Page 32 of Warlord’s Prize

The revelation doesn't erase what happened to me. Doesn't justify the conquest system that took my freedom. But it adds complexity to a narrative I once thought simple, introducing shades of gray to moral calculations I once saw only in black and white.

And most uncomfortably, it creates genuine gratitude toward Kazuul—not just for physical pleasure that made violation bearable, but for consideration I once mistook for merely more sophisticated control.

When we return to our chambers, I find myself reaching for his hand—a gesture initiated by me for the first time. His massive fingers engulf mine, the heat of his skin warming my suddenly cold fingers.

"Your clan's adaptation," I begin, struggling to articulate the complex emotions churning inside me. "Is it... was it deliberate?"

His golden eyes study me with unexpected gentleness. "Yes," he admits. "Centuries ago, our ancestors recognized that willing omegas bred more successfully than those claimed through pure force. The adaptation evolved from that understanding."

Not altruism then. Not compassion. Just pragmatic recognition that pleasure produces better results than pain. Yet somehow, that honesty means more than any pretty lie about oni concern for human comfort.

"Thank you," I say finally, the words strange on my tongue. "For not being like them."

His massive hand settles on my abdomen, the warmth penetrating the fabric to comfort the restless child within. "Sleep," he says simply. "Tomorrow brings its own battles."

As I drift toward uneasy sleep, the screams from the Claiming Gardens echo in my memory. For the first time since my own claiming, I don't fight when Kazuul's arm drapes protectively around me. In this place of calculated cruelty, his particular brand of possession feels almost like safety.

CHAPTER14

COURT POLITICS

The imperial courtsession is worse than all my nightmares combined.

I thought I was prepared. I wasn't.

The throne room alone is an exercise in psychological warfare. Everything about it is designed to make visitors feel small and powerless, from the impossibly high ceilings to the way sound echoes off polished black stone. The architecture itself seems to whisper,You are nothing here.

Hundreds of oni nobles and officials line the massive chamber, their varied skin tones creating a sea of crimson, orange, and black flesh marked with tribal patterns that tell stories I can't read. The throne sits atop twenty steps, forcing supplicants to climb toward imperial judgment while everyone watches.

And on that throne sits Emperor Goran Bloodfang.

His presence is overwhelming. Where Kazuul's skin is deep crimson with black markings, the emperor displays the exact opposite—obsidian black skin with blood-red tribal patterns that seem to shift in the torchlight. Instead of two dominant horns like most oni, multiple smaller horns form a crown-like pattern around his head.

But it's his eyes that truly unsettle me. Red instead of golden, with horizontal pupils rather than vertical. That alien gaze seems to evaluate everything at once without revealing a single thought behind them.

"Remember to breathe," Vora whispers as we wait our turn. "He feeds on fear."

I nod, grateful for her steadying presence. We're positioned behind Kazuul, our place in the procession showing his significant but not supreme rank. I'm dressed in elaborate garments that display my pregnancy while maintaining ceremonial propriety, the silk fabric clinging to my rounded belly in a way that leaves no doubt about my condition.

As formal presentations begin, I recognize the performance aspects beneath the ceremony. This isn't just ritual—it's theater with life-or-death stakes.

Each territorial representative displays achievements and resources, establishing their position through physical tributes and verbal declarations. A northern warlord presents rare minerals from his mountains. A southern commander offers exotic plants with medicinal properties. Each gift and speech carefully calibrated to demonstrate value without suggesting threat.

I study the attendees with strategic focus, noting how clan markings create visual mapping of alliances and rivalries. Positioning reveals political affiliations—who stands near whom, who maintains distance, who exchanges subtle signals during presentations.

When our turn comes, Kazuul ascends the steps with measured dignity, each movement carefully controlled to display proper deference without submission. I follow three steps behind, exactly as protocol dictates, my eyes properly lowered though my peripheral vision misses nothing.

"Warlord Kazuul Bloodcrest," the imperial herald announces, "Lord of the Crimson Fortress and Eastern Agricultural Territories."

Kazuul presents physical tribute—exceptional harvests from his territories, rare metals from his mountains, crafted weapons of superior quality. His formal address strikes a perfect balance between respect and confidence, acknowledging imperial authority while subtly emphasizing his territories' productivity and strength.

Then comes the moment we've been dreading.

"I present my successfully bred omega," Kazuul states, gesturing for me to step forward. "Evidence of Bloodcrest clan's continued prosperity and growth."

Emperor Goran's reaction combines formal acknowledgment with subtle challenge. "A temporary achievement at this stage," he notes, ritual congratulations delivered with a tone suggesting uncertain outcome rather than established success. "Many promising pregnancies fail before full term."

The implied threat sends ice through my veins. Would he try to harm our child simply to undermine Kazuul's position?

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