Page 14

CHAPTER 14

COURT POLITICS

The imperial court session is worse than all my nightmares combined.

I thought I was prepared. I wasn't.

The throne room alone is an exercise in psychological warfare. Everything about it is designed to make visitors feel small and powerless, from the impossibly high ceilings to the way sound echoes off polished black stone. The architecture itself seems to whisper, You are nothing here .

Hundreds of oni nobles and officials line the massive chamber, their varied skin tones creating a sea of crimson, orange, and black flesh marked with tribal patterns that tell stories I can't read. The throne sits atop twenty steps, forcing supplicants to climb toward imperial judgment while everyone watches.

And on that throne sits Emperor Goran Bloodfang.

His presence is overwhelming. Where Kazuul's skin is deep crimson with black markings, the emperor displays the exact opposite—obsidian black skin with blood-red tribal patterns that seem to shift in the torchlight. Instead of two dominant horns like most oni, multiple smaller horns form a crown-like pattern around his head.

But it's his eyes that truly unsettle me. Red instead of golden, with horizontal pupils rather than vertical. That alien gaze seems to evaluate everything at once without revealing a single thought behind them.

"Remember to breathe," Vora whispers as we wait our turn. "He feeds on fear."

I nod, grateful for her steadying presence. We're positioned behind Kazuul, our place in the procession showing his significant but not supreme rank. I'm dressed in elaborate garments that display my pregnancy while maintaining ceremonial propriety, the silk fabric clinging to my rounded belly in a way that leaves no doubt about my condition.

As formal presentations begin, I recognize the performance aspects beneath the ceremony. This isn't just ritual—it's theater with life-or-death stakes.

Each territorial representative displays achievements and resources, establishing their position through physical tributes and verbal declarations. A northern warlord presents rare minerals from his mountains. A southern commander offers exotic plants with medicinal properties. Each gift and speech carefully calibrated to demonstrate value without suggesting threat.

I study the attendees with strategic focus, noting how clan markings create visual mapping of alliances and rivalries. Positioning reveals political affiliations—who stands near whom, who maintains distance, who exchanges subtle signals during presentations.

When our turn comes, Kazuul ascends the steps with measured dignity, each movement carefully controlled to display proper deference without submission. I follow three steps behind, exactly as protocol dictates, my eyes properly lowered though my peripheral vision misses nothing.

"Warlord Kazuul Bloodcrest," the imperial herald announces, "Lord of the Crimson Fortress and Eastern Agricultural Territories."

Kazuul presents physical tribute—exceptional harvests from his territories, rare metals from his mountains, crafted weapons of superior quality. His formal address strikes a perfect balance between respect and confidence, acknowledging imperial authority while subtly emphasizing his territories' productivity and strength.

Then comes the moment we've been dreading.

"I present my successfully bred omega," Kazuul states, gesturing for me to step forward. "Evidence of Bloodcrest clan's continued prosperity and growth."

Emperor Goran's reaction combines formal acknowledgment with subtle challenge. "A temporary achievement at this stage," he notes, ritual congratulations delivered with a tone suggesting uncertain outcome rather than established success. "Many promising pregnancies fail before full term."

The implied threat sends ice through my veins. Would he try to harm our child simply to undermine Kazuul's position?

"I anticipate a healthy delivery," Kazuul responds, keeping his voice even despite the tension I can feel radiating from him. "My healers have been monitoring her progress carefully."

The emperor's horizontal pupils study me with disturbing intensity. "We shall see," is all he says before dismissing us to continue the presentations.

As we return to our position, I catch whispered comments from nearby territorial representatives.

"Four months already..."

"Previous attempts all failed..."

"Emperor won't allow independent power base..."

The political currents swirling around my pregnancy make me instinctively place a protective hand over my abdomen. The child shifts inside me, as though sensing the danger surrounding us.

* * *

The true threat emerges during our private audience following the court session.

We're escorted to imperial chambers scaled for even larger oni forms than the public spaces. The ceilings soar higher, the furniture built for beings of mythic proportions. Emperor Goran reclines on a massive seat constructed from what appears to be the bones of massive creatures—or perhaps defeated rivals.

"Warlord Bloodcrest," he acknowledges as we enter. Only three attendants remain with him—high-ranking officials whose presence suggests this isn't merely informal conversation.

"Emperor," Kazuul responds with a precisely calibrated bow—deep enough for respect, not deep enough to suggest subservience.

The small talk lasts only moments before Emperor Goran reveals the actual purpose behind our ceremonial invitation.

"I believe your omega would be better placed in the imperial breeding center," he states, massive fingers gesturing toward me like I'm already his property. "Pregnant omegas should be in our central facilities where we can properly monitor the offspring's development."

The implication hits me like a physical blow. He wants to take me from Kazuul. To place me in imperial breeding facilities—the horrible places I've heard whispered about where omegas are kept perpetually fertile, claimed by multiple alphas, children removed immediately after birth.

Kazuul's muscles visibly tense despite his diplomatic control. "The pregnancy has been stable because of the specific care she's receiving in my territory," he counters, his massive form subtly shifting to position between me and the emperor. "Moving her now would put the baby at risk."

The implied refusal hangs in the air between them, dangerous as a drawn blade.

"Your concern is noted," Emperor Goran responds, his face unreadable. "But imperial needs come before territorial concerns."

"Of course, Emperor," Kazuul agrees without actually agreeing. "And a healthy child serves the empire best. That's why keeping her in my territory makes sense right now."

The verbal sparring continues, each statement layered with meanings beyond the words themselves. The imperial transfer request carries weight beyond typical administrative adjustment—it's a direct challenge to Kazuul's territorial authority, using reproductive success as political leverage.

I listen to them discussing me as though I'm not present, my mind racing. The emperor sees me as a threat to his control over Kazuul. A successfully bred omega—especially one who also provides strategic value—creates an independent power base that imperial authority cannot easily dominate.

"Let's hear from the omega," Emperor Goran suddenly suggests, those unnerving red eyes shifting to me. "Your medical exam showed some unusual hormone patterns. Why do you think you're carrying successfully when others failed?"

The direct address catches me off guard. I wasn't expecting to be treated as a participant rather than property.

I choose my words with extreme care. "My lord emperor, I believe the specialized care I'm receiving in Warlord Bloodcrest's territory has been key to my pregnancy's success," I say carefully. "The consistent environment, special diet, and personal monitoring have created stability that would be hard to maintain if I were moved now."

My answer balances medical plausibility with subtle reminder that moving me might risk the very success they're fighting over.

"A smart little breeder," Emperor Goran remarks, with something like amusement in his voice. "Your background makes you quite interesting."

The conversation continues its dangerous dance, with Kazuul offering various compromises—regular medical reports sent to imperial healers, visits from imperial specialists to observe development protocols, even future child visitation to imperial court once safely delivered.

When we finally leave the imperial chambers, I feel like I've been holding my breath for hours.

"Will it work?" I ask Kazuul once we're alone in our assigned quarters.

"Perhaps," he answers, massive hand settling protectively over my rounded abdomen. "He has not given a direct order. Yet."

This political confrontation changes how I see things. Where once I viewed all oni authority as equally terrible, I now recognize significant variations in governance with real consequences for humans under different leaders.

The emperor's central breeding facilities—where omegas are treated as interchangeable resources—represent a fundamentally different approach than Kazuul's territorial system where my individual characteristics receive specific accommodation. The thought of being removed from Crimson Fortress to imperial breeding chambers fills me with genuine dread.

Neither system offers freedom. I remain a claimed omega, a breeding vessel, a conquered prize. Yet the differences between these systems create meaningful distinction my strategic mind cannot dismiss despite resistance principles that once framed my understanding.

That night, as Kazuul's massive body curls protectively around mine, I find myself drawing comfort from his presence in ways that would have horrified the resistance fighter I once was. His hand splays possessively across my pregnant belly, heat radiating through my skin to warm the child growing within.

"He will not take you," Kazuul murmurs, the rumble of his voice vibrating against my back. Not a question or hope—a statement of absolute certainty.

"The emperor has greater forces," I feel compelled to point out, ever the strategist.

"And I have greater motivation," he counters, pulling me closer against him.

The conviction in his voice shouldn't reassure me. Shouldn't make something warm unfurl in my chest. I am not his to protect—I am his because conquest made me so. Any possessiveness should feel like further captivity rather than security.

Yet as I drift toward sleep, my body nestled against the massive frame of the warlord who claimed me against my will, I can't deny the truth that resistance ideology never prepared me for. Given choice between different versions of captivity, I choose his. Not just for the child we've created, not just for Haven Valley's security, but for reasons I'm still not ready to name even to myself.

Tomorrow brings another day of imperial politics and the constant threat of separation. But tonight, in this strange pocket of safety created by the very alpha who once represented everything I fought against, I allow myself a moment of peace in a world where true freedom no longer exists.