Content warning: This arc contains graphic depictions of violence, strong language, physical abuse, psychological abuse, mind breaking, dehumanization, wound licking, drugs (love potions) and involuntary violence. If any of these themes are triggering to you, please read with caution. Your mental wellbeing comes first.
Gantlos was huddled in the corner of the cell, his back pressed against the cold, damp wall. The body in the corner of the cell continued to haunt him, its rotting presence a constant reminder of his dire situation. The darkness felt oppressive, as if it were closing in on him, suffocating him slowly.
The dungeon door creaked open once more, and Gantlos heard Ogron's footsteps approach. The king's voice echoed with an eerie calm as he stepped inside.
"Gantlos," Ogron said, his tone mockingly gentle. "I see you're having trouble adjusting to your new quarters."
Gantlos didn't respond, his eyes fixed on the rotting corpse, unable to tear them away. His thoughts were a tangled mess of fear and despair, barely registering the sound of Ogron's approach.
The king's shadow loomed over him, and Gantlos's heart sank. He braced himself for the next wave of torment.
Ogron crouched down in front of him, a sinister smile on his lips. "I have a task for you," he said, his voice dripping with malice. "A very special task."
Gantlos looked up, his eyes hollow, and saw the gleam of something in Ogron's hand—a small, tarnished bowl. The contents were hidden, but the sight of the bowl alone filled him with dread.
"You see," Ogron continued, "I need you to clean this cell. And I don't mean just the floor. I want you to clean the body in the corner. I want you to make it presentable."
Gantlos's breath hitched, his body trembling violently. His mind screamed at him to refuse, to fight back, but he felt utterly drained, his willpower shattered.
Ogron's smile widened as he watched Gantlos's reaction. "You see, Gantlos, it's simple. You do this, and I'll make sure you're fed properly for once. Refuse, and…oh let's not dwell on the negative."
The threat was implied rather than spoken, but it was clear. Gantlos had seen enough to know that refusal meant more pain, more suffering. His resistance had been worn down, and now, faced with such a degrading, inhumane request, he felt his resolve crumble completely.
He crawled toward the bowl, his hands shaking uncontrollably. He picked it up, the metal cold and heavy in his grasp. As he looked at the rotting corpse again, the horror of what he was being asked to do weighed down on him like a physical force.
With a deep, shuddering breath, Gantlos began to approach the body, tears stinging his eyes. He tried to steady himself, but his hands were unsteady, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and revulsion. The very idea of touching the decayed flesh was almost more than he could bear, but he knew he had no choice.
Ogron's voice followed him, a cruel chant. "That's right. Clean it. Make it presentable. Thats a good dog~."
As Gantlos touched the rotting flesh with trembling hands, he felt a wave of nausea. His stomach lurched, but he forced himself to continue, driven by the knowledge that refusal would mean even more torment.
The task seemed endless, each movement a reminder of his complete loss of dignity. His pride, his resistance—it was all gone now, replaced by a hollow acceptance of his fate. As he worked, the body seemed to mock him, the rotting flesh a symbol of his own degradation.
When it was finally done, Gantlos sank to the floor, utterly spent. Ogron's shadow loomed over him, the king's satisfaction palpable. The task had broken him, reduced him to a mere tool for Ogron's amusement.
"Good dog," Ogron said, the mockery in his voice unmistakable. "Remember this moment, Gantlos. This is what you've become."
Gantlos couldn't respond. His mind was too numb, his body too exhausted. He simply stared at the floor, his spirit broken. The cell was his prison, both physically and mentally, and he couldn't see a way out.
