Page 17 of Warlord’s Prize

My body may be claimed, but my mind remains my own. For now, that will have to be enough.

CHAPTER8

STRATEGIC ADVISOR

I sit stifflyat Kazuul's massive dining table, trying not to fidget as the scents of unfamiliar spices assault my nose. The food is always too rich here, too heavy with flavors that scream of oni preferences rather than human palates—meat barely seared, spices that burn the tongue, fruits fermented to a pungent tang. My fingers look child-sized wrapped around the goblet designed for hands three times my size.

Commander Thorne sits across from me, his bright orange skin almost glowing in the torchlight. The jagged edge of his broken horn catches the flame, casting strange shadows across the table. Unlike Kazuul's majestic curved horns, Thorne's single remaining one juts at an angle that speaks of violent combat. He hasn't stopped glaring at me since I arrived. Every time I shift in my seat, his golden eyes track the movement like I might bolt for the door any second.

Not that I haven't thought about it.

The chair beneath me is hard and uncomfortable, built for oni proportions with no consideration for human bodies. My back aches from trying to maintain proper posture, and my feet dangle stupidly above the floor. It's just one more way they remind me I don't belong here—that I am an ornament, a possession, not an equal participant.

"The northern sectors have reported increased movement near the border," Thorne says, pointedly turning his body away from me as he addresses Kazuul. His voice has that particular tone men use when they want to make it clear a woman isn't part of the conversation. "I've recommended doubling patrols along these routes."

A servant refills Kazuul's goblet with a dark liquid that smells strongly of fermentation. The warlord tears into a hunk of barely-cooked meat, blood dripping down his massive crimson fingers. My stomach turns at the sight, but I force my expression to remain neutral. Show no weakness.

"How many warriors will this require?" Kazuul's deep voice rumbles through the chamber, vibrating in my chest the way his growls do when he's claiming me. The memory sends an unwanted ripple of heat through my core.

"Twenty additional units, rotating in six-hour shifts," Thorne replies, unfolding a rough map across the table.

I lean forward despite myself, drawn to the tactical display like a moth to flame. The smell of the parchment mingles with the tang of iron-based ink. Military maps. God, I'd missed this. My eyes drink in the patrol routes marked in thick black lines, the terrain features, the strategic chokepoints. Something about the pattern bothers me—inefficiencies jumping out as clear as if they were highlighted in red.

My mind starts calculating alternatives automatically, fingers itching to rearrange the routes. Resource allocation was always my specialty, even before the military academy. It's like a puzzle where all the pieces need to fit just right.

"That's wasteful," I blurt out before my brain can stop my mouth. "You could cover the same area with half the warriors."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence.

Every muscle in my body tenses, waiting for the explosion. Thorne's golden eyes narrow to predatory slits, and my stomach drops to my knees as the reality of what I've just done hits me. Stupid, stupid, stupid. What made me think I could speak during a military discussion between oni commanders? I'm just the claimed omega here for the Warlord's pleasure. A warm body to knot, not a strategist to consult.

I brace for the blow, the rage, the punishment that surely comes from embarrassing a commander in front of his warlord. My heart hammers so hard against my ribs I'm sure they can hear it. The taste of fear floods my mouth, metallic and sharp.

Instead, I feel Kazuul's burning gaze turn toward me. The heat of his massive body radiates against my side as he shifts to face me directly. His head tilts slightly, the gesture reminding me uncomfortably of a predator assessing prey.

"Explain your reasoning," he commands, his massive hand suddenly pulling me against his side.

The movement is possessive—a clear reminder of who I belong to—but there's something else in the gesture I didn't expect. The way his clawed fingers curve around my shoulder seems almost... protective? Interested? The scent of his skin this close is overwhelming—smoke and metal and that distinctive musk that makes my traitor body respond against my will. Slick gathers between my thighs, my omega biology reacting to his proximity despite my mental rejection.

My throat feels dry as sand, but this is a test I can't afford to fail.

"These patrol routes overlap here, here, and here," I say, leaning forward to point at the map with a finger that trembles only slightly. The rough parchment feels reassuringly familiar under my fingertip. "You're creating redundancy in these sectors while leaving the eastern approach with gaps in coverage during shift changes. If you adjust the routes like this—" I trace new lines across the map, the familiar movement calming my nerves, "—and stagger the timing by two hours instead of four, you maintain complete surveillance with significantly reduced manpower."

Commander Thorne's scoff sounds like a knife being unsheathed. "And what would a human omega know about military patrol strategies?" The contempt in his voice drips like venom.

The dismissal in his tone stings, but it's so familiar—the same tone male officers used at the academy when I outperformed them in tactical simulations. I feel my spine straighten automatically, chin lifting in the same defiant posture that got me through four years of constant undermining.

"I attended military academy before the Conquest," I say, meeting his dismissive gaze directly. The words taste like dust and old memories. "Advanced tactical planning was my specialization."

I see surprise flicker across his orange features before he masks it. His broken horn seems to gleam more brightly in the torchlight as he leans forward, ready to argue. A muscle twitches in his jaw, his claws tapping against the table in irritation.

But Kazuul's rumbling voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "Show me these efficiencies in detail."

The command silences Thorne instantly. It also unlocks something in me—a door I'd closed when Haven Valley became my responsibility, when leadership required different skills than pure strategy.

I lose myself in the tactical explanation, muscle memory taking over as I outline patrol patterns, resource allocation, surveillance coverage. The words flow easily, technical terms I haven't used in years suddenly returning like old friends. My fingers move across the map with growing confidence, tracing sectors and chokepoints. For a few precious minutes, I'm not a claimed omega but a strategist again, my mind sharp and clear and purposeful.

"The current system wastes warrior strength on redundant coverage," I explain, the familiar rhythm of tactical assessment steadying my voice. "By staggering patrol times and adjusting routes, you maintain constant surveillance with forty percent fewer warriors. Those units could be redirected to your southern agricultural expansion without compromising northern security."

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