The Lycan King's Second Chance Mate: Rise of the Traitor's Daughter Chapter 338: The Year of Ashes

Vaelthor/Vincent~

Eighteen years. That’s how long it’s been since the Lycan royals carved my mother out of this world and locked my father in chains so deep, his na is nothing more than a whisper in the dark.

Eighteen years since the throne of the Demon Realm shattered, splintering into chaos, while our own blood—those we once called kin—circled my sister and like starving jackals, eager to tear us apart the mont we stumbled.

My mother, Kalmia—the Demon Queen—was not the kind of mother sung about in soft mortal lullabies. She never held us when we cried, never whispered comfort in the dark. Her love was harder, sharper. It was the als she threw down on the table when we were too weak to hunt for ourselves. It was the brutal training sessions that left Sylthara and bloodied, gasping, sprawled in the dirt—but alive. In the Demon Realm, that was love. Survival was the only affection that mattered.

And still... she was ours. In all her ruthless glory, she was ours. The only constant in a world that despised us.

Now she’s nothing but mory and ash. Our father, Shadow, rots in a prison that promises no escape. And we—Sylthara and I—remain here, unwanted heirs, left to fester among demons who would sooner see us dead than ever kneel to us as their rulers.

My na is Vaelthor, and this is my story.

********

FLASHBACK: THREE YEARS AFTER KALMIA’S DEATH

"Move it, Vaelthor."

The na I’d carried since birth clung to like a poisoned arrow. It burned in my ears like a curse, each syllable dripping with hate. Krelth’s claws dug into my shoulder, sharp and rciless, before he shoved forward. My knees slamd the obsidian floor—jagged black stone that tore at my skin, each scrape like fire ripping through my nerves. Pain shot up my legs as I hit the ground hard, my palms skidding across the rock.

Beside , Sylthara cried out—a sharp, brittle sound that shattered the air. One of Krelth’s lackeys had her by the hair, yanking her head back so hard I thought her neck might snap. She was only twelve, all elbows and stubborn eyes, too small for this nightmare, too proud to give them the satisfaction of seeing her break. Even now, fangs bared, she twisted against his grip, spitting defiance that would only earn her more pain.

The arena around us buzzed with cruel anticipation. Fire torches lined the walls, their flas guttering and hissing, creating monstrous shadows that danced across the crowd of demons gathered to watch. Their jeers rolled over us like waves, feeding on our humiliation. This was their favorite entertainnt: the broken heirs, dragged out and put on display.

I was fourteen. Old enough to understand exactly what this was, and too young to do a damn thing about it. The weight sat on my chest, heavy as a mountain, crushing and relentless.

"Stop it!" My voice broke, raw and furious, as I fought against the iron-hard hands pinning to the ground. "Leave her alone—she’s just a kid!"

Krelth’s lips curled into a sneer, his massive horns catching the torchlight and gleaming like fresh-spilled blood. "She’s a weakness," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "And you’re even worse. A so-called prince who clings like a pathetic whelp. A son who whimpers and weeps. You two? Nothing but ugly stains on this realm."

Krelth Moraith was my mother’s younger brother. Once upon a ti, he’d been the golden son, grood for the throne, polished and paraded as the future of our bloodline. But the council had seen through him. They’d chosen her instead—my mother, their queen—because she had the fire, the strength he lacked.

That rejection had rotted inside him ever since, festering like an open wound he refused to let heal. He never forgave her. Not for the crown. Not for the power. Not for proving him small.

Now she was gone—reduced to ash and mory—and all that venom had nowhere left to go but us. Sylthara and I had beco his outlets, his living reminders of what he’d lost. His rage made us his sport. His bitterness made us his toys. Every kick, every shove, every cruel laugh was less about us and more about the ghost of her he could never beat.

His heavy boot slamd into my chest like a battering ram, pinning flat against the cold stone. My lungs burned, screaming for air as ribs creaked under the pressure, but his words pierced deeper than any sword. Stains. That’s all we were to them now—blots on the legacy of a fallen queen, reminders of what they’d lost and what they despised.

Sylthara’s wide eyes locked onto mine, glistening with tears she was fighting so hard not to let fall. "Vaelthor—" she whispered, her voice trembling, but she clamped her mouth shut before more could escape.

"Quiet, you little brat," Xyra hissed, her voice like nails on slate. She was Krelth’s mate, a vicious demoness with a twisted smile who got her kicks from tornting the weak—starving orphaned kids like us, then tossing them ager scraps in exchange for groveling or worse. She took over from the lackey that held Sylthara earlier. Her long, jagged nails were twisted deep in Sylthara’s hair now, yanking hard enough to draw a choked gasp from my sister. "Too much damn emotion. That’s what makes you both so revolting. Demons don’t cry. Demons don’t cling like fragile little humans. And yet—" she sneered, lips curling, "—they once thought Kalmia superior to my Krelth? Look at her legacy. Look at you. Nothing but weak-blooded brats, carrying her softness like a disease."

Xyra leaned in closer, her breath hot and foul against my face, as she dragged one of those lethal nails down my cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. Her teeth flashed in a predatory grin. "Maybe we should just slit the girl’s throat right here. Put an end to her pathetic misery—and yours."

That was it. Sothing primal inside shattered, a surge of raw fury exploding like wildfire in my veins. My fingers closed around a sharp shard of obsidian from the ground, and without a second thought, I hurled it at her with all the strength I had left. The edge sliced across her cheek, opening a gash that oozed thick, inky-black blood. She reeled back with a piercing screech, clutching her face.

"Touch her again," I snarled, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my whole body shaking with adrenaline, "and I’ll end you myself."

The threat hung in the air like a storm cloud about to burst, crackling with unspoken violence. For a heartbeat, the entire arena fell silent, the watching demons frozen in shock. Then Krelth threw his head back and laughed—a deep, booming rumble that echoed off the cavern walls like thunder.

"You’ve got so fire in you, boy," he said, grinding his boot down harder until I felt my ribs on the verge of cracking. "But fire without real power? It’s just worthless ash waiting to blow away."

He lifted his foot abruptly, like I wasn’t even worth the effort to crush, and waved a dismissive hand. "Let ’em rot. They’ll be starving skeletons before the week’s out."

The crowd of demons slunk away into the shadows, their mocking laughter fading as they dispersed. Left alone in the dim torchlight, Sylthara and I lay there on the unforgiving stone, battered and broken. Every breath sent spikes of agony through my chest, but I forced myself to crawl over to her, wrapping my arms around her trembling form.

Her small body shook against mine, her face buried in my shoulder. "Why do they hate us so much?" she whispered, her voice barely holding together, laced with the kind of fear that could get you killed in this place.

Because we were different, that’s why. Even when Mother was alive—and yeah, she was no saint, ruling with an iron fist and zero rcy—she’d at least drilled so twisted sense of discipline into us, not this endless cycle of neglect and cruelty. We held onto each other, relied on that bond, and to these monsters, that was the ultimate sin. Feelings? Emotions? They called it a plague, a weakness that needed to be burned out.

But I couldn’t say that to her. Instead, I smoothed her hair and murmured, "They hate us because they’re scared, Syl. Scared of what we’ll grow into soday."

Her tear-streaked eyes searched mine, desperate for so shred of hope. "But I’m scared too, Vaelthor. I don’t want to stay here anymore."

Neither did I. But here, in this pit, fear was blood in the water—and the mont you bled, you were done. Weakness didn’t last. Hope didn’t exist.

And what would demons even pray to? Gods? Don’t make laugh. If there were gods, they’d abandoned this place long ago.

All we had was each other. So I held her tighter, clinging to the only warmth left in this abyss, my eyes locked on the endless dark ahead. Sooner or later, it would swallow us. The question was how long we could keep fighting before it did.

*******

The days blurred into hunger and bruises. We scavenged for scraps, fought off scavengers, hid from torntors who hunted us for sport. Sylthara’s ribs showed through her skin. I learned to give her my share, ignoring the gnawing emptiness in my belly.

It was on one of those nights, crouched deep in the shadows of a shattered hall, that I heard them.

Two demons, their whispers cutting through the silence like swords drawn in the dark.

"...It was the wolves who ended her reign," one spat, venom lacing every word. "The Lycan King, Zane, and that mad goddess—Queen Natalie. And their allies... the vampire Kalmia wanted so badly for his blood. What was his na?"

A pause. Then the other muttered, "Sebastian."

"Right. Sebastian. And that traitor, Cassandra. Together, they brought Kalmia to her knees."

My veins iced over. Every syllable sank in like poison, freezing where I stood.

"They imprisoned Shadow, too," the other said with a cruel laugh. "Locked him away forever. The line of darkness is broken. Their brats are nothing now. Just prey."

Their words faded, but their aning burned. Natalie. Zane. Cassandra. Sebastian. The nas of the ones who had destroyed everything. Took everything away from us.

Sylthara stirred beside , whispering, "What are they saying?"

I looked at her dirt-streaked face, at the stubborn hope in her gray eyes. My chest ached with the force of it.

"They killed her," I said, my voice shaking. "They’re the reason she’s gone. The reason we suffer."

Her lips trembled. "But... she wasn’t a good mother, Vaelthor. You know that. She hurt us."

She was right. Kalmia had been cold, rciless. But she had been ours. And they had taken her.

"It doesn’t matter," I whispered. My fists clenched until my nails cut my palms. "They’ll pay. All of them. I swear it."

Sylthara’s hand found mine, small and shaking. Her voice was just a whisper. "Must we go after them, Vaelthor? I’m... I’m scared."

"Yes," I said, steadying my tone even as fire roared inside . "We must. They hurt our family."

She let out a fragile sigh, her eyes glinting in the dim light. "Then if you go, I’ll go too. I won’t let you face them alone. I don’t want to lose you, not you."

I pulled her into , burying my face in her tangled hair, holding her as if I could shield her from everything waiting beyond these walls. My heart pounded with a vow I dared not speak aloud, but one already etched into my bones.

In a few years, when we’re stronger, we would escape this cursed realm. We would shed our nas, our faces, everything they thought they knew.

And when that day cos, we would find them.

When we did, the children of those wolves and vampire would bleed as we had bled. They would know loss, as we had known loss.

For Sylthara. For . For the years burned to ash.