Page 25 of Warlord’s Prize

"Unlike previous attempts with facility omegas, this one shows remarkable stability," the healer continues, consulting glowing symbols on her instruments. "The embryo develops with unusual vigor for this early stage. The hybrid compatibility appears optimal."

She continues her examination, documenting findings with careful precision, but I barely hear her. My mind is racing with strategic implications—pregnancy means increased value, potentially creating both greater protection and greater restriction. My status will change again, privileges and limitations reshuffling around this new reality. Perhaps I can leverage this for additional concessions for Haven Valley, for improved conditions for human settlements throughout the territory.

"You've succeeded where five others failed," Kazuul tells me once we're alone, something unfamiliar softening his usually commanding tone. His hand remains on my abdomen, fingers splayed possessively over the place where new life takes root. "This changes everything."

I want to ask how—want to calculate what this means for Haven Valley, for my position, for potential leverage in future negotiations. My strategic mind immediately searches for advantages this new development might provide. The possibilities unfold like a tactical map, options branching in multiple directions.

But beneath these practical considerations, something primitive stirs—omega instincts responding with unexpected satisfaction at successfully carrying alpha offspring. A warmth spreads through my chest, radiating outward to my limbs. The feeling defies rational explanation but cannot be denied. Pride, protection, purpose—emotions I never anticipated flood through me at the knowledge of the life growing inside.

My body's final betrayal, it seems, is not just adapting to captivity but finding fulfillment within it. As Kazuul's massive hand cradles the future growing beneath my heart, I wonder if anything remains of the resistance fighter who once led Haven Valley.

Or if she, like my body, has been transformed into something her former self would never recognize.

CHAPTER11

THE BREEDING TRIUMPH

Wordof my pregnancy spreads through Crimson Fortress like wildfire. Within hours of the medical officer's confirmation, the atmosphere around me shifts. I can't figure out how the news traveled so fast—did Kazuul announce it through some formal oni channel, or do they simply smell these things? Either way, everything changes overnight.

Servants who previously avoided my gaze now bow deeply when I pass, their eyes lowered in a deference I've never experienced. Guards stand straighter, their posture shifting from watchful suspicion to protective alertness. Even Commander Thorne, who's never bothered hiding his contempt for me, offers a stiff nod of acknowledgment when we cross paths in the corridor.

"Your scent has changed," Vora explains during our morning walk through the omega gardens. The air is heavy with the fragrance of early blooms, but apparently I'm adding my own note to the perfume. "It broadcasts your condition to every oni within fifty feet. Their sense of smell is far more acute than ours—they can detect the hormonal shift, the extra blood flow, the new life taking form."

I resist the urge to cover myself, as if I could somehow contain this intimate announcement my body is making without my permission. "Great. Even my smell is betraying me now."

Vora's lips quirk in a small smile. "Consider it protection. No oni would risk harming a successfully breeding omega, especially the warlord's."

"But why does everyone suddenly care so much?" I ask, genuinely confused by the dramatic shift in treatment. "Surely I'm not the first omega to conceive in this fortress."

Vora's scarred fingers trace patterns on the garden bench between us, her eyes scanning our surroundings before she speaks. "You've transformed from valuable anomaly to reproductive success," she explains, voice pitched low despite the garden's isolation. "In oni culture, breeding legitimacy equals leadership strength. A warlord who cannot produce offspring is vulnerable to challenge, regardless of battle prowess."

The implications hit me like a physical blow. "Kazuul couldn't produce offspring before?"

"Five attempts with facility omegas, all failures," Vora confirms, the lines around her eyes deepening. "A carefully guarded vulnerability in his authority structure—one you've now eliminated."

The knowledge settles uncomfortably in my stomach, mingling with the strange fluttering sensations of early pregnancy. I've inadvertently strengthened the warlord's position, probably making escape even more impossible than before. But I've also secured my own value beyond the temporary usefulness of my strategic mind.

With my new status come unexpected privileges. The door to my chambers—previously locked from the outside at night—now remains unlocked. My movements within the fortress, while still monitored, face fewer restrictions. Guards maintain respectful distance rather than looming presence.

It's not freedom, not by any stretch of imagination, but the invisible walls of my cage have expanded substantially.

Even the physical claiming sessions shift in both frequency and quality. Kazuul still comes to me nearly every night, his massive form blocking all light when he enters my chambers. His crimson skin still radiates unnatural heat that warms the air around us. His cock still stretches me beyond what any human male could, still creates that visible bulge in my abdomen when fully seated.

But something fundamental has changed in his approach.

"Tell me if this causes discomfort," he instructs on the third night after confirmation, his massive hands positioning me with unexpected gentleness. His golden eyes study my face with an intensity that feels different from his previous assessing gazes.

The consideration catches me off guard. Since when does the mighty Warlord of the Crimson Fortress care about my comfort during claiming?

He adjusts his rhythm and depth, never pushing too deep where before he would claim me completely regardless of my winces or gasps. His massive hand splays across my lower abdomen, the warmth of his palm seeping into my skin as if checking on the life growing beneath. The vibrating nodule that once served primarily as a mechanism of control now buzzes against my clit with deliberate precision, his focus shifting from demonstrating my submission to ensuring my satisfaction.

Most surprising is how he introduces new elements focused specifically on my pleasure. His massive fingers find sensitive spots with surprising delicacy, stroking and circling with precision that makes resistance increasingly difficult. When he turns me onto my side, curling his massive body around mine to enter me from behind, the new angle sends sparks of pleasure up my spine that draw embarrassing sounds from my throat.

The first time he kneels between my thighs, I'm so shocked I nearly kick him in the face.

"What are you doing?" I gasp, propping myself up on my elbows to stare down at him. The sight is jarring—his massive crimson form, those curved obsidian horns, the tribal markings across his shoulders and chest—positioned in what looks like supplication between my legs.

Golden eyes meet mine, vertical pupils expanding in the dim light. "Tending to my breeding omega," he replies simply before lowering his head.

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