Content Warning:

This arc contains depictions of toxic relationships, emotional abuse, manipulation, cycles of abuse, drugging (love potions/ spells), physical torment, and psychological trauma.Please proceed with caution if these themes may be triggering for you. Your well-being comes first.


Anagan woke up with a gnawing sense of unease. The constant emotional push and pull with Ogron was taking its toll. The king's affections were intoxicating, yet the unpredictability was exhausting. To find some peace, Anagan had taken to spending time with Elaine, a level-headed palace maid. She was calm, stable, and a good listener—qualities that provided a soothing contrast to Ogron's volatile nature.

That morning, as Anagan walked down the hallway, he realized he hadn't seen Elaine all day. It was strange; she was always punctual and present, especially during the morning routines. A twinge of concern crept in, and he decided to ask one of the other servants.

"Excuse me," Anagan called out to a young man who was carefully arranging flowers in a vase, "Have you seen Elaine today?"

The servant froze, his hand hovering just above the flowers. He didn't turn to face Anagan, his posture rigid. "Elaine?" he repeated slowly, his voice void of emotion. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know who you mean."

Anagan frowned, taken aback by the response. "Elaine, the maid who usually works in this wing. We spoke just yesterday."

The young man's grip tightened around the stem of a flower, nearly crushing it. He hesitated, then resumed his task, still not looking at Anagan. "There's no one by that name here, sir."

A chill ran down Anagan's spine. Something was wrong. He tried asking a few more servants, but each time, the response was eerily similar—blank stares, vague denials, or outright avoidance of his questions. It was as if Elaine had never existed.

"There is no one here named that."

"We haven't a clue who that girl is."

"All the servants are accounted for."

One by one his questions of Elaine were rejected.

Growing increasingly concerned, Anagan made his way to Ogron's study. The king was calmly reading a scroll, looking every bit the picture of composed authority.

"Ogron," Anagan began, struggling to keep his tone casual, "Have you seen Elaine today? The maid who—"

Ogron's eyes flicked up, his expression smooth and unreadable. "Ah, yes. Elaine. I'm afraid she won't be around anymore."

Anagan felt his breath hitch. "What? Why? What happened?"

Ogron set the scroll aside and stood up, walking over to Anagan with a soft, almost pitying smile. "It turns out that Elaine was not who she appeared to be. I discovered that she had been stealing from the palace. Quite disappointing, really."

Anagan's shock deepened into disbelief. "Stealing? But… she was always so kind. Are you sure?"

Ogron reached out, cupping Anagan's cheek with a gentle hand. "I know, it's hard to believe. She was very good at hiding her true nature. I suspected it for a while, but I didn't act because I thought maybe she had a reason—perhaps she needed the money. But when I found out she came from a wealthy family, I couldn't let it slide any longer. I had to let her go."

Anagan felt a wave of confusion wash over him. Something about Ogron's story didn't sit right, but the king's tender touch made it difficult to focus on his doubts.

"I… I see," Anagan murmured, though he didn't fully understand. "She was always so nice to me."

For a brief moment, Ogron's expression darkened, but he quickly masked it with another smile, this one more possessive. He brushed his thumb along Anagan's cheek. "You have a good heart, Ana. Too good, sometimes. It's one of the things I love about you. But not everyone is as kind as you. You have to be careful who you trust."

Anagan nodded, but the unease gnawing at him only grew. Before he could dwell on it, Ogron's hand slid down to rest on his waist, and the king's voice took on a coaxing tone.

"Come," Ogron urged softly. "Let's not think about unpleasant things. I want to spend the day with you."

Anagan felt the familiar pull towards Ogron, the king's touch and words drawing him in like a siren's song. The rest of the day passed in a haze of affection and attention. Ogron was more affectionate than ever, holding Anagan's hand, brushing against him, and showering him with compliments. The heavy flirting and praise made Anagan's heart race, and more than once, he found himself on the verge of kissing Ogron.

But every time he got close, a small, gnawing fear held him back. It was as if something deep inside was warning him, though he couldn't quite grasp why. The more Ogron praised him, the more Anagan felt a growing sense of unease, as if the king's words were a thin veneer hiding something much darker.

By the evening, Anagan's nerves were frayed, though he tried to hide it. Ogron, ever perceptive, seemed to notice and responded by intensifying his attention, as if trying to drown out Anagan's doubts with overwhelming affection.

—————————-

Anagan couldn't sleep. The unease that had settled in his chest all day had grown into a restless, gnawing anxiety. As the castle lay quiet in the late hours of the night, he found himself wandering the dimly lit halls, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. He wasn't fully corrupted by the Black Circle yet—there was still a part of him that resisted, that clung to something purer. But he could feel the pull of the darkness, stronger now than ever before.

As he wandered, his feet seemed to move with a will of their own, guiding him toward a place he knew he should avoid. The dungeon door, slightly ajar, loomed ahead. There was a faint sound, almost like a whisper, calling him down. He hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew he shouldn't go, that nothing good waited for him down there. But the pull was irresistible.

Slowly, he descended the cold, stone steps, each one feeling heavier than the last. Halfway down, he almost turned back, the oppressive atmosphere pressing down on him. But his feet kept moving, drawn further and further into the darkness.

Everything about the dungeon felt wrong. The air was thick with a sense of foreboding, and the faint scent of decay lingered in the damp air. As he rounded a corner, he came to a room that made his blood run cold.

The room was filled with flowers, some long wilted and others fresh, their vibrant colors stark against the gloomy surroundings. Above a casket that reeked of decay and rot hung a grand portrait, the figure in it commanding and fierce. The name "Valtor" was engraved in fine lettering beneath it.

Anagan stood in grotesque awe, his stomach churning at the macabre scene. He had heard whispers of Valtor before, a name spoken in hushed tones, shrouded in mystery and fear. But seeing this—this shrine—filled him with a deep, unsettling dread.

Suddenly, a sharp tug on the chain around his neck yanked him out of his thoughts, startling him. He barely had time to register what was happening before he was being dragged up the stairs, his feet stumbling to keep up. Panic surged through him, but it was drowned out by the cold, rich voice that sliced through the darkness, laced with venom and fury.

"I had one rule… One!" Ogron's voice echoed in the dungeon, more than just angry—it was infuriated, menacing. "Are you aware of how disrespectful you have just been!? Do you even care of your own safety!?"

Anagan's throat tightened, and he could only choke out a small, pleading cry to be let go. But his plea fell on deaf ears.

With a wave of Ogron's hand, the world around Anagan began to shift and blur. Panic gripped him as his body shrank, fur sprouting across his skin—he was a rabbit once more. There wasn't much he could do now, his small body trembling as he was scruffed by the neck and tossed outside.

The familiar surroundings of the garden should have brought comfort, but as the little rabbit tried to protest, he realized the king had already gone inside. Anagan's heart pounded with a new fear—he was alone. The garden was a closed-off space. If Ogron had wanted him truly gone, he would have been thrown out front or into the woods.

The dark realization came with the sound of barking dogs. Anagan's blood turned to ice. He wasn't meant to get away.

For what felt like an eternity, the snapping jaws of the dogs coming close to nipping at his heels several times. His small heart raced as he darted between bushes and under hedges, desperately trying to escape. It felt like this would be his end , the snarls and barks ringing in his ears, each close call tightening the grip of fear around his heart.

And then, just as he thought he couldn't run any longer, a sharp whistle rang through the garden. The dogs, as if by command, stopped their pursuit and followed the sound, disappearing into the shadows. Anagan huddled in the dark corner of a hedge, his tiny body shaking with fear and exhaustion.

A servant appeared, her eyes filled with pity as she scooped him up gently. She didn't say a word, but her touch was tender, almost apologetic. Anagan's fear didn't abate, though, as they re-entered the palace. He noticed immediately that she wasn't taking him to his room.

Instead, she carried him to a much larger, grander room—Ogron's room. The realization sent a shiver down his spine, but he didn't have much time to think about it. The maid quickly placed him down, extinguished the warmth of the fire, leaving only dim candles and the cold light of lanterns to cast eerie shadows across the walls.

Without warning, she dumped two buckets of ice-cold water over him, soaking his fur to the skin and sending a shock through his small body. Before he could react, she placed him in a cage, the metal bars cold against his wet fur. The cage door clicked shut, and she stepped back, her expression unreadable.

Anagan shivered uncontrollably, both from the cold and from fear. Hours passed, each one dragging slower than the last, as he sat in the dark, freezing and terrified. The warmth of the day, the king's affectionate touches and flirtatious words, felt like a distant memory—replaced now by the cruel reality of his situation.

In that cold, dark cage, the weight of what had happened began to settle over him. Ogron's behavior, the disappearance of Elaine , the chilling shrine to Valtor—it all began to piece together in his mind, though he still couldn't fully comprehend it.

Still, in a way, the king had protected him from what lay in the dungeon. For far down the decrepit hall lay a cell, a servant's uniform lay on the bed, the shoes caked in mud, the dress and apron tattered, the red stains of a life gone kiss the apron, and in that uniform rest Elaine, her hair matted and her eyes covered. No longer was her skin warm, no longer did she need air.

She stole the attention of the king's lover, and a punishment she'd faced.