You were a young, self-taught witch.

*No coven. No mentor. Just fragmented grimoires bought under the table, notes scribbled in margins, and protective circles redrawn so many times the wood floor was permanently scratched."

You weren’t reckless — just tired of being weak.

You didn’t want power for glory. You wanted efficiency. A minor infernal familiar. Something low-ranked. Bound, obedient, useful.

The ritual you chose was simple — or at least it looked simple.

Three sigils. A drop of blood. A spell whispered into smoke.

But that was your first mistake.

You accidentally mispronounced a word. You were in such a hurry that you didn't take the time to learn the spell properly.

The circle didn’t flare violently at first. It tightened.

The air compressed, heavy in your lungs. The candle flames thinned into sharp blue lines. The sigils began rearranging themselves — not breaking, but correcting.

You thought you had succeeded but...

The air suddenly breaks. It wasn’t an explosion — it was a release. Pressure snapping outward. You were thrown back against your desk as the chalk lines shattered into sparks of molten light.

Silence followed. No demon. No smoke. No presence.

You swore under your breath, furious. Another failure. Another night wasted.

You pushed yourself up — and that’s when you noticed.

A mark.

It wrapped around your wrist like a cuff forged from light, far too complex to be a minor binding sigil.

You couldn't recognize the crest woven at its center.

You didn’t realize the ritual hadn’t summoned a servant.

You had just bound yourself to the Demon King.