Page 4 of Warlord’s Prize

I meet her eyes briefly, a silent acknowledgment between survivors. Her slight widening of pupils confirms my suspicion—she's scented what Maya noticed. The subtle sweet notes that no beta would carry, the unmistakable undertone of an omega's biology fighting against chemical suppression. The servant leaves quickly, and I know with certainty that the information about my changing scent will reach the warlord before I do.

We wait for nearly an hour, a power play I anticipated. In the strategies of dominance, making petitioners wait establishes control. I use the time to center myself, to mentally review our proposal, to reinforce my beta persona. But my body betrays me with each passing minute—the warmth in my core building incrementally, my senses heightening as though awakening from a deep slumber. The stone bench beneath me feels rougher against my increasingly sensitive skin. The torch flames seem brighter, their crackling louder. The distant sounds of the fortress—metal on metal, deep oni voices, heavy footsteps—grow more distinct.

I press my hand against my abdomen, willing the heat to subside. My other hand finds the vial of suppressants in my hidden pocket, but I know taking another dose so soon would be dangerous—potentially fatal. I've already doubled the recommended amount before our journey. More might stop my heart rather than my heat.

When the door finally opens, an oni servant with ceremonial markings different from the guards enters. "The warlord will see the leader alone."

The statement falls like a stone into still water, rippling tension through our small group.

"Absolutely not," Taro protests immediately, half-rising from his seat. "Our leader does not go unaccompanied."

"The warlord's terms are non-negotiable," the servant states flatly, his golden eyes flickering to me with a knowing glint that makes my stomach clench.

Before the argument can escalate, I silence Taro with a sharp gesture. "This is why I came," I remind him quietly, struggling to keep my voice steady as another wave of warmth pulses through me, settling between my thighs with insistent pressure. "Follow evacuation protocol if I don't return by dawn."

The contingency plan we established before departure: if I disappear, they return to Haven Valley immediately and prepare for relocation. No rescue attempts, no negotiations. Survival of the community above all else.

Maya grips my arm, her fingers pressing against my pulse point—ostensibly a gesture of concern, but I know she's confirming her suspicions about my elevated heart rate and temperature. Her eyes convey what she doesn't dare say aloud: my suppressants are failing far faster than we anticipated. She presses something small and hard into my palm—an emergency dose of her strongest herbal blockers. Not as effective as my chemical suppressants, but perhaps enough to buy me time.

I slip it into my pocket with a reassuring nod I don't feel and turn to follow the servant. The corridor stretches before us, impossibly long and large, designed for beings that could crush me without effort. Each step takes me further from safety, further from the life I've built since the Conquest.

The massive guard who leads the way moves with surprising grace for something so large. His footsteps make little sound despite his enormous weight, a predator's silent tread. I force myself to match his pace, refusing to jog to keep up though my legs must take two strides for each of his.

As we walk, the weight of my community's survival presses down on my shoulders—five hundred lives depending on the outcome of this meeting. Yet something else rises to compete with this burden: my own omega biology awakening from chemical slumber at the worst possible moment.

Another pulse of warmth spreads through my lower abdomen, stronger this time, leaving a hollowness that aches to be filled. My hands feel clammy, my skin suddenly too sensitive against the fabric of my clothes. The scents in the fortress—especially the musky alpha pheromones—grow sharper, more distinct, triggering responses I've suppressed for years. My treacherous body remembers what it was designed for, what the Conquest made inescapable: submission to an alpha. Specifically, to the strongest alpha my biology can detect.

I clench my jaw, fighting against the biological tide rising within me. Not now. Not here. I've controlled this, buried it, denied it for five years. I can hold on for one more meeting, just long enough to secure the food my people need.

But as we approach an immense doorway carved with battle scenes that seem to move in the flickering torchlight—oni warriors trampling human soldiers beneath their feet, claiming human females, establishing dominance through blood and breeding—a treacherous whisper slides through my mind: What if I can't?

CHAPTER3

THE WARLORD'S GAZE

The audience chambermakes my breath catch in my throat. It's so massive that the ceiling vanishes into shadow somewhere high above me, like a night sky swallowing the tops of the pillars. The sound of my heartbeat echoes in my ears, competing with the soft crackle of flames.

Massive pillars thick as ancient trees rise on either side of the central walkway, each carved with battle scenes depicting oni warriors crushing human resistance. In one carving, an oni holds a struggling human female against his body, her back arched in what might be agony or submission. The firelight makes these figures seem to breathe, to move, their silent screams almost audible in the cavernous space.

Fire pits dot the floor, their flames casting dancing shadows across blood-red stone that pulses like a living heart. The heat from these pits hits my face in waves as I pass them, carrying the strange scent of whatever fuel they burn—something spicy and foreign that makes my heightening senses reel.

And then I see him.

At the far end of the chamber, seated on a throne that appears to be constructed entirely from weapons taken from defeated enemies—swords, axes, armor fragments all melded together into a seat of conquest—Warlord Kazuul Bloodcrest waits. Even sitting, his massive frame dominates the space. He must be at least nine feet tall when standing. His presence radiates a primal authority that makes my carefully rehearsed steps falter, as though the air itself has grown thick and resistant under the weight of his dominance.

The oni warlord's skin is deep crimson, darker than the guards I passed earlier, like freshly spilled blood that's just beginning to dry. Intricate black tribal patterns swirl across his exposed chest and massive arms, not painted but seemingly embedded in his flesh. Each marking, I know from our intelligence, records a victory or conquest. There are so many they create an almost hypnotic effect as my eyes try to follow their patterns—here, the sacking of a human city; there, a personal combat victory; along his forearm, the subjugation of an entire province.

Polished horns curve back from his forehead like deadly weapons, their obsidian shine catching the firelight as he tilts his head to study me. His forearms rest on the jagged edges of his throne, each muscle defined and massive beneath his crimson skin, speaking of strength that could snap me in half without effort. His fingers, ending in short black claws, tap a rhythm against the metal—one, two, three—as he waits.

But it's his eyes that truly capture me—golden irises with vertical pupils that expand and contract as I approach, like a predatory cat assessing its prey in shifting light. They seem to glow from within, reflecting the firelight in a way no human eyes could. Those eyes track my movement with unnerving precision, missing nothing—not my careful steps, not the slight tremor in my hands that I try to hide, not the sweat beginning to bead at my temples.

That's what I am in this moment—prey walking voluntarily into the predator's den.

I force my face to remain neutral, my steps to continue despite the instinctive fear clawing up my spine. Each footfall on the stone floor sends tiny vibrations through my increasingly sensitive body. The scent here is overwhelming—smoke and metal and something deeply primal that emanates from the warlord himself, a musk that speaks directly to the omega biology stirring beneath my failing suppressants.

I stop at the designated distance from the throne—close enough for conversation, far enough to be respectful. At least, that's what the servant indicated. The distance feels dangerously intimate given the growing warmth in my core and the intensity of the warlord's focus.

"Warlord Bloodcrest," I begin, proud that my voice doesn't waver despite the thundering of my heart against my ribs. "I come representing Haven Valley to discuss a matter of mutual benefit."

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