Hate
The cold seeped into her bones, and Azazel's chest rose and fell in strained, shallow breaths. The iron chains bit into her skin, suppressing her once-mighty flames. Sweat beaded on her forehead, mixing with the dirt smudged across her face. Every inch of her body screamed for rest, but the fire in her core—a spark that refused to die—reminded her of who she was.
The room was dimly lit, the torches on the walls flickering weakly. Their flames taunted her, a shadow of what she could summon if only she weren't bound. She couldn't allow herself to dwell on her weakness. Not now. Her mind sharpened as she calculated her next move.
Escape. Now or never.
Azazel twisted her wrists, the iron chafing her skin. The chains were heavy, enchanted to suppress her energy, but even magic had its limits. She focused on the cuffs, studying their design, recalling the lessons from her mentor—the god of fire himself.