Page 29 of Warlord’s Prize

"Why such differences?" I finally ask on our fifth night, as we sit in the relative privacy of our traveling tent. The evening meal has been cleared away, and the sounds of the camp settling for the night filter through the thick fabric walls.

"Different governance philosophies," Kazuul answers, his massive form settling beside me on our shared sleeping platform. The furs beneath us barely compress under his weight, the frame specially reinforced for his size. "Some see humans as resources to be consumed. Others recognize value in sustainable management."

The words should offend me—"resources" and "management" applied to human beings, as if we were crops or livestock. Yet the evidence before my eyes complicates my reaction. Kazuul's governance approach, while still fundamentally based on conquest dominance, creates materially better conditions for human populations than systems implemented by other oni leaders.

"And the emperor?" I ask, thinking of our destination. My hand rests unconsciously on my abdomen, the protective gesture becoming habitual.

Kazuul's expression darkens, the shadows accentuating the curve of his horns against the tent wall. "Emperor Goran believes in exploitation rather than development. His territories show the results of this approach."

As we draw closer to the imperial center over the following days, I witness the truth of his assessment. Fields lie fallow or burned out from overuse, cracked earth showing where crops once grew. Human settlements become increasingly squalid, with guards posted to prevent escape rather than protect inhabitants. The people we pass look hollow-eyed and desperate in ways I haven't seen since the early Conquest days, when survival meant submission.

The air carries a miasma of despair that grows stronger as we approach the imperial seat of power. Guards at checkpoints wear elaborate armor but treat humans with casual cruelty I never witnessed in Kazuul's territories. A small boy, no more than seven, receives a lash across his back for simply crossing a road too slowly in front of our caravan. The oni guard responsible laughs when the child falls.

Kazuul's growl is barely audible, but I feel the vibration of it through the wagon floor. His eyes track the guard, and something in his expression makes me wonder if the man will live to see the next sunrise.

These observations provide both strategic intelligence and uncomfortable perspective. The evidence suggests a reality I've been reluctant to accept—that not all oni rule is equal. That Kazuul's approach, while still based on a system I fundamentally oppose, creates conditions under which humans can at least survive and sometimes thrive.

This recognition further erodes the absolutist resistance ideology that once framed my understanding. Black and white morality gives way to contextual complexity my analytical mind cannot simplify regardless of emotional preference. If I must live under oni rule—and for now, that seems unavoidable—there are demonstrably better and worse versions of that reality.

"You're troubled," Kazuul observes as we prepare for sleep on our final night before reaching the imperial capital. The lamp oil burns low, casting his massive form in amber shadows that make the tribal markings across his shoulders seem to move with each breath.

I hesitate, unsure how to articulate the complex ethical calculus happening in my head. "I was taught that all oni are equally the enemy," I finally say, my voice soft in the enclosed space. "That resistance was the only moral choice."

He waits silently for me to continue, his golden eyes watchful in the dim light, vertical pupils expanded in the darkness.

"But what I've seen..." I gesture toward the tent wall, indicating the territories we've passed through. "There are differences that matter. Real differences in human suffering."

"Yes," he agrees simply. No justification, no defense, just acknowledgment of the truth I've witnessed.

"My community eats because of your governance," I continue, the words difficult to form. "Children grow healthy rather than starving. This doesn't erase the Conquest or make subjugation right, but..."

"But context complicates absolutism," he finishes when I trail off.

I nod, frustrated by my inability to resolve the moral paradox. The resistance fighter I was would have seen any collaboration as betrayal. The pregnant omega I've become sees nuance where once there was only certainty.

"Rest," Kazuul says, his massive hand settling over my rounded belly where our child grows. The heat of his palm penetrates the thin sleeping garment, a warmth that has become strangely comforting rather than threatening. "The imperial capital challenges even those born to its intrigues. You will need your strength."

He extinguishes the lamp with a gesture, plunging the tent into darkness. In the shadows, he seems even larger, his body radiating heat that keeps the night chill at bay. When he settles beside me, the sleeping platform creaks but holds steady, engineered to support his weight.

As I drift toward sleep, I feel the child move within me—stronger now, more definite than the butterfly flutters of earlier weeks. A life that will be neither fully human nor fully oni, but something new. A bridge between worlds, just as I have become in ways I never anticipated.

Tomorrow we face the emperor and whatever machinations he has planned. But tonight, cradled in the strange security of Kazuul's protective presence, I allow myself to acknowledge that the path forward may not be what the resistance taught me, nor what oni conquest dictated, but something neither side could have imagined.

A new way forged through circumstance and necessity—and perhaps, though I'm not ready to name it, something like connection.

CHAPTER13

THE CLAIMING GARDENS

Nothing could have preparedme for the Imperial Capital.

Even with mental preparation—even knowing it would be imposing—the sheer scale of it hits me like a physical blow. Crimson Fortress seemed massive until now, but this... this makes Kazuul's domain look like a child's sandcastle by comparison.

Black stone with blood-red veining rises from the landscape like an open wound against the earth. The walls, impossibly tall, cast shadows that stretch for miles as the morning sun struggles to penetrate the gloom they create. Everything about the architecture screams dominance—not just over humans but over nature itself. The central palace towers from an artificially elevated plateau, as though the earth itself has been forced to bow in submission.

"They excavated an entire mountain to create the foundation," Vora explains quietly as our procession approaches the massive gates. Her voice carries an undertone of remembered horror. "Thousands died in the construction. Mostly human laborers who collapsed from exhaustion, though some were sacrificed during completion rituals."

I believe it. The air itself feels charged with despair, the kind that seeps into stones over decades. Everything about the design feels deliberately oppressive, calculated to make visitors feel small and vulnerable. The towering spires, the sharp angles of the battlements, the immense scale of every doorway and arch—all of it triggers instinctive submission responses I have to consciously fight against.

---