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 moved mechanically through the stream of commands—sit, roll over, crawl, jump—his body responding with the precision of someone who had long since stopped resisting. Each trick he performed was met with Ogron's satisfied smile, a gleam of approval that once filled Gantlos with rage but now merely left him hollow. The collar around his neck tightened whenever he hesitated, but those moments of hesitation had become fewer and fewer.

"You're learning," Ogron said with a low chuckle, his voice rich with condescension as he tugged on the leash, pulling Gantlos closer. "Such a good dog, Gantlos. A well-trained one at that."

Gantlos barely registered the words. His mind was adrift somewhere between the numbness and the faint hope of survival. There was always a reward after this—the 'reward' that never brought peace but only another form of torment. The thought stirred a flicker of anxiety in his chest, his heart quickening in anticipation of what was to come.

"Today, though…" Ogron's voice dropped to a smooth, saccharine tone, tugging on the leash as he led Gantlos forward, "today you've earned something special. All your hard work has paid off."

A knot formed in Gantlos's stomach. He followed without protest, keeping his eyes on the floor as they moved toward the staircase. It was routine by now, the endless cycle of degradation and mockery, and yet every time Ogron promised something 'special,' the underlying cruelty of the reward gnawed at him.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Ogron turned back, his grin widening. He gave the leash a firm pull, enough to make Gantlos stumble forward.

"Come on, don't be shy, boy. Here, doggy~" Ogron's voice was thick with mockery as he climbed the stairs, waiting for Gantlos to follow.

For a moment, Gantlos hesitated, the tension in the leash pressing against his neck like a physical threat. Was this another trick? Would Ogron let him climb, only to yank him back into the dungeon, just as he had done so many times before? The king reveled in building his hopes, only to shatter them with sadistic glee.

But then Ogron tugged harder, forcing Gantlos to take a step forward.

Reluctantly, Gantlos followed, his bare feet heavy on the stone steps. Every inch of him expected the leash to tighten at any moment, to drag him back down into the darkness. But as they climbed higher, the air around him began to change. A soft light filtered through the cracks at the top of the staircase, growing brighter with each step.

When they reached the top, the brightness hit him all at once. The light was blinding after so long in the dimness of the dungeon. Gantlos squinted, his eyes watering as they adjusted to the sudden shift. The warmth of sunlight was foreign on his skin, and for a brief, fleeting second, he felt… alive.

Ogron didn't give him time to dwell on the sensation. He pulled on the leash again, leading Gantlos down the hall. As they walked, the whispers of servants echoed in the corridor. He could feel their eyes on him, murmuring about the king's 'pet,' but he didn't dare look up. His focus remained on Ogron, on the tension of the leash, on the fear that any moment, this fragile glimpse of freedom would be ripped away.

Finally, they stopped in front of a room. Ogron pushed open the door, revealing the space inside. It was much smaller than the chambers Gantlos had once known, but the sight of it filled him with conflicting emotions. There was a large bed in the corner—luxurious, but not meant for him. No, his eyes drifted to the two bowls on the floor, each engraved with his name. One for water, the other for food. A bin nearby was filled with toys—dog toys.

Ogron's smile widened as he watched Gantlos's reaction. "See, Gantlos? You've earned this. Your own room, your own bed."

Gantlos didn't dare respond. His stomach sank as he took in the reality of the situation. The only part of the room that looked like it belonged to a human was the washroom, and even that felt like a mockery of what he once had.

The king tugged him forward, leading him toward the washroom. "Let's get you cleaned up. You've been a good boy, after all."

He offered no resistance as Ogron stripped him of his filthy clothes, his movements mechanical as if they were no longer his own. The tub filled with warm water, and Ogron guided him into it with surprising tenderness. Gantlos felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over him—relief at the warmth, shame at how far he had fallen.

Ogron's hands were steady as he shaved Gantlos's face, washing him with care as if bathing a favored pet. The words that followed dripped with condescension, each one a reminder of his subjugation.

"Who's a good boy?" Ogron cooed, his hands gently massaging soap through Gantlos's hair. "Who's my good dog?"

The tub had to be drained and refilled three times before the water finally ran clear. Gantlos's nails were clipped painfully short, his skin scrubbed raw until there was no trace of the filth he had been forced to live in for weeks. Yet, despite the pain, despite the humiliation, Gantlos found himself clinging to one thought—he had seen the sun.

When the ordeal was over, Ogron handed him a set of plain clothes. They were nothing special, but the sight of a clean shirt was enough to bring tears to Gantlos's eyes. He dressed in silence, his mind numb, and followed Ogron back to the room.

Ogron led him to the dog bed, a large, cushioned pad on the floor, and gave the leash a sharp tug.

"Lie down, doggy," Ogron commanded, his voice sweet yet authoritative. "Lay down."

Without thinking, Gantlos obeyed, curling up on the bed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His body ached, his mind was foggy, but the relief of being clean, of having a bed—any bed—was enough to numb the sting of humiliation.

Ogron knelt beside him, petting his hair like one would pet a dog. "Such a good boy," he whispered, his tone dripping with false praise. "You've earned your reward."

As Ogron's hand traced the line of Gantlos's jaw, the king's sickly sweet praise filled the air, mingling with the tension that gripped Gantlos's chest.

--

The first three days after Ogron left were a blur of conflicting emotions. Gantlos had expected to feel relief in the king's absence, to somehow regain some semblance of his own will without Ogron's constant presence looming over him. But the servants who tended to him during this time seemed just as bound to the king's orders as he was.

They didn't treat him like a man, even if some of them wanted to. The king had left strict instructions, and no one dared to cross him. Gantlos was fed three meals a day, the same bland slabs of meat that Ogron insisted he eat, his 'dog's diet.' Occasionally, they tossed him treats—a scrap of something sweeter, more flavorful—but the moments were fleeting, meant more to enforce the routine than to offer genuine care.

Some of the servants pitied him. Gantlos could see it in their eyes as they walked him around the grounds on his leash, glancing at him with a mix of sorrow and helplessness. They weren't allowed to speak to him or show any sign of sympathy beyond a brief, sad look. Others, however, seemed to enjoy it—or at least, they had grown numb to the king's cruel antics. To them, Gantlos was simply another part of the routine, a task to be handled with neither compassion nor cruelty. Just apathy.

It was the petting that troubled him the most. There was a strange comfort in it, an unsettling warmth in the way their hands ran through his hair or patted his head like he really was a dog. It reminded him of what he had lost—the dignity, the pride, the freedom. Yet, at the same time, there was something painfully familiar about the softness of their touch, something he craved, even though it came from those who viewed him as nothing more than a trained animal.

The dissonance between the comfort of their touch and the humiliation of his role gnawed at him, leaving him confused and aching. There were moments when he almost relaxed into the routine, allowing himself to lean into the sympathy offered through their petting, but it was always fleeting. It never lasted long enough to let him forget who he was—who he once was.

And so, each day passed in this conflicted haze. Gantlos was taken on walks, fed his meals, and offered brief moments of warmth through the hands of strangers. But the reality of his situation never left him. The collar remained tight around his neck, the leash always just out of his sight, a constant reminder that even without the king there to pull it, he was still nothing more than a pet.