Page 16 of Warlord’s Prize

Vora pauses, fingers unconsciously tracing the raised scar tissue at the junction of her neck and shoulder—the permanent mark of her own claiming. The scar is silvery against her skin, the distinctive pattern of Bloodcrest clan teeth clearly visible even years later. The motion draws my eye to the intricate pattern of ritual scarification, each line telling a story of service and survival.

"You're observant. He's waiting to complete the mark until your first breeding takes. Success or failure will determine your long-term position within household hierarchy."

I absorb this information with the strategic detachment that's kept me alive since the Conquest. "And if I fail to conceive?"

"Then you maintain your current position, but without the security the mark provides. Unclaimed omegas in heat become community property."

The implications send ice through my veins. What I experienced with Kazuul was violation enough. The thought of being passed among multiple oni turns my stomach.

"I see," I say simply, filing this information away for future consideration.

Vora leads me into a small walled garden hidden within the massive fortress. Delicate plants I don't recognize bloom in carefully tended beds, their sweet scent filling the air. This space, built to human scale rather than oni proportions, offers the first hint of comfort I've felt since arriving.

"We can speak more freely here," she says, seating herself on a stone bench. "This garden is for omegas only. The Warlord respects our need for private spaces."

The word "respects" catches in my mind. Respect seems incompatible with forced claiming and public violation. Yet the garden's existence suggests complexity I hadn't anticipated.

"Tell me about the physical aspects," I say bluntly, needing to understand what my body has experienced. "The vibration during claiming. Is that common to all oni?"

Vora's expression shifts to something more personal, less formal. "The vibrating nodule is specific to the Bloodcrest clan. Some say it evolved to ensure omega compliance through pleasure rather than just pain. Others believe it's a genetic adaptation to improve breeding success."

Her knowing look penetrates my careful facade. "The vibration is blessing and curse. It makes submission inevitable in the moment, but also guarantees pleasure most claimed omegas never experience. Some fight the addiction their entire lives, others embrace the pleasure as compensation for freedom lost."

Her matter-of-fact perspective on what I've experienced as humiliating violation provides an uncomfortable new framework for understanding my body's enthusiastic response despite my mind's continued rejection. The orgasms Kazuul forced from me weren't just biological reactions but carefully engineered responses designed for control.

"I won't become addicted," I state firmly, even as my treacherous body remembers the cascading pleasure of the vibrating nodule against my clit, the way it bypassed all resistance and drove me to heights I'd never experienced before.

Vora's slight smile holds neither mockery nor pity. "Everyone says that at first. The ones who adapt fastest suffer least."

"I'm not here to adapt. I'm here because my community needs food."

"And they have it because you've pleased the Warlord. The two aren't separate realities, Emi. They're the same calculation with different variables."

Her pragmatism challenges everything the resistance taught me about maintaining separation between mind and body, between strategic compliance and genuine submission. What if survival requires not just physical accommodation but a fundamental shift in how I understand my own responses?

"What happens to omegas who never adapt?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"They break. Or they run. Neither ends well." Vora stands, brushing imaginary dust from her immaculate clothing. "There's a third option, of course."

"Which is?"

"Strategic adaptation. Using what tools you have—your mind, your body, your unique position—to carve out what freedom remains possible." Her eyes hold a hidden depth I can't fully interpret. "You led a community before coming here. Those skills haven't disappeared just because you're claimed."

I consider this as we make our way back through winding corridors. The strategic part of my mind automatically maps each turn, each doorway, potential escape routes analyzed and filed away out of habit. I note the guard rotations, the less-traveled passages where surveillance might be lighter.

"One last thing," Vora says as we approach my chambers. "The Warlord has requested your presence at tonight's tactical briefing. This is unprecedented. No claimed omega has ever participated in military planning sessions."

My pulse quickens. "Why me?"

"That's the question everyone will be asking. Including Commander Thorne, who sees you as a security risk after your escape attempt." Her voice drops lower. "This invitation represents opportunity and danger in equal measure. Choose your contributions carefully."

She leaves me at my door with a formal bow that somehow communicates volumes more than simple deference. As I enter my chambers, the luxurious prison that now defines my existence, I find myself reassessing everything I thought I knew about survival under oni rule.

The privileges of my position—private quarters, quality food, freedom from labor—come with constraints I'm only beginning to understand. Constant surveillance. Restricted movement. Sexual availability. Yet within these constraints, Vora has revealed potential agency I hadn't considered.

I cross to the ornate wardrobe and select appropriate clothing for tonight's tactical briefing, my mind already calculating potential approaches. If Kazuul values my strategic abilities enough to include me in military discussions, that creates leverage I might use to improve conditions for my community beyond mere food deliveries.

My fingers brush against the silks and fine fabrics, all in shades that complement Kazuul's crimson skin. Even my clothing marks me as his property. I select a deep blue robe that seems least ostentatious while still fine enough to reflect my supposed status. As I dress, I catch sight of myself in the polished metal mirror across the room. The woman reflected there looks both familiar and foreign—my face, my eyes, but adorned and presented as someone else's possession.

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