Page 2

CHAPTER 2

THE CRIMSON FORTRESS

The first glimpse of the Crimson Fortress steals my breath despite days of mental preparation.

Our small delegation crests the final ridge as the setting sun bathes everything in bloody light, and there it is—a monstrous structure carved directly into the mountainside, glowing like an open wound against the darkening sky. The fortress doesn't merely sit upon the mountain; it consumes it, as though some ancient creature had burrowed into living rock and hollowed out its lair. Even from this distance, the scale defies human comprehension. The central keep rises at least ten stories high, with watchtowers stretching even further toward the clouds.

"Gods," whispers Taro beside me, his usual stoicism cracking. "The stories didn't exaggerate."

A hot gust of wind carries strange scents from the fortress—molten metal, unfamiliar spices, and something primal that makes the fine hairs on my arms rise. My body recognizes the danger before my mind can fully process it.

I force myself to breathe steadily, to analyze rather than react. "Remember the plan. We're simply representatives from a productive settlement seeking trade agreements. Nothing more."

But my heart hammers against my ribs as we begin our descent down the winding road. With each step closer, the fortress grows more imposing, more impossible. The crimson stone seems to pulse with its own heartbeat, the angular architecture designed specifically to intimidate through sheer overwhelming presence. Sound carries strangely here—distant clanging of metal, guttural voices speaking in the harsh oni language, the occasional roar that might be beast or might be master.

The approach forces us through increasingly narrow passages, rocky walls pressing in from both sides. A perfect place for an ambush, the strategic part of my mind notes. A place where few can defend against many. The message is clear: approach at our mercy.

At the first checkpoint, I get my initial close look at our captors' true nature. The oni guards stand at least eight feet tall, their massive bodies making them appear almost twice my height. Their skin ranges from deep crimson to burnt orange, covered in intricate black tribal markings that I know from intelligence reports catalog their victories and kills. The curved horns extending from their foreheads remind me of predatory beasts, sweeping back over their skulls in polished arcs that end in wicked points that catch the fading sunlight.

But it's their eyes that unsettle me most—golden irises with vertical pupils that expand and contract as they track our movement, predators assessing prey with cold calculation. I can almost feel those eyes on my skin, like physical touches leaving trails of ice.

"State your business," the larger guard demands, his voice rumbling so deeply I feel it vibrate through my chest and into my bones.

I step forward, careful to keep my stance confident but not challenging. "Representatives from Haven Valley, seeking audience with Warlord Bloodcrest regarding agricultural trade."

The guard's nostrils flare, massive chest expanding as he inhales our scents. For a terrifying moment, I fear my suppressants have already begun to fail. But he merely gestures for us to continue, his massive hand large enough to crush my skull with minimal effort.

As we pass, I notice his companion scenting the air more deliberately, golden eyes narrowing slightly as his gaze lingers on me a heartbeat too long before he returns to his impassive stance. My stomach tightens with the first hint of real fear, an icy drop sliding down my spine.

We pass through three more checkpoints, each with its own intimidating guards, before reaching the massive iron gates of the fortress proper. Here, oni warriors in more elaborate armor stand sentry, their weapons—enormous axes and curved blades—displayed prominently. The battle axe closest to me stands taller than my entire body, its edge honed to gleaming sharpness. Four humans working together could barely lift it.

The gates groan open, the sound of ancient metal scraping against stone reverberating through my bones like a death knell. We're escorted inside by a slightly smaller oni with orange skin and a single broken horn—some kind of lower-ranking officer, I assume.

Inside, the true scale of oni architecture hits me like a physical blow. The entry hall alone could fit our entire community building with room to spare. Doorways tower fourteen feet high, clearly designed for beings who don't need to duck to enter a room. Furniture carved from stone and wood would accommodate bodies three times human size. Weapons displayed on walls like trophies speak of battles where our kind never stood a chance.

Even the torch sconces sit well above where a human would place them, casting strange shadows that dance along blood-red stone walls. The flickering light makes the tribal markings carved into the stone seem to writhe and move, telling stories of conquest and domination. Everything is designed to make humans feel small, insignificant, conquered.

The air inside carries unfamiliar scents—spices I can't identify, metals being forged somewhere deep within, and underlying it all, the musky, intimidating smell of alpha oni. My body registers this last scent before my conscious mind can process it, and I feel the first warning signs I've been dreading.

Heat. Just the slightest elevation in my core temperature, a subtle warming that spreads from my abdomen and crawls upward, signaling the beginning of my suppressants' failure. My sensitivity to scents shouldn't be this acute yet—I should barely register the differences in oni pheromones, but instead each passing guard leaves a distinct olfactory signature that my omega biology eagerly catalogs with horrifying precision. One smells of mountain stone and pine; another carries notes of smoke and forge-fire; a third reeks of leather and something metallic that might be blood.

Sweat beads at my hairline despite the cool temperature inside the stone fortress. I need to hurry this negotiation. The stress of the situation is accelerating my body's response, burning through my suppressants faster than I calculated. I press my thighs together, fighting against the first whisper of slickness threatening to gather there.

"You will wait here," our escort announces, showing us into a chamber that might serve as a small greeting room for oni but feels cavernous to us. "Refreshment will be provided."

The furnishings, clearly adapted for human use, suggest they receive enough visitors to warrant such accommodations. A worrying thought—it means we're not the first to seek audience, not the first to put ourselves at Kazuul Bloodcrest's mercy. I wonder how many left freely, and how many remained as "tributes."

As soon as the escort leaves, Maya edges closer to me, her voice barely a whisper. "Something's wrong," she murmurs, her healer's eyes missing nothing. "Your scent is changing."

"It's fine," I lie, though we both know better. "Just the stress response."

"We should leave," Taro insists, his hand instinctively moving to the hidden knife we all know won't protect us if things go wrong. "Request a formal petition process through intermediaries instead."

"There's no time," I remind him, rubbing my temple where a headache begins to form. "Our people are already hungry."

A human servant enters, carrying water and simple foods on a tray. She keeps her eyes downcast, but I catch her assessing gaze as she arranges the offerings. She's evaluating us—our clothing, our manner, our potential status. I recognize the techniques because I've used them myself. She's gathering intelligence while appearing servile.

I meet her eyes briefly, a silent acknowledgment between survivors. Her slight widening of pupils confirms my suspicion—she's scented what Maya noticed. The subtle sweet notes that no beta would carry, the unmistakable undertone of an omega's biology fighting against chemical suppression. The servant leaves quickly, and I know with certainty that the information about my changing scent will reach the warlord before I do.

We wait for nearly an hour, a power play I anticipated. In the strategies of dominance, making petitioners wait establishes control. I use the time to center myself, to mentally review our proposal, to reinforce my beta persona. But my body betrays me with each passing minute—the warmth in my core building incrementally, my senses heightening as though awakening from a deep slumber. The stone bench beneath me feels rougher against my increasingly sensitive skin. The torch flames seem brighter, their crackling louder. The distant sounds of the fortress—metal on metal, deep oni voices, heavy footsteps—grow more distinct.

I press my hand against my abdomen, willing the heat to subside. My other hand finds the vial of suppressants in my hidden pocket, but I know taking another dose so soon would be dangerous—potentially fatal. I've already doubled the recommended amount before our journey. More might stop my heart rather than my heat.

When the door finally opens, an oni servant with ceremonial markings different from the guards enters. "The warlord will see the leader alone."

The statement falls like a stone into still water, rippling tension through our small group.

"Absolutely not," Taro protests immediately, half-rising from his seat. "Our leader does not go unaccompanied."

"The warlord's terms are non-negotiable," the servant states flatly, his golden eyes flickering to me with a knowing glint that makes my stomach clench.

Before the argument can escalate, I silence Taro with a sharp gesture. "This is why I came," I remind him quietly, struggling to keep my voice steady as another wave of warmth pulses through me, settling between my thighs with insistent pressure. "Follow evacuation protocol if I don't return by dawn."

The contingency plan we established before departure: if I disappear, they return to Haven Valley immediately and prepare for relocation. No rescue attempts, no negotiations. Survival of the community above all else.

Maya grips my arm, her fingers pressing against my pulse point—ostensibly a gesture of concern, but I know she's confirming her suspicions about my elevated heart rate and temperature. Her eyes convey what she doesn't dare say aloud: my suppressants are failing far faster than we anticipated. She presses something small and hard into my palm—an emergency dose of her strongest herbal blockers. Not as effective as my chemical suppressants, but perhaps enough to buy me time.

I slip it into my pocket with a reassuring nod I don't feel and turn to follow the servant. The corridor stretches before us, impossibly long and large, designed for beings that could crush me without effort. Each step takes me further from safety, further from the life I've built since the Conquest.

The massive guard who leads the way moves with surprising grace for something so large. His footsteps make little sound despite his enormous weight, a predator's silent tread. I force myself to match his pace, refusing to jog to keep up though my legs must take two strides for each of his.

As we walk, the weight of my community's survival presses down on my shoulders—five hundred lives depending on the outcome of this meeting. Yet something else rises to compete with this burden: my own omega biology awakening from chemical slumber at the worst possible moment.

Another pulse of warmth spreads through my lower abdomen, stronger this time, leaving a hollowness that aches to be filled. My hands feel clammy, my skin suddenly too sensitive against the fabric of my clothes. The scents in the fortress—especially the musky alpha pheromones—grow sharper, more distinct, triggering responses I've suppressed for years. My treacherous body remembers what it was designed for, what the Conquest made inescapable: submission to an alpha. Specifically, to the strongest alpha my biology can detect.

I clench my jaw, fighting against the biological tide rising within me. Not now. Not here. I've controlled this, buried it, denied it for five years. I can hold on for one more meeting, just long enough to secure the food my people need.

But as we approach an immense doorway carved with battle scenes that seem to move in the flickering torchlight—oni warriors trampling human soldiers beneath their feet, claiming human females, establishing dominance through blood and breeding—a treacherous whisper slides through my mind: What if I can't?