A few days had passed since the incident, and yet, no punishment had come. That should have been a relief, but instead, it gnawed at Gantlos like an open wound. The silence was unnatural. He knew Ogron—knew the way his wrath simmered beneath his skin until it boiled over in something truly cruel. And so, Gantlos moved through his routine like a prisoner walking to the gallows, waiting for the inevitable. He could only imagine Ogron was planning something truly diabolical.
That evening the sky outside burned in hues of pink and orange, but his usual meal never arrived.
His stomach twisted.
It's starting.
He felt panic as a servant entered , his breath quickened, his muscles tremored. The servant put the lead on him, avoiding eye contact. Without saying a word the servant tugged on the lead. Gantlos felt ice course through him, it was as if concrete had be injected into his muscles, he could not find the strength to move. The servant sighed tugging one more time. Gantlos forced himself to crawl forward down the hall. Every step felt like a seal on his fate. He looked around, recognizing the path, he tremored.
Not the dungeon, anything but the dungeon.
When they turned, however, his blood ran cold. His gut screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something, but he couldn't. That was not how this worked. Not in Ogron's world. As they moved through the halls, his dread deepened. His mouth felt dry as sand. Not the dungeons.
No. No, this was worse.
The king's chambers.
Not there. Anywhere but there.
Gsntlos's breath came in short, shallow bursts.
Through the heavy, detailed doors, he could hear movement. The rough creak of the bed. Ana's voice—a hazy, lilting mess of sighs and murmured devotion. Sometimes a distressed crying sound. A sick feeling crept up Gantlos's spine.
The servant beside him fidgeted uncomfortably, eyes glued to the floor. "We'll… just wait a moment."
Gantlos could barely breathe. His body tensed with something instinctive, primal—disgust, rage, fear, all tangled into one. Before he even realized what he was doing, a deep, sharp bark tore from his throat, a sound meant to startle and scare.
The moment it left him, he regretted it.
The room beyond the door fell eerily silent.
The servant's face drained of color, their grip tightening on the lead as if bracing for something. The quiet stretched, thick and suffocating. A shuffling was heard. Then, at last, the door creaked open.
Ogron stood there. Loose, flowing robes draped over his frame—an ornate thing of bright blues and gold embroidery, more fitting for a royal ball than his private chambers. His hair was tousled, but his face…
His face held no anger.
No cruelty, no rage.
Just satisfaction. An unsettling serenity. Gantlos felt his skin crawl.
"Come on. In here, boy."
Gantlos felt his stomach twisted, but he obeyed.
The chamber was warm, the fire casting a golden glow against the gaudy décor. The familiar dog bed remained beside the hearth, plush and waiting. And then there was Anagan.
Restrained, bare, his glazed-over eyes fluttering at the disturbance. Gantlos wanted to look away, but he couldn't. This wasn't the first time he'd seen something so degrading, but the way Ana's drugged eyes sought Ogron even in this state—like a lost child clinging to their only known comfort—made something in him burn.
"Bad, bad doggie." Ogron's voice was mockingly sweet. Too playful. "Are you ogling my Ana doll?"
Gantlos's stomach churned, but he kept his expression blank. Ogron seemed amused by his discomfort. Too amused.
It was wrong.
The lack of anger, the lack of immediate punishment—it was all wrong.
Slowly, with almost affectionate care, Ogron untied Anagan's restraints, slipping a silk robe over his shoulders before guiding him toward the dog bed.
And then he crouched before Gantlos.
"Now," he murmured, smiling as if sharing a pleasant secret. "Are you ready for your…"
Gantlos flinched. The conditioned fear ran deep, and he braced for the inevitable something—a strike, an order, anything—but nothing came.
"Treats," Ogron smiled, pleased.
What.
"I've realized I've been much too harsh on you, dear dog. So I thought… a reprieve was needed."
Gantlos didn't trust it. He didn't trust any of it.
But then, Ogron laid it before him.
Fruits. Vegetables. Teas. Soft creams. They were presented in bowls and cups with knives and forks.
No dog dishes. Not meat.
His stomach ached at the sight. He had spent ages choking down whatever slop Ogron deemed fit for a beast. And yet, here it was—food meant for a man.
Something desperate flickered in Gantlos's eyes before he could bury it.
Ogron saw. And Ogron smiled.
"Go on," he encouraged. "Eat however you like. Eat like a man if you wish! Ana will stay beside you."
Still, Gantlos hesitated. This was a trick. It had to be.
And yet… when he plucked a single berry between his trembling fingers and placed it in his mouth, nothing happened.
No punishment. No laughter.
Just the taste of something sweet.
Another bite. Then another. He drank tea in slow, measured sips, wary of every movement, waiting for the moment the peace would snap.
But it didn't.
At some point, Anagan was placed beside him, murmuring hazily, "Mmm… good dog."
Gantlos ignored the comment, feeling himself protectively pull Anagan closer. He turned focused on the food, the warmth of the fire, the way his body sagged with a comfort he hadn't felt in ages. He felt so relaxed. So tired. Too tired.
Unaturally tired.
And then came the exhaustion.
His limbs grew heavy. His mind fogged.
He barely registered the presence of someone new—a doctor, perhaps? He wasn't sure. Couldn't think.
He just needed to rest…
Just for a minute…
—
When he woke, he was in his own room. His body ached. His head throbbed. His limbs felt… different. The moment he shifted, pain shot through his lower abdomen. A sharp, deep pain, like something taken.
His breath hitched. Slowly, he forced himself upright, his fingers trembling as he lifted his shirt.
A scar.
Neat. Surgical. Placed just above his groin. His stomach lurched. Beside him, a bowl of fruit sat waiting. A small note rested on top.
"One last treat for a good dog."
—————-
The heavy door groaned open, dragging against the stone floor like a dying beast. Duman, who had been counting the cracks in the ceiling, plotting his escape lazily rolled onto his side, blinking at the golden glow spilling in from the hallway.
"Yellow," he muttered at the sight of the color on the door. "That's a bad color for me."
D. He was in Block D. No escape unless Ogron willed it.
Boots clicked against the wet stone. Slow, deliberate. Ogron took his time stepping into the dungeon, a king who had no need to rush, because everything here—everything—belonged to him.
Duman propped himself up on his elbows, his chains rattling. He squinted up at Ogron's silhouette, then gasped in mock delight.
"Ah, my liege! I was starting to think you'd forgotten me down here!" He tilted his head. "Though, I suppose a dog remembers its fleas only when they start to bite."
Ogron stepped closer. The light from the torch sconce caught the deep crimson of his robe, the gleam of his belt buckle, the cold indifference in his gaze.
"You," he said, voice measured, "have been a very bad influence, Duman."
Duman clutched his chest, gasping theatrically. "Oh, Your Majesty wounds me!" His grin widened. "But if I'm such a bad influence, shouldn't you keep me closer? I mean, the dog learned a few new tricks, didn't he?"
Ogron's jaw twitched. The torchlight made the angles of his face sharper, crueler. "You think yourself clever. You think I don't see what you're trying to do?"
Duman sat up fully, resting his shackled hands on his knees. "Oh, I certainly hope you see it. Would be a real waste of my charm otherwise." He flashed his teeth in a grin, but his eyes gleamed with something sharper.
Ogron crouched before him. Close now, Duman could smell the rich spices of his cologne.
"You wormed your way into his head," Ogron murmured.
"Which 'he' are we talking about?" Duman purred. "You collect broken boys like trinkets."
The slap came fast. Duman's head snapped to the side, the sting radiating across his cheek, but his laughter only bubbled up, soft and breathy.
"Ooh, my king, you play so rough." He licked the inside of his cheek. "What's next? A few kicks? A branding? Oh! Are you going to carve your name into my ribs? I do love a man with a possessive streak."
Ogron grabbed him by the chin, tilting his face up forcefully. "You think this is a game?"
Duman's smile didn't falter. If anything, it widened, wicked and knowing. "Oh, but everything is a game, Your Majesty. And right now? You're losing."
Ogron's grip tightened, but Duman only held his gaze, letting the tension coil between them. He saw it—the hesitation, the flicker of thought.
"Locking me down here," Duman said softly, "only makes me a martyr in their eyes. And you hate that, don't you? You don't want them pitying me." His lips curled. "You want them afraid of me. Afraid of what might happen if you let me out."
Ogron studied him. Then, abruptly, he released his grip and stood.
"You're rotting in here another night," Ogron said, turning toward the door. "We'll see if you're still smiling in the morning."
Duman chuckled, leaning back against the cold stone wall. "Oh, don't worry about me, Your Majesty. I always smile."
He watched as Ogron left, the door groaning shut once more, sealing him in darkness. But Duman only grinned, his fingers flexing in his chains.
He had planted the seed. Now, he just had to wait for it to grow.
—————
Ogron's chamber was a place of gilded excess—heavy drapes of crimson and gold swallowed the walls, and the floor was layered with plush furs, as if the cold stone beneath would dare offend his royal feet. Candelabras flickered dimly, casting trembling shadows that curled like phantom fingers along the ceilings, feeding the illusion that the walls breathed with the king's fury. The air was thick with perfume, spices, and something darker—the cloying scent of possession.
Anagan lay sprawled atop the velvet sheets, his body half-draped in silk that pooled around him like liquid moonlight. He stared up at the canopy above with that distant, dreamy expression, untouched by the king's tempestuous rage.
Ogron paced at the foot of the bed, bare feet soundless against the furs. His ornate robe billowed with each sharp turn, a thundercloud of opulence. His lips curled, baring teeth as he seethed.
"I'll put him to death! I don't care if this circle says I need him, he's done nothing but rouse my perfect kingdom into a damn circus!"
Anagan's head lolled to the side, his drug-heavy gaze following Ogron's every movement as if watching a fascinating dance. The softest laugh slipped from his lips—barely more than a sigh.
"….'Ts funny…."
The words were barely audible, but they stopped Ogron cold.
The king turned sharply, his blue eyes burning with fresh ire. In a flash, he was upon Anagan, fisting his hair and yanking his head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of his throat.
"You think disrespecting me is funny?" Ogron growled, his voice low and dangerous, a jagged thing edged in steel.
Anagan whimpered, his pupils blown wide, but the smile never fully faded from his lips.
"No, love! Of course not!" he gasped. His voice trembled, but not with fear—no, it was laced with something lighter, something loving. "He's funny! He's a clown, right? I'm sorry!"
Ogron tightened his grip before shoving Anagan back down onto the bed. He stared at him, chest rising and falling with deep, measured breaths, trying to soothe the wildfire burning in his veins.
"A clown?" Ogron sneered. "That thing is a blight on my rule. I should have gutted him the first time he opened that filthy mouth."
Anagan rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. The drugged haze in his eyes made him look almost like a doll, soft and pliant. His fingers traced lazy patterns along the silk sheets.
"But, love," he murmured, voice syrupy sweet, slurring "isn't that wha….. what makes him so funny?"
Ogron stilled.
Anagan let his lips curl into a slow, honeyed smile. "He says all these awful…..awful things… but everyone listens. Even you."
The words slithered into Ogron's mind like a creeping vine. His nails dug into his own palms.
Everyone listens.
The thought soured in his gut. The people feared him, worshipped him—but even in their fear, they laughed for Duman. They hung on his every word, even when those words were taunts, even when they undermined the perfection Ogron had so carefully crafted.
He shoved Anagan away, resuming his stormy pacing, his robe flaring with every sharp turn. His breath came faster, the air around him crackling with barely contained power.
"The people like him," Ogron muttered. "That is the problem. Even the weaklings who fear me can't help but laugh at him."
Anagan hummed, his fingers toying with the sleeve of his robe. His lashes fluttered as if lost in thought, before a small giggle slipped past his lips.
"Then why not make him perform for you, love?" He stretched lazily, a feline movement, his voice light as spun sugar. "If he's a clown….shouldn't he dance when….. you say so?"
Ogron halted mid-step.
Anagan's giggle deepened into a silken laugh, rolling onto his stomach, chin resting on the back of his hands. "Oh, I think it's perfect for him! Everyone would know……he only breathes because you allow it. ……If he refuses, he defies your will." His grin widened. "Let him be your entertainment, my love."
A slow smirk stretched across Ogron's lips, dark amusement glittering in his icy eyes.
"Ana~," he purred, prowling back toward the bed. "My darling little rabbit~."
Anagan shivered as Ogron loomed over him, his shadow swallowing the candlelight. A manicured hand traced along his jaw, nails scraping just enough to make him shudder.
"Yes, my love?" Anagan whispered, breath hitching in something dangerously close to delight.
"You do have good ideas sometimes."
Anagan gasped softly as Ogron's lips brushed against the pulse at his throat, his teeth barely grazing the delicate skin.
"Should we call for Duman now?" Anagan murmured, his voice breathy.
Ogron chuckled darkly against his skin. "No, no. Let the clown sweat in his chains a little longer. When I bring him out…" He smirked, trailing his nails down Anagan's collarbone, delighting in the way he shivered.
"Everyone will know exactly who owns him."