Page 47 of Warlord’s Prize

The courtyard opens before us, morning sunlight casting long shadows across ancient stones worn smooth by centuries of oni ceremonies pre-dating the Conquest. The entire fortress household has assembled in formal formation—military officers led by Commander Thorne, administrative officials in hierarchical arrangement, household staff positioned according to rank, even human servants standing in respectful formation along the perimeter.

At the courtyard's center stands a small stone altar, far older than the fortress itself from the worn nature of its carved symbols. Beside it waits the ritual officiant—an elderly female oni whose elaborate horn decorations and formal robes mark ceremonial status I've never encountered in regular fortress operations. Her ancient eyes watch our approach with expression that suggests she's seen grief in all its forms across more years than humans typically survive.

Kazuul's hand supports my elbow as we approach, his touch containing none of the possessive dominance that once characterized our physical contact. When we reach the altar, he positions himself beside me rather than in front, marking us as equal participants in shared grief rather than warlord and possession. The gesture isn't lost on those watching—I can hear the subtle shift in breathing among oni officials, see the widened eyes of human servants who understand the hierarchical implications better than any outsider could.

The ritual begins with words spoken in ancient oni language, phrases that carry rhythmic power even without translation. The officiant's gnarled hands move in patterns that seem to trace invisible connections between us, the altar, and the assembled witnesses. When she produces a ceremonial blade—its handle carved from bone so ancient it has fossilized to stone—and offers it to Kazuul, the entire courtyard falls into deeper silence.

Without hesitation, Kazuul draws the blade across his palm, deep enough that black-red blood wells immediately to the surface. He presses his bleeding hand against the altar stone, leaving clear imprint visible to all witnesses.

"Blood of my lineage," he states, voice carrying throughout the courtyard without obvious effort. "Honor to the child who carried it, though briefly."

The blade passes to me next, its weight surprisingly substantial in my hand. The handle feels warm against my skin, as though the bone retains heat from countless hands that have held it through centuries of both joy and sorrow. I draw it across my palm with steady movement, years of survival training preventing hesitation despite the pain. My crimson blood—fully human despite months carrying a hybrid child—joins Kazuul's on the ancient stone as I press my palm beside his print.

"Blood of my body," I say, the ritual words coming naturally despite never having heard them before. "Honor to the child who grew from it, though lost too soon."

The officiant raises her hands toward the sky, speaking final blessing that seems to vibrate through the air itself. The mingled blood on the altar—oni and human joined as our child had been—glistens in the morning light, testament to life created between worlds and loss that bridges species division more effectively than conquest ever could.

When the officiant lowers her hands, something in the atmosphere shifts—acknowledgment of shared grief creating connection that transcends conquest hierarchy and species division. The ritual concludes without further words, the silence more powerful than any formal declaration could be.

As we turn from the altar, hands still bearing ceremonial wounds, I see expressions I never expected on the faces of oni officials who once viewed me solely as warlord's claimed breeding property. Recognition. Respect. And most surprising, genuine sympathy that suggests an emotional capacity my resistance ideology never acknowledged in creatures we classified only as conquerors.

Kazuul's massive form remains beside mine as we walk back through the courtyard, his proximity communicating protection and shared mourning rather than possession. Each step requires more effort than the last, my recovering body protesting the exertion while emotional wounds drain what physical strength has returned. By the time we reach the private chambers, my legs tremble with exhaustion I can no longer hide.

That night, as the palace staff maintains the respectful distance required by mourning protocols, Kazuul sits beside my recovery bed rather than returning to his separate chambers. His massive hand still bears the ceremonial wound, deliberately left unhealed as a visible reminder of the loss.

"In oni tradition," he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft in the chamber's quiet darkness, "a child lost before birth is believed to return to the spirit realm to grow stronger before attempting the journey again."

The concept creates an unexpected comfort, the image of our child waiting in some unknown space between worlds, gathering strength for a future journey. Whether true or merely comforting fiction, the idea soothes raw edges of grief still pulsing through my chest.

"Do you believe that?" I ask, my hand finding his across the space between us.

His massive fingers engulf mine with careful gentleness that belies his overwhelming strength. The heat of his skin burns against the ceremonial wound on my palm, pain mingling with comfort in way that feels appropriate for grief that will never fully heal but might eventually become bearable.

"I never did before," he admits, golden eyes reflecting firelight from the chamber's hearth. "But I find myself wanting to now."

The way his voice breaks when he speaks those words—the mighty warlord letting me see his uncertainty—touches something in me that all his power and dominance never could. This isn't about claiming or being claimed anymore. We've found something in our shared pain that makes all those labels—conqueror, captive, alpha, omega—feel hollow and meaningless. For the first time, we're just seeing each other as we truly are.

Our hands stay linked through the long night, my smaller one nestled in his massive palm, both marked with cuts that will scar us in matching ways. The blood has dried, but the wounds still throb in time with our heartbeats. It feels right somehow. The child we made together, the one we lost together, has tied us to each other in ways neither of us could have imagined when this all began. Not through duty or biology or force, but through something no resistance manual or conquest handbook could have prepared us for.

Our shared grief has transformed us both, turning what began as possession into something I don't yet have a name for—but I know it's something I'll fight to protect just as fiercely as I once fought against it.

CHAPTER20

WHISPERS OF WEAKNESS

The whispers followme through the fortress corridors. They cling to the shadows, hover in doorways, and hang in the air after conversations abruptly end when I enter a room.

Breeding weakness.

Two simple words that carry the weight of an execution order in oni culture. I've learned enough about their hierarchy to understand what the loss of our child means beyond our private grief. In this world of giants where strength determines everything, failure to produce viable offspring isn't just a personal tragedy—it's a political death sentence.

I pause near the strategy room, my hand resting on the cool stone wall as a wave of emptiness washes over me. The physical pain of the miscarriage has mostly subsided over the past few weeks, but the hollow ache inside remains constant. I find my fingers drifting to my abdomen, touching the space where life once grew, now empty. What I didn't expect was how the grief would be compounded by fear—not for myself, but for Kazuul and everything he's built.

The fortress that once represented my prison now feels like a sanctuary under threat.

"You should be resting."

I don't need to turn to recognize Vora's voice. The senior omega moves beside me with silent efficiency, her small form a stark contrast to the massive oni architecture surrounding us. The ritual scarification on her arms catches the torchlight, telling stories of survival I'm only beginning to understand.

---