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 stirred, the cold stone floor pressing into his back as his senses slowly returned. He tugged at the tether around his neck—a dull, enchanted chain that refused to budge no matter how hard he pulled. The magic in it was insidious, invisible to the eye but impossible to mistake for anything else. He grimaced. Escape wasn't going to be simple.

Blinking through the dull ache in his head, he scanned his surroundings, searching for any sign of time. The dim light of the dungeon torches flickered against the walls, casting long, distorted shadows. But it was the faint, orange glow seeping from the cracks of Ogron's workspace that caught his attention. The king had either been here recently or was still lurking nearby. Either way, it had to be evening.

The scent hit him next—thick, choking, inescapable. Gantlos wrinkled his nose, his stomach churning at the stench that filled the air, worse than the foulest manure he'd ever encountered, worse than rotting crops left too long in the sun. This was something deeper, like the dungeon itself was a funeral pyre, the decay of centuries soaked into the stone. He bit back a gag. How did Ogron endure this? How did anyone?

Gantlos pushed himself upright, wincing as he noticed the dried blood crusted around his nose, his face stiff and tight where Ogron's fist had connected. His long blonde hair hung in tangled, sweaty strands around his face, brushing against the rough stone floor. He swiped at it absently, feeling the grit and grime beneath his fingers. Beside him, a spider spun a web between two iron bars, delicate threads shimmering in the low light. It seemed absurd—something so fragile and alive in a place like this.

He exhaled sharply, a growl of frustration rising in his throat. What were his options? He could try sucking up to Ogron, beg for release, but the thought alone made him clench his jaw in disgust. Giving that man the satisfaction would be worse than staying here. His magic was strong, powerful enough to tear down half the dungeon if he let it—but using it indoors? That could bring the entire place down, and it wouldn't just be him caught in the rubble. No, that wasn't an option either.

And as long as he was bound by this damn tether, getting physical was pointless. The chain, though thin and deceptively delicate, hummed with potent energy. It would hold, no matter how hard he struggled.

Gantlos let out a deep, frustrated sigh, the sound bouncing off the stone walls. He was trapped, and there was no easy way out. Not unless Ogron wanted it. And that thought—being at the mercy of a man who delighted in control—only made the tightness in his chest worse.

The torches flickered again, casting strange, ghostly shapes across the dungeon walls. Gantlos couldn't stand how everything felt in here: the stench, the cold, the damp weight of the air pressing on him. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, trying to think of something—anything—that wouldn't end with him groveling at Ogron's feet.

But all that filled his mind was the suffocating sense of being cornered. And Gantlos hated that more than anything.

Gantlos leaned back against the damp stone wall, his body still aching from the earlier scuffle. His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the confrontation with Ogron. He played it over in his mind, piece by piece, trying to fit it together. But the more he thought about it, the less sense it made.

Ogron's eyes flashed across his mind. That manic, unsettling mix of desperation and fury. The king had been all over the place—one moment angry, the next almost pleading. It was as if there were two people standing in front of him. One shouting, "I love Anagan," with such conviction it had made Gantlos pause, and the other pulling him down by the collar, eyes gleaming with cold malice.

Id know him in spirit, I'd kiss him in death.

The words lingered, echoing in Gantlos's mind. What the hell was that supposed to mean? One minute, Ogron sounded genuine, the next, he was calling him a "bad dog" and kicking him in the face. That look in Ogron's eyes—hurt, genuine hurt—had stopped Gantlos from snapping back. But when he'd opened his mouth to speak, the switch had flipped again. The tenderness, if it had ever been real, vanished, replaced by that twisted cruelty.

Gantlos rubbed his temple, trying to make it make sense. It didn't. None of it did. Was Ogron that unhinged, or was there something else going on? He couldn't tell if the man was playing some sick game or if he'd really lost control. Gantlos had seen Ogron manipulative before, but this was different. This was erratic, unstable, and it made his skin crawl.

But the worst part was, For a second—just a second—he'd almost believed Ogron. Almost believed that the man actually cared about Anagan, that there was some deeper reason behind all this madness. But then the king had smiled, leaned in, and reminded him that he was just a dog to him. Just something to be kicked around and controlled.

"Damn it," Gantlos muttered, his fists clenching. None of it added up. Ogron's words, his actions, his twisted version of love—it was all a mess of contradictions, impossible to untangle.

He tried to push the thoughts away, but they gnawed at him, leaving him unsettled. The more he thought about it, the more trapped he felt—not just physically but mentally, too. Nothing in this place made sense, least of all the king himself.

The silence in the dungeon felt thick, broken only by the steady drip of water from the ceiling. Gantlos tried to keep his focus, but the stench—like rotting flesh and decay—was overwhelming. His head throbbed, and his thoughts spiraled until the sound of boots echoed down the hallway.

He looked up, his muscles tensing as Ogron rounded the corner. The king's eyes gleamed with a disturbing satisfaction, like a predator finding its prey exactly where it had left it. Ogron's lips curled into a smile.

"Here you are, darling," Ogron mused, placing a plate of food and a cup of water in front of Gantlos. He sat down gracefully, just far enough that Gantlos couldn't touch him. The dungeon light flickered over the king's sharp features, casting long shadows on the walls.

Gantlos stared at him, his face serious, jaw clenched. The smell in the air seemed to thicken with Ogron's presence, like a suffocating fog. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the tension thick enough to cut.

"Don't look too upset, my darling Gantlos," Ogron said, his voice dripping with false tenderness. "I'm doing this because I love you. And I want you to love me back."

The words twisted Gantlos's gut. The sound of Ogron's voice—sweet and cold—sent an involuntary chill down his spine. He glanced at the food, knowing he needed it. He hated the idea of accepting anything from the man in front of him, but hunger gnawed at him, and he wasn't stupid. His survival now depended on this twisted game.

Ogron watched him with an amused expression, his eyes bright with control. "Before you ask," Ogron continued, "Ana doll is going to be fine. I know you like keeping him in mind." There was a sharp edge of accusation in his voice.

Gantlos bit his tongue, forcing down his urge to snap back. "Ain't nothing wrong with makin' sure he's fine," he muttered, finishing the food quickly, though each bite tasted bitter in his mouth. Despite his disgust for the man, he mumbled a gruff, "Thank you." He always thanked whoever fed him. It was a habit from a life far removed from this one.

Ogron's eyes glittered with satisfaction at the words. "You're such a darling boy," the king purred. Gantlos stiffened at the sickly sweetness of the tone. "Why don't we try this one last time, hmm? You're so lovely, I want this to be easy for everyone."

Ogron reached out to stroke Gantlos's tangled hair. The motion was slow, deliberate. Gantlos instinctively jerked back, his lip curling in disgust. He wasn't afraid, but the touch—that touch—was too much. The king had no right.

"I ain't gonna play this game of yours," Gantlos growled, his voice low, thick with defiance. He barely held back the urge to punch Ogron in the face, though his restraint was slipping.

Ogron paused, his hand suspended in the air, then slowly withdrew. A smile crept across his face. "You'll come around, I'm sure of it," he mused.

Gantlos's eyes narrowed. "Now, either you're ten cans of crazy or got dropped as an infant, 'cause I can't tell what's wrong with you." His tone was sharp, deliberate. He was watching, waiting for a crack in Ogron's carefully constructed mask. He needed to see it, to know if there was anything human left in the man.

Ogron sighed dramatically, feigning hurt. "Your words wound me, my dear."

"If words were all it took to hurt you, I'd be talkin' a hell of a lot more," Gantlos shot back, his voice cutting.

The king stared at him for a moment before bursting into soft laughter. "Oh my, you have such a sense of humor. I do hope to keep that."

Gantlos's jaw clenched. He needed to get under Ogron's skin, figure out what the king was hiding. "What did you…give him the other day?" he asked, his voice quieter, more calculated. He watched closely, waiting.

For a flicker—just a moment—Ogron's expression shifted. Something flashed in his eyes, quick and fleeting.

"…Medicine."

"But why? What was it?" Gantlos pressed, trying to sound casual, though his heart raced.

Ogron shifted again, his cold composure cracking. But then, just as quickly, the mask returned, and his eyes hardened. "That is none of your concern."

"Ogron," Gantlos leaned forward as much as the chain would allow, his voice steady, "I don't want no more trouble, but there ain't a damn thing I can do for you tied up like this."

Ogron's eyes glinted, and he tilted his head slightly, as if considering the suggestion. He reached out again, this time trying to caress Gantlos, his movements slow and almost affectionate.

But Gantlos growled, a low, dangerous sound, and slapped the king's hand away before it could touch him. The contact sent a shockwave of defiance through the air.

The king's expression darkened. His playful mask crumbled as he leaned in close, his breath hot against Gantlos's face. "Do not touch me that way. And do not growl in my direction," Ogron hissed. His voice was low, controlled, and it was clear this was no request—it was a command.

Gantlos's eyes flashed with fury. "I might've joined your little circle, but don't think for a second I'll listen to you. You ain't done a damn thing to earn my respect." His words were sharp, slicing through the tension.

The next moment came fast—a swift kick to the side of Gantlos's face. The pain exploded in his skull, and he tried to pull himself up, but another blow knocked him back down. He spat blood, rage flooding through him, but the chain around his neck held him back.

Ogron stood over him, his voice steady and cold. "I tried to do things peacefully between men," he said softly, almost like a confession, "but you're no man—you are a dog."

The king grabbed a fistful of Gantlos's long blonde hair and yanked his head back, delivering a sharp knee to his face. Gantlos grunted, tasting blood in his mouth, but his eyes never left Ogron's.

"You are a very bad dog," Ogron hissed, leaning in closer. "But don't worry—I'll be sure to train you well. You will learn your place, and soon enough, you'll understand that everything I do, I do out of love."