Page 30 of Warlord’s Prize

My hand drifts to my rounded abdomen as we pass under the main gates, the weight of stone above making me feel impossibly fragile. The child shifts within me, as though sensing my discomfort. I force myself to focus on details rather than letting the overwhelming sensory experience crush my analytical mind.

The guard formations follow precise hierarchical patterns—positions indicating rank and affiliation through subtle variations in stance and armor design. Administrative officials greet our procession with elaborate protocols, their gestures so specific and measured they seem choreographed to establish dominance relationships rather than simply welcome visitors.

Subtle signals suggest Kazuul's position within imperial hierarchy carries both significant authority and potential vulnerability. The officials bow deeply enough to show respect but maintain eye contact in a way that indicates he's not untouchable. Warriors from other clans watch our Bloodcrest guards with calculated assessment rather than automatic deference.

The scent here is different too—a sharp, metallic tang beneath the smoke of countless fires, mixed with something bitter I can't identify. It's nothing like the earthy warmth of Crimson Fortress. This place smells of ambition and fear.

"The emperor's cousin," Kazuul explains when he notices my observation of a particularly elaborate greeting from a high-ranking official with jade ornaments woven into his horns. "He wishes to signal both kinship and dominance through ceremonial approach pattern."

The complex dance of oni politics makes Haven Valley leadership issues seem adorably simple by comparison.

Our procession finally stops at an ornate structure near the palace's eastern wing. Carved beasts with multiple heads guard the entrance, their stone eyes seeming to follow our movements.

"Your chambers," announces the imperial steward, a lean oni with unusually pale orange skin and elaborately polished horns that curve in spirals beside his ears. "Prepared according to protocol for visiting territorial leaders and their... companions."

The slight pause before "companions" isn't accidental. I've heard enough political speech to recognize deliberate slight when I hear it. Everything here carries weight—even word choice designed to remind me of my place.

The chambers themselves reveal further political calculations beneath ceremonial courtesy. Everything about them screams luxury—multiple rooms decorated with expensive textiles in deep crimson and black, furniture carved from rare woods, fixtures of polished metals that gleam in the light from crystal lamps. The sleeping chamber features a massive platform covered in furs from animals I don't recognize, while the bathing area contains a heated pool large enough for Kazuul's frame.

"The accommodations honor your status," Vora comments as we inspect the rooms. Her fingers trail over a tapestry depicting an oni battle scene, the threads appearing to shift and move in the flickering lamplight.

But I notice details beyond the surface opulence. The strategic placement of guard posts outside indicates surveillance rather than protection as primary purpose. The windows, while large and ornate, feature subtle reinforcements that would prevent escape—decorative metalwork too strong to break, openings too small for even a child to slip through. Servants appear with suspicious frequency, always finding reasons to check if we need anything, their eyes carefully scanning our possessions.

We're honored prisoners, not respected guests.

Most unsettling is the messenger who arrives shortly after our installation in the chambers. His crimson skin bears the imperial insignia—a stylized crown of horns—tattooed across his forehead. He delivers news of a scheduled examination by imperial medical officers—a procedure presented as ceremonial preparation but clearly intended to verify my pregnancy claims while assessing hybrid viability according to imperial standards rather than territorial priorities.

Kazuul's reaction reveals more than words could. His massive body tenses visibly, muscles rippling beneath crimson skin as though preparing for combat. A low growl builds in his chest that he barely suppresses in the messenger's presence, the sound vibrating through the floor beneath my feet. Once we're alone, his protective instincts emerge fully—his frame positioning between me and the door as though expecting immediate threat, horns lowered slightly in unconscious defensive posture.

"You anticipated this," I observe, watching his controlled agitation with newfound understanding. The tribal markings across his shoulders seem to darken with his mood, the pattern shifting as muscles tense beneath his skin.

"Yes," he acknowledges, massive hands clenching and unclenching, the claws at his fingertips extending slightly before retracting. "But anticipation does not make it acceptable."

For the next hours, I watch a fascinating transformation. In public spaces, Kazuul displays the formal deference his position requires—proper greetings to imperial officials, ceremonial acknowledgments, careful adherence to court protocols that seem deliberately designed to subordinate territorial leaders. Yet at every opportunity, his massive body positions between me and imperial representatives, his heat and scent creating an envelope around me that marks me as claimed, protected.

This protection transcends simple possession. It's not just his property he's guarding but something more complicated—me, our child, perhaps even the connection that's forming between us despite all odds. When an imperial official stands too close, Kazuul's growl is barely audible, but I feel it through the stone floor. When the medical officer mentions tomorrow's examination, Kazuul's hand finds the small of my back, heat radiating through the fabric in silent reassurance.

"Will they try to keep me here?" I ask that night as we prepare for sleep in our luxurious cage. The imported oils from the bath still cling to my skin, their floral scent unable to fully mask the metallic tang that seems to permeate everything in the imperial capital.

His golden eyes meet mine across the chamber, vertical pupils narrowing in the dim light to thin slits that reflect the lamplight like twin flames. "They will try," he admits, voice pitched low enough that even listening devices wouldn't capture it. "But they will not succeed."

The certainty in his voice shouldn't comfort me as much as it does. When he joins me on the sleeping platform, his body curls protectively around mine, one massive arm draped over my side with his hand resting on my rounded belly. The child kicks against his palm, as though recognizing the touch.

For the first time since our claiming, we sleep without mating—his presence purely protective rather than possessive. It feels like an unspoken promise.

* * *

The following morning brings my first direct exposure to the infamous Claiming Gardens. Vora helps me dress in elaborate garments that display my pregnancy while maintaining appropriate formality for court appearance. The silken fabrics cling to my rounded abdomen, highlighting rather than concealing the evidence of successful breeding.

"The garden ceremonies begin at midday," she explains, arranging my hair with practiced efficiency. Her fingers weave small golden ornaments into the braids, symbols of fertility and clan affiliation that tell my status to anyone with knowledge of oni customs. "Our presence is expected as honored witnesses."

"Witnesses to what?" I ask, though I suspect I already know.

Vora's hands pause momentarily. "New imperial claimings," she confirms, voice neutral though her eyes carry shadows of memories she doesn't share. "The emperor has acquired several unclaimed omegas for distribution to favored officials."

My stomach tightens with dread that has nothing to do with morning sickness.

The Claiming Gardens are the most disturbing place I've encountered since my own claiming ceremony. As Kazuul walks me through the ornate entrance gates, I'm struck by how wrong everything feels.

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