Page 44 of Warlord’s Prize

Beneath our joined hands, the baby responds—deliberate pressure against my palm followed by a shifting position that creates a visible ripple across my stretched skin. Kazuul's expression transforms with wonder that belies his fearsome warrior appearance, his massive thumbs tracing the movement with reverence that would shock his imperial brother if he could witness such vulnerability.

"Strong and clever," he adds, his deep voice resonating through his hands against my skin. "Like your mother."

The unexpected word creates a tightening in my chest entirely different from physical discomfort or strategic concern. Between one heartbeat and the next, an impossible realization crystallizes with stunning clarity: I love this baby. Not with abstract maternal instinct or biological imperative, but with fierce protective devotion that would sacrifice anything—including former principles, including my former self—to ensure its safety and future.

The emotion crashes through my carefully maintained barriers with a force that leaves me momentarily breathless. This child, created through claiming that began as a violation rather than choice, has somehow become more essential to me than the resistance cause or personal freedom or any principle I once held absolute.

Kazuul's golden eyes register the shift in my expression, his pupils contracting to vertical slits that indicate intensified focus. His massive hand rises to cup my face with surprising gentleness, his thumb brushing moisture from my cheek I hadn't realized was there.

"You feel it now," he says, not a question but a confirmation. "The connection beyond biology."

I should deny it—maintain my distance, preserve emotional boundaries. Instead, the truth emerges with simplicity that defies years of resistance training.

"Yes."

The single word acknowledges a transformation that no resistance ideology prepared me for—going from a warlord’s prize to a willing participant.

Somewhere between strategic sacrifice and this moment, what began as my body's betrayal has become my greatest commitment—attachment to a life created through circumstances I would never have chosen but now cannot imagine rejecting. The realization brings neither shame nor triumph, but simple clarity: this child, neither fully oni nor fully human, represents a future that goes beyond the categories that once defined my understanding of the conquered world.

As Kazuul's massive form leans forward, his forehead coming to rest against mine in a gesture of connection, I surrender to a simple truth both frightening and liberating: I've become something neither resistance fighter nor claimed omega, but something new that neither side anticipated when this journey began.

CHAPTER19

SHARED GRIEF

The agricultural chartsspread before me blur into meaningless patterns of green and brown. I blink hard, trying to focus. My back aches from standing too long, the weight of my seven-month belly pulling my spine into an unfamiliar curve. I shift my position, one hand automatically cradling the underside of my swollen abdomen as I lean forward to get a better view of the northern quadrant projections.

"The irrigation modifications have exceeded expectations," Commander Thorne says, his orange skin catching the morning light that streams through the high windows of Kazuul's strategic chamber. "Yield is up twenty-three percent from last growing season."

Pride flickers through me. Those modifications were my design, implemented despite initial resistance from traditional oni agricultural overseers. The success represents something beyond simple resource optimization—proof that human insight carries value within conquest hierarchy, that my position has evolved beyond breeding function to genuine territorial partner.

"The distribution through western settlements still shows inconsistency," I note, pointing to the uneven pattern visible in the harvest records. The child shifts inside me as I move, a rolling sensation beneath my ribs that has become familiar over recent weeks. I pause, momentarily distracted by the small foot or elbow pushing against my side.

Kazuul notices, his golden eyes flicking to my belly with the possessive attention that has only intensified as my pregnancy progressed. The massive oni stands at the head of the table, his crimson skin and curved horns catching the light as he leans forward to examine the charts.

"Show me the western discrepancies," he directs, but his gaze remains on me for a moment longer, something softer than possession flickering in his vertical pupils.

I trace the pattern on the map, my finger following the river systems that feed the agricultural zones. "If we adjust the secondary channels during the dry season, we could balance the?—"

A knife twists in my gut.

That's my first thought—that someone has stabbed me from behind. The pain is so sudden, so sharp that my words cut off with a gasp. My fingers clutch the edge of the massive table, knuckles whitening as fire spreads through my lower abdomen.

"Consort?" Thorne's voice sounds distant, as though coming through water.

The pain recedes for a moment, leaving me breathless. Sweat breaks out across my forehead, cold against suddenly hot skin. "It's nothing," I manage, the words automatic from years of never showing weakness. "Just a muscle cramp."

But it's not. Something deep inside me knows this is wrong. Very wrong.

Kazuul moves around the table, his massive form covering the distance with unexpected speed. His nostrils flare as he approaches, scenting the air in the way I've learned means he's detecting what human senses cannot.

"Something is wrong," he says, and the fear in his voice makes my blood run cold.

Before I can respond, the pain returns—not a wave but a tidal surge that drops me to my knees. A cry tears from my throat before I can swallow it back. Warmth spreads between my thighs, and when I look down, crimson blooms across the light fabric of my garment.

Blood. So much blood.

The room erupts into motion. Oni advisors back away with military precision, their movements revealing more about oni hierarchy in crisis than any official documentation ever could. Commander Thorne barks orders, his voice cutting through the sudden chaos with authority that brooks no hesitation. But it's Kazuul's reaction that shatters something in my chest.

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