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.
The king's chambers were dimly lit, only the crackle of the fire illuminating the room. A luxurious dog bed was placed in front of the fireplace, and Gantlos lay there, his head resting on his paws. Hands. Did it make a difference?
The warmth of the flames danced over his scarred body, and Anagan's hand idly stroked his head. The touch was strange—both a comfort and a reminder of how far he had fallen.
"Good boy, Gantlos," Anagan whispered, his voice slurred from the effects of the king's spell. Gantlos closed his eyes at the sound, torn between the warmth it brought him and the hollowness that followed.
From a chair beside the fire, Ogron watched them with a cruel smile, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. The picture-perfect scene: his lover petting his obedient dog. It was almost complete now—he just needed the last wizard, and then his Black Circle, his family, would be whole.
"You two are so perfect," Ogron mused, toying with a silver dog treat in his hand. "An excellent lover," he looked at Anagan, before his gaze shifted down to Gantlos, "and a very good dog."
He tossed the treat in front of Gantlos, who didn't hesitate to eat it. The taste was as bland as all the others, but Gantlos didn't mind anymore. His mind, his instincts, were dulled—broken under the weight of submission.
Ogron stood up from the chair, walking over to Gantlos, kneeling beside him. He ran a hand through Gantlos's hair, his touch deceptively gentle. "Who's a good dog?" he asked, voice low and taunting.
Gantlos slowly nuzzled into Ogron's hand, his nose brushing against the king's fingers as he gave a quiet, submissive bark. The sound was soft, almost pitiful, as if admitting, "me."
Ogron chuckled, his fingers tracing Gantlos's jaw. "That's right," he whispered. "You are."
The flames crackled behind them, but the silence that followed felt suffocating. Gantlos could feel the weight of his new life pressing down on him, but he no longer had the strength to resist. He was exactly what the king wanted—his dog. His mind began to drift as Ogron continued to pet him, and for a moment, Gantlos found a strange comfort in it.
He no longer needed to think, to feel, to fight.
He simply had to obey. And in his obedience, he found a peace. He got treats. He got pets. He was a good dog.