Page 43 of Warlord’s Prize

"The warlord wants to see you in the eastern tower once you're ready," Vora tells me, efficiently collecting the empty glass. "The doctor will do today's check-up there instead of the medical chambers."

This change in routine immediately makes me wonder—is there a security issue requiring different movement patterns? Some administrative development needing a good vantage point? Maybe visitors whose reception needs the right setting? I still automatically analyze every little change, my resistance training so deeply ingrained it happens without me even trying.

"Has Thorne reported anything new from the northern border?" I ask, thinking of security concerns that have been increasingly important since my encounter with that resistance operative at Eastbridge three weeks ago.

"Nothing that needs immediate attention," Vora responds carefully, revealing nothing beyond what protocol allows. Despite our occasionally warmer moments, she maintains clear boundaries around what information she shares—her position requires balancing service to Kazuul against protection of omega concerns.

The walk to the eastern tower gives me a welcome chance to stretch muscles that increasingly complain about being confined. The baby shifts as I move, responding to my movements in what feels disturbingly like play—pressure against my ribs when I turn right, fluttering kicks when I climb stairs, momentary stillness when I pause to look at the territory visible through the fortress windows. These patterns have become more and more distinct over recent weeks, creating an eerie sense of communication that goes beyond simple biology.

I find Kazuul waiting at the top of the eastern tower, his massive form outlined against the morning sky as he looks out over farmlands stretching toward the horizon. Even after months of regular proximity, his physical presence still makes me pause instinctively—nine feet of crimson-skinned power with curved horns that catch sunlight like polished obsidian. Yet my body's response has completely transformed, my omega biology now registering his presence as safety rather than threat, my pulse quickening with anticipation instead of fear.

He turns as I enter, golden eyes immediately focusing on the pronounced curve of my belly with possessive intensity that hasn't lessened with time. "You're wearing the blue," he observes, satisfaction evident in his voice.

"It's just practical for the medical exam," I reply, though we both know that's only half-true. The deep blue happens to be his preferred color, my choice reflecting an unconscious accommodation I've stopped trying to analyze too carefully.

"The doctor will be here soon," he says, his massive hand extending toward me in invitation rather than command. "I wanted you to see something first."

I join him at the observation point, curiosity overriding the wariness that once defined our every interaction. From here, the fertile plains surrounding Crimson Fortress stretch out in carefully managed agricultural zones that have flourished under the resource systems we've jointly implemented over recent months. The productivity visible in those neat fields shows tangible proof of governance improvements that neither resistance strategy nor traditional oni domination would have achieved alone.

"There," Kazuul points toward the northwestern sector where new construction rises near the river junction. "The hybrid education facility you proposed last month."

My breath catches at the sight. What started as a theoretical proposal during an administrative planning session has materialized with unexpected speed—foundation already completed and main structure taking shape with an efficiency that shows it's a priority. The facility represents the first formal acknowledgment of hybrid children as a category needing specialized support rather than just an oni resource or human burden—a fundamental shift in conquest hierarchy that began with theoretical proposals but now exists in physical form.

"You didn't tell me construction had started," I say, feeling something tighten in my chest as I realize what this means. The facility will serve hybrid children throughout the territory, but its very existence anticipates our child's future needs with planning that goes far beyond mere biological reproduction.

"Some things are better shown than explained," Kazuul replies, his massive hand coming to rest against the small of my back in a gesture that communicates both possession and support.

The baby chooses this moment to execute a particularly vigorous movement, a rolling shift that visibly distorts my stretched skin. Kazuul's reaction is immediate—his hand moving to cover the spot where motion remains visible.

"Strong," he murmurs, wonder tempering the possessive satisfaction in his voice. "Already fighting to come out."

Beneath his massive palm, the baby moves again, seemingly responding to the heat and pressure of its father's touch. The movement creates a connection that goes beyond words—three beings linked through physical contact that bridges worlds I once thought forever separate.

The moment breaks when the physician arrives, an oni female whose specialized training in hybrid development has made her a regular presence in my life since my pregnancy was confirmed. Her clinical efficiency remains unchanged as she directs me to the examination couch specially built to accommodate both human comfort and oni medical access.

"The baby's bones are developing faster than expected," she notes as specialized instruments track the development through my stretched skin. "Muscle formation about thirty percent greater than a human baby would have at this stage."

I've gotten used to these examinations—the clinical assessment of changes in my body that once would have horrified me as evidence of contamination but now fascinate me as proof of biological adaptation neither species fully understood before the Conquest. The baby tolerates the examination with unusual stillness, its movements suggesting focused attention rather than distress.

"Brain development is consistent with advanced patterns we've seen in other viable hybrids," the physician continues, her attention shifting to equipment tracking neural activity. "Response to external stimuli shows signs of enhanced sensory processing."

Kazuul watches the entire process with intense focus, absorbing each detail with attention that goes beyond mere ownership verification. His massive form stays positioned where the baby can sense his presence, showing an instinctive understanding of developing offspring needs that contradicts the brutal warrior image traditional oni hierarchy presents to outsiders.

When the formal examination ends, the physician leaves with efficiency that speaks to her clear understanding of her role within the complex power dynamics our relationship represents. The massive doors close behind her, leaving us alone in the tower observation room with morning sunlight streaming through tall windows.

Kazuul approaches with deliberate movement that acknowledges my changed physical state, his massive form kneeling to bring himself level with my seated position. Without words, his hands move to frame the curve of my belly, heat radiating through the thin fabric to warm my stretched skin.

"In oni tradition," he begins, his voice dropping to a register that vibrates through his hands against my skin, "offspring recognize their parents' voices before they're born."

The statement carries an implicit request I immediately understand. Without conscious thought, my hands come to rest atop his, creating a layered connection between the three of us—oni father, human mother, hybrid child floating in protected space between worlds.

"What should we say?" I ask, the question coming from a place of genuine uncertainty rather than resistance. This ritual exists beyond political calculation or strategic advantage, touching something primal that transcends the circumstances bringing us together.

"Among oni, we speak of strength and territory," Kazuul explains, his golden eyes meeting mine with unexpected vulnerability. "But this child is more than just oni."

The acknowledgment creates an opening I never anticipated when I first approached Crimson Fortress with desperate negotiation plans and failing suppressants. Without planning or strategic calculation, words form that reflect neither resistance training nor conquest adaptation but something uniquely created between us.

"Your world will be different than either of ours," I find myself saying, my voice directed toward the curved space where our baby grows. "Neither fully human nor fully oni, but something new with possibilities neither side could create alone."

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