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.

"...I beg your pardon." Ogrons eyes were wide, but not with shock with fury. Gantlos had a fury of his own, after all , the King had already figured out that he had left his cell, so he might as well ask questions. He felt entitled to some answers after what the king had made him do to Anagan— he would never forget the sounds of the iron meeting Anagan's skin, and for that he felt entitled to some truth.

"In you're fuckin journal— you wrote like the madman you are —like you were fighting yourself over something something called the dragon flame. What the hell is that?"

In the dungeon, the darkness was almost suffocating. Ogron sat at his desk, his hands clenched into fists, his mind a chaotic mess of thoughts. The Black Circle, the source of his power, felt weaker than it had in years. It didn't make sense—if anything, his connection with Anagan should have strengthened it, not diminished it. Frustration boiled inside him, and he slammed his fist onto the table.

"You are weak, so your circlet is weak."

The voice echoed in his mind, sharp and cutting. Ogron's breath caught in his throat. The voice was familiar, too familiar. It sounded like… no, it couldn't be. His old teacher was dead, long gone. He had killed him himself.

But the voice persisted, chilling him to the bone. The dungeon seemed to grow colder, the shadows deeper. Ogron's eyes flicked to a jar on his desk, inside of which lay a small, seemingly insignificant marble. The whispers came from the jar, from the marble itself.

"Use me, use me," the voice commanded, growing louder, more insistent.

Ogron hesitated, his hand hovering over the jar. The marble wasn't just a marble—it was a prison. Inside it, the corrupted dragon flame of his teacher, Valtor, lay dormant. He had trapped it there when he was just eighteen, too weak to extinguish it, despite all his magical prowess. In a moment of desperation, he had used a stasis spell to contain it, hoping never to face it again.

But now, as he stared at the marble, the voice grew louder, more persuasive. It urged him to use the flame, to harness its power. Ogron's hand trembled as he reached for the jar, his mind screaming at him to stop, but his body moved on its own.

The moment he touched the marble, a dark energy began to pulse through him. It was cold, suffocating, but there was a power in it, a promise of strength. The flame urged him to merge it with the Black Circle and make it stronger than ever before.

Ogron found himself following the dark compulsion, guiding a small stream of the flame's energy into the Black Circle. The dark energy wove itself into the circle's magic, merging with it, twisting it into something more powerful, yet more sinister. He felt the Circle pulse with newfound strength, but there was an undercurrent of something darker, something that felt wrong.

"Consume me," the voice whispered, and Ogron found himself lifting the marble to his lips. The glass was cold against his tongue, the taste bitter and metallic. Before he could stop himself, he swallowed it.

A surge of darkness exploded inside him, more intense and painful than anything he had ever felt. It felt like his very soul was being ripped apart, consumed by the flame. He gasped, clutching at his chest as the darkness enveloped him, dragging him down into its depths.

Everything went black.

Gantlos narrowed his eyes as Ogron's silence dragged on. The king seemed to stare right through him, lost in whatever dark memory had claimed him, his hands clenching and unclenching like he was grasping at invisible chains. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension.

"The Dragon Flame," Ogron finally rasped, his voice hoarse, "is a tool… a power to aid us in victory."

"Well son it's a power you can't handle," Gantlos spat, his voice shaking with fury.

He saw the blow coming, but not fast enough to stop it. Ogron's fist cracked against his jaw, the force of it sending shockwaves through Gantlos's skull. His legs trembled, weak from both the physical pain and the emotional weight of everything that had happened in the past few days. But the raw, simmering anger in his chest kept him upright. Barely.

"You were messing around with things you couldn't control, and now everyone has to suffer for it—"

The words were cut short as Ogron's boot connected with his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. Gantlos gasped, crumpling to the floor. He instinctively curled up, arms wrapped around his midsection to protect his organs from the relentless kicks.

"You are a bad dog," Ogron hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "YOU ARE A BAD DOG!"

Each word was punctuated by a brutal kick, the steel-capped boots slamming into Gantlos's sides, thighs, and back. The blows were sharp, blinding in their intensity, each one sending jolts of pain through his body. He tried to block it out, tried to focus on anything else, but the agony was all-consuming. His breath came in short, ragged gasps, every intake of air a struggle.

When the barrage finally stopped, Gantlos dared to lift his head. But it wasn't over.

Ogron had left the room, but Gantlos could hear the king's heavy footsteps returning. His gut twisted in dread. Through his blurred vision, he saw the gleam of metal in Ogron's hand as he re-entered the room. A rod. Gantlos's heart sank.

The first strike was cold and sharp, the metal biting into his flesh. The pain was unlike anything he'd ever felt before—searing, as though the rod had been heated over a flame. He couldn't stop the cry that tore from his throat, his body recoiling as Ogron brought the rod down again. And again. And again.

"Bad dog," Ogron repeated, his voice a vicious chant. "Bad dog. Bad dog. BAD DOG! BAD BAD BAD DOG!"

The strikes fell like rain, each one blending into the next until all Gantlos could do was grit his teeth and hold on. His body felt like it was being torn apart, every nerve on fire, the rhythmic pounding of the rod relentless. He tried to block out the pain, but it was too much. His world was reduced to the sound of metal against flesh, Ogron's voice snarling in his ears, and the taste of blood filling his mouth.

Eventually, the hits began to slow, though the pain didn't. Gantlos's breathing was shallow now, his chest tight and aching with every labored breath. His ears rang, the sound of his own pulse loud and disorienting. His body felt foreign, like it no longer belonged to him—just a vessel of pain and exhaustion.

Ogron crouched down beside him, rolling him onto his back with a careless shove. Gantlos groaned, the movement sending fresh waves of agony through his bruised and broken body. He blinked up at the king, his vision swimming, blood pooling in the corners of his mouth.

Ogron's expression was one of disgust, but then it shifted. A mocking smile curled his lips, a sickly sweetness that made Gantlos's stomach churn.

"Next time I say stay," Ogron purred, his voice syrupy and low. He leaned down, his tongue flicking out to lick the blood from Gantlos's lips. "You stay."

Gantlos shuddered at the touch, but he didn't have the strength to pull away. His body was a dead weight, the adrenaline that had kept him upright now gone, replaced by a crushing, numbing exhaustion.

Ogron stormed out, his heavy boots echoing through the room, leaving Gantlos alone on the cold stone floor. For a moment, everything was still, save for the dull throb of pain pulsing through his body. Gantlos lay there, staring up at the ceiling, his thoughts a tangled, hazy mess.