The heavy door groaned open after what felt like an eternity sealed in darkness. A thick draft slithered in first, carrying the scent of damp stone, old iron, and the faintest trace of perfume—Ogron's scent, rich and oppressive. Duman barely stirred, his body leaden from exhaustion, but his eyes—red-rimmed and sharp despite the haze of deprivation—blinked at the dim torchlight that invaded his cell.
He was curled on the ground, the cold seeping deep into his bones. His clothes were but sn afterthought on the ground, his exposed skin coated in filth and sweat. A ring of grime crusted his lips from where he had desperately licked at the stagnant pool of water that had gathered in the uneven stone. His wrists ached from the weight of the shackles, his body bruised from sleeping on nothing but rock.
Boots clicked against the wet floor, deliberate and unhurried.
Duman shifted his gaze lazily, a slow, deliberate drag of his eyes upward. Ogron stood in the threshold, framed by the flickering torches outside, his gold-stitched robe draped elegantly over one shoulder, his arms crossed as if surveying something of little consequence.
A moment passed.
Then, he sighed, shaking his head as if disappointed.
"Awfully quiet, Duman. What happened?" The king crouched, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "Did you get lonely~?"
Duman barely had the strength to lift his head, but he managed it. His lips cracked into a smile, dry as old parchment.
"Of course not," he rasped, voice raw, each word scraping against his throat. "The gods are watching… amused. There is always an audience."
His eyes locked onto Ogron's, expecting irritation, expecting the telltale flare of temper. Instead, something far worse slithered across the king's face—an amusement that ran too deep, stretched too wide.
Ogron tilted his head. "Indeed. Always an audience. Eyes are always on you." He reached out, tracing a single finger up Duman's thigh, dragging through the dirt and sweat with an almost absentminded air. "And you love that, don't you? You love performing…"
Duman shivered—not from pleasure, not from fear, but from the sheer discomfort of being touched in his current state, like he was nothing more than an object to be inspected for value. Ogron's fingers trailed higher, ghosting up his ribs, the sensation featherlight yet suffocating. He tisked, as if appraising a tarnished trinket.
"Oh, this won't do for a star, now will it?"
A sharp clap echoed through the chamber.
The guards moved in an instant, unlocking Duman's shackles with a careless efficiency, the metal biting into his skin one last time before being discarded.
"Be gentle now," Ogron purred, watching as one of the guards lifted Duman into his arms, his body limp from exhaustion. "I need him in good condition."
Duman lolled against the guard's shoulder, his head resting on unfamiliar armor as they ascended the winding dungeon stairs. The shift from the suffocating cold to the more temperate air of the palace was jarring. His skin prickled at the change, his senses overwhelmed by the sudden richness of the space—warm candlelight, polished marble, the cloying scent of incense.
Ogron walked beside him, his robe whispering against the floor.
Duman licked his cracked lips, feeling the ghost of a grin return. His voice was hoarse, but still sharp enough to cut.
"Oh, my king…..am I going to be dusted and put on a shelf next to your other lover-boy toys and man trinkets?"
Ogron's eyes flickered with something unreadable, his smirk deepening.
"Something like that," he murmured.
—————-
The air in the chamber was still, thick with something unspoken. It was an unremarkable room, devoid of grandeur save for the massive, ornate wardrobe and an equally lavish vanity. Duman was laid across the bed, a stark contrast to his earlier state—his body still weak, but now cushioned by silk and down instead of cold stone. The mattress cradled his aching form, the first true comfort he had felt in days, but he refused to let it soothe him too much. Despite the lack of wards Duman did not attempt escape. He'd be playing a fool's game to try and shapeshift in this state.
Ogron stood by the door, his voice light as he dismissed the guards.
"That will be all. I would like a private moment with my circus monkey."
Duman let out a slow breath, tilting his head against the pillows. His bones felt heavy, his limbs sluggish, but his tongue—his sharpest weapon—remained untouched by exhaustion.
"Oh? My king wants a private moment? How intimate…"
Ogron's face barely twitched, but Duman saw it—that flicker of irritation. He was getting under the king's skin. Good.
"Yes, yes, I do," Ogron replied, his voice smooth but clipped at the edges. He took a breath, reigning in whatever cruel urge was bubbling beneath. "I fear I've gone about this—or rather, gone about you—all wrong."
Before Duman could respond, a knock interrupted them. Ogron turned, retrieving a silver tray from a maid waiting at the door. The scent of warm broth and fresh bread lingered in the air as he carried it inside, the metal clinking softly as he set it down beside the bed.
"You see, dear," Ogron continued, pulling up a chair with elegant ease. "I am building more than my circle, more than my coven—I am building a family. And family sometimes requires a patience, understanding."
He reached for a glass of water and leaned in, lifting Duman just enough to press the rim to his lips. The glass was cool against his cracked skin, but Duman hesitated, his eyes half-lidded as he gave Ogron a slow, playful smile.
Duman feigned a gasp, "Poison, my liege?"
Ogron's smile stretched, too white, too perfect. "Water, actually. Drink. You'll need yourself well."
Duman studied him as he let the liquid pass his lips, the coolness soothing the rawness in his throat. Yet, beneath that relief, there was a knowing just bitter enough to remind him that this was no act of kindness. He let Ogron think it a victory, but in truth, this was only another round of their game.
The king watched him drink, satisfied, before setting the cup aside. Then he rose and moved toward the massive wardrobe, his fingers ghosting over the gilded handles.
"I can't force the Black Circle onto you," Ogron mused. "After all, I want your love for me to be your own choice." He glanced over his shoulder, golden eyes glinting like a beast that had just set a trap. "So I thought I'd… adapt to you. Your ways."
Duman's fingers twitched in the sheets, but he willed his expression into one of careful curiosity.
Ogron opened the wardrobe, revealing a collection of costumes—jester's garb in rich purples, blood reds, deep blues. The fabrics shimmered in the candlelight, silks and velvets and bells hanging from the hems. A mockery of his past, displayed before him like a relic meant to entertain.
"I'm giving you freedom," Ogron said smoothly, running a hand down the fabric. "Freedom to express your strange desire to make a fool of yourself. Every day, you are to perform for me in the throne room. You will laugh, you will dance, and in time, you will come to love being here just as you once loved your little circus."
Duman's stomach curled at the sickly sweetness in his voice. It was ribbons and lace tied into a noose, every word a gilded cage meant to convince him he had chosen it himself.
He smiled through the ache in his body, through the leaden weight in his limbs.
"How thoughtful," he murmured. His eyes flicked over the selection, lingering just long enough to feign consideration. "I do so love the violet color."
Ogron's expression didn't shift, but Duman swore he saw the flicker of something pleased in those icy blue eyes.
"Then let it be the first one you appear to me in," the king decided. He turned back, brushing his fingers down the sleeve of his robe as if already moving past the matter. "Now… let's see about getting you fed and bathed properly, shall we?"
———————
The rhythmic drip of water echoed through the dimly lit chamber, steady as a heartbeat. It was the only company Duman had now, save for the soft rustling of fabric as his fingers ghosted over the deep violet garb folded neatly on the bed. The silk was rich beneath his touch, the color decadent, indulgent—chosen for him.
He let out a slow breath, his lips curling.
Freedom? No. He wasn't a fool. Freedom did not exist here. Not in this castle. It had never existed in this castle. There were no wards because Ogron didn't need them. The king had something far more insidious to keep him in line.
Duman lifted the jester's garb, letting the fabric spill between his fingers like a magician revealing a trick. "What a sweet little costume you are," A bitter laugh rattled in his chest.
"You are our way out."