The Lycan King's Second Chance Mate: Rise of the Traitor's Daughter Chapter 340: The Escape

Vaelthor/Vincent

And then, one night, like lightning ripping the abyss open, the chance we’d been waiting for finally struck.

It was during Krelth’s so-called grand feast to honor our traditions. A celebration, at least that’s what he wanted everyone to believe. But it wasn’t about tradition, or generosity, or honoring anyone but himself. No—this was nothing more than a shrine to his ego. Every golden cup brimming with wine, every dripping slab of roasted at, every jewel-studded banner hanging from the black stone walls scread the sa ssage: look at , look at how powerful I am.

The feast itself was chaos disguised as luxury. It was less a banquet and more a theater of gluttony. Demons lounged on tables as if they were thrones, tearing into flesh with blood-slicked teeth. The air was heavy with smoke and the coppery stench of spilled ichor. Laughter rang out in jagged bursts, high and manic, bouncing off the obsidian walls until it felt like the room itself was mocking you. Even the guards, supposed to be watchful, stumbled around half-blind, drunk not just on liquor but on the illusion of victory.

It was the perfect cover.

I slipped through the hall in a borrowed servant’s cloak, head lowered, balancing a tray to keep up the act. But the shadows knew better than silk ever could—they clung to like a second skin, folding into the dark until I was barely there at all. Above, Sylthara was at work, weaving through the dreamscape. She slipped into the minds of the sentries, pressing heavy visions into their skulls until their eyes sagged shut and their bodies swayed with the pull of sleep.

The antechamber was worse than I had pictured. Vast, echoing, lit by fire that burned an unnatural violet, every flicker seed to crawl over the skin. At the center lood the rack—obsidian carved into sothing that looked less like stone and more like jagged bone. And there they were: the Void Keys. They didn’t just glow, they pulsed, each one beating like a sick heart. The sound wasn’t sound at all but hunger—whispers of escape and destruction, laced together like poison and honey.

And too close—far too close—sat Krelth himself. A brute made of muscle and ego, lounging like a king who thought the world owed him worship. Across his lap lay Xyra, more ornant than partner, while the rest of his inner circle tripped over themselves to laugh at his every grunt. His laughter shook the chamber, thunderous and smug, and I felt just how small I really was. One wrong move, one flicker of his gaze, and this theft would end with my blood staining his floor.

I clenched my jaw. Not tonight.

"Syl," I whispered into the void, sending the thought down our mind link like smoke slipping through cracks. "Now. Tear them apart."

The change was instant. The air rippled as Sylthara yanked the strings of their minds. One by one, the party guests froze, their eyes glazing over as nightmares crawled into their waking world. Chains clanged where none existed. Shadows peeled themselves off the walls and stalked forward like living things. As for my uncle, it was a vision of Shadow, my father, the prisoner they all feared, bursting free. His maw stretched wide and unnatural, swallowing guards whole in one impossible bite after another.

The hall dissolved into chaos. Screams ripped through the air. Black ichor splashed across the tables as goblets toppled and shattered. Krelth shot to his feet, fury twisting his face. "What sorcery is this?!" he roared, slashing at illusions only he could see, a tyrant undone by phantoms.

That was my mont.

I lunged, shadows blooming into long, skeletal arms that snatched at the rack. The tal burned against my skin, colder than ice yet thrumming with the heat of a star. One Void Key tore free, writhing in my palm like sothing alive.

The alarms scread, sharp enough to rattle bone, but the shadows carried faster than any soldier could run. I darted through corridors where chaos already spread, the cries of terrified demons chasing like hounds.

Sylthara waited where we planned—at the edge of the crypts, where the stone split open into an unnatural scar. Her face was pale, but her eyes—triumphant.

"You got it?" she rasped, clutching at as if she needed proof. "Vaelthor—tell you—"

"Yes." I held the key high, its glow lighting the carved walls like stormfire. Shouts echoed closer. "No ti—RUN!"

Together we tore through the final passage, toward the veil. It was less a door and more a wound in reality: a jagged rift that wept void energy, gnashing and swirling like a living storm. The air around it sucked inward with every pulse, hungry to swallow us whole.

I shoved the key forward, twisting its impossible geotry. The veil scread, then widened, a yawning maw of midnight tearing open to reveal sothing else—sothing brighter.

Sylthara caught my arm, nails digging deep. "Vaelthor... if we go through, there’s no turning back. What if they follow?"

"They won’t." My voice was rougher than I intended, but I ant it. "And if they do?" I pulled her close, eting her terrified gaze with my own. "Then let them co. But not as we are. We shed this skin. We start new."

She hesitated only a heartbeat longer. Then we leapt.

The portal spat us out like chewed gum, hurling us into a world that felt almost unreal.

Dusk.

A forest alive with scents so rich they nearly drowned —pine, damp earth, wild air untainted by sulfur, pretty birds. The ground was soft, forgiving. No black stone. No ash. Nothing was on fire. Just moss and grass that caught us as we fell.

For the first ti in my whole existence, the sky wasn’t a ceiling of smoke but an endless canvas of fading gold.

Sylthara laughed first—half hysterical, half free. The sound infected , and soon we were both lying in the grass, gasping, clutching each other, laughing until the adrenaline ebbed and the world finally went quiet.

The key disintegrated between my fingers, sifting away like ash on the wind. A one-ti doorway, exactly as expected. I sat up, brushing the dust from my hands, and exhaled. No going back now.

"Syl," I murmured, turning toward her. "We can’t be Vaelthor and Sylthara here. Those nas are too demonic. They carry too much blood, too much shadow. They’ll sniff us out before we take our first step. From now on..." I let the words hang, savoring the weight of the decision. "...I’m Vincent. Vincent Shadowborn. Mortal enough, yeah? A na that blends in."

For a heartbeat she just stared—and then she laughed. A soft, genuine giggle, so rare it felt like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

"Vincent?" she repeated, almost tasting it. "That’s a strange na. Do mortals really na their children things like that? Hm." Her lips curved, eyes glinting with mischief. "Fine. Then I’ll be Winter. Winter Shadowborn. Cold, unyielding, but beautiful—like snow that hides daggers."

A grin tugged at my mouth despite my exhaustion. "Perfect. That’s the kind of poetry mortals fall for. Now, the glamour. We can’t walk in looking like... well, like demons fresh out of the pit."

I drew out the battered to I had stolen from the palace library—its pages cramd with sketches and notes on every mortal race worth knowing: humans, vampires, lycans, witches. Sylthara and I had poured over it in stolen hours, practicing in secret, dreaming of a world outside our chains. Now those stolen lessons might actually save us.

I let the shadows answer my call, swirling around like smoke alive. My horns slid back into nothingness, the rough texture of my skin smoothing until it glead pale, almost flawless. My hair fell black as midnight, ssily striking, the kind of look that invited both envy and desire. My eyes flared silver, sharp enough to cut. My fra stretched taller, broader, sculpted into the kind of figure mortals apparently worshipped—strength carved into flesh, nace wrapped in beauty.

Winter—no longer Sylthara—shifted beside . Her body softened into sothing almost celestial. Skin pale as snow under moonlight, eyes crystalline blue that seed to hide entire oceans, hair spilling in golden waves that caught the light like frozen fire. She twirled once, skirts flaring, and laughed again.

"Well?" she asked, her voice lodic, teasing. "Do I look mortal enough to fool a Lycan? A vampire?"

I swallowed hard. She was breathtaking. "Gorgeous," I said, the word rougher than I intended. "Dangerous. Like a storm dressed in silk."

Her finger jabbed into my chest, playful. "And you look like trouble. The kind that smiles while breaking hearts."

I smirked, but the bond between us—sharpened by blood, by fire, by everything we had lost—made the air hum. Linking arms, we stepped forward. The forest breathed around us: distant wolf howls rolling under the fading blue skies, whispers of spells threading through the wind, the faint tallic tang that always marked vampire territory, and, beyond it all, the faint thrum of cities where humans dread their small, fragile dreams.

It was overwhelming. It was intoxicating. It was alive.

"Ready for this, Winter?" I asked, tasting her new na on my tongue. My pulse raced, not from fear, but ambition.

Her grip tightened on my arm. She tilted her chin, eyes blazing. "With you? Always. Let’s go make them pay... brother."