Page 8 of Warlord’s Prize

Their collective alpha presence hits me like a physical blow, making me gasp. My omega biology responds instantly, a fresh wave of slick gathering between my thighs.

They all watch me—the human omega about to be claimed by their warlord. I am property to them, a possession being formally claimed.

The reality crushes me. Not just claiming—a claiming ceremony. By tomorrow, everyone will know what became of Haven Valley's leader.

My knees buckle. Kazuul's hand grips my arm, his claws digging in painfully, forcing me to stay upright.

"Remember why you came," he says, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "Your sacrifice ensures your people's survival. That was the bargain."

The oni observers fall silent as we approach. Only the wind, distant birdsong, and my hammering heart break the silence.

Female attendants step forward, their faces impassive as they reach for my clothing. One carries a bowl of scented oil. Another holds ceremonial garments—or what little of them there are.

An older oni steps forward from the crowd, his horns elaborately decorated with metal rings that clank together as he moves. He speaks in their language, his voice carrying across the courtyard. The crowd responds with a chant that sounds like a ritual challenge or affirmation.

When Kazuul answers, his voice rings with power and possession. He speaks my name, and a ripple of reaction moves through the crowd—recognition, anticipation, hunger.

I've crossed a threshold from which there is no return.

Haven Valley will survive the winter. And I will pay the price with my body, my freedom, and perhaps eventually, my will.

CHAPTER5

PUBLIC SURRENDER

The central courtyardstretches before me, and I realize with growing horror that what I'm seeing is no ordinary gathering space. This is a ritual combat arena, now prepared for a claiming ceremony rather than battle—though the purpose seems equally violent. My steps falter as I take in the scene.

Oni officials and warriors form a tight circle around a massive platform covered with furs and painted with ritual symbols I don’t recognize. Their enormous bodies create an impenetrable wall of crimson and black flesh that permits no escape. The setting sun casts blood-red light across everything, making the scene look like something from a nightmare. Shadows lengthen as attendants light torches around the platform's perimeter, the flames dancing in the evening breeze. The crowd watches me with undisguised hunger.

"The ceremony follows ancient tradition," Kazuul explains beside me, his deep voice casual as though discussing weather rather than my impending violation. "Dating back to before the Conquest, when an alpha claims a worthy omega."

I can barely focus on his words. My body burns from the inside out, heat radiating through my core and making my skin hypersensitive. Every brush of fabric against my flesh feels like sandpaper, an agonizing torment, yet the alternative—removing it—seems unthinkable.

"The claiming must be witnessed," he continues with disturbing precision. "The bite mark will come later, after we confirm pregnancy takes. For now, the physical claiming establishes my ownership according to oni custom."

Ownership.The word lands like a physical blow. Five years fighting against this very fate, only to walk directly into it.

Female attendants approach—human omegas, I realize with a jolt, their own claiming marks starkly visible on their necks. Their expressions are carefully neutral, eyes glazing over me with practiced indifference as they bow to Kazuul, then turn expectant gazes toward me.

"They will prepare you for the ceremony," Kazuul states, nodding toward a small pavilion at the edge of the arena.

"Prepare me?" My voice sounds strange to my own ears, higher than normal, thin.

One of the omegas answers, her eyes never meeting mine. "Ceremonial oils, Warlord's prize."

The title makes my stomach clench. I'm already someone's possession in their eyes.

It's only when they lead me to the pavilion and begin removing my outer garments that full understanding crashes over me. I'm expected to be completely bare for the claiming. Exposed before dozens of witnesses.

"No," I manage, trying to step back, a pathetic attempt at defiance. "This isn't?—"

"It will be easier if you don't resist," the older omega whispers, her eyes finally meeting mine with something like sympathy, a flicker of shared, bleak understanding. Her gaze flicks meaningfully to where Kazuul waits, then back to me. "The oils help with the... accommodation. Nothing can prepare you completely, but this will help."

My resistance crumbles against the overwhelming force of the situation. My community depends on my compliance. Five hundred lives hanging in the balance. I close my eyes and surrender to the preparation, forcing my mind to retreat from what's happening to my body.

The omegas work efficiently, removing my clothing piece by piece. With each garment stripped away, I feel more vulnerable, more exposed. They apply scented oils to my skin, and the oil has a strange warming quality that makes my flesh tingle wherever it's applied, heightening sensitivity until even the air against my skin feels like an invasive caress.

To my shame and horror, my body responds with humiliating enthusiasm—heat building to near-unbearable levels, slick flowing freely between my thighs without any direct stimulation. An emptiness forms in my core, a desperate yearning to be filled that I've never experienced with such intensity. The suppressants haven't just failed; they've collapsed completely, years of chemical damming suddenly broken and releasing a flood of biological imperative.

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