KING LUCIANO'S GIRL

CHAPTER 3: THE WEST GATE

By the second sunrise, Girl decided that being King Luciano’s personal servant was the most frustrating thing in the world.

She’d served over fifty eggs in the last two days—too salty, too bland, too plain, too oily. And the most annoying part? She wasn’t even the one making them. The palace chef had cooked for the royal line since King Lucan’s reign, and he rarely makes mistakes. Maybe this is what he goes through every morning, she thought bitterly. Or maybe it’s just Luciano’s new hobby—slowly driving me insane.

If that was the plan, it was working.

Luciano spoke little, slept less, and noticed everything. His silence wasn’t peaceful—it was heavy, like standing beneath a storm that never broke. He could walk into a room full of whispers and kill every sound without lifting a finger.

Every movement she made had to be precise. When she poured water, the cup couldn’t tremble. When she carried scrolls, they had to align perfectly in her arms. When she arranged his cloak, the edges had to fall symmetrically, the air itself seemed to tighten around her throat. She would have preferred the whip. At least pain was predictable.

The palace was vast and suffocating all at once—black marble floors polished so smooth they reflected the ceiling, chandeliers that burned with light stones mined from the mountains, and corridors scented faintly of jasmine and smoke. But no amount of beauty could hide the cold.

One of the kitchen assistants had been kind to her—Lior, a Beta and son to the chief guard, Mbaku. Brown-eyed, blond-haired, barely seventeen, Lior always looked like he was apologizing for existing. Still, he’d taken pity on the unbranded human scurrying between the kitchens and the king’s chambers. While she waited for the next rejected plate, he talked—mostly to fill the silence, partly because he seemed lonely too.

That’s how she learned about the hierarchy of wolves.

“Betas can become Alphas, and Alphas can fall to Omegas,” Lior said, his tone proud, like a student reciting a lesson. “Betas are the pure ones, new borns and their eyes glow blue. Alphas inherit power like bloodline, red-eyed, noble, feared. And Omegas…” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “They were Alphas once, those who drank innocent blood. Their eyes turn black.”

She frowned. “And humans?”

Lior hesitated. “Humans don’t have a place on the supernatural ladder.”

She smirked. “I think we do. You all need our blood to survive, right?”

He shook his head. “King Luciano puts anyone who tries to use a human as a meal to death. We hunt to feed.”

“So the wolves can survive on blood and human food?” she asked, curiosity cutting through her sarcasm.

“We need blood once in a while—keeps the system balanced. Meat? Not at all. Food’s just a habit. We’re sanguivores.”

“What’s that?” she asked, frowning.

He grinned. “Blood-drinking predators.”

She winced. “More like blood-sucking monsters.”

Lior laughed, the sound echoing softly off the kitchen walls.

Lior leaned against the counter, lowering his voice. “Then there are the Owned—the palace’s other half. Two kinds of them, really. Those born under our moons, and those shipped from beyond them." He glanced at her. “The first serve for safety; the second don't really have a choice.”

Lior spoke in hushed tones, always glancing toward the door. “Once an imported Owned is branded, they stop being a person. They become property—belonging to the kingdom they were offered to. Not as servant, but as commodity.”

He avoided conversations about Luciano.

When he wasn’t talking about the wolves, he showed her places the guards didn’t bother to watch. Hidden corridors, quiet courtyards, storage tunnels where the scent of grain and damp stone filled the air. Every answer he gave her added another line to the map in her head—an escape map.

Sometimes, she felt bad using him. He trusted too easily. But survival didn’t leave room for guilt.

From him, she learned the guards’ shifts changed every four hours, leaving a ten-minute gap before the next patrol began. The South Gate was hopeless—the watchman there, a red-eyed Alpha, never left his post, and Lior swore his sense of smell was out of this world.

But every Thursday, goods arrived from a nearby village—barrels of oil, sacks of rice, crates of fruits. The wagons didn’t use the South Gate; they came through the narrow West Gate, closer to the warehouse. During that time, the perimeter guards got distracted unloading. If she could sneak through the rear courtyard and reach the West Gate, she might find a way out.

The thought had become her heartbeat.

The days blurred by in tasks, silence, and watching eyes. Thursday came too quickly. Two choices waited for her: escape, or be branded before sunset. There was no middle ground.

As usual, she carried the king’s robe to his chamber to prepare him for the day. Her palms were slick with sweat. Her mind was on the West Gate, on timing, on running. While she struggled to tie the robe, distracted and trembling, the fabric tore.

A quiet sound, a whisper of thread snapping, but it echoed like thunder in the marble chamber.

Luciano’s head turned, slow, deliberate. “Do you know what happens when you tear a king’s robe?”

“I can fix it,” she said quickly.

His voice stayed calm. “You’re whipped. Fifty times.”

Her pulse roared in her ears. Fifty lashes would kill her.

She fell to her knees. “Master, please—I can mend it. Just give me a needle and thread. Please.”

“Mbaku.”

The name left his lips like a summons. The chief guard entered at once, tall, broad, his presence filling the room like a shadow. His gaze found the tear before she could hide it. Without a word from the king, he grabbed her arm and yanked her up.

“Please!” she gasped, reaching toward Luciano. He only watched her. His expression was unreadable—no anger, no regret, no curiosity, not even a flicker of pity. Just stillness.

It seemed she was about to taste the reason why he was called "The Devil" and she was certain in her guts that it wouldn't be pleasant at all.

I must have offended someone, she thought to herself as Mbaku dragged her down the hall. The marble floors blurred under her feet. The air smelled of dust, metal, and fear. When the cell door slammed shut behind her, the sound shook her bones and teeth.

She forced herself upright, stumbling over the uneven floor. The cell was smaller than the one from the festival—bare, dark, and claustrophobic. Her knees scraped against the cold stone walls, the chill seeping into her skin. She pressed her back against the rough surface, heart hammering, and tried to catch her breath.

Her hands fumbled along the wall, searching for something—anything—to hold onto. She gripped her hair in frustration.

The air was damp, tasting of rust and stone. Something scuttled across her foot and she flinched, pressing her fists to her eyes.

Then, slowly, she lifted her head and her eyes caught it: a faint beam of light slicing through a narrow grate.

“The West Gate,” she whispered. Her trembling hands steadied.

Any moment now, they’d come for her, to drag her out and split her skin fifty times.

Hope burned small and reckless in her chest.

If she was going to die today, she’d do it running.