Page 20 of Warlord’s Prize

The thought makes me move faster.

I navigate through service corridors, paths I've carefully observed during my limited movements through the fortress. These passages see little use during night hours—servants sleep, and oni warriors prefer the main halls where their massive frames aren't cramped by narrow walls.

My muscles cramp with tension as I slink past storerooms and servants' quarters. The air grows cooler, carrying hints of outside—fresh earth, night air, freedom. I'm getting closer.

A distant doorway appears at the end of a long corridor—one that I believe leads to the outer courtyard. From there, the wall is still an obstacle, but I've spent hours watching from my window, planning possible routes. My heartbeat quickens, the taste of copper filling my mouth as hope rises.

Hope rises in my chest, making me careless. I move faster, freedom so close I can almost taste it on the night breeze.

That's when a massive figure steps from the shadows with disturbing silence, blocking my path completely. My heart plummets through the floor.

Commander Thorne's bright orange skin seems to glow in the dim torchlight, his single broken horn casting a jagged shadow across the wall. How someone so large can move so quietly defies logic. His leaner build shifts with predatory grace, the muscle beneath his orange hide rippling as he adjusts his stance. It's a stark reminder that before oni were conquerors, they were hunters.

"The warlord's prize seems lost," he observes, voice deceptively casual despite the tension evident in his stance. His vertical pupils constrict to thin slits as they focus on me, glowing faintly in the darkness. "Or perhaps seeking something beyond her permitted boundaries."

My mind races through options—none of them good. Fight? Laughable against his oni strength. Talk my way out? Perhaps claim insomnia led me wandering? The excuse sounds pathetic even in my head.

I choose the third option—run.

I spin on my heel, lunging back the way I came, but I've barely taken two steps before Thorne's hand clamps around my upper arm. His grip is firm but controlled—less overwhelmingly powerful than Kazuul's, but no less effective at stopping me. His claws prick against my skin in warning. He doesn't even seem winded by my attempted escape.

"Predictable," he says, something like disappointment coloring his tone. "I expected more creativity from the strategic advisor."

He marches me back through the fortress, his hand firmly securing my arm. My mind races, waiting for the alarm, the public announcement, the gathering of oni officials to witness my punishment. Conquest Law has specific protocols for attempted escape—none of them pleasant.

Yet Thorne raises no alarm. Makes no announcement. Instead, he leads me directly toward Kazuul's private chambers, his grip never loosening.

"Why aren't you alerting the guards?" I ask, unable to contain my confusion.

Thorne's single-horned profile remains impassive, his jaw set in a hard line. "The Warlord's instructions were specific."

My stomach drops, a cold wave of realization washing over me. "He knew?"

Thorne doesn't answer, but the slight curl of his lip tells me everything. This wasn't a fortunate opportunity—it was a test. One I've spectacularly failed.

The massive doors to Kazuul's chambers loom before us, carved with battle scenes that seem to move in the flickering torchlight. Thorne doesn't bother knocking before pushing them open.

Kazuul stands beside the window, his massive frame silhouetted against the night sky. The moonlight catches on his horns and the scales along his shoulders, casting strange shadows across his crimson skin. He doesn't turn immediately, which somehow makes his presence more intimidating. When he finally faces us, his expression shows no rage, no shouting—just calculated calm that chills me more than any display of anger.

"I expected this attempt," he informs me, massive arms crossing over a chest broader than two men standing side by side. The tribal markings across his crimson skin seem to shift in the dim light, recording victories I cannot read. "Though I anticipated you would wait until establishing greater trust before betraying it."

Thorne releases my arm and steps back, his duty complete.

"Leave us," Kazuul commands, and Thorne exits without a word, closing the massive doors behind him with a soft thud that feels like a prison gate closing.

Alone with the warlord, I struggle to keep my face neutral. Whatever punishment comes, I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

"What now?" I ask, lifting my chin defiantly. "Public punishment? Execution?"

Kazuul approaches slowly, each step deliberate. The floor vibrates slightly beneath my feet with each footfall, a reminder of his sheer size and weight. "Neither would serve my purposes."

He circles me once, appraising, the heat of his massive body radiating against my skin even from several feet away. I can scent him—that distinctive blend of smoke and metal that once repulsed me but now triggers something deep and primal in my omega biology. Then he grasps my shoulders, steering me inexorably toward the massive sleeping platform that dominates one side of his chambers.

My body betrays me immediately, responding to his touch with shameful eagerness. Slick gathers between my thighs, my pulse quickening as his scent surrounds me.

"Your punishment will fit your specific crime," he says, voice rumbling through me like distant thunder.

What follows is nothing like the violent retribution I expected. Instead, Kazuul implements a form of torture precisely calibrated to my greatest weakness.

---