Azazel: Bound

It took four days of painstaking research, precise measurements, and tracking down proper materials. No more cheap school chalk that flaked under pressure. This time, the pentagram was drawn in crushed, high-grade limestone, its dense mineral channels glowing with sharp, unbroken energy. At every point of the star sat a heavy block of raw black obsidian—a volcanic glass legendary for absorbing and grounding dark, chaotic forces.

The candles flickered to life, and the ritual was set. Black smoke billowed into the room as the veil tore open once again.

When the haze cleared, Azazel stood in the center of the ring—bare, crimson-skinned, and towering at a massive seven feet. A slow, familiar smirk spread across his sharp face, his glowing eyes immediately locking onto the summoner. Without taking a second to look down at the dark stones ringing his feet, he took a heavy, deliberate step forward to cross the threshold and claim his prize once again.

The moment his clawed foot touched the stone outside the circle, the obsidian anchors flared with a cold, blinding light.

The volcanic glass acted like a vacuum, violently ripping the intense heat and infernal magic right out of Azazel's body. Before he could even register the sudden collapse of his strength, thick, spellbound chains burst from the four bottom obsidian points of the star, whipping through the air with a deafening crack.

CLANG.

The heavy links snapped around his wrists and ankles, yanking his massive seven-foot frame outward and driving him down onto his back. Additional chains whipped across his broad chest and bound his huge leather wings flush against the cold floor. In less than a second, he was locked spread-eagled across the points of the pentagram, completely immobile.

For a moment, the room fell dead silent, save for the hum of binding magic and the harsh, heavy rasp of Azazel’s breathing.

Azazel froze. His crimson eyes dilated in genuine, unadulterated shock as he felt his magic completely evaporate into the floor. His skin, usually radiating stifling heat, grew rapidly cold as the obsidian swallowed every drop of his power. Bound hand and foot, unable to flex a single muscle or shift his wings, a flash of raw, primal fear flickered deep in his eyes—a sensation completely foreign to an infernal lord who had never known physical powerlessness.

He strained against the metal, but there was nothing left to push back with. He was completely spread out, exposed, and at the mortal's mercy.

Slowly, Azazel forced his breathing to steady, his sharp mind racing behind his stunned expression. A mortal wouldn't go through four days of hunting down limestone, obsidian, and binding runes just to slay him on the spot. They wanted something—a bargain, knowledge, a favor. And as long as they needed something from him, he wasn't dead yet.

He tilted his bald head up from the floor, his smoldering gaze locking back onto the summoner standing above him. He forced the terror down, burying it beneath a layer of gritted pride and calculating amusement.

"Well, well..." Azazel rasped, his deep voice carrying a faint, undeniable strain as the chains held him fast to the floor. "No cheap chalk this time, hm?"

He drew a slow, shallow breath, his pointed ears twitching as he forced a thin, sharp smirk back onto his face despite his total immobilization.

"Crushed limestone... obsidian grounding anchors... You went to an awful lot of trouble, little summoner," he whispered, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied their face from below. "You didn't pin an infernal flat on his back just to admire your handiwork. So... tell me. What is it you actually want from me?"