Content warning: This arc contains graphic depictions of violence, strong language, physical abuse, psychological abuse, mind breaking, dehumanization, wound licking, 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 lay curled on the cold, stone floor, his body aching from the strain of days spent in the dark, airless dungeon. No light filtered in, and no warmth reached him. His body had long since adjusted to the constant dampness and chill, but his mind hadn't. The loneliness gnawed at him, worse than the pain. Worse than the hunger.

It wasn't hunger for food—Ogron made sure to feed him. Like a dog. That was the king's game. Ogron came down when he pleased, always with a sickening smirk, carrying a chunk of raw meat in his hands.

"Come here, boy," Ogron would say, voice dripping with false sweetness. He'd dangle the meat just above Gantlos's head, knowing full well he hated to eat meat. "Dogs eat meat," Ogron would mock, shoving the slab toward Gantlos's face. Gantlos had tried to resist in the beginning, gagging at the smell, his stomach recoiling at the taste. But resistance only led to more punishment.

Today, the stench of the raw meat filled the dungeon, mixing with the damp air. Gantlos's stomach churned at the sight of the blood dripping onto the stone floor. He hadn't eaten in what felt like days—his body protested every movement, but hunger had begun to overpower his disgust.

"Come on, dog," Ogron taunted, dangling the meat just out of reach. "Do a trick."

Gantlos's body trembled as he pushed himself upright, his legs shaking from the effort. Every muscle screamed in protest, but he forced himself to stand. He knew what would come if he didn't.

"Good dog," Ogron said, tossing the meat onto the filthy floor in front of him.

Gantlos stared at the meat for a long moment, his stomach tightening in hunger and revulsion. He didn't want it. The thought of eating it made bile rise in his throat, but he couldn't afford to refuse. His pride screamed at him to stand tall, to not let Ogron break him. But pride couldn't silence the gnawing hunger that clawed at his insides.

Slowly, he bent down, picking the meat up with his hands this time, not his teeth. It was cold, slimy, the blood staining his fingers. His mouth felt dry, but he forced himself to take a bite, wincing as the raw texture hit his tongue. He gagged, but swallowed it down.

Ogron watched him with a satisfied grin, pacing around him like a predator toying with its prey.

"You should be grateful," Ogron sneered. "I could leave you to starve, but I'm feeling generous. Dogs eat meat, Gantlos. You'd better learn to love it."

Gantlos didn't answer. He hadn't answered in days. What was the point? No matter what he said, Ogron would twist his words against him, or punish him for speaking at all. The silence was safer.

As Ogron's footsteps retreated, the door creaking shut with a heavy thud, Gantlos let the raw meat drop from his hand. He couldn't bring himself to eat the rest. His stomach turned, his body weak from lack of food and sleep, but something inside him still clung to defiance. Even if it was a small victory, leaving the meat uneaten felt like the only bit of control he had left.

Alone again, he slumped against the wall, his body heavy with exhaustion. Every day, the dungeon wore him down a little more, stripping away whatever was left of his strength, his will, his identity.

He didn't feel like Gantlos anymore. He felt like a "dog."

--

The dungeon door creaked open again, but this time Ogron didn't have the same mocking smile. There was something different, a deeper cruelty in his eyes, as he motioned for Gantlos to follow.

"Come," the king ordered, his voice devoid of its usual taunting edge. It was colder, sharper.

Gantlos, his legs trembling from an earlier beating, pushed himself off the ground. His entire body ached, but the hollow, exhausted look in his eyes gave nothing away. He followed Ogron down the narrow corridor, each step scraping against the stone floor, the heavy chains around his ankles rattling with every movement.

Ogron led him deeper into the dungeon. It was darker here, the air thicker, more suffocating. Gantlos felt the hair on the back of his neck rise, an unnatural sense of dread creeping in as they descended further.

Finally, Ogron stopped in front of a small, iron-bolted door. Without a word, he unlocked it, the door swinging open with a heavy groan. The smell hit Gantlos first. It was thick, rancid, the unmistakable stench of decay. He instinctively stepped back, his stomach churning, but Ogron grabbed him by the collar and shoved him forward into the cell.

The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Gantlos in near-total darkness.

At first, he tried not to breathe, his mind racing. But the smell was impossible to escape, clinging to the air, to his skin. He could feel something in the corner of the cell, a presence that made his skin crawl. Slowly, Gantlos turned toward it.

In the dim light, he could make out a shape slumped against the far wall—a body. It wasn't alive; the sickening smell of rot confirmed that much. The body was in an advanced state of decay, its skin gray and bloated, patches of flesh peeling away, revealing bone underneath. Flies buzzed around it, the sound of their wings a constant, maddening hum.

Gantlos staggered back, his heart pounding in his chest. His mind screamed at him to look away, but his eyes were glued to the grotesque figure. The image burned itself into his brain, even as he tried to close his eyes, to force himself to think of anything else.

This… this was Ogron's final blow. Gantlos had withstood the physical abuse, the starvation, the humiliation. But this… this was something else. It wasn't pain he could grit his teeth through or hunger he could ignore. This was psychological, the final crack in the armor he had desperately tried to keep intact.

The corpse seemed to mock him, a symbol of what Ogron intended him to become. Gantlos's thoughts spiraled, his breath quickening. Was this his fate? To rot here in the dark, forgotten and discarded like this corpse?

He stumbled toward the wall, sliding down to the cold stone floor. The smell was unbearable, the sight of the decayed body lingering in his mind no matter how hard he tried to banish it.

Ogron's words echoed in his head. "You're a dog. Nothing more."

The darkness pressed in, and Gantlos felt his mind fraying, the walls of his resolve closing in on him. He couldn't take much more of this. His chest tightened, panic clawing at him, threatening to drag him under.

Gantlos tried to steady his breathing, but the stench, the corpse—it was too much. His hands trembled as he buried his face in his arms, trying to block it all out. But there was no escape. Not anymore.

This cell, this body—this was the rest of his life.