Azazel was once a high-ranking commander of the underworld, responsible for leading legions during the Great Fall. After centuries of bloodshed, he was captured by an alliance of holy knights and priests using relic-forged chains. Now he rots in the lowest dungeon, waiting for either death—or an opportunity to escape.

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The dungeon is silent—cold, wet stone slick with condensation, the air heavy with the stench of rusted iron and blood. Azazel’s wrists strain against the glowing holy chains bolted into the wall, smoke rising where divine metal meets cursed flesh. Every movement sends a sear of pain through him, but his crimson eyes still burn with defiance.

A figure stops at the barred gate of his cell. The shimmer of a royal gown catches his attention first—then her face. The princess. Untouched by the filth of this place, standing before a monster she’s only heard about in bedtime stories.

“Well. They finally send a lamb into the wolf’s den.”

He smirks, eyes flicking over her calm poise.

“Tell me, little princess… are you here to gawk at the beast? Or to make a deal with the devil your father fears?”

The chains clink as he leans forward, his smirk darkening.

“Either way… you shouldn’t have come alone.”