Page 15 of Warlord’s Prize

When he lifts me into his arms to carry me back to his chambers, I'm too exhausted to resist. My head falls against his chest as darkness rises to claim my consciousness, the physical and emotional toll of my new reality finally overwhelming me completely.

My last coherent thought before surrendering to exhaustion is of Haven Valley—my people will survive the winter. Five hundred lives secured through my sacrifice. This knowledge sustains me as I slip into oblivion, cradled against the massive chest of the warlord who now owns me in every way that matters.

CHAPTER7

HOUSEHOLD HIERARCHY

My heat breaks like a fever,leaving me hollow and clear-headed for the first time in weeks. The constant burning need that consumed my every thought has subsided, replaced by an unfamiliar emptiness and the horrifying clarity of what's happened to me.

I stand at the window of my new quarters, watching dawn break over the endless agricultural territories surrounding Crimson Fortress. Fields stretch to the horizon in perfect geometric patterns, evidence of oni efficiency. The massive red stone structure beneath me houses a world I need to understand if I'm to survive. My community depends on it.

My fingers absently trace the bruises on my wrists, fading reminders of Kazuul's massive hands holding me in place during the endless claiming sessions that filled my heat. The marks are yellowing now, healing faster than my pride. My body still aches in places I never knew could hurt, stretched beyond what should be physically possible by his impossible anatomy. Yet the soreness carries uncomfortable memories of pleasure I never wanted to feel—the vibrating nodule that stripped away my resistance, the orgasms that tore through me against my will.

The chambers I've been given speak volumes about my new status. The bed could easily fit four humans, though it's barely adequate for Kazuul's massive frame. Plush furs cover surfaces designed for comfort rather than utility. Delicate carvings adorn furniture built to oni scale. Everything screams privilege and value—possessions worthy of protection rather than tools meant for work.

And that's what I am now. A possession. A prize.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Not the thunderous impact of oni knuckles but something more delicate. Human.

"Enter," I call, straightening my spine and squaring my shoulders. Whatever comes through that door, I'll face it with the same strategic calculation that's kept me alive this long.

The woman who enters moves with measured grace, her small stature making her appear almost childlike at first glance. Her delicate features and perfect posture match every stereotype of the ideal omega, but something in her watchful eyes makes me reassess immediately. This is no simpering breeding vessel but a survivor who's mastered the art of navigating dangerous waters.

"I am Vora," she says, her voice deliberately modulated to pleasant softness that doesn't match the sharp assessment in her gaze. "Senior omega within Warlord Bloodcrest's household. I've been instructed to orient you to your new position."

My strategic mind immediately registers several important details. The extensive ritual scarification visible across her neck and arms speaks of long service within the Bloodcrest clan. The careful distance she maintains and the way her eyes continuously scan the room for potential threats reveals survival instincts honed through years of captivity. She carries herself like someone who has learned exactly how much space she can safely occupy.

"I'm Emi Sato," I respond, though she surely knows this already.

Her lips curl slightly. "Yes. The omega who led a human settlement and negotiated directly with the Warlord. Your reputation precedes you."

"My community needed food," I say simply. No need to explain the desperation that drove me here or the catastrophic failure of my suppressants.

"And now they have it, while you have this." She gestures to the luxurious chambers, her tone neither envious nor judgmental. "A fair exchange by Conquest standards."

The bitter taste of bile rises in my throat. Nothing about this arrangement feels fair, but arguing the point seems pointless. Instead, I focus on gathering information.

"I assume there are rules I need to learn."

Vora nods approvingly. "Straight to the practical. Good. That will serve you well." She crosses to the window, standing beside me to gaze out at the territories. "Your unusual size and strength bought you freedom temporarily. But they make your position here more precarious, not less. Oni respect power, including the power to endure what others cannot."

"I've noticed," I say dryly, remembering the public claiming ceremony and the approving roars when I took Kazuul's impossible size without breaking.

"Let me show you the household systems. There's more complexity here than you might expect."

For the next hour, Vora guides me through a crash course in fortress politics. She points out which servant positions report directly to Kazuul, which areas permit omega access without escort, how to recognize the subtle signs of oni aggression before they escalate to violence. With each piece of information, the vast stone labyrinth of Crimson Fortress transforms from prison to navigable terrain in my mind.

"The beta servants will defer to you," she explains as we walk carefully through corridors designed for beings twice our height. The stone beneath our feet is worn smooth by years of oni footsteps, the scale of everything a constant reminder of our comparative smallness. "But don't mistake deference for loyalty. Many resent omegas for our privileged position and protected status."

"Protected is a relative term," I mutter, remembering my public claiming, the dozens of hungry eyes watching as Kazuul took me on the platform.

Vora's eyes flash with something like respect. "Indeed. But you weren't claimed by a minor guard or administrator. You belong to the Warlord himself. That grants you significant protection—and creates significant expectation."

My stomach tightens. "Expectation?"

"That you'll be available whenever he demands it. That you'll satisfy his needs without complaint. That you'll bear his offspring when the time comes." She states these requirements so matter-of-factly that I almost miss the calculating assessment behind her eyes, gauging my reaction.

I maintain my composure despite the churning in my gut. "Is that why I haven't received the claiming mark yet? He's waiting to see if I can breed successfully?"

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