steps with quiet resolve, each footfall echoing against the stone like a challenge. Inside, the cathedral's ceiling soared so high it vanished into shadow, its arches carved with prayers older than memory. Light poured through the stained windows, but it was not warm. It was cold, reverent, and hollow—like the eyes of the statues lining the walls.

Just as he arrived, he was greeted by a bent, gray-robed priest, age etched deep into his features.

“I would speak with Grandmother,” Lioren said, voice sharp, leaving no space for negotiation.

The priest bowed low. Though he wore the robe of the Church, his posture betrayed his birth. A commoner—allowed here only by sacred duty. And he knew his place. Even inside the Church, nobles were divine.

“Forgive me, my lord,” the priest said with careful deference, “but Grandmother is… occupied at this hour. I believe she is currently in private audience with His Grace, the Grand Duke Vontell.”

Lioren's gaze remained level. Of course. His sister’s stunt had shaken too many foundations. And Grandfather, ever the doting old fool when it came to Seraphina, had rushed to fix what he could. Just as Lioren had come here—to stop the bleeding before it became war with either the church or the other families—even though it was no one's business.

However, everyone was seeing this as an opportunity to display their morality, and loyalty to the noble blood—Like they had not killed more members of their families for crimes as small as not awakening their bloodline regardless of noble birth.

—in secret, with excuses for the public, of course.

Then again, Seraphina did display a noble like skinned bush meat. Nobles were seen as purer blood.

Untouchable.

And in a nation that praised bloodline as much as this one, this was a grave sin.

But like most, it was not a problem that could not be solved. As long as one knew the right buttons to push.

Lioren had sent word ahead to the Grand Duke to stall. His Grandfather would listen. He always did. After all, Lioren had made himself invaluable in this family, and today, that meant facing the Church alone.

“Then I will speak with the Caretaker,” he said. “I’m aware she is within these walls. It’s nearly dusk.”

The priest hesitated. A brief shadow flickered across his expression. Lioren noticed.

Even among the faithful, the Caretaker was something… other.

Only a very select few were aware of her 'Special' condition, and nobles were not on that list.

How did this noble know?

But before the priest could respond, a playful voice broke through the tension.

“By Solomon’s beards, look who finally decided to visit.”

Lioren looked up.

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She descended from one of the upper balconies like a vision stitched from light and velvet shadow. The Caretaker.

Her crimson robes shimmered as she walked, every step blooming with small roses across the stone floor that wilted the moment she passed. Her bare feet didn’t leave prints, but her presence was undeniable. Her red hair floated behind her, unaffected by gravity or wind.

When she reached them, she waved a slender finger at the priest. He bowed immediately and left in silence, robes whispering against the floor.

She turned her full attention to Lioren with a smile so warm, it could almost be mistaken for love. But her eyes were too sharp. Too knowing.

“My dear boy,” she cooed, spreading her arms as if welcoming back a long-lost pet. “Have you missed me that much?”

Lioren didn’t move. “I want the Church to drop the matter with my sister.”

The smile remained, but her eyes glinted with amusement. She stepped slowly around him, her fingers dancing lightly across his shoulder like a whisper.

“Oh, ‘sister,’ is it? That’s such a strong word, don’t you think? Makes one wonder… does your sister even know what you are? I mean 'adopted'—yes. But… what you truly are?”

Lioren didn’t flinch. His voice remained calm. “That doesn’t matter. Only this does—drop the issue.”

She sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. “So persistent. But darling, you know we can’t. Your precious sister murdered a noble, and displayed him in public. A blood of the Great and Wise King Solomon. That demands retribution.”

“I’m offering something in return,” he said quickly.

She scoffed. “You think there’s anything you can offer that your grandfather hasn’t already promised Grandmother this very moment?”

“There is,” he replied coolly.

She paused, raising a curious brow.

Lioren stepped forward, and whispered close to her ear, “Unlike most nobles, I know. I was here remember. You built me. I know the weakness of the Church of Light.”

The shift was instant. Her head turned slightly, lips no longer smiling.

“Are you threatening us?” she asked, voice flat, quiet.

Lioren shook his head. “No. I know better than that. Even with what I know, it wouldn’t be enough. But I am proposing a deal.”

“Go on.”

“I’ll offer up my Bloodline.”

She blinked once. Then tilted her head back and laughed—a melodic, ringing sound, echoing too perfectly off the walls.

“Your Bloodline?” she said between chuckles. “Oh, darling. That pitiful thing? There’s a reason they nearly had you executed as a child. ‘Failed experiment’—does that ring a bell?”

“True,” he admitted. “But times have changed. And the Church isn’t what it once was, is it?”

His voice dropped.

“Not since eleven years ago. Not since the incident. I wonder—how dim is the Holy Crystal now? How badly do you need a new source of light? Enough to threaten a Grandduke’s family over one reckless girl?”

Her smile cracked slightly.

Then he added, “Also, you might be surprised. My Bloodline… has evolved. I’ve reached fifteen percent integration with Solomon’s bloodline.”

She froze. Fully, this time. No laughter. No snide remarks.

Only silence.

Lioren’s gaze narrowed.

“The Church claims to be light,” he said softly, almost to himself, “but all I see are shadows... cast by something dying.”

And the Caretaker, for once, didn’t laugh.

The Caretaker’s smile returned—but this time, it was serene. Almost reverent.

“Follow me.”

She turned, robes brushing the floor like smoke, and walked toward a side arch mostly hidden in shadow. Lioren followed without hesitation. No guards challenged him. No questions were asked.

They passed through narrow corridors, torch-lit paths carved in stone, and staircases that spiraled downward into the bowels of the cathedral.

The deeper they went, the darker it became—but strangely, the holier it felt.

The Red-Stitched Sisters stood at each threshold, unmoving, watching him with their sightless sewn eyes. They didn’t speak, and he even wondered if they even breathed. Yet each one exuded a pressure that prickled Lioren’s skin.

They passed statues that should not exist, icons of forgotten saints, and murals that told stories older than scripture—some with too many wings, others with faces swallowed by golden light. And all around, the presence of something sacred and terrible pulsed gently in the walls, like the slow heartbeat of a sleeping god.

Eventually, the steps ended.

Before them stretched a vast, ancient chamber—a cathedral beneath the cathedral.

High ceilings arched into shadows, barely touched by the white glow of lamps that hung like stars far above. The Aether crystals that powered them were white, not blue or violet like in common use. Pure. Untainted.

But there was a stench.

Old blood.

Lioren wrinkled his nose. The stone floor bore faint stains—dark veins etched into its surface, long since dried but never truly washed away. He could feel it. The weight of sacrifice. Of ancient pacts.

Far ahead, at the end of the hall, a massive crystal rose from the ground, reaching toward the high ceiling. It was the size of a small mountain, white and cracked, yet still pulsing faintly with divine power.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Each pulse sent a shiver through the chamber. The last known Heart of the Holy Flame. A relic from the First Age. A crystal born of Solomon’s breath, they claimed.

But this crystal—the true mystery surrounding it was far darker than the holiness it gave.

Lioren’s throat went dry. He had seen drawings, heard myths—but never imagined he would stand before it.

The Caretaker turned to him.

“Don’t just stare,” she said gently. “You know what to do. Strip.”

He didn’t argue. He obeyed.

First the coat, then the gloves, the shirt, until he stood bare-chested under the white glow. The air was colder down here, unnaturally still.

Then more red–stitched Sisters entered the room—eight of them.

The Caretaker walked to a raised platform along the chamber’s edge. She lifted a silver cup and poured from it a strange white dust, grainy like sand, that shimmered as it fell.

She began to draw.

A circle. Then a star. Complex, overlapping, symmetrical to a degree that made the mind ache to follow its pattern. It was not artistry, instead, careful observation would tell that it was a ritual—precise and sacred.

Finished, she walked back to Lioren. He extended his arm.

Her fingers, cold and graceful, traced his vein.

Then a quick cut. His blood flowed, rich and red.

She caught a few drops, and with them, anointed the star etched in dust. The moment the blood touched the markings, her lips parted—

—and what came out was not speech.

Her voice changed, resonating like a thousand silver bells whispering in unison. It was language without sound, song without melody, syllables that rippled through the air and mind, brushing against something primal and divine.

The mark on the floor began to glow—a soft, white radiance pulsing with rhythm, syncing with the Heart of the Holy Flame’s beat.

Then, with a subtle gesture, she looked toward a side gate.

One of the Sisters stepped forward, leading a woman through.

She was average-looking, brown hair braided, body trembling with excitement, as her eyes darted around.

The Caretaker pointed.

“Strip.”