Page 45 of Warlord’s Prize

His face transforms, warlord authority cracking open to reveal raw terror beneath. I've seen him in battle rage, in diplomatic calculation, in possessive dominance—but never this. Never fear stripped bare of all pretense or control.

"Get the healers!" The roar tears from him with such force that the windows seem to vibrate, the sound primal and desperate. "NOW!"

Strong arms lift me before I can collapse further, my body suddenly weightless against Kazuul's massive chest. The scent of him engulfs me—hot metal and spice, familiar yet somehow sharper in my heightened awareness. Another wave of pain crashes through me, and I press my face against him, trying to muffle the sounds I can't control. The fabric of his ceremonial garment grows wet beneath my cheek—tears I didn't realize I was shedding.

"The baby," I whisper, my voice breaking on the words. "Something's wrong with our baby."

His arms tighten around me, heat radiating from his skin as he moves with urgent purpose through the fortress corridors. My vision blurs with each step, gray edges creeping in as pain and fear battle for dominance in my failing body.

"Hold on," Kazuul says, his deep voice stripped of its usual command, replaced by something raw and pleading that I've never heard from him before. "Stay with me, Emi. Both of you, stay with me."

The sound of my name—so rarely used by him instead of titles or possessives—cuts through the haze of pain more effectively than any command could have.

Servants flatten themselves against stone walls as we pass, their faces blurring into streaks of color in my wavering vision. The scent of blood grows stronger, metallic and wrong, mixing with the salt of tears and the distinctive heat that radiates from Kazuul's skin. Each heartbeat sends fresh pain spiraling through my abdomen, growing stronger rather than weaker as we move through the fortress.

The medical chamber glows with harsh brightness when we enter, the specialized lighting designed for precise work in a space that combines traditional oni healing with adapted human medical techniques. The oni physician—her name is Nira, though I've never heard Kazuul address her as anything but "healer"—already moves with urgent efficiency, preparing equipment I recognize from previous examinations but never wanted to see in emergency context.

"Put her here," she directs, indicating the specialized platform designed for hybrid birthing. Her professional tone cannot quite mask the concern in her eyes as she takes in the blood soaking my garments. "Careful with her positioning."

Kazuul lowers me onto the platform with gentleness that belies his overwhelming strength, his massive hands lingering as though reluctant to break physical contact. The platform feels cold beneath my overheated skin, the specialized material molding slightly to support my curved spine and swollen belly.

Nira approaches with diagnostic equipment, her movements precise as she places monitoring devices against my abdomen. I flinch as another wave of pain tears through me, my back arching off the platform before I can stop it. The taste of copper fills my mouth—I've bitten my lip hard enough to draw blood.

"The bleeding is significant," Nira states, her eyes narrowing as she reads the monitors. "The placental connection is weakening. We need to stabilize it immediately."

"Fix it," Kazuul demands, his massive form looming over the physician with intensity that would terrify most beings. "Whatever it takes."

One of the assistants—a young female oni with lighter red skin than most—steps forward with courage I would admire under different circumstances. "Warlord, you must leave the birthing chamber. By tradition?—"

"I stay." The words cut through protocol like a blade through flesh, brooking no argument despite centuries of oni cultural practice that excludes males from birthing spaces. Kazuul moves to position himself beside me, his massive hand engulfing mine with careful pressure that serves as anchor in storm of pain threatening to sweep me away. "I stay with her."

Nira and her assistants exchange glances, some unspoken communication passing between them before the physician gives a short nod.

"Prepare the blood replenishment formula," she instructs her team. "And the uterine stabilizing herbs. Quickly."

The next hours blur together in a haze of pain and desperate intervention. Heated stones placed at specific points along my spine, their weight both comfort and burden against cramping muscles. Bitter herbs that burn my throat and churn in my stomach. Chanted words in ancient oni language that vibrate through the air with power I can feel but not understand. Sharp needles delivering medications that dull some pain while leaving me conscious enough to follow whispered instructions.

Through it all, Kazuul remains. His massive form kneels beside the platform—a position no warlord would ever adopt before subordinates under normal circumstances, a posture of supplication rather than dominance that contradicts everything conquest hierarchy established between our species. His hand never leaves mine, the heat of his skin burning against my increasingly cold fingers as blood continues to seep from my body despite all efforts to halt it.

"Fight," he whispers when the medical team moves away briefly to prepare fresh treatments. His golden eyes lock with mine, vertical pupils contracted to thin slits that indicate extreme emotional distress. "You're stronger than this. Both of you. Fight."

I try. I gather every scrap of strength that kept me alive through the Conquest, that helped me build Haven Valley from desperate survivors, that navigated oni politics to carve out unprecedented territory for a claimed omega. I direct all that stubborn will toward the child inside me, visualizing it staying safe within the haven of my body, imagining our shared blood continuing to flow between us as it should.

But my body betrays me one final time—not through submission to claiming or response to pleasure or adaptation to oni possession, but through simple biological failure no willpower can overcome.

"The bleeding isn't stopping," I hear Nira murmur to her senior assistant, their voices low but not low enough to escape my enhanced hearing. "The hybrid structure is detaching despite the stabilizers."

"Could we attempt the ancient binding ritual?" the assistant asks, desperation edging into her professional tone.

"The human physiology won't withstand it," comes the grim response. "We risk losing both."

Kazuul's fingers tighten slightly around mine, the only indication he's heard their exchange. His eyes never leave my face, as though he could hold me in this world through the force of his gaze alone. The desperation there cuts deeper than any physical pain—this powerful being who conquered territories and commands armies now helpless against the simple biological reality unfolding between us.

Another wave of pain crashes through me, sharper than the others. Something shifts inside me, a terrible sliding sensation that feels fundamentally wrong. A sound tears from my throat, primal and agonized, beyond my ability to control.

Nira rushes back, her hands moving with urgent precision over my swollen abdomen. The monitors emit warning tones that need no interpretation. Her professional mask cracks for just a moment, genuine sorrow breaking through clinical detachment as she meets my eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says, the words falling into sudden silence. "The child cannot be saved."

---