Page 61 of Warlord’s Prize

One year. One full turn of seasons since Kazuul named me Honored Consort before his entire clan, elevating me from claimed omega to something conquest law never anticipated.

My hand rests on my swollen belly, feeling the flutter of movement beneath my skin. Seven months along now, this second child growing strong where the first was lost. The medical officers express satisfaction at each examination, their careful hands measuring and documenting with none of the worry that shadowed our previous attempt. This pregnancy progresses with remarkable stability. This child—conceived in choice rather than coercion—seems determined to thrive.

"You're thinking too hard again," comes a voice from behind me. "I can practically hear the gears turning."

I don't need to turn to know Vora approaches, her light footsteps familiar after a year of friendship that evolved from initial wariness to genuine trust. Her position as senior omega has transformed too—now more advisor than servant, the ritual scarification on her arms bearing new patterns that signify her elevated status.

"Old habits," I reply, making room for her at the balcony rail. "A strategist never fully relaxes."

She laughs, the sound carrying easily in the clear morning air. "Even strategists need rest, especially when carrying the warlord's heir."

My gaze drifts over the territories spread below us like a living map. Fields of golden grain sway in perfect rows, the irrigation system I designed ensuring even growth despite the uneven rainfall this season. In the distance, newly constructed dwellings in the eastern settlement gleam with fresh timber, their sturdy walls and reinforced foundations replacing the ramshackle structures humans were previously permitted.

"The harvest projections exceeded expectations again," Vora notes, following my line of sight. "The new rotation system you implemented has increased yields by nearly thirty percent."

Pride warms my chest, unexpected but welcome. These changes—these improvements—came from my mind, my planning. The food distribution network now ensures no settlement faces shortages, even in lean times. The educational centers I established in larger communities provide training beyond basic survival skills, teaching human children knowledge once forbidden under standard conquest restrictions.

"Haven Valley sent word yesterday," Vora continues. "Their new medical facility is complete. The first fifteen healers have begun their training."

Haven Valley. My former home. The community I once led through desperate negotiations and careful planning. They've thrived under our protection, their status as my homeland granting them privileges other settlements envy. The loyalty I once thought I'd betrayed has transformed into something more complex—protection extended from a position of influence rather than resistance.

"They're planning a celebration for the winter solstice," Vora adds. "They've requested the Honored Consort's presence, if your condition permits travel by then."

My throat tightens unexpectedly. To return to Haven Valley not as their desperate leader but as the warlord's consort, heavy with his child—the symmetry feels both jarring and somehow perfect.

"I'd like that," I say softly. "To see it again. To show them what's been built."

The fundamental reality hasn't changed, of course. Humans still live under oni dominance, still exist within a system established through conquest rather than consent. The power structures remain, the hierarchies continue. I haven't dismantled the conquest system—no single person could, not even an Honored Consort.

But within these immutable constraints, I've created changes resistance activities never achieved despite years of fighting. Practical improvements that matter in daily lives—better housing, reliable food, medical care, education. The resistance fighter I once was would have called this collaboration, would have named it betrayal of human freedom.

Now I see it differently. See the faces of children who don't go hungry, of elders who receive treatment for ailments once considered death sentences, of communities flourishing where they once merely survived.

A shadow falls across the balcony as Kazuul's massive form blocks the morning sun. My body responds instantly, a flush of warmth spreading through my core at just his proximity. The claiming mark at the junction of my neck and shoulder tingles in recognition of its maker, the bond between us humming with awareness.

"You rise earlier each day," he says, his deep voice rumbling through my chest despite the space between us. His golden eyes track over my changed form with obvious approval—the rounded belly where his child grows, the fuller breasts preparing to nurture, the softer curves replacing my once-athletic frame.

"The baby is restless in the mornings," I explain, unconsciously stroking my belly. "Likes to practice combat moves against my organs."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, revealing the slight points of his teeth. "A true Bloodcrest warrior already."

Vora slips away with practiced discretion, leaving us alone on the wide balcony. Kazuul moves behind me, his massive body radiating heat that feels welcome in the crisp morning air. His hand covers mine where it rests against our developing child, fingers splaying wide enough to span my entire belly. The gentle pressure contains both possession and protection—two aspects of his nature impossible to fully separate despite how far our relationship has evolved.

"The council reports came this morning," he says, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin through the fine fabric of my dress. "The border settlements report the highest productivity in recorded history. The human population has increased for the first time since the Conquest."

More children being born. More families growing, flourishing under improved conditions. Another achievement I never anticipated when I first entered these fortress walls as a desperate negotiator.

"The educational initiatives you implemented have reduced resistance incidents by sixty percent," he continues, pride evident in his voice. "Humans with skills and purpose make better choices than those driven by desperation alone."

I lean back against his chest, allowing myself the vulnerability of physical contact that once would have seemed unthinkable. "Education was always the foundation of resistance. Now it serves cooperation instead."

His other hand traces the claiming scar at the junction of my neck and shoulder, fingers gentle against the raised tissue that marks me permanently as his. The touch sends immediate electricity racing through my body, warmth pooling between my thighs in pavlovian response honed through countless previous stimulations.

What once represented my ultimate subjugation has become something I crave willingly. My body responds to his touch with eager anticipation rather than shameful betrayal.

"Mine," he rumbles, the declaration unchanged since that first brutal claiming in the combat arena before dozens of witnesses.

Yet the word carries entirely different meaning now—one we both recognize despite its surface similarity. No longer just possession of a breeding vessel, but acknowledgment of a bond neither expected to form.

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