Page 3 of Warlord’s Prize

I just hope I live long enough to see them survive the winter.

CHAPTER2

THE CRIMSON FORTRESS

The first glimpseof the Crimson Fortress steals my breath despite days of mental preparation.

Our small delegation crests the final ridge as the setting sun bathes everything in bloody light, and there it is—a monstrous structure carved directly into the mountainside, glowing like an open wound against the darkening sky. The fortress doesn't merely sit upon the mountain; it consumes it, as though some ancient creature had burrowed into living rock and hollowed out its lair. Even from this distance, the scale defies human comprehension. The central keep rises at least ten stories high, with watchtowers stretching even further toward the clouds.

"Gods," whispers Taro beside me, his usual stoicism cracking. "The stories didn't exaggerate."

A hot gust of wind carries strange scents from the fortress—molten metal, unfamiliar spices, and something primal that makes the fine hairs on my arms rise. My body recognizes the danger before my mind can fully process it.

I force myself to breathe steadily, to analyze rather than react. "Remember the plan. We're simply representatives from a productive settlement seeking trade agreements. Nothing more."

But my heart hammers against my ribs as we begin our descent down the winding road. With each step closer, the fortress grows more imposing, more impossible. The crimson stone seems to pulse with its own heartbeat, the angular architecture designed specifically to intimidate through sheer overwhelming presence. Sound carries strangely here—distant clanging of metal, guttural voices speaking in the harsh oni language, the occasional roar that might be beast or might be master.

The approach forces us through increasingly narrow passages, rocky walls pressing in from both sides. A perfect place for an ambush, the strategic part of my mind notes. A place where few can defend against many. The message is clear: approach at our mercy.

At the first checkpoint, I get my initial close look at our captors' true nature. The oni guards stand at least eight feet tall, their massive bodies making them appear almost twice my height. Their skin ranges from deep crimson to burnt orange, covered in intricate black tribal markings that I know from intelligence reports catalog their victories and kills. The curved horns extending from their foreheads remind me of predatory beasts, sweeping back over their skulls in polished arcs that end in wicked points that catch the fading sunlight.

But it's their eyes that unsettle me most—golden irises with vertical pupils that expand and contract as they track our movement, predators assessing prey with cold calculation. I can almost feel those eyes on my skin, like physical touches leaving trails of ice.

"State your business," the larger guard demands, his voice rumbling so deeply I feel it vibrate through my chest and into my bones.

I step forward, careful to keep my stance confident but not challenging. "Representatives from Haven Valley, seeking audience with Warlord Bloodcrest regarding agricultural trade."

The guard's nostrils flare, massive chest expanding as he inhales our scents. For a terrifying moment, I fear my suppressants have already begun to fail. But he merely gestures for us to continue, his massive hand large enough to crush my skull with minimal effort.

As we pass, I notice his companion scenting the air more deliberately, golden eyes narrowing slightly as his gaze lingers on me a heartbeat too long before he returns to his impassive stance. My stomach tightens with the first hint of real fear, an icy drop sliding down my spine.

We pass through three more checkpoints, each with its own intimidating guards, before reaching the massive iron gates of the fortress proper. Here, oni warriors in more elaborate armor stand sentry, their weapons—enormous axes and curved blades—displayed prominently. The battle axe closest to me stands taller than my entire body, its edge honed to gleaming sharpness. Four humans working together could barely lift it.

The gates groan open, the sound of ancient metal scraping against stone reverberating through my bones like a death knell. We're escorted inside by a slightly smaller oni with orange skin and a single broken horn—some kind of lower-ranking officer, I assume.

Inside, the true scale of oni architecture hits me like a physical blow. The entry hall alone could fit our entire community building with room to spare. Doorways tower fourteen feet high, clearly designed for beings who don't need to duck to enter a room. Furniture carved from stone and wood would accommodate bodies three times human size. Weapons displayed on walls like trophies speak of battles where our kind never stood a chance.

Even the torch sconces sit well above where a human would place them, casting strange shadows that dance along blood-red stone walls. The flickering light makes the tribal markings carved into the stone seem to writhe and move, telling stories of conquest and domination. Everything is designed to make humans feel small, insignificant, conquered.

The air inside carries unfamiliar scents—spices I can't identify, metals being forged somewhere deep within, and underlying it all, the musky, intimidating smell of alpha oni. My body registers this last scent before my conscious mind can process it, and I feel the first warning signs I've been dreading.

Heat. Just the slightest elevation in my core temperature, a subtle warming that spreads from my abdomen and crawls upward, signaling the beginning of my suppressants' failure. My sensitivity to scents shouldn't be this acute yet—I should barely register the differences in oni pheromones, but instead each passing guard leaves a distinct olfactory signature that my omega biology eagerly catalogs with horrifying precision. One smells of mountain stone and pine; another carries notes of smoke and forge-fire; a third reeks of leather and something metallic that might be blood.

Sweat beads at my hairline despite the cool temperature inside the stone fortress. I need to hurry this negotiation. The stress of the situation is accelerating my body's response, burning through my suppressants faster than I calculated. I press my thighs together, fighting against the first whisper of slickness threatening to gather there.

"You will wait here," our escort announces, showing us into a chamber that might serve as a small greeting room for oni but feels cavernous to us. "Refreshment will be provided."

The furnishings, clearly adapted for human use, suggest they receive enough visitors to warrant such accommodations. A worrying thought—it means we're not the first to seek audience, not the first to put ourselves at Kazuul Bloodcrest's mercy. I wonder how many left freely, and how many remained as "tributes."

As soon as the escort leaves, Maya edges closer to me, her voice barely a whisper. "Something's wrong," she murmurs, her healer's eyes missing nothing. "Your scent is changing."

"It's fine," I lie, though we both know better. "Just the stress response."

"We should leave," Taro insists, his hand instinctively moving to the hidden knife we all know won't protect us if things go wrong. "Request a formal petition process through intermediaries instead."

"There's no time," I remind him, rubbing my temple where a headache begins to form. "Our people are already hungry."

A human servant enters, carrying water and simple foods on a tray. She keeps her eyes downcast, but I catch her assessing gaze as she arranges the offerings. She's evaluating us—our clothing, our manner, our potential status. I recognize the techniques because I've used them myself. She's gathering intelligence while appearing servile.

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