Page 2 of Warlord’s Prize

"The oni don't give charity," snaps Taro, slamming his fist against the table. "They give orders, and they take whatever they want."

"Not charity," Elias clarifies, his weathered hands spread on the table. "A negotiation. We have skilled craftspeople, medicinal knowledge. We could offer?—"

"He would demand tribute," Maya interrupts, her implication clear in the way her eyes flick to me, a moment of silent understanding passing between us.

The room temperature seems to drop several degrees as understanding ripples through the gathering. Everyone here knows what "tribute" would mean. The oni warlords have specific tastes when it comes to human offerings, and omegas top the list.

Even saying his name—Kazuul Bloodcrest—sends a chill through the room. The whispered stories about the Crimson Fortress and its master have reached even our isolated valley. How he broke three human battalions single-handedly during the initial invasion. How the ground itself is said to tremble when he's angered. How omegas brought before him never leave his territory again.

"We've managed to stay beneath his direct notice for five years," I remind them, keeping my voice neutral despite the cold fear trickling down my spine. "Approaching him directly would change that permanently. We'd be acknowledging his authority over Haven Valley in a way we've avoided until now."

But even as I speak, I'm calculating. The risk to the community versus the certainty of starvation. The possible outcomes of a direct petition weighed against the impending crisis that would kill us all just as surely as an oni raid.

"I've dealt with their kind before," I continue, ignoring the phantom pain that pulses in the scar on my cheek, a reminder of my last close encounter with an oni during Blood Week. "Leave this to me. I'll draw up a proposal that might interest the warlord without revealing our vulnerabilities."

The meeting breaks up shortly after, the tension lingering as people return to their tasks with new worry lines etched into their faces. I remain in the hall, staring at the charts until the numbers blur together. Maya stays behind, her silence more telling than words.

"You're not thinking of going yourself," she finally says, though it's not really a question.

I lean against the table, suddenly tired. "Who else would you suggest?"

"Anyone but you." Her voice drops lower, and she steps closer, her healer's hands checking my forehead with practiced precision. "Emi, you know the risk. If your suppressants fail?—"

"They won't." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "I have enough for the journey."

Maya moves closer, speaking so quietly that even if someone were listening, they wouldn't hear. "Your last cycle came two days early. The resistance is building faster than we anticipated." Her fingers brush my wrist, finding my pulse. "And your scent is starting to change. It's subtle, but it's there."

I stiffen, pulse jumping beneath her fingers. "How noticeable?"

"To a human, barely. But an oni..." She doesn't need to finish the thought.

"I've calculated exactly how many days I have before needing another dose," I tell her, pulling away and straightening my shoulders. "The journey to the Crimson Fortress and back falls within the safety margin."

"And if something delays your return?"

I don't answer because we both know the truth. If I'm delayed beyond my suppressant window, my omega biology will announce itself with unmistakable clarity. The heat would come first—a burning fever that no cold water could quench. Then the slick, humiliating evidence of my body's desperate readiness. And finally, the scent—the potent, irresistible call to any alpha within range.

An unmated omega in the presence of an oni alpha—especially one as powerful as Warlord Kazuul—would face only one outcome.

"I'll take extra precautions," I promise instead. "Double doses before the meeting."

After everyone leaves, I retreat to my private quarters, a small room attached to the community hall that serves as both office and sleeping chamber. From the locked drawer of my desk, I remove the territorial maps acquired through careful exchanges with traveling merchants. The Crimson Fortress sits like a bloodstain at the center, its influence spreading outward through veins of patrol routes and checkpoint markers.

I begin planning the journey, calculating distances and timing, marking potential shelter points and danger zones. The direct route would take three days. A more cautious approach, avoiding major checkpoints, would require five. Every additional day increases the risk of my suppressants failing.

Another wave of heat pulses through me, more noticeable this time, leaving a thin sheen of sweat on my brow. I pause, breathing slowly through the sensation. It passes, but leaves behind an unsettling awareness in my core, a hollow emptiness that the rational part of my brain knows isn't hunger.

When my eyes grow tired, I set down my pen and catch my reflection in the polished metal surface of the water pitcher. The face staring back at me isn't what most would expect of an omega. I stand nearly five-foot-ten, my frame athletic and strong from years of training and leadership. My features are sharp rather than soft, my jaw defined, my eyes watchful and analytical. Nothing like the delicate omegas prized by oni lords, with their small statures and submissive demeanors.

This difference has been my shield as much as the chemical suppressants, allowing me to pass as a beta when interacting with minor oni officials during previous negotiations. But Warlord Kazuul is different. The rumors about his heightened senses filtrate through all territory reports. Some claim he can detect an omega's scent even through the strongest suppressants if he's close enough.

I'll need to maintain distance during any meeting. Keep air currents in my favor. Speak confidently as a beta would, without the deference omegas instinctively show to alphas. Never let my gaze drop, never expose my neck, never show the weakness that might trigger his predatory instincts.

My hand finds the small vial in my pocket again, fingers curling around it like a talisman. I've built this community through careful planning and strategic risk assessment. I've protected these people for five years since losing my own family during Blood Week when my father and brothers—all alphas—were systematically executed by oni forces. I won't fail those who remain now.

But as I return to my maps, plotting approach routes to the Crimson Fortress, I can't silence the voice in the back of my mind whispering that I'm planning my own capture. That I'm delivering myself to the very fate I've spent years helping others escape. I push the thought away and focus on the route, ignoring the tingling awareness spreading beneath my skin, the subtle warming of my blood that signals my body's growing resistance to the chemicals that have kept me safe.

This is about survival—not just mine, but everyone's in Haven Valley. Five hundred lives against one risk. The calculation is simple.

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