KING LUCIANO'S GIRL

It is written in the scrolls of the Sacred King Makers that before the world was ruled by men, it was divided by twins—Lorenzo the Demon and Luciano the Devil: one marked by a scar, the other by a curse. Long before there were presidents or palaces of men, before prisons or first ladies, there were only kings, the chosen, masters, and slaves. And in the East of the Sacred King Makers, two kingdoms ruled above all others: Lucid and Racid. These twin realms were born of the same ancient bloodline but torn apart by fate. In the seventeenth age, the queen—long barren—gave birth to twin sons, a gift of the womb after centuries of her husband’s reign. Lorenzo was branded the Demon Twin, marked from birth by a scar that carved across his cheek like prophecy. Luciano was called the Cursed Twin, for it was said he gave his brother that scar while still in their mother’s womb. He was unlike any of his kin—the only werewolf capable of a complete transformation into a beast. To the packs, that gift was not wonder but abomination. Both brothers carried the blood of Alphas. Lorenzo became Alpha through ritual after their father’s death, crowned by the council to rule by right. But Luciano was different. Unlike other supernatural children who began as Betas and gradually grew into more, Luciano was nature’s mistake—or its masterpiece. He was born complete, a full Alpha from his first breath. He couldn’t be taught control; learning meant transforming, and the last teacher who tried never lived to tell how it went. From that night, the whispers of the Devil Twin began. Their father, King Lucan, fell in battle against the northern invaders, leaving the twins to inherit the throne at only sixteen. When the time came to choose a successor, the council was divided. For peace’s sake, a vote was held. Luciano, the younger—the cursed one—won by a margin of five percent. The people did not choose him out of love, but out of fear. But Lorenzo would not yield. He claimed birthright over numbers, and so the kingdom was split. Those who followed him took the lush lands of gardens and rivers, calling their realm Racid, a land for harvest and peace—good for famine, he said. Luciano took the highlands, the mountains and valleys, naming his dominion Lucid, a kingdom forged for war—good for battle, he declared. From the once-united kingdom of Luracid, two thrones were born: Lucid and Racid—twin realms divided by blood. Though only sixteen when the split came, both had been trained from birth to rule. They governed easily enough, bound not by brotherhood but by balance—light and shadow held in fragile silence. Each kingdom was built upon its packs: houses of wolves bound by blood, oath, and loyalty. Alphas ruled their packs, but all bent the knee to their king—the Alpha of Alphas. Beneath them lived the humans—short-lived, fragile, yet essential. They tilled the fields, tended herds, and filled the ranks of servants and slaves, while wolves served as soldiers, physicians, and hunters. Wolves healed swiftly and aged slowly; a century to them was but a generation to man. Humans revered and feared them alike, bowing not in worship but in instinct. Only two festivals ever reunited the divided kingdoms each year: The Festival of the Owned, when parents offered their children to serve in the palaces—an act deemed honorable, for service meant safety and full bellies. The Festival of the Chosen, when maidens of noble blood danced before the kings, hoping to be taken as wives. These rites were as old as the first crown, as sacred as the first howl under moonlight. King Lorenzo already had six wives, taking a new one each year. His concubines numbered twenty-seven—one less than his age. This year, the festivals were to be held in Lucid, high in the mountain amphitheater where the clouds touched stone. Last year, they had danced in Racid’s lush gardens, beside rivers that sang. But in the days of their father, King Lucan Luciano Lorenzo of the Honorable Lord Marco lineage—when the realm was still one, when Luracid meant light and clarity with a taste of darkness for its enemies—the festival was held in the town square, near the forest’s edge, at the heart of the kingdom. Now, the darkness lived in both. At dawn, the bells began. The mountains answered with echoes. From the valleys came the villagers—four hundred and eighty women, three hundred and ten men, seven hundred and fifty children, most of them girls. Drums rolled like thunder. The scent of roasted grain and incense filled the air. The kings arrived in regal splendor, their procession greeted by cheers that shook the peaks. The maidens swayed to the rhythm of drums, each hoping to catch a royal gaze—especially the cold eyes of King Luciano. Though the twins shared a face, they could not have been more different. Lorenzo’s cruelty was loud: proud, indulgent, known to strike his wives and spill blood for sport. Yet people still preferred him, for at least his evil had a name. Luciano was quieter—the silence before a scream. He spoke rarely. His calm was more dangerous than fury. The people said, “The devil you know is better than the angel you don’t.” The saying was born of him. Only once had King Luciano revealed the darkness whispered about him. A man from the northern kingdom trespassed into Lucid and violated two slaves from Kingdom Lucid. He was caught before he could flee. When the king heard of it, he gave his judgment. > “Hang him,” he said, “from his penis.” And so the man was hung by his own flesh—a punishment no kingdom had ever seen. None came to claim the body. The north fell silent. From that day on, even the wind that crossed into Lucid whispered his name with caution.