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 woke with a start, heart racing as the memories of the past few days crashed down on him. He was back in his room—human again, his wounds healed. But his first thought was of Anagan. What had Ogron done to him in Gantlos's absence?

Just as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the door opened. Ogron stood in the doorway, smiling sweetly. Something about his demeanor made Gantlos bristle—it was too calm, too controlled, like a predator playing with its prey.

"Oh, how wonderful~!" Ogron cooed, his tone unnervingly light. "I'm so happy you're awake. We have much to discuss."

Gantlos scowled. The king acted as though their confrontation—and everything that followed—had never happened.

"Now, first things first: you lost." It would seem the king remembered after all. Ogron's grin sharpened, a cold gleam in his eyes. Gantlos clenched his fists, steeling himself for whatever came next. "You're a man of your word, I presume? So, before we officially welcome you into our family I wanted to—"

Gantlos let out a low, dry chuckle. "Ogron, I say this from the bottom of my heart: you don't know shit about family."

Ogron froze, his smile faltering. For the first time, Gantlos saw something in his eyes—something raw and unguarded. The king didn't lash out or sneer; instead, he stared at Gantlos, as if the word family had struck something deep within him.

"…What?" Ogron's voice was softer, more confused than Gantlos had ever heard it.

Gantlos held his gaze, unflinching. "Your servants are terrified of you. Any God knows what you've done to Anagan. You turned me into a dog. Families don't do that. Families fight 'nd holler, but they don't torture each other. What you do? It's just cruelty."

For a split second, something flickered in Ogron's eyes—an emotion that didn't belong to the king who ruled with manipulation and fear. It was as though Gantlos had cracked the mask he wore so tightly. The silence between them stretched, heavy and awkward, as if Ogron was grappling with something he didn't fully understand.

Deep within Ogron, something hot stirred. It burned, feeding on his anger, his pride, and his desire for control. But something about Gantlos's words—the truth of them—made the fire falter. It was as though something tightened its grip, forcing him to maintain the cruel facade, but there was a sliver of resistance buried deep within him. For just a moment, he faltered.

But the moment passed, and the weight of it returned, heavy and suffocating.

"I have rules here," Ogron said quietly, his voice strained. "The first rule: the dungeon is off-limits. Anywhere else is fine…" Gantlos unfolded his arms as the king continued, "The second rule: I demand love and respect from my men. And the third rule—don't talk to my Ana."

The king extended the Black Circle toward Gantlos, but Gantlos didn't move. He could sense the shift in Ogron's demeanor, the underlying tension. Whatever had caused that flicker of vulnerability was gone, replaced by the familiar coldness.

"I'm a man of my word," Gantlos said, his voice steady, "but I wanna negotiate some of these here rules."

Ogron's eyes narrowed, the cold cruelty returning to his expression. His lips curled into a thin smile, as if daring Gantlos to challenge him. He knew exactly which rule was about to be contested.

"Do tell~," Ogron purred, his voice low and dangerous. "Which rule troubles you?"

"First off, I can't love you—I don't know a damn thing about you, and what I've seen so far, I don't care for. Second, respect is earned. I'm not handing it over just because the spoiled king stamps his feet and demands it."

Ogron's smile faded, irritation flashing in his eyes. Gantlos wasn't playing the game the way he was supposed to.

"And thirdly," Gantlos continued, "I should be free to talk to Anagan. I don't know what you're so worried about—he's more attached to you than a mouse caught in a glue trap."

Ogron tilted his head, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Hm?"

Gantlos sighed, softening his tone slightly. "Look, I don't know the details of your relationship, but I do know this: my opinions are my own. I don't expect you or Anagan to take them to heart. I can tell that boy you're trouble up down and sideways, but it won't do a lick of good unless he believes it. But I don't wanna see any more of them ugly couple disputes. They ain't charming, and they sure as hell don't make for a happy home."

Ogron's smile returned, but it was darker now, as if he enjoyed the fact that Gantlos didn't fully understand the situation about Anagan's deep desire being swayed by the love potion.

"I will—make an effort to improve my relationship," Ogron said, the lie rolling smoothly off his tongue.

Gantlos narrowed his eyes. "Is he alright? You left him in a bad way the other night."

"He's well," Ogron replied curtly. They stared at one another for a long moment, the tension thick between them.

Finally, Ogron sighed, as if indulging a child's request. "Fine. You may speak to Ana. But only on my terms."

Gantlos held his ground, sensing the undercurrent of something far more dangerous in Ogron's words. Something wasn't right with the king. The small flicker of vulnerability he'd seen earlier—the crack in the mask—wasn't just a moment of weakness. It was something deeper. But whatever it was, Ogron wasn't ready to admit it. Not yet.

With a disdainful sigh, Gantlos took hold of the black circle , webbing himself into the darkness. A wave of nausea crossed his face, the king chuckled at him.

"The black circle's power can be very intense, the feeling will disappear I assure you. Now be a good dog today, I'm very...busy." There was something worrying about the way the king said busy, but not in a sinister manner, in a genuinely concerning way that left one to wonder what he was busy with .

Days came and went, and Gantlos couldn't shake the feelings of unease. He saw the king a few times in passing, but the king seemed…upset. There was a crack his normal air of authority. Gantlos said nothing, as to keep from causing trouble for Anagan . But come dinner on the fourth evening , he'd still not seen him. And oddly enough the king was out there dining with him, when normally he'd be with Ana. They ate in silence, a looming dread seemed to be in the air.

"Alright, your majesty— I think I'd like to see Anagan for myself." Gantlos said.

Ogron, lounging lazily in his chair, seemed unbothered by Gantlos's demand. He tapped his fingers on the edge of his wine glass, his eyes half-lidded with an air of casual authority. Taking a long, measured sip from his glass before setting it down. "Good evening to you too, Gantlos."

"I ain't seen him in a while," Gantlos pressed, arms crossed over his chest.

The king sighed, almost theatrically. "He's resting. He's not…feeling well."

Gantlos frowned, his instincts telling him something wasn't right. "All the more reason for me to see him."

"Hmm, is that so?" Ogron leaned back in his chair, his eyes half-lidded with a faint hint of amusement. "I'm tied up with business in the dungeon tonight. However, if you're so concerned, I suppose I can allow you to check on him in my chambers." He paused, then added, "Of course, you'll have a servant chaperone. I can't have you running wild, after all."

Gantlos's eyes narrowed. He had agreed to Ogron's condition about interacting with Anagan, but being watched by a servant? That was a low blow. "Why a chaperone?"

The faint boredom that had been playing on Ogron's face disappeared, replaced by a brief flicker of something—sorrow? Gantlos caught the shift before the king's face hardened again.

"Ogron," Gantlos asked, despite himself, "are you alright?"

For a moment, Ogron's eyes looked tired, worn down by whatever weight he carried. But his reply was cold, detached. "I'm fine. Save your sympathy, farm dog. Ana darling may find it…comforting." The king took a slow sip of his wine. He swirled it around, that flash of sorrow tugging on his lips, then gone.

Gantlos's unease deepened. "What's wrong with him?"

Ogron stood, adjusting his cloak as if brushing the conversation aside. "He's… not been himself…" Ogron seemed lost in thought , before muttering to himself " I thought it would help,..." His eyes flicked toward the door. "Don't stay long. He needs rest."

Gantlos bit back a retort and turned on his heel, the chaperone trailing behind him. Something about this didn't sit right, and whatever Ogron wasn't saying, Gantlos intended to find out for himself.

———-

The room was dimly lit by a few flickering candles when Gantlos stepped inside. The heavy curtains were drawn tight, casting the space in a gloomy half-light. Anagan sat on the edge of his bed . His hair hung limply around his face, and dark circles shadowed his eyes.

"Hey there, buddy," Gantlos said softly as he approached, his heart sinking at the sight of his friend's state. "What's going on? You alright?"

Anagan's eyes flickered to him, a weak smile tugging at his lips. "Oh, it's you, Gantlos. The king said you might come."

Gantlos crouched down beside him, his brow furrowed in concern. "What's wrong? You look terrible."

Anagan shrugged, his shoulders slumping forward. "I've just been feeling…off. Ogron gave me some medicine earlier, but—"

Before he could finish, Anagan's face paled further, and he gagged, a low, pained sound escaping his throat. He leaned over the side of the bed, and a thick, pink substance spilled from his mouth, splattering onto the floor. It didn't look like vomit—it was too viscous, too sweet-smelling. The scent was cloying, like sugared roses, and it made Gantlos's stomach turn.

Gantlos grabbed his arm, steadying him as the spasms passed. "What the hell is that?"

Anagan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression dazed and confused. "I… I don't know. It's the medicine, I think."

"What medicine?" Gantlos demanded, his voice rising with alarm. "Who gave you medicine?"

Anagan blinked slowly, as if trying to remember. "Ogron said it would help me feel better. It's supposed to help with my… my emotions. But it doesn't...seem to be sitting well..."

Gantlos's blood ran cold. Medicine to control his emotions? This was no ordinary remedy. Whatever Ogron had given him, it was making Anagan sick—physically and mentally.

"You need to stop taking that stuff," Gantlos said firmly, gripping Anagan's shoulders. "Do you even know what it is?"

Anagan shook his head weakly. "No. Ogron just…he says it's for my own good. To help me..think. To keep me…safe."

Gantlos's jaw tightened. He stood abruptly, his hands balled into fists. This was beyond manipulation. Ogron was drugging Anagan—controlling him, keeping him under his thumb. And Anagan didn't even realize it.

"I'll be back," Gantlos said, his voice hard and determined.

Anagan looked up at him, confusion flickering in his tired eyes. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to the dungeon," Gantlos muttered, storming toward the door.

———

"No, no, no… this wasn't supposed to happen," Ogron muttered, his voice thick with frustration as his fingers desperately flipped through the worn pages of a spell book. Papers lay scattered around him, torn and wrinkled, abandoned in his frenzied search. His breath was shallow and ragged, his usually composed appearance now disheveled—hair wild and unkempt, his eyes bloodshot.

He couldn't undo the potion's effects. He'd used too much, far too much at once, and now it was spiraling out of control.

This isn't how it's supposed to be…

Something deep within him stirred with unease, a creeping sense of wrongness. The Anagan he had known—loved—loved on Lynphea, loved in the garden, wasn't the hollow figure now before him, completely dependent on him. Ogron felt a cold knot of panic tightening in his chest, the realization of what he had done gnawing at the edges of his mind.

In a fleeting moment of clarity, he reached for a vial, a healing heart remedy from long ago. His hands trembled as he uncorked it, but the potion was too old, its potency long faded. He had poured it into Anagan's mouth anyway, watching with growing dread as nothing changed.

"I just wanted to talk to him… to him, the real Ana, the Anagan I had on Lynphea—"

But the familiar, sinister voice cut through his thoughts.

"He is perfectly content to do as we please."

It was louder this time, drowning out his own desperate reasoning, and Ogron felt a creeping satisfaction rising inside him, a darker urge that he couldn't quite suppress.

Before he could argue with himself, the sound of heavy, hurried footsteps echoed from the stairwell. Someone was coming. Ogron's eyes snapped toward the door, and a surge of anger flared within him. His dark senses fed off the intrusion, pushing the tender vulnerability back beneath a layer of cold fury.

The door slammed open. "What the blazin hell have you done?" Gantlos growled as he stormed into the room. His eyes were sharp, his movements tense as he advanced on Ogron.

Ogron's lips curled into a mocking smile. "Gantlos, darling ~" His voice was a dangerous purr, half-lidded eyes glinting with amusement. "You're not supposed to be here."

"I don't care where I'm supposed to be. I don't take kindly to him being sick like this." Gantlos's voice was low, angry. "you tryin to poison him?"

CRACK.

Ogron's fist connected with Gantlos's face, a sharp, brutal blow that sent him staggering back. Blood spurted from Gantlos's nose as he clutched his face, eyes wide with shock.

"Do not ever accuse me of that. Ever." Ogron's voice was ice, but there was a tremor in it—something raw, something close to breaking. Gantlos was ready to retaliate, his body coiled with the urge to strike back, but the look on Ogron's face stopped him.

Hurt. Genuine, gut-wrenching hurt.

"I love Anagan," Ogron rasped, his voice shaking. "You think I'd hurt him? Like this?" His breath hitched, as if he were fighting back a tide of emotion. "I would know him in spirit, i could hear him deaf, I'd see him blind, I'd kiss him in death. Don't you dare accuse me of such a wretched act!"

Ogron yanked Gantlos down by the collar, their faces inches apart. His eyes were wild, but there was something else there—desperation, madness, a broken man clinging to something he couldn't control.

Gantlos stared at him, stunned. Then his face scrunched. "Ya sure gotta funny way of showing it, making him sick n' what not—"

Before he could finish, Ogron shoved him hard to the ground, his face contorting with fury. "I love him!" The shout echoed through the dungeon, bouncing off the stone walls, and for a moment, Ogron looked as if he might shatter from the force of his own words.

But then, in an instant, the cold mask returned. Like a winter storm snuffing a warm fire.

Ogron's lips twisted into a cruel smile, and a low, dark chuckle escaped his throat. "Oh, Gantlos…" His voice was honeyed, menacing. "You've been a very bad dog."

Before Gantlos could react, Ogron's boot came down hard on his back, pinning him to the ground. The cold stone bit into Gantlos's skin, but the real pain came from the pressure of Ogron's heel grinding into him.

"My big, dumb dog wants to be where his master works, fine." Ogron hummed, his voice filled with eerie amusement as he crouched down beside Gantlos. A tether appeared in his hand, smooth and cold as he slipped it around Gantlos's throat. "Welcome to your new living space."

Gantlos choked as the tether tightened, biting into his skin. He tried to claw at it, but Ogron yanked it harder, his grip unrelenting.

The king leaned in close, his breath ghosting over Gantlos's ear. "And welcome to the first day of the rest of your life,"