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 disoriented, the ache in his body a reminder of the beating he endured the day before. He blinked, his vision adjusting to the dim light of the single torch flickering on the far wall. There was no sign of the king. No footsteps, no muttered threats, only silence punctuated by the occasional drip of water and the scurry of unseen creatures. He couldn't tell if it was day or night, but it hardly mattered—time had lost meaning in this windowless dungeon.
Tracking time through his own exhaustion, Gantlos reasoned he had slept twice now. Two days, maybe? His legs were stiff, his neck chafing from the tether that kept him just low enough to prevent standing fully upright. His stomach churned with hunger, but he ignored it, taking a deep breath and trying to focus on anything but the discomfort.
The farm… The memory of his home washed over him like a balm. He could picture the sun-drenched fields, his crops standing tall, and his cow—a gentle creature that had been more companion than livestock. He thought of the people he traded with, of the simple kindnesses exchanged in the quiet moments between chores. He clung to these memories, using them as a barrier against the darkness pressing in around him.
But the thoughts of Anagan stirred his resolve most of all. He had to stay strong—for himself, for Anagan. He wouldn't let the king's mind games break him. Not yet, he vowed, jaw clenched.
No footsteps came that day. The hunger gnawed at him, a dull ache that refused to be ignored, but he distracted himself by counting the lines of a spider's web in the corner of the cell. At least the spider has her home, he mused grimly. He shifted uncomfortably as the rope bit into his neck again. His body was weakening, but his mind—his spirit—had to hold.
By the time sleep claimed him again, Gantlos's muscles were burning from the tension, and his throat was parched. His body had adjusted to the hunger somewhat, but it was the thirst that gnawed at him now. He was starting to drift, his focus slipping. His eyelids felt heavy when the sudden sound of footsteps pulled him from the edge of unconsciousness.
The king had arrived.
Ogron entered the dungeon with the same casual arrogance, his lips curling into a smirk as he set two bowls on the ground just out of Gantlos's reach. One filled with water, the other with meat. Both dishes meant for a dog. Gantlos's stomach clenched, not from hunger but from revulsion at the humiliating display.
"I brought your meal, darling," Ogron said in a sickeningly sweet tone, as if this were a kindness. "You must be hungry by now."
Gantlos stared at the food, his expression cold. "I don't eat meat," he replied evenly, but the defiance in his voice was unmistakable.
Ogron feigned a look of pity, a mocking smile spreading across his face. "Dogs need meat, my dear. And until you learn some manners, that's all you'll get."
Gantlos's hands tightened into fists. He wasn't going to play along. The king leaned down, voice low and cruel, "Now beg."
Gantlos raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "Pardon?"
"Beg, like a good dog. You need to earn your food. Go on~" Ogron's voice dripped with condescension.
"No." Gantlos's answer was gruff, resolute. The king's eyes flickered with irritation at the refusal.
"Good boys earn what they eat, don't you want to be my good boy?" Ogron's smile was more predatory now, his patience thin.
"Not in this lifetime," Gantlos growled.
The response was met with a twitch from Ogron. Unacceptable.
"I'm going to give you another chance—beg," Ogron repeated, his voice hardening with menace.
Gantlos leaned forward as if considering it, but instead, "Go back to hell."
That earned him a swift kick to the jaw. He grunted, pain radiating through his body as he crumpled back against the wall. Before he could recover, the king's boot connected with his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
"You still seem to want to be a very bad dog," Ogron sneered, "so I'll try this again later. You may have this, though." He pushed the water dish toward Gantlos and disappeared into his workspace, leaving the meat behind. Gantlos lay there, tasting blood in his mouth as he glared at the untouched food. It would've been half tempting—if it wasn't meat.
When Ogron returned hours later, he called Gantlos again with that patronizing tone. "Come on, boy~ Aren't you hungry? Beg for it~"
Gantlos didn't respond with words. He simply flipped the dish out of the king's hand, sending the meat skidding across the floor.
The king's fury was palpable, but he said nothing. He simply left, and Gantlos slept hungry once more, though at least he had water now.
The next day, Gantlos woke to the familiar clicking of Ogron's heels. His body was weaker, the hunger more gnawing, and the thirst never fully quenched.
"Beg," Ogron commanded.
"Bite me," Gantlos shot back, though the words lacked their usual fire.
Ogron didn't bite him—but the whip of the riding crop cracked through the air, striking Gantlos across the face. Pain exploded in his vision, but he didn't give Ogron the satisfaction of a reaction. Another lash, and another. The blows kept coming, leaving welts on his body as he struggled not to show weakness.
When the king finally left, Gantlos's body was trembling with exhaustion and pain. His thoughts turned again to the farm, but even that refuge seemed distant now.
By the time Ogron returned two days later, Gantlos was a shell of his former self. Battered, dirty, and starved, he knew he had to eat something. The king stepped in with his usual smirk, setting down the dish of meat once more.
"Come on, boy. We both know you need this. Beg."
Gantlos closed his eyes, his resolve cracking. He couldn't take another kick, another lash—not in this state. He whispered, almost too low to hear, "...please…"
Ogron tilted his head, feigning confusion. "What was that? I couldn't quite hear you, dog. Bark louder."
Gantlos grit his teeth, fighting the wave of humiliation as he forced the words out, "Please."
The king's eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure. "Please what, puppy?"
"Please Ogron-" Gantlos muttered through clenched teeth, the words laced with defiance even in his desperation.
"Master," Ogron corrected, eyes narrowing.
Gantlos growled, fury mingling with exhaustion. "Please, Master, may I eat?"
The king grinned victoriously and slid the dish toward him. "That's my good boy. Who's a good doggy? You are, yes you are~"
The sickening display of mock affection grated at Gantlos, but he forced himself to bite into the meat. His stomach churned as he realized it was beef.
"That's it, puppy. Eat up—you'll need your strength. We have a lot more training to do. Oh, and I do hope you enjoyed that meal. That cow looked quite familiar."
Gantlos froze. His mind flashed to his farm, to the cow that had been his friend and companion. His blood ran cold, bile rising in his throat. Ogron was just trying to get into his head—he knew that—but the words stuck like a barbed hook.
He forced himself to swallow, but the food left a bitter taste in his mouth. His stomach was full, but his heart felt hollow. As he curled up to sleep, the weight of his situation pressed down harder than ever.
This was going to be a lot harder than he thought.
——-
Gantlos's sense of time had become as slippery as the king's promises. Days and nights blended together in the dungeon, marked only by the fits of restless sleep he fell into when hunger gnawed too fiercely at his insides. He guessed it had been three weeks—three weeks of being fed just enough to survive, just enough to keep his body from breaking down completely.
His stomach growled again, and despite the humiliation, he crawled to the small dish placed on the floor, the smell of meat wafting in the air like a cruel taunt. The dish, as always, sat just out of reach, waiting for him to beg for it.
"Please…" Gantlos muttered, hating the weakness in his own voice. "Please… master, I need to eat."
The sound of footsteps echoed from the far end of the dungeon, slow and deliberate. Gantlos tensed, his muscles rigid as he forced himself to stay on his hands and knees. He hated this—hated every second of it—but the gnawing hunger made pride a distant memory.
Ogron approached with a lazy smile curling across his lips, the cruel satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Such a good dog," he crooned, stopping just short of the dish. He knelt down, holding Gantlos's gaze. "But I think it's time you learned something new."
Gantlos swallowed hard, his eyes flickering to the food, then back to the king's face. His body screamed for sustenance, but the disgust simmering in his chest grew hotter. "I've done what you asked. I begged. Now give me the food."
Ogron tilted his head, feigning disappointment. "Oh, Gantlos, you really haven't learned, have you? A good dog doesn't just beg for food—he does tricks." He set the dish down in front of him, just a little closer now, just enough to drive Gantlos mad with want. "And you, my little dog, are going to learn a new one today."
Gantlos clenched his fists, his fingernails biting into the dirt. "I'm not your dog," he growled, though the words felt hollow. He'd said it so many times before, but here he was—crawling on all fours for a scrap of food.
"No?" Ogron's grin widened, as though he'd expected that answer. "Then prove it." He stood, walking over to the nearby table where he'd laid out several items. His back to Gantlos, Ogron selected something before turning back around, holding up a thick leather collar. "Let's see how much you're willing to fight, shall we?"
Gantlos's heart raced as the sight of the collar stirred something in him—a primal fury, an instinct to resist—but he also felt the painful twist of hunger in his gut. His mind screamed at him to refuse, to tear that collar from Ogron's hands and throw it in his face, but his body betrayed him. He needed to eat. He needed to stay strong if he had any hope of surviving.
Ogron crouched again, dangling the collar just above Gantlos's face. "Come on, Gantlos. If you want to eat, you'll have to wear it. It's simple, really—just let me put it on, and you'll get your food. But fight me…" He trailed off, his smile fading into something darker. "And you won't eat at all."
Gantlos stared at the collar, his breath coming in short, angry bursts. His pride screamed, but his body was already moving, inching closer to the king's outstretched hand. He couldn't believe he was doing this—couldn't believe he was so desperate.
"Good boy," Ogron murmured, his fingers brushing the side of Gantlos's neck as he fastened the collar around it. The leather felt heavy and constricting, a physical reminder of just how far he'd fallen.
Gantlos's stomach churned, but this time it wasn't just from hunger—it was the shame. The hatred. The collar sat tight around his throat, as if mocking him, reminding him with every breath who had won this game of wills.
"See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" Ogron rose to his feet and kicked the dish of food closer to Gantlos. "Now eat. You've earned it."
Gantlos lunged for the dish, the smell of food overwhelming his senses. But as he devoured the meat, tearing into it like a starving animal, he felt Ogron's eyes on him. Watching. Waiting.
When the dish was empty, Gantlos wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, avoiding the king's gaze. He could feel the tension in the air—the cruel anticipation of whatever Ogron had planned next.
"You're filthy," Ogron said, his tone too casual, too light. "I think it's time for a bath."
Gantlos stiffened. "No."
Ogron raised an eyebrow. "No? You think you have a choice?"
"I don't need a bath," Gantlos spat, backing away as Ogron advanced. "I'm not—"
"You reek, Gantlos," Ogron cut him off, his voice hardening. "And I won't have my dog stinking up my dungeon. Now, you can either come willingly, or I'll drag you there myself."
Gantlos's pulse raced. He'd fought before—he'd resisted every step of the way—but each time, Ogron had found a way to break him down. And yet, he couldn't just give in. Not like this.
When Ogron reached out to grab him, Gantlos jerked away, his muscles tensing. "Don't touch me!"
As Ogron struck him across the face, Gantlos's head snapped to the side, the sharp sting spreading through his jaw. But when he turned back to meet the king's gaze, he didn't see the usual anger or fury. Ogron was smiling—amused, almost as if he found the situation entertaining.
"Most dogs don't like getting a bath," Ogron remarked, his voice light as he gestured toward the large wooden tub in the center of a cell. It looked more like something you'd use to bathe livestock, not a grown man.
Gantlos glared at him, the collar around his neck feeling heavier with every breath. "I'm not a dog," he growled, the words dripping with venom. "I can bathe myself."
Ogron clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he walked to the cell door and locked it. The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoed through the room, sending a wave of dread through Gantlos. Even untethered, he was still trapped in here—with Ogron.
"We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Gantlos," Ogron said, turning back to face him. "But you *will* get in that tub."
Gantlos crossed his arms, planting his feet firmly on the stone floor. "I ain't budging," he muttered through gritted teeth.
Ogron sighed, rolling his eyes in mock exasperation. "Fine. Have it your way, then."
What followed was the most ridiculous spectacle Gantlos had ever experienced in his life. Ogron, barely taller than Gantlos's shoulder, was trying to *manhandle* him into the tub. Gantlos, even in his weakened state, was still far larger and stronger, and the king was having to put in far more effort than he'd likely anticipated.
Ogron grunted, his hands scrabbling for purchase on Gantlos's arm, trying to drag him closer to the tub. "Why didn't I have a servant do this?" he muttered under his breath, clearly regretting his decision. "This is ridiculous."
Gantlos snorted. "You're not going to—" He didn't get to finish the sentence as Ogron finally managed to get a grip on his collar and yank him forward, the leather biting into his skin as he stumbled toward the water.
"Enough of this!" Ogron snapped, half-shoving, half-pulling Gantlos toward the tub. "In you go!"
Gantlos resisted, pushing back with his legs, his body refusing to cooperate. But hunger had sapped his strength, and eventually, with a loud splash, Ogron managed to get him into the tub, water sloshing over the sides and soaking the floor.
Gantlos flailed, his hands slapping the water as Ogron leaned over, trying to lather soap into his hair. "It's just soap," Ogron growled, the amusement in his voice fading as the struggle continued. "Hold still, you mutt!"
"No," Gantlos snarled, swatting Ogron's hand away and sending another wave of water flying across the room.
Ogron groaned, wiping the water from his face as he gave Gantlos a look of pure frustration. "Stop making this harder than it needs to be!"
"You think this is hard?" Gantlos shot back, glaring at him. "Try being bathed by another man when you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself!"
"You wouldn't get in the tub, so clearly you're not," Ogron said, grabbing a bar of soap and scrubbing it along Gantlos's chest. Gantlos squirmed, splashing more water in retaliation. "Stop that! You're making a mess!"
"Good," Gantlos grumbled, slapping the water again and sending a small tidal wave over the side of the tub. "Maybe you'll drown in it."
Ogron let out a sharp, irritated laugh. "You wish." He scrubbed harder, his hands moving across Gantlos's back now, trying to get through the grime that had built up over the past few weeks. The water was murky, and Gantlos hated every second of this. His skin felt raw, and the humiliation of being manhandled into a bath like a child made his blood boil.
But Ogron wasn't letting up. "You reeked so bad even I couldn't stand it anymore," he said as he dumped a bucket of water over Gantlos's head, sending another cascade of soapy water flying in all directions.
Gantlos spat water out of his mouth, shaking his head furiously. "I can wash myself!" he barked, still thrashing in the tub as Ogron tried to pin him in place.
"If you could, we wouldn't be here, would we?" Ogron shot back, finally managing to get soap into Gantlos's hair. "Stop fighting and let me do this."
Gantlos's response was to grab another handful of water and splash it straight at Ogron's face. The king recoiled, sputtering as he wiped the water from his eyes. "You really are insufferable," he muttered, reaching for a towel.
"You're bathing a grown man like he's a dog. You think I'm going to just sit here and take it?" Gantlos growled, his eyes blazing with defiance.
Ogron sighed deeply, clearly losing patience. "Gantlos, you're filthy. You smell worse than a kennel. I'm doing you a favor."
"I didn't ask for your help," Gantlos shot back, glaring at him.
"Well, you're getting it anyway," Ogron said, tossing the towel onto Gantlos's head and wiping down his face and neck. "And if you splash me one more time, I swear I'll—"
"What? What are you going to do?" Gantlos challenged, but before he could finish, Ogron grabbed the bucket again and dumped it over his head, dousing him in another torrent of water.
Gantlos spluttered, wiping his eyes as he glared up at Ogron. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Ogron grinned, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. "Oh, immensely."
For a moment, there was a tense silence between them, the only sound the dripping of water from Gantlos's soaked hair. Then, with a resigned huff, Gantlos slumped back against the tub. He'd already been humiliated by begging for food, wearing a collar—what was a bath compared to that?
"Fine," Gantlos muttered, his voice low. "Just get it over with."
Ogron raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised at the sudden compliance. "That's more like it," he said, scrubbing the last bit of grime from Gantlos's skin.
When Ogron finally deemed him clean enough, he stood up, tossing the now-filthy towel aside and unlocking the cell door. "See? That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Gantlos glowered at him, dripping wet and seething. "I hope you slip on the wet floor."
——
The cell was colder than usual, and the small window offered little respite from the gloom that seemed to have seeped into Gantlos's very bones. He lay curled on the floor, his body aching from the previous day's exertions. Despite the exhaustion, he remained resolute, unwilling to bend to the king's latest demand. Ogron had left him with nothing but the cold, hard ground and the distant, taunting sound of the king's laughter echoing through the corridors.
Gantlos's stomach growled with hunger, a harsh reminder of the price he was paying for his defiance. He had refused to comply with the "sit" command, enduring the punishment of the king's wrath and the lack of food as a result. He had hoped his stubbornness would break through the king's sadistic pleasure, but instead, it had only intensified Ogron's resolve.
When Ogron returned the next day, his demeanor was both calm and menacing. He unlocked the cell door with deliberate slowness, savoring the anticipation that hung heavy in the air. Gantlos, huddled on the floor, barely lifted his head to acknowledge the king's presence. His face was gaunt and his eyes hollow, but his spirit, though dimmed, still fought to retain some shred of defiance.
Ogron surveyed Gantlos with a measured gaze, clearly pleased by the suffering he had caused. "Still not willing to cooperate, I see," he said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. He waved a hand toward the wooden tub in the corner, now filled with fresh, warm water. "But we have all day."
Gantlos gritted his teeth, pushing himself up to his knees with a visible effort. "I'm not—"
Ogron cut him off with a sharp, cruel laugh. "You will be by the end of the day. Or you'll suffer more."
Ignoring Gantlos's defiant glare, Ogron reached out and slapped him across the face, the sting sharp and cutting. "Sit," he commanded, his voice carrying an edge of finality.
The physical punishment was swift and brutal. Gantlos was struck repeatedly, each blow a reminder of the king's absolute power. As the day wore on, his strength waned. The combination of pain, hunger, and exhaustion began to wear down his resistance. By the end of the day, when Ogron returned, Gantlos was visibly defeated. He dropped to his knees, his pride swallowed by the unbearable weight of his suffering.
When Ogron walked into the cell, the sight of Gantlos on his knees with an expression of reluctant acceptance brought a sinister satisfaction to his face. He approached with a mockingly warm demeanor, patting Gantlos on the head as if he were a dog. The gesture was both condescending and painfully symbolic.
"Look at you," Ogron cooed, his voice a sickly sweet mockery. "Aren't you just the perfect little pet?"
Gantlos's face burned with humiliation, but he remained in his position, his body trembling slightly. He had learned that submission was the only way to avoid further suffering, though it grated against every fiber of his being.
Ogron's hand continued to stroke Gantlos's head, his expression one of feigned affection. "See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" he said, leaning in closer. "You're such a good boy. I knew you could learn."
Gantlos clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain still despite the inner turmoil. The king's praise was laced with cruelty, each word a further insult to his dignity. But he kept his eyes forward, not daring to meet Ogron's gaze.
With a satisfied nod, Ogron turned away from Gantlos and moved to the corner of the cell, where he retrieved a small treat. He tossed it toward Gantlos with an air of casual amusement. "Here's a reward for being such a good boy," he said, his tone dripping with false sincerity.
Gantlos stared at the treat, his anger and shame mingling with a desperate hunger. He knew that compliance was the only way to ease his suffering, but it did nothing to quell the burning resentment inside him. He reluctantly reached for the treat, eating it slowly as if each bite was a further blow to his pride.
Ogron watched with a twisted smile, clearly enjoying the sight of his broken pet. He took a moment to relish the victory before turning on his heel and leaving the cell, locking the door behind him with a final, taunting click. Gantlos remained on the floor, his mind racing with thoughts of escape and revenge, even as he lay defeated and humiliated.
As Gantlos sat, the taste of the meager treat still lingering on his tongue, something dawned on him. His eyes flicked to the floor, and his heartbeat quickened. His rope was unbound. Slowly, cautiously, he glanced at the cell door and noticed it wasn't latched—no chain, no lock in place. Whether Ogron had forgotten or left it intentionally ajar, Gantlos couldn't tell. His body remained tense, his instincts at war. Freedom, however temporary, lay just beyond the door.
He hesitated. Leaving the dungeon outright would be too risky in his weakened state. The king's guards, or worse, Ogron himself, could catch him before he even made it halfway. But the temptation was there—he could at least explore a little. Maybe there was something he could use to his advantage, some information or a hidden opportunity.
His body protested as he rose, still sore from the beatings. He moved cautiously, slipping out of the cell and down the cold stone hallway. His mind raced with every step, adrenaline pushing him forward. He turned into a small, dimly lit workspace where the king often conducted his private affairs—research, perhaps, or planning. There, amidst the cluttered table, his eyes landed on a journal.
The leather-bound book was well-worn, its pages brimming with scrawled notes. Gantlos's pulse quickened as he carefully opened it, scanning through the disjointed words. At first, it seemed like nothing more than mundane scribblings about the kingdom, his plans, and his twisted philosophies. But as he flipped further, something caught his eye—pages that spoke of experiments, manipulations, and mentions of Anagan.
The more he read, the more the pieces started to come together. Ogron's manipulative games weren't just limited to Gantlos. He had been perfecting his tactics for a long time—using different forms of coercion, control, and strange magical substances. An unsettling chill ran down Gantlos's spine as he turned the pages faster, the implications clear: this wasn't just about breaking a man's spirit; it was about molding it.
But then, he heard it—the distant clink of boots on stone. Ogron's footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor, growing louder. Panic surged through Gantlos as he scrambled to close the journal and place it exactly where he had found it. His heart raced in his chest, and he slipped back into the hallway, moving as quickly and silently as his battered body would allow.
He returned to his cell just in time, settling into the seated position Ogron had demanded of him the previous day. His heart still pounded in his ears as he forced himself to remain calm. Only moments later, the door creaked open, and Ogron entered.
The king's eyes immediately fell on Gantlos, still seated where he had left him. A slow smile spread across Ogron's face, one of twisted delight. "Well, well," Ogron said, his voice dripping with sickeningly sweet affection. He approached Gantlos, his boots echoing with each step. "Who's a good boy? You didn't even leave. Not even for a moment."
Gantlos swallowed, keeping his expression as blank as possible. He needed to play this carefully. With a slight frown, he tilted his head, feigning innocence. "I didn't realize I could," he muttered, his voice thick with false disappointment.
Ogron's smile widened, and he crouched down beside Gantlos, reaching out to stroke his head. The touch made Gantlos's skin crawl, but he remained still. "Oh, such a good boy," Ogron cooed, his voice dripping with condescension. "So loyal. You could've walked right out, but you stayed. That's why you're my favorite."
Gantlos suppressed the disgust rising in his throat, forcing himself to keep up the act. He lowered his gaze, pretending to be frustrated with himself, as if upset by the missed opportunity. Ogron, clearly pleased, continued his sickeningly affectionate praise.
"You didn't leave," Ogron repeated softly, standing up and reaching for the door. He smiled as he locked the cell this time, the heavy clunk of metal filling the small space. "That's what I like to see—obedience. You'll get your reward soon enough."
As the door slammed shut and Ogron's footsteps faded into the distance, Gantlos's body sagged with relief. His heart pounded in his chest, but his mind raced with new information. The journal had revealed more than just the king's cruelty—it was a potential key to unraveling the king's manipulative games.
But for now, he would play the part. Let Ogron think he was breaking. Because Gantlos knew, deep down, that the longer he kept up the charade, the better chance he had to turn this game around.
When Ogron left, Gantlos glanced at the cell door, now firmly locked, before settling back against the wall.