Page 13

CHAPTER 13

THE CLAIMING GARDENS

Nothing could have prepared me 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.

My hand drifts to my rounded abdomen as we pass under the main gates, the weight of stone above making me feel impossibly fragile. The child shifts within me, as though sensing my discomfort. I force myself to focus on details rather than letting the overwhelming sensory experience crush my analytical mind.

The guard formations follow precise hierarchical patterns—positions indicating rank and affiliation through subtle variations in stance and armor design. Administrative officials greet our procession with elaborate protocols, their gestures so specific and measured they seem choreographed to establish dominance relationships rather than simply welcome visitors.

Subtle signals suggest Kazuul's position within imperial hierarchy carries both significant authority and potential vulnerability. The officials bow deeply enough to show respect but maintain eye contact in a way that indicates he's not untouchable. Warriors from other clans watch our Bloodcrest guards with calculated assessment rather than automatic deference.

The scent here is different too—a sharp, metallic tang beneath the smoke of countless fires, mixed with something bitter I can't identify. It's nothing like the earthy warmth of Crimson Fortress. This place smells of ambition and fear.

"The emperor's cousin," Kazuul explains when he notices my observation of a particularly elaborate greeting from a high-ranking official with jade ornaments woven into his horns. "He wishes to signal both kinship and dominance through ceremonial approach pattern."

The complex dance of oni politics makes Haven Valley leadership issues seem adorably simple by comparison.

Our procession finally stops at an ornate structure near the palace's eastern wing. Carved beasts with multiple heads guard the entrance, their stone eyes seeming to follow our movements.

"Your chambers," announces the imperial steward, a lean oni with unusually pale orange skin and elaborately polished horns that curve in spirals beside his ears. "Prepared according to protocol for visiting territorial leaders and their... companions."

The slight pause before "companions" isn't accidental. I've heard enough political speech to recognize deliberate slight when I hear it. Everything here carries weight—even word choice designed to remind me of my place.

The chambers themselves reveal further political calculations beneath ceremonial courtesy. Everything about them screams luxury—multiple rooms decorated with expensive textiles in deep crimson and black, furniture carved from rare woods, fixtures of polished metals that gleam in the light from crystal lamps. The sleeping chamber features a massive platform covered in furs from animals I don't recognize, while the bathing area contains a heated pool large enough for Kazuul's frame.

"The accommodations honor your status," Vora comments as we inspect the rooms. Her fingers trail over a tapestry depicting an oni battle scene, the threads appearing to shift and move in the flickering lamplight.

But I notice details beyond the surface opulence. The strategic placement of guard posts outside indicates surveillance rather than protection as primary purpose. The windows, while large and ornate, feature subtle reinforcements that would prevent escape—decorative metalwork too strong to break, openings too small for even a child to slip through. Servants appear with suspicious frequency, always finding reasons to check if we need anything, their eyes carefully scanning our possessions.

We're honored prisoners, not respected guests.

Most unsettling is the messenger who arrives shortly after our installation in the chambers. His crimson skin bears the imperial insignia—a stylized crown of horns—tattooed across his forehead. He delivers news of a scheduled examination by imperial medical officers—a procedure presented as ceremonial preparation but clearly intended to verify my pregnancy claims while assessing hybrid viability according to imperial standards rather than territorial priorities.

Kazuul's reaction reveals more than words could. His massive body tenses visibly, muscles rippling beneath crimson skin as though preparing for combat. A low growl builds in his chest that he barely suppresses in the messenger's presence, the sound vibrating through the floor beneath my feet. Once we're alone, his protective instincts emerge fully—his frame positioning between me and the door as though expecting immediate threat, horns lowered slightly in unconscious defensive posture.

"You anticipated this," I observe, watching his controlled agitation with newfound understanding. The tribal markings across his shoulders seem to darken with his mood, the pattern shifting as muscles tense beneath his skin.

"Yes," he acknowledges, massive hands clenching and unclenching, the claws at his fingertips extending slightly before retracting. "But anticipation does not make it acceptable."

For the next hours, I watch a fascinating transformation. In public spaces, Kazuul displays the formal deference his position requires—proper greetings to imperial officials, ceremonial acknowledgments, careful adherence to court protocols that seem deliberately designed to subordinate territorial leaders. Yet at every opportunity, his massive body positions between me and imperial representatives, his heat and scent creating an envelope around me that marks me as claimed, protected.

This protection transcends simple possession. It's not just his property he's guarding but something more complicated—me, our child, perhaps even the connection that's forming between us despite all odds. When an imperial official stands too close, Kazuul's growl is barely audible, but I feel it through the stone floor. When the medical officer mentions tomorrow's examination, Kazuul's hand finds the small of my back, heat radiating through the fabric in silent reassurance.

"Will they try to keep me here?" I ask that night as we prepare for sleep in our luxurious cage. The imported oils from the bath still cling to my skin, their floral scent unable to fully mask the metallic tang that seems to permeate everything in the imperial capital.

His golden eyes meet mine across the chamber, vertical pupils narrowing in the dim light to thin slits that reflect the lamplight like twin flames. "They will try," he admits, voice pitched low enough that even listening devices wouldn't capture it. "But they will not succeed."

The certainty in his voice shouldn't comfort me as much as it does. When he joins me on the sleeping platform, his body curls protectively around mine, one massive arm draped over my side with his hand resting on my rounded belly. The child kicks against his palm, as though recognizing the touch.

For the first time since our claiming, we sleep without mating—his presence purely protective rather than possessive. It feels like an unspoken promise.

* * *

The following morning brings my first direct exposure to the infamous Claiming Gardens. Vora helps me dress in elaborate garments that display my pregnancy while maintaining appropriate formality for court appearance. The silken fabrics cling to my rounded abdomen, highlighting rather than concealing the evidence of successful breeding.

"The garden ceremonies begin at midday," she explains, arranging my hair with practiced efficiency. Her fingers weave small golden ornaments into the braids, symbols of fertility and clan affiliation that tell my status to anyone with knowledge of oni customs. "Our presence is expected as honored witnesses."

"Witnesses to what?" I ask, though I suspect I already know.

Vora's hands pause momentarily. "New imperial claimings," she confirms, voice neutral though her eyes carry shadows of memories she doesn't share. "The emperor has acquired several unclaimed omegas for distribution to favored officials."

My stomach tightens with dread that has nothing to do with morning sickness.

The Claiming Gardens are the most disturbing place I've encountered since my own claiming ceremony. As Kazuul walks me through the ornate entrance gates, I'm struck by how wrong everything feels.

Beautiful courtyards stretch out before us, filled with contradictions. Gorgeous flowers I've never seen before spill down stark stone walls in shades of deep red, black, and purple. The blooms look too perfect, almost artificial. Fountains bubble musically, but they can't quite drown out the sounds coming from deeper in the garden—cries that might be pleasure or might be pain.

The smell hits me like a physical blow—sweet flowers mixed with the heavy scent of aroused alphas and the sharp, sweet smell of frightened omegas. My stomach churns as memories of my own claiming flood back, memories I've tried to forget.

It's a pretty cage designed for an ugly purpose—beautiful on the surface but cruel at its core.

"This way," Kazuul guides me along a marble path toward a central courtyard where a gathering has already formed. His massive hand remains at the small of my back, the heat of his palm radiating through my garments like a brand of protection. His scent intensifies slightly, marking me more thoroughly as we enter spaces filled with other alphas.

We're positioned on a viewing platform with other territorial leaders and their claimed omegas. The elevated space offers clear sight lines while maintaining appropriate separation between clans that might otherwise challenge each other. From this vantage point, I have unobstructed view of specialized platforms where public mating ceremonies will occur before court witnesses. The elevated stages ensure optimal visibility while simultaneously creating physical vulnerability through exposure and restricted movement.

I study the assembled crowd with strategic detachment—imperial officials in elaborate regalia denoting rank and favor, territorial representatives displaying clan colors and markings, court followers seeking entertainment or political advantage. The atmosphere carries an uncomfortable mixture of ceremonial solemnity and anticipation, as though witnessing both sacred ritual and blood sport simultaneously.

Then the unclaimed omegas are brought in.

There are five of them—all female, all human, all looking terrified beyond measure. Their eyes dart frantically around the garden, seeking escape where none exists. Their thin white garments do little to preserve dignity while showcasing the bodies about to be claimed. They're positioned on the ceremonial platforms, arranged in presentation posture that leaves them completely exposed to the watching crowd.

Female attendants approach with ceremonial oils, applying them to the omegas' exposed skin with practiced efficiency that speaks of countless previous ceremonies. The scent of the oil reaches me even at this distance—something musky and sweet, designed to enhance natural omega pheromones and trigger alpha response.

The claiming alphas enter next—imperial oni of various ranks, their massive forms generating murmurs of approval from the crowd. They appear freshly bathed and oiled themselves, skin gleaming in the midday sun, their arousal evident in the tenting of ceremonial loincloths. The official speaker delivers ritualistic phrases about dominance and submission, breeding and ownership, power and surrender—words I remember from my own claiming.

And then it begins.

The first scream sends ice through my veins. It's high and desperate, edged with true terror rather than mere discomfort. The imperial omega's face contorts in genuine agony as her assigned alpha forces his massive length inside her unprepared body. There's no adjustment period, no gradual stretching—just brutal penetration that makes her body arch in pain, her hands clawing uselessly at the platform beneath her.

More screams follow as the other claimings proceed simultaneously. Each platform becomes site of conquest rather than connection, the omegas' terror palpable even from our viewing distance. The smell of blood reaches me, metallic and sharp beneath the scent of ceremonial oils.

But something's missing.

The screams contain only pain without the pleasure undertones I remember from my own claiming. These omegas writhe in genuine agony rather than confused mixture of hurt and unwanted arousal. Their bodies fight the invasion rather than gradually yielding to it. No flush spreads across their skin, no slick glistens on their thighs beyond the ceremonial oils—only tears and blood.

With shocking clarity, I realize what's different: imperial oni lack the vibration adaptation Bloodcrest clan developed. These omegas are experiencing only pain without the compensatory pleasure that made my own submission physically irresistible if mentally rejected.

The revelation hits me with unexpected force. The vibrating nodule I once viewed solely as humiliation mechanism, as control device to break my will—it actually spared me the pure agony these women are experiencing now. What I considered the ultimate violation of my autonomy was, in context, almost... considerate.

My body responds to this realization in ways I can't control. I unconsciously move closer to Kazuul, the memory of pleasure his unique anatomy provides creating immediate physical reaction despite the public setting. Slick gathers between my thighs, my core temperature rising slightly. The scent of my arousal rises subtly, detectable only to those with oni senses.

Kazuul's nostrils flare, his massive frame shifting slightly to shield me from other alphas who might detect my reaction. His hand at my back tightens possessively, pulling me against his side in gesture that communicates ownership to any watching. The heat of him seeps through my garments, his scent intensifying further to mask my own.

"This is barbaric," I whisper, unable to tear my eyes from the claiming ceremonies continuing before us. One omega has gone limp entirely, either unconscious or dissociating from the trauma being inflicted on her body.

"Yes," he agrees simply, voice pitched for my ears alone. "This is why Bloodcrest clan evolved differently. Pain creates resistance. Pleasure creates acceptance."

The pragmatic assessment should offend me. Instead, I find disturbing logic in it—and uncomfortable gratitude toward biological adaptation I once cursed. The vibrating nodule that broke my resistance through unwanted pleasure now seems almost... merciful... compared to what these imperial omegas are experiencing.

One platform holds my attention particularly—a smaller omega, barely more than a girl really, her screams growing weaker as her claiming continues with brutal intensity. Blood stains the platform beneath her, her body too small to accommodate her alpha's size without tearing. Her eyes have gone glassy and unfocused, consciousness retreating from what her body cannot escape.

"Will she survive?" I ask, stomach churning with nausea that isn't entirely pregnancy-related.

"Perhaps," Kazuul replies, his tone revealing rare criticism of imperial practices. "They care more about the display than the outcome."

I feel the child move within me, a restless shifting as though disturbed by the violence we're witnessing. My hand moves to soothe it automatically, a gesture that draws attention from nearby observers. I notice several imperial officials watching me with calculated interest—not just my pregnant form but my controlled reaction to the spectacle before us.

As the claiming ceremonies reach their conclusion, I catch Emperor Goran Bloodfang watching me from his elevated position. Until now, I've only glimpsed him from a distance, but even that was enough to recognize the power he embodies. His obsidian-black skin with blood-red tribal markings creates precise opposite of Kazuul's coloration—a deliberate visual signal of their political opposition. His multiple small horns form a crown-like pattern that sets him apart from other oni. But it's his eyes that unnerve me most—horizontal pupils instead of vertical, red instead of gold, calculating intelligence watching my reactions to the spectacle before us.

The message in the emperor's stare is clear: This is power. This is control. This is what happens to omegas who aren't properly valued by their alphas.

I return his gaze steadily, one hand resting protectively on my rounded abdomen. The child within me moves again, a firm kick against my palm that feels strangely like defiance. I refuse to lower my eyes despite the pressure of the emperor's stare—a small resistance when I can offer nothing more to the women on the platforms below.

Tomorrow I face imperial medical examination and whatever other machinations the emperor has planned. But tonight, I carry new understanding—that the circumstances of my claiming, while still violation, contained elements of adaptation and consideration completely absent in the brutality I've witnessed today.

The revelation doesn't erase what happened to me. Doesn't justify the conquest system that took my freedom. But it adds complexity to a narrative I once thought simple, introducing shades of gray to moral calculations I once saw only in black and white.

And most uncomfortably, it creates genuine gratitude toward Kazuul—not just for physical pleasure that made violation bearable, but for consideration I once mistook for merely more sophisticated control.

When we return to our chambers, I find myself reaching for his hand—a gesture initiated by me for the first time. His massive fingers engulf mine, the heat of his skin warming my suddenly cold fingers.

"Your clan's adaptation," I begin, struggling to articulate the complex emotions churning inside me. "Is it... was it deliberate?"

His golden eyes study me with unexpected gentleness. "Yes," he admits. "Centuries ago, our ancestors recognized that willing omegas bred more successfully than those claimed through pure force. The adaptation evolved from that understanding."

Not altruism then. Not compassion. Just pragmatic recognition that pleasure produces better results than pain. Yet somehow, that honesty means more than any pretty lie about oni concern for human comfort.

"Thank you," I say finally, the words strange on my tongue. "For not being like them."

His massive hand settles on my abdomen, the warmth penetrating the fabric to comfort the restless child within. "Sleep," he says simply. "Tomorrow brings its own battles."

As I drift toward uneasy sleep, the screams from the Claiming Gardens echo in my memory. For the first time since my own claiming, I don't fight when Kazuul's arm drapes protectively around me. In this place of calculated cruelty, his particular brand of possession feels almost like safety.