Content warning: This arc contains graphic depictions of violence, strong language, physical abuse, psychological abuse, mind breaking, implied 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, at the very least, appreciative of the comforts the castle offered. The warm meals, the soft bed, and the shelter from the biting cold outside were luxuries he hadn't known in a long time. He wasn't one to express his emotions openly, but he made sure to mind his manners, offering a quiet "thank you" when appropriate. He was a man of few words, but he was not rude.

Still, what he did not appreciate were Ogron's words. The king's flirtatious attitude was not just unwelcome—it was outright disrespectful. Gantlos found himself constantly at odds with the king's behavior, which he likened to that of a whore in a brothel. And that was putting it kindly.

Ogron was a tall man, but Gantlos was taller. His physique was muscular, honed from years of hard work on the farm, and it seemed to be a topic of frequent conversation whenever the king was around. The compliments were endless, a stream of flattery that might have been easy to ignore if not for the fact that they were often given in front of Ana.

During one particular dinner, Ogron's eyes gleamed as he watched Gantlos push aside a plate of roasted meat, leaving only the vegetables untouched. "You don't eat meat, Gantlos?" the king asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

Gantlos shook his head. "No, I don't."

"Interesting," Ogron purred, leaning in closer. "A man with such strength, yet so… selective in his diet. You must have incredible discipline."

Gantlos met his gaze evenly. "It's not about discipline. It's just a choice."

"A choice that makes you stand out," Ogron continued, his voice taking on that familiar, insidious charm. "There's something admirable about that,"

Gantlos only let out a hum in response. An awkwardness loomed before Ogron began again.

"Such strength," Ogron mused as they dined together. He reached out as if to touch Gantlos's arm, but the farmer subtly pulled back, causing Ogron's hand to hover awkwardly in the air. "It must take a great deal of effort to maintain such a powerful build. Don't you agree, Ana?"

Ana glanced up from his plate, his eyes darting between the two men. He gave a small, hesitant smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, my lord," Ana replied softly, his voice almost a whisper.

Gantlos's jaw tightened. The compliment might have seemed innocuous, but there was something in Ogron's tone that set his teeth on edge. It wasn't just the words—it was the way the king looked at Ana as he spoke, as if daring him to disagree.

"It's just hard work," Gantlos said flatly, cutting through the tension. "Nothing more, nothing less."

Ogron's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. "Of course, of course," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But one can't help but admire such dedication. Ana here is quite delicate, you know. It's a shame he doesn't have your…stature ."

The implication hung in the air, thick and heavy. Gantlos narrowed his eyes, his gaze hardening. He wasn't stupid—he knew what Ogron was trying to do. The king's words were laced with subtle threats, a backhanded way of belittling Ana while elevating Gantlos. But Gantlos wasn't buying it.

"Delicate isn't a bad thing," Gantlos said, his voice low and firm. "And it doesn't make someone less than others. A flower isn't any less beautiful just because it's not a tree."

Ogron's expression faltered for a brief moment, but he quickly recovered, his smile returning with a hint of something darker behind it. "How poetic," he said, his tone dripping with insincerity. "You've quite the way with words, Gantlos. Perhaps you've missed your calling as a bard."

Gantlos didn't dignify that with a response. He picked up his fork and focused on his meal, pointedly ignoring the king's attempts to engage him further.

Later that evening, Gantlos found himself alone with Ogron in the grand hall. The servants had cleared the table, and Ana had been ushered away to retire for the night. Gantlos had hoped to follow suit, but Ogron had other plans.

"You know," Ogron began, his voice smooth and persuasive, "I've always admired men like you. Strong, reliable, a true pillar of strength. You're the kind of man who deserves the best life has to offer. Power, wealth, respect…"

Gantlos, sensing the direction this conversation was heading, crossed his arms over his chest. "Is that so?"

Ogron nodded, stepping closer. "Absolutely. You don't have to settle for the life you've known—scraping by, working yourself to the bone for so little. Here, you could have so much more. I could give you that, Gantlos. You'd be by my side, treated like royalty, with everything you've ever wanted at your fingertips."

Gantlos eyed him warily. "You think I'm looking for a handout?"

"Not at all," Ogron said quickly, a hint of desperation seeping into his tone. "But I see potential in you, Gantlos. You could be so much more than just a farmer. Think about it—what do you really want out of life? I can make it happen. All you have to do is let me."

Gantlos's gaze hardened. "And what's the price?"

Ogron blinked, taken aback by the directness of the question. "Price? There's no price, Gantlos. Just an opportunity. A chance to—"

"To what? To be like you?" Gantlos cut him off, his voice sharp. "To be a man who thinks he can buy respect with flattery and empty promises? I don't need your power or your wealth, Ogron. I've worked hard for what I have, and I'll keep working hard. I don't want anything from you. And I'd be more than happy to leave to prove it."

Ogron's smile faltered, and for a brief moment, his true nature shone through. The mask of charm and kindness slipped, revealing something darker, more dangerous.

"Perhaps you don't understand the opportunity you're being given," Ogron said, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper. "This isn't just an offer, Gantlos. It's a chance to be part of something greater than yourself. You could have everything you've ever dreamed of—if you're just willing to take it."

Gantlos met his gaze unflinchingly. "I don't need your charity, and I sure as hell don't need to be part of whatever twisted game you're playing. I'm not for sale, Ogron."

Ogron's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the room seemed to grow colder. But then, just as quickly, the king's charming facade returned, the darkness retreating as if it had never been there.

"Well," Ogron said lightly, "if you ever change your mind, the offer stands. I think you'll find that life here in the castle has its benefits. And who knows? Maybe one day you'll see things my way."

Gantlos didn't bother responding. He turned on his heel and left the room, his footsteps echoing through the hall. As he made his way back to his quarters, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just dodged a bullet. But the question remained—how long could he keep dodging before one hit its mark?

————

Later in the day, Gantlos found himself in the courtyard, seeking the comfort of the open air. The castle, with all its luxuries, felt suffocating at times. Gantlos was a man of the land, accustomed to the vastness of the outdoors and the simplicity of a farmer's life. The stone walls of the castle closed in on him, and the air here felt heavy, almost oppressive.

But the air seemed to thicken further as Ogron strode out, his presence a cloud of toxicity that Gantlos could practically feel. The king was exuding what could be called charm, though Gantlos would have chosen a less flattering word.

"Gantlos, my dear, how are—"

Gantlos, never one for nonsense, raised a hand to cut Ogron off, his expression firm. "Stop right there. I don't care for those pet names you throw around. It's disrespectful—to me, but more importantly, it's disrespectful to your lover boy."

For a moment, something dangerous flickered in Ogron's eyes, a spark of anger at being spoken to so bluntly. He did not like being called out, especially not by someone he was trying to charm—or more accurately, someone he was trying to manipulate. But Gantlos's words had struck a nerve, and the king was not one to back down easily.

Ogron forced a smile, though it was tight and devoid of genuine warmth. There was something different about the way he felt toward Gantlos compared to Anagan. When he looked at Ana, there was a twisted, possessive affection—a desire to own, to control, to mold Ana into his perfect little plaything. But with Gantlos, there was no such desire. He didn't want to kiss him, didn't want to hold him or use him the way he did with Ana. No, what Ogron felt when he looked at Gantlos was something colder, more calculating. He wanted more than just Gantlos's love; he wanted his power.

There was something admirable about the man's strength, his unyielding nature, and Ogron wanted that power for himself. It wasn't about romance or desire—it was about control, and Gantlos was a force that Ogron wanted to harness. Anagan was a doll, to be molded and played with, but Gantlos was a puzzle to be solved. He held challenges that Ana simply didn't.

Before Ogron could craft a response, the sound of a door creaking open and the click of Ana's heels on the stone floor interrupted them. Ana's presence drew both men's attention, and for a moment, Ogron's irritation was palpable. He wasn't pleased at having to excuse himself.

Gantlos watched as the king's expression shifted to one of annoyance. Ogron should have been happy to see his partner, happy to go to him and offer comfort or affection. Instead, he seemed bothered, as if Ana's mere presence was an inconvenience.

'what a pompous dick', Gantlos thought, shaking his head. Ogron's attitude toward Ana was becoming more and more apparent, and it only solidified Gantlos's resolve to speak with Ana. He couldn't stand by and watch Ogron treat Ana like as if his smaller stature and sensitive nature made him any less worthy of respect.

———-

Later, as Gantlos made his way down the marble halls, the cold stone beneath his boots echoing softly, he caught sight of Anagan. A twinge of concern grew in his chest as he observed the man from a distance. At first glance, Ana seemed well enough, but something was off. His eyes, usually sharp and full of life, appeared glazed over, with a faint hint of pink that made Gantlos's stomach churn. His gait was unsteady, almost as if he were drunk or caught in some hazy dream. Anagan didn't seem fully present, as if his mind were somewhere far away.

Alarm bells rang in Gantlos's head, but he forced himself to remain calm. Panicking would do no good, especially if Anagan was unwell. He approached him with deliberate care.

"Anagan," Gantlos greeted, his voice even and composed. "How are you?"

Ana turned toward him with a soft smile, but it was a hollow expression that did little to soothe Gantlos's growing unease. "I'm well, Gantlos. The king has taken care of everything I need."

The words, intended to be reassuring, only deepened Gantlos's concern. There was something about the way Anagan spoke—detached, almost mechanical—that sent a chill down his spine. This wasn't just a cold or some passing sickness; Gantlos had a sneaking suspicion that whatever had Ana in its grip was much darker.

"Is that so?" Gantlos replied, his tone gentle yet probing. He watched Ana closely, searching for any sign of awareness behind those clouded eyes.

Ana nodded, his head seeming to bob lightly as if it were too heavy for his neck. "Yes, he loves me, you know. I hope you're keen to join the Black Circle—"

Before Anagan could say more, Ogron appeared, his presence as unsettling as ever. The king slid into the conversation with his usual ease, but to Gantlos, it felt more like an invasion. Ogron's voice, though smooth, carried an undercurrent that Gantlos couldn't ignore—a mix of possessiveness and something else, something darker.

Gantlos crossed his arms, frustration bubbling up inside him as Ogron spoke. The king's words were coated with honey, but Gantlos could taste the bitterness underneath. Ogron's comments, especially those directed at Anagan, seemed to be laced with subtle insults, as if he were undermining the man right in front of him. It was infuriating, and Gantlos found it increasingly difficult to keep his temper in check.

And then, there it was again—Ogron's possessive grip on Anagan's arm, a tightness that was more about control than affection. Gantlos's jaw clenched as he watched the king practically drag Ana away, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. That was unacceptable. Gantlos couldn't stand by and watch a partner be treated like that, especially not when the person involved seemed so blissfully unaware of the manipulation.

———

One particular evening at dinner, the behavior repeated itself. Gantlos wasn't one to intrude on others' affairs, but living in the castle meant witnessing things he couldn't easily ignore. Anagan, as always, seemed oblivious to the tension in the air, but Gantlos noticed every slight, every subtle jab that Ogron directed at his partner. It was sickening.

When the king summoned Anagan to his quarters, something about the way he did it—so commanding, so cold—left a distasteful feeling hanging in the air. Gantlos was liking this king less and less, and his concern for Anagan was only growing.

And then, Ogron left on business, gone for days. During that time, Gantlos didn't see Anagan once. It was as if the man had been locked away, hidden from the world. The silence was deafening, and Gantlos's unease grew with each passing day. What felt like weeks later, Ogron was still away, and finally, Gantlos caught sight of Anagan again.

Ana was walking down the halls, his steps anxious and hurried, as if he were being chased by invisible demons. Gantlos could see the strain in his movements, the tension in his shoulders. Something was terribly wrong, and this time, Gantlos wasn't going to let the opportunity slip by.

He approached Anagan carefully, his voice soft but firm. "Ana, we need to talk."

Anagan paused, turning to face him. His eyes were still glazed, but there was a flicker of something—perhaps a sliver of recognition, of awareness. "Gantlos, I—"

Gantlos stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Listen to me, Ana. I'm not here to intrude. If you want me to leave, I will. But I need you to tell me what's going on. I've seen how Ogron treats you, and I don't like what I see."

Anagan blinked, a slight frown creasing his brow as if he were trying to process Gantlos's words. For a moment, it seemed as though he might break through the fog that clouded his mind.

"Gantlos… he loves me," Anagan said, but there was uncertainty in his voice now, a crack in the smooth surface that Gantlos could almost slip through.

"Does he, Anagan " Gantlos pressed gently. "I don't know what it is, but something ain't right. You're not yourself."

Anagan's frown deepened, his eyes flickering with confusion. "He… he takes care of me…"

"I know you believe that, but think about it, Ana. Really think. Is this how love is supposed to feel?"

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and charged. Gantlos could see the internal struggle on Anagan's face, the battle between the influence of whatever was snuffing his own instincts.

Just as it seemed Anagan might say something, might finally crack the surface, the moment was shattered by the sound of footsteps approaching. Ogron's return. The spell was broken, and Anagan's expression smoothed out, the fog descending over his eyes once more.

The king's presence loomed, and Gantlos could do nothing but step back, his heart heavy with frustration. He'd almost reached him. Almost.