Page 56 of Warlord’s Prize

The Bloodcrest clan council has been in emergency session since dawn, the enormous chamber buzzing with tension as oni officials analyze the recovered evidence. Imperial seals on the assassins' orders. Communications detailing payment arrangements. Vials of the specialized toxin designed to paralyze oni biology while leaving the victim conscious—a particularly cruel touch that bears Emperor Goran's signature.

And here I am, sitting not behind Kazuul's massive chair as tradition dictates for a claimed omega, but at the table itself. My own chair—smaller but no less ornate—placed at his right hand. The significance isn't lost on anyone in the chamber. Whispers follow me like shadows, golden eyes tracking my movements with new assessment. Some hold respect, others skepticism, but none show the dismissal I once saw.

"The attack pattern suggests coordination with elements inside our northern border stations," Commander Thorne says, his orange skin seeming to glow in the torchlight as he gestures toward the territorial map spread across the massive stone table. His single broken horn casts an asymmetrical shadow across the parchment. "Communications were disrupted exactly three hours before the assassins breached the inner fortress."

"An inside betrayal," rumbles Elder Voss, his ancient crimson skin so dark it appears almost black in places. The tribal markings recording his centuries of victories cover nearly every visible inch of his massive frame, like a living historical document. "Someone with access to patrol schedules."

I study the assembled council members, noting their subtle tells—the way Elder Karax's left horn twitches when he's suspicious, how General Morkul's nostrils flare when he disagrees but won't speak openly. My months in this fortress have taught me to read oni body language as a matter of survival, and that knowledge now serves a different purpose.

Throughout the discussion, Kazuul remains unusually quiet, letting his advisors speak while his golden eyes occasionally find mine. Something has shifted between us since I drove his blade into an imperial assassin's throat. Something deeper than strategy or alliance. When our gazes meet across the table, I feel a pull that has nothing to do with omega biology and everything to do with shared danger overcome together.

When my turn comes to speak, the chamber falls silent. Just two months ago, these same officials viewed me as merely the warlord's breeding omega, an unusual prize with strategic abilities that might prove useful but never essential. Now they wait for my assessment with serious attention.

"The attack targeted our most vulnerable moment," I say, forcing myself to meet the intimidating golden gazes around the table. The scent of tension in the air is thick—a mix of oni musk and the distinctive metallic note of their agitation. "Not just physically vulnerable due to Kazuul's knot, but symbolically vulnerable—during potential conception. This was meant to end both the warlord and his bloodline in a single strike."

Murmurs of agreement ripple through the council, the low rumbles vibrating through the stone beneath my feet.

"The assassins knew too much about our chambers, our routines," I continue, the military strategist I was before capture resurfacing naturally. "They knew which servants would be absent during that time frame, which corridors would be unguarded. They knew about the fertility attempts."

Kazuul's massive hand finds mine under the table, his heat burning against my skin like a brand. His palm could envelop my entire hand, yet his touch is surprisingly gentle, his thumb tracing small circles against my wrist. The gesture feels strangely intimate amid this discussion of violence and betrayal.

"We need to implement immediate security protocols for all human settlements within our territory," I say, leaning forward. My voice carries more confidence than I expected. "If the emperor can reach into the warlord's personal chambers, he can certainly infiltrate less protected areas. Haven Valley would be particularly vulnerable given its strategic food production."

Elder Voss raises a white eyebrow at my use of "our territory," but doesn't challenge it. Instead, he gives a slow nod of approval, the movement deliberate and weighted with significance. "The claimed omega speaks wisdom. Her defensive strategies regarding human settlements should be incorporated into our broader protections."

The acknowledgment—coming from the most traditional council member—feels like victory. Not conquest, but recognition. I've earned my place at this table not just through Kazuul's claim, but through my own actions.

When the council adjourns hours later, Kazuul and I walk together through the massive corridors of the Crimson Fortress. The setting sun streams through high windows, painting everything in bloody light that feels ominously appropriate. Our shadows stretch before us—his enormous, horned silhouette dwarfing my smaller human one, yet moving in perfect sync.

"The council respects you," he says, his deep voice pitched low for my ears alone. The rumble vibrates through the air between us, raising goosebumps along my arms. "Not as my possession, but as a strategist in your own right."

"They fear what almost happened," I correct him, always the pragmatist. "They recognize I helped prevent it."

He stops, turning to me with unexpected intensity. His massive frame blocks the sunlight, casting me in his shadow. The darkness should feel threatening, but instead, it feels strangely protective. "You could have let them kill me," he says bluntly. "Could have taken your freedom in the chaos that would follow."

The words hang between us, heavy with implication. He's right, of course. In that moment of vulnerability, with imperial assassins ready to strike and Kazuul paralyzed by their toxin, I could have simply stepped aside. Could have reclaimed my freedom as the fortress erupted in power struggles after the warlord's death.

"I made my choice," I tell him, the same words I spoke in the immediate aftermath, but carrying deeper meaning now. "I chose you. Us."

Something flashes in his golden eyes—possessiveness tinged with something softer, more vulnerable. His pupils dilate then contract to vertical slits, focusing on me with predatory intensity. Without warning, he lifts me, carrying me toward his private chambers with single-minded purpose.

"What are you doing?" I ask, though the heat building in my core suggests I already know. My body responds to his proximity with embarrassing eagerness, slick gathering between my thighs despite the seriousness of the moment.

"Completing what should have happened long ago," he answers, voice dropping to that rumbling register that sends shivers racing up my spine.

The ceremonial claiming mark—the permanent bite that should have happened during our first public claiming—has been delayed for months. First pending pregnancy confirmation, then due to the miscarriage and recovery. According to traditional oni protocol, it should be performed before witnesses, another public spectacle cementing ownership.

But when we reach his chambers, no witnesses await us. No clan officials or ritual attendants. Just the two of us, the massive space illuminated by flickering firelight that casts dancing shadows across the stone walls.

"This isn't traditional," I note as he sets me on my feet before the enormous bed. The furs covering it are new—the blood-soaked linens from the assassination attempt long since removed, though I sometimes still smell copper when I enter the room.

"Nothing about us has been traditional," he replies, one massive hand cupping my face with surprising gentleness. His palm radiates heat against my cheek, his skin texture slightly rougher than human. "This isn't about tradition or protocol. This is about choice."

My breath catches at the word. Choice—something I never expected to hear within these fortress walls, certainly not from the oni warlord who claimed me against my will on a platform before dozens of witnesses.

"The mark is permanent," he continues, his thumb tracing the junction of my neck and shoulder where the claiming bite will go. The light pressure sends unexpected pleasure coursing through me, the skin there already sensitized by months of attention. "Once done, it can never be undone. It will identify you as mine for the remainder of your life, visible to any who look upon you."

"I know what it means," I whisper, heat flooding my face. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain he can hear it with his enhanced senses.

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