Page 31 of Warlord’s Prize

Beautiful courtyards stretch out before us, filled with contradictions. Gorgeous flowers I've never seen before spill down stark stone walls in shades of deep red, black, and purple. The blooms look too perfect, almost artificial. Fountains bubble musically, but they can't quite drown out the sounds coming from deeper in the garden—cries that might be pleasure or might be pain.

The smell hits me like a physical blow—sweet flowers mixed with the heavy scent of aroused alphas and the sharp, sweet smell of frightened omegas. My stomach churns as memories of my own claiming flood back, memories I've tried to forget.

It's a pretty cage designed for an ugly purpose—beautiful on the surface but cruel at its core.

"This way," Kazuul guides me along a marble path toward a central courtyard where a gathering has already formed. His massive hand remains at the small of my back, the heat of his palm radiating through my garments like a brand of protection. His scent intensifies slightly, marking me more thoroughly as we enter spaces filled with other alphas.

We're positioned on a viewing platform with other territorial leaders and their claimed omegas. The elevated space offers clear sight lines while maintaining appropriate separation between clans that might otherwise challenge each other. From this vantage point, I have unobstructed view of specialized platforms where public mating ceremonies will occur before court witnesses. The elevated stages ensure optimal visibility while simultaneously creating physical vulnerability through exposure and restricted movement.

I study the assembled crowd with strategic detachment—imperial officials in elaborate regalia denoting rank and favor, territorial representatives displaying clan colors and markings, court followers seeking entertainment or political advantage. The atmosphere carries an uncomfortable mixture of ceremonial solemnity and anticipation, as though witnessing both sacred ritual and blood sport simultaneously.

Then the unclaimed omegas are brought in.

There are five of them—all female, all human, all looking terrified beyond measure. Their eyes dart frantically around the garden, seeking escape where none exists. Their thin white garments do little to preserve dignity while showcasing the bodies about to be claimed. They're positioned on the ceremonial platforms, arranged in presentation posture that leaves them completely exposed to the watching crowd.

Female attendants approach with ceremonial oils, applying them to the omegas' exposed skin with practiced efficiency that speaks of countless previous ceremonies. The scent of the oil reaches me even at this distance—something musky and sweet, designed to enhance natural omega pheromones and trigger alpha response.

The claiming alphas enter next—imperial oni of various ranks, their massive forms generating murmurs of approval from the crowd. They appear freshly bathed and oiled themselves, skin gleaming in the midday sun, their arousal evident in the tenting of ceremonial loincloths. The official speaker delivers ritualistic phrases about dominance and submission, breeding and ownership, power and surrender—words I remember from my own claiming.

And then it begins.

The first scream sends ice through my veins. It's high and desperate, edged with true terror rather than mere discomfort. The imperial omega's face contorts in genuine agony as her assigned alpha forces his massive length inside her unprepared body. There's no adjustment period, no gradual stretching—just brutal penetration that makes her body arch in pain, her hands clawing uselessly at the platform beneath her.

More screams follow as the other claimings proceed simultaneously. Each platform becomes site of conquest rather than connection, the omegas' terror palpable even from our viewing distance. The smell of blood reaches me, metallic and sharp beneath the scent of ceremonial oils.

But something's missing.

The screams contain only pain without the pleasure undertones I remember from my own claiming. These omegas writhe in genuine agony rather than confused mixture of hurt and unwanted arousal. Their bodies fight the invasion rather than gradually yielding to it. No flush spreads across their skin, no slick glistens on their thighs beyond the ceremonial oils—only tears and blood.

With shocking clarity, I realize what's different: imperial oni lack the vibration adaptation Bloodcrest clan developed. These omegas are experiencing only pain without the compensatory pleasure that made my own submission physically irresistible if mentally rejected.

The revelation hits me with unexpected force. The vibrating nodule I once viewed solely as humiliation mechanism, as control device to break my will—it actually spared me the pure agony these women are experiencing now. What I considered the ultimate violation of my autonomy was, in context, almost... considerate.

My body responds to this realization in ways I can't control. I unconsciously move closer to Kazuul, the memory of pleasure his unique anatomy provides creating immediate physical reaction despite the public setting. Slick gathers between my thighs, my core temperature rising slightly. The scent of my arousal rises subtly, detectable only to those with oni senses.

Kazuul's nostrils flare, his massive frame shifting slightly to shield me from other alphas who might detect my reaction. His hand at my back tightens possessively, pulling me against his side in gesture that communicates ownership to any watching. The heat of him seeps through my garments, his scent intensifying further to mask my own.

"This is barbaric," I whisper, unable to tear my eyes from the claiming ceremonies continuing before us. One omega has gone limp entirely, either unconscious or dissociating from the trauma being inflicted on her body.

"Yes," he agrees simply, voice pitched for my ears alone. "This is why Bloodcrest clan evolved differently. Pain creates resistance. Pleasure creates acceptance."

The pragmatic assessment should offend me. Instead, I find disturbing logic in it—and uncomfortable gratitude toward biological adaptation I once cursed. The vibrating nodule that broke my resistance through unwanted pleasure now seems almost... merciful... compared to what these imperial omegas are experiencing.

One platform holds my attention particularly—a smaller omega, barely more than a girl really, her screams growing weaker as her claiming continues with brutal intensity. Blood stains the platform beneath her, her body too small to accommodate her alpha's size without tearing. Her eyes have gone glassy and unfocused, consciousness retreating from what her body cannot escape.

"Will she survive?" I ask, stomach churning with nausea that isn't entirely pregnancy-related.

"Perhaps," Kazuul replies, his tone revealing rare criticism of imperial practices. "They care more about the display than the outcome."

I feel the child move within me, a restless shifting as though disturbed by the violence we're witnessing. My hand moves to soothe it automatically, a gesture that draws attention from nearby observers. I notice several imperial officials watching me with calculated interest—not just my pregnant form but my controlled reaction to the spectacle before us.

As the claiming ceremonies reach their conclusion, I catch Emperor Goran Bloodfang watching me from his elevated position. Until now, I've only glimpsed him from a distance, but even that was enough to recognize the power he embodies. His obsidian-black skin with blood-red tribal markings creates precise opposite of Kazuul's coloration—a deliberate visual signal of their political opposition. His multiple small horns form a crown-like pattern that sets him apart from other oni. But it's his eyes that unnerve me most—horizontal pupils instead of vertical, red instead of gold, calculating intelligence watching my reactions to the spectacle before us.

The message in the emperor's stare is clear: This is power. This is control. This is what happens to omegas who aren't properly valued by their alphas.

I return his gaze steadily, one hand resting protectively on my rounded abdomen. The child within me moves again, a firm kick against my palm that feels strangely like defiance. I refuse to lower my eyes despite the pressure of the emperor's stare—a small resistance when I can offer nothing more to the women on the platforms below.

Tomorrow I face imperial medical examination and whatever other machinations the emperor has planned. But tonight, I carry new understanding—that the circumstances of my claiming, while still violation, contained elements of adaptation and consideration completely absent in the brutality I've witnessed today.

---