Content warning: This arc contains crass humor, mocking of political figures, strong language, violence, implied sexual acts, implied drugs (love potions), Duman, and using cake for negative purposes. Things get weird. Viewer discretion is advised.
The way silence that followed Duman's mocking words was thick and suffocating. The tension in the room hung like a blade, poised to drop. Ogron's face twisted in a fury so intense that the veins on his neck pulsed with each breath. The servants had scattered like leaves in the wind, fearing the king's inevitable outburst.
Ogron took a step forward, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and his voice, though steady, was dripping with venom. "Do you think you can insult my name, insult my teacher, and face no consequences?"
Duman, however, didn't flinch. If anything, he leaned in closer, that ever-present mischievous smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Consequences? For what, stating the truth? None of this was meant to be yours. You've got a bit of a power problem, don't you?" Something in Duman's voice was thick, as if he were asking a question he already had the answer to.
That final jab sent Ogron over the edge. In a flash, he closed the distance between them, grabbing Duman by the collar and lifting him from the ground. Duman's feet dangled above the floor, but even now, he showed no sign of fear.
"You dare mock me in front of my servants, my kingdom?" Ogron growled.
"You seem to hold everything except what's yours —" before Duman could finish, he was thrown into the nearest wall with such force his head reeled, he took a moment before standing.
"Perhaps that will teach you your place you circus monkey —"
"Is that it? That's all you've got," Duman's ever press smirk made the king boil over in rage. How dare this clown create a mockery of his power!?
"You think this is a joke?" Ogron hissed.
Duman refused to waver. Even now, in the face of the king's wrath, he looked amused. "Not so much a joke, more so checking your reality, because you can call yourself a king all you want but You didn't earn any of this."
Ogron's nostrils flared, his anger palpable. He wasn't finished yet. With a flick of his wrist, dark magic surged from his fingertips, wrapping around Duman in tendrils of shadow. Duman's body twisted, bones creaking and shrinking as Ogron's spell took hold, reshaping him.
Duman's limbs grew small, his body becoming hunched and covered in fur. His face elongated, forming a snout. Within seconds, he had been transformed into a small, mischievous-looking monkey. Ogron smirked, watching as the servants snickered behind their hands.
"Fitting, isn't it?" Ogron taunted, his voice dripping with disdain. "A little monkey, just like in the circus where you came from . That's what you are, Duman—a performer, nothing more."
The small monkey looked up at Ogron, blinking with unperturbed, bright eyes. Then, without warning, the monkey stood up on two legs, and with a shimmer of light, Duman was back, standing tall in his human form. He stretched his arms lazily and cracked his neck as if shaking off the discomfort.
"Oh Ogron, I thought you had half a brain! Don't tell me you seriously thought that would work ? I am a shapeshifter, my DNA is about a stable as your mental state. Shifting a shapeshifter, really Ogron do better." Duman tsked.
The look on Ogron's face faltered, his smirk fading as disbelief settled in. Gantlos stared wide eyed at the scene—Duman had just defied the spell that brought himself and Anagan so much suffering. For a moment Gantlos thought clearly. He was more than impressed with the newcomer.
Ogron's lips curled into a snarl, his fists trembling with rage. "You're walking on dangerous ground, Duman," he growled, his voice low and threatening. "You forget your place."
Duman's grin only grew wider. "Oh, I haven't forgotten anything, Your Majesty. I just happen to know where my place is." He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a near whisper. "The real question is… do you?"
Ogron's hand twitched, dark magic flickering at his fingertips again, but he hesitated. Duman's defiance had shaken something in him—a doubt he couldn't quite suppress. The more Ogron tried to control him, the more Duman slipped away, turning every punishment into a game he couldn't win.
Duman took a step forward, his grin widening. "You see, that's the thing about power—it only works on people who don't know how to use it themselves." He held his arms out, inviting another attempt. "Go ahead. Try again. I can play this game all day." Duman continued, his voice dripping with mockery. "Face it, Ogron—you don't control me. You never will."
The king's lips twitched in a snarl, but he didn't act. He couldn't risk another failure, not in front of his servants. The weight of his own weakness pressed down on him, heavier than he wanted to admit. He took a step back, his gaze hardening. "You're walking a dangerous line, Duman."
Duman's smirk widened. "Dangerous lines are what I live for, Your Majesty."
—————-
The heavy door slammed shut behind Ogron, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake. Servants, who had lingered at the edges of the hall during the confrontation, quickly scurried away, their nervous glances betraying their relief to escape. Only Gantlos and Anagan remained, left in the dimly lit hall alongside Duman.
Anagan stared blankly at the door where Ogron had disappeared. His movements were sluggish, and after a moment, he began to stagger after the king. His eyes, half-lidded, barely focused on anything but the direction Ogron had gone, his entire being tethered to the king's presence.
Gantlos, on all fours, let out a low whine, the only sound he could make. His once-commanding presence had been reduced to a beast-like imitation, forced into obedience by Ogron's cruel magic. His eyes followed Anagan with a mixture of helplessness and sorrow, but his body didn't move—he knew better than to act without command.
Duman, having observed the king's retreat with a calculating gaze, finally broke the silence. His smirk had faded, replaced by a thoughtful expression as he surveyed the now-empty hall. Gantlos's canine whimper brought his attention back. Duman crouched down, his gaze meeting Gantlos's for a brief moment.
"You don't like this, do you?" he murmured, almost too softly to be heard.
Gantlos let out a sharp bark in response, his eyes wide and desperate, as if trying to communicate something beyond the physical restraints that held him.
Duman sighed, straightening up again, eyes narrowing toward the door where Ogron had vanished as if calculating something. He cast a glance toward Gantlos, watching the seemingly imposing man on all fours like an animal. Duman knew Ogron's magic was powerful, but it didn't feel natural. There was something unstable about it. He felt the magic lingering in the air, clinging to the walls, crackling like static.
Gantlos let out another bark, this time more insistent, as if urging Duman to act.
Duman glanced at him again, noting the tension in Gantlos' posture. The man wasn't just some dog to be tamed—he was still in there, trapped beneath the magic, fighting. The realization sparked something in Duman, but he knew better than to show it. He straightened his posture, his smirk returning.
"Well, it's been fun," he said breezily, glancing at Anagan's staggering form. "But I think our little king needs a push."
With that, Duman shimmered out of sight, his teleportation swift and silent as he reappeared in Ogron's private chambers.
He surveyed the room, taking in every furnishing and tapestry, his eyes half-lidded and bored. "You sure didn't add any color to this place," he muttered.
Ogron stood by the window, his back to the room, staring out into the night as his hands gripped the windowsill. His body was tense, his anger still radiating from the confrontation. His fists trembled, but not just from fury—there was something else. Something gnawing at him.
Without turning, he knew Duman had entered. "You're persistent," he growled, not bothering to look over his shoulder. "What do you want?"
Duman leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Just thought we weren't done. I don't like unfinished business."
Ogron turned slowly, his expression dark, but Duman could see the hesitation in his eyes.
"I've already given you your warning, Duman."
"Aww, I was hoping you'd still want to play with me. I get bored easy, but I guess I'll just go play with the man-dog—oh, and that quiet lad with the funny burn—"
Before Duman could finish, electricity surged through his body, the king gripping his arms. The familiar, burning sensation coursed through Duman's veins. Ogron's magic was raw, searing—painful, yes, but not unfamiliar to Duman, who had endured far worse in his time. Still, it gave him the information he needed.
Ogron's grip tightened, his voice low and dangerous. "You're playing with fire, Duman."
Duman winced but didn't let it show, his smirk lingering through the pain. He could feel the instability in the magic, the way it clung to Ogron, not entirely his own.
Before Ogron could do whatever he was planning next, Anagan stumbled into the room, his body swaying as he clung to the doorframe. His eyes found Ogron instantly, and with a soft, breathless whimper, he rushed forward, practically collapsing into the king's arms.
"Ogron…" Anagan whispered, his voice laced with longing as he clung to the king like a lifeline. Ogron scoffed, irritated with the interruption, but this was his little Ana doll—he wasn't to blame. Gently, though with some frustration, Ogron shoved Duman away before turning his attention to Anagan.
"Out," he hissed at Duman, his tone final.
Duman's smile widened, playful yet knowing. "As you wish, Your Majesty," he said with a dramatic bow, vanishing in a puff of smoke, leaving Ogron and Anagan alone.
———
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the king's chambers. Ogron paced back and forth, his frustration simmering beneath the surface, still irritated by the day's events. His mind raced, haunted by Duman's smirking face, how he had been humiliated, and now, even Anagan's dazed, mindless state felt like a burden. He clenched his fists, his thoughts spiraling, tangled in rage and a deeper, unspoken guilt.
Anagan stood quietly near the fire, his eyes glazed over, barely aware of his surroundings. His entire being tethered to Ogron's presence. His lips moved slightly, murmuring something under his breath. The king couldn't make out every word, but knew he didn't like it.
Ogron stopped pacing, his eyes narrowing. "What did you say?" he demanded, his voice sharp.
Anagan blinked slowly, his head tilting as if trying to process the question. His voice, soft and distant, drifted through the room. "I… I just wonder… if maybe… you don't love me anymore."
The words hung in the air, their weight pulling at Ogron's already frayed nerves. The king's jaw clenched, his temper flaring at the suggestion. "Excuse me?" His voice was dangerously low, laced with simmering fury.
Anagan, lost in his daze, barely registered the threat in Ogron's tone. His eyes remained unfocused, his mind fogged. "You… you seem different, Ogron… Something happened , I think …in the dungeon… You aren't yourself…I don't feel loved, I think."
Ogron's anger snapped. With a sudden, violent motion, he shoved Anagan hard, unable to restrain himself. "You don't know what you're talking about!" he spat.
Anagan stumbled backward, his weakened body unable to catch itself in time. He fell, his hand landing directly into tge flame of the fireplace. A searing hiss filled the room as his skin met the embers, and Anagan let out a pained cry, snapping out of his haze just long enough to feel the excruciating burn.
The sound of Anagan's pain cut through Ogron's rage like a knife. He froze, eyes wide with shock as he watched the man he claimed to love writhe in agony. The room seemed to spin around him for a moment, and then, for the first time in a long time, Ogron felt something other than anger.
"My Ana…" he whispered, rushing forward, dropping to his knees beside Anagan. His hands hovered over the burn for a moment, unsure of how to help, how to undo what he had just caused. He finally reached out, pulling Anagan into his arms, cradling him close.
"I'm so sorry…" Ogron murmured, his voice thick with something that sounded dangerously close to regret. He held Anagan tightly, his hand gently stroking his hair. "My Ana, I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry for everything…"
His words were soft, laden with more than just the guilt of this one moment. It wasn't just about the burn. It was about all of it—the manipulation, the control, the potion that had robbed Anagan of his free will, of his very self. The king's apology carried the weight of all the ways he had broken Anagan.
Anagan's breathing was ragged, his hand trembling as Ogron held him. He blinked slowly, still dazed, his pain blurring into the haze of the love potion. "Ogron…" he whispered, his voice faint, "I'm sorry…"
Ogron shushed him gently, his grip tightening as if afraid to let go. "No, Ana, don't apologize. You've done nothing wrong. It's me. It's always been me. Ana I love you. I always did and always will, im sorry...I don't want to be this." Ogron did his best to soothe the man in his arms.
Outside the window, perched on the ledge, a black bird watched the scene unfold. Its dark eyes gleamed with knowing, taking in every detail—the king's fury, his moment of clarity, the desperate way he clung to Anagan. The bird's head tilted, observing the raw vulnerability in the once-dominating figure of Ogron.
Then, with a flutter of wings, the bird took flight, disappearing into the night, leaving behind the haunted king and his broken, beloved Ana.