Page 34 of Warlord’s Prize

This political confrontation changes how I see things. Where once I viewed all oni authority as equally terrible, I now recognize significant variations in governance with real consequences for humans under different leaders.

The emperor's central breeding facilities—where omegas are treated as interchangeable resources—represent a fundamentally different approach than Kazuul's territorial system where my individual characteristics receive specific accommodation. The thought of being removed from Crimson Fortress to imperial breeding chambers fills me with genuine dread.

Neither system offers freedom. I remain a claimed omega, a breeding vessel, a conquered prize. Yet the differences between these systems create meaningful distinction my strategic mind cannot dismiss despite resistance principles that once framed my understanding.

That night, as Kazuul's massive body curls protectively around mine, I find myself drawing comfort from his presence in ways that would have horrified the resistance fighter I once was. His hand splays possessively across my pregnant belly, heat radiating through my skin to warm the child growing within.

"He will not take you," Kazuul murmurs, the rumble of his voice vibrating against my back. Not a question or hope—a statement of absolute certainty.

"The emperor has greater forces," I feel compelled to point out, ever the strategist.

"And I have greater motivation," he counters, pulling me closer against him.

The conviction in his voice shouldn't reassure me. Shouldn't make something warm unfurl in my chest. I am not his to protect—I am his because conquest made me so. Any possessiveness should feel like further captivity rather than security.

Yet as I drift toward sleep, my body nestled against the massive frame of the warlord who claimed me against my will, I can't deny the truth that resistance ideology never prepared me for. Given choice between different versions of captivity, I choose his. Not just for the child we've created, not just for Haven Valley's security, but for reasons I'm still not ready to name even to myself.

Tomorrow brings another day of imperial politics and the constant threat of separation. But tonight, in this strange pocket of safety created by the very alpha who once represented everything I fought against, I allow myself a moment of peace in a world where true freedom no longer exists.

CHAPTER15

THE GIFT

The imperial banquethall glitters with savage opulence. Gold and obsidian fixtures catch the firelight, casting dancing shadows across walls adorned with battle trophies. Every element of the room—from the towering doorways to the massive banquet tables—feels designed to make me feel small and out of place.

I adjust the formal garment provided for tonight's feast, the silken fabric cut to emphasize my pregnant form like I'm both display and trophy. My hand drifts to the curve of my abdomen in a now-familiar protective gesture. The child growing within me represents so many things—my captivity, my surrender, but also a strange new future I never imagined.

Kazuul sits beside me at the high table, his massive crimson form dwarfing even the oversized imperial furniture. Despite the polite conversation, tension ripples beneath his controlled exterior. His posture shifts whenever Emperor Goran looks our way, his body angling to place himself between me and his half-brother without being obviously defensive.

"The Bloodcrest territories seem to be doing well with their crops," Emperor Goran observes from his elevated position at the center of the high table. His obsidian skin with blood-red markings creates a stark visual contrast to Kazuul's coloration. "Though I hear you've been having... troubles in other areas."

The implication hangs in the air. Every oni official within earshot stiffens slightly, recognizing the political barb. Kazuul's successful breeding of a human omega—me—has elevated his status, but the Emperor clearly intends to undermine that advantage tonight.

"My lands thrive because I pay attention to everything," Kazuul responds, his deep voice vibrating through my chest despite his controlled volume. "Some focus only on appearances, others on what truly matters."

The subtle counter-attack doesn't go unnoticed—several oni officials shift uncomfortably while others hide what might almost be smirks.

I keep my expression neutral even as my mind races. This verbal sparring is merely preamble—the Emperor wouldn't have insisted on our presence for simple diplomatic exchanges.

The meal progresses through traditional oni courses, each dish designed to display imperial abundance. The meat portions would feed four humans, the spices imported from distant territories, the presentation emphasizing dominance over nature itself. I eat the small portions my human stomach can handle, aware that every bite is being observed by dozens of calculating eyes.

When the formal meal concludes, Emperor Goran rises to his full height, towering even over the other oni lords present. The multiple small horns forming his crown-like protrusion catch the firelight as he gestures toward a side entrance with theatrical precision.

"To honor Warlord Bloodcrest's impressive management of his territory," he announces, voice carrying throughout the massive chamber, "I'd like to present a gift that recognizes his achievements while helping ensure his continued success."

The side doors open to reveal a small procession of imperial attendants. In their center walks a female omega who embodies everything I am not. Where I stand nearly six feet tall with a soldier's build, she can't be more than five feet with delicate limbs and soft curves. Her movements display the careful training of someone raised specifically for breeding purposes—each step a display of submission, eyes properly lowered, hands folded before her in perfect imperial etiquette.

My stomach clenches with what I refuse to call jealousy.

"This is Lina, chosen from the imperial breeding program for her excellent compatibility with oni," the Emperor continues, satisfaction evident in his horizontal pupils as they track our reactions. "She's been trained in everything a proper breeding omega should know. She comes from generations of careful selection."

The implications hit like a physical blow. By presenting this "gift," the Emperor forces an impossible choice: reject her and commit a profound diplomatic insult, or accept her and undermine my position despite my pregnancy. It's a cruelly elegant trap, designed to create problems regardless of the outcome.

Kazuul's massive hand tightens on the armrest of his chair, the only visible sign of his tension. "The Emperor is always... thoughtful," he responds, words carefully measured.

The girl—Lina—steps forward, her movements like flowing water compared to my soldier's stride. She performs a formal presentation posture, displaying herself for Kazuul's inspection in a way that makes my teeth clench despite my diplomatic training.

"She'll give you more options for breeding," Emperor Goran explains with false politeness. "Make sure you keep having successful pregnancies."

---