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.


The collar felt tighter around Gantlos's neck that morning as Ogron returned from his trip, eyes glinting with a cruel delight. There was no need for words from the king—there rarely was—but this time, there was something different in the air, something more ominous.

"You've been such a good dog while I've been away," Ogron purred, his hand lazily brushing through Gantlos's hair as though praising a loyal pet. Gantlos stayed still, his breath shallow, feeling the tension rising within his chest.

The king stepped back, his hand now raised, fingers weaving through the air as a low chant escaped his lips. Gantlos's body tensed, his muscles freezing as the spell settled over him like a heavy weight. He felt it latch onto his throat, squeezing—not physically, but something deeper, something that made the familiar urge to speak falter, dissolve into something… primal.

"Let's make things a little more appropriate," Ogron sneered, his tone light but the malice clear. "From now on, only dogs' noises will leave your mouth."

Gantlos blinked, trying to speak, but all that came out was a pitiful whimper, the sound catching in his throat. His eyes widened in horror as he tried again—only to produce a soft bark. His lips moved, trying to form words, but they never came. His mouth betrayed him, each attempt at communication reduced to canine whines, growls, and barks.

Ogron's grin widened, satisfied with his handiwork. "Perfect," he murmured, gripping the leash and giving it a tug, pulling Gantlos to his feet. "Now, you truly are what I made you—a good, obedient dog."

The rage burned in Gantlos's chest, but he couldn't express it. He tried to shout, to curse, to scream, but all that escaped was a snarl—a deep, guttural noise that only seemed to amuse Ogron more.

"Good boy," the king mocked, patting his head. "Growl all you like. That's all you'll be able to do from now on.

Gantlos's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing as he tried to grasp the enormity of what had just happened. He wasn't just treated like a dog anymore—he was one in every way that mattered. His voice, his ability to communicate as a man, had been stolen from him. He was trapped inside a body that could no longer express the thoughts racing through his mind.

And Ogron, satisfied with his cruelty, led him back to the room, his steps light with victory, while Gantlos padded along behind him, the sound of his leash jingling with each defeated step.

Gantlos was awoken early, before his normal morning walk. The air felt different, charged with something sinister. His eyes flickered open, but any questions he had were silenced by his inability to speak. He huffed as Ogron tugged on his leash, leading him outside toward the waiting carriage. His paws—or, rather, his hands—scraped lightly against the dirt. The tears welling up in his eyes blurred his vision, especially when he caught sight of Anagan.

The once-vibrant man seemed distant now, a hollow shell of who he had been. His shirt hung loose on his shoulders, but it had been cut just enough to reveal the heart-shaped brand burned into his chest. Gantlos growled, the noise catching in his throat, knowing full well it had been Ogron's doing.

Anagan reached a hand toward Gantlos, his eyes glazed, empty. "Hi, Gantlos…" His voice slurred, sluggish from the love potion that Ogron had laced into his very being.

Gantlos could only let out a pitiful whine, nudging his head against Anagan's hand in a silent plea for understanding, for some spark of recognition.

"Good boy, Gantlos…" Anagan murmured, but the king yanked him away before he could say more.

"That's enough," Ogron sneered, guiding Anagan into the carriage. "You can play with the dog later." Gantlos let out a low growl in protest, but a sharp tug on his leash silenced him.

"Come on, dog," Ogron emphasized the last word, relishing the power he held. Gantlos's ears twitched in frustration, but he followed as the king droned on about finding the final member of the Black Circle.

As the carriage rattled down the road, Gantlos's gaze remained fixed on Anagan, his heart aching. He wondered how much Anagan had suffered while he rotted in the dungeon. The love potion clouded everything—was Anagan in pain? Could he even recognize him anymore? His eyes drifted to the brand again, a cruel mark that burned into his soul as much as it did into Anagan's skin.

The journey took three days, each passing hour feeling like a weight on Gantlos's chest. When they finally arrived at their destination—a circus on Earth—Gantlos's breath caught in his throat. The familiar sights, sounds, and smells of Earth filled his senses. He wanted to cry. He had missed this place more than he'd realized.

But Ogron's tug on the leash snapped him back to reality. "Come on, doggy," the king cooed mockingly, guiding both him and Anagan into the circus. They didn't exactly blend in. Gantlos could see the stares of the performers and workers, but it wasn't his leash that caught their attention. It was Ogron and Anagan's extravagant clothing, the kind of luxury that screamed wealth. The circus manager's eyes practically sparkled when he saw them.

Ogron wasted no time in explaining what they were looking for—a man of magical origin. The manager led them through his performers, but none of them fit the description Ogron was searching for. None of them, until they entered the main tent.

A shapeshifter was performing, shifting effortlessly through forms, dazzling the audience with his tricks. Finally, his true form appeared: a pale man with striking golden eyes and a mischievous smirk, his pink mohawk a sharp contrast to the spectacle he'd just performed. He took a bow, the crowd roaring in approval.

"He's the one," Ogron said.

"But he's one of my best acts. I don't intend on selling him."

Ogron's charming smile didn't falter. Instead, he produced a hefty bag of gold, more than the manager could hold. The temptation was too great. With a reluctant sigh, the manager accepted the offer, though not without some hesitation.

While Ogron attempted to woo the shapeshifter, Gantlos's eyes locked on the man, studying him. This defiant creature stood his ground, mocking Ogron openly, refusing to bow or submit to the king's usual tactics. Gantlos watched, almost in awe, as the shapeshifter lay on the ground, refusing to move even when commanded. In the end, it was Gantlos who had to carry the man back to the carriage.

Even in his dog-like state, Gantlos could sense something special about the shapeshifter. His golden eyes held an understanding, as if he could see right through Gantlos's suffering, right into the soul that had been caged for so long. Gantlos's heart fluttered, a strange sensation for someone who had forgotten what hope felt like.

But that glimmer was short-lived. As they returned to the castle, the weight of Gantlos's reality bore down on him again. That night, as he lay in his dog bed, Ogron's hand stroked his hair, petting him absentmindedly.

"Don't wag your tail too hard for him, doggy," Ogron whispered mockingly. "I might just get you fixed."

Gantlos sighed, a defeated sound that only a dog could make. Even the joy of fleeting feelings seemed like too much to ask for.