Page 46 of Warlord’s Prize

The truth crashes into me with physical force, stealing the breath from my lungs. A sound escapes me—not a cry or scream but something more broken, more fundamental. Something torn from depths I didn't know existed inside me until this child created them.

The grief rises so suddenly and completely that it sweeps away every defense I've built over years of survival. My body convulses with it, each sob tearing through me with force that rivals the physical pain still gripping my abdomen. Hot tears stream down my face, soaking into the platform beneath my head.

Through blurred vision, I see Kazuul's face transform. The warlord facade shatters completely, revealing raw anguish no oni would willingly display before subordinates or enemies. His massive body shudders with emotion he makes no attempt to conceal, golden eyes bright with moisture he doesn't try to hide.

"Leave us," he commands, the words rough-edged with grief.

The medical team withdraws to the chamber's edges, continuing to monitor my condition while providing what privacy they can in this moment of shared devastation. In this strange pocket of space, Kazuul presses his forehead against mine, his skin burning hot against my cooler flesh. The gesture creates connection that transcends the hierarchical distance conquest created between our species—alpha and omega, captor and captive transformed into simply two beings united in loss.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words inadequate for the hollow emptiness spreading through my chest. "I couldn't hold on to our baby."

"No," he says fiercely, his massive hand cupping my face with careful gentleness that belies his overwhelming strength. "This is not your failing. This is not weakness."

The birth, when it comes, is mercifully quick but no less devastating for its brevity. The pain peaks in one final surge, my body expelling what it can no longer sustain. The tiny form that slips from me is perfectly formed yet too small to survive—delicate fingers and miniature horns, skin neither fully crimson nor fully human pink, a child of both worlds who couldn't remain in either.

Nira wraps the tiny body in soft fabric, the gesture performed with reverence that acknowledges personhood rather than mere biological material. When she offers the bundle to us, her eyes contain compassion I never expected to see directed from oni to human.

Kazuul's hands shake as he accepts our child, his massive fingers dwarfing the small bundle. His face, when he looks upon what we've lost, contains such naked pain that I have to look away. This is not the calculated disappointment of reproductive failure, not the frustration of ownership denied. This is grief in its purest form—parent mourning child never to be known.

We hold our baby together, my smaller hands alongside his massive ones, creating brief family circle that should have had decades rather than moments. The weight of what might have been settles into my bones, heavier than any physical burden I've carried.

The medical team eventually returns, performing their necessary work with quiet efficiency. They clean away blood and ensure my physical stability while respecting the emotional wounds they cannot heal. By the time they finish, exhaustion has pulled me toward unconsciousness, my body demanding rest to begin recovery even as my heart feels like it will never heal.

"Sleep," Kazuul murmurs, his massive hand still holding mine as though afraid I too might slip away if he releases his grip. "I'll be here when you wake."

I drift into darkness, carried on waves of grief too vast to comprehend.

* * *

The physical recovery begins before the emotional one has even taken shape. My body, accustomed to survival against overwhelming odds, knits itself back together with efficiency that belies the devastation within. The bleeding stops. The pain recedes to dull ache. Strength returns to limbs temporarily weakened by blood loss and trauma.

But the emptiness remains. I wake each morning with hands automatically moving to the curve of belly no longer there, reaching for child no longer growing within. The phantom sensations of movement—kicks and turns I had grown so accustomed to—haunt me in quiet moments, cruel reminders of life that briefly existed between two worlds before returning to neither.

Three days pass in hazy succession, marked by regular visits from medical staff and quiet attendance by Vora, whose normally careful neutrality has softened into genuine compassion that asks nothing in return. She brings special teas to aid healing, arranges cushions to ease remaining discomfort, and most importantly, allows silence when words would only cause more pain.

I wake on the fourth morning to find Kazuul entering my recovery chamber, his massive form adorned not in his usual warlord attire but in ceremonial garments I've never seen before. Deep crimson fabric embroidered with ancient patterns covers his chest, while ritual markings have been freshly applied to his arms in black ink that stands out starkly against his red skin. He carries himself differently—not with the dominant power of a territorial leader, but with solemn purpose that transforms his usual intimidating presence.

"What's happening?" I ask, my voice still rough from days of disuse and dried tears.

"The Mourning Rite," he answers, approaching my bedside with measured steps. "For our child."

The significance of his words doesn't register immediately, until Vora appears behind him with formal garments laid across her arms. Her expression contains an openness I've never seen directed toward me, as though grief has temporarily dismantled the careful barriers that usually separate senior omega from territorial consort.

"This is the ritual garment for the blood mother," she explains, laying the clothing at the foot of my bed. "If you feel strong enough to participate."

Understanding blooms with bittersweet clarity. The Mourning Rite—ancient oni tradition performed only for offspring considered legitimate heirs rather than merely bred property. This public ceremony will declare to every oni in the territory, every human in the settlements, that our child held status no hybrid offspring has been granted since the Conquest began.

"I want to be there," I say, pushing myself upright despite the protest of still-healing muscles and the hollow ache in my womb. "Help me prepare."

The garments feel heavy against my sensitized skin, the deep crimson fabric matching Kazuul's own ceremonial attire. Subtle patterns woven into the material indicate both maternal connection and honored status within oni hierarchy—symbols I've learned to recognize during months navigating fortress politics from position of claimed omega to territorial consort. Vora helps me dress with careful movements that minimize discomfort, her hands gentle against skin still tender from trauma both physical and emotional.

"It's not standard practice," she tells me quietly as she secures the final fastenings, "for humans to participate in the Mourning Rite."

"Nothing about this has been standard practice," I reply, the words emerging with more bitterness than intended.

"No," she agrees, surprising me with directness usually absent from our carefully diplomatic exchanges. "Which is why it matters that you stand beside him today."

The walk to the central courtyard tests my recovering strength, each step requiring concentration that temporarily distracts from grief still raw and bleeding beneath physical healing. Kazuul matches his pace to mine, massive form positioned to support without obvious assistance that would diminish me before witnesses gathering for the ceremony.

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