Page 28 of Warlord’s Prize

"What's wrong?" I ask, rising to my feet.

He crosses the room in three massive strides, the stone floor vibrating slightly with each step. His heat radiates toward me before he even reaches my side, and the scent of him carries an acrid undertone of... worry?

He holds out a scroll bearing elaborate imperial seals, the black and red wax markings intricate and threatening. "Communication from the Imperial Capital."

I take the heavy parchment, fingers tracing the ornate script. The paper itself feels different from what we use in Crimson Fortress—thinner, almost oily to the touch, carrying a faint scent of something bitter.

"Emperor Goran Bloodfang requests the presentation of your successfully bred omega at the upcoming seasonal ceremony," I read aloud, brow furrowing as I decipher the formal language. "Why would he care about me?"

"It is not you he cares about," Kazuul rumbles, his deep voice vibrating in his chest. His golden eyes narrow, vertical pupils contracting to thin slits. "It is what you represent."

The official documentation conceals the political maneuver beneath ceremonial language, but my strategic mind quickly grasps the implications. The emperor's interest represents both recognition of Kazuul's achievement and potential threat to the independent power base this successful reproduction might create.

"He sees me as evidence of your increased power," I state, not a question but a conclusion.

Kazuul nods once, sharp and controlled. The tribal markings across his crimson skin seem to darken with his mood. "The failure to produce offspring created vulnerability in my position. Your pregnancy resolves this weakness."

"And threatens his control over you," I finish the thought. The complexity of oni politics is becoming clearer to me with each passing day. "He can't ignore your success, but he can't allow it to strengthen you too much."

"We must attend," Kazuul says, though his tone suggests he'd rather do anything else. One massive hand clenches into a fist at his side, the knuckles paling to a lighter shade of crimson. "Refusing imperial summons would constitute direct challenge we are not yet prepared to make."

The word "yet" hangs between us, heavy with implications of future possibilities neither of us is ready to discuss.

"When do we leave?" I ask, already mentally listing preparations needed for such a journey.

"Three days." His massive hand settles on my rounded abdomen in what has become a habitual gesture. The warmth of his palm seeps through the fabric, and I could swear the child stirs in response to his touch. "The healers will accompany us to ensure your condition remains stable throughout the journey."

I sense the tension radiating from his massive frame—protective instincts visibly battling the political necessity that requires presenting his breeding success before the imperial court. The muscles in his forearms tighten, the tribal markings stretching across his skin as he struggles with instincts far older than politics.

For the first time, I find myself reaching out to touch his arm in a gesture meant to reassure rather than resist. His skin burns hot beneath my fingertips, the strange texture both smooth and slightly rough, like sun-warmed stone.

"We'll manage this carefully," I say, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. "I'm not fragile."

His golden eyes meet mine, something unreadable shifting in their depths. "No," he agrees, the rumble of his voice gentler than usual. "You never have been."

* * *

The journey itself provides my first opportunity to observe territories beyond Crimson Fortress since my claiming. The massive caravan departs at dawn—dozens of oni warriors, multiple healers, servants, and supplies all traveling in formation around the central wagon where I ride in relative comfort.

My traveling quarters are lavish by human standards—furs lining the wooden bench seats, cushions providing support for my changing body, water and fruit always within reach. Kazuul rides alongside rather than inside, his massive form too large for the confined space, but he checks on me frequently throughout each day's travel.

The first few days take us through Kazuul's domain, giving me a bird's-eye view of the agricultural systems I've helped develop. Organized fields stretch to the horizon in perfect geometric patterns, their colors rich with healthy crops. Irrigation channels carry water precisely where needed, the sun catching on the surface and turning ordinary water into ribbons of light. Storage facilities stand at strategic intervals, their solid construction promising protection against weather and pests.

Human workers pause in their tasks to bow as we pass, their faces showing genuine respect rather than mere fear. Their clothes, while simple, appear clean and sturdy. Their bodies, while marked by labor, don't show signs of starvation or abuse.

"The western quadrant crop yields have increased forty percent since implementing your distribution adjustments," Kazuul comments as we pass particularly vibrant fields of grain that sway in the breeze like a golden sea. Pride colors his voice, though whether it's pride in the achievement or in my contribution to it remains unclear.

I can't deny the satisfaction I feel seeing theory transformed into thriving reality. These improvements mean real difference in human lives—better nutrition, reduced labor burdens, increased sustainability.

But as we cross from Kazuul's territory into lands controlled by other oni clans, the contrast becomes jarringly apparent. Fields grow patchy and undernourished, yellowing in places where water fails to reach. Irrigation exists but in haphazard patterns that create mud pits in some areas while leaving others parched. Human settlements appear decrepit, with sagging roofs and crumbling walls, the people moving in exhausted shuffles rather than purposeful strides.

"The Bloodmane clan controls this region," Kazuul explains when he notices my focused observation. His tone carries something like contempt. "They prioritize immediate resource extraction over sustainable development."

I bite my tongue to keep from offering immediate suggestions for improvement. These are not my lands to change. Still, my mind works automatically, identifying inefficiencies and calculating the human cost of such mismanagement.

The pattern repeats as we pass through territories controlled by different oni clans. Some approach Kazuul's level of organization, most fall woefully short. Human conditions vary dramatically—from reasonable accommodation to what amounts to slave labor camps where emaciated workers stagger under impossible burdens, their backs bent by more than heavy loads.

The scent of these neglected territories changes too—fear pheromones hanging in the air, mixing with the stench of inadequate sanitation and untreated illness. The sounds differ as well—fewer voices, more whips and shouts of overseers demanding impossible quotas.

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