Content Warning:
This arc contains depictions of toxic relationships, emotional abuse, manipulation, cycles of abuse, drugging (love potions/ spells), physical torment, and psychological trauma, implied sexual content, Please proceed with caution if these themes may be triggering for you. Your well-being comes first.
The morning sun bathed the castle in a warm, golden light, filling every corner with a sense of peace. Anagan woke up with a lightness in his chest that he hadn't felt in years. The memories of the night before, of Ogron's tenderness, still lingered in his mind, making him smile to himself as he got ready for the day.
The castle staff greeted him warmly as he passed, their usual deference tinged with the faintest hint of admiration. He felt different, more confident, like he was finally finding his place in this ancient, sprawling fortress.
As he went about his duties, just mild tasks, such as training his magic, everything seemed to fall into place effortlessly. Staff responded promptly to his requests, and even the weather seemed to cooperate, with the sun shining brightly in a cloudless sky. Anagan found himself smiling lightly as he walked through the castle corridors, a small, contented smile never far from his lips.
Every interaction, every glance from the servants and guards, seemed to reinforce his newfound sense of belonging. And always, in the back of his mind, was the thought of Ogron—how different the king had been, how gentle. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, leaving him free to enjoy the day without the shadow of doubt or fear.
————-
But elsewhere in the castle, darkness was brewing. Ogron sat in his private chamber, the same golden light filtering through the windows, but it did nothing to warm him. His thoughts were a chaotic swirl of guilt, regret, and self-loathing.
For the first time in years, he was seeing the faces of those he had wronged, the lives he had destroyed. Every glance at the Black Circle, now worn around his neck on a small chain like a noose, reminded him of the countless souls who had suffered at his hands. The memories played in his mind like a relentless, torturous loop—the screams, the blood, the power he had wielded with such reckless abandon.
Worse still were the thoughts of his former teacher, Valtor. The voice that had guided him, twisted him, made him into the man he was today. The question that gnawed at him, that had haunted him since his youth, surfaced again: Had Valtor ever truly cared for him? Or had he been nothing more than a tool, a means to an end?
The nausea came in waves, a sickening reminder of the rot festering inside him. Ogron clenched his fists, trying to push the thoughts away, but they were relentless, dragging him down into a pit of despair. Everything he had believed in, everything he had done, was crumbling around him.
————
The morning passed in a blur of pleasant interactions and lighthearted tasks. Anagan found himself humming as he tended to the flowers in the garden, the colors seeming more vibrant than ever before. The servants noticed his good mood, exchanging smiles and whispers as he passed. The world, for once, felt right.
But as the day drew to a close and the sun dipped low in the sky, Anagan began to feel the absence of Ogron more acutely. Supper came and went, and still, there was no sign of the king. Anagan waited, his eyes flicking to the door every few minutes, hoping to see Ogron stride in with his usual confident grace. But the door remained closed.
A servant approached him, bowing slightly. "The king has duties that may take longer than expected, my lord. He sometimes works late into the night."
Anagan nodded, forcing a smile. "Of course. Thank you." But as the evening wore on, a faint unease began to creep in. It was nothing he could pinpoint, just a feeling that something wasn't quite right. Still, he pushed the thought aside, convincing himself that Ogron was simply busy, as rulers often were.
The night was quiet as Anagan retired to his chambers. The bed, though warm and inviting, felt a little too big, a little too empty. He pulled the covers up to his chin, trying to hold onto the warmth of the day, but sleep eluded him. His mind wandered back to the garden, to Ogron's touch, to the way they had fit together so perfectly. Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted off.
————-
Anagan woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. Something was wrong. He couldn't place it, but the sensation gnawed at him, cold and relentless. He sat up in bed, the darkness of the room pressing in around him, amplifying the unease that had settled deep in his bones.
Without really knowing why, he found himself pulling on his robe and heading toward the dungeon. His footsteps were quiet, almost hesitant, as he made his way through the dimly lit corridors. The castle was eerily silent, the usual comforting sounds of the night absent, replaced by an oppressive stillness that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
When he reached the dungeon door, he hesitated. The air was colder here, the chill seeping into his skin and settling in his chest. He pressed his ear to the door, listening for any sign of Ogron, but there was nothing—just an unnatural silence that only deepened his sense of dread.
As he stood there, a familiar fear began to creep in, the same fear he hadn't felt since those early days in the castle. It coiled around his heart, squeezing tight until he could barely breathe. Panic prickled at the edges of his mind, urging him to turn back, to leave before it was too late.
Just as he was about to step away, the door creaked open, and Ogron stepped out. The king's presence filled the space, his tall figure framed by the flickering torchlight behind him. But there was something off about him—something in the way he moved, the way he smiled.
"Ana?" Ogron's voice was sweet, too sweet, laced with a softness that didn't match the unsettling gleam in his eyes. "It's a quarter to midnight, darling. What are you doing here?"
"I just… was worried about you…" Anagan's voice wavered with caution, his instincts screaming at him to run. Ogron's smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes, which seemed to darken with some internal struggle.
"Oh, darling, you're too sweet~," Ogron crooned, stepping closer. His tone was affectionate, but the undercurrent of something dangerous made Anagan's heart stutter in his chest. "Yes, I'm fine. The Black Circle was just in need of a few repairs. I fixed it up quite well."
There was something chilling about the way he said it, something that made Anagan's blood run cold. He could feel the warmth drain from his body, leaving behind a hollow, sinking sensation that made his knees feel weak.
"Well… if you're sure everything's okay… I'll just go back to bed—"
Before Anagan could finish, Ogron's arms snaked around his waist, pulling him close. The touch wasn't warm, wasn't comforting. It was possessive, predatory, sending a shiver of dread down Anagan's spine.
"Ana, darling ~" Ogron's voice was a low purr, a dangerous edge creeping into his words. "I had a very stressful day, and I'm feeling quite lonely. Would you sleep with me tonight?"
Anagan stiffened in Ogron's grip, his mind racing. He opened his mouth to protest, "Oh… I'm not sure if—"
"Ana,~" Ogron's voice was still sweet, but there was a sharpness beneath the surface, a warning. "I've done so much for you. The least you can do is keep me company."
The king's grip tightened, his fingers digging into Anagan's sides just enough to remind him of who held the power here. The smile on Ogron's face never wavered, but it was no longer the tender expression Anagan had grown to cherish. It was something darker, something that made him feel small, trapped.
"Of course… I'll stay with you," Anagan finally whispered, his voice barely audible as he forced himself to relax into Ogron's embrace. He didn't miss the flash of satisfaction in Ogron's eyes, the way his smile turned just a shade more sinister.
"That's my good boy," Ogron murmured, pressing a kiss to Anagan's temple as he led him back to the royal chambers.
The walk was silent, the tension between them palpable. Anagan's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing with the growing sense of dread. When they finally reached the king's bed, Ogron pulled him close, their bodies pressing together in a way that felt more suffocating than comforting.
The night passed in a haze of whispered words and stolen touches, but the familiar uneasiness gnawed at Anagan, refusing to let him rest.
———————
Anagan woke early the next morning, the sun just beginning to rise. Ogron was still asleep beside him, his face pale and drawn. Anagan reached out to touch him, but his skin was burning hot, far too hot to be normal.
"Ogron?" Anagan whispered, panic rising in his chest. He shook the king gently, but Ogron didn't stir, his breathing shallow and labored.
Anagan's heart raced as he threw on his clothes and rushed to summon the servants. "The king is ill," he told them, his voice shaking with urgency. "He needs help, now!"
The servants moved quickly, their faces pale with fear as they hurried to fetch the castle's physician. Anagan stayed by Ogron's side, holding his hand and praying silently for the fever to break.
As the physician arrived and began his examination, Anagan watched with growing dread. Ogron's condition was unlike anything he had seen before, a strange sickness that seemed to have no clear cause. The physician looked puzzled, his brow furrowed in concern as he tried to bring the fever down.
But Anagan knew, deep down, that this was no ordinary illness. The events of the previous night, the strange behavior, the unsettling coldness in Ogron's eyes—it all pointed to something darker, something far more dangerous than a simple fever.
And as he sat there, holding Ogron's burning hand, Anagan couldn't shake the feeling that the storm was only just beginning.
--
The days following Ogron's apparent recovery were filled with a strange, almost unnerving sense of normalcy. The servants had done their best to tend to the king, ensuring that he was comfortable and well-cared for. Anagan, ever attentive, stayed by his side, relieved that the fever had finally broken.
But as Ogron's strength returned, so too did a certain sharpness in his demeanor—subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless. It began with small things: the way his gaze lingered on Anagan a little too long, the way he laughed at things that weren't meant to be funny, a certain intensity in his touch that felt more possessive than loving.
Anagan, still basking in the warmth of their newfound closeness, didn't notice the shift at first. He was simply glad that Ogron was back on his feet, that the man he had grown to love was finally healthy again.
One evening, as they sat together in Ogron's chambers, Ogron reached out, taking Anagan's hand in his own. His grip was firm, almost too tight, but his smile was wide and bright.
"You've been so good to me, Ana~," Ogron said, his voice soft, almost tender. "I don't know how I ever lived before you."
Anagan blushed under the praise, squeezing Ogron's hand. "I'm just glad you're feeling better."
"I am," Ogron replied, his eyes darkening slightly. "And I owe it all to you. You've been a large support, my light in the darkness." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You love me, don't you, Ana?"
Anagan nodded, a little thrown by the intensity in Ogron's gaze. "Of course I do."
"Good," Ogron murmured, his free hand coming up to cradle Anagan's cheek. "I've been thinking a lot about us, about how much you mean to me. I want to make sure you know how much I appreciate everything you've done for me."
There was a flicker of something in Ogron's eyes—something dark and calculating—that made Anagan's heart skip a beat. But before he could dwell on it, Ogron was pulling him into a passionate kiss, his lips moving with an urgency that felt both exhilarating and overwhelming.
When they finally broke apart, Ogron didn't let go of Anagan. Instead, he held him close, his breath hot against Anagan's ear.
"I need you, Ana," he whispered, his voice heavy with emotion. "You're the only one who truly understands me, the only one who can make me feel whole. I don't know what I'd do if I ever lost you."
The words were like a balm to Anagan's soul, soothing the doubts that had begun to creep in. He wrapped his arms around Ogron, holding him tight.
"You'll never lose me," Anagan promised, his voice trembling with sincerity.
Ogron smiled against Anagan's skin, but there was a hint of something predatory in the way his fingers traced patterns along Anagan's back. "I know," he said, his tone almost too sweet. "I know I can count on you."
As the night wore on, Ogron's affection became more intense, more demanding. He showered Anagan with compliments, with declarations of love so fervent they left Anagan breathless. But beneath the surface, there was an undercurrent of something else—something that made Anagan feel as though he were being swept up in a tide he couldn't control.
When Anagan tried to pull away, even just for a moment, Ogron's grip tightened. "Don't go," he murmured, his voice taking on a pleading edge. "Stay with me. You wouldn't want to leave me alone, would you?"
The guilt hit Anagan like a wave, and he found himself unable to refuse. He stayed, letting Ogron draw him back into his embrace, letting the king's words wrap around him like rope.
Ogron pulled Anagan closer, his lips brushing against his ear. "You've been so good to me, Ana," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
Anagan's heart skipped a beat, a mixture of warmth and dread settling in his chest. "I'm glad I mean so much to you," he murmured, trying to ignore the knot forming in his stomach.
Ogron's hands roamed over Anagan's body, his touch more possessive than tender. "I want to show you how much I appreciate you," Ogron said, his tone both sweet and commanding. "Let me make you feel good, Ana."
Anagan hesitated, sensing a shift in Ogron's demeanor. There was a hunger in the king's eyes, a need that went beyond affection—a need to assert control. Before Anagan could respond, Ogron was already moving, pressing him into the mattress, his kisses insistent, almost demanding.
The intimacy that followed was familiar, yet different. There was a clear imbalance in their connection, a power dynamic that hadn't been there before. Ogron's movements were calculated, his passion tinged with an underlying dominance that left Anagan feeling more like an object of desire than a partner.
Anagan tried to focus on the closeness they shared, but the discomfort gnawed at him. Every touch, every kiss, felt like a reminder that Ogron held all the power, that his love came with unspoken expectations and demands.
When it was over, Ogron pulled Anagan into his arms, holding him close. But instead of the warmth and safety Anagan had once felt, there was a coldness that seeped into his bones. Ogron's embrace was tight, almost suffocating, and Anagan couldn't shake the feeling that he was being held in place, trapped.
"You're everything to me, Ana," Ogron whispered, his voice soft but firm. "I'll make sure you're always with me."
Anagan nodded, but the words felt heavy, like chains binding him to Ogron's will. He wanted to believe in the love they shared, but as he lay in the king's arms, all he could feel was a profound sense of being used.
As sleep finally claimed him, Anagan's dreams were haunted by a lingering unease, the echoes of Ogron's possessive love whispering in the back of his mind.
