Anagan awoke late in the morning , he took in his surroundings. He was no longer in the king's room, but his own. He recognized the green quilt and the red carnivorous plant that sat in the window seal. The rug, though intricate, was much plainer and the walls bland. A wave of relief washed over him, as being in his own space provided some sort of comfort. Yet the weight of the realization that he was still in the castle hung heavy on his heart. Deciding to change out of the sleeping linens, he approached the wardrobe. While what little clothes he had brought with him remained inside, something caught his attention, three new outfits. By royal standard , the outfits were casual, but to Anagan, they were much more than necessary and seeing them made him angry. He knew the king had placed them in there, and in his mind, this was the king's way of bribing him. In fury, he shut the wardrobe. His frustration was becoming overwhelming, his eyes landed on the plant the first gift of the king. Angrily he picked up the pot, his intention to smash it, but something made him hesitate. A deep sadness overwhelmed him. He clutched the plant, careful not to touch the carnivorous petals, as he tried to seek out some sort of comfort in the flower. Tears threatened his eyes. He angrily blinked them away. He didn't want to cry anymore, he didn't want to feel weak anymore.

A knock interrupted him , his heart raced. He felt sweat building in the back of his neck. The chain around him suddenly felt so much tighter. He didn't want to see anyone, let alone the king.

Fortunately for him, a woman's voice spoke through the door.

"Hello? i'll be your servant for the morning. My name is Emma. May I come in?"

Anagan very quickly shot up, placing the potted plant back on the windowsill and trying to make himself look half presentable. He didn't want to see anyone, but the woman's voice was so gentle and polite. He didn't want to turn her away and potentially get her in trouble. He did stumble back, however, upon her entrance, something about her blazing hair and blue eyes made him shudder. Her skin was as pale as snow, but there was a few differences- her hair was much much more leaning into pink than red, and unlike Ogron who had eyes of ice and glaciers, with more gray tone like that of rain water. The resemblance, however, was there.

His discomfort must've been evident, as the maid bow profusely, apologizing if she had intruded.

"No-no, I just wasn't expecting anyone today…" Anagan said, unsure of the woman before him.

"It is late in the morning , sir. Certainly, you must be hungry. Shall we go to the dining hall-"

"No." His tone came out sharper than expected. "I mean, I don't wish to go anywhere outside of this room, save for the bathroom."

The maid looked uncomfortable with this request , still, she had to listen to this man's words.

"Very well, I shall bring you some food and drink. Would you like some entertainment?"

He looked around there wasn't exactly anything to do in the bedroom, he nodded and sent the maid away.

After Emma left, Anagan slumped against the wall, the weight of everything pressing down on him. The walls of his room, once a sanctuary, now felt like they were closing in, suffocating him. He glanced at the potted plant on the windowsill, the first gift from the king. The king's influence was everywhere—in the clothes, the plant, even the air he breathed. There was no escaping it, no refuge from the constant reminder of his situation.

His hands trembled as he tried to steady his breathing. The chain around his neck felt tighter with each passing second, a physical manifestation of the control the king had over him. He hated the king—hated the way he twisted everything into a mockery of love and affection. But more than that, he hated the way a small part of him still yearned for some kind of comfort, some sign that things could be different.

Anagan's thoughts spiraled into dark places. Memories of the previous day flashed through his mind—the punishment, the king's cruelty, the crushing realization that the king would never let him go. And now, with this new maid who bore an eerie resemblance to the king, it felt like the walls were closing in faster.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't hear Emma return until she spoke. "Sir, I've brought your meal," she said softly, her voice gentle yet distant. Anagan's heart skipped a beat, and he quickly turned his back to her, not wanting her to see the tears that had finally spilled over.

"Just leave it on the table," he mumbled, his voice hoarse. He didn't trust himself to say anything more, not when he was this close to breaking down completely.

Emma hesitated, sensing his distress. "Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?" she asked, her tone laced with concern. But Anagan shook his head, refusing to look at her.

"No, nothing. Just… leave me be," he whispered, his voice barely audible. Emma didn't push further. With a final, respectful bow, she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

As soon as she was gone, Anagan crumpled to the floor, his body shaking with silent sobs. He was so tired—tired of the fear, the anger, the endless games the king played with his mind. He clutched his chest, trying to ease the ache that had settled there, but it was no use. The pain was too deep, too entrenched in his soul.

He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all, but he didn't have the energy. All he could do was sit there, his tears soaking into the cold stone floor. For a moment, he let himself grieve—grieve for the life he had lost, for the person he had been before the king had taken everything from him.

As the minutes passed, his sobs gradually subsided, leaving him feeling empty and hollow. He wiped his face with trembling hands, trying to pull himself together. He couldn't afford to fall apart—not now, not when the king still had so much power over him.

Anagan forced himself to stand, his legs unsteady beneath him. He walked over to the table where Emma had left the food and stared at it for a long moment, his appetite completely gone. But he knew he needed to eat, to keep his strength up. So he forced himself to take a few bites, even though the food tasted like ash in his mouth.

He needed to find some way to regain control over his emotions. He decided to try and distract himself, moving over to the small bookshelf in the corner of the room. There wasn't much to choose from—mostly dry historical texts and old poetry collections—but it was better than nothing. He grabbed a book at random and settled into the chair by the window, trying to lose himself in the words on the page.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't focus. His mind kept drifting back to the king, to the maid, to the suffocating feeling of being trapped in this castle. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind outside made him jump, his nerves frayed beyond repair. He couldn't relax, couldn't find any peace.

———-

The oppressive weight of the castle's walls, the suffocating presence of the king in every corner of his mind—it was all too much. A soft knock on the door broke through his spiraling thoughts. Anagan tensed, his heart skipping a beat. He didn't want another visitor, didn't want to be reminded again of the king's ever-watchful eye. But the knock came again, more insistent this time, and he knew he couldn't avoid it.

"Sir?" A woman's voice called through the door, stronger and more confident than Emma's. "It's Aubra, your afternoon servant. May I enter?"

Anagan hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He didn't want to see anyone, especially not another servant who might bear the king's likeness. But there was something in Aubra's tone—an edge of frankness, perhaps—that made him curious, despite himself. He opened the door, albeit reluctantly.

Aubra stepped inside, and Anagan's breath caught in his throat. Like Emma, she bore a resemblance to the king, but it was more striking this time. Her hair was a deep, vibrant red, cascading down her back in thick waves, and her skin was as pale as the king's, almost luminous in the dim light of the room. But her eyes—her eyes were green, sharp, and piercing, nothing like the king's icy blue ones. They were filled with a directness that was both unsettling and oddly reassuring.

"Good afternoon, sir," Aubra greeted him, her voice steady and clear. She didn't bow or defer to him as Emma had. Instead, she met his gaze head-on, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I've brought you something to drink, and I was told to check on your well-being."

Anagan swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Thank you," he muttered, stepping aside to let her in. As Aubra set a tray on the table, Anagan studied her, his mind racing. The resemblance to the king was there, undeniable, but it was different. Aubra's presence didn't suffocate him in the same way. There was a warmth to her, a liveliness that the king lacked. Still, it wasn't enough to put him at ease.

Aubra seemed to notice his scrutiny. She looked up from the tray, her green eyes locking onto his. "You seem troubled," she said bluntly, without the soft edges or cautious tone Emma had used. "Is there something on your mind, sir?"

Anagan stiffened, taken aback by her directness. No one had spoken to him so frankly in… he couldn't even remember how long. "I'm fine," he replied curtly, turning away to hide the flush creeping up his neck. "Just… tired."

Aubra didn't press, but she didn't back down either. "Tired or troubled?" she asked, her voice laced with a knowing edge. "There's a difference, sir."

Anagan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He didn't want to talk about it—didn't want to admit that the king had gotten under his skin, that the resemblance between Aubra and the king was unsettling him in ways he couldn't fully understand. But something in Aubra's gaze, in the way she stood there so confidently, made him falter.

"Why do you care?" he snapped, his voice harsher than he intended. "You're just here to serve, not to ask questions."

Aubra raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by his outburst. " While that is true ," she said calmly, "that doesn't mean I can't see when someone is struggling. If you need to talk, I'm here. If not, I'll leave you be. But I won't pretend I don't notice."

Anagan stared at her, his mind whirling. Aubra's forthrightness was both disarming and infuriating. It was so different from what he was used to—so different from the king's manipulative, oppressive demeanor. For a moment, he almost wanted to confide in her, to tell her everything that was weighing on his heart. But the fear, the deep-rooted distrust, held him back.

"I don't need your concern," he said finally, his voice quieter, almost defeated. "Just… leave the drink and go."

Aubra regarded him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, setting the glass of wine down on the table with a careful, deliberate movement. "As you wish," she said, her tone devoid of judgment. "But know that my offer still stands, sir. Sometimes, it helps to talk, even if it's just to a servant."

With that, she turned and walked toward the door. Anagan watched her go, his emotions a tangled mess. Her words lingered in his mind, echoing in the silence of the room. He wanted to dismiss them, to push them away like he had everything else. But they stuck with him, refusing to be ignored.

As the door clicked shut behind Aubra, Anagan let out a shuddering breath. The tension that had coiled inside him didn't dissipate—it only seemed to tighten. He was left alone with his thoughts, with the king's ever-present shadow looming over him, but now there was something else, too. A flicker of doubt, of hesitation. Maybe Aubra was right. Maybe talking would help. But who could he trust? Certainly not a servant who resembled the man who held him captive.

He stared at the untouched glass of wine on the table, his mind a whirl of confusion and fear. The king's reach extended far, farther than he had ever imagined, and there was no escaping it. Even the smallest gestures—like a servant offering him a drink—were tainted by the king's influence. How could he ever find solace, find peace, when everything around him was a constant reminder of the man who controlled his very being?

Anagan clenched his jaw, forcing himself to push those thoughts away. He couldn't afford to dwell on them, not now. He had to stay strong, had to keep his guard up. But as he turned back to the small bookshelf, trying once again to lose himself in the words on the page, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was slipping through his fingers—something vital, something he was desperately trying to hold onto but was slowly losing.

The hours passed slowly, the daylight fading into dusk, and Anagan found himself more restless than ever.

———

The afternoon had departed, leaving night in its wake. The sky outside the window had begun to darken, and Anagan felt the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him once more. He stood by the window, his fingers gripping the sill as he tried desperately to draw in a breath that wasn't tainted by the suffocating air of the room. But it was no use. He was trapped, and his lungs burned with the effort.

A knock at the door shattered the fragile silence, pulling him out of the abyss he was sinking into.

"I am alright for now, Aubra. Please leave me be…" Anagan's voice was strained, edged with a desperation he hated to admit. But he froze when the person behind the door responded.

"Sir? I am Emrys," the man spoke in a smooth, measured tone that carried an unfamiliar warmth. "I'll be your servant for the night. I'll see to it that you're bathed and sleep well—"

"Get out!" Anagan's harsh voice sliced through the air, catching the servant by surprise. The man before him looked terrified, but also determined, which only fueled Anagan's rage. Emrys tried to speak again, his tone soothing.

"I mean you no harm, sir. I'm here to help—"

"You all mean harm to me!" Anagan roared, snatching a book from the table and hurling it at the man. The book crashed against the wall beside Emrys, who flinched but held his ground. Anagan's eyes blazed with fury as he took in the servant's appearance—those blue eyes, the hair that resembled the king's, that same fiery hue. His voice was smoother, softer, but it offered no comfort, only more torment.

"What is this? Am I supposed to be comforted when you look like that monster!?" Anagan's shouting grew louder, his voice cracking under the strain. He backed himself into the table, as though trying to create more distance between himself and this painful reminder of his tormentor.

Emrys stood there, concern furrowing his brow as he tried to make sense of the situation. He knew only two things: the king's companion was unwell, and he had been tasked with caring for him. But the intensity of Anagan's reaction had thrown him off balance. He hadn't expected this.

"Don't you dare look confused—get out!" Anagan's voice was a raw, ragged command, and his eyes flashed with something akin to panic. Another book flew through the air, and Emrys narrowly dodged it, taking a step back as Anagan's rage continued to swell.

"Sir—" Emrys attempted to soothe him again, but it was no use. The fury, the pain, the sheer exhaustion in Anagan's eyes were overwhelming. Emrys knew he could do nothing more in that moment. He quickly left, retreating from the room with a final glance at the man crumbling before him.

Alone once more, Anagan's scream tore through the room as he fell to his knees, the last of his strength draining away. This was too much—far too much for one soul to bear.