Page 35 of Warlord’s Prize

The imperial court watches with predatory interest. I feel the weight of their stares—assessing, comparing, judging. The whispers have already started at the edges of the hall, speculation about my replacement beginning among those who see omegas as interchangeable breeding vessels.

Something shifts inside me, a clarity cutting through months of adaptation and compromise. I've survived the Conquest, built a community, navigated oni politics, and carried this child against medical expectation. I won't be discarded through political maneuvering.

Before Kazuul can formulate his response, I stand. The movement draws every eye in the hall—omegas simply don't insert themselves into Imperial proceedings uninvited. The protocol violation itself creates momentary silence heavy enough to hear the crackling of the massive fire pits.

"Thank you for your generosity, Emperor," I say, my voice carrying without seeming confrontational. "But our healers have discovered that Warlord Bloodcrest's success with me isn't just about omega qualities. It's about how he and I specifically work together."

I feel Kazuul's surprised attention alongside the shocked stares of the court. An omega speaking on breeding policy—directly addressing implied criticism of territorial management—represents a protocol breach that would normally result in immediate discipline.

"Adding another omega now would disrupt what's making this pregnancy work when others failed," I continue, keeping my focus on practical concerns rather than the obvious political maneuver. "Our healers have found that our specific pairing creates stability that a new omega would threaten. It's too risky."

The Emperor's expression shifts from satisfaction to calculation. My strategic deflection has transformed his "gift" from a simple status play into a potential medical liability. If he insists now, he accepts responsibility for any pregnancy complications that might arise.

"Your omega seems to have quite a lot to say for herself," he observes, his tone making the statement both acknowledgment and challenge.

"In my territory, I listen to smart voices wherever I find them," Kazuul responds, rising to stand beside me. His massive form creates a living barrier between me and the Emperor, a positioning that communicates volumes to everyone present. "That's why my lands produce the most in the Imperium."

The confrontation balances on a knife's edge. I maintain my composed expression despite the tension vibrating through the chamber, aware that every oni official is recalculating political alignments based on this unexpected development. I've effectively transformed myself from breeding trophy to administrative asset in the eyes of the court, a category shift the imperial hierarchy doesn't accommodate.

Emperor Goran's multiple small horns catch the firelight as he inclines his head slightly. "You certainly do things differently, don't you," he says with cold calculation. "Perhaps Lina would be better placed elsewhere until we can look more closely at your... medical situation."

The retreat is tactical rather than genuine—I can see the calculation behind his blood-red eyes—but it provides the necessary diplomatic framework to resolve the immediate crisis. Lina is escorted from the chamber with the same ceremonial precision that introduced her, though the whispers following her exit contain significantly different speculation than those that accompanied her entrance.

As we return to our assigned positions at the banquet table, I feel Kazuul's massive hand brush briefly against my lower back—a gesture concealed from most observers by our relative positions, but unmistakable in its meaning. The touch contains none of the possessive dominance that characterized our early interactions, instead conveying something closer to appreciation.

The remainder of the banquet proceeds with renewed attention to diplomatic protocol, the confrontation submerged beneath layers of formal courtesy. Yet beneath the surface, something fundamental has shifted. My voice has entered the political calculation in a way previously unimaginable, the pregnancy I once viewed primarily as biological capture now transforming into unexpected leverage.

Later, in the relative privacy of our assigned chambers, the tension that has built throughout the evening finds physical expression. Kazuul secures the massive doors before turning to me, his golden eyes glowing with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken. The carefully controlled restraint he's maintained throughout the imperial visit evaporates like morning mist.

"No one speaks up in the Emperor's court without being asked," he says, his deep voice rumbling through the chamber as he approaches. "Especially not an omega."

"You said you listen to smart voices," I reply, throwing his own words back at him with a hint of challenge. My body responds to his approach with embarrassing eagerness, slick already gathering between my thighs despite the public confrontation we've just navigated. Months of conditioning have created associations I can't control—his proximity alone triggers physical responses beyond my conscious control.

"You put yourself at risk tonight." His massive form towers over me, radiating heat that seems to penetrate my formal garments. "Goran doesn't forget challenges."

"He also doesn't forget being outsmarted," I counter, refusing to lower my gaze despite the dominance display his posture communicates. "I'm not just some breeding omega he can use to control you."

Something shifts in his expression—pride mingled with possession in a combination that would have enraged me months ago but now creates a confusing warmth alongside the physical response. His massive hand cups my face with surprising gentleness.

"No," he agrees, "you never were."

His lips find mine with unexpected tenderness, the kiss deepening as his hands work to remove the formal garments that separate us. My own fingers fumble with the ceremonial clasps of his attire, the task made difficult by the size difference and my growing eagerness. When my hands brush against his exposed skin, the heat radiating from him feels like standing too close to a fire.

"Mine," he growls against my throat, the word vibrating through my skin and settling deep in my core.

My back meets the massive bed as he lowers me onto the furs, his crimson form looming above me in the dim light. The contrast between our bodies has never seemed more stark—his massive frame could crush me without effort, yet his touch remains controlled despite the desire evident in his golden eyes.

He spreads my thighs with careful purpose, exposing the slick already gathering there in humiliating abundance. The scent of my arousal fills the space between us, my omega biology broadcasting a readiness I once fought but now embrace with confusing eagerness.

"Already wet for me," he observes, one massive finger tracing the sensitive folds with deliberate slowness. "Your body knows what it wants."

The touch sends sparks racing along my nerves, pleasure building with embarrassing speed. When that massive finger pushes inside me, my back arches off the bed involuntarily, a gasp escaping before I can contain it.

"Please," I whisper, the word falling from my lips without conscious permission. The negotiator who once faced down oni officials without flinching now reduced to begging by a simple touch. "I need you."

His chest rumbles with satisfied growl as he positions himself between my spread thighs, the massive head of his cock pressing against my entrance with purpose that brokers no refusal. The first stretch burns despite my body's abundant preparation—his size still overwhelming despite months of regular claiming.

I bite my lip to contain the cry that threatens to escape as he pushes inside, the impossible fullness creating pressure that hovers on the edge between pleasure and pain. My body yields to his invasion with practiced adaptation, internal muscles relaxing to accommodate dimensions that once seemed impossible but now feel necessary.

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